by Jess Kidd
‘Some people are awful bloody ignorant,’ says Ruby, with feeling.
Bridie glances up at him, not much more than an arm’s length from her. Noticing how, in this moderate, even light, against the whitewashed wall of the vestry, he shimmers and is marvellous. She can see the vestry wall through him, but she can also see his drawers, his bandaged hands and his boots. All in perfect detail. His back is massive and muscular, in the centre a tattooed gunship bobs over blue-inked waves, full-rigged, her insignia flying. On the nape of his neck a tattooed moon glows as she moves through all her phases.
Above, at the base of his skull, the site of the stunning blow that dispatched him; blood coagulating.
Bridie frowns.
He shifts on the spot, turning his head a little, as if aware of her gaze. She sees the side of his face; dark lashes and clean-shaved jaw.
How can a dead man be so alive?
Bridie can almost smell this fighter: the sweat and the liniment, the smoke and the violence and the heat. His skin glistens. She could trace the beads of sweat with her fingers, down the curve of his spine. Then lightly, her fingers could dance across his back, along his sides – and, oh, turning him to face her, touching the broad chest of him, his shoulders, his arms. Unwrapping his bandages, kissing his palms, his blasted knuckles. Meeting his dark eyes holding hers, so that it’s hard to ever look away.
Ruby sways and flickers. The moon on his neck wanes; a perfect bright crescent. He coughs and hitches up his drawers.
‘Any more clues there, Bridie?’ he says. ‘With the inspector on his way to throw you out?’
A flush steals into Bridie’s face. She turns her attention to the body on the trestle table, unbuttoning the corpse’s clothes with careful fingers. She finds further bruising to her hips and ribs.
‘She was carried. Dragged maybe.’
Ruby stands silent, his head bowed.
‘What’s it like, Ruby? You know . . . being dead.’
‘Not much different really.’
‘You can walk through closed doors.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Can you feel things?’
‘What like?’
‘The wind on your face, or the rain . . . ’
Ruby’s voice, when it comes, is soft. ‘I can’t say that I can.’
There is silence for a while: Ruby examining the wall, Bridie examining the body.
‘When did she die, Bridie?’
‘It’s not exact. Taking into account weather, location, the natural processes of the corpse – skin colour, extent of rigor mortis—’
‘Do you have to?’
‘I would say this corpse is a day or so old, Ruby. No more than two, perhaps.’
‘So she may have had something to do with our stolen child?’
‘Possibly, or perhaps she chanced upon the thieves hiding in the chapel. Whatever her reason was for haunting Maris House’ – Bridie carefully rearranges the dead woman’s garments – ‘it could have made her an accidental witness.’
‘Surely Sir Edmund will tell the police about his daughter now.’
‘He’ll be even less likely to tell them, Ruby.’
‘You’d expect him to want the police out looking for her.’
‘Not if he has a good reason to keep her secret.’
‘She wasn’t born to his wife,’ poses Ruby. ‘Or the servants were right and she’s some class of abomination.’
‘Or because Sir Edmund acquired the child illegally himself.’
‘You think he stole Christabel?’
‘Stole, bought, it would fit.’
Muffled voices in the chapel, footsteps ringing nearer, and Bridie just has time to pull the sheet back over the corpse and push her case under the table before the vestry door opens. The district inspector accompanied by Mr Puck. The inspector is a large man with a round face easily reddened by exertion and the bearing of someone who has been around for a while and knows everything.
‘Have you reason to be bothering that corpse, madam?’
Bridie glances at Mr Puck; the butler shakes his head.
‘I was just straightening things out, Inspector,’ she says.
‘Is that right?’ And what would your name happen to be, madam?’
‘Mrs Devine.’
‘Mrs Devine, is it?’ The inspector nods. ‘Well, Mrs Devine, there will be no altering or concealing of evidence, no pilfering of pockets and snipping bits off on my watch.’
‘He’s a sharp one,’ mutters Ruby.
‘There has been no altering, concealing, pilfering here, Inspector.’ Bridie meets the policeman’s eye squarely.
The inspector grunts and escorts Mr Puck to the side of the table. ‘Right, sir. Can you confirm for me that this poor unfortunate is a stranger to Maris House?’ The inspector pulls back the sheet.
Mr Puck looks down. ‘Yes, Inspector. I can confirm that this is a perfect stranger.’
The baronet, in his study, sits behind his desk wearing a surprisingly stern expression.
Bridie, undaunted, continues. ‘So, what you are saying, sir, is that the murder of the young woman found in the chapel-yard is in no way linked to Christabel being taken?’
‘A mere coincidence.’
‘Even knowing, as we do, sir, that the perpetrators hid Christabel in the vestry before moving on again?’
Catching a hint of Bridie’s suspicion, he frowns. ‘As I said, madam, a mere coincidence.’
‘Sir Edmund, I’m sorry, but I’m not convinced.’ Bridie takes a careful breath. ‘Tell me, is there one good reason for me not to tell the police that this young woman’s death may have been a consequence of the abduction of your daughter?’
‘His jaw is going! The clench to it!’ says Ruby, who is sitting on the corner of Sir Edmund’s desk, scrutinising the baronet’s responses. ‘You’ve got him riled now.’
Sir Edmund scowls. ‘I thought you were an expert in these matters, Mrs Devine. If the police are involved it will make it harder to find Christabel. Those people will run to ground or take her out of the country.’ He looks at Bridie pointedly. ‘Or a worse fate might befall her, if her abductors panic.’
Bridie decides to ignore this provocation. ‘And what of the young woman lying dead in the vestry of your chapel?’
‘As Mr Puck says, she’s a perfect stranger.’
‘And yet she fits the description of a young woman who has been seen around the grounds, Sir Edmund.’
‘Who has seen this young woman? I haven’t.’
‘Perhaps she was an ex-servant, or one-time beneficiary of the estate. She’d plainly had a difficult time of things; walking distances, probably without abode, half-starved—’
‘Hedge-creepers and vagabonds are not tolerated here.’ Sir Edmund seethes. ‘My servants are not out tramping the roads, madam, they are all accounted for.’
‘Apart from your child’s nurse, sir. I wouldn’t say Mrs Bibby is accounted for.’
‘See him flinch!’ says Ruby. ‘That’s a sore point right there, Bridie!’
‘How did Mrs Bibby come to work here, sir? And what do you know about her character?’
‘Impeccable references. Highly recommended.’
‘Recommended by whom?’
‘William Harbin. He’d come across her in a professional capacity, working for another family. He was greatly impressed by her diligence and discretion. Her situation was ending and we were suddenly in need—’
‘Why had Mrs Bibby’s previous situation ended, sir?’
Sir Edmund looks impatient. ‘The child had grown.’
‘This other family, Sir Edmund, they provided references?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Would you happen to have their names, sir?’
Sir Edmund rears. ‘Harbin organised it.’
‘I see – and where is Dr Harbin now, sir? He could not be found to attend the chapel-yard corpse. The inspector had to send to Polegate for a doctor.’
‘How
would I bloody know—’
‘Of course,’ Bridie counters calmly. ‘Just to be clear, there have been no other incidents in the time – not quite a month, is it? – that Mrs Bibby has been in your employ?’
‘No.’
Bridie waits. With nothing forthcoming, she changes tack.
‘You’re a collector, Sir Edmund, are you not? With a specialism: a profound interest in water, how it behaves and what organisms, particularly those of an anomalous nature, might live in and around it.’
Ruby leans over the desk, observing Sir Edmund with deep scrutiny. ‘The Winter Horror, don’t deny it, man.’
‘I fail to see your point, madam,’ says Sir Edmund, coldly.
‘I wish to ask you a candid question, sir. I would welcome an equally candid answer.’
‘Careful,’ warns Ruby. ‘He’s about to hop.’
‘Is it possible, Sir Edmund, that Christabel is not your natural daughter, but rather you acquired her on the premise of some unique properties she may, or may not, have?’
Sir Edmund is rigid with rage, his eyes are locked on Bridie’s, his hands grasp the backs of his thighs. ‘How dare—’
‘I propose,’ she continues grimly, thinking of the restraints in the nursery, ‘that Christabel was kept secret as a result of having been removed from her original friends, who would wish her returned, sir.’
Sir Edmund’s face is an apoplectic red.
‘He’s scarlet, oh Jesus, he’ll burst, Bridie—’ whispers Ruby.
‘Sir Edmund, did you acquire Christabel by means nefarious?’
‘You, madam, are asking the wrong questions to the wrong person,’ replies Sir Edmund, with choked-back fury.
‘I require the truth, sir.’
Sir Edmund looks Bridie dead in the eye. ‘Christabel is my daughter and I want her safe return, that’s all there is to it. I’m not a suspect, Mrs Devine. I’m your damned client.’
Chapter 10
Sir Edmund’s carriage waits on the drive to convey Mrs Devine back to Polegate Station. Bridie is ready to return to London, for Maris House has offered questions rather than answers, dissembling rather than truth-telling. And isn’t the metropolis just the place to hide a remarkable child? And if she is remarkable, well, there will be interested parties in London, too.
But Bridie has one last stop along the way.
She calls out to the footman as she takes her seat. ‘Tell the driver I want to visit Dr Harbin on the way to the station, if you please.’
A dead boxer climbs into the carriage. Bridie watches him settle beside her. He takes off his top hat and lays it on his transparent knees.
‘The doctor’s next, is it?’ he asks.
‘He’s been lying low since we got here. Where was he when it came to examining the chapel-yard corpse? We’ll give him a jounce and see if any clues fall out. Not least, where he fetched this Mrs Bibby from.’
The footman extracts a pocket-watch fussily.
‘We’ve time,’ shouts Bridie. ‘If the driver gets on with it.’
The footman winces, folds up the steps and shuts the carriage door with an air of good riddance.
The carriage pulls away from Maris House. They ride in silence for a while.
‘I’ll not miss this place,’ says Bridie.
‘It’s been a treat, what with the snails and the thing in the jar and the kidnapped child and the corpse. And everyone hiding something, it seems.’
‘That’s usually the way of it. The snails, I must say, aren’t usual.’
The carriage takes the gate at a decent clip and is a way down the stretch of the road by the wood before it abruptly loses speed.
‘Ah, now, what’s going on?’ Bridie lowers the window and leans out.
Ahead, in the middle of the road, a man stands facing the coach. His hand held up, palm outward. Behind him stands a hired gig.
In the gesture of this man’s outstretched palm is the conviction that a team of carriage horses, a ton of metal and painted wood, a resentful driver and a guest already late for the London train will stop at his command.
The coachman curses him to hell and brings his horses to a jolting halt.
The man rounds the side of the coach and nods up at the passenger leaning out of the window.
‘My, my, Mrs Devine, is it? Are you well?’
Here is a man with an inscrutable face. Only, see here now the beginnings of a smile behind the immaculate sandy beard. And surely, a quickening brightness in the grey eyes that look into the carriage.
This man appears possessed, above all else, of considerable intelligence and alertness. He would never be ambushed, surprised, duped or hoodwinked in any way. Alongside this, a natural authority and none of the deference expected from his class. Though dressed in well-tailored clothes, his accent marks him as the product of a ragged part of London and he makes no attempt to hide his origin. I was a street orphan, states the steel in his jaw and his eyes, and isn’t the strongest backbone found in those who fight to survive?
There is only one incongruous note to this man: the fine blousy flower in his buttonhole, a thing of real beauty, of the palest apricot.
‘Inspector Rose,’ says Bridie. ‘Always a pleasure.’
‘You are making haste from the scene of a robbery and murder, madam – what are you hiding in there?’
‘Who’s to say I’m hiding anything, Inspector?’
His face shows mild amusement. ‘There’s a furtive turn to you.’
‘That’s habitual.’
He laughs. The horses shift, the carriage rolls. ‘What’s going on up at the house?’
‘Ask Sir Edmund, or the red-faced inspector. They’ll enlighten you.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘From me, it is.’
‘This is a long way to come for a specialist like you.’ He glances around him, at the empty country lane.
‘Likewise, all the way from London for an unidentified corpse?’
‘I am hunting a master criminal.’
‘What’s his name?’ asks Bridie.
‘Her names are too many to mention.’ Rose smiles. ‘Hard to pin down, like her, but I’m working on it.’
‘One of the servants had a limp and rough manners,’ remarks Bridie, attentive to the inspector’s expression.
His smile doesn’t waver. ‘Did she now?’
‘It’s delightful to converse with you, Rose. But I have a train to catch.’
‘Then you must go. We should work together again, Bridie. Remember Monsieur Pilule? Whenever you’re ready for something livelier than bygone crypt bodies.’
Bridie frowns. ‘You are forgetting my recent failure, Inspector.’
‘And you are forgetting your many successes,’ replies Rose, smiling into her eyes.
Ruby watches them closely, pulling his moustache sullenly.
Rose tips the rim of his hat. ‘Well, look me up in London, Bridie. I say it every time—’
‘It’s always better to live in hope.’
Rose grins. ‘And love to our uncle Prudhoe – you’ll see him before I do, no doubt.’ He taps the side of the carriage. ‘Take her away, driver.’
The carriage moves forward. As they pass the gig Rose jumps into the driver’s seat and salutes.
‘Is this cove family to you, Bridie?’
‘I’ve no family living; he refers to our shared friend, the chemist Rumold Fortitude Prudhoe.’
‘Uncle Prudhoe?’
‘Rose was a street orphan, Prudhoe gave him a home.’ Bridie leans out of the window, watching the inspector go off in his gig at great shake. ‘Prudhoe took me in for a while, too. Rose and I were play-fellows, I suppose.’
‘You’ve known him a while, then, this Rose?’
Bridie sits back in her seat. ‘Woman and girl.’
‘Isn’t that grand.’
Bridie glances at him.
Ruby makes an effort. ‘He’s done well for himself,’ he adds, begrudgingly.
Bridie nods. ‘Prudhoe was a good mentor. We’ll visit him on our return to London. He knows collectors, good and bad; he may have heard something about Christabel.’
‘And then he’ll tell his adopted nephew what you are up to?’
Bridie shakes her head. ‘Prudhoe would never betray a confidence.’
‘You’ve worked with Rose before?’
‘Ever heard of Monsieur Pilule’s Roast House?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Just as well. The proprietor, Charlie Pill, was running the establishment while he worked on the sly in the body trade. His old man had done well in the resurrection business before the Anatomy Act.’
Ruby looks confused.
‘The Act gave the medical men a better supply of cadavers to play with – the bodies of the destitute at their disposal if no one laid claim to them. Before that, a fresh-dug corpse from a night-time grave-yard was more welcome than a clutch of new potatoes.’
‘Ah, no!’
‘Of course, it was only a matter of time before Charlie brought his two interests together: fine dining and corpses.’
‘Bridie, don’t—’
‘He powdered human bone for the French rolls. Brought ’em up nice and white, Charlie said, far better than chalk and alum.’
‘Blessed Apostles!’
‘Then he began to serve more unusual cuts of meat. You know, for the connoisseur. Highly spiced. Difficult to digest.’
Ruby takes off his hat and rubs his forehead. ‘Jesus, Bridie, wouldn’t you ever have had a normal sort of life? Poking and nosing after stolen children and murders and bits of bodies, heaven knows what you have in your case there.’
‘And what if no one wanted to poke or nose around, Ruby?’ Bridie’s voice is barbed. ‘Wrong-doers would get away with whatever they like.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘Is it because I’m a woman that you object to it?’
‘Would you hear yourself? I object to it because it turns my insides. Now tell me about this Charlie Pill but without all the grisly details.’
‘We helped prepare a case against him – Rose and I. Charlie swung for it, but his wealthier customers’ – Bridie’s eyes are lit – ‘they were the worst off, especially if they’d opted for the fricassee.’