‘Stop talking, you.’ Bump stood up and held out his hand. ‘Come with me.’
She squealed with delight and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She trotted after him towards the bedroom, waving goodbye at the others, and I thought all of a sudden, and quite unbidden, about Clara Bray, and if this had been her life before she’d married my cousin. Everybody knew what third-rate actresses were like, and Alec had confirmed it. Yet I couldn’t quite square it somehow, these brazen girls with their harsh voices and tipsy manners, and Mrs Bray at her dining table in a lozenge of morning sunshine, shaking the newspaper and pouring coffee.
I looked at Alec. He had his eyes closed and was sprawled on the sofa. The girl beside him watched for a while, then shrugged and stretched herself out on the spot recently vacated by the other two. From across the room, I heard two sets of rhythmic snores.
The girl on the arm of my chair laughed. ‘Listen to the pair of ’em,’ she said. ‘Like a soddin’ express train, eh?’
‘He’s …’ I hiccuped. I looked at my glass and realized it was empty. ‘He’s a married man.’
‘I see,’ said the girl disinterestedly, and then, in a flurry of excitement, turned to me. ‘Listen, is that the one I think it is?’
I looked up at her. Her perfume was giving me a headache. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You know, what all the scandal was about all that time ago.’ She peered at him. ‘The fat feller, your mate, he mentioned something and I thought, Hang on a minute, I’m sure it’s him. I mean, I know he was all like, what’s the word, exonerated and that, but anyway, is it him?’
‘I … er … I …’ I found it hard to answer her at this point because she was rubbing her hand up and down my inner thigh. I wondered if she would be beautiful without the make-up and the heavy perfume.
‘Dreadful,’ she said thoughtfully, still moving her hand. ‘That poor, poor girl. I mean, I know it was nothing to do with him, but still. That poor girl.’
‘I don’t know wh—’ I began, but was forced to stop because she lunged at me, planting her lips upon mine and putting her tongue in my mouth.
She tasted warm and wet and of tobacco. Her kiss was nothing like Lizzie’s experimental manoeuvre; this was professionally done. My head spun. I was drunk – I was aware of this, and aware of her hand travelling across the surface of my trousers, and of the cheap scent of her, and, somewhere far distant, the sound of snoring, and, beyond even that, a steady grunting accompanied by high-pitched squeals, and I thought of the pigs on my grandfather’s estate farm rushing for their food, and then all thoughts of any kind receded in importance right the way to a very small spot at the back of my brain.
There was a confusion of limbs, and the girl clambered on top of me. I heard my glass hitting the carpet and the crackle of ice cubes spilling out. She released my tongue and nibbled at my ear, then undid the top button of my shirt. Her hand was still scrabbling about over my groin and I set my jaw, tried to control myself, to think grim, miserable thoughts, but then her fingers were curling round the buttons below my waist and, with a sudden burst amidst shouts and other noises, it was all over, quite, quite suddenly.
‘Oh.’ The girl looked down, then back into my face, a smile on her lips. ‘You was having a great time, wasn’t you?’
‘I … I … I’m terribly sorry.’ My face was burning. My trousers were sodden. Now my thoughts truly were miserable. From across the room the pairs of snores still emerged, and from the bedroom the grunts and squeals, and as a whole they appeared to mock me.
‘You ain’t got nothing to apologize for, sweetheart.’ She kissed my forehead. ‘My fault for getting you all excited too quickly. I don’t know my own power sometimes.’ She dimpled a smile.
I thought I might burst into tears, and struggled to contain them. ‘I’m so awfully embarrassed,’ I whispered. ‘This is all … I mean, I would never do this sort of thing usually.’
She shook her head, eyes wide. ‘Promise I won’t tell a soul,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, means I still left you pure and unsullied, eh?’ She winked.
I hardly knew what to say to that, but she lifted my chin with her hand and said, ‘Or we can wait and try again in a bit.’
‘No, no.’ I struggled to sit upright. She removed herself from my lap and returned to the armchair as I did myself up again. ‘Thank you. But no.’
She shrugged. ‘Your fat mate’s paid for us for the whole evening. Ain’t no skin off my nose.’ Then she turned back and stared at my groin. ‘Can’t see a thing, sweetheart. You’ll be just fine.’
I looked down. We were in dim light, but I felt the liquid drenching my underclothes all the same, and wondered how on earth I would get home. This was my punishment, anyhow, for being so utterly wicked. ‘I am sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I have used you in such a vile way, I …’
‘Oh, shut up, darling.’ She leaned away from me, beside the armchair, and returned with a silver bag from which she pulled a cigarette and a lighter. She offered me one, but I shook my head. ‘Your sweetheart – you said she was Lizzie, right?’ she asked as she lit her cigarette.
‘Yes.’ Blackmail, extortion. I wondered how I could tell her I was completely broke. I trembled.
‘Then who’s Lara?’
I blinked. ‘Lara?’
‘Ain’t that what you was saying? Just now. Lara or Clara. Something like that.’
‘No, no,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘It was C-Cara … Caravaggio. The … the quality of light in his work is ever so … moving.’
She tapped the ash into my now empty glass. ‘Killed a man, didn’t he?’ she said. ‘Funny, ain’t it, to have all that beauty inside you, and all that violence too.’
I felt nauseous. ‘I have to go.’
I left her just like that, without even a farewell, and lurched towards the anteroom. Even from here, I could hear the crescendo of noises as Bump reached the peak of his personal mountain, and the cry as he fell off the end of it. I opened the door and stumbled into the corridor, walking blindly along until I found the staircase, thinking I could hardly bear to see myself in the mirrored brightness of the lift.
The eight flights offered me a steady rhythm within which my brain bobbed a little more comfortably than it had before, but as I reached the lower floors the lights flared more harshly and I was suddenly aware of the awful state of my appearance. On the first floor I removed my tailcoat, folded it in front of myself to hide the damp stain on my trousers, and took the rest of the stairs like a fugitive.
The lobby was quiet now: the nonagenarian had packed himself off to bed, and the concierge on the desk was nodding asleep over a book. He looked up when I came down and I forced myself to keep a steady pace, smiling goodbye, even lifting a hand, and emerging into the cool night air with a sense of blessed relief.
I met nobody on the walk back to Castaway. The events of the evening continued to swirl about my head. Thank goodness Alec had been asleep as I’d called his wife’s name; what had I been thinking of? A moment of madness, no doubt. I would have to blow out the trip tomorrow; I could hardly face her. Then I thought that I would have to go, or else she would suspect something was up.
In such a way my thoughts revolved and repeated one another. It was only as I was climbing up the cliff towards the house that I remembered what the girl had said about Alec and the scandal. I should have asked her for more information, I thought, but it was all too late now. I climbed the steps to the door of the house, pushed at it and realized that it was shut tight.
I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the wood. After a while I leaned back and looked up at the front of the building, but I knew immediately that there was no way in without knocking. Why hadn’t Alec asked for it to be left on the latch? Of course, he must have a key. I had never been back later than the servants’ bedtime before.
I sat on the front step and stared at the black night above me. Alec would be home … well, he would be home at some point, surely. Or I could knock, but I shuddere
d at the thought of Scone opening the door to me in my dishevelled state.
To my left were the area steps, bordered with sharp black spikes. I peered through them; it was ridiculous to think that they would have left the basement door unlocked, but I thought I might as well try.
I climbed back to the ground, went around to the little gate, and took the stone stairs down. I rattled the door handle, but it was of course locked fast. The area was dank and chilly, but perhaps, I thought, I could rest here, at least until Alec came home. However, I was just curling my lip at the thought of it when I heard the shaking of bolts and the door opened.
I was too late to run up the steps, so I stayed to await my fate. A pale face peered out from a crack in the door, and a small voice said, ‘Was you wanting to come in this way, sir?’
It was Agnes. She opened the door further, and I had no choice but to enter the long dark passageway. ‘I was in the servants’ hall,’ she said, ‘and I sees you coming down the steps, and I thought, Of course, but you don’t have a key, do you?’
To my left an open doorway led into the servants’ hall. I caught a glimpse of a long table and a few chairs and lamps. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and then, curiosity getting the better of me, ‘You’re not working now, are you?’
She shook her head. She was wraith-like in the dim light coming from the room. ‘Oh no, sir. I’m too scared to sleep in my room, so I comes down here.’
‘In the servants’ hall?’ I pointed, my hand accidentally pushing the door further open. As it swung back, I saw that two of the chairs had been placed together with a blanket on top. ‘You can’t sleep in here, Agnes.’
‘I can.’ Her lip trembled. ‘And you ain’t going to tell no one on me, sir. Not after I let you in. You can’t. It’s not fair.’
‘Shush,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone. But you’re shaking, look at you.’
‘Just a bit cold, that’s all. Nothing I can’t get used to.’
I held a finger. ‘Wait there,’ I said, and was rewarded with a shiver instead of a nod. I headed down the stone-flagged passageway under the length of the building, lit by the dim bulb of an electric lamp in the wall. I had never been down here before; it smelled of damp and must, and the walls had been painted a cheap-looking brown up to the halfway mark, with a green-tinged distemper on the rest.
I resisted the urge to snoop into Mrs Pennyworth’s kitchen, and instead continued past the row of bells set into the top of the wall, spotting my own (‘top back bedroom’), and climbed the linoleum-lined stairs up to the warmth of the ground floor.
The lacquered cabinet in the dining room revealed a quarter remaining of Alec’s good cognac. I poured a largish amount into one of the tumblers that lined the glass shelf above, thinking it a pretty poor substitute for a warm bed, but it was the only comfort I could conceive of that would not involve a hue and cry the next day.
When I returned, she was no longer in the passageway but had retreated to the servants’ hall, where she had tucked herself into a rocking chair in the corner and was wringing her hands. I hesitated, aware of the questions that would arise were anybody to find out, but feeling that I had behaved so immorally tonight, one more transgression would hardly make a difference. Besides, it was Agnes that was running the risk, although I felt that the girl was so at the end of her tether she no longer cared about propriety.
Inside the room, a small fire was still burning, and I noticed that it was indeed very cold in here, despite the warm summer evening outside. I sat down on a chair opposite her, still keeping my tailcoat folded carefully across me, although Agnes was too distracted to notice anything about my appearance. I put the brandy on the table and pushed it towards her.
She shook her head vehemently. ‘Oh no, sir, I can’t.’
‘Drink it,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll take the glass back upstairs and, should anyone ask, it was mine.’
She paused, and then picked up the tumbler, held it to her lips and took a sip, pulling a face and screwing up her eyes in a manner that under usual circumstances would have been much cause for amusement. ‘Tastes like fire,’ she muttered, wrinkling her nose at the glass.
I watched her. ‘You can’t continue like this, you know.’
She frowned. ‘I will if you don’t tell no one.’ She took another cautious sip. ‘Sir.’
‘Well, perhaps I can help. How about if you changed your room?’
‘It’s Madam,’ she said sulkily. ‘She’ll send me away if I start causing a fuss.’
‘I’m sure she won’t,’ I said, only recalling, after I spoke, her determination to do exactly that at the dinner tonight. ‘But perhaps I can … I don’t know, speak to her.’
‘Would you, sir?’ For the first time, Agnes’s eyebrows lifted in hope.
‘That’s no guarantee, by the way.’ In fact, I thought, any intervention of mine was perhaps more likely to secure Mrs Bray’s mind in the opposite direction, not least because any interest I showed in the female servants’ sleeping arrangements would implicate me as some sort of depraved beast. ‘But I don’t understand. Why on earth would you be scared of your room?’
She looked down at her hands. ‘It was Sally’s room. When I got promoted they gave it me, and I tried to say I didn’t want it, only they said I had to now I was parlourmaid, that it wouldn’t be proper for one of the others to have a room to herself.’
‘Sally? The girl who disappeared?’
She nodded. ‘That room’s evil, and it brings evil on everyone who sleeps there.’
I remembered her melodramatic talk on the pier the day after my arrival at Castaway. ‘What do you mean, evil? Sally may just have … I don’t know, had a better offer.’
Agnes moved her lips sulkily. ‘But before that, sir, it was Gina’s. I mean a while before, but still. I know she slept there, because Sally told me.’
I stifled a yawn. ‘And who is Gina?’
Tears welled in her eyes. ‘She was parlourmaid, like me. See, I’m scared, sir. I’m scared that what happened to Gina’ll happen to me, and … well, Sally caught evil too.’
She was making no sense, but then, all of a sudden, a thought struck me as I remembered Dotty’s half-told tale in the tiny back-facing house. I sat upright. ‘Gina … Was she here about nine years ago?’
‘Something like that. I wasn’t here then, of course. But we heard about it, in the town. Most people heard about it. I was a kid then; didn’t think nothing of it. Then I started here and it’s like I can’t get it out of my head.’
‘Tell me,’ I said, urgently now. ‘Tell me what happened.’
She cradled the brandy glass in her lap. ‘Gina was … she was going to have a baby.’
‘I see.’
‘No, sir. I mean, sorry, sir, but you don’t see. She never told anyone. She kept it a secret.’
‘And who …’ I paused, and took a breath. ‘Who was the father?’
Agnes looked at the ground. ‘Nobody knows, sir. They … people will talk, won’t they? But nobody ever found out for sure. She kept it a secret.’
‘A nasty little secret,’ I muttered, a chill rattling my spine, remembering Dotty’s odd warning last week. ‘What happened?’
Agnes sighed. ‘Well, one day she was down late for work, and they sent the under-housemaid to knock her up and … and …’
‘And?’
‘She’d hanged herself in the wardrobe in my bedroom, sir, and I keep thinking I can see her in the night, swinging from the rail.’ Agnes’s voice quavered. ‘I daren’t sleep in there, sir, and it’s making me almost mad.’
I sank further into my chair. I was dog-weary with tiredness, but despite that a fear was stirring my heart. ‘Oh, God,’ I muttered, and prayed that the suspicion my mind was forming was completely, utterly untrue.
9
1965
I finished off the corned beef and ketchup sandwich I’d made myself for lunch, and traced a finger down the much-creased bus timetable that was taped to the kitchen wa
ll by the door. I still smelled of old egg and bacon fat, but I had no time to wash. I’d spent long enough dithering about whether to go as it was, and now it was midday already. Not that she’d be back for hours, but I didn’t want to run any risk of bumping into her. That, I already knew, would be disastrous.
There was another half an hour before the next bus to Petwick was due, so I picked up Northanger Abbey again and traced over Lizzie’s handwriting. I’d been trying to mention it, casually, to Mrs Hale all morning, but every time I talked about her sister she rapidly changed the subject. In the end I’d given up.
I wouldn’t have been so bothered, had it not been for my conversation with Dockie yesterday in the pub, his beard in his drink and his head in the past. Somehow, he’d bound me into his quest to discover himself, despite my best intentions, despite the present tense being my current concern. I thought over what he’d said to me, and spent a few minutes musing, rocking back on two legs of my chair at the kitchen table, when I remembered with a jolting start that I still had to pay my rent.
‘Bugger.’ I looked at my watch. Before midday, Johnny had said, and I was late, and the girls had already flipped when I’d told them I’d had to ask for an extension. I scrambled to my feet and pulled out the rent tin from its hiding place in one of the cabinets, emptying out notes and coins into my palm. I added the rest from my purse and put the whole lot in my pocket.
I ran up the stairs to the top floor, past more bathrooms on the half-landings, past flats that held the faint strumming of a guitar, the whistle of a kettle boiling, the clacking of a typewriter’s keys. At the final half-landing, where a dangling phone extension was clamped to the wall, a short linoleum-floored passageway led towards a narrow, winding flight of stairs. It was lit by one tiny window and had a closed-in, musty smell.
At the top of the stairs was the white-painted door that led to Johnny and Star’s flat; I knocked hard, hoping he hadn’t gone out. Last Friday I’d waited here for twenty minutes, knocking like a demon, dressed up dolly-bird-style while I waited to go dancing with Star. I’d been convinced she was inside, because I thought I could hear somebody crying from behind the door, even though crying was the last thing anyone would imagine Star doing. However, as I waited now I thought I heard it again, that faint sobbing sound, and realized it must be some quite other sound: pigeons in the eaves, perhaps, or the wicked cackle of seagulls.
The Mysterious Affair at Castaway House Page 18