Winter of Despair

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Winter of Despair Page 11

by Cora Harrison


  ‘Come on, old chap,’ I said to Charley, slipping an arm around his waist and hoisting him up and accepting the key from Dickens with the other hand. ‘Let’s get you to bed, Charley. You are not well, poor fellow.’

  He came with me, docile as a child. He brought tears to my eyes and I swore that at all costs I would save him from the hangman’s noose. I gave him another dose of laudanum and waited with him until it had taken effect. When I had him tucked into bed, blond eyelashes closing over his inflamed eyes, I began to draft, in my mind, a letter to my yachting friend, Pigott. When he was asleep, I quietly locked the door and slipped into my own room. The letter didn’t take long. I had resolved on what to say. Pigott knew Charley; he was the one who, by writing the newspaper article, had started that joke about Charley, the artist who had spent the summer matching a set of eyelashes to the colour of a fly’s eye.

  Pigott would understand what Charley was like. And so not too many explanations of Charley’s state of mind were necessary. Once I could get Charley onto that boat, then he would be out of harm’s way until the real murderer was captured. ‘All expenses will be borne by me,’ I wrote. When I finished the letter I slipped a couple of five-pound notes into the envelope, wrote the address and after I had glued the queen’s head to the envelope, I rang for Sesina.

  ‘Slip out of the house first thing in the morning, Sesina,’ I said, handing her half-a-crown. ‘I want that letter to go in the post as soon as possible. Do it before you light the fires and before we have any early-morning callers.’ I hesitated for a moment and then added, ‘It’s very important for my brother that this letter should reach my friend quickly, by tomorrow late morning, if possible.’

  Sesina would know what I meant and she was fond of Charley, quite motherly towards him, I was always amused to see. She would understand that I would not want the police to lay their eyes on this letter or to delay it in any way. The half-a-crown would keep her sweet and give her a stake in this enterprise. I put in a request for a pot of tea for the two of us and she smiled happily. I winked at her and she returned the wink. And then, with a heavy heart, I went down to see Dickens and to hand over the key of Charley’s door to him.

  He pocketed it in an absent-minded way. He had coolly taken a sheet of my mother’s writing paper from her writing table and had made a list in his decisive, strong handwriting. He held it up to me and I could see that the titles of the five pictures were listed and emphatically underscored. I scanned it while he took out a penknife and sharpened the quill to his satisfaction. Beneath each title was a space for names and already Dickens had filled in the names of the figures in Taken in Adultery. ‘Charles Allston Collins, Mrs Molly French, Mr John French.’ He read them aloud, dispassionately and without emphasis and then moved on to the next title on his list.

  The Night Prowler, he said, rolling the ‘r’ and almost gloating over the picture. ‘Now then Wilkie my boy, not too much doubt about the main character in this picture, is there. I’ve seen that ring, before, haven’t you? Supposed to be part of the Irish inheritance of Lord Douglas. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that it’s probably the most worthwhile part of it and that the family estate is nothing but boggy fields, filled with rushes. But the lady, old man, who is the lady? No face, of course, and nothing too distinguishing about her, is there? You don’t recognize that purple dress, do you?’

  ‘Not the dress,’ I said, hesitating a little. ‘But I have heard rumours, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, go on, tell me. You know I have no time to listen to gossip,’ he said impatiently. I was not surprised. Dickens was the talker and I was the listener. When Dickens was surrounded by people they looked to him to entertain them, to flash out those jokes, to amaze them with his scintillating wit, to listen eagerly to his remarks about the book that he was writing, or the book that he had just finished writing, or the book that he intended writing when the present book was finished.

  But it was different with me. People were comfortable with me, liked to tell me juicy pieces of gossip. ‘Of course, it’s mainly her mother’s fault,’ I began hesitantly. ‘That poisonous woman is always fussing about the poor girl, trying to get her to marry rich old men, or even rich, though unpleasant, young men,’ I added thinking about Milton-Hayes and all the trouble that he had caused.

  ‘So, Florence Gummidge? That’s who you think it is, don’t you?’ Dickens cocked an eyebrow at me and I nodded. He filled in the name of Lord Douglas as well and then sat back as a knock came to the door. I went across and opened it and stood back to allow Sesina to come in, her eyes bright with excitement.

  I gave her a wink, half mechanically, and then went and pulled out a leaf of my mother’s cherished Pembroke table and watched her place the tray carefully in the middle of its shining surface. ‘Good girl,’ I said. She had brought not just a large pot of tea, but some of Mrs Barnett’s ginger biscuits, and I applauded her initiative. ‘Sesina,’ I said, ‘will you just pop up to Mr Charles’s painting room and bring me down his canvas knife from the drawer of the table. Don’t cut yourself; it’s very sharp.’ I slipped a sixpence into her hand. She gave a grin and went off. I could hear her running lightly up the stairs. She was back into the drawing room a few minutes later. The knife was in her hand and she placed it in front of me, to the side of the tray. I looked down at it, but did not touch it.

  ‘We’ll serve ourselves, Sesina,’ said Dickens and I could have sworn that the girl looked disappointed. He was right, of course. No sense in letting her get above herself, but I thought that if I had been on my own I might have weakly asked her opinion on who might have murdered Milton-Hayes. Maidservants, my mother always said, often know more about your friends and acquaintances than you do, yourself.

  Absent-mindedly I filled the two cups and added milk. And some sugar into my cup. Dickens, I knew, never allowed himself sugar in either tea or coffee.

  ‘I’ll bear witness to that.’ He had taken an eyeglass from his pocket and with the other eye closed, he was bending over the table, peering very closely at the knife.

  ‘To what?’ I felt slightly irritated by him and his calm air of being in charge.

  ‘To the fact that you sent the maidservant for the knife and to the fact, as far as I can tell, that there is no stain of blood, not on the blade, nor on the sheath.’

  I shrugged. I was not sure that fact was a cast iron piece of evidence that I had not interfered with the knife. I could, after all, have been up in Charley’s room earlier and might have cleaned the knife then. On the other hand, Inspector Field was very influenced by Dickens and would take his word for evidence in a way that he might not if another man were involved.

  ‘Let’s get on with the list,’ I said impatiently. ‘I never did think that Charley was guilty, just wanted to remove that knife in case he got any ideas of ending his life. Luckily his religion might save him from that.’

  Dickens said nothing in reply to this. He was, I knew, not particularly fond of Charley, considered him to be a weak character with dangerous leanings towards Roman Catholicism. He had, though, I knew from his expression, been immensely impressed by my mother’s courage and display of love for her son. There was a determined look on his face as he looked back at the list.

  ‘So we write down the name of Lord Douglas below the title The Night Prowler. I’m going to give my suspects marks out of ten. I’ll give him eight. I think he has the nerve and the determination to do a deed like that.’

  ‘And Florence Gummidge?’

  Dickens pursed his lips and shook his head decidedly. ‘One,’ he said with authority. ‘A girl like that wouldn’t go in for murder. She might have allowed a lover to persuade her into some dangerous games after midnight in country houses, but murder, no. I don’t believe that. She would leave it to the noble lord, himself. She’s under her mother’s thumb and that means she doesn’t have much initiative of her own.’

  ‘And her mother, Mrs Hermione Gummidge? Frantic to prevent a scandal. Distraught at the idea
of her only daughter being pilloried, being exposed to the London world in an exhibition of paintings.’

  Dickens nodded. ‘You’ve got a point. A much more likely person. Five for her, then,’ he said, ‘but, mind you, I don’t think this is a woman’s crime. Women are more subtle than men. Mrs Hermione Gummidge is much more likely to have bought some arsenic, invited our friend Milton-Hayes to her house and handed him a cup of tea, with a smile on her face, of course.’ There was a slightly abstracted look on his own face as though he had suddenly thought of an idea for a book and I made haste to recall him to my brother’s plight.

  ‘Forbidden Fruit,’ I said, looking across to the picture of the man urging the young girl towards the church. ‘Can’t be quite sure, but I do think that is meant to be Walter Hamilton, the friend of my brother’s. He sat opposite you at the table. Don’t know whether you had any opportunity of exchanging words with him. He’s very shy. He has a very promising pupil, a young girl, and I’ve met them together a few times. She seems to adore him, and he adores her, so I’ve heard. I have heard rumours about a marriage, a planned marriage. But she is a schoolgirl, only fourteen years old, I think.’

  ‘Disgusting,’ said Dickens. ‘About the same age as my Mamey and Katey. The man should be horsewhipped. I’d do it with pleasure myself. Nine marks. I do believe that a villain like that would do anything, would commit any crime.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said soothingly, though I had to smother a laugh. ‘No, Walter is a very nice fellow. And they are very romantic together. I’d say that talk of marriage is more on her part than on his. She adores him. And anyone in the art world seeing that picture would be more inclined to laugh than to condemn. No, I’d give him one mark, and one mark only. He’s a dreamer. He wouldn’t kill anyone. And, you know, it’s only a civil offence, he’d just have to pay a fine to her parents. And even if they got married, well, I think that it would just be a secret marriage and no consummation.’ I didn’t like to tell Dickens that Walter had discussed the matter with me and that he and his lovely girl had decided that they might get married but would wait until she was sixteen before they lived together. ‘The idea of marriage is definitely hers,’ I said aloud. ‘She’s very romantic, you know.’

  ‘Four marks, then,’ said Dickens, but he still wore a scowl and glared back at the picture.

  ‘Taken in Adultery,’ I had summoned up my courage and named the picture. I looked at the three names. Molly French, John French and Charles Allston Collins. This, I knew, was a very different matter. If the elderly and very rich John French found out that his beautiful young wife was having an affair with my brother Charley then he would, almost undoubtedly, throw her out of the family home and immediately divorce her. Molly had no living parent, no brothers nor sisters. Her reputation would be in shreds, but worse than that, she would have no home, no money.

  ‘You know that picture that Augustus Egg is planning, Dick,’ I said soberly. ‘He was telling us about it one night at Foster’s party. How he was going to have the first picture of a sobbing wife lying on the floor while her children played at building houses with cards in the background. The husband sitting in judgement on her. And then in the second picture, the two girls, their daughters are older. Their father is now dead, their mother lost to them for ever. And then in the third picture he is going to paint Adelphi Arches by moonlight, the erring woman has sunk to the lowest echelons in society and is sleeping among the prostitutes under the archway near to Hungerford Stairs.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Dickens soberly. ‘And you think that Molly – and yes, they were there that night. I can remember them. I was sitting beside Molly. I remember that she shivered and I called on Augustus Egg to cheer up and I sang my comic song about the Cats’ Meat Man.’ His face was sober. He heaved a sigh. ‘So society would judge her, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And I’m afraid that it looks bad for Charley,’ I said steadily. ‘He would risk anything rather than subject the woman he loves to a fate like the woman in the triptych that Augustus Egg is planning.’ I reached over and wrote the figure eight beside my brother’s name. I pondered about Molly, but did nothing, just thought sadly about my gentle, conscientious brother.

  ‘This is just for ourselves, Wilkie,’ said Dickens quietly. He gave me a worried look and, with a demonstrativeness unusual for him, he reached out and squeezed my arm. ‘Don’t worry, my dear friend. We’ll arrive at the truth. Now what about the husband?’ he asked more cheerfully. ‘It seems to me that any husband seeing a picture of his wife in the arms of another man would want to revenge himself on the artist who painted that picture.’

  I shook my head. It was kind of Dickens, but I didn’t believe that John French would have taken that step. His first move would have been to interrogate his wife and his second would have been to come storming around to confront Charley.

  ‘I’d give him one mark, only,’ I said. ‘He’s an old man. His eyesight is poor. Don’t you remember him peering through that eyeglass tonight? I wouldn’t think he is too strong. I don’t see Edwin Milton-Hayes standing there and allowing a frail old man like that to hack him to death. No, my friend, one has to say that Charley is a hundred times more likely to be the assassin than John French.’

  ‘And Molly? Quite a tall girl, isn’t she? And, of course, a woman would have an advantage over a man because she wouldn’t be taken seriously. He may well just have laughed when she snatched up a knife …’

  ‘His knife, you mean Milton-Hayes’ knife?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘You remember that the inspector said that he had checked that very carefully. He said that he hadn’t found any signs of blood upon it or on any others. I think he said Milton-Hayes had a few knives.’

  ‘Could have been cleaned.’ Dickens watched me carefully.

  I cast another glance at the knife that Sesina had brought down from Charley’s painting room. Yes, Charley’s knife did look perfectly clean. But perhaps the inspector might have some way of finding out whether it had been contaminated by bloodstains at an earlier stage. A proposal to test the Milton-Hayes knife might prompt the police to test Charley’s knife. I compressed my lips and passed on from Taken in Adultery. I hadn’t really studied the next picture and so I endeavoured to concentrate upon it now, walking across the room and peering at it in my short-sighted way.

  ‘Den of Iniquity,’ I read out. This was a very crowded picture, more like in the style of William Frith than Milton-Hayes’ usual paintings. One face, and one only was obliterated, but the other faces were blurred and unimportant. No models, I guessed, had been used for them. These were background fill-in and nothing more. It was an opium den, a common subject among painters, though not so common for the Pre-Raphaelites. I concentrated on the central figure, a man, lying between two other figures, slumped upon a bedstead that had given way under their weight. Dickens peered over my shoulder.

  ‘Middle-aged, heavily built, grey hair,’ he said after a minute. ‘Now who were the middle-aged men at your mother’s dinner party this evening? So far, the guests have all been proved to have been carefully selected by that enterprising artist, Milton-Hayes.’

  ‘No wonder that the inspector remarked upon his flourishing bank account,’ I said, thinking about my very talented young brother who earned almost nothing and was dependent on my mother for virtually every penny.

  Dickens ignored this. Unlike myself whose attention was taken by every wandering thought, Dickens was a man with an enormous capacity to focus intently and grimly on one matter at a time. ‘Middle-aged men,’ he said. ‘Let me see.’ His eyes stared ahead and I knew that he was visualizing my mother’s dining table. ‘Not Lord Douglas,’ he said decisively. ‘Not young, but his hair is a glossy black. Not heavy, either, like this man. In fact, I wouldn’t choose him in any case. I’d say that it would be most unlikely for an opium addict to have the nerve and the self-possession to creep around his host’s house at night.’

  ‘It will be someone
that we haven’t identified already,’ I said. ‘What about William Jordan, himself? The fact that the wife is a gambler doesn’t preclude the husband from being an opium addict. What do you think?’ I felt a rush of energy at the thought. I didn’t like the man, I had decided.

  Dickens made a face, pursing up his mouth and wagging his head from side to side. He said nothing but his feelings were obvious.

  ‘Well, otherwise it has to be Molly’s husband, John French, and I can’t see him somehow. He’s far too old and that figure here looks heavier, broader than he.’ I was getting tired of the game. It all seemed very unreal. There were just two pictures that I felt warranted murder. One was The Night Prowler. That would not only ruin a man and his accomplice, but would land him in prison. And, I had to admit, that the picture Taken in Adultery would ruin Molly for ever, would cause her to be cast out from her husband’s house. And that my brother was not a man to allow that to happen to a woman that he loved.

  ‘No,’ I said resolutely. ‘That has to be William Jordan if it’s anyone. And if it is him, it may well damage his business badly, might stop people buying pictures from him, I suppose. So I’ll give him five and now let’s finish with this business.’

  Dickens nodded, but said nothing, just put a tick beside my figure. ‘Let’s look at the last picture,’ he said.

  ‘The Root of All Evil,’ I read out. It was a gambling den, but only one figure was identifiable, an elegant lady, one hand was held to her heart in the age-old gesture of despair and the other hand loosely held, splayed out, a set of cards. The cards were immediately identifiable, a two of clubs, a six of diamonds and a three of hearts. A hand of cards that could bear no hope for its owner. The face, like all the other faces in these evil pictures, was unidentifiable, a blank oval of creamy-white, but the rich auburn curls piled on her head, the long slim neck with its close-fitting collar of pearls. All of these were unmistakable.

 

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