On the other hand, Sylvia herself was looking very chic and ornamental, dressed with modish luxury in a Directoire-style tea gown of maroon shot silk, its olive green lights accentuating the green of her long, cat-like eyes. She was always expensively dressed – Algy, Sebastian had to admit, was more than generous in that direction – and today she wore some very up-to-date silver jewellery, set with what he thought were bloodstones. With her white skin, her dark, attractively waved hair, and the uprightness of her little figure, she was extremely attractive. Small, dark, clever and amusing. Generally regarded as something of a beauty, though Sebastian was not sure about that; it all depended on her mood. And too thin, perhaps. Never trust a thin woman, Inky Winthrop was fond of saying, especially one whose clear profile showed a nose a little too sharp, a chin just a shade too determined. “I do have some news __” he began.
“You’re going to be married!”
“No, Sylvia.”
His irritation returned, he forgot how he had been going to continue. Trying to get comfortable on an excessively upright chair with a long, straight back and no cushion, wanting any topic of conversation but that, he incautiously mentioned an item of news he had seen reported about her friend, Annie Besant.
“I hope you’re not going to lecture me, Sebastian.”
“Would I dare?”
She smiled. “Good. Because I’m not disposed to talk about her.”
From this he gathered that Mrs Besant, like many another of Sylvia’s enthusiasms, had been abandoned. He could not know for what reason, nor did he wish to know. He was only too relieved to find the unsuitable friendship was over. She was a woman, Mrs Besant, who, despite her good works, inspired and irritated in equal parts.
Sylvia had grown tired of waiting for him to come to the point. “I expect you’ve come to tell me about this new little idea of yours, then? But I must tell you, I’ve already heard, from Mama. I saw her yesterday. Monty gave us tea in Fortnums. These are some of their cakes. Do have one of these chocolate ones, they’re divine.”
This little idea! And there he had been working like a black for the last few weeks, throwing himself into learning the mundane practicalities of his new profession as Arthur Wagstaffe had advised, acquainting himself with drains and landfalls and damp courses with as much energy as he’d previously followed his other trivial pursuits. How right his prospective employer had been. Sebastian had never been naive about how much there was to building even the simplest of houses – but there was much more to learn than he had ever imagined. But as a means to an end, he found it a better antidote to boredom than racing, chasing pretty girls or anything else, for that matter, had ever been.
“No thank you, no cake, I had rather a heavy lunch. I didn’t know Mama was in Town, and – well, seeing that you’ve taken the wind out of my sails, what do you think? Were you surprised?”
“Utterly bouleversée —what else did you expect? But dear Seb, you don’t usually do anything so out of character, do you? I do so hope you won’t regret it.”
“Is that what you said to Harry when he resigned his commission to become a journalist?”
He should not have said that, not even lightly. It was a Sylvia-sharp remark, unworthy. Though she tried to hide the grief she felt at the loss of Harry with a brittle sophistication, she was still raw at losing her twin. Her face closed every time his name was mentioned. But he had little time to regret his remark this time, for she came back immediately, with no sign of hurt and a sharp little dart of her own.
“A journalist? Hardly that, my dear boy. Not a professional one, at any rate. But Harry was always doing something out of character – that’s what made him so interesting, wasn’t it?”
He deserved that. Though he wasn’t sure whether she had meant a joke or an insult. Like Harry, one never really knew with Sylvia. He hadn’t ever, he now realised, thought of them as separate beings, but rather as a single, inseparable unit, Harry-and-Sylvia. And yet, Harry had kept from their sister the biggest secret of his life …
Or had he?
He looked across at her and found she was regarding him steadily over the rim of her delicate china teacup. “Well, since you haven’t seen fit to go into politics, or something equally sensible, I can but say I hope you may find what you are going to do rewarding. We’ve never had an architect in the family before. Perhaps you’ll turn out to be another Christopher Wren. Just imagine – Papa agreeing to it!”
“It’s taken him nearly two months – though as he still believes it’s a passing fancy, and that I’ll come round in the end, he’s decided he might as well let me have my head for the time being.” Sebastian grimaced. He’d slowly come to accept that he had mistaken his father’s silence over breakfast that morning at Belmonde for anger, and felt sure now that Sir Henry had in fact probably been too amazed to be angry. Indeed, no one had actually shown any opposition to what he proposed to do. Not even Sylvia, it seemed – though perhaps this was because their mother had paved the way and given her time to get used to the idea. Taking her lead from Sir Henry’s surprising, if grudging, acquiescence, Adele had accepted the inevitable with apparent good grace. Even Lady Emily, in her own way, had owned herself relieved to know that he had at last found something with which to occupy himself. It seemed that he had been envisaging demons where none were likely to exist. “While Father can’t bring himself to say that he actually approves, he’s at last come round to agreeing that it will certainly be better for me – at present —than doing nothing, as he puts it.”
“And what does your little friend Louisa say?”
“I’m happy to say she heartily approves.” He did not intend to get into a discussion about Louisa, and went on, “It’s just that I’m not cut out for the sort of life Father still envisages for me, though I suppose I shall have to face it some day. In any case, as long as he’s at Belmonde, I shall be surplus to requirements.”
“But he won’t always be there, will he? And then it’ll be your turn to think about an heir.”
“Please, Sylvia —” He put up a fending off hand. “Not now.”
She lifted her shoulders. “So – what else is there to bring you out here to see me?”
“If you’ve been talking to Mama, I suppose you’ve already heard they’ve found the name of the woman who was murdered at Belmonde.”
“Yes, some Armenian woman, I gather.” She busied herself with the teacups. “How did they find out who she was, by the way?”
“Some of her friends reported to the police that she was missing, and she was identified from her clothing – and so on. Don’t you find it all extremely odd? Why someone like that would be out at Belmonde? Apparently, her name was Rosa – Tartaryan, I believe it was, or something very like.”
“Do you suppose she intended planting a bomb?” Sylvia gave a light laugh as she passed him his refilled cup.
“That’s what we’d all like to know, wouldn’t we? Perhaps we shall know soon, now that the police have something to go on.”
A small silence fell on the room. His relief at hearing that the identity of the dead woman had at last been revealed had known no bounds. She was a stranger after all, not the woman he had feared she might have been. He broke the silence by saying abruptly, “I’m very glad she’s been identified. I rather suspected she might be someone else.” He paused, then went on, watching her carefully, “Sylvia, I’m aware it’s a painful subject, but there’s something I must know – about Harry.”
She looked up quickly. Her catlike eyes glittered and instantly, the chilling suspicion which had begun to form in his mind was confirmed. Tread softly, he told himself. Here be dragons. “You know, don’t you?”
“Oblige me by not looking so fierce, Sebastian. I know what?”
What a fool I’ve been, he thought. Ever to have even imagined that Sylvia wouldn’t have known. Harry would have seen no need for secrecy, for not sharing any part of his life, however disreputable, with his twin. Even that secret he had confided t
o his brother in an unguarded moment – to be frank, when he was drunk – at a time when he, too, had been under pressure from the family to find a wife. “Let’s not pretend, Sylvia. Of course you know.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.” She glanced at the little clock, busily ticking away on the mantelpiece. “Look, I have to go out now, and I still have to change. But it’s been lovely seeing you. We don’t see enough of each other, you and I.”
“Sylvia. I think you know very well I’m talking about the woman Harry was keeping. Was she by any chance this Rosa Tartaryan?”
“An Armenian? I hardly think so.” Her lip curled.
“Then who was it? I know there was someone – and I know Harry never kept secrets from you, of all people.”
She turned her head from him and faced her own reflection in the looking glass, composed her face, and when she turned back she was smiling again. “Is that so reprehensible? Young men must be allowed to sow their wild oats, après tout, or where should we all be?”
“Please be serious. Where is she? Who is she? Where does she live?”
She eyed him narrowly for a moment, then shrugged her slim shoulders. Nevertheless, the glance she gave at the clock once more was rather desperate.
He went on. “Has no one thought we might have a responsibility towards this mistress of his? To see that she is being taken care of?”
She still said nothing, and her very silence hit him like a blow between the eyes. “Are you saying he married her? Good God. Was that why he resigned his commission in the regiment?” (Before he’d been compelled to do so under the strictly enforced rule that a Blues officer must not in any circumstances marry an ‘actress’?)
“Married? Married? My dear, are you not being hopelessly naive?”
She was very pale, with a spot of high colour on each cheekbone. She drew in a deep breath. After a moment, she spoke. “There is a son,” she said abruptly. “And before you say anything else, there’s something else you should know. The boy is – well, to put the best interpretation on it, he is – not quite right in the head. Sebastian, mon cher, the boy is an imbecile.”
Chapter Eighteen
Crockett hadn’t been able to rid himself of the idea that the name and address found in the Gladstone bag (which the Saroyan brothers had now positively identified as belonging to Rosa Tartaryan) was important to the investigation and the discovery of her killer. As a result of the brothers’ visit, he had written hopefully once more to the Crowthers in Yorkshire – a shot in the dark, this, but one which had paid off, for one of the family now proposed to visit him. An early date and time were suggested, and promptly on time on the day specified, word was sent in to him as he sat in the busy CID office that a Mr Edward Crowther was there to see him. He asked for the visitor to be shown into an interviewing room and joined him there immediately.
“Ned Crowther,” the tall, bronzed young man announced himself heartily, extending a large hand in answer to Crockett’s greeting. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector.”
“Please be seated, Mr Crowther. It’s very good of you to come all this way.”
“Not in the least. Only too glad to be of service. Came as soon as I could.” He went on to say that he had only recently arrived home from South Africa, where he and his brother-in-law, Mr Lyall Armitage, ran an import and export company. “I came over to attend to the London end of our business, but when I’ve done that, I’ve made up my mind to cut my losses, and stay here for good. Fought out there in the Boer War,” he went on to explain, “and when it was over, in ninety-two, I liked the country so much I decided to stay. Capital life out there, wonderful opportunities. I’ve no complaints, but the fact is, the climate don’t suit my health – subject to bouts of malaria, you know. Weakens the constitution in the end. I’ve been told I should leave Africa. It’s a blow, I’ll admit, but the old country still has a lot to offer. As to this other business, I don’t know if I’ll be setting you up on a wild goose chase or not, but —”
“Mr Crowther, I regret we’ve had to trouble your family again – but if there’s any information at all you can give, I assure you I shall be in your debt,” said Crockett with heartfelt truth.
“No trouble at all. In fact the help may be in the other direction. Our name and address in that murdered woman’s bag – rum do, that, whichever way you look at it, ain’t it?”
“True enough. And you’ve no idea how or why it might have been there?”
“If you hoped I’d be able to explain that, I’m sorry to disappoint you. But when my parents told me the story, I put certain facts together and came up with something which may help to put you on the right track.” He paused, and then said, his pleasant face suddenly tight and anxious, “It’s certain that this woman – the one who’s been murdered – was a foreigner?”
“Yes. We’re positive now that she was an Armenian, by the name of Rosa Tartaryan.”
“Ah.” He heaved a sigh of deep relief. “Well, that’s it then. No connection with my family – not obviously so, that is. But as to the other name you gave us – the one you say this Rosa worked for, the one you want to trace. Well now, it came to me right away that you might have the answer to a mystery that’s been troubling our family for some time. Long shot, I’ll grant, but I suppose you’re willing to try anything? I should be, in your shoes.”
Crockett indicated that indeed he was.
“Well, it goes back a way, so if you’ll bear with me? There was a young woman who was very close to us all, orphan daughter of friends of my family. Lived with us for many years. I was – we were all extremely fond of Hannah – she was like one of the family.”
“Hannah – Smith?”
“No. Her name was Jackson. But she was certainly called Hannah. Hannah Mary Jackson.” He smiled slightly, as if amused by some secret thought. “It was like this. My only sister, Lydia, married Lyall Armitage, the good fellow who’s now my business partner, and went out to South Africa with him. Later Hannah went out to join her. It was only ever intended to be a to be a brief visit, but it was extended for one reason and another, and then in the end she met a man out there – a Major Hugh Osborne – and married him.”
“Where is she now?”
“Ah, that I wish we knew, Mr Crockett, upon my word I do. She returned to England – alone, I believe, but never went back to Bridge End. She wrote that for many reasons it was better she shouldn’t return. What my mother thought it was, you see – m’ brother George and his family had recently moved in with the parents. Sensible idea. Bridge End is a big house, built as a family dwelling, and it needs a big, growing family like George’s to fill it. Plenty of room for them all, and the old folk delight in having their grandchildren around them – but my mother got the idea Hannah might not like the idea of sharing a house with George’s wife. Capital woman, Nellie, cheerful and all that, great organiser – of things and people. But she and Hannah – chalk and cheese. Anyway, damned if we haven’t heard a word from Hannah since then. Just the odd card at Christmas, and birthdays, saying she was well and hoped we all were. Not like Hannah, that, not a bit.”
“Tell me. Where did she live, in South Africa?”
“In Mafeking. I suppose you’ve heard of Mafeking?”
“Who has not?” It was nearly seven years since the war with the Boers had ended, and nigh on a decade since the name of the small heroic frontier town on the South African veld had been on the lips of every man, woman and child in England, but who indeed could have forgotten it?
Crockett’s thoughts were racing. It surely wasn’t too much to believe that here at last were the connections he needed to confirm his suspicions. The woman who had worked for Hannah Smith had been murdered on the Chetwynd family estate. Harry Chetwynd had been a war correspondent in Mafeking at the same time as a woman called Hannah … Osborne as they might have to learn to call her. Both had been in the omnibus accident.
“I don’t know how what you’ve to
ld us is going to help, Mr Crowther, but I thank you for coming to us. Don’t get your hopes up, but I think this Mrs Hannah Smith we’ve been trying to trace may possibly – just possibly, mind you – be the Hannah Osborne you’re looking for. If you’ll give me a few details about her last address and so on, I’d appreciate it.”
“You won’t get much out of that. Old George had a go for my mother’s sake – tried to trace her through the girls’ old governess, a Miss Rhoda Rouncewell, who’d just returned from America and was teaching at a college in Surrey. Found poor Rouncey had died, and no trace of Hannah.”
“We’ll have to try some other way, then. We’d very much like to find her. Give me a few more details of Miss Rouncewell.”
“I’d very much like to find my dear Hannah on my own account,” Ned said quietly. “Understand what I mean?”
Sebastian, confounded by the information Sylvia had given him, discovered an urgent need to confer with Louisa, and that same afternoon, he drove his car to the Medical School where she was studying. His request to speak to her received a frosty reception from the dragon presiding over a desk in the front hall, who obviously saw the task of overseeing the hundred or so independently-minded young women in her charge as the cross she had to bear. “I’m sorry, Miss Fox is not in.”
“Do you know when she’s expected back?”
She was bound to know. He’d had it from Louisa that the students were required to sign in and out at stated times, but clearly, the lady was not going to budge an inch, even to this well mannered young man. “No,” she stated, determined not to be thawed by a charming smile.
Sebastian could be equally stubborn. He was not about to give in so easily, either, and was settling down to pursue the matter to a satisfactory conclusion when a young woman in a fashionably cut coat and skirt and a rather fetching hat touched him on the shoulder. Ignoring the dragon’s glare, she asked, “You’re looking for Louisa? She’s working on the wards, but she should be finishing any time now. I’m on my way to the hospital to take her place.”
Shadows & Lies Page 23
