Star Locket

by Natalie Jane Prior

  Melhuish tightened his grip and started pulling Sally determinedly through the crowd. She stumbled again and would have fallen had he not been there to catch her.

  ‘Careful, Miss Taverner.’

  Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and his hand darted unexpectedly into the bodice of her dress. Sally gasped with shock. Melhuish’s fingers were groping amidst the falls of lace; she did not know whether to scream, hit him, or faint like a girl in a melodrama. Melhuish quickly found what he was searching for. He scooped it up and held it out to her, the diamonds on the star-shaped pendant glittering in the gaslight as it dangled on its broken chain.

  ‘Your necklace.’ He dropped it into Sally’s palm and closed her fingers tightly over it. ‘Take good care of it, Miss Taverner. After all we’ve been through, it would be such a pity to lose it.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sally sat in the window of the apartment, sipping chocolate while her mother read the newspaper. A plate of tiny tube-shaped pastries sat at her elbow. She was eating them absently, partly because they were there, and partly because they were so insubstantially delicious it was easy to forget how many she’d already consumed. The weather was as vile as only a Starberg December knew how to be. In Ostermark, it always rained at this time of year. Sally had been told to expect it, and to expect, too, that sometime after Christmas the rain would give way to heavy snowfalls. For all that, it was pleasant enough inside. The tiled stove filled the room with a comfortable warmth and they had an attractive vista over the park, with its statues, and the grand ducal palace in the distance.

  Her mother looked up from the morning newspaper. ‘Don’t eat too many of those pastries, darling, they’re bad for your skin.’

  ‘I’ve only eaten a few.’ A drip of cream ran out of the pastry in Sally’s hand and fell into her chocolate, leaving cloudy circles that dissipated outwards. ‘What does it say in the newspaper about the labour riot?’

  Emily scanned the column, translating and, Sally guessed, censoring at the same time. ‘The third this year. Seventy people were arrested. And thirteen were killed, including two patrons at the opera.’ She shuddered. ‘How very lucky we were to escape. And Margrave Nordernay, the Procurator of the Queen’s Guard, has…died. Your papa says the man who has been chosen as his replacement has a good relationship with Mr Melhuish, so hopefully our affairs at the legation will improve a little. This has been a terribly difficult posting.’

  Sally put down her cup. ‘In what way?’

  Emily grimaced. ‘The people here are so awkward to deal with. They are simply not interested in anyone who isn’t Ostermarkan. You would think they were some great power, not a tinpot little dukedom no one has even heard of. Do you know, in all the time I’ve spent in Starberg, I’ve not met a single person who speaks English?’

  ‘At least you speak Ostermarkan. Perhaps I should have some lessons. It would give me something to do.’

  ‘It would be a waste of time,’ said Emily. ‘You’ll be going back to Lausanne in the New Year. And it’s not a very useful language. Nobody speaks it outside of Ostermark. I suppose you could do some Italian, if you really wanted to. You can take it as an extra when you go back to school.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back to school. I don’t know why you’re so anxious for me to leave.’

  ‘After what happened on Saturday night, I wonder you even ask the question,’ said Emily. ‘This is an awful city, the worst posting we could possibly have been given. The best we can hope for is that your father gets transferred as quickly as possible.’ There was a tap at the door. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’ Sally recognised the voice and looked up, surprised and slightly pleased. It was Francis Sinclair. ‘Miss Taverner. I hope I find you well after your ordeal?’

  ‘My daughter has quite recovered, Mr Sinclair,’ said Emily, before Sally had a chance to answer. ‘She was only shaken and a little hurt. Thank you for your concern.’ She looked pointedly at the envelope in the young man’s hand. He smiled and handed it over.

  ‘Mr Taverner heard I was passing your apartment, and asked me to deliver this. We’re a little overworked at the chancery this morning, and Mr Melhuish hasn’t been in. In fact, strictly between ourselves, no one seems to have seen him since the opera. His nephew says he heard him go out very early on Sunday morning and he’s been gone ever since. What with Margrave Nordernay being murdered, it’s really put the cat among the pigeons.’

  ‘Murdered!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘I didn’t realise he was murdered.’

  ‘Shot,’ said Francis succinctly. He caught Emily’s eye and coughed. ‘I, er—don’t know the details, but we’re in a frightful pickle. You see, the new procurator was appointed this morning and someone from the legation really needs to meet him as soon as possible. If Mr Taverner had presented his credentials at the ducal court, he would be able to stand in for Mr Melhuish. But he hasn’t, and so he can’t.’

  ‘Duke Carl is in the final stages of advanced senility,’ said Emily. ‘It’s been a little difficult for my husband to get an appointment.’

  ‘Quite. But it would be frightfully awkward if the Prussian fellow got in first, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Frightfully,’ said Emily. ‘However, I doubt Margrave Greitz will be anxious to make the Prussian Minister’s acquaintance. Whatever they may think in Berlin, the Ostermarkans are not German. Nor Austrian. They are…themselves.’

  ‘Yes. I know. Frightful, aren’t they?’ said Francis Sinclair. ‘Well. Must be going. I’ve got a DBS waiting for me down at the police court. Mrs Taverner. Miss Taverner.’ He made his bow, and departed.

  ‘What a very ingratiating young man,’ said Emily. ‘He should go far.’

  Sally did not reply. She was wondering why George Melhuish had gone out very early on Sunday morning, and why he had not returned. Ever since Saturday night, she had been trying to forget the girl she had glimpsed in the crowd, the girl who looked so much like herself she might have been her twin. Though she had not told her parents, Sally was certain that Melhuish had seen her. Every time she thought about the incident, a little jolt of fear disturbed the calm of her thoughts. She had tried to tell herself that she must have imagined things, but in her heart of hearts, she knew there was more to what she had seen than Melhuish, at least, had let on.

  Francis Sinclair walked the short distance to the Starberg police court in a fine humour. Nice girl, he thought idly, and wondered if Sally liked him. Francis had always been good at getting people to like him. Usually he did not have to try very hard, for he was possessed of good looks, natural charm, and a sense of address which seldom deserted him when he needed it. He had, in fact, offered to take Clive Taverner’s note to his wife and daughter purely because Clive was in charge of the legation in the Minister’s absence. For all his cunning, Melhuish had been susceptible to Francis’s charm, whereas Francis found Clive and his wife suspicious people, seemingly consumed by some old grievance. Francis did not particularly like them—but then, he had not particularly liked Melhuish either. He was merely a pragmatist, who had certain expectations of nearly everyone he met.

  The central police court was located on the edge of the Old City, in the strip of public buildings that ran between the ducal park and the River Ling. Francis walked up its stone steps with an official air, passed the uniformed men at the door, and went along the corridor to the reception desk. He had been here once or twice before, though previously he had been accompanied by one of the junior secretaries. This afternoon, however, there had been nobody free to go with him, and since the person he had been sent to assist was neither particularly important, nor charged with any serious offence, Clive Taverner had been pleased to let him go by himself. Not that Francis deluded himself that natural charm would get him very far here. Eighteen months in Starberg meant that his Ostermarkan was serviceable, but he was still a foreigner, and from experience he knew he would be in for a lengthy wait.

  ‘You have a British subject here.’ He broug
ht out his credentials and showed them to the desk clerk. ‘A woman. Named Miss…Estella Merton. I would like to see her please.’ The man stared at him with suspicious grey eyes. Francis slipped a coin from his pocket and pushed it across the counter. The man palmed it and gestured to Francis to wait on one of the chairs. Fully fifteen minutes later, the man slouched down the corridor in the direction of the cells.

  It took more than an hour for Francis to be shown into an interview room. During this time, every other person in the waiting area was attended to. Francis was not impervious to the insult, but he knew from experience that a complaint would only put him further back in the queue than he was already. So he said nothing—merely chalked up another mark on the mental slate of his grievances against Ostermark and its inhabitants. After an additional wait of twenty minutes, the person he wished to speak with was located and brought to him in the interview room. Immediately he saw her, Francis’s heart sank. She was clearly well underage, little more than a child, and when she spoke her voice was distinctively middle class, giving immediate lie to her shabby clothes and filthy, dishevelled appearance. Furthermore, there was something horribly familiar about her, which made him suspect he had met her before. This was a DSB—Distressed British Subject—in more ways than one. There was no way he could leave this girl in prison to face the charges against her. One way or another, he would have to extricate her, and that would be no easy task.

  ‘Miss Merton? Francis Sinclair from the British Legation. How do you do?’

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Estée saw a young—a very young man, with light brown swept-back hair and an attractive face. He was not what she had expected. They might have sent somebody older, she thought bitterly. The person she had longed to see most was her father. Despite several messages, he had not come. Finally, clutching at straws, she had remembered her rights and asked for consular assistance. During her wait, the other women arrested during the riots had all been taken away. More were brought in: prostitutes, beggars, and several drunks. One of the drunken women vomited on the floor of the common cell and lay down, groaning, in the mess. Estée’s nerve was not easily broken, but this experience had done it. She had huddled in the corner, alternately shivering and crying. And now, to rescue her, they had sent what must surely be the most junior official in the entire legation. I’m going to end up in prison, thought Estée. What on earth will he be able to do? Her expression must have given away her thoughts, for Sinclair’s face, which had already closed off a little at the sight of her grubby, bruised appearance, adopted an air of positive hauteur.

  ‘You are a British citizen, Miss Merton? I will need some details, please.’

  ‘What sort of details?’

  ‘Something to substantiate your claim to citizenship. Pardon me, but your accent…’

  ‘My father is English, my mother, Ostermarkan. I’ve lived most of my life abroad.’

  ‘Of course. You will be able to produce the necessary papers?’

  He was a bureaucrat to his fingertips. Estée found herself disliking him. ‘If you send for my father, he can confirm whatever you like. His name is Mr Jonathan Merton, of Little Hinds, Batley, near Leeds. At the moment he is lodging near the cathedral. Twenty-two Castle Street; the landlady will take you up if you ask for him.’

  ‘Your full name, place and date of birth will do for the moment, Miss Merton.’ As she gave him the details he jotted them down on a little silver writing tablet. ‘You’ve yet to appear before the court? I believe they intend to charge you with…’ he checked his notes ‘…aiding and assisting in an affray, attending a public demonstration, and resisting arrest.’

  ‘I was caught up in the riot,’ said Estée hotly. ‘I didn’t do anything. I was on my way home. I was on an errand for my father. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Your father sends you out on errands at night? Sinclair did not ask the question, but Estée could almost hear it running through his head, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. ‘There was nothing I could do about it,’ she said. ‘I walked right into it. I didn’t even know what the riot was about. People here are always protesting about something.’

  ‘Have you heard of La Violette?’

  Estée shook her head.

  ‘She was a singer,’ said Sinclair. ‘A local woman, much loved in Starberg. Apparently she committed suicide on Saturday night. The protest was already underway when the news got through and turned it into an outright riot. Also, Margrave Nordenay, the Procurator of the Queen’s Guard, was killed in his home early on Saturday evening. The authorities are still trying to work out how their deaths are connected. But, as you say, it’s not difficult to rouse a mob in this city. Sensible people stay off the streets when feelings are running high.’

  There was nothing Estée could say to this, so she did not even try. Sinclair made a show of looking back through his notes. He was doing his best to seem official, but Estée suspected he was really trying to work out what would be the best way of proceeding. He made a few more scribbles on the tablet, then tapped it against his cheek and leaned forward.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’ Ordinarily, Estée would have said fifteen, but right now she knew she had a vested interest both in speaking the strict truth and in appearing as young and pathetic as she possibly could.

  ‘And how long have you been living in Starberg?’

  ‘Four months.’

  ‘Wait here.’ Sinclair stood up and went to the door, which had been left ajar throughout their interview. There was a policeman sitting at a desk in the adjoining room. Estée listened while Sinclair spoke to him in halting, grammatically incorrect Ostermarkan. The man looked on impassively, not helping when Sinclair was lost for a word, or offering any comment whatsoever. All the time he was doodling on his blotter with a pencil, and when Sinclair finished, he wrote a single number and tapped it once with his finger. Sinclair pulled a coin case from his pocket, and discreetly extracted several five crown pieces. The money changed hands and the policeman sat down and began to write in a ledger.

  ‘Sign here.’ He swivelled the ledger around and beckoned Estée in from the interview room. She was about to sign when Sinclair stopped her.

  ‘As you’re underage, your parent or guardian should sign the release. Since your father cannot be contacted, perhaps I should sign it on his behalf?’ He made up his mind as he spoke; sending for her father might be the correct thing to do, but it would take time, and Sinclair was obviously wanting to finish things. By now, Estée no longer cared. She handed him the pen and he signed his name with a flourish. The policeman blotted dry his signature and stamped the ledger.

  ‘You’re free to go.’

  ‘I had some things with me when I arrived. A purse and my pattens. I want them back please.’ The man grunted. He pushed back his chair and started down the corridor. While they waited, Estée became aware that Sinclair was observing her curiously, as if he were somehow assessing her appearance.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m staring.’ He coloured. ‘Pardon my saying so, but I was trying to work out who you remind me of. It’s just occurred to me that you look rather like the daughter of our First Secretary.’

  ‘Oh.’ A metallic taste filled Estée’s mouth, like the rush of saliva that precedes vomit. ‘Am I very like her?’

  ‘Yes. Allowing for your accent, even your voices are similar.’ He looked at Estée more closely. ‘In fact, the resemblance is extraordinary. You might be taken for twins.’

  ‘Maybe we’re related.’ She spoke lightly, but it was suddenly hard to swallow. ‘What’s her name, this double of mine?’ As she spoke, Sinclair’s face immediately closed off. It was easy to guess why. He had just cracked the lid on a Pandora’s box of potential embarrassment.

  ‘What can you do for me?’ she asked abruptly.

  Sinclair looked startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My father—he’s an artist. He hasn’t been able to work for months. We’ve been try
ing to contact my grandmother’s solicitors in England and they haven’t written back to us. If the legation—’

  ‘I don’t think the legation can do anything,’ said Sinclair. ‘Any consular office has very limited powers. We can trace relatives for people, we can register births and deaths and help people deal with the local authorities but…your personal circumstances are a private matter between yourself and the people you’re dealing with in London.’

  ‘Leeds. Can’t you send a letter?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid we can’t. Look. Here’s the man with your things. Is everything there?’

  The policeman put Estée’s belongings on the table. They were meagre enough: a black leather purse, one wooden patten—the other had been ripped off her foot in the riot—and a red cotton handkerchief. Estée stuffed the handkerchief into her pocket and opened the purse. As she feared, it was empty.

  She looked up at the policeman. ‘There was money in here. Twenty crowns. And a pawn ticket. Where are they?’

  The policeman shrugged his shoulders. Estée became angry.

  ‘Where’s my money? I need it; it’s all we’ve got to pay our bills. At least you can give me back the pawn ticket. That was my mother’s necklace—’

  ‘I think we should leave now.’ Francis Sinclair took her firmly by the arm and steered her from the room, not stopping until they reached the entrance to the building. On the front steps, Estée dragged herself free and swore at him. Francis Sinclair looked shocked, but as she stamped off alone, Estée no longer cared what he thought of her.

  For a diplomat, she thought he was one of the most undiplomatic people she’d ever met.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Estée arrived at Castle Street in a state of profound dejection. The star pendant had been her one remaining valuable possession. It was also her last link with her mother. Without it, and without the pawn money she had raised with it, she literally did not know what she was going to do next.