The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris (12 page)

After a few minutes the brilliance of the setting sun reflecting on the sea distracted him and irritated his sensitive eyes, so he went to take his brandy and water in the gloom of the back parlor. His heart was heavy. The more he considered the complexity of the affair he was engaged upon, the more depressed and disgusted he became with the vileness of mankind.

Mr. Bonney, the poorhouse keeper, was away, but his wife, who liked to be called the matron, greeted Harris in his stead. “A real Christian,” she said as she pocketed the five shillings Harris gave her. “No matter what ‘is domination may be, I call 'im a real Christian and I'll say so to ‘is face. And you're a little one, Master H. God bless you—on be'alf of our five 'ungry mouths.”

Harris, after vainly peering over Mrs. Bonney's high shoulder for a sight of Adelaide, bowed and withdrew. On the dark, narrow stairs, he passed the wet nurse who, smelling of gin, was on her way to do her duty by the foundlings. She looked at Harris sharply, shrugged her sturdy shoulders and continued on her way, leaving Harris to meditate on the
irony of the same milk feeding both Adelaide and the alien baby in her place.

Upstairs, Mrs. Bonney waited for the wet nurse to settle herself down before going across to the Old Ship. Five shillings was a largish sum to hand over to her husband without subtraction. Two and sixpence would be more than enough, and very nice too for the poor little mites. Which left a further two shillings and sixpence for brandy which was altogether healthier and more genteel than gin.

“Evening, Mrs. Bonney,” said the landlord affably. “And how's them sinful brats of your'n?”

“It ill be'oves a publican to talk of sin,” said Mrs. Bonney with dignity. “A large brandy, if you please, and a half of gin to cool it down.”

The landlord smiled. He was too sensible a man to take offense at anything save a bad debt. He dispensed Mrs. Bonney's brandy and gin and took her money.

“From the charity bag, ma'am?” he murmured with a good-natured wink. “Ah well, them poor mites wouldn't have much use for strong waters, eh?”

“A decent Christian,” said Mrs. Bonney, tasting her brandy, “don't mock the unfortunates of this world.” Then she settled down and was much surprised and gratified to find herself admired by a gentle-looking stranger who suffered from the inconvenience of a clubfoot.

“You look after the poorhouse, ma'am?”

Mrs. Bonney nodded. “In a manner of speaking. I'm the matron.”

“Godly work,” said Mr. Raven.

“A vessel of charity,” said Mrs. Bonney, cooling her brandy with a mouthful of gin.

“Charity,” said Mr. Raven wistfully. “How little there is in the world.”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Mrs. Bonney thoughtfully. “It comes and goes.”

“Now that lad I saw calling on you just now—Master Harris, wasn't it?” said Mr. Raven earnestly. “Do you often receive charity from the young?”

Mrs. Bonney looked at him sharply. “That were from 'is pa, sir,” she said carefully. “And it were private. For Mr. Bonney. Nothing to do with charity.” She had no intention of letting the stranger imagine she spent charity money on herself. She had a position to keep up. Being matron, she felt she ought to be above suspicion.

“A private—er—donation, then?” murmured the inquiry agent, almost to himself.

“Call it what you like,” said Mrs. Bonney, becoming suddenly aloof. “It were something between Mister Bonney and Doctor H. of which I am totally ignorant as God is my witness.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Mr. Raven, and gave such a smile that Mrs. Bonney was chilled to the bone and wondered who or what she had inadvertently
betrayed. “Pray to God it ain't you, Mister Bonney,” she whispered. She did not know that in her aloofness she had betrayed not her husband but herself. A space had just been found for her . . .

ONCE AGAIN MR.
Brett had failed to tell Tizzy Alexander that he loved her madly and could not see his way clear to living without her. He had arrived back at the school from his successful visit to Dr. Harris still full of confidence in his powers, to discover that Tizzy had been waiting in the empty classroom for all of fifteen minutes. His mood being high and feeling his personality to be equal to anything, he'd put on an air of negligent gallantry and made a joke of his lateness. Unluckily Tizzy, who was somewhat on edge on account of the coming duel and her own responsibility for it, had not thought it funny to have been kept waiting and so was distinctly cool. Whereupon Mr. Brett made a further error of judgment by attempting
to explain, a shade too carefully, what had kept him.

“It is of no importance,” she'd said, not listening. “I understand quite well that many matters must come before me. You don't have to find excuses, sir. It's perfectly all right with me if you choose to meet someone else in the town. These things happen, you know. Only I abhor excuses, so please don't trouble yourself. After all, when all's said and done, I know I'm only the arithmetic master's daughter!”

With that she'd opened her book, fixed her shining eyes upon it—and Mr. Brett's soaring spirits had dipped. The words of love he'd so dearly prepared were once again wrapped up and put away in his heart's bottom drawer for some more propitious occasion. He fixed his mind on ancient history and tried to sail off into that golden time, but something warned him that Tizzy was in a different boat, so to speak, and from time to time, pupil and master glanced at each other with sad, puzzled eyes.

After the lesson he'd left the classroom in a mood of angry gloom, and collided with Major Alexander, at whom he stared with absentminded savagery.

“To me son,” mumbled the Major, awkwardly. He was holding a letter and was sure Mr. Brett had seen it and read the address. It was the very letter in which the arrangements for Mr. Brett's dismissal were mentioned and the Major's son invited to hasten to fill his place. Consequently the Major was particularly anxious not to invite interest by appearing too furtive about it. “Setting me affairs in order,
y'know,” he explained, staring uneasily at Mr. Brett's clenched fists. “Saturday. If I should fall, and all that . . . Sentimental nonsense, of course, but one never knows. Last farewells, eh?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . Saturday,” muttered Mr. Brett, and hurried on his way.

For several moments the Major remained, staring after him. He had never seen Brett look so angry and he could not help wondering if somehow he'd got an inkling of the private discussion with Dr. Bunnion.

He shook his head. He didn't see how that was possible. If Brett had really suspected anything the Major felt sure that he'd have been rude enough to mention it. The trouble was, the Major was too sensitive a man. People didn't realize how easily their chance expressions affected him, and he had so large a conscience that there was always something on it.

For the sake of his peace of mind he decided to postpone the sending of the letter until the following morning. He kept it under his pillow for the night. Next morning, after breakfast, he handed it, firmly sealed, to his wife for prompt dispatch.

Mrs. Alexander, large, fair and sad, read her husband's letter with a sigh that stretched from first word to last. Then she replaced the seal with a spot of melted tallow—an accomplishment she had come by in her years with the Major—and called for Tizzy to take the letter down to the town for the post.

When her daughter had gone, Mrs. Alexander
frowned and her eyes glimmered with tears. So, she thought bitterly, it's all arranged. Herr Brett is to go, and Adam is to come. What an exchange! And so soon! On Saturday, even. She blinked, then straightened her ample shoulders and went into Tizzy's room where, with rapid hands, she set about rummaging the shifts and petticoats to see what needed mending.

Tizzy, brightly pretty in her yellow spotted muslin and flower embroidered cap, went down into the town like a butterfly. There was always a coachman or two in the yard of the Old Ship who'd carry a letter to Southwark to oblige a girl looking like Tizzy.

It was now nearly a month since Adam Alexander had been waiting at Southwark after leaving the monastery at Basingstoke at the abbot's request. “Burn me!” had shouted the Major's son, passionate for martyrdom, for the young man was something of a firebrand, having inherited his father's temperament. “Why don't you burn me at the stake, then?” To which the abbot had wearily replied, “I'd be glad to, young man, but I rather fancy you're too wet to make a worthwhile blaze.” So Adam had shaken his fist at the abbot and the dust of the cloisters from his sandaled feet and made his way to Southwark where he languished till his father should find him another situation.

Tizzy handed the letter to an ancient coachman and rewarded him with a shilling and a smile in place of the kiss he'd asked. Then, with the smile still about her—for to be asked for a kiss is a
marvelous curver of the lips—she left the yard in time to meet with Ralph Bunnion, who was on his way into the Old Ship's back parlor.

Aroused by Tizzy's beauty and tortured by the memory of what it had brought him to, Ralph halted. “It's all your fault!” he snarled. “When blood flows on Saturday, it'll be on your conscience forever! I hope you're satisfied.” Then he said, “Murderess!” and stalked into the inn in a blaze of peach velvet and a flash of love-in-idleness.

Tizzy stared after him, her eyes stinging with tears at the injustice of it all. For a moment she wished with all her heart that Ralph Bunnion would indeed be slain on Saturday, but she repented instantly as that would have made her father a murderer. So did she wish her father killed instead? Again she recoiled from the thought. She began to walk away with downcast eyes, and the ancient coachman who'd asked her for a kiss, gazed after her and fancied she was limping, as if she'd stumbled and been bruised against one of the world's sharp corners.

“Charming young woman,” murmured a stranger with a clubfoot.

“A lass and a half,” agreed the coachman. “Sweet as a lane in May.”

The inquiry agent smiled. Quite reasonably he had taken Tizzy to be Maggie Hemp, as there seemed no purpose in introducing a newcomer to the scheme at this late stage. The threat of blood on Saturday and the terrible taunt of “murderess” had further confirmed him. Cautiously he twisted his neck to
read the name on the letter the coachman still held. “Adam Alexander.” Mr. Raven's brain reeled. Was there no end to the complexity of the affair? Were its hideous tentacles reaching out to yet another victim?

Every impulse bade him follow the young woman in the yellow dress, but his foot ached from the constant dragging from place to place. He groaned with frustration and heaved himself up to his little room where he spread out his paper, and in a few minutes, was calmed by studying it.

Blood on Saturday. At least he had until then. Everything indicated that Brett would hold his hand until that fatal day. “But on Saturday,” he whispered to his boot, “we will forestall him and strike with a thunderbolt!”

Tizzy Alexander, after thinking miserably about casting herself from the top of Black Rock and so ending her young life on a romantic full stop, had decided to give the world just one more chance and had arrived back at the school before lunch. As she passed slowly before the front parlor window, she heard Mr. Brett talking about the infant Perseus being abandoned to the sea in a fragile ark. Strange how often babies seemed to be abandoned in the ancient world as well as the modern. Dreamily, for Mr. Brett's voice always made her deliciously dreamy, she caught herself remembering the little baby she'd found on the Downs on that hateful afternoon when everything had begun. Between her other troubles, she'd thought of it often since it had been whisked
away in Ralph Bunnion's lumpish arms. She'd wondered what had become of it and whether it was now being as loved as she'd have loved it if she'd been given the chance. Now she wondered how it would have been—with the baby of course—how it would have been if she'd gone walking with Mr. Brett instead of Ralph Bunnion. She remembered the last lesson, and sighed. He'd have talked of ancient history all the way there and all the way back.

She peered through the window at the twelve large, clumsy boys who sprawled and huddled in their places like heaps of old clothes. It won't be long before they're lovers and husbands she thought with amazement. Even those two awful ones in the front . . . what were their names, now? Bostock and Harris. Her gaze shifted. And there's that poor, fat child, Sorley. But he looks so pale, and thinner. I must mention it to Ma. Perhaps he needs some physic?

She stopped. One by one the boys had turned and were staring at her. They were grinning. Alarmed, she looked to the front of the class. Mr. Brett was also staring at her. His eyes were enormous and his face was pale as death. He half raised a hand toward her—when she went as red as a poppy and fled into the school.

“Vy must you frighten the vits out of me, child?” said Mrs. Alexander angrily as Tizzy burst in upon her. “A leddy shoot knock.” Then she shoveled away a large piece of white material into her
workbox and shut the lid on it as if it were alive. Tizzy frowned.

As it always had been, Bostock and Harris walked home together. The coolness between them had gone. Theirs was a friendship that was strengthened by disaster. It was now as firm as a rock. Harris had confided in Bostock the misfortune that had overtaken the anonymous letter and had been generous enough not to blame his friend for it. Bostock had listened, staring at Harris in mute and terrified sympathy. He had never known Harris to fail in anything so many times. Bostock felt that it was fate, but he didn't like to say so as he knew Harris didn't believe in fate. Nonetheless, there seemed no other explanation and Bostock, in his heart of hearts, was sure that Harris and he were opposed by a power that was beyond them. Genius though Harris undoubtedly was, there were still things in heaven and earth that even a genius might not overcome. He stole a mournful glance at Harris and wondered how he might tell him that it looked like Adelaide was gone for good.