by Issy Brooke
Russell Starr laughed at them all. “Marianne, dear daughter, I expect you can identify it.”
It was a challenge that she had to accept. She stepped forward and examined the remnants of the burning white lump. It faded away. “Magnesium powder,” she said. “But why on earth...? And father, why are you here?”
“They were sedating me. I will not stand for it, Marianne. I will not. I will not be treated like a wild dog. I pretended to take the stuff and spat it out into a potted plant when Mrs Crouch’s back was turned. Then I grabbed my medicine and this boy here, and here I am.” He poked the back of the stable boy with his outstretched foot. The lad grinned, enjoying every moment of his wild adventure.
“But what about the magnesium?”
“That’s the thing,” Russell said. “I have been experimenting with some new powders to pep me up a little. When I get tired, I can barely move. The druggist recommended some new stuff to take by mouth, and I bought a bag of it, and brought it home and put it down – and forgot where I put it. Or, more likely, it was tidied away by one of you busybodies.”
“I did no such thing, but go on.”
“I thought I might not be up to a night-time drive without some stimulant,” he said. “I saw the bag on the bench as I passed through the laboratory and snatched it up, and as we drove here, I opened the bag to partake of the powder before we arrived. Alas, the first taste of it told me of my error.”
“Oh! I found it behind the curtains and I moved it,” she said, suddenly.
Jack had to interrupt. “Well, so now I want to know why you are storing bags of magnesium on windowsills.”
“It’s actually jolly useful for a range of things,” he said. “When mixed with sulphur, I can create my own Epsom Salts at a fraction of the price and it is awfully good at restoring a certain regularity to one’s daily habits.”
“And on the windowsill?”
“I’ve already told you that I live with busybodies who like to ‘help’ by tidying things up. Anyway, not to worry. It wasn’t what I thought it might be, but hasn’t it proved jolly useful? Boom! Ha, ha. Constable! Shall we drive that miscreant to the station?”
“That would be most useful, yes sir. Let us get the lady onto the cart.”
Mrs Newman fought and screamed every step of the way as Jack, Constable Bolton and even Simeon had to lift her up and tumble her into the cart. Constable Bolton was more than happy to sit on her legs, and Jack kept hold of her arms. She resorted to spitting, and everyone moved to be out of range.
“Dear me, you are quite vile,” Phoebe remarked and took a place next to the stable boy on the bench at the front of the cart.
The box had been passed back to Marianne. She sat at the far end, cradling the box and jewellery in her lap, and tried to process everything that had just happened as they rolled their way back into London.
As they pulled up at the police station, which was a raucous and noisy place at this time of night, Marianne spoke. Mrs Newman had, by this point, lapsed into a sullen silence.
“There really is no point in denying any of this, now, you know.”
“Shut up. Don’t speak to me.”
“I am sorry for the loss of your husband and the ill-treatment that you feel you have had. I’ve read about how your husband’s parents did not approve of the match, and that can’t have been easy.”
“What would you know, you dried up, vinegary old spinster?”
Jack laughed. “Oh, haven’t you heard? We are engaged to be married, you know.”
Mrs Newman sneered and turned her head away. Which was good, because there was less likelihood of more spitting.
Constable Bolton went into the station and returned with enough policemen to carry Mrs Newman into the place without problem. Jack tipped his hat to Marianne and leaped down into the street. He bid her farewell and was immediately swallowed up by a passing rough crowd of men recently ejected from a public house. Marianne was about to get out of the cart herself but she saw the expression on her father’s face.
“Married?” he blustered, hardly able to speak. “To that man? I thought it was a joke when I first heard it but...”
She was about to tell him that it was, but then thought of the deception with Mrs Davenport. “Don’t worry. I will explain it all very soon.”
Constable Bolton reappeared on the pavement and stretched out his hand. “Miss, you need to come inside and make statements, if you will.”
“Marriage, Marianne? But I...” Russell was still saying as Marianne stepped out of the cart. She was followed by Phoebe and Simeon and he had to come along behind, still spluttering. One by one they were all taken into the stationhouse, and the boy with the cart was asked to drive home, and sworn to absolute secrecy, for the moment.
Twenty-seven
They were all separated instantly. Marianne and Phoebe were led away by the severe matron and put in small rooms, with the matron sitting in the doorway that joined them. Russell and Simeon went with Constable Bolton. Marianne had no choice but to make herself as comfortable as possible in the small, sparse room. She found that the wooden chair was impossible to relax upon. She alternated between pacing the empty room, and sitting, and looking at the matron, and sighing heavily.
She had to assume that Mrs Newman had been taken to some cells.
After what seemed like an interminably long time, they were given the chance to explain everything, and once their statements had been made, they were allowed home. Russell met them in the entrance, and revealed that he had enough money to pay for a cab to take them all the way home. Simeon darted off into the darkness before Marianne could speak with him.
“Father, I do not think I can come back to Woodfurlong.”
“You can,” Phoebe said. “You must.”
“Damn right,” Russell said. “I’ve had enough of pandering to that woman.”
“She is my mother.”
“Everyone has a mother. But you don’t get to choose them and you’re under no obligation to like them.”
“But it does say that we are to honour our father and mother,” Phoebe protested as they climbed into the cab.
“Honouring is not the same as liking. Honour her all you like, but from a distance. God, I am tired. If anyone crosses me, I shall simply fall asleep on them, and pin them to the ground for twelve hours.”
They had to laugh. Marianne was nervous about returning to Woodfurlong but she took comfort from her father’s presence and Phoebe squeezed her hand. “It will all turn out for the best,” she said.
And it did, but from a most unexpected quarter.
They rolled up the driveway in the small, dead hours of the night. London might teem with life at any hour, but the suburbs slumbered heavily. But the noise of the wheels and hooves on gravel brought someone to the front door. Mr Barrington had obviously been waiting for them. He looked tired but he broke into smiles as he ushered them all inside. The cabbie was paid and rumbled off.
“Shh,” Phoebe said, putting her fingers to her lips.
“You will not wake the invalid. She has been dosed well,” Mr Barrington said. “May I get you all some warm drinks or food from the kitchen?”
“How...?”
Mr Barrington grinned even more widely. “It is the warmest room. If I might suggest you overlook the impropriety for one night, shall you all follow me there?”
So they did, because things were getting more strange by the moment. The kitchen’s fire was out, but it held its warmth more readily than any other place. They crowded on the bench by the long table and Mr Barrington brought them some bread, pate, cheese and cold sausage. He also proved to be rather good at conjuring up a bottle of brandy.
“My mother will bury us all for this,” Phoebe said.
Russell muttered something but no one could understand him, due to the mouthful of food.
“Where is Mrs Davenport?” Marianne asked, her suspicions rising. “Oh Phoebe. You did not go ahead and buy fly papers, did you?”
“I did not!”
Mr Barrington said, “No one need be alarmed, but Mrs Davenport has been taken ill this afternoon. She is sleeping deeply after the most helpful attentions of Mrs Crouch, who has kindly agreed to stay overnight to tend to her. I have already sent word to Mr Davenport who will arrive tomorrow ... well, in a few hours’ time ... to take her home to recover.”
Everyone went very still. Of course, the natural instinct was to whoop and celebrate but on the other hand, she was ill.
“What kind of ill?” Marianne asked.
“Some kind of gastric fever. It is a mystery. But Mrs Crouch assures us all that she will make a full recovery in time.”
Marianne shot a look at her father, who was merrily drinking away, having gained his second wind in spite of the lack of stimulant powders. “Father, have you anything to say to this?”
“It is nothing of my doing! Speak to Mrs Crouch. She sees everything and hears everything, that woman. She’s a gift. You mustn’t be such a snob, Marianne. Everyone has their worth and I fear you might have overlooked hers.”
“I am not a snob! But ...” she tailed off.
“As long as my mother is in no real danger,” Phoebe said, “then I, for one, am happy. It is time for bed. I should like to look slightly refreshed when my father arrives.”
“You see,” Russell said. “What a dutiful daughter and a credit to her father.” He grinned at Marianne.
She sighed, and he winked, and they clinked their glasses together, and she thought that she might understand him, at last.
MARIANNE SLEPT LATE and she didn’t wake up until Emilia slipped into her room with a tray of food.
“I’ve missed having breakfast in bed,” Marianne said, groggily, as she fought herself up and out of the bedsheets. Emilia fussed around the pillows so that Marianne could prop herself semi-upright. “How is Mrs Davenport this morning?”
“She appeared to be better but she was grateful to see her husband.”
“Ah, he’s here? I must dress...”
“No, no.” Emilia poured some tea. “They have already left.”
“Really?”
“Mr Davenport was anxious to take her home, and Mrs Crouch was adamant that only her own bed and her own water would cure her. She said that she had learned, in the Crimea, of the way that a body adapts to the water and air of a local area, and that if you subjected yourself to unfamiliar water and air, you ran the risk of becoming ill. She said that this had happened to Mrs Davenport.”
“Did she really? Well, well. And did Mrs Crouch administer any medicines?”
“Only a light tonic of her own preparation. She has been dosing Mrs Davenport for a number of days, apparently.”
“Indeed.” Marianne smiled. Mrs Crouch had access to their full laboratory, a wealth of medical knowledge, and a steely determination. They would never find out what was in the tonic. “And how is Phoebe?”
“Mrs Claverdon rose to greet her father when he arrived, and has retired once more to bed, and is currently in much the same state as yourself. Do you feel all right? I can ask Mrs Crouch for her tonic...”
“Ah, no, that will not be necessary. Thank you, Emilia. I imagine the whole household is breathing more easily now. What of Mrs Cogwell?”
“Unpacking as we speak.”
“Then all is right with the world.”
“It is, indeed.”
Emilia withdrew, and Marianne picked at the eggs. For all was not right with the world, not yet – not while a young man remained in prison and set to hang for a murder that he did not commit.
BUT THE WHEELS OF THE law ground slowly. Infuriatingly so. Marianne found the energy to go into London late that afternoon, though she moved with lead in her limbs. She was not able to speak to Inspector Gladstone. The constable at the desk said, “He is not your personal police officer, madam. I can help you with any enquiries that you might have.”
He could not help. He would not tell her whether Tobias was still in custody, nor what was happening to Mrs Newman. Eventually, defeated, she went to see Simeon.
He was crouching on the floor, his bottom in the air, poking at a long thin wire that was coiled on the floorboards. He looked over his shoulder as she entered, and waved her in. “Ah, good to see you. Watch this.” He touched a thin metal stick to the wire and from the other room came a shout of pain.
“Stop!”
“Oh.” Simeon dropped the metal spike and sat back on his heels. “So it did not work, then?”
Tobias emerged. “No, it did not. That hurt. Oh! Miss Starr.” He became immediately bashful.
“Tobias! Don’t you get all shy with me, young man! I see you have been released.”
“Yes. Thanks to you. I am not allowed to leave town. I am out on bail, they say. But the Inspector was pleased and said it was going to be all right. Simeon, I think we need to add more resistance.”
“That will create more heat. I do not want my pants setting alight on stage.”
“Why not? Could that not be part of the trick?”
“Oh – do you mean that we might fool the audience into thinking it had gone wrong...”
“Yes, exactly. Let me see how thick the wire is that you are using.”
Tobias knelt down next to Simeon and both began to examine the appliance as if Marianne was not there.
She left them to it. She had the reassurance of knowing that Tobias was free, and the added bonus that Simeon was not alone.
She got home, and met her father in the hallway, who was demanding to know when she was getting married and did she really expect him to walk her down the aisle and if so, he would need a new hat.
She spent a long hour explaining the depths of her subterfuge to him. By the end of it, she was left with the impression that he was slightly disappointed that there was not going to be a big event. Ominously, he said, “Well, I shall have to look for my excitement elsewhere,” and he took himself off to bed.
Marianne herself had a very early night.
Twenty-eight
Marianne was summoned to a meeting with Inspector Gladstone a full week later. She went into London a few hours earlier than the appointment, and took a detour.
Jack Monahan’s housekeeper frowned at her.
“I believe that I am visiting within respectable hours now,” Marianne said sweetly.
“Send her up!” Jack bellowed, who had obviously been listening or looking out of a window.
Marianne ascended the stairs and staved off any feelings of nervousness by plunging straight into the matter at hand. She held out some coins. “This is the money that I borrowed from you and forgot to pay back.”
“Oh! That is the last thing I expected. Thank you, however.” He took it from her and his hand brushed hers. She was glad that she was wearing gloves. She hastily put her hands behind her back, then felt too exposed like that, and folded them in front of herself instead.
“Thank you for all of your help,” she said.
“You sound dreadfully formal. Are you about to present me with a scroll and a golden watch as a token of your appreciation?”
“No, unless you would like such a thing.”
“Not particularly.”
“I have not forgotten what you would like,” she told him. “I have been talking to Phoebe this week. We have a short list of eligible women who might take your fancy and we can begin to arrange the introductions – informally, at gatherings we will hold at Woodfurlong – as soon as you are ready.”
He grimaced. “I regret ever mentioning it.”
“With all seriousness, I will stop if it bothers you too much.”
“It does bother me.”
He turned away. She said, “I know what bothers you the most. It is the fact that you told me one honest thing about yourself, and now you feel vulnerable. Jack, this is not information that I intend to turn against you. It is not something I will use to bring you down or make you feel bad. If you want help in this matter, I will genuinely help yo
u, and if you want me to drop it, I will do that too.”
“But why?”
“Because I consider you a friend. And that is what friends do.”
“Men and women cannot be friends.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said, firmly. “We’ve actually done a jolly good job of it so far.”
He didn’t reply.
She sighed and moved back to the door. “Anyway, I shall leave it up to you. Simply send me a note, and Phoebe and I will spring into action. Until then, you may rest assured that I shall not bother you.”
She had her hand on the doorknob when he turned back around to face her. He smiled, very slightly. “I don’t mind you bothering me.”
She smiled back, broadly. “Good. Now, I am off to see the Inspector, and let us hope this whole matter can be brought to an end.”
“HAS SHE CONFESSED?” Marianne asked as soon as she was seated in front of Gladstone’s desk.
“In a way. She shouts about this and that. She has certainly revealed many things to us, and proven your suppositions and guesses to be correct.”
“They were not guesses! They were logic and reason.”
“Well, however you came to your conclusions, you are exonerated. The notebook that Mr Stainwright gave us, with the jewellery we took from her possession, and the mechanical doll that we found hidden in the house this week, all back up your story. She has ranted and raved about what she believes to be her right, but the will is clear and legal; she inherits nothing.”
“So she came back from America, and she was convinced that the Newman Set were hidden in the room that Miss Dorothea did not leave. She used the doll to scare her.”
Inspector Gladstone nodded. “She brought the doll with her. It’s one of Edison’s things. I can see why they never took off, though. It is a horrible object to give to a child. She thought that Miss Dorothea would leave if she thought the house was haunted.”
“But she didn’t, so Mrs Newman needed another way to get into the room. Yet killing was not enough – she still couldn’t find what she sought.”