Shadows & Lies (12 page)
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Half an hour later, sitting at her desk in her small, pretty house off Sloane Street (Algy saw no reason for a larger establishment), Sylvia took out her cheque book. She must go through her accounts, pay off a few pressing bills, small things she had asked to be charged, in order not to pay cash. Algy would want explanations but she would think of something. More importantly, she must get hold of more ready money. Even her father, always
persuadable where she was concerned, had begun to show concern at the number of requests she was making. She pulled her writing case towards her. âDear Mama,' she began, then stopped.
persuadable where she was concerned, had begun to show concern at the number of requests she was making. She pulled her writing case towards her. âDear Mama,' she began, then stopped.
She couldn't ask her mother for money, either. Adèle had reasons for not enquiring too closely into the necessity for any request from Sylvia, but the fact that her daughter needed money for which she couldn't ask her husband might alert her suspicions. She wouldn't speak of it to Sir Henry, but she might well mention it to Monty. And Sylvia did not want Monty to know that she was in danger of failing to keep her part of the bargain.
She crumpled the thick, cream-laid paper and threw it into the fire before rising to consider once more what was in her jewel-case, pressing her lips together in frustration as she examined the contents. Most of her better jewellery was kept in the safe in Algy's study, while the most expensive of all was in the bank, only to be taken out when needed for a special occasion. Much of that, of course, was quite hideous, passed on to her by her late mother-in-law, pieces with which she would gladly have parted had she dared, unlike the marvellous modern things from Cartier in Paris and Tiffany in New York. Algy, whatever his other faults, had exquisite taste. Her thin fingers scrabbled through the pretty but inconsequential bits and pieces in the box with increasing despair. What she had here were mere trifles, bagatelle.
Oh, Harry, Harry! she groaned. No one could understand the unendurable agony of losing a twin, one's other self, so close, so perfect a companion. And yet, she was still angry with him â for dying and leaving her, for the manner of his death, and for the secrets and the mess of the unfinished business he had left behind him. Why, why had he been taken so cruelly, so untimely?
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The postmortem confirmed that the still-unidentified woman had died from manual strangulation. Medical evidence had also shown that the victim's body had lain undisturbed several hours after death before being moved to where she was found. Which meant she had either left the grounds after Sebastian had seen her, been killed and then been brought back, which Crockett considered unlikely. Or, before being put in the stream, she had been killed elsewhere on the estate and left until it was convenient to dispose of her. But where on the estate? And why had she
been placed in the stream?
been placed in the stream?
Since no new evidence had turned up, Tom Jordan was cleared of suspicion and an inquest passed a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. The victim had been unknown, of no direct consequence to anyone in the village, and the talk would soon die down. The murder would become a nine days' wonder, all set to go down as the stuff of legend in the annals of Belmonde Abbey, on a par with the story of the second earl's wife who had eloped with her groom, or the day when the soldiers of Henry VIII had ridden up and sacked the Abbey, or the tale of the Roman Catholic priest who had, or had not, been walled up.
Crockett meanwhile received orders summoning him back to London and a more important investigation.
“Well, there we are,” said Meredith with resignation, “I'm not satisfied, but I suppose we must consider the case closed.”
“It may be in abeyance, but it isn't yet finished.” These questions posed by the PM were the sort of picky problem which called for a good deal of ferreting and nosing around, much better suited to Meredith's painstaking approach than Crockett's more wide-ranging style. “I'd take it kindly if you'd keep your eyes and ears open and keep me informed of any developments, Mr Meredith.”
Last night I had another of those dreams which left me, as usual, as limp as a rag, in which the child came to me again. His features were not precise and distinct â they never are â and I longed to draw him to me so that I could look into his face, but as usual, he was beyond my reach. Quick to â well, to dematerialise.
Dr Harvill explained that dreams are to be welcomed, and I take his point, which is why I cannot understand the almost superstitious dread which has so far prevented me from telling him about this particular, recurrent one. He is still so convinced that by gradually moving through my life, recording as much as I can possibly remember, I may yet discover in what ways fate has led me to this point where I now am. I must be patient, he says, I haven't yet given myself enough time. Well, he is an expert, trained in Heidelberg. Perhaps they see things differently there.
I am sure the good doctor would say this beautiful child of my dreams is simply a manifestation of my subconscious, perhaps a wish-fulfilment, and I most definitely do not want to be told this. But last night, the boy felt so real, as if he were trying to communicate with me, to urge me to wake up and live again. I reached out to him and his name was almost on the tip of my tongue.
As it always does after I've dreamt of him, the pattern will reestablish itself. I know that throughout the next few days I shall see him again when I least expect it. A fleeting glimpse, perhaps sitting, improbably, cross-legged on the birdbath, or even more implausibly, perched on a high shelf of the bookcase, hands clasped around one knee, the other leg dangling. Or I might look up from my writing and see his head peeping mischievously around the edge of the door. If I try to approach him, he is gone, but even if I don't, he soon becomes blurred, until he is nothing more than a grey shape that eventually disappears altogether; and until the next dream, I'm left with this dull, aching void where my heart should be.
How can an emptiness ache? Yet I can assure you it does, like those amputated limbs of the wounded men I helped to nurse. I could do no more for those brave soldiers than hold their hands, bathe their brows until the chloroform and drugs did their work. Did it ever disappear, that phantom pain, that agony? I cannot say, for I never saw any of them again, after the war had ended.
Mrs Crowther's forsythias â¦those great arching fountains of gold that emerged from their bare winter stems every spring to challenge the bitter cold and the pall of smoke that always lay over Bridge End, the small town in the Calder valley. The black smoke from the mill chimneys, blown on the wind that whipped across the Yorkshire moors, down the bleak Pennine slopes and into the valley, constitutes one of my abiding memories of the place where I was born, along with the buzzers from the mills signalling the starting and finishing times and the dinner hour for the weavers and machine-minders; the acrid smell of wool grease that permeated the whole town, and the creak of the wagons and the clopping hooves of the horses drawing the carts piled high with great, square, sacking-wrapped bales of raw wool.
I was Hannah Mary Jackson then, a child of the vicarage, an only child, and the blackened stone church where my good and gentle father was vicar lay at the junction with the main road and the end of a steep, narrow street of back-to-back houses. I used to love to watch the billowing, snow-white washing strung from house to house across the street â very few of them had gardens â and to hear the wind cracking the sheets, though no doubt the women who'd laboured over washtub and copper until their fingers were raw didn't feel the same about the grime and smuts that were blown into them. Most of the houses in the town gave out directly on to the pavement, though if it were one of the better streets, they might be able to boast a small, sour plot of earth by the door, roughly the shape and size of a grave, where the hopeful planted sunflowers or even grew a cabbage or two, and the feckless left their rubbish and trod the black earth down flat. Where Mary Mellor, the verger's wife, planted her favourite wallflowers, and her husband' 'Lijah grew a bush of lad's love for sprigs to put in his buttonhole, and both cried shame on the feckless. Not that there were many of that ilk. Respectability was all to those hard-working women in their clogs and shawls. They even scrubbed the grime off the flagstones on the pavement outside their door, donkey-stoned their doorsteps white, and
polished their windows until they shone. And blew the smuts off the washing and started again.
polished their windows until they shone. And blew the smuts off the washing and started again.
My mother, never very strong, died in 1891, when I was fourteen. My father, the Rev. Aldous Jackson, followed her to the grave within six months, allegedly dying from a stroke, though they'd been such a devoted couple it didn't seem inconceivable to me that he'd died of a broken heart. A good Christian man, he hadn't, alas, been a provident one. I wasn't quite destitute, however; he'd made provisions for me in the way of my future education, and a tiny allowance was to be paid to me when I reached the age of eighteen.
Mrs Crowther had been a good friend of my mother, and after the funeral, she took me to Wakefield, to what was to be my new home: a school for the orphaned daughters of the clergy with which my father had had some connections. We went by train and when we arrived, Mrs Crowther sniffed the carbolic-scented air and cast a searching look at the room where we were received: varnished pitch pine seats and one picture, The Light of the World. She listened with me to the strictures of the pious, though no doubt well-intentioned, woman who met us, as to how I should continue to receive a Christian education as long as I conducted myself properly. She said, “Hannah, wouldn't you rather come and live with us at Bridge End House?”
What a question! If she'd asked me if I would rather live in Paradise, the answer could have been no more joyful.
Mrs Crowther briskly dealt with the formalities, brushing aside any difficulties, and after some discussion we returned to Bridge End, where it was arranged that I would live with the Crowthers as one of the family and continue to share lessons with their daughter, Lyddie (which I had in any case been doing for some time) until I was old enough to earn my living, or perhaps to act as companion to Mrs Crowther, though I couldn't see how she could ever need a companion, so full and busy was her life with her family and all manner of occupations and social and charitable duties, not to mention the entertaining of countless friends. Alfred Crowther was one of the town's most respected alderman, and a JP, the head of Abraham Crowther & Sons Ltd, prosperous woollen manufacturers, makers of
blankets, and very well regarded both locally and throughout the West Riding. A âwarm' man (which in Yorkshire stood for wealthy) but, though his family lacked for nothing, he kept a modest household.
blankets, and very well regarded both locally and throughout the West Riding. A âwarm' man (which in Yorkshire stood for wealthy) but, though his family lacked for nothing, he kept a modest household.
From the very first, I was welcomed into their happy family. I remained closest to Lyddie, the only girl, already the dearest friend I had in the world, though her nature, as well as her appearance, was very different from mine. I was a little, black-haired thing, my olive green eyes too big for my pale face, and âthin as a match wi' tâwood scraped off', as 'Lijah Mellor used to say, and the cold winds were apt to give me chills and chest infections. I was also inclined to be shy and retiring, while Lyddie, having grown up with boisterous brothers, was lively, brimming with energy and full of fun, with a smile that lit up the day. Her mass of soft, light brown hair, which began the day smoothly brushed and tidy, by midday usually reverted to its natural curls, and was the bane of her life. Her hastily tucked in blouses soon became untucked, her collars askew. But her smile never varied.
For a while, we continued to share her governess, a small, sour-looking woman from Alsace, who was supposed to improve our French but instead, since her mother came from Strasbourg and her sympathies were with those who lived on the other side of the Rhine, spoke mostly German to us. Alderman Crowther was deeply patriotic and not fond of Germans â or foreigners of any kind, for that matter â and when he found out, he issued Mam'selle with her marching orders and thereafter we were put in the charge of a young woman called Rhoda Rouncewell, uncompromisingly English, but also well-educated, sympathetic and of an open and enquiring mind.
Not only did Rouncey, as we affectionately called her, improve our education and our knowledge of the wider world: as we grew up, she taught Lyddie to be less impatient when dressing, so that her clothes and her unruly hair remained more or less in place throughout the day, and myself how to make the most of what figure I had. I might still have grown up in Lyddie's shadow, given her bonny good looks and my drab appearance, but that would be to deny her sweet good nature, which meant she never set herself above anyone. As I grew older I began to fill out a
little and gradually began to outgrow my tendency to take cold so easily, albeit I was prone to troublesome coughs on occasions and still looked deceptively fragile. I use the word deceptive advisedly, for the truth was, I had become energetic both in actions and opinions, entirely due to Rouncey's bolstering of my self-confidence. I was in fact in danger of becoming too outspoken, so I took refuge in becoming known for my common sense.
little and gradually began to outgrow my tendency to take cold so easily, albeit I was prone to troublesome coughs on occasions and still looked deceptively fragile. I use the word deceptive advisedly, for the truth was, I had become energetic both in actions and opinions, entirely due to Rouncey's bolstering of my self-confidence. I was in fact in danger of becoming too outspoken, so I took refuge in becoming known for my common sense.
In the evenings, Rouncey would drop her role of governess and we'd sit and listen while she talked to us about the paintings and sculpture in the great art galleries and churches of Florence and Paris and Venice, all cities she had visited. I, in particular, hung on her words, seeing in my mind the pictures she drew, though sadly aware that I was never likely to have the opportunity to travel to such exotic locations. But above all she taught me, at least, to love books and reading, something which even my meagre means would always allow.
She'd been educated at Girton College, Cambridge, though she had, of course, been denied a degree, since women couldn't be admitted to full membership of the university, but her education had given her an emancipated outlook and a strong belief in her own abilities to make her way in the world: we were left in no doubt that she was only working as a governess until something more suitable to her talents turned up. On winter evenings we curled up on the rug before the fire as it burned frostily, our hands around cups of cocoa, and talked endlessly about women's situation in the world, the good they could do if only they had equality with men. She encouraged us to believe that a woman's role consisted of more than being easy on the eye, domesticated, charming and obedient to either husband or father, as most men believed they should be.
Mrs Crowther, however, saw no reason why all this high-flown thinking should prevent Lyddie and me from being taught how to cook and keep a house running properly. At Bridge End, come what may, the washing blew on the line every Monday; the ironing was done on Tuesday; Wednesday was baking day, and every single day the sweeping, polishing and dusting was attended to, the doors and windows flung open to let the fresh, moorland breezes blow in to air the rooms. She was determined
that exercising our brains shouldn't make us ashamed of being good Yorkshire housewives.
that exercising our brains shouldn't make us ashamed of being good Yorkshire housewives.
It was inevitable that our lives seemed less colourful when eventually Rouncey decided to leave us, having stayed much longer than she had originally intended. Now that she'd lain down the foundations of our education, and we were both seventeen and young women, she really couldn't lay any claim to stay with us. She was leaving with regret, she said, but it had been obvious for some time that she was growing restless to be off again. So it came as no surprise when she told us that she'd succeeded in obtaining a position in America, no less, doing some kind of confidential work for an official in the British Embassy in Washington. The news caused such a stir! We girls thought it unbelievably exotic, but after we'd seen her off on the first stage of the journey that was to lead her to the other side of the world, I was left with an empty feeling I didn't seem able to fill, wishing for the impossible, that I might have gone with her, and a longing which I knew could never be satisfied, to experience a world that was wider than the proscribed circle in which we moved.
Lyddie missed Rouncey too, of course, but not, I think, with the same intensity as I did. She wasn't in the least bookish, her only contribution to culture being to thump out tunes from the latest operettas on the piano and enthusiastically sing the words; but she too longed for adventure, though of a different kind to me. Her heroines were those intrepid ladies who climbed the Matterhorn, lived alone and undaunted amongst Arab tribes in the desert, sailed as far as Australia, or travelled the golden road to Samarkand. “We'll see the world, too, someday, you and I, Hannah,” she often declared, forgetting that her situation was, after all, entirely different from mine. The possibility of foreign travel wasn't excluded from her future by lack of money or anything else. Her life was predictably laid out â she would in all probability marry someone with means, and even if by some quirk she didn't, she would at some time have money of her own. Within limits she would be able to do exactly as she pleased.
But for the moment, at any rate, she was quite happy and content to be with her family and friends, in the place where she'd
been born.
been born.
Whereas I â¦
I really didn't in the least wish to contemplate my future, when I should, at some time, be forced to find work, possibly â horrid thought! â as a governess, like mam'selle from Alsace. Or remain here, growing plain and middle-aged, as Mrs Crowther's companion. The allowance my father had left me would scarcely be enough to keep body and soul together. Meanwhile, our life went on pretty much as before. But not for long. It was to be less than a year before Lyddie left us, too.
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