The Door That Led to Where

  The next day arrived to the sound of bells hammering out over London. One thing was for sure, no one could sleep through it unless they were stone deaf. The chamber shuddered with the noise.

  Slim was already up and dressed.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ asked AJ.

  ‘To see St Paul’s, remember?’ said Slim.

  ‘Since when have you been interested in sightseeing?’

  ‘When in Rome,’ said Slim, ‘do as the Romans.’

  Mrs Furby said again how sorry she was that AJ couldn’t join them. Slim told her that, anyway, AJ belonged to a different kind of congregation. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said AJ uncertainly.

  ‘The Church of the Anaesthetists,’ said Slim.

  Mrs Furby had never heard of it before. Slim winked at AJ and said he would tell her about it on the way to St Paul’s.

  AJ watched Slim and Mrs Furby walk together down the street, Slim holding forth about some crazy religious stuff that no one in that century or any other century had ever heard before.

  AJ went back to his room with the books Mrs Furby had lent him. In the first one he read:

  BASIC SOCIAL RULES FOR GENTLEMEN

  Stare in no one’s face.

  Eat not fast nor slow.

  Smell not your meat when eating.

  Spit not onto the carpet.

  Offer not another your handkerchief.

  Always wear gloves on the street, in church & at other formal occasions, except when eating or drinking. White or cream coloured gloves for evening, grey or other darker colours for day wear.

  Remove your hat when entering a building.

  Stand up when a lady enters a room.

  AJ wasn’t sure he would ever master 1830s etiquette. It seemed so pointless. The second book was on social rules for ladies. It was shocking. As far as he could make out, ladies weren’t allowed to read books or go to the theatre. Even Shakespeare was thought to be too much for their frail constitutions to bear. When he reached the part about how a lady must always be corseted he wondered why there hadn’t been a mass rebellion. He thought of Miss Esme. She was so skinny, there was surely nothing to corset; and as for always being chaperoned, well, he’d only met her twice and on both occasions she wasn’t.

  According to this set of rules she had blown her chances in the marriage cattle market.

  This is retarded, thought AJ to himself. But better buy some gloves, just in case.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  AJ wondered if Clerkenwell Green had ever been green. The houses surrounding it and the church all looked pretty enough but quite where green came in he didn’t know. Several hens had escaped from a backyard and were being chased by a boy with a stick; horses clip-clopped past. Most people seemed to walk with a purpose. AJ, being early, dawdled, looking in the shops. One caught his fancy. It sold nothing but birds. A raven stood in a cage, pecking at the bars; there were singing canaries, even a nightingale, and in a dark corner were two magpies. The shop owner perched on a stool, covered in white dust, looking as if all he was missing was his feathers.

  ‘Are they all for sale?’ AJ asked him.

  ‘Every single one of them,’ he said. ‘All trained, all as polite as a bird can be.’

  The church clock struck a quarter to four and it was already dark, the streets emptying of people, with only dim lamps lighting the way. When he returned to Mrs Furby’s, he decided, he would treat himself to a hackney carriage.

  He hoped that he might be able to see Miss Esme alone, although, according to the book on manners, such a meeting was out of the question. He didn’t fancy telling Miss Esme about Nonsuch in Mrs Meacock’s presence.

  He knocked on the Daltons’ door feeling more nervous than he thought he should.

  A manservant let him in and said that Mrs Meacock wasn’t yet home. AJ handed over his hat, coat and muffler but wasn’t sure if he should keep the grey leather gloves, especially as he’d gone to all the trouble of buying them. Shouldn’t he at least show them off? The manservant was impatient and reluctantly AJ let him take the gloves as well. The house was bitterly cold and he was surprised to find he could see his breath indoors more clearly than he could outside.

  ‘Mr Jobey.’

  He looked up. Miss Esme stood on the stairs, wearing a black dress more stylish than anything she had worn before.

  ‘Please come up and warm yourself,’ she said.

  The drawing room felt like a mausoleum.

  Miss Esme stood by the fire.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m early,’ AJ said. ‘I wanted to see you alone.’

  She blushed. He hadn’t seen a girl blush like that since Year Nine when Kiely Scott’s knickers fell down in the playground.

  AJ felt awkward. All the easy conversation of their last meeting had gone. The house felt as heavy as nightmares – not a place AJ wanted to stay in long. The drawing room was oppressive, the furniture judgmental, the mantelpiece, the pictures, the ornaments overbearing. It appeared to him that at any moment Miss Esme would be crushed by their weight.

  He was at a loss as to what to say. The tick of the clock seemed to swallow all possible topics of conversation. There was an uncomfortable silence; it was as if they hardly knew one another.

  ‘Is your mother in?’ he asked.

  ‘My mother? She died in a madhouse. My father was quite sure I too would end up there.’

  ‘Why? You seem perfectly sane to me,’ said AJ. ‘What sent your mother mad?’

  ‘My father,’ she said quietly. ‘Of that I have always been certain.’ She hesitated. ‘My mother worked to help the women prisoners who were brought to trial at the Old Bailey. My father believed that Newgate Prison was the cause of her malady. Ten years ago they took her away. I wasn’t allowed to see her again. Three years later she died.’

  What AJ would have given to be able to talk to her as he had before, without all the jagged edges of etiquette.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m a traveller – I haven’t got the right language.’

  ‘You have more honesty and understanding than many others.’

  Feeling bolder, AJ said, ‘Can I ask you a question? Were you ever close to your father?’

  The light went out of her face.

  Her voice tightened. ‘No, never. What makes you ask?’

  Because, thought AJ, I’ve just met an ex-con who claims to be your real dad.

  Human beings are basically all the same, it’s only the gadgets that have changed. His world was cluttered with emails, texts and mobile phones and still, he thought, we don’t know how to communicate.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come so early,’ he said.

  ‘Will you sit?’ she said.

  AJ sat.

  ‘My father’s death was put down to an infection.’

  ‘Not poison as you thought?’ said AJ.

  She shook her head.

  ‘When my father’s will was read, I found out that I had inherited his estate, but if I were to go mad or die before I married then the estate would go to Mrs Meacock.’

  ‘You remember the lawyer, Mr Baldwin,’ said AJ. ‘You said he helped your father with the will.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why he advised my father to frame his will as he did, I wish I knew.’

  ‘Mr Baldwin died three days ago of arsenic poisoning.’

  All the colour in her face drained away.

  ‘Another one, then,’ she said.

  She was about to say more when outside the room a stair creaked. AJ hadn’t lived with his mother for seventeen years without knowing when someone’s ear was firmly embedded in a door. He put his finger to his lips.

  ‘It’s much colder here than in my city,’ he said and moved quietly to the door.

  He opened it so suddenly that Mrs Meacock tumbled into the room. AJ helped her to her feet.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she said, her voice flavoured with artificial sweeteners. She was a small woman with a righteous air about her to disguise
her nosiness. AJ noticed that Miss Esme moved quickly away from her. ‘And here you are, Mr Jobey. It is a pleasure to see you again. Poor Miss Esme has been through such a terrible time, haven’t you, my dear, that you quite forgot that you should be chaperoned when a gentleman pays a visit. It is just us, Mr Jobey. I hope you don’t mind but we are in mourning.’

  ‘I understand,’ said AJ.

  Mrs Meacock seated herself, making a play of her skirts and reminding AJ of a cartoon hen sat upon an egg.

  They talked, or rather Mrs Meacock talked, and made long sentences into small talk until a tray of tea was served accompanied by a decanter of wine with one glass. AJ smiled to himself, imagining what Mrs Meacock might make of TV suppers. She poured the tea, still talking. AJ wondered if she ever stopped talking.

  He had just succeeded in balancing his cup and saucer and his plate of sandwiches when Mrs Meacock said to Miss Esme, ‘Why, my dear, I have only just noticed that you aren’t wearing the necklace that I left out on your dressing table.’

  Instinctively, Miss Esme’s hand went to her throat as if she supposed it might be there.

  ‘I couldn’t find it,’ she said.

  Mrs Meacock laughed.

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. That is not possible. I put it on your dressing table, you saw me do it – remember?’

  Miss Esme looked down at her tea cup.

  ‘My dear, do not upset yourself unnecessarily. I am sure it is easily found.’

  AJ felt he should say something.

  ‘You look fab with or without a necklace,’ he said, and then felt a right idiot.

  ‘That isn’t the point,’ said Mrs Meacock, her sweetness flavoured with lemon.

  She rang the bell and the manservant returned. Mrs Meacock asked him to send Miss Esme’s maid to look for a necklace on her mistress’s dressing table.

  AJ couldn’t work out why she was making such a fuss.

  ‘Oh, forgive me, Mr Jobey,’ she said. ‘Please have some Madeira wine.’

  She poured him a glass.

  ‘Is no one else drinking?’ AJ asked.

  ‘No, I took the pledge. And wine is not good for Miss Esme’s constitution. Mr Dalton kept a very fine wine cellar.’

  AJ was about to take a sip and then thought perhaps this might be a good time to ask about her late master.

  ‘It was strange that Mr Dalton should have mistaken me for someone else,’ said AJ.

  ‘Oh, I have seen it happen to many a dying soul,’ said Mrs Meacock. ‘When they’re nearing the end they think they see ghosts. I like to think of them as angels waiting to take them to a far better place.’

  AJ knew one thing: it was no angel Mr Dalton had thought he’d seen before he conked it.

  A maid came into the room and handed Mrs Meacock a necklace.

  ‘Where did you find it, Agnes?’ she asked.

  ‘On Miss Dalton’s dressing table, madam, just where you said.’

  The maid was dismissed. Mrs Meacock stood and went to fasten it round Miss Esme’s neck. AJ saw her flinch.

  ‘How do you find the Madeira, Mr Jobey?’ Mrs Meacock asked.

  ‘Oh,’ said AJ, picking up the glass again. He was about to drink when Miss Esme reached across and knocked the glass from his hand.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘So sorry. You shouldn’t have come here. You should stay away.’

  And before he could think what to say she had fled the room.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Meacock. ‘And there was I thinking it would be such a pleasant distraction for her to have a visitor. It is very sad, Mr Jobey. She was always a sensitive child and, alas, her father’s death has unsettled her state of mind.’

  ‘I should be going,’ said AJ.

  ‘No, no,’ insisted Mrs Meacock. ‘At least have some Madeira.’

  ‘No, thank you. I am expected for dinner.’

  Outside on St John Street there wasn’t a hackney cab to be seen. He was about to walk away when he looked up at the house and saw Miss Esme in one of the windows, her hand pressed against the glass. She seemed to be waving at him although he wondered if she wasn’t calling for help.

  Slim was looking very pleased with himself when AJ returned to Mrs Furby’s. He’d spent an hour playing cards with Mr Flint and had won handsomely. He was full of his success, and Mrs Furby had been delighted by his generosity for he’d refused in the end to take a penny from Mr Flint.

  ‘You know, she called me a real gentleman. How about that?’

  But AJ was lost in his thoughts. Ever since he’d left the Dalton house he’d been going over and over all the things that Miss Esme had said to him. He felt as if he had met two different Esmes, one full of life and questions, the other imprisoned in herself. Was it possible that this other Esme hated her father enough to have poisoned him – and Mr Baldwin as well? Then there was Mrs Meacock: she was more than a bit weird. What was all that nonsense about the necklace? And why had Miss Esme knocked the glass from his hand? There were too many questions and a shortage of answers.

  ‘What’s up, bro?’ said Slim.

  ‘You haven’t asked how I came to know about the door.’

  ‘No,’ said Slim. ‘I reckoned you’d tell me in your own good time.

  ‘I think a good time might be now,’ said AJ.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  On Monday morning, Morton was deep in a series of meetings with Mr Groat.

  ‘Something big’s going down,’ said Stephen.

  AJ was looking at his emails in the hope that Leon might have contacted him. Much to his surprise there was an email from Mr Haggerty.

  He pulled his chair closer and clicked on the attachment. The past crashed into him with such a jolt that he felt he had whiplash.

  Annie Sorrell Executed For the Murder by Poison of the Jobey Family.

  The case of this unfortunate young woman is still a mystery. The question of her innocence or guilt divided public opinion at the time.

  Annie Sorrell was an uneducated seventeen-year-old servant girl with, by all contemporary accounts, a natural intelligence. She was tall, handsome and had a cheerful disposition. At the time of the murders she was engaged to a young man to whom she appeared to have been sincerely attached.

  The murder of the Jobey family took place on Saturday, 13th February 1813 at their country house in rural Colney Hatch Lane, north of London. Old Jobey, as he was known, and his wife had one daughter. The Jobeys’ only surviving son, Lucas, was born seven years after the death of his last sibling. By all accounts the boy was everything his father had wanted. He was educated at Westminster and went up to Cambridge where he had shown an interest in the law. But Old Jobey was keen for him to inherit the family business and Lucas Jobey travelled extensively on his father’s behalf.

  It was on Lucas’s return from one of these journeys that Old Jobey’s health began to deteriorate. He had bouts of temper that were completely out of character and his doctor suggested rest and less meat in the diet.

  Mr Ingleby, who was employed as a secretary in Old Jobey’s service, said in his evidence at the inquest that at the beginning of that fateful week his master had not been sleeping well. He refused to take the drafts the doctor gave him, calling them poison. Every night he would check, then check again that all the doors were locked. On the Friday he summoned the family to meet the following day on a matter of urgency.

  At the house that Saturday was Old Jobey, his wife, their son Lucas and his sister, Rosamund.

  Old Jobey gave the servants the day off. He was a very private man and did not want sensitive family business overheard by anyone. His wife protested, surprised that not even his trusted secretary Ingleby was to remain. Finally, Old Jobey agreed that Annie Sorrell should be left to serve the midday meal.

  Annie Sorrell had been with the family two years.

  In her testament she said that she had heated the mushroom soup as instructed by Cook and had tasted it with no ill effects. She had left it for a moment to answer the front-door bell
but when she went upstairs there was nobody there.

  On returning to the kitchen she poured the soup into a tureen and took it up to the dining room where the family was deep in conversation. She overheard that Lucas Jobey had recently married and intended to live abroad. She left the soup on the table and went to fetch the pies and cold meats. When she returned, her master was in a furious mood. Her mistress looked frightened and told Annie she would not be needed for the rest of the day.

  Annie Sorrell was in the kitchen when the bell to her mistress’s bedroom rang. She went up the stairs, past the dining room where she heard raised voices, and on up to her mistress’s room. Annie Sorrell said she found it empty save for a magpie.

  She claimed to remember nothing further and concluded that she had fainted. When she came to it was twilight.

  She looked round the bedroom and thought she must have dreamt the magpie for there was no sign of the bird. She lit a candle and made her way downstairs, wondering why no one had called for her. Old Jobey was insistent that the candles were lit at dusk. She noted the time on the hall clock as being half-past five and hurried into the dining room to clear away the dishes before Mr Ingleby and the servants returned at six o’clock. In her testament she said that she heard a rattling, chattering sound and as she opened the door she felt truly afraid, but it was nothing to what followed.

  The family were slumped over the table. All were dead. The tablecloth and rugs were stained with vomit and blood, and strutting about the table was the magpie. Annie Sorrell said she was terrified and ran from the house.

  Mr Ingleby arrived with the servants to find the house in darkness. It was he who discovered the dreadful sight. The kitchen boy was sent to fetch a constable.

  The physician who examined the bodies found unmistakeable signs that the victims had been poisoned.

  Annie Sorrell was quickly brought to trial, found guilty and sentenced. An eminent lawyer, Mr Stone of Gray’s Inn, went to the judge, offering to produce evidence that proved she could not have committed the crime. The judge assured him that such evidence would be wholly useless and the girl would be hanged in due course.