by KJ Charles
“No.”
“Give us the information and go. Vanish. Disappear off to Ireland or the north, but not Northamptonshire because we all know where you came from. Change your name, grow a moustache, and pretend this never happened, though keep a weather eye out for strangers anyway. If you can’t stomach handing over the papers, burn them and go anyway.”
“Go?” Will repeated. “You do realise it’s not that easy? I’ve been unemployed since the war! My entire income is the bookshop. What am I supposed to do in Ireland?”
“You said your uncle left you money. The solicitors will give you an advance while you wait for probate.”
“And how long will that last? Is that the best advice you’ve got?”
“No: my best advice is to hand over the information. I can’t help you if you won’t listen.” Kim rose. “You know where to find me. My telephone number.” He put a card on the table with a precise little click. “I will help if you let me.”
“By which you mean, if I do what you want.”
Kim gave a tiny shrug. “I hope you make a sensible decision. And I hope you don’t leave it too late.”
He turned on his heel. Will watched him go, not caring that he’d got the last word. He was too tired to argue any more, sick and sad to the bone. He’d thought Kim to be an out and out villain, and what he’d just seen had been far worse: a decent man debased. Debasing himself, compromising everything in the service of a sordid aim and an untrustworthy master.
Will wasn’t doing it. He would stick to his guns whatever came along. He didn’t, at this stage, have much choice.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Will expected trouble that night, or at least feared it. He didn’t drink, put his knife under his pillow, nailed a board across the back window, and checked all the locks were fast. It gave him no great security but a mildly comforting illusion of control. He slept lightly, waking at the slightest sound from the city and the creaks of the shop, and by six in the morning had reached the conclusion that he really did need to move to a hotel or some such. If only he could afford one.
He’d go and see the lawyers, he decided, asking for an update on the process of probate and, while he was at it, for a further advance of a hundred pounds against the estate. Cash in hand would be vital if he had to disappear in a hurry. That sent his mind back down the pathway Kim had set it on, not for the first time.
He couldn’t just disappear without money. He’d tried life with no friends to call on, no meaningful experience, and nothing but the clothes he stood up in, and he’d all but starved. Work was simply too hard to find these days. If he could sell the bookshop it would be different, but he couldn’t do that until probate was granted, and he was fairly sure international criminal gangs worked faster than lawyers. He’d have to find someone trustworthy to administer his affairs, who would send him the money without disclosing his whereabouts. It could doubtless be done. It would have to be done, because he couldn’t stick around here to be shot at.
He rather regretted that. Bookselling hadn’t been the career of his choice, but now he saw its charm more strongly. He liked the old shop, he was getting used to the smell and the slow pace. He’d have enjoyed mastering the trade and taking time to read. He could have made a life here.
He didn’t care about leaving London as such, but he would miss Maisie badly, and for all Kim’s talk of disappearing, to leave her without a word of thanks or farewell would be villainous. She was a good friend, a real one. If things had gone down a different track, they might have made a couple. Thank God they hadn’t, because the only thing that could make his situation worse at the moment would be if he had a fiancée for Zodiac or the War Office to bully.
Well, not quite the only thing. Kim could make it worse.
Will didn’t want to think more about that. He cleaned up and swept the shop, made it to the lawyers’ office at nine-thirty on the dot, and charmed his way into five minutes with Mr. Deakin, his uncle’s solicitor. That was about as far as his luck ran.
“I understand your predicament, Mr. Darling,” Deakin assured him. “And I do appreciate that the law seems to laymen to drag its feet more than is reasonable. However, let me assure you that matters are proceeding as swiftly and smoothly as possible.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir, but even if probate is granted next month—”
“That is, I think, a leetle optimistic.”
“—I need funds now,” Will pressed on. “There’s no doubt about my claim, is there? I’m William Darling, the money’s there, it’s coming to me, right? Well, I’m in a sticky situation and I need it now.”
“I shall happily write you a letter to assure any creditors that the funds will be available.”
“I need ready cash,” Will said. He could feel himself going red. “An advance against the estate.”
“Now, I do understand your situation,” Mr. Deakin said in a soothing voice that Will was beginning to find extremely irritating. “But I’m sure you realise that we have already been as obliging as possible, and as your uncle’s solicitors, while we are concerned to assist you as best we can...”
Will stopped listening. He knew this tone well: it was the tone of Of course we’re very sorry and It must be awful for you and Something should be done which made it very clear that the speaker wasn’t going to do anything at all. Advances on legacies were obviously for people who had money already.
He managed to wring twenty pounds out of the man as a sop, and headed home. It seemed running wasn’t an option, so he’d stand and fight. He’d have a word with the constable on the beat, and Norris next door, say he was being bothered by thugs and ask them to watch out for trouble. He’d cope somehow. He’d done worse.
He had quite a few customers that morning, plus a dealer with a catalogue, and two lurkers. He tried not to let the latter bother him.
Maisie arrived around half past noon. He wasn’t expecting her at all, still less the large basket of silk flowers which she manoeuvred past the shelves and shoppers.
“Hello, Will,” she said cheerily. “Flower?”
“Eh?”
“Flower. I’m selling them to raise funds for the Equal Citizenship Society. There’s to be another big push for the voting age. So...” She angled the basket invitingly. It held a variety of artificial flowers: some of them crocuses or irises in suffragette purple, white, and green; others in more usual shades. “You’d pay a lot more than I’m asking now for these on a bonnet, I’ll have you know.”
“Not sure a bonnet would suit me.”
“Then have one for your buttonhole.” Maisie nipped a red flower that Will tentatively identified as a peony from the colourful mass, threaded it into his buttonhole with a nimble movement, and secured it with a pin. “Very smart. Two shillings.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Then do you have one that’s a bit less...bright?”
Maisie narrowed her eyes. “You need brightening up. I worked hard on that one, so take care of it.”
Will fished out the required levy as a customer approached. He sold the man a copy of Lady Audley’s Secret while Maisie stowed the money in the collecting-box that hung round her neck. “How are you, anyway? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“I’m...all right.” He was appallingly conscious of the lurkers. “You know. Been a bit busy.”
“Haven’t we all. This is my first time off in I don’t know how long.”
“And you’re spending it raising funds? Good for you.”
She made a face. “I’m putting an hour in before I go to visit my auntie in Watford. She’s been taken poorly again. But my group leader has a way of being disappointed at us if we don’t do our bit.”
That reminded Will too strongly of Zodiac. He forced a smile and looked up, a little relieved, as the door bell jangled. “Well, I hope you do all right. I’m not sure I’d come to a street of bookshops, though. Were my neighbours generous?”
“Not to speak of,”
Maisie said with a sniff. “Talking of neighbours—” She broke off. That, Will realised too late, was because he’d stopped paying attention to her. He was staring at the new arrival who’d come up behind her.
It was Phoebe.
She was wearing something in a shimmery blue-grey that, in the way of female clothing magic, made her eyes astounding, and she smiled blindingly at him and then at Maisie, who had turned to see. “I beg your pardon for intruding, do you mind? Will, darling, I wanted— Oh, what glorious flowers! Suffragette violets! That is absolutely adorable, may I see? My goodness, these are perfect—and that peony, too divine! Did you make these? You must have the cleverest fingers. Darling, do introduce me.”
“Yes, do, darling,” Maisie said, sounding just a little sharp.
“This is Maisie Jones,” Will said. “Maisie’s a milliner at Villette, on Lexington Street, if you know it? Maisie, this is the Honourable Phoebe Stephens-Prince.”
Maisie and Phoebe both gave him the sort of look that said he’d got something wrong. “You just say ‘Miss’,” Maisie informed him.
“And I told you it’s Phoebe, darling,” Phoebe added with a little reproach.
“And I’m quite sure Miss Stephens-Prince doesn’t shop on Lexington Street.”
“But perhaps I should start because these are lovely,” Phoebe countered. “Did you make that charming hat too?”
Maisie touched her hat, as though checking by feel. “I did, yes.”
“It’s perfect for you,” Phoebe said, tilting her head to examine Maisie with a surprisingly professional expression. “Quite quite for the shape of your features, and the colour is exactly right. That is very clever. Villette, did you say? I shall pay a visit. In the meantime, may I buy a suffragette bouquet? These are irresistibly lovely. I shall hand them out to my relatives next time I go to tea.”
She bought seven flowers, which Maisie tied up in a twist of green ribbon, to the accompaniment of Phoebe’s coos of delight. This somehow led to an animated five-minute discussion of hat trimming techniques during which Phoebe’s hat was removed, thoroughly analysed, tweaked in arcane ways, and replaced. Will, who had never thought about hats beyond putting them on his head, was lost in the professional mysteries, but he could tell from the way Maisie’s expression changed from stiff wariness to animation that Phoebe knew what she was talking about.
“Well,” Phoebe said at last. “I must borrow Will now, Miss Jones, but I shall come very soon to see your work. It was a great pleasure to meet you. Goodbye.” She put out her hand. Maisie, obviously charmed and equally obviously dismissed, did a sort of half bob, half touch of the hand, said, “See you, Will,” and left in some confusion.
“What a delightful young lady,” Phoebe said when she’d left. “Is she your young lady?”
“Maisie? No, nothing like. We’re friends. I used to work at her old place for a while.”
“She’s very good.” Phoebe examined her artificial bouquet. “I do like a woman with clever fingers. Now, Will, I came to ask a favour, and I hope you won’t refuse me.”
You were meant to say, “Anything” in response to that sort of remark from a beautiful woman, but this was Kim’s fiancée. Will said, warily, “If I can help...”
Phoebe beamed. “Good. Take me to lunch?”
“Sorry?”
“I’m simply starved, and I can’t possibly eat alone. I’m sure you know some nice little places.”
“Not the sort of nice little places you go,” Will said with certainty.
“Nonsense, darling. I told you I’m awfully modern. I should love to go somewhere Bohemian and—and ordinary.”
Will contemplated the cafe where he’d breakfasted with Kim. No. “I don’t know anywhere Bohemian.” She gazed at him with big-eyed reproach and he heard himself say, “But there’s a French restaurant round the corner.”
“Perfect. Shall we go? I really am terribly hungry.”
He gave in. “Just let me get ready, then, please.”
It was an insane extravagance in the circumstances, but he had a strong urge to know what was going on, and there was the ten-pound note Kim had found in the book the other day. He might as well enjoy himself while he could. He took a moment to wash his hands, regret having shaved in such a perfunctory way this morning, and comb his hair. Then he headed out to escort the Honourable Phoebe to luncheon.
The French restaurant round the corner had red awnings and plants outside, and cosy dark wood booths. It was exactly what a French restaurant ought to be, and Phoebe seemed perfectly satisfied as she sat. Will examined the menu with the dreamlike sensation of a man with only a very vague idea what was happening, though he still checked the prices carefully. It was more reasonable than he’d feared.
“I expect the onion soup is marvellous,” Phoebe said. “I shall have the chicken livers and the roulade. Are you ready?” She waved at the waiter as she spoke.
Will made a hasty decision to have onion soup and the beefsteak and added a carafe of red wine to the order, feeling very cosmopolitan indeed with his fashionable companion. He listened to Phoebe chirrup about the weather, the shocking news from abroad, and the doings of a set of people he’d never heard of while they waited for the wine and then the first courses to arrive. Once he had his bowl of onion soup—impossibly savoury, redolent of melted cheese and toasted bread—he let himself enjoy the first spoonful, and said, “Did Kim ask you to do this?”
“Kim?” Phoebe’s blue eyes opened wide. “No, darling, why?”
“Either you wanted to talk to me or you wanted to get me out of my shop. I wondered which.” That was rather blunter than he’d have preferred, but he didn’t feel up to verbal fencing or games.
“Or I might have wanted to pursue your acquaintance,” Phoebe remarked. “Or possibly I was hungry.”
She’d eaten one corner of her chicken liver on toast. “Hungry,” Will said. “And just happened to be passing my shop by pure chance? Are you often in May’s Buildings?”
“Always,” Phoebe said with great firmness, then her expression dissolved into a wide and mischievous grin. “Well, perhaps not. Of course I wanted to speak to you, darling, and I shall, but there are niceties to be observed in these situations.”
“What situation is this?”
“A Kim situation.” Phoebe met his eyes with meaning, cut off another tiny corner of toast, and ate it with great attention. Two could play at that game, so Will went back to his soup.
“It’s impossible to eat onion soup with dignity, so please don’t try,” she remarked, which was embarrassing because he hadn’t been trying. “What were we saying? Kim. No, he did not ask me to speak to you.”
“Didn’t he?”
“I do have ideas of my own, darling. That didn’t change when I put a ring on.”
“When are you getting married?”
“Next winter.” Her eyes were a little distant. “I’m awfully fond of Kim.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“No.” She sounded, suddenly, quite serious. “You don’t understand. Kim is my best friend. He’s twice stepped in to save my neck when I was in the worst trouble of my life. I trust him more than anyone, I adore him, and I want him to have anything that would make him happy. And goodness knows that’s a challenge because sometimes he’s determined to put himself on a rack or an iron maiden or whatever those ghastly medieval things were called. But I should do anything for him, just as he would for me.”
Oh God, Will thought, is she here to warn me off? The thought was like a frozen plunge-bath. Surely she couldn’t mean to have that conversation with a man, in public? Had Kim been that careless about his affairs? Had he done this before?
“It sounds like you’ll be very happy together.” His voice sounded appallingly wooden. He tried to put a bit more warmth into it, to say Message received. “I hope so. I wish you both well.”
Phoebe made an exasperated noise and leaned forward, lowering her voice a little. “You aren’t listening, darling.
Kim and I got engaged because it was convenient for both of us, just as marriage will be convenient for both of us. Neither of us would wish the other one to be unhappy, before or after the wedding. I want Kim to have what he wants, and he wants me to have what I want. Which is why I am talking to you. Do you follow me now?”
Will was holding his spoon half way between the bowl and his mouth, strings of cheese making spiderwebs to the murky soup. He put it down carefully so as not to splash. “Uh. I don’t know if I do.”
“I’m quite sure you do, darling,” Phoebe assured him. “You have awfully expressive eyes. Hazel, although that’s such a vague word, isn’t it? People use it to mean absolutely anything. Yours are quite golden in some lights. You should wear yellow more. Deep ambers or golds, with browns, that would bring them out awfully well.”
“Maisie said that,” Will said numbly.
“Of course she did, she clearly has a wonderful eye for colour. Was that a Welsh accent?”
“Cardiff, yes.”
“And you and she aren’t walking out?”
“No.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. That is, I’m sure you’d be very happy if you were, but since you’re not— And you aren’t seeing anyone else?”
“No...”
“Quite,” Phoebe said. “So there’s no reason you oughtn’t pursue other interests, is there? I know you and Kim hit it off, and now you know how I feel about that, so we all know where we stand. Which means we—you and I—can be friends. Can’t we?”
It was not possible to eat onion soup while having this conversation. Will pushed the bowl away and asked the least impossible question. “You want to be friends?”
Phoebe smiled at him. It seemed like a real smile, not a society one. “Kim doesn’t like many people. If he likes you, I expect you’re rather special. And I could see you felt dreadfully awkward meeting me, which I truly do appreciate in principle, it’s madly considerate and gentlemanly and so on, but I can’t have you labouring under a misapprehension because honestly I’ve no desire to—what’s the word—interpolate. Not interpolate. Intercept? Get in the way.”