The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  And there wasn’t a minute to lose, for Cornelius Traherne would come to the house as soon as he heard the news. Sibella had been wealthy. Many times she’d told Belle that Max would inherit it all; that she’d left instructions with her solicitors that ‘if anything happened’, her father was to have no control over the boy. But Belle knew that that wouldn’t stop Traherne. He was not a man to be deflected by a woman.

  You did the right thing, she told herself as the cab swayed through the streets. But she couldn’t shake off the feeling that yet again, she was running away from Traherne.

  She tried to put that from her mind, and at last slid down into uneasy dreams.

  ‘Where now?’ said the cabbie, startling her into wakefulness. The roof hatch was open, and the harsh daylight made her blink.

  ‘I told you,’ she said blearily, ‘the East End.’

  ‘We’re there, miss. Where now?’

  What did it matter? Why couldn’t he leave her alone?

  ‘I’m not allowed to just drive around, miss,’ he said testily. ‘You know that well as I do, it’s against my licence. Sides, there’s a war on.’

  ‘Give me a moment to think,’ she said.

  Heaving a sigh, he pulled up at the kerb.

  Belle raised the blind and peered out. They were in a narrow street overshadowed by grimy tenements, and criss-crossed with soot-speckled washing. She smelt stale cabbage and sewerage. Yes, she thought. The dirtier the better.

  But where should she go?

  A memory surfaced from long ago. She was twelve years old, standing with her aunt and uncle on Fever Hill, inspecting the new great house which was nearing completion.

  She’d always loved those visits. Aunt Sophie made a point of listening to her ideas, and sometimes even implemented one or two; and Ben let her hold out a handkerchief to gauge the wind direction, so that they could ensure that the new house would be as cool as possible.

  This particular afternoon, a strong land breeze had been blowing from the hills, and the three of them had been standing in the carriageway, admiring the splendid new porticoed verandahs.

  Suddenly, Ben had snorted a laugh. ‘It’s bloody enormous,’ he’d said, earning a curious look from Belle and a warning glance from his wife. ‘Well, it’s a long way from East Street, isn’t it, sweetheart?’ he’d said to Aunt Sophie.

  Belle was intrigued. ‘What’s East Street?’

  ‘Where I grew up,’ he replied. ‘Well, part of the time.’ He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Not your kind of place, love. Not at all.’

  ‘Is East Street in London?’ said Belle. ‘Are your mamma and papa still there?’

  ‘Oh, no, they’re long gone,’ he said softly. ‘Nobody in East Street remembers the Kellys now.’ Then he’d lapsed into Cockney, which he did sometimes to make her laugh. ‘We ’ad two rooms to ourselfs an’ an ahtside privy for twenty-four fam’lies. An’ look at me now, eh?’

  Belle was puzzled. ‘Only two rooms? But where did you keep all your horses?’

  This time, Aunt Sophie laughed, too.

  ‘No horses,’ said Ben, ‘not in those days. Still, we thought we were doing all right. Two whole rooms, with a bit of curtain in between for privacy, and a separate bed for us kids—’

  ‘Ben, that’s enough,’ said Aunt Sophie.

  Then he’d given his wife a wolfish grin and a kiss that nearly swept her off her feet, and after that he’d challenged Belle to race him to the stables . . .

  ‘Where to, miss?’ snapped the cabbie.

  ‘East Street,’ said Belle.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The slums. It was where she belonged.

  ‘I just don’t belong,’ said Drum Talbot as he worked his way through yet another brandy.

  The waiter came and offered more, and Adam waved him away. Drum had had quite enough already.

  ‘I’m putting on an act all the time,’ Drum went on. ‘It’s so damnably hard, Adam. I can’t tell you how much I loathe it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Adam. ‘That’s why I think you could do with a rest. A chance to get away.’

  Drum blinked rapidly. ‘You’re a good sort, Adam. One of the best.’

  Adam sipped his coffee in silence. He didn’t feel like ‘one of the best’. He felt callous, unfeeling, and faintly guilty because he wanted Drum to go away.

  As he listened to his old schoolfriend warming to his theme, he reflected how deceptive appearances could be. Drummond Montague Talbot was one of the finest specimens of manhood England could produce: blond, brawny and brave. But Drum had a tragic flaw. He was gentle.

  Poor old Drum. He’d had the most dreadful time at Winchester. He might have been bigger and stronger than most of the other boys, but he could never bring himself to fight back. He simply couldn’t stomach the violence. He was the sort of boy who rescued ants.

  And when he grew up, it was a running joke that at shooting parties he’d do anything to avoid bringing down a pheasant, and was generally to be found chatting to the beaters, or playing with the dogs. Even as a soldier – and he’d been a good one – he couldn’t bring himself personally to shoot at the enemy. The lengths he’d gone to to avoid being found out.

  So in Drum’s case, appearances deceived. And also, thought Adam, in the case of that girl at Berkeley Square. The fragile-looking social butterfly who had singlehandedly nursed Sibella through the ravages of the ’flu; who had sat perfectly still without uttering a word while he’d torn down all her hopes.

  Osbourne’s married. What an unbelievably crass, insensitive way to break the news. If only he’d known – or even assumed – that Osbourne had meant more to her than a casual flirtation. But instead he’d conveniently told himself that she didn’t really care; that girls like her were incapable of strong feelings; that all he had to do was tell her the truth, and then wash his hands of the whole sorry affair.

  So like a playground bully he’d blundered in, and now he was saddled with this nagging sense of responsibility. Simply to have left her like that, in that silent house, with Sibella lying dead upstairs . . . Caddish did not begin to describe it. It was downright cruel.

  And how odd that while everyone around him seemed to be clamouring for his help, that girl, who seemed to need it more than most – or at least, to need someone’s help – had been the only one to refuse it.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Drum.

  ‘What?’ said Adam.

  ‘About Scotland. You’re a damn good fellow,’ he said, blinking rapidly. Adam saw to his horror that he was close to tears. ‘Damn good fellow. All I can say is, the service will be worse off without you . . .’

  ‘Let’s not go into that,’ said Adam.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. Still a bit raw, eh? Course you are. Quite understand. Damn shame that you’ll miss the final push.’

  Adam rubbed his temple and took another sip of his brandy. The truth was, he didn’t know if he minded being out of the army or not. Clive had seen him that afternoon, and broken the news. ‘You’re done with it,’ he’d said without preamble. ‘Lung’s shot. No more fighting for you, not even home service. Oh, you’re perfectly fit for normal wear and tear, and I still wouldn’t give a penny for my chances against you on the polo field. But you won’t be racing across No-Man’s-Land any more. So buck up. You’re well out of it. If I were you I’d go home and crack a bottle of fizz.’

  But Adam hadn’t felt like cracking a bottle of champagne. Clive was right, of course, and in the rational part of his mind he knew that. But the stubborn, irrational part of him – the part which perhaps still harboured a vestigial sense of honour – that part told him that he ought to be at the Front with his men; not fighting for King and Country, but fighting for them. And that by not being there, he was letting them down.

  Just as he’d let down that girl in Berkeley Square. Hell, why couldn’t he forget about that?

  ‘Here’s to you,’ said Drum, raising
his glass, which he’d contrived to refill while Adam had drifted away.

  Adam rose to his feet. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Drum? I’ve just remembered a telephone call I have to make.’

  The telephone attendant gave him a knowing smirk as he settled himself in the booth, for he’d already spent much of the afternoon in there. Perhaps the attendant thought he was conducting an affair. If so, he’d be surprised to learn that those calls had concerned a dead woman and a seven-year-old boy.

  First, and not without difficulty, he’d traced Mrs Pryce-Dennistoun, whom he vaguely knew, and ascertained that Max had indeed arrived safely. Then he’d spoken to Sibella’s solicitors, checked that they had the funeral arrangements in hand, and told them of Max’s whereabouts. To his surprise, they already knew. Isabelle Lawe had sent them a note.

  So, clearly, he told himself now as he dialled Sibella’s number, she’s more competent than you give her credit for. Stop worrying. She’ll be fine.

  There was no answer at number seventeen.

  Adam swore under his breath.

  It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, so she probably hadn’t gone to bed. Perhaps she was out. Or perhaps she didn’t feel like answering. And who could blame her, after what she’d been through over the past three days.

  With a troubling sense of unfinished business, he went back to his table, where Drum had reached the maudlin stage. ‘You’re the only one I can talk to, old chap. The only one who understands . . .’

  It was another half-hour before Adam got his friend safely bedded down in one of the club’s spare rooms, and himself into a cab bound for Berkeley Square. If he could just check that she was all right, he could put the whole thing out of his mind.

  There was no moon, and the streets were bathed in a dim blue glow from the few streetlamps which had been lit. There wasn’t much traffic, only the odd omnibus with its windows heavily curtained; but on the pavements, people were out for an evening stroll, admiring the searchlights and that peculiarity of wartime London, the stars.

  Number seventeen was in darkness, and when he rang the bell, no-one came.

  ‘Looks like she’s out,’ said the cabbie cheekily.

  ‘So it does,’ said Adam between his teeth.

  Back at the club, he slept badly. There was nothing new about that; since the War he always did. But this time he was trapped in an infernal loop. Again and again he saw the blood drain from her face. Well, that’s it, then. The way she’d said it.

  Dawn was breaking and the milk chariots were starting on their rounds when he set off on foot for Berkeley Square, feeling oddly conspicuous in his civilian clothes. Better get used to it, he told himself. You’ve no longer any right to wear the uniform. But it still felt wrong. He even missed the feel of the identity disc round his neck – which for the first time in four years lay discarded on top of his bureau.

  Again there was no answer at number seventeen.

  ‘She’s gone,’ said a girl’s voice below him, making him start.

  Glancing down, he saw a housemaid craning up at him from the basement of number sixteen. Sharp, intelligent blue eyes assessed him with frank curiosity.

  ‘Do you know where she went?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘But she’d a bag with her, so it must of been an overnight visit. And she didn’t take Mrs Clyne’s motor, she took a cab.’

  Adam’s heart sank. She could be anywhere.

  Something must have shown in his face, because the girl took pity on him. ‘There’s a cab rank round the corner. One of them’d probably know.’

  It turned out that, for a shilling, ‘one of them’ did indeed know; and for another, he was willing to take Adam there.

  ‘But this can’t be right,’ said Adam, when the hansom drew up outside a dingy tenement in Walworth.

  The cabbie insisted. ‘I remember ’cos it was so rum, lady like her wanting to put up in a slum like this.’

  What the devil is she playing at? thought Adam. She has money. Why not put up at an hotel?

  The front door was on the latch, and above it hung a grimy sign which had seen better days: Lodgings, weekly or monthly rates, Mrs Arthur Jugg. Beneath that were traces of another line, Dinner by arrangemt, but this had been scrubbed out – presumably, thought Adam with a flash of pity for Mrs Jugg, because she was having trouble with rations, and couldn’t afford the black market.

  He told the cabbie to wait, and went inside.

  It was dark in the hall, and the gasolier hadn’t been lit. In the gloom, Adam made out peeling wallpaper spotted with rosebuds and rust.

  A door opened to his right, and a child peered out. From the oversized trousers and the cap jammed down over its red hair, Adam guessed it to be a boy, although the small, grimy face was delicately androgynous.

  Adam said, ‘I’m looking for a lady.’ He felt in his pocket and held out a sixpence. ‘Young, dark, very pretty. Has she been here?’

  The boy snatched the sixpence, then darted back to the safety of his doorway. ‘Numberate, forfflor,’ he muttered.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Adam.

  What the devil is she playing at? he wondered as he climbed to the fourth floor. He was beginning to be faintly irritated. This precipitate flight from Mayfair to the slums, with only a carpet-bag for luggage . . . It smacked of self-pity. Was she trying to ‘throw herself away’, like a character in a penny dreadful? And why? Because Osbourne was married? Somehow, that didn’t seem to fit.

  He’d almost got tired of knocking at number eight when she answered the door. His irritation vanished. The blue frock hung off her. Her eyes were swollen, her face flushed and blotchy. He thought, so she can actually look plain.

  ‘You,’ she said blankly. Then she glanced behind him, as if she’d expected someone else.

  ‘I was worried,’ he said. ‘I wanted to see if you were all right.’

  ‘I’m fine. Go away.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I’ve a cab outside. I’ll take you to an hotel.’

  She was watching his mouth as if she was having trouble following. ‘I’m staying here,’ she said. ‘It’s where I belong.’

  ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘Please go away.’ She took a step back and stumbled, and instinctively he put out a hand to steady her. Her wrist was feverishly hot.

  He felt a flicker of alarm. ‘You’re burning up. How long have you been ill?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered. Then her knees buckled and she went down.

  For a moment, Adam stared at her in astonishment. Then he picked her up and carried her inside.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The world was falling away, and she was spinning into darkness. A band of red-hot iron was crushing her skull. Burning needles pierced her eyes. Someone was trying to smother her with a blanket: someone strong. ‘Go ’way!’ she moaned, clawing at his hands.

  ‘Try to lie still,’ said a voice, infuriatingly calm.

  How could she lie still when every breath, every blink, sent the burning needles shooting through her?

  Down, down she fell, into the churning black tide . . .

  She awoke to the certain knowledge of evil. Before she even turned her head she knew what it was. There in the corner: a massive yellowsnake. Malevolent. Waiting to strike.

  She moaned in terror.

  ‘It doesn’t exist,’ said the voice, as unruffled as before.

  ‘Yes it does,’ she retorted. She could see every scale on the flat, monstrous head; every lightning flicker of the black forked tongue. In horror she watched as it uncurled its bloated coils and slithered towards her . . .

  ‘No!’ she screamed.

  ‘Don’t be such a silly,’ said Sibella, bending over her and brushing her face with the sleeve of her lacy blue bedjacket. ‘Yellowsnakes are harmless. Surely you know that?’

  ‘But Sibella,’ said Belle. ‘You’re dead.’

  ‘Oh no I’m not,’ chuckled Sibella. ‘That was just a joke they played on you. You children
can be such vicious little brutes.’

  ‘But I’m not a child,’ said Belle.

  ‘Yes you are,’ said Cornelius Traherne, coming to stand beside Sibella. ‘You’re an extraordinary child. You are aware of things which most grown women—’

  ‘Go away!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t touch me!’ Raising herself on her elbow, she fought him off with her other arm.

  The strong hands took hold of her shoulders and gently pushed her back onto the pillow.

  Again she clawed at them. ‘Don’t – touch me!’

  ‘You seem,’ said Traherne, ‘to have created some sort of terrible fantasy—’

  ‘It’s not a fantasy!’ she shouted. ‘It really happened!’

  ‘It’s not real,’ said the voice. ‘There are no snakes.’

  She was sobbing with fury. How could he deny it? How could he sit there and deny it? He was in league with Traherne, and so was Sibella. They were all in league against her.

  She opened her eyes, and the daylight stabbed her like shards of glass. There he sat, Adam Palairet, calmly telling her that she was making it up. Adam Palairet, who had killed Sibella, who had chased Osbourne away; Adam Palairet, who had told the duppies where to find her . . .

  ‘It’s your fault!’ she screamed. ‘It’s all your fault!’

  He knew that he wasn’t helping her; he was making things worse. She needed doctors and a hospital bed, not a bug-ridden mattress and a man she couldn’t stand. She needed help.

  After her outburst over the snake, she’d collapsed in a dead faint. That was a relief, but it wouldn’t last long. He knew that much from the past seven hours. And he knew, too, that he couldn’t just sit here any longer, hoping she would get better. He had to go and find help.

  Praying that she wouldn’t wake up and fall out of bed while he was gone, he raced downstairs and hammered on the landlady’s door. No answer. He tried the other doors, working his way back upstairs. Most swung open on cramped, empty rooms. One bore an I sign, but its occupant was either away from home, or too ill to answer.