The House With No Rooms

by Lesley Thomson

  She plumped down on the settee, knees together, and nibbled at the cake. It was the nicest so far, sticky and sweet, not dry and needing the horrid warm milk to wash it down. Mrs Watson hadn’t put out a serviette for her chocolatey fingers so Chrissie held the plate up to her chin to stop chocolate getting on the sofa.

  Chrissie ate fast. If she could finish before Mrs Watson got back, she could return the locket without her knowing. This was risky because Mr Watson might change his mind and fetch her. He hadn’t done so before, but Chrissie had long ago worked out that because a thing hadn’t happened before it didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. He had never answered the front door before. She gulped the milk and was surprised to find it was cold.

  Bang!

  Cheeks bulging with cake, Chrissie looked wildly about her.

  Bang! It was the door. Maybe Mrs Watson didn’t have her own key either. Chrissie was dismayed; she wouldn’t be able to return the locket.

  Mr Watson wasn’t coming to answer. Chrissie wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and, putting down the empty plate, trotted out to the hall.

  A man was going down the path. When he heard the door open, he came back. He grinned down at her. ‘I thought there was no one home!’

  ‘I’m here,’ Chrissie informed him.

  ‘Is your daddy here? Or your mummy?’

  The man was wearing a dark blue suit with a blue tie. He fiddled with the tie. Chrissie’s dad never wore a tie. Mr Watson did. The man was waiting for her to speak. She answered truthfully. ‘She’s popped out.’ Chrissie was intrigued that a person believed that she lived here. It made her believe it too.

  ‘OK.’ The man frowned. ‘What about your daddy?’

  ‘Can I help?’ Mr Watson was behind her. To make room, Chrissie stepped on to the path, blinking in the sunshine.

  ‘Detective Inspector Darnell, Met Police. Mr Watson?’

  ‘Yes, that is me.’ Mr Watson was patient. ‘It is I.’ He corrected himself primly.

  ‘I have a couple of questions.’ The police detective ran a hand through his hair, like her real dad did. He smelled like her real dad; Chrissie guessed he must have the same after-shave.

  ‘Is it about my wife?’ Mr Watson asked. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘If we could speak privately?’ The detective flashed a smile at Chrissie and for a second she thought he wanted to speak to her.

  ‘Is my wife... is she hurt?’ Mr Watson clutched the door frame. He thumped the wood.

  ‘Not that I’ve heard, sir. It might be best if I came in. If your daughter—’

  ‘She’s not my daughter. She’s come for a lesson.’ He looked at Chrissie. ‘Go up to the studio. Do not touch anything!’ Mr Watson sounded even crosser than before. He knew about the locket.

  Starting up the stairs, Chrissie remembered that she hadn’t put the plate and her glass in the kitchen like Mrs Watson asked. ‘As usual.’ She crept into the room to get them.

  ‘...nothing to worry about, but we are bound to follow it up,’ the policeman was saying. His voice made her think of the chocolate, rich and brown.

  ‘Who called you?’ George Watson had a higher voice – higher than usual.

  ‘As I say, it was an expression of concern...’ The detective was walking around the room looking at things. He was looking for the locket.

  ‘...when are you expecting Mrs Watson?’ The man sounded as if Mrs Watson was a friend and he was sorry to miss her.

  If the policeman searched her, he would find the locket. Chrissie couldn’t move. The locket was heavy in the pocket of her pleated skirt. If he found the locket he would put her in prison. A bad character, she would never be able to drive a taxi and drive away for ever.

  ‘She went to the shops. I know she was going to the Marks in Chiswick High Road. This is preposterous – who expressed concern?’ Mr Watson demanded.

  ‘I regret that I’m not at liberty to say, sir. Have you any idea who might initiate such a call? It was made from the telephone box outside the Elizabeth Gate. It’s near to the Herbarium. I understand that’s your place of work, sir.’

  ‘I can assure you that my wife is fine. She gave Christina her tea and then popped out to the shops.’ Mr Watson went towards the door.

  Chrissie got out of his way. ‘I came to get my tea things.’ It was true, but it felt like a lie.

  ‘What lesson are you having?’ the policeman asked her.

  ‘Botanical drawing.’ She fingered the locket; the silver was warm.

  ‘With Mrs Watson?’ The policeman had his hand on the front door and his X-ray eyes on her pocket. The locket became molten.

  ‘Mrs Watson gives me tea then I do dead plants with Mr Watson.’

  ‘Did Mrs Watson give you your tea today?’

  ‘Is it legal to be interviewing a minor without her parents present, officer?’ Mr Watson intervened.

  ‘As I said, sir, it’s an informal inquiry about your wife. I’m sure this young lady can help me.’

  ‘Yes, she did give it me.’ The man reminded Chrissie of her dad and she knew how to make her dad happy. ‘Mrs Watson gave me chocolate cake and this glass had milk in it. It was especially cold today which was nice and her cake was delicious. Then she popped out. She told me to take the plate and glass through to the kitchen. I wash them up, although she didn’t ask me to.’

  ‘Mrs Watson gave you cake?’ Detective Inspector Darnell was looking at her the way Bella Markham had, as if he didn’t believe her. Chrissie was fed up with people questioning what she said.

  ‘Mrs Watson bakes cakes.’ She glared at him. ‘With hundreds and thousands.’

  ‘She’d forgotten to get chops for tonight’s supper. The heat is getting to us all—’ Mr Watson began.

  ‘I understand, sir. Your pupil has been helpful. Could I take her name please? In case we have further questions. A formality.’

  ‘My name is Christina Banks and I was born on the twelfth of August 1966.’ Chrissie stood next to Mr Watson. She held the locket tight.

  The policeman stared at her. ‘Well, Christina, you’ve been very helpful.’ He went on looking at her. At last he said, ‘My little girl was born on the same day as you.’

  ‘Will that be all, officer?’ Mr Watson interjected.

  ‘Darnell, Detective Inspector Terry Darnell.’ The officer stepped into the sunshine. He was stocky with features used to smiling. ‘Give my regards to your wife. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ He was looking at Chrissie.

  George Watson began to close the door.

  ‘One thing.’ He was back. ‘What was your wife wearing when she left the house? In case we should see her out and about in Chiswick High Road.’

  With the barest hesitation, George Watson said, ‘A light blue dress with a cross-hatched pattern and black shoes with silver buckles. You’ll have to forgive me, Detective Inspector, I’m not great on ladies’ wear. My wife always looks nice, is all I can say.’

  ‘She had a silver locket round her neck,’ Chrissie offered. ‘She showed it to me when she gave me the cake. It’s got a picture of Mr Watson and Mrs Watson inside. It was a present from Mr Watson and she loves it more than anything in the world.’

  The policeman frowned as if he didn’t understand English. ‘For an occasion, sir?’

  ‘No occasion,’ Mr Watson replied diffidently.

  ‘Should it come to you who might have made the call, we’d appreciate you getting in touch, sir. Thank you again, Christina.’

  Mr Watson closed the front door and the hall went dark. Chrissie heard a car start up and drive away.

  ‘Go to the kitchen and wipe your face, you’ve got chocolate on it,’ Mr Watson said.

  Smarting with embarrassment because the policeman must have seen the chocolate too, Chrissie strained over the sink. She turned the tap full on and, with a shriek and a clunk, water spattered down. She dampened a tissue and rubbed at her cheeks and mouth. Lifting the lid of a pedal bin she tossed in the damp tissue. It landed on a bo
x lying amongst tea leaves, apple peelings and foil milk-bottle tops. She read the writing on the box: ‘Exceedingly good cakes!’

  The picture on the packaging showed a chocolate cake decorated with hundreds and thousands.

  Chapter Fifteen

  November 2014

  Jack flung himself down on Stella’s white sofa. It was one of the few items that she hadn’t sold to the lawyer when she left her flat.

  For the first two years after her dad died Stella put off selling his house. She commuted between it and her flat in Brentford. Jack had worried that she expected Terry Darnell to return from the dead and claim his home because she had behaved like a custodian rather than the owner. But suddenly, after the One Under case, Stella had given her brother a share of Terry’s house and moved in.

  The sitting room had been pale before – beige had been Terry’s favourite colour – and was now white. Stella’s changes were minimal. The walls remained bare. ‘The Hay Wain’ went with Suzie when they separated and, like his daughter, Terry hadn’t hung up any other pictures. Yet to Jack, the uninterrupted straight lines and clear surfaces in the air-freshened rooms were as homely as Jackie’s warmly decorated home wreathed with delicious smells of cooking and scented candles and filled with the paraphernalia of a contented family life.

  When Stella’s brother had visited from Sydney, he accidentally countermanded Terry’s frugal habits, maintained by Stella. He had turned on the central heating, switched on lights everywhere and cooked rather than reheated food in the kitchen. Since he had returned to Sydney, Stella had kept some changes. The gas fire was blazing in the front room and lights were lit. But she wasn’t a cook. The smell of a ready meal wafted out from the kitchen.

  Jack uncrossed his legs at the ankles and, no more comfortable, recrossed them. He was engaged in an internal struggle. Although she had invited him and he had refused, he was piqued that Stella had gone to the café with Cashman. So when he arrived he had gone into the living room, knowing that Stella expected him to follow her to the kitchen. So intent was he in proving – to Stella, as well as himself – that he was at home in her house, he found himself on her sofa when he would have preferred his chair in the kitchen.

  Oblivious to his moody machinations, Stella had offered him shepherd’s pie and hot milk. Jack had refused the food and agreed to the drink although he hadn’t had supper and was hungry. By the time Stella handed him his hot milk and honey he was ashamed that he had been mean-spirited. This made him no nicer.

  ‘No pictures on the walls yet,’ he sniped.

  ‘Pictures collect dust.’ Seemingly oblivious to his jibe, Stella was matter-of-fact. Jack felt shame. Stanley stood beside her like the faithful hound he was. It seemed to Jack that his eyes were reproachful.

  ‘Art gives a place character,’ he persisted despite himself. ‘It proves that you live here; it shows what you like.’ A minute earlier he been thinking how he found the house homely because it reflected Stella. Had Jackie not been due soon to celebrate the Kew Gardens contract, he would leave; he was being rotten company.

  ‘I don’t need to prove that I live here.’ Stella looked puzzled. ‘I know I live here. So do you or you wouldn’t have known where to come. And I have utility bills.’ She was perched on the edge of the armchair opposite him. Stella liked upright wooden chairs that meant business. She would prefer the kitchen, he reflected ruefully. The kitchen was the one room she had kept unchanged from Terry’s time. Generally he did anything to avoid hurting Stella. What was the matter with him?

  ‘We could go into the kitchen if you like,’ he said.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Stella rarely took out her moods on people. While her practical, no-nonsense attitude could be frustrating, she was largely consistent. You knew where you were with Stella.

  ‘Well done about Kew Gardens.’ He blew a cloud of steam off the surface of the milk.

  ‘Jackie’s a dab-hand at tenders. They’re like an exam. It was a team effort and I guess we ticked all the boxes.’

  ‘It’s not just “ticking boxes”, Clean Slate lives and breathes those policies. You have staff development, you pay above the living wage and you encourage innovation. You operate environmental management and comply with that ISO thingy.’

  ‘ISO, fourteen thousand and one,’ Stella murmured peaceably.

  Jack considered telling Stella about Jennifer Day, the woman who had died on his train. Despite lack of proof, he wanted to share his suspicion that her death might be murder. But he barely believed it himself. Stella was speaking,

  ‘...choose what areas you want to clean in Kew.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You might have a preference of zones.’ Stella decided where her staff cleaned. She was making an exception for him. She continued, ‘I think there’s one you’d like. A building outside the grounds called the Herbarium. No herbs: it’s got old cupboards packed with plants. They are all withered and dead. Most of them are over a hundred years old.’ Stella could well be thinking that cupboards crammed with dead plants needed a clear-out but, never one to judge, wouldn’t say so.

  The Herbarium would have been Jack’s first choice. Enthused that Stella knew him well, he blurted out, ‘William Hooker started his collection in the nineteenth century and passed it to his son Joseph who succeeded him as Director of Kew Gardens. Darwin has handled at least one of those specimens; there’s a sheet with his signature.’ Stella had made his dream possible. His mother had kept her promise. ‘I wanted to be a botanist once,’ he confided to her.

  ‘I thought you wanted to be an engineer.’ Stella gathered up a file bulging with papers and balanced it on her lap. It was labelled ‘The Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew’. She pulled out a hefty stapled document and ran her finger down the text.

  ‘I did. But it started with botany. Most things do. Joseph Paxton based his design of the Crystal Palace on the structure of a lily leaf.’

  Stella had remembered that he had wanted to build tunnels and bridges. He had settled for driving a train through tunnels and over bridges. Not a compromise, because he loved driving. Just as he loved cleaning for Stella.

  ‘Kew Gardens is divided into six zones. The zones furthest from the Estates Office are reached by bicycle. You won’t need a bike because the Herbarium is by the Elizabeth Gate. I’ll do the galleries on the south side. The Shirley Sherwood and a weird place that looks like a house called the Marianne North Gallery. The walls are crammed with paintings. I guess they ran out of space because there’s not a centimetre between them.’

  ‘The Victorians favoured cheek-by-jowl hanging. Although by the time North designed her gallery, it was an outmoded—’

  ‘They’re a specialist job so we’re not to touch them. I have to mop the floor with clean cold water, no detergents.’ Stella underlined something on the document.

  ‘Cold water wouldn’t do in the Herbarium,’ Jack mused. ‘Moisture would damage the collection.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Stella looked pleased. ‘You vacuum only. Don’t open cupboards in case the plants get sucked up.’ She checked her watch. ‘Jackie’ll be here soon.’

  Jack’s mood lifted. An evening with Stella and Jackie was just what he needed.

  Jackie had insisted they mark significant milestones. Winning Kew Gardens was significant. A sign. Jennifer Day dying on his train in the presence of a True Host was a sign. Cashman had been on his train too. Did that mean anything?

  There was a heavy thump on the front door. Stanley sat up and let out a rumbling growl. Jackie always gave a cheery rat-tat-ter-tat-tat.

  Something was wrong.

  Chapter Sixteen

  June 1976

  A throng of visitors filed through turnstiles into Kew Gardens at the Victoria Gate. In the white-blue sky, the rumble of one aeroplane after another mingled with the drone of rush-hour traffic. The sounds were punctuated by an irregular beat of a loose drain cover clanking as cars and lorries drove over it

  Blinkered by the heat, no one noticed a girl
keeping up with an erudite-looking man. Had they done so, perhaps they would have assumed they were father and daughter and been charmed by the sight of them hand in hand. The man’s thinning hair straggled to his collar and his pale linen suit was creased by wear and hot weather. His plastic sunshades, clipped to rimless spectacles, were off kilter. He carried a scuffed briefcase. In contrast, the girl’s school uniform, although a little too big for her, was pristine. Her progress beside the man’s purposeful stride was hampered by a bulging canvas satchel. The pair were not father and daughter, but teacher and pupil. Chrissie’s uniform was second-hand, but she was not to tell anyone.

  A week had passed since the policeman had visited Mr Watson and, ever since, Chrissie was frightened that he would come to her mum and dad’s flat with a search warrant for the locket. Whenever she passed a police officer in the street – and it seemed that every day she did – she expected to be clamped in handcuffs. But by Thursday, the day of her next drawing lesson, she was still free.

  When she had arrived at the villa by the pond for her lesson, Mr Watson had again opened the door. He had informed her that they were going on a field trip.

  Chrissie’s topsy-turvy blend of fact with fiction skewed her logic. She had told the policeman that Mrs Watson had given her tea so it must be true. The dreadful fear that Mrs Watson would know she had stolen the locket fuelled the unwitting lie. Chrissie quelled the fact that she hadn’t seen Mrs Watson. Indeed, it was no longer fact.

  Since they were on a field trip she couldn’t carry out her plan. Chrissie had given up on returning the locket to the bedroom upstairs. She would hide it in the drawing room and make Mrs Watson suppose that she herself had dropped it there. Relieved by this solution, Chrissie had considered her plan as good as executed so had been aghast when Mr Watson led her across Kew Green, through St Anne’s churchyard to Kew Gardens. The locket still tucked in her blazer pocket was like a boulder. She would have to keep it another week.

  The gardens were crowded with visitors eating ice creams, poring over maps and peering at notices that showed the names of trees and plants. Stupefied by the sun, they drifted like ghosts across the browned lawns. Mr Watson’s voice came from far away, ‘...have you been to the Marianne North Gallery?’ Have you got my wife’s locket?