by Issy Brooke
Phoebe came to her shoulder, peering over, and gasped. “He is dead.”
“Step away. Don’t go in – go back into the corridor. You will soil your nice clothes. Let me check.” Marianne went forward. The floor around the bed was a mess of fluids, and the bed itself was worse. He had died hard. She pulled off her glove and pressed it to her mouth with her left hand, as if that might block the smell. With her right hand she felt for a pulse in his throat, and found nothing. He was cold and the skin felt rubbery, as if it would mould to her touch and remain in place if she pressed it.
“He is most definitely dead,” she called back to Phoebe. “Now what? Who do we tell? A doctor is no use.”
“Do we not inform the police?”
“In case it is a suspicious death?”
“It does not seem suspicious. He has been ill, not stabbed in the heart or shot in the head. But the police will know what to do. Come away, Marianne. You can do nothing for him.”
“Oysters, he said,” Marianne mused. “He had eaten bad oysters. But I can smell garlic.”
“I can smell many things, and none of them are pleasant.”
Marianne could not help herself. She peered down at him. His face was not his own, not any more. His flesh sagged towards the floor and new folds had appeared in his cheeks. It was not as if she was looking at the man she had known. He was a lump, an object. The blanket was tangled around his feet. His trousers were stained and his shirt rumpled. His jacket had been discarded and lay on the floor. The skin around his face was yellow, and his belly seemed distended.
Oysters, she thought – really?
But she was no pathologist. With reluctance, she followed Phoebe out of the room and downstairs, where they raised the alarm with the housekeeper and a boy was sent to the nearest police stationhouse and they were plunged into a world of questions that had very few answers.
“NOW WHAT?” PHOEBE SAID as they were released from the stationhouse. One conscientious young policeman had insisted on furnishing them with smelling salts, small glasses of sherry and a pork pie each, while they had been inside the stationhouse. Neither of them had eaten the pies, though Marianne had pocketed both for later. It was a little after lunch time but Marianne didn’t think she’d want to eat for a while. She could still smell the room.
“I would like to go and tell his father,” Marianne said to Phoebe.
“There is no need. Someone will be sent to him from the police, soon enough.”
“Yes, and I would like to beat them to it. I want to see what this man’s reaction will be.”
“Ah, I understand you! Yes. But are you sure you want to see him? I must get back to Woodfurlong as my dressmaker is coming – in fact, she will already be there, and wondering where I am.”
“You go on home. You have duties. I will visit Mr Bartholomew alone.”
“No, you will not. He has spoken roughly to you, don’t you remember? He has a gun, and he tried to shoot his son.”
“I also have a gun, and unlike him, I will not miss.”
“Marianne!”
“I promise.”
“What, to not miss?”
“Exactly. Go on with you – I shall be home for dinner.”
“If Price ever knew what we were about, he should divorce me completely.”
“He would indeed,” Marianne said, but she thought, perhaps he would not. If you knew what he was about, you would divorce him if you could. She forced a smile onto her face. “I expect that I will arrive there at the same time as the police. Let me compromise with you. I shall wait in the gatehouse with the man there, until the police arrive, and then I will go with them, and let them break the news, and simply watch for his reaction.”
Phoebe relaxed. “That is a much safer plan.”
It did not, unfortunately, turn out quite so neatly.
WHEN MARIANNE REACHED the lodge at the end of the driveway, she fully intended to call on the gatekeeper and follow the plan she had laid out to Phoebe. She did not go straight to the door of the lodge, however. She walked up the driveway for a short distance, looking for any sign of the police having arrived before her.
And there was someone standing on the front steps of the house.
It was no policeman.
It was, in fact, a woman. She was very tall, and held herself like a queen, with dignity and confidence in every line of her. Marianne didn’t follow the latest fashions but Phoebe and Emilia ensured that she did not disgrace herself in company and she had a rough idea of what was current. She could recognise that the woman was wearing the very latest in elegant tastes. Her dark jacket was slim and fitted, with plump peplum sleeves and scarlet trim. It skimmed over her hips and her skirts were a dark grey, ideal for moving about the city, with artful folds to convey restrained fullness, narrow at the sides but bunching up over a bustle at the back. She held a furled umbrella, in the exact shade of red to match her jacket’s trim, her shoes and her hat.
Marianne’s first thought was that this could be George’s mother, at last, and Mr Edgar Bartholomew’s estranged wife. Yes, perhaps she had never been dead at all. Her heart gave a tight pang. If so, did the mother know what had happened to her son? Marianne stopped walking. She would definitely wait for the arrival of the police. She could not possibly intrude on this private tragedy.
But the woman was talking to Edgar Bartholomew, and he was standing on a few steps up above her, and getting increasingly angry. He waved his arms around, and Marianne could hear his voice faintly, though not the words. The woman did not make any move to respond. She did not seem remotely intimidated; she didn’t bend, or quiver, or hunch her shoulders, or put up her hands in supplication. Instead she stepped back, moving down the steps to the gravel without turning her back to the man.
On an impulse, Marianne began to walk towards them.
She heard Edgar Bartholomew shout, “– ever again!” and he slammed the door of the house. Now she was alone, the woman turned, and suddenly saw Marianne approaching her.
They both slowed down but they continued to walk towards one another.
The woman was not old enough to be George’s mother, and Marianne felt relief. She was pretty, with high cheekbones and wide eyes that lacked any obvious upper lid, giving her a fey look. Her skin was very fair, and her hair was the sort of blonde only generally seen on young girls. When they got to within ten feet of one another, they stopped.
The woman was scrutinising Marianne as hard as Marianne had been observing the woman.
Marianne smiled politely. “Good day. I am Miss Marianne Starr.”
The look on the woman’s face said, very clearly, why do I want to know that? But she smiled in return. “Delighted, I am sure. Please do excuse me. He is not in the best of moods.”
“He rarely is. Was it the older Mr Bartholomew that you wished to see? Or perhaps his son?”
“Oh!” The other woman’s demeanour changed instantly and she closed the distance between them. “Do you know George? Yes, it was his son I actually hoped to meet. Oh, do forgive me. I am Anna Jones.”
They shook hands as if they were in a drawing room, not someone else’s driveway.
“Are you quite all right?” Marianne asked. “You seem pale. Would you like to walk into the town? I know a pleasant tea room.”
“Ah – thank you, yes. I should like that. Do you really know George? Mr Bartholomew said some terrible things about his son. I hardly know what to believe. I hope that he spoke from a place of spite and not from truth.”
“Oh dear. I am so dreadfully sorry to have to tell you this,” Marianne said, as they fell into step alongside one another. It was somehow easier to break bad news when one was not facing the other person directly. “I do have some awful news about George Bartholomew –”
“Then his father was telling the truth?” Anna cried out. “Is he really dead?”
“Is that what he said to you?”
“It is! And is that what you meant?”
“It is.”
Marianne kept walking but now her mind was whirling. How did Edgar Bartholomew already know? She could see, up ahead, a black cab approaching along the road. It pulled up at the lodge as they passed, and a policeman got out to speak to the gatekeeper.
“I can hardly believe it,” Anna said with a catch in her voice. No one took any notice of them as they went past the cab and headed towards the town. Women were of little importance. “What did he die from?”
“As to that, I am not sure,” Marianne said. “Did his father give no hint?”
“He did not. He didn’t seem upset, just angry, but grief is a strange thing. When did he die?”
Marianne felt uncomfortable talking about the subject in the open air. It was a bright, fresh day, and the topic was more suited to rain and twilight. “I hope I do not shock you, but I found the body myself, this morning. I had visited him yesterday, so he must have died overnight. I am so very sorry.” She cleared her throat before asking, delicately, “Were you close?”
“I suppose that you mean, were we lovers? And no, I am not shocked, by anything you might say. I am a woman of the world – perhaps even a worldly woman. Ha! So they might say. But tell me, how is it that you found him? Was he not here at this house? Why was he not here? Indeed I could ask about you and George ... were you two lovers ...?”
Anna had sidestepped the question about their closeness, Marianne noticed. “He was not here,” Marianne said. “And no, we were not lovers. His father had asked him to leave this place, apparently, and he had taken rooms that had been found for him through his company.”
“Bow? Really, they would still do that for him, after...?” She bit her lip and looked away.
“Yes, Bow, the very same, and why not?” She knows a lot about him, Marianne noted. That he works for Harker and Bow, for a start. Interesting. “I knew that he was ill when I visited him yesterday, and when I went back today, that was when I made the unpleasant discovery.”
“How tragic.”
They stopped outside a tea room. The windows were small and covered in lace, preventing anyone from seeing in, but Marianne assured Anna that it was a fine and genteel place. “But I do understand if you find you have no appetite,” she added.
“I do not. But I think I could take a little tea.” Anna flashed her a small smile. “One must remain strong, don’t you agree?”
Eleven
They made awkward small talk at first, as they were shown to a table, and they gave their orders to the plump serving maid. Suddenly facing one another added a layer of stiff formality to their interaction. Anna was a dignified woman, and well-bred, but the manner of their meeting threw a pall over the proceedings.
“What a sorry state of affairs,” Marianne murmured. “It does make things disagreeable. We can hardly now chatter about fashion or gossip about well-known people in the newspapers, can we?”
Anna’s perfect eyebrows quirked a little and she looked up at Marianne under her wide lids. “And those things are your everyday and preferred topics of conversation, Miss Starr?”
“Why would you think otherwise?” Marianne felt immediately defensive. Was this woman about to reveal that she, like Jack Monahan, already knew all about her?
Anna said, “You are not a slavish follower of fashion, for one.”
“A polite way of saying I am dressed in a rather out of date way.”
“I would say classic, and restrained; not showy. Your hands – forgive me, but you did ask – have curious stains. Ink on your finger, so you like to write – maybe letters, maybe other things. But there is a slight roughness, too, and a hint of sun. You might enjoy gardens and you do not have an attentive maid, but you speak as if you are of the class to have a maid, so you are a poor relation. A governess?”
Marianne sat back in her chair and smiled. “I ought to be upset but I thoroughly enjoyed following your chain of thought! You are like the mediums but do not pretend that your insight comes from spirits. And you are correct in many particulars, except I am neither a gardener nor a governess; I am a woman of science.”
“Ah!” said Anna. “And here is the best place in all the world to be such a thing. London is so... forgive me. I run on, like a child.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Are you a visitor here?”
“I have recently moved here.”
“From?”
Anna turned her head to the approaching maid and their conversation had to be dropped in the flurry caused by setting out the tea things. Marianne decided, as Anna had said earlier that she was “not shocked”, to be blunt in her speech and approach. The tea arrived in an ornate pot. Marianne fiddled with the cups, and said, “So, how did you know Mr Bartholomew? You did not answer me, previously.”
“No, for it was a personal question.”
Marianne made steady eye contact with Anna but she didn’t blush or look away. Then Anna raised her left hand, and showed Marianne the silver ring set with pearls.
Marianne understood. “You are married – what, to...?”
Anna laughed. “No, not to George. Poor George! No, my husband remains ... abroad. There, I hope he stays. I shall never see him again. But this tells you all you need to know.”
It did not. It could have been hinting that Anna and George had been engaged in a scandalous affair, or it could simply be saying that their friendship was platonic. “I still do not follow,” Marianne said stubbornly. “I am not a clever woman.”
Anna sighed. “I rather think that you are, because of – or in spite – your education. I am a clever woman, too, and I know one when I meet one. Well, I met George in Prussia,” she said with reluctance, “a few years ago. Our paths often crossed at parties and banquets. He was lively and made me laugh. This was a rare thing. So we often spoke together.”
“Does your husband also work for Harker and Bow?”
Anna twitched her nostrils. It was a fleeting movement, but she blinked heavily at the same time. “He does not,” she said. “My husband and I are estranged, as I said. Naturally you understand that this is a sensitive topic and one that I am not prepared to discuss any further with a stranger.”
Yet you blithely analyse me as if I were a specimen, and speculate as to my background, quite openly. You are an arrogant woman, and I am too polite to say this. “Naturally. If I have offended you, please accept my apologies...” Marianne made a number of other pleasantries until Anna waved at her.
“Enough, now. Why do we English carry on so?”
We don’t, though, do we? Marianne thought. There was a hint of an accent in Anna’s speech. She had said she was not a Londoner. “Are you ...English?”
“Yes, of course. I attended school in Cheltenham. Though I have travelled widely since I was married.”
You are not at all who you seem to be, Marianne thought. Before she could say anything else, she was now on the receiving end of Anna’s questions.
“And how did you know George?”
“Through my own business,” Marianne said. It would profit her nothing to lie about this. “I said that I am a woman of science, but do not think that I spend my time on beaches, scrabbling for fossils, or drawing plants. I am a scientific investigator. I am particularly concerned with exposing fake mediums.”
“Oh!” Now Anna sounded genuinely fascinated and she leaned forward. “You do not believe in a world beyond the veil at all, then?”
“I will believe it as soon as I have evidence and facts.”
“Do not the testimonies of a thousand people convince you? Human experience, in a sense, is all that we have, is it not?”
“No – I will not believe it, not until these phenomena are tested in a laboratory.”
Anna cocked her head. “The very fact of being in a sterile place makes the manifestations far less likely, or at least, that is the argument that I have heard. As for me, I would like very much for there to be more to life than ... than ... well, all of this. Have you not read the phenomenologists? I urge you to look at Husserl.”
“He is not familiar to me,” Marianne said. “Are you a philosopher? You know about me but I know nothing of you.”
“No, I am no philosopher, but I have studied widely, across Europe, in every institution that has been open to me.” Anna sniffed. “Which are few. But tell me, why had George come to you? He is a ... he was a straightforward and honest man.”
Marianne sipped at her tea while she considered the question. But there was no reason not to tell Anna about this, so she said, “He believed that his father was an imposter and had asked me to investigate.”
“But that is nothing to do with mediums and all that you are engaged in.”
“I know,” Marianne said. “And so I initially refused him. However his father was acting suspiciously and in the end, I agreed to help. Now, though...” Now there was only George’s final exhortation to her – Do not let that man win.
“Well, that is your task over with. I am sorry,” Anna said. “In fact, it is a sorry business, all done, is it not?”
“It is. Although I am not sure that it is all over. Well, thank you for the company although it would have been nicer to have met under better circumstances.” She meant it, too. She could have had long and intense conversations with this woman.
They both stood up and began rearranging their outdoor clothing while the waitress hovered. Marianne insisted on paying and Anna only made the briefest of protests.
Once outside, they had another awkward moment as they faced one another for the parting. Impulsively, Marianne asked for Anna’s address in London. “As you were friends with George, I will pass on details of his funeral to you.”
Anna flinched, and frowned. Marianne wasn’t sure if it were just the mention of the funeral, or something else, but when Anna said, “I have rooms at number forty, Bird Street,” Marianne didn’t believe her. She had never heard of Bird Street, and found the name unlikely; but she did not know London as intimately as a cab driver, so she nodded and decided to check it.
“And your address?” Anna said, intently.
