The Outcast Girls

by Alys Clare

  ‘I do not believe you can have understood,’ Lily says icily. ‘A matter of extreme urgency, I repeat, and any delay, even of a few minutes, could mean the difference between life and death.’

  ‘Life and death?’ he repeats, clearly horrified. ‘Somebody is in danger? Oh, dear me, dear, dear me, I cannot think how this could involve the Mistress, truly I cannot, and—’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask her if she is willing to see us?’ Felix interrupts gently.

  The old man turns to him. ‘Do you think I should disturb her?’ he whispers. ‘Will she not be angry?’

  How should I know? Felix thinks, but wisely he just smiles and says, ‘Well, yes, I think you should.’

  The elderly butler, if that is what he is, is just starting to turn and shuffle away when there is the sound of a door being opened – quite forcefully, so that it bangs back against the wall – and a loud voice full of the haughty confidence of the wealthy and powerful who have never had to work for their living comes booming down the hall: ‘What is it, Murchison? What’s all this noise?’

  ‘I am very sorry, ma’am,’ the old man says, hurrying towards the source of the voice and trying to bow at the same time, ‘but these people are investigators – from London!’ he adds, as if it were the most amazing element of Lily and Felix’s arrival, ‘and they are – they say they need to—’

  Slowly the woman advances along the hall from the deep gloom of the house’s interior. She brushes the old man aside and emerges into the light from the open door.

  Felix feels Lily go tense beside him, and he suspects she is suppressing a gasp. He feels exactly the same, for the figure before them is extraordinary.

  Hortensia Stirling is perhaps in her mid-sixties. She is a tall woman and holds herself very straight. She has broad shoulders narrowing to boyish hips, her body shape very apparent because of the garments she is wearing: a thigh-length tunic in some sort of soft, shimmery silk in brilliant crimson patterned with mauve and yellow swirls over slim-fitting leggings that taper to her narrow ankles. On her large feet she wears scarlet leather slippers whose turned-up toes each have a small and melodious bell on the tip.

  Her face is like a mask.

  Her iron-grey hair is worn short, club-cut to jaw level, apparently by someone wielding a pair of garden shears. It is parted at the side, swept across her broad forehead and held in place by a jewelled clip in the form of a butterfly and set with red, blue and predominantly white gems which, from the way they are catching the meagre daylight and sparkling so brightly, must undoubtedly be precious stones.

  Her eyes are pale grey and set beneath very straight dark brows. Her nose is like an arrow pointing down her face, her mouth is thin and wide, her chin prominent and, just now, stuck out towards her visitors in a not very welcoming manner. ‘What do you want?’ she barks.

  ‘I have given your manservant a card,’ Lily says with what Felix thinks is considerable sang-froid. She looks at the old man, who jumps and instantly holds out the card to his mistress. She snatches it, reads it in an instant, and straight away some inner strength seems to go out of her.

  She leans against the wall, her eyelids fluttering. She mutters, ‘I always knew someone would come, some day.’ Then she straightens up, fixes her chilly gaze on Lily and Felix and says, ‘You had better come in. Murchison, bring tea.’

  Without another glance at any of them, entirely confident that all three of them will do exactly as she has ordered, Hortensia Stirling straightens her back and marches down the hall, through the doorway out of which she has just emerged, turns to her left and leads her visitors into a large room crammed with a ornaments, photographs, portraits and seascapes, silverware and a great deal of furniture. Bay windows look out over the sea, and the fading light spills in. A fire burns in the wide fireplace.

  Hortensia Stirling returns to what is clearly her chair, to the right of the fireplace and with little tables either side bearing books, a pair of spectacles, several cups, a dirty glass and a bottle of whisky. She subsides into the chair with a sigh, wrapping the turquoise mohair shawl draped across it over her legs.

  ‘Sit,’ she commands.

  Felix pulls out a dining chair from the dusty walnut table for Lily and, when she is seated, sits down beside her. He can feel her desperate impatience coming off her like a physical force, but it seems she knows as well as he does that if they hurry this old woman, if they try to take control, she will clam up and they will get nowhere.

  Hortensia looks at Felix, then at Lily. ‘You’re the boss?’ she asks sharply.

  ‘I am,’ Lily agrees.

  ‘Good for you,’ Hortensia growls. Then, almost in the same breath, ‘You’ve come for him, haven’t you?’ A sound like a sob breaks out of her, quickly suppressed as she presses a large handkerchief to her face.

  ‘We believe your old friend Cameron MacKilliver may be here, yes,’ Lily says, ‘and we further believe’ – Felix detects she is fighting to control the tremor in her voice – ‘that he is probably not alone.’

  And very slowly Hortensia nods.

  Felix feels Lily gather herself to leap up and he grabs her. ‘I know!’ he hisses as she glares down at him, ‘I know we have to hurry, but if we don’t go about this the right way she’ll have us thrown out of her house, he’ll have time to get away and then there’ll be no stopping him!’

  Hortensia has been watching them, an unreadable expression on her strong face. ‘In fact there is no hurry,’ she says as Lily sits down again.

  ‘No hurry …’ Lily repeats. ‘Oh, dear God, you mean—’

  ‘The child is still alive,’ Hortensia says calmly. ‘Deeply asleep and quite unharmed. He loves them, d’you see, he really loves them. Cares for them with such tenderness, for he believes it is his mission to save them.’

  ‘Save them from what?’ Felix asks, cold with horror.

  Hortensia looks at him. ‘From womanhood,’ she replies simply.

  ‘But – how?’ Lily whispers. ‘He cannot stop the process, for it is a natural occurrence.’

  Hortensia stares at her, possibly only now taking in how she is dressed. ‘You’re a nurse,’ she says. ‘One of those what d’you call them, St Walburga’s.’

  ‘St Walburga’s Nursing Service, known, from the initials, as Swans,’ Lily says.

  ‘Yes. Them.’ Hortensia digests this. ‘You’ll know, then.’

  Felix catches Lily’s frown, and guesses she is as puzzled by this enigmatic remark as he is.

  Then Lily leans forward and says calmly but firmly, ‘Miss Stirling, the child we believe to be in Cameron MacKilliver’s keeping is a pupil at the school where I am assistant matron, and she has of late been in my care. I am extremely anxious about her and I am not altogether reassured by what you have just said, and accordingly I would now like you either to take me to her or to tell me how to find her.’

  Lily stands up, squaring her shoulders, and in her stalwart posture Felix reads the authority of a woman trained to care for others, to save lives, to make difficult decisions with speed; a woman used to giving orders and to having those orders obeyed.

  For a moment it seems to him that Lily and Hortensia are battling each other; that bright swords made of light clash and strain as each tries to dominate the other. He blinks a couple of times and the images vanish. Good grief, he thinks, I’m more tired than I thought.

  And meekly Hortensia Stirling says, ‘Back into the hall, take the stairs, then go right and along to the end of the landing, up the next flight and it’s the little door to the left. It opens on to a spiral stair leading up into the turret, and that’s where he has his set of rooms. That’s where he takes them and looks after them so lovingly.’

  Lily nods a curt acknowledgement, turns and strides away.

  Felix is on his feet. ‘Is Miss Raynor in danger?’ he demands forcefully.

  Hortensia waves a hand. ‘No, no, he’ll pull up a chair for her and offer her a cup of tea and a scone.’

  Felix is
still looming over her. ‘If she comes to any harm—’

  ‘She won’t.’ Hortensia cuts him off.

  ‘I should go with her,’ Felix mutters, looking at the door through which Lily has just left.

  Hortensia tuts in impatience. ‘No you should not,’ she says, barking out the words. ‘You are a man, a large, tall and strong-looking man, and if you go blundering in up there, pushing your way into a delicate state of affairs which I am certain that cool-headed nurse will manage perfectly well alone, you will only distress poor Cameron, and then there might well be harm done.’ She glares at him. ‘Young man, I know Cameron. We’ve been close since we were small children, and I understand him. I’m probably the only person in the world who does,’ she adds in a murmur, and her head droops. Then, looking up at him again, she says curtly, ‘Oh, sit down, do!’

  Reluctantly Felix obeys. ‘Your old friend has taken two children,’ Felix says baldly. ‘Three, in fact. Girl children, before they begin to mature. He takes them from the school and—’

  ‘A school which, like all of them, should send up prayers of gratitude each and every day for the Band of Angels!’ Hortensia cries, face working with anger. ‘Do you know about the Band of Angels?’ She doesn’t let him answer. ‘The membership is made up of very important men,’ she goes on, ‘men who have great wealth and influence, who feel a true compulsion to do the good works they do, across so many spheres of life.’ She shakes her head, brows drawn into a frown. ‘I cannot say that I sympathize with this compulsion, but they are men of the world and undoubtedly understand its ways better than I.’ Suddenly she glares at Felix. ‘Nothing must be allowed to hinder them. Nothing.’

  ‘There has been mention of a prince who is considering joining the Band of Angels,’ Felix says. ‘Do I take it he is one of ours?’

  Hortensia’s pale eyes meet his and she neither agrees nor disagrees, which Felix takes to mean yes he is.

  ‘And obviously such a man would very quickly change his mind if he knew about Cameron’s little ways?’

  ‘Obviously.’ Her voice is cold.

  ‘So another child has to be sacrificed,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Well she won’t be now,’ Hortensia replies tartly, ‘with that Amazon of a nurse on her way up to the turret set.’

  Felix sends up a silent prayer that she is right.

  ‘And so, because Cameron MacKilliver is a member of the Band and he and his twin are major benefactors,’ Felix resumes, ‘the school’s headmistress turns a blind eye when girls go missing.’

  Hortensia stares coldly at him. After a moment she gives a faint shrug. ‘They are but girls, and unwanted for the most part,’ she says.

  Felix cannot believe what he has just heard. ‘Unwanted?’ he echoes. ‘And so they don’t matter? They are unimportant, and can be sacrificed?’

  She shrugs again. ‘There are always too many girls.’

  He has no words to express his outrage. ‘But – but—’

  ‘But, but, but,’ she repeats, a cruel smile on her face. ‘Are you a goat, young man?’ She leans towards him, all at once intent. ‘Face the truth, if you are brave enough!’ she hisses. ‘These girls are redundant. Foundling, orphans, surplus daughters, dependent females for whom husbands must one day be sought and paid for. The world can perfectly well do without a handful of them.’

  She leans back in her chair, nodding, smiling a satisfied, supercilious smile, clearly confident that she has nullified every last one of Felix’s objections.

  Looking at her, he realizes that no words could penetrate her certainty.

  In the sudden cessation of conversation he realizes that he has forgotten all about Lily.

  Now he strains his ears, but can hear nothing: no raised voices, no sounds of disturbance. He concludes, feeling slightly guilty, that all is well.

  For he very much wants to go on talking to Hortensia Stirling.

  ‘Cameron is treated at the asylum in the village, isn’t he?’

  For the first time the arrogant, aggressive expression falters. She frowns, her brow creasing in puzzlement. ‘In the village …’ she repeats, and mutters something else which Felix doesn’t catch. ‘I do not know the whereabouts of the asylum,’ she says aloud, the confidence of lifelong privilege in her haughty tones, ‘and, indeed, I do not care to. I am aware that from time to time Cameron goes there, but it is a purely voluntary arrangement.’ She lays heavy emphasis on the word.

  For some reason he does not understand, Felix senses it is important to pursue the question of the asylum.

  But, taking his second false step in as many minutes, he says, ‘You claim that the girls who have been taken are unimportant. Redundant, was the word you used.’ She nods curtly in acknowledgement, straight eyebrows raised as if to say, And what of it?

  ‘Perhaps you are unaware, but an English teacher at the school also went missing,’ he says, deliberately keeping his tone calm and unemotional. ‘Miss Genevieve Swanson.’

  ‘Was that her name?’ Hortensia asks indifferently. ‘I did not know. She suspected, or so I am led to believe, and she was on her way here.’

  ‘And there was also a pupil from the senior school, Esme Sullivan,’ Felix goes on in the same level tone. ‘Her body was washed up on Southsea Beach.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it would be,’ Hortensia says indifferently. ‘I expect she ended up in the sea. Out there.’ She jerks her head towards the beach below the house. ‘It happens, sometimes, that a body is swept up in the currents around the Island and washes up on the mainland.’

  Felix, revolted at the ruthlessness of her utter indifference, opens his mouth to protest but she hasn’t finished.

  She leans forward and whispers, ‘Mortimer found out. He found out about both of them, the woman and the girl. I do not know how, for I do not confide in him nor he in me. I’ve always disliked him, arrogant little boy that he was, and he’s grown into an equally arrogant man and a deeply unpleasant one too, and Cameron is afraid of him. Mortimer tormented him when they were small, d’you see, and poor dear Cameron has never forgotten. Well, you don’t, do you? The horrors of childhood may be buried deep but they do not go away. Yes,’ she adds thoughtfully after a moment, ‘Mortimer will have carried out the clearing-up, just as he always does.’

  ‘Mortimer MacKilliver takes what action he deems necessary to cover up what his twin brother does, so as to save both Cameron and the reputation of the Band of Angels,’ Felix says very softly.

  And, as if it is perfectly reasonable and only to be expected, Hortensia says brightly, ‘Yes! Quite so.’

  Felix’s mouth has gone dry and it is a moment before he can speak. When he can he says calmly, striving to keep his tone even, ‘Miss Stirling, just how long has your friend Cameron been a regular visitor here?’

  He fervently hopes she will understand what it is he is really asking her.

  She does.

  Her head spins round to face him and for the briefest of moments there is true, deep anguish in her old eyes.

  She knows, Felix thinks in a flash of understanding. She is perfectly well aware that what Cameron does – is allowed to do – is nothing less than monstrous. But it is easier to look the other way and shut her mind to the horror.

  But then she masks the distress and her face resumes its haughty lines.

  ‘How long?’ she repeats. ‘Oh, let me see now … He’s always come to see me, from when I first purchased this house years and years ago, although back then it was but infrequently.’ She frowns, and he senses she is very relieved to have this question to ponder, distracting her as it surely must from far darker thoughts. ‘Then … yes, yes, it was not long after the Band of Angels became involved with that school near Cambridge that Cameron began to come more frequently, and to stay for longer.’ She shoots Felix a swift glance in which he reads shiftiness, not to say guilt. ‘I remember the occasion well, because it was just before the one and only time my elder sister Adeline wrote a proper letter to me.’ Hortensia leans towards h
im again, and a hand like an eagle’s claw and heavy with rings reaches out. ‘Adeline had a problem, d’you see, for her great-granddaughter had just been brought home from India and her parents – Adeline’s granddaughter Mary and her husband Roddy – seemed to expect Adeline to find somewhere suitable. Adeline!’ she exclaims with a throaty laugh. ‘Of all people, my sister Adeline, who really did not have a maternal bone in her body!’ The smile fades and she looks reflective. ‘She loved Mary, though.’ Slowly she shakes her head. ‘It was truly astounding, and nobody ever fathomed it out, but it seemed there was some quality Mary had – innocence, purity, kindness, perhaps simply goodness – that penetrated Adenine’s hard crust. She truly loved Mary, and it damaged her deeply when she insisted on marrying Roderick Dunbar-Lea and going back to India with him.’

  Something is clamouring for Felix’s attention but he ignores it. Has no option, for Hortensia is in full flow and not to be stopped.

  ‘She was canny, though, Adeline,’ she says confidingly. ‘She’d been caring for Mary since the child’s parents died and she knew the girl was naive and needed someone to watch out for her interests.’

  ‘So she—’ Felix begins.

  ‘Mary was her sole heir,’ Hortensia says, speaking over him, ‘and Adeline was an astute woman who understood the ways of the world. She was wary of the dangers posed by unscrupulous suitors, who could ensnare the innocent Mary and sweep her off her feet.’ She looks at Felix. ‘So what do you think she did?’

  ‘Why not tell me?’

  ‘Adeline instructed her lawyer to make absolutely sure that Mary could not inherit until she was twenty-five.’ She nods in approval. ‘She hoped Mary would have lost the stars in her eyes by then and seen Roddy for what he was.’ A frown clouds her brow. ‘I hope she was right …’