by Carol Hedges
She opens her basket and takes out pattern books and swatches, lays them on the table and begins to explain the various options and designs available.
Part of the dressmaker’s art is tactfully steering her customer away from the rocks of recklessness and towards the shore of safety. By the time she leaves, Emily has gently persuaded her gauche client that a soft lavender colour would suit her delicately pale complexion far better than the bright pink or garish purple that she initially wanted.
The design chosen, measurements taken, and a delivery date arranged, Emily repacks her basket and takes her leave. She will now pay a visit to one of the big department stores in Regent Street, where her best friend Caro, who is in charge of the sewing room, will quote her a good price for the material, laces and thread. Then she will distribute the work amongst her little team of home workers.
Emily is pleased with the day’s business. A new client, two dresses ordered and a deposit put down. She decides to spend some of it on a nice piece of meat for her husband’s supper and sets off to find a butcher’s shop, temporarily dismissing from her thoughts the enigma of the smirky companion in the ill-fitting silk dress.
***
So who is Miss Belinda Kite, daughter of a French Marquis and now companion of the lacklustre Grizelda Bulstrode? You may be surprised to hear that she does not have any aristocratic connections.
Her origins are far more prosaic. In reality, Miss Kite’s father was a dancing master who married, far too young, a very pretty but ultimately flighty French ladies’ maid who fled the matrimonial home shortly after Belinda’s sixth birthday.
Left on his own with a daughter to raise, Mr Kite accepted a post at a girls’ boarding school in North Street, Brighton. This establishment consisted of seven teachers and thirty-three girls ranging in age from eight to eighteen. Its purpose was to teach the girls, who came from aspiring middle-class families, how to turn up their noses at domestic chores and to pass their time elegantly with the sort of drawing-room accomplishments that indicated they were gentlewomen.
Thus, graduates of the school knew about the uses of whalebone, the making of umbrellas, the names of several kings and queens, and had a smattering of Italian and French – qualifications essential to sitting in parlours awaiting suitable marriages.
This elite establishment admitted the very young Miss Kite as a boarder in part payment for her father’s services. And it was here, as she slipped into young womanhood, that Belinda Kite learned how to deceive, perfecting her secrecy and skills for subterfuge.
Then, three days short of her seventeenth birthday, Belinda’s life was suddenly turned upside down once again. Her father, in the tradition of flighty Kites, unexpectedly eloped with Miss Venetia Veneziana, the pretty young language teacher, leaving his daughter alone in the world.
Once the furore had died down, Miss Belinda Kite took stock of her situation. It seemed to her that she was no less attractive than her contemporaries, and she was certainly a lot brighter than most of them.
All she lacked was money, and a way to insinuate herself into society. So, she bided her time, reluctantly teaching the younger girls French, helping out with sundry household chores, and putting up with the withering scorn that young ladies with privileged lives, nice clothes and pocket money tend to pour upon those less fortunate. Meanwhile she secretly waited an opportunity to escape.
The opportunity came one Christmas Eve. While the school and teachers were celebrating the feast with a party, Belinda crept into the headmistress’s office and took some headed notepaper and envelopes. Then she slipped into the dormitories and helped herself to sundry articles of jewellery and a couple of pretty silk dresses that she’d had her eye on for some time.
After assembling her purloined loot, she packed her trunk, bade an unfond farewell to North Street and did a moonlight flit up to London on the night coach. She found lodgings, and the next morning left her references at a number of reputable employment agencies. No more teaching and skivvying. It was time to stand on someone else’s feet.
And here she is now in the Bulstrodes’ drawing room, fiddling with a piece of embroidery – because a young woman must look busy at all times. Dinner has been consumed in varying amounts, and now the three diners are occupying themselves usefully until it is time for bed. Outside, the rain tap-taps against the glass.
Grizelda is engaged in a sensation novel, an occupation which entails stooping forward in her chair and squinting at the pages in a rather unattractive fashion. Her brother leafs through the newspaper, pausing occasionally to read some titbit aloud. Every time he does this, Belinda instantly drops the embroidery onto her lap and fixes her large green eyes upon him with rapt attention.
“Now then, ladies,” Bulstrode says. “Listen to this: An opportunity exists for a shrewd man of business to invest in a Brand-New Enterprise that cannot fail. The Dominion Diamond Mine Company, newly formed by an Expert in the South African Mining Business, will be opening its doors to investors at the Golden Cross Hotel, Charing Cross, this Friday at 10 am. Potential shareholders will be able to view plans and maps, and read endorsements by several notable persons. Ladies welcome. Refreshments.”
He lowers the newspaper. “What do you think of that? Should you like to invest in diamonds, Miss Keet? Should you like to be rich?”
A church clock strikes the hour, hazy with distance and rain.
“I should like it very much.”
All the churches of the city, talking of money, Belinda Kite thinks. She recalls the children’s rhyme:
When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.
When will that be? say the bells of Stepney.
Bulstrode throws back his head and laughs.
“So should I, Miss Keet. And that is why I shall present myself at this Golden Cross Hotel on Friday morning. And I should like it very much if Sissy and you were to accompany me.”
Grizelda Bulstrode’s head jerks up from her book. Her eyes widen in horror. Her mouth opens to protest.
“Now, Sissy, you can’t stay in this house for ever, you know. It is time to start getting over the Unfortunate Incident. That is why we are here, remember? I’ll be with you, and Miss Keet will be with you – and it’ll be a chance for you to wear that new dress I’ve heard so much about.”
He returns to his newspaper. Grizelda Bulstrode gives her companion a panic-filled glance, but is met with an indifferent stare. Belinda Kite is already mentally running through the contents of her meagre wardrobe to determine whether she possesses anything suitably becoming for her first foray into London society.
Later, alone in her room, Belinda undresses in the dark. A gas lamp throws a flickering light in from the street. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The voluptuous curve of her hips, the swell of her round high alabaster-white breasts, the shadow of her hair.
She is Belinda Kite, young and vital. The wonderful world, alive with strange chances and unexpected opportunities of every kind, is within her grasp.
You have to trust these people, she thinks. Because you need money. You need it, even though you hate it. And with money, trust is everything.
***
Trust is also the basis of the small group known as The Gathering of The Select & Apocalyptic Brethren, which meets every Thursday after supper above a music publisher’s shop in Charles Street, Soho.
The group is led by the Senior Prophet About, author of the pamphlet On the Philosophy of a. Divine Revelation by Means of Inspired Writings, also Containing An Humble Attempt to Account for the Apparent Discrepancies and Contradictions in the Literal Sense of the Word of God.
Conciseness is not one of Mr About’s virtues.
It is a Thursday evening, and Senior Prophet About mounts the raised platform and grips the sides of the lectern. His dark eyes under their swooping grizzled brows survey his audience, which consists of ten middle-aged or elderly men, two women, one small b
oy and a Jack Russell terrier. They instantly cease their chatter (or scratching their ear with a hind leg), and sit more upright, an expectant expression upon their faces.
About’s expression becomes focused, inward looking. He pauses, brushes back a straying lock of grey hair from his forehead, strokes the side of his bushy beard. The group await. They do not have to await long.
“Brothers and Sisters,” he intones sonorously, “Last Night I walked the Streets of this City of Shame and Desolation and I have seen the Wickednesses and the Aberrations that Flourish in every dark Corner.”
There is a rapt indrawing of breath.
“There Is Fornication in Every Street,” About announces. “Harlotry and Vice go Hand in Hand down Each Thoroughfare. Yeah – even in those Places sanctified to the Lord and to His Mighty Work, have I seen Evil being done!”
There is a gasp from the women in the audience, who get out their pocket handkerchiefs and fan themselves.
“Yes, dear Sisters in Christ, you may well faint; you may well be appalled, but I tell you it is so. And what is our so-called Police force doing to stop all this Vile Filth from being flaunted openly under the very noses of our innocent children?”
He pauses for dramatic effect.
“Nothing! That is what they are doing. Absolutely. Nothing!”
“How truly shocking!”
“Indeed, Sister. That is exactly what I thought. And thus I asked myself: what does the Lord require of me – of us? I sought Him on my knees in the watches of the night. And I believe He has spoken and He has said: Go forth, My brothers and My sisters – for all who do My work shall be called My brothers and My sisters – go forth into the highways and byways of this Iniquitous Place, this Habitation of Harlots, this City of Sin, and spread the Word that unless you repent of your Wicked Ways, I, the Lord will visit such Tribulation and Suffering upon you that your bones will crack and your flesh will shrivel and waste away.”
He pauses, glances around the room. Every eye is fixed upon him, every mouth is slightly ajar (except for the dog, who has found a flea).
Mr About’s gaze falls upon the small boy. He fixes him with an intense stare. The small boy stares back. They exchange a glance of understanding.
“What sayeth the Infant Prophet? Speak …”
The small boy, who has long blond curls and is clothed entirely in white with a white sash tied round his waist, closes his eyes, rocks a little in his seat, then intones in a piping childish treble:
“I see Fire descending out of Heaven. I see Angels in Bright Chariots riding on the Clouds. I see all the Wicked People tumbling into a Burning Pit of Fire.”
A collective sigh runs around the room.
“Lovely, innit,” one of the women whispers to her companion.
“Could listen to him all day, I could,” the companion replies, rolling her eyes ecstatically.
Senior Prophet About raises a hand. The small boy lapses into silence.
“The Infant Prophet has spoken. Brothers and Sisters, let us hearken to his words. The Lord has sent us a warning of what is to be. Shall we close our ears? We shall Not! Then let us seek Him in prayer and meditation and learn what is His Mighty Purpose in this Matter.”
About shuts his eyes, the congregation close their eyes, and the dog gives a loud yawn. This is the signal for us to seize the moment, and tiptoe silently from the hushed upper room, for the Senior Prophet’s communication with the Deity can last for an hour or more, and we do not have all night.
Instead, let us go down the musty staircase, quietly open the creaky wooden side door at the bottom, and enter the intoxicatingly seductive night-time world of the city.
***
London at night. Fantastic and magical, a dazzling transmogrification through myriad brilliant points of gaslight that illuminate the main thoroughfares of the city like lines of fire.
The shops present a glittering gallery of visual desire, as images and goods pass by the strolling flâneurs. Here are point lace and kid boots, Talma and parasol, feather fans and stationery, and seductive linens.
The Holborn branch of Moses & Son, Tailors, lights up the night sky with many thousands of gas-flames, forming branches, foliage and arabesques of light, and sending forth so dazzling a blaze that that it is visible at a distance of half a mile.
Stroll down the Strand towards Charing Cross with its lighted lamps, its statue of King Charles the First, and the gleaming windows of Northumberland House. Cabs and buses roll by you in quick succession. Lamps run down each side of the way. A chemist’s shop throws crimson, violet and green lines of colour across the street.
The lights are especially bright outside the entrance to the Golden Cross Hotel, where a cab has just pulled up to collect a passenger. A tall man emerges from the doorway. It is Mark Hawksley, elegant in full evening dress. He is on his way to one of the many clubs. He stubs out a cigar and gets into the cab.
As it rattles away, he runs a hand through his hair and thinks about what will happen tomorrow. The roads to riches and to ruin both begin with a single step. He does not intend to find himself stepping onto the wrong road.
***
Day dawns, a fine autumn morning, the kind to make a man happy to be alive. And probably the man would have been happier to be alive. He is in fact dead. And to Dr Erasmus Beard, eminent private physician, who has been urgently summoned, his death looks remarkably similar to a case he attended a short while ago.
Dr Beard has arrived at the Queen’s Square home of rich City banker Mr Osborne to find it in mild uproar. A manservant has been taken ill the previous evening. His sufferings have continued unabated throughout the night, ending only in the early hours, when he fell into a coma and died.
As Osborne describes the symptoms of the poor unfortunate man (a burning sensation in the throat and stomach, followed by violent purging and vomiting), Beard becomes more and more convinced that once again, arsenic has been at work.
His suspicions are confirmed when he learns that the Osbornes were in receipt of a small box of cakes which arrived via the parcel post yesterday at six-thirty.
“As we had already eaten our evening meal, I ordered the parcel to be taken to the kitchen,” Osborne tells the good doctor. “This is the tragic result. Cook says she left the box of cakes in the larder. James drove me out later to meet a couple of friends. When I came back, the rest of the kitchen staff had retired for the night. He must’ve gone to the larder and helped himself. Cook says there was only one cake left this morning.”
Dr Beard makes a mental note of this.
“I’m afraid to say that this occurrence is not the first that I have had to deal with recently. Another family has experienced an identical event with an equally fatal outcome.”
“Another family? Who? Where?”
Dr Beard demurs.
“I am not sure that I should divulge the name of a patient. Confidentiality, and all that.”
Osborne’s face darkens.
“To hell with it! You will tell me, Doctor. And at once.”
Dr Beard weighs up the consequences of sharing private patient information. The Osbornes are valued clients. Regina Osborne and her daughters are always going down with some minor ailment that demands his services. They pay on time and they do not quibble the bill. He would be sorry to lose them.
Also, Osborne is well-known for his vicious temper. Beard has heard him raging at his staff, and at his son George, on many occasions. He is an influential man in the city, and his good opinion, once gone, could lose Beard other rich patients. Whereas he is rarely called to the Undercroft home. And they still haven’t settled their bill from his previous visit.
“A family by the name of Undercroft also received a box of cakes,” he says. “And one of their servants died after eating one. It is my opinion, based upon what you have told me, and my preliminary inspection, that your manservant also died as a result of poisoning. This must be confirmed by a post-mortem examination, of course, but I think in the l
ight of the similarities of the two deaths, that you should alert the Detective Police at once. They will want to examine the body, and then arrange for it to be taken to the police mortuary. And they will want to test the remaining cake as well.”
Osborne stares at him in disbelief.
“The Undercrofts? Fred and Georgiana? Live in Hampstead? But we know them well. Are you saying that somebody is trying to poison them too?”
Dr Beard says nothing.
“My God,” Osborne exclaims, staggering back. “What is the world coming to?”
Again, the good doctor remains silent, such matters being beyond his remit.
Dr Beard steps out of the Osbornes’ lavishly-decorated hallway and into the street. He has never, in his long medical career, encountered an incident of what looks like deliberate poisoning. Now, he has attended two in a very short space of time. He adjusts his spectacles and hurries away, hoping there will be no more cases in the near future.
***
Pale autumn sunshine filters through the grimy windows of Scotland Yard, where Detective Inspector Stride sits at his desk. It is starting out as a perfect day. He knows it will soon be an imperfect one, but just for these few minutes, it is possible to believe that it won’t.
A knock at the door heralds the entrance of Jack Cully and a cup of black coffee.
“The autopsy report on the Undercrofts’ servant has just been sent over,” Stride says.
Cully places the coffee on Stride’s desk.
“Have you read it?”
Stride shakes his head. He picks up the folder, which is on top of a pile of other folders that he also hasn’t read, and pages through it, skimming past a long introductory section on the various types of chemical analysis available for the detection of corrosives, irritants and other poisons. The police surgeon’s love of extraneous verbiage is notorious.