Pale as the Dead

by Fiona Mountain

  The view wasn’t obscured with high rises and office blocks then, but murky and cluttered with smoking chimneys. Blackfriars was the heart of Dickensian London, full of narrow alleys and cobbled streets, dark inns and chop-houses, the river in its Victorian heyday busy with barges, mud larks and warehouses.

  It seemed so much quieter now. In the courtyard below a man was walking a dog. Natasha watched him cross the road, pass beneath the solitary street lamp and disappear round a corner, leaving the road empty. But not quite. Natasha gave a sharp intake of breath. There was someone down there. A girl with long hair in a grey dress. She was standing just away from the light, wreathed in mist and shadow. Natasha tried to make out her face, but she was too far away. Natasha looked for a catch in the window, tugged at it, but the window was stuck fast. Perhaps she’d see more with the light off. She glanced around for a switch. The room was cast into semi-darkness which brought the courtyard below into better focus. But the girl had gone.

  She must have been one of the girls Marion had described, someone who’d come to take a picture, see the place for themselves, on some kind of pilgrimage or homage. Or just a regular passer-by.

  She turned round to the dim room. The only light was beneath Lizzie’s picture, like a shrine.

  ‘Lord, I’m sorry,’ Marion turned the light back on, balancing a tea tray. ‘Must’ve been habit, so used to living alone. Didn’t mean to leave you in the dark.’

  That’s exactly where I am, Natasha thought. In the dark.

  * * *

  Half an hour later Natasha got up to leave. She picked up her bag and the little bouquet of violets. As she reached the door she turned and held it out to the old lady.

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ Marion took the flowers. She closed her eyes and inhaled. ‘What gave you the idea I might know this girl, by the way?’

  ‘She told her boss that she lived here.’

  Marion gave a wily smile. ‘Maybe she does. In a way.’

  Thirty-Three

  NATASHA GUESSED IT must be about ten-thirty as she walked down Queen Victoria Road. It was a safe bet that Edward Deerhurst, Richmond Herald at the College of Arms and Natasha’s former boss, would have been at his desk for roughly three hours.

  She climbed the stone steps, signed in at the little reception desk, and walked up the wide oak staircase to the Earl Marshal’s Court.

  The College had been an inspiring and, at first, daunting place to work, steeped in history and ceremony and tradition, the official repository of the coats of arms and pedigrees of English, Welsh, Northern Irish and Commonwealth families and their descendants. Natasha still found it stimulating and humbling to think of the genealogists who’d pioneered and honed their skills on that site since the fourteenth century.

  The door to Edward’s office was ajar. Natasha tapped.

  ‘Come in.’

  He stood when he saw her, came around his carved oak desk with his arms wide. ‘My dear Natasha, what a wonderful surprise.’

  The Heralds were responsible for furnishing their own offices and Edward’s was filled with antiques that would have looked fine in a museum or a cordoned-off room in a stately home, but were used here as originally intended. You sat on Jacobean chairs, had meetings at a cherrywood table with ornately carved legs, read by the light of lamps with gilded stands.

  Natasha couldn’t imagine Edward Deerhurst in any other kind of surroundings. He carried his role well; the legacy of the first Heralds who’d mixed with medieval knights and been part of the royal household. There was an aura about him that befitted the duties of the current Officers of the College, organizers of official ceremonies, coronations, state funerals and the opening of Parliament. At those occasions the Heralds dressed in their distinctive medieval uniform, a tabard, embroidered on its front and back and sleeves with the royal arms.

  Edward’s everyday wear was less ornate but still formal, a black waistcoat and crisp white shirt. He was tall and distinguished, with thick black hair greying around the temples, a slightly gaunt face with a large Roman nose, iron-grey eyes and a deep, refined voice. He had terrified Natasha when first she’d met him.

  Now he made them coffee, freshly percolated, with cream, and when they were seated in the corner of the room, said, ‘I had a telephone call yesterday afternoon, a gentleman, wanting to check your credentials. Is it a coincidence you’re brightening my day a few hours later?’

  Natasha felt goose bumps break out over her skin. ‘What did he want to know?’

  ‘Just how long you’d worked here, when you left, what cases you’d been involved with, then information about the processes we employ, how adept and experienced you were at some of them, specially how you’d use a person’s ancestors to find someone alive today. He started to ask about your background, family, but I put him straight on that, told him it wasn’t at all relevant. I gave you an impeccable reference of course, told him you were a brilliant researcher, very conscientious.’ Deerhurst levelled his eyes at Natasha. ‘If you’ve decided you’ve had enough of the freelance life, I’d rather hoped you’d come back here.’

  ‘You’d be the first to know, Edward. I’m not looking for a job.’

  ‘Then what…?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ She sipped the strong coffee, rested the cup back on the saucer. ‘What would you do,’ she said, ‘if you were working on a case, and you started to wonder if your client, or somene you were researching, might have done something wrong, committed a crime even?’

  His slanted eyebrows, at times, gave him the distinct look of an owl. ‘We’re the guardians of secrets. We’re trusted with intimate family details, permitted access to the most sensitive papers, on the understanding that anything we find will be treated with the utmost confidence.’

  She caught sight of the documents neatly laid on Edward’s desk, embossed with the crest of the motto of the College. ‘Diligent and secret,’ she said.

  He gave a nod. ‘Diligent and secret. But, and there is a rather large But.’ He levelled his eyes at her. ‘We’re not priests taking confessions. It’s just a job. Though I know you find that hard to accept.’

  She smiled. ‘You couldn’t just run a quick check to see if you have anything on file about a Harold Leyburn of Dorchester.’ As she said the name she had a peculiar feeling of déjà vu, as if she’d come across it somewhere, before Adam gave her the certificate. She found it in her bag, handed it to Edward.

  ‘Ah, so you didn’t just come here to say hello.’ He rose and left the room. ‘Give me a moment.’

  He reappeared after a while. ‘Drawn a blank I’m afraid. There are at least a dozen Harold Leyburns in the 1891 census, none who live in Dorset, let alone Dorchester. In a few months they’ll release the 1901 census of course, which might be more revealing. That’s not much help to you now though is it? The College has nothing else listed under that name. But, you know, I’m sure I know it from somewhere.’

  ‘Me too. Can I borrow your computer?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  It sat in pristine isolation in an alcove of the room, hardly used. Natasha logged onto an internet search engine, keyed in Harold Leyburn, watched the electronic egg-timer turn and turn. Five entries. News items from six weeks ago.

  Promising young Olympic sprinter Harry Leyburn, 24, died suddenly in training yesterday. The coroner has been called to investigate but so far the police do not suspect foul play. It is thought that Leyburn’s death was the result of a heart attack.

  No further news. Details of the autopsy had clearly not yet been released.

  ‘Are you working for a relative of his?’ Edward asked, picking up the sheets from the printer and reading what Natasha had just read.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Was Harold Leyburn this Harry’s ancestor then, and if so, where did Bethany fit in? ‘I just don’t know, Edward.’ She took the copies from him. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘Always a pleasure.’

  She set off down the corridor.

 
; ‘Natasha?’

  She stopped.

  ‘Are you putting yourself in danger?’

  The threatening phone call, the Celica that had followed her, whoever was poking around asking questions, one step ahead of her, at Highgate, talking to Edward. Not to mention Adam and her renewed doubts about him, and Jake Romilly’s intimidating asides. She felt that the answer to Edward’s question was probably yes. She was in some kind of danger. But to what degree, or more to the point from whom, or why exactly, she couldn’t say. Someone who wanted something she had, to find out what she knew or what she was doing?

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ She tried to sound confident.

  ‘Be careful, will you?’

  She waved her hand over her shoulder.

  * * *

  When she eventually arrived home having picked up Boris from the Snowshill Arms, the post, yesterday’s and today’s, was lying on the mat. A couple of January bills, a large white envelope stamped with the FRC’s logo. She knew what that would be; birth and marriage certificates she’d ordered on normal delivery when she was at the Records Centre, some for new leads, others just background for clients’ presentation files and pedigrees. There was also a brown A4 envelope that she gave no more than a glance to as she picked it up.

  They could all wait until tomorrow. She couldn’t settle to any of it. Her mind kept wandering to Mary and James. When she’d collected Boris, James had said Mary was resting in bed. She’d had some contractions and they’d contacted the midwife only to be told it was probably a false alarm. They’d reassured Mary that if the baby was born imminently, two weeks early, it would be absolutely fine. Natasha imagined herself in Mary’s shoes, then stopped herself. Biological clock wound up and ticking at the threat of being thirty? Surely not. Right now she seemed as far away from Mary’s life as it was possible to be.

  She’d skipped lunch again, but had gone beyond feeling hungry. She ate a bowl of cornflakes with milk and a sprinkle of sugar. Breakfast was the best meal, all the better for not being eaten when it was supposed to be.

  She put some milk in a pan for hot chocolate. While she waited for it to boil she glanced at the envelope that was sticking out beneath the smaller ones on the kitchen table. It was franked second class, with an insignia: ‘The Royal College of Surgeons’.

  The biography of John Marshall. Part of her didn’t want to open it. She’d had more than enough of them for now. John and Jeanette and Lizzie and Bethany, or whoever she was. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her. Jake Romilly’s parting shot: Curiosity killed the cat. She could never resist finding out more about people she had started researching.

  She tore the envelope open and drew out two sheets of photocopied paper, stapled together. The typeface was tiny, but Dr Marshall’s biography spanned both pages.

  Marshall, John (1818–91) M.R.C.S, F.R.C.S.

  Born in Ely, Cambridgeshire on 11 September 1818, the second son of William Marshall, solicitor and an excellent naturalist. John Marshall entered University College Hospital, London in 1838 and moved to Savile Row, where he remained until his retirement. In 1887 he replaced Sir Henry Acland as President of the General Medical Council. Marshall perfected the operation for the excision of varicose veins. At first violently criticised, it is now accepted. He was one of the first to show that cholera might be spread by means of drinking water and also advocated the system of circular wards for hospitals. He gave his first course of lectures on anatomy to the art students at Marlborough House in 1853, a course which he repeated when the art schools were moved to South Kensington.

  A bust of him by Thomas Brock, R.A., dated 1887, was presented to University College on behalf of the subscribers to the Marshall Memorial Fund. A replica is in the college Hall. He appears in Jamyn Brookes’ portrait of the group of the Council.

  Marshall’s wife, Ellen died in 1859, and on New Year’s Day 1891 her husband followed her to the grave.

  Natasha, deflected by something else, didn’t spot it at first. Marshall had taught anatomical drawing to art students, so he was one of the pioneers of Marcus’s profession. Out of habit, she thought how interested Marcus would be; perhaps he already knew of Marshall? Then she remembered she’d relinquished the right to share the details of her life with him.

  There was a hissing behind her and she turned to see the milk seething over the edge of the pan. She snatched the pan handle, holding it at arm’s length and cursing as the boiling froth subsided.

  She poured what remained into a mug and spooned in some powdered chocolate. She wandered through to the living room. As she went over to the iMac something about the last line of the biography came back to her. It had been one of the first things she’d needed to know. Mrs Marshall’s name. Ellen.

  She put her mug on the windowsill, went back into the kitchen and grabbed the sheets of paper.

  The date of Mrs Marshall’s death. It was wrong. It had to be.

  She found her bag where she’d dumped it in the hallway, pulled out her file and flicked through to the photocopied census return. Little Eleanor Marshall was recorded as being ten years old when the 1871 census was taken. Which meant she was born in 1861. Two years after the doctor’s wife died. Eleanor was named after her mother, but not after Ellen Senior. Ellen Jeanette may have died unmarried, but she had not died a virgin, or childless. She wanted to kick herself. Should have considered it before. It was not uncommon in the days when illegitimacy was considered such a terrible stigma, to bring up a child as if it was the sibling of its parent.

  She went back to the living room to try Adam’s number. The answering machine was winking at her. With some trepidation, she hit the play button.

  It was a female voice, young, friendly. ‘It’s Katherine. Rosie at Highgate Florists said you wanted to talk to me. I’d really like to come and see you. It’s my day off tomorrow so I can be with you by two. I hope that’s all right. Call me if it’s not convenient. Otherwise I’ll see you then.’ She left her number and the machine clicked off.

  Natasha replayed the message. Just in case she’d missed something.

  It’s Katherine. No surname. As if they already knew one another.

  She couldn’t understand it. Why this girl would be so insistent on coming immediately, all the way from London to Gloucestershire?

  Thirty-Four

  HAD JEANETTE TAKEN her secret with her to the grave?

  That wouldn’t necessarily mean little Eleanor didn’t realise the truth. There were some things you didn’t need to have spelt out for you. Things between families that, although never mentioned, come to be understood and acknowledged.

  Natasha was never completely convinced or satisfied until she had proof – dates, something on a certificate. It was against her nature to leave loose ends. This was what she had been waiting for, a key that made everything lock into place.

  But meeting this girl, Katherine, could prove far more important than anything that might be waiting to be unearthed in the birth, marriage and death registers. She might have information that would end the search for Bethany there and then, and make the Victorian story superfluous. Natasha couldn’t help regretting that.

  But she was definitely getting somewhere now, that was all that mattered. About time, too. It was 12 January already.

  One thing Katherine wasn’t going to be able to tell her though: Who was Eleanor’s father? Was it the elusive Mr Brown?

  And how did this link to Harold Leyburn?

  She lay down on her stomach on the rug in the living room, shoved Boris off, propped her head in her hands, and opened the diary in front of her.

  Papa thinks there must be some explanation for Mr Brown’s silence. He was so ‘honest-looking’, so ‘polite’ to Mama, so ‘deferential’ to Papa, was without doubt ‘so much taken with me’ that Papa cannot make it out. No more can anyone else, but so it is. I begin to quite forget all about him. Papa asked if I should like an Academy ticket to be sent to him and I answered promptly in the negative.
I would not go a single step out of my way after him. I shall never get married to anyone else though.

  Three pages on, Jeanette was talking about dressmaking, the shade known as Etna, a beautiful coppery-russet that was a fashionable colour for women’s clothing then. Everyone I see is dressed in brown (still my fate!). I am gradually eliminating everything brown from my possession. I have always hated the colour.

  That was the last page. Not a satisfactory ending at all. A life interrupted.

  Natasha ate a slice of toast and Marmite, then took Boris for a long tramp in the drizzling rain.

  Wet grasses tangled round her ankles as she walked, the coldness eventually seeping through her jeans. A seasoned walker had once told her that jeans were the last thing you should wear, that if you got caught in bad weather, the waterlogged denim could actually cut off your circulation. Natasha couldn’t quite believe this. When she reached the Manor Farm though, she decided to double back.

  She turned the bend in the lane by St Barnabus, with Orchard End up on the right. The front door was flung wide open. Knowing she’d only be out for a few minutes she hadn’t bothered to lock up, but she was absolutely certain she’d shut it properly. She ran the rest of the way, paused outside, glad of Boris, though she didn’t much trust his abilities as a guard dog.

  She went into the hallway. Silence. She thrust out her arms and gave the living room door a push. It swung open. Her purse and cheque book were still sitting on the table by the fire place, the TV and iMac still in situ. But her desk had been ransacked. Papers were strewn everywhere, the pile of birth and death certificates rifled through, spilling onto the floor. Her notebook opened at the page where she’d written the Marshall details.

  She grabbed the heavy pewter candlestick from the window ledge and made her way upstairs, treading carefully, striding to avoid the steps that creaked. She could see into her bedroom. The duvet rumpled, clothes littered everywhere, towels draped over the floor. Just as she’d left it!

  The necklace Steven had given her for Christmas was still on her dressing table, next to a silver hair clip.