by Alys Clare
He almost does, for she is standing in the hall, thick coat on, small leather suitcase at her feet, about to leave.
They look at each other.
She has done her hair differently. It is drawn back ruthlessly from her face and fastened behind her head in such a severe manner that it is virtually invisible. Sensing his gaze, she reaches for a black bonnet with a deep brim and puts it on. Her gown too is black, with a stiff white collar that stands up around her neck. On the left-hand collar tip is a very small gold brooch made up of the letters SWNS.
‘I thought I had better look like a nurse,’ she mutters.
He senses that this is costing her a great deal. ‘You are a nurse,’ he says encouragingly, ‘or, at least, you were.’
She nods. ‘Yes, quite.’
The silence becomes difficult; heavy with what they are both holding back from saying. Then she says with an attempt at a smile, ‘You’re very early.’
‘I wanted to wish you good luck,’ he replies.
Silence again.
Wanting very much to break it, to normalize this strange encounter, he says, ‘I’ve had an idea concerning the Band of Angels. One of the names Marm gave me was familiar, and—’
With an apologetic smile she stops him. ‘I’m sorry, Felix, but if I am to catch my train I must go.’
‘Of course.’ He stands back and she walks out on to the street. Turning, she says, ‘I’m pleased about your idea. Make your usual careful notes’ – they both smile – ‘and we shall report to each other when the chance presents itself.’
Everything in him wants to yell, When? When will that be?
But she doesn’t know any more than he does, so he just gives her a cheery wave, goes back inside and shuts the door.
Work, that’s what I need, he tells himself as he prowls round the outer office. Lily has left the door to the inner sanctum open, and he can almost pretend to himself that she is there.
Almost.
I will make up my notes and form a plan for my next steps, he decides. Lily has lit the fire in the outer office but it is feeble, unenthusiastic, so before he settles down he fetches coal and stokes it up. Then he makes himself a pot of tea and two slices of toast with Mrs Clapper’s lime and ginger marmalade, and finally is ready to set to work.
He writes steadily for perhaps an hour. Then he turns his mind to the idea he tried to tell Lily about.
As Marm dictated the list of Band of Angels members to him on Friday night, one was familiar. And not familiar in the sense of recognizing it from newspaper or magazine articles or from London society gossip, but personally familiar: Felix seemed to hear a voice uttering it in the sort of stage whisper that carries further than the speaker intends.
Thinking about it directly did not lead to identifying the owner of that penetrating whisper, so he had gone about it obliquely, trying to prod his memory to provide the sights, sounds and smells of wherever it was the incident had occurred.
And he had woken up this morning remembering.
He had been in a bawdy music hall in the Old Kent Road called the Peeping Tom, in the next-door box to a beautiful, mature, full-figured actress called Violetta da Rosa. They met under unfortunate circumstances, despite which they had recognized one another as kindred spirits, so that when Felix said goodbye to her in her carriage outside the theatre where she had just been performing, both of them seemed to know it would not be for ever.
The moment when he heard the name had been in the interval between the first and second halves of the music hall’s entertainment. Violetta’s companion had gone to fetch champagne and, on his return, Violetta had hissed, ‘Freddie Fanshawe-Turnbull’s up to his old tricks again.’ The pointing hand indicated an elderly man, bald but for a circlet of silvery hair that went all round his crown, brushed forward over the forehead in the style of a Roman emperor. He was expensively dressed and had his white-gloved hand down the bosom of an overdressed, over-made-up redhead’s gown.
Violetta’s companion muttered something about Old Turnip-Head getting too long in the tooth for groping tarts in music halls, and Violetta laughed and said she’d like to see the day when he gave up. Then she took a long draught of champagne, burped, and went on to speak of other matters.
Old Turnip-Head – the Honourable Frederick Alfred Fanshawe-Turnbull, to give him his full name – is, according to Marm who is rarely wrong, a member of the Band of Angels.
Felix leaps up and hurries out of the house. He composes a brief telegram and dispatches it to the Aphrodite Theatre, off the Strand, where Violetta is currently performing. He knows not to expect a reply before early evening, when Violetta arrives at the theatre: Monday is not a matinee day and she will probably sleep until noon.
Back in the office, Felix wonders what to do to fill in the time.
It is late. The Strand and the streets around it are full of theatregoers: men in sweeping cloaks and collapsible top hats, women in glorious gowns, glittering jewellery and costly fur wraps. Felix is waiting at the Aphrodite’s stage door.
Presently it is opened by an invisible minion and Violetta stands at the top of the steps, waving a hand to her fans as regal as that of the elderly queen. Not as many fans tonight as Felix has sometimes seen, but then it is very cold. Violetta spots him, gives an all but imperceptible nod, and then jerks her head to the right. Following her silent instruction, Felix walks over to where a narrow lane branches off the street and, as he expected, a carriage stands waiting. The driver, up on the box, seems to recognize him and mutters in a hoarse voice, ‘You can get in.’ What he actually says is yer c’n ge’in, the glottal stop so pronounced it almost strangles the final word.
Felix settles in the comfortable seat, spreading out the heavy fur-lined rug. Before very long, the carriage door opens again and Violetta clambers up beside him. ‘Felix Wilbraham,’ she says with a grin. ‘Had a feeling we’d meet again.’
Felix knows Violetta to be an honest woman who appreciates that virtue in others. He says without preamble, ‘I haven’t come a-courting’ – last time they had sat together like this she had kissed him and put her hand in his lap, laughing softly at his body’s enthusiastic response, so it seems wise to get this out of the way at once – ‘but to ask you about someone I believe you know.’
She studies him for a few moments. Then she leans out of the window to give a brief instruction to the driver, and the carriage jerks into movement. She tucks the fur more closely around them both, snuggles up against him – ‘Just for warmth, you appreciate’ – and waits. When he doesn’t speak she says with a touch of asperity, ‘Go on, then. Who is this person I’m meant to know?’
Felix tells her. She smiles indulgently, then chuckles. ‘Old Turnip-Head,’ she says. ‘Yes, I do know him, in the sense that I’ve partied with him, been wined and dined by him, let him cry into my bosom when yet another young woman engaging in the oldest profession as a way of forging a way in a hard world makes it clear she was only playing him along for what she could get. Before you ask,’ she adds, ‘I’ve never bedded him. I’m far too old for his taste and I’m not a whore.’ She makes the latter statement entirely without any sign of horror that anybody could have taken her for one. She pauses, then says, ‘What’s Freddie been up to, then?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know,’ Felix says hastily. ‘I’m looking into a philanthropic organization called the Band of Angels and I’m told he’s a member.’
Violetta is silent for so long that Felix wonders if she has nodded off. He wouldn’t be surprise: it is warm under the thick rug, their two bodies are mutually comforting and she has been on stage all evening. But then she murmurs, ‘I’m not asleep, you cheeky sod,’ and he grins in the darkness.
‘So?’ he prompts eventually. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘Yes, Freddie’s one of the Angels,’ Violetta begins. ‘You know who they are, of course?’
‘I know something of them,’ he says cautiously.
She touches his hand. ‘Be
careful, if you’re having dealings with the Band of Angels.’ There is a note in her voice that Felix hasn’t heard before. ‘There are princes among them, several ministers, and any number of dukes and earls and the like. They’re rich, they wield power in virtually every field you can think of, they guard their privacy like a bulldog with a chop and they are notoriously averse to any sort of publicity.’
‘I see.’ Felix digests that. ‘And Freddie’s a member?’
‘One of the founders, for he’s a long-time friend of Mortimer MacKilliver and they are often seen in each other’s company.’
‘And Cameron, presumably.’ She does not respond. ‘Mortimer’s twin.’
‘I know who he is, silly!’ Violetta says. She pauses, then goes on. ‘You probably don’t know, but Cameron MacKilliver is a recluse. He hides away in that great echoing ancestral home in Scotland and he rarely comes out.’
‘What about his duties with the Band of Angels? I’m told they hold regular meetings, so surely as one of the founders he attends?’
‘Yes, probably, although I don’t imagine that bashful members are forced to turn out whether they want to or not, do you?’
‘No,’ he admits.
Again Violetta hesitates, as if reluctant to say what she is thinking. Felix waits. She sighs softly and says, ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.’
Felix’s heart does a cheerful little jig, for this is exactly what people say when they are just about to share a tasty piece of gossip that they really ought to keep to themselves. ‘I am known for my discretion,’ he says sententiously.
Violetta chuckles again. ‘Get away! Very well, then,’ she continues. ‘Mortimer and Cameron are twins, like you say, but they’re identical. They really are – I saw the pair of them together years ago, before Cameron shut himself away, and I know. It’s rumoured that back then, when Cameron took an active role in life, there were times when Mortimer stood in for him. Pretended to be him, when there was a fete to be opened, a ribbon to be cut on the completion of a new building, a prize to be handed out to a scholarship schoolboy.’
‘Why?’ asks Felix.
Violetta glances sideways at him, light from a gas lamp they are passing reflecting in her large eyes. ‘It’s said – I can’t vouch for the truth of it, mind – it’s said that Cameron suffers from periodic bouts of insanity. Has done since childhood, apparently, and he managed to suppress the symptoms. He was cunning, so the story goes, and could behave like any other man even as he sensed a fit of madness coming on.’
‘And now?’
Violetta shrugs. ‘Who can say? Mortimer MacKilliver doesn’t speak of the matter, and for all anyone knows, when Cameron does put in an appearance down here in London, it may be that it’s really Mortimer.’
This is all very interesting, Felix thinks, but distant from the matter he has come to enquire about. ‘And Freddie Fanshawe-Turnbull is a close associate of the twins,’ he muses. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’
‘Hm.’ Violetta is thinking. ‘Freddie likes street women, as I said. But then that’s hardly unusual, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm.’ The thinking goes on.
‘What is it?’ Felix prompts.
‘Oh … I was just reflecting that, for all they try to keep their dealings private, the Band of Angels are widely rumoured to support the education of young women, and generously at that.’
‘Yes, that’s—’
But with a grin Violetta turns to look at him. ‘That’s why you’re here, eh? Some troublesome little issue at one of the establishments funded by the Band?’
He has forgotten how bright she is. ‘Something of the sort,’ he admits.
‘And that cool blonde boss of yours with the light in her eyes behind those prim spectacles has gone to see what she can find out.’ She is still studying him. ‘And you’re worried about her.’
‘She has gone in the guise of temporary assistant matron,’ Felix says. He has realized suddenly that he can trust Violetta, and it is a relief to unburden himself. ‘She will carry off the role with aplomb – that’s not what I’m worried about.’ Violetta waits, and he says, ‘There’s … I’m … It’s just an instinctive reaction, but both of us sensed it when the little English teacher from the school came to seek our help. Something dark is going on there.’
For some time Violetta does not speak. Then she says, ‘Instincts are there for a reason, young Felix. Trust them. The more you do so, the more faithfully they serve you.’ She pauses. ‘I spoke flippantly about your employer just now, but in truth I admire her. She’s a woman in a man’s world, and I wish her luck.’ She pauses again. Then, apparently coming to a decision, she says, ‘I will make some enquiries. Don’t worry, I’ll be subtle. If I discover anything useful or relevant, I’ll tell you.’
‘Thank you,’ Felix says with warmth.
‘Now, where do you want dropping?’ Violetta is all at once brisk. ‘I’m tired, I can’t wait to get my stays off and my feet up, and Billy’ll have a bottle chilled ready for me.’
Felix glances out of the window. The carriage seems to have gone east up the Strand and turned round again, so that they are pretty much back where they started. ‘Here is fine.’ Violetta raps on the roof and the carriage draws to a halt.
Felix opens the door. Turning back to her, he says, ‘Still with Billy, then?’
‘Always,’ Violetta replies. But as he jumps down and prepares to close the door, she leans over and adds softly, ‘Not, however, exclusively.’
Felix watches as the carriage draws away. As he trudges off towards the river and home, he distracts his mind from the biting cold and imagines himself wrapped up in a huge fur rug, naked beside the full, soft body of Violetta da Rosa.
The long walk passes in a flash.
Lily catches her train to Cambridge on Monday morning with ten minutes to spare and settles in a corner seat. There are half a dozen other people in the carriage. She is accustoming herself to wearing the SWNS uniform again; she had forgotten the way people recognize the black bonnet and the little gold badge on the collar, and the way they respond when they do: with a shy sort of smile, as if to say, We know what you do and we admire you for it, for surely you see sights that would make the rest of us blanch.
But I am a fraud, Lily thinks guiltily, for I ran away. I am not what they think I am.
As the train pulls out of Liverpool Street station, she wonders just why it was that she agreed – offered – to do this. After a few moments’ thought the answer comes to her.
Because of her grandparents and her beloved Aunt Eliza, who, with firmness, clear moral values and a great deal of quiet love, brought her up after her father’s death and her mother’s defection to the lover by whom she was already pregnant when Lily’s father died. All three of those remarkable people believed you should face your fears. Look your devils in the eye and shame them into submission. Lily has rarely had such a large and frightening devil as the one that sent her racing home from India, and facing up to it – him – is hard. Oh, more than hard. But she is going to do it. She is doing it.
She makes her tense body relax, settling back in her seat. She looks out at the crowded, busy mass of London’s terraces, tenements and slums, and after a while shades of black, grey and brown give way to leafless trees, bare fields, winding lanes and the occasional beautiful aspect of frost-hard ground white beneath winter sunshine.
Quietly, steadily, Lily prepares herself for what is to come.
She leaves the mainline train at Cambridge and, crossing the platform, waits for the branch-line connection that will take her to the nearest village to Shardlowes School. Miss Long has promised that she will be met there with pony and trap.
The second journey is quite short. The train stops, the porter calls out the name of the station, Lily climbs down. It is a pretty little station, well kept, white-painted half-barrels set along the side of the platform which will be filled with flowers in a milder season.
&
nbsp; A porter takes her suitcase. He has a friendly face and not many teeth, and looks as if he is not as strong as Lily herself. ‘No, I can manage, thank you—’ she begins.
But he holds on tight. ‘Nothing’s too good for one of you Swans, miss,’ he says. ‘You the new nurse for Shardlowes?’
‘I am.’
‘Come this way, then, the trap’s waiting outside.’
The driver turns as he hears their approaching footsteps. He is a youngster, still some years off twenty, with a smiling face under a large flat cap, which he takes off in a courteous gesture as he jumps down to take Lily’s suitcase and help her up.
‘You all right there, miss?’ he enquires as Lily settles herself on the narrow bench seat.
‘Perfectly, thank you,’ she replies.
‘I’m Eddy,’ the youth says.
‘Leonora Henry,’ Lily says. It is the first time she has uttered the name to anybody except Felix and Tamáz, and they don’t count because they know it is a pretence.
‘Nurse Henry, yes, that’s right, it’s what Miss Long said, who I was to look out for.’
‘You have found her,’ Lily says with a smile. Eddy, who happens to be glancing at her at that moment, responds with a huge grin.
The exchange seems to have calmed his garrulous nervousness, and now, clicking softly to the bay between the shafts so that the horse breaks into a smart trot, Lily can sense him relax.
They follow the road the short distance from the station into the village, rounding a sharp right-hand bend as a church looms up on the left. They take a right turn, a left, and Lily has an impression of yellowish-grey brick houses, thatched roofs, a pub, a small village shop. Then the houses thin out and they turn left on to a smaller lane. In the distance, over to the right, Lily spots a building of grey brick and red stone, forbidding, dominant, with a large and grandiose porch and wings extending to the rear.
Her heart sinks. It is the school, it must be, and it is stern and threatening and she really doesn’t want to go there but—
‘That’s not it, miss,’ Eddy says quietly, apparently noticing the direction of her glance. ‘That’s the – well, no need to mention it, but you don’t want to go there. The school’s up ahead, between here and the Cherry Hinton road, and we’re almost there!’ He almost sings the last few words.