by Carol Hedges
This is followed by the declaration that,
‘We will make every effort to search out, track down and apprehend the villains who have perpetrated this mindless act of cruelty upon a dumb and helpless animal. They will meet the sternest punishment,’ promises Detective Sergeant Jack Cully of the detective police.
It appears that while acting in what she innocently believed to be self-defence, she has committed a crime, for which she will be sternly punished if she is caught. So, she must take steps to ensure that she isn't caught.
The cab stops outside the house. She pays the cabman and hurries up the front steps. But even as she is fumbling in her pocket for the key, a voice addresses her.
“Miss King?”
She turns, the colour draining from her face as Detective Inspector Stride, accompanied by the other detective whose name she has just read, hurry across the street towards her. Josephine takes one look at the expression on their faces and feels a hollow sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. They are here to question her about the wolf.
Suddenly she finds it difficult to swallow. The gun, she thinks frantically. She should never have left the gun in plain sight on the floor of her bedroom. If there is to be a search of the house they will certainly find it.
And then her goose will be well and truly cooked. (Not that she will ever get to eat it. From now on it will be bread and water, and a hard bed to lie on.)
“We were just on our way to see you, Miss King,” Stride says. “May we step inside for a moment?”
Squaring her shoulders, and mentally assembling the basics she will need to take with her to prison, she opens the front door with trembling hands. She has never been arrested before. She wonders whether she will have to wear handcuffs.
“You recall my colleague, Detective Sergeant Cully,” Stride says as they follow her into the drawing room.
Her heart sinks a little further.
“We wish to talk to you about something that has recently occurred.”
She braces herself.
“Your uncle’s body has been found.”
She stares at him, feeling her jaw drop open in sheer disbelief. This is not what she is expecting to hear. For a moment, she is so astonished that she wonders whether she has understood him aright.
“His body? But I thought you said it had been taken by people for purposes which were unsuitable for an impressionable young female mind to know?”
Stride has the grace to look embarrassed.
“That appears now not to be the case.”
“Where was it found?”
“Err ... it was taken from the river and brought to the River Police headquarters at Wapping.”
Josephine’s stare goes on a couple of seconds beyond the comfort barrier.
“How on earth did it get into the river?”
“We are not at this stage in our enquiries able to answer that, I’m afraid, Miss King. Possibly it was placed there by a person, or persons, unknown.”
“The same person or persons unknown who robbed and brutally murdered him in the first place?”
“That too, is part of the ongoing investigation.”
“Are you any nearer to finding out who they are, and arresting them?”
“The detective police are making every effort to apprehend the person or persons unknown who are responsible for the crime,” Stride says.
She gives him the look that used to get her supper taken away from her at the Bertha Helstone Institute.
A difficult silence ensues. Rashly, Stride rushes to fill it.
“I am most sincerely sorry indeed that you have been troubled with this matter, Miss King. Naturally, I and my fellow-officers appreciate that you must be shocked and distressed by the news.
“We have arranged for the body to be quietly and discreetly returned to Kensal Green Cemetery, and interred in its former resting place. I hope this is in line with your wishes.”
She inclines her head.
“As soon as I have any further news, I shall inform you immediately,” Stride says. “In the meantime, if you have no further questions, I will bid you good day, Miss King.”
Stride puts on his hat and signals to his companion that he is ready to depart. At the door he turns, as if he has suddenly remembered something.
“Just one more thing, Miss King. Last night, I don’t suppose you heard any gunfire?”
Her eyes widen.
“Gunfire? No, detective inspector. I certainly did not.”
Stride searches her face, but finds nothing other than youthful innocence.
“Ah. Well. Thank you, Miss King. Then I shall trouble you no further.”
She is still puzzling over this unexpected turn of events when Annie scuttles into the room.
“The police detectives have left, miss,” she announces. “Was it about the burglar that broke in last night?”
“Yes, that’s quite right, Annie,” she agrees, the lie coming out with alarming fluency. “Sadly, I was unable to give them a description, and as nothing was stolen, I fear they are not going to pursue the matter any further.”
The maid nods.
“Just as well you had Mr King’s gun, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was,” she agrees again. “And now I think I would like a cup of tea. And a slice of Mrs Hudson’s delicious seed cake – a big slice. Can you bring them both up to my room, please.”
Later, after hiding the gun somewhere safe, and mentally strapping her Inner Liar into a backboard, Josephine unwraps the Eye of the Khan. She gazes at it, loving it with her eyes as it glitters in the pale sunshine of the late afternoon.
She knows with a sudden certainty that she cannot part with it, will never be able to consign it to the darkness of a bank vault, to be buried away like everybody else she has ever loved. For most of her life she has lived with the constant sensation of loss. It is as if there has always been a love inside her waiting to happen, and now the diamond is what it has happened to.
A jewel without price, Mr Garrard had said. He was right: you cannot put a price upon love. She holds the stone in the palm of her hand, the weight of it catching her by surprise all over again as it radiates light, like the face of an angel.
****
Much to her surprise, Isabella Thorpe has also come into possession of something of great value. Not a diamond, although to her it is almost as priceless; it is her freedom. Here she is, on her own, with no Mama in attendance, seated at a table in one of those delightful little tea-rooms that have suddenly sprung up like mushrooms all over the West End.
On the table is a pot of tea for one, and a plate of delicately sliced bread-and-butter. There is a spot of hectic colour in each cheek, and she has an air of suppressed excitement. Her gaze keeps straying towards the street door.
Eventually the door opens, and oh – be still her beating heart – it is he! Isabella cannot breathe. She wonders whether she is about to faint. He is surprised to see her. She is surprised to see him. It is a game they play. You never know who might be watching from behind a newspaper, or from under a fashionably ribbon-trimmed hat. Her Mama knows many people in town, and the last thing Isabella wants is for some nosy acquaintance to go hurrying round to Hampstead tattling tales.
Thus, they arrange to meet ‘accidentally’ in public. Yesterday it was outside a shop in Oxford Street, and today it is in this innocent little tea-room. Always at the same time of day, when Isabella is supposed to be taking a carriage ride for her health.
A smiling waitress hurries over, and pulls out the chair opposite. He sits down, wafting the most delicious smell of cologne and tobacco. Lips parted, she breathes him in like incense.
The temptation to reach across the table and stroke his beautiful silky hair is almost overwhelming. A strange, but not unpleasant, sensation starts spreading through her lower body. She pressed her gloved hands together, and clasps them in her lap.
“Isabella.” He murmurs her name as if it was something delicious to eat.
>
She swallows, then picks up her teacup with an unsteady hand, and sips from the side.
“Are you well today, Isabella?”
“Quite well, thank you Henry.”
His blue, blue eyes look straight into hers. Isabella feels as if she could dive into the depths of them and be forever lost. The waitress hovers nearby waiting for his order. He requests China tea, and a selection of fancy cakes. They chat idly about the weather while he waits to be served.
When tea arrives, he picks up a fork and plunges it straight into the heart of a sponge cake. She watches the soft yellow pieces disappearing into his red mouth, and feels her chest tightening. There are cake crumbs on his moustache. She wants to lick them off. Heat gathers between her thighs. She tries to ignore it.
“So, Isabella,” he says, lowering his voice to a discreet level, “have you thought any more of what we talked about last time we met?”
“Oh. You mean paying a visit to your studio?”
Of course she has thought about it. She has been thinking of nothing else for days. Lying in her bed, she has tried to picture what an artist's studio would look like. She remembers a school visit to Paris, the walk through Montmartre, with its small painted houses and green shutters, the hushed instructions to ignore the brightly-clad ladies with bare feet, lounging in doorways and smoking cigarettes. She recalls hearing violin music floating out of a shuttered window, and there had been the sound of excited laughter; the smell of heat, and coffee, and forbidden things.
“I am not sure it would be considered quite proper for me to visit you alone,” she murmurs.
“I quite understand. Naturally I should always make sure that one or more of my friends’ wives were there to chaperone you. Or perhaps you could bring one of your own woman friends?”
What woman friends? Isabella thinks bitterly. Oh yes, she knows lots of young people her own age. Since returning to London, her Mama has introduced her to the cream of young female society. But under the veneer of affection, they watch her like vicious young birds of prey, ready to tear her apart with their talons should she attempt to flirt with any of ‘their’ young men.
Not that she would. Not for a single second. Their young men are boring, vacuous and self-important. Their affected drawling voices get on her nerves. The way they look her up and down as if she were a piece of horseflesh disgusts her.
The thought of marriage to one of these, of being alone with him, having to let him touch her, and do all those things whispered about in midnight dormitory conversations, makes her feel physically sick.
She watches Henry lift the delicate china cup, and place his full red lips gently around the rim. She imagines his lips pressed against hers, and a sudden pulse inside her throbs: yes ... yes ... yes.
“Then perhaps ... I will come and visit you,” she whispers.
“That is excellent news, Isabella. You cannot imagine how eager I am to begin painting your picture.”
Henry smiles, and helps himself to another slice of cake.
****
A starry, starry night. Both above and below, for at their huge brightly-lit Park Lane town house, Sir William Snellgrove and his elegant wife Lady Harriet are holding a party for their friends and acquaintances.
The Snellgroves move amongst the upper echelons of London society. Lady Harriet Snellgrove is one of the great society hostesses of the day. She is also the owner of a priceless collection of jewellery, and a wardrobe full of exquisite clothes, all tailor-made for her at an exclusive salon in the heart of Paris.
This lavish event is taking place just a stone’s throw away from some of the worst slum dwellings in London, where families live ten to a room in damp crumbling buildings, sleeping on soiled straw, burning floorboards for heat, and using the gap underneath as a toilet.
But here in the Snellgrove mansion, everything is light and gay and brilliant. No expense has been spared, from the footmen in matching wigs and uniforms, to the decorated ballroom hung with artificial flowers, and looking like something out of the Arabian Nights.
The street outside is crowded with carriages, while knots of curious bystanders pack the pavement to watch the glittering guests descend from their glossy equipages. The guests enter the house via a strip of crimson carpet, under a striped awning, where they are graciously received before the ladies in their silk ball gowns are conducted upstairs to the ladies’ dressing room, where a couple of maids await to rearrange head-dresses, or repair a ripped seam.
Amongst the guests are white-gloved bank directors and members of the select aristocracy in evening dress, guardsmen in glittering uniforms, duchesses blazing in diamonds, and, of course, all the young beauties of the season. It is a brilliant and distinguished circle.
The supper room is ready, the fare provided by a confectioner and caterer. The table groans under the liberal weight of hams, tongues, and fowls cut up and held together by ribbons. There are jellies, blancmanges, trifles and tipsy cake – a veritable cornucopia of delicious things to eat.
Music drifts out of open windows as the final few guests make their entrance into the ballroom. Amongst them is Lord Frederick Hartington and his wife Lady Caroline, members of that very select group of aristocratic families who have entrée to Buckingham Palace itself.
Also arriving with them is the beautiful Romanian Countess, a friend of Lady Caroline. They met when the latter was taking the waters at Baden-Baden. Now the Countess is here in London, at Lady Caroline's invitation, enjoying the pleasures of the great city.
How exquisite she is, in her gossamer-fine silk gown and her white evening gloves. Her rich glossy hair is adorned with a diamond and black ostrich-plume headdress. Her face is covered with a modest lace veil, which only seems to enhance her smooth creamy white skin and dark sparkling eyes.
The Countess drops a low graceful curtsey to the host and hostess before she is led to the row of gold and crimson chairs that fringe the ballroom. Of course, she will not dance tonight – she is not part of the London social scene – but her animated expression, and the way she surveys the giddy young ones who valse and polka, shows how much she envies them their joie de vivre.
At 10pm precisely, supper is served. Everyone moves towards the supper room. The Countess and Lady Caroline sit together. It is noted by all the company how much the stiff, aloof Lady Caroline seems to enjoy the foreigner’s presence. Why, on two occasions, she is actually observed to smile.
Towards the end of the feasting, however, the Countess’s manner appears to alter. The bright smile is replaced by a look of disquiet. Every now and then she raises her hands to her face, as if something there is hurting her. She keeps glancing round, passes a gloved hand across her brow. Finally, she murmurs a few words to her companion, who nods in agreement. The Countess rises, slipping unobtrusively out of the supper-room.
Unseen by any of the guests who are far too busy enjoying themselves, and unobserved by the house staff who are far too busy waiting on them, the Countess glides upstairs towards the upper regions of the house.
A short while later, a hooded and black-cloaked figure emerges from the house and hurries away.
****
It is the morning after the party, and it doesn't take long for the report to arrive on Detective Inspector Stride’s desk. By 7.30, when a whistling, breakfasted and newly-shaved Stride strolls into police headquarters and heads for his office, the atmosphere is so thick with anticipation that you could almost slice it and hand it round on plates.
A little knot of day constables gathers behind Detective Sergeant Jack Cully, as he moves circumspectly towards the closed office door. They stand outside, waiting for the storm clouds to break. They listen as the whistling slowly fades away into silence. Cully checks his watch and holds up one finger.
Exactly one minute later, there is a roar:
“Cully! Get in here! On the double!”
Cully opens the door and enters. Behind him, the men exchange meaningful glances. One man grins, drawing an ind
ex finger slowly across his throat. They edge closer to the door. A slow morning is just about to speed up.
Stride waves a piece of paper in the air. His expression is bordering upon apoplectic.
“What the hell is this?”
“It's one of the night constables’ reports.”
Stride reads aloud:
‘Last night, a party took place at the Park Lane abode of Sir William Snellgrove. During the course of the party, a maid in the employment of the family was brutally attacked and killed while carrying out her duties.’
“Yes,” says Cully. “I thought you should see it first thing. It seemed rather important.”
Stride seizes the word, and gives it a quick verbal battering.
“Seemed important? Seemed? Of course it’s bloody important! How did it happen?”
Cully spreads his hands.
“There was a big crowd outside the Snellgrove mansion – people like to watch the rich having fun. Maybe there were some felons amongst the crowd who took advantage of the situation to try to rob the house …”
“And were the police in attendance?”
“There were some constables watching the proceedings.”
“Clearly not watching enough,” Stride says, rising from his chair. “Right, we need to get round there at once. Aristocracy doesn’t like to be kept waiting. How many detectives can we put on this?”
“We have five officers currently free. The rest are either trying to find the gang who robbed and murdered the business man Mr King, or the person who shot that wolf.”
Stride pauses, then shakes his head.
“Take all them off those inquiries for now, Jack. We’ve got no leads on the King murder, and at the end of the day, a dead wolf’s a dead wolf. This takes priority over everything else.”
Cully opens the door. There is the sudden clomp of many pairs of boots, followed swiftly by the noise of people trying to fill a small space they previously did not occupy.
****
A short while later Stride and Cully arrive at the Snellgroves’ town house in Park Lane. They are shown into the drawing-room by a snooty parlour maid, who instructs them tartly to wait.