Season of Darkness

by Cora Harrison

  ‘You were going to tell us about another lodger, lodgers, perhaps: the two young journalists on the top floor, was it them?’ Dickens, as well as I, had heard a hesitation in the American’s voice.

  ‘Naw! Not those two. Nice young lads, bit late with the rent once or twice, but you know what it’s like, Dick, we were all young once.’ The American beamed happily in a paternal sort of way.

  ‘I was never late with the rent when I was young,’ said Dickens grimly.

  ‘Well, well, I can’t say the same of myself, I’m afraid. Until I made my pile, that is. Has your friend told you about me, Mr Collins? Started off dirt poor, not a penny to my name, managed to get myself down to Georgia, over twenty years ago, it was; time of the gold rush. A young man, like you, would hardly have heard of the place, but I tell you, Mr Collins, there were some hearts broken down there. Gold, you see! Everyone after it. Digging all day long. Must have been about ten thousand of us down there then, all chasing gold. But you were interested in my lodgers, Dick. Well, that barrister fella, well he’s a bit odd.’

  ‘Late with the rent.’ Dickens pounced again.

  ‘Naw, naw, not that. Fact is that his rent is paid quarterly, paid by some law firm, not paid in his name, but by someone of the same surname, money in the family, that’s what I reckon. Anyway, the rent comes in as regular as anything, Mr Jeremiah Doyle, Barrister-at-Law. Can’t complain about that. But, you know, Dick, there’s something funny about the fella. Doesn’t seem to do much business. Upsets Mrs Dawson, complaining about the housemaids doing his room when he wanted to rest. Middle of the morning, too, according to her. You’d think he’d be busy with his law work, in an office, but no, he’s in and out of the lodgings all day. Very irregular in his habits, that’s what she said to me about him. Something a bit odd about him. Met him once down by the river. Stared at me as if he had never seen me before in his life. Had a dazed look in his eyes.’

  ‘Drunk,’ I put in.

  ‘Naw, naw, not drunk, Mr Collins. No one minds a young man getting drunk.’

  ‘Opium,’ said Dickens decisively. ‘I thought that there was something about him. Something about the eyes. Didn’t care for his looks much, myself.’

  ‘And he didn’t look too young to me.’ I put that in.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t, not to you, Mr Collins. When you get to my age, lots of people look young.’ The American beamed on me benevolently.

  ‘I’d like to know a little more about this fellow, Mr Jeremiah Doyle. He is a bit old for a law firm to be managing his affairs. And paying his rent from a relative’s account. What would you say, Wilkie? About thirty I’d put him, would you?’ As usual, of course, he didn’t wait for my answer, just went on making one of his neat notes, and then drawing a mathematically accurate box around it.

  ‘Strange thing is that it’s paid by a man who lives out in America,’ said Mr Diamond. ‘I remember that now. A bank clerk had left a slip in when the rent was posted to me. It was marked as coming from the account of William Doyle, some place in America, can’t remember where. I know, Georgetown, I think.’

  ‘Perhaps the father of Jeremiah Doyle, what do you think, Dick?’ I asked. ‘Or even the brother, an elder brother. He might be the black sheep of the family, sent over to London to get him out of the way of a respectable family firm. Tea, perhaps. A lot of money in tea plantations. I used to work for a firm of tea importers, Antrobus & Company. Was never so bored in my life, Mr Diamond. That’s when I took up the law.’

  ‘And that bored you, too,’ said Dickens with a grin.

  ‘I might enquire about the name Doyle from Antrobus & Company,’ I said, ignoring this. ‘They’re not far from here. Down at the end of the Strand, next to Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Best not,’ said the landlord, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘I wouldn’t like to be seen to be betraying any secrets about my lodgers. In any case, I can’t see that if a man likes to smoke a pipe of opium, not that I’d do it myself, but I can’t see that it can have anything to do with the death of the housemaid in the house where he happens to lodge. It doesn’t make any sense to me.’

  ‘Once moral degeneracy sets in, then all is possible,’ Dickens said in his firm way. ‘Isabella Gordon would not be a girl to stand back from a little blackmail if she knew something to this man’s discredit. And there’s something else, too. Did you notice, Wilkie? When little Sesina was telling us about that night in the kitchen before Isabella disappeared. She said something about a bell ringing and then she looked up at the broken wire. I noticed it particularly when she said that, I wondered if it was anything to do with Isabella leaving so soon. Don’t you remember? And when I looked up I saw that the label on that bell was first floor. First-floor lodgings, Mr Doyle’s lodgings, that’s right, Don, isn’t it? The lawyer is on the first floor, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the landlord. He looked a little uneasy, a little troubled, pulling at the lobe of his ear in a meditative manner. He hadn’t liked my suggestion and I thought I wouldn’t mention it again, though nothing would stop me finding out whether Doyle was a tea planter. Antrobus & Company had many on their list. I said no more, though, and listened to him quietly ‘So you think that Doyle could be an opium addict,’ he continued. ‘And the girl Isabella finds out and she tries to blackmail him and then he kills her, strangles her and drops her into the river. Waal, waal, Dick, you’re a great man to make up a story. I can see you writing a book about this. He’s a genius, isn’t he, Mr Collins?’

  All very far-fetched, I thought. The man might take opium, but what was so wrong about that? Lots of people did. After all laudanum was just opium mixed with a little brandy. My father, himself a most upright citizen, took that when he was suffering with his chest. I’d taken it myself, and so had my mother. Why should Mr Doyle pay Isabella to keep the secret, when it was probably known to his family and to his lawyer? I opened my mouth to say that, but then shut it again. Dickens was the kindest of men, but he did like to be the one in the forefront. And this was his friend, and his enquiries. He would not welcome me putting a spoke in. In any case, there was a sound of a door closing downstairs and then the sound of heavy footsteps. The maid was struggling up the stairs and the American crossed the room to open the door for her. Not something that an Englishman would do, especially not with company present.

  ‘Just you smell that, gentlemen!’ he was exclaiming as she came in. ‘No one in London can make Smoking Bishop like Mary here. And wait until you taste her pies. Ambrosial, that’s the word, isn’t it, Dick? Here Mr Collins, just you taste that and give me your opinion on it?’

  ‘Delectable,’ I said, sipping it. ‘The Romans would have appreciated it as much as the Greeks, Mr Diamond.’ I wasn’t sure whether he had appreciated my little joke, though he laughed heartily.

  ‘There you are, Mary. You’ll be finding yourself in these gentlemen’s good books.’ He laughed even more heartily at that pun and I joined with him. Dickens wasn’t really listening, just frowning a little to himself. I thought that he sipped the Smoking Bishop and nibbled the edge of pie in a rather abstracted fashion. His mind was busy, I knew. He waited until the servant was out of the room before sketching his thoughts to us.

  ‘Only two reasons why a man in his thirties would have a law firm looking after his affairs,’ he said decisively. ‘The first would be mental weakness and the second would be moral degeneracy. Now the man is obviously not of feeble wits – he’s a barrister, apparently. You said that his lawyers wrote “barrister-at-law” after his name and no lawyer would do that without being sure of the facts. I met him, briefly, but that’s usually enough for me. I’d put him as sharp, very sharp. What do you think, Don?’

  ‘I’m sure that you’re right, Dick. What did you think, Mr Collins?’

  ‘He recognized Dickens,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, but did he recognize me as a genius? That’s the true test of sharp intelligence.’ Dickens mood lightened and then his face grew solemn again. He p
ut down his glass and I knew that he was thinking of the dead girl. I had never met her in life, but even in death, there had been something about her, the mouth, the eyes, that luxuriant hair. And then I remembered how she had argued with Dickens, disputed his judgement. She would not easily have been forgotten.

  I was not surprised when he said abruptly and impatiently, ‘Nothing can condone murder. Nobody should be allowed to get away with murder, no matter who or what they are. I’ll certainly look into this man Doyle. A suspicious character if ever I saw one. Don’t worry, Don. Your name will never be mentioned. Now what about these two young men on the top floor?’ Dickens leaned back in his chair and now that he had taken a firm decision he seemed to be more relaxed and he took another sip from the Smoking Bishop. I accepted a refill from our host and took another one of Mary’s pies while I waited for an answer to my friend’s question. I had some questions of my own in my mind to ask of the landlord, but they could wait until the matter of poor Isabella was finished. Gold Rush, I thought. What a great book that would make. I imagined my hero, the hero of my next book, the trials, the tribulations, the disasters, the world-shaking moment when the wet earth fell away and when the sunlight suddenly struck, struck gold.

  ‘They are journalists,’ the American was saying. ‘Came to me at the same time, both work in the same office. I have a feeling that they were in school together.’

  ‘I’d like to meet them all.’ Dickens was brooding on those four men and I knew that ideas were going through his head. I could see his eyes, very intent, almost blank, but at the same time full of energy, an energy that was in the background, that was kept cloaked behind an assumed air of indifference. ‘Yes, that would be very interesting,’ he said and his voice bore a flavour of indifference. Nevertheless, those eyes were now sharply focused on his host, almost as though he were waiting for him to produce a rabbit from the hat, a solution to the problem.

  His American friend did not disappoint him. In fact, he looked interested, intrigued and eager to know more.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Mr Dickens,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in the habit of throwing a dinner for my lodgers every Christmas, what say we do one now; what can we do in November? Some sort of anniversary, some commemoration, Trafalgar Day, something like that, what do you think? And I’ll tell the tenants that it will be to meet the famous Mr Dickens. What do you say to that?’

  ‘What about next Sunday?’ Dickens was rising to the occasion with his usual quick-wittedness. ‘Anniversary of the building of Adelphi Terrace; that’s right, isn’t it, Wilkie? Yes, that will be ideal,’ he said without waiting for an answer from me. ‘Sunday is a good day. Saturday, now, well they might have engagements, but Sunday is a dull day. You do that Don. We’ll make it fun.’

  ‘I’ll get Mrs Dawson to do a slap-up dinner, and a few bottles of good wine, of course.’

  ‘And a short speech from me, perhaps.’

  ‘Or just a chat,’ I said hastily.

  FIVE

  Sesina was up very early the day after Mr Dickens had visited the house. He would be back; she knew that. He wouldn’t give up until he found out as much as he possibly could about the murder of Isabella. He’d be like a dog after a scent, she thought. And she would do her best to help him. Isabella might haunt her if her murderer wasn’t caught. And she had a good idea of who it might be.

  There must be some clues, she thought. Isabella was that kind of girl. She had brains, Isabella. She had been working things out. Sesina knew that. Sometimes, of an evening recently, she would be only half listening as Sesina talked, and any fool could see that her mind was working away, like doing those sums that Mrs Morson used to teach them. Adding up and taking away. That was Isabella.

  But had it all been in her head?

  Isabella liked writing things. That would be the way of it. Wasn’t it likely that she kept things written down, pieces of information, fit them together like bits of a jigsaw. Mr Dickens used to bring jigsaws to Urania Cottage. He liked to see them all busy in the evening, singing, reading, listening to stories, playing parlour games and doing jigsaws. Isabella had been the best of them all at doing jigsaws. She’d have a picture assembled in the time that it would take some of the slow mugs to sort the pieces. Mr Dickens would know about that.

  So where would be a likely place for her to have hidden the clues?

  Sesina and Isabella had shared a bedroom since their arrival at number five Adelphi Terrace, two years previously. Mrs Dawson had offered them separate bedrooms, one in the upper basement and one in the lower basement, beside the cellar. She had explained that the house had no need for a kitchen maid or a parlourmaid since only breakfast was served and so less servants were needed. One of them could have the kitchen maid’s room in the lower basement and the other the housemaid’s room.

  Well, of course, neither was willing to take the kitchen maid’s room, small and damp, and in the end they decided to share the housemaid’s room, just as they had always shared a bedroom in Urania Cottage, cosier, warmer and more fun as they liked to chat and share jokes before going to sleep. The kitchen maid’s room was used as a dumping place by them, a place where they put stuff that they didn’t want.

  And a good place to hide anything that had been stolen or ‘lifted’ as Isabella would say. Some of the stuff had just been taken from the wastepaper baskets in the rooms, or other things lying around a room that could be quietly hidden behind a wardrobe until it was obvious that the owner had not missed the item, and then moved down to the basement. Others had been grabbed from stalls in Leather Lane on a day out. A pair of leather gloves, belonging to Mrs Dawson and reposing in a drawer until she had forgotten all about them. And the keys. They each kept one, neither quite trusting the other.

  As soon as she was dressed, Sesina took her key from beneath a loose floorboard and then took her candle. She went softly and quietly down to the lower basement. Made up the fire in the kitchen first of all. If Mrs Dawson had heard her and came to investigate then she would make that her excuse for getting up early. For a while she warmed herself by the stove while she thought matters over and listened for footsteps. But there was no sound from upstairs and so she stole into the little room.

  A slightly chipped inkpot and a couple of sharpened pens. The first discovery. Tucked into a drawer on the old clothes press. And then the calling cards. She remembered them. Rubbish she had thought them, but Isabella had taken a fancy to them. Twenty of them there had been, engraved, fancy writing, with gold decoration around the edges. Stored in one of the drawers.

  Some missing.

  There was a creak from upstairs. A warning that Mrs Dawson had deposited her bulk on the floor. No point in involving her. Sesina went back to the kitchen, put on her sacking apron and loaded her bucket with rags, brushes, black lead. She filled four coal scuttles.

  Dragged your arm off, carrying these up the stairs, soon be gone, too and then four more to be filled.

  And then she waited, toasting her feet in front of the fire. Let the old cow make her own tea this morning, she thought. She began to prepare her speech and just allowed Mrs Dawson to get through the door before she launched an attack.

  ‘Am I expected to do all the bedrooms, myself, again today, missus? When are we getting a new maid?’

  ‘Don’t know how you have the heart to talk like that, Sesina, with poor Isabella lying cold in a mortuary.’

  ‘It’s too much for one person,’ said Sesina stubbornly. And put that in your pipe and smoke it, she muttered under her breath as she banged and clanked her way through the kitchen door. She didn’t mind, though, too much. She had a plan in her mind and she was going to have money for herself before she was many months older. In any case, she had plenty to think about at the moment and didn’t want to waste time instructing some ignorant girl in her duties. She’d make Mrs Dawson carry up Mr High-and-Mighty Doyle’s breakfast, though. No point in letting her get away with murder. She’d bring breakfast to the two lads on the f
ourth floor, that was a pleasure and she didn’t mind dodging the odd kiss, or even not dodging. They were so larky the pair of them that they made serving them fun.

  And she would bring breakfast to Mr Cartwright. Now that wouldn’t be fun. Him glaring at her from the pillow with a bit of feather stuck in his mutton chop whiskers, like as not. Daren’t laugh, though. No, no fun with Mr Cartwright. That would be business. But she would have to be careful. No point in ending up like poor Isabella. She’d need a bit of help and she knew just the man to give it.

  ‘No point in fetching a stick from the river if a dog will do it for you,’ she muttered and then giggled a little to herself, managing to straighten her face before she went into Mr Doyle’s rooms. Two of them. Two fires to clean out and two fires to light. Liked a fire in his sitting room as well as his bedroom, first thing in the morning, lazy fella. Would spend half a morning in there, lounging around, reading the newspaper. She’d do his sitting room first and try to be extra quiet when she did the bedroom. Ever so irritated he’d be if she woke him up before his breakfast arrived. Let Mrs Dawson take it up to him and see what a crosspatch he was in the morning. She almost held her breath while she cleaned out the bedroom grate, black-leaded it quickly and then kindled the coals. There wasn’t a stir from him and yet she had a funny feeling that he was awake, something about the way he was breathing. Creepy fellow. You can’t trust lawyers, that’s what Isabella used to say. She was glad when she got out of the room and went up the next flight of stairs to Mr Cartwright’s rooms. At least he didn’t need his sitting-room fire to be lit until the afternoon.

  ‘What’s become of the other girl?’ Mr Cartwright was already up when she slipped in through the door. In his nightgown, bare hairy legs, looking out of the window, looking over at the river. He was an early riser. Very particular about getting out of the house early, just in case there were crowds on the street. Made a big fuss if his breakfast wasn’t in time as he liked to get into the school half an hour before the boys arrived, or so he kept telling Mrs Dawson. He looked back at her and repeated his question impatiently. That great big ugly scar seemed to be cutting his face in two, and the patch of red-orange hair, Isabella used to say, made him look like that orangutan in Ashleys Menagerie on the Strand.