Season of Darkness

by Cora Harrison

  Pity that poor old Isabella didn’t think a bit harder before she went off that night to make her fortune.

  Sesina waited patiently, half listening to the landlord’s story about his hotels, until Mr Collins’ eye was on her and then she edged the calling card slightly out of her apron pocket, making sure that the gold edging caught the light from the candelabra overhead. That Mr Collins was a sharp little fellow. His eyes were on her instantly; she saw his glasses flash in her direction. Sesina replaced the coffee pot and left the room quietly without a backward glance. Once she had pulled the door closed behind her, she waited and listened. There, that was his voice.

  ‘I think, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a minute, I’ll just smoke my cigar out-of-doors. A bit too much of your very excellent wine, Mr Diamond! A smell of the river and a few gulps of fog will have me right as rain in five minutes.’

  Mr Dickens said something about young men, nowadays, laughing with the landlord and in a moment Mr Collins was beside her in the dark recess of the parlour door. He held out his hand and Sesina put the card into it.

  ‘Found it on top of the water tank,’ she whispered to him.

  ‘You’re a great girl,’ he whispered back. She thought that he might snatch a kiss, but he was too much of a gentleman for that. He put the card away in the breast pocket of his coat and then slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. ‘That’s for you, Sesina.’ His lips were almost at her ear, bending down over her, and patting her on the back with his other hand. A shilling, no less; Sesina could feel the shape and size of the coin as it nestled in the palm of her hand. He kept his hand on her back, keeping her with him as he walked towards the front door.

  ‘Where’s the York Watergate, Sesina?’ He asked the question quite loudly. Must be a bit drunk. Yelled the words out! All the other gentlemen must have heard him. But perhaps it was that he could hear what Sesina could hear, perhaps. Old Mother Dawson coming puffing up the stairs from the kitchen. Sesina waited until the housekeeper had opened the door into the hallway before answering.

  ‘It’s down river from here, sir. You can see it from across the road.’

  ‘Come and show me, won’t you?’ Now he pretended to see the missus. ‘You don’t mind, Mrs Dawson, do you? I’ll just borrow Sesina for a few minutes. I don’t know this part of London very well. Oh, and Mrs Dawson, what a wonderful meal that was! Don’t know when I enjoyed a meal so much. You must be exhausted. I hope you’ll have a nice rest when we’re all gone.’

  Sesina could hardly keep a smile off her face. Struck all in a heap, she was, the silly woman. Her fat face smiling, showing every one of her yellow teeth. Eyes looking down, dropping curtsies, Oh, sir! No one could imagine her threatening to give the back of her hand to a poor little starveling ten minutes ago.

  ‘Would you like to take your hat and coat, sir?’ Sesina said, nice and soft. Not putting herself forward. The missus wouldn’t like that. A great one for telling you to know your place; that was Mrs Dawson. Pretending to be a lady with my parlour.

  ‘I’ll risk it. Not far to go, is it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply but went through the front door as soon as Mrs Dawson had opened it. Sesina was after him before she could think of anything to say. Let her hang around the hallway and wait for the landlord and Mr Dickens to come out.

  It wasn’t too dark outside. There were four gas lamps at the edge of the pavement, one of them quite near to number five. As he stepped off the pavement a carriage came around the corner from Robert Street. Empty except for the coachman. Whipping his horses. Nearly went into Mr Collins. Sesina grabbed his sleeve and hauled him back. Had a bit too much to drink, she thought, once again. His breath, when he turned back to face her, smelled of wine.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ he said and took her hand and squeezed it for a second before dropping it. This time he looked up and down the roadway in front of the eleven houses before he crossed over to the railings. ‘Brrr,’ he said pretending to shiver and taking her hand again. ‘Strange place. The fog, the river mist, the gas lamp. Feels like being on the moon, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’m used to it, sir,’ said Sesina. For a moment she thought that he had forgotten about the card and wondered how to remind him. She felt a moment’s impatience. She looked down at the river. That river where poor Isabella found a last resting place. Not very nice that. Being dragged out, cold and dead. No more fun; no more great plans. A man who had done that deserved to be hanged. If only she had the money, the power, the right to nose around, just like those two men! She’d have to give him a nudge. Chances were that he might forget all about Isabella, standing there, smoking his cigar and looking up at the moon.

  ‘Can you see well enough to read the card, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘You read it, sweetheart, your eyes are better than mine.’ A bit drunk, she thought knowledgeably. He had difficulty getting the card from his pocket. She snatched it from him before he allowed it to fall.

  ‘This is what it says, sir: “Found something in his room today. He was the one who beat my poor brother to death. I’m going to make him pay for it!” That’s filled the whole card, sir.’

  Mr Collins took the cigar from his mouth. ‘What!’

  Sesina read the card to him again, memorizing the words before she handed it to him.

  ‘This is terrible.’ He seemed very moved. There was even a crack in his voice. Suddenly she felt rather fond of him. Nicer than most men. Perhaps he would be the one who would get vengeance for poor Isabella. She was a little doubtful of how forceful he would be, though. Mr Dickens, now. If he wanted something done, everyone else ran around doing his bidding. Still, perhaps the two together would be the best way. She was clever enough to deal with both.

  ‘“Found something in his room today.” That must mean … Well, Sesina; that does seem to indicate, you know, to show, that it must be someone whose room she visited.’

  ‘Isabella was a good girl, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, of course.’ He took the cigar from his mouth and waved it in the air. ‘No, I didn’t mean to hint anything else, Sesina. Don’t think that. I know that she and you clean the bedrooms here. It’s just that if it was in this man’s room, well then …’

  Didn’t like to say it out straight. Gentlemen are like that, she thought. Not Mr Dickens, though. A great man for straight talking. I’ll tell you straight, Sesina, that’s what he would say. For a minute she half wished that it was Mr Dickens who was standing here with her now beside the river, listening to these words. He’d pounce, like a dog after a rat. He’d guess straight away.

  ‘We both go into men’s rooms, sir,’ she said with a nod in the direction of the terraced houses behind them.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Seemed a bit upset. Thinking that he might have offended her. As if!

  ‘And what’s this about a brother?’ He put the question in quickly, like he wanted to pass over this business of gentlemen and their bedroom. Thinking about the maid who cleaned his bedroom, perhaps. Wondering if she would find out anything about him.

  ‘Isabella had a brother, sir. She found out about that. She went to the workhouse on her day out. The place where she was brought up. Her brother had been adopted, sir. She told me that.’

  He took a few more puffs from his cigar and then he flung it into the river. Waste. Hadn’t been properly finished. He didn’t turn towards her, just stood there, watching it as it went flying down, a bit like one of them seagulls swooping on a bit of rubbish. When the red spark was gone he turned back to her.

  ‘Where was the workhouse?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. But I think that one of the men on the top floor gave her an idea, one of them newspaper men. She was full of it one morning when she came down. Wouldn’t tell me, though. Very close, she was. That was Isabella. Washed up the breakfast ware and then went off on her day out. Once a month, sir. That’s when we get our day out.’

  ‘Mr Allen and Mr Carstone? Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right, sir
.’ Except that we call them Benny and Jim. ‘She told me a long time ago that she could remember the workhouse, but she didn’t know the name of the place. I didn’t take much notice.’ No point in looking back. Never any use in it. Sesina hadn’t wanted Isabella to start on that. Much more fun to look to the future. To plan a good life. But she had been a long time upstairs that day.

  ‘And when she came back from her day out, her cheeks were all red. Like they had been blown by the wind.’

  He didn’t say anymore. Just stood there, staring at the river. She thought that she should remind him of Isabella, bring him back to the puzzle of her death.

  ‘What do you think she means, sir? “I’m going to make him pay for it!”?’

  He gave a big sigh. ‘I’m very much afraid, Sesina, that she meant that she was going to blackmail him. And thus she met her end!’ He lit another cigar and puffed at it for a moment. There was the noise of a front door creaking open and Sesina knew that sound. She turned. Of course, Lady Curiosity, Mrs Dawson, was standing there. Immediately Sesina leaned over the railings pointing down to the east.

  ‘Can you see it now, sir? That’s York Watergate. Look the mist has lifted a little. It’s a very fancy place. All fancy stonework. Boats sometimes land there, sir.’ Her voice would carry across the road in that still, foggy air.

  He was not so drunk that he didn’t play along with that. ‘Ah, you’re right, Sesina. What wonderful eyes you have. I couldn’t see it before.’

  Then there was the sound of a door closing, just a careful click. Mrs Dawson wouldn’t want Mr Collins to see her spying on him.

  ‘Did your friend ever mention York Watergate to you, Sesina?’ Now he sounded quite sober.

  Sesina turned to face him. ‘No, sir,’ she said, but her mind was working fast. Could that have been the place? Was he on to something? Clever enough, she thought. ‘I want that fella hanged!’ There wasn’t much light here by the railings, but there was enough to show the surprised look on Mr Collins’ face. Didn’t expect that tone of voice from her. Didn’t understand. Families never meant much to people like herself or Isabella. Families deserted you, left you at workhouses, sent you out on to the streets when you were old enough or sold you off to anyone who would give some money for you. She wouldn’t know her own sister if she walked in the door. But she and Isabella, though they quarrelled like two cats on the roof top, well, they looked out for each other. Whoever did that to Isabella Gordon wasn’t going to get away with it, not if Anna Maria Sesini could help it.

  ‘You can leave it to us to keep after the police,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you, sir.’ And she knew that her voice sounded sincere. He patted her on the shoulder.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said and took another puff of his cigar. It seemed to give him energy, because he turned around to her and when he spoke his voice sounded different. Enthusiastic, keen.

  ‘I wish you could find some more of those cards, Sesina.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ Sesina glanced over her shoulder. Mrs Dawson was probably peering out of the dining-room window at her. It wasn’t safe to stay any longer.

  ‘I’ll run down to the lower road, sir, and go in by the basement door and have another look. If Mrs Dawson sees me, I’ll tell her that I’ve gone to give the hired girl a hand with the washing-up.’ And if her ladyship demanded to know why she had done this, she could always act humble-pie and pretend that she didn’t like to knock on the front door like a lady. Sesina smothered a giggle as she thought of how she would act out that scene.

  ‘Do that.’ He sounded a bit absent-minded, a bit sleepy like. Then he suddenly seemed to sober up, throwing away the second cigar. ‘I’ve thought of somewhere that she might have hidden one of those cards. You know when I was about thirteen and living out in Italy, I was a very naughty boy and got up to things that thirteen-year-olds shouldn’t get up to. Do you know what I’m talking about, Sesina?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Well, she had to say ‘yes’, or ‘no’ and it was a fifty-fifty chance, either way, of which was the answer that he was expecting. He didn’t seem bothered, just patted her hand, smiling to himself.

  ‘Well, I kept a book, a diary, I suppose, but I called it a book, silly boy that I was, but of course I didn’t want my parents to see it so I unscrewed the knob on my iron bedstead and kept it in that hollow space. It was a bed just like the one in poor Isabella’s room.’

  ‘I’ll try, sir, and the next time that you come, I’ll slip it to you, quiet like.’

  ‘That’s a good little girl. Here comes my friend now. We’ll find some excuse to visit again and then you can slip it to us. It will be our secret, won’t it, Sesina?’ He was patting her hand again. Getting all spooney, he was. Drunk, of course. Would have to get him safely across the road. No harm in him. Pity that Isabella didn’t find someone like Mr Collins. Still, who knows how ugly anyone, even the quietest are like if they’re in a blue funk.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said aloud and listened for the sound of horse hoofs as she escorted him back across the road. ‘Good night, sir,’ she said as she slipped past Mr Dickens. He already had his hat, so Mrs Dawson had lowered herself into giving it to him. Mr Collins’ hat was still on the hatstand and she gave it a quick brush with a clothes brush that she had found since his last visit. Should save money on those cigars and buy himself a new hat. Not a dressy man. He was telling the landlord now how he thought pyjamas and dressing gowns were the most comfortable clothes to have dinner in.

  ‘Your hat, sir,’ she said, offering it to him. And then, to her surprise, Mr Dickens slipped her a sixpenny piece.

  ‘You’re doing well, Sesina,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked Mrs Dawson about you and she said that she was satisfied. Good girl.’

  Trying to sweet-talk her, that was sure and certain. Still, they were on the same side, the great and famous Mr Dickens; Mr Collins, who, according to the landlord, would soon be famous and Anna Maria Sesini who had never seen her father and had only a very shadowy memory of her mother.

  But when it came to brains, she thought, as she shut the door behind all of them, when it came to brains, she’d bet she could run rings around the two of them.

  And what was all that story Mr Dickens had told about the servant being as strong as any man. Not a surprise to her, of course. But the people at the table had looked surprised. And, she thought, he had given a very strange look at Mrs Dawson. And so had Mr Collins.

  Naw, she said to herself, naw. It were a man.

  But could she be sure. After all, Isabella had said quite a few times, something about Mrs Dawson. ‘Needn’t be so high and mighty. If the landlord only knew what I know about her. No better than she should be.’

  Didn’t take much notice at the time, thought Sesina. But what if Isabella was only up to her usual tricks when she said it was a man? What if it was Mrs Dawson all of the time that she expected to get money out of? She wouldn’t be too surprised. As soon as Mrs Dawson came bustling out, she gave her a long, thoughtful look. Ever so put out, she was. Something had really rattled her. In a real bad mood. Or was it that she was a bit frightened? She’d try her out.

  ‘Did you hear the story that Mr Dickens was telling about a woman who strangled her maid?’ Sesina asked the question in her most innocent fashion, but she saw Mrs Dawson give her a sharp look. Needle her a bit more. That might bring something out. ‘Mr Collins was telling me another story when we was outside looking down the river.’ She pretended to hesitate, gave a little giggle. ‘About a housekeeper who murdered one of her employers. I don’t suppose that woman would like to have anything like that told about her. She’d pay a few pounds to have that kept a secret, that’s what I say.’

  ‘And what I say is that you should get in there and sweep the crumbs up and do the job that you are being paid for, and not stand around talking rubbish,’ snapped Mrs Dawson.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dawson, certainly Mrs Dawson,’ said Sesina. Be fun if I found a few pound coins lying
on my bed tonight, she thought, as she collected the small hand broom from the press near the stairs.

  ‘And you can tidy out that press when you finish the parlour,’ said Mrs Dawson viciously. She took the door from Sesina’s hand, looked as though she might slam it. She was in that kind of humour. Sesina’s ears were ready for the bang, but when she turned back, before opening the door to the parlour, she saw that Mrs Dawson was staring up at one of the high shelves. Spotted something that she could steal, perhaps.

  When Sesina came down to the kitchen, she found that Mrs Dawson was in a good humour. ‘Made you a cup of soup, Sesina, put a drop of brandy in it too, so if you taste anything funny, that’s what it will be.’ The words had rushed out just as if she had practised them.

  ‘That’s nice of you, missus.’ The soup did look good and it did smell of brandy. She picked it up and moved it closer to her lips. ‘Just joking about the story, missus,’ she said. ‘Mr Collins didn’t say anything of the sort. He’s a very nice man.’ And then something came to her mind. Mrs Dawson peering up, looking at the top shelf in that press by the back stairs. Sesina suddenly remembered what was up there.

  Rat poison!

  She moved across the room, blowing the top of the soup. ‘God! Can’t wait to have it. I’ll just cool it at the window.’ She had the window open in a second, made loud slurping noises and hoped that Mrs Dawson would not hear the sound of soup dripping down the ivy and into the area below. When she turned back into the room, licking her lips and exclaiming with delight, she saw a strange look on Mrs Dawson’s face. Was it fear? What was she afraid of? Perhaps, even, was she sorry that she had done such a thing?

  NINE

  Wilkie Collins, Basil:

  In the ravelled skein, the slightest threads are the hardest to follow.

  ‘Not a sign of that watch, I’m afraid, sir. And no lead to the man who fired at you, Mr Collins. Though there was a bullet buried in that wooden mooring post. So you didn’t dream it, Mr Collins. And not clue, sir, not a single, solitary clue, to the man who killed that girl. Could be anyone, couldn’t it?’ Inspector Field had shaken his head sadly when we dropped into the police station on our way home. The inspector did not show much interest in finding Isabella’s murderer. Only his esteem for my friend Dickens had prompted him to make a few enquiries – people that had known the dead Isabella in the streets near where she lived, butcher, baker, candlestick maker, all of the men who had delivered goods to the basement door of number five Adelphi. ‘Not really any clues,’ the inspector had said with a finality which drove us both out-of-doors again, wandering along by the riverside, and when we had parted, Dickens had repeated the inspector’s words, but in a thoughtful way. And then, quite suddenly, he exclaimed, ‘But that’s not true, is it, Wilkie? We do have some sort of clue, thanks to Sesina’s find. Let’s meet at two o’clock tomorrow and we’ll walk up to The Saracen’s Head, I know the place, Snow Hill, near Smithfield, you must know it, Wilkie, don’t you? Let’s see what we can find out. Energy and fixed purpose, will achieve wonders. We’ll put a few clues on a plate for Inspector Field, what do you say, my boy? Remember, two o’clock sharp outside the Temple Inn.’