by Carol Hedges
“Are you alright, miss? I thought I heard shouting.”
Josephine had realised the impression she might be conveying. She’d drawn herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, given that she was standing in the street in the small hours of the morning clad only in her night attire, a shawl, and a pair of unlaced boots.
“Thank you, officer, I am perfectly fine.”
The police constable had surveyed her thoughtfully. Then he’d extracted a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
“So, miss, perhaps you could explain to me why you are out here at two in the morning? On your own?”
He’d paused, then added, “… and why you are carrying a pistol?”
She had stared at him, aghast. She did not remember grabbing the gun from the chest of drawers where she’d hidden it last time, but she must have done, because here it was, in her hand. And then, just to add to her problems, a gust of wind bowled down the street, slamming the front door shut.
Josephine had explained that she’d been accidentally locked out of her own house. Then she had attempted to rouse Annie the parlour maid by ringing the bell, by banging upon the door and finally by shouting through the letterbox.
In the time thatt it had taken to realise that the noise was not penetrating the attic bedroom, the constable had blown upon his whistle and been joined by a fellow-constable. The latter had expressed the opinion that, given her compromising attire, the lateness of the hour, and her inability to explain satisfactorily why she was in possession of a loaded gun, albeit only partially loaded, the young lady had probably escaped from some private asylum.
Thus, Josephine had been duly escorted to Marylebone police station, where she’d been given a rough blanket and a mug of lukewarm cocoa, then placed in an overnight cell to await collection by the asylum owner in the morning.
Wrapping the thin blanket around her, she had settled down on the wooden plank bed. The bare whitewashed walls and the pervading smell of disinfectant were an unpleasant reminder of her school days – an impression further reinforced by the sound of muffled sobbing coming from the cell next door. She had spent the rest of the night working on an escape plan, based upon a novel she’d recently read.
In the morning, over a bowl of thin watery porridge (another unpleasant resonance with her past), she’d requested paper and pen and composed a letter to Detective Inspector Stride. The letter had been dispatched to Scotland Yard, where it was handed to the duty constable, who placed it on Stride's desk, where it was picked up and read at 7.00 am.
****
By the time Cully reaches Marylebone Police Station, Stride has arranged for Josephine’s release and she has been sent home in a carriage. And after finishing their mugs of tea and enjoying a nice chat with their colleagues, Stride and Cully also depart.
“Somnambulism,” Stride murmurs thoughtfully, as they stroll towards the cab rank. “I have come across it before. There was a similar case a couple of years ago – a young woman climbed onto a roof in the middle of the night, wearing only her night-gown, fell to her death. Fast asleep the whole time. Doctor put it down to having recently given birth to twins.”
“But Miss King has not given birth,” Cully says. “And as she did not attempt to throw herself off a roof, I don’t see the similarity.”
Stride rolls his eyes.
“She has been under a great deal of strain recently, has she not? The murder of her uncle, and the ... ensuing events. And you must remember that the female mind is not the same as ours. It works in peculiar and unpredictable ways.”
“Is that why you kept hold of the gun?”
“One of the reasons. Can’t have sleepwalking young women with firearms wandering the streets at night, can we? God knows what might happen. But I’m also following a little theory of my own, Jack. I’m going to ask Carson in firearms to examine it. If the bullet matches the one that killed that wolf – well, then we have an explanation for our little mystery. It may not be the first time she has done this.”
Cully still has doubts about the identity of that poor beast. And he distinctly recalls Miss King saying she heard nothing on the night in question. However, he sees no reason to stir the pot. Sufficient unto the day. He recalls his earlier encounter with Fleet Street’s finest. Best once again to keep his head down and say nothing.
Stride and Cully approach Scotland Yard, where to Cully’s relief the unwelcome denizens of the press have disbursed in search of other prey. They alight from the cab and enter the building.
****
The elderly couple running the coffee stall at Westminster Bridge have been doing a brisk trade in hot drinks and bread-and-butter since crack of dawn. They’ve erected a little awning to shelter themselves from the raw winter cold. Whenever there is a lull, they gather round the small brazier to warm their hands.
“I see another one has gone,” the old woman remarks, blowing on her fingers.
“Mrs whatever her name was … over the way from us. Meant ter tell you. Brought her out this morning. Stiff as a board. Thought I hadn’t seen her around for a while. Not a scrap of food in the house they say, nor a stick of furniture. Burned the lot trying to keep warm.”
“It's an ’ard world right enough,” the old man agrees.
“Harder for some,” his wife says, nodding towards the small shivering figure of the crossing-sweeper, who has been battling against the filthy streets and the biting wind since early dawn. “I see the hoity-toity gel come by earlier.”
She spoons coffee dregs into a mug and adds some lukewarm water.
“’Ere, take him this as we’re quiet. And there’s that slice o’ bread that fell on the ground earlier. Give it a quick wipe; it’ll do nicely. He ain’t going to fuss over a bit of dirt. And find out what that gel wanted.”
The old man takes the delicate viands over to the boy, who falls upon them like a starving animal. His benefactor stands by waiting for the mug to be returned, and trying to ignore the chewing and slurping noises.
Eventually the boy finishes eating and drinking. He wipes his mouth with a ragged sleeve, then absentmindedly sucks it. They exchange a few words. Then the boy is summoned by a tall top-hatted City man waiting to cross the road. He darts off, leaving the coffee stall owner to return to his wife.
“What did yer find out?”
“Gel wanted to talk to Old Jim Jarndyce.”
“Going to find it a bit of a job then,” the old woman says tartly.
“When he told her Jim’d gone, she was proper cut up abaht it.”
“Why? What’s it to her?”
“Nuffink. He says she gave ’im some money for a fish supper.”
The woman laughs harshly.
“Take more than one fish supper to save the likes of him. Ain’t going to make old bones. I see it in his eyes. Death eyes. Be dead and buried by Christmas, I reckon.”
She greets the next customer with a leering smile.
“Yes sir? Nice cuppa coffee for you? Slice of bread-and-butter to go with it? There you go. Have a good day, sir.”
****
A wan afternoon sunshine is doing its best to break through the smoggy clouds that envelop the city. An omnibus clops slowly along the road. Inside the fuggy carriage, a tired mother, with a sleeping child on her lap, sits between a red-haired young woman dressed in shabby black and a man reading a newspaper.
The mother is thinking about the pile of washing awaiting her return, and the meal she will prepare for her husband, when she suddenly becomes aware that the young woman is leaning across her in a rather intrusive manner and staring at the centre pages of the man’s newspaper. Intrigued, she follows the young woman's gaze and reads:
MURDER IN PARK LANE ABODE!! SERVANT GIRL STRANGLED TO DEATH!! SECOND SIMILAR MURDER TO OCCUR IN CITY!! DETECTIVE POLICE BAFFLED ONCE MORE!!
The young woman utters a little gasp, then rises swiftly to her feet and pushes her way to the back of the omnibus. A moment later she alights and disappears into the swi
rling crowd.
The mother adjusts the heavy child. There are far more important things in life than sensational stories in the newspapers, she thinks. None of them are ever true, anyway. Her head begins to nod, her eyes close. A few minutes later she too, is fast asleep.
****
Meanwhile, just off the genteel elegance that is Hampstead High Street, a new tea-room has recently opened. The Lily Lounge is a warm and welcoming place where, for a reasonable outlay, the patrons can partake of an afternoon tea consisting of a variety of hot beverages, a selection of freshly-made sandwiches, scones, luscious iced and cream cakes, and fruit tarts.
The two proprietresses and their staff, all neat and discreet in dark skirts, blouses, starched white aprons and caps, glide unobtrusively between the tables, carrying silver trays laden with tasty goodies. Occasionally they might pause to recommend a type of tea here, a variety of cake there.
Other than that, their presence barely registers with the customers, who gossip and chat and show off their purchases. After all, these waitresses are only glorified servants by another name, and the customers are well-used to having servants in the background of their lives. Therefore, they eat and drink and pay them no mind.
Lilith Marks is serving tea to a couple sitting at a corner table. The woman is wearing a fashionably-styled tartan silk dress. Her face is heavily veiled, her leather gloves impeccably tailored. Something foreign about her appearance, Lilith thinks to herself, as she crosses the teashop floor, tray balanced on her arm.
Her companion is a thickset middle-aged man in a dark gabardine, his hair shiny with macassar oil, gold rings on his fleshy fingers. He has a hooked nose and small eager eyes.
The man has a small velvet bag, from which he now brings out a magnificent emerald bracelet. He shows it to the woman, who leans forward and picks it up, laying it across her gloved palm and then holding it up to the light. Lilith serves the tea. Neither of them notices her.
Lilith recognises the bracelet at once. It belongs to a Mrs Diana Meadows. Lilith knows this because she remembers Mrs Meadows’s husband, Mr Lionel Meadows, a rich City financier, showing it to her in her drawing room shortly after he had bought it. A present from a guilty husband.
Lilith had studied the bracelet and pretended to admire it, secretly marvelling at how men always thought they could buy their way back into their wives' affections with presents of expensive jewellery.
Eventually he had put it back in his pocket and they had gone upstairs. Because at the end of the day she had a living to make, and standing around admiring another woman’s emerald bracelet was not the way to make it.
The woman at the table turns the bracelet so that the light catches the stones, making them sparkle. She nods approvingly, then points out a couple of small things to the man. An earnest discussion takes place. The man makes a few notes. Then the woman returns the bracelet to the man, who replaces it in the velvet bag.
The transaction completed, the couple turn their attention to the tea and cakes. They make a hearty meal. When they have finished, the man clicks his fingers in Lilith's direction, the universal male gesture to bring him the bill, which she does, handing it to him with a polite smile.
The man throws some coins on the tablecloth. He barely acknowledges her. The couple leave the table, and Lilith begins to clear the tea things. She does not know the name of the foreign woman. But she does know the identity of her companion. She knew him the moment he walked into her restaurant.
He is Isaac ‘Ikey’ Solomon. She and Ikey go back a long way, to the bad old days of poverty and deprivation, when she was little Lil Malkovitch living in Bethnal Green, working in her parents' sweatshop and dreaming of better days.
Ikey Solomon lived three doors down. He used to walk out with her older sister Essie, till he threw her over for someone else. Someone better. Ikey’s dad ran a nice business buying and selling antique and modern gems – a business which, by the looks of it, Ikey has now inherited. So it shouldn’t be too hard to track him down. Should it?
****
The following afternoon finds Isabella Thorpe sitting in the shiny cherry-coloured barouche. She is wearing a stylish pink dress chosen especially for the occasion by her Mama, who resolutely fails to recognise that pink does not suit her colouring. Her is hair newly curled and pinned, her bonnet fashionably trimmed with pink feathers and ribbons. But this time Isabella does not ride alone. Sitting next to her is young Dragoon Guardsman George Osborne, buck about town, lady-charmer, his black moustaches shiny with wax, his hair smelling of macassar oil. Sitting opposite her is Gussy, bumbling, a bit of a buffoon, but harmless. Mostly.
Isabella grips the side of the carriage with a gloved hand. She wishes, oh so fervently she wishes, that she were somewhere else, and with someone else. The pain of longing is almost overwhelming. The other source of her misery is the close and unwelcome proximity of George Osborne's leg, which is pressing against hers. She is sure he is doing it on purpose.
Isabella feels small and oppressed. George Osborne is so big, so loud, so boastful. So full of his own importance. Ever since his first “Ah Miss Thorpe, howdy-do?” as he mounted the carriage-step and extended two fingers, he has done nothing but brag about himself and his exploits.
Meanwhile, unaware of his fair companion's aversion, George Osborne, of celebrated blood and (he thinks) irresistible to the fair sex, twirls his moustaches and lights up a cigar – because everybody know that ladies love the smell of a good cigar, don'tchyer know. Isabella is forced to shrink even further into the corner of the barouche, for fear that her dress might catch fire.
“Your brother’s got a devilish fine horse,” the Irresistible One observes. “But still not as fine as Black Beauty, my nag. Now there’s a real charger, eh, Miss Thorpe.” And he gives her one of the famous killing glances that usually has the effect of making young ladies blush, and do things with their fans.
“I say, Guster old chap, why don’t you sell me your horse?” Osborne continues. “He’d make a nice pair with mine.”
“By Jove – hang it, George,” Gussy exclaims. “I mean, demmit!”
Osborne grins maliciously at him.
“I could always tell your governor about the cash I won off you at billiards. What d’you say?”
“Gad, George – why won’t you let a fellow be!” Gussy expostulates.
A free-and-easy exchange begins between the two young bucks, from which Isabella, being neither a member of the Dragoon Guards nor a patron of the Cocoa-Tree, is of necessity excluded. She clenches her hands in her lap, and prays for this torture to come to a speedy end.
The barouche glides smoothly along the Mall towards the Knightsbridge barracks, where the two bucks will alight. Isabella thinks of Henry Papperdelli, and his deep blue eyes and curly brown moustache. He will be waiting for her at the pre-arranged rendezvous, but waiting in vain. She has not had time to send him a note alerting him to her absence. What conclusions will he draw? Will she ever see him again?
Tears of self-pity fill her eyes. She presses her lips together tightly. For a well-bred young lady to show any emotions whatsoever in a public arena is totally unacceptable. Her Mama and her education have drilled this into her.
At long last, and not a moment too soon for Isabella, the barouche halts outside the barracks. George Osborne jumps straight down and strides towards the gate. Gussy lingers by the barouche for a moment. Like everybody else in the Guards, he knows the dark stories about Osborne: the gambling, the opium-swigging, the drunken bouts, the whoring. Indeed, he has witnessed (and participated in) many of these activities himself.
But Gussy has his instructions. And like a dutiful son short of cash and in need of a commission, he intends to carry them out to the letter.
“He’s a good fellah,” he says.
“Is he?” Isabella replies wanly.
“Demmit, Iz, you could do worse.”
“Could I?”
She turns her face away, unwilling for him to
see the despair in her eyes. For a moment, they silently contemplate the awful truth that cannot be spoken. Next minute there is a shout of “Gustus – presence needed!” from inside the barrack walls. Gussy bites his lower lip, then sighs resignedly.
“Take Miss Isabella home, James,” he commands the coachman.
And James, who has equally never disobeyed an order in his life, and never will, slaps the reins and urges the shiny well-fed horses to ‘trot on’.
****
A couple of hours later, Josephine has returned from a day spent learning the mysteries of ledgers under the tutelage of Trafalgar Moggs. Now she sits at her uncle's desk, studying the contents of a further letter from her solicitor, Mr Septimus Able.
Dear Miss King [he writes],
Further to my previous correspondence upon the subject of the Will of your late uncle, Mr Herbert King, I am now able to shed some light upon the matter.
I informed you in my previous letter on the subject that I had discovered that the request to see the Will was made by Mr John Skittles, of Smallbone, Skittles & Smallbone, a firm of solicitors on behalf of a client of the firm.
If it were any other firm involved in this unaccountable examination of your late uncle's Will, I should have had difficulties in proceeding with the matter.
Fortunately, Willing & Able were involved in a recent legal matter concerning one of the firm's senior partners, and I was able to use this to good effect.
The name of the client is Countess Elenore von Schwarzenberg, a Romanian lady who is visiting London.
I have also ascertained that she is currently residing at number 55, Russell Square. If you so wish it, I am happy to proceed further in this matter, and await your instructions.