The Nightingale Sisters (33 page)

You don’t know that, she told herself impatiently, as the young man explained in a choked voice how he’d held his son for the first time. The solicitor’s message could bring good news. Perhaps someone had died and left Violet a lot of money. She might even be thankful for the intervention if she turned out to be heiress to a secret fortune.

But deep down Sister Wren knew that there would be no fortune, no mysterious benefactor. There was something deep, dark and shadowy about that message, and all the others that had followed it in the newspaper every day since: ‘Would Violet Dangerfield, née Tanner, please contact immediately the office of Burrows, Burrows & Edgerton, Solicitors, 59 High Holborn, London WC2. Telephone Kingsway 4773’. It wasn’t a request. It was a demand.

She felt her nerve failing, and was just about to walk away when a voice behind her said, ‘Excuse me? Miss?’

Sister Wren turned around. The young man had ended his call and was holding the receiver out to her.

‘Do you want to make a call?’ he asked.

Sister Wren looked from the telephone to him and back again. Then she thought about Violet, her perfect soprano voice and her husky laugh.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think I do.’

BEING GIVEN THE
afternoon duty wasn’t a favourite with the students. They still had to get up and report to the ward by seven o’clock, only to be told by Sister at nine to go away, change out of their uniform and not report back until midday. And then they had to face nine hours on their feet without a break.

But for once Dora was hoping for the afternoon shift so she could get back to Griffin Street first thing and make sure Jennie was all right. She stood with the other nurses, trying not to catch Sister Wren’s eye in case she read the desperation in her face and changed her duty out of spite. Luckily, Sister Wren seemed to have her mind on other things that morning, and handed out the off duty times in a quick, random fashion. As the other nurses went back to work, Dora rushed back to the nurses’ home, changed out of her uniform, slung on her old brown coat and beret, and made her way to Griffin Street, breaking into a run as soon as she was out of the hospital gates.

In spite of what she’d said to Joe, she was worried. She knew her mother was a good, caring woman, but surely Dora had pushed her too far by bringing Jennie into the house? Last night she had been panicking too much to think of anything else, but now, in the cold light of a March morning, she realised she’d made a dreadful mistake.

Nanna Winnie was sweeping the yard when Dora came bursting through the gate. Little Alfie was with her, pulling up the weeds that grew between the cracks in the paving slabs.

‘All right, love. Where’s the fire?’ she said, as Dora fought to get her breath back.

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Inside.’ Nanna jerked her head in the direction of the house. ‘With
her
.’

Dora felt her blood drain to her boots. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Having a chat, so Rose says. Although I’m not allowed a listen, even though it’s still my house.’ Nanna’s face was sullen as she pushed the broom viciously into the privy.

Dora glanced up at the window, as if she almost expected to see fists flying. ‘I’d better go and see what’s going on.’

‘I wouldn’t bother, you won’t be welcome. Why do you think I’m out here, even though this cold weather is playing merry hell with my lumbago?’ Nanna banged the privy door shut so hard it rattled on its rusty hinges. ‘I dunno why you brought that one here, Dora,’ she called after her as she headed into the house. ‘Don’t you think we’ve had enough trouble lately?’

Dora reached the top of the stairs just as her mother burst out of Jennie’s room. Dora took one look at her, white-faced and trembling, and her heart sank.

‘Mum?’ she ventured.

Rose stared at her, her dark eyes glittering in her ashen face. Then she pushed past her and stormed upstairs to her own room, slamming the door behind her.

Dora climbed the stairs and dithered on the landing for a moment, looking from Jennie’s door to her mother’s, then made up her mind.

‘Mum?’ She pushed open the door cautiously. Rose was standing in front of the chest of drawers, pulling things out and flinging them on to the bed. ‘Mum, are you all right? Nanna said you’d talked to Jennie—’

‘Oh, I’ve talked to her, all right.’ Impatiently, Rose yanked out one of the heavy drawers and, struggling under its weight, tipped it out on to the bed.

Dora looked at the pile of clothes. They were Alf’s things, the clothes he’d left behind when he disappeared.

‘Mum, what are you doing?’ she asked faintly.

‘Something I should have done a long time ago.’ Rose swung round to look at her, a strange, half-mad grimace on her face. ‘Help me get this lot downstairs, will you?’

Dora obeyed, sweeping up an armful of clothes. Alf’s sickeningly familiar smell stopped her in her tracks. She paused for a moment, her head spinning, fighting the urge to retch.

By the time she got downstairs, her mother was out in the yard, pulling bits of wood from the pile behind the privy. Nanna leant on her broom by the back door, watching her. Even Little Alfie had stopped plucking weeds to stare.

‘What’s Mum doing?’ he piped up.

‘God knows, mate.’ Nanna sighed and shook her head. ‘But I do know it’s taken us weeks to collect that scrap wood.’

‘She’s building a bonfire,’ Dora realised. ‘Of Alf’s things.’

Nanna stared at her, then at Rose. ‘Is that right, Rosie? What’s happened?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s happened, shall I?’ Rose hauled a piece of rotted railway sleeper on to the heap. ‘I’ve come to my senses, that’s what. Finally realised what a mug I’ve been all these years.’ She straightened up, wiping her face. ‘Since he went I’ve been waiting for him to come home, worrying about him, thinking all kinds of terrible things had happened . . . The sleepless nights I’ve had, wondering what’s happened to my poor Alf!’

She looked up at them, her eyes glittering dangerously. There was a streak of dirt across her nose. ‘And do you know what? He wasn’t even worth worrying about. All these years we’ve been so-called happily married, he’s been lying to me.’

Dora glanced back at the house. ‘You believe Jennie’s story, then?’

‘Oh, I believe her, all right! Everything she told me was the God’s honest truth – unlike that worthless good-for-nothing I was married to!’

Dora and Nanna exchanged a worried look as Rose bent down and hauled the wood into place.

‘When I think of how much I trusted him,’ Rose went on, her chest heaving. ‘And all the time he was taking advantage of a young girl like that! I don’t even want to think about what else he might have been getting up to behind my back.’

‘Me neither.’ Dora suppressed a shudder.

‘Anyway, I’ve had enough,’ her mother went on, bending to pick up another piece of wood. ‘I’m finally getting rid of him, saying goodbye to that lying, conniving sod for ever. And good riddance to him!’ She tossed a broken chair leg defiantly on to the pile.

Nanna looked horrified. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘I’ve never been more serious in my life, believe me. I want rid of him, Mum. I don’t want to see anything of his in this house ever again.’

‘Oh, I’m not arguing with that, love,’ Nanna said. ‘But you can’t burn it.’ She looked at the pile of clothes Dora was holding in her arms. ‘The rag and bone man will give you a few bob for that lot.’

Dora glanced at her mother. Rose stood there, hands on her hips, her mouth set in a hard, determined line.

And then Dora saw the warmth slowly kindling in her dark eyes, followed by a reluctant smile. ‘Oh, Mum!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Trust you!’

‘What?’ Nanna looked from one to the other, genuinely bewildered. ‘It’s only common sense, ain’t it? I mean, after all that rotten sod’s done to this family, we might as well get a fish supper out of him. He’s not worth wasting all that wood on either,’ she added grumpily.

Dora and her mother looked at each other. A moment later, the backyards of Griffin Street rang with their laughter.

THE OFFICES OF
Burrows, Burrows & Edgerton smelt of old books and polished leather. Sister Wren felt most important as she sipped tea from a bone china cup, while the portraits of esteemed old lawyers in wing collars gazed down at her approvingly.

‘I understand you have some information for us, Miss Trott?’

It was Mr Edgerton himself, no less, who sat on the other side of the heavy mahogany desk. Sister Wren was gratified that it was a senior partner interviewing her, and not some lowly junior clerk. Clearly what she had to say was of greater importance than she’d imagined.

She paused, savouring the moment. She was enjoying the fact that the lawyer was paying her such attention, listening avidly to her every word. She could have told him what he wanted to know on the telephone, but it was so much more exciting to be here, to feel part of all the intrigue.

Because there
was
intrigue, she was certain of that. And Sister Wren wasn’t going to leave until she found out all the details.

‘Well, yes,’ she said, toying demurely with the fingertip of her glove. ‘But first I have a question for you. Why do you want to know about Violet Tanner?’

Mr Edgerton’s smile grew chilly. ‘I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss it, Miss Trott,’ he said stiffly. ‘That is a confidential matter between my client and – the person in question.’

Sister Wren pursed her lips. She might have known he would make some difficulty. Solicitors were always so annoyingly discreet.

‘Then I am not at liberty to give you the information you need.’ She stood up. ‘I am sorry to have wasted your time.’

‘Wait.’ Mr Edgerton regarded her thoughtfully over steepled fingers. ‘Perhaps it would help overcome your – qualms – if you met my client?’ he suggested.

Sister Wren almost squeaked with excitement. ‘Indeed it would,’ she said eagerly, glancing at the door. ‘Is he here?’

‘
She
is due here shortly.’

A woman! Sister Wren was even more intrigued as Mr Edgerton went outside to speak to his secretary. Who would it be? she wondered. An estranged mother or sister? A wronged friend, perhaps?

All kinds of theories were still crossing her mind five minutes later when the door opened and Mr Edgerton ushered his client in.

She was in her fifties, tall, grey-haired and severe-looking. Sister Wren did her usual critical glance, noting the cut of her black coat, good quality but at least twenty years out of date, and the polished leather of her shoes. Under the veil of the hat, she could make out a long face, with a pinched mouth, hooked nose and pale, prominent eyes.

‘May I introduce my client, Mrs Sherman,’ said Mr Edgerton in a hushed, respectful voice, ushering her to a seat. ‘Mrs Sherman, this is Miss Trott. She has information about Violet.’

Sister Wren was instantly impressed, but Mrs Sherman barely acknowledged her as she arranged herself in her chair.

‘Well?’ she addressed Mr Edgerton bluntly. ‘Do you know where she is?’

The solicitor looked discomfited. ‘Mrs Sherman, I am afraid Miss Trott has some questions first.’

Mrs Sherman snapped round to look at Sister Wren for the first time. She felt her confidence wilting under the force of the pale, penetrating stare. But she forced herself to stay resolved. ‘You must understand, Violet is a friend of mine,’ she said with a simper. ‘I could not think of doing anything that might put her at any risk.’

‘If she’s such a friend, I wonder why you would even come here in the first place?’ Mrs Sherman retorted. ‘Unless you thought there might be some financial reward in it for you?’

‘I – the thought never occurred to me!’ Sister Wren spluttered in outrage. ‘I merely wanted to satisfy myself that nothing untoward would happen to Violet—’

‘Really?’ Mrs Sherman’s mouth curled. ‘Your concern is touching. And completely misplaced, I’m afraid. Violet hardly merits anyone’s concern.’

‘Really? And why would you say that?’

‘Because I know her!’ Mrs Sherman shook with the vehemence of her reply. ‘I have had the misfortune of her acquaintance for some years, and I must tell you that she is quite the most heartless, dishonest and calculating woman I have ever met.’

She saw Sister Wren’s expression of dismay, and seemed to collect herself. ‘You must excuse me,’ she said quietly. ‘It is simply that I have seen the havoc that woman has wrought over the years, the cruelty she has shown to people close to her.’

Sister Wren frowned at her. ‘Who are you?’

Mrs Sherman met her gaze steadily. ‘I represent Victor Dangerfield. Violet’s husband.’

‘You mean, her deceased husband?’

‘Is that what she told you?’ Mrs Sherman smiled faintly. ‘Then I have to inform you, Mr Dangerfield is very much alive.’

A thrill ran through Sister Wren. This had been worth the bus fare from Bethnal Green after all. ‘She is still married then?’

Mrs Sherman nodded. ‘As far as he is concerned, certainly. He has never given up hope of her returning to him, despite the fact that she abandoned him five years ago, taking his only son with her.’ Her mouth firmed. ‘How that man could possibly go on loving her after the pain she has put him through, I simply do not know. But there you are. Such are the ways of the heart, I suppose.’

‘She told us all she was a widow,’ Sister Wren said.

‘You see how she deceives? All the poor man has ever done is love her, and this is how she treats him.’ The woman shook her head. ‘Even now, he only wants her to be happy. If she wishes to live apart from him, that is for her to decide. All he wants is to be allowed to see his son.’

She looked hard at Sister Wren, trapping her in the full force of her stare. ‘That’s why I’m appealing to you, for his sake,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘If you know where Violet is, you must tell me. For Oliver’s sake, if nothing else. A boy needs his father, don’t you think?’

Sister Wren looked into her pale, strange eyes. She couldn’t warm to Mrs Sherman, but she wasn’t surprised by anything she had said. Violet struck her as the selfish, unfeeling type. Hadn’t she tried to warn the other sisters, right from the start? But none of them had listened to her.