by J. D. Oswald
He called to Meg and collected her lead from the hallway table. A brisk walk through the Water Meadows before breakfast would do him good. He headed away from the city and through the gate to the College playing fields. The cricket pavilion was locked and boarded up for the winter. The sky was a solid grey mass of rain-bearing cloud, no chink of brightness visible anywhere on the horizon; it was going to be one of those days of constant gloom.
He let Meg off the lead and she bounded away, nose to the muddy grass. He followed the dog across the field to a narrow wooden bridge over the fast-flowing leat, the ‘troll bridge’ the younger boys often called it until sneers of older pupils forced such silliness from them. He crossed over to the far bank and took the path northwards towards the town. Meg leapt into the long grass bordering the water and then promptly toppled in head first. She thrashed about for a moment and then with a joyous yelp splashed on ahead. Creswell shouted at her to come to heel but wildness had taken over. When at last she emerged, her coat was entwined with plant growth and sticks. Creswell grabbed the dog by the collar and tried to remove the worst of the dripping weed.
‘Mrs Stevens will not be happy if you spoil her floors,’ he told her.
Meg trotted off again, slightly cowed. Creswell paused alongside one of his favourite views in Winchester, the back of Science School, a faux Queen Anne mansion in orange brick and stone. It reminded him of how much in Winchester was not what it seemed. Meg had run on ahead to the point in the path where the River Itchen curved alongside on the right hand side. The dog was standing with her front paws gripping the edge of the steep bank, barking at three swans swimming by unconcernedly.
‘Meg, don’t go in that river,’ he shouted and ran to reattach the lead. They continued to the end of the path and followed the walls of Meads round to College Street. He felt chilled and energised by the exercise. A colony of sparrows bobbed and fluttered in a nearby hedgerow, their chirrups like a baby’s rattle, heads moving jerkily as if controlled by a puppet-master. Meg barked at them and they whirred away in all directions.
A man was sitting on the wall next to the gate to Wolvesey Palace, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. As Creswell approached, the man looked up wearily. It was Harry Pipe. Creswell broke into a run and sat down next to him. Meg sniffed at Harry’s feet and then began to lick his fingers.
‘Harry, what are you doing here? What’s happened to your face?’
Harry had red bruises beneath both eyes and a gash to his forehead.
‘And where’s your shoe?’
Harry’s foreshortened left leg was missing its built-up shoe, exposing his threadbare sock.
‘They took it.’
‘Who did?’
‘Three of them. Hibberd’s thugs. They jumped me after I’d dropped off my note at your house. They kicked me around a bit and left me in a ditch. I’ve only just come round.’
‘Oh Harry I’m sorry.’
‘Not to worry.’ Harry attempted a smile. ‘It’s not the first time someone’s had a go and it won’t be the last.’
‘How do you know Hibberd sent them?’
‘It was a bit of a clue when one of them said “you’ve been asking questions about Jeremiah Hibberd.” To think I was doing him a favour. They didn’t wait to find that out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Creswell repeated.
‘I could do with a drink,’ Harry said.
‘There’s tea in Dining Hall, and breakfast if you want it.’
‘I was thinking of something stronger.’
‘I can offer beer? Can you make it to Outer Gate?’
Harry nodded and linked arms with Creswell. They struggled over to the porters’ lodge. Meg strained at the lead so Creswell let her run on ahead. Frank looked up from his newspaper; if he was surprised, he did not show it.
‘Harry here has had a bad night,’ Creswell said. ‘Can we offer him some of your best brew?’
Frank calmly unhooked a rusty key from his belt. ‘First door to your right. You’ll find a tapped barrel and a couple of tankards inside.’
Creswell took the key and helped Harry through Outer Court towards a long plain building of flint and chalkstone.
‘The College used to run its own brewery in here, so I’m told,’ Creswell said. He unlocked the ancient arched door, the wood half a hand thick and as dark as weathered leather. A heady smell hit him, sweet, yeasty, the legacy of centuries of brewing trapped in the walls, seeping out like water through limestone. Meg disappeared into the shadows, whining and snuffling with pleasure. Harry slumped onto an upturned crate. He looked pale and exhausted. The cut on his forehead had started to ooze. He did not seem to notice the clotted blood caught in his thick eyebrows.
The barred and cobwebbed windows let in a smoggy light. Inside it was just possible to make out the outlines of a funnel fixed on beams above a copper kettle, empty barrels lying on their sides, tubs and wooden shovels hanging from the walls. The tapped barrel was balanced on a tripod, stacked tankards on a table next to it. Creswell chose two of the least smeary and filled them to the brim. Harry gulped his gratefully down to the last drop and then stared into the tankard mournfully.
‘Another?’
‘I’d better not.’
Creswell drank a few mouthfuls of his beer. It was too cold. It needed warming and lemon and sugar adding. He could feel the alcohol’s touch spreading from his empty stomach into his limbs like goose-flesh.
‘So, what now for your investigation?’ Harry asked, his voice a little strengthened.
‘I don’t know, Harry,’ Creswell said. ‘I really don’t. The “spider” Jeremiah is off the hook, my only other suspect says he was with someone else’s wife all night…’
‘Oh yes?’ Harry’s journalistic senses had been roused. Then he scrambled to his feet. ‘Cicely! She’ll be worried sick. I must get home.’ He wobbled and sat down again heavily.
‘I’ll ask Frank to send a note round,’ Creswell said, ‘telling Cicely that you’re alright, and he can call you a cab.’
‘Alright, thanks.’ Harry rubbed his forehead and then stared despondently at the bloody stain on his palm. ‘They were a thuggish lot. All except one. He seemed to be in charge. Now I come to think of it, he looked a bit like that Mundy chap – William. But it can’t have been can it?’
‘It was dark Harry. And you’d been hit on the head. Now stay there. I’ll be back in a moment.’
By the time Creswell returned from the porters’ lodge, Meg had stretched herself out over the feet of a sleeping Harry.
***
Frank propped the door open and stood back to let two junior porters shuffle inside, trailing dust and needles and heady pine perfume. Philippa directed them to the left hand side of the fireplace where she had placed the metal stand. Upended, the tree stretched almost to the ceiling. At Frank’s direction, the porters swivelled the tree, left and right and then left again, until any broken branches were hidden and a symmetrical image presented to the world. They tightened the bolts against the trunk and Frank gave a satisfied nod.
‘All ready for her ladyship. Have fun sweeping Miss.’
Half an hour later, the door opened again and Dorothy’s familiar firm footsteps sounded on the now-clean floor. She was carrying a cardboard box and a hessian sack.
‘What a wonderful tree! I love Christmas, don’t you boys?’
Christopher and the three other remaining patients nodded obediently.
‘Are all the boys fit enough to decorate the tree?’ Dorothy asked.
‘Yes, I think they are. Peacock and Holehouse are just out of quarantine,’ Philippa said. ‘Mole can stand for a few minutes if he leans on me. Steele can fend for himself, can’t you?’
Christopher had already strapped on his leg. He reached for his crutches and swung himself over to Dorothy. He smiled down at her.
‘What’s in the box?’
‘A few decorations from home - take out what you think we should use. I’ll put the box on your bed so
you don’t have to bend down. Would the other boys like to start making paper chains? Let’s use this table.’ Dorothy emptied the sack onto a large ink-stained table used by the convalescents to catch up on prep. ‘I was up rather late cutting these paper strips. I even managed to find some gold paper. These ivy leaves are from my garden. Now if Miss Lambert could conjure up some flour and water glue…’
Soon a paper chain factory had established itself at the table. Mole, as the weakest of the three, was given the task of selecting a paper strip. He would hand it to Holehouse who inserted it into the chain and held out the ends for Peacock to brush with glue. The completed chains in riotous colours were stored by wrapping them around Mole’s neck, much to his delight. Then the boys began to paint the ivy leaves with glue and sprinkle them with Epsom salt crystals from Philippa’s medicine cabinet.
In the meantime, decorations from the box had built up on the table. Christopher proudly showed Dorothy his selection and together they sorted the decorations into piles: a dozen or so biscuit porcelain figures of Kings, angels and shepherds; crumpled silver paper stars; spiced oranges; strings of translucent beads; an army of tin soldiers in scarlet coats; and a corn doll angel dressed in gold-trimmed lace.
‘Can we have some candles too?’ Christopher asked. ‘There should be some left over from Illumina.’
Philippa agreed and set off to the porters’ lodge where she knew a box of small votive candles could be found. On her return, she found the boys standing around the tree. Mole was leaning on Dorothy’s arm and reaching out with his free hand to hang a porcelain shepherd from a branch. The others were swathing the tree with paper chains and strings of beads.
‘How did you get the chains so high?’ Philippa asked.
‘I used one of my crutches as a hook,’ Christopher said. ‘I thought you might not approve,’ he added with a grin.
The boys positioned the remaining paper stars, frosted ivy leaves and tin soldiers between the chains while Philippa tied candleholders to the ends of the sturdiest branches.
‘Now for the angel,’ Dorothy said. ‘Miss Lambert, may Christopher do the honours, under your supervision of course?’
With Philippa at his elbow, Christopher balanced the corn doll angel on the end of a crutch, stood up on tiptoe on his good leg and eased the angel onto the tree’s crown. Philippa lit the candles, turned down the lamps and drew the curtains. They stood back in silence to admire the tree. The impression was of joyous, glimmering haphazardness.
‘It’s just like the ones we used to have at home,’ Christopher murmured.
‘I’m glad,’ Dorothy said.
‘We’ll light the candles every evening before supper.’ Philippa said. ‘Promise me you won’t light them when I’m not here.’
‘No miss,’ the boys replied in unison.
‘Thank you Mrs Wing-Smyth,’ Mole said.
‘It was my pleasure young man.’
‘That’s an impressive tree.’ It was Canon Strange’s voice. They had been so absorbed in the decorating that no-one had noticed him enter. He positioned himself at Philippa’s shoulder. He was carrying a leather holdall and smelt of fresh mist on wool and the tang of woodsmoke. There was a day’s growth on his chin. He caught Philippa’s eye, giving her an almost imperceptible smile, and then turned to Dorothy.
‘Mrs Wing-Smyth, a pleasant and rather fortuitous surprise. There was something I wanted to speak to you about. Could we have a word?’
Strange ushered Dorothy to the opposite end of the ward. Philippa relit the lamps and returned to the boys who were piling oranges around the base of the tree and covering the mantelpiece with spare ivy leaves. She watched Strange and Dorothy as they talked. At first the conversation seemed friendly enough; there was even some laughter. Then Strange leaned a little closer and Dorothy took a step backwards. Her chin tucked into her chest. She shook her head and glanced towards the tree. Philippa looked away quickly and pretended to busy herself with the decorations. As she handed an orange to Holehouse, her elbow knocked against Dorothy’s handbag, spilling the contents across the table. She hastily gathered up Dorothy’s possessions – diary, powder compact, old lipstick, pressed handkerchief, beaded purse, dog-eared envelope – and dropped them one by one into the bag.
She paused when she came to the envelope. It was the one containing a photograph of Dorothy’s family, a photograph with writing around the edge. Here was an opportunity to give Canon Strange what he wanted, more information about Dorothy’s past. Keeping an eye on where Strange and Dorothy were still facing each other stiffly, she opened the envelope and eased the photographs out. The one of Dorothy paddling in the sea said Dottie at Ryde, 1901. The family group had an address written around the edge: 80 Millbank Street, Northam, Southampton. She turned the photograph over: Family Bristow, 1886. L-R Winifred, Ernest, Ann, Dottie, John. Nothing of interest then; she had invaded her friend’s privacy for nothing. She returned the envelope to Dorothy’s handbag and refastened the catch. Only just in time; Dorothy was approaching across the ward, her cheeks flushed and eyebrows set in a frown.
‘Is everything alright?’ Philippa said.
‘No, it is not. I’ve had a most disagreeable conversation with your Canon Strange. But I suppose you know all about it.’
‘No, I…’
‘He all but accused me of being involved in that poor woman’s murder. I can’t believe that he, of all people…and all because of a stupid umbrella.’ She marched around the table, snatching up her handbag and the empty sack and box. ‘Well, I hope the boys enjoy their tree.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ Philippa began but Dorothy was already walking away, passing Strange without a word.
Philippa ran over to him and whispered, ‘What did she say?’
‘She denied ever being in the house.’ Strange sighed, ‘and I have nothing but a commonplace umbrella to place her there. Perhaps I am wrong? I need more data.’
‘What sort of “data”?’
‘Always difficult to say.’
Philippa looked into his face and saw frustration and disappointment there. She had new data – it might turn out to be nothing of value – but she should tell him, shouldn’t she?
‘Dorothy told me a little about her family. Would that be useful?’
‘I don’t know – tell me anyway.’
‘She used to live in Southampton. She had two brothers and two sisters. I don’t think they were,’ she hesitated, ‘very well off.’
Strange pursed his lips. ‘I can’t see…’ Then his eyes widened. ‘What was the family name? Dorothy’s maiden name?’
‘Bristow.’
Strange nodded and reached hurriedly inside the holdall. He brought out a file and leafed through its contents, muttering the name to himself. ‘Ah ha!’ He sprinted into the corridor. Philippa followed him.
‘Mrs Wing-Smyth, Mrs Wing-Smyth,’ Strange called, and then more gently, ‘Dorothy. Wait if you please. I need to speak to you about Miss Bristow.’
Dorothy stopped.
***
Dorothy turned to face him. Her face was pale, her expression resigned, relieved almost. Creswell felt a shiver of triumph – he was on the verge of the breakthrough that had eluded him for so long.
‘How do you know that name?’ Dorothy asked and then without waiting for his reply, ‘No need. Did you spill my handbag on purpose Philippa?’
Creswell saw Philippa’s cheeks flush but she did not flinch from Dorothy’s glare. ‘I did not,’ she said firmly.
‘It’s no matter how I came by the information,’ he said. ‘Bristow’s your maiden name?’ Dorothy gave a curt nod. ‘And you are the Miss Bristow named in this file. Here, written alongside the names of Doctor Chaloner and Miss Clay?’ He handed over the file from the Refuge.
Dorothy studied it, apparently impassive, and then snapped it shut. ‘I am.’
‘Miss Clay is Grace Mundy’s maiden name, but then you already knew that didn’t you?’
Dorothy’s f
ace took on a sullen look. ‘Do not take that tone with me Creswell. If I choose not to make my past known to the world, who are you to judge?’ Her voice cracked, ever so slightly.
It struck him that his exhilaration had made him forget who was standing in front of him: a woman that he liked and respected. He noticed that she was shaking. He tried to soften his tone. ‘You’re cold. This drafty corridor comes as a bit of a shock after the ward.’ He reached out to touch her but she flinched and took a step back. He continued, ‘Miss Lambert, is there somewhere warmer we can go?’
Philippa nodded and led them into her small dispensary, a windowless room hardly bigger than a cupboard crammed with linen and jewel-coloured glass bottles. Dorothy took the one rickety stool next to the medicine preparation table. She picked up the pestle and began to grind it into the mortar.
‘I apologise if I seemed judgmental,’ Creswell said. ‘That was not my intention. But if I am to help you, I must know the truth.’
Dorothy regarded him silently for a moment and then released her grip on the pestle. ‘Alright,’ she said quietly. ‘I knew Grace when she was Miss Clay. She…she and Doctor Chaloner delivered my baby in that terrible place. I remember that the room was freezing…’ She stopped and stared at him challengingly. ‘Miss Clay told me that he had died.’
‘Doctor Chaloner?’
‘No, the baby. He wasn’t even three days old. They wouldn’t let me see him.’
‘Ah, I see. I’m sorry.’ He clutched at his collar, feeling uncomfortably warm under his heavy cloak.
‘He was not.’
‘Not?’
‘Dead.’
‘Your baby wasn’t dead?’
