by Pat Herbert
He wasn’t as drunk as the others, and he was very good looking. So, hiding the grizzling baby in her wicker basket, she crossed the road to meet him. As she approached, the other men started to wolf whistle and make themselves generally disagreeable to her. She tried to ignore them, however, and continued to approach the man she had chosen.
“Come on, missy, how about a bit of slap and tickle? Keep you warm on a night like this,” said one.
“How much do you charge, young miss?” asked another, trying to put his arms around her.
She was small enough to dodge him, however, and managed to touch the coat sleeve of the man of her choice before this objectionable creature could whisk her away.
“Behave yourselves, you fellows,” said the man she fancied. “Leave her alone. Just look at her. Can’t you see she’s no more than a child?”
The other men swayed and laughed lewdly. “All the better,” said one lasciviously. “It’s a long time since I’ve come across one so young and pretty.” With that he made a lunge for her, but her protector stepped in just in time and fetched him an almighty sock on the jaw.
“Hey, Rolly,” cried one, “what’s got into you? Can’t you see Giles was only teasing her?”
The man called Giles nursed his sore jaw and spat out some blood. “I was only playing,” he muttered. “You should watch that temper of yours, Rolly old chap. It’ll get you into trouble one of these fine days.”
“Sorry,” said Rolly, “but I thought you were too drunk to know what you were doing. You might have hurt her. Are you all right?”
“No thanks to you,” said Giles, “but no matter. Maybe you’ll let me off that earnest, then we’re even.”
Rolly laughed. “I wasn’t going to hold you to it anyway. I don’t need your money. Now, be on your way, the lot of you. I will look after this young lady.”
The men soon dispersed in varying directions, some of them singing at the tops of their voices as they went. He laughed, took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Silly fellows,” he observed, “but there is no harm in them. They will be sober in the morning and wishing they could remove their heads.”
Lydia stood waiting, holding her basket close to her and praying that the baby wouldn’t start grizzling again.
“Now, young lady, what are you doing out alone on a night like this?” he asked her, kindly.
“I – er I ain’t got nowhere to go, mister,” she said, wiping her dripping nose on her sleeve. “I thought you might like some fun ...”
“I like to have fun, don’t you?” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “But I think you’re more in need of a good meal and somewhere to sleep.”
Lydia couldn’t believe her good fortune. Was he about to offer her these things without asking for anything in return? It didn’t seem very likely.
“I ain’t got nothing to offer, sir, only me...” she replied. “I ain’t expecting something for nothing.”
“Dear child,” he said, putting a protective arm around her shivering shoulders. “I’ll take you home with me tonight, give you a meal and provide you with a nice warm bed. Tomorrow we will decide what’s best to do with you.”
“You’re a blessed saint, mister...”
“Now, now. I’m no saint,” he said. “But I can see you need help, and I’m in the mood to give it. Why not accept it as the gift it is? Tomorrow I may want some recompense.”
“You’d be most welcome, mister.”
“I didn’t mean it, child. I don’t intend to take advantage of your position. What was that?” he asked suddenly, as he noticed the blanket in Lydia’s basket begin to move. “What have you got under there? It isn’t a snake, is it? I can’t stand them...”
“No, sir, ’course it ain’t a snake. Where would I get a snake from? It’s a ....”
She hesitated. Should she reveal her secret? There really wasn’t any help for it, as he had already seen there was something alive in her basket. There would be no point in lying and saying it was a kitten or something, as he would be sure to want to see it.
“It’s a baby, sir,” she said at last.
“Ah!” he said. “You have a baby, dear? I suppose you were just unlucky. I’m not going to judge you...”
“You don’t understand, sir,” she protested. “It ain’t mine. It’s a friend’s, I’m minding it for ’er.”
“Yes, of course you are,” he said, clearly not believing her. “Well, no matter whose it is, it probably needs feeding, like you, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, aware that there was no point in arguing. “’E’s always ’ungry, this one.”
“Well, he won’t be hungry after tonight, if I have anything to do with it,” said the young man, hailing a cab.
When they were inside, he introduced himself properly. “I’m Roland Holman, by the way,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Lydia, sir,” she replied. “I don’t rightly know my last name. I never knew who my parents were, like.”
“You poor child,” said Roland, tears in his gentle brown eyes. “The world is a wicked place for the likes of you. But Lydia’s a very pretty name – you must be proud of it. Who gave it to you?”
“I think it was Kitty,” she said, taking the grizzling baby out of the basket and rocking him gently in her arms. The motion of the carriage was making them both sleepy.
“Who is this Kitty?”
“Eh?”
She was nodding off, her tiredness completely taking her over now. She realised she hadn’t slept properly for days.
“You said someone called Kitty named you...”
“Oh, yeah.... Kitty .... nice lady....”
Roland Holman took the baby, basket and all, from Lydia, as she started to snore gently. He looked into the face of the little child, snuffling and still grizzling, but somehow growing calmer as he rocked him gently on his lap.
“Sshh!” he whispered to him. “You and your mother are quite safe now.”
The next morning, Lydia awoke to a bright February sun streaming through her bedroom window. The baby was sleeping soundly beside her, his belly properly full for the first time in his short life. She jumped out of bed and rushed out onto the landing. She couldn’t even remember arriving here the night before, but she noticed she was in a pretty nightgown. Did that young man undress her? If so, she didn’t care.
At that moment, an elderly, roly-poly shaped woman appeared from another bedroom, piles of newly laundered sheets in her arms.
“So, the little miss is awake at last. You’ve slept for a very long time, young lady.”
“What’s the time?” Lydia asked.
“Nearly noon. But never mind. The master said to give you everything you need. I hope you like the nightgown I selected for you. It was one of the young master’s late mother’s, God rest her.”
“It’s lovely,” replied Lydia, twirling around. “I never ’ad anything so pretty in my life.”
“Well, it suits you,” smiled the old woman. “You’re very pretty yourself.”
“Isn’t she just?” came a voice from below them. Lydia leant over the banisters and saw her handsome saviour staring up at her.
“And how are you this fine day?” he called up to her.
Words couldn’t describe how she felt. She had never been so happy.
And, Roland, looking up at the lovely young girl in his late mother’s frilly nightgown, had never been so in love.
Chapter Seventeen
As each day passed, and winter turned to spring, Charles Moreland felt more and more easy in his mind. He scanned the papers daily for news of Lily’s or Rose’s disappearance, but it seemed they weren’t important enough to bother with. He assumed that, even if anyone had been concerned enough to report them missing to the police, the constabulary would have better things to do than look for them. No doubt women of their sort went missing every day.
One morning in early April, Charles received a letter from his late brot
her’s solicitor. It seemed that the legal wheels had turned sufficiently to put the care of Edward’s property into his own hands at last.
“Daphne, dear, it seems I am now the legal owner of Edward’s home.”
Daphne paused in the act of replenishing his breakfast teacup. “Indeed?” she said. “That’s good news. Do you want some more toast? I’ll ring for Agnes, if you do, otherwise she can clear the things away.”
“No more toast for me, just another cup of tea, if there’s any left.”
Daphne resumed pouring the tea and then rang for Agnes to remove the remains of their breakfast.
“What do you intend to do with the house, Charles? It’s still occupied by those – those women, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t hide her distaste. She had been fond of her brother-in-law but couldn’t find it in her heart to approve of his penchant for saving fallen women. It was no occupation for a gentleman, to her mind.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Will you sell it?”
“No. Not straightaway. I think I can make more money from renting it out. It will be a good source of income for us.”
“What will you do about those women who live there?”
“Edward’s ‘protégés’, you mean?” smiled Charles. “Yes, they could prove to be a problem. It wouldn’t be fair to just throw them out onto the streets.”
“Why not? It’s where they came from, after all.”
“You are very hard-hearted, Daphne, dear,” said Charles reproachfully. “They’re still human beings, after all.”
“Maybe so, but we aren’t responsible for what happens to them. If Edward had wanted to provide properly for them, he should have done so by mentioning it in his will.”
“Yes, I’m surprised he was so irresponsible. But then, he was a philanthropist at heart and didn’t really have a clue about legalities and such. He just thought he was looking after those women by letting them live under his roof. I don’t think he ever thought about what would become of them if he wasn’t there. I suppose he thought there were plenty of do-gooders like himself.”
“Well, he was under a misapprehension there,” said Daphne, meaningfully. “You have no legal obligation to these women, Charles.”
Charles, in his heart, knew she was right. He realised, also, that it was somewhat ironic that he should care what happened to a few prostitutes when he had, in fact, murdered two of them himself.
He sighed. He would instruct his solicitor to do the necessary, he told Daphne. What he didn’t tell her, what he had never told her, was how near she had become to being a mother by proxy for a second time. What had happened to Edward’s little boy? He had questioned everyone in the house, but no one had seemed to know. The old woman called Kitty had been very short with him, and all the women were hostile from the first. It seemed he would never know what had become of his nephew. If he was alive, even. Still, he thought, as he prepared to leave for the office, there was nothing to be done about it now. Sleeping dogs were best left alone.
As he walked along the street towards the omnibus stop in the High Street, he continued to ponder his situation. He couldn’t help thinking he didn’t deserve to be happy, although he supposed he was. He had everything he could wish for: a pretty wife, a lovely daughter, and now a second home that would bring in plenty of money to secure his family’s future. There didn’t seem to be any justice in the world. If there was, he’d have been strung up by now. The only price he was paying for his crimes was his continued feeling of guilt and the fear that one day justice would finally catch up with him.
PART TWO
London, the Early 1960s
Chapter Eighteen
“Oh, dear!” murmured the Reverend Bernard Paltoquet, staring at the letter in his hand.
So, old Mr Plunkett had passed on at last. He had been ailing for many years, solely dependent on his daughter, Dorothy. She had been living with, and caring for, her father in Exeter since the death of her mother and, during that time, she had corresponded regularly with Bernard.
He had also paid her a visit a couple of years ago, and she had once been able to leave her father with her older, married sister to pay him a brief visit in London. Apart from that, they hadn’t seen each other for the best part of fourteen years.
But now, at last, Dorothy was planning a trip to see both Bernard and their mutual friend, Dr Robbie MacTavish. Although Bernard was looking forward to seeing her again, he was worried about where this reunion might lead. He knew Dorothy still harboured feelings for him, but he was a pretty much confirmed bachelor these days. He still cared for her but wasn’t sure it was enough to take the ultimate step to the altar. In his vocation, he had married many happy couples, but they hadn’t always stayed that way. At least, not if the burgeoning divorce rate was anything to go by.
As he was thinking these thoughts, Robbie MacTavish burst into his study, a letter in his hand.
“So Dorothy’s pa’s dead at last,” he said by way of greeting. “About time, if you ask me.”
“That’s not a very charitable thing to say, Robbie,” admonished Bernard. “But I believe it’s come as a blessed relief to Dorothy. She must have had a hard time of it these last few years. When I met him, I must say, I didn’t warm to him much. He was always whining and complaining, and I could see poor Dorothy was at the end of her tether with him. I wonder what she’ll do with herself now she’s free?”
“That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, old love,” said Robbie, seating himself in his customary chair opposite Bernard beside the fire. It was a chill October afternoon and there was a welcome blaze in the hearth, courtesy of Bernard’s redoubtable housekeeper, Nancy Harper. “Any tea going?”
Bernard poked his head out of the study and called out. “Tea, please, Mrs Aitch, and some of your delicious fondant fancies.”
Mrs Harper sniffed. “He thinks my fondant fancies grow on trees, he does,” she muttered under her breath, taking out a batch of those very same cakes from the oven. “One day I’ll surprise him and drop dead. Where will his fondant fancies come from then?”
But, despite her curmudgeonly manner, she had a steadfast affection and regard for her master. She placed the newly baked cakes on a plate and the plate on a tray beside the steaming teapot, cups, saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl. She proceeded to climb the stairs with the laden tray and noticed that her breath was becoming more laboured these days, especially when going upstairs like this. Getting old, that’s what it was. Not so young as she used to be.
The two men relieved her of the tray, while she tried not to show them she was out of breath. If there was one thing she was, it was proud. She hated to admit she had any weaknesses, but it was beginning to be difficult to hide her increasing infirmity. Soon, she knew, Bernard would notice that she wasn’t as agile as she used to be, and he would also notice that she sometimes had trouble with her hip. Like now. The pain in it was becoming more and more unbearable. But once Bernard was aware of it, he would no doubt recommend she consulted Robbie. She didn’t want to consult Robbie or any other doctor, come to that. There was nothing wrong with her that a couple of aspirins and a cup of tea wouldn’t put right.
“Well, Robbie,” said Bernard once the tea was poured and the cakes distributed. “What does your letter say?”
“More or less the same as yours I should think - that her father’s dead, and she’s planning on visiting us next week.”
“It will be good to see her again,” said Bernard. “Shall I put her up here at the vicarage?”
“Makes sense,” said Robbie rather reluctantly. “After all, you’ve got more room here and Mrs Harper as chaperone.”
“Okay,” said Bernard. “I’ll write and tell her. I’ll also ask her what train she’s getting so that we can both meet her.”
“Capital,” said Robbie, blowing on his hot tea. “I’m really looking forward to seeing her again after all this time. When was it you visited her?”
“Oh, about three years ago,” said Bernard. “She looked very tired then, and she wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as she used to be. The years of hard work have taken their toll. Poor Dorothy.”
“I only hope now she can get her life back on track. I wonder if she’ll move back to London?” mused Robbie.
“It’ll depend, I suppose,” said Bernard, reaching for his third fondant fancy. “After all, she’s got to think of her work. She must have more clients in Exeter than she ever managed to get here. She was only with us a short time.”
Dorothy was a genuine clairvoyant with a natural gift and Robbie, who was a little psychic himself, had fallen for her the first time she had walked into his surgery with a headache. His professional interest in her soon became more personal but, when she met Bernard, it was clear that she preferred the vicar to the doctor.
“Shall I write on both our behalves or do you want to reply separately?” Bernard asked.
“No, you do the honours, old boy,” said Robbie, finishing his tea and rising to go. It was five o’clock and nearly time for his evening surgery.
“Let’s hope she’s the woman we both remember, eh?” he said.
“I’m sure she will be,” Bernard replied. “But we’re none of us getting any younger, are we?”
Chapter Nineteen
Robbie’s evening surgery was particularly busy that night, but his mind wasn’t entirely on his work. His thoughts were full of Dorothy Plunkett’s impending visit. He hadn’t seen her for fourteen years, and now she was coming back. How much would she have changed? Would she still have the same power over him? By his calculation, she would be in her early to mid-forties, and he preferred his women quite a bit younger. He wasn’t very far off fifty himself, but that didn’t bother him. As far as he was concerned, he was still as handsome as ever, the silver in his sandy hair serving only to enhance his distinguished appearance.