Fatal Inheritance (17 page)

‘Oh my,’ he said again. ‘Do you know what we are looking for? Are you actually going to take anything?’

‘I don’t know exactly what I am looking for, but I do know exactly where to look. It won’t take long, and, with luck, I don’t think I will need to take anything or to leave any trace at all of my presence in the house. Hopefully no one will ever know.’

‘How exciting,’ he said. ‘When is this all to happen?’

‘Very soon,’ I said. ‘I have simply been waiting for an opportunity to be absolutely certain that the lady who lives in the flat will be out when I need to go there, and, as a matter of fact, that opportunity has just arisen. Next Thursday there is to be a private concert and ceremony at the town house of a certain Lord, who is engaged to be married to this lady, and she is certain to attend.’

Indeed, contrary to all my expectations, Professor Wessely’s letter to Mrs Cavendish, which must have been redacted with an unusual level of tact, had met with astonishing success. She had apparently consulted her betrothed, for the result was that Lord Warburton had accepted to become the patron of young Wolfe Wolfinsohn until his majority, and an event had been organised at which the guests were to combine such friends of Lord Warburton as might also be interested by the possibility of transforming themselves into patrons of the arts, and musicians, both eminent professionals and friends of Sebastian. Not only was little Wolfe to be publicly presented with the gift of a monthly pension, modest indeed in view of Lord Warburton’s fortune but quite sufficient to cover the child’s expenses, but he was to play a short concert, and there was also to be a grand surprise, revealed to no one before the ceremony itself.

Rose and Claire were of course invited, and Rose passed me her card.

‘This will get you inside,’ she said, ‘and no one will notice a thing. Lord Warburton and Mrs Cavendish will each think you were on the other’s list of guests, and there will be quite enough people present for you to remain perfectly unnoticed. Do go – you never know whom you might meet, or what you might observe.’

‘So it is to be Thursday?’ said Ephraim, counting off the days on his fingers.

‘Yes. Thursday, at nine o’clock in the evening. We will be at our posts from eight-thirty. I mustn’t miss this opportunity.’

‘We shall do it all right,’ he said confidently. ‘But when are you going to tell me what it’s all about?’

‘This minute, if you like,’ I said, spotting the gold and white front of a Lyons a short distance up the Whitechapel Road, along which I was trying to keep up with Ephraim’s step, whose rapidity was probably representative of a half-conscious effort to distance himself from his mother, the hub of his world and the human embodiment of his conscience. I drew him inside and ordered tea and cakes, as always blessing Mr Lyons for the recent creation of these unpoetic but clean and orderly places, which offered to an incalculable number of chilled, lonely women and shy, impoverished working girls a cup of tea or a sausage roll when no other place would be safe or suitable.

Since the first Lyons had opened six years ago, they had multiplied like mushrooms all over London, thus proving the existence of a widespread, long-repressed and frustrated demand. If only there were more Mr Lyons about, I thought, to answer the multitude of other ignored needs of women; all the infinity of little needs that combined into one great, giant need to be allowed to emerge from the shadows of a uniquely private life into the sunshine of the grand world of ideas and actions. I should not grudge them their profit, and should wish all of their pockets filled with gold, if only they would be so noble as to come to our aid and free us from our prison, the bars of which are made of unsuitability, modesty and masculine decree. Poor dear Queen Victoria, as long as she continues to champion by word, act and example, the familiar concept that woman’s sphere is the home and that public appearance is to be shunned, her reign will not have the honour of being the cradle of revolutionary change. But she is eighty and a new century is beginning, and we shall see what we shall see. In the meantime, thank goodness for Lyons, and for all the individual efforts of women – with particular attention to mathematicians, cellists and detectives – to thrust vibrant green shoots out from the rich soil of the private home, and let them grow and thrive in the open air.

In front of the steaming cups, I told Ephraim the story from the beginning. His life kept him at such a distance from the people concerned in my story that I felt as discreet in talking to him about them as though I had been talking to myself, or simply telling him the story of a novel. He drank it all in with passionate interest. It was much more than a mere story to him. It was an initiation.

‘How dreadful to have wanted to die without explaining why. You
must
find out,’ he cried, and his words and his tone reflected the sympathy, the innate curiosity, and the profound desire to understand and penetrate to the heart of things that characterises the heart of a detective. I spoke to him as to a younger colleague, he responded in kind, and my heart was pleasantly warmed with the prospect of having a willing and able travelling companion to accompany me over some of the worst humps in my lonely and disturbing journeys.

I stood by the long, cloth-covered table laden with sumptuous refreshments, holding the champagne flute with which a white-gloved footman had kindly provided me from a circulating tray, and trying to keep out of the way of bumping by the people who crowded all about. Everyone was eating, drinking and uttering pleasant remarks on the subject of the delightful concert to which we had just been treated, the remarkable talent on the part of one so young, the admirable generosity of Lord Warburton who was undertaking the support of the boy for the duration of his studies, and the extraordinary, unexpected and touching gesture of Mrs Cavendish. Indeed, at the conclusion of the formal words pronounced by Lord Warburton on the subject of his pleasure at being able to contribute something useful to so worthy a cause, she had stepped forward, dressed in the deepest mourning, and, with no more than an inaudible mumble, thrust a violin case into the boy’s hands and then sat down again abruptly. Lord Warburton helped the child open the case and extract from it a violin so beautiful that those in the audience not familiar with it gasped as it was held up to view: the rich tones of red-gold varnish, the burnished appearance that only age could provide, and above all the extraordinary lion’s head with its roaring open mouth that replaced the traditional scroll.

This, then, was the announced surprise: Mrs Cavendish had given Wolfe Sebastian’s violin. The splendid beauty and generosity of this gift, from a woman so grievously bereaved, was much admired by the assembled guests. Even with all the admirable self-control at her command, I noticed that Mrs Cavendish closed her eyes momentarily as the dark rectangular case left her hands, and averted her gaze from the violin when it was shown. I thought of the recently dug grave at Highgate, and of my twins, and of the unspeakable pain of losing a child to grinning death. Mrs Cavendish’s mother had also known that pain, I recalled, and a sudden urge rose up inside me to know more about what had happened to that other girl, so long ago.

The concert that followed lasted no longer than a half-hour, as Lord Warburton was no doubt wary of unduly taxing the concentration abilities of his aristocratic guests, but it displayed young Wolfe to his best advantage as he played turn by turn religious music, lilting melodies and pieces of astonishing virtuosity. His teacher sat in the front row, the new violin on his lap, fingering its wood and strings gently, listening, and nodding his head. When it was over there was polite applause, and a pair of wide double doors was opened, leading into the dining room in which the long and well-laden tables had been exquisitely prepared.

I stood by the table, trying to be unnoticeable, and kept my eyes on Mrs Cavendish. My one fear was that the emotion of the evening would prove too much for her, and that she would request to be taken home – which would have seriously interfered with my plans! I was relieved to see, however, that between the compliments of the guests, a glass of champagne, and above all the considerate and protective behaviour of Lord Warburton, who stood near her, his hand on her elbow, she appeared to be reasonably master of the situation, and to have no intention of retiring. As I waited and watched, I followed Lord Warburton with my eyes, and admired his kind air and his upright bearing.

And I wondered suddenly.

How would such a man react if told that the sister of his bride-to-be was a madwoman? A man of noble birth, who bore an ancient tradition in his blood, and a man who, according to John Milrose, was a believer in Galton’s plan of eugenics, according to which the English race must be improved and strengthened by enforced sterilisation of anyone who was suspected of any kind of hereditary mental disease.

If the truth were known, he might no longer wish to marry Mrs Cavendish. Even though she was beyond the age of bearing children, such a marriage would fly in the face of his beliefs and render him a laughing-stock amongst his peers and colleagues. Might not Sebastian have been forcibly stopped from bringing the knowledge of Lydia’s existence to the attention of the eugenicist Lord? My eyes, which were resting on Mrs Cavendish, moved slowly over to her betrothed.

What if, in fact, Lord Warburton had been told the truth – what if Sebastian had discovered that Lydia was still alive, hidden away somewhere, and had gone to Lord Warburton to tell him about her and demand help. What if, shocked by the discovery, Lord Warburton realised that it would render his marriage impossible, and yet simultaneously that his love for Mrs Cavendish was too strong to be denied? What if, locked in a dreadful bind, he could neither renounce nor accept his coming marriage? Reserved and aristocratic as he was, it was obvious that he was deeply enamoured, and, indeed, Mrs Cavendish was a very beautiful woman, even if some of her glow was due to arsenical treatment. This evening, she was the very picture of noble and touching grief, allied with the infinite benevolence of a goddess. Was it out of the question that he might wish to solve the problem by suppressing all possibility of the unpleasant knowledge ever being revealed, by silencing the interfering youth?

Ah, the insistent idea of murder, sneaking yet again into my mind of its own accord, taking me unawares. Sebastian was considered to have killed himself. He
may
have killed himself. Why was I so suspicious, so doubting?

I simply could not picture Sebastian being driven to despair and self-immolation by the discoveries that were emerging, little by little. Lydia K. – Lydia Krieger, I was now convinced – had been no madder than Hélène Smith; Dr Bernstein had said so clearly. And even if she had become so – even if beautiful, gentle Lydia had somehow, in the twenty-five years since he had lost sight of her, become so uncontrollably and so incurably mad that she was now lost amongst the very dregs of humanity; those that are locked away in the deepest and most miserable dungeons of the insane asylums – even then, I still did not believe that Sebastian would go home and kill himself over it.

But!

Now, at this very instant, while standing next to the tables, my dazed eyes following Lord Warburton as he circulated amongst his guests, holding in his hand a porcelain dish edged with a ring of gold and containing a tiny silver fork and a dainty and diminutive mince pie, I suddenly had enough of mere ruminations. There was information waiting for me in Mrs Cavendish’s desk drawers, and now was the very time to go and find it! Setting down my teacup, I passed back towards the double doors opening into the drawing room in which the concert had been held. On each side of these, a pair of enormously thick curtains had been gathered, leaving the opening free. As I went through the doorway, I became aware of movements within the green velvet folds. I paused for the slightest moment.

There were two people. I heard very muffled whispers.

‘No! You mustn’t! John, stop!’

‘I love you, Claire. I adore you. Please – let me speak!’

‘No! I can’t – I mustn’t hear it!’

I went through, but turned my head and glanced back as I left. Claire hurried out from the curtains alone, her face flushed with confusion and distress, and walked unsteadily towards the tea table. I waited until John Milrose followed her, a long moment later. His face was grim, but also determined.

John Milrose was so in love with Claire that he couldn’t even bring himself to respect her grief, let alone the memory of his friend.

He, too, had a reason to wish Sebastian out of the way.

My mind was out of control, it seemed, in a turmoil of wild suspicion; terrible, generic suspicion that seemed ready to be directed upon anyone who happened to pass in front of me. This was quite unacceptable! I hurried outside, and immediately took a cab and directed it to Russell Square. An unbearable pressure seemed to work upon me from within, and Mrs Cavendish’s desk drawers took on, in my mind, the features of the Oracle of Delphi. I did not know what I should find there, and perhaps when I found it, I would not understand it. Yet it hardly mattered, as long as there was
something
.

I stood in the garden in the centre of Russell Square, sheltered from the drizzle underneath a large umbrella which further served to hide my features from the occasional passer-by (who in any case was too occupied with dogs on leashes or squalling children to care), and looked over at Mrs Cavendish’s building, to see if I could spot young Ephraim lurking in the shadows, ready and waiting according to our plan. It was not easy to see in the darkness and rain, but I could just make out the occasional movements of a dim figure in a nearby doorway. The appointed hour was drawing near.

At nine o’clock the door opened, letting out a shaft of light that reflected in a thousand twinkles on the rain-shimmering pavement. Out came Mrs Munn – I made sure it was really she – and paused to reach into her large holdall and extract an umbrella, which she opened before setting off along the side of the square.

Yes! A swift and silent shadow was following her, at a short distance.

The two figures disappeared around the corner, and there was nothing for me to do but wait, whilst imaginary pictures of the events that were to take place thrust themselves into my mind in richly coloured contradictions. Here, Ephraim attacked the poor old lady, accidentally throwing her to the ground in his haste, and then stopped to raise her to her feet, drowning in humble apologies, his natural politeness smothering all the nefarious intentions I had so carefully introduced into his innocently boyish mind. There, the poor woman unexpectedly hailed a passing omnibus and hopped nimbly inside, taking Ephraim by surprise and leaving him standing empty-handed under the pouring rain. Finally, I imagined him succeeding in snatching away the bag and hotfooting it back towards Russell Square, pursued by Mrs Munn’s shrieks of ‘Stop thief!’, several angry passers-by and a bobby, all of whom would stop directly in front of me and stare squarely into my face while Ephraim handed me his booty with a sheepish expression.

Lost in these visions of distress, I never even heard a sound as Ephraim actually approached me in reality. His step suddenly sounding in my very ear caused me to jump out of my skin, and I turned around with a gasp. The boy handed me Mrs Munn’s capacious bag in silence, his expression a mixture of relief, guilt and sadness.

‘Ah, thank you,’ I said, somewhat absurdly.

‘It was much harder than I thought it would be,’ he said, following my hurried steps out of the garden and onto the street. ‘I mean, it was very easy, in fact. I simply snatched the bag from her hand and ran. She cried out something, but there was no one around. I didn’t even have to run fast. But I thought I wasn’t going to be able to bring myself to do it. It’s awful, awful. I can’t believe I just did this to that poor old lady. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to. I didn’t realise that there was such a big, strong thing inside me trying to stop me. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to make myself do it. It was so mean. I feel so bad.’

Water streamed down his face, but as he was absolutely dripping with rain, I made no assumptions, but laid my hand gently upon his arm.

‘We will get it back to her and make it up to her,’ I promised. ‘Just as soon as I’m finished here. Come quickly, now.’

‘But she has to take a ’bus and she’ll not have the fare,’ he sniffled.

‘I know. I’m sorry. But Mrs Munn has lived through much greater difficulties in her life than this. It’s not such a catastrophe. She will manage. Come now, we may have only a few minutes. Quick!’

We crossed the road together and Ephraim stationed himself in front of the door of the building as a lookout, ready to rush up and call me to come running out the very moment he should spy anyone approaching. I climbed the stairs, quickly removed my wet wrap and boots, and laid them with my umbrella outside the flat so as to leave no traces at all inside. Then I located the key with my fingers inside Mrs Munn’s bag, unlocked the door without difficulty, and entered Sebastian’s flat for the first time.

The flat was eerily quiet. I knew it would be empty, yet the silence was disturbing – though a sudden or mysterious noise would certainly have been worse! In my stockings, I stepped down the corridor, passing the open doors to the parlour on my left and the dining room on my right. Farther down, the doors were closed. I tentatively opened the first one, then closed it again quickly, then opened it again. So this was Sebastian’s room.

It perfectly neat and perfectly clean, but probably no more so than it had been on a daily basis even during his life. I raised a corner of the quilted cover laid upon the bed, and saw that it was laid over the bare mattress; the bed had been stripped. But a music stand in the corner, books and music on the shelves, and clothes in the closet, spoke for the heart that had beat in this room.

I had no time to contemplate it further, although I would have liked to absorb something of the personality that had left its traces there. I went out and peered into the next room: it was the study. Leaving the door ajar, I finally found my way into Mrs Cavendish’s bedroom.

Like the rest of the flat, the room was a compromise between the style in which it had originally been furnished, some decades earlier, and a nature more attuned to a sort of stark simplicity in which two words would never do when one was enough. The heavy furniture spoke of another time, but their smooth surfaces were bare of the vases and pictures that must have once been crowded upon them. The heavy bed curtains were drawn back and held by thick braided ropes, opening to view what had been conceived as a secretive, cosy nook. Upon the dressing table, which was covered with a piece of plain white damask, were laid ivory brushes, combs and mirrors and a modest selection of pots and flasks. I lifted the lid of a porcelain pot with a shock, but it contained only the most ordinary powder, surmounted by a tiny puff. Of arsenic, there was none to be seen. I supposed that Mrs Cavendish would hardly have kept the pot, even if the police had returned it to her, which was most unlikely. Upon the washstand next to the dressing table stood a large porcelain bowl and jug, perfectly white, the latter filled with fresh water. The whole room denoted a struggle between the clutches of the dim, heavy styles of the past – an echo of collector’s objects all crowded together could still faintly be felt in the dense but faded garlands of the wallpaper and the intricate fruits and leaves carved on the wardrobe doors – and a striving for absolute simplicity and purity. Something about it was tremendously revealing. I felt as though I had had an unexpected glimpse into Mrs Cavendish’s very soul.