Shadows & Lies (22 page)
“She's making a fool of Tom â and the scandal could cost him his career if he doesn't watch out. She's going to ruin him, as well as Marriott, if she's not careful.”
I knew that, unfair as it was, such scandals reflected as badly on the wretched husband as on the erring wife. He would be deemed incapable of controlling her, and it would be said that if he could let this happen in his private life, it was unlikely he would be able to control and keep the respect of the men under him.
“It's only a silly flirtation. They don't mean anything by it, either of them. He's just turned her head a bit, that's all. And you have to admit, Thomas isn't much fun.” He was, in fact, the most solemn and silent man I'd ever met, very well thought of in the regiment, and his bravery was apparently legendary. It was often said that his men would follow him anywhere. But he never showed the faintest glimmer of humour. I didn't believe I'd seen him laugh, really laugh, once.
“She knew that when she married him,” said Hugh, unforgiving. “That sort of thing simply isn't done. She should behave herself.”
“And what about Roger Marriott?”
“Oh, he's incorrigible! But married ladies should know better than to allow him to take liberties.”
“I suppose it's all Caroline's fault.”
“Of course not. But she's older than him, and she shouldn't
encourage the young fool. It won't do his promotion prospects any good, mark my words. Tom might not say much but Marriott's already a marked man.”
encourage the young fool. It won't do his promotion prospects any good, mark my words. Tom might not say much but Marriott's already a marked man.”
“That's one way of revenge, I suppose. What would you do in similar circumstances?”
“They'd never arise. You would never do such a thing.”
He was a good man, my husband, I reminded myself, to be so utterly sure of me. But I suddenly wanted to shake him, to demand how he
knew.
Instead, I bit my lip and tried to make a joke of it. “Of course not. But then, I've never much liked Roger Marriott.”
knew.
Instead, I bit my lip and tried to make a joke of it. “Of course not. But then, I've never much liked Roger Marriott.”
It took him a moment or two, but in the end his face broke into the diffident smile I had first fallen in love with.
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On this trip, we ladies mostly travelled in the ox-wagon, with horses for riding when we felt we had had enough of the rough jolting, though neither mode of transport was comfortable. As for Lyddie â¦at the moment she was looking radiant, full of well being, and rode ahead with Lyall, astride her horse like a man. He often rode close to her, with his hand on her bridle. Seeing her like that, with the sun on her face and the dry, dusty wind blowing through her hair, one would have thought she hadn't a care in the world. She was magnificently attractive. I wondered, with a lurch of the heart, if she could possibly be starting yet another baby.
The road was little more than a track in the thick red sand and the carts lurched all over the place; the poor oxen were plagued all the way by tsetse flies. It was extremely hot in those shadeless wastes; the cold at night, when the sun went down and we set up tents, was extreme, but it was a great relief. On the way, gazelles, antelopes and zebra from the herds of game roaming the plains were shot as meat for the porters; for our own evening dinner, tables were set up near the camp fire, where we ate the meal that had been prepared for us â hares, and desert partridges, which tasted not so different from chicken or turkey, though not as tender.
There were moments of great drama, such as when we saw an awe-inspiring troop of elephants, silhouetted against the dying, fiery orange sky, processing majestically down to a watering hole
at sunset. And more than once, we came across a pride of lions, like big cats snoozing in the sun, but this wasn't a hunting party, and they were left alone. One time we surprised a leopard, a solitary beast of such grace and beauty he took one's breath away. This time, one of our party took aim to shoot it, but its speed was such that he missed, at which I inwardly rejoiced. To kill it â or any animal â simply for its skin, or its tusks, seemed to me reprehensible; to kill it for sport was unforgivable. I said nothing, however. In view of Lyall's occupation, I'd long become accustomed to keeping such views to myself.
at sunset. And more than once, we came across a pride of lions, like big cats snoozing in the sun, but this wasn't a hunting party, and they were left alone. One time we surprised a leopard, a solitary beast of such grace and beauty he took one's breath away. This time, one of our party took aim to shoot it, but its speed was such that he missed, at which I inwardly rejoiced. To kill it â or any animal â simply for its skin, or its tusks, seemed to me reprehensible; to kill it for sport was unforgivable. I said nothing, however. In view of Lyall's occupation, I'd long become accustomed to keeping such views to myself.
Ostriches, on the other hand, I found myself not able to love, given their appearance, which was unfair, but true â good looks give an unfair advantage to anyone, much less ostriches. “I see what you meant about Councillor Greenwood,” I remarked to Lyddie on our arrival at Orchard Farm.
“Poor things. They can't help it, any more than he can.”
They were such manifestly foolish birds, forever in a fluster about something, picking up and swallowing anything that lay around â to help with their digestion, we were told. Like our canary at home needed grit, I supposed â only the bigger the bird, the bigger the stones. “This old beggar,” said Barty Fox, the younger of the brothers who ran the farm, pointing to one with a disagreeable expression and a mad, rolling eye, “he'll eat anything â chunks of metal, glass, anything. He'll chew through the fence to get out. The times we've had to chase him! Nothing'll keep him in. If he doesn't watch it, he'll be for the pot.”
I laughed but hoped this didn't mean we were to have ostrich steaks for lunch, tender as I was assured they were.
Barty and his older brother had come out from Britain to run the farm, two young men of immense enthusiasm and determination. Robert, the elder, was married with two young children, but Barty was still a bachelor. Staying with them was their father, on a visit from England. Augustus Fox was a doctor who had recently lost his wife and he had brought with him on this visit his daughter, Louisa, a lively child of about thirteen, with glossy chestnut curly hair and sharp, observant eyes.
Dr Fox was an agreeable, imperturbable man who spent most of his days collecting insects and butterflies, drawing them and
writing copious notes. He seemed quite unmoved by the talk of preparations for war, and refused to be panicked into cutting short his visit by making a hasty, and perhaps unnecessary, departure. His two sons were obviously worried that he could not, or would not, see the difficulties and danger of staying put, but Dr Fox only shrugged. “In the unlikely event that things do come to a fight, we shall be safe enough where we are. What is there out here to fight over?”
writing copious notes. He seemed quite unmoved by the talk of preparations for war, and refused to be panicked into cutting short his visit by making a hasty, and perhaps unnecessary, departure. His two sons were obviously worried that he could not, or would not, see the difficulties and danger of staying put, but Dr Fox only shrugged. “In the unlikely event that things do come to a fight, we shall be safe enough where we are. What is there out here to fight over?”
Barty laughed but Robert, who was of a more serious disposition, didn't appear to share the amusement. He was already talking of packing his wife and children off to Cape Town to stay with her sister, where they would be safer should the worst happen.
“A wise precaution,” agreed Lyall, with a meaningful glance at his own wife. Lyddie simply smiled. It was an argument with which both she and I were becoming increasingly familiar. More and more men were sending their families away to safety; Sarah Whitely had already left with her two children and was even now on her way back to England, but Lyddie flatly refused to listen to any such suggestion, as did I. If there was to be trouble, my place was at Hugh's side, or as near to it as I could remain. Moreover, if war came, there would be useful work we could do, helping to nurse the sick and wounded.
“We can't shut our eyes to the inevitable. Give it another couple of months or so and we shall be at war, mark my words,” said Robert, a sentiment which most of us by now were very used to hearing. “The only reason the burghers are waiting at all is for the rains; they can't go to war without grass for their horses.”
“Possibly, but if I've understood the situation aright, that's precisely why hostilities can't last long,” Dr Fox went on. “Won't they need to get back to their farms before the dry season comes?”
“That's true. They can't leave their farms for long â but I wouldn't be too sure about it being over soon,” Lyall said, “Don't ever underestimate the stubbornness of a Boer.”
The arguments didn't impress Dr Fox. He'd come prepared for a lengthy stay and wasn't going to be frightened off by any Dutch burgher. Things would turn out for the best, just wait and
see. I admired the spirit with which it was said, but it seemed a somewhat Micawberish attitude to take, especially in view of the child who was with him. He was like one of the ostriches, burying its head in the sand when being chased, believing it couldn't be seen because it could not see.
see. I admired the spirit with which it was said, but it seemed a somewhat Micawberish attitude to take, especially in view of the child who was with him. He was like one of the ostriches, burying its head in the sand when being chased, believing it couldn't be seen because it could not see.
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The feverish air of expectation in Mafeking grew. Most people made a pretence of carrying on as though nothing unusual was happening, rather like dancing before Waterloo, though in reality, everyone was taking precautions for what must now come. Hugh was readying himself and his men, while Lyall spent much of his time serving on a committee to bring together as much as possible of the necessities of life to the town, in case supplies should be cut off for any length of time.
The probability of war approached certainty with the return of Baden-Powell as commander of the North West Frontier Forces, who made his headquarters in Mafeking and immediately set about erecting fortifications to enclose the town and as much commonage around it as was feasible. We, and especially the Baralong, were dependent on this for grazing cattle and growing crops. Within weeks the town proper and the native stadt had been surrounded by a ten-mile zigzag of earthworks and trenches, each connected by telephone, hedged by mines and ramparts made of sandbags and felled trees whose branches pointed outwards. By the end of September, the redoubtable colonel had also raised two regiments, horsed, equipped and trained, culled from crack cavalry regiments as well as from the border police. As one of the more experienced officers in border tactics, Hugh was by his side most of the time, advising on strategy, altogether quite in his element.
The detective sergeant from Scotland Yard who had been sent by Crockett to Dr Lester Harvill in search of any information he might have about Mrs Hannah Smith chose an inopportune moment, just as the doctor was about to start a consulting session with a patient. He was rather curtly sent away, with the promise that Dr Harvill would do what he could about the matter when he had finished with his patients.
The request had, in fact, disturbed the doctor, who did not relish being questioned in any shape or form, being a person who stood on his dignity, and not one inclined to brook interference at the best of times. It was therefore not until the following day that he found himself willing to devote any time to the request â or what might indeed be an official demand. Perhaps he had no choice. Reluctantly, he telephoned Scotland Yard and agreed to a Chief Inspector Crockett coming to see him that evening for half an hour at his private nursing home in North London where he also lived and had his consulting rooms.
Well before Crockett was due to arrive, he armed himself with a cup of coffee and took himself off to his study. He drew the thick, dark green serge curtains against the autumn evening and refreshed the fire with more coal from the brass scuttle, switched on the electric desk lamp and then settled back and drew a bulky file containing a thick wad of notes towards him. By one of those strange coincidences which do exist in spite of all claims to the contrary, he was at that very time engaged in preparing a paper which he was to deliver to the Royal College of Physicians next month on the subject of post-traumatic retrograde amnesia.
He was a small, neatly made man of nondescript appearance, who would have passed unnoticed in any crowd. In his consulting rooms, however, or on the rostrum when delivering a paper, or especially when he lectured to his students, he seemed to gain stature because he always appeared so sure of what he said. If there were dissenters among his listeners who doubted whether he always knew what he was talking about, there were many more who hung on his words. He never raised his voice, yet
managed to convey such authority that his pompous delivery carried conviction.
managed to convey such authority that his pompous delivery carried conviction.
For a while he sat looking at the file, then pushed it aside and extracted from a drawer a now creased and yellowed report from an edition of the
Daily Bugle,
published the previous autumn, details from which he had incorporated in his notes and which he already knew by heart. Nonetheless, he read it carefully yet again, as if it might throw some hitherto unexpected light on the problem:
Daily Bugle,
published the previous autumn, details from which he had incorporated in his notes and which he already knew by heart. Nonetheless, he read it carefully yet again, as if it might throw some hitherto unexpected light on the problem:
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âYesterday, 6th October, there occurred on Ludgate Hill an horrific accident, when a brewer's dray collided with a motor omnibus, with disastrous results. The omnibus was turned over on to its side and several passengers were injured, among them a young woman who now lies unconscious in a hospital bed with severe head injuries which might yet prove fatal, and a child who has as yet not been identified. In addition to this, four people have died, three of whom were riding on the open upper deck. The first of these was an unknown woman, who was thrown right out into the street and died immediately; the second a Mr Ernest Robson, a shipping clerk who was returning to his office with bills of lading he had been sent out to collect, and who suffered a severe heart attack and died within the hour. The third person to die was an innocent pedestrian, Mr Septimus French, a retired clergyman who was knocked off his feet by a rolling barrel and died under the thrashing feet of the unfortunate horses. Readers of this newspaper will also be greatly shocked to learn of the loss of a fine young man, later identified as Mr Harry Chetwynd, the son of Sir Henry Chetwynd, of Shropshire, who was thrown against the upper deck omnibus railing and broke his neck. Mr Chetwynd will be remembered by our readers chiefly for the vivid and well-informed despatches he sent to the
Bugle
from the various war fronts in South Africa during the late struggle with the Boers, and for the occasional articles he contributed since. He was, several times during the conflict, commended for acts of valour, quite outside his journalistic duties, and for his daring in getting his despatches through enemy lines. His death will be sadly mourned by all who knew him.
Bugle
from the various war fronts in South Africa during the late struggle with the Boers, and for the occasional articles he contributed since. He was, several times during the conflict, commended for acts of valour, quite outside his journalistic duties, and for his daring in getting his despatches through enemy lines. His death will be sadly mourned by all who knew him.
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This needless loss of life was confined not only to human beings, for two of the magnificent Clydesdale horses drawing the dray also had to be destroyed. The whole affair was indeed altogether disgraceful, entirely occasioned by the drayman concerned being thoroughly inebriated while driving his heavy and potentially dangerous wagon without due care and attention, thus leading to losing control of his brakes on the downward slope.
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When, demands this newspaper, will brewery companies learn to control the consumption of liquor by their employees during their working hours? It is not the first time such an accident has been recorded, though not, by the grace of God, with such an appalling loss of life. Thomas Watmough, the driver, admitted that it is the usual custom of draymen to partake of a free pint of the company's ale, offered at each public house when making their deliveries. Yesterday was warm and sunny, and no doubt the exertion of unloading beer kegs, coupled with the necessity of controlling the huge horses who pulled the heavy dray, made for thirsty work. Watmough, however, stated that he had only drunk his usual pint at each stop (though this was disputed by Miss Bessie Taffler, a barmaid interviewed by this newspaper, who is employed at The Three Blackbirds where he was due to make a delivery, and who stated that his âusual pint' was more often than not two, or even three).'
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Dr Harvill carefully refolded the newspaper, put it back in the drawer, took up his pen and reopened his file. For a little while longer he sat marshalling his thoughts before beginning to write:
Although I was not personally involved at the time, the case of the woman who was later identified as Mrs Smith was drawn to my attention shortly after she had regained consciousness, but not her memory. In the absence of any identification on her person (apart from a silver cross on a chain around her neck, with the words âFor Hannah, on her confirmation', engraved on the back) it was not possible to contact her relatives. Questions had apparently been raised as to whether she had been sitting next to Harry Chetwynd and might therefore have known him; Sir Henry Chetwynd, however, after having agreed to see her in the hospital when he went to identify the body of his son, denied any acquaintance with her. The lady had remained in a profound coma for nearly three weeks before
regaining consciousness, and this was where I was called in, the head injuries she had suffered being related to my special field. Familiar as I am with cases of retrograde amnesia, I had never come across one exactly like hers before. She had no memory either of the accident, save for one fleeting recollection at the moment of impact between the omnibus and the brewers' dray, or of the time preceding it (which circumstance in itself is not, of course, an unusual occurrence). A more curious fact was that her memory lapse extended back for several years prior to the accident â and yet, she could remember her early life perfectly, in minute and exact detail. I suggested that the child on the omnibus might be brought to her, whom she would undoubtedly recognise if he were hers, and who would surely recognise his mother. But she refused, insisting that it would only further upset the little boy. She wore a wedding ring, but swore she had no child, and repeatedly said that they must look elsewhere for his mother. Despite this, the child, who was only two or three years old and could not, or would not, speak, was in fact taken to see her while she was sleeping, but when it was suggested to him that she might be his mother, the infant went into a paroxysm of screaming.
regaining consciousness, and this was where I was called in, the head injuries she had suffered being related to my special field. Familiar as I am with cases of retrograde amnesia, I had never come across one exactly like hers before. She had no memory either of the accident, save for one fleeting recollection at the moment of impact between the omnibus and the brewers' dray, or of the time preceding it (which circumstance in itself is not, of course, an unusual occurrence). A more curious fact was that her memory lapse extended back for several years prior to the accident â and yet, she could remember her early life perfectly, in minute and exact detail. I suggested that the child on the omnibus might be brought to her, whom she would undoubtedly recognise if he were hers, and who would surely recognise his mother. But she refused, insisting that it would only further upset the little boy. She wore a wedding ring, but swore she had no child, and repeatedly said that they must look elsewhere for his mother. Despite this, the child, who was only two or three years old and could not, or would not, speak, was in fact taken to see her while she was sleeping, but when it was suggested to him that she might be his mother, the infant went into a paroxysm of screaming.
All enquiries failed to find anyone who might have connections with either the woman or the boy, who was eventually taken care of by some responsible woman the police found. The case interested me and I was about to arrange for âHannah' to be taken into my establishment, when suddenly she was claimed by a woman who said she was Hannah's maid, and from whom we learned that the patient's name was Mrs Hannah Smith. Since Mrs Smith's physical health had improved to an extent, there was no reason why she should not go home. We agreed that I should see her from time to time, and for a short while, this happened, but despite my counselling, her memory of what had happened in those lost years did not return, chiefly, I regret to say, through lack of co-operation on her part. Perhaps I did not gain her confidence enough. I think I may say with all due modesty that I am usually successful in obtaining the trust of my patients, and their willingness to accept my advice, but in this case, from the start, I was aware of a certain antipathy between us which I was not able to overcome.
Mrs Smith, as I now knew her, simply reiterated that she felt dead
inside, and at first showed little or no curiosity as to what had brought her to that pass. For an intelligent woman such as she is, this seemed to me exceedingly strange. I felt sure that there was a husband and child somewhere, that there had been some great trauma or pain which had caused her subconscious to bury, but that somewhere locked inside her was the answer. I therefore endeavoured to persuade her to write the story of her life, or at any rate all that early part which she had no trouble in remembering, in an endeavour to stimulate a flow of further memories. I was particularly anxious for her to do this, as it would provide me with an opportunity to observe at first hand whether Dr Sigmund Freud's theories on the free association of ideas actually do hold water. Although she reluctantly agreed to my suggestions, she refused to let me see what she had written (a subconscious denial, of course) but it was not entirely unexpected that she eventually ceased her visits to me.
inside, and at first showed little or no curiosity as to what had brought her to that pass. For an intelligent woman such as she is, this seemed to me exceedingly strange. I felt sure that there was a husband and child somewhere, that there had been some great trauma or pain which had caused her subconscious to bury, but that somewhere locked inside her was the answer. I therefore endeavoured to persuade her to write the story of her life, or at any rate all that early part which she had no trouble in remembering, in an endeavour to stimulate a flow of further memories. I was particularly anxious for her to do this, as it would provide me with an opportunity to observe at first hand whether Dr Sigmund Freud's theories on the free association of ideas actually do hold water. Although she reluctantly agreed to my suggestions, she refused to let me see what she had written (a subconscious denial, of course) but it was not entirely unexpected that she eventually ceased her visits to me.
The doctor carefully blotted what he had written, read it through and capped his fountain pen, then sat with his hands steepled, thinking. Not long afterwards, Detective Inspector Crockett rang the doorbell.
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When Crockett was shown in on the dot of eight and met the bland, expressionless features of the doctor, he knew at once that his mission was going to fail. He was invited to sit down, but almost immediately Harvill said, “The police already have all the records of this case. You must be aware that I am in no position to give you any more facts than you undoubtedly already possess.”
“We have the details of the accident, of course. It's what happened to Mrs Smith afterwards that interests me.”
“Ah â¦Well, here we come to the question of professional ethics. You must realise I cannot give details of Mrs Smith's medical history.”
“I don't want the clinical details, doctor, I only want her address so that I can speak to her.” Harvill did not reply. They stared at one another until Crockett asked, with disconcerting suddenness, “What was the name of Mrs Smith's maid â the one who took her home?”
Harvill, who was not often taken aback, blinked. “I'm afraid I have no idea. I did not see her personally and never heard her
name mentioned.”
name mentioned.”
Crockett's brows rose. “Her appearance didn't jog Mrs Smith's memory, then? Surely seeing her maid would have brought back the recent past?”
“Unfortunately, no, but that's hardly surprising â unless this woman had been her maid before the point at which Mrs Smith's memory stopped. But I wasn't there when the woman came to my nursing home, and on the few occasions I saw Mrs Smith here at my consulting rooms after she was discharged, she came alone.”
Crockett felt the luxurious warmth of the quiet room, electrically lit, the thick carpet under his feet and the deeply cushioned chair in which he sat. He was aware of richly polished furniture, tall vases of out-of-season roses, a table in the corner where the flames from the fire winked on a cut glass jug of water, tumblers and a decanter with glowing amber contents. He didn't think Dr Harvill's fees would be cheap.
The doctor was saying, “All I can tell you is that the maid had been very anxious at the disappearance of her mistress â but for some reason made no enquiries until about three weeks later.”
“I wonder why that was, doctor?”
Harvill shrugged.
“Was it perhaps because she was a foreigner, and didn't take the newspapers? If she had, she would surely have read about the accident before and known the woman was likely to be her mistress. It made all the headlines.”
“Foreign?”
“We believe her name was Rosa Tartaryan. She was an Armenian.”
“Armenian? Was?” Harvill seemed to have lost the ability to do anything but echo Crockett's words.
“Rosa Tartaryan is dead, doctor. She was murdered. I believe your Mrs Hannah Smith was her mistress. We need to speak to her and that's why I've come to see you.”
Dr Harvill said nothing. His face was as bland as a rice pudding, and as pale. “I'm sorry to hear that,” he said at last, “but I am unable to give you the information you want. Indeed, I cannot. As I said, Mrs Smith has not been to see me for some time.
She may have moved away, for all I know. She is no longer my patient.” A black marble mantel clock chimed the second quarter, with a thin, silvery sound. Harvill glanced pointedly at it. Crockett had reached his allotted time. “And now, if that's all ⦔
She may have moved away, for all I know. She is no longer my patient.” A black marble mantel clock chimed the second quarter, with a thin, silvery sound. Harvill glanced pointedly at it. Crockett had reached his allotted time. “And now, if that's all ⦔
“A moment longer, if you please, Dr Harvill. This child on the 'bus. Mrs Smith denied he was hers â in fact I understand she swore she'd never had a child. But she must have been physically examined when she was taken into the hospital after the accident and you, as a medical man, must know whether what she said was true or not.”
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