The Parliament of Blood (11 page)

Blake looked up at him, his flabby features pale. ‘But that's just it. I remember him so well. Etched into my memory if not the photographic plate. It was the same man. The very same. Even after all these years, the very same. Don't you understand – he hasn't aged or changed at all.'

Liz's father had planned to spend Sunday afternoon at the local church. Usually she accompanied him, but today she had other plans. She walked with him to the church.

‘Not staying this week?' her father asked.

‘I thought I might get some air. If you don't need me.'

‘Goodness me no, you please yourself. It'll be cold air, mind. Rather brisk out today. Though I expect I feel it in my old bones rather more than you do.'

‘I have a coat,' Liz pointed out. ‘If I get too cold I shall go home and make up a fire.'

‘Your mother always felt the cold,' Oldfield remembered. ‘Especially in her feet. I hope you have sturdy soles.'

‘I shall be fine.'

Her father smiled and patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘In search of sturdy souls – that could be the story of my life. Perhaps I shall write a book of my life.' He stared off into the distance. ‘Used to keep a journal. But that was a long time ago.'

‘You must show me it one day,' Liz said. He had never
mentioned a journal before, but perhaps it would be something they could read together. All too often the house was silent as they both sat and read.

‘Oh, I'm not sure it is really for your eyes,' her father said quietly. He was still staring off into the distance, into his memories. ‘In fact, I fervently hope that no one ever has cause to read it.'

Liz smiled and kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘It can't be that bad.'

‘Some things in this world are very bad,' her father replied. He shivered. ‘Evil.'

‘Like the theatre?' Liz suggested with a small smile, unable to resist the temptation to tease him just a little.

He smiled thinly, sadly. ‘Oh, you mock me, my girl. Though nothing good ever came out of the theatre. It breeds decadence and vice. It appeals to man's baser instincts. And woman's too, I think. No,' suddenly he was as serious and solemn as Liz had ever seen him. ‘Take it from me, while God watches over us all in his infinite wisdom, so do others who wish only evil and destruction.'

Slightly unsettled by the exchange, Liz left her father in the vestry with the rector and church wardens. She would have liked to stay, to make sure he was all right. But she had promised – or almost promised – Henry Malvern that she would try to get to the afternoon rehearsal at the Parthenon Theatre. She shuddered to think what her father would say, especially in his current mood, if he knew where she was going.

Liz arrived early for the five o'clock rehearsal, and
Marie Cuttler greeted her as though they had been friends for years. The actress still seemed a little tired, and her eyes lacked some of the depth and energy Liz had seen in them before.

‘I am having such trouble sleeping,' she confided in Liz after they had spent a while going through their short scenes together. ‘Tell me, do you find it easy to learn lines?'

‘Oh, I shall have no trouble,' Liz assured her quickly. ‘The maid says very little. I am sure I know her lines already.'

Marie smiled. ‘I am sure you do. But Henry has not yet appointed an understudy. I'm sure I won't need one, but being so tired, I wonder if it might be a good idea …'

‘Understudy?' Liz echoed, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing. ‘Understudy the role of Marguerite? Me?'

‘Well, it's up to Henry,' Marie said. ‘But he mentioned the idea to me yesterday, depending how well we felt you managed the part of the maid.'

Henry Malvern was indeed delighted to hear that Marie thought Liz up to the role of understudy for the leading part. He arrived on the dot of five o'clock and spent a few minutes talking to each and every member of the cast. Liz could almost feel their awe and respect.

Liz's own feelings were mixed. What if she was actually called upon to perform? She was nervous enough about how she would be able to play the maid, but at least she could arrive late and leave immediately after the performance each night.

But put against that was the opportunity, the experience and the excitement of rehearsing a leading role opposite one of the luminaries of modern theatre. To be asked, and after such a short time involved with the production, was such an honour it was almost humbling. Could she really turn down the offer?

Malvern sensed her uncertainty. He took Liz's hand in his and held it so tight she could feel the seams in the leather of his gloves.

‘Let me talk to your father,' he said.

‘I really don't –'

‘Please,' he insisted. ‘Let me try.'

‘You think he may remember you?' Liz asked. Malvern blinked in surprise. ‘You told me that you had met before.'

‘So I did. But that was a long time ago. Whatever the outcome, whatever happens, I should very much like to meet your father. As I remember, and
I
do remember our meeting well, he was an extraordinary man.'

Still not sure that this was the best course of action, Liz eventually agreed, and Malvern insisted in coming home with her after the rehearsal. He hailed a cab outside the theatre and before long they were standing in the hallway of the house Liz shared with her father. Elizabeth Oldfield standing with Henry Malvern – it seemed incredible to Liz.

There was no sign of her father in the drawing room. ‘He may not be home yet. Or he might be in his study,' Liz told Malvern quietly.

Sure enough, at that moment her father's voice called out: ‘Liz – is that you?'

‘It is,' she replied. ‘And I have brought someone to see you.'

Malvern held up a finger. ‘Please, allow me to speak with him alone. Just the two of us.'

‘But surely, I should introduce you.' Liz made for the door.

But Malvern stayed her. ‘No. Alone. I really do think that would be best.'

Liz nodded. ‘Very well.'

Malvern knocked at the door. Without waiting for a reply, he opened it and stepped inside, pushing the door shut behind him.

Liz waited nervously outside, straining to hear what was said. But almost at once, she heard Malvern cry out:

‘Liz – quickly!'

She tore open the door and ran into the room. ‘What is it?'

Malvern was still standing just inside the door. But Liz hardly noticed him. All her attention was on her father – slumped forwards upon his desk. She ran quickly over.

‘He was barely conscious as I came in,' Malvern said, hurrying to join her. ‘He tried to say something, but he must have used the last of his energy calling out to you for help just now.'

‘He has a pulse,' Liz was relieved to find. ‘Very weak. He looks so pale.' The old man's eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. ‘Father – Father, can you hear me?'

‘I'm sorry,' Malvern said when there was no reply. ‘It took me a moment to realise he was in trouble. Something
of a shock.' He wiped a handkerchief across his pale brow. ‘Let me get a doctor.'

‘Yes,' Liz agreed. ‘Yes, thank you. But, do you think we should move him?'

‘I really don't know. I could carry him up to his bed. He would be more comfortable there. I don't think he is in any immediate danger – he seems to be asleep.'

‘He has had a busy week, and he is quite frail at the best of times,' Liz said. Perhaps she was clutching at straws, but it could be that the old man was simply exhausted. ‘Yes, please,' she decided. ‘If you will help me carry him up to his bed, and then I shall sit with him while you fetch the doctor.'

There was a sudden movement from behind them, which startled Liz. But it was just the curtains blowing in a breeze through the open window.

‘He must have felt unwell,' she said as she closed the window. ‘He so rarely opens the window. He feels the cold.'

She helped Malvern lean her father back in the chair. Then Malvern got his arms under the old man and hefted him gently over his shoulder.

If either of them noticed the two small splashes of red that had seeped into the blotter beneath Horace Oldfield's head, they thought nothing of it.

George slept badly that night. His thoughts were full of memories of his apprenticeship and of the offer that Sir Harrison Judd had made him.

When he was first out of school and learning his trade
as an engineer, he had been apprenticed to one of the chief engineers of the London and North Western Railway. There were several apprentices, but the chief engineer had recognised George's enthusiasm and aptitude and taken him under his wing. By the time that George left for another job, his apprenticeship complete, the two of them were firm friends with a mutual respect for each other's abilities and talents.

The chief engineer's name was Christopher Kingsley. And George had last seen him that evening, stretched out pale and dead on a mortuary slab.

‘Sorry to ask you to do this, but he had no family,' Sir Harrison explained. ‘His wife died of influenza years ago.'

‘He had a daughter,' George recalled. ‘Little girl with dark hair. Lucy, was it?'

The commissioner of the Metropolitan Police shook his head sadly. ‘Not any more. Scarlet fever, apparently, a few years ago. You can confirm this is Christopher Kingsley?'

George nodded. ‘It is.' The man looked so pale – almost as white as the sheet that covered most of his body. He looked younger than George remembered. Strange how one always assumed more experienced people must be so much older. But Kingsley could only have been in his forties looking at him now.

He could recall his first day working for the man. George had cut himself on a lathe – not badly, but Kingsley had been all sympathy. ‘You're bleeding, George,' he had said, genuinely concerned. ‘That's bad.' George had learned a lot from Christopher Kingsley.

‘Why did you come?' George asked Sir Harrison Judd.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Why did
you
come – in person. Why not send a constable. This must be very routine.'

Sir Harrison Judd nodded. He looked down at the dead man for a moment, then drew the sheet back over him. ‘I suppose,' he said slowly, ‘that I could have identified him formally myself. But that didn't seem proper.'

And suddenly George understood. ‘You knew him. He was a friend.'

Sir Harrison sighed. ‘More of an acquaintance. But I knew from our brief conversations that he held you in very high regard, Mr Archer.'

George was surprised. He had venerated Kingsley. But while they had become good friends, George and Kingsley had lost contact after George left the railway company.

‘Oh yes, he spoke of you often. We were members of the same club. In fact, that is partly why I came to find you. I took the opportunity to see Sir William too, but it was you I really wanted to speak to.'

‘About Kingsley?'

‘In a way. I said we were members of the same club. Membership is strictly limited, but there is now, sadly, a vacancy. I think that Christopher would like nothing better than for me to propose you as the man to take his place.'

‘I …' George was astonished. ‘I don't know what to say.'

‘No need to decide now.' Some of Sir Harrison's military bearing and brusqueness was back as they left the
mortuary. ‘You have a think about it. Let me know. But I'd be delighted to propose your name. Doesn't mean you'll be accepted, of course. Though I do have some influence. One thing though, we are a close-knit lot. I would appreciate it if you would tell no one of this invitation. Not least because they might be jealous. It's quite an honour even to be considered.'

‘Thank you. I am honoured, truly. And I'll think about it,' George promised. ‘I'm sorry – all this. Seeing Christopher like that. Well, it's a shock.'

‘Indeed it is.'