Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I was, so!’ she asserted, but then she allowed the smile to come.

  ‘Go on, then, up you go,’ he said. ‘Mrs Collins in her sitting room?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. He had something in his mind; she could see that by his eyes. Trying to be the same as usual, but there was an air of suppressed excitement about him. Just like he was, sometimes, when he was writing his book. He would be down-hearted for a while, sighing heavily, kicking at the wall under his desk, scratching his head and rubbing his eyes. And then, suddenly, he would say, ‘Don’t utter a word, Sesina. I’ve got an idea!’ And then his quill pen would dip in and out of the inkwell as fast as a bird pecking at the crumbs on the lawn. And he would tell her again and again, ‘Don’t speak, Sesina, don’t say a word, I have an idea.’

  And that was the way he was tonight. Not writing, but gazing across the room, not seeing anything, she would have taken a bet on that, but gazing through the window and out into the dismal mists that hung over Regent’s Park. Sesina held her breath, but she did not leave the room. In a few minutes, he might well want to talk about things and so, hoping that no one would come in through the door, she sat down on the rug beside the fire and waited for him to notice her. As long as Mr Charles was safe. That was the main thing. Otherwise, who cared?

  Eventually, he gave a sigh. And then he spoke, not to her, but to himself. ‘That might be it,’ he said. And then he seemed to notice her.

  ‘Sesina, give me a hand, will you?’ he said and she rose to her feet instantly. ‘Come down to the parlour with me,’ he said and so she followed him. He knew what he wanted now, going down the stairs, two at a time, just like a young fellow and then he was switching on the gas lamps and searching behind the curtains for something. He had it in under a minute, a large leather bag and then he opened it and handed it to her.

  ‘Keep it open, like a good girl,’ he said while, one by one, he took the paintings from the stack on the table and put them into the bag. ‘Five pictures,’ he said, after he had finished. ‘Five pictures without faces. One of those hidden faces, Sesina, might show the face of a murderer.’

  ‘And then there is the sixth one,’ she reminded him. ‘The one that is on the table in your bedroom. The one that is called Winter of Despair, the one that has been slashed.’

  He stopped and stared at her, his eyes large behind his spectacles. He stood so very still that she thought for a few moments that she had gone too far, had stepped out of her role as servant girl. And then he gave a deep sigh and beamed his nice smile at her.

  ‘What a clever little thing you are, Sesina! Do you know, I’d almost forgotten about that picture, but you know, now that you remind me of it, something odd has just occurred to me.’

  He perched on the edge of the table, the bag dangling from his hand. And then he put the bag on the floor and took off his glasses and wiped them carefully and meticulously with his clean pocket handkerchief. He always does that when he’s thinking hard. The words were in Sesina’s head, but she made no move and asked no questions.

  ‘You see, Sesina; it’s a bit odd; let me explain it to you,’ he said after a minute. He bent over the bag and took out The Night Prowler. ‘These pictures, see the holes in the frame, well they are meant to be clipped onto that picture in my room, Winter of Despair, and the two together make a little story.’

  Sesina nodded. ‘So it’s like the Bible, ain’t it, sir? You go stealing and then you end up in the river with everyone gawping down at you.’ Don’t always work like that, though, she thought to herself.

  ‘That’s the idea, anyway,’ he said as though he had read her thoughts. ‘But you see, Sesina, when the body of the late departed Mr Milton-Hayes was found, well then only the one picture was in the room and that’s a bit odd. Say what you like about our late departed friend, Sesina, but he was no fool. The picture of Winter of Despair with no faces shown, well that wouldn’t drive anyone to murder. Strange, isn’t it, Sesina?’

  Perhaps not, thought Sesina. An idea had suddenly come to her, but she moved it to the back of her mind until she would have time to think about it. She opened the door for him, but said nothing. There was such a palpable degree of excitement about him that she did not want to interrupt him. She just closed the door quietly and went to follow him back up the stairs to his study. As she came to the landing, the doorbell rang. She hesitated for a minute looking down into the hall. It was not her business normally to answer the doorbell, but she knew that Dolly was busy in the kitchen, helping Mrs Barnett with the dinner.

  After another minute of hesitation, she went back down the stairs. After all, officially, she was supposed to be polishing the hall table. Mr Wilkie had disappeared up the next flight of stairs towards his study.

  Feeling irritated and disappointed, she went down the stairs and opened the hall door. And then, when she saw who was standing there, her irritation turned to fear. Inspector Field was standing there and there was a very grim look on his face, and when he saw Sesina it became even grimmer.

  ‘Ah, so there you are,’ he said and then he gave a grunt. An unpleasant sound. Just as though he were saying, Now I have you. ‘So there you are, young lady,’ he said in that same unpleasant fashion. ‘Take me up to your mistress.’

  Sesina bobbed an acknowledgement, but she felt quite uneasy. She led the way up the stairs, though she thought that he could have found his way easily by himself. She was halfway up, when she thought that she should have left him in the downstairs parlour and then gone to see whether Mrs Collins was at home and willing to receive him. It was too late to change her mind, though. He had said, ‘Take me to your mistress’ and she had done what she was told. You have to obey the police, she told herself silently, but she was uneasy about the whole business.

  When they reached Mrs Collins’ sitting room, Sesina knocked and then instantly went in, shutting the door behind her and leaving the policeman standing on the landing.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ she said in a low voice, crossing the room and standing beside Mrs Collins’ chair. ‘That policeman followed me up the stairs. I couldn’t stop him.’ She spoke in a low voice and she knew that he wouldn’t be able to hear her. Might as well tell a lie. Nearly the truth anyway.

  Mrs Collins looked quite startled. She had been sitting, looking into the fire, her handkerchief in her hand and when she jumped to her feet, a book slid off her knees. She hadn’t been reading it, although it was open, and she looked quite surprised when it fell on to the floor. Sesina picked it up. She knew it well. It usually reposed on Mrs Collins’ bedside table; it was the life of her husband written by her son Wilkie and it almost always made his widow cry. Worse than ever today when she was so worried about Mr Charles.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ she repeated and this time she meant it. That inspector was a nuisance, tormenting the poor woman.

  He had the brass nerve to follow her in. Just opened the door and strode in. Sesina bobbed and made for the door, but he put his back to it.

  ‘Stay where you are, my girl,’ he said in an unpleasant way. ‘I’d like to have a word with you, if you please.’

  There was something about the way that he said it, that made her stiffen. She thought that she might be able to guess what was coming, but she straightened her spine. Stick to a lie to the bitter end; her friend Isabella used to say that. Isabella was dead now, poor thing, but she hadn’t deserved that death. No one deserved death before their time. God sent enough deaths from disease and from hunger without people lending a hand with murders and hangings.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She said the words very quietly and stood with her hands folded in front of her and her eyes fixed upon him. Look innocent and sound innocent, sound all shocked and surprised. Another one of Isabella’s sayings. Though she had to admit that Isabella would have been a bit scornful to know that Sesina was taking a chance, not for her own benefit, but just for the son of her employer. Still, poor fellow, he wasn’t able to look after himself. In any case, he didn’t d
o it. Sesina was sure of that and a little giggle surfaced as she imagined how shocked the policeman would be if he knew what she was thinking. It wasn’t in Mr Charley to murder someone. She didn’t think so, anyway. Not unless he was driven to despair. She did her best to keep her mind on him, on his red-gold curls and his sky-blue eyes. Perhaps if she saved his life he might marry her and she could become a lady. Worth a little dream, wasn’t it? Marrying her would be better for him than getting himself hanged, in any case. She took the policeman’s hat as he dumped it on the table and held it in her hand. She’d toss it to the back of the hat stand as soon as she escaped, she thought viciously.

  ‘Now, then, young lady, what do you mean by telling me that Mrs Gummidge came here and that she went into Mr Charles Collins’ painting studio?’

  Sesina widened her eyes at him. ‘What do I mean by …?’ She stared at him with as stupid an expression as she could manage.

  ‘You were telling lies, weren’t you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Just as well that it wasn’t poor little Becky. She herself could happily spend half an hour like this if he wanted to waste his time, but Becky would go to pieces. Still, thought Sesina, Becky would go to pieces anyway, lie or no lie. There were people like that. Would swear black was white as soon as they got frightened. The police didn’t like people like that. So Old Mikey had told her once. Said he always pretended to be half-witted if the police picked him up. Said the police didn’t like half-wits. Always afraid that a judge might interfere, might ask a question, or might start listening to the evidence, might suddenly wake up and take notice, ask a question and then might get another answer out of them. Make everything start all over again when that happened, according to Old Mikey.

  ‘And so, Mrs Gummidge came in and went into that painting room belonging to Mr Charles Collins.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Sesina did her best to sound a bit half-witted, but, in reality, she was bewildered. Had he forgotten that it was Becky who was supposed to have admitted the woman? She stayed very still though, and stared at him with her wide-eyed stare of innocence.

  He stared back. And then he looked across at Mrs Collins.

  ‘Could you send for the other girl, Mrs Collins?’

  ‘Certainly, inspector. Fetch her, Sesina.’

  Yes, thought Sesina as she rapidly slipped from the room before the inspector could insist on the bell being rung, or even on fetching Becky himself. Yes, Mrs Collins had realized that this story accounted for the blood on Mr Charles’s painting coat. She knew that she had to back it up. The woman, thought Sesina admiringly, would have been good on the stage. Said that in just the right way. A bit offended, like. A hint of the ‘all my servants can be trusted, sir’ and a slight suggestion that he was taking up a lot of her time over a matter that was really nothing to do with the household in Hanover Terrace. And it was clever to allow Sesina to have an opportunity of reminding Becky what to say.

  There was a sound of a scrubbing brush coming up the basement stairs from the scullery and Sesina avoided the kitchen and went past the door as quietly as she could. No sense in involving Mrs B. or that nosy Dolly. This was something that she had to manage on her own.

  Becky was washing the floor of the scullery. She had forgotten the goose grease again and her hands were bright red from the harsh lye in the kitchen soap. Her apron was filthy and there was a smear of something across one cheek bone. Sesina surveyed her. She looked a poor little scrap. Just right. Leave the dirty apron on, she decided. It gave just the right impression.

  ‘Got some good news for you, Becky,’ she said. ‘The mistress is going to give you some more work here. Bit more money for you, Becky, but first you must tell about opening the door to Mrs Gummidge and about her going into Mr Charles’s bedroom and all that.’ She ran through the words, whispering them in Becky’s ear as they went rapidly up the stairs.

  ‘Here’s Becky, ma’am.’ Sesina gave a perfunctory knock, opened the door almost immediately, took the girl by the wrist and led her into the room. Mrs Collins, she noticed with admiration, had picked up her book and seemed to be immersed in it, while the inspector was reduced to gazing out of the window at the miserably dripping bare-branched trees in the park beyond. ‘Here’s Becky, ma’am,’ she repeated as her mistress had not raised her eyes from her book.

  Mrs Collins said nothing in reply, but she placed a bookmark on the open book in front of her, taking great care to line up the leather marker with the direct centre of the page. And then slowly and gravely she looked towards the policeman.

  Inspector Field looked taken aback. Not used to being frozen out like this. Not sure about Becky, either. That was good. She did look a bit half-witted. He wasn’t sure whether she would be much good as a witness. Sesina kept a smile off her face with difficulty.

  ‘Will I ask her, sir?’ she said humbly and saw him nod with relief.

  ‘Now, Becky, listen to me very carefully. Did you open the door to Mrs Gummidge and take her upstairs to Mr Charles’s painting room?’ Sesina spoke loudly and very clearly, spacing her words out in order to make her question as easily understood as possible.

  ‘No, I never!’ The words spurted out of the girl’s mouth and then she started to cry, giving terrified looks across at Mrs Collins.

  Sesina was taken aback for the moment, but then she rallied.

  ‘Don’t cry, Becky. It doesn’t matter,’ she said compassionately as Becky smeared her face even more atrociously with the back of her filthy hand. She flicked a quick glance at her mistress. ‘She’s worried because she’s not supposed to open the door,’ she said to the policeman in a piercing whisper.

  ‘Don’t be upset, Becky,’ said Mrs Collins. ‘Dry your eyes and answer the question.’

  Becky mopped her face with her sacking apron and looked at Sesina. Sesina gave her an encouraging nod.

  ‘You opened the door because you were cleaning the hall and you were just right next to the door, didn’t you, Becky?’

  A nod. Sesina persevered.

  ‘And there was a lady standing there, wasn’t there, Becky?’

  Another nod. Sesina began to despair. This was no good. He wasn’t going to believe this. She threw caution to the winds and staked all on a final throw.

  ‘Tell’s about it, Becky,’ she said.

  A blank stare.

  Sesina put her hand in her apron pocket. One of Mr Wilkie’s sweets. She fumbled with finger and thumb, managed to get it out. And, by some miracle, it was a peppermint candy. Great smell, peppermint! Sesina rolled it in her hot hand and the gorgeous sharp perfume came out and across to poor hungry little Becky. She sniffed. Her face brightened.

  ‘I ’member,’ she said. ‘Missus Gummidge.’

  ‘That’s right, Becky.’ Sesina spoke loudly and clearly, spacing out her words as though speaking to a half-wit. Becky, she knew, was not a half-wit, but terror could make her seem like one. She cursed herself that she had ever involved the girl. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. She and Isabella had always called on the other to back up a lie.

  ‘That’s right, Becky, you remember Mrs Gummidge, don’t you? What did she ask you?’ That was about as far as she could go. She rubbed the sweet again trying to subdue her tension and once again the flavour of mint and of cinnamon spice flooded out.

  And it worked! Becky’s dirty little face brightened, again. ‘I ’member,’ she said. ‘Mrs Gummidge.’ Another long pause, but then Becky found her wits. ‘Mrs Gummidge ask me ’bout Mr Charles’s painting room. Took her in.’

  ‘And so she went into the painting room. What was she doing there, Becky?’

  That was a bit too much for Becky. There was another silence and Sesina trembled. But in desperation she continued to roll the sweet in her hand and to release the fragrance into the air.

  ‘Puttin’ back the painting coat – all rolled up.’ Becky had said it. The words were out now and Sesina breathed a silent prayer that no further questions would be put. She scanned the inspector
’s face. It bore a look of confusion. He was wondering whether to interrogate the witness. He had lifted his chin, looking alertly across the room and then he dropped his chin again, took out his notebook and his pencil, licked the pencil, scribbled in the notebook for a moment and then put both of them away. Even the suspicious Inspector Field seemed to recognize that Becky was not the kind to tell a lie easily. Sesina swallowed a sigh of relief and glanced at her mistress.

  ‘Take Becky back to the kitchen, now, Sesina,’ said Mrs Collins. ‘Thank you, Becky.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Sesina. She nudged Becky and the girl came out with a perfect imitation of Sesina’s tones. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she said.

  As soon as they were outside of the door, Sesina gave her a hug, popped the sweet into her mouth, shut the basement door upon her and then went back upstairs to find Mr Wilkie.

  He was in his study and he had lined two of the walls with the five pictures and was sitting and staring at them. He showed no surprise at seeing her come in again.

  ‘Can you read, Sesina?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course I can.’ Sesina was indignant at the question.

  And I can write a better hand than you can, sir, but these words were only uttered within her mind. He’d probably laugh, but then, again, he mightn’t. No point in trusting the gentry-folk too far.

  ‘Who taught you?’ He seemed genuinely interested.

  ‘I learnt a bit at the working house, but really it was Mrs Morson, sir, when I was in Urania Cottage. She taught all of the girls to read and to write. Me and Isabella learnt ever so quick. We could even do a good match for her handwriting.’

  ‘Yes, I remember the handwriting. And I remember Isabella.’ He was silent after he said that.

  But, of course, he didn’t remember Isabella. A dead body tells you nothing about a person, tells no secrets. Still Sesina didn’t want to contradict him. Pointless, anyway, thinking about Isabella. Wouldn’t bring her back. What Mr Wilkie needed to do was to concentrate on his brother, make him pull himself together. Deny everything. She might have delayed matters a bit with that lie about Mrs Gummidge, but it wouldn’t last. The woman would probably find a witness. Someone who would swear that she had not gone out that morning, something like that. It was always easy to find a witness if you had a bit of money.