by Carol Hedges
****
But these things are yet to be. Let us resume our tale on a bright morning, shortly after the demise of Thomas Langland. Here is London’s finest female detective, Miss Lucy Landseer, mounting the stairs to her consulting room at 122A Baker Street. She unlocks the door and stoops down to pick up a handful of letters. One of them, she instantly recognises, is addressed in the familiar hand of her former client Miss Rosalind Whitely.
Lucy slits open the envelope and pulls out a cheque, and a note written on fine milled notepaper.
Dear Miss Landseer (she reads)
Please find enclosed the remuneration for your investigation. I cannot begin to express my thanks for your hard work and diligence. My stepfather has now been imprisoned, awaiting trial. I regret that I cannot be sorry for him. But I am not sorry at all!
On another matter: I have decided to enrol at the Nightingale School for Nurses ~ I believe I told you that it was a profession I have always desired to enter. I am looking forward to beginning my training in a short while.
I have also taken in a lodger. Miss Amelia Ferry, whom, of course, you remember well, is coming to live with me. Her health is not good, and she needs to be looked after. She will rent out her house, and I hope, as the years progress, we will find in each other a close sorority and companionship.
Yours,
Most sincerely,
Rosalind Whitely
Lucy sets down the letter. Her first professional investigation is finished. And she solved it successfully, to her own and her client’s satisfaction. She goes to the window and looks down into the street. As she stands there, idly watching the passing traffic, a carriage approaches and stops below. The coachman jumps down from the box and opens the door. A woman emerges, bonneted and heavily veiled. She glances all around, checks the address on a small card, then walks with determined step towards the house. Lucy Landseer smiles to herself. It looks as if her second professional investigation is just about to begin.
****
There are always new beginnings, but there are also endings. Euphemia Harbinger, once the cynosure of every male eye, is nearing the end of her particular journey. She knows it. Her faithful housekeeper Rose knows it, and downstairs, in the sitting room of the Chelsea house, the state of play is being discussed by her two nephews Arthur and Sherborne, who have arrived to pay their accustomed morning visit, only to be told their aunt is not receiving any visitors now or probably in the foreseeable future. Both men understand perfectly what this indicates.
“So, that is it at last. She’s finally dying,” Arthur Harbinger says, rubbing his hands together. “Thank God. What a long and tedious time it has been.”
“But perhaps, not an unprofitable time,” Sherborne remarks.
His brother regards him with an air of infinite exasperation. “Oh? Is that what you think? Well, I doubt that you are going to profit greatly from aunt’s Will, little brother. After all, we both know how vilely you treated sister Wilhelmina. She has no doubt told the old fool all about it, in great detail, while she wormed her way back into her affections and stole the diamonds that should by right, have gone to me as the eldest in the family. My presumption is that a codicil will have been added cutting you out and putting her in. Now, what do you think to that?”
Sherborne’s face flushes with anger. “Why should you presume it is I who have been cut out? We both know aunt took an extraordinary fancy to Harriet. I am sure she would not exclude me from her final wishes, for that reason alone. It is far more likely that she has cut YOU out ~ after all, you have no wife or family.”
Arthur laughs. “You always were a fool, Sherborne. Your daughter was made a present of a book, was she not? Why should you think there is any more for her or you? No, I am sure the old woman has left the bulk of her estate to our sister ~ and it will be our job to make sure that she doesn’t get her hands on it. We did it before; we will do it again.”
Sherborne stares at him. “We will? How will we?”
“Nothing easier, my dear little brother. I happen to know the name of the law firm that handles aunt’s affairs. Once she is dead, we will make sure there are no notices posted in any newspapers alerting our sister to the death. Then we arrange matters so that we, and only we, attend the reading of her Will. Of course, we promise the lawyer that we will write to our sister and inform her of her good fortune.”
“Only we’re not going to, are we?” Sherborne grins conspiratorially.
“Precisely. Now, I suggest we depart to our various establishments and await the announcement of the death. The housekeeper has been told to inform me as soon as it takes place.” Arthur gestures towards the cage where the grey parrot is listening attentively, its black bead eyes shining. “Perhaps you should take that parrot back to the hotel with you.”
“Wretched bird! I never wanted it in the first place. It was a birthday gift to my daughter from some friend of my wife’s,” Sherborne says shortly. “I’m not walking the streets carrying a cage. It can remain here. Once the old woman is dead, I shall wring its neck.”
The two Harbinger brothers leave. Already, it feels as if the house is gathering around itself, preparing for the next stage in its history, its life swinging on a turning point. Once she has been reassured that they have gone, the old woman makes her way downstairs. Slowly, clinging onto the bannisters. Each step is an adventure. Every day the journey becomes more arduous. Finally, dizzy and short of breath, she arrives at the door of the sitting room. The grey parrot is bouncing excitedly up and down on its perch.
“Harriet?” it squawks upon seeing her. Then, in an exact mimicry of Sherborne Harbinger, “Wretched bird! Once the old woman is dead, I shall wring its neck.”
Euphemia Harbinger stares hard at the bird, who continues to whistle and chirp as it sprays seed all over the Turkey rug. For some time, she stands on the threshold, holding tight to the door frame, watching the parrot. Then without a word, she makes her way to the parlour and sits down at her writing desk.
Later that afternoon, Euphemia Harbinger has a visitor. Fresh from that stronghold of melancholy, Gray’s Inn, comes a pale tall man, with high shoulders and a stooping gait. It is Mr Pelham Parker, senior law clerk to Vulpis & Fox. He carries a leather document case, which, upon being shown into the parlour, he opens, extracting a pen, a legal document, and a small bottle of black ink, which he places upon the red bobbled tablecloth. He pulls up a chair and waits for the arrival of his client.
Several minutes elapse. Then he hears slow shuffling footsteps approaching. The door opens and Euphemia Harbinger enters, leaning heavily on two sticks. She is encased in shawls, despite the heat. Panting, she struggles to one of the chairs and slowly subsides into it. Her complexion reminds him of a cheese that has been left too long on the larder shelf. The senior law clerk stands and bows. She waves him back to his seat.
“Yes, yes. Let us dispense with the formalities, Mr Parker. Time is short, especially mine. I wish to change my Will once more, and that is why I have sent for you,” she says, her voice thin and reedy.
He nods, respectfully. It is not the first time he has performed this action. The inclination of rich eccentric clients like Miss Harbinger to change, amend and alter their last Will and Testament is how his law firm has managed not only to survive, but prosper. The codicils to this particular document now run to five pages. He finds a fresh sheet of parchment, dips his pen into the ink and regards the blank page attentively, awaiting his instructions.
“Firstly, I desire all other bequests and codicils to be struck out. Every single one. This is my final and only Will, is that clear? This and only this. Nothing more.”
He inclines his head, pen poised. She dictates. He writes. The pen moves smoothly across the paper. When she has done, she glances at him, smiling slyly. “You say nothing? Should you not be pointing out the folly of my decision? Is that not your legal duty, eh?”
The senior law clerk shrugs minutely. What the clients of Vulpis & Fox choose to do w
ith their property, money or sundry worldly goods and chattels is entirely up to them. He merely scribes their wishes on their behalf and collects the fee.
“I shall return to chambers and draw up the new Will, which I will then dispatch for your signature. My messenger can witness it, if you wish.”
“I do wish it. That sounds perfectly satisfactory. Let it be so.” The old woman mumbles into silence. Her eyelids droop. Her mouth opens slightly, the lips slack. Her chest rises and falls.
The clerk gets to his feet, packs away his things and tiptoes out of the room. He goes back, on foot, to his chambers to draw up the new Will, which is signed, witnessed and returned the same day. Later, over a bottle or two of port wine at his club, he will regale his friends with the story of the rich, eccentric old lady, who left her house and contents to a ten-year old child (under the conservatorship of a senior partner of Vulpis & Fox together with her aunt), and everything else to be turned into educational bursaries for gifted girls from less well-off families.
Neither Euphemia Harbinger, nor the senior law clerk, will ever know that one of the first beneficiaries from her generosity is going to be a certain bright pupil called Violet Cully.
****
And now, once again, it is a bright Sunday morning, the sun streaming down on the city out of a cloudless blue sky. Church bells summon the faithful, the hopeful, plus those hedging their bets, to worship. A good day to live. A good day to die, thinks the elderly woman in the bed. She reaches out and picks up the small brass bell on her bedside table.
A couple of rings brings Rose, her faithful housekeeper, hurrying into the room, carrying a bowl of hot water, soap and a towel. The old woman waves them away. She is clean enough for the one she is about to meet. She has lain awake most of the night, listening to his footsteps approach. There is no time to subject herself to the indignities of a bed bath, her cracks and crevices subjected to the harsh flannel.
“Come here, Rose,” she commands.
The housekeeper sets down the bowl and approaches the wizened stick-like figure in the bed. “Madam?”
She raises herself on her elbows. Slowly, painstakingly. Her voice is a rasped whisper.
“You know what you have to do?”
The housekeeper nods. “Shall I do it today?” she asks.
“Yes. Today. In fact, do it now,” the old woman nods.
As Rose leaves the room, Euphemia Harbinger sinks back onto her pillow, a smile of wicked satisfaction on her face. Her eyes close. Her breathing becomes gradually lighter and lighter, until finally, it ceases altogether.
Meanwhile, downstairs in the sitting room, the grey parrot sidles along its perch, eying the unexpectedly open cage door. A few seconds later, it plucks up courage and moves from its gilded prison to perch on the windowsill. For a moment, the bird hesitates. Then with a soft grey flutter of wings, it takes flight, launching itself joyously out of the open window and into the freedom of an unknown future.
****
So finally, let us return briefly for one last time to a certain small upstairs room in a run-down lodging-house. It is very late at night and a candle has been lit, its flickering flame falling upon the two occupants: Little Azella, who is already tucked up in bed, and Micky Mokey, who is changing out of his clothes before going to bed himself.
“So, he’s gone then?” Little Azella asks, with a yawn.
“Yes. Quite gone. I saw him leave the hotel this morning, along with his family. And he wasn’t looking at all pleased, I can tell you. Face like a thunderstorm. One look at him and I knew it meant he hadn’t come into the great fortune that he expected to. And that is the end of it. He has got what he deserved ~ absolutely nothing.”
“And are you happy now, Micky?”
Micky Mokey smiles. “Yes, I am very happy. He has been paid back for everything he did to me, all those years ago. And he will never guess how it was done. Never in a million years. Time to go to sleep, Little Azella,” he says. “Tomorrow is another day.”
Micky Mokey carefully hangs up the frock coat, the bright waistcoat, the wing collared shirt, yellow paisley cravat, and the striped trousers. Finally, he unwraps the tight cotton bindings that flatten the chest, giving him the semblance of a manly physique. Then Wilhelmina Harbinger, male impersonator, blows out her candle, and climbs into bed.
Finis
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