Great Historical Novels (12 page)

Rhia was relieved. She was itching to capture the patterns that were chasing around in her head.

At the door, Mrs Blake turned and gave her a bemused look. ‘My husband always said that one could achieve a thing merely by believing it possible.’

Rhia wanted to ask about this man whose belief had not, after all, prevented his death. ‘I wish I had met him,’ she said instead.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Blake said, and hurried away.

Gossamer

The cartridge paper lay on the table by the window, where Rhia had spent the previous evening. The real test of a new design was always in how it looked the next day. If it still seemed a good thing, then one could start thinking about colour. She squinted at the pattern of swirling leaves. It looked different. They appeared to be curling, as though they were autumnal rather than new, green leaves. She was not sure that she liked this. Was there some eidolon abroad in this house, that tampered with pictures? She was reminded of her dream last night. In the dream, she was at the table, drawing, and Ryan was with her. They were having a conversation about Australian merino and he had insisted that she must arrange to send some to Brigit – he was far too busy to do it himself, he told her, and pulled his watch from his pocket as if to show her just how little time he had. Then, all of a sudden, he had disappeared into the flames in the fire.

Downstairs, the breakfast table was laid but there was no one in the morning room. Rhia darted a quick glance at the picture of the trees and felt unreasonably relieved to find no shadowy figure lurking in amongst the pale trunks. She had meant to ask Laurence where this ungodly place was.

The
London Globe
was folded neatly on the table and a fragrant thread of steam coiled from the samovar. Rhia braced herself and opened the broadsheet to the classified pages. The
situations advertised looked just as unappealing as they had the day before. She simply had no idea how one went about securing one. She had never once imagined the necessity would arise. Perhaps Thomas was right, she was spoilt and mollycoddled. Mamo had certainly thought so. Ryan would advise her. He had given her five pounds, which was generous, on top of the purse from her mother. She would easily last until the spring if she were careful.

Rhia’s attention strayed to pages where advertisements for powders and ointments promised to resurrect, restore and vanquish for only a few pennies. She was engrossed when Antonia joined her smiling brightly, all traces of yesterday’s melancholy masked by decorum and briskness. Rhia had rarely seen her Quaker host stop moving. Perhaps this was how she managed.

‘Good morning, Rhia. It seems as though I barely saw you on your first day in London. I’m suddenly terribly busy deciphering Josiah’s ledgers, on top of my usual charity work, and then there are regular Friends meetings to attend.’

Another etiquette. ‘You attend regular meetings with your friends?’

Antonia smiled. ‘It is what Quakers call themselves. Ourselves.’

It seemed a strange expression. ‘I think you are brave, to trade without your husband.’

Antonia sighed. ‘I have barely begun, and I am not so brave as I may appear. It took me months to find the nerve to merely enter his room.’ She spread butter neatly on a slice of toast. ‘Grief has wearied me.’ Antonia wore her sorrow so lightly, as though to protect others against it, but its weight in the house was palpable. At least it was to Rhia. She searched for something more to say.

‘I’ve never seen so many faces of the Holy Virgin,’ she said carefully. ‘She looks different in each picture, don’t you think? In that one she is pale with yellow hair, and in the one next to the trees she is dark as a Moor.’

Antonia looked at the icons as though she had never considered this. ‘Yes. Curious. I’ve always loved them, though iconography is considered by many Quakers to be idolatrous. I don’t personally believe that aspects of the divine are incarnate in holy images. But you are quite right, Mary does appear in the form of every woman.’

Rhia wanted to say that maybe the Virgin
was
every woman, just as Anu apparently was. ‘I envy your belief,’ she said.

‘Oh, I was not born to it. My family are Anglican. I prefer the simplicity of Quakerism.’ Rhia wondered if she was trying to convince herself of something. ‘The problem is, the inner light is not always bright enough to show the way.’

Quakerism seemed anything but simple.

‘Then you think that is what faith is – a light?’ said Rhia.

Antonia poured their coffee, watching the fragrant liquid spill into the white china cups. She put on her spectacles and cast an eye over the front page of the
London Globe
. Rhia waited. Antonia eventually took off her spectacles.

‘I believe that faith is like walking in the dark; guided only by one’s inner light. But all I am truly certain of is that any compassionate God must surely want us to bring our love to the poor and the suffering rather than spend it all on prayers to a plaster statue.’

Before Rhia could reply, Laurence appeared, looking blearyeyed and even more dishevelled than he had the day before. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said, drowned out by the loud hammering of the door knocker. He groaned at the sound, and put his fingers to his temples. Juliette hurried past the door to the hallway.

‘It is too early for the morning post,’ Mrs Blake said with a frown. ‘Who could be calling at this hour? What
is
the hour, Laurence?’

Laurence retrieved a tarnished fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Just after nine. Ungodly. I hate morning meetings.’ He yawned and sat down nodding gratefully as Mrs Blake poured him coffee.

They listened to the front door creak, and to the low murmur of voices. Rhia shivered and, involuntarily, glanced at the photogenic trees. As she had dreaded, the shadow was there again, like the imprint of a figure between those pale trunks. She closed her eyes and felt icy cold.

Cailleach?

When she opened her eyes Juliette was standing by the table with a folded piece of notepaper, which she gave to Laurence. She hurried away as though she, too, was afraid of its contents.

Laurence unfolded the note slowly and read it. Rhia watched his face. Antonia was bent over the newspaper, sipping her coffee, seemingly oblivious. The note slipped out of his fingers and fell to the table, and he put his hands over his face. Antonia looked up and took off her spectacles.

‘Laurence! What is it?’

He pushed the notepaper towards her. She read it and then put it down, so slowly.

Someone had died.

Mrs Blake reached for Rhia’s hand and clutched it fiercely.

‘Ryan,’ she whispered.

It was a hoax. Someone had written the note as a jape; an amusement. It was disgraceful. Laurence was already on his feet.

‘He is dead,’ said Antonia, dazed.

Rhia shook her head. ‘
No.
’ Had she shouted? She could neither
think nor move. Antonia was still holding her hand, so she pulled it away and stood up abruptly, knocking her chair back. No one moved to pick it up. Antonia put her head in her hands.

Laurence looked as though he might faint. ‘Who has this note come from?’ Rhia asked. It was a surprisingly sensible question.

‘From a friend who is a journalist of the
Globe
. He says that the dustlady who has rooms at China Wharf found Ryan’s body and sent him a message this morning.’

‘But why would she tell a journalist?’ asked Antonia.

‘Yes, why?’ Rhia echoed. It was clearly a hoax.

Laurence was shaking his head. He could not answer. He was death white and the skin on his face was shiny with sweat.

Rhia suddenly remembered, relieved, why it was impossible for Ryan’s body to be in London. ‘But my uncle has gone away; he
told
me.’

Laurence’s voice broke. ‘I must visit China Wharf directly. Perhaps Mrs Bribb, the dustlady, is mistaken.’

Rhia was clutching the back of her chair for support. ‘Of course she is mistaken.’ The pitch of her voice was brittle, as though it might easily break.

‘Mrs Bribb has concluded, somehow, Rhia, I can barely say it … She believes that he died by his own hand.’

Such nonsense.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Rhia said.

‘With respect, it is not advisable. It will be unsettling.’

‘With respect, I
will
come with you.’ Laurence looked surprised, or perhaps shocked. Either way he was not pleased, but Rhia didn’t care if she alone made her entire gender unattractive.

‘Very well. Dillon is at a coffee house in Cornhill and suggests that I meet him at a nearby tavern.’

Antonia stood and hurried from the room and when Rhia and Laurence entered the hallway she was waiting for them, holding Rhia’s cloak and Laurence’s top coat and hat.

They must have walked the length of Cloak Lane and a distance along Cornhill, though Rhia could not recall it by the time they were taking a seat in the window recess of a public house. The tavern was almost empty at this hour, but for a huddle of ragged old men seated around a table with a flagon of claret and a deck of cards. They probably did so every morning. For them, today was a day just like any other.

Laurence went to the bar and returned with two small glasses of spirit. ‘Brandy,’ he said, when Rhia looked at it blankly. He drank his measure in one. ‘Dillon will be an asset in this situation,’ he said, as though that might make a difference. She nodded.

‘How did he – my uncle … ?’ she began, though she was not sure that she wanted to know.

Laurence looked away from her, at the window. ‘Did you know that Ryan collected antique firearms?’

She shook her head in bewilderment. She was sitting in a shabby tavern with a man she barely knew who would soon accompany her to the place where her uncle lay dead. Perhaps she was dreaming. She followed Laurence’s example and drank the rest of the brandy down in one.

The tavern door swung open and a man entered. Laurence waved limply at him.

The journalist crossed the room, his boots striking the floorboards with purpose. Even the card players took notice. He wasn’t bohemian, but he wasn’t concerned with convention, either. He wore a long, battered leather coat and the toes of his boots were pointed more sharply than was fashionable and badly in need of shoe black. His black hair was tied back and,
although he appeared relatively youthful, there were furrows of tension on his face. He was as pale as any newspaper man and had a general air of arrogance and impatience. He extended his hand to Laurence and gave Rhia a small bow.

‘Rhia, this is Mr Dillon. This is Ryan’s niece, Rhia Mahoney,’ said Laurence. ‘She insisted on coming,’ he added. Laurence had been watching the street and now he tapped on the window, beckoning to a straw-haired boy who was loitering on the footpath.

‘I had not realised that Ryan had family in London,’ said Mr Dillon politely, though his curiosity was too sharp to miss.

‘And I did not realise that he kept company with gentlemen of the press,’ she countered. ‘I have just arrived,’ she added, holding his gaze. Did he think her an imposter?

The boy from the street appeared at their table. ‘Yes, mister? Want yer ’orse groomed, is it? I can shine them winkle-pickers, too,’ he said cheekily, jerking his head at Mr Dillon’s boots.

‘Find a cab and have it collect us outside, lad, said Laurence offhandedly, pressing a copper into his hand. The boy nodded, grinned and disappeared.

Rhia listened to Dillon tell Laurence, in a low voice, how he had come about his discovery. He had recently visited Ryan to discuss some kind of business (what?) and, early this morning, Mrs Bribb the dustlady had found his calling card. She hadn’t known who else to turn to. He was cut short by the arrival of the hansom, whose driver sat whistling cheerfully and dusting off a battered pork-pie hat.

They were soon amidst the crowds and commotion of some arterial road, and then suddenly at a standstill behind a mail coach. Laurence craned his neck out of the window and sighed with exasperation.

‘The coachman is changing horses, it looks as though one is lame.’

Rhia nodded, hardly hearing him. Dillon had taken a notebook from his coat pocket and was flipping through it as though looking for something, and Laurence kept his head out of the window, occasionally issuing another exasperated sigh.

The noise and motion of the street seemed to be receding. The air moved as gently as a coil of smoke on the outer reaches of her vision, and Rhia felt the lightest touch, like the caress of a feather on her arms, which left her flesh crawling. Was she just seeing her own shadow?

‘Miss Mahoney, are you well?’ Rhia had not realised that she was slumped in the corner of the carriage. She felt like retching. The vision was quickly gone and the smells of damp horsehair and old tobacco in the carriage were suddenly overpowering. She sat up slowly. Laurence had pulled his head back in and both men were looking at her. She nodded and turned away, pretending to find something of interest through the window as they started to move again. She could feel Mr Dillon’s eyes on her and knew that he was going to speak to her and she wished he wouldn’t.

‘Are you feeling equal to answering some questions, Miss Mahoney?’ He spoke gently enough but didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘It is critical that we do not waste a moment, because once Scotland Yard are informed, we might have no access to your uncle’s room, his effects or – and I’m sorry to put this so bluntly – his body.’

His manner of speech was vaguely familiar, but it took a moment to place. He had the same lilting accent as Mamo. Welsh. She should not be surprised, she had heard that any Celt in London who wasn’t a beggar, a cobbler or a tailor was certainly a journalist.

‘Did you know my uncle well?’

He ignored her. ‘Please tell me what you and Ryan spoke of last you met.’

Rhia felt her guard rise. ‘What did
you
speak to him of last you met?’

He shot her a surprised look but didn’t answer.

‘Besides,’ she said with a shrug, ‘I fail to see how what my uncle and I speak of affects you.’