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The next morning, Phoebe was feeling much recovered from her debilitating headache, though she could not stomach strong-smelling foods. She told Marianne that all the colours of the furnishings were bright and new in her eyes, and all her senses were improved. In return, Marianne told her about the sorry state of George Bartholomew, and together they raided the kitchens to put together a basket of nice food and drink that would appeal to an invalid. Mrs Cogwell, the cook, was delighted to unleash her caring side, and the cousins ended up having to carry the parcel between them, it was so heavily filled with tempting treats.
It was only just before mid-morning when they reached the building with the blue door. The blind housekeeper greeted Marianne with no apparent recollection of the day before, at first.
“I came to see Mr Bartholomew yesterday, do you not remember? I gave you my address?”
“Oh, yes, so you did. I have it still.” She patted her skirts.
“I take it he is well?”
“I have not seen him yet. He is such a quiet man.”
That alarmed Marianne. They didn’t hesitate. They dragged the basket awkwardly up the stairs and dumped it on the floor outside his bedroom door. Marianne rapped and partly opened the door to speak through the gap.
But there was no reply to her calling out this time.
She peeped in, holding her breath. The smell of garlic was stronger now, and mixed in with all the vile odours of a sickroom, staleness and unwashed clothes being the very least of it.
He lay on his back, rigid, and his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
Phoebe came to her shoulder, peering over, and gasped. “He is dead.”
“Step away. Don’t go in – go back into the corridor. You will soil your nice clothes. Let me check.” Marianne went forward. The floor around the bed was a mess of fluids, and the bed itself was worse. He had died hard. She pulled off her glove and pressed it to her mouth with her left hand, as if that might block the smell. With her right hand she felt for a pulse in his throat, and found nothing. He was cold and the skin felt rubbery, as if it would mould to her touch and remain in place if she pressed it.
“He is most definitely dead,” she called back to Phoebe. “Now what? Who do we tell? A doctor is no use.”
“Do we not inform the police?”
“In case it is a suspicious death?”
“It does not seem suspicious. He has been ill, not stabbed in the heart or shot in the head. But the police will know what to do. Come away, Marianne. You can do nothing for him.”
“Oysters, he said,” Marianne mused. “He had eaten bad oysters. But I can smell garlic.”
“I can smell many things, and none of them are pleasant.”
Marianne could not help herself. She peered down at him. His face was not his own, not any more. His flesh sagged towards the floor and new folds had appeared in his cheeks. It was not as if she was looking at the man she had known. He was a lump, an object. The blanket was tangled around his feet. His trousers were stained and his shirt rumpled. His jacket had been discarded and lay on the floor. The skin around his face was yellow, and his belly seemed distended.
Oysters, she thought – really?
But she was no pathologist. With reluctance, she followed Phoebe out of the room and downstairs, where they raised the alarm with the housekeeper and a boy was sent to the nearest police stationhouse and they were plunged into a world of questions that had very few answers.
***
“NOW WHAT?” PHOEBE SAID as they were released from the stationhouse. One conscientious young policeman had insisted on furnishing them with smelling salts, small glasses of sherry and a pork pie each, while they had been inside the stationhouse. Neither of them had eaten the pies, though Marianne had pocketed both for later. It was a little after lunch time but Marianne didn’t think she’d want to eat for a while. She could still smell the room.
“I would like to go and tell his father,” Marianne said to Phoebe.
“There is no need. Someone will be sent to him from the police, soon enough.”
“Yes, and I would like to beat them to it. I want to see what this man’s reaction will be.”
“Ah, I understand you! Yes. But are you sure you want to see him? I must get back to Woodfurlong as my dressmaker is coming – in fact, she will already be there, and wondering where I am.”
“You go on home. You have duties. I will visit Mr Bartholomew alone.”
“No, you will not. He has spoken roughly to you, don’t you remember? He has a gun, and he tried to shoot his son.”
“I also have a gun, and unlike him, I will not miss.”
“Marianne!”
“I promise.”
“What, to not miss?”
“Exactly. Go on with you – I shall be home for dinner.”
“If Price ever knew what we were about, he should divorce me completely.”
“He would indeed,” Marianne said, but she thought, perhaps he would not. If you knew what he was about, you would divorce him if you could. She forced a smile onto her face. “I expect that I will arrive there at the same time as the police. Let me compromise with you. I shall wait in the gatehouse with the man there, until the police arrive, and then I will go with them, and let them break the news, and simply watch for his reaction.”
Phoebe relaxed. “That is a much safer plan.”
It did not, unfortunately, turn out quite so neatly.
***
WHEN MARIANNE REACHED the lodge at the end of the driveway, she fully intended to call on the gatekeeper and follow the plan she had laid out to Phoebe. She did not go straight to the door of the lodge, however. She walked up the driveway for a short distance, looking for any sign of the police having arrived before her.
And there was someone standing on the front steps of the house.
It was no policeman.
It was, in fact, a woman. She was very tall, and held herself like a queen, with dignity and confidence in every line of her. Marianne didn’t follow the latest fashions but Phoebe and Emilia ensured that she did not disgrace herself in company and she had a rough idea of what was current. She could recognise that the woman was wearing the very latest in elegant tastes. Her dark jacket was slim and fitted, with plump peplum sleeves and scarlet trim. It skimmed over her hips and her skirts were a dark grey, ideal for moving about the city, with artful folds to convey restrained fullness, narrow at the sides but bunching up over a bustle at the back. She held a furled umbrella, in the exact shade of red to match her jacket’s trim, her shoes and her hat.
Marianne’s first thought was that this could be George’s mother, at last, and Mr Edgar Bartholomew’s estranged wife. Yes, perhaps she had never been dead at all. Her heart gave a tight pang. If so, did the mother know what had happened to her son? Marianne stopped walking. She would definitely wait for the arrival of the police. She could not possibly intrude on this private tragedy.
But the woman was talking to Edgar Bartholomew, and he was standing on a few steps up above her, and getting increasingly angry. He waved his arms around, and Marianne could hear his voice faintly, though not the words. The woman did not make any move to respond. She did not seem remotely intimidated; she didn’t bend, or quiver, or hunch her shoulders, or put up her hands in supplication. Instead she stepped back, moving down the steps to the gravel without turning her back to the man.
On an impulse, Marianne began to walk towards them.
She heard Edgar Bartholomew shout, “– ever again!” and he slammed the door of the house. Now she was alone, the woman turned, and suddenly saw Marianne approaching her.
They both slowed down but they continued to walk towards one another.
The woman was not old enough to be George’s mother, and Marianne felt relief. She was pretty, with high cheekbones and wide eyes that lacked any obvious upper lid, giving her a fey look. Her skin was very fair, and her hair was the sort of blonde only generally seen on young girls. When they got to within ten feet of one another, they stopped.
The woman was scrutinising Marianne as hard as Marianne had been observing the woman.
Marianne smiled politely. “Good day. I am Miss Marianne Starr.”
The look on the woman’s face said, very clearly, why do I want to know that? But she smiled in return. “Delighted, I am sure. Please do excuse me. He is not in the best of moods.”
“He rarely is. Was it the older Mr Bartholomew that you wished to see? Or perhaps his son?”
“Oh!” The other woman’s demeanour changed instantly and she closed the distance between them. “Do you know George? Yes, it was his son I actually hoped to meet. Oh, do forgive me. I am Anna Jones.”
They shook hands as if they were in a drawing room, not someone else’s driveway.
“Are you quite all right?” Marianne asked. “You seem pale. Would you like to walk into the town? I know a pleasant tea room.”
“Ah – thank you, yes. I should like that. Do you really know George? Mr Bartholomew said some terrible things about his son. I hardly know what to believe. I hope that he spoke from a place of spite and not from truth.”
“Oh dear. I am so dreadfully sorry to have to tell you this,” Marianne said, as they fell into step alongside one another. It was somehow easier to break bad news when one was not facing the other person directly. “I do have some awful news about George Bartholomew –”
“Then his father was telling the truth?” Anna cried out. “Is he really dead?”
“Is that what he said to you?”
“It is! And is that what you meant?”
“It is.” Marianne kept walking but now her mind was whirling. How did Edgar Bartholomew already know? She could see, up ahead, a black cab approaching along the road. It pulled up at the lodge as they passed, and a policeman got out to speak to the gatekeeper.
“I can hardly believe it,” Anna said with a catch in her voice. No one took any notice of them as they went past the cab and headed towards the town. Women were of little importance. “What did he die from?”
“As to that, I am not sure,” Marianne said. “Did his father give no hint?”
“He did not. He didn’t seem upset, just angry, but grief is a strange thing. When did he die?”
Marianne felt uncomfortable talking about the subject in the open air. It was a bright, fresh day, and the topic was more suited to rain and twilight. “I hope I do not shock you, but I found the body myself, this morning. I had visited him yesterday, so he must have died overnight. I am so very sorry.” She cleared her throat before asking, delicately, “Were you close?”
“I suppose that you mean, were we lovers? And no, I am not shocked, by anything you might say. I am a woman of the world – perhaps even a worldly woman. Ha! So they might say. But tell me, how is it that you found him? Was he not here at this house? Why was he not here? Indeed I could ask about you and George ... were you two lovers ...?”
Anna had sidestepped the question about their closeness, Marianne noticed. “He was not here,” Marianne said. “And no, we were not lovers. His father had asked him to leave this place, apparently, and he had taken rooms that had been found for him through his company.”
“Bow? Really, they would still do that for him, after...?” She bit her lip and looked away.
“Yes, Bow, the very same, and why not?” She knows a lot about him, Marianne noted. That he works for Harker and Bow, for a start. Interesting. “I knew that he was ill when I visited him yesterday, and when I went back today, that was when I made the unpleasant discovery.”
“How tragic.”
They stopped outside a tea room. The windows were small and covered in lace, preventing anyone from seeing in, but Marianne assured Anna that it was a fine and genteel place. “But I do understand if you find you have no appetite,” she added.
“I do not. But I think I could take a little tea.” Anna flashed her a small smile. “One must remain strong, don’t you agree?”