The Poison Thread

by Laura Purcell

  From there, James Butterham would have dropped out of notice had he not taken to the business of portrait painting. Society could not resist commissioning such a youth and sneaking a look at him. Added to which, Butterham possessed some talent. Perhaps he would have made his way after all, were it not for the heiress Miss Jemima Trussell.

  The elopement of these two young, ill-matched persons blazed across the old society magazines. No doubt they exaggerated when they said the shock of it fairly killed Lord M—, but it is true that he died very soon afterwards. As for Miss Trussell, she had breached contract with a most eligible match arranged by her family. She was cut off without a penny.

  Part of me had hoped to find a happy ending for the young lovers. Notoriety is by no means a death sentence in the world of art; I thought perhaps patrons would be caught by the glamour and excitement of the pair. Alas, Lord M—, Mr Trussell and the young lady’s intended were all darlings of the world, not to be offended. The Butterhams sank, and they sank fast.

  So much for love conquering all! This is a lesson for me to heed, when I am tempted to run away with my David. We must be prepared, we must do things properly.

  The next newspaper entry to mention James Butterham was bleak indeed: a coroner’s jury finding the verdict of self-murder at the age of thirty-six. It is not incredible that a man, on the day of his daughter’s funeral, harassed by money troubles and quarrelling with his wife, should put a gun to his head. Do not mistake me – it is a sin against God and his remaining family alike – but is the motive not comprehensible?

  The jury declared Butterham sane at the time of suicide, which ruled his property forfeit. For another family this might have been a calamity, but the deceased’s estate was eaten up by debt, to the extent that an artist planning to sue Butterham for breach of copyright gave up there and then. Bailiffs took possession of all.

  A charitable subscription had saved Naomi’s body from disgrace, but that could not be the case here. Not with a suicide. According to custom, James Butterham’s remains were toppled into an unmarked grave on the north side of the church – the Devil’s side – under the cover of night. There were no mourners, and he received no service of burial.

  Although I am back in my own room with Wilkie trilling, and I have scrubbed the newspaper print from my fingers, I cannot stop thinking about the history I have read. I begin to wonder if it is true that a child pays for their father’s sins. Lord M— fell, then James suffered, and now Ruth . . .

  I tidy my hair back into its combs and strive for rationality. Ruth’s silly fancies must be taking a stronger hold on me than I thought. But sad as they were, my discoveries are a positive thing; they do not paint Ruth as either a liar or a madwoman. She has simply told herself a story to deal with the grief she cannot face.

  I expect we can all understand that.

  I apply a dab of salve to my lips, watching my reflection in the mirror. I am not content with the image I see.

  I must return to Ruth. Conscience upbraids me with neglecting my other women: Liz Carter, who I am teaching to read, and Jenny Hill who requires constant encouragement. But they will be incarcerated for many years yet; I shall always have them to call upon. Not so with Ruth.

  Now we approach the meat of her history, the time when she met her victim for the first time. This is the story I particularly wish to hear.

  My heart skips along. My eyes look brighter, and I know I will appear to far more advantage in prison, listening to Ruth, than I will at my own birthday party.

  Perhaps Papa is right to be concerned about that.

  14

  Ruth

  They say that vinegar gets out bloodstains. Vinegar and cold water, that will do it. But there’s a variety of blood that comes from deep within, and this can’t be erased. Scrubbing until your arms ache, scarlet frothing from the brush – still it remains.

  So it was with the matter that fell upon Mrs Metyard’s work. Ma and I lugged the bundles of cloth between us, trying not to slip on the oyster shells and dung littering the streets. It was full summer then, swarming with flies. Thick, white dust rose in clouds from the horses’ hooves to whiten the railings and whatever patches of grass had survived the heat. No use now, trying to shield our material from smuts. All was marbled in brown and yellow where the blood had dried, and I’d tried to wash it. It didn’t look like my father’s life force, staining those clothes. It looked like the contents of a chamber pot.

  You’ll call me heartless for thinking such thoughts. Maybe I was: a cavity yawned in my ribs, where once I’d felt a heart beat back. We’d lost everything. Everyone. And as I stumbled down that road, calling out to Ma to avoid potholes and carts, I didn’t see that there was any future for us.

  Mrs Metyard was our last creditor. Her claim was the only reason we’d been allowed to keep the ruined materials from the bailiffs. After we dealt with her, we would be cast adrift. No home to return to, no friends who wanted to associate with us after this disgrace.

  ‘Can’t we go and live with your parents, Ma?’ I whined. ‘I know they didn’t like Pa, but surely now . . .’

  ‘No,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I wrote many times after you were born, seeking reconciliation. Only one answer to all those letters! And the language they used, about your father . . . That I never can forgive.’ Her lip quivered, and when she spoke again her voice was rough. ‘Though perhaps they were right. They saw more clearly than I. For he has deserted us, hasn’t he? Left us all alone, like the scoundrel they called him. How could he?’

  ‘He wasn’t himself, Ma. It wasn’t Pa who pulled that trigger.’

  ‘Then who did, Ruth? Tell me that.’ Her milky eyes glared at me, demanding, even without their focus. ‘Who else ruined our family?’

  It was me.

  Little by little, the streets grew wider. Cobbles gave way to granite setts underfoot. Although the flavour of sweating horses lingered, there weren’t so many carts and wagons on the road. Here, I pulled Ma from the paths of omnibuses, with their brightly painted advertisements, and smart hansom cabs. Vendors didn’t sell oysters in this part of town, or pickled whelks. It was coffee and gingerbread. Even the pedestrians that stared as we straggled past were of a higher class: colourful, fine-napped dresses adorned the ladies while gentlemen swung gold watch-chains.

  I bent my head down, trying to hide beneath the rim of my battered bonnet. No wonder Rosalind Oldacre had laughed at me. This was her world. They might be her lapdogs, trotting across the road in front of a harried lady’s maid.

  ‘Is this Cross Street?’ Ma asked me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it’s up ahead. Just a bit farther, on the left.’

  Metyard’s stood at the end of a row of shops, next to a barber’s. It sprawled larger and taller than its competitors, more like a genteel residence than a place of commerce. I saw its wooden sign, hanging limp in the heat, and beneath – diamonds. Not real diamonds, of course, but panes of clear glass sparkling in the sun. Despite the dust, Metyard’s bow windows were immaculate, displaying a tableau of headless figures. Silk flowers overflowed from birdcages hung between the models. A red gingham blanket and a picnic basket were spread on the false floor.

  It was only when we drew near that I began to make out the fine detail on the gowns. I thought nothing would bring me joy, after all that had passed, but as I gazed upon the scalloped flounces and guipure lace in that window, it felt as if I’d never lived before. Such colour! An evening gown, off the shoulders, in pink watered tabby with a gloss like ice. Bishop sleeves on a cerulean carriage dress. Then the mint-green pelisse-robe with a series of silver ribbon knots that fastened it at the side. Nankeen gloves, dimity shawls. I yearned to touch, to possess, with an intensity that made my eyes water.

  ‘Round the back, Ruth.’

  Not for us the wide, swept stone steps that led up between the bow windows. We turned to the side
and pushed through a wooden gate that creaked on its hinges. This gave access to a plot of miserable ground fenced in by walls and stacks of chimneys. A crippled tree hunched in a square of mud. Six or seven feet in front of it was an iron disc set in the earth, with a ring to pull it open.

  ‘What do they keep underground?’ I asked Ma. ‘Under that hatch, there?’

  It was pointless for Ma to look where I gestured, but she frowned and thought for a moment. ‘You must mean the coal hole. Mrs Metyard doesn’t want the boys and their sacks coming on to the premises. Too much dust threatening the fabric.’

  The rest of the ground was paved over. There was a pump, but it was burnt so orange with rust that I doubted it would work.

  For the customers, Metyard’s was arrayed like a paradise, but here on the underbelly, where the tradespeople entered, there was no glamour. We hadn’t paid for it.

  My forehead was drenched with perspiration from the walk. Sweat had leaked through my glove and stained the bundle of material with an imprint of my hand. It hardly mattered now.

  ‘Let me talk, Ruth,’ Ma said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t interrupt.’ Her arms were shaking. Her clouded eyes widened, dominating her face.

  ‘Why? What will you say?’

  ‘I . . . I will have to ask her for terms. Permission to pay back the fines in instalments.’

  ‘And if she refuses?’

  ‘She cannot. Not after all that has happened. She is a widow herself, she must . . .’

  As she trailed off, prickles of apprehension ran up my spine. Ma still wanted to believe there were people with good hearts. I knew better.

  Tentatively, Ma knocked on the door. Footsteps and low voices sounded behind. I clutched at my bundle, terrified by the prospect of a fashionable female answering and sneering at me. Nothing happened. Ma knocked again. We heard a shout, followed by the quick thud of boots. The door eased open a crack, revealing a tall girl with large, wary eyes. Her skin was as black as a peppercorn.

  Foolishly, I smiled. The girl didn’t smile back.

  ‘I need to speak with your mistress, dear,’ Ma said. I couldn’t tell whether Ma recognised the girl, or if she was just speaking in the direction of the door. ‘Can you ask if Mrs Metyard will see us?’

  ‘She’s busy in the showroom.’ Her voice wasn’t precisely hostile, but defensive. As if we posed her some sort of threat.

  ‘Well, can you ask all the same? We’ll wait.’

  The girl’s nostrils flared. Not a flare of pride, as I’d seen in the young ladies at school; more like a horse snorting when it’s frightened. She dithered for a moment before hanging her head. ‘You’d better step in.’

  Rather than opening the door wider, she simply backed away and left us to follow.

  The trade door led on to a small, whitewashed room with a tile floor. It smelt like mud and boots. A large sink, such as you see in a scullery, ran along the left wall, but that was the only ornament.

  I helped Ma up the step. Our guide had already turned her back to us. She wore a gown the colour of caramel. It was too short for her, and tight across the shoulders.

  ‘Just a moment,’ I pleaded. ‘My mother has difficulty walking.’

  Although she didn’t turn or acknowledge my words, the girl slowed her step, and held the next door open. I liked her the better for it.

  We entered a kind of lumber room. Brass rails lined the walls and from them hung offcuts of fabric, perhaps out of fashion now or saving for the cooler weather. Hat stands sported broken bonnets. The girl moved a wicker basket full of cotton reels off a battered old chair and I placed Ma upon it.

  ‘Wait here,’ the girl said. As she opened another door, I caught a glimpse of her right hand. Flinched. One finger was missing: the smallest.

  The door slammed behind her.

  It was crowded in the lumber room, but at least it was cool. Ma and I dumped our bundles on to the floor. It was a relief to be free of them, although I hadn’t felt their weight as I thought I might. My arms seemed stronger, able to bear more.

  ‘I hope Mrs Metyard won’t be angry, being called from the showroom,’ Ma whispered. ‘I do not like to inconvenience her further. But Miss Kate can take over with the customers, can’t she?’

  I hardly knew how to answer, for Mrs Metyard wasn’t being called from the showroom: underneath the door I could still see the feet of the girl. She was hovering there. Evidently, Mrs Metyard was not a woman to be interrupted.

  Fifteen minutes passed. I amused myself by examining the offcuts, imagining what a corset I would have made if I’d had access to these materials. But Ma could only sit. She looked gradually paler, more frightened.

  At last a bell tinkled to signal the customers leaving the shop. Movement sounded in the corridors. Ma clenched her hands together. I heard a sharp intake of breath, then the murmur of the girl.

  A strident voice answered, ‘What, in there?’

  I wondered where Ma usually spoke to Mrs Metyard, but I didn’t have time to ask before the door burst open and Ma scrabbled to her feet.

  Mrs Metyard. If they find me innocent of my crime, and I live to be a hundred years old, I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget that first meeting with her. My dislike was instant, visceral. She had a square face marked with strong lines in the forehead and around the mouth. People would describe her features as handsome, but never pretty; they lacked the warmth necessary for beauty. Her spotted, silk gown had fashionable tight sleeves and gave her a military bearing. Later, I’d learn she acquired this stance from her dead husband, who was a captain in the army.

  Outwardly, she was attractive enough for a woman in her fifties. But I think – and I know it sounds strange, coming from me – that sometimes you can just tell if a person is no good. You sense it as an animal does, and your hackles rise.

  Ma cringed in a curtsey. ‘Mrs Metyard. Forgive me for interrupting you. This is my daughter, Ruth.’

  I inclined my head.

  ‘I expected you to come,’ Mrs Metyard said carelessly. ‘I read about your husband in the paper.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shameful.’ She peered down her nose, which was long, directly at me.

  ‘I cannot make excuses for my husband,’ Ma said softly. ‘But as for myself . . .’ She opened her clasped hands, gestured at the bundles on the floor. ‘I have failed you, and come to apologise. There was . . . accidental damage to the work.’

  As Mrs Metyard cast her baleful gaze upon the material, I saw how it must look through her eyes. Not just a filthy pile of cloth, but an affront to her shop and the beauty it stood for.

  ‘That’s not damage, woman; it’s blood. So the brute shot himself all over your work, did he? Heaven and earth! Did his selfishness know no bounds?’

  Ma crumpled.

  Here it came at last: my breathless, silent fury. I glared at Mrs Metyard and thought how exquisite it would feel to knock that square head straight from its shoulders.

  ‘I cannot—’

  ‘It’s of no matter,’ Mrs Metyard cut her off. ‘As you know, the work is long overdue. I had to give it out elsewhere, at great expense. But at least my orders are fulfilled. My reputation is safe – with no thanks to you.’

  ‘Please accept my apologies, Mrs Metyard.’

  It’s a frightening sensation, watching your mother regress to a girl. I’d never seen her so meek. When Ma was young, she’d been Miss Jemima Trussell and ordered gowns from women like Mrs Metyard on credit. How far she’d sunk.

  ‘I do accept them. Now kindly pay what you owe and take your leave. I hardly need say that our business relationship is at an end. Even if I could trust you to deliver the work on time . . .’ Waving a contemptuous hand at our bundles, she added, ‘You purchased this material from me, so keep it. I have no use for anything in this state. You might.’

  ‘The – the payment,’
Ma said, to her feet. ‘I cannot, at present, pay it all.’

  ‘No? How much of it can you pay, Butterham?’

  ‘None of it. Not at the moment.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Never had I heard those two words spoken with less warmth. ‘How unfortunate. I suppose I must notify the proper authorities.’

  ‘No!’ Ma started forward, stumbling on her skirts. ‘Please. I will find work and pay you back, Mrs Metyard, every penny. Only give me a little time, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘You, find work? Don’t delude yourself. Your eyes have gone, Butterham, and your sewing is sloppy. Do not think I have failed to notice. I was merely too kind to speak out. But we should have come to this pass in the end, even if your husband had possessed the decency to stay alive.’

  ‘I will find something!’ Ma flailed for Mrs Metyard’s hand. The dressmaker shrank back with distaste. ‘I’ll pay you something, I swear, even if it is only a little. But if you send me to the debtors’ prison, your money is gone forever.’

  Debtors’ prison. Of course, that was what made Ma so afraid. The lumber room seemed to shrink around me, swathes of material pressing close, close.

  ‘The money is already gone, Butterham. I know that to my sorrow. Come, I am not unreasonable. In other circumstances, I might have let you sew here until you had paid off your debt. But I cannot put out work like yours, even on undergarments. You see that, don’t you?’

  I considered see a cruel choice of word.

  For a moment, it looked as if Ma would break, but suddenly her brow cleared and she said, ‘Ruth.’

  ‘What, her? Can the girl sew?’

  ‘Oh yes! She can sew better than anyone; she flowered the gloves for the Lindsay bride. She could sew for me.’

  I stared at Ma, horrified. It was like one of those nightmares where you’re powerless; I could only shake my head and croak, ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm. And she is . . . how old?’

  ‘She’ll be fourteen this November.’