Cora went towards the midden, wet grass darkening the hem of her skirt. At the edge of the smoulder she stopped and looked into the bucket, uncertain if this was the right way to get rid of the waste. The feathers might simply fly off and cover the cold frames with their mess.
‘Not one for babbies either?’
Samuel was leaning against the wall, an orange-tipped cigarette in his hand.
Cora kept her voice steady. ‘Do you have any use for these feathers?’
He came over and put his hand on the bucket tipping it forward to look inside. Cigarette smoke rose between them. The tobacco had a harsh, tarry edge and she caught herself holding a breathful of it in her lungs, waiting for its heat to loosen her veins.
The bucket handle rattled as Samuel let it go. ‘Aye. Don’t throw them out. I’ll use ’em to bulk up the muck in the mushroom shed.’
Each bristle around his mouth had a different shade of gold.
‘Thank you for the loan of that sixpence.’
‘Did you find who you was looking for?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t say I’m sorry.’
‘I told you, I’m not looking for a sweetheart.’
‘Then maybe you’ll come to town wi’ me Sunday next?’
‘Like I said…’
‘Well, we could just have a few laughs, a few drinks.’
‘You know I’ve got no money.’
She wouldn’t be giving him any of the coin from Thripp. That would only raise suspicion about how she’d got it.
Samuel smiled and patted his jacket with the hand still holding the cigarette. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s payday for the rest of us, isn’t it? That’s why Billy Beamish came over bright and early, and grinning like an organ grinder’s monkey once he’d got all Ellen’s wages.’
‘Ellen wouldn’t speak to me if I went out with you.’
‘Well then, we won’t tell her. We’ll wait till she’s set off for Yardley, then go to Moore’s Oyster Rooms on New Street. All on me.’
His voice quietened as he spoke and his eyes did not leave hers. Cora hardly breathed. Might he, right here in the open, put his arm around her back and press his mouth to hers? If he did, she’d not push him away.
She took a sharp breath of manure-laced air. ‘When I see some wages, I’ll pay you back.’
‘You’ll come then? On Sunday?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Samuel took a long drag on the cigarette before throwing it on to the midden. Then he stretched out his hand, work-hardened and steady, as if to shake Cora’s and seal their pact for a Sunday outing. But instead he took hold of the pail.
‘Here. Let me take them feathers out of your way.’
a matching pair
Only Cook was still in the kitchen, holding a blue and white dinner plate up to the light.
She nodded as Cora back came in. ‘Better.’
‘I put some bran in the cold rinse bowl like you said.’
‘Good.’
Then Cook picked up the box of cutlery that Cora had brought in from the scullery and put it on to the dresser. She did not pull out the knives to scrutinise their shine and Cora took this as a compliment.
‘Are those birds done?’
Cora nodded. ‘Except I couldn’t rightly manage the pheasant.’
‘I’d best do that one. You can make a start on scouring the pantry shelves. But first, take up this tray.’
The bone-handled knife and fork was already laid on the lace cloth. Cora’s chest tightened.
‘Can someone else take it?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think the missus likes me.’
‘She doesn’t like anyone.’
‘But she shouted at me last time I went up and got herself into a tizzy.’
‘Don’t take any notice, Cora. You can see she’s not right in the head. Just leave the tray outside and come back down.’
Cora opened her mouth to protest, to tell Cook that there was more to it than that; the missus thought Cora was someone else, someone who she knew well and hated. But saying it was likely to make her seem as mad as the missus.
‘Yes, Cook.’
At the top of the back stairs, Cora stood for a second and listened. From the kitchen, where Cook was sieving soup, came the faint back and forth of a wooden spoon against a tammy cloth. The long-case clock by the front door ticked. She took a breath and went to the bedroom. An odour of mutton fat wafted up as she put the tray down.
‘Tray!’
She jumped aside and flattened herself against the wall before the door clicked open and Mrs Dix’s arms came out. The tray disappeared, but just before the door closed a peculiar screeching writhed through the gap. Cora let go her breath but flinched. From across the landing, behind the laboratory door, came a loud rattle, hollow and metallic, like the locking of a cage.
The master must be in his laboratory. Perhaps Cora should take her chance to tell him about the experiment on Violet and, if she could drum up the nerve, unbutton her bodice, pull out the half-medal and ask if he knew the whereabouts of the smithy that had made it.
Cora listened for a moment then crossed the landing and knocked lightly on the laboratory door. It opened almost instantly. For a second, a look of horror flashed across the master’s features but woven through it was a mix of other sentiments: sadness, recognition, and perhaps, joy. Then, before Cora was sure whether she had seen it at all, the expression was gone.
‘Yes?’
‘Sir, I did what you asked. With Violet.’
‘The moral test? Ah yes, come in then and tell me the result.’
He closed the door. Cora put her back to the shelves lined with specimen jars so that she would not have to look at the dead things inside them. On the floor by the big window, two straw-scattered cages held a pair of rabbits. They sat, noses twitching, staring at the wall. Both were pure white except for the black tip of a left ear and a right foot. They seemed, in fact, to be entirely identical, except that one had a fresh bloodstain on its back.
‘Very good, then. Tell me.’
‘She wanted to send a letter and I said she should get an envelope and a postage stamp from your study.’
‘Which was locked?’
Cora nodded.
‘And she agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘How readily?’
‘Within five seconds.’
‘And her score for eagerness?’
‘I would say seven and a half.’
Mr Jerwood opened a marbled notebook on the workbench and wrote in it with a silver pencil. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and lightly spotted with blood. He tapped the pencil against his brow.
‘And how did she accomplish this mischief?’
‘By lying to Susan Gill so that she would open the room.’
‘Lying and stealing? Excellent.’
He smiled and nodded. She wondered if he was about to ask her how she had fixed on this task or where the letter was now, but he turned back to write in the notebook and said nothing.
Cora’s eyes went to the shelf above his head and the pasteboard box labelled Composites 1884 –. If the master would only leave the room for minute she could open the lid, pluck out her own prison likeness and, as soon as she was able, feed it into the flames under the wash-house copper.
Mr Jerwood turned and Cora, too late, dropped her gaze.
‘You are interested in photography?’
‘I… I don’t know, sir.’
‘Or at least interested in your own likeness? I would be happy to take another, in more becoming attire, if you’d care to sit for me.’
‘I…’
‘And I would let you have a print to keep.’
‘I don’t want one, sir, thank you.’
/>
‘Really? You would not then have to spend money in a photographer’s shop.’
She froze. He must somehow know that she’d gone to Mr Thripp’s. Perhaps he’d seen her face against the window backcloth. He was, after all, a customer. With a thump in her chest she realised what a witless mistake it had been to put herself on display like that.
Mr Jerwood smiled. ‘You could send your likeness as a keepsake to a relative.’
It seemed more like an instruction than an invitation. Cora did not know quite how to arrange her face as she replied.
‘I have no family, sir.’
‘Ah yes. Your mother left you to the Board of Guardians.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know nothing of her except the name she gave which was Mary Burns.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
Cora’s unease tightened.
‘Do you imagine that you look anything like her?’
His eyes were examining her face so intently, that Cora had the sudden impression that he already knew the answer to his question.
‘Sir, I know nothing…’
At that moment, a volley of hard knocks struck the door. Cora flinched but Mr Jerwood merely shook his head in irritation as he went to open it.
‘Mrs Dix, I thought I’d…’
‘I must have a word, sir.’
The faintly foreign accent in Mrs Dix’s voice strengthened.
‘Is Mrs Jerwood unattended?’
‘Almost asleep, sir.’
Mrs Dix threw Cora an anguished glance.
Mr Jerwood sighed, his head still shaking. ‘Very well, Cora, that will be all.’
Cora gave a bend of the knee. Mrs Dix stepped inside the laboratory as Cora left. As soon as the door closed, the low juddering sound that came from behind it could only have been a woman collapsing in tears.
Cora stood on the landing, frustration boiling in her chest. She’d missed her chance to ask him who’d made the medallions. The half-medal seemed to burn against her skin like a tally iron.
Across the landing, the door to the mistress’s bedroom was slightly ajar and as Cora looked, the gap seemed to widen. A pale nightdress shimmered at the opening, and then a glistening eye. The voice behind it was no more than a hiss, but in the heavy stillness of the air Cora heard each word that was spat in her direction.
‘I know it’s you there, Annie. You harlot. You murderess!’
Twelve
FROM: Thomas Jerwood Esq.
An Essay on Experiments in Human Nature
Following my latest contribution to this journal (viz. An Essay on Character, Crime and Composite Photography WQ Summer 1885), I have received letters from several Midlands men of (amateur) science enthused by my suggestion for the study of human character through clandestine observation. Could this technique be applied to any human subject, they ask, not just the criminal? Happily, I can confirm to interested readers that the notion of experimentation upon humans in everyday settings does indeed provide a powerful and, as yet, largely unused tool for study of the human condition.
Few others have entered this new field of endeavour, and so I myself have devised a means for the investigation of character by way of the moral test. This test may comprise nothing more than an ordinary incident in an individual’s life but one which is apt to make him betray his essential temperament. Through the observation of his choices, a lone experimenter, or better yet, two acting as secret accomplices, can collect abundant statistics of human conduct and character.
The simplest explanation may be to describe a particular moral test which I have used, namely one designed to measure forbearance of gratification amongst children. Particular cunning is required in the observance of the young and I have learnt that experiments are most revealing when the method they employ is simple yet enjoyable. In this one, the experimenter must befriend a child to the extent that they might, quite naturally, play together an artless game (such as noughts and crosses). The child should be allowed to win, and when he does, a prize will be offered: one boiled sweet now, or three boiled sweets if the child can wait until the following day to collect his reward.
The strength of character required to forego an aniseed drop or a sherbet lemon, in the faint hope of acquiring two more at a future time, is not inconsiderable, and the decision reveals a great deal not only about the individual child but also about society in general. Are children of the lower orders more likely to succumb to the lure of an instant but inferior prize? Are girls more likely to do so than boys? Common sense may decree that the obvious answer to both questions is ‘yes’. How many poor families are reduced to eating scraps by Thursday because the weekly earnings were spent in the public house on Saturday? And no young lady of my acquaintance has ever foregone a frivolous summer bonnet in favour of a warm winter cloak.
Social assumptions such as these can be proven, however, only by the results of scientifically validated experiments. Unfortunately, my own opportunities for exploring forbearance of gratification by application of a moral test have been too limited to be conclusive. I nevertheless have hope of one day directing a large investigation (perhaps in conjunction with the municipal School Boards) using multiple tests and consistent statistical reckoning. I have no doubt that such an endeavour would harvest irrefutable proofs.
My interest in character is, however, deeper than mere comparison between the classes and the sexes. What is it that makes each person unique, regardless of who they are? Character traits and behaviours can vary enormously even amongst siblings of the same family. Is this the result of some as yet unexplained variation in the transmission of heredity? Or do the subtle differences in childhood experience have a magnified influence upon character?
The man of science is often asked to pronounce upon these slippery theories. I have, therefore, expended much mental energy in the creation of scientific methods to test hypotheses of human behaviour. A perceptive reader of this journal might have already deduced that the supreme demonstration in this field of science would be a living experiment, conducted by subjecting one or more human specimens to a full range of moral tests and measurements throughout their life.
Furthermore, the experiment could be extended by experimental attempts to induce particular character traits within the ‘captive’ individual. A long and arduous experiment of this sort would be, believe me, full of hidden risk. Anyone who embarks on such an enterprise will have to steel himself for the many unforeseen difficulties which will present themselves along the way.
By way of illustration, I shall provide just one example. Many years ago, a young friend of mine became obsessed with these same questions of the varying effects of heredity versus upbringing upon the individual. In a flush of youthful optimism, he adhered to the strong belief that education was the primary sculptor of character. Therefore, he reasoned, in selecting a wife, he need not be overly concerned with her intellect or temperament. Once married, his educative endeavours would be sufficient to mould the young lady’s personality into one entirely compatible with his own. Regrettably, despite increasingly pressing exertions over a number of years, his efforts to turn a dull person into a more interesting one failed. Yet still our young friend would not give up his belief in the power of nurture. Frustration or perhaps arrogance inclined him to believe that a determined man of science might overcome the influences of the rest of the world and shape a young human to his own design. He became inclined to think that people, especially females, from the bottom of society would provide more malleable matter upon which he might work his own design. He was convinced that he could make a lowly soul into one more refined. Thus, he told himself, would the ascendancy of nurture over nature be proven.
Sadly, our young friend’s second human experiment ended even less happily than his first, and so his scientific outlook began to change. This young scientist’s difficulties helped to shape
my own belief in the ascendancy of heredity and thus, in the primacy of nature over nurture. His failures planted the seed for my highly successful laboratory work using the transfusing of blood between rabbits to discredit the notion of the heritability of acquired traits in animals. More importantly, it was my young friend’s travails that laid the foundations for my work on human nature and the invention of the moral test. The results of my experiments, though complex and sometimes contradictory, are steadily formulating a new branch of science that deals with the statistical measurement of character. From this pioneering discipline will arise, in the fullness of time, an overarching theory of human nature. I have no doubt that this human science will lay bare the roots of man’s behaviour as surely as mathematics reveals the cosmic truths of the universe.
Thomas Jerwood Esq.
Spark Hill, Warks.
Thirteen
November 1885
a model
Workmen laying pipes had left a mound of soil and rubble in the middle of Corporation Street. As Cora crossed the road, she considered stooping to pick up a smooth cobble and then lobbing it through Mr Thripp’s window. That way, if her likeness was behind the glass, she could whip it out. If it wasn’t, she’d have paid back the younger Mr Thripp for being as dishonest as his father.
But on the corner, a constable was rocking back and forth on his heels and rubbing his hands beneath his cape. So Cora walked onwards to the shop window and there, on the velvet backcloth, was her face. It was hard, though, to think of the person behind that flat grey stare as herself. Perhaps just the breathing of country air was making her into someone else.
The sign on the door said CLOSED but the handle yielded under her hand. A bell tinkled as she entered the paraffin-warmth of the shop. Alfred Thripp looked down from a short stepladder that allowed him to reach the top shelves behind the counter.
‘Miss Burns.’
He climbed down and pulled back his oatmeal jacket putting both thumbs in the little pockets of his waistcoat. The self-satisfied smile gave him the look of his father.
The Conviction of Cora Burns Page 10