He looked at her then, for much longer than was necessary, it seemed to her. ‘And of course, you would know all about family, my dear, wouldn’t you?’ he said silkily. The blood rushed to her face.
He folded his newspaper neatly, in the way he did everything, and stood up. ‘She was indeed a friend … to both of us. But Lydia is dead, my dear, and nothing can bring her back.’ He stood up and looked at the unusual apparition of his wife at the breakfast table, in her morning dishabille, her little cat-face devoid of paint or powder. ‘How much do you want this time, Fanny?’
It was only after he had gone and she was regarding the meagre offer he had made with more than usual dismay that the idea which had come to her hardened into determination.
Ten
Kitty couldn’t believe it was nine o’clock on Monday morning as she struggled out of the dream and back into consciousness. ‘Goodness, can that be the time?’
‘Yes, it’s nine o’clock, Miss Kitty. I thought not to disturb you before, you were so deep asleep.’
As Kitty turned her head and felt her pillow wet with tears, yesterday returned. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes, sleep again and forget everything, but a cup of tea steamed on the bedside table and Emma, determinedly cheerful, was crossing the room to draw the curtain a little against the sun streaming into the room. ‘Goodness, what a storm we had last night! Looks as though you had a fine old storm in there, too.’ She waved towards the bed sheets, tangled into a knot.
‘I had a dream,’ Kitty said groggily.
‘More like a nightmare by the look of it.’
‘No, just a dream. Strange, but not precisely frightening.’ Yet she shivered. Mythical creatures that didn’t exist. A wolf, a unicorn. A golden bird. What was there to be afraid of? She almost reached for the diary she kept at the side of her bed to write down what she could still recall, but this wasn’t something she was likely to forget.
She washed and dressed in a hurry. Yesterday, she’d felt incap-able of thinking; her mind had blanked out, her body felt as though she was dragging leaden weights around. But the tears that had wet her pillow last night seemed to have dissolved the hard knot of disbelief. However sad this new situation was it was real, and she must face the fact and act responsibly, be a help to her father. She was no longer the little girl who had sat on Mamoshka’s knee listening to tales of magic; she had grown out of all that. She must stop the silly, needless worries that had been lingering in the corners of her mind … what did they amount to after all but a misplaced Russian cross and a scrap of paper in a normally empty box? Although they must have preyed on her mind and been part of what had induced that strange, lingering dream, they were nothing more than small inconsistencies. And they couldn’t matter a jot now.
After breakfast, at which Louis didn’t appear, she steeled herself to go along to his study and talk to him. He wouldn’t be going into the office, he would for the present be taking time off, Aunt Ursula had said. Anything important, he would deal with from here for the time being. Mr Estrabon had already been to see him this morning, when presumably the necessary arrangements for his temporary absence had been made. Kitty felt an enormous wash of relief to hear this. A strong shoulder to lean on, a cool, sensible and practical man, Paul Estrabon could be relied upon to help her father. As a child, she had called him uncle, until she felt herself too old to do so, with the result that she hadn’t yet found another way of addressing him. Mr Estrabon was too formal and to call him Paul was unthinkable.
She was very disappointed that he hadn’t stayed to speak to her and must have shown it. ‘He was in a hurry, Kitty – there will be a great deal for him to take care of now,’ Aunt Ursula said gently.
‘Of course.’
In point of fact she discovered he hadn’t yet left, although he was about to do so when she crossed the hall to go to her father’s study.
‘Kitty, my dear!’ Not normally a demonstrative man, he held her hand warmly, then suddenly gave her a great hug, sat down with her and asked her how she did. She was surprised at how much affected by the news he was; there was an unmistakable tear in his eye when he spoke of her mother. He was such a distinguished-looking man, elegantly dressed as usual, tall and slim, his once-black hair just beginning to turn grey, with the patrician, rather haughty look of a Spanish grandee. Haughty until he smiled his brilliant smile. He and Papa had been at the same school and then gone into business together. He was very rich and something of an art expert, especially on Japanese porcelain. All his passion was centred on his collection of rare Celadon ware which Kitty had once been privileged to be allowed to handle. Mama had gone into raptures over it but it was all pale grey-green or grey-blue with little or no decoration and failed to appeal to Kitty. Perhaps she’d been too young to appreciate its subtlety.
‘I’ve already offered your father whatever help I can give, your aunt too, and it goes without saying that is extended to you, Kitty, my dear,’ he said now. ‘I’d very much like to think you can approach me or my wife, if you should need to talk to anyone. Promise me you will?’
From a childless couple, Kitty realised this was a magnanimous offer, and she promised she wouldn’t forget. He was so kind, she could readily see herself asking him for help, should she need it … but his wife? Fanny Estrabon was a small, pretty woman with a tip-tilted nose, a penchant for gossip and an apparently insatiable passion for cards. Sharp and brittle, she was not the sort of woman Kitty could envisage seeking kindness from.
He put his hand on her shoulder and surprised her further by depositing a light kiss on her forehead before he left.
When Kitty went into his study she saw her father looked a little better this morning than the hag-ridden old man he had appeared after his return from the police station, but it was still painful to see how much he had aged. He was a broken man and looked weary to his soul.
‘Good morning, Papa.’ She kissed him gently and he patted her hand absently. There was an awkward pause.
‘Well, Kitty.’
She still hesitated. She had never been shy of asking anything of her mother; no subject had been taboo between them (at least, until those horrid doubts had arisen lately) but with Papa it was different. Although she’d never had any reason to question his affection for her – he had always been a kindly, indeed an indulgent father, though not outwardly expressive of his emotions – Kitty had always been conscious of a distance between them; there had never been the same closeness that had existed between herself and Mama. Perhaps that had simply been the bond between mother and daughter; perhaps if she’d been a boy it might have been different. Or maybe if she had never existed, Lydia herself would always have been enough for him. It was not by any means the first time this had occurred to Kitty; it made her sad sometimes but she knew it was true, and it seemed to her it had never been more evident than now. All the same, she was her father’s daughter, as much a part of his world as Lydia had been and now that they had lost her she must not admit she would never be able to take her place.
Her nails were biting into her palms in the effort not to let this thought go further, to do what she’d come here to do. She couldn’t bear to look at his tortured face but something urged her on. She had to start somehow, somewhere. She swallowed hard and plunged. ‘Papa, who do you think could have opened the safe?’
Although he had papers on his desk to give an illusion of busyness he had been doing nothing when she went in except staring aimlessly into space. Now he picked up a pen and began fidgeting with it, rolling it between his fingers. Suddenly he threw it on to the desk, scraped his chair back and walked to one of the two tall windows that faced the square, where he stood rigidly with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Papa?’
He still didn’t reply. Kitty had never known him struck dumb like this. He was normally a good conversationalist, amusing and charming, an excellent raconteur. Ladies liked to sit next to him at dinner and be entertained by his sometimes mischievous wi
t. Maybe the silence meant he was trying to control his anger at a question she should not have asked. It was one to which they both knew the answer – and one it wouldn’t have taken the police long to figure out. There was only one key to the safe; it was kept on Papa’s watch chain, which on his own admission never left his person – except, of course, when he was in bed and sleeping. Who else could have taken it but Mama? How easy it would have been to wait until he was deeply asleep, then to take it quietly, slip downstairs and open the safe. If one could imagine why she would want to.
She took a deep breath. ‘It was Mama, wasn’t it?’ He still didn’t answer. His hand was gripping the tassel of the curtain tie-back until his knuckles showed white. At last he turned and came back to his desk. He sat down heavily and after a moment or two he shrugged and spread his hands, palms uppermost.
‘But whatever did she want with your gun? She refused to have one of her own to carry around.’
At last he found his voice. ‘Perhaps she changed her mind.’
‘You don’t believe that!’
He sighed, and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘No, not really. No, it wasn’t the gun.’
‘You mean there was something else she wanted from the safe? But you told the police all her jewellery was still there.’ And in any case, there would have been no need for her to steal downstairs like a thief to take out what she had merely to ask for. ‘What was it?’
He shook his head and was silent again. Then with an effort he roused himself. He wiped his hands across his face and said, ‘No. It’s best that you shouldn’t know, Kitten. Believe me, it’s best that way.’
This use of the pet name for her which he hadn’t used for years was not to be borne, a crushing dismissal of her ability to understand. She drew herself up. ‘I think you have forgotten that I am not a child now. If there is something about Mama you are keeping from me, don’t you think that’s being unfair?’
He gave her a sharp look of surprise, perhaps at the coldness he heard in her voice, then picked up the pen and began toying with it again. ‘She … your mother … she had … expensive tastes.’
Well, that was no secret to anyone. But apart from her bridge debts it had never been apparent that Papa disapproved of her extravagances, he was wealthy enough not to mind what she spent his money on – the inordinate number of white kid evening gloves she seemed to need, the silk stockings she bought by the dozen pairs, the array of perfumes on her dressing table; the furs, the trinkets – and not least the costly works of art to adorn the house.
‘She owed a large debt to Mrs Estrabon.’
‘What?’
Fanny Estrabon? Kitty had seen Lydia shaking her head the morning after playing cards with Fanny, deploring the eye-watering debts her friend had incurred the previous evening. It seemed odd, to say the least, that she should have allowed herself to run up debts in the same way, and even odder that it should be Fanny to whom she owed money. But … ‘I suppose that means she took something from the safe to sell? Some of her jewellery?’
‘No, no, the jewellery is all there. It was … oh, it was just something else.’ He waved a hand as though whatever it was had been of little importance.
‘Such as what, Papa?’
He avoided looking at her. She sensed a struggle in him – whether to tell her or not. ‘It was the icon,’ he said at last.
‘The icon? But it’s still upstairs in Mama’s room, I saw it last night.’
He shook his head. ‘Not that one.’
His head was bent. He had a bald spot she had never noticed before. Bewildered, she waited for an explanation As far as she was aware there had only ever been one icon: the most precious thing in the house, and precious not only for its monetary value, which was supposed to be fairly considerable. It was said to be unique and her mother had loved it passionately. Now it seemed there had been another icon in the safe, unknown to her, and presumably just as valuable, if it was worth stealing. But all this was posing more questions than answers. Why should Mama have taken it – and presumably the gun with it? If it was an attempt to make it look like a robbery, it didn’t sound like her. She had been too astute to believe that would hold water for long.
‘Did you tell the police about it?’
‘No, I did not,’ he said quickly, raising his head and looking directly at her, suddenly alert and startling her with the harshness of his look. ‘And neither will you, do you hear me, Kitty? It has nothing to do with what happened to her. Besides which – the icon upstairs, you know, hanging on the wall in her room, that one is only a copy.’
‘What?’ This was getting way beyond her. ‘I – I don’t understand.’
He studied her for a while then he stood up and came round to the chair where she was sitting. His face softened and he drew her back towards the small two-seater sofa which stood between the two windows. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said when they were seated. ‘Oh God, all this has knocked me off balance. I haven’t been thinking straight.’ With a sudden awkward gesture he drew her nearer. He smelled not of acrid cigarette smoke as he had yesterday but cleanly of the bay rum he used after shaving. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted, ‘it will be hard for you to understand but it might be better if you did know.’
She leaned back a little to look at him and the movement caused her to brush against the looped-back velvet window curtain. The hairs on her arm stood on end, though she was not sure whether the frisson that went through her was due only to the friction of the curtain or the growing feeling of apprehension at what Louis was about to tell her. ‘How much do you know about icons, Kitty?’ he asked at last.
Icons? Not very much, she had to admit. Mama had taught her their religious significance, of course. She understood that an icon, a depiction of either the Virgin Mary, Christ, or a saint, was to be venerated as a holy object, a devotional tool for prayer. And indeed, the icon of the Madonna which had its place in her bedroom was the very one Lydia’s once childless mother, Mariya Ivanovna, had prayed to, asking for a child. Lydia had miraculously been born, though Mariya had not lived long after her birth. The precious icon had been kept safe by Nikolai when the two of them had escaped from Russia, along with Mariya’s amber jewellery, to be cherished until he died, when it had passed to Lydia herself. Though Mama had professed herself not religious, she had nevertheless cherished it too and set it up in the traditional holy corner, where she saw it daily.
‘Yes, well, I don’t know too much about them myself,’ Papa admitted, ‘but I’ll try to explain.’
He had always been willing to explain patiently to Kitty anything she didn’t understand. She settled herself to listen and as he spoke, it became clear that simple as an icon might seem, the wider subject of iconography was more complicated. ‘It’s an ancient tradition, you know, Kitty, to tell the story of the Gospels in pictures for simple people who were unable to read. Here as well as in Russia. Think of St Andrews at Southfields.’
In the village church which Aunt Ursula attended the Bible story was told in its beautiful ancient stained-glass windows. But also there were remnants of a medieval Doom painting of the Last Judgement surviving on the west wall, bodies writhing in the torments of Hell behind the congregation as they knelt, prayed and sang hymns. Kitty shivered a little, as though a goose had walked over her grave. ‘But Russian icons are not in the least like that.’
‘No. In Russia religious teaching took the form of icons painted on wooden panels, or on cloth glued to wood. They look Byzantine because that’s what they were, basically. When Christianity spread from Constantinople their art spread with it. And the older they are the more precious they become. You have to understand that iconographers, the artists who made them, were skilled artisans but they never became famous since their work was never signed. It was deemed an honour to paint such a subject … done for the glory of God, not for glorification of the painter himself.’ He waved a hand. ‘Nowadays it’s possible to make icons by machine, to produce them in quantity, so they’
re relatively worthless, whereas your mama’s icon was very old and … almost, one might say, priceless.’ He searched for the right words to continue. ‘That was why we had a copy made, years ago. An excellent copy – so good it’s probably worth a considerable sum in its own right, but a copy all the same.’
It just wasn’t possible that the glowing icon in the corner of Mama’s room was only a copy, was it? But if she was to believe Papa, it seemed that it was, that the real one had been kept locked away. Had been, until he had opened the safe in the presence of the police and found it missing.
If you had looked at something for years, a perfect copy of the original work of art in every tiny detail, studied it and believed it to be beautiful, and loved and worshipped it for its sheer perfection, where was the difference in the two – apart from the fact that you knew one had been made by the hand of the master who had conceived it? Kitty’s mind was in too much of a turmoil to try and sort out the complications of that. Other things intruded: such as how was it possible Mama’s debts had been so enormous that she had resorted to selling the original? And to whom did she owe them? Not to Fanny Estrabon, that was surely not possible. ‘And you really believe she took’ – she could not bring herself to say stole – ‘the original to sell and pay her gambling debts?’
‘What other reason could there be?’
She kept silent. I don’t believe you are telling me the truth, Papa – or not all of it, she thought. There’s something you’re keeping back. If his intention was to save her more pain, it was having the adverse effect. He was still excluding her. And that hurt, very much.
‘You must not be so mistrustful, not with me, Kitty,’ he said softly, but with a note of coercion in his voice that jolted her. ‘Say you are not.’
The Firebird's Feather Page 9
