by Carol Hedges
After a few minutes’ silence, Lucy coughs in an introductory sort of way. Malpractis drops his pen, starts, utters an exclamation of surprise and glances up. His glasses slide down his long nose and hang precariously off the end, fighting for precedence with a small drop of moisture.
“Oh. Ah. I see. No. Well. Yes. There you are. Aren’t you?”
Lucy stifles a smile and agrees. Armand Malpractis rises. He is a tall, spare man, with a lean face, fringed by wispy locks of greying hair, a grey beard, and the sallow complexion of one for whom fresh air and brisk exercise are unknown phenomena. His shirt and black suit are crumpled and there are numerous pencils sticking out of the top pocket of his jacket.
Malpractis regards her with a puzzled frown, as if he is inwardly searching for a category under which to file her: Young woman: provenance unknown? He pushes his glasses back up his nose and waits for enlightenment.
“My name is Miss Lucy Landseer. I am a writer. I applied to your editor asking if I might search the newspaper for a story that interests me.”
Malpractis shuffles through his mental card index: Editor: request from writer?
“Yes. Ah. Let me see. A moment, Miss … Landseer,” he says. His voice is thin and reedy. He riffles through a tray labelled: Queries? until, with a murmur of satisfaction, he draws out her letter. There is a pause while he reacquaints himself with the contents. Then he nods a few times.
“Yes. I understand. Good. You wish to inquire about a certain Lord Edwin Lackington and his wife. I believe I may be able to help you. Let us now proceed forthwith and without further delay to The Catalogue.”
He emerges from behind the desk, and shuffles over to a large cabinet of dark wooden drawers, each with a small brass place holder containing a written alphabetical indication of the contents. Malpractis pauses, stands awhile in silent contemplation of his life’s work, as a priest might stand in rapture before the altar of the Lord. Then he pulls out one of the drawers and starts flicking through the cards inside.
“Lackington, Lord Edwin Ripley St. John … letter to the Times opposing railway expansion … letter to the Times re: fox hunting … stag hunting… grouse shooting … opposition to female education. None of this pertains to your inquiry. Yes. Ah. Here we have it. Lackington, Lady Georgiana Artemisia: scandalous affair… report of Commissioners in Lunacy … petition to the magistrate ... Now we are progressing.”
“But this is exactly what I want,” Lucy exclaims, clapping her hands delightedly. “Wonderful! Thank you. How do I proceed?”
Malpractis regards her quizzically, as if she were some strange object that needed to be identified and categorised (Female: excitable nature?).
“You do not proceed, Miss … Landseer. At least, no further than one of the desks at the far end of the room. I am the one who proceeds upon your behalf. I shall write down the year, month and date of each article, followed by the relevant page. I shall then fetch you the monthly bound copy containing the article, clearly marked, which you may then peruse at your leisure. Notes are permitted to be taken.
“Please also bear in mind that the Archive Room closes for luncheon at midday, reopening at one in the afternoon. It then closes at four-thirty promptly. If you would now take your place, I shall endeavour to supply you with the first volume of the newspaper.”
Lucy sits down at one of the two unoccupied desks. She retrieves her notebook and her pens and pencils from her satchel and tries to contain her impatience. Meanwhile, Malpractis begins jotting down references upon slips of paper, which he then takes over to the shelves of brown leather-bound volumes. As he searches, he emits a toneless humming, rather like a preoccupied bee. This is punctuated sporadically by a whispered: “Ah, yes.”
Lucy Landseer, writer and imminent detective, turns to a clean page in her notebook and writes: The Case of the Unfortunate Author. She underlines it. Twice. Adds an exclamation mark. Then she sits back to await further developments.
****
Further developments are also about to occur elsewhere in the city. Here is Detective Sergeant Jack Cully knocking at the door of Mr. Gerald Daubney. After a long wait, and just as he has decided to give up and return to Scotland Yard, he hears a heavy tread on the other side of the door, accompanied by huffing and puffing.
The door is unlocked from the inside. A couple of bolts are shot back. A length of chain is unhooked. The door is then slightly opened and a round, red, elderly face in a mob cap peers through the gap.
“D’liveries to the basement,” it says, puffing.
Cully introduces himself. The face identifies itself as belonging to the cook. The door is opened and Cully steps into the gloomy hallway.
“I’m sorry sir, them stairs’ll be the death of me! Nearly missed you.”
Cully makes polite please-do-not-concern yourself noises.
“How does your master find himself today?” he inquires, as the cook divests him of his outdoor coat and hat.
“He mopes, sir. As he did yesterday and the day afore that. I’ve worked for the family since the master was a lad, sir, and they were all of a moping disposition. His Ma was a great moper, Gawd rest her soul. Mind, she had good reason, what with all them babbies coming and going so fast. Five babbies, sir. Four tiny coffins. Only Master Gerald survived.”
The cook heaves a great sigh and shakes her head sadly.
“His Pa was a champion moper too, sir, especially over matters of business, and stocks and shares and the railway, but Master Gerald beats them both for moping. He seems to have inherited a double dose of it. He just sits in that blessed room of his hour after hour, day after day, curtains drawn, moping. Just him and that white cat. It’s not normal, is it?”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“No sorrier than I am,” the cook grumbles. “I have got a girl in to sweep and dust ~ so long as he don’t notice and isn’t pertickler, and I can send out the laundry, but as for the shaving of his face, and the brushing of his clothes and his boots and such things what a gentleman requires for his daily wellbeing, it ain’t my job. And so I told him straight the other day.”
“And what did your master reply?” Cully asks, intrigued by this insight into another person’s life. Or half-life.
“He moped,” the cook says laconically. “Shall I announce you now, sir?” She knocks at a closed door, half opens it, says, “A p’liceman to see you, Master Gerald.”
Cully steps into the room, with its dim light idling through the heavy curtains, throwing everything into shadow, so that it seems more like entering a tomb than a gentleman’s drawing room. The air smells stale, as if all the goodness has been breathed out of it.
Gerald Daubney sits in a velvet spoon-backed chair by a miserable fire. He has a catalogue on his lap, and a pencil in one hand and appears to be listlessly ticking items off a list.
The white cat, who has been curled up by the fire, rouses itself, gets up from the hearthrug, and chirrups its way across the room, tail erect in friendly greeting. Once arrived, it begins to wind itself round his ankles, purring enthusiastically. Cully sighs. Cats. Why?
Daubney indicates the seat opposite. Cully sits. The cat launches itself onto his lap, turns around a couple of times, then hoists its back leg and begins to wash enthusiastically. Cully tries not to sneeze.
“Detective Cully? You have some good news for me at last?” Daubney asks.
Cully observes the bright, almost feverish eagerness in the man’s expression and voice, and is glad he has had time to think through carefully what he is going to say. He doesn’t want to build the eccentric collector’s hopes up.
“Not as yet. I have come because I want to find out more about how netsuke, like those in your collection, come into this country,” he says.
Daubney’s face falls. It is as if a light has been switched off behind his eyes.
“I see. Well, it has only been eight years or so since Japan allowed traders to enter, so it is still, as it were, a specialist area. I pride myself u
pon having ~” he pauses, a spasm of pain contorting his features, “that is to say I had one of the finest collections in London, not to say the whole of the country.”
“And from where did you obtain the collection?”
“I bought my first netsuke from a dealer in Japan. Unfortunately, my health then declined so I was never able to make the long and arduous journey again. I now order them from the only reputable business in London that sells authentic netsuke. The shop is called Mortlake & Devine, and is situated in Sloane Street.”
“This shop possesses lists and bills of sale to their various clients?”
“I should imagine so. I have a folder of my own orders and payments. Why are you asking me these questions, detective? What is their purpose?”
“I was just wondering how many people might have similar collections, sir. Or might wish to acquire some of your items. For instance, I see from the list you supplied to us that one of the items stolen was an ivory cat,” Cully indicates the white cat, who is currently kneading his trousers lovingly with her sharp claws.
Now Daubney’s inner light is suddenly switched on again. He leans forward, clasping his hands between his knees and stares unblinkingly at Cully.
“You are referring to my rarest and most beloved netsuke: the Edo cat. It was carved in the seventeenth century by the famous carver Hidari Issan who lived in the Edo region of Japan. I do not know of anybody else who has one similar. I cannot tell you how much its absence pains me.”
Cully mentally files this information while trying surreptitiously to persuade the real cat, whose presence is paining him, to relocate.
Daubney rises, goes to a sideboard and opens a drawer. “Here are the bills and receipts for my netsuke,” he says, thrusting some paperwork at Cully. “I hope this will speed up your investigation, detective. It seems to be taking an inordinately long time to find and return my precious collection to me.”
Cully bites his lip to stop him making some inappropriate comment. He nods his thanks, folds the documents, brushes off the cat (who miaows indignantly), and walks to the door. His departure coincides with the arrival of the cook. She is carrying a tray.
“I brought some coffee and shortbread for your guest, Master Gerald,” she says.
“But the guest is just leaving,” Daubney tells her sharply. “And I do not require any refreshments at the moment.”
He turns his back on them. Cully and the cook exchange raised-eyebrow glances.
“Moping,” the cook whispers.
Cully helps himself to a piece of shortbread, then goes to retrieve his hat and coat. Outside, rain has started to fall, grey and relentless. Cully did not bring an umbrella. He tucks the paperwork more carefully into his jacket pocket, puts his head down and starts walking.
****
Izzy Harding has no umbrella either. She hurries along the pavement, trying to avoid other people who have umbrellas but no spatial awareness, so keep knocking into her. Izzy is carrying a cardboard box, which contains two sets of tiny dolls’ house drawing room furniture, painted gold, two shiny varnished dining-room tables and chairs, two wardrobes and various minute paintings in gilt frames.
The frames were especially fiddly to paint, and so were given to Izzy, because she has the smallest and most nimble fingers. As a result, her eyes ache and there is a tight band stretched across her forehead. This special hand-delivery is supposed to be a ‘reward’ for her hard work, though tramping the rain-sodden streets with leaky boots and a bedraggled bonnet hardly constitutes much of a reward, especially as Izzy knows the teenage overseer has only farmed out the job so that she can stay in the warm and dry.
Izzy reaches Oxford Street. Now all she has to do is find the right department store where her box is to be left. It is a rush order ~ the store had a request from a very rich client who has an account there. He wanted two identical dolls’ houses for his twin daughters’ birthdays. The problem was identified when the department manager instructed his shop assistants to parcel up the houses and was told that the miniature inhabitants were without the basic necessities for a comfortable existence.
Such things happen.
Izzy slows. There are many big department stores lining the street, and her task is to find the correct one. Her instructions are to hand the cardboard box to the man on the door, telling him that ‘this is Mr. Pritchard’s order. It is expected.’ Then she is to return promptly, as there is a new batch of furniture to be varnished.
Izzy has never visited Oxford Street before. It is out of her limited area of expertise. The street takes her breath away. The gold and plate-glass windows of the big shops are crammed with wonderful things. Some have whole rooms with real dining tables covered with cloths and set with silver cutlery and glasses and dinner plates.
Well-dressed ladies are stepping out of carriages and being bowed into the shops by liveried doormen. Other well-dressed ladies are returning to their carriages, carrying parcels. There are glossy horses and shiny carriages parked axle to axle all the way down the street as far as her eye can see.
Izzy glances up, checks the names over the various front entrances, then walks on until she arrives at John Gould & Company. It takes a few minutes to attract the attention of the doorman, who is staring at the rain from the porticoed entrance where he is staying nice and dry, but finally he deigns to look down and notice her.
Izzy hands over her box, repeating the memorised words. The box is taken into his gloved hands, without any thanks, and the instructions to ‘cut along sharp.’ Izzy cuts along as far as one of the display windows, where she is brought up short. She stands, staring in awed amazement.
The window shows a beautiful nursery, crammed with wonderful toys. Tiny lead soldiers march across an imaginary battlefield. Drums and trumpets play silent music to accompany their advance. There are wooden bricks, rocking horses with dapple-grey sides and red leather bridles, wooden pull-along sheep and dogs, furry cats, teddy bears and stuffed animals galore.
Dolls with rosebud mouths, pink cheeks, frothy dresses and cascading yellow hair sit around a tea-table set with pink cups and saucers and plaster of Paris delicacies. There is even a large wooden dolls’ house, its front open to display the contents. Izzy presses her nose to the window trying to see whether any of the furniture came from her attic workshop.
Lost in wonder, she does not notice the small girl with the fur tippet and muff, who has just come out of the store and is walking towards one of the splendid carriages parked in front of the main entrance.
The girl wears shiny buttoned boots, a blue velvet hat, and a warm navy woollen coat. Her ribboned and ringleted hair falls gracefully onto her shoulders. Her pink and white complexion resembles that of the dolls in the window. The girl spies Izzy. She stops. Fumbling in her pocket, she extracts something. She comes over.
“Here, poor little beggar-girl. This sixpence is for you,” she says, handing Izzy a small coin.
Izzy Harding is so astonished that she is rendered temporarily speechless. The girl gives her a friendly nod, then skips over to her mother, who is organising a footman laden with parcels. She tugs at her sleeve.
“I just gave the poor beggar-girl over there my silver sixpence, Mama. Was that not extremely kind of me?”
Her Mama smiles indulgently at her. She glances briefly at Izzy, then looks away. The little girl scrambles into the carriage. The parcels are loaded on board. Mama is handed in, and the carriage swings out into the busy street and sets off at a brisk pace towards Hyde Park.
Izzy stares at the silver sixpence in her palm, the words ‘poor beggar-girl’ ringing in her ears like a slap. Is that what she is? She considers her appearance: the leaky patched boots, the coat, of a cut and colour long out of fashion, several sizes too big and torn at the cuffs, and the hat, which has pancaked and is dripping water down her neck.
For a moment, her heart sinks, as the gap between her world and that of her small benefactress opens up in front of her like a bottomless chasm. To hide th
e tears springing to her eyes, she turns to the window again. ‘Give Them the Gift of Happiness’ says the sign above the rocking horse. She reads it laboriously, spelling out each word through a hot, wet blur.
Izzy takes a deep breath. Swallows. Wipes her eyes on her ragged coat sleeve and reads the sign again. And again. And then it dawns upon her. She managed to find the right store to deliver her box. She has just read a sign in a display window. She. Can. Read!
Suddenly, Izzy Harding feels a great wave of happiness break over her. She is no beggar-girl: she is a reader! She has all the riches of the printed word at her command. A gift more precious than anything else.
Later, after her shift at Mrs Sarah McAdam’s Select City Dining Room finishes, Izzy will go home and add the silver sixpence to her other treasures: the shiny brass button, the length of bright scarlet ribbon, the sheet of gold leaf, the six farthings, the miniature dolls’ tea-set and the green velvet pincushion.
****
It is three in the morning, and some urge to fear wakes Gerald Daubney, lifting him to his feet beside his bed. Fully awake in an instant, he tries to remember the dream that shocked him, but it has gone. Stranded in the darkness, he drinks a glass of water and racks his brains.
The conversation earlier with the detective from Scotland Yard disturbed him. Yes. The man’s questions seemed illogical. He did not understand their purpose. He had been upset by them. He still remains upset by them. It seems that nobody understands how he feels.
He goes to the window and draws back the blind. He can hear the rain lashing the building and beating on the cobbles below. He has a sudden vision of what it must be like to live on the streets with nothing to eat save what one can forage, nothing to warm oneself and to be in constant fear of predators lurking in dark alleyways.
Daubney hears a small whimpering sound and is shocked to realise it is coming from his own throat. A shiver runs down his spine. Want of sleep, want of food has led to dark thoughts gathering. He must not give way to them. He must resist them with every ounce of strength in his body, and be robust.
