‘Childhood might really almost be over, Lou,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Or you could just be making up the numbers,’ said Louisa, and then felt guilty at Nancy’s crestfallen face.
There were, however, bigger things on her mind. Finally, when the dinner gong had sounded and the younger children were in bed, Louisa snuck across to where the guest bedrooms lay. She didn’t know for certain which room Roland would have been put in, but there were only ever three or four made up at any one time. As she hesitated on the landing, Louisa heard the voice of Mrs Windsor talking to Ada. In haste, she opened the first door on the left and ran in, surprising both herself and a woman who was sitting before the dressing table, trying to do up the clasp on her necklace.
‘Yes?’ said the woman. She looked to be a contemporary of Lady Redesdale’s and was a striking beauty. Her lips had been painted dark red and Louisa was awestruck by the daring of it.
‘Beg pardon, ma’am,’ said Louisa, giving a little bob. ‘Mrs Windsor sent me up to see if I might be of assistance. Everyone else is at dinner. Might I help you with your necklace?’ She stepped forwards and did the clasp with efficiency. ‘Would you like anything else, ma’am?’
‘Well, I—’ the woman began, but Louisa had already started to back away to the door.
‘Glad to be of assistance, ma’am. Good evening.’ And she darted out into the hall again, leaving the woman staring at herself in the mirror as if she’d been had.
Directly opposite was a guest room with only a single bed in it, the walls simply painted in dark green; it was the room usually given to bachelors in a shooting party. Louisa took a chance this would be Roland’s and stepped inside. A lamp on the table had been left on, the bedspread was crumpled, as if someone had laid upon it for a nap, and there was a book left open upon it – The Turn of the Screw. In the flyleaf, Louisa could see in faint pencil: R Lucknor. This was the right room.
His clothes had been neatly folded and his jacket was hanging on the back of the door. Louisa thought she recognised it with its slightly worn look to the cuffs and a button re-stitched with mismatching thread. There was a leather bag on the floor. Louisa kneeled down and put her hand inside, feeling the soft wool of pairs of socks. She didn’t know what she was looking for, except that she wanted to find anything that he might have deliberately hidden.
There were footsteps in the hall. She paused and listened, though it was hard to hear over the blood rushing in her ears, but they walked on past. Louisa felt around the edges of the bag and then the loose, silk-covered strip of cardboard that lay on the bottom came away and beneath it … Yes. There were two slim bank books with hard covers. Inside were the usual notations of money in and money out. It didn’t really mean anything to her, but what was puzzling was that one book was in the name of Roland Lucknor and the other was in the name of someone called Alexander Waring. Why would he have someone else’s bank book?
In the hall, a door banged shut and Louisa’s heart jumped with it. She stashed the books into her pocket and crept out of the room.
Back in the nursery, where Nanny Blor was dozing by the fire, her knitting on her lap, Louisa couldn’t believe what she’d done. But it was too late now. All she knew was that she’d do her very best to stop Nancy from getting any further involved with Roland.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was 4 p.m. and Louisa was sitting in a booth at the Swan Inn with Ada, the two of them enjoying the rare coincidence of having an afternoon off at the same time. They’d enjoyed wasting an hour at the chemist looking at ribbons and bottles of eau de toilette that they could never afford, then gone for a glass of sherry at the pub. It would be supremely frowned upon by Mrs Windsor, but Louisa had had her arm easily twisted. Time with Ada was always a pleasure; she was never less than a sight that cheered, with her perfect white teeth and freckles on her nose that didn’t fade, even in the bleakest midwinter.
‘To be honest, I was hoping we might see Jonny in here,’ said Ada, when they were halfway through their drinks.
‘Jonny? The boy from the blacksmith?’
‘He’s not a boy, he’s a man of twenty-three,’ said Ada. ‘And he’s ever so nice.’
‘Just don’t let Lady Redesdale catch you,’ said Louisa. ‘All hell broke out when their last nursery maid ran off with the butcher’s boy. I got her job, so I’m not crying into my soup for her, but … Go on, then.’ She nudged Ada with her elbow, feeling jocular. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nice girls don’t tell,’ said Ada, but she snickered into her drink.
Louisa was about to drop another tease when something flashed in the corner of her eye. She looked down and saw a black-and-white dog run around the corner of the bar. She shrank back into her seat.
‘What is it?’ said Ada.
Louisa shook her head. She heard a short, sharp whistle and then she knew. Stephen.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.
Louisa ran to a side door of the bar, taking the risk that Stephen would be coming in behind Socks. She pushed the door open and kept on running, hardly daring to look behind her. No one shouted after her and she didn’t stop until she was out on the road back to Asthall Manor, panting from the heat and the fear.
What was Stephen doing here? It could only mean one thing.
He meant to ruin her.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The next morning, having had a night without a wink of sleep, Louisa rose early. There was no sound except for the prattle of birds on the roof. Even the children were still sleeping, their chests rising and falling almost in unison, their breathing steady. She went down to the kitchen, where thankfully Mrs Stobie wasn’t yet at work. With a cup of tea at her side, she wrote to Jennie – she needed to know if Stephen had said anything to her mother, though she thought it pretty unlikely, and in any case it would take Jennie a week to reply at least. In the meantime, she had to confront this situation sooner rather than later.
After all this time, why would he come looking for her again? And why would he stay in a pub nearby and not come to find her at Asthall Manor? Most likely he was intimidated by the house and the people he guessed would live there.
This line of questioning had no sooner calmed her than the answers she came up with unnerved her all over again: because he had run out of money or luck, or both; because he had discovered at last where she was and, after looking for so long, he was angry.
When – there was no ‘if’ – he got desperate, he’d be at the front door and her job would be gone. No one wanted a nursery maid who brought violence to the house, and Stephen meant violence.
Well before that happened, she had to get a grip on it. Ada had had a glimpse of Louisa’s distinctly murky past, for Louisa had to explain why she ran out so suddenly, and though she knew Ada was a loyal friend, she also knew gossip was as good as gold for a trade in the village. It wouldn’t be long before she would hardly be able to go to the post office without people giving her looks and whispering. Everything she had achieved since she’d got to Asthall – gone, undone in an instant. She wanted to howl with rage and fury.
She couldn’t go to the Swan herself to ask if he was staying there. If he saw her, she’d be defenceless. There was nothing else to do but to ask someone to help her. As to who that could be, however, Louisa was completely stuck. She needed brute strength, but there were no male servants in the house and she was on no more than nodding terms with any man in the village.
Believing her uncle to be close by threw Louisa completely off-course and over the next few days Nanny Blor commented several times on Louisa’s absence of mind.
‘You’d lose your own head if it wasn’t screwed on,’ she said after Louisa went into the nursery to fetch a pair of socks for Diana and came out with a vest.
Not to mention that Louisa found excuses not to go to the village if an errand were required, though at least she could rely on Ada to cover for her a little. Lady Redesdale, too, showed impatience when Louisa brought th
e children down for tea but failed to notice that Decca was wiping her hands on the sofa cushions after eating cake.
All the while, no matter what task she had in hand, Louisa worried away at what Stephen was doing, what he was saying to the villagers about her and whether he might suddenly turn up at the door, like one of Nanny’s proverbial bad pennies. She didn’t want to alarm anyone so kept this to herself, burrowing into the darker recesses of her mind like the moles that were ruining the lawn tennis court.
‘Oh my goodness, Elinor Glyn here, lying on a tiger skin. Better not let Muv see this …’ Nancy giggled as she idly flicked through the pages of Vogue in the nursery before dinner. ‘Louisa? Don’t you think?’
Louisa still failed to respond.
‘Oh, honestly, Lou! What is going on with you?’
Louisa looked stricken. She couldn’t live alone with the worry and decided to tell Nancy what had happened.
‘Well, he won’t come here,’ said Nancy. ‘He’d be far too frightened of Farve.’
‘I think you’re probably right,’ said Louisa, ‘but I’ve got to do something about it. I’ve been too afraid to go to the village for days. Nanny Blor already thinks something’s up and Lady Redesdale has had a sharp word with me twice in the last week.’
‘Yes, you can’t have Muv getting too cross. She’s liable to sack you on a trifling. When she was my age she ran her father’s house and had to stand up to some grumpy footman or other, which is why we’ve never had a male servant. She won’t stand for any—’ Nancy saw Louisa’s face. ‘Oh, don’t fret, Lou. You’re safe here, I know it. Look, I’m sure there’s something we could do. What about Roland? He’s coming to luncheon the day after tomorrow. He was in the war; he’s probably got a gun.’
‘A gun! I don’t want anything like that. I just need Stephen scared off,’ said Louisa. The almost certain knowledge – for that is what it had become in her mind now – that Roland had something to do with Florence Shore meant he had started to assume almost monstrous proportions. She felt the old, but well-worn feeling of fear clothe her in its black rags.
‘I’m not saying he has to use it. I just mean he probably has one. Tom’s always going on about the Webley revolvers that officers were issued. He could wave it about a bit or something.’
‘But why would he do anything like that for me?’ said Louisa. Nancy wasn’t helping her feel any calmer.
‘I don’t know,’ said Nancy, exasperated. ‘You may as well ask him. If he says no, we’ll have to think of something else.’ She picked up her magazine again. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing him. Now that I’ve been on the Continent, I’m sure I impress him as a femme du monde, don’t you think, Lou? Shall I wear my hair-slide?’
So that was that, then, thought Louisa. Roland Lucknor was her solution. She had to hope he wouldn’t be her problem, too.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Guy and Harry were taking a desultory walk at the tail end of Victoria station, far enough away from the noisy commuters with their incessant, pointless questions – ‘Is this platform six?’ asked while standing underneath the sign – yet close enough to smell the heavy, black oil that coated the huge wheels of dormant trains, waiting for the whistle that would spring them into life.
They were on their usual daily round, a dull job that was barely relieved by the sight of a tramp trying to catch a kip in an empty carriage. The three of them went into their routine, each accusation met by a polished protestation, and completed in the exact same unheeded way.
‘Be off with you,’ said Harry, though he found it hard to put a note of spontaneity into it any more, he had repeated the line so many times, ‘and don’t come back.’
The tramp shook his fist at them and disappeared around the corner, where they knew he’d wait five minutes until he could safely put himself back in the carriage for a couple of hours. Guy failed to resist looking back to see the old man peer around the pillar, his filthy white beard hanging over his donkey jacket, making sure the two policemen walked out of sight.
‘I think he just stuck his tongue out at me,’ he said to Harry.
Harry laughed. Nothing could put him out of his good mood. Later that evening he’d be on the stage of the Blue Nightingale club, his saxophone firmly gripped, his eyes tight shut, his hips swaying to the intoxicating sounds of ragtime.
‘Why don’t you come along tonight?’ he asked. ‘Mae will be there and she’s sure to have a pal along …’
Guy sighed and looked down at his diminutive friend, but not without a smile. ‘Thanks but it’s not really for me.’ They walked on a few paces more, their eyes adjusting to the fading light and only just spotted a grey mouse darting along the platform ahead of them. ‘You see, the thing is, I can’t—’
‘If you say you can’t forget Miss Cannon, I’ll lamp you one,’ interrupted Harry. ‘What are you waiting for, man? She’ll be off with someone else if you don’t look out, and then what will you do? I can’t listen to your pining for the rest of my days.’
Guy went pink. ‘I wasn’t going to say that,’ he fibbed. ‘But it is hopeless. I can’t marry anyone on my wages, and Mother still needs the few bob I give her. I know you’re right, but I’m stuck.’
‘Do you know if she’s got anyone else?’ said Harry, a little more sympathetically this time.
‘No,’ said Guy. ‘I mean, I don’t think so. I write to her, now and then. When I’ve got something to say. But there’s not been much lately.’
‘Does she write you back?’
‘Yes, and she’s friendly enough. I can’t really tell what she means by it, though. I thought she liked me but I’m not so sure now …’
Harry stopped and put his hand on Guy’s arm. ‘Hang on – is that someone calling you down there?’
Guy pushed his hat back and squinted. They had turned about and were walking towards the main concourse, where men and women were swarming beneath the noticeboard, but a young man in the distinctive railway policeman’s livery was waving at them as he walked, almost ran, down the long platform.
‘Sully!’ he called out. ‘The super wants to see you.’ Guy and Harry broke out into a brisk near-run and caught up with him as he stopped to catch his breath. ‘Now. In his office.’
‘Thanks,’ said Guy. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said to Harry.
‘What’s it about?’ shouted Harry after him.
‘No idea,’ Guy called back as he ran off.
At the office, Guy knocked on the door and had almost stepped in before Jarvis had time to tell him to enter. He stood to attention and pushed his glasses back up to the top of his nose.
‘Reporting, sir,’ he said. ‘You wanted to see me?’
The super was sitting at his desk, holding a letter in his hand. He looked at Guy seriously but said nothing. Guy shifted on his feet a little and gave a nervous cough.
Jarvis leaned forwards, both elbows on his blotter pad, and put the letter down before him. He gave a sigh, then said, ‘The Met have been in touch. They’re on my back, Sullivan. And I wonder if you’re to blame.’
‘Me, sir?’ said Guy, looking confused. ‘What for, sir?’
‘For carrying out investigations not under orders, Sullivan.’
Guy looked at him blankly. Then he realised. ‘The Florence Shore murder, sir?’
‘Yes, the Florence Shore murder. Have you been sticking your nose where it isn’t wanted, Sullivan?’
‘Well, sir, the thing is, in a way. But it was a long time ago.’
Jarvis banged the table and Guy jumped. ‘Don’t make this any worse than it has to be. I like you, Sullivan. You show promise. But if you lie to me—’
‘I’m not, sir,’ said Guy. ‘I swear I’m not. I went to see Baroness Farina in Tonbridge, sir. In April, I think, last year. But she didn’t have much to say and nothing really came of it, sir.’
‘Nothing?’ This, accompanied by a stern look.
‘Well … she mentioned … she mentioned her son, a Mr Stuart H
obkirk. He’s an artist, living in St Ives, and he stood to receive an inheritance on Miss Shore’s death, sir, as I’d mentioned to you.’ He paused and realised that he had better finish what he’d started. ‘Last summer, I saw that Mr Hobkirk had an exhibition in London, so I went to see him there. It was by chance, sir. A lady friend of mine wanted to go and I happened to see him.’ Guy wished he could cross his fingers as he said this.
Jarvis said nothing but his lips had gone thinner.
Guy went on. ‘He didn’t say much, sir. Only that he had been very fond of his cousin. I observed that he had a hobble and used a walking stick, so was unlikely to be the man the train guard observed jumping down from the train at Lewes. His alibi also stood up and I was able to talk to two of the guests there who said they were with him on the day of the attack on Miss Shore.’
There was a deathly pause.
‘I see,’ said Jarvis. ‘So not only did you go to see the Baroness Farina, somehow believing you would find out more from her than the combined efforts of three police forces and two inquests, but after I told you there was nothing to investigate when it came to Stuart Hobkirk, you chose to disregard my orders altogether. I am staggered, Sullivan. What’s more, you are still lying to me!’ He thumped the desk again, harder this time.
Guy took a deep breath. ‘No, sir, I’m not. I saw Mabel Rogers, sir, but not on police business.’
Jarvis looked as if he had a fish bone stuck in this throat. His eyes goggled and he made a rasping sound.
‘I wanted to offer my condolences, sir. We didn’t discuss the case.’
‘Then why has Stuart Hobkirk written to the Met, asking them to cease and desist with their enquiries, as he found the last interview – I quote – “deeply upsetting”?’
‘That wasn’t me, sir. On my honour.’
‘I can’t bear to hear any more, Sullivan. Every single thing you say is making this worse. As if the Met wasn’t always looking down their noses at us as it is, it looks as if I can’t control my own men.’
The Mitford Murders Page 21