The Crystal Cage

by Merryn Allingham

  I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the page he was flapping wildly in the air.

  ‘Slow down. Let me see.’

  I felt piqued that he’d been the one to find something, if indeed he had. He’d skimmed through the first biography rather too swiftly and then immediately pounced on the one book that was left.

  ‘Here, here, look.’ He came to settle at my elbow. ‘The author quotes a letter from some architects in Dorchester and they’re praising Royde to the skies.’

  ‘What exactly does the writer say?’

  I was dubious. We’d already had too many false starts, but Nick’s excitement fairly crackled through the quiet room.

  ‘The author of this fulsome biography argues that Daniel de Vere was a top man in encouraging young talent and Lucas Royde is his star illustration. According to him, de Vere gave Royde his first break and started the guy on his path to becoming the big name of Victorian architecture.’

  ‘And the letter?’

  ‘It’s a reference, pretty sycophantic stuff, too. Listen to this,’ and he assumed a suitably fawning voice.

  …We have no hesitation in recommending Mr Lucas Royde to your employment. Mr Royde came to us as an apprentice in January 1841. He had received an excellent education at Dorchester Grammar School with added tuition in Latin and Greek but had decided that he would not proceed to the university. At the age of sixteen he felt himself ready to train for a profession. Over the next six years, Mr Royde showed himself to be an extremely apt pupil, demonstrating a skill, creativity and originality that eventually surpassed anything that existed within our offices. He was at that time destined for a position in a great London practice such as your own but on the receipt of an unexpected legacy, Mr Royde took himself to the Italian states in order to develop further his exceptional talent. We know that you will find him industrious, enthusiastic and an enormous asset to your business.…

  The ponderous phrases sat oddly with Nick’s faded tee shirt and frayed jeans, but for a moment I was transported back to that Victorian office and Daniel de Vere carefully reading the response to his enquiry. He must have been excited by the knowledge that he was about to employ a young man with such evident potential. Royde had been working for himself when he designed the Carlyon chapel, I knew, so if de Vere had indeed provided him with a start, the young man must have designed something important while working at the practice. Was that something a design for an Exhibition space at the Crystal Palace and if so, how did those plans disappear and where did they disappear to?

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Nick was studying me closely.

  ‘That East Anglia doesn’t look such a good bet.’

  ‘Okay, I got it wrong. But we’ve got solid evidence now. Let’s go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘Dorchester!’ He said it as though I must be missing a brain cell or two if I couldn’t see the necessity and when I remained silent, his voice took on the slightly coercive tone I’d heard before. It didn’t seem to fit the easygoing character I’d given him.

  ‘This firm that Royde was apprenticed to, Poorgrass and Fray—get that name—had an address in Dorchester—number 44, Orchard Street, it’s right here—so what are we waiting for?’ He was back in his seat now, his hands tapping the table impatiently.

  ‘The idea is as crazy as going to Norfolk. What do you expect to find at the address after all these years? Another dry cleaners?’

  ‘Even if that’s the case, there must be something in the rest of the town that will give us clues about Royde’s early career. The local-boy-made-good angle. There’s bound to be a museum or local history centre.’

  ‘Dorset County Museum, but honestly, what are they likely to have?’

  The expression on his face was mulish. He wasn’t going to listen to common sense; he was going to Dorchester.

  ‘Till I get there, I’ve no idea what I’ll find. But if there is anything, I want to find it.’ He looked at me across the table. ‘I thought you did, too.’

  I thought I did as well, but apart from the unlikelihood of discovering anything new in Dorset, a vague fear, formless and imprecise, was holding me back. I sensed an abyss opening beneath my feet where just one step forward would topple me over the edge. I couldn’t properly explain the feeling to Nick, or indeed to myself, so instead I was dismissive.

  ‘I haven’t the time to go careering around the West Country. I’ve an exhibition to organise and that’s at the other end of England.’

  ‘But you don’t have to go to Newcastle right away, do you?’ he protested. ‘At least it didn’t sound like that to me. Isn’t everything already organised at this end?’

  I glared at him, and he lifted his hand in a mock shield. ‘Don’t get touchy. I couldn’t help overhearing your row with Oliver last night.’

  ‘Overhearing? Eavesdropping, don’t you mean?’

  ‘If it makes you happy. But will you come?’

  ‘Definitely not and if you’ve got any sense, you won’t waste any more time on a pointless search.’

  ‘So what do you suggest I do?’

  ‘Try looking for work—I’ve no doubt the Royde Society cheque will disappear as quickly as all the others,’ I said nastily.

  ‘You really know how to put a man down, don’t you, Grace.’

  If I did, I didn’t seem to have succeeded. He was smiling happily to himself as he piled the books together and made ready to return them to our helpful host.

  We walked to the underground station without speaking. I didn’t for one minute think he would find anything in Dorchester. Hours ago, I’d come to the conclusion that nothing about this search was likely to enhance my reputation, but I still felt envious of his journey. I didn’t like leaving things up in the air, ends untied, and something was itching at me. I was sure there was a discovery to be made, even if it wasn’t in Dorchester. But in the next few days Oliver was certain to set a date for the Gorski paintings to go north, and I had to be around. It could be as soon as tomorrow for all I knew. We hadn’t been in touch since last night’s tense stand-off, and I was getting anxious. He hadn’t behaved well, but neither had I. In retrospect I could understand his outburst: he’d been tired and frustrated by the difficulties of the day, and I’d shown him little sympathy. We needed to clear the air, needed to restore harmony, and it would help if we worked together on the new exhibition. Going off to the West Country most certainly would not.

  In the ticket hall, Nick stopped at the barrier. ‘Are you off to the gallery?’

  I looked at my watch and saw that it was past three. ‘It’s hardly worth it now,’ I huffed. ‘You’ve managed to waste my entire day.’

  ‘Or I might just have helped you come up with something amazing! If I do eventually find the plans, I’ll let you claim first rights to what’s likely to be the biggest scoop in the art world for years.’

  ‘I don’t write commercial articles.’

  Nick pulled a face. ‘Naturally not, Doctor, so you can write another thesis instead.’

  ‘There won’t be a thesis to write. There won’t be an article. You won’t find anything.’

  Now I sounded sour, but I was desperate to get away. His untiring enthusiasm was making me feel old and weary.

  ‘Oh ye of…’ he said, waving a cheerful hand at me as he disappeared down the escalator.

  I was walking up the hill to Lyndurst Villas when he rang me. I was glad not to be at home. Oliver was unlikely to be there, but I didn’t want to chance it. Another call from Nick Heysham would mean another unpleasant conversation.

  ‘Just thought I’d update my partner,’ he began. I sighed inwardly and wondered why he persisted in the fiction that we were in this together, especially as I was about to put a very large distance between us.

  ‘I’m catching the 15.45 tomorrow from Waterloo. It’s direct to Dorchester. So if you fancy a sojourn on the Dorset Riviera, you know what to do.’

  ‘Dorchester isn’t on the coast,’ I snapped, ‘and no, I don
’t.’

  I rang off abruptly. Nick seemed to have the gift of riling me without ever having to exert much effort. I supposed I shouldn’t be too surprised. The truth was that he was as free as a bird and I wasn’t. Furthermore, ever since I’d met him, he’d disturbed what had been a comfortable captivity.

  As I let myself into the hall, I nearly tripped over Oliver’s leather safari bag while above I could hear someone moving around the bedroom. Startled, I went up the stairs two at a time. An open case lay on the bed and Oliver was bent over it, busily folding shirts. He looked up as I appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Ah, Grace, I’m glad you’re here. It saves me leaving a complicated message.’

  ‘And what would that be? Why the packing?’

  ‘I’m off to Newcastle.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘That’s right. I think I told you that the exhibition was a rush job.’ His voice was smooth, but there was a distinct edge to it.

  ‘Not this rushed, surely.’

  ‘I’m not entirely happy with the arrangements—I told you that, too, I believe—and I need to be on the spot to troubleshoot.’

  The idea of Oliver troubleshooting made me smile. He was an excellent communicator, an accomplished networker, but troubleshooting? He’d always been amazingly deft at avoiding it. It was fortunate that he was bent over his suitcase at that moment and didn’t notice my grimace.

  ‘I see.’

  I didn’t, of course. I couldn’t understand the haste unless it was Oliver’s way of making sure I understood how badly I’d let him down, but I decided to be conciliatory. Thank goodness I’d not been tempted to go to Dorset. It looked as though tomorrow I’d be travelling in the opposite direction.

  ‘And when exactly do you want me there?’

  ‘No hurry. Come when it suits.’ His tone was indifferent.

  I gaped at him. Was this the man who only yesterday was berating me for not being around when needed? I waded in.

  ‘Twenty-four hours ago you were crying on my shoulder, bemoaning the fact that Sue was a useless organiser and I was indispensable. So what’s happened to change that?’

  He straightened up, but his eyes didn’t quite meet mine and before he could answer, the doorbell rang. The sound had a curious effect on him. His limbs almost jerked themselves into a scramble for the door as though he were a clockwork toy that had just been wound and released. It would have been comical if I’d been in the mood to laugh.

  ‘Stay there,’ I muttered crossly. ‘I’ll go.’

  The face that looked at me across the threshold was young and pretty. Very pretty. Tousled blonde curls, slim figure, a smile as wide as the Thames estuary. But good teeth, I noted.

  ‘Yes?’ I wasn’t exactly welcoming.

  ‘This is Professor Brooke’s house?’ Her voice said she was nervous but undaunted.

  ‘It is. How can I help?’ I didn’t sound helpful.

  She looked at my face and blanched ever so slightly.

  ‘Professor Brooke has asked me—’ She broke off and a relieved smile flooded the soft curves of her face. Oliver had come up behind me unheard.

  ‘Rebecca, how lovely to see you, my dear.’ Oliver’s voice was honey sliding over her. I could see her shoulders relax even as he spoke. ‘I shan’t be more than a few minutes. Do wait in the car. The door’s open.’

  I hadn’t noticed the Mercedes as I’d walked home. It was parked a little farther up the road, and she turned immediately towards it, evidently glad to be away from an awkward encounter.

  ‘Why didn’t you introduce me?’ I said, pumping myself up for a fight.

  ‘I hardly thought it worthwhile. We’ll be gone almost immediately.’

  ‘To Newcastle?’

  ‘Where else?’ He sounded irritated by my questions and eager to brush the matter to one side. ‘Rebecca has been an enormous asset to the gallery during the last few days and has volunteered to come with me to Newcastle and help out.’

  I bet she has, I thought sourly. ‘And who is Rebecca?’

  ‘She’s a student, doing work experience with us, and setting up a new exhibition will be excellent practice for her.’ His face wore a satisfied smile.

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do. A student? Work experience? Does that ring any bells for you? It certainly does for me.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Rebecca is barely out of her teens, little older than my own daughter.’

  ‘Something of an exaggeration? Kezia is twelve.’

  ‘Still, it would hardly be a suitable liaison,’ he joked rather too heavily, his eyes once again refusing to meet mine. ‘You are my partner, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I remember. You can’t do without me, can you?’

  He was forcing several pairs of socks around the edges of the case with ill-tempered, jabbing motions.

  ‘I’ve no wish to quarrel with you. I needed all the help I could get yesterday, and Rebecca did her very best. She is keen to see the project through and since you’ve shown little enthusiasm for the job, I felt justified in asking her to accompany me.’

  ‘Little enthusiasm? My crime was to be busy elsewhere for one day when you needed me.’

  His fingers began to pull at his beard in short, sharp tugs. ‘Precisely. As my assistant, I should be able to call on you at any time and have your support. It was highly inconvenient that you were unavailable, as I think I made plain.’

  Had he always been this pompous and I hadn’t noticed?

  ‘Indeed you did. But it’s not an assistant that you need—it’s a handmaiden.’

  He refused to respond, his lips closing tightly on themselves, and I was whipped into a fury.

  ‘So Rebecca is the new bond servant. I can see why she has to be so very young—easily impressed, easily controlled—but why so very blonde?’

  ‘Now you’re being offensive.’

  ‘If so, I think I’m justified. I seem to have hit the situation pretty much on the nail. So why don’t you come clean.’

  He huffed and pulled himself up to his full height. ‘You have a vulgar mind, Grace, I regret to say.’

  He hastily finished packing, abandoning the last few shirts on the bed. The suitcase catches clicked angrily into place, and he strode to the door. I didn’t attempt to stop him. At the top of the staircase, he paused and said calmly enough, ‘When you are yourself again, I hope you’ll consider making the journey to Newcastle. Let me know your train and I’ll meet you.’

  The front door banged, and I sat down on the bed with a thump. I found myself shaking and wondered why; I should be getting used to fighting with Oliver. But conflict makes me ill and I’d been the one to do the fighting. Throughout he’d remained above the fray, measured and dignified. It was seeing the girl that had stirred me to anger and made me careless of the damage I might cause. But no, that wasn’t really true. I’d become careless weeks ago. Oliver was right: I’d lost enthusiasm, and not just for the work. The disenchantment lurking in the shadows of my life, undefined and unacknowledged, had assumed a sharp focus. Oliver and I never quarrelled, but twice in as many days we had—and badly.

  I hadn’t entirely forfeited his good opinion since he seemed willing to believe that I’d run temporarily mad. He was still holding the door open for me, but only just. It was down to me whether or not I chose to walk back to a familiar existence. Oliver had been good to me. He’d cared for me, paid for me, given me a comfortable home—a very comfortable home, I amended, looking around me. And in exchange I had given companionship, friendship, even a tepid love, but also my freedom. That was the most frightening thought, and I could no longer avoid the truth.

  I had sacrificed freedom: Oliver had always to know where I was and what I was doing; he had to have first call on my time and my attention. Outside this house, I had little life. Friends were absent. Not that I’d ever had many, a few acquaintances from my student days, but they had disappe
ared soon after I’d moved into Lyndhurst Villas. Oliver had gently persuaded me to let them go. They weren’t up to my weight, he’d said; I was worthy of more interesting company, or rather company that he considered interesting. My life was lived on his terms, but until now I’d been happy to accept them. If I chose not to walk back through that door, if I walked the other way, what then? Nine years of my life wasted. Nine years in which I’d convinced myself that being Oliver’s helpmate was what I wanted. It had been an easy life, and I’d been happy for much of it. Oliver could be charming, an interesting, intelligent man, a man who was going places. I’d wanted to go there with him, and I had. But I didn’t like where I’d arrived. That was the nub of it.

  I walked downstairs and for some reason remembered Mr Merrick. Perhaps ever so faintly he represented a new beginning, the first infant steps to independence. Whatever the reason, he deserved a phone call, even a belated one.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve found out little more than you already know,’ I began.

  ‘The building was a school?’

  ‘Definitely a school. It was called the Raine Foundation—Raine Street was where it started. Originally it housed only boys. The section of the building you’re hoping to make your home was an addition, built in 1845.’

  ‘To accommodate more pupils?’

  ‘To accommodate female pupils for the first time. They were there until the 1880s when the entire school left Silver Street to move to different premises. Over the years the school kept moving, though always within the East End.’

  He was quiet at the other end of the line and I felt that in some way I should be apologising. ‘What I’ve found isn’t likely to solve your ghost problems, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But do you think there’s more to discover?’

  ‘There may be.’ I knew I was sounding reluctant.

  ‘Then discover it if you can, Dr Latimer.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  My promise was half-hearted. At any other time I might have tried digging deeper, but chasing ghosts hardly chimed with my present mood. I wasn’t entirely sure what my mood was, but I poured myself a glass of Oliver’s very best red and sat down to think. That bright, fresh-faced young woman, Rebecca, was she to be the new Grace? Of course she might simply be another of the many women who flocked around Oliver in starry-eyed appreciation. His groupies, I used to tease him. He was an eminent man, as much at home in front of a television camera as in the lecture hall, and for years he’d attracted plenty of distant worship. But that had never been sufficient for him: he required daily and meticulous attention, and he was no longer getting it. Rebecca would make my perfect substitute. I’d been angry at the thought that I might be supplanted, but that had been a knee-jerk reaction. Now that the anger had passed I tried to think through my feelings and was surprised at what I found. I should be riven with jealousy, but I wasn’t, or only mildly so—rather I was curious as to what might happen in Newcastle. I could buy my ticket tomorrow and go and see for myself.