Charles Maddox 03 - A Treacherous Likeness

by Lynn Shepherd

  He shrugged. ‘That were just luck. I was just about to ’ook it when I saw another fellow come to the door, so I sidled a bit closer and made as if to tie me boot. Then I ’eard ’im say ’e ’ad an urgent message from Mr Godwin for Mr Maddox. That’s ’ow I knew your name, and ’is name, and after you left ’ere I went up and told ’er, and all the blood drained from ’er face. I knew then as you were bad news.’

  His tone was defiant now, as if daring me to contradict him. Fraser caught my eye and I nodded.

  I took up my hat. ‘I will await you in the carriage, Fraser. See that Mr Alder here is left in no doubt as to the very great unwisdom of daring to cross me. But do him no permanent damage. Once he has learned his lesson, I intend to offer him a position. In my employ.’

  As indeed I did. Alder proved, in fact, invaluable in the following days, spurred no doubt as much by the prospect of a very much more lucrative occupation, as by feelings of personal culpability in relation to Mrs Shelley. I set him to maintain a watch on Hans-place, and obtain what intelligence he could from the occupants; a task facilitated, no doubt, by the affaire he was already conducting with the maidservant, one Mary Jones. He likewise told me everything he knew as to Mrs Shelley’s movements in the previous weeks, but of her present whereabouts and future intentions, he could offer no insight. I was not, at first, deterred by this, having a just estimation both of my own talents and the means at my disposal, but as the days lengthened into weeks I became both dispirited and ever more apprehensive. My men could discover no trace of her, neither at the most likely lodging-houses, nor at any of the London coach depots. I endeavoured, more than once, and with increasing insistence, to persuade Miss Westbrook to inform her father of what she knew, but I could not prevail. I fear that her failure to reveal her sister’s first place of refuge coloured her judgement in this, and led her to shrink from what I can only concur would be a justified rebuke.

  November had passed and December commenced before I received any word of Mrs Shelley. I was at dinner in Downing-street, whence I had been invited to offer my advice as to the apprehension of the miscreants responsible for the late disturbances in Spa-fields, when the waiter slipped me a message in Fraser’s hand: Alder has seen her – Chapel-street. I made my excuses immediately and hurried down to the waiting carriage. The night was dark and the fog so heavy we could not move at any pace through the crowded streets, and I half despaired of arriving in time, but the carriage eventually drew to a halt a few yards from the Westbrook residence, and Alder stepped forward to open the door.

  ‘Saw ’er by chance, guv. I were in two minds whether to try to talk to ’er but thought it best to send for you instead.’

  I glanced at him; there was still the ghost of a bruise along his jaw and I could well understand that he wished to run no risk of further intimacy with George Fraser.

  ‘She’s been ’ere ’alf an hour and more. Just walkin’ up and down. Cryin’ I think she is, and talkin’ to ’erself. Once or twice I saw ’er approach the door but then seem to think better of it.’

  ‘And you have not informed Miss Westbrook, or anyone else in the house?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, guv. I judged as I’d leave that to you.’

  I nodded, and turned to look down the street. A little distance ahead of me, I could see a figure walking away from me slowly in the mist; even at that distance I knew from her gait that it was a woman, and one much advanced in pregnancy. I could, as I intimated to Alder, have gone quietly to the door and summoned Miss Westbrook, but I did not see a way of doing so without alerting the whole household, and I judged likewise that had Mrs Shelley wished to see her sister she had had ample time already to do so. By that judgement I stand, but I cannot acquit myself of not perceiving the degree of alarm my own appearance would engender. I knew she feared Godwin, but I did not comprehend the full extent of that fear, or the terror she might conceive at the merest glimpse of a man she believed to be hounding her at his behest. I should have deduced this, but I did not; I should have sent Alder in my place, knowing that she had deemed him her friend, but to my everlasting regret, I did not.

  Ordering Alder instead to remain by the carriage, I started down the pavement towards her. The fog thickened suddenly and I hastened my step, but the heavy air so absorbed all sound that I was almost upon her before she heard my approach. She turned then and I saw her face – a face at once stricken with panic.

  ‘You – you,’ she stammered, clutching her shawl tighter about her.

  ‘Do not distress yourself,’ I said. ‘I wish only to assist you.’

  ‘You said that before,’ she whispered, taking a pace backwards, ‘and then I discovered you are working for him – for them.’

  ‘I work for no one, I give you my word.’

  ‘I do not believe you – why else would you—’

  ‘Because I have had dealings with your husband in the past, and I know the cruelty – the wanton, careless cruelty – of which he is capable.’

  ‘No, no – you misjudge him – it is her – if it were not for her he might return to me – we might be happy again.’

  I stepped forward then and gripped her hand. ‘Do not think it – do not wish it. The last time I saw your husband it was in the same house where a young woman had destroyed herself – destroyed herself out of love of him, a love he allowed, even encouraged, but had no more thought of returning than he does of returning to you.’

  I spoke it out of a desire to free her – I spoke it because my greatest fear was that he might indeed seek to return to her, and I wished her to have the strength to refuse him. I knew my intentions to be honourable, but I did not allow sufficiently for the effect such words must have had upon a woman – upon a spirit so distraught, a heart so sorely wounded. I had accused him – and justly – of cruelty, but I stand accused in my own mind of no less a crime.

  ‘No, no,’ she cried again, wrenching her fingers from my grasp. ‘It is all a lie, all a wicked, wicked lie.’

  And she turned from me and ran, stumbling, blinded by the tears that were streaming from her eyes. I hesitated a moment – a cursed moment – then set off after her, calling her name, but we were hard by the entrance to the park, and by the time I reached it she had disappeared into the darkness. I remained there for some moments more, then spent more precious minutes retracing my steps to the carriage, where I ordered Alder, somewhat breathlessly, to muster as many men as we had and conduct a search of both the park and the streets around.

  They found nothing – then. I was still awake at three the following morning when Fraser returned to say there was no sight or trace of her. My relief at these words was profound, but all too short-lived. This was Saturday; it was Tuesday morning that I received the note from Alder that destroyed all my hopes. He begged my presence without delay at the sign of the Fox and Bull in Knights-bridge. They had brought a woman’s remains to the inn, he said, through the old gate leading into the park whence all those found drowned were always conveyed. He said no more, but I knew; knew he would not have summoned me so unless he was certain beyond all possibility of doubt.

  And so it was for the second time in as many months I stood before the body of a young woman ruined by love of that man, confronting the piteous waste of a death that could have been prevented – a death, in this case, that I seemed only to have hastened. I blamed Shelley – blamed him bitterly – but I knew I merited my own share of censure.

  The water had been cruel. Her body was bloated, the rank cloth clinging to the swollen form of her dead child, and her sweet face mottled with the taint of rottenness. These are not, I know, the words of a practitioner of my art, but my feelings were not the feelings of a professional man. Indeed, had one of my subordinates displayed such a weakness in the face of death I should have cashiered him at once and without reprieve. And knowing that, I strove to regain my self-command and assess the corpse not as a man who had known her, but with the dispassionate and appraising eye of the detective, scrutiniz
ing the cadaver for signs of violence, and seeking to determine how long it had been immersed. But grim indeed was that examination. I could see no obvious wound – no marks I might have feared about her neck – and I was forced to conclude, with infinite sorrow, that she had indeed ended her own existence. A jewelled ring remained on her finger, and there was a small purse in her pocket, which contained, I discovered, a single sheet of paper, badly spoiled, and barely legible. The ring I left; the paper I removed, and without the slightest compunction.

  I have it now, and copy it here. It is a dark tale this paper tells, a tale of death, and grief, and guilt; some part of it I believe I comprehend, but it holds secrets that even now remain obscure to me, and shrouded in mystery.

  *

  As for myself, I had protected one young woman from public scandal and ignominy; I now faced the same distasteful task once more. It was harder, in the gossip of the metropolis, to achieve my end, but I knew the coroner, John Gell, and the editor of The Times was in my debt. I likewise persuaded Sir Nathaniel Conant, the chief magistrate at Bow-street, to allow me free rein, though not without profound misgivings, knowing he trusted me, and I had never before abused that trust. I then instructed William Alder to take up residence at the Fox and Bull, so as to be on hand to give witness at the inquest, and ensure that Mary Jones gave the name of the deceased as Harriet Smith, and provided only such further evidence as was strictly necessary. The jury sat barely a quarter of an hour before returning, as I had ensured, a verdict of ‘Found Dead in the Serpentine River’. The body I then caused to be taken to the Paddington cemetery and buried there under her assumed alias.

  A second pauper’s grave, a second desolate and windswept interment, the only persons present the minister, myself and Miss Westbrook, her face heavily veiled, scarce able to support herself in the wretchedness of her grief.

  ‘We will have our revenge, my love,’ she whispered hoarsely, falling to her knees in the mud as the body was lowered into the grave. ‘Papa will institute a process in Chancery for custody of the children, and expose that man to the world as a profligate and an atheist. All who know him will abhor and shun him for the murderer he is.’

  ‘I must, I fear, bear some responsibility myself,’ I began, assisting her to her feet as the sexton turned the first soil upon the pit. ‘I am very much afraid that our last meeting only served to distress your sister further, and that had I acted differently—’

  But she was already shaking her head. ‘If you are to blame, then so am I. I was away from the house on Saturday and did not receive this until I returned.’

  She put her hand into her reticule and drew from it a letter. ‘She must have left it at the door and waited in the street, hoping – expecting – that I would come out to her. And I did not. I can hardly bear to think what must have passed through her mind. She must have thought I no longer loved her – that I did not care . . .’

  I had no great regard for Miss Westbrook, but I did pity her then. I pressed her hand. ‘She would not have believed so.’

  She shook her head once more and put her handkerchief to her eyes as she watched me read her sister’s last words. A letter she copied for me later, at my request, and sent to me at Buckingham-street. A letter that tore my heart; a letter no man could peruse without seeing – in the tears that stained it, in the very orthography – the most afflicting proof of the depths of her despair.

  Sat. Eve.

  When you read this let r. I shall be no more an inhabitant of this miserable world. do not regret the loss of one who could never be anything but a source of vexation & misery to you all belonging to me. Too wretched to exert myself lowered in the opinion of everyone why should I drag on a miserable existence embittered by past recollections & not one ray of hope to rest on for the future. The remembrance of all your kindness which I have so unworthily repaid has often made my heart ache. I know that you will forgive me because it is not in your nature to be unkind or severe to any. dear amiable woman that I have never left you oh! that I had always taken your advice. I might have lived long & happy but weak & unsteady have rushed on my own destruction I have not written to Bysshe. oh no what would it avail my wishes or my prayers would not be attended to by him & yet I should he see this perhaps he might grant my last request to let Ianthe remain with you always dear lovely child, with you she will enjoy much happiness with him none My dear Bysshe let me conjure you by the remembrance of our days of happiness to grant my last wish – do not take your innocent child from Eliza who has been more than I have, who has watched over her with such unceasing care. – Do not refuse my last request – I never could refuse you & if you had never left me I might have lived but as it is, I freely forgive you & may you enjoy that happiness which you have deprived me of. There is your beautiful boy. oh! be careful of him & his love may prove one day a rich reward. As you form his infant mind so you will reap the fruits hereafter Now comes the sad task of saying farewell – oh I must be quick. God bless & watch over you all. You dear Bysshe. & you dear Eliza. May all happiness attend ye both is the last wish of her who loved ye more than all others. My children I dare not trust myself there. They are too young to regret me & ye will be kind to them for their own sakes more than for mine. My parents do not regret me. I was unworthy your love & care. Be happy all of you. so shall my spirit find rest & forgiveness. God bless you all is the last prayer of the unfortunate Harriet S—

  There was a silence then, as I folded the paper and handed it back to Miss Westbrook, with a bow of thanks. I knew now that her sister’s last desperate act was not the decision of the moment: that even if I might have prevented it, I alone was not its cause.

  My lamp burns low now, and I will hasten to relate what remains to be told. I will set down my final acts in this case, in the hope that it will be the last time I need involve myself with a family that has been to me such a source of anguish, and that has induced me, three times now, to contravene the professional code I have always upheld, and conduct myself in defiance not only of the law, but of my own most steadfast principles.

  Today is the third of January; four days since I presented myself at Skinner-street, that I might hand Godwin my bill. I could have sent one of my men, it is true, but knowing the parlous state of his pocket-book I deemed it prudent to deliver it in person. Few can deny me, faced with such a demand. I fully expected a family in mourning, it being still less than three months since the death of Miss Fanny Imlay, but I found instead a dwelling en fête. Flowers in the windows, wine on the table, and the most complacent smile on the face of Mrs Godwin when she opened the door. A smile that, I saw, faded somewhat at the sight of me.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said haughtily. ‘Was Mr Godwin expecting you?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘And it seems I call at an inopportune time. You are celebrating?’

  ‘Indeed we are,’ said Godwin, coming to the door and gesturing me to enter. I had never seen a smile on his face before, but he seemed now brimming with satisfaction, and so eager to share it that even I was to be considered a sufficient audience. ‘We are endeavouring to forget preceding sorrows, and to enjoy the flattering prospects which have now presented themselves. My daughter is to enter the married state on the morrow, and will become thereby the wife of the eldest son of a baronet, Sir Timothy Shelley, of Field-place, in the county of Sussex. She will thus acquire a not insignificant status and character in society, even though she was, hitherto, a girl without a penny of fortune. You can imagine how great a relief this has brought to my and Mrs Godwin’s minds.’

  There was a slight commotion, then, in the adjoining room – a commotion of laughter and excited talk. I glimpsed a maid, holding in her arms a little boy – a boy with soft curls and a round, gentle face – and a moment later I found myself in the presence of the affianced couple. He, nervous, agitated, and when he saw me, red-faced; she – she I could not read. The room fell silent and I allowed that silence, permitted it to distend to the point of eloquence.

 
; ‘I gather,’ I said at last, addressing myself to Shelley, ‘that I am to wish you joy. Not only in the acquisition of another wife, but in your restoration to Mr Godwin’s good graces.’

  Shelley laughed then, that silly, girlish, dreadful laugh of his, and an even deeper flush overspread his features. ‘Ha – Maddox! Pat you come like the evil fairy at the feast! But the thought is apt, for tomorrow’s ceremony does indeed seem magical in its effects – indeed you would not believe—’

  Mrs Godwin simpered at this, but I saw Miss Godwin’s hand at his arm, her motion of restraint.

  ‘Could you not have waited?’ I said then, my gaze encompassing the whole company and coming to rest, at last, on the two of them. ‘If the self-inflicted death of a sister were not deemed sombre enough, surely the suicide of a wife requires the lapse of more than a mere month before the mourning blacks are flung aside, and the funeral baked meats furnish forth the marriage table. But since not one of you here deigned to attend either interment, perhaps you do not deem yourselves bound by such trifling conventions, any more than you seem to consider it necessary to observe even the rudiments of common decency.’

  Shelley was by now white to the lips, his face drawn in a mask of peculiar affliction.

  ‘And are you, none of you, in the slightest concerned that there are now two young children who have lost their mother, having already, it seems, been abandoned by their father?’

  ‘Oh, as to that,’ said Miss Godwin, airily, ‘the Westbrooks will no doubt provide.’

  ‘I repeat,’ I said, unflinching, ‘could you not have waited?’

  ‘I wanted,’ stammered Shelley then, ‘I did propose that we should – that it might be more seemly—’

  Miss Godwin turned at once with a look of dismay to her father, and he it was who stepped forward now in intervention. ‘I do not consider, sir, that we owe Harriet Westbrook any undue consideration. I have it on unquestionable authority that she violated her marriage vows long before Mr Shelley left England with my daughter. The lady has, moreover, lately been consorting with any number of men, including a reprobate Irish scapegrace and a captain in the Indian Army, and finally stooped so low as to descend the steps of prostitution, and live openly with a low fellow by the name of Smith.’