Flowers Stained With Moonlight

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘Were you much alone in Paris?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said, still with her dreamy smile. ‘I hate to be alone. We were always together – Camilla and I, I mean.’

  ‘And did you meet very charming people there?’

  ‘Yes, heaps! People are so different there. If you only knew! The freedom that you feel, because others feel free, and also because nobody knows you! We were obliged to go visit friends of Mother – Mrs Clemming, you know, for old times’ sake, and the Hardwicks at the Embassy whom she used to know quite well, but we tried to avoid it as much as we could, at least I did; Camilla quite liked Mrs Clemming’s old professor friend who kept sending her to the library to read his books!’ She laughed to herself a little, glancing downwards, and went on, ‘But we met all kinds of other interesting people, and mostly frequented them.’

  ‘Did you meet anybody really … special?’ I blushed at my own bluntness and lack of taste, but Sylvia seemed perfectly unconcerned, and I really do not think she was feigning, as she answered,

  ‘They were all special! Writers, painters, artists, actors. Those are the kind of people that Camilla likes. She would like to be a writer.’

  ‘Really? I had no idea! Has she written anything?’

  ‘Well … she started to write a novel.’

  ‘How exciting! What about?’

  ‘Love, of course,’ and she laughed archly. ‘Her father was not so happy about her leaving for more than a month, but she told him she needed to get local colour for her novel. And it was perfectly true, for she worked quite hard at it while we were there.’

  ‘And what has become of it now?’

  ‘She stopped writing it. She wrote only the beginning. She says that now that we’re back in England, she doesn’t know how to make it go on.’

  ‘The inspiration is gone – is that it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know exactly why she stopped. She doesn’t want to go on with it. It was in Paris, and we aren’t there any more; it wouldn’t ring true.’

  ‘If one cannot write about a place without being there, then even less can one write about things one has not lived, or at least observed from the closest quarters,’ I remarked. ‘I wonder what Camilla based her novel on?’ My question sounded more tactless than ever, and I hastened to qualify it by adding a little flattery. ‘She is a fascinating person, really; so mysterious, and rather difficult to approach.’

  ‘She is, isn’t she,’ agreed Sylvia, a little abruptly, and jumping to her feet, she began to gather up the picnic things which we had been unceremoniously nibbling directly from the basket as we spoke. ‘Look how late it’s getting – we must hurry back! Come, Vanessa,’ and I found myself traipsing along behind her through the tall grasses in the yellow light of the lowering sun, and our talk was replaced by the whush of the breeze through the trees, and the buzz and hum of insects.

  I wrote down everything I could remember of our conversation the very moment I returned to my room, and read it again and again. I do not find that I made much of my opportunity, yet at the same time, I cannot get rid of the feeling that she was trying to tell me something; that there was something she was holding back, dared not speak of, perhaps, and yet longed to. But I can’t put my finger on it! She said so much, and yet not enough; between the lines, there is more. She didn’t love her husband, she almost hated him, and she hardly tries to hide it. But what conclusion can be drawn from that? It isn’t suspicious in itself … yet something in the air is! Oh, Dora, I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels. Ellen? Sylvia? Somebody else entirely? Mrs Bryce-Fortescue herself, perhaps? Believe me, I have reflected upon the possibility! After all, she may have deeply resented the unpleasant behaviour of Mr Granger in making the whole world believe that he cared for her, and then publicly preferring her own daughter. And furthermore, if Mr Granger’s money devolves to her daughter, then she would have a freer hand with her house than she would when he himself was the parsimonious administrator. Yes, I have certainly thought about her.

  But I admit that I have dismissed the idea, for if I assume it, then I cannot understand what purpose she could have had in calling me in. To help in the rightful exculpation of her daughter, without which the inheritance would be lost? Impossible – it could not be done without discovering the truth. Can she wish, secretly, to be uncovered as the murderer? No, that is really too ridiculous. Why all the drama – it would be easy enough simply to confess! No, it is absurd; I cannot think it for a moment.

  But I do not know what to think! Oh dear, I am not doing well at all. I am quite adrift – whatever shall I do?

  Your dreadfully impatient to hear from you

  Vanessa

  Maidstone Hall, Tuesday, June 28th, 1892

  My dearest sister,

  Finally – a letter from you!

  I have read it a dozen times, trying to see whether I could not convince myself – of something, of anything. Oh Dora, I want to kiss you for your beautiful words, and hug you for your honesty, and appreciate you for your limpid soul. Of course you cannot believe anything of the kind – of course not! But why, why does everybody lie, why does everybody have secrets? So she told you about it – but only after you knew already. So she explained why she hid it – and I feel more indignant than ever at the description of Mr Granger’s heartless attitude. And I can understand why a plea thus rejected may appear humiliating, before ever it is made, and a hundred times more afterwards. Yet the fact remains: she went, and she tried, and she failed. Yet she received confirmation that her child would benefit under Mr Granger’s will – and just afterwards, he died!

  And then there was no will. Or was there? Might he not have redacted a last will and testament with his own hand, without giving it to his lawyers? Perhaps he left everything to the child and nothing to Sylvia! Could she or her mother have found and destroyed such a will? Or – what if Sylvia found it, but instead of destroying it, she kept it – could that be her hidden secret? No, it is totally impossible. No one, but no one could be so foolish as to keep such a thing, when it would be enough to put it to a candle. And did she not say that she could not destroy it, whatever it was, because she cared too much about it? No, this theory is not convincing. In any case, it seems highly unlikely that a man of Mr Granger’s type should make a will without the official stamp of his lawyer, the very man who is also his executor and who was a close and personal associate in all his business dealings. I am afraid that it is far more likely that he spoke of the will as an accomplished fact, when in fact it was merely an intention.

  But Dora, the existence of the will is immaterial in what concerns Ellen, for she herself thought that it existed, that is clear! No, the real proof of her innocence lies in what you wrote to me.

  Of course, when you say she is incapable of such an act, I believe you. But your description of her life, simple, hard-working and full of privation, all centred around her little boy, is even more convincing. I understand perfectly that she could not possibly leave her child alone for more than the briefest moment; you say that whenever she must be away from him even for a few hours, she leaves him with you. A little boy of six, not yet in school, knowing nothing but his home and his mother, a little boy whose greatest expedition is the much desired visit to Miss Dora (who can, I am certain, be counted upon to provide him with plenty of sweetmeats) – indeed, it does not seem possible that Ellen could leave him alone frequently enough, or long enough, to somehow arrange … a murder, even by means of an accomplice.

  Naturally, you wondered, as I did, whether she might not have left him on occasion with somebody else, or whether she had not, in spite of all appearances, become close to some man during the long period of her loneliness. But I find myself compelled to agree with you that she cannot have done so in total invisibility. If, truly, the neighbours know of no such thing, and if little William himself does not, then it is false and must be discounted.

  And the child is to be believed, of course. A child cannot lie, or even if he does, e
ven if he has been ordered to do so, his sweet little face is sure to show some sign of it. You cannot have been misled about such a thing. No, I must resign myself, for the moment, to believe you absolutely.

  Dora dear, you mustn’t feel guilty about having questioned poor little William. It isn’t wrong, wasn’t wrong, cannot have been wrong! You speak of a betrayal – you speak of using the child to convict the mother – of forcing him to condemn her as the little Dauphin did poor Marie-Antoinette (about whom I have learnt a great deal lately, in discussions with Sylvia and Camilla, who returned from Paris utterly fascinated by her history). But it was not so – surely nothing, nothing at all in the innocent question of whether he had ever spent a day alone at home, or with somebody else, or whether he would be frightened if he did so, could harm his innocent soul, or sow even the tiniest seed of suspicion against his mother in his tender mind. You say that if in some horrendous (and impossible, I now freely admit) manner she could have turned out nonetheless to be guilty, it would be as much of a crime to have her hanged, or more, as it had been to shoot the odious Mr Granger. Perhaps you are right – and God alone knows what action we would have taken if that had been the case! I myself do not know, and neither can you. But it has not happened so, and as far as I can see, Ellen appears to be innocent of any connection with the fatal shot. An alibi discovered on the rosy lips of a six-year-old boy is not to be doubted for a single second, although were the police themselves to tread on that delicate and sacred ground in their heavy boots I cannot swear that they would believe this as fully as I – as the two of us – do. I promise you, they will learn nothing about Ellen from me, and I dearly hope that it will never even occur to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue to suspect her in any way, or to mention her to the police (whom she abhors), especially as doing so would reveal to the light of day a scandalous and horrid deed of her precious son-in-law, which she surely would wish to avoid at any cost. So Ellen is safe.

  And yet, and yet, you who know me as you do yourself, must be able to guess that I am not completely and totally satisfied that we have learnt everything there is to learn from her. You feel that your loyalties are sadly divided between Ellen and me – but it is not so! Do not forget that I am your twin, and it is difficult or impossible for me even to imagine my feelings truly differing from yours on a matter so important. Telling me what she told you is not a betrayal; you put no weapons into my hands, and if you did, I should not use them, certainly not without your full consent and agreement. But there are things you have not told me – very probably, because she has not told them to you. Yet they exist!

  Why did she lie about her visit to Mr Granger? Simply because she was afraid, or ashamed, you will answer, and it may be the plain truth. Well, then, more intriguingly: what is the meaning of her strange attitude towards Sylvia? I noticed it myself in her conversation with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and you say you have noticed it even much more strongly.

  If it were merely her conviction, expressed in front of me, that Sylvia should never have married, one could attribute it (altogether wrongly, perhaps, but I am merely trying to be logical) to jealousy on the score of the man who after all was the father of her child. But why should she say that Sylvia will never make a good wife to any man? Sylvia herself said she would never marry again – but how could Ellen know that? Even if Sylvia used to say it as a young girl, it means nothing; half of all young, independent girls say so. Could a natural jealousy and anger over the course taken by events lead to such a remark? But you assure me that she is not jealous and freely avows that she never for one moment envisioned becoming Mrs Granger herself – that at least at first, she felt more grateful to Mr Granger for aiding her during the first terrible months than resentful about his abandonment. She could, of course, be lying – but there, I must trust to your instinct – and I do!

  Yet she seems to hold a grudge of some kind against Sylvia, to speak thus of her. Either that, or to know some fundamental flaw in her character, something so serious as to make her unfit to marry and live normally! I cannot imagine any such thing … unless it be that Ellen knows that Sylvia is capable of murder – but that’s nonsense! Sylvia can hardly have been in the habit of murdering anyone as a child.

  I cannot imagine what it could be, then. Might Ellen have actually seen Sylvia during these last years, as she saw Mr Granger, and be hiding something about it? I must ask you, persuade you, beg you to help me once again, Dora – leave all notion of betrayal aside, and try to find out everything that Ellen knows about Sylvia, and what it can all possibly mean.

  Sylvia – all paths lead strangely back to her, and yet none proves that she committed any crime. There is something that eludes me, and yet – there are moments when it appears so close, so clear, so transparent, like a butterfly fluttering nearby, that I can hardly believe it cannot be caught with a simple gesture. Surely, together, we will succeed in elucidating this at last!

  Your loving

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Thursday, June 30th, 1892

  My dearest Dora,

  I am home again – something most important has happened!

  Yesterday, I received a telegram from Arthur saying that Pat O’Sullivan told him he has a piece of information for me and I must come up to Cambridge at once. Between Ellen, Sylvia, and what I heard from old Martha, I have been so confused these last days that I was eager to hear any positive fact whatsoever (though I feared a little that whatever he had to tell me would merely add to the muddle). I hastened to inform Mrs Bryce-Fortescue of the new development, and arrange for Peter to take me up to Cambridge.

  I telegraphed, and when I arrived, Arthur and Pat were waiting for me.

  ‘Now they’ve found something worth knowing,’ Pat cried eagerly the moment he saw me, without even waiting for the customary greetings, let alone the usual roundabout queries upon one’s health and other topics which politeness generally requires upon such occasions. ‘Already a couple of days ago, they’d managed to trace that fellow’s trip to Haverhill all the way back from London. He came up from London, but yesterday, they discovered that he hadn’t started his trip there – he’d come up in the boat train from Dover of all places! They’re certain of it now, and they’re down in Dover today, enquiring with the ferries. If they manage to trace him on a ferry over, then they’ll be certain!’

  ‘Certain of what?’ I asked with tense reserve, wondering and not fully wanting to know what he was leading up to.

  ‘Why, dead certain that he’s some lover of Sylvia Granger’s from Paris! Isn’t it obvious? That’s been their suspicion all along, hasn’t it? And the gun being of French manufacture was a point in their favour. They’re determined to find him; they’ve got several men at the port now, questioning everyone who worked on the ferries bound for England that morning! If he came over that way, they’ll probably know it by tonight, or tomorrow at the latest.’

  ‘And what will they do if that happens?’

  ‘Ah, then, they’ll be in a rare pickle, heh, heh. They can’t go detecting in France – they’ll have to turn the case over to the French police, and the French won’t care so much about helping to detect an obscure murder over here when they’ve got so many of their own! And even if they could find and identify him, there’d be the problem of extradition. No, we’ve got a headstart on them there!’

  ‘A headstart? What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you mean, what do I mean?’ said Pat, looking vexed at my obtuseness, which if not exactly deliberate, was certainly a consequence of my inner resistance to the police theory. ‘Aren’t you going to go detecting? Why, it can’t possibly be so hard to identify the fellow, unofficially at least! If Sylvia had a lover, surely the people she frequented over there must have known all about it. And what about that girlfriend she was there with – girlfriends tell each other everything, don’t they? Why don’t you ask the girlfriend?’

  ‘I have talked to her about Paris, but she has told me nothing of interest.’

  ‘Of course
she wouldn’t, even less so if she has any notion of the danger her friend is in. But you ought to be able to surprise it out of her! And besides, those girls must have been all over the Paris scene together – they must have socialised with simply hordes of people! Go over there and ask questions, Vanessa! For Heaven’s sake, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘I – I don’t know exactly,’ I said hesitatingly. ‘Perhaps I’m very stupid, and yet, at this point I’d have sworn that things can’t be the way you’re describing them.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Well … this sounds silly, but it doesn’t correspond to the way Sylvia is behaving. She doesn’t seem likely to have a lover. And even if she did, and even if he did come over and shoot her husband, you’d think she would guess it, even if she knew nothing about it and had nothing to do with the planning of it. But in fact, I don’t believe any such idea has even crossed her mind. She’d show some signs of it – she couldn’t possibly be light-hearted – as I assure you that she is, deep down inside her, beyond the level of present worry and fear, and the mourning and anguish.’

  ‘Probably she thinks she’ll get off scot free and finds it a cheering idea,’ snarled Pat rather unpleasantly.

  ‘Oh, no! She’s not like that. It – no, I don’t know. But something seems wrong.’

  ‘Well, the police may have their knife into her, and maybe even a little too much, but you’re all the other way! It’s easy to see who hired you, and it may turn out in the end that you’re doing a fine job of not looking for the murderer!’