Season of Darkness Read online

  ‘Here long?’ He’d be looking around the room, just like he used to do at Urania Cottage, straightening a mirror, standing a cushion upright against the back of the settee, making Mrs Dawson nervous. There was a real shake in her voice when she said, ‘About two years, sir. She and Sesina, the girl who opened the door to you, they both came at the same time.’

  ‘References?’

  ‘Oh, very good, sir, very good, indeed. I’d never take a servant into the house without references.’ Mrs Dawson was beginning to recover. Sesina could hear her rummaging in that bureau of hers. She edged the door a little further ajar. He had his back turned to her. She could see the side face of the other one, the goofy fellow, but he didn’t matter. She’d just give him a wink if he caught her looking.

  Mrs Dawson had found the reference, now. Sesina wrinkled her lip. Old cow. Imagine keeping them. Luckily, just one sheet of paper. Not hers, then. Just the reference for Isabella. Would it fool Mr Dickens? They had copied it out of a book on household management that was on the shelves in Urania Cottage.

  He was reading the reference now, holding it very close to his eyes. Even before she heard him grunt, she had known that he would guess. He and Mrs Morson were always writing letters to each other. He’d know her style of writing, that fancy copperplate. Sesina edged a little closer and saw him show it to the other fellow and then give it back to the housekeeper without saying a word. She took in a cautious breath.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mrs Dawson,’ he said, ‘but Isabella Gordon has been found dead, strangled, I’m afraid, body dragged from the river. Poor girl.’

  Sesina swallowed hard. She had been taken aback by the last words. She had expected him not to care, she had been ready herself for the news, but he had sounded a bit upset and that made tears prick at the back of her eyes. So Isabella was dead. The bastard. He’d killed her. No more than she had expected, but it was a bit of a shock, all the same.

  ‘Oh, my God! Oh, Mr Dickens! Who was it did that terrible thing?’ Mrs Dawson sounded like she expected an answer. Silly cow. As if the bastard who strangled Isabella and threw her body in the river would leave a calling card! She thought that he’d say something cutting. He was a great one for that. But he didn’t.

  He left a silence, just like he was thinking about the answer and then he said, very quiet like, ‘I don’t know, Mrs Dawson, but I’ll do my best to find an answer to that question.’

  The other fellow looked at him, then. Looked as if he were a bit surprised like. I wonder does Mr Dickens mean it, thought Sesina. He was a great one to be poking his nose into things, of course. The questions he’d ask! Would never take silence for an answer, neither.

  ‘A terrible thing. Terrible, terrible, terrible.’ Mrs Dawson seemed to think that she had found the right word. She repeated ‘terrible’ once again. ‘I’ll have to tell Mr Diamond. He’ll be most put out.’

  ‘Perhaps I could take that task from you. I’ll see Mr Diamond.’ Same as usual. A manager from start to finish. Mrs Dawson not too pleased, though.

  ‘Oh, it’s kind of you, sir, but I wouldn’t dream of troubling you. And I’ll have to discuss the staffing requirements with Mr Diamond.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you’ll need someone to take her place. I’ll mention that to Mr Diamond when I tell him about Isabella.’ As usual he rode over any objections. ‘I’ll pop into number one on my way back and have a word with Mr Diamond. I’m sure that he’ll be most sympathetic. Good evening, Mrs Dawson. Come, Collins. We mustn’t take up any more of Mrs Dawson’s time.’

  Just like him. Always hustling everyone. Sesina had barely time to get back into the hall before they came out, all three of them. Mrs Dawson looking very flustered. Mr Dickens, cool and calm. Mr Collins, well he had his eye on her, just like he found her interesting.

  And then there was a click at the door. The turning of a key. Mr High-and-Mighty Doyle. The lawyer from the first floor. What brought him home so early tonight? Always in and out at all times of the day. A nuisance, he was. Irritated if he found you doing his room when his lordship came in, even at ten o’clock in the day. A barrister. No regular hours. That was what Mrs Dawson said. Barristers had no regular hours. Not like a solicitor or a schoolmaster, or even those two young journalists at the top of the building. Not that she would mind them coming in while she was cleaning. Nor Isabella, neither. Great larks, that pair. Would talk as if you were human, not like the other two.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said politely.

  Didn’t answer, of course. Never did answer her. Don’t know how Isabella got him to talk. Though she might have been lying. Very likely. Sesina took up the two hats, with their gloves curled up like nestlings in the silk linings. She knew which was which. One of them was perfect, perfectly brushed, brand new, and expensive-looking. And the other, well, it looked as though it had rolled along the street, suffered a few bashes, dusty, too. Dust deep in the pile, the dust of years. She felt a bit sorry for Mr Collins. If she had been a housemaid in his house, she would give his hat a brush every morning before he went out.

  Perhaps she could get a job in his house. And get away from Adelphi Terrace.

  It was a bit creepy here now. She wasn’t too keen on remaining unless the fellow who did that to Isabella was found and strung up.

  Mr Doyle was just standing there, looking like he expected something to be happening, looking at the two hats. Waiting. What was he waiting for? Just like he expected something. Some announcement. And then he looked at the two of them, Mr Dickens and Mr Collins, pretended he had only just seen them.

  ‘Goodness, you must be Mr Dickens,’ he said, sharp as anything. ‘Jeremiah Doyle, sir, barrister-at-law. What brings a famous man like yourself here, Mr Dickens?’

  ‘How do you do?’ Didn’t sound too polite, Mr Dickens. Didn’t want to talk. Just stood aside from the stairs, almost willing the man to go up to his rooms. Sesina suppressed a giggle. Mr Dickens was a great one to get people to go up the stairs. There was that day when there was a big row with Isabella. Could hear it all over the house. And then Mr Dickens opened the door, walked past Mrs Morson, went across the hall and stood by the stairs, with his hand on the knob of the banisters. After a minute, Isabella came out, as bold as brass, looking all around her. Tossing her head, she was, pretending not to see him. But somehow he just sort of mesmerized her into going up the stairs to her bedroom, without saying a word to her. She picked up her skirts and waltzed up like a lady, but he was the one that made her do it.

  And now, with Mr Dickens standing there at the foot of the stairs, Mr Doyle just gave a sort of bow and went off up without even looking back once. Sesina bit back a giggle. She could hear his footsteps on the first-floor landing and then his key in the door. He had two rooms there, a sitting room and a bedroom, best rooms in the house.

  Mr Dickens waited until he heard the closing of the door. ‘And now, Mrs Dawson, I won’t detain you any longer. But perhaps I could have a quick word with your housemaid. I won’t keep her more than a few minutes and then I’ll be off to see Mr Diamond and I certainly will not forget to mention your need for a replacement housemaid. Thank you, Mrs Dawson.’ And sweet as pie, Mrs D. turned around and went back into her room.

  Sesina waited. She could see how Mr Dickens’ friend gave a bit of a grin at that. And when he saw her looking at him, he shared the grin with her. A nice fellow, that Mr Collins. Once Mr Dickens had taken his hat, she gave the other hat a little dust with her sleeve before handing it to him. Mr Collins, she thought, didn’t have a good servant to look after him.

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen, Sesina.’ Mr Dickens, of course, was quite at home and giving orders as usual. ‘I suppose your lodgers just come in and out as they please, do they? And they’d all have keys,’ he said, going in front of her, down the stairs, cool as a breeze, as though he owned the place, just tossing the words back over his shoulder, past his friend and back up to her. He didn’t stop at the landing where the servants’ b
edrooms were, either, but went straight down the second flight of stairs right into the basement, just like he knew every room in the place.

  ‘Goodness, your little legs must be worn out, going up and down these steep steps all day long.’ Mr Collins lowered his voice a bit when he said that. He had a nice little smile on his face when he looked over his shoulder. A nice friendly smile, she thought.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sesina said the words quite loudly and saw Mr Dickens look back. Didn’t speak to her, though.

  ‘Good for the waistline, Collins.’ That’s what he said. Thinks himself very funny. Always did.

  ‘We must be nearly down to river level now, Dick.’

  ‘That’s right. Cleverly built, these houses. The terrace is on top of the warehouses and the Adelphi Arches. The Adams brothers terraced the whole place, two roads in front of the houses, the top one passes the front doors, and then the arches come out on to the lower road, makes a way into the kitchens and store rooms.’ Knew all about everything; that was him!

  By now Mr Dickens was down, opening the doors, one by one, peering into the scullery and the coalhouse, and then the washhouse. When he had opened and shut each door, he went straight into the kitchen.

  ‘And the basement leads out to the arches, Wilkie. Handy for deliveries from carts. Very well planned, the whole of it.’

  Mr Collins laughed then. A nice laugh, sort of a giggle.

  ‘How on earth do you know all of those things, Dick? You’re an extraordinary fellow!’

  ‘I told you. I’ve been over one of these houses with the landlord, my American friend, Mr Diamond. Good kitchen, isn’t it? Well furnished with everything.’

  Sesina didn’t ask them to sit down. Not her place, she reasoned. In any case, she didn’t want them to stay too long. He made her nervous. He’d stare at you and you’d swear that he knew every thought in her head. She went and stood with her back to the window. Never did get much light in that area outside it. Never saw the sun, for sure, in that window. Nothing but the wheels of carts and the feet of the porters and passers-by. Mr Dickens perched on the corner of the kitchen table, only scrubbed half an hour ago, and Mr Collins just stood beside the range, warming his hands. Very small little hands he had, like a lady’s. Delicate and very white. Sweet little fellow, she thought. Much nicer than Mr Dickens.

  ‘So who else is in this house besides you and Isabella and Mrs Dawson? There’s that Mr Doyle whom we’ve just met, but who else? Let me see, there are three floors, aren’t there, in these houses, that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s Mr Doyle on the first floor, sir and then Mr Cartwright on the second floor and two gentlemen on the top floor, Mr Carstone and Mr Allen.’

  ‘You and Isabella have much to do with them?’ Always a one to be shooting questions at a girl, from start to finish, nothing but questions and then writing away in his book, his casebook, written on the cover, for everyone to see. One of the things that Sesina hated about Urania Cottage. All those questions and being took down like that, everything that a girl said. She wasn’t surprised when he pulled out a notebook from his pocket and started writing in it.

  ‘We clean the rooms, sir.’ Poor old Isabella. She was talking like Isabella was still alive.

  ‘And?’ He had lifted his eyes now and was staring at her.

  ‘And what, sir?’ Sesina could sound innocent when she liked, she knew just how to do it. Knew what he was getting at, of course. Wanted her to spill the beans. He was looking around the kitchen, looking at everything, at the copper pots and pans, at the three kettles, at the locked tea canister, the toasting fork and the sides of bacon hanging from the rafters.

  ‘You make breakfast for them all. That would be it, wouldn’t it? They’d provide breakfast in lodgings like this, wouldn’t they, Wilkie?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sesina when he looked at her. His friend hadn’t answered, too busy staring around him, a bit of a sad look on his face, like he was picturing Isabella here in the kitchen. Nice little fellow, thought Sesina.

  ‘And they have their breakfast in the dining room, is that right, or do they have it in their rooms? I see, in their rooms.’ His eyes had been darting all over the kitchen and now they were on the four bamboo trays piled up on top of the press. Ever so nice, those trays. A slot on one side for a newspaper and one on the other side for the coffee or teapot and the milk jug. Isabella used to imagine having breakfast in bed from one of these when she came into her money.

  ‘They have it in their bedrooms during the week and in Mrs Dawson’s dining room on Sunday, sir.’ Though why it should be called Mrs Dawson’s dining room, I’m sure that I don’t know, she thought. Seems the old cow thinks she owns the bloody place. My dining room, my parlour, my gentlemen.

  ‘I see.’ Now he had stopped writing and was staring at her with that wolfish grin on his face. Charitable, him! Isabella used to say. He’s not charitable. He’s just looking for ideas for his stories. That’s why he keeps asking all those questions. Poor old Isabella, she thought. I’m going to miss her. I’d like to string up the fella that did that to her. ‘The bell’s broken,’ he said abruptly. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘The night that Isabella left, just before she left, sir.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Thought he’d like that. He was staring up at it. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Isabella stopped it ringing, sir. Took a broom to it.’

  ‘Hmm!’ He was up on a chair now, examining the wire. ‘Hmm!’ he said it again when he got down. ‘It’s been broken,’ he said to his friend.

  ‘Bit of a mark on the whitewash, there. Bit of a scrape, wouldn’t you say?’ The friend peered up at the mark, but then he gave me a wink. ‘Snapped, of course that was what happened, wasn’t it, Sesina?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sesina said and looked down at the floor. She’d have liked to give him a wink back, but didn’t. It would be the very moment that Mr Dickens had swung around to look at her.

  ‘First floor, that would be Mr Doyle, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And the two young men at the top of the house.’ He looked back at his notes. ‘Mr Carstone and Mr Allen. What do they do?’

  ‘Where do they work?’ put in his friend. He had a bit of a twinkle in his eye. If he’d been on his own, she’d have given him a bit of a wink, but she daren’t in front of Mr Dickens.

  ‘They’re both newspaper men, sir. I think they work in the same office.’ Funny stories they had. Would have us in fits sometimes, telling about the tricks that they used to play.

  ‘And Mr Cartwright?’ He looked back at his notebook again. Just a ploy so that he could look back fast and catch an expression on her face.

  ‘He’s a schoolmaster, sir.’ She waited for the next question.

  ‘From London?’

  ‘No, sir. I believe that he’s from Yorkshire.’

  ‘From Yorkshire?’ Now that did get him interested. Reminded him of his own book. He didn’t look at her this time, but across at his friend. She was able to study his face. Yes, he did look very interested.

  ‘So, did you divide the work between you? It would make sense, wouldn’t it? One to cook and one to carry. That would be the efficient way to do it.’ Must think that he was back in Urania Cottage, making out his timetables and sticking them up on walls.

  ‘Mrs Dawson cooks the breakfasts, sir. We do the carrying, the two us, Isabella and me.’

  ‘So who took the breakfast to …’ Again this pretending to look at his notebook. ‘To Mr Frederick Cartwright, the schoolmaster.’

  ‘Isabella, sir.’ So he had noticed the Yorkshire business. Mrs Morson had read them a bit from Nicholas Nickleby, the bit where Nicholas had beat up the cruel Yorkshire schoolmaster who had been abusing the boys. She had told all the girls that these Yorkshire schools were very cruel. That there had been boys killed there. Mr Dickens had investigated and then he had written a book.

  Sesina allowed a little pause to give him
time to think about that. ‘Isabella took breakfast to the first and second floors and I took breakfasts to the top floor.’ Not true, of course, but she could always pretend that she had been muddled if he thought to check with Mrs Dawson afterwards. Imagine Isabella giving up the fun of chatting and swapping jokes with the two lively fellas on the top floor.

  That got him interested. She’d known that it would. He shut his notebook with a snap.

  ‘Now tell me the truth, Sesina. Why did Isabella go out that night, two nights ago? Come now, don’t play the innocent with me. There were just the two of you down here in the kitchen. She’d have told you where she was going and who she was meeting.’

  ‘I think that she planned to go to the Hungerford Stairs to meet someone, sir.’ That was safe enough. Mrs Dawson wouldn’t give her the sack, lazy cow. Wouldn’t want to have two new housemaids to train. ‘I told her not to,’ she added.

  ‘To meet someone, a man?’ He was staring at her now, boring into her with those gimlet eyes of his.

  ‘I think it might have been, sir.’

  ‘Think! You know it! Come on, tell the truth. You want that fellow to be caught!’

  ‘Yes, of course, I do, sir.’ But not until she could get some money out of him, first. Could be quite a bit; she’d pretend to know all about Isabella’s little secret, of course. She’d be good at that. But who was it? She had a few guesses in her mind, but she wasn’t sure. She put on her sweetest expression.

  ‘I don’t know who she was meeting, sir. I asked and I asked her. I begged her not to go. It didn’t do no good, sir. But …’

  He stared at her and she looked back at him. And didn’t say any more. He was used to people telling him lies.

  Let’s see if you’re clever enough to pick up a bit of hint. Sesina tried to send her thought to him. She knew what he was like. Tell him something and he thought that you were lying. Let him find out for himself by following up a hint and he’d be patting himself on the back about how clever he was in finding out the truth.