Esther turned her back, since it humoured him to have her do so. She knew by now what was kept in the safe. Mr Carew had great notions of his own shrewdness. Perhaps his master did, too, since he was entrusted with so much, but in truth he was often inattentive. She had taken those opportunities that came. She had seen enough.
She stood in silence as he brought the pieces of the gown to the workbench, taking care to give no sign of unsteadiness in her posture. She heard him return to the strongbox, his tread ponderous and shuffling. It would take him three trips, or even four. It was not only the dress that was locked away, but the box of cards on which the measurements were marked. These were made from other items of clothing, procured in a manner she did not care to guess at.
She listened carefully when he returned to lock the safe. The hinges were apt to creak, but she had greased them with oil from the Singer sewing machine, applying only a little at a time. There was a dull clang as he shouldered the door closed, but that could be avoided with gentleness. The hinges themselves made no sound at all.
She turned, hearing him approach the bench again.
‘There you are now, Miss Tull.’ Mr Carew said this with a small flourish, as if to emphasise some act of benevolence. ‘You have all you need, I believe.’
Esther waited. Nothing must be rushed. There must be no appearance of urgency.
‘Thank you, Mr Carew.’ Her tone was not curt, exactly, but neither was it courteous. She had repeated the words before her looking-glass, adjusting the set of her jaw by degrees, until she was sure of the effect they would have. Mr Carew was accustomed to her deference, and when he found it lacking he favoured only one form of correction.
He approached her, standing so close that his knees pressed faintly against her outer skirts. His breathing had slowed now, but it was laboured still. She felt it against her cheek. He smelled of plum cake, of must and snuff.
‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Miss Tull?’
‘Yes, Mr Carew.’ She did not soften her voice. Not yet.
‘Are you quite sure?’ He leaned closer. ‘Is there something you would like me to put right?’
‘Nothing, Mr Carew.’
He raised his hand, and she felt his fingers curl about her nape. ‘You know you may come to me, Miss Tull, if you want for anything. I will be glad to see to your needs.’
Esther raised her face to his, and as she did so she made a small show of distress and contrition. This was all that was required. As Mr Carew studied her with satisfaction, Esther made a movement he did not detect.
‘Forgive me, Mr Carew,’ she said. ‘It is only that I am tired. My sister is unwell, as you know, and I sat with her for much of the night.’
‘There now, Miss Tull.’ He turned away, his attention already elsewhere. ‘We have each our cross to bear. I will leave you to your work. The door must be locked, as always, but you need only knock. I will be at my little station outside the door. Now, that reminds me. Where did I put down my newspaper?’
He had left it on the workbench, almost at his elbow, where he could not have failed to notice it. He waited until Esther picked it up and handed it to him, a small act of reparation that completed her penance. He unfolded it as he crossed to the door, peering at the ghoulish illustration that took up the greater part of the front page.
‘Heaven help us, Miss Tull. It seems a resident of Southwark was found devoured by his own cats. What has the world come to, that such things can happen not three miles from us?’
He continued tutting and clucking as he let himself out, and when at last he locked the door behind him Esther released a long quiet breath. She allowed herself to slump a little, now that she was no longer observed, and to loosen her clothing where it pressed against the injured place. She had imagined this moment many times, fearing always that her courage would fail at the last. She had prayed, though she knew the wickedness of doing so. The Lord could not be called upon by those who had chosen her course.
Yet the strength had come. It held now even as her posture slackened, like a wire that had been drawn taut at her core. She had saved the drug until the last possible moment, being unused to its effects. She had done the stitching without it, fearing it would leave her insensible, only binding her jaw with a leather strap to keep herself from screaming. The relief, when it came, had made her weep. The opium had done its work, but she had endured the worst without it. Whatever strength she had found had some other source.
When it was done, she had swabbed the stitches with a solution of carbolic acid, then examined her work in the looking-glass. The words had appeared backwards, and she was not confident in her letters on the best of days. But she had taken her time over it, meaning to be sure. There was a small satisfaction in that, and in preserving the neatness of her work even at the height of her agony. She had taken a fleeting pride in her efforts, but had seen that in the next moment for the sin that it was. She had turned away from the glass to dress, lest she make herself late.
Esther roused herself. She had much to do still, and the danger had not passed. From a pocket sewn to the inner part of her petticoat – this was the first of the alterations she had made – she drew out a wad of ragged gauze that she had soaked in spirits. Reaching beneath her clothing, she dabbed at the skin around the stitches. She did so without looking, since she could not risk unclothing herself further, and kept one hand clamped to her mouth in case a sound should escape her. She withdrew the swab at intervals to examine it, refolding it and readying a clean patch once a portion was saturated. It was not that she feared for the cleanliness of the wounds – with that, at least, she need not trouble herself – but she was anxious that the stitches might be too much obscured by blood. They must be plainly visible, or nearly so, or her efforts would be wasted. It was a small part of her plan, and might have been done without if she had only one purpose, but it was not only a matter of saving those who could still be saved. She had made a promise and meant to keep it. For a little longer she must conceal her purpose, then the moment would come. She would bear witness, in the end, whatever might become of her soul.
She stooped to unlace her shoes, wincing as she worked them off. The pain had sharpened, but she refused to give it her attention. These were the moments that mattered most. She must be quick and exact in every movement, and above all she must be silent.
Esther kept to the edges of the room, where the boards under her stockinged feet had less give. Her father had taught her that, many years ago, and a good deal else. She remembered him fondly enough, for all his wickedness. Reaching the strongbox, she paused to listen, just as he would have done.
Stealing is half waiting, girl. His face was long gone, but she could still raise his voice. Stealing is half waiting, and the other half is listening.
A minute passed, maybe longer. Mr Carew coughed once, but no other sound came. From a narrow pocket sewn into her cuff, she drew out the key. He had felt nothing when she took it from him. She had learned her skills at her father’s side, in the low places of Spitalfields that she had known as a child. She had renounced them years before, but they came to her again without effort. She had learned an honest trade when her father was gone, but one that had kept her fingers nimble. She had not forgotten.
The lock was stiff, but gave without a sound. She had greased it too, working the oil in with a crochet hook. Again she waited, closing her eyes this time to sharpen her hearing. Nothing. She eased the door open by a fraction. Silence still. Another inch.
She stopped dead. The noise had been slight – a momentary shudder of heavy iron before her hand stilled it – and Mr Carew’s hearing was not keen. But in this silence even he might have been disturbed. Esther glanced at the workbench, where her sewing case lay open. She did not wish for it, in spite of all his petty cruelties, but she had given it thought. If he discovered her now, she would have nothing to lose by it. She was quicker by far, and would close the distance in three strides. He would find out then what use a stiletto might be put to. She w
ould do what she must.
But no, he only coughed again, and presently she heard a low chuckling. He had found something else to amuse him in the Illustrated London News. Esther returned her attention to the strongbox door. In one movement, soft but swift, she opened it halfway. It was all she needed.
The crystal vessels were arranged on a tray that occupied the whole of the middle shelf. It was lined with velvet, and each bottle stood in its own recess. There were eleven in all – there had been twelve, but one recess was now empty – and until now she had only glimpsed them. They were beautifully made, fluted and intricately faceted, and gleamed mutely in the yellowish light. A man in Antwerp had fashioned them, that much she knew, and to His Lordship’s particular design. Nothing like them could be had in all of England, Mr Carew maintained. It was more than he ought to have said, but he took a pitiful pride in such things and a braggart is a poor keeper of secrets. Esther did not know everything, perhaps, but she knew enough.
Of the eleven vessels, eight were empty and discoloured. They could be used only once, that much she had learned, too, and yet each was returned afterwards to its place. When they had put it to use – later tonight, perhaps, she did not know – they would bring back a ninth blackened bottle. They would see then what had been done, but that was a moment she would not witness. It was a pity.
The remaining three were intact. At first glance they too appeared empty, but their stoppers were in place still and cloaked in a rich wax. At the base of each lay a dark fraction of viscous oil. The resin, she had heard them call it. It became a vapour, when the air touched it, that was necessary somehow to their purpose. She knew no more than that, and did not wish to.
It was these vessels that mattered most. The Dutchman would make no more, for reasons she had not discovered. He had died, perhaps, or there had been a dispute. Another craftsman might be found, but it would be no easy matter. They were not priceless, these bottles, but they were something near to it.
From a hidden fold in her skirts, Esther worked free what she had made. It was a satchel of sorts, fashioned for strength from sailcloth. It was divided into chambers or pouches, and each of these was lined with quilting so that the vessels would make no noise when they were carried side by side. With the utmost care, she grasped the neck of an intact bottle and lifted it from its place. It was a heavy thing, though it held what could hardly be more than an ounce of fluid. Still, it was smaller than she had judged and disappeared entirely when she slipped it into its pouch. That was good. Better too much room than too little.
Again Esther waited, though each moment now was a struggle. Wait, girl. Wait and listen.
She tucked the second bottle into the satchel, where it nestled softly by its neighbour, then waited again. Ten seconds. Twenty. She took the third vessel.
When it was done at last Esther returned to the workbench. Taking a moment’s ease on her stool, she allowed her gaze to wander. The gown itself had a sad, vacant splendour, even without its sleeves. The gloves and the veil had been laid out too, and those few pieces of lacework that remained unfinished.
She would be free of all this, as she had yearned to be for so long. It was not fondness that detained her in these last moments, but some necessity that she could not name. It had not come into her plans to spend time in prayer, but she felt now that it was called for. She knelt before the gown, since it was a way of being near to the one who was to have worn it. And to the others, who had gone before. It was a way to honour them.
Another thought came to her. From the box that had been set on the table, Esther drew out the newest card. However the measurements were taken, it was done with great exactness, down to the eighth of an inch. She scanned the columns, sounding them out in a whisper, and as she did so the girl’s slight form came to her, as surely known as if it were cradled now in her arms. She touched the card, leaving a dim smirch of blood, and for a moment she closed her eyes.
When there was nothing else to keep her, Esther stood for a moment with no particular purpose. She smoothed down her skirts and put a hand to her hair, but did not otherwise concern herself with her appearance. She looked for the last time about the room, and wondered if some great surge of panic would flood her thoughts.
There was nothing, nothing more. It was time.
Esther stooped to retrieve a low wooden step from beneath the workbench, turning it over to inspect its feet. She had lined them with felt so as to soften the noise. She set it carefully beneath the window, waiting afterwards for ten or fifteen seconds, then stood on the step and worked at the catch above the sash. This too had been oiled in preparation, and came free with only a small effort. The sash itself gave easily in its frame, just as it had done when she tried it last.
She could not see the lights of the Walsingham House Hotel, when she had hauled herself out and stood upright. She had imagined she might, but the rooftops opposite obscured the better part of the view. At the end of the street a man stirred in a spill of lamplight. Beyond that, she could make out Piccadilly and the dark fringe of Green Park. Nothing more.
Esther drew the first vessel from its padded chamber and held it before her. She rocked it gently, watching the slow gleam of the resin, then leaned a little way outwards and let it fall. The sound it made was small. Delicate, almost. She did not look down. That was the one thing she knew she must not do.
She caught sight of the man again. He had crossed the street, moving quickly now. Esther paid no attention. They had set someone to watch, perhaps. He had seen her and knew that something was amiss. It would make no difference, not now. It was too late. She took the second bottle from the satchel and let it fall. Then the third.
She allowed herself a moment then. It was something she had promised to herself, that before the end there would be an unburdened instant, belonging to her alone. She took a long breath and released it. Her own living warmth, turned to mist in the cold. But it was not as fierce as she had imagined, that cold, and there was very little wind. She took her place on the ledge, spreading her arms a little way to steady herself, and it was only then – sensing its intimate scatter against her knuckles – that she remembered the snow.
It was everywhere, when she lifted her face, massing now with soft insistence. It felt tender almost, like a final kindness, and when the moment came it was not like falling at all. She offered herself, nothing more, and the waiting air was swift and sure. It knew her for its own, and it rushed now to gather her up, to take her, at last, and carry her weightlessly from the earth.
I
When his knocking brought no one to the door, Gideon Bliss retreated from it to make certain of his bearings. He knew that he was in Frith-street, having flagged down a hansom cab to confirm the point. The cabman had been put out of temper, finding that Gideon did not intend to engage him, and had made it known that of course it was fucking Frith-street, adding with some bitterness that he was not a fundament of fucking knowledge for them as wasn’t even going nowhere.
Gideon drew out his uncle’s letter to examine it once more, though he had spent much of the train journey poring over it and knew certain passages almost by heart. Neuilly had written a good deal that struck him as troubling or mysterious, but he had not been unduly perturbed, reasoning that he knew very little, after all, of his uncle’s life and habits. He had the comfort, too, of having been taken at last into the reverend doctor’s confidence, and decided that for now he must simply do as he was bid, trusting that all would come to light in due course.
In certain practical matters, moreover, his uncle had been admirably clear. A change in his circumstances, he explained, had obliged him to quit his former rooms near London Bridge, and to take new lodgings in Soho. He had given exemplary directions, knowing his nephew’s acquaintance with London to be slight, and Gideon had not strayed from these in the smallest particular. He was in Frith-street, just as he ought to have been, having entered it by way of Shaftesbury-avenue. He had continued almost as far as Soho-square, following his
uncle’s instructions, and had counted off each doorway that he passed. It was the right house. He was almost sure of it.
He knocked again, as vigorously as politeness permitted, and as he waited he made a careful examination of the doorway. No number appeared on the door itself, and although it was difficult to tell – since the hallway within was in darkness – he could see none displayed in the fanlight above it. Indeed, when he drew back to peer again at the upper windows, not a single light could be seen in any part of the house, nor any other sign of human occupation.
Gideon drew his coat about him, beating his hands together as he deliberated on his best course. He had not minded the cold until now, having kept up a brisk pace all the way from Liverpool-street, but it was not a night for waiting out of doors. He was mindful, too, that it was growing late. Hearing a church bell strike half past eight as he made his way along High Holborn, he had anxiously quickened his step. Although he had visited his uncle in London once before, to be summoned in this way was a thing without precedent. Having been kept for so long at a remove, he saw a chance at last to find favour with his guardian and did not mean to let it pass. It would not help his cause to arrive at an uncivil hour.
He looked up, hearing raised voices, and saw two figures approaching along the footway. The gentleman’s hat was askew on his head, and the lady’s cape was loosely fastened. Their progress was unsteady, but they appeared to be in high spirits. Seeing them turn in at the next door but one, Gideon hurried towards them.
‘Good evening to you, sir, madam.’ He lifted his hat, skidding a little as he came to a halt. ‘I do beg your pardon, but I wonder if you might tell me the number of your residence.’
They turned haltingly to face him. The gentleman’s arm was slung about the lady’s waist, and she supported herself in part by clinging to the lapel of his overcoat. He smoked a cigar, but paused now in the act of raising it to his mouth. ‘You hear that, Bella? Like doves cooing, it was. I do beg your pardon.’
The House on Vesper Sands Page 2