‘What are they looking for?’ asked Becky, flexing her fingers. They glistened with goose grease in the firelight. That way they wouldn’t crack and bleed too much. Sesina and Isabella had learned that early in their time as housemaids. It eased the pain and the sting, also. The little girl was looking brighter – a bit happier.
‘Where do you sleep at nights, Becky?’ she asked in order to change the subject. Becky wouldn’t really understand even if Sesina explained what was going on. The girl wasn’t too bright. Couldn’t read or write, poor thing. I miss Isabella, thought Sesina.
‘Covent Garden,’ said Becky. ‘The apple woman lets me sleep in her stall.’
‘Do you like it, Becky? Isn’t it very cold?’ There was a strange scratching noise from the small bedroom beside the kitchen. Raking the top of the water tank with the handle of an umbrella, she guessed after a minute. That would be worth doing. She, herself, had stood on a chair and felt back as far as she could, but she had not been able to reach right to the back of it. An umbrella was a good idea.
‘It’s scary there at night,’ said Becky. She sounded dreary. Used to it, thought Sesina. Things never seemed so bad when you got used to them. You just had to keep going. That was her experience, anyway.
‘You got a mother or anything?’ she asked and Becky shook her head. Didn’t want to talk about it. Mothers weren’t much use in Sesina’s experience, probably not in Becky’s, neither. Wanted to go on about Covent Garden.
‘It’s really, really scary, Sesina. You wouldn’t like it a bit. When the traders go, the rats come. Ever so big some of them. I bet you’ve never seen such big rats. Size of cats, you’ve never seen such a thing.’
Bet I have, thought Sesina and then she pushed the thought of the past from her head. Look forward. Don’t look back. That was her motto. She sat very still, gazing into the fire. Money, she thought. That’s what I need. Money. A nice place of my own. Becky had fallen asleep by the time that she looked across at her again, and so she went back to her little daydream. Money enough for a coffee stall. She imagined it. Nice little stall. Cover over the top so that the rain didn’t come on to the cups and the food. Coffee, tea, buns. Loads of people queuing up. Herself in a nice white apron. She could pinch a few from the linen cupboard here in Adelphi Terrace before she left. Plenty of them there. Take a few tablecloths, too, while she was at it. Would give a bit of class to the place. Dead clean, white tablecloth spread out under the cups and saucers. She’d keep it clean and starched. Send out her washing, too. Never no more wash days, she swore under her breath with a glance across at the sleeping child opposite. Money! She said the two syllables softly beneath her breath. She liked the sound of the word. How much should she ask him for? What would her silence be worth to him? Twenty pounds or perhaps it should be ten pounds. Isabella might have been asking too much, asking for a meal ticket for life, and look where that got her. She glanced across at the door and, as the handle turned, for a second she almost expected to see Isabella. She stayed watching it, wide-eyed, for a second and then gave a terrible start as it opened slowly.
‘God, Mrs Dawson, I thought that you were Isabella’s ghost, coming in so quiet-like.’ Not like the missus to steal down so quietly. What was she after? Sneaking around to see what they were up to in the next room? Listening to what they were saying. Sesina looked at her with interest.
‘Don’t be stupid, Sesina,’ snapped Mrs Dawson. ‘No such thing as ghosts.’
‘Easy to say when you don’t sleep down here in the lower basement, missus. There’s something moves around at night this last week. I’m not sure if I can stay here on my own much longer to tell you the truth.’
That gave the missus something to think about. Sesina could see the old fat face tightening up. Lazy old cow. Wouldn’t like to lose Sesina now as well as Isabella. Might have to do some work herself. The great Mrs Dawson cleaning out fireplaces, carrying slop pails, turning a mangle over dripping sheets, scrubbing floors! Sesina left a silence long enough for the woman to think about these things. And it worked. Mrs Dawson looked across at the sleeping child.
‘We could keep that little one, Sesina, what do you think? Be company for you, wouldn’t she? Nice little thing. You could train her up to be useful, couldn’t you, Sesina? I’m sure the landlord wouldn’t grudge the money that she’d cost, even if we do get another housemaid in a while.’
You might find yourself doing the work, if you don’t hurry up about getting another housemaid. I’ll be off once I have the twenty pounds in my pocket, thought Sesina, but aloud, she said, ‘Well, what about popping down to see the landlord, now, missus. Get it fixed up and then we can tell Becky when she wakes up. And while you are at it, missus, see if the greengrocer can give you another cat. I’d swear I heard mice last night. Never did hear them before that butcher ran over our cat.’
That got rid of you, thought Sesina as soon as Mrs Dawson hurried upstairs to put on her bonnet. Never did like mice. Couldn’t stand up to men, either. Didn’t want to have any argument with the butcher when he ran over that poor cat – on purpose, too. Left Isabella to deal with him. Did it, too. Poor old Isabella! Afraid of no one. Could stand up to Mr Dickens himself. Never forget the day that she defied him. The sight of her deliberately turning her back on him, going up the stairs, holding out her skirts like a lady, had made every girl in the place double up, laughing inside themselves. Sesina smiled a bit at the memory of that day and then stood up when she heard the sound of a door opening. Let the poor little mite sleep, she thought, as she went towards the kitchen door, seizing a mop and pail and carrying them in a busy manner.
‘Ah, Sesina, just come in here for a moment. We want to show you something.’
So they had found something else. The policeman, this Inspector Field, he didn’t care for her being brought into the room. His big thick lips were pouting a bit and he pulled at his ear. Didn’t dare say a word, though. Mr Dickens probably wouldn’t let him. Bossed everyone, so he did.
‘Did you find something else, sir?’ She dumped the bucket and mop and followed them in. Freezing cold that place. If Becky did stay, then she’d have to share her room upstairs, have Isabella’s bed. Couldn’t have the child sleeping in that cold, damp place on her own. Not that I’ll be here for too long, I’d say, she thought as the picture of her coffee stall with its starched white tablecloth came to her mind and brought a smile to her face.
‘Look at this. Inspector Field found it.’ Mr Dickens, of course, was as triumphant as if he had found it himself. All excited he was. And the other little fellow, Mr Collins, eyes sparkling away behind his gold-rimmed spectacles as he held out a cotton handkerchief to her.
‘Do you recognize this, Sesina?’ he said and he sounded like a little boy, all excited.
‘Yes, sir. That was belonging to Isabella.’ To Mrs Dawson, actually, but Isabella had unpicked the initials, S.D. And then she had boiled it for so long that the pale pink colour had faded to a dingy white. ‘Yes, that was belonging to Isabella.’ She heard her voice shake a little and that nice Mr Collins patted her on the arm. She would give him a free cup of coffee if he ever passed by her stall in the early morning at Covent Garden.
‘Do you recognize the handwriting?’ This Inspector Field had a hoarse voice and a disgusting habit of clearing his throat before everything that he said. He had taken the handkerchief off the little bundle of calling cards and he was peering at her suspiciously, but then policemen were all the same. Put you in prison at the stroke of a pen if you said a cross word to them.
‘Yes, sir.’ She dropped him a curtsy. Wouldn’t hurt. Men liked that sort of thing. ‘Yes, that’s Isabella’s handwriting. She always made the letter C like that, all curly.’ Sesina frowned a little at the cards. ‘The mice have been at those cards, sir. I told Mrs Dawson that we should get a new cat. The butcher killed our nice old fellow. Isabella went out and give him a piece of her mind. Ever so nasty he was to her, too.’
That would give Mr Dickens somethi
ng to think of. Fond of animals, he was. She’d seen him stroke a stray dog and come back to the kitchen to find something to eat for it. And the cat at Urania Cottage always made a beeline towards him the minute that he sat down.
‘I met that butcher, I think,’ said Mr Collins in a low voice. ‘So Isabella gave him a piece of her mind, did she? Brave girl!’ And he looked at Mr Dickens and the pair of them seemed to be thinking hard about the butcher. And why not. Good for that fella if the police hauled him into one of their stations and shut him in a cell before questioning him. That Inspector Field wasn’t taking much notice though. He was holding out one of the cards to her.
‘What do you think this means, my dear?’
Sesina frowned over the cards. What could Isabella be thinking of?
‘“Booklet One”, it’s like she was thinking of a book. What do you think?’ She turned towards Mr Collins.
‘That’s what we were thinking of, Sesina. That’s just the way I go about writing a book.’ Mr Collins sounded all excited. He started telling Mr Field all about it, all about how he writes his books. Thought she’d be too stupid to understand, she supposed. ‘I get a pack of cards, Inspector,’ he was saying. ‘I buy them from the stationer, and I write across the top of each one the number of the booklet: booklet one, booklet two and so on until I reach at least thirty and then I go back and put ideas on the cards as I think of them. I do that for a few weeks or a few months until I have my mind full of ideas and then I write the book.’
‘You’re a planner and plotter, then, Mr Collins.’ Inspector Field gave a great laugh that ended in another one of those throat-clearing businesses. He wagged his finger, silly old foozler. ‘I know some men like you down at Seven Dials, Mr Collins,’ he said. Thought he was very amusing, of course. ‘But it isn’t books that they are planning and plotting. Not them. A different story entirely. That’s what they are after.’ And Inspector Field had another good laugh at his own little joke.
Plenty of people that I knew used to have a laugh at you and your big notions of yourself, Mr Inspector Field, thought Sesina, but she kept her eyes fixed on the cards and then, aloud, read them one by one.
Booklet 1: A picture of a murderer. The murderer walks the dark streets of London at night. He has a terrible scar on his face. People run away from him. He has a look of death in his eyes. He walks the streets, trying to forget the dead boy. Trying to forget the lifeless body at his feet.
Booklet 2: The murderer finds a new job. He has to hide the past. He lies about his past. Pretends to be what he is not. Pretends to be kind and caring, but the scar tells a different story. It speaks out like a mouth.
Booklet 3: The murderer must hide his past. No clue must be left. No trace in his room. He must check through all of his belongings. No one must know where he comes from. He does not know that it is too late!
‘His room,’ said Sesina thoughtfully. ‘“No trace left in his room.”’ She saw Mr Dickens look at that Inspector Field and the policeman returned the look, nodding his head and touching his nose with his forefinger, trying to make himself look very wise.
‘Tell us, my dear, would this Isabella have searched a room in this house?’ asked Inspector Field looking at her very intently, trying to see into my mind, thought Sesina.
‘Oh, no, sir, we wouldn’t do things like that. Just dusting and cleaning and tidying up after the gentlemen.’ Leaving their wet towels and their disgusting, dirty underclothes lying all over the floor and expecting us to pick them up and put them in the laundry basket.
‘The scar,’ said Mr Collins, raising his eyebrows at the two men.
‘“The scar tells a different story”, that’s what it said, didn’t it, sir?’ She said the words to him in a low and confidential tone of voice. It was nice to give a bit of encouragement to Mr Collins. The other two would talk over him. He should stand up for himself, she thought and wished, once again, that she was a housemaid in his place. She wouldn’t send him out in the morning with a hat like that. There were even cat hairs all over it today. And creases in his coat as well.
‘So my little friend Isabella was planning to write a book, well, well, well.’ Mr Dickens sounded quite sentimental. Could be as hard as nails, of course, but he could be handled. Looking back on it, some of the girls at Urania Cottage could handle him, could always get around him. Still, who wanted to be shipped off to Tasmania, across the world in one of them ships? London is the place for me; Isabella used to say that and Sesina agreed with her.
‘Who do you think that Isabella is talking about, Sesina?’ Mr Dickens was watching her very carefully. Trying to see into our heads, that was what the girls in Urania Cottage used to say about him. He was a contrary man, too. You’d say one thing and he’d say the opposite. She’d try that.
‘I suppose she just made it up, sir. It’s a story, ain’t it? Ain’t a story made up, sir?’ Sesina said the words quietly and waited for him to contradict her. And, of course, he did. She knew that he would.
‘Well, you know, Sesina, I wonder whether she did make it up; whether she had someone in mind. And, of course, there is only one person in this house with a scar. You’d agree to that, wouldn’t you? Do you think that your friend Isabella was thinking of Mr Cartwright when she wrote that?’
‘Searched his room, too, I’ll be bound,’ said Inspector Field, holding his pudgy hand against the side of his red nose and speaking to Mr Dickens behind it, pushing out his fat lips. Must think her dead stupid. Or blind and deaf. That was the police for you. Dead stupid, the lot of them.
With a slight shrug of her shoulders, Sesina left them to it, to their low-voiced conversation, to their brooding looks at the mice-nibbled cards which could lead to the uncovering of the murderer of poor Isabella. There should be another card to find. There had been eight cards missing, only twelve were left from the original pack of twenty. She wondered whether they had remembered that as she went out to the coal cellar. Or perhaps they were all too stupid to subtract twelve from twenty. She had a little giggle at that. Funny how it warmed you up and made you feel good to have that little giggle. Poor old Isabella. She did miss her. Hopefully that brute would soon be locked up. Sesina went out to the coal store and filled a pail with small, dusty nuggets, brought them back into the kitchen and then added a few sticks from the basket by the fire. While she was tearing up some old newspapers, reducing them to some puffed-out balls, her mind was working rapidly.
Surely it was as obvious to them as it was to her, where those notes were leading. Surely they couldn’t be so stupid. All three of them. Two famous writers of books and one police inspector. Still the chances were that she was as clever as any one of them. No harm in being ahead of them, anyway.
She went silently past the kitchen maid’s bedroom, as she went towards the stairs. The voices were very low now. That was good. So you’re beginning to catch on! She wished that she could say the words aloud and watch their surprised faces. But no point in dreaming for the moon, be content with what you can get without too much danger. Ten pounds, she thought, reluctantly. That was probably all that she should ask for. That was reasonable. He could afford that. Meet him indoors, in the house. Easy enough to do that. And then she’d vanish from the scene, wouldn’t say another word to nobody, just clear off and let that fat policeman and Mr Dickens, of course, get on with putting him in gaol and hanging him for what he did to Isabella. That’s if they had the brains to do that. In any case, she should be safe enough, she thought confidently, as she went quietly up the stairs towards the hallway. They were well on the trail, now. The bell from St Martin in the Fields Church on Trafalgar Square sounded the hour, as she opened the door into the hall, just before the hall clock chimed its four silvery strokes. Four o’clock, Mr Cartwright would be home soon.
No sound from the lawyer’s rooms; he was still out. She passed by quickly, clambering swiftly up to the next storey. She set the schoolmaster’s fire, expertly layering the sticks above and below the balls of newspaper and t
hen she struck the match. The tenants were supposed to ring when they wanted a fire, but you could set a clock by the schoolmaster’s arrival home. It was easier to do it without his eyes on her backside. Sesina puffed the bellows vigorously. He’d be back in about ten or fifteen minutes. There was a good draught on this fire. By then the room would be warm. The three gentlemen, cudgelling their brains downstairs, would have a nice comfortable time interviewing. Hopefully, they would frighten the life out of him. Tighten the noose around his neck. Sesina gave a little giggle. She’d pick her time, just hand him a letter and wait for him to summon her. After the police questioning he’d be shaking in his shoes and willing to buy her silence at any price. About seven o’clock in the evening, she decided. That would be the best time. The two lads upstairs would have gone out, out on the tiles like a pair of tom cats. The lawyer would be out, too, going wherever he went of evenings. Mrs Dawson would be sipping her gin and dozing by the fire. No one to interrupt.
In about half an hour, she decided, yes, in half an hour a conscientious and hardworking housemaid would be perfectly justified in appearing with a fresh pail of coal. And by then the conversation should be getting interesting. Listen at the door for as long as it was safe and then a knock if anyone was coming up the stairs, or if the conversation got boring. The important thing would be for her to pretend she knew all about everything. Get him rattled.
Season of Darkness Page 18