by Kate Mosse
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Harry.’
*
Connie listened to his footsteps on the gravel, the latch of the gate opening and shutting. She shut the front door, then sank down on to the hall chair.
Had he noticed?
The white in the woman’s mouth, the specks of blood. The marks around her neck. Connie needed to examine her properly, but she was sure of what she had seen. The next thing was to send Mary away too. She had to think. Had to decide what to do for the best.
She found the maid sitting on an upturned milk churn in the scullery, twisting at her apron. Mary jumped to her feet.
‘Sorry, miss, I’m all at sixes and sevens. I was just about to boil the water for some tea.’
‘That’s all right, Mary, it won’t be necessary. Mr Woolston has gone to report what’s happened to the authorities.’
‘Is she . . .’ Mary cast nervous eyes in the direction of the garden.
‘We have removed her from the water, yes. I’m going to wait for someone to come and take the body away. I came to say you may take the rest of the day off, Mary. You’ve had a nasty fright and you were brave.’
‘Are you sure, miss? Will you be safe here on your own, until the master gets back?’
‘Do you know where he’s gone, Mary?’ she said quickly.
The girl frowned. ‘No, miss.’
‘Did you see him leave?’
‘Leave, miss?’ Mary said, becoming more puzzled with each question. ‘I just thought he was out same as usual, it being the afternoon.’
Even though things had been different in the house over the past week, Mary clearly assumed Gifford had stuck to his usual routine and gone out after lunch. The girl couldn’t have heard them talking on the terrace, or his fleeing upstairs.
‘Of course, yes,’ Connie said.
If Mary believed Gifford had been away from Blackthorn House all afternoon, then that would make things easier in the long run. No need for any kind of explanation. She pulled herself up short, perturbed at the direction her thoughts were taking. There was no reason – no reason – to assume her father knew about the woman’s death.
‘Will that be all, Miss Gifford?’
Connie dragged her attention back. ‘Yes. Please keep what has happened here to yourself, Mary. I don’t want to encourage gossip.’
‘But what shall I say when Ma asks why I’m back early?’
‘You can, of course, tell your mother, but no one else.’
‘And what about the washing, miss? It’s still out there, all in the mud. It will spoil if it stays there.’
‘I will collect the washing while you get your things,’ Connie said, biting back her impatience. ‘You can drop it off with Miss Bailey at the laundry on your way home.’
*
Connie set the linen basket down by the gate.
A few moments later, Mary came out of the back door and, taking care not to look in the direction where the body lay, walked quickly across the grass, picked up the laundry and out on to the footpath. There was little hope of the girl holding her tongue for long, but Connie only needed half an hour’s grace. After that, it rather depended on how observant Mr Woolston had been and what he chose to say.
Connie rushed into the workshop, realising with a sinking feeling that she had left the door open, as well as all of the windows. The dead jackdaw lay on the table beneath the newspaper, but was surrounded now by a haze of minuscule black flies. She flapped them away with the paper, then quickly took one of the glass bell-jar domes from the shelf adjacent to the counter. She placed it over the bird. If damage had been done, it would be clear by morning. She could not allow herself to mourn the waste of her labours yet.
She hurried to the rack where their tools hung on hooks. Hammers and files, flat- and round-blade forceps, cutters, scalpels, a pair of scissors. She grabbed the largest pincers and ran back outside. The garden was completely in shadow and a slight wind was blowing up from the creek. In the distance, she could hear the screeching of the gulls on the turn of the tide. The air felt brittle, sharp with anticipation.
She knelt down beside the body, feeling the squelch and damp of the grass beneath her, and folded back the sheet. Fifteen minutes out of the water and already the skin seemed greyer. Connie was now almost completely certain it wasn’t the woman who had been watching Blackthorn House. The hair was a similar colour, a vivid chestnut, but there was no refinement in the features, and the body was stockier.
Despite being sodden with salt water, the quality of the coat was evident. An expensive and unusual design. Whereas the clothes underneath were cheap and threadbare.
Connie searched the pockets. There was nothing in them at all. Perhaps the coat was stolen, or someone had given it to her to wear. In the pocket of the plain green skirt there were a few damp seeds of grain, caught in the seams, as well as a black glass bead. She turned it over in her palm, while she steeled herself for what she had to do next.
It wasn’t a red trim around the collar, but dried blood. An uneven pattern where the wound had heavily bled into the cotton, which had then been submerged in the water.
With care, Connie probed and manoeuvred her hand around the distended flesh, feeling for the wire she knew must be there. At last she found it, deeply embedded in the woman’s neck. She had to dig her fingernails into the spongy flesh to get purchase until she could position the pincers. She squeezed, felt the wire snip.
It was not a fishing line, caught up by accident, as Harry had supposed, but rather the sort of wire used by stuffers. Commonplace, the cheapest and most widely distributed make. In the old days, all the workshops along the south coast would have had it. Brighton, Worthing, Swayling, even Chichester twenty years ago. Now most of the old-timers had gone. The taxidermy studios closed for business. It was no longer something that could be bought on any high street.
Connie turned to see that the jackdaws had flown from the south garden to the north and were now lined up along the fence, their beaks up and their necks forward. They were calling to one another. A third pair flew down. They were carrion birds, after all.
Where was her father? The worry was there all the time, like a splinter under her skin.
As she hurried to finish the task of removing the garrotte from around the woman’s neck, Connie tried to ignore the clattering, jabbering crescendo of the jackdaws. And she tried not to think about the empty hook on the wall in her father’s workshop where the coil of wire should have been.
Chapter 11
The Old Salt Mill
Fishbourne Creek
Joseph’s feet slipped off the sill. He woke with a jolt as the field glasses crashed to the ground.
‘Let me alone,’ he bellowed, throwing a punch. For a moment, he was back in jail. Taking a beating, never properly sleeping, reaching for the stiletto of glass beneath his mattress. Then the sharp salt of the incoming tide penetrated his consciousness, the harsh shriek of the gulls overhead, and he remembered where he was.
Joseph had got into a brawl outside the Globe in January. Defending a lady’s honour against a man with a foul mouth and a sharp right hook. The law hadn’t seen it that way. Up again before the mayor and the bench, he’d been sentenced to the maximum judgement of three months’ hard labour. Sergeant Pennicott had spoken against him and Joseph had no doubt that that interference had lost him his job at Howards, one of the butchers in Chichester. He wouldn’t forget that in a hurry.
Joseph didn’t want to find himself back in jail. At the same time, he couldn’t deny he’d picked up some interesting information in there, all of which he was making the most of now. A man had to find a way to earn a decent living, if his livelihood was taken away from him.
He bent down and picked up the binoculars. Blackthorn House looked exactly the same, except the Gifford girl was no longer on the terrace. He put the glasses down again and yawned, wondering how late it was and whether anyone would come to relieve him. He could do with a drink.
<
br /> There was a brisk wind coming off the water. Joseph began to close the window, then something caught his eye. He reached for the binoculars. Was someone on the move? He scanned the horizon, but all he saw was a flock of black birds fly up from the roof of the ice house and float low over the chimneys towards the rear garden.
Joseph stretched, then stood up. In most matters, he was blessed with no conscience, though he prided himself on being honourable in others. He did what he was paid to do, no qualms about it and no questions asked. Within limits. The fact that he was being paid twice, for what was essentially the same thing, or so it seemed, only made the situation sweeter. He didn’t care about the whys and wherefores, so long as the money kept coming.
Woolston didn’t bother him. He was probably doing what he was told, as much as Joseph was. For a moment, Joseph allowed himself to be curious. He wondered who had such a hold over Woolston. He didn’t look as if he could say boo to a goose. But then, the more respectable the man, the more he had to lose.
Joseph might ask. He might as well ask.
He lit another of Woolston’s cigarettes as he stared out at Blackthorn House. Still not a soul in sight. He could hear the water wheel rumbling below, shaking the mill, as the tide came in.
Blackthorn House was completely still and silent.
Joseph started to think he might as well pack it in. Gifford had to be holed up inside. There were no signs of his making an appearance now, not if the day so far was anything to go by. It was possible, he supposed, that he had scarpered in the few minutes Joseph had been resting his eyes. A little longer. No reason to think that was the case. Joseph had been careful that neither the taxidermist nor his daughter should realise they were under surveillance. But if Gifford had, for the sake of argument, left Blackthorn House, the only place he’d be likely to go was the Bull’s Head.
That being the case, Joseph concluded the debate with himself, wouldn’t it make sense for him to go to the inn and check? The more he thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. He would wander over to the Bull’s Head and see what gossip he could pick up. There was always something.
Didn’t know how the world worked, men like Woolston. All that book learning and money, the law on their side, but not an ounce of common sense to rub between them.
Main Road
Fishbourne
‘Mary, is that you?’
Mary hung up her coat and hat in the hall, then went through to the kitchen where her mother was shelling peas. The twins were sitting on the floor under the table. Maisie leapt up to hug her and show her that the peg doll had a new frock. Polly continued to dangle a piece of bacon rind on a string for the kitten to jump up at.
‘You’re early,’ Jennie Christie said, then stopped. ‘What’s the matter, love? You look all somehow.’
Mary took one look at her mother and, despite her intentions, burst into tears. A few minutes later, with the twins dispatched into the garden and a pot of steaming tea on the table, she was telling her mother everything.
‘What a terrible thing. That poor, poor girl. And awful for you, Mary love.’ Jennie put her hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘But at least Miss Gifford didn’t expect you to help bring the wretched soul out.’
‘She sent me to fetch Dr Evershed. He wasn’t there, but there was a gentlemen staying. He came instead. Mr Woolston, he was called.’
The paring knife clattered into the bowl. ‘Woolston, did you say?’
‘That’s what he said. Ever so nicely dressed. Good quality. And such lovely eyes, almost purple they were. Matched his waistcoat and—’
‘How old was this Mr Woolston?’
‘I don’t know. Hard to say.’
‘Try, love.’
‘I don’t know, Ma. Twenty-four or twenty-five, perhaps.’
‘Not older? Not in his fifties?’
‘No.’ Mary paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’ Mrs Christie carried on pushing the peas out into the bowl. ‘Is he a friend of Dr Evershed’s?’
‘Must be, why?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Obviously it is,’ Mary said, ‘or you wouldn’t have asked. Do you think you might know him, Ma?’
‘No.’ Mrs Christie hesitated. ‘At least, that’s to say I did run across a Woolston once, though I can’t see why he—’ She broke off. ‘Anyway, it can’t have been him, not if he’s as young as you say.’
‘I might be wrong.’
‘Did he have grey hair?’
‘No.’
Ma Christie smiled. ‘Well, it can’t be the same person.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘What did Mr Gifford have to say about all this?’
‘He wasn’t there.’
Mrs Christie shook her head. ‘Well, it’s a dreadful shock you had, the pair of you. Good of Miss Gifford to let you off early. Didn’t I tell you she’d be a nice lady to work for?’
Although her mother kept her distance from Blackthorn House, and appeared to disapprove of Mr Gifford, she had been oddly insistent that Mary should accept the position when they moved to Fishbourne after Mr Christie died. It suited Mary, being the only servant in a large house, for all its peculiarities. There was no one to boss her about or tell her she was doing things the wrong way, like in the bigger establishments. She had friends in service at the Rectory and Old Park, so she knew what superior servants could be like. Keeping everyone in their place. Mary could, give or take, please herself.
Mary nodded. ‘I dropped the laundry all in the mud and Miss Gifford didn’t make a thing of that either. I left it with Miss Bailey, but forgot this.’ She looked down at the crumpled handkerchief. ‘Miss Gifford lent it me. I’ll have to do it myself. Have we got any starch, Ma?’
‘She’s got a lovely hand,’ Mrs Christie said, looking at the embroidered initials.
‘Be surprised if Miss Gifford stitched it herself, Ma. I’ve never seen her pick up a needle, all the time I’ve been there. She never stops writing, that’s more her thing.’
‘Always was one for reading and writing,’ Mrs Christie said. She paused. ‘Has she had any more of those turns?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
‘That’s good. And Mr Gifford?’
Mary looked at her mother in surprise at her interest. ‘Same as usual. Don’t run into him much.’
‘Good, that’s good,’ Mrs Christie repeated, running on. ‘Keeping out of that workshop, I trust. Nasty old-fashioned business. Not hygienic.’
‘I heard Mr Gifford was really famous once. Used to have his own museum over Lyminster way. People came from all over and—’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Mrs Christie said sharply. ‘No sense going on about it. All in the past.’
‘Did you go there then, Ma? Birds dressed up in little costumes, Archie said . . .’
Mrs Christie got up and walked to the stove. ‘Can you clear up for me?’
‘. . . all posed in positions,’ Mary carried on, ‘little hymn books and what have you—’
‘That’s enough!’
Mary sat back as if she’d been slapped. Her mother rarely raised her voice, not even when the twins were playing up.
‘I was only saying. There’s no call to get sharp with me.’
Mary started to wrap the empty pods in a sheet of paper. Mrs Christie watched her, clearly already regretting her burst of temper.
‘Here’s a thing,’ she said in an emollient voice. ‘Do you remember Vera Barker? One that used to feed all the birds around Apuldram way?’
Mary shook her head, not willing to let it go straight away.
‘Yes, you do. Tommy Barker’s eldest. Some people called her Birdie. Went a bit funny in the head. Had all that red hair and wore an odd black hat, flat like a pancake, with feathers sticking out around the rim. Gardener at Westfield House was always chasing her off.’
Mary shrugged. ‘I never knew her. She was long gone by the time we came here.’
‘Well, be that as it may, it t
urns out no one’s seen her for a week. There was all that flooding round Apuldram way and downalong, so nobody was thinking about poor Vera.’
The two women stared at one another, as the same thought occurred to them both.
‘Could it have been Birdie you found in the stream, love?’ Mrs Christie said slowly.
‘I didn’t get a proper look, Ma. I couldn’t bring myself. I suppose so.’
‘Though now I come to think about it, don’t see how it can have been,’ Mrs Christie continued. ‘Tide wouldn’t carry her up from Apuldram. She’d be taken out past Dell Quay.’ She looked down at the newspaper. ‘I might mention it all the same. Police asking folk to help with their enquiries. Someone wrote a letter to Tommy, anonymous, and he took it to the newspaper.’
‘But who’d do that, Ma? Who’d even notice she was missing?’
‘Well, that I don’t know,’ Mrs Christie admitted. ‘They don’t say. But there must have been something in it for them to put it in the paper.’
‘I suppose so.’
Mrs Christie’s expression softened. ‘Anyhow, I’m sorry I snapped at you, love. All this weather, my nerves are in shreds. Why don’t you hang up your things and call the girls in? Be nice to have you eating tea with us for a change.’
Mary started to untie her apron, then her hand went to her pocket.
‘Oh.’
‘What is it, love?’
Mary pulled out an envelope and put it on the table. ‘This was on the back mat. I picked it up, meaning to take it through to the hall, then forgot all about it. I had so much washing, making the most of the dry weather, wanting to get it pegged out.’
The two women stared at the cream envelope with the black cursive lettering: MISS C. GIFFORD.
‘Delivered to the back door, you say?’
‘I thought that was odd too,’ Mary said. ‘What do you think I should do, Ma? Should I take it back now?’
‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’
‘Lovely script, isn’t it? Really pretty.’
Mrs Christie took the letter and put it behind the carriage clock.
