Flowers Stained With Moonlight (3 page)

‘I didn’t say she never stopped
pouring tea
!’ laughed her uncle, mopping up the puddle with a cloth. ‘Who’s knocking? – Ah, that must be Arthur, come to pick up Vanessa.’

My heart jumped inside me, for believe it or not, I had positively forgotten about my own news. It flowed back into my mind, and it suddenly struck me that telling Arthur about it might not turn out to be as easy as I had supposed.

As soon as I had put on my shawl, and Arthur and I had taken our leave, shut the door behind us and walked down the path in the balmy evening air, I turned to him, and fearing that if I did not begin immediately, I might never get up the courage to address the subject, I blurted out –

‘Arthur, I must tell you something very surprising that happened to me.’

‘Really?’ he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

‘Yes, a – a lady came to visit me, and – oh dear, this does sound quite unreal – she asked me to help her find out who has murdered her son-in-law! And,’ I continued hastily, as some instinct told me that I had better get the worst out
at once, ‘she has invited me to go down and stay with her starting Saturday.’

‘S-stay with her? Saturday?’ said Arthur, with his slight stammer, which was the more endearing as it has all but disappeared in the last years, and recurs only in moments of distress, of which, indeed, it is often the only sign.

‘Yes,’ I answered a little meekly.

‘But what for?’

‘Well,’ I mumbled uncomfortably, ‘she … well, I don’t know why, but she seems to think I can help her – she wants me to prove that her – that her daughter is innocent of the crime. Arthur, I don’t know why she came to me – I really don’t know. She – she knew about four years ago, and she seemed so very certain I could do something now as I did then, and she tried so hard to convince me to come that I … that I said I would.’

There was a silence, while Arthur digested this information.

‘But Vanessa,’ he said thoughtfully after a while, ‘it doesn’t sound like much of a good thing. Not at all.’

‘Oh dear,’ I sighed, not so much because of his opinion, which was much what I had expected, but because of the unpleasant necessity of arguing and defending my decision, which in any case – I admit it – was already firmly taken.

‘I mean to say, what do we know about this lady?’ he continued. ‘Who is she? What do you know of her? What does she know of you?’

‘I only know what she told me,’ I said humbly. ‘She says her son-in-law was shot last Sunday in a woods. His name was George Burton Granger.’

‘Ah, George Burton Granger. Well, that rings a bell at any rate; I read about that in the paper. This lady must be the mother of the wife then, of Mrs Granger, I mean. But Vanessa – here you are meaning to rush off to stay with perfectly strange people, and furthermore, you’re trying to get mixed up in a murder – a
murder
, Vanessa! And what if this Mrs Granger really is the murderer, whatever her mother may believe? Mothers have been mistaken about their children before! And if you start finding out about it, what’ll happen to you? No, you mustn’t go – it’s unthinkable! Whatever
can
this lady mean by coming to you?’

‘She – she was, well, there, four years ago, you know,’ I stammered. It is never easy to evoke the memory of that difficult time, least of all with Arthur.

‘What do you mean, “there”? Ah, at the trial.’

There was a long and awkward silence. I didn’t know how to break it. But Arthur did not seem disturbed at the resurgence of old and painful memories; he appeared to be considering the situation, or mulling, perhaps, over the best arguments to dissuade me.

‘Vanessa, think about what you’re getting into!’ he said, suddenly emerging. ‘Have you forgotten what it was like, to know that someone around you was a murderer – a murderer! a killer – and that you might be the next victim? Have you forgotten how frightened you were?’

Dora, I had forgotten it. I remembered only my desperate fear for him, and the rush of conviction when I finally felt that I understood what had really happened! But his words
brought something else back: the moments of blind terror and frantic suspicion, moments when I trusted nobody, moments when I thought I was being stalked and hunted, moments when noises in the night caused my hair to rise upon my head. And the darkest moment of all, when it was suddenly borne in upon me what it meant for one human being to have dealt out death to another. All these things had receded into the background of my mind, blotted out by the happier memories of the subsequent events. They came back to me as he spoke, and I realised with some horror that I had not properly reflected about what I was going to do.

‘And then – how can you tell if this lady is really sincere?’ continued Arthur, a wrinkle of worry between his brows. ‘It’s very strange for her to come to you – what does she really want? What if she wants to
use
you in some way that we cannot conceive of? Why can she not simply let the police do their job?’

‘Oh, Arthur,’ I cried, reacting only to the last sentence, ‘how can you ask that? She – she thinks they suspect her daughter, and she
knows
, like a mother would, that her daughter is innocent, but of course she is terrified that the police will be so eager to show results that they’ll hurry to take the easiest step, and arrest her.’

Again there was a silence. Who better than Arthur should know that such a fear is perfectly justified?

‘I’m afraid too, Vanessa,’ he said softly. ‘Afraid for you. I don’t want you to go. Think! You’ll be far away from me, alone there with a strange family, a dead man, and someone who killed him, and the more you seek to discover, the more
you’ll be risking your life. No, I can’t let you go. You mustn’t. Vanessa, p-please! How can I stay here and wait for you?’

He reached for my hand. I gave it to him, and answered slowly.

‘Oh, Arthur, perhaps I’ve been silly and precipitate. But what you say makes me feel more than ever that I must go. I shall be careful. I’m not going as a “detective”, of course, how could I? I’m no such thing. I’m simply going as a friend. Apart from Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, no one will have any idea of what I’m really doing. But you … what you’re saying is making me realise that a life may be at stake here; a real, human life. I cannot stand by, now that I have been called to act! I don’t know why I’ve been called, but I can’t ignore it. I can’t stand aside and do nothing. I can’t even wait, for Mrs Bryce-Fortescue says that the police may arrest her daughter at any moment.’

We had reached our own front door, and stood at the entrance, hesitating to enter and separate, each to our own rooms, as Mrs Fitzwilliam would never tolerate any other behaviour from her lodgers, even if they are respectably engaged. Arthur looked down at me, and his brown eyes were troubled.

‘To change your mind would be like changing yourself,’ he said softly. ‘I wouldn’t want you any different, and yet …’

‘Goodnight,’ I said quickly before he could continue, reached up to kiss him, and slipped quickly into my room. I have not convinced Arthur that I am right to go, of course, but … in fact, he has convinced me that I am right! Before speaking to him, I merely thought that I
would
go, and now
I feel that I
must
go. Before, I saw it as it as a kind of strange chance or opportunity, but now, it appears to me more like a manifestation of destiny. As for the danger, I cannot, now, perceive it as a serious threat. I do hope I am right!

Your loving sister,

Vanessa

My dearest Dora,

I have come – I am here – I have arrived! At this very moment, I am settled in a bedroom in which a certain chill and unused look persists, in spite of the family’s best efforts to cheer it up for me with lamps and candles, and fresh sheets and a pretty spread upon the iron bedstead. The day has been long, and I have been impatient for some time already to find myself alone. I must reflect on what I have seen and learnt (little though it is for the moment!) and look over my newspaper clippings once again.

The clippings are the work of Arthur. He woke me, early this morning, by tapping gently on my window, and by the time I had drawn the curtain and peeked sleepily out into the garden, he was beckoning to me from the garden table, where he was to be seen casually installed in a ray of sunshine filtering between the leaves, which quivered gaily in the light summer breeze. In front of him stood a lovely steaming teapot, a basket of rolls, sundry pots of jam and a large sheaf of newspapers. It would be difficult to conceive of a more tempting prospect; breakfast in the garden is a rare
treat, as one does not, generally, have the courage to beg the use of her personal table from Mrs Fitzwilliam (and this in spite of the fact that she never sits at it herself). Arthur had gone to a special effort for me, and I made haste to dress and join him, wondering within me what turn his thoughts had taken over the night, and how he would address the burning issue which still lay unresolved between us.

‘What a lovely breakfast,’ I said, as I took my place across from him and reached for the teapot. ‘But why all the newspapers?’

‘The newspapers are for you, Vanessa,’ he responded, looking at me with a restrained twinkle in his eye. ‘I picked up the whole week’s worth from college, where they lie about on the coffee table. What you are undertaking is anything but amusing, but the way you go about it is another story! Are you going to dash off into the middle of things without even finding out what it’s all about? Don’t you think you ought to try and learn at least the basic facts before being served up the local version of the story?’

I was all ready to feel properly indignant at these remarks, but it occurred to me that, after all, he was right enough, and more, his very words carried a gentle indication of a decision to renounce any attempt to change my intentions. His tone was almost light, but I felt the weight of his unspoken thoughts. Still, if his easy manner did not fool me as to the difficulties he may have felt in forcing himself to adopt it, it certainly smoothed some away for me! I accepted his speech like a gift, therefore, and answered laughing,

‘Yes, of course – I meant to! Well, all right, Arthur, I
didn’t mean to, but simply because I hadn’t thought of it. I should have if I had. But I don’t suppose the newspapers are really likely to contain anything more than what I shall soon learn, and even less that they are accurate or trustworthy! Still, let us have a look.’

‘I already have, actually,’ he said, laying aside several pages. ‘There is only one article of real interest, frankly. It dates from Monday, the day after the murder, and appears to contain the main facts with less sensationalism than the others.’ And he handed me the page containing the clipping which I enclose for your perusal.

‘What a peculiar article,’ I mused. ‘I almost feel like laughing! What nasty things old Miss Haverhill says about poor Mr Granger – she really seems to feel he was killed because he was the wrong kind of person for her house! Yet I can understand how sad it must be to have to give up one’s old home. I expect one simply
must
exercise a little irony to put up with such a loss. Still, fancy wanting all those remarks to be published in a newspaper! And I wonder if he really has learnt all that he hints from the police. Do they really talk so much to journalists about their private theories, or is he just making it up? I wonder who he is; the article is signed merely “PO”. Do you think there’s any way one could find out?’

‘I have a little theory about that, actually,’ replied Arthur. ‘I had occasion to meet a journalist on the paper last year, during a mathematical event of note; his name was Patrick O’Sullivan, and he was a freckled Irishman of the purest sort – dashing all over the place, talking and asking questions till your head ached! He had a bit of a strange sense of humour. I shouldn’t be surprised at all to find he was the author of this piece. If you like, I could try to locate him.’

‘Oh yes!’ I cried, ‘I’m sure that would be good. He seems to know what the police are doing, at least he hints so, although perhaps that’s just for the glory of it. But if I met him, maybe I could find out what he really knows. And how useful it might turn out to be, if he had some real information. Look, Arthur, at what it says about a “simple theory”. It seems clear enough that it
is
Mrs Granger who is hinted at! And that, of course, is exactly what poor Mrs Bryce-Fortescue most fears. So she is not inventing it.’

‘It does sound like that’s what is meant, with that last sentence,’ he admitted. ‘But Vanessa, don’t forget this:
the police might be right.
Listen, I’ll try to look out Pat, and I’ll write you if I succeed. I shall write you anyway, and you must write to me as often as they carry the post – if you write to me half as often as you do to your sister, I shall be content. Now you had better finish packing your things, for they’ll be coming to fetch you quite soon, and I must go to work.’

He rose and kissed me rather solemnly. The kiss was quite intense enough to clearly communicate the disproportion between his feelings and his words.

‘Oh Arthur, I am grateful,’ I murmured into his ear.

‘It would be harder if … if I didn’t feel that you are trying to do something which may, which must surely be a good and necessary thing, however … disturbing and even frightening it is to me to see you mixed up in such things. I thought last night about the first time you came to me in prison – it seemed wrong then, to me, for you to have come. A wrong place for you to be. And yet in the end it was right, and you could have done nothing better. So how should I presume to judge? Still, I cannot help feeling very worried. You’re too d-daring, Vanessa. I wish you were more easily afraid. Remember Laertes:
be wary then; best safety lies in fear
.’

And he turned from me and went into the house rather more quickly than necessary, leaving me to carry the crockery in to Mrs Fitzwilliam.

I returned to my rooms and prepared a small suitcase. I did not know how much to take nor exactly how long I should be away, but I decided that surely I should return to Cambridge no later than next Saturday, even if just for a night, to see Arthur. So I packed economically, and then sat down rather tremblingly to wait for Mrs Bryce-Fortescue and her carriage.

I did exactly nothing but wait, straining my ears, for a good half an hour, yet so startled was I when the knock finally came at my door, that I leapt out of my seat, heart pounding! I hastened to the door, was greeted and invited to depart with no further delay.

‘If I had known, I would have put this off until tomorrow,’ she told me as soon as we were seated within. ‘The police
are sending their inspector over this afternoon, yet again, to speak with Sylvia. I cannot think of allowing them to see her alone, and am quite worried that they may come whilst we are still on our way, although in principle they should not be at the house before four o’clock. Sylvia is under strict instructions to say that she has a headache and cannot see them until I am home. Make haste, please, Peter!’ she added in a slightly louder voice, addressing herself to the red-headed driver, whom I now observed for the first time.

He made a peculiar impression upon me. I would not, somehow, have expected Mrs Bryce-Fortescue to have this style of servant. Tall and young, with immensely long legs stretched before him, he leant back in his seat, a straw between his teeth, and drove the horses with a
je-ne-sais-quoi
attitude; it sounds ridiculous to say this, but it was quite as though they belonged to him. He did nothing wrong or impolite, to be sure, and yet his whole bearing and expression radiated a certain calm and cheerful ease which nearly verged on disrespect! Definitely not a youth from the country, it was easy to see, in spite of his familiarity with the horses. I could not resist putting a delicate question to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue.

‘Has your coachman been with you long?’ I said lightly. ‘He doesn’t look like someone from these parts.’

‘No indeed,’ she replied with a very slight touch of asperity. ‘I may as well tell you, since you are bound to learn a great deal about my family, and it will surely be necessary for you to ask a certain number of questions, some of which may be disagreeable, that my financial
situation is really not one which could permit me to keep my own carriage and driver. In any case, you will easily be able to observe our train of living, once you arrive at the house. Peter Middleman and this carriage belonged to – to Sylvia’s husband. I – it is most disagreeable for me to speak of these things, but I realise that I myself have begged you to come, and I truly believe you may be able to help us, and I really do not know where else to turn, so I simply must force myself to do what does not come naturally to me. In a word, you must know that as long as the police inquiry is going on, my daughter cannot – her inheritance is blocked. Not only is she not yet the legal owner of her husband’s estate, but she is not even allowed to set foot there, which I suppose is normal enough, given that the house and grounds are being searched and studied for clues. However, the police have deigned to allow Peter to drive her to my home in her own carriage, and to stay with us until the – difficulties – shall be resolved. He is a peculiar young man, I agree, and I cannot say that I feel comfortable with him. I believe that he also comes from Manchester, and became acquainted with Geo—with Mr Granger there.’

‘Mr Granger was from Manchester, then?’ I knew it already, of course, from the newspaper article, but it seemed expedient to let Mrs Bryce-Fortescue tell me everything she could or would in her own way.

‘Yes, he was born there and lived there for many years before moving to this part of the country,’ she answered soberly.

‘It is embarrassing to ask questions – it does seem like
prying,’ I said with some hesitation, ‘but I will certainly need to know as much as I can about Mr Granger’s background. Could you – could I know how old he was?’

‘I quite understand your hesitations, but we must both of us understand once and for all that such considerations will be nothing but a handicap. We had better leave them aside entirely,’ she answered, with a rather forced smile. ‘With me, at least, you can and should feel free to pry. With the others, that is to say, my daughter and her friend Camilla, and the servants, and perhaps Mr Granger’s servants – with them you will of course need to exercise a little more delicacy, as naturally none of these people have the slightest idea of your purpose in coming. Indeed, it is necessary for you to know that I have told them that you are the daughter of old friends, and that as you have come to live in Cambridge, they asked me to befriend you. If you find yourself obliged to invent any further details, please have the kindness to let me know. Now, about Mr Granger. What did you ask?’