by Carol Hedges
Death & Dominion
A Victorian Sensation Novel
Carol Hedges
Little G Books
Copyright © 2015 by Carol Hedges
Cover Artwork and Design by Rosewolf Design
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
This edition by Little G Books (July 2017)
For Martyn, Hannah, Archie & Avalyn
About the Author
Carol Hedges is the successful British author of 16 books for teenagers and adults. Her writing has received much critical acclaim, and her novel Jigsaw was shortlisted for the Angus Book Award and longlisted for the Carnegie Medal.
Carol was born in Hertfordshire, and after university, where she gained a BA (Hons.) in English Literature & Archaeology, she trained as a children’s librarian. She worked for the London Borough of Camden for many years subsequently re-training as a secondary school teacher when her daughter was born.
Carol still lives and writes in Hertfordshire. She is a local activist and green campaigner, and the proud owner of a customised 1988 pink 2CV.
Diamonds & Dust, A Victorian Murder Mystery, was her first adult novel. It was followed up by Honour & Obey. Death & Dominion is the third in the series.
The Victorian Detectives series
Diamonds & Dust
Honour & Obey
Death & Dominion
Rack & Ruin
Wonders & Wickedness
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Gina Dickerson of RoseWolf Design, for another superb cover, and to my two patient editors for their invaluable help with this edition.
To those wonderful individuals who have urged me to give Stride & Cully another outing: Lynn, Terry, Michael, Ali, Ros, Jo, Val and so many others too numerous to mention. This book would not have been written without your encouragement.
Finally, I acknowledge my debt to all those amazing Victorian novelists for lighting the path through the fog with their genius. Unworthily but optimistically, I follow in their footsteps.
Death & Dominion
A Victorian Sensation Novel
“What we are said to perceive is usually a compound result, of which one tenth may be observation, and the remaining nine-tenths inference.”
John Stuart Mill. A System of Logic, 1843
London, 1862. It has been a cold summer – the coldest on record, they say, and the autumn nights have come early and bitten hard. Wind batters the city, rattling the windows and inn-signs, whipping up the Thames into white-capped rage.
Wind whirls rooks into the sky like cinders. Wind prowls across narrow quadrangles and round unsuspecting corners, blowing dead leaves into nooks and stairwells. In weather like this, right-thinking people wrap up warm and stay indoors in front of the fire.
Not all of them though. Look more closely.
A tall man is making his way towards King’s Cross station, his shoulders squared, tilting forward as he walks. He is darkly handsome, the sort of man who causes women’s heads to turn when he enters the room. He knows this. His name is Mark Hawksley (though not all of the time).
As he reaches the entrance, a gust suddenly rocks him on his heels forcing him to make a half-step backwards. He takes a deep breath, the wind pummelling his face, the richness of the oxygen making him feel temporarily light-headed.
Steadying himself, the man enters the shadowy arch of the station and heads for a specific platform where a train is expected to arrive at any minute. In the station air, he can hear it coming, the sudden frantic chugging of a locomotive, a series of clanks as it passes over the final set of points, then a long exhalation of steam as it pulls alongside the platform and comes to a halt by the buffers. Instantly all is bustle and bedlam. Dogs bark, porters shout, and trolleys are hurriedly trundled towards the baggage carriage at the back.
Two respectably-dressed men alight from the front carriage of the train, turning to help down a small female figure, heavily-veiled and clad in deepest black. They escort her along the platform, steering her carefully through the milling throng of passengers, the meeters and greeters, the mounds of luggage, and the cabbies touting for fares.
Reaching the barrier, they hand over three tickets and are allowed through and onto the forecourt. They glance around apprehensively, their faces clearing as Mark Hawksley steps forward into the light, lifting his top hat in a smooth elegant gesture.
“So here you all are at last,” he says.
“Here we all are. Just as we telegraphed you,” one of the men replies.
Hawksley gestures towards the heavily-veiled woman.
“May I?” he asks.
“Be our guest,” the other man nods.
He lifts the thick veil, then steps quickly back, uttering a gasp of surprise.
“Amazing,” he breathes. “She is exactly as you described her in your letter. You might almost believe … But come, we need to get our guest to a place of safety before she is recognised.”
Mark Hawksley steers the little party to where a line of cabs is patiently waiting. He signals to one driver, gives him careful instructions, then bundles the group into the rear of the cab. He closes the door. The driver whips up the horse. As the cab rattles away into the night, Hawksley’s handsome, chiselled features break into a wide smile.
“Oh yes,” he murmurs. “You will do nicely. Very nicely indeed.”
***
But this is not the only arrival tonight in the greatest capital city in the world. Even as the hired cab is pulling away from King’s Cross station with its mysterious cargo safely stowed aboard, another cab is pulling up outside one of the white stuccoed houses in Cartwright Gardens, Bloomsbury.
The rear door opens and a small dainty foot booted in slightly shabby kid leather extends itself cautiously, followed by a discreet section of shapely leg, and then the rest of the cab’s occupant, who turns out to be a young person with emerald-green eyes, a red mouth, determined chin and hair the colour of falling Autumn.
She gives the cabman instructions to “Follow on with my box, if you please,” with a toss of her head that makes the feathers on her straw bonnet bob and dance merrily.
Having issued her orders, she mounts the steps to the front door, where she raps out three short knocks on the brass lion-headed knocker and waits to be admitted, looking around with an expression of satisfaction on her pretty face.
The door opens and the young person hands the snooty-looking maid her card. She announces, “I am expected,” and is ushered into the black-and-white tiled hallway. The maid carries the little pasteboard square into the drawing room.
Miss Belinda Kite has arrived in London.
But is London ready for her? A question yet to be answered.
An hour later, Miss Belinda Kite, dressed in a very becoming grey silk gown, trips down the staircase and enters the dining-room. Here, the master of the house, Josiah Bulstrode (of Bulstrode’s Boots and Shoes, Leeds), is seated at the head of the table, solemnly carving slices from a joint of beef.
He is a well-built man in his late thirties, with a high complexion and Macassar-oiled hair and moustaches. His actions are being observed from across the table by a young lady. She is his sister, and Belinda Kite has arrived to be her paid companion.
The young lady reminds Belinda of a watercolour painting done by someone who had not much colour but a lot of water, giving off the impression of not only being colourless, but rather damp.
“Now then, Sissy, one slice or two?” Josiah says to the pallid
one, holding the carving fork aloft.
Miss Kite clears her throat, ever so lightly, to indicate that her presence requires noticing. The master of the house waves her to a seat with the fork, and continues cutting the meat.
“Well, Miss Kite,” he says. “Here you are at last. Dinner is on the table and we are ready to eat it.”
He places a slice of beef on a plate and passes it to the pale one.
“I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction, Miss Kite. You take us as you find us. As I said in my letter, I’m a bluff, no-nonsense northerner. My sister Grizelda here is the younger sister of a bluff, no-nonsense northerner. And that’s the long and short of it.”
“Oh indeed,” Miss Belinda Kite murmurs, unrolling her napkin and placing it upon her lap. “Only, if I may correct you – my name is pronounced ‘Keet’, as in the French manner. My father, le Marquis, was always most particular about it.”
And she opens her emerald-green eyes very wide, and smiles sweetly at the bluff, no-nonsense northerner, who harrumphs and nearly drops the carving knife on the floor.
“Well, would you listen to that, Sissy … we have French nobility dining with us!” he says, handing the noblewoman a plate of beef.
The pale lady smiles wanly.
“I know you come highly recommended, Miss Keet, or I studied your references carefully, and they was excellent. I only hope you can cheer up poor Sissy over there, for she has had a very hard time since the Unfortunate Incident which I believe I mentioned briefly to you, and she needs a companion to entertain her and take her about a bit.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shall be delighted to do so,” Belinda Kite says, smiling at nothing while cutting up her meat. Both her little fingers are crooked daintily.
Boiled beef and potatoes are soon consumed – though Sissy merely picks at hers – and are swiftly followed by a cherry tart, which Belinda Kite enjoys very much, rolling her eyes and declaring that cherries are her favourite fruit.
She actually has a second piece, after which she indicates that the long journey and the cold weather have quite sapped her energy, and if the company would excuse her, she’d like to retire to her room.
Belinda Kite mounts the stairs to the nicely-appointed first-floor bedroom, where a few hours ago her box was deposited. She sits at her dressing table and begins to unpin her hair, wondering what the Unfortunate Incident endured by Grizelda Bulstrode really was. No details have been furnished, as yet.
Belinda has endured several Unfortunate Incidents in her young life. She has no doubt that there will be many more. Except that now she is going to make sure that they occur to other people. As for her references, she knows that they are excellent. And so they should be, for she wrote them herself.
***
It is next morning, and Detective Sergeant Jack Cully, whom we last met cat over boots in love, is on his way to work. He is later than usual due to a misunderstanding over crumbs.
Marriage has brought Cully many advantages and blessings, but it has also provided him with many puzzling dilemmas – the spilling of crumbs being one of them.
Now he hurries towards Scotland Yard, keeping his eyes open for gangs of villainous individuals. For ever since July, when Hugh Pilkington, MP, was accosted by robbers who choked him and stole his watch, London has been in the middle of a garrotting panic.
The press, eager to seize upon any minor news event, especially during a slow summer when most of the Court remains in mourning for Prince Albert, and the Queen is in total seclusion at Windsor Castle, has been making hay with the story. Articles have appeared almost daily, referring to the Race of hardened villains who inhabit the seedier sections of the city. So scared have people become, that innocent citizens walking home in a foggy evening have been set upon by other innocent citizens who believed them to be potential garrotters.
Cully has seen gentlemen sporting a spiked ‘anti-garrotte’ device – a fearsome object that looks like a cross between a medieval instrument of torture and a clergyman’s dog-collar. Fortunately, the investigations are in the hands of the uniformed police, thus freeing the Detective Division for other matters.
Cully enters the portals of Scotland Yard, nods to the desk sergeant, and runs a quick eye over those waiting on the Anxious Bench for news of their nearest and dearest. He can never pass it without recalling the small slope-shouldered figure of Emily Benet (now Emily Cully) as she sat forlornly waiting for news of her murdered friend, Violet Manning.
Currently the bench is occupied by a well-dressed man in a tall top-hat. He sits in the customary pose of hands clasped, head down, eyes staring at the floor. Cully passes him by without giving him a second glance. A man waiting for news is nothing remarkable.
Entering Detective Inspector Stride’s office, Cully is surprised to find his boss hard at work. Papers are being scanned and moved from one pile to another, with alarming alacrity.
“Morning, Jack,” Stride says gloomily. “Incredible how all this paperwork mounts up.”
He crumples a sheet of paper clearly labelled Important and bowls it overarm into the wastepaper basket. “Most of this stuff isn’t for reading, it’s for having been written.”
“Early start?” Cully observes.
Stride rolls his eyes upwards.
“Mud,” he says obliquely, following this by, “new drugget in the hallway. The wife has taken it into her head that all muddy boots must now be removed on entering the house and placed by the front door. Never done it in my life. Not going to start doing it now. Thought it best to get out of the house early to avoid further discussion on the subject.”
Cully nods. Now that he has joined the ranks of the married men, such topics have taken on a whole new resonance.
Stride shuffles a few more papers. Then he looks at Cully.
“Right,” he says. “Did you notice a man sitting on the Anxious Bench? He’s been there some time. Apparently, he claims that somebody is trying to poison him. Fetch him in, would you, and let’s see what he has to say.”
***
No crumbs are being spilled in the dining room of the white stuccoed house in Cartwright Gardens, Bloomsbury, where Joseph Bulstrode (boot and shoe manufacturer and bluff, no-nonsense northerner) is tucking into a laden plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.
Toast and hot coffee sit at his elbow. Chops and kedgeree await his attention in silver chafing dishes on the mahogany sideboard. All the ingredients of a good London breakfast are here in abundance.
A slightly more modest repast is being consumed by Grizelda Bulstrode, who conveys tiny squares of buttered toast into her mouth with the cautious apprehension of one posting letters.
Halfway through the meal the door opens to admit Miss Belinda Kite, clad in a slightly soiled cotton morning gown, her hair newly released from its curling papers. She looks as fresh as a daisy, having slept all night in newly laundered sheets. She eyes the breakfast table, a smile hovering at the corners of her small red mouth.
“Morning, Miss Keet,” Bulstrode says. “Sit you down. Mary is all ready and waiting to serve your breakfast, as you can see.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
She lowers her eyes, lowers herself into her seat, and unrolls a starched linen napkin. A hovering maid places a plate in front of her, pours some coffee into her cup, offers bacon and eggs, toast, marmalade, breakfast rolls. Miss Kite smiles and dimples, and helps herself lavishly.
“Now then, Sissy,” Bulstrode remarks, “there’s a breakfast to set a lady up for the day ahead. I hope our simple English fare is to your taste, Miss Keet – after all, you’ve been brought up different, have you not?”
Belinda Kite, her mouth full of hot buttered toast, inclines her head graciously. For it is true – she is not accustomed to such fare. Hitherto, her fare has been distinctly unfair.
“Ladies,” Bulstrode says, rising and brushing crumbs from his waistcoat, “the world of business calls, and cannot be ignored. I have buyers to see and shops to visit. I s
hall leave you to get to know each other. Sissy, do not forget you have an appointment with the dressmaker after luncheon. I expect Miss Keet will be able to enlighten her as to the latest Paree fashions.”
He crumples his napkin upon the table and strides out of the room.
Grizelda plays with the crusts on her plate. She shoots Belinda a couple of nervous glances, opens her mouth a few times as if she is on the point of imparting something, but in the end, says nothing.
The maid enters with a tray and begins to remove the breakfast things.
Belinda Kite paints a pretty smile onto her face.
And so it begins, she thinks.
***
Mr Frederick Undercroft, lawyer, perches unhappily on the chair opposite Stride’s desk. He is a lean-featured man in his early fifties, clean-shaven, his greying hair worn slightly long and touching his high starched collar at the back.
He presses his thighs together, presses the bones of his knees, then reaches down and picks a scrap of thread from the hem of his trousers.
Stride waits patiently.
“I’ve been feeling a little seedy for quite a while, Inspector,” Undercroft begins. “I couldn’t put it down to anything specific. Then, after supper the other week, I retired to my study with a glass of my favourite port. When I picked up the glass, I noticed there was some cloudy substance like chalk at the bottom of the glass. I poured the port away and threw out the bottle.”
As he speaks, he fiddles with a button on his pink waistcoat.
“I thought nothing of it at the time. Some days later, again after supper, I noticed a dish of chocolate creams on the sideboard. I am partial to chocolate, very partial indeed, so I helped myself to a couple of creams. The first one I bit into had a metallic taste. I spat it out at once, but a short while later I began to feel extremely unwell. I mentioned it to my wife, who ate a couple of the creams herself, but she said she could taste nothing unusual.”