The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  ‘Yes,’ said Violette. ‘I kept my other promise to you,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I did not stab anyone at all.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, let us find out why you left and took my pearls — and why you have agreed to return.’

  They sat. Violette talked. They questioned. She answered. She had lost her belligerence, Sophie noted, and her bewilderment was real. She had even let Green tentatively kiss her cheek, though she had not returned the embrace.

  Which reassured Sophie. This girl, it seemed, did not lie. Trick, steal, mislead and kill, perhaps. But she seemed to have a genuine distaste for dishonesty, instilled, perhaps, by this Grandmère who had made it the work of her last years to kill traitors.

  Why had Mrs Maillot — or the woman who had assumed that identity — gone to so much trouble to fool a beggar girl? And why had she been so interested in Miss Lily Shillings?

  The question remained as puzzling for Violette as for them all.

  ‘At first I think she might be a thief and wish me to open the door for her here. But then why would she vanish, just when I might do that? The owners of the house were returning, but she could have said that a water pipe burst, and that she must stay at a boarding house till it was fixed. But there is a thing that is stranger. She was . . . believable,’ said Violette, wonder in her voice. ‘Me? I do not believe people so easily. But I believed her.’

  ‘She had found out all she wished to know,’ said Green flatly.

  ‘She didn’t have to trick Violette to that extent to discover that a woman named Lily Shillings had given birth,’ pointed out Jones. ‘She seems to have mostly wanted to know where to find Miss Lily once she left here. You’re sure you did tell her that Miss Lily is not, in fact, your mother?’

  ‘Very sure. But she kept asking if I had seen Miss Lily and his lordship together. That I do not understand. Are they not friends?’

  The other three in the room were careful not to catch each other’s eyes.

  ‘I have only one conclusion,’ said Violette. She looked at Green. ‘You were a spy in Belgium, were you not?’

  ‘Among other things,’ said Green.

  ‘This Miss Lily, has she spied too? Is she away, spying now? That, perhaps, is what Mrs Maillot wished to know.’

  Nigel regarded Violette thoughtfully. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Miss Lily, shall we say, “collected intelligence” in the past. Some may believe she still does that.’

  Violette clasped her hands in excitement. ‘She is still a spy? Are you all, perhaps, spies?’

  ‘You seem to like that idea,’ said Jones.

  Violette looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course. It would be most interesting.’

  Nigel smothered a laugh. Violette looked at him in annoyance. ‘It is not amusing.’

  ‘My dear girl, do you really think that if we were spies, now or in the past, we would confirm it to a girl we only met yesterday, who intended to kill one of us and who left abruptly in the night stealing the most valuable items she could lay her hands on?’

  Violette looked thoughtful. ‘No.’

  ‘Then ask that question again in a year, or two years, or however long it takes for us to trust you. The answer will not be quite what you expect,’ Nigel added.

  ‘That is reasonable,’ said Violette.

  ‘I am so glad you think so,’ said Sophie with a slight smile. She looked at her small jewelled watch on its gold chain. ‘Luncheon will be served in two hours. You need a bath, and you need to rest. Sleep, then dress for lunch. Your mother has placed some clothes you might like to try on in your room. She did this, I may point out, when she did not know if you would return or not. Luncheon will be served in the dining room, twenty minutes after you hear the gong.’

  Violette stood. ‘I like clothes. And now you may all discuss me while I am gone.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Sophie. The four of them watched the girl go out, their faces carefully pleasant till she shut the door behind her.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Green.

  Chapter 32

  When you say ‘I will do what is right’ you still have choices. You can refrain from doing wrong: usually a safe choice. Or you can actively do good. The latter invariably involves sacrifice, small or large, and will annoy — sometimes fatally — those who do not care who they harm.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  ‘Someone suspects that Nigel and Miss Lily are the same person,’ stated Sophie.

  Jones cast a worried glance at his friend and employer, sitting impassively on the sofa next to Sophie. ‘And Violette’s information doesn’t help dispel that suspicion.’

  ‘No,’ said Nigel quietly. ‘But there is no proof. There never can be any proof. Nor will there ever be, as long as Miss Lily never appears again.’

  ‘There might be gossip . . .’ began Green.

  Nigel shrugged. Such a different shrug from Miss Lily’s, thought Sophie. ‘Only a small amount. What does a little gossip matter? Especially as neither Sophie nor I are social lions, and we don’t matter politically. Nor has Miss Lily been seen except by a very few people for fifteen years. But I don’t think there will be gossip.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Green.

  ‘This woman — let’s call her Maillot for convenience — went to an enormous amount of trouble to try to find out about Lily. Cultivating a street child who was singing for her supper, finding a house she could take over, ensuring the owners did not return unexpectedly, which would have needed surveillance. I doubt she did that on her own. It is too large an undertaking just to collect gossip.’

  ‘Blackmail?’ suggested Jones. ‘A woman connected to a great estate had an illegitimate child?’

  ‘Possibly. I almost hope there is a demand, as that would give us answers. I won’t pay, of course. Again, if Lily never returns, then there is no one to blackmail.’

  ‘There is the claim that you have an illegitimate sister,’ Jones considered. ‘These days that wouldn’t even make page two of News of the World, especially without a photograph of Miss Lily.’

  ‘And where will Miss Lily be?’ asked Sophie carefully.

  ‘Where she has been most of the time since 1914. Travelling — we don’t know where. I am sure if it’s necessary James Lorrimer will provide a false and ultimately frustrating trail for the curious to follow. But you are forgetting something Violette told us yesterday.’

  Has it only been one day since the girl set fire to our lives? thought Sophie.

  ‘There are still witnesses in Belgium who will swear they knew Lillian Shillings and worked with her, while the Earl of Shillings was with his regiment in France. They do not like Lillian Shillings, nor trust her, but that very hatred will make them all the more likely to tell a stranger all about her. They have no need to be loyal to her now. But their testimony would be useful if anyone needed to prove that the Earl of Shillings could not be the same person as his half-sister.’

  ‘Nigel . . .’ Sophie tried to find the right words. She glanced at Jones and Green, and saw her feelings mirrored on their faces. They too loved Miss Lily. And in condemning her to vanish permanently, denying himself even the momentary reclaiming of self he experienced in Paris, Nigel was slicing away who he truly was.

  And that was it, thought Sophie in wonder. Why had she never realised? Nigel was the disguise Miss Lily assumed, not the other way around.

  ‘I am so sorry —’ began Green.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Nigel flatly. ‘This isn’t Violette’s fault. And if you had never taken my identity in Belgium we might be in far worse trouble.’

  He stood like a man about to face a firing squad. No, thought Sophie with a stab of sorrow, like a man who had already been shot and all that was left was shadow.

  She had to do something. Someone must do something. They could not let Nigel . . . Lily . . . face this. Surely something could be done . . .

  The phone rang in the library and, more dimly, out in the hall. Sophie moved automatically to answer it before Hereward did.
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  ‘Shillings,’ she said.

  ‘My lady?’ It was the operator at the exchange. ‘I have a Mr Lorrimer on the line. Will you take the call?’

  ‘Yes please. Put him through. James,’ she mouthed at the others. Nigel sat again, looking more exhausted than she could remember seeing him since he had recovered from his surgery.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Yes, James. Is something the matter?’

  A pause. James Lorrimer remembered, even if she had forgotten, that there might be several operators listening in, and almost certainly were, to hear any gossip about the Countess of Shillings, though of course they would never mention it, except to their six closest friends . . .

  ‘Are you free this afternoon? I was thinking of motoring down.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Nigel and I would love to see you. And the twins will be delighted to see their Uncle James,’ she added, to make sure the visit sounded totally innocuous to those who listened in.

  ‘Good.’ A hesitation, as if James were choosing his words carefully, but needed to warn her just the same. ‘A friend of ours is going to ask Nigel and his sister to go to Germany.’

  Hannelore? she thought. But James knew Hannelore had already asked many times and, as many times, been refused.

  ‘This will be a request that will be impossible to refuse,’ he added. ‘You might even call it a . . . decree. I thought you should know as soon as possible.’

  ‘I . . . see,’ said Sophie carefully. ‘We’ll look forward to seeing you, James. You’ll stay to dine, I presume?’

  And probably the night as well, she thought, as it would be too late to drive back to London after dinner. Car batteries were unreliable beasts, all too liable to give out on a dark road miles from the nearest farm house and, she glanced out the window, yes, it was snowing again, soft flat flakes of spring snow that would melt almost as soon as they touched the ground. ‘It will be good to see you,’ she repeated, then put the receiver down.

  And to think that only forty-eight hours earlier she had been bored.

  Chapter 33

  The art of a well-dressed woman is to make her clothes appear the perfect choice for the occasion, even a nightdress in a ballroom.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  What did one do with a thirteen-year-old and far too self-possessed young woman while one held urgent talks with Britain’s most senior spy master? Neither of her parents could be spared from the discussion.

  A journey to the next town, with Samuel at the wheel of the Silver Ghost, so she might buy necessities such as undergarments, shoes and nightdresses, until appropriate ones could be made for her? No. Samuel would probably decide he adored her, which might be somewhere between a nuisance and a potential disaster, and Violette would wonder why her mother did not accompany her.

  A riding lesson? But Sophie’s riding clothes would be far too small and could not be altered as easily as a loose-fitting evening gown.

  Eventually she decided to tell Violette the truth: this was a private meeting and, if appropriate, one day she would be told what they discussed. In the meantime she was to stay in her room and read fashion magazines, marking the styles and colours that she liked, so that when they went to London she might have a clear idea of the style of clothes she wished to have made. To her relief Violette accepted this as an interesting occupation. She even promised to stay in her room until called. ‘Or until twenty minutes after the dinner gong. I will wear the mauve silk in my dressing room. It is too small, but I can alter it.’

  ‘You are too young for mauve. A white dress, or lavender perhaps, or even pale blue would be more appropriate. But not tonight. Our guest will stay for dinner but you will dine on a tray in your room.’

  Violette considered her. ‘My parents are servants. Perhaps I should eat in the servants’ hall.’

  Sophie doubted Violette truly wished to eat with servants. This was a taunt. ‘Your father is his lordship’s secretary. It is not appropriate for you to eat in the servants’ hall.’ Thank goodness, she thought. ‘But you will have an excellent dinner, even if it’s served on a tray. If you wish for anything else — coffee, cake — pull the bell and a servant will bring it.’

  ‘Anything?’

  Sophie sighed. ‘I spoke incorrectly. If you wish for tea, coffee, cocoa, bouillon, hot or cold milk, a glass of water, cake, biscuits, crumpets, toast, sandwiches, a bath, towels, a book, magazines or writing or sewing materials, or any similar items, you may ring the bell and ask for them. But please do not do so more than once. It is not fair to the servants to make them run up and down stairs too often.’

  Violette nodded. ‘I am sorry I ran away last night. This is extremely pleasant.’ She looked at Sophie shrewdly. ‘Life here may also be most interesting.’

  ‘I profoundly hope it won’t be. Excuse me; I must dress for our visitor.’

  ‘May I watch?’

  Sophie blinked. But the girl seemed genuinely interested in clothes. Green could give a commentary on exactly what dress was suitable for this afternoon and why; show her how to dress a lady’s hair, select a riband, jewels appropriate for this particular visitor, and possibly a dozen other arts Sophie rarely paid attention to.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Quite interesting,’ said Violette.

  James arrived with snowflakes on his overcoat, which he insisted on removing before kissing Sophie on the cheek. ‘Will this wretched weather ever end? You look beautiful, Sophie.’

  ‘I feel haggard and harried, and your compliment may have saved my life.’ Sophie felt in fact deliciously lovely after the ministrations of Green, and Violette’s evident fervent approval, but men enjoyed being told that their mere presence made one feel glamorous. ‘We’re in the small drawing room. I’ve asked for soup and sandwiches to be served. I expect you are ravenous?’

  ‘Yes. You are a marvel, Sophie.’

  She smiled. ‘You almost make me feel that I am.’

  Watercress soup, served in a china cup so James did not feel he was eating while others watched him dine alone. Sandwiches of roast beef and horseradish, cheese with lettuce from the greenhouse, and the first of the forced asparagus rolled in well-buttered, thinly sliced brown bread. Sophie nibbled to keep James company; Green and Jones sat and Nigel paced, restless, staring out the window, which was disconcerting. Sophie had known Nigel in many moods, but never restless.

  At last he turned, as James put down his cup. ‘Well?’

  ‘You are about to receive a royal visit, or possibly an invitation. The first, I expect, as it will be more discreet. His Royal Highness is going to request that you and the woman he now believes is your possibly illegitimate half-sister be his informal emissaries to Adolf Hitler, to assess his abilities and intentions and help ascertain whether His Royal Highness might be advised to offer him support.’

  ‘A Prince of England supporting a German politician?’

  ‘As much as he is able. Influence, rather than financial support. If His Highness sets his mind to it, the influence could be considerable.’

  ‘Nigel and Lily,’ said Jones carefully. ‘The prinzessin has been urging Sophie to convince Lily to see Herr Hitler. Why does His Royal Highness now want them both?’

  James sipped tea before he answered. ‘I am afraid I can’t answer that.’

  ‘You have a watcher in the home of the instigator of this . . . mission?’ asked Nigel, still over by the window. ‘The Prinzessin von Arnenberg, I presume.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sophie stared. ‘You are spying on her?’

  ‘Of course.’ James looked at Sophie, then at Nigel, with deep sympathy. ‘Old chap, it’s been a good run — longer than anyone expected — but I think our luck may have run out. The prinzessin suspects that you and Lily are one person. As blackmail devices go, it is about as good as one can get.’

  ‘I see,’ said Nigel slowly. ‘If I — or we — refuse to go, she holds the threat of exposure. But if Lily goes — and supports Herr Hitler — presuma
bly she will keep quiet.’

  ‘That is what I believe, too,’ said James.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Sophie quietly. ‘I don’t imagine His Highness or Hannelore confided in you.’ She remembered the prince’s tone of voice, describing James’s first wife: ‘Rich of course, like all that type of person.’

  James helped himself to an asparagus roll. ‘These are excellent. Our asparagus still has weeks to go.’

  ‘Sophie has our asparagus beds heated with manure pits underneath them,’ said Nigel. ‘The Prinzessin von Arnenberg was learning how to influence royal Europe while Sophie was redesigning our glasshouse management.’

  ‘And now you are spying on her,’ said Sophie bluntly.

  ‘You disapprove?’

  ‘It depends on what you are doing. And how and why.’

  ‘To protect our country, and, for that matter, Nigel too. To give just one example: it seems that the prinzessin arranged to have a woman of some experience persuade a girl, almost a child, to infiltrate your household. The original aim seems to be to find out whether Miss Lily Shillings had a child, as well as her address, her exact relationship to Nigel, or any other material that might be useful for blackmail. I don’t know if Violette said something that made the prinzessin suspect you and Lily as one, or she noticed a too-close resemblance before. In these . . . modern . . . times, an imposture that would seem impossible twenty years ago would be possible, if improbable, now.

  The girl did not know what intelligence she was being used for,’ James added. ‘She was a temporary dupe, nothing more.’

  ‘Have your intelligence networks found out where this young person is now?’ asked Jones evenly.

  ‘Here, I presume, as you were seen picking her up and driving her away in your car.’

  ‘No one followed us back here,’ said Jones, his tone still mild.

  ‘No. It was assumed there was no need. The watcher was hidden by the fog. I hope this does explain why it seems advisable to keep watch on the prinzessin’s plans.’