by Carol Hedges
Letitia goes up to her room, passing Mama’s empty bedroom on the way. She pauses on the threshold, feeling bewildered and confused. Suddenly she wishes that Mama was still alive so that she could go in and talk to her about the events of the day, and ask her about the strange woman.
Letitia bites her lips tightly together, feeling the pain in that place where tears start. There is very little that she is sure of right now, but of one thing she is absolutely determined: she is not going to be ‘best friends’ with Mrs Briscoe.
****
Daisy, on the other hand, thinks she could become friends with Africa, but then she could become friends with the whole world, if the whole world consisted of music and champagne and a supper from Gunter’s. Yes, indeed she could.
For who does not remember the thrill of their first ball? That moment when you step down from the carriage in all your new finery, and enter the lighted hall, its balustrades woven with evergreens and the odious entrance from the kitchen stairs concealed by a thick hedge of rhododendrons in pots.
Who has not stood entranced, gazing up at the crystal chandeliers, hearing the strains of delightful music come floating out of the ballroom with its oak beamed floor, polished to such perfection that you can see your face in it - and so you should, for it has taken the hired man with a brush under one foot and a slipper on the other four hours to achieve.
Daisy Lawton is dressed in white with a simple flower wreath in her hair and the gold necklace her only ornament. She sits on a red and gold chair next to her Mama, clutching her dance card with its little tasselled pencil, and surveys the brilliant assembly.
“Oh Mama, I am in Heaven!” she exclaims.
Next to her sits skittish Africa, wearing salmon pink tulle with jewelled combs in her hair and a necklace of diamonds around her throat. The girls have gone through the formal introductions and now all that remains is for some partners to emerge from the throng of young men.
Daisy’s little white satin slippers beat time impatiently to the music, but she does not have long to wait, for here is young Digby Barnes Baker, tall and dark and handsome in black evening dress, his white cravat spotless, his gold cuff studs gleaming.
He bows low, requests to see her card, then respectfully asks,
“Will you do me the honour to dance the next quadrille with me?”
And because it is a quadrille and he is the handsomest man in the room (Daisy has already picked him out), she colours up prettily and replies,
“With pleasure, sir.”
So, Digby Barnes Baker, who has been well drilled by his Mama, places his name on her card, then turns to Africa and engages her for the following dance before politely bowing and rejoining his companions. And both Mamas nod and smile at each other in satisfaction.
“Isn’t this thrilling,” Daisy whispers to her companion.
Africa nods her head vigorously, causing several combs to clatter to the floor.
“I have never seen so many beautiful dresses,” she whispers, bending to retrieve them.
Daisy agrees.
“Your dress is particularly lovely,” Africa says, sticking the combs haphazardly back into her hair.
Daisy dimples prettily, and returns the complement. Then the two girls stare out at the dance floor, where young, well-bred couples, the cream of London society, circle and waltz and laugh.
Later, after the fourteenth dance, Digby Barnes Baker will escort both young ladies to the supper room and make sure their plates are laden with good things and their glasses filled with just enough champagne.
Meanwhile outside in the street, people have gathered, as they always do whenever a ball is taking place in one of the grand London houses. They stare up at the bright balcony casements with their rich curtains unclosed and at the light streaming out of the open doors and down the shining steps to where carriages are parked in line waiting to retrieve their occupants at the end of the night.
Among them is the engineer, who finds he cannot settle without taking a turn about the city. Every night he walks for hours, just following his feet, never knowing where he might end up. It takes the place of sleeping.
On these nocturnal prowlings, he passes whole streets of ruined, deserted houses, lit by flickering street lamps that give texture to the darkness, dividing shadow from darker shadow.
Sometimes he follows the line of the great river that bisects the city as it creeps eastwards, glistening in the moonlight like something cut open. He walks like a man who no longer trusts his dreams, his head gnawing at itself.
Tonight, he has ended up here. He stands on the edge of the crowd, listening to the music and marvelling at the gay dissipations of the fashionable, whose lives are as far from him as from the ragged child beggar shrinking into the shadows of the area steps.
He is just about to push on when he is halted by a vision of such ethereal beauty that his heart almost stops beating. She stands by the open balcony window, her white dress shining like angels’ wings.
The engineer fixes his hungry gaze upon her face, so sweet, and the rosebuds in her hair, so pure. He has never seen anybody as lovely. He feels tears coming to his eyes. That such beauty should exist in the world - it is almost too much to bear. She turns her head in response to someone in the room behind her. Next second she is gone.
The engineer waits, hoping that she might come back, willing her to return. But the curtain is drawn across the window by an invisible hand. He sighs and prepares to continue his peregrination. Reaching the corner of the street, he is suddenly bought to a halt by a man who steps out of a dark doorway. He stands in front of the engineer, arms folded, barring his way.
“Got a lucifer, mate?”
The engineer shakes his head.
The man comes closer. He is tall, with dark skin and a full beard. There is a livid scar running from the corner of one eyelid down his cheek. He smells of drink and bad teeth and cheap tobacco.
“So, what ‘ave you got?” he asks.
“I do not understand,” the engineer says, understanding only too well.
“I know you. I think you may ‘ave something of mine - yes, I’m sure you ‘ave. Turn out your pockets.”
Wearily, the engineer digs in his jacket pockets, produces a wallet, a watch.
“This is all I carry.”
The man snatches the wallet, then the watch - an eighteenth birthday present from his mother. It is precious both for its loving engraving and as the last thing she gave him before he left home.
“Thank you for giving back emy property,” the man sneers. “And you never saw me, alright? But just in case you did, here’s a little soovenir to remember me by ...”
The engineer glimpses the blade glinting in the man’s palm, tries to fend it off, feels it enter his side sharp and clean. The last thing he sees before darkness claims him is the sweet face of the girl standing on the balcony.
****
It is two in the morning and Daisy Lawton and her Mama are being driven home from the ball. Daisy has danced every dance, flirted with numerous handsome young men and her bright eyes and pliant figure have been universally admired.
In the next few days, she will leave one of her cards with the hostess’ maid, as good breeding dictates. The cards are new and she feels very grown up to have possession of them. She will also write to Letitia and arrange to call round. There is so much to tell her.
In the next few days Mama will meet her old school friend to discuss the next stage of the campaign. It is clear that Digby Barnes Baker admires her daughter (well, who wouldn’t?), though as a perfect gentleman he did not ask her to dance more than was socially acceptable. Further meetings need to be set up. He is a catch and she knows there will be other women with their eye on him.
By the time they get home, the first people will have already set off for work. Amongst them will be Daisy’s father, who has been summoned early to operate on a man with a serious stab wound who has been brought in earlier. In the absence of the carriage howe
ver, he will have to walk like everybody else.
****
London streets are lovely at this time of year. Shop owners put out tubs of geraniums to attract passing trade, ladies stroll in colourful dresses and parasols. In gardens all over the city, scented flowers release their perfume into the air.
It is the sort of day to gladden the heart of any man alive. Unless that man happens to be Inspector Lachlan Greig who has just had a report marked ‘Urgent Report’ placed on his desk.
It is much too early for urgent reports, but Greig begins to read it, silently tutting at the absence of paragraphing. As usual, the comma has looked in the face of the writer and decided not to disturb him.
As he reads on, however, his expression changes from exasperation to surprise. Reaching the end of the urgent report, Greig gets up and goes to the door. His shout brings the duty officer running down the corridor.
“Is young Hacket in the building? If so, tell him to report to me at once. We have urgent police business to attend to.”
****
The engineer opens his eyes. He sees a white painted ceiling with a crack running horizontally across it. There is a lozenge-shaped damp patch by the cornice. Not Heaven then. He moves his head sideways, wincing as pain shoots up the side of his face.
He is in a bed in a small room. The door is open. He can hear footsteps going briskly to and fro beyond the door, the sound of wheels, a despairing groan fading into silence. His head throbs. His chest feels as if someone was trying to separate it from the rest of his body. He lies back on the pillow.
“He is in here, inspector,” a voice says.
The word ‘inspector’ causes the engineer’s eyes to fly open. He turns his head, again with difficulty. Inspector Greig, and the younger officer whose name he cannot remember and a man in a black frock coat and white apron enter the room and approach his bed.
“Well, well,” Inspector Greig says. “We meet again, Mr Grizewood. You’ve had a narrow escape by the sound of it.”
“He was brought in this morning,” says the man in the frock coat. “Unconscious, stab wound in the side and cuts and lacerations to the head and face from falling. I’ve cleaned him up and stitched him back together. Lucky for him the knife just missed his vital organs.”
The engineer remains silent, this interpretation of ‘luck’ being slightly beyond his comprehension.
The surgeon places a hand on Greig’s shoulder and motions him aside.
“He does not seem to remember where he is currently lodging,” he says in a low voice. “I have suggested writing to his father, but he has refused to contemplate it.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to begin tracing his father.”
“His father is the Archbishop of York,” the surgeon says. Then, seeing Greig’s eyes widen in surprise, “I recognised the surname. We were at Oxford together. And young Fred has his father’s features. Sadly, they have become estranged over the past few years. But I think he would like to know what has happened to his son, don’t you?”
Greig glances over his shoulder at the engineer, who is regarding them with a puzzled expression.
“Is he in any danger?”
“The next few days will show whether the wound is healing. I have done what I can to prevent infection setting in, but knife wounds are always tricky.”
“I understand. Will you keep him on here?”
“For a day or two. No more. We haven’t the beds. I shall write to his father - he will need to go somewhere quiet to recuperate and regain his health and strength. And there is the matter of the bill to pay for his treatment.”
Greig shrugs.
“As you think best. Can I speak to him now? We have reason to believe the man who stabbed him may also be involved in another case we are investigating.”
The surgeon nods, then addresses his patient,
“I shall leave you, Fred. Rest, and hope. Those are the two best medicines in the world.”
The engineer sighs. Greig pulls up a chair and motions Hacket to get out his notebook.
“Now then, Mr Grizewood,” he says. “I’d like you to tell us exactly what happened to you in the small hours of this morning. Take your time and miss nothing out. We are in no hurry.”
****
On their walk back to Bow Street, Greig issues his orders.
“I want you and two others to bring in our man with the scar. Take him straight to the station, but don’t tell him why. ‘Assisting the police’ is all he needs to be told at this stage. Once I have him, we can use the attack to see what else and who else he knows,” he says to Hacket.
“Do you still think he has something to do with Mr and Mrs Hall? I saw no signs of life when I was watching the house,” Hacket says.
“That doesn’t mean it was empty. People can lie low - in a basement or a back kitchen. Especially if they have something to hide. Never assume the obvious: chances are you’ll always be proved wrong.”
“I could get the men to persuade him to cooperate. Be a lot easier,” Hacket suggests.
Greig turns on him in a flash.
“No! And don’t let me ever hear you ask that again. We stick to the rules. You can do it the easy way or you can do it the hard way. The difference between the hard way and the easy way is that in the long run, the hard way works.”
A few hours later Sergeant Hacket and two constables armed with handcuffs and truncheons arrive outside the door of the rundown property where the man and his dog were last seen. After knocking on the door for some time and receiving no reply, they station themselves at strategic points at either end of the street and wait.
When it becomes clear that the quarry is not going to return, Hacket gives the order and the two constables break down the door and enter the property, where they find signs of recent occupation in the form of a table, two chairs, and some cheap ornaments on the mantelpiece, but no sign of the previous occupants.
On Hacket’s orders, the men descend to the basement kitchen, its walls so black and begrimed that it is hard to believe it has not been painted that colour deliberately. There they discover some still warm cinders in the grate and a pile of faeces in one corner.
But that is not all. Lying on a filthy cloth, curled up as if in slumber, they find the body of a new-born babe - a tiny premature thing, its darkly curling head nestled against a filthy glass feeding bottle half full of something that will, upon analysis, prove to be watered down milk mixed with lime.
****
It is rare for Daisy Lawton’s father to arrive back home before dinner is served but mirabile dictu, here he is at the head of the table, carving the joint. Over dinner, he listens attentively to Daisy’s girlish chatter of dances and dresses and partners and ices. After the dessert plates have been cleared, he rises.
“Daisy-duck, I am glad I was not there last night, for I fear your poor old father wouldn’t have got a single dance with his favourite daughter.”
“Oh Fa - I would have saved the supper dance specially for you.”
“Well, so I should hope. But now I must leave you both - I have a letter to write and it will not wait.”
Mr Lawton goes to his study and spends some time staring thoughtfully into the middle distance. Then he selects a clean sheet of writing paper and begins:
Dear William
I hope you are in the best of health. It has been some time since we corresponded, as we are both now such busy men, you in the Church and I in the medical profession.
It is in that latter category that I now take up my pen. Very early this morning a young man was admitted to my hospital. He had been set upon in the street, robbed and stabbed by his assailant. He was lucky to escape with his life, so brutal was the attack. But he has survived.
I have done my best to tend to his wounds - but there is one wound I cannot heal, and that is the breach that exists between you and him. For I am talking about your son Fred, who even now lies in a hospital bed fighting for his life.
I plead with
you, for the sake of old times, for the love of God and family, for our past friendship at Oxford and beyond (as you recall, you officiated at our marriage, and christened our daughter), to be reconciled to your son.
He has suffered a severe blow to his head and now cannot recall where he is lodging. If he fails to remember, I do not know what will become of him, for he must leave the hospital shortly, and will require his wound to be dressed and other tasks performed for him as he recovers.
I shall continue to look after him both in my role as surgeon and as he is your son, for old times’ sake, until I hear from you further.
Your friend,
Alexander Lawton
Having thus written, Lawton seals up the letter and goes to post it. Returning from the post-box he spends a few minutes in the street, looking up at his house. The symmetry always gave him great pleasure. The coloured brick-banding and round-headed windows reminded him of places he’d seen in Italy in his youth.
The sound of a piano comes drifting out on the balmy evening air - Daisy is practising one of her tunes. How warm and inviting the house looks, with its lighted windows and rose- coloured drapes.
How cold and miserable by comparison must life be for that poor young man lying helpless in his hospital bed. Lawton can only hope his words, inadequate as they are, will touch the father’s heart. And that it will not be too late.
In the event, he does not have long to wait. The reply from the engineer’s father arrives a day later. It is brief and brutal and to the point.
Dear Alexander, (the Archbishop writes)
I thank you for your letter and the information it conveys about Frederick. Since he has chosen, against my express wishes, to become a civil engineer, I have absolved myself of any further responsibility for his well-being. I informed him of my decision some time ago, he knows it, and I do not think he will expect me to change my mind.
