The Welfare of the Dead (15 page)

‘Ah, thank goodness,' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Woodrow – where are you? Woodrow!'

‘Here, my dear.'

‘Go and find a cab, for pity's sake. Why on earth you did not reserve the carriage for our return, I do not know.'

‘I was not sure of the hour.'

‘I hardly see how that matters, my dear.'

Woodrow says no more and hurries off, but within a couple of minutes a dozen or two dozen more parties come out of the Criterion with precisely the same intention. Jasper Woodrow, at length, returns with the news that only a hansom can be found.

‘I suppose it best the pair of you take that, and I'll find another,' says Woodrow.

‘But my dear—' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.

‘The blasted fellow will take someone else, if you are not careful, Melissa. I've already given him two bob – come now.'

To Annabel's relief, Mrs. Woodrow consents, doubtless contemplating the merits of a hansom against standing in the cold, fog-soaked air.

Jasper Woodrow, meanwhile, watches the cab turn off the main road and disappear into the swirling mist. Without a glance to the remaining carriages, he sets off at a brisk walking pace, in the direction of Holborn.

O
UTSIDE
W
OODROW'S
G
ENERAL
M
OURNING
Warehouse, beneath the shop's glowing advertisement for ‘Every Article of the Very Best Description', stands a solitary man, wearing the heavy woollen great-coat that is obligatory for anyone spending November in London. In the darkness, illuminated only by the residual glow of the gas-lit sign, he appears and disappears with the movement of the fog, with every gust of wind. Indeed, it is only a handful of passengers in passing cabs and carriages that even notice the figure waiting by the kerb, peering into the road. Nonetheless, the man in question is no nocturnal phantom, but the new partner-to-be in Woodrow's General Mourning, Richard Langley.

Langley takes out his pocket-watch, finds that the dial is impossible to make out, and snaps the case shut in annoyance. He walks a few nervous paces back and forth. In fact, he gives every impression of being about to leave his self-imposed sentry-duty. He is only stopped by the approach of a second party, indistinct in the nocturnal gloom, who, by the booming sound of his voice, reveals himself to be Jasper Woodrow.

‘Langley! My apologies!' exclaims Woodrow, shaking his new partner firmly by the hand. There is a hint of alcohol on his breath.

‘Sir, you said half-past ten.'

‘My dear fellow,' says Woodrow, ‘I know, forgive me. I had another small matter to dispose of. Didn't anticipate the fog – should have said we'd meet in a decent public. Still, no harm in taking a look at the old place. Part yours now, of course – well, from tomorrow.'

‘I still do not quite see why we could not have waited?'

‘Wait? I thought you were keen? Wet the baby's head and all that? Just a little tipple. Thought you enjoyed a drink?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Well then. Come, what do you say to the Casino – just round the corner?'

‘Well, I have never . . . I mean to say, I don't normally keep such late hours.'

‘Didn't think you did, old chap – precisely why I suggested it. You look like you need a bit of gaiety. We all do, eh? Best place in London for—'

Langley interrupts. ‘I know, you have mentioned it before.'

‘What do you say, then?'

Woodrow looks steadily at his companion.

‘I suppose so.'

‘No harm in a little drink, a little dance with a young gal, eh? Good for the spirits. Are you courting, Langley?'

‘No,' replies Langley.

‘Well, all the better. I'll see you right, my boy – come, this way. Haven't been there for years myself, of course. Not much call for old dogs like me in such places. Not at all.'

Jasper Woodrow gestures towards the east and, without waiting for a reply, strides purposefully into the fog, forcing Langley to follow.

Duncan Terrace.

‘Jacobs, are you there?'

‘Sorry, ma'am. Yes, ma'am.'

‘Take these coats and do your best to clean them; the fog is terribly bad and we are both quite covered in smut. And I might take a bath before I retire.'

‘Yes, ma'am. Is the master not home?'

‘No, he is delayed; we had difficulties finding a cab for all three of us.'

‘You have some post, ma'am.'

‘Thank you, I'll look at it later.'

In a corner of the Holborn Casino's great hall, Jasper Woodrow leans back upon his chair, tilting the legs, surveying the couples dancing a lively
schottische
upon the dance-floor. Langley, on the other hand, seems to sit rather nervously on his seat.

‘Lively little saloon, ain't it?' says Woodrow.

‘The music is a little too loud for my taste,' replies Langley.

‘They do bang it out,' replies Woodrow. ‘Here, grab that chap there . . . never mind, I've got him . . . here, boy, over here!'

Woodrow grabs the arm of a waiter, who bends solicitously over the table.

‘Two brandy and waters, and make them large ones, eh?'

The waiter nods and heads in the direction of the nearest bar, one of several alcoves beneath the hall's gallery that distribute liquid sustenance, beneath signs reading ‘Refreshments'. He soon returns, bearing two brandies, Jasper Woodrow raises his glass in the air.

‘To partnership, Langley!'

Langley smiles. ‘To partnership.'

‘That's better,' says Woodrow, as Langley takes a gulp of the liquor. ‘Now, tell me, what do you make of that filly over there, eh?'

‘Which?'

‘The dark-haired one, with the silver round her neck.'

‘The girl with the necklace?'

‘Fascinating little thing, isn't she? Why don't you ask her to dance?'

‘She has a partner, I think.'

‘That boy? No match for a full-grown fellow like you, Langley. Go to it – ask her, if you've a mind to.'

‘I don't really.'

‘Here, finish your drink – I'll get us another. Boy!'

Melissa Woodrow sits naked in the hot tin bath before her bedroom hearth, her hair tied back loosely. She washes her face clean with soap and water, wiping it with a flannel, which instantly acquires streaks of grey-black dirt. Then, once she is done, she takes a bar of transparent soap from the nearby wash-stand, and carefully applies it to her skin, to her arms and legs, stretching her hands out towards the flames. Before long, the clear water in the bath has itself turned into a stagnant murky pond around her body. Melissa Woodrow frowns, staring at the water, lost in thought.

As the water grows colder, she climbs out of the bath, towelling herself dry in front of the fire-place, before she puts on her chemise and silk dressing-gown. She walks over to her bed, pulling the brass ring of the needlework bell-pull that hangs from the picture-rail.

The servants' bell rings in the distance. Mrs. Woodrow first unties then begins to brush her hair.
The sound of rapid footfalls upon the stairs echo on the landing, until there is a knock at the door.

‘Come in.'

Jacobs enters. ‘Ma'am?'

‘No sign of the master?'

‘No, ma'am.'

Jasper Woodrow walks from the dance-floor and falls on to his seat, exhausted, as the orchestra in the gallery strikes up a new dance. Richard Langley sits down beside him, his face rather pallid, his eyes slightly bloodshot. They are followed by two young women, in breathless, giddy conversation.

‘Ladies,' says Woodrow, pulling out two chairs, ‘come join us. My dears, my friend and I've never had the pleasure of such exquisite partners. You must both be thirsty – let me buy you a bottle of pop, eh?'

The older of the two, though no more than twenty-one years, smiles in agreement, and sits down. Her friend, though giving Woodrow a rather nervous look, follows suit as he orders a bottle of the house's champagne.

‘What's your name?' asks Woodrow.

‘Susan,' says the older girl. ‘And this is Jemima.'

‘Sweet names,' says Woodrow, ‘although they are a little plain for two such fascinating ladies.'

The younger girl giggles at the word ‘ladies'.

‘I'd call you Bella,' he continues, addressing the older, reaching to touch her cheek with his finger.

The girl smiles but lightly brushes his hand aside. ‘And what about my friend?'

‘Well, I don't know. What would you say, Langley?'

‘I'm sorry,' says Langley, looking blearily at his companion, speaking with a distinct slur, ‘I'm sorry – that dance – I feel a little off-colour.'

The two young women look less than impressed by this announcement; the younger whispers something to the older, at which both laugh.

‘My dear fellow,' says Woodrow, ‘I hope you haven't over-indulged? And I thought you'd hardly touched a drop!'

‘If I have I . . .'

Langley trails off in mid sentence as he attempts to stand, leaning unsteadily against his chair. Woodrow glances apologetically at the two young women.