The Firebird's Feather

by Marjorie Eccles

  Marcus diligently read through everything and refolded the paper. It had been something of an eye-opener. More, it had left him with a certain respect for Jon Devenish. For some time he studied the front page, the Gothic font proclaiming it to be the Britannia Voice and underneath it, its logo. A few minutes later, he put on his hat and left.

  Twenty-One

  Although the dreaded ordeal of the funeral was at last over, something that had to be endured as best you could and then put away, they were still in London. Bridget had protested that they must stay there until the coronation, only three weeks away now, before going down to Southfields and Aunt Ursula, unable to sustain arguments to the contrary, had eventually given in. ‘Very well. Goodness knows, we are all in need of some sort of diversion.’ Probably the truth was in part that she would have been quite sorry to miss all the pomp and ceremony herself.

  Meanwhile, the heatwave continued. Inside the house, the atmosphere was stifling. Too much had happened too quickly, leaving a vacuum, as if the shock had sucked up all the air. An unnerving, almost abnormal silence hung over a house where people slept, ate and worked, people who normally made a domesticated stir while going about their everyday business. Voices and footsteps were now hushed. No noisily closed doors, no one apart from the servants appearing to have anything urgent to do, except for Hester Drax, still busy on her clacking machine as if her life depended on it. No Mama, and her quick way of moving through the rooms, nothing of her laughter, her occasional stormy outbursts, sending the servants scurrying. Now, it seemed as though her absence was a presence in itself. Her clothes, all her possessions, were still exactly as she had left them. No one, not even Ursula, had as yet been able to face getting rid of them.

  It was as if time was hanging in suspension, waiting. For what? The police seemed no nearer finding the person who had so wantonly killed her.

  Into this hiatus Marcus came. They had seemingly told him he would find her here in the square garden. The hot weather had finished off the lilacs – their season had been too short, and now the blossoms were withered and brown, their scent only a memory. Kitty was sitting on a seat in a tree-shaded spot at the intersection of two paths, mindlessly tracing lines on the gravel with the toe of her shoe. She was too hot, even though she was wearing a thin muslin blouse tucked into her black skirt, and a hideous, black straw hat, its only virtue an extra-wide brim, that had once belonged to Aunt Ursula. She wished she had been wearing anything but that when she saw Marcus striding down the path.

  ‘Is your father at home, Kitty?’

  ‘He’s at the office. He seems to feel better, occupied there.’ Which was true enough, and she envied him the opportunity, though in such a short space he had turned into an old man, as if some wicked fairy had waved a wand over him. His hair, already receding, surely had more grey in it. His skin was the colour and texture of putty, slightly damp. Kitty could not get through to him. He patted her hand and spoke to her but he did not see her. Indeed he didn’t seem to see, or feel, anything. He seemed to have locked the door on his emotions.

  ‘Then I can’t ask him if I may take you out for a drive in my motor,’ Marcus said. ‘You need some air, a change of scene. It’s my guess you haven’t been far from the house for days.’

  ‘Aunt Ursula makes me, and sometimes Bridget, when she decides to spare the time, take a walk each day. She’s thinking of buying me a little dog and then I can’t back out of it.’ That daily exercise stint, shortening her stride to her aunt’s, did nothing for Kitty, but maybe Ursula was right to insist. You mustn’t let yourself mope, Kitty. That sort of thing won’t do. It was a daily trial, although inactivity was worse, with nothing to do but think. It was too hot to play tennis. Dulcinea, her little pony, stayed where she was, except when she was ridden by one of the lads at the livery stable, to exercise her. Kitty didn’t think she would ever be able to face riding her again, or at least not here in London, and certainly not in the Row. The once-despised activities that had previously helped to fill her days, trivial though they’d been – going shopping or taking lunch out with Mama, making calls, the occasional treat of visiting an art gallery – had left her with little time on her hands, and she would have welcomed them now. Meeting her friends, playing tennis or taking tea with them was out of the question. They would all be chattering about their coming-out dances, their clothes, the young fellows they hoped to meet … studiously avoiding the topic of Kitty’s mother – or worse, smothering her with sympathy. She would be nothing but an embarrassment.

  She thought Marcus had been expecting a refusal from her. He’d expected to need her father’s permission for Kitty to accompany him of course, but when she said she simply needed to tell Aunt Ursula where she was going and to change her hat, he only asked what was wrong with the one she was wearing. She rolled her eyes and he said if she must change it, then she must bring a scarf to tie the new one on – he already had in the motor an alpaca dust-coat he had borrowed from his sister. Suddenly, as she ran up the stairs for a better hat, shaken from her apathy, she felt more alive than she had in weeks, and in the mirror she noticed that even the obligatory black silk jacket she put on to cover her blouse failed to drain the trace of colour from her cheeks.

  ‘Shall we go down into Kent?’ Marcus said when she rejoined him. It was more a statement than a question. ‘We can be at Loddhurst in a couple of hours or so and have lunch with my father.’

  Loddhurst was, Kitty knew, the Villiers family home to where his father, Sir Aiden, who had worked at the Foreign Office, had now retired. She had heard Aunt Ursula speak of him, and had the impression of a rather formidable person. She wasn’t sure whether she would be capable of keeping up a conversation with such an experienced, polished man of the world, especially when she thought of the part he’d played in that matter of Marcus and Mr Churchill. Marcus, she suspected, felt he had been manipulated on that occasion, and had been hurt by it, though a visit to his father seemed to indicate he wasn’t still holding that against him.

  He drove fast and seemed preoccupied until they had left London behind. A proper conversation would have been difficult anyway, over the noise of the motor and the hair-raising negotiations through the traffic that surrounded them, not to mention the necessity of holding on to the slippery leather seat. It hadn’t rained since the thunderstorm that Sunday night and the dust flew up in clouds. The motor had no roof. All the same, it was exhilarating, sitting there, rushing through the warm breeze with everything flying past. They only had to stop once for oil and petrol.

  ‘I should like you to see the improvements my father is making at Loddhurst,’ Marcus said at last, the noise of the engine subsiding somewhat as he drove slowly up to the house. ‘Every generation has to make its mark on the property but he’s never had the opportunity before, serving abroad. He’s making up for lost time now. Electricity, bathrooms, telephone … no one is going to be able to say we’re behind the times.’

  It was smaller than she’d expected, less grand than she’d feared. A low-gabled huddle of grey Kentish ragstone, partly creeper-covered and with warm, red-tiled roofs, sitting prettily in the fold of a small hill. Once a priory, it had, Marcus informed her, a long and complex history: a nun walled in, dissolution, rebuilding, knights killed in battle, honours received. Destruction by Henry VIII had left only part of it habitable and much of that had fallen into ruin over the centuries. Marcus’ great-grandfather, and later his grandfather, had done much to restore what remained into a more comfortable place to live. The garden was Sir Aiden’s current project, and his greatest love. ‘I’m afraid you’ll be dragooned into being shown around. I telephoned while you were getting your hat, and he’s expecting us.’

  They drove up to an ancient oak front door, silvered with age, and climbed out. The heat enveloped them after the draughts caused by rushing through the air at speed in an open motor car. Kitty took off the ankle-length, enveloping coat that had saved her from much of the road dust and kept her from shivering, e
ven on such a day, untied the scarf and adjusted her hat. Marcus took a step towards her, pulling out the folded, white handkerchief from his breast pocket. ‘Forgive me, but – you have a little oil speck. I’m afraid that does happen sometimes. Rather more often than sometimes, actually.’ Carefully, he dabbed at her cheek, but when he had finished he didn’t step away.

  How long they stood like that she didn’t know.

  The gravel crunched behind them. ‘Marcus, my dear boy!’

  For some reason, she hadn’t expected them to look so alike. But even without the neat, Imperial beard he wore, like that of the new king’s, it was easy to see the resemblance between father and son, down to the direct look and the dark colouring, though Sir Aiden was a smoother, more elegant version of Marcus, the grey sprinkling his hair adding distinction. He had a firm handclasp and a warm smile disconcertingly like the smile Marcus rarely used.

  A woman had followed him around the corner, and was introduced as Madame Bouvier. She was a short, dark Frenchwoman of about his own age, with a commanding bust and small, elegant feet and ankles. Her hands were slim, white and be-ringed; she laid one of them on Sir Aiden’s arm in a familiar manner, and kissed Marcus and Kitty on both cheeks. Marcus was evidently surprised to see her and although she greeted him effusively, Kitty had a distinct impression he was not altogether pleased to encounter her here.

  It was the first time Madame had visited Loddhurst, Kitty gathered as they sat down to a light but very French-inspired lunch, but she was clearly impressed by what she had seen of the improvements being made, and was in fact already suggesting more. Sir Aiden smilingly went along with her chatter. He himself was an easy conversationalist and the meal passed without any of the awkwardness Kitty had feared. She found him not at all alarming after all, and Mme Bouvier very agreeable. There was a Dover sole and they ate cheese before the dessert – a delicious lemon soufflé – then champagne was brought. Sir Aiden spoke to the manservant, and when he had left them, rose to his feet, glass in hand. ‘I – we – have a little surprise for you. I am extremely happy to tell you that Estelle and I are to be married.’ He was looking directly at Marcus as he spoke.

  If it was a surprise to Marcus, he gave no sign, save for a slight pause before he responded. Perhaps he had known, or suspected, this was likely to happen, and was not pleased, though there did not seem to be any reason why these two people should not have a chance of happiness together. There was no wedding ring amongst the many on Madame Bouvier’s fingers, so Kitty presumed she was a widow. But Marcus then raised his glass, offered his congratulations and kissed her hand. ‘Welcome to the best pianist I know into our family.’

  ‘Ah, we will make a diplomat of you yet, Marcus! So gallant to a mere amateur!’ She turned to Kitty. ‘I have known Marcus since he was a young boy in St Petersburg, you know. Where my late husband was an attaché.’

  Barely missing a beat, her future husband suggested, smiling, ‘Perhaps you could play something for Miss Kitty, later, my dear.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps. Today, this afternoon, is for outdoors.’ She smiled and turned the conversation to arrangements for the wedding, although few would be necessary, since it was to take place in France, a private ceremony without fuss, after which they were to honeymoon in Italy before returning here.

  ‘You intend to make Loddhurst your permanent home then, Father?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘To be sure.’

  ‘And you won’t regret leaving France, Madame?’

  ‘I have already sold my own house in Paris. I have no family, so what is to keep me there?’

  ‘And Loddhurst needs a woman, Marcus.’

  ‘Of course. I hope you will be very happy here.’ His face relaxed; his mouth turned up at the corners. A smile. There, he could smile when he wanted to.

  When they rose from the table, Madame announced that she would take her usual afternoon nap for an hour, and while Marcus went up to his old room to collect some books to take back to London with him, Kitty was taken off to make the predicted tour of the gardens. Sir Aiden carefully checked his watch as they set off. Kitty smiled. Madame looked like the sort of lady who, when she said an hour, meant sixty minutes, no more and no less.

  The time passed interestingly, inspecting the extensive alterations to the garden he was proposing as well as those already made to the house. Madame was exceedingly fond of roses and the rose garden was to be renewed, taking inspiration from the roseraie at the Parc de Bagatelle in Paris. There was a cracked, dried-up fountain which he meant to have replaced, a gazebo that would be repaired and repainted. More than anything, Kitty was fascinated to see the remains of the old cloisters where once nuns had walked, and which a gang of workmen was even now busy turning into what he said would later be an orangery. ‘Restoring Loddhurst has become my hobby horse, you might say my passion.’ He smiled. ‘But not one I expect everyone to share – come, it’s too hot to linger out here for long.’ He escorted her to where a group of comfortable chairs was ranged in the shade of a great old apple tree, so old, gnarled and misshapen that one of its branches had to be propped up. ‘They’ll bring lemonade out presently.’

  Kitty leaned back against the cushions of her chair. Between the thick leaves of the tree, she could see whole clusters of the tiny, green knobs that would eventually become fruit. ‘Ribston Pippin,’ Sir Aiden said, ‘not one of our Kentish apples but it does well here. It’s a pity you weren’t here to see the blossom. Ah, there you are, Marcus. You must bring Kitty down when the fruit’s ripe – they’re funny, lopsided things, these Ribstons, but very sweet.’

  Marcus threw himself down into a chair that looked as comfortable as Kitty’s. The men began talking but the wine at lunch was making her too relaxed to follow. She gazed at the sky through the leafy canopy, then into the distance where she thought she saw a group of deer under the dappled shade of trees, but they were too far off to be sure. Construction noises could be heard in the background. Bees droned, but there was no birdsong; the heat seemed too much for them, as well.

  When she woke, Marcus and his father had moved away. They were standing by the old defunct fountain, still talking earnestly. She saw them shake hands, then after a moment his father took a step forward. They embraced in a manly way. For a moment she felt a pang, almost of jealousy. How long since Papa had given her a hug? But she was pleased to think she must have imagined those tensions over the champagne toast.

  The promised lemonade arrived at the same time as Madame, on the dot of the hour, and the rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly until it was time for them to leave.

  On the way home, Marcus hardly spoke. She guessed his mind was on his father’s forthcoming marriage. But how could you talk when the motor was making that racket?

  The thought must have passed itself to him because a few minutes later he drew the motor into the side of a deserted road. The engine died; the silence was thick around them. The late afternoon sun shone on the metalwork of the motor, reflecting the heat and sending a blinding glare from the silver of the winged Mercury mascot on the bonnet. Kitty shielded her eyes at first but then turned towards Marcus. ‘I so enjoyed seeing Loddhurst, meeting your father – and Mme Bouvier.’

  ‘I wanted you to meet him. I hoped you would get on.’

  ‘We did, I liked him very much.’

  ‘He wasn’t a diplomat for nothing. But he can be a little – intimidating – at times.’

  ‘Oh, but I found him charming!’

  ‘That’s because he likes you, too.’ He paused. ‘I wanted you to meet him but I had another reason for asking you to come to Loddhurst, too. Excuse would be a better word. I hoped we could find some time to talk – alone. There always seem to be too many people around, and there are things you need to know – though I was afraid your aunt would insist on coming too.’

  She would have done, Kitty was certain – if she had been told, but she had not. She flushed at her own temerity. Ursula had been resting in her room when Marcus arrived
and Kitty had merely left a note saying where she had gone. By the time she’d read it, Kitty would have been on the way to Loddhurst, alone with a young man she sensed Ursula didn’t entirely trust. She put away the thought of the severe scolding she would have to face when she got home.

  Suddenly, she remembered she had to tell Marcus that the police now knew about the missing icon. ‘Papa told them himself. He must have decided it was the right thing to do, after all.’

  ‘Yes, they told me they knew and I was afraid it was you they might have coerced into telling.’

  ‘I would never have done that!’ she exclaimed, indignant that he should believe she would. After a moment she said, ‘So you’ve seen the police again?’

  ‘Yes, they came to see me. It was quite odd. I’m not sure what they wanted exactly, but they left me with a copy of Britannia Voice. Afterwards, I went to their office and saw your cousin, Jon.’

  Whitechapel had seethed in the heat. He had decided it would be more prudent to walk, rather than use his motor car, given the locality he was heading for. Walking would also give him time to work out some of the thoughts that were buzzing around like angry bees disturbed in a hive.

  It had been a wise decision not to bring his car, he reflected, as the fashionable West End gave way to cobbled alleys and ramshackle slums running between tall tenement blocks and rows of shops, and his nose was assaulted by what seemed like a thousand different smells, none of them pleasant. He picked his way through the crowds, earning himself not a few stares. Yiddish grandmothers gossiping with Russian babushkas wearing scarves tied under their chins. Coffee stalls and traders of all nationalities with their goods spilling on to the street. Drinkers crowding outside the legion of public houses. Crossing the road, he skirted a pile of manure left by the patiently breathing, sway-backed old nag harnessed in the shafts of a cart that was inconveniently parked on a corner, while its driver snored drunkenly on the seat.