Season of Darkness

by Cora Harrison

  I miss Isabella; the place is a bit of a morgue without her, Sesina thought, as she went into her own bedroom and tucked the card behind the small mirror that stood on the chest of drawers. I’ll get some money out of the fellow that did for her and then I’ll move on. Her imagination ranged over how much she would need. Perhaps a place of her own wouldn’t be such fun, after all. A shop, now, that would be nice. Or, better still, a coffee stall. Practise a bit of cooking. Too much for you, Mrs Dawson, let me help, show me what to do. She’d have a coffee stall in Covent Garden. Serve breakfast to stallholders and the delivery men in from the country and even some gentlemen coming home after a late night. Plenty of backchat; that would be fun!

  But first she had to get evidence against him. No point in asking for money until she had enough on him to give him a fright. She’d give his room a good old turnout, today. That charwoman who came in each day to help with the cleaning could busy herself with his lordship Mr Doyle’s rooms and with the hall and parlour. A quick flick around the top floor – the lads wouldn’t notice as long as the fire was burning when they came home – and then she would really turn out Mr Frederick Cartwright’s place, search his sitting room, his bedroom and his dressing room. Didn’t usually bother about that once she had emptied the bowls and the slop pails.

  Sesina went into the kitchen. She’d make a good pot of tea, she decided. That would put the missus in a good humour. There was even a slice of sponge cake. She had found it in Mr Cartwright’s room – well it had been half a cake when she had found it, but the remaining slice should do the trick if presented to Mrs Dawson. Cake, sir? Well, I’m sure I don’t know, sir. Hope there ain’t mice around, Mr Cartwright. I’ll tell Mrs Dawson. We need a new cat. I’ll tell her that.

  ‘Keep your strength up, missus,’ she said, as soon the housekeeper came yawning into the kitchen. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky. You don’t want to collapse after all the trouble that you’ve been put to. Just you eat that bit of cake. Got it special for you when you sent me out on an errand yesterday.’

  ‘You’re a kind girl, Sesina,’ said Mrs Dawson graciously. ‘It’s all been a shock to you, too, as much as to me. I must get another girl to replace Isabella when my nerves are better, but I’ve been thinking that for the moment we might just manage with that charwoman – she seems willing; what do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps we could get that young girl in to scrub the kitchen and the front steps, what do you think?’ asked Sesina. She had left a few moments’ pause, long enough for the slice of sponge cake to do its work in sweetening Mrs Dawson. ‘That would leave me a bit of time to do the shopping, go to the market and get some proper fresh stuff, something for our supper, that sort of thing. You don’t want to have the burden of that, what with the shock that you got and all,’ she ended in virtuous tones. If that didn’t work with the old hag, well, nothing would.

  Mrs Dawson meditatively mopped individual crumbs from her plate with a wet forefinger. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. She took a large bit of the cake, chewed it and then another swallow of tea. It did the work. ‘Yes, I was thinking the very same thing myself yesterday,’ she said affably. ‘Your young legs could do with stretching and if you take over the shopping, well then I could keep a close eye on that young one and on the charwoman today. I’ll have a word with the landlord about keeping the two of them on for a few weeks until we are ourselves again. He won’t mind, I daresay. That young one comes cheap and the charwoman is not expensive, neither. We’ll see what he says. He promised to call in some time today or tomorrow.’

  ‘And now I best do the bedrooms,’ said Sesina, adding some scouring powder to her bucket. ‘I’ll leave the third floor for the charwoman. These two aren’t fussy. I gave the first floor a good going over yesterday so I’ll start with Mr Cartwright’s set this morning.’

  If ever I have a house of my own, I’ll have a cupboard for cleaning stuff on every floor. Not dragging my guts out every day carrying all this stuff up six flights of stairs. And then she thought that if she did have a big house like number five, she would have three or four servants. Let them haul up the loads, she thought. No one ever bothers their head about me, so why should I bother my head about them? And as she toiled up the stairs, she planned her servants. A parlourmaid called Jane, she decided. A nice old-fashioned name. Jane would be from the country, she decided. And then a cook called Mrs Burns, from Scotland. Could have some good laughs with a name like that. And two housemaids, Susan and Sarah, she decided. And she’d lie in bed in the morning, sip hot chocolate while Sarah lit the fire and Susan brought up hot water. She wouldn’t be too familiar, but not nasty, neither.

  Now for something to hold over him. She unlocked the door to Mr Cartwright’s bedroom and went in. Had a good look around. Scattered tealeaves over the carpet and let them settle while she searched the dressing room. It had a high clothes press in there. Even standing on a chair she couldn’t reach the top of it. In the end she tied the hearth brush to the sweeping brush, knotting the duster around it and swept from side to side and from back to front. Nothing there but a cloud of dust and a couple of dead moths.

  Drat! She thought. Lucky that it was just varnished boards in here.

  Then she searched every pocket in the two suits, the dressing gown and the summer raincoat that hung there.

  Nothing.

  Floorboards? No, not a single one of them was loose. He’d be the sort of man to complain if one of them was.

  She tried behind the washstand, sent her brush along the top of the door and then went into the bedroom and stretched herself on the bed while she had a good think.

  Mr Cartwright was a tidy man, and a suspicious one, too, she thought. Not one to hide things in rooms that were cleaned by servants. But Isabella must have discovered something? Perhaps there was nothing now left to be found. Still, she was determined not to give up. Even if she couldn’t get money from him, at least she could see him swing for what he did to poor Isabella.

  There must be something. She got off the bed and did a little dusting. The furniture came with the rooms, of course. Furnished lodgings; that was what they were. But that little desk on top of the table by the window, could that be his own, something that he brought with him? She gave it a good dust while thinking hard.

  What was she looking for?

  Letters, she supposed. And letters would be kept in a desk. Mrs Morson had had a desk like that. Whenever she’d got a letter, she would read it, and then lock it in her desk.

  This desk was locked, too, but Hannah in Urania Cottage had shown her the trick of that and Selina managed to click it open with a nail file from his washstand in just a few seconds. Very, very tidy, his desk. No letters there. And, come to think of it, no letters ever came for him to number five. Writing paper and envelopes, stamps, too. All very neat. And then she touched a spring and a drawer slid open. Just one thing in it. A big envelope with ‘Receipts’ written on it. Very good handwriting. Month and year, everything filled in. It wasn’t sealed so she pulled out the sheets of paper. ‘Paid in advance. Three months’ rent.’ ‘Paid. For making and fitting one black suit of clothes.’ ‘Paid. For the repairing of pair of leather boots.’ Nothing but receipts for clothes, rent and goods. She was going to shut the desk again when she spotted something. One of the pages. Same good thick paper. Sesina noticed it because it had a dirty smudge on the bottom corner, as though someone with dirty hands had picked up the page and waved it through the air to dry the ink. She examined it. In Mr Cartwright’s handwriting. ‘Received in full payment. £20:0:0.’ Twenty pounds, she thought. That was a lot of money. And no mention of goods or services received. And the handwriting of the signature was quite different. A mixture of capitals and small letters. Very bad handwriting, she thought, not at all like the handwriting which Mrs Morson taught to the girls of Urania Cottage.

  A dirty thumbprint on the bottom of the page. Perhaps a man that worked with his hands. This man had got twenty pounds sterling from Mr Cartw
right. Sesina felt a rush of excitement. Perhaps that was what Isabella had discovered. Something about this man. She peered at the handwriting. ‘Tom’, she thought. And then something beginning with the letter G and an R somewhere in the middle of the word. She took it to the window, slipped through the heavy net curtains, glancing down at the pavement before she examined the page. Mrs Dawson was outside the door, taking the air like a lady, looking up at the sky, wondering whether she would need an umbrella to pop down and see the landlord. Sesina retreated quickly. No point in the extra light from the window, anyway. Didn’t make it any clearer. Still she had something. Perhaps that Mr Collins could help her. He was the type that she could run rings around. She replaced the envelope in the secret drawer, pushed it in until she heard the click and then closed up the lid of the desk. But the lock that had worked so perfectly with a quick turn of the nail file when she had opened the desk, now refused to close. Again and again she tried, but there was no sound of a click. She felt a dampness on her forehead and sweat soaked her dress, under her arms and between the shoulder blades.

  And then she stopped, feeling the sweat turn to an ice-like chill. Surely it couldn’t be. Eleven o’clock in the morning. Not him, surely. And yet she could have sworn it was his voice. A slam of the door. The heavy front door. Steps on the stairs. Her mind refused to believe what her ears were telling her. It couldn’t be. The second set of stairs. She heard that creak on the third step.

  In a sudden panic she dived beneath the bed. Stupid! She had a perfect right to be here. Why not be dusting? Cleaning a window? Too late. A rattle of a keys. A rush of cold air from the staircase. ‘Stupid little bitch!’ That would be meant for her. Hadn’t liked finding the door left open. Would he go to the desk? She held her breath. And then stretched rigid. The springs creaked and dipped down, almost touching her shoulder. She flattened herself as much as possible, lying face down. Waiting.

  Taking off his boots. A pair of trousers dropped on the floor beside her. Did he know she was there? Would he rape her? She tried to edge towards the other side, but his weight pinned her, immobilized her. Now all of her dress was soaked with icy sweat. She waited to see the face peering down at her; to feel his hand pulling her out. She could scream, she told herself. But the house was large, Mrs Dawson wouldn’t hear. And if she did? Would she ignore it?

  The springs lifted. He had stood up. Even in stocking feet she heard the thud of his steps. Crossing the room. A drawer wrenched open. A gag, perhaps. Back now. Cautiously she wriggled towards the opposite side of the bed as far away from him as she could go. A striking of a match. Smell of a candle. As Sesina watched, the candlelight illuminated the floorboards. He had lowered it down. Was looking to see what was under the bed. No, not yet. Shining the candlelight on the heap of clothes. Brown trousers, white flannel knee-length drawers. He had stripped both off.

  And then she saw it. Almost a circle. Bright red. As red as a blood moon.

  Blood. That was the stain on those flannel drawers.

  Now he was sitting down again. She edged even nearer to the other side. He was pulling on a fresh pair of drawers. She could hear him grunt with effort. Now for the trousers. This was her moment. She couldn’t stay there. Who knew how many girls that man had murdered? Not giving herself time to be afraid, she wriggled out from under the bed, her fingertips pulling her forward, slid across the floor and beneath the closed curtains. In a moment, she was on her feet and had thrown open the window. At least now she could scream. She climbed out on to the windowsill. Not a soul on the road. Just her luck. Nevertheless, she stayed there. She and Isabella always did the outside of the windows together. She found the handle grip on the side frame, but missed the reassurance of a friend on the inside, ready to grab a dress, ready to steady her.

  He felt the chill after a minute; she knew he would.

  ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’

  He had his fresh pair of drawers on, his trousers pulled up and was sticking one arm inside his braces when he came to the window and jerked back the curtain. Sesina looked down desperately. A cab had rounded the corner. Went up to the top of the street, turned and came back. No passenger in it, pulled in across the road, beside the railings, waiting for a possible fare. He would sit there with his window open and listen for someone to whistle him up.

  Sesina did not hesitate. Didn’t care if he managed to get her sacked. Anything was better than ending up in the river with her neck broken, just like poor old Isabella.

  ‘Ahoy, there, handsome!’ she screamed and waved her hand at the cabbie. He was out of the cab in an instant. Looking up at her, grinning.

  ‘Don’t you fall, sweetheart!’

  ‘Not a chance. And don’t you come any nearer, neither. No looking up under my dress! I know you cabbies!’ She would pretend not to have heard Mr Cartwright, not to have seen him come into the room, she thought. Give him a chance to get his trousers pulled up and buttoned.

  ‘Anyone want a cab?’ Full of cheek, some of them drivers. Owned their own cab and horse. Never took much notice of no one. She blew him a kiss. Keep him watching.

  ‘What are you doing there, girl?’ The schoolmaster was just beside her. With one shove he could have her on the ground, swear that she fell.

  ‘The windows, sir?’ Sesina kept a firm grip on the metal handle, but waved her other hand to show the two-paned windows on the second floor of the building.

  ‘Hm!’ Didn’t seem too interested. ‘Look, there’s a red ink stain on those flannel drawers. You can get that out, can’t you? Don’t know what I can do with the trousers.’ Now he was back sitting on the bed. She was across the floor in a second and was at the door leading out to the landing. Red ink! A likely story. Still he was muttering to himself, ‘Clumsy idiot of a boy. Still, I made him pay for it!’

  She didn’t wait. Shut the door on him and was down the stairs in a flash. She had reached the next landing when the door was flung open. He had come out, was standing at the top of the staircase.

  ‘Get back up here!’ Sesina’s heart skipped a beat. She stopped, hesitated. Mrs Dawson came out from the parlour on the ground floor and looked up at her.

  ‘Get back up here!’ The command was repeated.

  ‘Sesina,’ hissed Mrs Dawson, flapping her hand upwards, ‘are you deaf, girl?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dawson, just going back up, missus.’ She’d be safe while the housekeeper was there. ‘Just finished doing Mr Cartwright’s room, missus,’ she said loudly and clearly as she went back up as fast as she could.

  ‘You forgot this!’ He thrust the stained pair of drawers at her. Red ink. Definitely red ink. Too bright a colour for blood. She felt weak with relief when she got away from him, waved the pair of drawers at Mrs Dawson and ran rapidly down towards the kitchen.

  It was only as she turned the handle of the scullery door that she remembered the unlocked desk.

  ELEVEN

  ‘No problem at all. Very nice man. Takes an American.’ Mrs Dawson pulled the warmed-up remains of the raised pie from the oven and divided it unevenly between the two plates on the kitchen table. ‘Very generous people, the Americans,’ she went on. ‘He agreed with every word that I said. Quite happy for me to hire the charwoman and the young girl until we get ourselves settled. Said he’d been to the police, but there was no news. No one found to have killed poor Isabella. Asked me if I had a notion, but I told him that she was a good quiet girl and that she never had no man friends. Bit of backchat with the butcher sometimes, but I didn’t say anything about that. Nothing but a bit of high spirits. Just put a drop of that gin in my glass, Sesina, and take some more potatoes for yourself. You’re looking peaky. We can’t have that.’

  ‘I suppose that the police don’t take no interest, seeing as she was nothing but a servant,’ said Sesina. There was going to be a fuss about that gin. Might be a high-and-mighty gentleman, Mr Doyle, but not so high and mighty that he couldn’t see the level of his bottle sink every few days.

  ‘No, I don�
�t suppose that they do,’ agreed Mrs Dawson placidly. ‘Anyways, London is full to the brim of men and which one of all those fellows done for her? Well, that’s a hard question.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a woman,’ said Sesina, resentfully eyeing the amount of meat that Mrs Dawson had managed to put on her own plate. ‘Women can be meaner than men, sometimes. Just as strong, too.’

  ‘Never!’ said Mrs Dawson. She sounded a bit irritated so Sesina thought that she should change the conversation.

  ‘Ever heard of a man called Tom Goldman or sommut like that, Mrs D.?’ she asked casually.

  ‘Can’t say that I have,’ said Mrs Dawson, taking another sip of her gin. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Remember Isabella talking about him,’ said Sesina. She got up from the table and carried the dishes over to the sink. Time for her ladyship’s little nap now; her voice was already quite sleepy. No point in encouraging her to talk. Sesina had lots of thinking to do and wanted to be left in peace. No point in her going to the police with anything, though. They’d not listen to her. I need a messenger boy, a famous one. She giggled a bit at her thoughts as she scoured the pie dish. The girls at Urania Cottage used to say that Mr Dickens could see into their minds when he stared at them with those gimlet eyes of his. He’d get a shock if he could see into her mind.