He was speaking to one of the women, now, asking her if she had seen someone go by. Might as well be idle. Poor thing. Dazed she was. While he wasted time at this, Sesina undid the knot of her white apron, rolled it into a ball and thrust it down the front of her dress. Black dress, black shoes, black stockings, black hair. She might melt into the soot-stained brickwork. Soot! In a moment she had reached out a cautious hand, clawed at the wet soot from the bricks and smeared it over her face, some more over her hands while he repeated his question in that loud voice of his. Not a word from them, of course.
‘This way or that?’ There was a chink of coins. Well, that might bring results. But the chances were that some would point one way and some the other. None of them would know. Didn’t see me; I’d take my Bible oath on that. Heads down, shawls over heads, keeping a few little ones warm. They were past taking an interest in anything.
He’d move off soon. No patience that type. Wouldn’t be feeling too well, neither, she said to herself.
And then a light from the darkness beyond. She strained her eyes, feeling her heart start a steady thud which she sensed pulsate against her ears and heard it echo in unison with hoofs, clop, clop, one horse, perhaps a donkey, but coming this way, led, she thought. Slow and steady. He was still trying to make sense out of the women, but now his voice suddenly stopped. He was waiting. He could see what it was and she could see also. A torch, a man holding a flaming torch, held high above his head and leading a donkey and cart with the other.
Her pursuer had seen it also. He strode away from the homeless women. Gave them up as a bad job. But this would be a different matter. A man with a cart, coming out from the dark depths of the Adephi arches. Surely he would have seen something, would respond to the prospect of a coin. The voice was loud, clear and authoritative.
‘Hi, there! Seen a girl, a young girl, wearing an apron? A maid servant. Did she go your way, my man?’
He’d be holding up the coin.
There was a pause. The carter would want some easy money. Trying to think of something to say.
And then the carter’s voice. Quick. Excited. Very high, almost a squeak. A young fellow with sharp eyes. Lifting up his torch as high as he could.
‘There she is, sir. Look, up there. She’s hiding up there! I seed her face.’
TWENTY-TWO
Wilkie Collins, Basil:
Everybody has read, some people have known, of young girls who have committed the most extraordinary impostures, or sustained the most infamous false accusations, their chief motive being often the sheer joy of practising deceit.
‘She made it all up,’ said Dickens. ‘I just can’t believe it, but that must have been what happened. Stupid! Stupid little girl. What was she playing at?’ He went to his desk, took the cards from the corner of a tidy drawer and then spread them across the blotting pad. ‘That’s it. Sesina made it all up,’ he said after a moment. ‘I should have known. I should have remembered how these girls’ handwriting looked alike. I just took it for granted that it was Isabella who wrote them. Sesina has made a fool of us, Wilkie. She’s been clever, leaving these to be found, taking us to the place and allowing us to find some of them for ourselves. How could I have been so stupid?’
‘I should have noticed, too, should have guessed when you said that the girls all copied Mrs Morson’s handwriting. They both wrote just like Mrs Morson. So it was Sesina all the time.’ I turned my face to the fire so that he wouldn’t see me smiling. There was to me, even in the midst of our frustration, something rather comic about that little girl fooling the two of us to that extent.
‘She’s been listening, snooping, having conversations with us, dropping little hints, pointing us in the direction where she wanted us to go; she’s been leading us up the garden path!’ Dickens’ face was still angry, but now he began to look thoughtful, knitting his brow and compressing his lips. He got up from his chair and began to pace up and down, pausing to adjust a curtain, almost automatically, while he brooded over the matter.
‘But why?’ I felt puzzled, now that I came to think about the matter. ‘You know, Dick, I could have sworn that she wanted Isabella’s murderer caught. You said yourself that they were great friends. Why did she mislead us?’
‘Because she thought that she knew better!’ Dickens’ voice was angry, but the knot in his brows and the tight lips told me that he was worried, also. ‘You see Wilkie, I’d say that even before Isabella was murdered, Sesina had worked out, or thought that she had worked out, that the schoolmaster was the one who was going to be blackmailed. And if I know Isabella, she would have encouraged Sesina along the wrong lines. That’s the way that those girls were. Could be great friends, but never quite trust each other.’ Dickens thought about it for a while, jumped up once more from his chair; went across to his desk, picked up the two duelling toads that stood on either side of his pen tray and held them poised in a fight position, one tiny bronze figure in each hand. ‘God bless my soul, she thought she was cleverer than we,’ he said as one toad was rapidly propelled against the other. ‘That was the way of it, Wilkie. She thought she knew the truth and that we, poor stupid gentlemen, wouldn’t have a hope of working it out unless she gave us a few hints. Great opinion of herself, that little girl. She pointed us in that direction because she thought, because she was convinced, that it was Cartwright, worked it out in that busy little brain of hers, left us clues, nothing said by her, just Yes sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir. Just left us to make fools of ourselves.’ There was a broad grin on his face for a moment, but then it faded almost as though he had read what was stirring in my mind. He put the toads back and stared across the room at the baize-lined door. His face was deeply worried and he gnawed his lower lip before speaking again.
‘I’ll tell you what, Wilkie,’ he said. ‘We’d better work out quickly who was the real villain. That little Sesina might put herself in danger if she follows her friend’s example. I’m a bit worried about her. Might walk over towards Adelphi while we talk, what do you think, Wilkie? But first of all, let me just check on something.’ He went to his bookcase and took down the ‘O’ volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ he said after a minute. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of places in the world that are named after Oxford and we Brits think it’s just one of a kind.’ He closed the volume and replaced it on the shelf. ‘An Oxford town in Georgia, established in 1838. Would you believe it, Wilkie?’
I drew in a long breath. But I was not surprised. My mind, also, had begun to turn in that direction. ‘I know who you are thinking of,’ I said slowly. ‘And the property, the half-share left to Isabella by her father, they would have been hotels, I suppose.’
‘And very, very valuable.’
‘And the money in the bank.’
‘They made a fortune, these two men. We heard the story, didn’t we? We heard the story from him that night at dinner. But of course it was only half of the story.’
‘So what happened?’ I asked and then when he did not reply, I went ahead, spinning the story as carefully as if I were planning a novel in monthly numbers.
‘Andrew Gordon, hard-working, careful man, Scottish, saved his money; like all the Scots, he was of an economical turn. Saved up enough for the journey to America. Some sailor brought a tale of gold and the thought of gold lying there in the ground is enough to turn the head of any man,’ I said slowly.
‘Even a married man,’ put in Dickens.
‘He persuaded his wife, told her the stories that he had heard, told her of a great future for her little girl. They would build a great house, dress the child in silks and velvets,’ I said dreamily.
‘And then, when she was hooked, he persuaded her to leave the child at Greenwich Workhouse.’
‘Only for a year, only for a year, and then she will be a little princess.’ I almost heard the words in my ear, as I said them aloud. What a book this would make!
‘Took all of their savings, perhap
s sold their house. And, of course, it didn’t work out. Didn’t find any gold, got poorer and poorer. Wife in bad health, perhaps, and that was when they met our villain. A hard-working man, but had not got luck on his side. No gold, but a shrewd and clever idea that would be bound to make money in return for hard work. Needed capital, though,’ said Dickens, ticking off the relative points on his fingers. ‘And probably Andrew Gordon had a little capital left, wouldn’t you say, Wilkie? That gave them a start and they became partners in the boarding house business, then bought some hotels. Wife died, but the money kept rolling in.’ Dickens jumped to his feet and retrieved my hat from the top of a bookcase and tossed it to me.
‘Come on, Wilkie,’ he said urgently. ‘We have to see Inspector Field.’
‘Inspector Field!’ For a moment I felt taken aback. Now it was no longer a guessing game, no longer a story. ‘But shouldn’t we see the man first, make sure that we are right.’
‘We are right.’ Dickens now had taken his own hat and coat from a closet. ‘I’m always right when I put my mind to a matter. You’re forgetting the girl, Wilkie. I don’t suppose we are the only recipients of her literary efforts. She might well have moved on to blackmail and the letter could have been handed over. No, we’d better act quickly before Miss Sesina gets herself into trouble.’
TWENTY-THREE
Sesina had made up her mind in the space of a couple of seconds. The man with the cart had the donkey’s bridle in one hand and the flaming torch in the other hand. He could not, would not, easily drop either bridle, or torch. And he would take a few minutes to tie up the donkey even if he found a handy place. The animal was overburdened and could not be driven any faster than a slow walk. But for now, at the moment, the donkey and cart were between her and the man who wanted to kill her. It was her only chance. Without hesitation she launched herself from her hiding place, running desperately through the darkness, away from the river, through the tunnel and towards the unknown. She ran with a blind faith that she could outstrip them, though she heard shouts coming from behind her. Once she glanced over her shoulder. The torch was bobbing in the distance, but its light did not reach her. One set of footsteps. The man had stayed with his donkey and its valuable load, but had handed over his torch.
After that one glance, she did not look back again. Best to keep going, her legs pounding, trusting to her sense of direction to avoid crashing into the walls on either side. The whole space between the Strand and theThames was honeycombed with these tunnels, worming their way beneath the houses, giving access to lower basements and to underground warehouses. Now she was getting further in, well beyond where police officers did a perfunctory patrol, well beyond the dim light from candlelit basements. Darker and more dangerous. As she ran at full speed, Sesina did her best to banish from her mind the stories that she had heard.
Impossible, though. There was a murmur from ahead, a buzz of sound, not human; no words to be distinguished, but the hum was dangerous, menacing. A whiff of smoke. Criminals lived down here, cooked their stolen goods, or an animal which could not escape. Murderers, mainly, cast out by all except their fellow criminals. Deliverymen and boys told gasping housemaids horrific stories about these denizens of the underworld beneath Adelphi. ‘Roasted and ate a girl like you,’ the butcher had said with relish one morning when the hue and cry was up and squadrons of armed police had charged past the basement door. Sesina paused. Between the menace from behind and the menace from ahead, she chose the comparative safety of one middle-aged man, even though she knew him to be a brutal murderer.
And then, on her right cheek, a slight breeze, a smell, a familiar smell, the smell of stinking river water, the unmistakable stench of the Thames, rising above the wall built to shut out its odours from the wealthy. Another underground tunnel, leading away to the right. ‘You could go from York Buildings to White Friars without ever seeing the sky.’ It was the coalman who had told her that. Perhaps she could escape after all. He had a torch, but its light would not stretch far. She glanced rapidly over her shoulder, one glance, yes, she could see it. A second glance. The light on the ground only reached about ten feet in front of him. In the hollow darkness she could hear him pant, but she felt safer now. There was no way that he could see her and she could tell, by the sound of his boots striking the road surface, that he had slowed to a walk. Big, fat fellow. Ate too much. Out of breath, probably, and afraid that the torch would blow out. He, like she, would have felt the breeze coming from the river. It was getting stronger by the minute.
There must be another tunnel, joining this one at right angles. The river smell, and the breeze had become stronger. She risked another glance over her shoulder. The wick of the torch must be flickering, but the light itself was stationary. He had stopped. Why? And then she knew. A shout from behind. That familiar war cry to excite the mob. ‘Stop thief!’ and then, worse still, his voice; no doubt about that accent. ‘Ten shillings for the man who catches that girl!’ That would rouse the most sluggish; coax forth even men fearing a scaffold. Nothing, she thought, as she began to run again, nothing was as urgent as the feeling of hunger, the instinct was to survive the next few hours and allow the future to take care of itself. These men would come out from every hole in the ground in order to have ten shillings in their hand.
So now there was a response, a reply, a distant howl, men yelping and men whistling, feet banging on the ground, a man-hunt. She had heard that once before, had heard it from the safety of the basement door. And even then she had shuddered as she closed the door rapidly.
Her instinct was to get back to civilization again, to get back to that warm kitchen and to the thick walls and heavy doors that kept a man-hunting mob at bay. She would take a chance.
She began to run as fast as she could. She would get back to the river. There would always be someone along the foreshore, searching for wood, for pieces of coal, for drowned bodies that might have a few coins in their pockets. Somehow she could perhaps lose herself among them until she could get away. There was a faint gleam ahead on the right-hand side of the tunnel. Not a light, too dim for that; the fog was heavy today. But there was the smell of river, getting stronger than ever. She rounded the corner and fell heavily to the ground, tripped up by what lay there.
TWENTY-FOUR
Wilkie Collins, Basil:
There was a fight—the police came up—I was surrounded on all sides by a shouting, struggling mob that seemed to have gathered in an instant. Before I could force myself out of the crowd, and escape into the road, Margaret and Mr Mannion had hurried into a cab. I just saw the vehicle driving off rapidly, as I got free. An empty cab was standing near me—I jumped into it directly—and told the man to overtake them.
‘An American,’ said Inspector Field dubiously. ‘A rich American.’
‘Why not? You don’t just arrest English people, do you, you English policemen? Come on, Inspector Field, you know you do. I saw you arrest a black man the other day.’ Dickens was sharp and impatient. A sign of his anxiety, I thought, though his face was not easy to read.
‘But, this man …’ Inspector Field thought about it for a few moments and I could almost hear the words that ran through his mind: This very rich American; this property-owning magnet; this man who may well have dined with one of the bigwigs in Scotland Yard. ‘Are you sure, Mr Dickens?’ he said eventually.
‘As sure as you would be yourself before you arrest a man for questioning. That’s all that is necessary. Arrest him; caution him; question him. Come on, Inspector,’ said Dickens impatiently. ‘The evidence is there. Isabella Gordon’s father went to America to make his fortune. He finds that it’s not as easy to get gold as he had expected. He uses the remains of his little fortune to assist a man who has an idea of setting up boarding houses for the hopeful prospectors. And this man, I would wager any sum on it, this man was Donald Diamond. You heard all of his stories yourself. Ten years or so later, Andrew Gordon, perhaps he was dying at the time, in any case, Andrew Gordon goes t
o a lawyer to make his will. All drawn up, neat as anything. “I leave all that I possess, my two hotels, and all monies in the bank, to my daughter and only child, Isabella Gordon, resident in Greenwich Workhouse. Should the same Isabella Gordon have died, then the above named properties and monies go to my partner, Mr Donald Diamond.”’ A few of Inspector Field’s men had crept into the room and all were listening in silence. Ignoring them, Dickens rattled off that rather imaginative version of Andrew Gordon’s will with great aplomb and not a man in the room was ready to argue with him. When he finished there was a dead silence.
Dickens cast a quick glance around the room. All were silent, all gazing at him with mouth ajar. Every word of what he had said was believed. All heads were nodding. I sat very quiet and studied Inspector Field’s worried face. For him, the problems of arresting a rich American went beyond all convictions of his guilt and I guessed that Dickens was too clever not to come to the same conclusion and not to waste any further efforts of convincing him of Donald Diamond’s guilt.
And I was right. Dickens changed his tune.
‘Call it a whim, Inspector,’ he said softly. ‘The whim of a man fussing over a girl who was once in his care. And remember what happened to the other girl, the one that shared a room with this girl. I’m just a bit concerned, Inspector, just a bit worried that something of the same sort might just happen to this little Sesina.’ Dickens paused a little and looked pensively through the grimy window and then quickly back again. ‘I’ll tell you what, Inspector. What do you say to you asking this man Donald Diamond to come and talk to you in your office? Just to have a chat. Fetch him in a taxi, all very informal. You can make up a tale,’ he said, giving the inspector one of his most seductive smiles. ‘You can make up a tale. A letter from America, from Georgia, trying to trace the partner of one Andrew Gordon who is thought to be in London; wonder could Mr Diamond be of assistance; well-known by all that Mr Diamond plays host to many Americans in his house and you do remember him talking about Georgia that night when we all dined together at Rules. What do you think, Inspector? Have a chat with him in his own house, all very informal. But a man of your insight, a man of your experience, will be able to tell if there is anything in this wild story that my friend Collins and I have brought to you. Question him about the two hotels. Ask him about the wife of his partner, about Anne Gordon. I’d lay a bet that a man of your experience will manage to worm some information out of him and remember, Inspector, I’ll be at your side and over the years I have listened to a lot of Don’s tales.’
Season of Darkness Page 23