Smiling up at him, taking his hand in hers, Rose led him across the floor to a series of cupboards built along the wall facing the trestle table. She pulled the ribbon over her head, and opened the cupboard. Then she reached inside for the cloth bag.
Rose was careful to lock the cupboard, and put the ribbon around her neck, before they went back to the sofa. When Vicky saw what they were doing she hurried to join them. She and Amos sat down on a sofa, and a moment later Stephen walked over, carrying a cup of tea for Vicky. After handing it to her, he said to Amos, ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘Not at the moment, thanks, Mr Forth. I want to concentrate on these items here.’ He indicated the cloth bag with his head.
Rose looked at Amos and asked, ‘Wot yer wanna see?’
‘What about the photograph you showed me last time?’
Without a word Rose took the photograph out of the cloth bag and handed it to Amos. He stared at it for a moment then stared at Rose, and asked, ‘Is this Mam?’
She nodded several times and said vehemently. ‘Yeah.’
‘She always says that,’ Vicky volunteered.
Amos studied the photograph. It had been taken in a studio, no doubt in his mind about that, and it was by a good photographer. So it had cost money. Poor people did not have cash to spare to have their photographs taken.
Did this young woman in the picture come from money? She looked as if she did. Her hair was swept up on top of her head, with all the curls coming forward to the front. This was the current fashionable style, one favoured by the society women, who copied Queen Alexandra.
She wore a dark dress, and the lace collar was beautiful, came across her shoulders and chest, and it had the latest stylish high neck. Matching lace cuffs trimmed the long sleeves. As he peered at the photograph he noticed the young woman was wearing a star-shaped brooch which looked as if it was set with diamonds. He had not noticed it before because he had been concentrating on the woman’s features. He also noticed the earrings sparkling, and they looked real.
The face was lovely; her eyes were large and she had a wide brow. The first word that came into his head was class. She had it, in Amos’s opinion. She obviously came from good stock. Suddenly, he knew deep inside himself that this was true. He glanced surreptitiously at Rose, who was talking to Stephen and Vicky, and caught a glimpse, fleeting though it was, of the young woman in the photograph. She was Rose’s mother, he truly believed that.
Turning the picture over, Amos looked again to see if there was a photographer’s name on it. No luck, there wasn’t. If there had been a name they would have noticed it when Rose had first allowed them to open the bag.
‘What can you show me next, Rose?’ Amos asked, and she turned from Vicky and Stephen, looked in the bag and brought out a key. She handed it to him.
It was a plain key, no name or markings on it. Amos shook his head. ‘I don’t know what this is for. Do you, Rose?’
‘Mam’s key,’ she answered and looked at Vicky as if she could supply the answer.
Amos handed the key to the child. After putting it away she brought out a piece of flannel, a scrap really. He knew what it was—the gold wedding ring. He took it out of the cloth, his eyes resting on it for a moment, and then he wrapped it carefully and once more she took it, placed it in the bag.
There were other small things, which she showed him, mostly a child’s treasures, things she had saved for herself. Several coloured glass marbles, a pressed flower between two sheets of paper, a handkerchief, and a small prayer book. Inside he saw again the neat inscription: ‘To Grace from Mother.’ No date. Nothing else. Not a word.
A brick wall, he thought. We’re facing a brick wall. Looking at Vicky and Stephen, his eyes full of disappointment, Amos murmured, ‘It’s the same as last time, I’m afraid. I haven’t found a clue amongst her things. I somehow thought I might, that there would be something there that would be a lead, a clue, something I’d missed before. I’m afraid it’s wishful thinking on my part.’
‘We understand,’ Vicky said. ‘And anyway, it will be like starting afresh, won’t it, Amos? The three of us together…a new family.’
Pushing herself to her feet Vicky went over to Fenella standing near the table. She slipped her arm through hers, and said in a low voice, ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, my dear, dear friend. I shall be forever grateful.’
‘Vicky, darling, I’m thrilled for you and Stephen, and for that simply gorgeous child. She’s lucky, we’re all lucky.’
‘If it hadn’t been for Amos and Haddon House—’ Vicky broke off and shook her head. ‘Imagine what might have happened to our little rosebud if Amos hadn’t found her and you hadn’t opened Haddon House three years ago?’
Fenella nodded and smiled. All of a sudden she seemed on the brink of tears. She swallowed them back, took control of herself, and together the two women walked across to the big sofa near the fire. As usual, the child was clutching the cloth bag, and appeared to be suddenly alarmed as the two women approached.
Vicky said, ‘Don’t look so frightened, Rose. I’m going home now—’
‘Naw! Naw!’ the child whimpered, and her face crumpled. Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Please doan go.’
‘Ssssh,’ Vicky said softly, and knelt down in front of her. ‘You’re going to come, too, Rose, with me and Stephen, to our house. And you shall live there with us, and we shall look after you always, and we shall keep you safe.’
THIRTY-FOUR
The sunlight filtering in through the many glass windows in the conservatory cast a soft golden glow on everything on this sunny May Saturday.
Amos Finnister glanced around, admiring the room, which was airy and lighthearted, yet extremely comfortable with wicker chairs and sofas filled with plump cushions, and matching occasional tables. It overflowed with white orchids and others of more brilliant hues. Nan Watkins’s pride and joy, they were glorious, and Neville’s wife had created an indoor garden that was serene and peaceful, a quiet haven.
Will Hasling, who was sitting with Amos, broke the silence when he said, ‘I have finally met Rose, and she is the loveliest little girl. My sister and Mr Forth are thrilled to have her, and Rose is lucky to have fallen into their laps, so to speak, thanks to you.’
Amos looked across at Will, inclined his head. He had grown to like this young man, found him admirable in many ways, not the least in his devotion to Edward Deravenel, his genuine loyalty to him. Will was also intelligent, well informed about business and politics, and a warm-hearted, kind person.
‘I wonder if you understand how truly lucky the child has been?’ Amos asked in a low voice.
‘To a certain extent, yes, I do. She could have died out there alone on the streets, from hunger or exposure, or she could have been seriously injured in some way. Or taken by the wrong kind of person, someone who might have easily abused her, hurt her.’
A shadow crossed Amos’s face, his mouth tightened; there was a long reflective pause before he finally said, ‘The latter would have been the worst, in my opinion. If you’re dead you’re free…certainly from further harm. Injured, you’re in hospital hopefully, or being looked after somewhere safe. On the other hand, if you’re grabbed by the wrong people, forget it.’ He shook his head and there was a sudden sorrow on his face. ‘Those kind are unscrupulous. They’re the ones who sell children to brothels and to white slave-traders, who ship them abroad to be re-sold like so much cattle in markets dealing in humans. Boys as well as girls. Sold to brothels, where they are in bondage for the rest of their lives. They never escape.’ Amos paused, and for a moment he looked pained, his eyes weary, his face pale. He sighed, then he noticed that Will was watching him closely, obviously interested in what he was saying.
Amos continued more slowly, ‘Then there are those criminals who run gangs of children, they teach them how to be criminals, to steal in the streets and on the river ferries crossing the Thames…they are trained to be pickpockets, and they become dangerous little thieves,
and they, too, are doomed to a life of crime and degradation.’
Will Hasling sat back, staring at Amos, a man whom he had come to like, respect and trust. After a moment, Will remarked, ‘There’s a whole world out there that few people are aware of. Especially people like me, who don’t know much about crime and criminals and the East End.’ He grimaced and added, ‘We’re not all that well informed, I’m afraid, are we?’
‘That’s true, sir. And you know, it takes all sorts to make a world,’ Amos answered. ‘Some of the worst types reside in Whitechapel, Limehouse, Southwark, and the environs. On the other hand, by the same token, there are innumerable good, upstanding, law-abiding citizens living there as well. Rose could have ended up being taken in by good people. However, more than likely they would have been very poor, and she would have been an extra mouth to feed. It would have made it tough on them, and she would have been a terrible burden.’
‘Rose had a narrow escape, I understand what you’ve been saying,’ Will murmured quietly. ‘And I do have a bit of knowledge from my sister. She has told me a little about those awful places—the rookeries, in particular. They sound vile.’
‘They’re foul. Unspeakable broken-down tenements surrounded by dark alleys and cul-de-sacs, underground tunnels, dead-end ginnels and yards. The rookeries are enormous slums, and dangerous, Will, hard for you to comprehend. It’s a violent world in there, not even the police go in unless they have to, and they never go in alone or even in twos and threes. They enter as a large posse so that they can protect each other.’
Leaning forward, Will now said, ‘You’ve painted quite a picture, a terrible picture, and what I don’t understand is why they’re not torn down?’
‘And where would they go, the poor who live there? Answer me that.’
‘I don’t know, but what you’ve described is something inhuman.’ Will shook his head vehemently, his eyes bleak, anger flickering there. ‘Here we are, you and I, sitting in this beautiful house in Chelsea, living in the greatest, most influential, and biggest capital city in the entire world. London. Centre of a great Empire, the greatest there has ever been. We are a prosperous, innovative, industrious nation. We are influential around the world. Money is plentiful. London—in fact the whole country—is flourishing. And we are a kindly, humane race by nature. So, you tell me why the rookeries exist.’
‘I wish I could. I’ve often asked myself that, and I’ve come up with no real answers. There are people who try to help such as Dr Barnardo, who started the homes for waifs and strays. He has been most successful. Other open-handed wealthy people, women in particular, have done much to alleviate terrible situations, and then there’s the home Lady Fenella and her aunt started for destitute women. Mind you, I understand what you’re saying…why doesn’t the government do something? Am I right?’
‘Exactly. It’s so appalling, it makes me feel sickened, and ashamed, and now I truly understand why my sister has wanted to work with Lady Fenella and has given her money for Haddon House.’ He smiled. ‘By helping those much less fortunate she has found the child she has dreamed about. As for Rose, she must have a guardian angel watching over her.’
‘And she has a few angels here,’ Amos pointed out, some of the tension leaving him. He went on, with a sudden warmth, ‘Not only Lady Fenella, Mrs Forth and Mr Forth, but also Hugh Codrill. He has arranged everything in the most proper and legal way. Your sister and her husband have nothing to worry about, from what I understand. No one can take Rose from them now. She’s their child, and she will have a good life.’
‘I want you to do something,’ Margot Grant said, glancing at John Summers. ‘We must retaliate. I know they are responsible for Aubrey’s death. Jean, chéri, s’il vous plaît …’
Reining in his black stallion, John Summers stared back at Margot, who also reined in her horse. She gazed into his face, a face that she had come to love, and whispered, ‘I have a terrible foreboding…les choses mauvais—’ She left her sentence unfinished.
There was a moment’s silence. The two of them had been riding along Rotten Row in Hyde Park for the past half hour, and now under the spreading branches of the trees they rested their horses. It was warm on this May Saturday, a beautiful spring day.
John let out a small sigh, and murmured, ‘How can I possibly retaliate? I’ve nothing to go on. I can hardly accuse Edward Deravenel of murdering Aubrey Masters. The police say he died an accidental death, it’s not even suicide. They’ve dismissed the idea of murder. I must admit I’m torn, Margot darling…part of me thinks that Aubrey died because of his own carelessness, his strange eating habits. Yet another part tells me it has been a most convenient death for Edward Deravenel and his clique within the company. So yes, I’m suspicious, like you, but I must be careful what I do, for your sake as well as mine.’
Margot nodded and suddenly smiled at him. Her face became radiant in the sunlight filtering through the leafy branches, and his breath caught in his throat for a moment. How beautiful she was this morning; her black hair was pulled back in a chignon, and she wore a jaunty royal-blue bowler hat with a tiny spotted veil. The crisp white linen jabot brought a touch of femininity to her tailored royal-blue riding jacket which she wore with a long matching skirt and boots. Her black eyes were luminous in her pale oval-shaped face, and she beguiled and tempted him as always. Margot held a fatal attraction for him, and there were times when he asked himself why he had allowed himself to become so involved with her. For besotted he was. Like father, like son, he thought, and pushed those implications away from him.
Reaching out, resting her gloved hand on his arm, Margot said, ‘I know you think Edward Deravenel is an amiable, pleasant young man with little in his empty head except chasing women. But I think you misjudge him, John.’
Shaking her head, her eyes piercing his, she added, ‘I see him differently, ah yes, I do. Very much so. He is clever. And he uses his lighthearted personality to conceal his ruthlessness.’
‘You’ve said that before, my dear, and I must say I do see it. I’m not dismissing Deravenel as empty-headed, no, not at all.’
‘What I have seen is the way he has charmed his colleagues at Deravenels, at least those who have always had a leaning towards the Deravenels of Yorkshire. Such as Alfredo Oliveri and Rob Aspen. They appear to hang on his words. And what of Oliveri? You promoted him to be head of the mining division, and this, too, worries me. He has too much power now.’
John laughed. ‘Oliveri is doing an excellent job,’ he answered crisply, although he was himself more than ever suspicious of Oliveri’s true loyalties. Changing the subject adroitly, he asked, ‘How is Henry? You have kept him in the country for quite a while now.’
‘You were the one who told me not to bring him to the office. That he was looking frail and ill. So yes, he is resting in the country.’ Her black eyes suddenly danced and she smiled invitingly. ‘Perhaps we can have lunch together…I can prepare a pique-nique.’
‘What about your staff?’ he asked, raising a brow eloquently.
‘I have given them the day off…the weekend off, in all truth, John.’
‘I see,’ he murmured, and could not keep the smile off his face. ‘So, we have a whole weekend at our disposal?’
‘Mais oui.’ Glancing around, seeing no one in sight, she leaned into him and kissed his cheek, whispered in his ear what she planned for that afternoon.
He did not respond, merely stared at her.
They set off at a walk, continuing down Rotten Row. Margot’s brain was whirling, filled with so many thoughts. But the most important was how to persuade John Summers to take revenge against Edward Deravenel. She was convinced he and his colleagues were behind the death of Aubrey Masters, one of Henry’s true followers.
The Saturday lunch at Neville’s house had become something of a ritual. Whenever they were all in London the six men met there to review their progress and enjoy a pleasant meal together.
The six of them stood in the handsome library, sa
vouring an apéritif before going into the dining room. Edward Deravenel, as always, loomed over them, looking taller than ever, and even more handsome, if that were possible. He was talking earnestly to his cousin Johnny, who was listening attentively.
Edward had embarked on a discussion about libraries and books, and was confiding that one day, when he had a house, and money, he planned to have a library of his own.
‘Like this one, perhaps?’ Johnny asked. ‘Except for the one at Ravenscar, I don’t know of any other that is more beautiful, or better in any way.’
‘That’s true,’ Edward agreed, and then turned at the sound of Neville’s voice. His cousin had closed the library door, and was asking them to come and sit down near the fireplace.
They all did so at once, curious to know what Neville was going to say. For it was quite obvious he intended to speak; he took up a stance in front of the fireplace, without a fire today because it was mild weather.
‘I am happy to announce that we are almost ready to confront the Grants and their gang, and to bring them down. At long last,’ Neville said. ‘After sixty years of ruling the roost at Deravenels they will be hounded out of office.’
‘I do sincerely hope God is listening to you, Neville,’ Edward remarked, staring hard at his cousin. ‘Because whilst I believe we should strike them soon, I do want us to win.’
‘Oh, we will win,’ Neville assured him, with a bright, confident smile. ‘Finnister has everything ready.’ Neville glanced questioningly at the private investigator, who nodded and stood up.
‘I have now finished all of my work. The records from the asylums have been studied by numerous doctors, and all of them believe the records do indicate that Henry Grant is an ill man, suffering from dementia. There is absolutely no problem regarding my two colleagues, the thespians, who have already ingratiated themselves with Beaufield, Cliff and Dever, the three directors of Deravenels with unsavoury private lives. They can be blackmailed, I’m positive of that. Many of my other operatives have been spreading rumours about the Grants, rumours that have taken hold and paint them in a bad light. Yes, we are ready.’ Amos sat down and smiled as the others applauded him. ‘Thank you,’ he acknowledged.
The Ravenscar Dynasty Page 33