Gillespie and I by Jane Harris Page B

gave me a winsome nod. I peered down at the mess on the rug. ‘That china does look sharp,’ I said. ‘Be careful, Christina, when you pick it up. Perhaps, if I might suggest, a pair of gloves to protect your fingers.’
    And so, by degrees, the household returned to a calmer state. Ned wandered back up to his studio, with Sibyl in his arms and Rose climbing the stairs in their wake, while Christina cleared up the mess, and Annie came with me to the door, where we said our farewells, and confirmed that our first portrait sitting should take place on the following Wednesday afternoon.
    This incident with the fern might have been passed off as an accident, except for what happened later that evening. As the youngest person in the house, Rose slept in the smallest attic room, a little cupboard of a place, just next to the studio. There was only enough space for a child’s mattress, a small chest of drawers, and a few toys. Apparently, at bedtime, a shard of blue china was discovered between Rose’s sheets, just below her bolster. The fragment was sharp-edged and triangular, with three cruel, jagged points, and had it not been spotted (by the lynx-eyed Mabel, who had offered to read her niece a bedtime story), the child might have been lacerated, perhaps seriously injured, in the night.
    It was only with the passing of time, and the unfolding of other, more horrible events, that the family began to wonder in earnest whether Sibyl might, in a rage, have smashed her sister’s potted fern and then tiptoed upstairs to hide the nasty surprise in her bed. Admittedly, nobody had heard any disturbance that afternoon, which was mysterious, since the plant pot would have made quite a racket, were it thrown to the dining-room floor. But then, of course, everyone was otherwise engaged, and the culprit might easily have muffled any noise, perhaps by wrapping the pot in one end of the rug and then stamping hard upon it. The resulting sound would surely have been only a faint thud with—perhaps—a dim, ringing crack as the vessel came apart and fell into pieces. Shredding the fern itself would have been the business of a moment, conducted in silence. She must then have slipped out of the dining room, unnoticed, and crept upstairs to her sister’s tiny room, where she tucked the vicious fragment between the bedclothes.
    At least, such was how we supposed it might have happened, in retrospect.

Wednesday, 12 April 1933
LONDON

    It occurs to me that I should, perhaps, say a few words about my current situation. For the past twenty years, I have resided, quietly and modestly, in the Bloomsbury area of London, on the fourth floor of a mansion block, within sight of a large garden square. I am not wealthy: a small inheritance—invested in things that would neither smash nor flourish—provides me with a moderate income. Forty years ago, my accountant informed me that, if I chose so to do, I could dine on chateaubriand and champagne, every day, from then, until my last gasp. However, I rather suspect that he did not envisage me surviving quite this long, and, for the past decade, I have been obliged to make a few economies.
    Back in 1888, I remember bounding up and down to the Gillespies’ apartment like a mountain goat but, these days, staircases are a challenge, and I am none too fond of the lift in this building, which is prone to breakdowns. Thus, life is lived, for the most part, within these walls. I venture out only infrequently, and tend to rely upon others to bring in what is needed. The local tradesmen deliver, and I have a regular order with Lockwood’s, the grocer, across the street. In any case, my needs are few: although my health is generally good, and I am in possession of all my faculties, I am increasingly prone to heartburn, with the result that I eat like a bird. Thus, very little mess is generated, which cuts down on the housework, and means that I have no need for a maid. In