‘The surgeon’s expected,’ Inspector Warnock put in. ‘I don’t want no poking around the remains until he’s done his bit.’
But Colley had already taken up the hem of the surplice. ‘He won’t touch nothing. Ain’t that right, Little Miss Apple-Cheeks? Come over here and let’s see about you.’
Gideon looked up, finding all eyes fixed upon him. He approached the chest, the splay of ruined limbs. He averted his gaze, as Colley raised the surplice, and waited for his breathing to settle. Then he looked.
When the inspector emerged from the vestry, Gideon had spent perhaps a quarter of an hour in the company of Constable Canning. For all his officiousness on their arrival, the constable had proved an amiable companion. He had watched with a pitying expression as Gideon staggered from the doorway and braced himself against a plinth, but he had not made sport of his discomfort.
‘Get your head down good and low, mate. A few minutes in the fresh air will set you up lovely. I ain’t got the stomach for that carry-on myself, and I don’t care who knows it. These old bastards let on like it don’t take a feather out of them, but you talk to their old ladies – them as still has them, I mean, not like your guvnor – and they’ll tell you. Wake up at all hours, they do, screaming fit to bring down the house.’
Gideon looked up. ‘My guvnor?’ he said. ‘Do you mean Inspector Cutter?’
Canning squinted at him, huffing for warmth into his chambered hands. ‘Ain’t you been told? About his wife? Proper bit of frock, she was, so they say. Which, fuck knows what she ever saw in him. Anyway, she took ill not long after they was married, and your guvnor come home one day to find her stretched out dead. Only it weren’t the sickness took her.’
‘Not the sickness? What was it, then?’
Canning glanced again in the direction of the rectory. ‘Case weren’t never solved,’ he said, leaning closer and lowering his voice. ‘Weren’t even a case to solve, some say. But old Cutter maintains he come home one night and found her all tricked out in some fancy white dress he ain’t never seen before. Pale as a ghost, she was, but laid out all prim and proper, like she was having her picture taken. Same as them Spiriters do, if you can believe all that bollocks.’
‘Spiriters?’ Gideon stooped again to retch. ‘Who are the Spiriters?’
But Cutter emerged from the rectory before Canning could reply. ‘Nah, mate,’ he said, straightening and raising his voice again. ‘You give me a bit of sentry duty any day. Might be a bit nippy, but I don’t mind the cold. The cold don’t give you fucking nightmares.’
Gideon brought himself unsteadily upright and hurried after the inspector. Cutter made no mention of his discomfort, much to Gideon’s relief, even clapping him on the shoulder in gruff encouragement as he boarded the cab, where the driver – who seemed more amenable since taking his dinner – had set a warming pan beneath their seats and furnished them with a small bottle of brandy.
‘There now, Bliss,’ the inspector said. ‘You know my views in the matter of liquor, I believe, but you might do worse than to take a mouthful or two, in the circumstances.’
Gideon accepted the bottle without meeting Cutter’s eyes. He weighed it in his hands for a time, then worked the stopper free and took a cautious draught. The spirit was coarse and scalded his throat, but he welcomed the gentler surge of warmth that spread from his belly. He managed not to cough, and his eyes watered only a little. The inspector passed a hand over his mouth, but kept himself otherwise in check.
‘You will last the night, I daresay,’ he said at length. ‘And you have not had the best medicine yet. Wait until you hear what I squeezed out of our friends from Little Vine-street.’
Gideon turned to the inspector at this, his alertness returning. ‘Does it touch on Miss Tatton, sir?’
Cutter settled back with a look of satisfaction. ‘Was that not our business in coming back here? I did not put on that little show for the good of my health, you know. Indeed it does, Bliss, though I began with no great hopes, and I had even less when we tripped over Warnock and Colley. They are not much troubled by diligence, as you may have gathered, and what they lack in that department they make up for in suspicion. It was a job and a half to persuade them that I was not coming to put my oar in.
‘But once I had them halfway softened up, I inquired a little into the circumstances of Merton’s death, though you had only to look at him to form a general notion. He may well have had a few, as they put it, but a church sexton does not buy his Gordon’s by the case, surely, or keep his stock in the – what is the name for that part of a church, Bliss?’
‘The vestry, sir.’
‘In the vestry, yes. That man had taken more than a few, as anyone could see who had eyes in his head. Every stitch of clothing on his body was drenched with it. And did you mark his swollen belly? The surgeon will find more gin in it, I will wager, than any man ever willingly swallowed. And then to set about him with the empty bottles? There is no shortage of lunatics creeping about these streets, but there are not many who would go to so much trouble over the contents of a poor box.
‘In any case, here is what I got from Warnock and his booted monkey of a sergeant. The rector, a fellow by the name of Nathaniel Cusk, came upon the body at about six o’clock this morning. He is an elderly fellow, this rector, and Warnock did not hope for much, but it seems he is a spry customer. I got the gist of his account from them, and he had a good deal to say that interested me, particularly about the evening before the murder.’
‘About last night, sir? It was last night that I discovered Miss Tatton in the church.’
‘Yes, Bliss, I believe you made mention of it. Well, this Cusk was asked if he had observed anything out of the ordinary last night, and our friends could hardly have wished for a better witness. He is orderly in his ways, it seems, and it is his practice to make all ready for the morning service before retiring. When he set about this last night, he found that Merton – who was usually put to use at such times – had not made an appearance. The rector was obliged to do for himself in the way of hassocks and what have you.
‘Now, that was no great calamity, you might think, but it put Cusk’s hackles up. This Merton spent half his life propped up in gin shops, by all accounts, and this was by no means his first offence. Cusk went to his quarters and found them locked up, but he took to hammering at the door all the same, having come to the view that Merton was within. Sure enough, the sexton piped up before long, pleading a bout of dysentery or some such thing, and begged leave to keep to his room. The rector did not like this one bit, but he was not minded to drag the man from his pot, only giving Merton warning that he would have more to say in the morning.
‘Cusk took himself off to bed, and there matters might have rested, but he was troubled by an abscess on his hip and could not get off to sleep. At some time after eleven, having got up to see about a mug of milk, he chanced to look out into the churchyard, and who should he see, beating a path to the Seven Bells across the way? Our friend Mr Merton, large as life, and no more troubled by dysentery than I am myself. Well, Cusk was put on a war footing, as you might imagine. He resolved to turn Merton out for good and all, and to put a sober and dependable fellow in his place.
‘Beyond that, Warnock was not inclined to be forthcoming, and I had the distinct impression that there were details he would sooner keep to himself. I have not yet fathomed out his thinking, but whatever it was, he had not taken his sergeant into his confidence, for Colley found his tongue then. But sir, he says, fit to burst, you have not given him the best of it, and by the time Warnock got an elbow to him the damage was done. The rector had his own key to Merton’s quarters, Colley said, and once he had caught him out, he marched on them in a fury, intent on packing up the man’s belongings and dumping them in the yard before he should think better of it. And so it was that he came to look into Merton’s room. No, Bliss, you fear the worst, I see, but put your mind at ease. He came upon your little match girl, right enough, and she was o
n the poorly side, but living still. The Reverend took her off to the Hospital for Women in Soho-square, not a hundred yards from my own lodgings. She is found, Bliss. She is safe.’
Gideon pressed his eyes shut and sank back in his seat. He ought to offer a silent prayer in thanksgiving, he knew, but he could not summon the words. He could not raise his face to that emptiness any longer, or offer it his devotion. He drew his sleeve over his cheek and let out a long breath.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ he said simply.
Cutter only nodded and lifted his palm.
‘But how did she come to be there, sir, in that creature’s room? Did Warnock and Colley offer any opinion?’
The inspector shook his head. ‘None. And I could not press them much more, since my interest had to seem idle. But you may put your worst fears to rest, I think. He did not harm her, I believe, though I doubt he did much to help her either. My own belief is that he took her there at the bidding of others, and was to confine her until other orders came. It must have been done after he put you out – I found the rag he used, by the by, and he took no chances with the chloroform. It is no wonder you were green about the gills for a while.
‘When he had done that much, it seems his thirst got the better of him, for he took himself over the road and did not trouble to remove you until he returned the next morning. By then we may suppose that those he answered to had returned, only to find the girl sprung from her cell and Merton missing from his post. They lay in wait for him, I expect, and when he put in an appearance at last, well, it seems they gave him a bit of a talking-to. Now, much of this is supposition, as you yourself might call it, which in the normal course I would keep to myself, but since the matter touches you personally I make an exception. There is a good deal we do not know, Bliss, but we are not finished just yet. We will speak to your little paramour shortly, and she will give us her own account of all of this.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gideon looked away as he contemplated this encounter. ‘Yes, sir, I very much look forward to it.’
Cutter’s expression took on an unusual mildness. ‘Are you sure, Bliss? You are not having second thoughts now, surely, after all your pining?’
Gideon sat up. ‘Oh, no, sir. There is nothing I wish for more. I was only thinking of the last time I saw Miss Tatton. Not in the church, I mean, but before that. There were certain matters that I – that is to say, there were things I might have—’
Cutter drew up an eyebrow. ‘There was unfinished business between you, is that it?’
Gideon inclined his head. He spread his hands on his knees and plucked at the poor cloth of his trousers. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘There were things I should have said. It will surprise you, perhaps, since I am apt to say too much – it is a failing you have remarked on yourself – but there were times when my fault was to say nothing at all.’
XV
On the last day, when Miss Tatton came out onto the back steps, Gideon had been waiting for almost an hour. It was foolish of him, he knew, since she could not leave before the housekeeper did, and it was while they were within the precincts of the church that they were most at risk of discovery. At any moment, he felt sure, his uncle might come into view at the corner of Thames-street, though Gideon had scarcely seen him since three nights before. He might chance to look out from some upper window, having returned by another way, just as Gideon and Miss Tatton stole away.
When at last she appeared, he was in a state of considerable anxiety. He sprang from behind a pamphlet-seller’s stand, causing Miss Tatton to start in fright, and hurried away at once in the direction of London Bridge-wharf, urging her in a sharp whisper to follow him.
‘Why, young master,’ she said gaily. ‘There’s a fuss over nothing. Anyone would think you was wanted for murder.’
Gideon glanced nervously over his shoulder, but kept up his pace. ‘Will you not pull up your shawl, miss? We might be seen by anyone. I will not feel easy in my mind until we are a good way from the church.’
Miss Tatton laughed aloud. ‘I’ll do no such thing. It’s not a shawl neither, it’s a muslin scarf. What do I want a shawl for on a day like this?’
‘Scarf, then,’ Gideon said, with more abruptness than he had intended. ‘Only do please cover your face.’
‘Now, you just stop your gallop,’ Miss Tatton called after him.
Gideon turned to face her, berating himself already for his want of composure.
‘You see this scarf?’ she said.
Gideon nodded mutely. They had crossed the street so that she was in sunlight, and he could not think how he had paid her no attention until now. She wore an afternoon dress of primrose yellow with a pretty and intricately fashioned shirtwaist. The scarf was a delicate ivory-coloured thing, folded about her shoulders so as to catch the bright spill of her hair. These were finer clothes than she could have afforded, he knew – finer, certainly, than his own – and no doubt she had gone to some trouble even to come by them for the day.
‘I spent half the morning starching this scarf,’ she said. ‘And the rest of this lot. Half the morning. And it weren’t like I had nothing else to do. You may take no notice if you like – and Lord knows you lollop about the place in a daze – but you ain’t dragging me straight off into the shadows. We’re going this way, if you please. If you’re going to step out with a girl, the least you can do is take her to the market and buy her an orange.’
Gideon might have been stricken with panic at this, having come near to penury as the week drew to a close. He had not made bold enough to raise the matter with his uncle, but he had recognised nonetheless that he must make some provision. That morning, though it had filled him with shame and apprehension, he had taken Mr Richardson’s Pamela from his uncle’s shelves. He had wrapped the volumes in a flour sack and lugged them all the way to Cecil-court, where a bookseller had examined their gilt-ribbed spines and – with a look of penetrating contempt – had counted out the sum of eight shillings and sixpence.
It was no great fortune, but he had often subsisted on less for a fortnight. He felt a painful want of experience in such matters, but it would be enough, surely, to keep him from outright embarrassment. And so they went first to Billingsgate Market, whose arcade was lined with traders of all kinds. From a Spaniard whose baskets were brilliant with samphire and limes, Gideon bought a plump pair of tangerines. When they had eaten these – Miss Tatton first scratched the skin with a thumbnail, breathing the zest with a delighted swoon – they wandered about the great market hall itself, emptying at this hour, and found a nook in the basement where cockles and periwinkles could still be had, served in blunt cornets of newspaper and smelling brightly of the sea.
From the market, with no object in mind, they set out westwards, passing at an easy pace along Cannon-street and lingering by the cathedral, where a gentle apricot light touched the dome and the colonnades. The evening was warm and mildly reeking, but a light air could be felt even at this remove from the river. In Fleet-street a flower-seller stopped them, declaring that the lady must have a posy, for shame. In his embarrassment Gideon handed over sixpence for a spray of blooms he hardly glanced at, and such was his haste to be away that he very nearly tumbled into the open cellar of a pub.
Miss Tatton did not laugh openly, and when she covered her mouth she pretended that it was only to bring the flowers to her nose. Gideon trudged on in abject silence, keeping a little way ahead so that she could not see his face.
‘Here,’ she called after him. ‘You should see them, at least, since you paid such a fortune for them.’
There was gaiety in her voice, but not unkindness. He stopped and turned, keeping his face a little averted. The heat had not yet faded from his cheeks.
‘Come and have a sniff,’ she said, gently now. ‘Such a treat, sweet-peas are. Nothing nicer, except for jasmine, maybe. Here, come in close.’
She held out the blossoms, sheltering them with her free hand. Gideon approached shyly, bowing in hesitant increments
to the well of fragrant air.
‘Oh,’ he said softly. The petals were pretty – deep blush and indigo – but the scent had its own colour, almost, a hidden milky glimmer. Unthinkingly, he raised his own hand to hers, and in the same moment she inclined her head. A slip of her hair fell, soft and intricate against his wrist.
‘See?’ she said, almost whispering. ‘Nothing like it.’
Gideon took a slow breath. He tried to be still, to alter nothing in the world.
Miss Tatton came upright, and took a moment to pin the sweet-peas to her dress. Gideon recovered his wits as he waited, and grew mindful once more of keeping the appearance of propriety. A man stood watching them, or so he fancied, from a little way behind. The street was a good deal obscured by steam, since the doors of a printing works stood open in the heat, but beneath the clock of a newspaper office a figure had halted, his brownish silhouette made faint by the vapour. Gideon glanced at Miss Tatton, who now stood waiting, and when he looked back the man was gone.
They carried on towards the Strand, and Gideon must have looked back more than once, for presently Miss Tatton nudged him with her elbow. ‘You looking out for the coppers again?’ she said. ‘Don’t you worry, young master. I’ll tell them you couldn’t have done it. I’ll tell them you were with me the whole time.’
She elbowed him gently, and Gideon could not help but laugh with her.
‘Don’t you worry about your uncle,’ she said. ‘Old Nelly’s up Whitechapel way, I’m told, seeing about lodgings. That’s where I’m to be sent, he says. Can’t stay where I was no more.’
He considered this in silence for a moment. ‘And why is that, miss, if I may? Is it because he believes you are not safe?’
She tutted impatiently, quickening her step a little.
‘Miss Tatton?’ Gideon hurried after her, skipping clear of a sweeper’s brush. ‘Forgive me, but what is it that he wants to keep you safe from?’
The House on Vesper Sands Page 17