Star Locket

by Natalie Jane Prior

  Like everything George Melhuish had owned, the wardrobe was neatly kept and ordered. The shirts, starched, pressed and folded, occupied one set of shelves on the left, the hats and collar box, the big shelf at the top. There were four sets of neatly folded evening clothes and two opera cloaks, one for summer and one for winter wear, hanging on pegs. The coat and tail pockets of the tail coats were empty, but his next guess was the right one. Tucked away safely in the watch pocket of the first white silk waistcoat was a small spiky object, about the size of an Ostermarkan five crown piece.

  Stephen fished it out and looked at it. Sally’s pendant hung from a length of broken gold chain. To his eyes it was a flashy and unattractive piece of jewellery that nevertheless was obviously very old. The back of the piece was slightly concave, showing that it had indeed been part of a locket with a hollow interior. A small, projecting twist of metal showed where it had once been joined onto the back. Stephen weighed it in his hand, then closed the wardrobe door and went back to the drawing room.

  ‘Here.’ He handed the pendant to Estée. As he relinquished it, he was aware of a curious faintness passing from him. ‘I think you’d better keep it from now on. Just holding the thing makes me feel awful. I wonder what was originally inside it?’

  Estée ran one finger over the inside hollow. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing was ever inside it at all.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Esther sat in her office in the perfumerie, attending to daily business. Accounts. Always, there were accounts. Even thinking about doing them made her weary, but however much she hated them, they were an unavoidable corollary of being in business. Esther was too distrustful a woman to let anybody else do them for her. She had learned, through hard experience, not to let other people into the important areas of her life—to make her own decisions and, if necessary, her own mistakes.

  All the same, it was hard, that morning, to concentrate. It did not help that in the week since Nordernay’s death Esther had slept badly, and that her dreams, when she had slept, had been troubled. She kept thinking of that wretched woman, the singer Violette, and the miserable circumstances of her end, and when she was not thinking of her, she was remembering her sister. Sophia had deceived her, had stolen her child when she was at her weakest ebb and taken her out of Ostermark beyond her reach. That her own sister had proved capable of such an action had been the greatest betrayal of all.

  Over the last fifteen years, Esther’s attitude to Sophia had hardened into something akin to hatred. It was not quite as simple an emotion as that, but when she gave in to it, as she did from time to time, a great boiling kettleful of remembered wrongs and emotions welled up, until she recoiled with shock from its intensity. What made it so deadly was the fact that her sense of injury was mixed in with other, happier memories; shared experiences, such as creeping into Sophia’s bed on winter evenings and eating sweets under the blankets, or the day when she had been bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding to the English artist, Jonathan Merton. Esther had seen much less of Sophia after her marriage, for she and her husband had drifted back and forth between Ostermark and England for several years, but she had still thought of them as being close. For this reason it had been Sophia to whom Esther had turned in her trouble, and Sophia who had agreed to look after her baby when it was born. Esther had known that marriage to Richard was out of the question. Since it would not be possible for her, a single woman, to raise a child alone, she had accepted this arrangement as the best alternative. At least this way, she had reasoned, she would be able to see her baby regularly and have an input into its upbringing. Sophia had encouraged her to think this, yet all the time she had known of the monstrous plot Dominick Barker was hatching. Worst of all, she had known that she and Jonathan had no intention of staying in Ostermark. Fifteen years later, even thinking about this fact made Esther shake with fury. She knew Sophia was dead now, and she hoped she had suffered as she deserved.

  Now Sophia’s family had come back to Ostermark. Esther did not know why they had done this, but it had been a stroke of luck, for she and Richard had never known exactly where they had gone. They had covered their tracks well, and anyone in Starberg who might have known of their intentions had perished in the cellar with the Casimirite splinter group. The Mertons’ return had prompted Richard to arrange, through George Melhuish, for the Taverners to be posted back to Starberg. They, at least, had always been eminently traceable through Melhuish’s contacts at the British Foreign Office, but Esther had never been particularly concerned with them, since she had been convinced from the start that the child the Taverners had adopted was the copy. It was only in the last few days that her confidence in this belief had been shaken. What, after all, was it actually based on? Blind hatred of her sister and flawed logic: the assumption that Sophia had been there at the moment of the split, and that she had taken the original child for herself. But the fact was, they simply didn’t know. Even at the time they had not known, and, according to Richard, only the magical rejoining of the star locket would resolve the matter. And now, when they were at last within inches of that moment, everything Esther had been working for had suddenly broken down in love, and she did not know what she wanted any longer.

  The ink had dried on her pen nib. Her head ached, and as she rubbed her forehead with two fingertips, a noise came out to her from the shop beyond. It was the sound of a girl’s voice speaking rapidly, not in Ostermarkan, but in something that sounded like English. The language switched to French, and then, changing pitch, to something Esther thought must be Russian. She hastily put down her pen and swivelled on her chair. There was a loud rap on the office door.

  ‘Enter.’

  The door opened to reveal one of her assistants. ‘Excuse me, Madame. There is a young woman in the shop. She can’t speak Ostermarkan, but I think she wants to see you. In fact, she’s quite hysterical.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for?’ Esther slammed the ledger shut, and shoved back her chair. ‘Show her in to me, straight away.’

  By the time the shop assistant disappeared through the door at the back of the perfumerie, Sally had almost despaired of making anyone understand what she wanted. She had, admittedly, arrived in a less than satisfactory state, dishevelled from the tussle at the legation and without her hat and gloves. Her hair was working its way loose from its inexpert chignon, and the hysterical weeping she had indulged in inside the cab on the way had done nothing to improve her appearance. All the same, she had not counted on the reception she had received on her arrival. The perfumerie had just opened for the morning, and she had been met by a bevy of pale-faced Ostermarkan girls in blue dresses who guarded their mahogany counters like watchful lions.

  Trays of jewelled bottles with cut-glass stoppers covered the countertops. One girl was spraying a mist of lily-of-the-valley into the air as Sally entered, and she kept on spraying, even as Sally began to speak. Of course, as the English words came out, every face went wooden. ‘My name is Sally Taverner, I wish to speak with Madame Esther. It is a matter of great importance; I know she will want to see me…Je m’appelle Sally Taverner; je voudrais parler avec Madame…C’est très important, comprenez-vous, très important…’ As she repeated herself in Russian she realised, with a sense of growing desperation, that she was running out of languages; even if she could remember it, she doubted they would understand Arabic. ‘For God’s sake! Get her!’ she shrieked, and banged her fists on the counter. ‘Esther! Sebastian!’ At this, two of the shop assistants exchanged glances and one disappeared through a door in the back of the shop. The other went to the front door and hastily turned an elaborate brass key in the lock.

  Sally was still standing in the middle of the shop, an effective prisoner, when the assistant came hurrying back a minute later. The girl unbolted a hinged flap in one of the counters and lifted it back, beckoning to Sally with her upturned hand. Sally hurried through into a passage lined with panelling; she saw wooden doors, small rooms, a polished staircase leadin
g up and down. Then a door was flung open in front of her and Esther was standing before her inside an office, her beautiful face writ large with concern. Sally gave a heaving sob and flung herself into her arms.

  It was an extraordinary sensation. Emily was a loving, even an overprotective mother, but she was not a demonstrative woman, and such embraces as this had largely dried up as Sally had grown. But this…Dimly, Sally recognised that a dam wall which had been built up over many years had been dangerously breached, but she herself was so overwrought she could not care. In the midst of her own emotional turmoil she only knew that Esther would help her, whatever the cost. There was within her such a mixture of guilt and love, of despair and anger and failure, that, once committed, she would never let Sally go.

  ‘Sebastian! Sebastian!’ Esther shouted, and at length the young man Sally remembered from her last visit appeared in a second doorway Sally had not noticed. Esther fired off a volley of instructions, out of which Sally identified only one word: Greitz. Sebastian disappeared, and Sally allowed herself to be seated on a chaise longue. Esther rubbed Sally’s cold hands, gave her a clean handkerchief, and a bottle of smelling salts which Sally sniffed obediently. Her hysteria abated a little, and by the time a tray with morning tea things on it arrived—milk, coffee, sugar and the inevitable cream cakes (how did Ostermarkan women keep their figures?)—Sally had calmed down enough to sip at a cup. A few minutes later Greitz arrived.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Esther as communication was miraculously restored. ‘I thought you would never get here.’

  ‘I came as quickly as I could,’ said Greitz mildly. He went over to a corner and casually removed his boots. He was wearing no stockings beneath them, Sally noticed. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  Esther turned to Sally. ‘Has somebody told you something that upset you?’ she demanded. Sally shook her head and pushed back her straying hair. Greitz’s eyes flickered. He put his fingers under her chin and turned her left cheek towards him. There was a red mark on the skin, rapidly becoming a bruise.

  ‘Who hurt you?’

  ‘They were trying to steal my locket out of the legation safe. Stephen Melhuish, and another man I don’t know. They attacked me.’

  ‘Did they get the locket?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t there.’

  Greitz exhaled. ‘Good. Then everything is still safe. I am very sorry, my dear. Had I realised the Casimirites’ intentions, I would never have sent you to look for it without help.’

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ said Sally shakily.

  ‘On the contrary, I had every reason to know, and what has happened is entirely my fault. When one has enemies who are weak—or at least, weakened—it is sometimes too easy to become complacent.’

  ‘Your attentions are somewhat stretched at the moment, my love,’ Esther pointed out.

  ‘They are. But that is no excuse. The Casimirites already have a clear idea of what I am hoping to achieve; they have Miss Merton in their custody, too. That they should also be attempting to locate the star locket is their logical next step. The violence, however, does surprise me. I suspect Barker may have been acting without instructions.’

  ‘What will happen if they find the locket?’ Sally asked.

  Greitz hesitated. ‘I am not sure. It depends who gets hold of it first, you see. If it falls into Anna van Homrigh’s hands, she will certainly destroy it, if she can. Fortunately that is not so easily accomplished, for it is a talisman with power of its own; furthermore, it is tied to the bloodline of a particular family—ours. You and Miss Merton could destroy it by mutual assent and by simply joining the locket together without the proper reversing spells; I could probably do it, by magic, with more difficulty and a considerable amount of danger. But for Anna van Homrigh to do so, she would need the consent of at least Miss Merton, and if she has been made aware of the talisman’s nature, I think it highly unlikely that she would grant that.’

  ‘But suppose she doesn’t know it?’ said Sally. ‘Suppose they lie to her?’

  ‘Anna van Homrigh never lies,’ said Greitz drily. ‘It is one of her least attractive qualities.’

  ‘Oh, she will have told the poor girl everything,’ said Esther. ‘You can depend on that. Along with a lot of high-sounding nonsense about her illustrious ancestor, Casimir Runciman. Who was nothing, by the way, but a defrocked priest whose only followers were his own family, half of whom were as cracked as he was.’

  ‘He claimed to receive visions, my dear,’ said Richard, in response to Sally’s enquiring look. ‘Anna is another of his kidney. Apparently God tells her all the naughty things I do before I even think of them. Well, Anna can fast and pray as long as she likes: I’m not dependent on her theology. I prefer to be master of my own salvation.’ He took Sally’s hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing I plan to do need alarm you. But we need to see this matter finished. I have to find your half of my ancestor’s locket. Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sally. She had calmed down, and the quiet certainty with which Greitz spoke did much to reassure her. He had attractive eyes, she thought, a clear hazel rather lighter than her own, with only a few lines at the corners. They seemed to smile at her, as indeed they smiled at everything. There was a gentleness about him, coupled with an underlying sense of hidden strength, that Sally found easy to trust. Only his bare feet, protruding incongruously from beneath the immaculately cut trousers, jarred the impression of the perfect gentleman.

  ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ said Greitz. ‘The missing pendant is magically bound to you. In a very real sense it belongs with you, as well as to you. Or, to put it another way, you belong to it, just as Estella Merton belongs to the piece we have in our possession. Now that you are here, I can do what I should have done earlier and use magic to pinpoint its location. I shall need a strand of your hair, my dear, or a few drops of blood. Hair will suffice, but blood will give better results.’

  Sally’s hand twisted in the loosened locks of hair hanging down over her cheek. Hesitantly, she stretched it out to Greitz. He took it gently.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you,’ he said, and indeed, though she winced and turned aside, reaching instinctively for Esther with her free hand, it scarcely did. Whatever implement he used she did not see it, nor did she see any blood. Greitz pressed a spotless handkerchief to her wrist. When she took it away a moment later there was to nothing to see on it, and only a tiny mark, that might have been an ancient scar, on her skin.

  ‘You see?’ Greitz stood up and smiled at her. ‘Nothing. Now I must go and speak to Sebastian, or better still, if he is there, with Martin. I will be back as soon as I can. My dear.’ He leaned over and kissed Esther affectionately, his hand caressing her shoulder, and then he was gone through the same mysterious little door Sebastian had used earlier, and which Sally now saw was a hidden panel in the wainscot. As he left, she felt Esther’s hand tighten on hers.

  ‘Some more coffee, my dear?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sally automatically, though in reality she was now longing for a decent cup of tea, with proper milk, not hateful lemon, and a touch of sugar. Part of her attention had again been caught by Greitz’s feet as he left the room; this time, she had noticed their soles, and been shocked to see how calloused and thickened they were, like an outdoor labourer’s, accustomed to going without shoes. Her eyes fell on the boots he had left abandoned in the corner.

  ‘Why does—my father—take off his shoes?’ she asked abruptly. Esther glanced up from her tray. The dark liquid issuing from the spout of the coffee pot wavered, very slightly, in midstream.

  ‘It’s a sort of custom, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Certain types of magic require close contact with the earth. I don’t exactly understand why. I’m not very knowledgeable about such things.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious, though?’

  Esther shook her head. ‘I was taught certain things about magic
and magicians when I was a child. When I chose to leave the Casimirites to go with Richard, I had to accept that some of those things might actually be true. I have, in general, preferred not to know for sure.’ She handed Sally the coffee. ‘If you wish, your father can have you trained. I know he would like that. It is the usual way with his family. Had you been brought up by us, he would certainly have seen that you were instructed.’

  ‘You mean, I would be a magician, too?’ There was, Sally had to admit, something faintly titillating about the idea, but she was nevertheless shocked at the thought. Everything she had encountered in Starberg seemed to emphasise its strangeness, its isolation from all she had grown up thinking of as normal, but however much she came to accept her father’s role in maintaining that status quo, it was another thing entirely to cast her own fortunes into that river with him. All at once, she felt very unsafe.

  ‘There is no reason at all why you could not,’ said Esther, in answer to her question. ‘Of course, in the normal way, training would commence in early childhood. But it is not unheard of to start at your age. Even Casimir Runciman trained for a time with a member of Richard’s family, and he was about your age when he began. Though his, perhaps, is not a good example to follow.’