Season of Darkness

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I felicitate you,’ he said pompously. He did not look at me, but still kept his attention on Dickens. He had very pale blue eyes, pouched and the candlelight on the table illuminated a tight, thin lip and one slightly drooping eyelid. I began to wonder how old he was in reality. Certainly middle-aged, but perhaps nearer fifty than forty. Yes, it was very strange that his rent was paid from a family estate, rather than from the man himself. He had turned back to me, his hands were now clasped behind his back as though he feared to give anything away and he stood with a slight stoop, peering at me through his spectacles. He hadn’t replied to my question, though. Just as if there was some great secret about which inn he belonged to. Or was he a barrister, after all?

  ‘What my friend means is that he’s eaten the right numbers of dinners, got a new set of calling cards so that he can inform the world that he is a barrister-at-law. Didn’t do any work, or any examinations, isn’t that right, Wilkie? Just perused some law books in order to extract some plots for the novels that he plans on writing!’ Dickens clapped me on the back in his exuberantly friendly manner.

  That gave me the opening that I wanted. ‘This will interest you, Mr Doyle,’ I said innocently. ‘I’ve been reading about a case, about a girl, just a servant girl, but with a brain as sharp as a razor, who learned very early on the secret of listening at doors, her ear to every keyhole. Soon she picked up secrets, blackmailed a guest, never a present employer, she was too clever for that, though sometimes, frequently, in fact, she blackmailed a past employer. I say a past employer,’ I continued, noticing that others were listening and raising my voice slightly, ‘past employer, because this girl, whether by forged references or whether by very good service while she stayed in a house, always seemed to have the best of references and easily got a new job. And in that way,’ I said, looking around the room, where every ear seemed to be turned to my story, ‘by hook or by crook, one might say, this pretty little Anne Marie, moved from house to house through the district of Marylebone, until …’

  ‘Until she was caught …’ put in one of the journalists, young Jim Carstone. They had all gathered around to listen to the story.

  ‘Wrong,’ I said.

  ‘Got a job with a lawyer and he blackmailed her,’ said the other journalist, Benjamin Allen. Mr Doyle, I noticed, raised his chin above his high collar and looked down at him with the air of one who would say, Do I know you, young man?

  ‘Wrong again,’ I said.

  ‘Some more Madeira, Mr Doyle,’ said the landlord hastily. A bit wary of this man, I thought, as I plunged on with my story.

  ‘You’re right, though in one respect,’ I said to Benjamin Allen. ‘The last person that this girl worked for was a lawyer, but when she tried her tricks with him, he didn’t hand her over to the police as a law-abiding lawyer should do, no, that was not the course that he took. And he didn’t blackmail her, either. Not him. Blackmail is difficult and a dangerous measure,’ I went on as little Sesina slipped into the room and began laying out hot soup plates. Her head had swung around as I said that word. I noticed that, but I carried on with my story. ‘No, this lawyer took a more straightforward and surer path from his point of view. He withdrew from the bank every penny that he possessed, and I do believe that it was a tidy sum. And then he went down to the docks …’

  ‘And drowned himself,’ said Jim Carstone.

  I shook my head. ‘I doubt it; from what I read of him, from witnesses’ statements, he didn’t seem to be that sort of man.’ Sesina, I noticed, was lingering over her task, conscientiously straightening every spoon and adjusting every linen napkin. She would be in trouble with Mrs Dawson if she stayed too much longer, but then, I supposed, Sesina was probably a match for Mrs Dawson. ‘What do you think, Mr Doyle,’ I said aloud. ‘What do you imagine that our blackmailed lawyer did after he had been seen down at the docks?’

  ‘I have no idea, Mr …’ The pause he left after the omission of my name had an offensive sound and I noticed that the two young journalists exchanged glances and that one of them rushed into speech.

  ‘Bought a ticket on a steamer, went back and murdered the girl, and then returned to the docks and disappeared for ever more,’ said Jim Carstone.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said cordially. ‘The lawyer had probably been careful enough to buy a ticket under an assumed name, in any case, no one of his name had been among the purchasers of the ticket.’

  ‘And so no one knows where he went.’

  ‘Steamers going out by the dozen from Wapping,’ said Benjamin with a nod of his head.

  ‘The strangled body of the girl was found days later by the police, alerted by a milk delivery man, who saw a cat mewing at a window each day, but was unable to make anyone hear his knocks. The lawyer was never heard of again. There was a certain amount of publicity. Picture of the girl in the newspaper and on posters. No one could find much about the lawyer, a man from Scotland, apparently, but the girl was recognized and the police received various anonymous contributions about her blackmailing activities.’

  ‘Dinner is ready to be served, sir.’ Mrs Dawson stuck her head in the door and I could have hugged the old lady as she came at precisely the right moment for me. Let Mr Doyle digest my story. I saw Dickens look thoughtfully at him before taking his place beside our host. I was on the other side, and Mr Doyle at the end of the table. Jim and Benjamin seated themselves beside me and Mr Frederick Cartwright, the schoolmaster, was between Dickens and the lawyer.

  ‘So what brought you to London, Mr Diamond?’ Mr Doyle wanted no more talk about lawyers strangling servant girls, I guessed, as Sesina adroitly poured soup into my plate. Mr Diamond seemed a modest man, said very little of what Dickens had told me about him, very little about the hotels that he had owned in America and about the vast wealth which had allowed him to buy the eleven houses of Adelphi Terrace, but concentrated on telling the story of how he and Dickens had met on board the ship George Washington on the way back from New York and how they had stayed friends when they came to London.

  ‘And he showed me this terrace, well, I have to say to you gentlemen that I had never seen anything so pretty back in New York. First morning our friend walked me over here, there was a river mist and sun behind the clouds and they made such a picture, these beautiful houses, standing up there above the water. Told me all about the place. How it was built by the Adam brothers, and how Adelphi in Greek means brothers. Never knew things like that. Never had an education, not like you gentlemen,’ he said modestly. ‘I was out working at twelve years old, when I should have been in school. Let me give you a toast, gentlemen. To the Adelphi brothers who built this magnificent hillside by the river: John, Robert, William and James Adam.’

  ‘To the Adelphi brothers,’ we all echoed as we raised our glasses filled with excellent claret. I wondered was it really an anniversary for one of them, or for the building of the terrace, but none of the lodgers had queried this reason for the invitation to dinner. And I didn’t think that with wine this good, anyone would have felt the evening to be a waste of time, even if Mrs Dawson’s bought-in roast fowls and raised pies did not come up to scratch. Dickens, I noticed, was exerting himself to make an atmosphere of conviviality, telling a funny story about a near disaster in a play that he had put on in his own house in Tavistock Square. There had been a problem with one of the props: a big, heavy, carpenter-made pillar which fell over and the two men, Mark Lennon, a huge fellow and Walter Landor, another heavy-weight, struggled with it for minutes and then Anne Brown, his parlourmaid, who was watching from the wings, strode on to the stage, still wearing her apron and righted it in a minute.

  ‘And, you know, gentlemen, when I thought about it afterwards, I thought that Anne has been in our service for about twelve years, and during that time she has lugged up and down stairs a few hundred carpets, twice a year at least, she has carried heavy, small children – I have nine of them, gentlemen, and Anne has been a friend to them all – I’d say that she has carried thes
e children about a million times, has lifted wardrobes, cupboards and beds a few thousand times. We men can underrate the strength of women,’ he said as Mrs Dawson placed the two roast fowls in front of the landlord. His eyes, I noticed, lingered on the woman.

  ‘To Anne, the parlourmaid; stronger than any man,’ said the American, raising his glass and we all pledged Anne Brown, the parlourmaid, while I looked at the stout figure of Mrs Dawson and wondered whether Dickens thought that she could have murdered the girl and thrown her into the river. Sesina, I saw with interest, seemed to be looking at Mrs Dawson also and on her face was a sharp look of curiosity. Don’t be stupid, I told myself, why on earth should Mrs Dawson murder Isabella? Anyway, Sesina was sure that her friend was going to meet a man.

  And then there was a toast to America, the country of free enterprise where a barefoot boy could rise to the heights of a millionaire, or make his pile, as Don amended Dickens’ toast. And then there had to be a toast to Dickens, and his wonderful books. To the law, to Lincoln’s Inn and to the courts of Chancery as a source of great stories was my contribution and Benjamin toasted the maker of the raised pie, drunkenly waving a glass at Sesina as she came in to lay the pudding plates.

  I leaned across the table towards the schoolmaster. ‘You are very silent, Mr Cartwright,’ I said as Sesina put a plate in front of him. I saw her glance keenly at me. Had he seen me this morning, looking across at York Watergate? Had he followed me? ‘What did you think about my story of the blackmailing servant girl?’ I asked boldly. I was rewarded by the sudden stiffening of the man’s burly frame. Sesina paused a fraction of a minute behind him, her hand almost frozen on the edge of the pudding plate. He did not look at me, nor did he look at her. He looked down at the plate and then deliberately removed it from her grasp, almost as though he could not bear the tension of waiting for it to be released.

  ‘You take an interest in crime, I’m sure,’ I added, swallowing some more of the excellent port while I watched Mrs Dawson’s sharp knife dissect some more of the fiddgy pudding on the side table. Sesina had now rapidly moved around to my side of the table and was standing behind me, her hand depositing a plate in front of me. I dug a spoon into my pudding and looked across at him.

  ‘None, whatsoever. My interests are completely pedagogical,’ he said pompously.

  ‘Crimes happen in schools, too,’ I remarked, trying to look wise and as if I had numerous examples up my sleeve. He was, I thought, a very big and very heavily made man. Though he had produced a watch readily, had it, perhaps, looked a bit too battered, the silver a bit too worn for a man with a good salary? Could it, perhaps, have been an old watch that he had hastily purchased from a pawnbroker when he had lost his own?

  ‘Reported one of these a few months’ ago, didn’t we, Jim?’ Benjamin’s leg under the table, reached across mine to nudge the toe of his friend’s boot.

  ‘That’s right.’ Jim paused for a second, either to chew on his pudding or to think up a few details. ‘That’s right, Ben. Schoolmaster. No wife. Hires a girl from a reformatory. Girl seen shopping every morning. On Monday: no girl. Tuesday: no girl. Wednesday: no girl. Local baker; sweet on girl. Report to police. Body found cut up into pieces. Each piece precisely …’ And here Jim looked all around the table. Every eye was on him, every spoon or glass was held poised in the air. He paused for another few seconds and then continued, ‘Every single piece of that poor girl was exactly and mathematically the length of one foot, as though …’ Jim drank a little port. ‘As though,’ he finished, ‘it had been measured by a schoolmaster’s ferule.’

  ‘Bless my soul,’ said Dickens, taking a little notebook and a small sharp pencil from his pocket, ‘God bless my soul, what an extraordinary tale.’

  The atmosphere was becoming a little uncomfortable. I could sense that. Mr Doyle put his glass slightly to one side, leaned across the table, his keen eyes surveying my friend.

  ‘Do tell us some more about that reform school for prostitutes that you have out in Shepherd’s Bush, Mr Dickens.’

  I sat back and waited for fireworks.

  Dickens took a sip of the wine and sat back, looking very directly across at the lawyer. ‘Yes, Urania Cottage is in Shepherd’s Bush. That part of your information is correct, Mr Doyle. But only that part. Urania Cottage is funded by Miss Coutts of Coutts Bank, and managed by her. And it is not a reform school. It is a home for unfortunate girls who have no homes of their own.’

  Doyle took a swallow of his wine. A large one this time. It occurred to me that the man was slightly drunk. The slack skin beneath his faded blue eyes seemed even more pouched than earlier in the evening and his thin lips were twisted in an offensive sneer.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Dickens, is it true that the girls in Urania Cottage have pianos? I’ve heard a rumour to that effect.’

  Dickens’ good friend, the landlord, looked anxiously from his tenant to the famous novelist. Mr Cartwright, who was lost in his own thoughts, brooded angrily over the remains of his port. The two young lads exchanged surreptitious grins, but Doyle smiled openly, a mocking smile as he awaited a reply. It was not long in coming.

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Dickens with a nonchalant shrug. ‘A grand piano for every girl in the parlour, a cottage piano for each in the bedrooms, and,’ he paused, deliberately flicking a crumb from the table, and finished with, ‘and, of course, several small guitars in the washroom.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Mr Diamond, with a burst of genuine laughter. ‘There you are, Mr Doyle, you’ve got your answer!’ He was, I thought, glad to lighten the atmosphere. Nevertheless, I saw him look across at the brutal face of the schoolmaster, now flushed with wine, and I saw his lips tighten. Not a man to shield the murderer of a poor housemaid in a house that he owned. That was my feeling about Mr Diamond and I warmed to him.

  EIGHT

  Sesina waited impatiently in the hall. Time they were all gone, she thought as she fiddled with the cloth used for dusting the hallstand mirror. The two journalists had left; she knew what they’d be up to, down to Covent Garden, she’d lay a bet on that. Jim had pinched her cheek. Benny had snatched a kiss and asked her to save what was left of the fiddgy pudding for their breakfasts, but she didn’t mind them. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, either of them, she would bet on that. They were a good laugh, that pair. Wanted to know what it was all about, this dinner for the lodgers; no surprises in that, pair of bright boys. Guessed that it might be something to do with Isabella’s death. She told them. Not everything. Of course not, but a bit about herself and Isabella. About how they came to Urania Cottage. About Mr Dickens. About how he came around to the prisons and to the reform schools. She made a good story about Urania Cottage. The mark books where girls got marks for good behaviour and marks subtracted for bad behaviour, about the piano, the singing lessons, the sewing lessons, the handwriting lessons and reading lessons, all that education for the girls so that they could become good servants. Benny and Jim had fun with hearing all about Mr Dickens’ pet charity for homeless girls. She gave them a good imitation of one of his favourite little talks before the pair of them went off. Down the Strand. On to Covent Garden. Sesina wished that she could go with them. Anna Maria Sesini! That was her proper name. Was it the name of her mother or her father? Benny Allen thought that it sounded Italian when she told him about it. Said that Italy was a lovely place. Very warm, very friendly. She should go back there and find her family; that was what Benny said. Told her that if he and Jim made a fortune in some way, that they would take her there on a holiday.

  As if!

  The schoolmaster had gone up to his own room. Eaten as much as a hog, she reckoned. His stomach looked larger than ever.

  But the other four were sipping brandy and swallowing coffee in Mrs Dawson’s parlour. Her ladyship was in a fine old bad mood; she liked a nice sit-down there of an evening, her parlour, if you please. It was a good job that the landlord had allowed her to hire a girl who was to do the washing-up. Otherwise she would have Sesina at the kitche
n sink the minute the dining room had been cleared. Her ladyship was down there, in the kitchen. Bullying the poor girl now, she was. She’d be there finding fault for the next half hour, hopefully. Sesina felt in her pocket. She had been really busy all day long, but she had found time to go into the little damp cold bedroom on the lower basement floor and look all around it carefully, searching for possible hiding places. And then she had discovered the water tank. Good job that I don’t sleep here; that would keep me awake all night, was her first thought, but her second was: good hiding place! Thick in dust, the top of it was, but it had been a good hiding place, a good place to find a card.

  ‘Let me see that soup kettle as clean as a whistle next time I come down! You just mind your manners, too, missie, or you’ll feel the back of my hand. No making faces when I speak to you!’

  Still bullying that unfortunate mite, thirteen, if she’s a day; pity someone doesn’t give Mrs Dawson the back of their hand, thought Sesina. Drat! She’s coming back upstairs, will be hanging around; currying favour with the landlord, bobbing to them all. In desperation, she stole back into the parlour, making believe to be checking the coffee pot. The landlord was telling them all about his time in the gold rush, as he called it. Out in a place called Georgia in America. Everyone going there trying to make a fortune. Most of them ending up poorer than they were when they arrived. Sesina wasn’t surprised. The landlord had the right idea. Might find gold, or might not find gold, but as sure as eggs is eggs, all those people who were flooding out to Georgia, trying to make a fortune, each one of them would need a place to lay their head at night, a place to eat a cooked dinner, a place to have a drink in the evening. Setting up hotels and boarding houses was a surety, though very hard work compared to finding a bit of gold, and a lot slower results too. Most of these quick ways to make money turned out badly in her experience.