Rack & Ruin Page 17

  He notices that although the two sets of parents chat, they are really focused on Daisy and the young man, who sit quite close together to one side of the tea table. The engineer cannot follow their conversation, but every now and then she looks down, and colours up prettily. He watches their every interaction, feeling his gorge rising, his tea suddenly tasting bitter.

  Eventually, the young man rises, offers Daisy his arm, and they stroll off across the green lawn in the direction of a pretty shrubbery at the far end of the garden. The engineer sees the two Mamas exchange significant glances.

  He tries to get himself out of the chair, meaning to follow them, but the nurse is suddenly at his side, gently pushing him back. Helpless the engineer sits on, his cup of cooling tea on his lap.

  After what seems like a lifetime, but is in reality only ten minutes, the couple return. Daisy dances straight over to her papa and kisses him on the cheek. Then she dimples prettily and announces,

  “Mama, Papa, guess what - oh, it is too delightful: I am engaged to be married!”

  As the company stands, smiling, applauding their approval, the engineer feels his heart begin to beat far too fast. Something seems to burst in his head, red and terrible, filling his eyes with shadows.

  He gets to his feet and opens his mouth, but the sounds spasm out, harsh and unrecognisable. Then he is toppling forward, the sun shimmering on his head and the smell of new mown grass invading his nostrils as he goes down into darkness.

  ****

  Monday morning finds Inspector Greig in the small room that doubles as his office. He is staring in total amazement at the front page of the Illustrated London News, whose stark headline proclaims:

  Police Brutality Outrage! Passer-by Struck Down & Killed in Cold Blood! Bungling Bobbies Fail to Catch Criminals!

  Underneath this graphic headline is an equally graphic illustration of a toppling man being struck on the head by a policeman’s truncheon. Slightly exaggerated in size. Underneath this is something that bears absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to events of the preceding Saturday night.

  You could almost admire the way perfectly innocent words and expressions had been mugged and stripped of all true meaning, Grieg thinks. Somehow, ‘well-intentioned judgements’ had become incompetent idiocy. It was garbage, but garbage cooked by an expert.

  Also in his office is Sergeant Ben Hacket who is watching Greig read the article. As the perpetrator of the ‘brutality’, he is shifting nervously from one foot to the other. He winces every time the Inspector hits a particularly inflammatory bit.

  Without looking up, Greig remarks:

  “According to Mrs Aspasia Semmelhack, 24, proprietress of the Semmelhack School of Deportment, who just happened to be looking out of her first floor window, you and a fellow constable ‘launched a ferocious and unprovoked attack upon a completely innocent man who happened to be strolling past pushing a wheel barrow and minding his own business.’ As you do at two-thirty in the morning.”

  “He wasn’t minding his own business sir, he was helping himself to somebody else’s. And he pulled a knife first,” Hacket says. “Yes, I hit him but I swear it wasn’t that hard.”

  “Oh, I am sure he died at his own hand - I have taken a look at the body. And I’m equally sure that the police surgeon will confirm it. But according to Mr Ibid Bateman, 53 (currently unemployed) who also happened to be looking out of his window, ‘the two policemen went on beating and kicking the poor helpless man while he lay groaning and motionless on the ground.’”

  “We did not. We tried to revive him, but it was pretty clear from the start he wasn’t breathing.”

  “So you deny ‘causing him to utter great screams and cries of agony as his life ebbed away’? That’s according to the testimony of Mr Halbert Curvengen, 33, barber. I must say it is remarkable how many people were up and at their windows last Saturday night.”

  Hacket shakes his head.

  “I don’t remember seeing anybody at any window. And the gas lamps had gone out, so I don’t understand how they saw us.”

  “Oh, I am sure they did not. People see whatever they want to see, particularly when the picture is put into their heads in the first place.”

  “I’m sorry sir.”

  “For what? Doing your duty - part of which is to protect a fellow officer in trouble, let me remind you. Had you not intervened as you did, young Sanders’ wife could be looking at a dead husband and a future of abject poverty.”

  “It was him though, wasn’t it? The scarface man you thought might know where those Halls are lodging.”

  Greig gives the window a thousand-yard stare.

  “There will be others who’ll know where they are,” he says. “Meanwhile, we have the small matter of this rubbish to attend to - it won’t be long before the usual crowd of malcontents starts gathering at our door shouting the odds.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to compose a stiff letter to the proprietor of the Illustrated London News telling him exactly what I think about his newspaper printing this meaningless and stupid rubbish, clearly written by someone without the intelligence or wisdom to see what harm they could do by clipping the currency of expression. When I have written the letter, you will take it round to Printing House Square and make sure it is put into his hands personally.”

  “I shall do that, sir.”

  “While I am writing it, you will prepare me a full report of exactly what happened on Saturday night and the part you played in it. Leave nothing out, and add nothing in. Is that clearly understood?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now go.”

  Greig waves him away. It is only seven-thirty but he can tell already that it is going to be one of those days he hopes he won’t remember. Wearily, he pulls a sheet of headed writing paper towards him and dips his pen into the inkwell and begins his letter of complaint.

  ****

  Letitia Simpkins’ day is going slightly better. To her surprise, her father has returned from Harrogate alone, and a changed man. Well, a slightly changed man. There has been no mention of the apology, her key has been returned, and he has indicated that she is free to come and go as she pleases, subject to certain limitations - these being the fulfilment of her household tasks.

  The twins, on the other hand, seem subdued and quiet. They have told her about the sea bathing, and a strange black man with a tall hat and striped trousers who danced to a pipe organ. They have given her some pretty shells they collected on the beach, but all other inquiries have met with an evasive response.

  Still. The relaxation of her twenty-four-hour curfew means that she can now call upon her dear friend Daisy, and with this in mind, Letitia has written her a little note asking whether she is free this afternoon and declaring her intention of calling round. There is a nettle to be grasped and the best way of doing so is firmly and unflinchingly.

  But first she has another important engagement. After accompanying the twins to school, Letitia walks quickly across town until she reaches the building that houses the Regent Street Ladies’ Literary & Philosophical Society.

  Sarah Lunt is waiting for her. She embraces her warmly.

  “Oh, my dear, dear Letitia, how wonderful to see you - but how pale and thin you look - and is that a bruise on your temple? What on earth has been happening since we last met?”

  “I fell over,” Letitia lies.

  The truth is too shameful to be uttered, even to Sarah.

  “You poor girl,” Sarah lies back.

  In her ‘other’ life, Sarah has a job at the London Women’s Hospital. It is not the first time she has seen one of her sex badly beaten up by a family member.

  “I believe father has now seen the error of his ways,” Letitia says. “At least, I have been allowed out and Mrs Briscoe is not returning to London at the moment, as she has to nurse her mother.”

  “Well, if that is so, it is good news indeed. But seriously, we must not let any falls or suchlike happen
to you in the future,” Sarah says. “I’m sure accommodation could be found for you, should the necessity arise.”

  “That is kind of you, but I couldn’t leave the twins - they are such dears. And at the end of the day, it is my home - everything I own is there. And it is where my Mama lived; all my memories of her are in that house. I am grateful, but I’m sure life will soon be back to normal.”

  She smiles so quickly that the expression is gone before Sarah can respond.

  “And I am working hard for my exams - see, I have brought a couple of essays to be marked.”

  “You are indeed our top student. And certainly, the most diligent. We all have high hopes for your success,” Sarah tells her. “That is why you must not let anything - or anybody,” she adds darkly, “come between you and your studies.”

  “I shall not,” Letitia promises.

  They sit on awhile, discussing which groups of exams Letitia will go in for and the scholarships available for progressing her studies. Letitia visits the library and selects some books. Then it is time to part.

  As she walks home, Letitia reflects how lucky she is to have the love and friendship of Sarah and Daisy. Even though they are poles apart in so many ways. She cannot help feeling a pang of guilt at the thought that she is about to cast down Daisy’s lovely dream castles by her revelations about Mr Barnes Baker and his female companion.

  Still, better the truth, however unpalatable, than a lifetime of marriage to the wrong man. She thinks of her mother, and the suffering and anguish that she went through. There is no hell on earth worse than that.

  It is mid-afternoon by the time Letitia arrives outside Daisy’s house and is let in by the beaming parlour maid who whispers, as she takes her card, “Innit luvverly, miss?”

  Indeed, the whole house bears an air of festive celebration: bouquets of flowers adorn the hall stand and fill every vase in the sitting room, where Daisy and her mother are deep in conversation. Fashion magazines are spread all around them. Daisy, fresh and sparkling as a summer rose, jumps up from the sofa as Letitia is shown in. Her face is wreathed in smiles.

  “Tishy! How wonderful! I received your letter - and you clearly received mine! Oh, let me give you a hug. Today is such a glorious day, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?’ Letitia asks.

  A feeling of slight unease, no bigger than a small grey cloud on the far horizon begins to hover at the back of her mind.

  “Mama - here is Tishy come to congratulate me! My oldest and my best friend!”

  Mrs Lawton inclines her head and smiles graciously. Letitia always feels whenever she meets Mrs Lawton, that she is in need of gratitude and better clothes.

  “Can I take Tishy upstairs? We have so much to talk about?” Daisy asks.

  “You may, my love. But remember: we have important guests coming to tea.”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten, Mama. How could I?” Daisy dimples as she beckons Letitia to follow her.

  There are flowers in Daisy’s room, and a thick striped Turkey carpet and a delightful rosewood writing desk and matching rosewood dressing table (full of little stoppered perfume bottles and silver backed brushes). There are no books however, nor any overt sign that reading or writing takes place here.

  Letitia sits on the little striped sofa and begins nervously playing with the tassel on the end of a cushion. Daisy goes to the wardrobe, from which she extracts a cherry-sprigged dress, trimmed with red satin ribbon. She holds it up against her reflection.

  “Do you like this dress, Tishy?”

  “It is very pretty.”

  “I think it is the prettiest dress in the world. It is the one I wore yesterday when dear Digby did me the honour of asking me to be his wife.”

  The small cloud suddenly becomes a much bigger, darker cloud.

  “You have accepted him then?”

  “Oh Tishy, how could I refuse? He was so pleading and he looked so handsome kneeling there at my feet. He is coming to tea and bringing his parents and some of their close friends. And I am hoping he will also be bringing the ring - he has written that he has chosen it, but of course I am to have the final say in the matter.”

  Letitia folds her hands tightly in her lap. She sets her teeth firmly together.

  “Why Tishy, you do not look at me nor congratulate me - what is it? Have I offended you in some way?”

  Daisy places herself on the sofa, unlatches Letitia’s hands and takes one in her own.

  “You are my oldest friend. I want you to be happy for me.”

  The pause that follows this remark seems to fill the room and beyond.

  “And if I cannot?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Letitia takes a deep breath, and retrieves her hand. Then without looking at Daisy, she begins to relate exactly what she saw on Saturday afternoon. As she speaks, tiny details seem to swim into focus: a shaft of sunlight on the petal of a rose, a cream curtain gently moving in the warm breeze, the sound of a bird singing in the garden.

  I will remember these things, she thinks. They were here when I told this, when I destroyed my dear friend’s happiness for ever. She reaches the end of what she has come to say and falls miserably silent, staring down at her clasped hands.

  When she cannot bear the silence any longer, Letitia raises her head. Daisy’s smile remains but the rest of her face is trying to slide away from it.

  “I am so sorry,” Letitia whispers.

  “No - it is I who am sorry. Sorry I allowed you to tell me these lies - for lies they are! Digby would never stoop to be seen publicly in the company of such a low woman as you describe. He is going to be an MP - think how such a liaison would ruin his career? It must have been someone else you saw and now you have rushed round here with your tales. Oh Tishy, how could you be so jealous and spiteful? When have I ever deserved such meanness?”

  “I am telling you the truth.”

  “You are telling me a pack of falsehoods. Just because you are not capable of securing the affections of a man, you cannot bear for anybody else to.”

  “Then ask him yourself,” Letitia snaps, stung by the remark.

  “I shall do no such thing. The very idea! I am going to be Digby’s wife: what sort of a wife would I be if I didn’t trust my husband? And now, I’d like you to leave. As you heard Mama say, we have important guests arriving and I have to get changed to meet them. My dear friend Africa is one of the guests. She is Digby’s cousin, so if anything were amiss, she would be the first to tell me. Please go. I think you know your way out.”

  Daisy rises and goes to the window, turning her back upon her friend.

  Letitia takes a couple of faltering steps towards her, stretching out her hand.

  “Daisy ... please?” she urges in a low voice.

  The back quivers but does not move.

  “Just go. Please.”

  Letitia goes.

  Upon her return home, she is greeted joyously by the twins, who have made their way back on their own. They inform her that father has been home, packed an overnight bag and left. Mrs Briscoe’s mother died in the night and now he is gone to Harrogate to help with the funeral arrangements.

  A sense of relief pervades the whole house. It is almost as if a weight has been lifted off it. The cook has made a nice dinner of veal cutlets, new potatoes and peas, with a blancmange and bottled fruit to follow. Letitia tries to tuck in with enthusiasm, but her heart is not in it.

  Eventually she pushes back her plate, declaring that she has a headache, and goes up to her room. She has an essay on Alexander Pope to complete. She reads through the poem set for study, wincing when she reaches the plangent line ‘who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?’

  Is that what she has done?

  The title of her essay, set by the exacting Miss Sophia Jacques is: What can we learn today about satirical verse in the eighteenth century from reading Pope’s Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot?

  Letitia chews the end of her pen. She is not sure what she has learned today a
bout satirical verse, though she has certainly learned a considerable amount about human nature and its capacity for self-deception. But alas, she will not get any marks for writing about that.

  ****

  There is (as the song says) a tavern in the town, and there a man may sit him down, and drink some wine while the laughter floweth free, and never notice that his every movement is being carefully watched by another man at a corner table.

  It is Monday night, two days from the failed robbery. Two days from the body of the scar-face man, who had a connection to the baby-killing Halls, arriving in the police morgue, where he lies unnamed and, so far, unclaimed.

  If he has nearest and dearest, they are clearly taking their time to notice his absence. If he has no nearest and dearest, he will shortly be given a pauper’s funeral and that will be that.

  But what has this to do with two men drinking in a pub? A great deal. Especially when the observer, who is so inconspicuously dressed that he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd of two, is called Hunter and is, as the term goes, Barnes Baker’s man.

  It is Hunter’s job to ensure his master has the finest starched cravats, the shiniest top hats and the best tailored suits in London. It is Hunter’s job to discover the locations of cockfights, dog fights and to place the bets. It is also Hunter’s job to extricate his master from various scrapes and peccadilloes such as might, if they ever came to light, count against his future career in Parliament.

  It is in this latter capacity that he is here now.

  Eventually the man he is watching finishes his glass of ale, at which point Hunter rises from his seat, saunters over to the bar and orders another drink for himself. Feigning surprise at the man’s empty glass, he orders the barmaid to ‘pour one for my good friend here.’

  The good friend, who wouldn’t know Hunter if he passed him in the street and may well have done so on numerous occasions, accepts the unexpected bounty and when his drink arrives, is only too happy to follow his benefactor back to the same quiet table in the corner.