‘You’ve got Mr Parminter at three, Dick.’
‘Cancel him, will you? These business lunches take time. Perch, we leave in half an hour. Bring all of this lot with you. Her ladyship and those property folk will want to see it. And try to get that hair to lie flat. You look like a hippy. This is a fancy place we’re going to.’
After fifteen minutes pressed up against Hillbrand on the sweaty, crowded tube, I feel anything but fancy. As he knocks on the door of a quietly opulent Belgravia townhouse I search my pockets for a handkerchief, and not finding one, wipe my face surreptitiously with my tie. I’m drying off the reservoir under my nose when the door swings open.
A butler in white gloves watches as I drop the tie, mid-dab.
‘Here to see a Mrs Mallory,’ Hillbrand announces. ‘She’s expecting us.’
The butler mutely inclines his head as if to say, How unfortunate for her, and sweeps before us into a grand entrance hall. I try not to gawp. It’s like Buckingham Palace. Steph would go mad. There’s a wide, carpeted staircase, and a slippery-looking marble floor and plants everywhere. Even Hillbrand looks surprised.
‘Could be a top client for us here, Perch,’ he says through the corner of his mouth.
I wish I could tell him that once this business with Emeline and Hallerton is done, he’ll never see Mrs Mallory or her brother again. I want to point out that the only reason they even set foot in Hillbrand & Moffat is because he has Great-uncle Durrant’s files, because they were too greedy and impatient to try to transfer them to their own respectable family solicitor.
But I can’t, not least because the butler is ushering us into a cloakroom, where a second man divests Hillbrand of his hat and me of my briefcase. From there it’s on to a dark-panelled dining room. Tables spread with pristine linen stand a discreet distance from each other, populated by men in expensive suits and women with perfect up-dos.
Mrs Mallory is waiting, along with a thin, bald man. His head is so shiny it looks like it’s made from Bakelite. His blue suit is cut perfectly to his frame and she’s wearing a tailored cream dress that probably cost more than my month’s wages.
‘Gentlemen,’ she says, serenely, ‘how nice to see you. This is Mr Remington.’
The Bakelite cracks as the man lifts his mouth in a smile. I shake his hand. It’s dry and weightless.
‘Mr Remington,’ Hillbrand beams over his own handshake, ‘an honour. I hear you have some grand plans for Hallerton, sir.’
I know what he’s thinking. Remington Camps are one of the biggest holiday businesses in the country: a game-changing client for Hillbrand & Moffat.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Mrs Mallory’s looking at me. Oh God.
‘Ah,’ I say, ‘a pint of—’
‘Sherry,’ interrupts Hillbrand. ‘We’ll both take a sherry.’
The waiters vanish as though they never existed. Mrs Mallory is up to her old trick of not blinking. I try to loosen my collar and almost knock a knife flying.
‘Well, Mr Perch,’ Remington says over my fumbling, ‘you have good news for us, all the way from Hallerton.’
The name sounds wrong in his voice, smooth and artificial as sweetener. I look at his immaculately pressed jacket, his gold cufflinks. I can’t think of anyone less suited to Hallerton, or to the remote green marshes of Saltedge, but I attempt a smile.
‘That’s right.’
‘Like I said, we’ll have this case sewn up by the end of the month.’ Hillbrand flaps his napkin importantly. ‘Mr Perch has discovered that your aunt’s mental state, Mrs Mallory, was less than stable at the time of her disappearance.’
‘Indeed. And while I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, we knew that already, Mr Hillbrand. Our great-uncle Andrew told us as much before he died. I do hope Mr Perch has managed to obtain some hard proof?’ She smiles. ‘Without it, all of this is just family gossip. Not enough for a declaration of death, as I’m sure you know.’
Hillbrand nods indulgently. ‘Not only did Mr Perch manage to obtain it, ma’am, but we’ve brought it along with us today. He’ll be only too happy to show you later, won’t you, Perch?’
The waiters return, bringing amber liquid in little cut crystal goblets. I stare into mine and all I can think of is Emeline, pouring drinks for the men come to buy up her past, trying so hard to hold on to herself. Emeline, heartbroken, her hands full of shards …
‘In that case, here’s to a rewarding end to this whole business.’ Mrs Mallory raises her glass in a toast. ‘You can’t imagine how grateful my brother and I are, Mr Perch.’
‘Or my board of directors,’ says Remington, and they laugh.
I’ve never had sherry before. I take a gulp so that I don’t have to join in. It’s dry and cloying all at once, with a taste that sticks at the back of my throat and won’t be swallowed away. Hillbrand is talking. I force my attention back to the conversation.
‘… obviously due to the lack of progeny on Emeline’s part, Hallerton reverts solely to your father, Mrs Mallory. As for the timing,’ Hillbrand sluices down some more sherry, ‘I don’t think any court would disagree that fixing Emeline’s death at the time of her disappearance is in keeping with any suicidal—’
‘She didn’t kill herself.’
I close my mouth, to stop any other words escaping of their own accord. Hillbrand throws me a disbelieving look.
‘No, indeed, Mr Perch is right, we’ll phrase it more sensitively than that,’ he rushes. ‘But based on the documentation we have gathered, the court will, without a doubt, declare her death and grant probate.’
‘Let us hope that’s the case,’ Mrs Mallory murmurs, exchanging a look with Remington. I can tell he’s studying me, even while he pretends to peruse the menu.
I don’t recognize any of the words written there, beyond ‘salad’ and, inexplicably, ‘turtle soup’ and nod when Hillbrand offers to order for me.
‘Ever tried pâté, lad?’ He winks, whilst Remington questions the waiter in detail about salad dressing.
The prospect of food seems to have cheered Hillbrand up enough to let my previous outburst slip. Perhaps he thinks I’m just nervous. Am I nervous? My breathing is quicker than it should be. For some reason, I want to grab the flimsy glasses and fling them across the room, want to yell at the three of them, until they understand that what we’re doing is wrong.
I manage to get through the next few minutes with a series of nods and noises, but by the time the food arrives, I feel like I’m going to explode. I watch the waiters place a bowl of perfectly clear soup in front of Mrs Mallory.
‘It’ll be our biggest camp yet,’ Mr Remington is explaining to Hillbrand. ‘We’ve found a way to double the accommodation within any given area. Not as much space, of course,’ he leans back as a waiter slides a plate before him, ‘but that’s not a problem.’ He smiles at me, mistaking my deathly silence for interest. ‘They all want a holiday, Mr Perch, that’s the beauty of it. They’ll pay more for newer, better attractions, and at the same time, by building at Hallerton we take custom from our rivals at Great Yarmouth and Southwold.’
With a flourish, the waiter lays a plate before me. It contains an artfully curled bit of toast, next to a rectangle of something mottled and meaty and yellow. It glistens in the light, repulsive and expensive. It has a cost, I realize, all of this has a cost …
My chair squeaks as I push it backwards. Hillbrand looks alarmed, Mrs Mallory and Remington quizzical, but I put on my best sheepish grin.
‘Excuse me a minute, would you? Nature calls.’
Hillbrand chortles at my clueless manners and Mrs Mallory gives me a pained smile before turning back to the conversation. I follow the waiter out of the dining room, heart pounding.
‘The gentlemen’s room is this way, sir,’ the waiter-butler tells me. Ahead I can see the marble entrance hall. I mumble something to him about needing air and stride off before he can correct me. The cloakroom attendant looks confused, but hands over my briefcase when
I ask. I clutch the worn leather to my chest, manage to make it across the hall and out the front door before I break into a run.
I don’t know what I’m doing; I only know that it’s right. With every step away from the restaurant my anger is being replaced by something else, bright and frightening and fragile. I think it’s hope.
Outside the tube station, I slow to a stop. All around me workers are pushing their way back to offices, suited, hatted, hurried. A man is heading towards the nearest telephone box but I get there first. I dial a number from memory. It rings. Once, twice, three times. Please don’t be on lunch, please …
‘Hillbrand and Moffat?’ Jill answers, her mouth full.
‘Jill, it’s me.’
‘Billy! Aren’t you meant to be at your fancy lunch?’
‘Something’s come up, I need to check—’ I swallow hard, but there’s no going back. ‘Jill, Timothy Vane … which hospital is he at?’
March 1919
For the second time that day, a scent pulled me out of sleep. At first I was confused in the darkness, but it found me again, impossible to ignore: onions, frying fish, spices that hovered at the edge of recognition. I pushed myself up on to my elbows and sniffed. I had no notion of how much time had passed, or even what day it was. All I knew was that I was ravenous.
I crawled from the blankets. Tiredness clung to me as I found the wooden shutters and pulled them open. Outside, it was dark. Carefully, I shunted open the frame, too. The noise of the sea rushed up to greet me. I had no idea it was so close. I could smell it, mingling with the scent of cooking from below.
And there were voices, many voices, talking, laughing. Light spilled from the ground floor of the Fourniers’ house, stretching across a dirt road and down on to what looked like a beach. Occasionally, a wave would catch the edge of the light.
I crept down the creaking staircase, like a child at a party. The smell grew stronger, the heat of cooking wafted up to greet me and my stomach growled. My body had definite ideas about what it wanted and that was food, and drink – and soon. I stepped into the kitchen.
Clémence stood at the stove. It dominated the space, a huge black range fuelled by wood, which added its irresistible scent to the cooking. Dozens of pots and pans and skillets hung from the walls, blackened from use. Shelves on either side held jars and tins, bunches of dried herbs, bottles of liquid. A shallow bowl sat near Clémence’s elbow, filled to the brim with glistening sea salt.
She was tending to three pans at once. In two, chunks of white fish were frying, a coating of flour turning them crisp and golden. In the third, I could see onions and herbs bubbling in oil. A heavy thud from the table made me jump and I turned to see Aaró, a mallet in his hand, crushing something on a wooden board.
‘It smells wonderful,’ I called over the sizzling. ‘What are you cooking?’
Clémence flipped the fish deftly with one hand, reaching for a tin with the other.
‘Dinner.’
I watched, fascinated, as she shook a bright red powder into the onions. Immediately a scent rose, sweet and smoky, turning everything in the pan a deep crimson. Swiftly, she added the fish, a slosh of wine from an unmarked bottle, a ladleful of broth from a pan at the back of the stove.
I’d never seen anything like it. No weights or measures or hesitancy. She cooked by instinct, moved like lightning, as if her hands knew what to do on their own. At my cooking classes, we had been taught to work slowly and prudently, in pinches and thimbles and tiny slivers.
She slurped a bit of the bubbling sauce from a wooden spoon, nodded once and pushed it to a cooler part of the stove.
‘If you want to help,’ she said over her shoulder as she glugged oil into a new pan, ‘ask Aaró.’
The young man was still using the mallet to crush something up, making noises to himself that I knew he couldn’t hear. It was garlic, I saw, two entire heads of it. The smell was intense; it made my eyes and my mouth water at the same time. We had never used garlic at my classes. The teacher had deemed it ‘too coarse’ a flavour for the palate of young ladies. She would’ve swooned at the sight of this. I smiled and Aaró looked up, with his bright grey eyes.
‘Can I help?’ I pointed to the garlic and to me, hoping that Clémence would step in and translate, but she was busy slapping another half-dozen pieces of fish into a pan. Aaró frowned, looking down at the garlic, not understanding. I tried again, pointing to me, then him, then a bowl, to no avail.
Perhaps it was my useless expression, but abruptly he glanced at his mother, clanging away at the stove, and his face lit up with realization. He beckoned me forward.
He dumped the pulverized garlic cloves into a huge pestle and mortar that stood beside him, threw in a handful of rough salt, and began to mash it all into a paste. He had strong hands, I saw, as tanned as his face and callused across the fingers. I had never known a man who could cook, but Aaró moved like his mother, swift and comfortable. It was wonderful to watch.
He waved his hand before my face to get my attention. I nodded to show I was watching. He took up a tin can with a long, thin spout and dropped a tiny amount of golden-green oil into the garlic. He worked it in, slowly and methodically, then added another few drops, before handing over the tin to me.
We worked that way, heads close, until the mortar was magically filled with a smooth, creamy, yellow substance. Smiling to himself, Aaró stuck his little finger into it and tasted before indicating that I should do the same.
The flavour exploded on my tongue. It was like nothing I had ever eaten, strong and rich and sweet all at once. Forgetting myself, I reached out again, only to find my hand slapped away by Aaró. We smiled at each other, and once again I felt that strange urge to step closer, to study his face.
But Clémence called me over. She was pouring the steaming stew into two enormous serving bowls.
‘Take these if you want to help.’ She shoved several loaves of crusty bread into my arms and pointed to a tray. I was so preoccupied with hunger and cooking with Aaró that I had forgotten the sound of voices from the front of the house, didn’t even consider it until I stepped through a curtained doorway and was confronted by the sight of two-dozen strangers.
They sat squashed together, drinking wine from tumblers, their cheeks flushed and faces bright. The front of the house was a café, I saw then. Long tables and mismatched chairs had been crammed into every conceivable space. The walls were roughly plastered, painted a cheery yellow. A wooden bar ran along the back of the room, stacked with plates and spoons and glasses.
The people were speaking the odd language from the train station again, mixed with French and Spanish. The men wore jumpers and neck scarves, soft caps pushed back on their heads. Others were dressed in overalls. The women wore plain skirts and heavy boots, their black hair coiled and pinned sensibly above tanned necks.
Most of them began applauding when they saw Clémence walk in, only to falter as I appeared behind her. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Even in my borrowed clothes, I looked different, knew I would sound different, with my stiff, tutor-polished French.
I kept my head down, away from those dark, direct stares, wishing I could creep back to the kitchen. I heard more than one voice start to whisper.
‘This is Mademoiselle Fischer,’ Clémence said to the room, setting a steaming bowl on the counter. ‘She will be staying here for a few days. Now, txin txin!’
The townspeople forgot me in the business of yelling their approval and raising their wine glasses. They piled up to the front, scrambling to get in front of each other. Clémence ladled portions of stew on to the waiting plates.
Stealthily, Aaró doled out a couple of servings of his own. He topped each with a spoonful of the yellow garlic sauce and a large chunk of bread. I found the bowl pushed into my hands. He winked at me, made a sign with his closed fingers against his mouth, rubbed his chest and was gone, weaving through the tables towards a group of men in fishermen’s clothes, who smiled and waved as he appro
ached.
I was left alone, holding the brimming plate, anxious as a child on the first day of school. Part of me wanted to stride across the room to sit with Aaró but it wouldn’t be right, a single woman and a group of men. There was space at the furthest corner of the last table. The townspeople nearby ignored me when I sat down. They spoke in their own language, occasionally whispering and glancing my way.
Concentrate on eating, I told myself, but soon I found that I didn’t need to try. The food claimed all my attention. I’d never eaten anything like it. Every mouthful seemed to sing with flavour. Onions cooked to sweetness, fish so fresh it still tasted of the ocean’s minerals, fragrant herbs, thyme and aniseed, and most of all the powerful red spice, mouth-wateringly smoky. I forgot myself completely and ate like a savage, tearing off mouthfuls of the bread to soak up the garlic sauce that mingled with the savoury broth.
All too soon I had to sit back, though the bowl was still half-full. The chatter in the room continued over the scrape of spoons, over slurping and noises of appreciation. Clémence sat in the middle, elbow to elbow, laughing at a joke. She looked younger than before. They called her ‘Maman’, I realized, because she gave them what a mother would: a familiar face, the warmth of a hearth, a meal cooked with love.
We all have our roles, she’d said. Emeline Vane had a role, one that I had never asked for. But Emilie Fischer? Next to me, a man poured himself a tumbler of wine from the communal pitcher, and drank it down. Smiling, I did the same.
June 1969
I follow Jill’s directions to a private hospital, in another wealthy area. Before I can talk myself out of it, I run up the steps. In the reception area there are flowers on a table and padded chairs, and a radio playing classical music. No sterile green lino and harsh lights and metallic noises here.
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