“I go to Fairfaxes some afternoons,” she said. “I might go tomorrow, but I might not be alone. About three.” Fairfaxes was the largest and most expensive draper and silk merchant in the town. “I’ll see you to the door – and don’t you dare come back here without my say-so, will you?”
Chapter Six
Felix came back from the Infirmary to the Northern Office at about noon, and found Tom O’Brien sitting on one of the benches in the hall.
“Mr O’Brien, I hope you haven’t been sitting there long. Do you want to see the Major? I am not sure where he is, or when he will be back.”
“As a matter of fact I came to see you, Mr Carswell,” he said. “If you have a minute?”
“I do,” said Felix, somewhat surprised. “Shall we go down to my –”
“If you don’t have a corpse down there,” O’Brien said.
“Not at the moment,” said Felix. “There will be one presently. I expect Major Vernon will want to talk to you about it.”
“Dear God,” murmured O’Brien, following him downstairs to his basement laboratory.
Felix lit the gas lamps and O’Brien stood looking awkwardly about him.
“I was going to have a whisky,” said Felix, feeling as awkward as O’Brien. They had not seen each other for many months.
“Scotch whisky?” said O’Brien.
“Of course,” said Carswell, putting the bottle on the table and two tea cups.
“Just a small one,” he said. “Or Mrs O’Brien will smell it on me.”
Felix nodded.
“And how is Mrs O’Brien?” Felix ventured.
“Very well, very happy, as a matter of fact,” said O’Brien. “Which is why I’m here. We had a letter this morning.” He took his cup of whisky and sipped it. “Not bad.”
“Thank you,” said Felix, taking a larger gulp of his own, rather anxious now. “So, a letter – from Ireland?” he added.
“From Ireland,” said O’Brien. He sighed. “There’s no way of putting this but bluntly: Sukey is getting married.”
Felix finished his whisky and said,
“To whom?”
“A doctor,” O’Brien said. “He’s an old friend of the family. They’ve known each other since they were children. He was married to a distant cousin, and she died, poor soul, and there are three little ones needing a mother. He’s doing well, and there’s money in his family, and he’s a good man as far as I can judge. It’s a good thing for her.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” said Felix.
“I thought you would want to know. It seemed only fair.”
Felix nodded, but the contents of the letter were now beginning to affect him, like a blow sustained in the heat of a fight that does not start to smart until the fight is over. He felt a mixture of fury and pain. Sukey was to be married to some nameless Irishman, settled in his profession and with a good income. A widower with small children.
His mind conjured her up, surrounded by this other man’s brats, her skirts constantly tugged at. He saw her living in some ugly, provincial house, in some rain-soaked corner of Ireland. He saw her lying in bed, being subjected to the conjugal embraces of this settled professional widower. How on earth could she submit to that? He had asked her so many times to be his wife, and had always been rebuffed, being told every time that she would never marry again, that it was a wretched prison. But here she was, apparently willingly doing the very thing she swore she would not do. Was she in love with this man? Did she love him in a way that she had not loved Felix?
“And it’s quite settled?” he managed to say.
“Quite,” said O’Brien. “I thought I should tell you. Given that –” He broke off and finished his morsel of whisky. Felix grabbed the bottle to offer him another, but he covered the cup with his hand. “It’s for the best,” he went on. “It may not feel that way now –” He looked at his watch. “I’d best leave you to your work, if you have a new case in hand.”
“I’ll tell Major Vernon you were here,” Felix managed to say as he departed.
Felix stared at the whisky bottle and the dirty cups. He was tempted to take another cupful and with some difficulty re-corked the bottle and put it away. He sat down and began to work on his notes, while waiting for the cadaver to come from the Infirmary. It arrived, in due course, but he did not yet have the permissions to begin the post-mortem, so he sat, pen in hand, unable to muster any further concentration, his mind instead vacillating between deeply unpleasant thoughts of Sukey’s marriage and the bizarre experience he had had at Ardenthwaite. On both subjects he failed to come up with any sort of explanation that satisfied him. Every question led only to far more unpleasant questions.
He was glad to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and when Lord Rothborough came in, he could not help smiling at the sight of him.
“Ah, you are never happier than in the company of a cadaver,” said Lord Rothborough, indicating the covered table.
“No, I am glad of the interruption,” said Felix.
“Then you will not mind if I carry you off to the Guildhall?”
“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“No, I am sure it is not, but I think one of your patients might need you. Mrs Lazenby? This morning at the Minster she was on the verge of passing out. She is –”
“With child again, yes,” said Felix. “She is not my patient. Peterson is looking after her.”
“If he were, he ought to have told her husband to desist,” said Rothborough, “or at least employ rational means! Lord knows, how hard is it? She is a delicate looking thing – one would think –” He broke off, smiling at himself.
“A new campaign, my Lord?” said Felix. “Family limitation?”
“Yes, quite. And the higher classes need to set the fashion, instead of treating their women like brood mares, in the name of morality. It is quite disgusting! It would be better coming from you, though! If only you would stir yourself and write a paper or two. Or even a well-placed letter?”
“I ought to find as many occupations as I can,” said Felix. “And you are right. It is disgusting and dangerous.”
“You are alarming me now, Felix. I am not used to being agreed with.”
“I’m still not myself,” Felix said.
“That business at...?” he said.
Felix nodded, then pushed his hands through his hair.
“And Mrs Connolly is apparently getting married.”
“Excellent,” said Lord Rothborough. “We must send something to mark the occasion.”
“What?” said Felix. “I think not.”
“Her marriage is no slight against you,” he said. “That business is long over. She is being sensible, as you should be.”
“I need something to eat,” Felix said, not wishing to pursue the subject. “And I will come to the Guildhall. But I need to go and change.”
“Naturally. We will go by way of your lodgings. Have you succeeded in taming that landlady yet?”
“Major Vernon is working on her. The coffee is a little better, but as for everything else –”
Lord Rothborough nodded and gave him a sympathetic squeeze of the arm.
“It should be a fine affair at the Guildhall. There will be some good music. I made some suggestions in that direction. If we are not allowed to have a ball, at least we can have that!”
-o-
There was a time when Felix would have done anything in his power to avoid appearing at some great function at the Guildhall in the company of Lord Rothborough. The close physical resemblance between them had been a mortification he could not lightly bear. Yet, that afternoon, he scarcely felt it. It was almost a matter of indifference to him. He did not care what people might say or think. He gazed about the room, looking for familiar faces and enjoying the spectacle, which was as dazzling as Lord Rothborough had suggested.
The great reception rooms of the Guildhall had been decorated for the occasion with great swags of gilded leaves and the
celebrated artificial flowers which were one of the notable products of the town, like the silk ribbons that hung from the garlands in equal profusion. Long tables groaned with elaborate food – fancy cakes and raised pies, and as a centrepiece, a stuffed peacock, its feathers on display. If the intention was to show the new Bishop where the real power in Northminster lay, then it could not be doubted.
“Have you ever eaten peacock, Lady Maria?” Felix said.
“No, and I never shall!” she exclaimed. “What a horrible fate for such a beautiful creature.”
“It would scarcely feed a family of three by the look of it,” said Lord Rothborough. “I have eaten peacock at Oxford, and also swan.”
“No, Papa, you did not, surely?”
“It was a tad stringy, as I recall. Give me a good French roast chicken for preference,” said Lord Rothborough.
There was a little stir by the door and a troop of fur-gowned, chain-bearing aldermen entered. They were accompanied by a tall, thin man in clerical dress, and his equally tall, thin wife, clad in black.
“The man of the hour,” said Lord Rothborough. “And his lady.”
“I would have thought she might change her dress,” Lady Maria said. “That black gown was all very well for the service, but for an afternoon party? But perhaps she knows how well she looks in black. It is certainly striking.”
“I am sure you are right, Maria,” said Lord Rothborough. “Otherwise it is false humility, and that is never pleasant. Oh, that’s interesting,” he went on. “The lady in blue, Maria, do you remember her?”
“Is that Lady Blanchfort?” said Lady Maria.
“Most unexpected to see her here. I wonder if Richard is here about. That would be delightful! Sir Richard is a great friend of mine, Felix, but time and tide has swept us apart. But I should like nothing better than to see him.”
Lord Rothbourgh set off towards the lady in question.
“I think he may be disappointed,” said Lady Maria. “I heard a rumour that they are no longer... well, you know, Mr Carswell. It is very sad.”
“Who is that with her?” Felix said, his mouth drying, as he caught sight of a face under a large brimmed bonnet, and a hint of bright red hair. “That girl?”
“Her daughter, I suppose,” said Lady Maria. “I think there is only one. She is an heiress – the bank, of course. I am surprised she is here. They say that Lady Blanchfort keeps her under lock and key, to keep her away from fortune hunters. Mr Carswell, are you quite well?”
Felix was tugging at his collar, struggling to breathe and feeling as if there was no air in the room. He felt both sick and faint.
“Excuse me,” he managed to say, and began to make his way, as best he could, through the crowd in the opposite direction to where the Bishop and the Aldermen had come in. He was sweating violently and his knees were on the verge of giving way under him. He could scarcely credit what he had seen under the broad brim of that bonnet.
He managed to reach an empty room. It appeared to be some sort of waiting room – long, high and narrow, with benches pushed against the walls. He forced open the window and gulped down some cold air and then flung himself down on a bench, throwing his head between his knees, in an attempt to stop himself passing out. Then, feeling that he was about to vomit up the little iced cakes upon which he had so thoughtlessly grazed, he sat cautiously upright again, and found himself facing none other than his Queen of the Fae.
He threw out his hands, not to greet her, but palms forward, to defend himself against any sort of magical encroachment.
“Go away!” he exclaimed, flapping his hands. “Whoever, whatever you are, go away!”
But she did not move. She stood there, observing him, looking for all the world as if she were flesh and blood.
He closed his eyes, and leant back, trying to steady his breathing, thinking about whom he might consult about the violent disorder that seemed to have afflicted his mind. Because she was not real. She was the vision of that night, on her pony, with her milk-pale, freckled skin and fiery hair.
“Please,” he added, not yet opening his eyes. He felt the brief touch of her hand on his forehead. “No, no...” he said, and attempted to push her away. He opened his eyes, and saw she was crouching over him.
“Let me help you,” she said, “Please. I could not before, but now –”
Again she reached out to touch his forehead, and he caught her wrist to stop her. He would have let go except that he was aware of her pulse beating strongly, which seemed excellent evidence for her corporeal reality. He counted the beats, and at the same time looked up into her face, which was only a matter of inches away. He could feel her breath and see the veins and blood beneath the surface of her pale skin.
“You are not well, sir,” she said, moving away. “Let me find you some help. This time I will not desert you, I promise. I would have come back for you, but –”
He got to his feet and went again to the window, and stood taking some slow, steady breaths, before turning back to her.
This time he found he could look at her objectively. She was indeed real – a young woman of eighteen or so, small in stature and delicate in build, elegantly but simply dressed. On the ground was one of her gloves and he stooped and picked it up. It was made of delicate glacé kid, dyed perfectly to match her pale blue dress.
“I am quite well, I assure you,” he managed to say, holding out the glove to her. “But thank you for your concern.”
When she had finished drawing on her glove again, she said,
“May I ask you a favour?”
“Of course,” he said.
“You will not say that you saw me that morning. If we are to meet, and perhaps we might, then we will be perfect strangers.”
“That seems more than sensible,” he said.
“I had better go or I will be missed,” she added and left the room.
-o-
Giles looked around the glittering crowd at the Guildhall, and wondered which of these men in their frock coats and aldermen’s robes were paying for their pleasures in that discreet establishment near the church of St Magdalene.
It was a very sophisticated operation, that much had been clear, and a professional one. How long it had been operating, and how had he entirely failed to discern any traces of it? He was angry with himself. He ought, at least, to have had some vague inkling of such a thing. It should have been on the list he kept in his desk of areas of concern and fields for future action. Such a large, luxurious den of vice – how had this been invisible to him? And was this business entirely confined to prostitution or were any of the concomitant vices involved? How far did this organisation reach into Northminster?
And who was the Colonel with his tab? The Colonel he had impersonated, the Colonel he had been mistaken for at Bickley’s yard. Was he none other than Colonel Parham?
A footman was offering glasses of champagne. He drank one rather quickly, his mind churning. Why had this dead man turned up now, with the swallow on his shoulder? Why had the body simply been left on a public street? That was carelessness on somebody’s part, surely.
Was something that had been carefully hidden now surfacing? Secrets and conspiracies could not be kept for ever. Human nature saw to that. Perhaps the operation had grown unwieldy or the person in command had become complacent and ceased to be vigilant over the secret. Or had the commander in chief become a tyrant and provoked mutiny among those under him?
Was rebellion, like the warm breath of spring stirring up the green shoots in the fields, making visible that which was previously invisible? Kate, in her wretched yet comfortable slavery, had been driven to desperate measures. What she had done was reckless and courageous. She had said frustratingly little, it was true, but the evidence of her surroundings was enough to raise the alarm.
Had Baxter, with his prize-fighter’s physique and clear self-discipline, been an ordinary client to whom she had inadvisedly given her heart? That seemed unlikely, given the man’s behavio
ur in the prison. It was possible he worked for the same organisation, and had been given the use of the whores as a benefit in kind.
Had he given his heart to her? Would her name even mean anything to the brute who had wielded the iron bar? Giles hoped it would and then wondered if Kate, that simple, plain name, was merely another alias, and that nothing he had seen was as it seemed.
Now standing in the Guildhall with a glass in his hand, he began to take the measure of his true foolishness. He had made a spectacular blunder. He had been an utter fool in allowing her to seduce him.
It was late afternoon now, and the great rooms of the Guildhall were filled with soft, spring sunshine, which covered everything with a glaze of warm gold. There was a concert in progress – a small orchestra and a pianist were playing and he could see his sister and Lady Maria sitting side-by-side listening intently to the music, looking calmly angelic.
Nearby sat the Bishop and his lady, both in black, looking like the Spanish King and Queen from some old story, perhaps Ferdinand and Isabella themselves. The Bishop had that morning proclaimed that Northminster was a sewer of vice. Who could deny that, Giles thought, when it seemed that the man in charge of purging it was so weak and wilful, taking his pleasure in the guise of searching out the truth?
He took another glass of wine and drank it, without pleasure, almost without tasting it. He felt he ought to remove himself forthwith, that he could not stay in this place which now uncannily resembled that great reception room he had seen in his dream about Laura and Lizzy that night at Ardenthwaite.
An air of unreality seemed to settle on him, as if he could not trust his eyes. He could still smell the girl’s skin, and feel her warm flesh pressed against him, and it made him feel nauseous. In the meantime the pianist seemed to be playing the same rapid succession of notes again and again, as if in some sort of frenzy. The notes pounded his head, and reminded him of his own unconstrained assault on the girl, how he had used her, like an object, and how she had submitted in silence.
The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite (The Northminster Mysteries Book 5) Page 6