Her mouth tightened. ‘It has to be me, doesn’t it? If what the newspaper said was right, he’d be unrecognizable to most people. I can’t ask anyone else to do it.’
And that was true enough. She had courage, Rackham thought, even if he didn’t really trust her. He rose to his feet. ‘In that case, Mrs Culverton, perhaps you’d be good enough to come with me.’
Jack found a note from George on the table when he got home from Scotland Yard. Gone for a walk. I borrowed some of your clothes. Hope that’s okay. George.
So he’d gone for a walk, had he? That was a first. There was no doubt George was getting better by the hour. He’d lost that awful wasted look and was far more himself again. Characteristically, he had been longing to get out. What clothes had he taken? Jack looked in the wardrobe. His old blue suit, a sleeveless sweater and a Burberry. That should be all right. Some of his things made the poor beggar look like Charlie Chaplin.
He’d have to see about getting George kitted out. It was all very well saying expansively, ‘Borrow my things’ but George was a big man. They were about as tall as each other but George was a much sturdier bloke. Although his clothes did at a pinch, there was no denying George wasn’t comfortable. He couldn’t do up Jack’s collars and the only shoes he had were his patent leather ones. Perhaps if George was up to going for walks, he’d agree to pay a visit to Butler and Furness? They could kit him up right away and clean and press his dress clothes into the bargain. Jack, thinking ruefully about the straining seams of his suits, rejected the idea of waiting for a proper tailor to do his thing. Besides that, Butler and Furness were all right and didn’t cost a fortune.
Money. He stoked up the fire thoughtfully and put the kettle on to boil on the spirit lamp. He had to, as he had pointed out to George, work for a living and it was just as well he’d worked like a galley slave all week. That would be pretty handy, what with an increase in rent, the hefty donation to the Royal Free he’d felt honour-bound to make, a ticket to South Africa in the offing and now a visit to Butler and Furness. This Good Samaritan lark didn’t come cheaply.
He made a cup of tea, relaxed into the armchair and lit a cigarette. George appreciated it all, though. George was a very straightforward character. He had something to be grateful for and was. Jack grinned. There was something deeply engaging about old George.
There was a noise in the hall and he looked up as George came in. ‘Hello, old man,’ he began, then stopped. He had been going to say something about it being a rotten day for a walk, but the excitement on George’s face brought him up short. ‘Whatever is it?’
‘Jack,’ said George, urgently. ‘I’ve found the house!’
‘What house?’
‘The house,’ repeated George, undoing his coat. ‘The house where it all happened. You know, where I saw the girl. Well, where I thought I saw the girl, at any rate.’ He tossed his coat and hat on to a chair. ‘Jack, I don’t know what it is about that place, but it’s creepy. You know I said I felt drawn to it? Well, it’s true. There’s something about that house. When I was there before, I know I was coming down with malaria and so on but I’m not ill now. And yet, believe you me, I stood on that pavement and felt as peculiar as I had the other night. I don’t know.’ He stopped, hunting for the right expression. ‘It’s meant, Jack. It’s as if I’m meant to be there.’
‘Where is it?’
‘The house? The address is 19 Eden Street. The place is called Mayfair, apparently. I asked a passer-by. I knew it was near a big park and I tramped around this afternoon until I found it. Look, I don’t know the first thing about which bits of London are which, but is it a very grand area?’
Jack laughed. ‘Mayfair? I should say so. It’s seriously posh.’
George hunched down before the fire and warmed his hands by the flames. ‘I thought so. I felt like the cat in the wrong warehouse, as the Boers would say, so what is it about the place, Jack? No one would call me grand and yet I kept on feeling I belonged there. I’m just a farmer. Not even that, now I’ve sold the farm. I’ve only been in London once before and that’s when I was on leave in the war. I’ve certainly never been to Mayfair.’ He stood up and braced his hands on the mantelpiece. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s . . . Well, it’s spooky.’
‘Did you see who lived there?’ asked Jack curiously.
George shuddered. ‘Absolutely not. I’m . . . I’m frightened of the place. Besides, how could I possibly approach them after what I did? I broke into their house.’
‘Didn’t you say there was a woman? A woman with the policemen? You said she was nice.’
George’s face softened. ‘She was nice. She might understand if I could explain it to her but I can’t face her again. She must have thought I was loco.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Not from what you told me. She’s the one who worked out you were ill.’
‘That’s true,’ said George. ‘She wouldn’t let the policemen arrest me. If I’d seen her on Eden Street I might have said something.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘God knows what.’ His eyes grew wistful. ‘She was a corker. I wish I could talk to her again but I don’t suppose I’ll ever know her name.’
‘Hang on.’ Jack levered himself out of the armchair. ‘Now you know the address, I can probably tell you who she is.’ He walked to the bookcase, selected a book and opened it on the table.
‘What’s that?’ asked George with interest.
‘Kelly’s Street Directory. It’s a list of who lives where, indexed by street names. Where did you say it was? Eden Street?’
George joined him at the table. ‘That’s right. 19 Eden Street, Mayfair.’
Jack turned up the entry. He ran his finger down the page then stopped. He drew his breath in and stared incredulously at the book, his body rigid.
‘Jack?’ said George. ‘Jack? What is it?’
For an answer Jack pointed at the name beside 19 Eden Street.
George read it and gasped. He turned so white that Jack put a hand on his arm to steady him. ‘It’s no wonder it’s familiar, is it?’ he whispered. ‘Dear God, I live there. Me.’
Jack stared once more at the neatly printed entry. Mr George Lassiter. He took a deep breath. ‘George,’ he said, at length, ‘that really is a stunner.’
Chapter Three
Jack and George looked at the entry in the street directory. ‘It’s got me stumped,’ said George eventually. ‘Jack, am I going crackers? I don’t suppose it’s a misprint or something, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Jack. ‘After all, there you are.’ He gave his friend a sideways look. ‘So, there are two George Lassiters in the world, even if this one lives in London. I wonder if this one knows anything about your missing legacy?’
‘By jingo, that’s a thought,’ said George slowly. ‘He could be the man who claimed the money.’
Jack clicked his tongue. ‘That’s going a bit too fast. After all, you said your legacy was claimed from South Africa.’
‘He might have come from South Africa. There’s nothing here to say how long he’s been living at that address.’
‘No, that’s true. He’s not alone,’ added Jack, putting his finger on the page. ‘Mr David Lassiter, Mr Nigel Lassiter, and look, this presumably is the girl you met, Mrs Anne Lassiter. I wonder who she’s married to? There’s another raft of names, too. Michael Walsh, John Corby, Nora Nelson and so on. I bet those are the servants. George, don’t the Lassiter names mean anything to you?’
George shook his head. ‘Not a damn thing. It’s got me beat. What do we do now?’
‘We could go round and see them,’ said Jack.
George drew his breath in sharply. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of what I did. I broke in, remember? I stole their food, helped myself out of their larder and then, to top it off, caused a real scene. For heaven’s sake, the police were involved, Jack. I was very nearly arrested. I can’t walk through their fro
nt door and expect them to receive me with open arms. They’d throw me out on my ear and I couldn’t blame them.’
Jack reluctantly agreed. ‘Yes, you might be right. I can see you’re bound to feel awkward about it.’ He walked to the sofa and, sitting on the arm, ran his thumb round the side of his chin. ‘You could write to them, I suppose,’ he said eventually. ‘Or I could go. I could explain what happened and say you’ve been ill and so on.’ He looked at George. ‘What d’you think? That might be the best thing to do.’
George sighed unhappily. ‘Would it?’ He hesitated. ‘Look, don’t you think you’ve done enough for me already? I appreciate it, Jack, really I do, but this is my affair.’
‘All right.’ Jack raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘So you want to go alone?’
George looked at him ruefully. ‘I don’t want to go at all.’ He shook himself in irritation. ‘I can’t see the point of writing. I’d never be able to think of what to say. Damn! I’ll have to see them. It’s the only way.’
‘Alone?’
George’s mouth twisted. ‘I can’t ask you to come.’
‘Why not?’ asked Jack. ‘After all, I know it’s your business and not mine but I must admit I’m curious.’ He didn’t miss the relief in George’s face. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
‘Now, you mean?’ asked George, startled.
Jack shrugged. ‘Why not? Now’s as good a time as any.’ He walked to the door, turning to smile encouragingly at his friend. ‘Let’s get a taxi.’
‘What on earth do I say?’ hissed George, as the bell jangled in the depths of 19 Eden Street.
‘We’ll tell them who we are and see what happens,’ said Jack. The door was opened by a portly and glacially respectable butler. George gave a small, depressed sigh.
‘Major Haldean and Mr Lassiter to see Mr George Lassiter,’ said Jack with cheerful insouciance.
The glacier thawed and looked puzzled. ‘Excuse me, sir, did you say Mr Lassiter?’
‘That’s right,’ said George as firmly as he could manage.
The butler stood to one side to let them in. ‘If you would care to wait, gentlemen, I will ascertain if Mr Lassiter is at home.’ They were ushered into a large square hall furnished with, amongst other things, an oak table and a Jacobean settle.
As soon as the butler had gone George collapsed on to the seat. ‘Jack, it’s all wrong.’ Jack put a hand on his shoulder and George glanced up, his face showing the strain he was under. ‘The size is all wrong. The table’s too small. Everything’s too small.’ Jack tightened his grip on George’s shoulder. The table was a very substantial table in a very substantial house. There was nothing wrong with it. ‘I feel like a clumsy giant in here,’ muttered George. ‘It’s all wrong. Can’t you see it?’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Come on,’ said Jack awkwardly. ‘The butler will be back soon.’
‘He’s wrong too,’ said George savagely. ‘Everything’s wrong.’ He looked round the hall. ‘I wish I hadn’t come.’ He sat in silence until the butler returned.
‘Mr Lassiter will see you now. Allow me to take your coats, gentlemen, then if you will come with me, please.’
They followed the butler’s stately progress down the hall. He paused outside a door, coughed, then showed them into a big room made cosy by curtains and lamps. A fire burned in the grate at the further end of the room, surrounded by modern and inviting easy chairs. Above the fireplace hung an oil painting of an aeroplane in flight, which, from its graceful outline, Jack immediately recognized as an LE4c.
A white-haired old man, who, at a guess, was well into his seventies but still bright-eyed and vigorous, stood on the rug in front of the fire. There was something vaguely familiar about him and Jack wondered where he’d seen him before. A woman in her late twenties, with dark hair and intelligent eyes, attractively dressed in blue and green, stood beside him. Mrs Anne Lassiter? Probably, thought Jack. So this was the woman who had refused to let the police arrest George after the incident in the kitchen. He looked at her with concealed interest. She seemed a thoroughly dependable sort, who could take charge when necessary. Exactly, in fact, as she had done that evening when George needed her help so badly. He wasn’t surprised she had made such a strong impression on George. As they were shown into the room her face was alive with interest.
‘Major Haldean and Mr Lassiter,’ said the butler.
As the door shut behind the butler, the old man moved forward a pace. ‘I wondered if Corby had heard your names correctly,’ he began, when George stepped into the lamplight. The man gasped and swayed. The woman beside him caught his arm. He stared at George, his mouth open and his eyes wide. ‘Charles?’ he mumbled. ‘Charles? Charles, it can’t be you!’ He made a fluttering movement with his hand and groped his way into a chair. Quickly but without fuss, Mrs Lassiter took a bottle of brandy from the cabinet behind her, poured some into a glass and added soda water. She put it into his outstretched hand, standing by with a calm, reassuring stillness.
He gulped it down, then handed the glass back to her, colour returning to his cheeks. ‘Thank you, Anne.’ So it was Mrs Lassiter. The old man looked at George in bewilderment. ‘Who the devil are you?’
George took a deep breath. ‘Lassiter. My name’s George Lassiter,’ he said. ‘I –’
‘Wait.’ The old man held up his hand. ‘Please, before you say anything more, wait. Anne, there’s a photograph on the cabinet. A photograph of Charles. Can you bring it to me, please?’
A collection of silver-framed photographs stood on the cabinet. After a short search she found the one he wanted and gave it to him. He motioned with his hand to Jack and George. ‘Come and look at this.’
It was a studio portrait of a young man dressed in the fashion of thirty-odd years ago. Jack looked at the stiffly posed figure, then at his friend. ‘But it’s you, George,’ he said in astonishment. ‘Hang on, it’s not quite . . . Well, it’s nearly you,’ he finished.
George shook his head. ‘No, it’s not. It’s my father. We had that photo at home.’ He looked from the old man to the photograph, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘I don’t understand, sir. Who are you? Why have you got my father’s picture?’
‘Charles is your father?’ The old man looked George up and down and tentatively reached out to him with an expression of such tenderness it made Jack catch his breath. ‘And you’re George. You were called after me. You don’t know this, but I’ve thought about you a lot.’ George took his outstretched hand. ‘You’re my grandson.’
The next ten minutes or so were spent in a tumble of explanations, most of which were so fragmentary that, with the best will in the world, Jack didn’t see how anyone could follow them. He watched George’s earnest face as he leaned forward, listening to his grandfather. He should have seen the likeness immediately. It was no wonder old Mr Lassiter reminded him of someone. It was George, of course – those similarities in the shape of the nose and the line of the jaw. There were mannerisms too; how they sat, how both men would give a sharp tilt of the head before speaking and little unconscious gestures of the hands.
George had embarked on an account of his bewilderment at how oddly familiar the house and surrounding streets seemed, when his grandfather interrupted.
‘But of course it all seems familiar, George. You were born here, here in this house. You lived here until you were nearly three.’
George looked at him with a puzzled frown. ‘I was born in South Africa.’
His grandfather smiled. ‘No, you weren’t. Not a bit of it. This is where you were born and this was your home when you were very young.’
George turned to Jack. ‘That must be it, Jack! I must have remembered without knowing I did.’
‘I bet that’s why everything seemed the wrong size,’ said Jack. ‘When you go back to somewhere you knew as a kid it all seems too small. I’ve had that experience.’
‘It explains the other night as well,’ said George eagerly. ‘It explains wh
y I felt so drawn to this particular house. That and the fire.’ He gave a shy smile, braced himself and looked at Anne. ‘You don’t seem to have recognized me, but I was the man in the kitchen. You know, with the police and so on.’
‘You?’ Anne sat up and stared at him sharply. ‘Of course you are! I thought I recognized you. Ever since you came in I’ve been trying to think where I’ve seen you before.’ She turned to Mr Lassiter. ‘You remember I told you about it? A man broke into the kitchen. The police took him to hospital.’
Mr Lassiter drew back, shocked. ‘You broke in, George?’
‘He was desperate,’ put in Jack, seeing his friend’s face. Poor old George was brick-red with embarrassment and the atmosphere in the sitting room had suffered a sudden chill. ‘He was completely on his uppers – destitute, I mean – and had nowhere to go. He was coming down with malaria and flu and, from what I can make out, half-dead with cold.’
Old Mr Lassiter relaxed but still looked at George warily.
‘I told you I was attracted to the house,’ said George. ‘I seemed to remember what it would be like inside. I . . . I so wanted to be inside.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s as Jack said. I was desperate, but I still shouldn’t have done it. I know that. All I can say is, I’m sorry.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘I think we’d better go.’
His grandfather rose to his feet. ‘Go? For heaven’s sake, boy, you’ve only just arrived.’ He reached his hand out once more. ‘Please, George, sit down. You were ill, you say?’
George looked at Jack for support.
‘George was completely broke and very ill indeed,’ said Jack, seeing his friend needed helping out. ‘I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to say that he would have died that night if it hadn’t been for your help, Mrs Lassiter. As it was, he got taken to the Royal Free and very nearly didn’t make it, even then. George and I are old friends,’ he continued, seeing that further explanation was necessary. ‘I found out from a pal of mine in the police what had happened, recognized the name and, to cut a long story short, George is staying with me until he recovers completely.’
As if by Magic Page 5