JASPER WOODROW’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.
‘I am always impressed by the quality of your staff, sir,’ remarks Langley in a whisper, as the two men descend the carpeted stairs to the ground floor.
‘All well-trained and rigorously selected,’ replies Woodrow. ‘That is half the secret of running a decent establishment, of any kind.’
The ground floor of Woodrow’s is principally devoted to dresses and materials: merinos, velvets and satin lie upon counters; jewellery has a separate corner; black-bordered stationery another. Woodrow and Langley, walking together towards the entrance, receive a nod from the doorman, and proceed into High Holborn.
‘You say “of any kind”, sir. Were you not always in the mourning business?’ asks Langley.
‘The mourning house was my wife’s family’s; but I have always been in business,’ replies Woodrow, as they turn right, down Drury Lane. ‘You must forgive me taking you down this wretched street, I hope. I believe it is the quickest way.’
‘Of course.’
‘Ah,’ says Langley, at length, as the two men cross the Strand, by St. Mary’s Church, and proceed towards Fleet Street, ‘I neglected to mention that I chanced upon your wife and her cousin this morning, in Regent’s Park.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I believe they had been to the Zoo.’
‘I should not be surprised – they had Lucinda with them?’
‘That would be your little girl? Yes, they did,’ says Langley. If he contemplates mentioning Lucy’s truancy, he decides against it.
‘The child has a fascination for the place. Quite unhealthy.’
‘Really?’
Woodrow frowns. ‘And I understand you accompanied my wife to Euston station last night, to meet Miss Krout?’
‘I had hoped to find you at home, sir – you said I might call, if I was near by? And Mrs. Woodrow seemed a little distressed. I thought I might be of assistance, under the circumstances.’
‘No, I am in your debt, Langley. I would not have heard the end of it, had you not been there. Tell me, what did you make of Miss Krout?’
‘A charming girl, I should say.’
‘So should I. She is an heiress too; did you know that? The father made a fortune, invested in railroads; now he owns a biscuit factory or some such.’
‘Biscuits?’
‘Hard to credit it, I know. A pretty little mouse, isn’t she? A man could do much worse. I’d marry her myself if I were twenty years younger.’
‘Mrs. Woodrow might object.’
‘That she might, Langley, that she might. I expect she’s after some young buck, anyhow, eh?’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t say,’ says Langley.
‘Ah, here we are,’ says Woodrow, as they approach their destination.
‘After you, sir.’
Langley follows Woodrow inside the Rainbow Tavern. The building itself lies on the south of Fleet Street, a few paces from the ancient archway of Temple Bar. It is an old musty place, with the outward appearance of an ancient, timbered public house, and a dark gas-lit interior that might even be considered more sombre than Mr. Woodrow’s Mourning Warehouse. In truth, though blessed with an ancient pedigree, the Rainbow has been built and rebuilt, again and again, such that no-one can recall exactly where the old coffee-house that first bore the name precisely stood. But it has retained a patina of age and is every bit an antique City dining-room, down to the heavy mahogany tables, at which lawyers and hommes d’affaires address themselves to equally ponderous saddles of mutton and sirloins of beef. It is to one such table that Mr. Woodrow directs his steps. Already seated there is a thin man in his sixties, in an aged dark frock coat and silk suit of matching colour, sipping from a glass of port. Most remarkable, given his age, is the colour of his hair – as black as pitch – and his moustache, neatly trimmed, shares the same distinction. Both are so uniform as to suggest the application of dye.
‘Mr. Siddons,’ says Woodrow, as the man gets up to greet him, ‘how pleasant to see you again.’
‘You echo my sentiments. You could not have put it more precisely.’
‘And may I introduce an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Langley. I expect I have mentioned him to you. He has a mind to dine with us, if you do not object.’
Langley offers his hand, which is shaken firmly.
‘Of course! Please, gentlemen,’ says Siddons, ‘take a seat. I trust you are well, sir? Mrs. Woodrow? Your family? Are they well?’
‘They are as well as can be expected,’ says Woodrow, rather dourly. ‘As for myself, the business keeps me very busy.’
‘It does you credit, sir,’ replies Siddons. ‘And, I dare say, it keeps you active, eh? A man without a trade is a man with purpose, without vigour. That has always been my watchword. People say to me, “Siddons, you must retire; quit London.” I say, “Never” – sooner cut my own throat.’
‘Indeed,’ says Woodrow.
‘And you, sir, I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ says the older man, addressing Langley. ‘Remind me, what is your profession?’
‘I am an architect, sir.’
‘Mr. Langley is designing our new establishment,’ adds Woodrow, beckoning over a white-aproned waiter. ‘You care for ale, Langley? Or would you prefer porter?’
‘Porter, thank you.’
The waiter nods and hurries away.
‘Yes, it will be quite impressive,’ continues Woodrow. ‘I have a place in mind, upon Oxford Street. Five storeys. Separate floor for jewellery.’
‘Of course! Langley – yes, I recall. It sounds excellent, sir,’ says Siddons, raising his glass to Woodrow. ‘It is a pleasure to see you prosper, I can assure you.’
‘One does one’s best,’ replies Woodrow.
Siddons nods, smiling beneficently, but says nothing, merely raising his port to his lips.
‘And your business, sir?’ asks Langley, turning to the old man. ‘Are you in the mourning trade too?’
‘After a fashion, my good fellow,’ says Siddons, ‘after a fashion.’
‘Mr. Siddons,’ says Woodrow, by way of explanation, ‘is in the undertaking line.’
‘Please, sir, I beg you!’ exclaims Siddons. ‘You make it sound like I am a dealer in tea. I would prefer to say, if we must say anything upon the matter, that I minister to the dead. Discretion is the thing, eh?’
‘Indeed. A difficult business, I should imagine,’ says Langley.
‘I do not complain, sir, I do not complain, but you are not wrong. Ah, here are your drinks. And here is my steak! What do you say to that, Mr. Langley? Are you partial to filet de boeuf?’
‘It looks excellent.’
‘I recommend it – please, do order something. Yes, as I was saying, it is a trying business, especially for a man of sentiment; and there are so many details to take care of. And the mutes, sir! I would not recommend you ever deal with mutes – drunkards to a man.’
The old man downs another gulp of his port, before slicing fiercely into his steak.
‘We warn the bereaved, sir,’ continues Siddons, ‘but they will force wine and liquor on them. Like pouring water on a drowning man, it is. “Traditional”.’
The old man takes another slice of meat, red and rare, and warms to his theme.
‘Yes, the business takes its toll, I’ll give you that. I had a terrible time of it only this very morning. Arrangements for a pair of young girls, taken in their prime. Laid them out myself. I was quite overcome, sir.’
‘I can imagine it would be awfully distressing,’ says Langley.
‘It was, sir. Quite. Waived a crape hatband for the chief mourner. Gratis. Couldn’t bring myself to add it to the bill. Two and six I’ll never see again.’
‘Two girls, you say?’ says Jasper Woodrow, with a peculiar urgency.
‘Pretty little things. Drowned, playing by a lake. But what a place to play, eh? Still, referred the mother to your delivery people – wouldn’t leave the house till after the funeral.’
‘Quite right,’ says Woodrow hurriedly, ‘only proper.’
Mr. Siddons nods, piercing a potato upon the end of his fork. Jasper Woodrow, meanwhile, takes out his handkerchief and wipes his brow.