by Kate Mosse
Crowther nodded his thanks. ‘What do you know about the Christie family?’
‘Nice, respectable woman,’ the barman replied. ‘Nursed her husband through a long illness.’
‘Did you know Christie?’
Pine shook his head. ‘I knew of him. She moved here after she was widowed. For the second time, I heard. From Lavant, I think it was. She doesn’t come from round here, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have a mind she originally came from Slindon or Crossbush, somewhere Arundel way. Maybe it was Lyminster?’
‘Are you sure?’
Pine flicked his cloth over his shoulder. ‘Just something I heard, but it might be wrong. Before my time.’
Crowther carried his drink to the window and looked out. The trees on the far side of the road were plunging in the wind, and the gables of Fishbourne House and Willow Cottage were shrouded in mist and rain.
The moment Brook had told him of the summons to the churchyard, Crowther had worked out what was happening. But now he was starting to wonder if he’d been mistaken. The note concerned him, though since Mrs Christie had handed it back to Connie Gifford, there was no way of Crowther learning anything for himself from that quarter.
Where was Dr Woolston? It had seemed a perfect solution to use his name on the death certificate. Two birds with one stone. But now the man had disappeared. Had he seen or heard something in the Old Salt Mill that had caused him to bolt?
In the background, Crowther registered the sound of everyday conversation from the public bar. Men coming in to shelter from the rain. Drowning their sorrows for an hour or two.
He looked down at the amber liquid, then downed it in one. He’d promised to pass on Mrs Christie’s apologies to Miss Gifford. Perhaps Gifford himself would be back.
Crowther put the glass on the counter and set off for Blackthorn House.
We pass a needleful of thread across the nostrils, tie it underneath the inferior mandible, having the thread the length of the bird, to prevent the blood from coming out of the beak during the operation. We stretch the bird on the table, the head turned towards the left of the operator; we divide the feathers of the belly right and left with small forceps, put out the down which covers the belly, make an incision in the skin from the commencement of the sternum or breast-bone until beyond the middle of the belly, raise the skin on one side by the forceps, separate it from the muscles with a scalpel, approaching as near as possible to the wings; this done, we put a little floured or powdered cotton on the skin and flesh.
TAXIDERMY: OR, THE ART OF COLLECTING, PREPARING,
AND MOUNTING OBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY
Mrs R. Lee
Longman & Co, Paternoster Row, London, 1820
I have no doubt I shall be judged harshly. By those who fill the pews on a Sunday, by those who fill the pages of the newspapers with their hypocritical cant. The respectable citizen will demand I should hang. An eye for an eye.
In the myriad ways in which men condemn women.
But can you see, now, how it was inevitable? How they were architects of their own misfortune, not I?
There must be justice in retribution. No wild reckoning or a half-hearted calling to account, but rather a measured recompense. They did not choose to make amends. They did not seek forgiveness or redemption. They did not seek to atone.
Neither do I. And since there is no recourse under the law, what else could I have done? And though I know there is no possibility of clemency in this world – what I am doing is beyond any acceptable bounds – there will surely be some who praise me for it.
As for those who helped me in good faith, I here set it down that they did not know what I intended. They, as much as you, will be horrified when they learn what I have done.
The decision to kill was mine. The act and method mine alone.
Do not be afraid.
Chapter 32
Blackthorn House
Fishbourne Marshes
Connie and Harry were sitting close together in the fading light of the day. Outside, Connie heard a noise and glanced up at the window of the workshop.
‘Did you hear something?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
‘Probably only the magpies.’
Connie looked around the workshop in the grey shadow of dusk. Everything had taken on strange silhouettes, elongated black shadows and distorted, sharp shapes. The glass dome, with the jackdaw within, caught the last slivers of the damp, dying day and sent refracted glints of light across the wooden surface of the bench. Connie knew the bird had been left for far too long now. She would have to give it up – bury it – once Harry had gone. So beautiful, but already the process of decay had begun.
She stood up. ‘I was expecting Mrs Christie to have come by now. It must be well after five o’clock.’
Harry looked at his pocket watch. ‘It’s a half past six.’
‘So late already.’
‘Did you expect her to keep the appointment?’
Connie sighed. ‘Not really, no. She was worried talking to me this morning; once she’d read the note, even more so. I had to persuade her to come. Perhaps I should go to her instead?’
‘Do you want me to go with you?’
‘I think that would make Mrs Christie more anxious, not less.’ She sighed. ‘No, I think we should stick to what we agreed. I’ll come to Chichester tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. If your father still hasn’t turned up by then, we will go to Sergeant Pennicott together. After that, let’s see.’
Harry nodded. ‘And your father?’
The smile faded from Connie’s face. ‘I’ll continue to wait. Hope he comes back under his own volition.’
Harry hesitated. ‘You don’t think something might have happened to him?’
‘No. At least, I can’t be sure.’
At that moment, they heard a knocking at the front door.
‘There you are,’ Harry said. ‘Mrs Christie’s come after all.’
‘I don’t think she would come so late, and not to the front door in any case.’ Connie went out into the hall, listening for the sound of Mary’s footsteps in the hallway. None came.
‘That’s odd,’ she said.
‘What time does she go home at the end of the day?’
‘Seven o’clock, but she always tells me when she’s leaving.’
‘Perhaps the kitchen door is shut and she didn’t hear. Would you like me to go in her stead?’
Connie shook her head, liking the fact that they had become so comfortable in one another’s company this past hour that Harry had forgotten how quickly gossip would spread if he answered the door.
‘I think it’s better if I do,’ she said.
Everything in this long afternoon had been so strange. The world seemed both the same and yet utterly transformed. Connie didn’t think she’d talked so much – or so much about herself – for years. Ever, perhaps. Then she realised that Harry didn’t want to remain alone in the darkening workshop.
‘Why don’t you go through to the drawing room? It’s the last room on the left, at the end of the corridor. I’m sure it isn’t Pennicott back again, but it’s best if you stay out of sight just in case.’
*
Davey Reedman couldn’t put off going home any longer. He’d spun out his tea for as long as he could, but Mary was getting impatient.
He flipped his cap on to his head, hooked the purloined binoculars back round his neck, then surprised Mary by giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
‘The sauce of it,’ she scolded, though she was smiling.
‘Thanking you, Mary.’
The boy sauntered out of the kitchen and through the scullery to the back door.
‘Stay out of trouble,’ she called after him, ‘or Ma will have something to say about it.’
‘She will, will she?’
‘Yes, and so will I!’
For a moment, Davey stood outside in the garden, admiring the mackerel sky and enjoy
ing the rare sensation of a full belly. He yawned. It had been a good day, one of the best. He’d earned tuppence, dined like a king and no one had shown him the wrong side of their hand.
He looked at the clouds, wondering how soon it was going to start raining again. He was reluctant to go home. He didn’t want to get wet if he slept out, though it was nonetheless still a more attractive option.
Then he remembered the ice house. There was a little brick porch that would give a bit of shelter, provided the wind didn’t come round. He couldn’t see why anyone would bother him there. Mary hadn’t been able to lay her hands on the missing padlock key, though she’d spent half the afternoon looking for it. Davey hadn’t pinched it, but he wondered if he might shelter there for tonight. He didn’t think Miss Gifford would mind, and Mary knew how it was for him at home.
He crept along the side of the workshop. Miss Gifford and Harry’s voices were audible through the open high windows and Davey gave a low whistle. Still talking after all this time. He was pleased. She deserved a bit of company her own age from time to time, just like Mrs Christie said.
He rounded the corner into the south garden, then stopped, taken aback by the large number of birds massed on the roof of the ice house. Magpies, but mostly rooks. The distinctive harsh sound. As Davey got closer, he noticed there was a pair of crows too, sitting apart from the others on the fence. Glossy black carrion scavengers. Funny, he thought. They normally kept to themselves.
He went on cautiously, keeping close to the boundary fence and taking care not to alarm the birds. He didn’t want to scare them off. That many taking flight, they’d make one heck of an almighty racket.
He reached the door of the disused ice house, checked over his shoulder, then reached out and examined the padlock. It was locked. He hesitated, then suddenly decided he’d better not actually break in. He didn’t want Miss Gifford, or Mary, come to that, to think badly of him.
Davey curled himself up against the door, folded his arms, pulled his cap over his face. Ten minutes’ shut-eye wouldn’t hurt.
*
Connie opened the front door herself.
‘Mr Crowther,’ she said with surprise.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Miss Gifford,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I might beg a few minutes of your time?’
‘Of course, do come in.’
As Connie stepped back, she noticed there were muddy footprints from the policeman’s boots on the parquet flooring.
‘I regret my father is still away, Mr Crowther,’ she said, sticking to the same story. ‘Were you hoping to see him?’
He removed his hat. ‘Not at all. I had intended to come after yesterday’s tragic event, to make sure you were quite secure in your father’s continued absence, but the day got away from me in the way things can.’
Connie smiled. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Then I met Mrs Christie. The poor woman is worried about having been unable to keep her appointment with you – she couldn’t find anyone to mind the girls and she didn’t feel it appropriate to bring them with her – so I promised I would pass on her apologies, since I was coming this way in any case. She didn’t want you to worry.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded. Mary could have watched them.’
‘I don’t imagine Mrs Christie wanted to impose,’ he said lightly. ‘And of course it’s an unpleasant walk with two young children in this weather.’
She nodded. ‘It’s very kind of you to pass on the message, Mr Crowther.’
They both turned at a sound from the drawing room.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Gifford, I didn’t realise you had guests. I don’t wish to intrude.’
‘You’re not intruding in the slightest,’ Connie said, opening the door and leading him in. ‘You know Mr Woolston, I believe.’
Connie saw a look of interest flicker in Crowther’s eyes, though quickly hidden.
‘Twice in the space of as many hours,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Good evening again to you, Mr Woolston.’
‘Evening, Crowther.’
‘I thought you were returning to Chichester to see if there was further news about your father.’
‘That’s right, though I believe I mentioned I intended to visit Blackthorn House first.’
‘So you did, so you did.’
Connie was puzzled. Harry had spoken warmly of Crowther’s kindness earlier, but now he seemed belligerent. She looked between the two men, wondering why they were behaving so cautiously.
‘Mr Crowther has come with Mrs Christie’s apologies,’ she explained. ‘May I offer you a drink?’
Crowther held up his hand. ‘No, thank you. I’m not staying. I don’t wish to impose.’
‘Really, it’s the least I can do, since you have come all the way out here.’
Remembering she had finished the brandy earlier, she poured both men a shot of whisky.
‘Thank you, Miss Gifford,’ Crowther said, accepting the glass. ‘Is Mary not with you this afternoon?’
‘I don’t want to take her away from her other duties,’ she said, catching Harry’s eye. ‘As it happens, I’ve had a number of unexpected visitors this afternoon.’
‘The bottom of Mill Lane is flooding,’ Crowther said. ‘More than likely, the trap can’t get through.’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘As for anyone else, I’m impressed at their fortitude. It’s very wet. Who, I wonder, would risk their boots?’
Connie smiled, then gestured that they should all sit down.
‘Thank you,’ Crowther said, settling himself in one of the armchairs beside the fire. ‘You said you had a number of unexpected visitors?’
‘Sergeant Pennicott, for one.’
‘Indeed? What on earth did he want?’
Connie glanced at Harry, then back to Mr Crowther.
‘I know that Harry – Mr Woolston – confided in you about his concerns for his father. As it turns out, he was right to do so. Pennicott came on the same errand. He asserted – and I have no way of knowing if this is true or not – that my father and Dr Woolston were acquaintances.’
‘And are they?’ Crowther asked. His tone was light, but Connie could hear the determination underneath.
‘Not to my knowledge, no,’ she replied. ‘I’ve never heard my father mention Dr Woolston, certainly. I explained that Harry and I had met yesterday for the first time. I fear he did not believe me. He kept asking if I knew where Dr Woolston had gone and pressed for the address of the friends with whom my father is staying.’
‘Did you give it to him?’
Connie shook her head. ‘I do not want my father disturbed while he is convalescing.’
‘Quite right.’ Crowther pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘I am still of the opinion – if you’ll forgive me repeating myself, Woolston – that it’s premature to assume that something has happened to Dr Woolston. He’s only been missing for twenty-four hours, after all. If, indeed, he is missing at all.’ He fixed Harry with a stare. ‘But of course, if you felt it wise to speak to the police, then . . .’
‘It wasn’t me, Crowther,’ Harry said. ‘My father’s clerk, Pearce, reported him missing.’
Crowther’s eyebrows shot up. ‘His clerk?’ He stared at Harry. ‘Forgive me, but why on earth would he take it upon himself to do such a thing? That’s surely overstepping his responsibilities?’
‘It is.’
‘What does the man say?’
‘It’s only just come to light, so I haven’t had the chance to ask him.’
‘But you intend to?’
‘Of course,’ Harry said.
Connie spoke quickly, unable to bear the look of dejection that had come over Harry once more. ‘Though as I’ve said to Harry, Mr Crowther, I’m sure it’s just as likely he will find his father waiting for him at home.’
‘Your good spirits are an example to us all,’ Crowther said.
Chapter 33
West Street
Chichester
Pearce took a
final look around the office, then stepped out into West Street and closed the door behind him. He took off his spectacles, cleaned them with his handkerchief, then put them back on his sore nose. His hay fever was still troubling him, despite the damp.
He heard the cathedral bells strike a quarter to seven, the familiar notes echoing between the buildings and through the quiet early-evening streets. Usually, it was a reassuring sound. All afternoon, he’d regretted the impulse that had sent him from Brook’s offices to the Market Cross to speak to Pennicott. The policeman clearly thought he was making a fuss about nothing, and Pearce had spent the remainder of the day caught between hoping for the sound of Dr Woolston’s footsteps and dreading them. He feared his employer would chastise him for speaking out of turn. Perhaps even dismiss him without a reference. Then where would he be?
He looked down at the telegram in his hand. The reply from the county asylum was unequivocal. There had been no emergency meeting of the committee called; no one had seen or heard from Dr Woolston.
Deeply troubled, Pearce turned the key in the lock and pulled the door towards him to make sure it was firmly shut. He looked up at the sky as the first drops of rain began to fall, then put up his umbrella and began the long walk home to Portfield, on the eastern side of Chichester.
North Street
Chichester
In the elegant Georgian house at the top of North Street, Lewis straightened a soup spoon for the third time. He hesitated, then moved the linen napkin on the side plate a little to the left.
Two identical place settings, at either end of the polished mahogany dining table. A glass for white wine and one for red. The butcher had delivered lamb instead of chicken this morning – there had been some difficulty, the shop had been broken into yesterday, which had affected the orders. Lewis didn’t think Dr Woolston would mind, but he had taken the precaution of looking out a good claret all the same.
He glanced out of the dining room to the chequerboard-tiled entrance hall, then into the drawing room on the opposite side of the house. Dr Woolston’s tray was ready beside his chair. A heavy glass tumbler with an inch of whisky and a small jug of water. Everything was as it should be, except for the fact that his master was not present. Lewis had received no word from Mr Harold either, though Mrs Lewis claimed that was encouraging. If there had been bad news, then someone would have informed them.
