Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  SEVENTEEN

  Wilkie Collins, Hide and Seek:

  In what precise number of preliminary mental entanglements he involved himself, before arriving at the desired solution, it would not be very easy to say. As usual, his thoughts wandered every now and then from his subject in the most irregular manner;

  ‘Wilkie, wake up, wake up, old fellow. Time for us to be getting going. We’ll miss the opening act of the play.’

  I woke with a start. Dickens’ voice in my ear. An empty table. That was good. I didn’t want Inspector Field. Not now. Not while I still had to work through my thoughts.

  ‘Damn the play,’ I said. ‘I have more important things to think of.’

  Dickens sighed, smiled, shook his head at me, but put down the coat that he held in his hands. He sat down again and took out a cigar. Looked at it and then put it away.

  ‘Oh, come on, Dick,’ I said impatiently. ‘If you want a cigar why don’t you damn well smoke one? Don’t be such a fanatic. Go mad. Allow yourself three cigars in the day. Just once! Won’t kill you, you know. Just relax. And get me some more of that purl.’

  Dickens laughed quietly to himself. ‘No more purl for you, my young friend. You’ve had enough. You’ll be out in the middle of the floor challenging all newcomers to a fight to the death if I get any more of that ale for you. Have a cup of coffee.’ And without waiting for a word from me, he went off into the bar in search of the landlord.

  I sat very still, smiling to myself. My brain was miraculously clear. I could see it all. The drawing room. The paintings. My father’s landscape. The admiring visitor. There had been something very stagey about that eye glass, I thought. It had been waved around like a banner proclaiming that its owner was short-sighted and yet, on entering the dining room that night he had picked out his own name, Mr John French, from right across the room, had glanced down the room, and had taken his seat in between the art gallery owner, William Jordan and the beautiful gambler, Mrs Helen Jordan. Perhaps, after all, as soon as he had entered my mother’s drawing room, he had seen every detail of the painting with its intriguing title, Taken in Adultery, and had, like everyone else in the room, guessed that his own elderly features were hidden behind the mask of white paint, that he was the one looking in through the door at his beautiful, very young wife and her handsome, red-headed, young lover. It must have been a terrible shock to see this picture. John French would have thought that he was safe after he had killed the artist and had destroyed the picture Winter of Despair which may have shown the body of his young wife, or perhaps the body of the young man and the girl looking down upon him. The picture had been badly mutilated and it had been extremely difficult to glue the scattered pieces together again. It was impossible to be sure of the identity of the drowned body. Nevertheless, guesses could be made when the other pictures were seen side by side with it. All that it now revealed was that there appeared to be a body floating in the Thames and that an audience stood above on the Hungerford Bridge, looking down upon the corpse. All details had been so slashed and mutilated by the sharp knife that it had proved impossible to identify anyone.

  But, nevertheless, I thought that I was beginning to see the truth.

  ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ observed Dickens as he came back accompanied by the landlord and the coffee.

  I waited, quietly smiling to myself, until the coffee had been poured and we were left to ourselves again.

  ‘I’m doing a bit of thinking around the problem, rather than confronting it full face,’ I said grandly.

  Dickens raised a sceptical eyebrow and buried the lower end of his face into the mug of coffee. Above the rim, two dark eyes flashed at me, but he said nothing.

  ‘Just thinking the whole matter out logically,’ I said and then kept him waiting while I swallowed some coffee. And some more, then some more. It was very strong indeed and I felt that the soft, fuzzy sensation of infallibility began to ebb from my brain. Nevertheless, when I put down the cup I tried to reassemble my thoughts.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that threat that ruffian shouted, telling me to stop asking questions. Well, it must be questions about the murder of Milton-Hayes, mustn’t it? So who sent him to threaten me? If you or I, Dick, wanted the services of Silken Sam, would we know how to go about summoning him to our presence? What would we do? Put an advertisement in The Times? Inquire at our local post office?’ I went on devising other ridiculous scenarios but then when I saw that he was getting impatient, I finished up with, ‘No, we wouldn’t know where to find him, but I wonder would Mr French be able to find him?’

  I left a short pause and saw him turn this over in his mind. I waited for a question, but he said nothing and so I went on.

  ‘I do know something, though. Ruskin, or was it Millais, one of Charley’s friends, anyway told me once about the origins of the very rich Mr French.’ Whichever it was, Ruskin or Millais, I remembered thinking at the time that he was telling me in the hopes that I would warn my brother against this affair with pretty little Molly French. ‘French wasn’t born rich. He was just a clerk as a young man,’ I went on. ‘Just a clerk working down at the docks. Noting down deliveries, all that sort of thing.’

  I waited again for the question but as he still said nothing, I supplied it myself.

  ‘So how did he become such a rich man? Well, it appears that no one exactly knew. There he was for years, a young clerk, living in lodgings, scurrying to and fro to the docks. And then, ten or fifteen years later, he is living in a big house in Hampstead, servants, butler, housekeeper, groom, everything that money could buy. Everyone could see how rich he was. Perhaps he made money importing goods, but if so, how did he get a start? Where did he get the capital to do that? But,’ I said gravely, ‘now listen to this, Dickens, since no one knew how he became so rich, no one knew how he made his first fortune.’ I thought back to that conversation months ago. ‘I think it was Millais that told me this,’ I said slowly. ‘I was drunk at the time. I know that we were in that holster near to Lincoln’s Inn at the time and Millais tried to persuade me to talk Charley out of the liaison with the pretty little wife. Said that old John French was a dangerous man. I laughed at him at the time. I remember doing that and I remember saying, how could an old codger like that do any harm to a young fellow like Charley who must be a foot taller than him and no more than half his age.’

  ‘And Millais said …?’ Dickens’ voice was dry, but I could tell that he was interested.

  ‘Millais said to me, “Come on, Wilkie! You don’t think that a man as rich as John French does his own dirty work”.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dickens. Once more he took the cigar from his pocket and once again he put it away.

  I did not comment this time; just waited for his answer, waited for him to sip his coffee and swallow it.

  ‘Silken Sam,’ he said, eventually, and there was a grim note in his voice.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. I put my hand to my neck and felt the bruises on my throat. ‘Who knows? They may have known each other for a long time. They were both in business down at the docks, weren’t they? I don’t know much about that sort of thing, but I’d say that there is money to be made down the docks in two fashions. One would be legally and the other would be illegally.’

  ‘And did you pass on Millais’s message?’

  I nodded. And then grimaced. It had not been a satisfactory meeting between brothers. Charley was furious with me. Denied everything. I had made a mistake in approaching the whole matter in a cynical, rather jocose manner. I had not realized that he was so deeply in love, so tenderly in love with the girl. I should have been more thoughtful, more diplomatic and then he might have confided in me, instead of trampling all over his young love and driving him to leave the house and slam the door behind him.

  ‘But Charley wasn’t attacked. You would have known about that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t, as far as I know. I’ve never seen any signs of it. I can only suppos
e,’ I said slowly, ‘that Millais and Ruskin and all of that gang of painters knew far more about what was going on than did John French. He may have been quite complacent, may have expected that his wife would be quite content with the splendid carriage, the beautiful house, the silken clothes, the jewels, the servants. It may not have occurred to him that she wanted anything else.’

  ‘And so the first time that his eyes were opened was when our charming friend, Edwin Milton-Hayes, invited him to look upon that picture, Winter of Despair, that’s what you think, isn’t it, Wilkie?’

  ‘That’s what I think. And I do believe that he picked up the knife and slashed the man’s throat and then he destroyed the picture. May have meant to have removed it, but the servant girl returning interrupted him. But, in any case, he would have rendered it unrecognisable. Of course, he wasn’t to know that there was another stash of paintings hidden away. He wouldn’t have been a man that took much interest in art. The hinges on the side of the frame would not have meant anything to him, whereas …’ I stopped and looked at him very carefully as I said this, ‘Whereas, Dick, any artist would have immediately known that Winter of Despair was part of a diptych or a triptych.’

  He nodded at that. ‘I have never once suspected your brother, Wilkie. Put that out of your head. I’m a man who knows about people and I know that Charley has not got it in him to slash a man’s throat.’

  With an air of self-satisfaction he took out the cigar, lit it with a flourish and while staring steadily at me as though waiting for a comment, he sucked upon it wearing an expression of quiet enjoyment.

  ‘I’m sure that you’re right,’ I said humbly. ‘In any case,’ I said, ‘my brother would not have the money to employ a man like Silken Sam. He is completely dependent on my mother. And if he had asked for a large sum of money, whether to pay off a blackmailer or hire an assassin, my mother would have immediately asked my advice. And would probably have had to involve Coutts Bank, also. I don’t suppose people like Silken Sam come too cheap, do they?’

  ‘I don’t know why you refer to me as an authority on the hiring of an assassin,’ he said in an irritated fashion, but he went on smoking and soon, I could see from his brow, that the smoke was having a calming, soothing effect upon him.

  ‘And that means that we rule out young Walter Hamilton, also,’ he said pensively. ‘He wouldn’t have had the money. And I suppose that we can rule out the schoolgirl, too, as it was unlikely – however ill-cared-for and badly-behaved as she seems to have been – that she actually had access to Silken Sam.’

  I felt that I should stand up for the girl who had seemed to me very charming, very mature, and very in love, but I did not reply to this. No point in leading Dickens away from the probable murderer and into the realm of the improbable. ‘John French had the motive, Dick,’ I said. ‘He had the motive – that of protecting his wife and saving himself from ridicule in the eyes of the world – and he had the means of employing Silken Sam and probably, if he deals in imported goods, the means of being in contact with Silken Sam. I don’t suppose that someone like my brother or like Walter Hamilton had even a notion of Silken Sam’s existence.’

  Dickens puffed at his cigar. There was a half-smile on his face. It was typical of the man that, once he had taken the decision to allow himself a third cigar, he wasted no time in regretting his decision.

  ‘I think that your friend, Silken Sam, has given this matter a new turn,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I wonder whether Inspector Field has thought about that. It does seem to rule out all of the women in this intriguing case, does it not? We had decided, had we not, that, given the sharpness of the knife, a woman could have murdered Milton-Hayes. But I can’t see little Molly French down in the docks looking for Silken Sam. Nor Florence Gummidge, nor, indeed, though it grieves me to say it, am I able to picture her unpleasant mother in the role.’ Dickens contemplated his cigar, holding it aloft and went on thoughtfully. ‘You know my friend Thackeray has the idea that all women are jealous of cigars and regard them as a strong rival. That’s the trouble with Thackeray. All women are the same to him. Now I’m not like that. Women are individuals to me. And so it has occurred to me that there is one woman who might know of the existence of Silken Sam and might think of getting him to do her dirty work for her, and that is Helen Jordan. Gamblers know all sorts from the underworld.’

  I looked dubious. ‘I doubt that she would have the money; I’ve heard that she has been having very bad luck at the cards.’

  Dickens shrugged. ‘Stole it from her husband. I’m sure that she has done so in the past. He wouldn’t have threatened divorce if she was only using the housekeeping money for gambling. Easy enough to put a stop to that – could pay the bills himself. No, she’s either been stealing actual money, or, more likely, filling out cheques in his name or getting people to lend her money in the name of her husband.’

  Dickens’ face grew dark as he said this and I said nothing. I knew that he had problems like that with his own father and mother, both of whom were inclined to use their famous son’s name in order to borrow money from all and sundry. I gave him time and, as I guessed, he came back to the problem quite quickly, his face alive and full of interest.

  ‘What about the young man, though? The adventurous Lord Douglas? I’d say that he has some dubious acquaintances. He wouldn’t be able to sell the fruits of his nocturnal wanderings if he didn’t, would he?’

  ‘Possible,’ I said judicially. Within me a sudden idea had sprung and I trembled with excitement. ‘But I’ve suddenly thought of someone else. We’re forgetting, aren’t we, though, what Silken Sam said to me. “You’ve been going around, asking questions? And who have I been asking questions of?’

  ‘Me,’ said Dickens.

  ‘Well, I was thinking about our visit to the canon,’ I said diffidently. ‘We asked questions of him. Asked him whether he thought of the subject matter. All that sort of thing. And he was very ill-at-ease with us, wasn’t he?’

  And then when he still looked sceptical, I explained my meaning a little more.

  ‘It just occurred to me that we have more or less identified all of the figures in the painting, all except one. We’ve guessed that The Night Prowler depicts Lord Douglas and his assistant is Florence. We’ve guessed that Forbidden Fruit is Walter Hamilton and we’re all sure about the three figures in Taken in Adultery and we know that the gambler in Root of All Evil is undoubtedly Helen, but we haven’t said anything much about Den of Iniquity, have we?’ I thought of saying that Sesina had directed my attention towards the painting, but then refrained. Dickens would not take Sesina too seriously.

  But he was knitting his brows over my statement. ‘A white-haired man, dressed in shabby, old clothes,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Forget the clothes, easily purchased in Monmouth Street,’ I said confidently. Sesina, I remembered, had said that and I was sure that she would have known all about Monmouth Street.

  ‘But the hair.’ Dickens’ mind had instantly leaped to something that had taken me a long time to work out.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I guessed that he was doing as I had done, going in spirit around that tableful of guests.

  ‘Only two men with white hair,’ he said then. ‘John French and William Jordan.’

  ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘Three. He wore a cap, a filthy-looking old cap. Made him look different.’

  ‘The canon, you mean,’ he said slowly. ‘But …’

  ‘He was wearing a biretta at the dinner and that’s why you didn’t notice his hair, but substitute a canon’s biretta for a filthy cap and you will see that it could have been the canon. A man that would be ruined if it were known that he frequented opium dens,’ I said decisively. ‘A man who would undoubtedly have changed his clothing before going there, changed into those old rags. But, there is another thing. You know, Dick, we may not have uncovered the full story about Milton-Hayes. I heard a rumour that Milton-Hayes was not his full name and so did you. Augustus Egg told you, did he no
t? He told you that Milton-Hayes made a mistake once when he was about to sign his name and that he wrote the letter R and then possibly an A or a U. I suppose I might have had that at the back of my mind when I watched my mother write a letter earlier today. You were there, too. You saw her write.’

  ‘“Dear Canon Rutter,” that’s what she wrote wasn’t it?’ Dickens was thinking hard.

  I beamed at him.

  ‘I still don’t see a respectable canon of the church going to an opium den,’ said Dickens decisively. He had certain very positive theories about religion and those who practised it and I decided not to argue with him. In any case, there was that other idea which had swept across my mind and I’d been dazzled by its brilliance before I got engulfed in fog and violence.

  ‘Rutter is an Essex name,’ I said. ‘Not a very dignified name. Makes one think of rutting deer and it would be too easily corrupted into something like Ratter if a man has the sort of friends who would enjoy a little leg-pulling. And,’ I added, ‘if you were shopping for an expensive piece of art to hang upon your walls, would you really want it signed by someone with such a ridiculous name?’

  Dickens removed his cigar, held it in his hand and gazed at me for a moment.

  ‘So you think that Edwin Milton-Hayes was really Edwin Rutter?’

  ‘Or even Tom Rutter,’ I said.

  ‘And so, when he came to London, he changed his name to that impressive-sounding, double-barrelled Milton-Hayes. And you are thinking that the canon is a relative?’