Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  The inspector studied it. ‘Quite a young man,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Old enough to know better,’ flashed Dickens and thumped his stick on the floor to lend emphasis to his words.

  The inspector looked from one to the other of us. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the man?’ he asked, impartially addressing the space between the two of us.

  I hesitated, but Dickens spoke before I could frame an answer.

  ‘Come to Hanover Terrace this evening, inspector. I can guarantee you a hospitable reception from the charming Mrs Collins and, so long as they allow me to carve the beef, why then you will be very well fed, indeed.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Mr Dickens,’ said the inspector, for all the world as though he had been invited to the Dickens household, ‘but I think that I will turn up after dinner and if you will be good enough to arrange for me to have a room where I may lay out these pictures, perhaps as Mr Milton-Hayes was going to do. I’ll arrive at ten in the evening, if that is all right. Oh, and I’d be obliged if you could keep my visit a secret until I arrive.’ He looked enquiringly at Dickens, but his eyes strayed back to the pictures.

  ‘I think that can be arranged, can’t it, Wilkie. The drawing room, don’t you think?’ Dickens gave a perfunctory look in my direction, but did not wait for any comment from me before going on. ‘Yes, we’ll arrange all that for you, inspector. I think that Mrs Collins will have to know about this death and the change in arrangements, but otherwise we’ll say nothing to any of the guests.’

  The inspector nodded at that and I presumed that he agreed that my mother should be informed. A relief to me as I could imagine her fury if she were kept in the dark – could almost hear her declaiming about arrangements made to invite police officers into her own house and allow them to occupy her cherished drawing room and no one having the manners or consideration to inform her about the matter beforehand. I resolved to leave my mother to Dickens and to immediately disappear into my own bedroom as soon as we arrived at Hanover Terrace. I wondered whether to warn the inspector that my mother, though very good hearted and a wonderful mother to her two sons, could be a bit hot-tempered. But the inspector’s eyes left me and my friend quickly and when I looked back before going through the door I saw that he was bending over The Night Prowler, seemingly absorbed in memorizing all details about that fashionably clad figure with his silk top hat and his sleek fitting trousers.

  FOUR

  ‘For the love of mercy, Sesina, look at the time. Near on five o’clock. Will you leave off scrubbing Mr Charles’s painting coat and go and chop the apples for me. I swear you’ve been at that stain for the last twenty minutes.’

  Mrs Barnett was in a bad mood. It was the fault of the missus, of course; Sesina knew that. Mrs Barnett was a good cook and she could turn out good meals whenever she was left to herself, but Mrs Collins would keep fussing her, would keep coming in and out of the kitchen and tasting things and changing her mind. Although Mrs Collins had stayed in her room all day, looking pale, and not feeling well, apparently, already there had been a stream of messages, relayed by Dolly, the each one contradicting the last. The fact that the cook had discovered that Sesina had not cleaned the front step nor polished the knocker on the front door as she had been sent out on an early-morning errand by Mr Charles added to the cook’s fury.

  Sesina shot a look at Mrs Barnett’s face. Like a fire, she was. The hotter the temper, the redder the face. Sesina shrugged her shoulders. Got worries of my own. She silently addressed the words to the cook’s back and began to hum loudly and then to sing ‘Angelina Baker’, trying to remember the words that she had heard in Covent Garden. Dolly, the parlour maid, averted her gaze and went on chopping onions and little Becky gave Sesina a scared look.

  Don’t care, thought Sesina. Her nerves were on edge, stretched out like guts hung up to dry for sausage casings. She began to sing a little louder. Another song, one that she remembered better.

  Now this young lady cried,

  I can’t be satisfied,

  I wish I was his bride.

  ‘Be quiet, Sesina,’ snapped Mrs Barnett. ‘And I’ll thank you, young lady, another time, to come and ask my permission before you go off on some errand for Mr Charles without permission,’ she repeated angrily, ‘or without even having the manners to tell me that you were going off.’ Mrs Barnett sounded at the end of her patience, so Sesina gave a shrug and stopped singing. She’d go on with the song in her mind. It blotted out the memory of that house and those dead eyes staring up at her … Sesina shuddered and scrubbed a little harder, until the ache in her arm made her stop for a moment.

  Mrs Barnett had gone towards the pantry so Sesina relieved her feelings by sticking out her tongue at the fat, waddling figure. She took care not to let Dolly see her, though. Thick as thieves, those two. And Mrs B. was in a very bad mood. She was back in a moment with a face like thunder. She had taken a lump of steak from the meat safe and was chopping it like she was killing something. The blood flowed over the board and Sesina found herself feeling slightly sick. Strange how animal blood and human blood look just the same.

  She gave one last rub at the painting coat, sprinkling some more salt, but the stain was still there. She could even feel it with her fingers. Sticky when she had first picked it up and taken it away, but now it was beginning to harden. Something coating the threads of the old black coat, sticking tenaciously to them and no amount of salt or water seemed able to shift it. She tried to avert her mind from what had occurred this morning. No good thinking about things after the deed is done. Her friend, Isabella, used to say that and she was right. Only get yourself into a state of nerves. Sesina hummed the tune under her breath. No need for anyone to know.

  ‘What is it, anyway, that stain?’ Dolly had to put her oar in.

  ‘Paint,’ said Sesina shortly. ‘Red paint.’ Not red, of course. Almost black now, she thought. And she knew very well that it wasn’t paint. Had known the minute she had seen it. She had known that she could not leave it there. Not beside that body on the floor.

  ‘You’ll never get that out with salt,’ stated Mrs Barnett. ‘A drop of turps might do it, but it looks set to me. Anyways, leave it now. It’s only the old coat he uses for painting. He won’t care, bless him. Not fussy. Now get chopping them apples or you’ll feel the weight of my hand.’

  Just you try, thought Sesina, but she thought that enough had been said about the stained painting coat. She took it out and left it in the scullery and then came back into the kitchen just as the sound of footsteps on the stairs made the cook rap out a swear word. Should have been expecting it, though. Not like the mistress to leave it so late. In the usual way she’d have been fussing in and out of the kitchen from an early moment. Dolly had said that the missus wasn’t well, ever so pale, according to Dolly.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Bennett, how are you getting on?’ Mrs Collins came in with a waft of perfume. Not dressed yet, but all ready for it. Not pale now, neither. Hair done, face heavily powdered and painted. Bright pink cheeks. Stuff around her eyes, too. Still wearing her dressing gown although it was five o’clock in the evening. Would just pop on her new crinoline as soon as the clock struck six. Loved a party, thought Sesina. Got her sons to organize one as often as she could. Sixty years old if she was a day! A fine sight she made herself, dressing up like a twenty-year-old, drinking wine, flirting with all the young men, acting like she was the same age as all of her two sons’ friends. Sesina often had a good laugh about that. Even managed to get Dolly to laugh a bit too. Good as a play, she said to Dolly. A play with the title The Missus and her Men said Sesina. Dolly thought that the missus might be on the lookout for a new husband, but Sesina knew better. The woman was just having fun. Much more sensible to keep your own hand on the money strings and not let any man boss you around. And Mrs Collins was a woman who liked to have her own way though she pretended to be so sweet and went around praising everything. For all the world like a big fat purring cat, th
ought Sesina. She was at it now.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Bennett, aren’t you wonderful! What gorgeous smells! Oh, I just must taste this gravy. Just get me a spoon, will you, Dolly, like a good girl? Marvellous! Quite, quite perfect. I do want this party to be a success. It’s not often that Mr Charles asks for one. Not like Mr Wilkie, is he, Mrs Bennett? I vow that Mr Wilkie would have a party every day of the week if he could. Now, I must do something to help. Shall I do the table? And I’ll just borrow Sesina to fetch and carry for me. That will be one thing off your mind, won’t it, Mrs Bennett? Come along, Sesina, let’s get started.’

  All worked up. Must be the excitement. Quite the actress. Had always wanted to be an actress. She had told Sesina that, time and time again. Kept her figure well; nice and slim, too, thought Sesina as she followed Mrs Collins up the stairs. Was having such fun, too. Pretending she was one of the young lads. Easy to see how she got away with it. Didn’t look like a lad, of course, with her crinoline on. But she was free and easy with them as if she was one of the crowd, even though she was wearing a crinoline. Didn’t care if they smoked at the table or told off-colour stories. And afterwards in the drawing room, sat there like a queen bee with her crinoline spread out and the lads sprawled on the rug in front of the fire. Sesina wondered what it would be like to wear a crinoline. Must make your waist ever so small.

  She tried to think of what Mr Charles – Charley, she liked to call him when she had dreams about him – what would Charley say if he saw her wearing a crinoline and an orange velvet dress over it? It was a nice daydream. There was something about him; something that gave her a slight ache at the back of her throat. Something about the extreme pallor of his skin, the pale, red-gold of his hair, the paint stains on the fingers of his hands and the wounded look in his dark-brown eyes. He had cut himself shaving that morning and she longed to put some Brookes ointment on it. He needed someone to look after him. Made a mess of things when he was left to himself. Kill the rat and let him lie; he’ll do no harm to you and I. Good job that she had got that painting coat. And a good job Sesina had eyes in her head. He’d have never noticed the stain. Like his mother. Short-sighted the pair of them! Not as bad as Mr Wilkie, of course, but then he had the sense to wear spectacles. Mr Charles was afraid the girls wouldn’t like him if he wore spectacles.

  ‘Too soft for his good,’ she muttered to herself, feeling a slight smile curve her lips and then cleared her throat when she saw her mistress look back down at her.

  ‘How many guests, ma’am?’ she asked, as soon as they got into the dining room. A bit of a gossiper, Mrs Collins. Loved to talk. Would drag out this business and then Sesina would be in trouble when she got back to the kitchen. Let her talk, though, she thought. Nice to be out of the kitchen for a while and I can just get on with setting the table while the woman chattered.

  ‘Let me see.’ Now Mrs Collins was fishing around in a drawer. ‘Here we are. Here’s the list.’ Blind as a bat, she was, peering at the piece of paper, nearly holding it touching her nose. ‘Now, Sesina, just let me copy out the names onto these little cards and then you can put them in the right place.’ She had seated herself at the sideboard, had the pen and ink out in a moment and had piled up the gilt-edged cards in front of her. ‘Well, here’s one for Mr Wilkie. He goes at the bottom of the table, Sesina, and this one for me. I go at the top of the table. Now, who is the most important female guest? She has to go on Mr Wilkie’s right-hand side and the second most important on his left-hand side.’ She consulted her list, biting her bottom lip.

  Sesina ignored her. This could take for ever. She took out the cutlery drawer and began to lay the places. Twelve seats around the polished mahogany. She’d lay twelve places for a start and then either take some away or add some more if needed. Her hands had been trembling but the mindless, mechanical work steadied her and she found that the images and the strong smell of blood were beginning to fade. She had gone halfway around the table by the time that Mrs Collins had made up her mind.

  ‘Fourteen,’ she said. ‘That’s what I make it. Fourteen altogether.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ repeated Sesina. ‘Well, three at each end of the table and four on either of the long sides. Will that suit you, missus?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on laying the cutlery. ‘Every second one, man, woman, man, that’s the way, isn’t it, missus?’

  ‘That’s the way it should be, Sesina, but those sons of mine never think about that when they are asking me to stage a dinner party and, of course, when it’s a dinner given by two young men, well, the wives don’t want to go. There’s Mr Dickens, now. How many times has he been to this house, Sesina? He even took over the carving the last time he came, said Wilkie was making a mess of it. Quite at home, here, isn’t he? And never once have I seen his wife! And the canon – well he’s not bringing his wife, just coming to look at Mr Milton-Hayes’ pictures, thinking of buying them for a church hall, so I hear. Well, of course, he’s not bringing his wife. And Mr Milton-Hayes hasn’t a wife. None of them have a wife, not my two boys, not Walter Hamilton, or Lord Douglas. Still Mr John French has a wife – Molly’s a jolly girl. Even my Charley, shy as a wild bird, poor fellow, well even he likes her a lot.’

  ‘Who are you going to have sitting next to you, missus?’ Sesina laid down the last dinner spoon and took up the bundle of cards. She’d see if she could put Charley next to Mrs Molly French. Give him a bit of fun. Cheer him up. Make him forget his worries for a night, at least. She’d make sure that she kept his glass filled.

  ‘I’d better have the canon on my right-hand side,’ said Mrs Collins with a resigned sigh. ‘Rough sort of man. New to the parish. From Essex, you know, Sesina. And then after that he came to London, but he was just a vicar down by the docks, then. Don’t know why he was chosen for a nice place like Regent’s Park. Not like the canon we had before – such a gentleman. This fellow drinks like a fish. Went to sleep with his head on the table last time I saw him. Still, that saves talking to him once the meal is half over. He’ll be insensible by then. And I suppose that I’ll have to have Mr Milton-Hayes on my other side since the dinner is for him to talk about his paintings and we’ll put Lord Douglas on the other side of the canon. The clergy like people with titles and then let’s have Mrs Gummidge, Mrs Hermione Gummidge on Mr Milton Hayes’ other side and her daughter Florence down next to Lord Douglas. Or should I put the mother somewhere else? A terrible woman, would talk the hind leg off a donkey. What about next to Mr Dickens? He’ll manage her. Still, he’s capable of changing his place and disturbing everything if his dinner partner doesn’t suit him. Capable of anything, that man! No, we can’t have that. Now, who are you putting there, beside Mr Dickens, Sesina? Oh, little Molly French. Well, that should work out. He’s a married man, Mr Dickens, but you mark my words, she’ll flirt with him and he’ll flirt back with her. She’s a terrible flirt, so they say. Of course, you can hardly blame her, married to a man so much older than herself! Oh well …’

  ‘Mr Charles likes her,’ put in Sesina. ‘Mr Wilkie’s been teasing him about her.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Mrs Collins. ‘That mightn’t please her husband, Mr John French. Very jealous, he is, but thank goodness, he won’t dare say anything to Mr Dickens. Though Molly might hear about it when they get home. That’s the trouble with rich husbands, Sesina. They feel that they can do what they like. And he’s so rich! You wouldn’t believe it. A great catch for Molly. Mind you, he’s nearly thirty years older than she is if he’s a day. But never mind. You should see their house! And the carriage that she has for her own use. Now where on earth shall I put that wretched Mrs Gummidge?’

  Sesina left her to it. She remembered this Molly, Mrs John French. She and her rich husband had been at a dinner a couple of months ago. Charley had a nice time then, sitting beside Mrs Molly and telling her about his painting of a convent garden, stuttering a bit and his pale face flushing up and his green eyes all excited. Lovely fellow he was, ever so handsome, thought Sesina, ta
ll and good-looking with that lovely red-gold hair. Funny, when you think what a plain and odd-looking little man his brother was. Still, Mr Wilkie had the gift of the gab; he was the one who got all of the ladies and poor Charley was ever so shy. Needed a bit of encouragement, poor lad. She was glad that she had done what she did. Never know! Might have been terrible trouble. Without waiting for an answer she neatly extracted the card with Mr Charles Collins written on it and slipped it down on the right-hand side of Mrs John French. Let him have a nice time with flirty Molly. Been looking so peaky and worried, more sort of frightened, during the last few days. She hoped she hadn’t been seen rearranging the cards and was pleased when she heard Dolly clumping along the passageway. Make a bit of a distraction. Though Mrs Collins was in a giddy mood. All excited about her dinner party.

  ‘Mrs Gummidge, madam.’ Little Becky, who helped in the house a couple of days in the week, gave the door a perfunctory knock and then pushed it open. She was almost swept to the ground as a very large woman in an immensely wide crinoline pushed past her and through the doorway.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Collins, I’ve just come to beg a favour of you, I do apologize. But I just know that as a mother yourself … well, I’m sure that you will understand my feelings. All London talks about what a good mother you are to your two sons. Dear Mrs Collins, how are you? Oh, how well you look and I do love your hairstyle.’

  Nothing like laying on the compliments with a trowel, thought Sesina.