Lizzie’s Daughters

by Rosie Clarke

  Pierre had sounded frightened of the man he called Marcus – his friend and a businessman who had promised to help him with his career as an architect, and yet it seemed this man had perverted sexual tastes. He liked three in a bed and he wanted young girls, but he wanted them drugged with opiates, abandoned and incapable of refusing any deviant act he demanded.

  Why would Pierre trick her into something like that? She’d hardly heard what he said as she escaped from him, her terror at being caught by this evil man blurring her mind as she fled. Yet now she recalled Pierre’s words… Marcus would kill him if he didn’t get her… and payment of a debt.

  Did he owe this man a lot of money he couldn’t pay? And why did he want her in particular – or was she just the easiest prey for Pierre and the man he feared?

  Gradually, she recovered her breath and became calm enough to recognise her surroundings. Her feet were cut and sore, but unconsciously, she’d been running in the right direction to find a safe harbour, though it would only be safe until Pierre came looking for her again. Once she’d thought she loved him, but now the very thought of his touch made her sick with shame and she wished a thousand times that she’d never met him. In that moment she knew she must get away from this place. She’d believed she’d found a way to live and find happiness, but what he’d done tonight had convinced her that he would never let her go free while she was of use to him.

  She must go back to England, though she could never go home. Yet in her own country she could find a place to hide and perhaps in time she would find a new life. It was no longer a matter of choice, but the only avenue left open to her…

  Chapter 11

  ‘I sad to see you go,’ Marie said when Betty told her she had to leave. ‘Why you run from this man, my enfant? You let him come ’ere and Marie will tell him what ’appen if he try to touch you again… I cut ’is manhood off with my chopper!’ She brought the heavy cleaver she used to cut meat down on the wooden chopping block with relish and Betty laughed. ‘See, Marie protect you… you never go near ’im again. He never touch you no more…’

  ‘I would never give him the chance,’ Betty shuddered, because she had only told her a part of the story. It was too awful and her friend would insist on going to the police if she knew it all. ‘I was so naïve, Marie. I still thought he might love me, even though my friends warned me he was not to be trusted…’

  ‘You stay for a few days, yes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I don’t know if Pierre knows where I work…’

  ‘Perhaps I kill this pig and then you stay with me…’

  Betty laughed at her fierce expression. She wished that she could go on living with Marie and working here, because the warm sunshine suited her and she didn’t relish the thought of thick fogs and dank mornings that characterised the British winter.

  ‘I’ll come back and visit one day,’ Betty promised, ‘when Pierre has forgotten me… but he’s dangerous, Marie – dangerous and evil and so are his friends…’

  ‘I never forget you,’ Marie told her and there were tears in her eyes as she embraced her. ‘I ’ate this man, who treat you so bad…’

  Betty smiled but said nothing. She knew she should feel hatred for him too but all she could feel was anger and contempt that he should imagine her to be such a fool. It made her sad that he’d been willing to use her like that – and if she’d drunk half the wine that Pierre had poured for her that night, she would have been easy to control.

  A shudder ran through her as she thought of her likely fate. Once hooked on that foul drug, some kind of opiate she guessed, she would have sunk into a life of dependency and degradation. Her fear of Pierre had faded once she was safe with Marie, because he was unlikely to try abducting her off the streets. She’d decided that it was best if she went back to England soon but before she went, she would make a dress for Veronique and she would visit her in her lunch break, because she couldn’t go out to the café alone at night…

  *

  When Veronique heard what Pierre had done, she went wild and shouted a lot, gesticulating with her hands and telling Betty she should go to the police.

  ‘Pierre is vindictive and he will not forgive that you made a fool of him,’ she warned. ‘I knew that he liked to visit houses where they gratify ’is perversions… but I no think he do such a thing to you, ma cherie…’

  ‘It was partly my fault. I let him believe I was drunk, but I wanted to discover if he loved me – and now I know…’

  ‘He ’urt you, Betty,’ Veronique said and twisted her mouth in disgust. ‘He no longer one of us – when I tell Jacques ’e make clear that we not want to know him…’

  ‘I’m going back to England soon…’

  ‘But you stay for a while, and you come to the café – and we protect you. We walk ’ome with you and if he try to touch you, Jacques will stop him…’

  Betty laughed and agreed, because Pierre was too much of a coward to do anything on a busy street in daylight and if her friends protected her in the evenings she would be safe; he would only move against her in the seclusion of a deserted alley late at night.

  ‘All right,’ she promised. ‘Just while I make your dress and save a little more money – and then I must go home to England…’

  *

  Marie was waiting downstairs when Betty’s friends walked her home a few nights later. She’d drunk only one glass of wine, but there had been no sign of Pierre and Jacques told her that he wasn’t at home, because he’d been round there to have it out with him.

  ‘What he did was despicable,’ Jacques had looked angry. ‘You must never go anywhere with him again, Betty…’

  ‘I shan’t,’ she’d promised with a smile. ‘It was foolish but I’d hoped he still cared. Now I know he never loved me. Thank you for drinking my wine that night – he believed I was drunk and so I was able to escape him, and to make him suffer a little for what he did.’

  ‘If he is ill it is good,’ Jacques had said, looking grim. ‘If he show his face ’ere again, I make him sorry…’

  ‘He isn’t worth it,’ Betty had said and smiled at her friends, because their friendship had given her back her pride and her confidence, and she was feeling happy when she walked in that evening. However, the look on Marie’s face made her go cold all over.

  ‘What has happened?’ she asked.

  ‘A man came to the café looking for you, ma enfant,’ Marie told her. ‘He say it important that he speak to you… I say you not work ’ere. I say I not know you…’

  ‘Pierre?’ Betty shuddered. Had he found her?

  ‘He not French,’ Marie said. ‘I think English, but I no think you want to see him… he look stern…’

  ‘Did he leave his name?’ Betty wondered who else would be looking for her and then she thought she knew, nodding her head as Marie went on,

  ‘He no say but… he is your father, yes?’

  ‘I think perhaps it might be him,’ Betty agreed and felt a pang of regret. If Sebastian had come after her perhaps he did care after all? The child in her wanted to run to him and tell him everything so that he would take charge and make it better, but she knew she couldn’t inflict such pain on him. It would either make him disgusted with her or he would blame himself. Marie was looking at her oddly, waiting for an explanation. ‘Not my father – my stepfather…’

  ‘Ah, I understand. It is he you run away from? Did he beat you?’ Marie arched her brows.

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Betty said and smiled oddly, because her experiences with Pierre had taught her that Sebastian had done nothing other than try to help her. ‘He refused to let me work in my mother’s workshops – and said I had no talent…’

  ‘Pouff! Then he is fool,’ Marie said and nodded. ‘Yet, not so much stupid… he no believe me when I say I not know you. He tell me he will be back and I was to tell you it was important…’

  Betty nodded uncertainly. She had no idea how Sebastian had found her place of work, but she knew how persistent
he could be. If he was convinced Marie was lying for her, he would keep returning until he found her…

  ‘He say to give you this…’ Marie held out a sealed envelope, looking doubtful. ‘I not know if to give…’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Betty said and kissed her. ‘Dad would never hurt me. He might get angry but he would never harm me…’

  She took the letter and went upstairs to her room. Her heart was racing and she was half-afraid to open it, and yet she couldn’t wait to see what he’d written. She tore it open and scanned the few lines inside.

  Forgive me; your mother needs you. We all want you back. Please come to the Hotel Meurice in the 1st arrondissement, opposite the Tuileries Garden, tomorrow at three. I shall wait for you there – but if you do not come I will come back to the café until I find you. I was wrong, Betty. Please give me a chance to show you that I do care… Sebastian.

  Betty felt the sting of tears, because the note was so typical of Sebastian, brief and to the point. No flowery apologies or promises, just the truth. She brushed her eyes and swallowed hard, as a wave of longing swept over her and she knew she would meet him as he asked… because she loved all her family and she’d missed them so terribly. And yet she was so ashamed. Sebastian would want to know what she’d been doing… if she knew him, he would already have all the facts but he would expect an explanation.

  *

  Sebastian frowned as he drank his rich dark coffee. That woman had so obviously been lying, trying to protect Betty – and he could guess why. His informants had told him the unvarnished truth: Betty had got into deep waters with a man who needed a good thrashing.

  Sebastian had gone after Saint-Jacquez intending to do just that, but when he got to the cheap apartment where the fellow lived, he’d discovered it shut up and deserted. A man had come from the shop beneath after Sebastian had banged on the door for several minutes.

  ‘Gone away,’ he’d shouted. ‘What you want with that devil, Monsieur? He scum – better you do not find him…’

  ‘He’s lucky I didn’t,’ Sebastian muttered, still seething with rage. ‘I might have been tempted to kill him…’

  ‘Someone should do it,’ the man agreed. ‘He owes me one hundred francs in rent and he goes with no word. Pouff! He will find his things no more if he returns. I sell them for my money…’

  ‘Good luck to you,’ Sebastian said and meant it.

  He walked away knowing that it was better he hadn’t found Pierre at home. Murder was a hanging offence and Sebastian could cheerfully have killed the man who had taken his innocent daughter away from her home and the people who loved her.

  He’d discovered all he needed to know about Pierre by asking at the various cafés and bars. Most people were willing to talk, especially if he offered money. Pierre Saint-Jacquez owed money almost everywhere and was not liked. Several of those Sebastian had talked to claimed he owed them hundreds of francs – and that was very probably the reason he’d fled his usual haunts. It was unlikely that he was still in Paris. All Sebastian had had to do then was to find Betty.

  It had taken him the best part of a week, because she was not well known. He’d tried some of the fashion houses and no one remembered seeing her, even though he’d thought a vendeuse in the House of Vennier was lying when she’d denied all knowledge of Betty. After the fashion houses he tried the cafés and bars, because Betty had very little money so she had to work somewhere, and at last he’d found someone who suggested he should visit Madame Marie’s café in the Boulevard de Rochouart.

  Sebastian had gone immediately to Madame Marie’s establishment, but she denied all knowledge of Betty. However, her manner was so guilty that he knew she was merely lying to protect the girl and in the end he’d asked for paper and an envelope. He’d scribbled a few words to Betty, telling Madame that he would return until Betty was ready to talk to him…

  ‘Monsieur Winters?’ The receptionist came up to him as he finished his coffee. ‘A telephone call for you, Monsieur…’

  ‘Yes, of course, thank you.’ Sebastian followed her into reception and picked up the receiver. ‘Sebastian Winters…’

  ‘Seb, I’ve got that information you’ve been waiting for – but you’ll have to leave immediately. You have an appointment: Monday, at half-past ten in the morning at the Magdalena Bar in East Berlin. You’ll find all the papers, including tickets for your flight to East Germany and three return tickets, and your luggage in your hire car outside the hotel… your plane leaves in two hours so you’ll need to move fast…’

  ‘I have things to do first,’ Sebastian protested. ‘I have to see my daughter…’

  ‘Betty is safe. Gretchen’s life is in danger, as is that of the man who has risked a lot to get her out of where she was being held… if you’re not there on time it will be too late to save either of them. This is important, Seb.’

  ‘It’s important that I see my daughter…’

  ‘I’ll get a message to her,’ Jack promised. ‘Tell me where she’s working… I’ll get one of my chaps to take a message round.’

  ‘That isn’t good enough. I’ll call there on the way to the airport.’

  ‘Just don’t miss the flight. Look, Seb, you wanted to get the girl out and I arranged for her to be brought as far as Berlin; miss this chance and you can give up all idea of finding her alive. Betty is OK. I give you my word nothing will happen to her. If you’re worried about Saint-Jacquez you can forget him. We have our eye on him and he isn’t in Paris…’

  ‘How did you manage to fathom all that out?’

  ‘All things are possible when needs must,’ Jack answered. ‘Your bill is paid at the hotel– and you will be bringing two passengers back with you; the hire car is waiting for you outside. A man will drive you to the airport and then return the car; there will be another waiting near the airport the other end and you’ll be met and given all you need… your cover story is in place. Follow your instructions to the letter… you have to go right now… Do this for me, Seb, and for the sake of two lives…’

  The phone went down abruptly and Sebastian stared at it in annoyance. He didn’t want to leave Paris when he’d just found Betty and arranged a meeting, but he knew that Jack wouldn’t have told him it was crucial to move now if there was room to manoeuvre. If he wanted to get Gretchen out, he had to follow Jack’s instructions in every detail. All he could do was to leave a letter for Betty and postpone their meeting.

  He asked for pen and paper and wrote a swift note, reviewing it with a frown. It was hardly adequate, but Betty would understand that something important had come up. He placed some money inside, in case she didn’t have enough for what he’d asked and sealed it, giving it to the receptionist with instructions to give it to Miss Betty Oliver when she asked for him. He hoped that Betty would take the money and go home, because he wasn’t sure how long he would be away – and it was possible that things could go wrong. Besides, he wasn’t sure that she would respond to his invitation. He would probably have to return to the café and fetch her in the end… and in the meantime he could not afford to lose his chance to get Gretchen out of East Germany…

  Ten minutes later he asked the driver of the hire car to wait while he paid a quick visit to Madame Marie’s café, but even as he walked quickly towards it, he saw that it was closed and there was no sign of anyone. He rang the bell and banged on the door but no one answered. A blast of the car’s horn made him look over his shoulder; they were holding up the traffic and needed to get going if he was to catch that plane.

  Cursing, Sebastian went back to the car, unaware that someone had looked out of the window above the café. He had no time to look back, no time to try again, because if he missed that flight Marianne’s daughter might be lost forever…

  Chapter 12

  Betty dressed carefully for her meeting with Sebastian. She didn’t want him to think her life had been all drudgery since she’d left home. Yes, she’d made a terrible mistake trusting Pierre, but it had taught her som
ething important, and she’d grown up. She’d been an innocent child when she ran away, but now she understood so many things that she hadn’t before – and she was beginning to make a good life here in Paris. If she could be sure that Pierre would leave her alone, she might have been tempted to stay.

  Veronique’s dress was finished and she’d gone into raptures over it, declaring that it was as good as anything she’d worn for the fashion house she worked at.

  ‘You should be in our workshops, ma cherie,’ she’d told Betty when it fitted her like a second skin, clinging softly over her hips and breasts, showing off her narrow waist to perfection. ‘I adore it, Betty. One day you set up your own house and I work for you, yes?’

  ‘You would be welcome,’ Betty said and embraced her, loving her friend for being so enthusiastic. Veronique’s genuine delight in the gown made up for the slights that others had offered her – even though she’d been able to ignore Madame Vennier’s insults when she discovered a dress almost exactly like one of her stolen designs in a shop window. Betty was ready to forgive the quarrel with her father too as she walked through the lovely gardens on her way to the hotel Sebastian had chosen.

  She would miss the warmth and the scents of Paris, the sweet fragrance of flowers and the equally enticing one of garlic and delicious cooking well laced with wine. She’d begun to feel very much at home here. She’d come to Paris in late August and it was now the end of October; just two months though it seemed like a lifetime, and she felt as if she belonged here. She loved the beautiful old city, its magnificent ancient buildings and its wonderful shops – but there was another city tugging at her heart, and the people of London who had been such a large part of her childhood. To work there as part of a fashion team would be her dream come true. She’d thought first of her mother’s workshops, of making beautiful hats – but now Betty knew where her talents lay and what she intended to do with her life. She would try to find work in a London fashion house, beginning in their busy workshops and then, gradually, perfecting her own designs. It was a glittering dream that danced before her eyes like a butterfly of silver, always out of reach but on the horizon so that she could see it and, if she tried very hard, reach out and touch it.