A Fatal Likeness (13 page)

“But surely she must have meant her surname—that Shelley was drawn to her as a daughter of William Godwin—of Mary Wollstonecraft—”

“No,” replies Claire with an insistence that surprises him. “It was
not
that—or at least, not that alone. It was the name
Mary.
When I asked Shelley about it years later, he merely laughed and changed the subject. As—I note—
you
have just done, Mr Maddox. Your second question?”

Charles waits, prolonging the silence. Then, “When I read my uncle’s files I found one thing I did not expect, and I cannot explain. It is an allegation of murder.”

He is watching her now, just as she is watching him, alert to every movement, every sign.

“Where did you find this?” she says eventually, her face blank of all emotion.

“At the end of the report on the work he did for William Godwin. There is damage to the paper and some words are missing, so I cannot be sure what he meant. But it must be connected to that case. There is no other explanation.”

Her face is still frozen; her mouth opens, but no words come.

“I can—I think—answer your riddle,” she says at last. “What did your uncle say—exactly?”

“There was mention of justifiable anger and insupportable grief—that no blow was struck, and no poison administered—”

“Harriet,” she says suddenly. “He was talking of Harriet.”

Charles sits forwards in his chair, feeling the electric tingle of adrenalin fizzing in his brain—he was right, he was
right.
“You are telling me that Harriet Shelley was
murdered—
”

But she is already shaking her head. “No, Mr Maddox, she was not. It was suicide. There is no question of that. That poor silly girl destroyed herself, and Shelley could never rid himself of the conviction that he was to blame. But he was not
responsible
for Harriet’s death, Mr Maddox, not in any actual or criminal fashion. Although,” she continues bitterly, “that did not stop those vile Westbrooks alleging so. Harriet’s sister, Eliza, in particular, made all sorts of disgusting accusations, despite the fact that Shelley was more than a hundred miles away when she died, and had not seen her for months.”

“And you know all of this to be true—you were there, yourself—”

“No,” she retorts, picking now at the fringes of her shawl, “I was not. I will not mince matters, Mr Maddox, and in any case you are doubtless very well aware that I was, at that time, expecting a child. I remained in Bath all that winter, because I did not wish my mother and Godwin to discover the truth.”

“Then how can you be sure—”

“Really, Mr Maddox,“ she snaps. “Do you not think that if there had been the slightest evidence of murder, the Westbrooks would have pressed for immediate prosecution? No, despite all their foul insinuations even they were forced to acknowledge that Harriet had left a letter confessing that she took her life by her own hand—her own choice. And in any case what would Shelley have stood to gain by such a crime? He had no need to rid himself of his wife; he had already done so years before.”

Charles sighs. So this is the sad truth of ‘all that dire affair’: Harriet Shelley died alone, and of despair. Shelley seduced her, married her, and then he cast her off. Leaving her with two children and the prospect of living out her years reliant on her family’s charity; half a lifetime in a shadow existence, neither maid nor married, widow nor wife. No wonder her father was so desperate to gain guardianship of her children, and no wonder Sir Percy and his wife are now equally desperate to keep her fate forgotten, and unknown.

Claire looks across at him, and there is something brittle about her mouth that suddenly jars. The accusations Shelley endured may have been unfounded, even malicious, but at their heart was the shocking suicide of a mere girl, married at sixteen, a mother at seventeen, and dead at scarcely twenty-one. But the only expression on Claire’s face now is one of exasperated resentment. Has she, Charles wonders, become so pre-occupied by pity for her own past that she has no compassion left for anyone else, not even those who have been dealt a harder hand than hers?

“I may not have been in London,” she continues, “but I
do
know that Eliza Westbrook was—” She pauses. “—a very
forceful
woman, and I am not at all surprised that she attempted to persuade your uncle to support her despicable allegations against Shelley, and lend credence to her claims. She would, no doubt, have seen him as a most useful ally. That, I am sure, is your explanation.”

Charles thinks back to what remains of Maddox’s words, and has to concede that her interpretation does indeed fit the facts, as far as he can discern them. His uncle could have been approached by Miss Westbrook, and investigated the circumstances of Harriet’s drowning on her behalf, only to conclude, in the end, that despite Shelley’s despicable behaviour, the man was not guilty of any crime. Did the passage not end, and explicitly, ‘I was wrong’?

Claire, meanwhile, has folded her hands in her lap. “I do not pretend to understand the logic behind your questions, Mr Maddox, but you have only one of them remaining.”

Charles watches her a moment. She is staring into the fire, her hands twisting the fringes of her shawl. If he were a poker player (which he is not) the question he is about to ask would be his wild card. One whose value he cannot guess until after he has played it.

“What happened that day,” he says slowly, “the day of horrors you talked of? The day that terrified you so much you dreaded to speak of it again?”

She gasps.
“As if you do not know—”
Then she puts a hand to her lips, and seems to press them trembling closed.

“May I remind you, Miss Clairmont,” he says, seeing the flush now across her cheeks, “that you promised to tell me the truth. That our agreement was made on that basis. There was something, wasn’t there—you hint as much—something Shelley had done—something his wife knew—”

She flashes a look at him now.

“—something that has prevented her all these years from writing her own account of his life—”

“His
wife,
” she whispers fiercely, her eyes glittering with tears, “has
betrayed
him. When I think of what Shelley endured at her hands—”

“Then what is it that impedes her—what had he done—”

“He had done
nothing
!” She’s looking at him in sudden defiance, her colour high. “
Nothing,
I tell you. No-one knew Shelley better than I, and I swear to you that no man had a higher moral sense than he—no man a finer understanding of the distinction between right and wrong.”

“Even though you wrote yourself that he was tortured by a belief that he had committed some appalling crime? That he had a sick fear of what lurked unseen in his own soul?”

She lifts her chin, eyes blazing. “Even so. You should not believe everything you have read, Mr Maddox, even in
your own uncle’s files.”

“Then
tell me,
Miss Clairmont—tell me what I should believe—
tell me what it is you know.
”

He watches, scarcely breathing, willing her to continue, willing her to say more. But she does not. And when at last she speaks again her face is very pale. “You have had your three questions, Mr Maddox, and I have answered you. If there is no other way to do justice to the dead than by re-living the agonies of the past, then I will do it. But it will be done in my own way, and at a time of
my
choosing, and certainly not at
your
behest.”

She gets up quickly and goes to the window, then stands there, holding the shawl about her, staring into the drear and listless day.

Charles wonders if she has dismissed him—if this strange audience has now concluded—but then there is a knock on the door and the maid enters with the coffee. She sets the tray down on the table by the fire, then leaves the room, though not—it must be said—without a curious sidelong glance at her mistress. A moment later Claire turns from the window, and Charles wonders if it is tears he can see on her cheeks. She moves in silence to the table and busies herself about the saucers and the spoons, but by the time she he approaches him, the hand that holds the cup is steady, and as she bends to give it to him a skein of her hair slips over her shoulder and brushes against his cheek. Then she returns to her chair, and takes a sip of her coffee, before setting the cup carefully down and smoothing the silk of her dress.

“I have fulfilled my part of our bargain. Now it is your turn.”

Charles sits back slowly in his seat. “What is it you want me to do?”

She smiles thinly. “The Shelleys have told you, no doubt, that they wish you merely to discover what papers I possess, but I fear you will find your role as
spy
slipping only too easily into that of
thief.
For that woman will stop at nothing to protect the fragile artifice she has been constructing all these years. Indeed one might almost believe
her
to be the daughter, and poor Percy merely the son-in-law, so closely does she cosset her
dear Madre.
”

She pauses then, but Charles has wit enough not to be drawn—not this time—and in any case her words are slightly too histrionic, slightly too rehearsed. He sits back a little farther, wary that even such a tiny movement might betray the direction of his thought.

“I fear poor Percy comes a
very
poor third in
that
marriage,” she continues. “If marriage you can call it. From what I can gather, Lady Shelley spends so much time beset by mysterious illnesses that she scarcely has time—or inclination—to perform her wifely duties. Is it any wonder she has produced no heir? Not that
that
is any great loss. She may lord it over the rest of us as if she were born in ermine, but I have it on good authority that her parents’ marriage will not bear too close a scrutiny. May not—indeed—even merit the term
marriage
at all.”

Charles shifts uncomfortably in his chair. This is beginning to sound like the curdled invective of the sour old spinster he had once—mistakenly—assumed her to be. Something of which sentiment she must have sensed, for the very next moment she has executed one of those
volte-faces
that he has seen so many times now, but which still catch him unprepared.

“You must forgive me, Mr Maddox,” she says with a light laugh. “All these years of living for myself alone have made me, no doubt, nothing but an eccentric and resentful old maid.”

He flushes, as if she had overheard his mind. “Surely not—”

“There is no need to flatter me,” she interrupts. “Not any more. I have always been rather a good hater, and now I have food enough to feed that faculty for the rest of my life. I cannot forgive that woman for what she has done to me, but it is what she has done to
Shelley
that is truly unpardonable. In the few short weeks I have been in London, it has come to my knowledge—I will not trouble you how—that Jane Shelley not only has been destroying papers, but has also colluded in the creation of outright forgeries—forgeries designed to eradicate facts she considers ‘inconvenient,’ and ensure that hers is the only version of Shelley’s life the future will ever see.”

Charles stares at her. “And Shelley’s widow is conniving at these forgeries?”

“Mary?“ she says with disdain. “Mary’s
own
fame is all that matters to
her
now—her own spotless and perfect reputation. Not content with poisoning the last months of Shelley’s life with her coldness and reserve, Mary now forsakes even his memory. She was brought up, Mr Maddox, to believe herself the world’s darling—the lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell—and from the first day I met her she has been intent on retaining that position, at whatever cost to those around her. At whatever cost to Shelley. At whatever cost to
me.
Mary has been the ruination of my every happiness. All the mistakes of my life—the most terrible mistakes—were made because of her.”

She had talked of hatred, and there is no other word for what Charles sees now on her face. A hatred that has wound its roots tight about her heart and seems, at this moment, to be an almost physical pain. He thinks back to her account of that summer in Geneva, and the tension between the step-sisters, palpable even under its veneer of politeness—even if the cause of it was never openly revealed. Has there always been such antipathy between Mary and Claire, all the long and lonely years they have lived apart?

“One thing I have learned,” she says softly, as if in answer to his question, “and learned the hardest way, is that love and enmity may exist side by side—may become, in time, almost indistinguishable. That one may be bound to another person by ties too deep and fierce for tenderness—ties the breaking of which will rend your heart more than any common notion we have of love.”

It is a truth that Charles, too, has learned. Indeed all he has ever known of love is pain. The loss of a sister, the absence of a mother, the coldness of a distant father, the awful decline of the great-uncle who became that father’s substitute: All the relationships life gave him have failed him so totally, small wonder that he resists adding voluntarily to their number.

There is a silence.

“I still do not know,” Charles says eventually, “how I can assist you. What I am to do.”

She looks up. “You are to tell them the truth—or that part of it I choose they should know. Go to Chester Square and tell Sir Percy and his vulgar little wife that I have exposed their infamous scheme for the imposture it is. Tell them that I despise them from the very depths of my being, but that I am ill, and I am tired, and I want such peace as the world can still afford. So I am prepared to consider selling them my papers. All of them. Provided that the negotiations may be conducted solely through you.”

She looks at him but he shakes his head, finding himself saying exactly what he said in Lady Shelley’s drawing-room, though for rather different reasons. “But I have no experience in such things—you need a lawyer—with so much money at stake—”