The Unseeing Page 13

  Sarah considered this. She was still not sure she could pinpoint him: simply ambitious, or ruthless? Caring or cunning? But Miss Pike was not really waiting for an answer from her.

  “He is an idealist,” she said. “He wants to improve society. He wants to reform the criminal justice system. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were secretly an abolitionist. We’re incredibly lucky that he was appointed. Another man might well have decided against you from the outset, but Edmund—Mr. Fleetwood—he positively wants to be able to recommend that you be pardoned.”

  Sarah looked up. “Did he say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but I could tell. We had an…an instinctive understanding.”

  It occurred to Sarah that Miss Pike was a little in love with Edmund. She was surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy. She realized she had begun to think of him as hers, although she was aware that was ridiculous.

  For a while neither woman spoke. Around them, other visitors conversed in low tones. An old lady in a black bonnet read from a Bible to a young girl. A red-haired woman sat slumped forward, weeping onto her arms. And, on the far side of the room, Rook sat sullen-faced before a lady in a green dress who seemed to be lecturing her. From time to time, Rook glanced across at Sarah, her eyes gleaming with malice.

  “Sarah,” Miss Pike said quietly, “Mr. Fleetwood doesn’t believe that you didn’t know about the murder. It won’t matter how many times you tell him, he will still think you must have known what happened.”

  Sarah was silent.

  “I’m not a lawyer,” Miss Pike continued. “However, my understanding is that if a woman can be shown to have acted under duress, or under the influence of a man, then that may give her a defense. And, as I said, I think that Edmund—Mr. Fleetwood—is sympathetic to your plight.”

  Sarah raised her eyes. “But Miss Pike, I didn’t know, however implausible that may seem to him, or to you. And even if I were to tell Mr. Fleetwood that James had made me do…certain things, you cannot be sure that he would recommend a pardon.”

  Sarah noticed that Rook was now leaning forward, speaking to her visitor. She could tell from the movement of Rook’s face that she was practically spitting out the words. The woman in green pushed back her chair and stood up.

  “There are never any guarantees, Sarah,” Miss Pike said. “You have to think about what the drawback would be of not speaking out. Do you stand to lose anything?”

  Sarah looked at Miss Pike in her funny little black bonnet and checked shawl fastened tight around her shoulders. There was so much she did not understand. Did she really think that Sarah had not considered every possibility? That she did not lie awake at night, twisting and turning and trying to fathom how to extricate herself?

  “James is a powerful man,” she said. “Even now.”

  Miss Pike folded her hands. “That’s what he wants you to believe, Sarah. That’s what he’s always wanted you to believe: that he’s the one with the power. That it’s him that’s holding all the cards. But you’re a strong woman, stronger than you think.”

  • • •

  When visiting hour was over, the prisoners were ordered to line up against the lime-washed wall by the door while the lady visitors left the room. Perhaps because she was still considering Miss Pike’s words, Sarah did not realize until the other woman spoke that Rook was directly behind her.

  “Look at ’em,” she said, jerking her head toward the women. “They think they can save us with a few lines o’ scripture. They don’t know that women like you and me, we’re bad down to the bone.”

  Sarah turned briefly to look at her. “I’m nothing like you.”

  Rook’s expression set. “No, you’re right. You’re not. ’Cos I at least admit what I am, while you, you’re like a bad coin, with the shine worn off.”

  The woman screwed up her mouth and, too late, Sarah brought her hands to her face. A globule of spit hit her cheek and Sarah wiped it away frantically with the back of her sleeve. When she looked up she realized that Miss Sowerton was standing, watching, only a few feet away. Instead of reprimanding Rook, however, she gave a barely perceptible nod, and turned to leave the room.

  16

  “Women are greater dissemblers than men when they wish to conceal their own emotions. By habit, moral training, and modern education, they are obliged to do so.”

  —Tacita Tacit, Jane Vaughan Pinkney, 1860

  After a breakfast of coffee and hot rolls, Edmund caught the omnibus to the village of Dulwich to see his mother, taking the iron ladder to the roof to sit on the outside in the spring sunshine. He read his notebook as he traveled until the jerking of the coach over stones made him feel nauseated and he stared instead at the changing scenery, the brick and soot of London giving way to the meadowland of Camberwell, Herne Hill, and Dulwich.

  He alighted at Mill Pond and walked along the tree-lined street to the Picture Gallery, arriving at the gray stone building twenty minutes after the agreed meeting time. He found his mother in the main gallery, seated on a velvet-covered sofa and staring ahead at a portrait of a dark-haired woman. His mother did not look up as he approached and he had a few moments to appraise her. She seemed to have aged since he had last seen her, or maybe it was simply that distance had made his vision clearer. She was still elegant—narrow-waisted in a peach satin dress and neat straw bonnet, but her face sagged with tiredness and sadness. The image at which she gazed showed a strange woman, both cold and sensual, turning away from the artist.

  As soon as she saw Edmund, his mother’s face broke into a smile and the tired, dejected woman was quite gone. “Edmund!”

  “I’m so sorry I’m late, Mother,” he said as she got up and clasped his hands.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks’ ends. I’ve been quite happy sitting here. Now, how are you? How is my delightful grandson?”

  He took her arm and together they wandered through Sir John Soane’s gallery, looking at the paintings, before moving to the tearooms, where they sat amid the tinkling of silver spoons and ripple of conversation.

  “And you?” he asked her. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m quite well. Ethel does such a good job of looking after me and I have everything I need, really.”

  Edmund knew this was not true. His father paid her a meager allowance, which she used carefully, and Ethel, her maid of all work, was now too rheumatic to carry out all of the household chores alone. He must buy his mother a new dress when he had some money himself.

  “You’re not…lonely?” he asked.

  She had retreated from society after his father had cast her out, mixing only with a small group of spinster ladies who were unlikely to judge her.

  “Well, you know how it is,” she said. “I have my visits from Mrs. Pemberton and Mrs. Curling. And, you will laugh, but I have joined a choir. In any event, I want to know about you. How is your new case?”

  “It’s certainly interesting, but it’s difficult to tell who is lying and why.”

  “What does Miss Gale say happened?”

  He picked up the sugar tongs. “She claims not to have known what James Greenacre had done.”

  “But you don’t believe her?”

  “Well, she is clearly an intelligent woman, and an observant one.”

  “Yes, but, as I understand it from the newspapers, she is also a woman who had been abandoned.” His mother pursed her lips and poured more tea. “It may have suited her not to see certain things if it meant that she survived.”

  “You mean she decided not to notice.”

  His mother dabbed her lips with the laced edge of her pocket handkerchief. “Not necessarily. Think of what she’d been through, Edmund. That monster Greenacre had thrown her out onto the streets with a young child, hadn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Edmund said quietly, “but at least he didn’t try to take her child away from her.” He met her eye. />
  His mother smiled tightly. “That is all a long time ago now, Edmund. And everything turned out well in the end.”

  “Despite my having done nothing to help you.”

  “You must stop blaming yourself for things that are not your fault. You were a child.”

  She put her hand over his and squeezed it. In some respects, he thought, she was like Sarah. She, too, had fallen from grace and was now imprisoned in a way—in her limited society, in her pretense that everything was quite all right. And perhaps Sarah, like his mother, had grown practiced in the art of suppressing emotions—of concealing what she truly felt.

  “Do you really think, Mother, that a woman could not know that her lover, or her husband, had murdered another woman? Even if it was in their own house? Even if she had seen him only a matter of hours later?”

  She smiled thinly. “I think it very possible, Edmund. People only see what they’re capable of seeing at that particular time in their lives.” She pressed her hands together as she cast about for the right words. “I suppose it’s like that painting by Holbein The Ambassadors—that we saw at Longford Castle. Do you remember it?”

  Edmund nodded. It had been one of their last outings together before his brother went abroad. They had walked the long corridors of the stately home in a companionable but sad silence.

  “Well,” she said, “you look at it and at first you think it’s just two handsomely dressed young men, don’t you? It’s only when someone shows you where exactly to stand that you realize that, in between those two men, is a hideous human skull.” She folded her handkerchief into a neat square. “People only see what they’re expecting to see.”

  • • •

  It was early afternoon by the time Edmund reached the Temple. Turning onto Inner Temple Lane, he saw a woman walking quickly toward him. As she neared him, he saw that it was Sarah Gale’s sister in a plum-colored cloak.

  “Miss Farr. Is everything all right?”

  “Sir, you must forgive me for approaching you outside your chambers.”

  He waved this away. She seemed agitated, he thought. The pinkish bloom to her cheeks had faded and her dark eyes were troubled.

  “I’m very grateful to you for arranging it so that I could visit my sister.” She was breathing rapidly—she had evidently been walking quickly. “But,” she continued, “it confirmed what I feared. She is so thin and nervous that I’m sure they are treating her cruelly there. I tried to pass some food and some clothing to her, but the warder wouldn’t allow it.”

  “No,” Edmund shook his head. “It’s because she’s a condemned prisoner.” As soon as he had spoken the words, he saw the pain cross Rosina’s face and cursed himself inwardly for reminding her of her sister’s sentence. “They don’t allow prisoners convicted of certain crimes to buy or receive additional food. I realize it seems harsh.”

  “Not seems, Mr. Fleetwood. Is. They’re not providing her with enough to live on. She’ll starve or take ill before your report is done. I know it’s asking a lot of you, but if you could just take her this…” She removed from her cloak a brown-paper-covered parcel. “It’s just some food and a blanket. They won’t question your giving this to her.”

  Edmund met her gaze and considered his response. “I will do this for you, Miss Farr, and I will try to bring her further food despite the fact that I myself may be reprimanded, but in return you must help me.” He saw fear flicker in her eyes. “I know that your sister is keeping something back from me. I want to believe her, but she is not being entirely truthful. Who is she protecting?” Rosina flinched and Edmund knew at once that he had touched upon something. “Is it Greenacre?” he asked. “Because if it is, she is doing herself no favors in covering up for him. He will hang now, no matter what he claims. She is only making things worse for herself.”

  Rosina shook her head. “I can’t help you, sir, I really can’t.” Edmund could see, however, that her grip on the package was so tight that her knuckles showed white through her skin. “You must tell me, Rosina. If there is something you know that could save your sister, then you must speak out now.”

  Her expression was now one of deep distress. “Please, Mr. Fleetwood, if I could say something now that I thought would get us out of this situation then I swear to God that I would.” She touched his wrist. “You must listen to what she tells you and you must believe it.”

  “Daddy!” Edmund turned to see Clem running toward them, his governess running as best she could to catch up with him.

  Edmund looked back at Rosina and saw that she was staring at his son intently. When Clem was only a few paces away, she thrust the bundle at Edmund and said, “Please, Mr. Fleetwood. I beg you.” She took one last look at Clem and hurried away, her cloak billowing behind her.

  “Who was that, Daddy?”

  “That was…That was.” He stopped and looked at his son, his pointed little chin and rosebud mouth, and wondered what about him could possibly have alarmed Rosina. “That was the sister of the woman whom I’m investigating.”

  “Why was she here?”

  “She wants me to help her.”

  “Will you?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  Clem poked the parcel. “What’s in there? A head?”

  “No, some food, apparently.”

  Clem looked at the package distrustfully. “Can I see inside?”

  “You most certainly cannot.”

  “Mr. Fleetwood, sir,” Miss Plimpton said, finally catching up with her errant charge, “I do apologize.” She paused for breath. “He saw you and just made for you though I tried to stop him.”

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Plimpton. No harm done.”

  Edmund looked back the way that Rosina had hurried off. She was on the edge of the Temple Gardens now, visible only as a flash of purple moving through the green.

  • • •

  On Monday morning, Edmund walked across the dense traffic on Ludgate Circus and past the slender spire of St. Martin’s church to reach the London Coffee House on Ludgate Hill. He took a seat in a booth in the wood-paneled back room and ordered coffee and a jug of water.

  After a few minutes, he saw the man he had come to meet: Hannah Brown’s brother. Edmund recognized him from the trial. He was a tall, long-bodied man with a fleshy, oblong face.

  Edmund approached him. “William Brown?”

  The man nodded but did not smile. “We’ll have to keep this short,” he said. “I’m due back at work in half an hour.”

  He sat opposite Edmund, took off his black gloves, and put them in his hat, then extracted from his waistcoat a gold pocket watch, which he placed on the table before him.

  The coffee Edmund had ordered arrived, black and sweet, its steam curling into the air.

  “I appreciate you have a busy schedule,” Edmund said—he had been trying to secure an interview with Brown for over a week—“but there are several things I need to ask.”

  “I told the lawyers everything I knew at the Old Bailey,” Brown said. “And I told the police before that.” His voice was flat, with an edge of contempt.

  Edmund took a sip of his coffee, which scorched his tongue. “Of course, but it’s important that I investigate thoroughly.”

  No response.

  “It was you, I believe, who identified your sister’s body.”

  “I identified her head.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that wasn’t a pleasant experience,” Edmund said, not mentioning that he, too, had seen Hannah Brown’s head, preserved in liquor.

  Brown made no reply.

  “You had not, however, seen Hannah for some time before she died. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “We’d been at variance for some months,” he said.

  “What was the cau
se of the rift?” Edmund asked.

  The man looked at him coldly. “What possible relevance can it have?”

  “It’s difficult to say, without knowing the cause.”

  Brown sighed. “My sister was prone to fits of temper. That is all.”

  “Yes, that was something that was mentioned during the trial. Greenacre’s barrister claimed she had previously attacked Greenacre physically. Had she ever attacked you?”

  “She was not a lunatic, Mr. Fleetwood; she could simply be a little forceful. In any event, you’re supposed to be investigating that Gale woman’s ridiculous claims, aren’t you? Let’s get on with it. As I say, I want to keep this short.”

  “What was the state of your sister’s financial affairs?”

  “She did well enough. She kept a laundry, as you’d know if you’ve read up on this case at all, and business was prospering.”

  “How do you know that if you were, as you put it, ‘at variance’ with your sister?”

  Brown scowled at him. “She still saw my wife occasionally. Maria. She kept me informed.”

  “Can you explain, then, why Miss Brown tried to claim credit in James Greenacre’s name shortly before she died?”

  “Slander and rumor,” the man said brusquely. “Hannah had no need of that man’s money. She had property of her own.”

  Edmund turned over a page in his notebook. “It was you, I’m told, who identified the jewelry that was found on Miss Gale as having belonged to your sister.”

  “What of it?”

  “I understand that the earrings were fairly inexpensive things made of gold filigree and that the rings were thin bands of gold.”

  “And?”

  Edmund smiled. “If your sister was prospering financially, why was she wearing such cheap jewelry?”

  “I am not an expert in women’s spending habits,” the man replied. “Do you have any other questions?”

  “Yes. I believe there was a message on the inside of one of the rings. ‘From AF to SW.’ Do you know what that meant?”

  “No, I have no idea.”