Byard’s Leap by Steven James Foreman

Byard’s Leap by Steven James Foreman

Since its creation, in the year 1801, the company of Sowerby’s and Sons has been one of the leading auctioneering houses in London.

In 1891, when my tale begins, I was employed there as an Auctioneer; a position that required not only the banging of a gavel on sales days, but also, variously, the tasks of assessing, valuing and cataloguing items, in preparation for placing them up for auction.

The firm was renowned for dealing with only the finest items of art that the world had to offer, and typically it was the most iconic, famous or extraordinarily valuable items – paintings, sculptures, pieces of jewellery and the best of antique furniture – that had the privilege to pass through its highly polished and esteemed mahogany doors.

It was, therefore, somewhat of a surprise, when Mr Nathaniel Sowerby, the present owner, asked me to make a valuation on a large collection of old dolls.

“Now, Franklin,” Sowerby said, as I sat in his office, “this is a little out of line with the typical items we would catalogue, but the circumstances are also rather different.”

“I agree that it is not the usual type of item we deal with, by any means, but please tell me more, sir.” I said, with a smile.

“I shall explain,” he said, taking a cigar from the humidor, and, with raised eyebrows, offered the box to me. I declined.

“The potential client, a Mrs Rosemary Montague, of Byard’s Leap, Hampstead Heath, is a widow,” he went on, sitting back in his chair and striking a vesta. “Her late husband, Major Rupert Montague, of the Jat Horse Yeomanry in India, had served, many years’ ago, under my dear uncle, General Sir James Sowerby,” he said, holding the flame to the end of his cigar. “When not soldiering, the two were also very close friends. So, you see, there is a bit of family history at play here.”

“I understand,” said I, with a knowing smile.

“Yes, I knew you would,” he said, peering at me through a raft of cigar smoke. “However, that is not the only reason I wish to take this unusual commission. You see, before he died, Major Rupert had run up a huge amount of debt, due to his addiction to gambling and opium; addictions which befell many officers serving in the Indian Army, or so I am led to believe. And when passed away, around twenty years ago, he was, as near as damn it, bankrupt, and left his widow virtually nothing.” 

“That is a shameful waste,” I said, “of both money and life.”

“Yes,” Sowerby agreed, blowing out a stream of grey smoke, “but, ours is not the reason why, as they say. Now, the circumstances are that, since his death, the little money that Mrs Montague did inherit, slowly diminished, and with no other income or means of support, she gradually fell upon hard times, and her life, and her house, have, over the years, fallen into a state of despair.”

“And she wishes to auction a few dolls in order to get her out of this situation? Is that really going to help her?” I asked, with scepticism.

“Well, I believe from the information contained in her letter, which I have before me,” he waved a sheet of paper in the air, “it is more than a few dolls, and many are vintage or antique, hailing from all corners of the globe. Some are, quite possibly, very valuable. She has nothing else of value that is saleable, apparently.”

He paused in thought for a moment. “She is destitute, Franklin, and is in dire need of money, and I wish to help. But,” he held up a cautionary finger, “Sowerby’s is not a charity; we must never forget that.”

“Naturally,” I responded.

“Therefore,” he continued, “I am prepared to draw up a Consigner contract, to transfer the rights of ownership to Sowerby’s, and to act as an agent to sell the dolls on her behalf. In this case, as it could take a considerable amount of time to appraise and value many individual dolls, coming from all over the world, I am prepared to risk giving her a reasonable and immediate cash advance.”

I raised my eyebrows at this complete deviation from the terms that exist in the usual contract between Sowerby’s and the client. I had never heard of Sowerby giving an advance on items yet to be valued… never mind before being seen! But I said nothing. He was, after all, my employer, and the owner of the company.

“So, Franklin, I’d like you to pop over to visit the good lady, and see what we can do for her. Will you do that for me, old chap?”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“Well said. I shall send her a note, confirming the same.”

Sowerby then leaned forward passed me an envelope, containing five hundred pounds in banknotes, plus Mrs Montague’s letter, in which was the information, as just outlined by Sowerby, and her request that, whomever he sent, she would be very happy to receive them the following Monday, at eight o’clock, in the evening.

& & &

I arrived at Byard’s Leap as appointed. The big house stood alone, on the edge of the wild 800-acre heath, quite isolated from other houses. A rain had been falling all afternoon, and the house looked quite miserable in the darkness. Only one of the many windows; a large window on the ground floor, to the right of the entrance portico, showed a light within, flickering yellow, between a narrow gap in the drapes.

A groom appeared from the shadows, taking the reins of the horse. I disembarked the cabriolet and walked to the front door, which was opened by a sulky-looking maid, holding aloft an oil lamp. She stood to one side, to allow me to enter the murky hallway.

The groom, seeing me safely inside, wheeled the horse around and lead him, and the cab, away to the stables.

The maid placed the lamp on a side table. She took my hat, while I shrugged off my damp greatcoat. She made no effort to help.

It was then that an old woman appeared from a doorway, to my right; no doubt from the solitary room that I had seen lit from outside.

“I am Mrs Montague,” she said, leaning on a cane and approaching me, “and I believe you must be Mister Josiah Franklin.”

I said, “Yes, madam, I am indeed Josiah Franklin. I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said, with half-bow, and handed her my card.

“Allow the maid, Patsy to first show you to your room,” Mrs Montague said, “and then join me in the sitting room, there,” she indicated the lit room on the right.

The maid picked up my travel bag and, carrying the oil lamp once more, led me across the sombre hall, towards the stairs.

What I thought, at first glance, to be shadows cast upon the walls of the hall, were revealed, in the passing wash of lamplight, to be swathes of black mould, growing from floor to ceiling. They crawled across the damp, flaking plaster, slowly consuming, in its passage, a couple of faded portraits. The entire place was grim and damp.

Darkness fled before the wavering lamp, and, as we mounted the stairs, quickly closed in behind us. The stairs creaked, and the carpet, likely once a fine Turkish weave, squelched under my feet. Once on the drafty landing, Patsy navigated her way around the several puddles, formed by rainwater, dripping from the stained ceiling.

“That side is the east wing,” she said, waving her hand towards the left, “it’s been closed off for years, long before I started work here. No one ever goes in there.”

I followed her to the right, crossing the landing and stepping over more puddles. “And this side is the west wing.”

She raised the lamp; the flame wavered in a faint cold draft. “That is Missus Rosemary’s room,” she said, nodding towards the furthest of three doors, “and this is your room,” she said, approaching the nearest door. It opened onto a small bed chamber, where a candle burned on a night stand; lit in advance, I presumed, by her.

“And the middle door?” I asked.

“You’ll have to ask the Missus about that,” she said, and turned and wandered off.

A jug of hot water and a basin stood on a small dressing table. I was thankful that this was the only water present in the room. As I washed my face and hands, the hot water warmed my cold skin, still frigid from the journey in the open cabriolet.

Once refreshed, with my candle lighting my way, I carefully descended the shadowy stairway. I entered the sitting room, where, at Mrs Montague’s invitation, I sat down opposite her, in a comfortable armchair.

There was a small fire in the hearth, and this, with the light from two oil lamps, burning on low side tables, revealed that I was sitting in a cream-painted room, with crimson drapes over the windows. It was obvious that this room, at least, was well preserved. Adorning the walls were several watercolours of local landscapes, and two large portraits.

One was obviously a much younger Mrs Montague, dressed in the role of Ophelia, while the other, taking pride of place above the hearth, depicted a young cavalry officer, mounted upon a horse.

Mrs Montague saw me looking at the latter painting, and said, “Yes, that was my husband, Rupert Montague, when he was a young Cornet. That portrait depicts him as he looked, forty years ago.”

“I am very sorry for your loss, madam.” I could think of nothing else to say.

She waved a blue-veined hand in dismissal, but said. “Thank you. But I grieved for long, and the tears stopped years ago. Rupert was a brave young man then,” she looked up at the portrait, “and later, as a commanding officer, a great leader of men.”

As we chatted thus, with small talk, I was allowed my first clear look at Mrs Montague.

The lady had greying hair, tied back in a bun. She was dressed in a floor-length, black skirt, with a black lace shawl draped over her skinny shoulders, and upon her head was a little black lacy bonnet, with a veil held back from her face by a sliver pin. I realised then that, despite the passing of fifteen years since her husband’s death, Mrs Montague was still dressed in widow’s weeds. Despite her seemingly strong character, she looked a rather sad specimen of a woman.

The maid finally appeared, very late, bearing a tray with gin and hot water.

Once furnished with our glasses, the maid departed.

“I am sorry about the maid. She is pretty useless, but she is cheap. I am sure she is stealing food from the pantry, as the cook reports there are often items missing. But I cannot prove it, and it is a waste of my time to fire her. I would only have the problem of finding another. On the low wages that I can barely afford, it would be someone of the just same low calibre. Better the devil you know, I suppose!”

“It is not a problem. Mrs Montague. I fully understand.”

“Now, let us discuss the reason you are here,” she said. “I believe, from Mister Sowerby’s correspondence, that you are unable to value the collection here, but will faithfully make a detailed record of all the dolls, so that they can be consigned to Sowerby’s for valuation and auction at a later date. Am I correct?”

“You are correct, madam,” I said, with a smile, “This is not, for example a known painting or a piece of antique furniture, which has provenance, enabling an easy valuation. No, this will take a considerable amount of time to search the history of the individual dolls and get expert opinions.”

“I understand,” Mrs Montague said, glancing down at her feet.

“However, Mr Sowerby took the liberty to apprise me of your present financial situation and hardship, and, providing that I consider the dolls to have some potential, has authorised me to make a cash advance to you.”

She looked up, a smile creasing her already wrinkled features. “That is so kind and thoughtful of him,” she said.

“You see, this old house has fallen in to disrepair,” she looked about her, a sad expression on her face, “the roof leaks in many places, and the damp from the River Fleet is eroding away the foundations. The entire east wing has been closed off for years, and in this wing,” she continued, as if she owed me an explanation, “only this sitting room down here, and the three bedrooms above, are in use. Of course, there is the servant’s quarters, kitchen and scullery below stairs, but the rest is, well, unoccupied. I only employ three staff; that maid, a cook, and the groom. I cannot afford more. There were once twelve staff in this house, from footmen up to the butler… can you believe it?”

“I understand madam. You have my confidentiality, and my sympathies for your plight.”

“Oh, do not worry yourself with any supplications, young man,” she gave me a brief smile. “Now, if you would be so kind as to excuse me, I will leave you to make your way upstairs to your room. Breakfast will be served in here, at eight o’clock, and then I will show you the dolls.”

She pushed herself up out of her armchair. I made to jump up, but she said, “Oh no. Sit, sit. Please, finish your gin. I bid you good night.”

“Good night, to you, madam,” I replied.

I sat there in deep thought for a few minutes. I drained my gin and water, and decided on a brisk walk before bed.

I retrieved my hat and damp greatcoat from the entrance hall, and let myself out of the front door. All around the house was an opaque damp mist, wrapped in silence. As I walked some paces along the gravel driveway, somewhere far out in the bleak, gloomy heath, a lonesome bird called. The sound sent a shiver through me. I turned to look at the house. Black windows looked out lifelessly from all floors. And yet, in a dormer window, high up on the steep roof between the chimney pots, I thought I saw a pale glimmer of light. I shivered again, and decided that my brisk walk should be limited to ascending the staircase to my room. So, reversing my journey and actions, I took myself to bed.

& & &

I awoke in the night. The time was unguessable, and my pocket watch lay unseen in the darkness of the room.

A storm was brewing somewhere, and a blustery wind was circulating around the old house, whistling under the eaves and moaning down the chimneys.

But I was sure that it was something else that woke me. I believed that I heard a noise, coming from somewhere within the house.

I lay there silently, with my mouth open and the air trapped in my throat. I wiggled my jaw, cracking my eardrums to remove the faint slumbering pressure, and just lay there in the dark, listening.

Thud.

I slipped out from under the blankets, and padded across the darkened room, where I pressed my left ear gently against the door.

Thump.

After a few breathless moments, I carefully turned the knob and opened the door. The drafty landing was, as expected, in total darkness. The atmosphere was cold and cloying. No noise or light came from downstairs.

But there it was again! A dull thud, like a door closing, followed by a faint susurrus, as if the wind whispered in thin voices.

I retrieved the box of vestas from the bedside table and lit the candle. Spider shadows leapt and crawled across the walls, as I stepped slowly out of the bedroom.

Holding the candle high and to one side, so as not to blind me, I peered around. Inexplicably, my eyes were drawn towards the door that led to the east wing. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled, and goosebumps popped up on the length of my arms beneath my nightgown, but I saw nothing and heard no other noise.

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind rattled the windows in their frames. My heart missed a beat. I almost dropped the candle.

“It’s the damned wind!” I muttered to myself, giving a half-hearted and forced snort of laughter, trying to block out any thoughts that, whatever had caused the noise, might be anything different.

With no need to investigate further, so I convinced myself, I returned somewhat hurriedly to my bedroom, closed the door and climbed wearily into bed. I did not snuff out the candle this time.

& & &

The following morning, I went downstairs to breakfast. In my bag were Sowerby’s new, Goerz Anschütz camera – my pride and joy – and my pencils and notebooks. Mrs Montague was already seated at the table.

“Good morning, Mister Franklin,” she greeted me with a faint smile, as she poured tea into a cup, “I hope you slept well.”

Fearful of admitting anything to the contrary, I agreed that I had.

Once we had breakfasted on the simple fare of hot rolls and butter, prepared, no doubt, by the unseen cook and laid out by the infrequently seen maid, Mrs Montague bade me accompany her, for it was time to view the collection.

Once more I climbed the rotted stairway, this time in the wake of Mrs Montague’s slow and creaking progress. She used her left hand on the banister rail to pull herself up, with the maid supporting her right arm, in the hand of which, she held her cane.

We crossed the sodden landing to the middle of the three doors. The maid pushed open the door. I entered the chamber, and froze, mid-step.

I was met with the cold stare of scores and scores of glass eyes!

My jaw dropped. I was expecting maybe twenty or thirty dolls, but on every wall of the room, there were rows of wooden shelves. From the floor to the ceiling the shelves ranged, and upon them, cramped together, shoulder-to-shoulder, sat the collection of dolls that I was here to value. I quickly estimated that there were at least a hundred of them.

Seeing all these figurines together, in one single space, was enough to strike me dumb, and I gazed, open mouthed, in awe.

Mrs Montague just stood there, watching me, as I soaked in what I was seeing.

The dolls varied in size, between, roughly, twelve to thirty inches in height, dressed in various styles; lots of fragile dusty lace, lacklustre silk and faded cotton, and most wore tiny shoes and little bonnets or hats. Many of the dolls appeared, to my untrained eye, to be antique, with spiderweb cracks spreading like veils across their China faces, while others were of painted wood, like Punch and Judy puppets. Some had bland oriental faces, and others had fixed smiles, or manic grins, while some had rosebud lips, others parted to show tiny white teeth; and all with glass eyes, of all colours, reflecting back the cold grey light filtering in through the dirty window.

“Now, I must tell you, Mr. Franklin, that these dolls belong to – or did belong to – Abigail Sutton.”

I looked at the woman in surprise. “Oh, I thought they were yours. I am sorry, who is Abigail Sutton?”

“Abigail is my cousin. Abigail used to live in this house with me. This was her room. Now, the story begins way back in time. Please, take a seat.”

I sat on the edge of a stripped single bed, while Mrs Montague perched upon the only chair in the room.

“Abigail was given her first pair of dolls on her fifth birthday.” Mrs Montague said. “She adored playing with the dolls, and began to receive more, as gifts on birthdays and at Christmas, or when family returned from their travels. The numbers started to grow, until she had maybe twenty or thirty of them. It was not her intention to assemble a collection, but the gifts of dolls continued to come, as she grew in years, whether she wanted them or not.”

Mrs Montague looked at me. and shook her head, slowly. “Family members and friends seemed to think it was somehow amusing or entertaining to keep giving her dolls. It almost became a strange obsession with them to do so, as if it was their hobby or their collection, and not hers.”

“Please explain what you mean by that,” I said.

“Everyone would simply gift dolls to her, happily and enthusiastically. There was never any thought of buying her anything else. Year after year, birthdays and Christmas, it was always dolls. It became a family competition. Our uncle, an attaché to the Czar, sent dolls from Russia. Even as an adult, after Abigail married a cavalry officer, he brought her dolls from his travels to Malaya and Patagonia. My husband, Rupert brought dolls from the Asian sub-continent or his visits to the Far East, whenever he came home on leave, and so on. It seemed never-ending. There are Red Indian dolls from America, Eskimo dolls from Greenland, and, somewhere in this collection, even Voodoo dolls from Haiti and Witch dolls from the islands of the East Indies.”

I just looked around me with my auctioneer’s mind beginning to turn. Any one of these dolls might be worth a great deal of money.

“If this is not too callous a way of stating it,” Mrs Montague said, “it is fortunate that, as the years went by, members of our extended family and other relatives gradually passed away, as did Rupert, and as did the gifting. And it was fortunate, Mr Franklin, for even before then, even though Abigail loved them all with a passion, it became overwhelming.”

“I can certainly see that there are many more dolls than I expected,” I said.

“Oh, there are even more than you see here! Allow me to continue.”

I nodded my assent.

“After Abigail’s husband passed away, some fifteen years ago, Abigail came to live with me, here, in this house. She naturally brought her doll collection with her. But there was simply no room to display all of them.” she said. “You see, after my husband died, I began closing off the rooms that were no longer in use. It was too expensive to heat or maintain them without reason. So, although I allowed Abigail to keep as many as feasibly possible in her room, most of the dolls remained packed in their crates. We stored them in the east wing. Eventually, as my finances deteriorated even more, the entire wing was closed off. There are many more dolls than what you see here, locked up in that old wing, Mr Franklin.”

I must admit, that, impressive as the collection was, the overriding feeling growing upon me, as I poured my gaze over the hundreds of staring faces, was one of unease.

“Now, ten years ago,” Mrs Montague continued, “still grieving the death of her husband, which has affected her greatly, Abigail suffered a mental breakdown. Despite the various treatments and potions given to her by various doctors, she finally went mad. She was declared clinically insane, and had to be committed to a lunatic asylum,” Mrs Montague said, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

I sat there, in shock, for a few moments, before finding my voice. “I am so sorry the hear that,” I said.

“This was Abigail’s room, as I said, and these are the dolls that she wanted to stay with her, when the rest were packed away. But since she was committed to Bedlam, there have been many occasions when I thought of getting rid of them. I could have probably donated many to orphanages, or to the workhouses. I even brought in a Patron of the Barnardo’s home in Barkingside, to discuss the most beneficial way of disposing of them, but I changed my mind at the last minute. Every time I thought about it, something seemed to prevent me from changing thought to action.”

“How do you mean, madam?” I said, a slight tremor in my voice.

“It is hard to explain,” she said, standing up and moving slowly along the lines of dolls, adjusting a dress strap here, or straightening a cap there, “but even if I simply pickedone up to consider getting rid of it, a feeling of dread would come over me, and I would find myself, with a sense of relief, returning it to the shelf. It was if my cousin Abigail did not want them to leave. I know that sounds incredibly silly!”

It sounded more that incredibly silly, to me. In fact, it sounded incredibly creepy, and I felt a chill shiver down my spine.

“Well, maybe it was the subconscious guilt of disposing of gifts, once so lovingly given to Abigail by your family and friends, that stopped you,” I said, hopefully.

It was then that Mrs Montague pulled me by my sleeve towards the doorway, whispering in a conspiratory way. “Their eyes follow me about the room, watching me!” she said, glancing towards he dolls.

“My dear lady!” I said, brushing her arthritic fingers from my sleeve, “it is a well-known phenomenon that the eyes of portraits appear to follow one around a gallery, so I believe that it is perfectly conceivable that dolls’ eyes may do the same. They are not watching you!”

“Very well, I understand that, but it is not only their eyes; the dolls themselves move!” she said, her voice going up a pitch. “Do you see that one there, my dear, with the red hair and the blue dress and white apron?” she indicated one, dressed as a milkmaid, “well, she was seven dolls to the left last night, and that one, a French queen, she would take her place. They change places while I sleep,” Mrs Montague said. “Bella would be near the lamp, but would have changed places with Donna by the door in the morning. Prima was sitting there last night, but this morning she was next to Vera, there in the corner.”

“It is just your imagination!” I said, exclaiming loudly this time, my voice almost a cry. “It is your loneliness, this, morbid house, and the endless shadows!”

“I do not know,” she said, turning abruptly, and limping away from the shelves, towards the door.

As she stepped out of the room, her tone changed “Anyway, giving them away is no longer an option. With my deteriorating financial situation as it is, I have decided to sell the entire lot, and to be rid of them once and for all, and to realize as much money as I can, come what may. And that, young sir, is what you are here!”

Once she had departed, with her maid, I sat perched on the edge of the bed for several moments, trying to absorb all I had seen and heard. That, and my mixed emotions, were proving too much to digest, and I stood up, shook myself, and, removing my camera from my bag, steeled myself to get on with the job that Sowerby had sent me here to do.

& & &

My instincts were that, although some were in a poor condition, many of the dolls were highly valuable, and the following three days were almost entirely taken up with me cataloguing the dolls; picking them up, one-by-one and photographing their front, back and side profiles, and recording every detail in my notebook, in preparation for drawing up the Consigner contract.

Lifting one beautiful specimen from a shelf, a thirty-inch-high model, dressed in a red silk gown, I felt a sudden sharp pain in my hand, and reactively dropped the doll. It hit the floor with a loud bang, and one of its glass eyes popped out, and rolled under the bed.

I examined my hand and found it was bleeding from a small hole in the palm. When I looked down at the doll, lying on the floor at my feet, I noticed a long, sharp silver hat pin, holding into place on her head a red bonnet. The pin had my blood on it, and I assumed that I had pricked myself when I lifted the doll from the shelf. I washed my hand, wrapped it tightly in a handkerchief and soon the bleeding stopped.

I bent down to look for the glass eye under the bed, but could not see it in the darkness. I assumed the maid would find it, when she next did her housework; but judging by the amount of dust underneath, I doubted that this was a frequent occurrence. I replaced the doll on the shelf, and, in the pressing demand to finish my work, I forgot all about it.

My sleep each night was disturbed by nightmares and noises, real or imagined. The house always creaked. Twice, noises had woken me. I had crept out of bed and, with an oil lamp in hand – I had specifically asked the maid for this, in place of my little candle – peered out of my room into the rotted stink of the landing. Maybe it was the wind; coiling and buffeting around house, after blowing in from the cold heath or from the distant River Thames, and sneaking in under the old eaves or through the broken terracotta tiles that covered the roof, making a roof beam creak or loose door thud in its frame. But I never had the courage to mention this to the frail old lady.

My breakfasts were consumed quicky, and I took my luncheon in the doll’s bedroom, as I had become to think of it, much to the displeasure of the lazy maid, who had to carry the tray all the way upstairs. Dinner was simple fare, and so tired was I, at the end of a long day, that I consumed it as quickly, and politely, as possible, eager to get to my bed. I was also in a hurry to get the job done, for I wished to leave Byard’s Leap with all haste.

Finally, my arduous task was over, and on my last morning in Byard’s Leap, over a final breakfast of hot rolls and tea, I enthusiastically reported this fact to Mrs Montague.

“But Mister Franklin,” she said, “what about the dolls stored in the east wing?”

I held up a finger to prevent her protest. I had already formulated my answer in advance.

“Madam, the windows are all boarded up. The challenges of working in such a dark space are many, and photography will be impossible. However, I believe that I have enough evidence, let us call it – a complete cross-section – to return my findings to Mr Sowerby. And he has already agreed that he will pay you a good advance.” I said, reminding her.

“Arrangements will be made for a team of conservators to come and remove all the dolls for the final expert valuation at the premises of Sowerby and Sons,” I said. “Trust me, madam, if the dolls on the shelves are representative of the dolls in the east wing, and the right collectors are in the auction house when they come under the hammer, I am sure that you will never have any financial worries again,”

My monologue was sufficient, to my relief, to quell any protest that she might have. Personally, I had no wish at all to enter the other wing of that morbid house.

I then presented to Mrs Montague an interim, handwritten contract for her to sign, transferring ownership of the dolls to Sowerby’s. Once signed, I handed her the envelope, containing the five hundred pounds. Mrs Montague had the good grace not to open the envelope to count the money, but her eyes lit up with delight, and I am sure that I saw lines of weariness drop from her wizened face.

“When I get back to the auction house, I will make arrangements for the conservators to come and collect all the dolls. I will send a note to let you know when to expect them.”

We then said our goodbyes, and, with no little sense of relief, I departed Byard’s Leap.

& & &

“Have you seen this morning’s papers,” asked Nathaniel Sowerby, when he called me into his office, at around eleven o’clock the following morning.

“I have not, sir,” I said, in reply. He tossed a folded newspaper across his desk. I reached forward and picked it up.

It was the morning edition of Daily Mail, folded open at page three, with a mid-page headline, “Woman Found Dead in Her Home!’

Under this, in a smaller font, I read. ‘Mrs Rosemary Montague, of Byard’s Leap. Hampstead Heath, was found lying dead at the foot of the stairs at her home this morning. According to the police, the maid’s screams had alerted the groom, who was outside, and he immediately set out to fetch a constable. The cause of her death is a broken neck’

I stepped back a pace, slumping into the chair that was, fortunately, directly behind me,

I shook my head in disbelief, I had only been at Byard’s Leap twenty-four hours previously! I just sat there, in silence, with the paper in my lap, trying to process the news.

Sowerby interrupted my thoughts. “This is very sad news, the poor woman,” he said, “and just after we had offered her a new lease of life.”

“This really is a shock, sir.” I said, and picked up the paper once more, scanning through the rest of the article, where the journalist rambled on with some trivia about Mrs Montague’s personal life, as newspapers do. I ignored it.

“If the wagon and team of men are ready to go, Franklin, you had better get over there, right away,” Sowerby said. “Regardless of our personal emotions, I have invested five hundred pounds in this. Take the contract and get the police to release the dolls to you. See that our business with the late Mrs Montague is concluded, as we agreed before her death.”

This seemed a little heartless, but Sowerby was right, He had paid out an extraordinary large amount of money, and business is, after all, business.

I set off at a dash in the cabriolet, heading for Byard’s Leap. The wagon and team trailed in my dust.

As I drove the cab into the driveway, with the horse’s hooves kicking up gravel, a tall policeman stepped in front and grabbed the horse’s bridle, bringing the cab to a sudden halt.

“Hold on, mate! What do you want?”

 “I had business with Mrs Montague,” I said.

“Well, I am afraid you ain’t going any further, sir,” he said, looking up at me, “there is an investigation going on, but you can speak to the detective in charge.”

I climbed out of the cab, intending to go to the house, but the policeman grabbed my sleeve, preventing me from proceeding. “Just wait, sir. He’ll be here in a jiffy.”

Sure enough, at that moment, a man came walking towards me. He was dressed in civilian clothes, sporting full mutton-chop whiskers and wearing a bowler hat.

“I am Chief Inspector Abberline, of Scotland Yard,” he said, “how can I help you?”

“I’m Josiah Franklin of Sowerby’s Auctioneers” I said, handing him my card, “and, as I told your officer here, I had business with Mrs Montague.”

The Inspector nodded at the policemen, who released my sleeve and stepped back. He passed the bridle to the groom, who had just appeared.

The inspector and I shook hands. I related to him the brief history of my recent dealings with Mrs Montague. “Here is the consignment contract, as proof,” I said, handing him the document.

Abberline unfolded it and gave it a brief read. “All well and good, sir,” he said, folding it and handing it back to me.

I said, “In the newspaper article, Inspector, it stated that Mrs Montague fell down the stairs and broke her neck. I am not surprised at that. She was frail and unsteady on her feet, and the stair carpet was damp and slimy. May I ask, why is a Chief Inspector investigating this accident?”

The Inspector gave me hard look, as if appraising me. “Now, Mister Franklin,” he said, after a several seconds passed, “I should not be discussing this case with a member of the public, but I assume that, as you are a gentleman, I can trust you not to repeat what I am about to tell you; at least, not until the information is made public. Am I correct in my assumption?”

“You are, and you have my word, Chief Inspector,” I said.

“Right, then. You should know that I am treating this case as murder.”

“What?” I said, in surprise. “Murder? How can that be?”

“Now, you gave me your word, so please be patient, and I will explain. This is what I have discovered. The maid, Patsy was cleaning in the sitting room, when she heard Mrs Montague scream. This was followed by the sound of the old woman tumbling down the stairs. Patsy described the noise as a series of loud thumps and thuds. She rushed into the hall, to find the old lady lying sprawled, on her back, at the foot of the stairs. Patsy herself then screamed and ran to the front door. The groom heard her, and came running. He found the woman was not breathing. He then ran across the Heath, to look for a constable.”

“I have met this maid, Inspector,” I said, interrupting, “she was very slovenly, and Mrs Montague suspected her of stealing food. You don’t think that the maid could have something to do with this, and is lying?”

Abberline said, “I appreciate that information, Franklin. Please be patient, it will all come clear.”

“Forgive me, Inspector, I don’t presume to tell you how to conduct your investigation!”

“Not at all, Franklin!” he said, with a smile.

“Once I had been summoned here by the constables, I confirmed that Mrs Montague was, in fact, dead. The groom, the cook and the maid, were all immediately questioned by me, individually. I soon satisfied myself that they had nothing at all to do with the death.”

“But why then, do you think it was murder?”

“Well, Franklin. The maid said she heard the scream before the lady fell… not as she fell. Now, this fact made me think that something – or someone – had scared her; causing her to fall – or be pushed. I decided to look deeper into the case, and when the medical examiner removed the victim’s clothing at my request, to examine her more thoroughly, he found, on the lady’s back, half-a-dozen bloody puncture wounds. He says they were likely made by someone stabbing the victim with a long, thin sharp object, such as a hatpin. The stabbing didn’t kill her, but it was probably used to coerce her towards the stairs, and ultimately cause her to fall, Hence, this is a murder case.”

At that very moment, behind the inspector, to my utter shock, I saw a policeman escorting Mrs Montague towards a Black Maria. She was looking very bedraggled, her grey hair hanging loose, and was shackled in handcuffs!

I looked quickly from her, to the detective, and back to the woman, in complete confusion. “Mrs Montague?” I cried aloud, stumbling a step or two forward in that direction.

The inspector wrapped me in his arms to stop me. “Whoa, whoa! Calm yourself, Franklin!” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “That lady being loaded into the police carriage, is Abigail Sutton, her cousin. And I have arrested her for Mrs Montague’s murder.”

The inspector released me from his considerate embrace. I stepped back, dumbfounded, my breath catching in my throat. Fortunately, the groom was still holding the cab steady, behind me, and I slumped down upon the side step.

“But I thought Abigail was committed to an asylum,” I said, breathing deeply. “Mrs Montague told me that the woman had gone insane, and was locked up in Bedlam.”

“Indeed, she was, sir,” said Inspector Abberline, looking down at me, “at least, up until she managed to escape from that awful place.”

“What? She escaped?”

“Yes, but not recently. While the forensic investigation was going on, searching for signs of forced entry, dusting for fingerprints, and checking around the house for footprints and so on, when we entered the unused east wing, we discovered in there Mrs Abigail Sutton.”

My eyes opened wide, and my jaw dropped, but I said nothing.

“She escaped from Bedlam six months ago. She must have had some knowledge of how to gain entry to the house, undetected. From the evidence we collected, it seems as if Abigail had been living in the east wing for some time… in fact, probably from the time she absconded from the asylum. There are food scraps all over tables, candle stubs on the shelves, and toilet waste in the bathrooms, and other evidence of simple, yet secretive, habitation.”

“That is incredible!” I said, “and one of the strangest things I have ever heard.”

“Strangest of all, Franklin, were the dolls we found everywhere. I presume these are the dolls of your interest,” he said, with a nod. “They were propped up in dining chairs, lying on beds, sitting on sofas, and arranged in circles on the floor. It was if Abigail had been playing with them, having kiddies’ picnics, and treating them as her children… herself acting like a child. On top of that, we found a long silver hatpin, covered in blood. It does not take a genius to conclude that the blood is that of Mrs Rosemary Montague.”

“It must have been her obsession with the dolls that brought her here. That really is insane!” I said, shaking my head in amazement, “It was her, and not the maid, stealing food from the pantry. And it was her moving the dolls around in her old room, and not some paranormal activity!”

“Abigail must have realised, by your presence, that her cousin was about to get rid of all her dolls. Her possessiveness enraged her, to the point where she had to kill Mrs Montague, to stop the sale.”

“What will happen to Abigail now? Will she be tried with murder?”

“No. There is no point. She is completely insane. She will be sent back to Bedlam. And this time, I dread to think of the conditions she will be kept in, or the treatment she will be subjected to.”

“What a tragic story! So sad for everyone.”

“Well, I have to go now. I have another grisly murder to attend to in Whitechapel. I will leave my constables to finish up. Goodbye, Franklin”

“Can I remove the dolls, now?” I asked, as I shook his hand.

“Yes, of course. And once this story gets out, I am sure that they will fetch a lot more money at auction than you might think!”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Steven James Foreman 2024