Rose Campion and the Curse of the Doomstone

by Lyn Gardner

It was unbearably hot in the train compartment, even though she kept the sliding door to the corridor open, and the windows too. The whistle sounded. The train screeched. She put her head out of the window and, masked by the billows of smoke from the engine, she caught a glimpse of Billy Proctor running full tilt and just leaping into the final carriage, even as the train was pulling away. Rose’s stomach lurched as if in sympathy with the train. Billy Proctor! What was he doing on the train? Was he in league with Amy too? Or could it be Billy Proctor that Amy was afraid of? But why? She suddenly wished that she had followed Aurora’s advice and waited for Inspector Cliff, and told him everything she knew and suspected.

  She stepped out into the corridor and made her way cautiously towards the next carriage. She could see Billy at the far end, working his way towards her, but he was so busy looking into every compartment that he didn’t notice her. Who was he looking for? She didn’t see how it could be her. Nobody knew she was going to Southend. But that didn’t mean she wanted him to discover her on the train. She didn’t trust him.

  She peeped into the next carriage again. He was getting closer, systematically making his way through, looking into every compartment. She returned to her compartment, slid the door closed and climbed on to the banquette, then hauled herself up into the luggage rack. She lay quite still. As long as Billy didn’t look upwards, but simply glanced into the compartment to see if anyone was sitting there, she might yet evade him. She held her breath. She saw him pass and his back disappearing down the corridor towards the front of the train. She heaved a sigh of relief and shifted her position slightly. Until they got to Southend this was as safe a place as any.

  She remained undisturbed all the way and only scrambled down from the luggage rack as the train steamed into the station. When the stationmaster called out, “All change” she lingered in the compartment and watched as the few passengers walked down the platform. Billy Proctor stood by the exit, eyeing them closely, but as the last stragglers reached him he turned on his heel and left. Rose waited for another minute or two and then she stepped down from the train. At the exit she handed in her ticket to the stationmaster. She could see Billy’s hunched back walking along the road, following a straggle of people who she assumed were all heading into town.

  She pulled the postcard out of her pocket and showed it to the ticket collector.

  “Do you know where I can find these cottages?” she asked.

  “You’ll find plenty of fishermen’s cottages that look like them if you head that way.” He pointed to a scraggy path across heathland. “Take that local short cut. It will bring you out on the seafront, then head round the bay.”

  Rose set off at a run. The sky glowered above her, angry and seething. A few huge drops of rain fell, bringing welcome relief from the still oppressive heat. From far away there was an ominous rumble. She hurried onwards. The path climbed a little higher and suddenly she got her first glimpse of the sea. It wasn’t a sparkling blue as she had imagined, but grey and moody, as if something angry was bubbling in its depths, trying to get out. Rose shivered, and far out at sea there was a flash of lightning, cracking the sky apart.

  Rose reached the seafront. She walked briskly along it, past the shops and boarding houses, heading north around the bay. The rain was falling faster and harder now, stinging as it hit her face. She was wearing only a thin dress and stockings and she was already soaked through. A vicious wind had whipped up from nowhere, and up ahead of her a woman was struggling to close a blue candy-striped awning that was resisting her and flapping wildly. Rose ran to help her and together they succeeded. There was a name written in gold lettering across the top of the window: Gandini’s. Underneath in smaller words it said: Ice Creams of Distinction.

  The woman pushed her into the shop with profuse thanks and offered her a towel.

  “My husband normally does the awning but he’s blind and gets disorientated in a storm, and he’s got bad lungs and I didn’t want him out. Can I get you a cup of tea to warm you?”

  Rose shook her head and produced the damp postcard from her pocket. “Do you know where I’ll find these cottages?”

  “You’re going the right way,” said the woman kindly. “But they don’t look so picturesque these days. Some of them are abandoned. It’s too isolated out there for most, and the rocks are treacherous for the fishing boats. Looking for anyone in particular?”

  “A girl. Amy. About my age. Sandy-coloured hair. Legs like a foal. Gooseberry-green eyes. I think she might be staying in one of the cottages.”

  The woman smiled. “Oh, you mean Amelia. Lovely girl. Her and her dad rent one of the cottages from us; it used to belong to my mother. My husband has known Amelia’s dad since he was just a boy. I hadn’t seen them for a couple of years – they were in America – but the rent was still being paid regular as clockwork, and they asked me to go up and air the place every week. Then a few months ago they came back for a couple of weekends. Then nothing again, and then Amelia turned up out of the blue really late at night two days ago, banging on the door and asking for the key. Must have come on the last train from London. I asked about her father and she burst into tears and closed up like an oyster. I could see something was wrong. I’d say she was frightened. I tried to comfort her but she wouldn’t let me near, poor little lamb.”

  “Have you seen her since?” asked Rose.

  “Yes, early yesterday morning, here in the town buying a newspaper. She was clearly upset.”

  So, thought Rose to herself, Amy – or maybe she should call her Amelia – had fled here as soon as she had killed her father, and she must have found out about Effie standing trial from the paper. The fact that the woman was saying the girl was upset made her feel more comfortable. Aurora had warned her that the note might be a trap, but maybe Amy simply wanted to make a confession and that’s why she had lured her here. The woman was telling her that she needed to look for a pink-painted cottage with yellow muslin curtains at the end of the row. Rose thanked her and went to leave. At the door she turned.

  “Have you ever heard of a magician with your name, Gandini?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, not related to us.” Clearly, unlike Amy – or Amelia – the woman hadn’t been reading the newspapers and knew nothing of the magician’s sensational murder and Effie’s trial. “I always thought Amelia and her dad could have gone on the stage. They are that good at doing conjuring tricks. Sometimes do them in the shop to entertain my little ’uns. I told her dad they should set up as a magician and his assistant, but he said that Amelia was far too good to be anyone’s assistant. They are a lovely pair. He’s one of nature’s true gentlemen. I’ve always thought it a pity that he has no wife. He’d make some woman very happy.”

  “Thank you for your help,” said Rose.

  For a moment she hesitated, wondering whether she should return to London and tell the inspector what she had discovered. But then she remembered Billy Proctor’s presence on the train. Could it have been Proctor who killed Gandini? Maybe on Amy’s behalf? He’d had the opportunity. Perhaps the apparently butterfingered Proctor had conjuring skills too? He had been present when Lydia had had the Doomstone taken from around her neck. Or maybe Amy had nothing to do with killing her father, and that’s why she was scared. Perhaps it had been Amy that Billy Proctor had been looking for on the train. She’d never forgive herself if at this very moment he was attacking Amy and she didn’t try to intervene.

  She began to run, only stopping when she reached the cottages set back from the shoreline. There was no smoke coming from any of the chimneys, and one of them was partly boarded up. It was a desolate place, made all the more lonely by the roar of the sea and the hurling rain. The sky split again, followed by a boom of thunder so loud it sounded as if Doomsday had arrived. The edges of the clouds were laced black, as if they had all been singed. Rose walked up to the door of the pink cottage and knocked loudly. There was no answer. She knocked again. Then she put her hand on the door handle and turne
d it. The door was unlocked. She gave it a gentle push. It swung partially open.

  Cautiously she stepped through the door, straight into a small parlour. On one side of the room was a narrow staircase leading to the upper floor of the little house; on the other a door, which Rose guessed led to a scullery at the back of the house. The parlour was simply furnished with a sofa, a small wooden table and two chairs. There was also a sideboard and on it sat something blue and sparkling: the Doomstone! It was here! Excited, she took another step forward, when suddenly she felt a blow to the back of her skull. Her head seared with pain. Her knees crumpled and she collapsed to the floor.

  28

  “Rose! Rose! Please wake up.”

  Rose opened her eyes to see Amy’s pale, haunted face. She touched her head and winced. Amy was still holding the poker she had used to hit Rose. But Rose had to admit that Amy didn’t look like a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer who had dispatched her father and was now planning to finish her off. She looked hopeless and unhappy. Amy helped Rose to her feet and led her over to the sofa. Rose sank into it, still eyeing Amy warily.

  “Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry about your head. Is it all right? I thought you were someone else, come to kill me.”

  “Billy Proctor?” asked Rose, feeling the tender spot on her head. Fortunately the skin wasn’t broken.

  Amy shook her head. “Billy Proctor? Why would I hit Campion’s barman over the head, and what reason would he have to want to kill me?”

  “Because he’s here in Southend.”

  Amy looked even more puzzled. “It must just be an odd coincidence.”

  “I don’t know,” said Rose. “I got the distinct feeling that he was looking for someone. I assumed it was you. I thought perhaps the two of you were in league together and that he killed your father on your instructions. Gandini was your father, wasn’t he?”

  Amy nodded and burst into noisy tears. “I’d never have killed my father. I loved him. He was the kindest of men.” She stared at Rose, looking horrified. “Is that what you think, Rose? That I’m a heartless murderess who orders people to kill for me?”

  “To be honest, Amy – or should I say Melly or Amelia – I don’t know what to think. All I know is that Effie is locked up for life in Holloway Prison for killing your father, and I’d stake my life she didn’t do it. I also know that everyone thinks that you’re dead, and quite clearly you’re very much alive. If that’s not suspicious I don’t know what is. And you put a note in my pocket saying that you needed saving, and a significant clue as to where to find you.”

  Amy smiled. “That was a spur-of-the moment decision when I saw you outside the court. I only had a second to scrawl it. I was nervous that you wouldn’t work it out, but I thought you would because you’re so clever, Rose. In fact, when I faked my death, you were the only person I was worried would think it odd that I had left my dress on the steps before jumping into the river. I doubted Inspector Cliff would notice.”

  “I told the inspector how strange I thought it was,” said Rose. “And I know you saw Edward that night. He told Aurora and me that he spotted you on the Devil’s Steps.”

  “Yes,” said Amy. “I almost fell into the river in shock when he turned up in Rotherhithe on the night I was supposed to be faking my suicide. It was such bad luck. He’s a blind fool, just like my dad, but I felt really terrible that I was deceiving him so monstrously. I was worried that dozy inspector would arrest him for killing me, because I was sure that Edward would tell him he’d been there when my disappearance became public. I felt bad about sending him on a wild goose chase by saying I’d seen Jem heading towards Campion’s, particularly when I heard the awful thing that happened to Jem. Is he any better?”

  Rose nodded. “Doing surprisingly well. Lottie says there’s every chance he’ll make a full recovery. But tell me, Amy – what happened after Edward left you on the steps?”

  “I was wearing boy’s clothes under my dress, so as soon as he’d gone and I was certain nobody was around, I slipped out of my dress, put up my hair under a cap and walked away, leaving my dress folded on the steps.”

  Rose remembered the boy that Edward reported seeing walking along the river path after he had doubled-back to the steps. That must have been Amy.

  “So you faked your own death. But why? And you have yet to convince me that you didn’t kill your own father – it’s quite clear that you did steal the Doomstone,” said Rose, nodding towards the jewel on the sideboard.

  Amy laughed. “Oh, Rose, don’t be silly, that’s not the Doomstone. It’s just a Christmas tree bauble. But it’s very precious to me. It’s a memento of freedom – of the first Christmas my father and I spent alone together after we escaped from the Duchess.”

  “The Duchess?” Rose leaned forward in excitement. “Who exactly are you and your father?”

  “We are Paul and Amelia Bray. My grandmother is Ruth Bray, known as the Duchess. She is currently locked up in Holloway Prison, where I hope and pray she will stay until she dies. She is as ruthless as a stiletto. My father was her son, known for many years as the Gentleman Dipper. From a boy he hated his life in the criminal underworld. But there was no escaping the Duchess. If you crossed her, you paid. Even if you were family. My mother ended up dead in the Regent’s Canal when I was seven, for telling the Duchess that she was evil and she wanted out. My father’s younger sister, a lovely woman with dreams of being an actress, suffered a similar fate. After that, my father waited patiently and planned. He knew that if he left with me the Duchess would do everything in her power to take her revenge. He had to get as far away as he could from her, and he needed a way to earn an honest living in a place where we would be safe.

  “The honest living was stage magic. He realised that conjuring is just another form of prigging and conning – except, for one, you get paid and applauded, and for the other, you steal and risk ending up in the clink. Eventually, just before the Duchess was about to get me started as a prigger on the streets, we managed to escape and went to America, where my father rechristened himself Gandini and started working the halls there as a magician. He took the name because the Gandini family had been so kind to him when he was a boy – kinder than his own mother, who saw all goodness as a weakness. And my dad always loved a penny lick. In America we were beyond the reach of the Duchess. But then my father heard that the Duchess had been arrested and convicted with a life sentence, and so he decided we should return.”

  “So,” said Rose excitedly, “it must be somebody working for the Duchess who killed your father.”

  Amy shook her head. “No! Although my father was always nervous about her reach, I doubt that even the Duchess could organise my father’s murder from Holloway Prison. I’m pretty safe from her malevolence as long as she’s inside. There is little honour among thieves. Without her son to keep the family firm going, her power probably evaporated as soon as she was banged up.”

  “So when you hit me over the head with the poker, who did you think had come to kill you?”

  “Haven’t you worked it out? Lydia, of course. It was Lydia who stole the Doomstone from around her own neck and then killed my father. She was my father’s assistant before she became his wife.”

  Rose’s eyes bulged. “Lydia is Gandini’s wife?”

  “Well, technically,” said Amy bitterly. “I suppose she is now his widow.”

  29

  The girls were sitting side by side on the sofa.

  “My father met Lydia in America. He was looking for a magician’s assistant and she applied. She was an unsuccessful actress, down on her luck. Papa could see her potential – but even if she had been hamfisted he would have employed Lydia. It was love at first sight for him. He adored her. He taught her everything he knew, and I have to admit she learned quickly.

  “The act was doing well. It wasn’t an easy life, but there was more than enough money, and as the halls my father played got bigger, so did the financial rewards. Papa was very homesick – he longed to re
turn to England and settle quietly here in Southend, where he had spent his holidays as a boy before the Duchess made him start learning his trade as a pickpocket and conman. But that was impossible, because the Duchess would hunt him down. In America he was making a decent living, and doing it honestly, and that made him feel good. He proposed to Lydia and she accepted. I don’t think she loved him, but I like to think she was fond of him, and at that point in her life she was grateful for some security. My father would do anything to please her, so marriage was an agreeable prospect.”

  “But it didn’t last?” asked Rose.

  Amy shook her head. “It might have done if we’d stayed in the backwaters, but as the act got more successful we moved to bigger cities, where Lydia’s eyes were opened to real wealth. She became more and more discontented. She had the love of my father and more than enough money, but as Lydia saw how some other people lived she was eaten up with envy. She didn’t just want a good life; she wanted a charmed life. And she realised she had the opportunity to get it. Men buzzed around Lydia.

  “After we’d been in New York for a few weeks she disappeared. She left a note for Papa, speaking of her regret but saying that there was a big world out there, that she was still young and she wanted to discover it. He was heartbroken – utterly crushed. He took to his bed for days. Even though by then he knew full well what Lydia was like, he still adored her. He only saw the best in her. She was like a drug to him. He kept hoping that she would return, and when she didn’t, it was as if a light had gone out inside him. The homesickness got worse, and he talked more and more about returning to England, despite the danger from the Duchess. Something else happened too. He developed terrible stage fright. It was as if Lydia leaving had knocked his confidence in every way. The run-up to every performance started to become a terror for him. But he had no choice. Conning or conjuring were the only things he knew. He dreamed of giving up the stage and coming to live here permanently. He had been secretly renting the cottage from the Gandini family for years, starting shortly after my mother was murdered. It was a bolthole away from the Duchess’s world.”