The Welfare of the Dead (8 page)

Lucy Woodrow climbs up the wooden steps to the platform beside the elephant, then clambers a little unsteadily on to the seat, her feet slipping on the carpet laid upon its back.

‘She's not with us,' exclaims the boy next to her.

‘My mama's over there,' she says in reply, without pointing to any particular direction. ‘She doesn't like elephants.'

‘Here,' says a keeper, bending over, and pulling a leather strap tight across her waist. ‘That's it. Are you ready?'

Lucy nods. Her fellow passengers add their assent, and the seat suddenly bumps, as the elephant begins its circuit of the Zoo.

But it is not as Lucy Woodrow had imagined. For she finds the seat rather uncomfortable and the strap chafes against her stomach, even though she hangs on ever so tightly.

Bump, bump.

Moreover, the people below do not look half so diminished as Lucy had expected. And she has no-one to whom she might wave.

Bump, bump.

The disappointment is such that it is all she can do to prevent herself from crying.

Bump, bump, bump.

At last, the creature stops. She returns to the platform, with a helping hand from a keeper, and runs directly back down the steps.

Then another hand grips her arm; a man's hand.

‘Are you lost?'

‘Oh, Mr. Langley, thank goodness! You found her!'

Richard Langley strolls towards Mrs. Woodrow and Annabel Krout, holding the hand of Lucy Woodrow, who trots along beside him, rather red-faced, though it is hard to say whether with shame or simple breathlessness. Mrs. Woodrow, her face ashen, hurries directly towards them, and hugs her daughter to her side.

‘You stupid, naughty girl,' she exclaims, then bursts into tears. Lucy obliges by doing likewise. It is a moment or two before either can relent.

‘Mr. Langley,' says Mrs. Woodrow at last, retrieving a handkerchief from her bag, and drying her eyes, ‘you must forgive me. I am quite overcome. How can I repay you?'

‘Anyone would have found her, ma'am; she was quite safe,' says Langley. ‘I believe she took a ride on an elephant.'

‘Well, this is the last time we visit the Zoo, young lady,' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow, at which Lucy begins to cry once more. Her mother, however, deliberately ignores the outburst.

‘Perhaps,' she continues, ‘you might come to dinner one evening? Our Mrs. Figgis is really a delightful cook.'

Mr. Langley smiles. ‘I would be most happy to, ma'am, but I fear I had better conclude my arrangements with your husband first; I would not wish to impose upon his hospitality before we have settled matters.'

‘Well, I will talk to him about it,' replies Mrs. Woodrow, smiling.

‘Perhaps I can escort you to your carriage?' he replies.

Mrs. Woodrow assents and, with Lucy still rather tearful, they begin to walk back towards the Inner Circle.

‘You are in the same business as Mr. Woodrow, Mr. Langley?' asks Annabel, as they approach the brougham.

‘Well, I am an architect by training, Miss Krout. I met Mr. Woodrow in my professional capacity – I am designing his new premises.'

‘But Mr. Langley is also considering investing in the business,' adds Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Isn't that right, sir?'

‘Indeed, ma'am. I have some money to invest and Mr. Woodrow has suggested a partnership. It is just a matter of agreeing the terms; but these things can take some time. A partnership should not be entered into lightly, by either party.'

For a moment, Annabel Krout fancies that Richard Langley's gaze lingers upon her as he speaks. Then, he steps to one side, politely ushering both women out through the park gate and onto the road.

‘Well,' says Langley, as they come to the waiting brougham, with the coachman perched upon the driver's seat, ‘here we are again.'

‘I am so grateful we met, sir,' says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I don't know what I might have done if—'

‘Please, ma'am, you have thanked me already. I bid you both goodbye; and you, young lady,' he says, leaning down towards Lucy, ‘should be more considerate to your mama.'

Lucy says nothing as her mother and Annabel Krout say their goodbyes. Langley, in turn, doffs his hat and departs, continuing his walk at the same brisk pace as when they met him.

‘Such a charming young man,' exclaims Mrs. Woodrow.

‘Yes, he is,' replies Annabel.

‘Phelps,' says Mrs. Woodrow, turning to address the coachman, ‘do come and open the door, if you please.'

‘Sorry, ma'am,' replies the coachman, jumping down from his box-seat, ‘I was just keeping an eye on the horse.'

‘I don't care what you were just doing, please pay attention. I have had a trying day already.'

‘Sorry, ma'am.'

Annabel looks at the driver's seat; she notices a newspaper, hastily pushed under the cushion. There is only a little of the text visible, but she cannot help but shudder when she reads it:

Dreadful Murder of Two Young Women
.

J
ASPER
W
OODROW'S BUSINESS
premises are situated upon the busy thoroughfare of High Holborn, within a substantial building, in the classical style, a short walk from New Oxford Street. The property is unmistakable, since the building itself is topped with a tower of letters, sculpted in iron, that project above the roof, spelling out the words ‘Woodrow's General Mourning Warehouse'. Further announcements are liberally painted upon the brick-work, promising ‘Mourning for Families, In Correct Taste', ‘Court and Family Mourning', and from the cornice itself hangs the proud motto ‘Every Article of the Very Best Description'. Each sign, moreover, has its own gaslights, which can be illuminated at nightfall or at the slightest hint of fog. In short, no expense has been spared to advertise the propriety, variety and suitability of the wares within; thus it is a business that, to all appearances, thrives.

Jasper Woodrow himself, however, sits in his office, looking rather vacantly into space. Before him, laid upon his burgundy leather-topped desk, is a portfolio of papers, tied with string, bearing the words ‘Woodrow's: Reports & Accounts, 1873'.

He places the bundle to one side, and looks at the nearby clock. It is a favourite of his, chosen by his wife,
an ornate ormolu time-piece, whose enamelled dial is supported by a forest of golden metal, crafted into minuscule flowers and garlands of leaves.

One o'clock.

He reaches out and moves his bronze ink-stand, positioning it a little to the left.

One o'clock still.

The fire in the nearby hearth crackles noisily, the flames finding some impurity in the coal.

Woodrow pushes back his chair and gets up. Taking a brass poker from its stand, he stokes the fire. There is something comforting in the blaze, in the rising heat, that holds his attention for a few minutes, until he hears a knock at the door. He seems to find it difficult to place the sound's significance.

Another knock.

‘Sir?' says a voice from outside the door.

‘Yes,' replies Woodrow at last, ‘come in.'

A clerk, a grey-haired man in his forties, enters the office, timidly pushing open the door. He looks first at the desk, then to his employer, standing by the fireplace.

‘Well, what is it?'

‘Mr. Langley is in the office, sir. He wonders if you might spare him a moment.'

‘Langley?' say Woodrow, as if not recognising the name.

‘Yes, sir. Langley.'

‘But I have a luncheon appointment. I am about to go out.'

‘Shall I ask him to call again, sir?'

Woodrow looks into the fire; the clerk fiddles nervously with the hem of his waistcoat.

‘No, damn it, have him come in.'

The clerk nods, and swiftly departs. A few seconds later, there is a second knock at the door, and Richard
Langley enters the room, carrying his hat and coat. ‘Good afternoon,' he says, offering his hand.

‘Good afternoon, sir,' says Woodrow.

‘I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time.'

Woodrow takes a deep breath before turning to address his visitor, straightening his posture. It is not unlike a swimmer coming up for air.

‘No,' says Woodrow, with a rather forced smile. ‘But I regret I have a prior appointment.'

‘Well, my apologies, sir. I will be brief. I just thought that I should advise you that I have heard back from my solicitor. I am to see him this afternoon.'

‘I see,' says Woodrow, nodding. ‘Yes, excellent.'

‘Forgive me, sir,' continues Langley, ‘I hope I am not too blunt, but you seem a little distracted. I expected . . . well, I confess, I rather thought you might be glad of the news.'

Jasper Woodrow looks back at his visitor, almost as if noticing him for the first time. The question, however, seems to jolt him back to life.

‘No, your frankness does you credit. It is just . . . I am due to dine at the Rainbow in ten minutes, and I do not care to be late. Perhaps we might meet tomorrow. Mr. Prentice, whom you just spoke to, attends to my diary.'

‘Well, one moment, did you say the Rainbow? I am going that way myself. Might I walk with you?'

‘Of course,' replies Woodrow, rather mechanically. ‘I suppose you may join us for lunch if you wish – though it is really a matter of business, not pleasure.'

‘I should be delighted.'

‘It will be quite dull,' continues Woodrow.

‘I have no objection to that,' says Langley, cordially. ‘It may, at least, give us an opportunity to talk about the design upon the way? I have an idea concerning the tiling upon the façade and some other matters. It must be a week since we last spoke?'

‘Now, I recall very little of that evening,' says Woodrow, gesturing towards the door, his spirits seeming to rise a little. ‘A fellow can have too much brandy, eh? Still, we must do it again, Langley, once our arrangements are settled. A man should always drink to a bargain, eh?'

‘I look forward to it,' replies Langley.

The ante-chamber to Jasper Woodrow's office, into which both men adjourn, is a small room, where two clerks sit at high desks against opposite walls, their backs to each other, like a pair of living book-ends. Both turn around and listen intently as their employer utters a few words relating to his plans for the remainder of the day. Only when Woodrow has retrieved his coat, and left with his visitor, do they return to silent contemplation of the papers laid out before them.

Woodrow, meanwhile, leads his companion through the precincts of his offices, in which a further dozen men are occupied with invoices, accounts, receipts and all the paper paraphernalia of business.

‘It is quickest through the shop,' he says, taking Langley through a door that leads on to the first-floor show-room of Woodrow's General Mourning Warehouse. It is a large room, furnished in sombre shades of red and brown, with a rich Kidderminster carpet, and walls panelled in dark polished wood. A series of walnut tables and comfortable chairs and sofas are placed at intervals across the floor, and around the walls are drawers and cabinets, marked in a Gothic gold-leaf lettering: ‘Bonnets', ‘Mantles', ‘Shawls', ‘Capes' and ‘Gloves'. In turn, beside each cabinet are long mirrors, kept spotlessly clean. And, beside the mirrors stand the Warehouse's shop-girls, who attend to the demands of customers. Indeed, there is a constant to and fro of these women, as they move
between their lady clients, seated at the tables, and the stores of mourning costumery. Mantles beaded with jet are swapped for widows' caps trimmed with black lace, merino cloaks for fur-lined capes; some are modelled by the girls themselves, some laid upon tables. And everything is done with the least noise, so that the only constant is the rustle of silk, as the girls fetch and carry, hither and thither. The atmosphere resembles less that of a retail establishment than that of a private chapel, with each shop-girl performing some unique sacrament for her client.