The Willing Game

by Issy Brooke

  “Miss Starr,” he said, his voice taking on a gravelly tone, “please, will you sit with me for a moment?” He indicated a pair of chairs tucked in a corner behind a table that sported a bust of the young Victoria and a selection of greyish photographs of the family posed against painted backdrops, scattered about in elaborate frames. “I have something that I must discuss with you.”

  Marianne smoothed her skirts and sat down. Phoebe had moved towards a card table with Mrs Jenkins, and the other two men were still apparently talking about dogs. Although with all the references to curly hair, pert attention and eagerness, perhaps it was simply code for mistresses.

  “...forever squatting under bushes!” Price said and Mr Jenkins guffawed.

  Mr Bartholomew leaned in a little too close. She leaned back pointedly but he didn’t notice. He kept his voice down, and for all the world looked as if he was going to speak of love. She wondered if he was going to reveal himself to be yet another obsessed admirer. She ought to keep a list in her notebook, she thought, dedicated to men who pestered her.

  “Sir, please,” she said. “A lady must have air.”

  He looked confused, as if he were going to argue that she was not a lady. He said, “We could walk outside. Have you any gardens here? Of course you do. It might be best, actually, for what I need to say.”

  “Absolutely not.” She would endure his pressing proximity, for at least they were in sight of other people. “We shall stay here. Please, sir, speak on. What is the matter that you wish to discuss?”

  “I need your help.”

  “I see. Of course. I thought for a minute you were about to throw yourself down on one knee.”

  “Do men usually do that to you?” he said, and then blushed slightly. “Forgive me, of course they must, as you are a comely and...”

  “Yes, yes, thank you. It was your earnest and secretive manner, that is all. Now, Mr Bartholomew, please. You do not have to discuss it here and now, then,” she said. “Why not write to me – that is the usual method – or we can arrange a meeting, formally.”

  He shook his head while saying “Yes, yes,” in a contradictory way. “I will do that, all of that, of course, but time is of the essence. I did not know that you were to be here until I entered the house and heard your name, and realised that I had heard it before. It is a marvellous opportunity that I cannot miss. As soon as I saw you, I knew. I feel that any delay now will cost me. Things have happened, and I am unexpectedly back in London, and something will soon catch up with me. I must act now.”

  “Then what is the issue?”

  He spoke now in a whisper. “Miss Starr, my father is not my father.”

  “Er ... oh.” This wasn’t the time for a biology lesson, but she smiled kindly. “Paternity is such a difficult thing. However, I suspect you mistake my branch of science, sir.”

  “No, no, that’s just it. You are an investigator of quite a modern mould, and that is exactly what I need. I need you to prove that he is lying. He is not who he says he is!”

  “Have you spoken to the police?”

  “They will think I am mad.”

  “Sir, I am inclined to agree with them.”

  He looked startled. He obviously hadn’t expected plain speaking.

  She took pity on him. Once again, she was attracting strange men and lunatics. He was a little unhinged. Perhaps travel had done that to him. “When did you come home?” she asked. “And what leads you to suspect foul play? Does your father look different to how you knew him?”

  “That’s just it,” he said with some reluctance. “I have not known my father for many years. I was sent away to school at a young age, and my father and mother became estranged. I then went up to university, and after that I began to work for the importing company, and have only recently re-established contact with the man. He looks how I expected him to look. And yet, he is not my father.”

  “You must give me more evidence than this.”

  “You know of the Tichbourne claimant?”

  “I do, and he was proved false, yes. Well then – that was a police matter, and I think perhaps if you can lay out the evidence to them, they will not treat you as a lunatic. But without facts, they cannot do anything. And I am sorry to say, sir, that nor can I.”

  “You are an investigator! Please, come to our house.”

  “You are living with him?”

  “Yes, if you can call it living. I arrived back here in England not two weeks ago, and as my mother is sadly now dead, I went to the family home that I have not seen in decades. He received me coldly, and assigned me a small room not fit for a coachman. Since then I have barely seen him.” Mr Bartholomew drew out an envelope from a pocket and scribbled an address in pencil for her. “Take this, please.”

  “Sir, I appreciate your faith in me, but my practise is to expose fraudulent mediums, not fraudulent fathers.”

  He grabbed her hands and held on. She was startled but could not make a scene. He peered intently into her eyes and she saw nothing but desperation and fear there. “He does not look as he should, he does not talk as he should, and he does not act as he should.”

  “Nor does my father, but that is ... illness. Perhaps he needs a doctor. Some kind of alienist?”

  “No,” Mr Bartholomew said. “You must visit us and then you will fully understand why it is you, and only you, that can help me in this matter. He spends all of his time closeted in a room that I am not allowed access to, and the strangest people come and go.”

  “What manner of people?”

  “Mediums, of course! You see there is a reason why it must be you.”

  They were interrupted by Phoebe, and Marianne was glad of it. She dragged her hands out of Mr Bartholomew’s grasp and stood up. “Oh, Phoebe, Mrs Kenwig’s new recipe for the beef was superb, wasn’t it!”

  Phoebe looked pointedly at Marianne’s hands, as if there were traces of Mr Bartholomew all over them. Marianne folded them behind her back. Mr Bartholomew realised his error and muttered various apologies as he retreated towards a card table, but he shot Marianne many meaningful glances.

  Phoebe hauled Marianne back down to the seat that she had just risen from, and hissed, half in humour and half in shock, “What were you doing with that man, Marianne? What game are you playing here?”

  Five

  “It’s not at all what it looks like,” Marianne said hastily, trying to sound calm. “He wants my help.”

  “Oh, you poor innocent lamb,” Phoebe said. “He does not. It’s a ruse. He wants his wicked way with you. Have you read none of the novels that I have given you? And besides, you can do much better than give yourself up to a rugged old traveller.”

  “He is not old.”

  “You have only just met him – don’t defend him! If you wish to marry, dear cuz, then simply say the word and I shall mobilise my considerable forces in society all on your behalf. We shall find you the perfect husband.”

  “Do not dare.”

  “Well, then, come and join the game. I am winning. You must let that continue, of course. Don’t get mathematical with the cards, or we shall never find you a husband.”

  MARIANNE STAYED OUT of Mr Bartholomew’s grasp for the rest of the evening. Mr and Mrs Jenkins, being sober types, did not outstay their welcome, and when they left, so did Mr Bartholomew. It was then an early night, relatively speaking, for the household. Price claimed to have an attack of dyspepsia, and retired to his bedroom. Marianne and Phoebe stood by the fire for a little while, letting it die down while they finished the wine. Marianne told Phoebe everything that Mr Bartholomew had said and how he had begged for her help.

  “But that is nonsense,” Phoebe cried. “You are right – it is no business of yours. This is not at all what you do – no, not your type of investigation at all. Why, I don’t think it is his father that needs a doctor. The son needs an alienist, you were correct! He is not well in the head.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “I shall have words wi
th Price. He ought not to have invited an unstable man into the house. He shall not be admitted again. I knew he was too ... unpolished.”

  “Indeed.”

  Phoebe looked at her sideways. “You’re curious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Will you visit him, then, as he asked? You must not. Except ...”

  “Absolutely not! I am curious but not a fool.”

  And she meant it, too.

  THE BEEF, WHILE LOVELY, had been the best part of the meal; Marianne had picked at the rest of the vegetables, and now she felt hungry. Mrs Cogwell was an excellent cook so she could only imagine that one of the maids had been left in charge of the carrots and potatoes. She went to her room, but jumped up again as soon as she had sat down at her dressing table. It was no use. If she went to bed with a grumbling belly, she’d wake in the morning with a headache. She took up a stout candlestick, lit the candle, and made her way through the silent dark corridors, heading for the kitchen. Only the hallway was still lit by the gas lamp, and Mr Barrington would be along to turn it off very soon.

  The problem with the gas was the way the companies cut the flow of the stuff at night; often the lights would go out, but the gas would continue to seep into the room. More than one housemaid in England had blown her eyebrows off – or worse – when lighting the fire in the morning. Marianne had read all about Swan’s lights in the marvellous house of Cragside, and she longed for such electrical wonders to be available more widely. Anything would surely be better than dirty candles and smelly gas.

  The candle’s light sent up huge guttering shadows to the walls of the corridor on either side. She slipped along the back way, and the bare red tiles struck cold even through the soles of her slippers. She knew she would find the kitchen empty, and still warm. It was a little haven, and she smiled as she entered. At night, it was made strange by new reflections and shadows. The rows of copper-bottomed pans shone like small suns, and her slightest movement made them shimmer. She moved quickly through the kitchen and into a much colder storeroom, hunting for some discarded piece of pie or a hunk of yesterday’s bread. Who knew what delights lingered under the muslin cloths or overturned bowls.

  She managed to pilfer two boiled eggs, some bread and a wedge of sweet, crumbly cheese. She wrapped them in a scrap of fabric and scurried in triumph back into the main kitchen.

  It was lucky that she’d wrapped it all up, because it didn’t make a mess on the floor when she dropped it in surprise.

  “Mr Claverdon!” she said. She had never seen her cousin-in-law in the kitchen. Nor had she ever yet brought herself to call him Price to his face, though she could manage it sometimes in her own private thoughts. She maintained strict politeness when she encountered him in day to day life. She knew that he wasn’t exactly devoted to her, and he only barely tolerated the presence of her father too.

  He was as shocked as she was. He was wearing a greatcoat, and had his hat on, and he froze. He had been creeping through the unlit kitchen towards the door to the inner hall, and he blinked as she lifted the candlestick higher.

  “Ah! Miss Starr. Oh.”

  She said, “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Yes. No. Yes, most certainly. Your things? You seem to have dropped something.”

  She slid the candlestick onto the long scrubbed table and bent to retrieve her stolen midnight feast. “Nothing is damaged,” she said as she scooped up the now-smashed eggs which were mingling with the broken cheese. It was still food. It would now take less effort to chew.

  “Miss Starr, please don’t mention this trifling aberration to my dear wife.”

  That gave her pause. “I would not have; until you said that,” she said sternly. She had thought he might have been taking the air or checking the security. But “aberration” made everything different. Her first loyalty was to Phoebe, always. What was it that she had wanted to talk to Marianne about, earlier? She had hinted at some trouble in the marriage. “Sir, if you are indulging your basest tastes, like some young man about town, that ought to be your own business but if you are to bring shame upon my cousin, why then, no, I shall not be silent.”

  He sighed heavily. “You do me a disservice. I may have faults, but straying from my dear wife’s side is not one of them. You may rescind your attack.”

  Marianne had to concede that the idea of Price having an affair was barely credible. In spite of the age gap, they doted on one another. Price adored his vivacious young wife and in the first few years of marriage had been positively puppyish, even in public. More than one lady had been scandalised by their sweet talk.

  “Then may I ask what the trouble is?” she asked.

  “Trouble? Who says there is trouble? Have you heard something? Has there been talk? I will not stand for talk.”

  “I think that I am the talk of the moment,” Marianne said. “No. But trouble is written on your face, your manner, and the fact that you are creeping through the kitchen and speaking of aberrations. You have been out. You do not have dyspepsia at all, as you earlier claimed.”

  “I do now, with all the stress and alarms. Well, then, I shall tell you under strictest confidence. Indeed, you might be able to help me. I had thought of telling you, recently, more than once. You are trustworthy. And God knows, someone needs to know.”

  Oh for heaven’s sake, she thought crossly. Everyone wants me. That Jack Monahan, then Simeon, then Mr Bartholomew and now this! Can people not organise their own lives? She thinned her lips and nodded for him to go on.

  “I have been unwise,” Mr Claverdon said. He gripped the back of a kitchen chair and stared down at his knuckles as he unburdened himself. “I was approached by someone from the government, who was concerned about ... a business matter at Harper and Bow, and naturally being the true patriotic Englishman that I am, I agreed to help them.”

  “Good, so far...”

  “Well, as to that,” he said, coughing slightly, “I was misled. To my everlasting and undying shame, the person from the government was not who they said they were. I passed on my company’s information to them, and now they have information which privileges them, and puts me in a most awkward position.”

  “You must speak to the authorities!” she said in shock. How could he have been so stupid?

  But he was an honest man – usually – and expected everyone else to be exactly who they said they were, too. He would never have done such a thing, so it was hard for him to imagine someone else might do it.

  “I cannot,” he said. “Every day in the papers we read of one more scandal. If even the Earl of Euston can be named in the paper, then I do not think that I can be overlooked.”

  “I hardly think your ... case ... is similar to the affairs of Cleveland Street. Is it?” she added forcefully.

  “No, no! Good heavens no. Nothing of the sort. This is just a little light ... aha ... blackmail.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I am afraid so. But they assure me that as soon as I have furnished them with the required amount, they will say no more of the matter.”

  “Rubbish,” she said. “Blackmailers never stop. They will return again and again and bleed you dry. Your only recourse is the police.”

  “Think of the shame that would be brought on my poor, dear Phoebe. Anyway, I have the money and I will pay them. Except I do not yet have the money. Much of it was tied up in the bank in China, and it has collapsed, and I am in something of an awkward position.”

  “And you want my help? No, sir, you want the police.” Just as I told Mr Bartholomew just a few scant hours previously.

  “No police! I thought, actually, you might advance me a loan.”

  She nearly laughed. “I? I am hardly a lady of means.” I travel in the second class coach, she thought, and steal old bread from the kitchen. My gloves have been darned so many times they are grown very tight and I can only remove them by biting at the fingertips.

  “You are a woman of independent busi
ness, and your father has enjoyed much fame in his time. I do not ask for a gift. Only a temporary arrangement. I have taken a loan from a bank in the City but I have to be careful who I approach. If I went to a large, well-known place, everyone would speak of it, and I cannot have people think that I am in trouble.”

  “Honestly, you men are worse than women for all the emphasis on appearances,” she said. “I cannot allow people to think that my hair might be artificially coloured, but you cannot allow anyone to think you have a problem with the flow of credit. My father has no money at all. Science was not the career to make a great fortune.”

  “Please,” he said in a begging tone, “anything that you might be able to do would help us enormously. Now that I have brought you into my confidence, I feel sure that you will be able to assist. Why not take on a new job? You set your own rates, do you not?”

  The only potential investigation at the moment was the one suggested by Mr Bartholomew. Mrs Silver was currently telling everyone in London to avoid Marianne. Mr Bartholomew’s ridiculous begging loomed into her mind with a wearying inevitability. “Very well,” she said. “I will see what I can do.”

  He left the room swiftly and she waited until he had definitely gone before trudging her way back to the garden wing.

  SHE TOOK THE PURLOINED food into her study rather than fill her bed with crumbs, and sat at a desk. This room was attached to the other side of her father’s laboratory, though it was mostly herself that used the long bright room these days. His recent experiment had fizzled out, and had produced nothing more than an acidic smell which had persisted for days. She picked out the largest and most easily handled lumps of egg and cheese and bread, and ate with her left hand while she flicked through her diary with her right.

  It was as she suspected. Now that Mrs Silver’s heir had withdrawn his retention of her services, she was uncomfortably free. The gossip about her would soon die down, and she did not fear that it would affect future commissions too severely. But for the moment, the diary was bare.