Exasperated, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pushed the pages in. The bottom drawer was the one she opened only when she wanted to get rid - no, to half get rid of something. It contained various discarded papers. She was waiting for it to get full before she made a bonfire in the back yard and burnt its contents. (Not an entirely rational thing to do, but then she had to admit she wasn’t an entirely rational person.)
The drawer wouldn’t shut. There was something at the back that had got jammed. After two attempts, she gave up, leaving the drawer gaping. She refused to take that as a sign, though she did imagine it might be a sign. She vaguely wondered what it was that had caused the jamming but felt reluctant to investigate.
‘Hate writing but love having written. Dorothy Parker said that. Well, not true — I hate both,’ Antonia told her cats as she fed them a little while later. ‘I am afraid this is a writer’s block from which I may never recover. My first novel will also be my last. I may be going mad too.’
The cats looked back at her with indifference and licked their whiskers.
She had a cup of hot milk, took two sleeping pills, turned off all the lights and went to bed.
Antonia hadn’t expected to sleep well and she didn’t.
She woke up in the middle of the night, feeling hot, drowsy and confused, her heart thumping in her chest. She turned on the bedside lamp and reached out for her glass of water. Once more she had a sense of foreboding. She also felt consumed by guilt. And this wasn’t the familiar dread of facing a lonely future, nor the guilty feeling she had had over her failed marriage. She was conscious of having done something appalling. Something that had resulted in disaster - no, not the disaster of losing a husband to a younger woman, something worse. Much worse.
Falling back on her pillow and shutting her eyes, Antonia found herself remembering, of all things, a production of Eliot’s The Family Reunion which she had seen a couple of years back. In it the Eumenides had been presented as children, which she had thought an extremely spooky and effective decision on the part of the director. One didn’t expect children to look and sound menacing, accusatory, slyly knowing ...
Violence and children ... one particular child ... something unresolved ... a death that could have been prevented ... something she had allowed to happen ... a little girl ... no, not Emma ...
As she drifted into an uneasy sleep, she heard a man’s voice hum, ‘When I am King, Dilly, Dilly, You shall be Queen ...’
She saw a doll floating on a river ... blood coming out of a hollow in the middle of an ancient tree ... a Mary Poppins-like figure disappearing into the sky ...
2
The Day the Earth Stood Still
It was the following morning as she took the Tube to work that she knew what it was her subconscious had been trying to tell her. Somebody standing beside her on the platform was reading the Metro and she saw the date.
29th July. My God, she thought, it’s twenty years. To the day. Did she hear a woman’s voice behind her say that it was the anniversary of the royal wedding, or did she only imagine it? Well, for some people the day of the royal wedding still meant only one thing: Charles and Diana walking up the aisle. Wild cheering crowds. Flags and flowers and fireworks. A fairy-tale come true. The wedding of the century. A hopeful nation. A hopeful world. If statistics were to be believed, 730 million viewers worldwide had watched it on television.
That was when it had happened. If they hadn’t been sitting glued to the TV, Sonya would have been alive now. Alive and, very possibly, given the progress medicine had made over the past twenty years, well too. Yes, why not? Sonya might have been completely cured of whatever she had had wrong with her, leading a normal life, a happy, healthy life with a husband and children. Instead of which ...
Once more the smell of the river came to her nostrils and she heard Lena’s accusatory voice: ‘It was all your fault. It was you who showed her the way - she’d never have gone there if you hadn’t shown her the way.’
No, she didn’t want to dwell on it. She mustn’t think about it. She had managed not to so far. There would be no point. She would only get upset and that would never do - not on her first day back at work, not after the bad night she had had. There was nothing to be gained by getting upset over a twenty-year-old event - was there? Well, she could have prevented the tragedy. If only she had been less selfish - if only she had taken David with her! Lady Mortlock had said she could. David would never have allowed Sonya to go to the river by herself. Antonia had wanted a holiday - a proper holiday. She had been selfish and because of her selfishness a child had died -
Stop it, she told herself. Don’t be melodramatic.
She edged her way into the carriage and eventually found a suitable place where she could stand and read her book. She had deliberately picked up a book on library lore before she had left the house. She had meant to take Daphne du Maurier’s Don’t Look Now, but had decided against it. The library lore book was as dry and unappetizing as sawdust. The discarded Daphne du Maurier, on the other hand, was one of her old favourites. Not all the stories were as good as the title one. The title story of course was the best of du Maurier’s short fiction - her most effective excursion into the macabre, her most atmospheric. Venice in the twilight - running steps alongside the narrow canal - cellar entrances looking like coffins - a lonely church - a little hooded figure skipping from boat to boat.
Was there any particular reason why she had decided against it? Could it be because it too dealt with the drowning of a young girl? (A psychiatrist would have a field day, should she ever decide to consult one!)
Twenty years. Sonya would have been twenty-seven. Just a bit older than David. What a lovely summer’s day it had been. The house party at Twiston. The scent of roses and freshly mown grass wafting in through the open windows, mingling with the smell of beeswax. Bowls of flowers everywhere. Lilies festooning a portrait of the Queen in the hall. Sheikh Umair heaving a sigh: ‘Now I know what old England is like.’ The servants in their Union Jack hats. Balloons and party poppers. (The excitement at one point reaching fever pitch as discussion turned to the footman and the maid who had chosen the day to get married themselves at the local church.) The giant TV set, specially hired for the occasion. Lawrence Dufrette shaking his forefinger: ‘There she comes, the silly young goose, in her doomed glory!’ Sir Michael clearing his throat: ‘It’s a bit too early for a drink, but do help yourselves, if you feel like having one. After all, it’s a special occasion.’ Bill Kavanagh pointing out the Countess Spencer. ‘I used to know Raine jolly well before she married Johnny. Remarkable woman. What a shame the Spencer children never got to appreciate her properly.’ Lena screaming at her: ‘You showed her the way to the river! You as good as killed her! It was all your fault.’
No, no - that had come later. Antonia opened her eyes.
The train was crowded — well, it always was. Even late in the morning it was the same, though they said the Piccadilly line wasn’t as bad as some of the others. There were no more poems on the walls, sadly. What vacant expressions people had on their faces. Those who were not gazing into space were drinking Coke out of cans or biting at sandwiches and buns. As it happened, they were all young people, of David and Bethany’s age. They should have had a proper breakfast before they left home, or failing that, they could have stopped at a café. Besides, it was bad manners, eating on a crowded train, didn’t they know that? Some of them looked hung-over, or tired from partying till late, or more likely sitting in front of their computers, e-mailing, surfing the net, or joining chat rooms. Major Payne had made the suggestion that she consider the sinister potential of chat rooms for a possible novel. A chameleon-like figure - a man assuming multiple identities - changing his age and gender depending on whom he was chatting to - targeting the vulnerable and the lonely - winkling secrets.
Major Payne was always giving her ideas. Well, he had ideas, unlike her former husband. He actually read books - had insatiable curiosity about th
ings.
None of the young people, she noticed, was reading. They hadn’t the energy, she supposed. It didn’t look as though they were curious about anything. Such pasty faces - and must they pierce their noses?
Antonia smiled. That was Miss Pettigrew speaking and Miss Pettigrew always made her smile. Miss Pettigrew invariably put in an appearance at times of emotional upheaval, she had noticed. Miss Pettigrew seemed able to provide her with a safety valve of sorts. Antonia had been toying with the idea of having Miss Pettigrew playing the amateur sleuth in a series of novels she might write one day, though Major Payne hadn’t cared much about it. Heaven knew there were enough musty elderly spinster detectives already. He wanted her to use a sleuthing couple - now why didn’t she do that? A husband and wife team. They would be endowed with equal deductive powers and they could take it in turns to play the detective and the Watson.
Miss Pettigrew had arrived fully evolved at the time Antonia started work at the Military Club library. She was a much older woman than Antonia and, apart from the fact that both worked in a library, her complete antithesis. (Major Payne had warned Antonia against turning into a Miss Pettigrew - that was when she had told him off for spilling pipe tobacco over a biography of Younghusband, the improbably named Victorian explorer.) Well, Miss Pettigrew wasn’t a particularly likeable character. The librarian spinster par excellence, genteel, even lady-like, frustrated, chronically disapproving, rigidly adhering to archaic codes of behaviour, an anachronistic throwback to a previous age. Her favourite authors were Trollope and Barbara Pym, and, when not reading those, she perused books on library lore of the kind Antonia held in her hand at that very moment.
Miss Pettigrew crusaded through her little world, making sure people were provided with suitable reading matter; she had the energy both to read herself, even in the most adverse conditions, as when finding herself in the middle of a crowd, and to encourage others to do so. The trouble was that she was so volubly and forcefully full of suggestions that patrons tended to drift away after a while. Miss Pettigrew also tried to give her ideas for novels, which Antonia invariably dismissed as too far-fetched.
On the positive side - well, yes, there was a positive side - Miss Pettigrew was a forthright, practical, no-nonsense type, who had little patience with displays of irrational emotionalism. She was good at times of crisis. Hers — frequently, though not always - was the voice of reason.
It’s ludicrous that you should be blaming yourself, dear. You are too sensitive for your own good. (Antonia improvised.) What happened twenty years ago had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t your fault — in the same way that your failed marriage is not your fault, but we won’t go into that one. That poor girl, Sonya, needed lots of care — proper care, round-the-clock care — if she was autistic. Well, her parents were there, but they neglected her badly - that’s the upper classes for you. Her nanny shouldn’t have left in the first place. You did your very best. You had a child of the same age, that’s what made it so difficult for you. I fully understand, but, really, you couldn’t have kept a watch over her. What she was doing in the garden while everybody else was inside is what I would like to know. Criminal negligence. I blame the parents - entirely! I know it’s dreadful — the death of any child is a dreadful thing — but it had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.
The crowd was thinning. At the next stop Antonia, feeling much calmer, sidled up the carriage to one of the vacated seats. The train rumbled on. Ten more minutes and they were at Green Park station. Stowing away her book, she made for the opening doors.
day before. Walking through St James‘s, London’s club-land, was always a delight. Every time it felt like entering a different world. A group of Japanese tourists were standing at the corner, snapping away with their cameras. There was Lock, the legendary hatter, now more than three hundred years old. She looked through the window - still no signs of modernity. If they used computers, they concealed them carefully. All she could see was handwritten ledgers, sinister-looking wooden moulds and shop assistants wearing morning coats and winged collars. Major Payne had bought a polo cap from them, also a fez. Putting on the fez, he had recited verses from Kipling. Antonia smiled at the memory. On the other side of the street was John Lobb - quality handmade shoes and boots. She looked up. That was where Lord Byron had once held a bachelor establishment -
Suddenly she came to a halt. She thought she had seen a familiar figure go up the steps at White’s. Tall, distinguished-looking in a dark pinstriped suit and an old- fashioned Homburg, grey gloves, a rolled-up umbrella.
Her heart was beating fast. Lawrence Dufrette? Surely not? Before she could take a closer look, the man had disappeared inside the club. He had always hated London, he had told her so himself. Well, that was twenty years ago. She hadn’t seen him since the fatal day. She hadn’t seen Lena either ... Lena had been hysterical, deranged with grief, which was odd, to say the least, given that, prior to the tragedy, she had paid her daughter only scant attention. ‘Run along, darling, Mamma’s terribly busy.’ (Busy leafing through the Harrods catalogue - busy drinking a spritzer - busy eating a chocolate gateau as high as Mont Blanc - busy painting her fingernails scarlet - busy watching television.)
Where did the Dufrettes live? St John’s Wood, someone had said. Or had they separated? She seemed to remember a rumour to that effect. Would Lawrence Dufrette be in central London on this day of all days, this tragic anniversary, twenty years since his daughter’s death?
Could Lawrence Dufrette be looking for her, Antonia? Was there going to be a commemorative service perhaps? Or was it possible that there had been ... developments? She couldn’t say what developments exactly she had in mind, but if that had been the case, surely it would have been the police looking for her, not Lawrence Dufrette? Though why should the police want her?
I am being reclaimed by my past, Antonia thought. She knew this was nonsense. She was becoming paranoid. Perhaps she should seek medical help?
She entered the Military Club.
3
Taste of Fears
She could still feel a little surge of excitement when she arrived at the club library. She relished the ‘unknown factor’, the uncertainty as to what might turn up, the possibility that it might be something really exciting. It was the detective story writer and mystery enthusiast in her as much as the librarian. One never knew. The library users sometimes had very interesting enquiries, out of which there emerged the most fascinating stories.
There had been the old boy who had known T.E. Lawrence in the short while before that fatal motorbike accident, which of course, he claimed, hadn’t been an accident at all; the chap whose aunt had been a nanny to the children of King Zog of Albania; the retired MI6 officer who told Antonia in great detail how he had foiled a plot to kill the Dalai Lama. The books themselves - Antonia tended to think of the books almost as people - often yielded surprises too, especially those that were brought in as donations. Old volumes of memoirs, frequently privately published, of the two world wars, of travels in the East when it had really been the ‘mysterious Orient’, and in Africa. Then there were the old personal archives, which she got to investigate from time to time.
‘Ah, Miss Darcy. You are back.’
‘Good morning, Mr Lodge,’ responded Antonia. She had been about to close the library door behind her. Mr Lodge was the club secretary: a small man in his late forties, rubicund and dapper, invariably sporting a bow tie, a polka-dotted one this time.
‘You look as though you’ve had an excellent holiday, if you don’t mind my saying so. You look tanned and fitter than before you left.’
‘Thank you. I had a very good time.’
‘I am glad to hear it. You did seem in need of a holiday. We’ve had upheavals here while you’ve been away.’
‘Really?’
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘New management on the way. It looks like war,’ he whispered. In his normal voice he said, ‘I have some more books for you. More donations
.’
‘Oh, good. Thank you, Mr Lodge.’ They had known each other for three years, but somehow there was no question of first name terms ever being established between them.
He was holding a cardboard box containing a number of books. ‘Brigadier Shipton left them for you, in case they were of interest. It’s a mixed bunch. There is a rather unusual recipe book ... Not for the squeamish!’ Antonia at once thought of cannibals but it turned out to be for dishes favoured by the ancient Mongols.
Now inside her inner sanctum, she stood beside her desk and looked at the pile of letters that had accumulated in her absence. The one at the top was addressed to Mrs Antonia Rushton, c/o the Military Club, St James‘s, W1.
Antonia stared. Rushton? She had reverted to her maiden name, Darcy, after her divorce, and she had been using it for the past six months. The handwriting seemed familiar, though it might be her imagination. Could it be something to do with Sonya? It didn’t look like an official envelope, so it couldn’t be the police. It was somebody from the past - Lena? - who had written to her. Somebody who didn’t know about her change of circumstances.
Now this won’t do at all. There’s no one out there who wants to get you. Pull yourself together, girl. Snap out of it.
Mr Lodge appeared at the door once more. ‘I am sorry, Miss Darcy. I keep bothering you. I have received the new Who’s Who. Would you like last year’s edition?’
‘Thank you. It would be very useful.’
‘Here you are ... So heavy, aren’t they? Someone’s cranium could easily be smashed with this. The perfect murder weapon, eh?’ He gave her a knowing look and left. Major Payne had told her that it was common knowledge now that she had penned a mystery yarn. On an impulse she opened Who’s Who and went to D.
Dufrette, Lawrence - well, last year, at least, he had been alive. He would be seventy-one in September. He lived in South Kensington and listed as his interests ‘the Babylonian brotherhood and walking’.
The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette Page 2
