The Welfare of the Dead (2 page)

It had the appearance of a makeshift, rather ill-kept
seraglio
, for which I was quite unprepared. Indeed, it was as if some poor relation of the great Haroun al-Raschid had decamped from Bagdad to the City of London in some distant decade, and speculated upon a job lot of velvet drapes. For there was no inch of the wall not smothered in crimson cloth, hung at jaunty angles from the picture rail, the ceiling, from every conceivable corner. And upon the bed lay a pile of Arab cushions, heaped into a veritable mountain. And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world,
leaning back upon the cushions, lay a fair-haired young woman. She did not seem at all surprised by my arrival. I placed my hat down upon the dresser that stood by the door.

‘You were expecting me?' I asked.

She smiled, and gestured to the ceiling above the door. There hung a small, wired bell; a neat arrangement – merely the servants' bell in reverse. Doubtless the proprietor had rung it, upon exchange of the key.

‘I see,' I said.

She made no reply. I removed my collar and tie, and placed them both by the hat.

‘Are you mute?' I said.

‘I speak when I'm spoken to, darling.'

Flaar. Daar-lin.
How remarkable, I thought to myself, that this flower should have bloomed in the sound of Bow Bells. A Bow
belle
! But she was a beauty, dressed in a night-gown of fine white silk, that clung to her body as she reclined upon the bed. Her arms were bare and milk-white, her hands dainty and graceful; her smile as sweet as any I have ever seen. An awful shame.

And then?

Why, I locked the door.

I
N THE CHILL
, fog-bound air of a November evening, a carriage descends the slope of Pentonville Hill, its twin lamps gleaming in the mist. It is a small, black brougham, a very ordinary conveyance, with a ruddy-faced coachman in the driver's seat and two passengers within. Upon the outside, the coachman shivers in his great-coat, even as he flicks the reins and mutters words of encouragement to his horse; inside, the two passengers, a young man of twenty-five years or so, and a woman some ten or fifteen years older, appear just as uncomfortable. They sit in silence, side by side, rugs draped over their legs. The man rubs his hands together, in a vain effort to fend off the cold. The woman, meanwhile, keeps her arms close to her body; her hands are concealed deep within a rabbit-fur muff.

‘An awful night, Mr. Langley,' says the woman at length, as their carriage pulls past King's Cross station. Her breath is visible in the cold air. ‘Can you make out the time?'

‘I believe,' says the young man, peering towards the clock-tower of the station, ‘it is just past the hour. Although I cannot be utterly certain.'

Richard Langley looks apologetically at his travelling companion. Mrs. Melissa Woodrow is an attractive
woman, her face plump but not fat, her eyes a deep hazel, complemented by the autumnal colours of her clothing. Even under several layers of clothing and a heavy dolman mantle, she visibly shudders, unaccustomed to venturing out in such temperatures.

‘You should have stayed at home, ma'am.'

‘That,' she replies emphatically, ‘would never do. What would Miss Krout make of us, if neither my husband nor myself were to greet her?'

Langley nods and looks out of the window. The carriage rattles on, and he can just make out the Gothic grandeur of the Midland Grand Hotel.

‘It is awfully cold, though, is it not?' he says, breaking the silence between them. ‘Even for the season.'

‘It was good of you to accompany me, Mr. Langley, really it was. I was so glad you happened to call.'

‘I will catch the train home from Euston Square. It is no matter. It saves me the expense of a cab.'

‘Still. I really cannot imagine where my husband might have got to, truly. And now we are late for the train.'

‘The trains are never on time, ma'am. Not in this weather.'

‘Yes,' she replies, ‘I suppose that is true.'

The brougham turns right, cutting across the Euston Road, and round the gas-lit perimeter of Euston Square. It is a peculiar place in the fog, the great Doric columns of the monumental Euston Arch half-visible, resembling the portico to some lofty Peloponnesian temple, transplanted into the heart of the metropolis. The driver directs the brougham through the gates, and pulls to a halt upon the asphalt fore-court. Patting the horse's flank, he gets down from his seat and taps on the carriage window. Mrs. Woodrow pushes down the glass.

‘Pardon me, ma'am,' says the driver, ‘but I can't get down to the platforms; it's blocked solid. I think the train's in already.'

Mrs. Woodrow peers out of her window. The approach to the platforms is crowded with a line of vehicles, not least an endless parade of cabs, both hansoms and clarences. Around them, black-suited, peak-capped porters tend to all forms of luggage, with heavy suitcases and hat-boxes flying hither and thither. The cab-men themselves, meanwhile, seem to sit back in their seats, above the hurly-burly, watching the procedure with great disinterest. They certainly pay no heed to the third-class passengers who appear in straggling groups, dragging cases, small children and other encumbrances, searching for a cheaper means of transport. There is little hope for them: only a shifting wall of fog and not an omnibus in sight.

‘Oh! It is no use,' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I shall have to go and look for her.'

‘Please, ma'am, you will catch your death,' replies her companion. ‘Allow me.'

‘Are you sure, Mr. Langley? I do have a photograph of her, if you are sure you do not mind?'

‘Positively, ma'am.'

‘You are too good, Mr. Langley. I will make sure my husband hears of this. Now, one moment—'

Mrs. Woodrow breaks off from speaking, producing a russet-coloured plush reticule from under her coat, and delving inside it. After a few seconds of confusion, she pulls out a small photograph and hands it to Langley.

‘I am sure I will only be a minute or two, ma'am,' he says, peeling off the rugs from his legs, and opening the carriage door.

Richard Langley walks to the station building, colliding with several confused ladies and gentlemen who seem quite unaccustomed to the opacity of a ‘London particular'. At length, finding the entrance, he proceeds through to the Great Hall, which serves both as the station's concourse and waiting-room. Here, at least, the atmosphere is a little more transparent. In part, it is the gas-lamps that project above and below the first-floor balcony; in part, it is the sheer size of the hall, an airy chamber some sixty feet in height, and twice as long. It is, moreover, light enough for him to look at the photograph entrusted to him by Mrs. Woodrow. It shows a bright-eyed young woman of about twenty-one years, with light-coloured hair, tightly chignoned, standing in her day-dress before a forest clearing, albeit one of the painted-canvas variety. He takes a look around the hall, but cannot see any likely girl. He proceeds, therefore, to the platforms and asks advice from a guard. He is informed that the Liverpool train has already arrived. Worse, it is plainly almost empty, except for an elderly couple engaged in a heated debate about the cost of porterage.

Langley returns to the Great Hall where, after several minutes of fruitless searching, he sees a woman, surrounded by a dozen or more bags and cases, standing by the marble statue of Stephenson that dominates the far end of the chamber. He takes another look at the photograph, and walks over to her.

‘Miss Krout?'

She smiles a brief, nervous smile. ‘Yes. I was expecting . . . I am sorry, but you are not Mr. Woodrow?'

‘Ah, no. My name is Langley. Mr. Woodrow is detained elsewhere, I am afraid. But your cousin has a brougham waiting outside.'

‘Does she? Oh, how good of her!'

‘I fear your luggage will have to go separately. Can you wait, while I find a porter?'

‘Of course,' she replies. ‘You must excuse me, I should have arranged something myself.'

‘No need,' says Langley, looking round the hall for an attendant. ‘I confess, I thought I had missed you.'

‘I do beg your pardon,' she says earnestly.

Langley smiles. ‘No, no. We are late – do not apologise. I imagine you are exhausted, Miss Krout. It is a long way from Liverpool.'

‘Even further from Boston, sir.'

‘Indeed! Well, you are safe and sound now, rest assured. I expect you are looking forward to seeing London?'

‘Yes, sir. Truly, I—'

‘Ah, hang on, here's our chap. Boy – over here!'

The ‘boy' who takes charge of the despatch of Annabel Krout's luggage is barely three or four years younger than Richard Langley. Nonetheless, he does not object to the description, and the business in hand is soon dealt with. In consequence, it does not take long for Langley to guide Miss Krout back outside to her cousin's waiting carriage. A few polite words are exchanged, and he cordially takes leave of the two women.

As for Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin, the cold night air forbids the customary ecstasy of greetings and exchange of affectionate familial bulletins, until they are both ensconced inside the brougham and wrapped in several layers of blankets. As the vehicle begins its slow ascent of Pentonville Hill, however, a litany of American relatives ‘send their love', via the medium of Annabel Krout. In turn, Mrs. Woodrow replies with a host of family members ‘dying to meet' Miss Krout, a
veritable hospital ward-full of aunts, uncles, first, second and third cousins upon the brink of metaphorical extinction, scattered throughout the kingdom. It is only as they approach the Angel at Islington, the famous public house barely visible in the enshrouding darkness, that the conversation turns to other things.

‘I trust the journey was not too awful?' says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Now, Mr. Langley said he found you all alone? Did I hear right? I do not know how things are done in Boston, my dear, but that is rather foolhardy for a young lady. I thought you had a chaperon, a friend of your dear father's?'