The Welfare of the Dead (18 page)

Pulling up the covers around her body, Annabel lies back and closes her eyes.

It is not long before she falls into fitful sleep.

Annabel wakes.

At first she is conscious only of a cold sweat, soaked through her night-gown, the fabric sticking to her arms. It takes her a moment to recollect her surroundings. But then she notices, from the corner of her eye, a peculiar movement in the darkness; something quite out of place. Her stomach suddenly turns over inside her, as she moves her head to see a small figure in white, walking noiselessly past her bed.

For a moment, she is quite paralysed by the strange sight, the slow processional movement of what, for all the world, looks like a little ghost. She wonders if she is still dreaming. Memories of childish night terrors, tales told by nurses to scare their infant charges, rush unbidden into her half-waking mind. She watches in silence, struggling to reassure herself that she is quite awake, as the figure walks towards the window of her room, gently pulls aside the curtain, and taps its fingers on the glass.

Annabel reaches for the match-box beside her bed, and strikes a light, nearly setting fire to the entire box in her fumbling fingers. But then even the faint glow of the match, let alone the candle for which it is intended, is quite sufficient to dispel any mystery surrounding the figure by the window.

‘Lucy!' exclaims Annabel.

The little girl says nothing. In truth, she gives no indication of having heard her name. Rather, she stands staring through the window, her hand still tapping insistently upon the pane.

Annabel calls her name again, but still elicits no reply. Taking the lit candle, she gets out of bed and walks over to the window. The child stands quite still, her feet bare, her eyes fixed upon the street below.

‘Lucy, what is it?'

Lucy gives no answer. Annabel reaches to touch her arm but she is interrupted by the sound of footsteps upon the landing, and the breathless appearance of Mrs. Woodrow at the door to her room.

‘Oh, Lord! I thought I heard her on the stairs. Don't wake her,' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.

‘Wake her?'

‘My dear, I am so sorry, I should have said something – oh, I blame myself,' says Mrs. Woodrow in a stage whisper, walking briskly over to her daughter. ‘Lucy has, well, a nervous condition . . . she is given to sleep-walking. I would have said, but she has been quite good of late.'

Annabel glances anxiously at the little girl. ‘I suppose there's no harm done.'

‘No? Why, I expect she scared you to death. She can't even hear us, you know. It's such an awful trial – the doctors say she will grow out of it, but really, I don't know.'

‘What should we do? What do you suppose she is looking at?'

‘Nothing, I am sure – it's akin to a trance; she doesn't actually see anything, I think, or at least nothing she remembers. One merely has to lead her back to bed and keep an eye on her. I suppose there is nothing for it. Jacobs will have to share her room again. And she won't thank me for that.'

‘To watch over her?'

‘Yes, she might harm herself, or fall or anything, you see – they have no proper sense where they are, my dear, not in this condition.' Mrs. Woodrow sighs, and bends down to address her daughter. ‘Lucy? Come on now, darling, this is cousin Annabel's room, not yours. I'm taking you back to bed.'

Lucy gives no indication of hearing her mother, but when Mrs. Woodrow takes her hand, she silently
consents to be led away from the window, and out on to the landing.

‘I'm so sorry, dear,' continues Mrs. Woodrow as she walks, her voice low, ‘please, do go back to bed and get some sleep.'

‘There's really no need to apologise, cousin . . .'

Annabel's voice trails off, as Jasper Woodrow opens his bedroom door abruptly, dressed in his shirt and trousers. His balance appears unsteady, and he leans against the door-frame. He peers out on to the landing, which is lit only by the flickering light of Mrs. Woodrow's candle.

‘What's all this?'

‘Nothing, Woodrow. Go back to bed, dear.'

‘Don't give me orders, woman. Damn me, not again?' he says, gesturing towards Lucy, who stands quite oblivious by her mother.

‘It's nothing, dear, really.'

‘Don't tell me it's nothing, when the child's not in her right mind. Look at her. Give her to me.'

‘Woodrow, no, please don't—'

‘Give her here, I said.'

Mrs. Woodrow's protests go unheeded, as her husband grabs the little girl and shakes her. He is relatively gentle at first, but then takes her more violently by the shoulders. And if waking his daughter is the object, then Jasper Woodrow's methods have the desired effect. Indeed, Annabel watches as the girl's face changes from its peculiar blank serenity to consciousness, albeit a wakeful state of confusion and fear and, finally, choking sobs.

‘Woodrow, stop it! You're hurting her!'

Woodrow looks down at his daughter, who stands limp in his grip, her cheeks burning red and wet with tears. He lets go of one arm, pulling her up with the other.

‘Lucinda, can you hear me?'

The little girl nods, though her face is still fearful.

‘That was for your own good. You must learn to control yourself. Do you hear?'

Lucy nods again.

‘If you do not, I do not want to but I will punish you. Do you understand me? Speak up.'

‘Yes, Papa,' says the little girl.

‘Good. Now take her back to bed, Melissa, for God's sake – let us have a night's peace.'

Melissa Woodrow darts a glance at her husband, but says nothing, shepherding her daughter up the stairs. Woodrow himself is about to return to bed, when Annabel, having stood silently in the doorway to her room, steps out on to the landing.

‘I am sorry you had to see such a display, Miss Krout,' says Woodrow. ‘I hope you can still get some sleep.'

Annabel takes a deep breath. ‘Sir, I doubt I can, unless I speak my mind.'

Woodrow frowns. ‘What do you mean by that?'

‘I think,' she says, trying to keep a measured tone, ‘you were very harsh with your daughter.'

‘Do you, indeed?'

‘Surely she cannot help herself. I mean, though I do not know much about the condition . . .'

‘No,' says Woodrow, firmly, ‘you do not. And, although it would not surprise me, Miss Krout, if the Yankees were to start breeding lady doctors, until that time, I'd be grateful if you'd keep your ill-informed opinions to yourself. I bid you good night.'

Jasper Woodrow steps back into his bedroom and slams the door behind him.

Annabel, for her part, takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She turns around and goes back into her room, where her candle still burns by the bed. It
does not take her long to discover that she cannot sleep. She contemplates lighting the lamp and writing a letter home, but instead goes back to the window where Lucy stood a few minutes previously, and looks out on to the street.

But there is nothing to be seen.

T
HE FOG OF
the previous night has finally cleared, but a dense pall of black cloud hangs over the streets of the metropolis, threatening rain. Outside Woodrow's General Mourning Warehouse, a pair of young men undo various padlocks and grapple with the panelled wooden shutters that protect Woodrow's plate-glass windows. They exchange a few friendly words, then the screens are raised up from the polished brass sills into which they are slotted during the hours of darkness. In a matter of minutes, the shutters are stacked against the exterior of the building, then despatched with expedition to some secret location at the rear of the shop. Indeed, it is the hour when shop-keepers throughout the capital stir into action, and so the same delicate exercise is carried out all along High Holborn, uncovering the displays of several stationers, a gentleman's outfitter, Henekey's Imperial Wine and a dozen other redoubtable retail establishments.

But the young men of Woodrow's notice something different about their daily task. For such early-morning activity, no matter how mundane it may be, generally attracts the satiric attention of some ragged street-child, lolling by the nearest lamp-post, or the rather more pleasant scrutiny of a maid-servant,
bound upon an errand, who finds something peculiarly admirable about one or the other of the winged-collared young shopmen. Today, however, there are no curious passers-by, no-one intrigued by the secret life of the London shop. Such idle individuals are, instead, gathered a few hundred yards to the south and east, crowding the road and pavement around the steps of the Holborn Casino.

This crowd, in itself, is quite unusual. For the Casino is normally quite shut up during the day, when there is little call for drink and dancing, and respectable folk might catch an unwelcome glimpse of its sinfully gilded interior. In consequence, the peculiar gathering soon attracts its own peripheral hangers-on, who merely stop to make the simple inquiry ‘What is the matter here?' Then they too are swiftly absorbed into the milling group. For the answer to their question, in one word, whispered between man, woman and child, complete strangers who exchange the news with an odd familiarity, is ‘murder'; and it is an answer that encourages most of them to linger and crane their necks towards the entrance to the infamous dance-hall.

It is the presence of this self-same crowd that leaves Decimus Webb in no doubt of his destination, as his cab pulls up on the opposite side of the street; but this is, perhaps, the only positive aspect of such unchecked public enthusiasm. In fact, it takes Webb a good couple of minutes to edge his way through the mob to the burly pair of constables who guard the doors, despite proclaiming the word ‘police' at the top of his lungs, and he acquires at least one bruised rib and a stubbed toe in the process. Once inside the Casino's lobby, however, he finds that he is on his own. Walking down the entrance stairs, past the cloakroom and sundry ante-rooms, he pulls open the glass-panelled
doors that lead into the great marble hall. It is quite empty, with only the odd relic of the previous night's revelry, whether an empty wine bottle or a broken glass, lying beneath one or two of the tables. It strikes him that there is almost something eerie in the absence of noise.

‘Bartleby?' shouts Webb, puncturing the silence.

There is no reply but his voice echoes around the empty chamber. Then the sound of rapid, muffled footsteps echo in the gallery above.

‘Is that you, Sergeant?' continues Webb.

‘Yes sir, I'm coming,' replies the sergeant. Webb waits patiently, until Bartleby appears, trotting down the carpeted stairs that lead up to the gallery.

‘Thought I'd just have a look around, sir.'

‘Did you?' says Webb.

‘I knew we'd end up busy this week, sir. What did I tell you?'

‘I expect you said just that, Sergeant. In any case, before we begin this conversation, I should like to make you aware of two facts. First, your telegram, or rather the wretched youth that delivered it, woke me from a profound and deeply satisfying sleep. Second, I came here directly without so much as a sip of coffee touching my lips.'