The bell jangled and a client came in. She recognized him as Mr Stewart from Hampstead who had bought several works over the past few years. He seemed a nice man and he was always polite to her. He leaned towards sea views, she recalled. Mr Barlowe would appreciate her quick recall, she reflected. All part of the job.
Jumping to her feet she greeted him. ‘We have a beautiful study of Loch Ness,’ she told him. ‘The artist was there on holiday recently. Very serene.’ She led him to the painting and they stood together admiring the watercolour. Mr and Mrs Stewart had spent several holidays in the area and Jane knew that Mr Barlowe had bought the Loch Ness painting with them in mind. They would expect her to bring a little pressure to bear on him but her thoughts immediately wandered to more important matters.
If Lionel were to ask for her help, would she be able to give it? How wonderful it would be to offer help. But of course, he would never dare show his face in the gallery. It was too obvious. Nor would he ever dare go back to his home in Folkestone.
She tried to concentrate on the potential purchaser. ‘Of course, it’s some years since the monster was last sighted,’ she said. ‘But it will always be a lure for holidaymakers.’
He nodded. ‘Last seen from the water in 1908. Last sighting from the shore three years ago. My wife is fascinated by the whole thing. This would have made a perfect birthday present for her except that it was last month and I bought her a bottle of very expensive French perfume.’
‘Perhaps you could give it to her for Christmas.’ She tried to summon up Lionel Brent’s face for a second time but now it refused to materialize and she sighed.
‘I like the hint of yellow in the sky!’ said Mr Stewart, his head on one side as he scrutinized the painting. ‘It is often there when the sun comes up, but for such a short time. Maybe only seconds.’
She nodded, trying to maintain an air of deep interest. She had secretly harboured romantic thoughts about Lionel Brent ever since they had first met and now she was reluctant to surrender them, hoping against hope that he was still alive somewhere. She thought she might be the one person in the whole world who would dare to help him in his hour of need. Her mother, of course, would be horrified if she found out. Jane’s face fell at the prospect.
‘And the two birds flying from right to left. Almost an afterthought.’ Mr Stewart half-closed his eyes. Then he turned. ‘Is it true what they’re saying – about Mr Brent?’
For a moment she was too shocked to speak. Did everyone know? She stammered, ‘I–I’m sure it isn’t. I can’t believe it. Can you?’
‘Lord knows. My wife says you can never tell with people.’
She didn’t want to have this discussion so she said, ‘The police have told us not to discuss the case.’
‘Ah! I suppose they would. Stands to reason.’
‘Yes. My mother says we should never speak ill of the dead!’
‘Dead? Is he really dead?’
‘Er . . . Well, I don’t think anyone knows for sure.’
‘They say he jumped to his death in the sea. Couldn’t swim. But that means very little. He could have clung to the pier supports until the tide went out. That’s what I’d have done in his shoes. Wouldn’t you?’
Jane felt a glimmer of hope. ‘I’m afraid the police said . . .’
‘Oh yes! You mustn’t talk about it. Well, I’ll think about the Loch Ness painting. Might bring my wife in to see it.’
It didn’t sound very convincing, thought Jane. He made his way to the door and put on his hat. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Miss Dyer.’
Jane watched him retreat. What a nasty little man. He just wanted to gossip about Lionel, she realized sadly, and he had almost persuaded her to do just that. With an effort, she returned to her dreams.
Maude stood in the garden at Fairways, a blank stare on her face. She was still in a state of shock, and still hardly able to grasp the immensity of what had happened – or rather what might have happened. She had insisted on going home to be with Aunt Biddy in the hope that, in familiar surroundings, her mind might function more satisfactorily. Her gaze travelled slowly across the grass and came to rest on a croquet hoop . . . then another. Aunt Biddy walked towards her.
‘It was the first night you were away,’ she said in answer to the unasked question. ‘We felt odd without you and Lionel, and sort of lost, so we thought we’d play croquet to pass the time.’
‘They’re not supposed to be left out.’ It suddenly seemed important to her.
Biddy said, ‘No. Shall we take them in and put them away?’
Maude nodded but didn’t move and Aunt Biddy began to collect the pieces. Maude said, ‘Where were they?’
‘In the cupboard under the stairs.’
‘They’d better go back there then.’
Biddy, fifteen yards away, gave her a quick, anxious glance. What on earth did it matter? How could Maude bother about anything as trivial as a croquet set when the entire structure of their lives was crumbling around them? She hoped that her niece was not going to slide into a decline because of this tragedy. Biddy was already severely shaken and drained of energy. Having to care for a depressive invalid would be beyond her.
Maude clasped her hands. ‘I wonder what has happened to Alice? It was terrible, seeing them take her away. She conspired, you see.’
‘So when did she tell you all this?’
‘While the police were trying to catch Lionel. We had to keep her at the hotel until they came back for her. She and I talked. She was desperate for my forgiveness but I–I couldn’t give it. Isn’t that dreadful?’
‘No, it’s not dreadful. It’s natural. I wouldn’t have forgiven her if I’d been in your shoes!’
Maude sighed. ‘They’re probably going to charge her and . . . and she’ll have to stand trial. Poor Alice.’
Biddy, walking back towards her niece, snapped, ‘Poor Alice, my eye! You’re not thinking straight, Maudie love. She made fools of us. She lied. She pretended to like us and we trusted her. Some friend she turned out to be. Scheming little madam!’ As she made her way back to the house, staggering under the weight of the croquet set, Biddy paused. She said, ‘I’d like to ring her neck with my bare hands! That’s what I’d like to do – God forgive me!’
Maude stared at her impassively and made no effort to help her. Trying to imagine life without Alice made her ineffably sad and thinking of Alice in a police cell was like a cold lump in her heart. She glanced across the lawn to the shrubbery. That was where Jem Rider had appeared with his missive for Lionel. All part of the plot – a ploy to confuse the issue. How easy it had been for Jem. A simple way to earn a shilling. And now he was dead – killed by Lionel, according to the police.
She made her way with faltering steps around the side of the house and looked up at her aunt’s bedroom window. The very window where Lionel had thrown the small stones, thinking it was Alice’s room. She frowned. Was that a mistake on his part or part of the plot? It was all so devious. She didn’t know what to believe.
One thing that she found impossible to believe was that she was not Mrs Lionel Brent. That title went to Alice, who had married Lionel a few months after the plan had taken shape in Lionel’s head after meeting Maude at home in Folkestone.
Slowly, Maude followed Biddy into the house. Her aunt had already stowed away the croquet set and was washing her hands in the kitchen.
‘What do you fancy for tonight, Maudie love?’ she asked. ‘I was wondering about lentil soup. It’s not heavy and I can make some fresh bread. And don’t tell me you’re not hungry.’
‘I couldn’t eat anything, Aunt Biddy. It would stick in my throat.’
‘Now what did I say? Soup can’t stick in your throat. It’s not made that way. It just slips down and you can float the bread if you want to. There’s no-one to see but you and me.’ She held up a hand. ‘Don’t say a word. I shall make it and, if I have to, I’ll feed it to you spoonful by spoonful. We’ve enough trouble to deal with without you getti
ng run down.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Biddy.’ Giving in meekly, Maude made her way up the stairs. As she went she thought wistfully how happy the three of them had been together – herself, Aunt Biddy and Alice – and yet it had all been a sham. Fake. If only they could have stayed that way. If only it had been genuine.
She went into Alice’s room, sat on the chair next to the bed and stared long and hard at the spot where Alice had lain. Had it been a strain, pretending for every moment of every day? Had it been difficult not to show her true feelings for Lionel? Had she hated the fact that Lionel was sharing his bed with her, Maude? That must have hurt, surely?
Finding it all impossible to comprehend, she went back into her own bedroom where a photograph took pride of place on the mantelpiece. Lionel and Maude at their wedding, taken outside the church. Lionel looked every inch the sort of man a mother would want her daughter to wed – upright, handsome, healthy and charming. If she met him now, knowing nothing about the events of the last week, she would fall in love with him. No doubt about it.
Her throat was tight as she gazed at the likeness. Fate had stolen the man she thought he was and left her nothing but bitter memories of the man he really was. So should she blame herself for being gullible, for being so easily seduced? He had charmed her into a false relationship with the sole purpose of eventually stealing her wealth and disappearing. He had planned heartache for her, right from the start.
Maude picked up the photograph, deciding that she would never look on him again. Nor did she want to see again that young and hopeful young woman standing beside him with her hand in his. Slowly she dismantled the frame and retrieved the photograph. Carefully, with deliberate and restrained movements, she tore it into small pieces and threw them into the fire-grate. When winter came and the fires were lit, the proof of her undoing would be burned.
As she turned away, another thought struck her. ‘How did you manage to trick the vicar?’ she asked the absent Lionel. How had he persuaded the vicar that he was a single man? Or . . . Another thought struck her. Was Lionel really married to Alice? Perhaps he had also tricked Alice into believing they were man and wife. Would anyone ever know the whole story, she wondered?
Maybe she should do some investigating. Briefly the idea intrigued her but then she hesitated. Lionel had betrayed her and ruined her life and Alice was in a police cell because she had been cajoled by him into criminal ways. Did she, Maude, really want to know any more about the man who had broken their hearts?
Biddy wiped her eyes for the third time. They were streaming but that might be the onions she was chopping for the soup, or the tears she was shedding for their cheerful existence that had gone for good. She gripped the knife tightly, considering the idea that she might use it to stab Lionel Brent if by some miracle he suddenly stepped into her kitchen.
‘It would serve you right!’ she said. ‘Give you some of your own medicine. A wolf in sheep’s clothing – that’s you, Lionel Brent!’
Or had been him. She hoped he was dead, although, on the other hand, it would be good to know that he had been hanged for his crimes. Still, maybe drowning took longer, in which case he could recall his wickedness and maybe repent.
She found the right saucepan, tipped in some lentils, added the onions, cloves and salt and pepper. Moments later she smelled hot metal and rushed to the stove.
‘Lordy! I’ve forgotten the water!’ Shaken by the mistake, Biddy covered the contents of the pan with cold water, sending up a hiss of reproachful steam.
‘Sorry!’ she told it and set it on a low heat to simmer for forty minutes.
She stood in the larder and felt comforted by the familiar shelves crammed with the pickles and jams she had made over the year, by the crock of flour, the butter under its net cover and the lump of Cheddar cheese in its china container. Food. That was the answer to everything in Biddy’s mind. Now she would make bread – enough to go with the soup and leave a few slices for toast in the morning. Little and often. That would be the way to restore Maude’s appetite. Small tempting titbits of this and that at regular intervals, and gradually increasing portions so that whatever happened to Maude’s mind and spirit, her body would be nourished.
Eventually they would return to normal eating habits. This thought brought a smile to Biddy’s face and she assembled flour, milk and water, yeast and salt, and set about making the bread with her usual enthusiasm.
Forty minutes later she retrieved the softened lentils from the stove and beat in an ounce of butter. The bread was baked and supper was ready.
‘All’s right with the world,’ she whispered, and although that was far from the truth, it gave her hope for the future.
17th June, 1922. I thought the day would never end. It must have been the longest day of my life. It has all been such a strain I fear my mind is becoming less clear with every hour that passes. Today I made lentil soup and baked some bread and then spoiled everything by laying the table for four the way it used to be and poor Maude took one look at the table and burst into tears. When I tried to comfort her she pushed me away so fiercely that I fell backwards and hit my shoulder on the sideboard as I fell. I was terribly winded and for a while I couldn’t get myself up from the floor but by then poor Maude had fled up to their bedroom and locked herself in.
How could I have been so stupid? I’m so cross with myself. I didn’t mean to upset her in any way – it just happened. I tried to apologize through her bedroom door but she cried out, ‘Oh! Go away, Aunt Biddy!’ We haven’t spoken since and it is now twenty past ten and I am in bed. I ate some bread and drank some soup, which was delicious although I say it as shouldn’t. I left it in clear view in case Maude feels hungry and goes in search of food. I dread tomorrow and the day after that. Will we ever be happy again?
TEN
Two days later Maude plucked up her courage and ventured out of the house, encouraged by Derek Jayson, who had offered his car and himself as chauffeur if she needed it. It went against all her instincts to set foot outside Fairways but she did not want to become a prisoner in her own home and the sooner she could resume a place in the outside world the better it would be for her state of mind. Aunt Biddy had protested that it was much too early but Maude, hiding her anxiety, had insisted that she might be a victim but she didn’t want to behave like one.
As she climbed into the passenger seat she gave Derek Jayson a brief smile. ‘I hope you don’t object to this outfit,’ she said, settling herself and adjusting the veil, which she had arranged from the brim of her neat straw hat to cover the upper half of her face. ‘I feel rather foolish but I don’t want to . . .’ She shrugged self-consciously.
‘To be recognized,’ he finished. ‘I understand perfectly.’ He started the engine, stowed away the handle, climbed in and shut the door.
Maude did not add that the veil would also hide her reddened eyes from the curious.
‘I expect you thought I’d choose a pleasant run along the beach road, Mr Jayson, but I do feel very concerned about poor DC Fleet. The least I can do is visit him, and Aunt Biddy has made some calves’ foot jelly in a jar with a secure lid. At least I hope it’s secure. That’s why I’m holding it in my lap – to keep it upright. It’s most nutritious – if he is out of the coma, that is. If he’s unconscious he won’t be able to eat it. It doesn’t keep well so if he cannot have it I shall ask the nurse to give it to someone else.’
‘It’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs . . . Miss er . . .’
Maude straightened her back. ‘You must call me Mrs Brent until . . . until I learn otherwise. That is what the solicitor advised when he called in yesterday. If they find my husband’s body I shall know I am a widow but will still be Mrs Brent, although . . .’ She took a quick breath and plunged on. ‘It may be . . . You may have heard the rumours that our marriage may have been illegal. That is going to be investigated when I have recovered some of my energy.’
I shall also have to visit the doctor, she reminded herself, to discover wh
ether or not I am with child. I think not but would like to be reassured. It was ironic that she had spent so long hoping for a child and now she was forced to hope it was not so.
He smiled at her. ‘At least we have a nice day for the outing. Sunshine and very little breeze. I hope I’m not driving too fast for you, Mrs Brent. You must tell me if I am.’
‘No. It’s very pleasant. I rarely travel by car. It’s usually my bicycle, Shanks’ pony or the train!’
‘I’m always at your service, Mrs Brent – the hotel business permitting, of course. If you need me at any time . . .’
‘That’s very generous but you must allow me to reimburse you for the fuel.’
He protested that he wouldn’t hear of such a thing.
After a long silence, Maud again turned to him. ‘I may take you up on your generous offer,’ she said. ‘I do rather want to make another call at some time. I want to go and see Alice Crewe.’
‘But isn’t she in prison?’ He was so surprised he narrowly missed colliding with a sheep that had burst through the hedge ahead of them and appeared frozen with fear at the sight of the noisy contraption heading towards it.
As they edged carefully past it, Maude turned to glance back. ‘Oh! It has gone back into its field. Thank goodness. It might have caused an accident, wandering about in the road.’ She checked that the calves’ foot jelly had not leaked and, satisfied, continued. ‘Yes, she is in prison, but I want to see her if it’s possible. We were very good friends before all this happened and I don’t know if she has any friends or family. She might be quite alone in the world.’
He withheld further comment and for a long time they drove along without speaking. Maude, apparently busy with her thoughts, seemed to have lost track of time.
At last he said, ‘I’m astonished at how . . . how brave you are being, Mrs Brent. Most women would have crumbled under such a blow. Such a complex set of adverse circumstances. I do congratulate you.’
Maude laughed shakily. ‘I have surprised myself, Mr Jayson, if the truth be told. But you see I have my aunt to look after and this upheaval has been very bad for her. She’s getting on in years and is easily confused. I realized I have to be strong for both of us or neither of us will recover from it . . .’ She glanced round suddenly with recognition. ‘Oh! We have made very good time! We are almost on the outskirts of Hastings already. What a marvellous thing, the motor car.’
Truth Will Out Page 18