by Jean Stubbs
If only he would allow me a room of my own I could endure him a little better. But to him appearance is everything and, though he cares no more for my presence than I for his, we must seem to be man and wife. I thank God that is all over. What misery men can inflict upon us! And yet, not misery when it is the man one needs.
I don’t like ‘needs’, Lintott thought, walking faster. ‘Loves’ would be more delicate. Women don’t need. Do they? Not her sort of woman, at any rate. Of course, there are society women who – one hears tales. She don’t appear forward, not in any way forward. My Bessie, now, I would call – cosy. A warm woman, a womanly woman, a happy one I should say. But not ‘needs’. Never ‘needs’ surely? That’s not right, somehow.
Do I really love Titus? I do not know. Is that not a strange thing to wonder when he disturbs me so deeply? At eighteen I should have said with confidence that I did love him, and say so from blind ignorance. He could have made me happy in this way, but not in others. Could I ever have tired of him? I love him when he is loving. At times I have hated him. If we had been married for fifteen years, and I had been constantly hurt by his weakness with women and with money, with his gambling, should I still have loved him? Should I still have needed him as a lover, or would that have been over by now as it is with Theodore? Yet, with Theodore, that never began.
Well, your late husband was no more pleased with you than you were with him, madam, Lintott chided the phantom in the dusk. He had to discover love outside his own home, and make a scandal of himself. Yes, ma’am, love. There must have been ‘need’ as you so immodestly call it, but there was love too – of a sort. I’d like to meet that woman he made a fool of himself over, and see what he cared so much about. I should find a clue to all the rest in her.
I was told by Mama to expect something that I should not, as a woman of delicacy, find agreeable. But she assured me that this was a necessary part of marriage. She informed me that a lady accepted a man’s ardour with forebearance. I believe that my mother even used the words ‘with fortitude’. She said this must be so if I was to fulfil myself and my duty in bearing children. I had assumed my parents enjoyed a loving marriage. I think of them both, and I wonder what years of wretchedness they shared between them. For my father was an ardent and tender man – I know what ardour and tenderness are! – and she was not a passionate woman.
And very proper, Lintott reflected. Why should they not have had a loving marriage? Very likely they did.
Theodore wasted no time on words of passion, of loving protestation, as Mama had said he would. He spoke of duty and submissiveness. I did not understand him. I looked for some token of consideration or solicitude. There was nothing. Cold, cold, cold, and then chaos.
Lintott strode his London more firmly, resolving on his next course of action.
My Mama told me that my father had recited to her from the ‘Song of Solomon’ and that she had found this even more shameful than what followed. She said she could not wait for him to be done, but that this was the lot of women. After Titus and I had been together in his rooms I locked myself up at the house for an hour, and wept. I was not weeping for myself or for shame – that came later when I feared he had made love to me lightly. I wept then for my father, and felt close to him. I wished that he were still alive so that I might see him, sit with him, and say nothing. We could always share silences, he and I. We should have shared that loss which must never be mentioned, in that particular silence. I wonder if he ever thought of me!
Ah, you’re a strange one, Lintott admonished her. Let well alone, ma’am. Men are as different from women as chalk from cheese. Don’t you go setting your bonnet on your father’s head. It won’t fit. What am I to do about you, I wonder? For you’ve enough evidence around you – though I shouldn’t like to use it – to make that coroner change his mind in five minutes’ flat. Crime of passion, he’d call it. But what could you have gained by it? Deceased man’s widow can’t marry his brother. Or did you think it would leave room for another game or so on the side? Surely not. Surely not. I can’t fathom you, madam. Perhaps you just thought, as women are inclined to do, that the best way to deal with a knot is to cut it!
I strive daily to separate from my husband, in my mind. Given time I shall do so. Then I may be at peace, and he will have what he most wants – an obedient stranger. Our lives will not be any worse than others I know. I have watched and listened to friends and acquaintances, and many of them are as dead as ourselves. If I were all mother, as most women are, I could be content. But I am not. There is something else within me which must and shall be answered. I wish I could go far away. I wish I had never been born at all. I wish I could die.
He halted, and his face cleared. I’d forgotten the significance of that bit, he thought. I wonder – she’d never dare say so – whether she tried to make away with herself? She’s quite a possible suicide, not probable but possible. Perhaps she crushed up those capsules in a glass of water or wine for herself, and he took it by mistake? And then she told that tale of the one pill she gave him as a sort of half-truth. Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s that fellow Titus. I can’t see how he did it, but he’s hard enough to clear folks out of his path if they stand in his way. Not murder as a matter of course. He’s no common murderer. But given the opportunity, once in a lifetime, he’s weak enough and strong enough to take it. Much more likely. Much more likely. The only other that I can see, that had some sort of grudge against the deceased, is our pretty Kate. And she wouldn’t commit herself. Our Kate won’t budge an inch unless the country’s mapped out first. She’d like to be her mistress, but she never will be. Not in a thousand years. Kate has a head on her, and she’s cautious. The other one, in the same position as Kate, would have ruined herself by now with an underfootman! Aye, and called it love and need and whatever word best suits her. Ah, reckless, reckless! And yet – poor creature.
But I must let them know what I’ve found out, and put a stop to it. Why, Lord above, what might happen to her else? She can no more deal with that sort of fellow than a babby can. We don’t want another scandal atop of this one. If she got herself in trouble we’d never fetch that piece of fat out of the fire! And it brings everybody else in, too, children and all. No, no, no. She must get through her widowhood as best she can, without Master Titus’s attentions. She could marry again later – some steady chap who would look after her, fuss over her a bit. Women only need a little management. A kind word here and there, a kiss before you go in the morning and another at night, an arm about them when they’re feeling down, and just say what you think about them now and again. Like my Bessie. A cosy woman, my Bess, a warm woman, a woman that loves me. But all that about ‘needs’. I’d set it down to sheer badness!
*
They were wary of receiving him, but had no choice. Lintott thought them a handsome couple, an elegant couple, as he permitted Kate to take his hat. Titus stood in his favourite attitude by the fire, one arm on the draped mantelshelf, one foot on the brass fender. Laura sat resplendent in black velvet; her amethysts about her neck, and pendant from her ears, and sparkling on arms and bosom and fingers. Mourning suited her, lent her an added dignity above which her pale beauty seemed more moving and more fragile than usual.
Her dressmaker does well out of her, Lintott reflected. What an air she has of giving a fresh picture of herself – like my Bessie with a new hat. And his tailor knows his business. I hope he gets paid!
‘Good evening, Mrs Crozier. My regrets for asking an interview of you both, but it is a matter of some importance. Of grave importance, I may say. Thankee, yes, I’ll take a chair.’ And he sat stolidly upon the balloon-backed ornament, his thick boots planted beneath its gilt legs. ‘Cold again, this evening?’
Something in his manner alerted Laura, and she looked at him quickly. He looked back, remote and implacable.
‘Cold indeed, Inspector,’ said Titus amiably. ‘Now, perhaps, if you would state your business?’
‘Certainly, sir. Straight to the point. That’s
what I prefer – if it suits the lady?’
Again she raised her head, sensing withdrawal. Then nodded slightly, in agreement, and fanned herself.
‘Evidence has come my way – I shan’t say what or how unless it’s necessary – but conclusive evidence as to one aspect of this inquiry.’
‘You have discovered something in connection with my brother’s death?’
‘No, sir. In connection with yourself and this lady.’
‘More gossip, no doubt,’ said Titus angrily, shifting his position as though the fire were too hot.
Laura became very still, the fan dropping from her hand.
‘I said evidence, sir.’ And, as Titus prepared to brave him out, he added persuasively, ‘Surely you won’t cause the lady further distress by asking me to produce it? I will, if you insist. I can, you know.’
You made a fool of me, ma’m, with that lost air about you. But I found you out. Not what I thought, ma’am. Not what I thought at all.
Titus flung himself into Theodore’s easy chair, crossed his legs, set the palms of his hands together, and regarded Lintott steadily.
‘I will accept that you have evidence, Inspector. Pray go on.’
‘There’s little enough to say, sir – and ma’am. I can prove that a certain relationship existed – I don’t say that it does so now – between you. I can prove that it was a strong one. I venture to say, strong on both sides.’
He didn’t take you lightly. At least, he may have done so in the beginning, but not in the end.
Laura spread out her fan slowly, and did not see a silk flight of humming birds winging across it. A little warmth comforted the supreme chill of exposure. He had said, on both sides.
‘Now before we go any further,’ said Lintott carefully, ‘and I shall go no further than I must, I assure you of that, do you admit the said evidence?’
Titus replied coolly, ‘If it is evidence then we need no admission, surely?’
‘It’s just that I never did like talking in the dark,’ said Lintott bluntly.
Titus hesitated, wondering if it were possible to out-fox him. But Laura spoke softly and definitely, staring at her painted aviary, trying to set everything right again.
‘The relationship did exist, and now does not, Inspector Lintott.’
If he does not take care of me then I shall come home to you.
‘Very well, ma’am. You’ve spoken out fair and open. I’ll do the same. A man that was inclined to jump to conclusions would say that he had a case here that could stand up in court.’
Let us have no nonsense on that score, Laura. You understand me?
‘You consider,’ said Titus quietly, ‘that my sister-in-law and I, being guilty of the one offence are also guilty of the other and greater?’
‘It is a possibility to be explored, sir, but it is not yet the answer.’
Laura wounded and drooping, communed with her fan. Lintott glanced anxiously at her.
‘If my word is of any value to you,’ said Titus slowly. ‘I can assure you that neither of us is guilty of murder, at any rate.’
Lintott nodded, short and sharp, as if to say I hear you. But no more.
‘I believe we are not above halfway through this case yet, sir. I have to trace the lady who delivered the letters, and in her will lie other answers. I don’t say all the answers. I don’t know. I must find her first.’
He glanced again at Laura, but she had been rebuffed once too often.
‘Perhaps you and I could have a word alone somewhere, sir? Mrs Crozier need not be disturbed any more this evening.’
Run along, now, Laura.
‘Pray do not trouble yourselves,’ she said quickly, and with great dignity, ‘I have household matters which require my attention. I beg you to excuse me.’ She confronted Lintott without defiance, without hope. ‘Goodnight, Inspector. Please do not hesitate to call again if that is necessary.’
Still he had one more duty to perform, that of cautioning her.
He bowed awkwardly.
‘Goodnight, ma’am. And, if I might mention it, I should leave any personal papers in the house exactly as they are. I have witnesses as well as evidence. If you was inclined to tear or burn anything, say, I should take it as an admission of guilt and act accordingly.’
Alarmed, Titus surveyed them both, trying to gauge the gravity of the situation. Laura held herself proudly, tried to meet Lintott’s flat gaze, and trailed gracefully from the room.
‘Now, sir, we may speak a bit freer. I’ve had a word with an old friend of yours, Miss Eliza Tucker of the Alhambra, thinking she might be the lady involved with your brother. I am satisfied that she was not.’
Titus’s disgust stopped him for a moment.
‘Did you imagine that my brother and I would share a mistress, Inspector?’
‘I’ve heard of it before,’ Lintott replied frankly. ‘Why should it be any worse to share Miss Tucker with your own brother than with half a dozen strange men?’
Titus flushed.
‘If that were so I should have known, should I not?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Lintott, very easy, very light. ‘The lady might be robbing Peter to pay Paul. It has been done, sir.’
‘I find your suggestion both vile and dishonourable.’
‘Ah well! Our notions of honour are different, sir,’ said Lintott drily. ‘I had observed that.’
Titus was silent, lighting a cigar.
‘Now do you know of anything at all, sir, that might help to trace the lady concerned?’
Titus shook his head, and blew out the spill.
‘Very well, sir. I must go about it the long way then.’
‘Will that be all, Inspector?’
‘For now, sir, yes. Oh, by the by, none of those anonymous letters was written by any of Mrs Crozier’s servants – or by your servant, Lily Day. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell Mrs Crozier of that? She may be worrying.’
‘I shall inform her, of course,’ said Titus coldly, and rang the bell for Kate.
‘And, sir, I trust that Mrs Crozier’s reputation will not be further blemished. It would look very bad in court, sir, and we may come to court yet, if I was to be forced to give evidence on that as well! And I shall find out, sir, make no mistake. I have eyes and ears all over the place. You’d be surprised. I probably know more about Mrs Crozier than even you suspect.’
Ah! You’re a handsome villain, Lintott thought, regarding the well-set head and hazel eyes.
‘Nothing about you would surprise me, Inspector,’ said Titus lazily. ‘Do you not find police work a rather dirty business?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lintott replied. ‘But then, it’s the people I deal with that makes it dirty – not me. Goodnight to you, sir.’
*
In the hall he pinched Kate’s cheek: an outrage which she condoned with one toss of the head. Lintott shook a finger at her and winked joyfully.
‘Tell me, my love, you did say that the veiled lady came in a hansom cab?’
‘Yes, sir. It was waiting for her.’
‘I don’t suppose that you noticed what the cab-driver looked like, did you, my love?’ Lintott asked wistfully. ‘You’re a sharp girl, but I don’t expect many people to be as sharp as that.’
She thought carefully, and he waited.
‘He was a stout man, with a red face, and spoke very husky telling the horse not to move about so.’
‘They’re all stout with red faces and hoarse voices, my dear. It’s the beer inside and the weather out that does it.’
She thought again, drawing her brows together, and he saw what she would look like when she was older: shrewd and highly competent.
‘But I remember thinking he must have been stout, even without two greatcoats, sir.’
‘Two of ’em, eh? Any particular style or colour?’
‘A dirty green one atop of a dirty grey. Very old-fashioned, sir, with a double cape, the green coat. Oh, and he wore a hat that had
once been white. A dirty white velveteen. It must have belonged to a gentleman when it was new.’
‘That’s good, Kate. Well, the two coats and the hat might find him – though he ain’t the only cabbie as wears old-fashioned greatcoats that once belonged to a gentleman. They gets them from the dunnage shops.’
‘There was somethink else, sir,’ said Kate, losing her gentility with mental concentration. ‘His left arm was stiff, as if he’d been wounded and it didn’t mend right. I remember with him reining in the horse – along of the cat running across the road, and right under its feet – and his arm being nearest to me.’
She stopped, eyes shining. There was something about Lintott that made people want either to please or to placate him.
‘A stiff arm, eh? A stiff left arm. Been in the Crimea, belike. Now I’d have you in the Force along of me, Kate – if they allowed the ladies. Except that you’d be a distraction to my men! Kate, I take off my hat to you,’ and he raised it in admiration.
She did not demur when he took her by the chin and smiled at her.
‘That butler!’ said Lintott sincerely. ‘He’s a lucky chap! Ain’t he, my love?’
*
Laura sent down an excuse to Titus in the form of a headache, and felt in the pot pourri bowl for her key. The diary, too, was still there. But she knew that he had read it, that someone in the house had betrayed her to him. She sensed the chill beneath his courtesy, the accusation behind his eyes.
Thou shalt not.
Her fingers gripped a handful of pages, and paused. She meditated on the book and then on the fire which burned in the hearth. Two things stayed her: Lintott’s warning, and the preciousness of this possession. The diary had been breath in a room without air, and all that remained of love.
For several minutes she struggled this way and that with the problem. Then, clutching the book to her bodice, she bowed her head and wept.
PART THREE: CONCLUSIONS
20
