Oh, Mrs Collins, I’ve just found this. It’s belonging to Mrs Gummidge. It got caught up in a cushion in the dining room. Should I pop around and give it back to her?
Mrs Collins lifted her head from her slip of paper as Sesina entered the room, not waiting for Mrs Collins to invite her in. Mrs Collins’ first finger was steeped in ink and she had a spot of ink on her chin. Sesina smiled and tried to make her voice apologetic.
‘Oh, ma’am, I’ve interrupted you in your book. I’m sorry for that. What page are you on now?’
It worked. She knew that it would.
‘Page twenty,’ said Mrs Collins proudly. ‘It’s all true, you know, Sesina. Well, most of it anyway. Don’t want to make it too dull.’
‘I bet everyone will be queuing up to buy it, ma’am. I would, I know. You’ve had such an interesting life. You’ll sell as much as Mr Dickens when Bleak House came out.’ Sesina thought for a moment. She had been at Urania Cottage when that had come out and she remembered all the fuss that was made about it and how Mrs Morson organized the girls to make a banner with the words ‘Bleak House’ and the number thirty-four thousand embroidered upon it. That had been just the first week, of course. Better beef it up a bit.
‘Bet you sell a hundred thousand copies,’ she said encouragingly and Mrs Collins beamed and pretended to laugh.
‘Oh, Sesina!’ She held her two hands framing her face as though to hide her blushes. Such an actress, thought Sesina. You had to like her sometimes. She grudged the thought. Made her seem soft. ‘Don’t get soft and don’t let the bastards get you down’; her friend Isabella used to say that and it was probably good advice.
In any case she was doing Mrs Collins and all the Collins family a favour if she managed to pin the murder on Mrs Hermione Gummidge, so quickly she said, ‘Dolly says that you want to speak to me, ma’am.’
‘Did I?’ Mrs Collins was startled enough to knock her pen from the inkwell. Sesina rushed forward and grabbed a piece of blotting paper.
‘There now, ma’am, as good as new. Hardly a mark to be seen. Would have been terrible if it went over your words, wouldn’t it? You mightn’t be able to find them again, might you?’
‘You’re quite right, Sesina. And especially words that I’ve written first thing in the morning. They’re often the best that I write even if I spend a whole day writing.’
‘It’s my fault,’ said Sesina with a catch in her voice that sounded rather good, she thought. ‘I startled you. I didn’t mean to startle you. Oh, and ma’am,’ she said, quickly moving on while Mrs Collins was still a bit embarrassed about the mistake, ‘I found Mrs Gummidge’s handkerchief under the cushion of the chair where she was sitting. It’s got her initials on it. Should I ask Dolly to take it around to her house?’
That was a good move. Dolly was always complaining about her fallen arches and how much her feet ached. Any errands that needed to be run would usually be handed over to Sesina. Mrs Collins didn’t hesitate. She had already picked up her pen and was forming an elaborate letter ‘I’ and following it with ‘loved’. Over her shoulder, she said casually, ‘Just take it around yourself, Sesina. Your young legs will enjoy the exercise. Tell Cook that I sent you, won’t you?’
Won’t I just? Sesina giggled to herself as she went quickly and lightly down the stairs to the basement.
‘Going out, Mrs Barnett, off on an errand for Mrs Collins,’ she said, opening the door and calling the message across to where the cook stood sieving flour for the pastry.
‘Where are you off to?’ Mrs Barnett didn’t sound pleased. She had a large bowl of plums sitting on the table waiting for Sesina to slice and remove stones.
‘Just going around to Mrs Gummidge’s place; got a message for her.’ Sesina enjoyed the look on both women’s faces. A message meant a tip in all probability and Dolly would have put up with her fallen arches in order to get one of those. Sesina gave a wink.
‘Be good while I’m out, both of you,’ she said daringly and fled before the cook could explode.
It would have been Mrs Gummidge who had tried to get her into trouble. The more she thought about it, the more she felt convinced. After all, why should the canon bother? No one suspected him. It would definitely have been Mrs Gummidge. She was probably terrified that the police had recognized the portrait of her daughter in The Night Prowler and she wanted someone else to be arrested for the murder before any questions were asked.
THIRTEEN
It didn’t take Sesina long to pop around to Balcombe Street. The door was opened to her, not promptly and not by a well-dressed housemaid or parlour maid, but by a slovenly-looking kitchen maid. Looked exhausted, poor thing, and there was a pail and a mop dumped in the middle of the hall and a deck scrubber leaning against the wall. She had been interrupted in a scrubbing session and the hall certainly needed it. The floor was filthy, the stair carpet had a dark track in the centre of each step, the hall table had a layer of dust and Sesina could see ancient stains on the wallpaper. The hall certainly needed sorting out and this girl didn’t look up to doing it on her own. Exhausted, she seemed. She stared dubiously at Sesina and looked as if she didn’t know what to do.
But then a door at the side of the hall opened and Mrs Hermione Gummidge herself came out of what looked like a dining room. The girl, her daughter Florence, was inside, piling plates and cups onto a tray. One servant only, probably, guessed Sesina and she was interested in this. Perhaps it was of vital importance to Mrs Gummidge to marry her daughter, Florence, off to a rich man. That was why she came around and disrupted the dinner arrangements at the Collins’ household.
Hard luck for her that Mr Milton-Hayes got himself murdered, thought Sesina. But perhaps good luck for the daughter. She shot a quick glance through the dining-room door before it was shut in her face. Had Florence wanted to marry this man, Milton-Hayes, or was it just her mother’s idea? Perhaps she was having fun stealing jewellery with his daring lordship, the heir to the Earl of Ennis. Sesina imagined that it might be an interesting way of making a living, especially if your name was Lord Douglas. And, of course, if Florence married him, why then she would be Lady Douglas and the two of them could get themselves asked to all of the smart house parties in London or in the country. Mr Wilkie was always going off to these Friday to Monday affairs. She must ask him about them. Pretend to be writing a book. That always worked with Mr Wilkie. He’d talk for ever about making money from writing stories. ‘No reason why you shouldn’t make a fortune, Sesina, as long as you stick to writing what you know about. I’ll give you a few tips if you like. Write it about a housemaid who is having a lot of fun, fooling her employer,’ he had said to her once and then he had winked at her.
‘Mrs Collins from Hanover Terrace sent me around, ma’am. Sent me with a message for you.’ Sesina was determined not to waste her time talking to the woman in this hall and in front of the servant. That would give her no opportunity to carry out her plan.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Gummidge impatiently. She looked around at the mess in the hall and then jerked her head impatiently as some water was sent flying from the bucket.
‘Shall I come back later, ma’am?’ It was taking a chance and she might be reported to Mrs Collins for impudence, but Sesina thought that she could talk Mrs Collins around easily. For a moment, though, she held her breath. Mrs Gummidge was hesitating. Probably curious as to what the message was. Could be another invitation to a dinner party for all she knew.
‘You’d better come upstairs,’ she said then and Sesina picked her way through the drier parts of the hall and followed the woman up the stairs. Take a fortnight to get this place properly cleaned up, she thought. Even the balustrade bars were coated thick with dust. To her satisfaction they went up two flights of stairs, up to the bedrooms.
At least this place is a bit better. Probably keeps it clean and tidy herself. Sesina followed Mrs Gummidge in and then took the package from her basket. She had purposely wrapped it in several layers of tissue paper and had ti
ed up the whole thing with several knots in the twine. While Mrs Gummidge was struggling to open it, she had a quick look around. A breakfast tray on the small table by the bed. And a spoon on the edge of the saucer. Sesina’s eye went to it and then she relaxed.
Not much of a breakfast. Tea and toast. A teapot, a plate with toast crumbs, a butter dish with a slab of butter, unevenly cut. No refinements of butter balls or butter curls. Wouldn’t suit Mrs Collins. But then Mrs Collins had a decent, hardworking husband who had left her a fine sum of money, if the cook was to be believed. Mrs Gummidge seemed to have only her wits and her ambitions for her moon-faced daughter. Sesina waited for the cry for assistance.
‘I can’t open these knots; haven’t you ever been shown how to tie up a parcel properly?’
In a bit of a state, that woman. Voice very high and a bit cracked. Hands shaking. Worried about the picture that seemed to show her daughter working hand and glove with a night prowler. Worried about this death. Worried for herself, perhaps? Or was she worried about her daughter?
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Sesina undid the knots and held out the handkerchief, obligingly unfolding it and displaying the corner where the initials H and G had been embroidered in a distinctive dark brown thread. ‘Mrs Collins thought that it might be your handkerchief, ma’am. She said that them were your initials.’
Mrs Gummidge gave it an indifferent glance. ‘Not mine,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve always embroidered mine in love knots.’ And with an air more for displaying her superior taste than for convincing Sesina she took from her pocket a delicate piece of lawn and displayed it to her.
‘Yes, of course, ma’am, it’s quite different, isn’t it? Looks pretty, doesn’t it? Ever so nice with the letters stitched like that in blue and pink.’ So these were love knots, were they? Well, no chance of her not owning up to that handkerchief. She’d never be believed for one minute if she said that it wasn’t hers.
Sesina’s heart fluttered slightly with excitement. There was no doubt but that the handkerchief was distinctive. She watched the woman replace it into her pocket. Immediately she turned the focus.
‘You’ve dropped a spoon, ma’am,’ she said, bending down and poking under the small lamp table and then moving slightly aside.
It always worked. It was human nature to bend down when told that you’ve dropped something. Sesina waited that fraction of a second while the woman lowered her bulk. Easy then to take a spoon from the tray.
‘Got it,’ she said and proffered the spoon to Mrs Gummidge.
Already the handkerchief with its distinctive initials was deep in her pocket. ‘I’d better be off, ma’am,’ she said. ‘We’re busy this morning. We’ve a couple of women in to do the washing and they always slow the rest of the work up. You know what they are like! Want this and want that.’
Mrs Gummidge, she guessed, never employed washerwomen, but a flow of conversation always made an easy way out of a house and gave no chance for someone to look around and miss that object which was now snugly hidden in a pocket. Sesina walked briskly down the stairs, trod her way through the puddles in the hallway. Once outside she made her way towards the nearest butcher shop. She spent only a few minutes there, hovering between a tray of chops and a tray of beefsteaks and then left with the air of one who is in a hurry.
When she came to Hanover Terrace, she mounted the steps and rang the front door bell. She could always pretend that she had forgotten her key to the basement, but, as it happened, Dolly was so pleased to see her back, that she didn’t even mention the matter. Just opened the door and ushered her in with the air of someone who is bursting to tell the latest news.
As she had guessed, the police were in the house. The inspector, according to Dolly, was in the painting room with Mr Wilkie and Mr Dickens had insisted on staying with him. Made a big fuss about Mr Charles not being available for questioning, according to Dolly, and Mr Dickens had calmed him down. Mr Wilkie had ordered a tray of tea and biscuits for the three of them and since that had been brought in, not a sound had been heard from the room. The other two policemen were sitting by the kitchen fire and waiting for orders. According to them, they were waiting to search the house and look for clues. Very puffed up with themselves, they were.
The mistress, said Dolly, was in a terrible state. Ever so upset and worried.
Sesina nodded. The bloodstained handkerchief was still in her pocket and she needed to get rid of it quickly before there was a search of the house.
‘That’s never a smell of burning coming up there, is it?’ she asked, pointing her nose in the direction of the back stairs and puckering her nostrils.
Dolly fled. Sesina half-smiled. Poor old Doll. Easy as anything to trick.
With a quick glance around she went across the hall to the dining room. All in perfect order after the dinner party. The family took meals in the small parlour when there were no guests. The dining-room chairs were still in the positions where she had placed them when she and Mrs Collins prepared for the dinner reception. Three chairs across the top of the table. Three down at the bottom and four on either side. She remembered very clearly where everyone had sat. She had placed the name cards before the meal and then served them from all of the dishes during that eight-course dinner.
Mrs Hermione Gummidge had been at the bottom of the table on the right-hand side of Mr Wilkie, in between him and his brother, Mr Charles. Sesina went straight down. The cushions had all been shaken up and dusted earlier that next day, of course, but luckily, she herself was the one who had been given that task. She would plead feeling unwell, no, better still, being called away at that very moment. She didn’t care really. It wasn’t a hanging offence to forget to shake up every single one of the cushions. Nothing to do with the police, anyway, and they would never get it out of her that she was telling a lie. Quickly she lifted the cushion on that chair at the bottom of the table; squeezed up the bloodstained handkerchief; dug it in between the wooden edge of the chair and its removable seat. And then she replaced the cushion. Now it would be up to the police to find it. And, of course, if they didn’t, well then she would have to point them in that direction. Have a little word with the youngest policeman. He looked easy to fool, she thought.
She was just about to leave the room when she heard them in the hall outside. Instantly she went to the sideboard and took out the silver, and was busy polishing the knives with a soft duster when they came into the room. They were pleased to see her. Getting bored with searching. She could see that immediately. It’s a boring and frustrating job to be searching for something, but not know what that something was. Something, anything suspicious. That would have been their orders.
‘Give us a kiss,’ said the older of the two.
Sesina gave him a scornful glance. ‘You’d be better off finding who murdered that poor man, wouldn’t you, instead of being cheeky. You watch your step, young man, or I’ll be having a word with Inspector Field.’
‘Oh, so that’s how you spend your free time, a nice little girl like you. Having words with Inspector Field. An old man like that, ugly too.’ The policeman laughed uproariously at his own joke. Sesina gave him a scornful glance.
‘Why don’t you search the room? See if you can find anything. They was all sitting here, you know, sitting in this very room and the body lying cold just where they left it.’
‘Well, actually, by the time that they were all sitting in here in this dining room, the body was in the police mortuary. We’d found it hours before.’
That was a bit of a set-back. Sesina hadn’t known that it had been found as early as that. Still, didn’t make too much of a difference.
‘Well, go on then, why don’t you have a good search of this room?’ she asked innocently. ‘They all came in and sat around this table. I can tell you where everyone sat.’
‘And if I sat on one of the chairs, would you sit on my knee?’ This was the younger one. Getting brave.
Sesina gave a sigh. It was a nuisance for someone like hers
elf to have to deal with such stupid fellows.
‘Where did Mr Charles Collins sit?’ The older fellow started to look behind the curtains, but he gave her a quick, shrewd look.
‘Over there, just near the bottom of the table.’ Sesina saw her opportunity. She walked across and indicated the chair and then she picked up the cushion, shook it; looked under the chair, tilting it onto its back legs. She moved the chair and indicated the space of clean carpet beneath it.
‘Nothing there,’ she announced.
‘Wants to join the force,’ said the older policeman with a wink at the other fellow.
‘And Mrs Molly French sat here, on the left-hand side of Mr Charles.’ Sesina went through the same procedure with this chair, shaking the cushion thoroughly, tilting the chair and then spinning it around on one of its back legs. I should be on the stage; still better get on with it, she told herself. Any minute now they’ll get bored and be off.
‘And Mrs Hermione Gummidge sat here on Mr Charles’s right,’ she said, ‘in between him and Mr Wilkie.’ She picked up the cushion with a flourish and then stopped with it held mid-air.
‘Blimey!’ she said dramatically. ‘Look at that.’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Is that …?’ She gulped hard.
‘Looks like blood on that there wipe, don’t it, Tim?’ He was getting excited.
‘Call the inspector.’ And the other one all excited, too. The blood really did look good. A nice dark red colour. Sesina hoped that it would impress the inspector. She took her hand away from her mouth.
‘That was where Mrs Hermione Gummidge was sitting. She’s the mother of Miss Florence. You know the one that is in the picture of The Night Prowler, the lady who is peeping in the door.’
No harm in spelling it out a bit for them. In any case, Mrs Gummidge was a good choice. She was a tough-looking woman. She hoped that the inspector would think the same as she did. Where was he, anyway?
Winter of Despair Page 15