by Issy Brooke
“Management and forethought,” Mrs Davenport declared, “ensures that this will save you a great deal of money and food waste. To waste food, my dear girl, is a sin. And you must set an example to the lower orders, who do not appreciate the value of things unless we teach them.”
“Mother, this costs us more, because of the staff we need to serve it.”
“Nonsense. They must become more efficient. Your staff are numerous and idle. You have spoiled them and you are in danger of ruining their souls. In fact you can dine like this with far fewer staff than you currently have...”
The polite disagreement rumbled on through the fish course, meats, salad and ices. The cook was usually a marvel at producing tasty food but even Marianne’s hunger could not persuade her to eat too much of the dry, limp slices of beef. There was a lack of seasoning, but she didn’t mention it. Mrs Davenport seemed to relish the stuff. Maybe it was some kind of penance, like an edible hair shirt.
Mrs Davenport then insisted that she retire to the drawing room with Phoebe and Marianne, leaving poor Price alone with brandy and cigars. On a quiet informal night, he would usually follow them immediately, but smoking had now been banned from the drawing room as Mrs Davenport made it into a more “feminine space where we might work upon self-improvement,” which meant, in practise, tedious discussions about narrow topics, and not nearly enough wine.
Marianne tried to make eye contact with Phoebe but her cousin looked away stubbornly, and anyway, what was Marianne trying to convey? Her own frustration? Phoebe would be feeling the same way. They settled themselves in the drawing room.
Mrs Davenport asked Marianne how her day had been spent. Phoebe leapt in, immediately, asking her mother for advice about suitable hairstyles, and Marianne simply stared at her own hands. Eventually Price came in, and Mrs Davenport asked him to read some quiet, sensible literature to them. It had to be something dry, clever, moral and without a whiff of scandal. Marianne was surprised that there was such a book in the house; Mrs Davenport must have brought it with her.
She half-listened, letting her eyes close. Phoebe had now been bullied into needlepoint, and was stabbing viciously at the fabric in the frame. Marianne hoped it was some effigy of her mother, picked out in shades of blood. She herself plotted how she might remove the pages from the terrible book Price was reading, and insert something far racier. He probably wouldn’t notice. He’d drone on automatically, but it would amuse Phoebe.
And at least it stopped Mrs Davenport from plaguing Marianne further and getting onto the topic of her marriage prospects. At the very first polite moment, Marianne pleaded a headache, and fled the room. At first she congratulated herself on escaping unscathed.
But then she sank onto her bed and despair threatened to creep over her once more. The night was young. She wanted to chat to Phoebe and laugh and be merry, relaxing in front of the fire. But even that had been curtailed – a fire was an extravagance on a warm autumn night! – and they were forced to wear heavy shawls and suffer a chill for the good of their souls.
No, she wouldn’t despair. She’d survived worse than this. More than survived: triumphed. She would act.
Tomorrow, she resolved, in spite of lack of funds, she was going to go house-hunting. She did not have enough for a decent sort of house. But she could afford something, some kind of room somewhere; and anywhere was better than here.
If the place had rats, at least she knew a lad who could scare them away for her.
MARIANNE WAS USUALLY so organised and efficient. But for the second day running, she went into town without remembering to post the letter to Inspector Gladstone. It would only come to mind once she had gone almost to the station, and it was too far to turn back. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, I’ll do it.
It irked her but she knew she was simply avoiding the main issue. She didn’t want to declare herself a failure. What else could she do, though? Short of pulling up every floorboard in Rosedene, that was.
That morning had been a particular trial. Breakfast had been silent because no one had attended the early morning family prayer session that Phoebe’s mother had instigated. Mrs Cogwell was threatening to leave, but Mrs Davenport had poured scorn on that suggestion, saying that the cook would find it difficult to secure a better position than at Woodfurlong – especially as she would not be given a good “character” for leaving. She had, as yet, not persuaded Price to dismiss some of the extraneous household staff but the writing seemed to be on the wall for the male servants. Either Barrington or Dry would have to go. Marianne wondered how they’d decide. Maybe they would fight for it. The image of the two stiff, starched men, stripped to their waists in a bare-knuckle boxing ring, kept her entertained for a while, until she remembered there was a very real possibility of losing one of them, and she grew sad.
And then angry.
Phoebe had tried to hide the newspapers from her, and Marianne was instantly suspicious. She wrestled them from her cousin in the library while Mrs Davenport was downstairs somewhere, subjecting the staff to fresh terrors.
“What?” Marianne said. “Save time. Tell me the worst right now.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“It was your mother, I know. What has she done?” But even as she asked, she knew the answer. She turned to the matrimonial columns, the lists of adverts from people seeking partners, a surprisingly well-used section of the newspaper. Due to the anonymity and the codes, she struggled to find the one that pertained to herself.
“M, not yet 30, dark, with a fine figure and an interest in self-improvement. Wishes to correspond with a gentleman with a view to matrimony. Must have own income, and be of professional standing.”
“Is that me?” Marianne asked, hopefully. “Although I am not sure about the ‘not yet thirty’ part. I’m nowhere near thirty.”
“I think maybe it is you; or no, what about this one?” Phoebe read one out. “This has your name. Marianne, 23, tall and well-developed, keen interest in modern matters, seeking to correspond with steady, sensible older gentleman with strong moral fibre and sense of duty.”
“Oh, that will be it. She wants someone to rule me,” she said. “I will not stand for it. When is she leaving?”
“When you are married. You had better be quick about it. Choose someone old. And you do know poisons. Things might be managed, if you know what I am saying.”
“Hush, Phoebe! I am going into town today.”
“Why? To find a husband? Can I come?”
Marianne opened her mouth but her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t told Phoebe of her plans. “I’m going to see Simeon,” she said at last.
“Oh, how lovely. I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“And what about your mother?”
Phoebe’s shoulders sagged. “I know, I know. I must stay here and be dutiful. Well, say hello to him from me.”
Marianne folded the newspaper back into quarters, and headed out – forgetting the letter to Inspector Gladstone yet again.
MARIANNE WAS WAYLAID from all side as she moved through the teeming streets. She stopped by a seller of hot pies and bought two, and could not resist the calls of a muffin man either. And so her meagre savings slipped on through her fingers, just like water. She loaded herself up with parcels and paper bags as she pushed her way along the pavement.
“Ho! Hello, there! Miss Starr!” a man called out, and she caught sight of a frantically waving arm. It was attached to a young man called Percy, and on his other arm was a woman she had studied with, Miss Mary Sewell, aspiring thespian, committed bluestocking, and now thoroughly in love.
“Hello, you two,” she said. She attempted to embrace Mary and they laughed as the pies were squashed. “So, what is new?”
“I was going to ask you that, Marianne, you disappointment! I have been hearing all about you, everywhere I go.”
“Oh, those blasted marriage adverts? They are not of my doing, I can assure you. And anyway, you are in no position to judge another woman’s choice
s,” she added, looking at Percy. Mary had once vowed to never even look in a man’s direction.
Mary’s rosebud mouth fell open. “What marriage advertisements? Oh, Marianne!”
Marianne waved the idea away and dropped a pie. Percy gallantly scooped it up for her, and refolded the paper over it, tightly. “It is no matter. A misunderstanding, that is all. What are you referring to?”
“Louisa Newman,” said Mary. “Is she lying? She seems honest and without guile, but I can hardly believe what she is saying, and of course, she is not well known around here; what is her past?”
Marianne gripped her parcels tightly and drew herself up, ready to go out ono a hunt if necessary. “Her past is murky. What is she saying?” she demanded. “When have you met her?”
“She was at a public talk given by that lady author, Mrs Juniper, and afterward she quite held court. Everyone listened to her. She said that you had declared that the only explanation for the manifestations at Rosedene could be ghosts!”
“I have said nothing of the sort. What rot!”
“Then what is causing the noises and so on?”
“I don’t know.”
“There you are, then! She said you could find nothing, and the police could find nothing, and therefore the screaming was coming from a place far beyond human knowledge.”
“Poppycock. Utter bunkum. Just because I could not explain it – and I admit it, I could not, yet – that does not mean the reason is otherworldly. Nonsense. It is like saying that we cannot explain water so it must not really exist.”
“No, that does not follow at all,” Mary said, who had studied natural sciences and natural philosophy just as Marianne had. “We can explain water. But if you could not explain the noise...”
“There was a boy there, who was creating things, automata in a way, and I suspect that he is behind it all. In fact, I am sure of it.”
“Without proof, Marianne, there is nothing. You know the method. Prove it – or it means naught.”
“I would if I could,” she said. “So this talk is all over town, is it? Spread by Mrs Newman herself?”
“Indeed so. I could hardly believe it but now that I speak to you, I see that it is true.”
“Please, Mary, if you have any affection left for me, do not let the rumours spread any further. It damages my professional credibility.”
“Of course not, my dear. But Marianne, although I will not speak of it to anyone again, if you cannot solve it ... what of your credibility then?”
“I know,” she said grimly. “I know.”
Nine
“Is the whole world against me?” Marianne wailed as she stood in Simeon’s rooms. She had laid out the slightly-soiled pies and muffins, and he had provided hot tea and semi-clean plates. Then he had asked her a question which provoked her outcry.
“I am not against you!” Simeon said hastily. “I only ask because, well, all this was your idea in the first place.”
She sank into a chair and then sprang to her feet again as she felt something shift against the small of her back. “No, not that one,” Simeon said, and steered her to a safer chair, which looked identical to the first.
“Simeon, I would love to help you, but I’ve just loaned money to Phoebe,” she said. “And I simply must leave that house. I need what little I have left...”
“Of course, of course,” he said. “Forget that I asked. I could visit the moneylenders perhaps, instead.”
She felt guilt slide its tentacles around her neck. He had asked for a little money, as a loan, so that he could purchase a final few parts for the cunning box he was building.
And he was right: by building this for someone else, he was acting on her advice that he leave the stage work to others.
“How much do you need?” she said, wearily.
He told her, adding, “It won’t be for long. I shall finish it within the week, and as soon as I deliver it to them, they will pay me. They will pay me handsomely. You can still go hunting for a place to live today. You will have the money back before you sign anything.”
“Oh, Simeon.”
She ate the pie mechanically, and took the muffin with her to eat later. Her mouth was dry and she felt flat and defeated.
Well, she thought, as I am in this gloomy frame of mind, I might as well get everything else over with too. I cannot feel any worse, after all. She left Simeon’s street and strode away.
She headed for the police station where Inspector Gladstone ruled, and decided it was now time to subject herself to his condemnation, in person rather than by letter.
But as she had not posted the letter, admitting her failure, there remained within her heavy heart one single glimmer of stubborn, determined hope.
Perhaps he would give her one final chance.
HE DID NOT.
In fact, he didn’t give her a chance to speak at all. He met her at the front desk, and immediately drew her to a small bare office rather than his usual one, and urged her into a wooden chair. He perched on the edge of the heavy desk, and leaned forward, clasping his hands together.
“If you are here about the affair at Rosedene, I must warn you that I have some distressing news,” he said. “Prepare yourself.”
She knew. She knew immediately. He was using the tone of voice that people only ever used when someone had died. Her only question was, “Who?”
“Miss Dorothea Newman has died,” he said.
“Oh, goodness.” She nodded her head and let it sink in for a respectful moment. Then she said, “She was an old lady, of course. I hope that she rests in peace.”
There was something off in Inspector Gladstone’s face. He pressed his lips together like he was trying not to say something. She wanted to know what he wasn’t telling her. “How did she die?” she asked, lightly.
He sat up straight. “Why would you not assume it was natural causes?”
“Because of your face. You are as clear as a telegraph.”
“Hmm. Well, then. I should have you here interviewing suspects and reading their phrenology for the truth. She was suffocated.”
“Good Lord! With what? A pillow? Oh, forgive my indecorous questions. I ask only as a scientist.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “And I read you, too, and your curiosity is not only as a scientist. But still, I will tell you. She had a bag of sand that was heated in the kitchen and placed in her bed, of a night, to keep her feet warm.”
“They used that to do the evil deed? Oh, the poor woman. And who did it? You have them in custody, I suppose.”
“Our investigation is ongoing.”
“Inspector Gladstone!” she said, firmly. “I have been in that house – more times than you, I would wager. I have slept there and dined there. You do not have a wide choice of suspects. Three people and Miss Dorothea lived there. So, which one was it? Or is there yet another player I do not know about? Or even a passing house-breaker?”
“We are inclining to think it was, indeed, a random passing act by a thief who might have broken in,” he told her. “Such a physical act of murder is not a woman’s way; you ladies tend more to poison and so on, so that rules out both Mrs Newman the younger, and Mrs Peck the housekeeper. As for the boy that lives there, he is young, weak, and a good middle class boy with a solid education. It is deeply unlikely to have been him.”
Marianne had to bow her head to bite back her sceptical laughter. All of those suppositions were nonsense, to her. If she had to kill someone, and the only method to hand was a bag of sand, why: she’d certainly do it. And the boy, Tobias, was quiet and bitter. She saw no reason why he might do it, but he ought to be considered capable.
“I must help you,” she said.
Now it was his turn to splutter with laughter, and he did not hide it. He turned it into a slightly condescending smile. “Miss Starr, I do appreciate the offer but we are not quite so desperate as to...”
His smile faded.
She glared at him.
“Forgive me,” he
said, in a lower tone.
“Not so desperate as to employ ladies?”
“Worse,” he said. “I was going to say, scientists.”
“Oh. Ah.” She gathered her thoughts. “Inspector Gladstone, something is very wrong in that house. Miss Newman tried to tell me that before she died. She said there was more than rats at large there. And what of the noises? Someone is up to something. I do not trust Mrs Newman nor Tobias Newman. Both of them are hiding something, I am sure of it. I have been there. I have seen and heard things. Mrs Newman is pleasant and warm to me. She might speak to me about matter she would hide from you. And I feel as if I have unfinished business there. Let me assist!”
“What would you do, then?” he said, folding his arms. “What would be your course of action now? Would you arrest them both?”
“I would be looking for evidence first,” she said. “Even I know that. I would have to think about this.”
“You do not have long. We do not have long. An arrest must be made to calm the public’s fears. And to allay my superiors who are biting at my heels.”
“I shall get to the bottom of this,” she said, rising to her feet.
“Do not get in the way of any of my officers,” he warned her. “Make your own enquiries if you must, but we are in charge, not you.”
“I understand completely. I do have one question. Who now inherits the house?”
“As to that,” he said. “I do not yet know.”
MARIANNE WENT HOME. Over the next two days, she holed herself up in her study-cum-day room adjoining her bedroom, as much as she could. She went to the main meals and sat in silence, and attended the breakfast prayers, and generally tried to avoid Mrs Davenport as much as possible. When asked a question directly, she murmured a pat response that quoted as much scripture as possible, and agreed to every opinion that was put to her.
Now she sat at a wide table set in a bay window, and let the sunlight warm the skin of her face and hands. She could see Fletcher, the gardener, in the distance, taking cuttings from a bushy box hedge. So, Ann Davenport hadn’t got her clutches into the outdoor staff, not yet. It would only be a matter of time before they were reduced in number, of course. She would expect the same standards of care in the garden to continue, to set an example, but she would want it to be achieved with fewer people.
