by Anne Perry
“You reckon it’s all to do with his wife, sir?” Laker asked. “Only it’s maybe something she did that would reflect badly on him? Or worse, maybe make him a laughingstock? Nobody likes to look ridiculous. Laugh with him might be fine, but laugh at him is another thing altogether. Specially to a self-righteous man like that, with a huge sense of self-importance, and none of humor.”
“Exactly,” Hooper replied. “And we don’t always know which things are sensitive to someone. We really need to find the daughter.”
“If she’s still alive,” Walcott put in. “She was in the right place, and would know if the stories are true. Street life is miserable for young girls, especially if they aren’t very streetwise—”
“I know.” Hooper cut him off. He had seen this for himself. Too many of them were eventually found in the river. Even one was too many.
They took out a map and divided the areas between them, according to the bits and pieces of information they had. Mrs. Soames’s rough description of Flavia as having auburn hair was all they had to go on. But perhaps that would help?
And if he found her, what then? Would she have any idea who wrote those letters? The events they referred to almost certainly dated back to before her mother died and she herself had left home. She might know who else was aware of their circumstances then. But even if she did, would she tell anyone, particularly a man from the River Police?
Hooper could think of nothing more to help, and he was compelled to protect Celia from Marlowe’s anger and possible revenge. What was in the letters that drove him to such fury?
He returned to the area that Marlowe had lived in before he had arrived at the Reverend Mr. Soames’s church. It was roughly opposite Celia’s house, but on the north side of the river, where the main port of the city was. He had read that London was the biggest city in the world. He was more acquainted with the fact that the Pool of London was the biggest dock.
There was much good about his years at sea. He had seen sights that stretched his mind and lit his imagination. They gave him an awe and respect for life in all its forms, human and otherwise, for its variety and beauty. But now he was glad to return to his home every night, to see the same pathway to the door, the flowers in the garden, the yellow roses, and above all, to have Celia welcome him. Perhaps he valued it more than those who had always had a home and took it for granted?
What had Marlowe had…and then lost?
Flavia.
* * *
The local police station could be of little help, except to say that Flavia’s name was known, but they were reluctant to press any charges against her. She was very young, and only just getting by. One of the local charities helped her now and then. No one had claimed she had robbed them. Generally, the police used prostitutes for information, and pretty much left them alone. None of them knew much about her, but they confirmed that she had auburn hair.
Hooper and his men visited local brothels, but no one admitted knowing her. The other street women who might have seen her were protective. She was pretty, but too unskilled to be much of a threat to them. That might change, if she survived.
One brothel keeper told Laker that she thought Flavia might work a particular street, but Laker doubted she was telling the truth. She just wanted to be rid of him.
It took a long time to work out which women worked which street. What was left for newcomers was pretty poor. It was a matter of survival. Finally, a mixture of threats and bribes narrowed it down to a few possibilities.
It was late and cold when Hooper himself found her on the second day of their search.
She was standing underneath the lamp on a narrow street, the mist already gathering in gray wraiths around the light itself, which reflected on the droplets collecting in her bright hair. She looked tired and sad. But she was a handsome girl; perhaps her mother had once looked like that. She certainly had no resemblance whatsoever to Seth Marlowe.
She did not see him until he was almost within the arc of the light thrown by the lamp. She gave a slight start. He wondered if in her imagination she was somewhere else, warm and safe…
She turned round with an automatic flinch, then forced herself to smile. “Looking for a little company, mister?” Her expression was painfully bright.
Hooper felt as if he’d received a physical blow. How could any man bear to think of his own child doing this, even in desperation to survive? What should he do? How would she understand that what he wanted was to know the truth? Which might be colder than the winter night closing in.
“Truth is, I’m hungry,” he said. And it was the truth. “Come and have a hot pie with me, in the pub around the corner, then we’ll talk about what else.”
She looked at him dubiously. “You want me to eat with you?” She spoke well, with no broad accent, but then if she was Marlowe’s daughter she had had a good education, at least until she ran away. If he forced Marlowe to show him the letters, he would know if they came from an educated hand. Was that one of the reasons why Marlowe would not show them to Celia?
“Yes,” he went on. “I’m hungry. And I’d rather not eat alone.”
She pulled back. “What do you want? You think you’re not going to pay me?”
He took money out of his pocket and gave her two crowns. “Enough to start with?” he asked.
She nodded and took the coins, looking at them carefully, then put them in a well-hidden pocket in her skirt. “All right. I’ll eat with you.”
He could see she was still suspicious, but she was hungry, too. He guessed she didn’t often have a good meal, in a warm room. What in heaven’s name had happened to her that she had chosen this life, instead of remaining with her father?
The wind was rising and bitingly cold. He took her arm gently, and she allowed herself to be led toward the corner of the main road.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment, then jerked her chin up. “Bessie,” she said, her voice suddenly harsher, as if it were strangled in her throat.
He was more certain than ever that this girl was Flavia, but he acted as if he believed her and kept his hand gently but firmly on her arm.
They turned the corner into the main street. The sign of the Dog and Duck was twenty yards ahead. She went willingly enough into the warm, brightly lit public house. He took a table and they sat, and then he ordered Irish stew for both of them. It came with rich gravy and plenty of meat and potatoes. It was not like the stew Celia made, but it was good all the same.
“Bessie,” he began. “It’s a nice name. I knew of a woman with hair exactly the color of yours. Her name was Rose. She was married to a man who was very stiff and self-righteous, always telling everyone how they ought to behave.”
Flavia stiffened uncomfortably in her seat. “Friend of yours, was he?” she asked suspiciously.
“No. Actually, I don’t like him, but that’s because he was very unkind to my wife. He accused her of writing anonymous letters to him.” He watched her closely now.
She flushed very slightly and took another spoonful of stew, looking away from him while she ate it. She did not ask what “anonymous” meant.
He ate also; he really was hungry.
Finally, she looked up. “What did you do?”
“Don’t you want to know what they said?” He was curious what she would say.
“Something bad, I suppose.” She shrugged. “Why are you talking to me?”
“I wondered when you would ask me that.” He did not answer the question. “I didn’t see the letters. And he didn’t show them to my wife, just waved one around and said it was vile and full of lies. And he said that if she wrote another, he would tell everyone. And that she wasn’t to see the young woman who is going to marry him, who is her best friend.”
“Oh…” She looked confused, uncertain how she should react
.
“Which upset her very much,” Hooper went on.
“Once she’s married him, she’s got to do as he tells her,” she said flatly. She was speaking of something she understood only too well.
“And if she doesn’t?” he asked.
“He’ll hit her. Husbands can do that. Where do you come from, anyway? Not that it makes any difference, whoever you are.” She looked away for a moment. “Very proper, was he? Friends with the vicar and all?”
“Oh, I believe so. Vicars have to be friends with everyone, even if they don’t like them very much. They have to try and see the best in people.”
She looked at him dismissively. “Oh, yeah? Why would you say that to me? I’m just a…girl off the street!” Suddenly she was angry and bitter, even close to tears.
“All sorts of people lie, Flavia, and all sorts tell the truth.”
Her face was white. “What did you call me?”
“Flavia. That’s your name, isn’t it?” he said gently.
The shock made her hunch into herself, as if he had threatened to shake her. She was quite obviously very frightened. Either she did not know what to say, or she was too terrified to speak at all.
“I think you are Flavia Marlowe,” he said gently. “And Rose Marlowe was your mother. You don’t seem to resemble him at all, but I think Seth Marlowe is your father.”
She did not deny it, but her eyes were filled with horror. “I’m not going back!” She almost choked on her words.
“Of course you’re not,” he promised. “Is what’s in the letters true? It certainly frightened him very badly.”
“Good! And of course it’s true. I don’t lie.”
“Lots of people don’t lie, but we all make mistakes.”
She banged the spoon down in her dish and started to push back from the table, her face bleached white and full of fear. “I’m not going…”
“You are not going anywhere you don’t want to, Flavia.” Hooper stood up and caught her hand. “But the letters have to stop, because other people are being blamed for them and are going to be punished. You didn’t mean that to happen, did you?”
“No, of course I didn’t. What about that poor girl he’s going to marry? What happens to her?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “I saw what he did to my mother. He hasn’t changed. He can’t. He ordered her around. ‘Do that, do this, don’t do that! You’re doing it all wrong! Do it the way I tell you!’ All the time. He will break his new wife, the way he broke my mother.” She was glaring at him, tears running down her cheeks. “She wasn’t bad, like he said she was, my mum. She just wanted to laugh now and then, to look pretty. That’s not a sin. She wasn’t a tart or a whore. She just wanted to be happy…and not beaten!”
“We all do, Flavia,” he said gently. “So, there’s something broken inside him, not her.”
“There is now!” She was raising her voice, angry and desperate with pain. “She took her own life. There’s no forgiveness for that, ’cause you’re dead and can’t repent.”
“Did he say that?”
“They all say that!”
“And how do they know? Anyone ever come back from being dead and say so?” He heard his own voice with incredulity.
She stared at him.
“Sit down,” he told her softly. “We don’t need the whole pub listening to us.”
She obeyed. “She did take her own life,” she said, so quietly he had to lean forward across the table to hear her. “After she lost the baby, she didn’t seem to care anymore. She just…we went to the seaside for the day. On the train. It’s not far. In the evening, when the tide was going out, she went for a walk on the sand. And she just walked into the sea, and kept on walking. I called out to her, ran along the sand and got all wet, but she was too far away. She might have heard me, or maybe she didn’t. But she just went on walking into the water, until it took her, and she couldn’t get back. She didn’t look back, not even once. She wanted to go and leave the world.”
The girl bent over and surrendered to her pain.
Hooper kneeled on the floor beside her and put his arm around her, holding her so she could lean against him and weep all the tears she had kept inside since that terrible night.
Nobody in the public house stared at them. They had all seen grief before, such loneliness and pain, and they understood.
* * *
Celia heard the front doorbell and then the sound of the door closing. She froze. Who would ring, when they could get in anyway?
“Celia!” It was Hooper’s voice.
She shot to her feet and opened the sitting-room door to the hall, then stopped. Hooper was standing just inside the front door, and beside him was a young woman, very young, a girl, in fact. Celia judged that underneath the paint, she was probably well under twenty. Her dress was tight, too tight for modesty, even for flattery, and it was all too clearly well worn. But the most striking thing about her was a mass of thick, curling auburn hair, loosely tied back and pinned up, but coming undone from the wind. Then Celia noticed her face, pretty in spite of the rouge: fine features, delicate bones, wide mouth.
Hooper spoke to the girl first. “Flavia, this is my wife, Celia.” He looked at Celia and she knew what he was going to say. “Celia, this is Flavia Marlowe, although I think she prefers not to use her last name.”
Celia met the girl’s eyes and saw the fear and confusion in them, and also that she was embarrassed. The street life was a means of survival in a world that confused her, the least awful of her choices—or at least it had seemed so at the beginning.
Celia smiled. “Come in, you must be freezing. Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps cocoa?”
“Thank you. I…I…” Flavia hesitated, clearly not knowing what to say.
“Cocoa,” Celia decided. “Why don’t you go and sit down by the fire, and I’ll bring it in for you.” Without waiting for an answer, she opened the sitting-room door and then went into the kitchen.
She heated the milk, enough for all three of them, and stirred in the cocoa powder. Her mind raced with all the possibilities as to what might have happened. Hooper had obviously been looking for Flavia, that much she knew—and successfully—but to what end? Did she know who had written the letters? Was it she herself? Did she say? And did Marlowe know it was her, which would be why he had not shown them to anyone else? Or had he only guessed?
But if he knew, why had he blamed Celia?
She remembered the sudden light in his face. That would explain it, if that had been the moment when he realized who had sent them: not her and not Arthur Roberson. Why had Hooper brought the girl here? Maybe not only to settle the matter, but for her own safety.
Celia filled three mugs, put them on a tray with a few oatmeal and chocolate biscuits, and carried it through to the sitting room.
As if back in childhood habit again, maybe because of the familiarity of a home, Flavia rose, took the tray from Celia, and put it gently on the little table nearest the fire. She passed the first mug to Hooper and took the second for herself, looking for somewhere to set it down again. She knew without being told that the chair she had been in was Celia’s. She moved instead to one end of the sofa.
They sipped their cocoa in silence. Celia thought they were probably all wondering how to approach the subject on all of their minds. How much to say? It would be even worse to tiptoe around it, talking of everything else.
Celia felt the girl’s eyes on her and wondered what she was feeling. Hatred for her father, or a longing for his approval, even forgiveness? Grief for her mother? A need to have someone excuse Rose’s suicide, find a reason why it was not the sin Marlowe had claimed it to be? Or did she wish that everyone would forget it and take her for who she was, which was surely not a girl who willingly chose the streets as a way of life.
It was Hooper who broke the silence.
He spoke directly to Celia, almost as if Flavia were not there. “Have we got enough hot water for a bath? For Flavia?” he added quickly.
“Yes, of course,” Celia replied. “Can’t go to bed cold. She’d never sleep.”
While Flavia was soaking in the hot tub, Hooper spoke quietly to Celia in the sitting room.
“I should go now and see Clementine. She needs to know that Flavia is with us and safe.”
“Good idea,” Celia agreed. “And while you’re there, please ask her if she has a dress that would suit a young girl. After all, tomorrow is Christmas Day.” She saw a look of amazement on his face. He had not been counting. She smiled. “We’re all ready, don’t worry.”
After Hooper left and Flavia was preparing for bed, Celia said, “You will stay with us over Christmas, won’t you?”
Flavia look puzzled and embarrassed, not knowing what to say, but she could not hide the longing in her face.
“Good,” Celia accepted, as if she had actually answered.
Flavia smiled shyly. Then a certain look of alarm came into her face, almost of terror.
Celia understood immediately. “You don’t need to go to church, if you don’t wish to. I will go for all of us.”
* * *
Hooper pulled his heavy naval peacoat around him. The rising wind, cruel with the beginning of sleet on its edge, would probably turn to snow before morning. He put his head down and walked into the wind.
It was just short of three-quarters of a mile to the house where Clementine lodged. He could see the thin crack of light under the drawn curtains. He walked up to the door, lifted the brass lion’s-head knocker, and let it fall. Within a few moments the door opened, revealing Clementine standing in the hall. “Mr. Hooper!” she said in surprise.
He smiled. “Good evening, Miss Appleby. I’ve come to ask a favor.”
