by Carol Hedges
He stretches out his hands, inching his way across the room to the door, where his dressing gown hangs. He will go downstairs and sit in the dark in front of his empty cabinet, and think about days that are over, and dreams that are done. There will be no more sleep tonight.
****
Morning arrives, bringing with it a postman carrying a letter for Mrs Riva Hemmyng-Stratton. She does not recognise the handwriting on the envelope and, fearing that it contains further bad news, leaves it by the side of her plate. Only after consuming the sort of miniscule breakfast that would barely sustain one of her romantic heroines, does she finally slit open the envelope. The contents are as elliptical as they are short.
Dear Fellow Scribe (she reads),
Let us meet outside Verey’s in the Strand at 12 o’clock. I have so much to impart!
Yours etc.
L. Landseer
The Author spends some time puzzling over these cryptic lines, her emotions swinging from elation to despair. But in the end, curiosity gets the better of her and so, wearing her best hat, her face shrouded in a heavy veil, she catches a Waterloo omnibus.
By midday, the sun has bullied its way through the clouds that shroud the city. Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton alights, and walks the few yards to the venue, where Miss Landseer awaits her arrival, tapping her foot impatiently. The Author approaches and makes her presence known.
“Ah,” Lucy Landseer exclaims, shaking the proffered fingers. “I did not recognise you under the veil.”
The Author explains that she is currently being hounded by reporters from various newspapers, all eager to hear ‘her side of the story’. They lurk in the bushes outside her house. They creep up on her in the street. They jump out of doorways and accost her. They are everywhere. Achieving fame through her literary output is one thing, having infamy thrust upon her is quite another. She has to be constantly alert and could do with someone to watch her back (because sadly, one cannot have two fronts).
“I do hope you have good news to impart,” she murmurs, as Lucy leads the way into the restaurant.
They are soon seated at a nice table, away from the door. Lucy orders a roast chicken, two slices of ham, and potatoes (“It is only a shilling!”). While they wait for their food, Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton lifts her veil and looks cautiously all around. She notes that the clientele consists exclusively of single women, some governess types, and ladies with parcels. Her companion has chosen well.
“Now then,” Lucy says, drawing an impressive notebook from her bag. “Here is what I have discovered …”
Later that afternoon, refreshed physically and newly invigorated mentally by Lucy’s information, Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton returns to her writing desk and prepares to rescue her heroine from the desperate clutches of writer’s block.
Let there be a grand dinner party, she decides, with the tinkle of silver voices and silver cutlery. The conversation will be about horses, hunting, dogs and partridges. The anti-hero, (oh yes, she is going to introduce one, though any resemblance to a certain publisher is purely coincidental) will attend and is going disgrace himself by eating peas with the assistance of his knife!
Meanwhile Lucy Landseer betakes herself to the British Museum, where she spends an interesting hour or so amongst the Ancient Egyptians. She has been commissioned to write a series of instructive articles for a ladies’ magazine ~ nothing too laborious, one cannot have the female brain over-taxed ~ yes, it is that kind of magazine, but it pays the rent.
While she wanders from display case to display case, she thinks about her recent meeting with the author of Cecil Danvers. It was almost too easy to prove that the newspaper articles depicting the sad state of the Lackington marriage and the subsequent tragic events that followed, were published after the novel appeared in print.
There was no way that Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton, whose connections to the aristocracy were always purely fictional in nature, would have ever been privy to the unfolding drama. Lucy is satisfied that she has supplied the writer with sufficient evidence to present to her publisher and possibly to face down any future accusation of libel.
Sufficient certainly, but not entirely conclusive. For Lucy Landseer still has two unanswered questions. Why has Lord Lackington chosen to attack the innocent author of Cecil Danvers, when to do so will only bring the whole scandal back into the public realm? And what of the hapless woman, whose life is even now being passed behind the high walls of an asylum? What can she add to the story?
There is more to this than meets the eye, Lucy thinks to herself. Yes, indeed. And it is her intention to discover what it is. But to do that, she first needs to acquire a small dog. A cocker spaniel, golden in colour, for preference.
****
Detective Sergeant Jack Cully is also the possessor of an inquisitive mind. Right now, he is taking it to certain premises in stylish Sloane Street, listed in the London business directory as ‘An Emporium of Antique furniture, Oriental China and Curiosities’.
This is the newly relocated showroom of Mortlake & Devine. It has broad plate-glass windows and a heavy front door painted black and latticed in gold. The window display of blue and white china is artistically arranged to draw the eye of the passing Chelsea and Knightsbridge crowd, several of whom are lounging artistically in front of it.
As he approaches, the showroom door is flung open and a long-haired man in a flowing cloak strides ostentatiously out, to be greeted by the crowd as a returning hero. Throwing his arm theatrically around someone’s shoulder, he sets off towards Chelsea, declaring loudly that he is borrowing a large Oriental blue jar from Morty, which will be just right for his next painting of Fanny.
Cully enters the shop and is greeted politely by a tall distinguished man in a dark bespoke suit with a wing collar that looks as if it has been tailored by Pythagoras. His hair and beard are artfully cut. His black shoes are as shiny as the metalwork on the railings outside. This is Thomas Mortlake, dealer in antiquities and a connoisseur of fine art and collectables.
All around him are the fruits of his expertise and collecting endeavours: display cases filled with blue and white ceramics, teapots with dragons painted on them, tiny enamelled bowls, figurines, vases. The walls are hung with silk paintings, regalia and strange sword-guards. Mortlake & Devine specialise in Chinese paintings, and Japanese artefacts, though given Cully’s infinitesimally minute knowledge of Asiatic antiquities, it could just as easily have been the other way around.
Cully shows the man his card.
“The detective police? We have never had a visit from you before. Three shops I’ve owned and run, and never a brush with the law in all that time. I hope there is nothing amiss?”
Cully explains why he is here.
“Ah. Mr. Daubney. I read about the sad business in the newspapers. What can I tell you, Detective Sergeant Cully? He is one of my customers, yes. Every time we had a delivery from our agent in the Far East, I would alert him, and he would be here within the hour. A good customer, indeed. Over the years, his collections of blue glaze china, and netsuke grew to be the finest in collecting circles. I know he was held in high regard by other Japonistes, as some have started calling them. And now, the entire collection of netsuke has been stolen! What a terrible thing. How is the poor gentleman bearing up under the loss?”
Cully shrugs and shakes his head.
“You do not surprise me, detective sergeant. Not at all. For some, just collecting beautiful or rare items is not enough. It becomes an obsession, a life’s purpose. The lure is like a drug. The gentleman you inquire about is of that disposition, if I may judge him as such. He must be in extreme mental agony over the loss ~ the more so as it was so unexpected and sudden.”
“Did he buy from anybody else?”
“No. I think not. You see, we can always assure our customers that whatever we sell is genuine. That is important. Some shops ~ I name them not, display articles that are fake and pretend that they are genuine, or poor quality, and say they are the finest. Not here.
For example, the blue glazed plates over there in the display case, detective sergeant, are genuine Imari ware. The flowered teapot is Katieman. Feel free to take anything you purchase in the shop to the greatest expert in the kingdom, and he will verify that they are the genuine article.”
As Cully is never going to purchase anything ~ he has already worked out that the lack of price-tickets probably means everything is way beyond his salary, and the presence of two small and lively girls in a tiny rented terrace house would be deterrent enough to displaying valuable china, he contents himself with a murmured concurrence.
“I am interested in other customers who may have bought netsuke from you,” he says, pulling his notebook from his inner pocket. “Especially this gentleman.” He shows him the page in his notebook where he has written down the name of Mr. Munro Black, and his address.
The man studies the name, then shakes his head. “I do not recall the gentleman, nor the address,” he says. “I will make a note of it though and see whether my partner recollects anything.” He gives Cully a sharp look. “Is this in relation to the robbery?”
“Possibly,” Cully says, looking off. “I must say that Mr. Daubney seems most upset about the theft of a small ivory cat,” he adds.
“Ah, I remember that netsuke well. The Edo cat. A beautiful piece. I have been trading in netsuke for many years, but I have never come across one like it before. Or since. It is a one-off. The item is as rare as it is priceless. I can quite understand his grief.”
Cully mentally notes this down also. “What do you think has happened to the collection?” he asks.
Mortlake shrugs. “I have not heard of it coming onto the open market, so either it has passed into the hands of another private collector somewhere in the country, or, and I think this scenario the more likely, it has been broken up and taken abroad to sell as individual pieces.”
The shop bell rings. A couple of potential customers saunter in. Mortlake’s gaze drifts towards them. Cully takes the hint. He pockets his notebook, thanks Mortlake for his time and heads for the door. There is much to think about. And it is midday. He decides to think about it over a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee.
****
The misnamed ‘dinner break’ is also happening at the dolls’ house furniture workshop. Very little dinner is being consumed, though some of the child workers are profiting from the downtime to snatch a quick break under the tables with their eyes closed.
Not Izzy Harding, though. She has nothing to eat, but for once, she does not care, for she has food for the mind. Here she is, sitting apart from her co-workers. In her hand is a small book entitled: A Simple Tale for Christian Children. It has a drawing of a group of flaxen-haired tots sitting at the knee of someone wearing a long robe.
Now that she can make out words, Izzy Harding is on a literary journey. It is amazing how much stuff there is to read, once you master the ability to spot it. Wonderful words are everywhere: on news vendors’ boards: Author Accused in Lord’s Adultery Agony! She read that this morning on the way to work.
The sides of omnibuses have directions to exotic places never before encountered ~ Knightsbridge, Lyceum, Victoria. Admittedly, Izzy often hasn’t a clue what the words actually mean, but that is not the point: it’s her ability to put random letters together and create something new that counts.
Every shop she passes has something to work on: food items, prices, appeals to the prospective customer. Even here, in the dingy half-light of the workroom, she has discovered unexpected reading matter: Arsenical Green. Gold leaf. Do not ingest contents. Beware fumes, she’d read, as she sucked the end of her brush and dipped it into the bright green paint. The tiny crib she is working on needs a steady hand and an ability to paint round corners. That is why it has been entrusted to her. Not just a reader, but a reliable worker. Her status is truly advancing in leaps and bounds.
If she closes her eyes tight, Izzy can still see the look of utter delight on her teacher’s face when she announced, proudly, that she could read. It was as if the sun had broken through. The other students, still struggling to get to grips with the mysteries of the alphabet, had looked on in wonder as Izzy read some words, then some more, then a whole page of words from a reading primer her teacher had given to her.
At the end of the lesson, replete with stale bun and satisfaction, Izzy had been handed a little book. Her teacher had told her she’d received it as a Sunday School prize when she was younger than Izzy. All the way home, Izzy had hugged the precious book to her thin chest. She’d slept curled around it. She’d awoken to the joy of it.
And now she is about to read it. Her own book. It is a simple tale about a naughty boy who, after some truly dreadful acts of nastiness, is brought face to face with the consequences of his actions and learns to be a good boy thereafter. She turns the pages, enthralled by the unfolding story. She has just reached the bit about the dog, when the book is rudely plucked from her hand.
“What’s this then, Izz?”
Izzy glances up into the sharp, streetwise face of Angel, a girl who has spent her whole life defying the name she was given at birth. Angel sits opposite her. Her speciality is varnishing tables and persecuting weaker children. Her current employment gives her ample opportunities to do both.
Izzy gets to her feet, holds out her hand. “Give it back.”
Angel’s small weasel-coloured eyes dart war-flames.
“Make me.”
A few children saunter casually over to where some unexpected lunchtime entertainment is about to kick off.
“It’s mine,” Izzy says, her hand still outstretched.
“Where’d you buy it then?”
“Didn’t buy it.”
“Stole it then? So you’re a thief, Izzy Harding, is that how it is?”
“It’s a present,” Izzy says, her eyes fixed on the book, the pages of which Angel is now flicking rapidly between her hands in a menacing manner. “Please Angel ~ don’t harm it.”
Too late. With a dismissive snort, Angel casually rips the book apart. Izzy feels a sob choking her throat. She launches herself at the other girl, screaming abuse, fists flailing. All the child workers gather round, chanting: ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ Despite the difference in their height, Izzy manages to land a few good punches before the teenage supervisor arrives on the scene and pulls them apart.
“Enough. I ain’t got time for this. We’ve got a big order to fill. Angel, go and start work now. Izzy, you can pack the boxes.”
Packing boxes is the lowest rung on the ladder, as it involves no skill whatsoever.
“But she started it,” Izzy protests.
“And I’m finishing it,” the youthful supervisor says. “You want a job here? You do what I say, or it’s out on the street for you, quick smart. Understand?”
Izzy glares at Angel, who thumbs her nose in response as she stuffs the broken book down the front of her varnish-spattered overall.
“Thanks for this, Izzy. We could do with some more paper for the privy. Very kind of you,” she grins.
Izzy spends a miserable afternoon packing boxes while standing in a draft from the open door. The thought of all those precious pages being used to wipe the backsides of Angel and her rough costermonger family is almost more than her poor heart can bear.
At the end of the day, reluctance dogging her every footstep, she makes her way round to her teacher’s house to confess and face whatever rebuke awaits. She hasn’t eaten all day, and the lack of food, combined with her feelings of misery and despair, means that when she arrives, and finds no bright welcoming light in the kitchen, it is too much to bear.
Izzy Harding retraces her steps, then sits down on the step, curling her arms around her knees. She leans her back against the front door and allows her head to go heavy. Dark thoughts circle for a bit, like ominous birds of prey, before she feels herself slipping away into another, kinder place.
This is how Maria finds her when she returns from her college lecture, slumped agains
t the door, motionless and still. For a moment, Maria’s heart misses a beat. She bends down, shakes Izzy’s shoulder gently, calling her name.
Eventually, the girl unlocks her eyelids and raises her head. The light from the street-lamp emphasizes her pinched pallor, the purple rings round her eyes. Maria is shocked by the state of her star pupil. Izzy’s hands are black with grime. She has bruising on her left cheek (some of the punches were returned), and a small chunk of her hair is missing.
Maria helps her to her feet, unlocks the front door and steers her through to the kitchen, where she places her on a chair. She sets a bowl and a washcloth on the table. Then she fills the kettle and places it on the hob, before going upstairs to make the invalid comfortable for the night.
On her return, she fills the teapot, and toasts some bread. Izzy wolfs the toast down in record time. Maria says nothing, merely keeping the plate filled until Izzy’s colour has returned and she sits back with a sigh.
Tea is poured. Izzy loads spoon after spoon of sugar into her cup and stirs it vigorously. Still Maria says nothing. She watches as Izzy gulps down the hot tea, running her now cleaned index finger around the inside to get the last drops of sweetness. Then she speaks.
“How old are you, Izzy?”
Izzy frowns, does some rapid calculations on her finger. “I think I’m ten, miss.”
“And when did you last have a good meal?”
Izzy brightens. “Just now, miss, thank you very much.”
Maria rolls her eyes. “Izzy, you have managed to teach yourself to read in a few months. You can do basic mathematics. You have a brain. You’re bright and intelligent. You could make a life for yourself. A better life”
Puzzled, Izzy looks at her. “But I have a life.”
Maria shakes her head. “No, you have an existence, Izzy. And not a very pleasant one, if those bruises are anything to go by. When I first met you, you told me you wanted to better yourself, do you recall? Well, now you have a real chance. Have you started reading the little book I gave you?”
