Honour & Obey

by Carol Hedges

  Miss Balcombe’s rejection of MacKye’s advances coincided with a number of brutal murders of young women in the city of Edinburgh. Each victim was killed in precisely the same way: the throat being cut, the head struck with a heavy object, the victim left propped up in a sitting position, and, most strikingly, deep cuts being made around the heart of each young woman with what the police believe to be a straight-back amputation knife, commonly used in surgical procedures.

  The association with MacKye came to light when Mr Balcombe made his allegations to the police and supplied a description of his daughter Harriet. Inspector McGraw immediately observed that the height, fair hair, facial features and colouring of the lady was remarkably similar to those of all the victims. The Edinburgh police immediately attempted to bring MacKye in for questioning, but he evaded them and has not been seen at his lodgings or in the city environs since.

  Cully finishes reading and glances up.

  “So, the police surgeon was right about the medical connection.”

  “Yes, damn him,” Stride says.

  “What about the man’s parents?”

  “Dead,” Stride says. “Estate entailed upon a distant cousin. Apparently MacKye received his inheritance when he reached the age of majority and promptly severed all contact with the family.”

  “Why London?”

  “McGraw thinks he may be under the mistaken impression that Harriet Balcombe has moved to London. So, what do you think?”

  Cully is thinking that as Emily Benet is small and dark-haired, she is safe – in one respect. In all other respects … But he has steeled himself not to think about other respects.

  “Should we continue to visit hospitals and make enquiries?” Cully asks.

  Stride shrugs.

  “We have no other leads. But he might be working for one of the private physicians. The whole of Bloomsbury is awash with them. Or he may have left the medical profession altogether. Who knows?”

  Cully decides to ignore this. Visiting hospitals suits him. It gives him the chance to ask whether Emily Benet has been admitted. He makes a mental note to rise early and begin his enquiries afresh.

  Something else is also nagging away at the back of his mind. He tries to foreground it, but to no avail. It has been a long day, he reminds himself.

  Stride pinches the bridge of his nose, then pulls out his pocket watch. “Sometimes I wonder whether we are all equally deranged,” he remarks, getting up and reaching for his hat. “Is the difference only who lets the monster loose and who doesn’t?”

  ****

  Much to Hyacinth Clout’s surprise, Lobelia returns home from the Vicarage in a very good mood. So sunny is her temper, that the painful events of earlier in the day seem to have vanished away, like morning mist.

  Indeed, Hyacinth actually hears her humming a hymn tune – one of the more positive ones – as she divests herself of her outer garments.

  “Ah there you are, Hyacinth,” Lobelia says, entering the parlour.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Who knows? Tartary? Timbuktoo?”

  Hyacinth eyes her narrowly. There is a flush on Lobelia’s normally pallid face and her scrimped-back hair is escaping from its pins. Very strange.

  “Did you have a good lunch at the Vicarage?” she asks cautiously.

  “Oh. Lunch. Yes. I believe it was excellent.”

  “And how is Bethica Bittersplit? Did you organise the charitable sale of work?”

  Lobelia’s eyes take on a dreamy faraway expression.

  “She is a wonderful friend,” she declares, a little too vehemently.

  Lobelia places the tips of her fingers against her mouth in a gesture that Hyacinth recognises from their childhood. It was the same gesture she used to make whenever Mama was interrogating them closely about some act of defiance or perceived misdemeanour.

  The young Hyacinth had decided that she did it to stop the words from coming out, so that Mama would not get upset, and rage and shout and threaten to beat them with a stick. But there is no Mama now. Mama is dead. She eyes Lobelia curiously.

  “I think I shall go up to my room,” Lobelia says. “You will call me when supper is ready?”

  Humming happily, she walks out. Hyacinth hears her heavy tread going up the stairs. Then along the top corridor. A pause, and a door closes. She rises and goes down to the kitchen to begin supper preparations.

  Something has clearly taken place this afternoon, but what it was she cannot imagine. Mama never returned from planning a sale of work in such a mellow mood. Quite the opposite.

  Still, why should she care? Hyacinth smiles a secret smile. Her hand strays to the pocket in her apron wherein lies the letter from Lonely Widower, finally delivered this afternoon.

  She has read it so often that she almost knows it by heart.

  Dearest, dearest Hyacinth (he writes),

  I was so full of joy when I read your letter. How good you are to this lonely undeserving man and his poor helpless little girl. Who but an angel such as yourself would stoop to aid and succour us in our hour of greatest need?

  I cannot thank and bless you enough. May I suggest that we meet tomorrow at the usual hour and in the usual place – our place, as I think of it now. I have taken the liberty of reading your precious words to Agnes. Her eyes filled with tears and she too raised her hands in blessing. ‘Just think, dear father,’ she said in her innocent girlish way, ‘I shall now be able to get well. And when I am well, the first thing I shall do is meet and thank my benefactress for giving me back my health and strength.’

  You see Hyacinth, how much your generous gift is truly appreciated.

  Until tomorrow.

  Your

  Lonely Widower

  Once again Hyacinth’s eyes well up. To be so appreciated. For doing so little. It is almost too much to bear. Resolutely, she puts the contents of the letter behind her and concentrates on the task in hand. It would not do to cut herself or scald her arm. Nothing must get in the way of her leaving the house tomorrow afternoon.

  She lights the oven and puts water on to boil. She can barely contain her excitement. How is she going to live through the long hours until tomorrow arrives?

  ****

  Early evening, and the lamps in Bow Street, Covent Garden have been lit. Tonight the Royal Italian Opera is giving a performance of Don Caspare. The great Portofino will sing the Don. The rich and famous, the rich and infamous, and the just plain rich, are lining up in their carriages.

  They are looking forward to an evening’s entertainment that will have less to do with what is happening upon the stage, and more upon what is happening in the boxes that surround the stage, for the opera is always an occasion to be seen and to see.

  Meanwhile, as they wait to be de-carriaged, the less rich sidle in through the ornate golden-scrolled foyer doors, trying not to brush against their better-dressed (and therefore worthier) brethren.

  Look more closely. Just descending from a polished barouche is a pretty young woman barely out of her teens. She is wearing a pale-yellow silk evening gown. Diamonds glitter at her neck and on her wrist. Her black evening velvet cloak perfectly sets off her fair complexion. Her blonde ringlets bob and dance as the footman hands her down. Mama and Papa wait for her on the pavement.

  It is her first opera. It is her nicest and newest dress – you may recognise it as the one Emily Benet was working on when she collapsed. Another hand has finished off the fine sewing, and here it is on its first (and possibly only) outing in the giddy social world that is the London Season.

  Mama and Papa shepherd the silk dress and its wearer through the noisy pre-performance crowd in the theatre foyer. The heat from all these captive bodies is overpowering. Fans are being plied like tremulous butterfly wings.

  White-gloved hands surreptitiously pat shiny faces with lace handkerchiefs, because of course a lady must never display publicly any sign that she is too hot, too cold, or too anything else.

  Their progress is no
t going unmarked. A face at the edge of the pavement crowd has noticed the pretty one the moment she alighted from the carriage. As she enters the theatre, a man enters also. As she is borne aloft up the crimson carpeted stairs that lead to the black doors of the boxes, the man elbows his way through to the ticket seller’s booth and demands a seat for tonight’s performance.

  He is informed there are no seats left. He requests a box. He is told there are no boxes left either. He presses his case. Again, the reply comes back, with the addition that the only empty box is number 13.

  He expresses his desire to purchase a seat in this box. And is informed that for various reasons to do with superstitions around the number 13, and a rumour that it is haunted, this box remains locked at all times. Orders of the Management.

  The man turns abruptly and makes his way back through the crowd. A little while later, as the first chords are being played, he will enter the theatre once more, ascend the stairs and make his way to the seat he has chosen.

  Meanwhile the young woman is staring down at the magnificent gold proscenium arch and the rich red stage curtain. Light from gas lamps falls upon white shoulders, sparkling jewellery. Exotic plumes and feathers bob and sway in this very urban jungle.

  The orchestra enters the pit and the musicians begin to tune their instruments. Mama hands her a playbill and a pair of opera glasses. The first notes of the overture begin. She is instantly transported. She has never heard an orchestra before. The sheer grandeur and glory of so many instruments all making a noise at once!

  The audience settles down. The curtain rises. She leans forward, drinking in the music, the singing, the spectacle. Meanwhile her Mama carefully studies the occupants of the neighbouring boxes, then nudges her sharply.

  “Charlotte! Mrs Rankin is bowing to you – and you with your eyes on the stage! Young George Osborne has been waiting to catch your eye this quarter of an hour ... and now you’re looking at the playbill! I am mortified!”

  Reluctantly, Charlotte tears her eyes away from the stage and performs her social duties. She has barely returned to her former position when she feels a strange sensation, as if someone is looking straight at her. She turns her head. It takes her some minutes to track down the source of the sensation but eventually she locates it to one of the boxes on the opposite side of the stage.

  She lifts her opera glasses. The box is in total darkness, but she can just see the faint outline of man’s face with a pair of glittering eyes that are watching her intently. Suddenly the watcher realises he has been spotted, and melts into the shadows at the back of the box. She waits to see if he will reappear. He does not.

  The interval arrives. The yellow-silked girl slips out of the stuffy box on to the landing to get some air. She stands at the half-open door, fanning herself with her playbill, while watching the well-dressed audience promenading to and fro. People she does not know, or only knows slightly, arrive at the box and enter, to be greeted by Mama and Papa.

  Nobody notices that she is missing until the second act begins, and then it is assumed that she has met up with some young friends and has gone to sit with them.

  Eventually the opera reaches its inevitable conclusion: the heroine sings and dies tragically; the hero sings and survives hopefully. The orchestra plays the final chord. The audience applaud politely. The curtain falls.

  Mama and Papa make their way down the crimson stairs to the foyer to await the arrival of their daughter. It will take them a while to realise that she is not coming, even longer to ascertain that she did not leave the theatre with another family.

  It will be several days before the theatre staff become aware that the lock of Box 13 has been broken. Upon entering the box, they will discover the propped-up body of a young woman, her throat slit, wearing a blood-encrusted yellow silk dress, cut about the bodice. Her left hand will still be clutching a copy of the playbill.

  ****

  But before that happens, there are other revelations. Let us return to Islington where Hyacinth and Lobelia Clout are enjoying a nicely-prepared breakfast in the sun-dappled dining room. Crisply fried bacon, poached eggs, toast cut into neat triangles and divested of its crusts, fresh butter, homemade raspberry jam and hot coffee, all await consumption.

  Hyacinth has excelled herself this morning, as Lobelia herself remarks, unfolding her napkin and eyeing the groaning board with approbation. And last night, Hyacinth made an apple pie whose crust was so light it melted in the mouth.

  Little does Lobelia suspect, as she helps herself to the crispest of the rashers, that it is not sororial affection that is producing this veritable feast of good things. Hyacinth is mentally preparing for this afternoon.

  She is sublimating her nerves by running through her culinary repertoire, even though Lobelia is the only fortunate recipient. Cooking is a calming occupation. It fills up the time leading to her meeting with Lonely Widower.

  After breakfast, Hyacinth descends to the kitchen to make the suet pastry crust for a steak and kidney pie, which is soon wrapped in a checked pudding cloth and placed on a trivet over a pan of boiling water. A bottled cherry pie is also placed in the oven beneath, and a pink strawberry-flavoured shape cools on a larder shelf. Time positively whizzes by.

  Almost before she knows it, luncheon o’clock rolls around. Cold beef, some boiled potatoes and a glass jar of pickles are placed on the table, together with the rest of the apple pie (which, Hyacinth notices, is now somewhat smaller than it was when she put it away last night). Lobelia makes a hearty meal, scarcely seeming to notice that Hyacinth just picks at her food.

  As soon as Lobelia has retired to her room for an hour or so of Bible reading and meditation, Hyacinth tiptoes upstairs and begins her preparations. She has a new dress, purchased ready-made. She bought it when she and Portia Mullygrub went shopping for the material for Portia’s wedding dress. It is a nice bright blue poplin, with cream lace around the collar and cuffs and on the front bodice seams.

  Hyacinth has never bought a new dress in her life – she has always made her own clothes. But she decided a disbursement from the money she’d received was justified. And Portia had agreed, though Hyacinth had not told her what occasion the dress was for.

  Now she slips it over her head, struggling with the back buttons, and regards herself in her mirror. She looks so different! The blue poplin brings out the blue colour of her eyes, and the subtle tailoring of the bodice gives her figure unaccustomed curves and a tiny waist.

  Hyacinth puts on a pair of bronze kid boots (another recent purchase) and arranges her hair in two side bunches and a back bun. She folds the banknotes and places them at the bottom of her bag. Then she tiptoes back downstairs to complete her outfit with shawl and bonnet.

  Checking that she has her door key and a clean pocket handkerchief, she opens the front door and slips out. She picks up a hackney carriage and gives the driver precise instructions. All the way to Hampstead, she sits with her hands tightly clasped in her lap, marvelling that the people and traffic passing by are unaware that inside the cab is someone whose world may be about to change forever.

  Alighting at her destination, she pays the driver two shillings, then makes her way to the Lily Lounge. She enters, sits down at the accustomed table and composes herself. Minutes pass. The door to the tea-room opens and shuts, opens and shuts, but the man she is waiting for with bated breath and beating heart does not appear.

  Hyacinth checks her watch. Lonely Widower is late. He has never been late before. She takes out his letter and rereads it. No, she has not mistaken the time, nor the day.

  So, where is he? Concern turns to anxiety as the minutes tick by and he does not appear. Then, just as anxiety lurches into panic, the waitress who served them tea upon her last visit approaches the table.

  “Excuse me for troubling you, Miss,” she asks, “but are you possibly waiting for the gentleman with the beard?”

  Hyacinth glances up, surprised.

  “I might be ...” she stammers, “why do
you ask?”

  The waitress hands Hyacinth a card. It reads:

  The Lily Lounge (select tea-room)

  12 Flask Walk

  off Hampstead High Street

  London

  (Wedding Breakfasts and Supper Parties catered for)

  Mrs L. Marks, proprietress

  “I am Mrs Lilith Marks,” she says simply. “And I have to tell you that if you are waiting for the ‘gentleman’ with the beard, he won’t be coming.”

  Hyacinth feels the colour draining from her face. The room spins.

  “How do you know this? Has he had an accident? Did he leave a message?”

  The woman’s dark eyes flash.

  “He won’t be coming because I have sent him packing. Him and all his nasty tricks.”

  Hyacinth’s jaw drops. She stares at Lilith Marks in bewilderment.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she falters.

  Lilith Marks signals to one of the waitresses.

  “Pot of strong tea please, Mabel. I think we’re going to need it.”

  She pulls out the chair opposite and sits down.

  “You have been wickedly deceived, young lady. And you aren’t the only one. Now then,” she continues as the tea is brought, “I suggest you drink this while it is hot – and it’s no good you looking at the door. As I said, he isn’t coming.”

  Bewildered but obedient, Hyacinth swallows a mouthful of tea.

  Lilith Marks settles herself more comfortably.

  “I noticed your gentleman friend just before Christmas – soon after we first opened. He started coming in for tea regularly, always the same time, but different days. He was nicely dressed, but there was something about him that just made me suspicious. I have a very suspicious nature, you see. Especially where men are concerned. So, I made sure I was always the waitress that served him. He never noticed – men don’t tend to notice waiting staff. More fool them.”