Ann Granger (3 page)

‘So you
are
a medical man!’ I exclaimed unwisely and hastened to add, ‘My own father was a doctor in our town.’

‘Really?’ Dr Lefebre raised his eyebrows.

‘And the police surgeon,’ I added.

‘Was he now?’ Dr Lefebre looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m glad to have met you before our arrival,’ he went at last. ‘Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to discuss one or two things before we get there. Though now is obviously not the moment.’

His glance took in the clergyman and the tatting lady.

I found his words slightly sinister. Discuss what? I could hardly demand he clarify his statement immediately. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised he knew why I travelled to the New Forest. If Miss Roche had taken the trouble to tell him about me, she would have added the reason I was on my way. But why hadn’t she told me about him? That was annoying but, on the other hand, perhaps not strange. A companion like myself held a nebulous status, a little above a governess but not ‘family’. It was a curious in-between world. Miss Roche had simply not thought it necessary to inform me I’d not be the only person arriving to stay at Shore House. It was none of my business.

Lefebre stayed silent for quite five minutes. Then, just as I was allowing myself to relax, he spoke again.

‘Have you made this journey before, Miss Martin? Do you know the county of Hampshire?’ He kept his eyes fixed on the passing scenery as he spoke.

‘Not in the least, Dr Lefebre. I’m originally from Derbyshire and have never been south of London.’

‘I think you’ll like it. The air’s very mild and the climate agreeable. The rail terminus at Waterloo has helped considerably to make it easy for travellers at the London end. Well, once they get the platforms sorted out! But the original terminus at Nine Elms was very awkward. So far out! Waterloo has proved a blessing. But when we reach the other end of our journey, Southampton, I’m afraid we may find things are rather different. In her letter, Miss Roche has no doubt explained to you what she advises on arrival?’

‘She wrote informing me of a difficulty with their carriage,’ I said. ‘It can’t be sent to meet me, as hoped. But there’s a ferryboat, I understand. It crosses from the city’s port to Hythe on the New Forest side of Southampton Water. On the far side some other form of transport will be waiting for me – perhaps I should say for us. Something to replace the carriage, at any rate. I don’t know what. Or how long it will take us to reach Shore House.’

‘Believe me, it will be long enough for us to be severely jarred on a country track in whatever kind of substitute vehicle they’ve chosen to send,’ said Dr Lefebre with some asperity. He turned a surprisingly direct look on me. ‘Derbyshire, eh? Then you’re a long way from home.’

‘Well,’ I said a little awkwardly, ‘my father died and I had to make other arrangements.’

He held up a kid-gloved hand. ‘I didn’t wish to sound impertinent, Miss Martin. I was only about to remark that nowadays, given the excellence of the railway system, we all of us travel about the country with an ease and at a speed our forebears could hardly have imagined possible. Take my own grandfather, for example. When he made his annual journey to Bath to take the waters, he set out in his own carriage and it took him three days to get there! Now, armed with a copy of
Bradshaw
, we’re able to cover half the country in that time. It’s true he made frequent stops along the way; to call on acquaintances, to dine, rest the horses and so on. Also he travelled slowly because he carried with him his own sheets, to be spared fleas in the bedding of country inns. He took along his own tableware because he didn’t trust the washing up – ah, and a supply of good quality tea, together with a bottle of embrocation and a flask of single malt to ease the discomforts of travel inside and out. You’re smiling, Miss Martin.’

His sharp gaze softened to something like a twinkle.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said.

‘Not at all. It was my intention. You’re burdened with some anxiety, I fancy. I only wished to relieve it. I am, after all, a doctor. I’m supposed to make you feel better!’

This was said gravely but with the same twinkle in the eye.

It struck me that he might be passing a long journey with a mild flirtation. I think the lady with the tatting thought the same. She’d cast a few interested glances our way. The gentleman with the book of devotions had a mind above all that. But perhaps my companion only had an idiosyncratic sense of humour. I wasn’t sure I liked either explanation.

I think he guessed what was in my mind. He smiled benignly and gave a courteous nod towards the lady in the corner, who began tatting so furiously the little shuttle fairly flew. Lefebre turned his gaze towards the window.

He’s being revenged
, I thought.
I was examining him fixedly as we left Waterloo and now he’s paying me back. I do believe it amuses him.

I’d apparently be spending some time under the same roof as my disconcerting travelling companion. I hoped his visit to Shore House would be brief. He must have consulting rooms in London to attend to – and wealthy patients.

Lizzie!
I told myself sternly, as our train gathered speed.
You must mind your manners and watch your tongue!

In my head I seemed to hear an echo of Ben Ross’s disbelieving snort.

*   *   *

As we grew nearer our destination our train became very full. Many of the passengers boarding had a great deal of baggage. Dr Lefebre began to look thoughtful, tapping his fingers on the shiny silk surface of his hat. Eventually he turned his attention to me again.

‘Southampton’s a busy port, Miss Martin. Many of these people will be travelling to the Town terminus with the intention of transferring to the docks to board the packets. The crush will be intolerable. I suggest that you wait on the platform. I’ll find us a porter and a cab to carry us to the Hythe ferry mooring.’

I thought this sounded a good idea. The doctor was proving a practical travel companion. He was certainly right in his prediction. At the Town station the jostling through was as dense and lively as at any London terminus. That many people intended to take ship here was shown by the piles of luggage of every description quickly heaped about us. Porters appeared and their services immediately secured. Lefebre called to me to ‘Stay where you are, Miss Martin!’ and disappeared into the crowd. I was pleased to see him re-emerge from the smoke, steam and hubbub with a sturdy porter in tow. We were led quickly through the mob and found ourselves outside the station where our porter had commandeered a cab for us. In no time we were rattling away.

‘It will be a short journey!’ Lefebre’s exertions had left him rather out of breath. ‘You’ll see some of the old city walls but not, I’m afraid, the great Bar Gate. That’s a pity. Perhaps you’ll find an opportunity to visit the city before you leave Hampshire.’

‘I’d like that,’ I agreed.

Lefebre leaned towards me. I expected he would continue his role as guide, but he had another purpose. He cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m glad of this opportunity of a private, if brief, word with you before we reach Shore House. I mean, concerning Mrs Craven.’

I wasn’t quite sure I liked the tone of this. ‘Mr Charles Roche, Mrs Craven’s uncle who engaged me, told me that his niece has been in low spirits since her recent confinement,’ I said carefully. ‘That’s why he felt she needed a companion. Her husband, as I understand it, is abroad.’

Dr Lefebre gave a slightly irritated wave of his hand. I suspected he was unaccustomed to being interrupted. ‘Mrs Craven is suffering from melancholia. It follows the loss of her child only days after the birth.’

There was a moment’s pause. I didn’t want to invite a second flick of the fingers. But this time he appeared to be waiting for me to make some sort of comment, so I asked, ‘Are you to treat her, doctor?’

He hesitated. ‘No, no, I’m only going to take stock of the situation on behalf of Mr Roche. He’s unable to travel to Hampshire at the moment. I’ve known Roche for some years.’ He smiled briefly. ‘We French exiles stick together.’

I must have looked puzzled because he added, ‘Both our families are of Huguenot descent.’

I digested this piece of information and wondered if he was trying to prove to me he really was a close friend of the man who’d employed me. Why? So that I’d chat more freely?

He cleared his throat again in that way he had of attracting my attention.

‘You should be aware that Mrs Craven’s melancholy takes a particular form of delusion.’

He paused again for my comment but I was learning to evade this sort of gambit. He was a doctor but I wasn’t his patient. I wasn’t here to confide my thoughts and fears to him. Quite the reverse!

My silence obliged him to go on.

‘She cannot accept her child’s dead.’

I’d meant to keep my own counsel, but the baldness of this shocking statement made me exclaim aloud. It also sent a prickle of alarm racing up my spine. The tragedy was apparently greater than had been indicated to me. For the first time I began to wonder quite why I was being despatched to Shore House. Was I to be a friend and confidant of the young woman simply to support her; or was I supposed to persuade her of the sad reality of her child’s death? That would be a difficult and delicate task to undertake and a stranger like myself wasn’t the person for it. And what, exactly, was her state of mind? I put the last question bluntly to my companion.

He shook his head. ‘I know no more than you. I’ve not met Mrs Craven. I only know, as you do, what I’ve been told.’

‘I have no nursing experience,’ I said firmly.

‘None, as I understand it, is required of you,’ was his bland reply. ‘Ah, we’re at the docks.’

*   *   *

This brief conversation did leave me uneasy but it was swept from my mind as we descended from our cab at the quayside. Behind us towered the ancient grey city walls with a shoreside promenade beneath them leading away inland. About us we saw signs of recent building, some extension of the dock area, and before us – the sea! Or, at least, that wide inlet called Southampton Water. The stiff breeze blowing into our faces carried a salt tang. Gulls wheeled and swooped above us, alert to drive down and seize any scrap of food dropped from the hands of those waiting on the quayside. The sunlight glittered on the dancing waves. Across them on the far side, in a blue haze, I could see what appeared to be a tree-clad shoreline and a jumble of whitewashed buildings, presumably the small town of Hythe. I felt as excited as one of the many small children who raced shrieking through the crowd ignoring the despairing cries of their parents.

And what a motley throng surrounded us! Were all these people hoping to board the ferry? Noah must have faced a similar problem with a seething mob of animals all to be fitted into the Ark. There were country people with weather-beaten faces, the women wearing cotton sunbonnets, all laden with baskets and bundles; workmen pushing handcarts of baggage and cargo in the form of mysterious boxes. Dogs of all breeds (and some a fine mixture) tagged the heels of the children and barked wild enthusiasm for the chase. Here and there were one or two soberly clad and worthy figures, one a clergyman. To complete the mix were porters, crewmen from the packet ships which lay at anchor and, in among them all, idlers with nothing to do but watch the scene, hands in pockets. Some were members of that ragamuffin population which frequents all busy spots in hopes of profiting from the naivety of strangers. We were obviously both town-dwellers and newcomers. Some interest in us was being shown already.

‘Mind your pockets, sir!’ advised our cabbie as Dr Lefebre paid him. ‘There is the ferry, right before you, and there is Albert. Hey, there!’ he roared suddenly. ‘Albert! Here’s gentry for you wanting to take the ferry!’

I had never in my life been taken for ‘gentry’ but I supposed Dr Lefebre’s distinguished appearance and authoritative manner was the reason.

Through the crowd towards us came a gangling form that revealed itself as a young man with a much-tanned face and limbs. He wore a peaked cap of nautical style, a knitted garment which was too short for his sinewy bronzed forearms which dangled bare, canvas trousers and stout boots. His most distinguishing feature, however, was that he had only one good eye. The other appeared to have met with some dreadful accident. The eyeball was a pale smoky blue and rolled upwards into the socket in an alarming manner, but the remaining good eye twinkled with humour.

‘Albert,’ our cabman introduced this newcomer, ‘is crew of the ferry. I’ll leave you with him. Good journey to you sir, and madam!’ With that he clambered back on the perch of his cab and clattered away.

‘Tickets?’ enquired Albert, evidently a man of few words.

‘Where do I purchase them?’ asked Dr Lefebre.

Albert pointed to a small wooden hut with a window in it behind which a stout female form dispensed tickets to a waiting queue.

‘Perhaps if you wait here, Miss Martin—’ began Dr Lefebre.

‘No need!’ interrupted Albert. ‘I’ll take your bags and see the lady aboard. Follow me, ma’am!’

As he spoke he had gathered up our baggage with great efficiency and somehow managed to dispose it all about his person. He set off in a loping stride and I hurried after him.

We reached the jetty. Now I could see the tide was out and the water level many feet below high-tide mark, as shown by the crust of seaweed on the dock wall. The ferryboat bobbed several feet beneath us, secured by ropes fore and aft to a slippery-looking stone platform, in the shadow of the jetty above. It was a small iron paddle steamer with a tall funnel. Standing aloft by the funnel with one hand resting on the wheel, and positioned directly opposite us because of the trick of the two levels, was a maritime figure. His skin was weathered by exposure to the elements to the likeness of teak. Our skipper, I assumed. He was watching with a benevolent eye the confusion above and the mob streaming towards him down a wooden ramp. Immediately below his platform, a roofed structure appeared to be a saloon for the shelter of more fortunate passengers. Others were busy disposing themselves about the deck in a well-practised manner.