by Carol Hedges
He also skim-reads a long discursive section debating whether it was possible to ascertain that the cause of death could be solely attributed to one specific ingestion of a corrosive or irritant substance, followed by a detailed description of the post mortem appearance of the dead body, concluding with the various tests applied to the internal organs. Finally getting to the last page, he finds, as he expected, the surgeon’s verdict.
“Arsenic poisoning,” Stride says, clapping the folder shut. “Just as I suspected.”
Cully, who has been standing patiently by the desk, forbears to mention that as he recalls it, this was exactly what Stride had not said.
“So what happens now?” he asks.
“Now,” Stride says, rising and reaching for his hat, “we shall pay a second visit to Mr Undercroft and his good lady to relay the news. I want to question the servants again to see if anybody in the household knows where those cakes could have come from. Maybe someone baked them, but chances are, if they were fresh, they were bought locally.”
“We can now say it is definitely a murder inquiry?”
Stride pauses on the threshold.
“Looks like it, Jack. And a very nasty one. What sort of a person would deliberately put arsenic into cakes? Cakes! It’s almost beyond comprehension.”
***
Meanwhile, a short distance away in Charing Cross, a line of carriages is parked outside the Golden Cross Hotel. For today is the launch of The Dominion Diamond Mine Company, and a lot of eager investors have read the puff in the newspapers, and are waiting to buy shares.
Standing in the crowd on the pavement are three familiar individuals: the two Bulstrodes – he is staring at the competition, she is staring at the pavement, and with them, Belinda Kite, wearing her grey dress and short coat.
At the appointed time, the doors of the hotel are flung ceremoniously open by two liveried flunkies. The crowds push and jostle their way into the richly-carpeted atrium, where a notice directs them to one of the function rooms on the ground floor.
Here, under a sparkling crystal chandelier, are set out rows of gilt chairs facing a raised dais, upon which sits a darkly handsome man in his thirties. He is flanked by two other men, both dressed in business suits.
On either side of the stage is a board with a large poster, bearing the name of the company and a head-and-shoulders photograph of a woman with protruding pale eyes and slightly flabby cheeks. She is wearing a black silk gown and widow’s bonnet. Her face, thanks to the postal service and certain food items, is familiar to every member of the audience.
In one corner, four hotel maids stand behind a white-clothed table laid with cups and saucers and plates of biscuits. In the other corner is a desk, with a big leather-bound ledger and a clerk with a set of quill pens, a cash box and a serious expression.
Bulstrode places his little group in the middle of the second row, right in the eye line of the central figure on the dais. Grizelda Bulstrode immediately looks down and begins fiddling with the clasp on her reticule. Belinda Kite, having surveyed her surroundings and ascertained that she is the youngest and by far the most attractive woman in the room, turns her gaze to the handsome man on the dais.
She notes with satisfaction his dark brown eyes, straight brows and chiselled saturnine features. He has black hair with just a tiny touch of grey at the temple. He sports side-whiskers, but his chin and upper lip are clean-shaven.
His complexion is good and his thin mouth has a sardonic twist to it. Byronic. He could have stepped straight out of the pages of a romantic novel.
Belinda Kite stares in rapt fascination, recalling her time at school when the novels left by her errant mother were her sole escape from drudgery, and candles were her one luxury. She read only after all were asleep, in the secrecy and privacy of the night.
Back then she burned two, even three candles at a time. In winter, she wrapped herself in a cloak against the room’s chill. She read about love, about passion, about the delicious shivery things men and women got up to with each other in bed in the dark. She would lick a finger, turn the page …
Now one of the men rises and the room stills in eager anticipation. Faces turn towards him. He clears his throat.
“Good morning, gentlemen … and not forgetting the ladies, of course. Welcome to this first public meeting of the Dominion Diamond Mine Company. I am William Ginster, one of the backers of this fabulous enterprise.
“On behalf of myself, and Oswald Pyle, my fellow backer, I have the very great honour to present to you the Owner and Chairman of the Dominion Diamond Mine Company, Mr Mark Hawksley.”
There is a ripple of polite applause as Hawksley gets to his feet. He is taller than Belinda imagined. And unlike Bulstrode, whose ample stomach bulges over the waistband of his trousers, he is lean and spare; there is not an ounce of fat on him.
His broad shoulders fill the well-cut dark wool suit. He has long legs. A gold chain straddles the waistcoat. He glances round the assembled company, his gaze coming to rest momentarily upon Belinda. For a second, their eyes meet. Then he advances to the edge of the dais and addresses the crowd.
“Gentlemen, I stand before you not only to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime – the chance to be part of a great adventure – but I also stand before you as a devoted son, mourning the death of one of the finest fathers a man could have.”
He pauses. A murmur of sympathy is heard from the audience.
“It was my father, Herbert Hawksley, a chief government mining engineer, who discovered the Dominion Diamond Mine deep in the South African bush. He was enacting business in that far-off land for our beloved country when he stumbled upon it by chance. The story he told me was that he had made camp with his servants by a river, and in the morning, going to refresh himself, he saw something sparkling in the water. This, gentlemen and ladies, is what he found …”
The man digs into his trouser pocket and produces a black velvet pouch. From it he draws a large sparkling diamond. It winks and glitters seductively in the artificial light of the room. He holds it up, to gasps from the audience.
“I have had this stone cut and polished by a top diamond merchant in Amsterdam, and he tells me it is priceless. My father had no time to do more than make a map of the area, locating the source of the diamond to a cave in a rock, where he believed the river originated. Sadly, he died shortly afterwards of a fever, leaving his papers to be returned to his grieving family.”
Another pause. Another murmur of sympathy.
“This map is now in my possession – and can be seen on one of the tables. It was my dear father’s dying wish that the mine should be opened and the diamonds that he was sure lay deep beneath the earth should be dug out, to be cut and polished so that they might one day adorn the necks of many beautiful women, like the lovely ladies I see sitting in front of me.”
He pauses. Once again, his dark eyes come to rest upon Belinda Kite – this time with a look of predatory interest. He continues, “Gentlemen, by purchasing shares in the Dominion Diamond Mine Company today, you are not only making a shrewd investment that cannot but return an enormous dividend, you are also helping to fulfil the last dream of a dying man. Your generous contributions will enable me to follow my dear departed father’s footsteps, to sail to South Africa, there to hire the diggers and equipment needed to open that mine and extract the diamonds, just waiting to be plucked from the earth.”
He gestures towards the promotional posters.
“When I told the tale I have just told you to the lady whose picture you see before you, and whom I’m sure I don’t have to name, she had no hesitation in allowing her portrait to be associated with our enterprise. I think that tells you everything you need to know. If the Dominion Diamond Mine Company is good enough for her, how can it not be good enough for each and every one of you? Thank you.”
He pauses again. Puts the diamond back into his pocket. Produces a handkerchief and applies it briefly to his eyes. Then, to tumultuous applause, h
e sits down, which is the signal for everybody to make a rush for the desk at the back, where the clerk has opened the ledger in preparation.
Bulstrode steers his two female companions to the tea-table. Giving instructions to Belinda to see that Sissy has all she wants, he turns on his heel and joins the mêlée around the desk. Grizelda Bulstrode gives his retreating back a desperate look, then stands with her arms stiffly at her side.
Belinda requests two cups of coffee, hands one to Grizelda, and sips daintily from her own.
“That was very interesting, wasn’t it?” she remarks. “Especially seeing a real diamond. I have never set eyes on one before. Wasn’t it beautiful?”
Grizelda Bulstrode bares her teeth in a lacklustre smile. Belinda thinks that she looks for all the world like a horse about to bolt. Suddenly she is aware that somebody is standing behind her.
She feels warm breath on the back of her neck, the sensation of heat. Belinda looks round. It is Mark Hawksley, the owner of the beautiful diamond. He is so close that she can smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne. Her heart beats fast. Dry-throated, she swallows, averts her eyes from his face.
He bows low.
“Ladies, I hope you are being attended to?”
Grizelda Bulstrode gives a whinnying little laugh. Her face flushes unbecomingly. She gives him a coy look from under her colourless eyelashes.
“You are, of course, here with your husbands?”
The question is addressed to Grizelda. His eyes, however, watch Belinda closely.
“Oh, no,” Grizelda replies. “I am here with my brother. This is my companion.”
He nods, and opens his mouth to reply just as Bulstrode elbows his way through the crowd and joins them. He is clutching a piece of official-looking paper and is beaming all over his face.
“Ah, there you are, Sissy and Miss Keet. Mr Hawksley – pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. I have never heard so good a speech as you gave back then. You should come up to Leeds and speak to us manufacturers. We are in want of good speakers like you.”
He flourishes the piece of paper.
“As you see, I have just purchased shares in your company, sir. A lot of shares. I believe in your company. YOU made me believe in your company. Sissy, Miss Keet, you see before you a man after my own heart.”
Bulstrode leans forward, drops his voice.
“So you have actually met Her Majesty? I’ve seen her picture on the stamps, but that’s not the same, is it? My, I’d pay good money to see her in the flesh, as it were. Not that I ever will … She’s taken it bad, hasn’t she – her husband dying suddenly like that. We noticed all the people in mourning as soon as we arrived in London, didn’t we, Sissy?”
He gets out his card-case.
“We are currently residing at Number 11 Cartwright Gardens, Bloomsbury. Only renting it, until we go back home, but if you are not too busy, I should be honoured to see you at my table one evening. I’d like to hear all about when you met the Queen.”
“I should be delighted to accept your kind invitation,” Hawksley replies, his eyes still on Belinda.
“We dine at six – no ceremony, just simple fare, as befits simple people. Come and share a bit of northern hospitality.” Bulstrode leans forward. “Though I must point out that Miss Keet, my sister’s companion, is the daughter of a French Mar-kee. A Mar-kee, eh! Now then – what do you think of that!”
“Really? Is she now? Eh bien, mademoiselle, je suis très honoré de faire votre connaissance.” Hawksley smiles, his dark eyes dancing.
His accent is not good, but both Bulstrodes stare at him in open-mouthed admiration. Hawksley lifts Belinda’s small gloved hand to his lips. His eyes offer a challenge: Are you what they say you are?
Belinda Kite gently withdraws her hand. Then she thanks him, in perfect French, for his salutation. Expresses her gratitude to Bulstrode and his sister for giving her a job, in perfect French, and finally wishes him the best of luck with his forthcoming enterprise. In perfect French.
Bulstrode claps his hands.
“Well done, Miss Keet. Jolly bong, as they say in Paree, I’ve no doubt.”
Belinda’s red lips curve in a secret smile of triumph. Her emerald eyes saucily return Hawksley’s challenge. For a second they stand facing each other, locked in mutual admiration. Then William Ginster touches his elbow.
“Excuse me, Mark – your presence is required elsewhere.”
Mark Hawksley raises his hand to the brim of his hat, bows again and walks away.
Bulstrode stares after him.
“Now then, Sissy – there’s a fine figure of a man for you! Rich too. And coming to dine some time soon. Maybe you should purchase another pretty dress in honour of the occasion, eh? What do you think, Miss Keet?”
Belinda Kite murmurs something vaguely appropriate. Privately, she thinks it will take a lot more than a new dress to make Grizelda attractive in any man’s eye.
“Now, I fancy a spot of luncheon,” Bulstrode says as they step over the hotel threshold. “Doing business always gives me a keen appetite and I am sharp set after this morning. Let’s see if we can find somewhere nice to eat.”
He takes his sister by the arm, and they walk towards Regent Street. Belinda follows a few paces behind, dawdling as she passes tempting shop windows full of lovely things she cannot afford.
One day, she promises herself, she will have her own carriage and a pair of ponies. She will wear beautiful diamonds like the one she has just seen, and own a wardrobe stuffed with beautiful dresses. She will enjoy every luxury known to womankind. One day.
***
Meanwhile Alfred Monday, poet and dilettante, emerges into the street as the noonday bells are chiming across the city. He rents a small room on the first floor of a baker’s. It is a room with a view but few amenities. The view, especially in wet weather, consists of a dirty pavement, which has a dry patch in the middle, thanks to the underground bake-house.
Per contra, the stifling smell of new bread comes steaming up the stairs from five o’clock in the morning, when the baker and his journeyman arrive to light the ovens ready for the first delivery of hot breakfast rolls, and the floury black beetles march up with it in such squadrons that Alfred Monday has contemplated keeping a hedgehog to deal with them.
That he does not shift lodgings is in part due to the low rent he is charged, and the notion that a poet should suffer for his art. And starve. Though Alfred Monday is slightly ambivalent on the latter score, preferring to write on a full belly.
With this end in view, he sallies forth to see whether he can find a nice little meal and some gullible person to buy it for him. Making his way up Regent Street, his eye is taken by a trio of individuals promenading in the opposite direction.
A stout man with a pale unattractive woman on his arm, and, walking just a step behind, but clearly one of the party – oh, what a vision! A beautiful young lady with a heart-shaped face and russet curls peeping out from under a pert blue bonnet.
As she walks along, her crinoline sways in a way that sets his poetic heart a-beat. Monday looks, he sighs, he feels the stanzas rise. He retraces his steps, keeping the trio in sight.
They enter Caldwell’s Coffee House. He enters also. They choose a table, and he slides into a seat close enough to overhear their conversation. From this he gathers that the gentleman has been buying shares in some company, and that the beautiful young lady is not his wife.
Inspired, Monday extracts a penny notebook from his soiled velvet frock-coat, licks the end of his pencil and begins to write. The gentleman orders coffee and buns for the ladies, and a plate of cold meat and bread and butter for himself, after which he picks up a newspaper and buries himself behind it.
Monday writes a few more lines. Then catching the eye of the beautiful young lady, he bows low. Upon her nod of acknowledgement, he rises and goes over to their table, addressing them in the affected drawl that has caused several of his close friends to snigger that Monday can’t tell hi
s Rs from his elbow.
“Fair ladies,” he says, “You see before you Alfwed Monday, a humble poet. Bowled over by your beauty, and captivated by your charms, he has huwwidly scwibbled down the following lines.”
He clears his throat, adjusts his frayed cuffs and declaims:
“Shall I compare you both to a Summer’s day?
You are both more lovely and more temperate.
Wuff winds do shake the darling buds of May
And Summer’s lease has all too short a state.”
He pauses. Looks up from the notebook. Two pairs of eyes are staring at him intently. The plain woman sighs. The pretty one smirks. The fat man lowers his newspaper.
“Very pretty, Mr …?”
“Monday, sir. Alfwed Monday. A mere London poet. A lowly witer of verse. I hear by your accent that you are not fwom these parts.”
“Indeed, I am not. I am Josiah Bulstrode, owner of Bulstrode’s Boots and Shoes Factory in Leeds. Would you care to join us, Mr Poet? It’s not often Sissy and I have the privilege of meeting a poet. Nor of having a poem written for us. No, indeed it is not.”
Alfred Monday needs no second invitation. He pulls out a chair and seats himself between Grizelda and Belinda, upon whom he bestows his nicest smile.
A second plate of meat and a side plate of bread and butter is ordered. When it arrives, Monday falls to with most unpoetic zeal. It has been some time since he has eaten.
While he eats, Bulstrode regales him with several anecdotes about lasts and leathers, a subject on which, as a factory owner, he is extremely conversant. Grizelda picks the currants out of her bun and peeps at the poet from under her pale eyelids.
Belinda Kite, however, having taken careful note of the state of his linen and the condition of his coat and shoes, pays him not a whit of attention, merely raising her eyes from her plate every now and then to glance round the room thoughtfully.
When every scrap of food has been consumed, Monday reaches for his non-existent wallet, but the gesture is brushed aside.