The Christmas Card

by Dilly Court

  Alice moved swiftly to her side and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll look for accommodation elsewhere, but there’s something I must do first.’

  ‘I understand, and it’s probably for the best, but I’ll be sorry to see you go. You’ll always be a welcome guest in our house, Alice. Always.’

  Despite her urgent need to find work and a new place to live, Alice had only one thing on her mind as she made her way to the pawnshop in Great Russell Street. It was cold and sunny, with frost particles sparkling on the pavements, and she walked briskly, her mind filled with the questions she would ask Quint. She had hoped to find him in a better mood than the previous evening, but his general demeanour was less than welcoming when she entered the shop. ‘What’s your business, young woman?’

  ‘I seek information, Mr Quint.’

  He peered at her short-sightedly. ‘Was you here last evening?’

  ‘I was, and you were less than helpful when I enquired about Jessie Smithson.’

  ‘I told you last night I got nothing to say. Never heard of her.’

  ‘I was told that she often visits you here.’

  ‘They was mistook.’

  Alice could see that he was not going to co-operate and she decided to try another tactic. ‘That’s a pity because I might have some information which would be of value to her.’ She shrugged and turned to look at a case containing items of jewellery. Fragmented rays of sunlight filtered through the grimy windowpanes and her attention was caught by a silver filigree brooch. ‘Might I take a closer look at this?’ she asked.

  He lumbered over to the case and produced a key ring from his pocket. After trying several he managed to find the right one. His bare fingers protruded from woollen mittens like gnarled twigs as he unhooked the small silver butterfly. ‘Thought you wasn’t buying.’

  Alice examined it closely. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘That ain’t none of your business. Pay me half a crown and it’s yours.’

  ‘This brooch is stolen property,’ Alice said boldly. ‘I shan’t pay you a penny piece and if you don’t tell me who brought it in I’ll go straight to the police.’

  ‘You little bitch.’ Quint moved nearer, thrusting his face so close that she could see the dirt engrained in his pores and the remains of his breakfast sticking to his greying beard and moustache. ‘You’ll get out of here now, or do I have to throw you out?’

  ‘Do as you please but I’ll go to the police and I’m sure they’ll be very interested to inspect your stock. All I want to know is who pawned this brooch. I’ve reason to believe that Smithson might be part of the Bishop gang. Was it her?’

  Quint was clearly baffled by her boldness and his dirty fingers plucked nervously at his beard. ‘What if it was?’

  ‘I need to contact her, Mr Quint. It’s very urgent.’

  His scowl was answer enough, but she was desperate. She took her purse from her reticule and produced a half-crown. ‘I’ll buy the brooch but only if you tell me where I can find Smithson.’

  ‘And you’ll leave me alone? You won’t go to the police?’

  ‘I give you my word.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Brownlow Buildings, Clare Market, but don’t tell her that I let on.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Alice handed him the money, closing her fingers around the precious silver butterfly. Memories of last Christmas came flooding back: she had refused the pearl ring that Rory had wanted to give her, and sacrificed the silver butterfly in order to make Flora happy. It must have been taken by force, she thought angrily. Flora would never have given it away willingly, but good might come of it after all. If she could find Smithson she would be on her way to rescuing Flora.

  Clare Market was situated in the midst of the worst rookeries in London, and Brownlow Buildings was a dilapidated Elizabethan town house that had escaped the Great Fire of London only to crumble into disrepair. Alice knew that the area was the haunt of thieves and the worst sort of villains, but she was determined to find Smithson. Ignoring the taunts of the slatternly women who hung around the doorways of shops and pubs, soliciting trade, she edged away from men who offered her money for her services. Ragged children accosted her, begging for coins and old women huddled on the pavement held their hands out in silent entreaty. It was Alice’s idea of hell and it was a relief to escape into the dark interior of Brownlow Buildings.

  She hesitated, waiting until her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and found herself in a narrow passageway that opened into an oak-panelled entrance hall. What had once been the home of a prosperous London merchant was now reduced to a cheap lodging house. A man was slumped at the foot of the stairs, and at first she thought he was dead, but then a loud snore shook his skinny frame and he groaned. The sound of raised voices, shrieks and screams, raucous laughter and infants wailing echoed off the walls, but doors were firmly closed. Alice was beginning to wish that she had listened to Rory. The thought of making enquiries and disturbing the occupants was daunting and she was about to retreat when the body on the floor snapped into a sitting position. He opened his eyes, focusing his bloodshot gaze on her with difficulty.

  ‘Who are you?’

  She took a step backwards, prepared to run if need be. ‘I’m looking for Jessie Smithson.’

  ‘The bitch took all me money,’ he groaned. ‘Drank me under the table and left me to crawl home.’ He closed his eyes, swaying as if about to collapse.

  Alice would have shaken him, but his clothes were filthy and the smell emanating from him was enough to make her retch. She prodded him with the toe of her boot. ‘Where might I find Mrs Smithson?’

  He opened one eye. ‘I need a drink. Got a tanner, lady? Is it worth sixpence to find me old lady?’

  ‘You’re Mr Smithson?’

  ‘For me sins.’ He held his head in his hands. ‘Give me a tanner or leave me alone to die here. She don’t care, the hard-hearted besom.’

  Once again Alice was forced to take out her purse and hand over some of her hard-earned money. He grabbed the small silver coin and staggered to his feet. ‘Never let it be said that Nat Smithson ain’t a man of his word.’ He gesticulated in the direction of the upper floor. ‘It’s the door facing you on the first landing.’ He lurched past Alice and headed for the street.

  She made her way up the stairs, pausing and holding her breath at the sound of a door opening, followed by shouted abuse and hysterical screams, and then silence. She knocked on the door, and to her surprise and relief it opened. A large, red-faced woman glared at her through a mop of tousled grey hair.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Are you Mrs Jessie Smithson?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘May I come in?’ Alice asked, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. For a moment she thought the angry woman was going to slam the door in her face but then an arm shot out and dragged her into the room.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jessie peered at Alice.

  ‘My name is Alice Radcliffe. You don’t know me.’

  ‘So what d’you want?’ Jessie narrowed her eyes, glancing suggestively at Alice’s belly. ‘In a bit of trouble, are you, dearie?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Then what d’you want with the likes of me?’

  ‘I’ve come about Flora Dearborn.’

  Jessie recoiled, staring at her in disbelief. ‘How do you know Flora?’

  ‘I found something of hers in Quint’s pawnshop. He gave me to believe that it was you who popped it.’ It was a lie but Alice was prepared to go to almost any lengths in her search for Flora. She produced the silver brooch from her reticule. ‘She wouldn’t have parted with this willingly.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about it.’

  ‘Quint said you pawned it, Jessie. I don’t care how you got it, all I want is to find Flora and bring her home.’

  ‘What is the kid to you?’

  ‘I was her tutor for a short while. I think you know the re
st. It was you who told her about Molly Bishop, although why you made up such a lie I can’t imagine. I don’t believe that Molly is Flora’s mother, but she took her by force and I want to know the reason why.’

  Jessie drew her wrap around her ample person and went to sit on a chair by the window. She picked up a clay pipe and filled it with tobacco. ‘I dunno nothing about it.’ She struck a match and lit it, puffing smoke with obvious satisfaction. ‘You come to the wrong place, little Alice.’

  ‘You’re lying. I want to know the truth or I’ll go to the police and report you for theft of this brooch.’

  ‘You can’t prove nothing against me.’

  ‘Quint will back me up,’ Alice said, hoping it was true. ‘He’ll do anything to save his own skin. Tell me where Flora is and I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘She’s with her real mother and that’s where she belongs.’

  ‘I know she’s with Molly.’

  ‘Molly is just a go-between, like me.’

  ‘So who is Flora’s mother? You know, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I knows her. Wasn’t it me who helped her give birth to the brat? Wasn’t it me who had to find a home for the fatherless infant? Wasn’t it me who was sent to keep an eye on the kid while she was growing up?’ Jessie gripped the stem of the pipe between blackened teeth, her lips curved in a derisive sneer. ‘You don’t know nothing, you stuck-up little cow. You’re just like your silly ma, who reckoned she was too good to speak to the likes of me.’

  Alice stared at her in disbelief. ‘You knew Flora’s mother all along, and yet you kept it a secret. Who is this woman and where is Flora? I’m not leaving here until you tell me.’

  Jessie looked her up and down. Taking the pipe from her mouth she tapped the ash into a saucer. ‘I think it’s time Jessie Smithson took charge again. I want to see her ladyship’s face when I tell all.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll take me to Flora?’

  ‘Give me a minute or two to get dressed. I wouldn’t miss this, not at any price.’

  Outside the crowds parted as Jessie charged through them, and Alice did her best to keep up with her long strides. It was, she thought, like following in the wake of Britannia or Boadicea, and no one dared accost her while she was with the formidable Jessie Smithson. They stopped when Jessie reached the Strand and she turned to Alice with a questioning look. ‘Got the money for a cab?’

  ‘How far are we going?’

  ‘A bob should do it. We’re within the four-mile limit.’

  Alice did a quick calculation. ‘Yes, I’ve got a shilling for the fare.’ But Jessie had already hailed a cab and was about to climb in.

  ‘Hertford Street, cabby.’ Jessie sank back on the seat. ‘You might wish you hadn’t pried when you find out the truth, Miss High and Mighty.’

  Alice climbed in after her. She was trembling with anticipation and yet assailed by doubts. It all seemed too easy. She had put her trust in Smithson, but the woman seated next to her had admitted to past deeds that had affected two families, and probably many more. The cab weaved its way through heavy traffic in Trafalgar Square and made its way at a painfully slow pace along Cockspur Street, picking up speed in Regent Street and slowing down again in Piccadilly. Alice could hardly breathe as her excitement mounted. She had to believe Smithson; after all why would the woman accompany her on a fruitless mission? She shot her a sideways glance but Smithson was staring straight ahead with her clay pipe wedged between her teeth.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Smithson said gruffly as the cab pulled up outside an elegant four-storey house in Hertford Street. ‘Pay the man, Alice. I ain’t got that sort of money to spare.’

  Alice stepped down to the pavement and handed the cabby what was almost the last of her money, but as the vehicle disappeared into Curzon Street she experienced a sudden wave of panic. She turned to Smithson. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Smithson marched up the steps and knocked on the front door. ‘We’ll soon find out,’ she said tersely.

  Alice looked up and down the street with a feeling of awe. She had once thought that Aunt Jane’s house in Queen Square was the epitome of elegance, although that building had been eclipsed by the Dearborns’ establishment in Russell Square, but she realised now that Mayfair was worlds apart from Bloomsbury. These houses belonged to the rich and fashionable, and she felt suddenly dowdy and out of place. Smithson looked confident, but it seemed unlikely that the people who lived in such an exclusive area would associate with the likes of Jessie Smithson or Molly Bishop.

  Alice laid her hand on Smithson’s sleeve. ‘I think you must be mistaken. This can’t be right.’

  The door opened before Smithson had a chance to reply and she stepped forward, towering over the trim parlourmaid, who blanched visibly. ‘We’ve come to see Mrs Considine.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s out of town, ma’am.’ The maid was about to close the door when Smithson placed her large foot over the threshold. ‘In that case we’d like to see Miss Flora.’

  ‘Miss Flora went with Mrs Considine.’

  Smithson barged into the entrance hall. ‘Now listen to me, dearie. We’ve come all the way across town to see your mistress, and we ain’t leaving until we’ve spoken to someone who can give us some information.’

  Alice pushed past Smithson. She could see that the maid was intimidated by the large woman and was likely to call for help if she felt threatened. ‘Is there someone who could help us?’ she asked, smiling. ‘It would be a great kindness if there were.’

  The maid shot a wary look in Smithson’s direction. ‘Mrs Considine’s solicitor is here, miss. He’s in the study.’

  ‘Then we’ll see him,’ Smithson said firmly. ‘Mrs Considine is an old friend of mine so point us in the right direction, dearie.’

  The maid looked doubtful. ‘I’ll ask him if he’ll see you. What name shall I say?’

  ‘Miss Radcliffe,’ Alice said without giving Smithson a chance to answer. ‘Miss Alice Radcliffe.’

  ‘Wait here, if you please.’ The maid darted off.

  ‘You don’t want to let them put you off,’ Smithson said. ‘I could set the pavements of London on fire if I was to tell all I know about Mrs Considine’s past, and she’s well aware of the fact.’

  ‘What would a wealthy woman want with someone else’s child? And why is she keeping Flora here against her will?’ Alice put her head on one side. ‘What is it that you’re not telling me, Jessie? I’m at a definite disadvantage.’

  Smithson backed towards the front door. ‘You’ll find out soon enough, but I ain’t too fond of solicitors and the like. You’re on your own from now on, dearie. I’ve done me bit. Never let it be said that Jessie Smithson is a bad woman.’ She let herself out, closing the door behind her and Alice was tempted to follow her but the maid reappeared.

  ‘This way, miss.’

  Alice followed her along a wide corridor where crystal wall sconces sparkled in the flickering light of expensive candles, and the scent of melting wax mingled with the perfume of the hothouse flowers that spilled from urns and vases set on pedestals and side tables. Everything around her spoke of money and good taste. The contrast between this elegant abode and the dosshouse in Clare Market was shocking, and yet in a strange way it filled her with hope. There was life outside the poverty-stricken areas of the East End, and if it was attainable for some then it must be possible for others to better themselves.

  The maid ushered her into a book-lined study. ‘Miss Radcliffe, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsey and left the room.

  Alice faced the man who was seated behind a large desk. She judged him to be in his mid-forties, and despite the smile pasted on his classic features she felt a shudder run down her spine. His appearance was business-like with a touch of flamboyance. The points of a scarlet silk handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket, and a diamond stick pin secured his cravat. His greying hair was slicked back with pomade, and a neatly trimmed mo
ustache seemed to float above his top lip. He rose to his feet. ‘I’m Philip Hart, Mrs Considine’s solicitor and business advisor. What can I do for you, Miss Radcliffe?’

  She was about to answer when she noticed the large portrait in oils that hung on the wall behind him. Something inside her stirred as she struggled to recapture an elusive memory from long ago. It was connected in some mysterious way with the beautiful golden-haired woman who looked out at the world with a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes.

  ‘The lady in the painting, sir. Who is she?’

  He followed her gaze. ‘That is Mrs Considine, my employer and the owner of this fine house. It is a very good likeness.’ Moving swiftly round the desk he pulled up a chair. ‘Take a seat, Miss Radcliffe.’

  ‘She looks familiar, but I can’t quite place her.’

  ‘Mrs Considine is a well-known personage, Miss Radcliffe. Perhaps you’ve seen her at a social function, or even the theatre. Mrs Considine is a great patron of the arts and renowned for her charitable works. What is your business with her?’

  Alice dragged her thoughts back to the present. ‘I’m looking for a little girl called Flora. I’ve been told that she’s here.’

  Mr Hart resumed his seat. ‘Why do you seek this child, Miss Radcliffe? And what makes you think she resides here?’

  ‘Does the name Molly Bishop mean anything to you, sir?’

  ‘Answering a question with another question isn’t going to get us very far, Miss Radcliffe, but I will say that I have no acquaintanceship with a person of that name.’

  ‘Molly Bishop abducted Flora from York station and, according to Jessie Smithson, Flora was brought here. Where is she, sir? Her family are desperate for news of her.’

  He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the desk. ‘I think the person of whom you speak was mistaken. The only child who resides in this establishment is Mrs Considine’s daughter, but both she and her mother are out of town at present.’

  His blank expression gave nothing away and yet Alice did not believe him. She was certain that Smithson had told her the truth, and she was not going to give up without a fight. ‘Might I have her address, Mr Hart? I would very much like to meet Mrs Considine.’