Flowers Stained With Moonlight

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘By no means. Charles – Annabel is very fond of you and in fact she is rather unhappy. It’s wrong to tell you this, I suppose. But I think you should know it so that you can react one way or another. Any way you wish, as long as it is not just ignoring the situation, whether consciously or unconsciously. Because that is what is troubling her, and Annabel is my friend, and it saddens me to see her sad.’

  Charles looked amazed.

  ‘Annabel sad? I can’t believe that, Vanessa! Why, she laughed all the time we were together!’

  ‘Well,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see. What should I do?’

  ‘It all depends on what you feel,’ I told him, suppressing the words you idiot which rose spontaneously to my lips. ‘I do not wish to pry into your feelings; I am not asking you what they are. I am just telling you to determine them and to make them clear in a kind and generous way. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said quickly, then added, ‘I mean I really do see what you mean. One doesn’t want to be dishonourable, does one?’

  ‘No. And if you don’t feel anything other than light-hearted friendship for Annabel, then I really think that she ought to leave your house, and probably leave Cambridge altogether. For it is not an easy situation.’

  ‘Oh!’ he said, very much struck. ‘Oh, I should hate it if she left. That would be awful! No, no. She mustn’t leave! I – why, that would be—’

  He stopped, and we looked at each other. A multitude of expressions passed over his face.

  ‘Look here, Vanessa,’ he said after a while. ‘What can I do? I want Annabel to be there. And now that you mention it, I would like to see more of her, as we did in Paris. But in a way, wouldn’t that be just as bad?’

  ‘If it were not to go any farther, yes,’ I said pitilessly.

  ‘Farther? But I can’t! My sister would be furious! How could I? Annabel … Annabel is an orphan – and she’s the governess of Constance’s children! After what happened with my sister’s husband and the previous governess, she would never be able to accept such a thing! It’s awful, Vanessa. What can I do?’

  ‘Before you think about your sister, think about yourself,’ I said quietly. ‘Do you want to marry?’

  ‘Not the girls Constance keeps introducing me to, I’ll say that!’ he said. ‘And I get tired of being alone. Very tired; it’s too much to bear, sometimes. But I haven’t found the perfect … I mean … Well, yes. I should like to marry Annabel! Why, I’ve just realised it. How could you have seen it before I did, Vanessa? So you think that Annabel cares? Really?’ He looked at me eagerly and I had to laugh. But his face fell.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he said, fingering his small moustache doubtfully. ‘It’s not possible. I really don’t see how I can do it, Vanessa. I know that when I get home and have to think about announcing it, I’ll go all limp.’

  ‘I am not going to press you,’ I said. ‘Don’t expect me to force you into any decision! You must decide yourself. I wish only to influence you into doing so openly, clearly and soon, for reasons which you must understand now.’

  ‘I hate deciding,’ he muttered with an aggrieved look, but I was already turning away, fearful of pushing him too hard into saying things he might afterwards regret and feel obliged to retract. I joined Arthur, and we made no further reference to the affair; when we all came together upon descending from the boat, Charles appeared to be altogether his usual self, and gave his arm to Annabel in a natural and comfortable manner, without any undue eagerness. I have sown a seed, Dora – I do not know what will come of it, but the look in Annabel’s eyes as we sat across from each other over breakfast is not one that I can easily forget. What will be, will be.

  Till tomorrow, my dear!

  Vanessa

  Cambridge, Tuesday, July 19th, 1892

  My dearest sister,

  How wonderful it was to see you, and to talk everything over with you so carefully! How lovely, to sit up late at night in the room we used to share, talking for hours on everything under the sun! I meant to discuss the case with you in detail, but I cannot regret the fact that we did nothing of the kind. It was too lovely to leave it all behind for a moment – and to live for a little while in your private world instead of mine. When I think how naturally young Mr Edwards of long ago has transformed himself, over the last four years, into ‘Dora’s John’ – and that the end of all the long years of waiting may finally be within sight, and he will be able, with equal smoothness, to transform himself into ‘Dora’s husband’! Poor man. He is miserable in Ceylon, and you are miserable here without him, and only one little element is missing to restore harmony to all concerned: a posting to some diplomatic office in England, such as are offered to young Cambridge and Oxford graduates every day! It is but a small thing; surely it cannot elude him much longer, especially if he himself has begun to hear positive rumours. How wonderful it will be, when the rhythm of your daily life is no longer measured by the arrival of letters, and by the too-rare, too-short visits which leave almost more pain behind them than they bring joy whilst they last. Oh, Dora, I wish for his return and for your marriage almost as ardently as I wish for mine!

  The importance of all these questions entirely outshadowed my investigation, which in the end we had no time to discuss. Yet, Dora, if you would do as you promised; reread all my letters, let the story they tell take shape and form within you, and write to me what you think of it all, I know that it would be of infinite help to me. Your mind is so calm, so logical compared to mine, which always seems to be darting hither and thither like a silly rabbit! When you sum up a situation, then and only then does it begin to seem clear and coherent to me.

  Now, I must tell you what you are surely longing to know; namely, about the talk I had with Ellen this morning, before catching my train back here. Unfortunately, it was as uninformative as my worst fears had led me to suspect it would be (otherwise, I should certainly have begun this letter by speaking of it!). I arrived at her cottage bearing a pretty gift for her little boy. William is really a delightful child. His country upbringing has made him a straightforward, good-hearted little creature without much complexity and he was immediately delighted with the train I had produced for him (as similar a one as I could find to that which we bought for a miserable, trembling little boy in Calais four years ago, which brought such a colour into his little cheeks), and with the milk and buns he was served for tea, and the unusual opportunity to discuss his affairs with a lady who was obviously both familiar with and deeply interested in all the most cherished concerns of small boys of six. After I had admired his caterpillar, which he was going to tame and teach to do tricks, and his vegetable patch, from whose muddy depths the family sustenance was soon to emerge, and a tattered ABC of which his mother had begun to show him the initial pages, he led me into his diminutive bedroom and opening a drawer, he took out a framed photograph showing a young, vigorous man of twenty-five or thirty, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the child himself.

  ‘That’s my dad,’ he announced with pride.

  ‘I can see that it is,’ I said, staring at the photograph in amazement.

  ‘William – put that away at once!’ said Ellen, who had entered after us, taking it from him and thrusting it back into the drawer. And much to his annoyance, she dispatched him forthwith to collect a great bunch of flowers in my honour, and we began to talk.

  Of course I began in the most circuitous fashion, and conversation went easily upon the subjects of her work, her child, her difficulties, the problem of his schooling.

  ‘It isn’t easy. A boy needs a father, especially a boy like mine, so strong and active.’

  ‘He loves his father’s picture,’ I said gently.

  ‘He shouldn’t have shown you that!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a secret between us, he knows it! But what does it matter,’ she added more calmly. ‘You know who his father is well enough, miss. I s
aw you up in the gallery that day when I told Mrs Bryce-Fortescue all about it. I’d have been out of myself if it had been anybody else, but you are Miss Dora’s sister, and so like her; I trust you like I trust her. I know you know, and what of it?’

  ‘But – that picture is of Mr Granger, then?’ I said in surprise.

  ‘Yes, it is a picture of him when he was young,’ she said. ‘He’d given it to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and I stole it when I left – yes, it’s the only thing I ever stole. I took it to give my child a father, and I don’t regret it.’

  It took me both time and tact to lead the conversation around to Sylvia, but I finally succeeded in doing so. I was not sure how best to approach the issue, but finally decided to let Ellen understand that Sylvia was actually in danger. I was not sure exactly how much her loyalty to Sylvia might make her rise in her defence, so I also hinted at the obvious consequence that Sylvia’s inheritance from her husband might be a matter of doubt, which would bode ill for the realisation of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s kind promises.

  ‘Miss Sylvia in danger,’ she said, ‘surely not? Why, as the police have not arrested her, I thought they had made up their minds she couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘They believe her guilty none the less,’ I said, ‘if not of the actual shooting itself – for which she has an alibi, although the police profess to be unconvinced even by that – but of conspiracy with an accomplice.’

  ‘An accomplice? Who could have done such a thing for her?’

  ‘Well, the police … well, it has been discovered that during her visit to Paris, she seems to have gone about accompanied by a young man whom no one appears able to identify, and as she and this young man were observed to behave in public exactly like lovers, they are very eager to identify him, and quite suppose that he may be the murderer. Sylvia has never mentioned any such person, and unless she is really a consummate actress, she really does not appear to have thought of such a thing at all. I do not know what to think.’

  Ellen did not answer my remarks at once, but looked extremely sceptical.

  ‘Of course, you have not seen Sylvia for so long, that you must have no idea about all this,’ I said encouragingly, wondering why she wore a knowing look underneath her doubting expression.

  ‘No, I know nothing about it,’ she said. There was a pause, and then she added in a rush,

  ‘It sounds very unlikely to me, though perhaps I am all wrong.’

  ‘What exactly is unlikely?’ I asked with interest. ‘I know that there was a time when you knew Sylvia far better than anyone else could, perhaps even better than her own mother. No one knows a child like her nurse. So even though she was young then and may have changed, still, your instincts must certainly be revealing. What appears unlikely to you?’

  She writhed on her seat, sipped her tea and hesitated.

  ‘Miss Sylvia wasn’t that way,’ she said at length, but very uncomfortably.

  ‘Wasn’t what way?’ I persisted.

  ‘She wouldn’t have had a lover in Paris. It doesn’t sound like her.’

  I remembered asking Sylvia Did you meet anyone really special? and her casual, spontaneous answer, They were all special! And yet … we knew that she had!

  ‘But Ellen,’ I said finally, ‘surely there are many girls of fifteen who do not want lovers, but that usually changes by the time they are twenty-two, as Sylvia is now. It would be strange indeed, if it did not change!’

  ‘Not girls like Sylvia,’ she said. ‘If Sylvia had a lover in Paris, then …’ She glanced up at me suddenly, as if an idea had suddenly struck her, and a look of fear flashed through her eyes. She stopped speaking and looked down into her teacup. I stared at her in complete disarray.

  ‘Please, do tell me what you mean,’ I begged. ‘What about girls like Sylvia? What if she had a lover in Paris? What was it about her?’

  A stubborn look crept onto her face.

  ‘I can’t say,’ she said finally. ‘She was a strange girl, that’s all. A strange girl, and it’s a strange story. The police are barking up the wrong tree, maybe.’

  Dora, no persuasion would extract even a single further grain of information from her. How stupid I do feel! What on earth can she mean by it? Oh, her words must somehow contain the key to the mystery! Why can I not guess it? Can you think of anything? Do, do come to my aid! I am at my wits’ end and really do not know what to think!

  Your loving

  Vanessa

  Maidstone Hall, Thursday, July 21st, 1892

  Oh, Dora – you will never guess what has happened!

  I have news, Dora, marvellous, astonishing, long-awaited and yet utterly unexpected news!

  It came, yesterday afternoon, just upon the heels of something very serious; a telegram from Pat, which I was holding in my hand.

  POLICE UNABLE IDENTIFY TRAVELLER STOP TRAIL ENDS IN CALAIS STOP HAD ENOUGH STOP MRS GRANGER ALMOST CERTAIN TO BE ARRESTED WITHIN DAYS STOP PAT

  Blank with dismay, I had barely time to digest this information and congratulate myself that my rushed visit to Maidstone Hall was already planned for that very evening, when I heard a vigorous knock at my door. Upon opening it, I was utterly taken aback to see Arthur of all people – flushed with excitement and shining with delight!

  ‘Arthur, what is happening?’ I asked in some alarm. For all response, he took me suddenly and tightly in his arms, and kissed me resoundingly. Mrs Fitzwilliam’s door across the hall opened slightly and she peered out.

  ‘Mrs Fitzwilliam, I have some wonderful, wonderful news,’ said Arthur, turning towards her with a totally irrepressible grin painted upon his features, and brandishing a letter which I had not yet had time even to glimpse. ‘We are going to be married! As soon as possible, I mean. Look, Vanessa! They’ve made me a lecturer! I can marry now, and what’s more, we’ll have enough to live on!’

  ‘Now, that’s very nice for you,’ said Mrs Fitzwilliam, looking slightly mollified. ‘I’ve no married couples in my rooms, of course.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry about your rooms,’ he rejoined hastily. ‘We shall be giving you notice, of course. Vanessa and I are going to have a house of our own, aren’t we? Only something modest to start with; outside of Cambridge. In Newnham, perhaps. The right house for you,’ he added, considering me tenderly. ‘With jasmine and honeysuckle and things all over the front door.’

  I remained stunned for a moment, unable to respond – it was all so unexpected and so sudden! And yet, I have been so impatient, and waited so long for this.

  ‘Oh, Arthur, when?’ I finally managed to say.

  ‘It depends on what kind of a marriage you want, and if you want to find a house beforehand,’ he answered, looking at me hungrily, as though he would be more than willing to marry me tomorrow and hang the rest.

  ‘Oh, I do want it to be soon, and yet – I need time to get used to it!’ I exclaimed. ‘Let us begin to search for a house, and choose a date and make a little plan, nothing grandiose! But Dora and my family must come, and all our friends from here.’ I glanced at Mrs Fitzwilliam, who nodded sagely. Arthur unwound his arms from around my waist reluctantly.

  ‘Come outside,’ he said, ‘come for a walk with me. Let us go and enquire about how two independent and consenting adults go about getting married. There must be some formalities, and we shall stop at the church also. And then this evening, I shall write a letter to your father. Shall I do that, Vanessa?’

  I smiled up at him.

  ‘You shall. But don’t forget that I am returning to Maidstone Hall this evening. Charles is coming to drive me down at five.’

  His face changed.

  ‘Blast the place,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten all about it. Oh, Vanessa, I do wish you weren’t mixed up in this whole awful story. I wish it were over. I feel like a fresh start.’

  ‘I shan’t stay there long, I promise. Arthur, I have no reason to remain there. I am at my wits’ end about this mystery, and my only hope is to speak to Sylvia so severely that she grasps that she
must tell me the truth. If she chooses to say nothing, then there is nothing more that I can do to prevent her being arrested. Look at this telegram from Pat! Even if, as I suppose, she has managed not to realise that her friend from Paris appears to be the murderer of her husband, she must be made to realise it now. And if she will not, then my work is over.’

  Arthur was not really listening.

  ‘How long will you go for?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ I said. ‘I just wired Mrs Bryce-Fortescue this morning, and she has not answered yet. I thought she would have by now. Still, I don’t think it would be of any use to me to stay longer than one or two days. If I don’t find out what I need to know by then, I am afraid that more time will not help.’

  Arthur looked glum. He cheered up a little during our walk, but his long face returned as we reached home and I looked at my watch.

  ‘You have no idea how much I wish you were well out of this,’ he said. ‘Or at the very least, that I could go down with you. But I cannot simply arrive without warning.’

  ‘I only hope that Mrs Bryce-Fortescue has received my wire, and is expecting me!’ I said. ‘Well, at worst, if I find the house all boarded up and everybody gone, Charles shall drive me straight back here and you will be happy.’

  Charles appeared at that very moment, looking very smart in newly tailored clothing. I smiled up at him, looking him over with surprised appreciation.

  ‘Ah, it’s nice to get back to one’s clothes after spending two weeks living out of a suitcase, however well garnished,’ he said, responding to my glance. A little colour rose in his cheeks and he added,

  ‘Hum, ha. Ahem.’

  He was about to speak but in my impatience I could not resist bursting out with our own news first.

  ‘Charles, Charles, just think! Arthur has been made a lecturer, and we will finally be able to be married,’ I told him, jumping onto the carriage step. ‘Oh, it’s been so long – it will be so wonderful! I can hardly believe it yet.’