by Mark Morris
The grey-haired woman appraised us coolly, then inclined her head. ‘Good evening, sir, madam.’
‘Good evening,’ I said, handing her my card. ‘Mr and Mrs Alex Locke. I believe Mr and Mrs Sherwood are expecting us?’
She glanced at the card. ‘They are, sir. Won’t you come in?’
‘Thank you.’
I deferred to Clover – the polite thing to do – then stamped the snow off my shoes and stepped into the house behind her. As we took off our coats and hats, I looked around, thinking of the Sherwoods’ flat in twenty-first century London and wondering if I’d see anything I recognised.
I didn’t. The only similarity between that flat and this house was that they both had a narrow hallway. But whereas the flat’s had been carpeted and made even narrower with a slim, Ikea-style bookcase, this one was tiled and tastefully, if sparsely, furnished. I draped my coat over the servant’s outstretched arms and was about to put my hat on top when I said, ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’
I slipped my hand into the pocket of the now-dangling coat and pulled out a package wrapped in patterned paper and tied with a red ribbon.
‘A little Christmas present,’ I said. ‘For… Master Sherwood.’
I’d been about to say ‘Hamish’, but I had no idea whether that was his actual name or the name the Sherwoods had adopted for him (or would adopt) for their twenty-first century personas.
The servant nodded, her face deadpan. ‘Very kind, sir, I’m sure.’
She hung our coats and hats on a set of hooks by the front door, then padded up the hall to a door on the left.
‘Mr and Mrs Sherwood will receive you in the drawing room,’ she said, reaching for a knob fashioned in honey-coloured glass. She opened the door and stepped aside to let us enter.
Clover went first. She usually wore skirts and jackets, but tonight she was wearing a mint-coloured satin evening gown with lacy ruffles on the sleeves and bodice and a darker green sash around her waist. She’d pulled her hair up into an elaborate mass of braids and curls, which showed off her long neck, and had topped the whole thing off with a little jewelled tiara. With her wide-set eyes and generous, smiling mouth she looked stunning, and with her straight back and natural grace, she had an almost regal air. When she stepped into the Sherwoods’ drawing room, she seemed to shimmer and flow like liquid, the light catching her jewellery, making her sparkle.
Adam Sherwood was standing by the mantelpiece, facing the door, side-on to a fire that was crackling in the grate. He was smoking a cigarette, and although he had clearly been awaiting our arrival, he jerked as if startled when the door opened. He seemed to freeze when he saw us, and my first thought was that he was so captivated by Clover’s beauty that he couldn’t move. Then I glanced at Paula, sitting stiffly behind her husband in a mauve evening dress with puffed sleeves, and noticed that she too looked pensive, almost fearful.
My God! I thought. They know me! They know who I am!
Despite what Clover had said – that the Sherwoods’ son was only three, whereas when I’d known them he’d been the same age as Kate – for a few seconds I felt sure I was right. I braced myself, half expecting them to… I don’t know, try to escape through a window, or attack us, or collapse into a gibbering heap and confess all.
But then Adam Sherwood seemed to collect himself. Planting a smile on his face, he flicked his cigarette into the fire and stepped smartly forward, thrusting out a hand.
‘Mr and Mrs Locke! Welcome! Welcome!’ He grasped my hand and shook it warmly. ‘This is an honour, sir! A veritable honour! You do my wife and I a great service by gracing us with your presence – and on such a night too! I only hope we can repay you with a passable meal and a… a warm fire.’
As he stuttered and reddened, I realised he didn’t recognise me, after all. He was nervous not because he was scared of confronting the man whose daughter he’d abducted in the twenty-first century, but because of my social standing in this one.
It was another example of the obsequiousness of the Victorian ‘lower’ classes towards their ‘betters’, and as ever my instinct was to break down the barriers, treat Adam as an equal. I knew, though, that that would have only freaked him out. Even so, considering what the Sherwoods were destined to become, I knew I had to play this one carefully. I had to make them view me, if not as a friend, than certainly as a positive influence, a benefactor.
‘Not at all,’ I said, offering what I hoped was a friendly but not over-familiar smile. ‘Thank you for the invitation.’
From his flushed expression and fixed grin I could see he was beginning to realise how much he’d overdone his welcome. He released my hand and stepped back.
‘Please,’ he babbled, gesturing a little wildly, ‘come inside, sit down.’
Like the hallway, the Sherwoods’ drawing room was tastefully furnished. For the Victorian era it was fairly modern, relying not on rich, dark colours and heavy fabrics, but on lighter shades – pale grey, sage, delicate olive greens. A tall mirror above the mantelpiece made the room seem larger than it was, as did the fact that it was less cluttered than your average Victorian drawing room.
‘What a lovely tree!’ Clover said, as if matching Adam’s gushing enthusiasm with her own. Eyes sparkling wickedly, she dabbled the tips of her fingers on the lapel of my dinner jacket. ‘And don’t you just adore the decoration on the mantelpiece, Alex? Isn’t it wonderfully festive?’
The Christmas tree in the corner was small but pretty, and the ‘decoration’ she’d referred to was an interwoven tangle of thin branches, pine cones and holly leaves with red berries, which stretched from one side of the marble mantelpiece to the other. The pine cones had been painted white and green, and the whole thing smelled as if it had been infused with cloves or cinnamon.
‘It’s charming,’ I said, and waved a hand. ‘This entire room is charming.’
‘A little smaller than you’re used to, I expect, Mr Locke?’ Adam said. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Paula wince.
Mischievously Clover said, ‘Size isn’t everything, Mr Sherwood.’
‘Oh, I quite agree, Mrs Locke,’ Adam said hastily. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m bemoaning my lot in life. No, Maude and I are very happy here – for the time being, at least. My wife is an excellent homemaker, and I – oh! But I’m forgetting! You haven’t been formally introduced! Please forgive me!’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ I said, thinking: Maude? Moving across to where she (Maude?) was sitting I said, ‘I’m not a man who likes to stand on ceremony. Formality is tedious, don’t you agree?’
‘Er… yes!’ Adam said, sounding both surprised and pleased. ‘Yes, I do agree!’
I reached Paula (Maude) and bowed, holding out my hand. She put her hand in mine and I kissed the back of it.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Sherwood. Thank you for inviting us to your lovely home. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of purchasing a small Christmas gift for your son. He’s three, I believe?’
I handed her the present. She seemed genuinely touched. ‘He is, Mr Locke. Thank you. This is most generous.’
‘Not at all. It’s nothing much – just a small tin drum, which I thought would amuse him. Small boys do enjoy hitting things, don’t they?’
Paula’s (Maude’s) lips twitched in a wry smile, and for a split-second I caught a flash of the woman I would get to know and like, and who would eventually betray me.
‘I can’t speak for all small boys, Mr Locke, but the one who lives here certainly does.’
We all laughed, and Adam started to thank me again. Perhaps to ward off a second wave of enthusiasm, Clover said, ‘Give it a day or two, Mr Sherwood, and you’ll be cursing us for bringing your son such a noisy gift.’
Formalities over, we sat down and the Sherwoods offered us sherry. Normally I didn’t touch the stuff, but I accepted the glass that Adam handed to me with a show of enthusiasm. For the next twenty minutes the four of us chatted politely. Though C
lover had become pretty adept at the weird formality of Victorian conversation – everyone deferring to everyone else, listening intently to what was being said and never butting in – I still found that I had to concentrate to stop myself speaking out of turn. Whenever I found myself in a social gathering like this one (which wasn’t often; I tried to avoid them like the plague), I felt as if I was playing a role in some genteel drawing-room drama. The fact that this particular conversation involved the Sherwoods, who I’d known in the twenty-first century, only emphasised that feeling, to the extent that I kept half expecting someone to crack, to break out of character.
As we were talking I kept trying to equate these Sherwoods, the Victorian Sherwoods (Paula/Maude referred to her husband not as Adam but as ‘Linley’) with the Sherwoods I’d known in my old life. They had the same faces, even some of the same characteristics, but they were so different in character I couldn’t imagine the amount of training that would be needed to turn them into a convincing twenty-first century couple.
How long would such a process take? Six months? A year? It might even be longer, in which case were the Sherwoods on the brink of being snatched away to begin their ‘programming’? Could it be that the Wolves, or the Society, were watching the house at this moment?
I wondered again whether the Sherwoods were being targeted purely because of me. If so, then I was currently contributing to my own destiny. Was this how the Wolves operated? Did they undermine you by taking your friends (or potential friends) and turning them into your enemies?
The Sherwoods might have been financially stretched, but they’d certainly put on a good spread for us. I felt guilty watching their servant, Mrs Mackeson, heaping enough food on the table to feed a large family. Although I knew these people would eventually abduct my daughter, at this point I couldn’t help thinking of them as victims, and hoped they weren’t planning on going hungry for the rest of the week just to push the boat out for us tonight. We were served hare soup and oyster patties as a starter, followed by a main course of goose and bacon pie, pork chops, two different types of potatoes, a savoury rice dish, devilled eggs, various cheeses and a huge steaming tureen of vegetables.
Like most Victorian meals, the food was meaty, starchy and filling. We ate slowly, and washed it down with a red wine that was eye-wateringly acidic. As the drink flowed and the Sherwoods became more relaxed, I gently probed them for information. I asked about their backgrounds, and gathered – though neither of them admitted it outright – that Maude’s family were more well-to-do than Linley’s, and that there had been some resistance to the marriage from her parents.
The fact that the marriage had gone ahead regardless showed a strength and depth of character to Maude that she kept relatively well hidden. On the surface she seemed a typical young Victorian wife – demure, reserved, naïve – but there was clearly steel behind her long-lashed, pale grey eyes. Although Linley did most of the talking she was the one I found most interesting. In the twenty-first century she’d been the more outgoing of the pair, whereas Linley, although pleasant enough, had always struck me as shy and quiet – even, in retrospect, a bit uncertain.
Perhaps, then, she’d become the driving force, the one who would jump at the opportunity, when it came along, to cast off her Victorian shackles and adopt a newer, freer persona. But how far would she go to acquire her freedom? Was she so corruptible she would be prepared to abduct a child for her new… what? Employers? Guardians? Allies? Captors? Or would she and Linley become victims of a force too powerful to resist? Were they fated to be tricked, or threatened, or brainwashed in some way? When I’d first met them, the Sherwoods had seemed a normal, friendly, happy couple – but had that all been a sham? Had they just been puppets? Had they had any free will of their own or were they – despite appearances – completely under the control of their new masters?
As usual, there were more questions than answers. All I could do was gently prod and poke in the hope of unearthing some clue.
Wondering whether the Wolves might use subtle means to ingratiate themselves with the Sherwoods, rather than launching a full-scale attack, I asked, ‘Who do you work for, Linley – if you don’t mind me asking?’
Linley flushed, though whether that was because he felt embarrassed by my question or had just had too much wine, I wasn’t sure. In a tone that fell somewhere between pride and justification he said, ‘I am employed by Masterson and Company. Their offices are based at St Katharine’s Dock by Tower Bridge. They import foodstuffs from overseas – in particular, sugar from the Americas. Perhaps you have heard of them?’
He asked this with a wheedling sort of hope. I nodded encouragingly. ‘I’m certain that I have.’ I paused, wondering how to phrase the next question. ‘Tell me, have you made any acquaintances of an… unusual nature in the course of your work?’
He frowned. ‘Unusual?’
‘What I mean is… have you been approached, or perhaps targeted for friendship, by a… work colleague or business associate? Have you been invited to join any clubs or societies? Has anyone made a request that you consider… out of the ordinary?’
To my own ears I sounded like a concerned parent trying to quiz a child about a dodgy character seen hanging around the schoolyard.
Sure enough, Linley looked puzzled.
‘I don’t believe so, sir. Why do you ask?’
I took a sip of wine, wondering how best to climb out of the hole I’d dug for myself. Before I could speak, Clover asked, ‘Have you ever heard the phrase “headhunting”, Mr Sherwood?’
He blinked, more baffled than ever. ‘In relation to African savages, do you mean?’
Clover laughed. ‘That is the more grisly connotation. But no, my meaning is different. It’s a modern business phrase meaning to seek out promising recruits from rival companies for potential employment. A headhunter’s job is to identify those recruits and either inform his employer about them or approach them directly.’
‘I see,’ said Linley, who clearly didn’t. He looked from Clover to me, hoping for enlightenment.
Maude, though, had clearly twigged what Clover was getting at.
‘I think…’ she said, and paused, either because she didn’t want to presume or because she was hoping her husband would grab the baton and run with it.
He looked at her, still bemused. ‘What, my dear? What do you think?’
She took a deep breath, then shook her head.
‘It doesn’t matter. I am being presumptuous.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you are, Mrs Sherwood,’ Clover said, and looked pointedly at me. ‘Is she, Alex?’
I knew what Clover was getting at, even if Linley didn’t, and thanked her silently for it.
What was that old phrase? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?
‘No,’ I said, ‘she isn’t. In fact, she is being very perceptive.’ I placed my knife and fork either side of my plate, laced the fingers of my hands together and fixed Linley with an unblinking stare. ‘I hope you won’t think me impertinent, Linley,’ I said, playing the ‘Victorian benefactor’ for all I was worth, ‘but what is your current weekly wage?’
‘My…’ Linley blanched and swallowed. ‘I’m not sure I… that is to say…’
‘Just answer Mr Locke’s question, my dear,’ said Maude quietly.
Linley glanced at her, and then, as if taking strength from her calm resolve, sat up a little straighter in his seat. With almost defiant pride he said, ‘I earn three pounds and ten shillings a week, sir. It is not a fortune, I grant you, but—’
‘How would you like to earn double that amount?’
He froze, his mouth still open. Then he made a little choking noise. ‘I beg your pardon?’
I smiled benignly. ‘I admit to a little subterfuge, Linley. You may have wondered why my wife was so insistent on procuring a dinner invitation when she met you in the cemetery yesterday?’
Linley still looked shell-shocked. ‘Well, no… I…’ but his wife cut across
him.
‘I must admit, we were surprised by Mrs Locke’s friendliness, sir. But we simply assumed her to be possessed of a warm and generous disposition.’
‘As indeed she is!’ added Linley hastily.
‘Just so,’ I replied, ‘although I readily admit to you now that her intentions – our intentions, I should say – were a little… underhand. You see, I have recently been receiving very good reports about you, Linley. Exceptional reports, in fact.’
Linley looked flabbergasted. ‘You have?’
‘I have. Indeed, the reports have been so good that I am prepared to double your wages in order to procure your services.’ I paused to let this sink in, then I leaned towards him.
‘So, what do you think? How would you like to come and work for me?’
TWELVE
FEVER
‘Eviscerated?’ I exclaimed.
The man who’d delivered the news twirled his cap in his hands, looking as shame-faced as if he’d done the deed himself. His face was so lumpy and bleached of colour it looked as though a child had moulded it from clay. The reek of his body odour, which rolled over us in waves, made me want to throw open the windows.
It was 11:40 p.m. and Clover and I had been home for less than twenty minutes. The man, his shapeless layers of clothing coated in a crust of icy snow, had arrived ten minutes later with a message from Hulse. When I invited him in to warm himself by the drawing-room fire he looked at me with wary alarm, as if he thought I was leading him into a trap.