Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018

The Sofa Doll by Barbara Cleverly

In 2016, the Washington Post said of Barbara Cleverly’s latest Joe Sandilands novel: “There are so many aspects of Diana’s Altar to celebrate, chief among them Cleverly’s intelligent characters and an agreeably labyrinthine master narrative. Adding to the fun is Cleverly’s gift for generating spirited dialogue, peppered with period slang.” Qualities also evident in this story!

In should have put her on the bonfire in the orchard. I should have seized her by a leg and an arm and hurled her into the flames with the other rubbish. I should have watched as the last remaining scraps of her substance flew up into the night sky and were caught as sparks and smuts in the tangle of apple boughs.

But I didn’t believe in Evil then. I laughed at such a medieval idea. And self-knowledge tells me I could never have done the dirty deed anyway. Destroy something of antiquity and beauty? Me? Never! My training, my finer feelings would always push me to rescue, preserve, polish up, enjoy. I’d as soon have taken a hammer to a Ming vase.

And, because Ellie Hardwick had finer feelings, a man died.

It started as a Christmas surprise. Once in a lifetime you find the perfect present. Something so deeply right for someone you’re fond of, it might as well already have his name stitched into it. Once in a lifetime — it has.

It happened a year ago, the week before Christmas. I was waiting impatiently in my car outside Tom’s antique shop until I was sure the last of his customers had left.

In a jangle of old-fashioned doorbells, shouts of laughter, and a hearty exchange of seasonal salutations they set off into the night and were well on their way down the High Street heading for the Royal George before I made my move.

I struggled across the road with my parcel clutched in front of me, peering through the holly-decked panes, trying to catch sight of the owner. Yes, there he was, slightly distorted by the oddly glamorous refraction of the ancient glass, but clearly the man I was looking for: a slender, dark-featured man in early middle age. And, thankfully, he was alone. I needed Tom’s undivided attention.

“Merry Christmas, Tom! Had a good day?” I asked automatically as the bell announced me.

“Well, it’s picked up now! Ellie! Great to see you! Here, let me help you with that.”

“No, no.” I fended off his outstretched hands. “It’s bulky but it’s light. I can manage... But — business, Tom? How’s it going?”

“Brilliantly! Best ever pre-Christmas week! That raucous lot shelled out a grand for a piece of Knox silver I paid fifty for last month! I’ve got a Boule cabinet that’ll knock your eye out coming tomorrow. And a client gasping for it.”

“Great news! And here’s another treat for you!” I put the large, shiny black box down on the counter in front of him.

“All this for me? Oh, Ellie, love — you shouldn’t have!” he said playfully.

“I didn’t. You’ll be getting your usual bottle of single malt when I’ve had a chance to wrap it.” I was teasing him but also taking out a little insurance. Suppose he didn’t like it? Suppose it was a clever fake? I couldn’t have borne the embarrassment. “There’s an object in here I’d like you to tell me about. Something rather mysterious, something crying out for your professional opinion and special insight. Something I think only you can help me with.”

“Ah-ha! A rich dollop of flattery, delivered with a nasty gleam in the eye — you must be selling!”

“Wrong! I’ve been buying! What you see in my eye is the light of feverish excitement. I got this at the Studley Court closing sale last weekend. In one of those rummage boxes left over at the end of the afternoon. You know — buyer guarantees to take the whole of the contents and cart them off by the end of the day, or else. Anything left over goes on the bonfire...”

Tom rolled his eyes theatrically.

“No! Don’t pull a silly face! I know they’re a trap, but — just for once, I did well! Lot 572, which I bid for and won, turned out to have just what I wanted: The lovely scraps of old fabric caught my attention... under them, a nice bit of lace... some Regency striped silk... but, hidden in the bottom — quite a surprise! I’d absolutely no idea she was hiding in there.”

His fingers were already running around the lid of the sleek four-foot-long piece of packaging, pulling off the quantities of sticky tape I’d sealed it with. While he worked, he chatted. “What were you doing at Studley, Ellie? Haven’t I warned you about those country-house sales? Sky-high prices! Even hard-nosed dealers like me get carried away by the ambience — the battlements, the oak panelling, the velvet voice of the fancy-pants auctioneer, the posh scented candles. You, of all people, ought to know how it works! It’s a setup! It’s all staged to soften up the punters and give them delusions of an overstuffed wallet!”

“It’s a job! I’m doing restoration and remodelling work for the new owners. I was surprised not to see you there, Tom.” I spoke hesitantly.

“Not my scene... participating in the public dismantling of a piece of local history. Ugh!” He gave an elegant shudder. “Besides, I made other, rather more discreet, arrangements before ever a hammer was raised. What exactly were you up to?”

“I was having a snoop around, trying to get a feeling for the old house before my clients impress their personality on it.”

“These new owners? Anyone we know?”

“Only from the scandal sheets. It’s the Benson couple — the he-and-she financial wizards.”

“High fliers in the City who find time to make a million and a new baby every year? Those Bensons?”

“Yes. And she has the gall to write articles on how to do it for the benefit of the rest of us clueless idiots... you know — ‘First assemble your team of nannies...’ This is their latest project: The Country Estate. I suppose all their friends have one. The angle is to be that Eloise has given it to Jasper as a Christmas present. Eloise made it clear that the first shots should show a sort of seasonal cleansing — dry rot and cobwebs being swept away, crumbling pieces of ancient furniture being carried out...”

“By pink-cheeked old duffers in aprons to the bonfire in the apple orchard?”

“You’ve got it! Eloise cleared a ten-minute window in her schedule to brief me, recommend a few nifty camera angles, and dictate a para or two of copy she’s preparing for the Country Houses Trust magazine.”

“Ouch!” said Tom with sympathy. “Not a meeting of minds, I gather?”

Tom was ambivalent about rich people. He loved them for the fleeting moments they were in his shop seductively holding platinum cards between manicured fingers; he spoke their language, understood their needs; he sometimes revealed to them needs they didn’t know they had; he made the men laugh and the women sigh. But he despised them in theory. I wasn’t surprised to hear his mocking tone: “One of those jobs!” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if I can sell some of their old furniture back to them? Naw! Not their style, if I read them right. They’ll be after their Venetian chandeliers, the Hall of Mirrors, the Jacuzzis, the indoor swimming pool, the pony paddocks...”

I shuddered. “They haven’t asked for a Hall of Mirrors yet.”

“I’m surprised they’re not using a smart London architect.”

“Eloise has adopted Suffolk. She’s learning to like beams. She discovered on one of those ancestry sites that her great-grandmother came from Mendlesett. So she made an offer for the nearest great house that came up for sale. Along with en-suite architect. Me. Hideous scene, I know. Still, they’re intending to keep a good number of the county’s craftsmen employed and that can’t be bad. I’m getting paid and that’s not bad either! And I’m sneakily pleased to say I’ve done my bit already! A tiny, peevish gesture on behalf of the old house! I’ve rescued one precious item from the bonfire,” I said as the last bit of Sellotape came off.

Hands raised above the box lid like a priest’s over a coffin top, Tom made a dramatic pause. “Ah! My Howard Carter moment,” he said, spinning it out. “You know — ‘What do you see, Carter?... Wonderful things, your lordship...’ And here I am, being invited to unpack a miniature casket!”

“Prepare yourself, Tom! You’re closer than you think! The occupant of the box is very beautiful but — as you’ll see — very dead. How are your pathologist’s skills? Better than mine, I hope. I found it all rather puzzling... and disturbing, I have to say.”

He gave me an old-fashioned look. “Hang on a tick.” He went to the door, locked it, and turned the sign around to announce that the shop was now closed.

My sense of drama always gets the better of me. I began to peel back the layer of white tissue paper from the top to reveal the occupant. A hank of blond hair emerged, followed by a sweet face with sorrowful eyes, a face that seemed startled by its surroundings.

Tom gasped in a gratifying way and lowered his voice when he spoke: “It’s her! A sight I thought I’d never see! After all these years! Good Lord! Oh, look — she’s weeping, Ellie. Do you see? What’s that... there... glinting at the inner corners of her eyes?” His hand went out, reaching below the counter for his magnifying glass. Tom is the only man I’ve ever seen using one of these things completely naturally, without feeling the need to make a joke or pretend to be Sherlock Holmes. “Oh, now that’s clever! That’s very striking! Do you know what I think these are?”

“Just what I thought they were, probably. Diamonds. Carefully set in a papier-mâché moulding to look like tears gathering in her big grey eyes. And the rest of the face is beautifully painted.” I tugged some more of the paper away. “The style of the features, the arch of the eyebrows, the delicate touch of rouge on the cheekbone, the twist of hair about the head — it all looks Edwardian to me. Pre-First World War, at any rate. What do you think?”

Impatiently he stripped the remaining cover off, releasing an ancient scent: a cocktail of camphor, cedar-wood, and lilies. He was silent for a very long time, staring in amazement. “I know this lady.” He tore his eyes away long enough to favour me with a speculative glance. “And I’m wondering if you do? May I?”

Tom waited for my nod before he reached into the box, took her gently under the shoulders, and lifted her up.

Anyone passing by the shop and stopping to look in would have been enchanted by the scene, I thought. In an English market square, in a mellow Georgian room stuffed with small treasures gleaming and glittering in the candlelight, a handsome man was laughing up at the image of a lovely girl dressed in the ball gown of a past era. Her dress of subdued gold silk was cut to handkerchief points that fluttered about her slender ankles. On her tiny feet were high-heeled gold kid slippers and, as Tom shook her gently to straighten the folds of her dress, her feet stirred in a dance step. Tom smiled in delight and turned her round to the light. With the sudden movement, her limp right hand swung out and seemed to caress his cheek. Enchanted, he grasped the hand, holding it outstretched in his left. For an uneasy moment I thought the two were about to whirl off together in a waltz.

They were.

Tom has a wonderful baritone voice and he knows it. He also has a fine collection of old music that he sometimes turns on for atmosphere. He knows all the words to all the tunes our grannies sang and he’s a terrible showoff.

“Beautiful dreamer,” he crooned, waltzing her in his arms around a Regency escritoire,

“Wake unto me

Starlight and dewdrops

Are waiting for thee

Sounds of the rude world

Heard in the day

Led by the moonlight

Have all passed away...”

I shivered. The temperature in the shop was always kept rather low, to suit the stock, I remembered, pulling my woolly scarf tighter around my neck. I didn’t quite like the way she was looking at him. And I was startled that I’d had the thought at all. I wished he’d stop.

“She’s a sofa doll,” he said, swirling to a finish. “And a remarkably fine one. Though she needs to do some work on her reverse turn. These things were all the rage in the twenties. But this isn’t one of those run-of-the-mill sofa dolls! Oh no. She’s one of the very earliest, I’d say, judging by the clothing and the facial characteristics. The earliest, perhaps. Yes, she’s Edwardian, as you guessed, Ellie. Look, there’s something I’d like to check out for you. I think you’re in for a nice surprise!”

He handed her to me and I wished I could have thought of a more fitting term than “doll.” She wasn’t a doll. She was four feet high, about two-thirds human scale and a work of art. Her role was to languish along an elegant sofa. A conversation piece. She was never intended to be played with or even handled. Just admired and sighed over. I felt a ridiculous urge to apologise to her for daring to hold her and returned her to the box, propping her up in a sitting position, staring into the room.

The Antique Dealers’ Manual was produced and opened up on the counter, though I was certain that Tom had already identified the mystery woman. Finger on the page and eyes on the doll, he began his account:

“We have a name for her! She’s called Rosa. After her creator, Miss Rosa Blandford. And... yes... she’s the original sofa doll! The famous one! She’s been out of circulation for a long time. No one had any idea where she was. Well! As they say — you’ve come to the right shop! I’ve made quite a study of this lady over the years. Tracked her through the pages of the London Illustrated News and suchlike. Not easy — she’s never been put up for sale. I’ve discovered there’s a rather ghastly story attached to her. At least I’ve always thought it ghastly, but then I’m a man. Most women would find it very romantic, I think. Lost love, mysterious disappearances... the Dolly’s Curse, you might say! Hang on a minute, Ellie. This deserves a celebratory drink!”

He dashed off into the rear quarters and after an interval filled with clanks, chinks, whistles, and a chorus of “The Wassail Song” he returned with a silver punch jug, steaming delectably. “I’ve had this brewing on the stove in the back. For favoured customers... Old Parson Pinche’s Seventeenth-Century Receit. It’s called ‘Bishop’s Beard’ or ‘Shepherd’s Socks’... something like that. You’ll have to leave the car and I’ll walk you home. We can reel along down the hill together. But let’s do this in style! I’d be embarrassed to bring out the kitchen plastic in front of this lady.”

In great good humour, Tom selected three antique rummers from a shelf, wiped them on a linen napkin marked at £5, and set them out on the counter.

The hot punch was delicious, a traditional balance of sweetness and citrus fruit, of spices and brandy. Tom and I drank ours rather quickly and poured ourselves a second. Rosa sat curling a lip and politely ignoring the offering before her. “Milady only drinks lemonade,” I confided, joining in his game. There aren’t many men about these days who have the lightness of spirit to conjure up a dolly’s tea party at the end of a tiring day jousting with the great British public. Overbearing boors who consider their manhood in question if they don’t haggle brutally; women who flirtatiously trail impressive phrases in front of him: art gothique... art nouveau... art decorative... I’ve seen Tom’s face, inscrutable, as he watched objects he’d chosen, loved, and valued being stuffed into the backs of four-by-fours by oafs who didn’t know their arts from their elbow. I would always join Tom in one of his flights from reality. Even if we touched down in Wonderland.

“Rosa. It’s a lovely name. And was Rosa Blandford a real person? I don’t think you need to refer to your compendium to know that, do you, Tom?”

“Everyone in the trade knows her story! We all love a mystery. We’re eternally on a quest for that special long-lost object, from the Holy Grail down to Auntie Edna’s missing upper set.” He leaned to the doll, twirled an imaginary moustache, and addressed her confidentially in his dark-honey with a touch of gravel voice that oozes into a girl’s ear, setting her tympanic membrane a-quiver: “I say, Miss Rosa, would you mind awfully if I were to recount your intimate history right here in front of you? I’ll try to be discreet and spare your blushes!”

“She’s cool with that,” I said sharply as an antidote to his old-fashioned gallantry. “Let’s hear it. We’re listening.”

He started with the calculatedly inviting dip in the voice of a skilled storyteller: “Ladies — you’re to picture the glamour of the Governor’s Christmas Ball in Government House in Calcutta at the turn of the last century. The December nights are still warm and the ladies are dancing in diaphanous silken dresses. The men are overheating a bit in their starched white collars and tails or their scarlet uniforms. A lot of military men are there, paying attention to the shoals of young girls who’ve come over from England with what they unkindly called ‘the fishing fleet.’ Fishing for husbands, that is!

“But there’s one young girl who is not trawling her net in the water. She’s in the fortunate position of being already spoken for. Engaged to a handsome young cavalry captain on leave back home the previous year, she’s come out to join him in India. She’s wearing a fashionable ankle-length dress in gold which chimes with the colour of her flaxen hair, wound around her head like a crown. On a finger of her left hand she has an engagement ring. It’s a gold hoop studded all the way around with small diamonds. Like the girl who wears them, her things are tasteful, not showy. Nothing too bold. She is to be the wife of a lowly cavalry officer. In the regimented world of Indian society, she must know her place. But none, however hidebound by precedence, can disregard Rosa’s shining beauty.

“She dances every dance, mostly with her fiancé, she enjoys a glass of lemonade and perhaps an iced cream kept chill with snow from the Himalayas and then, the moment she has been waiting for has come — her captain takes her out onto the terrace. There they can enjoy the night air, the moon hanging low over the Hooghly River, the scents and sounds carried on the breeze from the nearby spice market, and there she asks him when they are to be married. He has warned her he is to be sent out on manoeuvres in the New Year, away from civilisation and up into the wilderness of the Northwest Frontier. She’s not quite certain what that is, but it sounds a jolly dangerous sort of place, all deserts and crags and ferocious tribesmen lying in ambush, armed with jezails.

“He’s silent. Ill at ease. She waits. ‘Harry, my love...’ ”

Tom turned to the doll with a raised eyebrow and an “Am I getting this right?” expression before he went on: “Disaster! Halting, deeply ashamed, Harry tells her he has no intention of marrying her in the next few weeks. Even worse — bit between his teeth now, he unburdens himself. He is at base an honest young man, unused to deception, and he can no longer deceive her. He has formed a relationship, he confesses, with a young Indian woman. He has installed her in quarters built for the purpose in his back garden — the zenana... many of the single men had one such... and if all had gone to plan he would have renounced the girl before Rosa’s arrival and sent her packing in the traditional manner. But he’s fallen deeply in love with his Indian bibi and will not give her up. And now he has a further tie: They have a young son whom he adores. This behaviour, whilst frowned upon, happens all too frequently in the masculine world of Imperial India.

“But Rosa doesn’t understand this. Virginal, unworldly Rosa. No one has ever hinted to her that such an arrangement might be possible. She learns in a few short sentences that, not only has her fiancé deceived her, he is proposing to abandon her for a native woman with whom he has been living in sin for some years.”

“But why did he ever ask her to marry him in the first place?”

“Different world, Ellie. There was a silly old rigmarole much repeated in army circles: Captains may marry, Majors should marry, Colonels must marry. Promotion. Simply that. A talented young officer would know where his duty lay if he wished to take the next step. He would have been sent back on leave for the express purpose of finding himself a suitable wife. That is: a girl of impeccable family and, for choice, one who had a private income that could supplement his army pay. If she could also have the looks of an angel, our captain must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”

“Rosa must have guessed as much.”

“She was deeply in love. Captain Harry was a very handsome man, by all accounts. Though I expect she came to realise she’d been used. But, for now, Rosa’s life is over. She rushes howling from the ball like a demented Cinderella. And her prince does not follow her. Sympathy and condemnation are handed out in appropriate measure to the two parties by the establishment, but nothing good can ever come of this shameful rejection.”

“She came back to England?”

“Oh yes. But she came back a changed woman. Heart and — I think probably—” He shot a hesitant glance at the doll, seeking forgiveness for what he was about to say: “mind were broken.”

“Did she ever marry?”

“No. She spent her remaining years as a spinster. But not a recluse. Rather the opposite in fact; she threw all her energies into living. Champagne... dancing at the Savoy... The Great War... Woman’s Suffrage... And she didn’t hug her grief to herself. Not Rosa’s style at all. She shared it with the world. She set it to music and danced to it! And the revenge she took on the hapless captain is the reason we’re sitting here, swigging our punch and talking hesitantly in front of her.”

Tom pointed to the doll. “Rosa Blandford made this doll with her own clever hands in her own image. This is Rosa! This is her face. What’s more, we’re seeing Rosa just as she appeared on that glittering Christmas night in Calcutta all those years ago. The dress is made from the fabric of the ball gown she wore on the fateful evening. The hair,” his words slowed, “is Rosa’s own hair!”

“Good Lord!” I said faintly.

“The tears in her eyes are indeed diamonds — they were taken from the engagement ring she no longer could wear.”

I shook my head, full of sorrow for the girl but disturbed by the fury and despair of the gesture. “I’m not sure how she thought this would help,” I said. “Having a constant reminder of the moment of your heartbreak sitting on your sofa looking at you? What a twisted idea! Unless,” I was struck by a sudden insight, “it’s a Dorian Grey painting thing but in reverse... you know... you stitch your sorrow into this image, lovely but doomed to suffer forevermore. Catharsis, would that be the word? You put it on display and then the real you is unencumbered, set free to get on with the rest of your life.”

“Sorrow? No. I think we’re looking at a much more dynamic emotion. It was stitched with hatred. A curse in every stitch. And I doubt Rosa had the subtlety a modern mind might give her credit for. This was before Freud had made such an impression. People didn’t realise they had a psyche, a superego, an id, or a complex to worry about. No, if I’m right, this was done for a much simpler motive: vengeance. She made no secret of her past. She was — I’ve said — no recluse. This girl was no Miss Havisham, to live out her days maundering about in the dark. She led a lively and sociable life with a wide circle of friends in... Mayfair, I believe. And whenever anyone visited and admired the doll, she’d tell them the story. Never failing to mention the name of her backsliding lover. The wretched man’s name was a byword and a hissing in society for years afterwards.”

“Are you going to tell me his name?”

He frowned. “Harry... Harry something. Now what was his surname? Perhaps history’s at last drawn a veil over it?”

“No. It hasn’t. She hasn’t! She’s not let him go yet. Look at this, Tom!”

I took a small piece of gilt-edged card from my bag. “It was stitched so, so carefully into a pocket on the cambric underskirt.”

Tom studied it for a moment. “It’s a dance card! Headed: The Governor’s Christmas Ball, Calcutta 1907. Good grief, Ellie! Over a hundred years ago. And she’s written in the names of all the blokes who’d booked a dance with her.” His hand began to shake with some emotion as he read. “Oh, this is heartbreaking! I don’t think I can bear it!”

“Seems to have been a popular girl! There’s a name by every dance.”

“Yes. Look at number four — the veleta — she’s dancing it with Minto, no less! Blimey! She must have been well regarded.”

“Minto?”

“Lord Minto, Governor-General of India. One of the most powerful men in the world! Curzon’s replacement. And here, tucked away in the second waltz slot there’s a brigadier general... obviously a chance to impress her fiancé’s boss.”

“You’re skating round the obvious, Tom. The name that appears against all the other dances. The man she never did dance the last waltz with: Captain Harry Langridge. Langridge. There, I’ve said his name out loud. I feel as though I’ve resurrected the poor chap.”

“You have. This man was the younger brother of the Langridge of the day... the Suffolk Langridges. The local lords of the manor. Harry didn’t inherit. In fact, I think he was only third in line to the title, but he had an impressive pedigree. A proud name.”

I looked with a sudden flash of anger at the heart-shaped face presiding over our enquiry. She was smiling into the middle distance with something very like satisfaction. No! I pulled myself up at once. The smile was my doing. It had been a mistake — an overreach to restore the mouth. I’d done my best to repair the flaking paint, happy with the way I’d replicated the original musk-rose colour. But in spite of my restraint, the sweetly curving lips had taken on a freshness, a fullness, and, I now realised, a slight upward turn at one corner which was looking very like a smile of triumph.

I had an uneasy feeling that Tom was unwilling to return the card to me. He palmed it in his large hand and looked away shiftily. I held out my hand for it and, grudgingly, he gave it back. “Poor Captain Langridge!” he said. “Not sure she should be allowed to do this to him again...”

“You know what happened to him, don’t you?”

“Well, of course, he died. And very shortly after these events. He went off with his regiment under a considerable cloud. The other officers closed ranks and ostracised him. No one objected to a bit on the side in their world, they were all at it, but what stuck in their craw was the very public way it had all come out. Affianced girl in tears running, insulted, from the ballroom... ditching this innocent English rose on account of a native girl... acknowledging his half-caste child... it simply was not acceptable.

“He didn’t commit suicide, though officers are known to have taken their own lives in such circumstances. The brandy and the loaded pistol handed to you on the terrace by a fellow officer... the steady hand under the elbow, an encouraging: ‘Good luck old man! It’s really the only way...’ But his death was very nearly suicide. Insanely brave charge on Pathan tribesmen against insuperable odds... you can imagine.” He gave a bitter laugh: “They had the decency to award him a posthumous medal for bravery.”

“And, back home, the doll was much admired and copied. Everyone had to have one.”

“That’s about right. Several have passed through my hands. But this is the one every antiquarian in the country has been keeping an eye out for! They’re always easy to shift! Low maintenance, decorative element... everybody has a sofa needing a bit of zing... I could write a book on them. Might just do that.”

I knew there was something Tom was keeping from me.

“Tom, tell me: If this is the loveliest, most sought-after of the lot, why should it end up stuffed in the bottom of a crate in Studley Court? How did it get there from Mayfair? Anything known? Oh — and tell me why anyone would want to murder this doll?”

“Did you just say — murder? A doll? Don’t be daft!”

“I did say murder. Something sinister was done to it. Something really creepy! I’ve got a pretty strong stomach but I had the shakes when I discovered it. Shall I show you?”

“Ah,” he said. “You did promise me a postmortem when you came in. Is this the moment when I snap on my purple rubber gloves? Is this autopsy time?”

I laid her out on the box lid and removed the cape from her shoulders.

Like the doll’s creator, I’m pretty nifty with a needle and I thought I’d better declare to Tom the extent of the refurbishment I’d reluctantly carried out. Restoration is just about okay with me, but not renovation. I’d rather see an honest crack or a chip in an antique object than a cack-handed repair job.

“She’d had her throat cut. That was the first of the wounds I noticed.”

He surprised me by reaching into his pocket and taking out a crisp white cotton handkerchief. Folded into quarters it was just the right size to drape over the doll’s face. Strangely, neither of us questioned this gesture. I, for one, was glad to cover the hypnotic stare of the soulful eyes.

Out came the glass again and he peered at the throat. “Nothing here but a line of very precise stitching.”

“Thank you. My stitches. This is the only wound I’ve repaired. The rest of the damage is hidden under her clothes and I’ve just left it alone. Though I would, naturally, make all good if I thought she was ever to go out into the world again. This ghastliness was plainly on view and...” Words trailed away. Anything I said from this point was going to sound like hysterical rubbish.

“And you couldn’t just leave her looking like that? Of course you couldn’t. Describe the wounds.”

“The gash from ear to ear is just the start. Cut with a knife or scissors. The worst bit was that someone had pulled the top layer of the stuffing... kapok, I think... to the surface through the wound and... and... painted it red. How sick is that!”

“A child, do you suppose? I know some pretty noxious little types who would think that was a bit of fun. They get up to much worse on their computer games.”

“Yes, I know it’s possible... but taken alongside the other injury when I found it, I was a bit suspicious. The wound I’m going to show you isn’t the sort a child would ever think of inflicting, is it? What do you think?”

I undid the row of tiny buttons down the front of the dress and peeled back both sides of the bodice, exposing her underpinnings. The gesture was immodest, I thought, and wondered where the whispered word had come from. Not my vocabulary. I was thankful the handkerchief was in place.

“You’ll note that there’s no indication on the outer layer of gold silk that there’s anything untoward. The next layer down, this delicate piece of white stuff... lawn... it’s called lawn (had I known that?)... is a camisole,” I explained. “No bras in those days. Someone has stabbed through the camisole and into the chest. At least, ‘stabbing’ isn’t the correct term. No blade made this wound.”

We stared at the gaping hole precisely in the centre of the chest. It was square in shape, about one inch by one inch. It went all the way through to the back. The paint pot had been put to use again here and the underlying stuffing had been poked out and slathered with it.

“Unless it’s matured with age, the paint was chosen with care to look like dried blood, I’d say,” Tom murmured. “Not a garish red but a brownish red. No, I don’t think a child would think of that. And the very deliberately cut shape indicates the tool used to do the job. How foul! You know what we’re looking at, Ellie?”

“I think so. But it’s such a weird thought I can’t bring myself to say it.”

“It’s a hole made in a dead body, by a stake. This is meant to represent an exorcism. It is an exorcism. Someone’s been driving out an Evil Spirit.

“I wonder what they were afraid of.” And he added, murmuring: “And I wonder if it worked.”

Down the High Street, through the velvet darkness, the church bell struck seven. We stood in silence until the last note had rolled away. I shivered and welcomed the harsh scream of a police-car siren in the distance and an outburst of seasonal revelry as a door at the George swung open and shut. “Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day...” I thought and was glad to hear them, still out there, anchoring us in the modern world.

“Who would feel so strongly about a doll that they would behave in this mad, primitive way? What kind of a nutter are we looking at?”

I didn’t seriously expect an answer, but one came.

“Any one of the five or six dead men whose lives she destroyed, any one of their wives whose life she ruined, any one of their children seeking an end to it. Or perhaps, more logically, the last in the line of her victims.”

He gathered up the punch jug with a grin. “I’ll just reheat this, shall I? There’s a good slug each left in there. We’ll need to stiffen the old sinews before we plumb the depths of Rosa’s wicked legacy.”

I glanced at Rosa, smiling her mysterious smile, pink silk arms flexed, preparing to rise up from her casket lid, and I picked up the glasses and followed him into the kitchen.

I didn’t want to be left alone with her.

“So, when Rosa died driving an ambulance two miles behind the front in the Great War, the doll, along with all her other worldly goods, came into the possession of her married sister. A year later, fighting off all his wife’s entreaties, her husband, Clement, signed on and marched off to war. He needn’t have done so. He was in a reserved occupation and a bit of a weed, frankly, but off he went. Ears ringing with her curses, most probably. Things had not been going well between them and it was suspected that, on the whole, he preferred the company to be found in the trenches on the Somme. He never returned. Rosa’s second victim?”

“I think we should start counting.”

“His wife didn’t follow her sister’s example. Violet turned her face to the wall and faded away. But before she turned, she got rid of the doll. Suddenly couldn’t abide it. She formed the peevish plan of making a gift of it to the family of the man whose treachery had inspired it.”

“Ah. Now I see where you’re going with this.”

“From Mayfair to Studley Court! Our local stately home. The family name, as you well know — and that’s really what brought you and the dolly to my door after your pocket-picking enterprise — is Langridge, or was until the main line died out and they sold up last week.”

“And is anyone surprised that they’ve died out? A pretty disastrous family latterly?”

“Do you need me to name them, the series of luckless males? Four more, as far as we know. The adulterer... the absconder... the alcoholic... one by one, they all came to no good.”

“I know the stories. But if you put yourself about in the riding, shooting, and financial worlds, you’re more likely than most to come to a sticky end.”

“I agree. But it’s been relentless. Divorce and sudden death have haunted the family ever since... ever since...”

“Rosa moved in?”

“Crazy, but it would seem so. The moment the male head of the house inherits, he seems to become mad, bad, and dead — all or any of those — in short order. And, apparently we’re not the first to whom this thought has occurred.”

“The stake man? The Dolly Killer? Someone suffering from the same mad delusions as ourselves, blamed the doll for his troubles...”

“...or hers...”

“and tried to put an end to it. Staked poor Rosa like a vampire, cut her throat, and dumped her in the bottom of some dark chest in the basement. And there she languished until I came along with my needles and resuscitated her.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.”

“I ought to have put her on the bonfire.”

He considered this for a moment. “That’s not so certain for someone of a primitive turn of mind. Releases the vengeful spirits into the air. Like sneezing when you have the flu virus, I suppose. The stake through the middle is the only sure way, I understand, for those who believe in possession or vampirism. And think of the relief it must bring to a troubled and angry soul to plunge a sharpened stake into yielding, hated flesh — or stuffing!”

“Which means she’s... er... safe now? Deactivated... rendered harmless?” I pulled myself together, hearing my querulous voice. “I can’t believe I’m saying this! She’s a doll, for goodness sake! A doll with a hole in her chest. A doll who, with a bit of careful stitchery, would fetch a good price at Sotheby’s.”

He seemed alarmed at the suggestion. “She’s your doll. I have no right to tell you how to dispose of her. But I wish you would get rid of her. Carefully. What are you intending to do with her, Ellie? Have you thought that far?” The tension in his voice revealed what a struggle it had been to say the words.

There was an intensity to his question that I understood.

“Oh yes. I have plans. Plan A and Plan B, as I call them imaginatively. B is for Benson. The new owners. My strategy is to punish the Benson couple for what I’m sure will turn out to be a disastrous renovation of a lovely old building! A sort of preemptive retribution. I thought I’d pose the doll on a sofa in the drawing room with a china dish of violet creams to hand and take her photo. I do this all the time — bring my own stuff in. You’d be surprised how often the owner finds he or she can’t live without that pair of Norwegian clogs by the back door, the Staffordshire dog doorstop... she just has to have it! The ones that don’t strike a chord I bring to you! I bet I can sneak Rosa back into her rightful setting and she’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

“And you’d have a clear conscience about doing that? You don’t fear for poor Jasper Benson? Ellie, think about this! I know he’s not a Langridge, but he’s now master of the Langridge house — the place where Rosa might have expected one day to be mistress. And he’s a man, after all.”

“Mmm... there’s some debate about that in the shark-infested seas he swims in,” I said with what I hoped was a hint of mystery. “I’ve done my background checks... spoken with those who would know.” I liked to drop the occasional reminder of my professionalism in front of Tom. “He’s not a nice man... Supercroc... is one of the kinder names they have for him behind his back. He’s armoured and he plays dirty. Not the kind to go into a tailspin at the threat of a bygone couch-potato leaking kapok in his home. But don’t worry! I would certainly tell Eloise the whole sorry — I mean, romantic — tale first. Make everything quite clear. Though I risk being taken for a superstitious idiot!”

“I don’t like it. Sell me Plan A.”

“Ah. Yes. My preferred one. Plan A...” I breathed deeply and committed myself: “...would be to give her to you, Tom. A gift. You have first refusal. She’s yours if you want her.”

Tom buttoned up the bodice with swift fingers, took the handkerchief off the lovely face, and stared down. He was tempted, I could see he was tempted, and he’s always known I was putty in his hands. He just had to say the words and I’d hand her over.

He turned to me and said: “Take her away, Ellie. You’ll think me a weed and a credulous clown, I know, but... but... I wouldn’t feel quite safe with her around.”

A year later and here I was, with awful inevitability, approaching the shop again. The shop door opened and anxiously Tom reached out and seized my box.

“Oh no! Nightmare sight! I wasn’t expecting to see the pair of you back a year on! You never dropped a hint that it was going anything but swimmingly, Ellie. What’s gone wrong?” Tom had spent much of the past year abroad, building up his foreign ventures. Far Eastern antiques had taken off and he’d made a lot of money from his jade and porcelain collections, but I’d managed to see him several times since last Christmas; we’d made some deals, shared some drinks, shared some memorable evenings. I hadn’t mentioned Rosa.

Plan B had worked like a charm. I was so cunningly persuasive I disgusted myself. But I was at least honest and straightforward. I held nothing back. I just presented the facts in a careful order.

After Eloise had exclaimed over the new decorative element she discovered reclining on the chaise longue in her conversation room and blatantly asked me how much I wanted for her, I gave her the whole story. Silly superstition and all that, I laughed dismissively, but — no — the man-hating doll was definitely not for sale. I wasn’t insured against supernaturally triggered death events. I couldn’t possibly... She couldn’t buy her and that was that.

This was not the style of bargaining Eloise was accustomed to. She became thoughtful to the point where I was expecting her to chuck me out, but I was wrong, she was just calculating the most effective way of making me change my mind.

She seized on the one argument which could have any weight with me.

“But Ellie, she’s at home here! Don’t you see it? How many men do you say she’s killed? Five, that you know of? The minx! And most of them in this very house? What a story! My friends will just love it! And imagine how you can write this up for the county magazines! Long-lost Spirit of the House, unregarded, on her way to the bonfire... Hey! Could we push that as far as ‘funeral pyre,’ do you think?... What’s that ghastly Indian custom? Suttee! That’s it! Surely there’s a link there? Until, at the last moment, someone’s sharp eyes spot her, recognise her for what she is, and reinstate her in her rightful place.”

I knew that somewhere between the thought and the printed word the “someone with the sharp eyes” would have become Eloise.

She got everything she wanted. She got the doll. But as a gift. I really didn’t have the insurance. In these litigious days caveat vendor isn’t a bad motto and I didn’t want to shoulder responsibility for the Fall of the House of Benson. In the spring she got a separation from Jasper. In his search for carcasses, gut-gobbling Supercroc met T-Rex head on in the financial swamp and it all ended in disaster, sliding into divorce, dissolution, and death by Ferrari. By the summer, Eloise had salvaged a fat slice of his fortune and had retained the house and the children. By the autumn she was enjoying regular mulchings from her new biodynamic gardener.

When I returned in early December for the final inspection, Rosa was boxed up and waiting for me.

“I thought you’d like to have her back, darling. The children don’t like her. They treat her badly. I found Hector hanging her by the neck from an apple tree the other day.” She gave me a conspiratorial grin. “And she’s done her stuff! For which I’m duly thankful. You were quite right, Ellie, she certainly doesn’t like men, does she? But I’ve grown rather fond of my new bloke and I don’t want to risk anything, so — if you wouldn’t mind? Ridiculous, I know, but there are more things in heaven and earth and all that... Hey — now here’s a thought! — have you considered hiring her out? My friend Marcia...”

“So where does this leave us, Ellie?” Tom frowned when he’d absorbed all this. “I mean you, me, and the contents of the box. Which would appear to be still armed and ticking.”

“With plan C. I’ve done a deal with some new friends of mine. Clients. Receptive, accommodating people who aren’t the least bit alarmed or shocked by the idea of superstition and elemental evil. It’s rather their thing! They’re very ready to take her in and work on her. I thought the least you could do, as it’s really all your fault when it comes down to it, is come along and carry the box for me.”

He grinned and stepped outside with me and I held Rosa while he locked up. Politely, he took the box and we stood for a moment looking up at the smart gold lettering on the green fascia above his shop:

“Not quite my fault! I won’t have great-grandfather’s sins visited on me! In any case, I’ve never thought that he deserved his fate. He loved his Indian family. He held true to them against custom and prejudice. He made provision for and gave his name to his little son. The boy who was my grandfather. I’ve got a photograph of Harry in uniform somewhere. I’ll show you. I look very like him.”

I remembered, a year ago, how for a fragile moment, Rosa had danced her last waltz with a man the image of her lost captain of cavalry and my heart turned to ice.

She had so nearly had him in her grasp.

I tugged the box back from him with a rush of fear and put myself protectively between them. I kept my voice steady as I asked: “And he went out in a blaze of glory, your great-grandfather? You’ve kept his medal, haven’t you?”

He nodded, eyes shining with pride or tears.

“Get in, Tom. I’ll drive. It’s not far.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m making a second inspection of my next job. This one’s a bit different.”

“You say that about all your assignments.”

I smiled. “True. But this ancient building is St. Agatha’s. I’ve never done a nunnery before. I’m thinking Rosa will have a really terrible time there. Not a single man for miles around to work her evil on! And you, Tom, won’t be allowed to visit!”