Death on the Ice (26 page)

‘There’s more. I hear Kathleen allowed herself to be taken on a tour of the opium dens down by the docks by young men.’

‘I know for a fact you have done that. So far you are damning her by association.’

Mabel puffed out her cheeks in frustration at his sanguine replies. ‘And she has been to war. To the Balkans. As part of the relief fund. A nurse.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? How interesting.’

Mabel laughed. ‘I’m not doing a very good job of deterring you, am I? I tell you she has rebuffed a great many men. Aleister Crowley was bewitched by her. He claims she has supernatural powers. He told me she is a terrible tease.’

‘It sounds as if Mr Crowley was simply frustrated.’

Mabel placed a hand on his. ‘She is not right, Con. Chalk and cheese, chalk and cheese.’ The actress gave a bright smile of her own, and he could see why a younger Mabel had so captivated New York a decade earlier. ‘What about the widow Marie-Carola d’Erlanger?’

Scott grimaced at the memory of his abortive courtship. ‘Not to be. The family disapproved of me. Apparently my fortune was insufficient. In that I don’t have a fortune.’

‘Just as well. Her two children were an obstacle. A ready-made family is not easy. Remember, captain, you always have me to turn to.’

‘As does your husband.’

Mabel roared with laughter at this. ‘You see? You’re far, far too conventional for the likes of Kathleen Bruce. Royal Navy captains do not marry into bohemia. You need someone to keep home while you are away. Not a woman who attracts men like bees to the honeypot. Now, tell me about this accident you mentioned.’

‘You don’t want to know about that. Regular Navy life is far too dull.’

‘Oh, but I do, Con, I do. I have a thing for sailors.’

As he embellished the tale of the collision of the
Commonwealth
with his ship
Albermarle
during night manoeuvres in the Mediterranean—an accident for which, after a few nervous weeks, he had been absolved of all blame—the party began to break up. It was a few minutes before he realised Kathleen Bruce had gone. He made hasty goodbyes to Mabel, accepted his coat and hat from the housekeeper and hurried out. He saw her down the street, turning the corner into Claverton Street. He followed at a brisk pace, careful not to break into a run. When he finally made it to the junction, she was standing there, just out of sight. A wry smile played on her face and sharp, cornflower-blue eyes peered from under a wide, velvet hat adorned with roses.

‘Miss Bruce—’ he gasped.

‘You should catch your breath, captain.’

He put a hand on his chest. ‘Yes. Forgive me.’

‘Not been doing too much man-hauling lately?’

‘No. Speeches in Middlesbrough and Dundee for the most part. Long dinners with many toasts. It is not conducive to fitness. Are you walking home? I live in Chelsea, too.’

‘I thought I would stroll, yes.’

‘May I walk with you? I’m sorry we weren’t introduced properly.’

‘I think Mabel Beardsley would like to keep you all for herself.’

‘I am afraid I am very public property now. She can’t.’

‘Well, then.’ She held out her hand. ‘Kathleen Bruce.’

‘Robert Scott.’ They gave a pantomime handshake.

‘There, that’s over. Of course I knew who you were straight away. I saw you in
Vanity Fair
.’

‘Oh, Lord. That scandal sheet. They are always trying to marry me off.’

‘No success?’

‘Not yet. Tell me, where on earth did you get your sunburn?’

‘Vagabonding in Greece.’

‘Vagabonding?’

‘Sleeping under the stars.’

‘Alone?’

She stopped and gave him a quizzical look. ‘That’s really none of your business, Captain Scott. But since you ask, there would normally be a companion nearby, with a gun. If I was in any danger, I would bang on a petrol can with a stick and he would discharge the gun. Although we never actually had to use the device, captain.’

‘My friends call me Con. I wanted to ask you something. How do you presume to know about Shackleton, Miss Bruce?’

She waved a hand to dismiss the question as if the answer were obvious. ‘I have heard about his financial woes, of course. He seems like a man who doesn’t bother with the finer points of finance. If that crosses over to his planning, well … And, of course, I’ve read your book.’

‘Really?’
The Voyage of the
Discovery was selling well, but he had presumed to a mostly male audience.

‘People have, you know. Or do you think they purchase it as a mantle ornament?’

‘I am deeply flattered you have read it, of course. I was just surprised it would have any interest to a person like you.’

Her eyes widened provocatively.

‘I mean, an artist.’

‘I’ll have you know I have had one or two adventures myself.’

‘So I hear.’

Kathleen tutted. ‘Please don’t believe everything you hear.’

‘What if I like what I hear?’

‘Go by what you experience, Captain Scott. Not second-hand impressions from others.’

‘Well said.’

She stopped and examined the window of a dress shop, her eyes not really taking in the goods on display. ‘I don’t think Shackleton will make it. He has something to prove, to you, I think. But I am not sure that is enough. He’ll turn back, see if he doesn’t.’

‘I can’t wish him ill.’

She continued walking. ‘And then you will go back. You will return South, Captain Scott.’

He had to laugh at her certainty. ‘I feel that I should cross your palm with silver. How do you presume to know my future plans?’

‘It’s in your book, captain. You have earned the country’s respect. But not your own self-respect.’

‘That’s in there?’

‘Yes. For all to read. But most won’t. Not that part. You have something to face down there. You must go back, or you will regret it for the rest of your life.’ She hesitated. The light was going, and the chill of an autumn evening descending on them. ‘I am having a pot pie at seven-thirty tonight. And some Wagner. I have a new gramophone. If you care to join me.’

Mabel had been right. She did have a wild streak, inviting a man she had barely met to her quarters. Where, he recalled, she lived alone. ‘Alas, I have promised to dine with my mother.’ Hannah Scott would not countenance a cancellation, not for a dinner in his honour at the Savoy hosted by H. G. Wells. She might despise the man’s politics, but she relished his celebrity.

‘You are a dutiful son.’ She could have been mocking him, he wasn’t certain. ‘Is there no way  …?’

‘You haven’t met my mother.’

‘Well, then. I am sure I can find another to share my pot pie.’

He felt an unfamiliar spasm in his chest. ‘I could … ’ He ran through alternative scenarios. All involved watching Hannah Scott’s face crumple with disappointment. And what would the upright Victorian lady make of an exotic creature like Kathleen Bruce ruining her night? ‘No, I’m afraid no easy solution presents itself. We’ll have to do it another time. If you would still be interested.’

‘I am back to Paris tomorrow. Then Brussels. I shall be away for three weeks.’

‘I shall be at sea by then. On the
Albermarle
.’

‘Well, there we are, sailing in opposite directions.’

‘So I won’t see you again?’ The note of desperation surprised him.

‘Oh look, there’s Gilbert.’ She waved at a tall, blond man in a checked suit across the street. He instantly swerved towards her, a huge, lopsided grin on his face. She signalled for him to stay where he was and prepared to launch herself between the drays, omnibuses and chuffing automobiles. ‘I have to go. See if Gilbert likes Wagner. But, yes, we will meet again, Captain Scott. Be sure of it.’

As she darted across the street, deftly weaving between the traffic and side-stepping the horse droppings, he suddenly felt terribly bereft, as if something vital had just walked out of his life.

C
HARLES SHANNON PUT HIS
brush down and waited for Kathleen Bruce, who was sitting at the window seat, to notice his sudden inactivity. The sun was streaming through the grubby panes, catching dust motes and illuminating her hair, which was cascading around her shoulders. She looked wonderful, the painter thought, but there was something missing. The vivacious woman he had sketched out on canvas over the last three sittings was not in residence.

Shannon began to wash out one of his brushes, clacking it noisily in the jar.

‘You’ve stopped, Charles,’ she said at last, glancing up at the studio clock. ‘Are we done already?’

‘You don’t love me today,’ Shannon said with mock-petulance.

‘Nonsense, Charles. You know that you and Ricketts,’ she replied, referring to the other half of the Rickysan painting duo, ‘are my two favourite Charlies in the world.’

‘You aren’t loving me. The paint isn’t loving you either. You are somewhere else.’

She took two great handfuls of hair and flicked them over her back. ‘I’m sorry. I saw my captain again yesterday.’ She had met Scott at tea at Mabel Beardsley’s, ten months after the initial encounter. They had seen each other a half-dozen times since, going to the theatre, galleries and concerts as well as attending readings at fashionable literary salons. He seemed hungry to fill in the gaping holes in a naval education.

‘Your gallant explorer?’

‘I took Gilbert along this time. Tea at the Goring. Gilbert, I am afraid, is not going to go quietly. He was excessively charming and witty yesterday.’

Shannon raised his eyebrows and swished the brush vigorously. Like most people who had met the young playwright Gilbert Carman, he was very taken with his beauty. ‘Well, I always thought Gilbert was more suited to you than a naval type. Not quite as much as a successful artist, mind.’

‘Charles, don’t waste your ardour on me.’

He smiled to show he was half teasing. ‘Then our love shall remain chaste. And purer for it.’

‘That’s more like it.’

Kathleen stood and walked over towards the easel. Shannon stepped into her way.

‘No, you can’t see. I’m not pleased. I am very unhappy with you bringing your personal life in here.’ He stuck out his lower lip, a comical effect in a middle-aged man. ‘Besides, I am having trouble with your hands.’

She held them up and examined her fingers. They were perfectly formed, but larger than her frame might suggest. ‘I have a man’s hands.’

‘You have a man’s soul, Kathleen, but a woman’s wiles. It is a fatal combination. So, what was the outcome? Was there a duel between suitors? Or did they behave like twentieth-century gentlemen?’

She had furrowed her brow, and ignored his question. ‘Trouble is, he’d be perfect.’

‘Gilbert?’

‘Captain South Pole Scott. What do you think of that scheme?’

Shannon tutted. ‘I understand you might need someone more, urn, stable than Cannan. He can be very erratic. He’s been a promising playwright for just a little too long now, hasn’t he? Time to fulfil that promise, I’d say.’ He cleared his throat, aware she might not like what was coming next. ‘On the other hand, Kathleen, alas, I can’t see you as the doting naval wife, knitting socks while … ’ His face lit up as a fresh thought came to him. ‘A-ha. A husband who is away at sea and God knows where else for long months might be an ideal situation, might it not?’

‘That’s a beastly thing to say, Charles.’ A sly smile dimpled her cheek, though.

‘And you can carry on your dancing and your vagabonding.’

‘When I am married I shall be very good,’ she said forcefully. ‘But he would have to accept me for who I am.’

‘And would he?’

‘I’m not sure. Some days I think yes, others no. And for a great explorer he is wracked with self-doubt. Thinks he’s not worthy of me.’

‘Who is, darling, who is?’

‘And there is his mother.’

Charles tutted. ‘A mother. Oh, dear. The curse of our age. Tell me she isn’t an upright God-fearing widow who regards the arts as Satan’s spawn and anyone with designs on her son a harlot?’

‘I haven’t met her. But I suspect you are right. He has to support her. And the sisters.’

‘Oh. Will you be poor?’

‘One can’t be poor, can one?’ she mused. ‘No, I couldn’t stand that. But I still think he might be the one I had in mind. There must be a great inner strength in him. I shall have to digest what he has said and done these past weeks. He is going to write to me from his ship. I’ll see then.’

‘And Gilbert?’

She sighed, imagining the younger man’s crushing disappointment. ‘Poor Gilbert.’

‘Do you love him? Captain South Pole?’

There came a hammering on the studio door. ‘Don’t peek,’ said Shannon, indicating the incomplete portrait, as he crossed to see who was making such a racket.

Gilbert Cannan burst in like a wild-eyed bedlamite, breathless and dishevelled. ‘There you are! I’ve looked everywhere from Sloane Square to Richmond for you.’

Kathleen, unfazed said: ‘Gilbert. You’ve met Charles, haven’t you?’

Cannan’s head swivelled as if he had only just noticed the owner of the studio. ‘What? Yes. Hello. Sorry to interrupt.’

‘Not at all, my dear chap. It’s only a sitting after all. Can I get you something?’

‘No. Would you excuse us?’

Shannon looked nonplussed at being dismissed from his own premises, but said, ‘I’ll see if there’s any tea.’

As soon as Shannon had left, Cannan grabbed Kathleen by the shoulders. He towered over her, far taller than Scott. ‘I have a solution.’

‘To what?’

‘Our predicament.’

‘Which predicament is that?’

‘You don’t know which of us to choose. The steadfast rock or the interesting author. The dull penny or the shiny sixpence.’

‘You’ll be the sixpence, I take it?’

‘Yes. He’s the penny because he seems more substantial, heavier. But the weightiest coins aren’t always the most valuable.’

Despite herself she had to laugh.

‘Oh, he’s a dear, clean thing, but he just doesn’t see life the way you and I do. Does he know Socrates or Euripides? Muriel Paget? Beethoven? Where is the joy in him? I sense a melancholy, don’t you? Dark thunderclouds.’