The House on Vesper Sands

by Paraic O?Donnell

  ‘All right, Bliss.’ Cutter spread his fingers in conciliation. ‘All right. You are fond of the girl, and you would not have it said. It is natural enough. And she was not a stranger, at least. But when had you seen her last, before the encounter in the church?’

  ‘Sir?’ Gideon did not turn from the window. It was now fully dark outside. He watched as a woman passed from one interval of darkness to the next then lingered by a street light. She shivered, drawing a poor shawl about herself as she surveyed those who passed. A cocoon of gauzy light surrounded her, crowded at its edges with gentle smudges. The snow had returned. It would be another cruel night.

  ‘The girl, Bliss. When had you last seen her?’

  ‘August, sir. I remember it to the hour.’

  ‘Six months ago,’ Cutter said. ‘And nothing since then? No letters between you?’

  ‘No, sir. No letters.’

  ‘And had you word of her from anyone else? Had you any cause to fear for her?’

  Gideon bent his head to the window, resting it against the sash. He had tried to keep the woman in view but saw now that she was gone, his eyes deceived by shadows in the slow tumult of whiteness.

  ‘Bliss? Had you any cause to fear for her?’

  Had he cause? For a short while, since leaving Frith-street, he had managed to put his uncle’s letter from his mind, but he could escape his failure no longer. He had cause, almost from the beginning, but he had failed to see it. He stared, only half-seeing, into the patient absolution of the snow.

  Miss Tatton. Miss Angela Tatton.

  Gideon scratched her name on the slate, practising the shape of it, then effaced it hurriedly with his bundled cuff. He spoke it softly to himself, whispering it at intervals while he waited. Miss Tatton ate below stairs, though Gideon was troubled by this arrangement, and he did not think it his place to send for her. When she appeared at last he started from his chair, seized with the fear that she had overheard him. She was followed by Mrs Downey, the housekeeper goading her from the doorway before seating herself with a piece of lacework to observe the proceedings.

  Miss Tatton offered him an unpractised curtsy. Gideon bowed in turn, but with such awkward haste that he feared he had startled her. ‘The master said I might come up after supper,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation. Her pinafore was freshly laundered, and beneath its starched cuffs her knuckles showed, hard and narrow against the yellowed linen. ‘That you might read to me and such.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said with too much eagerness. ‘That is, I should be delighted. Will you not have a seat?’

  She regarded him with uncertainty. He had indicated the head of the table. It was Neuilly’s place, when that gentleman was at home.

  ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing again. ‘My uncle has been called away on business. He mentioned a seamstress, though I cannot think what he might want with one.’

  Miss Tatton clamped her lips together, suppressing a surge of merriment, and Gideon flushed again. The joke had been unintended, though it was true that Neuilly gave little attention to his manner of dress. ‘At any rate, he is not expected for some time. Do please feel free.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, taking her seat. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I do wish you would—’ Gideon coughed and began again. ‘I hope you will call me Gideon, miss. We are very nearly the same age, I am sure.’

  ‘Could be,’ she said evenly.

  Gideon blinked. ‘Well,’ he said, turning to the books he had laid out. ‘Perhaps we ought to—’

  ‘No one ever told me my birthday,’ she said. ‘So, I picked the seventh of May. Seven’s lucky, so they say, and May’s the prettiest.’

  ‘Then it is certainly yours by right,’ Gideon said, regretting his choice of words at once. Why could he not keep from babbling in this way? ‘And you, miss. You will not mind, I hope, if I call you Angela?’

  The housekeeper gave a forthright cough. He would do well, her look made plain, to proceed with whatever business was in hand. ‘I have put out a primer,’ he said, indicating the book at Miss Tatton’s end of the table. ‘We might begin with some pieces of verse, I thought. I shall be glad to assist you, if there is a word you have not encountered.’

  She looked down at the book, but did not take her hands from her lap.

  ‘But perhaps it is too simple a book, in which case I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I don’t know the extent of your schooling. My uncle did not have time.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ She raised her chin, fingering the spine of the primer. ‘It wouldn’t take long.’

  Gideon shifted, clutching at his cuffs. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘We might begin instead with the alphabet, if you have had no instruction at all. I have a slate on which you might practise your letters.’

  She looked at him without a word. He had sought out her face compulsively, since her arrival, but a stillness came over it now that he could not confront.

  ‘Forgive me, miss,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m afraid I have spoken thoughtlessly. I would not have injured your feelings for all the world.’

  Mrs Downey rose abruptly at this. Crossing to Angie’s place, she stooped briefly to her ear then lurched in disgust towards the stairs. He waited for Miss Tatton to follow, persuaded that his disgrace was complete, but she did not stir.

  ‘Well, you’re a one,’ she said at last. It was a moment before Gideon recognised the tremor of amusement about her lips.

  Gideon blinked again. ‘But Mrs Downey,’ he said.

  ‘You’re harmless, she reckons.’ Miss Tatton pressed her lips together. ‘Well, that weren’t the word, exactly.’

  Gideon slumped, a heat rising again to his cheeks. His eyes would redden too, as they often did in such moments. Perhaps he could bolt from the room before she saw. Perhaps he would be in time still for the last train to Cambridge.

  But there was a gentleness in her voice when she spoke. ‘You could just read something, maybe.’

  He looked up cautiously.

  ‘A story, not a lesson. I’d like that.’

  Gideon searched her face. ‘Of course,’ he said, coughing when his voice faltered. ‘Of course, I should like nothing better. The library will be closed at this hour, but among my uncle’s books, I’m sure – if you’ll excuse me for just a moment. Will you excuse me?’

  Miss Tatton only laughed.

  But Neuilly’s shelves proved to be poorly stocked, due perhaps to his itinerant manner of living. He had works of theology, as might be expected, many of which seemed to touch on the nature of angels. There were a number of field guides (Gideon had forgotten his fascination with butterflies), as well as volumes on natural history, treatises on the plight of the poor and works on more arcane subjects (Gideon had no notion, for instance, what ‘spirit photography’ might be). Neuilly seemed to have little interest in novels, however, and Gideon’s own acquaintance with fiction was slight. He was growing anxious, too, at keeping Miss Tatton waiting, and settled without a great deal of deliberation on Mr Richardson’s Pamela.

  Gideon was by no means accustomed to reading aloud, and was soon persuaded that he had no great gift for it. He hesitated and cleared his throat a good deal, and when he glanced at Miss Tatton he was apt to lose his place. Even so, she listened contentedly enough for a time, exclaiming mildly now and then at some new intrigue or revelation. But after twenty minutes or so, when he had read out half a dozen of Pamela’s letters, Gideon saw that Miss Tatton was growing impatient.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m a dull reader,’ he said, lowering the book.

  ‘It ain’t you, sir—’

  ‘Gideon, please. Do call me Gideon.’

  ‘It’s her, that Pamela. Such a mug I never seen. Don’t she see what he’s about, that Mr B? His mother’s not long dead, and here he is making free with her maid, telling her she writes with a pretty hand and all the rest of it. Ain’t she got eyes in her head?’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Gideon felt his colour rising. ‘Perhaps you are—’

/>   ‘And now he’s giving her all these presents. One minute he wants her to keep up her reading, and the next he’s slipping her silk stockings.’ She glanced at the book in his hands, her expression faintly mischievous. ‘Maybe the reading is how it starts.’

  Gideon gave a laboured cough and shifted in his seat. ‘Pamela may write for guidance to her mother and father, at least. They perceive her situation more clearly, I think.’

  ‘It’s just as well someone does,’ Miss Tatton said. She studied him for a moment, and there was something in her look that he could not decipher. ‘Perhaps I ought to learn my letters, then. So that I may write away for guidance when I am in my new situation. Not that I have anyone to write to, mind.’

  ‘No, miss.’ Gideon hesitated for a moment. ‘We are alike in that, at least.’

  Her gaze settled on him again. ‘Is that what you think, young master? That we are two little orphans? That we are two peas in a pod? You had your uncle, when yours were gone, to send you off to Cambridge. Do you know what I had?’

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Tatton. If I speak without thinking, it is only because—’ He lowered his head. ‘Well, I do so at the best of times, if the truth be known, but this evening I find that I am hardly equal to thinking at all.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Her indignation had passed. ‘That’ll never do, will it? I’d best keep away, or you’ll be no scholar at all by the end of the week.’

  Gideon looked at her shyly as he measured out what he might say. ‘That might do more harm than good, miss.’

  Miss Tatton rose from her place. ‘You ain’t been reading a good long while. Harmless or not, her below will be stirring. She’s off out tomorrow afternoon, though the master don’t know it. Her old fellow owes money on a cockfight, and he ain’t being let home until someone pays it. I shall be cooped up for long enough after you’re gone – wiring flowers all day, most like, then back to some boarding house that’s near enough to a prison. I’m going out, young master. Old Nelly says I mustn’t because it ain’t safe, but I’m going out.’

  ‘Gideon. Call me Gideon, I beg you. Why isn’t it safe?’

  ‘Four o’clock at the back steps onto Fish-street Hill.’ She paused at the doorway, half in the lamplight and half in darkness. ‘Goodnight to you, young master. I shall leave you to your thoughts.’

  At first Cutter could make nothing of what Gideon had said. Returning shamefacedly to the fireplace, he had intended to put the case plainly. He would produce his uncle’s letter, regretting that he had not done so before, and would admit his fault in failing to heed its warnings. Such were his emotions, however, that he struggled to keep to a direct course.

  ‘I mistook my uncle’s meaning, sir,’ he said, lifting his head from his hands. ‘Or I passed over it entirely. I did myself no credit in any case.’

  ‘What meaning is this now?’

  ‘You asked if I had cause to fear for her, sir, and the answer is that I had. My uncle had made it plain enough in his letter, but I did not see it at first. Miss Tatton saw it herself – just as she perceived the dangers to Pamela – but I lacked the wits. I’m afraid there was a great deal that I missed.’

  ‘Wait now, who is this Pamela, in the name of God?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir. She is only a character in a novel. It was an example that came to me just now. But I ought to come to the matter of the letter.’ He drew it from his coat and unfolded it carefully. ‘I mentioned my uncle’s letter, I believe, urging me to come at once to London. He seemed preoccupied by some downturn in his affairs, but at first I thought no more of it than that. It was Miss Tatton’s account that forced me to reconsider his words.’

  ‘What she told you in the church, you mean? But she was drugged, you said. She was rambling.’

  Gideon shook his head forcefully. ‘She was weakened, sir, but she had her wits. And there was no mistaking her conviction. She had been in fear – of who or what I do not know – and my uncle had tried to protect her. His letter hinted at dark misgivings, but until now I failed to heed them.’

  ‘Hark at him with his dark misgivings,’ said Cutter, casting up his eyes. ‘“A character in a novel” is right. Here, give over this letter of yours. If I wait for you to tell me what is in it, we will be here half the night.’

  Gideon slid the letter towards him, looking on in apprehension as the inspector digested its contents. He read quickly, grunting now and then or raising an eyebrow, but otherwise passing over its pages with an air of impatience. He returned it with a weary look, yawning strenuously as he sat back in his chair.

  ‘I will say one thing for your uncle, Bliss. He is not far behind you when it comes to larding the pudding.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But you see the cause of my agitation, I trust? You grasp the import of his words?’

  ‘I saw a good many words, but not much that a fellow could grasp.’

  ‘But he speaks of his fears for Miss Tatton, sir. He worries that she is marked out.’

  ‘He feared for her prospects, as he did for all such creatures. Have we not spoken already of his calling?’

  ‘No, sir, that was my mistake. The truth was more sinister, I fear. Look again at this passage. He fears for her, and he speaks of those who would thwart him. They will not reveal themselves, he says, but he has allies who can expose them. Do you see, sir?’

  ‘Do I see what, in the name of God?’

  ‘Sir, you spoke of winkling something out, so that we might be given more licence in these matters. I believe we have hit upon that very thing.’

  Cutter raised his eyes, resting his boot heel on the coal scuttle. ‘Have we indeed? I will polish up a pair of medals.’

  Bliss spoke with urgency. ‘The two matters are bound up, sir, I am sure of it; the incident at Strythe House and the fate of Angie Tatton – they are bound up.’

  ‘Bound up? How are they bound up?’

  ‘My uncle mentions allies, sir, and his hopes for the undoing of his enemies. But he goes further – he names one of them.’

  ‘One of his enemies?’

  ‘No, sir, one of his allies. Look here.’ Gideon pointed out the line in question. ‘He says that “the seamstress is one such”. The seamstress, sir.’

  ‘And what seamstress might that be?’

  ‘Why, Miss Tull, naturally.’

  ‘Miss Tull? What hand did she have in anyone’s undoing but her own?’

  ‘I will return to that point in a moment, sir, but we know at least what she wished to reveal.’

  ‘Do we indeed?’ Cutter enclosed his face with his fingers, working gently at his brow. ‘And what is that?’

  ‘The words that were stitched into Miss Tull’s skin, sir – do you recall them?’

  ‘My soul doth – what is it now? My soul doth something.’

  ‘“My soul doth magnify the Lord”, Inspector. It is from the Magnificat, one of the oldest of our hymns. It is the song of praise that was offered by the mother of Christ herself.’

  Wearily, the inspector lowered his hands. ‘You will have to draw out the connection for me, Bliss,’ he said. ‘You are the only scholar among us.’

  ‘But no scholarship is needed, sir. We need only consider the facts of the case. Miss Tull was driven by what she knew to end her life – by something she had been made a party to – but she had the consolation of knowing that in doing so she was bearing witness. To those who knew no better – to those she feared – it would appear to be no more than a pious woman’s last act of expiation. But to one who knew her intentions, the meaning of it is plain.’

  ‘Is it, indeed? Well, I am glad it is plain to someone.’

  ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord. Her immortal soul, sir, which is all that was left to her in the end. In the prayer, the soul of the Virgin is said to magnify the Lord – to give tribute to his glory – but even a pious woman, surely, would not go to such pains to leave only those words behind. They must have some other meaning. What if she meant not to glorify the Lord, but to magnify something
as a glass does, to reveal it beyond mistaking? And speaking of glass, sir, it occurred to me also that Miss Tull might have done more than merely bear witness.’

  ‘Did it now?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Gideon shifted in his chair as he chose his words. ‘If I may, sir. The fragment of crystal I found – it was lying near to, well, to the place where poor Miss Tull’s remains must have come to rest. You mentioned that you had it examined, sir, and since we have a moment of leisure—’

  ‘Do not think to distract me, Bliss. This notion of yours must stand on its own legs. My soul doth magnify the Lord. What was it that Miss Tull meant to magnify, when she stitched those words into her own skin? Or who? God himself, is it? I will send word straight away that he is to be brought in for questioning.’

  ‘Not God, sir. Again, the true meaning is less exalted. Another Lord. Her employer.’

  The inspector drew in a long breath. His expression assumed a severe cast, and he took again to kneading his brow, as if to relieve some interior pressure. ‘I will say this much for you,’ he said, after a long silence. ‘You are not one for starting in a small way. Are you sure you missed nothing out, now? Is there not a secret agent who comes into it somewhere? Or a dragon?’

  Gideon coloured and looked down at his feet. ‘It sounds outlandish, sir, but Miss Tull’s act was outlandish in itself. It was never likely, surely, that such a thing would have a commonplace cause.’

  ‘You would be surprised, Bliss, at what people will do for ordinary reasons. And in any case, you have some distance to cover yet with this grand theory of yours. Why did Esther Tull not simply leave a letter, as suicides commonly do? She need not have left it at the scene, where it might have been destroyed. She could have left it at home, or posted it to your uncle earlier in the day.’

  ‘Well, sir, it may be that she had reason to be fearful, that she believed herself to be under suspicion. It may even be that she felt herself to be illiterate in the usual sense, though in her embroidery she could reproduce letters with prodigious skill. My uncle described such a woman to me once, and it struck me as a most poignant thing. But here again I suspect there is a simpler explanation. If her revelation was indeed intended for my uncle, a letter might have been intercepted before it reached him. He says here quite plainly that he feared as much. What puzzles me still is the question of how my uncle was to have received the message she chose to leave. He would have learned readily enough of Miss Tull’s death, especially if he had feared it was imminent, but how was he to decode a message he had not seen – a message that was, well, intimately concealed?’