by Carol Hedges
Pens and pencils are put into her hand. Copies of the book are thrust under her nose, with the instructions to: ‘sign it: To Barbara … To Betsy, with love … To Sackville, Caroline and little Dubbly’.
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton is overwhelmed! Such an effusive welcome from complete strangers is too much. She signs, and signs and expresses her gratitude, and gradually works her way to the steps of the court, where an usher in a dark suit welcomes her and conducts her to the courtroom.
The Author has never set foot inside a court of law before. She takes her place on the wooden bench behind her lawyer, who greets her arrival with a slight nod of acknowledgement. The floor beneath her feet is made up of polished oak tiles, and the witness box looks far too small to accommodate anybody over the age of eleven. Looking around, she sees no sign of Charles Colbourne, nor anyone who could be Lord Lackington, though at a separate table, she spies two bewigged and black-gowned men with piles of papers and expressions hard enough to ice-skate on.
She glances up at the gallery, which is full of eager spectators, mainly, she notes, women in fashionable bonnets, holding copies of her novel. There is a separate area to one side, where a bunch of men in loud waistcoats and even louder suits are writing busily ~ journalists, she guesses. To her horror, she sees that someone is actually sketching her. The Author reaches up, pulls down her veil, and tries to look inconspicuous.
Scarcely has she adjusted her bonnet, when the command to ‘All rise’ is given, and the judge enters the court. There is a pause while he settles himself, and his various pens and papers are set in front of him by the court clerk. Then Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton takes a deep breath and clasps her hands tightly together in her lap, as one of the black-gowned men, Preening (or is it Strutt?) gets to his feet and begins to lay out Lord Lackington’s complaint.
As she listens to his thin monotonous voice droning on and on, using words like ‘shameless’ and ‘polluter of the sacred marriage bond’, she finds herself getting more and more irate. This bears no resemblance to the truth whatsoever. It is a tissue of make-believe, and she, more than anyone, can recognise make-believe when she hears it. She utters an exclamation ~ her barrister lifts his right hand in silent admonition.
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton bows her head and issues a tacit prayer to the irrepressible Miss Landseer. In her youthful hands, she holds the Author’s Fate. May those hands be steady and true, because on the basis of what she is now hearing, her chances of returning to rescue and reunite her Heroine and Hero are receding as fast as snow in high summer.
****
Meanwhile, far from the official realms of law and order, Maria Barklem sits at her scrubbed kitchen table, her elbows resting upon its surface. How often has she sat here as a girl, watching her mother preparing an evening bowl of bread and milk, with a sprinkle of sugar on top as a treat?
How often has she skipped back from running an errand, or playing outside, her heart going ahead of her to the warm welcoming kitchen and the comforting arms of her dear Mama, who was always on her side, always ready to hear her day’s adventures, soothe a wounded feeling with just the right words?
Maria has spent much of her life in this kitchen. She rarely went into the rest of the house, her father’s study being particularly out of bounds, for it was there he toiled over his sermons, or met with the various committees and church Elders.
Maria knows that the church authorities are only allowing her and her mother to stay here on the peppercorn rent they pay, out of a sense of guilt. If they hadn’t worked her father so hard, if they had allowed him time off, if they had not demanded he took all the services, and visited the sick of the parish, when he himself was clearly unwell, then maybe he’d still be alive now.
Of course, that wasn’t what the Elders said, when they came to offer their condolences and arrange for the burial to take place. What they actually said was that her mother was welcome to avail herself of the property, until such time as it was ‘appropriate for her to seek alternative accommodation elsewhere’.
But before long, her mother, too, was failing in health, and until she either recovered, or followed her husband, it was clear that this small cottage would remain their home for the foreseeable future. And now, her mother is dying. Soon, she will pass from this world to that country from whose bourn no traveller ever returns. She is indeed about to seek alternative accommodation elsewhere.
Maria is not sure she’d call it Heaven, but she cannot lose the sense that there must be something more than the miserable eking out of existence that she witnesses every day. She stirs her tea and dips a crust of dry bread in to soften it. She has sat all night by the invalid’s bedside, watching as life and death played cards for her mother’s soul. It is now abundantly clear who the winner is.
Out in the small garden, a thrush is singing an aubade. She listens to his joyous, carefree notes. Then, with a heavy heart, she finishes her tea and climbs the stairs. Her mother is propped up on two pillows, her face candle-white, the cheekbones so prominent they seem as if they might push through the skin. Her eyes are sunken and heavy-lidded.
Maria sits beside her and takes the paper-skinned hands with their traceries of blue veins, in her own. In a movement that seems to take forever, her mother turns her head and fixes her eyes upon her face.
“Do you hear our thrush?” she whispers, each word an effort.
Maria nods.
“Ah, it is good to die while listening to such heavenly music,” her mother says, a ghost of a smile shadowing her pale lips. She closes her eyes. As Maria watches, she takes a long breath in. Lets it out. And is gone.
For a moment, the world seems to pause, as if awaiting its next instructions. Maria sits, motionless with shock. Then the thrush sings once more, his notes spiralling upwards into the grey sky, as if serenading her mother’s soul on its final journey.
****
Once more, Stride walks, letting his feet take him where they will. They decide to take him to Russell Square, where he pauses for a while at the north end, silently contemplating the long line of terraced townhouses, with their chess-board front tiles and green wrought-iron railings and balconies.
His attention lingers upon Number 55, currently shuttered, with its Venetian blinds drawn down at every window, where lives the man who is currently at the forefront of his mind. Stride stares at the house, wishing he had the means to see what is going on behind the white-painted walls.
Nothing moves. Rather like the investigation. Stride knows that all investigations stall at some point. Detective work is always a long game, unless members of the press get involved. Then it is still a long game, only you have to pretend that it isn’t.
A maid comes out of Number 55 carrying a shopping basket. Stride watches her walk down the street. She is of no particular interest to him. Learning what to ignore, and whom, is part of the job. He puts his trust in his experience, which tells him that something nearly always turns up in the end.
Eventually, when he has stood watching the house for some time, his feet tell him it is time for lunch. He has a quick word with one of the constables in a Watch Box, who confirms that he has not seen anyone matching the descriptions of Munro and Herbert Black arriving or departing from Number 55, so far.
Stride turns and heads for Sally’s, reminding himself that he has not been wasting his time. A lot of police work consists of standing around, having lunch, drinking coffee and staring out of the window. All of which is infinitely preferable to dealing with paperwork, which is, sadly, what awaits him after his lunch.
****
Lucy Landseer, on the other hand, has no time for luncheon. From the moment her eyes opened upon the day, she has been in a whirl of busyness. You seek her here, you seek her there ~ one minute she is at Charing Cross Station, purchasing a ticket for the Dover train, and the boat to Calais. Next minute, she is visiting a cab rank, and inspecting the animals and vehicles in order to find the fastest.
And now, wearing a merry bonnet, with a basket
of provisions, and accompanied by Flush, who is taking rather too much interest in the contents of the basket, she is being carried to Cedar House Asylum.
The day is cloudy, with rain hovering in the background. Lucy has taken the precaution of bringing an umbrella and a travelling rug, which she has wrapped around herself, as the horse clip-clops through the traffic.
The cab finally pulls up at the gate of Cedar House Asylum. Lucy and Flush alight and make their way up the gravel path to the foyer, where they are greeted by one of the attendants, who invites her to sit and wait while they fetch Lady Georgiana from her room.
Lucy sits. Flush guards. She tries not to think about the implications of what she’s undertaking. Instead, she runs a mental checklist of everything that is about to happen and the order in which it needs to happen for it to succeed. Meanwhile, her partner in crime yawns and scratches himself behind his left ear.
At last, the double doors open, and Lady Georgiana walks through. She is draped in a warm shawl and carries a small reticule. Her expression is so terribly innocent that, for a split second, Lucy fears they will be rumbled by the staff. Luckily, Flush chooses this moment to be sick on the carpet.
As the attendants rush to find mops, buckets and a cake of soap, Lucy steers Lady Georgiana quietly out of the front door, down the front steps, along the gravel drive, and installs her in the waiting hansom.
“Good dog,” she murmurs, hauling the spaniel on board.
The driver cracks his whip and the hansom sets off at a trot. Lucy passes Lady Georgiana the travelling rug and lifts the lid of the basket of provisions. They are on their way! Lady Georgiana turns her shining eyes to her rescuer’s face.
“I cannot begin to thank you for this, dear, dear Lucy,” she says, and opening her reticule, she draws out her copy of Cecil Danvers, and hands it across the carriage.
Lucy glances inside the book. There, exactly as described, is the inscription.
“Venetia was one of my closest friends. Oh, how I miss her and all the happy times we spent together.”
“There will be plenty of other happy times,” Lucy reassures her. Then she taps on the hansom’s roof and gives the driver new instructions.
“I must deliver this book to the courtroom at once,” she says. “That is where I shall leave you. The driver has instructions to take you to Regent’s Street. Now let us eat something to fortify us for the next part of the adventure. I see Flush is eyeing the ham sandwiches already!”
Meanwhile, back at the High Court, Preening (or is it Strutt?) has finished laying out the case against Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton. The lunch recess is over; not that the Author has partaken of any food; she is much too distressed by the adjectives used to describe her. The court has risen for the judge’s re-entry, and now it is the turn of her own barrister to fight her corner. He shuffles his papers, gets to his feet, sways a couple of times, shoots a venomous glance at Strutt & Preening, and launches into a spirited defence of his client, who sits behind him, twitching.
Halfway through his speech, a hansom draws up outside the court building and a slender young woman alights. She lifts down a spaniel, who immediately heads for the nearest lamp-post. The young woman leans in to say something to the remaining occupant of the cab. Then she waves farewell, hauls on the dog’s lead, and hurries into the building. The cab drives away.
Lucy Landseer goes up to the first usher she sees and asks where the Lackington case is being heard. She is directed to court three. On arrival at the door, the usher takes one look at Flush, and tells her sternly she cannot enter.
Lucy frowns. Then, giving the man her most persuasive smile, she says,
“In that case, sir, will you please inform me how I can give this book to Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton, the lady who is the subject of the case. I cannot stress how important it is that she receives it at once. I believe her barrister would be very angry if he knew this vital piece of evidence was being withheld.”
The usher bites his lower lip. Lucy regards him steadily. In the end, he gives in.
“Well, if it is as important as you say, I could always slip it into the courtroom and pass it to the lady.”
“Oh, would you? Thank you. Thank you so much,” Lucy says, handing him the book, which is now wrapped in a note. The usher takes it, opens the wooden double doors, and returns in a couple of minutes.
“She has it,” he says.
Lucy nods her thanks. Then, tugging on Flush’s lead, she heads back to the main entrance. Time to take the dog for a brief walk before the court rises for the day.
Inside the packed courtroom, the barrister is winding up the case for the defence. He sits down. Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton rises to her feet, leans forward and gently edges the book onto the desk in front of him. The barrister picks it up, reads the letter, opens the book and reads the inscription. The judge continues to make notes.
Barely breathing, the Author sits and waits.
Next minute, the barrister is on his feet.
“M’lud, I have just been in receipt of an important piece of evidence. With your permission, may I share it with the court?”
The judge sets down his pen.
“If you believe it is relevant, you may.”
“Not only is it relevant, it casts a whole new light upon the allegations of libel and infamy made against my client by Lord Lackington. On the balance of probability, I now declare the allegations to be utterly false from first to last!”
He pauses for dramatic effect. There are gasps from the gallery.
“M’lud, members of the court, I have in my hand a copy of Cecil Danvers ~ this is the actual copy of the book owned by Lady Georgiana Lackington. I open it at the flyleaf, as you see, and I read:
To dearest Georgie, on the occasion of her 30th birthday. A copy of our favourite novel. Your loving friend, Venetia.”
He unfolds the accompanying letter.
“I gather that the signature is that of the Honourable Mrs Venetia Ackwynd of Knightsbridge Mansions, London. May I remind the court that it was in the months after Lady Lackington’s 30th birthday that the affair with the portrait artist, known as Mr. X, began, according to the written testimony of her husband, Lord Lackington.
“Yet, according to the plaintiff, the writer, my client, used events from the affair and the marriage in her work. This inscription clearly indicates that Lady Georgiana Lackington had read the novel BEFORE the unfortunate events that broke up the marriage. I quote: ‘A copy of our favourite novel’.”
“M’lud, I intend to send an urgent telegram to the husband of the Honourable Mrs Ackwynd, requesting that he allow her to appear in this court to answer my questions. I ask, therefore, for an adjournment until tomorrow morning.”
There is a pause. Then uproar breaks out in the spectators’ gallery. Copies of the book are waved aloft in gloved hands to cries of ‘Shame!’ ‘She is innocent!’ and ‘Case dismissed!’ The judge bangs on the table as he struggles to make himself heard. Strutt & Preening throw their court papers around as they try to make their objections over the hullabaloo.
And in the midst of it all, Mrs Riva Hemmyng-Stratton quietly rises to her feet, lowers her veil and walks out of the court. Crossing the vestibule, she hears her name being called. At first, she does not acknowledge the appellant, too overcome by the events of the previous few hours. And the past five minutes. Then she realises that the person calling her name is Lucy Landseer. Accompanied by a dog. She hurries over. Lucy’s face is wreathed in smiles.
“Have I not done well, fellow scribe? A book delivered, an unhappy and wronged woman released from captivity, and best of all, a fellow author vindicated. I think I might definitely take this up as a profession; I seem to have a knack for it.”
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton allows a faint smile to embroider itself along her lips.
“I am extremely grateful to you, Miss Landseer. I believe that you have indeed, as they say, saved the day.”
Lucy beams at her. “It was my pleasure and delight. Anythin
g for another writer. I shall now leave you to your adoring readers,” she says, indicating the clatter of footsteps descending the gallery stairs. “I await the final outcome ~ although I believe it is a foregone conclusion. Come Flush, we must return you to your owner, with our deep gratitude. You have played your part to perfection.”
And with another enchanting smile, she is gone.
Later, alone in her small sitting room, Lucy Landseer will pick up a piece of paper from the pile by her desk, and, after chewing the top of her pen for a while, will write The Case of the Lunatic Lady at the top. It will be the first story in her exciting and popular series of books depicting the adventures of dashing female detective Miss Belle Batchelor and her faithful canine sidekick, Harris.
****
It is a dark and stormy night ~ which could well be the opening of one of the Author’s novels, but in this case, is an accurate meteorological observation. The rain gushes in gutters, pours from downpipes and rushes from rooftiles. It is a filthy night to be out, and most decent citizens are venturing no further than their firesides.
Here, in St John’s Wood, in the peace of a loose box at Bob Miller’s Livery Stables, the storm is mere scenery. For Brixston, a day spent mucking out horses, wheeling barrows piled with muck, and cleaning tack, means that sleep comes in an instant. The sky might throw hailstones or diamonds upon the earth, but curled up in the straw, one arm flung over the back of Molly, he sleeps peacefully on.
Only Molly, the black and white sheepdog is still awake, her ears pricked for any sound other than the gentle breathing of the boy, and the snuffling of her pups as they root around for food. So it is Molly who hears the gate opening; Molly who hears the heavy footsteps crossing the yard; Molly who gets to her feet, her hackles rising at the unfamiliar tread of someone she does not know, but recognises with every fibre of her being as an enemy.