by Carol Hedges
“There is so much that I could accomplish with the right companion at my side. I have observed you for many years, Hyacinth. You are still very young and you have some strange and foolish ideas, but with my guidance and firmness, I believe I could instruct and correct your waywardness, so that together we might both approach the Heavenly Throne and stand hand in hand and side by side in His Holy Presence.”
Horrified, Hyacinth snatches her hand out of his cold, dry, talon-like grasp.
“You are asking me to MARRY you?” she gasps.
Reverend Bittersplit smiles complacently.
“Male and female created He them, dear Hyacinth. Genesis 1, 27. I trust that though this may be an unexpected request, it is not an unwelcome one. I am aware of several ladies in the congregation who would envy you your position as my future helpmeet. And given your present circumstances it is not acceptable that, as an unmarried young woman, you continue to live alone in this house. I have sought the Lord’s will in prayer on this matter and I believe that marriage to me would be the best solution all round.”
Hyacinth’s head is whirling.
“But wait – I thought you just told me earlier that I was mad, and needed locking up in an asylum.”
He regards her evenly.
“That is the opinion of your sister. I do not entirely concur with her.”
“So ... either I agree to marry you, or I will be sent to an asylum?”
He frowns.
“You have a rather unfortunate way of expressing yourself.”
Hyacinth rises to her feet. Some things need to be expressed standing up.
“Firstly,” she begins, “I am NOT mad. No doctor in London would pronounce me mad, of that I am sure. I was with Mama’s lawyer a couple of days ago, and there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he thought I was behaving in an irrational or uncontrolled manner. I am, however, very angry with the LIES, for they are LIES, that Lobelia has been spreading about me.
“And as for your proposal of marriage – I cannot think of anybody I should less like to marry. I do not love you. I have never loved you and I would not ever love you. And without love, I believe such a marriage would be utterly loathsome to me. And now I should like you to leave, please.”
Reverend Bittersplit stares at her in complete bewilderment.
“You are rejecting my offer? Rejecting it? And this is your final word?”
“I am. And it is. Now, please go.”
Hyacinth walks to the door, opens it and stands meaningfully on the threshold. Reverend Bittersplit glares angrily at her, then claps his hat onto his head and stalks out into the hallway. She hears the front door being wrenched open, then slammed shut.
Hyacinth collapses onto the sofa. Laughter bubbles up inside her. She gulps it down. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. She feels as if she has been teetering on the edge of a precipice. She is giddy with relief. With an enormous effort of will, she pulls herself together and goes down to the kitchen, where she makes herself a very strong and very sweet cup of tea.
****
The Mother’s Arms has not undergone any sort of makeover since the last time Stride and Cully drank there. If anything, it has slipped even further into a decline, like some aged relative who is gently sliding towards senility.
The bar counter seems duller, the glasses cloudier, the beer, more watery. Only the patrons remain the same. Solid, cloth-capped, hunched at their tables, staring gloomily into their pints as if they can see their future at the bottom of the glass, and it is not good.
Stride picks his way round the tables and leans his elbows upon the bar.
“Detective Inspector Stride, Scotland Yard,” he says. “I gather you wished to speak to me.”
The landlord glances unhappily over Stride’s shoulder, pulls a reluctant face, then instructs the languid barmaid (who is drying glasses with the same cloth she has just used to mop up spills) to ‘watch the bar, while I’m out the back with the gent’lm’n.’
Stride follows him through to a small shabby sitting room at the rear of the pub. It reeks of stale cigar smoke and the walls are stained yellowy-brown.
“It’s like this,” the landlord begins. Then stops.
Stride folds his arms, leans against the wall and waits. You can learn a lot by listening to the spaces between the words. He’d once managed to piece together an entire case from what one of the witnesses hadn’t said.
“I don’t normally do this,” the landlord continues, biting his thumb awkwardly.
No, none of you do, Stride thinks. We’re the enemy, aren’t we? Until something bad happens to one of your own. Then it’s a case of: my enemy’s enemy is suddenly my friend.
“That man,” the landlord says.
Stride nods encouragingly.
“You know which man I mean: the one on the poster. He was in here t’other evening.”
Stride focuses in on the landlord’s face.
“Go on.”
“Well, I was just setting up for the night’s session when he came in. On his own like. Ordered a brandy and water. Swallowed it down in one. The he just sat there. Watching the door. As if he was waiting for someone to come in.”
Stride frowns.
“Are you sure it was him?”
The landlord nods.
“He’d grown a bit of a beard, wot he didn’t have on the poster. But yeah, it was him. I’d seen him before so I knew. He comes in every now and then with some other young gents. I think they’re all students from one of the ’orspitals, because they brought a whole skellington in one night for a joke. Put it in a chair. Tried to buy it a drink. Sometimes they start out here and then go on to other pubs. I guessed that was why he’d come in.”
“And did the others join him eventually?”
The landlord shakes his head.
“Sat there for an hour. Didn’t buy another drink. I was jist going to go and say summat, when he suddenly got up and left.”
Stride processes this.
“You don’t happen to know which hospital?”
The landlord shakes his head.
“’Nother time they brought in a jar with a pickled baby. Made a great joke about it being too young to drink beer. Very ... amoosing young gents, they are. If you find that sort of thing amoosing.”
“Quite.”
The landlord eyes him speculatively, his rheumy eyes glistening in the pale gaslight. He lowers his voice.
“I heard there was a reward?”
“For bringing underage medical specimens into public houses? I doubt it.”
“Nah – you know what I mean. If this is The Slasher, isn’t there some sort of reward for catching him?”
Stride glances round the shabby room.
“Have you caught him? Is he here somewhere?”
He pushes himself off the greasy wall.
“Thank you for your information, Mr ... it will be added to all the other information we receive.”
Stride turns his back on the landlord’s crestfallen face and walks through into the bar. Silence falls as he crosses the floor and follows him out as he leaves.
****
Another day dawns, bright and rain-washed, and once again we find ourselves in the narrow street of tall run-down houses just off Holborn. We pause outside the shabbiest and most run-down of the run-down houses. A couple of very grubby children are playing in the gutter. They have a battered hoop and are laughing as they bowl it along the street.
A cab turns the corner, causing the two to scatter in alarm. Their alarm is increased when it halts outside the shabby house. The cab door opens, and a young woman descends carrying a long flat box. There is a squeal of recognition and she is greeted rapturously by the two children who jump up and down with excitement and look hopefully at the box.
“Good morning Horatio and Fortinbras,” she says, smiling.
The small Mullygrubs rough and tumble up the steps, and bound and bundle into the house, yelling at the top of their voices. Hyacinth
Clout (for it is she) follows them, stepping carefully over and around the usual assortment of miscellaneous objects that litter the dark hallway.
She enters the parlour, where Portia sits at the table, scribbling assiduously. Cordelia is making ineffectual dabs at the mantelpiece with a cloth, not so much cleaning as moving the dust to a different location. Both look up, their eyes swivelling to the box.
“Yes, it is finished,” Hyacinth says. “I put the final stitch in last night.”
Portia rises, sticks the pen into her hair and clears a space for her. Cordelia picks up armfuls of papers and distributes them amongst the saggy chairs. The small Mullygrubs gather expectantly round the table.
Portia lifts the lid. Everyone peers into the box. There, folded neatly on a bed of apricot satin and wrapped in striped tissue paper, is the wedding dress. A collective “Aaah!” goes up on all sides.
“I packed it in an old dress box of mine. I hope that is all right.”
Portia’s eyes are bright with tears.
“I cannot believe that it is actually going to happen,” she says. “We have been engaged for so long and dear Traffy has been so patient. And now the church is booked, and the wedding breakfast is arranged, and my dress is here, and all we need is somewhere to live, and I’m sure Traffy WILL find us somewhere for he is searching day and night, he tells me, and then Pa and Ma MUST give us their blessing.”
Hyacinth purses her lips. She has been mulling over an idea for the past few days, ever since her rejection of Reverend Bittersplit’s unexpected marriage proposal. Now seems exactly the right moment to suggest it.
“I may have found you somewhere to live after you are married,” she says hesitantly. “How would you both like to come and live with me? The house is quite big enough for all of us.”
Portia stares at her, mouth agape.
“But your sister ...” she stutters.
“She is on a boat to Africa,” Hyacinth says firmly. “And as I now own the house, it is entirely up to me whom I invite to share it. I would expect you to pay some rent, of course, and maybe help out with the housework, but I’m sure we could come to an accommodation, if you think Mr Moggs would agree. Cordelia can visit whenever she likes. And of course, Horatio, Fortinbras, Juliet and Ophelia would be welcome to come and play in the garden. There is a summerhouse.”
The small Mullygrubs’ faces brighten immediately at this delightful prospect.
“Shall I leave it to you to mention it to Mr Moggs and to your Mama and Papa?” Hyacinth says.
“She is speaking at a meeting of the Ladies’ Association for the Benefit of Gentlewomen of Good Family, Reduced in Fortune Below the State of Comfort to Which They Have Been Accustomed, but I shall speak to her as soon as she returns. And I shall tell Traffy tonight,” Portia says, her eyes dancing. “Are you quite sure about this, Hyacinth?”
“Oh yes. Quite sure,” Hyacinth nods.
The chances of Hyacinth being carted off to a lunatic asylum, when Portia and her husband are in residence at her house, are almost negligible. Also, she is beginning to feel the want of companionship, especially in the evenings. And she is growing rather fond of Portia.
Unexpectedly, Portia hold out both hands. Hyacinth takes them in hers.
“I am better and happier for meeting you, Hyacinth,” Portia says. “And so is Traffy. And when we are married, I shall try to be the best of wives. And if you will let me, I shall try to be the best of friends as well.”
And having made this heartfelt declaration, Portia Mullygrub wipes her eyes on her sleeve, runs her fingers through her tangled hair, and then shows Hyacinth out with as much grace as if she were a highborn lady living in a fine mansion.
****
Meanwhile, not too far away from this happy scene, Detective Inspector Stride is wrestling with demons. In particular, one demon, whose habitation is Fleet Street and whose name is Richard Dandy, chief reporter on The Inquirer.
Barely had Stride crossed the threshold of Scotland Yard that morning, when one of the day constables had handed him a morning copy of The Inquirer. There, on the front page, was a rather poor copy of the police artist’s drawing, under the banner headline:
50 Golden Guineas to Find This Man!
With a sinking heart, Stride had carried the offending journal to his office, knowing before he’d even started reading the accompanying article exactly what he would find. Criticism of the detective police. Personal attacks on his competence. Suggestions that ‘The Man in the Street’ was being short-changed. Praise for the investigative powers of The Inquirer’s reporters.
He is just contemplating the letter he intends to fire off to the editor of The Inquirer when there is a knock at his door, and the desk sergeant sticks his head round. His expression is inscrutable.
“Sir, there are some people in the waiting area. Quite a lot of people actually, sir. They all want to see you about The Slasher. They say they have conclusive evidence of his whereabouts and have come to claim the reward money, sir.”
Stride groans.
“Take their names and addresses. Get a brief statement from each of them. And don’t offer anybody anything.”
The desk sergeant disappears. Stride lowers his head into his hands. Then he picks up his pen and begins writing furiously. A couple of times the vehemence of the words causes the nib of his pen to break and he has to replace it.
He has just sealed up the letter when Jack Cully appears.
“Did you know—” he begins.
“Yes, I knew. Did you know who started this?” Stride snarls.
He waves the sealed envelope in the air.
“This should settle his hash once and for all. Damn his arrogance! Just when we were hoping for a breakthrough.”
Cully casts a quick glance down at the desk, where the offending article is laid out, facing Stride. Then he pauses. Focuses his gaze more intently upon the picture. He has not viewed Leonardo’s artistic efforts yet as he has been too busy chasing dead ends.
Now he finds himself looking down at a man’s face. He remembers where he has seen this man before. University College Hospital medical school. He was looking down at him then, from a wooden gallery. The gallery was full of students. An operation was taking place. The man was one of the dressers. A few minutes later, he had seen him again – carrying away the bloody remains of an amputated leg.
Jack Cully pulls up a chair and sits down.
“I think we may have our breakthrough,” he says.
****
Mr Horace Featherstone has portered at the University College Hospital medical school for so many years that it seems as if he has always worked there. He remembers when all anatomy classes had to take place in Winter because of the bodies going off in the heat. He remembers when Mr Jeremy Bentham, philosopher, was a real live person as opposed to an Auto-icon in a wooden cabinet, whose head and eyes are constantly being ‘borrowed’ by prankish students.
He remembers when the study of Classical Languages was considered an essential part of medical training. He remembers various students beginning their careers as timorous young apprentices and ending up confident physicians at the top of their game. What he does not remember is the sudden and precipitous arrival of two detectives from Scotland Yard, accompanied by three constables armed with handcuffs and truncheons.
Mr Horace Featherstone is a short, portly porter, with thinning grey hair smarmed back with Macassar oil – and a stickler for the rules. He is the sort of person who refers to his place of work as ‘my little kingdom’.
Right now, his little kingdom is being invaded. He is not a happy porter at all.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow your policemen to go any further into the building, inspector,” he bleats, folding his arms and blocking their entry. “There are rules about entering a medical establishment while bearing arms. They date back to 1789.”
In reply, Stride waves his copy of The Inquirer at him.
“Never mind that. Do you recognise this m
an?”
Mr Featherstone is faced with a dilemma. If he takes his eye off the main door, there is a chance the constables might sneak round behind him in a pincer movement, thus disobeying his clearly iterated orders. On the other hand, he has been asked a question and like most men of his ilk, the chance to show off his knowledge is not to be thrown away lightly.
“Let me see now,” he says, pulling out a pair of spectacles.
He adjusts them on his veiny nose and peers at the newspaper.
“Why, that looks just like one of our students,” he says.
Stride and Cully exchange triumphant glances over the top of the little man’s head.
“Where might I find the young man?” Stride asks.
Mr Featherstone hesitates.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow you or your men to proceed further than the atrium,” he says. “This is a medical school. There are rules about non-medical people being allowed in. Especially armed non-medical people. At the end of the day it’s more than my job’s worth.”
Stride and Cully exchange exasperated expressions.
“We are on police business,” Cully says, before Stride loses his temper and starts shouting and they get ejected. “It is very important that we speak to this man. If you cannot allow us in, could you find someone in authority who might be able to answer our question?”
Mr Featherstone cogitates for a few seconds.
“I could go and ask the Bursar, I suppose,” he says reluctantly.
“Yes, why don’t you go and do that,” Stride suggests drily.
The little man fusses off. Stride and Cully and their escort adopt poses of casual nonchalance, while carefully scrutinising everybody who enters or leaves.
Eventually Mr Featherstone returns, accompanied by a gaunt saturnine middle-aged man with a lugubrious expression on his face.
“Inspector. You have a question you wish to ask me, hmmm...?” he says, clearing his throat.
Stride shows him the newspaper.
“Ah. Yes. My, my. That is a very good likeness of young Mr Johnson. Very good.”