The Woman In the Green Dress

by Téa Cooper

  She dragged her eyes from the horizon, felt the warmth of someone’s body next to her and turned her head. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Kip rammed his hands into his pocket. ‘Vera’s worried about you. Asked me to keep an eye out.’

  ‘I’m perfectly all right.’ She made to stand but his hand came down on her arm. ‘I don’t need any company.’ She wanted peace and quiet. No, what she wanted to do was jump on the ship she could see steaming out of the harbour and go home. Back to England. Back where she belonged. As far away from this ridiculous country and its stinking, hot weather and relentless sunshine as she could get.

  If Mr Waterstone had told her the truth from the outset she wouldn’t be sitting here thousands of miles from home, the one golden memory of her life lying at her feet in a puddle of blinding sunshine. Didn’t it ever rain in this wretched country? She reefed off her hat and wiped her face and found tears slipping out of her eyes—useless tears.

  A crumpled blue handkerchief pressed into her hands. She scrubbed at her face then balled the sodden mess. ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. She couldn’t hand the disgusting thing back. Picking at the embroidered initials in the corner she turned her head and offered Kip a half-hearted smile—more of a grimace.

  ‘That’s better. Vera wasn’t trying to interfere, just thought that maybe I could help.’

  How could he help? She ran her fingers over the embroidery on the corner, ABC; the sort of thing a child would have in the corner of his handkerchief, except it belonged to a man, the man sitting next to her. ‘I can’t believe Hugh lied to me. I can’t believe the man I married wasn’t who he said he was.’ She sniffed loudly, disgustingly. Surely she hadn’t any more tears. ‘I loved him.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘He wasn’t who he said he was!’

  ‘Doesn’t make him any less of a man or change the person he was.’

  She pushed his soggy handkerchief into her pocket and her fingers brushed the package Kip had placed on her lap.

  ‘So he is dead. I didn’t need a telegram.’ For a moment the pain was so sharp she had to fight back a wave of nausea. She turned the brown paper parcel over and over and toyed with the idea of throwing it into the harbour.

  ‘Why don’t you open it?’

  ‘I think I’m frightened.’

  ‘Why? Because you might find something else you didn’t know about him?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She worried the knot with her fingers and it slipped free.

  ‘Come back and sit down. You don’t want to lose anything.’

  Didn’t she? What if there were more lies? God, her mind was running riot.

  Twenty-Eight

  Sydney, NSW, 1853

  Stefan pushed open the doors to the Berkeley deep in thought. He had no idea how to approach Mrs Skeffington. He’d already made the mistake of calling at the most inappropriate of times. He could hardly repeat his faux pas yet it was essential that he confirmed the records from the Curio Shop. He simply needed Mrs Skeffington to admit she used the stone to pay for purchases at the Curio Shop.

  Unusually, the foyer was empty. The place had a deserted air. No sign of Sladdin and no sign of any card game in progress.

  ‘Captain von Richter.’ Philpott appeared from the card room with a large glass clasped in his hand. ‘I was hoping I would find you. I was wondering if you could spare me a few moments.’ The man looked dreadful, his eyes bloodshot and huge in his pale face.

  Why would Philpott want to speak to him? He’d only met him once over a game of cards. Stefan forced a smile. ‘Certainly.’

  ‘To be honest I have a matter I’d like to discuss with a man of science.’

  ‘I’m not sure I fit that description.’

  ‘I’d appreciate an educated opinion. I was hoping to catch you but it seems card games are not on the agenda today.’

  ‘No. It’s very quiet. How may I help you?’

  ‘It is a private matter …’

  ‘In that case, may I suggest my sitting room.’ Stefan gestured towards the stairs.

  ‘Thank you.’ Philpott’s step was heavy as they made their way to his suite. ‘I hate to impose but to be honest I have nowhere else to turn.’

  ‘Can I offer you another drink?’ He gestured to the decanter of brandy. ‘Or some tea perhaps.’

  ‘The brandy is working its magic.’ He held out his glass. ‘Mr Skeffington died early this morning. I am at my wits’ end.’

  Stefan concentrated on pouring the brandy into the tumblers. Mrs Skeffington had given the distinct impression there was little hope of her husband recovering, so why was Philpott so distressed?

  He took the offered glass and with a nod tossed most of it back. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. I fear my original diagnosis may have been incorrect.’

  ‘May I ask why?’ Stefan lowered himself into the chair.

  ‘I believe Mr Skeffington was poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned?’

  ‘There has been an outbreak of what we believed to be cholera, a wasting disease we usually see confined to the poorer areas of the town where sanitation is still, despite our best efforts, appalling and clean drinking water impossible to come by. However, with Skeffington’s death I have come to realise that his case does not fit within the usual parameters. And he is not the only one. Several have died. All the victims have been men, well-to-do men. Their immediate family have not contracted the disease, not even those nursing them, so I doubt they suffered from cholera. It is highly contagious.’

  Stefan put down his glass and fixed his gaze firmly on the man in front of him. ‘Have you contacted the authorities?’

  ‘As yet, no. I would like to ensure the Governor is aware of the matter but he is at Parramatta. It is only with Skeffington’s death I made the connection. And to be honest I am disappointed with myself for not picking the inconsistencies.’

  ‘Poisoned with what?’

  ‘Arsenic would be my guess.’

  ‘La poudre inheritance.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And can you not test for this?’

  ‘It is possible, yes. The Marsh test. James Marsh first published his results some fifteen, twenty years ago but it has been less than well received and of course it requires permission of the next of kin. A difficult thing to ask a wife who has just lost her husband.’

  ‘Providing she is innocent.’ The words dried on Stefan’s lips as he remembered Bishop. His wife certainly didn’t fit the picture. Her death had been caused by a house fire, everyone from the Governor down had attested to that. ‘What are the symptoms of arsenic poisoning?’

  ‘Initially headaches, drowsiness, confusion, sometimes muscle cramps, tingling in the extremities and severe stomach pains. Internally the arsenic is producing an inflammation of the internal lining of the stomach and bowels. This causes the most violent spasms and intense agony which leads to chronic retching and vomiting and other exhausting distresses.’

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done to police its use?’

  ‘Arsenic is readily available through pharmacies as a rat poison, although we do now have a register to monitor purchases. Besides it’s all around us.’ He gestured to the green wallpaper. ‘This green that is currently so fashionable contains a degree of arsenic to hold the intensity of colour. Those pretty young ladies at the Governor’s in their green dresses—there’s a reason they’re called drop-dead gorgeous. They are dancing in a cloud of arsenic powder. Women also use it in their cosmetics. A powder will keep the skin pale and a paste remove unwanted hair.’

  ‘Then why aren’t there more deaths?’

  ‘Long-term ingestion of small amounts can produce a tolerance but even that catches up eventually. In the final stages, dark and foul-smelling urine, diarrhoea, even nerve defects and then the breakdown of internal organs.’

  ‘Yet a large dose will kill instantly.’

  ‘Within two to five days, a measured regular dose can mask the symptoms and present
as an illness; cholera is most frequently diagnosed, as I said.’

  For every conclusion, there appeared to be a counter argument. No wonder the poor man was at his wits’ end.

  ‘Forgive me, I have burdened you with my incoherent ramblings.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive. Often in talking aloud we find an answer to our questions. Do you think Mrs Skeffington could be responsible for her husband’s demise?’

  ‘Wittingly or unwittingly. That is the difficulty. Someone is, unless I have become totally inept. I cannot see that she has much to gain. My problem is that if she refuses to allow an autopsy I will not be able to prove poisoning. Forensic toxicology is a very new science, Captain. And to perform an accurate test I would need a sample of body tissue.’

  ‘And you believe Mrs Skeffington may refuse that imposition?’

  Philpott nodded, his forehead creased then he delved into his pocket and brought out a small brochure: ‘Tonic. For the improvement of all ailments,’ he read aloud then held out the paper to Stefan.

  The print looked somehow familiar and when Stefan turned the brochure over his blood cooled. ‘Just one moment.’ He hadn’t thrown it away. He knew he hadn’t. He rushed into his bed chamber and rummaged through the pocket of his greatcoat. Nothing. Then his riding jacket still muddy from his trip. He must get Sladdin to see to it. Sladdin! Sladdin had given him the original flyer about the Curio Shop on the very day he had arrived. Where the hell was it?

  ‘Can I be of any assistance?’ Philpott’s figure loomed in the doorway.

  ‘I shan’t be a moment.’ Then his eyes lit on his dress uniform. He shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out the flyer. He was right!

  Visitors to Sydney should not leave without calling upon The Curio Shop of Wonders at 84 Hunter Street.

  Skins of native birds, beasts and reptiles well-preserved and ready for setting up. Fur and feather rugs …

  Without a word he handed Philpott the piece of paper.

  ‘Interesting. Very interesting. But hardly proof.’

  ‘Do you have a sample of this tonic Skeffington was taking?’

  ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘And there is no residue in a glass or anything in the sickroom?’

  ‘Impossible to discern without testing everything in the house. Arsenic has no flavour and is easily mixed into any drink, or food for that matter.’

  ‘How much does it take to kill a man?’

  ‘It varies. The body is strange. As I said a person can build up a resistance and in many cases arsenic may be beneficial. It is used in the treatment of syphilis for example.’

  ‘Then I suspect your suspicions may be difficult to prove.’

  ‘Without a tissue sample, yes.’

  Stefan picked up the bottle and studied the label. ‘Do you know how Mrs Skeffington came to discover the tonic? Was it recommended?’

  ‘That is where the situation becomes interesting. I’m not sure whether you are aware of the fact but when the card games are being held many of the members’ wives also meet. I believe they play parlour games.’

  Stefan’s mind skipped from stone to stone and the path got slipperier by the moment. ‘And more than one of these wives have lost their husband?’ It was an outrageous suggestion.

  ‘Suffice to say that many of the victims of this cholera have connections with the Berkeley.’

  ‘But you can’t prove they died of arsenic poisoning.’

  ‘Without exhuming the bodies and performing the Marsh test, no.’

  ‘How long has this been going on? Surely someone has noticed a pattern.’

  ‘The first case was possibly five years ago.’

  ‘Five years! And you haven’t brought it to the notice of the authorities?’

  ‘I’m basing that on my uncle’s records. I arrived in Australia two years ago and took over his patients. He passed on last year. A heart attack. He was seventy-one.’ Philpott offered him a wry grin. ‘It was only when I was reviewing his records that the pattern emerged.’

  ‘And these women who have lost their husbands, they are healthy?’

  ‘Indeed. They have gone from strength to strength. Some have remarried, others have chosen to remain single and manage their deceased husbands’ business affairs. Did you know that more women own businesses in Sydney than men?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ And that brought his mind back to the Curio Shop.

  Twenty-Nine

  Sydney, NSW, 1919

  Despite everything Kip said, Fleur couldn’t bring herself to open the package containing Hugh’s possessions, nor could she throw it away. It rested, still neatly wrapped, on her bedside table along with Kip’s carefully washed blue handkerchief.

  She’d thrashed about all night trying to make up her mind what to do. She should just accept the truth. It had taken long enough to ferret it out. Go back to England and pick up where she’d left off. Put the whole horrible set of circumstances behind her. Mrs Black would take her back and she’d find a room to rent, maybe not as close to work but there had to be one available somewhere. She was as much of an imposter as Hugh. Would she have married him, if she’d known the truth? The only thing that made her feel halfway sensible was the fact that she’d spent very little of his money—the hotel bill and the fares to Mogo, a few meals here and there. All in all, she couldn’t have made much of a dent in the bloody von Richter fortune.

  Surely she could find a job on a ship returning to England, they must have a need for kitchen staff. Ships of all sorts, full of returned servicemen, just like Kip, arrived every day then turned around to collect their next cargo of wounded soldiers.

  She slipped Kip’s handkerchief into her pocket; she would return it the next time she saw him. Hugh’s package was another matter. Curiosity made her fingers itch. What if it was another parcel of lies? If only she knew a little more about his life and his family. She’d never forget Hugh, Hugo von Richter, she corrected, or come to terms with the foolish mistake she had made in believing everything he’d said.

  Out of the window the view of the bustling docks contrasted with the serenity of the harbour. The prospect of grey, damp, drizzle-ridden London held nothing for her anymore. Going home, giving up and crawling away, wouldn’t solve her problem. She’d spend the rest of her life wondering. What she needed was some sort of a compromise, something to help her understand why Hugh had seen fit to leave her the von Richter fortune.

  Snatching up the package, she bolted down the stairs.

  ‘Mr Sladdin.’

  The clerk lifted his beady gaze from the ledger, his head tortoise-like on his long neck, and put down his fountain pen.

  ‘I was wondering if the hotel has a strong box.’

  ‘Indeed we do.’ He straightened up, rubbing his hands together and making the dry skin crackle, as though he relished the ability to be of service.

  With a surprising degree of difficulty, she lowered the package to the desk. ‘Could I place this in your safe keeping?’

  He picked it up, running his long sinewy fingers over the paper, reminding her of a child at Christmas trying to guess the contents of a present. His brow furrowed, his curiosity getting the better of him. ‘Corporal Hugh Richards.’ He traced a nail across the writing on the front. ‘Of course, I quite understand. Will there be anything else?’

  Surely he would take it and lock it up immediately. She had the most ghastly feeling he might open it and discover everything she was too much of a coward to face. She clenched her fingers, resisting the temptation to snatch it back. ‘Should I have some sort of receipt?’

  ‘Ah yes, of course, of course.’ He rummaged in the desk drawer and produced a small booklet, made a play of organising the sheet of carbon paper then scribbled the date and wrote Personal Possessions Corporal Hugh Richards on the top and slid it across the desktop. ‘If you’d just sign here please, Mrs Richards.’

  Gritting her teeth, she picked up the fountain pen and scribbled her signature then, with mumbled
thanks, pocketed the receipt and left, determined to discover for herself the truth about the man she married.

  The key, with its ornate bird perched on the top, sat comfortably in the palm of her hand, almost as though it belonged. She couldn’t wait to get back into the shop. Before anything else, the boards had to be removed from the windows, to get some light and air into the place and dispel the smell of dust and decay. Then she’d approach the whole conundrum in an organised manner. She was good at that, she always found comfort in her ability to create order from chaos. After all, it had worked when Vera couldn’t face the piles of files and folders. Not that the result was anything she’d boast about. She swung the key in a high arc from its piece of faded ribbon and came to a halt in front of the shop.

  Someone had moved the remnants of the timber boarding from the step. She unlocked the door, swung it open and stood rooted to the spot. Sunlight flooded the honey-coloured floorboards and a warm gust of wind drifted through the building; the shutters at the back were open, the boarding gone.

  From the back came the sound of a hammer, then a crash and a crunch. She ran to the back door, shot the bolts and threw it open.

  There was Kip, the biggest grin on his face, some sort of apron full of tools around his waist, his sleeves rolled up and a pair of filthy trousers suspended from braces that had seen better days.

  ‘Ah! You beat me to it. I was hoping I’d have this lot cleared up before you got here.’ His voice, his face, everything about him radiated pleasure.

  She stepped out into the yard to better appreciate his handiwork. Not only were the downstairs windows open, so were those above. ‘You’ve done so much.’ A lump rose to her throat.

  ‘Makes a hell of a lot of difference once you can see what you’re looking at. Come and have a gander.’ He reached for her hand, and without a second thought she took it. He led her up the stairs and into a small room overlooking the yard.

  In one corner there was a sheet draped over what looked like a pile of furniture.