A Fatal Freedom (7 page)

Jackman had looked at the note. It ignored any possibility the investigator might not be available, and, like the man, conveyed aggression. He felt a strong urge to disregard it, he could always claim he had been otherwise engaged.

Yet, he found he wanted to know the next stage in this story.

Arriving in Bloomsbury, he found Peters waiting in a hansom cab. ‘Get in, man. The aunt isn’t there. The maid said something about a tea party but didn’t know where. Can’t get the staff these days.’

As Jackman got in, Peters rapped on the roof and gave the driver an address in St George’s Square, Pimlico.

As the cab fought its way through dense traffic, Jackman waited to hear what had brought the summons.

‘She’s gone, the bitch has gone,’ said Peters eventually, beginning to gnaw on his thumb.

Jackman felt a flash of admiration at her courage. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, then inwardly cursed himself. Of course the man was sure, Peters didn’t deal in uncertainty.

His face dark with rage, Peters passed him a letter. ‘Found that when I came home for luncheon.’

Jackman had learned that Joshua Peters was a man who regularly spent a long day at his office. What had brought him back to luncheon?

He opened the piece of paper.

I am sorry, I cannot bear life with you any longer so I am leaving.
Do not try and follow me, it will be of no use.        – Alice.

Jackman folded the letter neatly and handed it back to Peters. ‘She left this morning?’

The cab slowed to a crawl in dreadful traffic; a few motor vehicles interfered with the horse-drawn buses, carriages, cabs and carts, making the everyday road tangle worse. Jackman was in two minds about the enduring quality of motor transport. Breakdowns, punctures in tyres, noisy, requiring ample amounts of petrol, they seemed to him little improvement on horses.

Peters shifted uneasily. ‘Last night. I … I was out at a Masonic meeting. When I returned home yesterday evening to change, I was told Mrs Peters had a headache and was not to be disturbed. I left early this morning and did not think of checking on her before I left.’

Hung-over more like, thought Jackman. He wondered about the sleeping arrangements at Montagu Place. Did Peters normally share a bed with his wife, retiring to a dressing room if she required peace and quiet, or did they keep separate quarters?

‘At the office I thought I should come back for luncheon and see how she was. That was when I found the note. She could have gone last night or this morning.’ He looked down at the piece of paper he held, his jaw working. Then he suddenly crushed it in his hand.

‘Are we checking where you think she might have gone?’

‘She’s gone to that bastard, Rokeby. I want you to find his address. In the meantime I thought her aunt or her sister would know.’

‘And now we are going to the sister, right?’ Jackman remembered the girl with the beret who had ruined his photographic efforts and made that passionate speech at the menagerie. He wouldn’t mind meeting her again.

‘Rachel Fentiman. She’s at the bottom of all this nonsense. Ever since she went to university in Manchester she has been an evil influence on my wife. Didn’t Mrs Peters say yesterday that the bastard Rokeby was a friend of her sister’s? Miss Fentiman must know where to find them.’ He looked out of the cab, a muscle working in his heavy jaw.

Eventually the hansom arrived in a long square just off the Thames Embankment, full of tall, respectable-looking houses with a church at one end.

Peters flung himself out of the cab as it halted. ‘Wait there,’ he cried and charged up the steps to ring the bell. The door opened and he disappeared inside, only to reappear a few minutes later.

‘She’s not there! Nor is my wife. But I’ve been told where Miss Fentiman has gone!’

Once again Peters rapped on the cab’s roof and gave a new address. As they moved towards Knightsbridge, Jackman tried to estimate how long it was going to take him to find out Rokeby’s address. Unless luck went his way, it could mean a long and tiring trawl enquiring after a freelance writer amongst the offices of the lower class of publication. Failing that, a search for poetic societies.

Peters showed no inclination to say anything further. Jackman tried to work out if the man was nursing a broken heart or if it was just that his pride was damaged. He thought of the way Peters had called his wife a bitch and told himself the answer was dead plain. Peters needed to reinforce his authority over his property.

Their destination this time was a crescent of stylish houses just off Belgrave Square. Once again Peters alighted. ‘Wait for me,’ he commanded Jackman. ‘If she’s there, I may need your help to bring her home.’

He was out of the cab before the investigator could query why a man as strong as Joshua Peters needed help subduing a small woman. Then he realised that Peters thought Rokeby might be there as well. He got down from the cab, told the driver to remain where he was and moved towards the house Peters had disappeared into.

Jackman decided to wait a couple of steps down the basement entrance. No need to advertise his presence.

It wasn’t long before Peters emerged, clutching his bowler and charging off up the road. Jackman followed. Peters turned on him. His face was livid with rage, his eyes pig-tiny. ‘That Fentiman bitch knows something, I’d bet the business on it. You can recognise her again?’

Jackman nodded. Rachel Fentiman was someone he would never forget.

‘Stay here, follow her. She’ll lead you to my wife.’ Peters now sounded full of confidence. ‘Then let me know where she is. I’ll make her regret the day she was born,’ he added almost beneath his breath. He swung himself into the cab and it moved off.

Jackman watched it and felt an urge to throw Peters’ business back in his face. Then he remembered the bills waiting for payment. Peters’ last cheque had only cleared the worst of them. He moved to a position where he had a good view of the house’s front door but was out of the direct line of vision of anyone on the steps.

From there he watched a number of women leaving the house. The way they huddled together, then moved off in twos and threes, throwing words between themselves, resembled a murmuration of starlings. Jackman liked collecting odd words.

There followed a long period when nobody came out of the house. Jackman began to think Miss Fentiman might have left from the rear and cursed himself for not having checked whether there was an exit there. But if he’d done that, he could have missed her departure by the front door.

He whiled away time by thinking again of Ursula Grandison. If she was in his place, he knew exactly what she would do: ensure that Alice Peters escaped her brute of a husband. What, though, would she think of Daniel Rokeby, poet and scandal-sheet writer?

Then his eye was caught by the opening of the front door. Rachel Fentiman stood for a moment on the top of the steps, then walked down and turned to the right. Jackman prepared to follow her, only to find she had taken up a position by the basement steps.

Even more surprising a little while later was to see climbing those steps and being accosted, nay, claimed by Miss Fentiman, Ursula Grandison.

When Ursula looked again, Thomas Jackman could no longer be seen. She tied her shoelace, then rejoined Rachel Fentiman.

‘Now, where were we?’

The girl slipped her arm through Ursula’s. ‘I want to know why you opened that ostrich cage.’

Miss Fentiman looked to be in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than Ursula. She had an openness that was heartwarming. Ursula realised how long it was since she had had a friend. Was that one of the reasons Jackman had so disappointed her? Had she thought he could be a friend? Initially a reluctant partner with him in the investigation that had involved her so insidiously, she had grown to enjoy their sometimes acerbic discussions and to value his judgements. Ursula acknowledged to herself that she really had thought that in London they could meet as friends. Instead, he had tried to involve her in the sordid investigation he was carrying out for a despicable man.

However, it was through Jackman that she had met Rachel Fentiman. ‘You were so brave,’ Ursula told her honestly. ‘You could see your sister was in trouble and needed help. And the way you got everyone’s attention was inspirational. I, well, I thought an additional distraction was needed.’

Miss Fentiman smiled happily and squeezed Ursula’s arm. ‘It was all we needed to make an escape. The moment I saw that man with his camera, I knew it was something to do with Alice. Several days before we went to the menagerie, she mentioned having an odd feeling of being watched and Joshua is just the sort of man to hire a detective to follow his wife. Can you imagine a worse act? So to distrust your wife?’

Ursula was silent and after a moment Rachel said ruefully, ‘I know, she was spending far too much time with Daniel but, even so,’ she added robustly, ‘wouldn’t you have thought Joshua would try harder to succeed in her affections?’

An image of Daniel Rokeby’s charmingly informal looks swam insistently into Ursula’s mind, followed swiftly by a picture of Mr Peters as he had appeared that afternoon. Then she remembered her glimpse of Thomas Jackman. Was he actually following Rachel now, expecting her to lead him to her sister? If so, she must warn the girl.

Why on earth had Jackman got himself involved with that unpleasant man and his marriage difficulties? Then Ursula wondered. It had only been the swiftest of glimpses; could she have been mistaken?

Rachel was continuing. ‘Alice is the sweetest of souls but you have to understand, Miss Grandison, that she is happiest surrounded by those who love her. It was such a tragedy …’ she broke off, disentangled her arm from Ursula’s, stopped and, pulling at her white cotton gloves in a nervous gesture, said, ‘All Alice’s life I have tried to look after her. She is such an innocent, and she does not think ahead. That is why she allowed herself to be given in marriage to that … that quite appalling man. Oh, if she has left him, despite the scandal that will follow, I shall be so pleased! But why didn’t she tell me where she was going? Let us hurry on, Miss Grandison. Maybe I will find a note waiting for me.’

She seemed to assume that her companion would come home with her.

Ursula allowed herself to be swept along the busy street. Workers were going home and several times she found herself jostled by hurrying passers-by. The question as to whether or not it was Jackman she had seen had to be answered. She glanced behind but it was impossible to make out whether he was following them or not.

‘Miss Fentiman,’ Ursula pointed to a small general store on the corner of a street. ‘Do you mind if I obtain something for this evening?’ Without waiting for a response, she pulled the girl in with her, then pretended to be studying a display of tinned meats next to the window. She had a clear view up the street.

‘Are you not supplied with an evening meal where you are living?’

‘Oh, yes, but I was late the other night and missed it. I need to guard against having to starve for a second time.’ Ursula picked up the first tin her hand found. ‘This will do,’ she said, took it to the counter and apologised to the assistant for helping herself.

‘Oysters!’ exclaimed Rachel. ‘You have strange tastes, Miss Grandison, if that is how you sup.’

‘They bring back a happy time I spent on Chesapeake Bay,’ Ursula said brightly, wondering how she was going to make them into a meal if the need ever arose. But she had not seen any sign of Thomas Jackman. Feeling her heart suddenly lighter, she led the way out of the shop, clutching a paper-wrapped parcel.

Rachel Fentiman lived near the Embankment, in an elongated square with a church at one end. The sides were lined with terraced houses, tall, with classical columns at the front of each. Ursula was led into one somewhere near the middle. Inside was a narrow hall, with a tiled floor in black and red. It had the anonymous look typical of an establishment that let out rooms. A door on the right led into a living room.

‘I’m back, Martha,’ Rachel Fentiman called, taking off her hat.

Alice Peters appeared and flung herself into her sister’s arms.

‘Oh, Rachel; I have been such a fool,’ she said and burst into tears.

‘Please, Alice,’ said Mrs Trenchard wearily. Ursula was surprised to see her sitting in a straight-backed chair beside a desk. Rachel’s living room was large and well proportioned, furnished with a minimum of pieces and dominated by a well-stocked, breakfront bookcase. Beside it, upsetting any semblance of symmetry, was a set of open shelves crammed with more books and a pile stood on the floor threatening to overtip. There was only one picture on the walls, a portrait of a sweet-faced woman with fair hair who bore a great resemblance to Alice Peters. A tall window gave on to the square and a round table stood before it. There were only two chairs that looked at all comfortable and the room had a look that said here lived someone concerned only with practicalities.

‘Come and sit down, my sweet.’ Rachel guided her sister to one of the comfortable chairs and settled her in it. ‘Now tell me what has happened.’

‘I will take my leave,’ said Ursula, feeling a great reluctance to go but knowing that she was an intruder. ‘Perhaps we may meet up another day?’

‘No,’ said Rachel Fentiman decisively. ‘You have already seen so much, we have no secrets to hide. Do you not agree, Aunt?’

Mrs Trenchard gave a hopeless shrug. The woman who had dominated Mrs Bruton’s tea party seemed older and her air of command seemed to have slipped from her like a too-heavy cloak.

‘And you may well be able to help us once again.’ Rachel crouched down beside her sister. Alice tried to wipe her eyes with a small handkerchief that already looked quite sodden.

An elderly woman brought in a tray of tea and set it on the table in front of the window.

‘Thank you, Martha,’ said Rachel. ‘I was just about to ask you to bring some. As usual, you read my mind.’

Ursula smiled at the woman. ‘Why don’t I pour the tea?’ she suggested.

The little ceremony seemed to calm the atmosphere in the room. Ursula cut large pieces of the excellent-looking seed cake.