by Issy Brooke
She crossed to the window and tentatively pulled the thin curtains aside, but immediately saw that the window had been painted shut over many generations. She spun around and sighed. Was this really the room that Albert Socks had rented? Surely he could have afforded better?
She sniffed the air. It smelled clean, in here at least.
There was a tall closet, a wooden cupboard that ran floor to ceiling, on the wall opposite to the bed. It had double doors with mismatching tortoiseshell handles. Again, she was disappointed when she opened it. It was empty. Not even a rail to hang one’s clothes upon.
No, she realised suddenly. The room had been cleaned but the wardrobe interior had not. There was white powdery dust on the floor of it, in two little piles.
She touched a gloved finger to it, and sniffed, but there was nothing remarkable about it. It reminded her of plaster dust. She examined the back of the wardrobe more closely. She was no joiner — unlike the man who even now was lingering in the corridor outside — but she could see that someone had been working on the wood panel. Carefully, she tapped, and it rang hollow, as she expected it to.
But it also moved.
She reached up and down, pressing at the edges and corners.
It moved more. It was not fixed at all. She pulled off her gloves and dug her fingernails into the edges, and the whole panel came forward. She angled it, and peered around one long edge.
She was looking straight into a darkness that was lit by one long slit of light. She reached forwards and pushed past a long velvet jacket until her hand touched warm wood, and she realised she was reaching into the wardrobe of the room next door.
There was no wall between the cupboards.
And only one back, which was removable.
Removable, most easily, from the other room, not this one.
And recently, done, too. Before the murder?
Almost certainly, she thought.
And who did this work? The joiner outside?
“Bill, what are doing? I don’t pay you to stand around and smoke your pipe.”
The voice was female, but low and gruff. Cordelia leaped out of the wardrobe and into the main room. She was just coming in to the corridor when she saw the joiner, hastily shoving his still-unlit pipe into his pocket. He was going back to his sawhorse, and he called out, “Mrs Clancey! Not at all. I was just telling this prospective tenant here all about the rooms.”
Mrs Clancey advanced upon them, and Cordelia found herself trying to stand taller. Cordelia had height, but Mrs Clancey stood a few inches higher, with wide shoulders and a jutting jaw that was set at a belligerent angle. Her eyes were so pale as to merge into her grey face, and her blonde hair was lank and lifeless. Likely the woman had never smiled in her life, though she doubtless had won a few prize-fights.
“And who are you and how did you get in?”
Cordelia reacted automatically. She said, stiffly, “I am Cordelia, Lady Cornbrook, and I came in through the unlocked front door.”
“A lady?” the joiner snorted in disbelief. “And my left foot is the Earl of Bedford.”
Mrs Clancey looked down her prominent nose at Cordelia, equally unimpressed. “Well, whoever you claim to be, you can clear out. You have no business here, none at all.”
“I was interested in renting a room,” Cordelia said, answering as haughtily as she could.
Both the joiner and the landlady laughed, but the landlady’s mirth had no humour at all in it. “Get down those stairs or I shall throw you down myself.”
Cordelia weighed up her chances in a struggle, and decided to go willingly. She tried to walk down the shabby stairs with dignity but the stairwell was unlit and she had to watch her footing rather than hold her head high and glide down.
When she reached the door to the street she hesitated. She wanted to ensure she wasn’t seen leaving the building, although she could probably bring out one of her pre-prepared excuses if the ladies did question her.
Mrs Clancey was not happy that she had paused. She shoved Cordelia hard between the shoulder blades, and said, “Get yourself out of my house this instant, hussy.”
Cordelia was not used to being manhandled. She turned and said, “Touch me again and I shall summon the police to you, madam! I am leaving, and let that be enough for you.”
But the door opened from the street inwards so she had to pull it towards herself when she turned again, and Mrs Clancey took the chance to push her sharply, sending her tumbling out into the street.
Cordelia stumbled and one knee touched the floor but she jumped up to her feet in an instant, brushing down her dress. The ladies of the mission were ahead of her, but they heard the commotion and turned around to see what was going on. They were surrounding her immediately.
“Mrs Entwistle! What has happened?”
Mrs Clancey still stood in her doorway, filling the frame. “Mrs Entwistle? Aha, you are found out! Lady Cordelia, Lady Cornbrook, whatever it is you claimed to be. As if! What a stupid thing to say you are. How did you ever expect to be believed? Why, I should say I am the Queen of Sheba!”
It seemed very important to Cordelia that she make everyone understand who she actually was, but she could see that it was impossible. To be misidentified was a strange sort of pain, she thought fleetingly, and felt rather helpless. She was not protected by the knowledge of her status.
She was just a woman on the streets.
She was vulnerable.
Goodness, she thought suddenly, does Ruby feel like this all the time?
“What is going on?” Mrs Shirley said, and she was joined by the oldest lady in the mission, the small and frail-looking Miss Copeland. Miss Copeland was looking from Cordelia to Mrs Clancey with suspicion on her face, and she addressed Cordelia.
“Mrs Entwistle, why were you in this house? Why did you say you were someone else? What have you done to drive this woman here to hurl you onto the street? What, indeed, is your purpose in joining us today? For I do not think you are as you seem.”
Cordelia did not want to admit that she had lied to the lovely ladies of the mission. That meant she had to say she had lied inside the lodging house. “I think there has been a misunderstanding,” she said. “I was looking for a friend of mine, Florence Fry, as I heard she had been cast low and I wished to offer her some assistance if I could. I did not dare to come here alone, so I was able to join the mission, and for that I am grateful. I am deeply sorry I didn’t tell you this at the start.”
“You said you were some lady thingamabob,” Mrs Clancey said. “Hey! Hey!” She began to shout and wave her arms. “Boy, go and fetch that policeman there. Yes, get him over here. Let the law get to the bottom of this, for I cannot be certain that she hasn’t stolen anything. Yes. Thief! She must be searched at once, you know. She holds herself most strangely; she must be hiding something on her person.”
And that was how Cordelia found herself sitting in a cell of her very own.
Chapter Nineteen
Inspector Hood was clearly loving every minute of it. He had the policeman at the front desk write out a whole list of misdemeanours in a large ledger.
She could console herself, at least, that he did believe she was who she said she was.
He also knew exactly why she had been at the lodging house — “you’re trying to play a policeman!” he crowed. “And the landlady thinks you’re a thief, to boot.”
“You know that I am not.”
He grinned widely. “I know nothing of the sort. Why, a woman like you, you might be anything. I must be on my guard. We will have to hold you here while we investigate.”
“You should be investigating the murder!”
“We have, and it’s done.”
“Have you been through that room? Have you examined all areas of it, quite thoroughly?”
“Of course. I assure you, we have taken all the incriminating objects from that place.”
“What objects?”
“That is none of your business,” he s
aid, shockingly rudely, and had her taken down to a cell.
***
It was unthinkable. She paced around, feeling desperate and furious by equal turns. How had it come to this? And Stanley would still be waiting back at the mission.
She stopped. Ah, Stanley. Surely the ladies would tell him what had happened, and he would be able to confirm she was, indeed, Cordelia Cornbrook.
But for the moment, she was trapped, and had to wait.
Well, she thought bitterly, I am used to this, am I not? Sitting and waiting while other people get on with things in the big wide world.
Another burst of frustration washed over her, and she went to the bars, and gripped them hard. “Hey! Hey there! I know there is someone out there.”
“Yeah, loads of us!” shouted another prisoner, and there was general laughter. A policeman came along to quieten them down, kicking with his boots at the base of the bars.
“You there,” she said as the man went past. “I am Cordelia, Lady Cornbrook.”
“I know,” he replied. “But law is law, no matter who you are. It is the new way.”
“And I agree utterly. But listen, can you get word to a member of my household? They need to know that I am here.”
The man paused, and pressed himself up against the cell, sideways, but he remained looking forward. “You really are a lady, are you not?”
“I am. Even Inspector Hood acknowledges that.”
“Then it isn’t right that you are down here, and you shan’t be here long, for I expect he only means to make some sort of example of you, and that’s wrong, you know. Who is it that you want to send word to?”
“Anyone, at this address,” she said, and told him exactly where she was lodging.
“I shall see to it, my lady, and I am sure they will move you presently.”
“Thank you. What is your name?”
“Constable Evans.”
And thanks to Constable Evans, a few minutes later she had been released from the cell and allowed to sit in a small, cluttered office, with hazy glass windows that lit out onto a busy corridor.
Inspector Hood opened the door and grinned nastily at her. “Did you enjoy your little taste of the cells?”
“I did not, but all experience is a learning one, and I thank you for the chance,” she said.
“Huh.” He slammed the door closed upon her. As soon as he was gone, she jumped up to try the handle but he had locked it.
She didn’t sit down again. She paced the small room. It had four cabinets, a bookshelf, a wide desk with many drawers, and two chairs.
She mulled over what she had seen in Mrs Clancey’s lodging house. The cupboard’s false back was the most obvious thing. She doubted very much that all rooms were so furnished. Did the police know about it?
She wondered if she ought to tell them. But they would ignore her, she was sure of it, and the worse the treatment got that she received from them, the less inclined she was to help them.
No, she resolved. She was on her own, now.
Then she wondered what “objects” had been removed from the room. The wine, obviously; they would have tested it and discovered how it was poisoned. What else?
They wrote everything down, these new police, she remembered. She began to scan the bookshelves and open the cabinet doors.
She had found nothing but lists of names, incomprehensible figures, and a book on phrenology when the door was flung open again and Inspector Hood yelled out.
“So! You cannot even be trusted in a locked room!”
“There appears to be nothing of interest here, anyway,” she said.
“You are correct! There is not! Yet I hoped you might follow common decency as a lady by keeping your prying eyes to yourself!” There was spittle at the corner of his mouth, she noticed, and it made her smile as she carefully took her seat once more. She chose the more comfortable chair on the far side of the desk.
“Here. Constable Evans is going to sit here and watch you. And let that be a lesson to you, Evans, about acting without authority.”
The young policeman was pushed in and the door locked again behind him. He kept his eyes on the floor as he muttered, “My lady. I have sent word.”
“Thank you so much. And I am sorry if it has caused trouble for you.”
He shrugged, and took up position by the door, and that was the last of conversation that she was able to draw from him.
She sat and she waited. She imagined overpowering the young constable and kicking her way through the glass out into the corridor. No, she thought. Not with my boots. What else could I use? She gazed around the room, seeking to make weapons from ordinary objects. The corner of a heavy-based lamp is a potential cosh, she thought. I wonder how I could overpower him? I know that his hat is strengthened against blows, and that his collar is well-starched and upright to guard against the work of the garrotter in the night.
She was rather enjoying such shameful fantasies when there was a fresh kerfuffle in the corridor. Dark shapes in blue and black moved past the smoked glass.
The office she was being held in was close to the main lobby and there had been many comings and goings, but this was different. It was louder, and she could hear what someone was shouting.
She jumped up and went to the glass. Constable Evans coughed but let her stand there.
She recognised the voice that was making the most noise.
“Hugo Hawke!”
“I shall expose you all in the press!” he was shouting. “You and your colleagues in Holborn. Bow Street is supposed to be better than the rest. I shall expose you. Yes, I shall, you may count on it, sir! Only this morning I was taking breakfast with the editor of a Fleet Street paper.”
“All the papers are published in Fleet Street,” she heard Inspector Hood say in a mocking tone. “What are you threatening me with? A paragraph on the back page of ‘Pike and Trout Weekly?’”
“Your division’s corruption will be the news on every breakfast table in the land!”
She could not help herself. She thought that he must have been nearby when Constable Evans sent to her rented rooms for her staff to be alerted. She began to hammer on the glass. “Mr Hawke! Mr Hawke, I am in here!” She pressed her face against the glass. “It is I, Cordelia! They are keeping me in here!”
There was more shouting and the door was unlocked. Inspector Hood stood there, fury blazing in his eyes. “Madam! If you cannot keep quiet, you shall be returned to the cells.”
“But he’s here, he’s come for me.”
“I most certainly have not.” Hugo Hawke could not contain his smile as he appeared at Inspector Hood’s shoulder. “Well, well. What do you do here?”
“I was waiting for …”
“Me?”
“Someone.”
He began to laugh, and it must have been loud in Inspector Hood’s ear, because the policeman shoved Hugo back into the corridor and pulled the door to the office closed again. She started for the door handle but Constable Evans put out his hand to stop her.
“Regretfully, my lady…” he said.
“Of course.”
Blast it! She folded her arms and glared at the milky-white glass. She could hear nothing but a low rumble of conversation and passing boots and occasional wordless shouts.
Inspector Hood opened the door again. He was no longer smiling. “Oh, come on then,” he said roughly and turned his back on her immediately.
She followed him out into the lobby area where he waved her towards a triumphant-looking Hugo Hawke. He lodged his thumbs in his violently-yellow waistcoat and rocked on his heels. “I was here on another matter entirely,” he said. “But it is lucky for you that I was, hey? I have paid the bail for you. Let us go.”
“You have…?”
“I have indeed! You may thank me outside.”
Some passing policeman made an indelicate remark as to the nature of the thanks that Cordelia might render to Hugo. She hissed at him and stalked out of the police station
house. When they got halfway down the stone steps, she grabbed his elbow, and dug her fingernails in sharply.
“You paid my bail?”
“You are being uncommonly slow today, Cordelia. Yes, I have paid for you to be released.”
“But look, here is Geoffrey coming for me.” The street a few feet below was clogged with traffic. The cab that Geoffrey had commandeered was some way off, and he was half-standing up top next to the driver, waving his arms. As she watched, he leaped down from the cab and began to run, knocking people out of the way.
“He is a little late, your man. And I am disappointed in your ingratitude.”
“I never asked you to pay my bail.”
“You were hammering on the window and calling for me!”
“Yes, but…”
He grinned widely, with sickly gloating all over his face. “You owe me, Cordelia. You owe me a lot.”
Chapter Twenty
Geoffrey was upon them, hurling his bulk along the street, his long black coat flapping behind him. In his right hand was a long whip which he’d clearly stolen from the cab driver.
“Stop!” Cordelia said as Geoffrey drew his hand back. She put out her hands and moved in front of Hugo.
“Saving me from your maniac coachman, that’s nice, and I thank you. But it doesn’t repay the debt entirely,” Hugo said drily.
She ignored him and ran down the remaining three steps to Geoffrey. She almost launched herself into his arms but she stopped short, and instead grabbed hold of the whip, just above his gnarled hand. “Enough!”
“Let me see him off,” Geoffrey said.
“All right!” Hugo said. “I am leaving. Good day to you both. And remember, Cordelia … you are in my debt. I shall call.” He showed his straight, even teeth, bowed, and lightly ran down the steps at an angle away from them to be swallowed up in the crowd of the streets.
“I am sorry I am so late, my lady,” Geoffrey said as he led her back to the cab which had advanced to almost where they stood. “I would have been faster if I had run all the way. We had to stop to pay so many tolls, I suspect the driver to have been going in circles.”