White Stone Day Read Free

muse and William Boltbyn his happiness at once – and all
for the price of a hat!

    With
huge umbrella, lank and brown, Unerringly she pinned it down, Right
through the centre of the crown.

    Emma
was barely ten, and on an outing to Oxford with her family. Over the
nearly three years of their acquaintance, Boltbyn's diary has been
strewn with white stones, whole weeks smiling like rows of little
teeth, while his shelves and drawers bulge with photographs of his
favourite subject in all sorts of guises, from beggar–girls to
wood– nymphs.

    The
vicar looks upon Emma, photographing her in his mind, fixing in his
memory the look in her hazel eyes, still filled with the mystery and
wonder of childhood. At the end of this day he can safely affix
another white stone to his diary – but for how many more? Soon
Emma's eyes will acquire another kind of knowledge – and then
the golden light of childhood will die, and he will be alone, an
orphan and a widower, at once.

    Whitechapel,
1858

    In
the shadow of London Hospital, a solitary pedestrian slouches along
Raven Row, wearing corduroy breeches and a muffin hat. It is early
evening, the temporary silence before the lamplighter arrives, that
in– between hour when the day–creatures have gone to
ground and the night–creatures have yet to emerge in their
tattered finery. Buildings of stone and brick loom like the blackened
hulks of abandoned ships as he turns up Sneer Lane, looking neither
to right nor left. In East London, the unguarded pedestrian does his
best to remain invisible.

    Passing
by the shadowed entry–way of a vacant tobacco shop, through the
corner of an eye, he discerns a curious tableau within –
something like a Madonna–and–Child. But he does not take
a closer look; in this part of the city, curiosity has killed more
than cats. In the entry–way, perched upon a square wicker
laundry hamper in front of the boarded–up door of the shop, the
figure in question waits for the footsteps to recede, then returns
his attention to the child. There is indeed something tender, even
maternal, in the way he cradles the slender girl in his arms. His
faded, threadbare, once scarlet sleeve is that of a corporal in the
Indian Army; the hand that cradles her slim neck is missing its
thumb, which appears to have been torn out by the root.

    Hovering
above him like Joseph at the Manger is a man in a similar uniform,
except his stripes and markings have been torn off, leaving a trail
of needle–tracks in the shape of the rank of
lieutenant–colonel. He seems narrow–shouldered for an
officer, with a large head of matted hair that is all but white;
standing at attention, he resembles an inverted mop or broom. At
present, however, he is bent over his companion, and his outstretched
hand presses a cloth over the mouth and nose of the silent girl.

    The
pleasant sweetness of chloroform disperses quickly, trumped by the
immanent reek of the Thames.

    'Be
careful,' whispers the seated man. 'Mustn't overdo it or she is gone
from us and we is gone to the devil.'

    'She
is not ready,' replies the lieutenant–colonel in the clipped
tones of command. 'She has ceased to struggle, yet I feel her breast
move more quickly than it should.'

    'That
is a relief, Mr Robin, at least there is breath left.'

    'Of
course there is breath, Mr Weeks, I am not an idiot. The point is, we
must make certain. Mr Lush warned as how the clever ones will pretend
to be asleep. Imagine if she awoke in transit!'

    'Granted,
Mr Robin, yet I do not like the use of chemicals for this purpose. It
is a low business for men who have seen the epic of the race.' 'Focus
on the larger picture, Mr Weeks. England is teeming with cashiered
troops washed up on her shores, seeking positions. Shall we join them
in the workhouse?'

    Robin
avoids mentioning that he is the more likely of the two to wind up in
that dreary institution, owing to the condition of his face. Sunburnt
to charcoal during the siege of Lucknow, it is