Castle Barebane

by Joan Aiken

  Lady Stroma took no notice of this, and Lady Honoria murmured, “Pray do not regard it, Miss Montgomery! In point of fact, it will not cost us a penny! My sister and I are directors and chief shareholders of the London and Eastern Scottish Line; we can travel to Scotland for nothing as often as we please.”

  “Oh I see; in that case, I am very much obliged to you.” Val was entertained by this confirmation of her feeling that the purchase of a rail ticket for a total stranger was quite outside the usual scope of Lady Stroma’s generosity; for a lady who lived so handsomely, Kirstie’s aunt seemed curiously parsimonious in some ways.

  “Will tomorrow suit you, Miss Montgomery?” Lady Stroma added as an afterthought. Val said that it would suit very well. “Good. Telegraph Elspie at Ardnacarrig, McPherson, to expect Miss Montgomery with the children on the day after tomorrow. Also telegraph Robina Gourlay to have suitable accommodation prepared for them all tomorrow night. Mrs. Gourlay is a maid of ours now married and living in Edinburgh, Miss Montgomery; she will provide more suitable lodging than you would find at an hotel. Tell Robina also to arrange for Jock Kelso to come in with the coach and pick them up. Winter provisions may be obtained at the same time, so the trip will not be wasted.”

  “Thank you,” said Val, slightly dazed at all this organisation. “You are very good.” She wondered if the Stroma ladies also had shares in the General Post Office.

  “Think nothing of it,” said the marchioness, whose good offices seemed much more accessible provided that she, personally, were put to no trouble. “Now—where are you staying, Miss Montgomery?”

  “At the Jersey Hotel.”

  “The Jersey—hm, you might do worse. It’s respectable enough. McPherson will bring your tickets there presently. Put the children to bed early—they will need a good night’s sleep before their journey.”

  Val could not help blenching a little at the thought of taking the children back to the Jersey Hotel. Still, there was no help for it. Since Lady Stroma was being so unexpectedly accommodating in the matter of tickets and arrangements, the least she could do was find them a hotel room for a night.

  However at this moment the maid, Dundas, came in wearing an expression of extreme disapproval.

  “If I might speak to you a moment, my lady—”

  The burden of her communication was that when she had looked through their small bag of possession to find some clean underwear to put on little Jannie, she had been scandalised by their lack of proper clothes.

  “And if, as I understand, you’re planning tae send them up to Ardnacarrig, my lady, they’ve naething fit to wear! They’ll need completely outfitting before they go. There’s not a thing in the bag that would keep out the wind for five minutes.”

  “I have reason to believe,” said Val, “that the woman they were lodged with sold most of their things, alleging that she had not been paid for their keep.”

  “Outrageous,” muttered Lady Stroma. It was not apparent whether her stricture applied to Mrs. Pipkin or the lack of payment. “Well, Dundas? What do you suggest?”

  “Well, my lady, there’s Mrs. Ponsonby across the square—many’s the time she’s said to you that young Master Hugh and Miss Georgina grow as fast as mustardseed. I know for a fact she has some things of their laid away she was going to give me for my missionaries. With your permission I’ll just step across and get them, and I daresay Phemie and I could alter enough to fit the children if they could stay here this afternoon, or better still, stop the night.”

  “But what about my sister’s and my packing, Dundas? We leave at half-past nine sharp tomorrow, don’t forget.”

  “Och, that’s all taken care of, your leddyship; don’t fret your head about that. Mrs. Carrig and I were just wondering how tae occupy the time.”

  So it was arranged that Pieter and Jannie were to stay on. Val was unfeignedly relieved. If she was to leave London so soon, she must draw out some more money from her dwindling funds; also she wished to call at two more of the addresses Ted Towers had given her. She was delighted that the children were disposed of for the rest of the day.

  Arranging to return at eight o’clock the following morning, she said goodbye with repeated thanks to the marchioness and her sister.

  “Think nothing of it,” said Lady Stroma again. “I believe you to be a very good-hearted sort of gel, Miss Montgomery. If your half-brother had been more like you, I believe my niece’s marriage would be a happier one. However—no use repining over that. I wish you good day.”

  On her way out, Val called in at the housekeeper’s room and found Pieter and Jannie half-buried among assorted clothes of every kind, suitable and unsuitable, which two or three maids were unpacking from a hamper amid laughter and chaff.

  “Here—wouldn’t this cut up lovely!”

  “Doesn’t she look a little duck in that?”

  Jannie’s pale little face peered out wonderingly from under the brim of a huge hat wreathed in ostrich plumes, and Val left the children with a lighter heart, promising to see them on the morrow, and feeling that at least they were in a more cheerful environment than Mrs. Pipkin’s horrible upstairs room.

  Toys, she thought. I’d better get them something—shouldn’t think there’d be any toys at Ardnacarrig. But what should I buy?

  Leaving the house, she looked round absently for a hansom, remembered that she had only a few pence in her purse, and started walking south towards Piccadilly. A lounging man in a Tom-and-Jerry hat and a blue choker pushed himself off the wall against which he had been leaning and followed her.

  Val walked fast, preoccupied. She would have liked to ask Lady Stroma and her sister more about Nils and Kirstie—what they thought could have happened to her brother and his wife—but the aura of disapproval surrounding Nils was so strong that she had not had the heart. Besides, it seemed plain that Kirstie’s aunts knew no more than she did herself; still, it would have been instructive to hear their views.

  If only she knew some of their London friends!

  Arriving at Piccadilly, she caught a bus back to her hotel, changed some money, and then walked down Ludgate Hill into Fleet Street.

  The man in the blue choker was still behind her.

  Chapter 7

  Val returned to the Jersey Hotel, after her editorial interviews, in a more sanguine frame of mind than she had known since her arrival in London. She ran up the wide, shallow stair to her bedroom, pulled off her walking boots, and sank on to the chair for a short spell of rest and reflection before she went down to dine.

  An immense amount had been accomplished during the day, she felt with satisfaction. The children had been rescued—that was the most important achievement—and in a couple of days they would be secure and well cared for, in a peaceful, healthy environment, where they might recover from their unhappy experiences at Mrs. Pipkin’s, and where they could remain until their parents reappeared.

  Val thought that she was entitled to congratulate herself on the way in which she had dealt with Mrs. Pipkin—and, for that matter, with Lady Stroma. It had all passed off most successfully, she felt. She found it hard not to harbour some indignation against Nils and Kirstie—some scorn, even; scorn mixed with pity in Kirstie’s case, of course, because it must be dreadful being married to Nils, but still!—what a shocking arrangement, to leave the children with such a woman. Anybody could see what she was like.

  But then, Val remembered, Mrs. Pipkin had not actually mentioned Kirstie, possibly had not even met her; Kirstie might not have known what she was like. But if not, why not; where had Kirstie been? Surely she would have wanted to see the person who was to have charge of her children for so long a period? Had Kirstie—the idea now occurred to Val for the first time—had she, perhaps, been ill? Was that why Nils had been summoned home so hastily? Val now wished that she had had the presence of mind to question the doleful Mercy, but in front of Mrs. Pipkin she had bee
n reluctant to. Could Kirstie be laid up on a sick bed somewhere, worried to death about her children, in financial straits, longing for news, while Nils had gone off on some business of his own?

  It was too frustratingly exasperating not to be able to discover any link that would lead her to Nils and Kirstie. For one thing, Val longed to be able to say to them, “Don’t worry about your children, set your minds at rest: these are the excellent arrangements that I have made for them!”

  Still, sooner or later the parents must get in touch with Mrs. Pipkin—then they would be referred to the house in Grosvenor Square, where the caretaker would of course give the final and wholly satisfactory information that Pieter and Jannie were now at Ardnacarrig. Kirstie would be delighted by that news, surely; she must be glad to know that the children were safe in her own childhood home and that the breach with her family was somewhat mended. Even Nils must be pleased?—“mouldering old barracks somewhere in Lammermuir,” Val heard in her mind’s ear—but despite his sarcasm Nils had a very healthy respect for money and family property; if it was only for the superior status of their environment, he must surely be gratified to learn that his children had been transferred from Islington to Ardnacarrig.

  And there, Val herself felt that she could leave them with an easy conscience. She certainly did not wish to be saddled with the poor little things for the rest of her visit to England, once they were in good hands. She had had two highly satisfactory interviews during the afternoon, with the editors of Fireside Words, and the London Illustrated Weekly; the former wanted a series of articles contrasting the lives of English and American women in various spheres, while the latter was prepared to pay quite well for a set of Scottish Impressions by a Yankee Lassie. With the money she received for these and the articles she planned to send Ted, Val thought that she might get by, at least for six months.

  A satisfactory day, altogether.

  Humming tunelessly she bathed her face and hands, shook herself into the grey poplin dress and fastened its myriad buttons, and was on the point of descending for an early dinner when a tap came at the door and a pageboy handed in a card.

  “The gentleman asks the favour of a word with you, miss.”

  “Where is he?” asked Val nervously.

  LORD CLANREYDON said the card.

  Could it be the man she had met at the Beargarden?

  But what other could it be?

  “He’s waiting downstairs in the hall, miss. Shall I show him up?”

  “No—not up here.” All Val’s feelings of self-congratulation and efficiency flew from her. She was near to panic at the thought of that strange, hostile, disrupting presence coming into her room. “Is there some room downstairs where I can see him?”

  “There’s the card room, miss. That’s usually quiet at this time of the evening.”

  “Tell him I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

  What could he have come for, Val wondered feverishly as, hair severely reswathed, and with a fortifying dab of Cologne behind each ear, she walked slowly, with all the aplomb she could muster, into the card room. Was he here to apologise? To bring some news of Nils, after all?

  It was a relief to discover that the card room—a dingy, medium-sized, ill-lit place that smelt of snuff and had bad sporting prints on its brown walls—was not quite empty. An elderly lady was conducting a low-voiced, anxious discussion with somebody who looked like a lawyer at one of the little tables in a distant corner. Their presence was a reassurance.

  Her own caller stood motionless by the window, staring out into the gas-lit fog. He stood in the posture of a man quite at ease, resigned to wait in patience for an unlimited length of time—but a nerve jumped in his cheek. At the sound of Val’s step he turned slowly and greeted her with smooth politeness.

  “Miss Montgomery. Very obliging of you to make time for me.”

  “How can I serve you, sir?” Val asked stiffly, with a manner modelled on that of Lady Stroma.

  Yes, it was certainly the same man. He was now impeccably dressed for the evening; his tails were very black; his pumps were very polished; his necktie and gloves were dazzling white; his shirt studs were dull-red carbuncles; his hat, cloak, and cane lay on a chair. And his manner, as if in conformity with the change of attire, was now completely decorous and grave. He stood waiting for Val to be seated. Extraordinary creature—he wasn’t going to apologise, or allude to their previous meeting—he was going to pretend that the incident at the Beargarden had never occurred!

  Well, two could play at that game, Val thought.

  In spite of his gravity and elegance, and his correct deportment, she felt even more nervous with him than she had the other day; rather less at ease, in fact, than she would had she found a cannibal waiting for her, with a pierced nose and necklace of skulls. He seemed not to belong to the same civilisation as herself; there was something about his whole presence which she found infinitely alien—profoundly unsettling and alarming. His strange green-grey eyes with their sidelong glance carried no expression that was recognisable to her. Nor did the slightly twitching mouth. When he smiled, she found the effect neither friendly nor reassuring; his face was no more adapted to convey reassurance than that of a wild beast. His voice, those high, grating tones that she remembered vividly, acted on her nerves like some inexplicable, disturbing noise heard at night; she longed for it to stop.

  Yet his intention seemed conciliating.

  “It was good of you to make time for me,” he said again, and then, glancing round with visible dissatisfaction, “Is there nowhere we can be more private?”

  “I prefer to conduct our conversation here, sir,” Val replied coldly.

  “Oh—very well.” He glanced at the couple in the corner. “Point is—I have matters of a private nature to discuss.”

  Val remained silent. Lord Clanreydon gave her a long, assessing glance. Despite her resolve to remain unflustered, she felt the blood rise in her cheeks. However she met his eyes straightly. Having allowed the pause to draw out, he remarked in a cool tone, “After all, you are not much like your brother.”

  “I should be obliged, sir,” said Val, “if you would be so good as to let me know what it is that you came here to discuss?”

  She felt a burning resentment, besides apprehension, because she sensed that the control of the interview was slipping away from her. Doing her best to be firm, she went on, “Did you come here with some news of my brother, Lord Clanreydon?”

  “No. On the contrary. Learning from my friend Orville that you were in town, and were hunting for your brother, I came to ask if you had succeeded in your quest. I gather that is not the case? You have had no news?”

  It was hardly credible. He really did mean to pretend that the scene at the Beargarden had not taken place.

  Well, Val certainly did not intend to give him any information. Certainly not about her discovery of the children. They were none of his business.

  “No, I’ve heard nothing of Nils,” she said. “I shall simply have to wait until he gets in touch with me. No doubt he will do so in his own time. But why are you so interested in his whereabouts, Lord Clanreydon? Are you a very close friend of my brother’s, may I ask?”

  He stood motionless, staring down, as if scrutinising the word friend with his pale eyes; then slapped it away.

  “A friend? No. We have some common interests. Your brother has sometimes made himself useful to me in doing—research—of a kind that I have no longer time to carry out for myself.”

  Very much Val wondered what. Something of a discreditable kind, she suspected. But she was not going to give Lord Clanreydon the gratification of being asked and refusing to answer. She waited.

  “Your brother was about to undertake such a piece of investigation—may indeed have commenced on it—when he—so unfortunately—became lost to view.”

  “And his wife?” Val coolly asked. “Did
she help with this research?”

  “Wife?” He looked blank.

  “She has vanished also.”

  “Ah—” Lord Clanreydon inserted a monocle into his left eye. It did nothing for his appearance. “I was not aware of that. Odd—deuced odd.” He pondered, absently turning a large onyx scarab ring on his thin finger.

  “Your brother did not write to you in New York before you set sail for England, Miss Montgomery?”

  “No he did not.”

  Val was more and more puzzled. The man who, two days ago, appeared to be unaware of her very existence, today displayed apparently detailed knowledge of her movements and history. “My brother has never been a particularly good correspondent.”

  “He did not leave any papers—reports—newspaper articles—in your charge? Or with anybody in New York that you know?”

  “No he did not,” Val said again shortly. It began to seem plain that Lord Clanreydon’s concern arose not from any regard for Nils, but from an anxiety to lay his hands on those reports, whatever they might be. “Was that all you wished to ascertain? If so I am afraid, Lord Clanreydon, that I must now leave you. I have to—”

  She had nothing in particular ahead of her, except to eat and pack her scanty belongings, but this interview was making her more and more uncomfortable. She felt strongly that what Lord Clanreydon actually expressed bore only the slightest relation to the real underlying reason for this call; his remarks had seemed casual, almost random. And his gaze, roaming coldly over her person, affected her as might the cold finger of some dead hand that idly touched her and then withdrew; it seemed not to care about her, yet she detested it.

  “Oh pray don’t go yet, Miss Montgomery,” he drawled, his languid intonation contradicting the sense of the words. “Dear me, I was hoping that you’d favour me with your company for dinner.”

  “I am sorry; that is not in my power,” Val replied politely. “I shall be occupied in packing for most of the evening. Thank you, but I must decline.”