by Carol Hedges
“Spawn of Satan & Purveyors of Filth on ours,” Dandy says.
Stride smiles thinly.
“That’s certainly an interesting, and some might say valid, point of view.”
Dandy glares at him.
Stride meets the glare levelly and shrugs.
“Everyone’s a critic nowadays.”
“Something tells me you aren’t taking this seriously, Stride.”
“Detective Inspector Stride, Dandy, as I’m sure you know only too well. And yes, I am taking it very seriously. I have broken off an investigation to listen to you. And now I have heard you out, I should like to return to it, if you don’t mind.”
“So you’re not going to do anything?”
“Has anybody died? No? Then I suggest you get a bucket of hot soapy water, some turpentine and a scrubbing brush, and scrub whatever was written on your doors off your doors. If you are still worried, you might consider employing a night-watchman. Maybe he’ll catch the criminals red-handed.”
He rises to his feet.
“Good day to you both, gentlemen.”
There is a pause while the two reporters consider their options, one of which is clearly to remain exactly where they are until Stride changes his mind. When it becomes evident after a few leaden minutes have slunk by that he isn’t going to, Dandy folds his arms, narrows his eyes and glares.
“You ain’t heard the last of this, Stride,” he exclaims. “By God you ain’t!”
Grabbing his hat, he stalks out, closely followed by Clamp.
Stride goes straight to the window and opens it as Jack Cully enters.
“I’ve just passed two very angry men in the corridor. They were swearing like troopers. Was one of them who I thought it was?”
“It was. He has gone, and in a minute the scent of his foul cologne will follow him. Good riddance to them both.”
“What did they want?”
“Some matter about paint on their walls. So, of course, they come straight round here, shouting the odds and expecting me to investigate it. As if I have nothing better to do than listen to their trivial gripes and grievances.”
Stride gestures at his desk.
“There are reports on here that go back to last week and I haven’t had time to even open them yet. We have an unsolved double murder on our hands. And I’m expected to drop everything for some minor incident of vandalism? I think not.”
***
Meanwhile, Georgiana Undercroft, wife of Frederick Undercroft, lawyer, sits at her dressing table mirror staring dully at her reflection while the maid prepares her for the day ahead. As the brush moves rhythmically over Georgiana’s thinning hair, she thinks about the past.
She was sixteen when she first became acquainted with Frederick Undercroft. They had met at the home of a mutual girlfriend, where eligible young men and marriageable young women frequented the many musical evenings and supper parties organised by her friend Regina’s generous parents.
In those days, Georgiana was an acknowledged beauty. She had bright blue eyes, lustrous chestnut hair and a slender waist. She was kittenish and gossipy, a lively flirtatious girl who knew the effect she had on the numerous young men that sought her out on social occasions.
Frederick Undercroft was an up-and-coming young lawyer, handsome, suave and charming, tipped for the top of his chosen profession. His manners were impeccable, his clothes fashionable, and everybody who witnessed their courtship nodded and predicted them both a long and happy life together.
She gets up from the chair and opens the wardrobe door. Clothes flutter against her cheeks like the wings of giant moths. When did it start to go wrong? How did she end up here, so far from that happy loving future she expected?
Once, he vowed he could not wait to spend time with her. He wrote her little billets-doux, bought her presents, complimented her on her face and figure. Once, their evenings were full of shared conversation, their nights of lovemaking – which she soon got used to, after the initial shock.
She selects a grey wool dress, the colour of fog, of smoke. Of ghosts.
They must, she thinks, have seemed a glamorous young couple when they appeared at balls and dinner parties. But within the four walls of the house it was soon a very different story.
How long was it before she realised that he was unfaithful? And had always been unfaithful, even back in the days of their courtship? How soon before she discovered that the sprightly young lover who whispered sweet words into her ear and sent her loving messages had a mistress, a pile of debts, and his eye on her inheritance from Papa?
How humiliating to have to acknowledge that the missed meals and unexpected absences and late nights in chambers were, in reality, times spent in other women’s company and in other women’s beds?
She remembers notes on pressed paper, discovered carelessly crumpled in his waistcoat pockets almost as if he wanted her to find them: “Darling One … how I long for your sweet sweet caresses” and that Italian bitch with her “Caro mio” and dismissive references to “La Sposa”.
If only she’d been able to bear him children, perhaps that would have kept him by her side. But after several miscarriages and one pathetic little scrap who only lived a few hours, that door closed as firmly as the one he has had installed between their two dressing rooms. The door he keeps locked from his side.
She lets the maid dress her, arrange her hair into two bunches, pin her back hair into a bun. The lines from her nose to her chin seem more pronounced than ever, her skin has a scraped rawness. Light is a white sheet at her window, a dull white sheet that is folded away every evening and hung out again next dawn.
The final indignity, only a few months ago, was the delivery of a diamond and turquoise bracelet. A mistake of the jeweller’s. When she opened the parcel, saw the exquisite piece, read the letter that accompanied it, she felt the final string of her heart give way. Since that day she has been just an empty shell of herself, hollowed out by pain and humiliation.
As she reaches the wide staircase the doorbell sounds. She waits for the parlour maid to answer it. She hears a male voice, the maid’s reply. Then the girl is in the hallway looking up.
“Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully to see you, ma’am.”
Georgiana feels a comet’s tail of fear run down her spine, but years of marriage to Frederick have schooled her in the art of hiding her emotions. She draws herself upright and slowly descends to the ground floor.
“Yes, can I help you Inspector?”
Stride greets her politely. She scans his face for any indication that he brings news that she does not wish to receive. There is no indication. She leads the way to the drawing room.
“I regret to inform you,” he tells her, “that a similar tragic incident to your own, also involving a box of poisoned cakes, has happened just recently. We have come into possession of the box. I was wondering, if it isn’t too much trouble, whether you could take a look at it and say if you recognise the handwriting on the label.”
Stride hands her the box, watching her attentively.
“The name and address seem to be written in capital letters.”
“Even so – does the handwriting look familiar at all?”
“I am sorry, Detective Inspector, I do not recognise it, I’m afraid. In any case, I only saw the box very briefly before handing it to the maid.”
“Maybe your husband …”
“Frederick is at work. I deal with all the private correspondence that arrives at the house.”
“I see.”
There is a pause. Stride waits politely for her to continue.
Georgiana Undercroft’s face shuts down even further.
“This box of cakes was delivered with no accompanying note,” Stride continues. “Your own box of cakes was also delivered with no accompanying note, is that correct? Did you not think it odd at the time?”
Her thin shoulders lift imperceptibly
“I did not think anything of it at al
l, Inspector. My husband’s business has led to gifts being delivered here in the past. Grateful clients like to show their appreciation.”
“Would not they like the recipient to know how much they appreciated them by including some sort of signed communication?”
She does not reply.
Stride waits for her to answer. He is sure she is hiding important facts from him. He is unsure how to uncover them.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about this matter? Anything you say will be treated with the utmost confidence.”
She shakes her head.
“There is nothing, Inspector.”
“You have been most helpful,” he lies.
She gives him a polite cold smile that does not reach her eyes.
The maid shows the two detectives out.
As soon as they have gone, Georgiana takes down her mantle and bonnet from the hall stand and steps out of the front door. A carriage awaits her in the street. She gives the coachman instructions and climbs inside.
A short time later the carriage pulls up outside the town house of Regina Osborne, who has summoned her for an urgent meeting. Georgiana descends and rings the bell. A parlour maid shows her into the dusk-rose papered drawing room where Regina stands waiting.
The two ladies greet each other politely. Normally Regina Osborne is only At Home after 3 pm, spending the morning writing letters or ordering the servants about. She does not ever deviate from her set routine. But now she has.
“How are dear George and Violet?” Georgiana inquires, after the maid has served her tea in a tiny porcelain cup and gone out of the room.
“George? He’s fine. Violet is not well at the moment – you heard she was …” Regina leans forward and nods significantly.
“I think I did. And Eliza and Harriet?”
“They’re both down at the Adler-Chinstraps, hunting.”
Georgiana inclines her head. The whereabouts of Regina’s adult offspring is of no interest to her whatsoever, but the necessary formalities must be waded through before the matter in hand is dragged kicking and screaming into the limelight.
“Now then, Georgy,” Regina says, stirring her tea briskly. “Enough chit-chat. We heard you had a box of cakes delivered, as we did ourselves. A box of poisoned cakes. These boxes of cakes … what are your thoughts?”
“Oh … I …” Georgiana stutters.
“Let’s not mince words. We are women of the world and we know each other’s situations too well, don’t we? Do you think it is one of Them?”
“Them” is the term Regina Osborne uses to describe the females associated with her husband and with Frederick Undercroft. The ones neither wife is supposed to know about. But of course, they do. Osborne, much to Regina’s chagrin, has also been chronically unfaithful throughout their married life.
Not that Georgiana cares about Regina’s feelings. Regina introduced her to Frederick in the first place. And when, one evening a few years ago, she arrived on Regina’s doorstep in floods of tears, clutching a few personal belongings and saying she could bear it no longer, Regina abruptly turned her away, telling her she would not interfere in another woman’s marriage.
Since then, Georgiana has come to believe that everything wrong with her life that cannot be laid at her husband’s door is Regina’s fault or the fault of Regina’s husband. But mainly Regina.
“I don’t think …,” she begins hesitantly.
“Well, start thinking. I have made a list of all the ones I know about, and my purpose in inviting you here was so that you could do the same. If we find the same name on both lists, we shall go at once and confront the filthy sluts!”
“It might not be one of Them.”
“Nonsense, who else would it be? Both our husbands like to eat cake. And who else knows that our husbands like to eat it? Who else would want to hurt them? Assuredly it is some strumpet seeking revenge, you can count upon it.”
“If that is the case, should you not allow the detective police to investigate the matter?”
“Let some grubby little men poke around in one’s private business? And then see whatever they find splashed all over the newspapers for the whole of London to gawp at? Is that what you want?”
Remembering the earlier visit from Stride and Cully, Georgiana flinches.
“I thought not. Because that is exactly what will happen if we don’t deal with it ourselves. Remember poor Lady Sarah Gibson – forced abroad by the scandal. Whereas her philandering husband is living quite openly with that vile woman, and nobody blinks an eye or says a word.”
She goes to the rosewood bureau and opens it.
“Here is paper and pencil. Write!”
Georgiana frowns, fidgets with the pencil. Then begins to write in flowing copperplate. Regina Osborne watches in grim silence.
Finally, Georgiana looks up.
“These are all I can recall.”
She hands the list and pencil to Regina who scans it rapidly.
“Aha! There are names here that I recognise.”
She ticks off a couple of names.
“Leave it with me. I already know where one of the whores is. I shall find out the address of the other one and let you know. Then we will sally forth and extract the truth.”
***
It is a mere hop, skip and a jump (though not literally) from Regina Osborne’s townhouse to the brightly-lit porticoed shopping paradise that is Regent Street. And here are Sissy Bulstrode and Belinda Kite just getting down from a hansom and walking into Dickins & Jones. They have come to look at lace collars. Possibly gloves. Maybe fans. Certainly shawls. Though only one of them will ultimately take the looking process forward into a purchasing one.
For Belinda, the outing is a welcome break. She has been Sissy’s companion for only a short time, but already it feels like a lifetime. She has never met anyone so lacking in energy and spirit.
It isn’t that she dislikes Sissy – there is so little about her to like or dislike, but this is London: the greatest city in the world! Excitement and adventure are here for the taking. Or the leaving, which is what her febrile companion seems determined to do.
Belinda knows Bulstrode will eventually return to his factories in the north of England, taking Sissy with him. She visualises the north as a bleak, black-chimneyed place full of smoke and smut and sad-faced people. Once they depart, her future is uncertain. Now is all she has.
Yet Sissy seems content to while away the hours waiting for her brother’s return reading novels, or working on pieces of needlework. She shows no interest in carriage rides, taking tea at one of the fashionable little West End tea rooms, or visiting the many attractions of the great city. The furthest they have ventured so far on their own is a walk around the neighbourhood.
It has taken all Belinda’s ingenuity to get her to leave the house today, but here they are at last, making their way up to the second floor where the women’s clothes and accessories are located.
As soon as they arrive Sissy is greeted by a smiling shop assistant, who quickly assesses the hierarchy, and ushers her to a seat by the counter. Belinda is left to stand, her mouth watering as pair after pair of lovely coloured gloves are laid on the shiny wooden counter for Sissy to try on.
After Sissy has made her choice, the gloves are swept away, to be replaced by indoor caps of cotton and linen, then by delicate lace collars, pinned to a board. It is as much as Belinda can do to keep her hands by her sides, but she manages to model the perfect companion: feasting her eyes upon the lovely things while murmuring a few words of judicious advice.
After the exhausting process of choosing and then arranging for the things to be sent to the house in Bloomsbury, Belinda suggests a cup of tea to fortify them for the journey home. To her surprise, Sissy agrees. They visit the marble-decorated rest room, then find the restaurant where they are shown to a small corner table.
“This is a lovely shop,” Sissy whispers, after Belinda has given the waitress their order. “I hav
e never been inside a big department store before. Back home, we only have small shops with far fewer items. I have never bought so many things before. I hope Josiah will not be displeased.”
Belinda blinks. This is the most she has ever heard Sissy say since her arrival.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” she replies.
“I expect this is nothing like as grand as you are used to,” Sissy continues, as the waitress places their cups and saucers on the table.
Belinda smiles deprecatingly.
“What was it like, to live in Paris?” Sissy asks.
The smile fades slightly.
“Oh … it was … very like here, but everybody spoke French.”
Belinda buries her face in her teacup, resolving to spend a little more time working on her back story.
“How sad to have fallen upon hard times,” Sissy continues. “I cannot imagine what it must be like.”
I bet you can’t, Belinda thinks grimly. You have a rich brother who spoils you. You only have to open your mouth, and you get money to spend. In time, despite your lack of looks, you will receive a proposal of marriage from some rich man. You will never have to lift a finger in your life.
“Oh, truly, I hardly think about it,” she lies, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
Tea drunk, they retrace their steps and arrive back on Regent Street once more. Alas, while they have been enjoying themselves, it has started to rain and Regent Circus has a lock.
A pattern of umbrellas spins through the growing host of rain-soaked vehicles, none of which can move until the others do. People are cutting in like Christmas dinner. Whips are being liberally applied.
Belinda and Sissy stand on the pavement outside Dickins & Jones regarding the shouting, neighing, swearing, steaming mass of horses and humanity with dismay. How can they get across to the other side, where the cab stands are located? How will they get home? Sissy furls and unfurls her umbrella, biting her lips and breathing loudly.
“Oh, how I wish Josiah were here,” she cries.
Sadly, the doughty factory owner is not here. But somebody else is. Just as Sissy is about to collapse into a hysterical fit, a tall broad-shouldered man in a well-brushed top hat steps up to them. It is Mark Hawksley.