Page 32 of The Cursed Writer
He was, Harry reflected as she waited at Victoria station for the Brighton train, a good man. All things considered, she had been very fortunate after her encounter with Simeon Pemberton. It seemed the same could not be said of Cecily Earnshaw.
Circus Street was a good ten-minute walk from Brighton railway station. She took directions from a confectioner’s stand beside the entrance and tried not to let his horrified expression trouble her when she told him her destination. ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but that’s no place for a young lady like you.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she said, a little taken aback. ‘A friend of mine is staying there.’
The man shook his head. ‘It’s a slum,’ he said darkly. ‘None but pickpockets and head thumpers and – and other bawdy types live there. Take my advice and steer clear of it.’
When it became clear Harry was not going to take his advice, he supplied her with grudging directions and watched her go as though he expected to read about her grisly murder in the evening newspaper. As she approached the area he had described, Harry’s optimism that he had been mistaken began to waver. Circus Street was tucked away behind Victoria Gardens, only a short way from the Royal Pavilion, with its Indian-inspired turrets and minarets. But it was apparent even as Harry rounded the corner of Sussex Street that the confectioner’s assessment had not been far wrong. Several of the squat terraced houses were boarded up and some had large gaps where the roof tiles should be. A derelict pub stood on the corner, its windows smashed and the door kicked loose so that it swung lazily in the wind. The smell of decay hung in the air.
An assortment of ragged-clothed children were playing outside, their faces pinched and hollow-cheeked beneath the grime as they chased a wooden ball along the filthy gutter. They stopped their game when they saw Harry. The eldest nudged one of the younger boys and she watched as he scurried along the street and disappeared into one of the nearby houses. They ought to be in school, she thought, and indeed there did seem to be a school at the very end of Circus Street, or at least a tall, red-bricked building that looked like an educational establishment.Either that or a prison. Harry pressed her lips together. The stark evidence of poverty was not at all what she had imagined when the Earnshaws’ maid had revealed Cecily had gone to stay with her aunt.
Glancing to the right and the left, Harry tried to make out door numbers but they seemed to be few and far between. Drawing herself up, she addressed the children. ‘I’m looking for number 11. Do any of you know which house that is?’
They eyed her with mute incomprehension, as though she had spoken in another language. ‘Number 11,’ she repeated patiently. ‘Which is it?’
A woman appeared from the doorway through which the boy had disappeared, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Whatever you’re peddling, we don’t want it.’
Harry took a few steps closer. ‘I’m not selling anything. I just?—’
‘And we don’t want to be saved, thank you all the same,’ the woman went on, as though Harry had not spoken. ‘You should spare us all the trouble and clear off.’
Harry took a deep breath. If she’d known the area she was visiting was so squalid, she might have come as Sarah Smith. A second woman materialised in the door of a neighbouring house, smaller and thinner faced but equally suspicious. ‘What’s going on, Joan?’
‘Another do-gooder, come to save us all from ourselves,’ the first woman scoffed.
The newcomer folded her arms. ‘The only good she can do for me is by slinging her hook.’
Joan laughed. ‘Hear that? Sling your hook, she says.’
Gritting her teeth, Harry approached them. ‘I’m looking for someone – Cecily Earnshaw. I have her address as 11 Circus Street. Is that correct?’
Was it her imagination or did Joan’s eyes narrow. ‘No one of that name here,’ she said, her tone flat. ‘I reckon you’ve got the wrong address.’
Harry eyed her more closely. She was tall and thin, with grey hair and dark eyes that missed nothing and strong forearms that looked like they knew what hard work was. And she reminded Harry of someone, although she was certain they had never met before. ‘You’re Cecily’s aunt,’ she declared. ‘Susanna told me she came here to stay with you. Please, I just want to talk to her.’
Joan’s eyes flashed. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
But it was too late. Harry had seen the flicker of recognition when she had mentioned the maid’s name. ‘I know she’s in trouble, through no fault of her own. And I know the man responsible, although I wish I didn’t.’
‘What do you want with her?’ Joan asked, after staring hard at Harry for several seconds.
‘To talk to her,’ Harry said. ‘That’s all.’
Time seemed to stand still as Joan considered her request and Harry got the impression she was weighing up the best way to get rid of her. Pursing her lips, she stood to one side. ‘Come in, then.’
Every one of Harry’s senses was screaming at her not to go into the house. She pushed them aside and slowly approached the door. Beyond it was a gloomy single room, thick with steam and the stinging aroma of bleach. A narrow bare-wood staircase led upwards but it was the large wooden tub in the centre of the room that caught Harry’s eye, filled with wet clothes. ‘You’re a laundress,’ she said.
‘The cheapest this side of the Pavilion,’ Joan said, with more than a hint of pride. ‘Most of the hotels use professional laundries these days but there’s still plenty of work if you know who to ask.’
That explained the strong arms, Harry thought, and peered through the steam to the room beyond. ‘Is Cecily in there?’
Joan nodded. ‘Don’t keep her long. She has to earn her keep.’
Already feeling her clothes begin to stick to her back, Harry pushed through the steam to the back room, which turned out to be a kitchen. A young woman was bent over a smaller wooden tub, scrubbing what looked like towels against a long, ribbed board. Her brown hair was coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck but tendrils had escaped to stick damply to her skin. She turned as Harry came in, a startled look on her flushed face, and Harry saw with a dismayed rush of comprehension that she was heavily pregnant. ‘Cecily?’ she asked.
Warily, the other woman nodded. ‘That’s right. Who are you?’
‘My name is Harriet. I work at the Abbey Road Building Society.’
