The Perfect Daughter

by Gillian Linscott

  ‘Her best friend Prudence would have agreed with that. She and Verona weren’t going to get silly about men until they’d done something in the world.’

  A smile, or it might have been a grimace, made the scar writhe across his cheek. ‘You’ve met little Prudence, have you? A nice child, but not a patch on Verona.’

  ‘She’s missing her.’

  ‘We all are.’ We finished one circuit of the square and started the next. ‘Or rather, we’re all missing the Verona we thought we knew. How can a girl change so much in such a short time? That’s what’s making things so hard for Alexandra.’

  I guessed now why he’d wanted to talk to me, both for Alex’s sake and his own.

  ‘I promise you, if I knew anything that would help her, I’d tell her.’

  But what I knew wouldn’t help her at all. He was quick enough to pick me up on it.

  ‘You mean you do know something, but it won’t help?’

  ‘Nothing for certain. Nothing to tell her.’

  Alex dear, your daughter went to London to learn to be a spy. Your husband knew and didn’t tell you. It was possible that Pritty had been in Ben’s confidence, in which case it was a hypocritical game he was playing. Still, the concern for Alex was in his favour.

  ‘If there is anything ever…’

  He was holding out a card to me. I took it and put it in my pocket.

  ‘There’s one thing I have wondered,’ I said, ‘and that is why she went home to kill herself.’

  ‘Where she was happy. Where she was innocent.’

  I thought, but didn’t say, that nobody in the world was ever as happy or as innocent as they wanted Verona to have been.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘She loved the sea. You know, even after she was dead the local fishermen…’ He hesitated, took a few steps and looked sideways at me. ‘I don’t suppose you know much about West Country fishermen.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re the best men and the best seamen on the face of the earth, but superstitious. All of us sailors are superstitious, but they beat the lot.’

  Another sideways look.

  ‘You’re not trying to tell me people have seen Verona’s ghost around the estuary?’

  He could tell from my voice I was a sceptic. I could feel him clamming up, but I had enough on my hands without ghost stories.

  ‘Not her ghost, no. A story about a boat that rowed itself. As I say, Miss Bray, they’re a superstitious lot. I’m sorry to have taken your time. It was kind of you to talk to me.’

  Then he raised his bowler hat and was gone, not into thin air but round the corner into Duke of York Street.

  * * *

  By midday, I was back at the Archimedes J. Stuggs Chess Forum. Max took the list of the Hergests’ guests, didn’t recognise any of the names but promised, without much optimism, to make some enquiries. Then at my request he introduced me to their resident lepidoptericide. He turned out to be Dr Hassler, born in Prague about seventy years before, qualified as a medical doctor but passionate about chess and butterflies. Max left us alone because he knew I wanted as few people involved in this as possible. Dr Hassler had a manner of old-fashioned courtesy but couldn’t help showing his surprise at what I wanted of him.

  ‘My dear lady, it is a very long time since one of the fairer sex has asked me to lunch with her, but I shall be delighted.’

  He collected his ebony cane and a white panama with a black band round it and we walked up the street together, quite slowly because he was lame in one foot. A little accident while on a collecting trip to the Amazon, he explained. I was glad of the slowness. I could see Dr Hassler’s personal shadow, the man with the greasy hair and drooping moustache known to the chess club as Weaver, keeping pace with us on the other side of the street. To make it easier for him I’d already picked out a café where the tables were conveniently close together. It had a big window on to the street and looked like the sort of place where office workers would come to eat. Dr Hassler and I took a table near the window and studied the menu. Over the top of it, I watched Weaver on the opposite pavement. He was taking a close interest in a row of boots and shoes in a cobbler’s widow. After a while he crossed the road, did what was probably a regulation saunter into our café and stood just inside the doorway looking round, but carefully not in our direction.

  ‘There’s steak-and-kidney pudding with stout,’ I said to Dr Hassler, keeping his attention on the menu. I wanted to make things easy for Weaver.

  ‘Also liver and onions.’

  Weaver settled at a table near the wall about ten yards away from us and immediately buried his face in a newspaper.

  I said to Dr Hassler: ‘You know we’re being followed?’

  ‘Yes, of course. My chess apprentice. I’m glad. From his complexion he smokes too many cigarettes and doesn’t eat enough of the right things. Should I go over and recommend the steak-and-kidney, do you think?’ His eyes sparkled. If he hadn’t guessed exactly what was going on, he had a good idea of it.

  ‘Dr Hassler, I should warn you I’m doing something that may cause trouble. Not for you, I hope. But I asked you here hoping he’d follow us.’

  I switched into German when I said this. He didn’t turn a hair and replied in the same language.

  ‘Such a pity. I was hoping it was for the charm of my company and conversation.’ He grinned. He was obviously enjoying himself.

  ‘That too. If you don’t want to be involved in this, we can have a pleasant lunch I hope and talk about other things.’

  ‘I know about you from our friend Max, Miss Bray. He said I might have doubts about your methods but I need have none about your motives.’ He switched to English for that, then back into German. ‘So your unbeautiful butterfly has settled. What do you intend to do with it?’

  ‘I hope it’s more of a pigeon than a butterfly. I want it to fly back where it came from with a message.’

  The waitress arrived and we ordered. Liver, onions and mashed potato for Dr Hassler, a poached egg on toast for me.

  ‘You should eat more meat, Miss Bray. You wish me to creep under the tables and tie a little message to his ankle?’

  We laughed. Weaver’s newspaper quivered. The waitress was on her way towards him.

  ‘For a start, it would be useful if you could get him to acknowledge you. At the moment he’s pretending not to know you’re here.’

  When the waitress got to his table Weaver performed a kind of fan dance with the newspaper, trying to give his order while keeping his face screened from us. Dr Hassler leaned out, waving like a passenger from a train.

  ‘Hello, Mr Weaver. We recommend the pie.’

  Weaver glanced at Dr Hassler, gave a twisted smile of acknowledgement and went back behind the newspaper.

  ‘That’s done. What now?’

  ‘I take it you’ll be seeing him this afternoon?’

  ‘We have an appointment to play chess.’

  ‘Now that he’s had to admit he’s seen you, it would be natural for him to ask who you were lunching with.’

  ‘Ill-mannered.’

  ‘But professional. All these hours at the chess forum and he’s got something to report at last. You might make it easy for him by pretending to be in a bad temper and explaining it was because of something that happened at lunch.’

  Our meals arrived, along with a plate of bread and butter and a big pot of tea. Dr Hassler ate with an enthusiasm you wouldn’t have guessed at from his spare build, carrying on the conversation between mouthfuls.

  ‘One can’t play chess in a bad temper. Am I supposed to explain what put me in this unusual state of mind?’

  ‘I was trying to persuade you to do something for me. This is the first time we’ve met. I was introduced to you by Max and promptly insisted on taking you out to lunch.’

  ‘Which has the merit of being true.’

  ‘So far, and if you’d like to leave it at that you’d already have done me a great kindness.’


  ‘That would be a small message for a large pigeon.’

  ‘There is more, only it wouldn’t be true.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I wanted you to post a package for me to somewhere in Switzerland or Germany. Zurich might do well. I’d heard that you post butterfly specimens all over the place so wondered if you be very kind and slip this in with your next batch.’

  I took a brown paper package the size of a small book out of my bag. In fact, it was a small book, a pocket edition of Three Men in a Boat. I’d chosen it because it was about the same size and shape as the batch of file cards Bobbie had taken from the office at World’s End. I didn’t look Weaver’s way, but held it up so that he could hardly miss it. Dr Hassler got the point immediately and looked surprised, a little annoyed.

  ‘I think I’d ask you why you don’t put it in the post yourself.’

  ‘Because I don’t trust the post. I think all my mail is intercepted. For some reason, they think I’m a suspicious person.’

  ‘I wonder why. So do I perform this little favour for you?’

  ‘You don’t. In fact, you’re getting quite worried about it all.’

  He waved the parcel away. I put it back in my bag, reluctantly.

  ‘I think we probably argue about it a bit. I try to insist and you get angry.’

  ‘By all means. Tell me, what do you think is more dangerous in politicians, hypocrisy or stupidity?’

  I chose hypocrisy, leaving him with stupidity and we went at it hammer and tongs in German, over treacle pudding with custard for him and more tea for me. We let our voices rise enough for Weaver to know we were speaking German, throwing in the occasional reference to Asquith, Churchill and Carson to keep him interested. He couldn’t have heard all of our conversation from where we were sitting, but must have got the point that we were disagreeing. I signalled to the waitress for the bill, paid it. Dr Hassler tried a genuine protest.

  ‘Don’t worry, that’s part of it. You can let him know I was flashing money around.’

  I risked a look at Weaver. He was smoking a cigarette and had the newspaper folded on the table beside him, apparently intent on it.

  ‘Dr Hassler, would you be kind enough to walk with me as far as the corner?’

  ‘Are we still angry with each other?’

  ‘Let’s try frozen politeness. Less tiring.’

  I made a long business of sorting out change for a tip, giving Weaver time to get organised. He was intent on the paper when we passed his table. We walked slowly down the street, not looking back, and paused on the corner.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘You go back to the club. I’m going to the station to book a ticket.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Dr Hassler said quietly in German, ‘and may the Reisengott be with you.’ He added in English, loud and very formal, ‘I’ll wish you good afternoon then, Miss Bray,’ raised his hat stiffly and walked away.

  I didn’t look to see if Weaver followed me on the way to the station and the booking hall was so crowded that even a mediocre watcher would have no trouble keeping out of sight. I joined a long queue at a second-class ticket window and paid 19s6d for a single on the overnight service from Liverpool Street to the Hook of Holland via Harwich the following evening, Friday. I harassed the poor clerk and set the queue behind me fidgeting with a lot of questions about the steamer, tides and the precise time we docked at the Hook to make sure he remembered me when the initials came to enquire.

  * * *

  A telegram arrived soon after I got home.

  PLEASE TELEPHONE, ANY TIME 4 TO 6. NEED TALK. BILL MUSGRAVE.

  It gave a number. I knew it belonged to the tea importer on the ground floor of the building where Bill had his chambers. Bill had no telephone of his own but used that one in emergencies. Or what he thought were emergencies. I’d no intention of finding a coin-box or walking a mile to my nearest friend who possessed a telephone, just to be told all over again to lie low and be cautious. Besides, he’d have wanted to know what I was doing and that would have worried him even more. So that got thrown at the wastepaper basket as well.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE BOAT TRAIN DIDN’T LEAVE UNTIL 8.30 ON Friday evening. With the day to fill and in no mood for hobgoblins and fairy-tale forests I decided to try to talk to Kitty Dulcie. ‘A rather peculiar young woman,’ Valerie had called her. Ju-jitsuing fellow guests into ponds was unconventional, but not necessarily a bad thing. She’d met Verona and was around the same age. It was just possible she’d picked up things other people had missed. But when I went to the ju-jitsu school in Argyll Place to enquire after her, the response wasn’t encouraging.

  ‘Miss Dulcie won’t be coming here again,’ Edith Garrud told me.

  I’d caught her between classes. There was a smell of sweat in the air, sounds of people changing behind curtains at the far end of the room.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I threw her out.’

  ‘Literally?’ I had visions of bodies flying across Oxford Circus.

  ‘No, though I was sorely tempted.’

  ‘What had she done?’

  ‘Quite a lot of things. For one thing, I found she’d been giving private lessons here in the evening after I’d gone home.’

  ‘Was that so bad?’

  Edith gave me a look. ‘Mostly to gentlemen.’

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘I don’t mean anything, but there’s enough prejudice against physical women in any case. I’m not giving anybody a chance to gossip.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I tolerated the music-hall demonstrations but I never cared for them. She does a double act with her brother. I told her, ju-jitsu’s not a circus act, it’s a sacred art developed by monks centuries back, not something to get the gallery whistling at the Metropolitan.’

  ‘She sounds enterprising at any rate.’

  ‘Too enterprising.’ Edith took hold of her ankle with one hand and bent her leg up behind her back. ‘The last straw was, I found she and her brother had opened a so-called martial arts academy without saying a word to me about it. That young woman’s altogether too fond of money.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s always been short of it.’

  ‘Not recently, judging by the clothes she’s been buying.’

  ‘This martial arts academy, do you know where it is?’

  Unwillingly, she gave me an address near the Elephant and Castle.

  ‘But I’d leave her alone if I were you, Nell. There’s something not straight about Kitty Dulcie.’

  * * *

  As far as I could tell the watchers weren’t following me but I made no efforts to check that on my way out to Elephant and Castle, not wanting to discourage them if they were. Elephant and Castle isn’t an area I know well and once out of the underground I had to ask for directions. It was a little street off Walworth Road, or rather half a little street because all one side of it was being knocked down and rebuilt. The surviving side was a gappy mixture of terraced houses, small workshops and locked wooden gates, with no numbers on any of them. There was a smell of brick dust from the demolished houses and of bad drains, with a lot of flies zigzagging around and a dog tearing at a bone in the gutter. As I stood looking for somebody to ask for more directions, a wooden gate opened from the inside and a man came out trundling an empty handcart. Through the gate I got a glimpse of a scrap metal yard.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘do you know where the martial arts academy is?’

  He jerked a thumb into the yard behind him and rolled on his way. I went through the gate, shutting it behind me. It was an ordinary enough scrapyard, quite tidy as these things go, with bits of corrugated iron and railings, wheel rims, cooking pots, even the crushed carcass of a motorcar piled into heaps against walls of old railway sleepers. A black-and-white notice, newly painted, was nailed to one of the sleepers: ‘Dulcie’s Academy of Martial Arts’. An arrow pointed to a newish single-storey red-brick building at the far end of the yard. It had big
uncurtained windows and when I got near it I heard the patter of steps from inside and saw two figures moving in what looked like an angular kind of dance.

  The door was round the side. There was another notice beside it. ‘D. and M. Dulcie. Lessons in Fencing, Shooting and Ju-jitsu for Ladies and Gentlemen’. I knocked and waited. When there was no reply I opened the door and walked in. At the far end of the bare room a man and woman, both barefoot and wearing suits like white flannel pyjamas, were performing a cross between a fight and a ballet. The man lunged forward, like a fencer but empty-handed, with a sideways chopping movement that seemed to be making straight for his partner’s head until she pivoted sideways on the ball of her foot and aimed the other foot in a kick that could have taken his kneecap off if it had connected. Only it didn’t because his knee moved back and his hand came round in a scything arc that would have caught her across the eyes, except she ducked below it so that the edge of his hand did no more than ruffle her short dark hair like a dragonfly wing over a pond. It wasn’t like ju-jitsu or anything else I’d ever seen but it took the breath away just watching. Part of the beauty was the intense concentration the two of them gave it, like Max’s chess players. I don’t think they even noticed I was there until by mutual agreement but without a word said they stopped, looked at each other and laughed the way people do when something’s satisfied them. Then the woman, Kitty Dulcie, glanced in my direction, said something to the man and disappeared behind a screen. He came walking towards me, light as a lizard on his bare feet. Her brother, the other half of the music-hall act. He was a few inches taller and a few years older than Kitty but had the same dark hair and eyes, and an intensity about him that made the air hum. When he spoke, it was a North-of-Ireland voice like hers, quiet but hard-edged.

  ‘Good morning. Were you wanting lessons?’

  From the way he said it, embattled already, he knew I wasn’t. Whatever she’d said to him had been a warning.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Kitty Dulcie.’

  ‘What do you want with her?’

  ‘I believe she knew a relative of mine, Verona North.’

  Something happened in those dark eyes. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I didn’t like it.