The Welfare of the Dead (22 page)

A
NNABEL
K
ROUT SITS
at her writing desk. A steel-nibbed pen is poised in her right hand, but the white page before her is quite blank, devoid of ink except for a title of ‘London's Theatreland', twice underlined. Five minutes pass, then ten. As church bells in nearby streets begin to toll noon, she returns the pen to its place in the ink-stand. She gets up and walks once more to the window, looking down on Duncan Terrace, with its narrow strip of quiet pavement and railinged garden. But there is nothing to see. Indeed, the scene, which she fears may become her principal memory of the metropolis, is quite unchanged, and does nothing to stimulate her imagination. She frowns, and reluctantly puts the idea of writing to one side.

She walks downstairs and finds Jacobs upon the landing, applying polish to the banisters, with a rigorous determination that thwarts any possible attempt at conversation. In fact, the only intelligence that Annabel receives is that ‘the Missus' is not to be disturbed on account of ‘fixing her mind on sleeping till four', which does nothing to raise her spirits.

Recalling Mrs. Woodrow's advice, Annabel, therefore, decides to turn her steps to the Woodrows' study, located at the rear of the first-floor landing. She walks over and carefully turns the brass door-knob, almost
tempted to knock, although she knows there can be no-one within. As she opens the door ajar, there is a scent, which strikes her as strangely evocative of something she cannot quite place. At first she fancies it is the smell of books; bound leather and paper. Then it comes to her. It is an intimate, lingering aroma of tobacco and brandy, which, in diluted form, is a fragrance she rather associates with her host.

‘I am just going to borrow a book,' she says, turning to Jacobs, then immediately regretting it – for she has no need to ask for permission. The latter, however, merely nods and returns her attention to her work more briskly than might be considered entirely polite, as if to say ‘What does it matter to me?'

Annabel swings open the door and enters the room. On first impression, although there is a tall sash window looking out on to the Woodrows' garden, it seems to be the smallest room in the house and rather gloomy; not half as grand as she imagined. The study's principal contents are a modest fireplace and single comfortable chair placed directly in front of the hearth. The alcoves upon either side of the fire are taken up entirely with shelves, containing an array of books and large red volumes, which, upon closer perusal, reveal themselves to be bound copies of
Punch
. Annabel runs her finger along the spines of the books, finding the collection of Scott, quite pristine, just as Mrs. Woodrow described. She stops at random at
The Bride of Lammermoor
, pulling the book from the tight grasp of its confederates upon the shelf. And, though the room is a little cold, she sits down upon the edge of the arm-chair, turning the pages, ignoring the introduction:

Few have been in my secret while I was compiling these narratives, nor is it probable that they will
ever become public during the life of their author. Even were that event . . .

Annabel stops reading, however, as her foot touches upon something under the arm-chair, a small, torn piece of paper that rustles as her shoe crushes it. Bending down to pick it up, she discovers it is a ticket of some kind, with half the print smudged by some unknown stain:

TICKET OF ADMISSION
for 13th November 1874
to an Evening of Unmatched Entertainment
in Song and Dance at the
HOLBORN CASINO, High Holborn

CAUTION!
It is necessary to retain this part of the ticket to serve as a pass between the Hall and Salon and prevent improper intrusion; its production may be respectfully requested
.

With no particular knowledge of the reputation or location of the Holborn Casino, Annabel nonetheless cannot help but wonder why such a ticket should be found in the Woodrows' home. She concludes, with a frown, that it offers some explanation of Mr. Woodrow's tardy and drunken appearance on the previous evening.

At length, she places the ticket in her book, with half a mind to show it to her cousin, and recommences her reading.

It is with barely a chapter completed that Annabel quits the small study. For, without the warmth of a few burning coals, she finds the room is a little too cold,
and the walls a little oppressive. She contemplates calling back Jacobs, long since disappeared from the landing, with a view to lighting a fire in the small room. But she wonders whether Mr. Woodrow might consider such an action a little presumptuous in his private retreat. Thus, finally, eschewing the other more formal rooms of the house, she returns to her bedroom, where she settles herself upon the bed in an upright pose. With the fire burning brightly in the hearth, she is quite determined to devote herself to
The Bride of Lammermoor
when there is the sound of footsteps, and a rather quiet knock at the door.

‘Come in?'

Lucy Woodrow lets herself in, turning the brass door-knob with both hands. Annabel smiles, puts down her book and beckons her in.

‘Hello, my dear,' says Annabel.

‘Hello,' replies the little girl. ‘Are you ill too?'

‘Why, who is ill?'

‘Mama. She's in bed.'

‘No, dear,' says Annabel, ‘I was just reading. And I think your Momma is just a little out of sorts, that is all.'

Lucy shrugs. ‘Jacobs said I could come down and see you, if I was good.'

‘And have you been good?' asks Annabel.

Lucy nods.

‘And what have you been doing this morning?' continues Annabel, sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘Reading. Mama said I should read; but they're the same silly books,' says Lucy, ‘and reading is an awful bore.'

It sounds like the latter phrase is parroted secondhand, perhaps copied from her mother or father, but the girl says it with great sincerity, nonetheless. Annabel looks down at her novel, and puts it to one
side. ‘It is, isn't it? Tell me, Lucy, have you been outdoors since we went to the Zoological Gardens?'

Lucy emphatically shakes her head.

‘And I have not been outdoors all day. Tell me, Miss Lucinda Woodrow,' says Annabel, a rather mischievous glint in her eye, ‘would you like to go for a stroll?'

‘Yes please,' replies the little girl.

‘Miss,' says Jacobs, appearing in the hall, ‘where are you going?'

‘I'm just taking Lucinda for a stroll,' says Annabel, straightening the little girl's coat and scarf. ‘We both need some air.'

‘It's cold outside, Miss, and the Missus—'

‘Is asleep. We won't be five minutes, will we, dear?'

‘No,' says Lucy, as if shocked by the very idea.

‘But where will you go, Miss? You don't know your way.'

‘Five minutes, Jacobs,' says Annabel, allowing a note of frustration into her voice. ‘We can hardly get lost in five minutes.'

‘I don't know, Miss,' says Jacobs.

‘You don't have to know,' says Annabel, exasperated, pulling back the curtain and opening the front door. ‘Come, Lucy.'

Lucy smiles and obliges; and if she does not actually thumb her nose at the maid-servant, she looks at her with precisely the expression of satisfaction and triumph she might have worn if she had.

Outside the air is somewhat colder than Annabel had expected. She looks down at Lucy but, rather than shivering, her little cousin looks positively invigorated – or at least more cheerful than a few moments before.

‘Shall we go and look at the canal?' says Annabel.

Lucy nods. It is a brief walk, around the perimeter of the gardens, and on to the adjoining street, before they stand in the road above the entrance to the Islington tunnel, with little to indicate the presence of the channel buried beneath their feet. Lucy stares at the visible easterly portion of the canal through the railings that protect its raised banks. A solitary barge makes leisurely progress through the dirty water towards the next lock, but this does not seem to hold her interest. In fact, the little girl tugs rather impulsively at Annabel's fingers and Annabel allows herself be led to the iron gate that conceals a narrow sloping track going down to the canal itself. There is another boat, moored by the tow-path, with two young men busying themselves about the roped tarpaulins that conceal its cargo. One of the men, dressed in brown fustian, a battered-looking cloth cap on his head, looks up from his work.

‘Can I oblige you with anything, Miss?' he says, grinning.

‘Enough of that, Jim,' says the other.

Annabel pulls her reluctant charge away. ‘We'll, just go along the road here,' she says, looking pointedly at the young man.

Lucy frowns at the sudden movement, her face presenting the disappointment of which only children of a certain age are capable.

‘Or shall we go back home?' muses Annabel. ‘I suppose we should not be too long, or Jacobs will worry.'

Lucy shakes her head.

‘I did promise,' says Annabel. ‘Five minutes. Very well – just to the end of the road and back. Come on now, and I will tell your Momma that you were especially good today.'

The little girl pouts, but, perhaps weighing up the
advantages of a creditable report, eventually accedes to the request. And it can be no more than a few minutes' walk, for they proceed to the end of Colebrooke Row and back again, before walking once more round the gardens, into Duncan Terrace.

‘Lucy,' says Annabel, as they walk back, ‘tell me, do you remember anything odd about last night?'

‘No,' says the little girl emphatically.

‘Do you remember,' says Annabel, trying not to sound overly inquisitorial, ‘coming into my room?'

‘No,' says the girl, confused.

‘Do you remember if you woke up at all?'

‘Yes,' says Lucy, at length.

‘Where was that?'

‘In the hall.'

‘And what was going on?'

‘Papa was angry.'

‘Do you know why?'

Lucy shrugs. Annabel, in turn, smiles in sympathy.

‘I think,' continues Annabel, stopping and bending down to be nearer her cousin's height, ‘that your Poppa can be very angry sometimes, even though I am sure he loves you very much.'

Lucy shakes her head.

‘I don't think he does.'

Annabel frowns. ‘Well, if you're feeling bad, if your Poppa's been mean to you, you'll come and talk to me, won't you?'

Lucy nods.

D
ECIMUS
W
EBB SITS
in one of the three private bars of the Clarence public house, Scotland Yard. It is a secluded enclave, segregated from the rest of the establishment by a pair of dividing partitions, carved mahogany panels, topped with etched glass, and with its own door on to the street. This must be the principal attraction for the policeman. For the pint of beer that sits before him upon the table is virtually untouched, and the only smoke he enjoys is that lingering effervescence of beer and old tobacco that hangs in the air. At length, however, the street-door opens and a familiar face pokes inside.