‘Don’t.’
‘I suppose you’ve completely ignored my advice as usual?’
She didn’t answer.
‘I’ve met some headstrong, eccentric mavericks in my time but you beat ’em all hands down.’ You can talk. ‘Sometimes I wonder what you were doing when I took you on all those digs. I thought it would have taught you teamwork if nothing else.’
He sounded cross and she hated that. Hated being told off by him, however mildly, hated being told off by anyone, especially if she had a sneaking suspicion it might be justified. ‘You know the only sport I ever liked was swimming. I’m not a team player. That’s why I left the College of Arms, remember, and Generations. I knew I’d be better on my own.’
He understood her well enough to realize it was counterproductive to get her back up. ‘I realize you always think you can do the job better than anyone else. Usually you can … So long as you’ve thought about what happens if you’re right about that note and you don’t get to her in time. What if this girl does turn up; dead? If you’ve kept it to yourself then there’s only you to blame. Still. No point in arguing with you if you’ve made up your mind. I just hope she’s worth all your effort, that’s all.’
She steered the conversation round to Italy.
‘I’ll be staying in London next week, funding meetings,’ Steven said. ‘Be great to see you before we go back out.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
As she grabbed a roll from the basement canteen Natasha was still smarting from her conversation with Steven and all the latent emotions it had aroused. Memories of turbulent teenage years, when she argued with him and Ann constantly, refused to accept their advice or rules, threw back at them words that she knew were as unjustified as they were unkind. ‘How dare you tell me what to do. You aren’t my real parents.’
She knew that when she got home there was sure to be an e-mail from Steven, apologizing for lecturing. He was only cross because he cared, was worried about her. Why did she find that so difficult to accept?
You always think you can do the job better than anyone else. And that was the trouble. She might give the appearance but it often wasn’t how she felt inside. ‘It’s wonderful to be so confident, but don’t let it come out as arrogance.’ That’s what he used to tell her. And she wondered who he was talking about.
Still, giving the impression of confidence was probably half the battle.
She flipped through her notebook, turned back to the page where she’d made the notes on the Marshalls. Two daughters. Ellen and Eleanor. There was surely some significance in the similarity of the names. She’d make a bet that she’d be proved right about Mrs Marshall. Both daughters named after her. In which case it must have been triply confusing. Four females in one household. And three of them with the names Ellen, Ellen and Eleanor. John and John as well for that matter. No wonder Ellen number two was known by a middle name. And Eleanor so much younger than her sisters and brother. A late, unplanned pregnancy? Had Ellen senior died in childbirth? Had little Eleanor also been named in remembrance of her mother for that reason?
Fourteen
‘YOUR HUNCH WAS right,’ the archivist at the Royal College of Surgeons said when Natasha called next morning as arranged. ‘The doctor’s wife was indeed called Ellen.’
She wanted to kiss him. ‘Fantastic. I can’t tell you how helpful that is.’
‘Glad to be of assistance.’ He sounded surprised and pleased, as if he wasn’t used to such unreserved appreciation. ‘There’s a two-page entry in Plarr’s Lives of the Fellows of the Royal College of Surgeons of England. Would you like me to drop a quick copy in the post to you? You might as well have it now it’s here in front of me.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘You never know. It might be useful.’
It might. But she had the information she needed. Dr Marshall’s wife being called Ellen made it highly likely that Ellen J. was the eldest daughter, that there were no other Marshall girls with the initials J.M. Which meant it was a pretty sure-fire bet she was the diarist.
The 1881 census was a mine of easily accessible information. So far it was the only census that had been computerised, painstakingly, by the Church of the Latter Day Saints. The entries were all stored on CD-ROM, fully indexed by both surname and district. Natasha quickly inserted disk five, covering London, and typed in the search criteria. Marshall: head of household. There were 200. She flicked the cursor down the page and found him again. On 3 April 1881 the housemaid, Emily, was still in service. Eleanor was still living at Savile Row. John, Ada, and Ellen, had all gone.
Perfect. It was a great help in genealogy that in the past people moved around less and it was customary for daughters to remain at home until they married, then, in the absence of birth control, to have a child soon after, or sometimes just before.
One of Toby’s flatmates answered the phone. Natasha caught the sound of radio pop music and the clatter of breakfast, then Toby’s voice. ‘You want me to help you find your missing girl I take it? So bang goes my morning raiding tombs with Lara Croft. She reminds me of you you know.’
‘From you, Toby, I take that as a real compliment.’ She filled him in on the background to the case. ‘It’s a girl called Ellen J. Marshall I’m interested in. She was still living at her father’s house in Savile Row in 1871. She’s gone by 1881.’
‘So I’ve got to trawl through ten years of marriage registers to find out where she went and with whom. Original job. Not. I suppose you want it done yesterday.’
‘Course not. This morning would be just fine. Her birth certificate should be waiting at the collection point as well.’
Professions, like given names, had a way of running in families. Lawyers’ sons became lawyers, carpenters’ sons became carpenters, military men had children and grandchildren who also joined the armed forces. Often the tradition was carried on over several generations. Natasha wondered, had either of the Marshall girls, or John junior, become nurses or doctors?
Another thought occurred. When Bethany told her she was working in the florists while she decided what to do, was she considering a career in the medical profession? Bethany said she believed the moon controlled the mind because the human body was up to eighty per cent water. Natasha couldn’t remember if that figure was accurate. She had an almost photographic memory, only sometimes she left the lens cap on, and sciences hadn’t been her strongest subjects. Did what Bethany had said indicate a particular interest in anatomy, that she had studied biology? Was her father a doctor perhaps, putting pressure on her to follow in his footsteps, pushing her along a path she wasn’t sure she wanted to take? And, if so, would knowing about Dr Marshall help her make her decision?
Natasha saw it all the time, people presented with the tiniest reference to one of their ancestors, clasping or staring at a piece of paper as if were the most revelatory discovery, something that might totally change their lives.
She could imagine how it felt, what it meant to learn of a great-grandfather who died at sea, or a distant cousin even, who married at seventeen and gave birth to twelve children. Knowing such things helped people to make sense of their own lives. It’s a universal need, isn’t it, to want to know about your roots, where you came from?
Natasha was sure Bethany would be thrilled by the smallest scraps of information she discovered about John Marshall and his family. Suddenly, she wanted very much to be able to tell her about them.
Toby called back at two. ‘Bad news I’m afraid.’
‘You couldn’t find her?’
‘Oh, I found her all right. Just not in the place you told me to look.’
‘She didn’t leave her father’s house to marry?’
‘Nope.’
There was one other likely reason Ellen J. Marshall might have departed 10 Savile Row. Natasha felt her stomach knot. ‘You checked the death registers.’
‘I did. She’s in the first quarter of 1873.’
‘Shit.’
‘I’ve ordered a copy of the certificate. Though I guess we already know what it’ll say. She died a spinster of this parish. No doubt she’d have been a virgin as well. What a waste, eh?’
‘Returned unopened as they say.’
Toby laughed.
‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Check out the brother and sisters, I suppose. John, Ada, and little Eleanor.’ Three of them. It would take time to trace present day descendants for each one. For some reason it didn’t feel right in any case, as if she was missing something, had drifted off track.
‘I picked up the birth certificate as well by the way. The J stands for Jeanette.’
So J.M. was named after both her parents. Jeanette the female version of Jean, the French for John.
After she’d hung up, Natasha opened the diary. She looked at Bethany’s photograph and felt swamped by failure. It would have helped if Adam had given her a normal photograph instead of that small, tragic, ghostly face.
Who are you? Where are you? Are you all right? Then she said aloud, ‘I won’t give up yet, I promise.’
She slipped the photograph back between the delicate pages, and thought of the exuberant personality that radiated from them. J.M., Jeanette, was in her early twenties then, spirited, embracing life and love. Yet in a few years she’d die.
Just thirty years old. Unmarried. Childless.
A dead end, literally.
Fifteen
NATASHA HAD MADE an impulsive decision to leave the Alpine at Snowshill. The Opium Den was a five-minute walk from Oxford station and as she walked up Station Road, her legs seemed to grow heavier the closer she got to the restaurant, as if she’d been running for hours.
The restaurant was half full, students and young professional couples mostly. Adam was sitting smoking at a ‘no smoking’ table by the window, unopened magazines and an open bottle of Shiraz and two glasses in front of him. One was half empty.
Disconcertingly he didn’t smile or say hello, just watched her as she came towards him.
‘Hi there.’
He carried on staring, then caught her eye. ‘You walk like a dancer.’ He poured wine into the empty glass.
She took off her coat, slung it over the back of the chair and sat down. ‘I studied ballet until I was fifteen.’
‘That explains it then. I had this idea of doing a series of photographs of ballet scenes. How about it?’
‘I told you before, I don’t like having my picture taken.’
‘Pity. The one I did the other day turned out well. You look very dramatic.’
‘I’ve not been accused of that since I was seventeen.’
‘You surprise me. I bet being in love with you is a real challenge. Like anything rewarding.’
She knew better than to respond. Nibbled a prawn cracker instead. ‘Did the ones of Bethany turn out OK?’
‘Could be better.’ He crushed the butt of his cigarette into the tray. ‘Dunno what went wrong. Problem with the exposure maybe. Shadows. None of the black and whites are any good.’
‘What a pity. So how’s the exhibition coming along otherwise?’
‘Too fast.’
‘Is there an opening date?’
‘It’s 16 January.’
Two weeks away. The deadline Natasha had given herself by which to find Bethany.
‘The last shoot’s this Friday,’ Adam said. ‘It should have been done weeks ago.’ He sounded fed up. He was wearing a crumpled white T-shirt beneath his black velvet jacket. His fair hair looked as if he’d just climbed out of bed, and he needed a shave.
‘Where’s the location this time?’
‘It’s just a studio session.’ He picked up a chopstick and flipped it between his fingers like a cowboy in a western twirling a pistol. He jabbed it into the table and put it down. ‘So. How did you get on?’
No choice but to heap more angst on Adam’s plate. ‘The diarist was called Ellen Jeanette Marshall. Her father, John, had a practice in Savile Row.’
‘Well done.’ He must have seen her face. ‘There’s something else?’
‘Jeanette died when she was thirty. Unmarried.’
He sucked viciously at his cigarette, exhaled, glared out of the window. ‘She must have had a bastard then.’
Natasha was aware of the couple at the next table, glancing in their direction. ‘It’s possible.’
But not a great deal of help.
It was true that dying a spinster didn’t definitely mean Jeanette had no direct descendants to whom she could have passed her diary. It was a mistake inexperienced genealogists made, finding a marriage and then searching forward for the birth of the first child, when they should also have gone back. In Victorian times, ten per cent of marriages took place after the first baby had been born, and many couples didn’t wed at all. ‘The trouble is, illegitimate children usually weren’t registered. Adoptions certainly weren’t. They’re practically impossible to trace now.’
Adam snatched up the menu, terminating the conversation, erecting a barrier between himself and what he didn’t want to hear.
Why am I putting myself through this?
Natasha glanced sideways. The eavesdroppers had resumed their chat, no doubt when they found out the discussion was about dead people. Nowhere near as interesting as a modern day scandal.
Steven was right. It wasn’t her place to shoulder all the responsibility. But looking at Adam’s face, anger hiding pain, she couldn’t see a way to mention the note. What if he couldn’t explain it? Formed the same conclusion she had? It would be too cruel, unbearable for him, to be presented with that when he’d just learned that there seemed no quick or obvious way to find Bethany.
Still, at the back of her mind, was a niggling suspicion that she wasn’t being completely honest with herself. There were other reasons she didn’t take the plunge. She couldn’t get over the feeling that he was keeping something from her, that things were not all they seemed.
She watched him smoking, tried to pin Mary’s comment to him. It’s often them that did the driving away, or just did them away.
Horrifyingly, Natasha found it not totally implausible that Adam was capable of either.
Adam dropped the menu onto the table. ‘That’s it then,’ he said. ‘You’d better tell me how much I owe you.’
‘Nothing. I haven’t done what you asked me to do. Look, there’s other things we can try.’ Like what exactly? She took a deep breath, cast about for some positive suggestions, ‘As a woman, it’s unlikely Jeanette left a will. But her possessions would have gone to someone. Her brother maybe, or either of her sisters. I’ll trace forward from the three of them.’
He didn’t seem particularly cheered by that. Natasha wasn’t either, knew she’d be wasting her time. If there was no direct bloodline then Bethany had been simply wrong when she’d said she was descended from the diarist.
The only thing left was to take the note to the police. For a split-second she wondered if she could do that without involving Adam. Of course not.
‘Look, just because there’s no direct blood link to the writer the diary might not be entirely useless. I’m going to go back over it, see if I can find anything else. Perhaps there’s some other clue, I don’t know, a reference to a place maybe, one of the doctor’s patients?’
The waitress came over with her notebook. Natasha asked for king prawns in coconut sauce and steamed rice, something she’d eaten here before. Adam said he’d have the same, then slouched back in his chair. ‘What if I was completely wrong?’ he said in a way that made Natasha know she wasn’t going to like what was coming. ‘Rossetti put his poems into Lizzie Siddal’s coffin as a kind of grand farewell gesture, a sacrifice. Right? Well, I’ve been thinking. What if the diary was Bethany’s way of copying Lizzie and Rossetti’s story? It would be just like her to do something like that. What if she wanted me to have it as a token, a keepsake?’
Natasha refilled both their glasses, trying not to dwell on the implicat
ion of what Adam had said.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I appreciate you going to so much trouble. But perhaps we should call it a day. Admit defeat.’
She held Adam’s glass out to him. ‘Not something I’ve ever learnt how to do I’m afraid.’
She was rewarded with a thin smile, his first that evening. ‘I can see that.’
How would he take it if anything did happen to Bethany? How would you ever recover from something like that? ‘Tell me more about her?’
‘What do you want to know?’ His tone was sullen again.
‘I’m not exactly sure. Anything. Everything. What music did she like?’ Always a key to a person’s soul.
‘The Doors. Jim Morrison.’
Great. Jim Morrison committed suicide. But Natasha had all the albums too. Vinyl and CD.
‘Did she like her job?’
‘Very much I think. She knew a lot of interesting stuff about floristry.’
Natasha leant forward, elbows resting on the table. ‘Like what?’
He gave a shrug. ‘She told me about gypsy funerals. Apparently they have flowers arranged as ‘broken hearts’, with a zigzag of red roses to symbolize the break. During the Second World War there was a ban on transporting flowers by rail, she said, and they found this way to smuggle anemones to Covent Garden hidden in broccoli. I never knew flowers had such poetic names. Star of Bethlehem, Angel Wings, Love-in-a-mist. Love-lies-bleeding.’ He lit another cigarette, taking his time. ‘She had this tin box with a Victorian advertisement on it, you know for Pears soap or something. I found it in a drawer she kept her clothes in when she was staying over. She’d saved everything. There were ticket stubs from when we’d gone to galleries, the Polaroids from the photo shoots, the first scrap of paper I gave her with my phone number on it. She even saved the receipt for a cappuccino she’d bought on the day I met her.’
She must have loved him a lot. So why did she leave?
Natasha thought of the little musical box with the secret drawer where she stashed sweets as a child, and the burst remains of a glittery star-shaped balloon Marcus had bought at Stow Fair on the first weekend he’d come to stay with her. She’d felt daft, keeping it, but couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.
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