The Specimen (40 page)

Euphemia put the book and chinagraph pencil down on her desk to rub crumbs of sleep from the corners of her eyes. The cutting from the previous week’s newspaper had been
at her elbow, and now it fluttered noiselessly from her desk to the floor. She eyed it for some seconds where it had come to rest then stuck out her foot to retrieve it. She drew it close with her
bare heel and kept it there, under her skirts.

A knock on the bedroom door made her start. Then she remembered that this was the day. “Come,” she said, and the door swung wide. “Susan,” she said, looking up.

“Ma’am, they are here.”

“All right. Is everything made ready?”

“Ma’am.”

“And the room is completely empty now?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just as you said. And Mr Pemberton says to give you this. I think it’s a letter, ma’am. But I couldn’t be sure.”

Susan handed over the small portfolio she had been keeping behind her back.

“All right, Susan. You can see to the rest.”

“Will you not be seeing them after all, ma’am?”

“No. There’s no need. Just let me know when they have gone.”

“Yes, ma’am,” and the door swung shut behind her. From here, the house was utterly silent.

Euphemia untied the tapes at the sides and opened up the stiff covers. Inside, was a familiar document, slightly foxed, slightly dogeared. With it were two letters which she tore open. The first
was from Edward’s solicitor, Mr Bettlesham. She did not read it properly; there was nothing there that she did not already know. The other was from her sister. Carrick House is yours . . .
She did not read it further. Euphemia took both letters to the fire and threw them in; she turned away from the sudden flare as the letters began to curl and open up again in the heat. Euphemia
closed the covers of the portfolio over the fragile deeds to Carrick House and tied up the tapes.

Backstage, Royal Opera House, London. Friday, October 5, 1866.

“You may come with me now, Mrs Pemberton.”

With tension rising in every part of her, Gwen followed the girl. Under her evening stole, she clasped her purse, which contained, as well as the programme for the evening’s opera, her
glasses and her fan, the incongruous inclusion of a certain very battered and hard-travelled book. Gwen passed sweaty people dressed in their costumes, and carrying parts of costumes, their greasy
make-up running and smudged now after the efforts of their performances. They laughed under the yellow light and joked together, stepping aside to let her pass, not really noticing her. The girl
stopped at the end of the long corridor and bowed her head outside the door, waiting for Gwen to catch up.

“Miss Jaspur will see you now, madam.” She leaned forward and tapped lightly on the door before opening it and stepping back to let Gwen go inside. Gwen murmured her thanks to the
girl who bobbed a curtsey and would not raise her head. The door shut quietly behind her.

She was sitting with her shrouded profile to the door.

“Miss Jaspur, good evening. Congratulations on a magnificent performance.”

“Thank you. Please, come and sit down with me.”

Gwen looked about the room, and saw that it was furnished very comfortably, if rather elaborately with a lot of lace and ruffles. She sat down and felt a rush of heat flare through her body as a
wave of nerves got the better of her.

“I don’t mean to take up much of your time; thank you for agreeing to this interview.”

The little woman laughed and leaned back in her seat. “Do you know, those were his exact words to me.” She suddenly leaned forward to peer through the dark veil. She lifted it away
from her face. “And he kept me awake all night. Though, of course, he did not come to see me any more once he had found you.” Miss Jaspur looked firmly into Gwen’s eyes.
“You must have once loved him very much. Perhaps you loved him as much as I once did, to have found strength enough.” She turned her face away. “Which performance did you mean,
when you congratulated me?” She looked briefly into Gwen’s eyes again before letting her gaze settle on Gwen’s bare shoulder.

“This evening’s, I’m sure.”

“Well, congratulations are also due to yourself, Mrs Pemberton. I must say that I like your style. You emerge, free, saved from the gallows and what do you do? Go to the opera, of course!
But what do you want here? Aren’t we both free now, of him and of each other?”

Gwen’s pulse thudded in her throat as she kept her gaze steady. She gripped her purse. “I have brought something with me —” Her voice broke. “I have brought
something, which I wondered —” She fumbled with the clasp on the purse and managed to bring out the book wrapped in its handkerchief. “I wondered if you would be able to tell me
anything about it.” She held the book out and her hand shook violently. Miss Jaspur took the book from her hands. Gwen watched her turn it over.

“It is in a bad way, I think, Mrs Pemberton.”

“That was all my fault.”

“This little volume has a tale to tell, Mrs Pemberton, I can see.”

Gwen’s eyes pricked and welled. “There is no one left, whom I might ask. Did you not write a book, Miss Jaspur, and publish it?”

“This?” She ran her fingers over the tooling on the spine as Gwen had once done. “
Eternal Blazon
,” she spelled out slowly. “You won’t find another
like it on any book stall, Mrs Pemberton. What few were bound are locked away, I think.” Miss Jaspur sat back into her chair and held the stiff book in her lap. “Mrs Pemberton, I would
like to know where you found this.”

“It was sent to me an—”

“Anonymously.” She rose from her seat and turned to face Gwen. “Mrs Pemberton, I can’t tell you why she would have gone to the trouble of doing such a thing, when she
might have just told you. Perhaps she was a little afraid.”

“Who was afraid?”

“Isobel Scales. Isobel, his first wife. I did not have the money, then, for books. I did not have the stomach for dangerous games. I learned of it all too late, Mrs Pemberton; after you
had gone. My attempts to contact you had come to nothing, but when I met your sister I knew I had failed to stop him.” Miss Jaspur sat down again, and gave the book back to Gwen.

“Did you read it?” Gwen’s question was a whisper.

“No.” Miss Jaspur flapped her small hands in the air as if to push it away. “I had heard of it, of course, but I did not want to read it. The printer was imprisoned for it. And
other books, not just that little thing.”

For a long while neither woman said anything. Gwen felt the precision of Miss Jaspur’s gaze; she knew Miss Jaspur was trying to fix in her mind the scene of Edward’s death. The book
slipped from her hands and Gwen knelt on the floor to retrieve it.