When Charles opens the door his visitor is rather ostentatiously consulting his pocket-watch.
“Mr Chadwick, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well.”
The old man puts up his watch and looks at Charles over his gold eye-glasses. “I should be a great deal better if I had not chased around town half the morning looking for you. Could you not have informed me that you had removed here? A mere two lines would have sufficed, but instead of that, I not only had to waste both time and money being carried to your former lodgings, but then endure the indignity of being forced to enquire for your landlady at a common—and, I may say, most insalubrious—public-house.”
Monday, thinks Charles. Mrs Stacey’s Linen Box committee day.
“I am very sorry you were inconvenienced, sir.”
He wants to suggest going for a second chair, but feels that in his client’s eyes he has not yet earned the right to sit down.
“Well, sir?” demands Chadwick. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“I apologise for my oversight, sir. My great-uncle was taken ill, and I had no alternative but to—”
The old man waves his hand impatiently. “Not that, not that. The investigation. Have you, or have you not, made any progress in discovering my grand-child?”
“I have, as you know, interviewed the beadle in charge of the workhouse where your daughter died—”
“—where they told me she died. There were no records, you know, no grave.”
Charles looks rueful. “I doubt there are many workhouse inmates who are accorded the dignity of an individual resting-place. As for the lack of proper records, it was, was it not, some time later that you first enquired?”
Chadwick starts to rub his left thumb and forefinger together; it is a tic he has, which usually indicates he is becoming anxious.
“You know very well, Mr Maddox, that my wife and myself had been estranged from our daughter for some months before her death, and you know very well the reason why—”
“—you discovered she was with child.”
The old man is now somewhat flushed about the face; the trembling in his hand is noticeably worse.
“I never could comprehend how such a calamity could have come upon us. Not seventeen years of age, brought up piously in a devout home, watched over day and night, schooled in the strictest observance of her religion, and ever mindful of her duty to a God who is both watchful and avenging—”
“But merciful, too, surely?”
Chadwick looks at him sharply. “That is not for us to say, and certainly no business of yours. I may tell you, Mr Maddox, that even in the face of such a terrible blow, I took no hasty step. I searched my conscience, I consulted members of our families, I spoke to my brother-in-law, and I sought spiritual advice from our minister, a most exemplary man, held in the highest esteem, and a most ardent speaker whose sermons draw attendance from many miles around. And there was not a dissenting opinion among them: It was our duty, as Christians, to cast her out.” His voice falters slightly. “They all agreed, I tell you. Cast her out.”
“But you changed your mind,” says Charles quietly.
“My wife became ill. She had argued, from the first, for leniency.”
There is a silence. The old man is breathing rather heavily.
“Constance made me promise, on her death-bed, that I would do everything in my power to find our daughter and the child, and forgive her. I have taken that as a sacred trust. This is why I persist in this unhappy pursuit. Even after all these years. Even against my own better judgement, and the express advice of my family, who consider the venture doomed to failure.”
Charles clears his throat. “As I said, I have interviewed the workhouse beadle, Mr Henderson, and he has confirmed that there are no useful records remaining from that period. However, after a good deal of prompting, and a certain amount of financial inducement, he did finally remember that a Miss Jellicoe, who was then on the staff, might still be living. Henderson promised to obtain her address for me but I have not, as yet, heard from him. She would be very elderly now, but she may remember something.”
Chadwick nods; the trembling in his hand has not abated.
“I have also,” continues Charles, “seen the superintendent of the orphanage. They, like the workhouse, seem to have either mislaid the relevant papers or never kept them in the first place. However, the superintendent did recall his predecessor telling him of an outbreak of smallpox, which he believes was probably around the time in question. I am afraid we must prepare ourselves for the possibility that your grand-child fell victim to that terrible disease, when still barely a few months old.”
Chadwick nods again, more stiffly this time. “Anything else?”
“I have talked to some of my former colleagues in the Detective. They have promised to inform me if they come upon anything that might assist us. I will, of course, maintain regular contact with them on this matter on your behalf.”
“See that you do,” says Chadwick. His moment of weakness has passed, and his voice has regained some of its former irritability. “And see that you keep me informed of your progress. And rather more frequently than you have hitherto, if you please. Good day to you.”
The visit has, on the whole, gone as well as Charles could have hoped, but he still feels shamefaced enough to sit down and write a second time to Henderson, to enquire whether he has yet succeeded in discovering an address for Eleanor Jellicoe. That done, and a late lunch eaten, he allows himself the indulgence of an hour or two at the British Museum. He needs to decide what to do next in the Cremorne case, and he has, as yet, no clear idea. But he thinks best when he walks, and it’s a good step to Bloomsbury, even though the weather has closed in again, and the snow is starting to fall. Outside in the street a thin track of muddy wet paving has emerged between the frozen heaps of blackened slush, and every now and then a slab of compacted snow slips with a dull thud from the summit of one of the neighbouring roofs. Charles is heading carefully towards the Strand when he hears his own name. It’s Tulkinghorn’s clerk, coming slowly towards him through the swirling flakes. There’s a carriage waiting at the top of the street.
“A package for you, Mr Maddox. Those envelopes you were wanting.”
Charles thanks him and opens the packet. There are three of them. All post-marked from the Charing Cross sorting office, but all collected at different receiving-houses—receiving-houses, moreover, that are at least a mile distant from one another. He sighs. He’d been hoping the letters would turn out to have been posted in the same place. That would have narrowed the task down to a manageable margin. But it had always been a bit of a long shot: Even the most dunder-headed criminal would have known to take that elementary precaution. He tucks them inside his coat and sets off again, more quickly this time. He thinks best when he’s walking.
The carriage pulls slowly away, and overtakes Charles a few yards farther on, though he barely registers its passing, so thick is the air with the darkness of the day and the density of the snow. And so it is that he walks the length of the Strand without being in the least aware that his footsteps are being followed, and all his movements as closely watched as if he, too, were a prize specimen—one no less worthy of scrupulous surveillance, but far more vulnerable to an observing but unobserved eye. As Charles will, in due course, discover.
SEVEN
Hester’s Narrative
I DON’T KNOW how it is I seem to be always writing about myself. I mean all the time to write as little as possible about myself, and am most vexed to find how much I seem to be taken up with the little doings of my own life, but there it is.
My darling Clara and I were so happy together, and so busy in all our daily employments that the months seemed to fly by. There was rarely a night when little Amy did not contrive to steal into my bed, and rarely a morning when I did not wake to find a flower on my pillow or a ribbon, or some other little token of love and affection. Everyone was so kind to me, and showed me such unst
inting affection, that I thanked God every night that I had found such a home, and such friends.
And all the more so, since there were times—a very few—when I was not as well as I would have liked, and was forced to keep to my room for some days together. At such times I would lie in my bed and hear how quiet the house was, and know that it was kept so out of consideration for me, and I would shed tears then, that were as precious to me, in their way, as the most delightful happiness could ever have been.
As summer came round again, I began to see Mr Jarvis walking in the garden with a little old lady in a worn squeezed bonnet, who would sally about with him with great stateliness, carrying a threadbare velvet reticule. After I had seen the lady several times at the same time of day, I contrived one morning that Clara and I should take our own exercise at that same hour. We strolled out into the garden, and it was not long before we came upon the old lady examining the roses, as Mr Jarvis was giving some instruction to the gardener on the other side of the lawn.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, as soon as she saw us. “My friend’s two lovely wards! I have heard so much about you! I am most honoured to make your acquaintance. It is not often that youth and hope and beauty find themselves in such a place as this.”
“Quite mad!” whispered Clara to me, with one of her playful looks, keeping her voice low so the old lady would not hear her.
“You are quite right, young lady,” she replied, much to Clara’s surprise and embarrassment. “Quite mad! I was not always so, though,” she continued, with a bright smile. “I had youth and hope myself once, and, I believe, a little beauty. Not a beauty as bright and gilded as yours, but beauty all the same. But none of that matters any more now.”
Clara had by now lost all her pretty confidence and become a little frightened, shrinking close to my side, so I endeavoured to humour the poor old lady and said that we were very pleased to be introduced to her.
“I am most honoured, I’m sure!” she said with a bow. “I see so little company these days. My friends are very kind, but my room is very small, and my poor birds are rather confined. Not at all what I was once used to. I cannot but admit that it is rather mortifying.”
“You keep birds?” I asked, noticing that Mr Jarvis had now become aware of our presence.
“Oh yes! Larks, linnets, and goldfinches. I like to keep them about me, as I find the days rather wearisome, and sleep does not always come as readily as I would wish. It is such an affliction, is it not?”
I noticed that even when she asked a question, she never waited for a reply, but chattered on as though no-one else was there, and I began to wonder whether it were not the result of many years of retirement and seclusion, with no-one but herself for companionship.
“Ah!” she said suddenly, “here is your good benefactor, come to check me in my ramblings!”
It was, indeed, Mr Jarvis, who came up just then. “So, Miss Flint, I see you have met our Dame Durden and her lovely friend?”
“I have indeed, sir,” Miss Flint said simperingly, with her head on one side. “An honour! An honour indeed!”
“Miss Flint enjoys sitting here on fine days,” he explained to us with a smile. “It is extremely conducive to her health, and I am happy to make the garden available to her.”
“Oh yes,” said the old lady, with a wistful look. “I come here every fine day, when I am well enough. It is so lovely in the summertime when the birds are singing. I cannot allow my own birds to sing much—they disturb my neighbours, and that would never do, would it?”
“No indeed,” said Mr Jarvis, taking the old lady kindly by the arm. “And now I fear you are tiring. We must not over-tax your strength.”
The old lady gave a profound curtsy, and the two of them walked slowly away; we could hear her prattling to him the whole way down the garden.
“Mad, quite mad!” said Clara laughingly, who had regained her composure. “I wonder Mr Jarvis lets her come here.”
We made another turn about the lawn and came upon Miss Darby, walking with Amy and Augusta. I have to say Augusta looked much the better for a little air. Her hair had nearly grown back, and there was the rosy flush of health on her cheeks. Amy came dashing up to me straightaway. It was hard to believe so much time had passed, so similar was she to the little childish creature I met on my very first day there.
“Hester! Hester!” she cried. “Can you guess what has happened? No indeed, I think you never can—who could ever have expected such a thing!”
She was by now jumping about in such excitement and tugging so at my hand, that I had to look to Miss Darby for illumination.
“Miss Amy is merely pleased at the prospect of a new companion,” she said, attempting to quiet her.
“I see,” I replied, turning back to Amy. “And what is the new young lady’s name?”
“But that is the thing!” cried Amy. “It is not a young lady at all. It is a young gentleman.”
I cannot say I was sorry it was a young gentleman. A young woman had come to live with us some few weeks before, and I know that Mr Jarvis was concerned that she had not settled as well as she might have done. She was always quiet and obedient with Miss Darby and the maids, this Anne, never giving any trouble, and never anything but sweet-faced and docile. Quite their little pet, I suppose I should say. I was not envious of her—how could I be!—but she seemed to me to be a withdrawn, resentful, bitter person, and I think Mr Jarvis shared my view, though we never spoke of it. That sounds very harsh and judgemental on my part, and I am sorry for it, for I know I was not fit to judge, and moreover had neither the right nor the wisdom to do so, even if he did. But my memory may not serve me well, or it may just be my own fancy. Everyone else made quite a fuss of her, as I think I said.
To return to my story, when we went downstairs to luncheon that memorable day we found a young man sitting beside Mr Jarvis. His name was Roderick, though he said his friends always called him Rick, and he begged that we would all do the same. He was nineteen years old, and he was an orphan. This fact alone made him particularly interesting to Clara, who was, as I think I may have said, an orphan herself. Young as she was when her mama died, whenever she talked of her tears would come into her eyes, and she spoke of her father as everything that was honourable, upright, and virtuous. Rick really was the most handsome young man, with a blithe open face and the readiest laugh; indeed I heard him laugh very often, not just during the course of that first meal together, but throughout our acquaintance. He found cause for merriment in everything from the quality of the beef (not very good, it must be admitted) to the rather dour features of the portraits on the walls, which he proceeded to christen by new and very improbable names—one stern-faced lady with a prominent chin was at once dubbed Miss Wisk, while a group of several heavy-looking gentlemen in waistcoats and thick whiskers were known from that day onwards as Boodle, Doodle, and Foodle. Everything gave him cause for mirth, everything seemed to catch his attention—most especially Clara. All the young ladies were very taken with him and eager to engage him in conversation, not least my own little Amy, but I saw from the first that it was Clara that drew his gaze. And how could it be otherwise? No young man could be unmoved by her beauty, and add to that her lively spirits and pretty ways, and it was no surprise to me to see him addressing himself to her more than to any other person present, even Mr Jarvis. Within an hour Rick had confided to her that he meant to be a great lawyer one day, and had boxes full of books and documents waiting to be unpacked upstairs.
“It is a fine and admirable profession,” said Mr Jarvis, in a serious tone, “but it requires a great deal of study and hard work, and conscientious application.”
“Quite so,” said Miss Darby. “Most conscientious.”
“Oh, you need not worry about that,” said Rick in a careless manner, his eyes on Clara. “I shall give it my best shot. I always do.”
I am sure I believed him at the time, but in the weeks that followed, I began to wonder how he was finding the time to
devote to his chosen profession, since he seemed to walk with us every morning and sit with us every afternoon. He was forever admiring Clara’s skill with a needle, or contriving an excuse to ask her to sing. I saw it, and I know that Mr Jarvis saw it too. One evening, when I was making tea with Miss Darby and Clara was sitting at the piano with Rick at her side, I observed Mr Jarvis come to the door and stop a moment, watching the two young people, and at that moment Rick bent to speak a word softly to Clara and she raised her head to smile up at him. It was such a happy picture, and all at once it seemed to me that it might presage an even happier future.
I remember that Mr Jarvis’s look was more than usually thoughtful as he stood there, and that he exchanged a glance with Miss Darby, who rose a moment later and took a cup of tea to Clara, before taking a new seat by the piano next to her. I remember, too, that Mr Jarvis’s eyes met my own, and though he said nothing, it seemed to me that I could read his thought, and that he shared my precious hope, and he too looked forward to a day when Clara and Rick might be even dearer to each other than they were already.
Buoyed by the conviction, I saw no reason to fear for my darling pet, though I could not but notice that I was never thereafter allowed to be their only chaperone, and either Miss Darby or one of the other maids would always sit with us when Rick was present. I did what I could, however, to prevent Amy from absorbing too much of his time. I am sure it was nothing more than her usual girlish vivacity, but she was always asking him to tell her stories, or carry her pig-a-back, or play at Wild Beasts under the piano. My careful remonstrances, gentle as they were, seemed to have but little effect and I began to wonder whether my influence with her—such as it was—had not started to wane. Certain it is that the little trinkets and nosegays that had appeared on my pillow almost every morning, now appeared no more. I was not disappointed at this—I had never, after all, thought myself in the least bit deserving—but I confess I was rather relieved when Miss Darby began to step in to check Amy’s more excessive exuberances. It was evident by then that Clara was becoming a little irritated with her. I think I may even have heard her raise her voice to her on one occasion, though in that I may be mistaken. Not that Clara need have worried, for Rick had eyes only for her.
The Solitary House (With Bonus Novels Bleak House and the Woman in White) Page 10