[The Victorian Detectives 09] - Desire & Deceit

by Carol Hedges

  “Oh, Harriet,” Charlotte Harbinger says, on a sigh. “Here you are. I still cannot understand why you wanted to run away.”

  Privately, Harriet cannot understand why she would want to remain. She has just witnessed what was almost a fistfight between her father and her uncle. It is the sort of behaviour that, if replicated by her or her brother, would get them both a beating and exile to their respective rooms for days.

  “I missed the parrot, I told you,” she says, between clenched teeth.

  “Oh, Harriet,” her mother repeats despairingly. “What will become of you?”

  Harriet does not answer. The nights she spent being a ghost made her realise that her future was just waiting for her, out beyond the horizon. Everything seemed possible. Now, the high prison walls have closed in again.

  “Your father says you are to put on your best dress and brush your hair. He is taking you and Hanover to call on great aunt this afternoon. You will apologise for your behaviour. You will beg her forgiveness. It is very important that you create a good impression, Harriet. Important to father. You must promise me that you won’t speak out of turn or say any of your strange fanciful things. Do you promise, dear?”

  Harriet stares into her mother’s sad, watery eyes. I am never getting married, she thinks. “I will try, mother,” she mutters.

  “That’s my good girl. And when you return, everything will be back to normal again and we will be the same happy little family that we were before, won’t we?”

  Harriet decides not to dignify this with a response. Her mother, interpreting her silence as agreement, smiles waveringly and retreats. Harriet goes over to the window and looks down. The dog, still chained to its kennel in the empty yard, lifts its head to the heavens and lets out a long, keening howl of despair. She knows exactly how it feels.

  ****

  Euphemia Harbinger is fading. The bright flower that once bloomed so radiantly that it brought many men into eager submission, is dropping its petals, one by one. The hot fetid summer has exhausted her. Every new day seems to bring on some bodily indignity. She leaks, she creaks, she struggles to locate the words she needs to make her demands known, she can barely find the energy to lift her spoon to her lips, and when she does, everything tastes like pap.

  She wakes in the night, listening for the footsteps of Death. Some days, she longs for him to snatch her up. And yet, even in the midst of decay, she is still not without power. Of a sort. Once, it was her beauty and gaiety that held men in sway. Now, it is her wealth. Once, people flocked to her door to be part of her life. Now, they come to see if she is dead.

  Here is such a one. Arthur Harbinger, hotfoot from his confrontation with his younger brother, has managed to gain audience. He sits in her hot, stuffy bedroom, in the uncomfortable cane-bottomed chair (she has chosen it deliberately), his shoulders tense, his bony hands locked together between his knees. Wrapped in her soft cashmere shawls, and propped up on three feather pillows, she watches him, silently. A female deity, granting audience to a supplicant.

  “Dearest aunt,” the supplicant says, “I am delighted to see you looking so well and rested.”

  She deconstructs the now-familiar greeting. “But I expect you’d be far more delighted if I was laid out in my shroud, eh, Arthur? Both you and your brother.”

  He affects shock. “I am upset that you could possibly think this, dearest aunt, let alone say it.”

  “Oh, we who are dying are allowed the liberty of finally speaking our mind, don’t you think? After all, what is there left for us to do? You have come to find out how your sister and I got on, is that not the truth? Come, do not dissemble. I am not so far gone that I can’t smell a lie when it is thrust under my nose. Even when it is disguised as a bouquet.”

  Arthur Harbinger winces. He has brought a very expensive bouquet of hothouse flowers, purchased in haste on his way over. It lies on the chest of drawers.

  “Your sister and I spent a very constructive and pleasant time together,” the old woman says, slyly. “We reminisced about the past ~ old people like to reminisce and there was much I wanted to talk about with her. White kittens, coal holes, a dolls house that went up in flames, books she loved that were ripped up. It seems Wilhelmina had a very event-filled childhood. Do you not agree?”

  “I think you should take whatever my sister may have imparted with a grain of salt, dear aunt,” Arthur says, selecting from among the voices screaming in his head the tone of a reasonable man. “She was never a truthful child, so much of what she might have told you probably took place in her mind.”

  “But not all,” the old woman counters, shooting him a shrewd searching glance. “Certainly not all. You did not carry out the final wishes of your father, which were to share things equally between the three of you, did you? As a result, your sister tells me that she has had to go out into the world and work hard to support herself.”

  Arthur Harbinger folds his hands. His face assumes an expression of such saintly virtuosity that it could have modelled for a stained-glass window. “I begged Sherborne not to do it, dear aunt. I said we should always endeavour to look after each other, but he was adamant. Wilhelmina had removed herself from the family home after an unfortunate disagreement with him. We did not know where she had gone. She went quite suddenly, in the night, without leaving an address. So, in her absence, we made the only decision we could.”

  “I see. Did you? But now, she has reappeared. So, what are you going to do to make amends?”

  “If you care to give me her address,” Arthur says, cunningly, “I shall see what can be done.”

  The old women snorts, in a very unladylike fashion. “I think not. You are more likely to lose it again, eh? Do not worry, I have already taken it upon myself to do what is right. It is clear, from speaking to your sister, that neither you nor your brother can be trusted.”

  The diamonds, Arthur thinks. The beautiful, priceless diamonds, that could’ve been sold for a small fortune and then reinvested in some profitable business. So, the girl told the truth: Wilhelmina has got her greedy undeserving claws upon the diamonds; they have gone.

  “I am sorry to hear you say this, dear aunt,” he says, making an effort to sound regretful while resisting the urge to place both hands round the wrinkled throat and squeeze the life out of her. “I assure you both I and my brother have nothing but your best welfare at heart.”

  “Really, Arthur? Is that why you have only now shown up at my door after all these years of living in the same city? When you smell my death approaching? I may be an old woman, near the end of my days, but I am not a complete imbecile. Now, be off with you. I want a rest, before your brother and his offspring turn up to ingratiate themselves, as I am sure they will.”

  Arthur Harbinger’s smile is as false as that on a waxwork dummy. He rises, makes a small stiff bow, and walks to the door.

  “And tell Rose to bring up my tea,” the figure in the bed calls after him.

  He clenches his jaw tight and descends the stairs. There is no sight of the housekeeper in the hallway. He finds her in the sitting-room, rearranging the china ornaments on the mantelpiece and exchanging words with the parrot. He relays the message. She instantly stops dusting and heads for the kitchen to make the tea. She does not show him out. A deliberate snub.

  Arthur Harbinger collects his hat and stick from the hallstand and opens the front door. He contemplates slamming it, then has second thoughts. An idea suddenly strikes him. Somewhere, in the pile of paperwork on his desk, is the letter his aunt asked him to post some time ago, the one containing her signature. It is time to draw up another life insurance policy in her name. For an even larger premium, this time. He may have missed out on the diamonds, but one way or another, Arthur is going to profit from her demise. And sooner, rather than later.

  ****

  Profiting from the demise of others is exactly what Lucy Landseer is investigating, in her first case as a consulting detective. She has ascertained, by judicious inquiries, tha
t her client’s stepfather has made multiple marriages. Two of his former wives have died ~ she cannot be certain that the circumstances were suspicious, although they were certainly auspicious as far as Mr Brooke was concerned.

  As a result of being left a widower, he inherited a house in Hitchin, a bakery business, and another house in London. Not bad. Not bad at all, for a man who has done nothing to earn these things. Then, there is the wife still living. From her, he has also had a large sum of money. The question uppermost in Lucy’s agile brain is this: what are Mr Brooke’s plans for the future, once he has sold the current house and banked the money.

  She is about to find out.

  For the past two days, Lucy has been discreetly following Mr Francis Brooke. She now knows where he works ~ a rather drab office building off Tottenham Court Road that is let out to multiple businesses. She knows where he lunches ~ a rather run-down public house off one of the back courts. Today, however, Mr Brooke has chosen to desert the office for some retail therapy. She is on his trail.

  Lucy has tracked him along Oxford Street, pausing as he entered one of the big department stores. She has then gone into the store and lurked behind pillars, hovered by merchandise, and affected great interest in stationery. Currently, her quarry is in the gentlemen’s department, looking at cravats. Brooke has a way of insinuating himself round the displays of men’s apparel as if he were about to spring on something.

  It is now midday, and just as Lucy is wondering how long Mr Brooke is going to spend fingering ties and admiring his reflection, a fair haired, wearily-pretty, middle-aged woman, daintily dressed in a primrose silk dress, with a paisley shawl and light straw bonnet, cautiously enters the department. She walks with a stick and glances all around, as if seeking assistance. At once, Brooke is at her side. A look passes between them. Intrigued, Lucy edges nearer, positioning herself at the end of the counter and pretending to pore over a pile of men’s linen handkerchiefs. She overhears Brooke saying,

  “Amelia, my dearest girl ~ I thought I asked you to wait downstairs.”

  The woman replies faintly, “It is such a hot day, dear Francis, and you know I cannot stand for long. Besides, my head feels as if it is going to burst. I had to come in, if only to sit a while. Are we going to partake of luncheon soon? I am so hungry.”

  Francis Brooke pulls at his shiny brown moustache (Lucy is sure it is dyed). “Why don’t you go up to the restaurant, dear girl. I shall just pay for these cravats and join you shortly.”

  Lucy follows Amelia-my-dearest-girl at a discreet distance, lowering her gaze as she enters the restaurant, where a pianist is entertaining the customers with a selection of sentimental tunes. She waits for the woman to be seated, then selects a single table close by. She orders a pot of tea and the cheapest sandwiches on the menu, (she may be permitted a certain amount of expenses in the course of her work, but she is not the sort of individual to exploit her clients).

  In a short while, the woman is joined by Brooke, carrying a parcel. He lifts her gloved hand, and kisses it, letting his lips linger a little too long for Lucy to believe she is a family member. Then he slides into the opposite seat and clicks his fingers to summon the waitress. Lucy’s top lip curls. She has always considered this to be a rather common gesture.

  While the couple await the arrival of their food, Francis Brooke holds the woman’s hand in his, peering adoringly up into her face. The lady modestly turns her cheek, upon which Lucy discerns a faint rose blush. He speaks to her in a low voice, which is extremely annoying for the eavesdropper at the next table, but by leaning in as far as she can without tipping over her chair, Lucy catches the words: ‘selling the old house … start our new life together … waited so long.’

  The luncheon arrives. Brooke tucks in heartily, chatting around and sometimes during mouthfuls. His companion says very little, merely regarding him enraptured, while conveying very small squares of bread and butter into her mouth. The words ‘besotted’ come to mind. Also, the word ‘fool’, but Lucy reminds herself that this woman does not know what she knows, therefore the rather florid charms of Mr Brooke must seem to her to be completely genuine. Given her frail health, as evinced by the walking stick, and the minute amount she is eating, despite saying earlier that she was hungry, Lucy suspects that Mr Brooke has made, once again, a careful and deliberate choice of a future partner in life.

  Eventually, the luncheon is finished. Mr Brooke rises, indicating that he will pay the bill and then go to the gentlemen’s rest room. Lucy thinks fast. Somehow, she has to find out where this Amelia lives. An idea strikes her. She picks up an uneaten slice of buttered bread from her plate, lowers her veil, pulls her bonnet down, and rises, as if she is leaving. But as she passes the table, she drops her bread, butter side down, into the fair one’s lap. She flinches. Lucy gasps, bringing both hands to her face.

  “Oh no! Oh no! I apologise. What a terrible thing. Please forgive me.” She leans over and attempts to retrieve the bread but somehow manages to spread the greasy butter even further. “Oh, I am so clumsy today!” She fishes in her bag. “Your lovely dress! Let me pay for the cleaning ~ oh, wait, I have no cards. Oh, what a silly girl I am. Perhaps you can give me your card and I will, I promise, recompense you.”

  The fair one purses her lips. “It really doesn’t matter, Miss …”

  “But it does matter. It matters a great deal. May I trouble you for your card? I would never forgive myself if I did not make good the damage I have caused by my clumsiness.”

  The woman shrugs, but hands Lucy a small gold-rimmed visiting card. “It is really no matter, I assure you, but if you insist ...”

  “Oh, I do, I do,” Lucy assures her earnestly. “Thank you. You will be hearing from me, I promise you. An apology, if nothing else. Oh, I hope I have not spoiled the rest of your day.”

  Spotting Mr Brooke returning in the distance, she stuffs the card into her bag, pays for her food, and hastens back down the stairs to street level. So, it is as she suspected: Mr Brooke is already lining up his next victim. But he has reckoned without the force of nature that is Lucy Landseer. Hubris is finally going to meet its Nemesis. Yes indeed.

  ****

  Meanwhile, over in Chelsea, Sherborne Harbinger stands outside the front door of his aunt’s house. He is flanked on either side by the twins Hanover and Harriet, who have been drilled into submission by their stern papa. There is to be no wayward commenting this time, no straying from the practiced discourse. They wait to be let in. The sun shines. Sherborne sweats under his formal suit jacket, the macassar oil on his hair glistens wetly like snail slime. The twins fidget and glare at each other.

  Minutes pass. Eventually, the door is opened by Rose, the housekeeper. Her face takes on a fixed expression. “My mistress is not receiving this afternoon,” she announces.

  But Sherborne, a man with pound signs imprinted on his retinal grain, is not going to be put off by a mere member of the servant class.

  “We shall not disturb my aunt for long. My daughter has something she wishes to say. Please announce us.”

  Sherborne gives Harriet a sharp push in the back which sends her almost sprawling over the threshold and into the house. The housekeeper clamps her mouth together and goes upstairs. In a few minutes, she returns. “My mistress says only the little girl may go up. You must wait in the sitting room.” The word ‘reluctantly’ hovers in the air looking for somewhere to land.

  Harriet follows the rigid black-clad servant up the familiar stairs. Rose opens the bedroom door. “Miss Harriet Harbinger to see you, madam,” she says primly. “I shall go and make your beef tea.”

  Even to Harriet’s untrained eye, the old woman in the bed does not look well. Her cheeks seem to have sunken into her face. Her skin is yellowy-white, her eyes stare at the far wall, pale and expressionless. Yet, as soon as she sees Harriet, she appears to brighten. She hauls herself higher up in bed and pats the coverlet.

  “Come and sit here, child. Let me look at you.”

&nbs
p; Harriet crosses the room and perches cautiously on the silken coverlet. She might look a bit scary, but at least the old woman doesn’t appear to have anything visible to beat her with.

  “I am sorry for the trouble I caused,” Harriet says mechanically.

  “Are you? What trouble was that? Remind me.”

  Harriet stares into the wrinkled face and sees a glimmer of something steely in the filmy eyes peering up at her.

  “I broke into your house. I stole your food.”

  “So I gather! Rose said it was rats, but I knew better. Rats don’t pour themselves glasses of milk. Nor do they take books from the shelves. What I do not understand is why you came here in the first place. Did you not think your family would be worried?”

  Harriet scrunches up her face. “I just thought it would be nice to be somewhere else. Where I didn’t keep getting into trouble. And I wanted to see the parrot.”

  “I see. You left a couple of books behind you.”

  “They are your books, not mine. I don’t steal,” Harriet says stoutly.

  “You like reading?”

  “I love it.”

  “I presume you have a lot of books at home?”

  Harriet shakes her head. “Father has some in his study, and Hanover has a whole shelf of schoolbooks. I have a few books, but I have read them. They are mainly about Christian children. I am not allowed to borrow Hanover’s books because he is studying to go to a good school and then to university. And father’s books are about business and not suitable for a girl’s mind, he says.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. A life without books is a life only half-lived,” the old woman says softly, almost as if she is speaking to herself.

  The room falls silent. Harriet plays with the corner of the counterpane.