The Crystal Cage (34 page)

He felt Renville looking at him. There was an odd light in the man’s eyes, or was that Lucas’s tortured imagination. It would hardly be surprising if his expression were odd. He must look strange himself, wild eyed and distraught. Had Edward Renville seen the slight figure half-hidden behind gauze and pillars? Had he seen his wife? And if so, had he guessed that Lucas was her lover? He could not be sure. Renville did not speak but turned away once more to direct an excitable woman impatient to import Venetian silk towards Dearlove’s expert advice.

Lucas looked back at the pillar, but there was nothing. She had gone, and he knew not where. Agonising minutes followed, one after another, Renville close by and smiling benignly at visitors, Dearlove advising on the manufacture of silk and himself mechanically answering the endless, endless questions on the dream design that had once been the pinnacle of his world. At length his ordeal was over.

In a pause between visitors Renville turned again towards him. ‘I shall be leaving now, Royde.’ His face was expressionless. ‘I trust you will continue the good work. And you, too, Dearlove.’ He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of his assistant and strode out into the passageway without a second glance. Lucas gave him several minutes to melt into the crowd and then followed. He pelted down the staircase, searching to his left and right along the ground-floor nave. Then out into the park. He wandered, almost crazed, among the picnicking families, but there was no sign of her. She had vanished, melted into the crowds as though she was no more than the wraith she resembled.

He walked slowly back towards the Prince of Wales Gate. The frenzy was abating and he knew in his heart that he would not find her here. She had come to their trysting place, come to find him, and he had denied her. His love had been tested and he had failed. But what had happened since he bade her farewell that early morning two weeks ago and why if she were in such distress had she sent no message? He felt a growing anger towards her, but he knew that it was anger deflected.

Even greater crowds had gathered in the time since he had walked to the Exhibition so full of hope. That had been in another life. Black columns of pedestrians swarmed the pavements and a continuous stream of buses and cabs swept the roads clear. There were people atop roofs and walls, small boys up trees and gas standards. The population had climbed wherever they might, to obtain a good view of the royal procession and the glittering glass palace in the distance.

As he began the long walk back to Holborn, he tried to bring his mind under control, to focus on what he must do to find Alessia. She was not staying at the house in St Albans; she was not living at Wisteria Lodge. But someone there might know something. If he could garner only a small clue, it might lead him to her. He would go there and if he were lucky, the friendly maid—Hetty, he thought was her name—might help him. Even if it was Martha who opened the door, it was possible that he could bribe her to tell him what she knew. He still had a few coins in his pocket and there was one more sovereign secreted beneath the floorboard in his room, destined only to be used in grave emergency. There could be nothing graver than this; he would need the money if he were to search for his love and find her. And he would, he was resolute.

In half an hour he turned the corner of Prospect Place, his breathing erratic and his heart pulsing uncomfortably. This visit was a desperate throw, but it was all he had. Once into the street, he slowed his pace and almost dawdled past the row of gracious Georgian buildings, trying to decide his best approach. He must appear unconcerned, he thought, not allow a hint of panic to escape. He would enquire casually after the lady of the house, express a little surprise that she had not attended the ceremony today. And hope against hope that somewhere a word might drop that would propel him to her side. He stood outside Wisteria Lodge and looked up at its windows. They were blank. The house had a newly mournful air as though only just getting used to a bereavement. A symbolic bereavement, he thought. Blinds were drawn in every room and the door knocker had been taken down. There was nobody at the house. So where were the daughters? Where was Renville himself living? They had shut up house and scattered to the winds. There was to be no help for him here.

Tears of frustration stung his eyes. Why had she not waited for him in the Exhibition Hall? If she had been frightened by seeing her husband so close, she could have concealed herself nearby. It would not have been difficult among such a very large crowd. She must know that he had understood the message in her eyes; she must know that he would come to her. Why had she not waited then? Instead she had fled and left him flailing and frantic. He trudged heavily back to Red Lion Square and once in his room, flung himself on the bed and wept. This time it was not tears of frustration but long heaving sobs that shook his frame in a violent assault. When his emotion was spent, he sat up, dull eyed. Furious, too, that he had allowed himself to give way to pointless tears. He should be out there, searching every road, every alley way, in Holborn and beyond to find her. Roused to action at last, he lifted the loose floorboard beneath his bed and retrieved his last remaining sovereign. He had reached the door when the first heavy drops of rain began to fall on the skylight above. Clouds like polished granite threatened overhead and he looked around for the umbrella he rarely used. He would need it, for this was likely to be a very long night. He would not rest until he found her.

His umbrella was slumped by the door where he had thrown it weeks before, and as he picked it up, he dislodged the fraying doormat, preventing the door from opening more than a few inches. He bent to replace the mat and a small speck of white caught his eye. He kneeled down and extracted a torn and dirty sliver of paper from under its coarse bristles. He felt a sickening jolt as he deciphered his name on the front of the folded sheet.

My darling
, he read,
I have taken a room here.

Where?
he thought frantically and scanned the top of the page. There at last was an address: 2a Bluegate Fields. He did not recognise the street name but was sure it lay beyond Holborn.

I have taken a room here with the small amount of money I had with me. The landlady is not a trusting woman and demands that I pay in advance. So far I have managed to do so but now I find myself at a standstill. I have given this woman the few pieces of jewellery I possess, my mother’s jewellery, and that has paid my lodging for several more days, but I have nothing left. My darling, I am sorry to ask this, but can you get money to me as soon as possible? More rent is needed and I have nothing for food or medicine. I think I am falling ill. I have asked one of your fellow lodgers to place this
note under your door so that I am not seen. Please help me, Lucas, I will not embarrass you or cause you scandal. Please come to me, I beg of you. Please, my darling.

Your love

Alessia

His right hand holding the paper was trembling so much that he had to grasp it firmly with the left in order to hold it still. For a while he could manage no other action. Then he urgently scanned the letter again. The date, when had she sent this message? A whole week ago! And he had not responded. She had sent a plea for help and when he had not replied, she must have thought his love dead. Today she had come to the Crystal Palace at what personal cost, he agonised. She was ill but had dragged herself there to make a last effort to reclaim him. And he had denied her again or so it must seem. It was truly grotesque. He had done nothing but think of her, long for her, make plans for them to be together.

And the messenger he had sent to her, what had happened to him? The boy had appeared trustworthy, but he must have judged him wrongly. Or perhaps the child had been set upon by thieves and relieved of the money he carried. If so, he may have ended too battered to deliver the message or too frightened to confess to Alessia what had happened.

He stood stock-still for more minutes than he knew, trying to make sense of the bewildering events that had overtaken his life. Then spurred into movement, he shrugged himself into his coat, memorised the address at the top of the letter and ran down the stairs. Out on the streets he could see that the day was slowly winding to its end and crowds of happy, contented people were making their way home. But for him there was no happiness, no home. He was running now to the cab stand at High Holborn. He jumped into the first hansom he could find and gave the jarvey the address.

The man looked him up and down, taking in the smart attire he had donned for this memorable day. ‘Sure you want to go there, mister?’

‘I do,’ he said abruptly. Could the place be that bad that a seasoned driver had doubts?

It was. The lodging house was situated deep in the East End and proved to be a bleak tenement building, squatting within a warren of narrow, rotting streets. He stepped out of the cab into a monochrome world, the canyons of blackened brick forever blocking out the sun. His feet were wet from the pools of filthy water that lay everywhere, and the carcass of a dog festered on the cobbles where it had died. And this was where Alessia had been living! It could not be. He heard the hansom move off swiftly behind him. The driver was taking no chances, and seeing some of the unkempt youths lolling against the buildings opposite, Lucas could hardly blame him. He felt eyes looking at him from out of broken windows and the small urchins who had been kicking a stone between them at the end of the street had stopped and were watching. The house he had been delivered to was by no means the worst in the road, but the paint was peeling, tiles had fallen from the roof and the windows were cracked. At least it had a door on which to bang loudly. No one came and he knocked again. Again no one and then as he lifted his fist to knock a third time, the door opened noisily on unoiled hinges.

‘Yus.’

The woman who stood before him was short and squat. She wore a ragged smock over an even more ragged dress and neither had been washed for a very long time. Thinning hair straggled across a face scored by poverty. Her hand clasping the door was rough and none too clean.

‘I believe you have a lady lodging with you,’ he began in as pleasant a voice as he could muster.

‘No.’ She went to shut the door, but he swiftly inserted his foot against its closing.

‘I think you do,’ he said more insistently.

‘I ain’t got no female ‘ere, mister. More trouble than they’re worth. I only takes men.’

‘But you had a lady here?’

‘Oh ‘er.’

At last! But his heart quailed at the knowledge that this was in truth the house in which his lover had found refuge.

‘Yes, her. Where is she?’

‘Females,’ the woman sniffed. ‘More trouble than they’re worth,’ and tried to kick his foot from the door. But he stood his ground, his anger growing into a hard, fiery ball. This was the woman Alessia had been forced to confront, the woman who had insisted on payment in advance, the woman who had callously extracted precious jewellery from her sick tenant.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded and his voice shook.

The slatternly woman glared at him, her fists clenched. She looked as though she would be capable of striking him.

‘‘ow do I know?’ she said, her voice loudly belligerent.

‘Are you saying that she no longer resides here?’

‘Reside,’ she jeered. ‘No she don’t. I turned ‘er out.’

He paled. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’

‘Them’s that don’t pay their rent, don’t stay. I ain’t a bleedin’ charity.’

‘But the lady paid you.’

‘She paid fer seven days and that’s what she got.’

‘But she gave you jewellery, precious jewellery, to stay longer.’

‘It weren’t precious to me. Couldn’t sell it nowhere.’

Lucas thought quickly. It was possible the woman was telling the truth. Alessia’s jewellery would be obviously foreign and perhaps cause suspicion among the local fences.

‘Could you not have waited until she was able to obtain more funds?’

‘Look ‘ere, me fine gent, I told yer I ain’t a charity. Any case she was coughin’ so bad I reckoned she ‘ad some disease. I don’t want nuthin’ catchin’ in my lodgings. It’s a respectable ‘ouse.’

So she
was
ill. Dear God, what ailed her and how long had she been without shelter.

‘When did she leave?’

‘Dunno, four days ago, mebbe five.’ Five days without shelter and food and all the time he had been ignorant of her torment. He had pictured her living safe and warm on his money. He’d felt pleased with himself that he had provided for her. Such arrogance, such stupid arrogance!

He became aware of the woman scowling ferociously up at him. ‘Yer arsk a deal o’ questions, mister, and I ain’t getting paid fer any of ’em.’

‘Then allow me to pay for the jewellery the lady left with you.’

For the first time in the squalid proceedings, the woman looked interested. ‘I ain’t got nuthin’ but a neckliss. Yer can ‘ave that fer a price.’ And she shuffled along the dingy passage behind her to a room at the end.

The woman must have sold the other items, Lucas thought, despite claiming otherwise, but she had kept back this one piece, unwilling to let it go. When she returned she had in her hand an exquisite necklace: three delicate strands of lapis lazuli weaved sinuously into a lustrous crescent. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to sell it for a few shillings.

‘What do you want for it?’

The woman had a crafty look in her eye. ‘A guinea.’ It was a ridiculous price for something she could only sell illegally.

‘Here,’ and he fished in his pocket for the last remaining sovereign. She sniffed when she saw it was less than she had demanded, but the coin nevertheless disappeared in a trice into the smock’s large pocket.

He relaxed his stance as he held the wonderful necklace in his hand and imagined its fragile beauty adorning Alessia’s sweet neck. The woman took advantage of his inattention and slammed the door shut against his foot. He gazed at the necklace for a moment more, then wrapped it carefully in the folds of a clean linen handkerchief and placed it in his coat’s inner pocket. He would keep it close to his heart forever.