The Death Chamber (37 page)

‘Because you still love him?’

‘I suppose I did love him,’ said Belinda. ‘I suppose I still do, in a corner of my mind. But you mustn’t think he took advantage of me, Dr Kane.’

‘I don’t.’

‘I made the approach,’ she said. ‘Shameless, wasn’t it?’ She smiled at him, and in that moment the years fell away from her and suddenly and disconcertingly it was
a sexy, mischievous pixie who sat there. Walter saw why Sir Lewis had fallen for her twenty years ago.

‘No, it’s not shameless, Belinda. I’m sorry you had to lose Elizabeth, though.’

‘Would she have turned out any different if I’d kept her?’

‘I honestly don’t know. She had two good and loving parents. No, I don’t think it would have made any difference.’ He had no idea if he believed this or not, but it would
give Belinda some comfort.

‘Did they call her Elizabeth, do you know? That couple? Or did they shorten it, just in the family? To Betty or Beth. Beth’s pretty.’

‘I think they called her Elizabeth. Sir Lewis really must know about this. Would you like me to tell him?’

‘Would you?’ She looked at him with eager gratitude.

‘Yes. I’ll go to see him this evening, and I’ll call on you afterwards to tell you what he’s said. Would that be all right? Where are you living?’

‘I have a little house just outside Thornbeck. I live on my own, so you could come at any time at all. I’ll write the address down and directions to find it.’

She did so in a neat, careful hand, and then said, ‘How am I going to live with this? Knowing my own daughter killed people? That she helped that man to murder them for their money and
their jewellery? And that poor woman she pushed under the tram . . .’

‘I’ll do whatever I can to help you,’ said Walter, and thought: and I understand your agony more than you could ever realize. Your daughter. My father.

She said, ‘Thank you, Dr Kane.’ She got up to go, and then hesitated. ‘I’d like to hear you saying that everything will be all right,’ she said. ‘But it
won’t, will it?’

‘I don’t think it can be,’ said Walter. ‘But I think it will get easier for you.’

There was a feeling of reassurance about the familiar low-ceilinged room with the views across the fields. The curtains were drawn against the night, and a fire crackled in the
hearth.

For once Lady Caradoc was there, although Walter saw she was wearing street clothes, clearly about to go out. She stayed long enough to make a little stately conversation. The war news was quite
encouraging, did Dr Kane not agree, but oh dear, what a very shocking thing about that young girl who had just been sentenced to be executed.

‘There are many evil people in the world, Dr Kane. Of all ages.’

Walter said that was so.

‘You are here to see my husband,’ stated Clara. ‘And I have an engagement in Thornbeck – my work with the Caradoc Society, you know.’

‘Yes, of course. It must be very interesting,’ said Walter politely.

‘It is deeply important,’ said Clara Caradoc solemnly. ‘Deeply. My husband is inclined to scoff, but we are finding out so much. So many spiritual things are to be discovered
and offered as help and support to people. I would not, of course, expect you as a young man and a doctor of the body, to be entirely in sympathy with our aims, however.’

This bland assumption annoyed Walter, but he said he tried always to have an open mind, and that perhaps one day he might be allowed to attend a meeting.

‘All seekers of the truth and all searchers for the Light are welcome,’ said Clara, adding, more prosaically, that the Society met every Tuesday at eight o’clock and it was as
well to arrive early to be sure of getting a seat and a voucher for the cup of tea served at nine.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Lewis Caradoc after Lady Caradoc had gone. He poured Walter a whisky and soda and waved him to a chair on the other side of the hearth. ‘She’s
very earnest about all this psychic stuff; she’s been involved in it for years. I can’t see that it does any harm, and at least she’s out of the clutches of some very dubious
people she met in London some years ago. A pair of very ripe ones they were, and I have a feeling Clara gave them quite a lot of money although I’ve never actually asked her. Is your drink
all right? You don’t need to tell me why you’re here. Elizabeth Molland, yes? It’ll be hard for you to attend the execution of a young female. I never had to. I’d have found
it an ordeal.’

Oh God, thought Walter, and drank some of the whisky, and then said, ‘It
is
about Elizabeth, but not quite in the way you think. Sir Lewis, twenty years ago you were – you
knew a young wardress called Belinda.’

At the name a stillness came over Lewis Caradoc. He said, ‘I did know her. But she left quite suddenly. I should have liked to keep in touch with her, just to be sure she was all
right.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘Dammit, Walter, I don’t have to pussyfoot around with you, do I? Belinda and I were lovers, quite briefly. It wasn’t the wisest of
liaisons, but it was a difficult time for me just then – But no excuses. You know – you must have realized – that Clara and I have a very barren marriage.’

Walter said bluntly, ‘Belinda had a child as a result. A daughter.’

For a moment Lewis stared at him blankly, as if not understanding, and then one hand went up to shield his eyes as if a blinding light had suddenly been turned on to his face. He did not say
anything, but after a moment he went back to the drinks cabinet and reached for the decanter; for the first time Walter saw that for all the sharpness and the quicksilver intelligence and humour,
this was a man approaching old age. Lewis’s hands were shaking so badly he was unable to pour the whisky, and after a moment Walter got up and poured the drink himself.

‘Thank you. Bit of a shock.’ He seemed to make a tremendous effort to regain control. ‘A daughter,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Of all things.’ Walter saw,
with something like despair, that some of the light was already returning to his eyes. ‘Can you tell me any more? How do you know about this?’

‘Belinda has come back to Calvary for a while. A temporary wardress.’

‘I didn’t even know she was still in the area. Is she all right?’

‘She didn’t want you to know where she was.’ Walter leaned forward. ‘She’s been living just outside Thornbeck it seems, and as far as I can make out she’s
perfectly all right. But there’s something else.’

‘Yes?’

‘The daughter.’

‘Yes?’ There was a note of hope in Lewis’s voice now. ‘Tell me about her.’

‘Belinda put her out for adoption. It was the only thing she could do in those days.’ Oh God, thought Walter, he’s beginning to look so delighted at the prospect of a daughter
he didn’t know existed. Is he remembering his son who died and thinking that this is a sort of second chance for him? Help me find the words for this, he thought. Help me to help him.

He said, ‘Sir Lewis – the child was adopted by some people called Molland. She’s Elizabeth Molland. The prisoner awaiting execution in Calvary.’

The light that had begun to shine in Lewis Caradoc’s eyes went out and a dark and terrible pain took its place.

Clara Caradoc was glad that Lewis kept a car these days, and that there was usually one of the household to drive her to and from wherever she wanted to go. You might say a
number of things about Lewis but you could not say he was mean, although Clara made due allowance for the fact that it was her family’s money with which Lewis was not mean.

It had perhaps been a little casual of Dr Kane to call at the house tonight without notification or invitation, but that was modern young men for you. The visit would be something to do with
that dreadful prison because Lewis had never quite relinquished the running of it to Mr Higneth. Her father said men like Lewis never really gave up their commitments, even if they lived to be a
hundred.
Noblesse oblige
, that was what it was, he said, and Clara ought to remember it. Clara thought whatever name you gave it, it still meant Lewis went gallivanting off to committees
and served on various boards and trusts. It was all very well to talk about
noblesse oblige
but ordering meals and household provisions was extremely difficult if you did not know whether
your husband would be at home or in London, and if it was the latter how long he might be away. This war would make life a great deal worse, with the stupid government already warning about
bringing in rationing for perfectly ordinary things. Clara had no opinion of governments and even less opinion of wars, although it would not do to allow that vulgar little man with the absurd
ranting voice and the awful moustache to go rampaging wholesale over Europe.

Tonight’s Caradoc Society meeting did not promise to be particularly interesting, but it was Clara’s clear duty to attend. She nearly always did attend; Lewis had tried to dissuade
her from doing so over the years – he had actually said he would prefer her not to associate with Dr McNulty. Of course Clara had taken no notice. Dr McNulty was a most conscientious and
dedicated man; he gave unstintingly of his time, and it was a great shame Lewis could not understand how serious and important the Society’s work was. It was even more of a shame that he had
this unreasoning dislike of Dr McNulty himself. Clara had never been able to discover the reason for that, and nor had she been able to discover why, having allowed the Caradoc Society to come into
being and to bear his name, Lewis refused to have any involvement with it. They had not had an argument about it, because Clara did not allow such uncivilized and undisciplined things in her house,
and Lewis always walked fastidiously away from arguments anyway. But Clara was occasionally and uneasily aware that they had come close to it several times.

This evening they would discuss the recent theories about a person’s aura being captured on photographs. Electrographic photography it was called, and Dr McNulty was very enthusiastic
about it; he had been in correspondence with people in Russia who were making experiments in the field. Clara would sit politely through the lecture but the real interest would come afterwards when
they would gather round the table in the big meeting room, and Violette would make yet another attempt to reach Caspar. She had never been successful in this, not since that terrible night in the
North London house, but she continued to try. ‘One day I shall succeed,’ she always said. ‘After all you have done for me, dear Clara – after your generosity when the fire
destroyed all our possessions – well, it is the least I can do.’

Clara thought it
was
the least Violette could do, but naturally this could not be said. She usually replied that she had been very pleased to help after the shocking business of the
fire – to say nothing of the even more shocking business of Bartlam taking himself off in that cavalier fashion, leaving poorest Vita absolutely bereft. Clara had been glad to suggest that
Vita came to live just outside Thornbeck – really a very nice little house Clara had found for her, and it had been her pleasure to buy the lease for her friend. (There had only been five
years left on the lease, so the cost had actually been extremely modest.)

It had all been rather timely, what with the Caradoc Society so newly created and just finding its feet. Vita had been a great help in those early days, and Clara had been overjoyed to have her
so near. She had foreseen many private sessions in which they would together try to bring Caspar back.

Vita knew, of course, that Clara had never given up the hope of reaching Caspar, and she had agreed that this war would bring him closer to his mamma. He might feel a comradeship with other
young men going out to fight, said Vita. You never knew with the Departed Ones. They would speak with him yet, vowed Vita.

The trouble was that Vita’s powers seemed to have diminished with the years. Clara supposed this was the shock of the fire, and perhaps the distress of Bartlam’s leaving but as the
years wheeled by, she wondered once or twice if it might have been Bartlam who had possessed the mediumistic qualities rather than Vita. If this was true, looked at purely selfishly it was a very
great pity he had gone, but viewed in a spirit of friendship it was better for Vita to be rid of the dreadful man. Clara had been very much shocked to hear of Bartlam’s squalid activities in
Brighton and that dreadful business in Greek Street. It had been a blessed release for Vita when news of his death reached her a few years later.

‘Heart failure, and in unpleasant circumstances,’ was all Vita would say, and Clara had not wished to enquire any further. She had, however, been quite surprised when Vita re-married
a year after Bartlam’s death. One would have thought that at her age she would not have cared for marriage in any form, although it had to be said that Vita was a little younger than Clara
herself. Perhaps she was just over fifty. Her new husband was a rather common sort of person – a local businessman – but he did not object to his wife’s involvement with the
Caradoc Society which was the really important thing.

Getting into the smart little Ford that Lewis kept at Thornbeck, Clara hoped tonight might be the night Caspar would come, although it was a pity she had got to sit through an hour and a half of
photographing auras first.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX