The Welfare of the Dead (7 page)

‘My dear, there is every need. You cannot be seen in Regent's Park with nothing from this season . . . Well, anyway, do talk to Lucinda while I go and have a look.'

Melissa Woodrow hurries back to her dressing-room, calling for her maid, ignoring the slight look of annoyance on Annabel Krout's face. Annabel, however, does not protest any further, beyond a quiet sigh of resignation. Conscious that her little cousin is watching her, she bends down over the child's desk.

‘How old are you, Lucy?'

‘Nearly seven.'

‘That is grown up, isn't it? Have you been to the Zoo before?'

‘Yes,' says the little girl, a slight note of childish contempt in her voice, as if insulted by the suggestion that she might want for such an experience.

‘With your Momma, I mean, Mama and Papa?'

‘Papa doesn't go anywhere.'

‘No, well he is a busy man. I suppose he must go to
work, to earn a living, to keep you and your Mama happy.'

The little girl frowns. ‘I wish
he
was happy,' she says.

‘Isn't he?' asks Annabel, puzzled.

Lucy Woodrow shakes her head, very firmly.

‘Why, dear?' persists Annabel. ‘What do you mean?'

The sound of Mrs. Woodrow's voice, calling Annabel Krout from down the hall, interrupts the conversation.

The little girl returns to looking at her alphabet.

‘I like the Zoo,' she says.

‘T
HAT,' SAYS
L
UCY
Woodrow, pointing emphatically at the large animal approaching step by step, ‘is an Indian elephant. Because it has small ears.'

‘For an elephant,' suggests Annabel Krout.

The little girl looks up at her cousin, unsure if she is being teased. ‘Yes,' she replies at last, with considerable seriousness, ‘for an elephant.'

The grey beast lumbers slowly along the tree-lined path towards them. Annabel and Lucy, together with Mrs. Woodrow, stand to one side. Led by a peak-hatted keeper, the animal bears a load of half a dozen passengers, also visitors to the Zoological Gardens. All of them, a man, woman and four children, are balanced precariously upon a wooden knifeboard seat, roped to its back.

‘It's a miracle they don't fall,' says Annabel.

The keeper, over-hearing the comment, politely raises his whip, held firmly in one hand, to touch his cap.

‘Don't you fret, Miss,' he says. ‘Safe as a regular omnibus, if you care for a ride?'

‘She cares for no such thing,' replies Mrs. Woodrow, ushering her cousin along.

‘“Safe as a regular omnibus” indeed,' says Mrs. Woodrow, once the man and his charges have passed
by. ‘Let me tell you, my dear, that is no great recommendation.'

‘But can't we have a ride, Mama?' says Lucy, tugging her mother's skirt.

‘Don't do that, dear,' replies Mrs. Woodrow, grabbing her daughter's hand. ‘You will tear it. And, no, we cannot have a ride. I have told you before, it would not suit my constitution. Have some thought for your mother's feelings.'

The little girl's face darkens considerably, but she says nothing. Her mother looks sharply at her.

‘Lucinda, I swear, you quite exasperate me at times,' says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘She is playing up,' she continues,
sotto voce
, to Annabel, ‘because we are in company.'

‘Please,' replies the little girl, elongating the word enormously.

‘I could take her, Melissa,' offers Annabel, looking back at the elephant.

‘My dear, your dress would not survive it. Think of the bustle.'

Annabel Krout looks down at the borrowed bottle-green polonaise she is wearing under her cape, and does not seem overly distraught at the possibility. Nonetheless, she does not argue.

‘I suppose, before we go, if you are a good girl, we might see the hippopotamus,' says Mrs. Woodrow, addressing Lucy in a conciliatory tone. The little girl, in turn, gives a rather grudging nod.

‘Is he your favourite?' asks Annabel, as they walk on.

Lucy shrugs.

‘Do you know,' Mrs. Woodrow asks her daughter, ‘that I can remember when they first brought the hippo over to the Zoo, when I was a little girl, not much older than you are now?'

‘No,' says the little girl; but her voice has a hint of curiosity in it.

‘Yes. It caused quite a stir. They even wrote songs about it.'

Lucy furrows her brow. ‘How did they go?'

‘Now that I cannot quite recall, my dear,' replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Perhaps I will see if I still have the music when we get home. Ah, and here we are.'

Before them is a barred enclosure, surrounded by an additional set of iron railings, over which the various lookers-on lean. By far the majority are children, and Lucy Woodrow's face is illuminated with pleasure as she pushes it against the metal, and sees the recumbent, corpulent body of the hippopotamus, glistening with moisture, stretched by the side of his pool. Its eyes are closed and the curves of its scooped mouth peculiarly suggestive of a certain degree of smug contentment.

‘He is rather an ugly brute to be your favourite, Lucy dear,' says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘For my part, I much prefer the lions.'

‘I like him,' replies the little girl.

Mrs. Woodrow pats her daughter's head. Turning to her cousin, she whispers, ‘He reminds me of Woodrow after his Sunday luncheon.'

Annabel Krout, in turn, laughs, albeit rather nervously. It is, she cannot help but think, an intimate analogy that does not chime with her limited experience of her host and his humours. ‘He certainly looks well cared for,' she replies at last.

‘Oh, I should think so. I expect it is quite delightful for him to receive such attention, and have as much food as he likes and so on. Well, come on, Lucy, we have seen your favourite. We may go back now. We can go through the park.'

‘But Mama!' pleads the little girl.

‘No “buts”, my dear. Come.'

There is some argument. Lucinda Woodrow resists the injunctions of her parent in the most solemn and
determined manner imaginable, until a mixture of threats and gentle coaxing finally persuade her to abandon her place by the railings. Once this is achieved, it is a more simple matter for them to make their way to the entrance to the Zoological Gardens, and out into the neatly kept paths of Regent's Park.

‘What did you make of the Zoo, my dear?' asks Mrs. Woodrow of her cousin, as they stroll towards the Inner Circle of the park, where numerous carriages are parked.

‘Oh, very pleasant – I have never seen quite so many different animals.'

‘And what about you, Lucinda?'

‘I like the hippo.'

‘Yes, well, that is not in doubt, although I am not quite sure why you should do so to such a degree.'

Mrs. Woodrow pauses, as she notices a figure walking briskly along a nearby path that intersects with theirs.

‘Why, would you believe it? It is Mr. Langley,' she says, nodding in his direction.

‘But he has not noticed us,' replies Annabel, waving. ‘Mr. Langley, over here!'

‘Really, Annabel,' says Mrs. Woodrow in an urgent whisper, ‘you ought not make quite such a display. People are staring.'

Annabel looks suitably chastened, but her apology is cut short as Richard Langley raises his hat, and changes his course. In a moment, he stands before them.

‘Mrs. Woodrow, Miss Krout, how delightful to see you. I trust you are both well. Have you recovered from the train, Miss Krout?'

‘I think so,' she replies.

‘And I hope your baggage found its way to Duncan Terrace?'

‘Yes, it has, thank you,' replies Annabel. It strikes her that she should say something more, but she struggles to find suitable words.

‘Mrs. Woodrow is showing you the sights of London, no doubt?'

‘Oh yes,' she replies, eagerly, ‘the park is so charming.'

‘And what brings you here, Mr. Langley?' asks Mrs. Woodrow.

‘I live in St. John's Wood, if you recall, ma'am; it is not far. I regularly walk this way into town, if the weather permits. I am hoping to see your husband, as it happens, as we could not meet yesterday.'

‘I am sure you will find him at his office,' replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I would offer you our brougham, but there is barely space for two of us, let alone Lucy and yourself.'

‘Lucy?'

‘Why, yes, you've met Lucy, have you not? We have come from the Zoological . . .'

Mrs. Woodrow's sentence trails off as she looks around for her daughter, who is nowhere to be seen.

Lucy Woodrow walks back through the gates to the Zoo, behind a large woman and two little boys, a year or so younger than herself, in matching blue and white sailor-suits.

She tries to recall where to find the elephants. Then she sees one in the distance, and runs towards it. It is not hard to catch up; the elephants plod ever so slowly, and she has never seen the keepers use their whips. She walks behind the great animal, watching its tail twitch now and then, its great feet crunching footprints into the gravel. She waves to a girl seated on top of the animal, and the girl waves back.

‘She cannot have gone far, ma'am,' says Richard Langley.

Mrs. Woodrow looks anxiously about her. ‘No, no, I am sure. We must be calm, my dear,' she says, grasping her cousin's arm, though Annabel herself seems more composed. ‘No, she cannot have gone far. Lucy!'

Both Richard Langley and Annabel Krout join in and shout the little girl's name; but there is no reply, nor any sign of her in the wide, grassy expanse of the park. A few strollers and passers-by turn their heads, but that is all.

‘What is she wearing?' asks Langley.

‘A little white frock, very plain,' says Mrs. Woodrow, not looking at her interlocutor, then hurriedly adding, ‘I mean to say, she is wearing that, but she has her shawl, and winter coat on top, and a beret.'

‘They're a reddish brown,' says Annabel.

‘Cremorne brown,' adds Mrs. Woodrow, a particular that Annabel cannot help but think is unnecessary.

‘Would she have gone back to the Zoo?' suggests Annabel.

‘She might,' says Mrs. Woodrow, as tears well up in her eyes. ‘Oh dear! Mr. Langley, you must forgive me, it's merely . . . oh, you must help us look for her! She might be anywhere!'

‘Of course I'll help, ma'am,' says Langley, ‘but I suggest the best thing for you to do is to wait here, in case she returns or someone brings her back to where she left you. I will run back to the Zoo and inquire at the gate, and have the keepers look for her. And if either of us sees a policeman, then I suggest we enlist his assistance.'

‘A policeman?' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow breathlessly, giving every appearance of being on the brink of fainting.

‘I am sure she is fine, ma'am,' he says. ‘I only meant as a precaution.'