‘No,’ said Henry. ‘Not so far as I know. But as I said, it was dark and I saw him only briefly. At the time I thought there was nothing in it.’
‘But you are certain that the man got out of the compartment in which Florence Shore was found?’
‘No, I can’t be absolutely certain,’ said Henry. ‘That’s the shame of it. I wish I was. I’d better go. I’m sorry not to have been of more help.’
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Guy. ‘Thank you.’
When he arrived back at work, the constable on the desk handed him a letter. ‘Getting love notes, are you, Sully?’
Guy snorted and told him to be quiet, but his heart jumped when he saw the familiar handwriting on the envelope. Miss Louisa Cannon – and she had something of great interest to tell him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The following week Louisa and Nancy stood in the doorway of the Savoy, shivering in their dresses. After a hot, close day the rain was coming down in big drops, bouncing off the pavement like rubber balls. Their carefully combed and pinned hair had been flattened, their feet were soaking wet and their spirits thoroughly dampened.
‘All that planning,’ whined Nancy, ‘and now we look like two drowned rats. Shall we pack it in and go home?’
‘We can’t,’ Louisa reminded her. ‘We’ve told Lady Redesdale that we’re having supper with Marjorie Murray and her godmother, and they’re not to expect us home before eleven o’clock.’ She was regretting having been talked into the scheme.
‘At least it’s almost the truth,’ said Nancy.
After Nancy had procured the precious tickets from Marjorie – they had been almost disappointed they weren’t delivered by pumpkin coach, such was the fantasy they had built around the dance – she had set about securing Louisa as a chaperone for the evening.
Louisa had resisted as far as she could but, in the end, she too was a young woman who wanted to wear a pretty dress and go dancing, like any other. Nancy persuaded Louisa that, seeing as she was going to go whatever Louisa said, at least as chaperone she could keep an eye on her. When Louisa protested that she had nothing to wear, Nancy said she would lend her a frock. She didn’t have too many ballgowns in her wardrobe and they’d both have to fudge it somehow, but with their hair up and some lipstick …
‘No lipstick,’ Louisa had said. ‘I draw the line there.’
Then it was just a question of asking Lady Redesdale at the right moment – that is, when she was too distracted to think properly. ‘Which is most of the time,’ pointed out Nancy.
When her mother was writing her letters, Nancy appeared at her shoulder and said that Marjorie Murray’s godmother was taking her out to supper at the Savoy for her birthday and had very kindly asked if she could come too, seeing as she was in London. And Lou-Lou could chaperone her.
‘Is it Marjorie’s birthday?’ asked Lady Redesdale, barely halting the scratching of her pen.
‘No, her godmother’s,’ said Nancy.
‘Oh?’ She looked up. ‘That seems an unusual way to do it.’
‘Yes, funny, isn’t it?’ said Nancy, forcing out a small laugh. ‘So, can we go, please? We won’t be home late.’
‘Mmm?’ said Lady Redesdale, her head bent back to her task again. ‘Yes, you can go. No later than eleven o’clock, please.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Nancy, and said to Louisa later, ‘She’ll be asleep anyway; she won’t know what time we get back.’ Although she was crossing her fingers behind her back.
And now here they were, hovering in the doorway.
‘We’d better go in,’ said Louisa. She was feeling a little unsure of herself – responsible for Nancy and, at the same time, sharing very much in her girlish anticipation for the night ahead. All of which was tinged with nerves that they were doing yet another thing they really shouldn’t. The visit to the lawyer had unsettled her and she couldn’t stop returning to it in her mind. At least she had passed something of it along to Guy. Perhaps he would make sense of it. She shook her head and tried to tell herself to enjoy the party. It was not, after all, a usual sort of an evening for her.
They could hear strains of music over the milling of the crowd. Women of all ages were crowding in, shaking off the rain and laughing, even as they despaired over their sodden shoes and hair. Their dresses were a riotous indulgence of colour and cloth, from palest pinks to deepest blues, from satin to tulle, with hand-stitched embroidered flowers, flashing brooches and daring prints overlaid on top. Tiaras shone and lips looked bitten, dark red and parted, breathless with joy.
It had been so long since happiness was allowed to ride unbridled over the night; tonight, grief was banished and the thoughts were of the hours ahead that promised to repair broken lives.
Not many men, though, Louisa noticed. Here and there, one saw a sliver of an officer’s uniform as he stood, crowded by women, his walking stick discreetly tucked close to his leg. Other men stood alone awkwardly, conscious that they were outnumbered and that even this glitter could not chase away the dark shadows in their minds. The waiters, at least, were men too young to have fought, and they had a jaunty look as they wheeled around with their silver trays of Champagne.
After they had given their coats in and collected their dance cards, Nancy and Louisa dived into the crowd, Nancy both looking for, and fearing, seeing someone she knew. Thankfully, it was Marjorie they saw first, dutifully posted beside her godmother, who greeted the guests at the ballroom entrance. The band had just struck up a waltz and those that already had their dance card marked were walking on to the floor with their partner, a trace of smugness belied by their dropped heads as they looked backwards to the friends they had arrived with.
‘Hello, Nancy,’ said Marjorie, bending away from her godmother, unsure of whether Lady Walden knew Lady Redesdale, but erring on the side of caution.
Nancy was wide-eyed, very young and very grown-up all at once. ‘Hello, Moo,’ she said. ‘Who else is here?’
The classic question. In a crowded room, ‘no one’ was there unless you knew them and, for all her bravado, Nancy wouldn’t talk to anyone to whom she hadn’t been introduced. Marjorie pointed to a dark-haired girl in sky-blue tulle and long white gloves drinking a glass of Champagne. Close behind her against the wall sat a woman who resembled her but looked thirty years older and rather grumpy.
‘Lucinda Mason,’ said Marjorie. ‘Her aunt’s in a frightful gloom. It’s her third season and no husband yet. They went to Molyneux this year for her dresses in the hope of upping her chances.’
Lucinda was the older sister of Constance, who was Nancy’s age and therefore not at the ball, but the two sisters had played with Nancy in Kensington Gardens when they were small.
‘Let’s go and cheer her up,’ said Nancy, pulling Louisa by the arm.
‘I’ve got to stay here,’ said Marjorie. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
Before Nancy could reach Lucinda, a lean man in officer’s uniform approached her and they started talking. The aunt’s eyebrows unfurled and she pulled out a bag of knitting in happy anticipation.
As Nancy came up behind, she saw Lucinda open up her dance card, which was completely blank, and say to the young man, ‘Yes, I believe I can have the next dance with you … Oh, hello, Nancy. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
Nancy wasn’t perturbed. ‘No,’ she said archly. ‘I’ve come with Marjorie Murray. How are you?’
Louisa remained a few steps behind and caught the aunt’s eye. She realised, her heart sinking, that she was more aligned with the ferocious chaperone than the other young girls. Even in a borrowed dress of grey silk she could not pass herself off as ‘one of them’. She cast about for a waiter; some wine would be good.
‘Very well,’ Lucinda replied. ‘Oh, er, Mr Lucknor, this is Miss Mitford.’
The two shook hands. He had dark eyes and perfect posture, but his cheekbones made him look as if he had lived off stale bread and gruel for some years. Perhaps he had. This
had the effect of making him look both vulnerable and rakishly good-looking – a dangerous combination – and Louisa watched Nancy’s reaction to him warily.
‘Please, call me Roland,’ he said. ‘Good evening, Miss Mitford. Perhaps I might have the pleasure of a dance with you, too?’
Lucinda tried, and failed, to hide her miffed feelings. But she knew, as they all did, that one had to share the men about.
‘Perhaps,’ said Nancy. ‘I’ve only just arrived. One doesn’t like to mark one’s card too early, does one?’ She cocked her head to one side and Louisa could not but admire her insouciance.
‘I shall return,’ said Roland, then gave her a bow before offering his arm to Lucinda. The two walked on to the dance floor as the next waltz began.
Nancy turned to Louisa excitedly. ‘See! Oh, Lou-Lou, it’s as easy as that.’
Louisa did not share in Nancy’s glee. ‘Be careful. It’s not as easy as that,’ she said.
‘Don’t be a spoilsport. Let’s have a drink …’ said Nancy, touching the arm of a passing waiter and grabbing two glasses. But Louisa gave her a stern look and she put them back with a pout.
‘I’m not taking you home with wine on your breath,’ said Louisa, conscious of her responsibility. Now that she was here, she wondered how she had ever thought she was going to join in. The girls here were beautiful, confident, fragrant: a world away from her and everything she had ever known.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nancy and Louisa stood side by side, their tenuous friendship feeling as fragile as a brandy snap in that moment as they watched Lucinda and Roland wheeling in and out of the dancers. Louisa was reminded of working with her mother in the laundry, the hours she would spend in a daydream, watching the women turn the mangles with their sinewy, strong arms, sleeves rolled up high. Those days felt a million miles away from the room she was in.
Her reverie was broken by the appearance of two men before them in officer uniforms. One of them was badly scarred on his left cheek, the other looked as if he may have had a little too much wine already.
‘May we have the next dance, ladies?’ said the one who had to adjust his stance slightly to avoid swaying.
Nancy had a glint in her eye. She said nothing but stepped forwards and took the tipsy soldier’s arm; a new waltz had begun. Louisa looked at the scarred man who was holding his arm out for her.
‘Why not?’ he said, pre-empting her reluctance. ‘Give a man a whirl around the floor.’
Louisa hesitated and the man jerked his chin towards her. ‘It’s my face, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘You can’t bear to look at it.’
She could hear he was repeating a phrase that had been said to him in the past. ‘No, it’s not that,’ she said.
‘Got a sweetheart already, have you?’
Louisa nodded, as small a nod as it was possible to make.
‘I’m only asking for a dance.’
He held his arm out again and she took it. They started dancing and she followed his lead, the waltz not exactly being a dance she had done often in the past. All she knew of it was her father giving her a turn or two around the parlour on Christmas Day, after he’d had a couple of glasses of porter. She just about kept up and only trod on his toes once or twice, to which he said, ‘If you stopped looking down at the floor and looked at me, you’d do better.’ So she looked up, though not at his face but over his shoulder. It was true, once she stopped trying to think about what she was doing and relaxed herself into his lead, her feet seemed to make the right steps.
She thought about Guy, imagining that she was dancing with him, and before she knew it, the band was playing a different tune. Louisa opened her eyes and looked at her partner’s face; he had cold, grey eyes and his grip around her waist was getting uncomfortably tight.
‘I think that’s enough,’ she said. ‘I’d like to get a glass of water.’
He didn’t say anything but jerked his arm, pulling her in even closer. He bent his face into her neck.
‘Stop it,’ whispered Louisa, terrified that someone might notice.
The soldier pulled away. ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he said, and let go of her waist, only to wrap her arm around his stiff woollen sleeve so that he could lead her away.
Held firm, Louisa had no choice but to follow him. She looked around for Nancy but couldn’t see her. She realised she didn’t know how long it had been since she’d last seen her. The room was feeling warm and the constant jerking notes of the music were closing in on her mind, preventing her from thinking clearly. The soldier let go of her arm and took two glasses from a tray, instructing the waiter to bring him back a whisky.
‘I don’t want wine,’ she said to him.
‘Drink it,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ll feel better.’
She took a sip. ‘I have to find my friend,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to worry about her,’ he said. ‘My name’s Mickey Mallory, by the way.’
Louisa did not offer her name in return, but continued to move her head around, looking for Nancy. As she did so, she noticed that the men, unaccustomed to wearing their woollen uniforms in a crowded ballroom rather than in the freezing trenches of France, had drops of sweat running down their necks that were beginning to dampen their collars. Poor things. The dance was meant to be a benefit for soldiers, not an endurance test. There was a theory that if the women could see the men in uniform, they’d remember better what they had been through and give more generously.
She spotted Nancy, now dancing with Roland, the officer they had briefly been introduced to. Nancy looked smugly around her, no doubt trying to catch the eye of girls she knew so that they might see her dancing with a handsome soldier. As Louisa watched, she saw Nancy yelp and almost immediately the officer was leading her over to the side as she limped. Nancy caught Louisa’s eye with a look that clearly said she didn’t want her coming over, so Louisa turned her back.
Mickey looked pleased. He smiled at her and said something but she wasn’t listening.
‘I think I’d like to sit down,’ said Louisa.
He assented with a surly reply and, as discreetly as she could, she led them to chairs close to Nancy and Roland, but out of their sight. She was just near enough to be able to catch their conversation. It was stilted and she missed some things thanks to the band and Mickey’s prodding – he was asking her to dance again and she got the impression he was not a patient man. Dismissing his suggestion, Louisa leaned back and turned her head towards Nancy.
‘How’s your ankle? Is it feeling better?’ said Roland.
‘Oh, yes,’ came Nancy’s reply.
‘Good-o. In that case—’
‘But I don’t think I should stand up just yet,’ she broke in. ‘Could you sit with me a while?’
Louisa stole a look and saw Roland looking uncomfortably about him as he sat on the very edge of the chair, as ready to leap up as a frog on a lily pad. He had the look of a poet about him, for all his clean-shaven stiff upper lip. His eyes were thrown into shadow by his thick lashes and he held his back ramrod straight, but his left foot was jiggling. He took out a gold cigarette case and offered one to Nancy, who shook her head, much to Louisa’s relief. After he had exhaled his first puff, he seemed to relax a little and looked at Nancy. Louisa strained her ears even more.
‘Did you say your name was Mitford?’ he asked. ‘Are you anything to do with David Mitford?’
‘That’s Farve!’ said Nancy. ‘I mean, my father. He’s Lord Redesdale now.’
‘Is he, indeed? He was very brave, your father.’
‘You knew him in the war?’
‘He wouldn’t remember me,’ Roland said. ‘But I was in his battalion at Ypres and we all knew who he was.’
Something in this statement jolted Louisa, though she couldn’t think exactly why. She took another small peek and saw him finish his cigarette, then stub it out beneath his black boots. An elderly chaperone saw it too and looked at him crossly.
‘Did you k
now Nurse Florence Shore?’ asked Nancy.
That was it, thought Louisa: the Ypres connection.
‘No,’ was the curt reply.
‘She was a nurse at Ypres, that’s all. I know there would have been lots of nurses there, so you probably didn’t know her. But she was murdered on a train, on the Brighton line. It was so awful. I’ve been on that train lots of times …’
Louisa tried to keep listening but she didn’t think anything of consequence was being said. The band leader began singing the chorus of Roses in Picardy – ‘Roses are flowering in Picardy / But there’s never a rose like you …’ She thought that it would have been nicer to be dancing to this song than sitting on a wobbly chair, trying to avoid Mickey’s gaze. Then she heard Nancy apologising for bringing up the subject of the war. She declared her ankle better and Louisa saw the two of them walk back on to the dance floor. Roland looked back as they walked away and saw Louisa watching them. The intensity of his gaze made her shrink.
Louisa was aware of Mickey glaring at her. ‘Prefer the look of that other chap, do you?’ he said accusingly.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to dance any more,’ she said. ‘Please, go and find someone else.’
He didn’t move. ‘I like the look of you,’ he said in a way that did not feel flattering. ‘In fact, there’s something about you … Have I seen you dancing in Soho?’
Louisa sat up straighter. ‘No, you haven’t.’ She was feeling uncomfortable and shifted on her chair, trying to move further away, but as she did so, his arm shot out and grabbed her.
‘Don’t move,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I think I’ve just realised where I’ve seen you before.’
‘It’s not possible,’ she said.
‘I think it is,’ he growled. ‘The Cross Keys, isn’t it? I think your uncle might owe me a bob or two.’
Frightened, Louisa tried to stand and as she attempted to pull away from him, another man appeared like lightning. She didn’t recognise him but she guessed he knew Mickey.
‘I’ve had enough of you here tonight. Let go of her arm or—’
The Mitford Murders Page 13