Beneath a Burning Sky

by Jenny Ashcroft

  Olivia said no, better they stayed where they were; Clara would undoubtedly reappear any second. Of course she would. She ran her hand through her hair, realising she had somehow lost her hat, and made off again for Draycott’s. She more jogged than walked along the thronging pavements, trying to ignore how white and so very female she felt in this city of staring men. She attempted to talk herself out of her growing panic, repeating again and again that there were any number of places Clara might have got to, all manner of explanations for her going. But still, her earlier sense that she and Clara were being watched knocked in her chest, sharpened by the echo of Alistair’s suddenly plausible warnings about nationalists.

  Olivia stopped off again in every store, asking the same questions, receiving the same responses (no accidents, no ambulance bells, no sign of a woman in a blue dress); by the time she arrived back in Draycott’s cavernous foyer, her gown was sticking to her body, and her hair, loose from tugging, was curling on her sweaty forehead.

  ‘Mrs Sheldon?’ said the maître d’ from behind her. ‘If you would just…?’

  Ignoring him, she made for the entrance to the dining room and pushed the double doors wide. Only a handful of diners remained at their luncheon. Clara was nowhere to be seen. Treading a now familiar route, Olivia set off in the direction of the terrace, skirts rustling against the tables as she wove her way through them. The maître d’ was still behind her, calling her name. ‘Mrs Sheldon, please…’ but she didn’t stop.

  She broke out into the gardens and held her arm to her eyes to shield them from the sunlight. It was still busy here, with men lounging in wicker chairs. They turned to look at her. It might have been funny, the way their idle gazes transformed into embarrassed recognition. She’s back then, she could hear them thinking. Silly girl’s got herself into a bit of a state. Where’s her husband? Please don’t let it fall to us to sort her out.

  ‘Mrs Sheldon?’

  She turned to face the maître d’. ‘I can’t think where she is,’ she said. ‘I can’t think.’

  ‘She must have been called away.’

  ‘But her carriage is still here.’

  He opened his arms helplessly.

  ‘What time is it now?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s nearing three.’

  ‘Three? How can it be three?’ She took a deep breath. Pull yourself together, she told herself. Don’t be a fool, falling apart like this. ‘I’d better go to her house,’ she said. ‘Make sure she didn’t go back by another means.’

  ‘It’s a good idea.’ The maître d’ nodded vehemently, doubtless relieved to be rid of her, of the situation. Still, as he reached for his kerchief to blot his brow, hand jerking, it was clear he’d grown more than a little worried himself.

  It tipped Olivia into resolution. ‘Get word to Commissioner Wilkins,’ she said, impulsively naming the most senior man in the police that she knew of. ‘Send him on to Ramleh. If Clara’s not home, we’ll need him to help find her.’

  Chapter Five

  Hopeless as Olivia suspected it was, she asked Clara’s footman to wait in the square in case Clara should return, whilst the driver, Hassan, drove her back to Ramleh. Olivia sat in tight-lipped anxiety as the carriage rocked down the narrow streets to the harbour, then along the dusty coast road. It unsettled her that the camel was already back in its field, hungry flies clustered around its eyes, at the end of its day’s work. The sunlight reflecting off the sea had the golden tint of high afternoon. So much time had passed.

  She tried to imagine where Clara could be. She thought, Please be at home, please just do be at home. She fixed her eyes on the impossibly long stretch of road ahead and silently entreated Hassan to hurry up and get them there.

  Eventually the yellow curve of Ramleh’s beach came into view. White and pink villas arced around it. The Grays’ house, a terracotta mansion that, like Alistair’s, befitted Jeremy’s status as one of the wealthiest men in Alex, was further inland, on the very outskirts of the suburb. By the time Hassan pulled the horses around and onto the road that approached it, Olivia had made herself nauseous with nerves.

  ‘Try not to worry.’ Hassan’s low voice cut into Olivia’s thoughts and made her start. ‘Picture Ma’am Gray well and sound.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Faith, Ma’am Sheldon.’ He frowned. ‘Faith. Think and so it shall be.’

  It seemed a tenuous strategy, but Olivia gave it a try anyway, imagining her relief at finding Clara playing on the lawn with Ralph, or holding Gus tight in her arms. She willed it into happening with every part of her being.

  Much good it did. Clara’s home was empty of everyone save her sons and staff.

  Olivia wasted no time in sending a servant off to ensure Wilkins was on his way, then to fetch Jeremy from the office. She asked another to call in at all the places Clara might have gone: the Sporting Club, Ramleh Surgery, Amélie Pasha’s house, Olivia’s own home (just in case)… He returned an hour later with several messages of concern, but no word of Clara.

  Olivia waited anxiously for Wilkins and Jeremy. She sat with the boys in the nursery, holding Gus on her lap, stroking his chubby cheeks. She told him that all was well, his Mama was just running late, nothing more. Don’t fret, little man, she’ll be home soon.

  ‘She never misses bedtime,’ said Ralph. ‘Never.’

  Olivia held him closer. In her mind, she searched the events of the day for anything that could help the police. She kept coming back to her earlier suspicion that she and Clara were being followed. She doubted though that Wilkins, a self-important personality who’d come from Calcutta to kick the Egyptian police into shipshape form, would be inclined to deal in the currency of her senses.

  Sure enough, ‘It’s a little insubstantial for me,’ he said when she accosted him with her conviction the instant he finally walked through the door. He rested his hand on his waistcoat-straining gut and rocked back on his heels. ‘Let’s see if we can’t find something more tangible to go on.’ He sighed. ‘No word at the hospitals though, I’m afraid – I had my men ride around before I came over. Not to worry, we’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re lucky I’m here actually. I’ve been away in Cairo, our Egyptian man there needs a deal of help. Still,’ another sigh, ‘that’s what the Protectorate’s about: education. Education.’

  Olivia said she wasn’t much sure she wanted to talk about the Protectorate, given everything else going on. Wilkins fixed her with a narrowed-eyed look, then asked where Mr Gray was.

  ‘I hope on his way.’

  ‘He’s not at home?’ Wilkins’ tone was affronted. Of course it wasn’t often that he, a not particularly popular member of the civil service – no matter how high-ranking – would be invited to a mansion like this, let alone to speak to Jeremy. He’d come to a show expecting the star, only to be told the understudy was playing instead. He huffed, settling himself into one of the hall chairs, then ordered Olivia up to Clara’s room to check all of her things were in order, no clothes missing and so on.

  ‘She hasn’t run away,’ said Olivia. ‘She’d never leave her boys, apart from anything else.’

  ‘In my experience, women do all sorts of things we mightn’t expect them to.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. So if you would be so good as to go up and check. No stone unturned and all that.’

  Olivia had the distinct sense she was being got rid of. But, if only to prove how wrong Wilkins was, she did as he asked.

  She paused outside Clara’s door, fingers on the handle. She’d never been in before, she didn’t know what to expect. She eased the door open and took in the blue and white walls, the sash windows. The room was large and airy, shadowed by dusk, and immaculately tidy. There was no sign of Clara’s trunks from Constantinople, the servants had obviously finished the unpacking. A four-poster bed stood in the centre of the tiled floor; Clara’s nightclothes were folded at the foot of it, waiting for her. Olivia crossed over to them, she touched her fingers to the soft
fabric and drew breath.

  As she went on to search through Clara’s things, a dull weight grew in her chest. Nothing, so far as she could make out, was missing, but it was the sweetly scented potpourri amidst Clara’s silk stockings, the spilt powder on her vanity, the blonde hairs in her comb that all made her seem at once close and so horribly absent. On the desk there was an open parcel of gramophone records: music-hall recordings from London. The paper around it was ripped, as though torn in haste. Olivia let out a slow breath as she pictured Clara pulling at it, her excitement at this package from England. She had probably been looking forward to listening to the songs that evening.

  Olivia closed her eyes at the painful thought.

  When she opened them again, her gaze settled on a framed daguerreotype on the bedside drawers. She went and picked it up, studying the sepia image in the day’s fading light. She’d seen it before, Clara had brought it to show to her once. It was of the two of them as children, back in Cairo: Clara grinning and gangly in a dress that skimmed her calves; Olivia a little girl in a pinafore, chubby face creased in laughter.

  ‘You see there, Livvy,’ Clara had said, pointing at Olivia’s tummy, ‘that hand clutching you? That was Mama tickling you to make you laugh. Do you really not remember it, Livvy, remember her? Not at all?’

  Olivia tried again now, eyes scrunched. She held her breath, waiting.

  Nothing came. It left her feeling even emptier than before.

  But it moved her that Clara kept this picture so close, that it was the last thing she looked at each night. And all of a sudden she wished she hadn’t stopped herself, back in the carriage, when she’d felt that urge to hug her.

  Since Jeremy still wasn’t home by the time she returned downstairs, Wilkins declared (with a resigned air) that they had better get on with some questions. Olivia took a moment to gather her frayed emotions, then showed him into the drawing room. He sat opposite her in a high-backed chair. The candlelight flickered in the breeze from the open shutters, casting his florid complexion in and out of shadow. He breathed heavily through his nose, a notepad rested on his broad knee. As Olivia tried to convince him to take her suspicions about her and Clara being trailed seriously, he wrote not a thing down.

  ‘But did you see anyone acting suspiciously, Mrs Sheldon?’ Wilkins spoke condescendingly, as if to a little girl. His gaze kept flicking to the door, checking for Jeremy. His irritation at being left alone with Olivia, when he could be ingratiating himself with the great cotton magnate, seemed to be growing by the minute. ‘Really try and think now, you might remember something.’

  ‘I assure you I have been trying very hard to think,’ replied Olivia. Wilkins gave her a tight smile. She frowned, remembering Clara’s strained mood. ‘Something was weighing on her mind. She hadn’t wanted to go to Constantinople; she didn’t know why Jeremy had taken her, but she mentioned he wanted to send her away again, to England with Ralph. I think he might have thought her in danger.’

  Wilkins shook his head. ‘You ladies, always fretting.’

  ‘You should ask him about it.’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’

  ‘Really, he might be able to tell you something.’

  Wilkins took a long breath, gathering his patience. A fleck of sunburnt skin flapped on his nostril. ‘Since he’s not here, Mrs Sheldon, shall we stick to what you can tell me?’ Another tight smile. ‘Would that be acceptable to you?’

  Olivia didn’t return his smile. ‘Perfectly,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  She said, ‘There was Fadil, of course.’

  ‘Fadil?’

  ‘Captain Bertram’s batman. He was in the street when I last saw Clara.’

  ‘And you think he’s had something to do with her going?’ Wilkins raised his eyebrows. ‘Shall I arrest him?’

  ‘That’s hardly what I’m saying.’

  ‘What are you saying, Mrs Sheldon?’

  ‘You should talk to Fadil. He might have seen something.’

  ‘Mrs Sheldon. Are you telling me how to do my job?’

  Someone has to, Olivia nearly snapped. Get on, won’t you, find Clara, for goodness’ sake. She swallowed the urge. Wilkins was clearly intent on dancing to his own tune. Any attempt by her, a mere woman, to hurry him would probably do nothing but slow him down. ‘I’m just trying to help,’ she said. ‘Fadil might have an idea about who was trailing us. I’m certain someone was.’ Still Wilkins wrote nothing down. ‘Why aren’t you taking me seriously?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

  ‘You’re becoming overwrought,’ he said, and finally scribbled something on his pad.

  ‘No I’m not.’ She craned to see his paper. ‘What did you write?’

  Wilkins tapped his pencil on his chin.

  Olivia took a deep breath. ‘Alistair told me there’s been a rise in nationalist activity,’ she said. ‘I didn’t believe him, but I don’t know… Is it possible they’ve taken Clara?’

  ‘Let’s not leap to conclusions.’ Wilkins frowned, his chin forming three. ‘I certainly don’t want those views being bandied around town. We’re all trying to live harmoniously these days.’ He clicked his tongue, for all the world as though he might be doing such a thing as thinking. ‘If she’s been taken…’

  ‘I’m sure she has.’

  ‘If, Mrs Sheldon, then it’s just as likely your everyday criminal at play. The Jews can be tricky.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake. The Jews? It sounds to me like you’re clutching at straws.’

  Wilkins stared. Inexplicably, he made another note.

  The door opened. Wilkins jumped, Jeremy strode in. He threw his top hat and gloves on the side table. In contrast to Wilkins’ complacent calm, his face was drawn, the skin around his grey eyes waxy. For all Clara’s talk of awfulness, he certainly seemed anxious enough about her now.

  It didn’t make Olivia feel any better.

  Wilkins shook Jeremy’s hand. He told him how glad he was to be of service. His manner, so patronising before, was verging on the obsequious now.

  ‘I got here as soon as I could.’ Jeremy turned to Olivia. ‘I’m sorry it took so long.’

  Olivia was just about to ask him why it had, when another set of footsteps sounded in the hallway. Seconds later, Alistair appeared. She might have known he would come. She didn’t greet him, just stared coldly. He met her gaze with clear, blue eyes. She held herself rigid as he crossed the room, pulled her to her feet, and hugged her tight to his empty chest. ‘Don’t ever run off like that again,’ he said. ‘Silly little fool.’ Somehow his hands found the exact spots on her waist that hurt. Her cheeks worked with the effort of not giving her pain away.

  At last, he released her and sat her back down. Like a puppeteer.

  A short silence followed. Olivia pressed her hands to the back of her neck. Her pumping pulse felt horribly audible.

  ‘Wilkins,’ said Jeremy, ‘we’d like a word in the study, if you please.’

  Olivia made to stand. Alistair told her to stay where she was.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘No. Clara’s my sister. You can’t leave me out of this.’

  ‘I told you to stay,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Just for now, Livvy,’ said Jeremy, more kindly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilkins, following them both out, his ample being inflated with importance at being included in this little tête-à-tête. ‘You must trust us.’

  ‘Wait, please.’

  But they were already gone. Alistair shut the door behind him with a cold click.

  Olivia stood mute, furious at the dismissal, even more so at herself for accepting it. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. The hysteria she had been staving off all day rose dangerously in her throat. She was perilously close to the edge and knew if she stayed where she was a moment longer she’d lose control.

  So she began pacing Clara’s dark house instead. Her skin beneath her bodice felt stale with dry sweat, her mind was an inarticulate jumble of thoughts
(Clara, Edward, naughtiness, Clara). She trailed her fingers along the walls, her heels echoed through candelabra-lit corridors, until, without meaning to, she arrived at the nursery.

  She peeked in at Ralph and Angus, both asleep beneath their tented mosquito nets. She drank them in, the pure fact of their being helping her to believe that Clara was breathing somewhere, thinking of her sons. That she might yet be returning to them. They needed her so, these boys. Gus, arms flung wide in his cot, was still only seven months old. A baby; Clara’s baby. He’d never know her if she didn’t come back. (No, no. Don’t think like that.) And Ralph had been so upset earlier. ‘What if she’s hurt?’ he’d asked. ‘I can’t go to sleep not knowing.’ Olivia had tried to placate him, but her arms had shaken around him. In the end his nursemaid, Sofia, the same Greek nanny who’d once cared for Olivia and Clara in Cairo, had taken over, comforting him with her ample bosom, promises of cocoa before bedtime, and an assurance that he would see his mama the next day. It was a balm, a bandage, nothing more.

  Olivia was sure Sofia had said much the same sort of thing to her when her parents had first disappeared. Not that she could recall, of course. She remembered Sofia not at all. (Sofia said the memories would come, that Olivia had to be patient. ‘They’re all waiting for you, agapi mou,’ she would tell her, using the Greek endearment, my little love. ‘You’ll see.’)

  Clara said Olivia should listen, Sofia was very wise after all, she always had been; it was why Clara had hired her, back when Jeremy first brought her to Alex with Ralph growing in her tummy. ‘She’s just the same,’ she’d told Olivia. ‘She still pretend-spits on the floor to keep the evil eye away, and says forks and knives instead of knives and forks, just like when we were children. Isn’t it splendid?’