Funeral Sites (Tamara Hoyland Book 1)

by Jessica Mann

  It was the credit card. She had paid for everything she bought in Harrods with her bank card. All those telephoned verifications as she moved from one department to another; there must be a computer reading both the number, and the name of the shop presenting it. What could be easier for the Secretary of State’s minions, than to be informed of the data fed into that giant maw? She imagined red lights flashing and bells ringing as her unimpeachable credit rating came up for authorisation. I might as well have broadcast my presence, she thought, replaced the store’s own flag up on that pink dome with one saying, ‘Rosamund Sholto is here.’ Wherever she went, it would be the same.

  She went to stand near the revolving doors. Outside, a pair of identically dressed men walked to and fro, up and down, approaching each other and turning away like sentries. She watched them repeat the motion several times. Once one muttered some words and the other shook his head. Their eyes swivelled ceaselessly around.

  There he was at last. Rosamund pushed her way rapidly through the doors and flung her arms round Gerald’s neck. ‘Don’t pay off the taxi,’ she hissed. He put his wallet back in his pocket and followed her into the cab again. The driver cast his eyes to the sky. ‘Make up your mind, mister,’ he said.

  One young man was speaking urgently to the uniformed commissionaire, the other apparently muttering into the handle of his umbrella. The taxi queue was long, and unless they forced their way in front of some aggressive looking Arab men, they would not be able to follow her very quickly.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ Gerald Greenfield said.

  ‘Anywhere. Somewhere we can talk. Actually, I’m hungry,’ Rosamund said, realising that her curious physical sensations were as much from lack of food as nerves.

  ‘Toye’s,’ Greenfield said. The taxi turned across the traffic, and Rosamund sighed and leaned back.

  ‘What’s all this about? Are you fleeing from justice?’ he said, wrinkling his upper lip as she remembered. They had had a short and urgent affair, ended, she thought, with good feeling on both sides, when she was in her first term at Cambridge. Otherwise, he had changed. It was seeing one’s contemporaries, the friends of one’s youth, looking so middle-aged, that was more a reminder of the passage of years than one’s own reflection. She closed her eyes. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Sholto had often taken his daughters to lunch at Toye’s. The linen was still starched, the chandeliers gleaming, and under their tactful light, those who influenced them discussed world affairs. Rosamund was smiled at by faces from the past, and nodded back indiscriminately. Who on earth were they all? Their names had gone.

  ‘Well, Rosamund?’ Gerald Greenfield said, when the last waiter had spooned the last sauce onto the last vegetable.

  ‘Are you involved in politics, Gerald?’

  ‘My dear, I am a civil servant. I may not be.’

  ‘Overtly.’

  ‘Well, I have a vote, of course.’

  ‘I don’t know how much to say,’ Rosamund muttered. The Gerald who had loved her, and been loved by her, when she was eighteen and he twenty-three, had remained in her memory as both witty and dashing. Where, in this cautious guise, was the boy she had known? Had the lined, grey-haired, polite man always lurked under that attractive skin?

  ‘Is this something to do with Aidan?’ he said.

  ‘Gerald, I have been abroad for so long. And you know how I don’t follow what’s going on. How likely is Aidan to succeed the Prime Minister? How powerful is he?’

  ‘As to present power, he has a good deal. But you ought to know that, Rosamund. Your father was in the same post, in his day. As for Number Ten … I’d say it’s odds on. The Britton–Sholto bandwagon is rolling fast. He’s strong, he has no rival, he has the Sholto connection, he has the blameless private life. Phoebe was a great asset. And now there will be the sympathy vote. I don’t see anything to stop him. And once there, he’ll take over. People want to be led by him.’

  ‘Would it be a good thing if he were stopped?’

  Gerald Greenfield put his knife and fork together on his unfinished food. ‘We have known each other for some considerable time, Rosamund. More than half our lives. The essential person you once trusted is still within this ageing frame.’

  ‘I had a message from Phoebe, about the old story of Maria Czernin. Do you remember that old story?’

  ‘About Stefan Czernin’s sister, you mean? He’s doing very well for himself, by the way, he runs that charity called Hunger. I have professional dealings with him occasionally.’

  ‘Maria Czernin and Aidan.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Rosamund, that’s all water long since under the bridge. The past is a foreign country, as the man said.’

  ‘And besides,’ Rosamund replied, ‘as another man said, the wench is dead.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Gerald agreed. He resumed cutting his meat into precise cubes. ‘I doubt whether a hostile columnist could make much of that. Such a long time ago. When was it? Not long after we all met. Suez time, 1956.’

  ‘Hungary time. We were all together at Christmas, at Middlewood. You, me, Aidan, Phoebe, Stefan and Maria, Sylvester and Thea. That must have been when Maria and Aidan started their affair. And by midsummer, she was dead from a botched abortion.’

  ‘Strange, you know. That sounds quite prehistoric now,’ Gerald said.

  ‘Because abortions are legal and safe?’

  ‘Yes. Or she might have had the baby now. They arrested the woman, but of course you knew that. An ex-midwife out in Madingley.’

  ‘I remember that. But she never admitted to Maria. The evidence was about girls who had survived.’

  ‘Well, she got five years, anyway.’

  Rosamund said, ‘Gerald, you know that Phoebe and Aidan married very suddenly, after my father had that first stroke.’

  ‘Of course. I was at the wedding.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything about it until it was all over. I was out of touch for weeks. And Stefan didn’t either, since he didn’t read The Times court page or the gossip columns. Once he found that they were married he didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘I suppose you do intend to tell me what you are talking about,’ Gerald said. He glanced at his watch and gestured to the waiter. ‘Look, I’ll just go and ring in to say I’m delayed. I shan’t be a moment.’ He came back just as coffee was being poured. ‘No pudding? Well, have some brandy. No, not for me, I need a clear head.’ He waited until the waiter had gone, and said, ‘Now then. What are you trying to convey, precisely?’

  ‘Stefan Czernin believed that the abortion had been performed at the insistence of Maria’s lover; that he had seen her, after the bleeding started in the middle of the day, and that he left her to die without fetching help. That, in other words, he was responsible for her death.’

  ‘Aidan?’

  ‘That’s what Stefan thought. He sent me a batch of papers. He didn’t know what to do about it. He found the papers after Phoebe and Aidan were married, and when everyone knew that Sholto was dying. He felt an obligation to Sholto. He dumped it all on my lap.’

  ‘It’s all nonsense, of course. But what did you do?’

  ‘I couldn’t even face reading them. I didn’t want to know.’

  ‘So you destroyed the documents?’

  ‘No, I passed them on to Phoebe years after that. I suppose that now our solicitor will know where they are; I was supposed to see him this morning but there was some hitch.’

  ‘And then what will you do?’

  ‘I thought you might have some advice. After all, you remember the people, and what was happening then.’

  ‘My advice would be to burn the lot. I am perfectly certain that there is nothing in the story but the hysteria of a grief-stricken boy in a strange country. He hardly even spoke English properly. His understanding would have been fallible. Aidan is much respected, a member of the cabinet, a privy councillor, and an important public figure. We’ll have to consider all this very carefully.’ His face was masked
with civil servant’s evasion. ‘I shall do what I can for you, Rosamund, for old time’s sake. You can rely on me. But do be careful to whom you say this kind of thing. Unsubstantiated defamation can be dangerous.’

  Rosamund walked ahead of Gerald to the door. Old Lady Youthe was sitting at what had been her usual table all those years before when Rosamund was still an embryo member of the British establishment; there she still was, or was again, ready to fix acquaintances with her glittering eye. Rosamund had been frightened of the battering ram of a woman that she was twenty years before; now one could not fear this wreck, with trembling mouth and hands.

  ‘I have Parkinson’s disease,’ she said clearly, and Rosamund felt forced to stand and chat. She enquired after Enid Youthe, with whom she had ‘come out’, but who was now no more to Rosamund than a name attached to someone infinitely forgettable, and after Percy Youthe, who astonishingly turned out to have become a suffragan bishop. She parried curiosity about herself, remembering with what stammering ineptitude she had answered Lady Youthe’s impertinences years before, and was still smiling in amusement at her own successful reticence when she went out into the street. Gerald had crossed over to look in the window of an antique shop and Rosamund went to join him. They were in a narrow side street which ran between two main roads. An orange striped van was halted at the corner to deliver a batch of the early editions of the evening paper to the kiosk. When Rosamund was half way across, it hurtled towards her. There was room for the van to pass behind her, and she did not hurry until a purely instinctive movement made her leap for the kerb. The wing of the van scraped her skirt and she ducked sharply as the long mirror passed an inch from her head.

  ‘He nearly hit me,’ she cried.

  The porter from Toye’s came across to her. ‘That was very close. Maniacs. Are you all right, madam?’

  They saw the tail light disappear into the traffic stream in the main road. Rosamund brushed at a mark on her coat, and found that orange paint was sticking to the material. ‘He could have killed me,’ she said. They walked along to the taxi rank. ‘Perhaps it was a Britton boy,’ she suggested, watching Gerald’s reaction. He was horrified, and said stiffly, ‘My dear Rosamund, I really don’t think you should say such things. I mean, a Minister of the Crown, after all … whatever you may feel about his politics, it’s quite improper.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’

  ‘You mustn’t give way to melodramatic ideas. Let me put you in a taxi. Your club? Good idea. Lie down. Have a rest. Put your feet up.’

  Chapter Seven

  The Portia Club, unlike many others in London, was no less shabby than it had been in the post-war years of austerity, and the smell of overcooked vegetables and traditional puddings was as pervasive as when it had been welcome to schoolgirls let out for half-term. It was still unisex; men came as far as the lounge (chintz chairs, pastel drawings by deceased members and tattered Tatlers) but upstairs not only the members but all the staff were female. The bedrooms were conventual, and there was only one bathroom on each floor, but the view across the intervening roofs was of Nelson on his column. Rosamund had retained her membership less by intention than from absent-mindedness, but it would give her time to breathe now, time to think and plan.

  They were not sure whether she could have a room. It depended on old Mrs Marplet’s plans, always uncertain, it seemed, until the last moment, but ‘we’ll do our best, seeing as it’s you.’

  Rosamund went to the telephone. Stefan Czernin was not listed, but at the head office of Hunger she discovered that he had changed his name. ‘He’s due back tomorrow,’ his secretary said. ‘Very urgent? Well, he can’t be got hold of sooner I’m afraid. And I shouldn’t think he’ll come into the office until the day after. He’ll go straight home. Oh no, I can’t give you his address. I’m not allowed to give personal information. No, not in London. What name shall I say?’

  Still no answer from the Crawford’s house in Buriton. Rosamund went to sit in one of the alcoves of the upper hall. She opened her bag to check on her situation. She had no more than a few pounds in ready money, having changed her remaining dollars into sterling at Milan airport, and she had a handful of useless embossed laminate cards; as well advertise her presence on the telly, as use them.

  On the top floor there were five bedrooms; four were locked. Someone was audibly using the bathroom, and the fifth door was ajar. Rosamund went into the room. Its occupant was a tidy lady. Her clothes were folded on the chair, and covered with a strip of embroidered linen – an old boarding school custom once as regular as teethcleaning, but long since neglected by most alumnae. An open suitcase was on the rack, with folded garments in plastic bags, and on the dressing table was a black handbag with a gilt clasp, standing beside a set of silver brushes. The room smelt agreeably of lavender water.

  In the handbag was a selection of leather cases, some stamped in gilt patterns, others with more exciting designs, the kind of utensils brought home from Florence or Morocco for great aunts. The credit cards were in a special folder: Harrods, Peter Jones, Fortnums. Rosamund extracted an American Express card. The name on it was Miss Esmée Stoughton. There was so little ready cash that its loss would be instantly noticeable.

  The muffled sound of slippered feet was coming along the passage. Rosamund slipped the American Express card into her pocket, replaced the bag exactly where it had been and sat down on the bed with her back to the door.

  ‘What – who – oh!’

  Rosamund sprang to her feet. ‘Good Lord,’ she cried. ‘I say, I am most frightfully sorry. I was waiting for my aunt. I thought this was her room. I’m sure the hall porter said she was in number … oh, goodness …’

  Miss Esmée Stoughton was blushing violently, down her cheeks and over the neck and chest exposed by her dressing gown. A towel hung over her arm and her hair dangled in two grey plaits, and she was carrying a flowered washbag. She seemed more embarrassed than annoyed. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘Yes, I can’t apologise enough. I was supposed to come up and meet my aunt after –’

  ‘Wait a moment. I know your face. You’re Sholto’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. I don’t quite –’

  ‘No no, you don’t know me. Of course I know your face though. But how foolish of me. You must be accustomed to being recognised, Miss Sholto. Do let me say how sorry I was about poor Mrs Britton. Such a loss. I do hope he isn’t too upset, Britton, I mean. We can’t afford to do without him with the country in this mess. The heir to Sholto, I always think.’ Miss Stoughton caught sight of her own reflection. ‘Oh dear, what must you think of me, babbling on like this. Just let me put something on …’

  ‘It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t be in your room in the first place. My aunt must be on one of the lower floors. Do forgive me for making a muddle. So nice to have met you. Perhaps later, downstairs …’ Rosamund backed out of the room and shut the door firmly between the twittering Miss Stoughton and herself.

  Other women smiled and nodded on the stairs, and the long looking-glass on the first landing showed her an image which was apparently all too familiar to people who were strangers to her. Where was privacy in the television age? And there, on the front page of The New Standard, was her own photograph in a group at the funeral yesterday. The pile of newspapers was on the table at the foot of the stairs. Further towards the front door was the reception desk, at which some men stood, enquiring for their women. Two of them carried bowler hats and umbrellas. Through the open front door, their identically uniformed colleagues were strolling up and down. The porter had been a sergeant major and his voice carried. ‘I am not sure where she is, sir, I shall make enquiries. Ah, I see on the stairs … Miss Sholto, these gentlemen –’

  Without pausing, as though she had not heard, Rosamund walked on into the cloakroom on the half-landing. She read the notice on the back of the door. ‘The management takes no responsibility for valuables …’ In the room beyond was the row of antique b
asins, with their greenish brass taps and generous width. The nailbrushes had been chained to the fixtures since Rosamund’s last visit. Even here, theft, even here, danger.

  There must be a back entrance, for staff and deliveries. There must be basements and an area, for the house had originally been a typical nineteenth century town house. Rosamund went upstairs again. As she passed the open door of the first floor drawing room, she saw Aidan’s face staring at her from the television screen. ‘The Minister returned to London today. The memorial service for Mrs Phoebe Britton will be held at St Margaret’s Church, Westminster, on …’

  The door, green baize and studded, led through from the carpeted passages and stairs at the front of the house to a parallel system, with linoleum floors and dark paint which smelt of disinfectant. The staff cloakroom was in a similar position to the members’ one, a narrow slip of a room, with acrylic fixtures and a notice forbidding smoking. In a cupboard were mops and brooms, a bucket and a dark green overall, odorous of the woman who owned it, and too short and wide for Rosamund. But she wound it round herself, and twisted her own scarf round her head; it was plain pale silk, and looked adequately utilitarian.

  Down the stairs as far as they went. She kept her eyes down and stood to one side when a pair of chattering Italian girls went up with piles of sheets and towels. The basement contained the central heating boiler and four large dustbins on wheels. The back door into the yard was open, and outside in the mews was another dustbin. The man was putting them out for emptying. He came back for the next one, and Rosamund waited behind the door as he tramped by, pulling the stinking container. While his back was turned, she nipped out into the alley. It was a narrow strip of service lane, overlooked by windows on both sides. Rosamund hunched her shoulders forwards, and stumped grimly on, head down. She passed the back entrance of another club, one to which her father had belonged, and breathed in the superior food being prepared in its kitchens. She walked on and on. A middle-aged charwoman, emitting no signs of sexuality or provocation, was as invisible as a cat.