I received a short note from Joe thanking me for my sympathy. He told me nothing of his plans and did not suggest a meeting.
In due course the case came before the magistrates. They were all fined for breaking the peace—including Mr. Cresswell, which was an intimation that the story he had told was untrue.
It was a trivial case—there were hundreds like it every day; but it was the end of Joseph Cresswell’s career.
I wondered what was going on in his family. I was sure kind, motherly Mrs. Cresswell would believe her husband; and so would every member of the family. But would there be a niggling doubt?
Who would have believed that so much happiness and contentment could be destroyed by such an event?
If only the papers would allow the matter to rest it would have been easier; but they went on. “Our reporter talks to Chloe”; “Chloe’s lovers”; “Chloe Kitt’s early life, telling us all how she had been left an orphan and had had to fend for herself and had been helped along the road to perdition by men like Joseph Cresswell.”
Peterkin and I went down to Frances’s Mission.
It was a big house situated on a main road from which narrow streets branched off. As we passed I caught a glimpse of the traders in those streets. Stalls had been set up and various goods were displayed—old clothes, fruit, vegetables, hot pies, lemonade and ballads. There was a great babble as the salesmen shouted the qualities of their wares.
On one corner of the street was what appeared to be a lodging house and on the other a gin shop from which two women came lurching in the company of a man.
We hurried past.
We mounted the steps to the front door. It was open and we went in. There was a sparsely furnished hall and as we were wondering how to make our presence known a young man appeared. He was of medium height, brown-haired and grey-eyed; and I was immediately struck by his earnest manner.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Peterkin said: “We want to see Miss Cresswell.”
“She’s not in at the moment. But she should be very soon. She was called out suddenly. Do come in and sit down.”
We followed him into a room. It contained two chairs and a table and little else. He offered us the chairs and seated himself on the table.
He said: “Is there anything I can do? I’m one of Miss Cresswell’s helpers.”
“We only came to see her.”
“Wonderful, isn’t she?” he said. “Here we all admire her very much.” He frowned. I guessed he was trying to tell us that here they were all behind the Cresswell family.
He chatted for a while and told us that he had been with the Mission for two months and was finding it very rewarding; and while we were talking Frances came in.
“Thanks, Matthew,” she said. “I see you’ve been entertaining my visitors.”
“Good day,” said Matthew. “It was nice meeting you.”
When we were alone, Frances took Matthew’s place on the table.
“It was good of you to come,” she said. “This is a terrible business.”
“It’s so ridiculous,” said Peterkin.
“I know. But it’s deadly damaging nonetheless.”
“What is going to happen?” I asked.
She lifted her shoulders. “My father will have to disappear from public life. After all he has built up! And he had such plans. It was almost a certainty that he would have been on this vice committee. He would have been so effective.”
“How is the family taking it?”
“Stoically. They are all standing by him. Joe, of course, is the one who will be most affected.”
“Do you think it will ruin his career?” I asked.
“Well, for the time being … yes. He is the son of his father … same name and everything. Oh, it was a bitter blow to us all. For myself it does not matter. It’s just that I can’t bear for my father to be put through all this. It’s so malicious.”
“I wrote to Joe,” I told her. “I had a short note back.”
“I think they all just want to be left alone.”
“I’m sure that’s how I should feel,” said Peterkin.
“Joe thinks that our father was trapped into the situation.”
“Trapped?”
“It’s a wild idea, of course, but Joe is in no state to reason.”
“Frances,” said Peterkin, “if there is anything we can do …”
“There isn’t really. The best thing is to leave them all alone for a while. Something will work itself out.”
“You’re just carrying on here as usual.”
“It makes no difference here. The people who work with me are marvellous. Matthew Hume whom you just met is typical. They just want to help people, to make society a little more tolerable for the unfortunate. As for the people who are living in this neighbourhood, they are not censorious. Moreover they can’t read … most of them. They understand how easy it is for these girls to fall into prostitution. They would say, Oh they have to live—and that’s one way of doing it. They wouldn’t condemn my father—even if the accusations were true—as much as those who pay them so little for their work or wouldn’t give them a few pence for a decent meal. It’s a different set of morals. I suppose morals are tuned to the sort of society in which we live and the middle and upper classes take a highly moral tone on these matters. You must be without reproach and if you do stray, make sure you are not found out. A sin is a sin only when it is public knowledge. Hypocrisy is the order of the day.”
She spoke without bitterness and I liked her more than ever.
This was not the sort of visit we had planned though we did look over the house. She had rows of beds in the upper rooms where she housed the homeless; then she took us and showed us the kitchen where a cauldron of soup was simmering on the fire.
“It’s all so inadequate,” she said. “I want bigger premises. I want more and more houses like this so that I can do some real work.”
When we left Peterkin said what a fine job she was doing, and I wholeheartedly agreed.
In the papers that day there was a notice which caught my eyes. William Gardiner had been chosen as the prospective candidate for Bletchfield. That was the one for which Joe had been hoping.
Whatever had happened on that fateful night in the prostitute’s bedroom had had a far-reaching effect.
My parents were in London. I left Uncle Peter’s house and went back to the one in Albermarle Street with them.
They told us the news at Eversleigh, and of course they had heard of the Cresswell scandal. I guessed from their comments that they believed the story, which was an indication that most people would by the manner in which he had been presented in the press, and who did not know the family.
I told them that I refused to believe the accusations against Joseph Cresswell and then they were all sympathy.
“This sort of thing can happen,” said my father. “A false step taken innocently enough … and it can influence one’s life.”
My mother said thoughtfully: “This will mean that Joseph Cresswell is out of the running for that chairmanship.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “And poor Joe has lost his chance to stand as candidate for Bletchfield.”
“What a tragedy,” said my father.
“They are very brave,” I told them. “They are the most wonderful family. It has made us all very sad, and I was having such a marvellous time before it happened.”
“It’s good news about Helena,” said my mother.
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“They are very thrilled at Eversleigh.”
“The wedding is going to be in August. It’s quite soon but there doesn’t seem to be any reason for delay. The two families are well satisfied.”
“I daresay Peter is,” said my mother shortly. “He’ll revel in connections with an ancient dukedom.”
“But what is so nice, Mama, is that Helena is so much in love and so is John Milward.”
“I suppose Peter wil
l be able to supply the necessary settlement,” she said.
“Apparently. There doesn’t seem to be any hitch about that.”
“The Milward estate is ready to collapse, I believe,” said my father. “The heir made a good marriage and saved it in the nick of time, otherwise it would have been a ruin by now. But still more is needed.”
“Your father has something to tell you, Annora,” said my mother.
“Yes. I have come to a decision, Annora. We are definitely going to Australia.”
“When?”
“The beginning of September.”
“So soon? Helena is being married in August and I promised to be at her wedding.”
“We’re not going till September, so why not? We’ll have to get back soon. There’ll be certain things to see to. We must be back by next summer. Then we’ll start planning that season for you. I want to talk to Amaryllis about it. She’ll help a lot. She’ll have everything ready when we embark on the project.”
“I don’t look forward to it.”
“A necessary evil. But this wedding of Helena’s …”
“I must stay for it, Mama. She expects it.”
“You and she have become greater friends even than you were before. I’m glad. I always felt Helena needed a good friend beside her.”
“She has her John now. She dotes on him. She is quite different.”
“Yes, I have noticed. But this wedding in August … As we’re going away for a long time it might be a little difficult.”
“Mama, it is not only that. It’s this Cresswell matter. I have become quite friendly with them and I feel I know them very well. I stayed with them for a week-end … Helena, Peterkin and I. I felt so happy with them. There’s a son … Joe. It’s awful for him. He was going into Parliament and now he has lost his chance. They are shutting themselves away in Surrey and when they come back to Town I did want them to know that I don’t believe all this rubbish …” I trailed off. “Well, there’s that … and Helena’s wedding.”
“I see,” said my father, “that you want to stay in London.”
He looked at my mother. She was thoughtful for a while. Then she said: “Why not? You could stay with the Lansdons and help Helena with her preparations.” She glanced at my father. “We could go back and do everything that has to be done and on our way to Tilbury, come and collect Annora and then we could all go off together. How’s that?”
“It needs a bit of consideration,” said my father. “Is that what you’d like to do, Annora?”
“Well, I do miss Cador and Jacco and you two, but …”
“It’s only a little while longer,” my mother put in. “If you come back with us you’ll be wondering what’s happening here. You stay, Annora. I’m sure it can all be worked out satisfactorily.”
So it was decided that I was to stay in London. My parents would go back to Cador and make their preparations for departure to Australia. Then they, with Jacco, would pick me up in London and I would leave with my family for the trip.
Helena was delighted; and I had to admit that this was what I wanted. I had a strong feeling that I must be on the spot for whatever happened next.
Something did happen soon. I was walking in the Park with Peterkin. The Cresswell affair had drawn us closer together and I had discovered a depth in Peterkin’s character which I had not known was there before. He cared deeply about the Cresswells and often we talked about the tragedy which had befallen the family.
He saw a great deal of Frances.
He said: “She is the one who is able to cope with it more than the others because she is more of a realist. Her life in the East End has made her so. She can stand aloof from it and look in as an outsider—while one part of her is deeply concerned for those she loves. She says it has ruined her father’s career in one direction. He will have to leave politics, but that is not the end. In Surrey they refuse to believe the story. Everyone in that village is rallying round him. I think that must be a great consolation.”
We were talking thus as we walked along, passing the Achilles Statue and going across to Kensington Gardens, and as we were approaching the Round Pond we saw a young man coming towards us.
My heart leaped for it was Joe Cresswell.
“Joe,” I cried and ran towards him holding out my hands.
He took them, held them firmly and smiled at me.
Peter was beside us. “Joe! How good to meet you! So you are back in London.”
Joe said he was here only for a short while.
“You’re staying in St. James’s Street?”
“Yes. I steal in and out like a thief,” he said. “Though there aren’t now so many people hanging about looking at the house as though they are expecting some monster to emerge.”
“Where are you going now?” asked Peterkin.
“Aimlessly wandering … just thinking.”
“Oh, Joe,” I cried. “I’m glad we’ve seen you. We’ve thought so much about you.”
“Thanks for your letter.”
“Let’s sit down here,” said Peterkin, indicating a bench under an oak tree. “It’s easier to talk sitting.”
So we sat.
“Joe, have you any plans?” asked Peterkin.
He shook his head. “There doesn’t seem to be anything. Parliament is off as far as I’m concerned.”
“It wasn’t all that much of a safe seat,” consoled Peterkin.
“I was going to make it safe.”
“And now?”
“My father is on the board of several companies. There will be opportunities … when I am ready.”
“Oh Joe,” I said and touched his hands. He took mine and gripped it hard.
“You know,” he said, “this was a put-up job.”
“What do you mean?” asked Peterkin.
“That business with my father—it was all staged.”
“By whom?”
“That’s what I have to find out. Someone arranged the accident and that there should be a brawl and the police called in.”
“Why?”
“A man in my father’s position will always have enemies. If one of them feels strongly and has the means …”
Peterkin said: “Yes, yes,” in a soothing sort of way, and I could see that he thought he was talking wildly—as I did. Poor Joe! Both Peterkin and I had the utmost sympathy for him.
“You see, it was simply not possible for my father to have gone there for any other reason than to help that girl he believed his carriage had knocked down.”
“It wasn’t your own coachman who did it?”
“No. It would never have happened if he had been driving. It was a hired vehicle. It wasn’t always convenient to take the carriage. That’s what makes me think. I reckon it was done on purpose to trap him, and he just walked into it.”
It seemed a little far-fetched. The driver would have had to be in the conspiracy as well as the girl and the man who had made the brawl and those who sent for the police. No. I believed that Mr. Cresswell had gone into the girl’s apartment because he felt responsible, as the vehicle in which he was riding had knocked her down. What had happened was a run of bad luck.
But both Peterkin and I listened sympathetically. We knew how badly Joe must be feeling—so we let him run on.
After a while Joe said he must go. He was grateful for our sympathy, he told us, and it had done him a lot of good to talk to us.
He took my hand as we were parting, and Peterkin, perhaps feeling that there was a special understanding between us, walked on and left us together for a few seconds.
Joe said: “Annora, I want to see you alone.”
“Yes?”
“Can I come to the house? Is there a time when you would be alone there?”
I thought rapidly.
“On Wednesday,” I said. “Helena and her mother are going to the dressmaker’s. They’ll be away all the morning. I think Peterkin is going to see Frances. And Uncle Peter is never there. Come on Wednesday at ten o
’clock.”
“I don’t want to see anyone else. Not the servants … no one. You understand?”
“They’re usually in the kitchen at that time. If you come at ten I’ll watch for you and let you in. No one need know. Or would you rather I met you somewhere?”
“No. I’d rather it was in the house … if we can be quite alone.”
“Wednesday then,” I said. “I’ll look out for you at ten o’clock.”
I was disturbed. I kept asking myself why Joe should want to see me alone, and the idea occurred to me that he might be going to ask me to marry him.
We had seen a great deal of each other and there had undoubtedly been a rather special rapport between us. At a time of acute distress, he might well turn to me for comfort.
And there was Rolf. I could not stop myself thinking of him. I had tried to dismiss him from my thoughts because before that memorable night I had been convinced that one day I would marry Rolf. It was a childish fantasy, of course. Hadn’t I once thought of marrying my father? But Rolf had been so much a part of my innocent childhood—though I had ceased to be innocent after that fearful night. I must stop thinking of Rolf for I could never be completely happy thinking of him because from that night had sprung all my fears and doubts. It was not only that I was disillusioned with Rolf—but with life.
I wanted to escape from those memories. It might well be that the best way to do so would be through marriage with someone else.
I had to give this serious contemplation. If Joe were to ask me and I said No, that would make him more unhappy than he already was. It seemed to my inexperienced and romantic mind that if he asked me I must therefore say Yes. I could not bear to cause him further pain; and if I became engaged to him I should be able to comfort him. It would be a way of saying, I believe in your father. I want him for my father-in-law. I was sure that it would comfort the entire family. But I wished I could stop thinking of Rolf.
I was very uneasy on that Wednesday morning. I was afraid that at the last minute Aunt Amaryllis and Helena would cancel their visit to the dressmaker’s. It was hardly likely that Uncle Peter would be in. If Peterkin decided not to go out, that would not be too bad. I could explain to him more easily.
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