by Issy Brooke
Such budgetary restraint could well be pleasing to God, Marianne thought, but what of the livelihoods of those who relied on these wages? That didn’t seem fair.
And I am yet another drain on this household, she realised suddenly. My father also. No wonder she wants to marry me off.
Marianne pushed her fingers through her hair and it came loose from its pins and clips. She piled up the hardware and let her curls fall free. She scratched at her scalp and thought about poor Miss Dorothea Newman, dead in that gloomy house. At least her final year or two had not been alone. Until Tobias came to Rosedene, and then Mrs Newman, Miss Dorothea must have been utterly isolated. Poor woman. Did she have no other family?
Marianne grabbed her notebook and turned to the next blank page, and began to sketch out a family tree, with rough dates for the major events – Tobias’s accident and loss of parents, Mrs Newman’s widowing in America and subsequent return to Rosedene. And now Miss Dorothea’s death. It had to all be linked but the months stretched out between each event and seemed to make no pattern.
She rested her chin on her hands and stared at the spider’s web of lines until her eyes blurred, and she was jolted out of her reverie by a knocking at her door. She froze, and pretended not to be in, until she could work out who it was.
“Miss Starr?” It was Mrs Kenwigs’ voice, the housekeeper. “There is a ... person ... here to see you.”
Marianne jumped up and went to the door. A person? Not a lady, nor a gentleman. She wondered who it could be as she followed Mrs Kenwigs down the corridor to receive the visitor in the hall. They had not even been afforded the courtesy of being shown into a room.
It all made sense when she spotted Simeon. The shabby young man of uncertain parentage was hardly the sort of person that would be offered a brandy and a soft seat by the fire. And his state of distress added to the general impression of someone who was not quite welcome.
She rushed over to him. “What has happened? Are you hurt? Why are you here? You could have sent a message. Simeon?”
He was upset, but he was also angry, which was a strange and unfamiliar emotion for him. He hardly knew what to do with the passionate fury. He took her hands, briefly, but dropped them straight away. He was agitated and he paced around, making a tiny circle around her as he spoke. “They have taken it! They did not pay me, they said, they said, they said to go to their address for the money and I went but they were not there, because they lied!”
“Who?”
“The Marvellous Brothers Clay. Jeremiah and Tom Clay. And now I do not have your money!”
That was a blow, but she thrust it aside. “Simeon, slow down. So, you have given them the box that you made, but they have not paid you?”
“I told you! I told you that. I finished it the day after you loaned me the money and they came for it this morning and took it and said I would get the money at their room but they were not at their room and never have been, for it was not their room. Now what do I do?”
“You go straight to the police. I will come with you.”
“I cannot.” He stopped and stared at her. “You know that I cannot.”
He was white in the face and trembling. Marianne was pretty sure that he had no real reason to be so terrified of authority, but he harboured myriad strange paranoias, and his fear of the police was an enduring one. Such was the depth of his feeling that she was worried he would rather harm himself than subject himself to police scrutiny.
“Well, then. Tell me their address.”
“It is fake! I went there, and an old lady answered. She did not know of them.” He pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it over. “That is useless but you can have it. You may as well burn it and all my work along with it.”
“Hush now. What else do you know of them?”
“Nothing. They are illusionists. And I spent all my money on that box, and all yours too. I shall be evicted. I shall die.”
“Oh, Simeon. Wait here.” She glanced down at his feet and saw, from the state of his shoes, that he had probably walked all the way to Woodfurlong. He didn’t have the money for the train, which meant he probably didn’t have the money for a message to be sent to her; and he wouldn’t have any money for food. She dashed back to her room and unearthed her rapidly depleting purse. She could spare him a few of her remaining coins, enough to tide him over, at least.
She returned to the hall, calmed him down, made some spurious promises that she would help him – somehow – and sent him home. Then she sank down on a wooden settle against the wall in the hallway, next to a fern in a round pot, and sighed.
Ann Davenport swept past, and didn’t notice her there at first. When she saw her, she gave a startled cry of pure horror.
“Mari-ANNE! Your hair.”
She had been messing up her hair while she’d been deep in thought. Marianne gave it a half-hearted pat. “Apologies, madam.” She thought of a few explanations but dismissed them all. She just smiled and shrugged. She was past caring what Mrs Davenport thought of her right now.
Mrs Davenport scrunched her face up into a tight pucker for a moment then smoothed it out, and sailed up to Marianne. “I am shocked. I am disappointed. I am working hard on your behalf, and the least – the very least – you can do is to present an acceptable appearance.”
“Oh, those matrimonial advertisements? I did not ask for you to place them.”
“No, for your head is in the clouds. It has fallen to me to pick up the pieces, once again. After your poor mother died, who took charge of your education?”
“My father ensured I continued at school.”
“Pah. He was only interested in book learning. No, your real education, as a woman of society. I took you into my home, and treated you as my own daughter. And yet here you are, throwing such kindness back into my face, and into the face of my daughter too!”
“I am doing no such thing,” Marianne protested. “You have taken it upon yourself to treat me as a project, but I can assure you that I am perfectly able to direct my own life. Thank you.”
“You are making a pretty mess of it, then. Here you live, alone, getting older by the day, with not even one suitor to your name and no effort to remedy that. Your father, God grant him peace, is old, mad and quite beyond help. He ought to be in an asylum. You are weak to think that you can care for him here. He should be in a better place. Are you not cruel for denying him proper treatment?”
Marianne’s blood was thundering in her ears. She gripped the edges of the settle tightly. “He has a nurse and regular visits from a doctor, and all the treatment that he requires.”
Mrs Davenport shook her head. “You delude yourself. You are squatting here like leeches, draining blood, a burden on the resources of my poor dear daughter, and it is high time that someone loved you enough to tell you the truth, as I am doing. I speak only from a place of Christian compassion.”
“Well, if this is compassion and love, I should hate to be your enemy,” Marianne said hotly, leaping to her feet.
Her outburst shocked Mrs Davenport. She took a step back and said, with menace, “Then take care that you do not become so.”
Mrs Davenport click-clacked away across the tiled floor. Her footsteps suddenly hushed as she hit the carpet and went up the wide stairs to the first floor. Marianne watched her go, with an unaccustomed feeling of hatred seething in her heart.
She clenched her fists, tried to calm herself down, and then gave up. Instead, she stormed back to the Garden Wing and found her father in a lucid enough state that she could tell him everything.
Absolutely everything, from the incidents at Rosedene to Simeon’s loss of money to the Clay Brothers.
And he was not much help in offering insight, and just mumbled something about eggs, but at least he didn’t fall asleep this time, and by the end of her tirade she felt a little – just a little – better.
But with still no clearer idea on what to do next.
Ten
Price and Phoebe
were out that evening, attending a dinner party at the house of some friends, and Mrs Davenport stayed in her room, citing a “disorderly digestion”. Marianne knew this was something to be laid at her own door. If only Marianne could be more biddable and agreeable, Mrs Davenport’s digestion would be perfectly sound. It was entirely her fault.
But Marianne enjoyed having the whole dining room to herself, and dismissed all the staff, telling them she could serve herself if they just dumped all the courses on the table at once, which they did, after been sworn to secrecy.
I could get used to this, she thought, flicking through a book while she ate, one-handed, in a slovenly fashion. It reminded her of her student days. She had a relaxing evening in her room, reading and writing and generally idling, and woke the next day full of vigour and enthusiasm to attack all the problems face-on.
First, she would tackle the death of Miss Dorothea, and then Simeon’s unfortunate encounter with the Clay Brothers, and finally her own parlous finances.
She dressed for the town, with a warm travelling cloak ready by the door, but sat at her desk with her notebooks so she could plan her day. She was interrupted rather sooner than she would have liked, by one of the maids clutching a note.
“This has just come for you, miss,” Nettie said, bobbing a curtsey.
“Thank you. And no need to dip up and down like a seabird.”
“Mrs Davenport has been training us, miss,” she said, in a low voice. “I have to do better than the other girls. Otherwise...”
“Oh heavens. She has not set you all in competition against one another, has she?”
“Only one of us may stay.”
It was to be a gladiatorial combat, then. “You ought to try to do well, but not well enough to win,” Marianne told her. “For imagine what life will be like for the one that stays? If you are successful, how much work will you have to do?”
Nettie bit her lip. “I had not thought of that.”
The maid darted away and Marianne read the note, sighed, and picked up her travelling cloak. She had to hurry if she was going to make it on time.
MESSRS. UNTHANK, DIBBERT and Gill had very fine, very old, and very brown offices in central London. Marianne had fought her way through the crowds, choosing to walk through the streets as being marginally faster than taking a cab or omnibus, although it meant she still arrived a little late, dishevelled and slightly sticky. The autumnal weather was pressing down on the city, trapping fog and smog under low cloud. Her pale grey gloves were covered in dark smuts of ash and dirt, and she could not bear to think of the state of her face. No wonder Ann Davenport habitually wore a lace veil whenever she had to venture into the city.
The offices were all panelled wood and gleaming brass. She was ushered into a small waiting room and a young clerk, oozing confidence, drew her to one side and quietly offered her his own handkerchief and a mirror before leading her into the main room.
Mr Unthank himself pulled out a chair for her. She found herself next to Inspector Gladstone, who nodded at Mr Unthank. “Thank you for waiting. Let us proceed.”
“What is happening?” she hissed.
He nudged her to be quiet. She looked around. On chairs arranged in a semi-circle, she saw a few other familiar faces. Dressed all in black, in the deepest level of mourning, was a ram-rod straight woman who did not look her way, but Marianne could tell from the angle of her chin and cheek that it was Mrs Newman. Next to her was a thin young man, nervously jiggling one leg, which was obviously Tobias, and Mrs Peck was close by. There was another man, who had a clerk-like look about him and a notebook on his knee.
She realised it was the reading of the will as Mr Unthank began to speak in a rapid monotone.
It all went to Tobias.
And by all – there was a lot. Or there would be, once the house was sold. As Miss Dorothea had once hinted, all her fortune was tied up in bricks and mortar.
Marianne heard a strange rasping sound coming from her left. Mrs Newman was breathing heavily and clutching her chest. Mrs Peck had folded her arms and was frowning. She had been given a small amount of money in recognition of her service. Perhaps she had expected more.
But the house, and all its contents, was to be sold as soon as possible and everything was to pass to Tobias.
Mr Unthank finished, and folded the piece of paper precisely. Mrs Newman rose to her feet, squeaked, and fell to the floor in a faint.
Chairs were overturned. The clerk rushed to her side. Mrs Peck looked down at the sprawled figure, sighed, and to Marianne’s astonishment, left the room abruptly. Tobias jumped back, and didn’t know what to do. His pale face was strained and streaked, and he gripped the back of a wooden chair to keep his balance. Inspector Gladstone and Mr Unthank bent over the fallen figure, and the clerk rushed out and back in with some smelling salts.
“Mrs Newman? Mrs Newman? Miss Starr, help me please,” Inspector Gladstone said. “Would you loosen her clothing for me, please? I do not want to be impolite.”
As Marianne reached for Mrs Newman’s tightly-buttoned jacket, the woman came back to consciousness again, slapping Marianne’s hands away with a surprising vigour. Almost, Marianne thought, as if she had been faking the faint.
Mrs Newman was lifted up into a chair, and pestered with more salts, a glass of water, and a barrage of questions as to her state. She ignored them all, and addressed Inspector Gladstone.
“It was him! The wicked, wicked boy. Do you see, now? He must have done it!”
“Tobias, do you mean?”
“Of course! He has inherited everything. How can that be? Where is he? Come here and confess your sins, you evil child.”
Tobias shook his head silently, staying behind the chair, his eyes wide with fear.
“Mrs Newman, please do not exert yourself. You have been under a lot of strain recently...” Inspector Gladstone murmured.
She was having absolutely none of it, and Marianne felt sympathy for her. “I have been widowed. I have returned to my native country, to the few scraps of family I have left. I have encountered ghosts. I have done my best to show love and mercy to a poor orphaned boy. I have tended ceaselessly to my aging aunt. She has died. And now – and now, I find my reward is to be left penniless and alone! Look to the boy. She is dead, and who has benefited? He has!” She pointed a shaking finger at Tobias. “Only him!”
“No, no,” he said, thickly, trying not to cry.
“This would not be the first dreadful thing he has done. And you know what I am talking about, Miss Starr!”
All eyes turned to Marianne.
Mrs Newman pressed on. “Come and see, all of you. Come to Rosedene right now, with me, and I will show you. I will show you the death he has caused! There are corpses in the house, other corpses quite beside my poor aunt, may she rest in peace.”
“Corpses?” Inspector Gladstone said, “Miss Starr? Can you vouch for any of this?”
“Er, no, I most certainly cannot.”
“Come on, then!” Tobias suddenly shouted. “Come and see, then. I shall show you! I’ll show you all these corpses.”
Marianne expected a kind of pandemonium. So, too, did Mrs Newman. But Inspector Gladstone slowly stood up straight, and brushed down his clothing with exaggerated care. He nodded at Mr Unthank, and asked the quietly capable clerk to fetch them a cab that would take four people to Rosedene.
“There is no reason to hurry,” he said to Marianne in a low aside as they moved through the offices to the street. “Not if they are corpses; they are hardly going to walk off, are they?”
“That’s true. What do you think of Mrs Newman’s claims?”
“They must be considered.”
“Sir, she faked that faint.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am a woman. Of course I am sure. We never really faint but they are jolly useful to get one’s self out of a sticky situation – or, indeed, into one, if that is one’s desire.”
“Hmm. I will bear that in mind. But co
nsider; it is true that she is now penniless. She will be genuinely distraught. She truly is alone here.”
“No doubt.”
They had to let the conversation end there, as they were wedged into a carriage brought out from a local stables, larger than the usual street cabs, and this subjected them to a slow and uncomfortable journey out to Rosedene. Mrs Peck was discovered waiting on the steps outside and she was bundled into the carriage along with everyone else. Marianne was next to Inspector Gladstone, and they sat opposite Tobias and Mrs Newman, who pressed themselves against the sides of the cab with Mrs Peck as a buffer in between them. Both Mrs Newman and Tobias looked out of their windows, and no one said a word.
I ought to throw Mrs Davenport at Mrs Newman, Marianne thought. It would be a perfect match. Mrs Davenport can find a husband for Mrs Newman. Then she will be busy, and Mrs Newman will not be poor.
She studied Tobias, and he was growing more agitated the closer that they got to Rosedene. His knee jiggled, his fingers tapped, and he gnawed at his lip. Every few moments he seemed to notice his nervous tics and would stop them, only for another to pop up in its place. As the carriage rolled up the gloomy driveway, he could handle no more.
“I am sorry,” he burst out. “I only meant the one corpse. I know the one she means.”
Mrs Newman gave an affected sob and dabbed at her eyes, which were perfectly dry. Marianne stared at her, hard, trying to convey to her that she knew Mrs Newman was pretending. But Mrs Newman met her gaze for a moment and looked away, unconcerned for Marianne’s opinions.
It was Mrs Peck who had the keys to the great wooden doors of the house, and Mrs Newman had to wait to be let in, with everyone else. As soon as they were inside the cold, silent hall, Tobias headed for the stairs without looking back. He had a curious, limping gait, and hung on to the bannisters as he hauled himself up. Mrs Peck said, “I am sure you’ll want refreshments,” and went off to the kitchens at the back of the house, as if no one had mentioned corpses at all, and this was just some everyday sort of morning call.