Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth Martin Ross
ALTHOUGH I knew Mrs Scott would consider it both impolite and ignorant to pay a social call before noon, nevertheless Bessie and I arrived before the gate of Wisteria Lodge a little after ten, in pale sunshine.
Three years earlier, when I had arrived in London from Derbyshire, my Aunt Parry, to whom I was to be companion, had handed me a guidebook. She said she had found it helpful when she had arrived in London from the provinces many years before.
The guide must already have been out of date even then, because it was entitled
The Picture of London for 1818
. I had nevertheless consulted it the night before, since I knew nothing of Clapham. I found it listed among places of interest in the environs of London. Clapham, the guide informed me, was ‘a village in Surrey, three miles and a quarter S. from London, consisting chiefly of handsome houses.’ Well, London’s tentacles had spread out far further since the guide was written. The coming of the railway had placed Clapham within the orbit of those whose business was in the centre of the capital, but who had made enough money to move away from the city’s smoke, fog and smells and take up residence somewhere more comfortable and discriminating. There were many more houses here than fifty years before, nearly all of them solid, middle-class dwellings. But still much of the countryside remained about the area together with a feeling that we were out of town. This was due in large part to the spacious area of grass and woodland popularly called ‘the Common’ that we had observed on our way to the house. It had been busy, even this early in the day, with people strolling or riding, or with nursemaids who had brought their young charges to run about in the open.
‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’ Bessie had observed, and she repeated this comment as we gazed at Mrs Scott’s residence.
Wisteria Lodge was a substantial red-brick villa, not more than twenty years old. There really was some wisteria, climbing across the façade, although at this time of year it showed only bare brown branches, here and there festooned with yellowed leaves. The thickness of them suggested it had been planted when the house was new, and in spring they would make a fine show with their trailing purple sprays of flowers. Certainly it had always been called Wisteria Lodge, or named that before the gateposts were built, because the name was chiselled into them.
‘She might not be ready to receive, missus,’ Bessie warned me. ‘Mrs Parry never received visits before twelve. Mrs Scott might not be dressed and most likely she won’t have breakfasted.’
I nearly replied that my Aunt Parry was never dressed for the day before noon, having risen from her bed, where she had breakfasted, about eleven. To see her downstairs before half past twelve was rare, although she always appeared in good time for the substantial meal she called a light luncheon at one. But I couldn’t say that to Bessie. I was confident Mrs Scott would have considered such a timetable idleness; and we would find her at least dressed, if not expecting visitors.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I hope she’ll realise, from the early hour, that only something very important could have brought me.’
‘She might send down word by a maid that we should leave a note,’ continued Bessie. Now that we actually stood before the house, her enthusiasm for the visit the evening before had changed to a marked reluctance to beard the ogre in its den.
‘Come on!’ I ordered and we marched briskly through the gates, up the short drive and the three steps to a square porch and rang the bell.
After a few minutes a dour, respectable female in bombazine, who could only be a housekeeper, opened the door and surveyed us with some surprise.
I had come prepared. ‘Please take my card in to your mistress,’ I said, handing over the little white oblong. ‘Tell her, if you will, that I apologise for the early hour, but I have brought some news I thought she would wish to hear without delay.’
Curiosity alone, I hoped, would make the lady agree to see me. The housekeeper read the card carefully and invited us to wait in the hall.
While we were alone, both Bessie and I took the opportunity to look round us. There was certainly plenty of Mrs Scott’s favourite kind of painting, according to what Angelis had told Ben. Most representations were of Middle Eastern scenes, but some might have been Indian. I wondered if it was one of these that Angelis had been seen delivering by Mr Pritchard; one bought to replace a more valuable picture, sold surreptitiously. Other oriental items indicated the travels of the late Major and Mrs Scott. A bronze many-armed figure stood on the hall table, next to a box for the reception of outgoing letters in some dark wood inlaid with ivory.
The hall itself, indeed the whole house, was very quiet. Only a long-case clock ticked softly in the corner. I felt uneasy, not only because being here uninvited and so early was a social solecism, as Bessie had aptly pointed out, but because this was unknown territory in so many more ways than one. I had only met the lady twice. Both meetings had been brief and neither had been cordial. Apart from what Bessie had told me of her past history, that her late husband had been a soldier, I knew almost nothing of her. Ben had learned from Angelis that she had survived the dreadful siege of Lucknow. So I could deduce one thing: Mrs Scott was battle-hardened. My only poor weapon was surprise. I was sure she would soon dismiss that.
The housekeeper returned. ‘If you would care to come through to the morning parlour, ma’am? If your maid waits here, I’ll take her down to the kitchen afterwards.’
Bessie, lurking in the shelter of a recess containing a potted palm, perked up at being taken for a lady’s maid and emerged. I followed the housekeeper.
The back, or morning, parlour at Wisteria Lodge was a pleasant sunny room, even on this bleak early winter day. A fire had been lit to take the chill off the air, but within the last half-hour; it still crackled and spat as the kindling took hold and the smell of smoke was noticeable. On an opened writing slope lay a half-written letter. A pen protruded from an inkwell. I saw no sign of the morning’s newspapers.
Mrs Scott, in a plain, silver-grey skirt and bodice, came to meet me. She wore a little lace widow’s cap over her hair and detachable muslin cuffs over her wrists to protect her sleeves while she was busy with her morning tasks. She greeted me with a schooled politeness.
‘Mrs Ross? How very nice to see you. How have you come from town?’
‘By train,’ I told her. ‘And I must apologise for what will appear an extraordinary intrusion. I see I have disturbed you at your letter-writing. I hope I won’t keep you from it for long.’
‘Not at all . . .’ murmured Mrs Scott, gesturing towards a chair. ‘Would you care for some tea after your journey?’
I declined the tea but sat down. My hostess sat down opposite and folded her hands in her lap, half covered by the muslin cuffs. I saw she wore her wedding band but no other jewellery. She was waiting for me to explain myself. Her face told me nothing.
‘I have come to convey some sad news,’ I said. ‘I learned it last night from my husband. I was afraid it might be in this morning’s newspapers, or if not, in tonight’s evening ones. In any event, I thought I should come and tell you of it in person. I did not want you to read about it. I’m afraid I have to tell you of the death of Miss Isabella Marchwood.’
Within the muslin cuffs I saw her hands whiten as they were clasped more tightly. After only the merest pause, however, she replied. ‘I am obliged to you for your thoughtfulness. As for your news, I am more than sorry to hear it. Are you able to tell me how and where this happened? You say you learned it from your husband. Am I to understand, then, that the circumstances were – unusual? It is certainly unexpected. When I saw her on Sunday night she was in poor spirits, but otherwise of good health.’
‘Miss Marchwood,’ I said carefully, ‘was on her way to London from Egham yesterday morning by train. On arrival at Waterloo, a ticket inspector, glancing into the first-class carriage at the head of the train, saw a woman he thought was asleep. He went to waken her and found she was dead. She had been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Mrs Scott’s face at last betrayed some emotion. ‘How can this be? Who would want to murder Isabella Marchwood? She was a pleasant person but of no importance.’
I really did not like this woman and struggled not to show it. ‘The police are investigating,’ I said.
‘I think we will have some tea, after all,’ said Mrs Scott. She got up and went to ring a bell. Returning to her chair, she continued. ‘Do you know how she died?’
‘She was strangled.’
There was a silence. ‘As was her late employer, Mrs Benedict?’ Mrs Scott asked.
‘In exactly the same way.’
The housekeeper appeared and received her order to bring the tea tray.
‘There is always an element of danger in a lady travelling alone, especially by the railway. It’s why I go to the expense of keeping my carriage.’ Mrs Scott had used the interruption to regain her composure and her tone was brisk. ‘I take it she was robbed?’
‘No,’ I told her with a shake of my head, ‘her bag was found under the seat. There was a little money in it, my husband told me, and she still had her gold-rimmed glasses.’
‘She would have had little to interest a thief, anyway,’ Mrs Scott observed. ‘But I suppose, having entered the carriage with the intent to steal, he did not know it until after he had killed her.’
‘I am not a party to what the police think,’ I said apologetically. It was true. I knew no more than I had told her.
The tea tray arrived and was set down on a table whose top was made of beaten brass, intricately engraved. Mrs Scott poured me a cup and handed it to me, ironically in a repetition of the gesture she had made at the Temperance Hall after the meeting.
‘The police do not know exactly why she was coming to London,’ I began carefully, feeling I was walking ‘on eggs’, as the saying went. ‘But I did chance to overhear you invite her to visit you here in Clapham.’
Mrs Scott raised her eyebrows.
‘After the last meeting at the Temperance Hall,’ I reminded her. ‘I was outside on the pavement. She spoke to you through the carriage window, and I heard her.’
‘You are sharp-eared, Mrs Ross, as well as observant,’ Mrs Scott said coldly. She raised an eyebrow. ‘I did not see you on the pavement.’
I had been hiding, along with Bessie, under the arch. But I was not going to explain that.
‘It was getting dark,’ I said vaguely. ‘I wondered if you had been expecting her and she might have been on her way to you yesterday.’
‘No, she was not,’ said Mrs Scott. ‘She would not have called here without sending me a note first.’
She gave me a very direct look as she said this. Even the despised Miss Marchwood had known better than to burst in unannounced as I had.
‘Will you tell Mr Fawcett?’ I asked. ‘And her other friends at the Temperance Hall?’
She stirred her tea without so much as a quiver of the teaspoon. ‘I cannot be driving around informing everyone. Besides, as you say, it will doubtless be in the newspapers. The public has a fascination with the sordid.’ She set down the teaspoon. ‘But I will certainly write a note to Mr Fawcett at once, and tell Harris to saddle one of the carriage horses and ride over to his lodgings with it. He will be very sorry. Isabella Marchwood was a staunch supporter of our cause.’
‘So I observed,’ I said blandly. ‘Apart from attending the meetings, what else did she do to help?’
I didn’t deceive her and had not expected to. She looked at me with that expression I’d seen on her face when we had first met. She was perfectly aware that my being here was more than a courtesy.
‘She always brought biscuits,’ she said. ‘That was very helpful.’
‘It must have been. Mr Fawcett will find it difficult to conduct next Sunday’s meeting with this sad knowledge on his mind.’
‘Not at all!’ she said sharply. ‘His work is more important than any inconvenience such as the loss of Isabella Marchwood!’
She must have seen shock in my face at her brutal turn of phrase, because she added quickly, ‘Distressed though he will be on a personal level, you understand, his work must always come first.You can have no idea, Mrs Ross, how dreadful the scourge of drink is among the poor. Even if a man has but a few pence in his pocket, he will spend it on beer or spirits and let his family starve. I wish I could say the women did not do the same, but many do. When Mr Fawcett had just begun his ministry among the London poor, I had the good fortune to hear of it. I heard him speak and was immediately convinced of the value of his work and the difficulty of the task. He wished me to see the problem for myself. I accompanied him to a place where cheap drink was sold. He assured me that I need have no fear for my safety; because he was already so well known and respected in the district, no one would offend us or offer us violence while I was in his company. I told him I had no fears as I had been in many dangerous places in the world at times of great unrest and knew how to stand my ground before a hostile mob.
‘The place Mr Fawcett showed me was a gin palace. I have seen some terrible sights in my life, Mrs Ross. I was in India with my husband during the Mutiny. But when I entered that place of alcoholism and despair, and saw the depravity stamped on the loutish faces of those there, I thought I had entered hell!’
