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Authors: Norman Russell
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will be complete. Remember that I managed the other affair without unnecessary scruple, just as I can leave you to manage
this
business without my assistance. This is what I think we should inscribe.
‘“There are three or four other names there, so underneath we can have something like this:
Also Gabriel Forshaw, beloved son of the above Henry, perished of a fever at Bonny, in Nigeria, 7 August, 1865, aged 24 years, and buried there
. What do you think?”
‘And that was all, Mr Jackson,’ said Rose. ‘They were getting uncomfortably near the door, and I quickly retreated to the kitchen, where I wrote down what parts I could remember. Here, you can take this paper with you, if you like. And that very night, while I was still asleep, little Helen was taken away. A carriage had called for her, they said, and carried her off to that school I mentioned. I was astonished, Mr Jackson, when I was told. I went into the bedroom, and the little girl’s bed was still warm. As for Mr and Mrs Paget, I suppose they’re long dead. I left their service soon afterwards, and came out here to Bishop’s Sutton.’
‘You say that the child was removed from the house by coach while you were asleep, Miss Potter,’ said Jackson, as he and Bottomley prepared to leave. ‘Are you quite certain that she left Mayfield Court? I told you that we have found the skeleton of a child—’
‘Oh, but that couldn’t have been Miss Helen, Inspector,’ said Rose. ‘I met her, you know, many years later, and she told me all about the school, and how glad she’d been to get away from that gloomy house. She gave me a calling-card, with her address printed on it. It’s somewhere in this drawer – yes, there it is. You’d better take it. She looked very well and prosperous, Ithought. She was married by then, she told me, apparently to a young accountant in Birmingham, and had a little baby of her own.’
4
Catherineâs Narrative: Death in the Afternoon
I am not a vain woman â at least, I donât think I am â but when I have just put on a new dress or coat I survey myself in the cheval glass that stands to one side of the window in my dressing room. The grey dress, I thought, fitted very well, even though it had not come from Peter Robinson or Liberty.
An older neighbour of ours, Mrs Buckmaster, had taken me to visit Sophie Solomon, a seamstress who occupied a little shop near Spitalfields. Sophie was as adept as any fashionable modiste at tailoring dresses and suits that could be worn anywhere with confidence. The little matching hat was neat enough, and the mauve feathers were small and skilfully clipped. Michael, I felt, would approve.
How wonderful it was to be back in dear old London, and away from that dreary, ghost-ridden ruin at Mayfield! It was five days since we had hurriedly decamped at dusk on the eighth, and neither I, nor Uncle Max, would ever go back to that place again. Uncle and I both belonged to London: the great, smoky city seemed to sustain us, as though recognizing one of its own. Uncle Max seemed much better in himself, more even-tempered. As for me, I was beginning to put the events of our visit to Warwickshire aside. It had been an uncharacteristic interlude in our life, and was best now forgotten.
That afternoon â it was Monday, 13 August â Michael and I were going to a matinée at the Gaiety Theatre in the Strand. Mr George Edwardes had enlivened the place for the last two years with his musical comedies, and his plethora of young ladies in the chorus. Uncle Max had called it âall froth and nonsenseâ, but there had been a twinkle in his eye as he said it. He seemed more than satisfied that Michael and I had become friends.
Outside, in the railed garden in the middle of Saxony Square, people were walking about, enjoying the August sun. A few nannies were seated on one of the long benches, their perambulators forming a kind of defensive line in front of them as they chatted to
this
business without my assistance. This is what I think we should inscribe.
‘“There are three or four other names there, so underneath we can have something like this:
Also Gabriel Forshaw, beloved son of the above Henry, perished of a fever at Bonny, in Nigeria, 7 August, 1865, aged 24 years, and buried there
. What do you think?”
‘And that was all, Mr Jackson,’ said Rose. ‘They were getting uncomfortably near the door, and I quickly retreated to the kitchen, where I wrote down what parts I could remember. Here, you can take this paper with you, if you like. And that very night, while I was still asleep, little Helen was taken away. A carriage had called for her, they said, and carried her off to that school I mentioned. I was astonished, Mr Jackson, when I was told. I went into the bedroom, and the little girl’s bed was still warm. As for Mr and Mrs Paget, I suppose they’re long dead. I left their service soon afterwards, and came out here to Bishop’s Sutton.’
‘You say that the child was removed from the house by coach while you were asleep, Miss Potter,’ said Jackson, as he and Bottomley prepared to leave. ‘Are you quite certain that she left Mayfield Court? I told you that we have found the skeleton of a child—’
‘Oh, but that couldn’t have been Miss Helen, Inspector,’ said Rose. ‘I met her, you know, many years later, and she told me all about the school, and how glad she’d been to get away from that gloomy house. She gave me a calling-card, with her address printed on it. It’s somewhere in this drawer – yes, there it is. You’d better take it. She looked very well and prosperous, Ithought. She was married by then, she told me, apparently to a young accountant in Birmingham, and had a little baby of her own.’
4
Catherineâs Narrative: Death in the Afternoon
I am not a vain woman â at least, I donât think I am â but when I have just put on a new dress or coat I survey myself in the cheval glass that stands to one side of the window in my dressing room. The grey dress, I thought, fitted very well, even though it had not come from Peter Robinson or Liberty.
An older neighbour of ours, Mrs Buckmaster, had taken me to visit Sophie Solomon, a seamstress who occupied a little shop near Spitalfields. Sophie was as adept as any fashionable modiste at tailoring dresses and suits that could be worn anywhere with confidence. The little matching hat was neat enough, and the mauve feathers were small and skilfully clipped. Michael, I felt, would approve.
How wonderful it was to be back in dear old London, and away from that dreary, ghost-ridden ruin at Mayfield! It was five days since we had hurriedly decamped at dusk on the eighth, and neither I, nor Uncle Max, would ever go back to that place again. Uncle and I both belonged to London: the great, smoky city seemed to sustain us, as though recognizing one of its own. Uncle Max seemed much better in himself, more even-tempered. As for me, I was beginning to put the events of our visit to Warwickshire aside. It had been an uncharacteristic interlude in our life, and was best now forgotten.
That afternoon â it was Monday, 13 August â Michael and I were going to a matinée at the Gaiety Theatre in the Strand. Mr George Edwardes had enlivened the place for the last two years with his musical comedies, and his plethora of young ladies in the chorus. Uncle Max had called it âall froth and nonsenseâ, but there had been a twinkle in his eye as he said it. He seemed more than satisfied that Michael and I had become friends.
Outside, in the railed garden in the middle of Saxony Square, people were walking about, enjoying the August sun. A few nannies were seated on one of the long benches, their perambulators forming a kind of defensive line in front of them as they chatted to
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