Shadows & Lies

by Marjorie Eccles

  After Ludo was born, however, the three of us existed in a trinity of love – except that I could not get it out of my mind that Harry had a duty to tell his father, and his mother, that he had a son.

  I sometimes think that there is something dark in me which presages death to all those I love – my parents; Lyddie; Hugh; Rouncey. My child. It was as the result of a quarrel over his refusal to do as I wished (though later lovingly made up), that Harry agreed to go on an outing ‘to clear the air’ as he put it. We would sit on the top of an omnibus and view London in the beautiful autumn weather, he said, and let the wind blow away all the dissensions that had been between us.

  The last words I heard before I lost consciousness amid all the hideous confusion of the accident, as my hands were reaching out to find Ludo, were: “He’s a goner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  All that Louisa Fox had told Crockett that night at Scotland Yard – about being in Mafeking at the time of the now famous siege; of having met both Hannah Osborne and Harry Chetwynd there; about having recently discovered that Harry had had a mistress and a child – all this had so far supported Crockett’s own theories. Theories were one thing, however. Proof was another. And what he’d been told had given him no further pointers as to how he might find Mrs Osborne, who he was convinced would lead him to Rosa Tartaryan’s murderer. And this was, after all, his paramount task, as he had been reminded by the Saroyans. The brothers were increasingly angry at the failure to discover her murderer. “I’m sorry, I know it’s difficult for you, but we’re doing all we can. For the moment, let’s go over once more anything you can tell me about the time she was employed by Mrs Smith.”

  While they hadn’t exactly approved of Rosa working as a servant to raise money for their funds, they hadn’t quite disapproved. “She knew what she was doing, she was clever, my Rosa, very clever. Had she not been a woman, she would undoubtedly have been our leader,” said Gevorg, without irony. But they still could recall nothing more of Mrs Smith than her name. They didn’t even know how Rosa had come to hear of the vacant position.

  Crockett had asked Louisa if she thought there had been an affair going on between Hannah Osborne and Harry Chetwynd in Mafeking.

  “Nothing that I was aware of,” she’d answered doubtfully, “I was barely fourteen after all, though one is always looking out for romance at that age, and Harry was very good-looking … but Mrs Osborne – well she was young, too, but she was a married woman. No, I’m sure there wasn’t anything of that sort.” Besides, she’d added after a moment or two, Mrs Osborne had been distraught when her husband had been killed in an engagement just before the end of the siege, for which he’d had received the highest decoration in the land, for bravery in the face of the enemy. He had been such a nice man, so kind and polite. No, they hadn’t had any children

  But she added after a moment, looking very thoughtful, that perhaps Crockett should know that Sylvia Eustace-Bragge, Harry’s twin sister, had known that after his return to England Harry had taken a mistress and had an illegitimate – and what was worse, retarded, child. Sylvia, however, did not know who this mistress was or where she lived. Crockett blew out his lips, disbelieving. Even Constable Grayson had known that the foster mother of the little boy on the ‘bus was receiving money from the Chetwynds, and must have put two and two together. Farming out a bastard child was not an unusual happening, whatever circles you happened to move in.

  Crockett thought he would somehow have to find the time to go and see Mrs Jenkins, the foster mother. Any opportunity to learn something wasn’t to be missed. Unfortunately, however absorbing the Chetwynd affair might be to him, there were other pressing matters he had been obliged to deal with; even now, he couldn’t put forward any justification for proposing he should put in further work on it, so any investigation had to be confined to odd times he was able to snatch. He had no desire to have his knuckles rapped for wasting constabulary time, but he thought he might fit in an hour that afternoon.

  Sarah Jenkins lived in a neat little house on a decent street and was evidently in comfortable circumstances. There was snow in the air as Crockett knocked on her door, but the tidy living room into which she welcomed him was warm and snug, with a bright fire burning in a polished grate, and pervaded by a good, wholesome smell of baking. She was surprised but pleased to see him. “Nice to see you again, Mr Crockett, sit you down,” she said, shooing off a marmalade cat curled on a cushion, brushing off stray cat hairs. The armchair certainly needed a cushion; it was horsehair, severe and upright, designed for a bigger man than Crockett, such as Jack Jenkins had been.

  When Sarah had opened the door to his knock, a little, dark-haired boy of about three or four had been by her side, clutching her skirts as if afraid she would go away. Now he sat on the rag rug in front of the fire, playing with a pile of wooden bricks, taking not the slightest notice of anyone. “You’ll have some tea?” asked Sarah.

  “I wouldn’t say no, Mrs Jenkins.”

  She went into the adjoining kitchen and the boy went with her. She came back with a tray spread with an embroidered cloth, on which were china tea things and an uncut cake, and he followed close on her heels. “Just made,” she said, placing the tray on the tapestry cloth which covered the centre table. “Seed cake. It’s not everybody likes it.”

  “Thank you, I’m very partial to the taste of caraway.”

  She cut him a generous slice, then seated herself in a plush-covered rocking chair on the opposite side of the hearth. Crockett, who wasn’t used to children, placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but quickly took it away when he felt him stiffen. “What’s the lad’s name, then?”

  “I’ve named him Jack, after my husband – but he shakes his head and gets angry when I call him that, so it’s usually chicken, or something. Isn’t it, love?” She leaned forward and stroked the boy’s dark hair. He was sitting on the floor again, absorbed in sharing his slice of cake with the cat, and made no response.

  “Is it all right to talk?” Crockett asked.

  “I reckon he hears and understands everything, when he wants to, which isn’t always, so it might do some good in the end, who knows? Something he hears might some day make him want to talk.” She was a simple woman, not particularly well educated, but she had a robust common sense and a kind and loving heart. He thought Agnes would have liked and approved of her.

  “I’m sorry. I was under the impression there were difficulties with his – intelligence.”

  “Pardon me, Mr Crockett,” she answered stiffly. “Pardon me, but whoever told you that is lying. The child’s no idiot. He can read already, and make his letters. He can make pictures, too.” She went to a drawer in the sideboard and fetched one of the lurid images the boy had made with his paint box. Thick slashes of red and black, a small dot in the centre, surrounded by what looked like thunderclouds. “Frightening, somehow.” It was true he had never spoken, she said, but lately he had begun to utter a few, mostly unintelligible, words. Now and again she had surprised brief glimpses of a mischievous, boyish gleam in those dark brown eyes. Once or twice, he had even slipped a trusting little hand into hers – almost instantly withdrawn – but she believed he was ‘coming round’, as she put it.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him but that he’s still missing his mother, poor lamb. Maybe he’ll get over it in time, but he hasn’t yet.” She looked at Crockett with a sudden intake of breath. “Have you …you haven’t found her?” He sensed in her a battle between hope and fear; between a desire for the child to be united with his real mother and the knowledge of the loss it would mean to her. Her love for the child won. “That would be a wonderful thing,” she said generously, but couldn’t prevent herself from adding, “Whoever she is, how could she not have claimed him by now?”

  “I think she must believe him dead.” Despite Harvill’s assurances that Hannah’s refusal to acknowledge the boy was due to a suppressed, unbearable memory, that was a conclusion Crockett himself thought more belie
vable. He felt bound to add honestly, while knowing he was dealing Sarah a blow, “But I have hopes that may be remedied, before long.”

  She turned her head away for a moment so that he could not see her face. “Silly of me. I always knew it might happen, one day.”

  Crockett awkwardly patted her hand and wondered if she might take offence if he approached the subject of the allowance paid to her for looking after the child. She was the sort of woman who valued her independence, her ability to keep her head above water, despite not having a husband to provide for her. The room was comfortable, neat and clean as a new pin. Probably containing nothing that every other house in the street wouldn’t possess, except perhaps the heavy mahogany sideboard that was of excellent quality, polished within an inch of its life, as was the small grandfather clock, and the harmonium in the corner. But she lived comfortably, without an occupation that would provide money for her and the boy.

  The subject came up quite naturally, after she’d poured him another cup of tea, and served another slice of seed cake. “I was in service, used to be a nursemaid, before I married Jack, and I’m fond of children. I’d just lost my own baby and after Jack died, I was thinking of getting another position.” A shadow of pain crossed her face, a double grief remembered and learned to live with. “Then I was asked to take in the little one here. Much as I wanted to, I’ll admit I hesitated. I couldn’t see how I could make ends meet, you see, but then, Lord bless us, if the lady didn’t come and offer to help.”

  “Which lady was this?” He thought immediately of Lady Chetwynd, or even the grandmother, Lady Emily, but Sarah surprised him.

  “Why, the sister of the young man who was killed, Mrs Eustace-Bragge. She said she was sorry for the child and offered to help from the goodness of her heart.”

  “Did she, by jingo? Was that the only reason, do you think?”

  She looked at him directly. “Well, I have wondered. She didn’t strike me as that sort – and I’ve known many an arrangement like this, when I was a nursemaid.”

  “I wonder why she, out of all the family, was chosen to sort out the business?”

  “I doubt if anyone else at all knew about it, never mind the family. She talked a lot of high-flown rubbish about good works being of no value if everybody knew what you were doing – and by the amount she offered to pay me, I took it that meant I was to keep my mouth shut, if you see what I mean, Mr Crockett. I accepted the money, but I haven’t spent it all. There’s a tidy sum put by for the boy, when he needs it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sebastian’s rooms in Albemarle Street, the usual bachelor quarters.

  Half past four on this bitterly cold wintry afternoon found Crockett ringing the bell. In his mind, he had classed Sebastian as a young man-about-town, one of the leisured classes with no more thought in his head than the pursuit of his own pleasure, and was surprised to find him in shirt sleeves, working at a big drawing board set up in the centre of a large, well-furnished but unbelievably untidy room, architectural drawings pinned up all around the walls, books and papers strewn on every surface.

  Sebastian saw his surprise and rather enjoyed it. He had been to see Wagstaffe and was still buoyed up with the rough sort of approval he had received on reporting to the architect about the studies he’d so far followed, along the lines suggested to him by the older man. He thought Wagstaffe was more impressed than he’d said by how willing Sebastian was showing himself, and by how much progress he had made since their last meeting, in preparation for the start of his new career.

  “I’m soon to be a working man, Chief Inspector. Going in for architecture, what do you think of that?” Smiling, without waiting for answer, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “You can give me your sister’s address, for one thing, if you will. Where does she live?”

  “Knightsbridge, but as a matter of fact, you’re in luck, I’m expecting her any minute. I was just about to start clearing up.” He looked round vaguely, thrusting his hands through his hair as he wondered where to start. “Women set such store by these things. Especially Sylvia. Do sit down.”

  In the absence of any seat devoid of books and papers and the scarcity of empty surfaces on which to remove them to, Crockett remained on his feet, contenting himself, while Sebastian shuffled papers around ineffectually, with examining the several very good pictures on the walls and the family photographs on the mantelpiece, one of which, in a silver frame, particularly caught his eye. It was of Lady Chetwynd, looking very elegant in lace and a huge, frilly hat, leaning on a parasol, beside a very young officer in the uniform of the Blues and Royals – the Royal Horse Guards. Presumably this was Harry Chetwynd, before he resigned his commission for a career that had ended up as dilettante journalism.

  Finally abandoning any attempt at tidiness, Sebastian switched off the bright electric light over his drawing board, which left but one dim lamp burning in the corner. He drew together the thick, dark red serge curtains, cutting off all sound from the noisy street outside and enclosing the room with its low-burning fire in intimacy and warmth. He was about to turn on the overhead light when there was a knock on the door. “Here she is. Sylvia, my dear.” He had to bend and dip his head under the sweeping brim of the hat skewered to his sister’s piled-up hair in order to kiss her scented cheek.

  Standing in the shadows, Crockett saw at once that she was very like her mother, but in a way somehow more sharply defined. Small and extremely slim, with a very upright carriage, she was wearing dark green: a beautifully cut coat and skirt relieved only by a touch of paler green in the ruffle of silk at her neck when she removed her fur. The same pale green also extravagantly trimmed her matching velour hat: an undoubtedly expensive ensemble which nevertheless drained her complexion, already naturally pale, he guessed, of all colour. There were dark, bruised-looking shadows under her eyes.

  “What a mess!” she declared immediately, with sisterly candour, looking around her. “How can you live like this, Sebastian?”

  “I don’t, not all the time. I’m very busy just now and anyway, the merest thing out of place offends Knox’s orderly Scottish soul and he cleans it up even before he brings me my tea in the morning. I wish he wouldn’t. I quite like living in squalor. Why don’t you have a seat, Sylvia, take off your hat and I’ll ring for some tea?” he added, sweeping a pile of papers to the floor from a bosomy Victorian velvet chair with a tapestry seat. “You don’t look up to the mark, if I may say so.”

  “I – I haven’t been sleeping too well. No tea, thank you.” She put down her muff, drew off her elegant suede gloves, laid them on her lap and lifted her hands to remove the pins from her hat. Crockett cleared his throat and stepped forward from the shadows. She started.

  “I’m sorry, Sylvia. Let me introduce Chief Inspector Crockett, the detective from Scotland Yard in charge of the Belmonde murder. My sister, Mrs Eustace-Bragge.”

  She immediately stood up again, looking very angry, ignoring Crockett’s outstretched hand, and began to draw on her gloves once more. “You have got me here by a trick, Sebastian, and I won’t have it. I shall not stay.”

  Sebastian forbore to remind her that it was she who had sent him a note asking to see him. The fact that she was prepared to visit him – here – meant she wished to keep their meeting secret, probably because she wanted to borrow money for reasons the often tight-fisted Algy mustn’t know about – she had hinted as much when they spoke on the telephone. Which was rich. She must indeed be desperate if she was reduced to asking him! He said mildly, “Inspector Crockett has been here barely five minutes, and I wasn’t expecting him.”

  “Please stay, Mrs Eustace-Bragge,” Crockett intervened. “I should very much like a word with you, if you will spare me a few moments.”

  “Sylvia, Mr Crockett knows about the child.”

  There was no noticeable change in her expression. She looked Crockett up and down, taking in what he had previously thought to be one of his smartest suits, his high,
stiff and spotless collar, his well groomed moustache and polished boots, then sat down again, abruptly. Resting her elbow on the chair arm, she shielded her eyes with one thin white hand, heavy with rings. A venerable old mantel clock, whose wheezy chime usually got on Sebastian’s nerves, filled the awkward silence with the three-quarters.

  “There doesn’t seem much point,” she said at last, “I can’t tell you anything”

  Crockett espied a stool in front of the drawing board and seized the opportunity to draw it forward and perch on it. Sebastian mended the low fire and then sat on the club fender.

  “Perhaps not. But the accident when your brother was killed seems to have started off a disastrous chain of circumstances. Why don’t we begin there?”

  “What’s the use of bringing all that up again? The day that was the worst of my life. Unless you are a twin, you can never know what that feels like.” Her face twisted with pain and she went on, almost as though speaking to herself, “I think sometimes we were like two sides of the same minted coin – he the bright, gleaming side, me the one which has tarnished and grown darker.”

  “Sylvia —” Sebastian protested, but Sylvia didn’t appear to have heard.

  “I can’t tell you anything” she told Crockett again. “You must already have all the facts of the accident at your disposal.”