by Sarah Rayne
The prostitutes of both sexes were out in force; mostly walking in twos and threes, which Lewis supposed was because of the murder scare. The subterranean demi-world closing ranks as it so often did. Looking after each other.
They seemed, to Lewis, incredibly young and the boys appeared younger than the girls. Was it the thick make-up and the clothes the girls affected that made them look older? He glanced at a group of them: cracked leather mini-skirts and high heels and impossible hairstyles. They were more aggressive than the boys as well, but under it they were as young. There was the old joke about knowing you were ageing when the policemen started to look younger, but Lewis thought you could as easily say you were ageing when street women began to look like schoolchildren. Two of the girls called a raucous good night as he paid off the taxi outside Chance House and one of the boys gave a shrill wolf whistle. Lewis grinned and sketched a half-wave, half-salute. None of them would bother to approach him because they knew him by now, but some of them would come to the centre. They would get beaten up, or they would get into debt, or their boyfriends would leave them. The girls might get pregnant, the boys might contract Aids or syphilis. They would all panic as they got older and some would turn to drugs or drink.
Chance House was quiet, and the stairs and landing lights were all switched off. Lewis reached automatically for the switch, and glanced routinely towards the cellar door – closed, of course; all’s well – and went quickly up to his flat.
Elinor had switched on every light in Lewis Chance’s flat – so much for power failures – and then had curled into a chair facing the door and stayed there. Her mind was swinging between panic and disbelief, because surely, surely, nightmare creatures with monstrous beast heads only existed in books and horror films? The Thing from the Black Lagoon. The Beast in the Cellar.
She was listening with fierce intensity for the smallest sound from the stair but there was nothing. Whatever had come creeping up the iron stair had gone away. Because it heard the lock turn and the bolts draw? The building had fallen back into its brooding silence and Elinor thought nothing moved beyond the door. It was not a matter of hearing, it was a question of feeling. I’d know if the thing was out there. But no matter how much I know, I’m not going to open that door until Lewis is back.
Incredibly it was only eleven o’clock, which meant that barely three-quarters of an hour had passed since she heard the soft step outside. Could she sit it out until Sir Lewis returned? The phone was plainly not connected – it took a good deal of resolve to pick up the phone and make sure about this, but she forced herself to do it. Dead. Then I’m on my own. What about a weapon in case the thing tries to get in? She looked around: lamps, books, radio. No, something heavier. She made her way into the kitchen, keeping her eyes on the door, and found an empty wine bottle. If anything tried to get in she would smash it to pulp.
She had thought fear would keep her alert and wide awake but she had not realised how draining fear was. It had not occurred to Elinor that she might actually have to fight sleep off, but the quieter the house grew, the heavier her eyelids became. Several times her head fell forward and she felt herself spinning downwards into a dark shadowland where sinister creatures who wore long dark overcoats and deep-brimmed hats to hide their unnatural heads, crept up on her. Each time this happened she managed to drag herself awake and each time there was only the calm quiet sitting room and the curious comfort of Lewis’s belongings about her. Elinor sank back into a half-doze and it was only when the scrape of the alley door being quietly opened below roused her, that she realised she had after all slid into real sleep.
She sat bolt upright at once, her eyes going to the hands of the wall clock. One a.m. The smallest of the small hours.
The light quick footsteps coming up the iron staircase were unmistakably Lewis’s. He had just that way of going up and down the stairs; not running but not walking either. I’ll have some explaining to do, thought Elinor, suddenly aware that she was wearing a dressing gown and that it was one o’clock in the morning. Supposing he’s brought someone back with him? This embarrassing possibility had not until now occurred to her.
But the footsteps were plainly solitary, and huge thankfulness flooded Elinor’s mind.
‘Brandy,’ said Lewis, holding out the glass. ‘Very good for shock.’
In a minute he might even say, ‘Drink this,’ thought Elinor, who was annoyed to find that now it seemed to be all over she was shivering violently from nervous reaction. They always said, ‘Drink this’ in books. And you drank it and then, depending on which book you had fallen into, any number of things happened. If it was a country house whodunit you went bowling round the room, heels to head, in a loop of strychnine death-agony, which served you right for not spotting the murderer’s identity. Or if it was science fiction you turned into a soulless bone-crunching robot. If it was Lewis Carroll’s Alice, of course, you either became tiny enough to slide under the door or too big for anything, and if it was Robert Louis Stevenson you metamorphosed into the slavering half-human Mr Hyde prowling the fog-bound streets of Victorian London— Elinor shut off the rest of this hysterical fantasy and pulled herself together sufficiently to take the glass.
They had gone back into Elinor’s flat, and Lewis had switched on all the lights and checked every room.
‘I’ve switched your heating up as well,’ he said. ‘Is that all right? Extreme cold always follows an unpleasant experience.’ At the sound of his voice – at the ordinariness of his voice – Elinor began to feel very much better. And the brandy was setting up a glowing core of warmth.
‘Can you tell me what happened? I mean properly tell me.’
Elinor had stopped shivering sufficiently to think about what she was going to say. It was very important not to let him think she was apt to be hysterical and it was even more important that he did not think she was a person who saw monsters creeping up stairs.
Selecting her words with care, she said, ‘There was someone in the house – an intruder – a burglar. Footsteps on the stairs.’
‘Yes?’ He was watching her from over the rim of his own brandy glass. The upper part of his face was in shadow and although pinpoints of light flickered in his eyes they were silvery lights – cold – and the eyes themselves were unreadable. He had discarded his dark overcoat and the silk evening scarf but he was still wearing his dinner jacket. If men realised how devastating they looked in well-cut evening clothes they would never protest about putting them on. Lewis Chance’s evening things were extremely well cut and he looked very devastating indeed.
Elinor sipped the brandy, drawing her brows down in a scowl. ‘I went across the landing to use your phone extension. Mine isn’t connected yet and I’d heard the – burglar go downstairs, so I thought it was safe.’ It was probably imagination to think he looked up at the hesitation or that he had paused in the act of lifting his own brandy glass. Elinor said defensively, ‘You insisted we each had a key to both flats. For emergencies. And I thought—’
‘That if this wasn’t an emergency nothing was. Of course. Go on.’
‘I was going to ring 999 – I didn’t realise your phone wasn’t on yet either. But then the – the night watchman answered and said it wasn’t an intruder at all, it had only been him checking all the floors.’ She thought this sounded reasonably believable. It was pretty ironic that the first time a man should ply her with brandy when she was in her night clothes it had to be her employer, and he was only here because of a suspected burglar.
‘And then?’ said Lewis. ‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing,’ said Elinor shortly. ‘I virtually locked myself out, heard what I thought was the intruder again and dashed back into your flat. I bolted the door and grabbed an empty wine bottle.’
‘An—’
‘As a weapon in case the man broke in. It’s probably still on the floor in your sitting room.’
‘At least you spared my Nuits St Georges,’ observed Lewis, drily.
‘It isn’t meant to be funny.’
‘I wasn’t thinking it was.’
‘Well you looked it.’
‘I was thinking how resourceful you were.’ And I’m thinking how right I was to suspect you’d react well to an unconventional situation, said his mind. How many females would have thought of the wine bottle – or any weapon at all?
Lewis sipped his brandy, and smiled at Elinor over the rim of the glass. He had been very quick in bringing the brandy but he had still brought the correct glasses: crystal goblets. That’s style, thought Elinor with irritated admiration. I’d have sloshed it into a mug.
Lewis regarded her thoughtfully. His eyes were the sort that mother often bestowed on the revolting heroes of her books, and unfailingly described as ‘luminous’. It was annoying to find that luminous grey eyes actually existed. Elinor, staring at Lewis Chance, saw for the first time how closely he resembled the portrait over his desk. His hair was darker and he was about twenty years older, of course, but in the rather low light neither of these things was noticeable. His hair had been tousled by the night air, and the brandy – or maybe the lavish dinner earlier – seemed to have melted the barriers a bit. If he smiles he’ll almost be the Victorian portrait come to life, thought Elinor. If I start thinking that portraits-are stepping out of their frames to sit drinking brandy with me, I’m nearer hysteria than I thought!
She said firmly, ‘I have to say I didn’t much like the sound of the night watchman,’ and Lewis frowned into the dregs of his brandy. In a minute he would say something about the watchman being a bit eccentric, or foreign, and not to worry. He might even produce the famous line about trying to get some rest. And if he says that, thought Elinor, the spell will break and just as well, too!
Lewis did not say any of it. In an expressionless tone, he said, ‘Elinor, I’d rather not tell you this, but I think you’d find out for yourself.’
‘What?’ Elinor felt as if someone had tipped a bucket of ice into her stomach. I know what he’s going to say. And I don’t want him to say it.
‘It couldn’t have been the night watchman,’ said Lewis. ‘He’s a bit unusual but I’d stake a couple of fortunes that he wouldn’t have spoken to you in the way you’ve described.’ He paused, and then said, ‘And also, Elinor, I’m still waiting for the locksmiths to bring spare keys. Raffael hasn’t got a key to the building: he won’t have one until the end of the week.’
After what seemed to be a very long time, Elinor said, in a horrified whisper, ‘Then – who was I speaking to? Oh God, who was I speaking to?’
Chapter Seven
Private memorandum from Sir Gervase Withering, aide to the Prince of Wales, to Rt. Hon. Frederick Inchcape
30 January 1888
Sorry to land this one on you, old man, but HRH is in a great dither about this business with Prince Eddy and the little music hall gel. I must say that to have to listen to Bertie holding forth about morality was one of the more edifying experiences of the century, because we all know he’s had more women than is countable. Still, the point is that he does it more or less discreetly (and with females who know the form), and that Eddy doesn’t.
I believe you know the Chance family – is there any possibility that they would agree to ship this young ruffian out to the colonies for a year or two before he can spread the story all over London?
Private memorandum from Rt. Hon. Frederick Inchcape to Sir Gervase Withering
2 February 1888
Well, a nice pup you are handing me this time, Gerry! I suppose HRH never takes into account the fact that the ‘young ruffian’ is the heir to the Chance Banking Company or that half the Marlborough House set have investments there! But I’ll speak to George Chance, and see what I can do. As you say, it would be better if the boy were sent out of harm’s way for a time.
By the by, is it true that Prince Eddy has been seen once more in the vicinity of Cleveland Street? I ask purely from the security angle, because if he’s at it with boys again we need to be aware. I personally do not give a tuppenny hoot what pickle Eddy dips his rod into, and as you know it’s unlikely that he’ll ever succeed to the Throne. But it’ll be a bit awkward if he does and somebody ups and blackmails him! The pox we can hush up (it wouldn’t be the first time), but extortion for buggery would be a bit more difficult!
Extract from Patrick Chance’s Diary
Cheyne Walk, February 1888
Frightful rows with Father who has verged on apoplexy ever since visit from Freddie Inchcape, who presented himself more in sorrow than in anger, wily old tortoise, bearing with him a version of events at St S.’s so distorted I hardly recognised them. Never realised Prince of Wales’s aides so devious!
Father listened, frog-eyed, to Inchcape (who made Eddy out to be suitable candidate for canonisation and me a priapic Satan incarnate), and then flew into towering rage. Passed from there to head-shaking sorrow, and pontificated about shame being brought on House of Chance – Never hold my head up again, and, Only thankful your poor mother not spared to see the disgrace, etc., etc. It’s a bit much of him to drag in Mamma, who ran off with a penniless Italian portrait painter and died in Siena when I was six, only they hushed it up on account of the scandal and the fear of a run on the Bank.
However, at least poor Chloe apparently ‘being dealt with generously’ which is main concern, and I am truly relieved, even though ‘generous’ might only mean buying her silence by giving her a house somewhere out of the way. The Outer Hebrides, I shouldn’t wonder. Managed to get address of private nursing home in Surrey where she has been taken pro tem, and have sent flowers, fruit, etc. Will try to sort out some kind of annuity, since am suspicious as to what constitutes Inchcape’s notions of generosity. I suppose in time I’ll forget the sight of her clawing at her face in an attempt to wipe away the lime as it burned into her . . . The nursing home say the scarring should fade a bit in time, and although vocal chords irretrievably burned, at least one eye unharmed, which is a mercy. Cannot see this being much of a consolation to Chloe.
Lewis stood in the empty cellar room beneath Chance House and felt black bitter despair slice into him.
Empty. The strange tormented creature he had guarded so closely and so carefully, that he had removed from the private and discreet Highgate institution only three weeks earlier, and charged Raffael to guard, had escaped. Inevitable, of course. Face it. Lewis, you always knew this might one day happen. You knew it had happened the minute Elinor Craven began to speak. He sat down in the rocking chair with the patchwork cushion and looked about him.
The underground room that had once housed discarded fragments of the former music hall was now very comfortable indeed. The decaying remnants of Edwardian grandeur had been removed, and in their place had been put bright modern furnishings from Habitat and Heal’s. Lewis, furnishing the place in secrecy, had remembered the boy’s pleasure in vivid colours and also his enjoyment of music, and there was a good-quality CD player and a radio. The bed was covered with a scarlet spread and there were bright green and sapphire cushions and a scarlet and blue square of carpet. On the wall were two paintings: a Sisley and an early Monet. Lewis could still remember standing in the small gallery just off Bond Street, writing a cheque for the Monet, and how the absurdity of it had struck him, because no one bought original French Impressionists for a creature who could descend into ravening madness between one heartbeat and the next. But he had not bought it for the mad slavering thing that the boy could become: he had bought it for the gentle bewildered creature who took pleasure from colour and form and light and who, given paper and a child’s paintbox, could produce a wash of vividly beautiful colour instantly recognisable as an autumn sunset or a buttercup meadow.
The paintings had softened the walls of that first nursing home at Hampstead, and then the small private manor house at Gerrards Cross, and finally the Highgate institution with its discreet reputation for helping such hopeless cases – ‘Drink and drugs and sex problems, and we have had some
wonderful successes, Mr Chance.’
In the end, of course, Highgate had been the same as all the others. Lewis had learned to read the warning signs by then; he could almost have written the dialogue word for word. Some unexpected traits: an unpleasant incident last week and a real tragedy only just avoided . . . No longer sure if we are the right place . . .
The end would be that the boy would be sectioned and taken to an asylum where they would sedate him heavily and persistently, until finally he slid down and down into darkness, the patches of bright intelligence buried for ever.
Standing in the deserted cellar Lewis beat down the memories – painful, black memories – but they crowded helplessly in, as sharp and as hurting as they had been all those years ago. The innocent-eyed toddler smiling with guileless lips, the mutilated rabbit or the bird at his feet and his baby hands smeary with blood . . . And then the terrible night shortly after the boy’s third birthday when he had known, once and for all, that the child’s sinister ancestry was surfacing.
In those days Grendel had a nurse – what was called a nanny nowadays. Odd how the Victorian term had returned. But when Grendel was three, with the scandal of Charles Chance beginning to fade and Lewis himself beginning to reverse the House of Chance’s fortunes at last, there had been a young and rather pretty nurse. He could not recall her name – he thought the horror had wiped it from his memory – but he did recall that he had eyed her speculatively and that there had been the beginnings of attraction. ‘Perhaps you would join me for a drink when your charge is asleep . . .?’ Thinking: and perhaps you might like to join me in bed, as well.