Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘What happened to all my father’s papers? That’s a new desk,’ he said abruptly, the frown back on his face.

  ‘So I was told.’ And very glad indeed was Grace that it wasn’t the one over which Eliot Martagon had been found slumped, his hand clutching a gun and blood seeping from a wound in his temple. She wasn’t overly squeamish but she did think that might have been too much for her. There must have been a great deal of blood (not to mention other, even more horrendous substances) for the thick-pile Indian carpet was still new enough to be shedding hairs onto the polished floorboards surrounding it. Like his possessions, all physical signs of Eliot Martagon’s suicide had been scrupulously removed; nor, it seemed, as Grace’s mother had suggested, had it left a stain on the family name. Rather was it a sense of loss which breathed on the very air. The house was haunted by his absence.

  ‘I was told his solicitors took all the relevant papers. If there are any still left they may be in that cupboard over there,’ she suggested, picking up an estimate from Gillows for recovering a sofa in the drawing room, and putting it to one side.

  He crossed to the narrow cupboard with the quick stride which always seemed to speak of a contained nervous energy, and rattled the knob. ‘Locked, of course. Do you know where the key is?’

  ‘No, but your mother may have one.’

  ‘And you think she could find it if she had?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The solicitors, you say? I’d better see old Hardisty again. He’ll know what happened to the keys. On second thoughts, though…’

  He walked over to the mantelpiece and removed the lid of a blue and white Chinese ginger jar, fished inside and eventually turned round, holding up a finger from which a bunch of keys dangled. After trying a couple, he found the one which opened the cupboard. Grace saw it was crammed with piles of ledgers and files, papers tied together with tape. ‘Maybe something, somewhere in here,’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘Would it upset your concentration, Miss Thurley, if I went through the contents?’

  ‘Not in the least. But give me half an hour and you can have the room to yourself for the rest of the afternoon,’ she answered, not being able to envisage where she might make room for him to spread all those papers without a great deal of trouble.

  ‘I’d prefer to get on with it now.’

  ‘After I have cleared my desk, if you wouldn’t mind,’ she answered equably.

  He met her gaze with one of his own, but she didn’t waver. The strong features, the aquiline nose, marked him as his mother’s son, but his eyes were a brilliant grey, fringed with thick, dark lashes any girl might have envied. He also had a chin which spoke of a man used to having his own way, but this time he didn’t insist. ‘Very well. I’ll wait until you’re ready, then you can give me a hand.’

  Grace stood her ground. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m due to take lunch at twelve-thirty with your sister before we go out, and I must clear these papers for your mother first.’ She heard a sound that might have been a laugh, but when she looked up and saw his expression unaltered, she thought she must have been mistaken.

  ‘Ah. I’d forgotten – it’s my mother’s musical afternoon, isn’t it?’

  ‘The first of them.’ There were to be six in all, which Edwina had planned to be held at weekly intervals, charity affairs for which all the tickets had already been sold. Although they were to be quite modest occasions, organising the events and the artistes, not all of whom were professionals, had been a nerve-racking experience, and Edwina had declared herself a perfect wreck. She couldn’t think why she had put herself through it – although everyone knew she was always prepared to give of herself in the interests of helping those less fortunate than oneself. Of course, dear Grace had been quite a help.

  Grace had seized the opportunity, while Edwina was basking in her success, to request the afternoon off.

  ‘You’ll be exceedingly sorry to miss such a pleasure, no doubt,’ Guy said. This time there was no mistaking the smile.

  In fact, Grace fully intended to make quite, quite sure that she and Dulcie would be out of the house from two-thirty until five-thirty at the least, though she didn’t think it wise to say so. She’d already spent an hour that morning arranging little gilt chairs in the big drawing room while the currently fashionable trio which had been engaged were practising: a pale, intense Slav at the piano, who played with histrionic gestures and a good deal of noise; a lady cellist and a violinist; all of whom would make their music to a pretentious audience who mostly neither understood nor appreciated music and would probably carry on quite audible conversations during the entire performance. However, things had not gone quite according to plan and Mrs Martagon was in an impossible mood. The flowers from Yvette, her usually reliable florist, today had not pleased her. Monsieur, her temperamental and expensive French chef, was also in a pet because special fancy cakes had been ordered from the latest fashionable caterer, which he could have made better, had he been asked, which he had not. In revenge he had declared he must prepare the despised English sondveechaise in advance, which meant there was a danger they would dry and curl up – or that Monsieur would give in his notice. Something else was bound to go wrong, and Grace didn’t want to be there when it did.

  ‘Look here, I’m sorry.’ Guy was awkward, smiling slightly, evidently not accustomed to making apologies. ‘You’re perfectly right, Miss Thurley. I didn’t mean to offend you. Put it down to my time as a rough soldier. I’m afraid I’m sometimes short-tempered and lack patience.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. I don’t take offence easily,’ she answered coolly, ‘it’s just that Dulcie and I are to visit the exhibition this afternoon at the gallery – the Pontifex—’ She was stopped by the expression on Guy Martagon’s face, from which all traces of humour had abruptly disappeared once more. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘You won’t be going there today, Miss Thurley – nor for some time, I suspect,’ he told her. ‘Have you not heard? We’ve closed the exhibition as a mark of respect—’

  ‘Respect?’

  ‘One of the exhibitors is dead. The poor fellow threw himself from a high window yesterday morning.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was nothing Julian Carrington enjoyed more at his time of life than giving lunch to a pretty woman – and though it might be overstating the case to call Mrs Amberley pretty, she had enough je ne sais quoi to make up for it, to turn heads. He was very aware of the envy of other men as he escorted this chic and graceful lady into the dining room of the exclusive hotel in Jermyn Street, where only the privileged were allowed to dine. Aware, too, of the covert, appraising glances cast at his companion by the expensively costumed and perfumed women from under the inconvenience of their fashionably large and unwieldy hat-brims.

  Together they made a striking pair: the tall man, suave and distinguished looking; and his companion, a slender woman with a white skin and heavy black hair which, piled in profusion as she wore it, gave an impression of greater height than she actually possessed. She was past her first youth, and had never been beautiful, but she had clear hazel eyes which sparkled intelligently from under dark and delicately arched brows. Modishly dressed in black, as always of late. Today, perhaps in deference to her companion, the sombre elegance of her outfit was enlivened with ecru lace and a touch of coral colour at the neck, with a matching twist of silk in her becoming hat.

  ‘I do believe you’re looking better, Isobel,’ he said when they were seated.

  ‘I am better, thank you,’ she answered with a faint smile, drawing off her gloves. ‘Each day a little more so.’

  ‘Relieved to hear it, much relieved. To mourn for a season is appropriate, to stay in mourning for the rest of one’s life is—’

  ‘Indulgent?’

  ‘No, I was going to say sad. Sad to feel that life can hold no more.’

  Julian Carrington, a clever and wary man, a banker who was cautious by nature as well as by profession, rarely pressed his opinions. Believing he’d said enough
on such a delicate subject, he picked up the menu and ran his eyes quickly over the familiar list of exquisite dishes on offer, while feeling profoundly relieved that here, at last, was something of the old Isobel; she whose smile had once lit a room and drawn so many to her, whose light irony had enabled her to find pleasure and amusement in a life which had often been far from easy. They’d been friends for several years. Hopes of something more had not, alas, borne fruit, but he’d endured his disappointment – though perhaps desolation wasn’t too strong a word to describe the emotion which still overwhelmed him in the rare moments when he was off-guard – buried it with grim fortitude, and had outwardly settled for the neutral, easy friendship she offered.

  He didn’t usually permit himself such thoughts. Events had made him a little agitated of late. More control, he admonished himself. ‘I can recommend the truite amandine,’ said he. ‘Not quite as they did it at the Sacher, but excellent nonetheless.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Food had never been a priority with Isobel. She still looked as though she were not eating enough.

  While he ordered and consulted with the waiter about the wine, she glanced around at the elegant surroundings, the like of which had once been a daily part of the full, rich and cultured life she had known. Then, she had lived for the moment, that present which had been filled with love and trust and shared laughter. She had taught herself not to dwell on that, however.

  Since then, life had turned its back on her, or so it seemed, though it had handed out unexpected compensations which she accepted with gratitude, and any tears and regrets she might still have were reserved for when she was alone.

  Halfway through the first course, she raised the slender glass of topaz wine and said unexpectedly, ‘You’re something rather special in the way of a friend, Julian.’

  A slight touch of colour appeared on his pale cheeks. ‘To what do I owe such praise?’

  ‘You know well what I mean.’

  ‘Come, I don’t deserve it.’ But a gleam of pleasure lit his wary eyes. The thought of what might have been lay between them and for a moment he looked as though he might say more. The moment passed; he laid his long, white-fingered hand over hers for a brief space, and the words he might have said remained unuttered. He went back to dissecting his fish precisely, removing the flesh cleanly from the backbone.

  He had begun to age a little, Isobel saw with a pang, though he was still a vigorous, attractive man. Sometimes she thought it might be possible to give him something of what he had wanted – but not to give the whole of herself would be to demean his affection for her, an emotion it would be unkind to underestimate. It was better to let him remain her familiar, trusted friend. Watching him as she sipped her wine, she resolved to speak to him. Nevertheless, she waited to do so until they had nearly finished the fish.

  ‘I’m glad you asked me here today – quite apart from the pleasure of seeing you. I would like…’ She paused for a moment. ‘May I look to you for some advice, Julian?’

  ‘My dear, need you ask? Please, go on.’

  She took a deep breath and then a sip of wine. ‘I saw Viktor the other day.’

  The sunshine flooding into the room through the discreet net curtains caught in its rays the sparkle of crystal and the gleam of silver against the white starched cloths; the waiters moved soft-footed on the thick carpets; a hum of polite conversation and laughter surrounded them, and for an unreal moment left them alone in a bubble of silence.

  Then he laid his fish knife and fork precisely across his plate, touched his lips with his napkin. ‘Viktor. The deuce you did. When?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  The waiter hovered, then refilled their glasses at a signal from Carrington. He went on in his normal, measured tones, yet she received the impression that he was as profoundly shocked as she. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  She shook her head and was silent. Eventually she began to tell him how it had happened.

  She rarely slept late, but that day she had wakened even earlier than usual, her heart thudding, with the bad dream, almost a nightmare, already sliding serpent-like back into the mysterious depths of sleep before she could capture and hold it.

  Vienna…Viktor…Bruno. Oh, Bruno!

  No, she mustn’t try to remember. She would not. Let the past stay buried. She’d contrived a life of sorts for herself here in London, and memories such as that were destructive. She lay still, letting the warmth of the sun stroke her face with its buttery light, listening to the joyous outpourings of the little albino blackbird in the climbing rose outside the window. Marked out as different from his kind, it never seemed to prevent him from getting on with the business of life, a lesson in microcosm, and presently her heart resumed its normal beat. The dark night had gone, and almost as if by the strength of her own will a stirring, a glimmer of something once taken for granted had taken its place. Could it be – a returned sense of purpose?

  Continuing to live in London had been a hard, almost insurmountable step towards rebuilding her life. She’d managed that, but so far failed to take another. After Vienna, she’d lost her appetite for society. She lived quietly, went out very little, seeing few people other than Sophie and Susan. Nevertheless, for some time she’d been dimly aware that she was going to have to make an effort to remedy the situation, to rouse herself and begin again with the ordinary business of living, to widen her horizons, if only for Sophie’s sake. A pretence that everything was normal went a long way towards making it so, she knew that. But how to start?

  It came to her with something of a shock how very few people she really knew here in London, other than her friend, Julian Carrington – and his form of carefully maintained neutral concern was rather more than she could bear at that particular moment. Then she felt herself smiling, hearing her mother’s voice when they had been faced with yet another crisis: ‘Alors, mignonne, we will take our minds off it with a little shopping, hein? And the problem – voilà! It will resolve itself. A new hat, some scent! Oh, very well, handkerchiefs, since you say that’s all we can afford, my little – how did your father say? – my little skinflint!’ As if no more was needed to right the troubles of the world – as indeed it usually was not, for Vèronique. Sometimes, that same approach had worked for Isobel, too…though it wasn’t shopping she’d needed, so much as mixing with other people, those who lived nice, ordinary lives. Being anonymous among the crowds, pretending their own life was ordinary, too.

  Today, the renewed sense of energy she felt seemed like a gift it would be ungracious to ignore. She would make herself take that second step, make a little excursion into the world again – it didn’t matter where, anywhere – leaving word that she’d gone shopping: stockings, new hair-ribbons for Sophie, anything.

  Susan wouldn’t believe it, of course. She knew Isobel had no need of stockings, or gloves, or anything of the kind, but never mind that. She would be only too pleased to see her at last making some effort to rouse herself from the mental lethargy which had consumed her for far too long. Having made the decision, she sprang out of bed immediately, knowing all too well that her new-found determination might dissipate if she waited mundanely for breakfast, and the newspapersy – and certainly not for the post.

  She dressed hurriedly, without help. She was thin enough to have no need of tight lacing, as she’d told Susan often enough, though it was really the comfort and freedom that had made her dispense with such purgatories. What, not even a bust-improver? No, not even that. Let Susan roll her eyes as she would.

  The last button fastened, she chose a velvet throat band with a pearl drop, and her favourite pearl earrings to wear, not the pink pearls, but the ones her lover had given her. Their opalescent gleam against her skin flattered her face, as he’d known it would. She began to pin her hair up and the memory came, unbidden, of him holding the heavy weight of it in his hands as he used to, kissing the tender place on the back of her neck, and she felt again the tiny, exquisite shiver of the butterfly touch of his hand
as he stroked her arm from wrist to shoulder against the fine hairs of her skin.

  They came, these sensuous, almost unbearable moments of unexpected awareness, like little poisoned darts, sharp enough to pierce the carefully contrived carapace she’d built around her emotions. But she’d long since found action to be the best remedy against these dangerous memories, at least when they came inappropriately, at times like this. At other times, she would savour them, let the pain itself act as sympathetic magic.

  She stood up, willing herself to be positive. Brave enough even to ignore the post she heard arriving on the doormat and the sinking feeling that it might have brought yet another of those letters.

  The West End – shops, sunshine, crowds, delicious as only London could be in April. Walking up New Bond Street, turning a corner, she almost bumped into an effete young man, his high collar nearly choking him, his hair brilliantined either side of a central parting. Emerging from a flower shop, he pranced past her, holding a basket of spring flowers balanced on one hand, like a waiter, the lead of a ridiculous woolly poodle in the other. The flowers gave off a heavenly whiff of scent. She decided she owed herself a little indulgence, though the frail, short-lived blooms would be a fleeting pleasure, a luxury that wouldn’t last long. Jonquils. The essence of spring. He used to come with huge bunches of them, brought into the Vienna flower shops from the mountain slopes where they’d been gathered.

  The memory was so sharp it actually brought her to a standstill, though only for the briefest of moments. Here, in the middle of Brook Street, was no place for reminiscences. Yet her dream of the night was not yet quite over: for the duration of that infinitesimal space of time it was as though her past life, with all its bittersweet ups and downs of pain and exquisite pleasure, that was the actuality, and the solid London pavement on which she stood, the shops and the people around her, which had no existence. She was brought sharply back to the present when an errand boy caused a small commotion by darting straight across the road between an omnibus and a horse-drawn, gilded black carriage whose driver thought that his passenger, autocratically peering through a lorgnette, had the right to order her carriage to stop right before the entrance to Claridge’s Hotel, no matter what.