‘Thinks?’ I said. ‘So you know different. You know about Jack and Hilda.’
Her hand froze and she looked up at me. ‘Jack?’
‘Aitken,’ I said. ‘I know too.’
‘What about Jack Aitken?’
‘He fathered Dugald,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that what you know? That Dugald and Mirren were siblings?’
Mrs Smellie was staring hard at me now, her face growing pale.
‘Dugald’s father was Jack Aitken?’ she said. ‘So they weren’t brother and sister after all?’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘They were. They were both Jack Aitken’s children.’ I frowned at her. ‘If you didn’t know about Jack and Hilda then why weren’t you looking forward to the wedding?’
‘I thought Dugald was Robin’s child,’ she said. ‘And so there would never have been a wedding. I would have had to stop it. Or I’d have got my husband to stop it anyway. Quietly, I mean. Not standing up in the kirk and objecting. My husband is a policeman, you see.’
‘How could it have been a police matter?’ I said. She only shook her head as if she could not begin to explain what kind of matter it might be. ‘I heard,’ I said, very carefully, ‘that the police knew something. Something that made them suspect the children were murdered. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it might be.’
‘It’s not “the police”,’ said Mrs Smellie. ‘It’s just my husband. I told him what I worked out, you see.’
‘Worked out,’ I repeated. My thoughts went skittering over all the ground I had trod in the last two weeks. What could she have worked out that I had missed?
‘I’ve got to tell someone,’ she said. ‘If you promise not to breathe a word to another soul. My husband won’t let me talk about it. He’s forbidden it even between the two of us. But if I don’t say something I’ll burst. My head is pounding with it. Can I trust you?’ I nodded, not daring to breathe.
‘I’m a good milliner,’ she said. I blinked. ‘I don’t just make hats and decorate them. I study my ladies, madam. I get to know their heads, their faces, the turn of their neck, the line of their jaw, the way their hair grows up from the nape or over the ears, how high the forehead, how much space they need in the crown for a heavy head of long hair, whether a close brim will lift their cheekbones or press them down into jowls, what way to curl a brim to follow the line of their brow instead of clashing with it.’ She was tracing imaginary shapes in the air as she spoke and I was mesmerised by her long white fingers fluttering. Then she stopped and let her hands fall into her lap. She looked at me. ‘Can you guess?’ I shook my head ‘I started my apprenticeship at fourteen and I’m forty-seven now. I’ve made bridal-party hats for great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, aunts, bride, bridesmaids and little flower girls, but I’ve never seen as close a match – the head, jaw, setting of the ears, hairline at the brow and the nape, the tilt of the neck, everything . . . as Dulcie and Mirren. Never.’
I stared at her for a moment in silence. And then I remembered something.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yesterday. Dulcie came out of the shadows and I thought for a minute I’d seen a ghost. Soft hair and that little face like a bird.’
‘All of that too,’ said Mrs Smellie. ‘I wondered why no one else ever saw it, but then no one ever saw them together, not with the feud.’
‘So . . .’ I said. ‘Well, it had to happen at least once, that someone took strongly after their real forebears instead of conveniently after their official family members.’
‘You’re not thinking straight, madam,’ said Mrs Smellie. ‘To speak in that easy way.’
I frowned. ‘You mean that because Mirren took after her grandmother everyone would guess about Mary and Bob?’ I was being particularly dense, failing to see what she had just shown me.
‘Think, madam,’ she said. ‘Think it through. How could Mirren Aitken look like Dulcie Hepburn? There’s only one way.’
All of a sudden I saw it.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Robin was her father.’ Mrs Smellie nodded. ‘But that means . . .’ I said. ‘That means Dugald and Mirren were no relation to one another at all! Dugald was the child of Jack and Hilda and Mirren was the child of Abby and Robin.’ A vague feeling of unease brushed past me as I said this, but I ignored it. ‘They could have married after all. They weren’t related and Mirren wasn’t even the child of two cousins!’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ said Margaret-Ann. ‘There’s no word for what Mirren was. And she was no relation to Dugald, it’s true. But would he have wanted to marry her if he’d known? Would anyone? Think about it, madam. You haven’t seen the whole picture yet even though it’s right there in front of you.’
I frowned at her and then it fell into my mind like a great cold boulder. All the strings uncoiled and straightened in my mind and on their ends bloomed the most disgusting little flourishes, like toadstools.
‘The thing they were all so scared would happen if Dugald married Mirren,’ I said. ‘What Jack and Hilda thought it would be. Brother and . . . What Abby and Robin thought it would be. Brother and sister. It had happened already. That’s how Mirren came to be.’
Margaret-Ann nodded again and at last a little of the dazed, pained look cleared from her eyes. I imagine that it set up home instead in mine. I put my hand over my mouth. ‘And that’s why your husband thought someone might kill her?’
‘Put her away like a pup that’s come out wrong,’ said Mrs Smellie and her turn of phrase made my stomach lurch.
‘And then even if Dugald was killed for revenge, both families might just keep quiet for ever?’ Mrs Smellie was still nodding
‘So the thing that Abigail told her mother was that she had an affair with Robin,’ I said. ‘And it almost killed Mary.’
‘Well, it would,’ said Mrs Smellie. ‘But tell me this, madam: do you think Miss Abigail knows who her father is?’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Definitely not. She thought she was helping Mary when she told her about Robin yesterday.’
‘What a mess,’ said Margaret-Ann, almost groaning.
‘I hope getting it off your chest will bring you some comfort,’ I said. I noticed that despite the pink light bulb my face in the glass, and hers too, was rather grey. ‘And you know the inspector was right in a way. It is perhaps best that Mirren at least is beyond the suffering that the knowledge must have brought to her. Oh, the poor child! I could never imagine what would make someone turn to suicide but I can see how she might not be able to bear herself once she knew.’
‘The inspector?’ said Mrs Smellie. I blinked at her. ‘I never mentioned my husband’s rank, madam.’
‘I think you did, you know,’ I replied.
‘I know I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I never do. Because my sister is married to an inspector. She always gets it in somewhere and it always grates on me.’
‘Well then, I can’t account for it,’ I said. I stood and pushed the little pink chair tidily in under the looking-glass table. ‘A lucky guess? Or maybe Dulcie said so. Yes, that’s it. Dulcie told me.’ A faint ghost of that mischievous grin was back on Mrs Smellie’s face although her complexion was still waxy.
‘Mrs Gilver?’ she said. I froze. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was so angry with George when he told me what he had done to you. I didn’t scold him because he had a steak clapped to his face and he couldn’t answer me back, but for two pins I’d have socked him one on the other side and balanced it out for him.’ I let my breath go in a huge rush.
‘You were angry with your husband?’ I said. ‘Not mine? Not me?’
‘Certainly not you, Mrs Gilver,’ she said. ‘My gracious heavens, if we all had to take the blame for what our husbands do! And as for Mr Gilver – he was sticking up for you; he sounds a fine man if you don’t mind me saying. Besides,’ she dropped her voice, ‘policemen can get too used to tramping about in their size elevens telling everybody else what’s what and how come. Don’t you think so?’
‘I wouldn�
�t like to say, Mrs Smellie,’ I said.
‘Smiley,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘He’s the stubborn one, madam, not me.’
Alec was tucked up in a club armchair in what I perceived to be the gentlemen’s corner of Hepburns’ tearoom. Most of its area was covered with more of the little Continental-looking tables and chairs where pairs of ladies perched and nibbled at pastries, but in one corner, furthest away from the doorway into the hairdressing salon (from which unmistakable traces of Marcelling lotion were emanating to mingle with the aroma of good fresh coffee and warm buns), there was an oasis of armchairs, where daily newspapers were folded on the tables and where husbands and chauffeurs might wait in relative masculinity.
I waved to Alec and beckoned him to join me at a wrought-iron perch, rather an out-of-the-way one where I might speak freely.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Mystery solved?’ I nodded. ‘Coffee? Cake?’
I shook my head. ‘You’ll wish you hadn’t had any either when I tell you.’ He raised one eyebrow and sat back with his arms folded to hear the tale. Now, I know Alec thinks I veer too much towards the dramatic for no reason, so I should really have tried to make sure he braced himself for what was coming. As it was, his face drained and he gulped and one of the waitresses – Hepburns’ staff were really quite stupendously attentive – came over to ask if he felt quite well and did he perhaps require a drink of water or a taxi. He accepted the offer of water with grateful thanks.
‘No wonder Mary went off like a rocket years ago when she returned home to find things so chummy with the young Hepburns and Aitkens,’ he said.
I shook my head; it was so awful that one almost had to laugh: almost.
‘But what she didn’t see and what Robert Hepburn didn’t see either was that they made the other family forbidden fruit with their stupid feud. Jack and Hilda got an extra frisson from trysting with one another, and in Aitkens’ too. Robin probably thought he was being very daring with Abigail.’
‘And what was Abby up to?’
‘Following her mother’s hints,’ I said. ‘Finding an obliging lover so that she could carry on the Aitken name, even if not the bloodline.’
‘Well, Abby doesn’t have any Aitken blood, does she?’ Alec said. ‘No wonder Mary wasn’t worried about her marrying her so-called cousin Jack.’ He blew out hard. ‘And so the secret of Mirren’s parentage was what Abby told Mary yesterday.’
‘And for all Mary knew, Mirren might have told Dugald and so Mary couldn’t rest until she found out if any of the surviving Hepburns knew about it and, if so, whether they could be trusted never to say.’
‘And do they?’
‘I think Robert does,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he recognised Dulcie’s likeness in Mirren and worked out what it means. Remember, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her picture and when he saw it in spite of trying not to he was horrified. He saw his wife there.’
‘How long do you think he’s known? How did he find out?’
‘No idea,’ I said. ‘Mary told Mirren that she was Dugald’s cousin some time ago, trying to put a stop to the marriage plans. Abby told Mirren that Robin was her father, to make Mirren believe that she was Dugald’s sister, to stop Mirren eloping. Of course, what that revealed to Mirren is . . . the thing I can’t seem to say.’
‘Her mother and father were brother and . . . Yes, I see what you mean, Dan. It doesn’t trip off the tongue’ ‘And that’s why Mirren ran away. She couldn’t face her mother once she knew.’
‘Poor child,’ said Alec.
‘Poor everyone,’ I agreed. ‘One can’t really blame Robert or Robin, if the women were really out to ensnare them. And one can’t blame the women. They each of them wanted a child. Mary gave it years and years with Ninian and Abby gave it five years with Jack.’
‘Dandy, don’t be so disgusting. You sound like a farmer. What about Jack and Hilda? Is it poor them too?’
‘If, during that time of tennis and card parties when Mary was away, when Abigail was trying to seduce Robin—’
‘Doesn’t sound like any tennis party I’ve ever been to,’ Alec said.
‘—if, as I say, Jack and Hilda got a whiff of what their spouses were up to, why shouldn’t they have thought that what was sauce for the goose and gander was sauce for the gander and goose?’
‘Neatly put,’ Alec said. ‘And then of course Hilda had been kept in the dark about the four sisters until she was up the aisle and it was too late. I must say, I blame whoever brought about that piece of diplomacy.’
‘Except, look around,’ I said, waving a hand towards the hair salon. ‘Hilda has been pretty lavishly indulged in her life, hasn’t she? And anyway she found a way around the worry of Robin’s poor sisters.’
‘I feel for Abby most,’ said Alec. ‘Poor, heavy-hearted Abby doing her mother’s bidding. I don’t say Jack doesn’t feel guilty, but he’s guilty like a little boy, half-sheepish and half-pleased with himself and hugging his naughty secret.’
‘But still I can’t help thinking that Abby should have been more careful about parties and chance meetings in such a small town,’ I said. ‘I mean to say, we ourselves thought it was the most eligible match imaginable, didn’t we? How could Dugald and Mirren have failed to meet? Either the Hepburns or the Aitkens should have cut their losses and left town. There are no innocents, Alec. Not a one.’
Alec thought for a moment and slapped his hand on his thigh.
‘Bella,’ he said. I cocked my head at him. ‘She’s innocent.’
‘And Fiona?’ I said.
‘Less so if you ask me,’ said Alec. ‘Fiona sold off her daughter to the highest bidder and was so keen not to see his social background too clearly that she entirely missed the problems in the line.’
‘Who’s being agricultural now?’
For a moment we sat in silence, thinking about the secrets, the betrayals, the desperate schemes, the stubbornness, all the misunderstandings. Jack and Hilda’s secret, Robin and Abby’s secret, Robert and Mary’s secret too. If only Mirren had never met Dugald all the secrets would have been kept for another twenty years and twenty more and both of them would have married and made lives and never suffered a day’s torment.
‘Talk about the sins of the fathers,’ I said at last. ‘And now back to Mary. If she’s well enough to see us today.’
‘Us?’ Alec said. ‘Do you think I’ll add anything to the encounter?’ And then seeing my expression he relented. ‘Oh, all right then, I’ll come too.’
An inquiry at the cottage hospital brought the news that Mrs Aitken had been moved home under the close supervision of Dr Hill, with two private nurses in attendance night and day, and so we took ourselves once more to Abbey Park, hoping not to see Abigail if I am honest, or Jack, and half-hoping we would not be given an audience with Mary either. In fact, Alec was probably right because only Bella of the entire household did not give me a shuddery feeling when I thought of her.
Fortunately, for the swift conclusion of the case if not for the comfort of the detectives, Dr Hill when summoned said that Mary had been asking for me and he was delighted that I had come. We were taken upstairs to the drawing-room floor and ushered into a large room facing the garden and for that reason flooded with fresh afternoon sunlight. It was not, I thought, Mary’s usual bedroom, unless it had been hastily stripped of most of its appurtenances to bring it to the peak of sparse cleanliness hospital nurses demand, for there was nothing in it besides a high narrow bed – not quite a hospital bed but along the same lines – a side-table for measuring out medicines and some hard chairs for visitors. There was a second table in the bay window, where several florists’ bouquets were arranged, too far away for the patient to derive any pleasure from them but probably still too close for the nurses’ hygienic ways.
Mary, on the high bed, appeared to be asleep. At the bedside, Bella sat with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed on her sister-in-law.
‘Have you come for the dog?’ she said in a low voice. �
��Pity. Abigail has taken a great liking to her. Poor Abigail, she tries to sit with Mary but she keeps weeping and then . . .’ She nodded to one of the nurses and rolled her eyes. Indeed, this nurse was a fearsome-looking creature, with a complicated cap which came right down over her shoulders like folded wings and a dazzling white uniform so severely starched that it cracked like sails in a high wind whenever she moved. Her face was ruddy and stern and her chin, perhaps from years of her drawing it in to show disapproval, was almost non-existent, her face disappearing into her neck which disappeared under her collar and continued without any suggestion of a swell at her bosom or a dip at her waist.
‘Are you family?’ she said.
‘Dr Hill was very pleased we’d come,’ I replied. I knew a thing or two about nurses after my war years and a doctor was the only thing one could brandish before them which would ever make them falter.
‘I might go and stretch my legs,’ Bella said. ‘Come and fetch me if she wakes and asks where I am.’ She stood with a bit of creaking and groaning, looked down into Mary’s face for a moment and then with a tear in her eye she turned and stumped off out of the room.
The nurse tutted when she was gone.
‘Mooning around like that is no good to us,’ she said, glaring at Alec and me. ‘We need cheerful distraction and jollying along, not weeping and wringing hands.’ Alec and I nodded and mumbled and all but curtseyed and the nurse, satisfied, left us with Mary while she went off to some mysterious task in a side-room where there seemed to be a sink with running water.
As soon as she was gone. Mary opened her eyes and lifted a hand.
‘Mrs Aitken, I’m surprised at you,’ I said, taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘You were playing possum!’ Mary rewarded me with a very faint smile and a suggestion of a laugh. Her face still had the slipped-down look on one side and the rings around her eyes were darker, if anything, the line between her brows deeper than yesterday, but then the move from hospital to home must have been draining for her and the forced cheeriness of the nurse along with Bella’s doleful looks could not be helping.
Dandy Gilver and an Unsuitable Day for a Murder Page 27