The Welfare of the Dead (6 page)

‘You mean it was not the same decanter as left the stain?'

‘Precisely. I'll warrant it was from the second room. Miss Finch's room. Now, why should that be?'

‘The man moved it, from one room to another?'

Webb nods. ‘To conceal the fact the original had
been taken. A clumsy attempt, mind you. But it shows our Miss Carter was his intended victim. It shows us that whatever took place in room fourteen is the key; anything else is incidental. And, I suspect, that our man was not a complete madman.'

‘Did you mention this to Inspector Hanson?' asks the sergeant.

Webb looks out of the window, as the cab speeds along Fleet Street.

‘It is only a theory, Sergeant. And it is not our case.'

‘And it is the City force, sir,' says the sergeant knowingly.

‘It is not a matter for Scotland Yard, that is all,' replies Webb in a curt tone.

The sergeant assents, albeit raising his eyebrows.

‘Although I suspect it will be,' mutters Webb, under his breath.

‘G
OOD MORNING
, M
ISS
. I've got the fire going.'

Annabel Krout opens her eyes, uncertain as to her location, or the owner of the peculiar voice addressing her. It takes a few seconds for her to recall that she is in London, England, in her cousin's house, and that the voice in question belongs to the maid-servant to whom she spoke the day before. She sits up awkwardly in bed.

‘I'm sorry, Miss,' says the maid-servant. ‘You did say to wake you for breakfast? Shall I open the curtains?'

Annabel nods and smiles weakly. ‘Yes, I did. Thank you.'

‘It's a beautiful morning, Miss.'

‘The fog has cleared then?'

‘Clear as a bell,' says the maid. ‘I've left you a basin of hot here, Miss.'

‘Thank you, Jacobs,' says Annabel, looking at the steaming bowl of water upon the wash-stand. ‘What time is it?'

‘Almost eight o'clock. Is there anything else, Miss?'

‘No, I do not think so. Thank you.'

‘Very good, Miss.'

Jacobs walks briskly on to the landing, closing the door behind her. Annabel waits until the maid has left,
then gets up and walks to the window. She looks almost unsteady; perhaps she needlessly anticipates the pitch and yaw to which two weeks upon a steam-ship have accustomed her. Peering through the glass, she is struck by the odd dendritic patterns of minute black crystals left upon the surface, a legacy of the fog. Beyond that, outside, there is a frost on the ground in the gardens below, and she can now see the canal across the way. The slumped figures of several labourers are engaged in heavy labour, with ropes and crates, atop a long barge.

She shivers and looks for her dressing-gown, and a suitable dress.

‘Annabel, my dear, did you sleep well? Do take a seat. How was the bed?'

‘Fine, thank you, cousin.'

Melissa Woodrow smiles, and gently taps her husband's hand, who sits at the breakfast table, his head invisible behind a copy of the day's
Times
. He lowers the paper and looks up; his eyes are slightly bloodshot.

‘Ah, Miss Krout,' he says, repeating the question, ‘slept well?'

Annabel nods. ‘I did indeed, sir. A great improvement upon my berth on the
Alathea
.'

‘I am glad,' he replies tersely, without much enthusiasm. He returns his gaze to the newspaper, as if reluctant to meet her glance.

‘I have never sailed myself,' says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I understand one needs a strong constitution, Annabel? Is that the case? Were many people bad on the trip?'

‘Bad? Well, I suppose I made a few pleasant acquaintances . . .'

Mrs. Woodrow laughs, and smiles politely. ‘No, no,
my dear – you misconstrue me. I mean in ill-health.
Mal de mer.
'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry,' replies her cousin. ‘Yes, a good number. We would not put it that way, in Boston.'

‘Well, really, you must accustom yourself to our way of speaking, dear,' continues Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Mustn't she, Woodrow? “When in Rome . . .” isn't that what they say?'

Mr. Woodrow nods, rather stiffly.

‘Ah,' continues Mrs. Woodrow as Jacobs appears, bearing a tray of bacon and eggs, ‘now I trust you like a good meal to begin the day? A girl your age should eat well; but I can ask Mrs. Figgis to make up something else, if it's not to your liking.'

‘No, really, that's fine, cousin. Eggs are a favourite of mine.'

Mrs. Woodrow smiles, but an awkward silence ensues, as both women begin eating, and Mr. Woodrow continues his determined perusal of the newspaper. A plate of cold-cuts follows, together with bread and anchovy paste. Mr. Woodrow makes a series of desultory forays into the meat with his fork, hardly eating anything. At length, he pushes his plate to one side, takes a swig of tea, and stands up.

‘You must excuse me, Miss Krout, but I have business to attend to. I'll have to leave shortly.'

‘Of course,' replies Annabel.

‘Now, do not allow my wife to exhaust you on your first day – she has a mania for “sights”.'

‘I have nothing of the sort,' protests Mrs. Woodrow.

‘I expect we will have an opportunity to talk this evening,' continues Woodrow, even as he passes his house-guest and leaves the room.

Annabel turns to bid him goodbye but finds herself addressing the empty doorway. She turns back to face her cousin, whose features betray a certain displeasure
with her husband's abrupt manner. Nonetheless, Mrs. Woodrow immediately forces them into a more benign arrangement.

‘Do ignore Woodrow; he is awfully busy. He means nothing by it, my dear. Now, what shall we do today? We must see something, I think – when one is fortunate enough to enjoy the advantages of travel, one must see something.'

‘Whatever you suggest, cousin, though I should most like to see the Crystal Palace, and St. Paul's, and the Abbey . . .'

‘Yes, yes, naturally, my dear. I am just thinking what might be for the best today, to begin with. Perhaps, first, I should introduce you to Lucinda – I had thought we might take her on a little outing.'

‘Yes, I have been looking forward to meeting her,' says Annabel, brightly. ‘Your letters have painted such a lovely picture. And that photograph you sent Momma and Poppa was so pretty.'

Melissa Woodrow smiles, a glow of maternal pride suffusing her cheeks.

The Woodrows' nursery is located on the third floor of the house, above Annabel's room, overlooking the street. The room itself is a light and airy space, which commands a good view of the terrace's rooftops, and the canal opposite. The walls are plain and whitewashed, the floor carpeted with a mat of dark felt. The only substantial items of furniture are a bed, a small table and chairs, a dresser and a wicker toy-hamper, the lid of which is rather poorly secured, so that the bow of a brightly painted wooden ark projects from the top.

The room's solitary inhabitant is a little girl, about six years old. She sits on a small stool in the corner, in
front of a miniature wooden desk, engaged in the contemplation of a book. Dark-haired, like her parents, she bears a rather earnest expression. As Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin enter, she looks up at the two adults expectantly. Mrs. Woodrow meets her daughter's gaze with a smile, but bustles over to the hamper, straightening the toys.

‘I do wish, Lucinda, you might keep things in better order,' she says, fastening it shut.

‘Sorry, Mama,' says the little girl. She puts the book to one side, a railway alphabet, open at ‘T is for Tunnel'. Her mother bends down and strokes her face.

‘This, Lucy, is your cousin Annabel, from America. Do you remember I said that she was coming to visit us?'

Lucy nods.

‘What do you say to Annabel?'

‘Pleased to meet you,' says the little girl, after a pause for thought.

Annabel Krout smiles. ‘Likewise,' she replies, crouching down to Lucy's level. ‘You are every bit as pretty as your picture. I hope you and I will become the best of friends.'

Before the girl can reply, however, a voice interrupts from the landing, behind the two visitors.

‘Good morning, Lucinda.'

It is the voice of Mr. Woodrow, dressed for the outdoors, in his large black great-coat, holding a walking stick and hat.

‘Good morning, Papa,' replies Lucy, sitting up straight.

‘I see you have met my daughter, Miss Krout,' says Woodrow. ‘What do you make of her? I am inclined to think that she needs bringing out of herself. My wife is against the idea of a governess, although I do not see why.'

‘I find her charming, sir,' replies Annabel.

‘Yes, well. It is hard to judge on first meeting, I suppose.' He seems to pause for a moment, as if on the verge of saying something more about her. Instead, however, he merely continues with, ‘Have you made plans, Melissa?'

‘Nothing as yet, my dear,' replies Mrs. Woodrow.

‘Really? Well, I have told Jervis to have the carriage ready for ten sharp – I thought that would suit. But I am late already.'

‘I will speak to Jervis, my dear,' replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Don't let us detain you.'

Mr. Woodrow nods farewell once again, and departs. The sound of his boots echo on the stairs. Mrs. Woodrow waits until he is out of ear-shot before she speaks.

‘He so wants the best for her,' she says at last, patting her daughter on the head, ‘but, to tell the truth, I am so loath to give her routine over to a perfect stranger. She is a sensitive child. Do you think me foolish?'

‘Not at all. I am sure it is very natural in a mother,' replies Annabel.

Melissa Woodrow smiles, and gently touches her cousin's arm. ‘I am glad you agree, my dear. But, I should say, best not to discuss the matter in front of Woodrow. He detests arguments. Now, young lady,' she says, addressing the little girl, ‘we are planning an excursion. Where should you like to go today?'

‘Today, Mama?'

‘Yes, today.'

The girl looks pensive, twisting a lock of her dark curly hair about her finger.

‘The Zoo!'

Melissa Woodrow smiles. ‘It is always the Zoological Gardens! But I can recommend them,
Annabel – we can take the brougham and have a pleasant stroll round the park?'

‘I should be delighted.'

‘Excellent. Do you have a day-dress, my dear?'

‘Well, the one I am wearing,' says Annabel, unconsciously looking down at her clothing, a mauve dress of a rather plain design.

‘Oh, I do not think that will do, my dear. We do not follow the American fashions here, you know. I will see if I can find you something from my wardrobe; and I just bought a delightful new cloud from Whiteley's – that might be just the thing. It is still so cold. I am sure Jacobs will have an idea – she is quite the last word on such matters, although you would not know to look at her!'

‘Really, cousin, there is no need to—'