The Case of The Toxic Tonic (Bow Street Society Book 4) Page 2
“The room is sufficient, then?” Miss Trent enquired.
“Most certainly,” Miss Dexter replied with a bounce to her voice. “To begin with, I haven’t Ma-Ma intruding upon me every hour of the day—” She recoiled from the canvas, brush in hand, and clutched her bosom. “That sounded ever so ungrateful!”
“Calm yourself.” Miss Trent lowered the apple and approached the artist. “I’m certain your mother knows you appreciate all she’s done for you. At the same time, you’re now a grown woman with strong ambition. It’s only natural you’d want some space for yourself. Besides, this is only your studio. It’s not as if you’ve left home.”
Miss Dexter relaxed beneath her friend’s hand. “Yes, you’re right.” She glanced at a dishevelled cot in the corner. “And I only stay when it’s too late to travel home.”
“And you telephone your parents to inform them of the fact, so they don’t worry,” Miss Trent added with a lift of her index finger. When she felt Miss Dexter relax further, she gave her upper arms a gentle rub and returned to her place by the window. “Now, this portrait shan’t paint itself.”
Miss Dexter chuckled but nonetheless retreated behind her canvas.
Her studio was located in a former bedroom on the first floor of the Bow Street Society’s house. The previous owner’s taste remained in the form of Nile green, embossed flock wallpaper and brass chandelier. The latter held tall, unused candles covered in dust. Four gas lamps—with sconces which resembled clear, glass roses—were mounted upon the wall opposite the modest, oak fireplace and window. The room’s singular door was also on the latter. Prior to its current function, the late bedroom had been unoccupied and unfurnished. Similar to the other first floor rooms, Miss Trent had entered it on rare occasions. Thus it had been covered in dust until Miss Dexter had swept it out and filled the space with her artistic and photographic paraphernalia.
“Wait a moment, I hear someone at the front door.” Miss Trent stepped off her soapbox. “It may be a client, so would you stay here until I fetch you?”
“Of course.” Miss Dexter gestured toward the canvas. “I have to paint the background anyway.”
“Thank you.” Miss Trent lifted her skirts and hurried onto the landing. “I’ll return as soon as possible!”
Miss Dexter followed Miss Trent to the studio door and, as she descended the stairs, peered over the landing’s balustrade. She watched her until she’d crossed the hallway but returned to her studio when she saw her release the front door’s numerous locks and bolts.
A lady with worn, fatigued features was revealed to be stood on the porch when Miss Trent opened the door. Miss Trent’s initial estimation of her age placed her in the late fifties. Yet she was obliged to revise this to late thirties the moment she saw her eyes. The utter intensity of their honey-coloured irises arose from youth rather than wisdom. When she’d scrutinised the remainder of her visitor’s appearance, Miss Trent forgave herself for the earlier mistake. The lady’s dark-bronze hair resembled wire in both form and texture whilst the bun it formed was unkempt and riddled with grey. Her complexion—washed-out and dry as it was—did little to alleviate the illusion of middle age. In stark contrast to her physical condition was her attire; a duck egg blue bustle dress with a hand-embroidered central panel of silver and cream roses, and a black fur coat. Both of which were tailor made to the highest grade of workmanship.
“Good morning, I’m Mrs Floretta Belrose. Are these the headquarters of the Bow Street Society?”
“Yes, they are. I’m Miss Rebecca Trent, the Society’s clerk.”
“An absolute pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, Miss Trent.” Mrs Belrose extended her lean hand.
“Thank you.” Miss Trent gave her hand a brief squeeze and stepped back to open the door wide. “Please, come in.”
Mrs Belrose stepped over the threshold, removed her coat, and held it out to Miss Trent. The hallway had six additional doors; two on the left, two on the right, and one on either side of the grand staircase in the middle; all were closed. The furniture consisted of a noble grandfather clock between the doors on the right, a two-seat sofa between the doors on the left, a hat stand with an umbrella pan in the corner to one’s right, and a chair to one’s left. A black-and-white checked tiled floor, embossed wallpaper with a repetitive burgundy floral pattern on a light-red background, and a plush, burgundy carpet on the stairs formed the rest of the décor.
Miss Trent gave Mrs Belrose and her coat a single glance before she gestured to her right. “You may hang your coat on the hat stand.”
Mrs Belrose at once retracted her arm and glowered at the clerk.
“And join me by the fire in the parlour,” Miss Trent added as she passed the hat stand and entered the first door on the left.
Mrs Belrose clutched her coat against her for several moments. When the clerk didn’t return, she marched to the stand, hooked her coat onto it, and marched to the—still open—door to the parlour.
Miss Trent stood in front of an armchair that faced her guest. It was the twin of a high, triple balloon-shaped back tête-à-tête sofa that faced a lit hearth on the wall to Mrs Belrose’s left. A low oak table with curved legs and feet resembling paws—known as Queen Anne feet—stood before the sofa upon a rug. The previously mentioned hearth was made of black iron. It had an oak surround with hand-carved floral embellishments down each side and a flat mantel shelf on top. Bronze gilt paper with a light blue leaf design covered the walls whilst the floorboards were polished.
Other items in the parlour were a taxidermy herring housed in a glass case on a table behind the door and a bookcase against the back right corner. The latter held books by Charles Dickens, amongst others, and a music box that played notched, brass discs. An oil painting of Hampstead Heath hung upon the chimney breast whilst smaller, framed prints of flowers and countryside scenes filled the wall between the door and the fireplace.
“Do you—?” Mrs Belrose began in an irate tone.
“Please be seated so we may discuss the particulars of your case,” Miss Trent interrupted in a firm—but polite—manner.
“I beg your pardon…?” Mrs Belrose enquired in a hushed voice as she recoiled from the door.
Miss Trent lofted a brow at the sight. “Is something the matter?”
“Only my naivety.” Mrs Belrose pursed her lips a moment. “So much time has passed, I assumed it wouldn’t be remembered.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to. Unless you’re telling me the matter you wish to discuss happened some years ago?”
Mrs Belrose stared at her. “You don’t?” She shook her head. “No, that’s not the reason for my visit. Forgive me, it was a long cab ride to reach you, and I’m not in the prime of health at the best of times.” She gave a feeble smile. “May I sit, please?”
“Of course.” Miss Trent indicated the sofa. While Mrs Belrose perched upon its edge, Miss Trent retrieved a notebook and pencil from the mantel shelf and took the armchair. “Would you like some tea? I have a bottle of brandy in the pantry, too.”
“No, thank you. I’m quite well now.” Mrs Belrose slid back on the sofa to rest against its overstuffed cushion. “My heart is rather weak. I mustn’t become too excited.”
Miss Trent remained silent in the hope her visitor would feel obliged—like others before her—to fill the gap. Mrs Belrose went against the grain, though, in that she waited for Miss Trent to speak instead. With the realisation she’d glean no further information on the topic of her visitor’s health, Miss Trent enquired, “What is the matter you wish the Bow Street Society to investigate, then?”
“Do you recall, in 1889, the trial of Mrs Florence Maybrick for the murder of her husband?”
“Yes; it caused quite a sensation, both during the proceedings and afterward. Didn’t the Home Secretary intervene on her behalf?”
Mrs Belrose hummed and leaned toward Miss Trent a moment. “Indeed! Alas, poor Mrs Maybrick remains in prison despite the major
ity of polite society believing she was unfairly treated at her trial. I mean, the jury had some of her husband’s acquaintances on it, for heaven’s sake!”
Miss Trent set aside her notebook and pencil. “However unjust her trial may have been, the Bow Street Society can’t reverse the court’s decision. Nor can it embark upon a fresh investigation unless Mrs Maybrick—or someone close to her like an intimate friend or relative—commissions it to do so. Yet, even under those circumstances, I would be loath to assign our members to the task of proving Mrs Maybrick’s innocence.”
“You have done so before.”
“True, but the case had yet to be heard in court, and the Bow Street Society had been involved with the investigation from the beginning.”
“I thought this was a group that seeks justice for all. Was I mistaken?”
“No, but this particular matter is beyond our authority, Mrs Belrose.”
“But the least it could do is petition for Mrs Maybrick’s release!”
“Why? It didn’t exist at the time of her trial. Any campaigning it would do on her behalf would be construed as an act of publicity for itself. The Bow Street Society has higher values than that.”
Mrs Belrose stood. “This is indecent! That poor woman has lost her liberty because of a jury’s bias, and the Bow Street Society will do nothing?!”
Miss Trent stood. “Mrs Belrose, I’ve explained the Society’s position. However, if you wish to hear them from someone more qualified in criminal law than I, I may put the request to one of our members whose usual occupation is that of solicitor.”
“Please, do.” Mrs Belrose went to the door. “We may meet for luncheon at the Walmsley Hotel on St James’ Street at one thirty today with Mrs Payton, a fellow campaigner and member of the Women’s International Maybrick Association.”
Miss Trent placed a hand upon her hip. “I will put the request to him, but I can give no guarantee he’ll accept. Nor will I attempt to persuade him to do so.”
Mrs Belrose smiled as she lifted her chin in triumph. “If he’s a decent man, he’ll accept and, as he’s a member of your fine Society, he must be a decent man. Good day to you, Miss Trent!”
* * *
Duncan Terrace, Islington—thus named for the 1st Viscount Duncan of Camperdown, Admiral Adam Duncan who lived 1731-1804—began its existence in 1791. Arguably, its most famous residents were writers and siblings Charles and Mary Lamb who occupied Colebrooke Cottage by the New River. By 1896, Duncan Terrace had absorbed properties from New Terrace on Colebrook Row and Camden Terrace.
To Mr Joseph Maxwell though, Duncan Terrace was his boyhood home. The family had moved there in 1880 from Edinburgh when he was five, and his brothers were twelve and fourteen respectively. The former had entered the clergy in 1890 and now served at the church of St. John the Evangelist on Duncan Terrace. Whereas, his eldest brother had been taken into his father’s company and taught the ways of business. Their parents had remained on Duncan Terrace after they’d left home. Yet, despite Joseph’s career at the Gaslight Gazette and rented lodgings near Fleet Street, his marital home was to be on Duncan Terrace.
“The mortgage rates are reasonable on this property,” Mr Oliver Maxwell stated as he addressed Mr Roger Lillithwaite in the narrow, unfurnished hallway of number 164. Oliver was in his mid-fifties with defined cheekbones and jaw, high forehead, slanted salt and pepper eyebrows, and a receding hairline. The retained hair had been parted off-centre with its natural black colour remaining at the sides of his head. Small salt and pepper patches were still visible though not only above his ears but at the edge of his hair line and parting. The weight of his brow and droop in the corners of his mouth made him appear dissatisfied even when at rest.
Roger, by contrast, was a plump gentleman of six feet. His once-black hair was now a dark grey but had remained full bodied. Hazel-coloured eyes peered out from behind swollen cheeks and brow. His attire, while inferior in cut and quality to Oliver’s, consisted of a black frock coat with matching trousers, a forest-green waistcoat, white shirt, and black cravat. His wealth was denoted by the silk handkerchief he wore in his waistcoat pocket and the gold watch chain that lay across his rotund stomach. A curt nod of approval was given to Oliver’s words, followed by his booming voice as he replied, “And your wife is also on hand to instruct Poppy on how to run a household. The girl is ignorant to a fault and beyond, sir.”
“All women are when they’re young,” Oliver replied. “But firm words and firmer actions are usually sufficient means of correction.”
“Indeed!”
Joseph gazed out of the parlour window. It had never struck him before how quiet Duncan Terrace was. One wouldn’t think one was amidst the sprawl of London. True, Mr Lillithwaite and his father made it difficult to enjoy the peace. He released a slow, deep breath and turned on the spot. The room had a high ceiling, a fireplace, and little else. It was one of three on the ground floor—as far as he understood it from his father’s earlier description—with the other two being the breakfast and dining rooms. The kitchen and pantry were housed in the basement while there was room enough for a cook and parlour maid’s accommodation in the attic. Two guest bedrooms and a study were on the second floor while the third held the master bedroom, nursery, and nanny’s bedroom. The anticipated budget allocated to the purchase of the home couldn’t stretch to a bathroom or indoor plumbing, however. One point in the house’s favour was the inclusion of electric lighting; a luxury Joseph had yet to enjoy at his lodgings.
Poppy Lillithwaite stood with one hand upon the plaster surround of the wrought-iron hearth as she leaned forward to study its detail. Her build was stockier than his despite being around the same height. Broad shoulders, a full waist, and wide hips were smothered by a maroon bustle dress with innumerable folds and layers. Waist-length, jet-black hair had been tied into two plaits, pulled back in a loop, and pinned to either side of her crown. Rather than beautiful—or even handsome—her face could best be described as masculine due to her angular brow, oversized nose, and cleft chin. At thirty-three she was also twelve years Joseph’s senior.
“Shall we look around the rest of the house?” Oliver suggested.
“But of course!” Roger replied and the two gentlemen strolled down the hallway to the breakfast room. After a moment, Roger’s voice enquired in the distance “And it’s quite secure? I notice there’s only a brick wall around the garden.”
Oliver’s reply was too muffled for Joseph to hear.
Poppy meanwhile had wandered over to the window. “The house is beautiful.” Her impish voice had become a source of discomfort to Joseph due to it being at such odds with her appearance. It was as if another woman spoke on Poppy’s behalf. “Do you have any preference for wallpaper, dear?”
“Pardon?” He looked to the faded, peeling cream and brown floral wallpaper. “Oh, no… I’ll be satisfied with whatever you think is best.” His gaze drifted to the chimney breast. “Though, I think a painting should hang above the hearth.” As he stared at the empty space, imagined one of Miss Dexter’s artwork’s there. That is, the style of artwork he imagined she’d paint. To his shame, he had yet to see her pieces. Based upon the sketches she’d made for the Bow Street Society in the past, though, he was certain they’d be quite breath-taking. He turned to face the room, again, and thought Georgina would undoubtedly have a fine eye for interior decoration. He smiled as he imagined Miss Dexter working in the parlour, paint brush in hand, with her easel by the window. The sunshine—when there was sunshine, of course—catching her hair to give her a divine halo. People in the street would slow down once they’d see her; a vision of loveliness in the midst of London’s filth. Mr Elliott’s voice then drifted into Joseph’s mind: Does Miss Dexter share your affections? … Will she accept another proposal of marriage from you?
“Do you have an artist in mind?” Poppy’s voice penetrated his consciousness.
“No.” Joseph cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back while he
went to the door. “We should join our fathers.” Rather than allow her to leave the parlour first, though, he instead strode into the hallway and sought out Oliver Maxwell in the breakfast room with Roger. As he did so, Mr Elliott’s words drifted back into his thoughts: You must take responsibility for your past mistakes and decide upon the best course of action. I can’t give you the answer, Mr Maxwell… Only you can do that. Joseph swallowed hard and toyed with his cravat once he’d found a corner to stand in.
A perplexed and morose Poppy came into the breakfast room a moment later but neither Roger nor Oliver acknowledged her. The two remained engrossed in their discussion while Joseph appeared distracted by his thoughts. She released a soft, inaudible sigh and went to the window to see the view; she was disappointed to discover it was similar to the other.
Unbeknownst to her Joseph had watched her cross the room to the window. She’s relying on me he thought and recalled what she’d said when he’d given her the ring: We both wear the marks of our fathers’ will. He ran his gaze over the vacant room as Poppy’s voice echoed in his mind again, for now, isn’t it enough to sleep soundly in a home of our own? At those last five words his vision of Miss Dexter by the window filled his mind’s eye. A home of our own, his inner voice said as he imagined putting his arms around her and hearing her say, “A home of our own” in the moment before they kissed.
“Elias will be eager to visit once Poppy is settled,” Roger remarked.
Joseph’s vision disappeared, and he was pulled back to reality in an instant.
Oliver hummed. “Yes, it was fortunate the church could accommodate the wedding a few weeks earlier than planned.”
“Indeed!” Roger boomed. “Poppy is most fond of her uncle.” He rubbed his hands together. “Shall we move on to the rest of the house, sir?”
“Yes, I think so,” Oliver replied. “Come, Joseph.”