‘I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’ Guy looked at the floor. He didn’t know what to do. He could only tell the truth of it, pathetic though it seemed. Which begged the question: who the hell had been to see Stuart Hobkirk?
‘I had high hopes for you, Sullivan,’ Jarvis said. ‘High hopes. But I can’t do anything more. Talking to witnesses on this case, in whatever capacity, but especially without my permission, means instant dismissal. Get out of my office and leave your badge at the front desk. You won’t be needing it again.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
On the second – and last – day of the house party, luncheon would be served promptly at a quarter to one, and afterwards Nancy was to invite Mr Lucknor for a walk around the garden, chaperoned by Louisa. All Louisa had to do was prepare for that walk and the request they were going to make of him. She was as jumpy as a grasshopper but she knew it had to be done: she had to put an end to her fear of Stephen. He was a weak man; a fright, a threat from a real man would be enough to see him off, she was sure of that. She just had to trust in Nancy to play her part.
Louisa bent down, kissed Decca on the head and took her hand to take her up to the nursery for their own luncheon. Funny how she called it that now without even thinking about it. Her old friends back home would think her a changed person. She hoped she was.
At half past two, the sun glaring, Louisa was summoned to the drawing room by Lady Redesdale, as she hoped she would be. Louisa and Nancy planned that she would encourage her mother to send for the children. Approaching the room, she could hear the murmurs of womanly chatter, which fell silent as she entered. There were three female houseguests – including the beauty Louisa had startled in her room – each one perched on the very edge of their chairs, tiny coffee cups balanced on saucers they held uncomfortably in the air. Nancy was on the rug, arranging her skirt prettily around her.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Lady Redesdale, as if she had been waiting some time for Louisa’s arrival, when in fact she had come down the stairs seconds after the bell had rung. ‘I’d like you to bring the children in to meet everyone. They’ve been learning poems. Then when you’ve done that, fetch Mr Lucknor from Lord Redesdale’s study.’
This last instruction was unexpected. Louisa went back up the stairs and hurried with Nanny to get the children presentable, Decca squirming away from the blue flannel dress that Nanny was trying to jam over her head.
Tom was hopping about with excitement at the prospect of meeting an officer. ‘Will he have his revolver with him?’ he asked Louisa. ‘I’d like to see a real soldier’s gun. Officers were issued Webley revolvers, so he probably has a Mark Six—’
‘Don’t talk such nonsense, darling,’ she interrupted, having learned some of Nanny’s idioms. ‘Go and find your jacket, please.’
When all of them were as ready as they could be – Pamela nervous, Tom eager, Diana butter-meltingly beautiful, Unity scowling, Decca excited (Debo too tiny to join them) – they were led downstairs by Nanny and Louisa into the drawing room, where all the women, except Nancy and Lady Redesdale, exclaimed coos of pleasure at their arrival. Nanny stayed with them, while Louisa went to fetch Mr Lucknor from Lord Redesdale’s study, on the other side of the house.
As Louisa approached the door, she heard raised voices: the strident tones of Lord Redesdale were booming, while Roland’s were quieter but with enough of a timbre to be distinctly heard through a solid oak door. She couldn’t make out the words but it seemed that while Lord Redesdale was hitting his stride, there was something defensive in his voice; he was interrupting himself in order to hear Roland, who was speaking much more calmly, although assertively.
Louisa hesitated to interrupt but knew if she didn’t, someone else would. Lady Redesdale would be waiting impatiently as the charms of the children started to wear off for the guests. And Louisa still needed to ask Roland for the favour. Nervously, she knocked and, without thinking, turned the handle.
Almost at once, she realised her mistake. As the door opened, she heard Lord Redesdale before she saw his face, contorted by anger: ‘For God’s sake, I’m not going to give you any more money!’ Then he eyeballed Louisa and looked on the point of actually exploding. Roland, whose back was to the door, turned and she could have sworn he looked as if he was about to give her a wink he was so unruffled.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before she said, ‘Excuse me, my lord. Her Ladyship has asked if Mr Lucknor could come to the drawing room to hear the children recite their poems.’
She gave a tiny bob and then shut the door behind her. She went back down the hall, pausing to lean into the shadows and steady her breathing. A few seconds later, she heard the door open and close again, then the footsteps of Roland as he caught up with her.
‘Miss Cannon,’ he said. ‘Can I have a word?’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Louisa halted and turned to face him. That he wanted to talk to her had thrown her off-guard. And then there was the simple, blinding fact that to be so close to him made her hold her breath. His nearly-black eyes looked down straight into hers and his mouth was set in a straight line. He was near enough that she could feel his warm breath. One hand was on her shoulder, the other loose at his side, his long fingers less than an inch from touching hers.
‘I hear you’re suffering,’ he said. ‘Your uncle Stephen.’
The shock of hearing Roland say his name made Louise stumble two steps back, though he had crowded her against the wall. ‘How did you know?’ she said.
‘Nancy whispered something to me before lunch. Don’t worry – I want to help you.’
Goddamn Nancy.
‘I know men like that,’ he continued. ‘They’re all bark and no bite.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true in his case,’ said Louisa, but she remembered how Roland had seen that man off after the ball in London.
‘He might be able to bully and frighten you,’ he continued, ‘but if I talk to him, he’ll go, I know it. Give me something I can use against him.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Louisa was whispering now.
‘I’ll find him. He’s staying nearby, isn’t he? I’ll let him know that if he comes back, he’ll worry for his life.’
‘I don’t understand – why would you do this for me?’
Roland looked behind him, checking that Lord Redesdale’s study door was shut. It was, and his gramophone was playing a soprano by his adored Amelita Galli-Curci at high volume.
‘Because I need your help here in the house. There are things you can do for me. Let’s just say, we’re both in need of a little assistance right now. What do you say?’
What? she thought. What did she say?
She shivered, whether from the cold of the passage or Roland’s nearness, Louisa couldn’t be sure. There was just one lamp lit on a small console table, throwing them both into shadow.
‘It’s probably wrong of me to ask you but I think we can help each other,’ he continued. ‘Tell me something about this Mr Stephen Cannon that I can use.’
‘Tell him that you were sent by Mr Liam Mahoney in Hastings,’ she said. She had had time to think this through in the last few days and she was glad of it now. ‘But I don’t understand – will you really do this for me?’
‘Yes,’ said Roland, bending close to her. ‘I’ll do it. But I need a little something from you first.’
‘What?’ she breathed.
‘I need you to be my champion in the house. I’m having some … difficulties with Lord Redesdale. He’s a little reluctant to invest further in my golf business. Nothing I can’t handle, you understand. But I don’t want to be cut off from Miss Mitford.’
‘What do you mean?’
Roland’s face softened. ‘She’s a dear thing. And she’s nearly eighteen …’
‘You want … what? Not marriage, surely?’ said Louisa. This threw a spoke in the wheels.
Roland didn’t reply to this but looked away. There was a momentary silence. Sh
e had to get him to the drawing room soon, otherwise Lady Redesdale would wonder what had happened and Nancy would start getting agitated. But she had to ask him about Nurse Shore. Only … she wanted him to get rid of Stephen first.
‘Please. You have to trust me. Do you trust me, Louisa?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly.
‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I’ll prove myself to you. Then you can talk to Nancy for me.’
Shakily, Louisa outlined their plan: after coffee, Nancy would suggest a walk around the garden with Roland and Louisa, saying it would be good for him to have some fresh air before his train back to London. That would give him time to go and see Stephen at the Swan Inn. Earlier, Nancy had propped up a bicycle by the door in the garden wall that led straight out on to the road, so he could get out without being seen by anyone at the house. She didn’t say the word exactly, but it was understood that should anything happen to Stephen, she and Nancy would be Roland’s alibis.
This had all seemed like a good plan earlier, when she and Nancy were cooking it up, but now, confronted with the reality of it, it seemed hopeless at best, reckless and dangerous at worst. The memory of Roland calling out Nurse Shore’s name had also returned with heightened clarity; any doubts she had had in the last few months that he had said it disappeared. Not to mention those bank books, stuffed at the back of her wardrobe. Appalled at what she had done, she hadn’t looked at them since she’d taken them.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. But remember: I know the power of servants in a house like this. I need you to tell Nancy that I’m the one for her. You will owe me that.’
Louisa said yes. What else could she do?
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
In the bottom garden, Louisa and Nancy sat in the summer house by the bathing pool, surrounded by a copse of trees. Even if Nanny Blor took the other girls out for a walk, they wouldn’t be seen. The summer house was wooden and shabby, with no glass in the window frames, letting the wind and the early golden leaves blow right through. Louisa looked up at the dusty eaves, every corner thick with old spiderwebs, the paint peeling like bark on a rotting tree. She shivered and wondered, again, if she had done the right thing.
Roland had left behind his overcoat, a snappy trench, together with a pale blue cashmere scarf and a homburg hat. He had snuck out wearing a tweed cap, which Nancy had snatched out of the boot room, and a dark-green wax jacket. They huddled together on the bench, an old rug on their knees. Louisa hoped they wouldn’t have to wait too long. It wasn’t yet unbearably cold but the frightened silence made time stop still. They watched a wood beetle cross the floor and almost lost patience with its ambling insouciance – didn’t it want to get to the other side?
‘It’ll be tea soon. Let’s just go back inside and wait for him there,’ said Nancy.
‘We can’t do that. Please, just a little longer,’ said Louisa, with more surety than she felt, alongside frustration that Nancy didn’t appear to understand the seriousness of what was happening. How, exactly, would Roland see Stephen off? Would Stephen even take any notice? Fear gripped her. What if her uncle attacked Roland and he came back injured? What if he didn’t come back at all?
Nancy stood up and stretched her arms. ‘I’m bored.’
Louisa looked about her helplessly. ‘We could play a game?’
‘What? I spy? No, thank you.’ Nancy walked over to Roland’s coat and picked it up. ‘I like his coat. It’s completely wrong for a day in the country, of course, but very stylish in London.’ She held it up to her nose. ‘It smells of him, sort of woody and nice.’
‘Put it down, Nancy,’ said Louisa. ‘We can play Botticelli.’
Nancy ignored her and instead started to put the coat on, wrapping it tightly around herself and burying her face in the collar. It was far too long for her and the hem was brushing in the twigs and dusty leaves on the floor.
‘You’ll make it filthy – take it off!’ Louisa was panicked, she wasn’t sure why, but it felt intrusive to wear his coat.
Nancy peeped over the collar and wiggled her eyebrows playfully. ‘Don’t be a silly.’ She stuck her hands in the pockets and started to pull things out. ‘One handkerchief – clean. That’s a good sign. No one likes a man with a snotty nose. Two keys on a ring. That suggests a flat – a shared front door and then his door. One key would be a house, which would be preferable, but one can’t have everything, can one?’ She was smiling, enjoying the naughtiness.
Louisa was not. ‘Please, stop it. Supposing he comes back?’
‘He won’t, and why should he mind, anyway? One wallet – ooh, what’s in here? Two pounds and an ID card. Look at this, Lou-Lou! Roland Oliver Lucknor. I didn’t know his middle name was Oliver.’
Louisa was afraid of what Nancy might find. She didn’t want her to discover that she had done a deal with the devil and she knew that nobody who snooped ever found anything that made them feel better.
‘I don’t want any part of this, Nancy.’
‘Spoilsport.’ But she put the card back in the wallet and the wallet back in the pocket. As Nancy took the coat off, her attention was caught by something else. ‘What’s this? An inside pocket.’
Louisa buried her face in her hands, but she couldn’t deny her attention was caught, too.
‘A book – Les Illuminations by Rimbaud. French poetry,’ said Nancy, turning the pages. ‘That’s rather romantic. There’s an inscription in here: “For Xander, Tu est mon autre, R.”‘ She paused, thinking. ‘Why would you have someone else’s book? I suppose he must have borrowed it from someone.’
Louisa was watching her carefully now. ‘Nancy, don’t. It’s not any of your business.’
Nancy shrugged. ‘It might be. I’m only looking in a book, I’m not opening any letters.’ But she put it back, folded the coat on the bench and sat down next to Louisa to wait a little longer.
It was still light when Roland returned and the temperature had dropped noticeably, but when he took off the wax jacket, Louisa caught a glimpse of dark patches of sweat on his shirt. He had entered the summer house quietly; they’d not noticed him until he was standing there before them, his face set in stone.
‘It’s done,’ he said grimly. ‘He won’t be bothering you again.’
‘Did you—’ Louisa started to say but Roland cut her off.
‘I’m not discussing it. I just came to let you know. Will you please send my apologies to Lady Redesdale? Tell her I had to leave to catch my train. Perhaps you might be so good as to ask the driver if he could take me to the station now?’
‘Yes,’ said Louisa, hardly able to speak. She still felt worried, despite Roland’s assurance that Stephen would be leaving her alone from now on. She knew Stephen, she knew what it would take to make him go away, and she couldn’t bring herself to admit that Roland might have been capable of it. She thought she could see tiny flecks of blood on his shirt collar and shut her eyes, like a child. If you can’t see it, it’s not there.
He turned to Nancy. ‘I’ll write to you soon. Think well of me, won’t you?’
Nancy nodded, stupefied by the intensity of the atmosphere.
In less than quarter of an hour, Roland was in the car, out of the gate and on to the road. Louisa, back in the house, watched with Nancy from her bedroom window, their arms linked, their faces pale. They had brought something about, Louisa thought, and they didn’t yet know what. She hoped they never truly would.
19 May 1917
Ypres
My dearest love,
One night we were warned in advance that the shelling would be very bad – usually it is hard to know what is going on unless one runs outside and grabs someone to ask – so we were all moved into the cellars of a building close by. It was a hideous, exhausting operation, carried out by the nurses and one or two soldiers who are not so badly wounded and can walk. There were just two candles, so we sat in the near-dark, listening to the shells – four a minute – waiting to see if one had landed o
n us, hearing it crash elsewhere and then waiting for the next.
Roland Lucknor, who has always been resilient and charming, despite the constant pain he is in from an early gas attack, became hysterical in the middle of it. He started laughing absurdly, then this turned into a kind of screaming sob, which he would not quieten. I tried being alternately sympathetic and firm, but nothing worked. Eventually his batman came over, a sweet fellow called Xander, and started singing French love songs in his ear – at least, that’s what they sounded like to me – which calmed him down. The two of them knew each other before the war, in Paris, I gather, in rather a louche atmosphere of writers and artists.
Roland, by now in a sort of hallucinatory hysteria, started calling for his mother and curled right into Xander’s chest, who held him tightly in his arms. As it was so dark, no one else could see, and I know others would be affronted by this but, poor fellows, who is anyone to judge if the only comfort they are to get is from each other? If they believe those arms belong to their mothers, I, for one, am not going to deny them.
Rather sadly, the next day when we were back above ground again, Roland and Xander had a terrible row, shouting at each other in the ward. I hurried over to them, to try and calm them down, but seemed to make it worse. I don’t know what it was about; perhaps Roland had realised what had happened and was humiliated.
It’s been so many months now, I hardly dare hope that you are still waiting for me, but a little hope is what pulls us through, so I cling on to it nonetheless. Think kindly of your poor, pathetic friend, please.
Most tender love,
Flo
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Guy walked along the side of the road towards what he hoped was Asthall Manor. He’d been walking for two hours from the station and he could feel the sharp air with each intake of breath. Gusts of wind blew meagre heaps of yellowing leaves ahead of him, as if someone had torn the pages out of an old book in a temper.
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