Shadow of the Past by Judith Cutler

Author:Judith Cutler [Judith Cutler]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749011727
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2011-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

We were all in need of the wine and biscuits for which Mrs Hansard rang, but they went untouched while Vernon unfolded the papers he had so carefully carried.

‘Pah! ’Tis nothing but some old bills! From Mr John Knight, Fishmonger, Honey Lane, near Cheapside…fresh herrings, full of roes…a barrel of oysters… And here is another. From Mr Wilson, Purveyor of… Do we really want to know about the man’s tea and coffee?’ He threw them down in disgust.

‘Indeed we do not,’ Hansard said quietly. ‘But to whom were the bills sent? That might be of moment.’

‘As to that – why, to a Mr Chamberlain, of Hanstown. A respectable, but scarcely fashionable address.’ He waved the sheet of paper before our noses, and then set it down again.

‘Is there nothing else?’

He leafed through them again. ‘Some milliner’s accounts, and here one from a haberdasher.’

‘So we may conclude Mr Chamberlain has a female living in his establishment,’ Hansard said.

‘All we may conclude is that Mr Chamberlain had a female living in his establishment,’ Vernon corrected him.

I smothered an inappropriate laugh.

‘Are the bills dated?’ Mrs Hansard put in quickly.

‘All some six or seven years ago. 1803 is the earliest, 1806 the latest.’

I spread my hands. ‘Why would someone wish to store old bills in such a private place? Are you sure, Mr Vernon, that you have missed nothing?’

‘What did you expect?’ he demanded, irascible in his disappointment.

‘Something that would have been important to the owner of the trunk. A private letter. A miniature. A ring. A ribbon.’ I smiled ruefully. ‘I fear I am incurably sentimental.’

‘You only voice all our hopes,’ Mrs Hansard said firmly, as if daring the others to disagree.

None did, but there was a general reaching for biscuits and sipping of wine.

‘Conceivably the bills might serve the same purpose as a letter, inasmuch as they provide us with an address,’ Hansard mused. He gave first Vernon, then me, a rueful smile. ‘If we enquire at Mr Chamberlain’s, it is not impossible that we find Miss Southey once to have been living there.’

‘I’ll write immediately,’ Vernon declared. Before anyone could speak, he turned his attention to Mrs Hansard’s needlework table. ‘And these? What are these?’ He picked up a pile of sketches not dissimilar to those he and Hansard had brought over from the Hall.

But it was not a young woman’s face upon them. It was a likeness of the young man whom I had had to bury. A likeness of the living man, not the worm-eaten corpse. I managed not to gasp – Mrs Hansard had breathed warm life into the cold features, and brought a sparkle to the lifeless orbs. Lest I betray her, I kept my eyes firmly away from the artist, but wanted to seize her hand in emphatic admiration.

‘Toone, I thought you said you had no talent for bringing to life the features of the dead,’ Vernon continued. ‘But these sketches – while not as good as the young ladies’ work – are excellent.’

Toone modestly shook his head at the praise, but did not deflect it.

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