by Caro Peacock
‘He was transported,’ Kennedy said, sounding exasperated. ‘Transported to Van Diemen’s Land. It’s an island off the far side of Australia, as far as a man can be transported.’
‘Ships must go there,’ Daniel said. ‘Even transported men must escape sometimes.’
He stood up and unhooked his coat from a peg.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Kennedy said.
‘The Augustus. Somebody there must know more about this man.’
Kennedy reached out a long arm and twitched the coat away from Daniel’s shoulders.
‘Oh no you don’t, my friend. For one thing, Blake’s ordered you not to set foot there.’
‘Blake be damned. I…’
Kennedy pushed Daniel into a chair, quite gently in the circumstances, and stood over him.
‘You shouldn’t be damning him. You should be blessing him.’
‘Are you mad? After what he said at the inquest about Jenny?’
Daniel’s eyes went to a copy of the Morning Chronicle, scrunched up in a corner as if thrown there.
‘If you’d bothered to read that properly, you’d see that he mentioned Jenny reluctantly,’ Kennedy said. ‘Even then, it was only to confirm what the dogs in the street know – that she’d had a fight with Columbine. It’s what he didn’t mention you should be thanking him for.’
‘What do you mean?’
Kennedy sighed. ‘Tell him, Libby.’
I didn’t like what I had to do, but it wasn’t fair to leave everything to Kennedy.
‘Blake was asked at the inquest if anybody in the company bore enmity against Columbine,’ I said. ‘He said no. He was there when you called Columbine a wicked whore and said you hoped somebody would treat her the way she treated other people.’
Kennedy whistled. He must have heard something about the incident, but not the worst of it.
‘My friend, are you trying to put a noose round your own neck?’ he spoke sadly. ‘You threaten Columbine –’
‘I did not threaten her.’
‘In court, it would sound like a threat. You then hide a woman the police want to question about Columbine’s murder and obstruct police officers in their duty when they try to arrest her. You can thank Blake – and Liberty – that you’re not spending the night in Newgate as well.’
‘I only wish I were. She’s locked up there this minute with thieves, prostitutes, the dregs of London. Prison will destroy her long before they hang her, and I can’t do anything about it.’
The quiet despair in his voice was worse than anger. I went and knelt down on the floor beside his chair and took his hand.
‘You can’t help her if you’re in prison too. For the moment, you mustn’t do anything that will draw attention to yourself.’
I tried to keep my voice calm, but was desperately scared for him.
‘You can’t ask me to sit at home and wait.’
‘No, but at least use your brain. The only way we’ll help Jenny is by finding out who killed Columbine. You know the people connected with the Augustus better than I do …’
‘And you tell me I mustn’t set foot there.’
‘…so there may be things you remember that are important, given time.’
‘We haven’t got time.’
‘Yes, we have. It’s usually weeks before people come to trial, isn’t it?’
I glanced up at Kennedy, who knew these things. He nodded. We managed between us to talk Daniel into a calmer frame of mind.
‘One thing you can do is walk Liberty home,’ Kennedy said to him. ‘The poor girl’s been running around on your account all day and she’s dropping with tiredness.’
I was about to protest that I didn’t need anybody to walk me home. The idea that no woman was safe on the streets of London without a protector was nonsense when you saw the numbers who went about their daily lives alone because they had no choice. Then I caught Kennedy’s wink and knew his tactics were to keep Daniel occupied at any cost.
We all went together as far as halfway along Piccadilly because Kennedy was playing at an evening reception in St James’s Square. It was the time of evening when fashionable people were going out to dinner. Landaus and barouches crawled along the streets like slow barges, with their hoods up, the people inside them invisible, drivers on the boxes in their wet capes looking like things freshly dragged from the Thames, clouds of steam rising from the shoulders of the horses into the lamplight. When Kennedy left us, Daniel and I crossed the road and headed up Berkeley Street. One of the posters about Jenny, blurred and bubbled from the wet, was tied to a railing.
‘I don’t believe that puppet Hardcastle cared for Columbine or anyone else,’ Daniel said.
‘He’d done something to annoy her on Saturday night,’ I said. ‘She wouldn’t let him into her dressing room. And the night she was killed, he wasn’t backstage. Blake had to go out front to look for him. Does that mean he still wasn’t welcome in her dressing room?’
‘Where’s this heading, Liberty?’
‘Nowhere, probably.’
I didn’t want to mention Disraeli again and start an argument. But the fact was, two and a half days before Columbine died, Disraeli had got up early to ask me to find out what I could about her – on behalf of friends of his. The only person I’d encountered at the Augustus who was a member of his own class was Hardcastle. Quite what Disraeli would be doing with a fool like that, I couldn’t imagine, but I needed to know.
We walked in silence along the south and west sides of Berkeley Square. We were close to home now and there was a question I had to ask Daniel.
‘The night she died, a trombone player said he saw you outside the Augustus. Was he right?’
Daniel took a few steps then nodded. I tried to see his face in the light of an uncurtained window we were passing, but he kept his head down.
‘What were you doing? You surely didn’t expect to see Jenny there after what had happened.’
‘I suppose I was hoping to see somebody who knew her.’
‘But you’d already asked me to talk to the other dancers.’
He didn’t answer. We walked on.
‘Did you go inside at all?’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Did you stay outside for long?’
‘I don’t know. What does it matter?’
‘We don’t know what matters, do we? Did you see anybody you didn’t expect to see going in?’
‘What do you mean?’
He seemed startled.
‘As far as we know, somebody put poison in that syllabub between the time Columbine and Marie arrived at the theatre and the first ballet,’ I said.
‘If you’re asking me whether I saw anybody go in with a bottle marked “Poison”, no I didn’t.’
The ill-natured tone was so unlike the Daniel I knew that I might as well have been talking to a stranger.
‘It’s a reasonable question, isn’t it? So you saw nobody except people you’d expect to see going in before a performance?’
‘A man could have been hiding inside the theatre all day, waiting for his chance,’ he said. ‘Why should he leave it till the last minute?’
‘Are you thinking of the man Rainer?’
He answered with another question.
‘Kennedy doesn’t take that seriously, does he? Why not?’
I didn’t tell him that I agreed with Kennedy; how could one take seriously a suspect on the far side of the world?
‘Were you outside the Augustus when the boy came running out for a doctor?’
‘No. Leave it, Libby. There’s nothing there that will help us.’
We said nothing else until we turned into Adam’s Mews, walking carefully on slippery cobbles. It was almost completely dark, with the rustle of horses shifting gently in their straw behind stable doors and only a few squares of dim candlelight from the lofts above the stables, where the grooms and coach drivers lived. I asked him if he’d care to come in and drink a bowl of the soup that Mr
s Martley would certainly have waiting. He shook his head.
‘Shall I come and see you tomorrow?’ I said.
He stopped walking, raised his hand to touch my arm in the old, easy way, then dropped it to his side as if it had turned to lead.
‘I think it would be best if we didn’t see each other for a while, Liberty. This is no concern of yours.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘You almost got yourself arrested today on my account. I don’t want you running any more risks for me.’
‘Do you think I care about that?’
‘If you don’t, then I should. I mean it, Libby. I’ll write to you, if you like. If you want news of me, ask Kennedy.’
I turned away, glad it was too dark for him to see the tears on my face. He walked with me into Abel Yard and to the foot of my staircase, raised that heavy hand in what was probably meant for a goodbye, and walked away.
When Amos and I rode out in the park early next morning, I kept a lookout for Mr Disraeli. He owed me an explanation. There was no sign of him then, or on Friday morning. He must know about Columbine’s murder. Surely curiosity, if nothing else, would provoke him to another early ride. Or was it possible that his circle knew more about it than they were prepared to admit and had closed ranks? If so, he might already be regretting that he’d approached me, however little he’d revealed.
On Monday I thought it over as I walked to Piccadilly to give a singing lesson to the self-satisfied fifteen-year-old daughter of a Conservative MP. She was one of several new pupils I’d acquired recently, after a handsome Italian music teacher had unknowingly done me a favour by eloping with one of his pupils, a twenty-year-old heiress to fifty thousand pounds. The elopement had put the mothers of Mayfair and Belgravia into such a flutter that any male music teacher younger than seventy and marginally more pleasant to look at than a Notre Dame gargoyle was considered a danger in the parlour. Daniel had lost a few pupils as a result, but managed to pass them on to me.
Today’s girl was one of what I called the Vickylings. It’s odd how fashion changes. Now that we had a short, round-faced queen of eighteen, with big solemn eyes and smooth brown hair, every wealthy family in London seemed to include at least one living replica of her. I wondered where they’d all come from so quickly. Was it that mothers had been hiding these girls away for years behind their taller and more interesting sisters but brought them forward now that they had become social assets? Did girls practise in front of mirrors, widening their eyes and rounding their chins? I gave the girl as much attention as she deserved, but most of my mind was composing the note that I’d decided to send to Disraeli.
I’d finished the lesson and was in the marble-floored front hall, doing up a strap of my music case, when I heard the voice of my pupil’s mother on the stairs.
‘Seven o’clock tomorrow evening then, Mr Disraeli. You won’t fail us, I hope.’
I looked up, and there he was. He said something flattering to the MP’s wife about not failing her, of all people, but spoken with a hint of mockery that suggested she shouldn’t depend on it. I stepped back from the foot of the stairs, hoping not to be noticed. They went past me, still talking. A maid came forward with his cane, top hat and cloak. The cloak, I noticed, was lined in silver grey silk to match his cravat. He took it from the maid and slung it round his shoulders in a studiedly dramatic way, half turning. As he turned, our eyes met. For a second he simply looked startled, then he smiled.
‘We meet again, Miss Lane.’
The eyes of the MP’s wife were wide and surprised. It’s one thing to let music teachers use the front door, quite another to have them recognised by guests. By now, the maid had opened the door. Disraeli stood back for me to go first and there was no choice but to accept, though I could feel the wife’s disapproval like a cold draught on my back. The door closed and we stood on the step facing each other, with all the noon bustle of Piccadilly just a few yards away.
‘I’ve been hoping to meet you,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to you about Columbine.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘You said she’d done some damage to a friend of yours. Were you talking about Rodney Hardcastle?’
He looked taken aback.
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘But you know Rodney Hardcastle?’
‘I know of him. I dine with his father, Lord Silverdale, when he’s in town.’
It was the first time I’d seen him uneasy. Gossiping on doorsteps was not bon ton. But now I had him, I’d no intention of letting him escape.
‘You know somebody’s been charged with murdering Columbine?’ I said.
‘Some dancer, yes.’
‘Her name’s Jenny Jarvis. I suppose it’s convenient for those friends of yours that Columbine’s out of the way.’
It was a big jump I was taking, but he’d annoyed me by not knowing Jenny’s name, or pretending not to.
For an instant the look in his eyes showed I’d startled him, but the usual easy, ironic air covered it almost at once.
‘Are you going towards Westminster, by any chance, Miss Lane?’
‘Yes.’
Wherever he was going. Politely, he took the outside of the pavement and we started walking.
‘So what can you tell me about this friend of yours whom she damaged?’ I said.
‘Only that he is in no way relevant to her death.’
‘How do we know who or what is relevant?’
‘My friend has been under close medical care on his country estate for the past three weeks. He tried to cut his throat. He’ll live, but he’ll never speak again. We all thought he’d be one of the finest parliamentarians of his generation, as his father and grandfather had been before him.’
He looked solemn as a marble statue.
‘And how did Columbine come into this?’ I said.
‘A few hours before he cut his throat, she called on him, uninvited. Nobody knows what was said.’
‘Was he a particular friend of hers?’
‘No. That’s the mystery of the thing. His family are quite sure he’d never set eyes on the woman in his life before that afternoon.’
‘Families don’t always know everything.’
‘In this case, they did. If you’re implying some relationship between my friend and that woman, I can assure you I know his tastes better.’
‘Was she blackmailing him?’
‘My friend’s life was entirely beyond reproach.’
‘The only people with entirely irreproachable lives are babies in their cradles – and I’m not even sure about some babies,’ I said.
‘I’m certain he’d never done anything of which a gentleman might be ashamed.’
He was being terribly parliamentary, as if his words were being recorded for posterity. That made me sure he was keeping something from me.
‘Did you ever meet Columbine?’ I said.
He shook his head like a horse shaking off a fly.
‘No.’
‘But you know about her past?’
‘No more than the world knows. She appeared out of nowhere, tried for a place in society, and failed.’
‘By not marrying the old lord, you mean?’
‘There was never a chance of that. After he died, she took a house in Grosvenor Square and tried to set up a salon – artists, literary men and so on. Quite a few men accepted her invitation, but the ladies wouldn’t tolerate her. You’ve probably heard the story of how Lady Shedlake dealt with her.’
‘No.’
I hadn’t even heard of Lady Shedlake.
‘Invited her to a reception. Of course, La Columbine was overjoyed, thinking this was social acceptance. In she swans, all velvet and diamonds. Lady Shedlake, in front of all her guests, welcomes her like a long-lost sister. Would she care for a glass of champagne? Then, just as the footman’s handing it to her, Lady Shedlake says in that very carrying voice of hers, “Or perhaps you’d prefer a glass of milk?”’
It took a while for the malice of this to sink in. When
it did, I was struck with an emotion I’d never expected: a shiver of sympathy for Columbine.
‘You mean, the milkmaid story? But that was a horrible thing to do to anybody.’
He shrugged.
‘They say she packed up and fled to Paris the next morning. Then, when she came back, there was the business of Rainer and the forgery. She’s been lying pretty low since then.’
Until she accepted an engagement at the Augustus, which might have been about the same time she called on Disraeli’s friend.
‘I still don’t understand what you wanted from me,’ I said.
‘To be honest, Miss Lane, I don’t even know myself. I believe it was an apprehension that my poor friend might not be the only one.’
‘You must have had a reason for thinking that.’
‘More of an instinct than a reason. You see, an ordinary man observes events and sees a pattern in them. If a man wishes to be extraordinary, he must see the pattern first and anticipate events.’
His self-conceit was so total that I couldn’t even laugh at it.
‘And you observed a pattern?’ I said.
‘Nothing as drastic as my poor friend’s case. But over the last few weeks there have been instances of men resigning from prominent positions, or withdrawing to their country estates, or generally avoiding public life in a way that puzzles me.’
‘And you attribute all that to Columbine?’
‘I simply don’t know, and I detest not knowing. I need ears and eyes everywhere.’
‘Tell me, was I your only pair of ears and eyes at the Augustus?’ I said.
‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘One of the dancers there has been behaving strangely.’
Another shrug from him implied that was only to be expected.
‘You asked me to watch for her gentlemen friends. You surely knew Rodney Hardcastle was one of them, as you’re acquainted with his father.’
‘Poor old gentleman. Rodney’s his only son and their line goes back to before the Conqueror. He’s virtually disowned him and says he won’t be responsible for his debts.’
‘Debts, yes. Mr Hardcastle’s seem to be considerable.’
