by Tessa Arlen
At Kingsley House, it seemed that once you reached the age of eleven you went away to school, either to the local grammar as a day boy or, if you were of top-drawer material, to board at a minor public or trade school. Well, Mrs. Jackson thought as the first boy came into the room, this young man was clearly not a Chum. He was quite tall for his age, but he was not particularly prepossessing. And sure enough, he said that he was a daily pupil at the Dulwich grammar school, and that he expected to become an articled clerk to a local solicitor when he was fifteen. Yes, he said, he would continue to live at Kingsley House until he was twenty-one. He was a straightforward boy, pleasant, with nice manners and the usual diffidence that all the boys she had met so far at Kingsley House seemed to possess. “Were you disappointed not to be chosen as one of the Chums?” she asked as lightly as she could.
He shot her a look that was almost derisive and shook his head as he answered, “No, not particularly, they were always swotting for their entrance exams for posh schools. They had to be top in everything. If they weren’t cramming they were out on the playing field practicing cricket or field hockey, and some of them were on the rugby team, too. I’m just not that remarkable…”
“But you all mix in together, don’t you? You all get along well with each other?” Again she kept her voice light and realized she was imitating Lady Montfort, because she would have had this sort of information out of the boy in a trice without his even knowing he was giving it.
“We all share the same schoolrooms and eat our meals together. But in the common room, after school, they keep very much to themselves.” And in a rush of confidence that this would not be repeated: “They look down on the rest of us but I think they lead a dog’s life; always worrying about making the grade.”
“Well, David, would you like to come and spend the evening at Miss Kingsley’s house for the charity event, and help us welcome her guests? I have organized some delicious food—would you enjoy it, do you think?”
He paused and looked at her for a moment and then said, “Yes, I think I could do a good job of it for you, and I would like to help out.” And Mrs. Jackson decided that she much preferred the ordinary boys to the chummy ones.
When she had finished interviewing all six boys, none of whom had been gifted enough to be part of the exclusive Chums, she asked to speak to Symes again. And after about twenty minutes the young boy arrived and stood uncertainly in the doorway.
“Hullo, Arthur, how are you doing with the not-running walk?”
He brightened up immediately “Very well, miss, I’ve got it down pat, no more conduct marks since I last saw you.”
He was really such a nice little boy, and once he stopped looking so anxious and furtive he was quite a presentable lad.
“Well, it seems as if all your Chums have fallen by the wayside, and so I had to start again. Have you had chicken pox, by the way?”
Arthur looked baffled for a moment, and then he shook his head.
“So all those other boys will be suffering in the sickroom whilst you are having the time of your life at the charity evening.” She watched him closely.
“Which boys?” Arthur Symes looked puzzled.
“Why, George, Edwin…” She glanced at her list and reeled off the names of the Chums who were spending a wretched time of it feeling feverish, itchy, and daubed with calamine lotion by Matron’s uncaring hand.
“Nothing wrong with those boys; who told you they were sick?”
“Why Matron of course.”
Just mentioning Matron changed the atmosphere in the room. Arthur looked way.
“Is Matron unkind to you boys?” she asked.
Arthur did not say anything for a moment, but the look he gave her was shrewd and assessing. Orphans of the poor may look like helpless children, but an early life of deprivation made them a lot sharper than the average middle-class child. “Matron doesn’t pay much attention to us ordinary boys, unless we misbehave. But she was different with the Chums, she kept them apart from the rest of us. If they did well in the classroom and on the playing field they were given special favor: treats and the like. If they didn’t do well … well, I just felt very sorry for them if they didn’t do well.” And then after a moment’s reflection he added, “Will I still be needed?” And Mrs. Jackson assured him he would. “You are my senior boy now that the Chums have all dropped out. Tell me, Arthur, how was Sir Reginald with the Chums?”
“Sir Reginald boasted about them being the smartest boys from the East End and they were always the ones who were shown off to the governors and people who gave money for the charity.”
“And Miss Kingsley?” She was almost too scared to ask. “Was she nice to you?”
“We don’t see her much. She comes for Speech Day, and for Christmas and for special occasions, and she is strict but nice.” He thought a moment and then said, “Is it true that we won’t see Sir Reginald again?”
“What were you told?” She was careful to keep her voice neutral.
“That he had been in a terrible accident and had gone to meet his Maker, and we would not see him again.”
“Yes, that’s quite true, and you won’t see him again, ever. But if the Chums are not in the sickroom, where are they?”
“In the classroom, miss. We’ll be having our midmorning break in a minute or two and I would not want to miss out on it, it’s bread and dripping today.”
“Would you bring one of those boys to me, would you bring George?” She fished in her handbag, opened her purse, and pulled out half a crown, careful not to laugh when Arthur’s little hand shot out and took it. Whitechapel wasn’t quite gone then, she thought with approval; Arthur may have been taught not to drop his aitches but his wits were still sharp and he was alert to a good opportunity—a combination that stood him in good stead for success in the world of commerce.
“Where shall I bring him?”
“To the motorcar I came in, it’s around the back of the house by the kitchen courtyard. Will he come?”
Arthur hesitated for a moment and then said, “Yes, he will if you give him one of these…” And he flashed his coin for a brief second and repocketed it. She handed over another and he was gone.
Mrs. Jackson dropped in on Matron to say goodbye and to tell her that she hoped her sickroom would empty soon. As she left Kingsley House she decided that she never wanted to set foot in the building again.
She walked around the house to where Macleod was standing by the motorcar in conversation with George, who was looking pale, but chicken pox free. She walked George away from the chauffer’s straining ear, and when they were a comfortable distance away she came straight to the point.
“George, I just want to let you know that now Sir Reginald has gone, I doubt Matron will carry on here…”
She was quite unprepared for how he seemed to shrink in stature. He had the look of someone who was carefully shutting up shop: locking doors and pulling down blinds.
“I can’t go back.” The expression of pleading on his young face made her catch her breath. Of course he was frightened that he would be sent back to the orphanage or the street he had been found on, she thought with grim certainty. In that moment she wished quite fervently for a quiet moment with Matron alone.
“Who told you that you would be sent away?” She knew the answer before she heard it.
“Matron did. The Chums represent the charity, if we don’t do well, get top marks at school, achieve in sports and get into the best schools, then they will get rid of us.”
“Surely not, they don’t get rid of the other boys who turn in an average performance. Did Sir Reginald threaten to send you back to the streets?”
“No, he never threatened, but he was awfully disappointed in us when we didn’t make the grade; two boys failed and they were sent away.” He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes as if expecting confirmation that he was right.
“But Matron threatened you?” she persisted, and he nodded.
And now th
e words came tumbling out. The harshness of the woman who looked after them; hours of standing in a drafty corridor, face turned to the wall for the slightest infraction; isolation from one another and from the other boys to toil away over endless hours of homework; nights of swotting for tests and exams; bread and water if they failed to make the grade. Special teas and treats if they achieved, ostracism and scorn if they disappointed; being a Chum meant that you swotted and worried and stayed up late to improve a Latin translation that was already perfect. They were safe from the danger of homelessness, they were fed, clothed, and educated, but their lives were full of anxiety that it was all temporary. No wonder they all yearned to grow up and be shot of the place, Mrs. Jackson thought. So this was why Matron had dreamed up an outbreak of chicken pox. She didn’t want a nosy woman like herself talking to these boys and hearing how badly she had treated them—how manipulated and bullied the boys were in her care. With Sir Reginald gone she was vulnerable, she was losing her power, and she didn’t want suspicion turned toward her.
Mrs. Jackson put a hand on George’s shoulder. “Matron will be sent away, George. And things will change here for the better.” But deep down inside she worried that it might not. Who was she to make these guarantees? But if not me, then her ladyship will step in, she thought with greater confidence.
* * *
When Mrs. Jackson returned to Chester Square she went to the between-stairs office and sat alone with her thoughts. Her mind went back several times to her own childhood in the parish orphanage. It had been a hard life, and their treatment was often callous but no one had been specifically cruel. And no one in the orphanage threatened the children with homelessness if they were disobedient. She waited until she felt quite calm and then she went upstairs to Miss Gaskell’s room and knocked on the door.
Miss Gaskell was sitting by her bedroom window with a book open on her lap, but she was not reading.
“How are you today, Miss Gaskell?” Mrs. Jackson crossed the room. “It sounds as if you are coughing a little less.” Miss Gaskell gave an obliging little ahem into a perfectly ironed, starched handkerchief that had not been used all morning. No need to keep up with all this malarkey, thought Mrs. Jackson grimly as she took a chair directly facing the young woman. “Perhaps you would join me in the between-stairs office so we can go over accounts and make sure that everything is ready—after all, the charity evening is the day after tomorrow and I want to be sure you are pleased with what I have done.”
“Yes, if you think so, Mrs. Jackson … I am anxious not to infect Miss Kingsley…” Her voice faltered and she kept her eyes fixed firmly on her hands resting in her lap.
“Oh, I don’t think you will do that, Miss Gaskell. But I thought you might be interested in my update from Kingsley House this morning, unless Miss Kingsley has already informed you. The boys I selected for the evening have all come down with chicken pox.” Miss Gaskell looked startled. “Yes indeed, Miss Gaskell, just fancy that—every single one of the boys on my list are in the sickroom under quarantine and cannot come to help us out for the charity evening. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Of course there are other boys immediately available to help us out, no Chums of course, but nice boys. I think they will do well.”
“Chums?” Miss Gaskell turned a look of confusion toward Mrs. Jackson. “I don’t know…”
“Oh yes you do, Miss Gaskell, you know very well.” She strove to keep her voice level, but she sat forward in her chair, eyes firmly fixed on the young companion’s face.
“I most certainly do not, Mrs. Jackson. Perhaps you had better explain yourself!” It was a brave attempt at outrage, but Miss Gaskell’s tone lacked conviction, making Mrs. Jackson feel like a tyrant.
“I most certainly will, but first of all tell me what you know about this, will you?” And Mrs. Jackson took a sheet of paper with a torn edge to it, where it had been ripped from a notebook, out of her pocket and held it out in front of Miss Gaskell.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said in response to Miss Gaskell’s appalled stare. “You know what this is about, don’t you? It’s from Matron’s private account book. And the initials stand for Reginald Algernon Cholmondeley. ‘Cholmondeley’ when it is written is rather confusing, isn’t it? Not everyone perhaps knows on first reading the name that it is pronounced ‘Chumley.’ Sir Reginald Algernon Cholmondeley—the Head Chum—and father figure to the special boys.” She had to pause here, to make sure that her voice remained calm and matter-of-fact, as she did not want to precipitate a hysterical reaction.
“And these,” she continued as she ran her finger down the list of figures on the far right, “are the amounts required by Matron from RAC. And this,” she tapped the row of ticks, “represents the amounts RAC paid up to satisfy her bank account and to ensure her silence.”
Miss Gaskell, her face white as chalk, sat quite still as she wound her handkerchief around her forefinger.
“What did you find out about Sir Reginald, Miss Gaskell? Why was he paying Matron all this money?” There was a long silence, and Miss Gaskell’s eyes slid around the room as if to calculate which exit would be best for her, the window or the door. Finally she spoke.
“About a week before the dinner party for Mr. Churchill, Sir Reginald had a severe chill and he was confined to complete bed rest at home. He was quite ill and Miss Kingsley was terribly worried about him. I was sent over to Kingsley House to pay the bills due at the end of the month. It was then that I found out what he had been doing.” She ground to a halt and stared down at her hands. “Miss Kingsley had given me her set of keys to the safe, and I took out the account ledgers so that I could record the payments I had made. They were not large bills, just ones to local tradesmen and suppliers.
“I had been in the office many times to help Sir Reginald, writing letters of thanks for donations. That sort of thing.” And now she blushed, her ears went red, and she looked away. “I had always thought that he was interested in me, that he might…” She looked out of the window and her eyes filled with tears. Mrs. Jackson decided it was time to help out. “Did Sir Reginald lead you to believe that he was interested in marrying you?”
“It was never specifically said in plain language, but always implied. And then I realized that he was not in the least interested in me after all. Ever since he believed he would receive a peerage for his work. I was perhaps not … quite…” She looked away from Mrs. Jackson as she relived her shame when she had discovered that she was simply not good enough to marry.
“And then?” A yawning silence stretched on as Miss Gaskell gazed into her lap. “Miss Gaskell, you need to be painstakingly truthful with me now. You are in an exceptionally bad position. And you can’t stay in this room forever. Will you please tell me everything you know? Lady Montfort is a good woman and will do everything she can to help you. You are not alone with this secret. Please share it. Share the burden.” She waited, earnest eyes on the face of the young woman in front of her
“I had never been in the office alone before—Sir Reginald practically lived at the charity and never took time away from his duties. I think I was hoping to find something that would help me understand more about him. And why he had lost interest in me.” She ended rather feebly as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, now a tight wad of knots, gray and grubby.
“At the back of the safe I found a portfolio and inside it were bank statements in the name of J. Hewitt and Company with Temple Bank. I thought this was rather strange since the charity has always banked with Coutts and I couldn’t imagine why another company’s bank information would be in the safe. I looked through the charity’s income-and-expense ledger, and found there were regular payments made each quarter to J. Hewitt for legal services, and trust management. The sums were consistently large and regular and had been paid for what looked like many years, ten at least. The payments for just one year were in the thousands. There was a small account book in the portfolio and one of the expenses listed was for cash payments to Mavis Bigg
leswade, many entries amounting to hundreds and hundreds of pounds!
“Sir Reginald had been cheating the charity for years. He had been taking money that was meant for the boys: their education, uniforms, and school fees.” She drew breath and stared at Mrs. Jackson with horrified eyes and nodded her head. “I couldn’t believe it at first, I simply couldn’t take it in. I found the bills for J. Hewitt and Company and decided to do some checking up. I went to their address, but the company no longer exists. The new tenants of the building told me that Jonathon Hewitt was a solicitor who provided legal services many years ago, but he had died and the firm was now defunct. Sir Reginald was paying himself under the false name of J. Hewitt! He was a lying cheat, and that awful woman was in on it with him. He promoted his special boys, to gain larger and larger donations and then he stole them. If he felt his Chums were not trying hard enough he left their punishment to Matron. Have you any idea how much she bullied those little boys when no one was around to see? They were scared to death of her. I came straight home and told Miss Kingsley!” Mrs. Jackson was almost speechless. So, the girl had told someone. How could I have thought she had carried the burden of this secret alone?
“Miss Kingsley told me that I it was wrong. She was angry with me, and said that I was a naughty girl, trying to make trouble.” Here Miss Gaskell started to cry, harsh, desperate, painful sobs that erupted from the center of her being. “The more I tried to convince her of what I had found, the more upset she became. I asked her to come with me to the office at Kingsley House, that I would show her the books myself. But she became even more distraught and angry and I was worried that she would collapse. I just gave up. Afterwards, I hoped that she did actually believe me; she just wasn’t sure what to do about it. When Sir Reginald was found dead, she shut down completely. This is why we are not allowed to talk about the murder.”
