‘No, thank you,’ said Francis. ‘I would like to talk to you, but I’d prefer it was alone. I’m sure your visitor will excuse you. Would you mind stepping down the corridor with me?’
‘Excuse me, Miss Merton.’ Stephen waited while Estée withdrew, then followed Francis Sinclair along the landing. They had scarcely reached the top of the stairs when Francis turned on him and exploded.
‘Have you gone completely out of your senses?’
‘I don’t think so. Lower your voice, Sinclair. Do you want the whole building to hear? What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing’s the matter with me. It’s you—bringing her—what the hell is she doing here?’
‘I met her in the cathedral,’ said Stephen. ‘I went there yesterday to listen to the organ practice and she came in, crying. Her father is dead, she knows nobody in Starberg. I brought her here to see if my uncle could get her back to England.’
‘Fat chance of that when nobody knows where he is.’
Stephen tried hard to keep his temper. ‘All right; the legation, then. You take charge of her. Why on earth didn’t you help her at the police court?’
‘I did help her. I paid twenty crowns to get her released from custody without charge.’
‘And then abandoned her! She’s practically destitute!’
‘So is half of Starberg.’
‘Half of Starberg is not an underage British subject!’ shouted Stephen. ‘What are you here for, if not to help people from your own country? It’s your job. Even I know that much, and I’ve only been here since September.’
‘My job is diplomacy, not charity work,’ said Francis. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, that diplomacy starts in the office where I work. Think about it carefully, Melhuish. Even you can’t be that obtuse. That girl in there is the living image of Clive Taverner’s daughter. You know he was here before, in the early seventies. Put two and two together, and even the village idiot should be able to come up with the obvious answer.’
‘That Miss Merton is Mr Taverner’s illegitimate child? Do you honestly think that?’
‘What other solution is there? Just because you’re naïve and pious doesn’t mean everybody else is.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. How can she be his daughter? She doesn’t look anything like him.’
He spoke more loudly than he realised, and the words rang back from the empty stairwell. There was a sudden moment of silence as Stephen realised what he had said.
‘Be very careful, Melhuish,’ said Francis. ‘You’ve bitten off more than you can chew here, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Sort matters out with your uncle, if and when he comes back. But in the meantime, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep her out of sight.’
He put on his hat and strode down the stairs, two at a time. Stephen stood, his hand on the newel post, until he heard the street door swing shut. His head was ringing from the quarrel, and his heart was pounding. A door creaked open behind him and Estée’s pale face peeped out from around the apartment door.
‘Is he gone?’
Stephen nodded. ‘Did you hear what he said?’
‘Some of it.’ She held the door open, and he went back along the landing to the apartment. Inside, from the drawing room window, they could see Francis Sinclair in his top hat and overcoat, making his way next door to the legation. ‘What a thoroughly unpleasant young man.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry you overheard us. We should have kept our voices down. No: I should have kept my voice down. Unfortunately, something about him always brings out the worst in me.’
‘I can see why,’ said Estée. ‘It’s easy to understand now why he wouldn’t help me at the police courts. He’d obviously have had to take me back to the legation, and I would have been an embarrassment to Mr Taverner. What was it you said before about not being enough of a toady for the job? Somehow, I don’t think Mr Sinclair has that problem.’
‘Sinclair was just being vile,’ said Stephen. He could not help the anger creeping into his voice. ‘You shouldn’t have had to hear that about Clive Taverner. It’s my fault. I should have kept my mouth shut.’
‘You needn’t worry,’ said Estée. ‘I know I’m my parents’ child. Everyone always said I was the living image of my mother, and you said yourself I don’t look anything like Mr Taverner. What I don’t understand is why Mr Sinclair was so upset when you said that.’
‘I think,’ said Stephen, carefully, ‘it’s because if you don’t look anything like Clive Taverner, the natural corollary is that his daughter doesn’t look anything like him either.’
‘Oh.’ Estée’s lips formed the word, but it came out as scarcely a whisper. ‘Perhaps—perhaps she looks like her mother, too.’
‘Mrs Taverner is very dark,’ said Stephen. ‘Her daughter looks like you—Ostermarkan.’
‘Well,’ said Estée, ‘at least my mother came from Starberg.’ She looked at her face in the mirror above the piano, with its fair skin and honey blonde hair. Before the question even rose to her lips, Stephen knew what she was going to ask next.
‘I don’t suppose you happen to know where the Taverners live?’
CHAPTER SIX
If nothing else, Francis Sinclair’s reaction to Estée’s presence in the apartment showed Stephen he could expect no help from anyone at the legation. However much he hated to admit it, Francis was right about one thing. Stephen could not take Estée into the chancery without making her and the entire Taverner family the subject of malicious gossip. Given the state of relations between his uncle and the Taverners, Stephen thought George Melhuish would be rather amused at how worried this prospect had made him. Unfortunately, it was not immediately obvious what other solutions were open to him.
Stephen had originally had some vague idea of sending Estée to her relatives in England, but the fact that none of them had answered the letters she had sent made this impractical. His next suggestion, that he send her to his own mother, had been unenthusiastically received. Estée had no desire to throw herself on the mercy of a stranger, and Stephen himself had to admit that his mother would probably have been equally unimpressed. As Estée wore down his arguments one by one, he was obliged to accept that she was right. There was no help for them either at the legation, or in England. And logically or illogically, the person in Starberg most likely to be able to provide help was Sally Taverner herself.
‘It’s not as though there are any secrets to keep,’ Estée argued. ‘I saw her on Saturday night outside the opera house; I know she saw me. She was staring straight at me.’ Stephen wondered if Sally had spoken to her parents. If she had, and there truly were something in their past they wanted to hide, things could get nasty very quickly. On the other hand, thought Stephen, Sally might be able to help Estée. For all we know, they really are relations; that would give her an obligation to do something. In the end, for want of a better argument, he had agreed to Estée’s suggestion. Still, as he left the apartment with her an hour or so later, there was a nervous quaking within him which he knew gave these hopes the lie.
‘Will you be all right alone?’ Stephen asked, as they walked together along the street. He and Estée had arranged that, rather than risk bringing Sally back to the apartment where she might be seen, Estée would wait in a coffee house while Stephen fetched her. Whether she would agree to come with him remained to be seen. Estée seemed confident that she would.
‘Of course I’ll be all right,’ said Estée. ‘I’ve done far worse over the last few months than sit by myself in a coffee house. Anyway, I can speak Ostermarkan; my mother came from Starberg. Or at least,’ she added wistfully, ‘I always thought she did.’
They parted and Estée watched Stephen head off under his deep umbrella. He’s rather kind, she thought. The first really kind person I’ve met since I arrived in Starberg. But I do wish he’d stop staring at me as if I was something extraordinary. It makes me feel—Abruptly, Estée let down her own umbrella, flicked off the raindrops and opened the coffee hou
se door.
It was a full minute before a waiter attended to her, and when he directed her to a small cubicle in the very furthest corner Estée realised he had probably assessed her accent and the cut of her coat and decided she was a foreigner. The corner, however, suited Estée’s purposes, and she was happy to wait. The establishment was like most of its kind—smoky, overheated and overcrowded. In the corner she could at least stay out of sight and watch the newcomers as they arrived. Estée ordered some pastries and a cup of milk coffee. She was just finishing them when the door opened and Stephen entered, accompanied by a young woman in a brown hat.
The advantage was Estée’s: from her position in the corner, she briefly saw the other girl first. Stephen’s eyes sought her out automatically, his companion’s followed them, and all at once there was nowhere to hide. Estée saw the other girl—the other Estée—swallow slightly, then walk purposefully towards her. Her clothes were not especially fashionable—she was clearly wearing what she had been found in, with the addition of hat, coat and gloves—but they were well cut and well cared for, and her fair hair was swept back neatly in an Ostermarkan style she could not have done herself. There was an air of prosperity about her, and more than a hint of defensive hostility in the familiar heart-shaped face. The brown eyes were troubled and—as Estée saw it—slightly suspicious.
The other girl held out her hand. ‘Miss Merton.’
‘Miss Taverner.’
Sally slid into the booth and Stephen followed her. Across the table, her double was looking at her with an expression she was accustomed to seeing on her own face when she was frightened. It was, she supposed, mirrored in her own, for the immediacy of this meeting was far worse than she had imagined. Confronted with living and breathing reality, it was impossible to pretend, as she had since Saturday night, that she had been mistaken. For several seconds, there was a horrible silence. Sally wanted to bolt and run. She would have done so, except Stephen Melhuish was sitting next to her, and she was effectively imprisoned in the booth.
‘We can’t stay here,’ she said, at last. ‘It’s too close to home. I might be seen.’
‘Nobody knows you here, Miss Taverner,’ Stephen pointed out. ‘You’ve only been in Starberg two weeks.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Sally, in a rising panic. ‘This is not something I want to discuss with a roomful of people staring over my shoulder. Suppose my father walks in? I don’t know where he goes to eat during the daytime. We have to think of a better place.’
‘We could go to my uncle’s apartment.’
‘I can’t go there, either. It’s out of the question.’
‘My uncle’s not at home, you know,’ said Stephen, slightly annoyed. ‘Surely you’ve heard? He’s been missing since early Sunday morning.’
‘Missing? Still?’ Sally had temporarily forgotten the fact. She looked at Stephen with a troubled expression, then shook her head. ‘I don’t care. It wouldn’t be right for me to go there. And she—’ she pointed to Estée, ‘shouldn’t be there either. If anyone from the legation sees her, they’ll think she’s me and there’ll be talk.’
‘It’s too late for that.’ Estée spoke for the first time. ‘Francis Sinclair came to the apartment this morning. He thought I was you at first, and when he found out I wasn’t, he was most unpleasant. He says he isn’t going to mention anything. Personally I wouldn’t trust a word he says.’
‘Mr Sinclair?’ Sally looked taken aback. ‘I thought he was quite nice.’
Estée and Stephen exchanged glances. ‘Perhaps he has more reason to be nice to you than to me,’ said Estée. ‘Miss Taverner, please excuse me for being blunt, but we do have a great deal to talk about. I agree this is not the best or most private place, so may I suggest we find a cab and ask to be driven around for a while? If we speak in English, we should be private enough.’
‘Very well,’ said Sally. She hesitated, then pointed to Stephen. ‘But I don’t want him coming with us. It has to be just the two of us.’
‘I wouldn’t have presumed—’ said Stephen. ‘I know it’s none of my business. I’ll go out and find a cab for you right away.’
‘Let me come with you,’ said Estée. ‘It’ll be easier if I can speak to the driver.’
She got up hastily and accompanied Stephen out into the street. The rain had briefly stopped, but there was a cold wind that lifted Stephen’s shaggy black hair and flapped the lapels of their coats as they waited on the pavement. Stephen’s face had a set look about it, and Estée thought he looked very upset.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Frankly, I thought she was bally rude,’ said Stephen. ‘Especially considering how hard I was trying to help. I’m surprised she even came with me in the first place.’
‘She’s frightened,’ said Estée. ‘Very frightened. Being sharp with you is just her way of trying to hide the fact.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know, because I do it, too.’
‘Not with me.’
‘Not yet, anyway,’ said Estée. As Sally came out of the coffee house behind them, Estée took Stephen’s hand briefly and squeezed it.
They picked up a cab without much difficulty and Estée told the driver what they wanted. As she had expected, he demanded payment in advance. Stephen had money ready, and in another moment he had handed them both in and closed the door. As they drove off, Estée saw him jogging along the pavement in the cab’s wake, until they turned the nearest corner and his tall figure was finally lost to view.
It was dark inside the carriage, and an unpleasant squeeze. Estée’s knees were jammed up against Sally’s sitting opposite her. After the conversation had foundered inside the coffee house, she did not feel equal to reinitiating it. The other girl was looking at her, and not even trying to disguise the fact; and as Estée gave up pretending not to stare back, she saw other things she had not noticed before. Small things, like the shape of her earlobes and eyebrows, the slight cowlick at the right-hand parting of her hair, the exact expression in the clear brown eyes. We must be twins, thought Estée, with a sort of dumb numbness. I can’t imagine how, but there simply can’t be any other explanation. And then mysteriously, a memory floated back to her, of the boat, in quarantine in Marseilles; her mother dying, choking on blood; and the words she had uttered over and over as she died. God forgive me. God forgive me. But for what?
‘I was born in Ostermark, on the thirteenth of December, 1872,’ said Sally in a low voice. ‘My parents are Clive and Emily Taverner. My mother’s maiden name was Clyde.
‘My father was Third Secretary then at the British Legation at Starberg. When I was ten weeks old, he was posted to the mission at St Petersburg. We were there for seven years. His next posting was to Damascus, and for the last six years we have been in Washington. Two months ago my father returned to Ostermark as Secretary of Legation. That’s the position directly below that of Minister.’ She hesitated. ‘I believe Mr Melhuish—he’s the British Minister, Mr Stephen Melhuish’s uncle—particularly asked for him to take the post. My mother wanted to stay in America, but we’d been there a long time, and my father didn’t want to pass up the promotion. I don’t know why my mother didn’t want to come here. I thought at first it was because she had so many friends in Washington. Now I’m not sure. I do know she had a bad time when they were last in Starberg. And she absolutely hates Mr Melhuish, though I don’t know for certain why.
‘Anyway, when it became clear Papa would have to accept the posting, it was arranged that I should go to school in Lausanne. I didn’t want to go, but Mama made a terrible fuss. She said the climate in Starberg was too harsh and that I would get ill, which is rubbish, considering all those years I lived in St Petersburg. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. In the end I’d only been at the school for a month when there was an outbreak of scarlet fever. Three girls died and the rest of us were sent home. I arrived in Starberg not quite three weeks ago, and my mother’s been acting strangely ever since. It was only when I saw you
in the crowds outside the opera house that I started to wonder why.’ Sally’s hands twisted in the brown velvet reticule she was holding in her lap. ‘At first I was so frightened I felt positively sick. Then I started to think I must have been wrong. By the time I got home, I decided I had to have imagined it.’
‘I thought so, too,’ said Estée. ‘I only saw you for a moment, and then you disappeared into the crowd. I thought it must have been a big mistake, until I met Francis Sinclair and he told me about you.’ She moistened her lips. ‘There must be something in this, don’t you think? I just don’t know what it can be. My parents never mentioned anything about a twin sister, and I know they would have, if they knew anything about it at all.’
‘You were born in Ostermark, too, weren’t you?’ said Sally. ‘I suppose you must have been, if you can speak the language. But your surname is English.’
‘My mother was Ostermarkan,’ said Estée. ‘Her name was Sophia Trier, and she married an Englishman called Jonathan Merton. My father was an artist; he came here in the early seventies to paint landscapes in Osterfall. I’ve lived out of Ostermark all my life. You’re right, though, I was born here. On the sixteenth of December, 1872.’
‘That’s only a few days after me.’
‘Yes.’ Estée was troubled. ‘I don’t know if that’s good news, or bad. We surely can’t be twins if we were born three days apart, can we? And yet, we look so much alike. I can’t see what other explanation there can be.’
‘Who’s to say they’re our real birthdays? If we were—adopted out—they might be the adoption dates, not our actual birthdays.’
‘I can’t be adopted,’ said Estée flatly. ‘There was a very strong family resemblance between me and my mother. I’m not making it up. It was often commented on. If you want me to prove it, I can show you her photograph.’
Sally was silent, and her eyes dropped again to her lap. ‘Where is your mother, now?’
Star Locket Page 6