The Ink Stain Read online

  ‘I very much fear he already has,’ said Monsarrat. ‘He’s been arrested. Cullen does not know where he was taken, and he fears there is a connection with the fact that Peter was on his way to collect Hallward’s last story when the shot was fired.’

  Donnelly’s face drained of colour, and he stared at Monsarrat in seeming incomprehension before shaking his head. ‘They think he might have succeeded in collecting the story, then. They think he might have read it, might know what was in it.’

  ‘That is Cullen’s fear, yes. But the document itself has disappeared, along with the head warden.’

  ‘Frank’s gone? I hadn’t heard. That is disturbing. He and Henry had an arrangement – Henry couldn’t have edited the Chronicle from prison without him.’

  ‘So there is every possibility that wherever this man is, he has the story with him.’

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Donnelly. ‘There’s one thing I’m certain of, though: Duchamp and his cronies know Henry was planning something exceptionally damaging, but they don’t know what it was. And they will not believe Peter when he says he doesn’t either. That lad’s fate rests on one thing – you need to find that story, and you need to do it quickly.’

  Carolina’s angular face seemed rounder somehow, softer, blurred by the music. The stiffness in her jaw, present whenever she played in front of others, had disappeared now that she thought she was alone. It was a notion Hannah would have to disabuse her of. She disliked interrupting the woman’s practice at the recital hall, but Peter’s safety justified the invasion. Finding Hallward’s story might save him, but Hannah had no intention of trusting his life to that eventuality.

  Standing at the back of the hall, Hannah loudly cleared her throat. Carolina either did not hear or ignored her, so Hannah stamped a foot – still no reaction. She inhaled deeply. ‘Miss Albrecht!’ she yelled. Her voice was louder than she had intended, particularly the last syllable after the notes from the piano trailed off.

  Carolina set her jaw, standing as she smoothed down her day dress. ‘When I invited you to call on me here, madam, I did not think you would be impolite enough to interrupt my practice.’

  Hannah strode towards her, talking as she went. ‘And I would never do anything so rude, except in the most extreme circumstances.’

  ‘And your circumstances are extreme?’

  ‘Possibly. Yours may be too. But at the moment, a certain young boy is likely to be in more extreme circumstances than all of us.’

  ‘Perhaps this is no conversation for a concert hall with good resonance. Come.’ Carolina turned and walked, without waiting to be followed, towards her dressing-room. ‘You mentioned a boy,’ she said, as she closed the door behind them.

  ‘Yes. Mr Hallward’s copyboy, Peter, has been taken off by the constables.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘They say he was distributing your pamphlets. That’s their excuse, at least. Complete rubbish, of course.’

  Carolina stared, then shook her head. ‘You must be mistaken, madam. I have no pamphlets. And while it is regrettable that the young boy has been taken, it is no concern of mine.’

  Hannah felt a growing, rushing anger. Her son, for all she knew, was lost to her. She would not let another boy go. But she knew that if she unleashed her emotions, any possibility of civil conversation would disappear. She would give Carolina a final chance.

  ‘Miss Albrecht, I know you are Vindex. It is a marvellous thing, providing an independent voice. Tyranny is not absolute as long as one person is willing to speak. But surely you must think of those you have been speaking to, and speaking for. People like Peter with no voice of their own. He was arrested for your sake. That was the excuse, anyway, although we believe those who have taken him think he has Henry Hallward’s last story. I am told you cared for Hallward.’

  Carolina turned away. ‘I did.’

  ‘You seem melancholy but not consumed by grief.’

  ‘I have become adept, Mrs Mulrooney, at reinforcing my interior scaffolding so that my exterior doesn’t collapse in on the emptiness. My grief would provide entertainment for Colonel Duchamp and his sister, and I will not dishonour Henry’s memory in that way.’

  ‘Yet you would dishonour his memory by allowing a lad he cared for to suffer, or worse. Who knows what Peter is enduring right now? And he is there, at least partly, because of you! If you tell the authorities he had no part in it … maybe offer yourself in exchange for him …’

  ‘What am I to do about it?’ Carolina asked, raising her voice. ‘Present myself as the publisher of illegal pamphlets? They would then have reason to arrest my associates. Mr Cullen would soon find himself in a cell next to Peter – another voice silenced.’

  ‘You will not help, then?’

  ‘I cannot! I would be unable to do any good and could do a great deal of harm. You said yourself that this colony needs independent voices. What is the fate of one boy against that of a whole society?’

  Hannah stood slowly and spoke quietly, knowing that if she allowed herself to start yelling, she would not stop. ‘The fate of one boy, madam, is everything,’ she said. ‘A society that weighs out the value of one life against another like flour in a market – or worse, one life against a principle – has already lost its soul. You do not wish to dishonour Mr Hallward? You have. And your gender. And no amount of perfumed music will cover the stench.’

  Hannah turned and yanked open the dressing-room door, letting it bang flat against the wall, and strode away towards the doors of the recital hall.

  Chapter 19

  Hannah didn’t blame Emily for baulking at carrying messages for her mistress to this part of town. Hannah was not fond of the gaol either. Its outer walls seemed to be encroaching onto the pavement with each passing hour and she had the uncomfortable sense that if she stood here long enough, they would eventually reach her and keep moving until she was on the other side of them.

  But it wasn’t the gaol she was here for. Everything seemed to centre on that cursed house. If Peter wasn’t being held behind those looming walls, she thought, it was more than possible he was being held there.

  Hannah realised she was probably wealthy enough to have a carriage at her disposal, but acquiring one had never occurred to her. She thanked God she was wearing her servant’s attire, rather than the stuffy jacket and skirts of a woman of means. Not only would they have been dreadfully hot, but a woman tearing through the streets in a lace collar and a brooch would have drawn all sorts of notice. However, the sight of a servant rushing around was not unknown. A woman dressed as a domestic had perhaps fought with her husband or been caught in a minor act of theft, or was on an urgent errand.

  As Hannah walked past the houses opposite the gaol, approaching the one Monsarrat had told her about she saw a lace curtain twitch. It had to be the widow, Mrs Selwyn, who was convinced that ghosts were responsible for the strange noises at the residence next door. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, Hannah thought. She turned up the path and knocked on the door.

  The woman who answered might have been around Hannah’s age, but it was hard to tell. The lines around her mouth spoke of a lifetime of pouting. She couldn’t decide where to fix her eyes, peering behind Hannah as though afraid she might have brought an army of ghosts. Hannah waited for Mrs Selwyn to say something – perhaps ask what she was doing here or who she was. But the woman said nothing, just continued to probe the space around Hannah with those frenetic eyes.

  ‘My employer, Mr Monsarrat, sent me,’ Hannah said eventually. ‘He told me about the ghosts.’

  Mrs Selwyn inhaled sharply, as though she had been holding her breath since Hannah knocked on the door.

  ‘Nice man,’ she said, ‘with a nice voice. All the voices around here are rough – they don’t caress you the way that man’s voice does.’

  Hannah cleared her throat, tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. ‘He is also very generous. He wanted me to reward you for your help.’ She lowered
her voice. ‘This is not a place to be flaunting anything valuable, not in the street. May I please come in?’

  Mrs Selwyn stood aside, and Hannah walked into a dim parlour. Mrs Selwyn slumped into the armchair facing the window and gestured Hannah towards a rocking chair opposite it. Hannah sat carefully, hoping it would support her weight.

  ‘You mentioned valuables,’ Mrs Selwyn said.

  Hannah felt in the coin pouch she’d sewn into her skirts. ‘My employer suggested flowers,’ she said, withdrawing three shillings from the pouch and holding them out to Mrs Selwyn. ‘But you and I know that flowers do not fill a belly – or buy a woman the comfort of a dram of gin at the end of the day.’

  Mrs Selwyn’s eyes widened, and she reached out for the coins.

  Hannah snapped her hand shut. ‘Mr Monsarrat told me about ghosts.’

  ‘Probably laughing as he did so,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘I do not think he is a believer.’

  ‘You can hear my accent – you know that where I am from, ghosts are commonplace, and it can take a whole conversation to decide whether a figure you meet is of this earth. He may not be a believer, but I most certainly am. It’s a fascination of mine. I wonder – if I were to add another shilling to this pile, might I occupy the chair that you are currently sitting in? You see, it has such an excellent view of the house you told him has the ghosts. I will not disturb you, and I’m sure you’ve better things to do than keep me company. But it is an opportunity I do not wish to pass up – hauntings are rarer than you think, even in Ireland.’ Hannah opened her palm again, drew another coin from her pocket and dropped it onto the others. She held her hand out, open and flat as though she was feeding an apple to a horse.

  Mrs Selwyn snatched the coins, stood up and, with a ridiculous flourish, gestured Hannah to the chair. She sat there, hoping she was the only living thing between the two armrests. Even through the lace curtain, she did have a good view of the front of the house. If she stayed alert long enough, she could hardly fail to miss anyone arriving or exiting.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘Although if you stay beyond sunset, it’ll be another shilling.’

  ‘Which I shall pay happily. Oh, and may I ask, have you by any chance seen a child nearby in the past few hours?’

  ‘Not a place for children,’ Mrs Selwyn said.

  I fear others might disagree with you, thought Hannah as Mrs Selwyn scuttled out of the room. After a minute Hannah could hear liquid being poured into a glass.

  The screech of rusted metal drew Hannah out of her lurid waking nightmares about Peter’s fate. The noise sounded as though it was coming from the ghost house. Hannah crept as close as she dared to the window. If Henrietta did have a reason to visit this house, she was by no means stupid, and a disturbance of the lace curtains could be noticed by her as it had been by Hannah.

  But Henrietta wasn’t there. Instead, a man stood just outside the house’s gate, staring over at the gaol. He had, perhaps, opened the gate and then closed it after him, and Hannah thanked it silently for making such a fuss and waking her. He had his back to her. He wore shirtsleeves with a loosely tied cravat. Mr Monsarrat, Hannah thought, would never allow himself out in public looking like that.

  The man suddenly turned towards the ghost house as the door opened, and Hannah caught a glimpse of a precisely clipped moustache. He walked up the path towards the house. The lace through which Hannah was looking did nothing to dim the effect of the pink silk gown, reticule and parasol worn by the woman who stepped out to greet him at the door. The man bent over her hand and kissed it.

  They were both turning to go inside, when the woman stopped sharply. She was frowning and staring through a crack between the lace curtains, directly at Hannah.

  The streets were quiet, which was hardly a surprise. The slanted light told of an afternoon drawing to a close; Monsarrat supposed it was not a fertile time for stallholders. And, of course, one of those stallholders was otherwise engaged at present. With Donnelly at his schoolroom, there would be no need to wade through protestors before pounding on the gaol doors and demanding admission. Monsarrat was not sure what he would find, but a surprise arrival might unearth all sorts of interesting information. Now that Chancel knew him, Monsarrat might be admitted a little more easily, and be given the chance to form a view based on a visit which hadn’t been curated by Duchamp.

  Monsarrat did not, however, get that far. As he was passing the houses opposite the gaol’s high walls, a hand descended on his shoulder.

  ‘Eejit of a man! Anyone can see you. Get out of sight, now!’

  He turned and felt a momentary sense of dislocation – Mrs Mulrooney, where she shouldn’t have been, and dressed in the clothes she loved but had needed to forswear. She was tugging him towards a narrow gap between two houses. ‘I’d thought I was doing a good enough job of leaving unseen,’ she said. ‘And then you came striding along, you big black-and-white streak. Why don’t you beat a drum, do a proper job of it!’ Her eyebrows were drawn together by a thunderous brow. ‘Close your mouth before something flies into it. Jesus, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! But then so have I, after a fashion.’

  ‘Would you care to explain to me what you’re doing near the gaol?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘Trying to get away from it. As you should be – for now.’

  ‘Trying to … But why would I? I need to find out whether Peter is there.’

  ‘If he’s not, then you’ve just annoyed Duchamp. If he is, the wardens are not likely to tell you. Did you think that Crowdy fella would open the door and say, “Of course, right this way, Mr Monsarrat, we’ll take you to the cell where we’re holding the boy”?’ She shook her head, and Monsarrat hoped the students of the Female School of Industry never had cause to feel the weight of her disappointment. ‘Mr Monsarrat, if you’d think, just for a minute. We’re as sure as we can be that Peter wasn’t arrested for pickpocketing – that he was taken by somebody who had cause to fear what Hallward had written. The best way to find him is to find that.’

  ‘Yes, well, I agree with you, dear lady, except that is no simple matter.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I have some information on that score to share with you back at the boarding house, but let’s not just go meandering down the street, though thankfully I doubt anybody’s home, except that superstitious busybody, and Henrietta and Gerald Mobbs – who, it seems, are in Bancroft’s house.’

  ‘Henrietta and Mobbs? Together?’

  ‘Oh yes, very much so. I saw them not half an hour ago. And she may have seen me. We’ll need to go behind the houses. A few brambles, nothing you’re not equal to. As long as you can break your usual habit and try, just for once, not crash around like a tethered bull.’

  ‘Mrs Mulrooney, so far in the past couple of days, I’ve been referred to as defective, told that my only value is as an exemplar of phrenology, and compared to livestock. Do you think that for a few minutes you might refrain from insulting me?’

  ‘That entirely depends, Mr Monsarrat, on whether you intend to behave yourself. Now come on, and quickly. I don’t think Henrietta has left yet, but she could at any moment – and if she sees us, getting into the gaol will be the least of your problems.’

  ‘She looked right at me,’ Mrs Mulrooney told Monsarrat. ‘Whether she recognised me, I couldn’t say.’

  Mrs Mulrooney had given a shilling to Miss Douglas, asking her to go for a walk and allow them time alone in the kitchen. She was in the process of brewing tea, something Monsarrat suspected she needed at the moment as much as he did.

  ‘Hopefully not,’ he said. ‘She was not expecting to see you there, and people tend to dismiss and ignore things that they’re not expecting.’

  ‘That one, I think she probably expects anything,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Far more cunning than she lets on. Pretending to be sick so she can visit a man is one thing, but sending me to the School of Industry is another – she intended to keep me occupied.’

  Mrs Mulrooney s
et a cup of tea in front of Monsarrat and sat down opposite him. ‘Why was Gerald Mobbs calling at the house? He has an alibi for the time of the murder, and he’s hardly the kind of man I’d imagine her associating with. I see her on the arm of an officer whose chest is so heavy with medals he can barely stand up.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s all very suggestive, but we can’t assume anything except that they were at that house. I didn’t know either of them were that tight with Albert Bancroft, though – assuming he does own the house.’

  ‘Does he, though? Houses change hands, Mr Monsarrat.’ Mrs Mulrooney always seemed to think best on her feet, and now she sprang up and prowled around the table as though guarding it. ‘We are making assumptions. We are presuming Hallward’s death was an attempt to prevent him from publishing his story. What if it’s beyond that, though?’

  ‘You had better tell me what you mean, dear lady.’

  ‘The governor wants to license the media and impose a tax – this wouldn’t just affect the Chronicle, would it?’

  ‘No. As we’ve discussed, Mobbs would be out of business too.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Mulrooney, ‘but if the thorn was removed – if Hallward was no longer there to nibble at the administration, to raise cries of cronyism and corruption, and if all that was left was one, well-behaved newspaper – there would be no need for taxes and licensing.’

  ‘If you’re right –’

  ‘If I’m right, you will never be allowed back in that gaol except as an inmate. But in a way, it doesn’t matter. Because we still need to find Hallward’s final story so we can free that boy.’

  Chapter 20

  The mirror in the parlour was placed so that it absorbed the morning sun, sending blinding glints back to those unfortunate enough to be looking into it. Especially, thought Hannah, those who had been up all night plotting and fretting about a lost boy.