Diamonds & Dust

by Carol Hedges

  She has been given so much. It is wrong not to share some of it with the less fortunate. And there are so many less fortunate. She thinks of Oi, the crossing-sweeper, who seems to be getting thinner and more wizened every time she sees him. She worries about him. About his cough.

  The blinds are drawn down in her uncle’s room, as they have been since the day he died. The fire has not been lit. The room smells of emptiness and dust, backgrounded by the lingering scent of his cologne.

  She decides to start with the chest of drawers. She opens each drawer in turn, lifting out shirts, socks, cravats, ties and underclothing, and placing them neatly upon the bed. Then to the wardrobe, from which she extracts suits and waistcoats.

  Next, she arranges the fine leather shoes and overshoes in pairs on the floor. Finally, she takes her uncle's two topcoats: the one he had on when he was found murdered in the gutter, and the ulster that he wore on milder days.

  She checks the pockets of both coats and finds a small envelope. Her uncle’s name is written on the front in a flowing italic hand. Intrigued, she opens the envelope and pulls out a folded piece of paper. As she reads what is written, the room begins to revolve around her. The air sings in her ears. She feels ice-cold.

  The front doorbell rings.

  ****

  Annie is downstairs laying the dining room table when she is interrupted by the loud and urgent ringing of the bell. She goes to see who on earth is calling so unexpectedly. She opens the door and there standing on the doorstep is a woman, dressed in good-quality work clothes.

  She looks like a respectable shop assistant. Except that no shop assistant ever had such bold black brows and full carmined lips. And no shop assistant would stand in such a provocative way, with her hand on her thrust-out hip.

  Annie gives a little gasp of horror, and attempts to shut the door in the woman's face, but Lilith is far too quick for her.

  “Annie, I need to see your mistress,” she says, placing a foot squarely in the doorway. “Now,” she adds for good measure.

  Annie tries to dislodge the unwelcome intruder, but Lilith has fought off the amorous advances of far too many drunken men in her time, and she is much stronger. She puts her shoulder to the door and shoves it open.

  “You can’t come in,” Annie protests.

  But Lilith is already in, and is taking off her bonnet.

  “Kindly tell her that I am here,” she says coolly. “You know who I am, presumably.”

  Annie's mouth opens and closes like a codfish.

  “Or would you prefer me to go and find her myself?” Lilith asks, and she starts towards the drawing-room.

  “I believe Miss King is upstairs,” Annie says stiffly. “You stay here, I shall go and see.”

  The refusal to allow Lilith to wait in the drawing-room is a snub of the highest order.

  Lilith shrugs, then pulls a face behind the maid’s back. A few minutes later Annie returns, her expression even sourer than before.

  “You are to go up,” she says. “It is the first room on the left.”

  The words and don't touch anything on your way, whore, linger unsaid in the air between them.

  Light-footed, Lilith runs upstairs and enters Herbert King's room. Josephine is standing by the bed. Lilith takes one look at the piles of clothes, then at her paper-white face, the eyes huge pools of unhappiness.

  “Oh. you poor dear girl. You shouldn't have to do this all on your own!” she exclaims, reaching out and hugging her.

  The embrace catches Josephine off guard. She has not been hugged since she was a small child. The breath goes out of her, but she holds on to the older woman’s shoulders briefly, before letting go.

  Lilith steers her to the bed, clears an area and they sit down next to each other. She reaches out and briefly touches one of the piles of clothes.

  “What are you going to do with these?”

  “I thought of giving them to a charity for the poor and needy.”

  Lilith nods approvingly.

  “Yes,” she says. “That is exactly what he would want you to do. You must think it strange that I have called round at this time of day, but something has happened and I wanted to tell you as soon as possible.”

  She relates the incident of the stolen brooch.

  “I shall make it my business to find out who this woman is, and where she lives, I promise you.”

  Josephine regards her thoughtfully.

  “I may know who she is,” she says. “And if it is the same lady, I also know where she lives. I found this letter in my uncle's coat pocket.”

  She hands Lilith the piece of notepaper.

  Lilith reads: Remember our rendezvous tonight. Make sure you bring the diamond with you, as we agreed. EvS

  “Who is EvS?” she queries.

  “I think she is a Romanian lady called Countess Elenore von Schwarzenberg,” Josephine says. She relates what Mr Able, the solicitor has told her, then tells of her two visits to the house in Russell Square.

  Lilith listens intently.

  “Where is the diamond?” she asks abruptly, when Josephine has finished speaking.

  Josephine leaves the room, returning a short while later.

  “Here,” she says, placing it into Lilith's hands.

  “Ah,” Lilith breathes. She holds the stone gingerly, as if its brilliance might burn her palm. The house is very still. They sit together with the diamond. Human and inhuman.

  Eventually Josephine breaks the silence.

  “The letter is dated the day of my uncle’s death. Mr Moggs, the clerk, told me he remembers the post arriving, so it must have been delivered to the office. But for some reason, he didn’t take the diamond with him to the meeting.”

  “Clearly he did not. We do not know the reason why. But whatever the reason, sometime after the meeting he was set upon and murdered.” Lilith frowns. “I think that we need to find out more about this Countess Elenore von Schwarzenberg. Her behaviour is very strange – one might say very suspicious. For I know that Herbert would never have parted with my brooch voluntarily.”

  “The detective police believe my uncle was murdered by a gang of thieves who stole his personal belongings,” Josephine says. “Surely she cannot be a member of such a gang, for how could a woman perform such a terrible crime as murder?”

  Lilith smiles grimly. She knows women who routinely carry knives under their skirts, and wouldn’t hesitate to use them. She has seen drunken female fights where eyes were lost and ears bitten off.

  She once witnessed a woman strangle a violent client with her bare hands, when she caught him trying to rape her eight-year-old daughter. In her experience, anything a man is capable of, a woman can do. Just as well and probably lot better. Certainly with far less pity. And this woman is a foreigner to boot.

  Lilith is about to impart this wisdom when there is a knock at the door, and Annie enters.

  “Your supper is ready,” she says sourly to Josephine. She glares at Lilith and flounces out.

  Lilith rises from the bed.

  “Then I will leave you to eat it, for I have work to do.”

  “Oh.” Josephine feels her cheeks going red.

  “Not that sort of work,” Lilith regards her with a faint glint of amusement in her dark eyes. “I have changed my ... occupation since we last met. Now I run a tea-room in Hampstead with a friend of mine. I have the day book to write up, and stock cupboards to check before I retire for the night.”

  She smoothes down her dress.

  “I only hope we have enough of my Christmas cake left, for it seems the customers cannot get enough of it. I shall write to you as soon I have found out more about the Countess. Meanwhile, I think we should keep this to ourselves. We need more proof before we go to the detective police with our suspicions.”

  Her gaze moves to the Eye of the Khan.

  “If I were you,” she says, “I'd take that diamond straight round to your bank tomorrow, and ask them to look after it. It is clearly not safe in this
house. And while it is in this house, neither, I think, are you.”

  ****

  Morning arrives, and finds Isabella Thorpe in the shrubbery where she has gone to hide from her Mama. There is nothing to compare with a leafless shrubbery in a cold wind for the promotion of gloom and despondency. Isabella Thorpe should know, for she has been wandering in it for over an hour. Now she feels so gloomy and despondent that she wants to die. Or at least if that option is not open to her, then she'd like to run away.

  She has even mulled over a stratagem, whereby she will secretly sell off some of her fine silk dresses and jewellery, and then decamp to number 17 Red Lion Square, where she will live in poverty with Henry, and suffer and starve. Because it would just serve her Mama right if she did.

  Except that deep down, Isabella knows that she won't do anything of the kind. The starving probably wouldn't be a problem, but she is used to being surrounded by nice things. The unpapered walls, and the bare floorboards, and the absence of lady’s-maids and carriages and expensive dresses, would be more than she could bear. Suffering in poverty is all very well and good, but suffering in comfort is far more enjoyable.

  But Isabella is a firm believer in destiny. She has read numerous works of fiction, wherein she has learned of the role destiny plays in the happy outcome. Destiny brought her and Henry together, so destiny will find a way to keep them together.

  The other destiny, who is, via her Mama, trying to effect a similar togetherness between herself and George Osborne, is not a force she recognises.

  And now here is her Mama, striding purposefully towards her, and at her back is the dreaded doctor. Isabella feels an icy coldness steal over her. She wraps her shawl around her bony frame, and tries to look healthy.

  “Isabella, my love,” her mama coos. “There you are. I have been looking for you.”

  “I told you I was going for a walk,” Isabella replies dully. “Walking is good for me.”

  “Indeed it is,” Mrs Thorpe agrees, her false ringleted front bobbing in agreement. “But maybe now it is time to stop walking. Have you had any breakfast?”

  Isabella carefully considers the implications of this seemingly innocent question. If she responds truthfully (in the negative), she suspects a swift return to the former regime of enforced rest and supervised meals. Then it suddenly dawns on her that her Mama has not stipulated an actual time when the breakfast was had. An escape route opens up.

  “Of course I have breakfasted,” she says.

  And it is the case; she has. Several days ago, and reluctantly. So, she is not lying exactly, just not telling the truth.

  “That is very good,” the doctor says. “And how are we feeling?”

  Isabella's smile is as wide as Africa.

  “Oh, I am quite well, thank you, doctor.”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. And may I please examine your pulse?”

  Isabella extends a pitifully stick-thin arm. The doctor extracts a watch from his waistcoat pocket and places a thumb upon her wrist.

  “Perhaps a little hectic, Mrs Thorpe,” he murmurs.

  “But I have been exercising, Mama. Don’t forget that,” Isabella interjects.

  Mrs Thorpe glances from daughter to doctor. It is clear that she wants to believe one of them. But which one? Isabella decides to press home her advantage. After all, what has she to lose?

  “I’m sure my Mama will tell you that the regular meals, and the regular exercise in the carriage, have greatly improved my health. Would you not agree, Mama?”

  Mrs Thorpe frowns gently. It is true that the fainting fits and strange behaviour have all but disappeared lately. She is unsure whether this can be put down entirely to carriage rides, and the small amount of food Isabella consumes. The trouble is, she knows no other reason for it.

  “She is certainly ... better in herself,” she says cautiously.

  “There!” Isabella exclaims brightly. “You see, doctor – all is well.”

  However, the effect of all this forced wellness is starting to take its toll. Isabella is beginning to sway on her feet and see stars in front of her eyes. She thinks fast.

  “Oh Mama, this walking has given me such an appetite. I should like nothing better than a cup of tea, maybe some nice fresh bread-and-butter? Could you ask one of the maids to bring it to my room?”

  “Certainly, my love,” her Mama agrees. “Let us return at once. We don't want you to catch a chill, do we? Not when you-know-who is expected to call later.”

  She gives Isabella an arch smile, and takes her arm in a firm but motherly gesture that causes her to flinch.

  “We must look our very best today,” Mrs Thorpe says, hauling the reluctant Isabella towards the house. “Oh, and I have told James you won’t be needing the carriage this afternoon after all.”

  ****

  While Isabella is trying to force down some bread-and-butter, a momentous event is taking place at the St John’s Wood house, involving the packing of a certain box. Annie’s box.

  The snooty parlour-maid has finally made up her mind to leave, a decision reinforced last night in the white-hot fury of having to admit “that filthy Jewish whore” into the house. Enough is enough, and Annie has had quite enough, thank you very much. Oh yes, indeed she has.

  As she packs her things, she runs over the little speech she intends to deliver to ‘that hoity-toity miss’ (as she privately refers to Josephine) when she returns later that morning from wherever she has gone. The speech being delivered, she will pick up her box and flounce out. Probably slamming the front door behind her for good measure.

  Annie has secured a new place in Kensington, with a good family, where she is sure that she will be treated as she feels she deserves, and she will never again have to show in street riffraff as if they were high society.

  Meanwhile, unbeknown to Annie, a shiny midnight-black carriage pulled by a pair of matching black horses is making its way towards St John’s Wood. It stops outside the house. The driver, clad in a thick grey coat, leaps down from the box, opens the carriage door with a flourish, and hands out the occupant. He is given some instructions. Then the horses are whipped up, and the carriage drives off.

  Annie hears the bell as she is hauling her box down from the attic. She straightens up, wiping her sweaty hands on her apron, and hurries to answer the door. After all, until she steps outside the front door, she is technically still in the employ of the King family (minor branch), and so must perform her contractual duties. Though not, she reminds herself smugly, for much longer.

  An unknown lady stands upon the top step. She is swathed from top to toe in furs, her face hidden behind a heavy black lace veil. Annie speedily readjusts her facial muscles from sneer to polite.

  “Iss your misstress at home?” the stranger asks. Her voice is low and musical with just a trace of an accent. For some reason, it reminds Annie of treacle.

  “I am afraid she is currently absent, madam. Though she will be back very soon, I believe.”

  The caller proffers a visiting card. Annie glances at it and gasps.

  “May I enter, and await her return?”

  “Of course, my Lady,” Annie says humbly. Dropping a curtsey, she opens the front door and the fur-clad caller sails across the threshold. Annie shows her into the drawing room.

  My Lady immediately strolls over to the fireplace, where a portrait of Herbert King hangs above the mantel.

  “Ah, such a tragic loss to society!” she murmurs, applying a black edged handkerchief to her eyes.

  Annie hovers in the background, maintaining a discreet but respectful presence.

  “My dear, I am sure you have many menial duties to perform,” my Lady says, still with her back to the maid. “I am perfectly happy to wait here. I will look upon this portrait, and remember.”

  “Yes, my Lady,”

  Annie bobs another curtsey.

  “Ah, how a cup of refreshing tea would comfort one on such a sad occasion,” my Lady suggests, to nobody in particular.

&
nbsp; “Of course, my Lady,” Annie says. “I will see to it at once.”

  She hurries off to organise the tea, and gossip to Mrs Hudson about the unexpected and aristocratic caller.

  A few seconds pass. Then the drawing room door opens. My Lady stands motionless upon the threshold. She appears to be listening intently for something. It cannot be the sound of returning carriage wheels, for she moves swiftly along the hallway in the opposite direction to the street.

  Reaching the door leading to the basement, she softly closes it, before returning to the bottom of the stairs. Her questing nostrils flare, as if she is trying to scent out something. Then she slips out of her glossy pelts and runs nimbly up the stairs.

  Some time later, Annie clambers the basement steps with a tray. Grumbling, she sets it down and opens the door, which she could have sworn she’d not closed. She picks up the tray and carries it to the drawing-room.

  “Your tea, my Lady,” she announces.

  But the drawing-room, like the hallway through which she has just passed, is completely empty.

  ****

  While Annie is standing in the drawing-room, puzzling over the mysterious disappearance of the aristocratic caller, Gussy Thorpe, big, bumbling scion of the Thorpe family, is in the barrack stables grooming his horse Charger. Of course, there are orderlies and inferiors who would do the job for him, but Gussy is ‘demned fond of his horse’. Well, it don’t answer a fellah back, so he prefers to do the job himself.

  Gussy is having a bad heir day. He has just received another stiffish letter from the guv’nor informing him that unless he buckles down and mends his ways, the money for his commission will not be forthcoming. And his allowance will be cut to the bone. This is a terrible blow. When the only way to advance up the ranks is by purchasing a commission, to be denied the necessary tin is a bitter pill to swallow.

  Gussy doesn’t know what’s currently eating the guv’nor. He (Gussy) has been as good as gold. He has hardly left the barracks – well, apart from trips to the Club, and to that new show in Town, and a few late ones at the Cocoa Tree … Other than that, he has been a positive hermit. And he ain’t been really rip-roaringly drunk for over a week.