Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  “Don’t remember any young women. Did she leave her name and address?”

  “No. But she was clearly interested in you. She did not ask about Edwin. So, I zink she will come back. Maybe you will have a young woman of your own very soon.”

  A lone voice at the bar begins another song. Muller drags a cheap watch from his waistcoat pocket.

  “I zink we should be making our way home now, my friend,” he says. “Work tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, Waxwing finally pushes himself to a stand. Muller takes his arm and together they lurch erratically towards the door. Outside, the night is drawing in. The two men stand on the pavement trying to work out which way is home. Once they have ascertained the right direction, they strike out in search of it.

  Persiflage hears the downstairs door open, and muffled voices coming up the stairs. He hurries out onto the landing.

  “So here you both are at last!”

  Waxwing stares up at him.

  “’S my birthday. Been celibating with my good friend Muller.”

  Persiflage’s expression darkens.

  “Are you drunk again, Danton?”

  Waxwing smirks.

  “None of your beeswax, izzit? Didn’t wish me many happy returns. Didn’t come out for the evening. Go ter hell!”

  He fumbles for his key, drops it, finds it, opens his door and falls inside.

  Muller watches his progress from the safety of the top step.

  “I zink he will have a very sore head in the morning.”

  Persiflage directs a hate-filled stare at the half-closed door.

  “Who cares? I’ve had enough of his antics. I wash my hands of him. He can go to the devil.”

  He beckons Muller to follow him into his room.

  “While you were out carousing with that fool, I have been here making plans. I can now tell you where we are going to strike next. And when. And this time, none of those rich bastards with their fine carriages and fine houses will be in any doubt that we mean business.”

  ****

  Letitia Simpkins is in no doubt that her life has taken a turn for the better. And for that she owes a debt of gratitude to Mrs Briscoe’s newly deceased mother. Never was a death so welcomed as hers has been. If she were laid to rest anywhere but Harrogate, Letitia would be adorning her grave with daily bouquets (had she the financial resources so to do).

  Breakfast is finished and cleared away. Her father has left for work. The twins are home for the summer holidays and have projects of their own to occupy them.

  The day and the house are all hers. She carries her half-drunk cup of coffee up to her room. Today she intends to get to grips with a tricky mathematical problem. Then after luncheon she will pay a visit to Regent Street.

  Sarah Lunt has obtained a copy of Ruth for her. Letitia has not enjoyed immersing herself in a good novel since returning from school. There are few books in the house - Mama did not read for pleasure and her father only ever reads the newspaper.

  She throws back the blinds, letting the warm summer sun stream into the room. It is an omen, she thinks. Light into darkness. Life into what has been up until now a half-life. She throws off her morning wrapper and puts on the black dress that seems to render her invisible wherever she goes.

  Letitia does not mind. Nobody noticed her before she went into mourning. She doubts that they will notice her once she goes into half-mourning. And much as she enjoys seeing all the pretty summer clothes on women she passes in the street, she does not envy them nor anticipate herself ever donning such dainty dresses - they are for the Daisies of this world.

  She rolls her stockings up her legs, ties them above the knee with black ribbon and gets ready to attack the maths problem with gusto. She is never happier than when she is learning something new.

  Later, while Letitia is out and about enjoying her new- found freedom, two letters will be delivered. One will contain the prospectus from Queen’s College outlining the new free evening lectures for ladies that are about to begin over a six- night period.

  The other letter bears a Harrogate postmark and is not from any college. Though as far as Letitia is concerned, its contents will be a learning experience. Of a sort.

  ****

  Inspector Greig sits at his desk in Bow Street police office and frowns. It shouldn’t have worked. He knows that it shouldn’t have worked. It never usually did. You drew a bow at a venture. Total gamble. Million to one chance. It failed. You knew it would fail. Then you got on with plodding, mundane, boots on the ground policing.

  On his desk are piled the thirty-three responses to his advertisement for somebody willing to adopt Mrs Harding’s baby. He stares down at them in disbelief. Then he stares even harder and with even more disbelief at the thirty-fourth.

  Now all he needs is somebody willing to play the part of Mrs Harding. And a baby.

  ****

  Across London, Daisy Lawton sits at her dressing table and ponders. It is another sunny day, very like yesterday. But it is not the same as yesterday. She is not the same either. Yesterday, Digby and she went for a pleasant walk in the park. At least, it was meant to be a pleasant walk.

  Admittedly the first part was very pleasant indeed. Birds sang, flowers bloomed at their feet. A light summer breeze ruffled the green leaves overhead. She had on her pretty peach voile dress, trimmed with peach velvet ribbon, her straw bonnet had little cherries that bobbed and danced as she moved her head. Digby wore a light wool suit and a new top hat. He smelled deliciously of cologne.

  People eyed them with admiration as they strolled by, her little gloved hand placed trustingly on his manly arm. Looking back, she wonders whether it was significant that she had left the engagement ring in a dish on her night table, so as not to stretch her gloves.

  They talked about this and that - well, he talked, she listened. It was beginning to dawn on Daisy that she did an awful lot of listening when she was with Digby. As a result of the dawning, she had started to study Fa and Mama when they were together. She noted how often Fa asked Mama for her opinions, or listened attentively as she described her day.

  After a while they reached the rotunda, newly painted for summer. Digby suggested they sit down to admire the landscape. They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his immaculate cuffs and remarked casually,

  “There’s a seat coming up in the House shortly. I’m going to have a crack at it.”

  Daisy nodded. A while ago, this would have been a foreign language, but now she understood.

  “I hope you win,” she said.

  “Oh, I expect I shall. My parents think it might be an idea to bring the wedding forward a bit ... people like their MPs to be married. What would you think of next Spring?”

  Daisy remembers studying her hands, feeling sudden panic at the thought of leaving her lovely home and surrendering herself to this man. She reassured herself that he was the most wonderfully handsome man in the world. And that she had never wanted anything else but to be a happy wife and busy mother.

  “Of course, once we are married, you will be moving in quite elevated circles. As the wife of an MP, you will be expected to keep company with people very different to some of your current friends,” Digby had continued.

  Puzzled, Daisy had looked at him.

  “What friends do you mean, Digby? Surely your cousin Africa is acceptable?”

  “Oh, Affy’s alright. No, I was thinking of that girl I met a while back. One you went to school with. Wore black.”

  “Tishy? What’s wrong with Tishy?”

  “Well, not to beat about the bush, Daisy, she didn’t seem quite the ticket.”

  “The ticket?”

  “Right sort. Right class. Clothes were shabby. Boots too. Not someone the wife of an MP should be seen with.”

  “I see,” Daisy had replied, colouring up.

  “Been seeing much of her lately?” he’d asked casually.

  “No, w
e haven’t met each other for a while.”

  Digby had nodded approvingly.

  “Good. Be grateful if you’d drop her then,” he had said shortly, lighting up a cigar and puffing smoke into the landscape.

  Daisy stared into the middle distance, feeling her heart constrict. The bright sunny day suddenly seemed to darken around her. She glanced sideways, but Digby was busy with his cigar.

  How handsome his profile was. She reminded herself that she was a very lucky girl to have the love of such a good-looking and talented man. Once she was married to him, she’d have a beautiful house and servants. Her dream was being offered to her on a plate.

  So why was she sitting here, next to the man she loved and to whom she was engaged, feeling as if she wanted to burst into tears any minute? Daisy had clasped her hands in her lap, remembering what Tishy had told her. Every detail.

  After a few minutes had passed, Barnes Baker had got up, and offered her his arm. She had not uttered a word all the way back. She was pretty sure he had not noticed.

  Now Daisy leans forward, studying her reflection in the glass. There are little creases under her eyes as if she hasn’t slept well. Which she hasn’t. Over and over again, she has tried putting together what Tishy told her with what Digby asked her to do.

  Daisy was no fool. Why should he request that she drop Tishy, unless he had a particular reason? And there was only one particular reason that she could think of: Digby was afraid that Tishy might spill the truth about his relationship with that other woman.

  And what, a little inner voice keeps murmuring, does that say about him? And your chances of happiness if you marry a man you cannot trust?

  ****

  Emily Cully, wife of Sergeant Jack Cully, dressmaker, mother of baby Violet (named after her best friend Violet Manning who was brutally murdered a while ago) is a very busy woman. Here she is rocking the cradle in the kitchen of the little terraced house that the Cullys rent.

  At the same time as her foot rocks her daughter to sleep, Emily is smocking a little dress. Her friend Caro, the sewing room overseer at Marshall & Snellgrove, is expecting a baby in August and Emily is making a first outfit for the little one.

  As she sews, she is thinking how little material it takes to make a baby’s dress and how many bags of offcuts she has stored in the cupboard under the stairs. It is impossible to take on any more dressmaking - the baby needs her and she could not commit to meeting the exacting requirements of the ladies she formerly worked for.

  But it takes no time at all to run up a pretty baby frock and it gives her something to do while the little one sleeps. Emily likes to keep her hands busy. Sewing calms her and helps her to think.

  What she is thinking now is that she might run up a few samples and show them to a couple of her clients. The ones who have married daughters. She might even show them to some of the department store buyers.

  While she sews and plans and rocks her daughter, she is also, with that third eye that all women possess, keeping an eye on the supper. Emily likes to have a good hot meal ready for Jack when he comes in. And tonight, he is bringing a fellow officer back with him.

  She has bought a nice piece of beef from Caro’s husband. All she needs do now is add the vegetables and lay the table. The baby stirs, stretches her tiny pink starfish of a hand, gives a little sigh and falls asleep once more. Emily smiles down at her.

  There are flowers on the table, the comforting smell of good food cooking and a contented milk-filled baby. Emily Cully puts down her sewing and opens the cutlery drawer. She hears the sound of Jack’s key in the lock, footsteps entering the hallway, a whispered ‘Shh’.

  She has told Jack that the guest must take them as he finds them. Looking around her cosy kitchen, Emily does not think that will be too difficult.

  ****

  Another house, another family dinner. But this one is not nearly so convivial as the previous one. Here, the participants sit very upright and very still, nervously watching the figure at the head of the table as he doles out portions of boiled mutton, potatoes and green peas.

  Ever since Mr Simpkins returned from Harrogate sans the Dreaded One, his temper has veered from irritable to irrational. Even the twins, normally the favoured and indulged ones of the family, have felt the edge of his tongue.

  It is as if Mrs Briscoe’s malign presence is being channelled through their father so that although she is not there in person, she still haunts the house in spirit. Mealtimes are the worst. The empty place at the table rarely fails to evoke his ire, which he then inflicts in some way upon his fellow diners.

  Tonight however, he contents himself with dishing up main course. A token and unconvincing grace is said. After which Mr Simpkins sets down the carving implements, looks around, and clears his throat meaningfully.

  Nobody moves. Knives and forks remain ungathered.

  Letitia feels the familiar cold terror knocking at her heart’s door. Something important is about to be announced. Going by every previous announcement her father has ever made, it cannot but be bad news.

  “I have today received a long communication from my dear friend Mrs Briscoe,” their father says. “As you all know, she decided to remain in the north alone after the death of her mother. She now writes that after much thought she has seen the error of her decision to remain in Harrogate.”

  She is coming back? Letitia thinks, feeling her shoulders tense. Oh god, please don’t say she is coming back.

  “Before we parted company, I spoke to Mrs Briscoe about my plans to start a new business, and invited her to contribute a small portion of her inheritance to support it. At the time, she refused point blank. Now, she writes that she thinks she may have made the wrong decision, as she was at the time in a state of deep shock and grief. She writes that she is pleased to change her mind.”

  He glances round, an expression of triumphant satisfaction on his face. The boys bend over their cooling dinners, refusing to meet his eye. The silence is so complete that Letitia can hear the ticking of the clock in the hallway.

  “So, what business are you going to start, father?” she asks at length.

  “That is not your concern, Letitia. What is your concern is that I shall expect you to help Mrs Briscoe and the servants pack up the house.”

  “We are moving? When? Where to?”

  “I thought that was obvious - we shall be moving to Harrogate. Mrs Briscoe has ample room to accommodate us.”

  Letitia stares at him trying to keep the horror out of her face and her voice.

  “But ... we ... I ...”

  “There is no future for a man of my talents in London. The rents are far too high and my abilities seem to go unrecognised. A new start in a new part of the country is what is needed. And Mrs Briscoe writes that she is willing to support me.”

  “But the boys,” Letitia protests feebly

  “Places have been reserved for them at a local boarding school. They will start as soon as we arrive. It has all been arranged. They will soon settle in to their new surroundings and the school has an excellent reputation for turning out scholars.”

  Letitia glances across the table. Two more gloomy prospective scholars could hardly be imagined.

  “But what about me, father? I cannot leave London.”

  Her father brushes her aside as if she were an annoying insect.

  “Cannot? You certainly can. And you will. You are needed about the house. It is a large one, and Mrs Briscoe can’t be expected to run it on her own. Now let us get on with our meal.”

  After dinner, during which only one diner actually dines, Mr Simpkins gets up and without a word or glance, retires to his study, presumably to reply to Mrs Briscoe. Meanwhile Letitia and the twins remain at table, along with their plates of congealing mutton and cold potatoes.

  “We don’t want to move,” William says.

  “We like living in this house,” Arthur adds. “Can’t we stay? You could look after us.”

  “You look after us
now,” William says.

  “We like you looking after us,” Arthur says.

  Letitia shakes her head. Never has the desire to earn her own living burned so brightly as now, when everything is about to be so cruelly snatched away from her.

  “I am so sorry, boys. There is nothing I can do. I have no money to pay our rent or buy our food,” she says miserably.

  Nor will you ever be able to support yourself if you don’t get any qualifications, an inner voice reminds her. Aut Caesar aut nihil. The Junior Locals are a mere six months away, but for all the chance she has now of sitting them, they might as well be six centuries.

  ****

  Dinner is progressing nicely at the Cullys' home. Emily’s beef has gone down a treat, the guest, whom she has taken to on sight, expressing his enjoyment of her excellent cooking.

  If she hadn’t already made up her mind about him, he has just secured an everlasting place in her affections by taking the newly-awoken baby in his arms, and declaring that he has never seen such a pretty bairn.

  Occasionally his Scottish accent makes him difficult to understand, but Emily Cully prides herself on being a good judge of character, and in her opinion Inspector Lachlan Greig is somebody she is glad to have met.

  An apple pie, warmed over in the oven, is placed on the table. Emily notes with satisfaction that the good-looking Inspector’s face lights up at its appearance. She cuts him a big slice, passing the plate over with her nicest smile, which causes Jack to remark teasingly,

  “Now then Emily, save a piece of pie for your poor starving husband.”

  Emily’s grey eyes twinkle in amusement.

  “You won’t go short, Jack, don’t worry.”

  She retrieves the baby, placing her over her shoulder. Baby Violet utters a burp that bounces off the walls, then settles into Emily’s neck and closes her eyes. Emily catches Greig’s expression, reading the hunger in it.

  “You have no family in London, Mr Greig?”

  “I have no family in the sense you mean, Mrs Cully,” he replies. “I have a sister in Scotland, and her two children are as beloved as if they were my own.”