“I agree, sir.”
“Do you, now? Stick to the detective work and leave the diagnosis to me, Sebastian. I’m an old-school psychiatrist. I believe that life’s too short for psychoanalysis. But I can’t deny the value in a certain kind of therapy. If writing his book served some such purpose, then so be it. There may be comfort in blaming monsters for a grief one cannot bear. Though publication was clearly unwise.”
“I’ve one avenue still to pursue, sir.”
“Then pursue it until the end of the week. After that, we’ll have to move on.”
THIRTY-TWO
That night he sat with Elisabeth before the fire in their rooms above the wardrobe maker’s, staring into the falling coals. Elisabeth wore a heavy dressing gown with a rug over her knees. Though allowed home, she was still fragile and her appetite was slow in returning. On the day of her return, Sebastian had carried her up the stairs from the street. Once he’d been able to sweep her up and spin with her, perfused with a joy of life and youth that defied gravity. But this time his knees ached, and they’d been aching ever since.
Elisabeth said, “Lucy came to call this afternoon.”
Lucy? Sebastian hunted through his memory for a few moments before he was able to place her among the Evelina’s staff.
“Good,” was all he could think of to say.
“I may have to appear as a witness. We all will.”
The maudlin Joseph Hewlett, despite his best efforts to take his own life, had fared better than the young nurse that he’d killed. The timely work of those present had managed to preserve him for justice.
Sebastian said, “You won’t have to face him if he pleads guilty. Don’t be swayed by gossip.”
“Gossip’s all I’m living for right now!” Elisabeth exclaimed, though not with ill temper. “I haven’t been out that door in three weeks.”
“Less than two.”
“See? I’m even losing track of the days. I’ll have to scratch a calendar on the wall. Like the Count of Monte Cristo.”
They both smiled. He saw that she was looking at the shabby jacket of this, his second-best set of clothes.
She said, “Frances couldn’t save your good suit?”
“She tried. The blood wouldn’t sponge out. I told her to burn it.”
“She could have taken it to the rag shop.”
“She did. No one here listens to me.”
There was a silence for a while. Some of the coals shifted and fell in a cokey shower, right at the heart of the fire where the heat was the whitest.
Elisabeth said, “Something’s troubling you.”
“What do you expect?” Sebastian said. “I want to see you well again.”
But she wouldn’t be deflected. “Besides that.”
Sebastian contemplated further evasion, and concluded that it would be a lesser drain on his energies to simply give her the story. He told her of the suspicions surrounding Sir Owain, of his own arrival and the events in Arnmouth, and of the arrest that had brought a premature end to official police interest in the case.
“What proof is there?” Elisabeth said when he’d concluded the tale. “Aside from your predecessor’s suspicions?”
“None,” he admitted. “It’s stupid to persist, I know.”
“It’s not stupid. Not if a man’s life now depends on it.”
“A tinker,” he said.
He stared into the fire for a while and then Elisabeth said, “Is a tinker’s life worth less than any other man’s? I’ve never known you to speak like that before.”
He said, “I’m weary. That’s all. Grace Eccles wouldn’t talk to me and I’ve no power to compel her.”
“What about the other young woman?”
“She claims no memory.”
“Memories can be jogged.”
“I know. I should have been more open with her, but I wasn’t and I drove her off. She’s somewhere in London, but that’s all I know.”
“So you’ve looked.”
“I even asked the census office to check for me. Under the guise of official business.”
“What’s her name?”
“Evangeline May Bancroft. Not exceptional. But not so common either. For all I know she may have married and changed it.”
“Or she may simply have avoided the census.”
“The census takers are terriers. Few people escape their attention.”
“You can find her, Sebastian. You used to be able to find anyone. How will you feel if the tinker hangs and then it happens all over again?”
They sat in silence for a while.
Then he said, “She had one of those purple pins the suffragettes wear. I saw one on the costume of an actress at the film studio. She couldn’t tell me what it meant, but the wardrobe mistress did. Didn’t suffragettes boycott the census?”
“There may be some record at the Old Bailey,” Elisabeth said. “Those women get arrested all the time.”
THIRTY-THREE
The meeting ended early.Sebastian stood on the pavement outside the Portman Rooms, and from there he watched the women coming out. He’d hesitated to enter, thinking that he’d be conspicuous, but now he saw that a small number of men had been in attendance. Evangeline Bancroft was one of the last to emerge, arm-in-arm with another young woman of around her own age. This second woman suddenly hesitated on the steps, as if remembering something; with an apology she disengaged herself and hurried back inside.
This left Evangeline alone in the lighted half circle at the foot of the entranceway steps. Seeing an opportunity as she waited for her companion’s return, Sebastian started toward her.
“Excuse me,” he called out, and as she spun around to face in his direction he was surprised to see her draw a short length of heavy chain from her bag.
“I suggest you pass on by,” she called back. “And don’t imagine I’m afraid of you.”
He stopped, with his hands raised.
“I can see as much,” he said. “You misunderstand. My name is Sebastian Becker. Surely you remember me?”
She peered at him suspiciously, and he moved more fully into the light.
“Mister Becker?” she said.
There followed a few moments of silence. Then the dull clink of the polished chain as Evangeline Bancroft gathered it up and returned it to her bag.
He said, “We parted on bad terms. You were right to criticize my honesty. I beg forgiveness. Will you give me a chance to explain myself and make amends?”
Her companion emerged at the same time as two others. After a brief exchange of words, Evangeline sent her off with them.
“We’ve learned the wisdom of watching out for each other’s safety,” Evangeline explained.
She consented to let him walk her to her train. The evening was clear and the pavements not too crowded, the stars overhead blotted out by the smoke of a million September stoves and fires.
She said, “How did you find me?”
“You were part of a suffragist demonstration in Downing Street six years ago.”
“I was never arrested.”
“No, but the police have a record of your name. I went to the address they had, but it was out of date.”
“That was a hostel for young women. I have my own rooms now.”
“I know. So I found you this way instead.”
She said, “I was new to life and London and full of anger then. It’s an incident that could damage me in my present position.”
“Not through me,” Sebastian promised. “I know you think I meant to draw you into a plan to gain control of Sir Owain’s fortune. But I can assure you, it’s not his wealth I’m interested in. You know they’re set to hang a tinker for this latest attack.”
“But he’s confessed.”
“He’ll say anything that he thinks will gain him favor with his interrogator.”
“Mother said he had the girls’ clothing on his cart.”
“That’s true. But not the clothes they were wearing.”
/>
“How so?”
“I saw the clothes. They don’t match the description that Florence Bell’s mother gave before the search. I think that when the detectives showed her the evidence, she changed her story.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I’m not saying she lied. And I’m not saying the dresses don’t belong to the girls. But the rag-and-bone man had a peep show for the children. They’d bring him old clothes, and he’d let them look through the spy holes while he pulled a string to make the puppets dance. What if Florence and Molly had traded him their castoffs without telling Mrs. Bell? And Mrs. Bell, at the sight of them, was moved to correct her own memory?”
“If the tinker didn’t kill them, who did?”
“I believe it could be the same man responsible for your own misfortune,” Sebastian said.
The below-ground buffet in the station concourse was open for tea, toast, or a three-shilling supper. Evangeline declined them all. She sat forward on the edge of her seat and did not unbutton her coat. The buffet was paneled in rich, polished wood, with stained glass in the concourse windows and electric light from bronze fittings. Their table was not in the best spot, but it was separated from the others and they would not be overheard.
Evangeline began, “Grace Eccles was my best friend. We didn’t choose each other, we just made a pair. Chalk and cheese. Mother didn’t approve. She was never a snob, but she’s always been proper.”
“What about your father?”
“My father died when I was very small. I don’t remember much about him at all. He was in the foreign service and they sent him out to India. He was supposed to send for us when he got settled, but a fever took him six weeks after the boat landed. Mother got a telegram to say he was dead. A week after that she got a letter from him, the last one he wrote. I’ll always remember that.”
“Stepfather?”
“You’re looking for a man to blame for my situation.”
“Just trying to understand it better.”
The waitress brought coffee, and Evangeline waited until she’d gone before continuing. As she started to speak again, she undid the top button of her coat and unwound the scarf from around her neck, reaching up and over her head to do it.
“People misjudge Grace,” she said. “They always have.”
Evangeline told of how her mother had reason to disapprove of her daughter’s friendship with Grace Eccles. Grace’s father was a man of poor reputation, though Grace loved him as much as any daughter ever could. Grace’s mother had run off with another man. Her father had been a hard worker and a Saturday-night drinker before that, and became an all-week drinker thereafter. This didn’t sit well with Lydia Bancroft, who was a member of the Temperance League.
Evangeline said, “The story is that Grace’s father was making his way home from the Harbor Inn one night and swore he saw something cross his path in the moonlight. Big and black and it looked at him with yellow eyes. He said they shone out like lamps. You can imagine what everyone thought. But the more people ridiculed him, the more he insisted. Until the story found its way into the paper, and then he shut up. The reporter let him think they were going to take his side. But they only mocked him like everyone else.”
“I read the article.”
“Where?”
“In the post office book.”
“That would be the one. To this day, every visitor gets to read it. They destroyed him with that. But Grace never doubted him. Stood up for him at school. She fought with boys as equals and beat them, too. She was always determined to prove him right and clear his name.
“So the two of us hatched this plan. The idea came from Grace, but she needed me for the camera.”
The fine hairs rose on the back of Sebastian’s neck. “You had a camera?”
“The Advertiser made an offer to encourage visitors. One hundred pounds for a genuine picture of the Arnmouth beast. Grace didn’t care so much about the money. She just wanted to prove something for her father. It was my father’s Box Brownie. He’d bought it for Mother to make photographs of me, so she could send them to him as I grew. I don’t think she ever got to use it.”
Evangeline explained how she and Grace had each lied to their lone parent, each saying that she’d be spending the night at the other’s house.
“We had blankets and some food tied up in a tablecloth, and a little lantern with a candle in it. Grace knew where there was a dead lamb, up near some old mine workings, and we had some bread and cake to throw around as extra bait. For some reason we thought that might bring out the beast of the moor.
“We found a sheltered place to set up camp. It had been a building, but the roof had fallen into the cellar and there were only three walls standing. You could look up and where there should have been a ceiling, you could see the stars. I think I remember looking up and seeing something move across them. Something dark, like it was making them go out. Like a figure standing over the world. But I could be inventing that.”
Evangeline went quiet for a few moments, recalling the memory.
“And then?” Sebastian prompted.
“Then I was at home,” she said. “In my bed, in my bedroom, with the curtains closed even though it was daytime. And that felt all wrong. I could hear voices through the floor. When they came upstairs I pretended to be asleep. But I think my mother knew. She touched my shoulder and I pretended to wake up. It seems I’d been awake before, from the way they talked to me. But I don’t remember.”
“Were you in physical pain?”
“I prefer not to discuss that.”
“Forgive me. Was this when Sir Owain appeared at your house?”
“His was the voice that I woke up to hear. Is that why you’re pursuing him? I’ve read detective stories. Is he your suspect?”
“Do you find the idea completely beyond belief?”
“Before I went out to the Hall, I’d have said it was. Until then all my memories were of a man who acted like a father to the whole town. But now there’s that doctor of his … watching over him and guiding what he says. It’s like they’ve made a private world up there. Just the two of them. They’re on their guard when you enter it and they can’t wait for you to leave. And there’s something … I don’t know, there’s an atmosphere in that house. It made my flesh creep.”
She sat back in her chair and picked up her scarf. As she’d been speaking, she’d absently folded and refolded it into the neatest of squares. Now she shook it out again. “Will you tell me what you discover?”
“If there’s a way I can reach you.”
“I’ll reach you. Tell me where.”
Sebastian took out his pocket pad and scribbled a few lines on a blank page. Then he tore out the sheet and held it out to her.
“Here’s where I pick up my messages,” he said. She read it, and then looked at him.
“A pie stand?” she said.
“A man has to eat.”
“Not quite the Criterion Grill.”
“I’m not quite your Criterion type. Thank you.”
“For what?” Evangeline said, rising to her feet, and he quickly scraped back his chair to rise with her.
“Your patience and your openness,” he said. “I’d expected less. But I can see that you’re an unusual young woman.”
“I would like-someday-to be not so unusual. Outwardly I live a life of independence. Inwardly I live in fear. In my life there is no intimacy. I don’t know how I can even say this to a stranger.”
“With a stranger it’s often the way,” Sebastian said.
THIRTY-FOUR
Frances was standing by the window when he got home. She had the lamps turned low and was looking out across the rooftops of the borough. She’d once told Sebastian that it eased her eyes to look at distant things, when too much concentration on close work had tired them.
She looked toward the door as he came into the room. For a moment, in this light, he was reminded of some familiar painting. But he couldn’
t have said which one. Sebastian wasn’t a gallery man, and got most of his art from magazines.
She said, “Elisabeth’s reading. I’ve been trying to get Robert to his bed. He insisted on waiting for you.”
“You should have left him to it,” Sebastian said, hanging his overcoat on the stand. “He’s old enough, and capable.”
Frances gave a brief, tight smile.
“Tell that to Elisabeth,” she said, and moved to gather up her sewing.
As she was leaving the room, Sebastian’s son was trying to enter with an armload of books and documents. He was so eager that he forgot to be polite, and did not step back to let her through.
“Father,” he said, “I think I have earned my money.”
“That’s very good to hear, Robert,” Sebastian said. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”
“But I’ve been waiting for you. Didn’t Frances say?”
Sebastian began to frame a reply. But Robert was bursting with energy, and Sebastian had none with which to resist. So he said, “All right.”
Robert started to clear a space on the table for the papers he’d brought. Sebastian saw that they included Sir Owain’s book. It was bristling all around with slips of paper, like a hedgehog.
“The author’s observations of the seasons are very precise,” Robert said. “And I think the few actual dates he gives may be accurate. Unless he’s fabricated Christmas.”
“How is Christmas significant?”
“From one date I can work out another. He refers to five days on the river, two days in camp, a week spent wherever. With enough detail like that I can make out a rough chronology.”
“Can you indeed,” Sebastian said.
“I made you this to explain everything.”
In the cleared space, Robert unrolled a makeshift chart made from several sheets of paper gummed together. He placed a book on either end of it, to pin it down. The chart was somewhere between a vertical time line, and a family tree. Robert’s writing was minuscule and filled many boxes, between which he’d drawn connecting lines.
The Bedlam Detective Page 17
