‘You are too kind.’ Her tone was gentle, but she found his assumption that buying her jewellery would soften her resentment towards him insulting. ‘I think Rosalind is cutting her first tooth. I do wish, Oliver, that you would pay her a little more attention.’
‘Nonsense, my dear. Babies are a female domain.’ He paused, ‘And that subject brings me to … I wondered …’
Her reply was swift. ‘I am sorry, Oliver, I’m afraid I am indisposed.’
He drew slightly back. ‘That is rather unfortunate.’ His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to keep me informed?’
‘But of course.’ Helena had no qualms about her lie, nor did she have any fears that her husband would discover it. Her cycle was somewhat unsettled since her confinement. She stared down at her hands, twisting on her finger the beautiful engagement ring and slim gold band. Her lie may have given her a respite, but she knew it would only be short. There was no escaping the fact that within days, Oliver would come through the inter-connecting door and she would have no alternative but to submit to him. Helena really wasn’t sure whether she would be able to bear it.
The following morning, Oliver was full of adrenalin. A strategy to rid Graylings of the child he regarded as the ‘cuckoo in the nest’, had eluded him at first, but despite his hatred of the man, Selwyn’s wedding invitation proved opportune. Not only had it brought them all to London, but Johnnie’s careless chatter prior to his departure for Italy had provided Oliver with the inspiration he needed. And today he intended to embark on the first stage of his plan.
The necessity of visiting a public market had not been an appealing one. However, the reality appalled him. Forcing himself to stare into pockmarked faces and jostled by rough shoulders, to inhale stale sweat and rank breath, Oliver immersed himself in the throng of common people. The noise was raucous, from laughter to the stallholders yelling their wares and quarrels, shouting and cursing around him. Conscious of curious and calculating glances, he guarded his wallet and resisted the temptation to put a silk handkerchief to his nostrils. At first he had difficulty locating the type of stall he sought; there were many fruit and vegetable ones, others stinking of fish or displaying odorous-looking meat, but eventually he found some that sold second-hand clothes and one that seemed suitable. Thankful of the protection of his kid gloves, he began with wariness and distaste to rummage through the garments until he found what he needed in a reasonably clean condition.
The bulbous-nosed stallholder grinned through fag-hung lips. ‘Fancy dress is it, guv?’
Oliver nodded, paid for his purchases and after threading his way brusquely through other shoppers, within minutes was instructing a cab driver to take him to Smythson’s in Bond Street. What the shop assistants would think of his crumpled brown paper parcel he neither knew nor cared, but he was confident that his arrival at Carlton House Terrace with an expensive leather weekend bag would cause no comment at all.
That same evening, having studied in detail a map of London, Oliver was ostensibly dining at his club but in reality only partaking of an early cold supper before leaving for the area he had chosen. And it didn’t disappoint. After walking along the streets for several minutes he found a short back street where one of the seedy early-Victorian houses had misnamed itself as a private hotel; its air of general decay and flaking paint no doubt the reason for the sign declaring ‘Vacancies’. Oliver stood outside for a moment, the only movement nearby from a mongrel relieving itself against a lamp-post. This, he decided, would suit him perfectly.
In the cramped reception area, the stubble-bearded man slumped behind the desk didn’t even bother to glance up.
‘I need a room, my man.’
In shirtsleeves and braces, he straightened up, his beetle-browed eyes narrowing at the tone, and then widening as he took in Oliver’s immaculate appearance. ‘Did yer say a room?’
‘Yes, a room. Not to sleep in, you understand. One I can use when needed.’ Oliver put a hand inside his jacket where he had secreted money in an inside pocket and flung down a guinea.
There came a knowing look in the man’s eyes. ‘’Ow long do yer want it for?’
‘Possibly a few days.’ Oliver set down another. ‘And no questions asked.’
The money disappeared swiftly into nicotine-stained fingers and he gave a shrug before turning to a board behind him to take a key off its hook. ‘No problem to me, guv! Here – number three, top of the stairs and third left.’
It was worse than Oliver could have imagined; its squalor compounded by an unpleasant fusty smell, the cheap flocked wallpaper spotted with damp. A single bed with its sagging mattress and none too clean eiderdown stood on grimy linoleum; the only furniture a scuffed chest of drawers while a limp curtain across one corner of the room served as a wardrobe. Lifting the weekend bag on to the bed and taking out the brown paper parcel, he untied its string and began to change his clothes. The material of the shirt was coarse but at least it seemed to have been recently laundered. The rough textured jacket held a slight odour and was tight across his shoulders, but he doubted that a working man would be familiar with a tailor. He examined the trousers for lice, trying not to think that the material had previously touched another man’s skin, and tried them on. They were slightly short and the brown well-worn shoes felt heavy, but at least they didn’t pinch. He peered into a cracked mirror on the wall, but then shrugged and began to put his own clothes into the bag before locking and placing it behind the curtain. The cheap cap he kept in his hand.
With the room key safely in his pocket he went downstairs and out of the now deserted lobby to find a cab, and was at last dropped at a point a little distance from his destination. Slowly he walked along the pavements until he came to the familiar road, the one where the apartment was situated and now leased by Johnnie, and where previously Oliver had enjoyed many decadent hours in the company of the sensual Sybil. He stared up at the window for a moment, wondering for the first time what had become of her, and then after one or two abortive attempts, he managed to find a little further away and on the opposite side, an inconspicuous vantage point.
Fortunately there were few people about, but even so he was forced to employ at times such subterfuges as bending to tie a shoelace, turning to gaze at doors as if searching for an address, or walking on only to later retrace his steps. But as far as he could ascertain, and his attention was acute, the only person to emerge from the apartment building had been an elderly woman wearing widow’s weeds. He checked his pocket watch, the glint of the gold making him curse his mistake in not having bought a cheap one.
Then after an hour, his patience was rewarded. When the glass-fronted entrance door opened and a flame-haired young woman came out and began to walk along the pavement, Oliver narrowed his eyes. She was the right age and her curvaceous figure and hennaed hair certainly fitted Johnnie’s description. He smiled with satisfaction. It was all in the swing of the hips; one could always tell a whore.
Oliver waited in his shadowy position until she was a short distance away. Then putting the cap on, he followed her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cora’s spirits were high as she set off for what was quite a long walk, but which led to the pub that was becoming her favourite. She was already becoming known there and greeted with cheeky banter; but she was being true to her promise, a bit of flirting and horseplay she both allowed and encouraged, but no man would have what she gave Johnnie. After all, as she kept reminding herself, his money put clothes on her back and food in her belly. The evening in the cosy bar began like any other as she sat with Ruby who used to work there as a barmaid, until she had the bad luck to develop varicose veins.
‘It was the standing,’ she’d told Cora when they first met. ‘I was in agony by closing-time.’
She and Cora had forged a friendship based mainly on Ruby’s wicked sense of humour. C
ora hadn’t laughed so much since she’d left Belle’s and yet again she thought how restricted and quiet her life had been since she’d taken up with Johnnie.
‘I’m orf,’ Ruby said eventually, heaving her bulk off the stool. ‘I’ve got to get me old ma to bed. Our Cissie can’t do it cos she’s got the flu.’
‘See you tomorrow night, then?’
‘Not if I see yer first!’
Cora laughed and watched her jostle her way through the crowd. And it was then that she noticed the tall good-looking man in a brown suit standing by the bar. As Ruby pushed past he glanced over towards the corner where Cora was sitting and she tilted her head and smiled, hoping to get a free drink. Slowly he began to make his way over and on reaching her small mahogany table removed his cap and said, ‘Good evening, may I …?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘I’ll ’ave a port and lemon, thanks.’ She spluttered as she saw him raise a hand to summon someone. ‘Er. You’ll ’ave to go to the bar, ducks.’
As he turned away, Cora watched him. If there was one thing she prided herself on, it was summing up men. And her waters were telling her to be on her guard, there was definitely something funny about this bloke. He didn’t have an accent for a start, in fact if it wasn’t for that cheap suit she would have taken him for one of the gentry. When later he returned with a port and lemon and another small glass Cora felt even more suspicious. ‘Crikey, it isn’t often I see a bloke with a short!’
‘A short?’
‘Your drink.’ Was he stupid or what? She peered at it. ‘What is it, anyway?’
‘Vodka. I asked for vermouth but they didn’t have it.’
Cora stared at him. ‘What are you doing, slummin’ or something?’
She saw his expression change. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Look, ducks, I’ve never known a working man order a poncy drink like that!’
He smiled across at her. ‘Let’s just say that I like to be different. By the way, my name is Edward but most people call me Ned. And yours is?’
‘Cora. Cora Bates.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Cora.’
‘You’re not the usual type what comes in here, I know that.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘You don’t fool me. Few men do.’
‘Now why would I want to fool you?’
‘Mebbe you do, mebbe you don’t.’
‘Let’s just say that there was someone I needed to see.’
‘Looking for Ron, are you? It’s a fool’s game. I’ve never met a poor bookie, and I should know cos I’ve had plenty as punters. And don’t pretend to be startled, I bet you’d guessed what I am. I’m not ashamed of it either. But I’m spoken for, so don’t go getting any ideas.’
‘There’s no reason we shouldn’t enjoy each other’s company, is there?’
‘I suppose not.’ She watched as he picked up his glass. Whatever he did, it wasn’t labouring, not with those hands and finger nails. ‘What do you do?’
‘Do?’
‘For a job. I take it you do ’ave one.’
‘Oh I see. I’m a clerk.’
Well, Cora thought, that could explain his soft hands and perhaps even the way he talked. ‘So you’re clever, then.’
He smiled at her and she felt her pulse quicken. He was a charmer and no mistake.
‘Oh yes,’ he said softly. ‘I can assure you that I have a brain.’
‘Well, don’t think you’re the only one. I never had no education, that’s all.’
‘And if you had, what would your ambition have been? For instance, if you could choose, what would you want to do with your life?’
She stared at him. He didn’t seem to be the usual type who wanted to ‘rescue’ her from a life of sin. They usually wore a dog collar.
‘I want to have me own flower shop.’ The words came out sharp, challenging.
‘You want to open a flower shop?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said – I want a flower shop. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
He shook his head. ‘It would take a fair bit of money, though.’
Her reply was short. ‘I’m saving up.’
He nodded to her almost empty glass. ‘Would you like another?’
‘I’ll ’ave the same again, seeing as you’re asking.’
Cora frowned as she watched him make his way to the bar, almost seeming to hold himself apart from other people. He was a strange one. She was not only enjoying herself, she was curious. Now what could this bloke be after, cos she’d bet a pound to a penny he wasn’t in this pub by accident.
As soon as soon as he returned with the drinks he said, ‘You interest me, Cora. In fact I’d like to make you a proposition.’
She looked at him warily. ‘I’ve told you, I’m not available.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t mean that.’ He paused, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘I take it you were intending to find some premises to rent, for your flower shop I mean.’
Cora narrowed her eyes; he didn’t half talk in a posh way. ‘That was me idea.’
He cast a glance over his shoulder even though the cramped corner where they were sitting was reasonably private. ‘How would you like the cash to buy one outright? You’d make a lot more profit and it would be cast-iron security for you.’
‘I’d like to be the King’s mistress, but I don’t suppose I will. Where would I get that sort of money?’
Slowly he downed the rest of his drink. ‘I would give it to you.’
Taken aback, she could only stare at him. Then with a grin Cora said, ‘Oh yes, pull the other one!’
‘You know, Cora, it never does to judge a book by its cover. Or in my case,’ he said, glancing down at his suit, ‘by what a man is wearing.’
Cora stared at him. ‘You know you’re a right mystery, you are.’
He smiled. ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way. But I’m serious. You help me out in a little matter, and I’ll pay you …’ he paused then leaned closer, ‘the princely sum of one hundred pounds.’
Cora burst out laughing. ‘Aw come off it, where would you get a flaming fortune like that? Look, ducks, I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘I mean it. In fact, I’ll make it guineas.’
His tone was sharp, and no matter how Cora searched his eyes in bewilderment, all she could see was steely determination. ‘You can’t mean that you could actually put your hands on …’
‘Keep your voice down. Yes, without a doubt.’
Her mind began to race. Was this bloke an out and out nutter? Or – and she hardly dared to believe it – could he be on the level? She studied him, noting his well-cut hair and expertly trimmed moustache. Yet that suit was terrible. Cora glanced down at his shoes – they weren’t much cop either. She looked across at him and held his gaze. ‘Go on then, convince me.’
‘Would it help if I promised to give you half of the money first and the rest once the matter is attended to?’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Are you saying you’d give me over a hundred quid just like that?’
‘Not exactly, I’m not a fool. You’d have to agree to my plan and convince me you could carry it out.’
‘I see. What exactly is “this little matter”? Cos if its robbery or some other hare-brained idea, you can forget it, money or no money.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s nothing like that. But I have no intention of telling you now. I’m going to give you some time to think about it. But I warn you, Cora,’ his eyes bored into hers and she realised that this was not a man to mess about. ‘Say a word to a living soul and the deal’s off.’ He got up from the table. ‘Remember, a chance like this comes only once in a lifetime. Do you know St John’s Churc
h gardens?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘I’ll meet you there tomorrow at midnight.’ He turned to pick up his cap. ‘And don’t be late.’
Stunned, Cora stared after his retreating figure. He must be off his rocker to think she’d meet a stranger in the dark at a creepy spot like that. After all, they never did catch Jack the Ripper! Then she told herself that she was being daft, this bloke was much too young to be him. However, later, after she had made her way in excited confusion back to the apartment, Cora found it impossible to sleep, instead pacing the rooms in an effort to control her fevered imagination, seeing in her mind a lovely pile of golden coins, despite all her misgivings wondering what a hundred guineas would actually look like.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It had been after midnight when Helena, who was finding it difficult to sleep, heard the faint click of Oliver’s bedroom door closing. He had probably been to one of the gambling clubs, but knowing that he would never risk losing Graylings, she had no fears that he might follow his cousin’s example. Perhaps once Selwyn was married, even he would become more responsible, although from what Helena had heard of his future bride, Caroline Vasey, she doubted it.
After breakfast the following morning, Oliver immersed himself behind the Financial Times, while Jacob declared his intention to go into the City. Beatrice, now fully recovered, went to catch up with her correspondence, and Helena followed her normal routine of going up to the top floor. The nursery had been completely refurbished, with pink-and-white striped wallpaper, tiny pink rosebuds edging the plain curtains, a rocking horse in one corner, and already a larger cot in readiness for when it would be needed. Nanny Evans, having travelled from Graylings accompanied by Betsy the young nursery maid, had settled in comfortably and as the door opened, glanced up from the nursing chair.
Helena smiled at her. ‘Good morning, Nanny. Did she have a good night?’
‘Good morning, Mrs Faraday. Yes, bless the little soul, she slept straight through.’
Dangerous Decisions Page 22