The Lost Empress

by Steve Robinson

  ‘Children!’

  There was no sign of either the children or Mrs Morris, so Alice continued into the house, calling their names and looking into this room and that as she went. She reached the main hall in the centre of the house, and voices drew her to another door. It was the door to her father’s study. She opened it, knowing better to knock first. When she entered, she saw her father with two other gentlemen whom she had not seen before.

  ‘I’m sorry for the intrusion,’ Alice offered. ‘I’m looking for Chester and Charlotte.’ To her father, she added, ‘Have you seen them?’

  ‘Not since late this morning,’ her father said. ‘They were with old Mrs Chetwood. Your mother contracted one of her headaches and went to lie down.’

  Old Mrs Chetwood was the longstanding housekeeper at Hamberley, having been in the family’s service since the house was built. She had been referred to as ‘old’ Mrs Chetwood ever since her daughter came to work at Hamberley, so there would be no confusion between them. Alice didn’t know exactly how old she was, but the title suited her well enough as she had always seemed old to Alice, with her grey hair and thin hands that reminded Alice of gnarled tree roots.

  ‘I see,’ Alice said. ‘Well, I’m sure they must have worn old Mrs Chetwood out, too, by now.’

  She gave a polite smile and turned to leave, but her father stopped her.

  ‘I wanted to see you, Alice,’ he said, his voice taking on a sombre tone. ‘These two gentlemen are detectives from a special branch of the police service at New Scotland Yard.’

  Alice swallowed dryly and turned back into the room. ‘How do you do?’

  Her father indicated the man to her left. He was a tall man with a thick, black moustache that covered his lips. He wore a high-buttoned, three-piece suit with a stiff white collar that seemed to cut into his neck, forcing his chin proud.

  ‘This is Inspector George Watts,’ Alice’s father said. ‘And beside him is Sergeant John Hooper.’

  Both men nodded, but only the sergeant smiled. He was an older man with wiry sideburns, who was thicker set and shorter than the other. He was similarly dressed, but in a suit of coarser fabric that held its shape far less precisely than the inspector’s. They each carried a black bowler hat.

  Alice could only think of one reason why two detectives from London were now standing in front of her: someone must have seen her in the slipway at the dockyard and reported her to her father, who had then summoned these men to interrogate her. She looked at her father, and a wave of anxiety washed over her. She wanted to speak out in her defence, hoping to quash the inevitable proceedings before they began. She yearned to tell someone what had happened, to share the burden, and why not with her own father? The matter would be taken out of her hands then, and perhaps that was for the better. She had done nothing wrong so far. It wasn’t too late. She was about to tell them everything and risk all, but her father’s next words stopped her.

  ‘There have been further developments concerning the death of Admiral Waverley.’

  Alice caught her breath.

  ‘We suspect foul play,’ Inspector Watts said, his voice conveying the elocution of a first-class education.

  ‘Possibly murder, miss,’ Sergeant Hooper added in coarser tones.

  Alice let her breath go, and she felt the tension inside her go with it.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ her father said, ‘because these gentlemen would like me to accompany them back to London, and it’s unlikely I’ll be home before supper. I didn’t want to disturb your mother, but I couldn’t just leave without explaining my absence.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alice said, feeling guilty now for having been so relieved by the announcement that poor Admiral Waverley might have been murdered. ‘I was going to take the children into Rochester, but we can go tomorrow.’

  ‘No, no,’ her father insisted. ‘There’s no need to change your plans. I wouldn’t want you to disappoint the children. I’m sure your mother will sleep through until you return.’

  At that moment, Alice heard scampering footsteps out in the hallway, and then she heard the housekeeper calling, ‘You’re not to go in there, children.’ But it was too late. Alice turned as the study door shot open, and Chester and Charlotte appeared in the frame with Mrs Chetwood close behind them, carrying an armful of yellow tulips.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ the housekeeper offered. Her cheeks were flushed, partly with embarrassment, Alice supposed, but mostly from trying to keep up with the children.

  ‘We were out picking flowers for the rooms,’ she continued, still catching her breath. ‘They must have heard you talking. Well, there was no stopping them. They got themselves all excited and ran off saying something about ice cream.’

  Lord Metcalfe laughed. ‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Chetwood. We’ve concluded our business here anyway.’

  Alice watched her father go to the children, his face still full of smiles. He knelt in front of them and from his waistcoat pocket he produced two shiny pennies.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding them up in front of the children’s beaming faces. ‘Get yourselves an extra penny lick from your old grandfather, but don’t tell your grandmother when you see her, or I’ll be for the chop!’

  Chapter Ten

  Ancient Rochester was located on the River Medway near Chatham, approximately thirty miles southeast of London. It boasted a twelfth-century cathedral and a medieval castle, which, during the period of the Angevin kings, was one of Southeast England’s most strategic fortresses, guarding the junction of the River Medway with the Roman road that ran between London and the port of Dover.

  Alice gazed up at the castle’s imposing Norman keep as she and the children walked through the castle grounds towards it. Upon their arrival in Rochester, the children’s hunger for the promised ice cream had been satisfied with a penny lick apiece, which had kept them amused while Alice bought the simple items of clothing she had wanted, along with the straw boater hat she was now wearing to keep the sun out of her eyes. Before leaving the High Street, the children had spent the money their grandfather had given them on two more ice creams, which they were now busily licking from their glass dishes as they walked.

  ‘Eat them slowly, or you’ll be sick,’ Alice warned, getting no answer.

  Slatted benches lined either side of the wide walkway, where tidy lawns gave way to trees that were heavy with pink blossoms. Alice stopped beside a vacant bench and sat opposite an elderly man who was feeding crumbs to the pigeons from a brown paper bag.

  ‘I’ve finished mine,’ Chester said, offering out an empty dish that was so clean it looked as if it had never been used.

  Charlotte held hers out. It was still half full.

  ‘Don’t you want any more?’

  Charlotte shook her head, rocking her shoulders as she did so, and Chester took it from her. He finished it off with a grin that was exaggerated by the lines of melted ice cream the dish had left on his cheeks.

  Alice wiped the ice cream off with her thumb and set the dishes down on the bench beside her. ‘We mustn’t forget to return them on our way back through the High Street,’ she said, and then she sat back and watched Chester and Charlotte play with the pigeons. She laughed to herself when she saw Charlotte repeatedly trying to touch one, only for it to hop out of reach every time.

  The castle grounds were busy with people enjoying their afternoon recreation. Two ladies in long white gowns and wide-rimmed hats nodded to her as they passed, and there were several other small children here and there with their families or their nannies. The couples she could see made her think of Henry and how much she longed to walk hand in hand with him again. She hoped that time would be soon. On the bench to her left sat a man reading a newspaper. It was a copy of the Daily Mail, which her father had often cited as being overtly warmongering. The headline certainly offered nothing to contradict his opinion. It imme
diately caught Alice’s attention.

  ‘KAISER PLANS TO CRUSH BRITISH EMPIRE!’

  It was certainly sensational, and Alice supposed it had achieved its goal in helping to sell more newspapers. But warmongering? Given what the Dutchman had wanted her to do at the dockyard recently, she thought there might be more truth to it than she cared to admit. She read the words again and wondered what else Raskin would ask of her before this ordeal was over. Surely he hadn’t gone to such lengths merely to have her gather information about submarines. She imagined just about anyone could be recruited to do that, and someone with a much greater degree of skill and courage than she possessed. No, she had already decided that Raskin must have other plans for her—something perhaps only she could achieve as an admiral’s daughter, or more specifically as the daughter of Admiral Lord Charles Metcalfe. But what?

  ‘Would you care to read it? I’m almost finished.’

  The voice startled Alice. She had become lost in her thoughts, all the while staring at that headline as if it were her own newspaper.

  ‘I’m sorry. You must think me terribly rude.’

  The man offered a smile. ‘Not at all. Here.’ He folded the newspaper flat and handed it to her.

  ‘No, it’s quite all right, really. I was just daydreaming.’

  The man got up. ‘Well, a very good afternoon to you.’

  Alice watched him go, and she laughed to herself, thinking he must have thought her quite the fool. She turned back to the children and saw Chester on his hands and knees. He was scrutinising something at the edge of the grass that she supposed, from Chester’s predilection for such things, was an insect of some sort. When she turned to her daughter, expecting to see her among the pigeons as before, her face dropped. Charlotte was no longer there.

  Alice shot to her feet, noting that the man who had been feeding the pigeons when they arrived was also nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Charlotte!’

  Chester looked over and Alice ran to him.

  ‘Where’s your sister?’

  Chester just stared blankly back at her.

  ‘Stay here,’ Alice said, and she ran to the middle of the walkway and called for her daughter again. She looked one way along the path and then the other. Then a bright red ribbon caught her eye as it danced in spirals above the heads of the people who were otherwise blocking her view. Someone moved aside and Alice ran towards the ribbon. A moment later she saw Charlotte staring up at it, transfixed and mesmerised. Alice dropped to her knees and pulled her daughter into her arms.

  ‘Wherever were you going?’ she asked. She stared into Charlotte’s eyes. ‘Promise you’ll always stay close to me,’ she added, silently berating herself for her stupidity and lack of concentration.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ the man with the ribbon offered.

  Alice looked up and saw that the man carried several such ribbons, and she realised then that he was a street vendor.

  ‘I only just saw the little mite was following me,’ the vendor added. ‘I’d have stopped sooner if I’d known.’ He twirled the ribbon again and Charlotte’s head followed its dance. He laughed as if to make light of the situation. ‘Here,’ he said, still smiling broadly as he offered the ribbon to Charlotte by the stick it was attached to.

  ‘How much is it?’ Alice asked.

  ‘That’s quite all right, miss. Least I can do for causing you such a scare.’

  Alice returned his smile and nodded to Charlotte, who then took the stick from the vendor and began to make the ribbon dance for herself.

  ‘Thank you,’ Alice said.

  ‘Not at all, miss. My pleasure. You have a good day now.’

  Alice led Charlotte with her new dancing ribbon back to Chester, whom she was pleased to see was waiting close to where she had left him. He was sitting on one of the benches beside a well-dressed man in a grey top hat, who was holding a paper bag in his hand, much like the elderly man who had been feeding the pigeons when they first arrived, although the pigeons now seemed disinterested and had moved away. The man rose as Alice arrived, and without acknowledging her, he walked off in the opposite direction.

  Alice held her free hand out for Chester to hold, thinking that she never wanted to let go of either of her children again.

  ‘We must get back now,’ she said, noting that the light had started to fade, thinking that she had had quite enough excitement for one day.

  She collected the ice-cream dishes, and they left the castle grounds, taking the tram back through the High Street and further on past the museum, where they picked up the horse omnibus for their return to Hamberley. It was a quiet and uneventful journey until they had almost reached their destination, at which point Chester said he felt sick.

  ‘You’ve eaten too much ice cream this afternoon,’ Alice said, ruffling his hair. ‘That’s all it is. I’m sure you’ll be fine once the omnibus stops.’

  The carriage fell quiet again. They were the only people aboard now, all other passengers having disembarked by the time they reached the outskirts of Rochester. Outside the window, Alice continued to watch the countryside: the abundance of trees—some full of blossom and others just coming into leaf; a white weatherboard windmill on the horizon; and the oast houses that were so common to the area, with their conical red-tiled roofs beneath which the hop harvests would later be set to dry.

  ‘My tummy really hurts,’ Chester said.

  When Alice turned to him again, she thought his complexion was a shade or two paler than before. It made the skin around his eyes appear red, his lips darker than usual. She placed a palm on his forehead. It was hot and clammy to the touch.

  ‘Perhaps you’re not very well,’ Alice said, worrying now whether it really was the ice cream and the journey that was upsetting him. She went to the window and opened it more fully. She leaned out and had to hold on to her hat as the breeze hit her.

  ‘Driver!’ she called. ‘My son is unwell.’

  ‘Do you want me to stop?’ the driver called back.

  ‘No, I think perhaps if you could go a little faster and take us all the way to Hamberley. We’re almost there. I’ll pay extra.’

  ‘Hamberley. Right you are.’

  A whip cracked as Alice came back into the carriage, and the omnibus picked up speed.

  ‘Not long to go now, darling,’ Alice said, stroking Chester’s forehead, and at the same time wondering why his lips looked so dark. They were almost black in places. ‘You’ll soon feel yourself again, you’ll see,’ she added, as much to reassure herself as her son.

  Alice hoped that what she had told Chester was true, but by the time the omnibus slowed down again, Chester had become very quiet and still, and he was soon visibly sweating. By the time Hamberley came into view, he had deteriorated to the point of having lost consciousness, and he could not be woken.

  Chapter Eleven

  Later that evening, Alice waited with her mother and Mrs Chetwood in one of the sitting rooms at Hamberley, clutching her picture locket and praying for good news from Dr Shackleton, who for the past two hours had been in attendance with Chester in his room. She finished the second of the herbal tonics Mrs Chetwood had prepared to help calm her nerves and began to pace the room again, wondering what could possibly be wrong with her son. She had long since dismissed the idea that Chester had eaten too much ice cream, or that there had been anything wrong with it, because Charlotte had suffered no such ill effect.

  Her father’s return from London could not have come soon enough.

  ‘Terrible news!’ he proclaimed as Alice and her mother ran out to meet him.

  Alice did not wait to hear it, considering nothing more terrible than her son’s condition. She launched straight into a rambling account of everything that had happened that afternoon and was joined with equal passion by her mother halfway through.

  ‘Now calm down, both of you,’ L
ord Metcalfe said. ‘If Dr Shackleton is here, then Chester is in good hands. And my news from London can wait until morning.’

  They came into the main hallway: a well-lit space served by two large chandeliers, and another above the grand mahogany staircase that swept away to the floor above, with its plush crimson carpet and brass handrails.

  ‘I noticed his lips looked quite black,’ Alice continued. ‘I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ her father said. ‘But then we are not physicians, are we?’

  ‘Will you go up, Charles?’ Alice’s mother asked as she helped her husband out of his coat. ‘The good doctor has asked us not to disturb him, but it’s been too long. We’re beside ourselves with worry.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s precisely why the good doctor considered it best to be left alone with the boy.’

  ‘Please go up, Father,’ Alice said.

  Her father reached inside his jacket and glanced at the fob watch he carried in his waistcoat pocket. ‘Two hours, you say?’

  Alice nodded. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Then of course I shall go up. Two hours is an hour too long to expect any mother to worry about the well-being of her child.’

  Lord Metcalfe had only placed one foot on the staircase when other footsteps on the floorboards above stopped him. Everyone looked up as Dr Shackleton appeared with his little medical bag, and Alice ran to him, meeting him halfway.

  ‘How is he, doctor?’ she asked, his anticipated response bringing her close to panic. ‘Is he all right? Please tell me he’s going to be all right.’

  The stolid expression on Dr Shackleton’s face gave nothing away. ‘He would appear to be over the worst of it,’ he said. ‘I gave him something to help lower his temperature, and his fever has broken at last. He’s sleeping now.’

  ‘What must we do?’ Alice’s mother asked as the doctor reached the bottom of the stairs.