by Carol Hedges
Privately, Hyacinth doubts this. Underneath her slightly prickly exterior, Portia has a heart of gold. And she is very pretty, when she isn’t scowling.
“You have timed it perfectly,” she says. “The tea is just drawing. Now come and look at the dress – I think it is getting along very well.”
She leads the way to the morning room, where the future Mrs Moggs’ bridal attire is laid out on the table.
“Oh, you have got on with it since last time,” Portia exclaims, cautiously lifting the basted dress by the shoulders. “And how well you have done. I should never have managed to get so far.”
“I’m sure you would,” Hyacinth responds.
Portia shakes her head, scattering hairpins in all directions.
“You know what the house is like. It is nothing but dirt, waste, papers, noise, confusion, and tumbling downstairs from week’s end to week’s end. There is no time to do anything worthwhile, and if it were not for your infinite kindness, Hyacinth, I should have to be married in my old frock. Not that Traffy would mind, for he has said many a time that it is me he is marrying, which is just as well, but even so I should not like to let him down.”
She holds the dress up against herself.
Hyacinth feels a catch in her throat. Unbidden tears well up in her eyes.
“I think we should have some tea,” she says quickly. “Then you can try the dress on and we will be able to see how it fits.”
“Oh, it will be perfect,” Portia says. “See how neatly you have set the sleeves – I wish I had learned to sew like that.”
She lowers the dress carefully back onto the table and smoothes out the skirt. Then noticing Hyacinth’s face, she remarks,
“But you are looking rather pale, Hyacinth, if I may be so bold as to remark. Is anything amiss?”
Hyacinth is almost tempted. But she resists. She recalls Mama’s stern face whenever she approached her to confide some childhood grievance. The harsh voice telling her that Nobody is interested in a tattletale, especially a lying one.
She remembers Lobelia’s bright triumphant little smile as she stood in the doorway, waiting for Hyacinth to pass by with her lips pressed tightly together to hold in the sobs. She has had a lifetime of suppressing her feelings. It is too late now to break habits ingrained by such an upbringing.
“I think I may have a slight head cold,” she says.
Portia eyes her narrowly.
“If you say so.”
Hyacinth smiles back bravely.
“A cup of tea will soon sort it,” she says. “And then we must get on; we have a lot of work to do.”
They descend to the kitchen. Hyacinth pours the tea, reflecting that Lobelia, were she here, would never countenance entertaining a friend in the kitchen. Common, she would call it.
Portia blows on her tea.
“This is a pretty big house to run all by yourself,” she remarks.
Hyacinth explains the reasons why Mama refused to employ any domestic staff.
“But now ...” Portia begins.
But now there is the sound of the front door opening. Hyacinth shakes her head quickly. Portia gives her a knowing glance. Next minute, Hyacinth’s name is called in a peremptory tone. Sighing, she gets up and ascends the basement steps.
Lobelia stands in the hallway removing her hat and blowing on the feathers.
“I observe that we have an afternoon caller,” she remarks, glancing towards the shabby bonnet with its chewed strings hanging askew from the hat-stand.
“It is Portia Mullygrub. She has come to help me to sew her wedding dress.”
Lobelia purses her thin lips.
“I do not think Mama would approve of taking in sewing, even if it is for a good cause.”
Hyacinth presses her lips together. They eye each other in silence.
“You do not ask me where I have been, I notice,” Lobelia says.
“Do you want me to ask you?”
Lobelia sniffs.
“I have been to a meeting of the Overseas Missionary Society for the Conversion of the African Heathen. Bethica Bittersplit accompanied me.”
“How nice for you.”
Lobelia’s expression ices over.
“Your lack of interest in the work of the church, work that our dear Mama so championed while she lived, and exhorted us both to continue after her death, has been noticed.”
“Has it? By whom?”
“Reverend Bittersplit has commented several times upon your absence at church prayer meetings. He has even inquired discreetly about the state of your soul.”
Hyacinth fires up.
“My soul is perfectly fine, thank you. I do not need you or the Reverend to concern yourself about it.”
Lobelia regards her with the expression of someone whose patience for the simple-minded is wearing thin.
“Ah. You never change, do you Hyacinth? Same today as you were when a child. Always quick to anger, quick to accuse others of fault finding when, in reality, it is you that are at fault.”
Now, Hyacinth’s inner avenging angel whispers, now. But before she can open her mouth, Portia appears in the hallway, carrying Hyacinth’s teacup and her slice of cake.
“I took the liberty of bringing this up from the kitchen,” she says. “I cannot spare much more time, as Ma will be back from her meeting shortly and there will be letters to write.”
Hyacinth pulls herself together. What was she thinking? She cannot have a blazing argument with her sister. She has a guest. Social conventions must be followed.
“I am so sorry, Portia. I have neglected you,” she says, reaching for the tea and cake.
Lobelia gives the cup and plate a hungry look.
“Ah. I see there is tea and sponge cake,” she says.
“So, let us get on immediately,” Hyacinth says, ignoring her.
Lobelia can get her own tea and cake. Hyacinth is not her sister’s slave. Chin in the air, she sweeps past her and enters the morning room.
Portia’s face is a mask of innocence as she follows her.
****
By contrast, not much work is being done in the sewing-room at Marshall & Snellgrove, despite Mrs Crevice’s command to ‘get back to your sewing at once!’ The reason for this unexpected cessation from toil is the reappearance of Little Fan, who has just tiptoed quietly in, looking even more confused and anxious than before her absence.
Her arrival provokes an instant down-needles as the girls gather round, questioning her about the whereabouts and the fate of Emily Benet. Little Fan, overwhelmed by the unexpected attention, is initially reduced to silence.
Eventually, after much prodding and probing, she stammers out that as far as she heard it, Emily Benet was taken away, all of a suddenly, in a carriage which had problems navigating the narrow back streets and knocked over Mrs Towler’s fruit stall. She hasn’t seen her since.
Having imparted this information, Little Fan picks up the broom and begins sweeping under and around the tables, as if she has never left. The sewing-room girls exchange glances. Someone circles a finger at the side of their temple. There are nods of agreement, some shrugs. Then, at Mrs Crevice’s repeated command, the girls return to their sewing.
“At least she isn’t dead,” one of the pattern-cutters murmurs to her neighbour.
“You don’t know that for sure. Maybe she was being taken away to be buried,” remarks the neighbour, who isn’t known for her cheerful disposition.
“If she was dead, Caro’d have told us, surely?” a finisher adds.
“If she remembered,” the gloomy neighbour answers. “We aren’t exactly top of her visiting list any more are we? Gone a bit high and bloody mighty now she’s moved on.”
For the redoubtable Caroline has quit the sewing-room and joined her husband in his butcher’s business, the ability to stand up for oneself and confront authority both being very transferable skills.
“So, you reckon poor Em’s dead and buried?” the pattern-cutter sighs.
> “We all seen the state of her, didn’t we? We all heard what that quack said?” Miss Cheerful replies. “Why would she be taken off in a carriage if she was alive and well? Anyway, management seem to think so, since they’ve filled her place pretty quickly.”
The remark ‘Dead man’s shoes’ hovers in the air, looking for somewhere to land. All eyes swivel to Emily Benet’s seat, and to the new girl sitting there, who is keeping her head down and concentrating furiously on her sewing.
Silence falls, heavy as a brick. The sewing-room girls stare at the new girl. They exchange meaningful glances. Then they bend their faces to their work once more, for when all is said and done, they each have a living to earn. Nobody speaks. The only sound is the tuneless humming of Little Fan as she chases tiny bits of cloth and thread around the room, an expression of fixed intensity on her simple childlike face.
****
Over at Scotland Yard, there is definitely more fuming than humming. For Detective Inspector Stride, it is turning out to be one of those days, in other words, the sort that he endures most days.
Another tranche of hostile press coverage lies spread out before him on his desk. The early evening headline writers have had a field day, some focusing on the Slasher Still At Large, Police Baffled angle, others indulging in witty wordplay around singing and dancing.
One wag of a reporter has even got hold of a copy of a police poster and issued his own version, featuring a picture of Stride himself, under the heading Wanted for Wasting Public Money.
Was it any wonder that the general public were so backward in coming forward, when they were fed a constant diet of presumed police incompetence? If Stride had his way, all journalists would be boiled alive stuffed with their own copy, then fed to any passing pig.
A knock at the door heralds the entrance of Jack Cully, his expression warily hopeful.
“Come in Jack. Seen these?” Stride barks, gesturing angrily at his desk.
“Not all of them,” Cully says.
Cully sincerely hopes Stride also hasn’t seen all of them. The level of shallow innuendo indulged in by some of the lower order of hacks makes a puddle on the pavement look deep.
“We are dealing with crimes of unbridled brutality, and these bastards are making light of it! Would they take the same line if it was one of their daughters who’d been murdered? I think not.”
Cully agrees.
“What do you think, Jack?” Stride says wearily. “Are we barking up the wrong tree?”
Cully shrugs.
“But I’ve heard back from the Opera House,” he continues. “They’ve got hold of the ticket seller who was on duty the night of the murder. Apparently, he remembers something about that evening. I’m on my way to interview him now. I’ll take Leonard with me in case he gives us a description.”
“Don’t know why they employ that useless lump of a police artist,” Stride mutters. “Never produced a good likeness since I’ve been here.”
Cully keeps his face expressionless. Leonard’s cartoons, including a couple of really good portraits of Stride, feature prominently on the junior constables’ notice board.
A short while later, Cully and the police artist step into the foyer of the Royal Italian Opera. Here they are introduced to the ticket seller, a small limp-haired man with an old-fashioned walrus moustache, gold pince-nez glasses and a crumpled suit.
The three men repair to the back row of the stalls where, at Cully’s prompting, the ticket seller tells the two policemen what happened on the night of the murder.
Cully writes it down, stopping every now and then to check or confirm a fact. Finally, he asks:
“Was there anything that struck you about the man who wanted a seat in Box 13? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Yes. Yes, there was. He had a very penetrating stare. Didn’t blink once. I found my own eyes watering in sympathy. And his clothes weren’t what you’d expect from a regular patron. More what you’d wear to go for an evening stroll. He didn’t even have a smart top hat.”
“Would you be able to supply my artist with an exact description?”
“Pretty much. I have a good eye for faces. And there was another thing struck me as odd. I was just closing the booth. I’d put the shutters up, because after the first interval you don’t get many people wanting to buy a ticket for that performance.
“Anyway, I was sorting the money into bags when I heard the sound of footsteps. So, I looked though the slats and there he was, the same man I’d seen earlier. He came running across the foyer from the balcony stairs direction as if all the fiends of Hell were at his tail. Never seen anything like it. Face pale as death, coat tails flying, hair all over the place, eyes staring out of his head.
“I remember thinking: I say, how did you get up there without me noticing? Next thing he’d pushed open the street doors and he was gone. I thought I must have dreamed it – until I finished work and was leaving. I like to get out before the end of the opera, miss all the crowds.”
He dips into an oilcloth bag by his feet and brings out an ivory-handled knife.
“I found this just on the other side of the doors. Thought nothing of it, until Mr Cryer contacted me and told me about the murder.”
He hands the knife to Cully.
“Do you think this is the murder weapon, sergeant? Because it don’t look like something you’d use to peel fruit.”
Cully handles the knife gingerly. Its bright steel blade glints wickedly up at him.
“It seems suspiciously clean,” he remarks.
“Ah. Yes, sorry about that. I did give it a bit of a sluice under the tap when I got in. Thought it might come in useful. You can never have too many knives, can you? And I like to do a few bits and bobs around the house, help the wife out.”
Cully sucks in his breath sharply, then asks,
“I don’t suppose you happened to notice while you were ‘sluicing it’ whether the knife had any stains on the blade? Red stains .... possible of a blood-like nature?”
The man shakes his head.
“Can’t recall. Like I said, I’m sorry. Mind on other things – our youngest has just gone into service and the wife is fretting about it.”
Cully wraps the knife in his pocket handkerchief and places it gingerly in his coat pocket.
“Thank you very much, Mr Pinkerton. You have been most helpful.”
“Is there a reward?” the man asks eagerly, his small eyes gleaming behind the pince-nez.
“Not as yet. Perhaps you’d like to work with the police artist now. Let’s see if he can draw the face of the man you saw.”
“Will there be a reward when you catch him? If it is him?”
Cully feels a great wave of tiredness wash over him. Over the past week he has visited hospital after hospital asking the same questions, getting the same answers. He has stood outside Emily Benet’s lodgings, just because it was the last time and place he saw her. For all he knows, she could be anywhere on God’s green earth. Or possibly under it.
A few hours ago, he had stood over the decomposing body of another young woman whose life had been snuffed out like a candle in a gale. And now he has to deal with greedy little men like this.
“I am sure the Metropolitan Police will be very grateful for any information you can supply,” he says, wooden-faced.
He turns to Leonard, who is preparing his sketchbook and lining up his pencils.
“Do your best,” he murmurs. “This could just be the break we’re all waiting for.”
****
Sadly, there is no break for the dressers in the operating theatre. From early morning, an endless procession of badly-wounded individuals has passed in a horizontal stream through the theatre doors, leaving again shortly afterwards minus some part of their anatomy, some nearer to their Maker than others.
The sawdust box has been changed, the table swabbed down, the watchers in the gallery have been amused or amazed. Finally, the surgeon calls a halt, mainly because he has luncheon wai
ting at his club. The students stream out into the spring sunshine, exchanging the fetid air of the operating theatre for the slightly better air of the city street.
At the news-stands, the afternoon papers have just been delivered. Mrs Witchard’s lodger glances at the headlines, pauses, and walks on. He buys apples and yesterday’s bread, a heel of dry cheese and a bottle of cheap wine, and trudges towards his lodgings hugging his purchases to his chest. There is much to be done before the summer exams, which will free him from the tyranny of student life with its daily humiliations, and allow him finally to set up practice in his own name. Whatever that name will be when the time comes.
He passes Rhymer’s, one of the apothecary shops he frequents when he cannot gain access to his usual source of supply, and pushes open the door. Inside the dark unlit interior, bottles of tincture of digitalis and saffron, tar ointments, liquid aloe and iron tonics line the shelves.
He waits while the elderly, stooped apothecary makes up his opium, his cough loud and rasping. The man should make up a tincture of something for himself, the lodger thinks. The apothecary has had that cough ever since he first started coming into the shop. It is not as if he does not carry the remedy. There are drugs here for diseases, for dreams, for fighting dragons and for keeping demons at bay. Surely there must also be something for coughs.
He pays, and carries the bottle and the food back to his room, placing everything on the table. Then he walks to the window, opens it and gazes unseeingly out across the crooked tiled roofs. Today the air is so clear he can see for miles. He has heard it said there are millions and millions of people living here. Restless. All, like him, needing what they do not have.
Sometimes he forgets the present; there is so much of the past to keep clear. He blinks, closes his eyes. When he opens them again he is crying, but there is nothing he can do about it. His life swings on its turning point. He feels a melancholy tug inside him, as if his body had its own tides and currents.