Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  I didn’t really think that it was a woman who had killed Milton-Hayes in that brutal manner, but I resented the way Inspector Field always dismissed my suggestions as ridiculous while bowing down in admiration over anything said by my friend, the famous Mr Charles Dickens.

  ‘Yes,’ he said now, ‘we’ve found a couple of knives, Mr Collins. Not a trace of blood on any one of them. All of them as clean as a whistle, put away in a drawer.’

  ‘Could have been cleaned,’ I said, but hopelessly, as I guessed that he might have means of examining the knives, with a very powerful magnifying glass or something like that.

  He ignored me, though, going over to the window, opening it and thrusting his head out over the sill in just the same way as he had been doing when he called down to us.

  ‘Here’s the van at last,’ he said after a minute. ‘Now we can get rid of the body. The surgeon might have a look at him. Any notion of where his family live?’ He looked at me hopefully but didn’t wait for an answer before looking once more around the room. And then he cast a glance at the cluttered desk in the corner of the room. ‘I’ve been through his papers, but nothing about a family. He didn’t half make a good living, though. I’ve seen his bank statements from Coutts.’ He left the room and then thrust his head back in again, twisting it around the door frame to make a last observation. ‘Would make an honest policeman think about taking up painting. Wouldn’t take long to do one of those things, I suppose, if you put your mind to it, would it?’ he enquired hopefully.

  ‘I’ll ask my brother, Charles, about Milton-Hayes,’ I said, ignoring the last remark. ‘He’s a painter, also. And he knows Milton-Hayes well.’ I doubt he knew all that much, though. Charley was not a gossip. He was singularly uninterested in his fellow human beings, unlike me. I racked my brains. I had a vague feeling that someone had told me that Milton-Hayes was an assumed name. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true, I thought. The name ‘Milton-Hayes’ seemed to indicate a member of the aristocracy, but the artist didn’t speak or behave in any way like a lord or even a squire. He had a sharpness about him that one would associate with a barrow boy who had made good and who was endeavouring to assume the manners of the gentry. I had never taken much interest in him, had not found him in any way congenial, but now I pondered over the man.

  I was surprised to hear that Milton-Hayes made so much money. Millais did, but Millais was far, far more gifted. Milton-Hayes was no Millais. He wasn’t considered to be one of the top artists. He had a certain facile ability as a draughtsman, but, in general, little sensitivity. His forte was in painting skin colours. He seldom showed pictures at the academy. So where had all of his money come from? Certainly my brother, Charley, made very little money and lived mostly on that £11,000 that our hard-working father had bequeathed to my mother.

  ‘Now then, Wilkie, let’s have a quick look around,’ said Dickens as soon as the inspector had gone from the room. ‘There’s something very odd about this business. Why should anyone slash that picture unless it could harm them, unless they could be recognized? And then there is a matter of finding the partner for this picture, Winter of Despair.’ He touched the hinge on the piece of frame and then, neatly and quickly, he began lifting the cotton sheets from the various easels around the room.

  ‘All the usual sort of Milton-Hayes stuff,’ I said as he sent back hopeful looks towards me. ‘He went in for these biblical scenes. And I recognize most of the models. That’s the Welsh girl. I’ve met her at my brother’s scenes. He’s used her in three or four of these paintings. And if she is in the one in that painting that has been slashed, and also the person who is floating in the river, well, I’d have no idea why she would have minded. She’s a professional model. You can find her in many, many paintings by the Pre-Raphaelites.’

  ‘Let’s have a look in here, Wilkie.’ Dickens, as usual, was hardly listening to me, but had picked up the dead man’s keys from his table and coolly unlocked a door that led into a small cloakroom, a place where models could dress and undress. The dead man’s distinctive pale-grey caped cloak hung there, also, but what Dickens was looking at was a canvas carrying bag.

  ‘My brother has one of these and so have his friends. Will fit about …’

  My voice tailed off as Dickens opened the bag and quite coolly took from it some pictures. He carried them into the studio, made a quick neat pile of the stuff on the large rosewood table, transferring it to the deal table and then ranged the five paintings in a semi-circular shape. We both bent over them. Each had the second side of the hinge attached to the left-hand side of the picture and each had a title on the scroll at the bottom of the frame. Dickens read them aloud: ‘The Night Prowler; Forbidden Fruit; Taken in Adultery; Den of Iniquity; Root of All Evil,’ he said and his voice had a note of astonishment.

  I gazed at them and it took me almost a minute to see what had puzzled Dickens, to see what was wrong. The paintings were exquisite, every brushstroke flawless, every flower almost living, every piece of fabric almost tangible; he had spent a lot of time and effort on these works, I thought. I focused on the third picture: Taken in Adultery. The young man, the beautiful woman and the half-open door with an elderly, grey-haired figure. The woman’s dress, richly glowing, purple velvet, the young man’s hand, his hair, all were glowing with colour. And furniture, carpets and lamps were as perfect as though one were in the room and experiencing their beauty.

  But the faces were blank. Just ovals of white paint where a living face should have given life to the picture.

  And then The Night Prowler. Every detail, even the line of spilt wax on the side of the candle, all painted with such care. And the perfection of the jewels on the table, shining with beauty beneath the greedy hand of the thief. The emerald brooch, glowing green as the depth of the ocean, the pearls shimmering, the sharp white light of the diamonds. But the man with the candle in his hand was also faceless.

  I turned to the next picture that Dickens was holding up, his mouth a tight hard line of disapproval. It had its name: Forbidden Fruit. Incongruous, strange, the smooth legs of a girl-child beneath the knee-length skirt, the long hair – no face, of course, neither of the young girl nor of the man who was urging her towards the church where a robed and cloaked priest awaited them.

  And Den of Iniquity, most ominous and most strange of all of the pictures. At first glance, every face appeared to be painted here: anonymous, blurred faces, faces of the drugged, eyes blank, and then, slightly more distinct, the seamed face of the proprietor who was blowing at a kind of pipe, to kindle it and shading it with a lean hand, concentrating its red spark of light. But the face of the central figure, the face of a man lying on a broken bed, arms and legs splayed out, helpless under the power of the drug, this face was covered with that same blank oval of white paint.

  I stood and stared at the five faceless pictures, each ready to be hinged to Winter of Despair.

  ‘Would that be usual?’ Dickens was impatient with my silence. ‘Would artists do that? Leave the face to the last? Surely not. I remember when Daniel Maclise painted me. He did the face quite early on, put in all the small details later.’ Dickens went back to scrutinizing each picture, one by one.

  ‘I suppose that every artist is different.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The pictures were so carefully painted, strange to have the figures with no faces. We both continued to stare at them until we heard the heavy footsteps of the inspector coming back up the stairs. The thud of his feet echoed the beat of my heart.

  I made up my mind quickly before the inspector reached the door. Rapidly I stacked the paintings and slid them back into the bag. And then went to the door. Dickens followed me, without a word. I could feel the guilt written all over me. I glanced sidelong at Dickens, but his face was impassable, unreadable even by me who knew him so well. The silence had to be broken and I knew that I had to take the initiative.

  ‘Would you like me to get my brother, Mr Charles Collins, to look at that mutilat
ed painting, inspector?’ I tried to keep my voice casual. ‘We could come around here tomorrow morning, if that would suit you. As an artist himself he might be able to give you some indication of what the picture was about. Strange title, wasn’t it? Winter of Despair! And, of course, he knew Mr Milton-Hayes very well, possibly they may have …’ I left the end of the sentence dangling. No point in going into too much detail, but I desperately needed to get Charley into this room and show him the veiled faces on the portraits, to find out from him what had happened. ‘We don’t need you to be here, inspector,’ I continued. ‘You’re a busy man. If you could just give orders to the police officer at the door that I can bring my brother. He will help in reconstructing the slashed painting and may have some idea of who it is supposed to portray.’

  To my relief, he gave a nod. ‘You do that, Mr Collins, and I’ll be very beholden to you.’ There was not a trace of suspicion in his voice.

  ‘I’d be interested in coming, too,’ said Dickens and I wondered whether he had guessed, had seen what I had seen.

  ‘I have often heard my father speak of cleaning a canvas when a picture did not please him,’ I explained, talking rapidly. Dickens’ eyes were on the bag that contained the Taken in Adultery picture and I hoped he would say nothing. I hastened to keep the inspector’s attention on me. ‘There must be some way of removing that top layer of paint and uncovering the features that lie beneath,’ I said with conviction, adding, ‘and my brother, Mr Charles Collins, will be sure to know of it.’

  It was true, I thought. Yes, Charley might be able to remove the oval blob of paint that covered the faces in the pictures. But it was not something that I wanted him to do in the presence of Inspector Field.

  There had been something about that young man in the picture Taken in Adultery that had instantly struck me and Dickens had looked closely at it, too.

  However Dickens did not speak until we were out in the street and striding towards my mother’s house. And then he remarked quietly, ‘I suppose that Charley gets that red hair from your Irish grandfather.’

  He had never called him Charley before, never other than ‘your brother’, or, ironically, ‘Young Mr Charles Collins’. Nor had he ever spoken of him in that tone of sympathy.

  ‘Yes,’ I said in answer to his query. ‘Yes, I suppose that was where the red hair came from.’ And in silence we progressed to Dickens’ office in the Strand where we planned to lunch and to spend the afternoon in work on his magazine.

  TWO

  Sesina took the silver forks to the table beneath the window and began to polish them in the last rays of daylight that came through from the area in front of the basement. Not much light was needed for the job of polishing forks, but she wanted to think and she couldn’t while Dolly and Mrs Barnett kept chattering, sitting beside the warm stove. In any case, she had another and far more important job to do, but she wouldn’t start that until her hands stopped shaking.

  This was her second November as housemaid in this house. Never would she have imagined that she would have stayed so long. She had told Mr Wilkie that she would give it six months, but somehow she had stayed on and here she was, eighteen months after she had left Adelphi Terrace. Not a bad place, Hanover Terrace, she supposed. She liked Mr Wilkie, liked his mother, Mrs Collins, a decent sort of a mistress, she conceded, but the reason that she had stayed was not because of either of them, but because of the third person in the house, Mr Wilkie’s young brother, Mr Charles.

  Sesina had never met anyone like him: tall, pale skin with red-gold hair and a lovely sweetness about him. Very handsome. A sad look always in his beautiful blue eyes, poor fellow. So polite. Just like she was a lady, she sometimes thought. She liked to do things for him, save little treats for his supper, give his clothes an extra brush. Make sure that the fire in his painting room burned well while he was working. Keep an eye on him.

  She had known that something was wrong last evening when he came home. Came home very late. Poor Mr Charles never looked strong, never looked happy, but last evening he looked sick to his heart, his face bleached white. She had been shocked by his appearance when she opened the door to him, had told him that a cold supper was waiting for him in the dining room, but he had brushed past her. Not even looked towards the dining room. His eyes blind. Had gone straight upstairs, straight to his mother, dashed into his mother’s sitting room and slammed the door behind him. She had followed him. Had stood outside the door and she had heard him. He had sobbed. Brought a lump to her throat. Like a little boy, he was. Wanted money. Sounded desperate, she thought, as she knelt down and pressed her ear to the keyhole. Lots of money, he was asking for – too much money. Mrs Collins was telling him that she hadn’t got it. Not a sum of money like that. Not even in the bank. Something about a ‘trusty’ or was it a ‘trustee’, someone looking after her money – she seemed very upset that she could not get him the money. Sesina heard a sob in her mistress’s voice. Something badly wrong. Saying something through the sobs. Both of them crying.

  ‘Don’t tell Wilkie, Mamma, will you?’ That was Mr Charles. Like a cry of despair.

  And then a crash. Knocked over a chair. Coming to the door. Sesina sprang to her feet, moved to the other side of the landing and began frantically rubbing at a banister bar. Needn’t have bothered. He went past without even seeing her. Up to his own room. Sesina heard the door slam and then crept downstairs to her own place in the basement.

  She lay awake for a long time, listening to Dolly snoring in the room next door. Five hundred pounds! What did he want with money like that? Still, if he wanted it, he must have it. Needed to rob a bank to get money like that. She might have a word with him in the morning. Might be able to get himself in with someone in the business. There was that fellow in Seven Dials. Always talking about robbing a bank in Lombard Street. Trying to work out ways of getting in, getting past the snooty guard at the door. Good-looking fellow. Give him a suit of Mr Charles’s clothes and tell him to leave the talking to Mr Charles. Two respectable young men strolling into the bank. Surely the pair of them could rob a bank. Sesina resolved to talk to Mr Charles in the morning. Find some way of seeing him before he had his breakfast, find him on his own and then tell him her plan. He’d be ever so grateful to her. She smiled to herself, turned on her side and fell asleep.

  But the plan went wrong. He was up and dressed in the morning, coming down the stairs to the hallway, just as she was coming up from the basement. Looked terrible. Face as chalk white as a bowlful of lye, hands shaking, could hardly turn the lock of the door. And then left it open. Tripped on the steps going down. Just saved himself with a frantic grab at the railing. Staggered down the remaining steps. Off down the road like a drunk. Looked back, once. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t see her. Just looked up towards his mother’s room. Tears running down his face.

  And she had followed him. Didn’t hesitate. Tore off her apron, screwed it into a tight bundle and went after him. No shawl, nothing. But she wasn’t cold because he was running and she kept up with him. Running like a lunatic down Park Road. Frightened a young fellow wearing a school cap who dodged into a back alley. Pretty empty, Park Road. More people around here. Give him time. He was slowing up. Noticed that people were looking at him. She’d catch up with him then and say something, casual-like, keep with him, anyway.

  That look on his face. She had seen that before. He was going to throw himself in the river or something.

  Slowing down, now. That was good. Calming down. But no, turning into a small street. Walking fast. Then into a square. Not running but going very fast with his long legs. Sesina had to run to keep up with him. Knew where he was going. Crossed the square. Not looking to right or to left. Almost bumped into an old gent with a scarf over mouth and hat pulled over eyes. Kept going. Up the steps.

  Sesina waited. A bit relieved. She knew that place. Mr Charles had sent her on messages there. Another artist. A Mr Milton-Hayes. He had been working with that man during the last few weeks; she knew
that. Had gone there with his painting coat and his palette and paints. A bit early to work today, but perhaps he had another reason.

  He’d go in, she told herself reassuringly. See his friend. Perhaps try to borrow money. Could anyone borrow a huge sum of money like that? She didn’t know. Anyways, he’d be safe in with a friend. Up the steps he went. Hand lifted to knock, but the door was open. Just a little open. Went straight in. Didn’t close it. By now she had reached the end of the steps and she waited. Sooner or later he would be out and then she would walk home with him. He wouldn’t mind that. They were easy-going, like their mother, both Mr Wilkie and Mr Charles. Not a bit of a snob in any of the family.

  But it didn’t take him long. Came pounding down the stairs. She could hear him, running like a lunatic. Out through the door, leaving it wide open. Down the steps. Turned back, down the road. At least, she thought, after minutes of hard running, he looks like he’s going home. Changed his mind about going to work. Or had something happened? She kept near to him though, and somehow, as he calmed down, he must have noticed her because he slowed right down and waited for her to catch up with him. He didn’t ask her any questions, just walked slowly with his head bowed.

  They had entered Hanover Terrace before he spoke. And then his words were addressed more to himself than to her. ‘I should have taken my painting coat, my father’s painting coat, I should have taken it away from that place; I’ll never go there again.’ He said the words in a dazed sort of fashion.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she had said and she had done her best to make her voice sound comforting and reassuring. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll run back and fetch it. You go inside, Mr Charles. Go back to bed. It’s still early. Have a little sleep.’