Miles and Flora

by Hilary Bailey

  Her mind went back to Elaine’s outburst: ‘I must have something.’ Good God, Marguerite thought desperately, did Elaine not understand how bleak she, Marguerite, thought both their prospects were? They were two penniless governesses, one nearing thirty with weak lungs. They had no money but what they could earn from whatever poorly-paid post they could manage to get, no future but teaching girls in someone else’s house until they died or were too old to work. Who would envy them their prospects? She understood why Elaine ‘must have something’. Were disappointment and unfulfilled, desires making her act so strangely? Were her nerves breaking down? Was she becoming, had she become, a different person from the sister Marguerite had always known?

  All too conscious of Mr Reeve waiting for her in the parlour, she drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and went to meet him.

  He came to his feet quickly as she entered.

  ‘Mr Reeve, thank you for calling on Elaine,’ Marguerite said. ‘But, alas, she is out. Have you a message for her?’

  ‘Do you expect her back soon?’

  Marguerite paused, then decided that to pretend she knew where Elaine was would only confuse matters.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said ‘I don’t know where she went.’

  ‘She visited me last night,’ he told her, giving her a direct look.

  ‘She told me,’ Marguerite answered. She went on rapidly, ‘Mr Reeve, I don’t know whether there was a particular reason why she wished to see you, or whether there is a particular reason now why you wish to see her. If there is anything I can do to help, I will. As you know, my sister has been unwell and is still quite frail. I think we all wish to preserve her peace of mind.’

  He regarded her gravely. After a pause he said, ‘Indeed we do.’ He stood up. ‘Well. I should like a word with her, but as she’s not here, perhaps you would tell her I called when she comes in.’

  ‘Yes. Of course I will,’ Marguerite told him. When he had gone she sat down and gazed blankly in front of her, wondering what was going on.

  She started when Mrs Constantine came in, and jumped to her feet for this was, after all, Mrs Constantine’s sitting room. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Constantine,’ she said, ‘Mr Reeve called—’

  ‘I met him on my way down,’ Mrs Constantine said. ‘He was looking quite upset. Will you be frank, Miss Marguerite, and tell me exactly what is happening? Mr Reeve is a very great friend of mine. I do not want him disturbed and upset by anything or anybody emanating from my house. Tell me, openly, Miss Marguerite.’

  Marguerite hung her head. ‘Mrs Constantine, I don’t know. Elaine has gone out. I do not even know where she is or when she will be back. I understand your anxiety …’

  ‘Displeasure,’ said Mrs Constantine in a hard tone.

  ‘Displeasure, then,’ said Marguerite. ‘I’m sure this little mystery will soon be solved.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said the unforgiving Mrs Constantine. And Marguerite went upstairs, full of anxiety. The day wore on, and still Elaine did not return. That evening she wrote to Mrs Grose, asking if Elaine had fled to her at Bly.

  Thirty-One

  Wind rattled the branches of the plane tree outside the narrow room in which Elaine Selsden lay in bed. Outside dust and grit was blowing about the London streets. Men, ploughing towards bus stops and tube stations, clutched their hats to their heads. Women out shopping grasped bags and baskets with one hand and clutched their skirts with the other. Overhead the heavy skies whirled.

  Inside the room Elaine, propped up on one arm, regarded Tom Brett, who in his shirt was putting on his trousers.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the bank, to see what’s there.’

  ‘Let me come with you.’

  ‘What will it look like? Anyway, I’m supposed to be in Trondheim.’

  ‘I could wait in a nearby café.’

  ‘Elaine, my dear. I’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour.’

  ‘I so hate to be left alone.’

  He picked up his coat, went over to the bed, kissed her on the brow and was gone.

  Elaine lay staring up at the ceiling, then gazed round the room, at the faded wallpaper and the old wardrobe, the door of which would not quite close. Her clothes lay over a chair. The air smelled slightly of stale frying.

  Outside, Tom Brett, in his grey suit, pushed forward against the wind along streets of narrow houses, and reached his bus stop. Ahead of him a pale woman in a faded black dress held the hand of a little boy.

  ‘I’m tired, Mum,’ he complained. ‘So am I, ducky, so am I,’ she said. ‘Look, there’s the bus coming.’

  At the branch of the bank at which Tom’s family did business, there was a hitch. His account was elsewhere, no balance could be provided.

  ‘Telephone them, then,’ urged Tom.

  The bank clerk looked at him cautiously and went away. He returned saying they would telephone. Would Mr Brett take a seat?

  After half an hour, while Tom fretted, the manager came up to him. ‘I have the information you asked for, Mr Brett,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The bank believed you to be in Norway.’

  ‘I returned because …’ Tom began, then said firmly, ‘As you see, I am not in Norway. Have you the balance?’

  The manager handed him a piece of paper. ‘Thank you,’ Tom said. ‘Good morning.’ He left the bank more slowly than he felt inclined to, and round the corner opened the piece of paper he had been handed and scrutinised it. He felt deeply relieved. At least his last month’s salary had been transferred to the bank. He had not had the nerve, after the delay and the approach of the manager, to cash a cheque, but nevertheless took a cab back to his and Elaine’s lodgings, arriving considerably later than he had said.

  He went up the narrow staircase to their room. She was waiting for him in the opening doorway. She ran to him. ‘Tom! You’re late.’

  ‘They kept me longer than I expected. All’s well – the money’s there. Shall we go out to lunch?’

  ‘We can move, now, to somewhere better,’ Elaine said radiantly.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Let’s just take the bigger room downstairs for the meanwhile, until I’ve found another position. We’ll be a little more comfortable there.’

  ‘I want to make a proper home for you.’

  ‘This is just for a time, until everything is more settled. Let me find work, first, Elaine, then we’ll think of houses, and I’ll go to Edinburgh and tell my family we’re going to get married.’

  ‘Whatever you say. Whatever you say,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I’d better go to the employment agency straight after lunch,’ he told her.

  ‘But I so wanted to go for a walk with you this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, Elaine. I must make a start now. You do understand?’

  ‘Tom,’ she said, disappointed, ‘will not tomorrow do?’

  He decided. ‘All right,’ he said, smiling. ‘Today we may enjoy being together. Tomorrow I must face the world.’

  ‘Shall we go to Hyde Park, then have tea somewhere smart – just for once – please, Tom?’

  And Tom agreed.

  Elaine had written to Tom in Norway from Strand before she fled, letting him know she was desperate, badly used and near suicide. There was no one else she could turn to. Guilty, still in love with her, he did not hesitate. He had taken a passage immediately and joined her. However, she still had told no one else where she was.

  Thirty-Two

  In Mr Reeve’s kitchen Mrs Constantine said to Alice, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She was sitting at the table now. ‘I’m so upset for poor Miss Selsden. She’s worried to death. At first I thought she might be involved, but I can see now she’s innocent of anything her sister’s done or is going to do. She’s been to the police, saying her sister may have been abducted. But that I doubt. Abductions happen in silly novels, not in Strand, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Run off with a man, no doubt,’ Alice said.
<
br />   ‘I daresay, but I’m sure at the back of Miss Selsden’s mind, poor thing, is the worry her sister’s done away with herself. She was acting very strangely before she left.’

  ‘Dear oh dear. What a horrible thought.’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t think she has. She’s not the sort. In the meanwhile, what a quandary I’m in. I took on two quiet lady lodgers. What could be more harmless? Then one of them goes and insults Mr Reeve and then she ups and disappears. And that may not be the end of scandal and upset. I don’t like it. Not at all.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Alice said sympathetically.

  ‘But what can I do?’ Mrs Constantine ran on. ‘How can I turn poor Miss Selsden out, when she’s so worried about her sister? None of this is her fault. No one could have taken more care of her sister or been nicer or better behaved about the house.’

  ‘Poor young woman.’

  Henry Reeve made a loud arrival at the kitchen door, coughed and entered. By this time Mrs Constantine had risen to her feet. ‘So there is the receipt for the rhubarb jam,’ she announced to Alice.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Constantine,’ said Alice.

  ‘Mrs Constantine,’ said Henry. ‘If you are going straight home I’ll just step round with you, when you leave, and have a word with Miss Selsden.’

  They walked together to Mermaid Street. A fierce wind still blew. ‘There’s not a bit of fish in the town,’ Mrs Constantine remarked. ‘They haven’t been able to launch the boats for weeks.’

  Marguerite Selsden was upstairs when they came in. She was at first alarmed at their entry, suspecting they brought news, then embarrassed to be found by Henry Reeve and her landlady with a shawl over her shoulders, in a room with no fire. ‘How silly. I forgot to light my fire,’ she said, about to put a match to the grate.

  Poor thing – she’s trying to save money, thought Mrs Constantine, saying easily, ‘Let’s go downstairs and have some tea together.’ Nevertheless, she was disconcerted to find poverty apparently added to the disorderliness of the situation of her tenants, especially with Mr Reeve as witness.

  Once Marguerite and Henry were seated downstairs, Mrs Constantine having gone to the kitchen to order tea, Henry leaned forward in his chair and said, ‘I came to ask if there was anything I could do. I return to London shortly with my friend Mr Bennett. Are there any enquiries there I can pursue for you? I will go to Scotland Yard if you like.’

  ‘I would be so grateful if you could press them to take action,’ Marguerite told him.

  ‘It shall be done. Is there anything else? Anyone else I might approach?’

  Marguerite shook her head. ‘I have been in touch with everyone to whom I think she might have gone. But I would be grateful if you would go to Scotland Yard.’

  Henry gazed at the grave, composed face before him and was saddened. When a knock came at the front door they both froze. Then Jenny came in with a telegram. Marguerite took it eagerly.

  ‘Would you prefer me to go?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No – please stay,’ Marguerite told him, as she opened the telegram, obviously torn between hope that Elaine had sent the message and fear that it might bring bad news. Henry, watching her closely, saw her face relax. ‘It is nothing about Elaine,’ she told him. ‘The news is neither good nor bad. It is from a lady, once housekeeper at a house where she was employed. She is so anxious now about Elaine that she is coming here to help me and do what she can.’

  Henry Reeve suddenly felt rather cold. He asked, ‘May I ask if this lady comes from Bly in Essex?’

  ‘Why yes, she does,’ Marguerite said in surprise. ‘How do you know of her?’

  ‘Well,’ he said slowly, uncertain what to tell her, uncertain what she knew or, indeed, might be concealing from him. ‘I heard of her from my old friend, Mr Bennett. You see, when your sister called on me they met, quite unexpectedly. I don’t know if you knew this.’

  She shook her head, bewildered. ‘They were both astonished, both deeply upset. Your sister Elaine,’ he said gently, ‘was once governess to his neice and nephew at Bly.’

  Marguerite’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh.’

  There was a long silence Henry felt he dared not break.

  ‘Bly was where the boy died,’ Marguerite said in a toneless voice. ‘You mean he was your friend’s nephew?’

  He nodded. ‘I am so sorry. Your sister did not tell you?’

  Marguerite could not speak. She was very shocked and utterly ashamed to be showing such ignorance of her sister’s life to Henry Reeve. She thought, miserably, how little she knew of the details of the boy’s death. Both Elaine and Mrs Grose had been there, been to some extent involved. Both had told her they did not want memories of that time stirred up – and she had complied with that wish. She knew nothing – nothing. Her head whirled.

  Henry Reeve bent forward and studied her. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said again. ‘I’m afraid this has upset you.’

  She said, ‘I’m afraid it has. That was why Elaine ran away, I suppose. Because of this encounter between herself and Mr Bennett.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

  ‘It may be a kind of good news,’ she said. ‘If she fled for that reason – for an ordinary reason.’

  She meant, he thought, that this explanation made suicide less likely. He answered, ‘Yes … yes. Perhaps.’ But he was at a loss. He could hardly believe Mrs Grose was actually coming to Strand while, at Lion House, Geoffrey Bennett was packing his bags ready to go back to London for the final busy weeks before his daughter’s wedding. I shall have to tell him, he thought. Mrs Grose has information, perhaps the only information of importance, about what led to the death of his nephew. What a moment, he thought, with Flora just about to embark on a happy future. What a moment to be forced to revive past sadness.

  He gazed at Marguerite, who was very pale, and plainly struggling to maintain her composure. He was reluctant to leave her in this state, yet could see no immediate way of helping her. And he must go, must tell Geoffrey what was going on. He could not be responsible for adding yet another secret to an affair in which there seemed already to be too many. Elaine’s disappearance after her chance encounter with Geoffrey certainly pointed to her having something to hide as, alas, her poor sister seemed to recognise.

  He stood up. ‘Miss Selsden, I won’t wait for tea. I must go and talk to Geoffrey Bennett.’

  Marguerite, stunned, said, ‘I understand. I will tell Mrs Constantine.’

  Old mysteries, and now a new one – where was Elaine? mused Henry Reeve as he took the blustery street home and reached his own front door. He paused in the hall.

  Geoffrey came out of the small drawing room. ‘Have they found Elaine Selsden yet?’ he asked.

  Henry Reeve shook his head. ‘No, but I have something disturbing to tell you.’

  Thirty-Three

  The room Tom Brett and Elaine Selsden now occupied was on the first floor. Though larger, it was in the same shabby house in the same drab neighbourhood. It contained a table and chairs, which were placed near the window overlooking the road and houses opposite. By the fireplace stood a sofa. The bed was in an alcove.

  Tom was in his shirt sleeves and Elaine still in a cotton wrapper when the tired-looking girl of fourteen who acted as maid-of-all-work in the lodging house knocked at the door and came in with a heavy tray containing breakfast.

  ‘I’m not too surprised to see those kippers,’ Tom remarked good-humouredly as he took the tray from her.

  ‘Why’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘The smell came before them half an hour ago,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t stop kippers from smelling,’ she told him and turned away. Tom closed the door.

  ‘Here we are then,’ Tom said, carrying the tray to the table. Sun came in through the net curtains in front of the window. The air was full of motes.

  ‘I’ll just have a cup of tea,’ Elaine told him. ‘I can’t bear another of those greasy kippers.’<
br />
  ‘Then you’ll be hungry before lunchtime,’ he told her. ‘And we’ll find ourselves ducking into a café for coffee and cakes halfway through the morning.’

  Elaine said, ‘It relieves the monotony.’

  ‘Yes. But you know it costs us money we can’t afford.’

  To this she said nothing, only pouring herself a cup of tea. Tom began to eat his kipper. A cart creaked by below. There was a cry: ‘Pots and pans. Any old pots and pans.’

  ‘I wish you would eat some breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘I wish I could have a boiled egg, which I continually ask for,’ she returned. ‘Has the post come yet?’

  ‘Yes. There was nothing.’

  They had been in London a fortnight but Tom still had no work.

  ‘You’d think a man with your experience would get employment easily,’ she said.

  ‘They say there is a slump in trade.’

  ‘I believe your family is working against you.’

  ‘You’ve said that before. But I’ve told you often – they could not even if they wanted to. Their reach is not so long.’

  ‘Then they should help you!’ she cried. ‘Tom, you must take me to Scotland. We’ll confront them, ask for their help. Tom, we must get married. I must be married.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he soothed. ‘But be patient, Elaine. We’ll do better to go to them when I have a position, a salary. Then they will be more tolerant.’

  ‘It’s been so long. They must know by now you’ve given up the position in Norway and returned.’

  ‘Perhaps it would have been better had you joined me there in Norway,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Oh, let us go to Scotland and ask for help,’ she cried. ‘I hate being in this horrible house with no money and nothing to do.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Elaine,’ he said. ‘It will be better soon, I promise. I must go out now. I have a gentleman in the City to see about a position.’ He felt a little guilty as he spoke, for the interview was not until twelve o’clock. But he felt he could not bear to remain in that stuffy room any longer listening to Elaine’s laments and trying to console her.