Death of a Dancer. Caro Peacock
Police Constable John Morrow, of Bow Street, testified that he had called at the lodging house in Seven Dials where Jarvis resided that morning (Tuesday) but found no trace of her. Efforts to find her were continuing as the police were anxious to question her. After further evidence, the coroner instructed the jurymen on the possible verdicts they might bring in. If they decided that Margaret Priddy had been unlawfully killed they might bring in a verdict of murder. It was open to them to name the person they believed guilty of the deed but, in the absence of firm evidence and in light of the fact that police inquiries were proceeding, he would suggest that a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was more appropriate. After some deliberation, the jurymen gave their verdict accordingly.
‘Is that today’s paper?’ Mrs Martley said.
‘Yes.’
‘Mind the ink doesn’t come off on my ironing. And I wish you’d take that basket of yours upstairs. It’s in my way.’
Her eyes went to the floor in the corner. Jenny’s basket. I’d put it there on the night of the fight and hadn’t given it a thought since. I snatched it up and took it upstairs to my half of the bedroom, slipped the wooden peg from its loop and opened the lid. It was mostly filled with small glass jars and bottles and packages of folded brown paper. On top of them was a little pile of letters, tied with a green ribbon. I hesitated before undoing the ribbon, then told myself that the more I knew about Jenny, the better. The first one was a jolt to my heart, not because of the words but because it was in a hand I knew almost as well as my own.
Dear Miss Jarvis, I think we may snatch a little time for voice practice tomorrow, if you would care to come in half an hour before rehearsal.
No more than that, in Daniel’s handwriting, but she’d kept it. The next treasure was a piece of music manuscript, but the staves had been drawn much wider than usual and the notes were large, as if for teaching a child. Looking closer, I saw that they were in fact tiny feet in black pumps, dancing out their own tune across the paper. I followed them, humming, and it came out as a scrap of a Hungarian Gypsy tune that I knew was dear to Daniel’s heart from childhood. The next letter was thicker and began Dear Jenny … A glance confirmed that it had been meant for only one pair of eyes, and those wide and grey. I tied up the bundle in the green ribbon, trying to ignore an ache in my heart. I’d known he loved her. Why should it hurt to see it written?
I turned my attention to the other contents of the basket. The jars were stoppered with cork and carefully labelled in neat school-girlish writing: ointment of comfrey, ointment of cucumber, marigold lotion. Four narrow bottles that would have held about half a pint when full, now more than half empty, were labelled in the same writing: tincture of mallow, tincture of witch hazel, tincture of feverfew, syrup of woundwort. Most of her stock was in dried form, either leaves or chips of root, wrapped in brown paper packets with the contents noted on the outside: wormwood, fleabane, valerian root, sage, centuary, melissa, elecampane, pennyroyal, Solomon’s seal, selfheal, woundwort. A paper package at the bottom of the basket rustled when I poked it with my finger. It was less tidy than the rest, as if it had been opened and reclosed hurriedly. The writing on the creased paper said thornapple. Inside was a flat meshed thing about the size of a teaspoon bowl, like the skeleton of a leaf, and as delicate as fine lace except for sharp thorns at the tips. Coarse black seeds spilled out from it over my bed coverlet.
While I was looking at them I heard steps coming up the stairs and the boards creaking under Mrs Martley’s feet as she entered her half of the bedroom. The curtain was drawn across and there was no reason why she should come into my side, but guilt and fear made me start sweeping the seeds back into their paper.
‘If you’ve got those damp stockings off, I’ll take them down and put them in front of the fire for you,’ she said.
The curtain quivered and she was on my side of it. No time to hide the basket or its contents spread out on my bed.
Always eager for something new, she pounced on it.
‘I didn’t know you had this. Where did it come from?’
Uninvited, she sat down on the end of my bed.
‘Marigold – nothing better for clearing up ulcers. What’s in the bottle? Tincture of feverfew. That’s good for insect bites. I remember when my cousin’s little boy got stung …’ She was practically caressing the jars and bottles, her voice turned to a purr like somebody meeting a long-lost friend. ‘Valerian root’s good for calming the nerves. I used to make a tea from it for my ladies when they were in labour. Pennyroyal’s for clearing the blood. I’d get them to take it with a little honey as soon as they could sit up, and I never lost one of them to an infection of the blood, not one.’
Since Mrs Martley was a midwife by profession, it should have occurred to me that she’d have a good working knowledge of herbs. I watched as she opened the packets, tipped crushed leaves or shredded roots into her palm and sniffed, closing her eyes with pleasure.
‘You should have told me you were taking an interest in herbs. There’s so much I could tell you, and it’s a thing every woman should know about. Where do these come from?’
‘A friend.’
‘She knows what she’s about. They’re all last summer’s gathering and nicely kept.’
‘They’re all herbs for curing people, then?’
‘Of course, what else would they be for?’
I picked up the crumpled paper with a few black seeds inside it.
‘What’s this good for?’
She looked at the name on it and tipped the seeds into her palm without any special concern.
‘Thornapple’s good for a lot of things. It helps stop coughs if you burn the leaves and inhale them. It’s good for burns and inflammations too, if you grind up the leaves and seeds and mix them with hog’s lard. I always kept some thornapple ointment by me.’
‘A useful thing to have around then?’
‘Oh yes, but you have to be careful with it, mind. More careful than with most of the others here.’
‘Why?’
She folded the seeds back in the paper and put it in the basket.
‘Because if you take too much of it, leaves or seeds, it’s a deadly poison. It’s much the same as belladonna.’
She stood up heavily.
‘Now, do you want me to dry those stockings or don’t you?’
Once Mrs Martley had fussed her way out, I put the jars and packages back in the basket, much as I’d found them. After that, I sat on the bed for a long time, thinking. The conclusion was that Daniel had to know. I found a dry pair of stockings, put my damp cloak back on and told Mrs Martley I’d return later. I kept Jenny’s basket under my cloak as I walked along Piccadilly. When a police officer on his beat happened to glance at me, my heart pounded as if he could see through wool and wickerwork to the black seeds inside.
At the corner by Bond Street half a dozen people were looking at a poster tied to a railing. I was walking past when my ear caught the name ‘Columbine’. The poster looked fresh from the printers, paper not yet ruckled up by damp, printing as black as tar. I read over the shoulder of a street urchin who was trying to puzzle out the words.
It went on to describe Jenny as about twenty, of medium height and striking red hair. A solicitor’s name and address were given at the bottom of the poster for anybody with information to offer.
Between there and Bloomsbury Square I saw a dozen similar posters, each with a little group of readers. One of them was on a railing just two houses away from Daniel’s lodgings, so he couldn’t have missed seeing it. I knocked on his front door and waited for what seemed like