Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  “I suspect that her husband would not approve. She appears to be reluctant to do anything without his permission.”

  Dickens peered out of the window. “The station approaches!”

  His companion gazed out of the window. “The coming of the railway has made such a difference to Knutsford. The embankment divides our old chapel from the rest of the town.”

  “The march of progress, my dear Scheherezade!”

  They were to be conveyed to the Royal George Hotel, where Elizabeth had booked quarters at the rear overlooking the Assembly Rooms. The journey was short but, with his characteristic zest for exploration, Dickens insisted that they be taken the long way round, by way of Princess Street and the Heath, so that he could imbibe the air of a town he had known hitherto only from the pages of his companion’s novel.

  “That is Clarissa’s home,” Elizabeth said, pointing towards a grey and forbidding double-fronted house standing in grounds that overlooked a large tract of open land. “Canute Villa takes its name from the ancient king who is supposed to have forded a river here. It is one of the finest houses in Knutsford.”

  “A splendid situation. She and the Major can have scant need to practise the elegant economy which I associate with Cranford.”

  “I prayed that she would be happy.” She spoke with such soft sadness that Dickens needed to strain to hear over the clatter of hooves on the cobbles. “But when she wrote to me, her terror was evident. I was appalled. Clarissa has known her share of tragedy, but her spirit has always been strong enough to enable her to face the vagaries of Fortune.”

  Dickens nodded. “Merely to read the letter is to recognize the fear instilled in its author by the events she describes. You have known her since childhood?”

  “She is seven years older than myself, but our families, the Woodwards and the Stevensons, lived a few doors apart from each other and were always on good terms. My brother John was friendly with her twin brother Edgar.”

  Dickens knew a little of John. His death had been one of the tragedies of Elizabeth Gaskell’s life. He was a seaman who had sailed the Seven Seas but been lost when his sister was seventeen; some said he was drowned, some that he had been set upon by brigands in the sub-continent, and there was even a picturesque story that he had been killed by pirates. Elizabeth had drawn on her grief when writing; disappearances haunted much of her finest work.

  “She married a man called Drinkwater, you say?”

  “Thomas was a solicitor, a man fifteen years Clarissa’s senior. He was thought to be a confirmed bachelor, but on meeting my friend at a party, he was quite swept off his feet. Clarissa could have had taken her pick of men, but she saw in Thomas a steadfastness that she found admirable.”

  “To say nothing of a handsome income?”

  Her eyes blazed. “Charles, that is a scurrilous thing to say! Thomas was a thoroughly decent man. I know that you entertain a certain scepticism about members of the legal profession, but I really ...”

  “Please forgive me, Scheherezade,” he said quickly, and with unaccustomed humility. “I did not mean to cast aspersions on your friend’s integrity.”

  “I should hope not indeed! The fact is that the marriage was one of the happiest I have known. When he died of apoplexy three years ago, she was heartbroken.”

  “There were no children?”

  “No, to the dismay of both Clarissa and Thomas.”

  “And what of brother Edgar?”

  “He died ten years ago. Poor fellow, his heart was always weak. He was the last of the male Woodwards.”

  “Thus she was left not only alone but also very wealthy?”

  As the carriage pulled up before the stables in George Yard, Elizabeth Gaskell slowly inclined her head.

  * * * *

  Over afternoon tea in the comfortable public room of the hostelry, Dickens summarized the essentials of the conundrum that Clarissa Pettigrew had posed.

  “Since her second marriage, your friend has become a virtual recluse. By nature she is charming and convivial, popular because she has always been not only attractive in appearance but generous and thoughtful. Nowadays, however, she and the Major shun neighbours, friends and even relatives. Your opinion is that this is at his insistence.”

  “I refuse to believe otherwise.”

  “Very well. According to your observation, the Major is not only considerably younger than Clarissa, but also appears to lack independent means.”

  “He is a fine figure of a man, but at the wedding, there was gossip that he had not a penny to his name until he took her for his wife. Some folk said he’d run into trouble while he was serving in India and that if he hadn’t left the army, he would have been disgraced.”

  Naturally there would be gossip; this was Cranford. However, Dickens kept the thought to himself. He drained his cup of tea and helped himself to a slice of gateau.

  “The effect of the marriage is, as you will appreciate, to transfer into the Major’s name your friend’s inheritance. The house, her first husband’s investments, everything. A scandalous state of affairs, in my opinion. Nevertheless, that is the law.”

  “Indeed.” Elizabeth’s face was a mask.

  “Still, although the two of you had enjoyed only limited contact by way of correspondence since the wedding, you had no reason to believe that anything was amiss until you received the letter.”

  “Friends in the town had informed me of their sorrow, that Clarissa and the Major appeared to be cutting them off. Nobody could believe that was Clarissa’s wish. Everyone blamed her new husband. Rumour had it he once blacked her eye when in a drunken rage. But who would dare to come between man and wife? I felt helpless until she wrote and asked for my aid.”

  “Did you know that she had been unwell?”

  “Not at all. You may imagine my dismay when she told me that for several weeks illness had confined her to the house.”

  “She speaks of a malady affecting her nerves.”

  “Which is quite unlike Clarissa. As a girl, I rather idolized her. She was blessed not only with a delightful personality but a robust constitution and ready wit. Very far removed, if you will forgive me, from a Dora Copperfield.”

  “According to Clarissa, on Monday last she spied a stranger lurking outside Canute Villa. An unkempt tramp in a battered hat and coat, hiding amongst the trees at the far side of the Heath. At first she paid him scant attention, but on the following day she noticed him again. He appeared to keep watch on the comings and goings of the household.”

  Elizabeth eyed him sharply. “You say according to Clarissa. Do you imply scepticism concerning her veracity?”

  “We cannot rule out anything.”

  She flushed. “Well, I can! Clarissa would never dream . . .”

  “If we are to stand in the shoes of members of the detective police,” Dickens interrupted, “we must refuse to be swayed by personal loyalties or affections. Without logic, Elizabeth, a detective is lost!”

  “Please proceed,” she said, struggling for an icy calm.

  Dickens cleared his throat and launched into the story, with as much gusto as if reciting Mrs Gamp orSikes and Nancy.

  “In ordinary circumstances, she would have approached the man and shooed him off. However, when she ventured from the door at the side of the house, he vanished. Later that night, however, when noting that the housemaid had drawn the curtains imperfectly and left a gap between them, she caught a glimpse in the moonlight of a dark figure loitering on the edge of the Heath and subjecting Canute Villa to intensive scrutiny. She could not see him clearly, but he was wearing a low-brimmed hat and she was sure that the tramp had returned. Fearing burglary, she informed her husband, but although he went out to inspect the grounds of their home, he could find nothing.

  “On his return, he accused Clarissa of succumbing to flights of fancy and went so far as to question her state of mind. She came close to believing that she had indeed imagined the whole episode, but the following day, through the
window she caught sight once more of the mysterious stranger. When he saw her looking at him, he disappeared from view. The Major was out of the house at the time and when he returned and she told him what had happened, he consulted the housemaid, a girl by the name of Alice. She denied having seen the apparition and the Major lost his temper - not, I gather, an unusual occurrence - and said that Clarissa was imagining things and that if she did not have a care, she would soon find herself confined to an asylum.”

  Pausing for breath, he considered his companion. Elizabeth was fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.

  “Why did her husband not believe her?” she murmured, as though wrestling with an abstruse mathematical problem.

  Dickens gave a shrug of the shoulders. “At all events, the next morning saw a further development. While the Major and the housemaid were out of the house, she found a crudely scrawled note tucked under the door of the house. It read simply: Please meet at nine o’clock behind the Lord Eldon. And it was signed ‘Datchery’. A name unknown to Clarissa. Having lived in the town all her life, she is certain that no local resident is so called. Frightened by the message, she showed it to her husband to see if he was familiar with Datchery, or could otherwise make any sense of the message. Her candour proved unwise. The Major flew into a fury and accused her of indulging in an unseemly association with another man and concocting a tale about a mysterious tramp to conceal her illicit relations with a lover. With no one else to turn to, Clarissa wrote in haste to seek the wise counsel of her old friend and confidante Elizabeth Gaskell.”

  “You have seen the letter. The trembling script indicates that Clarissa’s nerves are in tatters. She says she fears for her sanity and I can believe it.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “This is what marrying the Major has done to her.”

  Dickens said grimly, “I look forward to making the acquaintance of the unhappy couple. You have explained that I shall be accompanying you on your visit?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Even though she begged me to come and see her, you will recall that she implored me to say nothing in reply that might antagonize her husband, as he always insisted upon reading correspondence that she received, and she had concealed from him the very fact that she had written to me. I composed my response in terms of the utmost diplomacy, saying merely that I would call upon them while taking you around the sights of Cranford. She has always loved your writing, Charles, and I doubt whether even a bully such as the Major could easily object to our visiting them.”

  Dickens beamed. “An enthusiast for my work? That settles it, Scheherezade. Poor Mrs Pettigrew is most certainly not in danger of losing her mind.”

  * * * *

  The two of them strolled the short distance from King Street to Canute Villa by way of the Lord Eldon, an old coaching inn close to the livestock market at Heathside. Dickens insisted upon inspecting the alleyway where, he presumed, the meeting with the ruffian who called himself Datchery was supposed to have taken place.

  “Hmmm.” He tapped a walking stick on the cobbles. “An interesting spot for a rendezvous. Quiet and not overlooked. Convenient for the Pettigrews’ house, so it would be easy to slip away and meet someone here covertly before returning home. There is a good chance that a brief absence would not be noticed.”

  “Why would this man want to meet Clarissa?”

  “My dear woman, the first question is whether it was Clarissa whom he wanted to meet.”

  “You think the note might have been intended for the Major?”

  “Or even the housemaid.”

  Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “I had not contemplated the thought, but now that you mention it. . . Alice is as obliging as she is pretty. She has been with Clarissa since Mr Drinkwater was alive.”

  “Are there other servants?”

  “At the wedding she mentioned a manservant called Bowden, who was rather sweet on Alice. However, in her last but one letter to me, a fortnight ago, she said that the Major had given him notice and not appointed anyone to take his place.”

  Dickens wagged a finger playfully. “Ah, elegant economy is practised in Cranford after all!”

  “I gained the impression that the expenses of the household were mounting. She said that the Major found it most satisfactory to have a home overlooking a racecourse. No doubt he likes to make a wager from time to time.”

  “Let us speak plainly. If the craze for gambling has seized him, then the assets of the late Mr Drinkwater risk being squandered in all too short a time.” Dickens shook his head. “Come, let us make our visit.”

  As they followed a path across the Heath, Elizabeth pointed out the site of a grandstand that a new company proposed to erect to accommodate spectators at the races.

  “This afternoon the place may be deserted, but they say that with the coming of the railway, the races will attract thousands.”

  He rubbed his chin. “The world is changing, Scheherezade. Yet people, at heart, do not change.”

  * * * *

  “I’m not much of a man for reading,” Major Pettigrew harrumphed.

  Dickens favoured his host with a smile so cordial that it bordered on the oleaginous. “You are a man of action, sir. A pair of humble scribblers such as Mrs Gaskell and myself can do nothing but look with awe upon a soldier who has seen service in far-flung and dangerous corners of the world.”

  Pettigrew eyed his guest suspiciously but, unable to find obvious fault with the compliment, nodded towards the door leading back into the house and muttered, “We must return to the ladies. As I sought to make clear when you were introduced, my wife is a sick woman. It is most important that she should not over-excite herself.”

  They were standing in the garden to the rear of Canute Villa. A square lawn was fringed by rhododendron bushes, climbing roses and ancient copper beeches. After the demure housemaid had admitted the visitors to the presence of the Pettigrews, conversation was stilted. It was plain from the Major’s brusqueness that he did not welcome guests in his home. However, he could hardly expel such illustrious visitors without observing the common courtesies.

  Dickens had convinced himself that, if they were to help Clarissa at all, it would be essential for Elizabeth to speak to her in private. Thus, from the moment they were led into the large and immaculate drawing room, Dickens had chattered without drawing breath before glancing through the bay window looking out on to the lawn and expressing his admiration for the garden in fulsome terms before begging to be allowed to inspect it at close quarters. Elizabeth managed to suppress her amusement at his effrontery and Pettigrew had, albeit with a show of reluctance, consented to show Dickens around the grounds. Once outside, Dickens had talked endlessly about the privations of life as a writer while his host shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

  Obediently, Dickens trotted after his host as they returned to the drawing room. Pettigrew was tall and erect in bearing and boasted a splendid dark moustache. Dickens could imagine him charming an older woman, if he put his mind to it, but his chin was weak, and a petulant note was apt to enter his voice when he made even the most commonplace remark.

  On entering the presence of the ladies, Dickens caught Elizabeth’s eye. She frowned and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head as he spoke.

  “Mrs Pettigrew, may I compliment you? Your garden is as delightful as your charming home.”

  Clarissa’s lips twitched; it seemed to be as close as she could come to offering a smile. Her face was deathly pale and her frail body trembled in the brocaded armchair.

  “You are - very kind,” she said in a voice so faint that it was barely audible. “To think that we should entertain a guest as distinguished as . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” her husband interrupted. “Dickens, it is good of you and Mrs Gaskell to have stopped off from your travels to call at our humble abode, but as you can see, my wife is dreadfully fatigued. I do believe, Clarissa, that it would be best for you to go to bed. Come, my dearest, remember what the doctor said this morning. You must not
tax yourself. It could be dangerous.”

  * * * *

  “ ‘Come, my dearest’,” Elizabeth quoted scornfully when they had repaired to the sitting room at the Royal George. “The man is a hypocrite. He does not care for her one jot.”

  To see her old friend in such a sorry state had hit her hard. Dickens was tempted to clasp her hand and murmur words of consolation, but a moment’s reflection persuaded him of the unwisdom of such a course. He would not wish his good intentions to be misinterpreted. Women could be such fearful creatures.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Nothing of value. She insisted that she had been mistaken. Her husband was right and the mysterious stranger was indeed a figment of her imagination.”

  “What?”