Jackman set down his Box Brownie, wiped his brow with a cotton handkerchief and slumped hopelessly down beside her. ‘I don’t often fail but I’m out to the wide here. If I’m not careful, Peters is going to call me a right Bengal Lancer.’
‘Bengal Lancer?’
He straightened himself with a curt laugh. ‘It’s rhyming slang: a Bengal Lancer, a chancer. Forgot for a moment you’re a Yankee.’
‘Ah,’ said Ursula. ‘Lancer, Chancer; that’s neat.’
‘Neat? What’s tidy about it?’
Ursula laughed. ‘Didn’t someone say the English and Americans are divided by a common language? It’s a bit of slang. To us “neat” can mean that something is fit for its purpose.’
‘Ah,’ said Jackman. He sat silent for a moment and Ursula let him gather his thoughts while she admired the swathes of green grass and graceful trees stretching up to a magnificent terrace of stuccoed houses. They had some of the grandeur of Mountstanton, the house she had stayed in at the start of her visit to England. She didn’t want to think about what had happened there, so she prompted Jackman, who finally took a deep breath and launched into an account of his current assignment.
‘I was approached by Mr Joshua Peters of Montagu Place, Marylebone. Mr Peters is worried that Mrs Peters …’
‘His wife?’
‘Who else?’
‘His mother? No, I’m sorry, Thomas, of course it is his wife.’
‘He was worried his wife, Mrs Peters, is, as he put it to me, “straying from hearth and home”. He commissioned me to follow her for a spell to see if she was meeting up with some fellow.’
‘And it was Mrs Peters who was at the menagerie today? And the man with her was, I take it, not Mr Peters?’
‘You have it. She’s been meeting him regularly, putting on a show, making it seem that they have run into each other accidentally.’
‘An act just in case anyone who knew her caught sight of them?’
‘You got it. And she’s good at it; could get a part on the boards I reckon. Now, I managed to chat up Mrs Peters’ maid. Nice little thing, innocent as a newborn kitten. Told me how unhappy her mistress was with the master …’
‘My, you did chat her up well.’
‘It’s my manner,’ said Jackman smugly. ‘Charm the birds off the trees, I do.’
‘One moment she’s a kitten, the next a bird,’ said Ursula, straight-faced. ‘What is the name of this dear little girl?’
‘Millie. And Millie tells me how her mistress is to visit the menagerie today. Says how fine it’s supposed to be. I reckoned she was angling for an invitation from me for her afternoon off. I reported the matter to Mr Peters, without disclosing my sources …’
‘I’m glad you didn’t betray Millie’s indiscretions.’
‘Without disclosing my sources, as I said, and asked Mr Peters if he didn’t want to go along to confront them.’
‘In public?’
‘That’s exactly what he said to me. And he told me how tricksy Mrs Peters could be. She looks like an angel, he said, but he swears no schoolboy can lie as she can. Which is why he wanted a sworn statement of the different occasions I’d seen her with this man. And then he asked if I couldn’t arrange for a photograph to be taken of them at the menagerie. Said she would not be able to explain that away. I said he didn’t know what he was asking. Could hardly get them to pose for me, could I? And I couldn’t set up flash photography. I told him I’d have a go with a Brownie, but I doubted there’d be enough light to develop a recognisable image.’
‘Yet another one of your talents, photography?’
‘Always been interested. And it comes in useful from time to time.’ He unslung the Brownie from his shoulders. ‘Such a clever little box this. Got a rotary shutter, takes snapshots and timed exposures as well. Three stops and two finders.’ He turned the camera around to show Ursula. ‘This one’s for upright exposures, like portraits, and this one’s for horizontal, landscapes they call them. All very straightforward.’
‘I’ve seen advertisements for them,’ Ursula said. ‘They seem aimed at the young.’
‘They’re much more than a toy,’ said Jackman. ‘Anyway, Mr Peters said he would make a snapshot worth my while.’
‘But what about the girl? Who was she?’
Jackman groaned. ‘I reckon she’s Mrs Peters’ sister. Millie told me about her, said they were very close. ‘I’d fixed it with Pa earlier, Charlie Maddocks I should say, but he’s always known as Pa, and his wife’s Ma. We go back a long way; I’ve run into Charlie and his menagerie – and the circus that’s part of the set-up – all over the country. Anyway, he’d agreed I could leave the camera in the tent. I know how visitors spend their time looking at the beasts. And I reckoned that Mrs Peters and her fancy man would be a little apart from the main crowd, seeking a bit of privacy, know what I mean?’ He looked at Ursula.
‘Indeed.’
‘When I saw the two of them standing close together, so still, with him holding her hands, well, I thought it might work after all. Then that wretched girl pulls her stunt.’
‘Is there any chance Mrs Peters could have suspected that she was being followed? Oh, I know you’re very skilled, and you’ve told me some of the tricks you use, moustaches, wigs, different hats and style of clothes, but Mr Peters’ comment about her being able to explain anything away suggests she is much sharper than she looks. So, she asks her sister to come along with her to meet this man. Do we know his name?’
‘Mr Daniel Rokeby.’
She wondered how he’d found this out. ‘She may well have thought putting someone on her track was the sort of dirty trick her husband was capable of. I think she put her sister completely in the picture. So while she speaks with Mr Rokeby, or allows him to speak to her,’ she added, remembering how silently the woman had listened to the man, ‘the girl pretends to be looking at the hyena but is actually keeping an eye out for someone who could have followed them.’
‘Watching me?’
‘If Mrs Peters has noticed you, she will have described you.’ She surveyed Jackman. ‘About five foot nine inches, well built, looks around forty years old, has a fine head of light brown hair, sideburns, thick eyebrows that almost meet, brown eyes, a slightly beak-shaped nose, wide mouth.’
He looked astonished. ‘You reckon she could have clocked me that well?’
‘If she’s really cheating on her husband, and she’s as bright as he suggests, yes. And could you perhaps have underestimated her? How many times have you followed Mrs Peters?’
‘Six.’
‘And where have they met?’
‘The first time was this park, the second an art exhibition, then there was some sort of literary society meeting, I had a little difficulty getting into that, not being a member …’
‘I expect that’s where Mrs Peters noticed you. And once she had, she would have kept a very sharp eye out. Her description might not have been quite as detailed but enough for her friend or sister to know who to look out for.’
For the first time in their acquaintanceship, Thomas Jackman looked chastened.
‘That speech about freedom for the animals and the cry for Votes for Women was a marvellously judged piece of distraction.’
‘It’s a cry that’s becoming more and more familiar,’ said Jackman gloomily.
‘Votes for Women?’
He nodded. ‘Your sex has a lot to answer for.’
‘It’s a cry we are hearing in America as well. I think it’s only fair for women to get the vote. Why shouldn’t we have equality with men?’
Jackman hardly seemed to hear this. ‘Now I have to go to Mr Peters tomorrow and explain just how I have failed. No doubt Mrs Peters is currently back at Montagu Place sipping a glass of wine and making eyes at her husband.’
Ursula thought about the maid who had told Jackman that her mistress was unhappy and she remembered the radiant look that had come over the face of the woman with the wonderful eyes, as though
she had at that very moment made a decision.
‘What is Joshua Peters like?’
‘Hard business man. Not the sort of man I like to cross.’
Could such a man make a good husband? ‘And would you say he loved his wife very much?’
Jackman gave her a sharp glance. ‘What you’re asking is, does he look on her as a prize he would hate to see given to someone else?’
Ursula nodded.
‘I’d say that would about sum him up.’ He sat fiddling with the chain of his watch. ‘I wish I knew how those wretched birds escaped.’
‘Yes, that was unexpected,’ said Ursula. ‘Do you think the girl opened the cage before she leaped on the table to give her speech?’ She felt even Mrs Peters could not have improved on the innocence of her look as she said this.
Jackman, though, took a deep breath. ‘You, it was you, Ursula Grandison. You couldn’t see a supporter of Votes for Women get her comeuppance, could you? Never mind about loyalty to me!’
‘Loyalty to you? How about you not telling me anything about why you had issued your invitation?’ Ursula rose. ‘Enlisting my help but keeping me in ignorance! Not to mention giving all your aid to a self-serving husband instead of helping an unhappy wife. And you wonder why women want the vote!’ She drew on her cotton gloves. ‘My boarding house will shortly be serving supper. No doubt cabbage will be a prominent dish but maybe we shall be fortunate enough to have brisket on the menu as well.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Jackman. It has been an interesting afternoon.’
She left him sitting there, staring after her in stunned silence.
Chapter Two
Ursula Grandison had arrived in London that July with a small amount of savings and no contacts.
It was her choice. After three months spent in a stately home as companion to a young American girl, she had been offered every help in establishing herself in the capital. Instead, bruised and disillusioned by the disastrous events at Mountstanton, she preferred to strike out on a new phase of her life relying on nothing but her own resourcefulness and a single reference.
Her train had brought her to Paddington Station. Consigning her case to the Left Luggage, Ursula had rapidly found any number of small hotels of reasonable cost and some that provided adequate cleanliness and comfort. She chose one, handed over her passport and sent for her luggage. At the local library she scanned the periodicals provided.
Soon she had a list of agencies that offered their services in finding staff for respectable households.
‘A lady’s companion, is that the position you are seeking?’ The interviewer was a brisk woman who looked to be in her late forties. Her solid body was encased in a well-cut but conservative dark grey shirt and skirt. The shirt sported a thin black tie. On the dust-free desk in front of her were neat piles of buff-coloured files and a glass vase with a single cream rose.
‘Now, Miss Grandison, perhaps you will be good enough to give me details of your experience.’ Mrs Bundle sat straight-backed, pencil poised, taking in her applicant’s appearance: the neatly swept-up chestnut hair underneath the black straw hat with its very small brim; the rather fine grey eyes; the black linen suit, freshly ironed that morning, that was no more than neat.
Ursula gave a carefully edited account of her suitability to offer companionship to a lady who might need someone to cope with correspondence, run errands, perhaps deal with servants and generally make her life easier.
‘You are American,’ Mrs Bundle stated looking at her notes. Both her tone and her expression said this was unfortunate. ‘You do not know London and have only been in this country a few months.’
‘But that time was spent in the highest society circles as companion to a young lady of great wealth,’ Ursula said steadily. ‘I am familiar with how social matters are handled in England. Reaching the end of my time there, rather than returning to the States, I have decided to remain in England. I am anxious to discover London.’
‘It is slightly surprising that the aristocratic family you have been residing with have not provided the sort of contacts that would yield suitable employment.’ Her tone said this circumstance was suspicious.
Ursula forced herself to forget exactly how her employment as companion to Belle Seldon had ended. ‘You will perhaps be aware of the family’s tragic circumstances. They, and I, are in mourning.’ With the smallest of gestures, Ursula indicated her outfit. ‘However, the Dowager Countess was kind enough to provide me with a reference.’
Mrs Bundle picked up the sheet of paper with its ornate crest and fierce black handwriting. ‘The Dowager appears to have been completely satisfied with both your skills and behaviour,’ she said slowly.
Ursula dipped her head in acknowledgement of the encomiums which had been provided. ‘I am a quick learner; I am used to dealing with difficult circumstances and to mixing with a wide variety of people.’ She smiled inwardly as she thought of her life amongst silver miners in the Sierra Nevada. ‘I am confident of being able to fulfil any tasks I would be set,’ she added persuasively.
‘Are you, indeed?’ Mrs Bundle regarded her closely. ‘It is no doubt your American background that allows you to sell yourself so strongly.’
Ursula said nothing.
‘It is in your favour that you do not seem to have one of those nasal and, frankly, ugly American accents,’ the interviewer added thoughtfully.
Again Ursula said nothing.
Mrs Bundle leafed through several files and Ursula felt a tiny seed of hope.
* * *
Three days later, the seed of hope had withered. Four appointments with elderly women who required a companion had led nowhere.
‘You seem a very nice person,’ one had said apologetically after a short interview. ‘I do not feel, though, that you will allow me to be comfortable in my ways.’ The lashes of the tired eyes had fluttered sadly. ‘Agnes was so quiet, she, well, she melted into the background. Just always there when I needed her.’ A handkerchief was produced. ‘A wasting disease has taken her from me.’
After all the interviews had been concluded, Ursula once again sat in Mrs Bundle’s office while the employment consultant went through the results.
‘I am afraid, Miss Grandison, you appear to prospective employers as too independent of mind.’ She picked up the last letter. ‘Is it that independence of mind which did not allow you to take up the offer of a position as companion to Lady Weston? She appears to think you could have been suitable.’
Ursula shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. ‘When I asked if I would be permitted to practise on her piano, a fine Bechstein,’ she added. ‘Lady Weston said, quite coldly, that there was an upright in the servants’ hall that would be available for such spare time as I would have.’
Mrs Bundle removed her spectacles, placed them on the desk and sighed. ‘Miss Grandison, you do understand the nature of the position you wish to obtain?’
Ursula nodded. ‘I do, Madam. And I was conscious that Lady Weston and I would not do well together.’
Mrs Bundle replaced her spectacles, flipped through her manilla folders, then laid a hand on the pile. ‘I am afraid there is no other position for which I can arrange an interview,’ she said briskly. ‘However, I have your address and will let you know if a suitable vacancy becomes available.’
Ursula left the office with little hope that one would. Her visits to other employment agencies proved equally unproductive.
Tired of rejection, she sent a note to the one London contact she was willing to get in touch with and was cheered by the immediate response she received. Thomas Jackman, ex-policeman and now private investigator, visited her the next morning and Ursula was surprised to find how very welcome his appearance at her hotel was; she remembered how, working together as they had at Mounstanton, initial distrust had gradually been replaced by respect on either side.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he suggested, looking around the unattractive hotel hall.
‘It’s ver
y clean,’ Ursula said apologetically. ‘I am afraid I cannot afford the charges of a fine hotel. And I have known much worse than this.’
It was a sunny day. Jackman walked her into Kensington Gardens and across a bridge over a stretch of water she was informed was the Serpentine. ‘A popular place for swimming; frequented, I believe, by the Bohemian set of Pimlico,’ Jackman said.
They passed two nurses pushing highly polished perambulators, chatting merrily while their charges in sweet little lace-edged bonnets waved rattles at each other.
‘Kensington Gardens is very popular with society nannies,’ commented Jackson. ‘You will always find them on parade here. Now, why don’t you tell me why you are in London and what your intentions are.’
Ursula was happy with the bluntness of his approach and the way his square, craggy face had listened intelligently, his bright eyes full of amusement at her description of the society ladies who had interviewed her.
‘My, Miss Grandison, they have had a narrow escape,’ he observed at one point. ‘You would have organised them into oblivion almost as soon as you commenced your employment. I am feeling quite sorry for the luckless lady you finally accept.’
She sighed. ‘I am afraid I am not having much success in that line.’ There was a little pause, then she added, ‘I have to hope that something will come along soon. But,’ she rallied, her tone bright, ‘I need to find a suitable boarding house. The charges at that hotel, mean though it is, are too much for me. Would you be able to help me find one?’
He gave her a wry smile.
She quickly put a hand on his arm. ‘Please do not think that is the only reason I contacted you. When we parted in Somerset, you were kind enough to say that if I did come to London, you would be happy to continue our acquaintance. I was hoping you might introduce me to some of London’s sights.’
‘I shall be delighted, Miss Grandison,’ he said, then produced a notebook and pencil and scribbled down several addresses. ‘The proprietors are all known to me personally and I have no hesitation in recommending them.’
A Fatal Freedom Page 2