3-Book Victorian Crime Collection: Death at Dawn, Death of a Dancer, A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock
tell you what city of the world you’d arrived in if some genie dropped you down blindfold. Even now, my heart kept giving little flutters of delight, like a caged bird that wanted to be let out, only the bars of the cage were the memory that this was not how I was meant to come back to London. I should have been walking at my father’s side, laughing and talking about the people we’d soon be meeting again, the operas and new plays we were planning to see. Another reason for sadness was that there seemed to be more beggars in London than when I was last there: not just the usual drunkards or boys holding out hands for halfpennies, but men who looked as if they might have been respectable once, in workmen’s clothes with hungry faces.
My progress was slow because of the heavy bag and I had to keep stopping to change arms. I suppose I should have paid a boy a shilling to carry it – certainly there were enough of them around – but the slowness suited me. It was evening by the time I got to Store Street. Many different families or solitary individuals found living space in the terraces of houses, like sand martins nesting in a river bank. The sound of a guitar and a man singing in a good tenor voice drifted from an open window. From another window on a first floor, a woman’s laughter rang out over a green-painted balcony with pots of geraniums and a parrot in a cage. I couldn’t help smiling to myself. According to one of my aunts, the combination of green balcony, geraniums and parrot were unmistakeable signs of what she called a ‘fie-fie’ – a fallen woman. Well, that woman sounded happy enough and even her parrot looked more cheerful than my aunt’s. Number 16 was blank and drab by comparison. I knocked and the door was opened by a thin, frizzy-haired maid, chewing on her interrupted supper. I gave her my name and said Miss Bodenham was expecting me.
‘Second floor left.’
The bag and I had to bump and stumble up the two flights, so it was hardly surprising that Miss Bodenham heard us coming.
‘Miss Lane? Come in.’
An educated voice, but weary and rasping, as if her throat were sore. She held the door open for me. It was hard to tell her age. No more than thirty-five or so, I’d have guessed from her face and the way she moved, but her dark hair already had wide streaks of grey, and her complexion was yellowish, her forehead creased. She was thin and dressed entirely in grey: dark grey dress with a kind of cotton tunic over it in a lighter grey, much ink-stained, and grey list slippers sticking out under her skirt. The room was almost as colourless, dominated by a large wooden table piled with sheets of paper covered in small, regular script, with stones for paperweights. A small, cold fire grate overflowed with more paper, screwed up into balls. Apart from that, the furniture consisted of two upright chairs without cushions and a shelf of well-used books. The floor was of bare boards and even the rag rug, which is usually the excuse for a little outbreak of colour in even the dreariest homes, was in shades of brown and grey. The place smelled of ink and cheap pie.
‘Please sit down, Miss Lane. Have you eaten?’
I hadn’t. The smell came from half a mutton pie, wrapped in yet another sheet of paper and left down by the grate, as if she hoped that even its fireless state could give a memory of warmth. If so, the hope failed. The pie was as cold as poverty and mostly gristle.
‘There is tea, if you like.’
The tea suited the rest of the room, being cold and grey.
‘I have your letter of application,’ she said. ‘You will need to copy it out in your own hand.’
She went to her bookcase, moved some volumes aside and brought out more written sheets of paper. By then I was so tired from the long day that I could have put my head down on the table and slept, but tea and pie seemed to be Miss Bodenham’s only concession to human weakness. She cleared a space for me among the papers, put written sheets, blank sheets, a pen and an inkwell down in front of me. I looked at the letter I was to copy and recognised the severe and upright hand from the note he’d sent me.
‘Is this by Mr Blackstone?’ I said.
She had already sat down on the other side of the table and started writing something herself. She looked up, annoyed.
‘Who?’
‘The gentleman who sent me to you.’
‘It is not necessary for you to know that.’
‘Why not? Do you know?’
She bent back to her writing. She was copying something too, although the hand was different.
‘Is Mr Blackstone his real name?’
Only the scratching of her pen for an answer.
‘What did he tell you about me?’ I said.
‘That I was to lodge you, assist you in applying for this post, and instruct you in your duties.’
‘As a governess?’
I meant ‘… or spy?’, wondering how much she knew. The expression of mild irritation didn’t change.
‘As a governess, what else? I understand you have no experience of the work.’
‘No.’
‘Then we should not waste time. Copy it carefully, in your best hand.’
The address was given as 16 Store Street, the date the present: 26th June.
Dear Lady Mandeville,
I am writing to make application for the post of governess in your household. I have recently returned to London after being employed for three years with an English family resident in Geneva and am now seeking a position in this country.
The reason for leaving my former position, in which I believe I gave perfect satisfaction, is that the gentlemen who is head of the family has recently been posted to Constantinople and it was considered best that the three children who were my charges should be sent back to school in England. I enclose with this a character reference which my previous employer was kind enough to furnish.
As well as the normal accomplishments of reading, writing, arithmetic, history, geography, use of globes and Biblical knowledge, I am competent to teach music, both keyboard and vocal …
‘Should I mention that I could also teach them guitar and flute?’ I said.
She didn’t look up from her writing.
‘The flute is not considered a ladylike instrument. Keep strictly to what is written there.’
… plain sewing and embroidery. If I were to be fortunate enough to be offered the position, I should be able to commence my duties as soon as required.
Yours respectfully,
Elizabeth Lock
‘Must I use a false name?’ I said.
‘Apparently.’
So even my poor father’s name was denied to me. With so much else gone, I should have liked to keep one scrap of identity.
‘Could I not still be Liberty at least?’
‘Who in the world would employ a governess named Liberty?’
Miss Bodenham stood up, flexing her fingers, and lit candles on the table and mantelpiece. Outside a summer dusk had settled on Store Street. ‘Have you finished? Put it in the envelope with the character reference. You’ll find the address on the back of the letter.’
I thought it was as well to read the reference before I sealed it. It seemed that I had given perfect satisfaction to my previous employer for three years, that my manners were ladylike and my three young charges had become perfect paragons under my instruction. They had parted from me with great regret and could most warmly recommend me to any gentleman’s household. The phrasing had all Blackstone’s stiffness, but it was copied in a flowing and feminine hand. The thoroughness of his preparations scared me and I tried one last attempt.
‘Does Mr Blackstone often perform this kind of service?’