‘You can write back and put him in his place if you like. I’ll sign it off.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow.’
His smile straightened. ‘I thought you’d be amused.’
I said that I was just a little tired.
He regarded me with concern, gathered up the letters and set them aside. ‘Why don’t you fetch a book, and read with me here? I could do with the company.’
It would have been a pleasant way to pass an hour. The firelight in Father’s study glinted on the spines of his books, but already it felt as if the shadows outside were encroaching.
‘Father, have you ever disagreed with the verdict at one of your inquests?’
‘From time to time. Very rarely.’
‘Has it happened recently?’
‘No. Not recently.’ He began cleaning his spectacles with a handkerchief, holding the lens towards a candle-flame.
‘What about Miss Casey?’
‘Is that what has been troubling you, Abigail? I know I was severe when Labatt brought you back from the Rotunda. In truth, you had nothing to do with the death of Miss Casey.’
‘I’ve known that for some time.’
His eyes narrowed a little as if he’d been caught in a glare. ‘The jury’s verdict in that case was correct.’
‘Did you speak with Mrs Longsworth?’
‘I don’t know who that is.’
‘She was in the ward with Emilie. She saw a man remove her restraints on the night she died.’
‘Most likely an orderly . . . When did you meet with this woman?’
‘Do you really believe that Emilie could have made two incisions with her weaker hand, cut deep enough with a piece of glass, all while chained to a hospital bed?’
‘Leaving aside how you’ve come to know those facts,’ he said, ‘the jurors saw the body, the glass fragment; they heard the testimony of Dr Labatt. There was only one decision they could make; only one I could direct.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’
‘I could not ask a jury to doubt the word of the assistant master of the Rotunda.’
‘Father, I’m asking whether you think that Emilie killed herself.’
He rose from his chair and went to the window with his arms folded. In the gloom, a light visible in the cupola of the Lying-In Hospital happened to go out.
‘Abigail, I admire you for wanting to do right by Miss Casey, despite her own terrible crime, but this has gone far enough. I want you to stop making these enquiries, reading things you shouldn’t, going to places you’re not allowed. I’m loath to say it, but I fear it has become a fixation. It’s not healthy.’
‘Not healthy?’
‘It is my own fault. I should have done more to keep my work separate; to not let details intrude into this house. And I’m sorry.’ He was flustered, for it was rare that he had to reproach me. He held his thumb awkwardly in a buttonhole of his waistcoat.
‘I only wish to find the truth, Father.’
‘Promise me that you’ll let the matter rest.’
‘Would you wish me to make a promise that I know I cannot keep?’
His expression was pained. ‘You can be so stubborn at times. Just like . . .’ He stopped speaking and bowed his head.
‘Just like my mother?’
He didn’t look at me as he sat back down. He placed the crystal stopper back into the decanter, and rotated his goblet on the side table without picking it up. He suddenly seemed quite old. There was more silver in his hair than black. Tiny blood vessels showed in his cheeks and nose. At first I’d felt annoyed by his rebuke, and the fact that he wouldn’t listen, but now I was sorry for upsetting him. Perhaps I was just sorry that we were so at odds, sorry to be disappointed in him.
I stood up and placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘If you want me to cease enquiring after Miss Casey, Father, then I will.’
He reached up and briefly held my hand. ‘I am glad.’ Then he cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. ‘Would you still like to read with me?’
I looked towards the window. ‘I might take some air in the gardens before it gets dark.’ I bent down to kiss his cheek. ‘I shall see you at supper.’
Two boys stood beneath a tree in the corner of Rutland Gardens, their kite stuck in the branches. Its line hung tantalizingly beyond their reach, swaying in the breeze. One boy cupped his hands and gave the other a boost, but to no avail. They glanced at me as I passed. If I stretched, I might have been able to grasp the line, but they didn’t ask.
I thought of what Father had said. Was it so unusual to have taken such interest in Emilie Casey? If I’d merely heard about her while talking with Mrs Perrin, or from an article in the paper, would I have paid it any mind? I couldn’t imagine Clarissa doing what I had done; but did that make it wrong? Perhaps my actions were enough to gain a reputation; nothing bad, just a certain peculiarity, and then people could say that the apple rarely falls far from the tree, and the minds of some would be set against me. Father may have been right to guard against that. Especially when many would have looked upon Emilie as nothing more than a fallen servant who had murdered her own child.
There were lights in the windows of the Neshams’ house, where shadowy figures passed before the opened shutters. A Brethren meeting had broken up. The front door opened and people began emerging; men mostly, a few women, but none that I recognized. The group lingered on the steps, bidding each other farewell. Mrs Nesham came out, a man at her side, the metal hooks of his coat fastened up to his chin, and he was fixing a hat on his head. Even at a distance, I could see his left eyelid drooped halfway down, the skin pink and wrinkled. He leaned close to Mrs Nesham as if to kiss her cheek, but only spoke into her ear, and then turned away from the house. He crossed the road in the wake of a passing carriage, and entered the western gate of the gardens near the boys who stood beneath the tree. He paused and reached up to take the line, easing the kite from among the branches with deft tugs until it fell to the ground. He handed the string to the smallest boy, who looked up at him wide-eyed, before the other scooped up the kite and they both ran on to the lawns. The man watched them go, and turned slowly about until he faced me.
He didn’t appear to recognize me, or seem surprised to see a girl unaccompanied on the path. The last of the evening light filtered through the canopy, and the gardens were dull and green, muffled by the wet leaves of an early autumn. The shouts of the children receded, and the people outside the house dispersed. Still the man’s eyes wouldn’t leave me, and I was conscious that we were alone on the darkening pathway.
Then, as if he’d committed my features to memory, he turned and walked towards the gate on Palace Row. My first instinct was to cut across the lawns for the safety of home, but I knew this must have been the man that Mrs Longsworth had seen. I followed him on to the street as if I’d intended to go that way. He was already several paces ahead, one hand in a chest-high pocket of his Brethren coat, his stove-pipe hat cocked forward and to the right.
I raised the hood of my cloak and kept my distance. The lamps were yet to be lit, though light spilled from the shop fronts on Dorset Street. The man’s pace was steady. He crossed the road at right angles, and I wondered if this was a strange conscientiousness, or if his peripheral vision was poor. At one point he glanced about, and I stopped to look at the window display of a shop selling exotic foods: tins of tea and coffee, and jars of guava marmalade.
Carriages and carts slowed as they passed each other on Capel Street. The pathways were busy, and shop awnings fluttered overhead. The man walked through the crowd serenely, turning his shoulders this way and that so his progress hardly slowed. On the corner of Little Britain Street, a carriage tried to push its way into the traffic and almost collided with an oncoming cab. The drivers swore at each other, and for a moment my view was blocked.
The man had stopped to look at the commotion, one hand still in his coat pocket. I stayed hidden behind one of the horses as it shook its mane and stamped a ho
of.
‘He’s not going to hurt you, you know.’
A middle-aged woman with pinned grey hair was waiting for me to move on.
‘Pardon?’
‘The horse. He won’t bite.’
I smiled and nodded and told her to go ahead.
The man resumed walking, turning off at a narrow side street. By the time I got there, the alley was deserted, stretching away for a hundred yards with service entrances and padlocked gates. Only one door stood open, and I approached it slowly.
The mortar in the bricks had begun to wear away, so their edges were sharp against the gloom of the hallway. Arcs had been scraped over the tiled floor just inside the entrance, and weeds were growing against the doorsill. Right in the corner, a single buttercup grew, shivering on its stalk. No sound came from within, but it seemed as if the darkness could reach out and take me.
A narrow corridor led to a locked door – its brass knob wouldn’t even twist – and beside that, a staircase to the basement. Though unlit, the passage was swept and clean. The faintest glimmer came from the bottom of the stairs; also a tapping sound, perhaps footsteps, but then I realized it was an arrhythmic ticking, as of several clocks running together.
A shadow passed over the stairwell, and I turned about. The door to the laneway was a grey rectangle in the darkness, and the man stood within its frame. Even in silhouette, I could imagine his crooked gaze upon me.
I felt backwards with my foot to the top of the steps, but I didn’t know what kind of room might be below.
‘I lost my way,’ I said, speaking louder to stop my voice from catching. ‘My father and I were trying to find a certain shop.’
He made no reply, didn’t move at all except for a slight bow of his head, as if disappointed.
‘He’s outside now, waiting for me.’
The man reached across to brush the wall, and then rubbed his fingers together like someone testing for damp.
‘I should go back to him.’
‘You should never have come,’ he said, his voice soft and refined.
A small tinny chime sounded in the room downstairs. It was answered by several others, ringing in succession as if time seeped slowly through the room. ‘But my father—’
‘He isn’t there.’ He took a shuffling step towards me, his boot grazing the tiles.
If I called out, he would be upon me. The corridor was wide enough for two people to pass, but he’d catch me no matter how fast I tried to run.
‘Father knows about you,’ I said. ‘He knows what you did to Miss Casey.’
He paused, close enough now that I could see his good eye move about. I expected him to deny any knowledge of Emilie.
‘Your father inquired into that death. His verdict has already been reached.’
‘Not every piece of evidence is presented at inquest.’ My breathing had become shallow, and I could hear my voice taper off. ‘He knows that you were in the Rotunda that night.’
The noise of a dog barking in the lane made his head turn slightly, but it jerked back to me when I took a step.
‘Let me by.’
He stayed perfectly still without responding.
‘I said, let—’
‘What makes you think that I would stop you?’
A breeze blew through the door, ruffling my cloak, and a single leaf rolled along the crook of the wall. The man didn’t move when I walked towards him, and only stepped aside at the last moment. His coat smelled of mothballs, and his bad eye fixed on me as I passed. Once beyond his grasp I began to run. I tripped and fell at the door, scraping my hand over the stone tiles. I expected to feel his fingers close about my ankle, but I scrambled up, and didn’t look back until I reached Capel Street.
In the press of the traffic I felt cold all of a sudden. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. My palm stung. I looked down at the torn skin, and a woman cursed at me when I bumped into her. The best-lit road that would take me home was Great Britain Street, and I stayed close to a young governess and two small boys who happened to be walking in that direction. There were fewer people here, though many of the windows overhead were bright. I kept glancing back at the street. There was a man leaning against a lamppost, his arms folded and head bent, and I couldn’t remember having passed him. The governess and her charges turned into one of the houses and shut the door, leaving me alone on the street.
Ewan lived along here; Father and I had collected him in the carriage more than once. When I reached the house, there was no knocker, so I pushed the lid of the letter box several times. A skinny man in a grey dressing gown opened the door and peered at me.
‘I am looking for Mr Weir,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘His name is Ewan.’
‘Oh, the young Scot. He’s on the first floor. Door on the left.’ He stepped back and allowed me in, grinning as I passed. ‘Expecting you, is he?’
Up on the landing, a child was crying in the room to the right, and a man’s voice was raised. It took a few moments for Ewan to answer my knock. He was in his shirtsleeves, the top buttons open at the neck, and one brace off his shoulder.
‘What is wrong?’ he said.
I asked if I could come in.
He looked into the hallway, and I turned about, half expecting to see someone. Ewan seemed to note my worry, for he said, ‘Of course.’
His room was about the size of our parlour, made bright by an oil-lamp and a glowing fire. A book lay open on an armchair, and a glass of wine sat perched on a wooden coal-box. The iron-sprung bed in the corner had a noticeable dip in the middle, but the covers on top were neatly folded. The room contained everything he needed: kitchen dresser and table, nightstand and washbasin. His shutters were open, and I went to a window to look down on the street. It was difficult to see anything in the darkness.
‘Is everything all right? Has something happened to your father?’
‘I thought that someone was following me.’
‘Following you?’ He joined me at the window. ‘Why aren’t you at home?’
His presence was a comfort, and I had to stop myself from moving closer. My hand began to throb, and I blew into my palm.
‘I saw a man come from a Brethren meeting, and I followed him for a while. But he spotted me.’ I had never told Ewan about the man with the lazy eye, and I didn’t want to say how close our encounter had been. Even now it seemed so foolish to have entered the house.
Ewan noticed my hand. ‘Did he do that to you?’
‘No, I fell.’
‘Let me see.’
I placed my hand in his. He gently brushed a finger at the side of the cut, and I flinched.
‘I’ll have to clean it,’ he said. ‘Go and sit by the fire.’
Ewan opened his wardrobe and took down a leather satchel. He brought it to the table and removed a roll of cloth and stoppered bottle. I lifted his book from the armchair and sat down. It was a novel, The Devil’s Elixirs.
‘Can I have some wine?’
Ewan was cutting strips of cloth away with a scalpel. ‘Yes, though I’ve only the one glass.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I said, and took a long sip.
He fetched his washbasin and put it beside the hearth. Some water spilled over the edge and hissed when it touched the grate. He knelt beside me, cradled my hand once again, and dipped a folded piece of cloth in water.
Before he began, I said, ‘Wait,’ and took another sip of wine.
He looked at me. ‘That won’t dull the pain.’
‘I know.’
He began to clean around the edges of the wound, removing pieces of grime with small precise strokes. Occasionally a sting would make me close my fingers against his. The cut ran up over my wrist, and he asked if he could lift my sleeve. I nodded. He undid the lace cuff of my dress, and twice folded it back. He said, ‘What possessed you to follow a stranger?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Will you accompa
ny me when I return home?’
‘Yes, but I shall have to speak to your father.’
‘You mustn’t.’
He picked up another cloth, soaked it in iodine and held it over my hand. ‘This may sting,’ he said.
‘I promised him that I’d stop doing these things.’
‘It has gone beyond getting in trouble. You are putting yourself in danger.’
I was going to say, ‘Please don’t,’ but I could feel the stresses of the evening well in my voice, and I was loath to make some tearful plea. I pulled my hand away.
He leaned back and regarded me, the cloth still in his fingers. ‘Abigail, why do you feel you must do everything alone?’
‘Because no one offers help. They insist that I stay where I belong.’
He held my eye for a moment, then bowed his head and applied more iodine to the cloth. I thought of Ewan coming back to me in the Rotunda, showing me Father’s files, even here now, tending my wound, and I realized that he had done more than most would be willing; probably more than he should.
I offered him my hand again, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Ewan.’
The iodine left yellow streaks on my skin. He took a length of cloth and began wrapping it around my palm and the webbing of my thumb.
I said that he could inform my father if he wished, but first I wanted to tell him of all I’d found: meeting with Mrs Longsworth, and Martha and Robert Gould, and what had happened that evening. He listened as the darkness outside became complete, and the fire dwindled. The child across the hall in the lodging-house continued to cry.
8
It snowed on the first day of August, a light dry dusting that would sift from the leaves when disturbed by a wasp. Cart-wheel tracks criss-crossed the mired surface on George’s Lane, and the costermongers were wrapped up in tattered layers, their wicker baskets tilted and mostly empty. When I entered Mr Whistler’s shop, the milky eyes of the terrier sought me out. He got up to come towards me, hugging the wall at first, deftly sidestepping the leg of a table and the head of a broom, before crossing the shop floor. He sniffed at the hem of my skirt and wagged his tail.
Mr Whistler was in the next room, standing by a worktable with lengths of cloth, spools of thread and a box-iron, the coals inside still glowing. Whistler was flanked by two male dress-forms – limbless torsos on tripod stands. One was covered with a black coat, and when I came near I saw that he was sewing a hook to its front lapel, looking down his nose through half-moon spectacles. There was a rack against the wall, and several Brethren coats hung from its pole, my pale gown conspicuous among them.
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