A Fatal Freedom

by Janet Laurence

  Ursula cleared her throat and took back the piece of paper.

  ‘you, my darling, I have worked it

  ‘Daniel, I can do it, I know I can. It

  ‘readful, but then we can be free for

  ‘He will be gone.’

  She looked at Jackman. ‘As I explained, Meg found the original half burned in Alice’s grate and wanted to keep as a memento of someone she had grown fond of. Alice was very kind to her. After I’d copied the wording down, I tore off a piece from the left-hand side of the paper so what was left more or less matched the singed bit. I think the right hand side hadn’t been touched by the fire. If it’s an ordinary piece of letter writing paper, not much of it can be missing.’

  ‘You didn’t show it to me because you thought it was evidence that Alice was at the very least thinking of murdering her husband,’ he said flatly.

  She nodded, feeling as disloyal to him as she had earlier over withholding the identity of the letter writer. But she had other loyalties.

  He reached for the piece of paper again and sat scrutinising it. Ursula waited, surprised he hadn’t immediately taken it as proof of Alice’s guilt. But she should have known that that wasn’t the way Jackman operated.

  After a few minutes he looked up. ‘Surely a woman of your intelligence could see that there is another way to interpret this?’ He waved the scrap, then caught himself. ‘But of course when you first read this the possibility of blackmail had not been raised.’

  Ursula stared at him, then understood. ‘You mean, Alice might have discovered what her husband was up to and was trying to bring herself to tell the police about his activities with the idea that they would lock him away and she and Daniel could live happily together.’

  ‘See, you can do it!’

  Ursula hardly heard this; her mind, becoming clearer by the minute, was racing on. ‘But then she discovered there was a child on the way and felt she could not deprive it of its rightful father, or the father his right to bring up his child.’ She shuddered. ‘Alice had more courage than I would have in the same situation.’

  Jackman remained looking thoughtfully at the scrap of paper. ‘The question remains, why hasn’t she revealed to the police what she knew about the blackmail activities of her husband? Before that rat Pond could remove all the evidence? Drummond would then have had a range of possible suspects to Peters’ murder to be investigated.’

  ‘She couldn’t, can’t, endure the thought of her child knowing its father was a criminal.’

  ‘Instead it will have a mother hanged for the murder of its father! Hardly a worthwhile bargain.’

  ‘She has been convinced an innocent woman will not be convicted. I tried to warn her that it was all too possible but I couldn’t get through to her. Perhaps the possibility is beginning to hit home at last. Thomas, I’m sorry, but I really cannot think straight any more. Could we continue this discussion tomorrow? I have no other plans.’

  ‘Of course.’ He rose, doing up his jacket. ‘Have some rest. I have a few ideas I can follow up. Suppose we say four o’clock? For a cup of tea?’ He smiled and tapped the now empty teapot.

  Ursula saw him out, then took the tray downstairs. Meg was sitting by the stove with the cat on her knee.

  ‘Don’t get up.’ Ursula put her burden on the kitchen table. ‘I just wanted to say thank you very much for the tea and the sandwiches. It was just what we needed.’ She was thankful Jackman had managed to eat her portion of salt beef as well as his own.

  ‘Oh, Miss Grandison, Mrs Maple wanted to see you when you came in. I didn’t like to tell you before, what with you being with Mr Jackman. Hope I didn’t do wrong.’

  Ursula stifled an inward groan; wasn’t she ever going to be allowed to go to bed?

  ‘That’s fine, Meg. I’ll go and see her now.’

  Mrs Maple was in her parlour working on her accounts. She greeted Ursula and said, ‘A letter was delivered for you this afternoon. It was marked URGENT so I thought I’d better give it to you myself.’ She reached over to the back of her desk, found an envelope and handed it over.

  Upstairs in her room, Ursula opened and read the note. It was not good news. Mrs Bruton wanted to move back into her home but her maid had had an accident and broken her arm. Huckle was to stay at her sister’s until she could be useful again. So would Ursula come round to Brown’s Hotel immediately to pack up her things and arrange the move back to Wilton Crescent.

  Ursula flopped down on her bed. Her loyalties were being stretched in all directions!

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘I have been so upset,’ said Mrs Bruton. ‘I wanted you to come yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Ursula, taking off her gloves. ‘I was elsewhere. I didn’t get your message until yesterday evening.’

  Mrs Bruton sighed deeply. She was sitting in a chintz-covered chair in her hotel suite. On a little table beside her was a glass; it looked as though it contained whisky. Drinking spirits at ten o’clock in the morning was not something Ursula had seen her do before. The chair had its back to the window, meaning it was difficult for her to see her employer’s face but she seemed to be distressed. Ursula found another chair, brought it up to Mrs Bruton’s, sat down and took hold of one of her hands.

  ‘Now, tell me everything. How did Huckle break her arm?’

  ‘It was so silly!’ Mrs Bruton’s voice grew a little stronger and she sounded annoyed. ‘She had Friday off. She wanted to see her sister. I wanted to do some shopping. When I got back, there was a message from the sister that Huckle had fallen getting out of the underground railway carriage, overcome by fumes apparently. She’s broken her arm; it has been put in a plaster cast and the sister says she won’t be able to use it for weeks!’

  Ursula stroked her employer’s hand soothingly. ‘How very annoying. But perhaps Enid can act as your maid until Huckle returns. She is a very efficient girl and will enjoy looking after you.’

  ‘She won’t be able to deal with buttons or dress my hair or wash and iron my clothes the way Huckle does. I didn’t even trust her to do my packing, not the way that you will do it, dear Miss Grandison.’ Mrs Bruton turned away sounding sulky.

  Ursula saw that her dark chestnut hair hung girlishly down her back. She wore pearl earrings and two long strands of pearls over a chiffon and lace blouse with cashmere skirt, both in cream. ‘You have managed to dress yourself beautifully.’

  ‘I’m not completely helpless!’

  ‘Of course you are not. I have always admired the manner in which you have ordered your life since Mr Bruton’s demise. Shall I help you with your hair before I start your packing?’ Ursula began to rise, only to have Mrs Bruton grab hold of her arm and force her to remain seated.

  ‘Huckle’s accident is not the worst of it!’

  ‘Please, tell me what else has upset you.’

  Mrs Bruton rested an elbow on an arm of her chair and buried her face in her hand. ‘Oh, I wish I could. It is too awful!’

  ‘Why don’t I order some coffee while you compose yourself? Whatever it is, you will feel better if you share it with me.’ She rose and pressed the service bell.

  Waiting for the coffee to arrive, Ursula sat and stroked Mrs Bruton’s hand soothingly. ‘I am sure you are going to be pleased with your bathroom. New York always prides itself on being in the forefront of household fixtures and fittings but I haven’t seen anything to beat your new arrangement. Venus herself would be proud to bathe in such luxury.’

  Mrs Bruton jerked her hand away. There seemed to be something of the spoilt child about her this morning.

  Ursula sat back and waited. After a moment she realised something was different about the arrangement of the furniture in the room. Then she saw that the chair Mrs Bruton was sitting in had been pulled away from the window. Previously, Ursula had been amused to think that her employer might be keeping an eye on Maison Rose, just across the road from the hotel and almost opposite Mrs Bruton’s sitting room and bedro
om windows. Now, though, she seemed literally to have turned her back on the place.

  Ursula sat down again and leaned forward. ‘Is the reason you are upset something to do with Maison Rose?’

  ‘How did you know? Is there something you have been keeping from me?’ The woman’s voice was high pitched, accusing. Ursula had never seen her in anything approaching this state.

  There was a knock on the door and the coffee arrived. Ursula asked for it to be placed on a convenient table and said that she would attend to it.

  After the waiter had left the room, she brought a cup of coffee over for Mrs Bruton. ‘I recently saw a letter Madame Rose had written. It was, I suppose it should be called, a love letter. Nicknames were used but I assumed it was intended for Count Meyerhoff. I know you have become very close to the count. Have you discovered that they are in a relationship? Is that why you are upset?’

  Mrs Bruton ignored the coffee, gave an hysterical laugh and threw up her hands. ‘In love with the count? In love with the count? If that was all!’

  Ursula set the cup down and sat again. ‘Please, tell me exactly what has happened.’

  It took time but eventually Ursula got the story out of her.

  The previous morning Mrs Bruton had woken early. ‘I don’t know why but I couldn’t sleep. I’d been tossing and turning all night.’

  ‘I expect you were worrying about Huckle and her broken arm,’ said Ursula gently.

  Mrs Bruton ignored her. ‘Eventually I got up and pulled back my bedroom curtains.’ She paused and drew her hand across her eyes for a moment. Ursula offered her the cup of coffee again. ‘Through the net curtains I could see directly across the street into a room on the second floor of Maison Rose; the floor where the Count and Madame have their apartments. There are no net curtains on those windows.’

  The cup of coffee was put down and after a little pause Mrs Bruton took a deep breath, closed her eyes and said: ‘It was very early. No one was about. The sun was just rising, with no hint of the rain to come.’ She opened her eyes, looking directly at Ursula. ‘As I was about to return to my bed, I saw a woman in a nightgown come to the window, just as I had. I recognised her. It was Miss Ferguson!’ Mrs Bruton clutched her throat. ‘I thought for one terrible moment that I was looking at Count Meyerhoff’s room and … and …’

  ‘They were having an affair?’ Ursula offered.

  Mrs Bruton sank back. ‘It was much worse than that. As I looked, I saw Madame Rose come to the window and slip her arms around and embrace her. Her hands caressed her …. her … then Miss Ferguson turned in her arms, so languidly,’ she made it sound an insult. ‘And they kissed. Such passion …’

  More silence. Finally, ‘I staggered back to my bed and collapsed, trembling with shock and … and disgust!’ She sounded hysterical again. Suddenly she rose and walked shakily about the room. ‘I shall never be able to set foot in that place again. I don’t even know if I can face dear Count Meyerhoff. Thank heavens I didn’t agree to invest money in Maison Rose. Now I can’t wait to leave this place. If you had been able to come,’ she said reproachfully, ‘I would have done so yesterday.’

  ‘I can quite understand how upset you must be,’ said Ursula carefully. ‘Such a nasty shock. But you must not allow it to upset you. There is no need ever to enter Maison Rose again.’ Ursula rose. ‘Have you asked for your cases to be brought to your room? Then I’ll start packing your things. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll fix your hair. Then you can sit and enjoy some more coffee. We’ll soon have you home.’

  She took Mrs Bruton through to the bedroom and sat her down in front of the dressing table. But instead of being allowed to act as lady’s maid, Ursula found herself watching while Mrs Bruton gave her loose hair a quick brush then twirled its length into a rope before coiling it on top of her head and securing it with a selection of combs. The whole process was conducted with easy efficiency. How much of Mrs Bruton’s need for a well-trained maid arose from a belief her position as a wealthy – and attractive – widow demanded it?

  ‘I suppose that will do,’ Mrs Bruton said, patting her hair. ‘Thank you, dear, I feel easier about things now.’ She returned to her sitting room.

  Suitcases had indeed been placed ready for packing and on the bed were two large hatboxes. In the cases were sheets of tissue paper, neatly folded and ready for the careful packing of clothes. Ursula opened the commodious wardrobes and started to remove and fold garments, her movements almost automatic as she considered the implications of Mrs Bruton’s tale.

  Ursula had immediately recognised that it was Madame Rose’s handwriting on the letter Jackman had found in the Peters’ safe. It had never occurred to her that it could have been meant for anyone but Count Meyerhoff. She had refused to tell Jackman whose handwriting she had recognised because she was convinced that the letter could not form the basis of a blackmail attempt. Both parties were mature and unmarried. How could anyone object to a liaison?

  A lesbian relationship, however, was an entirely different matter. Could Mrs Bruton have misunderstood what she saw? Highly unlikely. Ursula remembered her conversation with Miss Ferguson while they filled jars with beauty products. How full of admiration for Madame Rose the girl had been. Yes, Ursula thought, it was a small step from her attitude then to sexual worship.

  She herself had come across similar relationships both in Paris and San Francisco. So long as they did not harm other people, she saw nothing wrong in them. But Mrs Bruton’s reaction had been damning.

  Ursula remembered how when Madame Rose had assessed her skin, she had used her hands to indicate various areas such as beneath the eyes, had traced the line of her cheekbones. It was a highly personal service the beautician offered and were it to be generally known that she found sexual satisfaction with members of her own sex, the business would undoubtedly collapse. The financial loss would be great and the count’s reputation would suffer along with Madame Rose’s.

  Busy inserting tissue paper between the folds of Mrs Bruton’s clothes and neatly packing silks, linens, cashmere, chiffon and other costly materials, all beautifully made up into the costumes her employer wore with such style, Ursula remembered her sight of Albert Pond being ejected from Maison Rose. Had that been the occasion he had found the letter? Surely it could not have been left around for anyone to read and steal? Or had Pond returned one night and broken into Maison Rose and found the love note? Perhaps while looking for evidence with which to blackmail the count? Ursula remembered her belief that Count Meyerhoff was a spy. Had he found proof of that as well?

  Had Madame Rose realised that the letter had been stolen? She could hardly ask if anyone had seen it.

  The letter was undated, it could have been stolen before Ursula had seen Pond leaving Maison Rose. Even, perhaps, before Peters had been killed. Ursula knew she had to discuss the whole matter with Jackman when he came round to Mrs Maple’s for tea that afternoon. And she would apologise for not revealing the name of the writer of the letter.

  Ursula opened the hatboxes and started to pack the large amount of headgear that Mrs Bruton had seemed to require for her stay in Brown’s Hotel.

  The hats were as beautifully designed and constructed as the garments and as varied. There were wide ones sporting artificial flowers, others decorated with feathers, some with veils, others without. There was one that looked like an officer’s shako, another that was almost a pill box. There was one that looked like a cream pancake. Ursula held it and wondered if it would be the perfect choice for wear with Mrs Bruton’s current outfit.

  ‘Thank you, dear. A job beautifully done,’ said Mrs Bruton, reappearing. ‘No, not that one.’ She neatly removed it from Ursula’s hand, and picked out a much larger hat with a sweeping brim in a shade of café-au-lait, then poised it carefully on top of her head, using two long hat pins to secure it into place, making a fetching frame for her face. Then she put on the long, cashmere jacket with striking mother-of-pearl buttons that matched her skirt. It all formed a
very stylish outfit.

  Ursula looked around to check that she had packed all Mrs Bruton’s possessions. ‘Does that clock belong to you or the hotel?’ Ursula pointed to a small one sitting on the bedside table.

  ‘That is mine. My goodness, look at the time, midday already. Now, I am feeling much better, we will not mention again the matter which I told you about this morning. But I feel in need of a diversion. Why don’t we have luncheon here and then visit the menagerie I have heard so much about. I would love to see the animals.’

  Ursula was taken aback. That would mean it was unlikely she could keep her appointment with Jackman. But Mrs Bruton was her employer and she needed to keep her job. Also there was no doubt the woman had been very upset earlier. Ursula remembered the times she had been asked to accompany her on various enjoyable expeditions when she had been treated generously.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the dining room while I speak to the concierge and arrange for your luggage to be sent to Wilton Crescent.’

  Mrs Bruton immediately looked happier.

  The concierge was very helpful. ‘We hope Mrs Bruton has enjoyed herself at Brown’s Hotel, we are sorry to see her leave.’

  Ursula assured him Mrs Bruton had been very satisfied with her visit and while he made the arrangements for the luggage, she took the opportunity to write a note on the hotel paper. It required a little thought. Once finished, she addressed it and asked the concierge if the postal system would manage to deliver it before three o’clock.

  It appeared the late morning post had just been collected. So Ursula arranged for delivery by a messenger. She had just enough left over from the money Jackman had given her to cover the cost.

  ‘I wondered what was taking you so long,’ Mrs Bruton said, appearing at her side. ‘Is there any difficulty with the luggage?’

  ‘No, all is arranged.’

  ‘And I have asked for a table. Come along.’

  As they sat down, Ursula caught sight of a familiar-looking piece of headgear. ‘Why, surely that is Mrs Trenchard,’ she said as the waiter unfolded her napkin and spread it on her lap. ‘I remember that hat from your tea party. I wondered how many birds had donated their feathers for its decoration. I’m glad to see her here, it must mean that her husband has recovered.’