by Carol Hedges
“Indeed.”
They sit awhile in companionable silence.
“May I ask your advice, sir?” Evans says.
“Just plain Jack will do.”
“Oh. Well. Right then, Mr Cully.” Evans lowers his voice. “It’s like this: you are a married man, aren’t you?”
Cully nods.
“You know all about women, don’t you?”
Cully pulls a wry face. He knows about one woman, his wife Emily, but what he knows is that he knows very little. Every time he thinks he has her worked out, she wriggles free, slipping out of his mental grasp like a little silver fish.
“What do you want to know?”
Sergeant Evans heaves a sigh that comes from somewhere deep inside his large, honest, manly chest.
“It’s my Megan, see. The young lady I have been engaged to for some time. She has written me a letter saying that if I do not name the day for our wedding, she might have to marry Harry Todd the blacksmith instead. Now, this is my question: if she wants to marry another man, should I not step aside and let her?”
“Does she love this Harry Todd?”
Sergeant Evans stares ahead and cogitates.
“I don’t think so. He is known for liking his drink. And he has a nasty temper. But he is there and I am here, so to speak.”
He turns his face to Cully, his expression woebegone.
“Me and my Megan have been sweethearts ever since we were children. But I have been away from the valley for a long time, and I think she is getting tired of waiting for me to come back and settle things. And I cannot blame her. Women want to be married, don’t they, Mr Cully? They want a little home and children and a husband to care for them. And here I am stuck in London, and poor Megan is in Cardiff, and I do not see how it is to be brought about.”
“When are you due your next leave, lad?”
“Not for many weeks. It has been cancelled twice, and it may be cancelled again.”
Cully’s heart goes out to the young man. He remembers how desolate he felt when Emily Benet, as she then was, vanished from his life and he thought he’d never see her again.
“Leave it with me,” he says, laying a comforting hand on the young sergeant’s shoulder. “I’ll put in a good word for you with Detective Inspector Stride. He’ll make sure you get your leave brought forward, and some added on to make up for what you’ve lost. Then you can write to your girl and fix the day.”
Sergeant Evans’ face is one big radiant beam of joy.
“Thank you, sir, Mr Cully. If I could only write to my Megan with a bit of good news at last, why, I reckon that’d sweeten her heart.”
“I’m sure it would. Then it shall be done.”
Cully also makes a mental note to inquire about future job vacancies in the Cardiff Police. Loth as he’d be to lose the young man, who has proved his worth on several occasions, he can see that Evans is not cut out for life in London.
Sergeant Evans is clearly unhappy, and (in Cully’s experience) an unhappy officer soon becomes a resentful one. His skills would be better utilised closer to home.
Cully gets up, brushing the last of the crumbs from his clothes, and consults his list.
“Right lad. Onward and upward. The Bible Believing Brotherhood of Bethel. Know anything about them? No, me neither, but I’m sure we will by the end of the day. And I bet we’ll have a pamphlet or two to take away with us as well.”
***
A dinner party is a serious matter. It should not to be entered into unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, but reverently, soberly and in the fear of God. Which is pretty much how Josiah Bulstrode and his sister Grizelda have gone about the preparations for their dinner party. Etiquette books have been consulted, recipes considered, caterers and florists obtained, table-waiting staff hired.
Now it is the actual evening of the dinner. In the kitchen, the finishing touches are being put to the meal. Soup is being salted, the sirloin is being garnished, and the hired staff are being harangued by the hired chef.
Upstairs in the parlour, Josiah (in rather tight evening dress and starched cravat) and Grizelda (in her new lilac creation, her hair freshly curled) sit nervously side by side on the overstuffed chintz sofa. They are awaiting the arrival of their guest, Mark Hawksley.
Belinda Kite sits to one side. She is dressed in the nicest of her purloined finery – an ivory satin gown, which she has painstakingly taken in at the seams, its original owner having had a tad more hip, and a tad less hooray than its current one. Her stomach is rumbling. It has been a long time since luncheon.
At 6.30 precisely, the front doorbell peals. Josiah shoots to his feet, to be restrained by Grizelda.
“Remember what the book said, brother: the servant will let him in and announce him.”
Sure enough a few minutes later, the door is opened, the hired footman enters, and “Mr Mark Hawksley” is announced. He wears immaculate evening dress, tailor-made and fitting him like a glove.
A waft of delicious cologne emanates from him as he solemnly shakes Josiah’s proffered fingers and bends low over Sissy’s violet-gloved hand. He gives Belinda a stiff little bow of acknowledgement (as befits her lowly status as companion), before seating himself in one of the easy chairs. He stretches out his hands to the welcoming fire.
“A cold night,” he observes.
“Indeed so,” Josiah agrees. “But here is warmth and good fellowship. We are delighted to welcome you at our table, are we not, Sissy?”
Grizelda Bulstrode picks at her gloves and smirks.
“And we are hoping that you will tell us all about your audience with our Noble Queen.”
“I shall be deeply honoured to do so,” Hawksley says solemnly.
The hired footman announces that dinner is served.
“Then let us dine,” Bulstrode says, offering Belinda his arm.
Hawksley offers his arm to Grizelda and thus they proceed to the dining-room, where the table is set with ornate épergnes of hothouse flowers. Cut glass sparkles, candles flicker and shine, and the sideboard groans with silver-domed serving platters and steaming tureens.
Belinda is seated on Bulstrode’s right. She slips off her gloves and slides the crisp linen napkin onto her lap. Looking up, she sees Hawksley watching her. His thin lips curve in a smile, his dark eyes send an unsaid compliment.
The soup is served. She sips daintily from her spoon, trying not to notice the slurping of her dinner companion, nor Griselda’s nervous chinking of her spoon against her soup plate. Wine is poured. She lets the bitter bright red liquid fill her mouth, feeling its warmth sliding down her throat.
She takes no part in the conversation, which is all about stocks and shares, mines and minerals. Every now and then Bulstrode asks Grizelda for confirmation of something, or remarks that “of course, we can’t expect the ladies to understand this, bless them.”
Sherry is served, followed by the main course. Belinda picks up her knife and fork, cuts small pieces off the thick slices of meat, is helped to vegetables. A different wine is poured. Across the table, Hawksley tries to engage his dinner companion in conversation, responding to each answer as if Grizelda has uttered something incredibly witty.
Meanwhile Bulstrode attacks his dinner as if it is a foe that needs to be subdued and conquered. Nobody pays Belinda any attention. She is only the paid companion after all. She sips some more wine and wonders whether this is how dinner parties are meant to be.
Eventually, when mine host has scraped up the last drop of gravy, he turns to her and asks:
“Enjoying yourself, Miss Keet?”
Belinda rolls her emerald eyes up towards the ceiling.
“Oh, very much,” she lies.
“I expect where you come from, they do these things somewhat differently eh?”
Belinda recalls the long unpolished dining-room table, the ferocious hierarchy of who sat nearest to the headmistress. The plain china plates and lumps of mutton congealing in their own fat. The way the rich
girls’ eyes would slide over her, pricing her much-mended clothes, the sneering expressions, the dismissive remarks uttered just loud enough for her to hear: Oh, she’s only the dancing-master’s daughter.
She smiles in a way that indicates whatever the recipient of the smile wishes to infer.
Bulstrode sets down his knife and fork with a clatter.
“Now then, Sissy, we can’t let you monopolise Mr Hawksley for the whole evening, even though I’m sure he does not wish to tear himself away from your company, but Miss Keet and I want to hear all about Her Majesty.”
Sissy smiles simperingly and looks coyly at Hawksley, who in return glances across the table, his glance flitting from Josiah to Belinda.
“Indeed, you do,” he says. “Delightful as Miss Bulstrode undoubtedly is, it would be even more delightful to talk about our great Queen.”
“Then go ahead, sir!” Josiah exclaims. “I for one cannot wait to hear you on the subject.”
“But before I embark upon my experiences at Court, I have a very special proposal.” Hawksley leans forward in his seat and lowers his voice. “It might be possible – for a certain sum, and only for a select few of your special business associates – that an audience could be arranged.”
“With the Queen herself? In person?” Bulstrode gasps, his eyes round like saucers. “I read in the newspapers that she never goes out in public any more.”
“She has been confined to Windsor Castle, it is true, but when she was told of her subjects’ unhappiness at her long absence from public view, she declared that she might be prevailed upon to appear – only briefly – at a few select private functions. It was suggested that many of her loyal subjects do not have the immense honour to live close to her in London, and would very much appreciate a visit in their own part of the country.”
“Like a Royal progress? I’ve read about them.”
“Precisely. She has already favoured some of her subjects in the West Country with a brief private visit. I was fortunate to attend – she is the patron of my little enterprise after all – and it was a truly delightful occasion. I shall never forget it. Of course, it was only a very short visit, as she is still officially in deep mourning. And then, on the train back to London, I thought of you and your business contacts in the north.”
Josiah’s whole face is one big O of astonishment.
“You could arrange this?”
“Together, I’m sure we could bring it about,” Hawksley says with a smile. Then he continues smoothly, “But let us save this conversation for later. For I am sure our two delightful dinner companions are far more interested in details of what the ladies were wearing on my visit.”
He gives Bulstrode a knowing wink and embarks upon a lavish description of Court fashions.
Grizelda listens enraptured. Belinda frowns and plays with the fringe of her shawl. She recalls reading that the whole court had immediately gone into full mourning upon the death of the Prince Consort.
He is making it up, she thinks. Though he is doing it convincingly well.
Eventually dessert is served, accompanied by Madeira, after which Bulstrode rises, throwing his napkin onto the table.
“Now, Sissy and Miss Keet, you will have to excuse us gentlemen for a while. We have business matters to discuss in my study. Come, Mr Hawksley, if you please.”
Hawksley bows, and follows Josiah out of the dining-room. Belinda feels her shoulders slump. The room seems suddenly empty without his presence, as if all the life has been sucked out of it. She takes tiny sips of her wine, savouring its sweetness. Across the table, Grizelda smiles to herself, pleating the edge of her napkin. They sit in silence for a while. Finally, she bursts out:
“Mr Hawksley is a very fine man do you not think?”
Belinda stares at Griselda’s flushed cheeks, her rather overbright expression, recognising the combination of rather too much wine and rather too little self-awareness.
“Your brother seems to think so.”
“Oh, Josiah is always a very good judge of character. As soon as he met … a certain person, he knew that he was not a good man.”
“And wasn’t he?” Belinda asks innocently.
“No, he was not!” Grizelda declares emphatically. “He was a cad and a bounder and a trifler with female affections. But I am not to think about him anymore,” she adds. “Nor shall his name ever be uttered in this house.”
Shame, Belinda thinks. These tiny, tantalising glimpses of the Unfortunate Incident only serve to whet her appetite for the whole tale.
“So, what does your brother think about Mr Hawksley?”
“That he is a good business man. A man after his own heart – I have heard him say as much.”
“And you like him?”
Griselda’s face turns bright pink. A colour that doesn’t match her dress.
“Who could not like him? He is so handsome. Such a noble figure. Such fine brown eyes. And his manners are impeccable. He reminds me of Dorian Le Grange from A Country Romance. Does he not you?”
Not having read this worthy tome, Belinda cannot say. And despite agreeing with Griselda’s description, she also senses something rather mysterious about Mr Mark Hawksley. There is more to him than meets the eye. Though what does meet the eye is certainly very agreeable.
“He is a pleasant gentleman,” she replies, carefully keeping her voice and expression neutral.
Grizelda smiles foolishly.
“I think I shall just go upstairs and tidy my hair and change my cap,” she says. “I will return before the gentlemen rejoin us.”
Belinda Kite finishes her Madeira and indicates to the servant that she’d like a refill. Which she polishes off in record time. She is just contemplating a third glass when the door opens, and Mark Hawksley appears, wearing his street clothes. She gets (slightly unsteadily) to her feet.
“I came to bid you fair ladies adieu,” he says, crossing the room. “I must leave. Business summons me, even at this late hour, and I cannot delay.”
He stands so close that the scent of him fills her nostrils. She feels the heat from his body. Her heart thumps in her breast; her legs almost give way under her.
“What is it you desire, Miss Belinda Kite?” he murmurs, his dark brown eyes seeking and holding hers.
“Nothing.”
He laughs softly, stretches out his hand and teases a curl of her hair with one finger.
She cannot move. She can barely breathe.
“Nothing? You lie. London is full of thousands and thousands of people, all wanting something. Want loves want. It is the human condition. It grows and breeds. Why should you or I be any different?”
She does not answer. She cannot answer. She doesn’t have the words.
“Shall I tell you what I want, Miss Belinda Kite?” he whispers, bending so close that his face is almost touching hers, his breath warm upon her flushed cheek.
“Now then, Miss Keet,” Josiah Bulstrode calls from the open-doored hallway, “don’t keep our guest standing about. His cab is waiting in the street.”
She hears heavy footsteps approaching.
Hawksley steps back hurriedly. Then he touches his top hat to her and walks quickly away.
Belinda Kite takes a long breath. Then another. She feels giddy, shaken. Barely has she time to gather her scattered wits when Grizelda comes flying down the stairs, eyes wild, cap askew.
“Oh no, where is he?” she wails. “I heard the front door close. Has he gone?”
“He has gone, Sissy. He has matters that require his attention. But we have agreed that he will be joining us shortly on a trip back up north. I am to write to Arkwright & Tambling to arrange a fine dinner at which Her Majesty will be present! You and I will be travelling by train with Mr Hawksley to attend the occasion. Now, what do you think of that?”
Sissy claps her hands in delight. Belinda Kite listens as Bulstrode outlines the proposed excursion. At no time is she invited to input into the conversation, which revolves around old acquai
ntances to be called upon, and the effect of Mark Hawksley’s presence when they do.
Indeed, the initial phrase ‘you and I’ did not suggest the presence of a third person anyway. She presumes that she is to be left behind.
“By the time we return to London, well, who knows what may have transpired,” Bulstrode says, giving his sister a significant wink. “A handsome young man, a beautiful young woman … the right opportunities … eh, Sissy?”
Grizelda blushes and lowers her eyelids.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, brother.”
“Ah, but I bet Miss Keet does, though? You observed Mr Hawksley at dinner, did you not, Miss Keet? Did you ever see a man so smitten?”
Belinda stares straight ahead, unable to frame a suitable response that does not involve out-and-out mendacity. Fortunately, Bulstrode is too far gone in his scheming to notice.
“I reckon by the time we return to London, there’ll be a ring on your finger, Sis. Or at least the promise of one. You see if I’m not right. And Miss Keet will be dancing at your wedding in the Spring. Oh yes, she will. I’d put money on it. I would indeed.”
***
Money is also the focus at The Gathering of The Select & Apocalyptic Brethren, taking place in its usual venue above the music publisher’s shop in Soho.
Senior Prophet Xavier About, having warmed up the followers by a long verbal exegesis upon some of the more abstruse Levitical laws, has now moved on to his favourite topic: Sin and the City.
He stands on the temporarily-erected lectern, swaying to and fro as if moved by some internal gale. The followers (tonight minus the Jack Russell who is on ratcatching duties elsewhere) sit in rapt silence and watch him.
“Brothers and sisters, let it be known amongst you that I, the Lord’s Servant, together with the Infant Prophet, have begun the good work to drive Iniquity from our midst. Yeah – even as The Lord did at Belshazzar’s feast in the days of the Prophet Daniel, we have written upon the walls of the whores and concubines and the walls of the worshippers of gold and silver. We have declared Truth on the walls of the proclaimers of lies and the sellers of filth and depravity. They have been Weighed on the Scales and found Wanting.”