The Welfare of the Dead (34 page)

Webb shakes his head. ‘You have far too much of the music-hall about you, Sergeant.'

A
S THE HALL CLOCK
strikes six p.m., Annabel Krout sits opposite her cousin, in front of the warm hearth of the Woodrows' morning-room. Mrs. Woodrow, for her part, leans over a wooden tray upon her lap, engaged in the delicate process of embroidering a monograph upon one of her husband's pocket-handkerchiefs. But there is something lacking in her concentration, and despite the curlicued ‘J.W.' clearly drawn upon the tracing-paper, the progress of Mrs. Woodrow's needle does not quite seem to match the pattern. Annabel, meanwhile, having abandoned Walter Scott, the book sitting open upon a nearby table, takes up the
Ladies Home Journal
, and idly reads the correspondence page, which principally is devoted to a debate upon the proper management of the home aquarium. It does not hold her attention for long, however, and she slumps back in the plum-coloured leather of the armchair, and gazes around the room, from one corner to another, from the gaselier to the grate. The china statuettes upon the over-mantel, however, seem to stare back at her in silent rebuke at her inattention to the wisdom of the
Ladies Home Journal
, and she returns to its pages once more. But she cannot bear to read it for long and soon glances back at Mrs.
Woodrow. Her cousin seems strangely silent, even when she pricks her finger upon her needle, and flinches in pain.

‘Do you think Mr. Langley will still come tomorrow?' says Annabel at last. ‘I do not suppose anyone would mind if we still went out?'

Mrs. Woodrow looks up from her work, a rather forlorn expression on her face. ‘Oh, my dear,' she says, ‘I do hope so. You deserve a pleasant outing. This awful business with the police – what must you think of us?'

‘It is not your fault, cousin.'

‘But, my dear,' says Mrs. Woodrow, as if about to protest, but then breaking suddenly into tears. She takes a fresh handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs her eyes.

‘Melissa, please, not on my account.'

‘You don't know the worst of it, my dear,' says Mrs. Woodrow, choking back a small sob. ‘Jervis gave me his notice this morning.'

‘Oh, I see.'

‘I cannot blame him. He said he “hoped he had given satisfaction, but would prefer a quieter establishment”. Can you believe it? I expect we are the talk of the street by now. And how long before we lose Mrs. Figgis and Jacobs?'

‘Melissa—'

But Annabel's words of comfort are cut short by the appearance of Jacobs at the door, as if conjured by the mention of her name.

‘Ma'am, beg your pardon . . .'

‘What is it?' asks Mrs. Woodrow, straightening in her chair.

‘It's Miss Lucy, ma'am. She won't touch her dinner. I wouldn't trouble you, ma'am, but she hasn't eaten all day.'

Mrs. Woodrow sighs. ‘She'll be the death of me, I swear it.'

‘I expect it is all the excitement of this morning,' suggests Annabel.

‘No doubt,' replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘But what am I to do with her, my dear? She has such a delicate constitution at the best of times. And, I confess, I am not at all myself.'

‘Shall I go up and speak to her, cousin?' suggests Annabel. ‘Perhaps I can help.'

‘Annabel, are you sure? You are an angel.'

‘It is no trouble,' says Annabel. She gets up and, with a nod to the maid, follows Jacobs out of the room.

‘Thank you, Miss,' says Jacobs, once they are on the stairs, out of hearing distance of her mistress. ‘I've tried my best, Miss, Lord knows.'

‘I'm sure you have,' replies Annabel. ‘Is she ill, do you think? Or just unsettled by this morning?'

‘Stubborn is what she is, begging your pardon, Miss.'

Inside the nursery, Annabel finds Lucinda at her little desk, much as upon the first day they met, poring over her alphabet. Her food sits untouched upon a small table on the other side of the room, a vacant chair beside it.

‘Lucy?' says Annabel. ‘Are you all right, dear?'

It seems an age before the girl answers. ‘Yes,' says Lucy, at last, not looking up.

‘You haven't eaten your dinner,' says Annabel.

‘I don't want it.'

‘Well, I expect it's cold now. Shall I have Jacobs heat it up for you?'

‘I don't want it,' says Lucy emphatically.

Annabel bends down next to the little girl. ‘What's
wrong, dear? You can tell me. Is it something about last night?'

Lucy shakes her head, but her eyes look fixedly down at the nursery floor, as if trying to avoid Annabel's gaze.

‘It is, isn't it?' says Annabel, gently touching her arm.

Lucy scowls, and nods.

‘What is it, dear?'

‘I told a lie,' she says, hesitating, ‘to the policeman.'

‘Go on,' says Annabel, puzzled.

‘I did see him.'

‘Who?'

‘The big man. I saw him lots of times.'

‘You mean you saw the man who . . . well, you saw him here, outside?'

‘Lots.'

‘But why didn't you say so?' asks Annabel.

‘Because he was fighting with . . .'

But then Lucy shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips. For, at the same moment, there is a sudden pounding of feet upon the stairs. Annabel turns around to see Jasper Woodrow stride into the room. Even though he is a couple of feet distant, she can smell liquor on his breath. Annabel stands up.

‘I would talk to my daughter, Miss Krout, if you please,' says Woodrow. There is already a suggestion of anger in his voice.

‘Well, of course,' says Annabel, ‘but she was just telling me—'

Before Annabel can continue, however, Lucy tugs sharply at Annabel's skirts, in an apparent effort to stop her. The little girl's face has a peculiar look of terror upon it.

‘I don't care what she was telling you, Miss Krout, just please step aside. Lucinda – stand up straight and come here.'

Lucinda dutifully stands up and walks over to her father.

‘I have just come home and your mother tells me you have not eaten your dinner.'

The little girl looks at the food and nods.

‘Why do you persist in disobeying us? Do you not think your mother has enough to contend with?'

The little girl says nothing, though her eyes look tearful.

‘Sir,' interjects Annabel Krout, ‘I hardly think you can blame her. She has been through a terrible trial herself.'

‘Miss Krout, please,' says Woodrow, though his tone is far from conciliatory. ‘It is not your place to apologise for my daughter. She must learn the consequences of her actions. She has been told many times before. Lucinda, hold out your hand.'

Lucinda mechanically holds out her arm, palm upwards, without being bidden any further. Woodrow, in turn, unbuckles his belt, tugging it violently from his waist, doubles it over, and leans down over his daughter.

‘I am sorry I must punish you, Lucinda,' he says. ‘I am your father and it gives me no joy, I assure you. But you leave me no choice. You must learn to obey your mother and father. That is your duty.'

And with that, he swings the strap of the belt sharply down upon her outstretched palm. The child's face crumples in pain.

‘Now, Lucinda, think hard before you answer, will you finish your dinner?' says Woodrow, gesturing at the cold plate of beef and potatoes. Lucy, still wincing, her face bright red, angrily shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Very well,' says Woodrow. He brings the belt down again. The little girl cries out.

‘Now,' he continues, ‘will you eat your dinner?'

Lucy makes no response, but Annabel steps forward, interposing herself between father and daughter. ‘Sir!' she exclaims indignantly. ‘For pity's sake – she is only a little girl!'

‘Miss Krout,' says Woodrow, drawing a deep breath, ‘you have no right to be here.'

‘I cannot stand by and watch this . . . barbarity, sir. There is no other word.'

‘By heavens, Miss Krout,' says Woodrow, raising his arm theatrically, his face as red and flushed as that of his daughter, ‘if you do not stand aside, I shall whip you both.'

Annabel does not flinch, at least to all outward appearance. But she cannot help involuntarily closing her eyes as Woodrow, seeing that she will not move, brings the belt crashing down. It is only at the last moment, the strap swinging inches from her face, that he turns and slams it upon the table, sending the plate of food flying on to the floor with a resounding crash.

Woodrow takes a step backwards, looking at the mess. ‘Very well,' he says at last, ‘Lucinda, you will go hungry until you apologise to your mother.'

The little girl again remains silent. Jasper Woodrow takes a deep breath and, with a fierce glance at his wife's cousin, stalks from the room.

Annabel Krout visibly sags as Woodrow departs. When she has recovered herself, she bends down to Lucy Woodrow, gently taking hold of her hand. The little girl remains stolidly silent.

‘We'll put something on that to make it better,' says Annabel.

Lucy nods, her cheeks still awash with tears.

‘Lucy,' says Annabel, hesitantly, ‘I am so sorry your Poppa did that.'

Again, silence.

‘Before, though, when we were talking, about the man outside? You said you saw him fighting? There's no need to be frightened. He's gone now. Can you tell me, who was he fighting with?'

Lucy Woodrow shakes her head, very firmly indeed.

‘Tell me, just nod if this is true, was it with your Poppa? Did he fight with him?'

Lucy Woodrow neither nods nor shakes her head, but looks glumly at the floor. It strikes Annabel Krout, however, that Lucy does not disagree with the proposition.

And, suddenly, she herself feels quite frightened.

A
NNABEL
K
ROUT SPENDS
several minutes comforting her young cousin and, in truth, regaining her own composure, before she quits the nursery and walks out on to the landing. She finds Jacobs waiting on the stairs, making a rather unconvincing feint at dusting the banister.

‘Can you get Miss Lucy some ice, please, Jacobs?' asks Annabel, looking back towards the nursery door, and wondering how much explanation is appropriate. ‘She needs it for her hand.'

‘Of course, Miss,' replies Jacobs.

‘Where is your master, do you know?'

‘I think in the study, Miss.'

‘And Mrs. Woodrow is still downstairs?'

‘Yes, Miss.'

‘Good. Thank you,' replies Annabel, hurrying past the maid and down the staircase. She does not stop until she reaches the ground floor. Indeed, she is slightly out of breath when she returns to the morning-room, where she finds her cousin still engaged in her desultory attempt at needlework.

‘Annabel, my dear,' says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘are you quite all right?'

‘I'm fine, Melissa,' replies Annabel, carefully closing the door behind her. ‘May I speak to you for a moment?'