Shadows & Lies

by Marjorie Eccles

  This modish young lady looked even less like his idea of an earnest medical student than Louisa did, but the truism that all bluestockings must be frights no longer seemed to apply. Some of the cleverest women around nowadays appeared determined to prove this. “Do you know where to find her?” she asked.

  “I think so.” The hospital to which she referred was the Royal Free, where the women medical students at the school here were allowed to gain their practical clinical instruction on the wards. “But since you’re going there too, may I not drive you?” he asked, indicating the Ascot which was drawn up to the kerb outside.

  “Oh, I say, would you?” She had huge brown eyes and thick eyelashes which she could, and did, use to good effect, and a pretty, dimpled smile.

  “Miss Winslow!”

  “It’s all right, Miss Madeley, this gentleman is a friend of my brother’s.” It was undoubtedly a wink Miss Winslow gave him, before flashing her dimples at the dragon, sauntering out and whisking herself into the Ascot with an aplomb that indicated she was no stranger to young men’s motorcars.

  She chattered non-stop from Hunter Street to the Grays Inn Road. By the time Sebastian stopped the engine, he had learned she was in her third year of study, how tremendously she admired the school’s founder, Sophie Jex-Blake, that her father was an Irish landowner and she should have come out two seasons ago had she not nagged him into letting her study to become a doctor. “My mother isn’t speaking to me over it. Too tedious. But learning to be a doctor is so much more fun,” she said, flirting from under her eyelashes. Sebastian laughed. He was sure she would enjoy nothing better than to dance the night away.

  A little later, climbing into the seat Miss Winslow had vacated, Louisa said, “Oh, Cynthia! Half the doctors in the hospital are in love with her – and she with them. She’s the star of our year, you know. She’ll walk away with all the honours, if she doesn’t get herself put in prison too often. She chained herself to the railings at No. 10 last year – that was when her father realised there was no doing anything with her and gave up trying to persuade her to quit her studies and become a young lady. What are you doing here?”

  “We have something to talk about. Let me take your books.” They were in a satchel which she had slung over her shoulder. She wore a very short sealskin jacket, and he hoped its little rabbit fur collar made it warmer for the raw day than it appeared capable of doing. He thought she looked pale and as though she wasn’t getting enough to eat, though this was unlikely; Louisa had a hearty appetite. She was probably working too hard. But the unaccustomed look of fragility brought out his protective instincts and he suggested they might find a teashop where they might have poached eggs on toast. Oh dear, she was very sorry, but she had arranged to meet someone else for tea. Yet another of her suffragette friends, he thought with a resigned sigh, registering that she sounded slightly evasive, for Louisa. But he thought it wiser to say nothing.

  “Well then, let’s talk here. Or would you rather drive around?”

  “Let’s stay where we are.”

  He reached behind the seat and pulled out a warm plaid rug which he draped over her knees. “The police have found the identity of the murdered woman, Louisa,” he said abruptly. “She was an Armenian, by the name of Rosa Tartaryan.”

  “An Armenian? Oh.” She digested this. “Does that mean she wasn’t Harry’s mistress, after all?”

  “Probably. I’ve been speaking to Sylvia, and she didn’t seem to think she was. But – that’s not the least of it.” The full story of his visit to his sister was soon related. He didn’t feel this was the time for finesse, and told her plainly what it was he had learned.

  She looked appalled. “Poor child,” she said softly, “poor mother. Well, if Sylvia knows all this, she must know where they are to be found.”

  “She swears she doesn’t, that Harry never told her anything more than the bare facts. I don’t think I believe her, but I can’t force her to tell. But if she’s wrong, and this Rosa Tartaryan was his mistress – there’s nothing to say she wasn’t, just because she wasn’t English – that means the child is alone now. Someone must be looking after him, but I do rather think that as a family we have a bounden duty to do something for him, especially if the boy is … defective in his mind.”

  “How like you, Seb.” Her eyes were suspiciously bright as she touched his sleeve. And it was at that moment, when he saw her little gloved hand trembling very slightly against the smooth broadcloth of his overcoat, that he thought she might be willing to love him, too. But, though she answered his look with heightened colour, he nonetheless knew this wasn’t the time. Not usually a man to miss an opportunity, he knew now that he must wait – but with rather more hope in his heart than heretofore.

  “The police should know what happened to him, after the accident,” she went on, “and we don’t know what else they may have found out about Rosa Tartaryan, either.”

  “That’s true.” Sebastian considered. “I’ll go and see Crockett tomorrow – though I doubt whether he’ll tell me much. Struck me as a man who plays his cards very close to his chest.”

  “I’ve a better idea than that. You may sigh about my friends in the WSPU – (she had noticed, then) but one of them who I’ve become quite friendly with, Agnes Crawford, knows Crockett – in fact, she’s probably going to marry him some day.” Suddenly, she laughed. “She’s been trying to get out of me – in the nicest possible way — whether I’m privy to any secrets about Belmonde, and thinks I haven’t suspected, so I dare say it’s my turn to probe now. I’ll talk to her.”

  Crockett was in no doubt that the letters received by Sir Henry had been blackmail letters. From Rosa, who had needed money for the cause of Armenian liberation, to which she was deeply committed. Following that was the inescapable conclusion: like most blackmailers, she hadn’t been able to resist increasing her demands, and had thereby provided the motive for her own murder. And what was she blackmailing Sir Henry about, if not something she’d learned through working as maid to Hannah Smith?

  Since Ned Crowther’s visit, his theories had moved on further. Assuming there had been a liaison between Sir Henry’s son and Hannah Osborne – and there seemed no reason now to believe this wasn’t so – and supposing the unclaimed child on the omnibus was a result of this – even supposing this, in what way had Rosa been using it as a motive for blackmailing the Chetwynds? Just another illegitimate child, fathered by one of the young bloods of society, was common enough. It would cause little stir – maybe a small scandal that would be soon hushed up and allowed to make no difference to the family concerned.

  It was true that Dr Harvill’s patient had denied ever having a child; but the little boy on the omnibus was only two or three years old, which meant he must have been born during those years which she had apparently lost. So completely as to forget the birth of her own child?

  Harvill had indicated that he believed Hannah’s memory loss was because subconsciously she did not want to remember some event which had made a deeply lasting, maybe painful, impression on her, and had possibly changed her life, preventing her from acknowledging the last few years. If they had been spent as the mistress of Harry Chetwynd, maybe the answer to the puzzle lay there.

  It all came back to the child.

  “Grayson,” he said, approaching a constable. “You were one of those attending that Ludgate Hill omnibus collision, were you not?”

  “Yes, sir. Won’t forget it in a hurry.”

  “What happened to that little boy?”

  “The one who belonged to the woman who was killed?”

  “The one who was believed to have belonged to her.” It had never made much sense to Crockett to have linked them together – a well dressed, well cared for child, and a poor woman from off the streets, who could very likely barely have afforded the fare for the omnibus. But he understood that accepting they were together must have provided a convenient answer to the puzzle of why no one had ever come forward to claim the boy
.

  “Sarah Jenkins took him in, sir — you know, young Constable Jenkins’s widow. She’d lost a baby of her own just before Jack died and was more than happy to take on the poor little mite, or he’d have been sent to an institution. Thinks the world of him, so my wife tells me.”

  “It can’t be easy for her, a widow. She can’t have much to go on with.”

  “Oh, as to that, there’s been some help given. Remember the young toff as was killed in the same accident – Chetwynd? His family’s seen to it that Sarah’s all right. Good of them, no call to do that, after all, but well, what’s it to folk like that, a few shillings here and there?”

  “What indeed?” answered Crockett.

  He went to his dinner in jubilant mood. Was his luck was turning at last? He didn’t believe the Chetwynds had taken on the responsibility of an unknown child simply out of the goodness of their hearts. The fact that they’d done so indicated they knew a great deal more than they were prepared to admit at the time of the accident about the relationship of their son with the unidentified woman and the child. He came back to his desk, over-full with lamb chops and apple dumpling, determined to walk it off by legging it out to see Mrs Jenkins, but found a letter which had been forwarded from Meredith which, after he had read it, seemed to pose much more important questions.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been quite such a brilliant idea as he had at first thought, to have asked Agnes to gain the confidence of Louisa Fox – or to expect any results might come from it, but the inhabitants at Belmonde were turning out to be an interesting lot, right enough, and it suddenly seemed imperative that he should talk with her and find out if she had been able to find anything new about them.

  The last time he’d seen her, he’d invited her to spend that evening at the theatre, with supper afterwards. They were both fond of an occasional night at the musical hall and Vesta Tilley, the male impersonator, was at present top of the bill at the Gaiety. Agnes had declined with some embarrassment, saying she’d already promised to attend a small sub-committee meeting which was to be held at the home of one of the WSPU members in a block of mansion flats near Queen Anne’s Gate, which demanded her attendance and would not finish until about nine o’clock. Crockett damned the suffragettes. Committee meetings, sub-committees … if these women did ever get the vote they were demanding, they would at least be well set up to become members of Parliament, he thought sourly.

  However, Queen Anne’s Gate was well within walking distance of the Yard, and Crockett determined to catch her as she came out of the meeting. Nine o’clock found him stationed at some distance, where he could keep an eye out for her.

  The night was chilly, there was a clammy mist rising from the river and seeping into the side streets, the hum of traffic beyond the quiet thoroughfare was deadened by the mist. It wasn’t until ten minutes after Big Ben had struck the hour that the women began to come out of the door he was watching, mostly in twos and threes, disappearing into the shadows beyond the gas lamps, their footsteps receding hollowly. Then nothing. He shivered and turned up his collar, beginning to think he had misunderstood: it was only to be a small meeting, Agnes had said – perhaps the business had been over and done with before his arrival. He heard the mournful hoot of a tug from the river. Then he saw a graceful figure on the steps, her face almost obscured by a large hat and a fur collar drawn up to her chin, but unmistakably Agnes. She was with a smaller woman he thought might be Louisa Fox. At that moment, a motor-cab came phut-phutting out of the mist, and the two women rushed to the edge of the pavement and stood under a street lamp, signalling to him with their waving umbrellas. For a moment, it seemed as though it wasn’t going to stop. London cabbies had learned to be wary of women – even innocent-looking women like these – out on the streets at night, unescorted. But fares were scarce on a night like this and at the last minute he jerked to a sudden halt. Crockett was already hurrying towards them, calling for them to wait, but the sound of the engine drowned his shouts, the women were too busy holding up their skirts as they got into the cab to see him and the driver was keeping an eye on them over his shoulder.

  By the time the door had closed behind them and the cab was ready to move off, Crockett was running, and shouting, “Stop!” The cabbie knew a policeman when he saw one, even though he was so nattily dressed, and guessed the reason he was running. Rather than accelerating away, he turned round again to the women and snapped over his shoulder, “Come on, get out!”

  “What? Did you not hear me? I asked you to take us to —” began Louisa.

  “Out, I said! I don’t want no trouble from the likes of you lot, brazen hussies! Get yourselves home where you belong, seeing to your husbands’ suppers, never mind the bleedin’ vote!”

  Agnes was about to do as she was told, but Louisa, outraged, persisted. “How can we, if you won’t take us home?”

  “It’s all right, Louisa,” said her friend, opening the door and stepping on to the pavement. “It’s only John Crockett.”

  “Out!” said the cabbie again, revving up his engine.

  Suddenly, Louisa reached forward, and with a quick movement of both hands, dragged the cabbie’s hat right down over his ears. Only then did she skip nimbly out of the motor, followed by a stream of abuse as the outraged driver tried to release his ears from his hat preparatory to jumping out after her. By then Crockett had reached them. He leaned over to bang on the glass and jerk his thumb to indicate the taxi should be off. The cabbie who had at last snatched off his hat, shook his fist at Crockett. Then, with his hand already on the door handle, he obviously thought the better of his intentions, and mouthing maledictions, finally drove off.

  Crockett stood recovering his breath as the women, laughing helplessly, watched the rear view of the taxi disappear round the corner. “Well now, I’d like to have a little talk with you ladies, if that’s all the same with you.”

  Agnes ceased laughing. “Here?” she demanded coldly. “We might have been half way home by now, if you hadn’t interfered.”

  “Just a word or two —”

  In truth, he hadn’t the vaguest idea where he could have the sort of conversation he wanted with two respectable ladies, this time of night, in this weather. Not in a public house, that was for sure, though a bright fire and a drop of something to warm the cockles of the heart wouldn’t have come amiss. He could think of nowhere else but his office. In desperation, he tried to make a joke of it. “Could I ask you two ladies to come along to the station with me and help with my enquiries?”

  For a moment, he thought his quip had fallen on stony ground, then to his relief, they exchanged a glance and again burst into giggles. It must have been a good meeting, he thought tetchily. “Oh, John,” said Agnes, when she could. “That’s a terrible joke.”

  “No joke. And it’s not far.”

  “We’d better move, then,” said Louisa crisply. “I’m due on the wards at half past five tomorrow morning.” They set off with him, doubling up every few minutes with mirth when they remembered the cabbie’s discomfiture. Though he soon thought the joke had gone far enough, it pleased Crockett to see them laughing rather than deadly earnest.

  Sebastian, almost more disconsolate than Crockett at not having been able to spend more time with Louisa, had gone home, eaten a sandwich and then worked until ten, when he gave it up. His meeting with Sylvia, despite Louisa’s support afterwards, still oppressed him. Rather than wait for information which might or might not come from this friend of Louisa’s, he wondered if he might go and see his mother.

  It was late, and she was probably not in London, or still out if she was (it was still early for dances or after-theatre supper parties to have finished) but if he left it later, she might have gone to bed, and at any rate, walking to Jermyn Street would stop the eternal merry-go-round of his thoughts.

  He turned off Piccadilly into the quiet street and there she was, a taxi waiting at the kerb, with Monty escorting her to the door. They were dressed for the opera, and stood t
here, as if in a scene on stage, spotlit by the gas lamp on the pavement, surrounded by the misty darkness of the silent street; she standing on the top step, he on the one below, so that their eyes were level. A train of soft blue flowed down the step from under her black velvet cloak. She was wearing diamonds in her hair and they glittered on her wrist as he held her hand – the same hand he had held so painfully in the stable yard – raised it tenderly to his lips and murmured something. Sebastian was too far away to hear what they said, but he saw his mother’s other hand reach up to touch Monty’s cheek gently, saw her smile; their eyes held as if nothing could break their gaze. Like Sylvia, her looks depended greatly on her mood, and tonight as she turned her face to Monty, her eyes brilliant in the lamplight, she looked incredibly beautiful. He almost fancied he could catch the faintest wave of her perfume, and was a small boy again, waiting for her to come and kiss him goodnight before she went out. The taxi-driver revved up his engine impatiently, breaking the spell. Still they looked, bewitched. Then Monty turned. The opera cloak swung from his shoulders, the light catching its red silk lining as he ran down the steps and into the taxi. His mother lingered to watch the cab disappear, then went indoors.

  Sebastian stayed in the shadows, several things becoming clear to him at once.

  Crockett couldn’t imagine a drearier place than the CID office at Scotland Yard – but at least the gas mantles had been replaced and though they gave a bright, harsh light, and the gas fire popped irritatingly, it was warm – and, for the moment, empty. He fetched two chairs, thought about his whisky cache, but decided he had made enough tactical blunders with his beloved for one evening. He left them for a few minutes while he went to order some tea.