Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  Dickens looked up from his notebook. He seemed interested in my last statement. ‘Did you ever mind, Wilkie, that your father thought so highly of Charley, believed that he had infinite promise and yet dismissed your skills?’

  I thought about that for a moment, but for no longer. ‘No,’ I said and I hoped that he could hear a note of sincerity in my voice. ‘No, I didn’t. To be honest, I thought that I had something superior. I—’

  ‘And so you had,’ interrupted Dickens. ‘You have the ability to take pains, the courage to try and fail and then get up and try again. Charley has none of that. If I hadn’t known your father, didn’t know your mother, I would imagine that he had his spirit broken at an early age. But I know that there is no truth in that. He was truly loved and given everything that a boy could ask for, education, training, praise. Perhaps, though, he got too much praise and too easily. He sticks at nothing, Wilkie. Doesn’t even know what style of painting that he wants to adopt. And he’s no boy; not any longer. When was he born? Four years after you, wasn’t it? 1826, is that right? No child, Wilkie; he’s a man. I was a husband and father at that age. And earning a good living. Time he got to his feet, shook himself and became a man.’

  I bowed my head. He was right, of course. And yet, he wasn’t. ‘You forget, Dick,’ I said. ‘You forget that heaven tempers the wind for the shorn lamb. Charley isn’t like you, strong and self-reliant. He’s not even like me. I’m like my mother. I have a happy temperament. Charley is like my father, a man who worried over everything. My father was lucky, or perhaps wise. Or you might say that marriage forced him in one direction, but he decided early on what he could do well and that was to paint landscapes and seascapes. The sort of paintings that people wanted upon their walls; that they liked to look upon. And he worked hard at these, studied the market and studied his craft.’

  ‘And he made a success, Wilkie. Someone told me that he made more money than Constable, who would be the critics’ favourite. Your father didn’t hang around sighing and doctoring himself, he went out there into the market place. He perfected his craft and he sold his pictures. You and your brother profited from that. Neither of you was deprived of anything. You were both sent to school, your wishes for the future were consulted; you were supported and housed. And when he died, so you told me, your father left the enormous sum of eleven thousand pounds which meant that you and your brother had no pressure on you to earn money. Eleven thousand – why that is a fortune indeed. What a provident father you had!’

  Dickens’ voice had an unusual note in it. A note of slight bitterness. I said nothing. It was not for me to probe, but he had said, almost as clearly as though he had put it into words, that we, my brother and I, had had an easy life and had everything done for us. I knew from a few remarks that he had let fall, that he was not treated like that. I knew that from an early age, sometimes he hinted at a very early age, but certainly by the time that he was sixteen he had been his own breadwinner, that he had married at the age of twenty-four and was a father when he was far younger than Charley was now. And yet, something in me protested. Something cried out that it was different; that not all are born alike and that Charley needed care and protection.

  ‘I have to look after my brother, Dick,’ I said stubbornly. ‘Charley is incapable of murder, but he is very likely to drift into trouble and to find himself in court facing judge and jury, just because he did not take care in time, just because he allowed matters to drift. I am sure he is innocent; as sure as I am that you and I are discussing this matter, I do fully believe that someone, some guilty person, is trying to shift the consequences of their own crime onto my brother’s shoulders.’

  Dickens said nothing. He just stood there contemplating me with an unusual degree of attentiveness. I almost expected him to make a note, as he often did whenever he came across an interesting character or an interesting turn of phrase, something which would fuel his imagination in his new book.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said, quite cool and quite self-possessed. ‘Very well, then. So who is this person, this guilty person?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, conscious of a slight drop in the intensity of my voice. Would Dickens think that I, like my brother, was a dilettante, someone who was incapable of pursuing an idea, of accomplishing a task? But, no, he had praised my working ability, my perseverance in accomplishing my novel Basil and now he was also approving of the present work on Hide and Seek. I strove for his good opinion and wanted to show myself as a man who valued method, order and logical thinking.

  ‘Let’s begin at the beginning,’ I said, trying to inject a note of authority into my voice. ‘Weak but amiable’ I had heard someone describe me. At the time, I had been amused. Had raised an eyebrow, cleaned my glasses with a deprecating air, but now I wanted a different description. I wanted Dickens to think highly of me, to esteem me for the qualities of order and method.

  ‘Let’s begin with the canon,’ I said. ‘Now Milton-Hayes wouldn’t have embarked on those five pictures unless he had some buyer in mind. I’d like to know whether it was he or the canon who came up with the titles for the pictures.’

  ‘The canon, I suppose,’ said Dickens, but he had a slight frown between his bushy eyebrows. ‘After all, you know the old proverb. He who pays the piper …’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, though,’ I said eagerly. ‘After all, if it were the canon, one would expect a more conventional, churchman’s list, the seven deadly sins; that’s what I’m thinking of. What are they, those seven deadly sins? I’m sure that I should remember them from all the church-going that I was subjected to when I was young. My father was fanatical about church on Sunday. I hated it and Charley, poor fellow, loved it. Always very devout, is Charley.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Dickens and the frown deepened. ‘One can be devout, render onto God on a Sunday and get on with life on the other days of the week.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said hurriedly. I didn’t want to start him on Charley again and on his lack of moral fibre. ‘Yes, I remember them now; the seven deadly sins: pride; greed; lust; envy; gluttony; wrath; and sloth. That’s what you would expect the canon to have requested. So was it Milton-Hayes that came up with The Night Prowler and Den of Iniquity not to mention Root of All Evil? Not very biblical terms, are they? I do believe that it was Milton-Hayes himself and that he meant it for blackmail. I mean to find out whether Milton-Hayes had been trying that on before. And Winter of Despair. If only we could see the face on that drowned body. There must have been a face. And other faces. Otherwise, why did the murderer hack this one to pieces? I think we must find out more about the canon and where the notion came from. Perhaps we’ll go and see him, take him a letter, even a little present from my mother, say how sorry she was about the murder. How about that? Let’s go and see her now.’

  I bustled him out of the room. I didn’t want to listen to any more criticism about my brother. He would say no more in the presence of my mother. He knew how much Charley meant to my mother and he was too sensitive a man and too chivalrous to upset her by making any criticism about her youngest son.

  We found my mother active in the small sitting room, beside her bedroom. Duster in hand, she was busy sorting out the contents of her cabinet. I caught a glimpse of all of the relics that she had preserved after my father’s death, sketchpad, his paints, his brushes, sketching pens and graphite pencils, knives and even his sticks of charcoal. For a moment her hand caressed the wooden paint palette which he used for outdoor work, but then she hastily replaced that, also, within the drawers which held her treasures and I saw how, surreptitiously, she mopped a few tears from her eyes.

  Dickens, who at times could be as perceptive as any woman, took up a framed painting of myself and my brother when we were young. ‘Two lovely little boys,’ he said admiringly. ‘Look at the pair of them! Look at Charley. Look at those freckles and the curls. A little angel straight out of paradise. Don’t you wish that they never had to grow up, Mrs Collins? I do
with mine.’

  My mother was herself again and prepared to entertain the guest that I had thrust upon her so heedlessly. She made polite enquiries about the Dickens children, exclaimed with amazement at the news that there were now nine of them. Dickens led neatly up to the subject of the canon by telling a funny anecdote about the christening of the latest arrival. ‘I wanted the canon of Rochester to do it,’ he said blandly, ‘but when he heard the likelihood of the other eight little angels attending the ceremony, why he backed out and I couldn’t,’ said Dickens with an earnest face, ‘really blame him as I felt like backing out myself. But I’m sure that the charming man I met at your dinner table would have been more accommodating.’

  ‘We were thinking of going to see him, Mamma.’ I had a better knowledge than my friend of my mother’s sharp brain. It would be no good trying to fool her. We might as well come straight out with it. I had caught the glance that she had given to Charley in that painting of us two when we were young boys and I knew that mentally she was promising our father that she would do all in her power to safeguard his youngest son. ‘I was wondering, Mamma, about whose idea it was to do those pictures and so I thought that Dickens and myself could go and have a word with the canon. But I don’t want to be too obvious, so we thought that I could be a bearer of a letter from you …’

  I said no more. She had understood instantly. In a moment, she had crossed to her desk, had taken out a piece of writing paper and now began to write the note.

  My dear Canon Rutter,

  So, so kind of you to send a note thanking me for the evening. I will say no more about the terrible tragedy, but I do hope that when all is well again that I may be so blessed as to receive you again on a happier occasion. In the meantime, I send my best regards and implore your prayers that this unhappy affair will shortly be settled.

  Yours respectfully,

  Harriet Collins.

  My mother ended the note with a flourish beneath her name, rather like the one that Dickens himself used to decorate his correspondence. She sprinkled the letter with the pounce jar and turned back to me.

  ‘Will that do?’ she asked. There was a question in her eyes which I knew had nothing whatsoever to do with the note which she had just scrawled.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, answering the unspoken question. She bowed her head. I had an impression that she was thinking hard.

  ‘Wilkie, when you are out could you pop into dear John Millais and tell him to come and see us some time. I’m sure he won’t mind. He would cheer up Charley. Oh, what it is to have the artistic temperament. Just like his father; always up in the skies or down in the dumps!’ She smiled bravely. She had said the last words with a touch of her usual spirits and I pressed her hand in admiration for her courage.

  ‘A bunch of flowers for the canon?’ I suggested and added, ‘Dickens and I feel that would be a good touch. I fear that I will be the one saddled with carrying them, though.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Her response came automatically, but she hesitated for a moment with her hand on the bell pull. In the end, she pulled three times. So Sesina was being called. That was unusual. My mother and Dolly were very close: Dolly had been in her service for as long as I could remember. After my father’s death, my mother in her grief clung to Dolly and became quite dependent upon her for a month or two. And even now, Dolly was always called in when my mother wanted to discuss something. I would have thought that the two of them would have mulled over the question of suitable flowers for a canon – something that he might like to have in his room, or, alternatively, be suitable to be placed on an altar in the church.

  But no, she had summoned Sesina and as soon as the girl appeared at the door I knew that there was some sort of secret between them.

  ‘Sesina, did you do as I asked you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  There was something rather stagey about the question and the answer. And the way in which my mother seemed to relax and then to put in the request for a bunch of flowers from the conservatory.

  ‘Not too big,’ I warned. ‘We don’t want to be walking through the streets behind a moving flower bush. On second thoughts, I’d better come with you and make sure that they are suitable. I’ll just be a minute, Dickens. You can entertain my mother with an account of that play we went to see the other night. The one where I fell asleep. She keeps pestering me about it.’ I pocketed the letter and rose to my feet. There was something going on and I was determined to get it out of Sesina.

  ‘So what’s the big secret, then, Sesina?’ I queried as we went into the conservatory. I could see her thinking about her response as she made a fuss about a chair being in the wrong place and ostentatiously picked up a dead leaf which had blown in.

  ‘Secret, Mr Collins?’ Her voice held a question, but I was not fooled, nor was I impressed by the title of Mr Collins. Although my father had died over six years ago, I was always known as ‘Mr Wilkie’ in my mother’s household.

  ‘Oh, come on, Sesina, we’re friends, aren’t we? Tell me what this is all about. You and my mother are up to something.’

  ‘Up to something, Mr Collins? What would I be up to?’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me, then, are you? Don’t suppose it’s all that interesting, is it? Women’s secrets,’ I added teasingly, but she was unmoved. She gave me a quick glance and it puzzled me. Almost a glance of exasperation, as though I were being very slow to take a hint. She turned her back on me, took the flower-cutting scissors from the shelf and began to snip. A bright girl, I thought. Quick and competent, snipping off bright red flowers with small heads and short stems. She said no more and I said no more. I had an uneasy feeling that I might just, in a male, blundering fashion, put my foot in it, if I pressed for an answer.

  I waited in silence; then, waited while she completed the modest bunch of flowers, waited while she wound the stems with a strand of raffia. ‘Thank you, Sesina,’ I said coldly.

  She said nothing to that, just gave a quick bob. Not at all like Sesina, just as though she were acting a part. I went back up to my mother’s sitting room feeling rather puzzled. I could hear Dickens’ voice as I went up the stairs. Just his voice. My mother, normally the most talkative of women, did not seem to be saying a word. I didn’t bother going in, just opened the door, said goodbye to my mother, while observing that Dickens was quite glad to get away and that he had run out of subjects that might be supposed to interest my mother.

  We went down the stairs together, took our coats from the hallstand. I was just extricating my umbrella from the over-full umbrella stand when Dolly appeared. But it was not to minister to us, but in answer to the doorbell.

  ‘Oh, Mr Wilkie,’ she said, sounding somewhat flustered. ‘I didn’t know that you were going. The mistress didn’t ring.’ And then she went to the door and opened it to Inspector Field.

  ‘Come in, sir,’ she said and bobbed to him as though he were a frequent guest. ‘The mistress is expecting you. She’s up in her sitting room.’

  He had looked slightly surprised to see us, slightly taken aback, but he said nothing beyond a greeting and did not propose that we accompany him. I picked up the bunch of scarlet geraniums and feeling rather a fool, as though I was off to court a young lady, I followed Dickens down the steps.

  Once I reached the pavement, though, I stopped abruptly. ‘You don’t think that he has tracked down Charley, do you, Dick?’ I asked anxiously. I would never forgive myself if I just walked off and allowed poor Charley, my very vulnerable young brother, to face up to matters on his own.

  Dickens shook his head. ‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘Didn’t you hear the servant? She said, “The mistress is expecting you”, no, Wilkie, your mother sent for him. I wonder why. And I wonder why she didn’t mention it when we were there. I could have given her some advice. I would have told her to be careful. Inspector Field is a very clever and subtle man, but he is also a most ambitious man and he wants an arrest as soon as possible. I passed by St Pa
ul’s yesterday afternoon and those pamphlet sellers were all shouting about the murder – “Painter’s Painful End”, “The Colour of Blood”, “A Picture of Death” – all that sort of thing. Quite soon even the respectable newspapers will be demanding an arrest and there will be questions in Parliament. I hope your mother is not doing anything dramatic again, trying to pretend that she did the murder herself or anything like that. A mother sacrificing herself for her son. I think I managed to convince the inspector that it was maternal love, but if she goes on asserting this, he might just decide to take her seriously.’

  I made an impatient swipe at a lamp post with my bunch of geraniums and Dickens took them carefully from me. ‘My favourite flower,’ he said reproachfully and buried his nose in the scarlet cluster.

  ‘They don’t smell,’ I said impatiently. I suspected him of trying to change the subject. I was regretting bitterly that I had not taken off my hat and my coat and accompanied the inspector to my mother’s room. My mother was a creature of impulse. I bitterly regretted my father’s death. He was always wary of my mother’s impulses, always talked sense to her. He was the artist, but she was the one who had the artistic temperament. I saw Dickens look at me curiously and so I voiced the thought aloud.

  ‘I’m worried about my mother as well as about Charley. I’m afraid of her starting some sort of wild goose chase. She is a very impulsive and imaginative person. She wanted to be an actress, but her family wouldn’t allow her,’ I explained. ‘They persuaded her into being a governess instead and she hated that.’

  ‘Your grandparents were wise,’ said Dickens grimly. ‘Your mother makes enough drama in her private life without ever needing to go on the stage.’

  I laughed and began to feel a little better. My mother had probably had one of her, so-called, good ideas. My poor father used to clasp his head in despair when she made the familiar announcement: ‘I’ve got a good idea.’ However, Charley and I used to love her ‘good ideas’. They always led to something interesting and exciting. She was the one who had got the idea, when a welcome legacy had come to my father, that the whole family should decamp and go to Italy so that my father could study the great Italian art works and could paint the wonderful Mediterranean beautiful scenery in his own particularly English style. It had proved to be a ‘good idea’ as my father had made quite a lot of money from these works of art and I had had a wonderful time. Came back brown as a sailor, speaking fluent Italian and having learned to get on really well with those of the opposite sex. I decided to stop worrying about my mother’s vagaries and to concentrate on solving the problem of that guest list that the murdered man had drawn up so carefully.