The Taxidermist's Daughter

by Kate Mosse

  ‘I couldn’t possibly—’ Pearce began, but Harry had already left.

  *

  Harry went back to the railway station first, thinking he might be able to find the driver who’d taken his father to Fishbourne.

  Even at ten o’clock in the morning, there was a crowd of men outside the Globe Inn. Smoking, caps pushed back on their heads, eyes blurred and watchful.

  A row of black pair-and-two Dunnaways taxis were waiting at the stand outside the station building, the horses still in the damp air. Some were wearing nosebags, and there was a smell of straw and the stable.

  ‘Taxi, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for a driver.’

  Someone laughed. ‘Come to the right place.’

  Harry ignored him. ‘I’m looking for the driver who took a gentleman to Fishbourne yesterday lunchtime. Possibly brought him back, too.’

  The cabman shrugged. ‘Not me.’

  ‘In his fifties, well turned out, middle-aged. Wears spectacles.’

  Since this could have served as a description for half the professional men within the city limits, it didn’t get Harry far. He worked his way down the row all the same, right to the end.

  ‘I think Bert might have taken a fare out Fishbourne way yesterday,’ the last cabbie said, accepting a cigarette.

  ‘And which one is Bert?’

  ‘He’s off Thursdays.’

  Harry scowled. ‘But he took a gentleman to Fishbourne?’

  ‘I said I thought he might have done,’ the driver corrected him. ‘Only remember because he was going on about a big tip.’

  Harry sighed. ‘Will Bert be here tomorrow?’

  ‘Should be.’

  *

  Harry decided to go to Fishbourne next rather than tramp all the way up to Graylingwell. He was better leaving that to Pearce. He knew the ropes up there.

  Having waited so long yesterday for a train, he opted to walk. Blackthorn House was on the Chichester side of the village, so it would take much the same amount of time to get there under his own steam as it would to take the train and have the walk from Fishbourne Halt at the other end. He would go into the Woolpack, ask if anyone had seen his father, then possibly go to the Bull’s Head and check that the barman had arranged things with the removal of the body. It would give him a reason to pay a visit to Blackthorn House if he had something to tell Connie. And when he’d suggested he might call on her again, although she hadn’t encouraged him, she hadn’t forbidden him either.

  He headed out of the city through Westgate, past the back of the theological college, and towards the old turnpike. Houses soon gave way to fields. He passed a homespun memorial at the side of the road at the junction with Apuldram Lane, marking the place where a carriage had overturned in the March storms, killing a husband, wife and three young children.

  Harry was attempting to remain calm, trying not to assume the worst, but something new was niggling at the back of his mind. Something he’d noticed but whose significance he had not registered. He ran through everything he’d done so far this morning, retracing his steps in his mind: Lewis’s concern, his father sending Pearce home yesterday and leaving the office unattended, the chair lying on its side in his rooms, his father’s desk.

  He pulled himself up. That was it. An absence, not a presence. The one thing he should have seen in his father’s desk drawer – his old service revolver – had not been there.

  It began to rain.

  Chapter 18

  Blackthorn House

  Fishbourne Marshes

  Connie looked out at the first drops of rain.

  The promise of heat had come and gone in a single day. Everything had returned to the endless grey. Black clouds were bumping across the surface of the estuary, and a gusty squall was chopping, slicing the water. Even though the tide was at its lowest, the streams were still full and puddles of salt water dotted the path.

  Since the weather looked as if it was setting in, Connie decided to go to Fishbourne straight away. The jackdaw, waiting for her beneath the glass bell jar, would have to wait a while longer. She wanted to make discreet enquiries as to whether anyone had seen her father. Also, since the news of the discovery of a body near to Blackthorn House was bound to have spread by now, she thought she’d rather know what was being said and face it head on than be ignorant of what stories were circulating.

  She put on her coat. ‘I’m going in to Fishbourne, Mary,’ she called out. ‘There are things we need.’

  The girl rushed into the hall. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to go, Miss Gifford? The rain’s just coming on.’

  ‘I’ll take an umbrella.’

  ‘If you’re sure, miss,’ the girl said, twisting the tea towel in her hands.

  ‘I’m not expecting visitors, Mary. However, should anyone call – in connection with yesterday’s events, perhaps – please give my apologies and say I will be at home this afternoon.’

  ‘Shall I ask them to wait, miss?’

  Connie paused. There was no reason to think the woman she’d seen watching the house might return, but she didn’t want to lose a second chance of talking to her.

  ‘In fact, yes. I shan’t be away long.’

  ‘Very good, miss. And the master?’

  ‘I don’t want my father disturbed,’ she replied, hoping it wouldn’t come to light that he wasn’t in the house.

  Mary pulled anxiously at her apron. ‘May I ask you something, miss?’

  Connie reached for her latch key from the hook, then noticed that the key to the ice house wasn’t in its usual place on the row.

  ‘Did you have reason to go out to Mr Gifford’s storeroom, Mary?’

  ‘No, miss, but—’

  ‘The key appears to be missing.’

  Mary wasn’t listening. ‘It’s going round that it was Vera Barker we found in the river,’ she blurted out. ‘It wasn’t me, Miss Gifford. I promise I didn’t tell a soul. At least, Ma got it out of me, but I didn’t say nothing to anyone else.’ She took another deep breath. ‘My friend Archie was one of the boys who came out with Mr Pine last night. He wouldn’t tell me anything, he’s good like that, but then when I went to collect the laundry from Miss Bailey on my way here this morning, she said her friend Mrs Goslin – Kate Goslin, whose sister is married to Mr Pine . . .’

  Connie held up her hands to try to stem the tide of words.

  ‘Mary, I—’

  ‘. . . said, according to Miss Bailey that is, they’d laid her out in the barn. Then old Tommy came bellowing to be allowed to see his daughter, but Mr Crowther had—’

  ‘Mary,’ Connie said loudly, ‘please, stop.’

  The girl came to a halt. ‘But is it true? Was it Vera Barker? Ma thought it might be – there was something in the paper about her having gone missing. I never knew her. She was long gone from Fishbourne before we came to live here, but Ma always knows—’

  ‘Mary, all I can tell you is that one of the young men who came with Mr Crowther last evening said it was Vera Barker and the others appeared to concur.’

  ‘Archie.’ Mary blushed. ‘As I said, he’s by way of being a friend of mine. Not that he told me. Mr Crowther said they were all to keep it quiet. I didn’t tell a soul.’

  Connie pictured the knot of men in the dusk.

  ‘It’s all right, Mary. Don’t worry. All the same, I think it’s best if we don’t talk about it. You know how rumours spread. Let’s wait until we know something for certain.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Connie put on her hat, pushed the pin through to hold it firm, then took her gloves from her coat pocket.

  ‘About the key, Mary.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘To the ice house,’ Connie said, as patiently as she could.

  ‘I don’t know anything about the key, miss, but the padlock was lying on the ground last night.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘Locked it right back up. Someone must have left it open.’

&n
bsp; ‘Was the door open?’

  ‘No. It was all shut up like always.’

  Connie wondered if her father might have gone to the storeroom for some reason, then dismissed the idea. He usually avoided the place, saying it reminded him too much of the loss of their old life. But then again, nothing about the last few days had been as usual.

  ‘There’s a spare key somewhere, Mary, probably in one of the drawers in the kitchen. Could you look for it while I’m in Fishbourne?’

  *

  Connie glanced towards the ice house as she left, but everything looked secure enough for the time being.

  Once Mary found the spare key, she would take a lamp and go and make sure everything was as it should be. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone into the storeroom, there was never any need. But it couldn’t hurt to check.

  She glanced up at the sky and realised she needed to hurry. The rain was already steady, and black clouds were massing over Dell Quay, suggesting worse to come.

  Light-headed from lack of sleep, Connie made her way along the footpath, already a patchwork of puddles and standing seawater. She trod carefully, trying not to slip in the mud. The sluice gates by Fishbourne Mill were open and the water was surging through. The mill pond was lapping at the edge of the road and inching closer to the front garden of Slay Lodge and Pendrills. It would be too bad if Mr Crowther was flooded again. There had been enough damage in April, sandbags and straw stacked up against all the doors. Rugs and furniture set in the road to dry.

  Connie heard the sound of wings, then the rattling cawing of magpies. She looked up, to see a pair of black-and-whites perched on the thatched roof of the cottage. No reason to think they were the same birds from the garden, but she felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of anger. There was the familiar building of pressure in her temples, and though she tried to fight it again, this time she felt herself falling out of time.

  *

  All at once, Connie was no longer aware of the wind worrying at her hat and tugging the pins from her hair. She was no longer standing in Mill Lane, but instead looking down through the bars of a wooden cage.

  A room of glass, candlelight flickering and reflecting. The scent of perfume and desire. Cigars. Men’s voices, loud and quarrelling.

  Jackdaw. Magpie. Rook. Crow.

  Connie remembered the feeling of menace, of threat. She was scared, woken by ugly sounds she didn’t understand. Masks, glittering reflections and sequins. Feathers, and the scent of whisky and sherry spilling on the old wooden floor.

  Fear becoming anger. Then pain. Her bare feet sticky, slippery. A sensation of falling, spinning, flying through the air.

  Then, nothing.

  ‘Get away,’ she shouted, clapping her hands to ward off the feathers overwhelming her, trying to save herself from the vicious sharp beaks.

  *

  Connie realised her feet were wet. She looked down and saw she was standing in water.

  She was back in the present. In Fishbourne, with rain streaming down the back of her collar and the pond now seeping across Mill Lane. Still disorientated, she clapped her hands again to scare the birds away. But when she looked up, the magpies were nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 19

  West Street

  Chichester

  ‘I have a message for Mr Brook,’ Pearce told the clerk, Sutton. ‘Mr Woolston has, regrettably, been called away on an urgent family matter. Utterly unavoidable. He asked me to pass on his apologies.’ He hurriedly thrust his handkerchief to his nose to cover a sneeze. ‘And to say that, of course it goes without saying, he will make up the time at Mr Brook’s convenience.’

  The temperature in the tiled entrance hall seemed to drop.

  ‘It would be much better if you waited to deliver the message yourself,’ Sutton said. ‘Mr Brook has been waiting for Dr Woolston for some time. He is most displeased.’

  Pearce fixed him with a cold stare. ‘You misunderstand me. The message is from Mr Woolston, not Dr Woolston.’

  ‘Well, that’s part of the difficulty. Mr Brook was already very much put out by young Mr Woolston’s failure to arrive for work yesterday afternoon – having generously allowed him to take the morning – so when Dr Woolston also failed to arrive for their meeting . . . well, you can imagine.’

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ Pearce said coldly, resenting the clerk’s attempts to draw him into his confidence. ‘Dr Woolston does not have an appointment with Mr Brook today.’

  ‘I don’t wish to disagree, but I can assure you—’

  A door opened at the far end of the corridor. The smell of shipping lists and dust and cigar smoke seeped out on the coat tails of the two men who emerged from the room.

  ‘Here is Mr Brook,’ Sutton said quickly. ‘You can tell him yourself.’

  The two men were both in their early fifties. The first was tall and slim, black hair and moustache, wearing a well-cut grey office suit and a bowler hat. Pearce recognised him as working for one of the largest property agents in Chichester. The other, Brook himself, was built on an altogether different scale. He filled the space, every part of him oversized: his ears, his hands, his nose, moustache, even the shock of black hair, too uniform to be entirely natural. A Donegal tweed waistcoat beneath a shooting jacket strained to contain his stomach. As he drew closer, the clerk seemed to shrink into his cheap black suit. Pearce, realising he could not slip away, took off his hat and pressed himself closer to the wall.

  ‘Get an umbrella for Mr White?’ Brook bellowed in his strong Staffordshire accent. ‘Hurry up, man.’

  The clerk scuttled out from behind his desk, rushed to the hat stand and fumbled at the base until he’d found something suitable.

  ‘Stupid of me to forget mine,’ White was saying. ‘Awful weather. Still, should be used to it by now.’

  ‘Sure you won’t join me for the shooting up at Goodwood?’

  White shook his head. ‘I have an appointment with a client in Apuldram.’ He smiled. ‘I have high hopes.’

  Brook nodded. ‘You can always join us later. Thinking of trying the Kursaal in Bognor.’

  ‘I might do that,’ said White, then lowered his voice. ‘On the other matter, you’ll speak to Charles?’

  Brook nodded. ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Good.’ White put on his hat and gloves. ‘Good. Well, let me know if there’s anything you need me to do. Otherwise, wish me luck!’

  *

  Brook closed the door and strode back into the hall. For so large a man, he moved with surprising grace.

  Sutton scuttled round from behind his desk.

  ‘Mr Pearce has brought a message from Mr Woolston, sir,’ he said quickly.

  Brook strode up to Pearce and stood right in front of him. Pearce had to force himself not to take a step back.

  ‘Well? What’s his excuse?’

  Pearce cleared his throat. ‘There appears to be some misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I am Dr Woolston’s private secretary; however, I was asked to bring a message from Harold Woolston. He was called away on an urgent family matter yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I am more concerned, at this precise point, as to why Dr Woolston failed to turn up this morning.’

  In his own domain, Pearce was master. Here, he felt diminished.

  ‘I was unaware that Dr Woolston had arranged a meeting with you, sir,’ he said, with as much dignity as he could manage. ‘Mr Harold Woolston paid a visit to his father’s rooms this morning, so when news came of the . . . the family crisis, I volunteered to walk across to pass on the message to you, in person.’

  Brook poked Pearce in the chest. ‘Very well. What’s Dr Woolston got to say about his son?’ he demanded. ‘I only took the boy on as a favour to him. If he doesn’t measure up, he’ll be out on his ear. Claimed he was ill. I warned him.’

  ‘I couldn’t say, Mr Brook. I’m not privy to . . .’

  ‘To what?’

  It went against all Pearce’s principles to reveal anything about
Dr Woolston, but he felt himself wilting.

  ‘I’m waiting, Pearce. What is this “family crisis” that allows Dr Woolston to send his son off and then not bother to turn up himself? Is that how he thinks business is done?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Pearce cleared his throat. ‘It is just that Dr Woolston is also, unexpectedly, away from the office.’

  ‘Because of this same crisis?’

  ‘No,’ Pearce said, making a last-ditch effort in support of his employer.

  ‘Then where is he? Stop talking in riddles, man.’

  ‘The fact is, sir, I am not currently aware of Dr Woolston’s whereabouts.’

  Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dr Woolston has not arrived at the office this morning. His son was concerned and so asked me—’

  ‘Are there reasons for concern?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

  ‘You damn well will say!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pearce stammered. ‘Only, when I arrived this morning, the door was unlocked. I got the impression from Mr Woolston that his father had not been home. In fact, that no one has seen Dr Woolston since yesterday morning.’

  Brook stared at him. His silence was, if anything, more threatening than shouting. Pearce dropped his head. All he could think about was how displeased Dr Woolston would be at his indiscretion, yet what else could he have done?

  Sutton was cowering in his chair, moving papers around the desk.

  ‘Get after Mr White,’ said Brook. ‘Ask if he might spare me a couple more minutes.’

  ‘What, now?’ Sutton stuttered.

  ‘Of course now!’

  The clerk ran to the front door, slipping on the polished tiles, and out into the street. Moments later, he came back and stood cringing, like a dog expecting to be beaten.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was too late. I saw Mr White getting into a hansom at the corner of Tower Street.’