Camellia

by Lesley Pearse

  It could have been a workman, entering the door from the courtyard by mistake, a greasy brown flat cap on his head, a dark donkey jacket and mud-splattered trousers. But he was pointing a squat, black gun right at them.

  'Edward!' Helena gasped and stiffened, but instead of moving she held Mel even tighter to her.

  Mel's legs turned to water. But for Helena holding her she might have collapsed with terror.

  'You didn't think I'd give up did you?' He took a step closer to them and waved the gun. 'Move away from her, Helena. Now.'

  Mel was incapable of moving, and Helena clutched her tighter, manoeuvring her round so that even though Mel was facing Edward over Helena's shoulder, her body was shielded.

  'Put that gun down, Edward!' Helena's voice roared out like a sergeant major. 'You're in enough trouble without this.'

  Mel felt as if she was taking part in a weird version of musical statues. 'Baby Love' by Diana Ross and the Supremes was blaring out from the dining room, she could hear laughter out in the hall, but she was motionless, staring into Edward's cold blue eyes, while held captive by Helena who had her back to him. A quick terrified glance at the older woman's face showed that she was actually watching Edward in the mirror over the mantelpiece and was calmly playing for time.

  All at once Mel realised why the police had been at the gate tonight. If she hadn't drawn the curtains back and opened that door onto the garden, Edward would never have been able to pinpoint where she was in the house, much less gain entry.

  'Let go of her, Helena, and move away,' his voice rasped, eyes chilling Mel to the bone as he stepped closer still. 'Now, or I'll blow your brains out too.'

  'No, Edward,' Helena's voice boomed out. Clearly she hoped she might be overheard. 'Mel's done nothing to you. Shoot me if you must, but I won't let you hurt her.'

  Helena's courageous words were all very well, but Mel was terrified that at any moment the door might open and Nick or Magnus walk in. She looked over to the open door onto the courtyard, hoping against hope that a police officer might suddenly appear. But the wind was merely blowing leaves in, and beyond the floodlit strip was inky darkness.

  'Edward.' Helena sounded like a reproving old aunt. "Think about what you are doing! Now why don't you sit down and give me that gun. Then we can talk.'

  Mel buried her head in Helena's shoulder, peeping out at Edward in horror. He looked nothing like the impeccably groomed man who'd come to the restaurant. He had dyed his hair and eyebrows dark and he had a small thin moustache which had to be fake. He looked insane now: his face was contorted and twitching, his glassy blue eyes red-rimmed, his nostrils flared. The veins on his neck stood out like ropes and his Adam's apple was leaping up and down in his throat. He had gone far beyond talking to anyone.

  'You betrayed me,' he cried out. 'I nursed you, I made excuses for you. I was your friend when you had no one. But you never trusted me enough to tell me about her!' He waved the gun accusingly. 'You let me believe we were coming back to England for a new start, together. But all the time it was just because you wanted to find the kid you gave away to that bitch Bonny.'

  Mel felt Helena quivering, but she still held her tightly, inching imperceptibly towards the door. 'I didn't ever tell you about Camellia because it hurt too much. And when I decided to come to England it was to make a new start. You know I've always cared deeply for you. Even now, after all you've done, I still care enough to help you. Put the gun down, Edward, please stop this, for my sake.'

  'I've done everything for your sake. I've given my whole life to you. Bonny would have destroyed you if I hadn't silenced her. Look at you now. You won't even turn to face me. You care far more about her than me! What have I got to lose by shooting both of you, and whoever comes through that door?'

  'Oh, Edward,' Helena cried out. 'Please, please, don't fire that gun!'

  'Turn round damn you,' Edward screamed. 'That girl in your arms is just a piece of garbage. She was a cheap hooker and she's only interested in you now because you're famous. She'll never care for you like I did.'

  Helena caught hold of Mel's hand, pressing it to her breasts in a silent message to hold on. She took a deep breath. 'How did you get in, Edward?' she asked. Her voice was lighter, almost as if he were just a visitor. Yet at the same time her body seemed to expand sideways to shield Mel still more. 'You must have been very clever to get by the police?'

  'They're damn fools every one of them,' he replied with a growl, but for a moment he sounded less tense. 'It was easy enough to come up through the fields and across the garden. I've been round the house dozens of times tonight. They were so busy having a chat and a cigarette, a whole army could have got in.'

  Helena pushed against Mel with her knees, edging backwards, closer still to the door. 'Edward, darling – ' she put a little pressure on Mel's right shoulder – 'I'm going to turn round to face you. I want you to think carefully about what you are doing and where it will end.'

  Mel knew what Helena wanted, yet her limbs were shaking so much she didn't know if she could do it.

  Helena began to turn slowly, pushing Mel round with her so she would face the door. 'Edward I beg you,' she said. 'We've been friends for so many years. I don't want the police to catch you. Please! Go now!'

  The door was only three feet away from Mel and the order from Helena was unmistakable.

  'Get out the way,' Edward yelled.

  'I won't,' Helena's voice rose an octave. 'Go, Edward, if you care anything for me.'

  Mel sprang forward, grabbed the knob and tried to turn it.

  The loud report from the gun, a smell of cordite and a blow to her head came simultaneously. One moment Mel's fingers were scrabbling with the door knob, the next she was on the floor.

  She heard the sound of breaking glass, male voices shouting, but she was more aware that she couldn't move. There was a pain in her head, and she could see nothing. She opened her mouth to scream and it was only when her lips encountered a mass of hair that she realised Helena was lying on top of her, pinning her to the floor.

  Stunned and afraid to attempt to move she heard noise coming from all directions – shouting from the hall, loud male voices outside, a woman screaming, the sound of feet running along the terrace, and another loud report from a gun – but over and above all this she heard gasping breath.

  'Oh my God! He's shot them both,' she heard Nick shout out from the direction of the French windows, and the floor beneath her seemed to vibrate as he ran to them.

  'Gently.' A male voice she didn't recognise spoke. 'Lift her gently.'

  As Nick and the uniformed officer slowly lifted Helena from her and light flooded onto Mel's face, the scream of pain and terror that had been stifled earlier came out. Involuntarily her hands moved, one to the pain in her head, the other to the warm, sticky patch on her chest.

  She lifted her fingers and saw blood and screamed again.

  The whole room seemed to be full of smoke, and through it faces loomed at her.

  'Mel, it's me,' Nick's voice cleared the mist a little. 'You're safe now, it's okay. Where are you hurt?'

  'I don't know,' she croaked, trying to get him into focus. 'My head.' She lifted it from the floor slightly and saw the huge red blood stain all over her cream dress.

  Her heart was beating. Aside from her throbbing head there was no pain. Her legs and arms could move and all at once she realised. It wasn't her blood, but Helena's!

  'Don't move,' Nick said, pushing her down, but he was too late. One glance towards Helena lying just a couple of feet away confirmed what had happened. One of the policemen was holding a handkerchief to her chest, thick, deep-red blood seeping out from beneath it, staining the blue and green chiffon. Her face was chalky, her eyelashes and brows standing out in dark relief.

  Mel was onto her knees and leaning over Helena before anyone could prevent it. 'No, Mummy,' she cried out involuntarily. 'No, Mummy, no!'

  One of the policemen tried to draw her back, but she saw Helena's li
ps move and fought him off.

  'Are you hurt, darling?' Helena's voice was so faint Mel had to lean right over her to hear what she was saying.

  'No, no,' Mel shook her head, her hand smoothing back the dark hair from her mother's face. 'I'm all right, just a bump on the head.'

  'What did you call me just now?'

  For a moment she didn't understand. All she could see was the policeman vainly trying to staunch the flow of Helena's blood and the dimness of her dark eyes.

  Helena's lips moved and Mel remembered. 'Mummy,' she repeated, taking Helena's hand in hers and kissing the fingertips frantically. 'Mummy.'

  'That's all I wanted to hear.' Helena's lips moved to smile, her voice just a faint croak. 'I wanted – ' she paused, struggling for breath – 'to tell you so much. I guess Magnus will have to fill in the gaps.' A bubbling rasping sound came from her throat, and blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth. 'I'm so very proud of you.'

  Mel saw the light fading in Helena's eyes. Tears gushed from her eyes, falling onto her mother's beautiful, serene face.

  'Don't leave me,' she begged. 'I love you. Please don't go!'

  'It's my cue.' Helena's lips barely moved. 'I love you, my darling!'

  Mel heard her own scream but it seemed to be coming from some far distant place. She was aware of arms lifting her, of both Nick and Magnus's voice trying to calm her, but then a thick black blanket seemed gradually to enfold her until at last she was silenced.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  'I can't go, Nick. Please don't force me to,' Mel sobbed. Nick was standing beside the bed looking down at her, ready for Helena's funeral in a dark suit and tie.

  She had woken that morning believing she was prepared mentally for it. She'd washed her hair and put on a black wool maxi dress, but as the clock hands moved closer and closer towards the afternoon, panic overtook her.

  'You have to go, darling,' Nick said gently, taking her hands and drawing her off the bed. She was very pale and she'd lost weight alarmingly. The black dress accentuated the gauntness of her face and the dark shadows around her eyes. Even her hair hung like a limp dull curtain. 'I know you feel that you just can't take any more, but you have to be there today.'

  Mel had been carried up here by Nick, just after the shooting, ten days ago. She hadn't left the room since. Aside from Doctor Searle who had come that night to check her over and give her a sedative, she had refused to see anyone other than the police, Nick and Magnus. Alternating between moments of terror and black depression, she wouldn't even allow anyone to open the curtains. It was a gloomy sanctuary, but it felt safe.

  'You don't understand,' she sobbed, struggling with him. 'It's my fault she died. If I hadn't left that door open Edward couldn't have got in. I was so scared I didn't even try and protect her. Could you live with knowing that you were such a coward?'

  Ten days ago to the hour, she and Nick had been sitting in the Royal Standard pub by the Cob in Lyme Regis, eating fish and chips for their lunch. She had thought then that she'd stepped into a world where there would be no more heartache. But less than twelve hours later, everything was smashed to pieces. Helena's body was on its way to the mortuary.

  Sedatives had brought her long hours of welcome oblivion, but as they wore off, cold reality came back and she relived every moment of those last minutes with Helena, over and over again.

  She would be happy to have visions of Edward's death. She'd asked the police to recount exactly how he ran across the lawn to the rockery, chased by one of their dogs, then turned his gun on himself. Nick had said he'd had to drain the pool and waterfall, because it ran bright red with Edward's blood. She wished she'd seen it herself – it would be a far better image to have trapped in her mind than seeing the blood oozing out from Helena's chest and the light slowly leaving her eyes.

  Mel was bitter that she'd had so little time with her mother. There were so many questions that would now remain unanswered, so much left unsaid. But the rage inside her was greater still than the bitterness. Helena's early life had been so tough; hardship and tragedy dogged her footsteps. Even when she achieved fame and fortune, it was overshadowed not only by the past, but by packs of jackals feeding on her success.

  Mel couldn't understand why when at last the tide seemed to have turned for both of them, and true happiness seemed within their grasp, a huge destructive wave should have come again and dashed them both. She truly wished she'd died beside her mother.

  'You aren't a coward – that's a ridiculous thing to say,' Nick retorted. 'Even if you'd calmly let Manning shoot you, do you really think that would have been the end of it?'

  'He didn't want to kill Helena,' she sobbed. 'Only me.'

  'He'd already shot another woman, just for the keys of her car and she's still seriously ill in hospital,' Nick said evenly. 'There's evidence he killed two other girls in America, just the way he drowned your mother. He had gone totally insane, Mel! The chances are he would have shot you, then Helena, quickly followed by whoever came through the drawing room door next. Now put this jacket on and pull yourself together. You've agonised over all this enough.' He held out the black jacket for her.

  'Nick, you don't understand,' she implored him. 'I'm some kind of awful jinx, wherever I go, whoever I get involved with, there's trouble.'

  Nick sighed with impatience. He felt deeply for her but it had been the longest, most fraught week in his life. Press had been clamouring at the door, and the telephone hadn't stopped ringing. There were a million and one things to do and he'd had to put his own feelings on hold while he attended to everyone else.

  Yet Nick had his own mountain of guilt to live with. He should have anticipated that Magnus would want to throw a surprise party for him, to make up for missing the official launch in London, and with a madman on the loose he should have stopped it. But then he'd compounded his stupidity by bringing Mel back to Oaklands without warning her about Edward.

  That night he'd believed he was saving her unnecessary anxiety, but now it looked rather more like pure selfishness on his part. He'd wanted Mel to shine beside him as he basked in everyone's admiration. At the point when Helena was shot he was pouring himself another large drink, gleefully imagining all the film offers about to come his way. He hadn't even noticed that Mel was no longer in the bar, not until the shot rang out.

  More disgraceful still to Nick's mind was that he had rushed down the stairs early the next morning to look at the reviews in the daily papers. What sort of man would care what the critics had to say about his performance in Delinquents in the aftermath of such a tragedy? It was painfully ironic that one of the reviewers had complimented him on his 'exquisitely sensitive' performance!

  Helena's murder was on the news by lunch-time. The Bath Chronicle devoted the first two pages to it in their second edition that day. On Sunday every newspaper in the country had it splashed across their front pages.

  When the news first broke that Manning had abducted a girl and attempted to murder her, all the media focus had been on him. Mel wasn't even named. He was intriguing to the press only because of his position as manager to a famous actress. Since going on the run, turning a woman out of her car at gunpoint and subsequently shooting the widow near Bristol, he'd become even hotter news. But once he'd returned to one of Bath's most prestigious hotels, to kill that first victim, but instead murdered Helena, then killed himself, every sharp-nosed journalist in the country sensed there was another story tucked away. It didn't take long for the name Camellia Norton to be leaked.

  The newspapers had struck a rich seam of gold. By Monday morning Mel's name was in the headlines, as papers recounted her mother's death in 1965 and revealed the probability that she too had been murdered by Manning. They dug up the story of the events in Chelsea in 1970 for good measure. They had discovered that Bonny and Helena were old dancing partners, and that Sir Miles Hamilton had been instrumental in helping Helena's film career. Not even Magnus escaped their scrutiny. Along with hints that he was He
lena's lover, they slanted his background with the implication that he had been a devious and unscrupulous post-war speculator.

  Nick, Magnus and Miles met on the Monday evening to discuss what to do. They knew the press would continue with this barrage of half-truths and innuendoes unless they could offer something to defuse them.

  Nick was astounded by Miles's courage when he said he intended to prepare a statement for The Times. He was stricken with grief at losing Helena, but he took the view that by acknowledging her as his love child, and Camellia as his granddaughter, he could in some way protect Camellia and by association, Nick and Magnus from further scandal.

  On Wednesday morning The Times printed Miles's statement. Entirely factual, it stated exactly why, how and when everything took place. The only fact omitted was that John Norton had believed Mel to be his child. Copies of it were sent by his secretary to all the other papers with a clear warning that any deviation from the truth would result in libel action.

  They were astounded in the days that followed by how each paper treated the same story. The Mirror gave it a hearts and flowers touch, the Sketch played up the 'tragedy caused by secrecy' angle. When Sunday came round again the News of the World's version made Miles sound like a villainous stage-door Johnny who had deflowered a young dancer and left her and his child to perish in the slums of Stepney.

  But Helena's courage in protecting Mel prevented too much being made of her handing over her baby to a friend. She was a tragic heroine, and there was no mileage in laying blame at her door.

  Nick read every word written on the subject. He was convinced Miles had done the right thing. But however glad he was that there was no further need for secrecy or lies, either within Oaklands or without, and that Camellia and Miles could now take their rightful places as chief mourners at the funeral, he was still troubled by a shameful inner bitterness that his personal triumphs had been eclipsed. All he could do to purge himself of guilt was to be what everyone needed – comforter, organiser, the rock everyone else could lean on.