My name, in those days, was Susan Trinder. Now those days all came to an end.
The police took every one of us, save Dainty. They took us, and kept us in gaol while they tore up the Lant Street kitchen, looking for clues, for stashes of money and poke. They kept us in separate cells, and every day they came and asked the same set of questions.
What was the murdered man, to you?
I said he was a friend of Mrs Sucksbys.
Been long, at Lant Street?
I said I was born there.
What did you see, on the night of the crime?
Here, however, I always stumbled. Sometimes it seemed to me that I had seen Maud take up the knife; sometimes I even seemed to remember seeing her use it. I know I saw her touch the table-top, I know I saw the glitter of the blade. I know she stepped away as Gentleman started to stagger. But Mrs Sucksby had been there,
too, she had moved as quick as anyone; and sometimes I thought it was her hand I remembered seeing dart and flash ... At last I told the simple truth: that I did not know what I had seen. It didnt matter, anyway. They had John Vrooms word, and Mrs Sucksbys own confession. They didnt need me. On the fourth day after they took us, they let me go.
The others they kept longer.
Mr Ibbs was brought before the magistrate first. His trial lasted half-an-hour. He was done, after all, not on account of the poke left lying about the kitchen—he was too good at taking the seals and stampings off, for that—but for the sake of some of the notes in his cigarette box. They were marked ones. The police, it turned out, had been watching the business at Mr Ibbss shop, for more than a month; and in the end they had got Phil—who, you might remember, had sworn hed never do another term in gaol, at any cost—to plant the marked notes on him. Mr Ibbs was found to have handled stolen goods: he was sent to Pentonville. Of course, he knew many of the men in there, and might be supposed to have had an easy time among them—except that, here was a funny thing: the fingersmiths and cracksmen who had been so grateful to get an extra shilling from him on the outside, now quite turned against him; and I think his time was very miserable. I went to visit him, a week after he went in. He saw me, and put his hands before his face, and was in general so changed and so brought down, and looked at me so queerly, I could not bear it. I didnt go again.
His sister, poor thing, was found by the police in her bed at Lant Street, while they were going through the house. We had all forgotten her. She was put on the ward of a parish hospital. The move, however, was too great a shock for her; and she died.
John Vroom could not be pinned to any crime, save—through his coat—to that old one of dog-stealing. He was let off with six nights in Tothill Fields, and a flogging. They say he was so disliked in his gaol, the keepers played cards for who should be the one to flog him; that they flung in one or two extras above his twelve, for fun; and that after, he cried like a baby. Dainty met him at the prison
gate, and he punched her and blacked her eye. It was thanks to him, though, that she had got clean off from Lant Street.
I never spoke to him again. He took a room for him and Dainty in another house, and kept out of my way. I saw him, only once; and that was in the court-room, at Mrs Sucksbys trial.
The trial came up very quick. I spent the nights before it at Lant Street, lying awake in my old bed; sometimes Dainty came back, to sleep beside me and keep me company. She was the only one, out of all my old pals, who would: for of course, everyone else supposed— from the story having been put about, before—that I was a cheat. It came out that I had taken that room, in the house across from Mr Ibbss; and had lived there, in what seemed a sneaking sort of way, for almost a week. Why had I done that? Then someone said they saw me running, on the night of the murder, with a look of wildness in my eye. They talked about my mother, and the bad blood that flowed in me. They didnt say I was brave, now; they said I was bold. They said they wouldnt have been surprised if it was me that had put the knife in, after all; and Mrs Sucksby—who still loved me like a daughter, though I had turned out bad—who had stepped forward and taken the blame . . .
When I walked out in the Borough, people cursed me. Once, a girl threw a stone at me.
At any other time it would have broken my heart. Now, I did not care. I had only one thought, and that was to see Mrs Sucksby as often as I could. They had her in the Horsemonger Lane Gaol: I spent all my days there—sitting on the step outside the gate, when it was too early to be let in; talking with her keepers, or with the man who was to plead her case in court. Some pal of Mr Ibbss had found him for us; he was said to have regularly saved the worst sort of villains from the rope. But he told me, honestly, that our case was a bad one. The most we can hope, he said, is that the judge show mercy, for the sake of her age.
More than once I said, Suppose it could be proved she never did it?
Hed shake his head. Where is the evidence? hed say. Besides, she has admitted to it. Why should she do that?
I did not know, and could not answer. He would leave me then, at the gate of the gaol—going quickly off, stepping into the street and calling out for a cab-man; and Id watch him go with my hands at my head, for his shout, and the rattle of hooves and wheels, the movement of people, the very stones beneath my feet, would seem harsh to me. Everything seemed harsh, and loud, and harder and faster than it ought to have been, just then. Many times I would stop, and remember Gentleman, gripping the wound in his stomach, looking disbelievingly at our own disbelieving faces. How did this happen? he had said. I wanted to say it, now, to everyone I saw: How did this happen? How can this be? Why do you only stand and watch me . . .?
I would have written letters; if I had known how to write, and who to send them to. I would have gone to the house of the man who was to be judge; if I had known how to find it. But I did nothing like that. What little comfort I got, I got at Mrs Sucksbys side; and the gaol, though it was so grim—so dark, and.bleak—at least was also quiet. I got to spend more time there than I ought to have, through the kindness of the keepers: I think they thought me younger and less of a sharper than I was. Heres your daughter, theyd say, unlocking the gate to Mrs Sucksbys cell; and every time, she would quickly lift her head and study my face, or glance beyond my shoulder, with a troubled look—as if, I thought, not quite believing they had let me come again and meant to let me stay.
Then shed blink, and try at a smile. Dear girl. Quite alone?
Quite alone, Id answer.
Thats good, shed say after.a moment, taking my hand. Aint it? Just you and me. Thats good.
She liked to sit with my hand in hers. She did not like to talk. When at first Id weep, and curse, and beg her to take back her story, my words would so upset her I feared shed grow ill.
No more, shed say, very pale in the face and set about the mouth. I done it, thats all. I dont want to hear no more about it.
So then Id remember that dander of hers, and keep silent, and only smooth her fingers in mine. They seemed to grow thinner, every time I saw her. The keepers said she left her dinners quite
untouched. The sight of the dwindling of those great hands upset me, more than I can say: it seemed to me that everything, that was so wrong, would be put right if only Mrs Sucksbys hands could be made to be handsome again. I had spent what money there was in the house at Lant Street, on finding a lawyer; but all that I could make now through borrowing or pawning I put on little dishes to try and tempt her—on shrimps, and saveloys, and suet-puddings. Once I took her a sugar mouse, thinking she might remember the time she had put me in her bed and told me about Nancy from Oliver Twist. I dont think she did, however; she only took it and set it distractedly aside, saying she would try it later, like she did with everything else. In the end her keepers told me to save my money. She had been passing the dishes to them.
Many times she held my face in her hands. Many times she kissed me. Once or twice she gripped me hard, and seemed about to speak on some awful matter; but always, at the last, she would turn the matter aside and it would be lost. If there were things I might have asked her—if I was troubled by queer ideas, and doubts—I kept quiet as she did. That time was bad enough; why make it worse? We talked instead of me—of how I should do now and in the future.
Youll keep up the old place, at Lant Street? shed say.
Wont I! Id answer.
You wont think of leaving?
Leaving? Why, I mean to keep it ready, against the day they let you out. . .
I did not tell her how very changed the house was, now that she and Mr Ibbs, and Mr Ibbss sister, had gone. I did not tell her that neighbours had left off calling; that a girl threw a stone at me; that people—strangers—would come and stand, for hours at a time, at the doors and windows, hoping for a glimpse of the place where Gentleman had died. I did not say how hard I had worked, with Dainty, to take the blood-stain from the floor; how we had washed and washed; how many buckets of water we had carried off, crimson; how at last we had had to give it up, because the constant scrubbing began to lift the surface of the boards and turn the pale
wood underneath a horrible pink. I didnt tell her of all the places— the doors, the ceiling—and all the things—the pictures on the walls, the ornaments upon the mantel, the dinner-plates, the knives and forks—that we found marked with streaks and splashes of Gentlemans blood.
And I did not say how, as I swept and scrubbed the kitchen, I chanced on a thousand little reminders of my old life—dog-hairs, and chips of broken cups, bad farthings, playing cards, the cuts on the door-frame made by Mr Ibbss knife to mark my height as I grew up; nor how I covered my face and wept, at every one.
At night, if I slept, I dreamed of murder. I dreamed I killed a man, and had to walk the streets of London with his body in a bag too small to hold it. I dreamed of Gentleman. I dreamed I met him among the graves at the little red chapel at Briar and he showed me the tomb of his mother. The tomb had a lock upon it, and I had a blank and file and must cut the key to fit; and every night I would set to work, knowing I must work quickly, quickly; and every time, just as the job was almost done, some queer disaster would happen—the key would shrink or grow too large, the file would soften in my fingers; there would be a cut—the final cut—I could not make, never make in time . . .
Too late, Gentleman would say.
One time the voice was Mauds.
Too late.
I looked, but could not see her.
I had not seen her, since the night that Gentleman died. I didnt know where she was. I knew the police had kept her longer than they kept me—for she gave them her name, and it got into the newspapers; and, of course, Dr Christie saw it. I heard it, from the keepers at the gaol. It had all come out, how she was Gentlemans wife, and had supposedly been in a madhouse and had escaped; and how the police didnt know what to do with her—whether to let her go, or lock her up as a lunatic, or what. Dr Christie said only he could decide; so they called him in to examine her. I nearly had a fit
when I heard that. I still couldnt go near bath-tubs. But what happened, was this: he took one look at her, was seen to stagger and grow white; then declared himself only overcome with emotion, to find her so perfectly cured. He said this showed how good his methods were. He had the papers give details of his house. He got lots of new lady patients out of it, I think, and quite made his fortune.
Maud herself was set at liberty, then; and after that, she seemed to vanish. I guessed she had gone back home to Briar. I know she never came to Lant Street. I supposed her too afraid!—for of course, I would have throttled her if she had.
I did wonder if she might, however. I wondered it, every day. Perhaps today, I would think each morning, will be the day shell come. And then, each night: Perhaps tomorrow . . .
But, as I have said, she never did. What came instead, was the day of the trial. It came in the middle of August. The sun had kept on blazing all through that awful summer, and the court—being packed with watchers—was close: every hour a man was called to throw water on the floor to try and cool it. I sat with Dainty. Id hoped I might sit in the box with Mrs Sucksby, and hold her hand; but the policemen laughed in my face when I asked it. They made her sit alone, and when they took her in and out of the room, they put cuffs on her. She wore a grey prison gown that made her face seem almost yellow, but her silver hair shone very bright against the dark wood walls of the court. She flinched when she first came up, and saw the crowd of strangers that had come to see her tried. Then she found out my face among them and grew, I thought, more easy. Her eye came back to mine, after that, as the day went on—though I saw her looking, too, about the court, as if in search of another. At the last, however, her gaze would always fall.
When she spoke, her voice was weak. She said she had stabbed Gentleman in a moment of anger, m a quarrel over money he owed for the renting of her room.
She earned her money from the letting of rooms? asked the prosecuting lawyer.
Yes, she said.
And not from the handling of stolen goods, or the unlicensed nursing—commonly known as farming—of orphaned infants?
No.
Then they brought in men to say they had seen her, at different times, with different bits of poke; and—what was worse—found women who swore they had given her babies that had very soon afterwards died . . .
Then John Vroom spoke. They had put him in a suit like a clerks, and combed and shined his hair; he looked more like an infant than ever. He said he had seen everything that took place in the Lant Street kitchen, on the fatal night. He had seen Mrs Sucksby put in the knife. She had cried, You blackguard, take that! And he had seen her with the knife in her hand, for at least a minute, before she did.
At least a minute? the lawyer said. You are quite sure? You know how long a minute is? Look at that clock, there. Watch the movement of the hand ..."
We all watched it sweep. The court fell still, to do it. I never knew a minute so long. The lawyer looked back at John.
As long as that? he said.
John began to cry. Yes, sir, he said, through his tears.
Then they brought the knife out, for him to say it was the one. The crowd broke out in murmurs when they saw it; and when John wiped his eyes and looked, and nodded, a lady swooned. The knife was shown to all the men of the jury then, one by one, and the lawyer said they must be sure to note how the blade was sharpened, more than it naturally would have been for a knife of that kind— that it was the sharpening of it that made Gentlemans wound so bad. He said that broke in pieces Mrs Sucksbys story about the quarrel, by showing evidence of forethought—
I nearly started out of my seat, when I heard that. Then I caught Mrs Sucksbys eye. She shook her head, and looked so pleadingly at me to be silent, I fell back; and it never came out that the knife was sharp not because she had sharpened it, but because I had. They never called me to the stand. Mrs Sucksby would not let them. They did call Charles; but he wept so hard, and shook so
badly, the judge declared him unfit. He was sent back to his auntys.
No-one was told about me, and Maud. No-one mentioned Briar or old Mr Lilly. No-one came forward to say that Gentleman was a villain—that he had tried to rob heiresses—that he had ruined people through the selling of counterfeit stock. They made out that he was a decent young man with a promising future; they said that Mrs Sucksby had robbed him of it through simple greed. They even found out his family, and brought his parents to the trial—and youll never believe it, but it turned out that all his tales of being a gentlemans son were so much puff. His father and mother ran a small kind of drapers shop, in a street off the Holloway Road. His sister taught piano. His real name was not Richard Rivers or even Richard Wells; it was Frederick Bunt.
They drew his picture in the papers. Girls all over England were said to have cut it out and worn it next to their hearts.
But when I looked at that picture—and when I heard people talk of the awful murder of Mr Bunt, and of vices, and sordid trades— it seemed to me as though they must be talking of something else, something else entirely, not of Gentleman, being hurt, by mistake, in my own kitchen, with my own people all about. Even when the judge sent off the jury, and we waited, and watched the newspapermen getting ready to run with the verdict as soon as it came; even when the jury, after an hour, returned, and one of them stood and gave back their answer in a single word; even when the judge covered up his horse-hair wig with a cloth of black, and hoped that God would have mercy on Mrs Sucksbys soul—even then, I did not really feel it as you would suppose I might, did not believe, I think, that so many dark and sober gentlemen speaking so many grave and monotonous words could pinch out the spirit and the heat and the colour from the lives of people like me and Mrs Sucksby.
Then I looked at her face; and saw the spirit and heat and colour half-gone from it, already. She was looking dully about her, at the murmuring crowd—looking for me, I thought, and I rose, and lifted my hand. But she caught my eye, and her gaze, as it had before, moved on: I watched it roam about the room, as if looking for
someone or something else—finally it settled and seemed to clear, and I followed it and picked out, at the back of the rows of watchers, a girl dressed all in black, with a veil, that she was just putting down— It was Maud. I saw her, not expecting to see her: and Ill tell you this, my heart flew open; then I remembered everything, and my heart flew shut. She looked miserable—that was something, I thought. She was sitting alone. She made no sort of sign—to me, I mean; and none to Mrs Sucksby.
Then our lawyer called me to him, to shake my hand and say he was sorry. Dainty was weeping and needed my arm to help her walk. When I looked at Mrs Sucksby again, her head was sunk upon her breast; and when I looked for Maud, she had gone.
The week that passed after that I remember, now, as not a week at all, but as a single great endless day. It was a day without sleep—for how could I sleep, when sleep might take away thoughts of Mrs Sucksby, who was so soon to die? It was a day, almost, without darkness—for they kept lights in her cell, that burned all through the night; and in the hours I could not be with her, I kept lights burning at Lant Street—every light I could find in the house, and every light I could borrow. I sat alone, with blazing eyes. I sat and watched, as though she might be ill at my side. I hardly ate. I hardly changed my clothes. When I walked, it was to walk quickly to Horsemonger Lane, to be with her; or to walk slowly back, having left her there.
They had her now, of course, in the condemned cell, and one or other of a pair of matrons was always with her. They were kind enough, I suppose; but they were great stout women, like the nurses at Dr Christies, and they wore similar canvas aprons, and carried keys: I would catch their eyes and flinch, and all my old bruises would seem to start up aching. Then again, I could never quite find it in my heart to like them, on their own accounts—for surely, if they were truly worth liking, they would open the door and let Mrs Sucksby go? Instead they were keeping her there, for men to come and hang her.
I tried not to think of that, however—or rather, like before, I
found I could not think of it, could not believe it. How much Mrs Sucksby brooded upon it, I cant say. I know they sent the prison chaplain to her and she spent some hours with him; but she never told me what he said to her, or if it brought her any comfort. Now more than ever, she seemed to like not to speak at all, only to feel the gentle holding of my hand in hers; though now more than ever, too, her gaze as she looked at me would seem sometimes to grow cloudy, and she would colour, and struggle as if with the awful burden of things unsaid . . .
But she said only one thing to me, that she meant for me to remember; and that was on the day before her last—the final time I ever saw her. I went to her, with my heart almost breaking, and thought I should find her pacing her cell or plucking at the bars on her window—in fact, she was calm. It was me who wept, and she sat in her prison chair and let me kneel with my head in her lap, and she put her fingers to my hair—taking the pins from it and letting it fall, until it lay across her knee. I had not had the heart to curl it. It seemed to me that I should never have heart enough, ever again.
How shall I do, Mrs Sucksby, without you? I said.
I felt some tremor pass through her. Then: Better, dear girl, she whispered, than with me.
No!
She nodded. Better, by far.
How can you say it? When, if I had stayed with you—if I had never gone with Gentleman to Briar— Oh, I should never have left your side!
I hid my face in the folds of her skirt, and wept again.
Hush, now, she said. She stroked my head. Hush, now . . . Her gown was rough upon my cheek, the prison chair hard against my side. But I sat and let her soothe me, as though I might be a child; and at last we both fell silent. There was a little window, high in the wall of her cell, that let in two or three strips of sunlight: we watched them creep across the stone flags of the floor. I never knew light could creep like that. It crept, like fingers. And when it had crept almost from one wall to another, I heard a step, then felt the
matron lean to lay her hand upon my shoulder.—Its time, she murmured. Say your good-byes, now. All right?
We stood. I looked at Mrs Sucksby. Her gaze was clear still, but her cheek, in a moment, had changed—was grey, and damp, like clay. She began to tremble.
Dear Sue, she said, you have been good to me— She drew me to her, and put her mouth against my ear. It was cold as the mouth on a corpse, already; but twitched, like it might have been palsied. Dear girl— she began, in a broken whisper. I almost drew back. Dont say it! I thought.—Though I do not know if I could have said what it was I wished she would not say; I only knew I was suddenly afraid. Dont say it! She gripped me tighter. Dear girl— Then the whisper grew fierce. Watch me, tomorrow, she said. Watch me. Dont cover your eyes. And then, if you should ever hear hard things of me when I am gone, think back—
I will! I said. I said it, half in terror, half in relief. I will!— Those were my last words to her. Then the matron I suppose must have touched me again; must have led me, stumbling, into the passage beyond the gate.—I dont recall. What I remember next is passing through the prison yard, feeling the sun come upon my face—and giving a cry, turning away—thinking, how queer and wrong and awful it was, that the sun should shine, still shine, even now, even there . . .
There came a keepers voice. I heard the rumble of it, but not the words. He was asking something of the matron at my side. She nodded.
One of em, she said, with a glance at me. The other came this morning
I only wondered later what she meant. For now, I was too dazed and miserable to wonder anything. I walked, in a sort of trance, back to Lant Street—only keeping, as much as I could, to the shadows, out of the blazing sun. At the door to Mr Ibbss shop I found boys, chalking nooses on the step—they saw me come and ran off, shrieking. I was used to that, however, and let them run; but kicked the nooses away. Inside, I stood a minute to get my breath, and to look about me—at the locksmiths counter, streaked with dust; and
the tools and key-blanks, that had lost their shine; and the hanging baize curtain, that had got torn from its loops and was drooping. When I walked through to the kitchen, my footsteps crunched: for sometime—I couldnt say when—the brazier had been knocked from its stand, and coals and cinders still lay scattered on the floor. It seemed too ordinary a thing to do, to sweep them up, set the brazier right; and anyway, the floor was ruined—broken and gaping, from where the police had torn up boards. Underneath it seemed dark, till you brought a light: then you could see earth, two feet below—damp earth, with bones and oyster shells in it, and beetles and wriggling worms.
The table had been pushed to the corner of the room. I went and sat at it, in Mrs Sucksbys old chair. Charley Wag lay beneath it—poor Charley Wag, he had not barked since Mr Ibbs had jerked so hard on his collar: he saw me now, and beat his tail, and came and let me tug his ears; but then he slunk away and lay with his head on his paws.
I sat, as still and quiet as him, for almost an hour; then Dainty came. She had brought us a supper. I didnt want it, and neither did she; but she had stolen a purse to buy it, and so I got out bowls and spoons and we ate it slowly, in silence, looking all the time, as we did, at the clock—the old Dutch clock on the mantel—that we knew was steadily ticking, ticking away the last few hours of Mrs Sucksbys life ... I meant to feel them, if I. could. I meant to feel each minute, each second. Wont you let me stay? said Dainty, when it came time for her to go. It dont seem right, you being here all on your own. But I said that that was how I wanted it; and finally she kissed my cheek and went; and then it was just me and Charley Wag again, and the house, growing dark about us. I lit more lights. I thought of Mrs Sucksby, in her bright cell. I thought of her, in all the ways I had seen her, not there, but here, in her own kitchen: dosing babies, sipping tea, lifting up her face so I might kiss it. I thought of her carving meat, wiping her mouth, and yawning . . . The clock ticked on—quicker, and louder, it seemed to me, than it had ever ticked before. I put my head upon the table, upon my arms. How tired I was! I closed my eyes. I could not help it. I meant to keep awake; but I closed my eyes, and slept.
I slept, for once, without dreaming; and I was woken by a curious sound: the tramping and scuffing of feet, and the rising and falling of voices, in the street outside. I thought, in my half-sleep: It must be a holiday today, there must be a fair. What day is it?—Then I opened my eyes. The candles I had lit had burned to puddles of wax, and their flames were like so many ghosts; but the sight of them made me remember where I was. It was seven oclock in the morning. Mrs Sucksby was going to be hanged in three hours time. The people I could hear were on their way to Horsemonger Lane, to get their places for watching. They had come down Lant Street first, for a look at the house.
There came more of them, as the morning went on. Was it here? I could hear them say. And then: Heres the very identical spot. They say the blood ran so fast and so hard, the walls were painted in it.—They say the murdered chap called out against heaven.—They say the woman stifled babies.—They say hed bilked her of rent.—Puts you into a creep, dont it?— Serves him right.—They say—
They would come, and stop a minute, and then pass on; some found their way to the back of the house and rattled the kitchen door, stood at the window and tried to see through the chinks in the shutters; but I kept everything locked and fast. I dont know if they knew I was inside. Now and then a boy would call: Let us in! A shilling, if youll show us the room! and, Hoo! hoo! Im the ghost of the feller as was stabbed, come back to haunt you!—but I think they did it to tease their friends, not to tease me. I hated to hear them, though; and Charley Wag, poor thing, kept close at my side, and shivered and started and tried to bark, with every call and rattle.—At last I took him upstairs, where the sounds were fainter. But then, after a while the sounds grew fainter still; and that was worse, for it meant that the people had all passed on, found their spots for watching from, and it was almost time. I left Charley then, and climbed the next set of stairs alone—climbed them slowly, like a girl with limbs of lead; then stood at the attic door, afraid to go in. There was the bed I had been born in. There was the wash-stand, the bit of oil-cloth tacked to the wall. The last time I had come here,
Gentleman had been alive and drunk and dancing with Dainty and John, downstairs. I had stood at the window, put my thumb to the glass, made the frost turn to dirty water. Mrs Sucksby had come and stroked my hair ... I went to the window, now. I went, and looked, and almost swooned away, for the streets of the Borough, that had been dark and empty then, were bright, and filled with people—so many people!—people standing in the road, stopping the traffic; and besides them, people on walls, on sills, clinging to posts and trees and chimneys. Some were holding children up, some were craning for a better view. Most had their hands across their eyes, to keep the sun off. All had their faces turned one way.
They were looking at the roof of the gate of the gaol. The scaffold was up,the rope already on it. A man was walking about, examining the drop.
I saw him do it, feeling almost calm, feeling almost sick. I remembered what Mrs Sucksby had asked, with her last words to me: that I should watch her. I had said I would. I had thought I should bear it. It seemed such a little thing to bear, compared with what she must suffer . . . Now the man had taken the rope in his hands and was testing the length of it. The people in the crowd stretched their necks further, so they might see. I began to be afraid. Still I thought, however, that I would watch, to the end. Still I said to myself, I will. I will. She did it for my own mother; Ill do it for her. What else can I do for her now, except this?
But I said it; and then came the slow, steady striking of ten oclock. The man at the rope stood down, the door to the prison steps was thrown open, the chaplain showed himself upon the roof, and then the first of the keepers.—I couldnt do it. I put my back to the window and covered my face with my hands.
I knew what followed, then, from the sounds that rose up from the streets. The people had fallen silent at the striking of the clock, the coming of the chaplain; now I heard them all start up with hisses and with hoots—that, I knew, was for the hangman. I heard the very spreading of the sound about the crowd, like oil on water. When the hoots grew louder, I knew the hangman had made some sign or bow. Then, in an instant, the sound turned again, moved
faster, like a shiver, like a thrill, through the streets: the cry was sent out: Hats off!, and was mixed with bursts of dreadful laughter. Mrs Sucksby must have come. They were trying to see her. I grew sicker than ever, imagining all those strangers eyes straining out of their sockets to see what figure she would make, yet not being able to look, myself; but I could not, I could not. I could not turn, or tear the sweating hands from before my face. I could only listen. I heard the laughter change to murmurs and calls for hush: that meant the chaplain was saying prayers. The hush went on, and on. My own heartbeats seemed to fill it. Then the Amen was said; and even while the word was still travelling about the streets, other parts of the crowd—the parts that were nearest the gaol and could see best— broke out in an uneasy sort of murmur. The murmur grew louder, got taken up by every throat—then turned, to something more like a moan, or groan . . . And I knew that meant that they had led her up to the scaffold; that they were tying her hands, and covering up her face, and putting, about her neck, the noose . . .
And then, and then, there came a moment—just a single moment, less time than it takes to say it—of perfect, awful stillness: of the stopping of babies cries, the holding of breaths, the clapping of hands to hearts and open mouths, the slowing of blood, the shrinking back of thought: This cannot be, this will not be, they wont, they cant— And, next, too soon, too quick, the rattle of the drop, the shrieks, as it fell—the groaning gasp, when the rope found its length, as if the crowd had a single stomach and a giant hand had punched it.
Now I did open my eyes, just for a second. I opened them, and turned, and saw—not Mrs Sucksby, not Mrs Sucksby at all, but what might have been a dangling tailors figure, done up to look like a woman, in a corset and a gown, but with lifeless arms, and a drooping head like a bag of canvas stuffed with straw—-
I moved away. I did not weep. I went to the bed and lay upon it. The sounds changed again, as people found their breaths and voices—unstopped their mouths, unloosed their babies, shuffled and danced about. There came more hoots, more cries, more dreadful laughter; and finally, cheers. I think I had used to cheer myself,
at other hangings. I never thought what the cheering meant. Now I listened as those hurrahs went up, and it seemed to me, even in my grief, that I understood. Shes dead, they might as well have been calling. The thought was rising, quicker than blood, in every heart. Shes dead—and were alive.
Dainty came again that night, to bring me another supper. We didnt eat any of it. We only wept together, and talked of what we had seen. She had watched with Phil and some other of Mr Ibbss nephews, from a spot close to the gaol. John had said only pigeons watched from there. He knew a man with a roof, he said; and went off to climb it. I wondered if he had watched at all; but didnt say that to Dainty. She herself had seen everything, except the final drop. Phil, who had seen even that, said the fall was a clean one. He thought it was true, after all, what people said, about how the hangman put the knot, when it came to dropping women. Everyone agreed, anyway, that Mrs Sucksby had held herself very boldly, and died very game.
I remembered that dangling tailors figure, gripped tight in its corset and gown; and I wondered how, if she had shuddered and kicked, we ever should have known it.
But that was something not to be thought on. There were other things to see to, now. I had become an orphan again; and as orphans everywhere must, I began, in the two or three weeks that followed, to look about me, with a sinking heart; to understand that the world was hard and dark, and I must make my own way through it, quite alone. I had no money. The rent on the shop and house had fallen due in August: a man had come and banged on the door, and only gone because Dainty bared her arms and said she would hit him. He had left us alone since then. I think the house had got known as a murder-house, and no-one wanted to take it. But I knew they would, in time. I knew the man would come back one day, with other men, and break in the door. Where would I live, then? How should I do, on my own? I might, I supposed, take a regular job, at a dairy, a dyers, a furriers— The very thought of it, however, made
me want to be sick. Everybody in my world knew that regular work was only another name for being robbed and dying of boredom. I should rather stay crooked. Dainty said she knew three girls who worked, in a gang, as street-thieves, Woolwich-way, and wanted a fourth . . . But she said it, not quite catching my eye; for we both knew that street-thieving was a pretty poor lay, compared to what I was used to.
But it was all I had; and I thought it might as well do. I hadnt the heart for finding out anything better. I hadnt the heart or the spirit for anything at all. Bit by bit, everything that was left at Lant Street had gone—been pawned, or sold. I still wore the pale print dress I had robbed from the woman in the country!—and now it looked worse on me than ever, for I had grown thin at Dr Christies, and then thinner still. Dainty said I had got so sharp, if you could have found a way of threading me with cotton, you could have sewn with me.
And so, when I packed the bits of stuff I wanted to take with me to Woolwich, there was almost nothing. And when I thought of the people I ought to call on, to say good-bye to, I could not think of anyone. There was only one thing I knew I must do, before I went; and that was the picking up of Mrs Sucksbys things, from Horsemonger Lane.
I took Dainty with me. I did not think that I could bear it all alone. We went, one day in September—more than a month after the trial. London had changed, since then. The season had turned, and the days grown cooler at last. The streets were filled with dust and straw, and curling leaves. The gaol seemed darker and bleaker than ever. But the porter there knew me, and let me through. He looked at me, I thought, in pity. So did the matrons. They had Mrs Sucksbys things made ready for me, in a wax-paper parcel tied with strings. Released, to Daughter, they said, as they wrote in a book; and they made me put my name there, underneath.—I could write my name quick as anyone now, since my time at Dr Christies . . . Then they led me back, across the yards, through the grey prison ground where I knew Mrs Sucksby was buried, with no stone upon her grave, so no-one could come and mourn her; and
they took me out under the gate, with its low, flat roof, where I had last seen the scaffold raised. They passed under that roof every day of their lives, it was nothing to them. When they came to say goodbye, they made to take my hand. I could not give it.
The parcel was light. I carried it home, however, in a sort of dread; and the dread seemed to make it heavy. By the time I reached Lant Street, I was almost staggering: I went quickly with it to the kitchen table, and set it down, and caught my breath and rubbed my arms. What I was dreading was having to open it and look at all her things. I thought of what must be inside: her shoes; her stockings, perhaps still in the shape of her toes and heels; her petticoats; her comb, perhaps with some of her hair in it— Dont do it! I thought. Leave it! Hide it! Open it some other time, not today, not now—.
I sat, and looked at Dainty.
Dainty, I said, I dont think I can.
She put her hand over mine.
I think you ought to, she said. For me and my sister was the same, when we got our mothers bits back from the morgue. And we left that packet in a drawer, and wouldnt look at it for nearly a year; and when Judy opened it up the gown was rotted through, and the shoes and bonnet perished almost to nothing, from having gone so long with river-water on them. And then, we had nothing to remember Mother by, at all; save a little chain she always wore.— Which Pa pawned, in the end, for gin-money . . .
I saw her lip begin to quiver. I could not face her tears.
All right, I said. All right. Ill do it.
My hands were still shaking though, and when I drew the parcel to me and tried to undo its strings, I found the matrons had tied them too tight. So then Dainty tried. She couldnt undo them either. We need a knife, I said, or a pair of scissors . . . But there was a time, after Gentleman died, when I hadnt been able to look at any kind of blade, without wincing; and I had made Dainty take them all away, there wasnt a single sharp thing—except me—in the whole of the house. I tugged and picked at the knots again, but now I was more nervous than ever, and my hands had got damp. At last,
I lifted the parcel to my mouth and took hold of the knots with my teeth: and finally the strings unravelled and the paper sprang out of its folds. I started back. Mrs Sucksbys shoes, her petticoats and comb came tumbling out upon the table-top, looking just as I had feared. And across them, dark and spreading, like tar, came her old black taffeta gown.
I had not thought of that. Why hadnt I? It was the very worst thing of all. It looked like Mrs Sucksby herself was lying there, in some sort of swoon. The gown still had Mauds brooch pinned to its breast. Someone had prised the diamonds out—I didnt care about that—but the silver claws that were left had blood in them, brown blood, so dried it was almost powder. The taffeta itself was stiff. The blood had made it rusty. The rust was traced about with lines of white: the lawyers had shown the gown in court, and had drawn around each stain with chalk.
They seemed to me like marks on Mrs Sucksbys own body.
Oh, Dainty, I said, I cant bear it! Fetch me a cloth, and water, will you? Oh! How horrible it looks—! I began to rub. Dainty rubbed, too. We rubbed in the same grim, shuddering way that we had scrubbed the kitchen floor. The cloths grew muddy. Our breaths came quick. We worked first at the skirt. Then I caught up the collar, drew the bodice to me and began to work on that.
And, as I did, the gown made a curious sound—a creaking, or rustling, sound.
Dainty put down her cloth. Whats that? she said. I did not know. I drew the dress closer, and the sound came again.
Is it a moth? said Dainty. Is it flapping about, inside?
I shook my head. I dont think so. It sounds like a paper. Perhaps the matrons have put something there
But when I lifted the dress and shook it, and looked inside, there was nothing, nothing at all. The rustling came again, however, as I laid the gown back down. It seemed to me that it came from part of the bodice—from that part of the front of the bodice that would have lain just below Mrs Sucksbys heart. I put my hand to it, and felt about. The taffeta there was stiff—stiff not just from the staining of Gentlemans blood, but from something else, something that
had got stuck, or been put, behind it, between it and the satin lining of the gown. What was it? I could not tell, from feeling. So then I turned the bodice inside-out, and looked at the seam. The seam was open: the satin was loose, but had been hemmed so as not to fray. It made a sort of pocket, in the gown. I looked at Dainty; then put in my hand. It rustled again, and she drew back.
Are you sure it aint a moth? Or a bat?
But what it was, was a letter. Mrs Sucksby had had it hidden there—how long? I could not guess. I thought at first that she must have put it there for me—that she had written it, in gaol—that it was a message for me to find, after they had hanged her.—The thought made me nervous. But then, the letter was marked with Gentlemans blood; and so must have lain inside the gown since the night he died, at least. Then again, it seemed to me that it must have lain there a good deal longer than that: for as I looked more closely at it I saw how old it was. The creases were soft. The ink was faded. The paper was curved, from where Mrs Sucksbys taffeta bodice had held it, tight, against her stays. The seal—
I looked at Dainty. The seal was unbroken. Unbroken! I said. How is that? Why should she have carried a letter, so close, so carefully, so long—and yet not read it? I turned it in my hands. I gazed again at the direction. Whose name is there? I said. Can you see?
Dainty looked, then shook her head. Cant you? she said. But I could not. Hand-writing was harder even upon my eye, than print; and this hand was small, and sloped, and—as I have said—was partly smeared and spotted with awful stains, I went to the lamp, and held the letter close to the wick. I screwed up my eyes. I looked and looked . . . And it seemed to me at last that if any name was written there, upon the folded paper, it was my own.—I was sure I could make out an S, and then the u that followed it; and then, again, an s—
I grew nervous again. What is it? said Dainty, seeing my face.
I dont know. I think the letters for me.
She put her hand to her mouth. And then: From your own mother! she said.
My mother?
Who else? Oh, Sue, you got to open it.
I dont know.
But say it tells you— Say it tells you where treasure is! Say its a map!
I didnt think it was a map. I felt my stomach growing sour with fear. I looked again at the letter, at the S, and the u— You open it, I said. Dainty licked her lips, then took it, slowly turned it, and slowly broke the seal. The room was so quiet, I think I heard the tumbling of the slivers of wax from the paper to the floor. She unfolded the page; then frowned. Just words, she said.
I went to her side. I saw lines of ink—close, small, baffling. The harder I gazed, the more baffling they grew. And though I had got so nervous and afraid—so sure that the letter was meant for me, yet held the key to some awful, secret thing I should far rather never know—still, to have it open before me, not being able to understand what it said, was worse than anything.
Come on, I said to Dainty. I got her her bonnet, and found mine. Come out to the street, and well find someone to read it for us.
We went the back way. I would not ask anyone I knew—anyone who had cursed me. I wanted a stranger. So we went north—went fast, towards the breweries up by the river. There was a man there on a corner. He had a tray on a string about his neck, full of nutmeg-graters and thimbles. But he wore eye-glasses and had—I dont know what—an intelligent look.
I said,Hell do.
He saw us coming and gave us a nod. Want a grater, girls?
I shook my head. Listen here, I said—or tried to say, for the walk and my own feeling and fear had taken the breath quite from me. I put my hand to my heart. Do you read? I asked him at last.
He said, Read?
Letters, in ladies hands? Not books, I mean.
Then he saw the paper I held, pushed the glasses further up his nose, and tilted his head.
-anyone went
To be opened, he read, on the eighteenth birthday— I shook right through when I heard that. He did not notice. Instead, he straightened his head, and sniffed. Not in my line, he said. Not worth my while to stand here and read out letters. That aint a-going to make the thimbles fly, is it. . .?
Some people will charge you for taking a punch. I put my shaking hand in my pocket and brought out all it held. Dainty did the same.
Sevenpence, I said, when I had put the coins together. He turned them over. Are they good? Good enough, I said.
He sniffed again. All right. He took them, and hid them. Then he unhooked his glasses from about his ears, and gave them a rub. Now then, lets see, he said. You hold it up, though. Looks legal, this does. I been stung by the law, before. I might not want it to come out later, as how I touched it. . . He put his glasses back on, and got ready to read.
All the words that are there, I said, as he did. Every one. Do you hear?
He nodded, and began. To be opened on the eighteenth birthday of my daughter, Susan Lilly—
I put the paper down. Susan Trinder, I said. Susan Trinder, you mean. You are reading it wrong.
Susan Lilly, it says, he answered. Hold it up, now, and turn it. Whats the point, I said, if you aint going to read whats there . . .?
But my voice had got thin. There seemed to have come, about my heart, a snake: it was coiling, tight.
Come on, he said. His look had changed. This is interesting, this is. What is it? A will, is it, or a testament? The last statement— there you are—of Marianne Lilly, made at Lant Street, Southwark, on this day 18th of September 1844, in the presence of Mrs Grace Sucksby, of— He stopped. His face had changed again. Grace Sucksby? he said, in a shocked sort of voice. What, the murderess? This is stiff stuff, aint it?
I did not answer. He looked again at the paper—at the stains.
Perhaps he had supposed them ink, before, or paint. Now he said, I dont know as I should ..." Then he must have seen my face. All right, all right, he said. Lets see. Whats here? He drew it closer. 7, Marianne Lilly, of—what is it? Bear House? Briar House?—of Briar House, Buckinghamshire— /, Marianne Lilly, being sound in mind though feeble in body, hereby commit my own infant daughter SUSAN— Now, will you shake it about? Thats better—hereby commit—hmm, hmm—to the guardianship of Mrs Grace Sucksby; and desire that she be raised by her in ignorance of her true birth. Which birth is to be made known to her on the day of her eighteenth birthday, 3rd August 1862; on which day I do also desire that there be made over to her one half of my private fortune.
In exchange for which, Grace Sucksby commits into my care her own dear daughter MAUD— Bless me, if you aint doing it again! Hold it nice, cant you?—dear daughter MAUD, and does desire that she be raised similarly ignorant of her name and birth, until the aforementioned date; on which date it is my desire that there be made over to her the remainder of my fortune.
This paper to be a true and legally binding statement of my wishes; a contract between myself and Grace Sucksby, in defiance of my father and brother; which is to be recognised in Law.
Susan Lilly to know nothing of her unhappy mother, but that she strove to keep her from care.
Maud Sucksby to be raised a gentlewoman; and to know that her mother loved her, more than her own life.—Well! He straightened up. Now tell me that wasnt worth sevenpence. Papers get hold of it, mind, I should say it would be worth a lot more.—Why, how queer you look! Aint going to faint, are you?
I had swayed and clutched at his tray. His graters went sliding. Now take care, do! he said, in a peevish way. Heres all my stock, look, going to tumble and get mashed—
Dainty came and caught me. I am sorry, I said. I am sorry.
All right? he said, as he put the graters straight.
Yes.
Come as a shock, has it?
I shook my head—or perhaps I nodded, I dont remember—and
gripped the letter, and stumbled from him. Dainty, I said. Dainty—
She sat me down, against a wall. What is it? she said. Oh, Sue, what did it mean?
The man still looked. I should get her water, he called.
But I didnt want water, and I wouldnt let Dainty go. I clutched her to me and put my face against her sleeve. I began to shake. I began to shake as a rusted lock must shake, when the tumblers lift against their groaning springs, and the bolt is forced loose and flies. My mother— I said. I could not finish. It was too much to say— too much, even, to know! My mother, Mauds mother! I could not believe it. I thought of the picture of the handsome lady I had seen in the box at Briar. I thought of the grave that Maud had used to rub and trim. I thought of Maud, and Mrs Sucksby; and then, of Gentleman. Oh, now I see it! he had said. Now I saw it, too. Now I knew what Mrs Sucksby had longed but been afraid to tell me, at the gaol. If you should hear hard things of me— Why had she kept the secret so long? Why had she lied about my mother? My mother was not a murderess, she was a lady. She was a lady with a fortune, that she meant to be split . . .
// you should hear hard things of me, think back—
I thought, and thought; and began to grow sick. I put the letter before my face and groaned. The thimble man still stood a little way off, and watched me; soon other people gathered and stood watching, too. Drunk, is she? I heard someone say. And, Got the horrors? Fallen in a fit, has she? Her pal should put a spoon in her mouth, shell swallow her tongue. I could not bear the sound of their voices, the feel of their eyes. I reached for Dainty and got to my feet; she put her arm about me and helped me stagger home. She gave me brandy to drink. She sat me at the table. Mrs Sucksbys dress still lay upon it: I took it up and held it in my two fists, and hid my face in its folds; then I gave a cry like a beast, and cast it to the floor. I spread out the letter, and looked again at the lines of ink. SUSAN LILLY ... I groaned again. Then I got to my feet and began to walk.
Dainty, I said in a sort of pant, as I did. Dainty, she must have
known. She must have known it, all along. She must have sent me there, at Gentlemans side, knowing he meant at last to— Oh! My voice grew hoarse. She sent me there, so he would leave me in that place and bring her Maud. It was only ever Maud she wanted. She kept me safe, and gave me up, so Maud, so Maud—
But then, I grew still. I was thinking of Maud, starting up with the knife. I was thinking of Maud, letting me hate her. I was thinking of Maud, making me think shed hurt me, to save me knowing who had hurt me most...
I put my hand across my mouth and burst out weeping. Dainty began to weep, too.
What is it? she said. Oh, Sue, you look so queer! What is it?
The worst thing of all, I said, through my tears. The worst thing of all!
I saw it, sharp and clear as a line of lightning in a sky of black. Maud had tried to save me, and I had not known. I had wanted to kill her, when all the time—
And I let her go! I said, getting up and walking about. Where is she, now?
Wheres whoV said Dainty, almost shrieking.
Maud!I said. Oh, Maud!
Miss Lilly?
Miss Sucksby, call her! Oh! I shall go mad! To think I thought she was a spider that had got you all in her web. To think there was once a time when I stood, pinning up her hair! If I had said— If she had turned— If I had known— I would have kissed her—
Kissed her? said Dainty.
Kissed her! I said. Oh, Dainty, you would have kissed her, too! Anyone would! She was a pearl, a pearl!—and now, and now Ive lost her, Ive thrown her away—!
So I went on. Dainty tried to calm me, and could not. I would only walk and wring my hands, tear my own hair; or else I would sink to the floor and lie groaning. At last, I sank and would not rise. Dainty wept and pleaded—took up water and threw it in my face— ran down the street to a neighbours house, for a bottle of salts; but I lay, as if dead. I had got sick. I had got sick in a moment, like that.
She carried me up to my old room and put me to sleep in my own bed; when I opened my eyes again she says I looked at her and did not know her, says I fought her, when she tried to take my gown, says I talked like a madwoman, of tartan, and india-rubber boots, and—most especially—of something I said she had taken, that I should die without. Where is it? she says I cried. Where is it? Oh!—She says I cried it so often, so pitifully, she brought me all my things and held them up before me, one by one; and that finally she found, in the pocket of my gown, an old kid glove, quite creased and black and bitten; and that when she held that up I took it from her and wept and wept over it as if my heart would break.
I dont remember. I kept in a fever for nearly a week, and was after that so feeble I might as well have been in a fever still. Dainty nursed me, all that time—feeding me tea and soups and gruels, lifting me so I might use the chamber-pot, wiping off the horrible sweat from my face. I still wept, and cursed and twisted, when I thought of Mrs Sucksby and how she had tricked me; but I wept more, when I thought of Maud. For all this time I had had as it were a sort of dam about my heart, keeping out my love: now the walls had burst, my heart was flooded, I thought I should drown . .. My love grew level, though, as I grew well again. It grew level, and calm—it seemed to me at last that I had never been so calm in all my life. Ive lost her, Id say again to Dainty; Id say it, over and over. But Id say it steadily—in a whisper, at first; then, as the days passed by and I got back my strength, in a murmur; finally, in my own voice. Ive lost her, Id say, but I mean to find her. I dont care if it takes me all my life. Ill find her out, and tell her what I know. She might have gone away. She might be on the other side of the world. She might be married! I dont care. Ill find her, and tell her everything ..."
It was all I thought of. I was only waiting, to be well enough to start. And at last I thought I had waited enough. I rose from my bed, and the room—that had used to seem to tilt and turn, whenever I lifted my head—stayed still. I washed, and dressed, got the bag of things I had planned to take with me to Woolwich. I took up the letter, and tucked it into my gown. I think Dainty thought I
must have fallen back into my fever. Then I kissed her cheek, and my face was cool. Keep Charley Wag for me, I said. She saw how grave and earnest I was, and began to cry.
How will you do it? she said. I said I meant to start my search at Briar. But how shall you get there? How shall you pay? I said: Ill walk. When she heard that, she dried her eyes and bit her lip. Wait here, she said. She ran from the house. She was gone for twenty minutes. When she came back, she was clutching a pound. It was the pound she had put, so long ago, in the wall of the starch-works, that she had said we must use to bury her when she had died. She made me take it. I kissed her again. Shall you ever come back? she said. I said I did not know . . .
And so I left the Borough a second time, and made the journey down to Briar, over again. There were no fogs, this time. The train ran smooth. At Marlow, the same guard who had laughed at me when Id asked for a cab, now came to help me from the coach. He didnt remember me. He wouldnt have known me if he had. I was so thin, I think he thought I was an invalid girl. Come down from London to take the air, have you? he said kindly. He looked at the little bag I held. Shall you manage it? And then, as he had last time: Is no-one come to meet you?
I said I would walk. I did walk, for a mile or two. Then I stopped to rest on a stile, and a man and a girl went by, with a horse and cart, and they looked at me and must have thought I was an invalid, too: for they pulled their horse up and gave me a ride. They let me sit on the seat. The man put his coat about my shoulders.
Going far? he said.
I said I was going to Briar, they could drop me anywhere near Briar—
To Briar! they said, when they heard that. But, why ever are you going there? Theres nobody there, since the old man died. Didnt you know?
Nobody there! I shook my head. I said I knew Mr Lilly had been ill. That he had lost the use of his hands and voice, and had to be fed off a spoon. They nodded. Poor gentleman! they said. He
had lingered on in a very miserable sort of way, all summer long— in all that terrible heat. They say he stank, in the end, they said, dropping their voices. But though his niece—the scandalous girl, that run off with a gentleman—did you know about that?—I didnt answer—though she come back to nurse him, he died, a month ago; and since then, the houseve been quite shut up.
So Maud had come, and gone! If I had only known ... I turned my head. When I spoke, my voice had a catch. I hoped they would put it down to the jolting of the cart. I said,
And the niece, Miss Lilly? What happened— What happened to her?
But they only shrugged. They did not know. Some people said shed gone back to her husband. Some people said she had gone to France . . .
Planning on visiting one of the servants, were you? they said, looking at my print dress. The servantsve all gone, too.—All gone but one, who stays to keep thieves out. Shouldnt like his job. They say the place is haunted, now.
Here was a blow, all right. But I had expected blows, and was ready to suffer them. When they asked, Should they drive me back to Marlow? I said no, I would go on. I thought the servant must be Mr Way. I thought, Ill find him. Hell know me. And oh! hes seen Maud. Hell tell me where shes gone . . .
So they put me down where the wall to the Briar park started; and from there, I walked again. The sound of the horses hooves grew faint. The road was lonely, the day was bleak. It was only two or three oclock but the dusk seemed gathered in the shadows already, waiting to creep and rise. The wall seemed longer than when I had ridden past it in William Inkers trap: I walked for what felt like an hour, before I saw the arch that marked the gate, and the roof of the lodge behind it. I quickened my step—but then, my heart quite sank. The lodge was all shut up and dark. The gates were fastened with a chain and lock, and piled about with leaves. Where the wind struck the iron bars it made a low sort of moaning sound. And when I stepped to the gates and pushed them, they creaked and creaked.
Mr Way! I called. Mr Way! Anyone!
My voice made a dozen black birds start out of the bushes and fly off, cawing. The noise was awful. I thought, Surely that will bring someone. But it didnt: the birds went cawing on, the wind moaned louder through the bars, I called another time; and no-one came. So then I looked at the chain and lock. The chain was a long one. It was only there, I think, to keep out cows, and boys. I was thinner than a boy, however, now. I thought, Its not against the law. I used to work here. I might work here, still. . . I pushed the gates again, as far as they would go: and they made a gap just wide enough for me to wriggle my way through.
They fell together, at my back, with a dreadful clash. The birds started up again. Still no-one came, though.
I gave it a minute, then began to walk.
It seemed quieter inside the walls, than it had been before— quieter, and queer. I kept to the road. The wind made the trees seem to whisper and sigh. The branches were bare. Their leaves lay thick upon the ground: they had got wet, and clung to my skirt. Here and there were puddles of muddy water. Here and there were bushes, overgrown. The grass in the park was overgrown too, and parched from the summer, but beaten about with rain. It was turning to slime at its tips, and smelt peculiar. I think there were mice in it. Perhaps there were rats. I heard them scurrying as I walked.
I began to go quicker. The road ran down, then began to climb. I remembered driving along it with William Inker, in the dark. I knew what was coming: I knew where it turned, and what I would see when it did ... I knew it; but it still made me start, to come so suddenly upon the house again—to see it seem to rise out of the earth, so grey and grim. I stopped, on the edge of the walk of gravel. I was almost afraid. It was all so perfectly quiet and dark. The windows were shuttered. There were more black birds upon the roof. The ivy on the walls had lost its hold and was waving like hair. The great front door—that was always swollen, from the rain—bulged worse than ever. The porch was filled with more wet leaves. It seemed like a house not meant for people but for ghosts.
I remembered, suddenly, what the man and the girl had said, about it being haunted . . .
That made me shiver. I looked about me—back, the way I had come; and then, across the lawns. They ran into dark and tangled woods. The paths I had used to take with Maud, had disappeared. I put back my head. The sky was grey and spitting rain. The wind still whispered and sighed in the trees. I shivered again. The house seemed to watch me. I thought, If I can only find Mr Way! Where can he be?—and I began to walk, around to the back of the house, to the stables and yards. I went carefully, for my steps sounded loud. But here, it was just as quiet and empty as everywhere else. No dogs started barking. The stable doors were open, the horses gone. The great white clock was there, but the hands—this shocked me, more than anything—the hands were stuck, the hour was wrong. The clock had not chimed, all the time I had walked: it was that, I think, that had made the silence so strange. Mr Way! I called—but I called it softly. It seemed wrong to call out, here. Mr Way! Mr Way!
Then I saw, rising up from one of the chimneys, a single thread of smoke. That gave me heart. I went to the kitchen door, and tapped. No answer. I tried the handle. Locked. Then I went to the garden door—the door that I had run from, that night, with Maud. That was also locked. So then I went around to the front again. I went to a window, drew back a shutter, and looked inside. I could not see. I put my hands and my face to the glass; and the window, as I pressed, seemed to give against its bolt... I hesitated for almost a minute; then the rain came, hard as hail. I gave a shove. The bolt flew from its screws and the window swung inwards. I lifted myself up on to the sill, and jumped inside.
Then I stood, quite still. The sound of the breaking bolt must have been awful. What if Mr Way had heard it and came with a gun, supposing me a burglar? I felt like a burglar, now. I thought of my mother— My mother was never a thief, however. My mother was a lady. My mother was the lady of this great house ... I shook my head. I should never believe it. I began to walk softly about. The room was dark—the dining-room, I thought. I had never been in here before. But I had used to try and imagine Maud, as she sat,
with her uncle, at her supper; I had used to imagine the little bites she would take at her meat... I stepped to the table. It was still set, with candlesticks, a knife and a fork, a plate of apples; but it was covered all over with dust and cobwebs, and the apples had rotted. The air was thick. Upon the floor was a broken glass—a crystal glass, with gold at the rim.
The door was closed: I do not think it had been opened in many weeks. But still, when I turned the handle and pushed it, it moved perfectly silently. All the doors moved silently, in that house. The floor had a dusty carpet, that smothered my steps.
So when I went, I made no sound, and might have glided—as if / were a ghost. The thought was queer. Across from me was another door: the door to the drawing-room. I had never been there, either; so now I crossed to it and looked inside. That room was also dark and hung with cobwebs. There was ash spilling out from the grate. There were chairs, by the hearth, where I thought that Mr Lilly and Gentleman must once have sat, to listen while Maud read books. There was a hard little sofa, with a lamp beside it, that I imagined had been hers. I imagined her sitting there, now. I remembered her soft voice.
I forgot to think about Mr Way, remembering that. I forgot to think of my mother. What was she, to me? It was Maud I thought of. I had meant to go down to the kitchen. Instead I went slowly about the hall, by the swollen front door. I climbed the stairs. I wanted to go to her old rooms. I wanted to stand, where she had stood—at the window, at the glass. I wanted to lie upon her bed. I wanted to think how I had kissed her and lost her . . .
I walked, as I have said, as a ghost might walk; and when I wept, I wept as a ghost would: silently, not minding the tears as they came falling—as though I knew I had tears enough for a hundred years, and in time would weep them all. I reached the gallery. The door to the library was there, standing part-way open. The creatures head still hung beside it, with its one glass eye and pointed teeth. I thought of how I had put my fingers to it, the first time I came for Maud. I had waited outside the door, I had heard her reading.— Again, I thought of her voice. I thought so fiercely of it, it seemed
to me at last that I could almost hear it. I could hear it as a whisper, as a murmur, in the stillness of the house.
I caught my breath. The murmur stopped, then started again. It was not in my own head, I could hear it—it came, from the library ... I began to shake. Perhaps the house was haunted after all. Or perhaps, perhaps— I moved to the door and put a trembling hand to it, and pushed it open. Then I stood, and blinked. The room was changed. The paint had all been scraped from the windows, the finger of brass prised from the floor. The shelves were almost bare of books. A little fire burned in the grate. I pushed the door further. There was Mr Lillys old desk. Its lamp was lit.
And in the glow of it, was Maud.
She was sitting, writing. She had an elbow on the desk, a cheek upon her upturned hand, her fingers half-curled over her eyes. I saw her clearly, because of the light. Her brows were drawn into a frown. Her hands were bare, her sleeves put back, her fingers dark with smudges of ink. I stood and watched her write a line. The page was thick with lines already. Then she lifted the pen, and turned and turned it, as if not sure what to put next. Again she murmured, beneath her breath. She bit her mouth.
Then she wrote again; and then she moved to dip her pen in ajar of ink. And as she did that, she drew her fingers from her eyes, her face came up; and she saw me watching.
She did not start. She grew perfectly still. She did not cry out. She did not say anything, at first. She only sat with her eyes on mine, a look of astonishment on her face. Then I took a step; and as I did, she got to her feet, letting the pen with the ink upon it roll across the papers and desk and drop to the floor. Her cheek had grown white. She gripped the back of her chair, as if to take her hand from it might mean to fall, or swoon. When I took another step, she gripped it harder.
Have you come, she said, to kill me?
She said it, in a sort of awful whisper; and I heard her, and saw that her face was white, not just from astonishment, but also from fear. The thought was terrible. I turned away, and hid my own face
in my hands. It was still wet, from my falling tears. Now other tears came and made it wetter. Oh, Maud! I said- Oh, Maud!
I had never spoken her name to her before like that, I had only ever said miss; and even now, even here, after everything, I felt the strangeness of it. I pressed my fingers hard into my eyes. I had been thinking, a moment ago, of how I loved her. Id supposed her lost. I had meant to find her out, through years of searching. To come upon her now—so warm, so real—when I had ached and ached for her— It was too much.
I dont— I said. I cant— She did not come. She only stood, still white, still gripping the back of the chair. So then I wiped my face upon my sleeve, and spoke more steadily. There was a paper, I said. I found a paper, hidden in Mrs Sucksbys gown . . .
I felt the letter, stiff, in my own gown, as I spoke; but she didnt answer, and I guessed from that—and saw, by the look upon her face—that she knew what paper it was I meant, and what it said. Despite myself, I had a moment of hating bier then—just a single moment; and when it passed, it left me weak. I went to the window, so I might sit upon the sill. I said, I paid sonoeone to read it to me. And then, I got sick.
I am sorry, she said. Sue, I am sorry.
She still did not come to me, though. I wiped my face again.
I said, I got a lift with a man and a girl. They said your uncle died. They said there was nobody here, save Mr Way—
Mr Way? She frowned. Mr Way is gone -
A servant, they said.
William Inker, they must have meant. H e stays with me. And his wife cooks my meals. Thats all.
Only them, and you? In this great house=- I looked about me, and shivered. Dont you grow frightened?
She shrugged, gazed down at her hands. Her look grew dark. What have I, she said, to be frightened of, rnow?
There was so much to the words, and to trie way she said them, I did not answer at first. When I spoke again, I spoke more quietly.
When did you know? I said. Whendid ^ou know everything, about us, about— Did you know, at the start?0
She shook her head. She spoke quietly, too. Not then, she said Not until Richard took me to London. Then she— She coloured, but lifted her head. Then I was told.
Not before? I said.
Not before.
They tricked you, too, then.
I should have been glad to think it, once. Now it was all of a piece with every bleak and terrible thing I had suffered and seen and learned, in the past nine months. For a minute, we said nothing. I let myself sink against the window and put my cheek against the glass. The glass was cold. The rain fell hard, still. It struck the gravel before the house and made it churn. The lawn seemed bruised. Through the bare wet branches of the tangled wood I could just make out the shape of yews, and the pointed roof of the little red chapel.
My mother is buried there, I said. I used to look at her grave, thinking nothing. I thought my mother was a murderess.
I thought my mother was mad, she said. Instead—
She could not say it. Neither could I. Not yet. But I turned to look at her again, and swallowed, and said,
You went to see her, at the gaol. I had remembered the matrons words.
She nodded. She spoke of you, she said.
Of me? What did she say?
That she hoped you never knew. That she wished they might hang her, ten times over, before you should. That she and your mother had been wrong. That they meant to make you a commonplace girl. That that was like taking a jewel, and hiding it in dust. That dust falls away
I closed my eyes. When I looked again, she had at last come closer.
Sue, she said.. This house is yours.
I dont want it, I said.
The money is yours. Half of your mothers money. All of it, if you wish. I have claimed none of it. You shall be rich.
I dont want to be rich. I never wanted to.be rich. I only want—
But I hesitated. My heart was too full. Her gaze was too close, too clear. I thought how I had seen her, last—not at the trial, but on the night that Gentleman died. Her eyes had glittered. They did not glitter now. Her hair had been curled. Now it was smooth, unpinned, she had put it back and tied it with a simple ribbon. Her hands did not tremble. They were bare, and marked, as I have said, with spots and smudges of ink. Her brow had ink upon it, too, from where she had pressed it. Her dress was dark, and long, yet fell not quite to the floor. It was silk, but fastened at the front. The highest hook was left undone. I saw the beating of her throat behind it. I looked away.
Then I looked back, into her eyes.
I only want you, I said.
The blood spread across her face. She unjoined her hands, took another step to me and almost, almost reached. But then she turned and lowered her gaze. She stood at the desk. She put her hand to the paper and pen.
You do not know me, she said, in a queer, flat voice. You never did. There were things—
She drew in her breath and would not go on. What things? I said. She didnt answer. I rose, and went closer to her. What things?
My uncle— she said, looking up fearfully. My uncles books— You thought me good. Didnt you? I was never that. I was— She seemed, for a moment, almost to struggle with herself. Then she moved again, went to the shelves behind the desk, and took up a book. She held it, tight to her breast; then turned and brought it to me. She opened it up in her hands. Her hands, I think, were shaking. Here, she said, as she looked across the page. Or, here. I saw her gaze settle. And then, in the same flat voice she had spoken in before, she began to read.
How delicious, she read, was the glow upon her beauteous neck and bare ivory shoulders, as I forced her on her back on the couch. How luxuriously did her snowy hillocks rise against my bosom in wild confusion—
What? I said.
She did not answer, did not look up; but turned that page and read from another.
I scarcely knew what I was about; everything now was in active exertion—tongues, lips, bellies, arms, thighs, legs, bottoms, every part in voluptuous motion.
Now my own cheek coloured. What? I said, in a whisper.
She turned more pages, read again.
Quickly my daring hand seized her most secret treasure, regardless of her soft complaints, which my burning kisses reduced to mere murmurs, while my fingers penetrated into the covered way of love—
She stopped. Her heart was beating harder, though she had kept her voice so flat. My own heart was also beating rather hard. I said—still not quite understanding:
Your uncles books?
She nodded.
All, like this?
She nodded again.
Every one of them, like this? Are you sure?
Quite sure.
I took the book from her and looked at the print on the pages. It looked like any book would, to me. So I put it down, and went to the shelves and picked up another. That looked the same. Then I took up another; and that had pictures. You never saw any pictures like them. One was of two bare girls. I looked at Maud, and my heart seemed to shrink.
You knew it all, I said. Thats the first thing I thought. You said that you knew nothing, when all the time—
I did know nothing, she said.
You knew it all! You made me kiss you. You made me want to kiss you again! When all the time, you had been coming here and—
My voice broke off. She watched my face. I thought of the times I had come to the library door, heard the smothered rising and falling of her voice. I thought of her reading to gentlemen—to Gentleman—while I sat, eating tarts and custards with Mrs Stiles and Mr Way. I put my hand to my heart. It had shrunk so small and tight, it hurt me.
Oh, Maud, I said. If I had only known! To think, of you— I began to cry. To think of your uncle— Oh! My hand flew to my mouth. My uncle! That thought was queerer than anything. Oh! I still held the book. Now I looked at it and let it drop as if it burned me. Oh!
It was all I could say. Maud stood very still, her hand upon the desk. I wiped my eyes. Then I looked again at the smears of ink on her fingers.
How can you bear it?
She did not answer.
To think of him, I said, that sod! Oh, stinking was too good for him! I wrung my hands. And now, to look at you and see you here, still here, with his books about you—!
I gazed across the shelves; and wanted to smash them. I went to her, and reached to draw her close. But she held me off. She moved her head, in a way that at any other time I should have called proud.
Dont pity me, she said, because of him. Hes dead. But I am still what he made me. I shall always be that. Half of the books are spoiled, or sold. But I am here. And look. You must know everything. Look how I get my living.
She picked up a paper from the desk—the paper that I had seen her write on. The ink was still damp. I asked a friend of my uncles, once, she said, if I might write for him. He sent me to a home for distressed gentlewomen. She smiled, unhappily. They say that ladies dont write such things. But, I am not a lady
I looked at her, not understanding. I looked at the paper in her hand. Then my heart missed its beat.
You are writing books, like his! I said. She nodded, not speaking. Her face was grave. I dont know how my face seemed. I think it was burning. Books, like that! I said. I cant believe it. Of all the ways I thought Id find you— And then, to find you here, all on your own in this great house—
I am not alone, she said. I have told you: I have William Inker and his wife to care for me.
To find you here, all on your own, writing books like that?-V
Again, she looked almost proud. Why shouldnt I? she said.
I did not know. It just dont seem right, I said. A girl, like you—
Like me? There are no girls like me.
I did not answer for a moment. I looked again at the paper in her hand. Then I said quietly,
Is there money in it?
She blushed. A little, she said. Enough, if I write swiftly.
And you— You like it?
She blushed still harder. I find I am good at it. . . She bit her lip. She was still watching my face. Do you hate me for it? she said.
Hate you! I said. When I have fifty proper reasons for hating you, already; and only—
Only love you, I wanted to say. I didnt say it, though. What can I tell you? If she could still be proud, then so, for now, could I ... I didnt need to say it, anyway: she could read the words in my face. Her colour changed, her gaze grew clearer. She put a hand across her eyes. Her fingers left more smudges of black there. I still couldnt bear it. I quickly reached and stopped her wrist; then wet my thumb and began to rub at the flesh of her brow. I did it, thinking only of the ink, and her white skin; but she felt my hand and grew very still. My thumb moved slower. It moved to her cheek. Then I found I had cupped her face in my hand. She closed her eyes. Her cheek was smooth—not like a pearl, warmer than pearls. She turned her head and put her mouth against my palm. Her lips were soft. The smudge stayed black upon her brow; and after all, I thought, was only ink.
When I kissed her, she shook. I remembered what it was, then, to make her shake by kissing her; and began to shake, too. I had been ill. I thought I might faint! We moved apart. She put her hand against her heart. She had still held the paper. Now it fluttered to the floor. I stooped and caught it up and smoothed the creases from it.
What does it say? I said, when I had.
She said, It is filled with all the words for how I want you . . . Look.
She took up the lamp. The room had got darker, the rain still beat against the glass. But she led me to the fire and made me sit, and sat beside me. Her silk skirts rose in a rush, then sank. She put the lamp upon the floor, spread the paper flat; and began to show me the words she had written, one by one.
Notes
Many books provided historical detail and inspiration. Im particularly indebted to V.A.C. Gatrells The Hanging Tree: Execution and the English People, 1770-1868 (Oxford, 1994) and Marcia Hamilcars Legally Dead: Experiences During Seven Weeks Detention in a Private Asylum (London, 1910).
The index upon which Christopher Lilly is at work is based on the three annotated bibliographies published by Henry Spencer Ashbee under the pseudonym Pisanus Fraxi: Index Librorum Prohibitorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- graphical and Critical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1877); Centuria Librorum Absconditorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- graphical and Critical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1879); and Catena Librorum Tacendorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- graphical and critical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1885). Mr Lillys statements on book-collecting echo those of Ashbee, but in all other respects he is entirely fictitious.
All of the texts cited by Maud are real. They include: The Festival of the Passions, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, The Curtain Drawn Up, The Bagnio Miscellany, The Birchen Bouquet, and The Lustful Turk. For publishing details of these see Ashbee, above.