The Tailor's Girl (38 page)

‘I thought you were part of it,’ she warbled, quickly composing herself. ‘Bramson . . .’

The butler cleared his throat, blinking. ‘Master Lex, there’s been a terrible accident. It’s . . . well, it’s Miss Aubrey-Finch.’

‘Pen,’ he uttered, his fears gathering. ‘Is she all right?’ His mouth was parched.

‘We don’t know,’ Bramson said. ‘The police couldn’t tell us. They’re on their way here now.’

Alex couldn’t swallow for the tightness in his throat. His mind began to race ahead. ‘What about her parents? Are they still in Rome?’

‘Yes. Back at the end of the week,’ Cecily bleated. ‘The police called us because of you.’

Alex rubbed his face in fear of the truth and loathing for his part in it. It felt like a deepening nightmare. ‘So we don’t know anything?’

‘A car accident is all we know, Sir,’ Bramson said. ‘Mrs Wynter, let’s sit you down by the fire. Mrs Dear has put the kettle on. Should I fetch some ice, Master Alex?’ Bramson nodded at Alex’s bruising but Alex shook his head.

They drifted into the sitting room. ‘I’ll do it, Bramson,’ Alex said, reaching for the poker and coaxing the embers in the fireplace back to life. It felt easier to be busy.

‘We’d all gone to bed,’ his mother stammered. ‘Look at me, in my nightgown!’

Alex remembered what a state Pen had driven off in, the speed at which she had hit the Brighton Road, in a motor car she was unfamiliar with, and he felt his pulse quicken with dread that it was his fault. ‘Mother, while we wait for word, I have something to tell you.’

She eyed him and there wasn’t much tenderness in her look now that she knew he was safe. ‘I’ve gathered as much, seeing as you’re dressed for dinner and you were meant to be in London with Penny. Did you two have a fight? Is that why you have a black eye?’

He resisted touching where it was sore. ‘That wasn’t Pen.’ He groaned and held his head, sickened by what he needed to say; what he’d already said to a beautiful young woman who was now potentially physically as much as emotionally hurt by his decisions. ‘What a mess. Let me just talk and you can pass your judgement later.’

Tea came and then grew cold, untouched, as Cecily Wynter listened to the traumatic tale her son recounted, and when his words dried up and she turned to stare sightlessly at the flames, seeing only the blur of orange while her thoughts clattered with sorrow for everyone in his story, they heard a car arrive on the gravel.

Alex stood, helped his mother up and awaited the police. They heard voices and finally Bramson showed them in. Two men in plain clothes and one in uniform arrived wearing solemn expressions, hats in hand.

‘Evening, gentlemen,’ Alex greeted, his tone sombre.

‘Mr Wynter, Mrs Wynter,’ the eldest said. ‘I’m Inspector Philips.’

They both nodded as he introduced the other pair, but Alex barely heard their names, and though it seemed churlish not to even offer a cup of tea at least on this cold night, he only wanted to hear that Pen was safe. He took the lead after the introductions were finished. ‘Is Miss Aubrey-Finch hurt, Inspector Philips? She was driving a new car for the first time today,’ Alex said.

The men shared an awkward glance. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Sir, to have to tell you that Miss Aubrey-Finch had a car accident tonight and has died from her injuries.’

The room turned so still that Alex could no longer hear the crackle and spit of the fire. He was unable to take a breath as he repeated in his mind what the policeman had just said and was unaware that his mother had slipped away from his side to sit down.

‘How . . . what . . . I . . .’ He stared at the men, unable to find the words.

Philips saved him the search. ‘It was instant, we’re assured. She crashed the car at Hassocks, rounding a bend. She hit a tree. A nearby doctor attended the scene immediately but Miss Aubrey-Finch was . . .’ He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, Sir, she was already gone.’

Bramson approached, clearly worried for his mistress. He stood near them both, no doubt in similar shock. Alex realised everyone was waiting for him to say something but his breath was now trapped in his chest and it was as if bumblebees were humming around in his mind in a great drone of noise that he realised was the sound of his heart pumping so hard he could hear the blood around his head as the policeman began to speak again.

‘. . . her parents are overseas, we gather,’ Philips said.

‘Yes . . . yes, they’re in Europe. Back at the end of the week,’ Alex said, as if by rote, glad to finally find his voice. ‘Do you wish us to contact them?’ It seemed the polite thing to say next and helped him to focus. Action was always better than losing oneself in shock. He’d learned that in the trenches.

‘Well, it might be best coming from a family friend.’

‘Bramson, get both my brothers and Charlie home please,’ he said to one side. ‘Call them, wake them – whatever has to be done.’ He was taking charge now as the immediate numbness gave way to sensation again and rational thought. This is what officers did on the frontline. They took control.

‘At once, Sir,’ he heard Bramson reply.

‘I should tell you I was with Miss Aubrey-Finch this evening, Inspector Philips.’

The man’s gaze cut sharply to meet his. ‘Then we will need a statement, Sir.’

‘Of course. Listen, can we get you anything? Bramson?’

The butler was just tiptoeing away. ‘Leave it to me, Sir.’

‘Come and warm yourselves,’ Alex gestured, the tremble in his hand a sign of his shock despite his steady voice. ‘I’ll tell you everything I can.’ He had experienced his share of trauma during the war, yet the pain of trying to absorb the reality that laughing, loving, generous Pen had died in the freezing dark, on a roadside and in bitterness at him, felt more agonising in this moment than all of his sufferings.

Edie put the phone down, pale and trembling; she wanted to believe she’d imagined the conversation just now and tried to picture herself waking up and feeling a flood of relief that it had only been a bad dream.

Madeleine walked back into the salon. ‘Still alone? I thought Miss Aubrey-Finch would be here by now. I picked up cakes and . . .’ Her words trailed off as she took in Edie’s countenance. ‘Eden, what’s wrong?’ She hurried to her friend’s side. ‘What’s happened? Is Tommy all right?’ She glanced around and saw Tommy playing in the corner.

‘It’s Pen.’

‘Oh, thank heavens. She’s late?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ Madeleine faltered.

Edie nodded, a hand trembling as it covered her mouth. She reached for one of the salon’s seats and lowered herself, shaking, to the chair. ‘Killed in a car accident last night. Mads . . . I had only spoken to her a few hours earlier. She sounded so jolly. We were having lunch today . . .’

Madeleine sat carefully beside her friend, wearing an expression of deep shock. ‘An accident?’

Again Edie nodded. ‘Somewhere near Brighton. She sped into a tree. That was Charlotte Wynter. She’s out of her mind with grief . . .’ She shook her head and wiped a tear. Tommy had toddled over and she lifted him onto her lap and hugged him.

‘Alone?’

Edie gasped. ‘I didn’t even ask about Mr Wynter’s state. Oh, how dreadfully insensitive of me. Yes, she was alone.’

‘He’s presumably in terrible shock too.’

‘He wants to see me.’

‘Wynter does? Why on earth?’

She shrugged. ‘Charlotte said it was important. It’s very strange, Mads. He’s not coming to the salon, which I can understand, so we’re meeting at the Chelsea Physic Garden.’

‘Maybe he wants Pen’s money back?’

‘I can’t imagine that. No mention of money, although I’ll gladly give back most of it. No, he’s probably just trying to put together a picture of yesterday’s events.’

‘Perhaps the police need to talk with you?’

‘Possibly, although Charlotte said there is nothing suspicious. Misadventure, according to the police report. Plain bad luck.’

‘Oh, Eden, I’m so sorry. This was meant to be your big beginning.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to think about that now but maybe it’s a sign that I’m not meant to do this, Mads. Oh, that poor, lovely girl!’

‘That’s not the way to think. We have appointments in the book and for Pen’s sake you have to try even harder now. She loved your style, Eden . . . so you mustn’t let this sad and horrid tragedy throw you off the course she helped to put you on.’

‘I know, I know. Mads, I’m just tired of having to pick myself up, only to get knocked down again . . . And every time I think there’s a reason to feel more stable, to start looking at life with more optimism, something dark closes in on it.’

‘What time are you meeting Mr Wynter?’

‘Eleven. I can’t believe he’d drive down to London, so soon after the event.’

Madeleine nodded. ‘Shock can make you behave oddly.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Shall I fetch your coat?’

‘Thank you, and Tommy’s too, please. I know I was going to leave him here over lunchtime but I think I’ll take him with me on this meeting; might make it feel less awkward. But how will I recognise Mr Wynter?’

Madeleine gave her a searching look. ‘I promise you, darling, you’ll know him; even grieving, he’ll be the most handsome man in the gardens.’

_______________

The cloudy skies gave a thin layer of warmth and though it was overcast, Edie didn’t think it would rain but she had her umbrella with her just in case.

Expecting to lunch with Pen and her friends, Edie had dressed to impress today in a chestnut-coloured satin dress that was now covered by a daringly original scarlet coat. She’d fashioned it from a fabric imported from Italy and fastened it with polished horn tips that her supplier from Petticoat Lane had hunted down from Africa. The coat was belted low with a thin leather strap, its hem skimming her ankles above simple, pointed-toe chocolate heels that matched her leather gloves and small rouched bag. Her dramatic, oversized ecru-coloured fur collar swept up to cover her neck, while the sleeves hung low from wide openings ringed by the rabbit fur. A cream-and-scarlet cloche hat sat low and neat over her shiny dark-brown hair that tumbled in waves just above her chin. She knew the ensemble turned heads and had become accustomed to using herself as a walking canvas for her clothes, but today she wasn’t enjoying the attention. She was thinking about her dead client and what she could possibly say to Penelope Aubrey-Finch’s fiancé.

Tommy was walking beside her, his mittened hand holding hers tightly as they covered the short distance to the Gardens. Edie was reminded of how learning from Sol the tiny snippet that Tom had gone into central London to find a gift for her had felt so exciting to hear. Meaningless to most, but to her it was like a drop of pure gold . . . another little gift of memory to lock away in her heart. Likewise she would do her utmost to remember every nuance in Pen’s voice, every moment of the conversation she’d shared yesterday, in the hope that it might bring Alex Wynter some solace . . . if that’s what he was hoping for.

They moved at Tommy’s pace as he kicked through fallen leaves past the newly named Chelsea Polytechnic on Manresa Road. The smell from the Imperial Gasworks at Chelsea Wharf caught her attention and encouraged her not to dawdle.

Edie approached the imposing, finely wrought iron of the double gates that led into the Physic Garden. Her gaze travelled to the oasis beyond and she inhaled the cold, fresh air, feeling that her spirits had indeed lifted. Realising they were fifteen minutes early, she looked up at the blue-and-gold crest on the gates – even faded, it looked dramatic with Apollo, the Greek god of healing, slaughtering the serpent of disease. These gardens belonged to the Worshipful Society of Apothecarists and were initially concerned with herbs for medicine but had since expanded to include all manner of plants. She picked up Tommy and walked on, preferring to use one of the smaller side gates to slip into the quiet gardens that she cut through on her way home via London’s embankment.

Edie hoped Mr Wynter would not be late or her teeth would be chattering. She made for the Sir Hans Sloane statue, which could be seen from most angles in the garden and where she had suggested to Charlotte Wynter that she meet her brother. It had struck Edie as curious that Wynter himself hadn’t made these arrangements. She’d been in too much shock to question it but it was an oddity that he’d used his sister to set it up. Then again, she thought, he would have been busy with police, no doubt barely able to think straight. Edie remembered that feeling of pure shock all too well.

The gardens were deserted. The temperature was dropping and a breeze was picking up. She shivered again and had her choice of all the benches, as each was unoccupied. She chose one and as she sat a slender, unshowy, stemmed shrub with long, leathery leaves and creamy-white flowers gave off a gentle, sweet fragrance around her that made her sigh.

Edie thought about her trip to Fleet Street tomorrow. It felt important – another defiance against surrender. She thought of Percy Fitch and visiting him after her trip to Fleet Street. It was a desperate, reed-thin chance that his client who was knocked over was Tom.

‘Without hope, why bother?’ she murmured to her child and only now caught sight of a tiny piece of his train set clutched in his hand. It provoked a quiver of pain, as she recalled who had given him the gift.
Damn you, Ben!
Birds called softly around her, new scents of spicy laurel and the pine fragrance of rosemary wafted over her, and Edie realised her mind was silently making a bargain.

If I forgive Ben, please, please, give me back Tom. That’s all I ask. Just let him find me and I will never ask for anything more again.

She cast out her hope to every angel that had ever protected Tom through the trials of war, and as she did so, she did forgive Ben. Mads was right when she’d said that to hang on to her anger was to fill herself with the very poison that had led Ben to betray her. ‘You’re above that. You’re kinder, more generous and capable of remembering all the good in Ben from childhood,’ Mads had said.

Tommy had realised the chalky pebble he’d picked up could make markings on the pathway and was deeply engaged in drawing lines. Edie dipped into her pocket to find a handkerchief and smiled at the swatch of red fabric that was neatly folded in the middle. There it was. There was the sign. The angels had answered her. She glanced at Tommy.

‘Daddy’s coming,’ she whispered, believing it in this moment to be the truth she would cling to.

Edie dabbed her eyes quickly and regarded the heart-shaped scrap. She carried it habitually and for no particular reason pushed it now beneath the soft fur of her glove so she could feel it against her palm and hold it there. She squeezed her hand into a small fist.

Come on, Tom. Find us
, she urged.

_______________

At the salon, Madeleine answered the jangling telephone.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Fitch. Yes, I do remember you. Do you remember me?’

‘How could I forget a beautiful lady such as yourself, Mademoiselle Delacroix?’

She smiled. ‘How can I help you, Mr Fitch?’

‘I’m returning Edie’s call. I’ve been away and have taken a few days to get back to her. Regretfully, I was swamped with appointments.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed her, Mr Fitch. She has an engagement away from the salon and probably won’t return today.’

‘Oh, pity. Well, look, to save us all making another round of telephone calls, I wonder if you would be kind enough to pass on a message?’

‘I’d be happy to.’

‘Thank you. My assistant, Mr Elton, mentioned that Edie was enquiring after one of our valued clients.’

‘Yes, Mr Fitch. Look, forgive Eden. She has been under a lot of strain lately and she’s lost a lot of people she loves, including her husband and —’

‘Good gracious, Miss Delacroix. When did she lose her husband?’

‘He’s not dead, Mr Fitch. But he’s lost, gone missing.’

‘But I caught sight of Benjamin Levi only days ago!’

‘Mr Levi is not her husband. Tom is.’

The silence felt to Madeleine like a third person on the line it was so palpable.

Fitch finally cleared his throat. ‘Well, well . . . I just presumed —’

‘It’s easier sometimes not to go through it again. Eden is family to me and I worry about her crusade to find her lost husband sometimes. He was a wounded returned soldier who was last seen not far from Savile Row.’

‘Ah . . .’ Fitch sighed down the line. ‘I completely understand now. Oh, poor, dear Edie. I don’t know what to say, and although I’m not in the habit of ever sharing names, in this instance I will break my own rule, if it might bring her some peace. The man in question is Alex Wynter. He —’

‘Wait,’ Madeleine interrupted. ‘You aren’t referring to Alex Wynter, the industrialist, are you?’

‘Er . . .’ Fitch sounded suddenly defensive. ‘Do you know him?’

‘We’ve met,’ she said, her heart beginning to drum. ‘He is marrying . . . well, was to marry one of this salon’s bridal clients.’

‘Good grief, small world, eh?’ Fitch exclaimed. ‘Well, there you are, Miss Delacroix.’

‘Thank you, Mr Fitch, for your kindness. I’ll let Eden know.’

Madeleine replaced the receiver and spent several moments staring at it in shock, her mind empty of everything but the echo of Fitch’s words.
Alex Wynter couldn’t possibly be our Edie’s Tom.

_______________

Edie looked up at the statue of Sir Hans Sloane, Irish philanthropist, physician and botanist, who was responsible for donating his Chelsea home and grounds for the Apothecaries’ Garden, the second-oldest botanical garden in Britain. Normally Sloane’s backdrop was small woodland – yews and firs, elms and oaks. Now the winter trees were mainly bare and Sir Hans looked back at her somewhat gravely from a more naked scene, but she sensed a smile lurking beneath his outwardly sombre expression, convinced he approved of her bargain.

Edie let out a small sigh and checked the time on her wristwatch. It was eleven on the dot and the chimes of the nearby church confirmed the hour. Mr Wynter was due. She stood, put away her handkerchief, straightened her coat and hoped her eyes were not reddened. She pinched her cheeks in and bit her lips for colour.

She bent to retie the scarf around Tommy’s neck and grinned as he sped off again – faster than ever – on tiny legs, heedless of the cold in his quest to chase after a dove. Edie was facing the main southern entrance but heard a footfall behind her on the gravel and swung around.

Everything in her life in that moment became still, including her heart, she was sure. She tried to swallow but her throat was so suddenly parched her mouth felt clamped but even so a strange, animal-like sob escaped.

‘
Edie
 . . .’ the man said in an achingly familiar voice that released the spell of paralysis. Suddenly movement was permitted again and she was no longer shivering but shaking, her teeth rattling.

Edie bent forward her trembling body, clutching it as if in pain. In a couple of strides the long arms she had craved for so many tear-filled nights had wrapped themselves about her and picked her up. Perhaps he thought she might collapse. She couldn’t believe she was being carried like a child, in a public place, but she also didn’t care because Tom was here. Tom had found her, even though he didn’t look like Tom but that voice was unmistakable – the hands were his, the broad chest was no one else’s . . .

‘
Edie
,’ he whispered again, setting her down on the nearby bench.

She still couldn’t speak. Couldn’t utter his name, couldn’t find a single word to convey even a smattering of the emotion ringing through her. She glanced at Tommy in the near distance scattering leaves and she turned to stare at his father, disbelieving through watering eyes, had to touch his cheek to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. It was bruised.

‘Does it hurt?’ she whispered.