The Crystal Cage

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘Whatever would that be?’ His voice bubbled with laughter. Nick Heysham was bouncing back and it was probably time to go.

  ‘Let me know if you turn anything up.’ I was quite certain I wouldn’t hear another word from him.

  ‘Sure thing. And thanks. I won’t forget that drink.’

  ‘Dinner, wasn’t it?’ I teased. ‘I’ve just spent a day immured in the V and A’s Reading Room for you.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he said, and I don’t think he was joking. I went to put the phone down and then ‘Hey, Grace, are you still there? Where do you think I should start with de Vere’s?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Kelly’s first to confirm they were architects.’

  The unvoiced question hung in the air. ‘Kelly’s Post Office London Directory of 1851,’ I said crisply and rang off.

  * * *

  I left Hampstead underground station and turned into Heath Street. Sometime during my journey the weather had transformed from warm sunlight to cold splinters of rain that sliced their way determinedly through an inadequate jacket and short skirt. The walk home seemed interminable, and I arrived at Lyndhurst Villas cascading water. Oliver darted out into the hall as soon as he heard the key, but my drowned state seemed to pass him by.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ was his greeting. He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all day.’

  I felt myself bristling but said as reasonably as any sodden person could, ‘I mentioned last night that I was working at the V and A today.’

  ‘You had your phone switched off.’ His tone continued accusatory.

  ‘The museum has a strict policy, you know that.’ I was trying to stay patient, but my pressing need for a hot shower was beginning to triumph.

  ‘What I do know was that I wanted you and you weren’t available.’

  His neck was mottling to a dusky red, which was always a sign that he was seriously upset. He liked me to be on call and felt entitled to my attention. I had one more attempt at placating him.

  ‘Oliver, I’m sorry, but I had no idea you were in desperate need of my services.’ It came out rather more sarcastically than I intended.

  ‘Your services, as you call them, are exactly what I needed. And I’ve had to wait for hours to get them.’ He pursed his lips. Very early in our relationship, his ex-wife had been anxious to tell me that Oliver was a ‘petulant’ man and on a very few occasions I’ve had to agree. This was one of them.

  ‘So, what is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why have you been trying to contact me?’

  ‘I’m moving the Gorski earlier than I expected. The present show at Newcastle is closing—it was never a good choice and done against my advice. The upshot is that we need something else to fill the gallery and pretty damn quickly.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I was depending on you to make the necessary arrangements. Except you weren’t around to make them.’

  His harping was getting hard to take. He seemed determined to relegate me to an employee who’d fallen down on her duties. But I was still keeping a tight rein on my temper.

  ‘I’m sorry you were inconvenienced,’ I said as mildly as I could, ‘but I’m not your PA. I do have a job of my own.’

  He actually sniffed. ‘If you can call it a job.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean that it’s not serious, darling.’ He saw me looking shocked and tried to bluster his way out, while managing to dig an even deeper hole.

  ‘It’s a casual thing, temporary.’ He waved his hand around as though dismissing the very notion that a job existed.

  ‘In other words, it’s nothing work,’ I finished for him. ‘Why don’t you say it? But then you were opposed to my taking the job I really wanted, even though you paid my student fees for years.’

  His face was annoyingly calm. ‘I saw you had great promise and I was happy to help you fulfil it, but we agreed when you were offered the post at Sussex that you wouldn’t have been happy there. Universities stifle creativity.’

  ‘You agreed,’ I corrected him angrily. ‘And what’s so creative in researching mundane houses for people with too much money? Or, for that matter, in project managing exhibition schedules?’

  I caught sight of myself in the rococo mirror carefully placed to reflect two milk-white cherubs sitting face-to-face on the shelf opposite. Right now the glass was reflecting something a little different: flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. My unruly curls had started to dry in the warm air and were now corkscrewing in every direction, a visual metaphor for the snakes of spleen rampaging through me.

  Oliver must have taken a good look at the virago in front of him and decided on compromise. ‘You know I consider your house research business has real potential,’ he coaxed. ‘I wouldn’t have sponsored it otherwise. Right now, though, it’s surely not the most important thing in our world, is it?’

  ‘Not when it interferes with your plans, apparently.’

  ‘The whole point of setting you up in your own business was that you’d be free to help me when I needed it.’ His tone now was resigned, patient. ‘Without you, I’ve had to cobble together some very ad hoc arrangements.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘It isn’t. It will probably be a complete shambles.’

  ‘I’m sure not,’ I said briskly and went upstairs.

  I stripped off each item of wet clothing and threw it as far away from me as I could, as though I were stripping off every unwanted layer of my life. I was deeply, deeply angry. I despised the work I did and now it appeared Oliver had joined me. His pretence that it was important was sickening. The house research had been his idea and it had been his money that had set up the business. It was a way of keeping me occupied until he needed my help. I’d always known the deal, but this evening the disdain in his voice had shredded me. He’d barely disguised his contempt. I ran a hot shower and spent a long time staring at the bathroom tiles. Even these were Oliver’s choice and not mine. I’d always hated their black and white geometric precision. Oliver’s mix of antique and minimalism could make me nostalgic for my sister’s chintz, though goodness knows I’d shown enough distaste for that before I had left for good.

  When I came back into the bedroom, he was sitting on the huge bed that dominated the room and looking drearily down at polished wood. He seemed to have shrunk into himself, or else one of the denim shirts he affected had mysteriously grown. He looked up as I closed the bathroom door and his expression was pleading. We’d never quarrelled quite so starkly before.

  ‘Grace, I’m sorry.’

  I didn’t reply. I still found it difficult to speak to him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have dismissed your work in that unpleasant way.’ He sounded ashamed, which I suppose was a start.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It was a wholly unacceptable thing to say.’

  That was a favourite word of Oliver’s, ‘unacceptable.’ It didn’t really describe what I thought of his remarks.

  ‘Grace, darling, look at me.’

  I looked at him, but it didn’t appear to be the right look. He almost blanched in the face of my ferocity.

  ‘I was very wrong,’ he began again, and I wondered how long the recital was going to take. I started to ruffle through my bedroom chest to find some clean pyjamas. I was tired out and needed to go to bed.

  ‘I was very wrong,’ he repeated, ‘I lost my temper. That was unacceptable.’

  There it was again. I pulled on pyjama bottoms and searched for a tee shirt. He shifted his position on the bed so that his gaze could follow me as I moved around the room. He seemed to gain confidence from my silence because he abandoned his penitent’s speech and went for vindication.

  ‘I’ve had a most trying day, although I’m sure you don’t want to hear. But some very difficult clients and then this Newcastle business on top of it and Sue is an experienced gallery worker but compl
etely hopeless at organising. I was left to do it all on my own.’

  Did he expect me to sympathise? I wondered. I wasn’t going to sympathise.

  ‘You’re a wonderful companion in all kinds of ways.’ His voice was suddenly much softer. ‘Don’t let’s continue this fight. I’m sincerely sorry.’

  He looked and sounded contrite. ‘I couldn’t do without you, you know. I depend on you in so many ways. I know you still hanker after the university job, but it really wouldn’t have been a good idea.’

  I was tempted to ask why not exactly, but my antagonism had begun to melt. Who doesn’t want to be needed? The appeal had hit me where it was supposed to. In any case, I hated conflict. I knew from bitter history that nothing positive ever came from it, only damage. And after all, it was Oliver who’d helped set up my business, Oliver who kept it going in the lean times. For years I’d been happy enough to accept his bounty along with his whims because at heart he was a good man, a kind man, and I wasn’t being strictly fair. I went over and kissed him on the cheek, and he pulled me down towards him, stroking my face and hair in just the right way.

  The ringing of the phone shattered the moment. I was ready to leave it to ring, but Oliver got to his feet, grumbling. I followed him downstairs to the sitting room.

  ‘Yes. Who? Just a minute.’

  ‘It’s a Nick Heysham. Something about the V and A.’ Oliver’s mouth was pursed again and I damned Nick for calling me.

  ‘It’s a dry cleaners.’ His voice sounded tinny.

  ‘What?’ I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

  ‘Great Russell Street, number twenty-two. It’s a dry cleaners.’

  ‘You went to Great Russell Street?!’

  ‘I’m there right now. De Vere and Partners were architects, like you said, and these were their offices. But there’s no trace of them—no trace of any architects, for that matter.’

  ‘It was always a long shot,’ I soothed. ‘At least now you can say that you’ve explored every avenue.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Oliver was banging dishes rather too loudly in the kitchen, and I was anxious to finish the call, but this was tantalising. Had Nick discovered something after all?

  ‘Why aren’t you sure?’

  ‘We know there’s nothing to be gleaned from Royde’s workplace. But what about where he lived?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but it seems an even longer shot.’

  ‘Worth pursuing?’

  The noise from the kitchen had escalated. ‘You’d have to consult the census to find his address,’ I said quickly. ‘You’re lucky—there was one taken in 1851.’

  ‘I figured the date, but I don’t know the borough he lived in. Theoretically I could be searching to doomsday.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. If he worked in Great Russell Street, he must have lived reasonably close.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Almost sure. Horse-drawn buses travelled across London, but as a junior employee Royde probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the daily fares. Most likely he walked, as most people did. So his lodgings aren’t going to be that far from his office.’

  Oliver’s voice cut brusquely across the conversation. ‘I’ve cooked pasta, Grace. Don’t be long.’

  The last thing I wanted to eat was pasta. I didn’t want to eat at all. But it was Oliver’s way of expressing remorse and here was Nick Heysham spoiling it for him. Nick wasn’t giving up on the call either.

  ‘It might be sensible then to draw a three-mile radius from Great Russell Street,’ he was saying. ‘But isn’t there going to be more than one census district involved?’

  ‘Three at least, maybe four: Holborn, Bloomsbury, St Pancras and possibly Westminster. Look, Nick, I have to go. I’m sure the search won’t take as long as you fear.’

  ‘Would you—’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Just two districts.’

  ‘What do you mean, just two? I’ve been staring at print all day, and I’m very tired.’

  ‘You can leave it until tomorrow,’ he conceded generously. ‘And if both of us look, we’ll be speedy. Promise. Lucas Royde isn’t exactly a common name.’

  Oliver was in front of me now, the bowl of pasta balanced precariously on a tray and threatening to tip into my lap.

  ‘Would it be too much to expect you to respond when I call?’ All self-reproach had disappeared, and his voice was hectoring. ‘Perhaps you’d let me know when I can expect some attention from you. Or are you intent on ignoring me today?’

  I looked at him and felt sudden dislike.

  ‘I’ll take Bloomsbury and Westminster,’ I said into the phone, and rang off.

  Oliver remained where he was standing, looking thunderous.

  ‘Nick Heysham?’

  ‘You remember,’ I said lightly, ‘he wanted some help with a query on the Great Exhibition.’

  ‘And that’s what you were doing at the V and A?’ His neck was again mottling alarmingly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All day?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘So while I was battling to stay upright, you were engaged on this footling quest, researching things that don’t matter for someone that doesn’t matter!’

  ‘If you put it like that, yes.’

  I wasn’t going to apologise. Oliver was probably right and I’d wasted my time. But there had been several moments in the day when I’d been quickened into life, moments when I thought I might be on the verge of discovery. And for once, I hadn’t suffered a single headache.

  The thunderous expression had been replaced by one of incomprehension. With elaborate care, he put the tray down on the Pembroke side table. Then, muttering irritably, he retreated to the sofa and disappeared behind the daily broadsheet. I judged it wise to abandon the pasta and go to bed. I didn’t have to feign tiredness.

  * * *

  Even so, I slept badly and was still tossing from one side of the bed to the other when the doorbell rang out its full Victorian chime. It was enough to rouse a whole village, let alone a body hovering in and out of sleep. I crawled to the front door expecting to find our doleful postman, complaining as always of the climb up to Lyndhurst Villas, but it was Nick Heysham’s patched jeans and Young, Gifted and Slack tee shirt that greeted me.

  ‘Quite a walk,’ he said cheerfully, his breath coming short, ‘but worth it. What a view—like sitting on top of the entire city. It makes my dingy district seem even dingier.’

  I was taken aback at finding this newly minted lover of nature on my front steps and stood motionless in the open doorway. He took the opportunity to invite himself in.

  ‘Nice pad,’ he said, looking around approvingly. ‘Where’s Bluebeard?’

  I ignored him and slunk into the kitchen in search of coffee. I needed sustaining. He followed me and looked around admiringly.

  ‘What a kitchen! High-tech heaven. Not what I expected after those very expensive antiques in the hall. I like the mix!’

  ‘Are you by any chance thinking of setting up as an estate agent?’

  ‘Didn’t sleep too well?’ he queried sympathetically.

  ‘No, I didn’t and you coming here uninvited at—’ I had to push back a tumble of curls from my eyes ‘—ten in the morning…’ I stopped, not quite believing the clock.

  ‘Yeah, ten o’clock, Sleeping Beauty.’

  ‘Have you eaten a book of fairy tales for breakfast?’ I felt waspish.

  ‘If I had, I wouldn’t be so hungry. Any chance of some toast?’

  I ignored him again and smacked down one of the coffees I’d made. With a resigned sigh, he settled himself at the kitchen table.

  ‘Sorry about last night.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I played dumb.

  ‘You know, Oliver. I could hear his fury in Great Russell Street. I didn’t mean to cause havoc.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d better stop intruding into my life,’ I said tartly. ‘I was havoc fre
e until you got involved.’ Not strictly true, but I wanted him to feel at least a little guilt.

  I needn’t have bothered. ‘Red Lion Square—that should cheer you up.’

  ‘What? Where?’ I wasn’t in any state to play guessing games, but luckily neither was he.

  ‘Red Lion Square. I found him. Royde.’ He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.

  I opened my eyes a fraction more and squinted at him. ‘For someone who not so long ago wanted to grab the money and run, you’ve become very keen on this puzzle.’

  ‘Strange, isn’t it? I’m sort of hooked now on finding out about him.’

  ‘So what did the census tell you?’

  ‘Quite a bit. In 1851 he was twenty-six years old and listed himself as an architect. He was sharing the house with the landlady and three other men, all in their twenties, another professional guy but also two working men who were recorded as a baker and a saddler.’

  ‘They were both skilled crafts.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So they could afford to pay a reasonable rent. Their lodgings wouldn’t have been luxurious but quite acceptable.’

  The word made me think of Oliver. He must have left for the gallery hours ago. I didn’t know what more needed to be done for the move, but he’d obviously thought better of waking me to tell me. I finished my coffee and decided to put my companion straight.

  ‘If you’re expecting me to go with you, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. I have to visit the Papillon this morning. But I’ll walk to the underground with you if you can wait for me to dress.’

  He seemed startled at the idea that I wasn’t about to fall in with his plans.

  ‘But you’ve got to come. This is a joint quest now and—’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘You haven’t heard me out yet.’

  ‘I don’t need to.’

  He reached across the table and grasped my fingers. ‘Come with me this morning, Grace. Just this once and then I’ll never bother you again.’

  I hastily retrieved my hands. ‘I’m sorry, but if you want to carry on with the search, it’s your business, not mine.’

  ‘At least come to Red Lion Square. It’s in Holborn, on your way to the gallery.’