Death of an Avid Reader (2 page)

Contrary to Mrs Sugden's dire warnings, the cooked breakfast was very good. I chose ham and eggs, which came with fresh rolls.

Through the train window, I looked out onto a landscape of pit shafts and slag heaps. An itchy uneasiness settled like dust in every part of my being.

Mrs Sugden was right to set a big question mark above Lady Coulton's motive in sending for me. I have a well-known London counterpart, with offices in Mayfair. This lady detective prides herself on investigating society cases of infidelity, blackmail and burglary as well as smuggling, and espionage. Her ladyship could have gone to her.

Lady Coulton was taking no chances. Engaging a detective close to home might be risky. Her ‘matter of delicacy' must be scandalous, deadly secret and entirely indelicate.

Three

Having taken a cab from King's Cross, I arrived at Queen Anne House, number 28 Cavendish Square, at noon. This former hotel was opened in June, 1920, as a club for women of the Voluntary Aid Detachment. I was proud to be at the opening ceremony, and visit every time I come to London.

Alfred the porter has worked here from the first. He welcomed me and we exchanged a few words.

‘I have a telephone message for you, Mrs Shackleton. Your guest will be here at two o'clock and won't be lunching with us.'

‘Thank you, Alfred.'

I smiled. The club has modest fare and moderate charges, for members on a limited income. I doubted that the one and threepenny lunch would suit Lady Coulton's tastes.

In the dining room, not wishing to be drawn into conversation, I sat as far from the door as possible, at a small table. There were two choices for mains and pudding. I plumped for meat and potato pie followed by jelly and custard.

By quarter to two, I seated myself in one of a pair of wing chairs, by the lounge window. I would see Lady Coulton crossing the square.

As the French clock chimed two, Jane Coulton came into view.

A few moments later, a man in a black coat and homburg hat appeared, dogging her footsteps. He kept a steady distance between them, at one moment pausing when her steps became a little slower. When she reached the club's entrance, he waited, watching her as she stepped inside. Who was he, and why had he followed her? He walked on, out of sight. Perhaps I was mistaken.

Jane Coulton swept into the room, led by Alfred. I remembered that quality of confidence and something that I was too naïve to have been able to put into words when I saw her all those years ago: sexual magnetism. Alfred, accustomed to important personages, is not unduly deferential and so it seemed to me that his awed manner towards her stemmed from something else, an acknowledgement of her beauty and elegance.

‘Your guest, Mrs Shackleton,' he announced in hushed tones.

He glanced sideways at her, hovering as she slipped the mink coat from her shoulders and handed it to him. I greeted her.

Before she took a seat in the wing chair opposite mine, her eyes darted about the room, which, apart from us and the fleeing porter, was empty.

‘You have come up to town today?' She spoke as if for the benefit of any person or persons hiding behind a sofa.

‘Yes, by the 7.50 train.' I resumed my seat.

‘The North was once so very far away.'

She did not appear greatly changed since the last time I saw her, at the charity auction. Perhaps we fix a first image so firmly in our minds that we go on seeing it the same way. If anything, she looked more striking. Her coppery golden hair, under the neat hat, was a little grey at the temples, her cheek bones more prominent. In this intimate setting, her dignity and reserve gave way to an ease of manner that comes naturally to my mother and aunt. They would have been brought up in the same circles, and came out into society a few years sooner than Lady Coulton.

She had a fragile, almost brittle quality that I had not noticed before. Her face bore traces of powder and a touch of rouge. Perfectly bowed and gently pencilled eyebrows raised a little as she appraised me. I hoped my own appraisal was not so obvious.

She thanked me for coming and enquired about what sort of lunch the club served, all the while making a shield of a shiny crocodile-skin handbag, as if it might escape from her and find its way back to the Zambezi.

‘I asked to meet you here because it is close to home. I can slip out unnoticed.'

Had she been unnoticed, though? I wondered whether to tell her that I thought someone had followed her.

‘My Aunt Berta probably mentioned to you that she and I lunch here occasionally.'

‘She did. But she knows nothing of this meeting. Shall you be seeing her during this visit?'

‘I shall see no one, except you. A taxi will take me back to King's Cross.'

It would be the four o'clock train, if she was quick about it; or the 5.45 if she took her time. The 5.45 did have the advantage of a restaurant car.

‘This is a delicate matter.'

‘You are assured of my discretion.'

She placed her bag on the low table. ‘It is not always easy for me to get away these days. If someone discovers that I was here, it is because I am in sympathy with the idea of a club for girls and women and may take some sort of interest, you understand?'

‘I understand.' She had no interest in the VAD club but preferred not to be seen with me at the Ritz or the Savoy, where her chums would gather. I did not mention the man who may have followed her. I could be mistaken. If questioned at home, she had her story carefully worked out. But why was leaving the house so difficult?

I waited.

She glanced at her kid gloves, as if considering whether they had become part of her hands.

‘Is there anything you wish to ask me before you give me your confidence?'

‘Be a dear, order me a gin and tonic and something for you. I can't just plough on cold as it were.'

The club has no bar, but I knew that Alfred would be willing to oblige. Since there have been complaints about the availability of alcohol, he does not provide drinks for everyone who asks, only for those he knows will be discreet. I found him in the corridor and whispered my request, making hers a double and mine a straightforward tonic. She need not know that I intended to remain stone cold sober.

Lady Coulton drew off her gloves. ‘Perhaps you know my husband is an invalid?'

‘No. I had not heard, though I did notice that he has not lately been reported as speaking in the Lords.'

She smiled. ‘Yes, he always had to make his views known, never one to snooze through the sessions.'

‘How is he now?'

She made a hopeless gesture. ‘Critically ill, but being nursed at home. His room is full of contraptions and frightfully efficient nurses. He is sleeping, but asks for me constantly, for no reason. Sometimes in the afternoon he has a burst of energy and imagines he could stroll across the square without becoming exhausted.'

Alfred brought our drinks on a tray. He lifted the glasses onto dainty mats, surreptitiously gazing at my guest as if memorising her beauty.

Lady Coulton took a sip. ‘His illness does not stop my daughter-in-law from sizing up the house for improvements. She and my son will give up the Chelsea House. They expect me to retire to the country, when the inevitable happens.'

‘And will you?'

‘Certainly not.'

Not until she had taken a large snifter of gin did she begin her story, which then came out so straightforwardly that I felt sure she must have been planning to do this for months, if not years.

‘I have a daughter.' She held my gaze as if daring me to judge or contradict.

You have never spoken those words before, I thought. After a long moment, she continued. ‘My husband is unaware of her existence – not just he, the world is unaware. Her twenty-fourth birthday was 10th July. She was born in 1901, when my husband had been serving in South Africa for well over a year. It was quite a worry, an unlucky situation. We had been married six years. My sons were then aged five, four and three. My son Noel is an MP. My youngest, Geoffrey, farms in Rhodesia.'

‘And your eldest died on the Somme. I'm sorry.'

‘Thank you. He was the best, of course.' She shrugged and took another sip of gin. ‘When I knew I was to bear a child, I went to Scarborough, on the pretext of taking the boys to the seaside. That is where I gave birth. The boys were too young to understand. Their nanny, who had been my nanny, took care of them during my confinement. The baby was left with my nanny's younger sister, Mrs Wells, a resident of Scarborough, the reason for my choice. Her name is on the child's birth certificate. I dared not risk a scandal, you see. My husband would have felt obliged to divorce me. It was around the time when he had succeeded to the title. I would have lost my boys, lost everything.'

‘And what is it you want me to do, Lady Coulton?'

Of course I already knew, before she spoke.

‘I want you to find her. Oh I can't acknowledge her, even now, but I want to know if she is well, and whether there might be something I could do for her. I never had a daughter, you see.'

This struck me as an odd thing for her to say, but of course she meant that she had no
legitimate
daughter.

I took out my notebook. ‘What are the full names on the birth certificate?'

Her fingers touched her throat, as if the gesture might help her say the words. ‘Parents, Jeremy and Jennifer Wells. My daughter's given name is Sophia Mary Ann.' She watched me write the names and date of birth. ‘I have always wondered how Sophia turned out and whether she married.'

‘Do you believe she is still in Scarborough?'

‘It is possible. I stopped receiving communications long ago, in 1911. They came through my nanny, you see, and she died. Well, there you are, that is my sorry tale. You are from the North. I suppose Scarborough is not too far from you.'

‘Not far. About sixty miles.'

‘Well?'

‘Was Sophia told of her true parentage?'

‘That I do not know. My name would not have been mentioned to her, but it is possible that the child sensed she was of different stock, and she may have picked up a hint. I would simply, at first, like to know where she is, whether she is well and in what circumstances.'

‘I will do my very best.'

‘Thank you.'

‘What other details can you give me?'

She leaned forward to retrieve her handbag. She opened the bag and took out a professionally-produced postcard size photograph. ‘This is Sophia.'

In the centre of the picture, leaning against a polished, wood-frame chair with tapestry upholstered seat, was a plump, well-cared for child, about three years old. She wore a white cotton or linen dress trimmed with broderie anglaise, ending just below her knees, frilled white socks and strapped black shoes. Someone had told her to point to the open picture book that lay on the chair. With her right arm, she leaned on the seat. The forefinger of her left hand pointed towards the book, but she looked into the camera. Her fair hair fell in waves almost to her shoulders. It was centre-parted and tied in bunches with two white ribbons. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face, dark eyes and snub nose, above shapely, unsmiling lips.

In the background, from left to right, was a curtain, a window seat, the bottom three small panes of a window, and a plant stand holding a fern-filled jardinière.

The reverse of the postcard gave the name of the photographic studio: Felton, Photographer, Bingley.

‘Why Bingley, I wonder?'

‘I don't know. Perhaps Mrs Wells visited a friend or relative there. This is the only photograph I have of the child.'

‘Did Mr and Mrs Wells have other children?'

‘No, they were childless and the proprietors of a fishmonger shop.'

The word ‘fishmonger' brought a look of intense sadness to her face. I thought she might burst into tears, but she took another drink.

‘When did you last have word about Sophia?'

‘Before Nanny Tarpey died, in 1911.'

‘Did you attempt to keep in touch?'

‘I wrote to Mrs Wells, expressing condolences at the loss of her sister and saying that if there was anything I could do for her, she must let me know. I trusted she would understand me and that if there was something she needed for the child, she would tell me.'

‘And was there anything she wanted?'

‘Oddly, no. I received a rather sniffy note saying that they were all very well, thank you for asking.' She leaned back in her chair. ‘It made my heart sink. She was telling me to keep my distance and not interfere with the child she now thought of as hers.'

‘I suppose that would explain the silence.'

She delved in her bag for a scrap of paper. ‘This is the last address I have for Mrs Wells.'

I took out my notebook and slid photograph and address in the back.

‘What will you do?' she asked.

‘I will go to Scarborough and call at the address. We may place an advertisement in newspapers, anyone knowing the whereabouts, that sort of thing. A hint of some advantage will bring replies, and then we will sift through them and follow up those that seem genuine. What else can you tell me about Mr and Mrs Wells?'

She looked blank, and then admitted that apart from knowing he was a fishmonger, and she was the nanny's sister, she knew very little.

‘What about Sophia? Did she have any distinguishing birthmarks?'

‘No. She was perfect in every way.' She took a handkerchief from her bag. As she put it to her nose, I caught a whiff of smelling salts.

After a moment, she leaned back in her chair, as though suddenly tired.

‘Did you leave anything with her, some trinket or memento?'

‘I couldn't, you see. She was supposed to be Mrs Wells's child. One thing did occur to me…'

‘Yes?'

‘Scarborough, the east coast, there was a bombardment in 1914. I have always worried, and sometimes dreamed that my child was killed. So much news was censored then.'