by Carol Hedges
Stride growls.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better, is it?”
Cully shrugs. Years of working with his boss has taught him the value of discretion. Stride in this mood is like a thunderstorm. Lightning could strike at any time. Best to lie low and wait for the storm to blow over.
Stride stabs a finger at The Globe.
“And what the hell is that supposed to be?”
“I think it is an artist’s impression of the giant hound.”
“It’s got bloody flames coming out of its mouth!” Stride shouts. “They’ll be saying it has horns and flashing eyes next!”
Cully murmurs something noncommittal. Stride clearly hasn’t seen the picture in The Sun yet.
“I tell you, Jack, paperwork and the press: compared to them, catching criminals is a picnic in the park.”
“So, what now?”
Stride gets up and reaches for his hat and overcoat.
“Now we have to go and inform an innocent young woman, who knows nothing of the world and its wicked ways, that her uncle’s body has disappeared from its final resting place.”
“Are we going to mention the gigantic hound?”
Stride rolls his eyes.
“Well,” Cully persists, “how do you explain the footsteps? You saw them. We all saw them. And none of the medical schools says they have taken in any male bodies matching Mr King's description.”
Stride shrugs him off with a wave of his hand. He walks firmly out of the office and heads for the front door of the police station, his voice echoing back along the empty corridor.
“There’s no such thing as gigantic hounds, Jack. Never was. Never will be.”
“What were those footprints then, tell me that?” Cully mutters under his breath. But his question falls upon empty air.
****
Studiously avoiding the shouted questions from the little knot of journalists gathered outside the Yard, Stride whistles up a cab and directs the man to take him and Cully to an address in St John’s Wood.
Arriving at their destination, he alights, ordering the driver to wait. The detectives are shown into the drawing room where they study the carpet intently and in silence, until Josephine enters, her face pale, but her expression hopeful.
Stride’s heart sinks. There are many aspects of his job that he does not enjoy, and this one comes pretty near the top of the pile.
“Miss King. I hope you are well.”
“I believe I am well, Detective Inspector, thank you. Have you brought me some news about the men who murdered my uncle? Are they now apprehended?”
“Not yet.”
Her expression unbrightens.
Strenuously avoiding eye contact, Stride addresses his next remark at a spot just over her left shoulder.
“There has, however, been a development. Of sorts.”
“Yes?”
She clasps her hands behind her back, and waits silently for him to continue.
Stride clears his throat.
“The body of your late uncle, Mr Herbert King, appears to have been removed from its resting place overnight.”
A leaden silence descends.
“Appears to have been removed?”
“It has been removed.”
“Removed by whom?”
“We do not know, as yet. We have inquired at the usual locations.”
“What are the usual locations?”
“Err ... certain medical establishments.”
“Why?”
Just the sort of question Stride dreads being asked. He pauses, finding himself upon the horns of a dilemma. His mind flails around helplessly. Then decides to take the easy route out.
“With respect, Miss King,” he replies, “I’m afraid it is not a subject suitable for an impressionable young female mind.”
The words rattle out fast, as if he has lined them up and fired them all in one go, before they have time to wander off.
She stands utterly still, and remains uncannily silent.
“Let me assure you, Miss King that we are investigating what has occurred. Fully and comprehensively investigating it.”
The silence continues.
“My highly-trained officers will leave no stone unturned.”
Still she says nothing.
“Do you have anything you wish to ask me?” Stride asks.
She gives him a cool stare that continues for a couple of seconds beyond the comfort barrier.
“I have many things I wish to ask you, detective inspector. But, apparently, I am unable to do so, as the subject is not suitable for my impressionable young female mind.”
Stride feels he is climbing up a tilting slope. He is used to the sort of young women who sells violets, or alcohol, or themselves. The sort you chuck under the chin, and call Now then, my girl, in a kindly but superior way. He is most definitely not used to the sort who hit you round the ear with difficult questions, and then use silence as a blunt instrument.
“I hope to bring you better news soon,” he concludes lamely.
She inclines her head.
“I hope so too,” she murmurs.
The cab is still waiting outside the house. Stride and Cully clamber aboard, and the driver whips up the horse. Only when they are approaching Whitehall Place does Stride rouse himself from the brown study that has fallen upon him ever since leaving the house.
“Murder, Cully. Then bodysnatching. What the hell is going on?”
Not to mention a gigantic hound, Cully thinks. But as this is a topic upon which his boss has refused to engage, he does not mention it.
****
Night falls. Under a black sky so full of diamond stars that it looks as if somebody has thrown handfuls of jewels up to God, the City sleeps. Listen. You can almost hear the deep rhythmic breathing of the prosperous and the sin-free, safe in their warm cosy beds in their stout brick houses, the last embers still glowing in the hearth. No night terrors assail their slumbers. No opium-fuelled, gin-soaked horrors disturb their peaceful rest.
Far from these opulent dwellings, the flickering glow of streetlamps barely lights the way for the late ones staggering home from an evening’s debauchery, pausing only to spew the contents of their last meal onto the already damp and slimy cobbles.
The rough sleepers in Regent’s Park huddle cold in their ragged clothing, and wait for the first limpid streaks of dawn to herald another hopeless day, which some will never wake to see. A dog howls. Voices are raised momentarily in angry debate, then mutter away into silence.
Time wears on. In the bedroom in St John’s Wood, Josephine opens her eyes. She has been dreaming. Not the dream where she is standing by a crumpled, filthy bed in a hot white room, looking on the faces of two dead strangers who once were her beloved parents. Thankfully, since she arrived in London that dream has no longer troubled her.
This is a dream whose details disperse on the instant of waking, leaving a luminal atmosphere behind it. A feeling of menace, a sense of evil, the impression of a shapeless form being dragged across damp ground into a grey mist.
The house is very quiet. She lies in the ashy light of the breaking day feeling as if the small piece of solid ground upon which she stands has broken away from the shore, and she is drifting out to the infinite sea alone.
She tries to fold the events of the previous day, and the memory of what Detective Inspector Stride told her, into smaller and smaller squares, as if it were a sheet of paper, until it is tiny enough to hide in a crease of her hand, tiny enough to imagine that none of it has happened.
Some time later there is a knock at the door and Annie enters.
“Good morning, miss. Another rainy day, I'm afraid.”
She crosses to the wardrobe.
“Which dress shall I lay out?”
“The black one,” Josephine says, without thinking.
The maid purses her lips and looks at her disapprovingly.
“Are you staying in or going out today, miss?”
&
nbsp; Josephine sighs. Where should she go? Her uncle's body has been stolen; the jewels left to her in his Will have mysteriously disappeared, and there is nobody in this great city she can confide in. Then, suddenly, a name comes unbidden into her mind. She sits upright.
“I think I shall wear my best black dress today, Annie,” she says. “I will be going out later.”
****
Meanwhile, in a different bedroom in another part of the city, Isabella Thorpe is also getting ready for the day ahead. She sits at her dressing table, languidly ignoring a cup of weak tea, while Withers, the lady’s maid, brushes and curls her hair.
Isabella Thorpe’s bedroom is decked out in frills. The dressing table, the chair, the bed, the canopy, the curtains, even the over mantel are all covered in white lace frills. It is a bit like stepping into a giant white wedding cake.
Isabella peers at her reflection in the frilled looking glass and sighs. She turns over in her mind the first of numerous arduous decisions she will have to make today, namely, which colour dress is she going to wear? She possesses a wardrobe crammed with dresses of every hue, making the daily choice a chore.
She is just about to issue her final instructions, when there is a light knock at the door and Mrs Thorpe sails in, trailing an aura of lavender water in her wake.
Unsmiling, Isabella regards her in the mirror.
“Good morning Mama, how are you?”
Mrs Thorpe raises an eyebrow.
“Still not dressed, my sweet?”
She rustles to the dressing table, and lifts a lock of the chestnut hair.
“How nicely your hair curls today.”
Isabella’s expression changes from weary to wary. A compliment from her mother, especially first thing in the morning, is usually the precursor to a commandment.
“I really think you should wear the pink shot silk taffeta today, my angel. You always look so pretty in pink, you know. And that paisley shawl that your dear generous brother gave you would set it off just perfectly.”
Isabella goes on looking into the mirror, staring at vacancy. She does not think pink suits her at all, but when Mama is present, she has learned to acquiesce. There are always those times when she is absent.
The little pendule on the frilly mantelpiece strikes the half-hour.
Her mother continues,
“A hot breakfast is waiting for you in the dining-room, when you are ready for it. And after, I wish you to accompany me on some calls. Mrs Carlyle is returned to town, and you know how she delights to see you, and hear all about your school in France.”
“Where I picked up so many airs and graces,” Isabella says languidly, “but now I don't know my longitude from my latitude. And as for my French ... I can’t recall a single word.”
“You are being whimsical, my love. I am sure there is not a better-educated girl in the whole of London.”
“Oh Mama – you mustn't take me au grand serieux! I’m sure if I only apply myself to my books, I’ll turn out to be an excellent bluestocking by-and-by.”
Mrs Thorpe draws herself up.
“Indeed, I hope you will not, my love. Gentlemen don’t like that sort of woman at all.”
“I see. Do they not? Thank you for telling me.”
Her Mama gives an artificial little laugh.
“You are such a droll girl! I do not understand you at times. And afterwards, we must call upon poor little Josephine King. Your father and I are delighted that you both are becoming such fast friends. She is such a dear girl, isn't she? So childish and innocent.”
“And she has such a huge private fortune,” Isabella murmurs, sotto voce, but not quite sotto voce enough.
“Well, that is true,” Mrs Thorpe inclines her head. “And since you mention it, that brings me to another matter which I need to speak to you about.”
Isabella bites her lips. She has an inkling of what is coming.
“You know that your father and I only want the best for you?”
Isabella nods.
“We want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” Isabella says, through gritted teeth.
“For now, Bella dear, perhaps you are. But this carefree, girlish existence of calls and shopping and pleasure cannot continue indefinitely.”
“Can it not?”
Mrs Thorpe shakes her head playfully.
“Indeed no. We must start making plans for your future. And that is why we are going to call upon Mrs Carlyle today. She knows the right people, the ones it would be good for you to meet. After all -”
“After all, when you were my age, you were already engaged to Papa, and all the men in London were in mourning,” Isabella intones dully.
Mrs Thorpe gives a tinkly laugh,
“Well, maybe not all the men in London,” she simpers.
Nobody will be wearing black armbands when I get engaged, Isabella thinks gloomily. Except perhaps me.
Mrs Thorpe pats her daughter’s shoulder.
“And now I shall leave you to complete your toilette, my love,” she says.
Isabella regards her mother's stout departing back in the mirror, trying to imagine her as young and slender and attractive. It cannot be done.
She turns to the waiting lady's maid.
“I shall wear the green tartan today, Withers. And you can lace me to sixteen inches. I shan’t be having any breakfast.”
****
Endell Terrace, Maida Vale, is located off the main Marylebone Road. A row of modern whitewashed villas, with black wrought-iron railings at the front. Several villas have canopied walkways that lead from the front door to the gate, discreetly screening visitors from prying eyes.
The morning rain has ceased, and the air is fresh and chilled as Josephine walks slowly along the pavement peering at house numbers. She sees a canary in a cage, a Wardian case on a window ledge, the flick of a feather duster behind a net curtain. A couple of sparrows are hopping to and fro in the gutter.
Two shouting children bowl an iron hoop. A man in a well-brushed top hat comes out of one of the houses, glances quickly up and down the street, then sets off briskly in a northerly direction.
There is very little to distinguish number 3 Endell Terrace from the rest of the street. A glossy black front door, a brass knocker in the shape of a serpent, a decorative fan in the parlour window, dark red velvet curtains. The steps are newly scrubbed.
Josephine stops outside. So this is where Mrs Lilith Marks lives, the woman whose visiting card was abruptly torn up by Annie? The woman who must have been very important to her uncle; important enough that he left her two rubies in his Will.
Suddenly she sees a curtain twitch, catches the blurred outline of a face. Shocked at being caught staring so openly at the house, she turns and hurries away. But she has barely gone a few yards when she hears footsteps hurrying up behind her. Next moment, a hand is laid lightly on her shoulder.
Josephine turns. A woman is standing in the middle of the pavement. She wears a vividly-coloured red-and-blue-check dress with wide pagoda sleeves. Thick coal-black hair is piled on top of her head in a series of twists, held in place by a number of jewelled combs. Her tight bodice clearly outlines the swell of her bosom above a slender waist. Her large dark eyes are fixed inquiringly upon Josephine's face.
The woman is clear-complexioned, with arched black brows, and a full red mouth. She exudes a strange exoticness. She could be the daughter of foreign royalty. She could equally well be something quite different.
“Please excuse the liberty,” she says, “but am I addressing Miss King – Miss Josephine King?”
“Yes,” Josephine nods.
“I thought so. Forgive me for accosting you in the open street like this, Miss King. My name is Mrs Lilith Marks. I was acquainted with your late uncle Mr Herbert King.”
There is a momentary pause before the word ‘acquainted’, as if the woman has carefully selected it from other words that she might have chosen to say, but didn’t. She produces a tiny silver w
atch from her pocket, and glances at it.
“I regret that I was not at home when you called. I had just stepped out into the garden for a moment’s fresh air. If you do not have another pressing engagement elsewhere, perhaps you might like to return with me?”
It is an invitation Josephine cannot refuse, and so she follows Lilith Marks, and a short while later finds herself in a small elegant parlour with a richly-patterned Oriental carpet on the floor. The carpet is identical to the one in her uncle’s drawing room. Indeed, if she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, she could almost be back there. But she is not. Her uncle’s taste in paintings does not run to racehorses, fashion prints, and ladies in various states of undress.
“I see that you received my calling card,” Lilith Marks says, after the preliminary rituals of greeting and seating have been completed. “I thought that your maid would tear it in two.”
“She did.”
Lilith Marks throws back her head and laughs.
“Ah, the redoubtable Annie. Guardian of all that is prim and proper. But nevertheless, you are here.”
“I ... wanted to see you.”
“And I want to see you, too.”
Lilith smiles.
“Herbert – your uncle – spoke of you often,” she continues. “It was a hard blow for him to return from his travels to find that both his parents – your grandparents – were dead, and then soon afterwards, to learn of the deaths of your father and mother in India. He thought you had died also. He was overjoyed when he discovered, quite by chance, that you had not.”
Josephine stares hard at the intricate pattern of the carpet, feeling a pain behind her eyes in the place that only exists before tears come.
“If you can bear it,” Lilith Marks says gently, “I should very much like to hear what happened that fateful night. I only know what I have read in the newspapers.”
Josephine relates everything, including yesterday's visit of Detective Inspector Stride. Lilith sits very still, listening intently. When all has been told, she rises swiftly and walks to the small bow window, where she stands staring out into the street, her shoulders stiff, her back ramrod-straight.