The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Mother . . . what if I am already married?’

  ‘Oh, good heavens!’ She looked genuinely shocked.

  ‘I could be marrying Pen illegally. You surely don’t wish bigamy to be part of the Wynter legacy?’

  Cecily’s normally good-humoured expression clouded with worry. ‘No, absolutely not. Until now it hadn’t occurred to me that you might have actually married someone.’

  He swallowed. ‘I was away long enough that I might even have children.’

  Now Cecily looked back at her son with deep dismay. ‘Oh, Lex,’ she pleaded. ‘Now you’re just teasing. You know how much I want a Wynter grandson . . . and many more grandchildren too.’

  He shrugged in guilt at upsetting her. ‘I’m just saying. We don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I shall speak to Gerald in the morning —’

  He stood. ‘No. Let me handle this. If we get Gerald involved, it becomes something much bigger and more serious than it may have to be. I could be fearing the worst unnecessarily. A few well-directed questions might open up the pathway we need.’

  ‘Very well. I understand your reluctance to send in the cavalry.’

  ‘Cavendish and Fitch were both present when I recovered consciousness. I will begin there; ask them to remember absolutely everything they can of that day. Maybe I was with someone?’

  ‘Didn’t you say something about being dressed in an old suit?’

  He nodded. ‘It wasn’t old, as I recall. It was torn – presumably in the fall – but the suit itself was very well tailored, quality cloth . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Not my colour, although the truth is, I’d just never thought to wear navy before.’

  ‘What was in the pockets?’

  ‘The pockets were empty. The only reason the handkerchief escaped notice was that it was found in an inside private pocket.’

  She frowned. ‘Nothing in your pockets. Why? Where was your money?’

  ‘My theory is that thieves got to me. I’d like to think I put up a fight but if not, why not?’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You said the suit was well tailored. So a tailor made it for you, but not Percy Fitch, you say.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Well, darling . . . which label was in the suit? Surely if you know that, you can track it back to the maker.’

  He opened his mouth in wonder and then leapt at his mother, kissing both her cheeks. ‘Oh, you clever thing! Father definitely didn’t marry you just because you were so pretty.’

  ‘I can assure you of that,’ she replied. ‘Can you remember a name in the suit?’

  ‘No, but I shall be calling Percival Fitch first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘What about Penny?’

  ‘Not a word, Mother. This could go nowhere.’

  She nodded, let him help her up to her feet and she gave a soft groan. ‘A word of caution, Lex. I know Penny comes across as a breezy, modern woman but you see she’s never had to face real adversity. The only grandparent she’s known is still hale and hearty, and Penny has never had to yearn for anything but you, darling. She’s not had to shoulder the lesson that working entirely off emotion is dangerous.’

  ‘Unlike us, you mean?’

  Cecily smiled sadly. ‘Let’s just say we’ve learned how to keep our emotions quiet.’

  ‘It’s not my intention to hurt Penny, but I have to do this.’

  ‘Then I suppose I shall help you all that I can.’

  _______________

  After a restless night, Alex appeared at the breakfast table in a fidgety mood to face the simple bowl of porridge with honey and poached winter fruits.

  A small jug was placed near his hand. ‘Didn’t sleep well, Master Lex?’

  ‘Does it show?’

  Bramson blinked his answer.

  ‘I might be going up to London tomorrow, Bramson; I promised to meet Miss Aubrey-Finch in town.’

  ‘The theatre, Sir? I heard that those American funny men, the Marx Brothers, are performing to happy audiences.’

  Alex frowned. ‘I’ll leave all that to my fiancée, Bramson. I fear I’ve been a bit reticent about all the frantic preparations she’s in the midst of. The least I can do is take dear Pen out for dinner after a hectic day of wedding shopping.’

  Bramson chuckled. ‘She must be terribly excited, Mr Alex.’

  Alex shrugged. ‘What is it with women and weddings, Bramson? Most men just want it over and done with, eh?’

  The butler smiled indulgently. ‘Mr Jones is back from his break. I’ll ask him to get the car out. I presume you’ll want to be driven, Sir?’

  ‘Jones?’ His mind tripped at the mention.

  ‘You haven’t met him, Master Lex, but he’s one of the Wynter family drivers and has been since 1915. His brother’s been seriously unwell and your mother gave him time to go visit. I’m afraid his brother passed away.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad. A soldier?’

  ‘Complications from wounds, yes, Sir. Jonesy . . . er, Mr Jones, was close to his brother . . .’

  Alex stared at Bramson with a haunted expression.

  ‘. . . twin, I gather,’ he finished. ‘Master Lex?’

  ‘What? Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, you looked as though someone walked upon your grave, Sir. Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine. Forgive me. I don’t even know what I was thinking. What were you saying?’

  ‘I was just explaining that Jones is a twin, so perhaps it feels harder to lose his brother. Um, are you sure I can’t ask Mrs Dear to cook you up a full breakfast?’

  ‘No, this is plenty, thank you,’ Alex said, his mind still reaching after the jolt at hearing the nickname of Jonesy. Why? What did it mean? And why was he thinking about a hospital? He ate his porridge in comfortable silence, barely glancing at the newspaper near his wrist. He wasn’t interested today in anything but the mission he was on. Even the events of the world could wait, he thought, spooning in porridge faster than his mother might think polite, but he felt its warmth and comfort hit his belly and soothe away the demons of the night and his restless dreams . . . none of which he could recall now.

  ‘I wonder why dreams slip through our minds like quicksand, Bramson?’ he thought aloud. He dabbed his napkin against his mouth and left the table.

  ‘Indeed, Sir. But I take the attitude that Mother Nature might have designed us to remember them if she wanted us to. Our dreams are the travels of our sleep and meant to remain there, I suspect.’

  Alex patted the butler’s arm. ‘Where is Mrs Wynter?’

  ‘Here, darling,’ she said, appearing around the door in her usual yet always surprisingly well-timed manner.

  ‘Morning, Mother.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Lots to do, I’m afraid. Enjoy your eggs.’

  ‘Well, I can see you don’t want your newspaper either, so I am claiming it. I was speaking to your sister last night on the telephone and she told me that Penny’s bridal designer is interviewed today and I’ve promised to pay attention to it. Beautiful young woman, Charlotte assures me. Quite the catch! She joked she hopes you don’t ever meet her – certainly not before the big day, because she’s every inch your sort of girl.’

  Their butler cleared his throat.

  ‘Oh, Bramson. I’m only joking.’

  Alex raised a hand in amused farewell and disappeared into his study. Before long he was connected through to Anderson & Sheppard.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Wynter. How are you, Sir?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Elton. Certainly much better than the last time we met.’

  They both chuckled.

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it, Sir. You had us all worried but extremely relieved that you are returned.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Alex said. ‘Er, I wonder if Mr Fitch is available?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir. Mr Fitch is on holiday.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He likes to go rambling up north. Lake District, Sir.’

  ‘Good heavens. Aren’t they all snowed in up there?’
r />   ‘Probably, Sir.’

  ‘When is he back, Elton?’

  ‘Next week, Mr Wynter. Can I help with anything?’

  He toyed with the idea of asking young Jonathan Elton for assistance but the head tailor was a stickler for protocol and ran his shop like a military unit. ‘Um . . . no, look I’ll leave it, thank you, Elton. Tell Mr Fitch I’ll be up in London next week. Is Tuesday all right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. He’s back for Monday but not taking appointments until the following day. Shall we say midday?’

  ‘Perfect. Thank you, Mr Elton. Have a good week.’

  He put the phone down and bit his lip in consternation, aware that he had a flea in his ear now and wanted to do something constructive towards ridding himself of it. Alex took out the red handkerchief and smoothed it out on the desk, staring at it, urging it to give up its secrets.

  He touched the hand-sewn edge of the heart, felt the soft bumps of the matching red thread and begged it to tell him whose hand had held the needle. Even to an untrained eye the sewing was immaculate: fine, regular, neat. He imagined a woman with needle and thread, sitting by a window to catch the best light, and could almost picture the handkerchief in her lap as she worked, watching make-believe fingers move around the cotton.

  He wanted to know her! Wanted to look upon her! Find me, she called to him on the wind. Her heels walked away from him, leading him somewhere . . . somewhere safe and filled with love. Or was he simply imagining all this?

  Alex suddenly snatched up the mutilated square of fabric, scrunched it into a loose ball and pushed it to his nose, inhaling. He wanted every clue he might glean from this tiny link to his past. This and the navy suit were his history. Alex closed his eyes, emptied his mind of the angst and smelled again, deeply this time, allowing his senses to let go and follow whichever path they chose.

  Distantly teasing him came the softest waft of violets.

  Was it the perfume his mother had spoken of? It didn’t matter if it was – but he at last had something of this elusive woman. She had to be young, he reasoned; no older woman would craft such an obvious object of passion. He would have to buy a bottle of the Yardley perfume his mother had mentioned.

  So, was she my lover? A mistress? Alex swallowed. A wife?

  _______________

  Edie nodded at Sarah and though she could see the cloakroom assistant was wearing a deeply anxious expression, it was Edie who blushed.

  ‘Hello, Sarah. Do you remember me?’

  ‘I do, Miss.’ She glanced at Madeleine, who nodded. ‘Very well, actually.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Edie offered, gesturing at the love seat. ‘How is it that you remember me so well?’

  Sarah perched on the edge of the bench, gloves clutched against the handles of an old but attractive bag. Edie could see that beneath a slightly old-fashioned-cut suit bristled a tall, slim woman with a firm young figure, desperate to unclothe and clamber into the finer garments about her, strewn on hangers, that she watched Sarah’s gaze drinking in.

  ‘Miss Valentine, I did not steal your sketches. I did not even look in the folder.’ It came out in such an earnest rush that Edie blinked.

  ‘I didn’t say you did,’ she replied.

  Sarah took a deep breath. ‘I remember you well, because . . . because you are unforgettable,’ she half smiled, but coloured up with embarrassment. ‘I noticed how beautifully dressed you were that day. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that stole. One day . . . well, I love clothes, Miss Valentine.’ She shrugged.

  Edie did look at Madeleine now, who was staring down from her full height, arms crossed with an expression that suggested she wanted to say to Edie: So what have you got to say now? Instead, she smiled at Sarah.

  ‘Sarah, tell Miss Valentine exactly what you told me.’

  And as Edie listened, she paled in front of the two women and her heart began to drum loudly beneath her ribs.

  _______________

  His mind felt bruised and scattered. Alex pushed the handkerchief into his pocket, grabbed a thick jacket and scarf and let himself out quietly through the French windows of his study. Cold air hit him and made him gasp; it was like running into the sea off Brighton Beach.

  The smell of smoke from grates around the property felt homely and comforting. Even more soothing was the aroma from Mrs Dear’s oven in full roar – the air was scented with plum puddings she was readying for Christmas.

  Alex set off without purpose but nevertheless determined to walk away his mood of frustration. He skirted the orchards and pushed on, hands plunged deep into his pockets. He wished now he’d thought to bring gloves and he buried his chin into his scarf, breathing through the cashmere to ease the effect of the biting chill.

  He found himself standing at the entrance to the Larksfell maze, which used to so enchant the Wynter children. He slipped into the northern end of the maze and, without having to think, made his way through the privet until he came to the stone bench at its heart. The bench felt like a block of ice through his trousers but he felt released to be alone and silent with only a robin for company.

  ‘Hello there, little friend,’ he murmured.

  The robin surprised him by singing suddenly, and with that familiar sound came the memory of another robin on another day when he was seated on a different bench in a rose garden, searching for similar peace.

  ‘Of course, the hospital!’ he exclaimed, startling the robin. It flew off immediately and Alex leapt to his feet. He broke into a run, scurrying back through the corridors of tall privet hedge, vaguely marvelling that he hadn’t forgotten how to get out of the maze and yet couldn’t remember where he’d been a year ago. He burst from the northern entrance again and this time was running, hurtling past the orchard, rushing past the French doors of his study and moving around the building’s exterior until he hit the gravel drive. He slowed but not enough that he didn’t catch the attention of Bramson, who was deep in discussion with Clarrie outside the big house.

  ‘Everything all right, Mr Alex?’

  ‘Peachy, thank you,’ he said and although the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t be bothered bringing Bramson into the problem. He kept moving towards the northern side of Larksfell until he hit the garages, where, predictably, he found a man polishing one of the many in the fleet of Wynter motor cars.

  ‘Jones?’ he enquired, gusting steam from his deep breaths.

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ the man replied, straightening. ‘Er . . .’

  Alex sniffed, was tempted to reach for the red handkerchief. ‘Sorry, I ran,’ he said, although he could see it explained nothing to the startled driver.

  ‘Can I help you, Sir?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ He grinned, dragging in a deep breath to calm himself. ‘I’m Alex Wynter,’ he began and noticed the man’s eyes widen. ‘Did Mr Bramson mention I was planning to go to London?’

  ‘He did, Sir. Tomorrow, I believe it is.’ Jones looked nervous and Alex was keen to defuse his anxiety.

  ‘Actually, Jones, how do you feel about a jaunt today? Not into central London; more like Middlesex.’

  ‘Today? Of course, Sir.’ He looked around at the clutter of buckets and sponges. ‘Er, when, Sir?’

  ‘How about now? We can take a flask, share a cuppa on the way.’ The suggestion didn’t appear to relax Mr Jones. Alex grinned. ‘Come on, Jones. Let’s live dangerously.’

  A twitch of a smile ghosted across the man’s expression. ‘I’ll just clean up, Sir. Is twenty minutes all right?’

  ‘Take half an hour. I’ll organise that flask of tea,’ he said, lifting a hand. ‘Back soon.’

  25

  Alex was enjoying the smell of the rich, burgundy-coloured leather that had warmed around him in the car, although it was still necessary to be wrapped up in a heavy coat. His gloves made a squeaking sound as he rubbed at the condensation on the window so he could look out at the passing scenery as the rural landscape gave way to more built-up areas. It seemed frostier here in Lond
on than at Larksfell.

  ‘You know, Jones, your surname feels meaningful to me and it’s somehow linked with Edmonton Hospital,’ Alex remarked, as they rolled across what he realised was a bridge in their approach to the hospital in north Middlesex.

  ‘Is that right, Sir?’ Jones said over his shoulder. ‘I can’t imagine it – such a normal name as mine being important to you.’

  ‘Well, that’s it, you see. No doubt you’ve been told I lost my memory towards the end of the war, and apparently I ended up here at Edmonton – or so my fiancée assures me. They called me Mr Jones because they didn’t know my name and neither did I. I suppose they called other soldiers in a similar situation Mr Smith or Mr Green . . . easy names for us to remember and answer to.’ Alex felt a ripple of pleasure that he was at last in a position to explain some small aspect of his disappearance. Why hadn't he thought to contact the hospital? Even this felt like a triumph and he was determined today’s journey would throw more light on his puzzle.

  ‘I see, Sir,’ Jones said, glancing into the rear-vision mirror and nodding. ‘Makes sense. Do you recall any of this scenery, Mr Wynter? This is the Lea Valley Bridge we’ve just crossed, and now into Angel Road.’

  ‘Afraid not, old chap. Although – wait a minute,’ he murmured, his gaze narrowing as a vast red-brick structure came into view. He sat forward to look out of the front window while he strained to grab on to a thought. ‘There is something familiar about that building.’

  ‘That’s the hospital, Sir. It was used by the military during the war.’

  Alex shook his head in wonder as fragile tendrils of memory seemed to reach around his mind and take vague purchase. He felt sure that if he fed the images, then his memory might be nourished and those tendrils would grow stronger, just as Dr Cavendish had warned might happen over time.

  Time is against me, though! he thought with fresh frustration, suddenly seeing himself standing by the altar filled with doubt as the wedding march was striking up and Penelope Aubrey-Finch was walking slowly down the aisle. He had to be sure about this other woman who roamed his senses – her clicking heels, her perfume and her red handkerchief.