The Whitlock house in Clapham was of similar dimensions to Teresa Courtenay’s, but the street on which it stood was a great contrast. It bustled with life; mothers convened on doorsteps, a couple strolled arm in arm and children weaved around adults and sparse traffic, whooping as they dashed in the direction of the nearby Clapham Common. When Muriel brought the horse to a standstill, the animal was immediately surrounded by youngsters offering clumps of weeds torn from between the kerbstones. The attention of the children’s parents on the doorsteps was instead focused on Muriel as she hopped down from the driver’s seat and opened to the door of the carriage to help a stiff-legged Henry alight. Though Muriel relished upending these people’s expectations of the behaviour of an obviously wealthy woman, she reminded herself that there would be occasions when she would do well to abide by accepted rules.
Consulting the piece of notepaper in his hand, Henry gestured with his cane and limped along the pavement. Muriel produced three coins from her jacket pocket and gave them to the tallest of the children, promising her more if the horse and carriage remained untouched during their brief visit.
Henry rapped three times on the door of the terraced house with his cane. Muriel grimaced; surely that was the wrong approach. Only the police or bailiffs announced their presence in such a way.
Sure enough, the man who answered the door wore a startled expression. Upon recognising Henry, it became something more complex, and he trembled with anticipation.
“Mr Hyll. Have you—”
“I’m sorry to intrude on you, Mr Whitlock. I have no news at this time.”
Mr Whitlock’s gasp seemed more like relief than disappointment. No doubt he anticipated that at any moment he might be informed of his son’s death.
“May we speak to you inside?” Muriel asked.
When Mr Whitlock glanced at Muriel, Henry mumbled, “This is Miss Carew, my assistant.” Muriel forced a tight smile.
Mr Whitlock pressed himself against the wall to allow them both to enter. Henry made to pass through the doorway of the reception room at the front of the house, but after noting the well-presented furniture and immaculate lace tablecloth, Muriel took his arm and led him along the corridor to an area which served as both dining room and kitchen. She took a seat at a plain wooden table, while Henry stood stiffly beside the mantelpiece.
“Ought I to offer tea?” Mr Whitlock asked.
Muriel looked at the kitchen surfaces, which were covered with pots and a thick layer of grime. There was no Mrs Whitlock living in this home. It was possible that Muriel was the first woman to enter the house in years.
“Thank you, but we won’t impose on you for long,” she said.
In a shaking voice, he asked, “Mr Hyll, what brings you and your assistant here, if you have no news about Vincent?”
“A question,” Henry said bluntly. “I ought to have asked it when you came to my offices. Do you have a photograph of your son?”
Immediately, Mr Whitlock staggered backwards several steps.
“Are you unwell?” Henry asked.
Muriel darted from her seat to take Mr Whitlock’s arm. She attempted to guide him to a seat at the table, but he waved her away.
“It’s confounding, that’s all,” he said.
“What is?” Henry asked. His accusatory tone seemed to be a default.
“I do have a photograph, as a matter of fact. I’ll fetch it right this minute.”
He hurried out of the room and upstairs. When he returned he was clutching a metal plate, which he presented not to Henry but to Muriel. “Look – isn’t he fine-looking? So very orderly, just as he should be.”
Like the other portraits, it was a ferrotype, but in other respects it was quite different. The background was very dark, though Muriel could make out lines of rough brick. Most strikingly, the young soldier’s expression had none of the levity that the subjects of most of the other portraits displayed; his lips formed a tight line and his eyes stared directly ahead. He wore his starched private’s uniform and cap, and sat with his hands placed on his thighs, upright and stiff-necked upon a chair that appeared hard and uncomfortable.
“Yes,” Muriel said, unable to hide her disappointment. “He’s every inch the soldier. You must be very proud of him.”
She handed the ferrotype to Henry, who examined it closely.
“It would have been helpful for me to have seen this sooner than today,” Henry said to Mr Whitlock. Muriel felt like kicking him.
“That’s what made me so startled,” Mr Whitlock said. “I didn’t have this picture before today.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lad came around, just this morning. Gave me quite the shock, because—” He gestured at the portrait. “At first I took the lad to be Vincent.”
“You mean he was a private?” Henry asked.
Whitlock nodded. He took the portrait and gazed at it, his eyes glistening. “Vincent would have been a corporal before long, I’m certain of it. He was doing ever so well, and respected and liked, too. It’s hard to accept that he’s… he’s…” He began to sob quietly.
Muriel stood and put her arm around his shoulders, eliciting a shudder but also a flash of a grateful smile. She waited until his sobs subsided.
“Did you learn this other soldier’s name?” she asked softly. “Did he provide any explanation for bringing this picture to you now?”
Whitlock nodded again, but then appeared to contradict himself by saying, “No. That is, I didn’t think to ask his name, but yes, he told me how he came by it. He found the picture beneath Vincent’s cot in the barracks. And what with Vincent missing – you see, I visited the barracks before I approached you, Mr Hyll, asking around without any success – when his friend found the picture he decided I’d appreciate seeing it. Which I do, I do.” His voice became small. “It must have been taken very recently. It’s a blessing to have it.”
“Indeed,” Henry said. “May I take it?”
Muriel pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. She was determined to continue telling herself that Henry was good, but had he always been quite so thoughtless? Whatever deductive skills he possessed might easily be undermined by his clumsiness in dealing with people.
Mr Whitlock stared at him open-mouthed. “But I’ve only just—”
“We promise to return it to you very soon, Mr Whitlock,” Muriel assured him. “I’m confident that close examination of this picture will help us pinpoint Vincent’s location.”
Henry was glaring at her. Perhaps it was his policy to promise his clients as little as possible.
After that, Henry made no effort to disguise his eagerness to leave, but Muriel insisted they remain with Mr Whitlock for a quarter of an hour more, listening to stories of his adored son.