by Carol Hedges
This is a logic path of some complexity, down which Sally is reluctant to tread.
“‘Nother glass of ale, perhaps?”
Stride drains his glass.
“No, thank you. Need to keep a clear head. Report to write this afternoon. Not that it’s going to make a gnat’s tit of difference one way or the other.”
He pushes himself to a stand.
“Tell me, Sally, if you wanted to get rid of somebody by poisoning them, how would you go about it?”
Sally glances around nervously. His expression says that of all the chop houses in all the city Stride could have walked into, he had to walk into his. Several regular customers, who know who Stride is and what he does for a living, are leaning into the conversation with hugely interested faces.
“Umm … Can’t help you there. Coz I’d never do a thing like that, Mr Stride, would I? Never.”
Stride recollects where he is.
“No, Sally. Of course you wouldn’t. Sorry. I was just thinking aloud. Downside of the job.”
He pays and leaves. Sally feels his shoulders untense. The only thing that stops him banning Stride altogether is that he always pays for his meal and doesn’t attempt to steal the cutlery. Plus, of course, he isn’t sure what his legal position might be if he tried to.
***
Meanwhile, over in the green and pleasant district of Hampstead, Lilith Marks, proprietor of The Lily Lounge, has decided to stretch her legs and relieve her aching back, which has been bending over a mixing bowl all morning.
She removes her cook’s apron, and donning a fetching blue woollen coat and a discreetly-trimmed navy bonnet with veil, she sets off to take the air. She has not gone further than the end of Flask Walk when she spies a couple she recognises.
Or rather, she recognises the woman. She is one of the snooty pair who barged into The Lily Lounge and accused her of trying to poison their husbands. Now here she is, walking on the opposite pavement with a man Lily presumes to be that very husband – the presumption being based on the stiff, rigidly-set expressions on both their faces and the distance between them.
He wears a smart tailored suit and a dismal expression. She flutters along in rags and tags of finery; one of those women who, Lilith thinks, can never look well-dressed whatever they wear.
Lilith lowers her veil and crosses the road. She follows the couple. They enter Elmer Pettinger’s chemist shop. She peers through the window, and sees them approach the counter and engage the chemist in conversation.
The man rolls up his sleeve and exhibits his arm. Even from where she is standing, Lilith can see the red sores. They look very painful. The chemist studies them, purses his lips, then reaches for one of the big china jars of ointment.
More conversation ensues, presumably about when and how to apply the ointment. Then the chemist writes the purchase in the sales ledger, the man pays him and they both turn to go.
Lilith scuttles into a side alleyway. She doesn’t recognise the man at all from her past. She didn’t think she would, although she guesses he would be mortified that she had forgotten him. Men were such vain, foolish creatures. They did not realise that in the dark, all cats are grey. She smiles at the thought.
The couple head off towards Chalk Farm. Lilith waits until they are out of sight, then enters the chemist’s shop. She purchases some hand salve for her kitchen girls who are always complaining of sore hands from washing up. As the chemist writes it down, she cons the previous purchase, together with the name and address of the customer.
Lilith’s ability to read upside down is something she perfected in her former life. It was always useful to be able to read what was written on a charge sheet.
The cream that Mr Undercroft of Downshire Hill has been prescribed is one for lesions of the skin caused by “an internal irritant.” The chemist’s own words.
Lilith has seen blisters similar to those on Mr Undercroft’s skin before. A woman in her former line of work contracted a fatal disease from a client, and Lilith watched her slow and painful decline into tertiary syphilis, madness, and finally death.
Back in the busy high street, Lilith walks on. She wonders whether this might be the true reason for his illness. Under her business-like exterior, Lilith has a soft heart. She cannot imagine what sort of an individual might possess the determination and ruthlessness to carry out the deliberate extinguishing of another person’s life.
***
At the same time that Lilith is making her way back to the Lily Lounge, a station cab is making its way towards Cartwright Gardens, where it stops, and decants Josiah Bulstrode, Grizelda Bulstrode and their luggage onto the pavement outside Number 11.
They are looking well and refreshed, all the better for having spent so long breathing air that has not been polluted by the smoke of a million chimneys.
“Well, Sissy, here we are again,” Josiah says, rapping loudly on the front door to summon a servant to help carry the bags inside.
“Indeed, Josiah,” Sissy says, licking her lips nervously. “But I had forgotten how dark and gloomy everything was in London. And how bad the air smells.”
“We shall soon brighten things up, I have no doubt. Wait until Miss Keet hears all about the party we were talking about on the train.” He pauses. “But, where is she? And where are the servants?”
Further knocking finally brings the small scullery maid to the door. Her eyes widen when she sees the Bulstrodes standing on the step.
“Oh, sir, miss – you are back!” she stutters.
Josiah hefts the cases into the hallway himself. He goes into the parlour.
“Why is there no fire lit to welcome us?”
The scullery maid dithers in the doorway.
“We was not expecting you, sir, miss.”
“But I wrote to Miss Keet – where is Miss Keet?”
“She is not at home. She went out after breakfast and has not returned.”
Josiah’s face falls.
“This will not do. No, indeed it will not. No fire? And no beef stew with dumplings?”
The scullery maid wrings her hands.
“Cook has taken a half day, sir. And the parlour maid too. Miss Belinda has not dined at home recently, so Cook said she wasn’t going to waste her time.”
Grizelda plucks at his sleeve.
“There must be … nay, there will be an explanation, Josiah. We just need to wait for her to come home.”
“Home?” Josiah kicks at one of the cases. “No warm fire to welcome us, no dinner cooking? Fine homecoming this is turning out to be, Sissy.”
Even as he speaks, there is the sound of running footsteps up the path and Belinda Kite hurries into the hallway, her bonnet askew.
“Oh, I am so very sorry,” she gasps. “I had forgotten the time. I meant to be home hours ago.”
Josiah regards her sternly.
“Now, Miss Keet, did I not write to you to inform you of our return?”
Belinda nods earnestly.
“Oh, you did. And I received the letter. But then I had a message from an old school friend of mine who has been taken to hospital. So I rushed round to visit her, and in the shock of seeing her lying in that hospital bed, I clean forgot. Oh, I am so very sorry,” she cries again, wringing her hands and rolling her eyes.
“Well, now, I knew there had to be an explanation. Wasn’t I saying that just a few moments ago, Sissy? Our Miss Keet would never leave us in the lurch.”
“What is the matter with your friend?” Grizelda asks interestedly.
“She was knocked down in the street by a runaway horse,” Belinda says, wiping away an imaginary stray tear.
Josiah shakes his head.
“I have often remarked on the speed of some of those drivers. They go far too fast. Poor young woman. I’m sure you were able to offer her some succour in her hour of need.”
“Oh, I was,” Belinda assures him. “But it has meant that I have neglected you and your sister.”
“We shall rub along
as best we can,” Josiah says. “Mary here can light a fire in the parlour, and as for supper, why I’m sure there are eating houses aplenty that we can visit.”
“Oh, you are too kind,” Belinda says, smiling sweetly.
“Let me carry these traps upstairs, and we’ll soon be as right as ninepence.”
Belinda follows the Bulstrodes, congratulating herself on the “friend in hospital” who was a stroke of genius, invented as she came back from Hatton Garden in a cab.
The thought that she might never be alone with Mark Hawksley again prompted the fiction of the fallen friend. She also needs an excuse to leave the house unaccompanied.
Josiah pauses on the first-floor landing.
“Sissy nursed our beloved parents in their final days,” he says thoughtfully. “I’m sure she’d be only too happy to come with you to the hospital when you next visit. And if your friend has nowhere to go to when she is discharged – why, she’d be welcome to stay here.”
“That is so kind. But I would not dream of imposing upon you.”
“Of course she must, Josiah.”
Belinda’s smile stays where it is, but suddenly the rest of her face no longer wants to be associated with it. One minute life is simple, then suddenly it stretches away full of complications.
***
Complications also abound at Scotland Yard, where Detective Inspector Stride has spent all afternoon looking for any intelligence in the intelligence reports. It seems almost impossible to believe that with the amount of night patrols now out in the streets, not a single sighting of the Phantom Red Painters of London Town has been recorded.
Meanwhile opprobrium of the press continues unabated. Letters from indignant members of the public fill the pages on a daily basis. In the case of The Inquirer, Stride is cynical enough to believe that Richard Dandy, chief reporter and first-class pain in the backside, has probably written most of them himself.
And the outrages also continue. Overnight, the Red Paint Revolutionaries (as they have been nicknamed by the press) have managed to cover several of the green-painted railings of Russell Square with red paint, and have attached a notice proclaiming:
He will send the RICH hungary away.
The square houses some of the richest people in London, including bankers, city financiers and several aristocratic families, many of whom have sent their servants to deliver hand-written notes of protest at the vandalism. Not to mention the lamentable fact that the police manning the Watch Boxes appear to have seen nothing.
Stride eyes the pile of letters sourly. They are all written on expensive notepaper, some bearing crests. The rich have a nice turn of vitriol when it suits them, he thinks, though some of the analogies to the events of 1789 in Paris are a little far-fetched. This is London, after all, and nobody has erected a guillotine in the street. Yet.
There is something vaguely disquieting, however, about the way the perpetrators seem able to go about their business undetected. Stride feels as if he is chasing ghosts. He rereads the reports, underlines a few sentences in the hope that a level of meaning as yet undetected might rise to the surface, then sits back and stares gloomily out of the soot-encrusted window.
Which is how Jack Cully finds him when he comes to announce that as it is Sergeant Evans’ birthday, and he is a long way from home and family, a group of fellow-officers have clubbed together to buy the young man a cake, currently being shared out in the back office.
“I can bring you a slice if you’re too busy to join us,” Cully says.
“No, of course I’ll come straight away,” Stride says, getting up. “I was only chasing ghosts. Nothing that won’t wait.”
Cully gives him a quizzical look.
Stride gestures dismissively.
“That’s the thing about ghosts, Jack: they’ll always be there at the end of the day.”
***
Two days later, breakfast at Cartwright Gardens is proceeding apace, at least for one of the participants. Josiah is making a hearty meal of the viands on offer. Sissy is doing her usual picking and crumbling act, and Belinda Kite is discovering that food and frustration do not mix.
Despite telling herself that she must not think about it, Belinda cannot stop recalling the time she lay in Mark Hawksley’s arms and he promised to buy her some diamond earrings.
Neither he nor his promise have materialised. To add to her misery, she has had to endure both Bulstrodes talking about him as if he were Sissy’s beau, without betraying a flicker of emotion.
As she eyes her cold cup of coffee grimly, the parlourmaid enters.
“A note for Miss Belinda has just arrived,” she says.
Belinda almost snatches the little piece of paper out of her hands.
“If I may, I should like to read this in my room,” she says, rising.
She hurries from the dining room, her eager fingers ripping open the envelope as she runs lightly upstairs.
Dearest and loveliest Belinda (she reads on the landing),
Please accept my deepest apologies. Business matters have kept me from London and from your side for too long. It is now my intention to make good my promise to buy you those diamond earrings – and how fine they will look in your pretty little ears.
If it is acceptable, shall I send a cab round for you at 11.30? We can then have luncheon at a nice little place I know.
Yours,
Mark
Belinda Kite stuffs the note into her dressing table drawer and makes her way back downstairs, composing her features before re-entering the dining room. The Bulstrodes glance at her.
“Not bad news about your friend, I hope?” Josiah says.
“Oh, no,” she says. “The note was from somebody whose acquaintance I made while you were away. They have asked me whether I am able to accompany them later this morning to advise about buying a present for a friend of theirs.”
The thing about a good lie that it always needs to contain a modicum of truth.
“I expect they want to take advantage of your French taste.” Josiah nods.
“It is very flattering to be asked.” She smiles. “But of course, if I am needed here, I shall refuse.”
“No, you must go,” Sissy says. “Mustn’t she, brother?”
“She must. I shall shortly leave on business, and you have letters to write to our friends back home. So you see, we can spare you, Miss Keet.”
“Oh, you are too kind,” Belinda says, lowering her eyes meekly. “I shall return sometime in the afternoon – my friend mentions a light luncheon after our shopping.”
***
Edmund Randell, of Randell & Knight, Jewellers, is standing behind his counter watching the world go by. Or rather, he is watching a couple who have just stopped in front of his curved glass window to admire the display of rings, brooches, jewelled combs, chains and other small items of personal adornment.
They make a handsome pair. The man is a little older than his female companion. He is tall and dark-haired, with the sort of rugged good looks that would draw the female eye in any circumstances. The young lady clinging to his arm has a pretty peaches-and-cream complexion, with sparkling green eyes, and auburn hair that frames her face in two sets of becoming ringlets.
Edmund Randell tries to guess their relationship, and decides they must be a newly-engaged couple. It is a game he likes to play – and he prides himself that he is rarely wrong. He can tell from the moment a customer comes into the shop what it is their heart desires. And how much they are prepared to spend to get it.
And now here they are entering his shop, the man standing aside to allow the pretty young thing to go first. She hurries to the counter, her face alight with expectation, her small red mouth curving at the corners into a smile.
The man follows her, then catching Randell’s eye, says, “We should like to see some diamond earrings.”
Randell produces a number of small oval leather boxes from the glass showcase and opens them. Diamonds wink and glitter on their pale velvet be
ds. The young lady’s eyes glisten almost as brightly. She considers each box, weighing up the contents, then stretches out a gloved hand, and points.
“These. I like these ones the best.”
The man smiles down at her indulgently.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “They are the biggest.”
“They are indeed. And they will suit you admirably.”
He picks up the box and places it in her hand.
“Why don’t you go over to the mirror and try them?”
She does, and while she is busily admiring herself in the cloudy shop glass, tilting her head from side to side to better see the effect, her companion produces a wallet stuffed with notes and pays for the gems. The jeweller writes out details of the purchase in a ledger. The name the customer gives, out of earshot of the young lady, is not Mark Hawksley.
The couple leave the shop, the young woman almost dancing with delight. Randell stows the money away in the cash box under the counter. The diamonds are not the finest quality; he cannot afford stones like that (nor can most of his customers, who patronise him because they know what they are getting), but the jewels are showy and eye-catching, and she is clearly delighted with the purchase.
A good morning’s trade. A beautiful young lady and her clearly besotted suitor. He wishes them a long and happy life together.
A short while later Mark Hawksley and Belinda Kite (wearing her new diamond earrings) enter a small discreet hotel off Cavendish Square and make their way to the second floor, where Hawksley has recently engaged a suite of rooms.
Hawksley closes and locks the door. He helps Belinda off with her shawl, then unties her bonnet and takes the pins out of her hair, shaking her curls free.
“So, are you pleased now, Belinda?” he asks.
“Oh, I am,” she says, rolling her eyes.
He slides her dress from her shoulders, his eyes devouring her greedily, hard with desire.