A Fatal Likeness (23 page)

Hans-place was much as I remembered it, as was Mrs Shelley’s room, though it seemed, if anything, smaller and more cramped without her. I asked Miss Westbrook to look over her possessions, lest there should be some clue there only she might perceive, but I did not need her assistance to conclude that her sister had taken but few clothes with her. Her personal effects likewise remained, meagre as they were, and her small writing-case was found to contain a number of letters sent her by Shelley, though none of these were from Bath, and all—as far as I could tell—must have been written nearly two years before, in the first few weeks after he abandoned her. I felt my face grow hot with indignation as I read the unutterably careless and self-regarding words he had penned to her, telling the woman about to bear him a child that, unlike the woman he had deserted her for, she had never filled his heart with an all-sufficing passion, and accusing her one moment of mean and despicable selfishness, and demanding the next that she send him clean stockings. There were no other papers aside from this, and certainly nothing that might explain how Mrs Shelley had come to know of my connection with Godwin. Nor could her sister enlighten me further in this respect. But then a thought occurred to me. I persuaded Miss Westbrook—with some difficulty, I confess—to stay for me in the carriage, and had Fraser summon William Alder from his room on the floor below. It being the Sabbath, I judged we would find him at home, and no doubt still abed, and it was indeed only a few minutes later that I heard the sound of two men ascending the stairs.

Alder revealed himself to be a young man of some self-assurance, with rather fine features for one of his class and an abler tongue than most such. Fraser showed him into the room, and then stood with his back against the door. I think it must have been at that moment that Alder sensed that things were not all they may have seemed.

He looked to me, to Fraser, and then to me once more. “What’s afoot, gentlemen?”

I affected to be absorbed in the letters on the table. “We wished to ask you some questions about Mrs
Smith.
”

“She’s a’right ain’t she?—I was worried—when I didn’t see ’er last night—”

“As well you might be. Mrs
Shelley
has disappeared,” I said, turning slowly to face him, “and there is a very great deal of evidence to suggest that
you,
Alder, may have had a hand in it.”

“
Me?
” he spluttered, “I only tried to ’elp ’er! She needed somewhere to stay for a while and I knew there was a room free ’ere. What she did after that, I ain’t got a clue—honest to God.”

“You have worked at her father’s house, I believe?”

He nodded. “As a plumber. That’s ’ow I earns me bread.”

“And hence Mr Westbrook asked you to assist him in the dragging of the Hyde-park ponds?”

He was red-faced now, and merely nodded once more.

“And you did not think to spare yourself the trouble, and Mr Westbrook both the expense and the undoubted distress of such a proceeding, by informing him that his daughter was all the time resident here?”

“She made me promise, on me ma’s life, not to say nothin’. Weren’t my place to interfere, were it,” he finished sullenly.

“And was it
your place,
Alder,” I said, moving towards him as he retreated uneasily, “to meddle in my business, and carry stories of that business to Mrs Shelley—stories, may I inform you, that have proved to be completely erroneous, and as a result may have contributed directly to this latest disappearance?”

His face was white now. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, guv. Honest.”

“I should be careful how I bandied such a word, Alder. It may return to haunt you in the most unpleasant fashion.”

Alder had by now backed within a foot of Fraser, who took hold suddenly of his arm, twisting it hard behind his back.

“ ’Ere—leave me alone—I ain’t done nothin’—I swear—”

“On your mother’s life?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I should not be so rash, in your position, for I have my own means of finding out people, and Fraser here is not the sort of caller most elderly ladies would wish to find at the door, in the dark, when they are in the house alone.”

“All right, all right,” he rasped, his features contorted in pain, “I’ll tell yer.”

I nodded to Fraser, who loosened his grip, but did not release it.

“I was working at the Chapel-street ’ouse a few weeks back, when I ’eard one of the maids say she ’ad a new fancy-man. Only she weren’t too sure of ’im ’cause ’e seemed more interested in what was goin’ on in the ’ouse than ’e was in ’er. That got me thinkin’ so when I saw ’im later I took it into me ’ead to follow ’im along. And ’e led me straight back to your place. Nice crib that, though yer gutters needs replacin’. That’s ’ow I knew it were you when you came ’ere. Would ’ave recognised that carriage anywhere, never mind round ’ere.”

“I see,” I said, keeping my expression impassive, but impressed, despite myself. “And how did you discover the connection to Mr Godwin?”

He shrugged. “That were just luck. I was just about to ’ook it when I saw another fellow come to the door, so I sidled a bit closer and made as if to tie me boot. Then I ’eard ’im say ’e ’ad an urgent message from Mr Godwin, for Mr Maddox. That’s ’ow I knew your name, and ’is name, and after you left ’ere the other night I went up told ’er and ’eard all the blood drained from ’er face. I knew then as you were bad news.”

His tone was defiant now, as if daring me to contradict him. Fraser caught my eye and I nodded.

I took up my hat. “I will await you in the carriage, Fraser. See that Mr Alder here is left in no doubt as to the very great unwisdom of daring to cross me. But do him no permanent damage. Once he has learned his lesson, I intend to offer him a position. In my employ.”

As indeed I did. Alder proved, in fact, invaluable in the following days, spurred no doubt as much by the prospect of a very much more lucrative occupation, as by feelings of personal culpability in relation to Mrs Shelley. I set him to maintain a watch on Hans-place, and obtain what intelligence he could from the occupants; a task facilitated, no doubt, by the
affaire
he was already conducting with the maidservant, one Mary Jones. He likewise told me everything he knew as to Mrs Shelley’s movements in the previous weeks, but of her present whereabouts and future intentions, he could offer no insight. I was not, at first, deterred by this, having a just estimation both of my own talents and the means at my disposal, but as the days lengthened into weeks I became both dispirited and ever more apprehensive. My men could discover no trace of Harriet Shelley, neither at the most likely lodging-houses, nor at any of the London coach depots. I endeavoured, more than once, and with increasing insistence, to persuade Miss Westbrook to inform her father of what she knew, but I could not prevail. I fear that her failure to reveal her sister’s first place of refuge coloured her judgment in this, and led her to shrink from what I can only concur would be a justified rebuke.

November had passed and December commenced before I received any word of Mrs Shelley. I was at dinner in Downing-street, whence I had been invited to offer my advice as to the apprehension of the miscreants responsible for the late disturbances in Spa-fields, when the waiter slipped me a message in Fraser’s hand:
Alder has seen her—Chapel-street.
I made my excuses immediately and hurried down to the waiting carriage. The night was dark and the fog so heavy we could not move at any pace through the crowded streets, and I half despaired of arriving in time, but the carriage eventually drew to a halt a few yards from the Westbrook residence, and Alder stepped forward to open the door.

“Saw ’er by chance, guv. I were in two minds whether to try to talk to ’er but thought it best to send for you instead.”

I glanced at him; there was still the ghost of a bruise along his jaw and I could well understand that he wished to run no risk of further intimacy with George Fraser.

“She’s been ’ere ’alf an hour and more. Just walkin’ up and down. Cryin’ I think she is, and talkin’ to ’erself. Once or twice I saw ’er approach the door but then seem to think better of it.”

“And you have not informed Miss Westbrook, or anyone else in the house?”

He shook his head. “No guv, I judged as I’d leave that to you.”

I nodded, and turned to look down the street. A little distance ahead of me, I could see a figure walking away from me slowly in the mist; even at that distance I knew from her gait that it was a woman, and one much advanced in pregnancy. I could, as I intimated to Alder, have gone quietly to the door and summoned Miss Westbrook, but I did not see a way of doing so without alerting the whole household, and I judged likewise that had Mrs Shelley wished to see her sister she had had ample time already to do so. By that judgment I stand; but I cannot acquit myself for not perceiving the degree of alarm my own appearance would engender. I knew Harriet feared Godwin, but I did not comprehend the full extent of that fear, or the terror she might conceive at the merest glimpse of a man she believed to be hounding her at his behest. I should have deduced this, but I did not; I should have sent Alder in my place, knowing that she had deemed him her friend, but to my everlasting regret, I did not.

Ordering Alder instead to remain by the carriage, I started down the pavement towards her. The fog thickened suddenly and I hastened my step, but the heavy air so absorbed all sound that I was almost upon her before she heard my approach. She turned then and I saw her face—a face at once stricken with panic.

“
You—you—
” she stammered, clutching her shawl tighter about her.

“Do not distress yourself, Mrs Shelley,” I said. “I wish only to assist you.”

“You said that before,” she whispered, taking a pace backwards, “and then I discovered you are working for him—for
them—
”

“I work for no-one, I give you my word.”

“I do not believe you—why else would you—”

“Because I have had dealings with your husband in the past, and I know the cruelty—the wanton, careless cruelty—of which he is capable.”

“No, no—you misjudge him—it is
her—
if it were not for her he might return to me—we might be happy again—”

I stepped forward then and gripped her hand. “Do not think it—do not
wish
it. The last time I saw your husband it was in the same house where a young woman had destroyed herself—destroyed herself out of love of
him—
a love he allowed—even encouraged—but had no more thought of returning than he does of returning to
you—
”

I spoke it out of a desire to free her—I spoke it because my greatest fear was that he might indeed seek to return to her, and I wished her to have the strength to refuse him. I knew my intentions to be honourable, but I did not allow sufficiently for the effect such words must have had upon a woman—upon a spirit so distraught, a heart so sorely wounded. I had accused him—and justly—of cruelty, but I stand accused in my own mind of no less a crime.

“
No, no,
” she cried again, wrenching her fingers from my grasp. “It is all a lie, all a wicked, wicked lie—”

And she turned from me and ran, stumbling, blinded by the tears that were streaming from her eyes. I hesitated a moment—a cursed moment—then set off after her, calling her name, but we were hard by the entrance to the park, and by the time I reached it she had disappeared into the darkness. I remained there for some moments more, then spent more precious minutes retracing my steps to the carriage, where I ordered Alder, somewhat breathlessly, to muster as many men as we had and conduct a search of both the park and the streets around.

They found nothing—then. I was still awake at three the following morning when Fraser returned to say there was no sight or trace of Harriet Shelley. My relief at these words was profound, but all too short-lived. This was Saturday; it was Tuesday morning that I received the note from Alder that destroyed all my hopes. He begged my presence without delay at the sign of the Fox and Bull in Knights-bridge. They had brought a woman’s remains to the inn, he said, through the old gate leading into the park whence all those found drowned were always conveyed. He said no more, but I knew; knew he would not have summoned me so unless he was certain beyond all possibility of doubt.

And so it was for the second time in as many months I stood before the body of a young woman ruined by love of that man, confronting the piteous waste of a death that could have been prevented—a death, in this case, that I seemed only to have hastened. I blamed Shelley—blamed him bitterly—but I knew I merited my own share of censure.

The water had been cruel. Her body was bloated, the rank cloth clinging to the swollen form of her dead child, and her sweet face mottled with the taint of rottenness. These are not, I know, the words of a practitioner of my art, but my feelings were not the feelings of a professional man. Indeed, had one of my subordinates displayed such a weakness in the face of death I should have cashiered him at once and without reprieve. And knowing that, I strove to regain my self-command and assess the corpse not as a man who had known her, but with the dispassionate and appraising eye of the detective, scrutinising the cadaver for signs of violence, and seeking to determine how long it had been immersed. But grim indeed was that examination. I could see no obvious wound—no marks I might have feared about her neck—and I was forced to conclude, with infinite sorrow, that she had indeed ended her own existence. A jewelled ring remained on her finger, and there was a small purse in her pocket, which contained, I discovered, a single sheet of paper, badly spoilt, and barely legible. The ring I left; the paper I removed, and without the slightest compunction.

I have it now, and copy it here. It is a dark tale this paper tells, a tale of death, and grief, and guilt; some part of it I believe I comprehend, but it holds secrets that even now remain obscure to me, and shrouded in mystery.