by Kirsty Ferry
‘I have to warn you, my place is a bit smaller than yours,’ said Simon, driving through the London streets, ‘so we might be a little cramped. And seriously, I can easily clear the spare room if you want.’
‘No,’ said Cori, shaking her head, ‘don’t bother.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he replied.
‘I’m sure.’ And besides, it would be nice just to be with someone that night; someone real and solid and breathing for God’s sake. She shivered, thinking about Daisy and what her diary seemed to imply.
And here she was, Cori, in the twenty-first century, going home with an artist. How strange was that?
‘Here we are,’ said Simon, driving through a pair of high gates. ‘The Stalag Seventeen of Notting Hill. I moved here after I split up with Sylvie. It was only supposed to be short term, but I was desperate and I wasn’t thinking straight so I rented this place.’
‘It’s not that bad!’ said Cori. She looked up at the high rise – it wasn’t horrible, certainly not as grim as Simon was making it out to be; it was just characterless compared to her home. But as this was practically a new-build, it all looked very clean and neat, and she wondered if that was what the creative side of Simon was privately rebelling against.
‘It doesn’t compare well with my last place,’ he said, ‘not for working in, at least. I’m doing it a disservice, I suppose. It’s all right. It could be worse.’
‘Where did you live before?’ asked Cori.
‘Chelsea. We had a garden flat and the back room was my studio. But when I moved out I never thought I’d need that sort of studio space again. What I’ve got here seemed enough. But it’s not. Not any more.’
Simon parked the car in a carefully marked out bay and turned the engine off.
He turned to Cori and smiled. ‘People keep telling me I don’t need a car because of where I live and work, but I like to get out of the city when I can. And if I wasn’t supposed to have a car, I wouldn’t have access to my very own parking bay, would I?’
‘It’s good to have transport,’ said Cori. ‘I’m going to get a car sorted just as soon as I can. I want to be independent and go further afield. Plus, I know I’m lucky to have a garage and it’s a shame not to use it.’
‘Do you know,’ said Simon, ‘people actually sell and rent out private garages and off-road parking areas to people in this town? Crazy, isn’t it?’
‘Really crazy,’ she replied. ‘And is it more crazy that people buy them?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Simon, laughing, ‘but maybe I can’t blame them. Parking is horrendous in London. Anyway, let’s get inside and I’ll show you around. Not that it will take a great deal of showing. What you see with my place is pretty much what you get.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Cori. As long as I’m with you, she wanted to add.
And as long as I left Daisy at home with that bloody diary.
There was an elevator that moved silently up through the floors. As Cori had suspected, it was a nice, new building and everything worked perfectly. She was willing to bet that her old creaky door wouldn’t be replicated here anywhere.
As if he was reading her mind, Simon suddenly raised his forefinger and looked at her. ‘Your front door – I’m going to come over and sort it out for you. I don’t like the idea of you being in there all alone and that door opening to let random strangers in.’
‘Oh! Oh, thanks.’ Cori smiled at him and adjusted her overnight bag on her shoulder. ‘It’s another one of those “I know I have to do it” jobs. But I’ve just never had the time. I guess I should add the rooftop door to the list as well. Do you fancy having a go at that one too?’
‘Always up for a challenge,’ said Simon.
‘Great,’ said Cori. ‘I’ll have to tell my gran it’s all in hand. The front door was hard to lock when she was here and I’ve never heard the end of it.’
‘You’re close to your gran?’
Cori nodded. ‘Yes. She brought me up. I can’t remember the last time I saw my mum; and my dad – well, I don’t even think my mum knew who he was.’ She frowned. ‘Drugs have a lot to answer for.’
‘Oh.’ Simon nodded. ‘It must have been difficult.’
‘Not really,’ said Cori. ‘My gran was more of a mum than my real mum could ever have been. I owe my gran everything and I’m lucky to have her in my life.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ said Simon. ‘And you know that you’ve got me in your life now as well, right?’ He looked down at her, his eyes warm and not as guarded as they’d been when she’d first met him.
‘I’m pleased I decided to go to the Tate,’ she said.
‘Me, too,’ said Simon. They stared at each other for what seemed like ages, but must only have been seconds, because the soft ding of the elevator made Cori jump. She realised she had been centimetres away from Simon’s face again. One moment more and she would have been kissing him.
They stood facing each other as the door slid open and Simon took hold of her hand. She knew he didn’t even have to ask outright. In the time they’d spent in the garden under those twinkling stars, she pretty much guessed that they both knew exactly what the other one wanted. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Really sure you want to do this?’
Cori nodded. ‘Completely sure,’ she said.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘this way.’ His hand felt warm in hers as he led her along the cream painted corridor towards a door at the far end.
His key slid into the lock noiselessly and the door opened on smooth hinges.
Cori didn’t know what to expect when she stepped inside, but the flat was neat and tidy and well looked after. The kitchen was more or less integrated into the lounge and she could see there was one cup in the sink. There was a litter tray in the corner of the room and unaccountably – or maybe nervously – she laughed.
‘You have a cat!’ she said. ‘I never put you down for a cat person.’
‘I think the cat actually owns me,’ said Simon, frowning. ‘She’s called Bryony.’ He slid the chain shut on the door and turned to face her. ‘She’s a house cat so she doesn’t go out. She’s probably in the spare bedroom. That’s where she likes to go during the day if she’s not sitting on the windowsill or peering out onto the balcony. If you really do want that room, I can—’
‘Just stop asking me that,’ said Cori. ‘I’ve made up my mind. Stop trying to change it for me.’ She took a deep breath and walked over to him. She reached up and touched his cheek. ‘Really. It’s what I want. You are what I want. Don’t spoil it.’
‘Okay. Do you want—’
His words were cut off as she closed her eyes and kissed him.
‘Do I want what?’ she asked, pulling away from him, a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
‘I was going to ask if you wanted a drink or anything, but …’ Simon dipped his head down and met her lips again. ‘I think that conversation might just have to wait.’
‘I think you’re right,’ she murmured against his mouth. She closed her eyes and relaxed into him. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about Daisy or her diary or her own rickety door or her mess of a house … she just cared about the moment. And that moment was all about Simon.
Chapter Thirty
SOUTH KENSINGTON
After Cori had disappeared, Becky was torn between being furious with Cori and being furious with herself. She stalked around the lounge, cursing everything she could and shaking her head at Jon’s well-meaning words.
‘I swear, she wasn’t herself in that park. Why the hell didn’t we watch her so she couldn’t leave? God!’ Becky threw herself onto the sofa and scowled. ‘Ugh!’ She leaned forward and covered her head with her hands. ‘I wish I knew what sort of hold that Daisy woman has on her!’
She sat up and looked at Jon and Lissy, holding her hands up. ‘What can we do?’ she asked. ‘What on earth can we do? I should have known.’
‘We could find out what hold Daisy does have on her?’ suggested
Jon. ‘I can’t think of anything else.’
‘Oh!’ Lissy interrupted, reaching her hand out and waving it as if to get some attention. ‘There was something I meant to ask you!’ She sat upright and opened her eyes wide. ‘Did you do any research on Daisy after I gave you the diary? Did you get any more information about her?’
‘No! Why would I? I wasn’t going to pursue it,’ said Becky. ‘It was an interesting article. That’s as far as it went with me. It’s everybody else who’s built it up.’
Then Lissy’s eyes literally lit up. Becky could not believe it; it was as if a light went on inside them.
‘Then I shall pursue it,’ said Lissy. She stood up and Becky watched her disappear up the small staircase to the mezzanine floor. She switched on a laptop and fussed around it for a few minutes.
Jon smiled sympathetically and stood up, heading off into the kitchen.
Becky threw herself back in the sofa, closed her eyes and wished she’d had a bit more forethought. Damn Cori! How could she have let her go like that? She felt responsible for her and seriously felt like kicking herself. She opened her eyes again and saw Jon bringing a half-empty bottle of wine into the lounge along with three glasses. And it was red wine! What if they spilled it on Lissy’s floor? She felt like crying, she really did.
‘I can’t have that. You know I can’t,’ she growled at him.
‘Half a glass isn’t going to hurt the baby,’ he said. ‘Look, I’ll put water in it if you want.’
‘No. It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t need water in it.’
‘Thought so,’ said Jon. He divided the wine between the three glasses and passed one to Becky. ‘You look like you need it,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure the baby will forgive you, just this once.’
He sat down beside her and gratefully she laid her head on his shoulder. The fingers of her free hand crept up to his chest and she laid her palm over his heart, closing her eyes again briefly. The rhythmic beating soothed her, but she couldn’t settle.
‘It’s my fault.’ She spoke into his chest. ‘I should never have given her that diary.’ His hand found her hair and stroked it. She enjoyed feeling the sensation of his fingers tangling in it and once again thanked her lucky stars they had found each other again.
‘I think I saw her, Jon.’ There was an imperceptible pause in the stroking. ‘I think I saw Daisy. That first day, when Cori first took hold of the diary. I should never have given it to her. I should have let Lissy take it away. She’s so careless she would have lost it and Cori would never have had it.’ She pushed herself up from his shoulder and looked at him. ‘So that’s why I blame myself.’
He took her face in his hands and shook his head. ‘No, you can’t blame yourself for that. Lissy would have given it to Cori anyway. It would have happened regardless.’
She searched his face, trying to work out if he was being genuine or not; she eventually decided he was. ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘but what can we do now?’
‘See what Lissy comes up with?’ he said. He nodded over her shoulder. ‘And there she is.’ Becky turned and saw Lissy running gracefully down the stairs.
She had a sheet of paper in her hand and her face was glowing. ‘I found her! I found her on the records!’ she said. ‘Here. Daisy Ashford. Never married. Lived in London. Born 1830, died first quarter, 1862. That, my friends, is when Lizzie died as well. What a coincidence.’
‘What a coincidence indeed,’ echoed Becky. ‘I don’t suppose it says what she died of, does it?’
‘Not this top page,’ said Lissy, shaking her head and accepting the glass of wine Jon held out to her, ‘but there’s a newspaper report on the second sheet. Hold on.’ She scanned it and a look of horror clouded her beautiful face for a moment. Lissy looked directly at Becky and held the sheet out. Becky noticed Lissy’s hand was shaking slightly and hoped she wouldn’t ironically spill red wine on her own carpet. ‘It says it was a laudanum overdose, Becky,’ Lissy said, ‘and a suspected suicide. Look. It goes on to transcribe the whole inquest.’ Lissy retracted her hand, read a little more and finally shook her head. ‘What a terrible waste of a life. Looks like she was addicted to the stuff, and she was found by her art tutor, that Henry Dawson chap she always talks about. Apparently he was “inconsolable” in the dock and had to be helped in to testify. How tragic. He says she had been really happy for months beforehand and it was a huge shock. I bet it was.’ She gave a filthy, hollow sort of laugh. ‘And I bet he wasn’t just her art tutor. It implies that he had his own set of keys.’
‘Look, we’re getting into gossip now!’ said Becky. She reached out and snatched the paper away from Lissy. ‘Let me read it.’
Becky took herself off to the bedroom. She had a feeling she would prefer some privacy when she looked through the report and curled up on the window seat after locking the door behind her.
She unfolded the papers and smoothed them out. With a little shudder, she put the death notification on the floor face down, and looked at the inquest report instead. The first thing she noticed was that only a handful of witnesses had come forward – servants, pharmacists, a doctor, a Mr Alfred Ashford and Henry Dawson. Not many people to talk about Daisy – and subsequently, it seemed, not many people to mourn her.
‘Dear Lord,’ murmured Becky. She skimmed the wordy introduction: ‘By virtue of my Office of Coroner … to enquire on behalf of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, touching the death of Daisy Ashford now lying dead within my jurisdiction … this Warrant, Given under my Hand and …’
Becky shuddered. Daisy Ashford now lying dead. It was so impersonal. Poor woman. And she was only a couple of years older than Becky.
Beneath that was the list of names called to witness for the Coroner. She saw Alfred was the girl’s father, and Henry Dawson, touchingly, was listed as ‘Art Tutor and Dear Friend of Miss Ashford.’
The servants all said the same thing – she had been in the habit of locking herself away in her room and they often found empty phials of laudanum lying around the house. Or tucked underneath her pillow, or hidden amongst her linen or in the drawers of her bureau. She was subject to massive mood swings and strange behaviour, displayed temper tantrums, obsessional delusions and wilfulness. The word ‘addict’ sprang into Becky’s mind; correspondingly, she felt tears spring to her eyes. This was getting worse.
One pharmacist said she was in the habit of coming to him at least once a week and buying laudanum from him, and two more pharmacists from different parts of London echoed his sentiments. Apparently she became irate and unreasonable if there was no laudanum in stock; but as they were being paid for the laudanum, they chose not to take it further. Bloody legalised drug dealers, Becky thought angrily.
The housekeeper said Daisy had been cheerful the previous night. It was only after Mr Dawson had brought the morning paper to her that she became upset and left the house. She had returned later on that afternoon and gone immediately to her room. Her lady’s maid said she still seemed upset and refused any food, but that in itself was not unusual.
Several people corroborated that they ‘knew of no hurt to her’. Basically, Becky thought, they mustn’t have expected anybody else to harm her.
Mr Ashford was next. His testimony was short and unhelpful.
‘The deceased was my daughter, although we did not have and never have had a close relationship. I knew not what she did in London. She ceased to be my responsibility many years ago. May I say on record that I am not surprised this has happened and I believe it to be one hundred per cent self-inflicted. It is most certainly the deceased’s fault and I also believe her mental state was continually imbalanced. This is the natural end to such an abhorrent lifestyle and I am pleased I have been justified in my thoughts.’
‘You utter swine,’ growled Becky, laying her hand protectively over her bump. The doctor was next.
‘I did not know the deceased well, it having been several years since I attended her in some intense capacity, but I was sent for on Tuesday e
vening about half past four. At first sight I believed she was in a comatose state – but upon further examination, it was apparent she was deceased. The smell of laudanum emanating from the body and around the room was very distinct. I believe that she died from the effects of a very large dose of laudanum. An empty two ounce phial labelled “Laudanum Poison” was lying beside the body. There was no sign of anyone having been involved in the death except Miss Ashford and I believe, given the testimonies relating to the mental state of the deceased that day, the action was deliberate.’
And the final words went to Henry Dawson. The Coroner had indeed noted the fact, as Lissy had said, that he had been distraught and needed to be helped to the stand.
‘The deceased was my lifelong friend and pupil and her name was Daisy Ashford. I spent the evening with her on Monday and I left her perfectly well and happy at about ten o’clock. I last saw her alive on the Tuesday morning and she asked me to return at three in the afternoon, but I was finishing a commission and lost track of the time. I took a cab from my home to hers and arrived around four fifteen. I let myself into the house, as was my habit, and called for her. The housekeeper can confirm I was not on the premises before that time. Hearing no response, I checked the downstairs living area and looked out into the garden, still calling for her. I then went upstairs to her bedroom and knocked on the door. Again, there was no response and I knocked again. There was still no response, so I opened the door. She was lying on the floor, partially clothed and at first I thought she had fainted. I went to her and realised she was not breathing. I checked her heart and pulse and there was no sign of life. There was a strong smell of alcohol and something else I did not recognise in the room. I covered Daisy with a blanket and ran out into the hallway, shouting for assistance. There was an empty phial on the floor next to her and it was marked “Laudanum Poison”. I truly did not know she was in the habit of taking laudanum. I did not know, until I heard the witnesses today. How did I not know? We had been so close for the last few months and very happy and I did not know.’ (At this point the Coroner had noted Mr Dawson had broken down and needed to be given some time to recover. Mr Dawson continued his testimony after a few minutes had elapsed and he had composed himself a little.)