Season of Darkness

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Because I took the key from the back door, sir and I hid it. I hid it in a place where she wouldn’t find it. It was still there in the morning, sir, but Isabella had vanished. And that’s not all. She didn’t come back into the kitchen. I went to the door and listened and heard her go up to the hall and then I think I heard a creak on the stairs.’

  SIX

  Wilkie Collins, Basil:

  London was rousing everywhere into morning activity, as I passed through the streets. The shutters were being removed from the windows of public-houses: the drink-vampyres that suck the life of London, were opening their eyes betimes to look abroad for the new day’s prey! Small tobacco and provision-shops in poor neighbourhoods; dirty little eating-houses, exhaling greasy-smelling steam and displaying a leaf of yesterday’s paper, stained and fly-blown, hanging in the windows—were already plying, or making ready to their daily trade.

  I stood. I hesitated. I looked around at the London traffic. I couldn’t get Isabella out of my head. My thoughts, my feelings were engaged with that poor girl, with the dead girl that we had been shown as I sauntered along the Strand, making my way towards the Hungerford Market. I could write a story about it. What was the beginning of the story? Death. An awful finality about death. Death was the end of everyone’s story. And then I had a sudden inspiration. I would do something quite, quite different. Something new. A book written backwards. Something quite different in the realms of literature. A book that started on the last page.

  The last page, yes, that was the end of the story, not the beginning, the last page was when the dead Isabella fished from the river, dead and dripping, was displayed in the police station, lying there under the gas lamp. An object of curiosity, of perfunctory enquiry by the police and then consigned to one of those filthy, running sores that passed for the burial grounds of the poor in London.

  And then my unseen reader lifts the page; turns the page over, just like opening a box of chocolate drops, reveals the next page. Two days earlier. The girl, alive, palpitating with a mixture of fear and excitement. Going to meet a man. What man? Was it a man? Sesina said that it was a man, but what if Isabella was going to meet a woman? A woman with hands strong enough to strangle. Arms strong enough to throw a body into the river.

  And where did they meet?

  Where to set the scene?

  Hungerford Stairs?

  I knew it well. Rotten to the core. Rotting wood, rotting houses, rotting men and women, diseased, drugged, corrupted, dying, dying from disease, dying from opium, dying suddenly and violently.

  But was Hungerford Stairs the place where Isabella met her death? Her friend, Sesina, had said that. I think that she planned to go to the Hungerford Stairs to meet someone, sir. I wandered down. Stood looking at the scene of desolation. I started to go on to the shore. A raucous flock of seagulls squabbled angrily over some prize towards the centre of the river. For a sickening moment, I thought I saw something rise, something that could have been a human hand. Several of the wretched scavengers had stopped their work, were standing rather still. Looking at me and then from me to one of their companions in misery. I began to feel uneasy, unsafe.

  I stopped. Turned back. Went down Lower Robert Street, back to Adelphi Terrace. Came and stood on its lofty heights, on its terraced shelf above the restless river. Stood in safety and thought about my book; thought about Isabella and her wish to become a lady. There was daylight now. Or such daylight as one could have in the murk and fog of smoky London. But at night, away from the gas lamps? That was how I would paint the scene. At night there would be deep shadows. Shadows to hide a murder, to hide a murderer. I stood at the iron railing, placed a hand on their black painted surface, leaned over.

  Perhaps the murder took place up here. My imagination sketched in the scene.

  In my arms a dead girl.

  Gathering all my strength.

  A seagull soared above my head, dived. A perfect flight, straight as an arrow, it plunged down and hit the water.

  But my imagination could not soar and dive with the bird. Even for a man with three times my strength, a man strong enough to break a girl’s legs and strangle the life from her body, even for a man like that, this was an impossibility. The body could have been dropped over the railing, but then it would have landed on the lower street, in front of the arches, not projected forward into the river. It would account for the bruises and the broken legs, but it was an impossibility for anyone, no matter how strong. I stayed there, wondering. There was a slam of a door from behind where I stood. Number five? I swung around. Yes. The schoolmaster. Late to his place of work. Saturday morning, of course.

  And then I saw something that took my mind from Mr Cartwright. Down river. York Watergate. Oddly I had not really looked at it before, I knew it better from the work of one of my brother’s artist friends than I knew it from life. Henry Pether’s magnificent painting: York Gate & the Adelphi from the River by Moonlight was very much admired by me and most of the London world. But there it was, the real York Gate. Hundreds of years old. Beautifully carved from white marble, Italianate, a romantic place for a gentleman to meet a girl in strict privacy. I had seen for myself how my presence at Hungerford Stairs had drawn all eyes to me. But York Watergate, almost a stone’s throw away from Adelphi Terrace, marooned in low tide, would be empty and deserted for most of the time.

  That was it. That was the place. The place where a man could meet a girl in strict secrecy, could do what needed to be done without being observed by the tattered crows that haunted the Hungerford Stairs. I had the setting for the second last page of my book. I turned words over in my mind, words that would serve to describe the midnight scene. The girl comes there, comes to meet a man. Not her first meeting, of course, though sadly her last. She comes to meet him, tells him what she knows of him; tells his deadly secret, asks for money, for a new life. I felt tears come to my eyes as I imagined how I would write that passionate plea. I could see her face. Big dark eyes, flowing hair, the pathos of that old dress, red and green to suit her colouring, chosen for her by a man who had wanted to give her a new start in life but who had been defeated by her stubbornness, by her zest for life, for fun, by her love of adventure, by her determined preference for the taking of chances above all dull security.

  And then she had taken one chance too many, trusted to her wit, to her courage, trusted a step too far when she placed herself at the mercy of a killer.

  I left the majestic heights of Adelphi Terrace, went back down to river level, thinking hard as I walked along beside the river. It was midday and the tide was low. The dry, soft sand rose in small puffs from the rapid movement of my feet as I walked, lost in my thoughts until a ripple of water touched the toe of my boot. The incoming tide from Gravesend was spreading up the river. Soon the water would reach the York Watergate Stairs. I would have to return by the Strand or by one of those subterranean roads built by the Adams Brothers. I moved a little faster, watching the moored boats rock and pull against the restraint of their anchor. In an hour’s time there would be enough depth for waterside ferries to land on the slipway to York Watergate, but now the whole place was empty and deserted.

  York Watergate. A perfect place for a meeting. About five minutes or less from number five Adelphi Terrace. No curious stares, no witnesses. I looked at the four tall white pillars of the gate and at the roofed area within them. It had been built more than two hundred years ago from the finest Portland stone. York House, itself, had disappeared, but its water gate still stood, now nothing but a place to shelter while waiting for the ferry. I stood on the slipway, my hand on the mooring post and gazed up at the Villiers’ family coat of arms and looked at the arches that held up the roof. A little house. A perfect place for a secret meeting. I tried to imagine it; tried to visualize the two figures on that fatal night, seeing Isabella plainly, but failing with the man. A tall man, he must have been, bigger than Isabella, far bigger than me also, doubtless. He stood slightly in the shadows, and the gi
rl was there, by that pillar, just where the watery moonlight would shine on her eager face as she tried to get money from him, blackmailed him. Isabella wanted to be a lady; that’s what her friend Sesina had said. I dug deep into the murdered girl’s mind, tried to imagine her words and then I saw something.

  There, just beside the four-sided post, half hidden in some grass, was a large pocket watch, the silver dial gleaming. I bent down, picked it up. Unusually large, the black figures standing out against the white dial. A plain silver watch, definitely a man’s watch. A silver chain, snapped in half. Could the victim have desperately grabbed at it, tried to avoid her fate? It seemed likely. I dangled it by its broken chain, turning it over. No name engraved upon it.

  A movement, that was all. A movement from beside the white limestone of the nearest pillar. But I could have sworn that it was a man’s arm, a glossy black sleeve, a glint of cufflinks. And then it was as if the air beside my right ear was split open. A small thud upon the wooden post beside me. Could someone have shot at me? For a moment I stared at the post stupidly, peered at it. I had even begun to lift my hand to feel for the bullet, still hardly able to believe that someone had tried to kill me, here in the middle of London. And then another bullet. This one skimmed my head, struck the gleaming silver of the watch and knocked it from my grasp. I looked all around, looking for help but there was no one near to me. I felt a heavy sweat break through my forehead, drenching the rim of my hat. I clenched my hands. The instinct to run away was very strong, but now all was quiet. And that watch might be the clue to poor Isabella’s murderer.

  I bent down. It was just there. The silver gleamed up at me. My hand almost touched it, and then a third bullet. This time I did not hesitate.

  A moment of regret that I had got involved in the matter of the murdered housemaid crossed my mind. I was, I thought, only human, no hero, and I had a lot to live for. Self-preservation took over, and just as another bullet whizzed past my ear, I dug the tip of my umbrella into the soft ridges of the slipway and vaulted neatly over on the other side, landing on the soft river sand. I crouched there for a minute, my heart thudding. I had landed with a thud and a splash, the water was coming in rapidly and my feet were chilled with cold water. I had jarred my knee, and pulled a muscle in my arm. All thought of the watch left me and I yelled out as loudly as I could, repeating the one word, ‘help!’ as loudly as I could.

  Useless, I thought. No one around. No one near.

  No one, except a murderer.

  But then from out in the centre of the river, there came a shout. It was the ferry boat. A boatman was shouting. He had heard my voice, not the words, but he was waving his hand, pointing upriver, towards Hungerford. I understood him instantly. He was explaining that the tide was still too low to make a stop at York Watergate. I pretended to misunderstand him, though, wading into the river, shouting meaningless appeals and then walking along, still in the river, back towards Hungerford, keeping myself in full view of the boat and still endeavouring to keep shouting meaningless questions. I would, I thought, find a cab at Charing Cross and have myself driven straight back to my lodgings.

  I dared not walk, but took a cab to Tavistock House that evening. Even so, I glanced nervously around and told the man to wait as I went up the steps.

  ‘A cab! We can walk!’ Dickens was appalled. He walked everywhere.

  ‘No time.’ I had thought about the matter for the last hour or so. No matter how often I reproached myself for cowardice, I could not get up the courage to go back to York Watergate. I was not the right man for these heroics.

  ‘Get in, Dick,’ I said, for once feeling in charge. And once I had given the address of the police station to the cabman I climbed in without a backward glance and he followed after a few seconds.

  ‘Someone tried to kill me this afternoon.’ I had waited until the cabman, above our heads, had whipped up his horses, before I whispered these dramatic words into his ear. The light was too dim to see the expression on his face, but his head whipped around.

  ‘Why?’ That was all that he said, but there was a note of intense excitement in his voice. I began to feel rather important. I jerked my thumb upwards, indicating the cabbie above us and then sat back. If I told my story now, Dickens would just take over when we got to the police station.

  Inspector Field was disappointed in me. He and Dickens had listened to the early part of my story with a flattering display of interest, but my dramatic escape disappointed them. There was a silence and then the inspector said sadly, ‘Didn’t think to pick up the watch, sir.’ His voice made a statement not a question out of the words. I winced and tried to make a joke out of it.

  ‘Not too used to having shots fired at me,’ I said feebly.

  Dickens patted me on the arm. ‘At least you are safe, old chap. But who could the man have been? Do you have any ideas about that?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure of that,’ I said. At least my brain had worked well. I kept them waiting for a long minute. After all, I was the one who worked out where the murder had taken place and I made them listen while I explained the logic behind my deductions about the site of the murder. ‘And,’ I said, ‘when I stood on Adelphi Terrace and looked across to York Watergate, I saw the schoolmaster, Mr Cartwright, come out of number five. He saw me, I’m sure, saw me looking down river. He could have followed me there.’

  ‘And then was scared that the watch might hang him,’ said Dickens enthusiastically, but the inspector was shaking his head sadly.

  ‘Pity you didn’t come to me, first of all, Mr Collins. I’d have sent a man there. A couple of men. Search the place.’ He didn’t finish, but the expression on his face said that I had made a mess of everything.

  ‘But you will send them now, won’t you, Inspector? Mr Collins said that the tide was coming towards him. It would be good to keep an eye on the place and have someone there in hiding to see if the man comes back at high tide. And who knows, but they might find the watch.’

  I could see from the inspector’s face that he was not hopeful of results. I felt fairly sure that the schoolmaster, or whoever had shot at me, would have retrieved his watch very quickly and easily. I said nothing however. All was not lost even if the policemen failed to find the man or even the watch. They probably wouldn’t! I knew, of course, that Inspector Field was one of only a very small number of detectives in the city of London. And that there were hardly enough constables on the streets to stop daylight robbery, let alone to solve a case where no one had been hurt.

  However, I had a plan.

  SEVEN

  Wilkie Collins, Basil:

  The Abbe was dwarfish and deformed, lean, sallow, sharp-featured, with bright bird-like eyes, and a low, liquid voice. He was a political refugee, dependent for the bread he ate, on the money he received for teaching languages. He might have been a beggar from the streets; and still my father would have treated him as the principal guest in the house, for this all-sufficient reason—he was a direct descendant of one of the oldest of those famous Roman families whose names are part of the history of the Civil Wars in Italy.

  Our guests were all assembled, clustered around their landlord, Dickens’ American friend, Don Diamond, when we arrived on Sunday evening and I felt cheered by the sight of them and by the excellence of our host’s Madeira. He pressed one glass on me and then another while I studied the faces of the four men who had been asked to meet us. Which would be the face on that second to last page of my book? Which was the man who had lost a watch at York Watergate? Which of these men murdered Isabella Gordon? I looked at them with interest, but was glad of the numbers around the table. Safety in numbers, was my thought.

  When there was a pause in the conversation, I took out my own watch, shook it, and held it to my ear.

  ‘This watch of mine is always wrong. Who has got the exact time?’ I asked, looking all around at them. I was pleased to hear what a very natural ring there had been to my voice. Even Dickens took out his watch, a prized possessi
on presented to him by the people of Coventry.

  The schoolmaster to my disappointment produced a battered old silver watch; Mr Doyle an expensive and smooth gold one.

  But only one man there did not have a watch and that was one of the young journalists, Jim Carstone.

  ‘Pawned it, did you?’ said his friend Benjamin. ‘Never did know such a fellow as you, Jim. Went the way of that medal you won in the King’s Road shooting gallery, I suppose.’

  Probably had pawned it, I thought. Young men did that sort of thing. I felt disappointed as I studied the other guests and tried each face for the mask of a murderer.

  The lawyer first. He had a gold watch, suspiciously shiny. New possibly, but then everything about Mr Jeremiah Doyle seemed new and expensive. Not a name that I liked, Jeremiah. It had a stiff, self-righteous sound to it. I thought of the story that the landlord had told, of how this man’s rent was paid for by his family’s lawyers. During my studies at the Temple Bar I had met many barristers who by dint of paying for twelve dinners were qualified barristers, but who had done no studies and who had never had a single case. But what did he do with his time? Not a young man. Older than Dickens, I would have thought. He was an impressive figure, tall, well-made and the height of his forehead lent dignity to the bald head. He had a way of turning his whole head and shoulders as he asked a question, something that lent weight to his slightest utterance. He was talking to Dickens and I joined them. He shook my hand with the minimum of contact and turned back to Dickens as if he were more worthy of his notice. This irritated me and I addressed him abruptly, forcing him to return his attention to me.

  ‘I understand that you are a barrister-at-law, Mr Doyle,’ I said. ‘Which inn do you frequent?’

  He looked over his glasses keenly at me. ‘Why do you ask?’ he said.

  I gave him a friendly smile. ‘I’ve just been called to the bar myself,’ I said proudly.