The Painted Cage (22 page)

‘You will set me up in business, Amy, later on when the time is right, probably in silk or tea. That is my condition. You have the means to help me. I'm a mercenary man, I admit it. I shall make a fortune if you start me off right. Money makes money, Amy. You too
will enjoy the benefits.' He watched her. She did not reply and he spoke again.

‘Your marriage is your protection, Amy. Without it you'll not get far. You'll go home to be a stigma and a burden on your family. If you think about it you'll see it's best if you remain.' His pale eyes assessed her, leaving no way. She did not trust him; she was thrown off balance. He was speaking again, softly and persuasively.

Together, Amy, we could command Yokohama. We have contacts in different circles. We could have a life we would never see in England. Everything money can buy, and status, Amy, status. It'll be easy, if we play our cards together. I'm giving you everything you want, Amy, just to stay with me. It's not a bad proposition now, is it?' He smiled as if for him also things had clarified.

It was too sudden, too strange. She needed time to sort it out, to make sure he did not trap her in some new and subtle way. ‘I'm tired, I can't think. Let's talk again tomorrow,' she told him. He nodded and opened the door. She stepped back into the room, airless as the still and sodden night.

It was impossible to sleep. The pale shroud of mosquito netting hovered above her in a ghostly shape. Weird dreams sucked her down, only to toss her into
wakefulness.
But the dreams dissolved without trace in the morning. She realized suddenly that Reggie was right. She must accept the terms he offered; she had never had a choice. But she was overcome with a longing to return to Somerset, if only for a while. That too was a decision the night had made.

‘Since we've now agreed to accommodate each other, I think you should know I want to go home for a while. It's four years since I left Somerset,' Amy said, watching Reggie soap his shaving brush before the washstand.

‘A splendid idea,' Reggie agreed. ‘A holiday would do you good. I couldn't accompany you this time, but you should plan to go at the end of the year, or early in ‘93.' He took it calmly as he shaved, his calves pushing through a white silk dressing gown. In the tree beyond the verandah a warbler repeated itself tirelessly. The room was filled
with morning light, the rain had taken the edge off the heat. Amy talked from behind the mosquito netting, propped up in bed, a breakfast tray on her lap. There was already a new maturity between Reggie and herself; there was nothing now to be destroyed. With the lack at last of pretence they had stumbled unexpectedly into an alliance that allowed a relationship to begin. It was all very strange. Reggie was full of faults, but looking at him over her coffee cup Amy found a magnanimity she had not felt when chained slavishly to his will. Their life would be different from now on. In spite of everything, it surprised her to find that some affection still remained.

When they arrived back in Yokohama, her mind was too full of returning to Somerset to give time to wild flowers. She wrote a note to Matthew Armitage, explaining the situation, hoping it might be possible to help on a future book. But in the end her departure was delayed until the following spring when she could return to her parents with not only Cathy but also Tom, her son.

Reggie was proud of the boy, a fine strapping child with a blood-curdling yell. He said he took after him. In the silence of her heart Amy was not so sure. Retracing the occasions when she might have conceived, it was impossible to know whether she had borne Reggie's son or the child of Guy le Ferrier. The nightmare had sickened her pregnancy and faded only with the child's birth. From the first moment Tom was his own red-faced, individual self, demanding of respect, not an acquiescing replica of Guy le Ferrier obvious to all. After one look Amy lay back in relief. If he had a secret the child would keep it privately, with her. The blond hair and blue eyes he shared with both of his possible fathers would be as much his protection as his innocuous identity. And Reggie certainly had no doubts about the paternity of his son.

Through the dull months of pregnancy, hazardous as ever for Amy, the new maturity of her relationship with Reggie had by necessity to hang in abeyance. Reggie lived his own life as fully as ever, but she kept in mind that she too in time would assume her own role in their pact.

In April, when the baby was a month old, Amy sailed on the
Empress
of
China
with her two children for home. She set her face to Somerset and the recovery of herself. And afterwards, on her return, to the new life that would await her.

The
Japan
Weekly
Mail
summary of news:

On the court resuming at two o’clock, Richard Jonathan Huckle was called and sworn. The court room as usual was packed, condensation steamed the windows; outside, sleet fell from a darkened sky. There was no way of telling without a watch if it was dusk or mid-morning. It no longer seemed to matter; time was interminable to Amy. From her seat Amy noticed the walrus moustache of the Baron d’Anethan, shielding an expression of distaste. Already she felt the sympathy in the room supporting Dicky Huckle.

‘You are a British subject?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you a friend of Mrs Redmore?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that your letter?’ Mr Russell asked. Dicky Huckle was handed a small sheet of paper, a torn jigsaw stitched laboriously together with white thread. If only she had burned his letters as he had insisted, Amy thought. Instead she had ripped them up and thrown them into the waste-paper basket. Dicky examined the letter, head bowed as if he would never again free it from the page. His hands trembled. Mr Russell looked up at Judge Bowman.

‘As to reading these letters, my lord, the clerk of the court, Mr Moss, has expressed difficulty in doing so. I think the witness will understand his own writing best.’

‘Then I think the witness had better read them,’ Judge Bowman complied. Dicky gasped, his expression unable to survive its small store of resolution.

There was nothing illegible about Dicky’s writing Amy thought. It was another piece of strategy on the part of the prosecution. Robert Russell appeared more and more the omnipotent stage manager of an evil play. The
unmistakable
element of theatre grew stronger every day. A murmur of anticipation rippled round the court. Reporters from the
Mail
and
Gazette
and a dozen other publications poised pencils above notebooks. A deep flush spread across Dicky’s face. He began to read, his voice nakedly uneven. He stopped and began again, invoking some composure. The room was silent with salacious
encouragement
. Mr Cooper-Hewitt leaned forward in the jury box with new appetite. Mr Figdor, plump and sweating in his seat, smiled to no one in particular. The tremble continued in Dicky’s voice.

Robert Russell got to his feet. ‘Can you state what is referred to in the words, “Dearest, the scene of yesterday shall not take place again.”’

‘An affectionate passage between Mrs Redmore and myself,’ Dicky answered, his voice barely audible. He was asked to repeat his answer louder.

Amy looked down, not wishing to meet the voyeurism in the court, their thoughts disgorging collectively in the same unspoken vein. She wanted to laugh at the nonsense of it all. In substituting Dicky for Matthew Armitage as the illicit centre of her life, the court left her love for Matthew untouched, whole still within herself. She would not, she realized, want it any other way. Let them construe what they wished about Dicky.

‘Later on you say her life was dreary and empty and your heart bled for her. What was that in consequence of?’ Robert Russell inquired, leaning forward expectantly upon his toes.

‘Mr Redmore’s horrible ill-treatment of her. Mrs Redmore told me she was exceedingly unhappy with her husband and that he ill-treated her in a great many ways. I know it now to be all untrue,’ Dicky said in a rush, turning suddenly to look accusingly at Amy, his face
petulant 
as a child’s. He resembled a plump and frightened rabbit who had found a hole to scurry into. He had told the world she had led him astray. As if it was possible to lead astray someone who had no wish to go.
She
should know about that.

‘Would you now look at Exhibit Epsilon,’ said Mr Russell. Dicky took the letter, stitched neatly as the others. His cheeks were hot and flushed, he coughed nervously.

‘“I knew you would suffer for yesterday.” What do you refer to?’ Robert Russell asked, jumping up.

‘The fact that we had had a ride, gone out riding together. She told me her husband would be angry.’

‘And when you say, “the remembrance of yesterday is ever with me”?’

‘It referred to our ride, nothing else,’ Dicky said quickly. Robert Russell observed him silently for a moment. He handed him another letter.

‘Will you now read Exhibit Kappa?’ he directed.

‘“I see the usual signal. I could look in after tiffin perhaps.”’ Dicky’s voice trembled again.

‘What do you mean by “the usual signal”?’

‘Mrs Redmore used to hang a handkerchief out of the window, and I could see it either from the house nearby where I lodged or from the road. It was to let me know whether I could go and see her.’

‘Do you mean you could go
in
and see her?’ Robert Russell was incredulous.

‘Yes,’ Dicky replied. There was a stir in the court; old women muttered, Robert Russell smiled sarcastically. These were the details they waited to hear, those moments too tangible for disguise.

‘What has become of Mrs Redmore’s letters to you?’

‘All her letters were destroyed. I never kept any of them.’

‘Will you read Exhibit Eta.’

Dicky read with control until the last few lines, when his voice stumbled and stopped and started again.

The blood rose again in Dicky’s cheeks. His voice stopped in a sob of desperation. She had taken little notice of his letters. He had never attracted her. She had found him amusing but more often tiresome. He had been useful, nothing more.

‘You left for Kobe on Sunday, 18 October to play an inter-port cricket match, and returned on Friday the 23rd, did you not? You were away at the time of Mr Redmore’s death?’

‘I was,’ Dicky answered with alacrity. The court room echoed its relief.

Jack Easely rose and cleared his throat. ‘Was the advice of divorce given to Mrs Redmore with the ultimate view of a marriage between yourselves?’

‘No, it was in view of the cruelty I was led to believe her husband inflicted.’

‘In your position in the bank were you free to marry?’

‘No, nobody under the rank of accountant can marry without permission. Permission is only granted in the event of having sufficient means.’

‘Did Mrs Redmore know this?’

‘I think so.’

‘When you saw Mrs Redmore on your return to Kobe, did her husband’s death appear to have shocked her?’

‘She appeared quite dazed when I saw her.’

‘Was there a gentleman who used to be called “The Ferret” by Mr and Mrs Redmore?’

‘I believe there was. I know there was.’

‘He was on very intimate terms with the accused, was he not?’

‘I think so.’ Dicky spoke up, seeing his way. He looked across at Amy. The court room was silent, waiting. Although no names were mentioned, it was widely known that after Reggie’s death Guy le Ferrier had been quickly transferred to Munich from Tokyo by the French Legation. Diplomatic immunity would save him from all that distance could not deter.

‘There was another gentleman called “The Organ Grinder”, was there not, so nicknamed by Mr Redmore, and also on very intimate terms with the accused?’ Jack Easely established. Amy held her breath but he pushed on quickly. There was nothing to prove about Matthew, or even Guy le Ferrier. Their existence and their gender was all that mattered in the case.

‘I believe so,’ Dicky nodded. Judge Bowman leaned forward to hear better, his face incredulous.

‘And your nickname was “The Youth”, was it not?’ Jack Easely asked. From the back of the court someone snorted in relish. Dicky looked startled.

‘Mr Redmore used to call me “Youth” occasionally, but not latterly,’ he answered stiffly.

‘The deceased allowed his wife the greatest latitude in the selection of her male friends?’

‘Certainly, I think so.’ Dicky was on his guard now.

‘He was fond of sailing and she of riding, and she generally rode with her male friends?’

‘Yes, that is true.’

Old Mr Porter stood suddenly at the back of the court, breathing hard. His chair scraped the floor, his voice rattled across the room. ‘She is doubtful, detected,
detestable
and must be destroyed. Clear them out like rats and all women like her.’ His monocle fell from his eye as he spoke, his mulberry nose glowed deeper. There was a ripple through the court. Jack Easely took no notice, but turned quickly to Dicky Huckle.

‘On a former occasion you testified that on the day of Mr Redmore’s funeral you saw a strange woman standing near the club gates. Will you describe her?’

‘She was tall and I think fair. I could not recognize her again. I did not take much notice, but my interest was aroused by her apparent distress and tears.’ Dicky spoke reluctantly, as if wishing he had never seen the mysterious woman everyone waited to hear was the notorious Annie Luke.

‘Do you remember having a conversation some time ago with Mr Redmore about his taking arsenic?’

‘Yes, many years ago he told me he had nearly died once in the Straits from the effects of an accidental
overdose
of arsenic.’

On a desk before Mr Russell lay a pile of ragged papers, prescriptions and chits. Amy stared at the hasty scribbles, dashed off without thought, each detail – nothing in its moment – gathered now against her. Dicky’s letters made their own small pile, tiny sheets of paper, quilted and frail with stitching. There was a crest with a swan Dicky used, in sepia with the motto below
Aut
Mors
Aut
Victoria.
His writing, though legible, was cramped as an insect’s, different from her own quick dash across the page. It was not death or even murder that drew such an audience to this court. It was the titillation of exposure that struck the common chord. People could scan themselves without recognition, while remaining safe and dry.

Baron d’Anethan sat erect in an alpaca coat with a Persian lamb collar. He gave no sign of emotion. Amy remembered him on the ascent to Owakidani, as the Baroness took her photographs. It seemed now like a dream. Lettice Dunn sat primly, her hands clasped tight.
Enid was there without Ada. All were disassociated by expression from any past friendship. Mr Cooper-Hewitt turned with a scornful smile to say something to Mr Figdor. Mrs Ewart and Mrs Cooper-Hewitt adjusted their bonnets, faces gripped by piety. Henry Corodale lounged upon his chair, waiting for novel perversions to whet his appetite, bored with mundane sin. The familiarity that breeds contempt was fed them as daily fare. Her soul was everybody’s property, thought Amy. She was a mystery only to herself.