The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (125 page)

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me. I need to know everything.’

He frowned at his hands. ‘There’s – a child.’

A soft intake of breath.

‘A little girl,’ he said. ‘Ten months old.’

Isabelle Lawe put her hands by her sides and stared down at the rug. ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ she said to herself.

Adam didn’t know how to reply.

It was very still in the drawing room. The breeze had subsided, and the curtains hung motionless. The clock on the chimney-piece had stopped.

The telephone rang.

Adam jumped. Isabelle didn’t move.

On and on it rang: loud, insistent, everyday. Adam stirred. ‘Shall I—?’

She did not reply.

He went out into the hall.

The woman on the other end of the line sounded both flustered and aggrieved, but as she was a housekeeper she kept a lid on her temper when she learned that she was speaking to an officer. She seemed anxious to make it clear that she was
not
a governess – the governess having so far neglected her duties as to have ended up in hospital with the influenza – which now left the lone housekeeper singlehandedly running the household,
and
looking after Master Max, whom she was plainly desperate to get off her hands, so that she could go to Brighton and nurse her sister. ‘I’m a
housekeeper
,
’
she complained for the tenth time, ‘not a governess . . .’

Quietly, Adam told her what had happened.

She made a clucking noise, but showed no real distress, and Adam could hear her reckoning the extent to which this would make it harder to ditch Max. He felt a flash of pity for the boy, whom he vaguely recalled meeting before the War.

Through the open door he saw Isabelle Lawe sitting silent and still by the window. ‘Well he can’t come here,’ he told the housekeeper, putting a little military steel into his voice to fend off the expected protest.

‘But I’m a
housekeeper
, not a—’

‘Who else can take him?’

‘Well . . . there’s Mrs Pryce-Dennistoun. Mrs Clyne’s friend? They play bridge together. I telephoned her when I couldn’t get through to you’ – somehow she made that sound as if it was his fault – ‘but she can only take him for a couple of days, she was most particular about that—’

‘Good enough,’ said Adam. ‘See to it.’

‘What, me? But sir, I can’t—’

‘Mrs Clyne’s solicitors will reimburse your expenses,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll make sure that they know the boy’s whereabouts.’

‘But sir, can’t you—’

‘No,’ he said, and replaced the receiver.

Back in the drawing room, he told Isabelle Lawe. She listened without seeming to take in a word.

Adam said, ‘Is there someone I can call?’

She blinked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone to be with you? You shouldn’t be here on your own.’

‘I don’t want anyone.’

‘There must be someone.’

She shook her head. ‘Not for people like me.’

He threw her a sharp glance. What did she mean? ‘I can’t just leave you,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ve an aunt. Aunt – Mildred. I shall telephone her directly you’ve left. There. Does that satisfy you?’

He guessed that Aunt Mildred had been invented on the spot to get rid of him, but decided to go along with it. After all, Isabelle Lawe was no relation of his. He wasn’t responsible for her, and she didn’t want his help. Besides, he’d done what he’d set out to do, he’d warned her about Osbourne. Duty discharged.

He moved to the door. ‘I’ll call tomorrow morning to see—’

‘Please don’t,’ she said between her teeth. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds uncivil, but I shall be fine. I don’t want your help.’

He inclined his head. ‘Very well.’

‘I shall be fine,’ she said again, as if to convince herself. ‘There are worse things than losing a lover.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Adam. That was so inadequate that he coloured. ‘I’ll – let myself out.’

She did not reply, or even turn her head.

On the steps, he glanced through the window and saw her still seated on the sofa, just as he’d left her. She hadn’t moved at all.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Where to, miss?’ said the cabbie.

Belle stared at him.

‘Where d’you want to go?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Just take me away from here. Take me somewhere – poor.’

It was his turn to stare.

‘The East End,’ she said on impulse. ‘Take me to the East End.’

He hesitated. ‘Big place, miss. Whereabouts?’

‘Just drive.’

With an eloquent shrug he shut the roof hatch and clucked to his horse to walk on.

Belle drew down the blind, and sat back against the greasy green plush. She was so
tired
. It had been all she could do to cram a few things into a valise, turn off the gas, and lock the front door. Now, as the cab rattled off, she shut her eyes. She didn’t want to see number seventeen slipping away, or the last of Berkeley Square. She was finished with all that.

Or rather, it was finished with her. The duppies had caught up with her at last, just as she’d always feared they would. No more Sibella. No more Osbourne. No more being the popular socialite, Miss Isabelle Lawe. The duppies had cast her out into darkness.

And there wasn’t a minute to lose, for Cornelius Traherne would come to the house as soon as he heard the news. Sibella had been wealthy. Many times she’d told Belle that Max would inherit it all; that she’d left instructions with her solicitors that ‘if anything happened’, her father was to have no control over the boy. But Belle knew that that wouldn’t stop Traherne. He was not a man to be deflected by a woman.

You did the right thing, she told herself as the cab swayed through the streets. But she couldn’t shake off the feeling that yet again, she was running away from Traherne.

She tried to put that from her mind, and at last slid down into uneasy dreams.

‘Where now?’ said the cabbie, startling her into wakefulness. The roof hatch was open, and the harsh daylight made her blink.

‘I told you,’ she said blearily, ‘the East End.’

‘We’re there, miss. Where now?’

What did it matter? Why couldn’t he leave her alone?

‘I’m not allowed to just drive around, miss,’ he said testily. ‘You know that well as I do, it’s against my licence. Sides, there’s a war on.’

‘Give me a moment to think,’ she said.

Heaving a sigh, he pulled up at the kerb.

Belle raised the blind and peered out. They were in a narrow street overshadowed by grimy tenements, and criss-crossed with soot-speckled washing. She smelt stale cabbage and sewerage. Yes, she thought. The dirtier the better.

But where should she go?

A memory surfaced from long ago. She was twelve years old, standing with her aunt and uncle on Fever Hill, inspecting the new great house which was nearing completion.

She’d always loved those visits. Aunt Sophie made a point of listening to her ideas, and sometimes even implemented one or two; and Ben let her hold out a handkerchief to gauge the wind direction, so that they could ensure that the new house would be as cool as possible.

This particular afternoon, a strong land breeze had been blowing from the hills, and the three of them had been standing in the carriageway, admiring the splendid new porticoed verandahs.

Suddenly, Ben had snorted a laugh. ‘It’s bloody enormous,’ he’d said, earning a curious look from Belle and a warning glance from his wife. ‘Well, it’s a long way from East Street, isn’t it, sweetheart?’ he’d said to Aunt Sophie.

Belle was intrigued. ‘What’s East Street?’

‘Where I grew up,’ he replied. ‘Well, part of the time.’ He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Not your kind of place, love. Not at all.’

‘Is East Street in London?’ said Belle. ‘Are your mamma and papa still there?’

‘Oh, no, they’re long gone,’ he said softly. ‘Nobody in East Street remembers the Kellys now.’ Then he’d lapsed into Cockney, which he did sometimes to make her laugh. ‘We ’ad two rooms to ourselfs an’ an ahtside privy for twenty-four fam’lies. An’ look at me now, eh?’

Belle was puzzled. ‘Only two rooms? But where did you keep all your horses?’

This time, Aunt Sophie laughed, too.

‘No horses,’ said Ben, ‘not in those days. Still, we thought we were doing all right. Two whole rooms, with a bit of curtain in between for privacy, and a separate bed for us kids—’

‘Ben, that’s enough,’ said Aunt Sophie.

Then he’d given his wife a wolfish grin and a kiss that nearly swept her off her feet, and after that he’d challenged Belle to race him to the stables . . .

‘Where
to
, miss?’ snapped the cabbie.

‘East Street,’ said Belle.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The slums. It was where she belonged.

‘I just don’t
belong
,’ said Drum Talbot as he worked his way through yet another brandy.

The waiter came and offered more, and Adam waved him away. Drum had had quite enough already.

‘I’m putting on an act all the time,’ Drum went on. ‘It’s so damnably hard, Adam. I can’t tell you how much I loathe it.’

‘I know,’ said Adam. ‘That’s why I think you could do with a rest. A chance to get away.’

Drum blinked rapidly. ‘You’re a good sort, Adam. One of the best.’

Adam sipped his coffee in silence. He didn’t feel like ‘one of the best’. He felt callous, unfeeling, and faintly guilty because he wanted Drum to go away.

As he listened to his old schoolfriend warming to his theme, he reflected how deceptive appearances could be. Drummond Montague Talbot was one of the finest specimens of manhood England could produce: blond, brawny and brave. But Drum had a tragic flaw. He was gentle.

Poor old Drum. He’d had the most dreadful time at Winchester. He might have been bigger and stronger than most of the other boys, but he could never bring himself to fight back. He simply couldn’t stomach the violence. He was the sort of boy who rescued ants.

And when he grew up, it was a running joke that at shooting parties he’d do anything to avoid bringing down a pheasant, and was generally to be found chatting to the beaters, or playing with the dogs. Even as a soldier – and he’d been a good one – he couldn’t bring himself personally to shoot at the enemy. The lengths he’d gone to to avoid being found out.

So in Drum’s case, appearances deceived. And also, thought Adam, in the case of that girl at Berkeley Square. The fragile-looking social butterfly who had singlehandedly nursed Sibella through the ravages of the ’flu; who had sat perfectly still without uttering a word while he’d torn down all her hopes.

Osbourne’s married
. What an unbelievably crass, insensitive way to break the news. If only he’d known – or even assumed – that Osbourne had meant more to her than a casual flirtation. But instead he’d conveniently told himself that she didn’t really care; that girls like her were incapable of strong feelings; that all he had to do was tell her the truth, and then wash his hands of the whole sorry affair.

So like a playground bully he’d blundered in, and now he was saddled with this nagging sense of responsibility. Simply to have
left
her like that, in that silent house, with Sibella lying dead upstairs . . . Caddish did not begin to describe it. It was downright cruel.

And how odd that while everyone around him seemed to be clamouring for his help, that girl, who seemed to need it more than most – or at least, to need
someone’s
help – had been the only one to refuse it.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Drum.

‘What?’ said Adam.

‘About Scotland. You’re a damn good fellow,’ he said, blinking rapidly. Adam saw to his horror that he was close to tears. ‘
Damn
good fellow. All I can say is, the service will be worse off without you . . .’

‘Let’s not go into that,’ said Adam.

‘Sorry. Sorry. Still a bit raw, eh? Course you are. Quite understand. Damn shame that you’ll miss the final push.’

Adam rubbed his temple and took another sip of his brandy. The truth was, he didn’t know if he minded being out of the army or not. Clive had seen him that afternoon, and broken the news. ‘You’re done with it,’ he’d said without preamble. ‘Lung’s shot. No more fighting for you, not even home service. Oh, you’re perfectly fit for normal wear and tear, and I still wouldn’t give a penny for my chances against you on the polo field. But you won’t be racing across No-Man’s-Land any more. So buck up. You’re well out of it. If I were you I’d go home and crack a bottle of fizz.’

But Adam hadn’t felt like cracking a bottle of champagne. Clive was right, of course, and in the rational part of his mind he knew that. But the stubborn, irrational part of him – the part which perhaps still harboured a vestigial sense of honour – that part told him that he ought to be at the Front with his men; not fighting for King and Country, but fighting for them. And that by not being there, he was letting them down.

Just as he’d let down that girl in Berkeley Square.
Hell
, why couldn’t he forget about that?

‘Here’s to you,’ said Drum, raising his glass, which he’d contrived to refill while Adam had drifted away.

Adam rose to his feet. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Drum? I’ve just remembered a telephone call I have to make.’

The telephone attendant gave him a knowing smirk as he settled himself in the booth, for he’d already spent much of the afternoon in there. Perhaps the attendant thought he was conducting an affair. If so, he’d be surprised to learn that those calls had concerned a dead woman and a seven-year-old boy.

First, and not without difficulty, he’d traced Mrs Pryce-Dennistoun, whom he vaguely knew, and ascertained that Max had indeed arrived safely. Then he’d spoken to Sibella’s solicitors, checked that they had the funeral arrangements in hand, and told them of Max’s whereabouts. To his surprise, they already knew. Isabelle Lawe had sent them a note.

So, clearly, he told himself now as he dialled Sibella’s number, she’s more competent than you give her credit for. Stop worrying. She’ll be fine.