Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall

by Luccia Gray

  I ran back upstairs in horror and watched the day merge into night, lost in brooding thoughts. I decided to go to Scotland Yard the following morning and pay a visit to Sergeant Stanley Wilson, as Captain Carrington had suggested. This young girl would be easy to intimidate, but this false Mrs. Banks was probably a very dangerous criminal who had been in this ungodly business for years.

  The young girl popped back into the room. “Perhaps you should come back tomorrow, sir.”

  “Certainly, Miss…?”

  “Polly, just Polly.”

  “Certainly, Polly.” I forced another smile. “I shall return tomorrow after lunch.”

  “I imagine she won’t be out tomorrow, too. She tires easily. It’s her legs. They swell like tree trunks when she’s stood too long.”

  I imagined how I would kick the monster’s legs until she told me where Helen was, and then I would tie her arms, fill her pockets with heavy stones and throw her into the river.

  I returned by train on the South London Line to Victoria Station. Foreboding thoughts accompanied me as I walked along the Embankment past the Houses of Parliament. The wind whipped my face as I paced past Westminster Bridge, Waterloo Bridge, Blackfriars Bridge, and Southwark Bridge. I finally crossed the smog–covered Thames at London Bridge and strolled down Borough High Street to my lodgings at the George Inn, a stone’s throw from Saint Thomas Street, and the hospital.

  I had steak and roast potatoes washed down with ale for dinner, and then I was charged an exorbitant sum of money for a tub of water in my rooms. In spite of the incessant brawling in the street outside my window, I slept like a log until the dawn light woke me.

  I made my way along Southwark Street and then Stamford Street to Westminster Bridge to avoid the muddy roadworks along the Victoria Embankment. I continued along Whitehall and turned right, past Horse Guards and the War Office into Great Scotland Yard Street, and reached the imposing sturdy white stone walls and tall rectangular windows of the London Police Headquarters.

  Sergeant Wilson was a round sort of man. He had a round red–veined face, a large round belly, and fat chubby fingers. I imagined he was a man who enjoyed his food and drink over any other pleasures in life. When he spoke, his slurred and jovial voice convinced me he would never be seen chasing anyone or even organising a chase. I informed him of my suspicion that a woman under an assumed name was buying and selling babies. I was appalled at his lack of interest in the topic.

  “There are too many children in London, Lieutenant Kirkpatrick, far too many. They are often born in the wrong families, who cannot feed them or clothe them, so they are taken to other better–off families. It is often a question of social justice. Many of the intermediaries are religious orders. Children are left on church or convent doorsteps, others sadly fall into the hands of dubious individuals such as the one you mention, but in any case, the children who survive will have a better life, don’t you think?”

  I could not disclose the real events that had occurred, but I needed to be able to threaten her with some legal action.

  “Of course I agree, Sergeant Wilson, but let us suppose a criminal had robbed children and was selling them for immoral reasons, such as prostitution or unpaid labour?”

  “If it could be proved in a court of law that she stole the children and sold them, she would be taken to Newgate and later hanged. Unfortunately, none of the parents would miss a hungry baby, and call the police to deal with the crime.”

  I tried to convince him that the plight of the babies was important, but he was unmoved.

  “Have you any idea how much crime, I mean serious crime, there is in London? Pickpockets, thieves, burglars, and debtors, they are our curse. They threaten the honest, hard–working citizens.”

  I realised there was no point in giving him any more information, because he could not offer me any help in my search, so I thanked him and left, dreading what I would have to do the following day. I had learned at an early age that the only way to beat the malevolent was to be stronger and more evil than they were. I was not proud of the lesson I had learned, but I knew that if I had turned the other cheek, I should be dead.

  It was before midday on the day before New Year’s Eve when I knocked at Number Six Sudbourne Road, once again. Polly’s bloodshot eyes greeted me and her feet dragged as she showed me in. She stank of gin, which was better than the putrid smell that she had exhaled on my previous visit.

  “Mrs. Banks ain’t come back. Sent a note saying she’d be back tomorrow, New Year’s Eve. She has business in Brighton.”

  “How are the boys?”

  “’Fraid there’s only one left.”

  “What happened to the other one?”

  “Dead this morning. How many did you want anyway?”

  “Just one. The other was for my brother, as I told you.”

  “Don’t know if the other’ll be ’ere on New Year’s Day.” She laughed hysterically. “Ain’t got no money for milk, the mum can’t pay, and Mrs. Banks don’t care. Give him water or gin, she says.”

  “And the girls?”

  “Got seven of ’em. Bloody squealers. They can eat porridge so they might survive.”

  “Could I give you some money?”

  “I’m a decent girl. That’s why I work here and not on the streets.”

  My stomach churned at her words. “I would like to give you an advance, for the boy, so you could buy some milk.”

  “I’ll need a guinea.”

  I watched her put the coin in her pocket. She hiccupped. “Ta. I’ll make sure ’e gets some milk tomorrow.”

  I followed her out of the house, down Brixton High Street, and into a sordid looking shop on the corner. She walked out again with a bottle of what I supposed was gin under her arm. I caught her arm and asked her where she could buy some milk. She pointed to the same shop she had just left. I told her to go back and get some.

  “I need some of Godfrey’s, too, and some more copper,” she said, so I gave her another coin.

  Back in the house, she filled a filthy feeding bottle with a long rubber tube for the baby to suck. “He’s too weak to pull on the bottle. He’ll die too without a wet nurse. I used to ’ave some milk, that’s why Mrs. Banks employed me, but it’s all gone now, just I ’aven’t told her.”

  I followed her upstairs where there were three more bedrooms and an attic. The three bedrooms were full of worn rugs, moth eaten blankets on the floor and babies sprawled around. Some were moving their limbs, and others were quite still. All of them were obviously undernourished; some had yellow or grey–tinged skin, but none had healthy pink colouring. The next two rooms were much the same in size and occupants. The rooms all stank of vomit, sour milk, and gin. I was thankful that Jane would not be seeing this horror.

  Before passing out, Polly told me that she had met Mrs. Banks when she had come to leave her own daughter and had stayed to breastfeed the other babies, while her daughter was found a family. Her daughter disappeared the following day, although Polly said she had no knowledge of where she had been taken. She informed me that many of the babies were ‘looked after’ by Mrs. Banks, for a monthly fee, while their mothers worked in factories or on the streets; others were given to her with a lump sum, never to be returned. She sold some of them, and others were lucky enough to die soon. No one asked questions.

  I walked back to the George Inn, pondering on how I should proceed. This Mrs. Banks had obviously taken over the house and the social work carried out by the original Mrs. Banks, except she had made it into an illicit and vile trade. She may or may not know about Helen, but she must know something, or she would not have written such a detailed account of her death in the letter she sent Jane. I would give her the opportunity of speaking the truth and redeeming her soul, but I had to be prepared for her lack of cooperation. The following morning I bought rope, socks, and two bottles of laudanum on Borough High Street, which I carried inside my leather satchel.

  I then travelled down to Camberwell, and wander
ed along Rainbow Street, past the house where Susan and Dante were to live. It was a modern three–bedroomed terraced brick house with bay windows, a walled front garden, attic and cellar. It was not too different from the house I had visited in Brixton, and the area looked pleasant enough, surrounded by healthy woodland and not too far from Camberwell Green, a well–kept park bordered by expensive–looking and large town houses. I hoped she could have at least a maid, because the house and her new child would be too much work for Susan.

  I walked back towards Brixton, stopping at a modern, Greek Doric style building with a tower on the eastern side, which I learned was called the church of Saint Mathew’s. I knelt in front of the alter, bowed my head and prayed for Helen, and all the babies who were heartlessly abandoned, or ruthlessly snatched from their mothers, hoping God would allow me to find her and return her safely to Jane. On my way to Sudbourne Road, I stopped at the corner shop and bought two bottles of gin, which I placed alongside my previous purchases in my bag.

  ***

  Chapter XII – New Year’s Eve Ball

  I was glad to get away from Eyre Hall again. I had never felt so uncomfortable in my own house, and the feeling was alien to me. Annette was avoiding me. She had replied to my letter with one short note, which I could neither understand nor accept.

  The short journey to Lord Ingram’s New Year’s Ball was fast becoming the longest and loneliest ride of my life. I pondered sadly on the miserable shambles my existence had become in the last week. For the first time in my life, I, jovial John Rochester, the life and soul of any party, was not looking forward to a merry celebration.

  My childhood memories used to be happy and carefree. Christmas and the advent of the New Year had always been one of the most joyful holidays in the year. A new year was a new hope just beginning to dawn, and I was always certain that an even better year lay ahead. So far, I had been able to look back with satisfaction at the waning year and with renewed optimism for the year ahead, but this New Year was the bleakest I had ever experienced.

  When I was a child I would sit with my mother, the person I have most loved and admired, and together we would compose a long list of the things we should be thankful for and another shorter list with our expectations and wishes for the coming year. Mother always said we should be more thankful than wishful. She would keep the lists and we would read them again on the last day of the year, and write our new lists. She must still keep them somewhere. I wondered what she thought when she looked back at them. Of course, she probably didn’t even remember them, for she had evidently cast aside all memories of my childhood and the happy years she spent with my distinguished father.

  Who was this woman who called herself my mother? What had possessed her to reject our customs and way of life? Who was this Jane Eyre, or Mrs. Rochester, or Mrs. Mason? Who was this James Elliot, who she claimed to be her alter ego, who wrote popular fiction? I did not know her. It seemed I had become one of her beloved orphans.

  I was riding alone to the Lord Ingram’s New Year’s Ball. We had all returned to Eyre Hall from York the previous day, and that morning they had all left again. Diana, the admiral and the Carringtons had returned to Morton. Adele and Mr. Greenwood had left for Ingram House that morning, wishing to arrive before nightfall. Dante had declined the invitation, surprisingly preferring to stay at Eyre Hall. Annette was kind enough to tell me that he was no longer looking for a wife, as he would marry Susan Kirkpatrick, who was expecting his child. When I asked my mother why I had not been informed, she told me that she did not think it was my business. I would soon be the master of this estate, yet she insisted on leaving me out of all her transactions and dealings, claiming I should prepare my career in parliament, yet I had told her I didn’t want a political career. She had not been listening to me, but she would listen from now on.

  Annette had declined the invitation to the ball, too, making it quite clear that we couldn’t have any kind of romantic relationship. She had urged me to marry another more suitable person, as was my duty, and make my future wife happy. I had offered her my eternal love, and she had turned away from me because we couldn’t be married, but she was wrong, we could obtain permission. Cousins could apply for it. No, there was another reason. I was sure it was my mother who had turned her against me. The person I most loved and admired was ruining my life, but why?

  I jumped out of the carriage and walked up the marble steps as stylish coaches and carriages, like mine, rattled their way up the driveway in rapid succession, announcing a large and merry party. I was solemnly announced at the ballroom door, and mingled with the rest of the elegant guests. The room was still ornately decorated with Advent wreaths, while two ostentatious, fully dressed Christmas trees watched over our enjoyment. A pianist played waltzes unceasingly, as impeccably dressed servants refilled our glasses from sparkling decanters, and offered endless trays of food.

  I glimpsed at familiar faces, although I had forgotten many of their names, and I recognised some new ones, especially the young girls searching for husbands. Many, like Clarissa, had been playing with dolls only a year or two ago. Their mothers had no doubt taught them how to distinguish the best catch by the cut of their coats, the tie of their neck cloths, or the size and crest on their signet rings.

  I would have revelled in the enjoyment last year and danced with all the chits; alas, this year the music was repetitive, the guests boring, the food insipid, and even the wine seemed watered down. I would be leaving sooner rather than later. What good was a glum guest at a party?

  Phoebe and Clarissa had been boring me to death at Eyre Hall, but, at Ingram House, they were positively insufferable. Phoebe flirted shamelessly with Lord Ingram’s grandson, James, and Clarissa giggled and threw herself at all the available young men at the ball. I wondered if the audacious sisters had made a wager on who would flirt with the greatest number of young men. Poor Elizabeth would be turning in her grave.

  Clarissa had informed me spitefully that if I seriously intended to marry Phoebe, I should tell her at once, because she was tired of waiting for me, and her intention was to attract James Ingram’s attention. Clarissa added that she loved Eyre Hall, although it was much smaller than Ingram House, and she was still free if I would like to offer for her. Her words were the nail in the coffin. Was I destined to marry a brainless coquette like Clarissa and watch Annette marry a worthless dowry chaser?

  I retired to Lord Ingram’s study in search of silence and solitude, and forced myself to reminisce on the happy times. I walked over to his desk, picked up his quill and some paper with the intention of writing my thankful list. Agonising as it was, I could not think of anything I was thankful for. There was only one thing I wished for the future. I scratched the words I had never imagined I would write: I wish to start a new life far away from Eyre Hall.

  Fortunately, the following four days passed by swiftly and hazily, like a bad dream, thanks to Lord Ingram’s brandy and some nameless chit, whose hair was long, dark and curly like Annette’s, although I would never recall her face, even if I had wished to. I returned to Eyre Hall with Mr. Greenwood and Adele, who spent the journey reprimanding me for my behaviour, and assaulting my poor head insistently with unwelcome advice regarding my future.

  ***

  Chapter XIII – The Innocents

  The last day of December, I returned to Sudbourne Road to find out the truth. Polly opened the door, as I had expected. I offered her a bottle of gin, which she accepted with glee.

  “I won’t tell Mrs. Banks if you don’t. Why don’t you take it upstairs where she will not see you?” I winked, hoping she would start drinking soon. She showed me into the front room, where Mrs. Banks was reading Black Bess, a penny dreadful story.

  She looked up with raised eyebrows as I was announced.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Burchill. It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said with exaggerated politeness as she stood and offered her limp hand.

  She was a short and angular, g
rey–skinned woman, with a hairy chin and upper lip, dark, irregular moles dotted over her face, and bushy eyebrows, which gave her a masculine air. I asked her about Mrs. Banks.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who Mrs. Rochester is, or Mr. Carter. You must be looking for another Mrs. Banks. I can’t be the only one in London, can I?”

  “I have read a letter you yourself wrote to Mrs. Rochester over a year ago.”

  “I can’t read,” she said defiantly. “Or write.”

  I glanced at the magazine she had been reading and decided there was no point in being patient. “That is very unfortunate for you, Mrs. Banks.”

  I took out my rope and, in a swift movement, I knotted her hands behind her back and then carried her down to the basement.

  “Are you mad? What’s this about?”

  “I need some information, and I’m afraid I’m in a hurry. No more lies.”

  “You can’t do this! I got my rights!”

  “Not until you tell me the truth, and now we need some privacy.”

  I almost fell down the stairs as she kicked and wriggled like a wild cat. Then I tied her to one of the chairs and started my interrogation.

  “What is your real name?”

  “I ain’t afraid of you. I’m Mrs. Banks.”

  “Tell me about Mrs. Banks.”

  “I’m Mrs. Banks.”

  I filled her mouth with a sock and secured it with a scarf tied to the back of her head, and then I took the spade and dug it into her left foot. Her eyes almost burst out of her sockets and her body shook violently. When the trembling stopped, I removed the cloth from her mouth.