67, Tullis Street
‘Are you nervous?’ said Tom.
‘Why do you ask?’ said Helen.
‘Because your arm through mine feels awkward, and you haven’t said very much for the last few minutes.’
‘I’ve been picking my way along the street with care,’ said Helen, ‘and I am holding on to you for support. It’s wet and slippery underfoot.’
It was an early Sunday evening in May but still overcast after the rain which had left a greasy deposit on the pavement. Church bells were ringing and couples were strolling to evensong or just taking the air after being shut up all day. Helen was right, you needed to be careful as you walked. But Tom thought that was just an excuse. She was nervous.
‘And you, Tom? Are you nervous?’
‘Me? No, more curious.’
‘Liar.’
‘Apprehensive then.’
‘I will settle for that,’ said Helen, tugging Tom so that he was closer to her. ‘Let’s be apprehensive together. It’s an adventure though, isn’t it.’
‘And good material for you.’
‘We’ll see.’
Tom and Helen Ansell were walking arm in arm along Tullis Street which lies to the north of the British Museum. They had taken a cab as far as Maple’s in the Tottenham Court Road and got down there because Tom said he wanted to walk the last few hundred yards, even though Helen complained her skirts would pick up the mud. Really Tom wanted to delay the moment before they reached number 67. Not for the first time he was regretting that he had said yes to Helen when she suggested this little outing. This adventure.
Tullis Street was rather dreary in the present weather, perhaps in any weather. The houses were flat and dun-coloured. The windows on the ground floor were smeary with the recent rain. Tom wondered what Mr Smight’s callers thought when they came to visit. The man was supposed to have had a distinguished list of clients once: a peer of the realm, Lady such-and-such, as well as a couple of MPs and a manufacturer or two. But perhaps his visitors weren’t concerned with appearances or even reassured by a plain style.
They arrived at number 67. Tom noticed a man and woman loitering on the other side of the street. The man looked at him curiously. Tom turned his head away. There were railed steps which led up to a peeling front door. Tom went ahead of Helen and knocked. A housemaid opened the door almost immediately as if she had been waiting on the other side.
‘Mr and Mrs Thomas Ansell,’ said Tom. It gave him pleasure to say ‘Mr and Mrs Thomas Ansell’. He went out of his way to say the words. They were like the ingredients in a pleasing recipe. Helen and he had been married at the beginning of the year.
‘You’re the first,’ said the maid in a familiar manner. She was a girl with pinched cheeks and dark rings under her eyes. She stood to one side of the narrow passage to allow them to enter and then shut the front door before taking Tom’s hat and his furled umbrella. She almost hurled the umbrella into the stand where it landed with a clatter. She took their coats and hung them up. Then she indicated the front room.
‘You’re to wait in there… if you please… sir and madam. That’s the waiting room.’
Tom and Helen went into the front parlour. In the centre was an oval table surrounded by half a dozen dining chairs, only one of them with arms. A large gilt-edged bible was set, unopened but prominent, on a lectern near the door. On the other side was a cottage-piano. Whether because of the bible or because of the musty smell of the room, Tom was reminded of the interior of a church on a wet afternoon. The furniture was heavy and the walls cluttered with pictures. Gaslights were burning low on either side of the fireplace but the lamps were dirty, and the gloom of the room was scarcely relieved by the evening light that filtered through the lace curtains.
Tom and Helen stood uncertainly in the dimness. They could see themselves in a large mirror which was set over the mantelpiece and seemed to be hanging at a dangerous angle. There was no one to overhear — the maid had shut the door firmly on them — but nevertheless Helen whispered into Tom’s ear, ‘It’s more dowdy than I expected.’
‘It’s very dowdy,’ said Tom. But he was pleased at the dowdiness. A bright and cheerful room would not have felt right. Helen paced about, manoeuvring between the furniture as silently and inquisitively as a cat. Tom was content to watch her. Eventually she went across to the oval table and lifted the green baize cloth which covered it. The cloth was too large for the table and its fringes lapped at the legs of the chairs. Helen stooped, peered underneath and then dropped the cloth back with a satisfied ‘hmm’.
‘What is it?’
‘Have a look beneath.’
Tom did so but saw nothing unusual although it was hard to make out much, given the shadows underneath and the general gloom of the front room.
‘Well?’ said his wife.
‘I don’t know. It’s just a table.’
‘Dear Tom. Although it’s got these dining chairs around, it’s not really a dining table, it’s too small. And it is resting on a single central column which means there’s much more give in it than there would be with a regular four-legged dining table. More play.’
To demonstrate, Helen pressed her hand a couple of times on an imaginary surface.
‘Easier for table-rapping and table-turning, you mean?’ said Tom.
Helen nodded and went on, her voice rising as she was caught up by the certainty of what she was saying, ‘If we were allowed to examine the underneath of that table properly and in a good light we’d probably find all sorts of things. Compartments and hidden drawers and sliding panels. And you see the glass over the mantel?’
‘I see you in the glass.’
‘Then look at how this chair is placed at the table. It’s the only carver out of the set so it’s probably where he sits.’
‘He?’
‘The gentleman we are here to see.’
‘Well? What’s the link between chair and table?’ said Tom. He had already guessed but he asked for the pleasure of hearing Helen make her deductions.
‘He can keep an eye on everyone else round the table by glancing up at the reflections in the glass. It hangs at a slant so it would be easy to see from the chair. While the sitters are all eyes on him, he’s watching them back, front and sides.’
‘You’re a suspicious person, Helen.’
‘I’d prefer to be called sceptical.’
‘A sceptical and imaginative person then.’
‘That’s better.’
As Tom was kissing Helen on the cheek, the door opened behind them. They swung round, slightly guilty. A large and alarming-looking woman swept in. She was dressed in black. Her complexion was strawberry-coloured and her hair stuck out from beneath a beaded cap surmounted by a single curled green feather.
‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr and Mrs Ansell?’ she said and then proceeded before Tom or Helen had the chance to nod agreement. ‘But of course I have. Even if the girl had not told me of your arrival I would have known you, my dear. You are Mrs Helen Ansell, nee Miss Helen Scott.’
She stretched out her heavily ringed hands and took one of Helen’s between them. Seized rather than took. Tom saw his wife’s delicate fingers and palm disappear into the clasp of hands which were as red and chapped as if their owner washed her own laundry. But Helen kept her self-possession and did not try to snatch her hand back.
‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of us,’ she said. ‘I am not sure I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you before, madam.’
