Winter of Despair Page 3

  THREE

  Wilkie Collins, Hide and Seek 1854:

  The police, on their side, lost no time; but they had to get out of the crowd in the passage and go round the front of the house, before they could arrive at the turning which led into the court from the street. This gave the fugitives a start; and the neighbourhood of alleys, lanes, and by-streets in which their flight immediately involved them, was the neighbourhood of all others to favour their escape. While the springing of rattles and the cries of “Stop thief!” were rending the frosty night air in one direction, Zack and the stranger were walking away quietly, arm in arm, in the other.

  ‘What’s troubling you, Wilkie?’ Dickens had said nothing for a good fifteen minutes, but from time to time I saw him look across at me. He, himself, wore a puzzled look. Now, quite abruptly, he stopped walking and turned to face me.

  ‘It’s no good, Wilkie. I’m not happy about this. And you’re not happy about it. We must be on the side of the law, no matter what our private feelings are. I think we must go back. And we must tell Inspector Field about those pictures and, what’s more, we must give him all the help that we can about identifying the people in them. You know and I know that, even if there were no faces, even then we began to think of names.’

  My heart sank. When Dickens spoke like that, not even the Queen of England could move him. In fact, when Queen Victoria wanted to congratulate him on a part that he played, he wouldn’t walk the few steps from the dressing room to her box in the audience. He just refused, just said that he wasn’t going to meet the Queen of England still wearing a clown’s make-up and that was it. And Queen Victoria was not only a million times more important than I was, she was also a very forcible lady and not even my best friends had ever complimented me on strong-mindedness. In the end, I nodded, but I felt like a traitor. A strong picture of my brother, pursued by the police, and running frantically through the streets of London, had taken possession of my mind and do what I might to banish it, the horrible image just would not be erased.

  ‘I suppose that you are right, Dick,’ I said as we walked on, but I couldn’t keep a note of misery from my voice.

  ‘I know that I am right,’ he returned with his usual air of quiet confidence. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said kindly. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I tell you that you are wrong. Lots of men in London have red hair.’

  Red hair, tall, slim, conducting an illicit affair with a young married woman, an acquaintance of Edwin Milton-Hayes, in possession of a good income, thanks to the generosity of my mother and the money-making ability of my father. That was Charley and no, there were not others in the circle of Pre-Raphaelite painters who would fit that description. Those thoughts were in my mind as we went back. Still, I tried to tell myself, perhaps Dickens was right. There were other paintings there, other names had sprung to my mind. I had guessed who the person in The Night Prowler might be, the name of the young man in Forbidden Fruit sprang to my mind as soon as I had seen the picture. The world of the Pre-Raphaelite artists was a very small one; was a world full of gossip and innuendo. Sooner or later, someone would start mentioning names and then Inspector Field would be more suspicious. In the meantime, as the friend of Dickens, a man whom the inspector admired so immensely, I might have enough influence to shield Charley from his own stupidity.

  ‘We don’t need to say anything, Wilkie, you know.’ Dickens had been looking across at me from time to time and now the essential kindness of the man came to the surface. ‘It’s not up to us to make surmises. We’ll just show him the pictures, lay them out, have another look at them ourselves and then, if you think that we should go no further, why then we’ll be off before your mother’s dinner will have got cold and we both get beaten around the head with that enormous handbag of hers.’

  He laughed, but with such an anxious and concerned expression in his eyes as he scanned my face that I, too, laughed and tried to tell myself that I was making a mountain out of a mole heap. Charley was such a gentle fellow, so religious, so in earnest about everything. That fight with Milton-Hayes was completely out of character for him. But, of course, he had felt that Milton-Hayes was mocking his intense love for the girl whom he had painted in his beautiful portrait. It surprised everyone who knew him. When we were boys, in Italy, I was the one who always had to stand up for my young brother and to fight his battles for him. I remembered how, when my mother went away on a visit when Charley was twelve years old, he was so ‘mother-sick’ as my father put it, that she had to be summoned home to comfort him, poor little fellow. I saw my companion cast several glances at me as we progressed down the street and I knew that he was reading my face as though it were in one of his own manuscripts, or slips, as he always called those sheets of paper which he filled up so conscientiously every day.

  After a time he began to speak. Did not stop this time, but continued his rapid walk, not looking at me, but speaking fast and persuasively.

  ‘Come on, Wilkie,’ he said. ‘Why should you fear the truth? You, of all people, know that young brother of yours. Your father, God rest his gentle soul, worried about both of you, just as most fathers worry about their sons. He used to say to me, and this was long before you and I met, he used to say, “I worry about Wilkie getting into scrapes, he’s that kind of boy, but I worry even more about Charley because he’s too fearful to get into scrapes”.’ Dickens laughed gently to himself as I stared ahead and thought hard.

  ‘It was his own fault, of course,’ resumed Dickens. ‘He was a religious man, your father. Religion played a big part in his life and he was approaching, bit by bit, to the Church of Rome. But, you know, Wilkie, he made a terrible mistake when he sent that nervous, sensitive boy of his to that Jesuit school, Stonyhurst College, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said and I thought about Charley waking up with nightmares, worrying about whether he had confessed all of his sins. ‘You’re right,’ I added. ‘He was – is – too religious, too worried about doing wrong.’ I hesitated for a minute. ‘You know when we were boys in Italy, I broke a window, playing ball. I didn’t want to own up to it, because it was my third piece of mischief in the day and my father had threatened that I would miss my daily ride to the outskirts of Rome and so when the window was found, I utterly denied everything, blamed the street boys. My father was suspicious, though, and kept on questioning us and then Charley – and I was furious with him – suddenly said that he was the one who had broken the window. I think that he couldn’t bear the tension, whereas I was quite enjoying myself, cheerfully lying with an innocent face. I can tell you I was pretty annoyed with him as I then had to own up myself,’ I added and suppressed the words ‘and I’m afraid that he might do the same thing again now’.

  Dickens smiled a little at my story. ‘How old was Charley, then?’ he asked and when I answered that my brother had been about ten years old, Dickens broke into a laugh.

  ‘Well, he’s a man grown now,’ he said. ‘I can’t see what you are worried about.’

  ‘I suppose that you are right,’ I said, though there was still an uneasiness within me. People didn’t always change in their essential character as they grew from childhood to adulthood.

  ‘Of course, I’m right,’ he said impatiently and left barely a second before he rushed on. ‘So what I am saying, Wilkie, is that this gentle, nervous, scrupulous boy would not have committed murder, but there is no doubt that he has got himself into a mess, got himself entangled by that little flirt, Molly French, and sooner or later that is going to come out. So what can we do?’ Dickens turned to face me, eyes brightly glowing, thin lips firmly compressed.

  I did not hesitate. ‘Shield him for as long as possible,’ I said decisively.

  ‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘No, we bring it all out into the open, draw the poison. Bring everything out into the open. Between us, with a bit of effort, I think that the two of us could put a name to every one of the figures in those damnable pictures. Broaden the horizon, my dear friend, heap the i
nformation on the lap of the inspector, be on the side of law, Wilkie, old man, flood the man with names. After all,’ he said earnestly, ‘who in this world of ours cares too much if a handsome young man plays about with a silly young woman? Of course, no one. The world would laugh. But who would be condemned by the world as we know it? Why, Molly, of course. All the good ladies would hold up their hands in horror if that picture was shown with the face of Molly sketched onto that blank oval of white paint, and rightly so, Wilkie, rightly so. A woman has to be without stain. Now let me put another question to you, Wilkie, who would be laughed at, sneered at, would feel that he could not hold up his head in society ever again? Why, the husband, of course. John French may feel that he has to go away and shoot himself, or at the very least, retire from London society, bury himself in the country. And you know what the world would say? Why the words: “No fool like an old fool” would be on everyone’s lips.’

  ‘What are you saying, Dickens?’ I asked the question, but there was a feeling of despair lodged like a leaden weight in my stomach. He was going to talk me into something; I knew that. And it was going to be something that I didn’t really want to do.

  ‘I’m saying that we go back to the Milton-Hayes house. We make some excuse about Charley. Let’s keep him out of it, Wilkie. He’s not up to this sort of calm, blank-faced, poker game stuff. We, you and I, reveal those pictures to the inspector, that’s if he hasn’t found them already. But, in any case, like good, law-abiding citizens, we open our minds to him, we give him the benefit of our knowledge.’ And then when I said nothing, a note of impatience came into his voice.

  ‘Come on, Wilkie, be sensible. Don’t you see we broaden the canvas, open up the field, flood the man with names,’ he repeated, ‘let him race around London investigating. Inspector Field is enamoured with the thought that he is one of the first detectives in the whole of the country. He’ll love to dig into all the backgrounds. You know and I know that it wasn’t young Charley who took a knife to that man. He’s incapable of it, Wilkie. So if he didn’t do it, what we must do is give every assistance to Inspector Field to find that man or the woman who did do it. Come along now, Wilkie, let’s step it out.’

  And he set off walking at a tremendous speed, powered by his belief in himself and in the wisdom of his decisions. I followed, trying not to allow the heavy feelings of trepidation and anxiety to slow my footsteps. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, the inspector would not be there. Perhaps another crime in another part of London was now taking his attention and the matter of the death of the artist would have been put to simmer on the back burner in his mind and I could go straight to my mother’s house and talk with Charley before he could be questioned by the inspector. Wild thoughts of ferrying my brother to Norfolk and getting him on board my friend Pigott’s yacht were flashing through my mind as we turned into the square and approached the Milton-Hayes house. It looked the same as all of the other houses beside and across from it. No sign of any police activity as we approached the door and rang the bell. Only the white and scared face of the silent housemaid showed that anything unusual was taking place inside.

  And, to my disappointment, Inspector Field was still there, barking out orders to a subordinate policeman who was staggering under the weight of an enormous picture of Covent Garden. The door to the cloakroom was now standing open and the bunch of keys was in the lock. I did not hesitate, but went straight in, walking past Dickens.

  ‘Look at that, inspector,’ I said, taking the initiative for once and pointing to the canvas carrying bag. ‘Exactly what I expected to find. I came back to see if there was a bag like that somewhere in the house. My brother, the artist, has one of these. I wondered whether Milton-Hayes did.’ I didn’t move to touch it, wouldn’t have had the time, anyway, because the inspector had seized its handles, almost before I had finished speaking.

  The police had a trestle table, brought from somewhere and now erected on the platform, across the place where the body of Milton-Hayes had been lying, slightly shielding the ugly, darkening stains of blood. Inspector Field picked out the pictures, one by one, and laid them out on the table and then stood back, giving a long, low whistle to denote intense excitement and interest.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Look at that, Mr Collins. Do you see, Mr Dickens! Look at these screw marks in the frame, in each one of the frames. All ready for the finishing touches, ready to attach the second half of the picture. Get me that piece of frame.’ He snapped his fingers at an underling who was back in a second. Inspector Field ignored him, though. His eyes had widened as they took in the details of the pictures.

  ‘No faces,’ he said after a minute.

  ‘Strange,’ I said in a neutral fashion. Dickens said nothing. The inspector looked from one to the other of us.

  ‘Would that be the way they would do things, normally?’ Inspector Field spoke as though artists were some strange tribe from some remote part of the world.

  I tried to look knowledgeable. ‘Everyone has a different way of working,’ I said wisely.

  ‘Could be blackmail.’ Dickens spoke quickly and decisively, just as if suddenly he had made up his mind as to the correct mode of action. ‘This might be your clue, inspector. You were saying that it looked as though the man made plenty of money. Perhaps he found out secrets and threatened to display the picture to the world. This one, for instance.’ And Dickens leant over and picked out the picture named The Night Prowler.

  The inspector gazed at it, knitting his brows. ‘A housebreaker,’ he said. ‘Like Bill Sykes in your Oliver Twist, Mr Dickens.’

  Dickens shook his head. ‘But not like Bill Sykes, though. Not a common or garden thief, inspector. Look at those clothes. Latest London fashion. Look at that hat! Beautifully painted, isn’t it? You can see the quality of the silk with the fine brushstrokes.’

  ‘Milton-Hayes specialized in the painting of the effect of light on silks and velvets,’ I said. I felt happier discussing The Night Prowler and hoped that the inspector would keep focused upon that picture. I had a feeling that, if I had the skill, I might be able to get him to put a face to that faceless figure. While Dickens and the inspector were exchanging meaningful glances over the Forbidden Fruit picture with the young-looking man urging the girlish figure towards the church, I pondered over the idea. And just before they moved on to Taken in Adultery I spoke out.

  ‘You may be interested in this, inspector,’ I said. ‘As I mentioned to you earlier, my brother had persuaded my mother to throw a party for Mr Milton-Hayes. On this very night, in fact. She often did this, enjoys the company, but this time it was a little different. Mr Milton-Hayes asked my brother to invite a canon who was a possible purchaser of a set of pictures and instead of inviting other artists to discuss the works, he presented a list of other people, possible purchasers, perhaps. One was the owner of an art gallery – and his wife. That, I suppose, was understandable. Another was a most talented young artist, Walter Hamilton, but the others, for instance Lord Douglas, the son and heir of the Earl of Ennis. He’s certainly not an artist nor were any of the other guests, which is strange …’ I pretended to hesitate and then said, as one who is struck by a good idea, ‘Why don’t you pop in tonight, inspector. Number 17, Hanover Terrace, Regent’s Park. You would be very welcome. My mother is the most hospitable of women and …’ Again I hesitated and then I said, ‘And you could come to announce the death of Mr Milton-Hayes. Who knows but you might see some signs of guilt, might guess who came here this afternoon and used that knife with such deadly effect.’

  The inspector nodded vigorously. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Collins. I’ll do that if I may. About ten, do you think? Give everyone a chance to eat their dinner. Don’t you worry, sir! I’ll have my eyes open and will be watching all of the faces.’

  And with a feeling of triumph, I saw his eyes go back to The Night Prowler picture. I looked at Dickens. His face was grave and it was impossible to read his expression. Nevertheless, I was p
leased with myself. The inspector was now carefully studying the last picture, Den of Iniquity, and as far as I could tell, his eyes had moved quite quickly past the third picture, Taken in Adultery.

  But then, just as we were about to leave, I was arrested by the inspector’s voice as I made my way towards the door.

  ‘Do you know anyone in the artistic world with red hair, Mr Collins?’

  I turned back, swivelled on my heel, shocked and surprised. The inspector was pointing to the Taken in Adultery picture. I pretended to look at the red-headed young man with his arms around the woman, but then to my horror, my eye was drawn to a table in the corner of the room. Milton-Hayes had drawn and painted it in a most realistic fashion.

  And on that table, placed neatly in the middle of the shining surface, painted with meticulous care, was an artist’s palette. I knew it well. It had belonged to my father and it was now Charley’s favourite possession. For a moment, I was savagely glad that Edwin Milton-Hayes had met his death at the hands of an assassin.

  ‘Could be your young brother, Wilkie, couldn’t it?’ said Dickens in a casual fashion. ‘Or, wait a minute, wasn’t that Irish friend of Daniel Maclise a red-head? Do you remember the fellow, Wilkie, came from Maclise’s native city of Cork? You must remember him. Played the fiddle, didn’t he?’ said Dickens giving vent to his artistic imagination. ‘Or am I thinking of someone else,’ he concluded blandly.

  The inspector had lost interest. He had gone back to the The Night Prowler picture and was inspecting it carefully, nodding his head from time to time. ‘Interesting, that,’ he said after a minute. ‘I must check a few records in Scotland Yard.’ And then he roused himself from his thoughts. ‘Well, I’m most obliged to you, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dickens walking from painting to painting and then stopping opposite one of them. ‘Of course, inspector,’ he went on, ‘the idea of burglary, adultery, smoking opium and mixing with criminals in one of those low dens in Limehouse and such places, are all something that no respectable citizen could approve. But speaking as the father of two young girls, I am sick to my heart to think of any man taking advantage of youth and innocence.’ And he pointed with his stick to the second painting on the table, Forbidden Fruit.