Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  ****

  Emily Cully bites off her thread, and sticks her needle back into the felt needle book. She picks up the little baby dress and holds it up for scrutiny. Satisfied, she folds it neatly and lays it to one side.

  The kettle purrs on the stove. Emily warms the pot, then fills it with a spoonful of tea. Small ordinary domestic tasks, done to take her mind of the massive task that lies ahead of her.

  Having drunk her tea, Emily begins her preparations. She places the envelope containing the money in an inner pocket of her dress. Then she puts on her outdoor things. Finally, she gently lifts the sleeping Violet from her crib, wraps a shawl round her tiny form, and cradles her in her arms.

  Locking the front door, Emily Cully sets out on what will probably be the bravest and most dangerous adventure of her life. She knows that she will not spot any of the police officers; that would give the game away. Even so, she cannot help looking round nervously as she approaches the arranged meeting place: outside a tobacconist’s shop in Great Russell Street.

  Emily stations herself in front of the shop window and waits. People pass by, some carrying tourist maps or copies of Bradshaw. She checks the time. The baby-minder is late. Her heart leaps: maybe she isn’t coming after all. Then somebody walks past, eyeing her narrowly, retraces her steps and asks,

  “Are you Mrs Harding?”

  Emily tries not to appear surprised. The woman addressing her looks perfectly ordinary. She wears a drab grey cotton dress, and a black shawl. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, is tucked under a nondescript bonnet. She has a face one might see passing in any street. Ordinary. Plain.

  Trying to keep her composure, Emily nods.

  “And is this the child?”

  The woman has a harsh voice, and now she comes closer, Emily can smell alcohol on her breath, see thread veins in her cheeks and a half moon of dirt under the fingernails that protrude from her ragged gloves. She reminds herself she was promised that at no time would Violet leave her arms.

  “This is my daughter.”

  “You have the money with you, I presume?”

  Emily digs into her pocket and produces the envelope. The woman opens it, flicks through the notes, then nods in a satisfied manner.

  “Good. Well then, let us finish the business. No point prolonging it, eh. Give me the child and that’s an end to your worries.”

  Emily glances around. Where are they? In a minute, it will be too late. And then while she is staring distractedly up and down the street, the unthinkable happens.

  The woman bends forward, scoops Violet out of her arms and carries her calmly across the road towards an omnibus that is just about to pull out. She clambers aboard as the driver flicks his whip across the horses’ backs to start them up.

  Emily’s heart almost stops beating. She screams, starts to run to the moving vehicle. Just as she steps off the curb, strong arms grip her shoulders, holding her back.

  “Wait, Em ... let the police do their job,” Jack Cully says urgently.

  Emily tries desperately to fight him off.

  “She has taken Violet! My God - she has got my baby - let me go to her!”

  But even as she beats her fists ineffectually against his restraining arms, a tall, broad-shouldered figure leaps off the pavement directly in front of the moving omnibus and grabs hold of the reins.

  “Stop this vehicle in the name of the law!” Greig cries loudly.

  The lead horse rears, kicking out with its forelegs. The edge of a hoof strikes Greig’s head. He falls. The driver jams on the brakes. The omnibus judders to a halt with Greig underneath it and the passengers shouting and trying to climb down.

  Suddenly there are police everywhere, surrounding the vehicle, climbing aboard, swarming on every side. Amelia Hall is manhandled roughly off the bus and bundled into a Black Maria which is driven away at top speed.

  And then through the chaos and confusion, Emily sees Inspector Lachlan Greig walking towards her. Covered in filth and dust, he has blood running down his face. But he is smiling, and in his arms, he carries a sleeping baby.

  ****

  It has taken Letitia all day to work out a plausible line of argument to present to her father as to why she should not be sent away as a companion. Meanwhile she has busied herself with the numerous household tasks imposed by Mrs Briscoe.

  Dinner has been sent in from a local cookshop as the catering department is no more. Now, with the boys in bed and her father retired to his study, Letitia decides the time is right to approach him.

  She knocks on the door and enters. Her father is sitting at his desk, writing. He glances up, an expression of mild displeasure on his face at the sight of her.

  “Yes, Letitia - what is it? I have a lot of correspondence to sort through.”

  She advances into the room.

  “I wish to ask you something, father.”

  Mr Simpkins sets down his pen.

  “Can it not wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, it cannot.”

  He stares at her coldly.

  “Then out with it, Letitia, but make it brief. At this rate, I shall not get to bed until the small hours,” he snaps.

  Letitia clasps her hands, digging her nails into her palms as all the logical pathways she so carefully constructed begin to implode.

  “I don’t want to go as a companion to Mrs Briscoe’s aunt,” she bursts out. “Please do not send me away, father. I am sure I can be of more use to you living in the new house. I can clean, I can cook, I can take care of the place. Please, I beg you, let me stay near my brothers. For poor dear Mama’s sake if for no other reason. I am your daughter. Surely that must count for something?”

  There is a long pause. Her father eyes her narrowly. Finally, he says,

  “But you are not my daughter, you see.”

  Letitia gapes at him.

  “You might as well know the truth. It is time you did and now is as good a time as any. You were two years old when I married your mother. I was just starting out in the world and she came from a very good family. And she had a small legacy, left to her in her late husband’s will. Money which was set aside for your future, though I did not know that when I married her.

  “Now she is gone, and her money has all been spent on your education. I have given you my name and a home here, and that is all I will do. Anyway, Mrs Briscoe has made it a condition of our moving that you are not to live with us. She has had enough of your defiance and your insolent manners.

  “So, either you go as a companion, or you go to the devil. You are not my responsibility any longer. And now if you would excuse me, I have more important business to attend to.”

  Letitia stands and stares at his bent shoulders, at his hand moving across the paper, at the curve of his cheek, at the familiar signet ring on his middle finger. Waves beat in her brain. She feels suddenly ice-hot. She is a stranger in her own life, insubstantial as a ghost. For a long time, she does not move. Then she turns and silently walks away.

  Without knowing how she got there, Letitia finds herself in her room. It is almost night, the sky balanced between twilight and dusk. She sits in front of her dressing-table mirror trying to see herself in the eyes of the gaunt, white-faced girl who stares back.

  Later, as dawn rises over the sleeping city and while everyone in the house is still abed, Letitia Simpkins will pack her few possessions into the small shabby trunk that accompanied her to and (occasionally) from school. She will take the trunk downstairs, open the front door and carry it out into the silent street. Before she walks away, she will remove the string of keys from around her neck and post them through the letterbox. She does not need them any longer.

  ****

  It is the following evening and Mr and Mrs Lawton sit in two conservatory chairs, enjoying the fragrant peace of the garden, where the last rays of sun shimmer over the newly mown grass.

  “I cannot believe how much better Daisy seems,” Mrs Lawton observes. “She is almost back to her old self
again.”

  “I cannot believe how much wealthier I feel,” Lawton says and is quelled by a glance from the opposite armchair.

  “I shall never speak to Margaret again. Never. I refuse to believe she did not know what was going on. I don’t care what she says. A mother always knows.”

  “Well, well, that is all in the past and it does no good to dwell upon it. The young man has gone abroad for the summer.”

  “And I hope he stays abroad for the winter too,” Mrs Lawton sniffs. “In fact, I shall not shed a tear if he never returns to these shores again. Imagine if Daisy had married him and all this had blown up subsequently! It doesn’t bear thinking about!”

  “I advise you, do not think about it. Our daughter is safe and sound - thanks in no mean respect to little Tishy.”

  Mrs Lawton inclines her head graciously.

  “I agree. She was the one who first planted the seed of doubt in Daisy’s mind - though you also were magnificent, my dear. I do hope Daisy appreciates what a wonderful father she has.”

  “You are free to remind her whenever you like.”

  The sound of a tinkling waltz (played upon the piano with joyous insouciance) ceases. A few seconds later, the musician herself appears in the doorway.

  “Ah, there you are Daisy-duck,” Lawton says, holding out an arm and drawing her to his side. “We were just remarking how pleasant it is to hear you playing your piano again. Your happiness makes us happy.”

  “I’m so glad you feel that way, Fa,” Daisy says, kissing the top of his head. “Because I have a HUGE favour to ask. And it will make me very, very happy if you grant it. Though given what it is and who it is for, I don’t think you will refuse.”

  ****

  The engineer sits at a desk by a French window that overlooks a lush green lawn with a spreading cypress tree. The lawn ripples away between arbutus and laurel, losing itself in a green path under an arch of roses. The room is large and airy.

  He is surrounded by his books, his sketchbooks and his engineering equipment. They show him where he has come from. They remind him where he is going. Light blankets the room.

  The engineer believes that he is staying at a hydropathic hospital, and once the doctors cure him of his seizures, he will be able to return to civil engineering. Today is not a good day: he has felt the old despair beginning to rise up in him again. He tries to force it away.

  To take his mind off his thoughts, he is reading an article in the Institute of Civil Engineers Journal about the funds being raised to complete Mr Brunel’s magnificent suspension bridge over the Clifton gorge. He studies the revised designs with intense interest. Hours pass in contemplation.

  Once he has finished reading, the engineer begins to write a letter to Mr William Henry Barlow, one of the new designers. The quill stutters in the black ink. He writes on and on, filling page after page, accompanying his words with small sketches in the margins.

  When he is too tired to write any more, he puts his head on the desk and falls asleep. He will give the pages to one of the hospital orderlies, but it will never reach its intended recipient.

  Four months later, on a bitterly cold Wednesday in November, the engineer will walk out of the Lunatic Asylum unnoticed, and make his way on foot to the newly opened Clifton Suspension Bridge. He takes nothing with him other than his drawing of Daisy Lawton and the clothes he stands up in.

  He will spend two days and nights just contemplating the amazing structure, marvelling at the feat of engineering that has brought it into being. The stone towers, the triple chains, the suspension rods. His experienced eye will take it all in.

  He will observe the way the girders support the deck so that it looks as if it is actually horizontal. Such is the power of his imagination that he will see every stage of the work happening in his mind from start to finish, exactly as if he built it himself.

  Two days to feast his eyes upon perfection. On the third, under cover of darkness the engineer will place the picture of Daisy Lawton next to his heart, walk to the centre of the bridge and throw himself off into the deep gorge below. His body will never be found.

  ****

  But long before that happens, Inspector Lachlan Greig sits at his desk in Bow Street police office, penning a short letter to his sister.

  Dearest Jeanie (he writes)

  Just a quick note to say that all is well with me. It has been a very busy time and I have been too exhausted at the end of the day to do more than fall into my bed. Thankfully, events have come to a satisfactory conclusion now and so I look forward to writing to you at greater length in the coming days.

  I enclose a cutting from last week’s Telegraph that might interest you. Yes, that is your brother holding up an omnibus, though you may be hard put to recognise him! I am not sure that I do. Nor do I quite agree with the headline, as I do not consider myself the ‘Hero of the Hour’ in any sense of the word, as I was only performing my duty.

  It was certainly a rather dramatic end to a case I have been working on. I suffered a cut to my head which is now getting better and a broken collarbone which still plagues me, though the police surgeon assures me I can expect complete healing in time.

  My other main bit of news is that I am considering applying to join the detective division of the Metropolitan Police. They are based at Scotland Yard. I have got to know a couple of senior officers from the division in the course of my case work. It would be an increase in salary, though that would not be my primary reason for applying.

  I shall let you know what I decide in my next letter. In the meantime, I thank you for the oatcakes and send my best love to the little ones.

  My best and warmest regards,

  Always your devoted brother,

  Lachlan

  Greig has just sealed the letter when there is a polite knock at the door and Sergeant Ben Hacket appears in the doorway.

  “All well?” Greig asks, glancing up at him.

  “The manager of the London and County Bank says that the clerk, Mr Persiflage, has still not showed up for work. The men watching the chemist and druggist report no unusual activity.”

  “Ah well. I think in that case we may now presume that he has left town. Stand the men down, Ben. We have better things for them to do than watch an empty property. Besides I need you to accompany me to court tomorrow. The Halls are up before the judge and I have every hope that they will be found guilty of murder and suffer the due penalty of the law.”

  Greig stands, flexing his shoulders.

  “So. It has been another long and wearying day and I’m away to my bed. Early start in the morning.”

  Hacket lingers.

  “May I ask you something before you go?”

  “Ask away.”

  “These dead babies - why was it so important to you to catch the couple? I’ve seen you work on plenty of other cases, but none seemed to affect you like this one did. It was almost as if you had a personal interest in the investigation. If you don’t mind me mentioning it.”

  Greig nods, half-smiles.

  “I don’t mind you mentioning it, sergeant. But to answer that question, I have to tell you a story. Once upon a time on a dreich winter’s night, an Edinburgh cloth merchant was riding home when his mare suddenly shied at something in the gutter, nearly unseating him.

  The horse stopped and however much the man urged her, she refused to pass by. In the end the man dismounted, and went to investigate what was the bother. What he found was a tiny child, wrapped in a filthy threadbare cloth.

  The child was thin, blue with cold and close to the point of death. It had clearly been starved, then abandoned on the street and left to perish. The merchant picked the child up, meaning to move it elsewhere and be about his business, which was to return to his own warm hearth and to his wife and young daughter.

  But as he did so, the child suddenly opened its eyes and looked straight into his face, as if challenging him: “Yes, you can let me die, or you can let me live. What is it to be?”


  The man looked down at the child. The child looked back up at the man. For a long while neither moved, nor averted their gaze. Then the man tucked the child into his greatcoat, remounted his horse and rode on.”

  “And the child lived?”

  “The child lived.”

  “Did you know it?”

  Greig puts on his hat and buttons up his coat.

  “I did. I still do. Though as you see, he is a child no longer. Goodnight to you now, sergeant.”

  Inspector Lachlan Greig walks out of the office and the sergeant hears the sound of his footsteps going down the corridor, to the accompaniment of The Bluebells of Scotland. Whistled slightly flat.

  Finis

  Thank you for reading this novel. If you have enjoyed it, why not leave a review on Amazon, and recommend it to your friends?