by Amy Myers
‘No,’ Peter agreed.
‘So why the bright flame?’
‘He died comparatively young, at twenty-eight, and tragically. To Birdie he’s her lost love, to the others a lost talent. They subconsciously felt guilty at surviving when he didn’t.’
Georgia was only momentarily thrown. ‘Accepted, but is there any reason that the next generation should still carry the flame forward? Molly perhaps, but why Matthew and Clemence?’
‘If they believe that The Flight of the Soul is Roy’s work, yes.’
‘Nothing else?’ Surely he could see there had to be.
‘No, but I think you’re about to tell me.’
She was. ‘Birdie loved Roy, yes?’
‘Agreed, and Elfie loved Alwyn.’
‘Not agreed.’
Peter’s eyebrow shot up. ‘She filled that garden with flowers for someone she didn’t love?’
‘No. You’re forgetting something. Roy Sandford lived there. Suppose it was him she loved?’ She was certain she was getting somewhere.
He frowned. ‘Give me time … If the love affair was between Elfie and Roy, why no mention of it in the party line?’
‘Oh, come on! Birdie, of course.’
‘But that isn’t documented in Matthew Hunt’s book. So in theory Birdie’s love affair with Roy could be a recent invention.’
‘But it explains so much …’
‘Stop, Georgia, stop,’ Peter said firmly. ‘It’s a thesis, I grant you. But there’s not one indication that it’s right, save for the fact that Roy was living at Shaw Cottage with Birdie and Alwyn for a few years. We can bear it in mind. But let’s keep to tangible issues, and work up from there.’
Georgia was forced to admit he was probably right, but that didn’t stop her mind from racing ahead. When after all did the Elfie/Alwyn story begin? Way back, she conceded. Peter had known about it before he read The Freedom Seekers, and the story seemed well entrenched in village memory.
Peter was watching her. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Georgia. There might be something in your hunch. Why not talk to Clemence about it?’
‘Clemence?’ Georgia yelped. ‘How can I, with this plagiaristic sword of Damocles hanging over her head?’
‘Quite easily,’ Peter shot back. ‘The playing field is level now she knows about the allegations. It’s her choice whether she brings Gavin’s name into any conversation with you. I take it you wouldn’t plan to raise that subject yourself – especially with this new idea of yours.’
Seeing her still undecided, Peter added casually, ‘I’ll come with you. While you’re cosying up to Clemence, I’ll distract Janie if she’s around. I’d like to see that Fernbourne Room again. Shall I ring?’
‘Yes,’ Georgia agreed. At least it was something to do while they were waiting to hear from Molly.
‘Good morning, Georgia.’ The greeting from Clemence seemed as friendly as ever, when they arrived at her suggested time three days later. Perhaps Georgia was only imagining that there was more distance between them than before. ‘Shall we go to the studio?’ Clemence suggested. ‘I gather Janie is looking after your father in the manor.’
‘Or the other way around,’ Georgia returned light-heartedly, as she followed Clemence up to her studio. ‘He has firm views on not being looked after.’
‘So,’ Clemence remarked, ‘has Janie. She might appear to be in the background but that isn’t always the case.’
Just as well, Georgia thought, interested in this different slant on Janie. Matthew would take some coping with, and his half-sister would need strength of mind to oppose his wishes. She began to see why Ted Laycock and Christopher Atkin were on the board. They could be ballast, or perhaps acting as no man’s land would better describe their role.
Clemence had a kettle and emergency supplies in her studio, to avoid having to break off work, she explained, to go to the kitchen every time she needed a drink. As Georgia helped Clemence bring another chair forward to the coffee table nestling in one corner, she waited to see if she would plunge straight into the plagiarism issue, but fortunately she didn’t.
‘Peter said you wanted to talk about Roy Sandford,’ Clemence gently prompted her, and Georgia suspected from the faint irony in her tone that Clemence knew perfectly well what was in her mind.
Clemence listened impassively, as Georgia talked about Roy and his role. Even as she spoke, part of her mind was busy wondering how far to go. She decided on a gamble to draw Clemence out, and concluded: ‘And it’s so important for us to discover whether The Flight of the Soul was his work or Alwyn’s, even though that isn’t the real reason I wanted to talk to you today.’
‘I’m so glad that need not come into the discussion,’ Clemence replied, straight-faced. ‘Just as well, don’t you think? You only want to know what made Roy special for us, or whether we merely treasure his memory?’
‘In a nutshell, yes.’ Partly at least.
‘Then the nutshell is the former. He was a fascinating extrovert and charming person. I’ll show you the first portrait of him that I painted. I was going to put it in the Fernbourne Room, but decided against it. You’ll see why when I show it to you.’
She took Georgia over to a large chest with shallow drawers, the kind used for prints and maps, and slid them open one after the other until she found the one she wanted. ‘Here,’ she said, taking it out and handing it to Georgia. ‘Prop it up on top of the chest.’
It was an unframed oil mounted on board. At first Georgia could make nothing of it, but as she studied it the design began to fall into place. Roy’s face came at her from every angle, with at least half a dozen images, each showing hands, blurred in their definition, stretched out before him, as though about to grasp an object – or an idea? Closer examination showed that the faces came from mirrors, reflecting different angles and expressions. All of them, coupled with the thrusting hands, displayed eagerness and compulsive energy.
‘I called it “Double Janus”.’ Clemence studied the painting – or was it Georgia she was studying? ‘1939, I think. Certainly before he was called up for the forces in late August. It’s not a literal title since this Janus is looking not just in two directions, or four, but at least six. Perhaps I’ll rename it. How about “The Bright Flame”?’
Georgia had a strong feeling that she was being outmanoeuvred in this game of wits, but aware that she might have an ace she could play, she decided to let Clemence get away with it for the moment. ‘In what way?’ she enquired. ‘A flickering flame doesn’t last long.’
‘Good try,’ Clemence said approvingly. ‘I’m not being fair,’ she added immediately. ‘Let me have another go. Bright flames push upwards but also kindle others. That’s what Roy did. He could never stop long enough to decide exactly what he wanted to do, or where he was going. Gavin tried to focus Roy’s creativity, but it was useless. First Roy would want to write novels as good as Gavin’s, and indeed he did a passable one, short because he wouldn’t put the time into developing it properly, and consequently never published. Then it was poems. Out come Young Man’s Fancy and Verses to Dorinda, then essays – which disappeared after being published in various abstruse literary magazines – then it was detective stories that were going to be his true calling. That was the golden age for detective fiction, when intellect predominated. All those tedious Oxford dons running around falling over dead bodies. Roy wanted to use the genre as a metaphor for human life, he told me once. He could extend the boundaries. Heaven knows what he meant. He wrote one, and then typically lost interest. He sent up bright flames in every direction but never settled.’
‘What about kindling others?’ Georgia asked, hoping this might bring Elfie in.
‘His enthusiasm sent us cracking onwards. Poor Alwyn was always trying to follow in Roy’s footsteps. He even wrote that detective story, The End of Lionel Draper, after the war to keep faith with Roy, so he said. To carry on where he had left off. It was good too. If he hadn’t …’ Her face clouded. ‘If Alwyn
hadn’t killed himself he could have had quite a future there. Unlike Roy he was a sticker.’
‘What about Roy’s love affair with Birdie – did that last?’ She was working her way round now.
Clemence took her time with this one, however. ‘Roy was the same with women. Always seeking something new to be his inspiration, and there was always Birdie, of course. She was a stalwart.’
‘Was she his Dorinda?’
Clemence laughed. ‘She likes to think so. Dorinda was a lady only of Roy’s imagination.’
‘Not Elfie then?’
‘Elfie?’
Georgia was horrified to see how much she had shaken Clemence. If she’d wanted a reaction, she’d got it.
Clemence pulled herself together quickly, however. ‘Wherever did you get that idea?’
Georgia decided to answer whether it was a rhetorical question or not. ‘I suppose from the image of Alwyn the wimp, which comes from you all. Despite the plagiarism, despite the rape of Jenny Baker, Elfie still appears to have loved this wimp. And Roy of course also lived at Shaw Cottage.’
‘My dear Georgia, let me give you some advice.’ Clemence looked worried to say the least. ‘Damien Trent also wanted to talk about Roy, as well as about Alwyn. I can’t answer your questions, any more than I could have answered his, because I don’t know all the answers. But please, please, do not put this notion about Roy and Elfie to Birdie. She’s too old to cope with it. Roy is her property. It’s his memory that keeps her going.’
Damien Trent too? Now Georgia knew she had to continue, albeit on a gentler note. ‘Would Roy have married her if he’d survived?’
Clemence gave her an odd look. ‘Probably. It might have been the answer.’
‘To what?’ She tried not to sound too eager.
‘To his restlessness over the failure of the ideal woman to settle long enough for him to catch his butterfly dream,’ Clemence replied, adding a deprecating, ‘Dear me, I am getting pretentious.’
Georgia was not fooled. Clemence knew exactly what she was saying and the effect she wanted to give. ‘The butterfly dream’: Elfie Lane.
Seeing that Peter’s car had vanished from outside the manor, Georgia went straight to the King’s Head as arranged. When she arrived, however, she was surprised to find Janie present as well – which was a little annoying since she had wanted to launch straight into the subject of Elfie and Roy.
‘Has my mother been boring you?’ Janie asked brightly, but meaning, Georgia guessed, have you been pestering her?
‘Not at all. She’s been filling in blanks about Roy Sandford for me.’
Georgia had hoped for some reaction to this, and she got it. Janie immediately looked panic-stricken. ‘Not The Flight of the Soul?’
‘Don’t worry. No troubled waters were entered.’ Not strictly true, but she had only dabbled a toe in them.
Janie sighed. ‘It’s too bad. I realize that Luke has to be sure of his ground, but why ever did he think there might be a problem in the first place? Sorry,’ she added quickly. ‘I realize you can’t answer that.’
‘But I can,’ Georgia replied. ‘I realize it must look to you as though between us we’re determined to dig up some kind of question mark over the Fernbourne Five’s reputation—’
‘It does,’ Janie agreed bluntly.
‘But it had already been dug up,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘When?’ Janie looked taken aback. Peter was watching carefully and not participating.
‘Over the original accusation that Alwyn had pinched Roy’s work,’ Georgia said. ‘All we’re doing is investigating whether Alwyn was unjustly accused, and Luke needs to be legally sure of his ground, as you say. Besides, even though the original case never came to court, it’s highly probable that the media would have picked up the story next year, especially if you republish The Flight of the Soul under Roy’s name. Every computer from the British Library down would reveal a discrepancy.’
‘I suppose so.’ Janie frowned. ‘But we would plan on having both names on it.’
She looked from Peter to Georgia and unexpectedly laughed. ‘I suppose it would be one in the eye for Matthew if we have to put it out under Alwyn’s name alone.’
Georgia agreed. Matthew would be all too eager to hide any dirt under the carpet, no matter what rights Birdie might have to Alwyn’s estate. No wonder Birdie was getting her spot at the opening. He needed to keep her sweet.
‘It’s hard on Molly too,’ Peter said casually.
‘Good grief, you’re right. I’d forgotten about her biography.’ Janie looked aghast. It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’
Georgia was amused. ‘You sound just like Clemence.’
‘Years of living with her,’ Janie said briefly. ‘I had some hopes of following in her artistic footsteps when I came back to live here, but they soon vanished.’
‘Back?’ Georgia picked up.
‘I was married for ten years or so. It broke up, so I returned at Mother’s suggestion to help her plan the future. My own painting sort of disappeared of its own accord.’
‘Didn’t you mind that?’
‘Curiously, no. And I don’t blame her,’ Janie added hastily. ‘Now I rather fancy myself running the manor side by side with my writing.’
‘Writing?’ Georgia was beginning to feel completely at sea, although Peter didn’t look puzzled.
Janie smiled. ‘It’s seldom mentioned, particularly by Mother and Matthew who think it a sad let-down after my father’s great works, but hey, you do what you can do. Right? I bury myself in romantic novels under a pseudonym.’
Georgia began to warm to this unexpected Janie. One up to her and one down to Clemence for not being proud of her daughter. ‘Is Molly your agent too?’
‘No way. Molly keeps her cards close to her armour-plated chest. I bet she didn’t tell you about Great-Aunt Betty.’
‘Who on earth’s that?’
‘The great Roy’s sister. Molly is the grandchild of Roy’s brother William. Elizabeth was the youngest of the three. She’s still alive and still very much kicking. She’s Molly’s biggest hurdle. Ask her.’
‘A car’s just drawn up outside. Expecting anyone?’ Luke asked, peering out of the living room windows. The gravel at Medlars gave ample warning of visitors. ‘It’s no one I recognize. Can you go?’ He was busy taking the coffee cups back into the kitchen.
Georgia obliged. Package? Someone lost? Gas or electricity canvassers? Someone for Luke’s office? That was less likely on a Saturday. She opened the door and froze when she saw the elegant blonde woman walking towards the door.
‘Darling,’ said Elena anxiously. ‘Don’t say you don’t recognize me? It hasn’t been that long.’
Georgia swallowed, desperately trying to regain her senses. ‘Of course I do,’ she said numbly. ‘Come in, Elena.’ She felt torn inside out. What on earth could her mother want, and what was she doing here unannounced? So far as she knew, Elena hadn’t been back to Kent since she left eleven years ago.
‘Why …?’ Georgia’s words stumbled as she led Elena to the living room. She could hear Luke in the kitchen, and it was better to leave him there until she had got to grips with this horror. First, the most important question. ‘Does Peter know you’re here?’ He would freak out, that was for sure.
‘No, darling.’ Elena looked curiously round, obviously appraising their living room. ‘I thought you could tell him. So difficult, you see.’ The well-remembered winning smile accompanied a slightly anxious look in case this wouldn’t pass muster.
It didn’t. ‘What is?’ Georgia asked woodenly. Be damned if she’d be civilized and start fussing around with coffee and biscuits until she knew what this was all about. In any case, her own stomach was churning far too much for her to react ‘normally’. What was normal about this? She hadn’t seen Elena for about six years now, and that had been in France. Before that it had been once or twice in London when the divorce was going through. And before that … when she walked so b
lithely out on Peter, leaving him to cope alone. Their communication was down to the occasional card or letter.
‘There’s some news, you see.’ Elena’s French chic seemed to give way, and her voice trembled.
‘Not …’ Georgia could hardly frame the word. ‘Rick?’ Her brother at last, after all this time? A corpse, a skeleton? The room swam round her and she thought she was going to faint.
‘Not definite,’ Elena assured her quickly. ‘Just something.’
Georgia took hold of herself. She had to get out of here. Find Luke. ‘I’ll get some coffee. You can tell me then,’ she rambled. The break would give her time to adjust. Elena followed her into the kitchen, however, where Luke was pretending to be intent on brewing more coffee. He looked from one to the other, obviously aware of the tension and perhaps seeing a similarity, although Georgia took after Peter rather than Elena.
‘You must be Luke.’ Elena’s voice had the familiar coo it tended to gain at the sight of an attractive man. Georgia realized she was being bitchy, however. Elena couldn’t help cooing, and it was hardly important compared with news of Rick.
Luke was chatting to Elena as though she were some casual visitor, and Georgia knew he was giving her time to calm down.
‘… the Dordogne,’ Elena was saying. ‘Near Dôme. Do you know it?’
What the hell did it matter, Georgia thought feverishly, besides Rick? She broke abruptly into their conversation. ‘Is he alive?’
Elena looked aghast. ‘Oh, darling, I don’t think so. How could he be?’
Georgia burst into tears. Of course Rick wasn’t alive. He’d died years ago. Of course, of course.
‘Georgia darling.’ Elena pushed Luke out of the way, and enfolded her in her arms. It felt awkward, since she was much shorter than Georgia, but Georgia didn’t care. For a brief moment she was a child again, and nothing mattered apart from the immediate present.
Georgia allowed Luke to lead them to the table, and then fiddle around with cups and saucers while she recovered. Both of them were regarding her anxiously.
