The Solitary House (With Bonus Novels Bleak House and the Woman in White)

by Lynn Shepherd

  “But if he’d committed arson—”

  “Oh, I knew it, and he knew it, and he knew I knew it. But I had no evidence. I’ve kept half an eye on him always from that time, knowing I was likely to pick up his trail again, if I looked sharp.”

  “And since?”

  “Nothing as could be laid to his charge in a court of law. Petty pickpocketing mostly. Even if he do frequent inns like the Sol’s Arms that you and I both know to be the haunts of far rougher thieves.” Bucket’s face darkens. “Though bad rumours have come to my ear in the last few months. Seems Mann’s natural cruelty has been sharpened of late by a vicious and most unnatural pleasure in inflicting pain.”

  Charles glances at him, then looks quickly away.

  “There was an incident with a poor half-starved cat I will not distress you with,” continues the Inspector, “but there was nothing then to suggest it would go further—no hint he would turn his malice on his fellow men. Or women.”

  “What I don’t understand is what could possibly have induced Tulkinghorn to employ such a blackguard?”

  Mr Bucket waves his fat forefinger, which has lain quiet for much of the previous exchange. “Now that, my lad, is the pertinent question, if you don’t mind me saying so. For he knew, did Tulkinghorn, all about this lad. I told him so myself. It troubled me, at the time, so it did, why he should want such a scoundrel in his service, but I could not work out the why of it. Now, it seems, we may be nearing our answer, and it may be the service Tulkinghorn had in mind had very little to do with the upkeep of his carriage.”

  “So you believe me? You actually believe me—even with no proof?”

  Bucket sighs. “There was a time, my lad, when you’d not have needed to ask such a question. But recent events being what they are, you have become mistrustful, and I don’t rightly blame you. But you know me, and you should know that I could never condone anything crooked, and as to concealing it—”

  There is a drilling ache in the side of Charles’s head and his vision is slightly blurred. “I’m sorry. I assumed that—”

  “—that because I was assisting Tulkinghorn with one matter of a rather delicate nature, I must, of necessity, be doing the same with another, and worse. Nay, lad, all I have done, I have done for the other.”

  He takes a deep breath. “And since all seems aright between us, I’ll tell you a thing I couldn’t tell you before. Though a brave lad like you will do me the justice of recalling that I tried to give you a hint on it, at the time. Suspicions I did have and that’s a fact, but they were of quite a different order. I knew about Cremorne and his friends, with their titles and their estates and their fine ways, but I believed their crimes to be crimes of greed. Greed and greed alone, mark you. And I had my reasons. There’s an old inspector friend of mine in the City New Police division who has been head over ears in a fraud case these three months now, and from what he told me—in confidence, mind—I was ready to lay a hundred pounds that these men were mixed up in the very same business. So I bide my time, and I watch ’em. And when Tulkinghorn asks my help in identifying a mysterious woman seen one night by that young crossing-sweep, then naturally I accept, even if I wonder why such a minor matter should concern so mighty a man. But I told myself his motives were not my business, and my business was to fathom the fraud. But it seems all the while I was a long way off the mark, and the right direction was another way entirely.”

  It’s the closest Bucket has ever come to admitting he’s wrong, but Charles scarcely notices. “I heard that there had been irregularities at Sir Julius’s bank, but as far as I could discover, his own associates lost larger sums than almost anyone else.”

  “Ah!” says Bucket sharply, raising his portentous forefinger and tapping it against the side of his nose. “That was indeed what you were designed to think. And no doubt all sorts of pieces of paper can be brought for’ards to prove it. But from what I’ve been a-hearing, they have contrived very nicely to line their own pockets and all the money lost has made its way to their own private purses. And not before time, at least for some of ’em. That baronet you mentioned has so encumbered his estate by debts got by gaming, he inveigled an innocent young woman to marry him, merely to lay his hands on her fortune. A young woman who has now died not long since, and all unexpectedly.”

  Charles frowns, as the memory returns to him: “A girl cruelly used, and cruelly wronged.”

  Bucket turns to him with a question in his eyes, but it’s at that very moment that they hear the rush of footsteps and Wheeler returns with the lantern, alarmed and out of breath, to tell them that he has searched both gallery and house and of Robbie Mann there is no sign. Charles is on his feet before Sam has even finished.

  “And where do you think you’re going, my lad?” asks Bucket sharply.

  “God knows how that scoundrel has managed to evade us, but if he has, there’s only one place now where we can hope for any answers—that address in Hampstead. We may be somewhat early for polite visiting hours, but to be frank, courtesy is the very least of my concerns.”

  Bucket consults his pocket-watch, suddenly aware that the light seeping through from the hexagonal dome above them is not the sharp silver of moonshine, but the slow grey of a winter dawn.

  When he looks up again at Charles he sees that there is colour now in his cheeks even if the cut to his head is still bleeding. Now where, thinks the Inspector impatiently, has that doctor got to?

  “Will you come with me?” asks Charles, and there is possibly just the faintest hint of pleading in his voice.

  Bucket shakes his head and gets to his feet. “The man who was once master here is to be buried this afternoon, and I have an official appointment to attend, as well as reasons of my own that require my presence. But I know, and you know, that this may not end well, and that being the case you had better be accompanied. Sam here will go with you. And all things duly considered, you had better have this.” He reaches into his pocket, and we can see now that he has had Charles’s gun about his person all this time. Something else he must have brought with him with an exact purpose in mind. They look at each other for a moment, then Charles gives a slight bow of his head and stows the pistol in his coat.

  They make their way back to the entrance-hall and find, much to Bucket’s relief, that the doctor has finally arrived. It’s the same young surgeon who attended the crossing-sweeper, and he seems just as startled as Charles to see who his patient has turned out to be.

  “I knew you lodged nearby,” says Bucket matter-of-factly, though in due course Woodcourt will wonder how, and indeed why, the Inspector has furnished himself with this information. “I’m reluctant to let this lad go a-rushing hither and thither without the say-so of a medical man—”

  “I’m perfectly recovered now,” says Charles quickly, motioning Sam to go out into the square and look for a cab, “and I don’t have time for this—”

  “I’m afraid I agree with this gentleman,” says Woodcourt, eyeing the fresh blood seeping through the bandage round Charles’s hand. “That injury alone looks to me to need further attention. If you wish, I will come along with you and the constable, and examine it on the way.”

  And so it is that the three of them are in a carriage before sun-up, rolling swiftly north under a heavy sky, where a haunted light glows in the east. The streets are almost empty, save here and there a ragged child huddled in a doorway, and a few coke fires still glowing on street corners, ringed by a shabby crowd of beggars, some smoking, some sleeping on the cold ground, and some already beginning the grim business of survival, picking over the heaps of rubbish for bones, rotting fruit, or oyster shells. Bucket, for his part, and for all his talk of obsequies to attend, and preparations to make, turns back into the house when the carriage has gone, and makes his way back to the hidden door and the gallery below. Alone now, as is his preference, there is no nook, no shelf, no compartment, no drawer he does not examine and inspect, keeping his own mental account of everything he finds, and a m
emorandum on occasion in a large black pocket-book. And then he leaves everything exactly as he found it, and goes back up the stairs to the clerk’s hall, and the desk, and the door to the street.

  In the cab meanwhile the noise of hooves on the wet stones does not permit much by way of conversation, and even if that were not so, none of them seems particularly inclined to talk. Though it’s clear, from the glances he casts in Charles’s direction, that Sam Wheeler for one, would very much like to know where it is they’re going, and what he should be expecting when they get there. Charles, by contrast, is sunk in thoughts of his own, and Woodcourt watches him thoughtfully as he unwinds the stained cloth and re-dresses the wounded hand. The sleet is just starting to fall when the carriage slows to a walk at the entrance to a long tree-lined drive off one of the main roads leading out of London. There is a little lodge house, and there are two iron gates, but they already stand open and the lodge-keeper waves them through. A few moments later they come to a stop in front of a large redbrick porch, and Charles springs down without waiting for the driver, looking a good deal more confident than he actually feels. The bell is answered almost immediately, and by a woman. Thin, middle-aged, and wearing a white apron over a plain grey merino gown. When she sees Charles her face falls, and he realises she was expecting someone else entirely. Which goes some way to explaining her promptness, and—perhaps—the open gates.

  “Oh,” she says, her mouth falling into sour folds, “I thought you were the doctor.”

  Woodcourt steps down from the carriage. “I’m a doctor, madam. May I be of assistance?”

  “We have our own medical attendant. Your presence is not needed here.”

  “In that case,” says Charles, “I would like to see the proprietor. My name is Maddox.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He is very pre-occupied at present, and can see no-one. One of our patients is unwell.”

  Charles and Woodcourt exchange a glance.

  “What sort of establishment is this?” asks Woodcourt, his dark eyes grave.

  The woman looks at him narrowly. “I’m not sure that is any concern of yours.”

  Wheeler takes a step forwards. “This is a police matter, madam. I’m sure you wouldn’t be wishing to impede our enquiries, now, would you?”

  She sniffs, clearly unimpressed by either his uniform or his tone. “It is a private lunatic asylum. And if that is all, I have better things to do than—”

  The door is closing, but Charles has his foot against it, and the next minute he’s pushed past her into the empty hall. There’s a large refectory on one side with a smaller office opposite, and straight ahead of him a heavy carved staircase that branches left and right to the two wings of the house. And then at last the pieces shift, slide together, and form—finally—a pattern. This is the service Tulkinghorn provided for Cremorne and his associates and all those other clients over the years—this is the establishment that is so suitable for handling delicate cases. And if that is so, there must be a link—a connexion—not only between this place and Cremorne, but between this place and the baronet of the black swan.

  He turns to the woman in grey, only a few paces behind him now. “Do you know a man named Sir Percival Glyde? Does he pay for the upkeep of a patient here?”

  “I am not at liberty to divulge—”

  “You’d be advised to answer the gentleman,” says Wheeler quickly. “It’ll go better for you in the end.”

  “I’m sure you know exactly who I’m talking about.” Charles is moving towards her. “Between forty-five and fifty, I should say, with dark hair starting to thin and an extremely distinctive scar on the back of his hand.”

  She flushes; there is a line of bright colour now on her thin cheekbones. “We did have a patient here whose treatment was paid for by Sir Percival—”

  “Did have?”

  “Anne Catherick”—she hesitates—“is no longer with us.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?” asks Charles. He is by now barely three inches from the woman, and towers over her.

  “I do not know who you are, sir, and I am equally unacquainted with whatever it is that gives you the right to behave in such an unmannerly and intimidating manner towards my staff.”

  When they turn to see who has spoken, they find a man has emerged from the office. He is tall, with a heavy grey beard and a large gold watch, rather showily displayed.

  “I am the owner of The Solitary House. As you have already been informed, one of our patients is very ill, and that being the case I must ask you to leave the premises at once.”

  “I’ll leave,” replies Charles, “when I have some answers, and not before.”

  “Very well,” says the man, smiling in a very unpleasant way, “what is it you wish to know?”

  “What happened to this woman Anne Catherick?”

  The man spreads his hands. “Before I answer that, you should know that this establishment is one of the most highly regarded of its kind in London, if not in England.”

  Charles glances at Woodcourt, but the doctor is intent only on the proprietor’s face.

  “No expense is spared on the treatment provided here, which conforms to that recommended by acknowledged experts working in the fields of hysteria, imbecility, epilepsy, and other such predominantly female maladies.”

  The doctor frowns slightly, but says nothing.

  “You must also understand,” the man continues, “that Anne Catherick was an extremely disturbed young woman. Had been so, indeed, from a very early age. In the course of time the symptoms of her mental affliction became so severe and so alarming that there was no alternative but to place her under full medical supervision. Her mother having rendered faithful service to Sir Percival’s family for many years, he was generous enough to defray the expense of her daughter’s treatment here, thereby avoiding the necessity of admitting the girl into a public asylum.”

  “Not that she was grateful, the conniving little minx,” snaps the woman. Her employer glances at her quickly, then looks away.

  “What do you mean, conniving?” says Charles, trying to divine what message it is that has just passed between them.

  The man shakes his head. “It was most regrettable, most regrettable. Especially for an establishment as punctilious as this has always been on such matters. Miss Catherick contrived to ingratiate herself with one of the nurses here—a girl, I may say, who had been with us only a few months—and escaped one night from the grounds. It was some time before she could be traced and returned here for further treatment, during which interval Sir Percival was unstinting in his efforts to assist in retrieving the unhappy child. But by the time she was eventually found, her condition had markedly deteriorated. Indeed, you might scarcely have believed her to be the same person.”

  Charles sees another look pass between the man and the woman; there is something here, something they are concealing from him, but what can it be?

  And just then—as he stands there, looking from one to the other—there is a sound from upstairs. Somewhere a long way away, over their heads, a woman is screaming. Charles looks at Woodcourt, and the two of them race up the stairs with Wheeler at their heels, only to find themselves confronted by a long dark corridor, its line of windows curtained against the light. Door after door stand before them, all closed. Charles nods to Woodcourt and he moves swiftly to the rooms at the farther end of the passage, while Charles turns to the door in front of him and reaches for the handle.

  He thought he knew what he was going to find. He’s seen the worst of London’s squalor in his time, the darkest of its many darknesses, but he has seen nothing—nothing—that compares to this.

  The room is no more than ten feet square; there is no fire in the tiny hearth and the barest of blankets on the iron bedstead. And in the corner, muttering incoherently, there is an old woman cowering away from him on the filthy floor, her night-dress yellow with old urine and an empty bird cage gripped in her gaunt and crooked fingers. The nex
t room is an exact copy of the first, only here Charles finds a young man with wild disordered hair and ink-stained hands, surrounded by a great quantity of textbooks, their pages bristling with snippets of paper. He does not even look up when Charles enters—does not even notice he’s there—so engrossed is he in turning frenetically from one book to another, and making tiny notes in a minute illegible hand. Charles can hardly bear to look at him—it’s like some obscene parody—a terrifying and insane mirror image of himself that touches a deep and buried fear that even now he will never discuss, and which haunts him like a figure seen only in a dream, advancing towards him down a long colonnade; now in shadow, now in light, now invisible, now half seen, now a stranger, now with the face of one he once loved.

  He turns away, sick at soul, and finds Wheeler has gone before him and is already standing staring in the neighbouring doorway. And it’s soon clear why. The golden-haired girl who stands looking listlessly out of the window is as beautiful as a Botticelli Madonna, but what stops Charles’s breath and freezes his heart is the short rose taffeta dress she wears, and the sight—all innocent as it seems—of an old rag-doll lying on the chair.

  “Sir Julius bloody Cremorne is only interested in little girls—or those of us as can pass ourselves off as such. Same type every time. Always blondes. And the younger the better. Ribbons, ringlets, pink dress, the whole friggin’ farrago. He even gave me a bloody doll to hold while he was on top of me …”

  At that moment the young woman turns and sees him, and shrinks back in terror against the wall. “Don’t touch me! You mustn’t touch me!”

  “I won’t hurt you,” says Charles quickly, retreating backwards. “I want to help you, if I can. If you’ll let me.”

  Her eyes widen. “I don’t believe you. Uncle Julius says men are not to be trusted. Especially young men. He says I must always be on my guard because I am so beautiful.” She tilts her head and twists one of her ringlets about her finger. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

  “Very beautiful. But I hope you will realise that you can trust me, whatever your uncle says.”