Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  He couldn’t be far away. Sesina had heard him a couple of minutes ago. Talking to Mrs Collins on the landing above. She stayed very still as though frozen to the spot, holding up the cushion and staring down at the bloodstained handkerchief as they came into the room.

  ‘Goodness me,’ said Mrs Collins. Sesina heard her voice, but didn’t turn her head. Best to stay where she was. The inspector was coming over now. Tim was muttering to him, saying something that she couldn’t hear. She strained her ears. Was he pretending that he was the one who found it? The cheek of him.

  ‘I found that handkerchief, ma’am.’ She addressed Mrs Collins.

  ‘Really!’ Mrs Collins had taken a box of matches from the drawer of the sideboard and had gone over to a candelabra on the table. In a moment, a glow of light illuminated the bloodstained handkerchief, lying in the middle of the chair. Sesina still held the cushion in her hand, but now she put it aside, placed it upon one of the other chairs and watched while Mrs Collins picked up the candelabra and bent over the chair, looking intently down upon the handkerchief.

  ‘You were shaking up the cushions, were you, Sesina?’ Mrs Collins’ voice sounded a bit odd, but she did not look around.

  Sesina took a second to think about this. It might not be a good idea to annoy the police by pretending that she was doing their business for them. She should, she thought now, have got one of the two policemen to pick up the cushions.

  ‘That’s right, ma’am.’

  ‘I wonder why you went straight into the dining room on your way back from delivering your message.’ There was a funny sound from Mrs Collins’ voice. Made the inspector look at her. Sesina did not quite know what to say in answer to that.

  Wonder on, she said to herself, but aloud she said nothing, just bowed her head. Never hurt to look like you’ve done something wrong. Never answer back. Mrs Morson of Urania Cottage used to say that to the girls when she was training them to work as maidservants. ‘“The Mistress knows best”, say that to yourself a hundred times a day, and keep your temper. No good ever came to a girl who loses her temper. Instant dismissal. That’s the reward for an outburst. So swallow your pride, girls and think of the future.’

  The words came back to Sesina now and she decided to act upon them. She hung her head a little lower. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘And you delivered the handkerchief that you said you found. The handkerchief that was belonging to Mrs Gummidge?’

  Nothing for it. Would have to tell the truth. Perhaps Mrs Gummidge noticed the missing handkerchief, sent a message. ‘It didn’t belong to her, ma’am. She said it was not the way that she marked her things.’ And if, thought Sesina, there had been a message about a missing handkerchief, well, then she would just have to deny everything. Nothing like sticking to a lie. Never confess, never let them get you down: that was her motto.

  ‘And as soon as you came back into the house, you went straight into the dining room and found Mrs Gummidge’s handkerchief, concealed under a cushion, on the chair where she sat during dinner, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I was just shaking up the cushions, ma’am. I picked up the cushion and I saw it there and I saw …’ Sesina heard her voice tail out. There was an odd expression upon Mrs Collins’ face. It disconcerted her and she felt disinclined to say anything else until she had decided what the woman was doing.

  ‘Of course, the cushions should have been shaken when the room was cleaned and tidied, by you and Dolly.’ Although she said ‘you’, Mrs Collins didn’t look at Sesina, but looked at the inspector when she said this. And he looked across at Sesina, looked at her with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Best to keep on saying that. What had got into the woman?

  ‘But I must tell you, inspector, that I myself, personally, inspected the dining room after the guests had left that night. It’s my invariable habit, something that my mother had taught me to do. It causes such unpleasantness in a household if a guest finds something missing on arrival home, mislays something and then accuses the staff of the household of pocketing the article and so I always check the rooms as soon as the guests have departed.’

  Did she really do that? Sesina had never heard any hint of it. Never seen her do it. Would have thought that Mrs Barnett or Dolly would have mentioned that little habit. There was very little that the mistress did which that pair didn’t know about. Didn’t seem like her, somehow, either. There was something odd about the woman’s expression, looking at Sesina just like she was trying to send a message. Looking at Sesina and then blinking and slanting her eyes at the inspector.

  ‘Come on, now, admit it, girl, admit you stole the handkerchief and tried to make mischief when you saw it was so badly stained that it would be of no use to you.’ Was Mrs Collins trying to send a message? Or was she deliberately trying to get her into trouble.

  ‘I never!’

  ‘Yes, you did. Don’t contradict me.’

  Sesina hung her head and said nothing more. The inspector, she saw, was looking at her with interest so while she hung her head she tried to keep an eye on him surreptitiously.

  ‘Let the girl speak, Mrs Collins. Come on, now, Sesina. Tell the truth. Where did you find that bloodstained handkerchief?’

  Sesina thought hard. There was something going on here. What was she supposed to bloody well say?

  And then she got an inspiration. Now had a much better story.

  ‘I found it in Mr Charles’s room, Mrs Collins.’ For a moment she enjoyed the shock in the woman’s eyes before she added with an innocent air, ‘Mrs Gummidge must have dropped it when she returned Mr Charles’s painting coat. It was all wrapped up in the coat. Stained it too, it did.’ Sesina folded her hands in front of her and waited for a response, facing her mistress, but keeping a sharp eye on the inspector.

  ‘Returned Mr Charles’s painting coat!’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am. Becky saw her. She was the one that opened the door to her. Don’t you remember, ma’am. It was when you were here in the dining room, ma’am. When we was putting out the cards on the table.’

  ‘And then she came in here and upset my arrangements.’ Mrs Collins sounded stupefied.

  ‘No, that was afterwards, ma’am. She went upstairs first. Told Becky she had Mr Charles’s painting coat.’

  ‘Why was I not told about this sooner?’

  ‘Didn’t know myself, ma’am. Becky wasn’t to know any better, ma’am. Dolly usually opens the door, but she must have been busy.’ And if that got Dolly into trouble, then that would serve her right.

  ‘And who’s Becky?’ The inspector was looking a bit puzzled.

  ‘She’s a scullery maid, inspector. Comes in two or three times a week to help with the scrubbing and on washing day. But Sesina is right. Dolly should have opened the door. The child wasn’t to know any better. How very, very extraordinary! How on earth did Mrs Gummidge come to have my son’s painting coat?’

  Mrs C. was getting into her stride now. Beginning to get the plot, thought Sesina. They could carry the story between the two of them.

  ‘Seems strange, doesn’t it, ma’am, that there was blood on the painting coat and blood on the handkerchief. You see the handkerchief was wrapped in the coat. It soaked into it, do you think, ma’am?’ That could be the heading for a new part of the story.

  ‘No one could understand why there was blood on that coat.’ Mrs Collins was looking at Sesina when she said that and Sesina knew that it was her turn.

  ‘Wonder was it the same blood?’ she asked innocently, addressing her question to a space midway between the inspector and her mistress. She waited for a moment to give them the chance to exchange glances. Things were going much better than she could have dreamed of. Now a whole new story was opening up and she would enjoy guiding the inspector through it.

  ‘I wonder …’ The mistress put the edge of her first finger to her mouth and looked across the room at the window, giving a very good impression of someone w
ho is struck by a new thought.

  ‘So why did you slip Mrs Gummidge’s handkerchief under the cushion of that chair, Sesina?’ The inspector asked that question and his two underlings looked at him respectfully.

  Sesina suppressed a smile. She had been waiting for that. ‘I didn’t think it was right that a married woman would visit a young man’s bedroom,’ she said softly and hesitantly. ‘Even if she is a widow, she’s too old for him. She’s far older than his own mother.’ Sesina slipped a surreptitious gaze at Mrs Collins and saw that had gone down well. ‘I didn’t like to say anything about it, but I didn’t want to leave her handkerchief there,’ she continued. ‘And so I brought it back to her today and she said that it wasn’t hers. Struck me all in a heap, that did!’

  ‘Said it wasn’t hers,’ echoed the inspector. Sesina saw that he looked at the handkerchief with renewed interest. Encouraged by that, she went on, ‘So I didn’t know what to do. I knew it was hers. And so I slipped it under the cushion where she had been sitting that evening. Just so as the mistress could find it and deal with the matter,’ she ended humbly, wondering whether to dab her eyes with her apron. She rejected that though in favour of the honest, straightforward gaze of a conscientious and troubled servant.

  ‘I see.’ The inspector was so excited that he couldn’t help exchanging a glance with Mrs Collins. Mrs Collins widened her eyes and bit her lower lip. A good actress; there was no doubt about that. Should definitely have gone on the stage, thought Sesina, wondering how to get out of the room. Best to leave them now. Let them talk it over. She glanced towards the door and Mrs Collins did not fail her.

  ‘That’s all, Sesina, unless the inspector wants you for anything else.’ She cast an enquiring look at him and he gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Oh, and Sesina, you will have a word with little Becky about not answering the front door bell, won’t you? I don’t want to upset the little girl, but really she mustn’t take it upon herself to do things like that. I’m sure that I can rely on you to explain matters to her, can’t I?’ She had a meaningful look in her eyes and Sesina had to bite back a grin.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said humbly. ‘You can rely on me, ma’am. She’s a very good girl, Becky, just wants to please. Loves coming here. She’s ever so useful, ma’am.’ No harm in putting this in. Mrs Collins must know that silence came with a price. No harm in giving Becky a leg up.

  ‘You’re right. She is a good girl. I’ll have a word with the cook about giving her an extra day’s work. But I’ll leave that other matter to you, Sesina. You will explain to her, won’t you?’

  Don’t overdo it: I’m not stupid and nobody ever thought that I was. Sesina got herself out of the room as quickly as she could before all this insistence about Becky might wake a suspicion in the dull mind of the inspector. As she went down the stairs to the basement, she went over the next part she had to play. Just had to get it firmly into Becky’s mind. She had a quick look into the kitchen. Dolly and Mrs Barnett, heads together, happily gossiping while chopping hazelnuts. She shut the door quietly. No point in disturbing them.

  Becky was in the washhouse, pounding the dolly up and down on the table napkins that were steeping in a mixture of lye soap and water. Poor little scrap, looked exhausted.

  ‘Give yourself a rest, Becky,’ said Sesina. Becky always did what she was told and so she stopped instantly and gazed at Sesina with her frightened large eyes. A bit ‘wanting’ at times, thought Sesina and wondered how to put it to the girl. No point in too many explanations.

  ‘You opened the door to Mrs Gummidge, Mrs Hermione Gummidge, didn’t you, Becky?’ And then when Becky continued to stare, Sesina gave her a nod and then added a wink.

  ‘Yes,’ said Becky, with an uneasy look.

  ‘That’s right.’ Sesina nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right. You opened the door to Mrs Gummidge and she asked you where Mr Charles’s painting room was. And you showed her up.’

  This was going a little too fast for Becky. Her eyes widened even more and she stared at Sesina with an expression of bewilderment.

  ‘Just say it, Becky.’ Sesina was beginning to lose patience. Any minute now, that inspector might ask to speak to the girl who admitted Mrs Gummidge to the painting room. Slowly and carefully, enunciating the words with great care, Sesina said, ‘I opened the door to Mrs Gummidge. She asked for Mr Charles. I showed her into the painting room. Now you say that, Becky.’

  With a relieved expression, Becky repeated the words without the slightest mistake. Not stupid then; just frightened out of her wits half the time. Sesina rewarded her with an enthusiastic grin and another wink.

  ‘Say it again, Becky.’

  This time it came out in a more natural-sounding manner.

  ‘Good girl, Becky.’ Sesina made her voice sound excited. She seized the dolly and pounded the napkins with immense vigour. She was fizzing over with enjoyment. This was brightening up a dull day. ‘Say it again!’

  Becky was getting into the spirit of things and now the words were coming out in a more and more natural fashion. Wouldn’t matter if she sounded a bit frightened. The inspector was the sort of man who would expect a kitchen maid to be frightened of a great man like himself.

  ‘And now one more bit, Becky.’ Sesina gave the girl a wide smile. ‘Say this: “She asked me where Mr Charles’s bedroom was and I told her it was next door”.’

  ‘Mrs Gummidge asked me ’bout Mr Charles’s painting room. Showed her in.’

  Even better, thought Sesina. Sounded more like the way that Becky would speak normally. She gave the girl a hug and then in an excess of generosity, she fished out a sweet from her pocket. Mr Wilkie was mad on sweets and always kept a pile of them by his bed. Would offer her one if she came in while he was there. ‘Help yourself, Sesina,’ he’d say and so she did, whether he was there or not. Bless him; he wouldn’t mind. And it was worth it to see the look on little Becky’s half-starved face. Probably the first time she had ever tasted a sweet. Didn’t have the nerve to pinch one from the stalls in Covent Garden. Amazing that the girl was still alive. Didn’t seem to have no idea of how to look after herself.

  ‘Say it again, Becky,’ said Sesina and Becky shifted the sweet to the inside of her cheek and said it all again, changing the first bit, just as she had changed the last bit. Didn’t matter as long as she got the three things right: Mrs Gummidge. Mr Charles. The painting room. Sesina gave a few more vigorous blows of the dolly on top of the load of table napkins and then left the girl with instructions to keep saying the words to herself until she was sure that she wouldn’t forget them. She wouldn’t mention the possibility of another day’s work for Becky until she was sure that it was going to happen. Mrs Collins had a habit of saying things and then of forgetting all about them unless reminded at frequent intervals. But she was mad about her two sons and anyone that helped one of them would be rewarded by her.

  Let’s get this affair of Mr Charles over and done with first, thought Sesina. She must make sure that there were plenty of other people for the inspector to suspect. She hesitated for a moment outside the kitchen, but Dolly and Mrs B. were happily chattering, at least Mrs B. was telling Dolly some lies about her family and how well-off they had been and Dolly was saying, ‘Well, I never! Well, it must have been a great shock for you to have to go into service!’

  Sesina grabbed a tin of polish and some polishing rags from the cupboard outside the kitchen door and made her way upstairs in search of Mr Wilkie. There was always some piece of furniture in the house which needed polishing so nobody could accuse her of being idle. Mrs Collins was busy with the inspector, Mrs Barnett was busy with her imaginary tales from the past and so Sesina might be able to have an uninterrupted chat with Mr Wilkie. She wondered how he and his friend Mr Dickens were getting on with discovering the real murderer. He would never believe that his brother had killed the man. Knew better – well, he must have done. After all he knew him since he was born and I bet, Sesina thought, that while little Wilkie was g
etting up to mischief, little Charley was a good little boy. The older boy had the gift of the gab and might have managed to make his way even if he were born in Monmouth Street and had to make his way among the swarming inhabitants of the streets around the Seven Dials.

  But little Charley Collins, without a rich father and an easy life, would, like many that she had known, have faded away at an early age. Had eaten nothing this morning. That was always his way when he was upset. Needs someone to look after him, she muttered and though she told herself that she was being soft, she swore that she would do her best to get him out of this terrible mess. But she could do with some help. This was a murder committed by one of the toffs; she was sure of that. And to get into their world she needed to link up with one of their own kind.

  She would have to talk with his brother, Mr Wilkie, as soon as she could.

  FOURTEEN

  Wilkie Collins, Hide and Seek, 1854:

  Now, the parlour of Mr Thorpe’s house was neat, clean, comfortably and sensibly furnished. It was of the average size. It had the usual side-board, dining-table, looking-glass, scroll fender, marble chimney-piece with a clock on it, carpet with a drugget over it, and wire window-blinds to keep people from looking in, characteristic of all respectable London parlours of the middle class.

  I finished the last rapid sketch. ‘I’m no artist,’ I said, pinning the slip of paper beside the other four. I stood back and looked at them – five sketches and one of them bore the shape of a murderer. ‘But I am a competent draughtsman,’ I added. ‘Even my father used to admit that.’

  Dickens and I were hard at work, sitting cosily beside the fire in the small downstairs parlour. The inspector had taken the pictures away, but I felt that I had produced a reasonable facsimile of each one of the five intact pictures. I felt a driving need to discover who had murdered Edwin Milton-Hayes. Charley was safe for the moment, but he couldn’t spend the rest of his life on a yacht. Knowing Charley, he was probably homesick already, might even insist, in his oddly obstinate way, of coming back and of endeavouring by means of logical argument to convince Inspector Field of his innocence.