He stood where he was for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes before finally beginning to admit the futility of his mission and was on the point of abandoning the whole project when something stopped him. As two men approached the house and then went down the area steps, he pressed even closer back into the doorway. In a few minutes, they were followed by others in ones and twos. All of them appeared to be working men, shabbily dressed. Seven or eight he counted. Then two more came.
If he hadn’t already been pressed into the baths’ doorway, he would have reeled back in shock at the sight of a man he had never, in a million years, expected to see there.
Twelve
Rain beating a tattoo on the windows woke Alice. After her meeting with David, she had slept better and this morning felt rested. Although she hadn’t heard from him since then she had felt a distinctly encouraging lift to her spirits in knowing that she was no longer alone in worrying about Edmund. She’d had serious doubts about consulting him, but she was glad now that she’d done it. The name of that woman, Mona Reagan, wouldn’t erase itself from the forefront of her mind, but now she had convinced herself that the connection with Edmund must be some easily explained triviality, though she didn’t yet feel it was something she could approach him with.
The rain ceased abruptly, and immediately afterwards the sun came out, making sparkling diamonds of the raindrops on the window panes and sending sharp, reflected light into the room, April living up to its reputation. Should she risk a soaking by being caught in the showers while cycling to and from the Dorcas? Public transport from here was a tedious business, and summoning a cab to Spitalfields to bring her home always seemed like an affectation. She had learned not to excite comment from those who might wish to believe her voluntary work there was a form of condescension: if people got the idea you were lording it over them and patronizing them by offering free medical attention then trust would be lost. It would have to be Lowther. She sighed, but she would suffer him rather than forego her day at the clinic. Everyone seemed to think that carrying on with her duties at the Dorcas on a daily basis was admirable in the circumstances, when it was in fact therapeutic. Even at normal times, it was only there that she felt truly herself, something she rarely admitted but was always conscious of at some deeper level. Now, she was only too glad of it. Doing something useful and practical was always guaranteed to put things into perspective for Alice.
Half an hour later she was waiting inside the open front door for Lowther to bring the car from the old coach house round the back where it was garaged, but instead of the car appearing, it was Lowther himself who came rushing into the hall, out of the door which led to the Martens’ side of the house. She was aware of a commotion he’d left behind him as he almost shouted, ‘The baby’s back, Mrs Latimer, madam!’
‘What?’
‘There in her pram, just outside the back door, nice as ninepence!’
She rushed past him and into the room where breakfast had been laid out for Violet and Ferdie. Only Ferdie was there, half-dressed, in shirtsleeves and braces, his normally brilliantine-disciplined hair as yet unbrushed, looking as though he hadn’t slept, as he always did nowadays. But he was transformed. He was pacing about, cradling the bundle that was Lucy in his arms as carefully as if she were a fragile piece of Edmund’s Dresden china that might crumble into pieces if he did more than draw breath anywhere near her, almost as though by simply breathing his heartbeats might shatter her into pieces. The child lay still, deeply asleep, tightly cocooned in a shawl, only her sleeping face and her golden curls visible. She didn’t wake, even when at that moment Violet flew into the room, her arms held out towards her child. It was a moment or two before Ferdie could be persuaded to surrender his precious daughter.
‘Oh, my baby!’ Violet held Lucy on her knee and sat staring, almost stunned with disbelief, at her calm, sleeping face, eyelashes fanned out on the cheeks,. But after a while she said, almost defiantly, ‘You see, I told you she would come home to us, Ferdie.’
‘So you did, Violet, so you did.’ He cradled his baby’s hands in his. ‘And you were right, weren’t you?’ he added after a moment.
No one yet was asking why or how this miraculous return had been brought about. Alice thought that perhaps they were all, herself included, only too thankful that the waiting, watching, praying was over. It wasn’t possible the ransom had been paid, since no instructions had been received for paying it. They had been waiting on tenterhooks to hear how and why this was to be carried out ever since the demand had arrived, but in fact there had been no further communication after that first one, nothing at all. Unlikely as it seemed, the kidnappers could only have had a change of heart.
The room, its silence undisturbed ten minutes ago save for the ticking of the mantel clock and the crackle of the newly lit fire as it got going for the day, was suddenly full of people, everyone talking once. Hewson, who’d been on her way with the breakfast bacon and sausages in a hot dish under a silver cloche, plonked it down on the sideboard and stayed where she was, struck dumb, her middle-aged legs apparently having lost the power of motion. Mrs Lowther was next into the room, exclaiming, followed by Emma, who ran over, beaming, to look at the sleeping child.
‘Shall I put her in her cot, Mrs Martens, till she wakes up?’
‘What? Oh no, Emma. Best to let her sleep here on my knee.’
It was Lowther who had first spotted the perambulator, on his way to get coal in for the kitchen range before driving Alice to the clinic. It had rained heavily during the night and the flagstones on which it stood were still wet, but the waterproof apron had been fastened tight, the hood raised and Lucy in her blanket was perfectly dry. She must have been left there earlier that morning. The wickerwork of the pram was not sodden as it would have been had it stood there all night.
Suddenly, Violet said, ‘She’s awfully pale, isn’t she?’ Her voice began to tremble. ‘What have they been doing to you, Baby?’
‘Nothing to worry about, I’m sure, ma’am,’ Emma said soothingly, ‘but maybe Doctor Latimer should take a look at her?’
Alarm sparked in Violet’s eyes. ‘Do you think so?’ She looked up, all at once aware that Alice, who had been silently watching, consumed with delight but unwilling to interfere, was in the room, too. She held the baby jealously to her for a moment, but then she said, ‘Of course, yes. Yes, Alice, please do.’
‘I’m sure Emma’s right, there’s no cause for worry,’ Alice replied, ‘but I think I should check her over.’
Lucy was relinquished to her and she sat down with her on her lap. She still didn’t wake, even when the cocooning shawl was removed and Alice began gently to undress her.
‘Look at what she’s wearing!’ Violet exclaimed suddenly, but not with indignation for a Lucy clad in a plain flannel gown, bereft of all her usual, embroidered cotton flounces, rather was it annoyance at the sight of the little bracelet that had been clasped round her chubby wrist. For a moment, it looked as though she would have snatched it off, but at the sight of her peaceful child, she checked herself and gently eased off the offending object.
It was the sort of present, Alice saw, often given to baby girls at their christening, made to expand as the child grew, but still ridiculously big for Lucy. It would not have stayed on her wrist at all had it not been bent out of shape a little. It was obviously not new and had perhaps been worn by some other little girl. Maybe it was that which had caused Violet to show such extreme reaction towards an object there was no reason at all to dislike. It was quite pretty, a slender twisted design in silver, ornamented with a tiny cluster of leaves, enamelled in green. ‘Don’t you think it ought to be shown to the police?’ she asked, as Violet thrust it into her pocket.
‘Oh, there’s no need for that. Well, yes, I suppose so, though what it will tell them I can’t think. I’ll give it to Inspector Gaines when I see him.’
‘He’ll be so happy to know Lucy’s back,’ Alice said.
‘I’m sure,’ Violet sai
d carelessly.
‘I’ll let him know,’ said Ferdie, but he made no immediate move.
‘She’s pale, and she must have been given something to make her sleep like this,’ Alice was able to say after a gentle examination which still didn’t wake Lucy. ‘But she seems perfectly all right, Violet; she’s clean, well fed and cared for. Quite unharmed and healthy. She’s even sprouted another tooth. It’s probably some sort of mild sedative she’s been given, but it shouldn’t harm her. Don’t try and waken her, just let her sleep until she wakes naturally. If you like,’ she added, ‘I’ll stay with her until she does.’
In fact, Lucy slept for another couple of hours, then woke, beamed round at everyone and immediately tried to sit up, crowing with delight over her disreputable rag doll that Emma gave her. Between them, Emma and her mother let her splash in her bath, powdered her, gave her some breakfast and dressed her once more in her rich-little-baby garments. It was a wonder to everyone, but she appeared to be quite unaffected by having been looked after by people she wasn’t accustomed to. But who would know, with a baby who couldn’t speak? Had she cried, sobbed for familiar faces and loving arms, for being left uncomforted by her nanny, who was (though Violet would not have liked to hear this) more important at this stage than a mother who only saw her once or twice a day? Was a baby of that age still young enough not to have known what was happening, too young to be afraid, too young to have felt abandoned by those who loved her? Lucy was a sunny-natured child who would go willingly into outstretched arms, respond to kindness. And that was, after all, the best hope they could cling to.
‘Somebody must have paid up,’ Inskip said, when the great news of the return of the Martens baby was relayed to Scotland Yard, to much jubilation from every man in the place. The awareness of what had been happening had had a sobering effect on everyone, from those who were husbands and fathers down to the youngest constable.
But it would seem not, as he and Gaines discovered when they arrived at Manessa House.
‘You’re sure no money was handed over?’ Gaines asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Ferdie. He was predictably brimming over with joie de vivre at the return of his precious child. The days without Lucy had changed Ferdie Martens into a shadow of himself, someone scarcely recognizable, but he had magically reverted to his usual cheerful, optimistic self. Whereas Violet Martens looked bemused, slightly stunned with disbelief, as if unable to convince herself that present-day miracles did actually occur sometimes.
‘And you say Lucy was simply left outside? No note, or any indication of why she’d been taken?’
‘Nothing, Inspector, but we’re not complaining,’ Ferdie said buoyantly. He was not the only one who was happy. An altogether different atmosphere from their previous visits prevailed throughout the household. Lucy’s homecoming had miraculously lifted the gloom and apprehension that had lain over it like a pall. ‘Damned funny business if you ask me, but what does it matter? Don’t suppose we’ll ever know the truth, but I for one don’t care, as long as she’s unharmed, safe at home where she belongs.’
‘It’s over, and we can forget it,’ Mrs Martens said.
It took Gaines’ breath away, that she really seemed to believe that. Well, thankfully, it was over. If not in the way he wanted, with the culprit behind bars. He too should be feeling relieved that it was a happy outcome which left him free to concentrate on his other case, the murder of Lennie Croxton, where lack of progress was beginning to be worrying. But how and why the kidnapping had taken place at all still remained as much a mystery as ever and if her mother did not want to know the details, Gaines did. He couldn’t be satisfied with such unfinished business. It was an anti-climax which left behind too many unanswered questions, and a nasty, if undeserved, feeling that they, the police, had been left wanting, the chief question being why had she been returned, without explanation, and the demand for money dropped. Yet the unlikely possibility persisted of Emil Martens having succumbed and paid the ransom, having taught his son that lesson he thought he deserved. ‘There’s no chance that the money was paid?’ he asked.
‘How could there be when we don’t know who was demanding it? We’ve had no communication since that first note,’ Ferdie reminded him.
It still made no sense. Maybe the whole operation had indeed been nothing more than a spiteful or malicious act, specifically designed simply to cause worry to the Martens, and not to gain money. That in itself was a nasty thought. The fact remained that the perpetrator had wasted valuable police time and resources, caused untold grief and agony, and they were no nearer finding out who that could possibly have been.
Yet if the intention to return Lucy had been there all along the ransom note had been pointless – although not if it had been sent by someone other than the kidnapper, someone who wished them ill taking the opportunity to frighten them. There were such people around, plenty who were sick enough to do even that. Gaines didn’t think it wise to voice his thoughts, though the attitude of both parents, Ferdie’s blithe disregard of the still unanswered questions and his wife’s inability, or unwillingness, to face them, was oddly disconcerting, in a way he couldn’t put his finger on.
Lucy herself, now bouncy and active in the arms of a cheerful Emma, who had already seen off two reporters and a press photographer wanting to take a picture of Lucy after the news of her homecoming had somehow already leaked out, was brought out for their inspection, together with the clothes she’d been dressed in on her return. These would be sent for forensic examination, but there was little hope of gaining anything from them. ‘They’re a poor exchange for the clothes she was wearing,’ Violet roused herself to say, wrinkling her nose in distaste. ‘I suppose they’re clean enough, but I’m surprised she hasn’t developed a rash, with that rough woollen vest next to her skin.’
‘Where’s the bracelet? I don’t see it here.’ Alice was putting the little garments together, ready to be parcelled up.
‘What?’ She looked vague. ‘Oh yes, the bracelet. It had slipped my mind.’
‘I think the inspector would like to have it, Violet.’ Alice explained how the bracelet had been found on Lucy’s arm when she was brought back, left there by whoever had been keeping her.
Without much interest Violet said she didn’t see how it was going to be any help. ‘It’s only a cheap bauble, after all. To tell the truth, I don’t know where I put it … I’m not actually sure I didn’t put it with the rubbish to be thrown out.’
‘If you would take the trouble to see if you can find it, Mrs Martens, I’d be grateful. It might prove useful.’
‘Go and have a look for it, Violet,’ Ferdie said quietly. She threw him a quick glance from under her eyelashes but, meeting his look, reluctantly left the room, giving no indication that she would be in any hurry to return.
Lucy became once more the centre of attention, loving it and giving out toothy beams and chuckles in return. Everyone wanted to pick her up and give her a cuddle. She was a bonny baby, the sort anyone would love, Gaines thought as he chucked her under the chin. Fat little hands like starfish reached up to grab his moustache.
Eventually Mrs Martens came back and handed over the bracelet. Gaines didn’t think it worthy of her scorn, being neither tawdry nor cheap-looking to his eyes. Made of silver, it consisted of two narrow strands twisted together, delicate enough to have been flattened slightly out of shape, presumably to keep it on the baby’s wrist, with a tiny central trefoil in green enamel decorating it.
‘That’s a St Patrick’s symbol, a shamrock,’ Alice pointed out. ‘It was a christening gift, I should think. Little girls are often given something like this, or a silver locket, aren’t they?’
Inskip said, ‘St Patrick? It’s Catholic, then, is it?’
‘Not necessarily, but possibly,’ Ferdie put in.
‘I notice it wasn’t listed among the items she was wearing when she was taken. You’re sure she didn’t have it on then?’
Gaines addressed the q
uestion to Emma, who shook her head, but it was the mother who answered. ‘No,’ she said, very sharply, and repeated her mantra. ‘Why would I let my child ever wear a thing like that?’
There was obviously little more required of the police here. It was farewell to Manessa House and its occupants. Alice accompanied them out of the room when they were ready to go. Outside the door she paused, evidently wanting to say something, but seeming unusually hesitant. Making up her mind at last, she said, ‘Inspector, may I speak with you both, if you could spare a few more moments?’
‘Certainly.’ He wondered what it was that couldn’t be said in front of her in-laws as they followed her into what was evidently her own part of the house, where everything was in complete contrast to the apartments they had just quitted. Well kept, last-century solidity. Weighty, gleaming mahogany, stiff dining chairs, plush-covered sofas, heavy, gilt-framed pictures – although apart from rather too many of what looked like valuable pieces of porcelain, there was a merciful absence of Victorian knick-knacks, and only a few pictures and photographs. Gaines thought the furnishings unlikely to be due to Alice Latimer’s personal taste, but rather to her husband’s – or more likely, he amended on further reflection, that of his parents.
‘I have something you might like to see. Please take a seat while I fetch it.’
Inskip, congenitally incapable of sitting unoccupied for more than a few minutes at a time, wandered around looking at the various photographs while she was out of the room. One photo in particular held his interest for several minutes. He picked it up to examine it more closely and was still looking at it with a puzzled frown when Alice returned, holding a small brown paper parcel. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him with the photograph in his hand.
Against the Light Page 14
