by Carol Hedges
Private Jarndyce, whose relationship with time and geography is fluid at best, points a shaky finger.
“Is this the ’orspital? Will the kind lady with the lamp be there?”
Oi shakes his head sadly.
“Right, old’un,” he says. “It’s down the area steps for the likes of you and me. And let’s hope the skivvy ain’t a tartar, or we’ll be back on the street afore you’ve said your piece.”
A short while later, Josephine is interrupted by a knock at her bedroom door. She has just time to squirrel the diamond away in a drawer, before Annie the parlour maid enters, her expression even more hoity-toity than usual.
“If you please, miss,” she says, “there are two ... persons to see you.”
In the basement kitchen Josephine discovers Oi sitting on the step on a piece of newspaper. He has a slice of bread in one hand, clearly the result of some sort of charm offensive upon Mrs Hudson, the cook. A peculiar smell seems to be coming from somewhere just beyond the open kitchen door.
Oi pauses mid-bite.
“Said I’d let yer know when old Jim came back to Lunnon,” he says, nodding towards the area.
Josephine crosses the kitchen, and discovers the wreck that was once Private Jim Jarndyce of the Light Cavalry Brigade, but which is now just a shaking, shivering mad-eyed heap of rags and bones. They stand and stare at each other in wordless amazement.
Still chewing, Oi appears in the doorway.
“Has he told yer?”
She shakes her head.
“Come on, old’un,” Oi coaxes. “You remember: it was a dark and misty night ...”
The bundle of rags jerks into semi-animated life.
“It was a dark and misty night and I woz restin’ my eyes when I heard blood-curdlin’ screams,” it recites. “An’ I looked and looked an’ I didn’t see nuffink and then I heard footsteps.”
He stops, swaying to and fro as if blown by some internal gale.
“Go on,” Oi prods. “And then someone ran past you, right?”
The old man takes a couple of shuffling steps towards Josephine, who feels her eyes beginning to water from the smell.
“Whoever it woz,” he whispers hoarsely, “they looked like a person, and wore clothes like a person, but they woz running on all fours, like an animal.”
“What do you mean?”
But Private Jarndyce’s brief visit to the real world is over. Staring distractedly about him, he starts mumbling about cannons and sabres.
Oi shakes his head.
“You won't get nuffink outer him now,” he says.
Josephine instructs Mrs Hudson to supply them both with food. Then the dazed old man is hauled and manoeuvred back up the area steps, leaving her completely mystified and wondering what on earth it was that he thought he saw.
Sadly, she will never find out. Sometime during the night, Private Jim Jarndyce will be summoned by a greater commander to appear on a higher parade ground. In the morning, he will be found cold and lifeless in a doorway, his pockets still full of his uneaten bread and cheese.
****
But before this unfortunate discovery is made, a dinner party is taking place at the Hampstead mansion of Mr and Mrs Thorpe. It is a dinner party for which no expense has been spared, from the elaborate place-settings and the snowy linen to the great epergnes of hothouse flowers and greenery.
The menus (written in French of course) have been carefully planned by the gracious hostess of the feast. No bread and cheese here. The food has been cooked by a French chef, specially hired for the occasion.
Naturally there will be several courses, beginning with potages, passing through poissons and relèves and ending with entremets – these last being placed on stands on the sideboard, to be admired by the guests before being demolished.
Amber sherry awaits in cut-glass decanters. Hock and champagne sit in silver wine-coolers, and sweet dessert wines are lined up like infantrymen awaiting the signal to go.
The guests eat and drink and are exceedingly merry. Although not all of them. Isabella Thorpe, for one, does not seem to be participating in any aspect of the evening's entertainments.
Her plate of Suprème de Saumon Richelieu sits untouched in front of her. Her wine is untasted. The expression on her face indicates that given a choice – which of course she has not been given – she would rather be anywhere else than here.
The two eligible bachelors sitting on either side of her have both been trying to engage her in sparkling witty conversation ever since the Consomme à la Doria. To no avail, and as her plate is discreetly removed by the specially-hired waiters, to be replaced by some Côtelettes Hasseur aux Pointes, they give up, turning instead to the ladies sitting on the other side, who are only too happy to flirt and receive their attentions.
Isabella stares at her thin bony hands, which remind her of bird claws. She knows that Mrs Thorpe has deliberately arranged the guests so that she sits between young George Murray (two thousand pounds a year) and even younger Henry Soane (will inherit large family house and successful business one day). She presses her lips together and crumbles her slice of bread.
Isabella remembers passing a butcher’s shop recently, and seeing a freshly killed pig’s head in the window, an apple in its mouth. Blood caked its nostrils and it was surrounded by flies. It made her feel sick and dizzy. All those flies buzzing around the poor dead animal, its eyes blindly open.
And now here she is. She has turned into the pig, artfully arranged in her mother's shop window, and the young men are the flies. Buzz, buzz.
A tarte aux framboises is placed in front of her. Reluctantly, she picks up her fork, breaks into the pastry crust. The raspberry juice gushes out, dripping onto the plate, red like blood.
The fork clatters onto her plate. The room swims. She feels all eyes swivel towards her, has the sensation of falling forwards. She hears a glass smash, smells freshly laundered linen. Then darkness descends.
****
It is a few days later, in the thin light of an early dawn, a boat is making its way along the river Thames, the liquid coin that runs through the heart of the city. Two people are in the boat: a man plying the oars, and an adolescent boy with his hand on the tiller.
They make steady progress, always keeping a wary eye open, for the tide has just turned and is running fast, and there are already barges and sailing colliers dropping down the river.
A slant of light touches something wrapped in a tarpaulin, lying on the wooden planks at the bottom of the boat. Something that bears the outline of a human form. The boat passes under Tower Bridge and continues downriver until it reaches the wharf known as Dead Man’s Stairs.
The oarsman guides the boat towards the water-lapped wooden piles. His companion steps nimbly ashore and ties it by a rope to one of the iron rings attached to a post. The two then lift the gruesome contents out of the boat and carry it the short distance to the Wapping Headquarters of the River Police, where they dump it unceremoniously on the floor.
“’Nother one for you,” the oarsman says gruffly.
The desk sergeant sighs, reaching for pen and ink. He opens the occurrence book.
“Male? Female?”
“Man. Been dead a while.”
“Papers?”
“Nuffink.”
“Pockets?”
A shake of the head.
“Where?”
“Putney.”
“Anything else?”
In reply, the man stretches out his hand.
“’Arf a crown. Finder’s fee.”
The desk sergeant unlocks a cash box.
“Sign here.”
The man makes a cross in the book, puts the money into his pocket, and signals to the boy that he is ready to go.
Out on the slipway, the boy turns to him.
“Why didn't you tell ’im abaht the marks?”
“None of our business,” the man says quickly. “Let ’em work it out for themselves. We got our money. That's all w
ot matters.”
The boy stares back at the police house.
“Poor sod. I ain't never seen nuffink like that afore. What you suppose happened?”
The man unties the boat without answering.
“You comin’?”
The boy pulls off his cap, scratches his head. For a moment, he seems to hover between staying and going. Then he turns and joins his companion in the boat. The man picks up the oars, and rows the boat back out into midstream. He does not speak again.
****
Meanwhile, after the disastrous dinner party, Isabella Thorpe has been put to bed and the doctor has been summoned. Luckily for Mrs Thorpe and her plans, he has diagnosed nothing fatal. (‘Green sickness, Mrs Thorpe. Yes indeed. Green sickness. Very common complaint amongst young gels.’) He recommends that Isabella needs rest, and should be kept warm and comfortable. The main thing though, is to ensure that she eats enough to build up her strength.
Nothing flavourful, naturally, as bland food is supposed to be more easily digestible to somebody with a lowered constitution. So out go soups, roast dinners, pies, tasty desserts, cakes and fruits – not that Isabella ever partook of them in the first place – and in comes toast-and-water and calves-foot jelly.
So concerned is Mrs Thorpe for her daughter’s health that she has even purchased Mrs Beeton’s excellent book on cooking for an invalid, and is personally supervising the cook in the preparation of the bland tasteless meals which Isabella has to force down.
After three days of this excruciating torture, Isabella decides to stage a recovery. She declares that she feels much better. She staggers out of bed, and allows herself to be helped into her clothes, which now hang even more loosely on her wasted frame.
Mrs Thorpe is overjoyed. She tells Isabella that in the afternoon they will go for a little ride together in the brougham – the fresh air will bring the roses back to her pale cheeks.
But Isabella has other plans. She has had quite enough of her Mama’s fussing, so she suggests that Gussy could jog along on his horse instead.
Gussy – how lovely, Mrs Thorpe declares. And possibly one of Gussy’s Dragoon friends also? And while she thinks about it, wouldn’t it be nice to invite poor grieving Josephine King along too, as she and Isabella are such good friends. And a carriage drive is hardly like a serious outing, is it? Perhaps Isabella would like to write her a little note?
Isabella would not particularly like to do that, but her instincts of self-preservation whisper that any reluctance on her part could be interpreted as a relapse, and send her back to her bed and the grim regime of force-feeding. So, the little note is duly written and dispatched. An acceptance is received, and nobody is any the wiser.
But the best laid plans of mice and men, and of Mrs Thorpe, 'gang aft aglay', as the Scottish poet says. For when the carriage bearing the two young ladies draws up at the barracks later that day, it is to discover that Gussy’s horse has cast a shoe in the night, and cannot be ridden out today.
Thus, Isabella and her companion make their unaccompanied way towards Regent’s Park: Isabella disappointedly, Josephine secretly relieved. They progress in silence for a while. Then, as the carriage turns into Regent’s Park Road, Isabella asks listlessly,
“Should you like to visit the Zoological Gardens? I believe it is quite amusing.”
Josephine nods her agreement. There are giraffes and camels at the Zoo. She has never seen giraffes and camels before. At the very least, they have to be more entertaining than her withdrawn and uncommunicative companion.
“But are you quite well enough?” she asks politely.
Isabella waves a languid hand.
“Oh yes. A short walk, and something amusing, is just what the doctor ordered.”
They alight from the brougham, pay their shillings, and pass through the turnstile. Once inside, however, it soon becomes clear that Isabella has wildly misjudged her ability to walk any distance at all, for after only a few yards, she collapses onto a bench.
“You go on,” she says, gasping for breath in an alarming manner. “I shall be quite all right here.”
Josephine stands by, staring down at her helplessly.
“Really. Go!” Isabella urges.
Josephine goes.
Isabella settles down with a contented, if weary sigh. The animal smell is almost overpowering, but she reminds herself that at least she is not in her bedroom, and that her Mama isn't here. Life has its little upsides.
Best of all, nobody is making her eat anything – though she cannot help but notice that every animal in sight appears to be eating something revolting, and with great relish. She closes her eyes, trying not to breathe too deeply.
Meanwhile Josephine strolls round the Zoo, amazed at the grace of the giraffes, the comicality of the camels and the merry antics of the monkeys. There is so much to see. She wishes she had brought her sketchbook with her, but promises herself that this will be the first of many visits, and she will bring it next time.
The minutes slip away unnoticed, and it is only when she reaches the clock tower that she realises she has been absent from Isabella for over an hour. She does not wish to be impolite, so she stops and retraces her steps.
Turning a corner, she spies a woman dressed in black and heavily-veiled. The woman is bending down in front of one of the cages. Her attitude is one of intense focused concentration, as if she is listening intently to something.
Josephine observes her from a distance. For a few minutes, the woman remains utterly still, as if she was a wax statue of herself. Then suddenly she straightens up, and hurries away towards the East Tunnel.
Scarcely has she disappeared from view, however, when something strange happens. All the animals rush to the front of the cage and begin to howl. Eerie and alien, the sound rises and falls. It is like a siren, silver and unearthly, seeming to come from everywhere at once, as if the sky itself is screaming.
Josephine puts her hands over her ears, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. An oily slick of fear clings to her skin.
Eventually, the howling dies away.
She approaches the cage. Dark sinuous shapes prowl and pace. A notice informs her that the animals are Mongolian Wolves (Canis Lupus Mongoliensis). Danger: Visitors are advised to take care. These animals may bite.
She stares into the cage. Mad yellow eyes stare back.
For a moment, the whole pack forms up behind one grey wolf, as though they are getting ready to attack. Then, as if realising they have made a mistake, possibly identified the wrong prey, they slink back into the shadows.
Puzzling over this strange event, she makes her way back to the bench, where she discovers Isabella sitting exactly as she had left her.
“Did you hear those wolves howling?”
Isabella gives her a dreamy, half-vacant stare.
“No. What howling? What wolves?”
Josephine sighs. It is quite clear that Isabella is not well. Not well at all.
But returning home in the brougham, it seems that the outing has done Isabella some good after all. She is still barely communicating beyond what politeness demands, but her cheeks have a pale pink flush, and her whole demeanour seems more enervated.
There is a reason for this change, but it has nothing to do with the fresh air, nor the companionship, nor the carriage ride. Unbeknown to Josephine, Isabella has had a little adventure of her own.
While she was sitting on the bench, a young man had happened to pass by. Their eyes had met. He had smiled at her. She had smiled back – well, he was very handsome, with beautiful dark brown hair and wonderful deep blue eyes.
He had uttered a remark about the weather. She had said something – oh, she can’t now recall what it was. Next minute, he was sitting next to her on the bench – not too close, they were in a public place, after all – and they were making polite conversation.
The brougham drops Josephine back in St John’s Wood, then carries Isabella steadily towards Hampstead. She has
been thinking about the young man ever since she got into the carriage. His name is Henry Papperdelli, and he is member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood – whatever that means.
Henry is studying art at the Working Men's College and lives with a whole lot of other artists in a rented house in Red Lion Square, Bloomsbury. This is an area of London which Isabella is quite sure her Mama would not regard as respectable at all.
Back at the house, Isabella scurries up to her bedroom. She takes off her warm shawl, sits down at her dressing table and studies her reflection in the looking-glass. Her skin is so pale. Her cheekbones stick out. Her eyes are violet-lidded with fatigue, and her thick coils of chestnut hair make her head look top-heavy, as if her neck is too fragile to support it.
She bears no resemblance whatsoever to the round, rosy-cheeked, rosebud-lipped girls that she sees in fashion plates or on the covers of song sheets. Not that the young man seemed to mind, though.
Isabella smiles a sly, secret smile at the wan, etiolated girl in the looking-glass. Henry wants to paint her portrait. He said so. It is a truly shocking suggestion.
She can’t wait to see him again.
****
Midnight. The bewitching hour. Out in the street, gas-lamps flicker like corpse candles. Darkness creates a sense of the uncanny. It blurs and dissolves the uncertain boundaries between real and imagined.
In the pitch-black silence of the sleeping house, Josephine awakes. She hears a noise. It sounds like glass breaking. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, she lifts the bedcovers and slides out of bed. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she stumbles to the door, stepping out into the dark space of the landing.
The air seems to vibrate with something she cannot define, but she knows instinctively, deep down at her core, that it is not good. If she were a cat, every hair on her back would be standing upright. She looks down into the hallway.