4

FRIDAY 23rd DECEMBER

FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE MURDER

A ZEPHYR WAS ENOUGH to quiver the front door in its housing, and a knuckle-rap to shake it, but late at night the quick agitation of the handle would make the distinctive rat-a-tat by which Maggie would recognise her husband’s hand. She would slip out of bed, and, with the candlelight from the front room, skip through to let him in. When Louisa Goulding came over, she never knocked; the timber was too hard and coarse for eight-year-old hands. Rather, she would call, ‘Maggie!’ like the trill of a tiny bird.

She visited early that afternoon, just as George Stuart was leaving. To Louisa, George was no more than the man Maggie lived with, just as she lived with her uncle William Rothery and aunt Emma. Maggie was young and soft and pretty; George was like uncle Rothery; old and whiskery and lined, with chipped fingernails and hands callused and thick. George even seemed old enough to be Maggie’s father, though Louisa did know that, like her own father, he’d passed away long ago, before Maggie even knew how to walk.

George nodded a greeting to the girl, and pulled the door shut behind him.

‘Maggie won’t be long. Just tidying up,’ he said with a quick smile and a touch of her cheek as he walked away. At the brow of the hill, he looked back, catching Louisa watching him. Quickly, she turned. When she looked back, he’d gone.

PEARSON THOMPSON ENTERED THE small reception area of the London Portrait Gallery to a tinkling of a bell and a cheery call from a room beyond.

‘Be with you in a moment.’

He removed his top hat and patted down the slicks of grey either side of his bare pate to the genial pitch of a happily married husband and wife in conversation. The wall before him was squared with framed photographs; portraits in the main, with a few street and rural scenes. He nodded to himself that he was in the hands of a skilled practitioner.

Footsteps sounded.

‘Mr Thompson?’

The customer swivelled on his polished shoes to see a man wearing the smile of one who was content in his work and life.

‘Ah, Chuck. Good afternoon.’ They shook hands. Thomas Chuck stepped back, and looked his client up and down.

‘If you will allow me, Sir, that is a beautiful silk jacket. London?’

‘Every stitch.’

‘And the cravat the perfect complement.’

Thompson shifted on his feet. Chuck took the hint.

‘Well, Sir, I think we should begin.’

‘Splendid.’

Chuck ushered his client through into the adjoining small room bright with light from an overhead window. Against the far wall was a padded leather chair by a small round table, upon which a woman was placing a vase of blooms.

‘May I introduce my wife, Adeline. Adeline, this is Mr Pearson Thompson, the barrister.’

Thompson bowed his head. Mrs Chuck nodded a how-do-you-do and excused herself while her husband moved to the large brown camera that sat atop a tripod some ten feet from the parlour-room set.

‘Please,’ he said, pointing to a long mirror on a stand in the corner. ‘Should you wish to make sure all is as it should be.’

Thompson took the opportunity provided, mainly to check with angled glances that his hair was shown to best advantage. Also, that his sideburns were well primped, and with a quick comb ensured that the luxuriant moustache which linked them was straight and symmetrical. So satisfied, he settled himself on the chair, though uncertain as to what to do with his top hat.

Chuck relieved him of his indecision.

‘I think it best to leave your hat off; it will cast a shadow. But please, why not place it on the table; it is such a handsome hat, after all, and ought to be in the picture.’

Thompson took the advice, and watched as Chuck stooped and disappeared beneath his blackout hood. From a fold, a hand reached around to adjust the brass lens that fixed Thompson in its black stare. Chuck reappeared and placed a cap over the unsettling aperture.

‘All in focus. I just have to prepare the plate, so if you’ll please bear with me a few moments …’

He smiled and retreated through a door he shut behind him. ‘Dark Room. Please Do Not Enter’ was painted across it in cursive letters, the florid style strikingly at variance with the authority intended.

Pearson Thompson sat still. The room was rather too warm — his unseasonal portrait attire notwithstanding — and sweat beaded on his scalp. He mopped it away, and considered that at this very moment mild summers were what he missed most about England. Then again in winter, when Vincent Street was a quagmire and its buildings were rendered all the flimsier for the fog, it would be the grand, sweeping façade of his beloved Lansdown Crescent in the family seat at Cheltenham that had him pining. This portrait was something he’d been looking forward to; court victories are forgotten soon enough, buildings crumble, but a photograph is for the ages.

The dark room door opened, and he watched Chuck return, clutching a wooden box the dimensions of a folded backgammon board. In his wake came a strong and not altogether disagreeable waft of ether. Thompson watched him lift the blackout hood, open the back of the camera, and insert this box. From another part of the camera’s back he pulled out a black screen.

‘And now for the exposure,’ the photographer said, his hand ready to remove the lens cap. ‘Still as you can, Sir. Ten seconds ought to do it. Ready? On the count of three …’

THE GROUND IMMEDIATELY WEST of the Stuarts’ was not long cleared, and the detritus of the original forest was still plentiful enough to provide fuel for stoves and open fires. And so it was for sticks and broken roots that Maggie and Louisa ventured into this untidy terrain.

The sun was high and benign in this early day of summer. A breeze was gentle and cooling, flowers nodded, and insects clicked and buzzed into the air. Seemingly involuntarily, Louisa skipped with the joy of being there with her friend on such a day, but promptly tripped on a root and fell with a squeal. Maggie rushed over to find Louisa turned on her back and laughing.

‘Oh Louisa, you are silly!’ Maggie said, then pretended a trip of her own to lie with her, laughing and beaming with the pleasure of being silly together on a beautiful day.

‘What will your aunt say if you break a leg?’ Maggie said.

‘Or much worse, tear my dress!’

They giggled some more, neither wanting to get up just yet.

Maggie thrust a finger skyward.

‘Eagle,’ she said.

They watched the bird bank and soar, letting it be the reason to be silent and in their contemplation to enjoy togetherness all the more.

Louisa was suddenly to her feet, squealing and stomping, and slapping at her dress.

‘Ants! Ow! Maggie!’

Maggie was up, searching across Louisa’s clothing and then to the ground, where an angry swarm was flowing.

‘Have you been stung?’ she said.

‘Yes! Oh Maggie, look how many there are!’

‘Well, come away from there!’

Maggie took Louisa by the hand and hurried her away.

‘We can gather wood another day.’

‘No. I’ll be all right.’

They hugged, and when Louisa was quite sure she was ant-free, began their collecting.

Soon, their meanderings took them near the tent that had been there for some days. Maggie had seen the man who resided in it on a few occasions. He was there now, twenty yards distant, seated on a stump by his fire.

He stood.

‘Good day,’ he said.

Maggie smiled. She looked for Louisa and saw her sitting astride a log, arranging a posy of wildflowers. Maggie’s bundle was large enough now. She took the first step towards home.

‘You’re a nice-looking girl,’ the man said.

Maggie turned just far enough to make a small smile, to acknowledge a compliment.

‘You live over there?’ he said.

Maggie nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s a pity you’ve not a sweetheart,’ he said.

She faced him fully now.

‘I’m a married woman.’ She glanced at Louisa, and was all the gladder for her being there. But the man seemed unaffected by the bluntness. He even smiled, and added as he sat down, ‘Oh, ’cause I’d like to marry you myself.’

Maggie nodded and turned away to leave for home.

‘Who’s that girl?’

‘Louisa, she lives next door to me. I have to go now.’

‘You have a good husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where does he work?’

‘At the Wombat mine. I expect he’ll be home soon.’

‘Best I not be asking more questions then, else I get my nose broke!’