Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I’ll tell you what you could do, inspector,’ he said in a low and confidential voice, ‘you could just watch faces for a couple of minutes when they come in first, give them a few moments to absorb the strangeness of the pictures, those faceless pictures, and then you could make the announcement about the death of Edwin Milton-Hayes. Don’t hesitate to pile on the details. Mr Collins and I will watch faces, though you, yourself, an experienced man like you, will have your eye on all of them.’

  ‘I’ll see to the coffee,’ I said hurriedly. It was the only excuse that I could think of to get out of that room. I needed to see Charley, to see how he was. If necessary, I thought, I would get him out of the house, find a friend who would put him up for a few days if I found that he was in no condition just now to stand up to Inspector Field.

  I was too late, though. Sesina and Dolly were on their way up the stairs carrying trays. And all of the guests were following my mother up from the dining room. I stood helplessly on the landing and awaited their arrival.

  My mother was making a huge fuss in her theatrical way about the coffee cups and calling upon me to corroborate her grandiose claims. ‘Ming,’ she was saying to the canon. ‘Just so valuable. Now stand back everyone. Make room for Dolly! Be careful, Sesina! Watch your step. Stand back, Wilkie. Stand back and wait. Don’t get in the way.’

  ‘Ming; nonsense, Five Towns Potteries,’ I said loudly and scornfully, while my eyes scanned through the crowded figures on the stairs. Sesina’s right eyelid twitched as she passed me bearing her tray carefully aloft. She was no respecter of the household gods of my mother’s dubious antiques and this amused me so much that my eyes followed her as she made her way with careful footsteps up towards the drawing room. By the time that I looked back, Charley had slipped past me and I saw his head of richly red hair, bending down to speak to Walter Hamilton.

  Well, at least he is in control of himself, I thought. It was surprising that he could even walk, considering all the brandy that he had consumed, and that on top of the strong dose of laudanum which I had given to him. There was nothing that I could do, now, as my brother had already gone into the drawing room. I followed with a heavy heart.

  There was a strange atmosphere in the room. My mother, waving aside the two housemaids, was pouring the coffee herself, holding up the precious pot and engaging Lord Douglas in a stream of banter as he endeavoured to look for a mark on the bottom of one of the coffee cups.

  ‘Yongzching,’ he said with an authority that surprised me. He was reputed to be quite badly off. Still, perhaps there was an ancestral home, well furnished with antiques, in some part of Ireland, called Ennis. His father, after all, bore the title of Earl of Ennis.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said my mother. I could have taken an oath that she had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about and that she had never heard the word before, but that was my mother. A woman who was never at loss for a good lie. I joined in the debate enthusiastically and placed a bet on the authenticity of her Ming china. My mother enjoyed this sort of thing and it created a diversion. People had turned back from contemplating the pictures to join in the argument, all of the ladies, except Molly French, joining in the defence of my mother. Charley, I noticed, had moved towards Molly, but she had instantly turned her back on him. I saw her give one horrified glance at the picture, Taken in Adultery, and then walk resolutely down to the other end of the drawing room and tuck her hand inside the elbow of her elderly husband. He, I noted thankfully, was very short-sighted. He had taken out an eye glass and was peering myopically at one of my father’s paintings on the wall. I joined them instantly.

  ‘I remember very well the day when that picture was painted, Mr French,’ I said cheerily, trying not to look across to see where my brother stood, helpless and devastated. ‘It was a terribly wet day on the island of Skye in the Highlands of Scotland. My father knelt on the ground, braced against the wind, sketching this picture and the rain was so heavy that I had to hold an umbrella over him so that his work would not be destroyed. I still remember how the rain dripped down the back of my neck. I always feel that I should have got half of the sum that the picture was sold for,’ I ended and hoped that my voice betrayed none of my desperation.

  Mr John French waved my heroic part in the production of the masterpiece away. He stared at me coldly. ‘Your father, young man, was a most talented artist and a very good man. I’m sure that it was a pleasure and a privilege to be allowed to assist him.’

  I bowed my head meekly and cast a respectful look up at the picture that he was admiring. He looked a little mollified by my submissive attitude and unbent a little.

  ‘Such lovely pictures, weren’t they; those pictures that he painted. Nature in all its glory.’ And then he turned back and pointed contemptuously at the five pictures lined up against the dramatic black and gold curtain.

  ‘Look at these pictures by that man Milton-Hayes that everyone is gawping at. Mere daubs, mere daubs, wouldn’t you agree, my dear?’ Mr French turned to his wife, Molly, and white to the lips she murmured something that could pass as an agreement.

  Mr French, I hoped, was far too short-sighted to see what everyone else was seeing as they examined the paintings lined up for their perusal. With any luck he could not see the resemblance to the shape of the head and the white line of parting through her unusually dark hair, Spanish dark hair. Something about the neck and the slightly drooping shoulders now struck me also since I had the woman before my eyes. Just as Charley was immediately recognisable by the red hair, so Molly, the very young woman with a husband three times her own age, would be recognized by everyone here. All conversation had stopped and coffee remained untouched as one by one, with suspended breath, the guests invited by Mr Milton-Hayes widened their eyes at those faceless pictures. No one spoke. Suddenly there was silence in the room as, man and woman, glances were exchanged. And then sounds, but very hushed. A slight sucking of breath by one person goes unnoticed, but the sound is unmistakable when ten or more people inhale. There was a movement, a decided stepping back as person after person sought to detach themselves from a painting that featured their likeness or a resemblance to a spouse or a friend.

  And then Inspector Field came to the front of the room.

  EIGHT

  Mrs Collins fussing as usual. Wish that she’d hold her trap, thought Sesina. Stupid woman. Trying to pretend that the coffee cups and the jug were something special. Serve her right if me and Dolly dropped the lot of them. She gave Dolly a wink but Dolly just looked stiffly into space, holding her chin up like she were posing for a statue. Just the way to trip. Still, no business of mine, she thought. Why did I let Mr Wilkie talk me into coming to this place? Should have stuck to my plan of having a coffee stall. Would like to be down in Covent Garden now, having a bit of backchat with the drovers, patting their horses, taking their money. I’d be off tomorrow, but for Mr Charles. Have to look after him, poor lad. Got himself into a trap, didn’t he? Everyone looking at that picture. Pity he didn’t have a hat on or something. No mistaking that hair. Still she’d done her best. That nosey …

  Sesina took out another cup, placed it carefully onto its saucer and then held it out to the missus. Nice steady hand Mrs Collins had for a woman of that age, had to give it to her. Face as white as the lace fichu around her neck, but a smile pinned on her lips and a nice line of chat with everyone who came for their coffee. Just as though everyone wasn’t whispering about her son; and him in that picture with a label under it saying: Taken in Adultery. Really spelled it out, didn’t it? Be funny if it was about anyone else, except that poor lad.

  Have to do something about it, though. Sesina bit her lip as she moved the cream jug a bit nearer to the missus. That poor Mr Charles, my Charley, she said to herself, well, he looked like death warmed up. Have to stop everyone looking at him. Sesina searched across the room and found a victim.

  ‘Let me take a cup over to Miss Gummidge, mistress; she looks ever so ill. Looks like sommat has up
set her,’ she said in a confidential whisper to Mrs Collins. Sesina was proud of her whisper. Sesina, the girl with the loudest whisper in London, her friend Isabella used to say. She and Isabella used to have fun with it when they wandered around Covent Garden, or made their way through Smithfield. It always turned heads.

  Even people on the other side of the room stopped talking and turned around to look at her.

  Mrs Collins cast a perfunctory look across the room, but now all were looking between Mrs Gummidge and her daughter Florence, who was examining the pattern on the curtains, tracing the gold swirls on the silken black velvet. The picture of The Night Prowler was quite near to her, but she averted her head from it. The colour, Sesina noticed, had ebbed from the girl’s cheeks.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ hissed Mrs Collins as the small cup was filled to overflowing.

  Sesina took her time. Found a small tray, daintily arranged upon it a bowl of sugar lumps, a pair of tongs, a teaspoon and a small jug of cream. By the time that she was finished, almost everyone in the room had stopped talking and was looking across at Florence, peering from her to The Night Prowler picture and then back to her again. Sesina went slowly across the room, timing her moment beautifully, waiting until all eyes were upon her.

  And then she gave a sudden startled gasp. ‘Oh, my word, miss, is that going to be you in that picture? Looks ever so like you, doesn’t it? I’d know it anywhere. It’s the way you do your hair.’ She pointed at the picture and spoke loudly enough to be heard by those nearby, but not loudly enough to force the mistress of the house to take notice of her. Carefully she placed the tray on a nearby Pembroke table, had another and closer look at The Night Prowler picture and then smiled sweetly at the white-faced Florence.

  ‘It is you, isn’t it, miss?’

  There was a buzz of whispers as she made her way back across the room. What was it that Mrs Collins had said to Miss Florence’s mother when she agreed not to put the girl sitting beside Lord Douglas? ‘Of course, I can understand how worried you are. Don’t worry; no explanations needed. I did hear …’

  And it looked as though Mrs Collins were not the only one to hear of a connection between Lord Douglas and Mrs Gummidge’s pet daughter. Sesina looked back again at that picture. It did look as if it might be a picture of him, title and all. She had served a coffee to Lord Douglas only a few minutes earlier. She had very good eyesight and could even see the pale patch on his finger as he drank his coffee. Wore a ring normally, then.

  Left-handed, she said to herself, looking at how he held his cup; wonder if that’s important. She felt very satisfied with herself. She cast a quick glance over at the picture. Yes, the ‘prowler’ in the picture was holding the candle in his left hand. And yes, he had a ring on that finger. She wondered if she was the first person to notice that and glanced around. Not too many people looking now. All chattering in twos and threes. Nobody much looking at the pictures except that policeman. And he was dividing his attention between the picture named Taken in Adultery and Mr Charles.

  I’ll kill him if he does anything to that boy. The words in her head must have shown in her face as she stopped beside Mr Charles and the poor fellow looked quite startled.

  ‘Would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee, Mr Charles?’ she asked.

  He made an effort. Blinked a couple of times and then shook his head. ‘No, I’m alright, Sesina. Coffee makes me sick.’

  And brandy, was her secret thought. Not to mention a bit of the laudanum, either. Probably had that before he came down. Both of them, Mr Wilkie and Mr Charles drank pints of the stuff, but it didn’t seem to do Mr Wilkie much harm. But then he wasn’t sensitive, like his brother. She made her way back to the rosewood table where Dolly was carefully piling the used coffee cups onto one of the trays. Sesina joined her instantly. Lots of people had not finished their coffee, she noticed as she tipped the remains into the slop bowl. Nothing wrong with the coffee. There wouldn’t be. Mrs Barnett was ever so careful about coffee. Trained by the mistress herself, she always said. Always tested it with a few sips, too. No, the chances were much stronger that people had been too busy whispering and looking at the pictures and from one to another that they had allowed the coffee to get cold.

  The inspector came up now. An empty coffee cup. Well, he drank it, unless he had poured it into one of the potted palms.

  ‘Many thanks, Mrs Collins, excellent coffee.’ And then he raised his voice. ‘Well, if everyone is finished, perhaps I could have a word.’

  There was an instant dead silence. Every eye turned to him. Had been wondering about him, thought Sesina. Every one of them there had been puzzling over the absence of Mr Milton-Hayes. And they’d want to be very dumb if they hadn’t connected up the presence of the police with the absence of that man.

  ‘Take the trays back down to the kitchen.’ Mrs Collins’ voice was low and Sesina could swear that it shook. The mistress had looked over towards Mr Charles, just one quick look, but it was easy to read her face. The woman was terrified and Sesina felt for her. He would have been a lovely little boy, she thought sentimentally. And he did look such an innocent still, poor lad, standing there, like an idiot, gaping at the inspector. While Dolly’s back was turned and Mrs Collins was busy with the inspector, she quickly removed one of the china cups and put it onto the mantelpiece. And then she took up her tray and walked out with a virtuous air, making sure that she was ahead of Dolly.

  She would need an audience.

  She waited until Dolly had closed the door and then gave a gasp. And then another as the first had not registered. She lowered herself down onto the top stair, keeping the tray carefully poised on her knees.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ Even Dolly was roused by such strange behaviour.

  ‘I’ve been took!’ gasped Sesina.

  ‘Took!’ Dolly looked back at the closed door which hid the sight of the policeman.

  ‘Took bad!’ Sesina strove to hide the note of impatience. Thick as a feather bed, that was Dolly.

  ‘You sick?’

  Now light was beginning to dawn in that stupid head.

  Sesina groaned in reply. ‘Terrible pain,’ she gasped.

  Sickness made you pale, but a pain only showed through a pantomime and she was a good actress. She groaned and leaned over the tray.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ Dolly sounded panic-stricken. ‘Don’t throw up on that tray,’ she said sharply as Sesina groaned again.

  ‘Take your own tray back down and come back for mine,’ gasped Sesina. She retained hold of her tray in order to imbue Dolly with a sense of urgency. Dolly never could hold two ideas in that noddle of hers, she reflected, as she groaned again.

  That was enough for Dolly. Holding her own tray securely, slightly forward so that she could see her own feet, not too high, not too low, just as she had been trained nearly forty years ago, Dolly went down the stairs at a steady pace. Sesina put aside her own tray at the very instant when Dolly had left the landing below and she could hear the woman’s footsteps progress down to the hall. In a second Sesina had reached the drawing-room door. She turned the doorknob noiselessly. No point in wasting time by putting her ear to the door. She had a legitimate excuse.

  Noiselessly, she shut the door and crept into the room. The inspector had just begun to make his little speech.

  ‘Very sorry to bring such bad news. Hope the ladies will excuse me …’

  Pompous old goat. Sesina slipped silently along the side wall, making her way to where she had placed the coffee cup. Mrs Collins’ eyes flickered in her direction but she said nothing.

  ‘… have to tell you that Mr Edwin Milton-Hayes was brutally murdered, probably at some time this morning. His throat was slashed with a knife.’

  So much for not upsetting the ladies, thought Sesina, as she squeezed her way behind the green velvet sofa, keeping as close to the wall as possible. She stopped for a second when she emerged from behind the sofa and risked a glance around the room. Well, ladies or no ladies, no o
ne was fainting, or even looking upset. There had been an odd sound, almost like a sigh of relief, and everyone was facing the inspector, waiting for more. And looking quite interested, thought Sesina as she slid behind the mahogany buffet server.

  And then she noticed her mistress’s hands were clenched behind her back, clenched so tightly that the nails must be digging into the palms of her hands. So, perhaps others were just hiding their feelings, putting a brave face on things. Mrs Gummidge had taken a step towards her daughter, Florence, but then stopped when the inspector looked alertly in her direction. Molly French, the flirtatious Molly, pulled her shawl more snugly around her shoulders and gave a sweet smile towards where her husband stood beside Mr Wilkie. Lord Douglas pulled out a cigar and then put it back again into his pocket and moved a few steps closer to Florence Gummidge, Mrs Gummidge’s little pet daughter, but Florence turned her head away and did not appear to notice the noble lord who seemed to be coupled with her in one of the dead man’s strange, faceless pictures.

  There was another glance from Mrs Collins and Sesina knew she could not stay any longer in the room. She shot one last look at poor Mr Charles, but she could do nothing for him at the moment. Somehow, she told herself, I’ll find a way of getting the inspector to think about the others. I fancy Mrs Hermione Gummidge, myself, she thought. A tough-looking lady. Couldn’t afford to have her only daughter involved in a scandal with that Lord Douglas, especially if it was true that he went around robbing people of their jewels by midnight.

  Good idea, that, though, she thought, and wondered where he found a fence to give him money for them. Something to be said for being a lord. He could always pretend that he was just selling off some family jewels. Wouldn’t work with her, of course, though, thought Sesina, I’d really enjoy it. Any case, Mrs Collins didn’t really have any rich friends. And when she did go visiting, she didn’t take a maid with her. No, she and Dolly were left behind and made to do a lot of extra scrubbing by Mrs Barnett.