by Alys Clare
Because that moment of fear in Lily’s inner sanctum is still lurking.
He tries to brighten himself out of the anxiety that won’t go away by reflecting how much he prefers returning to his current lodgings than his former ones. Before last autumn’s spectacular case, he was chronically short of money and could only afford a dark, dank and mould-stinking room where, despite the exterior season, it was always winter. The mean little window only opened a crack, so there was no ingress for fresh air; not that it would have been all that fresh, Felix’s room being situated above the privy in the yard which, according to another equally disgruntled tenant, hadn’t been cleaned since God was a lad.
The successful autumn case greatly improved the finances of the World’s End Bureau, its proprietor and her sole employee. It also brought a suddenly increased demand for the writings and the opinions of Marmaduke Smithers, newspaper champion of the poor, thorn in the Establishment’s side. Marm celebrated by taking rooms in the Kinver Street house and, there being a small and superfluous second bedroom, he offered it to Felix. Having decided already that he and Marm saw eye to eye, Felix accepted.
It is a well-run household. Mrs Horncastle, the landlady, is a fan of order and cleanliness; rather too much of a fan for Marm’s liking, although Felix, still reeling with delight because he no longer sleeps in a mouldy box that stinks of raw sewage, reckons just now that it’s impossible for a dwelling to be too clean.
Felix marches on. Shortly before the hospital, he turns off to the left, into the network of narrow roads between the river and the King’s Road and on to Kinver Street. The front door of number 5 – gleaming black paint and a brilliantly shiny brass letter box – draws him on. He lets himself in, calls out a cheery good evening to Mrs Horncastle, undoubtedly lurking somewhere behind the door at the end of the hall and checking her residents off on a list as one by one they return to her fold, and bounds up the wide stairs to the first floor. He is careful not to brush against the wall, since the paint is flaking. The house may be clean but it is a little run-down; for Felix and Marm, however, this is more than offset by the high ceilings, the cornices and the plasterwork, the beautiful old wood of the elegant staircase’s banister and the general old-fashioned charm of the place.
‘Pie’s in the oven and I’m by the fire with the whisky bottle.’ Marm’s greeting reaches Felix just as he is closing the door. Removing hat, coat, muffler and gloves, he hangs them on the hall stand and almost runs to join Marm, taking up his accustomed chair on the other side of the hearth. Silently Marm hands him a cut-glass tumbler with a good three fingers of whisky in it. Silently they toast one another. Silently Felix settles back against the cushions, letting the day seep out of him.
This has become their evening ritual, much appreciated by both of them.
Marm breaks the silence. ‘How was your day, dear?’ he says in a falsetto voice. ‘It’s very cold so I pray you have not taken chill?’ It amuses him to adopt the role of fussing wife to Felix’s manly husband, and Felix, not bothered, lets him. Felix is utterly sure of his own sexual preference and Marm’s is his own affair.
‘Hob’s Court was perishing until we moved into one office and built up the fire,’ he replies after another slow mouthful of whisky.
‘Cosy,’ Marm remarks. Fortunately he has abandoned the falsetto.
Felix looks up, meeting his eye. ‘Something’s come up: a new case concerning a girls’ boarding school in the Fens.’ Succinctly he relates the pertinent facts. ‘There’s the question of the girl who ran away to Brighton with the travelling salesman – we don’t know what happened to her after Brighton – but there’s another aspect of the case I’d like to ask you about.’
Marm settles back in his chair, smiling in anticipation. Felix has noticed that he blooms when someone – usually Felix – seeks advice. It is a harmless pleasure, Felix reflects, and Marm is right to be proud of his extensive knowledge and his phenomenal memory.
‘Ask away!’ Marm prompts.
‘The school is funded by a charitable organization called the Band of Angels,’ Felix responds, ‘and I wondered if you—’
But he gets no further. Marm has put his whisky glass down with a thump and is leaning forward, eagerness all over his lean face, intelligent blue eyes bright with anticipation. ‘The Band of Angels!’ he repeats.
Then he begins to talk.
Several hours, half a very good steak pie and rather more shots of whisky than was wise later, Felix is lying in bed trying to put his racing thoughts to rest so he can go to sleep. His hand is numb with note-taking, his mind is full of facts and speculations, and he senses that what he has heard tonight is important.
His thoughts turn to Lily. ‘I am afraid for her,’ he admits softly to the kindly darkness. While he is making admissions, he murmurs another one: ‘I wish she was going to spend tomorrow afternoon and Sunday with me before she sets off for Shardlowes.’
He knows the wish will not be fulfilled, for, as his old nanny used to say with harsh repression every single time the little boy Felix said ‘I wish …’, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
‘Bugger beggars and horses,’ Felix mutters, turning over and closing his eyes. ‘Bugger Nanny, too.’
As he drifts off to sleep, the snow starts falling again.
Lily is down in her office early on Saturday morning. She has been awake for some time, padding round the house in her nightgown, shawl, socks and fingerless gloves, revelling in its emptiness. Mrs Clapper is still nursing her husband, and last night sent round a note expressing distress at her continuing abandonment of her duties and fervently hoping Miss Lily is managing without her.
The very way she has written the words strongly indicates that she doubts this very much.
The Little Ballerina’s rooms on the middle floor still smell of her even in her absence. Which would, Lily reflects, be lovely if the woman’s habitual aroma was in any way pleasant. But the Little Ballerina smells of grease; of underarms, dirty hair and sweaty feet, with an underlying note of not very well washed clothes.
The day when the World’s End Bureau earns enough for it to provide Lily’s sole income is not, unfortunately, yet.
Now, washed, dressed, breakfasted, Lily sits at her desk, the fire burning well, the room, if not hot, then decidedly not too cold. Right on time, she hears the outer door open and Felix comes bursting in.
‘Dear God but it’s cold!’ The words explode out of him even as he knocks the snow off his boots and hangs up his outer garments.
‘Has there been more snow?’ Lily enquires. ‘I haven’t really looked out this morning.’
‘Yes,’ he replies shortly. Then: ‘Sorry about the blasphemy.’
‘That’s quite all right. I have a pot of tea here – come and sit down, I’ll pour.’
She gives him a few minutes to warm his hands on the cup and take a few restorative gulps. Then she says, ‘Had Marm anything to say about the Band of Angels?’
Felix puts down his cup and reaches for his notebook. ‘Oh, yes,’ he says with a grin. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘The Band of Angels constitutes a group of influential and affluent philanthropists who provide money for the education of the poor. They—’
‘I keep thinking that the name is somehow familiar,’ Lily interrupts. She thinks she can hear the words being sung.
If Felix is irritated by being stopped just as he is getting started, he manages to hide it. ‘It’s from a song called “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, which was written in Oklahoma in the 1860s and widely popularized by an outfit called the Fisk Jubilee Singers. You may well have heard it sung since the choir toured Europe a few years ago and did some concerts in London.’ He looks down at his notes. ‘“I looked over Jordan and what did I see, comin’ for to carry me home? A band of angels comin’ after me, comin’ for to carry me home”,’ he sings.
‘You are obviously more familiar with the ditty than I,’ she says as the echoes of his ri
ch baritone fade away.
‘Not really,’ Felix says. ‘Marm told me how it goes.’
‘I see. Please go on.’
‘As Miss Long said, the Band includes some very well-known names among its numbers, from royalty and the aristocracy to the world of politics and the government,’ he resumes, ‘and although our prime minister is not actually a member, he is known among his inner circle to support the cause and approve of the Band’s work.’
Yes, Lily muses, that is no surprise. William Ewart Gladstone makes no secret of his concern for the welfare of the disadvantaged, although his critics maintain it is exclusively prostitutes he agonizes over and only pretty ones at that.
‘The Band was founded by two brothers, Mortimer and Cameron MacKilliver, who are twins. Their ancestral seat is in Scotland, on the southern shores of the Moray Firth. Mortimer has the public profile, while his brother lurks in the background. Mortimer is a widower, no offspring, but Cameron has never married and if he fathered a child or two, has kept the fact to himself.’ Felix looks up suddenly. ‘Sorry if that was inappropriate but I’m reading straight from my notes, and Marm speaks his mind.’
Lily smiles. ‘That is perhaps the secret of his success,’ she observes. ‘Go on.’
‘Each member of the Band of Angels pays a set sum per annum into a general fund, and the chairman and the committee decide how the money is to be spent. Chairman and committee members are elected annually, although until a couple of years ago Mortimer MacKilliver was chairman for almost a decade. A younger man has now taken over.’
‘How old are the twin brothers?’ she asks.
Felix flips back a few pages. ‘Born 1820, so they’ll be sixty-one some time this year.’ He looks up, frowning. ‘That seems young for Mortimer to give up a post he has obviously held successfully for years. Gladstone’s much older, and so are most of his cronies.’
‘Perhaps there was another reason, then,’ Lily says absently. ‘Did Marm have anything to say about Shardlowes School?’
‘Not specifically, although he knew of a number of similar establishments that have received the Band’s support.’ Again he glances down at his notes. ‘Almost exclusively girls’ schools.’
‘Probably because the members of the Band quite rightly believe that girls need more help than boys, especially in the matter of acquiring an education,’ Lily says, and her words sound more censorious than she had intended. ‘I didn’t mean that it wasn’t important to educate boys too, but—’
Felix smiles. ‘I know what you mean. Boys get educated whether they want it or not, whether they appreciate it or not, whereas girls have to fight for the privilege. I am the first to admit,’ he adds disarmingly, ‘that I pretty much squandered what Marlborough College offered me.’
‘That may be so, but nevertheless you do know some surprising things, more than a few of them very useful,’ she says.
His smile widens. ‘If they’re useful then it’s most likely I discovered them after I left. So, would you like to hear a list of other members of the Band?’
‘Yes, please.’
For the next minute or so Felix reels off a list of names. Many are prefixed by Sir, quite a few by Lord, and there is a duke and a couple of foreign princes. Lily, trying to keep a tally in her head, reckons the total membership is around seventy.
‘Seventy-one,’ confirms Felix. ‘They have stately homes and country houses all over Britain, most have a London address as well, and they all belong to a private club in Piccadilly known as Stirling’s. And before you ask, I don’t know the relevance of the name, if indeed it has any.’
‘Is the club solely for the use of the Band of Angels?’
‘I wondered that too. Marm isn’t sure but he thinks not. It’s lavishly appointed, apparently, and the claret is magnificent, and he thinks it wouldn’t achieve such standards of luxury with only seventy-odd members, no matter how well-heeled.’
She nods. ‘If they are spread all over the country then presumably they use Stirling’s for their meetings.’
‘They do.’
She leans back in her chair. ‘You have done well,’ she says.
Felix waves a modest hand. ‘It’s Marm’s filing cabinet of a memory we have to thank,’ he says. ‘I just wrote it all down.’
She inclines her head in acknowledgement. ‘Please thank him for me.’
‘I will, but there’s no need. He is quite an admirer of yours and happy to be of service. He refers to you as my Chief.’
She laughs. ‘I like it.’
‘Thought you might,’ Felix mutters, not quite inaudibly.
Time has flown past. Looking at the small fob watch she wears pinned to her waistcoat, Lily sees that it is midday. She and Felix have been talking about the Band of Angels, Shardlowes School, the missing girls and whether or not Miss Carmichael really does know what her English teacher has done for two hours, and Lily feels there is nothing more to say.
She stands up, and Felix immediately does too. ‘I will set out for Shardlowes first thing on Monday morning,’ she announces, ‘and, as we arranged with Miss Long, send a wire with the time of my train.’
‘It still seems too soon,’ Felix says, not for the first time. ‘Is it really likely that Miss Long could find a relief assistant matron after one brief visit to London?’
Lily suppresses a sigh. ‘We’ve been over this,’ she replies. ‘Miss Long will tell Miss Carmichael, Miss Dickinson and anyone else who asks that she had already written to me, having been given my name by an old friend. We must remember that the school is desperate for the post to be filled and can’t afford to waste time by being too choosy.’
He doesn’t look very reassured. ‘Be careful,’ he warns. ‘I’ve been sensing—’ He stops.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ He forces a smile. ‘Good luck, keep your wits about you, and write to me as often as you can. I’ll only be a train journey away, I can—’ Again he stops.
You can come to my rescue, she finishes silently for him. ‘Thank you, but I am going to a girls’ boarding school, not a nest of thieves.’ She smiles to take the sting out of the words.
She sees him to the door, waiting while he wraps himself up in layers of clothing. He hurries away, turning to give her a brief wave.
She closes the door.
It was decent of him to remind me he’d be nearby if I need him, she thinks as she walks slowly back to her office. But his help won’t be necessary.
She looks again at her watch and, with a soft exclamation, diverts from the office and instead hurries up the stairs to her own apartment at the very top of the house. Here she changes out of her masculine-styled jacket, waistcoat and well-cut skirt and puts on a simple wool gown, a white bonnet, a worn wool cloak and a heavy knitted shawl. Hurrying back downstairs, she lets herself out through the back door and across the little yard to the shed built against the rear wall, unlocking the door to the lane on to which it opens then carefully locking up again. She turns left, towards the river, then right along the riverside path, following it until she reaches the basin where the river boatmen tie up.
She looks along the line of boats, not in the least anxious because he never lets her down. It was late last night that she came to the basin and asked another boatman if he could get a message to the master of The Dawning of the Day, and the man had nodded and said he would be seeing him presently, like as not. Lily’s message was verbal, and merely asked Tamáz if he could be in the river basin today.
The Dawning of the Day is moored on the far side of the basin, last in a line of five. As she increases her pace and breaks into a trot – it really is cold outside – she is already looking forward to the warmth of the boat’s little stove and a mug of piping-hot soup.
And the hugely reassuring presence of Tamáz Edey.
They are friends, she and Tamáz. They met a year ago when he came to her door seeking help for a woman in labour; a girl, really, panicking, desperate, and Tamáz had the care of he
r. The fact that Lily had gone to help that night – with extreme reluctance, for she had only just fled India and forsaken her profession, and attending a delivery was the very last thing she wanted – has aroused a strong response in Tamáz. His paternal kin all come from the Fens, although there is a powerful Irish matriarch among them. His mother was from Galicia. He is a big man, quiet, tall, strongly built. He is one of those people who are utterly content with who and what they are; rare, in Lily’s experience. He travels in his beautiful old boat with a two-man crew and towed by a large black and white horse. In return for Lily’s assistance and support that first terrible night, Tamáz has come to her aid in the past.
And now, considering where she will be going on Monday and what she is to do there – not to mention the shivery, fearful misgivings that lurk beneath the logical, sensible surface of her mind – she needs his help again. He is her friend, and she knows he will not turn her away.
Are we friends? Lily wonders as, trotting now, she covers the last few yards to The Dawning of the Day. If so, if that is what this extraordinary relationship is, then it’s a friendship that will endure for ever.
She knows that, just as she knows her eyes are green and her hair is fair.
He is standing in the cockpit waiting for her. He stretches out a hand to help her aboard. His flesh is warm and strength flows out of him. He indicates for her to precede him down the little flight of steps into the cabin and he closes the hatch. The stove is burning well and it is wonderfully warm. There is no sign of the young men who form his crew.
‘They will not return until tomorrow evening,’ Tamáz says, noticing her quick glance. He puts a black iron kettle onto the stove, sets out mugs, tea, a little tin teapot. ‘Sit down, cushla, and tell me how I can help you.’
FOUR
Felix arrives at 3, Hob’s Court very early on Monday morning. Lily told him she would be setting out first thing and he does not want to miss her.
