Nancy turned to Guy, who was now standing close by. ‘Don’t you see?’ she said, unable to contain herself. ‘It’s not who the will was changed to that matters. It’s who it was changed from.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Louisa looked at the handle and understood. The fur coat. The necklace. The closed window of the train door. It had all happened at Victoria station.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘You killed your friend.’
Mabel said nothing.
‘Did Roland even have anything to do with it at all?’
There was no sound but for the click-click of the windscreen wipers. No sight beyond the pitch black outside the car windows.
Guy and Nancy pushed their way through the guests, one or two of them shouting out after Nancy, bemused at her leaving her own party. They ran from the library and into the Cloisters, the smoke from the stoves still thick and odorous.
‘Where is Louisa?’ said Nancy. ‘Why isn’t she here yet?’
‘She’s with Mabel,’ said Guy, his mind a clash of thoughts like a whirligig. ‘I see it now: Mabel has come here to frame Roland, not identify him.’ He stopped and went still. ‘The driver.’ The realisation of the danger he had put Louisa in made his heart turn to ice.
‘What?’ said Nancy. ‘Talk sense, for god’s sake.’
‘The driver,’ said Guy, trying not to stammer over his words. ‘That is, your regular driver, he was missing his uniform tonight – someone had taken it.’
‘You think Mabel has an accomplice? Someone who was here?’
‘Of course,’ said Guy. ‘She didn’t do it herself. She had a man with her. Two people, we said, remember?’ He ran his hands through his hair and his eyes sprang wide. ‘That man, the porter. Jim. How could I have been so stupid?’
‘What’s going on?’ said a man’s voice. Nancy jumped. ‘I saw you run out. Are you all right?’
‘Oh, Roland!’ said Nancy as she turned around. ‘It wasn’t you, it wasn’t you.’ She threw herself into his arms.
‘What do you mean?’ said Roland, thoroughly at a loss as to what was going on.
Guy hesitated. This man may not have killed Florence Shore but he was not free from suspicion altogether. ‘Mabel Rogers is on her way here with Louisa and we have reason to believe she is responsible for the murder of Florence Shore.’
At once, Guy saw the shock register on Roland’s face. ‘Where are they?’ he said.
‘Close by, we think,’ said Guy, ‘they’re driving from the station.’
‘We need to get a car and find them,’ said Roland. ‘We need to go now.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The blood rushed in Louisa’s ears, momentarily blocking all sound. The black of night outside the car made her feel blind, like a mole. She pushed open the heavy car door and stumbled out, immediately assaulted by the pouring rain, which cleansed her. Though she held the umbrella in her hand, she did not think to open it. A surge of power went through her, as if the fear and the knowledge she now held within her would give her the strength to swim the Channel. She felt unassailable. Then she turned and saw the glint of a knife and knew that she wasn’t.
Louisa walked in front of the car, its engine humming, the headlamps like a lighthouse in the ocean. Everything was happening at the pace of her heartbeat, fast but rhythmic. Mabel and the driver came around from the other side of the car and stood before her, their pale faces like satellite moons to her burning sun, her rage. She thought of Florence Shore, that brave, steady woman who had done so much for so many, met with a violent, undeserved, ignominious ending on a train. Abandoned without dignity somewhere between Victoria and Lewes, broken spectacles on the floor, underclothes torn, sentimental jewels ripped from her fingers. Left to be discovered by three slow-moving labourers at Polegate. She had deserved better; anyone deserved better. It enraged Louisa, the anger and the courage engulfing her like flames licking the roof of a tall building.
‘It was you,’ she said. ‘You killed Florence Shore.’
Mabel said nothing, her eyes blacker than the sky above her.
‘I suppose he did it for you.’ Louisa gestured to the driver, the knife in his hand. He looked old, she thought, too old for this. She noticed a scar on his chin. ‘That letter – you knew the batman was shot by his officer, that it wasn’t suicide. It wasn’t Florence who went to argue with him at the flat. The lady in the fur coat – it was you.’ She was almost talking to herself now, daring herself to say it out loud. If you said it, it came true.
In a flash, like lightning in a storm, the driver ran over and grabbed Louisa, holding the knife to her throat.
‘Careful, Jim!’ cried Mabel, and Louisa heard the fear catching in her voice. ‘We don’t know who’s here.’
The air moved around them; there was a surge from somewhere, Louisa didn’t know where. She could no longer tell what was her, what was water, what was another body. Then Mabel shouted and Louisa saw Roland. He came out of the dark, into the headlights, like a dancer stepping on the stage. He ran to Mabel and held her by the shoulders, swung her in front of him and she moved like a rag doll.
‘Take me,’ he said, looking at Jim. ‘If you are looking for vengeance, it’s me you want, not Louisa. Let her go.’
Louisa felt the knife, cold, pressed beneath her chin. Jim’s grip did not slacken but she felt a faltering, an involuntary movement. The rain sliced almost horizontally on to her, blinding her; she couldn’t wipe her eyes and squeezed them shut, hoping to see when she opened them again. The shapes of those around her were blurry but she could hear their voices.
‘You know too much,’ said Mabel, but she spoke with a tremor.
‘Give it up, Mabel,’ said Roland. ‘The police are coming; you can’t run from this.’
There must have been a signal as the arms around her dropped and Louisa found she was shaking on release. She stumbled backwards and was caught by another pair of arms, softer, around her shoulders. There was a murmur in her ear and she knew it was Nancy. They were out of the headlights, cloaked by night and rain. Louisa couldn’t take her eyes off the sight before her. Roland had let go of Mabel and his hands were in the air as he walked towards Jim. Mabel looked shrunken, her hat drooping, her fur coat flattened. She looked frightened and very alone.
Roland kept his hands up, his mouth forming a straight line. Jim held the knife before him like Excalibur but his movements were slow, betraying fear and indecisiveness. Whatever he had done, he had not meant it to lead to this point, thought Louisa. As she watched, she felt herself pulled gently further backwards and then another movement in the air beside her. There was the sound of bone on bone, knuckle on jaw. Cracks like ancient branches torn in a storm.
Adjusting to the shapes and the spotlight, Louisa saw it was Guy grappling with Jim – the knife now knocked to the ground. It lay in a puddle by a wheel of the car, useless now. The two men fought, flailing and grunting, their faces soon streaked with mud, then blood. Roland circled them, waiting to step in when the gap was wide enough. Before he could, the fight slowed down, the sound of their short breaths louder than the punches, their legs staggering, their feet slipping.
As the fight lost speed, there was a roar of engines, the clunk of brakes and doors opening. The spotlight on them had enlarged from the added headlights, then several uniformed policemen rushed in and the two men were separated. Guy had his hands on his knees and was gulping air. Roland had receded into the darkness. Louisa saw a policeman’s hand pick up the knife from the ground and put it in his pocket.
Louisa and Nancy huddled closer together, their arms wrapped around each other. Nancy’s thin dress clung to her but Louisa’s coat was heavy on her own shoulders; her hat had long been knocked off. The whole thing had taken only minutes but they were shivering as if they had been standing outside for hours.
Louisa looked for Mabel and saw her step to the side, glancing at Jim, who was now held, arms behind his back, wheezing, his mouth pulled
back in pain. Louisa was about to shout out, to stop her, when another man came forwards and stopped her. Detective Inspector Haigh had arrived as the rain eased, the storm over.
‘Mabel Rogers, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Florence Nightingale Shore.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
As the police took off Mabel and Jim, Nancy and Louisa started to run back to the house. Roland was with them, his arm at their backs, worry etched on his face.
‘Quick,’ said Nancy, ‘let’s go to the nursery. I’m going to have to change.’
Nobody was in the hall and they were able to run up the stairs without being seen, although they left wet footprints behind them. The fire was still glowing from earlier and Roland stood shivering beside it while Louisa ran to the linen cupboard to grab an armful of warm towels. The nursery was empty, the children having been promised a good eyeful of the party.
They were all still in shock at what had happened and Louisa knew the story wasn’t over yet. Roland sat on Nanny’s armchair, using a towel to absorb the wet as best he could.
Nancy had left the room briefly and came back in with a dressing gown on. She laughed a little. ‘It’s a bit like the first time I met you,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ said Roland.
‘That ball at the Savoy, it had been raining that night too. Lou-Lou and I thought we looked like drowned rats then! It was nothing compared to this.’
Roland tried to raise a smile but couldn’t.
Nancy kneeled before him. ‘I’m so sorry but I have to go back downstairs as soon as I can.’ Her face was flushed from the warmth after being outside. ‘I suppose I shan’t see you again, shall I?’
Roland shook his head sadly.
Nancy took his hand and held it gently. ‘Perhaps you might write and let me know how you are. I wish you the very best of luck, you know.’
Roland gave her hand a small squeeze and let it go. ‘Thank you. Now, get back to your party. Everyone will be wondering where you are.’
Nancy gave a short laugh but her excitement was palpable. As if the party wasn’t enough, now there was a tale of great drama in the middle of it. She gave him a last fond look and ran out of the room to change and go back to her friends.
With Nancy gone, the atmosphere changed. Louisa knew that Guy would be occupied with Mabel and Jim. She certainly wasn’t going to join the party, nor would the man sitting opposite her, looking worriedly into the fire. It was time to discover the truth. She decided that with everything that had gone on that evening, she may as well be completely direct.
‘Who are you? Are you Roland Lucknor or are you Xander Waring?’
‘I’m Xander,’ he said, and the very act of saying it seemed to change his face, like a chameleon moving from a branch to a leaf, from fear to relief. Louisa waited for him to say more. ‘I didn’t kill Roland. I mean, I did –’ he breathed out, as if he’d held it in for years, ‘– but not like that. He didn’t want to live. If you’d been there, in Ypres, you’d have understood too. He was in constant pain; he woke up screaming every night. He’d been signed off to return to England but he couldn’t see the point of living.’
‘Did you try to talk him out of it?’
‘Of course, every night, we talked all the time. But he became obsessed with it. We knew we couldn’t return to our life in Paris before the war; it wouldn’t exist any more and France had been ruined for us. But there was nothing in England for Roland. He wasn’t like other men; he wasn’t strong. The only thing he was afraid of was his father. They hadn’t seen each other for years but his father was a missionary in Africa. Roland knew that his father would suffer terribly if his son were to take his own life. The shame and the stigma would never leave him.’
Louisa knew this to be true. Hadn’t she learned as much from Bill’s death in the summer?
‘I argued with him. I told him that his father deserved some suffering – he’d done nothing for his son. They’d barely seen each other for years. Even when Roland’s mother died, he didn’t see his father. Why shouldn’t he understand how unhappy his only son was? Roland wouldn’t listen and then he suggested that we swap identities.’
‘Why?’
‘He knew there would be no one to miss me if I was reported to have died. No one to be shamed by my suicide. I was brought up in an orphanage and there was certainly no one there who still cares for me. I have never known who my parents were. He said it would please him to know that I could enjoy the advantages of being him, the officer status, the possibility of an inheritance when his father eventually died. I told him I cared nothing for all that, I only wanted him to live.’ Louisa could see the sadness leaching out of him like moonlight behind clouds. ‘When we heard that I was to be sent back to the front line while he was to return to England, that decided it for him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Not only would we be separated but I’d be back in the trenches, in the line of fire. Roland said we were only pre-empting something that would happen anyway. You must believe me when I say I tried to stop this plan but he said either he would kill himself as himself, or we could go through with this plan and he could do it as me. There was nothing I could do to persuade him otherwise. So it came to it – it was the last night before I was to return to the front line and he was to be put on the train to England. We swapped our clothes and identity tags, and I shaved off my moustache. I still thought I might be able to talk him out of it but he had his gun and he said goodbye …’ His eyes were filled with tears now, his voice trembling.
‘Go on,’ said Louisa gently.
‘He said goodbye and he turned the gun on himself but his hands were shaking. He always was a rotten shot; he’d barely managed to shoot even when the Germans were pointing in his direction. He couldn’t kill a sodding rat in a trench …’ The words were thick and fast now, the tears coursing down his cheeks. ‘He missed and he started crying, saying he couldn’t do anything properly and he … he handed me the gun and said I must do it for him. I tried to say no but he was hysterical and he put the gun in my hands, and put the gun in his mouth and I did it. I did it, I killed him, but not … I didn’t want to, don’t you see? Don’t you understand? I loved him. He was the only person who had ever, ever cared for me and I loved him.’ Roland sank to the floor on his knees, his head in his hands, and Louisa couldn’t help herself; she went to him and put her arms around him and held him until his sobs ebbed away.
‘I see now,’ she said. ‘I do see.’
He looked up at her, a man stripped of everything, and begged her forgiveness, as if she was the angel that could absolve him. ‘There’s nothing to forgive you for, even if it was my place to give it,’ said Louisa. She felt as if his own heart ached in her chest. ‘But you had better go tonight, and quickly. Guy may come looking for us.’
They walked quietly down the back steps. There were still maids and footmen running back and forth from kitchen to library, with trays of full and empty glasses.
At the back door, Louisa hesitated. ‘Wait, before you go, I still have something to ask you.’
‘Your uncle.’
Louisa nodded.
‘I didn’t do anything that you need to be afraid of,’ he said.
‘You didn’t kill him?’
‘No.’
Louisa felt light-headed. She had been reprieved. ‘What will you do now?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything for me here any more. I’m going to go back to France, or maybe Italy. Try and build a new life. I’d even settle for my old life in Paris, the one I had before the war. I’d like to try and write a novel. I started one before.’
‘You should. That sounds like a good idea.’
‘There’s only one person I’m concerned for and that’s Roland’s godmother, Violet Temperley,’ he said. ‘She’s in a home and she gets few visitors. I will ensure the bills are always paid but might you go and see her for me?’
‘Of course I will. I’m sure
Mr Sullivan will, too,’ said Louisa, and the fact that she knew she could rely on Guy’s kindness of heart felt like a smooth pebble in her hand.
Then Xander Waring went down the stairs and out of all their lives.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
In the small hours of that night, when the last of the revellers had been poured into a car and the music had stopped playing, Louisa and Guy were summoned to the drawing room, where they found Nancy with Lord and Lady Redesdale.
Louisa entered the room hesitantly, unsure if she had left the frying pan to leap into the fire. She and Guy had discussed it at length when the police had left. Haigh and Harry had returned to London with Mabel and Jim but before they’d gone, Guy had sat with Haigh while they’d taken Mabel’s initial statement down. Afterwards, he had remained at Asthall Manor with Louisa, the two of them reasoning that it wouldn’t be right to disappear after they had brought such drama to the house. So they had huddled in Mrs Windsor’s sitting room, waiting until it was all over, Guy trying to reassure Louisa that her former employers could only be pleased with her for having saved their daughter from an uncertain fate at the hands of Roland Lucknor.
‘I don’t think they’ll see it that way,’ said Louisa, more than once. She had told Guy of Roland’s confession and had had to admit that she had deliberately allowed him to leave and evade arrest. ‘I know that what he has done is wrong,’ she said, ‘but I understand his reasons for doing it. Desperation can drive any of us to do things we wouldn’t normally believe ourselves capable of.’ For which, Guy could only love her more.
Nancy ran over to them as they came into the room. Her hair had come a little loose, her lipstick was long rubbed off and her eyes betrayed two or three glasses of wine drunk. She looked flushed and womanly, though her pleasure at the party having gone well was still delightfully youthful.
‘Please, come and sit with us,’ said Nancy, gesturing to the sofas where Lord and Lady Redesdale were sitting, the fire burning, the candles low. ‘We want to discuss everything.’
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