by Carol Hedges
The prospect of the ball is also sending frissons down other spines, though in this case not necessarily of delight. At Scotland Yard, police officers are gearing themselves up for a night of mayhem and amok-running, as the general public enact their own form of carnival in the streets and alleyways surrounding Belgravia.
In the detective department of the Metropolitan Police, Detective Inspector Stride and his deputy, Detective Sergeant Jack Cully, are also viewing the evening with a sense of impending doom.
“It’s going to be a repetition of the Snellgrove business. I can feel it in my water,” Stride observes gloomily.
He waves a copy of The Morning Star at Cully.
“And have you seen this? I thought The Star was one of the better newspapers. Appears I was wrong. The infernal cheek of these hacks!”
Embarrassingly, many London papers are now running mock adverts on their front pages, ridiculing the seeming inability of the police to get a grip on events. The Morning Star’s contribution reads:
Wanted Immediately at Scotland Yard:
Bright, intelligent Men to train as Detectives due to Current Occupants' failure to catch Criminals.
Ability to find own backside without map an advantage.
Remuneration offered. Apply in Person.
Cully stifles a grin.
“It’s not funny!” Stride growls.
“No.”
Stride taps his teeth with a pencil.
“Not even a mention that we discovered who shot the unfortunate wolf that escaped from the zoo.” He sighs exasperatedly. “Next time Colonel Moran, late of Her Majesty’s Indian Army, thinks he hears howling in the middle of the night, hopefully he will remember he's in St John’s Wood now, not the North-West Frontier, so he won’t go out firing pot-shots at all and sundry.”
“At least he came forward to confess in the end.”
Stride rolls his eyes.
“There are too many people in this city who think they can take the law into their own hands.” He gestures angrily at the newspaper. “And I know exactly who’s giving them the idea. Bloody journalists.''
“Maybe.”
“So, Jack, any ideas about how to stop the riotous populace from making hay while the gentry enjoy their little musical swoiray? It’s too good an opportunity, isn’t it? Half of London high-society will be heading to Belgravia for the night, leaving their homes and their valuables unguarded. What are we going to do?”
Cully recognises the question as rhetorical rather than actual, so waits to be told.
“I’ll tell you. We are going to be a visible presence, Jack. Wherever crime takes place, we shall be lying in wait for it.”
Cully mulls this over.
“So how will we know exactly where it is going to take place, so that we can arrange to be lying in wait?” he asks innocently.
Stride clicks his tongue exasperatedly.
“We will adopt the tried and tested methods. Identify the areas most likely to be targeted, and arrange for at least two men to be on duty in each area at all times. Watch Boxes manned. Boots on the ground. Eyes and ears at the ready. Good old -fashioned policing. I’ve told you time and time again: it’s the only way to get the job done. And this time, there will be no gigantic hounds or wolves to distract us. Real or imaginary.”
****
Different frissons are also being experienced in the Thorpe household. Here, Isabella Thorpe, in her new position as the possible future consort of George Osborne, son of Mr Frederick Osborne of Osborne's Private Bank, has been favoured with an invitation to the ball. And of course, so has her Mama, who will attend as chaperone.
Such despair. Such joy. It is a wonder that either lady can contain her emotions. But contain them Isabella must. Especially if she is to find a reason to escape the frenzied preparations for a brief few moments of honeyed happiness in the company of her beloved artist.
Relief arrives one morning in the unexpected guise of a business card from Harrison & Co, Theatrical and Masquerade Costumier, of 31 Bow Street. The card is brought in by one of the maids, and placed next to Isabella's plate of untasted breakfast. On the back of the card is written: 10 am. She recognises the handwriting. Her heart pounds.
“What have you got there, my love?” Mrs Thorpe inquires, holding out her hand for the card.
Isabella moves to hand it over, but somehow the little pasteboard square ends up falling into her coffee cup.
“Oh dear! I am so sorry, Mama,” she cries, making a feeble attempt to fish it out with a teaspoon. “Never mind. It was just a card from one of my friends. She has discovered a wonderful little shop in Covent Garden, and has arranged to meet me there, so that we can try on costumes for the ball.”
Mrs Thorpe beams.
“How lovely. I am so glad you are finally making friends. I’m sure Papa will lend you the brougham – won’t you, dear?”
The newspaper at the end of the table issues a grunt.
“Shall I come with you, Bella?” Mrs Thorpe says. “I haven’t decided on my costume yet. I’d like to see what this emporium has available.”
Isabella feels the colour drain from her face. This is quite an accomplishment, given that her face has no colour to speak of in the first place.
“Umm .... but the invitation is for me alone, Mama.”
Mrs Thorpe tosses her false-ringletted head.
“I see. Well in that case, maybe we could meet later in town for a light luncheon?” she suggests.
Isabella pretends she has not heard. She rises from the table.
“Please excuse me, Mama, Papa, I must go. Withers is waiting to get me ready.” And she scurries from the room before any more questions can be asked or unwelcome suggestions made.
****
Satisfactory is a word much on the lips of Alf Harrison, proprietor of Harrison & Co, Theatrical and Masquerade Costumier, of 31 Bow Street. Every year at about this time he sits at the head of his kitchen table, raises a glass of beer, and toasts the aristocracy – Gawd bless ’em!
This year is no exception. Thanks to their balls and ‘swoirays’ and parties, business is so brisk, so satisfactory, that he has had to take on his wife’s brother’s lad to help out in the shop.
The morning finds them engaged in a little staff training before the shutters are raised upon another day's hectic trading.
“Repeat after me,” Alf commands, “Oh sir, that is a perfect fit! Ma’am – or Miss – I wouldn’t have recognised you!”
The lad repeats it obediently.
“Good,” Alf nods. “And watch the paste sparklers at all times. They may be high-class, but the gentry is as light-fingered as anyone else.”
Alf busies himself straightening the stock. The lad is sent to raise the shutters and unlock the shop door to the first customers of the day, who are already gathered outside on the pavement.
Let ’em in, Alf thinks, stepping back behind the counter, and plastering a polite smile onto his face. Let ’em all in, with their posh voices and expensive clothes and unreasonable demands. He is ready. The lad is as ready as he’ll ever be. Most of all, the till is ready. Let battle commence!
By midmorning the rush has died down. Alf sends the lad out for coffee and ham sandwiches, leaving him alone in the shop with one gentleman customer. Arty type, Alf thinks. Hair a bit too long, cravat tied in too floppy a bow. Paint on fingers a dead give-away.
The arty type strolls around, picking up this and that, stopping every now and then to check his pocket watch. Eventually he pulls on a black Cavalier-style felt hat embellished with feathers, and starts striking poses in the full-length mirror.
Then the doorbell goes, and a young lady enters the shop unaccompanied. She glances round, her eyes taking in the velvet capes and bright feathers and masks.
Alf hurries forward to serve her.
“Mornin’ miss. Looking for anything in particular?”
The young lady’s eyes swivel to the arty-type, still admiring himself. Alf sees them exc
hange a quick meaningful glance in the mirror. Then the young lady speaks, rather grandly.
“I think I shall just see what you have, thank you. Please attend to your other duties.”
Oho, so that's how it is, Alf thinks. Tragedy, comedy, he’s seen it all played out on the floor of this shop. And here we have – what? A little romance, away from the prying eyes of Ma and Pa? Not the first time his shop has been used for such clandestine meetings. He pretends to dust the counter.
The young lady (much too thin and pale for his liking, but there's no accounting for tastes) edges towards the arty type. Casually, she picks up a mask, and holds it in front of her face. The arty type picks up another mask. They move together towards the back of the shop.
Oh well. None of his business, Alf thinks. The door opens again, and two young ladies bounce in, laughing and chattering noisily. Their eyes light up as they spy all the wonderful clothes, and they launch themselves upon the rails with screeches of delight, like well-bred vultures. Alf is kept so busy attending to them that he takes his eyes off the secret lovers, and only remembers they are there when the pale thin young lady tries to slip discreetly past.
“Sorry, miss,” he murmurs, stepping out of her way.
One of the screechers turns, then exclaims,
“Oh! Isabella Thorpe! It is you! Are you going to the Huntingdon Ball? So are we!! What fun!! Are you here to choose a costume? So are we!!”
Alf sees the young lady start and turn even paler, as if she has received a shock. Then she says, very coldly,
“Good morning, Charlotte and Editha. I hope you are both quite well.”
The screechers stare at her.
“We hear George Osborne is paying you a lot of attention,” one of them squawks. “Is it true?”
The pale young lady presses her lips together.
“George Osborne is so manly,” the screecher sighs. “Those moustaches. Those black eyes. So Byronic!”
“We love a red coat,” the other screecher adds. “Will he be at the ball? We have not seen him for ages. What costume is he going to wear?”
“I do not know,” the pale young lady replies, stiffly. Then suddenly, she turns on her heel and walks towards the door, and leaves. Just like that.
The screechers stare after her, open-mouthed.
“How rude!” one of the screechers remarks. “What an odd person she is!”
“Very, very odd, Edie. And of course, you’ve heard the rumour that ...” The other screecher bends sideways, and whispers something into her companion's ear.
“Oh no! Really? Poor, poor Georgie!”
“He should have got engaged to my sister Violet. Everybody knows that,” the first screecher declares indignantly. “After all, who is Isabella Thorpe? Her people are in trade. She don’t ride. She don’t hunt. She don’t eat. She speaks French. Georgie's sisters are devastated. They absolutely loathe her. And they love Vi so much.”
“It's too, too utterly awful.”
“Quite.”
They roll their eyes, before returning to the rails of costumes.
Alf watches them from behind the counter. So. Unrequited love. Tragedy rather than romance. He wonders whether the arty type knew of the presence of the other gent or whether it has come as an unwelcome revelation. He glances round the shop, but the arty type is nowhere to be seen. He has gone. And so has the Cavalier-style felt hat.
****
Managing expectations is always tricky, no matter how elevated your position in the social hierarchy. Such is the opinion of Lady Caroline Hartington. One would think organising a ball to be a mere bagatelle. But one would be quite wrong.
People expect so much nowadays, she muses. They want to be astounded, but they want to be reassured. They want novelty, but they also want tradition. They want the surprising, but they want the familiar. And they want it all at the same time. It is quite exhausting.
Lady Caroline rests upon a sofa in her elegant sitting-room. Her eyes are delicately closed. A lady’s-maid is bathing her temples with eau-de-cologne, another wafts a tiny bottle of smelling salts under her aristocratic nose. A third maid fans her gently.
Lady Caroline enjoys ill-health. Literally. She really does. It gives her a good excuse to opt out of doing anything, or going anywhere, or seeing anyone, unless she really wants to. Most of all, it keeps her old goat of a husband out of her personal domain, and out of her body and bed.
Like many young women of her class, Lady Caroline had married her parents’ choice of suitor with only the vaguest idea of what married life entailed. The morning after the unspeakableness of her wedding-night, she had tried to run away. When that failed, she had gritted her teeth and resigned herself to her fate, until thankfully the fall from her horse had released her from ‘wifely duties’ for ever.
Of course, there has been a price to be paid. She knows all about her husband’s little ‘adventures’ in the more dubious quarters of the City. She knows about the high-priced whores he frequents. She also knows what he keeps locked away in a cabinet in his private study.
The only conditions she has always insisted upon are: no affairs with servants and no public scandal. And it is with the latter in mind that Lady Caroline half-opens her blue-lidded eyes and extends a limp-wristed hand.
“The list, if you please,” she murmurs.
A maid gives her the list of guests invited to the ball. She reads down the names, and smiles to herself. He has, in the past, tried to sneak one of his fancy women onto the guest list, but she is no fool. She may not get about as much as she used to, but she still keeps abreast of society. She reads the court pages in the newspapers. She has intimate female friends. She is aware who is who, and who is not.
What she does not realise is that invitation cards can be copied, then written up and sent out without the hostess even knowing it has been done. And it has been done before. Many, many times. It has been done now, as a glance at the Maida Vale mantelpiece of Lilith Marks would immediately reveal. But Lady Caroline is as likely to pay a morning call to Maida Vale as fly to the moon.
Lady Caroline lets the precious guest list flutter down into her lap. The ball is tomorrow night, and still there is so much to do, so many things to think about. She sighs wearily, and lets her eyes close. Later, when she is sufficiently rested, she will send for the doers and thinkers, and see how they are getting on.
****
Finally, the morning of the ball arrives. In the kitchen of the Lily Lounge, Lilith Marks is icing fruitcakes for the week ahead while thinking about what she is going to wear. She has plenty of choice. Years as a well-paid prostitute have supplied her with a large and wide-ranging wardrobe. She has tight riding breeches (very popular with certain members of the upper class), low-cut dresses in every colour, style and fabric, maids’ outfits, basques and bodices galore, whips, pistols, and drawers full of silk French knickers, garters and stockings (not always worn by her).
Lilith has mentally whittled it down to two outfits: a jolly Gypsy costume, or that of a noble Venetian lady. In the end, she opts for the latter, as she guesses that plenty of other guests will have chosen something similar, and her role tonight is to call as little attention to herself as possible. She is not there to be seen, but to see. In particular, to see the Countess, and discover whether she is the same lady who visited the Lily Lounge on two separate occasions.
All she requires now is a suitable mask to hide her face, and a big feather fan to hide the mask, and she will be ready to go. Behind such a disguise, she could be anybody: a maid or a marquise. She could be a social beauty; she could be a spy.
****
It is Saturday night, and the stars are like fragments of a glass ball flung at the sky. The temperature is falling. In a few hours, frost flowers will bloom on pavements, in parks, gardens, and cemeteries. The gas lamps gutter and gleam with a cold light.
Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully stand in a doorway opposite the palatial Hartington house, watching
the people on the pavement watching the people in the carriages.
A team of uniformed constables thread their way through the excited crowd as conspicuously as they can. After all, with such flaunted wealth on show, there will be criminals galore out tonight: pickpockets, muggers, cut-purses, petty thieves. Probably even some journalists.
Cully stares up at the clear sky.
“Nice night for it,” he remarks. “Full moon too.”
Stride shivers and pulls his muffler more firmly around his ears. December possesses the streets, dark and bitter.
“Another ten minutes of this Jack, then I’m off to get a cup of something hot,” he says, stamping his feet.
“I wonder what it’s like, in there,” Cully says, nodding towards the brightly-lit house.
“Whatever it’s like, it’s not going to be as bloody cold as out here, that’s for sure,” Stride complains, blowing upon his finger-ends.
And indeed, inside the Hartingtons’ huge house everything is warmth and whiteness and wonderfulness. Ivory candles blaze in crystal glass chandeliers. Vines twine and twist around banisters and balustrades and mirrors. Tall Chinese vases of rare hothouse flowers scent the air.
The partitions of the two big downstairs rooms have been folded back, and the wooden floors are waxed and polished to a conker-bright shine ready for the dancing. In an anteroom, the great Mandolini is warming up her voice with some vocal exercises and a bottle of brandy.
It is indeed a far cry from Stride’s freezing doorway. It is also a far cry from the small cramped Watch Box on the south side of Russell Square, where young Police Constable Tom ‘Taffy’ Evans, newly recruited to the metropolitan police force, is on duty.
Constable Evans has a dark-lantern, a rattle, a whistle, a copy of the latest Police Gazette and a candle to keep him company. The latter is being currently used to help compose a letter back home to his sweetheart Megan, in service in Cardiff. Literacy is a fine and wonderful thing, even when it involves a lot of perplexed head-scratching and pencil-licking to carry out.