by Michael Cox
Once again, I had no choice but to accept Madames words, opposing doubt and confusion with unquestioning duty and blind trust. I was resolved. Two Letters of Instruction had been received; the third was still awaited. If it did not make everything finally and unequivocally clear, then I would abandon the whole business and return to the Avenue dUhrich to face the consequences. In the meantime, having come thus far, and I blush a little to admit it continuing to find the prospect of adventure and intrigue rather thrilling (for which I unhesitatingly blame Mr Wilkie Collins), I would do my utmost to fulfil the one explicit instruction in Madames second letter: to search for documents, if they existed, that would help prise out my Ladys secrets.
ON COMING INTO the servants hall, the first person I saw was Sukie, sitting alone and sipping a mug of tea. Two other servants, neither of whom I knew by name, were talking together in the far corner, but took no notice of me as I entered. Glancing towards the stewards room, expecting Mr Pocock or Mr Applegate to be there, I saw that it was empty.
It had been a week since I had told Charlie Skinner that I wished to speak with his cousin, but I had heard nothing from her, nor had I seen her about the house. As I came into the hall, she looked up.
Oh Miss Alice! she exclaimed. Im so glad to see you! At which she burst into tears.
Sukie, dear, whatevers the matter?
I hurried to sit down beside her, and put my arm around her shoulders.
Mothers been very poorly, she sobbed, but was taken especially bad yesterday morning. Dr Pordage came in the afternoon, but says she may not see out the week. Ive been that worried, Miss Alice, I cant tell you. And then Charlie said you wanted to speak with me, but Mrs Battersby sent me to help Kate Warboys clear out the attic in the East Wing, which has taken us all week, what with everything else, and it isnt done yet, and then
Hush, dear, I said, tucking one of her disobedient curls back under her cap, and reaching into my pocket for my handkerchief to dry her tears. Its of no consequence. What I wished to ask you can wait.
At last she began to recover a little of her usual sunny temper. Then, the great clock that hung over the fire-place striking a quarter to seven, she suddenly jumped up, saying that she must start her work before Mrs Battersby began her morning round of inspection and instruction, which she did on the stroke of seven.
We are leaving for London today, Sukie, I said, as Im sure you know; but I shall come and find you when we return and I hope, with all my heart, that Dr Pordage is wrong, and that your mother will be well and truly recovered by then.
After Sukie had gone, I barely had time to butter myself a slice of bread, and pour out half a cup of strong tea from the pot that Sukie had brewed for herself, before I too had to run upstairs as fast as I could, in order to be at my Ladys door for seven oclock.
When I had finished dressing her, and had performed all the other necessary morning duties, she asked me to bring her the box containing the tear-shaped locket from the dressing-table.
I promised that I would satisfy your curiosity concerning this locket, Alice, she said, and am minded to do so now.
Yes, my Lady. As you wish.
She sat down, placed the box in her lap, and took out the locket on its black velvet band. When she pressed a little catch, the lockets silver face opened, to reveal a strand of thick, dark hair curled tightly inside.
This, she whispered, with awful solemnity, was taken from the head of Mr Phoebus Daunt, after he had been murdered. Does that shock you?
Why should it shock me, my Lady? I replied. I believe you were once engaged to the gentleman. To keep such a memento by you seems a most natural and commendable thing to do.
I am glad you think so, she said, closing the locket; but you do not fully understand, Alice. I cut it from his head myself, even as his life-blood still stained the snow on which he lay. I saw what had been done to him, with my own eyes; and the sight has never left me. It continues to rob me of healthful sleep, and yet I have put this locket on every day since, even when I was married to my late husband, Colonel Zaluski, in commemoration of that terrible event. Do you not find that strange, Alice? To yearn to be free of the perpetual recollection of that night, and yet to enforce constant remembrance of it on myself?
She sat, staring down at the locket, her hands shaking. Then she looked up.
And so I continue to wear it; and it is such a strict rule of mine that no one else no one shall ever touch it, or what it contains. You will respect that rule, I know, Alice.
Of course, my Lady. But its a beautiful piece of work, and looks so well on you.
With a gratified expression, she told me that the locket had been commissioned specially for her by the late Lord Tansor.
His Lordship became almost like a father to me, after the tragedy. His exceptional consideration towards me my own father having been so cruelly taken from me is something I shall never forget; and so I wear the locket also in remembrance of him, to whom I owe so much. And now, Alice, we must rouse ourselves. The carriage will soon be here.
She rose from her chair with a sudden rush of energy, and went over to her dressing-mirror. Placing the locket round her neck, she then turned to face me.
There, she smiled. My daily duty is done, and I am ready to face the world.
II
In Grosvenor Square
THE CONFIDENCES THAT Lady Tansor had shared with me concerning the locket encouraged me greatly, for they demonstrated that I was already succeeding in securing my mistresss trust, despite her capriciousness and abrupt changes of mood.
The carriage that was to take us to catch the express-train from Peterborough was brought round to the front door at eight oclock. Mr Perseus Duport was already walking up and down the Entrance Court, pocket-watch in hand, and showing every sign of impatience, when my Lady and I came down the steps.
Ah, there you are at last, Mother, he cried, striding over to the carriage. Well, lets be off.
We took our places and soon left Evenwood Park still submerged beneath a sea of mist behind us.
During the whole journey from Peterborough, Mr Perseus remained immersed in reading and correcting the manuscript of his poem, which he had taken out of his bag as soon as we had boarded the train. My Lady, by contrast, although she had provided herself with a book, seemed eagerly disposed to engage in conversation, and was soon asking me once again about my upbringing in Paris, where she too had lived for several years.
Madame had coached me most thoroughly in anticipation of such enquiries, and my Lady listened attentively as I recounted the little fiction that I had committed to memory, concerning Madame Bertaud, the supposed English-born widow of a Lyons silk merchant, whom Madame imagined had been the childhood companion of my dead mother.
And have you no recollection of either of your parents? my Lady asked.
None, my Lady. They had come to Paris, I believe, just a short time before I was born, although they knew no one there but Madame Bertaud. My mother died when I was too young to remember her; and then, after her death, my father went away Ive never been told why, or where. I only know that he died in 1862, and that he is buried next to my mother, in the Cemetery of St-Vincent.
It had been Mr Thornhaughs suggestion to leaven our invention with a little judicious truth, against the chance that enquiries might be made by some agent of Lady Tansors. In this event, the graves of my mother and father would be found just where I had said they were.
And did your father follow a profession of any kind?
Again, I was prepared.
He was a gentleman of independent means. That is all I know of him.
And what of your mother? You say that she and your guardian were old friends.
Yes, my Lady. They grew up together. I believe she introduced my mother and father to each other.
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Still the questions came, and still I met every one with a confident and plausible answer. At last, apparently satisfied that she had informed herself sufficiently on my history, my Lady took up her book once more, and began to read; but after only a short time, she looked across at me to ask whether Mr Thornhaugh still resided in my guardians house.
Yes, my Lady. My guardian insisted that he should retain his rooms there, so that he might continue his researches.
But I suppose he has not been your tutor, as such, for some time?
I replied that he had become more like an older friend, with whom I could converse freely, and on whose knowledge and advice I could always depend.
And will he come to visit you at Evenwood, do you think? I should so like to meet him.
I said I thought that such a prospect was an unlikely one, as Mr Thornhaugh was reclusive by nature.
But could he not be persuaded, by some inducement, to forgo his eremitical existence, for just a very little while? The Library, now: that would tempt a man of books, would it not? But how thoughtless of me! Perhaps he is an elderly gentleman?
No, not elderly, my Lady.
Of what age, then?
I am not quite certain, my Lady. Perhaps five and fifty.
Not elderly at all, then, as you say. About my own age, indeed. So let us see whether the fascinating Mr Thornhaugh can be drawn out of his lair by the idea of exploring our celebrated Library at his leisure. Will you write to him, on my behalf? Your guardian, Madame Bertraud, would be most welcome to join him.
I shamelessly thanked her for her kind invitation, and said that I would convey it to Madame Bertaud and Mr Thornhaugh. Of course I had no intention of doing so, and could not understand why my Lady appeared so desirous of making the acquaintance of my tutor and my imaginary guardian.
All this time, although I was sensible of occasional guarded glances in my direction, which I affected not to notice, Mr Perseus had been perusing his manuscript in concentrated silence. Only when we reached the outskirts of the metropolis did he at last put his papers away, remove the stub of pencil with which he had been making corrections from his mouth, and look about him.
Well, he said, turning to his mother, I believe it will do.
Do! exclaimed my Lady, with all the indignance of a doting mother. Of course it will do. You are too modest, Perseus dear. Its a work of the highest merit, and you know it. Mr Freeth will know it, too, as soon as he reads it.
Then, to me:
Mr Freeth is the principal director of a new publishing firm, Freeth & Hoare, with great ambitions. He has been recommended to us as a man of the highest acumen and taste, who wishes to establish his firm as a publisher of the very best up-and-coming poets. Perseus, we are confident, will be one of the first such to have his work published by the firm.
At the London terminus we were met by carriage and taken on to Grosvenor Square. After unpacking and hanging up her gowns, I was given leave by my Lady to inspect the accommodation that I had been allotted a small but airy room on the third floor, looking southwards over the square. There I unpacked my own little case with a gay heart, feeling glad to be in the heart of a great city once more, although it was not the city I knew and loved.
An hour or so later, I was sent for by my Lady.
My son and I shall be leaving shortly, Alice, to meet Mr Freeth at his premises in Leadenhall Street. I then have a little business of my own to conduct. I shall not need you to accompany us; and so, if you wish, you may go out but be back by five oclock. And, Alice, make sure you are not late again. We dine at seven.
Liberty! My heart leaped at the prospect. I had seen a little of London, during my stay with Mrs Ridpath; but to have the freedom to explore the greatest city on earth on my own was intoxicating.
Where should I go? What sights should I see first? To the shops in Regent Street? To St Pauls, perhaps, or to Whitehall, to see where poor King Charles was murdered; or to view the pictures at the National Gallery? Then I thought I might go instead to the British Museum, for there I could fill many pages in my note-book with glorious facts.
As I considered the many tempting possibilities, however, the sterner voice of Duty began to whisper in my ear, telling me to use the time usefully, and not fritter it away on my own pleasure.
Thus I resolved to put my own inclinations aside. No shops, no sights. Instead, trusting to fortune, I would pay a visit to Old Square, Lincolns Inn.
III
Mr Vyse Goes East
AFTER LUNCHEON, ARMED with a copy of Murrays Guide to London and a pocket-map of the metropolis lent to me by Mr Pocock, I left the house and began to take my way eastwards, down Brook Street, and along into Regent Street. From here I proceeded to Piccadilly and then to Trafalgar Square, until at last I gained the Strand. Here I entered Morleys Hotel, to take a little refreshment and consult my pocket-map, before resuming my journey.
I soon found my way to Chancery Lane, and at last stood before the gate-house of Lincolns Inn a noble brick structure, bearing the date 1518 (which fact I duly recorded in my note-book).
Passing through the gates, I entered a charming three-sided court. Here I halted, having no particular plan in mind, and looked about me.
The court being deserted, I decided that I would walk a little further into the Inn. As I was approaching the Chapel, a portly gentleman, carrying a draw-string bag over his shoulder, and with a great quantity of papers tucked under his other arm, came out of a doorway and began to walk towards me. He had a kindly look about him, and so I stopped him as he passed to enquire whether he could direct me to the chambers of Mr Armitage Vyse.
Mr Vyse, you say?
He considered for a moment.
Hmm. Wait a bit yes. Vyse. Old Court. Number twenty-four. You must have passed it, if you came in through the gate-house. Number twenty-four. Thats it. Thurloes old chambers. Good-day, miss.
Number twenty-four! he shouted after me. In the corner.
Retracing my steps a little way, I immediately saw across the court the doorway to which the gentleman had directed me, with the number twenty-four carved in stone above it. The door itself, and the four storeys above, were set in an angled projection jutting out into the court. As I stood wondering which of the windows were Mr Vyses, and what to do next, a lady entered the court through the gate-house arch, walked head down but purposefully towards number twenty-four, and ascended the stairs.
Now a lady may hide her face from the world with a veil; but she cannot disguise the day-dress that her maid has helped her into that very morning. Well, my Lady, I whispered to myself. What brings you here?
There was now nothing to do but to wait, and ponder this strange and unexpected turn of events.
I then have a little business of my own to conduct, my Lady had said. That business, it now appeared, was with Mr Armitage Vyse. It might of course be perfectly innocent business; but that black veil suggested otherwise.
Withdrawing a little way, I settled myself on a wooden bench with a view of number twenty-four.
Fifteen minutes passed; and with every minute the sky grew darker with the threat of rain. As the first heavy drops began to fall, my Lady at last came out of the doorway of number twenty-four, alone, and hurriedly left the court through the gate-house. Moments later, there was a clattering on the wooden stairs, and the unmistakable figure of Mr Armitage Vyse, carrying a canvas bag, appeared in the doorway.
A little to my alarm, he began to walk directly towards where I was sitting. As hastily as I could, head bowed, I removed to the doorway of the nearby Chapel. To my relief, he appeared unaware of me as he made his way across the court.
I watched him lope off, his long coat flapping behind him, his stick tapping out each step on the wet flagstones. On a sudden impulse, I decided to follow him.
THE RAIN WAS steadily increasing, but I was determined to go on with my plan.
My quarry had now turned into New Square. As he disappeared from view, I slipped out of my hiding-place and was off after him.
On reaching Fleet Street, I thought that I might lose him in the dense crowds; but his long coat and tall hat, and his exceptional height, made it easy for me to pick him out, and I soon managed to catch up with him.
A little way along Fleet Street, he stopped at a cab-stand and spoke briefly to the driver of the first vehicle. As soon as he had clambered in, the cab set off.
Now I had never taken a hansom-cab in my life, and was alone in a city I barely knew. To follow Mr Vyse further, to an unknown destination, began to seem like the greatest possible folly; yet my incorrigible impetuosity urged me to put aside my misgivings. I had wanted a little adventure, and here was one opening up before me. Persuading myself that Madame would want me to seize the opportunity that had so unexpectedly presented itself, and as I was also in the more trivial way of becoming soaked to the skin by the increasing downpour, I took a deep breath, picked up my wet skirts, and ran as fast as I could to the cab-stand.
Having given my instructions to the next available cab-man, I was soon rattling up Ludgate Hill, my pocket-map open on my lap to follow our route, in the wake of the cab carrying Mr Vyse eastwards. From time to time, I leaned my head out to make sure he was still in view; but in the deepening murk, and the confused embroilment of vehicles carts, cabs, carriages, coal-waggons, swaying brewers drays, and laden omnibuses it was impossible to tell whether we were still on Mr Vyses trail, or not. In Poultry, I called back to the cab-man.
Can you see him still?
Yes, miss, he shouted. Just a little ahead. Dont you worry. We wont lose im.
After passing the Mansion House, we turned into King William Street and began heading towards London Bridge. The possibility that we might be crossing the river now filled me with alarm, for the district was becoming highly unsavoury. I was about to tell the cab-man to abandon the pursuit, and take me back to Grosvenor Square, when we arrived in Lower Thames Street, the cab began to slow its pace, and we finally came to a halt.