After Clare

by Marjorie Eccles

  She ignored that ‘thoughtless’, but her spirit did indeed quail at the thought of another journey like the last, all those endless weeks – which hadn’t seemed endless then, but fascinating and coloured with new experiences, exhilarating perhaps because she and Paddy were together, and in love? – only to find, when she reached England, that Clare had returned, with some simple explanation . . . That at least made sense, even though this situation didn’t seem to have much to do with common sense.

  She felt torn between two loyalties. She was a newly married woman in love with a husband who had already frightened her by showing himself capable of petty jealousies and sulks when it came to her family. On the other hand, her beloved father was coping with this situation alone.

  ‘I must go, Paddy! Don’t you understand? My father – he’s alone, he needs me—’

  ‘But I shall be alone if you go – and I am your husband, may I remind you. And my father needs me. Needs us both. You have other duties now, Emily, in case it has escaped your notice.’

  The coldness in his voice was something she had never heard before and hoped not to hear again. I have been married barely a month and already I am quarrelling with my husband, she thought desolately.

  ‘I must go home, for a while at least. I will.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do this?’

  A silence thick as dust lay on the room.

  She stared, not understanding what he meant at first. Then she did. She could not travel without money, and when she married she had given up all rights to any money of her own. That was what the law said. It had been one of the reasons Clare had cited for never getting married. Emily was virtually penniless.

  Wild thoughts raced through her mind. She would find the money for her fare home from somewhere. Borrow it – but from whom?

  ‘What kind of wife wants to leave her husband after a few weeks?’ Paddy demanded, grasping her wrist so that she winced and pulled away. Then just as suddenly as his rage had come on, it left him as he saw he had really hurt her. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just that things seem so bad here, and without you . . .’ His eyes suddenly filled with tears, a lake of blue. ‘Don’t leave me, Emily! I don’t deserve you, but I don’t know what I’d do if you ever left me. I’ll make it up to you for everything!’

  She stayed silent for a long time. This was the man to whom she had made her vows before God. The man she was still determined to love. At last she said evenly, ‘No, I shall never leave you, Paddy. Forget I ever spoke about going home. Things will be better when we get to the hills, to the plantation, where it’s cooler.’

  He looked at her for a moment without saying anything, and then he said, ‘There is no tea plantation. My father lost it months ago.’

  He had grasped her wrist so hard she had the bruises for weeks. He never touched her so roughly again, but ever afterwards, when the same sort of situation occurred – as it did, throughout their marriage – she looked at her wrist and remembered the livid bruises and knew that had been the time when she had put Emily Vavasour behind her forever.

  Life with Paddy was not all sunshine, but you could not live with someone for nearly forty years without making the best of it.

  Thirteen

  Now

  Not for the first time, Poppy and Xanthe Tripp were crossing swords over Poppy’s proposals for the refurbishment of the library at Leysmorton. Mrs Tripp had ideas for a quick makeover that would bring everything up to the minute, banish the dreary, ponderous furniture of previous decades – too yesterday, my dear! – and replace it with contemporary pieces with sleek, uncluttered lines.

  But even Poppy, modern as her own inclinations were, could see what a huge mistake that would be. She could appreciate that replicating the library’s original, very expensive fabrics and wallpapers would mean going far beyond their usual reach, and that employing traditional craftsmen would be costly also, but the results would not jar the sense of what was right for a venerable old house, and for this Poppy was prepared to dig in her heels. Such schemes as Mrs Tripp envisaged were not even to be contemplated. More to the point, Emily was their customer, she pointed out, and would never agree. They would lose the order altogether – and the possibility of further recommendations – if they were not careful. She picked up the proposals, so scornfully dismissed by Mrs Tripp, which she had put together following her first visit to Leysmorton. ‘Just take another peep, Xanthe . . .’

  ‘We’ve already discussed ideas for these new chair covers, Marta and I,’ Emily had said, generously including Marta in the decisions. ‘But we can’t make up our minds. We don’t want to make the rest of the room look sorry for itself.’

  ‘That can happen,’ Poppy smiled. Quickly taking advantage, she added, ‘So why not do it all, then? We – my partner and I – could see to it for you.’

  The other two exchanged a look of alarm, obviously recalling reports they’d heard of the mirrors, lacquer and chrome in the London house Poppy and Xanthe had furnished for the newly-weds, Dee and Hamish. Poppy caught the look and smiled. ‘Nothing drastic. I know you only wanted new covers – but maybe some fresh paint, and wallpaper?’

  Emily was taken with the idea. ‘You’re right. Perhaps a little reupholstery, too.’ The whole house was scuffed and fraying at the edges and, to be fair, that wasn’t entirely due to its wartime occupation – probably hardly at all, in fact. Leysmorton had never been a grand house, just a family home, where familiarity had rendered its increasing wear and tear invisible to the inhabitants. It was obviously time to address the overdue problem. ‘What do you think, Marta?’

  ‘It will mean an upheaval. Dirk brings his work in here.’ That was true. He came to work sometimes on the table by one of the big, low windows that overlooked the terrace and let in floods of light. ‘He likes to look out over the garden.’

  Emily sat on the edge of the sofa, her spine straight and her silver-streaked dark hair nicely cut, her country clothes impeccable, her feet shod in expensive leather. Poppy thought that if the reports of her rackety life had been true, it had left no traces on her composed face, or in her manner. ‘But Dirk has a perfectly adequate study,’ she was reminding Marta gently.

  Marta lowered her eyes. ‘Well of course, it’s up to you.’

  Poppy wondered why Emily didn’t shake this irritating woman. But that was none of her business, so she jumped up to make a quick, darting tour of the room, assessing its potential. Fine old furniture, thankfully none of it the impossibly ponderous and overelaborate pieces of some earlier decades. Nothing here that a repolish wouldn’t put new life into. She came to a halt at the portrait over the mantel that dominated the room: a woman, Lady Fitzallan’s mother, without doubt – the same intelligent brown eyes, the thick dark hair, the curve of the lips – wearing something rose-coloured, and a rope of pearls. Her eyes narrowed as she looked from it to the lovely old Aubusson carpet. ‘Nothing too feminine, not in this room, but not too masculine either. Some dark green, and some light, and maybe ruby or crimson. Light paint. How does that strike you?’

  After a few moments’ thought, Emily had smiled and said, ‘Oh, yes, I think so. When can you start?’

  And at that, Poppy, acknowledging that she might actually enjoy the prospect of planning something so different from their usual commissions, had allowed herself to think about commissioning the whole house.

  She had said nothing of that idea to Xanthe on her return to London. Not yet . . .

  ‘“This shop exists to promote modernism”,’ Xanthe reminded her sharply now, quoting from the advertising brochure they had put out when they started. ‘Everyone has had enough of living in the past—’

  ‘Not everyone. You and I, perhaps,’ Poppy said, trying to be kind to Xanthe, who was forty-two if she was a day. ‘But we do need clients of an older generation as well, if we’re to keep going.’ She flicked through the pages of her notebook to hide her irritation. Increasingly, she faced the sad truth that their
small business venture was in crisis, and their relationship was not standing up to it. They were pulling in different directions.

  She tried again. ‘You haven’t seen Leysmorton. It’s a centuries’ old house and the library is simply beautiful. It’s ludicrous to think of—’ She stopped herself, then added, making it worse, ‘It’s a question of taste.’

  Her partner’s pale, powdered cheeks took on a spot of colour. Her thin red mouth set into an even thinner line. The shop bell tinkled. She took a deep breath, smoothed down her skirt and her frown, pinned on a smile and went forward.

  As the customer approached, Mrs Tripp’s smile slipped. It wasn’t unusual in these straitened times for men to be wearing clothes that had seen better days: pre-war Savile Row suits and Lobb handmade boots that still said quality in every stitch, however well worn they were. But this man’s navy blue serge suit had never seen Savile Row and said nothing except travelling salesman, or even – her heart plunged – debt-collector, a dun, one of those who had plagued her ex-husband throughout the exhausting, debt-ridden existence she had shared with him.

  She gave him a frosty good morning and was not reassured when he showed her his warrant card and asked for her partner. Dripping icicles, she spoke over her shoulder. ‘Miss Drummond. You have a visitor.’

  A look of dismay, quickly veiled, crossed Poppy’s face when he told her he was from Scotland Yard, and that his name was Novak, Detective Inspector Novak.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs Tripp, with a quick glance towards the window where a young couple appeared to be hesitating over the only exhibit, a rather beautiful, elongated ceramic black cat on a white tripod, standing on scrunched emerald velvet, ‘your conversation would be more private in the office.’

  As the shop bell went again and the couple entered, Poppy took Novak into a room at the rear of the premises, where a small desk, stacks of cardboard boxes and a drop-leaf shelf bearing a gas ring and the wherewithal for making tea didn’t leave much room for anything but a couple of stools. The kettle was on a low light and she asked him if he would like a cup of tea.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no, Miss Drummond.’

  He waited, perched on one of the stools, while she busied herself with the tea-making, her movements quick and impatient.

  ‘I know why you’re here, though not who sent you,’ she said abruptly, turning and handing him his tea in a wide black and eau-de-nil patterned cup with sharply sloping sides and a large saucer. ‘It’s about Peter Sholto, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you’ve heard about that?’

  ‘Yes – my brother told me. Valentine. He’s working for Mr Stronglove at the moment.’

  Ah, yes, the untidy young man at a desk in the corner of Stronglove’s study, who had been waved a dismissal when Novak was shown in.

  Smooth, affable, urbane, Stronglove had apparently decided to cooperate. ‘Anything I can do to help, Inspector. Though I’ve told you, Peter Sholto and I only came into contact when he was working here. I’m a busy man and it didn’t leave room for chat about his personal life. I believe he was friendly with the young Markhams, but you’ll have to ask them about that.’

  ‘You said before that your sister was fond of him? Maybe she could help.’

  ‘Marta? Well, yes, she did take a shine to him, you might say. Poor, motherless boy and all that – but then, she wasn’t alone. Most women seemed to find him attractive. Cigarette, Inspector? No?’ He crossed the room, took one himself from a box on a low table and lit it. Turkish smoke filled the room. He performed each action smoothly and without hesitation. Close up, he could evidently see well enough, and in a room that was familiar he moved around easily.

  ‘And Peter? Did he reciprocate?’

  ‘Who can say? He didn’t give much away. Agreeable enough young chap, but hard to get beneath the surface.’ He paused. ‘A bit deep sometimes, actually.’

  ‘How long did he work for you?’

  ‘Not long. Twelve months or so, I suppose, just before the war – until I moved to London, in fact. Nothing of a job for a young fellow like him, really.’ He tapped ash into an onyx ashtray and added, ‘To be honest, I felt it was time for us to part company, anyway.’

  ‘He wasn’t good at his job?’

  ‘When he kept his mind on it, I found him useful.’ He hesitated again. ‘Good secretaries are hard to come by. It’s not as easy as you might think, finding the right man.’

  Novak had recently interviewed a businessman who had a woman secretary, but they were everywhere now, women. They’d even infiltrated the police.

  Stronglove said unexpectedly, ‘These spectacles – I don’t wear them as a decoration, you know. They say I’m going to need an operation, sooner or later. Not a pleasant prospect and I have to confess I’m funking it.’

  ‘As anyone might, sir. I’m very sorry. The war?’

  ‘No, not at all. My eyes weren’t so good even before then, so being able to speak several languages, they made me a translator. Cushy number.’

  This self-deprecation was not how Novak saw Stronglove. Working as a translator had been valuable and much-respected work in wartime, and he was in no doubt that this man would be well aware of his worth.

  ‘I only mention the eye problem because I expect you’re wondering why I need a secretary at all. My manuscripts are a mess, I have to confess, so at the moment I need a man who can deal with the business of getting them ready to send out to my publisher – as well as proof-read and so on.’

  ‘So why did you want to get rid of Sholto?’

  ‘As I say, he was – satisfactory, shall we say – when he didn’t have his mind on other things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, nothing specific.’ He hesitated. ‘Apart from what I felt was a slightly unhealthy interest in the contents of this house.’

  ‘You mean you thought him dishonest?’

  ‘Pilfering the spoons? Lord, no. It was the old furniture that interested him, the craftsmanship and so on – or so he said – but frankly, I thought it a little sad that a young chap of his age should have nothing better to do. Interest is all very well, but he took it too far. I reckon he drew and made notes on every piece of furniture in the house.’ Scorn underlined his words.

  An unusual interest, Novak acknowledged, but – unhealthy? A budding connoisseur, perhaps. People who had a passion for things often began early; they said Mozart was composing piano concertos aged seven. Novak suspected a smoke screen: there were other, more cogent reasons for wanting to get rid of the boy.

  ‘As it turned out, the decision was made for me when I decided to move to London,’ Stronglove went on. ‘When war broke out, I heard that Peter had volunteered for the army.’ He paused. ‘Well, I suppose everybody was a patriot then.’

  It was at that point that the new secretary – young Drummond – had returned and Novak, sensing that was as far as he should go with Stronglove at that time, had left.

  ‘It wasn’t Val who sent you here, was it?’ his sister said now.

  ‘It was Mrs Erskine who told me where I would find you.’

  ‘Mrs—?’ She frowned, then gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, yes, of course, you mean Dee. You’ve seen her.’

  Indeed he had. Smart, blonde little Mrs Hamish Erskine in her modern bijou house just off Sloane Square, with her pretty pursed-up button of a mouth. A smiling, sugar-coated sweetie with a hard centre. She had been in a hurry to go out, all dressed up in summer silks and a daring little hat, fragrant and made up, a diamond on her finger the size of a walnut, taking meaningful looks at the diamanté watch on her wrist. He’d known straight away he’d get nothing from her, but she’d been on his list of those young people who had known Sholto – and she lived conveniently in London.

  ‘Why did Dee send you to me?’

  ‘She told me you knew Peter Sholto.’

  She turned her head rather sharply. ‘Did she indeed? Well, she knew him better than I did, they lived in the same village, after all. I only met him when I spent
school holidays at Steadings, with Dee and her family, when he made up a four for tennis.’ She bent her head to take a sip of tea, but not before he had seen something resembling a sharp flicker of pain in her eyes. They were her best feature, her eyes, luminously grey-green with dark pupils, beautifully shaped, thickly lashed and slanting slightly upwards under winged brows.

  ‘The other three – that would be Mrs Erskine and yourself – and Mrs Erskine’s sister?’

  ‘No, not Rosie, she was only a little girl. It was me, Dee and her brother David, who was in the Royal Flying Corps in the war. He . . . wasn’t one of those who came back.’ Her bent head, as she took another sip of her tea, hid her expression. ‘I’m very sorry Peter’s dead. Especially like that. It’s too shocking.’

  ‘But not altogether surprising, Miss Drummond?’

  She flushed. ‘Did I make that so obvious? Well, to be absolutely truthful, I suppose I’m not entirely surprised he got into trouble – though not to that extent. He would meddle with things and . . . and I’m afraid he could be rather beastly at times, you know.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Would you like some more tea, Inspector?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’ He’d had enough trouble holding the fashionably designed cup by the little triangular lump that was the handle to risk another, and besides, he had not been offered milk, and the lemon in the tea had made the inside of his mouth shrivel up.

  ‘Perhaps I’ve said too much.’

  ‘This isn’t a time for discretion, Miss Drummond.’

  ‘All the same, I shouldn’t have spoken like that. Peter could be awfully charming, when he wanted to be. Most people liked him. He talked a frightful lot of rot sometimes, and he didn’t like it if you didn’t go along with what he wanted. But it was nothing really, nothing that really meant anything . . . not now that he’s dead, anyway.’ There was a shine of tears in her eyes as she added, ‘He didn’t deserve to be killed.’