The Journal of Dora Damage (30 page)
I put my finger to my lips when we neared the front door of 2, Ivy-street, and motioned to the door of the workshop instead,
for we would be less likely to wake the household that way. I pulled the key from my skirts, and put it in the lock, my mind
full of the evening and what I had learnt of this man, when I discovered that the door had not been locked. The door had been
left open. For how long? And why?
I pushed the door slowly open with my fingertips, and waited on the threshold as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Din sidled
past me, and lit a candle.
No one was there.
Had Jack forgotten to lock up? Unlikely, for such a responsible lad. So what, then? Who? And were they still here, somewhere?
We paced round the workshop, with increasing confidence as we discovered no one under the benches, or hiding in the booth,
and no disturbances to the work on the tables, or in the presses, or in the crates. Jack’s apron was on the peg; his coat
was gone. And, most importantly, the new, heavy door was still locked between the workshop and the house, and the only key
for it was hanging beneath my skirts.
I pulled it out and unlocked the door, then crept into the kitchen with the candle. Through the gap into the parlour, we could
see a dwindling fire flickering its red light onto Peter, who seemed to be sleeping. I tiptoed upstairs: Lucinda was sound
asleep in the box-room. I glided downstairs. Din was hovering around the new door, as if unsure whether the potential danger
of the situation justified his setting foot in my house for the first time. I motioned to him to go back into the bindery.
‘Do you want me to stay?’ he whispered once we were out of the house. ‘I’ll sleep here, on the floor.’
‘Yes, I do. But not because I’m scared. Because I don’t want you going back to the Borough at this time of night.’ I went
over and locked the door to the street.
‘I can fend for myself.’
‘But I’d rather you didn’t have to. Be safe; don’t put yourself in danger when you can avoid it.’ Or is that impossible for
you, I wanted to add. I went back into the house and collected some blankets; I handed them to Din at the door of the workshop.
‘It won’t be too comfortable,’ I said.
‘I’ve slept on worse.’
‘I’ll have to lock you in, but here’s the key to the street if you need to get out.’
I decided not to disturb Peter, but stoked the fire to keep him warm; I would be rising in only a few hours, and I would move
him into our bed then. It was just as well, for I was wakeful with frets and perturbations: the revelations of the pub basement
in Whitechapel, the mystery of the unlocked door, the presence of Din’s sleeping body in such close proximity to mine. I slept
on my side, with my hands tucked between my thighs for comfort.
I rose at five as usual to start the morning chores before Pansy arrived. Peter was still in his chair, and the fire was low.
I picked the blanket off his knees to wrap round him better when he stood, to discover that his legs were cold, like pink-veined
marble, such that there was no warming to be had from any blanket. I checked his face. His eyes and mouth were wide open,
like a pig’s head on the butcher’s stand.
‘Peter,’ I said sternly, as if he were a child playing games with me. ‘Peter!’
I did not know when the spirit had left him; had I checked on him properly before turning into bed I might have discovered
something then that could have saved him. I grasped his lifeless hands; they caused him no pain at last, and I squeezed them
and squeezed them as if they were bellows, as if through them I could breathe new life into him as into the dying fire.
My father left me three acres of land,
Sing ivy, sing ivy;
My father left me three acres of land,
Sing holly, go whistle and ivy.
W
e kept the curtains closed all the while; Pansy and I washed his body by candle-light, and we patted him dry with towels
and finished him off in front of the fire. I shaved his face, and cut a piece of hair from his head, which I tied in a knot
and placed in a box on the mantelpiece, where the clock had been before I sold it to Huggitty. But even if we had still had
it, I would not have known the time at which I should have stopped it. Pansy said Peter had bid her farewell as she left last
night. She also said that Jack had still been in the workshop.
We wrapped him in a sheet and laid him out on the floor under the windowsill. I sent Lucinda to hang Peter’s blanket over
the mirror in our bedroom, and Pansy out into Ivy-street to tell the neighbours.
‘Can I be of service?’ Din asked, as he brought his breakfast plate in from the workshop.
Yes, you can hold me through my grief; yes, you can go away and leave me for ever, I wanted to scream both at once. I had
not expected so extreme and immediate a punishment for my unnatural urges.
‘You may go home, Din. We shall not be working today.’
‘As you wish, ma’am.’
‘Oh, but Din?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Go and tell Jack, won’t you? See what’s happened to him. Pond Yard, up past the Vinegar Works, by the river. Lizzie, his
mother is.’
Jack. The coincidence of his disappearance with Peter’s death troubled me. I never doubted the boy his love for my husband;
even my suspicious mind did not dare imagine that he might have been in some way responsible for this. But I troubled that
there was something further to this than I could see. I fretted that we might find Jack dead today too, for all I knew.
Mrs Eeles passed Din on his way out. She scarcely seemed to see him or me as she hunted round to find where I had hidden my
husband.
‘He’s gorn!’ she lamented, clutching her hands at the air. ‘Our dearest Peter! Gorn! What a suffering befalls us all before
the day of reck’ning! Where is his body?’ I gestured to where he lay under the window. ‘What, no coffin yet? But least you’ll
be able to bury him nice,’ she added, finally locking my eye, ‘what with business and that.’
Oh, I had not thought that far. Of course my Peter could not have a pauper’s funeral, but we had not a penny spare.
‘You’ll be wanting horses with plumes and all, won’t you, and mutes, and shall I be coming with you to get your blacks dyed?
Black Peter Robinson’s we could go to. At least to get some mourning trimmings for that dreadful old frock of yours.’
But then I remembered the finery: I would pawn those impractical brown boots and the cream silk scarf, and the empty hamper,
the parasol, the hair comb and fan. They would come in useful after all.
‘It’s all so expensive,’ I said wearily. ‘What do you think we’ll need? Four or five guineas at least, for a plain burial?’
‘A plain burial?’ a deep male voice said behind us. ‘My finest bookbinder shall have nothing of the sort.’
We turned to find Sir Jocelyn Knightley standing in the front doorway, doffing his hat. ‘A plain burial, Dora, for your dear
husband?’ He held his arms out to me, one hand still holding his distinctive silver cane with the red ball top, but I did
not stir. Lucinda came downstairs slowly, clutching Mossie, and eyed him carefully.
‘Little Lucinda,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry, poor child. There are no words.’ Then all of a sudden, off the bottom stair, she
launched herself at him.
‘Don’t!’ I screamed at her, and at him, but the rogue crouched down and seized her, and she buried herself deeply in his chest.
‘Don’t,’ I repeated, more feebly. I had not imagined I would let him touch her ever again, but I could not stop this.
‘There, there, precious girl. Cry all you must. But your mother is dry-eyed. Does she not cry, Lucinda?’
Lucinda shook her head from within his coat.
‘I am not afraid of tears, Dora,’ he said, looking up at me.
But I had no tears to shed. My chest was crammed with grief, but it would not be released. Besides, I feared that if I started
crying I would not stop, and I certainly did not want to give Sir Jocelyn cause to comfort me. Lucinda pulled herself away
from him and started to wrap herself in me. I was so wretched with misery I could scarce summon up the requisite loathing
for him.
‘I heard word,’ Sir Jocelyn said, standing up slowly. He pulled himself up on his cane, and pressed into his waist with his
other hand: his stab wound, I remembered. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’
‘Why?’ I said, my mouth clenched.
‘Why? Theodore – Dr Chisholm – is away in the country shooting, and I am unaware of any physicians of note in Lambeth.’ He
raised an eyebrow, as if challenging me to dispute him. ‘Lucinda, take Mossie, and go and play in your room.’ The girl slid
from my arms, and obeyed. ‘Come, let me see the body.’
I led him over to the window and carefully unwrapped the sheet from Peter’s corpse. Sir Jocelyn laid his cane down, and crouched
next to him. Mrs Eeles was peering over my shoulder; whatever she thought of me, she was relishing this.
Peter was cold and heavy as stone: more solid, even, than when he had been alive. We watched without flinching as Sir Jocelyn
examined him all over, cut him with a scalpel in places, and put a tube down his throat. He asked me many questions as he
worked, and I answered frankly, even when it came to his consumption of laudanum. Sir Jocelyn pulled himself up on his cane
again, and asked to examine the remaining bottles of Black Drop. He sniffed them, before placing one in his bag.
‘I shall issue you now with a certificate of death,’ he finally said. ‘There is no need for an autopsy, and you would not
wish for a coroner’s interference, would you?’
‘Not if you say so,’ I said doubtfully. I could not speak my worries, for Mrs Eeles’s presence.
He pulled out a printed form from his bag, sat down at the dining table, and wrote for several minutes. I rolled Peter’s body
back up in the sheet, while Mrs Eeles watched. Pansy returned, and busied herself in the kitchen.
‘Now, you must leave the funeral arrangements to me,’ announced Sir Jocelyn.
‘But I cannot . . .’
‘But of course you can. I insist.’
‘Is that really . . . proper?’
‘I shall take care of it all. There is to be no argument.’
‘Well, Sir Jocelyn, if there’s—’
He held up his hand to silence me. ‘You have more than enough to worry about, you poor dear girl. I am glad to see you are
well supported by your community.’ He nodded at Mrs Eeles. ‘A finer neighbour than Mrs Damage one cannot hope for.’
Mrs Eeles was in trouble, and making peculiar noises. Clearly she did not quite know where to put herself in the presence
of Sir Jocelyn: if she truly thought that I opened my legs to men like these, she was realising now the true perks of the
trade. Torn between arch disapproval of my whoring and the thrill of breathing the same air as a full-blooded aristocrat who
would even pay for the finest funeral to which she had ever borne witness, she sucked her teeth and fretted her hands. ‘Nor
a finer tenant,’ she eventually affirmed.
‘Indeed. Would that they were of your ilk around Berkeley-square, Dora. Now, may I ask, Dora, if it is not too inopportune
a moment, if you have given thought to cremation?’
‘Oh, merciful Father!’ swooned Mrs Eeles, and I feared she might collapse. ‘No, no, no!’
‘I espouse it as quite the modern thing: it is hygienic, and it hastens the natural process of decomposition. Ashes to ashes,
Dora, is considerably quicker than dust to dust.’
‘Is it not rather barbaric?’ I asked nervously, one eye on Mrs Eeles, who was clearly revising her opinion of the gentleman.
‘We can learn from our Eastern brethren in this matter, who consider cremation as the only option in a hot country, and for
religious purposes. Not that I am condoning their related practices: I would not wish to see Mr Damage’s good widow immolate
herself on her husband’s funeral pyre!’
‘I – I – do not believe it would have been Peter’s wish.’
Sir Jocelyn held up his hand. ‘I need hear no more. It shall not be.’
Mrs Eeles righted herself, and smiled approbation at me. I realised, having been so long out of her favour, that I did not
much prefer being in it either.
Sir Jocelyn packed his bag, collected his silver cane, doffed his hat to us, and left. I hurried after him into the street,
as much to escape Mrs Eeles as to air my troubles to Sir Jocelyn. I checked we were out of earshot of Mrs Eeles, then spoke
quietly.
‘Sir Jocelyn?’ I knew I would never forgive myself if I did not ask.
‘Dora.’
‘Does it – does it look at all suspicious to you?’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Like – like – like
murder
?’ I barely mouthed the word, but it seemed to echo up the whole street.
Sir Jocelyn paused and seemed to be examining the side of our building before saying, ‘Not evidently. There was no blow to
the head, no stab in the gut.’ Then he dropped his voice and said pointedly, ‘But suspicions may be alerted to one who had
the inclination and ability to poison him with opium for many months. I doubt you would wish that to come out, Dora?’
‘Oh!’ I gasped and put my hand to my mouth. ‘But I didn’t! I didn’t!’
‘I know, I know,’ he soothed hastily. ‘But best not to draw attention to the possibility, eh?’ Then he kissed me on the forehead,
and departed. I rubbed the spot vigorously; he was a swine, and a dangerous one, and I owed him so much – and so little, too.
I went back into the parlour and straightways looked at the certificate he had left on the table. Under ‘Cause of death’ was
written: ‘Congestion of the brain and heart: severe rheumatism leading to brain fever and
morbis cordis
.’ Would I ever be free of my obligations to this man?
Later that day, Din returned.
‘I found Jack’s mamma, at home, as you said, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She said she’d speak to you about it all, if you
would be good enough to come see her. I told her of your misfortune with Peter. She sends condolences, ma’am.’
‘Din?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘You got the impression from her that Jack was still alive, didn’t you?’
‘Indeed I did, ma’am. Just she would not say where.’
‘Should I be troubled, Din?’
He shrugged. I thanked him, and dismissed him until further notice. I could not think of business at a time like this, although
I knew I would have to soon. I wondered if I should send the police round to Lizzie’s; I banished the thought the moment it
entered my brain. Jack was a good boy, that was one thing I could be sure of.
The men in black came to measure Peter that afternoon, and returned with the coffin the following day. Having placed him in
it, they covered the box with a fine black pall, which they fixed with bright brass tacks, and moved it into the centre of
the parlour, so that there was scarcely any room left to live in. They brought too, much to my embarrassment, a fine black
woollen dress, which was soft and warm and fitted me perfectly, along with a new long weeping veil, and a pair of black gloves,
all with the compliments of Sir Jocelyn and Lady Knightley. Mrs Eeles was beside herself with wonder and envy, especially
as I still had my old veil in my keeping, and owing to her.
The chief undertaker informed me of the details of the funeral, which was fixed for the coming Thursday at Woking, given our
convenient proximity to the Necropolitan Railway. I sent telegrams to those of Peter’s siblings for whom I had details: his
brothers Tommy and Arthur, and his sisters Rosie and Ethel.
‘Shall you be attending?’ Mrs Eeles asked me anxiously. She had hardly stayed away from the house these last few days, not
believing her luck at having a fancy funeral so close to home. ‘Hard to say what’s best to do, nowadays.’ She could not help
but stroke the sleeve of my mourning dress, even as I was wearing it.
‘What is your opinion, Mrs Eeles?’
‘You may think me modern, but I think us women should be there. It might not appear seemly, for us so to sit by the gaping
maw of the grave, but we work our hardest getting the poor soul ready for it; why should we be deprived the internment itself?
And I will go with you, if you choose, if you wish not to be the only woman there and therefore something of a conspicuousness,
if you get my meaning.’
‘In truth, Mrs Eeles, if I do not go, who else will?’ I sighed. ‘I am hoping his brothers will attend, but my father is dead,
and so is his. Who of the book trade will attend?’ I did not mention Jack, or Din. ‘Precious few, I imagine. Peter does not
deserve to be put in the clay without witnesses.’
I was glad not to have mentioned these concerns to Sir Jocelyn, or he would have offered to hire extra mourners, no doubt.
As it was, thanks to his lordship, Peter got the finest funeral this part of Lambeth had ever seen. The bells started tolling
early on Thursday morning for him, and the procession arrived at nine. He got eight horses, each with a black plume, and a
shiny hearse adorned with gold scrollwork.
Mrs Eeles, Lucinda and I followed the coffin out of the house, where, to my shock, two mutes were standing on either side
of our door, stiffer and more inert than the trees flanking the Knightley’s front door in Berkeley-square.
‘Hello,’ I said to one of them, just to be polite. ‘Thank you for coming today.’ But their faces stared ahead, as marmoreal
as figure-heads on a gravestone, even though the massive crêpe ribbon on their staffs flapped in the wind, and kept hitting
their faces.
The pall-bearers lifted the coffin into the hearse, and the three of us followed it to the steps of the station just round
the corner. Nora Negley, Patience Bishop, Agatha Marrow and the rest of Ivy-street stood in their door-ways, watching us go
past in a silence that I hoped was out of respect. It must have made a good spectacle. Did these good folk of Ivy-street think
I had paid for this all out of the proceeds of prostitution, I wondered. Were they mocking me in my grief for my apparently
cuckolded husband? I was strangely glad of Mrs Eeles by my side in the face of their stares, torn though I knew she was.