“Or at least advantageous,” I added, “to those unfortunate souls that you are blessed to assist.”
She wavered, perhaps because of the word blessed. A tactical addition on my part: both an appeal to her vanity and a validation of what she doubtless perceived as her selfless and lonely struggle.
“In that case, sir,” she said, “if I were to agree, I would insist that you omit the embellishments and half-truths common to the work of your kind.”
“Of course …”
“Remember your responsibility, Mr. Creswell. Your article could be the final nail in the coffin of an innocent man!”
The outburst coloured her cheeks. When passionate like that, I noticed her eyes were quite lovely.
I insisted that she had the word of a gentleman, and I would write only the truth as I saw it.
Her study was gloomy and cluttered; the deep-crimson walls decorated with the masks and tribal carvings that her father had acquired in Africa. I sat there watching her at work, her face paled by the dull morning glow from a window blurred with rain. She sifted through a pile of letters on her desk, tearing each envelope with a paperknife, scanning the handwriting and frowning at something or other.
“Fool!”
She tossed aside the letter, then, as was her habit, began a reply immediately.
I picked it up and read the pleas of a Derbyshire mother whose daughter-in-law’s burned remains were discovered in a bread oven. “Hm, agreed. Didn’t her son, the baker, confess?”
“Unfortunately much of the correspondence I receive reveals a tacit denial. It’s not possible for some folk to accept their loved one’s role in any abominable act. My father cautioned in his journals about such time wasters.”
“How do you know when they are genuine?”
“Intuition perhaps. And I am familiar with most of the current cases. I follow the reports in the newspapers.”
“All those embellishments and half-truths?” I said, winking.
She squirmed. “I am attempting to ease this poor woman’s suffering, Mr. Creswell, while at the same time imploring her to accept her son’s guilt. Not an easy task.”
The next letter caused her lips to tremble oddly. She brushed a stray lock from her forehead, turned and stared through the rainy window. I read the letter, from a Dr. Mortlock in Wales. “What’s so different about this one?”
“The brevity perhaps, a sincerity of tone measured in few words.” She stood and smoothed her lap, staring at me with a determined look. “Come, Mr. Creswell, we have no time to lose.”
She kept a trunk packed ready for such impromptu trips. As always, I travelled light.
She stared out of the compartment window at the Welsh countryside, clearly deep in thought. I studied her discreetly, without her or the other travellers noticing, hopefully. The natural light captured an expression of reflective innocence, the delicate symmetry of her face and those lovely eyes. I wondered why such an attractive lady, at thirty now, was not married or at least courted by gentlemen suitors.
Our train arrived late afternoon at a drab little town called Llanilydd, which was enclosed by steep grey hills. The porter loaded Miss Appleby’s trunk onto the waiting hansom but she insisted on lugging her strongbox despite its obvious weight. The sky was overcast and there was a chill wind blowing off the hills. She draped a blanket over the strongbox, covering what looked like air holes, hugging it close as we bumped along a muddy valley road — the contents inside tinkling — before arriving at the town’s main street. The driver whipped the horses up a sharp hill then halted outside a large dwelling, grand but bleak and uninviting.
A dour servant showed us to our rooms. Miss Appleby asked the whereabouts of the doctor but the fellow had already turned along the landing. My room was adjacent to Miss Appleby’s, clad in dark wood panelling, austere though warm thankfully. As I unpacked my travel bag, I noticed the inner door.
I eased out the brass key, knelt, and peered through the ha’penny-sized aperture, trying to convince myself that such behaviour was justifiable, the nature of my work, but in truth hoping to catch a glimpse of her changing, in her undergarments especially. I felt ashamed yet excited also. Across the room directly opposite, the strongbox was positioned on a Turkey rug beside the grate’s glowing coals.
Miss Appleby came into view. She used a set of keys to undo an elaborate lock system, opened the lid then unhooked hinge pins that held the side panels in place. The clutter that was revealed — mainly brass components, tubes and glassware — sparkled in the light of the fire. But it was difficult to see the apparatus in any detail.
“There,” she said, “a nice fire. That should warm you up.”
She uncorked a bottle of greenish mulch — recoiling momentarily from what I imagined was the odour — and fitted a rubber tube to the end. There was a strange sputtering from inside the apparatus; the rubber umbilical coiled like a snake and there was gurgling as the bottle’s plankton-like fill reduced an inch.
A knock on the door startled me.
The servant stood there, sniffing with disgust at the sight of me kneeling by the keyhole.
“The doctor asks if you and Miss Appleby would join him in the drawing room for tea.”
I guessed that Dr. Mortlock looked much older than his years; his pallor a bloodless grey, with deep facial lines that seemed to have been shaped by misery, or a hopeless struggle with disease perhaps. His thin frame moved cautiously, wary of the environment, as though some minor collision with the furniture might produce a most painful reaction.
“I imagined you’d be older,” he said to Miss Appleby, ushering her to the sofa. “Less appealing to the eye.”
She kept her tone formal. “If we could discuss business, Doctor …”
“Yes of course. I’m sorry for bringing you here, Miss Appleby. This is indeed a wretched town. But an innocent boy, Tobias Jones, is to stand trial for murder, and that cannot be right.”
“Who is he alleged to have murdered?” she asked.
“A girl of seventeen, Charlotte Crane. The daughter of Arthur Crane. He owns the slate quarry here. This town would die without the quarry, and Crane has turned the people against young Tobias.”
“What’s your relationship with this boy?”
The question seemed to unsettle the doctor. “I have known the family for years, that’s all. Should I stand idly by and allow a miscarriage of justice? Tobias is certain to hang.”
“How did the girl die?”
“I conducted the post-mortem myself. Marks on the neck indicated a ligature, applied with force enough to fatally deprive the brain of oxygen.”
“Was she raped?”
“Her undergarments were undisturbed. There was no physical evidence of molestation.”
“What about robbery?”
“Her purse contained two pounds and some odd coins, so no.”
“Then why is the boy a suspect?”
“He was discovered with her body at the quarry where he works. Not good, I realise, but …”
She stared. “And what did he have to say about that?”
The doctor massaged the deep grooves in his face. “This tragic incident has rendered him mute. A symptom of shock, I believe. He was beaten terribly when found and has not spoken since. You must help poor Tobias. He has a gentle nature, I assure you.”
The servant wheeled a trolley in then served tea and fruitcake. Miss Appleby tipped a spoonful of sugar in her cup and stirred it. “Dr. Mortlock, are you familiar with what I do?”