A Dark Devotion

by Clare Francis

  She murmured ungraciously, ‘You’d better come in.’

  Shutting the door behind me with a resounding thud, she marched past and led the way across a narrow hall into a room decorated in a style reminiscent of Grace’s drawing room at Marsh House, pale carpets, overstuffed chintz furniture, heavy silk curtains, gloomy oil paintings, fine antique furniture and horizontal surfaces covered in knick-knacks and framed photographs. The effect would have been one of comfortable opulence if the carpet hadn’t been threadbare around the door, the curtains faded at the edges, the chair arms shiny and bleached, and the skirt of the wine-coloured sofa blackened by the scuffs of men’s heels. It was the sort of wear that comes with long residence and the indifference of familiarity.

  She indicated a chair beyond a low gilt table piled high with glossy magazines. She sat on the sofa opposite me, on the far side of a fireplace containing a mock coal fire, unlit. In the glow of the pink-shaded table lamps it was hard to tell her age. Her face and hands suggested sixty, while her clothes, which were formal and curiously old-fashioned, seemed to fix her in another generation altogether.

  ‘Well,’ she said, in a commanding voice, ‘I can’t imagine why you should be here. I can’t imagine why you should be involved in this matter.’

  ‘I’m a solicitor, Mrs Bailey.’ Putting a slight slant on my qualifications, I added, ‘With experience in missing persons. I’m checking on your daughter’s appointments in London, both on the day after she disappeared and on previous visits.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well…To see if we can find anything which might shed light on her disappearance.’

  ‘Shed light?’ she scoffed. ‘There’s only one way to do that.’ Her eyes flashed with sudden fury. ‘I must say, he’s got a nerve. Sending you to ask questions. Really!’ Her agitation sent her forward in an abrupt movement to scoop up a packet of cigarettes from the low table.

  ‘It’s a matter of assembling all the available information, Mrs Bailey, so that every possibility can be covered.’

  ‘Every possibility,’ she repeated, with a furious laugh. She leant forward again and scrabbled around the piles of magazines. ‘There’s only one possibility as far as I’m concerned.’ She scooped up a gold lighter and lit a cigarette. ‘He was always out of his depth,’ she declared, launching into what was clearly a favourite grievance. ‘Never up to her standards. Always dragging her down!’

  Ignoring these remarks, I asked, ‘I was wondering if you might be aware of who she was going to see later that Thursday, after she was due to see you, a meeting she might have cancelled. Someone with the initials AWP who lived in a block of flats on Regent’s Park.’

  ‘No idea. I’ve already told him that. Really, this is such a farce!’ She smoked in the grand manner, supported her elbow in the cup of one hand, sweeping the cigarette from her mouth to some point in space in a wide flamboyant arc accompanied by an elegant rotation of the wrist. She talked with the cigarette too, swaying it back and forth, bringing it up short, weaving it through the air to make her point. ‘It doesn’t matter who this A—A-whoever person is. This whole thing’s a complete waste of time.’

  ‘I appreciate that these questions might seem irrelevant at this stage, but without much to go on, we have to consider—’

  ‘Nothing to go on? Rubbish! He’s just playing innocent. Trying to make you think he doesn’t know anything about what’s happened to Grace! Trying to make the world think he doesn’t know!’

  Nothing Will had said had prepared me for the strength of Veronica Bailey’s prejudices, nor the malevolence of her delivery. She was burning with contempt and unshakeable righteousness. Even allowing for her anxiety over her daughter, her animosity was without the slightest moderation or self-restraint.

  ‘You’re making some extremely serious allegations,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed I am!’ she retorted. ‘It’s been deceit all the way along the line, so why should he change now? He tricked her into marrying him, he—’ Watching my face, her eyes lit up avidly. ‘You didn’t know that? Oh, yes, totally tricked her. Pretended he owned all that land, pretended he was the lord of the manor,’ she recounted with bitter relish. ‘So grand, so full of himself. And all the time he hadn’t got a penny, not a penny! He was a cheat! Leading her on! Never saying a word until after the wedding. Just wanted her money, you see! Just waiting to get his hands on it!’

  This picture of Will was so grotesque that for a moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. Recovering a little, I asked tentatively, ‘And did he? Get her money?’

  She drew on her cigarette and glared at me through the spiralling smoke, suddenly wary. ‘Some.’

  ‘Was it a great deal of money?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she stated royally.

  Letting this pass, I referred to my notebook. ‘So…What about the people she lunched with when she was in London. Could you tell me anything about them?’

  ‘Oh, she had lots of friends. Old friends,’ she emphasized in case I hadn’t appreciated the superiority of Grace’s former life. ‘She lunched with them all the time.’

  ‘Could you give me a few names?’

  The cigarette waved this aside. ‘I’m no good at names.’

  ‘Anyone who lived in Knightsbridge?’

  ‘Thousands of people live in Knightsbridge. I mean, among one’s friends.’

  ‘What about her close friends?’

  ‘There were lots,’ she said curtly, and I began to wonder just how much Veronica Bailey really knew about her daughter’s life.

  ‘Old friends, then? From school days. Family friends.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette with enough vigour to crush a dangerous insect. ‘I suppose I could give you one or two, but I assure you it’ll be a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Thank you anyway,’ I said politely.

  She gave a heavy sigh and, getting up, swiftly left the room, chin high, shoulders back as if making a stage exit, and I wondered if she had been an actress at one time. The framed photographs scattered about the room showed groups in Ascot clothes, groups in evening dress, a young man in regimental dress uniform taken some years ago—husband, perhaps, or brother—and two pictures of Grace. No clues as to Veronica’s past. On the mantelpiece was an impressive line of invitations, though on closer examination I saw that every one was for a charity event, the type organized by professional fundraisers armed with long lists of ladies who lunch.

  Veronica marched back in and handed me a piece of paper with three names and addresses on it. She leant over and stabbed a finger against one name. ‘You probably won’t be able to get hold of her, though. They travel.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Veronica had pointed out the name I’d caught a whiff of something on her breath. Now as she moved back to her seat I caught it again, and this time there was no mistaking the scent of the distillery, something malty from north of the border. The smell was too strong to be anything but fresh. Since it was five thirty I was left to wonder if Veronica was fond of late lunches or early cocktails or regular nips from a supply in the kitchen.

  As she lit another cigarette and planted it in her mouth her hands were perfectly steady, and her eyes also when she caught my gaze. ‘He’s very clever, you know,’ she said, and I didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. ‘Fools people with that smooth manner of his, that charming smile. Thinks he can get round anyone. Well, he did, of course,’ she said with sudden feeling, staring fiercely at the unlit fire. ‘He got round Grace. That’s the pity. That’s the absolute tragedy.’ For an instant I thought she was close to tears, but it wasn’t sorrow that was stirring her, it was the old fury again. ‘Did you know Grace wanted to leave him?’ she demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Soon after they were married. When she discovered the truth about the farm. Rented. Rented. ‘ For all the disgust in her face she might have been talking about a hanging offence. ‘She felt totally betrayed—and wh
o could blame her? I encouraged her to leave. God only knows, she had reason to, if anyone did! But she was too good, of course. Too forgiving, too generous. That was Grace—generous and loving. She felt she should stick it out. Ha!’ And now her eyes contained the glitter of old disappointments, the shine of bitter tears. Collecting herself again, returning to the fray, she added, ‘And he was cruel, you know. Cruel.’

  I couldn’t hide my incredulity any longer. ‘Cruel?’

  ‘Oh, yes! He would deny her things all the time. Belittle her. He seemed to have this…’ She flicked her hand repeatedly, indicating matters too unpleasant to mention. ‘To have this ghastly sick hold over her. You know—some dreadful power. ‘ It was such a curious phrase, so histrionic that I was reminded of the theatre again.

  ‘Power?’

  ‘Power,’ she insisted impatiently, as if I were being extraordinarily slow. ‘He frightened her in some awful way. These people always do that, don’t they, when they get hold of someone like Grace. Men who’ve landed someone out of their league, someone who shows them up for what they are—they hate it, don’t they? They get to be bullies, they get their own back in horrid nasty little ways!’

  I could only stare at her. The scene was painted so thickly and so garishly that I could only wonder how much of it was imagination, how much vindictiveness, and how much stemmed from her own experiences with men. ‘Out of his league. In what way?’ I prompted, trying to gauge the extent of Veronica’s grasp on reality.

  ‘Well, a tiny farm in a corner of Norfolk—I mean, he’s a country boy, isn’t he? No idea about music or travel or life in the real world. Just mud and animals!’ She made a face before pushing herself abruptly to her feet. For a moment I thought she was going to ask me to leave, but she merely said, ‘I need some water. Do you…?’ She was on her way even as I shook my head.

  When she returned she had a full glass in her hand, and if it contained water it was no more than a dash. ‘Almost six. Needed something stronger,’ she said, raising the amber liquid to her lips and taking a long gulp. I’m meant to be at some party or another…’ She indicated the invitations on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I’m sorry. I won’t keep you—’

  ‘No, no. They can wait. I’m out every night, you know. Every night.’ There was a desperate pride in her boasts the lament of a woman facing age and time alone. ‘It gets too much sometimes, all these parties.’ She waved her glass, as she had waved her cigarette, with flamboyance, so that the whisky almost slopped over the rim, and I realized that, in a remarkably short space of time, she had crossed her alcoholic threshold and become indubitably tight.

  ‘She wasted her life when she married that man,’ she sighed, alighting on what was clearly another cherished refrain. ‘She had everything, everything. The world at her feet. Men falling in love with her. Dan Elliott was crazy about her, you know, just crazy about her.’

  ‘Dan Elliott?’

  She pulled an expression of amazement at my ignorance. ‘Daniel Elliott. You must have heard of him. The actor. Terribly famous. Oscar nominations.’

  I placed him then. ‘Of course.’

  ‘She could have had him just like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘But no, she was worried about all the separations you get in the film business, wanted a normal family life. I told her, I warned her she was wasting herself on Will Dearden. What else could I do?’

  ‘But she had Charlie,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, the child.’ She cast her eyes heavenward. ‘That was all she needed!’

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, he’s slow, isn’t he? What do they call it nowadays?’ She fluttered her fingers at me as if I should be able to produce the expression she was looking for. ‘What do they call it?’ she repeated with a sigh of impatience. Finally it came to her. ‘Dyslexic. I ask you! Well, they can call it anything they like, but it’s slow to anyone who can still speak English.’

  ‘I don’t think dyslexia is related to intelligence.’

  ‘Of course it is! He’s slow, I tell you. Born that way. Genetic. Defective genes. Well, there you are!’ And she left me to conclude that the blame for this was also to be laid at Will’s door.

  ‘He seems a sweet child.’

  ‘Sweet?’ She lunged for a cigarette and this time the lighting did not go quite so smoothly. ‘Sweet?’ she repeated, dropping the lighter onto the table with a clatter. ‘Well, if you like children who’re half wild and totally uneducated.’ She shuddered visibly before catching my gaze and amending her expression to something more compassionate. ‘I could never understand why he couldn’t go to a special school. After all, they have wonderful places for these children nowadays, don’t they? Wonderful All those games and—well, things they like. I don’t know—activities. He’d have been much happier there. Much happier. But’—her eyes narrowed, her chin came forward—‘of course he wouldn’t have it. Oh, no.’ The hand with the cigarette made a stabbing motion at me, and a pillar of ash dropped onto the floor. ‘Oh, he said it was because he wanted to keep the child at home. But no, it was the money! That’s all—the money! He always used that as an excuse for getting his way. Always said they were short, just so he could stop her doing the things she wanted to do, stop her getting out and about. She had no freedom, you know. None at all! Oh, it was so heartbreaking after everything she should have been, should have had. Heartbreaking.’

  Her diction was beginning to go, the words skidding ever closer to a collision. She was holding her head high, with a kind of shaky defiance, but I sensed the rapid approach of tears or rage. I knew it wasn’t the moment to point out that Grace had enjoyed the freedom of trips to Lon-don, of giving and going to plenty of parties, of organizing a music festival.

  I folded the list of names and put it in my bag. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ I shifted to the edge of the seat, preparing to leave.

  ‘Is that all?’ she cried.

  ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  She eyed me with sudden suspicion. ‘What did you want anyway? Why did you come?’

  ‘The names,’ I reminded her. ‘Grace’s friends. I’ll be contacting them as soon as I can.’ I stood up.

  ‘But they won’t know anything, I’m telling you! There’s only one person who knows anything!’

  When she saw that I was fixed on going, she slid her drink onto the table and rose carefully to her feet, straightening up with exaggerated dignity, the grand lady at full height. ‘He’ll say anything,’ she declared. ‘Anything to make it look like Grace’s fault.’

  Now she had confused me, or possibly she had confused herself. ‘Grace’s fault?’ I asked.

  She frowned as she realized what she had just said. ‘I meant…whatever it is, whatever the situation, it’s never his fault. Never. He tries to blame her! Always has.’

  ‘He hasn’t mentioned blame to me.’

  ‘No, well…he’s probably got you just where he wants you, hasn’t he? Yes…’ The idea seemed to take root in her mind. ‘Worked his charm on you, like he works his charm on everyone who doesn’t know what he’s really like!’

  ‘I’m just doing my job, Mrs Bailey.’ I made a move towards the door and waited.

  She dropped her cigarette into an ashtray and progressed in stately fashion across the room as though to lead the way out. Seized by a last bout of suspicion, she halted abruptly a few inches away from me and gave me an unfocused glare. ‘Why did he hire you, anyway?’ she demanded.

  ‘Why did he choose you?’

  ‘Our families knew each other years ago.’

  ‘Knew each other?’

  ‘We used to live in Deepwell.’

  She considered this information with distrust before slow realization spread over her face, a dawning so conspicuous as to be almost comical. ‘Woodford. I thought I knew the name.’ She loomed closer to me and I caught the whisky again. ‘Isn’t that…Edward? Is he…?’

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘Your brother!’ she
cried. ‘Edward! Well, well…’ And her eyes took on an admiring light. ‘Well! Such a nice chap! And that lovely house of his—lending it for Grace’s festival! Well, well—you should have said! Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d met.’

  ‘But of course!’ she sang, in a voice heavy with approval. ‘Grace took me to see the house. We had tea. So nice! You should have told me!’

  Making the most of my newly enhanced status, I asked, ‘May I phone you if I have any queries?’

  ‘Of course!’ she cried, the vision of cordiality and cooperation. ‘Of course!’

  We reached the door and I asked, ‘Was Grace planning to stay with you that Thursday night?’

  ‘She hardly ever stayed in town. Not allowed to.’ She added darkly, ‘He hated town. Never wanted to come.’

  ‘But that night?’

  She dismissed the question briskly. ‘No, no.’

  ‘Might she have been planning to stay with anyone else?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know. Goodbye, Mrs O’Neill.’ And with a stately inclination of the head, a gracious smile and eyes grown suddenly bleak, she showed me out and closed the door.

  The house was dark when I let myself in at eighty the mail littered across the mat, the stale scent of last night’s cigarettes in the air. Mechanically I shuffled through the buff envelopes and circulars before going to check the answering machine. There were two messages: the cleaning lady to say she was down with the flu, and Paul informing me that he was tied up and wouldn’t be back until late. I recognized his tone. It was the chirpy voice he used to signify that all was well with the worlds and that Paul O’Neill was a fine trustworthy fellow, the tone he adopted after the first three or four drinks. He made no mention of what was keeping him late and in my present state of pessimism I didn’t imagine he was poring over case files in the office. I also noted that he had not called me on my mobile because then he would have run the risk of speaking to me in person.