by Jean Stubbs
As Lintott spoke, briefly and steadily, Carradine felt the walls of the room closing fast upon him. He had stepped into a picture of which he was afraid, and squarely at its centre was fate, in the homely guise of a retired detective. Above the desk that had been his father’s, Gabrielle smiled, untouched by time, her arms round the little world of her daughter.
Lintott said apologetically. ‘That’s how it is, sir. We don’t know for sure, but there’s reasonable doubt. And while there’s doubt, sir, if you see what I mean...?’
Fragments of dreams, forming nightmare. Gabrielle’s painted smile. Carradine put both hands over his face and was silent for fully three minutes. Then he said, ‘What shall we do?’
Lintott said, ‘Does Mrs Tilling, for instance, know of any identifying mark that Miss Odette and Miss Claire might have in common? Wait a bit, sir!’ as Carradine began slowly to rise from his chair. ‘Excuse me. Just let me ask her by myself. I don’t want this case prejudiced by blurting everything out. I think I can put it better than you, sir, at the moment. Sit yourself down, and take it easy.’
He was back in a few minutes, grave and quiet and no wiser. Silently, Carradine poured two glasses of brandy.
‘What now, Inspector?’
‘Has Miss Claire told you about her childhood, sir? Mrs Picard coughed up to me, after a lot of gassing about nothing. So I know.’
‘Oh God, yes. The damned orphanage, the fact that Natalie isn’t her sister, that she herself is illegitimate. Yes, Inspector. The lot. And quite frankly I don’t care in the least.’
‘Just so, sir. And that’s the childhood the young lady believes — or what she knows. We ain’t jumping to conclusions. I think it best, sir, if you’ve no objections, that I have a chat with her by myself. Oh, you needn’t worry, sir. I’m not going to be unpleasant, or anything of that sort.’
‘I should prefer to stay.’
He meant that he intended to stay.
‘Very well, sir. On two conditions. You don’t speak yourself, and you sit where she can’t see your face. You’ve got what might be called an expressive face, sir, and I don’t want it suggesting anything to her — good or bad. Right?’
Carradine nodded.
‘One more thing, sir. Is Miss Claire the fanciful sort, like Mrs Picard?’
‘She is one of the most honest women I have ever met.’
‘Thank you, sir. Now I know where I stand. If you’ll kindly ask the lady to step in here, sir, I’d be obliged.’
She came in, clutching Carradine’s arm, exclaiming, questioning, afraid.
‘Now just you sit over here, my dear,’ said Lintott, strengthened by a neat brandy. ‘Nice and calm. There’s nothing to fret about. You don’t see me fretting, do you? Not a bit of it. I’m lighting my pipe, I am, if you’ll allow me?’ She made a little flurried gesture of permission. ‘Don’t you take any notice of anyone but me, Miss. Mr Carradine’s had a bit of a shock, not expecting his sister to be alive, that’s all. Well, we don’t know she is, yet. She might not be. That’s right, make yourself comfortable. Now you and your sister — sister by adoption, as you might say happened to come across Miss Odette, if it was Miss Odette, while you were at the orphanage. I’ve had a long chat with Mrs Picard, and she’s helped me all she can — and very open and frank she was, too. But I think you might remember more than she did.’
He had talked easily, relaxing in the swivel chair, filling and lighting his pipe, watching her as he prepared to smoke, giving her time. Carradine sat by the window, back turned.
‘On the other hand,’ Lintott continued, as though it were of no account, ‘you might not. I don’t want you to tell me anything you aren’t sure of, or don’t rightly know. I don’t know you very well, come to that, my dear. And I’d like to, I should indeed. Would you call yourself a dreamer, now, like Miss Valentine, for instance?’
Claire was puzzled still, but no longer frightened. Lintott had seemed dour and formidable when she first met him. Then he had amused them by drinking too much wine, and saying he was in queer company — and no mistake! Now he radiated kindliness and strength, and a genuine interest in her welfare. Only Carradine’s stillness troubled her, and she glanced towards him again and again.
‘He’s all right, Lord bless you,’ said Lintott. ‘You pay attention to me, my dear. You’re a regular worrier, aren’t you? I saw a picture of you, fretting away, in Mr Carradine’s studio. Ah! I said to myself, this is one of the serious sort. Did you fret in the orphanage, my dear?’
‘I am not happy there, no, m’sieu. They are kind, but I am not at home.’
‘Not at home? What was home like, then?’ Drawing away at his pipe, watching and listening.
‘I do not remember, m’sieu. They tell me it is bad, but I am ill when I go to the orphanage, and when I am better I do not remember.’
‘What was wrong with you, Miss Claire, do you know?’
‘I think I have a fever. They cut off my hair.’
‘I see. Well, in my experience, when people don’t have what they want, or what they need, or what they ought to have — come to that! — they make up something nice to look forward to, or look back on. Miss Valentine now...’
‘I am not like her!’ Claire cried suddenly, ‘I am not like her!’
She was half out of her chair, hands clenched, thumbs tucked into palms.
‘Inspector!’ Carradine began angrily.
Lintott whipped round on him. ‘I did warn you, sir,’ he said levelly. ‘Now please will you keep quiet?’
Carradine returned to the shadows, suffering.
‘No, Miss,’ said Lintott firmly. ‘You’re not like her. She makes things up, don’t she? Mr Carradine here says you’re an honest person, so you don’t make anything up, do you? Do you?’
He saw her struggle: anxious for his approbation, anxious for her self-esteem, treasuring Carradine’s opinion of her, fearful of losing it.
‘I think I make things up,’ she replied slowly, and spread out her fingers and looked at them. Carradine’s ruby glowed in the soft light. ‘Yes, I too,’ she said hardily, ‘I make up myself a family. But I do not speak of them, as Valentine does. I keep them for myself. Now I have — him,’ and she nodded at Carradine’s bowed shoulders, ‘I do not need them.’
‘It’s natural enough,’ said Lintott. ‘Mrs Picard said as all orphans had a dream, or else they was nothing. I understand that. Has Mr Carradine shown you round the house?’ She nodded. ‘Has he shown you the attic?’ She shook her head.
‘I have put all that behind me!’ Carradine cried.
Lintott did not even turn his head. ‘If I have one more word from you, sir!’
‘I beg your pardon, Inspector.’
‘No offence meant,’ said Lintott serenely. ‘Shall you and I take a look at the attic, my dear?’
‘Why? Why should we? Why is this to do with your questions?’
‘You’re a bit on the excitable side, aren’t you, my dear?’ Lintott said, smiling. ‘It’s got nothing to do with my questions. It’s because — to speak plain — I spent above an hour with your sister, Mrs Picard, trying to find out two or three facts as I could have got in five minutes — if I’d understood the lady. Now I don’t want to spend that length of time asking questions of you, do I? And Mr Carradine here is like a dog with a bone, if he’ll excuse me saying so. So let’s you and me have a quiet look round and a chat, and then I’ll know what to ask you. I want you to trust me, Miss Claire. Do you trust me?’
She looked at him intently, frowning with concentration. Then she smiled, was pretty again. ‘Yes, m’sieu. I trust you absolument!’
‘I beg to come with you,’ cried Carradine, tormented.
Claire turned from one man to the other, bewildered, doubtful. Lintott shook his head. ‘You’re making this twice as difficult for me and for her, sir. Oh, very well. Hold the lamp, and leave her to me,’ in an emphatic undertone.
The slight comedy, during which Mrs Tilling insisted on arraying th
em in overalls, lightened the atmosphere considerably. The attic restored tension.
‘But she is here still,’ Claire whispered, as Lintott opened trunks and set the dappled-grey rocking-horse in motion, took out a bundle and some papers.
She put both hands to her cheeks, staring around her as Carradine held high the oil-lamp.
‘I’m not much of the imaginative sort,’ said Lintott cheerfully, ‘and I saw this place in broad daylight, as much as you can get daylight through that top window. But I felt that, too. Nice little lass,’ he said gently. ‘A bit of a madam, eh? Look at this, my dear.’
Dear Papa, I am clever. Love from your Odette.
‘Would you say you were the imaginative sort, Miss Claire?’
She started. ‘I? No, m’sieu. Not like Nicholas. But I feel things. I walk into a room, and I know things that I do not know. You understand?’
‘I do that,’ said Lintott, fatherly, watching her hold up the white dress, fondle the dolls. ‘I’ll often get more from an empty room than from a mort of questions. Funny, ain’t it? What was she like, do you think, this little girl? And that is a question. You might turn up something as I’m looking for.’ He turned on Carradine, anticipating his reaction. ‘And if you aren’t up to this, sir, I want you to hand over that lamp and take yourself off.’
‘No,’ said Carradine, sitting on his old box of wooden bricks, ‘We’ll see it through together, one way or the other.’
‘I had a doll,’ said Claire, ‘much like to these, but I melt her face.’
‘How did you do that, my dear?’
‘Oh, I hold her to the ... garde-feu?’
‘Fireguard,’ said Carradine tonelessly.
‘Yes. I think to warm her. Outside there is the brouillard.’
‘Fog. She means fog, Inspector.’
‘So I warm myself and her, and suddenly she — have no face.’ She clutched one of the dolls to her breast, and doubled over. ‘She have no face. She have no face.’ She rocked to and fro, head bent, sitting in the dust by the trunk.
‘They bought you another one, I expect, my love?’ said Lintott quietly.
‘Ah yes! But not my Antoinette, not my Antoinette.’
‘I dare say she was just as fine. Who made her clothes, I wonder? Did you, my dear?’
‘Oh no, Maman made them, always.’
‘When she had time. Mothers haven’t a lot of time. My Bessie used to dress our girls’ dolls, bless you,’ said Lintott, in the same quiet conversational tone. ‘But it had to be of an evening, when her work was done.’
‘Sometimes Maman sews, sometimes she sings, sometimes she teach me. Always she have time for me, always.’
‘Who else did you have, in this imaginary family, Miss Claire? A sister, perhaps?’
Claire rocked the doll.
‘You see how I dream, m’sieu? I only dream.’
‘What’s wrong with dreams of that sort?’ he asked kindly. ‘You’d got nothing else, had you?’
‘I have a brother,’ she continued, in a light tone, to conceal what he had meant to her. ‘He is very kind, also. You must forgive me, m’sieu. Orphans dream grand! Oh, yes, very grand.’
‘A baby brother, to make a fuss of, like enough.’
‘Oh no, m’sieu. I am the fuss! He makes up stories for me, about myself. We pretend that we are many people. But he is more clever than me. He pretends he is twenty people. I am only myself, with him, in these different — theatres.’
‘Does he write them down for you, my love?’
‘But of course!’ she cried, eyes brilliant with tears. ‘Of course, m’sieu. Nothing except the best for me. Oh, I beat Valentine to the cocked hats! Her dreams are not so real. Me, I shade them well. They seem very real, very true.’
‘And what was Papa like, my dear?’
She was silent over this question, head bent.
‘That I am not sure. He changes. Sometime I like him old, sometime younger. Sometime with hair almost white, sometime dark — with moustache. Of him,’ she said, with desperate gaiety, ‘I am not sure. I have not make up my mind, m’sieu!’
‘And Miss Odette, now — because we’re wandering off the point, aren’t we?’ said Lintott, who had held the thread in a vice. ‘What kind of a little girl do you — feel? I think you said you felt things, didn’t you, my dear? How far does your feeling coincide with mine, I wonder?’
‘Oh, this one. I know her well. She is the bien-aimée, the well-beloved. She holds — ah! how she holds. To everyone. She have everything, and she know this. She expect everything. She pay with a kiss, with a smile. Charmante! All is before her, and then she die.’ She crossed herself. ‘For a little time, God forgets her.’ She sat motionless, clasping the doll.
‘Well, that’s much the impression I formed of her, my dear. But then Mr Carradine will have given you a pretty good idea of her, won’t he?’
‘No, he does not talk of Odette. Of Gabrielle, yes, he talks much.’
‘So you figured this out by yourself, my dear? Very good. Now you’re all settled in life, so’s to speak, with Mr Carradine. What if I fish up his sister?’
‘She come to live with us, m’sieu. Does she not, Nicholas?’
He could barely nod.
‘It might be a bit different for you, Miss Claire, mightn’t it? If it’s the young lady I’m thinking of. She’s had a rough passage, you see, my dear. No money, no proper home, no husband to take care of her. Folks in that sort of position are inclined to be greedy. She might think you had nicer clothes and trinkets and so forth, and want the same.’
Claire drew her brows together, not at this prospect out in an effort to divine his meaning. Then she laughed. ‘But I give her — everything! You like this?’ Miming to an invisible audience of one. ‘Take it! What else you like?’ Eyebrows raised. ‘Take this also.’ She opened her arms, the doll fell into her lap and lay spread-eagled, smiling blandly. ‘You are worry about me, m’sieu?’ Pointing to herself in astonishment. ‘I am not change with my good fortune. When I have much I give, I give, always. Once, I am dress very fine, and there is a poor one. I say to her, “For a little while you shall be me. Here is my hat, my mantle.” She has wood shoes, I give her my slippers. She smiles, she is happy. Everyone say, “Bravo!” They clap, they laugh.’
‘Who is they?’ said Lintott.
‘I cannot remember, m’sieu.’
‘You made it up? Did you make it up?’ She hesitated. ‘Where did it happen? At your sister’s home, in Paris somewhere?’
She was lost, but her silence was bewildered rather than embarrassed. ‘I must have make it up,’ she said finally.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because she is a child, and I am a child.’
‘And when you were a child you had nothing to give away, did you? You were a poor one, too, weren’t you? Did another little girl visit the orphanage and let you dress up? Was that what really happened?’
She shook her head from side to side, compressed her lips, shrugged. ‘No, m’sieu. I must have make it up. Please to excuse — I am bad like Valentine.’
Lintott reached for a bundle he had laid aside. ‘Did you make this up, too?’
She unfolded the tissue, afraid.
It was a doll dressed in scorched finery, with a melted face.
The attic yawned, opened, swallowed her into unconsciousness.
‘Here, give me that lamp, sir, you’ll set us all afire!’ cried Lintott. ‘Yes, that’s right. Give her a bit of comfort. We’re not quite through, yet. I want her to remember a bit more.’ He bent over Claire, obdurate, ignoring high words and Carradine’s furious face. ‘That child was an orphan. She was in the railway carriage with you. You gave her your bracelet. What else do you remember? Come on, now, anything. What do you remember? Forget about making anything up. You’ve made nothing up. It’s the truth. Here,’ and he riffled through the paper books he had also set aside, ‘who were the Night-Walkers?’
She stopped sobbing, an
d stared at him. Carradine stroked her hair.
‘Do you remember the Night-Walkers, Claire?’ Carradine asked gently.
She wiped her cheeks with a corner of her dusty skirt, sad and resolute.
‘I do not like them one little bit. They give me bad dreams. They are tall and thin and black. They have no faces. I cannot bear that they have no faces. Papa beat you for making up the Night-Walkers, and he is right.’
They were back in their childhood, as though they shut out the adult world which was beyond endurance.
‘And the man with long fingers who grows soldiers from the ground.’
‘The War-Gardener!’ said Carradine, in terrible satisfaction. ‘But there were the nice ones, too. Mother Riddle, who asked very easy riddles and always gave you a sweet when you guessed...’
‘And the Pavement Children, who live under the pavement and like me better than anyone, and I give them tea parties…’
‘...because they only had dry bread and broken biscuits.’
‘And the Twelve Singers who sing me to sleep, only I never hear them and I listen always. You say you hear them. I do not!’
‘And dozens of others,’ said Carradine. ‘I had forgotten them, too.’
They were in the Inspector’s blunt sensible hands: fragments of imagination, written and pictured, to delight, to mock, to tease, sometimes perversely to frighten. All there.
Lintott laid them down, and re-wrapped the spoiled doll. ‘I’d best be going, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s all right, bless you, I can find my own way. I’ll leave you the lamp.’
Because it seemed merciful, while memory obliterated reality, not to disturb them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Carradine and Claire sat opposite each other in the darkening room. They did not address each other by name, nor use the loving forms of address. Only their eyes fixed on one another, as though they strove to record an image for the empty time ahead of them. They had known her identity twenty-four hours.
‘I shall provide for you, so that you have complete independence,’ said Carradine. ‘Money is a form of liberty. You will be able to make your own life — here, in England, if you wish.’