Baby Drop

by Jennie Melville

  ‘Old Madge is a good craftsman, he’ll see the ring is well done and may be able to help you with the other, he knows his jewellery.’

  ‘People seem to have reservations about him.’

  ‘Oh well …’ There was an amused, dry note in his voice. ‘ I can understand that. He’s the archetypal old English bachelor and clubman, they put up with them better in the days of good Victoria. Comparisons with Lewis Carroll spring to mind.’

  ‘You remember what’s going on down here?’

  He was silent and when he spoke again, his voice had changed, the amusement had left it. ‘You mean he’s being mentioned in connection with the missing child and the dead boy? That does change matters.’

  ‘It’s tough being Loomis, the first child died, you know.’

  ‘Was there one? I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Yes, he and the wife had one child which died at a few years old. Too much intermarrying in that circle: he and his wife were cousins and so is Biddy for that matter … Sure the child’s death had something to do with what happened later. I’ve always thought the wife killed herself. Fell, or jumped, that sort of thing.’

  —Dan Feather certainly knew about the death of the first child and had kept it to himself. No wonder he eyed Peter Loomis with some scepticism as a parent, too much death hung around him. But she ought to have found out for herself.

  ‘Of course, there can’t be any connection with this later business,’ said Humphrey.

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘Oh no, it was natural death, of that I’m sure.’ He sounded confident. This was where all the close connections of the group came in and influenced judgements, she thought.

  ‘Any advice about William Madge?’ What she really meant: Have you anything else to say, any little secrets you could pass on?

  ‘I don’t know there, you must use your own judgement.’

  ‘Oh, I will. I’m going to see him, see what he has to say.’

  She went home, changed into black jeans, acknowledged the existence of Muff with a meal, which was the form of acknowledgement that Muff desired, checked her answerphone, which was quiet, and drove towards the road downhill and beyond the Castle Mount where Mr Madge kept his establishment.

  It was a dark night. Winter had come early this year to Windsor, bringing with it more damp and mist than usual. The Castle as she drove past it was shrouded and remote. You could see lighted windows above the towers and battlements but it didn’t look friendly. It was too misty to see much sign of the fire, which had destroyed several great halls, but distantly she could make out scaffolding.

  She had not telephoned ahead to say that she was coming, which was deliberate because she wanted an element of surprise. She might be able to read more clearly if she got a moment when he saw her without being prepared. She suspected that he was an accomplished dissembler, a man with many masks and who knew how to slip them into place. A different face for each person.

  She had seen Mr Madge, the charming old jeweller, the great craftsman, in love with what he did. She saw now that he also played out for her the man of tradition, the tradesman who could look back with pride on his forebears, generations of men who had been the respected owners of this shop. The portrait of George III played its part here.

  He played the courtly old man who bowed when she arrived and opened the door for her, and whose bills were always written out in a flowing long hand as if the age of the typewriter and the computer had never arrived.

  She wanted to see what was underneath this mask, because there was another man, one who taught in a Sunday school and liked little boys, who might have a darker side. He might be a man who walked the streets at evening and knew the side alleys and hiding places of the lost boys, might have a secret, hidden life.

  She wanted to rip off William Madge’s mask. She felt no compunction in not talking first to Dan Feather because she knew he kept his own secrets, and if there was anything to tell, he would learn later.

  She drove across the cobbles to the shop which was dark and closed, which was to be expected as it was six o’clock. The shop normally closed at five. He had kept it open once especially for her, but that had been by arrangement.

  ‘No arrangement this time, my dear Mr Madge,’ she said as she locked the car. ‘But I shall get in. I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.’

  Her little joke amused her mildly as she walked round to the back where the door to the living quarters was to the right of the archway into the courtyard. The courtyard had once been home to a carriage and pair, with the coachman living above the stables, there was still the feeling of horses about the place but now it was used as a garage. It was lit by a standing lamppost.

  A light shone above the door, and in a room upstairs. A brightly polished bell-pull shaped like a tassel on a brass chain hung beside the door. An antique in itself, the policewoman inside Charmian marvelled that it had not been stolen.

  Maybe that very thing said something formidable about Mr Madge’s standing in the Windsor subculture.

  She gave the bell a brisk pull, and then to make sure, another. Distantly within the dark house she could hear a bell tumbling away. In what had been the kitchens of the old house, where servants lived, she imagined, but she felt sure Mr Madge could hear.

  She took a pace backwards to look up at the lighted window. She saw a curtain move as a face looked down. ‘Saw me.’ She knew she could be recognized in the light from the lamp which was an object of historical interest in itself; ornate and elegant, it might have lighted the Prince Regent himself on his way.

  She waved a hand at the face, which disappeared behind the curtain. Some minutes passed before she heard feet coming down towards the door and heard the chain loosened and the lock turned. She understood the delay when she saw her host: Mr Madge was wearing an elaborately frogged and corded velvet dressing-gown which must have formed part (and an expensive part) of some Edwardian gentleman’s evening-at-home wardrobe.

  ‘Ah, it’s you, my dear lady.’ The courtly manner was well in place. ‘How good of you to call. So late too, I am afraid the shop is closed.’

  She ignored the glossy smooth impertinence, taking it as a sign of some sort. ‘ I knew you wanted to see me, so I was anxious.’

  The door was wide open and he was bowing her inside. ‘Do come in, my living-room is upstairs … but you know that.’

  ‘I did see you at the window, yes.’ He’d been drinking, she thought.

  He led her up the stairs, murmuring platitudes about the size of the house and the difficulty of getting domestic cleaning and for her to watch the bend of the stair just there, so dangerous, puffed out on breaths of brandy. The smell caught up with her as she followed behind.

  The living-room made her draw in her breath. The fire in the grate and soft light from several small lamps made the room a mysterious cavern filled with handsome, interesting pieces of furniture and some objects so strange she did not know what to make of them. Was that huge object on the wall a stuffed capercaillie and had he shot it or just collected it? She banged against a brass lectern on which lay a large opened book. Not for prayers, she thought.

  ‘Sit you down, my dear’ Now he was being the kind Victorian grandfather. Well, he could have played that part to good effect with poor Joe.

  She took her seat in a big leather armchair with embroidered armrests. Surely that was a crest embroidered there?

  ‘The Duke of Southland’s armorial bearings,’ he said, seeing her eyes. ‘Picked it up at the sale of Southland Great House. He’d been broke for years, poor fellow, but Christie’s and an American buyer got the best of it. Ah … I wasn’t looking for the best, not for my little place, just what I could pick up.’

  She refused brandy. ‘ I have to drive home. You wanted to see me? Was it about the ring? It’s ready?’

  ‘It is ready certainly, a beautiful ring.’ An honest note in his voice at that, he could speak truthfully about his trade. ‘You will enjoy we
aring it.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Without meaning to, a note of anxiety, of doubt must have crept into her tone.

  ‘A family ring, of course, but Sir Humphrey will be all right, he’ll pull through, good stock there.’

  The breath was fairly knocked out of her. ‘How do you know about that?’

  He shrugged, drew his mouth down, and shook his head from side to side. He wasn’t going to say. ‘Just take my word for it, my dear lady. Are you sure about the brandy?’ He looked wistfully at the decanter.

  ‘No, I wanted to see you about the locket.’

  ‘You found something out?’

  ‘Yes, most interesting. You remember I told you that my grandfather had stocked such lockets … of course, it must have been that many jewellers at that time stocked the trinkets, but this one had been engraved by him. So we knew the locket came from this establishment.’ He paused. ‘ But I have discovered something more.’

  ‘You know who bought it?’ It seemed incredible; she might have an identity for the dead child. Or at least, a trace, a clue to a family name.

  ‘Er … I know who bought it, I found the record in my grandfather’s books, he kept very complete records always, and in his own hand … but let me go downstairs, find the book in question, and bring it up.’

  He was out of the door before she could say anything. There was a pause which she filled in by looking round the room. A great bowl of pot pourri rested on a lyre-footed sofa table by her side. She could smell roses and carnation but it smelt sickly like decay. She turned her head away.

  She heard him coming up the stairs, slowly, heavy footed, and when he came in the room, he was carrying a big red book, opened already. He had put something in his pocket at the same time which she eyed speculatively.

  He laid it on her knees and pointed.

  In a beautiful clear hand, pale now with age, she read: ‘Nine gold lockets at a guinea a piece, sold to Lord Grahamden, and delivered by me personally.’

  Nine gold lockets sold to an earlier bearer of that name? ‘He bought nine?’

  William pointed. ‘Look at the date.’

  At the top of the page, where the first entry recorded the sale of a diamond brooch, to the same lordship, was written: December 22, 1901.

  ‘A Christmas present.’

  ‘Yes, to members of the household, senior servants and such … But they were old stock, so he got them cheaper … And look underneath.’

  Another sentence said: All to be engraved, the price included.

  Charmian tried to absorb the information. So, the locket had come from the Grahamden household. She had to assess what that meant.

  ‘Will there be a record of that engraving? So we could know the precise person who received it?’ Who might be the mother of this child?

  William Madge pursed his lips. ‘I may be able to. The record may be there.’

  She stood up, handing him back the book. ‘Try.’ It came out as an order.

  ‘I may find something.’ He rested his hand on his pocket. If that is a weapon he has there, then I know what to do, she decided.

  ‘I can get a search warrant.’

  The colour left his face in small blotches.

  ‘I have helped you. I may need a friend. I knew the boy called Joe.’

  He had tried on various faces for her benefit but now the real one was coming out: a thin, frightened old man. Suddenly, she knew what he was about to say and still it shocked her.

  ‘I knew Joe,’ he repeated. ‘We had been … together.’

  She didn’t react in any open way, she felt hard and cold. ‘Get me the locket, please. And let me have the book.’ She was watching his hand on his pocket. ‘Find what I ask for and I will see what I can do. I have taken in what you say about Joe.’ She started to walk towards the door. – I wonder if I’ll get away without trouble? was the question inside.

  He reached into his pocket and drew out a grey plastic object which he put in his mouth and puffed. ‘ Will try,’ he gasped. ‘Asthma … Will try. Do your best for me.’

  Driving home, the locket resting in her pocket, she said to herself: You know what you have done? You have traced the locket which rested in the soil by the baby and Joe to Chantrey House. You’ve got to think this out, girl, there’s a lot to think about and things aren’t always what they seem.

  The house was quiet, the cat asleep in her basket. But there was a stream of paper hanging out of her fax machine and a message flashing on the answerphone.

  Her eye caught the word ‘body’, but she listened to Feather’s voice first. His message was blunt.

  ‘We have a body,’ he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘ “Is this true concerning the poor girl?”

  He slightly inclines his head.

  “You know what you related. Is it true? Do my friends know my story also? Is it the town talk yet? Is it chalked upon the walls and cried upon the streets?” ’

  Bleak House

  Early next morning, when it was barely dawn, she drove through a light drizzle to the woods beyond Windsor where, in an ancient piece of woodland, the police had set up their station in Warrior’s Wood. It was not an expedition she looked forward to, but her attendance seemed necessary.

  ‘We’ve got a body,’ Feather had said. ‘But it’s not the one we expected.’

  She was thinking of his words as she drove out into the country with the River Thames running by her side. The rain was getting heavier, obscuring all she could see. It was not going to be a good day.

  Feather had gone on: ‘You’ve got to take a look.’

  Before she left home she had spoken to Rewley on the telephone. ‘I know it’s early.’

  He sounded wakeful. ‘I’m around. Life’s hotting up round here … you know about the body?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘It’s not good news.’

  She had come to the same conclusion herself last night and been thinking about it in the darkness with not much sleep, and what sleep there was had been dominated by dreams whose stories she could not remember.

  There were a lot of facts to put together and among them was the behaviour and confession (if that was what it was) of William Madge, and the information he had passed on (if it could be trusted, but she had the ledger of sales and it would be tested) about the history of the locket. The locket itself now lay, uncovered as if she could make out its secret if she kept looking at it, on her dressing table.

  But she had had a more personal reason for telephoning George Rewley so early: ‘How’s Kate?’

  Rewley said: ‘I thought she seemed quiet … We spent the evening playing Scrabble.’

  ‘I had a session with William Madge last night …’

  ‘Our jeweller friend? What had he got to say?’

  ‘He says he knew Joe, they were, as he obliquely puts it, “together”. You can work out for yourself what that means.’

  ‘He must be an anxious man,’ Feather had said.

  That was an understatement, thought Charmian as she drove up the hill to Warrior’s Wood.

  Ahead, through what was now a thinning mist with a pale sun beginning to show its face, she could see police cars, and a large black van. A few yards into the wood, an area had been taped off and inside this area a tarpaulin cover had been erected.

  She sat in the car for a moment, watching. Not much seemed to be going on, then she saw Feather emerge from the tented area in company with two police photographers. He saw her and waved to her. ‘ Come over here,’ the wave said.

  She got out of the car and walked towards him. Even at a distance she could see that he looked cold and tired as if he had been rained on all night.

  But he had his head up and walked briskly. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’ Politeness was on form this morning. ‘I was going to get some coffee. Would you like some before taking a look?’

  Her head ached and her mouth watered for coffee, the mugful drunk before leaving Maid of Honour Row seemed lon
g ago. Also she thought he needed a hot drink, and perhaps had some reason for asking her other than politeness.

  ‘Oh good, I’m perished.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘And so will you be after a few minutes out there.’ He led her towards the big van. ‘Besides, you might not fancy the coffee afterwards … it’s not too nice outside.’ Just kindness then as a motive? She made up her mind to have nicer, more trusting thoughts about Dan Feather. Not too trusting though, Charmian, she told herself.

  Two steps up to the open door of the van and then inside to a warm, well-lit inside crowded with large men. The air was smoky and possibly someone had been eating a bacon sandwich, but she was handed a mug of hot coffee with a smile.

  The coffee was good and strong, the smile welcome, so that she could forget for a moment what she was going to look at, and how much she might be to blame for what lay there. Some things in life got better and other things worse.

  Feather stood by her, gripping his mug of coffee, feet straddling the floor, taking up more than his fair share of what space there was and looking cheerful.

  He’s enjoying it, damn him. Then she immediately corrected herself. No, not enjoying it, it’s professional satisfaction, he’s realizing he’s got a break in the case and senses he’ll see the end of it. I suppose I’ve had that look on my face sometimes and probably it’s looked heartless enough to others.

  She knew most of the men there but none of them spoke to her, the one uniformed WPC present was called Jessie Armour, she remembered that much, but Jessie was occupied with brewing the coffee and washing dirty mugs which this group of men had decided was women’s work. Jessie looked cheerful enough even though she was banging the mugs together.

  Charmian finished her coffee and looked at Feather. ‘Now?’

  He nodded. ‘All right with me. I’ve warmed up a bit.’ He looked up at the sky as they walked. ‘I think the day’s going to clear. Well, we found her yesterday … A woman in a house over there’ – he nodded – ‘saw a van in the small hours and didn’t like it and called us in the morning. Not as prompt as we would have liked, but there you are.’