I frowned at him, thinking this over.
‘But there would be a record, wouldn’t there?’ I said, thinking of all those great books in St Catherine’s House, where I had found out about the birth of Jamie. ‘Maybe maybe she married. Changed her name. As you say, she might have left the country.’
‘My man would have found her. He has contacts in almost any country you care to name.’
‘But what about a death certificate?’
‘My man discovered no less than three unknown girls who died at the right time and who could have answered her description. Two accidents, one suicide. Believe me, he explored every avenue.’
‘You know she had a son?’
‘Oh, yes. We traced them both as far as Oxford. Then, nothing. No, my dear, I greatly fear that this is the only alternative that’s left to us. Caroline Bethany doesn’t exist any more. It’s as if the waters closed over both their heads, hers and her son’s.’
I felt chilled by the metaphor.
‘But that still doesn’t mean - ’ I broke off, thinking suddenly of the girl in Wales, the man who had been run over and, inevitably, of Jim; and I remembered then that this concerned, plausible man of consequence was the brother-in-law of Piers Craven. Perhaps he had good reason to think I should never find Caroline or her son. Perhaps he’d made sure she was dead. Perhaps he knew for certain that she was one of the unknown girls. His story of the detective could be a total lie for all I knew.
‘Are you interested in art, Mr Quigley?’ I asked him after a moment. He looked rather astonished at the change of subject and cocked his head on one side to look at me, a small frown drawing his brows together.
‘Indeed I am,’ he said cautiously. ‘My wife, too. Why do you ask? Her brother, Rupert Craven, is the owner of a gallery — as, of course, you know. You’ve met him, I believe.’
So Rupert, too, had seen fit to pass on the news that he and I had met. I tucked this snippet of information away for consideration later, merely noting that, for some reason, my arrival seemed to have set this small corner of the art world buzzing.
‘And Piers Craven?’ I went on. ‘Rose’s other brother? I understand he is a most gifted artist.’
‘He was, Miss Crozier.’ Quigley sighed as if with regret. ‘He paints very little now.’
‘Such a pity,’ I murmured. ‘Why is that?’
There was something in his expression that made me think I had trespassed on ground he would rather not have to think about, but before he could say anything in response we were both distracted by the sound of raised voices in the hall. He half rose and just as he did so the door burst open to admit a small woman, waiflike to the point of emaciation, wearing a crumpled white boiler suit. She hurtled over to Quigley, her face contorted with emotion, and seized his arm.
‘George, please! I must - ’
‘Rose! What on earth? Darling, I told you - ’
‘I wanted to sec her. Why shouldn’t I? I wanted to see Jim Crozier’s sister. I’ve got something I want to show her. Look - ’
Quigley had put a restraining arm around his wife, but she elbowed him aside with surprising vigour and came straight over to me, flinging herself down beside me on the sofa. ‘I found this. It’s a picture of Caroline and me, taken in the garden that very summer she met your brother. Isn’t she lovely? You can’t blame him for falling for her, can you?’
I gave her what I hoped was a calming smile and took the photograph from her trembling hand, eager to see the girl who was the reason for my presence. She was sitting on a garden seat, laughing at the camera, and looked very lovely indeed; a happy girl in a summer dress, dark hair touching her shoulders.
And Rose, too, looked happy. Happy and almost unrecognisable. In the photograph her hair was ash blonde and attractively cut. There was flesh on her bones. Now she looked gaunt and pale and hollow-eyed, and her streaky, stringy hair, dark at the roots, was pushed behind her ears.
‘Oh yes,’ I said as I looked at Caroline. ‘Yes, she’s lovely.’
‘I’ll never understand it!’ Rose s voice was high and querulous. ‘Never understand why she didn’t write. Not so much as a Christmas card!’
‘Darling, I told you she’d left England,’ her husband said, his exasperation all too obvious despite the endearment.
‘She could still write, couldn’t she? I mean, they do have post offices overseas, don’t they?’ She turned to me, so tense, so brittle that I had the impression she could be snapped in half with a twist of the fingers. ‘We were so close, Caroline and I. So very, very close! She was twelve years younger than I was, almost to the day, but still we were the closest friends. She saved my reason, do you know that? Did George tell you? I wanted to die. I almost did! I tried - ’
Tears welled in her eyes. Poor Rose, I thought. She sure was one flaky lady and I couldn’t believe that Caroline would have been heartless enough to abandon her completely. Not willingly, anyway. Nothing I had heard about her pointed that way. With a distinct chill of apprehension, I felt the stirrings of belief in the theory that she was dead. And the boy? Young Jamie? Was he dead, too? I couldn’t even bear to think about that.
‘I explained everything to Miss Crozier, darling,’ George Quigley said, adding: ‘I rather think she was about to leave.’ His eyes caught mine across the room. They carried a irrefutable order and I was aware, suddenly, of the strength of the man, of his implacable will. He was someone who would stop at little to get his own way; I could sense it without any doubt. I wouldn’t want to be Rose, I thought with a tremor of fear.
Obeying the message, I rose to my feet.
‘I’m very glad to have met you after all, Mrs Quigley,’ I said. ‘But your husband is right. I really ought to get back to town.’
‘But I wanted to talk about Caroline!’ Rose stood up too, as pouting and petulant as a child. ‘George, why can’t she stay? You never let me do what I want! She can keep me company while you go to your meeting. Let her stay - please!’
‘That’ll do, darling.’ George was smiling but quite inflexible. ‘You’re embarrassing Miss Crozier. Dora?’ he called, raising his voice a little.
Dora, the maid or nurse or whatever she was, had been hovering outside. She now came into the room and took Rose’s arm.
‘Come along, dear,’ she said, her voice steely. ‘Let’s not have any tantrums.’
I held out my hand towards Rose.
‘I really do have to go,’ I said. ‘It was so good to see you. Goodbye, Rose.’
She didn’t speak or smile, but she took my hand briefly. Her touch was cold and dry as if there was no life in her. Clearly unwilling, but without further protest beyond a jerk of her shoulders, she allowed herself to be led from the room, as if she recognised that further protest was useless. Quigley watched her, saying nothing, waiting for the door to be closed before turning to me. His smile was back in place but there was a chilling look of distaste in his eyes.
‘I apologise for that,’ he said.
‘Really, there’s no need. I should have been happy to talk to her.’
‘That really wouldn’t have been wise. She’s best kept quiet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, inadequately.
‘No, no. I’m the one who should be sorry.’ He was all charm once more. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey and learned nothing except that there’s nothing to be learned. At least I may have saved you a great deal of trouble. The book really does seem to be closed on Caroline Bethany.’
‘Well, thank you for giving me your time.’
He could have phoned, I thought. Could have saved himself time and me that nightmare journey here and the equally nightmarish return trip. Why hadn’t he?
He showed me out himself and stood, smiling faintly, as I belted myself in the car and started the engine, lifting his hand in farewell as I drove off. I was glad to leave — glad to be gone from that opulent house and the misery that I could sense there; glad to leave George Quigley and his phoney smiles.<
br />
I drove away from the house down a long country lane, but at the first opportunity I pulled off the road and sat staring straight ahead of me. I needed to think; needed to sort out my impressions.
George Quigley had sounded so sure, so utterly convinced that Caroline was dead. The waters had closed over her head, he’d said. If she were still alive, the detective he had hired would have found her.
Did I believe him? Had he really hired a detective to find her? Or was he just trying to ensure that I would stop looking for her, stop trying to stir muddy waters?
Whatever his motives, I was glad now that I had made the journey and had seen him face to face, for I might have been more readily convinced of his good intentions had I only spoken to him over the phone. Now, having seen him, I found I distrusted him. More — I admitted to myself that I was frightened of him. Poor Rose, I thought again. What with George and Dora as joint minders, she might just as well be in prison. I thought of what Steve had said about the background of the Craven siblings: Rose, Rupert and Piers. Impossible not to wonder who or what had given them such a variety of hang-ups.
Just suppose, I said to myself, that George had hired a detective who had been unable to find Caroline. How did he know for certain that the story he had told Rose — that she had gone abroad was untrue? Discount for the moment the possibility that he might know otherwise. Just assume he was telling the truth. Caroline could speak French and German fluently. She’d made a point of mentioning it in her letter. And hadn’t Steve said she was of French extraction?
But George would have known that and would have explored that particular avenue as well as every other. It didn’t, on reflection, seem much of a hope. If he were right and Caroline was dead, then it seemed logical to believe that Jamie was dead, too, and I felt hollow with grief at the mere possibility.
I sighed hopelessly, started the car and set out once more on my return journey. It was several traffic jams and numerous hair’s-breadth escapes later that I found not only my driving skills had improved with practice but that my spirits had rallied a little. You may be right, Mr Quigley, I thought, somewhere between Henley and Heathrow, but the search goes on. No warning from you is going to stop me trying to find out the truth about Caroline.
Back at the hotel for a late lunch, I phoned the papers to see if there had been any answers to my ads. Only The Times could report any response so far. There were three replies, the girl at the other end of the phone told me. Did I want her to hold them or fax them to the hotel?
Fax them, I said, full of impatience; then I changed my mind and asked her to send them by the soonest possible post. Fax was too open, I thought. Far better to keep the whole thing confidential. It was only after I had put the phone down that I wondered if I were getting paranoid about this whole business. Was I letting my imagination run away with me?
I phoned Steve, only to hear his answerphone message by way of reply. I tried his mobile, but that was switched off. It was then that I thought of the bank manager and remembered Steve had said that this afternoon would be his first chance to answer the summons. Maybe that’s where he was, right this minute. I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes, thinking of him and sending all the positive vibes I could muster.
When the telephone rang I expected to hear his voice, but I found I was wrong. It was a woman who was at the other end of the line.
‘Miss Crozicr?’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Caroline Bethany here. Caroline’s aunt. I saw your advertisement in the Daily Telegraph yesterday.’
‘Oh, hallo. Have you thought of something?’ I was polite, but no more. This particular Caroline Bethany had not endeared herself to me the last time we spoke.
‘It’s simply that — well, I think we ought to meet after all. Have a talk. I wasn’t entirely frank - ’
‘Oh, please!’ I was all eagerness now, all memory of her former coldness gone. This, at least, was something positive, just when I was at a loss about where to turn next. ‘I’d like that very much, Miss Bethany. Shall I come to Oxford?’
‘No, no!’ She vetoed that idea vehemently. ‘Actually, I’m in London.’
‘Then please, won’t you come here? Come and have some tea.’ (How Anglicised can you get? I thought.)
For a moment she hesitated.
‘I don’t honestly think that would be awfully wise,’ she said after a moment. ‘Do you know St James’s Square? It’s not far from your hotel.’
‘I have a street map. I can look it up.’
‘There’s a garden in the centre of it, with seats. I’ll be near to the statue in the middle.’
‘It sounds very cloak and dagger!’ I laughed, but there was no answering amusement in her voice.
‘If I may make a suggestion,’ she said, rather primly, ‘go into the Piccadilly entrance of Fortnum and Mason and walk through the back entrance into Jermyn Street. Turn left and then right, and you’ll find yourself in the square. One can’t be too careful, you see.’
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ I said, after a shattered silence.
‘Very. It may be only a small chance, but somebody could be following you. Can you come as soon as possible? I don’t want to be too late getting back to Oxford.’
‘I’ll come right away,’ I promised. But even so, having put the phone down I sat for a moment, incapable of movement, bug-eyed with astonishment. So there was, in Miss Bethany’s view, something sinister going on; something so sinister that she considered it a possibility that both she and I might be tailed, our meeting spied upon. Maybe I wasn’t paranoid after all.
It was a greyish sort of day, but dry. I had learnt how to get to Piccadilly by this time, but paused to enquire of Sue, my nice receptionist, whether I should turn left or right to find Fortnum and Mason. I then stepped out into the street — but not before I had stood for a moment on the steps of the hotel looking carefully in every direction. There was a uniformed doorman at the bottom of the steps, waving down a taxi for two elderly fellow Americans. There was a lady with a little dog on the sidewalk to my left. She passed the hotel and retreated down the street without a glance in my direction. A little further away, two girls in microscopic skirts walked along with their heads close together, deep in conversation. There was no one else, and none of the above were remotely threatening unless you counted the dog, who looked the type of pooch that couldn’t be trusted anywhere near a pair of ankles.
I found Fortnum and Mason without difficulty and recognised no one as I looked around, sniffing the aromas of all the luscious-looking foodstuffs that surrounded me. Might as well do the job properly, I thought, and went up the stairs to the second floor, coming down in the elevator almost immediately. Then, certain I hadn’t been followed, I found the rear entrance that Miss Bethany had mentioned, turned left as she had instructed, and within five minutes found myself in St James’s Square.
There were trees and daffodils in the square, and flocks of pigeons; and all around the old, gracious houses which everywhere arc such an ornament to London. It didn’t take much to imagine how it must have been when lords and ladies lived there with their hordes of servants and their carriages. Now cars were parked all round the perimeter of the square and the houses were offices and embassies.
A path went round the outer rim of the square and others crossed it to meet in the middle. I could see the seats and the statue. A woman was feeding the pigeons from a paper bag and assorted pedestrians were walking purposefully down the path that crossed the square as if they were taking short cuts to somewhere else. As I drew closer to the centre, I became aware of a slight woman dressed in brown who appeared to be engaged in reading the plaque at the base of the statue. She turned and watched me as I approached her.
‘Miss Crozier?’ she asked quietly when I was close enough to hear her.
‘Yes, I’m Holly. And you’re Miss Bethany? I’m so glad to meet you.’
‘Shall we walk? It’s a little too cold to sit, I think.’
I glanced sideways at her as we strolled along, trying to assess her mood and her angle. And her age. She was, I thought, in her late sixties, but she looked younger, not only because of her slim build and upright carriage but also because her skin was so soft and unlined. Her clothes were neat, unremarkable; her greying hair, as Steve had said, was pulled back in a knot. On her arm was a red plastic shopping bag, full of books.
‘I’ve been to the London Library,’ she said, indicating them. ‘It’s one of my few extravagances — expensive, but so valuable to me. I still teach, you see. Just part time these days, which gives me time to write a little. Freelance, of course, but I hope to do more when I finally give up teaching next year - ’
She broke off, realising that I had stopped walking.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Could we talk about Caroline?’
‘Ah.’ She looked around her then, and as if satisfied that there was no one able to overhear us, she took a step nearer to me. ‘There is a question I should like to ask you,’ she said. She had rather a precise, scholarly way of speaking; authoritative, too, as if she were not used to being disobeyed. Typical schoolmarm, I thought, still not disposed to like her very much. It seemed, at that moment, that my first impressions had been the right ones. She was cold and unfeeling.
‘Ask away,’ I said. My voice must have expressed a bewilderment tinged with annoyance. She appeared to melt a little.
‘I’m sorry. This must seem most peculiar to you, but I feel it’s necessary. I believe, when you were young, that Jim had a pet name for you. Would you be kind enough to tell me what it was?’
‘Why in the world — ?’ I stared at her and with an air of polite enquiry she stared back. ‘Well, sure,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. Might as well humour the woman, I thought. ‘Jim used to call me Tommy. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a boy, you see, and people said I was a tomboy.’
Miss Bethany was smiling, and I had to admit that the change in her was quite remarkable. She looked warmer now, more approachable.
The Caroline Quest Page 13
