Gibbous House 39

Someone, I supposed it to be Maccabi, had lit candles in the corridor. There was a window of relative transparency at the very end, but it was admitting little light as dusk was falling. The improvement offered by the candlelight was but little and the dark wallpaper above the wainscoting scarcely helped. The corridor would indeed have been a dismal place had it not been for the inexplicably unfaded shades of the blue doors. Chance and serendipity had long fascinated me, who had charted no course through life but merely profited - or not -from coincidence at every turn. Therefore, I chose a door midway down the sinister side, for no other reason than that it was the particular shade of my only frock coat, until such time as the jewish tailor returned with my new wardrobe.

The brass knob and plate were identical in every way to that admitting the invited to Miss Pardoner’s room, save for the sheen and highly polished colour. Similarly, as I opened the door, it became clear that unlike that bedchamber, this example would quite simply welcome any clandestine nocturnal visitor. I took a candle from the sconce to the left of the door before entering. There was a window, although it was to be found on the other side of the bed in this particular chamber. Neither was it filthy, indeed not: the glass was so clear as to allow a sufficient quantity of crepuscular light as to illuminate the room, but perhaps not to permit the reading of any papers.

The bed was little different in construction from that of the previous room. However, the tester was in good repair if a little faded and there was no classical scene of dubious taste on the drapery around it. These drapes were a subtle and warm siena colour decorated with a monogram including in its design a six pointed star and the letters A and C. Again I was struck by the lack of a looking glass. The furnishings were lighter in colour, there was no hulking wardrobe of mahogany, rather a clothes press. I slid out a tray or two, but found them empty. In common with the other furnishings, the wood was highly polished walnut. There was a dresser and the porcelain stood atop it, a little high for practical use. Several hair pins were also strewn beside the sanitary ware. A silver backed hair brush lay next to them, it looked as though it should have had as companion a hand held looking glass lying beside it, but it did not.

In one corner, to my surprise, was a love seat, I took my candle to inspect it closely. The upholstery was stained. I recognised the different stains from years of removing linen from lunatics' beds. Neither stain should have been found in the room of a lady of quality. I found something else on the seat. A handsome leather bound book with a locked hasp also bearing the monogram with the six-pointed star. It was a simple matter to break the lock with the spear blade pen-knife I carred in my pocket.

The book was of course a journal: inscribed inside was a name

‘Arabella Coble’.