Shadows & Lies

by Marjorie Eccles

  Crockett looked pained. “You have a hard way of putting it. I simply want you to get her to talk, and to keep your ears open.”

  “Because you think she had something to do with this murder?” She buried her face in the cool, sweet-smelling violets he had brought her and breathed deeply, as if for calm.

  “Not in the least, Agnes. Not so fast. But she knows the family well, and since there seems no reason that we can discover for the dead woman to have been in the grounds at Belmonde, and since you swear there was nothing planned by your suffragettes —”

  Agnes looked up from the velvety flowers. “Nothing scheduled, and no one has been reported missing. There are all sorts of women on the fringes of the Movement, but none of them, I should think, would have decided to act on their own initiative in that way.”

  “Exactly. So if we rule out suffragette involvement for the time being – which was only considered because of Montague Chetwynd visiting there – then we are back to the family. The officer in charge there has had to let Jordan, the gamekeeper, go – not a shred of evidence against him.”

  “You suspect one of the family of murdering this woman?” Her eyes grew wide.

  “Not – precisely. But that place – Belmonde Abbey. Something indicates all isn’t as it should be there. The Chetwynds have closed ranks – we didn’t get a straight answer from anybody, and why that should be, I’d very much like to know. I’m not fond of unsolved puzzles, as you know – and then, today …”

  He then told her of the visit of the Armenians. “So we know that the name of the murdered woman was almost certainly Rosa Tartaryan. Why she went to Belmonde is still as mysterious as ever.” But he remembered the conversation with Meredith about the letters Sir Henry had been receiving and the word blackmail, which had lodged in his mind. “We also know that she’d been working as a sort of companion-housekeeper to a Mrs Hannah Smith.”

  “So you must find this Mrs Smith?” She grimaced. “Smith. That’s not going to be easy.”

  “I’ve already set wheels in motion.”

  “There’s something else, John?”

  “Yes. The name Hannah Smith rang a bell. After the two Saroyans, the Armenians, had left …” He hesitated. “It’s a long story, too long, perhaps?”

  “Never mind that. You can’t leave me on tenterhooks.”

  “Well, then. It came back to me that earlier this year, the eldest son – Henry Chetwynd like his father, but known as Harry – was killed in an omnibus accident, which was in itself a little puzzle. Why should a man like him be riding on the top deck of a London omnibus – a young man of means who reportedly never went anywhere except by cab? You might say there was no reason why he shouldn’t have decided to do so on a sudden whim, but there were several more questions about that incident, which is why I remember it particularly. I wasn’t on the case, but I followed it, and I recall that one of the questions concerned a young woman and a child who were also on the omnibus. The woman suffered a blow to the head and she lay in hospital, insensible, for a long time. When she eventually came to, she could remember nothing of the accident – nor even who she was, poor lady. But by that time the case had come to the ears of her maid, who eventually took her home. I don’t remember the maid’s name, but if it turns out to be Rosa Tartaryan, then we have a connection. The injured woman’s name, you see, was Hannah Smith.”

  “Oh. And the child?” asked Agnes, now very much interested.

  “A little boy of about two or three years old. He suffered a slight concussion, and a broken collar bone, but he soon recovered. However, he was either a latecomer in learning to speak, or too upset by the accident to utter. At any rate, he was unable to tell us his name. He was taken to see Mrs Smith while she was still in the coma and asked if she was his mother, but he screamed and refused to look at her.”

  “Presumably, if her head was injured, she was swathed in bandages,” Agnes said drily. “Enough to make any child scream. I suppose they’re reunited now.”

  “She wasn’t his mother. When she was able to talk, she denied ever having had a child. There were several people injured in the accident, and three other people died besides Harry Chetwynd, including a woman who was thrown right out on to the street and killed as she hit the pavement.”

  “Of course, I remember now — I read about it at the time – the accident caused quite a sensation, didn’t it? But surely someone remembered who the child was with?”

  Crockett spread his hands. “It was a very breezy day, though bright and sunny, I believe, and the ladies on the omnibus – who in my experience are usually the ones to notice such things, are they not? — were more concerned with keeping their hats in place than looking about them on thex ’bus.”

  “And I suppose the gentlemen were occupied with their newspapers – or looking at the ladies.”

  “No doubt. At any rate, no one remembered seeing anyone with a child on their lap, or with one seated next to them: he was only a very small child, remember, not easily noticed. And since no one else claimed him, it was assumed he must have been with the woman who’d been thrown out – and who remains unidentified to this day. From her ragged clothing and general appearance, she seemed to have come from the poorest of the poor. Nobody ever came to us, looking for a woman of her description – but then, women like that, as you know, leading a hand-to-mouth, rootless existence, come and go.”

  “With no one to know or care if they’re never seen again,” agreed Agnes with a sigh. “But tell me, was the child poor and ragged, too?”

  “No. He was well-dressed and cared for. She may, of course, have been looking after him for someone.”

  Agnes wryly acknowledged this. “Some women are not always particular about who they entrust their children to, that’s true enough. But if so, why did no one come forward to claim him? And what’s happened to him since?”

  “A home was found for him with the childless widow of one of our policemen. She’s become devoted to him – but nearly a year later, he still doesn’t speak.”

  “Poor mite.” Agnes poured them both another cup of tea. The string trio had retired from behind their palms and there was silence except for the clatter of teacups and cutlery, the quiet murmur of ladies talking over their tea and cakes, the ceaseless sound of motor traffic passing on Piccadilly, the clop of hooves, a jingle of harness and the cries of a news vendor. “But you still think that Harry Chetwynd might have had something to do with Mrs Smith and the little boy?”

  “I can’t rid myself of the notion that he had.”

  “In that case, is it possible the murdered woman at Belmonde could have been this Mrs Smith, and not Rosa Tartaryan?”

  “No. I’m convinced Gevorg Saroyan wasn’t mistaken in his identification of the sketch of her – nor of her clothing. But something else has cropped up.” He then told her of the conversation he’d had with Meredith, just before leaving his office. “It’s quite possible Rosa might have been putting pressure on Sir Henry.”

  “Because she knew Mrs Smith and Harry Chetwynd were – connected, in some way?”

  “That’s it. And supposing – regardless of the fact that she vehemently denied ever having a child – the child on the ’bus should turn out to have been hers —”

  “— and Harry Chetwynd’s? Oh, goodness. I see. The rightful heir? That could put the cat among the pigeons, for all sorts of reasons.” Agnes stirred her tea and Crockett finished off her teacake (excellent, plenty of currants, not mean with the butter, toasted just right) and wiped his mouth.

  “Going back to where we started,” Agnes said, “why should Louisa Fox know anything about this, or indeed, be any more willing to talk than the Chetwynds, especially if she’s friendly with the son, Sebastian?”

  “I shall be following my own line of enquiry — see if I can trace Mrs Smith through the hospital where she was treated. But meanwhile, it cannot do any harm to find if anyone at Belmonde knows anything about her. It needs tact and diplomacy and I know of no one
who has more than you, my dear. Louisa Fox might unwittingly say something, if you can gain her confidence. But I’ll admit it’s a very long shot.”

  “And a very tall order.” Then she smiled. “But for the sake of the little boy, one that’s worth trying, hmm? You have a very tender heart under that tough exterior, Chief Inspector Crockett. Not to say a silver tongue.”

  “I don’t like unfinished business,” he answered, brusquely, to cover his confusion, and added, “It’s you who have a tender heart. I knew you wouldn’t fail me, Agnes. You never do.”

  Her colour rose as she played with the sugar tongs. “In the circumstances, John, that’s a very handsome thing to say, though it isn’t quite true, is it? I’m afraid I’m very tiresome to you at times.”

  But his breath caught in his throat as he looked at her and thought he saw a promise in her eyes.

  AUGUST

  Two months have gone by since I last wrote.

  I have been ill. Not physically, but living with such confusion that I thought I was going mad …which I had certainly not expected to happen, if or when my past at last began to make sense. It was remembering Hugh, of course, which triggered everything else. How naturally that came back to me, all the details of our first meeting. But everything has its price: afterwards, sliding into my mind like a snake, came the memory of that night: a dark night with the great yellow moon out, the figures of the men sharp against the curve of the kopje as they went to take their turn at watch. And after that came the rest of it, like a dam bursting, carrying all before it, like the Malopo River when the rains came, like the time I fell into the sluit.

  I could not stem the flood as it eddied around me, day after day. Pictures of that other, distant life, all the bright fragments and the dark, rushed by – in no sort of order, but sometimes with such clarity I felt myself actually, physically back there. At others, they were vague and undefined, impossible to pin down. I wanted to grab every precious insight and hold it, before it escaped me forever, but if I attempted to arrange these epiphanies into some sort of sequence, they slipped away and I was in terror they would never come back. I began to feel ill, as though I were burning up; over stimulated, I suppose, but at least not empty, as I had been before.

  Nothing lasts, however, even despair. It gradually became apparent that I must do as I did before, and go forward, step by careful step, in my building up of this picture of my past. I should go truly mad, otherwise. One’s mind cannot hold everything at once, it’s too much to expect the brain to sort out all the accumulated dross of a forgotten half lifetime. I didn’t need Dr Harvill to tell me that, though he did. I have not been back to see him since. I don’t know why, but I cannot feel it is quite so easy as he makes out. He has an answer for everything, but the world is not quite so simple.

  So, I must return to that momentous turning-point in my life: my arrival in South Africa.

  1896

  Chapter Fourteen

  The train steamed and rattled over the vast, seemingly endless, elevated grasslands which in South Africa are called the veld. It was nearly six o’clock in the morning and I’d been travelling for three nights and two days in this bone-shaking monster, but thankfully, at last, I would soon have reached my journey’s end.

  We had left Cape Town at nightfall, in a train crowded with British soldiers travelling north, but seats had been reserved for me, and for Mrs Winstanley, who was to travel with me as far as Kimberley. There our ways would part, after nearly three weeks spent together.

  The travelling companion who had been found for me had proved to be a stout, imposing lady, but despite her dogmatic opinions and formidable manner, she sheltered me under her wing like a large mother hen with a precious chick, yet encouraged me to join in whatever new experiences and pleasures were on offer – and there were many, both on board the Norham Castle and in the places where we stopped, such as beautiful Madeira, where I saw and enjoyed some of the same diversions Lyddie had described. Life on board was every bit as delightful as I had hoped and expected. I was outward bound for adventure, determined to enjoy every minute. Flying fish and dolphins followed in the ship’s wake, under stars thick and bright as never at home. There were games on deck and musical evenings. We were served with delicious meals, and I learned to play bridge.

  Mrs Winstanley’s biggest fault was that she was an inveterate match-maker. She was delighted to see that I was never short of dancing partners among the army officers who were journeying out to join their regiments, but warned me not to be too hopeful of this as a prelude to any romantic attachment. I hadn’t deemed it necessary to tell her that I was – almost – promised to a man called Willie Dyson – nor could she have known that I was not the sort to cherish any illusions as to my chances in life. Indeed, I often thought, can this really be me, Hannah Jackson? And had to remind myself that it was highly unlikely this delightful state of affairs would carry on once I left the ship.

  It seemed that it could, for a little while longer at any rate, for when we reached Cape Town, Mrs Winstanley wouldn’t hear of me staying anywhere but with her at the Mount Nelson, which I soon discovered to be the most luxurious in a city noted for its excellent hotels.

  Mrs Winstanley’s husband was in diamonds. She was travelling back to join him after attending the wedding of their son in England.

  Shall I ever forget my first sight of Cape Town and Table Mountain, with its long flat top rising up to the brilliantly starlit sky? We steamed into port in the dark and there it was, an electrically-lit city vying with the stars’ brilliance, lying under the shadow of the mountain and reflected in the sea. It still seemed magical the following day, even when I viewed the city through a haze of dust. Wide streets, lined with palms; gardens filled with tropical flowers; well-stocked stores – and, too, the palatial offices and clubs of the nouveau riche Uitlanders from Kimberley and Johannesburg. I noticed that although they drove the motorcars imported from Europe and America, those same people often sat back in rickshaws drawn by Kaffirs, whose tin shanties lay alongside their patrons’ conspicuous homes, designed to show off their enormous wealth. I had been brought up by my father from an early age to believe in the equality of all human beings, and it was a disconcerting mixture I found there, a cosmopolitan but unequal society, where the natives performed all the hard, menial and distasteful tasks while the rich white people, whatever their dissatisfactions with one another, enjoyed a lavishly ostentatious style of living.

  “And luxury’s just what these Boers can’t stomach,” announced Mrs Winstanley, pointing out the burghers to me: burly, bearded men with wide brimmed hats and inflexible expressions. Bible thumpers, she called them, farmers who lived a hard and solitary life on their isolated farms, but who were here in Cape Town to put the Boer side of the interminable disputatious questions of the day.

  In the matter of manners and customs, Mrs Winstanley proved invaluable. She had a kinder and – from what I saw from other white people – novel way of dealing with the native servants, such as the black maids in the hotel and the porters who carried our luggage on to the station: believe them to be honest unless proved otherwise, give them a smile, respect their different way of life, my dear, but never forget they are still uncivilised. She used much less tortuous diplomacy with the white troopers we encountered on the station platform, who hindered our progress on to the train by their heavy kit-bags, and on whom she bestowed a Look, expecting nothing less than for them to get out of her way. I was amused to see how instantly they obeyed her.

  But then, Ada Winstanley was not a woman to be trifled with. As we settled in the train, she took the opportunity to prepare me for my arrival in Mafeking. “Don’t expect too much of it,” she’d warned. “It was only properly established a few years ago by white settlers …prospectors and so on. You’re likely find it very raw and uncivilised, my dear – such places are a magnet for the undesirable element. I speak with authority. I’ve seen what happened in Kimberley.”

  I don’t think she�
��d ever been to Mafeking, but she made the frontier town sound as though it was the last outpost of the Empire (and maybe I should find that she wasn’t far wrong, though I hoped not). She harped on the same theme several times, but conceded that it should be a good place to find a husband. “Just think of all those officers quartered there, Hannah.”

  I replied, much nettled, that I wasn’t looking to marry anyone just yet, and as for soldiers – individuals who were expected to obey orders without question were not my cup of tea.

  “I should keep remarks like that to myself, if I were you.”

  “By that you mean I mustn’t speak my mind?”

  “It would probably be more circumspect. Though I wouldn’t,” she added after a moment’s thought, “expect they set overmuch store by manners and conventions up in Mafeking.”

  I steered the conversation towards other, less controversial subjects, things that I hoped to see and experience: the sunshine, the wild life – and what about the strange and delicious tropical fruits Lyddie had written about that we’d certainly never seen in Bridge End?

  “Overrated, my dear. Decidedly overrated, all of it.”

  It was a somewhat dampening view of my much anticipated visit and depressed me a little. But then I decided I was sorry she felt that way and hoped I wouldn’t become so blase.

  Rarely have I spent such an unrestful night as that first night, on a hard bed which made me painfully aware of every bump and jolt of the train. I was not comforted to remember it was to be a three-day train ride, with but a few stations en route. The next morning, I woke to find we were bucking along the high, arid plateau of the Great Karoo, its stony plains and illimitable veld, where in the shimmering heat, under the pale, almost colourless sky, occasional groups of twisted thorn trees rose above the endless miles of light-coloured, waving grasses, the height of a man – so endless in fact that it acquired a sameness that was no rest for the eyes. Eventually, we left it behind and passed through country that was wild and sometimes splendid, the crystal clear, limpid air allowing glimpses from time to time of distant bare hills and mountains. There was very little sign of life anywhere other than long, ox-drawn wagon-trains, or when we stopped at wayside stations to walk about and stretch our legs, to buy drinks or something to eat.