by Mary Hooper
‘For money?’ James suggested. ‘Or perhaps they promised her some jewellery or other frippery.’
Grace began shaking her head immediately. ‘Lily isn’t interested in things like that,’ she said. ‘And she is too fond of me – and I of her – for us to ever pretend that the other one doesn’t exist.’
‘But something has made her lie.’
‘She can’t even tell lies with any degree of success. A child of four could find her out!’
‘Hmm.’ James thought for a long moment, then said, ‘Perhaps they discovered that fact for themselves . . .’
Grace looked at him, not comprehending.
‘Perhaps,’ he explained, ‘having discovered that Lily wouldn’t go along with the story they wished to perpetuate, they have employed someone else to be Lily for them.’
‘You mean – an actress?’ Grace asked.
‘An actress. Exactly. Someone to take her part while the real Lily is kept out of the way.’
‘Of course!’ Grace said, and all at once realised the truth. ‘But they don’t need to employ an actress – they have their daughter!’
‘The Unwins have a daughter?’
Grace nodded. ‘A girl about the same age as my sister. They will have used her instead.’
‘You’ve seen this girl?’
‘I have. She behaved very pleasantly towards me. Oh!’ Grace clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s why she asked me so many questions about my mother and her circumstances. And Lily told me that she was as affable to her, too.’
‘Oh, clever Unwins!’ James said. ‘She was trying to unstitch your past. To discover everything about your family that she possibly could.’
‘But she seemed so very nice . . .’
James smiled wryly. ‘Where money is concerned, niceness can be put on to order.’
‘You don’t think . . .’ Grace hesitated, took a breath, began again. ‘Do you think my sister is safe? They wouldn’t have . . . have done anything to her, would they?’
James shook his head. ‘I really don’t think so. They might kidnap someone, lock them away, but even the Unwins wouldn’t stoop to mur—’ He coughed. ‘To anything worse.’
A violent cacophony of vehicle horns suddenly erupted from the encircling traffic and both James and Grace fell silent.
When the noise ceased and they could make themselves heard again, Grace asked, ‘What can be done? There must be something.’
James nodded. ‘Tomorrow I’ll speak to Mr Ernest Stamford, the venerable head of our chambers, and acquaint him with the whole story.’
‘Is there anything that I can do?’ Grace asked anxiously.
‘Just keep your eyes and ears open. Do you ever see people arriving at the funeral home and hear what they speak about?’
‘Sometimes,’ Grace said.
‘Then it’s possible that you may overhear something. My law clerk friend told me that the Unwins have yet to produce the adoption papers for Lily.’
‘Because no such papers exist!’
‘Quite. They’ll be having forgeries made, of course, but these will need to look authentic and will take some time to create. If, when they get them, you were able to steal them . . .’
‘But wouldn’t they just have more made?’
‘They won’t be that easy to counterfeit. And in the meantime we’ll be finding out more and gaining time in which to prepare our own case.’
Grace was quiet for a moment. ‘But how much chance do we really have of defeating people as devious as the Unwins?’ she said. ‘Who’s going to believe me over someone who’s being hailed as the next Lord Mayor of London?’
‘The truth is on your side,’ James said, ‘and we must trust in that.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Grace said fervently. ‘I’ll look through keyholes and watch for messengers coming and going and listen in to conversations.’
‘But you must take great care,’ James said, catching hold of her hand. ‘Remember that beneath the Unwins’ air of respectability they are completely unscrupulous. Don’t let them suspect for a moment that you know what’s going on.’
‘I won’t,’ Grace said.
James smiled, bent his head and kissed her hand before releasing it.
Grace didn’t know what to think about this gallant gesture, so decided to think nothing at all. The Unwins, the inheritance, the whereabouts of Lily – all these filled her mind to the brim. There was little room for anything else.
James did not leave The Mercury with Grace, but put it on to a pile of rubbish left against a lamp post, where it was taken by a tramp and put inside his jacket as a form of insulation against the bitter cold. Grace did not, then, read the small advertisement in the personal column:
x
‘Mrs Smith’ urgently seeks ‘Mary’. Last seen in Westminster Bridge Road, London, SW on 7th June 1861. If this date and address is pertinent to you, please contact: Box No. 236, The Mercury, London, regarding a matter of great importance.
x
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I was thinking,’ said the widow, ‘of having pine for my dear husband’s coffin.’
‘Were you indeed?’ George Unwin said, sounding shocked to the core. ‘Pine! Such a flimsy and insubstantial wood. I wouldn’t say that it was at all suitable for a beloved husband.’ He shook his head reflectively. ‘If he was very dear to you, I fear that nothing less than polished oak will do. Of course, if he was not so important in your life . . .’ His voice trailed off and the sentence hung in the air, unfinished, accusing.
It was a few days after Grace had heard the astonishing news about the inheritance, and she was once again standing in the red room, waiting to be produced as a living example of the type of conscientious funeral mute who might be supplied to enhance a leave-taking of this world.
The woman sighed. ‘It’s just that I find myself in some difficulties regarding the expense.’
‘The expense should not be a consideration,’ said Mr Unwin, sadly shaking his head.
‘Have you considered the Necropolis train?’ Mrs Unwin put in. ‘Some of our more modern widows are finding it the very thing – and it can prove most economical.’
‘A train?’ said the widow. ‘Certainly not. My husband couldn’t abide the noisy things.’ She sighed again. ‘No, as for the casket wood . . .’
‘Madam!’ said Mr Unwin. ‘I would be failing in my duty as a caring undertaker if I let you choose anything less than best-quality polished oak.’
‘Oh dear, then, perhaps . . .’
Grace, hearing this with eyes lowered, hardly knew whether to rail aloud at George Unwin’s deviousness, or applaud his ingenuity.
There being no funerals that day, she’d been embroidering another human hair brooch (the deceased’s hair formed into a bay wreath and appliquéd on to silk) when she’d been told by Mrs Unwin to don bonnet and streamers and wait, looking tragic, in the red room. Now, as the Unwins and the widow went into the other room to reassess the question of wood, Grace took a good look around the red room, which she was seldom permitted to enter. She saw a substantial mahogany desk, some leather chairs and a tall cupboard standing slightly open. Above the desk were two large shelves, one of which was tightly filled with paper files bearing the names of the recipients of past funerals, the other holding trade periodicals and copies of the Bible. On the desktop there was a paperknife, inkstand and five wooden filing trays with details of Unwin funerals to be carried out over the next few days. There was no sign of any grand plan to defraud Lily Parkes of her inheritance. In fact, in the cold light of a London afternoon the whole thing seemed too preposterous to be true.
Grace pondered on this, then spent ten minutes or so quietly worrying about Lily before the Unwins returned to the room, the widow trailing disconsolately behind.
‘If you don’t wish to use the train, then having a mere two horses for the leading carriage looks rather paltry,’ Mrs Unwin was saying as they entered. ‘It seems to signify –
if I may be so bold – a certain indifference on the part of the relatives left on earth.’
There came a murmur of protest from the widow.
‘Last year, someone widowed in your very road chose to have four noble beasts to pull her husband’s coffin to paradise, and they made the procession look quite magnificent with their feathery plumes and flowing manes, did they not, Mr Unwin?’
‘They did! For they stood as symbols of the great love the woman bore her husband.’
‘Oh dear, then. If you really think so . . .’ the widow said.
Mrs Unwin turned towards Grace. ‘And while we are on the subject of the funeral cortège,’ she said, ‘have you thought about mutes?’
Grace breathed in gently and stood, her fingertips touching, as still as a waxwork.
‘I had not,’ said the widow. ‘I hadn’t realised such things would be needed.’
‘Mutes are very much in demand at society funerals,’ Mrs Unwin said. ‘They can come with hooded cloaks, or appear as Grace is now: with black bonnets and trailing ribbons. “Weepers”, we call the ribbons – they symbolise the tears shed.’
‘I see,’ the widow said, staring balefully at Grace. ‘But I’d not really –’
‘They usually come in pairs,’ Mr Unwin went on smoothly, ‘and spaced each side of a front door can look very tragic. I think you’ll agree that Grace here has a most profoundly heart-rending face.’
The widow sighed heavily and sniffed into a black-edged handkerchief, but agreed to two mutes. Grace waited to be dismissed, for she had more work to do on the hair brooch and she wanted to finish it before the daylight went. The widow was escorted to the front door, and Rose had only just closed it behind her when there was a sudden heavy knocking.
The door was opened again and Rose began a polite greeting, but this was cut short by Sylvester Unwin barging into the hall and heading straight for the red room.
‘Got it, George!’ he said, holding aloft a manila envelope. ‘What we’ve been waiting for!’
Grace went hot, then cold. It was the certificate. It had to be.
She was dismissed in an instant, but instead of returning to the small sewing room, stayed close by in the narrow corridor which joined the public front of the house to the workrooms at the back.
‘Good forgery?’ she heard George Unwin ask.
‘The best. Those men have cut their teeth on printing banknotes!’ said his cousin.
There came the sound of an envelope being opened and Grace, her heart pounding, imagined a paper being unfolded.
‘Looks sweet to me,’ she heard George Unwin say after a few moments.
‘Though what it should look like is anyone’s guess,’ said his wife.
There was a short silence when Grace presumed they were all reading the document.
‘When are you going to take it?’ his cousin asked.
‘Close of business tonight,’ George Unwin replied.
Mrs Unwin gave a little titter of delight. ‘It shouldn’t look too pristine, mind,’ she said. ‘Remember it’s supposed to be some years old. Crease it; rub some soot from the fire on it.’
‘Wise words!’ George Unwin said jovially. ‘That’s wives for you.’
There was another short silence, as if the document were being returned to the envelope, and then George Unwin suggested drinks all round in the back parlour. Mrs Unwin said she would leave that to the men – she had her girls to supervise – and quick as a flash Grace darted down the corridor and around the corner.
She went straight to the small sewing room, hung up her bonnet and cloak and picked up her embroidery. It was, perhaps, lucky that four of the Unwin girls were still working at the store in Oxford Street, so the only person in the workroom at that time was Jane. She was diligently embroidering initials on to a coffin pillow, however, and didn’t even glance up as Grace returned.
Grace sat still and silent for a few moments, holding her work. What should she do? Could she let James know? How? If she did inform him, what would he want her to do?
And then the most frightening answer came into her mind: he would want her to steal the certificate!
Immediately she found herself shaking her head. No, she wouldn’t dare do such a thing!
But if she didn’t, came the voice from inside her, then was she prepared to stand by and let someone else take the fortune that her own father had made? Was she prepared to let Charlotte Unwin steal Lily’s identity – and perhaps never see her sister again? To allow the Unwins to prosper unchecked?
No! She was not prepared for any of those things. And they would all happen if she didn’t do something to stop them. Even if she were to fail in the attempt, at least she must try . . .
Coming to this decision and knowing it must be acted upon before she lost courage, she put down her embroidery and, taking a quick look at Jane to see if she had even registered her presence, went out of the room, down the corridor and (after listening at the door for a moment to make sure no one was in there) slipped back into the red room.
Oh, easy, she breathed, for the manila envelope was still on the desk. She took eight quick steps across to it, removed the thick white paper out of the envelope and read the top lines: Notice of Adoption in the County of Middlesex. Further down, Lily’s name was inked in, and the names Letitia and Reginald Parkes cited as Lily’s birth mother and father.
Oh wicked Unwins!
She didn’t stop to read more, but (having the foresight to leave the empty envelope in its correct position on the desk) folded the certificate and pushed it inside her bodice. She turned towards the door – and then with a feeling of terror heard the voice of Sylvester Unwin calling for Rose to bring a decanter of port to the red room. Unluckily for Grace, Sylvester Unwin had decided to return to the red room and the larger fire.
Hearing his hated voice just outside the door, Grace froze, and then, seeing there was only one place to hide, she quickly pulled opened the door of the tall cupboard and got inside. She held it closed with trembling fingers.
Through the tiny crack between the doors Grace saw Rose follow Sylvester Unwin into the room. The maid spent a moment sweeping and tidying the hearth, then went out, and came back a moment later carrying a decanter of a rich red liquid on a tray. Sylvester Unwin spoke not a word of thanks to Rose, but took off his outer jacket and hung it on the coat stand, poured himself a glass of port and pulled a comfortable chair close to the fire.
Grace, breathing in as shallow a way as possible, felt faint with fear. She bit down hard on her lip to bring herself to her full senses, telling herself she could overcome this, that she could win – she just had to keep silent and still until he left the room . . .
But Sylvester Unwin did not seem inclined to leave the room; in fact, he seemed to be making himself at home, as if he intended to stay put for some time. Compelled to observe, Grace watched him settle into the chair; chest out, legs astride, self-important even in the simple act of sitting. After a moment he eased off his boots and leaned over to stand them at the side of the hearth, then removed his gloves, pulling first at the right one, and then the left, dropping each in turn on to the floor. He turned slightly and reached into his jacket pocket for a cigar, which brought his left hand into full view, and it was then that Grace, to her complete and utter amazement and horror, saw that this whole left hand was a contraption made of metal plates and rivets fastened to the stub of his wrist by canvas straps.
And then, of course, she knew the truth; the reason why cigar smoke and macassar hair oil set off a chain of memory which she didn’t want to explore, the reason why her whole body cried out in revulsion whenever he was close. Sylvester Unwin had been the man in the church at the Welland-Scropes funeral, the man whose very presence made her feel nauseous. Sylvester Unwin was the man who had visited her in the night . . .
x
Chapter Twenty-Six
Again, Grace bit her lip, this time so hard that she tasted blood in her mouth and almost gagged at it.
A hundred questions and a hundred sensations came into her head so that she felt she could hardly control herself. She wanted to leap out of the cupboard, shower blows on Sylvester Unwin, scream obscenities at him. She wanted to pick up the paperknife and plunge it into his heart! How she’d suffered because of this man. He’d taken her innocence, stolen her past and ruined her future – and now he was involved in a plan to take the inheritance which rightfully belonged to her family. How could such a man be allowed to live? She wanted to kill him where he sat.
And yet, as she stood hidden in the darkness, only just managing to restrain the fury inside her, she knew the impossibility of her situation. She did not dare to act upon her wishes. She had neither the strength nor the audacity, and was too terrified of the repercussions. A man of his size and strength would be able to overpower her in an instant. And besides, even if she had a knife or a gun to hand, to take someone’s life in cold blood was an awesome and terrible thing. She was not capable of it!
Her heart hammered in her ears as she fought to control herself and stay absolutely still and quiet. She must keep calm, stay alert and wait for the opportunity to escape. Only if she managed to get out of the room unseen did she have a hope of beating the Unwins.
Sylvester Unwin, completely unaware of the presence of anyone in the room, tapped the cigar on to the desk with his mechanical hand. In his head he was calculating the likely amount that they would receive as a result of the fraud. The whole inheritance amounted to a hundred thousand pounds, someone had told him. A hundred and fifty thousand, another had said. Even shared half and half with his cousin, it would be a very acceptable amount. Enough for a new mourning store in one of the big industrial cities, perhaps, Manchester or Birmingham . . .
Thinking about the likely amount and the means by which it was being obtained, he turned suddenly to look at the envelope on the desk. He stared at it for a few seconds, then – his chair being on wheels – he moved a foot or so nearer the desk and stretched out his hand to pick it up.
