by Kate Mosse
A single, narrow main street. A steep hill and the remains of a ruined castle, along the dusty road to a small flint building with a pitched roof. Outside, an old man – in black suit and bow tie, a straw boater – sitting on a bench. Whiskers. Affixed to the front of the building, the sign read MUSEUM: OPEN DAILY. Someone, that same guardian, told her the man was Mr Walter Potter himself, the owner of the museum. In the pretty courtyard garden, lots of visitors waiting their turn to be admitted to the displays.
Connie had no memory of waiting or of purchasing a ticket; only that the front door had stained-glass panels, glinting like a kaleidoscope in the weak afternoon sunlight, and led into an antechamber. A wooden cash desk, polished and surrounded by photographs and a vase of fresh meadow flowers. A glass jar containing Siamese twin pigs, their features squashed and gentle in the confined space. Trotters and tiny snouts and ears. Connie had thought they looked as if they were smiling. At the base of the jar, a sign explaining that the deformed animals had been a gift to the museum some twenty years earlier and were believed to have been formed by witchcraft.
What else? A suspended wooden seat for weighing jockeys, and an iron mantrap, its metal teeth clutched and browned by the blood of victims long dead. A clapper from a Sussex church bell.
Holding hands, walking forward into a room so full of treasures it was impossible to know where to look first. Birds’ nests suspended from the ceiling, a jumble of glass and feather and furs, pelts hanging from the rafters. And everywhere, waist-high display cases – at eye level for her – with a spine of glass domes along the middle of the room containing stuffed birds: an owl, a robin nesting in a kettle, a duckling with four legs. A fox and her cubs, a two-headed kitten. A mummified hand, charred and blackened and sticky; withered flowers from a plundered grave. Grotesque and chillingly beautiful.
But her clearest memories of the day were the tableaux. Large glass cases filled with stuffed animals and birds, each telling a story. All of them the work of Mr Potter, the owner and proprietor of the museum. The guinea pigs’ cricket match, the accompanying band holding precise instruments, silver trumpets and a slide trombone. The score frozen at 189 for 7. A kittens’ tea party, complete with doll’s house chairs, blue and white porcelain cups and saucers and a silver teapot. Chicken and cake on the table moulded from paste and glue. And around each tiny feline neck, blue ribbons or red, a copper necklace.
In only one tableau were the animals fully dressed. The kitten minister in his cassock, holding a prayer book between his claws. The veiled kitten bride in her wedding dress, her groom in black. Pearl and tulle, a posy of orange blossom, the female guests hung about with strings of red beads and blue, earrings clipped to their ears.
Connie moved slowly from case to case, her fingers pressed upon the glass. The smell of dust and overheated air, the lingering aroma of tobacco on men’s coats, and camphor. A magical world of imagination. Life captured and preserved for ever.
But what mattered most about that day, what had imprinted itself on Connie’s pliant memory, was one of the largest of the tableaux, a polished metal plate affixed to the case: THE ORIGINAL DEATH AND BURIAL OF COCK ROBIN. Nearly one hundred birds – had someone told her this? – with glass-beaded eyes: bullfinch and robin, red-backed shrike, hawfinch and bunting, the sparrow with his bow and arrow. Old tombstones and disinterred bones, sepulchres and a tiny blue coffin, a dish of blood. Every verse from the nursery rhyme portrayed inside the case. An owl with white and gold feathers digging the grave with a pick and shovel. A grieving lark with a black sash around its neck. The rook who served as the parson holding a prayer book in its claw.
Staring into the case, imagining the noise of the cawing in the trees surrounding the house. The tolling of the bell. And in the middle of such delight, the slow realisation, and her world shattering into pieces. Even though she was young, Connie understood that her father’s museum – GIFFORD’S WORLD-FAMOUS HOUSE OF AVIAN CURIOSITIES – was based on this one. A few of the cases all but identical.
All those telegrams and words overheard. Court cases and summonses. An auction to sell off their possessions, a cart arriving to take the boxes and packing crates away. For a couple of days, just the three of them left in the almost empty museum with the few displays yet to be sold.
Her, Gifford and Cassie.
*
In her armchair in Blackthorn House, Connie stirred. Hearing a woman’s voice, close at hand.
‘Miss?’
She jerked awake, and saw a pretty face looking down at her.
‘Cassie?’
‘It’s Mary, miss.’
Connie blinked, then registered the girl standing in front of her chair clutching a blanket and a pair of slippers. Disorientated and embarrassed, she sat up.
‘I’m sorry, of course. I must have fallen asleep.’
Mary handed Connie her slippers and the rug. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘No, it’s better I wake up. Did I tell you Nutbeem’s will deliver at three o’clock.’
Mary’s eyes widened. ‘That’s good, miss.’
‘It is.’ Connie nodded. ‘Did you fetch my journal?’
‘That’s what I was coming to say, miss. I’ve looked everywhere, and I can’t find it.’
Chapter 22
‘It must be somewhere.’
‘Your ink and pen were in the drawing room, like you said, but I looked all over the house for the journal and can’t find it.’
‘My father’s room?’
‘Not there,’ the maid admitted. ‘Not in the workshop either. But everywhere else. I’m sorry, miss.’
Connie folded the blanket back from her legs and stood up. She felt light-headed from the after-effects of the brandy and her short sleep.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll look for it myself. I’m sure it will turn up. If you could bring me my pen and ink, and some loose writing paper, that will do for now.’
‘Shall I bring you something to eat? Some bread and butter, perhaps? It’s gone one o’clock.’
Connie wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, but realised it would be sensible. ‘Some buttered toast would be nice.’
‘Perhaps a little paste, too? There’s a new jar, and some pickled egg left from yesterday’s lunch as well.’
Connie was touched by the girl’s determination to care for her.
‘That’s a good idea, thank you. I’ll have a tray in here.’
‘Do you want me to prepare a tray for the master, too?’
Connie felt the tightening in her chest. As the hours went on without her father coming back, she was no longer sure why she was continuing with the pretence. It would come out soon enough. On the other hand, she didn’t feel she had the will to explain.
‘We’ll leave him be.’
Mary nodded. ‘One more thing, miss. I don’t like to bother you with it, not really, but he won’t take no for an answer. Dave Reedman’s boy is at the back door. He says he’s got something to tell you. Bound to be nothing. He’d lie as soon as spit.’ Mary broke off, blushing.
‘Did he say what it was?’
‘No. I told him to hop it, but he’s stood standing there all the same. Says he won’t speak anything to anyone but you.’ Mary pursed her lips. ‘Shall I send him away?’
Connie was about to agree when it occurred to her that the boy might know something about her father’s whereabouts. Davey was on the marshes day in, day out, when he should have been in school, fishing for eels and scavenging for jam jars, which he’d sell for a farthing or two. If anyone had seen Gifford, it would be him.
‘No, show him in,’ she said. ‘Let’s hear what he has to say.’
*
Moments later, Mary ushered the grubby child into the drawing room. He was sporting a fine pair of binoculars round his neck.
Connie had no idea how old Davey Reedman might be – small boys were a mystery to her – but she guessed ten or eleven. His bare knees were a patchwork of scabs and cuts. His face looked as i
f it hadn’t been washed in weeks, and there was a grey line of dirt around his moth-eaten collar. All the same, his eyes were bright and he looked intelligent.
‘Take your cap off,’ Mary said, clipping the boy round the ear. ‘Show some respect.’
Davey did what he was told, but Connie saw a flash of cheek in his coal-black eyes, and rather liked him for it.
‘Hello, Davey,’ she said. ‘I gather you have something to tell me.’
‘In private,’ he said, throwing a glance at Mary. ‘Not speaking while she’s here.’
Mary raised her hand, but the boy dodged a step back.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ Connie said swiftly. ‘I’ll call when I need you.’
The maid shot daggers at the boy, then picked up her skirts and flounced from the room, shutting the door theatrically behind her.
‘Well, Davey, what is it?’
‘Can I sit down, miss?’
Connie hid a smile. ‘You may sit on that chair there,’ she said, pointing to a ladder-back chair.
Davey grabbed it, swung it round and placed it right in front of her.
‘So I’m wondering what’s in it for me, miss?’
Connie tried to look stern. ‘That rather depends on what it is you have to say.’
‘Suppose that’s fair enough,’ he said, crossing his left leg over his right knee. ‘How’s about we talk, then we have a bit of a . . .’ He wagged his hand back and forth.
‘Negotiation?’
Davey nodded. ‘That’s the johnny. Negotiation. So, here’s how we do it. I tell you what I saw, you decide what it’s worth, then we negotiate and settle.’ He spat on his hand and held it out. ‘All right?’
‘All right,’ said Connie. ‘I shall assume you’re a man of your word, Master Reedman, so there is no need to shake hands. Go ahead. The floor is yours.’
It gave Connie pleasure to see the boy sit up straighter.
‘So here’s the thing,’ he began. ‘Yesterday, I was out on the marshes. I wasn’t looking for birds’ eggs or anything, just minding my own business . . .’
For five minutes, Davey talked without drawing breath and Connie let him. Despite his peculiar grandiloquent turns of phrase, and attempts to justify himself at every twist and turn, the boy told his story clearly and well. She only interrupted at one point, to ask him to pass her the pen, paper and ink that Mary had brought in. Davey obliged, and from that point on, Connie made notes of what he was saying.
‘So, that’s the long and the short of it,’ Davey concluded. ‘I mean, he looked like a working man, clothes and all, but small bloke, ever so tidy. Hat all but covered his face.’ He leant forward in the chair. ‘What d’you think, miss? Worth something?’
‘Just to be absolutely clear, Davey. You are certain you saw a man watching Blackthorn House yesterday morning?’
‘Sure as we’re sitting here.’
‘He wasn’t simply, I don’t know, walking on the footpath? Going about his business?’
‘No, miss. He was standing dead set in the middle of the reedmace, off the path, just looking this way.’
Connie frowned. ‘And this was yesterday morning? You’re sure of that? You’re not muddling up the days?’
Davey shook his head. ‘Don’t know the time, but early. After eight, before eleven. Sun hadn’t come round.’ He paused. ‘So, what do you think it’s worth, miss?’
Connie put down her pen. ‘How much do you think it’s worth?’
For the first time, the boy was lost for words. ‘Well, I don’t rightly know.’ He looked at her from beneath his dark, unkempt hair. ‘I’m thinking, well – maybe a penny?’
‘I think that’s most reasonable. But I tell you what. If you could agree to let me know if, on your travels, you catch sight of my father, I think I could run to tuppence.’
‘Gone missing again, has he, miss?’
Connie tried to look stern. ‘If you see him and let me know,’ she said firmly, not answering the question.
Davey made a poor job of hiding his delight. ‘It’s my civic duty as I see it, miss.’
‘Is that so?’ Connie reached into her purse and pulled out a coin. ‘Though this is on the understanding that it is a one-off payment. I won’t expect to see you back.’
The boy flushed. ‘Of course not, miss. I’m not like Gregory Joseph, cross my heart.’ He offered his hand. ‘Though he’s all right at the bottom of it.’
Connie smiled. ‘I am prepared to take your word for it.’
The boy put the chair back where he’d found it, then sauntered across the room and opened the door.
‘Miss Gifford and me have finished our negotiations,’ he called down the corridor, putting his cap on his head. ‘And seeing as how you’ve dealt with me so far, miss,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing.’
Connie raised her eyebrows. ‘And what’s that?’
‘There’s a copper grubbing around the top of your garden.’
Chapter 23
The Bull’s Head
Main Road
Fishbourne
Harry stood with Charles Crowther under the porch of the Bull’s Head, sheltering from the rain. He’d run into him by chance and remembered him from the private bar the previous evening.
‘It is a relief to know the matter is resolved,’ Harry said, when Crowther had finished explaining how he and others had identified and retrieved Vera Barker’s body.
‘The poor creature had been estranged from her father for some time,’ Crowther concluded. ‘She had a reputation for being not quite there and, of course, they found that rather difficult. A pity.’
‘Barker lives in Fishbourne?’
‘All his life, and his father before him. His wife passed away some years back. There are two married daughters, both local.’
‘What about Vera?’
‘She seems to have spent most of her time recently in Apuldram, though no one’s sure where she actually lived. She’d certainly been detained once or twice, for causing a public nuisance, that kind of thing. Known for feeding the birds, which didn’t make her popular with the farmers. I gather she has been in and out of the county asylum.’
‘I wonder if her name would be familiar to my father?’ Harry said.
‘I wouldn’t have thought the committee members came into contact with individual patients.’
‘No, probably not.’
‘Barker was sent some kind of anonymous letter; he took it to the Chichester Observer when it emerged that no one had seen Vera for a week. The newspaper reported on it yesterday.’
‘Did the doctor think she’d been in the water that long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You weren’t present at the post-mortem?’
Crowther shook his head. ‘Leave that kind of thing to the professionals.’
Harry looked at him. ‘Forgive me, I realise I never asked what line of business you were in, Mr Crowther.’
‘Been lucky with investments, mining and the like, all rather dull,’ Crowther said lightly. ‘But what brings you back to Fishbourne so soon, Mr Woolston?’
Harry considered how much he ought to say. Crowther seemed pleasant enough, and had been very decent about the unpleasant business of helping with the drowned girl, yet he hesitated. He still didn’t know where his father was, or what he was doing; he felt he should be circumspect. On the other hand, since he’d come back to Fishbourne in search of information, there was little point in being too discreet. No one in the Woolpack had seen his father or knew his name. If he didn’t ask some more questions, he wasn’t going to get anywhere.
‘Do you know Fishbourne well, Mr Crowther?’
‘Quite well,’ Crowther replied. ‘I have a weekend cottage here. Slay Lodge, at the bottom of Mill Lane. During the late spring and early summer, I spend much of my time here. It’s a lovely spot, even in this dismal weather.’
Harry offered Crowther a cigarette, which he refused, then lit one for himself.
&nb
sp; ‘This will sound rather peculiar . . .’
‘Shall we perhaps go inside? We’ll be more comfortable.’
They sat at a corner table in the private bar. Crowther was a good listener, and Harry found it helpful to lay out the few facts in his possession.
‘So, to summarise,’ Crowther said when Harry finished, ‘the only link between your father and Fishbourne is the word of a Dunnaways man? Not the driver who apparently took the fare, but someone listening behind him in the line.’
Harry nodded. ‘When you put it like that, I admit it sounds rather weak, though he did go somewhere in a rush.’
‘But no certainty that he came to Fishbourne.’
Harry paused, deciding how much further to confide in Crowther. ‘No, though when I went through to the public bar last evening, a fellow there claimed he’d seen someone fitting my father’s description near Blackthorn House. And taken with the fact that I overheard my father quarrelling with someone in his offices yesterday lunchtime – which is utterly out of character – well, I started to wonder if it might have been the same man.’
‘Is there any reason to think it was?’
Harry glanced up at Crowther’s sharp tone. ‘Well, no. I suppose not, other than that he seemed the type.’
‘The type?’
‘The type who might threaten someone, I suppose,’ Harry said, not exactly sure what he did mean.
‘Did you see the man who was rowing with your father?’
‘No, I only saw the back of his head and his boots as he came down the stairs. Slight chap.’
‘And the man in the Bull’s Head?’
‘I admit he was bigger built,’ Harry conceded, with ill grace. ‘He had a local voice, coarse.’ He paused. ‘Not the same man, no.’
Crowther smiled. ‘Forgive me, I’m playing Devil’s advocate.’
Harry raised his hand. ‘Don’t apologise. It helps to see things from all angles.’ He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘The thing is, Crowther, my father never does anything on the spur of the moment. A place for everything and everything in its place, you know. I’m worried.’
