Flowers Stained With Moonlight (24 page)

Dearest Dora,

How lovely it feels to be home again! Everything is wonderfully the same, and yet strangely unfamiliar at the same time.

Your letter was waiting for me here when I arrived. I shall come to visit immediately – I shall leave tomorrow, and arrive very nearly at the same time as this very letter! Oh, Dora,
what
can
be on Ellen’s mind? You say she has been letting strange hints fall – and that she seems certain that Sylvia cannot have had a lover ever. Yet we know that she did have one, or at the very least, a suitor or a flirt, however innocent it may really have been! What makes Ellen so stubbornly sure of herself? What can she possibly know about it?

Alas, if you have not been able to persuade her to tell you what she means, then it is not likely that I shall succeed either. Yet I can argue that it is for Sylvia’s defence. It could be that deep down, she really wishes or needs to speak, and something, some fear perhaps, is restraining her. I shall see what my utmost tact can accomplish – but Dora, I have never, ever had even half the tact that you have – so I am not as optimistic as I might otherwise be!

It does not seem worth my writing much, as I shall see you tomorrow or the next day – only I simply
must
tell you what happened on the boat back. After my talk with Annabel in which my foolish blind eyes were unsealed, I determined that I must corner Charles and beard him, for I am dearly fond of Annabel and quite see that her present situation is untenable. I did hope, over the last several days, that as Arthur has spent a great deal of time with me, and we even came away to Calais together one day before the others, perhaps there would be some development between the two of them, but as soon as we met at the ticket office, I knew that nothing had happened, for Annabel’s face was all downcast, whereas Charles was exactly his usual cheerful self, which he would surely not have been if some explanation had occurred, either pleasant or unpleasant.

On our way to the boat, I determined that I would tackle him on board, but I very nearly forgot, for Arthur and I had other things on our mind. Indeed, we tried a little last-minute detecting as we approached the ferry; we surveyed the area with care and occupied a few minutes with a couple of minor experiments. First, we saw the old lady sitting behind her little stand of bird food. Mingling with the groups of people milling about, Arthur walked past her, behaving as normal as possible, and disappeared around a corner. A few minutes later, I hastened up to her, looking upset, and asked her in a tone of urgency if she had seen a young man with brown hair and a light brown topcoat pass by, as I had lost him. She glanced up at me and then gestured with her chin in the direction he had disappeared. ‘He passed three, four minutes ago,’ she said with a nod. I rushed after him, and soon discovered him and hauled him back. She winked at me as she saw us pass.

‘Arthur, she remembered you instantly! It’s amazing,’ I said breathlessly.

‘Bah,’ he said, ‘five minutes is not the same as five days.’

As a second experiment, I tried to imagine that I was disguised and needed to transform myself before boarding the boat. I slipped behind one of the large mounds of crates and trunks which were in the process of being loaded onto the boat we were travelling by, but I had been there less than half a minute when I was elbowed aside by a burly Frenchman in overalls, who snatched up the very box I was pressed against and heaved it up on his shoulders. Indeed, I must agree with M. Lemaire that anyone trying to don or doff a decent disguise would be taking a great risk to do it in such a place, where one
cannot be sure of being alone for any time at all! How could one change one’s appearance within a few seconds? Yet I see no other possibility; that is what
must
have happened.

I was still puzzling over this problem as we boarded the boat, and it made me absent-minded for some little time, but as we pulled away from the shore, and I found myself hanging next to Charles over the rail on the port side of the deck, watching the coast of France distance itself slowly, I suddenly remembered my purpose with respect to him. I glanced around, but Annabel was nowhere to be seen, and Arthur was leaning on the railing some distance farther down. I turned to Charles, and raised my voice to be heard over the various roaring and churning noises of the engine and the slap of the waves. For an effect of greater severity, I planted my hands upon my hips. However, before I had pronounced a single word, he turned a glum face in my direction and said,

‘I simply can’t believe that by tonight, we’ll be back in the usual grind again. It really was a heavenly two weeks, wasn’t it?’

‘Ha,’ I said, seizing the occasion, and wondering if hints would not succeed where I had intended to employ more brutal means. ‘And why should you return to the old grind, just as before? Can some essential element of the delight you felt during your stay not accompany you back home?’

‘I wish it could,’ he smiled uncomprehendingly. ‘What could such an element be? The exotic nature of it all – that is what I would choose, followed by a cuisine containing snails. But I don’t see how I could carry that home in my pockets. Do you?’

‘Are you sure it’s really France and snails which made
your stay so wonderful?’ I said, wondering if he were very dense, or if on the contrary he fully realised my purpose, but was parrying it expertly in order not to find himself in a highly embarrassing situation. I began to ask myself if I were doing the right thing in attempting to bring him to a realisation of Annabel’s feelings. For if he were aware of it but reticent, it would be a cruelty to force the statement out into the open. Yet I found it hard to believe that such was the case. No one, seeing him in Paris, could have thought it for a moment – and he certainly is not a flirt. I decided to persist, and flung delicacy to the winds.

‘What about Annabel?’ I said. ‘Why, Arthur and I were perfectly convinced that your radiant mood was due to all the time you spent with her, as much if not more than to the architecture and historical landmarks of Paris!’

‘Annabel?’ he repeated, sincerely surprised. ‘Of course it was lovely going about with her. It’s ever so much nicer than being alone!’

‘Well, why stop then, when you are back in England?’

‘Why – why – it’s not in our habits, to go walking together, when we’re at home.’

I looked straight into his eyes, determined to gauge his feelings.

‘Would it not give you the same pleasure?’ I said.

‘I – why yes – no—’ he began awkwardly, flushing a little. ‘I guess it
would
be nice – I guess it would be wonderful, really, to take tea with Annabel on the grass, or in Grantchester, sometimes, as you do with Arthur. In fact, now that you mention it, I can hardly think of any prospect
which would please me more! Funny, I never thought of it before.’ He stopped, thoughtfully, and then added, ‘But Annabel won’t want to, I expect. And it wouldn’t really do, you know.’

‘Why not? And why wouldn’t she want to?’ I asked firmly.

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

‘By no means. Charles – Annabel is very fond of you and in fact she is rather unhappy. It’s wrong to tell you this, I suppose. But I think you should know it so that you can react one way or another. Any way you wish, as long as it is not just ignoring the situation, whether consciously or unconsciously. Because that is what is troubling her, and Annabel is my friend, and it saddens me to see her sad.’

Charles looked amazed.

‘Annabel sad? I can’t believe that, Vanessa! Why, she laughed all the time we were together!’

‘Well,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see. What should I do?’

‘It all depends on what you feel,’ I told him, suppressing the words
you idiot
which rose spontaneously to my lips. ‘I do not wish to pry into your feelings; I am not asking you what they are. I am just telling you to determine them and to make them clear in a kind and generous way. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said quickly, then added, ‘I mean I really do see what you mean. One doesn’t want to be dishonourable, does one?’

‘No. And if you don’t feel anything other than light-hearted friendship for Annabel, then I really think
that she ought to leave your house, and probably leave Cambridge altogether. For it is not an easy situation.’

‘Oh!’ he said, very much struck. ‘Oh, I should hate it if she left. That would be awful! No, no. She mustn’t leave! I – why, that would be—’

He stopped, and we looked at each other. A multitude of expressions passed over his face.

‘Look here, Vanessa,’ he said after a while. ‘What can I do? I want Annabel to be there. And now that you mention it, I would like to see more of her, as we did in Paris. But in a way, wouldn’t that be just as bad?’

‘If it were not to go any farther, yes,’ I said pitilessly.

‘Farther? But I can’t! My sister would be furious! How could I? Annabel … Annabel is an orphan – and she’s the governess of Constance’s children! After what happened with my sister’s husband and the previous governess, she would never be able to accept such a thing! It’s awful, Vanessa. What can I do?’

‘Before you think about your sister, think about yourself,’ I said quietly. ‘Do you want to marry?’

‘Not the girls Constance keeps introducing me to, I’ll say that!’ he said. ‘And I get tired of being alone. Very tired; it’s too much to bear, sometimes. But I haven’t found the perfect … I mean … Well, yes. I should like to marry Annabel! Why, I’ve just realised it. How could you have seen it before I did, Vanessa? So you think that Annabel cares? Really?’ He looked at me eagerly and I had to laugh. But his face fell.

‘It’s no good,’ he said, fingering his small moustache doubtfully. ‘It’s not possible. I really don’t see how I can do
it, Vanessa. I know that when I get home and have to think about announcing it, I’ll go all limp.’

‘I am not going to press you,’ I said. ‘Don’t expect me to force you into any decision! You must decide yourself. I wish only to influence you into doing so openly, clearly and soon, for reasons which you must understand now.’

‘I hate deciding,’ he muttered with an aggrieved look, but I was already turning away, fearful of pushing him too hard into saying things he might afterwards regret and feel obliged to retract. I joined Arthur, and we made no further reference to the affair; when we all came together upon descending from the boat, Charles appeared to be altogether his usual self, and gave his arm to Annabel in a natural and comfortable manner, without any undue eagerness. I have sown a seed, Dora – I do not know what will come of it, but the look in Annabel’s eyes as we sat across from each other over breakfast is not one that I can easily forget. What will be, will be.

Till tomorrow, my dear!

Vanessa

My dearest sister,

How wonderful it was to see you, and to talk everything over with you so carefully! How lovely, to sit up late at night in the room we used to share, talking for hours on everything under the sun! I meant to discuss the case with you in detail, but I cannot regret the fact that we did nothing of the kind. It was too lovely to leave it all behind
for a moment – and to live for a little while in your private world instead of mine. When I think how naturally young Mr Edwards of long ago has transformed himself, over the last four years, into ‘Dora’s John’ – and that the end of all the long years of waiting may finally be within sight, and he will be able, with equal smoothness, to transform himself into ‘Dora’s husband’! Poor man. He is miserable in Ceylon, and you are miserable here without him, and only one little element is missing to restore harmony to all concerned: a posting to some diplomatic office in England, such as are offered to young Cambridge and Oxford graduates every day! It is but a small thing; surely it cannot elude him much longer, especially if he himself has begun to hear positive rumours. How wonderful it will be, when the rhythm of your daily life is no longer measured by the arrival of letters, and by the too-rare, too-short visits which leave almost more pain behind them than they bring joy whilst they last. Oh, Dora, I wish for his return and for your marriage almost as ardently as I wish for mine!

The importance of all these questions entirely outshadowed my investigation, which in the end we had no time to discuss. Yet, Dora, if you would do as you promised; reread all my letters, let the story they tell take shape and form within you, and write to me what you think of it all, I know that it would be of infinite help to me. Your mind is so calm, so logical compared to mine, which always seems to be darting hither and thither like a silly rabbit! When you sum up a situation, then and only then does it begin to seem clear and coherent to me.

Now, I must tell you what you are surely longing to know; namely, about the talk I had with Ellen this morning, before catching my train back here. Unfortunately, it was as uninformative as my worst fears had led me to suspect it would be (otherwise, I should certainly have begun this letter by speaking of it!). I arrived at her cottage bearing a pretty gift for her little boy. William is really a delightful child. His country upbringing has made him a straightforward, good-hearted little creature without much complexity and he was immediately delighted with the train I had produced for him (as similar a one as I could find to that which we bought for a miserable, trembling little boy in Calais four years ago, which brought such a colour into his little cheeks), and with the milk and buns he was served for tea, and the unusual opportunity to discuss his affairs with a lady who was obviously both familiar with and deeply interested in all the most cherished concerns of small boys of six. After I had admired his caterpillar, which he was going to tame and teach to do tricks, and his vegetable patch, from whose muddy depths the family sustenance was soon to emerge, and a tattered ABC of which his mother had begun to show him the initial pages, he led me into his diminutive bedroom and opening a drawer, he took out a framed photograph showing a young, vigorous man of twenty-five or thirty, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the child himself.

‘That’s my dad,’ he announced with pride.

‘I can see that it is,’ I said, staring at the photograph in amazement.

‘William – put that away at once!’ said Ellen, who had
entered after us, taking it from him and thrusting it back into the drawer. And much to his annoyance, she dispatched him forthwith to collect a great bunch of flowers in my honour, and we began to talk.

Of course I began in the most circuitous fashion, and conversation went easily upon the subjects of her work, her child, her difficulties, the problem of his schooling.

‘It isn’t easy. A boy needs a father, especially a boy like mine, so strong and active.’

‘He loves his father’s picture,’ I said gently.

‘He shouldn’t have shown you that!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a secret between us, he knows it! But what does it matter,’ she added more calmly. ‘You know who his father is well enough, miss. I saw you up in the gallery that day when I told Mrs Bryce-Fortescue all about it. I’d have been out of myself if it had been anybody else, but you are Miss Dora’s sister, and so like her; I trust you like I trust her. I know you know, and what of it?’

‘But – that picture is of Mr Granger, then?’ I said in surprise.

‘Yes, it is a picture of him when he was young,’ she said. ‘He’d given it to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and I stole it when I left – yes, it’s the only thing I ever stole. I took it to give my child a father, and I don’t regret it.’

It took me both time and tact to lead the conversation around to Sylvia, but I finally succeeded in doing so. I was not sure how best to approach the issue, but finally decided to let Ellen understand that Sylvia was actually in danger. I was not sure exactly how much her loyalty to Sylvia might make her rise in her defence, so I also hinted at the obvious
consequence that Sylvia’s inheritance from her husband might be a matter of doubt, which would bode ill for the realisation of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s kind promises.

‘Miss Sylvia in danger,’ she said, ‘surely not? Why, as the police have not arrested her, I thought they had made up their minds she couldn’t have done it.’

‘They believe her guilty none the less,’ I said, ‘if not of the actual shooting itself – for which she has an alibi, although the police profess to be unconvinced even by that – but of conspiracy with an accomplice.’

‘An accomplice? Who could have done such a thing for her?’

‘Well, the police … well, it has been discovered that during her visit to Paris, she seems to have gone about accompanied by a young man whom no one appears able to identify, and as she and this young man were observed to behave in public exactly like lovers, they are very eager to identify him, and quite suppose that he may be the murderer. Sylvia has never mentioned any such person, and unless she is really a consummate actress, she really does not appear to have thought of such a thing at all. I do not know what to think.’

Ellen did not answer my remarks at once, but looked extremely sceptical.

‘Of course, you have not seen Sylvia for so long, that you must have no idea about all this,’ I said encouragingly, wondering why she wore a knowing look underneath her doubting expression.

‘No, I know nothing about it,’ she said. There was a pause, and then she added in a rush,

‘It sounds very unlikely to me, though perhaps I am all wrong.’

‘What exactly is unlikely?’ I asked with interest. ‘I know that there was a time when you knew Sylvia far better than anyone else could, perhaps even better than her own mother. No one knows a child like her nurse. So even though she was young then and may have changed, still, your instincts must certainly be revealing. What appears unlikely to you?’

She writhed on her seat, sipped her tea and hesitated.

‘Miss Sylvia wasn’t that way,’ she said at length, but very uncomfortably.

‘Wasn’t what way?’ I persisted.

‘She wouldn’t have had a lover in Paris. It doesn’t sound like her.’

I remembered asking Sylvia
Did you meet anyone really special?
and her casual, spontaneous answer,
They were all special!
And yet … we knew that she had!

‘But Ellen,’ I said finally, ‘surely there are many girls of fifteen who do not want lovers, but that usually changes by the time they are twenty-two, as Sylvia is now. It would be strange indeed, if it did
not
change!’

‘Not girls like Sylvia,’ she said. ‘If Sylvia had a lover in Paris, then …’ She glanced up at me suddenly, as if an idea had suddenly struck her, and a look of fear flashed through her eyes. She stopped speaking and looked down into her teacup. I stared at her in complete disarray.

‘Please, do tell me what you mean,’ I begged. ‘What about girls like Sylvia? What if she had a lover in Paris? What was it about her?’

A stubborn look crept onto her face.

‘I can’t say,’ she said finally. ‘She was a strange girl, that’s all. A strange girl, and it’s a strange story. The police are barking up the wrong tree, maybe.’

Dora, no persuasion would extract even a single further grain of information from her. How stupid I do feel! What on earth can she mean by it? Oh, her words must somehow contain the key to the mystery! Why can I not guess it? Can you think of anything? Do, do come to my aid! I am at my wits’ end and really do not know what to think!

Your loving

Vanessa