Splendors and Glooms (21 page)

The young man attempted a conciliatory grin. He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling, pointing to a bunch of mistletoe tied with red ribbon. “Good Lord, sir! It was only a kiss! Christmastime, you know!”

“It is not Christmas yet,” Dr. Wintermute said coldly, “nor does Our Lord’s birthday grant you the liberty to force yourself on a defenseless child.”

The young man reddened. “There warn’t any ’arm in it.” He turned to the girl as if he expected her to defend him. “
She
don’t mind, do you, Lizzie Rose?”

The servant girl scrambled to her feet. “I do mind,” she said indignantly. “I do, indeed! I hate it when you kiss me!”

“You see, sir.” Dr. Wintermute’s voice was steely. “Your conduct is offensive.” He picked up the man’s hat and held it out. “I believe you were on the point of leaving. Pray do not allow me to detain you.”

The young man looked baffled. “I don’t know what right you ’ave to tell me to leave the ’ouse,” he said. “Not your ’ouse, is it? It’s my stepmother’s ’ouse, and I’m passin’ Christmas wiv ’er. No ’arm in that, is there?”

“That remains to be seen,” Dr. Wintermute said coldly. He strode to the door and held it open. “Sir.”

The man stared at him stupidly. Then he gave up. With tipsy dignity, he edged past Dr. Wintermute. He misjudged the height of one of the steps, stumbled without falling, and descended to the street. Dr. Wintermute shut the door sharply and turned back to the girl.

“Thank you, sir.” The girl placed one broken boot behind the other and sank into a curtsy. It was not, Dr. Wintermute observed, the usual servant’s bob, but a graceful and elaborate gesture, such as a dancer might make on the stage. All at once he knew who she was. She was one of the puppet master’s assistants, and he had seen her on the day of Clara’s birthday party. His heart beat faster. Perhaps she might know something of Grisini.

“Are you here to see Mrs. Pinchbeck, sir?”

She had pronounced her
h
’s. Dr. Wintermute examined her curiously. She reminded him of someone, though he could not think whom. “I think I would rather speak to you. My name is Dr. Wintermute. You may remember me from the day of my daughter’s birthday party.”

“Oh!” The girl brought her hands to her lips. “You’re Clara’s father!”

Dr. Wintermute winced. “Yes. I’m Clara’s father.” He took a deep breath, composing himself. “You worked with Professor Grisini, did you not?”

“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry — about Clara.”

“Would you be so good as to grant me a little of your time? I should like to ask you some questions.”

“Of course, sir. Come upstairs, sir. Just let me — the dogs —” As she spoke, the girl took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door to the left of the staircase. Hastily she dragged the bulldog, the pug, the beagle, and the rat terrier toward the door, untied their leashes, and pushed them through the opening. Then she relocked the door and picked up the red spaniel. “Thank you. If you’ll follow me, sir —” She stopped, her eyes raised to the bunch of mistletoe. Dr. Wintermute divined what she was thinking.

“Would you like me to take that down?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

The ceiling was low; it was no trouble for Dr. Wintermute to catch hold of the red ribbon and un-tack the mistletoe. The girl nodded her thanks and headed up the stairs. The staircase was steep, dark, and narrow. Dr. Wintermute noted that some of the steps had been patched with wood from a packing crate. He glanced at the hand rope that served as a banister, noted the crumbling plaster around it, and grimaced.

At the top of the stairs, the girl set down the dog. She led him down a narrow passage and unlocked the door. “Come in, sir.”

Dr. Wintermute went inside. He was well aware that there was poverty in the world, but he had never seen anything like the gaudy squalor of Grisini’s chambers. In one corner there was a sort of playhouse built out of rubbish, with a spangled curtain for a door. Clotheslines had been strung from one wall to the next, bearing an assortment of string puppets: some missing arms and legs, some naked, all with oversize heads and staring eyes.

“This way, sir.” The girl edged her way through the clutter to the fire. She drew a stained armchair close to the hearth. She knelt before the fire, added a few lumps of coal, and held out her hand for the mistletoe, which she placed in the midst of the flames. “Pray sit down, sir.”

“You have no chair,” Dr. Wintermute pointed out.

“I like to sit by the fire.” The girl patted her lap, and the red spaniel leaped into it. All at once Dr. Wintermute caught hold of the idea that had eluded him. Why, this girl was Cinderella, with her sooty dress and wistful eyes. He half smiled at the fancy.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Lizzie Rose — that is, Elizabeth Rose Fawr, sir.”

“Professor Grisini is not your father?”

“No, sir. My father was David Fawr.” She spoke with pride; evidently David Fawr had been someone of importance in her world. “Grisini took me in a year and a half ago.”

“Do you know where he is?”

The girl shook her head. “He’s gone, sir. I think — I believe he’s dead.”

“Is he?” He spoke with such intensity that she drew back, gathering the spaniel closer to her breast. “I need to know. I was told he was not in London. The police want to speak with Mr. Grisini. Have you any clue as to where he might be?”

He watched the girl’s face, alert for any signs of fear, of cunning, of knowledge withheld. But she met his eyes candidly. “He fell down the stairs,” she said, “and then he went away. That’s all we know, sir.”

“The stairs of this house?”

“Yes, sir. He was in a temper, and the stairs gave way and he struck his head.” She bit her lip. “He — there was a lot of blood — and Mrs. Pinchbeck — she’s our landlady — went to fetch the surgeon, but Grisini must have come awake after she left. He wandered off by himself. He never came back.”

“But he was alive. He must have been alive when he left.”

“Yes,” the girl said unwillingly, “but he never came back. Everything he owns is here — his clothes and the theatre and the puppets —”

At the word
puppets,
Dr. Wintermute leaned forward. “The puppets. He makes them, doesn’t he?”

For the first time, the girl looked wary. “Some of them, yes, sir.”

“Did he make the one that looks like my daughter?”

She gave a little gasp. “Oh, sir! You saw that puppet?”

“Today. In Ebury Square.”

“Oh!” the girl said again. “Oh, no, how cruel!” She pushed the spaniel off her lap and stood up. “Might I fetch you a glass of spirits, sir? I believe Mrs. Pinchbeck —”

Dr. Wintermute caught hold of her hand, detaining her. “What do you know about that puppet? When did he make it? And why? He scarcely knew my daughter. Why did he make a puppet in her image?”

The girl withdrew her hand. “I don’t know,” she said unhappily. “He didn’t tell us about things like that.” She added unconvincingly, “The puppet isn’t so
very
like Clara —”

“It is exactly like her,” Dr. Wintermute contradicted her. “For God’s sake, if you know anything, you must tell me! When did Professor Grisini leave here? What was the date?”

The girl hesitated. Her hands twitched; she was counting on her fingers. “It was eight days after the birthday party. The fourteenth.”

Dr. Wintermute closed his eyes. His heart seemed to stand still. At the same time, he was quite composed; the worst had happened and nothing could ever hurt him again. He heard himself speak quite calmly. “I was at Kensal Green that night.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Kensal Green is the cemetery where my children are buried,” Dr. Wintermute said. He was astonished to hear himself confide in her; he had told no one but Ada what had happened that night. “I had a letter from a stranger — I thought it was Professor Grisini — telling me to go to Kensal Green cemetery with ten thousand pounds. That was the price of my daughter’s ransom.”

The girl nodded. He saw horror dawn in her eyes.

“At midnight, I was to go to the wall overlooking the Grand Junction Canal and listen for the sound of someone striking the bricks from the opposite side. I was supposed to throw the ransom money over the wall. I waited all night, straining my ears for the slightest sound. But I heard nothing. No one came. I wondered if the kidnapper had been followed, if he’d lost his nerve. But I told myself,
He must want the ransom money.
” He clenched his hands as he spoke the words. He had repeated them to himself a thousand times. “He
must
want the money. Why else would he kidnap my daughter? He kidnapped her for the ransom money, and once the money was paid, he must release her. Afterward, I dared not tell the police. The kidnapper still had Clara. He might write again. I prayed that he would, but no letter came. After a week, I went to the police detective and asked what progress had been made with my daughter’s case. He said there had been no progress. I asked him about Professor Grisini. He told me that Grisini had left London and that they were trying to trace his whereabouts. Now you tell me”— he needed to inhale, but was afraid that if he took a deep breath, he would burst into tears —“that he was injured, perhaps mortally, and that it happened on the night of the fourteenth. He may have bled to death. If he did, then Clara — my Clara — may still be a prisoner.” Once again, he shut his eyes. Behind his eyelids were a dozen Claras, all in pain and deadly peril: Clara in a shadowy cellar, dying of thirst; Clara shivering with cold and fear; Clara lying stock-still, her skin waxen and faintly blue. His throat closed, and his face twisted.

“Oh!” said the girl. He heard the rustle of skirts as she crept closer. “Oh, please, Dr. Wintermute, don’t — don’t give way! I believe — I truly believe — that Clara is alive! Somehow, someone will find her, and she’ll come home again!”

“How can you believe that? What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything. But I’m sure it must be so —” She was crying, too; the tears slid down her freckled cheeks. “If Grisini — if he was hiding her — it would have been somewhere safe, and —” Her words made no sense, and perhaps she knew it, because she gave up on them. Instead, she reached over the arm of the chair and stroked his coat sleeve. The gesture went to his heart. He sobbed aloud, and she murmured wordlessly, as if she were his mother and he were her child.

He had no idea how long he wept or how long the girl knelt patiently at his side, patting his coat sleeve and making soft sounds. But at last he became aware that something was scratching his knee. The spaniel was trying to climb into his lap. The dog’s face, with its wide eyes and slender nose, was so like the girl’s that Dr. Wintermute gave a brief, hysterical laugh. He realized that he felt a tiny bit better. Crying had eased him. How strange that he should have found comfort in this filthy kennel of a room, in the company of a stranger. He felt a sudden irrational desire to lean back in his chair and fall asleep. He knew that if he did so, his Cinderella would not shame him for it. She would stay beside him, stroking his coat sleeve.

He cleared his throat. “I must go home. My wife worries when I am late. Forgive me for —”

“Oh, sir, please! There is no need.”

He bowed, accepting her kindness. She got to her feet to see him out, and he waited until she turned her back before reaching into his pocket. He knew better than to offer her money. Incredible though it might be, she seemed to consider herself a young lady; he must not insult her by treating her as a beggar. Stealthily he drew out three sovereigns. He would leave them on the mantelpiece to be found later. His eyes passed over the objects on the mantel. There was a gray silk purse, two snuffboxes, and a pair of glittering bracelets. And —

“Where did you get this photograph?”

The girl spun around to face him. “Oh!”

“Where did you get it?” Dr. Wintermute scarcely recognized his own voice; it was so low and threatening. “This is my son — my dead son!”

The girl raised her hands in mute appeal. The spaniel, sensing a threat, barked twice. Dr. Wintermute took a step forward and stopped. He was a gentleman, and a gentleman must not strike a female under any circumstances. But the sound of his voice was as savage as a blow. “You’re a thief.”

“I’m not. I didn’t take it —”

“You robbed my house.” Dr. Wintermute was breathing hard. “I see I was mistaken in you. I thought you were honest. Perhaps a police constable will be able to force the truth out of you —”

“No!” The girl caught his sleeve, gazing imploringly into his face. “Please don’t tell the constable!” She seemed to sense that her plea could not move him and changed tactics. “It was Grisini who stole that photograph! It was
Grisini
!”

“If it was Grisini, why are you so afraid?” demanded Dr. Wintermute.

Her tears began to fall again. “I’m not afraid. Only,
please,
sir, don’t tell the constable. You don’t know how it is with us — how hard —”

He would not hear her. He shook off her arm, clasping the photograph to his chest as if it were a thing that could wrest itself free. He rattled down the dark staircase with the girl at his heels, pleading with him to listen, begging him not to go to the police. But he was deaf to her entreaties; he shook her off when she sought to detain him and slammed the door when he went out.