The Welfare of the Dead (25 page)

A
NNABEL
K
ROUT WAKES
. She can hear the now familiar early-morning progress of Jacobs about her room. The maid is quiet but there is noise all the same: the installation of the morning's hot water, with the porcelain being placed upon the wash-stand; the pattering of the girl's feet across to the hearth; then the striking of a single match to kindle the fire.

‘Good morning, Miss.'

‘Ah, good morning, Jacobs. Thank you.'

‘Shall I do the curtains, Miss? It's cleared up a bit outside.'

‘Yes, if you would.'

Jacobs obliges. There are, Annabel notices, several patches of blue sky. She sits up, rubbing her shoulder.

‘Thank you.'

‘Didn't you sleep too well, Miss?'

‘It's just a little ache, that's all. How was Miss Lucy?'

‘Quiet as a little lamb, Miss. More than I can say for myself.'

‘You watched over her then?'

‘Yes, Miss. Moved my bed into her room.'

‘That must be a nuisance for you, Jacobs.'

‘It's no trouble, Miss,' says Jacobs, without much conviction. ‘I've done it before. Is there anything else?'

‘No. Thank you.'

‘Oh, and Mrs. Woodrow says she'd like a word before breakfast, Miss. In her room, if you please.'

‘Thank you, Jacobs. Is Mrs. Woodrow feeling better?'

‘She seems a bit more herself, Miss.'

Annabel, having dressed and finished her morning toilette, proceeds to her cousin's room, where she indeed finds her considerably improved, in comparison to the previous day. Mrs. Woodrow sits fully dressed before her mirror, teasing the small ringlets of hair that grace her forehead.

‘Annabel, my dear. Do come in and sit down for a moment. Did you sleep well?'

Annabel does as instructed, taking a seat beside her cousin's dressing table. Before she can answer, however, Mrs. Woodrow turns to face her and begins speaking once more.

‘My dear,' begins Mrs. Woodrow, rather hurriedly, ‘I'm afraid there is something I must tell you; something unpleasant. I should have spoken to you last night, but I was not myself, and Woodrow was hardly any better. It was all I could do to eat something. I expect you thought us very rude at dinner.'

‘No, not at all,' replies Annabel politely; then a thought crosses her mind, an anxious look clouding her face. ‘Cousin, it's not about Momma or Poppa?'

‘Annabel – what an idea! Heaven forbid! No, nothing like that. Well, I would not mention it at all, but it will be in the papers, and doubtless the servants will gossip; that is why I thought we might talk in private.'

‘Excuse me, I don't follow you, cousin.'

‘No, I am not being clear,' replies Mrs. Woodrow,
sighing. ‘There has been an awful tragedy; a shop-girl, one of our girls, well, there is no nice way of putting it, she was found dead yesterday; the police have told Woodrow she was attacked by some madman.'

‘Attacked? You mean she was murdered?'

‘Yes, my dear, awful, isn't it? Worse, I fear, she was found in a place with a very bad reputation, a dance-hall, near the Warehouse; it seems likely there was some element of, well, impropriety on her part.'

‘How terrible.'

‘Yes, it is rather bad,' replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘It will not reflect well on the business, not at all; Woodrow is quite desolate about it. I just thought you ought to know, my dear, in case . . . Well, I have not said anything to the servants as yet, my dear, but it will come out. I am not quite sure what to do for the best.'

‘No, of course.'

‘One almost feels one should wear some token of mourning; I mean to say, I did not know the wretched girl, but really it is such a bad business. Still, I will say no more about it. I have probably said more than is decent – are you quite shocked, Annabel?'

‘No, not shocked. I mean, Melissa, I am but I don't know what to say.'

‘My dear, you need say nothing. I discussed it with Woodrow and it just seemed best we did not keep it from you; you are not a child, after all. Now, I suppose we must just put it behind us and dwell on something more pleasant. It need not interfere with your stay. What about today? I think we shall go to church for the eleven o'clock service, if you care to come.'

‘Of course.'

‘Good. Oh, and Woodrow says we might go for a little drive afterwards. Some fresh air might do us all a world of good, don't you think? You were only saying as much yesterday.'

Breakfast passes without incident and with little conversation. Mr. Woodrow himself seems distant and a little tired, his eyes possessing the same bleary character that Annabel noted upon her first morning at the breakfast table. Once the food is cleared away, Woodrow retires to his study, and his wife to her boudoir, to ponder the precise choice of jewellery for the day, and of a hat appropriate for Christian worship. Annabel, upon the other hand, her literary imagination fired by Mrs. Woodrow's news, goes to her room and begins to contemplate writing an article entitled ‘The London Tragedy', to reveal some telling contrasts between British and American criminality for the readers of the
New England Monthly Bazaar
. In truth, she finds herself quite disappointed that Mr. Woodrow did not choose to wax lyrical about the circumstances of the incident over his poached eggs.

At length, however, Annabel is roused from her daydreaming by her cousin's appearance at her bedroom door; and, after sundry comments upon her dress and hair, which she does her best to amend to Melissa Woodrow's exacting standards, the family gather in the hall. Lucy, in particular, is arrayed in her Sunday best, though she does not appear best pleased at the prospect of going to church and wears a particularly sullen expression.

‘You look pretty, Lucy,' suggests Annabel. The little girl merely scowls. Any further discussion, however, is forestalled by the ringing of the Woodrow's door-bell.

‘Now, who would call at this hour on a Sunday?' asks Mrs. Woodrow.

Jasper Woodrow does not wait for the arrival of his maid-servant, but swiftly resolves the question by
unceremoniously opening the front door himself. He reveals Joshua Siddons standing upon the front steps.

‘Ah, forgive me, Woodrow, and you, ma'am,' says Siddons. ‘I see this is an inconvenient time.'

‘Mr. Siddons, why, how pleasant to see you!' exclaims Melissa Woodrow. ‘But we are all off to church.'

‘Indeed, ma'am,' he replies, ‘my apologies.'

‘There is no need to apologise, sir,' replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Now, what am I thinking of? I don't believe you have met my cousin, Miss Krout?'

‘I am charmed, Miss Krout,' says Siddons, with a small bow.

‘Now, would you care to come with us?' asks Mrs. Woodrow.

‘Why, my dear lady,' replies Joshua Siddons, ‘I should be delighted.'

‘But I expect Siddons wants a word with me, Melissa,' says Jasper Woodrow, hurriedly interposing in the conversation. ‘Just a small matter we need to discuss.'

‘On a Sunday morning, Woodrow? Really!'

‘All the same, my dear. A quick word. We shall follow on.'

‘I will not detain him long, my dear lady,' says Siddons.

Mrs. Woodrow acquiesces and the last thing she and Annabel Krout see of the two men is when they climb into the waiting carriage on Duncan Terrace.

‘Well,' says Joshua Siddons, seated in the Woodrows' drawing-room, ‘so that is the cousin? Delightful little creature, eh? But you never said a word, my dear chap! When did she arrive?'

‘Never mind that. Why did you not come last night?'

‘A burial in Woking, if you must know, Woodrow. I did not get back until late. Now, what is so pressing?'

‘I had some bad news yesterday,' replies his host, standing before the fireplace.

‘Ah,' replies Siddons, with a slight smile, ‘yes, that awful business at the Casino. I confess, I have already heard. I saw something at the station last night; some piece of gutter journalism. Can't be good for the firm, eh? I wish I could help. Still, rise above it; that is my motto. Always has been.'

Woodrow, still dressed in his coat, clenches his hands tightly around the brim of his hat, which he holds in front of him. ‘That is not all. Langley has pulled out of the partnership.'

‘Oh, well, that is a shame, certainly. But, come, my good fellow, I fail to see what I can do about it.'

‘There is much you could do, if you chose,' says Woodrow emphatically, ‘as well you know.'

‘My dear Woodrow,' exclaims Siddons, as if having been offered some awful insult, ‘an arrangement is an arrangement. What is the matter? Are you in some difficulty?'

‘Your payments are a burden at the moment; this will only make it worse. I swear, any decent man would consider our account long since settled.'

‘Nonetheless,' says Siddons, waving his hand as if to swat away any awkwardness.

‘Moreover, I now find that you have not kept your part of the bargain,' says Woodrow, glowering at the undertaker.

Siddons raises his eyebrows. ‘I hardly think one might say that.'

‘You're a liar. The policeman who came to see me, about the wretched girl, he also asked me if I knew a “Jeremy Munday”.'

‘Munday?' says Siddons, again smiling, as if trying to recall the name.

‘Don't toy with me, sir. I am not to be trifled with. Why should he ask me that?'

‘Why, indeed?'

‘Do not provoke me, I swear, by Almighty God, if you—'

‘I have done nothing,' replies Siddons with a theatrical sigh. ‘However, the police came to me as well, I confess.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, it is quite remarkable – it was to inform me some mysterious Burker had been at work at Abney Park, digging around. Can you believe it?'

‘Good God,' replies Woodrow, his mouth open in astonishment, ‘you do not mean—'

‘That Jeremy Munday has been disturbed in his eternal rest? That is precisely it. Nothing but an empty coffin left behind. Queer, is it not?'

‘Why did you not come to me at once?'

‘Why, indeed! Why did I not simply bring the police sergeant directly to your door?'

‘I said,' says Woodrow, raising his voice, ‘do not play these games of yours. Why, in heaven's name, should this happen? Why now? Have you told anyone?'

‘My dear fellow, do contain yourself. I have said nothing. The police only came to me because of the coffin; Mr. Pellegrin informed them of the manufacturer.'

Woodrow shakes his head. ‘It is impossible. It has been twenty-five years. More.'

‘Come now, you have nothing to fear. Perhaps it was a joke; a wager amongst students of anatomy. Yes, that might well be it. You know the sort. “We'll find old Munday's corpse; dig him up, see how he likes it.” That would explain it, eh?'

‘A joke? No – at the time, perhaps. But not now – who would go to such lengths?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘Besides, you mean “we” need not fear, do you not?'