by Carol Hedges
“Ah, there you are, Mrs …. And not before time. My sister has been fretting all morning about her new dress. Another five minutes and we would be away!”
“I am so sorry,” Emily says. “It took me slightly longer than I anticipated to finish the skirt linings.”
“Never mind, you are here now,” Josiah says, stepping up to the open front door. He calls, “Sissy, your dress has finally arrived.”
Grizelda Bulstrode darts out of the house, her hair escaping from its pins. She fixes her eyes upon the basket.
“Oh – at last! But I haven’t had time to try it on.”
“And nor can you – see, here is Mr Hawksley’s cab just turning the corner. We must be gone if we are to make the station in time.”
“I am sure the dress will fit,” Emily says reassuringly. “I made it to the same measurements as the other.”
“Yes … but … I … oh,” Sissy’s words trail away as Mark Hawksley, handsome and dashing in a layered travelling cape and new top hat, steps down from the cab and sweeps them an elegant bow.
“I trust you are all ready, my dear friends?”
“We certainly are,” Bulstrode says, snapping his fingers at the waiting servants. “Now, Jemima, look sharp and stow those hat boxes inside. John – the trunks to go on the back.”
As the servants hurry to carry out Bulstrode’s orders, Hawksley glances inquiringly over Sissy’s shoulder.
“Is Miss Kite not joining us?”
“Oh no,” Josiah tells him. “We have no need of her. Sissy has friends enough back home to accompany her wherever she wishes to go. Miss Kite will remain here. Someone has to mind the house and make sure the servants don’t run off with the silver, eh?”
Hawksley’s face betrays nothing. He helps Sissy into the carriage, then stands back as Josiah scrambles aboard and takes his place. Just before he joins them, he turns and glances briefly back at the house. Belinda Kite stands in the bow window.
For a moment, their eyes meet. Hawksley nods, touches his hat and smiles, but she just stares back at him and does not return his smile. Then the coachman gathers the reins together and the carriage starts forward. Josiah leans out of the half window.
“Hurry up now, Mr Hawksley, or we shall miss our train. We must not keep the Queen waiting!”
“No, indeed,” Mark Hawksley murmurs. His mouth curves into a secret smile. “It is never a good thing to keep any lady waiting.”
He swings himself agilely on board. The carriage bowls along the street, and disappears in the direction of King’s Cross station.
As soon as it has gone, Belinda Kite emerges from the house with a piece of folded paper.
“Here,” she says, handing the paper to Emily Cully. “This is the rest of the payment for the dress.”
She does not mention the other dresses that Sissy has left piled on the bed. Why should she? She has no intention of handing them over to Emily. By the time the Bulstrodes return, the dresses will have been disposed of, as Sissy instructed. All but a couple. And the money for their disposal will be in Belinda Kite’s pocket book.
But that is for another day. Now, Belinda Kite puts on one of Sissy’s nice bonnets, wraps herself in her prettiest shawl, and sets off to explore London. She heads towards the sights and delights of the shops, only pausing on the way to fortify herself with a cream cake from a confectioner’s shop.
She walks up the steep hill leading from the vibrant commercial district of Holborn to the exciting tempting West End department stores. She passes houses covered with signboards, and shops with plate glass windows.
Itinerant street-sellers throng the pavements, omnibuses rush to and fro in the centre of the road. Carriage wheels, horses, and the voices of busy crowds all fill the air with a bewildering noise.
A pretty woman walking on her own always elicits admiration, and Belinda has not gone far before her bright eyes and saucy face begin to attract male attention. As she pauses before a print-shop to admire the beautiful engravings, a handsome young man with gold chain and moustaches also takes his station beside her.
Belinda stands absorbed and captivated by the visual images, her mind full of vague desires and romantic thoughts, until she becomes aware of a hand slowly inserting itself into her skirt pocket where her purse is kept.
Without a second’s hesitation, she whirls round, eyes blazing, her gloved hand striking the stranger’s cheek with a force that makes him stagger back. Suddenly faced by a spitting little hellcat instead of a helpless female, her would-be pickpocket turns and makes off empty-handed.
Absorbing the useful lesson that it is not wise to linger in front of shop windows, Belinda resumes her walk. She recalls the dormitory battles where she acquired her fighting skills, defending her father’s name or protecting her own few possessions from the incursions of other girls. Her hard-won ability to stand up for herself had just stood her in good stead.
She reaches Oxford Street and pauses to catch her breath in front of a shop selling ribbons and laces. The bright rainbow window display entices her in and she buys a length of turquoise satin ribbon the exact match of the dress now hanging in her wardrobe.
Tucking her little parcel into her bag she walks on, her thoughts turning to her employers. Josiah is awkward and clumsy, and Sissy is not somebody whose company she would ever voluntarily seek out, but they are kind people and there is no guile or nastiness in them. Belinda Kite is very good at recognising guile and nastiness – heaven knows, she has had enough experience of both in her recent past.
But the truth must be faced: she is unlikely to remain at Cartwright Gardens for much longer. Even if Sissy comes back an engaged woman (something Belinda very much doubts), her time as Sissy’s companion is drawing to a close. She has outlived her usefulness, and she senses it.
New pastures beckon. New horizons are about to open up before her. Where they will lead her is, as yet unknown, but Belinda is not worried. She has beauty, a quick wit and at least four nice dresses. She cannot fail.
***
Failure is also the topic of conversation in the dark-wood-panelled smoking-room of Boodles, a gentlemen’s club in St James’s Street. Having dined on saddle of mutton followed by the famous Boodles orange fool, Undercroft and Osborne are now sprawled in red leather armchairs, cigars on the go. A small rosewood table contains two brandy glasses and a jug of water on a silver tray.
Boodles is appreciated by its exclusive membership as a pleasant retreat from the world’s worries. Behind mullioned windows and heavy curtains, a gentleman can relax and unwind. Out there, vulgar mankind; in here, Boodles. Most appreciated also, is the absence of womankind, especially the matrimonial variety.
Undercroft has taken to dining at Boodles whenever he can. Occasionally he invites one of his female friends to dine somewhere else equally discreet, but even these occasions are becoming fewer, because for some reason the delights of post-prandial coupling are failing to live up to expectations.
The word up, not to mince matters, is at the crux of it. Undercroft has always prided himself on his ability to perform between the sheets. No woman, other than the one he is married to, has ever complained, nor demonstrated anything less than gasping and groaning gratitude.
Yet on two recent occasions he has been unable even to reach the foothills, let alone mount to the heights. A humiliating and degrading experience, made worse by the understanding commiseration of his female companion.
That he, Frederick Undercroft, connoisseur of the female form, possessor of erotic prints and pornographic books galore, can no longer function as a true man, is the shameful secret he carries around inside his head, his thoughts knocking against it like a bruise.
“See that red paint buggah’s been at it again,” Osborne remarks, from behind a newspaper. “Bloody police force couldn’t catch a cold. Don’t know why we bother paying all that money. Call out the regular army. They’ll soon catch the blighters. And know what to do with them. World’s going to pot.”
“What little business?” Undercroft is caught off guard.
“The cakes, man. What’s the matter with you? Barely ate your dinner. Face the colour of candle wax. Not said a word since we sat down.”
Undercroft eyes his companion sourly. Osborne is a big fleshy man with a high colour, oiled hair and waxed moustaches. His tailored suit strains across his ample stomach.
And yet once we were both young and gay, he thinks.
“I’m fine,” he lies. “Bit seedy, but nothing to complain about.”
“Could have fooled me. That detective chappie Slide or whatever he calls himself been to see you?”
“Not recently.”
“Came around asking if I could think of anyone who disliked me.” Osborne laughs harshly. “Felt like saying: apart from the wife, nobody I can think of.”
Undercroft attempts a weak smile. His only consolation in his long and loveless marriage is that at least he didn’t choose Regina Osborne to be his consort. The thought of seeing her hard slab of a face on the pillow next to him, and hearing her scolding tongue night after night, is enough to shrivel his manhood. Even further.
“Oh well. Nothing else has arrived in the post, so maybe that’s an end to it, whatever it was, do you think?” he says.
“One of those mad people. Lot of them about nowadays. Lucky it was only a couple of servants, eh?”
Osborne throws the end of his cigar into the fire and sits back.
“Now, how’s that little widow you were seein’ a while back? Seemed pretty smitten on you, by the sound of it.”
Undercroft’s mind throws up a picture of Marianne Corvid, her eyes too bright and snatching, her smile too quick and eager, her body too pliant and willing. He should never have let things get as far as they did. Mixing business with pleasure was always a recipe for disaster.
At least she’d stopped writing those desperate pleading letters to his chambers. And he hadn’t seen her hanging around outside for some time, nor had she tried to accost him in the street, so it appeared that she’d finally got the message.
“Oh, she’s gone and bagged herself a rich widower,” he says, waving his hand airily.
“Women, eh. Don’t know the meanin’ of loyalty. Like cats. Over the garden wall as soon as you turn your back.”
Undercroft cannot imagine Regina or Georgiana as cats. Harpies, yes, but not cats.
Osborne levers himself with difficulty from the deep recesses of the armchair and belches loudly.
“Well, time to go. Business calls. Oh – meant to tip you the nod, been put onto a nice little thing by that boy of mine – the Dominion Diamond Mining Company. You heard of it?”
Undercroft shakes his head.
“Young man from South Africa reopening his father’s old mine. George met him in some club or other when he was in town recently. Nice chap. They got on like a house on fire. The mine’s stuffed with the sparklers, apparently. We’ve both bought shares. Going to make us a lot of money. You want the details?”
Undercroft’s head is beginning to throb with a persistent pulse, as if someone is forcing a pile-driver across his temple. He feels sick and dizzy.
“I’ll think about it.”
Osborne stares down at him. “You do that. And get some fresh air, for God’s sake. You look like death warmed up.”
He waddles towards the smoking-room door, grunting amiably at a few other members as he passes them by. Undercroft closes his eyes. The room continues to spin. The throbbing continues to throb.
Frederick Undercroft, lawyer, will be found many hours later by the staff who will discreetly wake him, and escort him to the door. He will have no recollection of anything prior to his departure.
***
It is three days since the Bulstrodes left London, and here is Belinda Kite relishing a breakfast of toast, coffee, scrambled eggs and her own company. She has never had the luxury of a dining-room to herself, nor the opportunity to eat as much as she wants.
She is wearing a very becoming ivory silk wrapper, which she discovered at the bottom of Sissy’s chest of drawers. She has made the assumption that, since it was still in its tissue paper, the original owner did not intend to use it, so she has liberated it in a better cause.
Sunshine streams through the muslin curtains, promising a fine late Autumn day. Belinda signals to the maid for more coffee. Breakfasting en deshabille is also a novelty. She smiles to herself, imagining that this is her house, these are her servants, that she is employer not employed.
Soon, she tells herself, she will be dressed by her lady’s maid in one of her many lovely handmade dresses before sallying forth for a little light shopping. Then she will meet a handsome (but unspecified) gentleman for luncheon at a nice restaurant.
Her daydream is interrupted by the parlour maid, who enters with a letter.
“This just came for you, miss.”
Belinda recognises the large sloping handwriting of Josiah Bulstrode, and guesses that the contents will enlighten her as to their return. She picks up the butter-knife and slits open the envelope.
Dear Miss Kite (she reads),
I take up my pen to tell you that we are have having a wonderful time here. It has been good to meet up with old friends once again and we have been welcomed back. Everybody has asked about our London trip and I have told them all about the daughter of a French Marquis who has been a tower of strength to my poor sister.
Last night Sissy and I attended a grand banquet at the Town Hall. So many people were there – not as stylishly turned out as London folk, but none the worse for that.
Mr Hawksley gave a fine speech, after which everyone clapped. Dinner was turtle soup, fish, roast lamb and syllabub. How you would have smiled to see Sissy in her new tartan dress. She was the belle of the ball – though of course it was not a ball, only a grand dinner. Everybody remarked how fine she looked and how she had come on since her trip to London. She sat next to Mr Hawksley and it was plain that he as well as several other gentlemen admired her pretty face and sweet disposition very much.
Now I must tell you about the most exciting part of the evening. During the dessert course, a curtain was drawn back and there seated on a gold chair was Her Majesty Queen Victoria. She was dressed in black, and she wore a widow’s cap, but her face was very comely and she nodded to the company.
I cannot tell you the effect of seeing Our Dear Queen seated in the town hall, just like an ordinary person – only of course she is not exactly ordinary. People stood and cheered. The gentlemen swept off their hats and we all sang Rule Britannia.
Queen Victoria waved graciously and then the curtain was drawn back. I am not ashamed to say that my heart swelled with pride and I shed a tear or two, indeed I did. I was not the only one. Such an honour and worth every guinea – not that one can measure honour in pounds, shillings and pence.
Sissy and I have decided to stay on for a couple more days. Mr Hawksley has expressed a desire to see some of our beautiful northern countryside, so we will not be back in London until the middle of next week.
We trust you are keeping in good health and with that wish,
We sign ourselves,
Josiah and Grizelda Bulstrode
Belinda sets down the letter and finishes her breakfast. Six lovely days stretch ahead of her, to be filled with whatever she wants to do and wherever she wants to go. She crumples her napkin, tosses it onto the table and rises to her feet. No point wasting a single minute. The sun is shining and the great city awaits.
***
As Belinda Kite sets out to explore the pleasures of London, Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully push open the door of a busy chemist’s shop in Hampstead.
Facing them and running the length of the shop is a low wooden cabinet with tiers of drawers labelled in a language that could be double-Dutch for all they understand it.
China jars
containing unguents and oils sit atop the cabinet. The counter has a large ledger, a quill and inkwell and brass scales and weights. There are also a couple of big glass-stoppered bottles containing bright red and blue liquids.
Behind the counter stands a locked glass cabinet containing bottles of poison and other dangerous drugs. Beside it stands the chemist himself, a small balding man with a drooping moustache and a small unhappy face.
He wears a pince-nez, and a worried frown – the latter evinced by the entrance of two official-looking strangers who have clearly not come about a headache or a sick family member.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he says cautiously, shifting nervously from one foot to another.
Stride introduces himself and Cully, then explains the reason for their visit.
“We should like to see your poison book, if you would be so kind.”
The chemist pushes the ledger across the counter.
“You are welcome to take a look, gentlemen. I obey the law. To the letter. You will find nothing amiss between these pages.”
Stride scans the neatly-written entries, turning back the pages to see whether there are any for the purchase of arsenic just prior to the two murders.
“Can you tell me about this entry?” he asks, rotating the book so that it faces the chemist.
“Ah, that would be Mrs Marks. A perfectly respectable lady who lives in Flask Walk. She owns a teashop.”
“You know her?”
“Indeed. My wife and I have patronised her establishment on several occasions. Mrs Marks makes exceedingly good cakes.”
Stride consults his notes.
“She bought some arsenic, apparently to poison rats. The date of purchase is a few days before the deliveries of the boxes of poisoned cakes. Quite a coincidence, I’d say. Do you recall the purchase?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Inspector. I was away from the shop at the time – I am sometimes called upon to lecture to medical students on the toxicity and efficacy of drugs. At the time the purchase was made, I was in Edinburgh and the shop was being looked after by my assistant.”