The Taxidermist's Daughter (24 page)

He [Bécoeur] opened his bird in the usual manner, that is to say by the middle of the belly, he easily took out the body by this opening, without cutting off the extremities, he then removed the flesh by the aid of a scalpel, taking the precaution to preserve all the ligaments; he anointed the skin, and put the skeleton in its place, carefully dispersing the feathers on each side. He ran the head through with an iron wire, in which he had formed a little ring at nearly the third of its length; the smallest side passed into the rump, in such a manner that the ring of the iron wire united to pass into the little ring; he bent these extremities within, and fixed them with a string to the iron in the middle of the vertebral column. He replaced the flesh by flax or chopped cotton, sewed up the bird, placed it on a foot or support of wood, and gave it a suitable attitude, of which he was always sure, for a bird thus mounted could only bend in its natural position.

T
AXIDERMY: OR, THE ART OF COLLECTING, PREPARING,

AND MOUNTING OBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Mrs R. Lee

Longman & Co, Paternoster Row, London, 1820

He was my greatest challenge.

Such a large man, cumbersome, I knew that the only way was for him to come to me of his own volition. That was not difficult. A message too clear to misunderstand, an invitation that he would find impossible to resist.

I killed him alone. Others helped with the purchasing of candles and drapes. The tincture was easy to make, using Birdie’s recipe. She knew every plant, every extract, had laid out everything I might need. I waited for her to come back. I know, now, she is dead. Though I do not know which of them is responsible, I know they murdered her. Vera was simple and kind-hearted, she helped care for me once. Then, I cared for her.

Her death is on my conscience.

*

I am listening for the sound of men’s boots on the path, men’s fists at the door. I do not think I will survive much longer. I feel them circling, like the gulls overhead, closing in on me.

I wanted Brook to know what was happening to him. A man so violent, so cruel. To watch the knife slicing him open, and be unable to stop me. Fair retribution. I wanted him to see the way his fat and flesh fell from the blade. But he was too strong, too hard to restrain, so I knew I could not take the risk.

Belladonna in his drink. A pleasing touch, don’t you think?

I removed his heart first, red and still beating, still pumping. Watching it slow, and slow, stutter and die. Next his lungs and his stomach, the endless grey rope of intestines, the texture of uncooked dough. Peeling back his skin, layer after layer, my hands paddling in his chest.

When the knife was no longer equal to the task, I used the saw stolen from the butcher’s shop. Kneading and scraping out and pressing down, until I’d made a cavity large enough for my purposes. When it does not matter what damage is done, little skill is required.

The rain started to fall harder as I positioned the hooks. Striking off the roof and the paved path leading to the door. Even now, I hear the suck and roar of the sea, pulling at the shingle with the turn of each wave. Higher and higher, until it sounds as if it is lapping against the walls.

I heard the first warning rumbles of thunder out at sea and knew the storm was beginning as I pushed the first of the wires into place. Jabbing under his skin, hardening against my caresses. Forcing the wire into his shoulders and his wrists, into the gaping flesh of his stomach and his neck. Two separate twists of wire on either side.

The candles burnt low, and still I worked.

Next, the wood wool and the feathers, filling out the cavities as if stuffing a mattress with straw. A different sort of life, like one of Madame Tussaud’s waxworks, but better. All around me on the floor, stained strips of bloodied cotton, the coppery smell, both sharp and sweet at the back of my throat.

Finally, I took up the trussing needle, and with fingers sore from the hours of working, I began to sew. Pushing the needle through the cooling flesh and drawing it out again, picking up tattered threads of skin. I always did have a delicate hand for embroidery.

Finally, the moon slipped back to earth and I was done. Exhausted, barely able to stand or to think, but satisfied with my work.

Now morning is here, though the sky remains dark. Great black banks of cloud are rolling up the estuary, bringing with them harder and heavier rain. On an instant, a fork of lightning illuminates the outline of the Old Salt Mill in the centre of the channel, and the houses around the edge of Fishbourne Creek.

I think of both of you. Are you sleeping?

The tide is continuing to rise. I can see the swell crashing against the defences and wonder if the sluice gates will hold for a little while longer. I want to rest, but my thoughts will not let me go.

Soon, now. Soon it will be over.

One more to be brought to account. Then, at last, I shall be at peace.

Chapter 40

Blackthorn House

Fishbourne Marshes

Connie looked out on the drowning world. The purple sky, the black sea, the trees and spartina grasses, the wych elm and the weeping willows: everything seemed to have merged into one. The waves were hitting the sluice gates and throwing angry white foam high up into the air. Even with the windows shut, she could hear the frantic rattling of the wheel in the Old Salt Mill, turning, rumbling, faster and faster.

‘When’s the next high tide?’ she asked, looking out over the marshes. Rain was streaming down the window panes, obscuring the view.

Davey came to stand beside her. ‘Five o’clock, give or take. It’s going out now, though there’s barely any difference between low and high water.’ He paused. ‘Do you think the gates will hold, miss?’

‘The miller will do what’s necessary,’ she said, with more confidence than she felt. The boy knew as well as she did that the combination of the full moon, the high spring tides and heavy rain was dangerous. ‘He’ll open the gates. Send the water back out to the sea.’

‘They couldn’t keep back the floods in January,’ Davey said. ‘Water even got as far as the bottom of Salthill Road. Mary said Ma Christie had to rush the little ones upstairs to keep them safe when the water came fossicking in under the door. None of them can swim, not even Jennie. Had to wait for a boat to come and rescue them from the first-floor window.’

‘We’re better prepared this time,’ Connie said only half-believing her own words. ‘We know what to expect. Fishbourne has stood firm against the sea for hundreds, maybe thousands of years. The land is designed to cope with such extremes.’

At the head of the creek, she could see the tide washing against the brick wall of the garden of Salt Mill House. The sea was taking back the land. Already the fields closest to the shore were half submerged. And it would only get worse.

‘Shall I stay here with you, to keep an eye, until Mary comes back?’ Davey asked.

‘Thank you,’ Connie said, realising that the boy was frightened. Something he’d said had lodged itself in her mind, but she couldn’t work out what it was.

‘Blackthorn House survived the storms of March and April,’ she continued. ‘This is no different. We just have to pray the rain doesn’t get heavier.’

‘It’ll be worse later with the next high tide, come what may.’

She feared he was right. Another front was threatening out at sea. And even if the rain stopped now, which it showed no signs of doing, the next few hours were critical.

She glanced over at the day bed, where her father lay sleeping. Their long conversation in the middle of the night had worn him out.

Connie had remained awake, waiting for the dawn. Thinking and wondering and trying to remember.

When Gifford woke again, they would talk more. However painful it might be for her father, the truth had to be acknowledged. There was no other way to bring the story to an end. And to understand what was happening now. Connie didn’t know what she feared, only that she knew in her bones there was something more to come.

She looked, again, at her father. Gifford might sleep for many hours more, long enough to give Connie the chance to get to Chichester and back. Despite the threat of flooding, she was determined to keep to the arrangement she and Harry had made to meet at ten o’clock. She had so much more to tell him now, though she dreaded the hurt it might cause. He clearly loved his father, as she loved Gifford.

She kept telling herself that when she arrived at the house in North Street, she would discover Dr Woolston was there. That it had all been a misunderstanding. In truth, she knew this was wishful thinking.

She looked at the clock, working out how long she might be gone. The only possible moment to attempt the journey was now, in the brief break in the clouds. The rain had eased a little and the wind, though strong, had softened. There would be a few hours’ respite before the tide turned and the next storm blew in with the rising waters.

Davey could hold the fort until Mary returned. She had sent the girl home at six o’clock. Mrs Christie would have been worried sick when her daughter hadn’t come home last night. Connie wouldn’t be in Chichester for more than an hour or two. Besides, the thought of Harry looking out of the window on North Street, waiting for her and losing heart when he realised she wasn’t coming, was too much to bear.

‘I’m going to have to go to Chichester for a while,’ she said. ‘Can I leave you in charge?’

Davey’s eyes widened with alarm. ‘But the footpath’s all but underwater already, Miss Gifford. Even if you get through, what about if you can’t get home to us?’

‘While I’m gone, can you stack sandbags against the doors,’ she said, touched by the boy referring to Blackthorn House as home. ‘Mary will be back soon, and she should check the pails in the attic straight away. Start with the ice house first, it’s the most vulnerable, then the side door and the back door.’ She looked at him, wondering if he knew the word. ‘That’s to say, the most likely to let the water in.’

‘I know what “vulnerable” means,’ he said proudly. ‘Ma Christie told me.’

Suddenly Connie realised what had snagged her attention. In the January floods, Davey had said, Mrs Christie had had to get the twins upstairs because none of them could swim – ‘not even Jennie’.

Jennie.

Last night, Gifford had said that Jennie could be trusted. Then, later, that ‘not even Jennie knew’. Connie had registered the name and stored it in her memory.

‘What are Mary’s little sisters called?’ She asked quickly.

‘Maisie and Polly. Twins, though they don’t look the same.’

‘Not Jennie?’

Davey looked at his boots. ‘I didn’t mean any disrespect by saying that.’

Connie put her hand under Davey’s chin and tilted his face up.

‘Disrespect to whom?’

‘Mrs Christie,’ he said, still looking awkward. ‘Given she’s a grown-up, and everything. Calling her by her Christian name.’

A memory of a round, comfortable-looking face looking down on her, nursing her through her illness. Not Cassie, an older woman.

Jennie Christie?

No, that wasn’t right. A different surname. Not Christie.

Connie thought back to their meeting at the post office. Mrs Christie’s odd question, and how she had seemed familiar, though they’d never met before.

*

North Street

Chichester

Harry stood back and looked at the canvas.

His hands were shaking from the repeated cups of coffee laced with whisky he’d had to keep him going through the night. His clothes, and the room, were impregnated with cigarette smoke, one lit from the tip of the one before. The only way to withstand the bleak, night-time fears for his father was to drink and smoke and to paint.

Not think.

He hadn’t shaved and he was still in his clothes from last night, but he had finished. She – the portrait – was beautiful. A perfect picture of Connie. He tilted his head to one side. Her hair was the right mixture of autumn browns. Had he caught her direct, clever stare? He thought so. The texture of her skin? The only fault, if he was pressed to find one, was the bird. The jackdaw’s feathers were a little too black, its eyes too dull. It didn’t matter. Connie was perfect.

He put down the brush, wiped his hands and walked to the window.

What if she didn’t come?

He placed his hands on the frame and, for a moment, rested his forehead against the cold, steam-slicked glass. Rainwater was streaming down North Street, lapping at the steps of the Wheatsheaf Hotel. From time to time, a carriage went past, its wheels sending a spray up on to the pavements, like sparks from an anvil.

Harry’s thoughts spiralled, tying his stomach in knots. Each worry drove out the one before. Trying not to despair, hoping his father would return of his own accord led him back to Connie’s father, then from Gifford back to Connie herself. The whole cycle beginning all over again.

How could she possibly get through? How could he be so selfish as to want her to attempt it? He couldn’t expect her to venture out in weather like this, it would be madness.

‘Do you think it would be wise to eat something, sir?’

Startled, Harry turned to see Lewis standing in the doorway. The old servant looked grey, as if he also hadn’t slept.

‘Any news, Lewis?’

‘No, sir.’ He paused. ‘Mrs Lewis could prepare some eggs.’

‘My stomach’s not up to it.’

‘Perhaps some dry toast and tea?’

Harry shook his head. ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘A quarter to seven, sir.’

Harry let his head rest back against the window. So early, too early. Nearly three hours before Connie came. If she came at all.

‘I will ask Mrs Lewis to lay breakfast in the dining room,’ Lewis said.

Harry was about to argue, then realised that Lewis also needed something to do to keep his worries at bay. Routine, keeping up appearances, what else could he do while they waited for news?

‘Thank you, Lewis,’ he said. ‘Quarter to seven, did you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Harry lit another cigarette and smoked it to the very end, wedged between the second and third fingers of his right hand, then went through to the dining room.

The letter addressed to his father lay untouched on the salver on the hall table.

Harry stopped. In normal circumstances, he wouldn’t dream of opening the old man’s private correspondence. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

He tore open the envelope. Dated yesterday morning, it was a terse, clear request that his father should immediately be in touch. His eyes jumped to the signature at the bottom of the page. He read the name, and turned cold.

This couldn’t be right?

He checked the time scrawled in a rushed hand at the top of the letter. Twelve o’clock on Thursday the second of May. Before Harry had returned to Fishbourne, before his conversation in the Bull’s Head, before Sergeant Pennicott had paid his visit to Blackthorn House.

How could this letter have been written before that?

Harry gasped as the reality hit him. They had been seeing everything from the wrong point of view. He’d been taken in; they all had. He grabbed his hat and mackintosh.

‘Lewis,’ he shouted.

He and Connie had wanted to avoid talking to Pennicott yesterday until they were sure of what they knew. Now, there was no time to lose. The policeman was honest, Harry had evidence of that. With Pennicott, right was right and wrong was wrong. He would pursue the truth, regardless of how unpalatable that truth might turn out to be.

He pushed from his mind the question of why his father came to be receiving such a summons in the first instance.

‘Lewis!’

The butler came running into the hall. ‘Is there news, sir?’

‘Soon, I hope,’ Harry said urgently. ‘A Miss Gifford is due to arrive at ten. I should be back long before then. But if not, ask her to please wait. She
must
wait.’

Whyke Road

Chichester

Ten minutes later, the rain streaming off his hat and coat, Harry was standing beneath the blue light of the modest police house off St Pancras.

‘Pennicott?’ he yelled, out of breath from running across town. He banged on the door again, not caring who he disturbed.

The policeman answered the door in his shirt sleeves. ‘Mr Woolston?’

‘Sergeant, we weren’t completely frank with you yesterday.’

Pennicott wiped the last of the shaving soap from his chin, then flicked the flannel over his shoulder.

‘Who might “we” be, sir?’

‘Miss Gifford and I. We . . .’

Harry stopped, not sure where to begin. Connie was protective of her father, mindful of his poor reputation. He felt Pennicott’s cool, appraising eyes on him, but he could see there was sympathy, too.

‘I was at Blackthorn House yesterday afternoon when you called. Miss Gifford told me of your conversation, and I think . . .’ He stopped again. If he confided in Pennicott now, there would be no going back. He looked at the policeman’s honest face. ‘There are things we need to tell you.’

Pennicott peered out into the rain-drenched street. ‘Is Miss Gifford with you?’

‘Not yet. She and I arranged to meet at ten. It’s just . . .’ He thrust the letter at Pennicott. ‘When I saw from whom this had come, I had to come at once. Don’t you see? He can’t have known. When he wrote this letter to my father, he can’t have known. Not unless he was responsible.’

Pennicott scanned the letter, saw the signature at the foot of the page, then stood back.

‘You had better come in, Mr Woolston.’