by Lee Jackson
‘For heaven’s sake, man, there must have been four or five hundred people there that night; one must have seen something. What about Miss Price’s colleagues at the Mourning Warehouse?’
‘Nothing worth knowing, sir. She kept company with young gentlemen a little too freely; but no names – well, no surnames, anyhow, that they recalled.’
‘Good Lord,’ says Webb. ‘I had hoped for a little more to work with.’
‘You have my word, sir,’ says Bartleby hastily. ‘There wasn’t anything else to speak of. Oh, I asked about Mr. Woodrow, too – apparently he’s run the place for about five years, since his wife’s father died.’
‘Really?’ says Webb. ‘Do we know what was his line of work before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Hmm. Well, look into it, will you?’
‘Any particular reason, sir?’
‘If you must know, Sergeant, I thought he seemed a little unnerved when I was speaking to him and happened to mention Jeremy Munday’s name. But he claimed never to have heard of him. It struck me as curious, that is all. Is that good enough for you?’
‘You think he knows something about it, sir? Or the business at the Casino?’
Webb sighs. ‘Perhaps, Sergeant, if you were to make some inquiries, we might actually find out.’
Bartleby, resolving not to debate the matter further, diligently draws his note-book from his jacket and scribbles something in pencil. ‘I spent all morning interviewing the girls, sir. I promise you.’
‘I am sure, Sergeant, I do not blame you. Let us put it to one side for a moment, and return to Mr. Munday. Have you organised the search of Abney Park?’
‘Ah, no, sir. I’ve been tied up enough as it is.’
‘Well, have it done today. I confess that there is something even odder about that affair than I thought.’
‘Sir?’
‘I went to Somerset House and found Munday’s wife in the census; she died in St. Luke’s Workhouse last year.’
‘No other relatives, sir?’
‘Not that I could find, although that is no guarantee. But a man visited her before she died; he claimed to be a lawyer, talked to her about a legacy.’
‘Claimed?’
‘The fellow gave a false name and address. How does that strike you, Sergeant?’
‘It’s the same party that was at Abney Park, sir. Must be. Perhaps he was looking for the same thing as he was looking for in the grave?’
‘Precisely what I thought. But she was in the workhouse, Sergeant. What could she have had left that was of such value?’
‘Maybe not an object, sir,’ suggests the sergeant. ‘What if it were some kind of clue or information? Ah, here’s a thought, what if it were something that led this man to her husband’s grave?’
‘Well done, Sergeant,’ says Webb. ‘But the question is what was it? What could be so important after twenty-five years?’
Bartleby pauses.
‘I haven’t a clue, sir,’ confesses the sergeant.
Webb shakes his head. ‘Someone does, though, Sergeant. I just wonder if we can find him?’
Joshua Siddons opens the midday post in his office in Salisbury Square. He recognises the handwriting of one letter, dated that morning, and opens it immediately.
My Dear Mr. Siddons,
It was a pleasure to see you yesterday, and it brought to mind that it has been an age since we had the pleasure of your company for an evening. Will you excuse this very short notice, and favour us with your presence at dinner tomorrow? The dinner hour is half-past seven. It will be a small gathering with our cousin Annabel, whom you met today, and Woodrow’s acquaintance Mr. Langley, a delightful young man with whom I believe you are also already acquainted? I should not consider our little party complete without you. Do not trouble yourself to send with an answer; we will send to you for it in the course of the day.
Yours ever sincerely,
Melissa Woodrow
Duncan Terrace, November 16th.
Siddons takes the letter and folds it neatly in two, placing it inside his coat pocket, smiling to himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘WHAT TIME IS it, my dear?’ asks Melissa Woodrow, as she applies the finishing cosmetic touches to her face, admiring her complexion in the mirror of her dresser.
‘Nearly half-past seven,’ replies Annabel Krout who sits patiently upon her cousin’s bed.
‘Oh, Lord,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘That will have to do. What a fright!’
‘Hardly, cousin,’ says Annabel.
‘You are too sweet, my dear. Are you sure you do not want some cream, just for your cheeks? The heat in the dining-room so dries out one’s skin.’
Mrs. Woodrow selects a small pot labelled ‘Princess of Wales Oil of Cacao’, and turns to her cousin, who shakes her head.
‘No, really, I am fine.’
‘Well, you have the advantage of youth, my dear. No, do not blush, you look a picture. Come, let us go and wait in the drawing-room. I am sure Mr. Siddons will be punctual; he always says it is a necessity in his profession.’
‘I should think so,’ says Annabel, uncertain quite how to respond. As they quit Mrs. Woodrow’s bedroom and descend the stairs, however, the door-bell rings.
‘What did I tell you, my dear? To the very minute.’
‘Is Mr. Siddons a business acquaintance, like Mr. Langley?’ asks Annabel.
‘Oh heavens, no. I mean to say, he is in the undertaking trade, my dear, but he is an old friend of Woodrow’s and also knew my father. In fact, do you know, he introduced us.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ replies Melissa Woodrow, though with little concentration as they enter the drawing-room, her mind more focused upon the sounds from the hall below. ‘Oh dear. Did I ask Jacobs to check the salt? It will cake in the cellars; I have told her time and again. I’ll wager she has forgotten. Ah, that is Mr. Siddons – I’d know his voice anywhere. I believe there is someone with him.’
Indeed, the sound of footsteps up the stairs is followed by the entrance not only of Joshua Siddons but Richard Langley, both of whom are ushered in by Jervis. Both men wear black dress suits and white neckerchiefs, but the former, for all his professional familiarity with formal dress, does not somehow appear as dapper as his younger companion.
‘Mrs. Woodrow, how delightful to see you,’ exclaims Siddons, bowing slightly. ‘And you, Miss Krout.’
‘We were just talking about you, sir,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Nothing bad, I hope, ma’am,’ replies Siddons, repeating his bow.
‘Please, don’t tease me, sir,’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow with a rather girlish laugh. ‘You know I cannot defend myself. And how are you, Mr. Langley?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ says Langley. ‘I trust you are well?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir.’
‘Did you come together?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow of her two guests.
‘A lucky chance, ma’am,’ replies Siddons. ‘We met on the step. Now, where is your husband, dear lady?’
Melissa Woodrow shakes her head, affecting, at least, indulgence towards her husband’s shortcomings. ‘That man! I expect he has not heard the bell. He is still in the study.’
‘I’ll go and fetch him, ma’am,’ interjects Siddons. ‘Save the maid’s shoe-leather, eh?’
‘Really, there is no need . . .’
‘Ma’am,’ says the undertaker, ‘it is already done. I am sure Mr. Langley can entertain you.’
Langley smiles, as graciously as possible, under the circumstances.
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’
Once the errant host is found, after a decent interval, Mrs. Woodrow musters her small party downstairs to dine. The Woodrows’ dining-table, despite Mrs. Woodrow’s fears for the salt, seems to Annabel Krout almost perfect. A vase of fresh flowers forms a meticulously placed centre-piece, illuminated by a small pair of silver candelabras, three candles in each, one on each side of the floral trib
ute. Twin silver salt cellars and cruets are marshalled around it with a similar military precision, as well as two open decanters of sherry. Then the knives, forks and spoons, resting on the damask slip that protects the table-cloth, all perfectly polished, reflecting the candle light; then pristine white napkins folded to one side. Jervis, meanwhile, stands in attendance, only moving to seat Mrs. Woodrow at the head of the table. Jasper Woodrow himself seats his American cousin, then takes his place opposite his wife. Finally the two remaining guests are guided to their seats, the undertaker besides Annabel Krout and Richard Langley facing.
‘Tell Jacobs she can begin, will you, Jervis?’ says Woodrow, at which the butler discreetly disappears in the direction of the kitchen stairs.
‘Mr. Langley,’ says Joshua Siddons, ‘have you had the pleasure of dining at home with Mrs. Woodrow before?’
‘No, sir, I have not,’ replies Langley, amiably, as he places his napkin upon his lap.
‘Then you are in for a treat, sir. Mrs. Woodrow’s kitchen is a model of efficiency and artistry. You will return home singing her cook’s praises. Every dish, sir, fit for the Kensington School.’
Langley smiles. ‘I should not be surprised,’ he replies, directing an agreeable nod to his hostess.
‘In fact,’ continues Siddons, ‘too good for them. I do Mrs. Woodrow a disservice. Would spoil them for anything else. They would taste it and not make another dish.’
‘There is a school of cooking, in Kensington?’ asks Annabel.
‘Part of the Exhibition last year, my dear,’ replies her cousin. ‘I believe they have kept it open. Though why any decent young woman would need instruction in such matters, I don’t pretend to know.’
‘It sounds very practical,’ suggests Annabel.
‘Do you have a good cook at home in Boston, Miss Krout?’ asks Richard Langley.
‘I’ve never really thought about it, sir. But, yes, I would say so.’
‘I don’t know about Boston, dear,’ interrupts Melissa Woodrow, ‘but a good cook is like gold dust in London. In fact, Annabel, these days it is more common for a good cook to ask for the character of a family, than vice versa.’
‘Now you’re teasing me, cousin.’
‘Only a little,’ suggests Jasper Woodrow, gruffly. ‘You wouldn’t believe what Figgis expects per annum.’
‘Jasper!’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Don’t be so vulgar.’
‘Worth every penny, though,’ affirms Siddons. ‘Ah, and here is the first bonne bouche if I am not mistaken.’
The room falls silent as Jacobs approaches bearing a bulbous-looking silver tureen on a tray of the same metal, polished to an almost mirror-like sheen, which she deposits upon the sideboard. Her arrival provokes something of a lull in the conversation, as she opens the tureen lid and the aroma of the steaming oyster soup fills the room.
‘Exquisite, my dear lady,’ says Siddons, as Jacobs serves him his soup. ‘It is more than cream and oysters, though? Or do my olfactory nerves deceive me?’
‘Champagne, mushrooms and scallops.’
‘Delicious,’ says Siddons, though not yet having tasted a drop. ‘Ah, now who is this, come to see us?’
The undertaker’s gaze is directed not to his hostess, but to the doorway behind her. Mrs. Woodrow turns round to see her daughter, dressed in her white nightgown, standing upon the threshold between the dining-room and the hall.
‘Lucinda – what are you doing downstairs?’
‘Can I have some soup?’ says the little girl.
‘No, my dear, you cannot. Go back to your room this instant.’
‘I’ll see to her, ma’am,’ says Jacobs, returning the soup ladle to the tureen, and making towards the door. She is, however, interrupted by her master’s voice.
‘You will do nothing of the kind,’ says Woodrow in his sternest tone, hurriedly pulling his napkin from his lap and standing up so abruptly that his knife and fork rattle upon the table. ‘Lucinda – you will go to bed.’
‘I don’t want to go to bed,’ she replies.
‘You will do as I say,’ replies Woodrow, at which he walks over to his daughter and grabs her arm. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, Miss Krout, I am afraid my daughter can be too easily excited. I will not be a moment.’
‘Of course,’ says Siddons, as Woodrow leads his daughter in the direction of the stairs, at a pace not quite suited to her stature.
Mrs. Woodrow looks apologetically towards her guests, a nervous smile fleeting across her face. ‘You must forgive Lucinda, gentlemen. She is just a little sensitive. Woodrow says she lacks discipline, but I think it is just her nature.’
‘You can’t put a price on discipline, ma’am,’ says Siddons, sipping his soup, ‘not in my experience. It’s a father’s duty as a Christian. If you spoil them, ma’am, they’re spoiled for good.’
‘But she is only a small child,’ suggests Langley.
‘Can tell you’re a bachelor, Mr. Langley,’ replies the undertaker, slurping.
‘Are you married, sir?’ asks Langley.
‘Widowed sir, twice. Fine women, both of them. Buried them myself. No expense spared.’
‘Ah, I am sorry to hear of your loss,’ replies Langley.
‘Thank you,’ says Siddons, taking another sip of soup. ‘Still, they say three times for luck, do they not?’
‘Mr. Siddons!’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow, laughing. ‘Really, you are the limit.’
‘Forgive me, ma’am, Miss Krout,’ continues the undertaker, with a hint of drollery in his voice. ‘I only meant to say that, even in an old man like myself, hope springs eternal.’
‘You are hardly that, sir,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow.
Annabel Krout adds nothing to the discussion but cannot help but think that, for the briefest moment as he talks of marriage, the undertaker looks at her rather pointedly, then winks.
‘So, Miss Krout,’ says Richard Langley, ‘have you seen all the sights in London?’
Langley’s question serves to fill another gap in the conversation, as Jasper Woodrow begins to carve Mrs. Figgis’s pièce de résistance, a sucking-pig. The smell of the succulent roast meat is enough to cause the whole party to pause in admiration. With the pig’s head already separate from the body, its back split in half, Woodrow deftly cuts the shoulder and hind leg on each side.
‘Not yet, sir,’ replies Annabel. ‘We have been to Regent Street, though. And the Criterion Theatre.’
‘I expect you have more adventures planned for this week?’
Woodrow begins to cut away at the ribs, whilst Jacobs serves the accompanying tray of parsnips and suet dumplings.
‘Well, not as yet,’ replies Annabel.
‘We have been,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I confess, sir, quite remiss in our duty to dear Annabel. I myself was a little under the weather on Saturday, and she has barely been out of the house.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope, ma’am?’ says Siddons.
‘No, not at all. It is a shame, though, that we do not have an acquaintance who might come with us. I fear I am not quite at my best, and rather hold Annabel back.’
‘Cousin, not at all!’ protests Annabel.
‘Well,’ says the undertaker, ‘what do you think of that, Mr. Langley? Terrible shame for Miss Krout.’
‘Really, it isn’t,’ says Annabel.
Langley blushes. ‘I am sure, if I am not being too forward, if Mr. Woodrow does not object, I would be happy to accompany you both, ma’am, one day this week, if you have need of an escort.’
‘Mr. Langley,’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow, ‘really, I could not dream of such an imposition.’
‘It would be a pleasure,’ he replies. ‘Sir?’
‘Good of you, Langley,’ replies Woodrow. ‘I’m always too busy.’
‘Well, that would be delightful, would it not, Annabel?’ replies Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Of course,’ replies Annabel.
‘Well, glad that’s settled, eh?’ says Woodrow, finishing the last cut into the meat.
‘Rib?’
It is gone ten o’clock when the Woodrows’ dinner party enters its final stage, after a dessert of meringues and cabinet pudding, and liberal consumption of sherry. Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin retire to the drawing-room, leaving the three men to brandy and cigars. Once all three have a glass in their hands, Jasper Woodrow gives his manservant leave to retire from the room.
Joshua Siddons sips his drink, and then his face adopts a rather puckish expression.
‘Did you know, Mr. Langley, that Woodrow here used to be in my employ?’
‘No, sir, I did not,’ replies Langley.
‘Worked his way up, as they say. A protégé of mine.’
‘Yes,’ says Woodrow, giving Joshua Siddons a rather dark glance, ‘we all have to start somewhere in life.’
‘And now, with your interest in the business, sir, who knows how well things may turn out, eh?’
Langley smiles rather awkwardly. ‘Well, who knows, indeed?’
‘Don’t let this awful affair at the Casino worry you, sir,’ continues Siddons, lowering his voice. ‘It will make no difference to the prospects of the Warehouse, I am sure. Rich rewards in the trade, sir, you have my word. Forty years, man and boy; I know a thing or two, rest assured.’
‘You speak very frankly, sir,’ says Langley, taking a sip of brandy. Jasper Woodrow bites his lip.
‘Think nothing of it, my dear fellow,’ says Siddons, ignoring Woodrow’s admonitory stare.
‘Perhaps,’ says Jasper Woodrow, ‘we might talk of something more pleasant.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Siddons. ‘Tell me, Woodrow, about your American cousin. I have never met such a delightful young woman.’
‘There is nothing much to tell. Her mother is Melissa’s aunt. Told her she wanted to see – what is it the Yankees call it? – “The Old World”. Melissa said we’d look after her.’
‘I expect she’s on the look-out for a husband, eh?’ says Siddons. ‘A girl of that age with a bit of money behind her.’