The Tiger in the Well

  "Then what will make a difference? How am I going to win this case, Mr Coleman?"

  "By not interfering with your counsel."

  "I see. And will he win it by himself?"

  His hot glare came up to seek her again. She met it with contempt. Beside her, Mr Adcock was nearly melting with nervousness.

  "I think Miss Lockhart would be anxious to affirm that--" he began, but the barrister spoke over him.

  "Your case is a very poor one," he said gratingly, "and I do not hold out much hope of success. If you take the line that you are taking with me, I guarantee you will lose. Pertness and sarcasm do not impress me and they will certainly not impress the court. Your only chance is to remain silent, to answer the questions you are asked as shortly and simply and politely as you are capable of doing, and not to presume that you know more than your betters about how to conduct something as subtle and difficult as a legal defence."

  Sally was robbed of breath. She closed her eyes a moment, clenched her fists, heard him turn over another paper. She was aware of Mr Adcock rocking gently back and forth beside her in an agony of apprehension. Then she took a breath and said:

  "And may I presume to ask what line you are going to take in my defence?"

  "Not your business. I have read all the papers. That's all you need to know."

  "If you have read all the papers, you will know that the issue of whether or not I was truly married to Parrish is central to the case. And if--"

  He stood up, hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and glowered down at her.

  "The issue is one of morality," he said. "Of decency. And don't think for a moment that any sleight of hand with marriage certificates and signatures is going to alter that for a moment. You come before me, a woman who by her own admission has given away her virtue, who has behaved in a manner no better than a common prostitute, who seeks to deny the bastard she has conceived the dignity and benefit of a legitimate name and a home. That's what you look like: lascivious, greedy, weak-minded and mean-spirited. Oh, stop trying to protest. Your only chance of keeping your child is to allow me to persuade the court that you are contrite. That you're ashamed. That you bitterly regret your rash and thoughtless action in abandoning your home. You keep quiet and cry a little, and the court might be persuaded, with the help of my arguments, that it would be in the unfortunate child's interests to remain with you, rather than with the father. I do not want to be prevented from making the best of a bad job by your sentimental drivel about evidence - as if this were a sensational novel to amuse idle women. You know nothing about the law; it's not a woman's business. Stop filling your head with stuff you don't understand and then wasting my time with your stupid vapourings. Keep quiet and look ashamed, and let me get on with the business of defending you."

  Sally sat unmoving for a few seconds, and then smiled sweetly.

  "How much am I paying you for this experience?" she said. "On second thoughts, don't bother to answer. Gentlemen don't discuss money. Tell me: what will happen to my child if I lose tomorrow?"

  "You will be required to hand him over to his father at a time and a place that the court will decide."

  Sally's eyes opened wide involuntarily, and she caught her breath. Plainly she wasn't as imperturbable as she'd thought.

  "And you have, as you say, read the papers," she said with a shaking voice.

  "Of course," he returned contemptuously.

  "A pity you failed to notice the many references to the fact that my child is a girl, not a boy," Sally said, getting up. "Thank you for making things clear to me. I have every confidence that you will perform in court as effectively as you've done in here. Good day to you."

  Without looking at Mr Adcock, she turned and went out. She heard the solicitor begin to gabble an apology, heard the QC cut him short, heard his hurrying footsteps leave the building and hasten after her through the little passage into Middle Temple Lane.

  She stopped at the end of the passage and let him catch her up.

  "Mr Coleman," he began breathlessly, "is one of the most eminent, one of the most respected barristers in the kingdom. Had I thought that you would treat him to a display of - I'm afraid I must say it - pertness and insolence, I should never have--"

  "Pertness and sarcasm, I think he said," Sally cut in. "That's wrong, anyway. If he didn't know my child was a daughter, he had no business to claim he'd read the papers."

  "A detail--"

  "Oh, she's a detail, is she? That's solicitors' language for my child? I've heard enough solicitors' language for one day, thank you, Mr Adcock."

  She turned away, but felt his hand on her arm and stopped.

  "Miss Lockhart, Mr Coleman's intention, believe me, was to simulate for you the stress, the . . . the discomfort that you will face in court tomorrow. It was a very valuable insight, a very helpful illustration of the kind of things which the other side will indubitably want to face you with. And, if you recall, it was at your own insistence that I made this appointment for you. Mr Coleman's time is so exceedingly valuable. . ."

  "Goodnight," she said, and removed her arm from his grasp and walked away.

  Two hours later, thoroughly cold and wet, she arrived home. A hot bath, a sandwich, a glass of Webster's whisky and hot water, some letters, a peep at Harriet, a sleepy kiss, bed. For the first time for weeks, she slept perfectly well. Her mind was made up. She knew just what she had to do.

  Chapter Ten

  CUSTODY

  Cicely Corrigan sat at the back of the courtroom, on the public benches, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. She was nearly alone. There was a dark-haired man huddled up in a large grey overcoat at the other end of the bench, who spent the entire time scribbling in a little pad. Perhaps he was a starving poet, she thought, who spent his days in the law courts for the sake of a dry place to sit.

  The case didn't take long. In the absence of the lady, the result was a foregone conclusion. Sally's counsel made a perfunctory effort to claim that she was so overcome with remorse and regret that she'd decided to mend her ways, and made an appeal to the court to put off the judgment for six months, during which time his side would attempt a reconciliation. But Mr Parrish's counsel argued against that; the time for that had long gone, he said, and, in any case, Mr Parrish had made numerous attempts both in person and through his solicitor to bring about a reconciliation already, to be met with nothing but contempt and rejection from the other party. Details and letters were, of course, available, should the court wish to examine them. The court did not. Mr Parrish sat there looking modest and regretful, and rather noble, all things considered.

  So not twenty minutes after it opened, the case was over and done with. The process of dissolving this invisible marriage was begun; and custody of the child, Harriet Rosa Parrish, known as Harriet Rosa Lockhart, was granted to her father, Arthur James Parrish. Sally's lawyers were given notice that she was to produce the child at the chambers of Mr Parrish's counsel before five o'clock that afternoon, the time now being eleven o'clock in the morning. If she didn't do that. . . They didn't spell it out, but Sally knew, and she'd explained it to Cicely: she'd be in contempt of court, and in danger of arrest. The die was cast.

  "But what are you going to do?"

  "Hide," said Sally. "And then prove him wrong. Have another teacake."

  They were sitting in a tea-shop in the Strand. Sally had been busy elsewhere all day, but she'd arranged to meet Cicely there at half-past four. Margaret was with a client, or she'd have come as well. Cicely was still shocked by this new vision of her Miss Lockhart: the mother of a child. . . She took the last teacake automatically, and tried to stop staring at her.

  "Where's the. . .Where's your. . .Where's Harriet now?" she said.

  "With some friends. Quite safe. We'll be all right there for a day or so, and then I'll look for a place of our own."

  "In London?"

  "Well, if I can't hide in London, I won't be able to hide anywhere. I've thought about noth
ing else for days; I'm sure I'm right. If I go abroad, I won't be able to find out what's behind this - I need to be on the spot. I need to do some detecting. It would be the same if I went to, I don't know, some village in the country or something. And I'd stick out like a sore thumb, wouldn't I? But no one notices people in London. We're all anonymous. It's the only place to be. I'm only sorry I'm throwing such a burden on Miss Haddow. And on you. I'm terribly grateful, Cicely. . ."

  Miss Lockhart had changed. She wasn't low any more; her eyes were bright, her cheeks were flushed, it looked as if she was happy, of all things. She finished her tea and called for the bill.

  "Tell Miss Haddow I'll write to her tonight. I daren't come to the office, because they're bound to be watching, but I'll let her know where she can find me. I'll need to give as much time to this business as I can - she might need to take on extra help - but I'll say all that in my letter. Thanks for doing all this. It's not part of your job at all. . ."

  She left Cicely finishing her teacake, and pulled the fur collar of her cloak high around her neck and cheeks before going out into the damp afternoon.

  It was nearly dark, and the streets were crowded. Sally waited for an omnibus, and when it came, she sat in the crowded, swaying interior between a fat lady with a muff and a gentleman with a wet umbrella, turning over in her mind what she was going to do. Supper for Harriet first, and then she'd put her to bed and tell her they were going on an adventure in the morning, like Uncle Webster and Jim, and then they'd have their favourite nursery rhymes and Harriet would say her prayers.

  And then when Harriet was asleep, Sally would arrange with Mr and Mrs Molloy for them to act as a halfway house, a place where she could retreat to if she so needed, a place where she and Margaret could meet, a place to which Sarah-Jane Russell could relay any news from Twickenham. And then supper, and then bed. She wasn't tired, but she knew she'd sleep.

  The omnibus stopped. She squeezed her way out and into the street. It was completely dark now; the streetlamps glowed in the mist like huge, ghostly dahlias. Passers-by hurried along with their heads down, huddled in their upturned collars and mufflers. A little crossing-sweeper hovered near the cabmen's shelter, waiting to dart out and clear the road if anyone wanted to cross. At the corner of the square she was turning into, a hot-chestnut man stood hunched forlornly over his brazier, not even bothering to cry his wares, and only stirring the chestnuts over the flame when they threatened to catch fire.

  Sally entered the square. She'd lived here herself for some time, before Harriet was conceived; the boardinghouse belonged to old friends of hers, a man called Trembler Molloy and his wife. Trembler had worked for Frederick when Sally had first met the Garlands, and when his wife had inherited a bit of money, Sally had advised them how to buy the house and set up in business.

  The house itself was on the far side, beyond the trees in the little central garden, and she couldn't see it until she was halfway along one side. When she did, she stopped at once.

  There was a cab outside the door. Two men were standing on the step, and one of them was a policeman.

  Sally felt something clutch her heart. They couldn't have found her already, surely. . . She shrank back and took a step down into the area of the nearest house, watching through the railings.

  Mrs Molloy's shape was visible inside the lighted doorway. She looked at something the policeman was showing her, and shook her head. The other man moved up a step and seemed to be arguing, but again Mrs Molloy shook her head. Sally couldn't hear a word they were saying, because of the rumble of traffic in the street behind and the constant, heavy drip of moisture all around: it was like watching three tiny figures in a peepshow.

  Oh, keep them out, Sally was saying under her breath. . .

  Then the two men turned away, the policeman speaking over his shoulder. Mrs Molloy shut the door with a bang that Sally did hear as they got into their cab.

  The driver shook the reins, and the cab came away from the kerb and headed down towards her. She retreated further down the steps, conscious of the lighted kitchen window behind her, and drew the high collar of her cloak across her face.

  As soon as the cab had turned the corner and disappeared from sight, she ran out of the area and flew along the pavement, slipping on the wet stone, grabbing the railing to get her balance again, and ran up the steps to hammer on the Molloys' door.

  "It's me!" she called through the letterbox. "Mrs Molloy - it's me -"

  She heard the lady's footsteps. A moment later the door opened and Sally burst into the little hall.

  "Is she safe? She's still here?"

  "Good Lord, miss, what d'you take me for?" said Mrs Molloy. "I wouldn't let 'em in, don't you fear. But he said they'd be back in half an hour with a search warrant. You'd best--"

  "Half an hour? I must go. I'll take her now. Could you help me - could you put her outdoor clothes on? I'll go and throw some things in a bag - and perhaps Mr Molloy could call a cab--"

  "But where are you going to go, miss?"

  "I don't know. Anywhere. I'll think about that in the cab. Please, Mrs Molloy - in case they come back sooner -"

  The lady, stout and firm-hearted, nodded agreement, but her face was full of doubt. Sally hurried up the stairs to her first-floor bedroom, seized the carpet-bag she'd brought with her from Orchard House, threw in some clothes, some washing things, some shoes, and then her writing-case from the bedside table; and finally a little package wrapped in oilskin, which dropped heavily into the nest of clothes in the bag. In it was the pistol.

  She looked around, but she hadn't brought much with her anyway. Her purse - here it was; her cheque-book, her keys.

  Holding the bag shut, she hastened downstairs to find Mr Molloy, mufflered and bowler-hatted, coming in through the door.

  "There's a cab waiting, miss," he said. "It's a four-wheeler; it's a bit brisk for a hansom, and if you're going any distance. . ."

  "Bless you," she said. "Is Harriet -"

  "The missis is seeing to her. It's a big adventure for her, I suppose. Though I don't know, they take a lot for normal, kids do, not knowing what normal is anyway. Nothing surprises 'em. Where you going to go, miss?"

  "I honestly don't know. But I'll write as soon as I can and let you know where I am."

  "Don't you worry, miss, we won't give you away. You could stay here if you wanted, you know."

  "If they're going to come back with a warrant, they'd find us sooner or later. . ."

  A door opened, and a little shape came through, followed by Mrs Molloy carrying a large paper bag.

  "Mama," said Harriet, and then added in a muffled voice as Sally bent swiftly and embraced her, "Bikkits! Look."

  She twisted impatiently out of the embrace and took the bag.

  "I put some fresh-baked in," said Mrs Molloy. "You never know, eh?"

  "Let me take your bag, miss," said her husband.

  Mrs Molloy stooped to kiss Harriet, who absently returned the embrace, while clinging tightly to the biscuits. She was so bundled up in hat, coat, gloves and boots that she could hardly waddle. Sally picked her up and put her own hat on with one hand, before snatching up her astrakhan purse-muff and hooking its cord swiftly around her neck.

  "I pottied her and changed her napkin just a little while ago," Mrs Molloy said in a whisper. "She won't need changing yet. Here - don't let me forget - they're all nice and aired, and there's all the washing things in there as well. . ."

  She picked up a big linen bag bulging with folded napkins and gave it to her husband, who just appeared in the doorway again. Sally wanted to say a hundred things, but there was only time for one.

  "Thank you," she said. "I don't know what I'd have done. . . I'll write to you tomorrow. Goodbye."

  Harriet, peering out regally from under the brim of her fur hat, realized what was happening and transferred the biscuits to her left hand, so as to wave goodbye with the right. Then, in a confusion of looks and thanks and clumsy movements, Sally and Mr Molloy
got the linen bag down and into the cab, and Harriet seated inside next to the window.

  "Where to, ma'am?" said the driver.

  "Oh. Er - Charing Cross," said Sally.

  She shut the door and sat down, taking Harriet on her lap. The driver called softly to his horse, released the brake, and the cab rolled away. Sally leant forward, looking back and waving for as long as she could, until the cab turned the corner and the warm little doorway vanished.

  Chapter Eleven

  VILLIERS STREET

  She found some lodgings in Villiers Street, a narrow little place beside Charing Cross Station. The lady of the house was German; she displayed no interest at all in anything but Sally's money. Sally paid a guinea in advance for a week's rent of a bedroom and parlour. Coals and candles were extra, and Sally paid for them; washing was to be sent out; meals could be provided by arrangement. Sally arranged them.

  "Your name, please?" said the landlady, having noted down all the points they'd agreed on. They were standing in the chilly, dim-lit hall, with Harriet watching suspiciously, still clutching her bag.

  "Mrs Marchbanks," said Sally, off the top of her head. She kept her left hand in the muff: she must buy a wedding-ring. What did widows wear? She'd have to be a widow; anything to be inconspicuous. There was so much to find out.

  "Does she make wet the bed?" said the landlady.

  "Oh - no. That is - not usually. Sometimes."

  "I give you an oilcloth. Put it on the mattress, please. Come this way."

  Carpet-bag under her arm, linen bag of Harriet's things in her hand, Harriet on her other arm, Sally followed the landlady up the narrow stairs to a second-floor door. The landlady put down the lamp she was carrying on the windowsill and took a key from a bunch, unlocking the nearest door.

  "Here it is," she said. "I get you the oilcloth. Do not forget, please."

  Sally entered the cold little parlour and sat Harriet on a sofa.

  "There is only one bed," said the landlady. "She will have to sleep with you. I get some candles and fire. You wait."

  She disappeared. Sally put her carpet-bag down and went to the window. Villiers Street gleamed wetly in the light spilling from the pub next door and the half-dozen street lamps; up to the right, the Strand was busy with the trundle of wheels, the clop of hoofs, and the crying of two rival newspaper-sellers outside the station. It was noisier here than in Islington, noisier by far than the near-total quiet of Orchard House.