by Carol Hedges
Daubney blinks. He spoke to the newspapers? He does not recall saying anything to the newspapers. He would never say anything to the newspapers. And he had impressed upon the two detectives that they must not speak to the newspapers and his name must be kept out of the public arena at all costs. So how has this happened?
All at once, a fleeting memory crosses his mind, hovers, and settles. Oh … wait … yesterday morning, when he was leaving the house to take a short walk, there was a man standing on the pavement outside. A vulgar man in a loud waistcoat who had hailed him by name and called him ‘squire’ and said he’d come to offer his condolences on the death of his manservant.
Daubney had assumed, from his low demeanour and unwelcome air of familiarity that he was some acquaintance of James Flashley, possibly even a family member. Thus, he had attempted some platitudinous remark, uttered in a low monosyllabic voice, purely for civility’s sake. Then he had hurried away. When he returned, the man had gone, and he had thought no more of the encounter.
Now he discovers that from one brief insignificant meeting, this duplicitous individual has confected a story, throwing him into the lurid limelight of unwelcome publicity. His hand, holding the fine porcelain teacup, trembles so much that liquid slops into the saucer. He places it down on the rosewood table and clasps his hands between his legs, fixing his gaze upon the floor. The two collectors exchange glances over his bowed head.
“Do buck up, old man,” Charles Warren says.
A tremor runs through Daubney’s etiolated frame. He has heard the same words shouted by various brutes of games masters as he lay winded, wounded, bruised or bleeding on some muddy playing field. Though ‘old man’ was usually replaced by ‘stupid boy’.
Silence falls, deep and profound.
All three men know that in the minds of their contemporaries ~ the ones that inhabit the world outside that of the avid collector, they are regarded as life’s losers. Weak, obsessive, and in some eyes, comical figures. They also know that their devotion to ‘things’ is caricatured in the popular journals.
Daubney recalls that only last week, Punch referred to it as Chronic Chinamania, accompanying the article with a cartoon portraying a group of shabbily clad collectors weeping uncontrollably over a dropped plate (a couple of whom were instantly recognisable as members of the Club).
It is at such a time as this that public opinion may have a point. The antiquarians and collectors are, so to speak, the limpets of the human race, clinging onto their small rocks for survival as the tide of indifferent humanity washes past them.
Augustus Roach-Smith eventually breaks the silence that has fallen, like the dust of ages, upon the conversation. “So, what’s the plan, old man?”
Plan, the limpet thinks? What plan? Why does he need a plan? He has no plan. Just an empty cabinet and a feeling of deep, dark despair. He bites the inside of his mouth, tasting his own blood, hot and ferric. He shakes his head.
The two antiquarians exchange a glance. The glance says: we have fulfilled our obligations. We cannot do more with such uncompromising material. They rise, as one, mutter a few farewell platitudes and make their way out to the badly lit hallway, where they help themselves to their own hats and coats and see themselves out.
“Well,” Warren says when they are far enough away from the house. “What do you think?”
“Always was a rum chap, Daubney,” Roach-Smith replies. “Remember a lecture he gave last year on those little Japanese wooden things ~ couldn’t understand a word.”
“Do you think he’ll ever get them back?”
The other shakes his head. “Not a hope. Miles away by now. Probably sold to some other collector for a tidy sum. Might even have been exported. Sad, really.”
“Yerss … sad,” Warren sighs. Then brightens. “Spot of dinner?”
“Why not. Gives you an appetite, all this sympathy lark.”
The two hail a cab and are shortly dropped off at their club, where a plate of beefsteak pie and potato soon dispels the last vestiges of sympathy that was threatening to linger around, like a bad smell.
Gerald Daubney waits until he is sure they won’t return. Then he rises, fetches a chair and sits down in front of the empty cabinet, his gaze fixed upon the shelves, his mind still seeing them filled with his treasures: the tiger, the monkey, the elephant, the rats, the fruits and nuts, the two toads, the tiny squatting beggar, the erotic ones he always placed at the back of the cabinet, and his beloved Edo cat.
Time passes. He is not aware of it. He feels as if he is retreating into an immense empty space. A desolate state of being. There are a lot of ways of being lost, not all of them involve being missing. Sometimes you could get lost right there in plain sight, stepping out of your life or disappearing into it.
Meanwhile the white cat, who has been sleeping under the drawing-room settee, emerges, leaps onto the side table and starts to investigate the sandwiches. Discovering a bloater paste one, she picks it up in her soft mouth and carries it back to her hiding-place to eat.
****
Let us move to another part of the city, where we discover Mrs Riva Hemmyng-Stratton, novelist, sitting at a writing desk, and glancing, in a meditative way, at the damp trees in the garden. She is the author of many books depicting the fashionable life of the English aristocracy, popularly known as ‘silver fork novels’.
Her works include such titles as: Astley Tremaine or The Man of Refinement, If Only She had Known, The Recipe for Diamonds, The Adventures of a High-born Lady, and Cecil Danvers, her most recently published and by far her most popular book to date, a thrilling tale of secret liaisons, scandal and divorce in the higher echelons of society.
The writer is engaged in a tricky segment of her current manuscript, which features gallant Edgar Blakelock (fine black moustache and glittering eyes) and her heroine, Clarissa Ferrers (golden curls, retroussé nose, and slender rose-tipped fingers).
The plot revolves around a French snuff-box, something the novelist is not familiar with, but is now introduced as an objet of great interest (the insertion of French or Italian words elevates the prose and lifts the reader out of their mundane parlours and straight into the exotic milieu of the affluent upper-classes).
Mrs Riva Hemmyng-Stratton mentally identifies as ‘the Author’, as in: ‘the Author knows that it is nearly time to bid farewell to the characters and go about the business of the day.’ Indeed, the small ormolu clock on the mantelpiece has just struck three, a reminder that the world outside the window awaits her attention.
The pen is laid down. The fates of Clarissa Ferrers and Edgar Blakelock are put aside, albeit temporarily. The Author has an appointment at one of the discreet little tearooms off the main thoroughfare, where a well-born gentleman could entertain a wife or a lady friend without causing eyebrows to be raised, and a middle-aged woman of outwardly impeccable rectitude might spy on them from a discreet corner, purely for the purposes of literary research, of course.
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton dons an inconspicuous mantle and a harmless bonnet with a veil, tucks her bag (containing her notebook and trusty pencil) under her arm and sallies forth to catch the omnibus. A few stops later, she arrives at her destination, and settles herself at a corner table, where, having ordered a pot of China tea and a small slice of sponge cake, she removes her gloves, lifts her veil and peers hopefully round the room.
Ah. She spies some likely prey. An elegantly dressed man with dark hair and neatly-trimmed beard is entertaining a young Beauty. The Author mentally notes the bloom on the Beauty’s cheeks, the chestnut curls peeping out of a fashionable straw bonnet, trimmed with blue ribbons and prettily dyed feathers, the well-fitting gloves.
Her companion is wearing the sort of suit that bespeaks access to a personal tailor. His linen is impeccable. (In her books, the Author sets great store by the cut of a coat, the tying of a cravat, the crispness of a linen shirt. It depicts manliness as well as class. As for shoes and boots ~ there is so much that can be deduced from fo
otwear).
A notebook is extracted from the bag and opened. Feigning indifference to her surroundings and those who occupy it, the Author begins to write, pausing every now and then to sip tea and crumble cake. She sees the man lean forward and say something sotto voce, to his fair companion; the words bring a blush to the Beauty’s cheek.
(‘Why, my beloved girl, how fast the hours speed. ’Tis almost time for us to part, I to the gilded saloon of Clubland, and you, my cherished blossom, to the bosom of your aristocratic family.’ A sigh convulses his manly frame. ‘Ah, Clarissa, you know that I desire your happiness above all things. How to procure it ~ therein lies the chief interest of my life.’)
Before she has time to turn the page, the man rises, offers his arm to the Beauty and together they make their way out of the tea-room. Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton presumes that his carriage is waiting in a side street. Liveried footman in attendance. A fine pair of matching bays awaiting the instruction to ‘trot on’. She cannot imagine that they would be conveyed by anything as mundane as an Atlas omnibus.
On the return journey, the highborn gentleman will hold Beauty’s pretty soft fingers and she will shed a tear, upon which her escort will tenderly offer her his handkerchief, which will smell of Bond Street musk and millefleur. Ah, she can almost picture the scene, such is the benefit of a vivid imagination and several very successful novels.
Meanwhile, she must make her own way home. She pays for her tea, her head full of ideas for the next scene of her novel as she walks to the stop. The omnibus arrives. She hails it and climbs aboard. The only vacant seat is next to a mother with a loud, sticky child. The Author does not like children, loud, sticky or otherwise. Children, in her opinion, should neither be seen nor heard. There are no children in any of her novels, and her personal experience of the state is so far in the past as to have been obliterated by the mists of time.
She is relieved when the omnibus eventually reaches her stop and she can pay, alight and wend her way to the peace of her fireside, where it is her intention to enjoy a further cup of tea, the drink that ‘cheers but does not inebriate’, as William Cowper (a poet of whose work she is a great admirer), so aptly put it.
But Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton is not going to enjoy her peace and simple fare for long. A letter awaits her, propped up on the mantelpiece by Dulcie, the maidservant. It is from Charles Colbourne, her book publisher, and its unexpected contents are going to cause her a great deal of perturbation and sleepless nights.
****
There are many things that Detective Inspector Stride does not like. New boots, paperwork, cold foggy mornings, his wife’s scrag end of mutton stew, and having to run the gauntlet of Robertson’s acerbic personality, feature high on his list of pet hates.
He is also extremely lairy of members of the press (mentally filed under ‘scum of the earth’) door-stepping him on his way to work. Thus, when a familiar figure in a loud check coat, soft cap and waistcoat steps from an alcove and hails him jovially, Stride’s first instinct is to ignore. Then to quicken his pace.
“Oi Stride, got a bit of news for you,” Mr. Richard Dandy, aka Dandy Dick, calls out. He is chief reporter on The Inquirer (‘One of Fleet Street’s Finest Papers’) and Stride’s nemesis.
“That’s Detective Inspector Stride to you, Mr. Dandy,” he replies with barely concealed venom.
“Whatever you say, squire, whatever you say.” Dandy shrugs. He folds his arms and smiles in an irritating manner.
“What I say is, you are blocking my path. Kindly step aside and allow me to get to my place of work.”
Dandy Dick doesn’t move. “So you’re not interested in what I’ve discovered about your Mr. Flashley, then? Shame. Never mind, I’ll have to inform the Man in the Street first. See what he makes of it. Sheds a whole new light on why he ended up swinging on the end of a rope.”
Stride bites down on his anger.
“Aha ~ you are interested?”
“Go ahead,” Stride says between gritted teeth.
“Well then, since you asked so nicely, hur hur: a little bird ~ and it’s a reliable little bird, told me that your man liked a flutter ~ gee-gees, cards, boxing, and the like. Keen as mustard. Only he wasn’t as keen on paying up when he lost. There were quite a few debt-collectors with his name at the top of their lists. I’m talking about the kind of coves who’d be happy to be paid in ‘kind’, if you take my meaning. Bag left under the public house table. No questions asked.”
“Go on,” Stride says.
“That’s it,” Dandy Dick says. “I’m naming no names. Over to you detective inspector. Can’t expect me to do all your work for you. Oh, and while I’m here, how’s the Scottish one getting on with his new lady-love? They were spotted holding hands in the park the other Sunday. Very cosy. Tray romanteek, as the French say. Has he named the day yet? Tell him to invite The Inquirer to the nuptials. We’ll give him a good write-up. Page five, with a nice picture of the happy pair. Always willing to support the forces of law and order, as you know.”
Stride shudders. “Yes, thank you. I think I can confidently speak for my colleague when I say he will be delighted to decline your offer. On your way, Mr. Dandy. On your way.”
Dandy Dick throws him another maddening grin. Then he saunters off in the direction of the Strand, his hands in his coat pockets, leaving a thoughtful Stride to make his way to Scotland Yard, where the report from Greig and Cully’s earlier investigation awaits his attention. And indeed, as Jack Cully predicted, he isn’t going to like it. One little bit.
****
Rays of golden autumn sun light up the hedges, as Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton makes her way towards Salisbury Square. Idly, she wonders whether this is what Moses saw ~ a bright patch of sunshine on a hedge, and thought it was holy fire. She reaches the dingy building that houses Charles Colbourne & Co., publishers of popular and classic fiction (there is no ‘& Co.’ but it makes the business sound grander than it is).
She enters the outer office. The office clerk is in the middle of writing something down in a large black ledger. He holds up a finger, indicating he will be with her in a minute. The finger then points to a seat in the far corner. A man who can communicate so much in so few words, she thinks. Or no words at all. Just a single digit.
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton sits and waits. She tries to conjure up a plausible reason why, out of the blue, Mr. Colbourne would write her a letter like that. ‘Certain matters of import have been brought to my notice’ was what he wrote. ‘It is imperative that we meet to discuss them at your earliest convenience’.
Somehow, even with the most vivid imagination (and the Author’s imagination has no limits to its vividness) this does not sound like good news. Time passes. Eventually, the inner door opens and her publisher appears. He is a thickset man in his early forties, his dark hair shiny with boar’s grease. He has small pale blue eyes and a thin nose that angles slightly to the left-hand side.
“Ah,” he says, upon spotting the Author.
An unpropitious opening. Given her sales and popularity, she expected more than this greeting. She follows him into his inner sanctum and places herself on what she privately refers to as The Writers’ Chair. Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton likes to imagine that the spirits of many great authors from the past, who have sat where she is sitting now, have imbued the faded, burgundy damask upholstery with their inspired thoughts.
Colbourne retreats to the far side of the desk, where he picks up a cream manila envelope, upends it, and extracts a letter. “This communication was received yesterday. It comes from Strutt & Preening, lawyers who represent Lord Edwin Lackington ~ does the name ring any bells with you?”
She frowns, shakes her head.
“Well, it should. According to this letter, it has been drawn to his attention that you have taken certain events surrounding his divorce case, in particular, events involving his wife and another person, and written them into your novel. Now then, what do you say?”
Her jaw drops open.
“But … but … I do not know the Lord, nor his situation, so how is this possible?” she stutters, clasping her hands.
“The lawyers write that the circumstances leading up to the divorce case, which was based upon the separation of Lord and Lady Lackington on the grounds of her scandalous behaviour with a member of the London artistic community, and the placing of the unfortunate lady into a lunatic asylum for her own protection, are minutely depicted in your novel Cecil Danvers.
“I quote from the letter: The book incorporates details of the affair, the device of the umbrella, the railway carriage and the small discreet apartment behind Oxford Street. It is an exact replication of the events that caused such distress to the Lackington family, and friends of the family. My client, Lord Edwin Lackington awaits your response to this letter, and may seek damages and compensation in the High Court to restore his reputation in the public eye.”
The Author feels cold. Sick. Dizzy. Bewildered. She racks her brains to see if she can find any remembrance at all of the events she is supposed to have replicated.
“I do not know how to answer this charge,” she says finally. “My books are works of fiction. They come from my own head. I have never taken events or individuals from real life and placed them in any novel. Never. Nor would I.”
Colbourne treats her to a long, level stare.
“You’d be prepared to stand up in a court of law and swear to this?”
The Author swallows. “If I have to, yes.”
He nods. “Then I shall reply to the lawyers and tell them what you have said. As far as you are concerned, this is an unfortunate coincidence and cannot be seen as a deliberate attempt to make fiction from unfortunate events that you never read about, nor heard of, nor knew had taken place, am I correct?”
“Yes, yes. That is how it was. Pure coincidence. Please make that quite clear. I am happy to rewrite the book if the lawyers demand it. Anything to show Lord Lackington I never meant any hurt to him or his family.”
