by Carol Hedges
Now the journeymen bakers appear in the shop carrying trays of round loaves and rolls, all steaming hot. They start filling the shelves, and as if by magic cooks and kitchen staff from the adjoining streets materialise out of the sooty gloom to collect their orders.
Slightly less magically, Detective Inspector Stride and a constable also appear. Turnock folds his arms and regards them suspiciously – the default stance of most people faced by constabulary at practically any time of day.
“Nice smell,” Stride says, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Mr Turnock, I presume? I am Detective Inspector Stride, from the Metropolitan Police based at Scotland Yard. I am here to ask you a few questions about some crimes we are investigating.”
Turnock regards him balefully.
“Nothing criminal about my bread and cakes, Inspector. Nor my bakers.”
“Indeed, I’m sure there isn’t,” Stride says smoothly. “However, the fact remains that two people have recently died as a result of eating poisoned cakes, and we are visiting all bakeries in the area to ask whether there have been any complaints from customers about cakes they’ve bought from you in the past few weeks.”
Turnock shakes his head.
“No complaints at all. Poison cakes? I can’t see why anybody would want to poison cakes.”
Stride has a copper’s view of humanity. Never say that people wouldn’t do something, no matter how strange it was.
“It may not be the cakes – we are also considering the possibility that a batch of flour may have been contaminated.”
“All the flour we use comes from reputable mills.”
Stride digs in his pocket and shows the baker the list of cakes.
“Do you sell any of these?”
“We do.” Turnock says. “What of it?”
Stride pauses and regards him thoughtfully.
“I don’t suppose you recall anybody coming in recently on two separate occasions to buy boxes of cakes? Or to order cakes to be posted to two local families?”
Turnock shrugs.
“You’d have to ask one of the girls who serve in the shop. I don’t deal directly with the paying customers. But we don’t send cakes through the post, we deliver ourselves. See the sign in the window: Hand delivery available. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I see my delivery boys have arrived and I have orders to get ready.”
He turns and goes back into his shop, leaving Stride and his list and his constable on the pavement. The constable stares hungrily at the shop window, now being filled with newly-baked loaves and rolls. It has been a long time since he breakfasted, and his landlady is not over-generous with the food to begin with.
“If it’s alright with you sir, I might just slip inside and buy myself a hot roll.”
Stride regards the constant appetite of the younger members of the constabulary as a source of wonder. He is sure he didn’t stop to eat as much as his beat constables do.
“Go ahead,” he says. “And while you’re at it, you can hang around until the counter staff get in and engage some of them in conversation. See if they have heard any complaints about the cakes. Or can remember anybody coming in to buy two boxes of cakes in the past few weeks.”
Stride knows he is grasping at straws, but right now, straws are all that he has.
A very pretty servant girl saunters slowly past, her basket carried at a jaunty angle. She eyes up the young constable, giving him a look that brings a blush to his face.
“As you wish, sir,” he says happily, and hurries after her.
***
Meanwhile Belinda Kite sits at her bedroom window daydreaming. The house is quiet. Grizelda is sorting through her clothes in preparation for the trip north, and Josiah is writing post-prandial letters. Belinda stares into her mirror, looking and longing, her daydream a series of emotions and sensations.
Since the dinner party, she spends more and more time in this pleasure-filled imaginary world, and as a result is becoming more and more dissatisfied with the limitations and imperfections of her real life. She runs the tips of her fingers gently down the soft skin of her throat and across the slender collarbones.
In her mind, of course, it is not her own fingers but those of Mark Hawksley that gently caress her neck. But the fantasy, with all its imagined scenarios – however pleasurable – always leaves her trembling in a state of unsatisfied longing, and brings in its wake a disillusionment as reality intervenes once more.
Which it does, in the shape of Grizelda, who suddenly knocks at her door, requesting that Belinda join her in her bedroom to consider and advise on matters of finery. Reluctantly, Belinda tears herself away from Hawksley’s imaginary embrace and follows Grizelda along the corridor.
Belinda has never set foot in her employer’s bedroom, and is surprised to find how light and pleasant it is. And how full of clothes. On the bed are strewn jewel-bright dresses and skirts and bodices in all the colours of the rainbow.
More dresses hang from the wardrobe doors. Gloves and lace collars spill from open boxes on the chair and the dressing table. It is a veritable cornucopia of fashion.
Belinda stands in the doorway, feasting her eyes upon the richness spread before her, unable to believe that a plain unattractive young woman like Grizelda Bulstrode could possibly possess so many beautiful dresses.
“My brother likes to spoil me,” Grizelda smirks, seeing Belinda’s amazed expression. “Particularly after the Unfortunate Incident, when I was so low in spirits. He has bought me almost a dress a week.”
“He is very generous indeed.”
“Oh, he is a kind dutiful brother and has always looked after me from the time we were children. But until I came to London, I did not know about style and colour,” Grizelda continues. “The dressmaker here has opened my eyes to the importance of these things.”
She gestures towards a turquoise blue light wool dress with a low-necked tight bodice, black velvet ribboned seaming and lace inserts.
“I cannot believe I was ever so foolish as to wear this colour. Do you not think it strange?”
Belinda Kite stares hungrily at the dress, drinking in its cerulean perfection, while secretly thinking how wonderfully it would suit her. She imagines her creamy shoulders rising out of the frothy black lace, her tiny waist accentuated by the cunning boning of the bodice.
“It is still a very pretty dress.”
Grizelda shakes her head.
“It must go. And so must this … and this,” she declares firmly, picking up dress after lovely dress. “I really have far too many clothes and most of them are the wrong colour. So, while I am away, I’d like you to arrange for all these dresses to be disposed of. I shan’t wear them again. I am sure Mrs Cully the dressmaker will know people who might buy them. Or perhaps they could go to some deserving charity.”
Belinda Kite has never known the concept of ‘too many clothes’ in her life. She decides she will bypass Mrs Cully and deal with the dress disposal herself. Given that the most deserving charity she knows is The Belinda Kite Clothing Fund.
“It shall be done,” she says meekly.
Grizelda opens her jewel case and lifts out the top trays.
“Now, Miss Kite, what jewels should I take with me? My brother has secured me a seat at the top table for the royal banquet.”
She holds up a diamond necklace, turning it in her thin-boned hand.
“This – do you think? Or the pearls?”
The diamonds wink and glitter, and Belinda Kite’s mouth waters. One day, she promises herself, she will possess diamonds even finer than these. She will wear them every day. She will probably never take them off – even to bathe.
“I think that diamonds always set off a dress well,” she replies. “And you will be in the presence of the Queen.”
“Then it shall be diamonds. You have French taste so you know what is stylish to wear. And I want to look my best for …” she pauses, looks away, a dark blush suffusing her wan complexion.
Belinda pinches her
lips together. After the dinner party, she has absolutely no doubt that Mark Hawksley is not in love with, nor even remotely attracted to, Grizelda Bulstrode. But she has money and a rich indulgent brother, and that counts for everything in this materialistic world.
“I hope the visit turns out as you expect.” she says evenly. “When do you leave?”
Grizelda begins to separate the items ready for the maid to pack them.
“Tomorrow after luncheon. We shall return in a week’s time, and just imagine, when I return, I will have seen the Queen! What a lot I shall have to tell you about.”
“How wonderful. I cannot wait to hear it.”
Grizelda pauses, glances at her quizzically as if the idea has only just occurred to her,
“What will you do while we are away, Miss Kite?”
“Oh … I’m sure I shall find plenty to do.”
“Good. I shall leave you out some of my new novels – I’m sure you are dying to read them.”
Belinda rolls her eyes.
“Oh, that is too good of you.”
“You will need something to occupy your time. I cannot imagine not being able to go out and about.”
Belinda bites her lip. It was only a short while ago that she was having to force a reluctant Sissy to leave the house. Now she is willingly gallivanting off on a train. Belinda Kite, however, has no intention of remaining indoors. She has seen plenty of young women on their own without a chaperone in attendance. She is going to make the most of her employers’ absence to explore London, especially the retail end.
Grizelda places the final item on her ‘to pack’ pile.
“There, it is done. Just my new tartan dress to be delivered tomorrow morning. Come, Miss Kite, let us go down and find my brother. I am eager to hear all the details of our trip – as no doubt are you.”
***
At the Golden Cross Hotel, Mark Hawksley and his two companions have supped well. Now, chairs pushed back from the table and with glasses of fine brandy before them, they puff their cigars and contemplate their good fortune – most of which lies in a cash box under Hawksley’s bed.
“How is Queenie tonight?” Hawksley inquires.
“She is fine. She has dined and gone to bed. I have told her she has a long train journey tomorrow and must prepare herself for it,” Ginster says.
“She is a marvel,” Pyle grins. “All this time and she has not put a foot wrong.”
“It helps that she is mute,” Ginster says. “Her silence and her face are her greatest attributes. And our good fortune also.”
“Quite. Can you imagine if she ever opened her mouth? What foul washerwoman slang would issue forth? The game would be up for sure.”
Hawksley smiles thinly.
“But that will not happen. And she is being well-paid for her silence. She was earning nothing in the workhouse laundry where you found her.”
“What will you do when you’ve finished with her?” Pyle asks.
“She will be released from her arduous Royal duties with an ample sum, do not worry,” Hawksley says. “Enough to live on – if she is frugal. And of course, as she cannot read or write, she will not be able to tell her story.”
He raises his brandy glass.
“Gentlemen, let us drink to a foolproof enterprise.”
Later, when his companions have departed with three train tickets and their instructions, Hawksley steps out onto the pavement at the front of the hotel for a few breaths of air before he retires.
Dusk has fallen. He watches a lamplighter prop his ladder against a lamp. The man ascends the ladder, reaching into the glass head with a taper. There is the blossoming of yellow light, followed by a descent back down to the dark street.
Hawksley finishes his cigar, throws the end into the street and looks up into the patchy sky. There is a new moon tonight. He turns the coins in his pocket for good luck before going back into the hotel and up to bed.
***
Jack Cully is making his way to work in the smoggy foggy dawn of a cold October day.
He has left Emily putting the last finishing touches into the green tartan dress. She has been up most of the night sewing it.
Cully is always astonished at the speed at which his wife works. The tiny steel needle seems to flash in and out of the fabric like lightning. He loves the way she bends down to bite off the thread, her hair parting at the back to reveal the soft nape of her neck.
Jack Cully is a man in love. Shortly he will be a man in despair, but for now let us leave him thinking fond thoughts, and progress ahead of him to Scotland Yard and to Detective Inspector Stride’s office, where a selection of the morning papers has been delivered and perused.
Beyond Stride’s door the office is now full of outrage and obloquy, the Anxious Bench is full of anger and apoplexy, the corridors are full of carping and complaining, and Stride has barricaded himself in his office for his own safety.
By the time Jack Cully, who has stopped at a coffee stall to refresh himself, arrives at Scotland Yard, the scene that meets his eyes could best be summarised as uproar.
“What’s happened?” Cully mouths at the desk sergeant, who is being besieged on all sides by irate individuals with voices to match.
“Another of those red paint attacks overnight. Surprised you didn’t see the headlines on a newsagent board on your way in.”
I probably did, Cully thinks. But I was too busy thinking about Emily and how tired she looked this morning.
Cully elbows his way through the assembled indignant and bangs on Stride’s door.
“It’s Jack Cully. Let me in!”
Stride opens the door a crack. Cully slips in, pushing back a couple of burly men who are trying to enter with him. Silently, Stride hands him the copy of The Inquirer. Cully stares at the banner headlines:
PALACE OUTRAGE! PAINT ATTACK on QUEEN & COUNTRY!
ANARCHY is TAKING OVER while POLICE do NOTHING!!
“Some railings opposite the palace have been painted red,” Stride tells him gloomily. “And a notice has been affixed. Every other front page says the same thing – with variants. It seems we didn’t take this paint business seriously enough.”
Jack Cully, who has just spent two mind-numbing days going round a variety of small crackpot religious sects, thinks the whole business was taken pretty seriously. At least by him and Sergeant Evans. And he has the pamphlets to prove it.
“What did they write?” he asks.
“Woe unto you, Rulers of this World for You will all Perish.”
“It’s hardly high treason. Is it?”
“Writing words from the Bible on someone’s wall is certainly not treason. Stupid maybe. Vandalism, certainly. Trouble is, it’s the wrong wall and the wrong time to do it. The Queen’s retired to Windsor and she’s not being seen in public for nearly a year. So naturally people are getting jittery. There are already rumours that she has gone mad, or that she has died or even left the country. And now this happens. Fuel to the fire. You saw the mob out there. Half of them agree with what’s been written. Half of them are baying for blood.”
Stride glares at the newspapers.
“And of course, they are all looking for someone to blame. Damn these journalists – liars and thieves would be a better title. Now we are going to have to put out extra night patrols just to catch a couple of religious fanatics with a misguided mission and a pot of paint. I sometimes wonder who is driving the forces of law and order – us or the bloody hacks.”
“Shall I organise a rota?”
“Do. And you might inform our good citizenry out there that the matter is being dealt with, and that they should not believe everything they read in the gutter press.”
Cully turns and walks to the door, pausing on the threshold.
“I had a thought about the poisoned cakes.”
Stride looks up.
“Ah. I’d almost run out of ideas on that case. Go on.”
“We have assumed that the cakes have been locally bought,
as they were so fresh. But apart from one shop, where they vaguely remember a woman in a veil and a black bonnet with a white lining who could have chosen two boxes of cakes on two recent occasions, we haven’t got any further. So, I was wondering whether we should switch our search and look for who might have purchased the arsenic.”
“Well done, Jack,” Stride says. “They would have to sign a register. And they’d have to give a reason for the purchase – not that anybody’s going to say they’re buying arsenic to poison someone. If we can find someone who recently bought arsenic and then see if that same person also bought the cakes, we will be getting somewhere.”
Stride’s face brightens.
“I’ll get a message sent round to Marylebone. Some of their day constables can start making inquiries.” He gestures towards the growing hubbub just beyond the door. “Politics, Jack. Almost as toxic as arsenic.”
“I’ll see if I can calm things down out there,” Cully says reassuringly.
“Good, you do that.” Stride growls, retreating behind his desk.
An investigation into what was a case of minor vandalism has now suddenly broadened and got more complicated. Stride didn’t like broadened and he hated complicated.
***
A short while later Emily Cully and a large wicker basket catch an omnibus heading into central London. She secures an inside seat and, after paying her fare, gets off opposite the imposing British Museum building. But she has not come to see the exhibits, nor does she have a ticket to the Reading Room.
Instead she heads for the quieter streets of Bloomsbury, and a white stuccoed terraced house in Cartwright Gardens. Here all is hustle and bustle. Trunks and hatboxes are piled up on the pavement. They are being guarded by two servants who are in turn being guarded by Josiah Bulstrode. He greets Emily with relief.