The Perfect Daughter

by Gillian Linscott

  ‘Of course I have.’ Our movement was full of women ten years younger than I was who couldn’t wait to get out with matches and cans of paraffin.

  ‘I don’t mean politically. I mean desperate to catch up with life. Maybe it used to be easier for them when all their world consisted of was looking after their parents or marrying the curate. Now the doors are opening all over the place – perhaps you and I have even helped open some of them – and suddenly there’s a big world out there. They’re like children in a magic toy shop, desperately afraid it will all disappear again before they can grab everything they want.’

  It sounded like a passage from one of his books, and possibly it was and yet there was real sadness in his voice. I reminded myself that he was successful at both story-telling and seduction.

  ‘Are you claiming that Verona grabbed you off the toy shelf?’

  ‘Please, please, please, stop being so angry for a minute and just listen to me. I’m not trying to make you understand what attracted her to me. I’m telling you why I was attracted to her.’

  Valerie didn’t move perceptibly, and yet there was a change in the quality of her silence as if she were spreading some invisible membrane to catch the slightest change in his tone.

  ‘Valerie was telling the truth when she talked about impressionable young women wanting to attract my attention. I know it sounds conceited, but it’s just a fact. She may be right, too, when she implies that I’m a pathetic middle-aged man, deceived by an unscrupulous young woman who happened to be a spy.’

  That wasn’t quite what Valerie had said, but she made no attempt to correct him.

  ‘What I want you both to see is that I wasn’t so unscrupulous, or even as stupid, as you both think. All right, I was attracted to her, I was flattered that she wanted my opinion on things, wanted to see the world through my eyes. But I sensed there was something there I didn’t understand, some reserve I couldn’t break through. Oh, she had all the headlong, desperate courage of those other young girls, but there was something else besides and it puzzled me, intrigued me. Perhaps that’s why I let what happened happen – because I thought it might help me understand her.’

  I said, ‘You mean making love to her?’

  He looked at me, his eyes shining with tears. ‘Yes, although if you want the truth, she was the one who suggested it.’

  We both glanced at Valerie, although she’d made no sound. Her head was still bent, the hand still clasped over her fingers.

  ‘And then she came to you and told you she was pregnant. That must have worried you.’

  ‘No!’ The word came out explosively. ‘No. It didn’t worry me, it didn’t worry Verona and, if you want to know, it didn’t worry Valerie.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  We stared at each other. He sighed and looked away.

  ‘You tell her, Val.’

  Slowly she unclasped her hands and ran them over her tidy, shining hair. When she looked at me her face was hard and she talked as if she were already giving evidence in court.

  ‘I knew about Verona from the start. Vincent and I have always been completely honest with each other. Completely, in everything. Sometime in April he told me that Verona was sure she was expecting his baby. We discussed what to do. Vincent was in favour of acknowledging the relationship and the baby and having them here to live with us. I argued, rightly or wrongly, that the public attitude to that might reduce the amount of good he could do for the various causes we support. Also, there was the question of what Verona herself wanted. I suggested we should invite her here for one of our regular weekends with other young people present so that it didn’t start gossip.’

  ‘The peace weekend?’

  ‘Yes. She came that weekend in April and the three of us had a long talk. The decision we came to was that Verona should live quietly at our cottage in Epping and have the baby there. Once it was born Vincent and I would adopt it, set Verona up in a flat of her own and support her to train for whatever career she wanted.’

  ‘Verona agreed to that?’

  ‘Yes. There was never any question of doing anything without her agreement.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was happy.’

  Vincent hadn’t taken his eyes off her while she was talking. Now he burst out, ‘Happy! That’s the point! I know it sounds ridiculous after all that’s happened, but you’ve got to understand this. Back in the spring, when Verona was fulfilled and in love with everything and there was the baby to look forward to, we were all so happy. It was life, life, life! Life for the baby, a new life for Verona, this little life to guide for Val and me. It was all turning out so well, so very, very well for all of us.’

  I said, ‘So when did it start going wrong?’

  ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘It didn’t go wrong. She went down to the cottage. I visited her now and then, took books for her. We’d discuss what she was reading – our tutorials, we called them.’

  ‘She was willing to be hidden away there?’

  ‘Yes. It was what she wanted. Just now and then, she’d get impatient about being out of things. She insisted on going with me to the Buckingham Palace deputation where you saw us. Val was angry with me about that. She was worried about the risk to the baby, but it was all right.’

  ‘So everything was still all right and she was happy and you were happy and Valerie was happy, but just a week after that she was dead. I’m asking you again, when did it start going wrong?’ There was a long silence. ‘She was worried that people were watching her, wasn’t she? Hiding in the Forest and watching her.’

  He flinched. ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘Of course not. None of us had any idea where she was in all that time.’

  Valerie interrupted. ‘I suppose she’s been talking to Kitty Dulcie.’

  ‘Did you believe Verona about the watchers?’

  He looked at Valerie before answering. ‘I … we discussed it. You do get strange people in the Forest and even if she was imagining things … well, it showed it was wrong to leave her there on her own at nights. So Val suggested we should ask Kitty to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘So Kitty was watching Verona for you?’

  ‘No, helping us look after her.’ Valerie glared. ‘You’ve got such a brutal way of looking at things. Vincent saw Kitty once a week at the ju-jitsu place and they’d naturally discuss how Verona was, that’s all.’

  ‘And Kitty concluded that the watchers were a figment of Verona’s imagination?’

  Vincent burst out, ‘That’s what I’ll never forgive myself for! If we’d taken it more seriously – talked to her more about it.’

  ‘You think now they were real?’

  He hesitated. Valerie was looking at him intently, as if she was as interested in the answer as I was. ‘Yes … that is … after what you told me about what she was doing, I just don’t know what was real and what wasn’t any more. Even the happiness. Oh, I know she was happy about the three of us and the baby – I’m as sure of that as the sun rising. But the reserve was still there. I could feel there was something worrying her she wouldn’t talk about – only…’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘That deputation outside the Palace. After that, I put her on the train for Epping and we arranged I’d come and see her the next Thursday.’

  The day I found her dead.

  ‘Did you go?’

  A long silence. He and Valerie looked at each other.

  ‘We got a letter two days before that, on the Tuesday.’

  ‘From Verona?’

  ‘Yes. It was dated from Epping the day before. What it said worried me. I showed it to Val and we agreed that I should go straight to Epping and see her.’

  ‘Have you got the letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  He got up and went out, moving like an old man. While he was out of the room, Valerie didn�
�t move or look at me.

  ‘Here you are.’

  It was in Verona’s handwriting, the date and postmark as he’d said.

  Dearest Tutor,

  I told you I was scared sometimes. It helps a little when Kitty’s here, but not enough. I know you both think I’m imagining things, but I meant it. I am being watched. I know who and I know why. It scares me, especially at nights when the trees make odd noises in the wind. Oh dearest, there are things you don’t know about me. It has grieved me so much in the last few weeks having any secret from you and from Val, my more-than-sister. Before I see either of you again, there is something I must put right. I shall have to go away for a few days soon to do it, but don’t worry. Tell Val I shall be careful of myself and even more careful of our little Hero.

  My love,

  Your devoted pupil

  Verona

  ‘So you went to the cottage?’

  ‘Yes. She wasn’t there. I went to the place in Chelsea where she’d been living before. They had no idea where she was.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘What could we do? We waited for her to come back, waited to hear from her. Then…’

  He stared at me as if I could somehow make the end of the story come out differently.

  Valerie said, quietly, ‘We saw a paragraph in one of the papers about her being found hanging in Devon.’

  ‘Why did you go to the inquest?’

  ‘I wanted to know what had happened to her.’ Valerie’s calm was sliding away.

  Tears came into her eyes. ‘To her and to our baby.’

  ‘And the verdict was suicide. Did that come as a relief to you?’

  ‘No. Why should it have?’

  Vincent said, ‘Because Miss Bray thinks we murdered her.’

  She stared, eyes huge and face colourless. ‘No! No!’

  ‘You went to a lot of trouble to hide what had happened. You were paying Kitty Dulcie to keep quiet.’

  ‘That was me. Vincent didn’t know about it till this moment. Verona was dead, the baby was dead. There was only Vincent to think about then. Why should he suffer – have people pointing at him, blaming him, saying that shows what happens to men and women who are brave and clear-minded and don’t let other people dictate their morals to them?’

  She was furious with me, with everybody.

  He put a hand on her arm. ‘Easy, Val.’

  ‘I thought things were as bad as they could be, then she came here and made them worse and she’s doing it again.’

  ‘Did you really not know that Verona was spying until I told Mr Hergest?’

  ‘No. I’d no idea and nor had he.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Vincent said. ‘You know, I think it was one of the worst moments of my life, sitting there among the vegetables, hearing you say it.’

  ‘You knew it was true though.’

  He nodded. It explained everything, including that last letter of hers. He picked up the letter from the chair arm where I’d put it and read ‘… there is something I must put right. I shall have to go away for a few days soon to do it…’

  ‘You think that was what she meant?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about almost nothing else since you told me, and I’m sure of it. It was real, what she’d found with Val and me. Whatever she’d been before, this was what she wanted. She knew…’ He turned away and when he spoke again he was crying, ‘… knew we loved her.’

  There was so much pain in Valerie’s face that I had to look away, but her voice was as calm as ever. ‘Well, Miss Bray, do you still think we killed her?’

  I must have shaken my head because when I looked back at her there was relief on her face as well as pain. No point in explaining that the head-shake wasn’t her answer, only my confusion because all I’d done was make my burden of anger heavier, and I still couldn’t put it down where it belonged.

  ‘Will you have some coffee? I’ll ring for a fresh pot.’

  She did too, and for the chauffeur to take me back to Guildford. I saw Vincent from a distance as I left, staring at the flower border, not moving.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I HAD TO GO BACK HOME, EVEN IF all the watchers in the world were waiting. I needed the ten pounds I keep tucked away for emergencies, the hem of the second-hand skirt had come adrift and there was more travelling to do. The streets of Hampstead had a Sunday slack-tide feel, with most people gone to take the air on the Heath or dozing indoors, and only a few children playing hopscotch in the sun. There was nothing and nobody waiting for me when I opened the front door except two cats and a pile of post. I’d just changed and was looking for the train timetable when there was a knock on the back door and my neighbour came in with a little brown envelope.

  ‘The post office boy brought this on Friday afternoon. I’d no idea where you were.’

  It was a telegram from Bill.

  SHALL BE AWAY FOR WEEKEND. PLEASE TELEPHONE MONDAY, USUAL NUMBER. MEANWHILE, DO NOTHING. PLEASE.

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘No, just a friend. Thank you for taking it in. Would you mind seeing to the cats for another day or two? There’s some milk and fish money on the table.’

  A few days ago I’d been angry with Bill for trying to interfere. Now so much had happened that I’d have liked to talk to him, even listen to him. For one thing, it was possible he’d been right all along. I rummaged the wastepaper basket for his letter, unscrunched it and read, ‘… a right to be concerned about what happens to you…’ No, not that bit. ‘I’ve been giving all this a lot of thought since last week and I’m becoming convinced that you are tackling all this from the wrong end … I’ll be making my own enquiries and will let you know the result…’ He’d thought all along that the trail started further back in Verona’s life. If Verona’s last known letter could be taken at its face value, it pointed that way too. ‘… something I must put right. I shall have to go away for a few days…’ And if I didn’t take it at face value, then Valerie meant me to think it pointed there. Clever, resourceful Valerie with her motorcar and all those useful acquaintances in strange places she’d made researching Vincent’s books. Loyal, sad, lying Valerie who’d do anything to protect her husband. Whether the trail was true or false, there was only one ending to it – the boathouse on the river estuary.

  I put Bill’s letter in my bag along with a notebook and a change of underwear, locked up and walked down the hill to the underground station, not bothering to check for watchers on street corners. As far as I was concerned they could be three deep behind every chimney stack. The game had gone beyond that now. I got to Paddington, bought a return and had a cup of tea and a dried-up cheese sandwich in the buffet, not because I was hungry but because I couldn’t remember whether I’d eaten anything since the fish and chips at Southend. Heading south-westwards in the train – more fields, wider rivers – I started thinking again about Bill and the telegram. I guessed he was spending the weekend walking in the Pennines with his deerhound, Roswal, for company then called myself a fool for imagining just him and the dog. Why not another woman? Fool again because what did I mean, another woman? That implied there was a first one and a few hours on the moors didn’t mean I’d accepted that vacancy, or even that it had been offered to me. ‘… a right to be concerned…’ I got the letter out, re-read it and, for the first time, began to wonder if Bill’s weekend away might be connected with all of this. Surely he couldn’t have known about Verona and Vincent Hergest and Yew Tree Cottage. Or was it just possible he’d drawn conclusions from the two of them being together at the deputation, gone to confront Hergest and … There was a smear of something sticky on the armrest of the seat – jam, ice cream? A fly had settled on it, proboscis spearing into the stickiness, its whole body throbbing with sucking it in. I remembered the flies in the boathouse and felt sick and terrified. He wouldn’t do that. He was methodical, cautious in his way. ‘… I suppose I am, by your standards cautious and conventional … But I’m not, I hope, passive and – with l
uck – may be able to prove that to you…’ When I re-read that I tried in my head to send him back to the Pennines, with a whole bevy of other women if he wanted them, but he wouldn’t go.

  The journey seemed endless – the sun hardly moving down the sky, long waits at stations where nobody got off or on, the last Sunday in the month of longest days and nobody in a hurry but me. That was until we got to Exeter. I had to change there and was standing by the door as the train slowed down alongside the platform. There were purposeful crowds around and an air of bustle you wouldn’t expect on a Sunday evening. A pile of what looked like rolled-up mattresses was stacked on the end of the opposite platform, a man with a clipboard watching them and, of all things, an Army officer in riding boots; cap and Sam Browne belt watching the man with the clipboard. There were more soldiers around on our platform, officers and men, plus civilians in Sunday suits, Boy Scouts and women with a tea urn on a trolley. A young man standing by the tea trolley had a bandage wound thickly round his head like a turban, but the stain had soaked through and the back of the turban was more red than white. The lad beside him had one arm in a fresh white sling and was drinking tea with the other hand. I got out before the train had properly stopped and the whole platform was full of walking wounded, with slings and bandages and crutches, all of them standing there quite stoically talking to each other as if nothing had happened, not even looking at a train on another platform and the team of men carrying empty stretchers inside, stretcher after stretcher, dozens of them. I grabbed a porter who was standing watching.

  ‘What in the world has happened?’

  ‘It’s all right, miss. Nearly finished now they have.’

  He moved off in response to a signal at the other end of the platform. A whistle blew. The wounded men started forming up in rows on the platform. I grabbed a passing Boy Scout and repeated the question.

  ‘Blueland invaded us at Bridport, ma’am. Thirteen hundred casualties, eleven hundred of them hospital cases.’

  He’d learned it by heart.

  ‘Invaded? Why? What’s Blueland?’ The feeling of unreality that had been there for days became panic, heart thumping, throat dry. ‘What do you mean? What’s happening?’