‘I don’t understand,’ said Guy. ‘If you were at a party then there will be plenty of people who can say you were there.’
‘Ye-es, there are. In fact, two or three of them are here tonight. I couldn’t say anything before because, you see … Well, the truth of it is, I had taken a lot of cocaine and smoked opium, and I was quite out of it. Off my head, in fact. I didn’t want my mother finding out.’ Now that he had confessed, Stuart’s attitude was more devil-may-care than humble pie.
‘In short,’ said Guy, not wanting to get into a discussion about the drugs, which though shocking were not against the law, ‘there are people I can talk to tonight, who will confirm that you were in Cornwall on the twelfth of January this year?’
‘Yes,’ said Stuart, mollified. ‘This whole thing has been so ghastly, you know. What with Offley being so angry about the will.’ He turned and looked Guy right in the eye. ‘I loved Florence. She understood me when so few did.’
Guy shuffled in his seat. ‘Yes, I, um, I understand that you and Miss Shore were … close.’
Stuart suddenly roared with laughter. ‘Do you mean you thought we were lovers?’
Guy went bright red and couldn’t quite manage an affirmative reply.
‘My dear boy, of course we weren’t. Darling Flo was not that way inclined, shall we say. No, her lover was Mabel Rogers.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
After Guy had spoken briefly to the two people that Stuart mentioned and they had given statements to the effect that he was at the party, although nobody could remember too much of what went on or on which day it was, he and Louisa left the gallery.
Their walk along St James’s was quiet. Guy had been shocked into silence at the final revelation but Louisa’s mind was more on Stuart’s hobble and his walking stick. They had talked it over for a few minutes then said goodbye at Green Park in low spirits. Guy had so hoped to impress Louisa with his police skills and instead he’d appeared an even bigger fool than before. At least, that was how it felt to him. Now he had no suspects, no leads and if Jarvis found out what he had done, his job would be on the line. Louisa was bitterly disappointed for him.
That night, back in the house the Mitfords were renting, Louisa had found Nancy awake and waiting for her.
‘Well?’ said Nancy, creeping into Louisa’s room. ‘What happened?’
Louisa sat on her bed. ‘Nothing. That is, it can’t be Stuart Hobkirk. He has a walking stick and a limp. There’s no chance he was the man seen jumping down at Lewes station.’
‘Couldn’t the walking stick have been the weapon?’ said Nancy.
‘Possibly, but even with the motive of the inheritance, it doesn’t work. His hobble is too noticeable. Supposing he had somehow managed to jump down, the guard who saw him at Lewes would have noticed him walking with that limp.’
‘What about it being a crime of passion? And his weak alibi?’
‘He introduced Guy to two people who were able to say they were with him that day, and he said that he and Florence weren’t lovers. He said her only lover was her friend, Mabel Rogers.’
‘Gosh,’ said Nancy. She thought about that for a minute. ‘I didn’t really know that went on.’
‘Well, yes, it sort of does,’ said Louisa.
‘Like pashes, I suppose … So, that’s it, then?’ said Nancy. ‘We don’t have a suspect any more?’
‘No,’ said Louisa, feeling sad for Guy as she said it. ‘We don’t have a suspect any more.’
Nancy said goodnight and Louisa got into bed but couldn’t sleep. She lay there in the dark, thinking. Then, spurred on by an idea, she got up, turned on her lamp and took out a sheet of paper and a pen to write a letter.
Dear Guy,
Please don’t give up on the investigation. I think you can do it and I want to help you. What’s more, I think I might be able to.
It’s something Nancy said some time ago and I didn’t think anything of it then. It was when we were travelling on the train from Victoria to St Leonards, the same line on which Miss Shore was attacked. Nancy noticed that the doors do not open from the inside. Anyone who gets out of the train by themselves has to open the window and lean out to turn the handle. The railway workers who got on at the next stop said both the windows were closed. But the train guard said the man he saw get out at Lewes did not turn back to close the window.
Don’t you see what this means? Someone else must have closed the window for him. It wasn’t one person that killed Miss Shore: it was two.
PART TWO
1921
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Louisa stood on the beach at Dieppe, inhaling great lungfuls of warm sea air. She knew the seagulls flying overhead were no different from those that flew in England, but it seemed as if their cries had a slight French accent to them. To her delight, everything in France felt different, whether it was the hazy heat from the sun, the fine sand on the beach or the buttery deliciousness of the croissant at breakfast. Even the sunburn she got on her nose the first day seemed nothing less than excitingly exotic. Of course, each thing that thrilled Louisa sent Nanny Blor into paroxysms of despair and frustration: the loos were filthy, the tea revolting and the men both suspicious and smelling strongly of garlic.
The house Lord and Lady Redesdale had taken for these weeks was close to the infamous Aunt Natty, of whom Nancy had breathlessly given Louisa a fulsome biography.
‘She’s had strings of lovers,’ she said, ‘at least two different fathers for her four children, not including her husband, and she’s mad for gambling, even though Farve says she has no money at all.’
‘Are you sure?’ whispered Louisa, this picture being entirely at odds with Lady Blanche’s white-haired appearance, albeit one which was never less than crisply stylish. Not to mention that her son-in-law was Secretary of State for the Colonies, Winston Churchill, of whom everybody said great things were destined.
Nancy and Louisa had been sent out to buy baguettes for luncheon and decided to stop and sit at a café close by the beach for a few minutes to watch the holidaying Parisians walk past, women in long white skirts with matching jackets, their ivory skin protected by parasols and their lips slashed with red lipstick, even at midday. No trace of sticky sand or melting ice-creams besmirched their carefully put-together looks, which was more than Louisa could say for herself, furiously rubbing at the splodges of glace á la framboise on her skirt.
‘I’ve written to Roland,’ said Nancy suddenly. ‘I couldn’t tell you before, I had to get you away from everyone, so I’m telling you now. I’ve told him we’re here, in case he could come.’
‘What? Why have you done that?’ said Louisa.
‘I want to see him again,’ said Nancy, ‘and I think he wants to see me, too. We’ve been writing to each other.’
‘But what about what happened after the dance? Lady Redesdale can’t possibly approve.’
‘The thing is, Farve likes him. I know they’ve met up and had luncheon in London. And Muv likes him too, really. She was all for recruiting him to help with the Conservative fete before that business about the party. And she doesn’t blame him for that, only me. Don’t worry, he won’t just turn up; I told him to write to Farve and ask. We’ve got plenty of room. Oh, Louisa, do be excited for me. It will make it much more fun if he’s here.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Louisa, though she felt far from sure of that. The narrow escape she had had from losing her job was not something she wished to risk again. ‘We’d better get back or Nanny Blor will be worried we’ve been kidnapped by the white slave traders,’ she said.
‘If only!’ joked Nancy, but she stood and they went on with their task, Nancy happily showing off the French she had learned at school. ‘Not,’ she had said to Louisa, ‘that they have taught me anything more than that and a bit of dancing.’ She had had a good time there, despite the cloud under which she had arrived, making friends with other girls and even finding an enthusiasm for the Girl Guides, though Louisa suspe
cted this was preferred as a device for torturing her sisters with endless tasks than for the practical joys of knots.
Back at the house, they rushed into the hallway with the bread still warm from the bakery and were instantly subdued by Nanny Blor rushing up and telling them to be quiet.
‘What’s happened?’ said Nancy.
‘I’m not quite sure but it’s bad news. A telegram arrived and your parents have been shut up in the salon for the last hour,’ said Nanny Blor, all but wringing her hands. ‘Quick, you had better get the bread to madame in the kitchen; luncheon’s almost ready.’
When Lord and Lady Redesdale were sitting down in the garden under the shade of the covered porch, Louisa was helping the cook to serve, as she had done each day of the trip. She didn’t mind as she enjoyed hearing the children chatter with their parents and was able to give a stern look if any of them misbehaved. Not that they usually did; the worst culprit was Unity, who occasionally slid right under the table and stayed there until luncheon was over, her parents choosing to ignore this oddity of behaviour altogether.
Today the mood was low, the children taking their cue from a white-faced Lady Redesdale and their father, who barely spoke louder than a mutter when asking someone to pass the salt. It was Nancy who forced them to explain what was going on.
‘It’s Aunt Natty’s son, Bill,’ said Lady Redesdale to Nancy. ‘He’s dead. And I’ve got to tell her.’
‘What?’ said Nancy. ‘Bill? But how? Was he ill? I didn’t know he was ill.’
There was silence from both her parents. Louisa was pouring out the fresh lemonade for the children and even the sound of the liquid splashing felt invasively loud. Nancy understood that this was not a time to pursue an answer and the rest of the luncheon was eaten in a muted tone, with only the younger children talking, and even then, not much.
Shortly after the table had been cleared away, Lady Redesdale departed alone, dressed completely in black. As she pulled on her gloves, she said that she could only hope Lady Blanche had not yet left her house for the casino. At this Lord Redesdale moaned and sat down heavily on to a chair that was too French to be comfortable.
Nancy kneeled down on the floor beside him and leaned her head against his knees. ‘Poor old man,’ she said as he wept quietly. He had only cried in front of his children once before, when he had heard the news of his older brother’s death at Loos in the war.
‘He was delirious today, I think,’ said Nancy, as she and Louisa sat drinking hot chocolate in the garden when the cool of the evening had settled. Everyone else had gone to bed, exhausted by the emotion of the day, even though little had been said by anybody about the reason for it.
Nancy and Louisa had discussed over and over again the episode in London when Bill had turned up in the night.
‘Farve said that Bill had asked him for money and he had refused him, because he had none to lend. And then he cried that Bill killed himself over gambling debts. I mean, it can’t be true, can it?’ said Nancy.
‘Which bit?’ asked Louisa. It was all rather a lot to take in.
‘Well, all of it. Does Farve have no money? That can’t be right. I know we’re not rich but I didn’t think that meant we had nothing at all.’
Louisa thought of Asthall Manor, the garden divided in two by a lane, a stream bursting with trout on one side, a garden full of vegetables and trees overhanging with fruit on the other. It wasn’t her idea of nothing at all. But perhaps he didn’t have much money in the bank. Her father used to tell her about toffs that had titles but lived off fried potatoes. Perhaps that was the Mitfords. It didn’t seem too likely but truth was often stranger than fiction, wasn’t that the saying?
‘Could Bill really have killed himself?’ continued Nancy. ‘How could he do that? Why would he do it?’
‘You mustn’t judge a man for that,’ said Louisa, ‘not until you’ve been in his shoes. He must have felt desperate, if that is what he did. He can’t have thought there was any other way out.’
Nancy drank the last of her cocoa and stood up. ‘Well, I don’t know what it’s all about but I’m going to bed. I hope Roland writes to Farve soon. We could do with some cheering up around here. Come on, Lou-Lou, let’s get our beauty sleep.’
With that, the day was over for Nancy, and she would think no more of Bill again, while his mother lay sobbing into her pillow less than a mile away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Five days later, Roland arrived at the house in Dieppe. The atmosphere was still depressed. Though the manner of Bill’s death had not been widely discussed, there was the matter of the autopsy, which meant the funeral would not take place as soon as might have been hoped by the family, who wanted the matter over. Lady Redesdale decided that they would remain in Dieppe for the time being, to protect her sister-in-law from harmful gossip and intrusive visitors, as far as they were able.
Lord Redesdale had not yet recovered his usual bark, but his bite, decided Nancy, was consequently far worse. Pamela, most unusually, was the suffering recipient of Rat Week – each daughter, for no apparent reason, would be chosen by His Lordship at different times to be the bearer of his brunt. This time he refused to even countenance Pamela’s face at the breakfast table, which only drew her into further quiet sobs. Louisa tried to comfort her by sneaking out almond biscuits from the kitchen.
Not quite fourteen years old, Pamela’s figure was starting to fill out in awkward places and Nancy delighted in calling her ‘Woman’, which Louisa judged sadistic, but nothing would stop her. Despite her distress, Pamela would never rise to Nancy’s teasing but would only walk away or stare into her lap, fat tears splashing down. Yet the second sister was far from being the passive lump Nancy made her out to be. Louisa had discovered that Pamela had a jolly outlook on things and her love of animals far outweighed any concern she had over what stupid humans might be doing. A walk with the dogs through the fields was enough to put her right. It added up to making her an attractive person to spend time with, and when Nancy was being at her meanest, Louisa was inclined to do just that.
So Louisa was taken aback, having not talked to Nancy much in the last few days, when she saw Roland in the garden before dinner, enjoying a gin and tonic that had been prepared for him by Lord Redesdale. He looked paler than before, though not so thin, and his eyes were still dark shadows in his handsome face. He wore a fashionable linen suit with a pale pink handkerchief in his top pocket, which gave him the air of a dandy. As he raised the glass to his lips, she noticed that his hands were trembling slightly, and wondered what he was nervous about. The two men were alone in the garden and their faces were serious, their voices low. Perhaps Lord Redesdale was telling him about Bill.
‘What are you doing, Louisa?’
She jumped. How long had Lady Redesdale been standing in the hall as Louisa looked through the window?
‘Nothing, my lady,’ she said hastily. ‘Beg pardon.’ She scuttled off back to the kitchen, where she had been headed to fetch some warm milk for Debo.
That night, Louisa was woken from her sleep by Nancy shaking her shoulder. ‘Lou-Lou, get up, please. It’s Roland – he’s making terrible noises.’
Louisa sat up, then felt the blood rush from her head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I can hear him crying or something. I don’t know. I can’t go in there. No one else will either, I know. Please, Lou. It sounds so ghastly.’ Nancy’s face was stricken. ‘I don’t understand it. We had a lovely evening, we all had supper and even Aunt Natty seemed a bit better. I was reading in bed when I heard these noises …’
Louisa got up and pulled on a jumper over her nightdress. ‘You’d better go back to your room,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t look right if you were found with him. It’ll only be a bad dream or something.’
Nancy nodded and returned to her bed, while Louisa padded down the hallway. It wasn’t a large house, nowhere near as big as Asthall, and the bedrooms were all relatively close together. Though Lord and Lady Redesdale o
ccupied a large room on the floor below, all the children’s bedrooms and guest rooms were on the top floor. As Louisa got closer to what she knew must be Roland’s, she heard sounds like a dying animal. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and went in.
There was a single iron bedstead in the corner and a wooden painted chest of drawers in the other, though Roland’s clothes were neatly folded over the back of a chair. He was lying on the top of the bed, the sheets flung to the floor, the pillow by his feet. Though the night was chilly, he was sweating profusely, his hair slick, dark patches showing under the arms of his pyjamas. His eyes were wide open but unseeing and he tore at his face, his knees tucked up to his chest.
Louisa didn’t think as she went over and instinctively wrapped her arms around him, making soothing noises. She was unsure whether to try and wake him out of his dream, if it was a dream. His open eyes were disturbing. He was calling out his own name, as if he was trying to warn himself of something, then would suddenly subside into a fresh round of choking sobs. Louisa had left the door to his room open but the hallway remained dark and nobody else came. There was no light on in his room but the moon shone through the thin white curtains, so Louisa could see his forehead smooth as he calmed beneath her embrace. As she stroked his head, she heard him say, ‘Thank you, Nurse Shore, I feel much better now.’
Louisa’s heart stopped, or so it felt like, but she remained where she was and, after only the slightest hesitation, resumed her rhythmic strokes. His breathing was almost steady now and his eyes had long closed. The nightmare had ended but the dream was still there. Once or twice more he thanked ‘Nurse Shore’.
Slowly, carefully, she moved away from him, moved the pillow back beneath his head, put the sheet and a blanket across him, then stole out of the room, closing the door behind her. Roland would never know she had been there.
The Mitford Murders Page 19