by M. J. Tjia
He remains by the fireplace, until finally, finding no response from me, sits down opposite in a deep lounge chair.
“Well, what is it?”
City noises – a horse trotting past, a dog barking and the clink of the letter box – fill in the moments we stare at each other.
“I want you to donate £500 to the Euston Reclamation Home for Fallen Women. I hear they do good work there with women unfortunate enough to be with child outside wedlock.”
“I will do no such thing.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Oh, I think you will.”
He sits back and folds his arms, smiling. “And how are you going to make me do that?”
“Well, if you don’t, I will tell the police about how you were following Eleanor in her last days. I believe I might convince them that you are the one who murdered her.”
“But you’re mad. I didn’t murder her. I spoke to Sir Thomas just this morning. The police have found the culprit who murdered all those prostitutes.”
“Yes, but there’s no proof he murdered Eleanor. And I have two witnesses who saw you shadowing her on Frazier Street on the day she died.” Of course, it’s best not to mention that one witness is of foreign blood while the other witness is a homeless child. “And you are also mentioned in Dr Mordaunt’s diary, which I believe is in the police’s possession at this very moment. I know that Dr Mordaunt can definitely identify you as the man who accompanied poor Eleanor to his surgery, so that you could be rid of your baby.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asks, through bloodless lips.
“What I mean is I know that you were the father of Eleanor’s baby.” I feel an absolute thrill of triumph when wrath sweeps across Priestly’s face.
“Take that back, you harlot.”
“I will not.” I allow a smile of victory as I slowly withdraw Eleanor’s letter from between my breasts.
He licks his dry lips as his eyes follow my every movement. “What is that?”
“A letter from Eleanor,” I reply, as I unfold the sheet of paper. “In which she names you as the man who raped and impregnated her.”
Priestly makes a sudden lurch for me, but I hold up my hand, pointing to the doorway where Bundle stands with a sword stick held casually against his thigh. “Ah-ah,” I remonstrate. “Come closer, and Bundle will cut you.”
Priestly glances at the tall butler and settles back into his chair. He turns his face back to me.
“What do you intend to do with that?” he asks.
“I haven’t quite decided yet.” My eyes scan the letter. “But I do believe it would make interesting reading for Eleanor’s father. Although I am not sure I could put even Mr Carter through the repugnance of reading Eleanor’s account of how much she loathed your touch.” I re-fold it and poke it back into my bodice. “It will go straight into my safe at the bank and, of course, if anything dastardly were to happen to me, this letter will be sent to Mr Carter and a copy to the police.”
“You will never convince the police that I murdered her,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Probably not. But tell me, how would you like this letter and the witness accounts smeared across the newspapers for your wife and esteemed friends to see? Think of your children, Mr Priestly. Be sure, the damage will be done, even if you are not prosecuted for murder.” Priestly’s mouth gobbles away at words that will not come. I have to suppress a bubble of laughter. I haven’t felt so good in days.
I stand up. “So, I expect my friends at the Euston home to inform me within the week that someone has given them a large amount of money in Eleanor Carter’s name. If the money does not appear, I will simply send this letter to The Times.”
Priestly hauls himself out of his chair with difficulty. He leans upon its arm. “But that amount of money will break me.”
I dimple, but my eyes are cold. “Sir, that is not my concern.” I turn my back on him and gaze out the long, sash window.
As soon as Bundle sees Priestly from the premises he returns to the drawing room to hand me a letter.
“This arrived while you were engaged with Mr Priestly.”
The butler walks from the room passing Amah in the doorway.
“How do you know of this Euston home for prostitutes?” she asks, joining me by the window.
“I had Bundle make some enquiries when Eleanor was still with us,” I murmur as I rip open the seal on the letter. “It’s from Sir Thomas.” I read from it out loud.
“My Dear Mrs Chancey,
I hope I find you in happier spirits than the last time we corresponded. You have, yet again, cleared up a mystery that puzzled even the police. Of course, they may never have solved these murders had you not pointed them in the direction of their evil culprit.”
“So they know it was this Ignatius Xavier,” says Amah.
I nod. “I have just arrived back at my office from a meeting with Inspector Kelley. He told me that as soon as he received the message you left with him at the station stating your suspicions of Dr Mordaunt’s assistant, he gathered a small force of men and went directly to Xavier’s home.”
“What did you write?” asks Amah.
“I wrote that Eleanor had recognised him as the man with the dead girl. And that I’d found his monogramed handkerchief next to… you know.” I continue to read. “I do hope that what I am about to relay to you does not leave you faint, but the Inspector and his men found Mr Xavier stabbed to death. They are convinced he lured another prostitute to mutilate but was most likely overwhelmed and murdered in turn by her or an accomplice.– Well, that much is true,” I say, wryly. “There was sufficient evidence in his house, of which I won’t sully your senses, to prove that he was indeed the man killing those defenceless women. Also, they found a curious diary, which they assume is a list of past or future victims.” I look up at Amah. “He must mean Mordaunt’s diary. Dearest Mrs Chancey, although I earnestly apologise for the grief caused by Miss Carter’s death, I am truly thankful we retained your investigative services or this despicable affair would not be over. Please find enclosed a promissory note. I think you will find that Mr Carter has been quite generous. I hope to visit you soon.” I stare down at the cheque, my face blank. “Well paid for my excellent service, yet again.”
Amah takes the note from me, and her eyebrows lift as she reads the amount. “Very generous. That will take care of the servants’ wages for the next six months. I will put this note on your desk with your other banking tasks.”
I watch my mother, dark and tightly bustled, walk from the room. How horrified society would be if it found out that the celebrated Heloise Chancey, Paon de Nuit, is a true exotique. Not that it matters who I am actually – what matters is what society thinks I am.
I glance across the room at my portrait, at the façade I call Heloise Chancey. It’s just one of my many roles. Can I really leave it all behind? I have my independence, thanks to my shrewdness with the riches that have come my way, but do I have any real choices that are not already carved out for me?
Maybe it’s time to give up the pretence. The artifice of allure, and the constant pursuit of luxury, is exhausting.
Although, doesn’t pleasure count for a lot? Thinking back to the stupor and pestilence of poverty that was once mine, I know that it does.
There’s a knock at the front door and peeking out the window I see that Sir Ripon and his friend, the rich Mr Burke, have come to visit. The word’s already out that Heloise Chancey is receiving guests again. I rustle over to a small, cloisonné mirror on the mantelpiece and pinch my cheeks and neaten my hair. It’s time to perform.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Tom Chalmers, Lucy Chamberlain, Robert Harries, Allison Zink and everyone at Legend Press for believing in Heloise and Amah Li Leen. Likewise, thank you to Alison Green and everyone at Pantera Press. Particular thanks to Lauren Parsons. I have appreciated her continued support and graceful editing of my work.
Big thank you to the people in
my writers’ groups who have helped me shape this book over the years: Trudie Murrell, Janaka Malwatta, Jonathan Hadwen, Catherine Baskerville, Rohan Jayasinghe, Tamara Lazaroff, and especially to the crime fiction work-shop extraordinaire, Emma Doolan. Thank you to Susan Carson, Sharyn Pearce, Lesley Hawkes, Sarah Holland-Batt, QUT Creative Industries, Sisters in Crime (Aus), Queensland Writers Centre, Laura Elvery, Penny Holliday, Andrea Baldwin, Sarah Kanake, Madeleine Bendixen, Chris Przewloka, Mark Piccini, Joanna Hartmann and Stephen Smith. I have learnt from you all. Huge gratitude to those who have cheered me on: Ellen and David Paxton, Tina Tjia, Liam Tjia, Damien Riwoe, Amy Tjia, Fiona Kearney, Yasmin Cameron, Rebecca Dann, Cindy de Warren, Helen Curcuruto, Ann Cleary, Tina Clark and Kevin Boland.
Special thanks to Marele Day and Byron Bay Writers Festival for the mentored residency that helped me find my way; and to Varuna, The Writers’ House – parts of this novel were taken from my wonderful time writing in Eleanor Dark’s studio.
From my heart, thank you to my papa, a constant inspiration, to my mum, for telling me to get started and Elis, for her sunny strength. To my children for putting up with the cranky bear in the study, and to Dave, for his constant faith in me, especially when mine is at its lowest.
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