Mr Wilkie had plumped himself down on his chair, taken off his glasses and put a hand over his eyes. Suffered with his eyes, he did. Used to take laudanum to ease the pain of them.
‘Now, Sesina, read me out the name of each of these six pictures and I’ll do my best to tell you what I know of them. We’ll be two detectives on the case of the murdered artist. What do you think, Sesina? Do you think that we could crack open this murder between us? Now read me the first one.’
‘The Night Prowler,’ she said instantly. Might as well give him an easy one for a start.
‘Well, I do believe, my fellow detective, that the prowling gentleman, candle in hand, is, in all probability, the noble lord, Lord Douglas, son of the Earl of Ennis. And that the lady, standing on guard, is probably dear little Florence Gummidge. What say you?’
‘The picture could be of them all right,’ said Sesina thoughtfully. ‘But do you think that they would have done that, really done it? It’d be a norful risk, wouldn’t it? Anybody could have spotted them creeping around in the dark. Not as if they was married, is it?’
‘My dear little Sesina, much as I hate to disturb your sweet innocence, I have to tell you that in these country house affairs, men and women do, often, creep around in the middle of the night, and, no, they are seldom or ever married to each other. Married, yes! Married to each other, no!’
Sesina smiled. Mr Wilkie was fun when he was in that sort of mood.
‘So no one would take any notice if they saw them,’ she said, nodding her head to show that she understood the rules that these gentry played by.
‘Precisely. The sport of creeping around corridors at night is about the only thing that makes these country house weekends seem endurable. Though I have to hand it to Lord Douglas. He seems to have been somewhat more enterprising, if our late lamented friend, Edwin Milton-Hayes, is correct. He turned what was a sport for the rest of us, into a lucrative way of life. Made a good living out of it, Sesina!’
Sesina brooded for a moment. She didn’t quite understand all of the long words that he used, but she could see the sense of this. Lord Douglas and Florence Gummidge were making a nice little heap of money for themselves by stealing jewellery, instead of just getting up to whatever hanky panky the rest of them got up to.
‘Clever,’ she said admiringly. ‘I suppose all the ladies bring their best jewels to these affairs.’
‘And their ugliest heirlooms, handed down to them by long dead grandmothers and great-grandmothers. On the whole, the size of the diamond and the quality of the cut means more than any mere decorative value, Sesina, so if ever you go in for stealing diamonds, remember that the necklace or the brooch or the tiara will have to be taken to pieces and so it’s not a question of how pretty the whole thing looks, but how big the rocks, the diamonds, I mean, or sapphires or emeralds. All of them worth stealing, Sesina. And let me give you another piece of advice. If you see a string of pearls just test it before you steal it. And this is how to find out if a pearl is real, just lightly rub it against the front of your tooth – not against the edge of your tooth, Sesina, you don’t want to scratch the pearl. Now if it’s the real thing the pearl should feel gritty to your tooth.’
Sesina thought about this. He seemed to know plenty about stealing diamonds and pearls. A little thrill ran through her. Perhaps Mr Wilkie was thinking of going in for something like that. He might get her a position in a rich person’s house in the country, a place that had lots of visitors with jewels.
‘But Mr Milton-Hayes’ painting would put a stop to this game,’ he went on. ‘And so he, Mr M-H had to be wiped out of the picture, to coin a phrase. Makes sense, doesn’t it, Sesina? Good pun, too, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘It makes sense, sir.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope that I can gently lead our good friend, the inspector, to consider that money is the root of all evil. Now, speaking of that, what about that painting, Root of All Evil, what do you make of that, Sesina?’
Sesina considered the painting. Not as interesting as The Night Prowler, she thought. That had been a very exciting picture to think about. ‘It’s just a woman playing cards, sir,’ she explained, noting that he had shut his eyes again. His spectacles were dangling from his waistcoat pocket, held only by one arm of the frame. Gently she removed them and placed them on his table. ‘She’s betting, sir, on the cards.’ And then when he made no answer, she glanced away from the picture and at him. There was a smile curving his lips. He was getting stout. His stomach was beginning to stick out like that of an old man. Didn’t keep himself nice and slim like his brother. Little fellow, too. Not like her Charley. He still said nothing so she looked back at the picture again. ‘I think it looks like it could be Mrs Jordan. She was sitting next to you at the table, sir. She does her hair that way. I noticed it when I was serving.’ And then, when he still said nothing, she said decisively, ‘I don’t think it would be her, do you, Mr Wilkie?’
‘Could be.’ He pursed up his lips.
‘I don’t think so. It’s a mug’s game, this betting,’ she said, ‘but it’s her own business. Her own money, unless she stole it.’
‘Ah but she did, Sesina, she did. She’s a married woman. Her money belongs to her husband and he will divorce her if she spends it without his permission. He’ll go to court and ask the court for a divorce and then she won’t be a married woman anymore. And she won’t have any money at all then, perhaps just enough to keep her from starvation. He’s threatened it. So I have heard.’
‘She might be better off without him,’ said Sesina. ‘It wouldn’t be much fun being married to a man who didn’t want you to have a bit of excitement. If I was her, I’d empty the house first and then clear off myself. Hire a van and take away all of the stuff. Start up again somewhere new. Go to another city. That’s what I’d do.’ She giggled a little as she remembered the time that she had stolen a bed, wheeled it down Ludgate Hill. ‘She’d get plenty of money if the furniture is good stuff and her husband sells paintings, don’t he? Well, then she could grab a few of them and sell them on the quiet. The carpets, too. I bet they are worth a lot. And the curtains, probably pure velvet. She’d get a nice sum for the whole lot. And who knows, she might get lucky at the cards. Someone has to win, don’t they, sir?’
‘Well, then, Sesina, we cross Mrs Helen Jordan off from our list, do we?’
He was looking amused and interested, she was glad to see. He needed stirring up, too sleepy half the time. They had to save Mr Charles. Wouldn’t cross anyone off, if I was him, she thought, but then she moved on to the next picture.
‘What about this Forbidden Fruit, sir? Don’t make sense to me.’
‘I think that the gentleman you see here wants to marry that very young lady and her parents say no. She’s too young to get married without her parents’ consent.’
People who have plenty of money worry about the most stupid things, thought Sesina. Aloud, she said, ‘That’s Mr Hamilton, ain’t it? Nothing to stop him and her telling a few lies to a parson and getting married. Or else go off together and then the parents will come around quick, I can tell you that.’
‘So you won’t put your sixpence on Mr Hamilton, then, will you, Sesina.’
She shook her head vigorously. She knew where that sixpence should go, but she didn’t want to say it, even to Mr Wilkie.
‘Den of In … what’s that word, sir?’
‘In-i-qui-ty; that’s the way to pronounce it, I think,’ he said and she was pleased that he didn’t make a game of her, but said it very seriously, just like he was working it out for himself. ‘Just a long word that stands for good, old-fashioned wickedness. Do you recognize the man there, Sesina? Does it look like anyone who was at the dinner?’
Sesina gazed at the picture. Her first instinct was to say no, but then an idea came to her. She walked a bit nearer to the picture and inspected it carefully.
‘Not so easy, is it, Sesina, to identify the man.’ He sounded as though he knew
and Sesina felt annoyed. Her mind went over the guests at Mrs Collins’ dinner party. And then, suddenly, the solution flashed into her mind.
‘It’s the clothes, innit? He changed his clothes.’
‘Not surprising, is it? Not the sort of clothes he wears every day, are they?’ He laughed a little to himself.
Sesina felt annoyed. So he had guessed before she had. And she prided herself on her quick wits and there he was, half asleep, peering across the room with his little watery, screwed-up eyes. But the man in the picture did look so different. The clothes were that of a dock worker. He even wore a cap on his head, just half hiding the grey hair. Painted well that hair. She had stood behind him at dinner and had noticed the hair as he grabbed at the brandy. And there he was lying on that broken old bed. Filthy place! Smoke everywhere, almost hiding the figures sprawled on the beds. It was a very murky picture. The lamps, the pipes, the glass tubes, they stood out almost more than the customers. She had to say that the artist, that man Mr Milton-Hayes, was a good painter. He had just the right shade of grey on the bedsheets. A few stains, here and there, too. She knew what they were. She could almost smell the place!
‘Wonder how he got hold of the clothes?’ Mr Wilkie had got up and was staring at the picture, standing beside her.
‘That’s easy,’ she said, glad of the opportunity to sound scornful. ‘Bought them up Monmouth Street way. Wouldn’t cost much, not old rags like them.’ Rapidly she worked out how he would have managed it. Easy enough, she thought, picturing the scene. ‘Wouldn’t need to disguise himself, neither, could pretend that they were for charity,’ she said aloud and saw from the twinkle in his eye that he had guessed her meaning. And then a memory dawned. ‘Saw an old geezer like that near Dorset Square on the day that Mr Milton-Hayes was croaked,’ she said. She was wondering whether to mention a name or to keep it to herself when the sound of a bell came through the doorway.
‘Three bells, that’s for you, Sesina. Well, you’re in favour with my mother these days, aren’t you? Better watch out or else Dolly will be poisoning you.’
In good form now, she thought as she went towards the door. She didn’t bother laughing at his little joke. ‘I’ll put my sixpence on Den of Iniquity and the man dressed up in the old clothes, Mr Wilkie,’ she said as she went out. She looked back at him and saw him turn his eyes from her. By the time that she closed the door, he was up close to the picture, scrutinizing it intently. Should keep him occupied for a while, she thought as she went down the stairs as quietly as she could.
SIXTEEN
Wilkie Collins, Hide and Seek:
… the smoke from the chimney-pots was lost mysteriously in deepening superincumbent fog; the muddy gutters gurgled; the heavy rain-drops dripped into empty areas audibly. No object great or small, no out-of-door litter whatever appeared anywhere, to break the dismal uniformity of line and substance in the perspective of the square. No living being moved over the watery pavement …
I thought about Milton-Hayes, and his change of name, during my walk that evening. It had begun to rain and I put up my umbrella, and then smiled to myself as I remembered Dickens looking at the name of the maker and berating me for not buying it in Burlington Arcade. The canon, I was sure, would not make a mistake like that. All of his clerical clothes, his umbrella, his stick, his top hat, all seemed to say ‘money’ and ‘upper class’. But there was one thing that was not so easy to purchase and that he had perhaps retained from a former life.
It had not been a very useful interview. We had got very little out of the canon. He had appeared to be slightly offended by our questions, inclined to dismiss the whole matter as not having much to do with him. Had been certain that the choice of subject matter was left to the artist. Would never dream of telling a man how to do his own business. Had just stipulated that the subject matter should be instructive and moralistic. Pure chance had led him to the artist. Had heard his name mentioned. Had heard good reports of him. Could not remember now who had mentioned the name Milton-Hayes. ‘But,’ said the canon blandly, ‘it was not a name to be forgotten.’ Had there been a slight note of amusement in his voice when he said that?
That accent. Carefully enunciated as most of his words were, from time to time, the accent slipped. Rutter was his name. Canon Rutter. I had a feeling that I had come across that name before now, and I remembered that it was in a law case that I had been reading up when I was studying at Lincoln’s Inn. Yes, it had been a dispute over an inheritance in the county of Essex. ‘Rutter’ I seemed to remember had been a popular name in Essex and there was an ambiguity about the will which left a substantial sum to a Tom Rutter and did not mention an address, thereby leaving the field open to a considerable number of Tom Rutters and of Thomas Rutters and even, I seemed to remember, a Thomasina Rutter. Yes, an Essex name. And someone had said that name to me recently and it was not in conjunction with the canon. I searched my mind for that elusive memory while repeating the name ‘Rutter’ over and over again to myself.
Strange name, I thought. Just as well that the good canon was not a schoolmaster. Even so, I could imagine that the small boys of his parish would have a lot of fun with a name like Rutter which could so easily have been turned into ‘Ratter’.
Enough to make any man change his name! Still deep in thought, I emerged from under my umbrella to check on the sky.
And then I had an inspiration. It was Piggott, my yachting friend, who had mentioned that he thought Milton-Hayes was an assumed name, something to do with ‘Jack Russell’ … A Jack Russell is a game little dog who loved to hunt rats. Ratter/Rutter. Had Milton-Hayes, who was from Essex, originally borne the name of ‘Rutter’?
And had there been an uneasiness in the canon’s manner when we had asked him about when he first met Milton-Hayes? I resolved to think hard and to have a credible hypothesis by the time that I met my friend.
Dickens and I were going to the theatre and we were to meet at Drury Lane. I knew all of those streets below Regent’s Park, to the north of Oxford Street and to the east towards Bloomsbury very well and could steer a course through small streets and terraces towards St Giles, taking short cuts where another man might not have ventured.
Nevertheless, since the rain was really quite heavy, I hailed a cab when I came out of the gate to my mother’s house. It was vile and smelly, full of dirty straw and so once we reached Tottenham Court Road and I saw how the rain faded into the normal sheets of fog I rapped on the roof of the cab and took out my purse. I would, I decided, be as quick walking as sitting in that evil-smelling darkness with the horse proceeding at a slow walking pace. I would enjoy the walk and I would use the time to ponder over the possibility of Milton-Hayes having a connection to Canon Rutter.
And yet as I went along the foggy street, I was uneasy. There had been a cab behind mine and it had stopped when my man had stopped. I had looked at it idly, as I paid the man, but no one had descended from it. Nevertheless, I thought from time to time that I heard some people behind me. But every time that I stopped to listen, I could hear no sound; the heavy silent blanket of the fog drowned all sounds. I would stop and then walk on, feeling as though I were enveloped in an enormous cloud and totally cut off from the rest of mankind.
It was, I realized soon, an exceptionally severe fog and it seemed to have driven others off the street. Occasionally a cab passed me, going very slowly, bearing passengers, no doubt, as the driver did not respond to the signal from my raised umbrella. Or perhaps, an empty cab whose driver had decided to make for his home and his fire and was resolute that he would take no more passengers. And so I walked on, alone in a mist-enclosed silence.
But not complete silence. My ears, straining for sound, seemed to hear something now, the sound of something coming nearer. I was hearing footsteps coming steadily behind me, stopping occasionally – stopping, I thought, when I had turned to face them, but then proceeding on in a cautious manner. I dawdled on purpose, and then I, too, stopped. I stepped into a doorway and waite
d. There was a slight diminution in the density of the fog, sounds were clearer in the still air and now I could definitely hear footsteps. I waited, standing concealed in the deep doorway and waited for the footsteps to come nearer and nearer. Definitely more than one person.
I peered anxiously out into the white mist. I was no hero and would always prefer to avoid trouble than to meet it bravely. I resolved that if they wanted my purse I would hand it over instantly and allow them to go on their way.
But when they came into view, I could see nothing to disturb my equanimity and so I walked on briskly. Two young gentlemen, rather the worse for wear, probably after a bottle of wine too much, wobbled into sight a few times and then fell behind again. Faint sounds of drunken laughter came to me as I walked on hastily. From time to time, I heard a few lines of a ribald song, intoned in a tuneless fashion. And then sudden silences, dissolving eventually into a fit of drunken laughter. Nothing to worry about, I told myself. I had been like that when I was a young student and I could remember the hilarity when a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman, as I must now appear, turned around to face us.
Nevertheless, I quickened my step, walking smartly and quickly, swinging my umbrella and keeping a sharp look-out for another cab. The fog was now nothing but a damp inconvenience and soon the cabs should be out again. I should have kept that man, though his vehicle did smell so vile.
No cab came my way, however, and I decided to take a short cut through one of the alleyways, a narrow, filthy place, lined with decaying, crumbling buildings. I had shown this place to Dickens lately and he had exclaimed, telling me that he wanted to use it in his writing, saying that it was ideal for a scene that he had in mind for his next story. I thought now of my own book, of the background of one of the characters and of how he had fought the natives out in the wilds of America. The terror and uneasiness I had gone through during the last ten minutes should help me to experience his feelings while he was being stealthily tracked by revenge-filled men. I smiled a little to myself at the idea of equating an evening walk in the familiar streets of north London with the stealing through wilderness with a gang of cut-throat savages wishing to take my scalp. Still, I had learned that when writing the smallest of experiences were like gold in the safe. They could be drawn upon whenever the writer chose to dip into these hidden resources.
Winter of Despair Page 20
