In the last few years, thanks to the war, Miss Shore had rarely come back to England on leave. Friendships had been held together thanks to her apparently indefatigable letter-writing. There was the aunt, a baroness, that she had spent the day with, just before she died. The aunt had given an interview but Guy thought he might try and see her himself, though it was, he admitted, getting harder to get permission from his super to do so. As far as Jarvis was concerned, the case was closed and spending time on it was a waste when he could be put to better use checking signal boxes.
‘She thought of others more than herself, didn’t she?’ said Louisa. ‘Those letters she wrote about Lord Redesdale from Ypres, she didn’t need to do that and Nanny Blor told me that they were of great comfort to Lady Redesdale.’
‘Did she write to Lady Redesdale directly?’
‘Not so far as I know,’ said Louisa. ‘I think she only wrote to Mrs Peal, who passed the news along.’
A seagull cried overhead and woke Louisa from the reverie, making her suddenly sit up in alarm. The hour must have passed; she had to get back to work or Nanny Blor would fret.
Guy, without thinking, took one of her hands in both of his. ‘Can I see you again?’ he asked. ‘Might we walk again tomorrow?’
Louisa withdrew her hand. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’ll have any time off tomorrow. I must go.’ She stood up and took a step away. ‘Thank you for the chips,’ she said and gave him a brief smile before turning around and walking away from him along the promenade, the seagull still cawing its cry that sounded like a warning.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Before heading back to London, Guy decided to go to East Sussex Hospital, only a short walk away from the beach, where Florence had been admitted and then died. The house surgeon and doctor who had attended to her had been only very briefly interviewed at the inquest and he wondered if they had any more to say.
However, when he arrived at White Rock Road, where the Victorian hospital stood, vast and clearly in need of repair, the house surgeon was off duty and the doctor was attending to patients. Fortunately, he was in his uniform and the nurse he spoke to was eager to help him with his enquiries. She sent a porter around to Dr Bertha Beattie’s lodgings and the message came back that she would meet him at a café across the road.
The appointment was 4 p.m. and the sea blew in damp air every time someone opened the door, so Guy was alerted to the formidable entrance of the doctor as soon as she walked in. She was a handsome woman, with an efficient look, as if she had a white coat on beneath her fur wrap. Spotting Guy’s police helmet on the table, she came directly to him.
‘Mr Sullivan?’ she checked before she sat down.
Guy stood awkwardly as she lowered herself on to the chair, which appeared rather spindly now. ‘Yes. Thank you, Mrs Beattie, for coming in.’
‘Dr Beattie.’
‘Ah, yes, absolutely,’ Guy stammered.
Dr Beattie ordered herself a pot of tea and a bun, then turned to face him. ‘What can I do for you? As you know, I spoke at the inquest.’
Guy explained that sometimes a small detail that may have been thought insignificant before could turn out to be very important. He was determined to solve this case, so could they at least try? The doctor nodded, as if to say, ‘Go on’. Most of all, he continued, without witnesses or a weapon, he was trying to find a motive for the attack. Although some money and jewellery had been stolen, these items did not seem to warrant a violent assault that could not have been intended to result in anything but death. Would she mind, he asked, going over the details of Miss Shore’s state when she was first admitted to the hospital? After all, Dr Beattie had been the first person to check her condition.
‘She was semi-conscious when she arrived,’ said the doctor in reverberating tones. It was not hard to imagine a scalpel in her hand. ‘I spoke to her but she did not reply.’
‘Did her condition change quickly?’
‘Very. She was deeply unconscious by the evening. She had arrived with us before six o’clock and never recovered from that state.’
‘What about her appearance when she arrived?’
‘Of things that were out of the ordinary, I noticed that her tweed skirt was torn, and there was a tear on the left leg of her underclothes, as well as on her scarf.’
‘Could those have happened when she was being carried out of the train and on to the stretcher?’ asked Guy.
‘I don’t think so. And we were naturally careful – we understood that her clothes would be part of the evidence. But as to how to explain them – I can’t help you there.’
‘Might they have been torn in a struggle?’
‘Possibly, but it could simply be that they were torn before she even got on the train. One can’t say with any certainty.’
‘Were there any bruises on her person?’ asked Guy, embarrassed even to allude to an inspection of Miss Shore beneath her clothes.
‘No.’
‘Which you think means she wasn’t in a struggle?’ hedged Guy.
‘I don’t think anything at all, Mr Sullivan. I am not a pathologist but a house surgeon.’
As there was little point in trying to draw her into any kind of speculation, Guy tried another tack. ‘During the time she was still alive in the hospital, did she have many visitors?’
‘I wasn’t there the whole time but I understand her friend Miss Rogers never left her side. Some local friends came by, I believe. Not a great many but she was not as abandoned as some I have seen.’
‘Doctor, I’m sure you have seen most things in your career,’ said Guy carefully.
She nodded.
‘Do you think she knew her attacker?’
Dr Beattie took the time to consider Guy’s question, but when she replied it was without hesitation. ‘I wish I could give you a definite answer, but the fact is that we just don’t know. There doesn’t seem to have been much of a struggle, but whether that was because the assailant attacked her quickly or because she knew who he was, I am completely unable to tell you.’
‘He?’ said Guy. ‘The attacker was definitely a man?’
‘I would not like to be absolute on this point. However, it seems highly unlikely that a woman could inflict those injuries with such force.’ Dr Beattie ate the last of her bun and neatly patted her lips with a handkerchief from her pocket.
‘Thank you,’ said Guy. ‘I do appreciate your coming to see me now. I know it’s your day off.’
His enquiries were over here.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s another girl.’ Lord Redesdale dully related the news to Nanny Blor over the telephone.
‘Oh, very funny, my lord!’ said Nanny, bursting into laughter.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked crossly. ‘It’s a girl! A girl, dammit!’
Nanny was silenced at once. ‘Beg pardon, my lord. I thought it was an April Fool,’ she said. ‘Of course that’s wonderful news. What’s the tiny one’s name?’
‘We don’t know. We hadn’t thought of any. For God’s sake, we’ve used up all the girls’ names.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Nanny, always the eye in the storm. ‘And how is Her Ladyship?’
‘She’s fine. She has to lie down for two weeks: doctor’s orders. I rather think you might all head back now. It’s Easter on Sunday. I think it would cheer her up to have the children back.’
‘Absolutely, my lord. We’ll get the train this afternoon. I’ll telegram ahead so Mr Hooper can meet us.’
‘Righto.’ The phone clicked.
Nanny was standing in the teashop; the telephone was in pride of place by the till. This meant there was no such thing as a private telephone conversation because Rosa didn’t believe in secrets – not when it came to her customers, at any rate, and she could charge them half a bob to use it. Not that she made much money; few customers knew anyone with a telephone they could ring.
The rest of the morning was spent in a blur of packing and tidying. The girls
and Tom made a show of fury to be leaving Mrs Peal and her cream cakes, but it was lacklustre. They loved Easter at home, with the bells of the church ringing out all morning and an egg hunt that took them over every inch of the garden and even into the churchyard over the wall.
News of the baby, now they knew it was only another girl, failed to raise any kind of comment. Even Nancy couldn’t do much more than let out a dramatic sigh, earning her a reproachful look from Nanny.
Guy had returned to London after his interview with the doctor and had sent Louisa a short note saying he didn’t wish to intrude upon her time but he wanted to let her know that he was to be easily found at his home address, should she possibly want to write … He suggested that perhaps she might hear something else of Miss Florence Shore from Rosa or Nanny Blor that could be of importance, as he had no intention of giving up on the case. Reading it, Louisa thought: So that’s that, then, and put the note in the back of her book.
Arriving back at Asthall Manor after dark, tummies still full from the enormous parcel of buttered bread and teacakes that Rosa had tearfully sent them all off with, they changed the atmosphere of the place in minutes. There was commotion and shouting as the girls and Tom fell upon Mrs Windsor and Ada, their favourite maid. Hooper, Ada and Louisa lugged the cases up the stairs to the nursery, to the sounds of Lord Redesdale admonishing his children to be quiet, though they could hear it was done in quite a sanguine manner.
Lady Redesdale lay prone on her bed, attended to by a maid. Nobody went to look at the baby except for Nanny Blor, who whispered to her a welcome to the world.
The nursery had only been shut up for a week but Louisa enjoyed the feeling of unpacking and knowing where things went. A return to somewhere that had started to feel like home had given her a burst of energy, even after such a long day of travelling.
In the library, the girls, Tom and their father were warming themselves in front of the fire. After the first day of April, the radiators were switched off and fires were not to be lit before 3 p.m., except in Lady Redesdale’s bedroom. Not that anybody complained or even thought to change the rule, even if it snowed: this was the law of the house.
It wasn’t long before Nancy was regaling her father with stories of their week in St Leonards: the squashing up in beds in Mrs Peal’s flat above the teashop; the freezing sea; the murder inquisition …
‘Murder inquisition?’ said her father sharply. ‘Explain yourself, Koko.’
‘The murder of Florence Shore on the train,’ said Nancy. ‘The same train we took! The policeman on the case came to St Leonards. And I’ll tell you something else you won’t have thought to remember, poor, dear old dunce. Florence Shore was the nurse who wrote to Nanny’s twin from Ypres, to let us know that you were alive.’
Lord Redesdale looked at his eldest daughter. ‘My word. She certainly did write those letters. I had no idea at the time, of course, but your mother told me when I got home that she’d had the news that all was well. Goddammit, she knew I’d been mentioned in dispatches before I did.’ The shadow of those dark days fleetingly passed over his face. ‘You’re right. I hadn’t put those letters together with the murdered woman’s name. Never met her myself, though she had a reputation for being very good with the men. An attentive listener and kind, they said. Of course, the doctors preferred the nurses not to get too involved with the men.’
‘Why not?’ asked Nancy.
‘It was a war,’ he said abruptly. He drifted into silence briefly, then snapped himself back. ‘What was the policeman doing there then?’
‘Well, he knew that Miss Shore was on her way to stay with Mrs Peal when she got on that train – you know, the one where she was murdered—’
‘There’s no need to be so bloodthirsty.’
‘I’m not. He was asking Mrs Peal if there was anything she could think of that might help him solve the case. He was awfully nice, Farve, terribly tall and good-looking—’
‘That’s enough of that. You shouldn’t be noticing that sort of thing.’
‘And also,’ Nancy carried on, ‘he knows Lou-Lou. They met when she was on the way here.’
‘Who the blast is Lou-Lou?’
‘Lou-Lou! Our nursery maid.’
‘Oh, her,’ said Farve, losing interest.
Louisa had been hovering by the door while this conversation was going on, waiting to interrupt at the right moment to tell the children it was time to go up to bed. She noticed Lord Redesdale barely register her existence but did not allow herself any self-pity: it was more important that Nancy be stopped in her tracks.
She stepped across the threshold, into the room that was no more used to welcoming her sort than she was comfortable being in it. ‘Apologies, my lord, but it’s time for the children to go upstairs,’ she said.
Lord Redesdale looked at her and coughed. He had the grace to look a little shamefaced. The children cried out in protest but Louisa was unusually firm, and inside a minute, they’d all been got up and pushed up the stairs.
Nancy went out last and walked beside Louisa. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, you know,’ she pleaded.
‘About what?’ said Louisa, wondering if Nancy realised that she’d been about to reveal something of her life as if she was no more than a CHAPTER in a bedtime story. Was that all they thought of her? A cipher, a character to be goggled at?
Whatever the truth of it, she was not about to let Nancy know that she’d almost pierced a very fragile and soft part of her; she knew enough of the eldest daughter to know that it was better not to hand her that sort of power. She used it mercilessly against her sisters in spite of her fundamentally loyal spirit.
‘Oh, I was just talking nonsense …’ said Nancy, trailing off.
Louisa said nothing but walked on ahead to the nursery to catch up with Diana and Decca. She had hoped that she and Nancy were more alike than different, but perhaps she was alone after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bed-prone and fed up in the weeks after Debo’s arrival (it had taken some time to furnish the baby with a name), Lady Redesdale had done little. So by the time the month of May came around, she appeared to feel quite herself again and decided she would like to get to London for some of the Season.
Lord Redesdale, ever keen to see his adored wife happy, rented a house in Gloucester Square and the whole family, including Mrs Windsor and Mrs Stobie, the cook, decamped to be in the city just in time for the Chelsea Flower Show, heralding two months of fashionable parties.
Still, the promised summer weather had not yet shown itself; the air was warm but it rained almost every day. Even the brightest of frocks struck a desultory note when overshadowed by a large black umbrella. Nancy, stubborn as ever, refused to feel disappointed. Although Farve had reminded his daughter sternly that she was not yet of an age to go to a dance of any sort, she felt sure that the combined forces of a new decade, the first proper, joyful season since the war had ended, and her own sheer willpower would overcome this paternal hurdle.
Disappointingly, on arriving at Gloucester Square, Lady Redesdale had set about organising herself to attend only a few parties and made it clear that they would not be staying there for longer than three weeks. Although she had missed seeing certain friends in the last few months of her pregnancy, she was not naturally a very social animal, and her husband, of course, could not be trusted out in public for long. It only took one ‘sewer’ to make a misplaced comment about Germans or hunting and the whole thing would be off.
Dances were the last thing on Louisa’s mind. She had been very reluctant to return to London for fear of coming across Stephen. This meant that going to see her mother was still something she wasn’t sure she could do, though she longed to, desperately. On the other hand, Guy was in London and perhaps she might see him.
Correspondence between the two of them had been non-existent since St Leonards, and while she knew she had to work, at the same time she could not help remembering the kindness in his face and the warm clasp
of his hands on hers.
In London there was a slight change in the working pattern, at least. Nanny Blor took charge of the youngest babies – Debo, Unity and Decca; Diana and Pamela were happy to tag along on the twice-daily walk around the park and entertain themselves in the Gloucester Road nursery, which had the novelty of borrowed toys, including a darling doll-sized blue and white China tea set. Diana would take the role of Great Lady while Pamela fussed around her as the maid, pouring endless cups of tea as her sister criticised her skills.
Louisa had been given the role of chaperone to Nancy. Not that there was a great deal to guard against; there had been two or three tea parties with cousins and a walk around the Natural History Museum in South Kensington with an old neighbour of Nancy’s from the days when the family used to live off Kensington High Street.
Nancy was hugely envious of her friend Marjorie Murray for attending a school in Queen’s Gate. ‘A proper school, Lou-Lou, can you imagine? Where their brains are fed information of use.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ laughed Marjorie as they stooped to look at the stuffed sloth in the glass cabinet. ‘There’s plenty of conversational French and fierce instructions on the correct way to waltz. And besides, all the other girls don’t stop talking about which men are the most eligible and who they’d like to marry. I wouldn’t exactly call them bluestockings.’
‘What’s the point anyway?’ said Nancy. ‘One isn’t allowed to do anything fun for simply years yet. I shall be combing my grey hairs before Farve lets me out of the house.’
‘No,’ conceded Marjorie, ‘though there is the occasional thing in London. There’s a ball this Thursday, actually, that I’m going to. It’s a charity thing, I think. Red Cross, you know. For the soldiers.’
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