Alice-Miranda In New York 5 (6 page)

‘My father wants me to be friends with people who are just “like us”,' Lucinda put invisible quotation marks around her words in the air.

‘So why don't you spend time with the girls from the salon at school?' Alice-Miranda asked.

‘Because I don't think they like me very much and that's okay because I don't like them either. Some of them go to other schools and the ones who come here, well, we just say hi but we don't hang out,' Lucinda replied.

‘Well, that's just silly. You and me probably have the most in common when it comes to our families, Lucinda, and you've just told me that your father wouldn't allow us to be friends because of some ridiculous old family feud,' Alice-Miranda shook her head.

The shrill ringing of the bell interrupted the girls' conversation.

‘Come on.' Quincy slid out of the booth, followed by Alice-Miranda. On the opposite side Ava and Lucinda did the same.

The girls raced upstairs to their lockers to grab their sketchbooks and pencils, and then headed for
the back door.

E
xcuse me a moment.' Hugh Kennington-Jones walked away from the group of staff he had been discussing floor layouts with and answered his phone.

‘Hello, Hugh Kennington-Jones speaking. Oh, hello Hector.'

Hugh stood behind a male mannequin dressed in a dapper cream sports jacket and navy pants.

‘What do you mean you're in New York? Oh.' Hugh paused for a moment. ‘I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes.'

Hugh terminated the call and walked back
towards the group.

‘I'm terribly sorry, folks, but I have to duck out for a while. Can I leave the rest of the decisions in your capable hands, Marcel? It's looking great – product placement's very logical. I'm sure Ralph and Calvin will be pleased.'

A dark-haired man in a smart pinstripe suit nodded.

‘Of course, sir. Thank you.'

Hugh wove his way through the racks of clothing that were scattered around the floor. A lone carpenter was putting the finishing touches on one of the designer showroom areas, screwing the last sign into place.

Hugh exited the shop floor and ducked through to the private elevator in the rear passageway. He hopped in and rode it down to their parking garage.

‘Seamus, could you give me a lift?' he called to the chauffeur who was sitting inside the workshop with his head buried in
The Post
.

‘Of course, sir, where would you like to go?'

‘The Carlyle.'

Seamus held open the rear door and Hugh got into the vehicle.

Within a few minutes the limousine turned
into Park Avenue and then travelled a handful of blocks uptown.

‘I wonder how the little one is enjoying her first day at school.' Seamus glanced in the rearvision mirror.

Hugh didn't answer. He appeared lost in his thoughts. ‘Sorry, what did you say?' he apologised after a moment.

‘Miss Alice-Miranda – I said, I wonder how she's enjoying her first day,' the driver repeated.

Hugh managed a tight grin. ‘If I know my daughter, she's probably running the place by now.'

‘She knows her own mind that one,' Seamus replied.

‘Yes, you're right there,' Hugh replied.

The limousine pulled up in East 76th Street opposite Hugh's destination.

‘Isn't that her there?' The driver was studying a group of schoolgirls exiting a building just in front of the vehicle. A tall man with a goatee beard led the children to the traffic lights on the corner.

Seamus O'Leary opened the driver's door.

‘Wait,' Hugh urged. ‘I'd rather not distract her. In fact, I'd prefer that we keep this excursion
between ourselves.'

‘Of course, sir,' Seamus watched as Alice-Miranda skipped across the road surrounded by a gaggle of girls, all laughing and talking as they went. ‘Would you like me to wait for you, sir?'

‘No, I'll make my own way back,' Hugh advised. He opened the rear door and hopped out.

Hugh checked the traffic and scurried across the street to the side entrance of The Carlyle. There in the foyer, Hector was waiting for him. The two men shook hands vigorously and Hugh suggested they sit in the Bemelmans Bar, where the booths were private.

‘So what have you found that has brought you all the way to the US?' Hugh scanned the old man's face looking for clues.

‘Well, after we spoke, I took a trip back to the village to see if the charity shop had received anything from the estate. I don't think the old woman running the place thought much of me at all, but there was a naive young thing working alongside her who answered my questions. Lo and behold, she found an ancient tin trunk out the back with the initials MAB. I offered to buy it on the spot without even a glimpse inside as I couldn't risk opening the thing in
front of her, and besides it was padlocked. She wasn't keen to let me have it without knowing the contents and it took some convincing, but I managed to persuade her to sell it to me as is – for a price.'

‘And what
did
you find?' Hugh leaned in closer.

‘I took the trunk home and mangled the lock off and I found –' Hector snapped open the locks on his briefcase beside him – ‘this.' He handed Hugh a thick book.

Hugh ran his fingers along the plain brown cover. There was nothing on the outside to hint at its contents but as he opened the first page, the same swirly script from the letter identified its owner.

This diary belongs to Martha Annerley Bedford, Pelham Park, Dunleavy.

The address was crossed out and underneath was written:

Nutkin Cottage, Tidmarsh Lane.

Hugh looked up. ‘And?'

‘And I think you will find its contents compelling to say the least, sir. But I'm afraid the old girl wrote
in rather a cryptic fashion and there are still many unanswered questions. There was this too.' Hector handed Hugh a much smaller book.

‘Oh, you've got to be kidding me.' Hugh took the delicate volume. ‘My brother made this for me. I loved it.'

‘It's lovely artwork, sir. He had quite a talent
,
' Hector said admiringly.

‘I used to have Nanny read it to me every night. I adored all those fanciful drawings of dragons and knights. There were other things hidden in the illustrations too. See?' Hugh pointed. ‘There's a turtle in there. She must have had it all those years.' Hugh turned his attention back to the diary. ‘Does she mention the “truth” that she talked about in the letter to my father?' Hugh asked.

‘Well, sir, I believe that has something to do with your brother Xavier,' Hector advised. ‘But we'll need to do some more digging – literally.'

‘What do you mean?' Hugh stared at his companion.

‘We need to check the crypt at Pelham Park,' Hector replied.

Hugh was aghast. ‘The crypt! What on earth does that have to do with anything?'

‘It will tell us for certain,' said Hector, ‘that your brother isn't dead.'

Hugh Kennington-Jones decided to walk the ten blocks back to Highton's via Central Park. He needed time to think. The diary was wrapped in a shopping bag and Hugh was eager to decipher its contents for himself. Amid the mothers' groups and their parades of prams, tourists with their cameras and folks taking a break from the chaos of the city, Hugh spotted an empty bench in the middle of a patch of lawn.

His stomach grumbled. He checked his watch and saw that it was just after 1 pm. Further along the path he spotted a street vendor and walked over to see what he might buy.

‘Hot dog please, with mustard and cheese,' Hugh requested.

‘No little one today?' the man asked.

‘I'm sorry?' Hugh frowned.

‘Your little girl. You were here yesterday. Sweetest little miss I ever met,' the man replied.

‘Oh, you've got a good memory.' Hugh's grin was brief. ‘You must meet hundreds of people.'

‘When you've got all the time in the world, mister, you pay attention,' the older man said, nodding. ‘And your daughter – she made me smile.'

‘She's at school, actually. Started today,' Hugh replied as he was handed his lunch.

‘Of course. She mentioned that yesterday. Well, you tell her that old Lou said hello and I'm looking forward to seeing her again soon.'

‘Yes, I will.' Hugh thanked the man for his hot dog and walked back to the bench.

As he sat there, slowly chewing his food, Hugh wondered if what Hector told him could possibly be true. Hugh's memories of that time were sketchy to say the least. He was only five when it happened. And almost straight afterwards he'd been sent away to school and the topic was barely spoken of again.

Hugh finished his lunch and pulled the book from its covering. He opened it to the first page and scanned the ornate script, wishing that it was easier to read. The dates were most helpful. Martha Annerley Bedford had been employed by his parents as a nanny to their first-born son Xavier some fourteen years before Hugh's arrival. The early years seemed to document mostly happy times, helping with the baby and then as he grew into a toddler.
As time passed it seemed his brother and father did not always see eye to eye; Nanny Bedford spoke of terrible rows and times when the master did not speak to his son for days on end. But his mother adored him.

Hugh's impending arrival sent the household into a spin. A new baby was apparently the last thing anyone expected. By the time Hugh was born, his brother had been away at boarding school for many years, so the two had little to do with one another, except when Xavier came home to Pelham Park for the holidays – and Hugh couldn't remember much about their time together.

On a terrible rainy night, Hugh had stood in the window of the nursery and watched the lights of the car flashing down the drive. He hadn't wanted his mother to go. She had seemed sad and he wanted her to stay close. He could still remember her perfume – that musky scent that stayed with him for years after her death. He hadn't seen his brother get into the car, but in the morning, Nanny Bedford, whose red eyes were rimmed from the hundreds of tears she had already shed, took Hugh to his father's study, where he was informed that his mother and his brother would not be returning to
Pelham Park.

Hugh had asked his father where they had gone. The old man had blistered with rage.

‘They are dead, you stupid child, dead!'

Hugh could still remember those words ringing in his ears. He had run towards his father and thrown himself at his knees.

‘Take the boy away,' his father had instructed Nanny, his voice icy, his touch even colder.

Hugh sobbed for days, taking comfort from the one person who he felt loved him at least as much as his own mother.

On a bitter day, he stood beside his father and Nanny as they lowered his mother and brother into the ground on the hill overlooking the estate. Almost immediately his father had a lavish crypt built over the gravesite. The memorial to his mother recounted his father's devotion. His brother warranted only a name and a date.

Hugh's heart pounded as he scanned Nanny Bedford's private recollections. She had disappeared from his life not long after his mother and brother. Hugh was sent away to school where his days were brightened by a slew of clever teachers and a kindly housemistress, Mrs Briggs, who dedicated herself to
her young charges and was particularly fond of her youngest.

Holidays had been spent roaming the estate at Pelham Park, hunting and fishing, often with friends who preferred to spend their break with Hugh rather than brave going home to their own families. Hugh had grown into himself without the aid of parents.

His father remained a distant figure until Hugh's thirteenth birthday, when he decided that it was time for the young lad to be taken into the family fold. From that time on, Hugh had spent his school holidays working alongside his father at Kennington's, learning the grocery business from the ground up. Hugh had loved it from the very first day. And his love for Kennington's inspired more attention from his father than he had ever known.

On the few occasions that Hugh felt confident enough to ask his father about his mother and brother, his queries had always been met with a sharp rebuke, as though the mere pronouncement of their names tore open a wound that had never healed.

Hugh felt like a thief as he read Nanny Bedford's most private thoughts. In the weeks and days leading up to that terrible time, she recounted fearsome rows between his father and brother with his mother
standing between them.

They have been at it again tonight. Master Xavier and his father arguing over the boy's future: the lad wanting to find his own way, his father insisting upon a path already trod. I fear it won't end well.

Hugh had known nothing of this. He'd spent his days in the nursery, unaware of the war going on downstairs.

Somewhere in the distance a phone was ringing. Hugh looked up from the diary and saw that the sun had dipped behind a bank of fluffy white clouds. He finally realised the ringing phone was his. It was his wife.