by Joan Aiken
Embarrassed but resolute, Val approached the men and asked, “Can you tell me where the owners of this house are now?”
“Arr!” said one of the men, and winked at his mate. “That’s a question, ennit? There’s several as’ud like to know that, mum.”
“Why?”
“Why, they shot the moon, don’t you see? Flitted. Brushed off. Mizzled.”
“That’s why we’re a-taking the sticks, see,” said the other man. “Sold to pay the creditors. Ninepence in the pound. Our guvner’s a debt collecter, see?”
Val thought she did see. It all sounded much as she had feared.
Greatly discouraged, she walked round to the house agents, Messrs. Boyce and Dobbie of Stratford Place. But their representative, a smooth young man in a pearl-grey waistcoat and rosebud buttonhole, was unable to help her. Yes, he understood that the tenants of Twenty-three Welbeck Street had left suddenly, owing six months’ rent. No, he was afraid he had no further address for Mr. and Mrs. Hansen; he would be glad to know himself where they could be found, as his clients were naturally anxious to collect the outstanding moneys. He gave Val a cool, assessing glance, as if wondering what kind of a creditor she might be, and then turned over the pages of a huge ledger and addressed himself to an ostrich-plumed lady who was demanding to know the rent of a house in Grosvenor Square.
Grosvenor Square—that rang a bell in Val’s mind. Something that Nils had said—what? Something that might give her a clue—a means of reaching him and Kirstie? Puzzling and pushing at this elusive memory, she walked southwards toward the Green Park.
Fashionable London shone and sparkled in the frosty sunlight. Polished leather and metal reflected the pale light; jewels and enamels flashed in the Bond Street windows. Ladies in furs and plumes stepped out of jingling broughams and barouches. Men with canes and top hats and carnations strolled and puffed cigars. It was like New York—and yet, Val was forced to acknowledge, it was different: more sophisticated, more exciting. Yes, perhaps more wicked too. Who could tell what might go on at night in some of those little back streets?
Val passed a bank in Piccadilly, and that reminded her of another possible lead; her father had bequeathed a small legacy to Nils and in arranging for its transfer Val had learned the name of his bank, the London Cotton Bank, in Dover Place. Consulting her map, Val walked in that direction.
But the bank were as politely unhelpful as the house agents. No, Mr. Hansen had closed his account with them some months ago. No, they were afraid they had no present address for him—and if they had, it was totally against bank policy to divulge it.
“Even to his sister?” Val asked wistfully. The fatherly, greyheaded bank official shook his head.
“I’m very sorry,” he repeated. The genuineness of his sympathy prompted her to ask, “You can’t think of anywhere else I could inquire for him, can you?”
The grey-haired man became a little more human.
“Well, miss,” he said confidentially,“I know Mr. Hansen used to be a member of the Beargarden Club for we had many cheques made out to it and—knowing these young gentlemen and the store they set by their clubs—it’s possible he still goes there. But, of course, that’s not a place where a young lady could go. You could address a letter to him there, though, miss, and I daresay they’d forward it.”
“His club? Now that is an idea,” said Val. “Why didn’t I think of that myself? Thank you very much for suggesting it.”
She beamed at the grey-haired man and hurried out of the bank.
Val knew all about the sanctity and privacy of men’s clubs. Even in New York they were forbidden ground for females; and she knew that in London the restrictions were still more strictly observed. But just now she was not disposed to respect these arbitrary and one-sided taboos. They will just have to waive their absurd rules for once, she thought robustly.
“Can you take me to the Beargarden Club?” she asked a cab driver, beckoning him with her umbrella.
“Well, I could,” he replied, chewing on a straw, “but fust off it would be a-cheating of you, and second it wouldn’t be a bit of use.”
“Why?” demanded Val, her spirits falling. Had the club, too, closed down?
“Well, for a start, it’s just round the corner, in Stable Yard Road, and you could walk it yourself in five minutes. And second off, the Beargarden don’t open till three in the afternoon. So it ain’t a bit of good going there now.”
“Oh,” said Val. “Well, thank you.”
“And third off,” he said, looking at her severely, “the Beargarden ain’t no place for a nice young lady like you, so I’m a-telling you, that’s old enough to be your father.”
“Thank you for that too,” said Val, and smiled at him. “But I think I will have to go there just the same.”
“Well then you best get some gentleman to go along of you,” admonished the cab driver and whipped his horse off toward Piccadilly. He called back, “Otherwise you’re likely to get more than you bargained for, and I ain’t joking.”
Val pulled up her watch on its neck ribbon and consulted it. Two o’clock. Her stomach might have told her, had she consulted that; she was ravenous. But there seemed to be no place in the vicinity where an unescorted lady could eat in comfort; the inns and chophouses round about were full of clubmen and guards officers; eyeing the places through their plate-glass windows she thought they looked like more exclusive male preserves, full of smoke, loud laughter, sawdust, and stamping feet. Becoming very irritated, Val bought a meat-pie in a little shop off Shepherds’ Market and ate it on a bench in the Green Park. In one respect, at least, New York was a far more civilised town.
The pie eaten, she amused herself by studying the shop windows in Bond Street, and the ladies who rode up and down it in their carriages. The fashions in dress here, she observed, were far more extreme than those in New York. She remembered hearing Benet say, with an indulgent chuckle, that his mother, grandmother, and several of his aunts, though they bought their clothes in Paris, generally kept them decently packed away in tissue paper for several years, until they could not be regarded as too outré, or indecently in the van of fashion; one old aunt, it was reported, had died leaving ten years’ of unworn dresses laid up in trunks in her attic for a vanished future. It did not seem probable, thought Val, that such practices obtained in London. Casting her mind back to the Allertons’ ball—how long ago that seemed!—she suddenly wondered if, after all, half the dresses there had not seemed over-frilly, rather provincial?
She looked at her watch again. Ten minutes to three. She might as well stroll down St. James’, in the direction of Stable Yard Road.
The Beargarden Club, when she reached it, was an unassuming establishment, without any of the marble steps, urns, or Corinthian columns which embellished the larger, better-known clubs in St. James’. They, with their morning rooms, coffee rooms, and libraries full of newspapers, had been open and functioning for hours already, but the Beargarden was only now beginning to wake up. Crates of poultry and lobsters were being delivered down the area steps; a small, sleepy-looking page in a liver-coloured uniform, covered with a rash of buttons, was sweeping the steps; another was watering a couple of potted palms inside the open door.
Val walked boldly in.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Nils Hansen,” she said to the larger of the two pages. “Can you tell me if he is here, or expected?”
The boy gaped at her. He was a sharp-looking, pasty-faced urchin, his hair so plastered with Rowlands Macassar Oil that it looked like overcooked spinach.
“I—I dunno,” he said at length.
“Well, will you find out, please?” she said crisply.
The boy retired to the back of the hall and summoned his mate by gestures. A lot of whispered confabulation went on, and some giggling; then both of them disappeared to lower regions.
Val stood waiting, feeling dec
idedly impatient, but also somewhat conspicuous in the small entrance hall, which had a marble floor and was furnished with a mahogany counter, a brass rail, and a rack for members’ letters. Her eye roamed to the H section, but there was nothing in it. She moved closer to make certain, ignoring footsteps and voices growing louder in the entrance.
“Good gad!” exclaimed a voice close behind her shoulder. “What the deuce have we here? Don’t tell me old Fenimore’s breaking out and introducing Daughters of Joy into the club? Dunno what Fothers and Dolly Longstaffe will say, though; neither of ‘em’s much in the petticoat line. However—let’s inspect the article—see if it’s worth the row there’s bound to be?”
A sudden jerk on her shoulder pulled Val round; she was startled at the strength of the grip, and even more when she saw the individual who had grasped her, for he was a pale, slight man, no taller than she was herself.
“Well, just look at that, will you, Grass, my dear fellow?” he drawled, coolly looking Val up and down. “They are making Daughters of Joy on a new model, what do you say? Not bad, quite handsome in fact, but a bit too starchy for my taste. However, let’s see—” and, leaning forward, he pinched Val’s cheek, looking into her eyes from a disconcertingly close range. His own eyes were extraordinary: pale-grey, and set at an angle far out from his nose. In their colour and slant they resembled a goat’s eyes.
“Quite a good-looking strumpet, don’t you think?” he remarked to his companion.
Val boxed his ears.
“Temper, temper,” said the pale-faced man calmly, but a red weal had sprung up on his cheek and—if Val did not imagine it—matching red sparks burned in his eyes. The pupils had widened enormously so that the eyes all of a sudden looked very much darker. She had never seen such naked dislike as in the look he gave her.
“What a spitfire, eh, Grass? I say, I don’t think she’ll do for carrying in our devilled bones at two A.M. after a late sitting; she might pour the mustard sauce over old Fothers, if he got up to any of his larks. Who do you suppose she is, by the by?”
He continued to speak as if Val were deaf, or did not understand English. She, for her part, was speechless with rage, struggling to find a retort telling enough to put him in his place once and for all.
“Oh come on in, Nuggie,” said his companion, a stocky, dark, bushy-bearded man. “Whoever she is, it ain’t any of our business. Fenimore’ll send her to the rightabout. Come along up.” The dark man spoke nervously, in a low tone, as if he were afraid that an awkward scene must develop.
“Well, where is old Fenners?” drawled the pale man. “Deuce take it, can’t he protect a fellow from being assaulted in his own club? I’ll be obliged to resign if this kind of thing goes on.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Val icily—she had by now taken firm control of herself—“I called in here to inquire—”
“Here’s Fenimore,” said the bearded man in an undertone. “Now do come on, Nuggie, don’t regard it—”
“No, I’m curious,” said the man addressed as Nuggie. “Well, Fenimore, why aren’t you at your post, man, eh? Look what happens—club members are subjected to all manner of annoyance in their own vestibule—”
An immensely fat, red-faced man had appeared panting up from the basement; he was still tying his cravat as he arrived at the desk. In spite of his girth he moved rapidly and was light on his feet; a pair of very sharp black eyes glanced rapidly from Val’s stormy face to the pale man and back again.
“Miss, miss!” he exclaimed, laying a slightly sweaty hand on Val’s arm and trying to urge her towards the street, “I am sorry, I am very sorry, but it is absolutely against the club rules for any ladies to come in here—any ladies at all! I must please ask you to leave directly, please, immediately!” There was a touch of foreign accent, Italian, possibly, in his voice; he spoke civilly enough but his eyes looked unfriendly; mentally Val put him down as somebody who might at once turn nasty if crossed.
“Look,” she said calmly, standing still and resisting his efforts to shift her, “all I came here for was to ask if my brother is here, or if you can give me his address; what’s wrong with that? If I can’t ask a simple question and get a civil answer—”
“Without being outrageously insulted, eh?” suavely put in the pale-faced man. “What an upsetting thing to happen to a decent, respectable godfearing young lady who just happened to step inside the club—what an atrocity, eh, Grass? I’ve a good mind to write to The Times about it.”
His ironic eyes met those of Val, who returned his stare coldly and said nothing.
The manager became even more flustered. “Very sorry, miss—er, madam—that’s another club rule—very strict. We never divulge members’ whereabouts to anybody who comes asking—”
“Particularly females, eh, Fenners?” drawled the pale-faced man. “Otherwise we’d have half the wives and sweethearts in London clamouring on the front doorstep, my love! We poor males have to defend ourselves somehow against the petticoat invasion—deuce take it, they’re creeping in everywhere now. Next thing they’ll be getting votes and sitting in the House—eh, Grass?”
“So you see, you’ll have to leave, miss,” said the manager. “I can’t help you, I really can’t help you.”
“Listen,” said Val, “I don’t even know if my brother is a member here still, though I have reason to believe he was at one time. If he has left, surely your rule wouldn’t apply? In that case you could give me his address?”
“If we had it,” said the bearded man. “That seems fair enough, eh, Fenners? What’s your—brother’s—name, then, ma’am?”
A couple more men had by now lounged up the steps and stood watching; Val heard a smothered chuckle, and more tittering from the pages; she felt extremely uncomfortable in this all-male purlieu, and only too anxious to get away.
“His name is Mr. Nils Hansen,” she said clearly. “I would be extremely grateful if anybody here can give me his address.”
At the name Nils Hansen she felt a sudden extraordinarily intense change in the atmosphere; somebody in the group had reacted with extreme violence to the news of her relationship. She glanced from face to face but all were noncommittal; none of the men betrayed any overt interest.
“Hansen?” said one of the pair who had just come in. “Haven’t seen him around lately, have we? Is he still a member?”
“I can tell you nothing—nothing,” repeated the fat Fenimore. “And, now, miss, I must again ask you please to leave.”
“If the young lady cared to write a letter care of here, it’d do no harm, eh, Fenners?” murmured the bearded man, who seemed anxious to placate all parties.
Val glanced at him sharply. She was on the point of saying, “Does that mean that he is still a member of this club?” when she caught the pale man’s eye, still fixed on her in a scrutinising stare. She bit back the words and simply said, “Thank you. I’ll do that,” and, turning on her heel, she walked out of the lobby with her head high, feeling all their eyes on her back, hotly imagining the outburst of knowing jokes and laughter there would be as soon as she was a couple of yards along the pavement.
When rapid steps came after, apparently in pursuit of her, she did not turn her head, but walked fast and angrily toward St. James’.
“Miss! Er—Miss Hansen, is it? Er—excuse me!”
A new voice—not one of the three who had spoken. She turned slightly as the pursuer came alongside and saw that it was one of the two men who had come in during the scene. He was a tall, fair, fresh-faced, ingenuous-looking young man with a high cravat and the exaggeratedly upright bearing of a guards officer.
“Forgive me pushing my nose in—couldn’t help overhea’ing”—he spoke with a slight lisp—“but if old Nils is weally lost to view, I can think of one person who might know where to find him.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Val. She was still angry enough n
ot to be able to resist adding—“if you’re sure I’m not a revengeful wife or rapacious creditor? I know how your club members have to be protected.”
“Oh well—deuce take it—ve’y sowwy about all that fwacas—anyone can see you’re his sister! I mean to say—spit image! Now—about this person—she ain’t exactly top-drawer and I don’t know if I’m doing w’ong in telling a nice young lady like you—but she’s a deucid good-hearted gal—”
“Oh!” exclaimed Val on a long breath, suddenly enlightened. “Do you mean a dancer—what’s her name—Hetty something?”
“Letty—Letty Pettigrew—that’s the girl. Kindest c’eature that ever stepped. Devoted to old Nils, too. If he’s anywhere—depend on it—she’ll know. Not offended, I hope? Didn’t do w’ong, did I?”
“Not a bit,” said Val warmly. “I’m most grateful to you. Have you any notion where I can find—Miss Pettigrew?”
“Last I heard she was in something down at the Elephant and Castle Theatre. Not one o’ the top-notchers—but—well, we all have to live, eh? Hope you find her—and your brother, Miss Hansen.”
“Thank you,” said Val. “You are very kind. My name is Montgomery, actually—I am Nils’ half-sister.” On an impulse she added, “I’m staying at the Jersey Hotel. If—if you should receive any news of Nils, I’d be even more grateful if you could let me know there, or ask him to get in touch with me. Could you do that? I’m really anxious about him. I came to London especially to see him—he invited me—and now, when I get here, I find he’s—he’s just gone. It’s very upsetting—well, frightening, really.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much, ma’am,” said the young man easily. “Old Nils may have the best of reasons for bobbing out of sight for a few months—even the starchiest of us have to do it at times, y’know. Anyway, if I do hear word, I’ll let you know. Delighted to meet you.” She smiled at him and he blinked, quite dazzled. “My name’s Orville, by the way—er, card.”
