The Outcast Girls

by Alys Clare

  ‘Oh, good,’ she murmurs back. ‘I won’t tell!’ she adds with a smile.

  He tips his cap, whistles to the pony and they trot briskly away.

  Felix arrives in Cambridge far too early for the three o’clock rendezvous and at eleven, he is standing in the market square wondering how to fill the next four hours.

  He has been suffering from extreme restlessness ever since Walter Nelson’s description of the dead body washed up on Southsea beach revealed that it was that of Esme Sullivan. To begin with, this sense of urgency worked in his favour, for it sent him hurrying to the police station, demanding to be told everything they knew about the corpse. Despite Walter’s scathing doubts about whether or not they looked properly, Felix was confident they would be able to tell him something.

  He was wrong.

  The starchy young constable who deigned to speak to him – and who studied his World’s End Bureau card as if it were a lewd photograph – said dismissively that it was not uncommon for street girls to end up in the water, what with the company they kept and the alcohol they consumed, and when Felix asked angrily how he could be so sure the dead girl had been that sort of woman, had shrugged and said in a superior tone that made Felix want to punch him, ‘This is a port, sir. What do you expect?’

  Fuming, Felix took himself off before he gave in to the temptation. It was just the same as it was in London, he thought as he strode angrily back to the station. Street girls, whores, prostitutes, whatever you chose to call them, were plentiful and cheap, and when they came to a violent end, it was their own fault for leading the life they did.

  There being no point in remaining in Portsmouth, he took the next train back to London and didn’t even begin to brighten up until, arriving back at Kinver Street, Marm greeted him with the welcome news that there was a letter from Lily.

  Now, stamping his feet against the cold in Cambridge’s market square, he realizes that his early departure might have been a mistake, for Lily could only have received his reply this morning and he hadn’t given her sufficient time to send a telegram saying she would not be able to be at the rendezvous.

  ‘She’ll be there,’ he mutters aloud. ‘I know she will.’

  After a desultory wander through the colleges, a brisk walk along the river – beginning to freeze over – a steak and kidney pie and a pint of excellent beer in a pub with a roaring fire, he sets off for King’s College soon after two o’clock. Entering through the South Door, he sits down in a row of pews in the nave, in front of the impressive rood screen. The sound of choristers floats through from the choir stalls, and someone is softly playing the organ. It is very peaceful, and for the first time in days Felix feels himself relax. He looks up at the extraordinary beauty of the fan vaulting. Time passes, and, still looking up at the roof, he is in the middle of wondering how such perfection was achieved four hundred years ago when he hears a voice say softly in his ear, ‘That is quite enough of craning your neck, or you will suffer for it later.’

  Lowering his head and spinning round far too swiftly, he sees Lily seating herself beside him.

  He is taken aback by the rush of happiness that floods him. Hoping she hasn’t noticed, he says, ‘You’re early.’

  ‘I am,’ she agrees.

  He risks another glance. She is dressed in her nurse’s uniform, and over the high-collared black gown she wears a thick knee-length coat. Her hair is severely bound in its bun and largely hidden by the wide-brimmed bonnet.

  ‘You look …’ he begins.

  ‘Like a nurse?’ She raises an eyebrow as he nods. He wants to add that she now looks much more like a nurse than when she left the World’s End Bureau four days ago, but he is not sure how she would receive the remark.

  ‘I am a nurse,’ she murmurs. Then, briskly, ‘Felix, I haven’t got endless time, and there’s an address here in Cambridge I want us to check, so let’s quickly tell each other all that we have found out.’ He begins to make a comment but she interrupts. ‘Yes, I know I wrote to you at length, but for one thing I’ve found the address of someone who I’m sure is associated with Nurse Evans, and if I tell you everything as well, I’m sure there will be nuances and subtleties I omitted. I’ll go first.’

  And as he listens to her succinctly describing the school, the staff, the girls, the sense of unease, the fear, the ledger with its lists of pupils and its symbols, he reflects that she is indeed a nurse; that something in this job that she has undertaken – with some reluctance, as he recalls – has taken her back to that former stage of her life.

  He is not quite sure whether he feels quite the same about Nurse Raynor – Nurse Henry – as he did about the Lily who set up the World’s End Bureau. But as he listens to her outlining her suspicions, he is very willing to wait and see.

  ‘So you think both the English teacher and the assistant matron who preceded you have gone for good?’ he says when she has finished.

  ‘Genevieve Swanson has definitely gone,’ she replies. ‘Gone and been replaced by our Miss Long, who to the best of my knowledge is a permanent member of staff and not engaged on a temporary basis as I am.’

  ‘You want me to check this?’ He holds out the envelope on which is written a name and an address in Shadwell. She nods. ‘And you know of somewhere here in Cambridge where this English teacher stayed?’

  ‘I do.’ She glances at the notebook open on her lap. ‘It’s on the other side of Christ’s Pieces. Not far.’ She meets his eyes again. ‘Your turn.’

  It doesn’t take as long for him to describe his recent activities. When he explains how he can be certain that the dead body is that of Esme Sullivan, her face drops in sorrow.

  ‘I truly believed she was alive and safe,’ she whispers. ‘I had convinced myself she left Shardlowes with her travelling salesman because for some reason she needed to get to the south coast, and allowing herself to travel under Walter Anderson’s care – as his wife in fact – was a price she was prepared to pay.’ Reflecting on the high jinks and the laughter that Mrs Shove reported hearing from the couple’s room, Felix silently adds, Rather more than prepared. ‘And I honestly thought,’ Lily goes on, ‘that she – Esme – was the sort of girl to have the intelligence, the initiative and the courage to achieve what she set out to do, and that in her own time she would turn up.’

  ‘Yes I know,’ Felix says gently. ‘I thought that too.’

  ‘You too believe she left Shardlowes to do some specific task?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. But you do, and you’re usually right.’

  For the first time since she sat down beside him, Lily smiles.

  TEN

  The hostel where Genevieve Swanson stayed between leaving Shardlowes and taking up her next post proves to be a house in an elegant terrace that forms one side of a square of similar terraces, some ten minutes’ walk from King’s Parade. A small garden separates the yellow front door from the pavement, and fresh-looking white net curtains hang at the window beside the door. The letter box and door knocker shine with recent buffing, as does the discreet brass plaque to the right of the door on which is written Causeway Gardens Hostel for Professional Women.

  Lily glances at Felix, who nods, and knocks. They have arranged that she will do the talking, and as the door opens to reveal a tall, well-built woman of perhaps fifty with abundant white-streaked hair, severely dressed in dark grey but with a friendly smile, Lily says, ‘I wonder if you can help me? I am looking for a Miss Genevieve Swanson, who I believe lodged here briefly a little over a year ago, and—’

  But the woman’s expression alters as Lily says the name, and now she interrupts. ‘Is the young man with you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s—’

  ‘Then come in, both of you. Quickly now, the heat is escaping!’

  She ushers them along a hall, past a closed door on the left, through a door across the passage and in through a second one on the left. Lily and Felix find themselves in a pleasant room furnished with a chaise longue, several wing-backe
d chairs and a large, square table surrounded with upright wooden chairs with leather seats. There is a soft mauve mohair shawl on the chaise longue, a tapestry bag with knitting needles sticking out of it on the table beside some neatly stacked books, a row of well-tended saintpaulia on the windowsill and a pleasant aroma of lavender.

  The large woman pulls out two chairs. ‘Please sit down,’ she says. ‘I was making a pot of tea. You’ll take a cup, and a slice of Madeira cake? Good, good. I am Eileen Woodfall and I am warden of the hostel.’

  Lily risks a swift glance at Felix as their hostess disappears into the kitchen, but he is looking straight ahead, a suitably bland expression on his face. She is struck by how very masculine he seems, in what is so obviously an all-female establishment.

  Presently Miss Woodfall returns bearing a huge wooden tray. Felix leaps up to take it from her, but with a quick, dismissive shake of the head which seems to say he is only a man and cannot be trusted with such a task, she puts it down on the table and deftly sets out the contents. When they all have a full cup and an enormous slice of what looks and smells like a very good cake, she says, ‘I have frequently asked myself when someone would come asking about poor Miss Swanson.’

  ‘Poor Miss Swanson?’ Lily has spoken too sharply and she smiles at Miss Woodfall to try to mitigate the aggressive words.

  Miss Woodfall looks from one to the other of them, her eyes settling on Lily. ‘Before I continue, perhaps you would do me the courtesy of explaining who you are and what is your interest in Genevieve Swanson?’ It is phrased and spoken as a question but it has the force of a command.

  Once again Lily catches Felix’s eye and she thinks he nods very faintly. The truth, then, she thinks.

  ‘My name is Lily Raynor and I am an SWNS nurse, as no doubt you will have deduced from my uniform, and presently engaged in that capacity. However, I am also the proprietor of a private enquiry agency, and my associate Felix Wilbraham’ – she indicates Felix – ‘and I have been engaged on a delicate matter in an establishment near here.’

  Miss Woodfall sips her tea and pats her lips with a fawn linen napkin. ‘Thank you for your honesty,’ she says, adding quietly, ‘what there was of it. Oh, I don’t blame you for your reticence,’ she hurries on, ‘for undoubtedly discretion is an important part of an enquiry agent’s job.’

  Lily doesn’t speak. Miss Woodfall goes on looking at her intently, as if trying to assess her trustworthiness. Then abruptly she says, ‘Genevieve Swanson is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Lily and Felix repeat the word in chorus.

  ‘I am afraid so, yes,’ Miss Woodfall says, her face sombre. She sighs deeply, then goes on with clear reluctance, ‘I suppose I had better tell you the whole story.’

  ‘We would be grateful,’ Lily says.

  Miss Woodfall tops up the teacups while she gathers her thoughts. Then she says, ‘Miss Swanson arrived on a chilly autumn night in some distress. She had a small suitcase with her and told me that her trunk had been left at the station. I had a room, although it was in fact only available because Miss Swanson said she would not be staying long, and she took up residence there and then.’

  ‘She was in distress, you said?’ Lily asks.

  ‘Oh, indeed so,’ Miss Woodfall confirms. ‘She had clearly been weeping, and I was in no doubt that something had frightened her. I reassured her that she was perfectly safe here at Causeway Gardens Hostel, for our stout front door is always locked and bolted at night, and our handyman lives close by and is available for emergencies of all kinds.’

  ‘What had frightened her?’ Felix asks politely, and Lily guesses he, like her, very much wants their hostess to get on with her tale.

  ‘Well, I didn’t know straight away, Mr Wilbraham, but the next evening I prevailed upon Miss Swanson to join me in a cup of cocoa with a drop of brandy to hearten it, and really, I think she was only too pleased to share her anxieties, for almost immediately she told me she had recently left her post as teacher of English in a prestigious girls’ school because of something she was not prepared to divulge, and that she was now feeling very guilty indeed because the teacher who would be taking her place could have no idea of what was going on and she feared for her safety. She said she had left a note for her with a warning, but she truly felt she should have done more.’ Miss Woodfall looks anxious. ‘I do hope you are not here because another English teacher has gone running off in distress into the night?’

  ‘Miss Swanson’s successor is perfectly well and still at the school,’ Lily reassures her. She pauses. ‘In fact it was she who engaged us to investigate this – er, this mysterious business at the school, and I believe I can reassure you that she is fully aware of the need for caution.’

  Miss Woodfall looks relieved.

  ‘How did Miss Swanson die?’ Felix asks, and Miss Woodfall gives a small shudder at the bluntness of the question.

  ‘Of course, you’d want to know,’ she murmurs. ‘Well, Mr Wilbraham, I am afraid I cannot tell you. I know of her demise because the police came here asking if any of her belongings, specifically a diary, notebooks, papers, that sort of thing, had been left here – they had not, for she packed her small case and took it with her when she left, although of course I cannot speak for the trunk at the station – and when I demanded to know why they were asking, they told me her body had been found beside a railway line.’

  Lily begins to express her horror at this, but Felix overrides her: ‘Which line?’ Turning to glare at him, she notices that his face is pale and suddenly gaunt with distress.

  Miss Woodfall too, it seems, understands that his abruptness is caused by anxiety. ‘It was near Havant, on the LB and SCR,’ she says.

  ‘London, Brighton and South Coast railway,’ Felix says. Then, his hazel eyes on Lily’s, he says very quietly, ‘She was following the same trail as Esme Sullivan.’

  There is a stunned silence in the warm, welcoming room. It is broken by the clock on the mantelshelf melodiously striking the first quarter. With a gasp, Lily looks at it and sees that it is a quarter past four. The train that Eddy is to meet will be leaving Cambridge station in about twenty minutes, and it is a long walk to the station, and she will be lucky if she makes the next one.

  She gets to her feet. ‘I am afraid I must go, Miss Woodfall,’ she says. ‘I am sorry we have to hurry away, even more sorry that we have resurrected such distressing memories.’

  Miss Woodfall also stands up. ‘I regret being the bearer of bad news,’ she replies.

  Felix is already halfway to the front door, having apparently picked up on Lily’s urgency. They leave the hostel in a flurry of hasty goodbyes and Lily strides off down the pavement, heading back towards the centre of the town.

  ‘It’s probably quicker if we go down that road,’ pants Felix beside her, pointing to the left.

  ‘Yes, perhaps, but I have to find a pharmacy. There is a list of items I must purchase – we have a nasty cold and chesty cough infecting the school and I lack the ingredients I need to prepare my preferred remedies.’

  Felix nods and increases his pace.

  They find a pharmacy in a curving little street off the marketplace and Lily reads out her list to the quietly efficient young man behind the counter. As he packs the pots, bottles and powders into two neat brown-paper packages – ‘They’re heavy, so I’ll do one for each hand,’ the young man says – she feels Felix’s eyes on her and looks up. ‘What?’ she says quietly.

  He has a strange look on his face. It is half admiring, half wistful. ‘You,’ he replies.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve changed,’ he goes on, lowering his voice further. The pharmacist shoots them an interested glance, then returns to his packing.

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘You—’ He pauses, starts again. ‘When you left Chelsea you were the proprietor of the Bureau; efficient, courageous, good at your job. Now you’re no longer that – well, no longer primarily that.’ He pauses again, and she believes she knows what
’s coming. ‘You’re a nurse again,’ he says, the words barely audible, ‘and it’s not just because you’re wearing the uniform.’

  She nods slowly. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I know. There are people at the school who are quite seriously unwell – Matron, for example, and one of the youngest girls is already running a temperature – and I can make them feel better. Before you say it’ – for he looks as if he’s about to speak – ‘I know it’s not what I’m meant to be doing there, but you must understand that I can’t help it. I’m a fully trained nurse and I can’t just stand by. Be assured,’ she adds sternly, ‘the one job does not preclude the other.’

  He grins at her sudden vehemence, pretending to back away in fear. ‘I didn’t think it did.’ He looks down at her. ‘But—’

  ‘But?’ she demands when he stops.

  ‘I hope the private enquiry agent hasn’t gone for good,’ he blurts out, ‘because I really liked her.’

  Lily feels her mouth drop open. ‘No!’ she says. ‘Oh, no, I’m sure I—’

  ‘Your parcels are ready,’ the pharmacist says. ‘I’ve made carrying handles in the string – will you manage, Nurse?’

  Felix strides over to the counter and picks up both parcels as if they contain feathers. ‘She won’t have to manage,’ he says firmly. ‘Come along, Nurse.’

  At the station Lily has about twenty minutes to wait for her train. Felix has a ticket for the London train, which is pulling into the station as they arrive; he and Lily are red in the face and out of breath, and Lily presses her hand to the stitch in her side. But he lets the train go without him in order to have a little longer with her. ‘They are quite frequent,’ he assures her, although he has no idea if this is true.

  They stand together on her side of the platform. He places the packages carefully on the ground at her feet. ‘Will you manage them at the other end?’ he asks.