by Carol Hedges
Daubney eyes him fixedly. “What did he want to know?”
Mortlake sticks his thumbs into his waistcoat pocket. “He inquired whether Mortlake & Devine supplied anybody else with netsuke. He mentioned a particular individual he was interested in. And he made reference to the Edo cat.”
In Daubney’s over-taxed brain, this information arrives like a bolt of lightning. He staggers; feels as if he is about to fall. The two shop owners rush to find a chair, a glass of water. Some customers standing nearby regard him with pitying glances.
When equilibrium, or nearest equivalent state, is restored, he asks, his voice still tremulous with supressed emotion, “An individual was mentioned, you say? Do you remember the name of the individual? And what was his connection to the Edo cat?”
Mortlake shakes his head. “I don’t recall the name now. I apologise. I wrote it down, but then I threw the paper away. Maybe if you write to Scotland Yard yourself, and ask the detective, he might be able to tell you.”
“Yes. Yes. You are right. I should do that. I should do it today. I WILL do it today.” Daubney pushes himself out of the chair. His legs still feel unreliable.
“Let me call you a cab, Mr. Daubney, sir. You don’t look too clever,” Mortlake suggests.
Gerald Daubney makes his way to the front of the shop and leans wearily against the doorframe. As he waits for his cab to arrive, he watches a fashionable young couple exclaiming loudly over the poor-quality netsuke that he has rejected a short while earlier.
“Oh, dearest, look at the little fat frog!” the young woman cries, “Is he not delightful! Just think how good he will look on our drawing-room mantelpiece next to the porcelain vase. I am wild for these little Oriental statues. So strange and exotic! Do let us buy him! I shall call him Froggy, and pretend he is a Prince in disguise.”
Daubney closes his eyes. Everything jars. Everything is out of kilter. The noise in his head fills the whole room. He allows himself to be handed into a hackney, gives the driver instructions in a faint voice, then sinks back, groaning, against the hard leather seat as the cab bears him steadily away in the direction of his house.
But Daubney’s letter to Scotland Yard will not be written for some time. Misfortune, the lodestar of his life, has one more cruel trick to play upon him. On his return, he will go into the parlour, where the pot of cold coffee and the rolls still await, (no butter, as the white cat has helped herself to it earlier).
Overcome with exhaustion and despair, Gerald Daubney will accidentally trip on the edge of the Turkey carpet and fall, hitting the side of his head on a small Japanese lacquer table. He will be found, unconscious, some hours later, by the small parlour maid. The doctor who eventually arrives, will diagnose extreme nervous exhaustion, and prescribe bedrest and a light diet. It will be several days before he is well enough to access his writing desk.
****
Meanwhile, Lucy Landseer, writer, friend and would-be female detective, is making her way across London to spend time with her new acquaintance. She arrives at the asylum and sails in through the front door, to be greeted with welcoming smiles by the female attendants, such is her familiarity with the place.
Flush has a new ribbon bow around his glossy neck, so Lucy has to wait while the little animal is fussed over, fed biscuits, and played with. Finally, she is directed to the conservatory, where Lady Georgiana is eagerly awaiting her arrival. Lucy is greeted with a warm hug, and the promise that there is seed cake for tea, and she and dear Flush will certainly get a slice of it.
Lucy dimples her gratitude, as Lady Georgiana scoops Flush onto her lap and begins to stroke the spaniel’s soft ears, remarking forlornly, “Oh how I miss my little pet dog.”
Lucy commiserates with her, saying that her own life would be bereft without her furry companion. The two discuss the importance of pets, and horses, about which Lucy knows little, but her companion is happy to enlighten her, having owned a series of ponies in her country childhood, and riding horses as an adult.
“I often think about Overture, my Arab mare,” Lady Georgiana sighs. “She was such a gentle mount. I rode her in the Park every afternoon at 4 o’clock. That was where my husband the Brute first saw me. I was so innocent in those days ~ I thought any man in a red coat was a hero. Oh, how little I knew of the world, Lucy and how I have suffered from my ignorance ever since.”
“Indeed, I believe it is frequently so,” Lucy says solemnly, mining her stock of usefully bland phrases. She pauses, to give her next words greater emphasis. “That is why so many of us turn to fiction, I think ~ to enlighten us, as well as to escape from the cares of the world that surrounds us.”
Lady Georgiana clasps her hands together. “I cannot agree more! Where would we be without the great writers of our age: Mrs Ward, Miss Austen, Mr. Richardson ~ I am such an admirer of his novels. Pamela ~ is that not a wonderful book? I could not put it down!”
Lucy nods her agreement. “I should be quite lost without a pile of books by my bed. Is there a library here, where you can borrow books to read?”
“Oh yes. Dr Foster believes that we patients must keep busy and cheerful, so that we do not dwell upon our situation too much. But many of the books are so boringly worthy in tone. And some have missing pages.”
“But of course, you always have your own copy of Cecil Danvers,” Lucy smiles. “That must be a great comfort to you.”
“It is indeed so, and I often turn the pages and remember a time when I felt happy and free and loved.”
“Perhaps that time might come again?” Lucy suggests slyly.
Lady Georgiana shakes her head. “No, it cannot be. My only regret is that I did not pluck up enough courage and follow my beloved abroad. I was too scared of what my husband the Brute might do. I was such a coward and a fool. And this is what he did. Perhaps it is my punishment for not following my heart? What do you think, dearest Lucy?”
“I do not believe that at all,” Lucy replies stoutly. “I think you have been badly treated ~ very badly treated indeed. But the power to remedy this lies in your own hands.”
Lady Georgiana stares at her in amazement. “My hands? What are you saying?”
Seizing the moment, Lucy now reveals to her the accusations made against the author of Cecil Danvers by Lord Lackington, and the court case that his lawyers wish to bring against her. Lady Georgiana listens, the colour dying out of her face. When Lucy has finished speaking, she sits very still for a long time, her hands resting gently on Flush’s soft back. Eventually, she speaks.
“What you have told me, dear Lucy, does not come as a surprise, though I am shocked ~ I will admit it. My husband must know that what he is saying is a lie ~ for he has seen me with the book in my hand often enough. He clearly thinks because of his position in society, and the fact that I am here, and my female friends would not be brave enough to stand up in a courtroom and defy him, that he will win this case against Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton.
“And if so, he will then demand a great deal of money in recompense for his ‘reputation’. That is what it is all about, dear Lucy. It costs a lot of money to keep me here, and I expect he is running out of funds to pay Dr Foster for my care. He is also a gambler as well as a Brute, so he will have debts he cannot pay on top of the fees. But how can I, imprisoned as I am in this place, help the author of that wonderful book? Tell me at once, if you will. Be assured, I will do anything I can, however small.”
Lucy pauses, while an attendant brings in a tea tray loaded with cups, saucers, and a plate of cake. What she has to say is for Lady Georgiana’s ears alone. After Lady Georgiana and the other patients in the conservatory have helped themselves, and Flush has been given some water and the biggest slice of cake, she resumes the conversation.
“I have a plan, dear Georgiana. It is a bold plan, but I am confident it can work. And it is this: as I am now a familiar visitor, I shall ask whether I might take you out tomorrow in a hired carriage for a short ride. I am sure that this will be acceptable to the attend
ants. Only, you won’t come back. I will drop you in town, so that you can purchase such items as you will require for travelling, for when we leave this place, we must not look as if you are going any further than around the local area for a little jaunt. No bags or cases. Not even an extra-warm coat.
“Once you are equipped, all you will need to do is arrive at the railway station in time to catch the train to Dover. I shall buy a ticket beforehand, which I will give you in the carriage. The only thing I ask, on behalf of my friend, is that you entrust to me your copy of her book, so that she can prove, once and for all, that she did not base the story upon your relationship and marriage. I have spoken to her, and she has given me sufficient funds to help you leave the country and begin a new life abroad.”
Lucy has barely finished speaking when she finds her hands tumultuously clasped between Lady Georgiana’s hands, and, raising her eyes to her friend’s face, she sees tears streaking her cheeks.
“Oh, dear friend, dearest Lucy! It sounds like the plot of a wonderful novel! Too good to be true!”
“But it is not a novel ~ and I assure you, if you follow my instructions to the letter, and do not mention what we have talked about to a single soul, and remain calm, I believe in a very short time, you could be free of this place and this country, once and forever.”
Lady Georgiana stares at her. “Do you really believe it?”
“I do indeed.”
There is a pink spot of colour in each of Lady Georgiana’s pale cheeks. “Dear Lucy! How lucky for me was that day when you tripped over and had to rest here on a bench. What a fortuitous accident! For you have provided me with an escape route from this place and my Brute of a husband. Of course you shall have my copy of Cecil Danvers, if it will help that wonderful writer.
“But tell me, Lucy, you have met the lady ~ what is she like? I picture her as tall and fashionably slender, with a mass of dark curls, large grey eyes and a cunning way of observing the world behind her sweet, open smile.”
Lucy agrees that this is exactly what the novelist is like, on the basis that Lady Georgiana has had enough of her dreams crushed, and it would be churlish on her part to reveal that the writer of Cecil Danvers (and other novels of aristocratic life and loves) is, in reality, a small, dumpy woman who could easily pass for a housekeeper in a domestic staff line-up.
“Now, let us finish our tea and cake, and then I will go and ask the attendants whether I can take you out for a short carriage drive on Thursday,” she says. “On their agreement hinges the entire success or failure of the plan. Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton writes that the first day of the trial begins on that day, so we have not a moment to lose.”
Lady Georgiana obediently buries her face in her teacup. Meanwhile Lucy retrieves Flush, who is gorging himself on cake at the expense of some of the other residents. She picks him up and takes him out to the lobby, where the attendants are also enjoying the afternoon’s refreshment.
Lucy walks up to them, assuming a sad, anxious expression and is immediately questioned as to the origin of it. With a lot of sighing, she reluctantly confides how worried she is by the marked deterioration in Lady Lackington’s demeanour. How lacklustre and weary she seems.
It is her opinion, Lucy tells them, that her friend is suffering from a lowering of the spirits, brought on by the prospect of the cold winter approaching. She is sorely in need of some diversion, and what could be more diverting, Lucy suggests slyly, than a carriage ride? Only for a short distance, of course, one would not want to over-excite the poor patient, would one? And naturally, she and dear Flush would accompany Lady Lackington, and return her to the asylum, hopefully a more cheerful individual for her little outing.
The attendants listen, confer amongst themselves, then say they will call Dr Foster and ask him. But Lucy has met the asylum owner, a cadaverous Scotsman who wears a black tail-coat, a high collar and an unctuous expression, on a previous visit, and knows he is no match for her persuasive charm.
Sure enough, after pulling at his moustache, and peering over his glasses, Dr Foster is ‘minded to agree, uh-huh, uh-huh’ with the charming young visitor that a brief outing would be to the benefit of Lady Georgiana, and no indeed, he does not need to consult her husband on the matter as he is the Medical Superintendent, and the lady has been transferred entirely to his care and therefore her progress is under his direction.
Lucy is almost dancing with glee as she makes her way back to her lodgings. Later, while lingering over her evening meal, and making notes of the meeting for future literary reference, she recalls the words of the Scottish bard, Robert Burns, about the best laid schemes of mice and men. But as she is neither a mouse nor a man, she reminds herself, her scheme will definitely not gang agley!
****
Detective Inspector Stride is having one of those ‘take your problems to work’ days. There are new tenants in the house next door, and their loud, persistent, nocturnal quarrelling is keeping him awake, even more so than the snoring of Mrs Stride usually does. For the past week, he has had to bed down in the back room, to be awakened at first light by some wretched bird chirping away at full volume just outside his window.
Stride is not a lover of nature. Or quarrelsome people. And a combination of the two means that his coffee uptake has increased, which is rendering him somewhat peppery of disposition. Thus, he is not in a particularly reasonable frame of mind as he enters Scotland Yard, carrying a mug of hot coffee, to find a small group of elderly citizens clustered in front of the main desk. Their general demeanour is sombre. One old woman is openly sobbing and being comforted by a fellow group member. The desk sergeant catches Stride’s eye over the top of their heads.
“Been a bit of an incident, sir. Sorry to say.”
“Well, is there nobody here to deal with it then?” Stride snaps. “We employ enough detectives. Where are they all?”
The desk constable consults his list. “It appears everybody is out, sir. Or not in, sir, if you know what I mean. Except for you.”
The group, sensing that someone in authority has finally arrived, promptly deserts the desk and regroups in front of him. Stride takes a step back. The group takes a step forward. Stride waits for enlightenment to arrive. The group exchanges nods and glances, then forms up behind an elderly woman ~ the one who is still crying.
“Yes, my good woman,” Stride says briskly, trying to keep the impatient tone out of his voice. “How may I assist you?”
The woman sniffs, mops her eyes, fumbles with her handkerchief, clears her throat, fiddles with her bonnet strings, then finally blurts out, “Perce has gone missing.”
Oh really! Stride thinks, irritably, instantly presuming that the name refers to a pet dog. He assumes his sternest expression.
“Madam, this is a police station, not a search facility for lost animals.”
The woman fixes him with a watery red-rimmed stare. “I know what this place is, right enough. That’s why I’m here. Perce told me couple of nights ago he had some detectoring job on the go. And now he ain’t answering his door, and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. So what am I supposed to do? Coz he’s an old man and his cough is bad at the moment.”
Stride feels the day sliding sideways a little further. He gets out his notebook and pencil. “What is the name of the individual who has gone missing, Mrs …?” he says, mentally crossing his fingers that it isn’t who he suspects it might be.
“It’s Mr. Percy Wozenheim ~ Pozzy, he’s called locally. He rents a room off of Crutched Friars Court. I’m Miss Dorothy Wozenheim, his sister, only everyone calls me Dot. My brother’s 68 and he didn’t ought to be out in the evenings, with his chest.”
Detective Inspector Stride continues to take details from Pozzy’s sister, but behind the methodical questioning, his mind is racing ahead of itself. He coaxed the old man out of retirement, so if anything untoward has happened, it will be his fault. And he will have to live with the guilt of that, even though nobody else would know. Which makes it worse, somehow
.
After getting as much information as he can, Stride finally makes it to his office. He now has a mug of cold coffee and a bad conscience, neither conducive to a productive morning. Thus, after staring out of his office window for some time, and moving a few files around his desk in a desultory fashion, he pushes back his chair, throws on his topcoat and informs the desk constable that he is going out for some fresh air.
Things have always become clearer in Stride’s mind when he is on his feet as opposed to behind his desk. He stands on the front steps of Scotland Yard for a second or two, then sets off at a brisk pace. Once again, he has a lot of thinking, and a lot of walking to do.
****
Stride does not know it, but at some point in his walk, his path will cross with that of Mrs Riva Hemmyng-Stratton, who is making her way, also on foot, to the High Court, where the trial of Lackington v Hemmyng-Stratton is about to begin.
A brief hope that the newspaper evidence garnered by her friend Miss Landseer would stave off the awful day, has failed to produce the desired result. So now, here she is, arriving at the place of judgement. Luckily for her, a mysterious donor has come forward and supplied her with a barrister to fight her case. Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton met with him, briefly, at his book-lined chambers in Bedford Row. He had very large sandy whiskers and frightened the life out of her. She only hopes he will do the same to Strutt & Preening.
But behold! What is this? Why are crowds of people gathered up ahead? The Author falters, her footsteps slowing. Is a riot taking place outside the courtroom? She halts. Suddenly, a voice from the crowd calls, “There she is! That’s her! The lady with the veil ~ just like the newspapers described her!” And next minute, to her astonishment, she is surrounded on all sides by cheering men and women, each holding up a copy of Cecil Danvers. In various editions.
