Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  It was on a day of sunshine and birdsong that Inspector Ian MacAdam unexpectedly called at the house in Pascal Road. Shown into the parlour, after effecting dourly brief introductions he came directly to the point.

  ‘I feel you should know, Miss Daniels, that we’re now as certain as we can be that the fire at the New Palace Theatre – in which, as you know, twenty-eight people died – was no accident. It was deliberately set.’ The Inspector was a lowland Scot, staunchly Presbyterian and no great admirer of women unless they be of the pattern of his own rigorously righteous, mouse-plain wife. He eyed Kitty repressively and with no great compassion, the weight of his disapproval of all things theatrical in his severe gaze. She sat stiffly upon a high-backed dining chair nursing, more from habit than from necessity, her still-bandaged left arm with her right hand.

  ‘Deliberately set?’ She frowned, shook her head. ‘Surely not, Inspector?’

  His mouth tightened irritably. ‘I tell you, Miss Daniels, that we know it to be true.’

  ‘But – who would do such an awful thing?’

  Pol, sitting in a chair by the flower-filled summer grate, stirred, and was still.

  Self-importantly the man cleared his throat. ‘You are, I believe, Miss Daniels, acquainted with a woman named Charlotte Smith?’

  ‘Charlotte?’ All vestiges of colour were draining from Kitty’s already pale face, leaving it chalk-white. Beneath the flared brows the dark eyes were horrified. ‘Lottie?’ she whispered. ‘You can’t think—?’ She stopped.

  He watched her dispassionately. ‘We have clear reason to believe, Miss Daniels, that she not only would but she did. The fire did not start on or near the stage as was originally believed. It began in your dressing room—’

  For one moment Kitty’s iron control almost broke. She shut her eyes tightly, jaw clenched, then drew a deep breath and sat straighter, hands clasped in her lap, watching him steadily. ‘You have proof?’

  ‘We have a witness.’

  Kitty heard Pol’s small, shocked intake of breath. She turned. ‘Pol—’

  ‘Miss Daniels.’ The Inspector interrupted her, his voice brusque, his eyes sharp and totally unsympathetic. ‘There is talk of a child.’

  Kitty, despite herself, flinched. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know no body was found?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With the sudden energy of fury Pol jumped from her chair and ran to Kitty, laying a protective arm about her shoulders, glaring angry and open dislike at the man. ‘Fer Gawd’s sake! What yer tryin’ ter to do ’er?’

  The Inspector coldly ignored her. His experience in the police force had encouraged him to draw uncharitable conclusions about Pol from the moment she had opened the door to him. ‘Miss Daniels, as I said, twenty-eight people died in that fire and the panic that followed it—’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Two of the recovered bodies were children’s. Both have now been identified by their families. Yet I understand you to believe that another child died in the flames?’

  ‘There was a child in my dressing room. I tried to get to him after the fire broke out – but – I couldn’t.’ The helpless tears that always rose at thought of Michael were threatening to get the better of her again. She blinked fiercely and cleared her throat. Pol squeezed her shoulders hard.

  ‘The man’ – the Inspector glanced at his notebook – ‘Luke Peveral’ – the tone in which the name was spoken left no doubt that enquiries had been made and Luke’s criminal identity established – ‘was the child’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was why he entered the burning building?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked up from the book. ‘His body was, as you know, recovered and identified.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’ Kitty’s voice was becoming desperate. She brushed a hand across her eyes. ‘Inspector – please – I don’t understand why we must go through all this again?’

  ‘Because a witness has come forward, Miss Daniels, and new evidence has come to light.’

  ‘What kind of new evidence?’

  He did not reply to her directly. ‘To make clear the position and to facilitate enquiries – indeed to ensure that I am speaking to the right person ­– I should like in the first place to establish the identity of the child who is missing.’

  ‘For Christ’s sweet sake,’ Pol burst out. ‘What diff’rence does it make? The kid’s dead, ain’t ’e?’

  Inspector MacAdam addressed Kitty, his voice steely. ‘Miss Daniels, would you ask your – companion’ – he emphasized the word with dry contempt – ‘to hold her tongue or to leave the room?’

  He could not have chosen a better way to stiffen Kitty’s back and dry her eyes. A sharp spur of anger goaded her back to sharp self-possession. ‘I’ll do no such thing, Inspector. Pol has nothing but my welfare at heart, whereas you, it seems, are simply intent upon opening old wounds. However – if you insist—’ She met his eyes levelly with her own. ‘As I suspect you already know, the child is’ – she stopped, corrected herself painfully – ‘was – the child was mine. His name was Michael Daniels. He was two and a half years old. He was born in France at Christmas in 1867. As I have already told you, Luke Peveral was his father. Now – is there anything else you need to know?’ Only the slightest tremor in her voice betrayed her.

  The expression on his face did not change. ‘Tell me, Miss Daniels—’ The emphasis on her unmarried title brought the faintest flush of colour to her face despite herself. ‘You and the woman Charlotte Smith – you were not on the best of terms?’

  ‘No.’ The word was short.

  ‘You had in fact quarrelled?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she had threatened you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at her thoughtfully. The silence ticked on.

  ‘Inspector—’ she began, a fraught edge of desperation back in her voice.

  He stopped her with a brusque lift of his hand. ‘I think you should know, Miss Daniels’ – still he could not resist that faint, scornful emphasis – ‘that we have good reason to believe that your son did not in fact die in the fire.’

  Had she been standing she would have fallen. As it was she swayed in her seat and Pol, her face as dumbstruck as Kitty’s own, caught her with strong hands.

  Inspector MacAdam stood and walked to the fireplace, turned to face them, hands clasped behind his back. For the first time he directly addressed Pol. ‘You were in charge of the child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you left him to go and see Miss Daniels perform on stage?’

  ‘That’s right. We’d arranged it. I’d asked—’

  ‘You had asked a young woman – Betty Dyson by name – to take care of the child while you were gone?’

  Pol eyed him warily. ‘That’s right. If you know, why ask?’

  ‘What you did not know was that Miss Dyson had’ – he lifted sardonic brows – ‘affairs of her own to arrange with a certain young man; an acrobat, I believe’ – he pronounced the word as if it had been in a foreign and unintelligible language – ‘and she left the child alone in Miss Daniels’ dressing room.

  ‘I’ll murder ’er,’ Pol said, conversationally.

  Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he indicate that he had heard her. ‘Miss Dyson it was who saw Mrs Smith come from your room, Miss Daniels. And who then saw the smoke, and flames—’

  ‘She raised the alarm?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately she did not. She panicked, and she ran away. She has, it would appear, a very possessive husband. She was afraid of the consequences of explanations. She isn’t a very intelligent young woman, I’m afraid. If she had raised the alarm immediately many lives would probably have been saved.’

  ‘Then why has she come forward now?’

  ‘Conscience, Miss Daniels, is a strange thing. She could not sleep.’

  ‘And – you say she actuall
y saw Lottie set the fire?’

  ‘She saw Charlotte Smith hurry from your dressing room, which was by that time well alight.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Miss Dyson says that she was carrying the child.’

  For a moment the words hardly registered. Kitty stared at him. Then, ‘Are you – is she – sure?’ Her voice was a stranger’s.

  ‘She has sworn to it.’

  ‘Lottie’s got Michael?’ Pol whispered. She was staring at the man as if he had been a ghost risen to haunt her. Suddenly Kitty was galvanized into action. She leapt from the chair and caught the man’s arm, almost shaking him. ‘Where is she? Where is she?’

  He removed his arm from her clutching fingers. ‘Precisely? We don’t know. Too much time has elapsed and the bird has flown, I fear. She has left the country.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Kitty flung her head back in a sudden furious gesture of frustration.

  ‘And gone where?’ Pol asked, steadily, an arm once more about Kitty’s trembling shoulders.

  ‘We traced her to France—’

  Kitty stilled. ‘France?’ she asked, sharply. ‘Whereabouts in France?’

  ‘We think possibly to Paris – we traced her so far, then I’m afraid we lost her. Twenty-eight people died in that fire, Miss Daniels. She had good reason to hide.’

  ‘Luke,’ Pol said softly, as if the name had only just occurred to her. ‘She killed Luke. Jesus Christ.’

  Kitty’s mind, emerging with sudden, shocking clarity from the daze of shock that had shackled it, said quickly, ‘She’s been to Paris before, Inspector, do you know that?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Surely there must be some way to trace her whereabouts? The French police—?’

  ‘—couldn’t find a pig in its sty in broad daylight,’ the man said, sourly. For the first time in this interview his expression was slightly less than granite hard. ‘I have to tell you, Miss Daniels, that I fear it’s hopeless. To look for one woman in a city of two million souls is a hard enough task at any time – to attempt it now, with hostilities about to break out and Paris the centre of France’s war activity… No, I’m afraid I must tell you that I didn’t come here to offer you hope of the child’s recovery, but simply to inform you that he is at least, we believe, still alive.’

  Kitty was staring at him blankly. ‘Hostilities? War? What war?’

  In the act of picking up his hat and gloves from the table the man stopped. ‘My dear Miss Daniels – surely you must have seen something of what is going on? Prussia and France have been intent upon picking a quarrel for months, and now it seems the pretext has arrived. War it will be, sooner or later.’ His expression was stern again. ‘And I know I’m not alone in hoping that our German cousins will teach that harlot nation a lesson they will never forget. Sin brings its own rewards, Miss Daniels, and I dinna doubt that Paris, like Sodom and Gomorrah before her, is likely at last to reap her just deserts in the coming conflict. I give you good day.’

  The door closed behind his sanctimonious back onto dead silence.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ Pol said at last, profound and inexpressible feeling in the two words. ‘Why didn’t I see? Why didn’t I guess? God Almighty – she told me! She bloody as good as told me—’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’ Kitty’s voice was trembling slightly.

  Pol closed her eyes, searching her memory. ‘The day before the fire Lot was ’ere. She was laughin’ – ’appy – just like old times. I ’adn’t seen ’er like it in years. I asked ’er what was up. She said – she said it was a secret. ’Er secret. An’ then she said—’ Pol screwed up her face ferociously. ‘Gawd, if I could just remember exactly! – somethin’ about Luke comin’ to ’er. She said if she could give ’im the thing ’e most wanted in the world ’e’d never leave ’er. She said ’e’d come to ’er when she ’ad ’is son. Kitty– may I be struck dead, I swear I thought she was pregnant!’

  ‘But – she meant my son. Michael! She intended to steal him – offer him to Luke in return for – oh, no! It’s mad! Unbalanced! It’s horrible—’

  Pol nodded, a sickness in her eyes.

  ‘But – the fire! Why the fire?’

  Pol shrugged. ‘’Oo knows? P’raps she did it to create a diversion. Could even ’ave bin an accident. But once she realized she’d bin seen – that the police’d be after ’er—’

  ‘She made a run for it. To the only place she knows outside London. The only place far enough away for her to feel safe. Paris.’

  Suddenly very calm, Kitty walked back to the chair in which she had been sitting and stood behind it, holding on to the high back as if for support. ‘Think,’ she said, softly. We have to think. Where would she go?’

  Pol was at her side in a moment. ‘Kitty, love, no! Don’t fool yourself! That jackass was right about that at least. It’d be like lookin’ fer a blinkin’ needle in an ’aystack! An’ you’ll get no ’elp from the coppers, that’s obvious—’

  ‘I shan’t ask for any.’

  ‘But – s’pose – like ’e said – s’pose there is a war?’

  ‘I don’t care. I’ve got to try. Pol – Michael’s alive! He’s alive!’ Small, feverish spots of colour had appeared on Kitty’s pale cheeks. Unnoticed, tears rolled down her thin face and dripped disregarded onto the pale silk of her dress. ‘He’s alive!’ she whispered again, and almost in one movement they stepped into each other’s embrace, hugging, rocking, laughing and crying together. When at last they drew away, Pol mopped her face with a large handkerchief.

  ‘Pol,’ Kitty said, urgently. ‘Please – think! Try to remember everything Lottie ever told you about that stay in Paris. Where did they go? What did they do? What did she like? Most important of all – did she make any friends?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Pol said immediately, ‘she made a friend all right. Couldn’t stop talkin’ about ’er. An’ English girl ’oo’d bin over there some time. Done quite well for ’erself by all accounts.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Pol lifted caustic brows. ‘Whorin’, what else? Oh – she ’ad some fancy Frenchification for it, but whorin’ was what she did.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  Sadly Pol shook her head.

  ‘Oh, Pol – please! You must remember!’

  Pol concentrated ferociously, an intent frown creasing her brow. Then she shook her brassy head in quick self-impatience. ‘No. ’S’no good. If I ever knew it, it’s gone. Tell you what, though’ – she brightened suddenly – ‘I’ve got a picture of ’er somewhere, with Lot. Some street artist drew ’em sittin’ at a table at a bar near this girl’s ’ouse. Lot gave it to me as a keepsake. P’raps the girl’s name’s on it?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Upstairs somewhere.’ Pol, followed closely by Kitty, was already halfway to the door.

  It was a full, frustrating hour later that Pol, with a quick, profanely triumphant exclamation, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the back of a drawer. ‘’Ere it is!’ She laid the picture, a smudged pencil sketch, on the dressing table and carefully smoothed the creases. A remarkably faithfully drawn Lottie laughed from beneath an open parasol. She was seated at a small table upon which were set a bottle of wine and two glasses. Beside her sat an attractive dark girl with wide, cat-like eyes and a full, pouting mouth. Behind them a fountain played, the water cascading from the mouth of a dolphin upon whose back a plump cherub rode, one arm upraised and the hand missing. Beyond that were sketched tall, shuttered houses, their front doors opening straight onto the pavement of what looked like a typical, slightly seedy Parisian square.

  ‘No. No name. Blast!’ Disappointed, Pol made to refold the picture.

  Kitty snatched it from her. ‘It doesn’t matter! At least it’s a start! If I could find that statue—’

  Pol was staring at her. ‘You gone bleedin’ potty? You can’t go ter Paris on a wild goose chase like that! Didn’t you ’ear what the man said? They’re goin’ ter be shootin’ at each other over there
! An’ besides – Kitty, love, I don’t like ter be a wet blanket, but aren’t you addin’ two an’ two an’ makin’ bloody twenty-one? You don’t know fer sure Lot’s in Paris. You don’t know she’s still got Michael with ’er. You don’t know—’

  ‘I don’t care! Oh, Pol, you must see – I’ve got to try! I’ve got to! While there’s a chance – the faintest chance – that Michael’s alive, I’ve got to try.’ She stood for a moment, thinking, clicking her fingers. ‘What was the name of that boring man from the Foreign Office - you know, the one that kept sending me those terrible poems? Hogarth? Howard? No – Howarth! Lord Howarth! That’s it!’ Turning, she flew from the room and clattered at risk to her neck down the narrow stairs.

  ‘Where the ’ell you goin’?’ Pol followed her onto the landing and hung over the bannisters.

  Kitty was struggling into her light summer cloak, wincing as she strained her damaged arm. ‘To Whitehall. To find the poetic Lord Howarth. And if he won’t help me – then I’ll find someone else.’ She lifted her face, white and determined in the half-dark. ‘I’m going to Paris, Pol. War or no war. Not the whole damned Prussian army will stop me. Michael’s in Paris. I know he is. And I’m going to find him. I have friends to help me – Jem, if I can find him, Charles, Genevieve—’

  ‘But—’

  Kitty’s movements stilled. Her face as she looked up at Pol was strangely sympathetic. ‘Don’t “but” me, Pol. It won’t do any good. Try to understand. I’m not stupid – I know I’m clutching at straws – but what else do I have?’ The shadowed dark eyes glittered. ‘I lay in that hospital bed and I prayed to die, Pol – as they had died; Matt, Luke, Michael. I thought I had nothing to live for. Now I have. Don’t try to stop me. I’m going to Paris.’