ANNABEL KROUT PULLS back the moreen curtains of her new bedroom and looks outside, into the dark street below. A light breeze is stirring the fog in Duncan Terrace. It sends dead leaves rustling through the public gardens, and, all along the road opposite, the gas-lamps appear to flicker in sequence, as if at the passing of some unseen presence. There is, she thinks, something unusual in the distance; odd lights and movement that she cannot quite make out. She turns round to address the maid-servant who is unpacking her clothing, engaged in the delicate process of laying out her dresses in the ottoman beside her bed. The maid is a plump young woman, some twenty-five or -six years old. She silently scolds herself that she cannot remember the girl’s name.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says at last, shyly, ‘you must forgive me, but I don’t recall your—’
‘Jacobs, Miss.’
Of course, she thinks to herself. Not Annie, Mary or Sarah – the surname is the thing.
‘Jacobs, tell me, what is that?’
‘Miss?’ says the maid, looking up from her task. Annabel beckons her over to the window.
‘There, past those houses.’
‘Oh, I see, Miss. That’s the canal, and there’s a tunnel just there,’ she says, pointing, ‘with boats coming through it pretty regular. It runs right under these houses. It’s the lights off the barges, and the water. Looks queer with the fog, don’t it?’
‘Ah, I see. Thank you.’
Jacobs nods. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss, but you’re from America?’
Annabel Krout smiles at the observation. ‘Yes, I am. From Boston.’
‘Well, you’d hardly know it, Miss,’ says the maid, in a confidential, sympathetic tone.
‘Thank you!’ replies Annabel, amused.
‘What’s it like over there, Miss?’
‘Well, this time of year, it is a little colder than here, I should say. But the air is better. We have fogs, but we don’t get fog like this.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t like it colder,’ the maid replies, placing the last dress in the ottoman, ‘begging your pardon.’
‘You were born in London?’ asks Annabel Krout.
‘Yes, Miss, just down the City Road here. Not half a mile away.’
‘Well, you must tell me about your family sometime, and where you grew up.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss,’ replies the maid.
Annabel blushes, feeling she has overstepped some invisible boundary of familiarity.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I can finish here, if you like. I mean to say, that’s fine, Jacobs. You go on.’
‘Miss?’
‘I’ll do the rest myself. That should do for now.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’
Annabel Krout watches the maid depart, with a peculiar sense she has somehow embarrassed them both. Her remaining cases sit idle by the side of her bed, but she does not quite have the enthusiasm to open them. She consoles herself with the thought that it is a pleasant room. The walls are papered a light shade of green, with a pattern of trailing leaves; a brass half-tester bed, draped with rich pink-striped chintz, dominates the centre and, against one wall, is the ottoman, a chair and a writing desk. Upon the opposite side, by the door, sits a japanned toilette table and marble-topped wash-stand. All in all, she decides, her new room is much better than her bedroom at home.
A noise downstairs distracts her from her thoughts. She walks from her room and descends to the first-floor landing. Annabel watches as the front door is opened by the butler, Jervis, and a man enters the hall. The new arrival is more than fifty years of age, his hair black, with flecks of grey, slicked back from his forehead, with side-whiskers and a closely clipped moustache. It is an angular, handsome profile. Moreover, there is a certain imperiousness to the man’s manner, in the way he presents his hat and gloves to the butler, that instantly marks him as the master of the house, even before the appearance of his wife.
‘Woodrow!’
‘My dear?’ replies Jasper Woodrow.
‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘A matter of business,’ says Woodrow hurriedly. ‘You know I cannot keep regular hours like some petty clerk.’
‘But, Woodrow, did you forget Miss Krout? I had to go and collect her myself, you know. Why, if Mr. Langley had not accompanied me, I don’t know what I should have done.’
‘Langley? What has he to do with Miss Krout? I hardly—’
Jasper Woodrow falls silent as, looking up by chance, he catches sight of Annabel upon the first-floor landing. Annabel herself colours visibly for the second time in as many minutes; and, although it is an irrational idea, she cannot shake from her mind the thought that she has somehow been caught eavesdropping.
‘Annabel,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘do come down.’
‘I am sorry,’ she says, ‘I did not mean to . . .’
‘Did not mean to what, my dear? Do come down and let me introduce you.’
Annabel descends the stairs, and smiles nervously at Jasper Woodrow. He smiles back, but it is as polite and business-like a smile as she has ever seen.
‘Woodrow, this is my cousin Annabel. Annabel, this is my thoughtless beast of a husband.’
Mrs. Woodrow utters the words with good humour. Nonetheless, the man in question interposes, ‘Really, Melissa, a bit strong.’
‘My darling, you kept Annabel waiting in the cold at that awful station,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘she might have froze.’
‘Really,’ interjects Annabel, a trifle weakly, ‘I really was not cold at all.’
‘We even delayed dinner,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘although Mrs. Figgis was not best pleased.’
‘But we have just eaten,’ adds Annabel, attempting something conciliatory.
‘We could wait no longer,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, reaching out to her husband. ‘Let Jervis have your coat, and we will see what Mrs. Figgis can manage. You must make amends.’
‘Don’t fuss, woman,’ says Jasper Woodrow, brushing her hands aside. He checks himself, however, as if suddenly conscious of how brusque his words may sound. ‘You’ll forgive me, Miss Krout, I have had a long day, and I must go and change. Have you met Lucinda?’
‘It is hardly the hour for that, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, chiding him.
‘No, I suppose not. I will be in the study – have something sent up, I don’t much care what.’
‘You are not coming down?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I thought we might have a nice talk and teach Annabel whist; she tells me she does not know it. Can you believe that? We might play single dummy, at least.’
Jasper Woodrow emphatically shakes his head. ‘I will be in the study. Have something sent up.’
His wife frowns, but assents. ‘I’ll see what Mrs. Figgis can do.’
‘Good. Good night, Miss Krout.’
With a bow, Mr. Woodrow ascends the stairs. There is a distinct muttering under his breath, which both Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin can hear quite clearly.
‘Damn Mrs. Figgis.’
Once Mr. Woodrow is out of earshot, however, his wife takes her cousin to one side. ‘He is out of sorts, my dear. You must forgive him, for my sake.’
‘Please, cousin, there is nothing to forgive,’ says Annabel Krout.
‘I swear,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I wish I knew what it was. But he is such a dear man, you know. You will see, my dear.’
Jasper Woodrow closes the door to his study, and slowly locks it from the inside. There is a blazing fire awaiting him in the hearth, as is the household custom on a winter’s evening. Under his arm is a clean shirt, taken from his wardrobe; he puts it down upon the leather armchair, before the fireplace. He then takes off his coat, and jacket, and removes his collar and cuffs. Finally, he takes off his shirt, and places it upon the floor, quickly changing into the new one.
The old shirt is soaked through with sweat; and upon one side the material is stained a dark blood-black.
Woodrow begins to tear at it with his hands, his movements frenzied and nervous, throwing the scraps of cloth upon the fire.