The Pearly Queen (40 page)

‘Do you mean poor Mrs Andrews?' asked Mother Verity.

‘Mrs Andrews? Mother Mary? An accident, I am sure, an unfortunate fall from her window. No, I meant Mother Magda, who left so soon after we heard the dreadful news from Mrs Murphy.'

‘She was in hysterical shock, Mr Wilberforce,' said Mother Verity, who had decided what to do about her troubled mind. ‘She found it impossible to stay.'

‘Yes, yes. Poor woman.' Father Peter's gaunt features were etched in lines of sorrow. ‘I could wish for more time to talk to you, Mother Verity, to pray with you that you might have a change of heart, but I've an urgent mission to attend to and must go out at once. However, it's my earnest hope you'll visit us regularly and join us in prayer.'

‘Perhaps,' said Mother Verity, ‘but for the moment, goodbye, Mr Wilberforce.'

‘God go with you,' said Father Peter, and lifted a hand in blessing.

As soon as she was out of the building, she no longer saw herself as Mother Verity. She went to Bethnal Green, carrying her suitcase, and there her landlady, Mrs Hitchins, was happy to welcome her on a permanent basis. She installed herself in her comfortable lodgings, then went shopping. On her way back, she called on the vicar to let him know she was now one of his parishioners and ready to help in all works of charity. If she had dissociated herself from the League of Repenters, she could not give up her work of helping the poor.

She was in her front room to see little Lulu come home from school, and later she noted the arrival of Will Fletcher. She waited. She must give him time to prepare a meal for himself and Lulu before she went across to him.

‘Oh, my God,' said Mrs Gibbs when her husband, home from work, broke the news of the death of Jimmy's mother. ‘It's shattering.'

‘It has to be when one's mother jumps from a window and kills herself,' said Mr Gibbs with a grimace.

‘My poor Jimmy,' said Mrs Gibbs. ‘Is that how you feel?'

‘I've a soft spot for that boy. What made her do it?'

‘I've no idea,' said Mr Gibbs. ‘There'll be an inquest, of course.'

‘What was she doing up in Bloomsbury?'

‘I had a few more words with Jimmy at midday. Apparently, his mother had joined some religious sect. She'd got religion on the brain, it seems.'

‘And it made her jump out of a window?' said Mrs Gibbs.

‘Who knows?'

‘How was Jimmy taking the shock?'

‘It's hit him badly, but he was bearing up. I wanted him to go home, but he said he'd be better doing some work.'

‘I can believe that,' said Mrs Gibbs.

Miss Celia Stokes braced herself. She had thought about talking to Mother Joan, a forthright and no-nonsense woman, but had decided she would prefer to confide in Will Fletcher instead.

Will, having just finished supper with Lulu, a child full of new life, looked up at the sound of two knocks on the front door. One knock from a caller was for the ground floor residents, two knocks for the upstairs tenants. Lulu scurried down to see who it was. She scampered up again to tell her Uncle Will that it was the nice lady and that she wanted to speak to him.

‘Lord, it's her?' said Will. ‘She's down there on our doorstep?'

‘Shall we give 'er a cup of tea, Uncle Will?'

He looked at the girl, clean of face and clothes. He had a feeling she was going to be his pride and joy. She seemed quite pleased that her nice lady had called. He groaned inwardly himself. That nice lady was unbalancing him. She was also burning his conscience every time he thought about what he had done to her.

‘Better if we don't give her tea, Lulu,' he said, ‘it'll be fatal lettin' her get even one leg past the front door. I'll go down.'

He went down. There she was, a picture, a ruddy picture, in a blue coat and hat instead of her usual grey garments. Was it even decent to appear at a man's door looking like that? Serve her right if I took hold of her and kissed her silly. Knocking me up when she's looking like that comes close to persecution. And those eyes of hers, they weren't afraid to look straight at Old Nick himself. ‘Well, good evenin', Sister Charity,' he said, ‘but what's the idea?'

‘Idea?' said Celia, making a comparison between him and Mr Wilberforce and finding very much in his favour.

‘Trackin' me down and knockin' me up? You'll be draggin' me off to church next.'

‘Indeed I won't, Mr Fletcher, I wouldn't even try,' said Celia. ‘That must come about through willingness, not persuasion. I merely wished to speak to you, to ask for your help and advice.'

Astonished, Will said, ‘Say that again.'

‘I've no-one else to turn to. No-one, that is, in whose strength and sureness I have more confidence. I'm really very unsophisticated, Mr Fletcher, while you are a man who has seen much more of real life than I have. I have worries I'd like to talk to you about.'

‘To me?' Will wondered if she was all there. ‘Now look, lady, you've got to have friends of your own kind who'd be a sight more suitable than me.'

‘I have more faith in you, Mr Fletcher. May I come in and talk to you? I've been waiting all day to see you.'

Will shook his head in helpless fashion.

‘There's Lulu,' he said.

‘No, not in front of the child, please,' said Celia.

‘You've really got worries?' said Will.

‘Yes, and they trouble me.'

‘Well, look, my landlady will take Lulu off me hands for a bit,' he said, ‘she's a good sort. Come up, but don't expect a palace.'

Celia expected no such thing. Will had three furnished rooms on the upper floor, one a living room. It was typical of its kind, comfortable and without frills. She noted its tidiness. He was an ex-soldier, of course, and soldiers were taught the value of keeping things in their rightful place.

Lulu smiled shyly at her.

‘Hullo,' said Celia, offering a smile of her own.

‘Please, 'ave yer come up for a cup of tea?' asked Lulu. ‘Only Uncle Will said 'e wasn't goin' to let yer get even one leg past the front door, 'e said—'

‘You monkey nut,' said Will, and picked her up. ‘I'm takin' you downstairs for Mrs Burns to look after you for a bit, just while I talk to Sister Charity.'

‘Are yer goin' to kiss 'er again?' asked Lulu.

‘Didn't I say forget that?'

‘I only asked,' said Lulu, allowing herself to be carried downstairs and placed in the care of their obliging landlady for a while.

Will, returning, said, ‘I'd feel better if you'd sit down.'

‘Thank you, Mr Fletcher,' said Celia, and seated herself. She lost no time then in telling him of the terrible happening in Bloomsbury.

‘Don't sound too good,' he said, ‘but it was 'ardly your fault. Looks as if she jumped out of 'er window when she was off 'er rocker. Upsettin' for you, I can see that, but what else? I mean, what's botherin' you?'

‘I'm not sure it was like that,' said Celia. She went on to say that she'd gone up to her room after dinner that evening and had met one of the other women, Mother Magda, coming out of her own room. Mother Magda said she'd just decided to see Father Peter, he frequently heard confession from her.

‘Come again?' said Will.

Yes, he took confession, said Celia. It meant, she said, that when Mother Mary went up to see him herself, Mother Magda was already there, which also meant Mother Magda was the last person to see Mother Mary alive, apart from Father Peter. Celia hadn't mentioned this to the police, she was too stunned, but she'd remembered it just before she spoke to Mother Mary's husband after he left the Temple, and she'd also remembered that Mother Magda became hysterical when the terrible news broke. She packed her things immediately and was shaking like a leaf when she departed. Father Peter tried to calm her and detain her, but she became more hysterical and he had to let her go. Celia said she was in such shock herself that she wasn't herself all day. It made her uncertain about telling Mother Mary's husband that she had just begun to connect Mother Magda's fright and hysteria with the possibility that she knew what had taken place between Father Peter and Mother Mary. And perhaps what took place had had something to do with the latter's dreadful death.

‘What's set you thinkin' like this?' asked Will.

‘A distrust of Mr Wilberforce, who calls himself Father Peter, and a feeling that Mother Mary would never have committed suicide. She was too devoted to Christian teachings, and would have regarded suicide as a terrible sin.'

‘Suicide's a relief to some people,' said Will. ‘Point is, lady, what're we talkin' about exactly, that your friend didn't jump, that she was pushed?'

‘Oh, Mr Fletcher, that's a terrible suggestion to make.'

‘Come on, Sister Charity, that's what's on your mind, I'll wager it is.'

‘But it's dreadful.'

‘Dreadful? If it's true, it's ruddy murder,' said Will, ‘and if it's murder, which of 'em did it, the lady who had 'ysterics or the crazy geezer who calls himself Father Peter? Or did they do it together?'

‘Lord have mercy,' breathed Celia, ‘how relieved and glad I am that I'm able to turn to you for help, Will.'

He looked startled at her use of his Christian name. ‘Now look,' he said, ‘you can find that woman easy enough, can't you? What did you call 'er? Mother Magda? I never heard anything barmier, Mother This and Mother That. But her address is in the files at that place in Bloomsbury, I suppose?'

‘It should be,' said Celia, ‘but it isn't. There's a little office, used by Mr Wilberforce, in which records are kept. I looked before breakfast this morning. There's nothing in the files concerning Mother Magda.'

‘She's gone, and so are her partic'lars, are they?' said Will. ‘Fishy. And I don't like the sound of Mr Wilberforce, nor did I think much of' is preachin'.'

‘I know Mother Magda came to us from somewhere in Soho,' said Celia. ‘I thought you might know how to find her. I'm afraid that before she joined us, she lived—' Celia was sensitively pink. ‘I'm afraid she lived a sorry kind of life.'

‘Never heard it called that before,' said Will. ‘Still, I'm gettin' you, Sister Charity, you think I know the ladies of Soho, do you?'

‘Pardon? Oh, no! No.' Celia's serenity, which had been wavering, deserted her completely. Utterly mortified, she breathed, ‘Forgive me, I put that so badly—'

‘No hard feelings, I can't afford those kind of ladies, anyway,' said Will drily.

‘Please, don't speak of it,' begged Celia.

‘What's Mother Magda's real name?'

‘Kitty Drake.'

‘Well, it so happens I do know one lady in Soho—'

‘What lady?' demanded Celia, and was aghast at the way she put the question and her need to ask it.

‘An old lady,' said Will. ‘She keeps a shop in Dean Street. My old dad once had a stall in Soho market.'

‘An old lady, yes, I see.' Celia calmed herself. ‘Tell me how you are going to help me.'

‘To find Kitty Drake? Here, wait a tick, hold on, whose problem is this? Not mine.'

‘We must find Miss Drake,' said Celia with gentle insistence.

‘What if he's found 'er first?' asked Will.

‘Who?'

‘Wilberforce. If he's the one, and if she's a fly in his ointment, she's in trouble. It sounds as if she bolted because she knew she was. If he finds 'er, she might end up gettin' pushed out of a window too, or dumped in the river.'

‘Oh, heavens,' said Celia, ‘he said this morning that he had some urgent business to attend to.'

‘Well, you'll have to hope they've kept their mouths buttoned up in Soho, and that Kitty Drake didn't go back to her old address.'

‘How fortunate I am to have your help, Will.'

‘Now cut it out,' said Will, ‘and stop lookin' at me, you know I can't say no to you. You make every other woman seem – oh, sod it.'

‘That isn't like you, Will, to swear,' said Celia, gently reproving.

‘Don't you believe it.'

‘You're my first real man friend, you know.'

‘No, I don't know,' said Will, ‘and there's no future in that for me. As it is, you've got me over a barrel. I'm payin' a hard price for a few kisses, but all right, let's say Wilberforce 'ad a good reason for pushin' your friend out of her bedroom window, and that Kitty Drake knows what that reason is. Right, you take Lulu off me landlady's hands and look after her. I'll go to Soho.'

‘I'd like to come with you.'

‘Well, you're not goin' to, not to Soho. Ladies like you don't go to Soho of an evenin'. Stay here, Sister Charity.'

‘My name is Celia.'

‘I don't want to know.'

‘I'm Miss Celia Stokes.'

‘Will you leave off?' Will had never known himself in such a mess. There she was, looking at him, and turning him inside-out. ‘Just stay here and look after Lulu, we'll 'ave to take her off my landlady's hands before I go out. I'll go down and get 'er, then I'm off to see old Mama Macaroni in Soho. That's what they call her. Listen, I might be late.'

‘I'll put Lulu to bed for you, Will, and wait here for you,' said Celia.

‘That's right, be an angel, it's one more way of hauntin' me,' said Will, and went down to his landlady.

For the first time since yesterday morning, Celia smiled. Nothing could bring back poor Mrs Andrews, but something could be done, perhaps, about the dark-souled Mr Wilberforce. And something could also be done, perhaps, through the kindness of Uncle Harold, to ensure Will Fletcher was given every opportunity to better himself.

‘I just don't get it,' said Jimmy. The family was subdued, of course, and there were no jokes or giggles. Dad had just put a very forlorn Betsy to bed. ‘Why did Mum do it?'