The Conviction of Cora Burns

by Carolyn Kirby

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

  But Mr Jerwood was leaning over the workbench examining the print. Cora eyed the length of rubber tubing beside him and could almost see it around his neck, his face swelling purple as she yanked it tight.

  He caught her sideways look, but seemed only curious.

  ‘You would agree though, would you not, that your crime may, in a moral sense, have several different interpretations.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, sir.’

  ‘Come, try. What does this face tell us about the character of the person behind it?’

  It was perfectly clear. She was an evil bitch. Anyone could see that in the white pinpricks of those monochrome eyes.

  ‘It is the face I was born with, sir.’

  The master sighed and went to put the likeness back into the box, flicking through numerous striped bodices and white bows tied under chins until he found the place. As the lid closed down, Cora made sure to remember the position, more or less, of her own likeness within the box of convicts.

  Then Mr Jerwood picked up a pencil. His fingers drummed on the bench as his other hand flew back and forth across a loose sheet of paper filling it with scrawl. He seemed to have forgotten that Cora, humiliated and seething, was still standing with her feet inside the chalk loops.

  Then, without looking up, he spoke. ‘That will be all. I trust that you will find the library to be open.’

  the japanned frame

  The door opened easily. Perhaps it hadn’t been locked at all. Cora slipped inside the library, blood pulsing in her ears. There was no telling now who else in the house knew that their tweeny had come direct from Birmingham Gaol. Mrs Dix almost certainly did, and maybe Cook too. The master might have told them all.

  Cora wished that she’d smashed one of those creepy-crawly jars into his self-satisfied face. The master must be on friendly terms with the prison’s governor. Perhaps he knew the Poor Law Guardians too, and they may even have told him of those long-ago goings-on that Cora hardly knew about herself.

  A tapestry curtain flapped at the open window and anger fidgeted in Cora’s throat. She went unsteadily to the cabinet, fists itching to lash at the rude figurines and smash them against the glass. But instead, breathing hard, she kneeled down beside the display box and ran her hand over the lid. The wooden inlay was fashioned into two pigeons perched amongst branches. The box alone might be worth more than she could earn in a year. If she picked it up and walked out, no one might notice. And Mr Jerwood would not be surprised by the theft. He had only employed her because she was a criminal.

  The lid was secured with a catch that flipped up easily. Inside, the shiny coins were pressed into perfectly sized indentations in the black velvet lining. Each one had on it an engraving of an object; an arithmetic equation, or a map of some unknown country. They had the same bronze tint as Cora’s newly polished half-medal, and the same rim of lettering. But none of the medallions showed the words IMAGINEM SALT, only gibberish that ended with a random assortment of capitals: M, C, V… Nothing in the box could lead her to Alice.

  She put her fingernail on a coin and eased it from the soft, tight niche. Fine etching on the moulded metal captured a perfect likeness of a rabbit. The expensive weight of the coin in her hand made its connection to a back-street japanner’s smithy seem remote.

  Then at the edge of Cora’s vision, a green movement turned into Violet standing up behind the armchair and grappling with a large book that must have been on her lap. She grinned.

  ‘I hoped it might be you.’

  Cora fumbled the medal back into its indent and snapped down the lid. Violet came closer, a finger wedged inside her book.

  ‘What are you doing, Cora?’

  ‘Looking for my pin.’

  ‘Inside the medallion collection?’

  Cora glanced at the bookshelves as if Mr Jerwood might somehow be listening but there were only rows of leather spines.

  ‘I was just…’

  ‘Shall I help you?’

  The binding crackled as Violet laid her book open on the carpet and kneeled by the cabinet, but Cora stood up, brushing her hands on her apron.

  ‘I’d best go.’

  ‘Can’t you stay a while?

  ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘You’ve not yet found your pin.’

  Violet’s brow creased and her chin wrinkled. Cora wondered for a moment if the child was about to bawl and bring Susan Gill from the parlour, scowling and full of questions.

  Cora made her voice softer. ‘I won’t interrupt you, miss. You can go back to reading your book.

  ‘I’ve read most of it already.’

  ‘Is it good?

  Violet shrugged. ‘It has all different things in it. Poems, pictures, stories and the like.’ She held out an open page. A girl in a low-cut bodice stared, terrified, from the title: Transformation By the author of Frankenstein. ‘This one is meant to make your blood run cold.’

  ‘How does it do that?’

  ‘A man in it sees his own face on someone else. But that wouldn’t bother me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it?’

  Violet shook her head. ‘A girl who looked like me might become my friend.’

  Cora’s neck prickled as she thought of herself beside Alice. In their workhouse uniforms, they had looked almost like twins.

  Violet closed the book with a thud and bounded to the side table by the armchair. She picked up a decorated picture frame then thrust it at Cora.

  ‘Does this face resemble mine?’

  The woman in the faded photograph sat with a book on her lap. Her fairish hair was pulled into a chignon; the toe of one shoe rested on a footstool. Unfashionably wide skirts rippled with weak light.

  ‘No.’

  Violet clasped the frame to her chest and bit the inside of her lip. ‘Are you sure? Most people say she does.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘My mamma.’

  ‘Oh. Perhaps you look more like your father.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’ve never seen his likeness. Or him, that I can remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, no, they are not dead. He and Mamma are in India.’

  ‘And you can’t remember what they look like?’

  Violet sighed and stared at the photograph. ‘Sometimes I think I can. I remember the feel of Mamma’s cold cheek against mine. And the buzzing of fat flies in very sour air. But that is all.’

  ‘Well, you remember more than I.’

  ‘Why? Are your parents in India too?’

  Cora gave a snort but then Violet’s arm shifted and she saw a small white label on the back of the frame:

  Salt & Co. BIRMm

  Japanners and Tin-platers

  Without speaking, Cora reached out and took hold of the frame. It felt curiously light. Under a thick gloss of lacquer, golden leaves scrolled around the black edge. Luminous pink and blue buds threaded through a garland so delicate that it must have been painted by a child. Perhaps it was the firing of a piece such as this that had left the scar on Alice’s wrist. Cora rubbed her thumb across the painted blossom and felt her throat tightening.

  Violet smiled and reached up to touch a finger, light as air, to Cora’s cheek. ‘Oh Cora, have I made you fret for your mamma?’

  ‘Lord no. It’s not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘This frame. It’s japanned ware, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Why should that upset you?’

  ‘I knew someone once, who made it.’

  Violet’s eyes widened. ‘A young man?’

  ‘No. A girl. Like you.’

  She handed back the photograph and Violet put it on the table then sighed.

  ‘Your friend? How I should love to have a real friend. More even than seeing my
mamma. Where is she now, Cora?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Cora felt a small cold hand squeeze her knuckles. Violet’s white face looked up at her earnestly.

  ‘You should look for her. You must not lose her forever.’

  Cora shook her head and swallowed. ‘I have not seen her since… since we were children.’

  ‘But you would recognise her if you saw her?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can help you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have a talent for charcoal portraits. Mrs Dix says she has never seen any so good. If you describe to me how your friend should look, I will draw her. Then you can put the likeness in an advertisement on the “Wanted” page of the Birmingham Gazette.’

  Violet was excited now, gripping Cora’s hand tightly and bouncing up and down on the toes of her soft-soled shoes. Cora stepped back and pulled her hand free.

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘But next time you’re in here we can make a start on the drawing.’

  ‘I am not often sent upstairs.’

  ‘Or I will bring my charcoal sticks into the morning room. At any rate, we will need to do it shortly, before I leave.’

  As Cora turned towards the door, she glanced down at the inlaid lid of the medallion box. Salt & Co must have also made those coins; the coincidence was too great. And as soon as she was allowed out of this peculiar house, she would get back to town, not only to check that Thripp the photographer had kept his promise, but also somehow, to track down Salt the japanner’s smithy.

  veal

  For a while, the only sound was the screech of cutlery on china. Cora ate slowly, studying her plate to avoid the eyes of the others around the table. But it was hard not to gobble. As she bit through crumbly pastry to the soft meat and thick gravy inside, she thought that she’d never in her life tasted anything so good.

  Perhaps because it was Saturday, everyone seemed cheery. Even Susan Gill was gulping her half-glass of flat beer. The outdoor men had come in laughing together at twelve o’clock sharp and when his plate was clean, Timothy, the gardener and useful man, gave a smile that showed the black gaps between his yellow teeth. He raised his glass.

  ‘A very fine veal pudding, Cook. My compliments.’

  Cook almost smiled back. ‘Compliments should go to Mr Todd the butcher. I take back all I said. And compliments to the garden staff on these kidney beans. Still very tender.’

  Cora blinked and wondered why vegetables had so many names. They’d been runner beans at the asylum although she couldn’t recall ever eating beans, or anything green, at the workhouse or the gaol. But veal was entirely new. She wondered what it might look like when it was alive.

  Ellen leaned across the table, the fork raised in her hand. ‘You should have seen Mr Todd’s shop, Cora. The mirrors! And a mechanical slicer!’

  Cora already knew all about it. Ellen had talked of nothing else since her return from yesterday’s trip to the Stratford road.

  ‘The slab was pure marble wasn’t it, Samuel?’

  Somehow Cora had found herself sitting beside Samuel Shepherd but Ellen was doing her best to keep his head turned in her direction. As she began to recount the variety of jars in the sweet shop, she picked up her glass too quickly and beer sloshed on to the white cloth.

  As Ellen jumped up, mopping the stain with her apron, Samuel seemed to take her distraction as an opportunity. Cora felt him lean in towards her. He didn’t exactly whisper but spoke too quietly for Ellen to hear.

  ‘Would you like to see the shops, Cora? I could take you in the pony trap tomorrow afternoon.’

  The warmth of his breath on her neck was an irritation. What gave him the licence to get so close? But Cora could not make herself pull away. She gripped her knife harder as it dripped gravy on to her plate.

  ‘They’ll be shut.’

  She stabbed a chunk of veal with her fork and began to chew on it. Samuel Shepherd was even dimmer than he looked if he thought she’d be lured so easily into that sort of thing, no matter how good the smell of his smooth-shaved cheek, or how satisfying it would be to wipe the silly smile off Ellen’s face.

  As she sat down, Ellen leaned across her plate with the look on her face twisted between eagerness and resentment. Perhaps she had heard after all.

  ‘And the confectioner’s display! I have never seen the like. Samuel was kind enough to purchase two of the fondant fancies I so admired. We ate them on the pony trap on the way back didn’t we, Cook?’

  Cook’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes. Very nice.’

  Samuel put his knife and fork together on the empty plate and sat back, running a hand through his hair. Cora wasn’t sure it was an accident that his knee lolled against hers. But at that moment, a bang on the ceiling like a flat iron dropping made everyone at the table look up. The gas burner quivered. Cook rolled her eyes.

  ‘We’d better have our bramble pie sharpish, before herself wants something. Cora, bring that jug of custard to the table.’

  Cora scraped her chair back roughly, banging it against Samuel’s leg.

  When she placed the warm earthenware jug on the table, Cook was already slicing pastry that sparkled with sugar. A tang of sharp fruit wafted up from the hot pie as the knife went in. Purple juice oozed out. Cora hovered behind the chair, not quite wanting to sit back down next to Samuel, but her mouth watered for the brambles, whatever they might be.

  One of the bells on wires above the door gave an abrupt jangle.

  Cook shook her head. ‘What did I say? Mrs Dix’ll be wanting warm milk for the missus. Acting up again, I expect.’

  Ellen giggled. ‘Funny how warm milk puts her to sleep. It never has that effect on me.’

  Samuel beamed at her with his clean white teeth. ‘Need something a bit stronger than milk, don’t you, Ellen?’

  Ellen’s face flushed to the colour of the fruit bleeding from the pie. ‘You rascal, Samuel Shepherd.’

  Cora pushed in her chair. ‘I’ll see to it, Cook.’

  ‘Would you? Good girl. Use the small copper pan for the milk and only fill the cup halfway. Blood warm.’

  The tray seemed pointless for just a small cup of milk but, on the landing, Cora placed it as usual in front of the mistress’s door and then knocked.

  ‘Tray!’

  Instantly, a voice inside replied. ‘Bring it in.’

  Mrs Dix sounded breathless. Something about her tone made Cora’s heart pump faster as she opened the door.

  The curtains were closed and the mantles unlit. Sourness blanketed the room. As Cora’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw that the dark mound at the centre of the room was a heap of furniture; an assortment of chairs, ottomans and footstools loaded around the bed. And on top of the mattress in the middle of the heap, in her customary black crêpe but, hunched on hands and knees, was Mrs Dix.

  Her face shone with sweat. ‘Over there. On the sideboard.’

  Cora picked her way around the barricaded bed. Spread out across a countertop against the wall, were dark glass bottles, and jugs with weighted lace covers. She threw a glance to the bed. Mrs Dix, still kneeling, was whispering to a figure lying under the covers. Then, without looking round, she raised her voice.

  ‘Cora? Take the light brown bottle before you marked Chloral Hydrate. Put three crystals from it into the milk and stir them vigorously. Can you do it?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dix.’

  The odd familiarity of the room’s stench made sense now. Certain parts of the asylum had reeked with the foul breath of inmates dosed up on chloral.

  ‘Now bring it here.’

  Cora carried the cup towards the bed. A shaking voice came from the depth of the pile.

  ‘Do not let me fall, Helen.’

  ‘Fear not, madam, I have you fast in my grip. But I must si
t you up a little now, for your milk.’

  Mrs Dix reached to the bottom of the bed for a cushion and as she turned, cast a fierce eye at Cora. Her face was white and her coiled hair dishevelled. She jerked her head indicating for Cora to bring the milk forward.

  Cora squeezed between a stool and a pot-cupboard that were rammed against the bed and held out the cup. As Mrs Dix reached for it she let go of the mistress’s arm and Mrs Jerwood lifted her head. Her bed-cap and nightgown glowed white, but her skin had the grey pallor of a lunatic. The twin spots of light in her eyes were full of dread.

  ‘Helen? What is she doing here?’

  ‘It is Cora, our new between maid.’

  ‘Cora?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘That is not her name.’

  Mrs Dix held the cup to Mrs Jerwood’s lips, but she pushed it away, her terrified eyes trained on to Cora’s face.

  Again, Mrs Dix brought the cup to the mistress’s lips. ‘I’m sure you have not seen her before, madam.’

  Then Mrs Dix turned her head to Cora and hissed, leave! But as Cora manoeuvred backwards between the furniture, Mrs Jerwood raised herself up on an elbow, watching. Something about the recognition in her eyes made Cora’s skin crawl. The mistress’s voice became suddenly commanding.

  ‘Tell me, Helen, who let her into this house?’

  ‘She is going now, madam.’

  Mrs Dix moved across the bed trying to shield Cora from the mistress’s mad-eyed stare. But with sudden strength, the woman lurched forward and stood upright on the bed. Towering above Cora, she pointed down at her with an outstretched arm, her voice cracking with rage.

  ‘Why have you come back? Is it just to gloat at me in this state?’

  Cora reached the door with the empty tray, the handles slippery in her grasp. She fumbled with the doorknob and tripped out of the room. But just before the door banged behind her, Cora glimpsed the stricken face of the woman standing on the bed, her lips mouthing over and over the same word.

  ‘You!’

  Eight

  Sat 10th

  My superior is a most contradictory fellow. This morning, when I put to him my research proposal, he regarded me over the top of his spectacles with a look of such disdainful amusement that I steeled myself for disappointment. He then surprised me with the enthusiasm of his support.