Woman Who Spoke to Spirits

by Alys Clare

  Albertina invited her own death by her insistence on home improvements.

  ‘The cellar must surely extend beyond that wall,’ she had said to Ernest, ‘for the house is deeper than the existing room down there, and we could make good use of the extra space!’

  Ernest is not dead.

  The nail from the witch’s bottle that Lily drove into his eye blinded him on that side, but he survived. On his arrest, he preened as he described his skill at making mummies, and there is no record that he ever showed a moment’s remorse. He refuses utterly to consider madness as a defence, and his legal team despair of being able to keep him from the gallows.

  He has made mutterings about suing Lily for the harm she has done to him, but nobody seems to take this very seriously. She was, after all, in terror of her life, and it was her right under the law to defend herself.

  Lily is aware she will have to give evidence at Ernest’s trial. This one of the reasons why she knows she must get away for a short while; her experiences in Ernest’s drying-out cupboard haunt her waking and sleeping, and she fears that she will break down utterly in court unless she can recover herself. Breaking down will not do, for she is, as the prosecution barrister will keep telling her, a key witness.

  For the sake of seven dead women, not to mention Albertina, Lily must hold firm and do what is expected of her.

  One person to benefit from the affair is Marmaduke Smithers. Now his crusade to stop prostitutes and destitute women being ignored by the forces of law and order and being dismissed as unimportant has received all the attention he could ask for, and he has responded with a coruscating series of articles which have appeared in the most famous and infamous newspapers of the day. Questions have been asked in the House of Commons, and there is to be a debate. The conscience of the nation, as one of Marm’s more sensational headlines says, has been awakened.

  Lily wanders through into the front office, where Felix is tidying away a huge stack of papers. It is early evening, and the house is empty but for themselves. Mrs Clapper, who at first refused to leave Lily’s side and virtually camped in the kitchen, promising to guard the doors all night and not let any murderers ever threaten Miss Lily again, has, thankfully, reverted to her normal routine, and went home after having set Lily’s supper tray. (She appears to think that one of the results of Lily’s ordeal is that she was half-starved, and insists on feeding her up ‘to put the roses back in your cheeks!’ Lily, however, knows what it will take to do that, and it has nothing to do with monumental portions of pies and puddings.) The Little Ballerina, whose dark eyes widened so much that they almost took over all the upper part of her face when she heard what had happened, was agog to know every single detail, and it was to Lily’s and Felix’s enormous relief when she was given a part in a tour of Sleeping Beauty and disappeared to the Midlands for a month.

  Felix looks up as Lily stops before his desk. She notices how tired he is, his face drawn, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  She will never forget how he looked when he came thundering up Parkside Road, summoned by the police to take her home. She does not let herself think about what his expression might mean. He is far too good and valuable an employee to allow personal feelings between the two of them any manoeuvre room whatsoever.

  ‘You’re really going?’ he asks gruffly.

  ‘I am. Later this evening.’

  He stands up abruptly, knocking his carefully arranged stack of papers to the floor. Neither of them makes any move to pick them up.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ She must be resolute. It would be unfair to give him any hint that part of her would quite like to stay here with him. She has made up her mind, and she knows, deep down, that what she is going to do is the right – the only – thing that will cure her. That will drive away the sudden paralysing, sweat-inducing terrors and the awful nightmares.

  He nods.

  Then, after quite a long pause, says, ‘I’m going away too. Only for a few days,’ he adds hurriedly.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Out of London, to stay with some old friends.’

  ‘Very well.’ She pauses. ‘But you will come back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How – er, will I be able to let you know when I have returned to the office?’

  ‘Of course.’ He takes a blank piece of paper and writes a few lines. Peering over his shoulder, she sees that it is an address in Cambridge. ‘Send a telegram telling me when to come back to work. I’ll be here.’ Just for a moment he meets her eyes. ‘I promise,’ he adds softly.

  Then he gives her an odd little bow, turns and heads out. She hears the street door close behind him.

  But Felix does not go far.

  He knows what Lily is going to do, for she has told him. Very briefly; just that she has a friend who is taking her away on his boat. He understands both that she has to do it, and that she will be safe; something in the way she refers to this friend tells him that. Safe once she is on the boat, he amends to himself.

  He is her guardian until then, and he will watch from the shadows all the time there is the faintest possibility of danger.

  He finds a hiding place, creeps into it. Watches out over the river.

  And, perhaps an hour later, she emerges from the rear door of 3, Hob’s Court; the one that opens out of her grandfather’s shed and workroom. He watches as she carefully turns the key in the lock and secures a couple of padlocks. He goes on watching as she hurries down onto the path along the riverbank, a carpet bag swinging by her side. She is dressed in a simple cotton gown, her hair in a long plait down her back, a soft white bonnet on her head.

  She looks quite unlike herself; not in the least the Lily Raynor he knows.

  And then a big, broad figure emerges from beneath the shadow of a wall and strolls to meet her. They fall into step and side by side they walk away to the basin where the river craft moor up.

  She’ll be all right now, Felix tells himself. You can go, for she is in safe hands.

  Suppressing the thought that his hands too would have been safe – suppressing, in fact, almost every thought – he turns and strides away.

  For want of anything better to do, he returns to his horrible digs. He would quite like to seek out some rowdy and vulgar pub where he could drink several pints of strong beer in the hope that it might cheer him up, but he recognizes that the more likely outcome is a bad head and a sick stomach, so forces himself to do the sensible thing.

  He may not have to be in the digs much longer – that is the one cheering thought amid so many depressing ones – because there are plans afoot for him and Marm Smithers to take lodgings together. Marm is all at once considerably more affluent, thanks to the nationwide hunger for his story and his electrifying pieces on the filthy underbelly of London, and he is moving to a new address. It is a modest first-floor apartment in a tall, narrow old house in Kinver Street, one of a network of similar little streets between Royal Hospital Road and the King’s Road. It is more than a little run down but full of charm, with high-ceilinged rooms, cornices and mouldings, an elaborately elegant staircase and black and white tiles in the entrance hall. There is a small second bedroom at the back which, Marm suggests, would be a great deal better than the accommodation Felix presently occupies. He has told Marm bluntly that he can’t afford much by way of rent, but Marm is perfectly certain Felix’s penury will soon be a thing of the past. ‘You’ve done well, my old son,’ Marm said when the subject of the new apartment first came up. ‘That smart and astute lady boss of yours won’t want to lose you now, and what’s the one certain way to hang on to an employee? Give him a pay rise!’

  The two of them were in the Cow Jumped Over the Moon at the time of this conversation, and on the strength of it Marm suggested it was Felix’s round.

  Now Felix packs a small bag, for he has decided he cannot stay in London a moment longer (now that Lily has gone, says a voice inside his head that he tries to suppress, along wit
h some lurid and disturbing images of what she and her burly boatman might be getting up to) and he will take a train to Cambridge tonight. His friends know he’ll be arriving some time soon and they won’t mind if he’s a day early. They keep late hours and will undoubtedly still be up when he reaches their house. They know all about what has happened, as indeed does virtually everyone in the country who is not senile, still in infancy, deaf or terminally stupid.

  Before he heads to the station, there is something he must do.

  He goes back to the Glass Slipper Theatre. Miss Sanderson’s Fortune has opened, and he hopes he has timed it right. The crowd around the stage door suggests he has.

  Violetta da Rosa emerges. She waves, acknowledges the generous praise and the cheers, she blows a kiss here and there. No hired conveyance or expensive private carriage awaits her tonight.

  On the edge of the crowd Felix spies Billy, shouldering people out of the way. Violetta has seen him too, and a small, private signal passes between them.

  Now or never, Felix thinks.

  He edges between two men in evening dress and pushes forward until he is just behind Violetta. Leaning close towards her, he says quietly, ‘Miss da Rosa, please may I speak to you? It’s about Julian, but I’m not a journalist, you have my word.’

  She spins round as he says Julian, and, now that he is right beside her, he can see the pallor beneath the makeup, the panic in the eyes, the beads of sweat above her eyebrows and on her upper lip.

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ she hisses furiously. ‘You scavenging bastards, you won’t leave me alone!’

  Out of the corner of his eye Felix can see Billy, face like thunder, pushing towards them. He hasn’t got long.

  ‘I am employed by an investigation bureau,’ he says, right in Violetta’s ear. ‘Lord Berwick employed the office I work for to find out about you. Please, I really think you should hear what I have to say to you!’

  She stares right into his eyes for what seems a long time. Then she gives a curt nod. ‘Come with me,’ she says coldly.

  The crowd make way for her and she sweeps through the massed men and boys (and a handful of women) until Billy steps forward to take her hands. She mutters something to him, and he frowns at Felix and shakes his head. Violetta speaks again, her tone more insistent, and eventually, with a shrug, he turns and walks away.

  Violetta leads the way along the road a short way and into a side street, where a very much more modest carriage sits beside the pavement, its driver on the box. Violetta opens the door and climbs inside, beckoning to Felix to follow.

  ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes,’ she says baldly. ‘After that, Billy will be here, and he’s spoiling for an altercation and would like nothing better than to pick you up by your collar and chuck you out into the gutter. Until he gets here, I might add, Davor up on the box –’ she nods to where the coachman sits – ‘will hear if I shout out. He’s from Belgrade, he doesn’t speak much English and he’s not very bright, but he’s big, he’s loyal, he works hard and he has fists like stones.’

  ‘I very much hope you won’t shout out,’ Felix says. ‘Please believe me when I say that I’ve come here to seek you out because there are things I believe you should know.’

  She gives him a shrewd look.

  ‘Your employer doesn’t know you’re here.’

  ‘No,’ he agrees.

  She gives him a long, assessing look. Then she says, ‘Go on, then. What are these things you think I should know?’

  Felix takes a deep and he hopes unobtrusive breath. Then he says, ‘I was the agent assigned to watching and reporting on you and your relationship with Julian Willoughby. I observed the two of you together, and I did some research into your professional life. I found out about your fondness for Tunbridge Wells. I went to the Dippers’ Steps Theatre and I discovered your connection with the house in Marlpits Lane. I saw a very beautiful young woman there who I took to be your daughter, and I found out that you had been married to her father, but that, although you acted entirely in innocence, the marriage was bigamous since he already had a wife.’

  She is looking at him very intently. All she says is, ‘My, what a busy little bee you have been.’ The caustic tone is, however, unmistakable.

  ‘All of the above went into my report, which was submitted to Lord Berwick, and—’

  ‘No doubt you included the fact that my daughter was born six months after Archie and I tied the knot,’ she says.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid I did.’ She makes no response, and after a moment he goes on, ‘It appears that Lord Berwick confronted his son with these facts, and made it clear that you would not, in his opinion, be a suitable wife nor right for the role of the next Lady Berwick. Nobody has actually said as much, but the general view seems to be that Julian hanged himself because he couldn’t bear the thought of life without you.’

  The silence this time is even longer. Then Violetta gives a great sigh and says, ‘You’re here to appease your conscience, are you? To confess it all to me in the hope that it makes you feel better?’

  ‘I’m here because I think it’s only fair that you know what’s been happening,’ he replies. ‘But I admit that the young man’s death is indeed on my conscience, and I’d very much like to feel better, although I don’t imagine there’s anything you can do about that.’ His voice has got louder as his anger rises.

  She is looking at him with a different expression now. ‘So you feel it’s important that the truth be known?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says shortly.

  She sighs again, and it is a sound full of sadness. ‘Then perhaps it is time for me to tell you the truth, too. It wasn’t Lord Berwick who told Julian there wasn’t going to be a wedding, it was me.’

  ‘You.’ He is amazed. ‘But I thought you were making sure of a secure future once you no longer appear on the stage?’

  ‘Yes, you and everybody else in London,’ she replies sharply. ‘Which is fair enough, I admit, since it was pretty much the main reason.’ She has been gazing out of the window at the softly lit street outside but now she turns to face him again. ‘I couldn’t do it. I thought I could, and I told myself that a life of luxury with maids for this and servants for that, and never having to worry about money again, would make marrying that dear, fond boy worthwhile. For he was a dear boy, make no mistake, and he needed love like nobody I’ve ever met.’ She pauses, and when she resumes her voice has a different quality. ‘His mother is a selfish piece of work, for all that she overindulged him with gifts and money and was always helping him out when yet again he ran up outlandish debts, but as for loving him, forget it. Packed him off to boarding school when he was only just six, and even when he was sent home for the holidays it was nannies and servants who cared for him, poor little sod. He was so hungry for approval, for softness, for kindness, and—’ But her voice breaks and she does not go on.

  ‘He wanted a mother more than a wife,’ Felix says.

  She shoots him a sharp look. ‘You’re no fool, are you?’ She studies him. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Only four years older than Julian, but you’re a man and he was a boy,’ she says softly. Then, smiling faintly, ‘Bet you don’t need any mothering.’

  Felix thinks about this. It is, he concludes, true. ‘I did have a long and happy association with a woman many years my senior,’ he says.

  Her smile broadens. ‘Yes, but I’d wager a sovereign to a soiled handkerchief you didn’t want her for her maternal qualities.’

  ‘You’d win,’ he says briefly.

  She leans closer, her voice dropping so that it is a murmur. ‘I told myself I could be both wife and mother for Julian. I kept telling myself, but in the end I no longer believed my own words.’

  She pauses, and he senses a strong emotion building up. ‘He was so needy! Dear Lord above, he was! I felt I could never give him enough of myself. He’d turn up looking for me when he knew I was busy, standing there with some pathetic bun
ch of flowers and a face like a kicked dog, and when I’d ask what he was doing there he’d say something about thinking I might have wanted him for something, or might like a ride home in his carriage, and all the time I was thinking to myself, you’re not telling me the truth, young man, you’re here because you want to make sure I’m behaving myself and not flirting with my leading man, or having a bit of a giggle with the stage hands or a good old gossip with my dresser. He didn’t approve of such behaviour.’

  She sighs again. ‘Then he always used to want to collect me for a late supper after a long day. It’s tiring what I do, don’t you go thinking it isn’t, and nine times out of ten I’d have preferred sitting at home with my corsets off in my dressing gown with my feet up and a large whisky. Anyway, I’d do as he wanted, get myself all dressed up in my finery and set out with him to some restaurant full of chinless braying toffs, and I’d say to him, “How are you, Julian?” and he’d look at me out of those great mournful eyes and say, “Not too bad,” and I’d know fucking well – sorry – he really meant, I’m sad and I’m lonely and I worry about what you’re up to all the time, and I’ll only be happy if you give up everything and become one hundred per cent mine.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Felix exclaims.

  Violetta grins briefly. ‘Bloody hell indeed,’ she agrees.

  ‘So you told him you wouldn’t marry him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And then he—’ But it is too cruel to go on.

  ‘He did,’ Violetta whispers.