Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  Last Nocturne

  MARJORIE ECCLES

  Table of Contents

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: England 1909

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PART TWO: Vienna 1887 – 1907

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PART THREE: England 1909

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PART FOUR: Vienna 1907 – 1908

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PART FIVE: England 1909

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  The child wakes in panic and sits bolt upright up in bed, clutching the cotton stuff of her nightgown to her chest. Outside, the great bell on the Stephensdom echoes the thump of her heart. She counts the strokes. Eleven! Hours since she was firmly tucked up, since her bedroom door was closed. Hours since she’d determined not to go to sleep, but to slip out of bed again to open the shutters and let the moonlight into the room so that He would be afraid to come. Only she’d fallen asleep, after all.

  But perhaps there’s still time. Heart beating fast, she leaves the warm cosiness and goes to the window and stands on tiptoe, barely able to reach the knobs on the shutters. When they fold back at last, she sees there is to be no moon tonight. The only light coming through the window is the strange, bluish radiance somewhere beyond the dark which means there has been snow. She can see the snow-frosted roofs of other houses in the city and, rising way above them, the great cathedral and its spire, soaring up and up into the sky. In the daylight, the tiles on the cathedral roof have a brightly coloured pattern, but tonight snow and darkness obscure it. With a shiver, she remembers to say a quick, anxious prayer to Saint Stephen, one Berta has taught her, and then scuttles back to the warmth of her bed.

  There’s no noise; the snow has muffled even the clatter of the fiacre wheels and horses’ hooves on the cobbles, or perhaps it’s too late even for them to be about. She lies still, not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. Somewhere, He might still be waiting to get her, perhaps hiding behind the huge, painted armoire in the corner – though for what misdemeanour she can’t think. But He, Struwwelpeter, the boy-demon with wild hair and long, sharp, nails like claws, will surely discover something. In the book, he always finds out naughty children and punishes them. Perhaps he’ll cut off her thumb because she still sucks it like a baby, although she tries not to. It’s very hard to be perfectly good, all the time. She tries to think of anything wrong she might have done that day. She hasn’t pulled the cat’s tail, or forgotten to practice her scales, but she suddenly remembers the little chocolate and cinnamon biscuit she popped into her mouth when Berta’s broad back was turned, and shivers.

  The ancient house creaks and moans around her, as it often does in the night, as if it can’t sleep, either. It’s warm in the bed against the big square pillows, under the downy feather quilt which almost buries her. The only part of her showing is her nose, growing cold at the tip. Bruno must have forgotten to stoke up the huge green-tiled stove which keeps the house warm.

  Perhaps He won’t know she’s there in the bedroom if she ducks her head right beneath the quilt to hide, leaving only a tiny space to breathe. She tries it and gradually the darkness reassures her, the terror recedes. Presently she sleeps again.

  Perhaps it’s something in a dream that wakes her for the second time, but now she isn’t afraid.

  With the wide unseeing eyes of the sleepwalker, she slides from the cosy warmth, not feeling the cold of the tiles as her feet touch them and she walks to the door. Leaving her bedroom, she turns away from the light coming from under the door of the attic room up the next flight of stairs. She doesn’t even pause when she reaches the banisters overlooking the huge dark cave of the ancient hallway, scary even in daylight, but passes barefooted along the gallery and down the next flight of worn stairs to the door, as swiftly and silently as if she’s gliding over them. Into the dim, shadowy cavern of the hall, where the remains of the sulky fire smokes and smoulders, and a single lamp still burns.

  No one hears her, she feels no gentle, loving touch upon her shoulder, there is no soft voice to guide her back to bed and tuck her up once more. No sound from Igor, none of his deep baying to wake the household, not even the rattle of his chain as he stirs in his sleep on the straw of his kennel.

  The great front door of the house hasn’t yet been locked and bolted for the night, but although she usually has to struggle with the heavy iron latch, tonight it responds easily. Leaving the door wide behind her she steps out into a still, white world.

  The snow is thick and unblemished, the night dark and silent. She doesn’t notice the icy drop in temperature, however, as she begins to walk, nor the new snow-flurry which is starting and whips her nightdress around her legs. But almost at once something stops her. The street is in darkness, apart from the gas lamp where it turns the corner, throwing yellow light onto the snow. None of the other tall houses are lit. Their shadows lie black against the whiteness as the lane narrows in perspective, where the hollows in the snowdrifts show purple and mysterious. And silhouetted against the snow is a black writhing shape, grown huge and formless.

  Struwwelpeter!

  She screams, and the scream wakes her. For another moment she stands petrified, then she turns to flee back to the house. The door is still open but now another lamp has been lit in the hallway, and a familiar presence is striding towards her, scooping her into reassuring arms and rushing her inside. By the time the door is closed on the scene behind them, the snow is beginning to fall again, thick and fast, already covering the trail of her small bare footprints.

  PART ONE

  England 1909

  CHAPTER ONE

  It wasn’t Grace’s new outfit, worn in hopeful anticipation of spring, that helped her to decide, so much as the ridiculous hat belonging to Mrs Bingley-Corbett in the pew in front. Its brim was wide and flat as a cartwheel, its outsize round crown entirely studded with velvet bees and tiny flowers, so that at a distance it resembled nothing so much as a plum pudding on a plate, perched uncompromisingly on top of her elaborate coiffure. Grace suppressed an urge to laugh but could scarcely help envying Mrs B-C the self-assurance that let her wear such a monstrosity, especially to Evensong.

  Not that Grace had any desire to emulate her, modish as such creations now were, restraint in that and many other matters having been abandoned in the years since the death of the puritanical old queen. Indeed, standards had altogether dropped now that Edward, her decidedly more liberal-minded son, occupied the throne, said Robert, disapprovingly. But it would have been nice to be able to think that one could do exactly as one wished for once; to know that being the late Canon Thurley’s daughter didn’t for ever place one in the shapeless tweeds and dreary hat brigade, something she had at least managed to avoid so far. Yet…although her own new hat that evening was entirely becoming (burnt straw with silk trimming in shades of yellow and cream, worn with the costume she had made herself, in the new otter-brown col
our), seeing that other one had undoubtedly provoked not only a smile, but also fuelled the spark of rebellion and excitement already kindled by that letter. Rebellion about a great many things in her life…making her reject a more obviously sensible outfit to wear that evening, for instance.

  Anyone with any sense would have foreseen that despite the day’s sunshine, it might turn chilly at eight o’clock of a Birmingham evening in late March…but though she was young and fair and pretty, and clever enough to avoid displaying how intelligent she really was, the desire not to be forced into a mould sometimes led Grace to be a little unwise. Shivering in the freedom of the unconstricting corded silk, she was forced to admit that Robert’s sister Edith had undoubtedly scored a point by wearing the thick maroon tailor-made, hideous and heavy though it was, and wished that she herself was not so often compelled to try and prove something or other – albeit only to herself.

  Still, there it was; and as she came out of church on Robert’s arm, she knew her mind was finally made up, and all because of Mrs Bingley-Corbett’s hat. In the face of all advice to the contrary, she would accept Mrs Martagon’s offer and – here her resolution almost, but not quite, faltered – give Robert his ring back.

  Awkwardly sharing an umbrella with him down the Hagley Road – for rain had now added to the unpleasantness of the evening – provided no opportunity to broach the subject. Robert was obsessed at the moment by the necessity to persuade his father to buy a motorcar in which to make their rounds, rather than the pony-trap his father, Dr Latimer, had always used and trusted and saw no reason to forsake. Such an outmoded form of transport did not become an up-and-coming young doctor, said Robert, and he could lately think and talk of nothing else but the relative merits of Wolseley and Siddeley, notwithstanding the outlay of a couple of hundred pounds. Understanding nothing of either, Grace could only listen and interject non-committal remarks at suitable intervals.

  Later, feeling slightly warmer in the steamy heat of the gloomy conservatory at his family home in Charlotte Road, her back to the sodden lawns and even gloomier shrubbery beyond, she managed to screw up her courage. The first fatal words having been uttered, Robert stood facing her, outraged.

  ‘The Honourable Mrs Martagon?’ he repeated, as if unable to believe his ears. ‘London?’ As though Mrs Martagon were the Empress of China and the capital, not above a hundred miles distant, Outer Mongolia.

  Straddle-legged, well-barbered, clean-shaven, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, he waited for further enlightenment, but it seemed that her original astonishing explanation had exhausted in Grace any further capacity for speech, and she faced him uncharacteristically dumb, with lowered eyes. They were her best feature, a dark, smoky blue, but she was afraid they might give her away.

  ‘Well?’ Although not yet quite thirty, Robert Latimer was already inclined to plumpness, and the unprecedented announcement had caused his face to grow quite pink, giving him a slightly porcine appearance. ‘Why was I not informed of all this earlier?’

  Despite his pompousness, Grace was beginning to feel that perhaps she had behaved badly in not having acquainted him with Mrs Martagon’s letter the moment it had arrived. She was, after all, engaged to be married to him (when he considered the time was ripe; when he had established himself, as he put it. Meaning, Grace assumed, when his father had retired from the medical practice they shared, an event which did not seem at all likely in the foreseeable future), so he did have the right to know. On the other hand, if she had told him, she knew with certainty that he would have dismissed the matter out of hand before she’d had time even to consider it, as he was all set to do now.

  ‘I think you owe me an explanation,’ he asserted, reasonably enough. He never made a diagnosis until he was fully in possession of all the facts, and now he led her to the rather uncomfortable wrought-iron bench between a bank of ferns and a glossy aspidistra, and took her hands, which were trembling and cold even now, and still bore the engagement ring on her finger.

  Grace was afraid her explanations weren’t going to satisfy him. Even her mother was against her only child committing herself to what was being suggested, despite – or more likely because of – her long acquaintance with Edwina Martagon.

  The letter had come out of the blue. Mrs Martagon had written to ask if her dearest friend Rosamund would be prepared to let Grace help her out over the period of the next twelve months: she was in need of someone of good family, nicely brought up, who wouldn’t be an embarrassment living in her house in London, to assist her with her voluminous correspondence and keep track of all the details of her extremely busy social life. Especially would this be necessary over this coming year when she was already making preparations for her daughter Dulcie’s coming out, next year. Such help as Grace would be required to give would not be onerous, Mrs Martagon had assured them, and though one didn’t wish, naturally, to dwell on such things, there would of course be a small remuneration – a delicate reference to Rosamund Thurley’s reduced circumstances after the death of her husband. And perhaps Grace might also act as companion to Dulcie until she came out and found a suitable man to marry, which occurrences, Mrs Martagon confidently implied, would be simultaneous. And all this, of course, would also mean the opportunity for Grace to get about in society and become acquainted with people…and perhaps to find a suitable young man for herself. Mrs Martagon had allowed her correspondence with ‘her dearest friend’ Rosamund to grow desultory over the years, and she didn’t yet know of Grace’s recent engagement.

  ‘All the same, you can’t possibly do it,’ said Grace’s mother, quite sharply for her. ‘I know Edwina. What she really means is that she wants you to run after her and pick up the pieces and deal with all the boring things, like addressing her envelopes and sorting her stockings. I never knew a more disorganised girl – how she managed to be always so well turned out was the greatest mystery – and I don’t see why she should have changed.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have a maid?’

  ‘Now, now, Grace, you know perfectly well what I mean. Of course she has a maid. Edwina has never had to lift a finger for herself in all her life. The only reason she’s written now is because she can’t find anyone else…you’d never have a moment to call your own. Her last secretary – for in plain words that’s what you’d be – went downstairs one morning with her bags packed and a taxicab waiting, and smashed all the china in the breakfast room before she left for ever. Nervous breakdown, poor thing. Don’t forget, I’ve known her a long time, since we came out together, when she was still Edwina Chaddesley.’

  To prove her point, Mrs Thurley lifted the plum-coloured, velvet-covered, seed pearl-embroidered album from the sofa table and opened it at a photograph of two eighteen-year-old girls taken in the dresses they had worn to their first ball: both in white, of course, Rosamund fair and sweet, with a chaplet of roses on her head, her companion a proud-looking beauty even then, with a glorious mass of wavy hair, a firm chin and a determined lift of the head. Yet, of the two, Rosamund had been the first to marry, and it had been for love. Only a younger son who had gone into the Church, alas, and one, moreover, who was never destined to reach high clerical office, but it had been a love which lasted all their life together. Whereas Edwina, who had been expected to marry into the aristocracy at least, had not received any such offers and had eventually settled on Eliot Martagon, the scion of an undistinguished family. There were compensations, however, which presumably made up for her disappointment. Eliot’s father, as a young man, had gone out to South Africa for a spell and had made a great deal of money in the goldfields.

  New money of this sort paved the way to a life of idleness for many a young man, but it did just the opposite for Eliot, freeing him to pursue more seriously his particular interests, which lay in the visual art world. Eliot was an artist manqué, but he was honest enough to see and admit soon enough the gap between his ambitions and his capabilities. Although frustrated, he hung around the fringes of the art world for a while, u
ntil eventually he found he did have a gift after all – one which lay in discovering and promoting those more talented than himself. He had begun by making a modest but interesting collection of pictures on his own behalf, which led to commissions to do the same for friends and acquaintances. After his father died, he had been able to buy a small and exclusive gallery, the Pontifex, just off Bond Street. As his knowledge increased, the scope of his enterprise widened considerably, necessitating much time spent in the various capitals of Europe and later in America, where he found patrons with wealth enough to buy what they wanted and what he could supply. After that, there had been no stopping him.

  ‘I suppose they complemented each other,’ said Mrs Thurley, closing the album. ‘Edwina is asked everywhere – perhaps not into the very grandest circles, but by people with the right connections, you know – which cannot but have helped him. And she’s always been known as a brilliant hostess.’ She mused on this for a while. ‘She would make a slave out of you.’

  ‘Only if I let her,’ Grace had replied coolly.

  ‘Dearest, I really don’t believe I should give this idea my blessing,’ Mrs Thurley said, though not quite as firmly as she might have done had she not been thinking of the opportunities such a sojourn in society might open for Grace…if only she hadn’t already been engaged to be married, that is. ‘Besides, there’s that other matter.’

  ‘Mama, that was something Mrs Martagon couldn’t possibly help.’

  ‘Of course not. But it leaves a stain on the family.’

  There had never been any satisfactory explanation for why Eliot Martagon, a man in excellent health whose private life was beyond reproach, his business flourishing, his affairs in perfect order, his wife and children excellently provided for, should have shot himself dead six months ago. To be sure, his business assistant had stated at the inquest that he hadn’t seemed quite himself for some little time, though he couldn’t specify in precisely what way, and could offer no explanation of anything that might have been troubling him. He’d left no note behind him to explain why such a good-humoured, popular and kindly man at the height of his success should have taken this terrible step, and a verdict of accidental death while cleaning his gun – more acceptable than suicide – had eventually been given.