The Taxidermist''s Daughter

  ‘When did Miss Crowley abscond?’ Pennicott asked.

  ‘At the beginning of April. Before Easter weekend. Our rules are very clear. If a patient succeeds in getting out, and remains at large for a period of fourteen days, then they are automatically discharged from our books.’

  ‘How often does such an occurrence take place?’

  ‘It’s very rare,’ Kidd replied. ‘Very rare indeed.’

  ‘How easy would it be?’ Harry asked. ‘When we came in, I noticed there weren’t the kind of high fences or gates I was expecting.’

  Kidd smiled. ‘It is part of our philosophy to create a natural, calming environment. We pride ourselves on our modern approach. But, to answer your question, it is difficult. I would go so far as to say that someone must have helped Miss Crowley, though no one has admitted to doing so. And as I said, she was popular. Helped those who could not read or write. Wrote letters for them, and suchlike. If other patients or even nurses knew of her intentions, they kept it to themselves.’

  Pennicott shut his notebook. ‘Thank you, sir. We won’t take up any more of your time. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Kidd showed them to the door. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Woolston,’ he said, holding out his hand to Harry. ‘All the same, you will let me know if there’s any news?’

  *

  Harry and Pennicott got back into the carriage.

  ‘When Kidd came out with the woman’s name,’ Harry said immediately, ‘you frowned. Why?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice, sir?’

  ‘Notice what?’

  ‘Her surname. Crowley. It’s Mr Gifford’s Christian name.’ Harry felt the policeman’s eyes on him. ‘Odd coincidence, don’t you think?’

  *

  Gregory Joseph was not the only person sheltering from the storm beneath the Market Cross.

  Sooner or later, it was said, if you stood at the Cross, everyone in Chichester would walk past. Joseph turned his collar up. All well and good, if you were prepared to wait long enough.

  His patience had been rewarded. He’d seen Constantia Gifford rush from North Street into South Street. Coming from Woolston’s house, he supposed. He tailed her as far as the station, where she picked up a taxi cab and he lost track of her.

  He had returned to his post at the Cross in time to see Sergeant Pennicott and Harold Woolston come out of Gerald White’s offices. He’d loved to have been a fly on the wall while White tried to explain away his black eye and broken nose.

  Pennicott and Woolston then leapt into a carriage waiting at the kerb and headed for Frederick Brook’s offices in West Street. Joseph had known, then, that Crowther’s concerns were justified. The police officer had put two and two together. Had worked out that Brook, White and Woolston were connected.

  He quickly slipped from his hiding place at the Cross and rushed down West Street, to keep a better eye on what they were doing. He found shelter in the doorway of St Peter’s Church, almost opposite Brook’s front door, and waited.

  Gregory Joseph had no illusions about the sort of man he was. A brawler, a petty thief, a man not averse to making the most of information that came his way. Free with his fists from time to time, but only with those who had it coming. He was prepared to take his chances when standing at the Pearly Gates.

  But this? This was different. When she’d asked for his help – told him what they had done – for the first time in his life Joseph believed himself to be on the side of the angels. Administering justice when the law was blind. One rule for the rich, one for the poor; always been the same way. He’d no doubt Pennicott wouldn’t see it like that, but it was natural justice.

  He was proud to help. Proud to be righting a wrong.

  He stamped his feet and shook the water from his shoes. What was starting to bother him, though, was Gifford’s place in the scheme of things. He had assumed that Gifford was involved with Brook and the others and had for some reason fallen out with them. That was why he’d been set to spy on him from the Old Salt Mill.

  But was that right?

  And how did Connie Gifford and Harry Woolston fit into things?

  Suddenly he realised that Woolston and Pennicott were back out on the street and heading towards him. He shot across the street and threw himself into the doorway of the Bell Tower. He heard their raised voices, shouting to be heard over the noise of the wind. He gave it a couple of seconds, then stepped out and followed them back up West Street.

  *

  ‘Well?’ Harry demanded. ‘What did he say?’

  They had agreed it was better if Harry – given his relationship with Brook – stayed out of sight.

  ‘Mr Brook has not come in today either,’ Pennicott said. ‘The clerk found a letter lying on the hall floor this morning. He swears it wasn’t there when he went home last night.’

  ‘Sutton would know. He never leaves anything to chance.’

  Pennicott held out the sheet of paper. The wind nearly ripped it out of his fingers.

  Harry took it, then frowned. ‘Isn’t this the same address that White’s office said was in his appointments diary for yesterday?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘What are we going to do? Go there, or wait for reinforcements?’

  ‘There’s no evidence that any crime has been committed,’ Pennicott said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Harry said fiercely. ‘Four men are missing, Pennicott. And what about Vera Barker?’

  ‘I only have your word for that, at present.’

  ‘Someone forged my father’s name on her death certificate,’ Harry ploughed on. ‘It must be possible to find out who.’

  The bells of the cathedral began to strike twelve. Suprised, Harry looked up at the time.

  ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I had no idea it was so late. Miss Gifford will have been waiting for hours. I’ve got to go to my house and tell her, if she’s still there – God, I hope she’s still there – what we’ve discovered. Will you wait for me? For us? I want to come with you. If there’s any chance my father might be . . . I want to be there.’

  Pennicott put his heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder.

  ‘Best to leave it to me from here on in, sir,’ he said firmly. ‘You’ve been helpful, I don’t deny it, but this is an official police matter. As you say, four men are missing, all it appears with a connection to one another.’

  ‘You can’t do this, Pennicott,’ Harry said in disbelief. ‘I have the right to be present.’

  ‘With respect, Mr Woolston, you do not.’

  ‘Pennicott, I insist.’

  ‘Get out of the storm and into the dry. Talk to your Miss Gifford. Tell her as much as you think is appropriate, without giving her further cause for alarm.’

  ‘For the last time, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Harry suddenly realised that Pennicott was as much trying to protect him as wanting to stick to the rules.

  ‘You think my father’s on the wrong side of this, don’t you?’

  Pennicott held his gaze. ‘It’s a police matter now, sir.’

  ‘My father wouldn’t be caught up in . . .’ Harry heard his voice rising. ‘How dare you even consider that a man like him would in—’

  ‘Go home,’ Pennicott said, this time with a touch of steel in his voice. ‘Look after Miss Gifford.’

  ‘You must report this, Pennicott. You can’t do this on your own.’

  ‘Mr Woolston, given what we know now – the sort of men who appear to be involved in this business – don’t you think it’s better for us to keep it to ourselves for as long as possible? As soon as I have the evidence I need, I will act.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go home, Mr Woolston.’

  Chapter 45

  Blackthorn House

  Fishbourne Marshes

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ Davey said, running back into the room. ‘Are there any more sandbags I can use, Mary? A flour bag we could fill?’

&nb
sp; ‘In the pantry,’ Mary said, though she didn’t turn to look at him. Mrs Christie said nothing.

  The boy stared, then turned on his heel. ‘All right, I’ll do it all on my own. Even if the rain’s coming down in stair rods.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Mary said.

  She folded her hands on her lap, then unfolded them again. She was restless, didn’t know what to do. Only now, after listening to her mother’s story, did Mary realise she’d never before asked herself what sort of woman her mother was, or what she’d been like when she was young.

  ‘I don’t regret it for an instant,’ Mrs Christie said. ‘If I had my time over, I’d do the same again.’

  Mary had no memory of her real father. Her earliest memories were of living in Lavant, with her mother and her new father. A few years later, the twins coming along. Then Mr Christie becoming ill, and moving to Fishbourne when he died. By the age of forty, her mother had buried two husbands.

  Mary glanced at her mother and saw the strain on her face. She couldn’t take in that her mother and Mr Gifford had been friends – fond friends, by the sound of it – but that she had never mentioned it until now.

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Mrs Christie said. ‘Ten years is a long time.’

  Mary crossed the room and put her arms around her mother. ‘I’m proud of you, Ma,’ she said. ‘Having the wits to get her proper care.’ She paused. ‘Does Miss Gifford not remember you?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Christie shook her head, then reconsidered. ‘At least, I think she knew we’d met before, but no more than that.’

  ‘But you saved her life, Ma.’

  ‘And the doctor,’ she said. ‘He did just enough to keep her going. Very anxious his name wasn’t mentioned.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, love.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘That’s why it gave me a turn when you came home talking about a Mr Woolston. It brought it all back.’ She sighed. ‘Poor little scrap. Ill for ever such a long time, and then, when she was better, her memory gone. No bad thing, as it turned out.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Gifford took on this young woman to teach Miss Gifford. Nothing as fancy as a governess, just basic teaching. More like part of the family, a big sister to Connie. He was very good to the girl. But when he lost the museum, then with Miss Gifford being ill, she moved on. Left them in the lurch.’

  ‘Was she the ungrateful type?’ Mary asked.

  Her mother frowned. ‘To be fair, Cassie was a lovely girl.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But she upped and left them. It would have broken Connie’s heart, if she’d have remembered. So it was for the best in one way.’

  ‘Did you say Cassie?’

  ‘That’s right. Short for Cassandra; silly name I always thought.’ She hesitated. ‘What is it, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘The master kept talking about her last night, Ma. I was half asleep, not listening or anything, but hearing, if you know what I mean? Mr Gifford said she was dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘When? Did he say when?’

  Mary frowned. ‘No, but he mentioned not knowing about the funeral, so recently, I suppose.’

  Mary watched her mother take a deep breath, then suddenly begin to sob.

  ‘It’s all right, Ma,’ she said quickly. ‘No need to take on.’

  Mrs Christie took a handkerchief from her sleeve. They both looked up at a noise from the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to, and all that,’ Davey said from the threshold, ‘but these sandbags isn’t going to be enough. Look.’

  Mary squeezed her mother’s hand, then went to the window and wiped the glass with her sleeve.

  Black clouds were rushing across the fields and over the creek, blown by the ferocious sou’westerly wind. There was no longer a difference between the land and the sea. The spit in the middle of the creek had vanished and the water had breached the wall of the garden of Salt Mill House. The mill itself looked as if it might buckle and collapse and be swept away at any moment.

  ‘Much more of this and we’ll be cut off,’ Davey said.

  Mary ran to the side window, noticing how the seawater was already surging up against the banks of hawthorn and blackthorn. Sometimes covering the footpath and draining back, but soon it would be into the lowest-lying reaches of the garden.

  ‘Did Miss Gifford say how long she’d be, Davey?’ Mrs Christie said.

  He shook his head. ‘Only that she’d be quick as she could. Back before the tide started to come in.’ He paused. ‘She’s late.’

  ‘Just look at it,’ Mary whispered.

  Mrs Christie walked to the door. ‘I’m going to wake the master,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s Gifford’s house. It’s up to him to tell us what he wants done.’

  Mary felt Davey’s thin fingers grasp her arm.

  ‘Look,’ he said, pointing through the glass. ‘Someone’s out on the marshes.’

  Mary rubbed the glass again, then, when she couldn’t see properly, ran up the stairs to the large window on the half-landing for a better look. Davey followed. Through the driving rain, and across the water, a small, dark figure could just be seen battling his way along the sea wall on the Apuldram side of the creek.

  ‘Ma,’ she called. ‘Ma! It’s him.’

  Mrs Christie joined them. Her hands flew to her mouth.

  ‘Didn’t you tell me Gifford hadn’t the strength hardly to stand, let alone get himself downstairs and all the way over there?’

  As they watched, Gifford suddenly changed direction and headed inland, disappearing from their view in the rain and spray.

  ‘Miss Gifford asked me to hold the fort,’ Davey wailed. ‘To keep an eye on him.’

  Mary put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re not to blame.’

  ‘I am. She left me in charge.’

  Mrs Christie turned to Davey. ‘Here’s your chance to make amends. You’ve got to go after him, lad. Stop him. Can you do that?’

  ‘Stop him doing what, Ma?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘Only, I want him back safe here. He shouldn’t be out there, not with the tide coming in. Not with all this going on.’

  ‘What do you mean? Do you think he’s in danger?’

  Mrs Christie didn’t answer. ‘Can you get to him, boy? Bring him home?’

  Davey looked to Mary, who nodded.

  A few minutes later, he was racing down the treacherous footpath towards Mill Lane. The water was lapping up to his ankles, but he knew the safest tracks over the dips and folds of the unstable ground. He knew where the mud was deepest, most dangerous.

  ‘Bring him back in one piece,’ Mary called after him. ‘But you take care of yourself, too. Do you hear me, Davey?’

  Mill Lane

  Fishbourne

  The rain beat down on Davey’s face and the wind boxed his ears. Over the creek, the break and crack of thunder. He glanced up the road and saw, on the corner by the Bull’s Head, Gregory Joseph come out of the tavern. Looking back the other way, he saw a trap approaching, slowing down. Recognising the driver, Davey nodded but didn’t stop, anxious nothing should delay him.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be out in such weather. A new storm is coming in; you should be inside.’

  ‘But it’s Mr Gifford, sir,’ Davey said, struggling to catch his breath. ‘He’s out on the sea wall. Mrs Christie’s sent me to fetch him home. She’s worried for him.’

  Davey wiped his nose on his sleeve. The rain was streaming down his face, and every moment he stood talking, he felt Mr Gifford getting further away. He’d failed in his duty once. He didn’t want to fail again. ‘So I need to get on. I gave my word.’

  ‘What about I take you in the trap?’ he said.

  Davey’s eyes widened. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Climb in the back, young man. We’ll be there
in no time.’

  This method of passing the central wire through the neck after it is stuffed, is preferable to all others, not only because it is easier, but because it preserves the neck in its cylindrical form: we even stuff the neck of a swan before we introduce the wire.

  TAXIDERMY: OR, THE ART OF COLLECTING, PREPARING,

  AND MOUNTING OBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY

  Mrs R. Lee

  Longman & Co, Paternoster Row, London, 1820

  These are the last words I will write. My last instruction is for your journal to be returned to you.

  It is almost over.

  The rain continues to fall and the wind to howl over the estuary. If he does not arrive soon – the last of my four guests – I fear the track from the road to the sea will be impassable.

  I have lost my appetite for this game. The preparations and the planning and the execution. The end is all that matters.

  Have I said there are things I regret? Poor, dear Birdie, lost through this sorry business. The fact that you and I did not, could not, meet. The fact that I caused profound grief to one who tried only to do his best by me. Had he known my intentions, though, he would have tried to stop me and I could not allow that.

  I knew, long before he did, that there was no comfort to be had. All those years of talking cures, of kindness, the sunlit terraces and pink and white horse chestnut trees in the park. Everything designed to soothe a troubled mind. None of it made any difference in the end.

  Then I saw one of them – Jackdaw – in a crowd of men in top hats and tails, the men of the committee come to sit in judgement. Rage, anger such as I had never experienced before, and I understood.

  I could not forget and I would not forgive while they walked free.

  Crime, punishment, justice.

  *