by J. D. Oswald
‘Are you certain? The property on Cooks Lane includes the freehold of the workers’ terraces opposite and the house itself is charming.’
‘Not to me.’
‘I see.’ Abraham’s eyebrows twitched a little. ‘So to confirm,’ he made a note, ‘you wish to sell the real estate. And the shares?’
‘The shares too. Can you do that for me?’
‘You understand that in doing so, you will incur further costs.’
‘I do.’
‘Very well. Now, if you would be so kind as to sign this – here and here, where marked with an ‘x’, and insert your correspondence address here.’
Could it be that simple? She gave her address as the Porters’ Lodge on College Street and signed her married name clumsily, adding a note that correspondence should be sent in the name of Lambert. Footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the open door. She saw Mr Abraham glance over the top of his spectacles.
‘Ah,’ he murmured and then with surprising agility, scampered around his desk and came to stand between her chair and the door. ‘Now George, what can I do for you?’
Philippa peered around Abraham’s small frame. The figure of Sir George Elkins J.P. blocked the doorway. He was tapping a leather crop against his riding boots. She withdrew her head and shrank down into the chair, her breathing suddenly fast and shallow. She could smell him even from across the room, sweat mixed with damp dog hair.
‘She’s here isn’t she? I saw you both through the window.’
‘George, I’ll not have any unpleasantness.’ Mr Abraham sounded like a child determinedly taking on the school bully, all the time knowing that his bravery would be in vain.
The tapping of leather against leather became more urgent. ‘Come on Philippa, are you going to let this little Jew fight your battles? Show yourself.’
She stood up, gripping the seat handles in an effort to calm her pounding heart, and turned to face her brother-in-law. ‘Hello George.’ He was even fatter than she remembered. His deep-set eyes looked her up and down.
‘You’re looking rather drab. I take it you’re here to claim the money?’
She did not answer and forced herself to meet his stare.
‘Happy to benefit from the Elkins name when it suits you I see. To take what rightfully belongs to others.’
‘Not at all,’ she blurted out. ‘The money, when it comes, will be scant reparation for what I’ve had to endure from your family.’
George Elkin’s bullfrog cheeks turned an alarming shade of puce. ‘What you’ve had to endure? Ungrateful bitch. Where would you be now if Edward hadn’t married you?’ He glared at Mr Abraham who was still standing his ground between them. ‘You realise you’re consorting with an adulteress.’
Abraham raised both hands. ‘I’ll have none of that here. This is a private meeting. I must ask you to leave.’
‘Very well. I will assume your firm no longer wants my family’s business.’ George’s stare returned to Philippa. She deliberately began to drum her fingers against her handbag. ‘Remember what I said Mrs Elkins. You can’t hide forever.’ The slap of crop against boot receded and the door slammed.
‘I apologise for the interruption.’ Abraham returned to his seat, his tone as calm as if they had merely been disturbed by his secretary bringing biscuits. ‘Where were we?’
She flopped down, the chair reassuringly firm against her back. She felt as if a weight was pressing on her windpipe. ‘I would like to go now please,’ she whispered.
‘Oh? Yes, I see. Well I believe I have everything I need in order to progress matters.’
‘Thank you. I’ll go straight to the station.’
‘No trains from Southwell on Sundays I’m afraid,’ Abraham said without meeting her eye. ‘You’ll have to get yourself to Fiskerton. I’ve walked there in the past in just over an hour. Goodbye then Mrs Elkins, you will hear from us in due course. Please be so good as to show yourself out.’
Mr Abraham still had not looked at her. She picked up her bag, feeling anger surge through her, at him, at George, at the whole godforsaken place. She marched out of the building taking care to slam the front door. There was no sign of George Elkins but people were beginning to arrive at the Minster for the morning service. She crossed the road and started down Church Street, keeping her face lowered. She hurried past the Prebend houses with their topiaried and gravelled front gardens. The street curved around the high walls of Vicars’ Close and then narrowed, the grand houses giving way to pubs and rundown terraces. Suddenly she felt nauseous – surely those were George’s footsteps behind her? She swallowed down vomit and risked a glance back. No, it was a young man. She stopped and fiddled with her bag, allowing him to stride past. A horse-drawn cart trundled by, loaded with barrels and empty sacks.
‘Hello. Are you going to Fiskerton?’ she called out to the driver.
‘That’s right me duck,’ the man answered. ‘Need a ride?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Hop in the back then.’
As she climbed in, it started to rain.
12
Monday 24th November
Philippa launched out from beneath Kingsgate and into the rain. As she ran, the bottles of antiseptic alcohol in her basket chinked alarmingly. A few moments later, she turned gratefully into Main Gate and took a breather outside the porters’ lodge. She put down the basket and massaged her painful neck. Her aching body still told of yesterday’s journey back to Winchester. She had arrived long after dark, damp, cold and with blisters forming on each ankle. A night of fitful sleep had done little to relieve her exhaustion.
Frank called to her from inside the lodge.
‘Someone was looking for you while you were out at the shops, miss.’
‘Oh yes, who was it?’ Philippa tried to sound unconcerned.
‘A man. He didn’t give a name. He said not to worry; he’d see the Bursar instead.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I didn’t see him meself miss. Eric took the message. He said the man sounded a bit like you.’
Could it have been George? Could he have found out where she was so quickly? She tried to laugh it off. ‘Most like it was one of those salesmen from the drugs company, trying to sell me their latest potion. Do you remember how you had to chase one away last month?’
Frank chuckled. ‘I do. I’ve never seen anyone run so fast down College Street. There’s one more thing miss.’ Frank started shuffling from one foot to another. ‘The Bursar wants to see you.’
‘What about?’
‘He didn’t let on, but he said that you should go and see him when you got back from the shops. Straight away.’
‘Alright, I’ll go now.’
‘You’ll find him in School,’ Frank added.
Dr Urchfont had never asked to see her before and Frank’s evasiveness raised a tremor of uncertainty in her. What if the visitor was somebody who knew about her past? What if it had been George? If Mr Abraham had revealed her address, then George could have followed her to Winchester this morning. No, that was hardly likely. She tried to shake off the thought.
Philippa trotted across Chamber Court and through the archway alongside Chapel. She emerged outside School, an overgrown dolls house of a building in red brick and stone. It had supposedly been designed by Sir Christopher Wren but like many legends in Winchester, it was impossible to prove. She was surprised to see Teresa Urchfont sheltering underneath an elegant fringed umbrella outside the central door.
‘I wanted to catch you before you went in,’ Teresa whispered, eyes wide with concern, ‘you poor dear.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘So you don’t know what this is about? How dreadful.’ Teresa’s umbrella shook and water droplets scattered in all directions.
‘What is it? I don’t understand.’ Philippa suddenly felt hot and breathless. She wanted to run. She took a deep breath and forced herself to stand her ground.
‘My husband has been informed that your name i
s not Lambert, but Elkins, and that you are a married woman,’ Teresa said, a hint of malicious glee in her voice. ‘Your separation from your in-laws has, I’m told, been a source of some scandal. Archibald is understandably concerned about the College’s reputation. And about the boys of course.’
‘But it’s not like that at all,’ Philippa insisted. Her voice caught in her throat. She desperately did not want to cry in front of this woman.
‘So you are married?’
‘Yes I am…I was…he’s dead now. I’ve good reasons for losing contact with my family.’
‘There, there.’ Teresa put a lean arm around Philippa’s shoulder, her manicured nails digging into Philippa’s skin. ‘There are always two sides to every story, aren’t there. Did I hear you correctly? Your husband’s dead?’
‘Yes, killed in the war.’
‘Now that’s rather fortunate isn’t it? So technically, you’re a widow and so not doing anything wrong. That’s the way we’ll approach this.’
‘We?’
‘Of course my dear. Let’s go in and I’ll do the talking.’
Philippa allowed herself to be led inside. Her panic had given way to confusion; why was Teresa Urchfont helping her? Dr Urchfont was seated in one of the Dons’ throne-like wooden chairs in a far corner of School. Architectural plans were spread out in front of him; he was marking them up with decisive strokes of his pen. Philippa followed Teresa’s sinewy body as she manoeuvred around empty desks and abandoned instrument cases.
‘Here she is, Archibald,’ Teresa said.
Dr Urchfont straightened up. At full stretch, the top of his ginger-haired head reached only to his wife’s shoulder and like many small men, he had a full beard. His eyes narrowed.
‘Miss Lambert, or should I call you Mrs Elkins?’ His voice was as regular as a drum beat. ‘It has been brought to my attention that you have been less than honest about your identity, and that your presence here in Winchester may be an attempt on your part to escape the consequences of some undesirable past actions.’
‘Not my actions,’ Philippa responded, anger getting the better of her fear. ‘What actions am I accused of?’
Dr Urchfont stiffened. ‘I was not made party to the specifics,’ he said. ‘Notwithstanding that…’
‘Who has made these accusations?’ Philippa interrupted.
‘I was asked not to say.’
‘It was George Elkins wasn’t it?’
‘Miss Lambert - Mrs Elkins - I will not betray a confidence.’
‘You shouldn’t be misled by the letters after his name.’
Teresa stepped forward. ‘Now, now Philippa, remember what I said. We realise that you’re upset. Archibald my dear, we surely cannot take the word of a stranger over Philippa’s. We know nothing of this person or their motives.’
‘I suppose you have a point.’ Dr Urchfont rubbed his beard. ‘But what of your marriage? I cannot ignore your dissembling on that matter. It appears to me to be grounds for dismissal.’
Philippa’s attempt to protest was interrupted by Teresa. ‘What of her marriage my dear? Philippa’s husband is dead. A war hero I understand, and she is determined to do her bit in his honour. Isn’t that right?’
Philippa could do nothing but nod.
‘I see,’ Dr Urchfont murmured. ‘Well, that puts a different slant on things.’
Teresa smiled. ‘I thought it would.’
‘Miss Lambert - I will continue to call you that.’ Dr Urchfont folded his arms. ‘Can you assure me there is nothing in your past that would embarrass the College or damage the boys?’
Philippa nodded again.
‘Very well, we’ll say no more about it. For now.’
‘What will you say if Geo…your informant returns,’ Philippa stammered.
‘I’m sure my husband’s approach would be to tell him – or her – that the matter has been dealt with, and no more, wouldn’t it my dear?’
‘Exactly so,’ Dr Urchfont said.
‘You should have been a judge darling,’ Teresa exclaimed.
Dr Urchfont allowed himself a brief smile, his moustache twitching, and then bent again over the drawings. They had been dismissed.
Philippa followed Teresa outside where low winter sunshine dazzled through the rain. ‘Thank you Mrs Urchfont,’ she managed to mumble.
‘Don’t mention it my dear,’ Teresa raised her umbrella. ‘We all have our little secrets. You have yours and I have…well you know what I mean.’
Philippa did not but she nodded just the same.
***
Creswell spotted Philippa on the far side of Meads. She was walking towards Sick House carrying a stack of clean linen. He ran to catch up with her, Meg trotting at his heel, and tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Lambert. A beautiful one isn’t it.’ After the earlier rain, the blue sky, crisp air and cold sunshine had cheered his mood.
‘Is it?’ She sounded dejected. The skin under her eyes looked swollen and bruised. Panda eyes, Mamie used to call them.
‘You were away for a few days?’
‘Yes.’
‘A pleasant trip?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Meg, stop it.’ The dog had reared up and deposited muddy pawmarks on Philippa’s apron. He hesitated before continuing, ‘If there’s anything I can do?’ The offer sounded false; it was one he would give to any churchgoer, however little known. He wanted to offer more to Philippa, but could not find the words.
‘Was there anything else Canon? These sheets are heavy.’
‘No…yes! I came to speak to you about the murder. Let me help you with those.’ He removed half of the sheets and they continued side-by-side towards Sick House. ‘You go first. Any progress on the Bella front?’
‘I spoke to her as you asked,’ Philippa said. ‘She knew about Grace Mundy and how she gave white feathers to her brother and her fiancé. She was angry about it, but could she really have been involved in Grace’s death? It seems so unlikely.’
‘I’d agree with you. I’ve discovered something in your absence that points us in quite another direction.’
‘I suppose it was some half-crazed demobbed solider,’ Philippa muttered, ‘or the husband after all. Is he one of those men who thinks it’s his right to beat his wife, just because she’s got her own views?’
‘No, no nothing like that.’ He felt himself becoming rather irritated with her – and with Meg who had scampered away to roll in a pile of wet leaves. ‘Listen to this. What do you think Tokarev’s nickname is?’
‘Sasha.’
‘You knew?’
‘Everyone does.’
‘But did you know that, in Russian, Sasha begins with a ‘C’?’
Philippa stopped and stared up at him and then a smile broke through her hostility. ‘I didn’t. Have you spoken to him?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to wait for your return. Can you come now?’
‘Yes I can,’ she said. ‘Just let me put these sheets away.’ She glanced down at her soiled apron and sturdy flat shoes. ‘And I’d like to change first.’
‘Alright. I’ll wait for you in the porters’ lodge.’ He walked back slowly alongside the wall that bordered the playing field. Meg meandered ahead of him, nose pressed to the ground. The wall was scarred with small recesses, many of them containing dirty candle stumps from last December’s Illumina celebrations. It would soon be time to clear out the holes in preparation for this year’s bonfire. Tokarev had been given the honour of lighting the fire last year. Creswell doubted that the Russian master would be at liberty to repeat the exercise this December.
***
Tokarev stood on his doorstep and looked Philippa up and down. ‘What is the purpose for Miss Lambert to be here also?’ His smile was as thin as a knife cut.
‘She’s here at my request,’ Creswell Strange said, ‘as my assistant. As you know, we have the authority of the police in this matter.’
Tokarev stoo
d aside and Philippa followed the Canon into the lodgings. “Assistant.” She asked herself how she felt about the description? She had been an assistant all her life it seemed, a role that meant drudgery, obedience and an ability to hold her tongue. But the Canon had used the word differently, in a way that demanded Tokarev respect her position. She decided to be content.
Tokarev’s sitting room was cramped and strangely impersonal: no photographs, no pictures, only a rectangular mirror over the mantelpiece reflecting a crucifix on the opposite wall, a distasteful gilded thing with gaudy jewels set into the cross. Christ’s elegantly distended limbs were streaked with painted blood, his over-sized blue eyes raised piously to heaven. She hated it. In the military hospitals, she had seen real suffering. It looked nothing like this.
The room smelt of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes. She waited for an invitation to sit down. When none came, she chose the seat by the empty fireplace, giving her a view of the opposing profiles of the two men. She noticed that the Canon had abandoned his usual stoop. As he shook Tokarev’s hand, he drew himself up to his full height. It was a soldier’s stance, his expression as stern as if he was a judge at a court-martial. Tokarev had noticed too; his forehead was a mirror of perspiration and he wrapped his gown protectively across his chest.
‘Will you sit Canon?’ he said rather hoarsely.
‘Thank you, I will.’ Strange sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward towards Tokarev, elbows on his knees and fingertips pressed together. ‘When we last spoke, you did not tell the truth. I therefore regret that I am obliged to ask Miss Lambert to keep a contemporaneous record of this interview.’
Philippa hastily raised her pen in what she hoped was an official-looking manner.
‘You wrote the letter found in Grace Mundy’s possession, and no doubt at least one of the postcards,’ Strange continued. It was not a question.
‘I do not know what you mean,’ Tokarev spluttered.
‘So you would have no objection if I took a sample of your handwriting and an impression of your fingerprints?’
Tokarev’s neck reddened and he began to twist the edge of his gown around his fingers.
‘Well?’