A Fatal Likeness (40 page)

“Right you are,” says Billy, clearly relieved to be told what to do—and to be gone.

“Go to Boswell—he’s nearest,” cries Charles as the boy disappears up the stairs, “and there’s another man in Maiden Lane—”

“We must do what we can to stanch the bleeding,” says Claire, coming quickly towards them and taking off her shawl and hat, “and try to revive her. Do you have salts?”

“No,” stammers Charles, “but there is brandy in the cupboard.”

“Then that will have to do. And if there is a hip bath, we will need it. And ice—whatever ice you have—and quickly.”

Nancy runs for the brandy and Charles drags the old tin bath from the scullery to the kitchen, but when he gently lifts Molly into it there is a sudden gush down her legs and she moans softly in his arms. Her skin is pale and clammy to the touch, and the bath now an inch deep in blood and fluid, and something else that Charles does not allow himself to see.

“Pack the ice about her,” says Claire, folding up her sleeves and tying an apron about her waist.

“Are you sure?” begins Nancy, the pewter bowl clutched tight to her breast. “She seems so cold already. She’s tremblin’ so—”

“I have seen it done before—we cannot afford to waver—it may even now be too late.”

Nancy hesitates, then up-ends the bowl and drops the chunks of cloudy grey ice into the bath.

“Is this all you have?” says Claire anxiously, looking first at Charles and then at Nancy.

“Well we don’t go in much for fancy cookin’ ’ere—we never buys much.”

“We must hope it is enough,” says Claire, seizing the brandy flask. “And hope likewise that the doctor is not long delayed.”

She tips the flask against Molly’s lips and long moments later the girl moans again and opens her eyes. But vital as it is to rouse her, it seems now a cruelty to have done so, for she wakes only to terror, and to pain. Claire tries to soothe her, telling her that the doctor is coming, that she has no need to be frightened, but instinct is stronger than words and the girl begins to struggle, pushing Claire’s hands away and uttering tiny wailing noises like an animal ensnared. And when she lifts her eyes to Charles and he sees that her greatest fear is not for her own life but the one she is losing, his own eyes sting with tears and he cannot face her. “Tell me what I can do,” he pleads, grasping Claire by the hand. “There must be something I can do.”

“Are you sure there is no more ice?” she says, looking down where the bath is already running in thin slush.

“Snow,” says Charles, getting to his feet. “I can bring snow.”

For the next hour Charles toils tirelessly up and down the stairs to the street, filling bucket after bucket which they heap about Molly’s shaking terrified body, watching—hoping—that this time the white will creep slower red, this time the dark pulse will slow its flow. But though the girl grows weaker, and her struggles subside, nothing seems to stem the bleeding, and each time Charles takes her wrist in his hand the beat is always feebler, the heart fainter. Then, at last, when they have almost lost hope, the doctor comes—toiling ponderously down the stairs with a frantic Billy at his heels—and Nancy runs to him with tears of exhausted relief. And even as she watches him make his long, long examination, and even though she must be able to see his features falling slowly into a grim resignation, still she clings to Claire as if all is resolved, as if all can now be made right.

But it is not so.

The doctor eventually straightens up and takes a cloth to wipe his hands. Then he comes to Charles where he is standing shivering by the stove, his shirt soaked, his trousers splashed to the knees with mud and snow.

“You, I take it, are the father?”

“Yes,” he says in the end, his voice rasping, “I am the father.” He has been fighting the word—resisting the reality of it—the unendurable remorse.

“I will not prevaricate with you, sir. It is clear enough that this is not your wife, but what you do in your own household, and with your own servants, is not my affair. The young woman has suffered what we in the medical profession call a
graviditas extrauterina.
The
foetus
has commenced its development, not in the womb, but elsewhere, perhaps in the
tuba fallopiana,
and in consequence—”

“I know,” interrupts Charles, his mind rigid like a river under ice. “I know what that means.”

“Indeed? Well in that case you will know, likewise, that once the patient has suffered a haemorrhage of the kind we are witnessing here, there is nothing a practitioner such as myself can do. Had it been a normal miscarriage, what you have done might have saved her. But in this case it will avail her nothing. The bleeding emanates from an internal rupture which I can do nothing to treat. All I can recommend is that you have her cleaned up and put to bed. In my experience,” he says, glancing round and dropping his voice still further, “that will be easier for the women to bear. At the end.”

Charles nods, his throat too raw for words, and watches as the man goes back up the stairs. Then he turns back and makes his way slowly to where the two women are standing. And it is only then, as he kneels by the bath and reaches out to touch Molly’s dazed despairing face, that he realises he has blood on his hands.

THIRTEEN

Ianthe

I
T
IS
F
EBRUARY
. A grey drear day of misted rain and slumped dispirited trees. Spiders’ webs bag like galleon sails on the brown and brittle hedgerows, and the air is dead of song. We are on the old road from the capital to Oxford, watching as the London stagecoach labours through the churning mud towards the escarpment on which we stand. It is one of the last stops on the journey and one of the highest points in the Chiltern hills, so it’s no surprise to see the coachman stop at the foot of the slope and ask whatever able-bodied passengers he has to walk up and spare the horses. One by one they emerge into the dank air from the crowded and ill-smelling carriage. A man in clerical weeds, small metal spectacles perched upon his nose and a limp white stock about his neck; a sturdy lawyer in a frock coat, hampered by a parcel of slippery briefs escaping from their string; and a young woman, travelling, it appears, alone. But as she comes slowly towards us we can see she is not, in fact, unaccompanied; there, under her shawl, an infant is folded to her heart, and every now and again she stops to cast a tender glance down at the child in its fitful slumber, its small fist gripped tight against her dress. And now, finally, one last passenger emerges. It is no infirmity that has slowed his appearance; indeed he seems nimbler than any of them, and weighed down hardly at all. Not by any great physical burden at least, though as he strides towards us, his blue eyes fixed on the ground before his feet, it would appear he has burdens of another kind. It would appear, too, that there is something about the young woman that unsettles him, for when she slips suddenly in the mud he does not quicken his pace to help—easy though that would have been—but leaves the portly lawyer to slither clumsily across to assist her.

It has, indeed, been a trying and a painful journey for Charles. Not just the cold and the damp cramped seats, but the presence, all these hours, of that mother and child, hearing in the rattling silence her whispered words of gentleness, and watching, as if condemned to witness, her looks of love and pity and the baby’s tiny answering mews. He will not allow himself to think—will not permit himself to imagine—that a child might have looked like that in Molly’s arms—that he might have reached for such a child and held it in his hands, gazing down at a face all unlike his own, but which would have been, all the same, his warm and living likeness.

He trudges on now after his fellow passengers, trying to bring himself back to the task before him. For the best part of a month he has done nothing—been nowhere—has sat, in fact, with Maddox day after day, in the same room, in the same chair. And while those passing weeks have seen his great-uncle become slowly more mobile, slowly more voluble, Charles has sunk lower and lower into silence and stillness. And after days in which she berated him for his blind and wilful selfishness, it was Nancy, in the end, who arranged the burial, Nancy who had the doctor paid, and Nancy who packed up Molly’s meagre possessions and removed them; where, Charles does not know. And it was Nancy who contravened rules of half a century’s standing and went through the papers in the office—went through them and found among them Horace Turnbull’s letter. And it was Abel, then, who persuaded Charles, for courtesy if nothing more, that he must do as he had agreed and meet the Curators, and Maddox who later—slowly, falteringly—set out for him how he might go about the task they require of him. And so it is that Charles is on this coach now, taking no pleasure in the journey, and anticipating none at the end of it. Hoping only for some long task, and tedious, that will fill his mind and exhaust his body, for that, more than anything, is what he craves.

He reaches the top of the incline now and stops a moment, gathering his breath. It is a small, self-respecting village with a church, a trodden spread of green, a line of tidy brick cottages, and a low-ceilinged inn; Charles can already hear the sounds of shouting and the clatter of hooves as the ostlers and stable-boys make ready for the change of horses. The other passengers are making their way towards the golden light streaming from the door and the promise of heat and food, but such things matter not to Charles. He turns a little and looks about him. Up ahead, perhaps a mile, beyond the high banks and the hedges, there is a windmill. A windmill standing among sodden fields and enclosed within a low stone wall, where a scatter of scant and stunted ash trees rise against the darkening winter clouds. Charles stands there, wondering why this landscape should seem so familiar since he has never, to his knowledge, travelled this road before. And then it comes to him. That strange piece in Medwin’s life of Shelley that talked of just such a scene—a scene with a windmill and a low evening sky—a scene encountered on a walk out from Oxford—a scene the poet remembered with such an overwhelming thrilling horror that he fled for refuge to the comfort of friends.

It’s weeks since Charles has thought of Shelley—weeks since that name has evoked anything but an unbearable sense of self-disgust. He has not seen Claire, nor heard from her, since that last day, and not placed a hand to the papers that had once so consumed him, since the moment he realised that there was something else that should have had first claim on his attention—something else everyone in the house had seen, but none had dared to speak of. Except Nancy, of course; she had tried to tell him, but he had not listened. He can barely remember now, that shiver of excitement when he thought he had unravelled the mystery of Mary Shelley, barely recall the exhilaration of discovery, of deciphering. But the detective is not quite dead in him yet, as we shall see, for he hesitates now, then turns and walks, his pace gradually quickening, to the door of the inn, where he dips his head against the low beam and disappears inside.

A quarter of an hour goes by, and the coachman is blowing his horn to alert his passengers to the stage’s imminent departure. But when they appear one by one from the door Charles is not among them. The night is fast falling when he emerges, his collar turned against the cold, and heads along the line of cottages to a large house standing alone.

It is an attractive Regency villa, this one, white-faced and symmetrical, with a window either side of a pedimented porch, and another line of identical casements above. If a house can speak of its inhabitants this one conjures both care and carefulness—patches of brickwork have been diligently repaired, and the garden trimmed back for winter, all dead leaves swept neatly away. Charles pulls at the bell-rope and hears an echoing ring somewhere deep inside. He might have expected a maid to answer in such a class of residence, but the woman who eventually comes to the door is clearly the owner, or the owner’s wife. Small, grey-haired, and closed about herself, she gives the impression of an untimely withering, a curtailment all too early.

She starts, on seeing him, but then appears to collect herself. “May I help you?”

Charles has not had much time to consider what he will say to this, and what he’d settled on had sounded thin even to his own ears, but when he looks into the woman’s faded blue eyes he feels suddenly ashamed at the prospect of his cheap lie.

“It’s about your daughter, Mrs Smith.”

Again that almost imperceptible start of surprise—or shock. “All these years,” she says slowly, her voice brittle as if she has not spoken for a long time, “all these years I have wondered if someone would come, and that it should happen now. Today of all days.”

She holds the door open. “You had best come in.”

The sitting room she shows him into is clearly not the grandest such room in the house, but it is warm and it is comfortable. She has not yet turned up the lamps, and the only light is the red-gold glow cast by the fire in the brick hearth. “What was it that brought you here?” she asks, moving to what is clearly her accustomed chair.

Charles takes a seat on the sopha opposite her. “Chance. An accident of coincidence. I was on my way to Oxford and saw the windmill. There is a passage in which it is described.”

She bows her head.

“And when I asked at the Crown, the landlord told me what had happened. But he could not tell me very much. The bare facts, nothing more.”

“He is new to the village. My family have lived here for four generations.”

There is a silence, and Charles senses a hesitation now, a sudden reluctance.

“You said you were travelling to Oxford,” she says after a moment. “Are you a student at the university, Mr—?”

“Maddox. Charles Maddox. And no,” he says firmly. “I am not. And I never have been.”

“
He
was,” she says, pulling her woollen shawl closer about her. “That is the first thing he ever told me. That he was a student at University College. He no doubt thought it might serve to reassure me, but I knew he was a gentleman, despite his strange clothes and his dirty fingernails. It was his voice—that air he had about him that life would always arrange itself for his convenience.”

“How did he come to be here?”

“He was walking. From Oxford down to Marlow. It was a beautiful October day and my daughter was outside in the garden when he passed by on the road and saw her. We lived at the end of the row then, and she would sit for hours on the fence alone, talking to her doll and making up stories to herself. When I went out to call her that afternoon she came running towards me saying she had found a wonderful new friend, who told the most thrilling and delightful tales. I thought it odd, that a man of his age should be interested in a little girl, but he came at once to shake my hand, saying he had been reminded, the moment he saw her, of his sister Elizabeth, whom he loved dearly and missed very much. And of course her own brother was away at that time, and she was often lonely. She had so few friends. Other children can be very cruel.”

She shakes her head and gazes towards the curling flames. “I do not think I ever saw her so happy as she was that day. She had never had a friend only to herself—never had anyone listen to her as he had.”

Charles nods slowly. He is remembering what Claire Clairmont had said of Fanny Imlay. ‘No-one in that house ever took the slightest notice of her, but he did. He could be very gentle, very encouraging. It is easy to see why she might have loved him for it.’ “And he came again, after that?”

“Sometimes with a friend, a stocky, rather taciturn youth I did not take to. But mostly he was alone. As the days drew shorter he and my daughter would sit on the floor by the fire and he would frighten her with ghost stories, and wild tales of witches and spectres and raising the devil and I know not what besides. I worried, a little, at her hearing such things, but my sister said it would do her no harm—that children enjoy being frightened, as long as they are in a safe place and with people who love them. And he did love her. Of that I am sure. Despite all that happened afterwards, I am sure he loved her.”

There is a gust of wind then, and a branch outside the window scratches plaintively against the glass like a suppliant wraith. “It was forty years ago this very day. I have been sitting here these last hours, by the fire, listening to the wind in the trees and remembering, and when the knock came to the door and I saw you standing there I thought, for a wild moment, that time had been retraced. That you came with news of her. That she was still out there, waiting to be found. Waiting to be rescued.”

Her face buckles with pain, and Charles feels an answering clasp to his own heart, remembering what it was like to look up and see a golden-haired child hesitating in a doorway, a child so like his own lost sister that it seemed as if his own impossible prayer has been answered, and he had been given another chance—another chance to redeem the past.

There are tears in her eyes now. “I know I should never have allowed them to go—the weather was poor that day and like to worsen—and I knew she was not strong enough to walk so far, but he said he would carry her pig-a-back—that he had often taken his sisters on such expeditions, bearing them so in his arms when they became too tired to follow him. And she was so excited at the prospect of their little excursion together that at last I agreed. She had so few opportunities of that kind—so few of the pleasures other children take for granted. I remember standing at the window as I watched them go, he with that fine coat of his all torn about the buttons, and she in her favourite dress, with her best blue sash tied in a bow. And I stood there again that evening, waiting and watching as the night and the storm came on, and when I saw him stagger out of the darkness like a dead man, my heart began to beat so violently in my breast that I could scarcely breathe. He was holding her sash clutched against his chest, and he was covered in slime, his hair black with mud, and his eyes starting from his skull like a monster from some terrifying dream.”

Charles can feel his own heart racing as the image conjures itself before his eyes—an image hallucinatingly like that infamous creature formed by unhallowed arts from the offal of the slaughter-house. A monster that murdered the lovely and the helpless, and strangled the innocent as they slept. Now more than ever Charles wonders: Was the imagining of that monster the deliberate resurrection of unbearable memories, or an unconscious externalisation of everything in himself that its creator most feared?

“I rushed outside,” she continues, “but my husband was there before me, seizing him by the throat and demanding to know where she was. I truly think Robert would have choked the life from him had I not intervened, and when he loosed his grip he fell to the ground in the dirt, clutching his neck and gasping for breath, the marks of bruises about his throat. He said they had gone all the way down to the river—that there had been a little boat moored at the bank and she had begged him—pleaded with him—to take her out in it—to row her about a little as he had so often rowed his sisters. And it had started so joyfully—she in the prow smiling like a princess and he singing at the top of his voice and scaring the cattle come down to drink. Only then an oar became suddenly entangled in an overhanging tree and he had to wrestle to free it—the boat began to rock—he told her to be still, but she became frightened and tried to crawl towards him—she stood—the oar wrenched all at once free, and as the boat tipped she slipped over the side. He said she uttered not the smallest cry, that her body made not the slightest movement on the face of the water. It was as if she had never been there at all.”