‘Yes, I did, but it’s probably just been put in some safe place. Although it wasn’t valuable it meant a lot to her. I’m sure it will turn up if we make a thorough search. Does it matter?’
‘Probably not. But small, unexplained things have a habit of turning out to matter a great deal, sometimes. It’s a Russian crucifix, meant to be worn on a chain, am I right?’
‘Yes, it’s known as a three-barred cross – one shorter crossbar above the one where the arms are stretched, and a diagonal one by the feet.’ She held out her hand, palm upwards, and sketched a cross on it. ‘About that size … no, less than that.’ She had a small hand and the sketch had only reached the tip of her little finger.
‘All the same, that’s large to wear, even as a piece of devotional jewellery.’
‘That’s why Mama rarely wore it. It was too heavy, too – masculine, I suppose.’ Inskip was still staring at Gaines’ sketch, scratching the side of his nose. ‘But look, it can’t be important, can it? I told you, it’s not at all valuable.’ She had a sudden inspiration. ‘Why don’t you ask Miss Drax about it? She knew where Mama kept everything.’
‘We were told Miss Drax was out when we arrived.’
‘I’ll go and see if she’s back,’ Inskip said, springing up with some alacrity and leaving the room.
‘So,’ Gaines said, judiciously steepling his hands. ‘We have a mysterious drawing, a missing cross – and anything else?’
‘Well …’ began Marcus. He looked across the table and met Kitty’s pleading eyes. ‘Well, all this is very distressing for Miss Challoner. Also, it’s getting rather late and she’s had a very tiring day,’ he said, as if she were some swooning Victorian heroine. ‘Don’t you think she may be excused?’
At that moment Inskip came back to say Miss Drax had still not returned, and in some excitement. ‘But sir, it’s come to me where I’ve seen that cross before – or one like it. A fellow I met on the staircase at the Britannia Voice was wearing it round his neck – I’m pretty sure he was the owner of the paper – Aleksandr Lukin, his name is.’
After dinner, Hester Drax still hadn’t put in an appearance. Maybe she’d gone straight to her room without seeing anyone. Kitty went to look for her. She wasn’t there, nor was she anywhere else in the house, and it soon became evident she had no intention of returning. As well as her bedroom, her little office was stripped bare of all her personal possessions. She’d emptied her waste basket, covered her typewriter. The only thing she had left was the manuscript she’d been working on, tidily packed into a brown paper parcel, tied with string, addressed to Marie Bartholemew’s publishers and left on her desk.
‘But she was owed a week’s wages!’ said Ursula.
Kitty frowned. ‘Yes, that is odd, because from what she said to me, she could ill afford to waste money.’
‘Where did she come from? Where was her home, I mean? She might have gone back there,’ Bridget said.
‘Somewhere up north. Leicester, or somewhere, I think. But she told me she had a brother in a private institution near here. She worked to pay the fees. I don’t think she would leave him.’
‘Near here – that could mean anywhere,’ Bridget said. ‘Do you think the servants might have an idea? I’ll ask Emma.’ Having been working undisturbed when the gun had been found, she had missed all the excitement and was keen not to miss any more.
‘Emma? No.’ Her mother shook her head. ‘Mrs Thorpe is much more likely to know. She’s been housekeeper here ever since Louis bought this house, when they were first married – and I believe Miss Drax was here almost from the first, too.’
‘Miss Drax kept herself to herself. She did not mix below stairs,’ Mrs Thorpe said stiffly when asked. A sternly proper woman, unmarried, the ‘Mrs’ being a courtesy title, she was very much aware of her position. ‘I know nothing of her personal life and I doubt very much if any of the staff know, either.’
‘How did she come to be working here? How did Mrs Challoner find her?’
‘Through the agency, I would imagine. The one we always use. The one just around the corner.’
If she was surprised by the sight of two very young ladies who didn’t fit into the category of either would-be employer or employee arriving at her agency the following morning, Mrs Olive Jameson didn’t show it but smilingly asked them to sit down and waited for them to state their business. The Jameson Domestic and Secretarial Agency had turned out to be a discreet undertaking occupying a room on the first floor of a building, over a dentists’ surgery. The stairs were carpeted; the door at the top bore a shining brass bell push and a notice giving the name and the times of opening. Mrs Jameson was equally discreet in her person, wearing a neat blouse and skirt and her hair drawn tidily up into a bun. A motherly, middle-aged lady with a comfortable figure, she gave off an air of reassurance and quiet competence.
There was only one desk in the office, behind which she sat, so presumably she conducted her business herself without the need of secretarial help. She looked like the sort of person who would remember the details of every client she had ever dealt with. And indeed, when she learnt who they were and that Mrs Thorpe, who engaged staff for the Challoner household, had sent them, she nodded gravely before venturing to say how sorry she was to hear the sad news about Mrs Challoner.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind,’ said Kitty.
At the mention of Miss Drax’s name, however, she drew back a little. ‘You must realise I am not at liberty to give out personal details.’
‘You remember her, though?’ Bridget said.
‘Yes, indeed. A trustworthy person. I understand she’d been with your mother, Miss Challoner, ever since I first introduced them. But there is nothing more I can tell you.’ Her look said she was not going to be pushed into anything.
‘She’s in need of another position now, though. We thought you’d be the person she’d think of coming to,’ Bridget said. Mrs Jameson pursed her lips. ‘She did, didn’t she?’
Something told Kitty the assumption was correct – but if they were going to get the answer they wanted, persistence was going to be needed, and for that reason she was glad Bridget was with her. Aunt Ursula didn’t know they were here – in fact, Kitty had wanted to come alone, or better, with Marcus, until Bridget had persuaded her that firstly, these things were better dealt with by women and secondly that an unsophisticated young woman such as Kitty, on her own, was unlikely to get the answers she wanted. Bridget, on the other hand, was experienced enough to know how to deal with anyone likely to be difficult at the agency. ‘We very much need to get in touch with her, Mrs Jameson,’ pressed that young woman of the world.
Mrs Jameson stiffened. ‘Has she done something wrong?’
Kitty said hastily, ‘Oh, please, don’t think that! It’s just that she left without any warning – and there’s money owing to her, which I am sure she could do with. I promise you, we only need to speak to her. It’s very important. Just give us her address and we won’t mention your name.’
‘Miss Challoner, I can’t do that! I have never violated my clients’ privacy in all the time I’ve been running my agency, and that’s been nearly twenty-five years.’
The girls exchanged glances. Mrs Jameson looked as unmoving as the Rock of Gibraltar. Kitty stood up, unwilling to admit defeat but uncertain what else they could do. ‘I understand your position, Mrs Jameson.’
Bridget looked prepared to argue further, but even she could see they had failed in what they had come to do. She went to the door, followed by Kitty, but as they reached the bottom of the stairs, Kitty looked back and saw the woman standing at the top. By the time Kitty had run back up she was closing her office door again. Kitty pushed it open with the flat of her hand. ‘Mrs Jameson—’
She already stood behind her desk. Their glances met, Kitty’s pleading, the older woman’s uncertain. ‘You say you have money for her?’ she said at last. ‘Well, then, I can’t tell you where she is living but – oh, goodness knows if I’
m doing right – I can tell you that she is due to come and see me this afternoon at four.’
‘Well,’ said Bridget, when Kitty rejoined her, ‘what had she to say?’
Kitty answered truthfully, ‘She still wouldn’t tell me where she lived.’
Twenty-Three
She came out of the agency at about quarter past the hour. Kitty had been afraid that Mrs Jameson, who must have guessed they would try to intercept Miss Drax, might have changed her mind and warned her not to keep her appointment, but it seemed she had not. From the table in the wide window of the teashop just further along the street from the agency (the same little café Inskip and Emma had visited, had she known) Kitty saw her trailing along, in her dreary, grey costume, the picture of dejection. Once, the ribbon on her hat had been fresh and neat but its bow was frayed a little now, and the curved hat-brim had lost its resilience and sagged to match her shoulders.
This time, Kitty had come alone. Rightly or wrongly, she felt that when Hester had confessed to writing the books they had established some sort of rapport, and that Bridget’s presence would inhibit her from anything further she might be persuaded to say. She stepped out of the doorway just as Hester reached it. The woman’s colour fled as she felt a hand on her sleeve and when she saw it was Kitty she pulled herself angrily away.
‘Please don’t be alarmed, Miss Drax. I have something for you. Will you come and have a cup of tea with me?’
‘Go away, Kitty. Don’t get mixed up in this, you don’t know what you’re doing.’
Kitty stayed where she was. Hester still resisted, not unexpectedly, but in the end she gave in either to Kitty’s entreaties or a desire not to arouse any further the curiosity of those in the teashop who were observing the encounter with interest through the window.
Kitty led the way back to the table she’d occupied before, and ordered more tea and cakes. Hester took the cup gratefully and chose a maid of honour from the pastries when they were offered but left it on her plate, untouched. Kitty passed an envelope across the table. ‘My papa has sent it. It’s what you have earned for all the work you’ve put in.’ Since Hester had so conscientiously finished the manuscript before leaving, she had managed to persuade Louis to add a little more; rather a triumph in view of his opinion of Hester Drax.
‘Your father sent this?’ Her mouth twisted. She pushed the envelope back.
‘Oh, do take it, please.’
A deep flush of embarrassment washed over her face and then receded, leaving her pale as milk. She gave the envelope a further push but then abruptly changed her mind, snatched it up and tucked it into her large bag, her fingers shaking slightly. ‘I can’t afford to be high-minded,’ she said bitterly. ‘Goodness knows when I shall get another position like the one I had with your mother.’
‘You might not need one.’ Kitty took the parcelled-up manuscript from her bag and pushed that across the table, too.
Miss Drax drew back. ‘I couldn’t … I couldn’t possibly.’
‘We all want you to have it and to acknowledge it as yours – all of us, Papa included. It’s your work.’ Learning who had really written it had caused something of a sensation in the family.
The book sat there while the elderly waitress cleared the vacated table next to them. Hester took off her spectacles, rubbed the crease between her brows, and nervously put them back again. ‘Why did you leave without telling anyone?’ Kitty asked.
‘Don’t ask me that. It’s something I can’t tell you, or anyone.’ Kitty sensed something more than embarrassment now. Her eyes, unprotected by the thick glasses, had been full of pain – and more. If it hadn’t been too melodramatic, she would have called it fear. She was not doing this out of cussedness, but because she felt she must. For reasons Kitty could not begin to fathom. She pitied her.
‘The police are going to find out, sooner or later, that Mama didn’t write those books, and they’re not going to stop until they find out why she had to pretend she did. Don’t you think,’ she asked carefully, wondering how she dare say this to someone whom she had always found a little forbidding, ‘that you’d do better to tell them yourself?’
‘Or if I don’t, you will?’
‘No,’ Kitty said evenly, trying to recapture the feeling of pity, ‘no, I won’t do that.’
‘I told you why it mustn’t be made public.’
‘Not really, you didn’t. Or not the whole reason. She did it partly to help you, yes, I believe that, but there was something more, wasn’t there?’
Hester drained her cup and held it out for more. She began to eat the maid of honour, swallowing hard after each forkful, as though it tasted of sawdust. Finally, she gave up the attempt. ‘I told you – I promised her I wouldn’t.’ She sounded desperate.
Promises to the dead. Kitty didn’t believe her mother would have wanted that. She took a deep breath and said, ‘Inspector Gaines thinks she was writing articles for my cousin Jon’s paper.’
‘For Britannia Voice? She never wrote articles, for that or any other newspaper.’ There was no reason to disbelieve this. From what had previously passed between them about Lydia’s writing ability, Kitty thought it must almost certainly be true.
‘Then why? What was all the secrecy about?’
‘Don’t ask me, Kitty, I can’t tell you. It’s not my secret to tell.’
‘I don’t believe Mama would have wished to hold you to that in the circumstances.’
Hester stared down at the remains of crumbled cake on her plate, then began to thrust her hands into her gloves. She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I’ve done something incredibly foolish and I can’t take it back, though I desperately wish I could. But I’m not going to make it worse by incriminating someone else. Please don’t try to get in touch any more, Kitty.’
She turned to go. ‘You’ve forgotten your parcel.’
She looked at it, hesitated. ‘No, I …’ Then she picked it up, thrust it out of sight into her large bag and said in a rush, ‘Speak to your father, Kitty. Ask him.’
By the time Kitty had fumbled for money to pay for their tea and hurried out of the door, Hester had disappeared. She realised she hadn’t even asked her, as she’d intended, about the cross which Gaines seemed to think important.
Kitty was alone the next morning, Louis having left for the office, when the letter arrived, hand-delivered by an urchin no doubt glad to earn a few coppers. The envelope was addressed to her but the letter began abruptly without salutation and was signed H.D. It was as terse and matter of fact as Hester Drax herself.
I am sorry for the way I left you yesterday. I have since had time to think and I see I have been mistaken. You have been kind to me and I now think I owe you the truth – or as much of it as I know myself.
Some time ago, your mother was introduced to a man by your cousin, Jon Devenish …
Kitty shut her eyes. So Jon was involved after all. And this man … Perhaps Miss Drax had been right in the first place, maybe she was better remaining in ignorance of these things. She ought to burn this without reading it further. But she knew she couldn’t. After a restless night, during which she had veered between knowing she must confront her father this morning, and terror at what she might discover if she did, she’d tried to convince herself that Hester had simply been speaking out of spite, that Papa couldn’t possibly have been keeping to himself something which might help the police to discover why Mama had been killed. But then she thought, of course he must know something, how else to account for the way he’d been acting since she died?
Read. Read it, know the worst.
The man was a Russian. I never knew what his real name was but he used to sign himself ‘Seryy Volk’, which seemed to amuse her.
Remembering the drawings, the logo and the words under it, Kitty felt a leap of something like fear. Go on!
I am sure you are aware of the extensive smuggling of illegal newspapers and books to Russia – the sort of subversive literature which hopes to pass on the ne
w ideologies and latest political thought current in the West. But books and newspapers written in English are no good to those who cannot read the language. Your cousin Jon persuaded your mother to become one of those who are willing to translate these books into Russian, after which they are printed on onionskin paper and sent by ship, disguised as Bibles or hidden in the false bottoms of travellers’ suitcases. I am convinced that although doing this would have satisfied a longing to help in the patriotic struggles, all the cloak and dagger intrigue appealed to her nearly as much. I did not like it. I was afraid she would be stepping into a world she knew nothing about, mixing with people who are relentless in their aims, to whom human life is cheap. She would be out of her depth.
And in the end, she was forced to admit that the task of translating a whole book would be beyond her capabilities. She did, however, see that translating short, political articles by Russian agitators into English would be a much easier matter, and when your cousin asked her to do this for his paper, she agreed. She was of course fluent in Russian but such work is not done without effort, not to say time, spent on it. Moreover, it was necessary to keep secret what she was doing. You know by now that she had discovered my ambitions to be a novelist, and how she invented the idea of Marie Bartholemew. It seemed best not to try to hide from you all as a family that she had become an authoress under an assumed name, and I was glad she did not reveal my part in all that. Now, it served as a cover for what she was really doing. Did your father suspect? I have wondered since if he guessed something of the truth and was afraid she might be putting herself at risk. Why else did he try to persuade her to carry a small pistol? But she just laughed at that. She always believed herself invincible.
Despite this, I think all would have continued to go well had it not been for that man – that Grey Wolf I mentioned earlier. They had met when she was delivering one of her translated articles to the Voice. I did not care for this man I had never seen: I thought he had a malevolent influence over her. Whatever he told her to do, she did without question. She gave him presents, that silver cross with the black amber which had been her mother’s, and I think money, too, on occasions. He was not just another beau, as she liked people to think Marcus Villiers was. She even extended her efforts and translated tracts written by British sympathisers for smuggling into Russia. She was infatuated; her face lit up whenever his name cropped up. But the Grey Wolf began to grow hungry – hungry for money, that is, for funds to send back to Russia – or so he said.
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