Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  Another look from Mrs Collins. The inspector was asking if anyone knew why there were no faces painted onto the figures in the pictures. Talking about The Night Prowler, moving close to the picture, pretending to discover, just that minute, a ring on the finger of the thief. Sesina closed a finger and thumb around the delicate handle of the coffee cup. She held it up, angling it towards Mrs Collins’ eyes in a silent pantomime explanation of why she had returned into the drawing room and Mrs Collins gave a nod. But nobody else moved or spoke. There was a dead silence after the inspector’s question. He was the only one talking in the room, going along the pictures, one by one, reading out the titles: The Night Prowler, Forbidden Fruit, Taken in Adultery, Den of Iniquity, and Root of All Evil.

  Sesina moved softly and quietly along the wall, dodging behind the mahogany tallboy and then bent down to retie her shoelace. No one was looking at her, not even Mrs Collins.

  The canon was explaining to the inspector about commissioning the pictures from Mr Edwin Milton-Hayes. They were to hang in the church hall and to be an example to his parishioners about the terrible end for anyone committing one of those sins. Then the inspector pointed at the picture that I had endeavoured to restore.

  ‘Winter of Despair.’ He read the words out very clearly. A lot of murmuring. They couldn’t tell much from it. A right mess that picture, thought Sesina with satisfaction as she moved stealthily back towards the drawing-room door. Slashed with a knife. She wondered what the visitors thought about it. They’d be able to see that it was a body, a body floating in the river, down near Hungerford Stairs. Wouldn’t be able to tell if it was a man or a woman, though. Not after the knife had made such a mess of it. That inspector was watching all the faces, peering from one to another. Waiting for someone to say something.

  But no one obliged him. They had had enough. The canon cleared his throat. ‘Well, very interesting,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I speak for everyone, inspector, when I say that if you need any additional help or information, we will all be delighted to be of assistance. And now, Mrs Collins, I have to thank you for a most pleasant evening, but I have a morning service and need to be in my bed before eleven o’clock.’

  That did it. Everyone got their bottle up. All of them on their feet. Telling the usual lies to Mrs Collins. ‘What a lovely evening! Really enjoyed it! Wonderful hospitality!’ As if! Sesina had a job to keep a straight face.

  ‘Sesina, the coats!’ Mrs Collins was as glad to get rid of them as they were to go. Sesina sped back to the kitchen to fetch Dolly. Leave the coffee cup, she told herself. Be interesting to hear if the inspector says anything more. His eyes were on Mr Charles and he didn’t look like he were going nowhere. Sesina decided that personally she would find the inspector’s coat and hat and then hand it to him. Hard for him to stay then.

  But he was too clever by half. He sent them out of the room. Must have done. They were all down the stairs and standing in the hall by the time that she came back with Dolly. Ten visitors that night, but only eight of them wanting coats. Not him. Not Mr Dickens. Sesina grabbed as many men’s coats as she could. Always better with the vails, men were. Dolly hadn’t worked that out yet after being in service for twenty years or so. All the time though, as Sesina was bobbing at them and thanking them, pocketing the vails and holding up coats and finding scarves, her mind was on the drawing room upstairs. What was happening? Mrs Collins, Mr Wilkie and Mr Charles. And that inspector, probably looking at Mr Charles, looking from him to the picture Taken in Adultery. She had a look at Mr French. What did he think of that woman in the picture, with a head of hair just like his Molly? He wasn’t all that old and doddery. Grabbed the umbrella from her ever so quick, swung it a bit, swishing it. In a very bad mood, she thought. Had to keep on holding his scarf until, in the end, he reluctantly put his hand in his pocket, otherwise she wouldn’t have got a penny from the old dolt. Come to think of it, why not suspect him? What did he think of his wife having a bit of fun with a handsome young man? Perhaps he was the one that cut the artist’s throat.

  Still, she was glad to see the back of them all. Glad to close the door behind the canon. No vail from him, of course. Some nonsense about giving all his goods to charity, she guessed as she slammed the door on his heels. Spent plenty on himself, she didn’t doubt that. No walking home for him. Raising his umbrella for a cab as soon as he got to the top step. And what did he want them pictures for? Wasting money; that was. Not his money, of course. No, he’d take church collections for that, thought Sesina, as she closed the door behind them all and crossed the hall to the stairs.

  ‘Where are you going, Sesina?’ Always one to be minding someone else’s business; that was Dolly.

  ‘Left a cup in the drawing room, din’t I?’ Sesina spoke the words without even turning her head. She went speedily up the stairs until she reached the landing and then she stopped and trod as quietly as possible. When she reached the drawing-room door she turned the smooth marble doorknob as gently and smoothly as she could. There was just the sound of one voice, the inspector. The door was a heavy one, lined with green baize and no individual words could be distinguished, but the tone was rough and aggressive. Sesina turned the knob a little more. Now she could hear that aggressive voice.

  ‘And you don’t deny that this coat is yours, you use it when you’re painting – that right, sir?’

  ‘It’s my father’s.’

  Poor fella, thought Sesina, he’s all upset. Too soft to deal with that policeman. She would enjoy giving the stupid man a slap across the face. She felt bad. Her fault. Should have burned the thing as soon as she spotted the bloodstain, burned it in the kitchen stove. That’s what she should have done. Burned it and then denied ever seeing it. Easy enough to do.

  ‘I must tell you, sir, that you were seen visiting Mr Milton-Hayes this morning.’ Now she was inside the door, standing just behind the velvet curtain that kept out the draughts. Couldn’t see, but could hear everything. Nothing to hear at the moment. None of them said anything. There might have been a gasp. Not the poor fella. The missus, she thought. Felt a bit sorry for her, too. Ever so fond of the two sons, she was. Laughed like anything at Mr Wilkie’s jokes, put up with all his ways, allowed him to come and go as he pleased, doled out the money to him whenever he wanted it, turned a blind eye to what he got up to with that girl he had tucked away in a room down Nash Street, but her Charley was different. Loved that poor fellow, did the missus, almost like he was still her little boy.

  ‘You were seen by the maidservant, sir. By Mr Milton-Hayes’ servant. She saw someone with red hair coming through Dorset Square when she went out for milk.’ Leaning forward, that inspector. A bully if ever she had seen one. Peering into Mr Charles’s eyes. Leaving a bit of a pause and going on again. Good trick that. Makes everyone nervous. ‘That’s what she told us, sir. She said that she had been sent on an errand by her mistress in another house; she divides her services between the two houses – so she told us. And when she reached the corner, she looked back and saw a tall young man with red hair going through the square and reckoned that he was coming away from Mr Milton-Hayes’ house. Of course, she would have known you as you have been helping Mr Milton-Hayes with his pictures – or so I understand.’ The inspector had stopped now, but no one spoke for nearly a minute until Mr Dickens chipped in.

  ‘Our young friend here, of course, is not the only man in London with red hair, as I am sure that you were about to remark, inspector. And that doesn’t sound a very reliable witness statement. How could the maid know where this red-headed man could have come from? Or, indeed, how she could have told that the hair was red since Mr Charles Collins wears his hair extremely short and I would imagine that it would be almost completely covered by a hat. And no one, inspector, except a lunatic goes out without a hat on a November morning, is that not correct?’

  Mr Dickens putting his nose in. Couldn’t bear to be left out of the conversation for too long. Still, might do some good. Sesina flattened herself against
the door. If only she had thought, a bit earlier, of disguising the bloodstain instead of trying to remove it and then hiding it in the scullery. Stupid place to choose!

  ‘No, Mr Dickens, you are quite right.’ The inspector had a little laugh at that. ‘Of course Mr Charles Collins is not the only red-headed man in London. I remember very well that you had a red-headed man in David Copperfield. But I don’t think that Mr Uriah Heep was knocking on Mr Milton-Hayes’ door this morning. As for the hat, well, that girl struck me as a sharp piece and I don’t think that she would make a mistake like that.’

  There was a bit of a silence after that. Sesina bit her bottom lip. Just deny it! Go on! Tell him it wasn’t you!

  ‘And I must tell you, sir, that when I asked the maidservant if she recognized the young man with red hair, well, she immediately mentioned your name.’ Getting on my nerves, he is, thought Sesina. That inspector’s got a really boring sort of voice, all on one note, just like a foghorn on the river.

  ‘Probably because my brother is a frequent visitor to Milton-Hayes and she assumed that it was he when she saw a man with red hair.’ Mr Wilkie was keeping cool. That might shut up the inspector for the moment.

  ‘Possibly, possibly,’ said the inspector, but he didn’t sound too convinced. ‘But why don’t we ask your brother, himself. Now, sir, could you tell me whether, or not, you called in at that house this morning?’

  All holding their breath, they were, waiting for Mr Charles to speak. Sesina held her breath, too. Just tell a good lie. Don’t hang about. Out with it straight away.

  ‘He asked me to come. Wanted to consult me. Wanted me to help him to paint some more backgrounds. I help him quite a lot. It’s easier than doing my own picture. I just follow his directions. Said he was behind with the pictures. He knows that I’m good with flowers and silks, and velvets. Wanted to have them ready by tonight for the canon.’ All breathless. Hard to hear him, even. Still, it was a bit of an explanation. But would he be believed? Sesina thought again of that large bloodstain on the painting coat.

  ‘My brother, inspector, is rightly esteemed for his wonderful portrayal of nature and of the texture in fine clothing.’ Mr Wilkie doing his best. Sesina swallowed a giggle when she thought of the portrayal of nature in the picture Taken in Adultery. Real nature, that would be. A handsome young man and a young woman having fun behind the back of that old geezer of a husband.

  ‘Yes, sir. You were telling me. You rang the bell. The door was opened by …’

  ‘It was already open, the lock was just on the snib. I went in, took my coat off in the hall, found my painting coat, I had left it there in the hall, and went upstairs to the studio.’ Voice all dull and very low. Had to strain her ears to hear him. Wasn’t going to be all stupid, now was he? Go on, tell him someone else was there, someone else came before you left. Sesina felt her throat ache with the effort of trying to send a silent message.

  ‘And …’

  ‘And I opened the door and went in …’

  Dead silence. Sesina held her breath.

  ‘It was horrible. He was lying there. Blood everywhere. I leaned over him. Touched him. And he was dead.’

  ‘Was the body warm or cold?’ Like a sudden bark, the question made him jump.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘So how did you know that he was dead?’

  There was no answer to that. Sesina slid from behind the curtain, no noise, soft-soled shoes, moved towards the mahogany tallboy. The cup was still there. She had her hand upon it. Had made up her mind what to say. And then there was a crash! A table first, a card table made from walnut. Sesina had often polished it and cursed its fragile, spindly legs. And then a heavier crash. A man’s body.

  Everyone moved, everyone exclaimed, all except the mistress, who stood very still. After a moment she took something from her handbag.

  ‘Give him this, Wilkie. Just let him breathe it in. He’ll be well, in a moment. Sesina, you go back to the kitchen now. I’ll ring when we need you.’

  ‘I’m telling you this, Sesina, and I’m telling you for your own good.’ Mrs Barnett took in a deep breath and her enormous bosom swelled to the limits of her apron.

  ‘What?’ Sesina picked though the crumbs of the soufflé and did her best to seem normal. Mrs Collins was always very generous with the leftovers, never wanted to see them again in the dining room and there were plenty of pieces of sweet and savoury goodies on the table from the night’s dinner party. Change the subject, she thought. ‘Lucky for some, unlucky for others,’ she said.

  ‘What are you talking about, girl?’ Dolly liked to give herself airs, from time to time. Liked to remind Sesina that she had been working here with Mrs Collins for donkey’s years. Thought she knew everything.

  ‘Thirteen,’ said Sesina sweeping a handful of crumbs onto her hand and swallowing them hastily. ‘Fourteen places laid and only thirteen at the table. That’s bad luck, bad luck for them and good luck for us with all the leftovers.’

  ‘I’m not talking about that.’ Mrs Barnett had a nervous habit of trembling when she was angry that made her round flabby face look rather like a wine jelly. ‘I’m talking about your behaviour. Mr Charles is not for the like of you and you shouldn’t be talking to him the way that you do, bending over him, whispering in his ear, giving him an extra spoon of jelly. Bad enough with Mr Wilkie, then again I have to say that he does encourage it, but Mr Charles is a quiet young man. Don’t you behave like that with him, or ever call him Charley again, or I’ll have to have a word with the missus about you.’

  You’d be better off minding your own business in the kitchen and not coming into the dining room just so that the missus could tell you what a wonderful dinner you cooked, thought Sesina, but she contented herself with cleaning out the dish of apricot cream. Mrs Barnett should have chopped the apricots a bit finer, she said to herself, but she had to admit that the cream was set well and the mixture deliciously thick. That had been Mr Charles’s plate. She had noticed that he had left most of it behind. Shame after all the work of heating and sieving and mixing in the yolks of eggs. Still, he was a delicate young man. Not too strong. Things upset him, poor fellow. Look at the way he just keeled over and fainted. She felt all motherly towards him, wondered what was happening upstairs. Would the inspector leave him alone now that he had fainted? Or would he think that it proved him guilty? It wouldn’t work if he was poor, she had known a girl who used to scream and faint when she was arrested, but the constable would just drag her off by one leg. Different for the gentry, though, she told herself as she shrugged her shoulders at Mrs Barnett.

  ‘Why didn’t that fellow, that Mr Milton-Hayes turn up anyway,’ she demanded. ‘Struck me that everyone was a bit strange, jumpy, like.’ Especially my poor Charley, was her secret thought, but she knew better than to utter it in front of the cook. Aloud, she said, ‘And that copper with him? What did that fellow want? Disappeared, didn’t he? What did you think, Dolly?’

  That was a good move. Dolly was an easy-going type and she had been with Mrs Collins even longer than the cook. When it came down to it, Dolly was always favoured, always the one to be confided in. Harriet, as Sesina secretly liked to call Mrs Collins, would have long confidential chats with Dolly, the pair of them giggling over something. Dolly was known to favour Mr Charles, to say that he was sensitive and to hint that the master had made him too religious, always worrying about his sins. She had a troubled look on her face, now, but when she spoke it was not of Mr Charles, but of his mother.

  ‘The mistress was looking very worried,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t know what got into her tonight. Was in a bit of a state, wasn’t she, Mrs Barnett? Did you think that when you came in?’

  The two women looked across at each other. Sesina chewed on a piece of cold pheasant. Should have had it before the jelly and apricot cream, she told herself, but she was too interested in the exchange of looks to concentrate too much on her taste buds.

  ‘All her fault.�
�� Dolly gave a nod at Sesina. ‘Leaving that painting coat in there in the scullery.’

  ‘Stupid place to leave it. Makes people get ideas.’ Mrs Barnett rounded upon Sesina, her face as red as a fighting cock. ‘You could have guessed what would happen. That policeman poking around the place. Of course, he took it. What was Mr Charles’s painting coat doing in the back pantry? If you had any wit you’d know that ’ud look suspicious. And anyone could see it was a bloodstain. And don’t pretend you didn’t know that. Pretending it was paint and then soaking it in salt. You must think that we was born yesterday. And that’s the sort of thing that makes the police suspicious. And now they’re after poor Mr Charles.’

  Sesina gawped at her. Couldn’t find words for a second and then, she, too, launched into the attack.

  ‘It’s your fault, the two of you. You’re always on to me, the pair of you, one after the other. Everything I do is wrong. Nothing but moan, moan, moan. Well, I’m getting out of here. Wish I’d never let Mr Wilkie talk me into coming to this place. Well, I’ve stuck two years of it and that’s enough for anyone.’ With a warm rush of triumph, she pulled at her apron, tore it off and threw it onto the floor.

  And then she kicked it under the table, turned on her heel and made for the door.

  But it opened before she got to it and there was Mr Wilkie, his little round glasses all fogged up as if he might have been crying.

  ‘She’s leaving, Mr Wilkie,’ said Mrs Barnett. ‘Going to hand in her notice.’ There was a slightly gloating sound in her voice and Sesina felt like giving her a sharp slap across her big fat face.

  ‘That’s right,’ chimed in Dolly.

  ‘No, no.’ Mr Wilkie was always kind. ‘You mustn’t do that, Sesina. What would we all do without you? The house would be lost without you.’ He took her by the arm, in his friendly way, and pulled her through the door and shut out the cook and her echo. ‘We need you, Sesina,’ he whispered. ‘There’s my poor brother. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. You know that, Sesina. I have to get him out of this mess. You keep your eyes peeled, won’t you? We must find the truth. We must save him. My poor mother is in a state.’