Mad Hatter

CHAPTER 8

The heroes of Tel-el-kebir marched down the Grand Parade in ranks of eight to the tune of Slap Bang, Here We Are Again and all Brighton lined the pavements to welcome them. The war in Egypt had been a daily topic of conversation for months past, quite as compelling as the scares about the town’s drainage system. The local newspapers carried long dispatches from Cairo, and in the aquarium entrance hall a huge canvas map of the seat of war was mounted among the weighing-machines, with flags to indicate the latest positions of the English and Egyptian armies. When the return of the Royal Irish was announced, a full civic reception was arranged at once, but the spontaneous tribute of almost the entire population quite stole the Corporation’s thunder. Flags appeared everywhere, even draped over the lichen on the walls of the poorest houses. Humble cab-horses trotted through the town with trimmings of red, white and blue; children appeared in miniature tropical helmets, brandishing tin swords; the minstrel bands played little else but See the Conquering Hero Comes and When Johnny Comes Marching Home.

As soon as Moscrop reached the Old Steine he saw that there was small chance of picking out the Protheros, even if Zena had managed to persuade her husband that this was the best vantage-point. It was like The Mall on Coronation Day. Crowds nine or ten deep lined the route from the Pavilion to St. Peter’s. Latecomers were improvising periscopes with hand mirrors, or resorting to the trees. The police, massively reinforced, had linked arms to preserve a passage for the regiment.

‘Was you wishing you had your spy-glass?’

He turned in surprise, stung by the pertinence of the question. It was exactly what he had been wishing. Bridget stood there, smiling mysteriously. ‘You wouldn’t spot the doctor and his wife in this mob, sir. Neither of ’em’s over-tall, and they started out late, long after the crowds began to collect.’

‘You! How strange! I had no idea-‘

‘Not so strange as you think, sir.’ She tilted her hat so that two of its imitation cherries lolled coquettishly over the brim. ‘I’ve been following you for ten minutes or more.’

‘Following me?’ Whatever was the girl saying?

‘You ain’t the only one that plays follow my leader. I waited for you at the top of North Street, near the Penitents’ Home. I knew you’d come that way because your diggings are in Montpelier Parade. That’s given you food for thought, hasn’t it?’

‘I don’t understand.’ For the first time he looked at Bridget without regard to status. Her manner verged on impertinence and he would certainly have silenced the girl if she had not caught him unprepared. In the most presumptuous way she was demanding a conversation on equal terms. There was a positive hint of archness in the set of her mouth, as if she had caught him prowling below stairs. A neat little face, too, for all its pertness. Until now he had not noticed. ‘What possible reason do you have for following me?’

She stepped closer and, as if it were the most natural thing to do, tucked her hand behind his right arm. ‘If you was to buy me a glass of white satin you might find out.’

He stiffened. Into a public house to drink gin with a domestic? The very idea!

He treated the suggestion with contemptuous silence. But he did not remove the offending hand from his arm.

‘You won’t see much of the military from here,’ she persisted. ‘Just the tops of their hats. We could have a much more profitable half-hour together. The Seven Stars is just around the corner.’

And this was to have been the year when he made his debut in the Brighton season!

‘There won’t be a soul in the bar. They’ve all come on the streets for the march-past. Don’t let’s lose time. You want to find out some more about Mrs. P., don’t you?’

Put like that, it sounded appallingly crude, but he had to admit that the girl had the native gift of shrewdness one sometimes found among females of the lower orders. She was right. If there was anything to be learned of Zena, then he was enslaved. Feeling much as he had when he abandoned Bernhardt for his night at the Canterbury, he permitted Bridget to guide him towards Ship Street by way of Bartholomews. The salute was going to be taken from the Town Hall steps, so the pavement opposite bristled with people determined not to budge from hard-won positions. She steered him determinedly through the crush, at times surprising him with pressures he could not recall having experienced among the crowds in Oxford Street or at Waterloo Station.

A pink awning had been erected in front of the Town Hall, and the civic dignitaries and some of the senior officers of the regiment and their ladies were ranged under it in tiers. They made a brave show, a suitable focus of attention, medallions, civic regalia, ermine, gold braid, bright red Eton jackets. But the limelight was stolen by the milliners; you could hardly see a face for the hats, and you could hardly see the hats for the trimmings, ostrich feathers, swansdown, fruit, flowers and humming birds.

‘Gorgeous, don’t you think?’ demanded Bridget, cherries bobbing aggressively.

‘Unparalleled.’

‘She’s there, of course.’

‘She is? Where?’

‘In the second row, third from the right, wearing white lilac and convulvulus. They’re artificial.’

He stared between shifting parasols, expecting to be rewarded with a glimpse of Zena’s haunting features. ‘The second row, you say. I don’t see her. That isn’t your mistress, Bridget. She doesn’t have copper hair. Good Lord!’

‘Not my mistress,’ said Bridget, with emphasis. They were looking at the young woman from Lewes Crescent, Dr. Prothero’s riding-companion.

‘What is she doing up there?’

‘Don’t you know who she is? That’s Miss Samantha Floyd-Whittingham, the daughter of the Colonel. She’s very well known in Brighton. Her father has set her up in a big house on the front. They say it’s because he won’t trust her in the officer’s quarters with so many men about. Instead she has the run of Brighton, and the Colonel thinks she sits indoors counting seagulls from her window.’

Five minutes later they were seated in an almost deserted tap-room.

‘You know who that was, don’t you?’ said Bridget.

‘Miss Floyd-Whittingham, you mean? A friend of Dr. Prothero’s I believe.’

‘Friend! You’ve got a fine sense of humour, sir.’

They sipped at their drinks, watching each other.

‘How did the doctor meet this young woman?’ asked Moscrop.

‘I couldn’t tell you. He’s a ladies’ man, as you must have seen for yourself. It’s obvious to everyone but his wife. I’ve had to remind him of his position once or twice myself, I might say. I think it must have been last year he was introduced to her, at one of them musical evenings. We come to Brighton each year, you know. He’s always been one for going out and about, and the mistress thinks nothing of it. She believes everything he tells her. Has she told you about the patients he’s supposed to be visiting every afternoon? Patients! I ask you!’

‘Such an unlikely woman to be deceived,’ observed Moscrop, almost to himself. ‘Who would credit it? One has only to hear her speak-that sparkling conversation. An emancipated woman in every syllable she utters.’

Bridget smirked. ‘That shows how much you know about the fair sex. It ain’t the quiet ones that lose their husbands, Mr. Moscrop, it’s Mrs. Prothero and her kind, bubbling over so passionate they don’t notice their men creeping out the back door. Or won’t admit to it.’

‘You know what is going on between the doctor and this person, then?’

‘Everyone does-except my mistress. I don’t think she’d see it if they was sitting on her own sofa holding hands, poor woman. You’ve taken a fancy to her, haven’t you?’

‘Never mind,’ said Moscrop. There were limits to plain speaking.

Bridget was not so easily deflected. ‘I’ve seen you with the glasses to your eyes, Mr. Moscrop, and I’ve watched you on the beach and outside the hotel when the mistress hasn’t known you were there. I take you for a man that goes to a great deal of trouble to get what he wants. I saw you talking to the bathing-machine woman the other day when I was in the water with Guy. Oh, don’t concern yourself. It don’t bother me what you’ve seen or what she told you. I wouldn’t be the first of my sort to give a little tuition to the gentry-not that Guy needs much. Takes after his father, I can tell you, and that’s why I’ve no fears from that quarter. But you’re different, aren’t you? You wouldn’t make a pass at me if I invited you. Single-minded, that’s you.’

Was this meant for provocation, or was the girl trying to make a point? Either way, the conversation had taken a personal turn he was determined to correct.

‘If you know that Mrs. Prothero is being deceived by her husband, why don’t you tell her?’

‘I’ve got my character to consider,’ said Bridget, her voice pitched high in protest. ‘I can’t afford to cross the doctor. I’d never obtain another position if he gave me a bad character. That’s what I was coming to, anyway. What’s to be gained if she does find out about him? Nothing. It’ll send her mad or break her heart. She’s so blind to his doings that he don’t even bother to brush the red hairs off his jacket collar.’

‘But if her husband is unfaithful-‘ ‘You think the knowledge of it might throw her into another’s arms? Don’t believe it, sir. Oh, I know you’ve watched her by the hour. You’re a patient man, I don’t deny it, and you deserve something for your persistence. I’ve followed each stage of it, the binocular-work, the day you brought back Jason, the meeting at the toy-shop and yesterday I watched from the window as she took some of her sleeping-draught to you at the croquet-lawn. Do you expect to find there’s arsenic in it, Mr. Moscrop? Do you think he’s killing her? Of course he ain’t! He’s perfectly content with things the way they are.’

‘I had no such thought. I was simply doing a lady a good turn.’ Really, Bridget was altogether too uppish. A chit of a servant-wench addressing him like this! He should have walked out at once. If the subject of their conversation were not so riveting he would certainly have done so.

‘Take my word for it,’ she continued. ‘She’s the same with everyone-generous, warm-hearted and open in her speech. It don’t mean a thing, Mr. Moscrop. There’s only one man for her and that’s my master, with all his faults. If you tell her about them she won’t thank you for it. Take as many walks as you like with her, try all your charms on her-who am I to say you haven’t no chance at all? But one thing I do ask of you-and this is why I had to find you this morning-don’t tell her the truth about her husband, sir. God knows what will happen if you do.’

He was glad he chose to walk along the front that evening in preference to the route through the town. The sound of the waves on the shingle was infinitely clearer by night. It synchronised with some small pulse in his brain, calming his mood and stabilizing his thoughts, like the tick of the grandfather clock downstairs when he was alone at night as a child. He could begin to feel in control again. He was so unused to being involved in people’s lives, least of all in the secrets of man and wife. Oh, he had seen infidelities enough through his glasses-anyone with sharp observation and a good memory for faces could pick out three or four in a fortnight by the sea-but he had always remained quite detached from the parties involved. In the present case he had deliberately eschewed the glasses, and-he admitted it-surrendered his objectivity. Complications were inevitable in the circumstances. Now it was necessary to resolve them in as calm and business-like a manner as possible. He had started this and he would see it through.

Ahead, a shaft of moonlight bisected the sea, to form a continuous line with the lantern-reflections under the Chain Pier. The chill of autumn had kept all but a handful of stalwarts off the front. Most were soldiers in town on a pass, a girl on one arm, swagger-stick under the other, pork-pie hat rakishly askew, spurs jingling long after they passed.

Near the aquarium he fancied he could hear voices coming from the beach. The glow of gas-lamps on the promenade made it difficult to see much below, and in the usual way he would not have tried to distinguish who was down there. By all accounts the nocturnal activities on the pebbles were not intended to be overseen. Nor did they usually involve much conversation. But he was sure, as he came nearer, that several men were down there tonight, engaging in animated talk. And hammering. There were no boats so far along for them to be working on. He drew level with the clock-tower and approached the promenade-railing, shading his eyes with both hands.

There must have been a dozen men in a working-party sinking stakes into the shingle near the water’s edge. Farther along, he made out a line of uprights jutting starkly against the glinting luminosity of the water. Some were twice as tall as the men and had cross-pieces fixed with diagonal struts. If this had not been Brighton-and in the season-he would have sworn that he was looking at a row of gibbets. He shivered, pulled up his overcoat collar and moved away towards the Marine Parade at a tidy step, without accounting for what he had seen.

The Albemarle was situated in a favoured position overlooking the Chain Pier, its crenellated facade and porticoed entrance proclaiming it one of the more exclusive hotels in a fashionable terrace. The crimson velvet curtains at the dining-room windows were only half-drawn, so that passersby were treated to glimpses of waiters dancing attendance with silver coffee-pots. Moscrop paced the pavement opposite, like a sentry. Cabs were beginning to line the kerbs in anticipation of trade; this evening most would be making for the Dome. The ball in the regiment’s honour was certain to be one of the principal events of the season.

He took out his watch and held it to the light. Half past eight, she had said, and it was already twenty minutes to nine. Perhaps it was less easy to slip away unobtrusively than she had thought.

The hotel door opened and a figure emerged. Not Zena, unhappily. A man in full evening dress, with cape and stick. As he stepped forward to secure a cab, his face passed close to the ornamental lamp attached to one of the columns. Dr. Prothero, for sure. The spry movements would have given him away if the lamp had not. He was across the pavement and into a growler so fast that he might have been going to a patient in labour. The driver executed a neat turn in the road and made off in the direction of Black Rock and-Moscrop reflected-Lewes Crescent.

Others followed at intervals, couples mostly, fussing over their gowns and cloaks as they negotiated the carriage-steps. Almost nine o’clock. Had she forgotten? With Prothero gone, what could be keeping her?

On turning, he practically collided with a female figure wrapped in a shawl.

‘What the devil. .?’ She had appeared from nowhere.

‘Hello, Mr. Moscrop.’

Bridget’s voice, dammit. She drew back the shawl a little and he could see that malapert little face beaming delightedly at the effect it produced on him.

‘Caught you by surprise, didn’t I? There’s another entrance round the corner and scarcely anyone uses it. Have you got the formula for my mistress?’

‘I was intending to hand it to her personally.’

‘Well you can’t, can you? She ain’t here. Oh, yes, I’ve to tell you that she’s sorry she can’t come down. She took to her bed straight after dinner to please Dr. Prothero-him being set on an evening out and wanting to see her asleep before he went.’

‘Asleep, you say. Did she take the sleeping-draught?’

Bridget winked in a most embarrassing fashion. ‘No, she was foxing when he looked in on her. She’s taking no more of that stuff until she hears from you. But of course she can’t come down here in her night-things, and nor could you go up, being a gentleman.’

‘Indeed not!’

‘So that’s why I’ve been sent down, to act as messenger. Have you found out what it is she’s been taking?’

He felt in his breast pocket for the piece of blue paper on which the chemist had summarised the result of his analysis. ‘Perhaps you will kindly convey this to Mrs. Prothero, then. It will set her mind at rest. The preparation is nothing more sinister than chloral hydrate. You probably know it as chloral. Thousands dose themselves with it to induce sleep. Taken to excess, it can produce a morbid condition known as chloralism, but the solution your mistress has is unlikely to have that effect.’

‘I told you he wasn’t poisoning her.’

‘There has never been any suggestion that he was. I think you should guard your tongue, young lady. Good God! What was that?’

A crack like a pistol-shot from behind them. Someone along the street screamed in fright. A dog started barking. Faces appeared at the hotel windows.

‘It came from down on the beach, I’m certain,’ said Bridget.

They went to the railing and leaned over. People ran across the road from the hotels and joined them.

‘Some half-drunk soldier showing off to his doxy,’ someone decided.

‘They don’t carry arms when they’re off duty.’

‘Could have filched a rifle from the shooting-gallery.’

‘Look!’ said Bridget. ‘There’s people down there. With flares. D’you think they’ve found a corpse?’

Moscrop remembered the strange constructions he had seen. The activity appeared to be taking place at about the same spot. They moved with the crowd to get a closer view. They had not gone more than a few yards when there was another sensation down below. A spluttering of flame, a violent hissing sound, and the sight of a luminous projectile speeding skywards and dipping into a spectacular parabola over the sea.

‘A blooming sky-rocket! It’s a firework show in honour of the military.’

It was, and the function of the gibbet-like structures was made clear. They were for the mounting of the set-pieces, the climax of all pyrotechnic displays. Splendid initiative on someone’s part! One hoped that the tableaux would include some fitting tribute to the regiment. Already the town was answering the summons of that first rocket, coming on to the streets in scores and converging on the sea-front. Young men clambered over the railing from the Marine Parade on to the roof of the Aquarium for a grandstand view. Children still flushed with the warmth of sleep were brought into the night air wrapped in blankets, their eyes registering half-excitement, half-apprehension.

‘I’m dotty about fireworks,’ said Bridget. ‘Sky-rockets. Oh, lovely!’

‘Shouldn’t you return to your mistress? She must wonder what is happening.’

‘You’re right. I’ll have a better view from up there. Her room and Jason’s overlook the beach. We’re on the second floor-those windows on the right. Look, there’s Guy on the balcony! Wave your umbrella.’

‘He wouldn’t see us, among so many,’ said Moscrop drily. ‘You won’t forget to give the formula to Mrs. Prothero, will you? Do you think if I waited here I might see her come out on to the balcony? I suppose not. She will not want to put all her clothes back on for a few skyrockets. She can probably see all she wants from the other side of the window. Then she can take her chloral in total confidence and be sleeping when her husband returns. You will remember me to her, won’t you?’

The girl made a curious sound in her throat which began as a gurgle and ended as a gale of immodest laughter. ‘She won’t need no remembering of you, Mr. Moscrop. You ain’t the sort of man she’s likely to forget!’

Deuced impertinence! What the girl meant by her remark he was not sure, but he was damned certain he was not going to allow a domestic to treat him with open derision. He took a breath to deliver a crushing rejoinder, but there was no one to crush. She had turned away, still laughing, and made her escape through the crowd.

A row of Catherine Wheels made a spluttering start on the beach. He turned to look at the Albemarle again. The balcony was empty. It was impossible to see whether anyone was within. The crowd was thick around him, but for once he did not experience any pleasure in being shoulder to shoulder with a mass of people he did not know. Nor did fireworks interest him. There were better shows every Saturday at the Crystal Palace. In ten minutes, he took a last look at the hotel window and edged through the crowd, to begin the walk back along the front to his lodgings.

On the beach, a crocodile made its appearance, the first of the set-pieces, symbolic of Egypt, its jaw opening and closing wickedly. What cheers there were as the sparks spent themselves and the enemy was exposed as a charred and smoking ruin! Marvellous to be British, and in Brighton, and secure from such monsters!