The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette (11 page)

‘Thank you very much . . . That’s central London.’

‘Belgravia, I think.’

Not far from the club, Antonia reflected. She could walk. ‘Thank you very much indeed,’ she said. ‘I used to know the Mortlocks very well at one time. I had no idea Twiston had changed hands twice since,’ she prattled on. Sometimes, she reflected, important information springs from the most unlikely sources. ‘How long have your employers - Mr and Mrs Ralston-Scott, did you say? - been at Twiston?’

‘There is only Mrs Ralston-Scott. She has been at Twiston a year. Would that be all, Miss . . .?’

‘Darcy. Antonia Darcy . . . So Mrs Ralston-Scott bought Twiston from Mr and Mr Sandys?’

‘Yes. They left for Kenya. I believe they are still there. Well, if that’s all -’

A click was heard and a muffled woman’s voice said, ‘Sorry. Are you talking to someone, Laura?’

‘Yes, Mrs Ralston-Scott. A Miss Darcy. She wanted Lady Mortlock’s phone number.’

Antonia spoke. ‘Hello. I am still here.’

‘Oh hello. Are you a friend of Lady Mortlock’s?’ Mrs Ralston-Scott asked. ‘You
were?
I see.’ It was a pleasant voice. Warm and musical, its upper-class cadences played down. Antonia wondered whether she was a singer. ‘Terribly hard keeping in touch with people, isn’t it? Especially if one’s been abroad. You haven’t been abroad, have you? You can go, Laura, thank you.’

‘I used to work for Lady Mortlock. Twenty years ago,’ Antonia explained.

‘I lived abroad until last year. Did a lot of sailing.’ Mrs Ralston-Scott clearly wanted to chat. Rich woman at a loose end. Bored and lonely, Antonia imagined. ‘Sailed all the way from Monte Carlo down the Italian coast and around the Greek islands to Istanbul, then back . . . I am in port now and like it more than I thought possible! You are familiar with Twiston then?’

‘Oh yes. It’s a lovely place.’

‘That’s putting it mildly. There’s something magical about it. I can’t get enough of it. A Grade 1 listed house. So very English. As a matter of fact there’s a lot of repair work going on here at the moment. It’s real pandemonium. I am having parts of the gardens redesigned too and I am at my wits’ end what to do about that ghastly tree. It seems I have to ask special permission to have it cut down, can you imagine? On top of all my other problems. I am talking about the oak. The one with the horrid hollow.’

‘Oh yes. I remember the oak.’

‘It gives me the creeps each time I look at it. I always think there’s some malignant presence lurking inside. I imagine something unspeakable is about to crawl out! There’s a
smell -
I am sure I am not imagining it.’

‘Sir Michael was very keen on preserving the oak.’

‘I’m sure he was . . . What was your name, did you say? I wonder if perhaps we have met?’

‘Antonia. Antonia Darcy. Twenty years ago it used to be Rushton.’

‘No - I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘The oak has had a glorious history - a noble pedigree.‘

‘I don’t give a damn about its noble pedigree - I want it gone.’ A whimpering sound was heard and Mrs Ralston-Scott, speaking away from the receiver, said, ‘Yes, darling, Mummy’s coming . . . It’s my dog. One of my dogs.
Such
a nuisance ...’

A note of exasperation entered her voice as the whimpering was repeated. ‘Doesn’t like me spending too much time on the phone. Jealous, silly thing.’ Mrs Ralston-Scott gave a musical laugh and again she spoke away from the receiver. ‘Laura, put on the record, would you? The one that calms her down . . . No, the
other
one. Yes.’ She was speaking into the phone once more. ‘I am a slave to my dogs! I must go now. I hope you find Hermione Mortlock on one of her good days. She is not entirely
compos,
you know, so you should be prepared.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. She’s transcended the milder lunacies of senes cence, that’s what George Mortlock said. Pathological rather than eccentric. George
does
have a way with words. I too knew her many years ago, but I don’t suppose she’ll remember me.’

The sweet sounds of a familiar old-fashioned song were heard somewhere in the background. The whimpering stopped. Mrs Ralston-Scott went on, ‘Lady Mortlock’s been a recluse ever since her husband died. Now she lives with a companion and a nurse. I don’t think they encourage visitors but you can try. Good luck.’

Antonia put down the receiver. For several moments she remained deep in thought. She had the vague feeling that something important had been said in the course of the conversation, only she couldn’t think what it was.

12

Atonement

He hadn’t thought it would be that effortless. There were eighteen Haywoods in the book, but only one woman whose first name was Greek, or what he thought was Greek. Major Payne could hardly contain his satisfaction as he wrote down the address and the telephone number for Andrula Haywood, who lived in Ravenscraig Road, Arnos Grove, London N11.

Was it too much to hope that this was the nanny?

What should he do? Phone first - or simply turn up on the doorstep and take it from there? Play it by ear, eh? Yes, why not. Much better, in fact, when dealing with guilty parties. Receivers could be slammed down only too easily, in fear or in anger, and that would be that, while the vis-à- vis approach had a lot to recommend it if one was playing the detection game. He would be able to observe the eyes, the mouth, the tensing of hands and facial muscles. Watch out for any telltale signs. At this point he had very little to go on. Nothing but guesswork and speculation. The misguided romantic - the lapsed Catholic. Andrula might be neither of these . . . She had been considered a most conscientious nanny until someone (Lady M.?) had offered her a lot of money to abandon her charge on the morning of 29th July 1981.

What he was going to say to her when they met, Major Payne had no idea, but inspiration, he felt sure, would come. He was a quick thinker, had a sympathetic manner. He wasn’t a bad hand at drawing people out of themselves. He wasn’t easily thwarted or abashed either. People took to him, women in particular - most women.

Women found him charming, reliable, funny, non-threatening. Women frequently made him their confidant - not a role he always relished - it could be a bore. On a number of occasions women had become infatuated with him, which had been a terrible bore. Once an unmarried titled lady had developed quite an obsession with him. She had bought him a Bentley and, when he sent it back, had threatened to shoot a senior member of the Danish royal family, whom she had been entertaining at her country seat; she had finally tried to hang herself in her private chapel but made a botch of it. She had continued writing him notes on perfumed paper from her hospital bed. Now
that
had been scary. That was the kind of insane thing that happened to celibate priests and popular actors, his late wife had joked - he should have been one or the other.

It was three o‘clock in the afternoon when he walked through St James’s to Green Park underground station and got on the Piccadilly line. It took him thirty minutes to get to Arnos Grove, a pleasant enough residential area, if not a particularly leafy one. It was most certainly not what one would associate with plutocratic excess of any sort. Well, the nanny didn’t seem to conform to the popular idea of the newly rich. He had left his A-Z behind, consequently he got a cab outside the station.

Suburban semi-detached houses. Miss Haywood couldn’t have had an extravagant bone in her body. She hadn’t allowed her sudden riches to go to her head. Or could her ill-gained fortune have run out? Or had she felt so guilty about what she had done that she hadn’t taken full advantage of the hush money -

‘This is it, boss,’ the cab driver said. ‘There’s the church.’

Startled, Payne blinked. ‘Church? What church?’

‘Ravenscraig Road, you said, didn’t you? This address is a church.’

‘It can’t be.’

But of course it was. It didn’t look like a church from the outside, though it said so above the door.
Church of the Tenderness of the Mother of God.
Underneath an inscription in Greek conveyed the same information. The door was open and he could smell incense.

Greek Orthodox, not Catholic. Crucifixes as well as incense were among the trappings of both religions. He stood in the doorway somewhat disconcerted, tugging at his tie, trying to rearrange his ideas. Andrula Haywood had given this as her address, though she couldn’t
live
here, surely? Or could she? The church encompassed two semi-detached houses that had been knocked into one.

He walked through the door and was at once enveloped in a mist of sorts. He felt a wave of warm air - a smell of tapers was added to the incense. His impression was that there were hundreds of little lights, flickering like fireflies; thin wax candles sticking out of candelabras that had been positioned at various points around the spacious room. There were curtains or blinds across the narrow windows, so it was difficult to see things clearly, though he did make out an iconostasis and a heavy curtain at one end, also icons in gilded frames on the walls. But for him, the place seemed to be empty.

Then he saw her: a smallish woman dressed all in black, kneeling in front of a large icon. This showed a bearded saint who, judging by his expression, couldn’t make up his mind whether to look stern or benevolent. (I mustn’t be flippant, Payne reminded himself. Causing offence won’t open the gates of confession.)

He stood very still, watching her profile. He rubbed his eyes, which had started smarting. Despite the inadequate lighting, he recognized her at once from Antonia’s description - the sallow complexion, the slightly crooked nose, the chunky golden crucifix on a chain around her throat. The hair was no longer blonde and done in a fringe, but dark, streaked with grey, parted in the middle and pulled back. Though she couldn’t be more than in her middle forties, she looked older, much older. The face was lined, haggard, and there were dark circles around her eyes, which were shut. Her lips were pressed tightly together. She looked at least fifty-seven or eight, if not older. She had aged prematurely, that much was clear.

Payne stroked his jaw with a forefinger. Had her conscience been troubling her? Was that the reason for the way she looked? Worn out - with care or with guilt. She was leaning forward, her hands clasped in front of her. She hadn’t opened her eyes. Her brow was furrowed in concentration. The thin lips had parted and were moving silently. Praying. Payne wondered whether it was for the soul of little Sonya Dufrette - or for forgiveness ... He saw tears rolling down the withered cheeks.

He stepped back quietly, waiting for her to finish. Interrupting her prayer wouldn’t do. If she was aware of his presence, she didn’t give any sign. He backed further and leant against the wall. He saw he was standing beside an icon that showed another saint, much younger and more vigorous than the one Andrula Haywood was praying to, though of a somewhat androgynous aspect. He - Major Payne was sure it was a ‘he’ - was in the process of pulling a devil from the turbulent sea with his left hand, while in his other hand he brandished a hammer.

Eventually Andrula Haywood opened her eyes, crossed herself and started to rise. Payne made a movement towards her, but the next moment three more people entered the church. Two women and an elderly man on crutches. Andrula quickly walked up to them and kissed each one in turn, placing her hands on their shoulders. Payne remained standing beside the wall, watching them. They talked in an animated manner but their conversation was conducted in demotic Greek.

He had done Greek at school, but that had been classical Greek. There had been no classes in colloquial Greek ... What a grammatical inferno Greek tragedy had been! As for doing Greek composition, he had thought of it as brutal bludgeoning - not so much different from the fate that awaited the devil in the icon, in fact.

He saw the elderly man with the crutches kneel. Andrula laid her hand on his shoulder and shut her eyes once more. Her lips started moving but this time she spoke the words aloud - Greek again. She spoke with fervour. The two women who had come with the man also reached out and placed their hands on his arm and they too spoke aloud. The man bowed his head. They were praying for his healing, Payne felt sure and, though he didn’t understand a word of it, he felt touched.

He was reminded of the words of Achilles’ ghost to Ulysses:
I would rather be a slave at another’s plough, one who is poor with little means of livelihood, than rule all the dead and departed.
Well, Andrula had chosen a life devoted to serving people in need ... It didn’t seem she had got married either ... Her conscience had prevented her from finding happiness of the more conventional kind.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that nearly twenty-five minutes had passed since he had arrived. He remembered his grandfather saying that a true gentleman’s concerns weren’t supposed to include the passage of time. He must have been no more than eleven or twelve at the time. Funny, how some memories stuck in the mind -

He caught a movement. The tableau had broken up and the man, supported by the two women, went to light candles. Andrula Haywood turned round and seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, smiling, and crossed through the swirls of incense, proffering both her hands. ‘Welcome. I have never seen you here before, but I hope you will find what you are looking for.’ She spoke with a slight Greek accent. Her eyes were kind, but full of pain. (He was sure he wasn’t imagining it.)

‘As a matter of fact I was looking for you, Miss Haywood. Could I have a word?’

There was a pause. He hoped he didn’t sound too intimidating - like a plain clothes policeman.

‘You want to talk to me? Of course. Let us go to my office. There will be a baptism here soon and we will be in the way.’

As though on cue, there entered a tall priest. He was youngish, in his thirties, with a trimmed dark beard and wearing a festive black cassock and the tall cylindrical black hat that went with it. ‘Sister Andrula,’ he said in English.