When the peal of the doorbell sounded through the house they were all in that state of torpor which a full belly and warm feet, a comfortable chair and the knowledge that all the chores are done, brings about. Meg was almost asleep and both Tom and Emm were at the unashamedly snoring stage!
‘Who the hell’s that?’ Tom mumbled thickly as he staggered from his chair. His expression was comical and he turned to stare first at Meg, then Emm as though they might know. It was almost nine o’clock and the snow outside was inches deep. It had drifted in places to the depth of a foot or more and earlier when Tom had looked out on the area steps they no longer had shape but had formed into a smooth incline.
Meg rose from her chair with Emm as close behind her as she could get as Tom left the kitchen. She peeped from the window at the side of the door. All she could see was white and more white and just before the front entrance to the house the bottom half of the wheels of a hansom cab.
A hansom cab!
The only people to ride in a hansom cab were the doctor or Mr Lloyd and it was unlikely that either would call at this time of night and in the middle of a blizzard!
She had never before seen the man who entered the kitchen ahead of the anxious Tom but with that instinctive reasoning which floods the mind in the space of the tick of a clock she was immediately aware that she did not trust him. He brought something with him that night into the homely kitchen and though she did not understand what it was, she was to look back later and recall that sixth sense which is given to all the animal species and it told her that this man was bad and that he would bring badness with him. She did not formulate the thought coherently
for
there were many images and feelings crowding her senses but inside the confused workings of her mind was the stealthy, unbidden reflection that their lives would change from this moment.
The man bowed in a derisory manner towards her as if to say he knew she was not a lady but
he
was a gentleman. He did not bow for her sake, it seemed to say, but for his own. He had removed his top hat and held it in his hand. Snow had gathered in its brim on his short journey from the cab to the door and he shook it a time or two to remove the few remaining flakes. They looked at one another and for some strange reason Meg felt her heart beat in her breast, its tempo quickening and she knew it was dread which moved it but what was there to dread? What did this man mean to her that he should set up such a violent reaction of strange foreboding?
Her eyes stared into his. His were insolent and cold and as she watched warily they fell with exaggerated interest to her breast as though he was well aware that he was rude but what did it matter? What did she matter?
They both waited for Tom to speak.
‘Megan, this is Mr Harris. He’s come from … er … I’m sorry sir. I didn’t quite catch …’
The stranger continued to stare at Meg’s breast as he said contemptuously – to the underling one supposed – ‘I am from Hemingway’s. The shipping line which owns this house.’
‘Of course.’ Tom was calm but his bewilderment showed in his slight awkwardness. He moved instinctively closer to Meg. It was evident she was not the only one to distrust this stranger!
‘I have come on a painful mission,’ Mr Harris continued silkily. ‘If I may be seated …?’
Emm had slipped quietly into the shadows, like a small animal which scents danger from a bigger, and as Harris turned to look for a chair he saw the outline of her crouched figure against the glow of the lamp.
‘Who the devil is that?’ he said sharply, clearly alarmed.
‘It’s only Emm, sir.’ Tom’s voice was defensive. ‘She’ll not harm you. She’s timid with those she doesn’t know.’
The man was clearly displeased that Tom had taken his alarm for fear and he spoke spitefully.
‘I can assure you she’ll do
me
no harm, boy, but need she lurk in the corner like that. Come out woman where you can be seen. Stupid creature!’
Emm crept out from her hiding place and sidled behind Meg and the man watched her with his lip curled distastefully then moved towards the chair before the fire. Meg and Tom, with Emm clinging to Meg’s apron, moved hastily out of his way, almost tripping over the rug which lay at their feet. Mr Harris smiled and began to remove his topcoat holding it in one hand as he waited for one of them to take it. Tom sprang forward, crushing the long Chesterfield into an awkward bundle and earning a frown from Mr Harris.
‘Please, it is wet. Would you be so kind as to hang it up at once.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ Tom hung the coat over the back of a chair and with the clumsiness which he had not shown since he was fifteen, stumbled over to a chair by the table and was about to sit down when another frown from their visitor jerked him upwards. It said clearly that the ‘underling’ did not sit in the presence of his superior. Meg continued to hover to the side of the fireplace, hampered by Emm’s desperate clutching, waiting numbly for Mr Harris to go on. It must be something to do with Martin, it must. Why else was this man here? He was from Hemingway’s, the ones who employed Martin and presumably had been sent with some message … bad news … Oh Lord … not an accident … Oh Lord … please …!
Mr Harris’ eyes narrowed, running over her insolently and Meg felt a shudder touch her shoulder blades, then rise to the nape of her neck.
‘And you are …?’
‘Megan Hughes, sir.’ Her mouth was stiff and the words sounded stilted.
‘And where is Mrs Whitley? Is she not here this evening?’
The feeling of mistrust and dread grew in Meg’s heart and she felt the pulse in her throat quicken and flutter. It must be Martin! Why else would Mr Harris ask for Mrs Whitley? He must have had an accident. The racing car … a tyre blow-out. Martin had explained to her what could happen if this happened at great speed … Oh God … please … not Martin. But who was this man and what else could he want with them? To turn out on such a night must point to something of an urgent nature but what could it be? She wished he would hurry up and get it over with, whatever it was he had come for! She didn’t like him and she didn’t like the sensation of disquiet he aroused in her and
which
shivered her flesh. There was bad news coming and this man was bringing it and more to the point he relished the telling of it for he was prolonging it for as long as he could.
But he had asked for Mrs Whitley and was waiting for an answer.
‘Mrs Whitley is in bed, Mr Harris.’ Her voice was polite, no more.
‘Already!’
The word implied astonishment as though the cook should have been at some task in the service of the company, but he smiled, just like a cat which is about to paw the mouse.
‘She’s not well,’ Meg answered challengingly as if to dare Mr Harris to question it but Mr Harris only continued to smile pleasantly.
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he replied. No-one spoke for a minute as Mr Harris regarded the two young people. Emm might not have existed. He tapped his lips with his clasped fingers and again appraised Meg’s young breast as though considering when might be the most convenient time to savour its delights but this time Tom noticed where his cruel gaze lingered and his young mouth tightened ominously.
‘Still,’ Mr Harris continued, ‘I must speak to her. Will you be good enough to ask her to get dressed and come down here immediately.’ He looked from Meg to Tom and there was malice in his expression.
Meg gasped and for a moment was speechless. The idea of waking the sick old woman who lay in her bed, exhausted by the bouts of coughing which shook her was too ridiculous to be even considered but clearly this man was waiting for an answer.
She stepped forward, dragging Emm with her, lifting her chin in a gesture Tom instantly recognised and inwardly he groaned. He knew she was going to ‘go’ for Mr Harris and her straightforward manner would not please this man, of that he was certain. He himself felt like smashing his fist into the smiling mouth but that was not the way to treat an official of the company, particularly if he was Tom’s superior! He was a sod, Tom could see that but Meg would only make things worse if she spoke up. She might be able to treat others with the sharp side of her tongue but not this chap. Every man in his place would be his rule and they were servants and himself above them. He was the kind who liked a toady, someone who was servile and fawning and though Tom
had
no intention of being either it was best to keep your distance from a man such as this for he obviously had a great opinion of his own importance.
Before Meg could speak Tom insinuated himself between her and Mr Harris. They both looked at him in surprise.
‘The doctor gave orders that Mrs Whitley was not to be disturbed, Mr Harris sir. He left her a draught not more than an hour since and she’s asleep. It’s her chest you see. She can hardly breathe. Perhaps you could come back in the …’
Tom’s voice was steady and he appeared completely unruffled, his tall frame almost indolent as he leaned between Meg and Mr Harris, but the man interrupted coldly.
‘Thank you Fraser but that will not be possible. I would like to see Mrs Whitley now for myself! For all I know the woman might not be sick at all but lying in a drunken stupor …’
His unfeeling rudeness and the contemptuous implication that they were all liars was unforgivable. ‘You can see my point, I hope?’ His manner said it would be all the same if they did not. ‘I must be sure that … er … Mrs Whitley is
really
ill before I impart my news for she is the one to whom I must address it. I cannot tell just any Tom, Dick or Harry who happen to be about.’
Meg flared to life like a Roman Candle, the touch-paper of which has just been lit. Her face flamed in the firelight, scarlet with anger and her eyes flashed tawny sparks which boded ill for Mr Harris or indeed anyone who called Cook a drunkard and Tom and herself a liar. Mrs Whitley was not a young woman and all day she had been wracked with the most terrible, tearing fits of coughing. Her chest rattled in her effort to take a decent breath without plunging a knife in it, clogged with the rottenness which came every winter. The damp air off the river seemed to penetrate the very bones of her and as she got older only the milder, dryer days of spring and summer brought relief. No-one was going to blacken Mrs Whitley in Meg’s hearing, not while she’d got breath in her body and a tongue in her head. Mr Lloyd would hear of this. He knew Cook’s worth and would make short shrift of this devil, whoever he was. Her fears for Martin were overlooked in her fury.
‘You can tell me and Tom, Mr Harris, for you’re going nowhere near Mrs Whitley,’ she announced imperiously. ‘I said she was poorly and so she is and that will have to be good enough. We can pass on any message you want to give her.’
‘Is that so, Megan?’ It was said smilingly and Meg had time to wonder that a man could smile so much and yet be so completely without humour! ‘Well, we shall see about that! I must say I am inclined to believe you for I have been informed Mrs Whitley is a woman to be trusted but you see your insolence is not something I am prepared to suffer. I’m afraid you will have to learn that I do not like to be opposed, particularly by one who is merely a housemaid herself!’ His hot eye devoured her waist and hip. ‘If you and I are to get on we shall …’
‘I don’t give a damn whether you and I get on or not,’ Meg shouted and Tom winced. ‘Mrs Whitley is not to be disturbed and if you make a move towards that door I shall …’ Meg’s rage was white hot and Tom was appalled. He had seen her in a temper many and many a time but never like this. She did not suffer fools lightly and said so stormily, but her hot temper quickly cooled and she never bore a grudge towards those at whom it had been directed.
But this was something else and Tom was afraid for her. He thought she would strike Mr Harris and quickly he stepped forward to take her arm for if she lifted it there was no doubt in his mind that Harris would strike back.
‘Meg, Mr Harris is not going to hurt Mrs Whitley. He has a message to give her and he must be allowed to do so. It will only take a minute. Isn’t that right, Mr Harris?’ He turned his head reasonably to Harris, holding Meg’s arm protectively but she flung him off, standing on tiptoe to glare over his shoulder, her eyes glittering into those of Benjamin Harris.
‘He’s not going to see Mrs Whitley, Tom.’ Her loyalty to the cook was supreme. ‘If he wakes her up after the days she’s had I’ll not forgive him, nor you!’
Her voice was like granite, hard and coarse and her eyes turned incredibly from pale amber to a still, treacle darkness. She gripped Tom’s shoulders as he tried to force her back into the chair from which he had himself risen only fifteen minutes ago and the pair of them fell into it heavily.
Harris rose lazily, again like a cat which moves against its prey and Emm whimpered in her throat, cowering back into the safety of the shadowed corner. He was tall and thin, with narrow shoulders. Everything about him was narrow. His face might have been considered attractive for it was finely drawn with a well-shaped mouth and nose but his features were set in a tapering
triangle
which gave him the look of a fox. His eyes were grey, colourless, set close together as though there was not enough room for them to be otherwise. It was a face without expression or warmth, a face of aridity showing only contempt for those he considered beneath him.
‘I shall go up now,’ he said casually. ‘Don’t bother to come with me. Tell me where it is and I shall find my way.’