Honour & Obey

by Carol Hedges

  She nods at Hyacinth.

  “Bit more tea ... I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Hyacinth Clout,” Hyacinth whispers.

  Lilith Marks nods.

  “And what name did the gentleman go by?” she asks.

  “John Smithson.”

  Lilith smiles grimly.

  “Not his real name, you can be sure of that. And where did this ‘Mr Smithson’ tell you he lived?”

  Poor Hyacinth’s lower lip is beginning to tremble.

  “He did not tell me exactly, but I had the impression it was Muswell Hill.”

  “Clever of him then, for he also lives in Highgate and Hackney. At least, that’s what he told the other two.”

  Hyacinth is aghast!

  “The other two?”

  “Janet Dunbar and Nora Barlow. Both single ladies, a bit older than you, not nearly as pretty, but very respectable. Both met him through an advert he placed in the newspapers. Both handed over their life’s savings thinking he was going to make them an offer of marriage. They never saw him again.”

  Hyacinth’s head is spinning.

  “No, surely that can’t be true?”

  “True as I’m sitting here. Did he tell you the story about the sick daughter? Yes, I see from your face he did. There is no sick daughter, Miss Clout. And there would have been no marriage either. Once you’d handed over the money, he’d be gone like the west wind. And you’d never be able to trace him.”

  Hyacinth’s hands are gripping the sides of the chair. It is the only way she can still remain upright.

  “Both ladies returned several times, hoping to find him, for he’d stopped answering their letters and this was the only place they knew he frequented. That was how I found out what had been going on, right under my nose. I was very sorry for them, but there was nothing I could do, for he never came in again.

  “Lying low spending his ill-gotten gains, I guessed. And then, a few weeks ago the door opened and in he walked, bold as brass. He’d dyed his hair, and grown a beard, but I recognised him. And then you came in.”

  “I was going to give him eighty pounds,” Hyacinth gulps. Tears are dripping down her face now and plopping into her lap. “I sold my dead Mama’s jewellery. I have the money here in my bag.”

  “Well, at least you’ll leave with it still in your bag,” Lilith Marks says. “And think yourself lucky. I sent ‘Mr Smithson’ packing with a flea in his ear, and the promise that if I ever saw him again I’d lock the door and contact the police. You’ve had a very fortunate escape, I’d say.”

  She pours Hyacinth a fresh cup of tea.

  “We have a saying where I come from: The heart doesn’t have any bones. So it can’t be broken. Now dry your eyes and finish your tea. It’s on the house.”

  Lilith Marks pushes back her chair and goes back behind the counter. Hyacinth mops her eyes and tried to grasp what has happened. All her hopes have just been shipwrecked. Her beautiful castle of dreams has been tumbled about her ears. Her lovely future is a thing of the past. She finishes her tea, then makes her way unsteadily back out into the street.

  Even here, even now, even after all that she has been told, she still looks round hopefully before hailing a passing cab. Just in case. But he is nowhere to be seen. It is over. And before her lies a desert of life with Lobelia, a life of endless cooking and cleaning, and committee meetings and sermons and the horrible Bittersplits.

  Hot tears scald her cheeks. Oh, how is she going to bear it?

  ****

  Life is made up of variables. Whilst Hyacinth Clout (eighty pounds in pocket) is attempting to compose herself on the back seat of a hansom cab, Tonkin (hands in pockets) is strolling along Gower Street. He has spent the day extracting rent from people who are only one meal away from destitution.

  Tonkin feels no pity for the hapless victims of Morbid Crevice’s avarice, even though he has observed that many are so sunk in despair and apathy that they are quite unable to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. If they had bootstraps, which most do not.

  Tonkin’s opinion is that they deserve everything they don’t get. He is working hard to better himself. He does not have much sympathy for those who choose to sit around on their ragged arses, bewailing their lot in life.

  Tonkin is deliberately delaying his return to his place of employment. It is a fine afternoon, fresh air and sunshine are free, and he has siphoned off enough from the top of the rents to buy himself a meat pie.

  Now replete, he saunters across Queens Square, passing the Ladies’ Charity School, and the National Hospital for Nervous Diseases. Black dust blows in the air like ebonised pollen.

  Tonkin stares up at the tall plane trees. The wind ruffles the branches. He imagines what it might be like to climb to the top of one and view the city from its branches. He is so engrossed with his dendrology that it takes a few seconds before his brain registers that a commotion has broken out on the other side of the street.

  Glancing to his left, he sees people running towards an elderly man who has just collapsed onto the pavement. Never one to allow the slightest opportunity for possible gain to pass him by, Tonkin hurries over and joins the onlookers, who are engaging in the traditional London pastime of hanging around to see what’s going to happen next.

  What happens next is that someone emerges from one of the houses and starts examining the fallen man. Tonkin uses his sharp elbows to push to the front of the crowd. He uses his sharp eyes to spot that the man’s leather bag and his top hat have rolled, unnoticed, into the gutter. He uses his sharp fingers to scoop them up and then his nimble legs to bear him swiftly away from the scene.

  Once around the corner and out of sight, Tonkin opens the bag. Inside he finds a collection of medical instruments and a number of glass bottles full of what he soon realises, from sniffing their contents, must be medicines. A veritable treasure trove! He does a swift mental calculation – and a broad smile crosses his sallow underfed features. Here is riches indeed. Here is meat and drink and a future.

  Placing the top hat at a jaunty angle on his head, Tonkin sets off to liquidate his ill-gotten gains. Not so much working his way up, as working his way along. And as Morbid Crevice is soon going to discover, the more money Tonkin obtains, the less of Tonkin’s presence there is going to be.

  ****

  London. Metropolis of narrow crooked streets, running in all directions with the spatial logic of a maze. A city built on layer upon layer of other ancient cities, which still maintain a fearful and ghostlike presence. London promises adventure, power, joy, transformation. But at the same time, it can destroy everything you are, everything you know.

  Mrs Witchard’s lodger rests with his head on his pillow, arms crossed heavily on his chest. The skin of his face is tight against the cheekbones, and reddened where he has shaved without water. First he is sleeping, then he is not sleeping.

  He can hear the tick of his watch, separating the dark into measured time. A short while ago, he injected himself with the last of the reddish-brown liquid. He feels the calm descending. He feels himself crossing the threshold where it is too late to go back, where conscious thought stops. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to admit that nothing he does will ever dull the pain that comes with jealousy, rejection and humiliation.

  He has no need to count his heartbeats to know that his pulse is at rest. He closes his eyes and waits for release. And then it comes, just on the brink of falling away into darkness. That feeling. The one he has come to dread more than any other: the fear. The same fear that he sees mirrored in their eyes, in all of their eyes, as they stare up at him in those last vital seconds. The murderer’s fear of his own reflection.

  ****

  Day dawns bright and clear, and the streets are bombarded by bustle. The busy throng of men, the tramping of feet on pavement, the crushing sound of cartwheels on cobbles, rattle of omnibuses, cries of costers and street vendors, and all the bewildering din that goes to make up the diurnal
rush hour.

  Look more closely. Here are Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully, heading towards Bow Street. They have received an unusual summons. The body of a young woman has been discovered in a box at the Royal Italian Opera. Arriving outside the building, they are met by a phalanx of reporters. Stride’s jaw tightens at the sight of them, more so as he spies a middle-aged couple standing in the foyer, the woman’s shoulders shaking with sobs, the man’s face set and ashen.

  “Oi, Stride,” a well-known and equally well-loathed voice calls out as the two detectives prepare to enter. “You going to sing for your supper?”

  There is a ripple of laughter from the assembled hacks. Stride spins round and faces them.

  “I’m sorry you find the subject of murder so amusing, Mr Dandy,” he replies, each syllable etched in acid. “Perhaps if it was a member of your family, or one of your friends – if you have any, that is – you might be able to feel some compassion.”

  He marches up to Dandy Dick, his face a mask of blazing fury.

  “The girl’s parents are in there,” he spits. “Have a modicum of respect, for God’s sake!”

  For a second, the two lock eyes. Then Dandy takes a step back. Stride nods curtly to Cully. Together they walk up the steps and into the foyer, where they are immediately accosted by the proprietor.

  “Ah. The police, finally,” he murmurs, leading them quickly across the foyer and to the foot of the balcony steps before the victim’s parents have time to register their arrival. “The incident took place three nights ago during a performance of Don Caspare. The great Portofino was singing. It was a glorious triumph! I cannot believe such a thing was actually happening while the opera was being performed.”

  Stride gets out his notebook.

  “Three nights ago?”

  The proprietor leads them up the stairs to the dress circle.

  “The circumstances are very unusual, Inspector.” He speaks in a lowered tone. “The poor unfortunate young lady was killed – or rather was found – in a box that is always kept locked. We have our little traditions in the theatre, you see. The number thirteen is considered unlucky. It was only the comments of some patrons who reported a peculiar smell, and the presence of flies, that alerted my staff to the fact that the box had been broken into.”

  They have now reached the second landing.

  “The parents supplied us with a very detailed description of the young lady the day after they realised she was missing. It was from this that we were able to identify her body, and then subsequently send them word to let them know.”

  The proprietor leads them along a red-carpeted gallery, finally stopping outside a black painted door bearing the number 13 in faded gold. He gestures.

  “She is in there.”

  “Have any of your staff touched or moved the body?” Stride inquires.

  “I cannot say for sure. Obviously, I wasn’t here when she was found. Certainly, nobody has been allowed up here since I arrived.”

  “And the parents?”

  He shakes his head.

  “We thought it best ... in the circumstances, and given the nature of the young woman’s demise, to wait until you arrived and to take your advice on the matter.”

  Stride nods. His mouth is set in a grim line as he unlatches the door and steps inside. Cully follows. The body of a young woman sits propped up against the side of the box. It is clear from the fixed and rigid position of the limbs, and the hand still clutching the playbill, that cadaveric spasm has already set in.

  The blonde curls are dishevelled and matted. The face has taken on the lividity of death, and there are signs of purplish bruising under the skin. Flies buzz languidly in the heat.

  Stride turns his head, whips out his handkerchief and holds it in front of his mouth. Cully stares all round, mentally taking in every aspect of the grim scene. Then he starts making notes, after which he bends down and gently picks at the dark coagulated mess on the front of the pink dress.

  “There are cuts,” he says. “It is him.”

  The two detectives quit the box. Stride leans against the wall, mouth open, breathing in the warm stale air.

  “I hate this, Jack,” he says quietly. “It never gets any easier, however long you’ve been in the job. Down there are two people, probably never done a day’s harm in their lives, and their daughter’s been murdered by some evil bastard purely because she looked like some woman who rejected him in the past.”

  He turns to the proprietor.

  “I shall make arrangements for the body to be removed to the police morgue for an autopsy. In the meantime, nobody is to enter this box or touch anything. The parents may apply to Scotland Yard for the return of their daughter’s body for burial, once the necessary procedures have taken place.”

  “But they are waiting downstairs to take her home; what shall I tell them?” the proprietor spreads his hands helplessly.

  “Tell them what I’ve just told you,” Stride says grimly. “And nobody – NOBODY, I tell you – is to talk to the reporters from the press waiting outside the theatre.”

  He glances round.

  “I presume there is a back entrance? If you would show us where it is, we’ll be on our way.”

  The proprietor leads the way back downstairs. They enter the stalls and head for the stage area, where members of the opera chorus, carrying their scores, are gathering by the pit piano for a rehearsal. They look round apprehensively.

  “The stage door is through there, inspector,” the proprietor says, gesturing towards the left-hand side of the stage.

  “Oh – before I forget,” Stride says, “I’d like you to contact all the staff who were in the theatre three nights ago. One of my officers will be back later to interview them. Hopefully somebody may have seen something.”

  He eyes the chorus.

  “What are you rehearsing?”

  “Act One of La Bella Ragazza,” one of the chorus tells him. “It’s a tragedy. The beautiful young heroine is killed by a false lover.”

  “Indeed. That is a tragedy,” Stride murmurs. “Please – don’t let us stop you.”

  They cross the stage and leave, just as the chorus- master plays the opening bars.

  ****

  Sometimes Art imitates Life, sometimes the reverse. The tragedy of Hyacinth Clout is being played out not in a beautiful theatre but right under the noses of her nearest and dearest. Well, the nose of her nearest. The dearest has proved himself as false as the hero of La Bella Ragazza.

  Physically, Hyacinth has moved on from the astonishing revelation of Lonely Widower’s duplicity. The daily task, the monotonous routines, have been resumed. But emotionally, she is far from over it. Her nerves and her confidence have been badly shaken, and there is nobody in whom she can confide.

  In addition to this, Hyacinth’s plan to confront her sister Lobelia with the truth about the loss of their little brother has had to be shelved. She was only waiting until she was sure she had another home to go to. Now she has also lost the chance to expose her sister’s lies and cruelty.

  Hyacinth sits alone in the morning room. She is sewing a new dress. As her needle darts in and out, she remembers how Lobelia was always the one who had the new clothes. Hyacinth had her sister’s hand-me-downs until she was old enough to make her own dresses – never very successfully, but good enough for the church circles in which the Clouts moved, where finery of dress was looked down upon with deep suspicion.

  However, the dress she is currently sewing is not for her, though she wishes with every tiny stitch she makes that it was. Hyacinth has agreed to help her friend Portia Mullygrub with her wedding trousseau, because the chances of a white dress retaining its pristineness in a house where cups are overturned, ashes are spilled, and small children with grubby hands and faces run riot, are slender to say the least.

  Added to this, Portia has currently little time to spare: Mrs Mullygrub is in high demand as a speaker, and Portia is either accompanying her, writ
ing letters, or keeping house for her brothers and sisters.

  Also, the small Mullygrubs have big mouths – and Portia does not want Traffy to know anything about the dress until he sees her in it, walking down the aisle on their wedding day. (Which IS going to happen, even though they still have nowhere to live and therefore Ma is still refusing to give them her blessing.)

  It is the least Hyacinth can do, and she is doing it willingly, though the irony of the task does not escape her. As she sews the cheap white cotton material, she cannot help but compare their two situations. It is a tale of two kitties. Portia has no money, but the love of a good man. Hyacinth has eighty pounds and a lucky escape from a bad one.

  The clock in the hallway chimes the half-hour. Hyacinth sighs, sets down the sleeve she is working on and goes down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Portia will be coming over shortly to help sew. She wonders briefly what Lobelia is up to – she left the house straight after breakfast wearing her hat and mantle, without saying where she was going or when she’d be back.

  Hyacinth sets out a tray with the best china cups, and cuts generous slices of sponge cake. Portia will be thirsty and hungry after her walk, and Hyacinth is not sure that she gets enough to eat at home. The tiny waist of the wedding dress bears witness to that.

  She is just pouring boiling water into the warmed teapot, when the front door bell rings. Answering it, she finds a windswept Portia Mullygrub on the step, her face flushed, and her bonnet slightly askew.

  “Ah, I expect I am too early and have disturbed you,” she says, frizzling her hair with her fingers.

  Hyacinth lets her in and helps her off with the battered bonnet and lumpily-knitted shawl.

  “I am quite worn out today,” Portia tells her, pulling a face. “I have been writing letters for Ma till two this morning, and my head aches. And I have had to get Pa to mind the little ones for me, without telling him why. I hate keeping secrets, but what can I do? Ma is dead set against me marrying Traffy, but if we do not marry soon, I fear he might break it off and find someone else.”