Beautiful Lies

by Clare Clark

  Maribel thought of the press of protesters, the staves and the truncheons and the wild plunging of the police horses, and her stomach tightened.

  ‘Oh, Edward, surely you mustn’t – ?’

  ‘The conditions of my bail forbid it. Asquith made that quite clear.’

  ‘Thank heavens.’

  ‘It will be different this time. No one wants more blood.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? If Warren was prepared last time to mobilise the army –’

  ‘We can stop Webster from pulling any more stunts for a start. Hyndman and I are to meet with him tomorrow.’

  ‘With Mr Webster?’

  ‘Don’t look so horrified. Webster may be a publicity-infatuated blackguard but he remains one of the few supporters we have. He needs to be made to see sense, not just for our sake but for his own. The man’s in very real danger of losing his position.’

  Maribel stared at Edward.

  ‘But you despise him.’

  ‘I despise a great number of people with whom I am obliged to cooperate.’

  ‘You are not considering his interview surely?’

  Edward shrugged. ‘I don’t want to, God knows, but Hyndman thinks it might help. Certainly it would give us some leverage with the Chronicle.’

  ‘Edward, no!’

  Her voice was shrill. He turned to look at her but before he could answer there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Edward said impatiently.

  Alice peered into the room, her face creased with perturbation. Maribel took a deep breath.

  ‘Sir, ma’am, I’m ever so sorry to bother you but there’s a – there’s someone at the front door. He’s asking to see you, ma’am.’

  ‘To see me?’ Maribel said, glancing at the clock. ‘Are you quite sure it is not my husband he wants?’

  ‘No, ma’am. It is definitely you. He showed me – he has one of your photographs.’

  Ruined Virgins and Other Vile Abominations. Maribel had a sudden image of Victor’s photographer in the red silk room, the pink tip of his tongue between his teeth, the livid scarlet of her rouged nipples. In several of the pictures he had draped the sheet over the curve of her hip so that she was covered only by her hand, her fingers tucked between her thighs. He claims they are Art but Arthur says they are basically naked ladies.

  ‘A gentleman caller at this time of the evening?’ Edward said. ‘Bo, my dear, how many more scandals do you think we can withstand?’

  Maribel tried to smile. Her hands shook and she clasped them together. This is it, she thought. This is where it begins.

  ‘Alice, it is past six o’clock,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘Please ask whoever it is to come back another time.’

  ‘I already tried that, ma’am. He wouldn’t budge. Just pointed at himself and at the floor. It didn’t seem as if he spoke English, if you know what I mean.’

  Maribel stared at her.

  ‘Are you saying the gentleman is a foreigner?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, who is he? Where is his card?’

  ‘He didn’t give one, ma’am.’

  ‘Who pays a call and does not give a card?’

  ‘The thing is, ma’am – he’s a Red Indian.’

  They made an unconventional tableau, Edward in his elegant evening suit in front of the fire, Maribel still in her walking costume, the Indian swathed in a dirty scarlet blanket. When Alice showed him in, the red man hesitated on the threshold, his head bowed, and she clicked her tongue at him as though he were a child, gesturing with a jerk of her head towards the fireplace. The Indian’s eyes flickered unhappily from Alice to Maribel and back to Alice and he coughed, a deep hacking cough that rattled like a stick between his ribs. Beneath the blanket he wore a shabby tweed overcoat with a stained hem and soft moccasins that were almost worn through. The coat had lost the buttons from its fraying cuffs and the empty buttonholes fell open like little mouths. His head was bare. His black hair was unkempt, strands escaping the plaited rope that fell almost to his waist. In his hands, pressed like a shield against his stomach, he held a dog-eared piece of cardboard.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Edward asked Maribel quietly.

  Maribel studied the Indian’s face. He had a long nose, the end rather flattened, and heavy brows, and his brown complexion had a grey sheen like the bloom on the furniture at Inverallich where the struggle was always against the damp. There was a smear of something dark on one of his cheeks. The Indian coughed again, burying his face in his blanket. She shook her head. Her relief made her feel something like affection for him.

  ‘I don’t think so. He looks terrible. Shouldn’t we give him something to eat?’

  Edward nodded. ‘Alice, bring some wine and biscuits, would you?’

  ‘Edward, not wine, surely,’ Maribel protested. Since the Wild West’s arrival in London it had been much remarked upon in the newspapers that Indians had no biological resistance to liquor, that they knew nothing of moderation where drink was concerned and, when intoxicated, were quick to turn savage. During their time in the capital several of the Indians had been arrested by the police for drunkenness and disorderly behaviour.

  ‘Tea,’ she said to Alice. ‘With sugar. Or even soup if we have some. See what you can rustle up. The poor creature looks half starved.’

  Alice nodded, closing the door behind her. The Red Indian startled at the click and tugged his blanket more tightly around his shoulders. He appeared to be shivering, whether from cold or fright Maribel could not tell.

  ‘So,’ Edward said. ‘How can we help you?’

  He stepped forward, smiling and holding out his hand to the Indian. The Indian hesitated. Then, without speaking, he placed in Edward’s outstretched hand his dog-eared piece of card, pointing to the stamped address on the back. Edward unfolded the card. Inside the cardboard frame was a photograph of three Red Indian children standing outside a wigwam. One of the children held a hoop, another a stick. The third scratched his head, an expression of bewilderment on his face. It was a charming composition.

  ‘It is one of yours, certainly, Maribel,’ Edward said, passing it to her. He smiled at the man. ‘You are with the Wild West?’

  ‘Wild West,’ the red man said, nodding vigorously. In the warm room his smell had grown stronger. ‘Wild West.’

  ‘But the Wild West show packed up days ago,’ Maribel said. ‘Weeks, even.’

  The Red Indian leaned towards her, speaking urgently in his own language, his fingers bunched together at his lips as though he would pull the words from his tongue. She gazed at him helplessly, her palms up in a gesture of incomprehension. Feverishly he gestured at the photograph and then at the window, his hands extended as though stretching for something beyond his reach, before bringing them back to his own chest, one pressed on top of the other. His mahogany brow gleamed with perspiration.

  ‘Wild West,’ he said again, coughing violently.

  ‘I do believe the poor devil has been left behind,’ Edward said.

  ‘Left behind? Surely that could not happen?’

  ‘Cody did not keep them prisoner. Perhaps this chap chose the wrong moment to wander off.’

  Maribel glanced at the Indian. She leaned towards Edward.

  ‘You don’t think he’s dangerous?’ she murmured.

  ‘Contagions, maybe. He has a filthy cough. Otherwise not in the least. Look at him. He is not here to steal our teaspoons. He wants to go home.’

  Maribel extracted a cigarette from the box on the table. Edward struck a match and she leaned forward, setting the tip of the cigarette into the flame. The Indian watched longingly as the smoke coiled into the air. Glancing at Edward, Maribel offered him the box. The Indian took one, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. Edward struck another match but the Indian shook his head hurriedly and slid the cigarette into his pocket.

  ‘You are lost?’ Edward asked, enunciating his words carefully. He pointed at the Indian and then at the window.
‘You wish to return to Buffalo Bill, to the Wild West?’

  ‘Wild West,’ the Indian repeated, nodding frantically.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Yessir. Wild West.’

  Edward sighed. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Yessir.’

  Alice pushed the door open with her hip, manoeuvring a large tray upon which were set a plate of soup, some bread and a piece of cold chicken. The Indian stared at the food.

  ‘Thank you, Alice,’ Maribel said. ‘He can eat next door while we discuss what to do with him.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And stay with him, Alice. We don’t want him alarming the neighbours.’

  Alice’s mouth tightened. ‘Very well, ma’am.’

  She jerked her head at the Indian, gesturing at him to follow. The Indian glanced uncertainly at Maribel.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  The Indian swayed a little, fixing her with his dark unfathomable eyes. Then he turned and followed Alice out of the room. Maribel thought of the stories Mr Molloy had told her about the tests of endurance to which young Indian boys were subjected as part of their initiation into manhood. One tribe with whom he had lived for a time put dry sunflower seeds on the boys’ wrists and lit them. They burned down to the skin, causing painful sores, but if the boys knocked them off or cried out, they were derided as girls. Indian boys learned early to disguise what they were thinking. It had not helped them, in the end.

  ‘I suppose we will have to cable Cody in Birmingham,’ Edward said. ‘Have someone come for him.’

  ‘But that might take days. What on earth are we to do with him till then?’

  ‘Poor devil. I wonder where he has been until now.’

  ‘The streets, by the smell of him.’

  ‘God only knows what he has been through.’ Edward ran a hand through his hair. ‘Do you suppose a bed might be found for him upstairs?’

  The top floor of Cadogan Mansions was a warren of small rooms for the servants who worked there. The allocation of accommodations was conducted according to a strict hierarchy, with the most comfortable rooms going to those employed in the largest and most expensive flats.

  ‘For a Red Indian? The servants in this building would more likely offer lodging to a wild bear. There must be a mission that might have him, just for tonight?’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  ‘Dr Coffin,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  The perfect simplicity of it made her giddy. ‘The medical officer of the Wild West,’ she said. ‘He lives here in London. Near the showground, I think. We must take the Indian to Dr Coffin.’

  ‘Bo, slow down. You know this unfortunately named gentleman?’

  ‘I met him once at the Wild West with Major Burke. Then just last week it turned out that Charlotte’s Shawl Lady, the one who was so wonderful when she broke her arm, was his wife. Charlotte didn’t get an address, the woman didn’t leave one, but surely it wouldn’t be so very difficult to find out where he lives. I mean, you know people, don’t you? People who could help.’

  Edward steepled his fingers, tapping them against his lips.

  ‘Think about it, Red,’ Maribel urged. ‘The Indian is clearly unwell. He needs care from someone who knows what to do.’

  ‘It’s worth a try. Webster might know something, I suppose. His newspaper was all over the Wild West. Of course I’d have to do his interview then. No unreciprocated favours with Mr Webster.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Heavens, Bo, it’s an interview, not an Inquisition. And Hyndman’s right. A bit of judicious cooperation with the Chronicle might help us. We don’t exactly suffer from an excess of support among the Fourth Estate. At least Webster is prepared to stick his neck out. His Defence Fund has been a godsend.’

  ‘You aren’t to talk to him, you hear me? You mustn’t. The man doesn’t care for you or for your party. You know it’s true. He is interested only in selling newspapers. He will twist your words until he hangs you with them.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little over-dramatic? I am not a fool, Bo. Webster will not extort from me any more than I wish to give him.’

  Maribel’s hands were trembling again. She clasped them together as though in prayer.

  ‘Red, I beg you. Don’t do it. Please. You think if you feed this beast it will go away satisfied, but it will not. It will just get hungrier and hungrier, until it has stripped every scrap of meat from your bones.’

  ‘Bo –’ He squeezed her hands, his face creased with impatient affection. ‘Can we talk about this later? We have an ill Red Indian in our flat. He needs a bed, proper medical care. I wonder if he shouldn’t be in hospital.’

  Maribel stared at him.

  ‘The West London Hospital. That’s where they took the cowboy when he broke his leg. Surely they will know where we can find Dr Coffin?’

  ‘Perhaps. Someone should take responsibility for the poor devil.’

  ‘If I write to them now, we could have a reply by morning.’

  ‘Very well. And I shall see if I can’t find somewhere for him to sleep tonight.’

  For a shilling Edward acquired a bed for the Red Indian in a lodging house near Victoria Station. It should have cost tenpence but the landlady had given the Indian a disparaging once-over and told Edward it was extra for foreigners. Edward, who had tried three other such establishments already, had handed over the money without complaint.

  As soon as they had gone Maribel wrote to the hospital. She sealed the letter and called for Alice to hurry, so that she might catch the evening post. It was only as Alice tugged on her gloves that she thought to write to Charlotte. She scribbled hastily as Alice eyed the clock.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing her the second envelope. ‘Hurry, won’t you?’

  Alice nodded and bustled out of the room. Maribel listened to the receding thump of feet on the stairs, the dull thud of the door that led out into the street. Then the room was still, silence settling on the surfaces like face powder. Slowly Maribel rose and crossed the hall to her bedroom. She ran her fingers over the heavy silk drapes that framed the bed, the fat feather counterpane. She felt curiously light-headed. For a moment she stood at the window, her forehead against the cool glass, looking down into the empty street.

  In the hall the clock struck the hour. With an effort Maribel recalled herself. It was getting late and she was not yet dressed. Abandoning her walking costume on the floor, she slipped on her wrap. At her dressing table she lifted the lid of her jewellery box and took out her garnet necklace. Against her palm the stones gleamed, bright beads of blood.

  She undid the clasp and ducked her head, reaching up to fasten the necklace around her neck, but the clip was fiddly and she could not keep it open long enough to catch the ring at the end of the chain. She wished Edward were there to help her. She tried again, pulling back the catch with her thumbnail, but, though she fumbled with it until her arms ached, she could not fasten it. Sighing, she let her arms fall, the necklace abandoned in her lap, and leaned forward, gazing into the mirror. Her reflection stared back, its expression as impassive as the Indian’s. For a moment they considered one another. Then Maribel looked away. But even as she busied herself with the jumble of hairpins in their porcelain box, she had the strangest sense that her reflection watched her still and, worse, that it knew exactly what she was thinking.

  27

  AMONG THE LETTERS IN the morning post were a thin white envelope inscribed with the name of the West London Hospital and a thick cream one from Charlotte. Maribel opened the one from the hospital first. At the centre of the page, bracketed with pleasantries, was the address of Dr Coffin in London, SW. Maribel stared at it, one finger tracing the curve of the number. Ida’s house. She was going to see Ida.

  ‘See here,’ she said when she could trust her voice, handing the letter to Edward across the breakfast table. ‘I told you the hospital w
ould know where to find Dr Coffin.’

  Edward peered vaguely over his newspaper as she opened the letter from Charlotte.

  ‘And Charlotte has agreed to lend me the brougham,’ she announced. ‘So there is no need for you to come with me.’

  She was glad when Edward nodded without remark. Her plans had been careful. While it was plainly quite impossible for her to take the Indian by herself in a public cab, a private carriage was another matter. The journey might be managed in a morning, so Charlotte would not be inconvenienced if she had visiting engagements after luncheon, and, to sweeten the deal, Maribel had also suggested that she bring the Indian first to Chester Square so that those boys of hers who wished to might have their photograph taken with a real live Indian.

  Regrettably he wears no warpaint, she had written, as that seems to have been sent on to Birmingham ahead of him, but he has as ferocious a visage as any boy might wish for, not to mention hair to his waist (and a filthy head cold so you are under no circumstances to risk it yourself when you are so near your time).

  She had signed off the letter before her fingers could get the better of her, smudging the still-wet ink in her haste as the words she longed most to write danced in the air and in the spaces between her ribs. Ida Coffin, the doctor’s wife, is my sister.

  Edward rose and, bending down, kissed Maribel on the forehead.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said and, when she tipped up her chin to bid him goodbye, she saw from the abstracted expression on his face that he was already somewhere else.

  ‘Promise me,’ she said, catching his hand. ‘No interview.’

  Edward frowned at her.

  ‘Bo –’

  ‘Please. For my sake. Are things not difficult enough already?’

  His frown softened.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bo. I know this is not easy for you.’

  ‘No interview. That’s all I ask. You are a fine, good, brave man, Red. Your actions speak for you more eloquently than any newspaper article ever could.’