The Crystal Cage (11 page)

I walked downstairs and for some reason remembered Mr Merrick. Perhaps ever so faintly he represented a new beginning, the first infant steps to independence. Whatever the reason, he deserved a phone call, even a belated one.

‘I’m afraid I’ve found out little more than you already know,’ I began.

‘The building was a school?’

‘Definitely a school. It was called the Raine Foundation—Raine Street was where it started. Originally it housed only boys. The section of the building you’re hoping to make your home was an addition, built in 1845.’

‘To accommodate more pupils?’

‘To accommodate female pupils for the first time. They were there until the 1880s when the entire school left Silver Street to move to different premises. Over the years the school kept moving, though always within the East End.’

He was quiet at the other end of the line and I felt that in some way I should be apologising. ‘What I’ve found isn’t likely to solve your ghost problems, I’m afraid.’

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But do you think there’s more to discover?’

‘There may be.’ I knew I was sounding reluctant.

‘Then discover it if you can, Dr Latimer.’

‘I’ll try.’

My promise was half-hearted. At any other time I might have tried digging deeper, but chasing ghosts hardly chimed with my present mood. I wasn’t entirely sure what my mood was, but I poured myself a glass of Oliver’s very best red and sat down to think. That bright, fresh-faced young woman, Rebecca, was she to be the new Grace? Of course she might simply be another of the many women who flocked around Oliver in starry-eyed appreciation. His groupies, I used to tease him. He was an eminent man, as much at home in front of a television camera as in the lecture hall, and for years he’d attracted plenty of distant worship. But that had never been sufficient for him: he required daily and meticulous attention, and he was no longer getting it. Rebecca would make my perfect substitute. I’d been angry at the thought that I might be supplanted, but that had been a knee-jerk reaction. Now that the anger had passed I tried to think through my feelings and was surprised at what I found. I should be riven with jealousy, but I wasn’t, or only mildly so—rather I was curious as to what might happen in Newcastle. I could buy my ticket tomorrow and go and see for myself.

Chapter Six

When the alarm shrilled me awake the following morning, I wondered why on earth I’d set it to ring since I wasn’t going anywhere in particular. Last night before I’d finally dropped into an uneasy sleep, I’d decided that I wouldn’t chase after Oliver but would see him on his return. And I wouldn’t be going to Dorchester either. Why go on a pointless journey? As though in answer, the image of a pair of deep-blue eyes smiled out at me. But I couldn’t risk it, I decided. If I went, Oliver would never forgive me, and I could kiss goodbye to the security I’d been chasing all my life.

I hadn’t slept well. The fight with Oliver had disturbed me more than I realised, and I had no idea what would happen when we saw each other again. I hate confrontation and there was bound to be one. Hopefully it would be over quickly and I would be able to sink back into the restful drift of my old life. But is that really what I wanted? I was bored, not restful, and it had been fortuitous that a Victorian mystery had landed in my lap and energised me for a few hours. A mystery that in all probability was bogus. But yesterday I’d felt certain there was more to be discovered. So was it worth making another attempt to crack the Royde enigma while Nick was trundling his way to Dorchester? I rummaged in my handbag and found my phone. I’d meant to check the photograph when I got home last night but with all the aggravation, I’d forgotten. The beautiful poster I’d found at the V and A had, alongside the name of de Vere, that of the silk importer. I hadn’t been able to read the name and had taken a surreptitious photograph hoping that with the professional magnifying glass I kept at home, it would become clear. I hovered the glass over the surface, but it remained indistinct, and my eyes quickly began to feel the strain. I thought I could decipher an
l
and maybe the first letter was a capital
B
or an
R
. I switched on my laptop. It was a very long shot and that was probably why I hadn’t thought of it before, but it was just possible that the exhibitors were mentioned in newspaper articles of the time.

I logged into the British Library and prepared for a few hours of hard work. From 1850 onwards, the Great Exhibition had been a constant topic of news and debate in the papers, weekly and local, as well as the dailies. I was familiar with a number of the articles but certainly not all. I started in April 1851, just before the opening of the Exhibition, and found twenty-five items in the
Morning Chronicle
alone. Then on to the
Daily News
, where on April 19 I struck a little gold: a final list of exhibitors in the Crystal Palace along with a brief mention of what they would be showing. Among those listed were importers of various kinds of materials and I looked hard for any
B
s or
R
s specialising in silks and situated in central London. It took me an age, but I could find only three: a Barnham and a Belotti both with offices in Baker Street in the West End and a Renville in Onslow Street in the City. I glanced through the accompanying articles and spent a long time trawling a number of the other dailies but there was no further mention of any of the three names. Not a breakthrough then, but if Nick contacted me again, I could pass on the information.

It was long past lunchtime and I wandered into the kitchen and stood moodily staring down the hill towards Archway. I didn’t feel at all hungry. While I’d been involved in the chase, I’d temporarily forgotten my problems, but the calm hadn’t lasted; anxiety had begun to jab. It seemed as though I was at a crossroads, one I’d been approaching for some time, but now I’d actually arrived and hadn’t a clue which direction to take. The clock struck three. Nick would be on his way to Paddington. I reassured myself that there was absolutely nothing to find in Dorchester. It was a crazy journey made by a crazy man. A man with no money, no prospects, I reminded myself. A man with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.

I began to make tea, hardly conscious of what I was doing, while I listened to the ticking of the clock marking off the seconds. It was five minutes past three and his train would be leaving in just forty minutes. If I were going for that train, I needed to move. But I wasn’t. I was going to stay here in Hampstead and wait for Oliver to come back with tales of a northern triumph. We’d kiss and make up. Rebecca would be consigned to history and the bowels of the Papillon gallery. All would be well. Life would go on as before.

I turned the kettle off and ran into the bedroom. In ten minutes I’d showered, dressed and slung whatever clothes I could find into my old student bag and was on my way to the underground. It would be quicker by far than any taxi and speed was crucial, for I was going to be very lucky to make that train. The Circle Line into Paddington, notorious for delays, was behaving itself today. I was lucky or maybe unlucky. It’s strange that one’s whole life can be shaped by a simple thing like catching or not catching a train, answering a call or leaving the phone to ring. If I’d missed the 3.45 to Dorchester I would have returned to Lyndhurst Villas and unpacked my bag for good.

The guard on the platform heaved me through the door of the last carriage as the baton for departure went down. I stumbled over assorted bags, briefcases, into somebody’s newspaper and finally arrived upright in the aisle. Smiling apologies, I tried to straighten my unruly hair. The partial dry I’d managed had done it no favours, and it was now sitting like a slightly mad halo around my head. The man whose newspaper I had trampled looked alarmed at the sight. Still smiling I moved on. It was a long train and heaving the rucksack with me, I realised that thirty was not the new twenty after all. It felt heavier than I ever remembered. I was two-thirds of the way down the train before I found him.

He was reading, which came as a shock. Somehow I hadn’t seen Nick as a reader—and a reader of Dostoevsky, to boot. That was interesting. All those tortured family relationships reminded me of the way he’d spoken of his own family. As soon as he became aware of me teetering unsafely above him, he bounded to his feet.

‘Grace! How great to see you!’

My rucksack was hoisted on to the rack with annoyingly little effort, and with a good deal more effort I managed to squeeze myself into the seat opposite, beside someone who might have benefited from Oliver’s Spartan diet. Nick smiled encouragingly across at me, but neither of us spoke. Instead we fixed our glance determinedly on the view from the window where the outer suburbs of London were busily slipping past. I knew he was desperate to ask me the all-important question, but unusually for him he hesitated. In the end he did it as delicately as Nick ever could.

‘So, the Newcastle exhibition?’

‘It turns out that Oliver doesn’t need me after all,’ I said airily. ‘It means that I have a few days free and thought I’d come on this lunatic journey after all.’

‘That’s great,’ he repeated, his voice awash with unasked questions. But if he was tempted to probe further, the trundling of the refreshment trolley stopped him.

‘Can I get you something?’

‘A coffee and a bun,’ I said recklessly. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘No breakfast, no lunch.’

The apricot Danish was quite the most delicious thing I’d tasted for years. I suppose all forbidden things taste that way. Whatever the truth, I felt a great deal better after I’d wolfed it down and despatched a very large mug of coffee.

We were an hour into the journey and the man beside me was snoring heavily. It was a good time to start discussing tactics. Nick was immediately brimming with enthusiasm.

‘I thought I’d start with the address we’ve got—Poorgrass and Fray’s. I looked up Orchard Street last night and found it on the town plan but no indication of who owns the house now. If there’d been postcodes in the1850s, I could have got a bit further, but we’ll have to wait until we can physically visit number 44.’

I managed a faint smile. ‘It might still belong to the descendants of Poorgrass and Fray.’

‘Wouldn’t that be something! But you don’t believe that’s likely, do you?’

‘Afraid not. Still, as long as it’s not another dry cleaners, I can cope with the disappointment.’

‘Perhaps we should give the street a miss,’ he mused, ‘and go first to the County Museum. They might field a local guru who could tell us a lot more than we’ll discover just looking at a building.’

‘Perhaps we should go first to where we’re staying.’ I was remembering the heavy bag on the rack above.

‘Okay. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get lodgings.’

I’ve never thought people’s mouths could just fall open, but I’m sure mine did. I was used to having trips planned down to the smallest detail and the thought of arriving in a strange town without a place to stay momentarily stunned me.

‘You mean you haven’t booked anything?’

‘What time have I had?’

‘Last night, perhaps?’

His blue eyes had lost their warmth and held a decidedly flinty expression. ‘You’re a little too demanding, your ladyship. I found the train, bought my ticket, downloaded a town plan. What exactly have you contributed?’

‘I didn’t know I was coming,’ I said, and then wished I hadn’t. But he didn’t ask the obvious question of why exactly I’d changed my mind. I hoped I’d ruffled him into silence and would be spared an interrogation. To make sure, I lay back in my seat and closed my eyes.

His conviction that it would be easy to find accommodation was dashed after a fruitless search on our mobiles and two hours trawling the byways of Dorchester. This was a county town in the middle of prime tourist country, and it was, I pointed out, the half-term holiday for most schools.

‘How was I to know that?’

‘I knew it,’ I said tartly.

‘Then don’t keep these good things to yourself.’ He turned off down yet another side street, his shoulders moodily hunched.

It didn’t look promising, and my bag was now dragging on the floor. I was weary and fed up and wished I’d never come. Halfway down the road, he stopped outside a dusty window, its paintwork crumbling, and displaying a yellowing, lopsided sign. ‘Vacancies’ it read.

‘You must be joking!’

‘Then you find somewhere to sleep. I’m staying here if they’ve got a room.’

There was no bell and he lifted the door knocker. The noise echoed down the hall, but there was no sound of feet approaching. He lifted the knocker again and suddenly the door flew open. A middle-aged woman with a stained pinafore tied around her ample waist stood on the threshold, looking none too friendly.

‘I’ve only the one room left,’ she said with a martial look in her eye. ‘So if doesn’t suit, you’ll have to go elsewhere.’

Disappointed callers were evidently a regular feature of her life, and I wasn’t surprised. I was quite sure the room wouldn’t suit and sharing with Nick Heysham was the last thing I wanted, but I found myself following him unwillingly inside. It was no more appetising than the exterior. In a sad crocodile we made our way up the creaking staircase towards a room at the far end of the passage.

‘The bathroom’s there.’ She waved her hand at a small, murky space on the left as we passed by. It was like going back to the 1950s—or what I imagined the 1950s to be like.

‘Here,’ and she opened the door wide so we could all squeeze into the one vacant room. It was brown like the rest of the house and, like the rest of the house, not overly clean.

‘Well?’ Her arms were held across her body and her chin jutted dangerously.

‘We’ll take it for two nights,’ Nick said.

I waited until she’d left and then asked in a voice so cold that I hardly recognised it, ‘There’s only one bed, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘I’d noticed. I’ll sleep on the floor.’

I hadn’t imagined him as a knight errant. ‘Where?’

‘Anywhere.’

‘There’s no space on the floor or hadn’t you noticed
that
.’