The Crimson Rooms (35 page)

I spent the afternoon in my musty basement,
plowing through a heap of paperwork, much of which would have to be taken home to do at the weekend. Each envelope had been slit open by Miss Drake, the contents examined, refolded, and put back. She did not prioritize my papers in order of urgency, as she did for Wolfe and Breen, or take it upon herself to respond to more obvious, nonlegal queries, so I had to wade through an indiscriminate heap of licensing applications, maintenance orders, letters from an affronted husband and a self-righteous wife, a property search, a couple of requests for appointments for the signing of wills, a query over an eviction order.

Then there was the letter from Miss Buckley of the Good Samaritan Home, which made very unpleasant reading indeed, since it was full of exclamation marks and rhetorical questions about my qualifications and fitness for my job, and the fact that she felt duty-bound to write a full report to the board, given that her authority had been so severely undermined. My poor father, I reflected, must be spinning in his grave. Had he not, against his better judgment, paid more than five hundred pounds for my university education, articles, and professional fees, yet here I was, once more in peril of losing my position and altogether hopelessly out of my depth?

And in Clivedon Hall Gardens,
disaster had struck. My fault again. The smell of smoked haddock, it being Friday, was pungent as I unlocked the front door. At dinner there was no sign of Meredith or Edmund and the atmosphere was funereal. Nobody replied when I commented on the rain and asked how they had all passed the day. Finally, I said: “Where are our visitors?”

“They are flat-hunting,” said Prudence, making the sensational gesture of flinging down her fish-knife and fork and pushing aside a near-untouched plate. “Meredith says that you have told them to leave.”

I picked a bone from between my front teeth and took a sip of water. How typical of Meredith to avenge herself with this precipitate gesture.

“Your mother and I think it unforgivable that you should have acted without consulting the rest of us,” added Prudence.

“You surprise me, Aunt Prudence. I thought that you and Mother disliked Meredith being in the house. I thought you would have thanked me.”

“There is such a thing as Christian charity. We would have given the girl a chance, time, to find somewhere suitable. We would have made her welcome until then. Why were you so cruel to her? Why?”

How could I announce over fish pie that Meredith had accused James of rape? “I’ll discuss it with Mother later,” I said.

Mother, with the dazed expression of one who has been given her heart’s desire only to find it was not at all what she wanted, had finished eating and was dabbing her mouth with her napkin. At eight o’clock, while we were eating tapioca, the front door opened and then we heard feet on the basement stairs. Meredith had doubtless arranged to have supper put back in the kitchen by Min and Rose, who adored her.

Meanwhile, I planned the forthcoming conversation with Mother. How would she respond if I told her about the alleged rape, given that her entire world was built around the spotless shades of her dead son and husband? In the end, I took the coward’s way. When she and I were alone together, I said that she had been right all along, we simply couldn’t afford to accommodate Meredith and so I’d told her to go. I had, however, offered to take care of Edmund.

“It seems so sudden,” said Mother, glancing nervously at the door. “I wish you’d consulted me.”

“I’m sorry. We’d had an argument, she and I, to do with the art party, her drinking. I believe that she is a very difficult woman, full of bitterness. I should like to help her but I don’t think our way of life is compatible with the one she longs for. Above all, however, we must continue to support and protect Edmund.”

Mother’s mood was odd, as if her mind was on something else. She stood up, drummed her fingers on the dressing table, swept across the room to the writing box containing James’s letters, glanced at me, began to speak, changed her mind, and started again. “Oh, of course. I’ve wondered if what she really wanted was for us to adopt him. Then she’d be free. Certainly we must do the right thing by Edmund. Well, perhaps it will be a blessing that you have spoken out . . . But I can’t help thinking, Evelyn, that with all your expensive education, you might have handled it better.”

It was a miserable weekend.
Edmund was to be found in odd corners, big-eyed, pretending to read a book and full of questions none of us chose to answer, about what was happening and where was Mommy, until at last Grandmother invited him into her room to play board games and look through an album of opening-night good-wishes cards. Prudence put on her hat and a martyred expression and went out on mysterious expeditions while Mother paid calls and held a bridge afternoon. I was ostracized by all but tried not to mind, telling myself that I was glad Meredith was leaving and that I had far too much work preparing for a morning in the magistrates’ court on Monday—routine for an experienced lawyer, an ordeal for me—to be bothered with domestic matters. The proposed excursion with Thorne haunted me.

Meanwhile, it went on raining. Meredith spent long hours walking the streets looking for somewhere decent and affordable (as I heard her tell Min on the stairs), and returned wan and soaked to the skin. The girls fussed over her, ran her a hot bath, and made a dainty supper because she’d missed tea. On Saturday evening, I decided I ought at the very least to apologize for striking her and say there was really no hurry, she could stay until she’d found alternative accommodation, but when I knocked on her door, she appeared briefly, fragile as a flower in her delicate robe, and actually flinched away as if terrified I would slap her again. Later I heard Prudence knock and gain admittance. Their conversation went on and on.

On Sunday, Meredith took Edmund to church, having first established that I had decided not to go that day. How could I pray for strength in exercising the Christian virtues of restraint, continence, and humility, when in truth I wanted none of them?

By the time the five of them came back to lunch, it was perfectly clear to me that I now was the outsider, and that the others, even my mother, had united to protect the wronged little Meredith and her fatherless son.

O
n Monday morning, even Wolfe turned up
for an eight-o’clock meeting, somewhat rumpled and with one cuff link in his pocket because he’d not had time to fix it before leaving. The bronze dancer stood in pride of place on Breen’s desk, concealed under a duster.

“Wheeler’s trial date has been fixed for July 14 at Aylesbury Assizes,” said Breen. “We have a not-guilty plea and nothing whatever to support it except a couple of character witnesses.”

“And no plausible motive,” said Wolfe.

“Miss Gifford has come up with a motive.” Breen paused for dramatic effect, then swept the cloth from the dancer. Miss Drake, note-taker, took one look and gave me a reproachful stare, as if to say she might have known I would sully the place with obscene statues. Wolfe sat up a little as Breen continued: “Jealousy. This statue is evidence that there may have been another man in Stella’s life. The dancer, which she could never have afforded to buy for herself, is presumably a gift but we don’t know from whom. Not her husband, I would suggest, given that it would have cost half a year’s income. And I don’t see Wheeler purchasing such an item. There is also a night, a fortnight or so before her wedding, when Stella went missing with no consistent explanation to her friend or sister. All we know is that she appeared at work with stained clothes, which smelled bad, and mud on her shoes. And then there’s this cloakroom ticket which Stella hid away in her sponge bag and a list of customers at Lyons who took a fancy to our Stella when she was a waitress.” He laid out on the desk the scrap of paper, Carole’s list, and Stella’s wedding photograph.

Wolfe picked up the dancer and turned her in his meaty fingers, a glint of appreciation in his eye. “It should be possible to find out who sold her, even who bought her. But the kinds of establishment I have in mind are very exclusive. They will want to protect the identity of their customers. What about the police, what do they think?”

“The police searched Stella’s room but overlooked the dancer or thought it unimportant. It’s up to you to do their work for them, Wolfe; I’m sure you have ways of encouraging even the most discreet tradesman to divulge a little information, in the interests of justice. Miss Drake, unlock the cash box if you would, and provide Mr. Wolfe with five pounds’ worth of half-crowns. And now the ticket in Stella’s sponge bag. Does it mean anything to you, Wolfe?”