‘Oh, that Marcus! Of course I do. We’ve known each other since we were knee-high.’
Though ‘been acquainted’ would have been more strictly correct. Loddhurst, the Villiers estate, marched with Southfields and the two young men had occasionally met as children, though Marcus had lived abroad with his father from an early age. They had both been at Cambridge, but Marcus was a year or two older than Jon and they had never come into close contact there, Jon’s political leanings having taken him in an entirely different direction. In fact, he couldn’t recall encountering him except in a crowd, with other people present, and that only rarely. He had never had a conversation with him alone and now he thought about it, it was evident he really knew nothing much about him at all, though at the back of his mind something – rumour?… gossip? – was stirring. What was he doing, squiring Lydia around?
It was no news to anyone that it was ‘de rigueur’ in certain circles for married women to take a young man as lover, a reciprocal arrangement which suited both since, being already married, such a woman was no threat to the marriage prospects of the young blood in question, but Jon found the idea of that sort of fellow and his aunt in this context both repugnant and unbelievable. Lydia was not an open book, not by any means, as he had good reason to know. She had a varied circle of friends and acquaintances of whom he knew very little, but if nothing else, what he did know of her made nonsense of such an idea.
Still, Villiers. It was an odd, if not disturbing situation …
He forced himself to listen patiently, holding her hand, while Ursula haltingly told him what little there was to be told, a confused mixture of what she had been able to gather from the police and what she thought might have happened. Even so, he easily built up a vivid picture in his mind.
On such a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, Hyde Park would have been thronged, the orators at Speakers’ Corner in full flow on their soap boxes, crowds of people lining Rotten Row to watch the riders – beautiful horses and lovely women …
The number of riders had thinned out a little by midday, as the time for luncheon approached. Along the red sandy strip, the few left were moving at a sedate trot when suddenly eight or nine women ran on to the track in front of them and stood in a line across it, with arms stretched and hands linked. Faced with the choice of stopping or running them down, the riders came to an untidy halt, while the women began to shout their rallying call: ‘Votes for Women!’ The watching crowds surged further towards the railings in the hope of excitement and policemen began thrusting their way through – which the women had known would happen. The number of people surging into London, thronging the city and taking advantage of the fine weather to sight-see the coronation preparations unfortunately provided opportunities for pickpockets and the like too, and the police had made it known that they were taking steps to make their presence felt and to be extra vigilant in public places. The protesting women expected to be forcibly removed, they actually wanted it; they did their best whenever the police appeared on the scene to make it happen, even if they were dragged away by their hair, as they so often were: the more violence that was shown against them, the more opportunity they had of gaining public sympathy.
The horses were already in a state of agitation caused by the commotion when suddenly a sharp detonation, sounding like a gunshot, caused several of them to shy, throwing the rest into momentary panic, starting off a small mêlée of confusion as the animals nudged together, throwing up their heads as the riders struggled to steady them. Marcus, riding abreast of Lydia, occupied in the same struggle, failed to notice that she had been thrown until he looked for her after he had managed to quieten his own horse somewhat. She was lying on the ground, one foot caught in the stirrup; her hat had fallen off, and fearing she might be concussed he leaped from the saddle. Kneeling beside her, attempting to raise her, he was aghast to see blood seeping through her habit, smearing his own sleeve as he held her. He felt for her pulse, but there was none.
For a moment he thought she must have been harmed by the feet of the agitated horses, but for a split second only: his mind had already flown back to the sound of the detonation. Other riders had by then dismounted, among them a man and a woman, strangers to him, who were also kneeling beside Lydia. More policemen who had been patrolling the park were arriving at a run. Standing up and looking in the direction from which he thought the shot had come, Marcus said curtly to the couple, ‘Look after her.’ Thrusting his own reins at someone else, darting between restive and titupping horses, their nostrils flared and eyes rolling at the smell of blood, he had vaulted the fence lining the track and, pushing his way through the panicking crowds, raced across the grass towards a figure in the distance. After a hundred yards or so, he came to a panting halt. He had lost his quarry. The marksman, if that was who the fleeing figure had been, had already disappeared.
The whole incident had occurred in no more than a few minutes.
And the suffragette demonstration had fallen flat, in view of the infinitely more sensational event that had eclipsed it.
Five
It wouldn’t take long, the police had said, but after two hours, when Louis still hadn’t come back, Kitty had a sinking feeling that they might not be going to let him go at all. She was fighting off the tightness in her chest that was making her feel as though she couldn’t breathe, a problem she used to have when she became upset as a child, which she was supposed to have outgrown. Aunt Ursula had abruptly left her and Bridget alone with Hester Drax in the drawing room after Papa and the police had left and they could find little to say. In the end Bridget had silently taken out the cribbage board. At least it might be some distraction. They had done little more than set the pegs up when Ursula returned, with Jon. Kitty wasn’t quite sure that it was a good idea to have sent for him, except that he was fiercely opposed to injustice of any kind as a general concept – and taking Papa away like that undoubtedly fell into that category. His social conscience was why he lived and worked in the slums and was devoting his life to that radical newspaper he edited. He always had about him a sort of amiable vagueness which masked the fact that he took life extremely seriously. He believed political freedom could change the world and Kitty knew he worked himself into the ground, not sparing any effort to further any cause he felt worthwhile. The trouble was, the problems of the individual seemed to flummox him, compared to the larger ones of the underprivileged masses. All the same, she suddenly felt very glad to have him there. He was still Jon, tall, lanky, absent-minded Jon who had always been very dear to her, the big brother she had always wished she’d had.
In fact, she had never seen Jon quite so upset. He looked stunned, but that really wasn’t surprising. He and Mama had always got on so well; Jon was almost like a surrogate son to her. Whenever he visited they could spend hours talking, often about her writing, or so Kitty believed. She used to say that although Jon freely confessed the sort of novels she wrote were not his cup of tea, his frank comments were invaluable. Kitty had often wondered exactly what Hester Drax thought of that in view of how fiercely protective of Mama’s work she was. She didn’t think Hester cared for Jon very much. His unexpected arrival was a signal to her to depart. She had been quite silent for some time, twisting her handkerchief round and round, but now, abruptly, she stood up. With a set face, she made her excuses and disappeared, along with her disapproval of what she seemed to see as Ursula’s inability to pull herself together. It had been Hester who had found supplies of clean handkerchiefs and ordered the endless cups of tea they had been drinking. Poor Hester! No doubt she couldn’t help the conviction she was born with, that she was the only one capable of directing any sort of action, especially in this house – which might have been acceptable if only she did not always generate such an air of righteousness. ‘If you need anything else, you know where I am,’ she said. The door closed behind her.
‘Oh dear,’ said Ursula. After a moment she added, ‘Well, I dare say she is finding it very difficult.’
Of course that was true, and where else, it suddenly occurred to Kitty, was she going to find a situation comparable to the one she held here? She was, however, not the only one who faced difficulty in what was bound to lie ahead, and hardly the only one who had loved Mama. Even Aunt Ursula, who had not always seen eye to eye with her, it had to be said, was considerably upset – although she had never permitted their differences to amount to much. She regarded family disagreements as vulgar. And Bridget, too, sitting with her head bent, her hands so tightly clenched together that her knuckles showed white, seemed overcome, in a way that wasn’t at all like her. She and Lydia evidently had been on less than friendly terms for the last week or two, though Kitty didn’t know what the disagreement had been about. Was it guilt that was eating her up – that she and Lydia had last parted before they were able to make peace with each other? She hoped she was wrong, poor Bridget.
In the silence following Ursula’s remark came the sound of the front door closing, and through the window Kitty saw someone hurrying, almost running, along the pavement. It was Miss Drax. She watched the grey figure in the woeful brown straw hat disappear and wondered what sudden urge had come upon her to send her scurrying out like that. To some friend to whom she could pour out all that had happened? Or just the need for some fresh air? Either would be understandable, after the last hour or so.
The door opened and Emma came into the room, bearing a tea tray. It was her afternoon off, so she must have come back early for some reason. Kitty couldn’t remember anyone ordering yet more tea, and her last cup still stood cold and untasted where she’d left it on the window sill beside her, but as if more tea was the most welcome sight in the world, Bridget sprang up and made way for it on a small table. She and Emma exchanged a few, whispered words, Emma nodded and went out. Bridget let a moment or two pass, then murmured some hurried excuse about needing some fresh air and followed her out of the room. She didn’t return for about ten minutes but when she did Kitty fancied she looked a little better, and some of her colour had returned.
She was still standing at the window anxiously watching for her father’s return when the motor drew up outside, disturbing the square’s late Sunday afternoon somnolence. A little later Thomas, a young footman who was new to the household, came in and spoke to Aunt Ursula in a low voice. Ursula looked at Kitty and said, ‘It’s Marcus, Marcus Villiers, my dear. Do you feel up to seeing him?’
‘Yes, of course. Why not?’ Kitty had had a few minutes to prepare herself, having seen the motor arrive and watched Marcus leap from the driving seat, divest himself of driving goggles and toss them on to the seat before running up the front steps. She hadn’t mentioned his arrival because she was too busy trying to work out how they were to face each other. It was not going to be easy. In the shock of it all, she didn’t think any of them had so far taken into account what a terrible experience the whole thing must have been for him.
In the interval before he was shown in, Aunt Ursula summoned up the social aplomb Kitty firmly believed she had been born with. ‘Marcus, my dear boy!’ she said, rising as the door opened and Marcus stood there, a dark presence on the threshold, changed from the clothes Kitty had last seen him wearing. Maybe there had been blood on his riding habit. The thought made her skin creep. He was now dressed impeccably: a beautifully tailored, dark suit, stiff high collar and sober tie. He said abruptly, ‘My apologies if I am intruding. I came to see Mr Challoner but they tell me the police have taken him away. Can this be true? What reason did they give?’
Aunt Ursula and Jon spoke together. ‘They can’t keep him,’ said Jon, with all the authority of one who knows the rights and wrongs of those who have trouble with the police. His face was grim, though even in the exigency of the moment and his evident distress, he had been scribbling on a scrap of paper, possibly fired with the prospect of a challenge to bourgeois authority.
‘Just formalities, they said.’ Aunt Ursula stepped forward and held out both hands. Marcus bent his head over them in an oddly courtly gesture, but didn’t move from his position in the doorway.
‘I am so very sorry this has happened. I should have protected her,’ he said stiffly.
‘Marcus, what nonsense! How could you have possibly done that? Why are you standing there? Come in, come in.’ The situation had eased the slight reserve she always showed towards him but the tightness of his face did not relax. Guilt. Kitty could understand that. It was what she had been feeling, too, for the last two or three hours. If she hadn’t been too wrapped up in herself, or too eaten with curiosity about her mama’s private affairs to go riding with her, as she ought to have done, maybe she would have been the one at the unlucky end of that shot. Or maybe she might have got some help to save Mama after the bullet had hit her … But no. They said she had died immediately.
At last Marcus stepped forward into the room.
The contrast between Jon in his flannel bags with the thick, untidy hair that he’d run his fingers through more than once, and Marcus, stiff and correct, was considerable. There seemed to be a slight constraint between them and Jon acknowledged him somewhat guardedly.
A cup of tea was pressed into his hands. He drank thirstily and the low murmurs of shocked disbelief were expressed until nothing new could be said. Presently he came to where Kitty was still standing a little apart in the window recess. ‘Miss Kitty,’ he said simply, taking her hand, and then for her ears alone, a low-voiced, ‘Keep your chin up, all will be well, you’ll see. Trust me. We’ll speak later.’
Kitty could find no answer, though perhaps none was needed. The words, though meant to be comforting, did nothing to melt the ice that seemed to have congealed in her veins. All would be well, he had said, when patently it could not be, ever again. Trust him? That meant nothing to her, either.
The first few awkward moments having been negotiated, Ursula began hesitantly on the subject they all wanted to know more about. ‘What we’ve been told of the accident is very sketchy, Marcus. Could you bring yourself to tell us more?’
‘Accident?’ He looked around him at the circle of faces. For a while he said nothing. ‘No one is shot without a motive. I think one would have to be very naive to believe that was an accident.’
With a dull sense of dismay Kitty realised what he said was only too likely to be true. Looking back, she felt very sure now that the police had barely entertained the possibility of accident. Mama could only have been shot deliberately. And beneath the shock, her understanding took a small but perceptible shift. A lurch of the stomach. The police – and their enquiries about Papa’s gun!
Into the appalled silence that followed Marcus’s remark came the sound of a motor car. A moment or two later, the door opened and Papa came in. Aunt Ursula gave a little, strangled cry. He stood framed in the doorway for several moments, just as Marcus had done, looking around at the assembled throng. He took in first Jon, then Marcus. ‘Well, well, quite a welcoming committee!’
Kitty ran forward to hug him. ‘They’ve let you go!’ Her father, who smoked only the occasional cigar, reeked so strongly of cigarette smoke she almost drew back. The policemen who had interviewed him must have been smoking continuously.
‘Of course they’ve let me go, child.’
‘What did they want of you, Louis?’
‘Not now, Ursula, I can’t go over it all again.’ He looked un-utterably weary.
‘But Louis—’
‘Oh, what do you think?’ he said impatiently then. ‘They wanted to know if she had any enemies, quarrels with people – Lydia! Whether she had any Russian friends, for God’s sake. What my relations with her were, if she had a lover, even. They wanted to know where my gun was, and if I had killed my own wife! And all I want now is a drink, an hour to myself, to get out of these clothes, have a hot bath and then some sleep. It has scarcely been a good day.’
‘But that’s ridiculous – those questions!’
‘Ursula.’
She checked her shocked protest. ‘
Louis, I’m sorry. Have your bath and I’ll have something sent to your room on a tray.’
‘No, I don’t want anything. Don’t fuss, Ursula. I’m just tired. I’ve answered enough questions to last me a lifetime. I’ll go to bed presently and we’ll talk in the morning.’
‘A little soup?’ she coaxed. ‘You must eat.’ It was her way, to comfort with food, though they had all, including Louis himself, eaten roast beef and Yorkshire pudding not three hours before.
‘Oh, very well. Soup, if you must, but later. Thank you for coming over, Jon, my boy. I’ll see you tomorrow, Marcus.’
He disappeared into his study.
Once there, the first thing Louis did was to pour himself a glass of brandy. Next, he went to the safe, unlocked it and took out every single item it contained. He ranged them in front of him on his desk – private papers, deeds, Lydia’s jewel cases, the lot. It went without saying that the pearls, diamonds and other jewellery were as intact as they had been when he’d opened the safe in the presence of the police; the papers he kept there were still in order. The gun had not miraculously reappeared. Nor had that other article. He shut the safe door, locked it and wiped the sweat from his brow. Leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes, the events of the day whirling round in his head like the pieces in a shaken kaleidoscope that stubbornly refused to make a pattern.
An hour passed without Ursula knocking solicitously on the door to see if he was all right. He must have frightened her off. He drained his third glass of brandy. Or was it his fourth? He’d always thought of himself as a reasonably abstemious man and dimly realised that, traumatic as the events of the day had been, he was letting them get the better of him. Perhaps they’d been doing that for some time. He did not normally drink so much. All the same, he went to pour another. It was only the glimpse he caught of himself in the looking glass over the mantel that made him stop with the decanter in his hand.
The Firebird's Feather Page 5
