The Outcast Girls

by Alys Clare

  But Felix is a long way away. She could send him a letter; fully intends to do so, in fact, and they have arranged that she will write to him as F. Wilbraham at the Kinver Street apartment, so that if by mischance anyone were to see the letter in her hand as she went to post it, neither address nor addressee will give anything away. ‘Felicia is my late brother’s widow,’ she would say.

  As yet there is nothing, other than these vague fears and suspicions, to write …

  Irritated with herself, she winds a long scarf round her neck and picks up her weatherproof cloak. Quietly letting herself out of her room, she makes her way soft-footed along the dormitory corridor, down the first flight of stairs and then, turning away from the majestic main staircase leading down to the entrance hall, descends to the ground floor down a more modest servants’ stair that she discovered this afternoon. The rear hall has a door that opens on to the side of the building, unlocked, and from there she follows a paved path round to the semicircle of gravelled drive at the front.

  She keeps to the edge, under the sparse shadow of the trees, where the gravel is too thin to make much of a crunch. She strides out fast, movement easing her troubled spirit. The drive is longer than she remembers, and she doesn’t recall the trees having a sufficiently thick network of branches to make such darkness …

  She walks faster, cross with herself for falling prey to her own imaginings. Nevertheless, when the black barrier of the gates looms up ahead, she can’t help but be flooded with relief.

  ‘Stupid,’ she mutters. ‘Stupid, fanciful woman.’

  The gates are firmly shut, and there is a length of chain holding them together fastened with a sturdy padlock. Lily leans against the left-hand one, gloved hands round the icy-cold bars. Is the world locked out or am I locked in? she wonders.

  Stop that.

  She stands for a few moments looking out at the sleeping landscape. One or two lights shine very faintly away to the left, where the last houses of the village peter out. Distantly she hears a train whistle, mournful somehow in the loneliness of the night.

  Angry with herself for her inability to control her mood, she turns and walks smartly back up the drive towards the house.

  As she rounds the shallow bend just before the semicircle opens out, a terrible sound rips through the air.

  It is a howl: a long-drawn-out, agonized howl, full of fear, full of pain, full of despair. Lily’s heart seems to stop, then commences a rapid drumming. The hairs on the back of her neck rise up. Sweat breaks out on the palms of her cold hands.

  The howl comes again, louder now, closer …

  And then sense and logic reassert themselves.

  Not a demon escaped from hell, not a fire-breathing black devil dog.

  She knows this sound: she heard it once before in India when a condemned man, driven to murder by disease and the chaos in his own mind, had escaped from his cell. The army did not like their soldiers to evade justice and every possible step was taken to hunt down the fugitive and bring him back for his hanging.

  They had sent the bloodhounds after him.

  And that is what this awful sound is.

  Lily waits until her heart has slowed to close to its normal beat. She straightens her back, squares her shoulders and marches on, around the semicircle and towards the path leading round to the side door.

  Where, rounding the blind corner, she bumps hard into someone coming the other way.

  Afterwards, she is proud of herself for biting back the scream. Just now, she is so scared that she is trembling.

  She is gathering herself, preparing a query delivered with calm eloquence, when the other person holds up an object in their hand, makes a swift movement and, as the lantern’s shutter is opened, light floods out.

  ‘It is late for being out of doors, Nurse?’ a woman’s voice says, rising at the end into a question.

  Lily stares down into the pale face of Miss Dickie. ‘I might say the same to you, Miss Dickie,’ she replies coolly.

  ‘I have been to check that the main gates are closed.’ Miss Dickie’s plump cheeks rise towards the pouches beneath her intense dark eyes as she does her version of a smile: the one that involves only her mouth and the pads of fat on her face.

  And she has just told Lily a lie, for wherever she’s been, it’s not to the gates.

  ‘I see.’ Lily can hear the unspoken question And where have you been? as if it is being shouted aloud, but she will not explain herself. Easing past Miss Dickie’s sturdy figure, she says easily, ‘Too cold for lurking outside,’ and starts off towards the side door.

  Instantly angry with herself all over again, as Miss Dickie says, ‘It is a disturbing sound, is it not?’

  Fool, fool, Lily berates herself. Nobody possessing the faculty of hearing could have missed that ghastly howl – even as the thought flies through her head it comes again – so how could she have been such an idiot as to refrain from mentioning it?

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she says, stopping and turning back to Miss Dickie. ‘An escaped prisoner, I imagine, and they are tracking him with dogs.’

  ‘Bloodhounds, yes,’ Miss Dickie agrees.

  ‘I shall wish you goodnight, Miss Dickie, and—’

  ‘They are not, however, on the scent of a prisoner,’ Miss Dickie presses on, as if she hadn’t heard the interruption. ‘Well, a prisoner of a sort, I suppose.’ The face-crumpling false smile again, this time accompanied by a humourless little laugh. ‘Do you not know, Nurse Henry?’

  Hating having been backed into this position of weakness, Lily has no choice but to say coldly, ‘Know what?’

  Miss Dickie leans closer. She smells of carbolic soap with an under note of old sweat. ‘Our neighbours over there!’ she hisses, pointing her free hand away to the right.

  And Lily remembers the looming, forbidding building she passed on the way here. The one she thought must be the school, only for Eddy to correct her, saying, You don’t want to go there.

  ‘What is it?’ she mutters, even as the answer springs into her head.

  Miss Dickie nods slowly. ‘You do know, don’t you?’ she murmurs. She pauses. Then she says, ‘It is the lunatic asylum.’

  SEVEN

  Felix stands irresolute outside Brighton station.

  He very much wants to leap on to a train to Portsmouth and hope that his luck will hold; that he’ll encounter another porter, or ticket collector, or a lad selling newspapers, who will remember the pretty young woman on her own who arrived at the station at the end of October. He is like the keenest of hounds with the strong scent of a wily fox in his nose, and he very nearly yields to the temptation to pursue his quarry.

  But reason asserts itself. Feeling that in some unfathomable way he is letting himself down, he fetches his redundant overnight bag from the left-luggage office and heads to the platform for the London train.

  Portsmouth is a big place, he tells himself as the train puffs off towards the South Downs. His compartment is empty, and he has a suspicion that he might have muttered the words aloud. In addition, who is to say that it was Esme Sullivan’s final destination? Felix has a vague idea that Portsmouth is where several regional railway companies coincide, and quite possibly Esme was planning to change trains and head on towards Somerset, Devon or Cornwall, or up into Wales.

  All of which is very reasonable and sensible, and none of which can do much to stop the feeling that he has just taken a wrong step.

  The Kinver Street apartment is empty when Felix arrives home. Marm has obviously found his note, and now beside it is another one: Good luck, you dirty devil, and I trust she’s worth the price of the room. Will be away myself for a night or two so you’ll probably return before me, hence this note. At the bottom he has added enigmatically, May well have turned up something to interest you …

  Felix grins at the suggestive remark, then mutters a soft curse when he reads the final words. ‘And naturally you’re not going to leave me even the smallest hint as to what that something might be,
are you, Marm?’ he says aloud.

  Surprised at how much he misses the landlord who is fast becoming a good friend, Felix makes himself a scratch supper, pours a generous few fingers of whisky and settles down in front of the fire to his solitary evening.

  The following morning he is at 3, Hob’s Court precisely on time. To his surprise, he can hear someone in the back of the house and for a heart-lifting moment he thinks it’s Lily.

  But then he hears a racking, phlegmy cough. Mrs Clapper’s face appears in the kitchen doorway and she holds up a stern hand. ‘Don’t you come any closer!’ she says in the sort of tones a lion tamer might employ to deter an agitated lion. ‘I’m only here for as long as it takes me to put the kitchen and the scullery to rights and I don’t want you catching Clapper’s bad bronicles as well.’ The angry resentment in her voice eloquently expresses how she feels about having been infected herself. ‘Where’s Miss Lily?’ she adds accusingly, as if Felix might have stashed her away in a cupboard.

  ‘She’s gone to Cambridgeshire on a job,’ he says mildly. ‘I’m very sorry you are unwell, Mrs Clapper, and I’m sure Miss Lily would not expect you to come to work if you’re feeling—’

  ‘I’m not unwell!’ Mrs Clapper yells in defiance of what she has just said, and the untruth is further demonstrated by a bout of harsh coughing that leaves her pale and breathless. Felix strides forward, takes her by the arm and sits her down on the kitchen’s one seat, a rickety and uncomfortable stool, and, ignoring her protests, he puts water on to boil and makes her a cup of tea. Very aware of her narrowed, critical eyes on him as he does so, he judges it is a mark of how ill she really is that she does not try to stop him.

  He looks around as he waits for the tea to brew. Mrs Clapper must have been there for quite some time, he thinks, for the kitchen and scullery are restored to perfect cleanliness and order, and he doesn’t need to go out to the lavatory to know that the same will apply there.

  Mrs Clapper sips her tea. Both of them wait while she assesses its quality.

  ‘Not bad,’ she says, looking up at Felix, and for the very first time in their acquaintance, he detects the faint suggestion of a smile.

  Capitalizing on this minuscule lowering of her defences, he says, ‘You’ve done a grand job, Mrs Clapper. Now, please, go home and try to rest’ – she gives a disbelieving snort at his naivety, as if to say, What? Me, rest, with Clapper and his bronicles to see to? but he plunges on regardless – ‘and Miss Lily and I will look forward to seeing you back here once you are well.’

  ‘I’m not—’ she begins.

  ‘You’re not unwell, yes, I know, you said. But, honestly, Mrs C’ – she looks at him suspiciously but makes no comment at the new abbreviation – ‘Miss Lily is away, as I told you, and so is the Little Ballerina, and—’

  ‘Huh! Her!’ Mrs Clapper’s sparse eyebrows descend in a ferocious scowl of disapproval.

  ‘—and I’ll be out and about more than I’m here, so really there’s no more for you to do now that you’ve completed your excellent tidying and cleaning job.’ Felix waves his arm to demonstrate the shining kitchen.

  ‘But—’ Mrs Clapper’s protest begins and peters out, and Felix can hear that her heart isn’t really in it.

  ‘Go home,’ he says. Gently he takes her empty cup from her hands. The fingers are bent with arthritis, and he feels a sudden surge of compassion. Turning away so that she will not read it in his face – she would hate it – he adds brightly, ‘The sooner you’re on the mend, the sooner we’ll have you back!’

  She gets off the stool, fetches her hat, coat, muffler and the old string bag she always carries, and he sees her to the door. She heads off down the steps without speaking, but just as he is about to close the door she turns, looks straight at him and says gruffly, ‘You’re not quite as bad as I thought.’

  As she shuffles away, he is smiling broadly. It is a long time since he has received such a valuable compliment.

  He sits in the outer office, debating whether it is worth lighting a fire. The small kitchen range is going; Mrs Clapper has managed to find time to do some baking in between bouts of cleaning and coughing, and Felix can smell hot pastry and ginger. He wanders back into the kitchen and pours a cup of tea.

  He faces the fact that he doesn’t know what to get on with.

  Has he anything to get on with?

  He perches on the uncomfortable stool and extracts his notebook from his pocket. He reads swiftly through his notes, coming to the unwelcome conclusion that in every area of investigation he is waiting to hear from somebody else and cannot act in any meaningful way until he does.

  ‘Bugger,’ he mutters aloud.

  He finishes his tea and washes up the cup and saucer. Mrs Clapper’s baking is cooling on wire trays and the heat from the range is lessening. Concluding that no purpose will be served by his remaining in the house, and that it would be a waste of money to squander coal on a fire, he puts on his outdoor clothes and is about to set off back to Kinver Street when the door knocker sounds through the silent house.

  He answers the knock and the telegram boy hands him an envelope. Ripping it open, he sees it is from Violetta. He says softly, ‘Oh, good!’ then, looking up at the lad, adds, ‘No reply, thanks,’ and steps inside, closing the door firmly so the boy realizes there isn’t a tip in the offing.

  He re-reads the telegram. Have news re you know who. Will be at the Tom late tonight. Come and join me. V.

  First Marm, now Violetta, thinks Felix.

  Wondering how he’s going to fill the empty hours that stretch out ahead, he stuffs the telegram in an inside pocket and, checking he has locked the door, sets out along Hob’s Court and down on to the Embankment.

  He half hopes Marm will return before he leaves for the Peeping Tom, but he is disappointed. Resisting the urge to speculate yet again just what it is that Marm has found out, he sets out for the music hall and queues to buy his ticket as the large open space in front of the stage begins to fill up. He knows which box Violetta habitually uses, and makes his way to it. He pulls a couple of the red-velvet-covered chairs to the front of the box and sits leaning his elbows on the rail, staring out at the mêlée below. He holds out no expectation whatsoever that there is a sophisticated and intellectually challenging evening of entertainment ahead, for he knows from past experience that the Tom has probably set the all-time low level for bawdiness, smuttiness, double entendres and downright filth, but he doesn’t mind.

  Presently he hears the door open and turns to see Violetta entering the box. She is dressed in a low-cut, tight-fitting gown in royal-blue silk, a corsage of flowers at the bosom, and she is in the process of lowering a heavy fur-lined cloak from her beautiful, smooth white shoulders. She smiles at him, her face lovely in the soft light, and she looks every inch the grand lady. Gracefully seating herself in the chair he pulls back for her, she shatters the illusion by saying, ‘Bloody hell, it’s cold outside, and my audience were a miserable bunch tonight. Get the bubbly ordered, there’s a good lad, and we’ll get pissed as farts and let the world go hang.’

  As Felix sticks his head round the door to put in the order for the champagne, he reflects that it probably isn’t the moment to remind Violetta that she’s summoned him here because she has something to tell him. Moreover, that this moment won’t arrive until she’s sunk at least a glass of champagne and probably more.

  At Shardlowes School, Lily embarks on what is to be a disturbing day.

  The morning begins in a similar manner to yesterday, with a cup of tea taken to Matron. She is still in bed, seemingly determined to make the very most of her cold and let Lily do the day’s work, which suits Lily admirably since it leaves her free to pursue her own path.

  Today she selects another of the six dormitories for her early morning visit, and quietly opens the door to Red, the first of Junior School. The eight beds are all occupied and the girls range from a very small child of no more than four to a couple of girls of around eight years. The
four-year-old has a wall eye and a very runny nose, and when she speaks it is clear that she has a problem with her adenoids. An older girl stands watching and she introduces herself as Rhoda Albercourt, Louise dormitory. She is a sturdy girl, pasty-faced with the furious red stigmata of acne across her forehead and cheeks. She is courteous and unfazed by Lily’s appearance in Red dormitory, and Lily surmises that news of yesterday’s appearance in Blue has spread.

  Since nobody in Red requires the services of the assistant matron – well, the child with adenoids would benefit greatly from medical attention, but it is beyond the scope of the Shardlowes sick bay – Lily goes on down the corridor to Green dormitory. Here the girls are older, and two – a girl with slanting eyes and gypsy features and another exquisite Indian girl – look as if they are approaching womanhood. Lily spots Marigold Dunbar-Lea, in the act of struggling into the built-up boot. She gives Lily a wide grin, stretching the ugly scar that bisects her upper lip, and Lily smiles back.

  ‘Kathleen Richmond, Helena, monitor of Green dormitory,’ smiles the round-faced redhead standing just inside the door. ‘Good morning, Nurse Henry. All present and correct.’ She waves an arm to indicate the seven beds, six of which are occupied. The seventh is neatly made up and clearly has not been slept in. ‘Well, except for poor Cora,’ Kathleen Richmond adds in a soft whisper that is just for Lily’s ears. ‘Nearly two weeks now, and not a word.’

  Lily turns to look into the kindly brown eyes and reads genuine distress. ‘Cora?’ she repeats.

  ‘Oh, of course, I don’t suppose you know,’ whispers Kathleen. ‘Cora Naughton-Smythe went missing after hockey practice the Friday before last.’ Her lower lip trembles. ‘She’s only eleven!’ So much do the words distress her that they are more mouthed than spoken.

  ‘Yes,’ Lily says. ‘I did know, in fact, although not the girl’s name. And there was another one too, I believe?’