by Lee Jackson
‘Attacked? You mean she was murdered?’
‘Yes, my dear, awful, isn’t it? Worse, I fear, she was found in a place with a very bad reputation, a dance-hall, near the Warehouse; it seems likely there was some element of, well, impropriety on her part.’
‘How terrible.’
‘Yes, it is rather bad,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘It will not reflect well on the business, not at all; Woodrow is quite desolate about it. I just thought you ought to know, my dear, in case . . . Well, I have not said anything to the servants as yet, my dear, but it will come out. I am not quite sure what to do for the best.’
‘No, of course.’
‘One almost feels one should wear some token of mourning; I mean to say, I did not know the wretched girl, but really it is such a bad business. Still, I will say no more about it. I have probably said more than is decent – are you quite shocked, Annabel?’
‘No, not shocked. I mean, Melissa, I am but I don’t know what to say.’
‘My dear, you need say nothing. I discussed it with Woodrow and it just seemed best we did not keep it from you; you are not a child, after all. Now, I suppose we must just put it behind us and dwell on something more pleasant. It need not interfere with your stay. What about today? I think we shall go to church for the eleven o’clock service, if you care to come.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Oh, and Woodrow says we might go for a little drive afterwards. Some fresh air might do us all a world of good, don’t you think? You were only saying as much yesterday.’
Breakfast passes without incident and with little conversation. Mr. Woodrow himself seems distant and a little tired, his eyes possessing the same bleary character that Annabel noted upon her first morning at the breakfast table. Once the food is cleared away, Woodrow retires to his study, and his wife to her boudoir, to ponder the precise choice of jewellery for the day, and of a hat appropriate for Christian worship. Annabel, upon the other hand, her literary imagination fired by Mrs. Woodrow’s news, goes to her room and begins to contemplate writing an article entitled ‘The London Tragedy’, to reveal some telling contrasts between British and American criminality for the readers of the New England Monthly Bazaar. In truth, she finds herself quite disappointed that Mr. Woodrow did not choose to wax lyrical about the circumstances of the incident over his poached eggs.
At length, however, Annabel is roused from her daydreaming by her cousin’s appearance at her bedroom door; and, after sundry comments upon her dress and hair, which she does her best to amend to Melissa Woodrow’s exacting standards, the family gather in the hall. Lucy, in particular, is arrayed in her Sunday best, though she does not appear best pleased at the prospect of going to church and wears a particularly sullen expression.
‘You look pretty, Lucy,’ suggests Annabel. The little girl merely scowls. Any further discussion, however, is forestalled by the ringing of the Woodrow’s door-bell.
‘Now, who would call at this hour on a Sunday?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow.
Jasper Woodrow does not wait for the arrival of his maid-servant, but swiftly resolves the question by unceremoniously opening the front door himself. He reveals Joshua Siddons standing upon the front steps.
‘Ah, forgive me, Woodrow, and you, ma’am,’ says Siddons. ‘I see this is an inconvenient time.’
‘Mr. Siddons, why, how pleasant to see you!’ exclaims Melissa Woodrow. ‘But we are all off to church.’
‘Indeed, ma’am,’ he replies, ‘my apologies.’
‘There is no need to apologise, sir,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Now, what am I thinking of? I don’t believe you have met my cousin, Miss Krout?’
‘I am charmed, Miss Krout,’ says Siddons, with a small bow.
‘Now, would you care to come with us?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Why, my dear lady,’ replies Joshua Siddons, ‘I should be delighted.’
‘But I expect Siddons wants a word with me, Melissa,’ says Jasper Woodrow, hurriedly interposing in the conversation. ‘Just a small matter we need to discuss.’
‘On a Sunday morning, Woodrow? Really!’
‘All the same, my dear. A quick word. We shall follow on.’
‘I will not detain him long, my dear lady,’ says Siddons.
Mrs. Woodrow acquiesces and the last thing she and Annabel Krout see of the two men is when they climb into the waiting carriage on Duncan Terrace.
‘Well,’ says Joshua Siddons, seated in the Woodrows’ drawing-room, ‘so that is the cousin? Delightful little creature, eh? But you never said a word, my dear chap! When did she arrive?’
‘Never mind that. Why did you not come last night?’
‘A burial in Woking, if you must know, Woodrow. I did not get back until late. Now, what is so pressing?’
‘I had some bad news yesterday,’ replies his host, standing before the fireplace.
‘Ah,’ replies Siddons, with a slight smile, ‘yes, that awful business at the Casino. I confess, I have already heard. I saw something at the station last night; some piece of gutter journalism. Can’t be good for the firm, eh? I wish I could help. Still, rise above it; that is my motto. Always has been.’
Woodrow, still dressed in his coat, clenches his hands tightly around the brim of his hat, which he holds in front of him. ‘That is not all. Langley has pulled out of the partnership.’
‘Oh, well, that is a shame, certainly. But, come, my good fellow, I fail to see what I can do about it.’
‘There is much you could do, if you chose,’ says Woodrow emphatically, ‘as well you know.’
‘My dear Woodrow,’ exclaims Siddons, as if having been offered some awful insult, ‘an arrangement is an arrangement. What is the matter? Are you in some difficulty?’
‘Your payments are a burden at the moment; this will only make it worse. I swear, any decent man would consider our account long since settled.’
‘Nonetheless,’ says Siddons, waving his hand as if to swat away any awkwardness.
‘Moreover, I now find that you have not kept your part of the bargain,’ says Woodrow, glowering at the undertaker.
Siddons raises his eyebrows. ‘I hardly think one might say that.’
‘You’re a liar. The policeman who came to see me, about the wretched girl, he also asked me if I knew a “Jeremy Munday”.’
‘Munday?’ says Siddons, again smiling, as if trying to recall the name.
‘Don’t toy with me, sir. I am not to be trifled with. Why should he ask me that?’
‘Why, indeed?’
‘Do not provoke me, I swear, by Almighty God, if you—’
‘I have done nothing,’ replies Siddons with a theatrical sigh. ‘However, the police came to me as well, I confess.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it is quite remarkable – it was to inform me some mysterious Burker had been at work at Abney Park, digging around. Can you believe it?’
‘Good God,’ replies Woodrow, his mouth open in astonishment, ‘you do not mean—’
‘That Jeremy Munday has been disturbed in his eternal rest? That is precisely it. Nothing but an empty coffin left behind. Queer, is it not?’
‘Why did you not come to me at once?’
‘Why, indeed! Why did I not simply bring the police sergeant directly to your door?’
‘I said,’ says Woodrow, raising his voice, ‘do not play these games of yours. Why, in heaven’s name, should this happen? Why now? Have you told anyone?’
‘My dear fellow, do contain yourself. I have said nothing. The police only came to me because of the coffin; Mr. Pellegrin informed them of the manufacturer.’
Woodrow shakes his head. ‘It is impossible. It has been twenty-five years. More.’
‘Come now, you have nothing to fear. Perhaps it was a joke; a wager amongst students of anatomy. Yes, that might well be it. You know the sort. “We’ll find old Munday’s corpse; dig him up, see how he likes it.” That would explain it, eh?’
‘A joke? No – at the time,
perhaps. But not now – who would go to such lengths?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Besides, you mean “we” need not fear, do you not?’
‘Of course,’ replies Siddons, in a soothing undertone. ‘Come, we shall be late for the service.’
‘No. It makes no sense, don’t you see? Why should this happen now?’
Siddons sighs. ‘My dear fellow, what do you want of me? Your wife and her pretty young cousin will be waiting.’
‘Who have you spoken to?’ says Woodrow, persisting, his voice now rather desperate and frantic. ‘You must have told someone. That is the only explanation.’
‘I have spoken to precisely no-one. However, if you carry on in this manner, well, I fear you will give everything away, without my assistance.’
‘And we are in this together?’
‘Of course.’
‘Very well,’ says Woodrow, taking a deep breath, ‘listen to me. At least postpone this month’s payment. I swear, on my mother’s life, the business cannot bear it. Nor can I.’
Siddons frowns. ‘Must we return to this?’
‘A month’s grace is all I ask,’ says Woodrow.
‘One might say I have done you enough favours.’
‘I will pay it back, with interest.’
Siddons sighs. ‘Oh, very well. You know, Woodrow, you do not look quite well. I thought as much last time we met.’
Woodrow looks away. ‘There are other . . . delicate matters.’
‘Really? What?’
Woodrow shakes his head.
‘You will not tell your oldest friend?’
Woodrow snorts in derision. ‘Friend?’
‘Truly,’ says the undertaker, looking at him quizzically. ‘What is it? What is troubling you?’
Woodrow looks him in the eye. ‘I would not tell you if my very life depended upon it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ST. MARK’S CHURCH in Myddleton Square is a rather imposing Gothic affair, set like an island in the square’s very centre, flanked on all sides by tall four-storey Islington terraces. Indeed, the ornate tracery of its windows and high, pinnacled bell-tower are rather incongruous amidst the plain Georgian houses that surround it and there is almost something of the panopticon in its peculiar central location. Nonetheless, it is a popular location for Sunday worship amongst the residents of the parish, and, at the end of the service, it takes some time for the Woodrow family, accompanied by Joshua Siddons, to make their way to their waiting carriage.
‘Did you enjoy the sermon, Mr. Siddons?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow, as they reach the vehicle.
‘Not bad, ma’am. In truth, I prefer a little stronger meat.’
‘I’ve never heard a fellow sound so wet,’ adds Jasper Woodrow. ‘Wouldn’t know the Lamb of God from his Sunday lunch.’
‘Woodrow! He will hear you. The poor man merely has a lisp.’
‘If you say so, my dear.’
‘In any case, I must be going, ma’am,’ adds Siddons. ‘A pleasure, as always.’
‘You must come for dinner,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I will write an invitation tonight, I promise you.’
‘I would be honoured, ma’am. A great pleasure to meet you too, Miss Krout,’ continues the undertaker, taking Annabel’s hand and pressing it between his palms. ‘A great pleasure indeed.’
Annabel responds politely in kind and it is not long before Mr. Siddons strolls off across the square. Jasper Woodrow, in turn, motions his family inside the coach.
‘Come on, Lucinda,’ says Woodrow, hurrying his daughter along.
The little girl clambers inside the coach, ignoring her father’s proffered hand.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow, as the driver shuts the carriage door. ‘Not another surprise?’
‘Thought we might have a stroll round Abney Park, my dear, that’s all, as the weather has improved.’
‘I don’t think I’ve heard of that one,’ says Annabel. ‘Is it similar to The Regent’s Park?’
‘What an idea!’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘No, it is a little more appropriate for a Sunday. It is a cemetery; a very fine one.’
‘Ah, I see. Do you go there often?’
‘More so in the summer, dear. Woodrow, you don’t suppose it is a little cold for Lucinda?’
‘Are you cold, child?’ asks Mr. Woodrow.
The little girl shakes her head.
‘There, she is quite all right. Besides, a chap must keep a professional interest, eh? One likes to see what the prettiest widows are wearing. Where they go, the others follow.’
Mrs. Woodrow smiles. ‘My wag of a husband is joking, Annabel. As always, I counsel you to ignore him.’
Mr. Woodrow bows his head in mock penitence.
The journey to Stoke Newington takes little more than twenty minutes. Annabel observes the public buildings and theatres of Islington disappear, replaced by the white stucco of suburban terraces, interrupted only by the occasional church or chapel. At length, the Woodrows’ carriage turns down Stoke Newington Church Street, a narrow road, whose houses largely eschew the organised dimensions of the architect’s pattern book. Instead they seem an idiosyncratic mix of old cottages, ivy-clad red-brick mansions and quaint villas, made to proportions entirely in accordance to their owners’ whim. Finally, the vehicle draws to a stop by an iron-work gate and railinged wall.
‘Here we are,’ announces Mr. Woodrow.
‘Did you not prefer the main entrance, my dear?’
‘I think Miss Krout will find this gives a better view of the chapel.’
Melissa Woodrow agrees. Once they are settled upon the pavement Annabel notices a man sitting just inside the gates, upon the grass, by a solitary white tomb-stone, sheets of paper in his hand. Dressed in a cheap checked jacket, he gets up as they approach, doffing his rather battered-looking hat.
‘Plan of the park, sir? Shows all the walks and famous personages. All the best tombs. Just a penny? How about you, ma’am?’
‘No thank you,’ says Jasper Woodrow, shepherding his group along, ‘I know the way.’
‘Really,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘as if we needed such a thing.’
Abney Park is a popular destination upon a Sunday. Small groups, men, women and children, clad mostly in black, move quietly along the gravel paths, admiring the manicured lawns, the multiplicity of carefully arranged shrubs, noting the embossed cards testifying to each plant’s Latin name, placed for the education of the passer-by. Others stop to read the inscriptions upon tomb-stones, memorials testifying to affectionate husbands and indulgent fathers.
Annabel Krout walks slowly with the Woodrows along the central path. The park itself is laid out around its ancient trees: a circular walk around a great cedar of Lebanon, graves radiating outwards; an avenue between twin rows of yews. But the focus is the chapel in the very heart of the cemetery; its steeple a lofty Gothic needle atop twin turrets, the stained glass of its rose window shining deep red and purple in the fleeting winter sunlight.
‘Don’t you think it a beautiful location, my dear?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow. ‘So very peaceful. Much nicer in the spring, of course.’
‘It’s not,’ says Lucinda Woodrow.
‘It is a very pretty park, though, Lucy,’ says Annabel.
The little girl shrugs. ‘Apart from all the stones,’ she says at last.
‘Lucy, my dear, look at this,’ says Mrs. Woodrow with a sigh, gesturing to the tall pillar by her side, topped with a draped urn. ‘“If thou should’st call me to resign what most I prize; it ne’er was mine; I only yield thee what was thine; thy will be done.” What do you think that means?’
If Lucy Woodrow is about to answer, she is interrupted by an exclamation from her mother.
‘Why, look who it is!’
Annabel Krout follows Mrs. Woodrow’s glance to see the approaching form of a familiar figure, Richard Langley.
‘Sir. Ma’am. Miss Krout,’ says Langley, as he draws near, doffing his hat.
&
nbsp; ‘Why Mr. Langley,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘what a coincidence! Whatever brings you here?’
‘My parents are at rest here, ma’am, just along the way. They passed away last year. I make a point of visiting them once a month or so.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry to hear of your loss, sir,’ says Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Thank you,’ replies Langley. ‘Ah, perhaps you might care to see the plot? I am just on my way. There is a fine monument.’
‘In truth, sir,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, hurriedly, ‘I confess I suddenly feel a little faint. Woodrow – there is a bench by the Watts Memorial, is there not? Could we sit down there for a moment? Mr. Langley, forgive me. But I am sure Annabel would be delighted, though, would you not, my dear?’
Annabel Krout smiles a little nervously. ‘Why, I suppose so.’
‘Very well,’ says Langley. ‘If you do not object, sir?’
‘No, of course not,’ replies Jasper Woodrow.
‘Shall we come back to the Memorial?’
‘Yes, we will wait there,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, her voice sounding almost confidential, as if conspiring in a secret assignation.
Langley nods and, with a few pleasantries, leads Annabel along the path. Jasper Woodrow waits until they are both out of earshot before he addresses his wife.’
‘Melissa, are you quite all right?’
‘Woodrow, must you be quite so dense? That young man is smitten with Annabel, I swear it. I told you that we saw him at the park?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Well, do you think this is a coincidence? He is positively pursuing her. These “chance” encounters!’
‘I hardly think it right the fellow should be following us about,’ says Woodrow.
‘You were much the same with me, I recall, my dear.’
‘That was different. I am sure your dear cousin has no need of a match-maker.’
Melissa Woodrow looks coquettishly at her husband. ‘If you say so. Oh, Lucinda – please don’t wander off.’
Lucinda Woodrow, in truth, seems stubbornly inert and not at all inclined to do anything of the sort. She returns to her mother’s side without complaint, and the family then walk in silence, until they approach the Watts Memorial, where the famous hymn-writer stands immortalised in stone.