‘Calm yourself, Madame,’ says the officer. ‘You are going nowhere. Not today.’ The black swastika on his uniform is uncompromising in its sharp-edged geometry.
‘There is no need for violence,’ she says, but her voice has lost some of its strength. ‘I will come quietly. I am not afraid of going to prison.’
‘You are a conspirator,’ he replies.
‘Then I await my trial,’ she says.
‘Trial?’ he repeats. ‘What trial?’
She has been playing for time, but it’s too late. They’ve picked up the British operative. They bring him before the officer. There are cuts to his face and he can’t walk properly; there is something wrong with his knee. The Englishman’s eyes dart from face to face, as though quickly committing his captors to memory. It gives him some kind of equal status if he faces up to them, direct. But it will not save him. And Minnie knows it. Her eyes are plaintive. He should have gone! He had the chance!
One of the soldiers gives the Englishman’s Webley revolver to the officer. He turns it over in his hand, checking that it is loaded. Then he shoots him with it.
The commotion causes a panic in the trees as the roosting birds scatter. The fire crack ricochets all the way to the mountains and back. As the noise of the gunfire dies away an odd stillness falls on the gathering. The German soldiers move closer, encircling Minnie in the beam of their torches, their rifle barrels bristling skywards like macabre fence posts. All her spark and energy is extinguished. The reality is she is nothing more than a shrunken, pale old woman, with colourless hair, white skin and frightened eyes.
With a quiet finality about her movements Minnie’s knees give way and she sinks to the ground, the shawl falling away from her shoulders … She says one word. The officer leans forwards: he didn’t quite catch it. She says it again, whispering regretfully. ‘William …’
Air was trapped in the back of Charlie’s throat. Breathe in, he told himself, breathe out. The coffee cup was on its side on the table, trickling brown liquid through the gaps in the metalwork and spattering the dusty ground. The cake fork was lying in the dirt attracting flies around the crumbs.
‘Charlie? Are you all right? What are you doing?’
Valérie was leaning over him as he crouched underneath the wrought iron table. She helped him up, roughly brushing the dust from his knees as if he was a small boy expressly forbidden to play in the dirt. ‘What has happened to you?’ To his surprise his cheeks were wet and she reached up and swiped the tears from his cheekbones with her thumbs. ‘Oh my love,’ she said, straightening him out. ‘Don’t look for any more. Go home. You’ve done enough.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s not finished.’
‘I’ll tell Anne Marie myself,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her I’ve sent you home.’
‘I’m going, I am, but first would you do me a favour?’
‘Yes, of course. What is it?’
‘Would you come with me to the town hall? There’s something I need to check.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was early evening by the time the train pulled into St Pancras and Charlie was already planning a long soak in the bath followed by an early night, when his phone came alive in his pocket.
‘Hey there bro, how’s it going?’ It was Andy.
‘I’m shattered, thanks for asking.’ He gave his brother a quick précis of the last few days.
‘Wow,’ said Andy. ‘That’s some heavy shit.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘So is it over now? All done? Ready for the next one?’
To Andy it was perfectly straightforward: finish with one client, crack on with the next.
‘The trouble is I keep finding things I’m not even looking for.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s wrong,’ Charlie replied as he made his way off the train and down the platform, ‘because once I’ve seen something I can’t un-see it …’ His voice trailed away.
‘Are you all right?’ said Andy. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ll call you back,’ said Charlie.
At some point on the short journey towards the station concourse a sombrely clad figure in a heavy wool coat had overtaken him. The smart hat and the glimmer of a watch chain dangling from a waistcoat singled him out from the rest of the commuters. Against the rumble of the train engines and the footfall of passengers, Charlie became aware of the light tapping of a walking stick, a steady mesmerizing pattern that forced him to keep following the man, all the way out of the station, past the Midland Grand hotel, and along the Euston Road. It was Baxter …
Baxter turns off Euston Road and continues along a terrace of tall, grey-bricked Georgian buildings. A wind-whipped tree in front of one of the properties is butting up against the black railings as if forcing its way through. Baxter pauses alongside these railings before entering the building.
Inside the lobby Baxter stands next to the radiator, impatiently rubbing his cold hands together. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blows his nose.
A clerk, or an employee, some kind of minion approaches Baxter and bids him good morning.
‘Any news?’ Baxter says impatiently.
‘None, sir. Nothing has been heard or seen.’
‘You don’t understand,’ says Baxter. ‘This is not a normal case of a missing person. This is an actress. An important personage!’
‘I do remember her, sir,’ says the clerk. ‘I saw her years ago in Miss Daylight Delights.’
Baxter gives a short laugh. ‘That awful concoction? Hardly representative of her talents, anyway – enough small talk. She’s missing in France, and your superior assured me that everything that could be done to find her, was being done. Which begs the question – why has she not been found? Why no results …?’
With a jolt the present reasserted itself. ‘Excuse me, sir, are you waiting for someone?’
The plain white walls and plush beige carpets of a modern office reception area had replaced the dark panelling and the polished parquet of the interior Charlie had been looking at mere seconds before. A security guard and a receptionist were standing in front of him. Thinking quickly, he emitted a low groan and clutched at his stomach. ‘I’m really sorry. I felt sick in the street; this was the first place I saw. Is there a bathroom I could use?’
The receptionist glanced at the security guard.
‘All right,’ said the guard. ‘Be quick.’
Charlie framed his eyebrows in penitent fashion. ‘So grateful, I really appreciate it …’ Clapping his hand over his mouth he rushed towards the door marked “Gents” and let it swing shut behind him.
After gauging the appropriate amount of time he risked a peek outside and checking that both men were otherwise occupied and out of his eye line, turned right and proceeded further into the building. It was a risk; it would only be a matter of minutes before the suspicious security guard came prowling.
What was this place? What had it been? The sign on the large panelled door in front now read “Storeroom”, but this was the room Baxter had been taken into, which probably meant that in former times it had been someone’s office. As Charlie placed his fingers on the door handle, he could already hear the voices within …
‘I can’t find her,’ Baxter says to the man behind the heavy desk. ‘I’ve tried everyone we know. I’ve written to friends, I’ve visited her former lovers, her colleagues, her family; no-one’s heard so much as a peep. And this is a woman who writes long, long letters, who likes to keep in touch with everyone.’
The man at the desk understands. ‘Of course, Mr Baxter. No-one knows her habits quite as well as you, that’s obvious.’
Baxter sighs, unable to resist a thump of the floor with his stick. ‘You must have heard something by now? I called in a few days ago, and a week or two before that.’
‘Yes, Mr Baxter, you have been here many times in recent weeks, and the answer I’m afraid, remains the same: there’s no trace of
a Miss Devine. Or rather no contact has been made with anyone of that name.’
‘She is a very conspicuous woman,’ said Baxter. ‘She would not be easy to miss!’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ says the man, steepling his fingers. His slick hair and centre parting imitates the look of a young matinée idol.
‘And yet,’ says Baxter, ‘it is quite evident to me that that is exactly what you are doing: doubting. Doubting that she’s in danger, doubting that she’s even in France. But she is in France, goddammit! I should know – I left her there!’
‘Come now, Mr Baxter, don’t think the worst. Many people are displaced; it will take time for the country to get back on its feet, to return to normal. It is likely your friend has become displaced too.’
‘It’s more likely she’s dead!’
The man behind the desk remains upbeat. ‘The French people are dealing with a huge amount of upheaval. Give it a little time, and when she’s able, and when normal life is resumed, I’m sure she will turn up.’
Baxter shakes his head. ‘You don’t understand. She is not the type of woman to lie low, to keep her head down. She’s not a shrinking violet! I know that something is wrong!’
‘Mr Baxter, there’s not a great deal more I can do. Remember, she is an actress. might it not be possible for her to have assumed a false identity or adopted a different persona?’ The man is very pleased with this scenario; it appeals to his idea of doughty heroine, fighting against the odds, doing anything she can to ensure survival in a hostile environment. ‘What a pity though,’ he adds, ‘she didn’t come home when she had the chance?’
Baxter fixes a glare on him. ‘Don’t I know that? Do you know how much I torture myself; knowing that I could have brought her home, had I tried just that little bit harder? I let her down! It is my fault she’s lost. Mine!’
The man behind the desk realises sensitivity is required. ‘Mr Baxter, I’m sure if the worst had happened, then we would have heard something by now. And if you are that worried, why don’t you go and search for her yourself?’
Baxter visibly stoops over his stick. ‘My doctor has advised me not to travel otherwise I would make the journey, believe me.’
‘Better then to go home and wait. No news is good news, hm?’
Baxter bats away the platitude. ‘Don’t you have an opposite number in Paris? Isn’t there a bureau there?’
The man twists his neck from side to side in an exaggerated dumb show. He can’t make it much clearer. ‘These things take time. You’d be better off getting back to work, keeping yourself busy. Didn’t you tell me you were a writer?’
Baxter juts out his lower jaw and bites his teeth together two or three times. ‘Oh it’s been made very clear to me that my style of writing is hopelessly outmoded these days. “Things have changed Mr Baxter,” the producers tell me. “No one wants to see stuff like that anymore. It was outdated ten years ago; what hope does it have now?”’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, I really am.’ The man behind the desk allows a contemplative pause. ‘You’ve tried the War Office, you’ve tried the Red Cross – but if Miss Devine’s family hasn’t listed her as missing perhaps they know more about her whereabouts than they are willing to let on?’
Baxter’s reaction is terse. ‘The family is estranged; they haven’t had any dealings with her for several years.’
‘Check again, Mr Baxter. It’s worth a try.’
Defeated, Baxter rises from his seat and stumbles from the office. He swings through the double doors and out onto the pavement. From there he walks to the edge of the kerb and hails a cab. ‘Winchester Street,’ he says to the driver as he clambers in. ‘Number 58 …’
****
‘I’m following a lead,’ said Charlie, when Victor opened the front door to Minnie’s old house. ‘Can I come in?’
Victor was clutching a wad of paper in his hand. ‘Yes, of course! Come through.’ He led Charlie into the riotous living room once more. The scent of Minnie’s fragrance was still strong; the presence palpable as he moved across the carpet. Baxter was already there; Charlie could sense him on the edge of his vision. All he had to do was to allow him to come forwards.
‘Tea?’ said Victor. ‘I’ve just been sent a script for a TV series about Edward VII. They’re offering me the role of crusty old retainer:“Here you are, sir, your waistcoat and cravat”, et cetera.’
Charlie was barely listening. ‘What’s the room at the front of the house used for?’
‘It’s the dining room but we only ever go in there at Christmas. I eat all my meals in the kitchen otherwise … Why do you ask?’
Charlie had already wandered back into the corridor and opened the other door.
Inside, a set of eight chairs was arranged around a highly polished rectangular table but it was only as he looked more closely he realised the chairs were not a matching set. Similar in overall style, but subtly different in decorative detail, they had been purchased by someone with a good eye for quality. There was a large heavy clock on the mantelpiece and a pot plant in the window. On the sideboard were a few more photos and tasteful ornaments, but the room was noticeably cooler than the south-facing living room, and wore the regretful mien of non-habitation. He pictured the extended family get-together over Christmas dinner, with Anne Marie and whichever man she was currently dating, sitting down to pull Christmas crackers with Victor and her other relatives, possibly an aunt, an uncle and a cousin or two …
A young woman is standing with her back to the window. The light haloes around her head and shoulders and for a moment her features are hard to make out but as she steps forwards she is not as young as she first appeared. ‘Mr Baxter,’ she says, ‘you’re here again.’
Her hair is ash blonde, turning to grey, and she wears a well-cut dress over her trim body, but although she possesses a trace of her mother’s features, she is not nearly so striking.
‘Yes,’ says Baxter. He edges towards the door as if expecting to be invited into the more comfortable living room, but Minnie’s daughter doesn’t move. ‘I was about to go out,’ she says, making her intention clear. He is not welcome; she doesn’t want him to stay.
‘I have something for you,’ he says, fumbling in his pocket with one hand while leaning on his stick with the other. ‘I kept it for as long as I dared. But now I must return it. She asked me to give it to you some while ago, but I’m afraid I ignored her.’ He is holding the dragonfly brooch. ‘I believe your father bought it. Excuse me,’ he flusters. ‘I meant – that is – it was given to her by Farrar Fay.’
‘I know who you meant,’ Minnie’s daughter answers.
‘Etherege was a fine man,’ Baxter says hurriedly.
‘He was dull, Mr Baxter,’ she replies. ‘But never cruel.’
Baxter assumes she is making a veiled reference to her mother’s behaviour. ‘Your mother was a fine woman, too.’
‘To look at, perhaps …’
‘And you really don’t care what’s become of her?’
Minnie’s daughter grips the back of the nearest chair. ‘She’ll come home when she’s ready. After all, she knows where we are.’
She takes the brooch from him. ‘My father would never have bought her anything like this in any case.’ She rolls it around in her fingers. ‘Rather out of date,’ she says but pins it to her dress anyway.
Baxter covets it. He stretches out his fingers as if to repossess it. He is disappointed by her indifference.
‘I’ve decided to publish our correspondence,’ he says. ‘It’s the only way I can think of to bring her back.’
Minnie’s daughter considers the idea. ‘You think she’ll come crawling out of the woodwork?’
‘I can’t think how else to attract her attention. Do you know where her letters are kept?’
‘I have a pretty good idea,’ she replies, but there is no sense of urgency in her manner and Baxter rattles on.
‘I am sure they can be cut and edited so as not to offend. I know t
hat Mr Freebody the publisher will be keen to read their contents—’
‘But, Mr Baxter,’ Minnie’s daughter interrupts, ‘will anyone else?’
The bite is sharp. She runs her tongue around her mouth as if she can actually taste blood. Baxter is taken aback. ‘I believe there is still some interest in the wider public.’
‘You don’t think that these days, people have more important issues on their minds?’
‘Naturally, yes, but—’
She interrupts again. ‘I’m afraid my brother and I destroyed all her correspondence some years ago. Her letters from you, from Farrar Fay, from any number of playwrights, theatre managers, fans, well-wishers and hangers-on alike. So you see,’ she goes on, ‘my mother has nothing of her past to return to.’
Baxter is aghast. ‘Heartless girl!’
‘I am anything but!’ She unpins the dragonfly brooch and places it on the mantelpiece. ‘Apart from a few worthless baubles and a collection of moth-eaten costumes there’s nothing left of her. If you’ll excuse me, Mr Baxter, as I said when you arrived, I’m just about to go out – so if you wouldn’t mind …’ She chivvies him into the hallway. ‘Thank you for the brooch, but please don’t call again …’
‘Charlie,’ said Victor. ‘You look a bit pale. Do you need to sit down?’
Victor’s concerned face brought Charlie back to the present. ‘Oh no. I’m fine. Bit light-headed. Nothing serious.’
‘Shall I get you something to eat? It’s no trouble.’
‘No really, Victor. Thank you anyway. Listen, I have to dash. There’s somewhere I need to be.’
****
Charlie entered the doors of the Haymead a little before lunchtime. The foyer was busy but he by-passed the box office, and ignoring the shouts and objections from front of house, went straight into the auditorium and up onto the stage. Without formally registering her presence, he was nevertheless aware that Anne Marie was gently remonstrating with anyone who tried to stop him. If he concentrated long enough and pushed everything else away from his mind, then the person he was waiting for would surely show himself.
The Dragonfly Brooch Page 19