•
Suzanne found Joan waiting on a seat in a quiet shady spot at the side of the church. She was wearing an overcoat and hat against the cool breeze, and had a large bag on her knee.
‘Ah, there you are,’ she cried, and Suzanne shook her hand and sat beside her.
‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. I did feel awkward about approaching you.’
‘Yes, well, in view of Sophie’s sensitivity on the subject, I think it best if we don’t mention it to anyone.’
‘Yes, but you see, it was because of those sensitivities that I thought I should talk to you about this.’
Joan frowned. ‘About what Angela said about Dougie in India? So what did she say?’
‘I don’t know if you remember, but Angela and Jack were very close in those days, and she said that he’d told her that the reason you all left India and returned to the UK was because of a scandal about Dougie getting a girl pregnant-the daughter of one of your servants, actually.’
Suzanne was aware of the elderly woman at her side becoming very still.
‘I’m sorry, this is probably distressing for you, and I’m sure utterly mistaken, but I thought if you could tell me the truth of the situation I could put Angela straight, and stop her repeating the story.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Well, yes, there was actually. She said that the girl took poison and died, and there was a fuss. You see, I’m afraid that if Angela were to read something like the report in last week’s Observer, which mentioned that Marion had been working for the writer Sophie Warrender, she might… well, I don’t know, start talking to other people about it.’
Joan was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘I see. And you didn’t tell her about that connection?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘And have you discussed this story with anyone else?’
‘Not a soul.’
‘Good.’ Joan took a deep breath and went on, ‘You did the right thing to speak to me. Because there is not a shred of truth in it. It sounds like some kind of fanciful tale that Dougie must have told Jack to make our days in India seem more interesting and exotic. I remember him telling Jack another ridiculous story about the elephant’s foot, about how he shot the beast, quite absurd. Good Lord, Dougie was only sixteen when we left!’
That didn’t seem an altogether conclusive argument to Suzanne, and there was something else about Joan’s explanation, a kind of resentful, defensive tone that seemed out of key. But she said cheerfully, ‘Oh good, I thought it must be something like that.’
‘So you’ll tell Angela this?’
‘I will.’
‘If she’s not convinced, you can tell her to look up the diplomatic papers for the period at the National Archives in Kew. They’re accessible to the public now. Emily looked them up, when she was helping Marion. There’s not a whiff of scandal, but plenty of glowing praise for Roger’s splendid service. I can give you the references if you like.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Again there had been a defensiveness about Joan’s reply, almost as if it were a prepared defence, but then, Suzanne thought, she had probably been deeply offended by the suggestion that their time in India might have been soiled by any kind of scandal. ‘I am relieved. I’ll tell Angela in no uncertain terms, and I’d better tell my friend, Chief Inspector Brock, as well, so he knows, in case it ever comes up.’
‘What? No! Certainly not. You mustn’t do that.’
Suzanne was startled by the vehemence of the other woman’s words, and felt that she was suddenly seeing a younger, more abrasive version of Lady Warrender, imposing her will on those around her.
‘I think it would be sensible to tell him.’
‘No, do you hear? You’ll do no such thing!’
Suzanne flushed and turned away. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to her like that. ‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘that’s really for me to decide, Lady Warrender.’
The old woman gave a strange, guttural growl and hunched away. There was a moment’s awkward silence, and then she let out a deep sigh. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, her voice now frail again and winsome. ‘I’m afraid it is one of the tragedies of old age that one can so often see the wise and safest course, but is unable to summon up the ability to persuade others. You really must do whatever you see fit, my dear. Please, we mustn’t quarrel about it.’
‘No,’ Suzanne said with relief. ‘I don’t want to do that.’
‘Now look, see what I’ve brought.’ She opened the bag on her lap and drew out a gold cardboard box. Opening the top, she showed Suzanne the chocolates inside. ‘I’ve been busy this morning. The kitchen is my refuge these days, and one of my great joys is making treats for my family and friends. Do you like liqueur chocolates? Of course you do, everyone does. And what are your favourites? I have made them all-rum raisin, cumquat brandy, creme de menthe. They’re all here. Come now, let’s be friends. Take your pick.’
Suzanne smiled. She didn’t really want a chocolate, but she could hardly refuse. She chose a rum raisin. She bit into it and its syrupy heart oozed into her mouth and down her throat.
‘Good?’
‘Delicious.’
‘Try another.’
•
‘Tell me,’ Kathy said.
‘You know. You’ve found her, haven’t you?’
A jangle of alarm sounded in Kathy’s head. Found who? ‘Emily, tell me quickly!’
But the girl suddenly clamped a hand over her mouth and jumped up. She clattered down the spiral staircase in a rush, and Kathy got up to follow her. By the time she reached the foot of the steps Emily was gone. Kathy looked at Rhonda, who was staring at her in consternation. ‘Where is she?’
Rhonda pointed at the door to the hall, and followed as Kathy ran out, calling Emily’s name. They heard a cupboard door bang in the kitchen, and found Emily standing at a bench holding a glass jar of white powder, which she was shovelling into her mouth.
Kathy cried out and lunged at the girl, jerking the jar out of her grip, then grabbed her by the hair and dragged her over to the sink where she used her free hand to turn on the tap and force Emily’s head under it, then stuck her hand in the girl’s mouth. She choked and struggled, but Kathy forced her fingers into her throat until she was sick. She turned back to Rhonda, who was looking horrified, and said, ‘Has she seen anyone else this morning?’
‘No, no one, only her grandmother.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She went out for her morning walk, as she always does, to St John’s church, up the hill.’
‘Call an ambulance, Rhonda, and don’t let anyone touch that powder.’
She half carried, half dragged Emily out to the hall and sat her in the chair beside the phone while Rhonda made the call. She didn’t want to leave Rhonda alone with Emily, but the girl looked utterly defeated, and Kathy was gripped by a terrible anxiety. She fired some more instructions at Rhonda, then flew out of the house and raced down the street, at the same time calling on her mobile for help. A man getting out of his car stared at her in surprise as she sprinted past, down to the corner, then up the long rise towards the stone spire of St John’s. As she drew closer, heart hammering in her chest, she made out two people sitting on a bench against the church wall. She thought she recognised the elderly figure in the burgundy hat and coat, and the other looked a little like Suzanne. Astonished, Kathy realised that it was Suzanne. She called out.
•
Suzanne heard the shout and looked up to see a fair-haired woman running up the hill towards them. She paused, her hand with the second chocolate almost at her mouth, then lowered it again. ‘Kathy?’
She turned to Lady Warrender, and was shocked by the curl of utter hatred on the old woman’s mouth, as if for the first time seeing the real face behind the genteel mask. thirty-one
S uzanne sat propped up against the pillows. It was absurd the fuss they were making. After the second bout of sickness had passed
she’d been reasonably comfortable, though her stomach still ached. Dr Mehta had been in to see her, eagerly discussing symptoms with the A amp;E registrar. And Kathy, to whom she’d given a statement. But not yet Brock, though she knew he was pacing impatiently outside in the waiting room. Finally she took a deep breath and asked a nurse to let him in.
He came like a storm front through the ward, black coat flying, face dark, trolleys rattling in his wake. ‘How the hell are you?’
She smiled. ‘Completely fine.’
He subsided onto the chair beside her bed. ‘You’re white as a sheet. What are they giving you?’
‘Everything’s under control.’
‘That’s what Sundeep said, but I didn’t like the look on his face, as if he was already planning the PM.’
They lapsed into silence, and then she said, ‘Has Kathy explained?’
‘She gave me some sort of account. I understand you felt you had to check the story you got from your friend, about Warrender poisoning someone in India.’
‘I didn’t know if it was relevant. I had to be sure before I told you, David. I’m so sorry, after I promised-’
‘Hush.’ He took her hand. ‘My fault. I should have been a better listener. I’ve been taking you for granted.’
She shook her head. Another silence, while someone was wheeled past, groaning. Then Suzanne nodded at the parcel under Brock’s arm. ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, when they told me to go away for an hour, I went for a walk and came across a bookshop.’ He handed her the package. ‘A get-well present.’
She peeled away the wrapping to reveal a thick volume, a biography of David Hockney. ‘Aha… lovely.’
‘I thought I’d give the nineteenth century a miss,’ he said. ‘And the girl assured me no one gets poisoned.’
She had turned to an image of palm trees against a blue sky, and said, ‘California… I believe there’s an antique dealers’ convention in Sacramento next month.’
She said it with a certain edge, reminding him of the last time she’d planned a big trip and he’d let her down.
‘Well then, we should go.’
•
They found more scraps of the wallpaper in the garden outhouse, and a tub in which, according to Sundeep, the paper had been soaked in vinegar, a weak acid, in order to dissolve the colouring of Paris Green, copper acetoarsenite, used in the William Morris print. The women had then apparently mixed washing soda with the solution, to precipitate the insoluble copper carbonate and leave a clear solution of arsenic trioxide, which could be concentrated and eventually collected as a fine white powder.
‘Emily was good at chemistry at school,’ Kathy said. ‘She was going to read it at Oxford. She must have discovered what was going on between her father and Marion, and when her parents went off to Corsica, she and her grandmother decided that something had to be done. She found the old books on the chemistry of arsenic in her grandfather’s eyrie, where he’d pondered over them, trying to understand what had gone wrong with his tubewell project in Bengal, and she realised that the arsenic-coated wallpaper being stripped from their walls, hidden under layers for over a hundred years, could be the instrument of retribution. It must have seemed like poetic justice somehow.’
But this was all conjecture, for neither Emily, in a hospital ward, nor Joan were saying a word. Douglas too, devastated by what had happened, denied all knowledge of the tale that Angela had told Suzanne. It seemed that forensic analysis of her homemade arsenic-laced chocolates would certainly support a charge of attempted murder by Joan against Suzanne, and possibly, though more circumstantially, of murder by Emily against Tina. But if they held their silence, there was frustratingly little evidence to connect them to Marion’s death, and Kathy could imagine the sympathetic effect of the two defendants on a jury, and the psychologists’ reports that the defence would call up, representing the crimes as desperate acts of temporary insanity by two essentially decent people.
There was still, Kathy felt, a void at the centre of the story, a darkness, like Sundeep’s arsenic mirror, hiding some crucial element that no one would admit.
•
The London Library was busy when Kathy arrived. A group of Welsh librarians on a trip to London were being given the tour, and Kathy waited for a while in the main hall for Gael Rayner to be free. It seemed such an improbable place for an act of violence, she thought, and yet, at the British Library, Marion had uncovered a little book which might have destroyed a man’s reputation and very nearly, perhaps, provided a motive for her murder. Maybe it wasn’t the only innocent-looking text she’d found.
‘Kathy! Hello. Any developments?’
‘I believe there are, Gael. We’ve charged Emily Warrender and her grandmother Joan with murder and attempted murder.’ She saw the astonishment register on the librarian’s face. ‘Yes, I know. It seems they didn’t like the idea of Marion and Emily’s father being lovers.’
‘Sophie Warrender’s husband? Oh my God!’ Gael shook her head, taking it in. ‘And is there something you need here? Evidence of some kind?’
‘Maybe, if I can find it. Tell me, do you have any books on balloons?’
‘Balloons?’ She stared at Kathy, then, seeing she was serious, collected herself and sat down at the computer. ‘How about The Aeronauts: A History of Ballooning, 1783-1903, by Rolt, L.T.C.?’
‘Could be.’
‘You want me to get it for you?’
‘I’d like to look at its place in the stacks.’
‘Its shelfmark is S for science, Ballooning. Come on, I’ll show you.’
They went through to the floors of book stacks at the back of the building, coming to the Science and Miscellaneous section, then working alphabetically through to S. Ballooning, between S. Astronomy and S. Biology against the long side wall. Kathy began to remove books, until she found what she was looking for, a small green volume tucked between two others, its shelfmark H. India.
‘This is in the wrong place,’ Gael said.
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ Kathy said, and turned to page 213. It was intact. of unparalleled devotion to the service. There was, however, one incident in 1963 which cast a disastrous pall upon all our efforts, a potential scandal so serious indeed as to threaten a diplomatic rift at the highest level. One of our senior diplomats, let us call him W, had a son, a cheeky and unruly brat in his childhood, who had developed into a precocious youth, whose sense of seemly conduct left much to be desired. This youth, D, was raised by a devoted ayah, a modest Christian woman of impeccable character, who had a daughter, a year younger than D, who was flattered by his attentions. She became pregnant by him, and, so it was said, overcome with shame and unable to face her mother, she took her own life by eating arsenic, a horrible fate. Then a younger sister revealed the association with D, and rumours began to circulate that he had been with her on the night she took the poison, and that he had forced her to take it. Her family was incensed, their cause was taken up by opportunistic politicians in Dacca, and the affair threatened to take on the dimensions of an international incident. Fortunately I was able to call upon my extensive contacts in the Pakistani cabinet to bring the scandal under control. A compensation package was agreed between W and the girl’s mother, mediated principally by myself and a good friend in the Justice Ministry. W and his family were hastily posted back to London, and official references to the affair deleted from the records. For W it was an ignominious end to a meritorious, if somewhat unconventional, term in Bengal. On a more positive note, however, shortly after this unfortunate episode was concluded I convened a round table of Western diplomats to reach a consensus on our response to the new constitution for Pakistan promulgated by General Ayub Khan; a meeting, I think one can in all modesty claim, that was a triumph for British diplomacy.
•
‘Harding was a shit,’ Douglas Warrender said. ‘He was pompous, smug and dull, everything my father wasn’t, and he hated us as a result. The scandal over Vijaya’s deat
h was a godsend for him, and he wallowed in it. When my father heard that he was publishing his memoirs in 1973, he demanded to see Harding’s manuscript, and threatened to sue if they didn’t remove page 213. It was a lie, you see, about my involvement in her death. Vijaya took the poison without telling me or anyone else. The book had been printed, a short run that Harding intended mainly for his friends, to big-note his mediocre career. In the end he agreed to cut out the offending page, but out of spite he kept one uncut copy which he presented to the London Library, where he was a member. Marion found it.
‘I told you before, didn’t I, about the sense of tragic fate that hung over my father’s attempt to help the people of Bengal? Well, it was even worse than I said. You see, although my father defended and supported me, I don’t think he was ever quite sure if the accusation that I had murdered Vijaya was true. I believe he threw himself into the tubewell program as a kind of atonement for the wrong that had been done to her. And then, you see, Marion’s interest in arsenic in the nineteenth century led her to this stupid book. She was a very smart researcher, Marion. Very thorough, as Dr da Silva also discovered.’
‘What did she propose to do with it?’ Brock asked.
‘Despite her apparent self-confidence and independence, Marion had a deep streak of insecurity. Although I had given her the house, the baby and many promises, she didn’t really trust me to go through with it. She actually thought-it sounds so sad and pathetic to say this now-she thought she could guarantee my fidelity by holding that damn book over me. She actually said she would give it to me on our first wedding anniversary. I laughed. I told her that it was history, no one was interested in that stuff any more. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? I think Emily overheard us, and told Joan. She couldn’t allow it to come out again. My father had gone through so much.’
•
‘I heard them talking together in the house one day. They thought no one else was at home. I heard Marion say she’d hidden the book somewhere no one would ever find it. Then she told Dad she didn’t want him to go to Corsica. She said that he couldn’t have us both, he would have to decide. He said he had to go, but he would tell everyone when they got back.’
Dark Mirror bak-10 Page 31
