The Taxidermist's Daughter

  *

  Woolston reached the administration buildings without meeting anyone he knew. With relief, he stepped into the corridor and walked quickly to the entrance to the theatre and through the double doors.

  The auditorium was empty. For a moment, he stood still in the shadow of the overhang of the gallery. The dominant colours in the room were cream and beige. Everything was designed to be soothing to troubled spirits. A pleasing repeat-pattern wallpaper, brown and cream, below the dado rail. Small pillars set on pale painted plinths supported the balcony. It was modern and clean and light. Dr Woolston admired the interior of Blomfield’s design as much as the exterior. He had once nursed similar ambitions, and had it not been for his father’s insistence that he should follow in his footsteps as an army doctor, he might have trained as an architect. Harold had inherited his artistic inclinations, though he too had been forced to accept a position with good financial prospects. If he was serious about painting, he would keep it up all the same. That chap in Fishbourne – Arthur Evershed – managed it, after all.

  Woolston became aware of a knocking sound, like the branch of a tree tapping on a window. He looked up to the high mullioned windows, but could see nothing. Then he realised it was coming from the far end of the room, close to the stage. The stage itself, was hidden by the heavy curtains, which were closed.

  He walked out from under the balcony into the open space of the auditorium at the same time as a grey-haired woman in cap and apron appeared from behind the stage. The char put down her pail, dipped her mop into the water, tapped the wood on the edge to shake off the excess, then continued her cleaning.

  ‘Room’s not in use,’ she said when he drew level.

  ‘I see that.’ He paused. ‘I have an appointment. I’m meeting someone here at six o’clock.’

  ‘Gentleman?’

  He hesitated. He assumed so, since the note had come from Brook, though it was true it hadn’t said as much. He asked a question instead.

  ‘Has anybody come in while you’ve been working?’

  ‘Room’s not in use,’ she repeated.

  The woman clearly knew nothing about the matter. Woolston suddenly felt oddly hopeful. He had followed the instructions to the letter. If Brook had changed his mind, although it was a nuisance and a waste of his time, then he was off the hook. He looked at his pocket watch. It was already ten past six. He could be home by six thirty, enjoying his whisky and soda. His hand went to his breast pocket. No need for heroics. He would take a quick look backstage, to be sure, then call it a day.

  ‘I’ll have a look around all the same.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Woolston walked to the stage and slowly climbed the steps, the sound of his shoes echoing through the auditorium. His hand fumbled blindly, until he found the gap in the curtains, and he stepped carefully through on to the hushed stage.

  ‘Brook?’

  The smell of sawdust and mothballs. All the theatre paraphernalia; a rail of costumes, still holding the imprint of the last person to wear the skirts and jackets. He looked up into the flies, the ropes hanging down, a chandelier suspended high above. On a wooden table in the prompt corner was a precarious stack of straw boaters. Fans and headdresses. Feathers.

  Black feathers, lots of them, scattered over everything. Always reminding him, always taking him back.

  Woolston felt his legs turn to water. Purple-black, ink-blue feathers, the scene returning as clear as day. The cases, the candlelight reflected in the domes of glass, the shock of the moment. The blood.

  Then from the wings, a voice. ‘Hello, Jack.’

  It wasn’t possible. Woolston recognised the soft tones that haunted his nightmares, getting fainter with each year that passed, but always there. Suddenly he realised that it was one of the things that had most upset him about the man who’d come to his consulting rooms earlier. The man who seemed to know everything about that night ten years ago. His voice had reminded Woolston of hers, although he knew it couldn’t be. The girl had had no family, they’d made sure of that.

  ‘Or do you go by the name of John these days? I think I might, were I in your shoes. So much more respectable.’

  Woolston spun round, almost losing his balance, but was unable to work out where the sound was coming from. The light was extinguished and he found himself instantly disorientated on the bare stage. He took a few blind steps towards the prompt corner, reaching out his hand but finding nothing but air.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What do you want?’

  He heard the intake of breath.

  ‘Jack,’ she said, gently coaxing. ‘I gave you a chance. Don’t pretend you can’t remember . . .’

  Woolston panicked. He turned on his heel and tried to run, but pain exploded in the side of his head. The ground rushed up to meet him. His ribs cracked as they hit the wooden surround of the trapdoor, then he dropped, like a stone, down through the stage to the cellar fourteen feet below.

  Chapter 15

  Blackthorn House

  Fishbourne Marshes

  Connie went to the gate at the sound of voices. She raised her hand as a group of men came into view, recognising Pine, the barman from the Bull’s Head, and Mr Crowther. She knew little about him, other than that he was said to be enormously wealthy from investing in the copper mines of the Transvaal. His main residence was somewhere in Surrey – Guildford, she thought – but he spent much of the summer at his weekend cottage in Fishbourne.

  There were two other men with Crowther, carrying a wide wooden board. Dr Evershed wasn’t there, and neither was Harry.

  Connie was surprised to realise she was disappointed.

  The party crossed the last of the three bridges over the creek, and stopped on the path outside Blackthorn House.

  ‘Evening, Miss Gifford,’ Pine said, touching his hat.

  ‘It’s kind of you to come.’

  ‘You know Mr Crowther?’

  ‘I do,’ she said, inclining her head.

  ‘And this is Gregory Joseph and Archie Lintott.’

  She nodded a greeting. ‘Is Dr Evershed not with you, Joseph?’

  ‘Were you expecting him to be, Miss Gifford?’

  ‘I had thought Mr Woolston had gone to fetch him.’

  ‘Woolston, was it?’ said Pine. ‘That’s what you thought, wasn’t it, Gregory?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Joseph replied, though he was looking at Connie.

  ‘Came into the bar and said there was trouble. Don’t know what he did after that. Perhaps he’s gone on to Eversfield?’

  ‘Dr and Mrs Evershed went up to London a couple of days ago,’ Crowther said. ‘He has a few pieces in an exhibition, I believe.’

  Connie looked from one man to another. ‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ she said quickly. Now that the moment had come, she was nervous. Harry had taken the situation at face value. She had buttoned up the woman’s blouse high around her neck, to hide the marks left by the wire, but anyone would see she hadn’t drowned if they looked closely. The coroner, of course, would notice the marks immediately. All at once, her attempts to conceal the injuries seemed ridiculous. But she had acted on instinct.

  ‘Your father keeping all right, Miss Gifford?’ the barman asked.

  ‘Should he not be?’ she replied, more sharply than she had intended.

  ‘It’s only that we haven’t seen him in for a few days.’

  ‘Most times you can set your watch by Gifford.’

  ‘That’ll do, Joseph,’ Crowther said.

  Connie took a deep breath. ‘Thank you for asking. In point of fact, my father has been unwell.’ She hesitated. ‘He is staying with friends, in fact.’

  ‘If you would pass on my regards,’ Pine said. ‘Tell him we’re looking forward to welcoming him back once he’s on his feet again.’

  ‘I will.’

  Connie noticed Joseph glance straight away up to her father’s window, and she wondered how – if – he knew it was his
room.

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ Crowther said.

  ‘No.’

  For a moment, everyone stood in silence. No one moved.

  ‘The body, Miss Gifford . . .?’ Crowther asked eventually.

  ‘I’m sorry, yes,’ Connie said. ‘It – she – is through here.’

  Joseph and Lintott picked up the makeshift stretcher and followed Connie into the kitchen garden. The jackdaws were watching, silhouetted against the dusk sky.

  ‘Heck of a lot of them about this year,’ Lintott said, ‘excuse my French, miss. And so late in the day. It’s odd, that.’

  Crowther gestured that they should put the board down.

  ‘What will happen next?’ Connie asked, suddenly reluctant to let them take the body.

  ‘We’ll take her to the Bull’s Head overnight.’

  ‘And then?’

  Crowther met her gaze. ‘It depends. A doctor will ascertain cause of death and discover her next of kin, then decide what should be done.’ He paused. ‘Do you know who she is, Miss Gifford?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll have a look in her pockets,’ Joseph said. ‘There’s usually something, though it depends how long she was in the water.’

  ‘There’s nothing—’ Connie began, then bit her tongue. She didn’t want anyone to know she had searched already.

  Crowther bent down and removed the blanket. She felt the atmosphere sharpen. Not simply shock, but something else. Surprise? She glanced around, and fancied she saw a look pass from Joseph to Crowther.

  Frowning, Joseph checked the woman’s pockets. ‘Nothing,’ he said, straightening up.

  Connie shivered. In the dying light, the woman’s skin looked translucent. Her face had lost all colour now, though her lips were chalk blue.

  ‘I think I know her,’ Archie said. ‘I can’t be sure, not when she’s been in the water, but her red hair . . . I think it’s the girl they’re talking about going missing, isn’t it?’

  Connie suddenly felt dizzy. Four men, a woman lying motionless on the ground. No one speaking. She wrapped her arms tightly round her waist to disguise her shaking hands.

  ‘Vera Barker – everyone called her Birdie. Used to feed the birds over Apuldram way.’ He turned to Gregory Joseph. ‘You knew her too, didn’t you?’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Pine said. ‘One of Tommy Barker’s daughters. There was some kind of falling-out – she was always a bit soft in the head, and of course, a man like Tommy couldn’t be doing with that. She was in Graylingwell for a while, or so I heard.’ He frowned. ‘Funny place for her to choose.’

  Connie realised that Pine, like Joseph, like Harry earlier, assumed it was a suicide.

  ‘Poor old Vera,’ Archie muttered, taking off his hat.

  ‘At this point,’ Crowther cut in, ‘it doesn’t matter how the unfortunate girl got here or what she was doing. We need to take her away and leave Miss Gifford in peace.’

  Connie nodded gratefully.

  ‘We’ll take good care of her, Miss Gifford, don’t worry.’

  ‘Steady,’ said Pine, as the men tried to slide the wooden board beneath the body. ‘On my count.’

  The two men put their hands beneath the wood and lifted the body up. One of Vera’s hands came loose, out from under the blanket. In the purple evening light, there were marks on her palm that looked like stigmata. She must have tried to protect herself from the wire. Connie felt the ground lurch beneath her feet.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Gifford?’ Crowther asked.

  ‘It’s been a distressing afternoon, but yes.’

  ‘Would you like me to find someone to sit with you, given that your father is indisposed? Mrs Pine, I’m sure, would be more than happy to oblige.’

  Connie was grateful for his concern, but she didn’t want a stranger in the house. She wanted to be left alone to think.

  ‘A good night’s sleep is all I need.’

  The solemn procession moved forward. Joseph and Lintott manoeuvred the makeshift stretcher through the gate, then continued in silence along the path. Connie could hear the squelch of their boots in the mud.

  She pressed a coin into the barman’s hand. ‘Thank you, Pine. All of you. And thank you, Mr Crowther, you’ve been most kind.’

  Crowther raised his hat. ‘Good evening, Miss Gifford.’

  *

  Connie waited until the last echoes of their voices had died away, then turned back to the house.

  The birds began their dusk chorus. A hen blackbird and her mate, collared doves and wood pigeons, the sweet trill of a chiffchaff. But the elegy for the dying day was overshadowed by the shrieking of the gulls out over the creek.

  Connie was chilled to the bone, terrified not of the coming dark or the solitude of the empty house, but of something larger and nameless and more malevolent.

  Gifford’s rambling conversation, then disappearance; the dead woman and the borrowed coat, too big for her, the threadbare clothes beneath. Joseph searching through Vera’s pockets as if he was looking for something in particular. Mr Crowther had noticed too, she was sure of it.

  Vera’s hands. What had Archie Lintott said? That she was known for feeding the wild birds. Scratches all over the tops of her hands and cuts on the palms. Connie hugged her arms around herself. Could Vera have been responsible for letting loose the birds in the church? And if so, why? Who would have persuaded her to do something so cruel?

  Across the estuary, midway between Fishbourne church and Apuldram, Connie saw a light. In the woods near Dell Quay. A single lamp burning in the dark. Someone making their way home across the fields? She watched for a moment, then it vanished.

  Feeling suddenly very vulnerable out on the marshes alone, Connie quickly went inside. She locked and bolted the scullery door, then the side and front doors, before going through to the drawing room to check the terrace was also secure. She didn’t want her father, if he came home, to find himself locked out, but she was too scared to leave the house open. If Gifford did return during the night, she’d no doubt he’d make noise enough for her to hear him.

  Connie lit the lamps, then poured herself a generous measure of her father’s brandy. She took the glass and the tartan carriage rug to the large window on the half-landing. She sat down and wrapped the blanket around her legs. She had a hard lump in her chest, a fist tightening around her heart.

  Last night, her father had kept watch from this spot. Now he’d disappeared. She didn’t know what he feared, or where he was, only that she felt some malice in the darkness too. Felt that someone was out there. Watching, waiting.

  She looked at the fragment of burnt paper and the single legible word: ASYLUM. Did it take on a new significance now she knew that Vera – if the dead woman was Vera – had been a patient there? And was the glass bead she’d taken from her pocket a match to the bead she’d picked up in the churchyard a week ago? Two black glass beads. It had not seemed important at the time, so she’d thrown it away. Another decision she regretted.

  She took a sip of brandy. Also, Gregory Joseph, Mr Pine and Archie Lintott had all been in the graveyard a week ago, along with her father and – now she was sure of it – poor Vera Barker in her borrowed coat.

  Had Mr Crowther also been there?

  Connie’s hand stole to the scar on the right side of her head, hidden beneath her hair. And with it, the fear came seeping through her bones, like ink through blotting paper, that what was happening now had its roots not in the gathering in a village churchyard last week – nor even in the fact that an unknown woman had stood watching the house a few days before that – but further back still.

  In the vanished days.

  This naturalist [Schoeffer], after skinning them, contented himself by cutting the birds longitudinally in two, and filling one half with plaster; fixing the skin properly at the back of a box, of a depth proportionate to the size of the bird, he stuck in an eye, and replaced or represented the beak and claws by painting; he then carefully fixed a
glass on this frame, to protect the object from insects.

  TAXIDERMY: OR, THE ART OF COLLECTING, PREPARING,

  AND MOUNTING OBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY

  Mrs R. Lee

  Longman & Co, Paternoster Row, London, 1820

  It is not a question of guilt or innocence, but of the punishment being equal to the crime.

  I gave him a chance to redeem himself. To confess to what he – what they – had done. To make it known. But the habit of concealment ran too deep in him and he did not listen. He could not see that his old respectable life was built on sand. That it was already lost.

  Jackdaw lay still. He was already dead, I showed him that kindness. His was a crime of omission, not commission. He deserved a different kind of reckoning. He was a coward and a hypocrite, but he was less guilty than the others. But he did not stop them and he held his tongue.

  I am certain that your conscience will be troubled. Not so much by the act itself, but rather by the method of it. You will wonder if I felt shock or revulsion. But, though I know these words damn me further, I did not.

  What else can I tell you?

  I can tell you how I placed a handkerchief over his face to hide his cloudy, unseeing eyes. How I undid the buttons, one by one by one, and folded the shirt back from the body. How I lined up the blade at the top of the breastbone, then manoeuvred the tip into place, separating sinew and muscle and vein, until I found the best point of entry.

  I did hesitate then. For a moment, I looked up and out of the windows on to the darkening night, and thought of you. And from that came courage.