I was still waiting to find out what this maddening woman wanted and I began to grow rather irritated.
“
Mrs. Evesham. I must insist that you state your business. I am afraid I do not recollect where I should know you from. I am sorry to be so very blunt but we are a family in grieving and I haven’t the time to entertain strangers.”
She watched as I delivered my tirade and she nodded at me solemnly.
“
I know. I am so sorry about your father, Imogen. He was a good man.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in warning, expecting some barbed comment.
“
A good man,” she repeated, holding my stare.
“You knew my father?”
“And your mother.”
“
Evesham? How is it I’ve never heard of you? Who are you?”
The woman cleared her throat and picked up her cup of tea.
“
My name is Elizabeth Evesham,” she paused before adding, “nee Greenwood?”
The name still didn’t mean anything to me and she paused, seemingly expecting some recognition. As none came, she continued.
“
I thought perhaps your father had mentioned me?” She spoke quietly almost to herself, a little disappointed it seemed. She glanced around the room nervously as if expecting someone to assist her. A brief silence followed before she found her inspiration on the mantel behind me. She stood and her sudden movement caused me a little alarm, the cup and saucer I had been sipping from clattered together. She walked to the fireplace and reached for a frame in which a studio photograph of my mother and father stood.
“
May I?” she glanced at me, her hands already stretching to the picture.
The photograph had been taken several years ago at a studio. My mother was seated in an upright chair, my father stood behind her in his finest suit. The image was the only one I had of my mother and I suspect that fact alone had kept John from removing it from the parlour. I nodded as Mrs. Evesham took up the frame.
“
The last time I saw your father was almost forty years ago.”
I was about to insist that Mrs. Evesham state her business but I was taken by the fond look she had in her eyes as she studied the photograph. If she had known him forty years ago, she may be the only person who could help me understand his deception.
“
I can’t believe he is dead,” she said.
The bluntness of this statement was muted by the emotional outburst which followed. Mrs. Evesham replaced the photo on the mantel and extracted a handkerchief to cover her eyes.
“
Mrs. Evesham? How did you know my father?”
“I hope you feel better soon, Miss Elizabeth.”
“
I am sure I will, Cribbs. I think I shall just sleep for now. Be sure, I am not disturbed.”
With a brief curtsey, Cribbs closed the door behind her with great care and Elizabeth allowed a smile to creep across her face. Listening intently, she could hear the maid’s footsteps fade into nothing as she made her way back downstairs. The picture was so vivid in Elizabeth’s mind that she might well have had two glass floors beneath her feet. If she did, she would have seen through to her older sister Agnes’ bedroom below. It would be as neat and as prim as she kept herself. If she could peer secretly inside this room there would be little of interest within. Agnes would probably be sat in front of her looking glass, thinking nothing and seeing little more. Beneath Agnes’ room was the parlour where their father would be seated in a large winged-back chair, still in his suit, stiffly waiting to be called to dinner. A man of habit, he would not be pleased to be kept waiting and would be less pleased further to learn that Elizabeth was too ill to come to dinner. He would nod his head solemnly when told the news and, fearing something sinister had befallen her, would begin to ask for a doctor. Cribbs would politely interrupt to advise him that she was merely in pain with her monthly course and that there was no need to trouble the doctor. His face would colour at first with such delicate information but lighten to hear his youngest daughter was not at death’s door, and he would settle himself instead with just Agnes for company.
Elizabeth was pleased not to have to listen to Agnes drone on and on about her fiancé, Richard. Instead, their father would have the task of nodding in the right places and seeming to appear interested. She waited a few minutes to hear Agnes’ door opening and closing below her. The sound of lightly placed footsteps descending the staircase assured Elizabeth that she was now alone upstairs. Pulling back the bedcovers, she stepped carefully onto the rug, the bed creaking as she leant across it to the clothes stand upon which her dress had been hung. Straining to hear any sounds above her own breathing, she pulled on her clothes and stockings before silently tiptoeing off the rug and onto bare boards. Her boots were beside her dressing table and, stooping to pick them up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. In the soft glow of the gaslight, her eyes were alive with sparkle and were a perfect replica of her late mother’s own eyes. Were it not for the colour of her golden cherry wood hair and the fuller mouth, she could be a young version of her own mother and she knew this both grieved and pleased her father in equal measure. At seventeen, Elizabeth was not yet a woman but she was no longer a girl. She had also inherited her mother’s long neck and high cheekbones, and she was a striking beauty. This was something that had not escaped Elizabeth’s attention and she smiled at herself in the mirror, pleased with what she saw. Elizabeth, amused at Cribbs’ stupidity, or perhaps impressed by her discretion thought of the girl’s dull face and smiled.
A distant clatter from several floors below hurried Elizabeth in her tasks. Pausing only to apply some powder and lipstick, she clumsily laced up her boots. She was unaccustomed to the task and she silently cursed her own soft fingers. Having simply knotted the laces, she picked up her coat triumphantly before slipping soundlessly onto the landing. A faint and distant rumble assured her that her father was enlightening Agnes with the day’s events at the office and she tiptoed across the landing to the back stairs. The stairs led to the basement kitchen and the smell of dinner drifted temptingly up the stairwell and almost made her change her mind. Feigning being ill with cramps had meant that she had not eaten all day and she felt quite weak with the hunger. Noiselessly, she descended one flight to the first floor and waited. The clanking of pans and pottery sounds seemed close but the muffled voices reassured her that she were safe. Another flight down and she was at the back of the corridor leading to the front door.
“
Cribbs!” The loud voice of the cook from the bottom of the stairs startled Elizabeth as he called out for Cribbs. Quickly, Elizabeth ducked inside the open study door as the maid scurried past. The girl muttered bad-temperedly as she passed and Elizabeth caught the words ‘Old Trout’ before Cribbs slipped down the stairs. For Elizabeth, it was the all-clear that she needed. With the house staff downstairs, and her father and sister waiting in the parlour to be called for dinner, she took her chance. Slipping from the shadows of the empty room, she hurried into the entrance hall, skirting the parlour door until she was standing before the front door, her hand upon the knob.
“Elizabeth?”
The suddenness of her father’s voice calling her name made her jump.
“
Good heavens, Agnes! How could you even suggest such a thing?”
His voice came from inside the parlour and Elizabeth was half torn between staying to listen to why he should call out like that and what on earth Agnes had suggested, but the fright made her jumpy and instead she slipped out into the fresh, spring city air. Despite the earlier heat of the day, the evening breeze from the river some streets away was chill and Elizabeth was glad of the coat she drew around her. Hurrying down the front steps, she walked quickly up the King’s Road heading towards Victoria. She kept her head down, casting sideways glances about her. She was fuelled by adrenalin but her nerves were making her skittish. As she crossed a side road, an elderly gent bumped into her, apologising profusely as he did so. Her heart thundered as she thought for a moment that she recognised him. She pulled away from his apologetic hands but he was insistent, checking that she was okay.
“
Going somewhere in a hurry like that, Miss, and you will be sure to meet with something eventually. A sticky end perhaps?” He chuckled at his wit and smiled good-naturedly at her. She drew her hands back from his and, apologising for her haste, she bustled off, leaving him shaking his head. A few streets away, she began to slow down and her sense of dread was quickly replaced with excitement as she instead took pleasure in the feeling of freedom and anticipation of the night ahead. The fading light of the evening sun, setting behind, threw a long shadow before her. After twenty minutes or so, the number of passing carriages and cabs diminished as she turned into Elizabeth Street and the relative calm of Belgravia. Her steps faltered and she paused at the corner of Chester Row, looking left and right. She was not stood for long before a voice from close behind her startled her.
“
Miss Greenwood!”
Elizabeth spun round to face the direction of the voice and, from the growing shadows of the tall houses and prim hedges, she made out a familiar outline. A young man of about twenty, dressed in evening wear stepped from the gloom on to the pavement and into the glow of the evening light beside her. He swept her a bow with the tip of his hat and appraised her fully as he drew himself up again. His hair beneath the fine silk hat was pale and cropped neatly. He sported a tidy but thin moustache that looked as though if it has taken a great effort to cultivate. The rest of his face was smooth and his complexion was as sallow as wax. Stood before Elizabeth, he gave off an air of quiet confidence and high self-opinion. He touched his moustache with a smug grin before taking the hand she offered him in greeting. His eyes did not leave hers for a moment as he planted a soft kiss upon her gloved hand.
“
I was not sure if you were in earnest, Miss Greenwood. What luck that I decided to wait another few minutes for you. I had all but abandoned the idea for one of your whims.”
“
Mr. Bateman, I do believe you are pleased to see me.” Smiling at him, Elizabeth turned and began to walk away from the young man. He hurried to accompany her, his cane flailing for a moment whilst he measured his steps in time with her quick and purposeful gait.
“
I’ll hail us a cab quickly, we can’t have little Miss Greenwood spotted out at this hour can we?”
Elizabeth considered this for a moment but despite the implications, had to agree that this was a wise precaution. The short walk to Chester Row was dangerous enough, a young girl out late on her own, but to be seen by one of her father’s fogeys in the company of this particular young man, and unaccompanied, would be a disastrous scandal. She raised an eyebrow at the young man as if she were considering his slight and found his wit wanting. The young man laughed at this gesture and turned to stride ahead to the King’s Road, where he raised his topper to a passing hansom. Stepping back as the horse pulled up beside him, he opened the door and held his hand out for Elizabeth’s.
“
Cleveland Street,” he called up to the cabbie before jumping up behind her. “And there’s an extra shilling if you can make it before ten,” he added. The latch of the door barely clicked before the cab lurched off, causing Bateman to pitch forwards. He steadied himself on the seat back before settling himself opposite Elizabeth.
“
Nothing like a keen start, Miss Greenwood. I very much like how the stars are aligning this evening.”
Elizabeth smiled to herself in the gloom of the cab and turned away from the cool gaze of her companion. The breeze from the darkening sky was refreshing after the unseasonal heat of the day and she closed her eyes, offering up her chin to the draught.
Beyond the window, another side to this city was beginning to wake up. Elizabeth’s head rested on the frame and she watched as the familiar sights were replaced by versions of themselves she had not seen before. As the cab drew up past Park Lane towards Marble Arch, she could see Hyde Park alter before her very eyes. Beyond the boundary of the iron fence and the privet hedges, the well-travelled Broad Walk - by day a smart passage for ladies to traverse - was all but abandoned, the shadows already proving too much of a danger to a gentleman and his wallet. The greenery, so peaceful and inviting during the day, repelled by night, as under its cover may lurk any number of assailants. As the carriage rolled on slowly in the heavy traffic, lights from the gas jets of Park Lane glimmered across the fence, and Elizabeth saw a furtive flash of white and spotted a pair of eyes from under a bush. A girl, not much older than Elizabeth, was relieving herself in the undergrowth, the dirty white of her petticoats hitched up behind her back, her thin grubby legs camouflaged in the evening light. Their eyes met for an instant and then a shadow fell across the girl’s face and the carriage had moved on.
As they approached Marble Arch, she heard the driver cursing. His hopes of an extra shilling seem to have vanished as the traffic slowed to a stop. She leaned across the upholstered seat to the far window and peered down Oxford Street. A crowd was gathering and she could barely see beyond them to where two carriages had collided. A loose horse, causing a nuisance, was rearing up. There seemed to be a body on the road and Elizabeth tried to make out if it were moving. As the crowd moved away from the horse that had shied to one side, she could see the body was that of a woman. Her neck was broken awkwardly and her dislocated head was twisted to her back. Elizabeth turned away in disgust and nausea rose up in her stomach. Her companion watched her take in the scene then laughed at her discomfort.
“
Come now, Elizabeth,” he joked, “surely you have seen worse things? As a lawyer, your father must have picked over some thoroughly rotten corpses in his time!” He appeared amused at himself and leant back chuckling, as Elizabeth composed herself to stare once again out of the window. Although it made her feel sick, she could not help but be drawn to stare at the unfortunate scene. The face of the head was turned away from her but she willed its features to reveal themselves to her and she found herself imagining the face of the poor creature. The body was shabbily dressed and the visage of an elderly crone appeared in Elizabeth’s mind. She imbued her with a nose half eaten away with disease and lips crumpling into a dusty and dry hole where a mouth should be. She imagined that the skin would be drawn tight across a misshapen skull with dark sockets for eyes. She shivered and was pleased when a cry came from the cabbie and the horses lurched forwards again, leaving the recovery of the corpse to be seen from another window.
The scene had taken some of her bravado away and she was glad that the young man remained silent. Her empty stomach and light head contrived to send her slipping to the carriage floor but she managed to focus and stay in her seat. After a few minutes the carriage drew to a stop and her companion, checking from his window that they had arrived at their destination, alighted from the cab, turning to escort Elizabeth safely to the ground.
“
Here we are, Miss Greenwood. The Chapel of Iniquity!” He flourished his hand towards the building behind him.
An unimposing frontage offered Elizabeth very little promise of interest inside. The bricks were a dark sandy colour and the several large windows were bordered with fresh white paint. It was a prim building, indistinguishable from much of Fitzrovia. The smart, black door was raised from the street by just a few stone steps and even this detail made Elizabeth’s heart sink. The place seemed so ordinary; she had at least expected to descend into debauchery!
Elizabeth was disappointed that there was nothing strange about the building; from the outside it promised very little of what Mr. Bateman had described to her over the last few months. Giles Bateman was the son of a rich client of her father’s. Elizabeth had instantly disliked the young man but had been curious about him. She recalled their first meeting when, finding her father occupied and Agnes out with Richard, she had walked into the parlour to find a curious looking man asleep in her father’s chair. His head rested against the upholstered wing, and the lace antimacassar had slipped to his shoulders and looked like a shawl arranged to keep him warm. His hands were tucked between his legs and his mouth was half open. She was both offended and amused to see a strange gentleman so arranged and was about to call for Cribbs to remove the offending person, but instead chose to consider him a while. He was about her age though perhaps a little older. She guessed about nineteen or twenty. The moustache he sported was fine and patchy and gave him a slightly scruffy look. His fair hair was well oiled and he wore a well cut suit with an expensive watch-chain hung about his pocket. As the young man moved in the chair, his expression changed to that of a grimace and he stretched one of his arms, opening his eyes briefly to check his whereabouts. His eyes flickered momentarily before alighting on Elizabeth, sat opposite him at the other end of the mantel.