The Crimson Rooms (50 page)

“Don’t go on about it. I never danced, a great thing like me, even before the war when dancing was different. There was other things we did do together.”

“Such as?”

“Such as talk. Plan. Watch each other. Go out.” A sudden rueful smile that transformed his sad face. “Go for a picnic.”

A note was passed from Breen to Wainwright, who scarcely paused in his questioning. “Ah yes. The picnic. Had you been for many picnics together?”

“No, that was the first. Thing was, her mum had just passed on the basket and Stell wanted to use it. She liked the idea of wrapping things up nice.”

“So whose idea was the picnic?”

“Well, hers, at first, because of the basket. But I joined in though I didn’t see the point of getting on a train. I thought we could have gone up Harrow Hill.”

“Let’s get this clear. Not only was it her idea to have a picnic but she chose the location.”

“She chose Chesham, yes. She’d been there with her family. And I had as a boy, fishing.”

“And then when you were walking up the hill, according to one of the prosecution witnesses, Miss Shearman, you and Stella both looked out of sorts. Had you had an argument?”

“We was often arguing about little things. I wanted to stop near the town so that I could go in for a drink. She wanted to go deeper into the countryside, said there was a field she knew. She kept dithering until she’d found a spot to satisfy her.”

“So you ate your picnic. Were you on good terms then?”

“Yes. We didn’t say much, just watched the flowers and birds, like you do on picnics. And then she said I might as well go and have a drink since I was so keen on the idea, she would lie in the shade and have a rest.”

“So it was her suggestion that you went for a drink.”

“That was the plan all along. Picnic. Pub. Home. I was sorry she didn’t come with me but I wanted a drink. And anyway, Stell was in a bad mood. Nothing I did was right. So I went down and had a pint, thought she’d be better off on her own.”

“You see the prosecution is making the absurd allegation that before you went down for your drink, you bullied or dragged your wife nearly three quarters of a mile and killed her in a fit of jealousy or greed or some such—they seem to have an entire armory of possible motives. What do you say to that suggestion?”

Wheeler smiled sadly, showing his white teeth. “I love her. She is the very last person I would kill. And I’m not killing nobody, ever again. That’s the vow I made to myself November 11, 1918. Except myself. If need be. Like I said.”

“And when you were in the pub, the other customers said you looked low.”

“I was hot. And I was low, yes. I wanted her to come with me. It seemed to me she’d wanted to get rid of me.”

“Mr. Wheeler, I want you to think very carefully now. Was she wearing a hat when you left her?”

“She wasn’t wearing it, she was holding it. When I left her she was laying down in the shade with her eyes shut and her hat was in her hand, held on her stomach, like this.” Silence in court as Wheeler closed his eyes and rested his right hand on his belly. We saw her, his daintily clad wife, lying on the picnic blanket, cropped head flung back, eyes closed against the irritation of her husband’s neediness.

“I’ve nearly finished my questions, Mr. Wheeler, and then my friend will wish to speak to you, but first I must clear up three points. The prosecution will claim that the fact you apparently did nothing to find your wife on the Sunday afternoon and even went into work on Monday is proof that you knew exactly where she was. What do you say to that?”

“I did those things because I didn’t know what else to do. I thought she’d gone away and might come back.”

“Gone where, Mr. Wheeler?”

Shrug.

“The prosecution will claim that one of the reasons you killed Stella was because you were set to make a great deal of money out of her death.”

“You mean the insurance. Everyone knows you can’t claim insurance if there’s been foul play.”

“Thank you. And one more thing. The prosecution has implied that you had become hardened by your experiences in the war, that there is more than coincidence in the fact that your wife was killed by a shot in the heart when you are something of an expert marksman and had been a member of a firing squad.”

Wheeler’s head went back, so that he might hold the tears against his lids rather than let them fall. “I loved that girl. I would a million times rather kill myself than her. Yes, I shot a man at close range in the war. Many, actually, one way or another. I had to. But that was it. End of story. Do you know what I learned about death?” More animated, he leaned forward and gazed at Wainwright with those relentlessly candid eyes of his. “This is what I learned. It’s the loneliest place to be. I seen a man clap another on the shoulder one second, dead the next. I seen that same man’s body lowered into the soil. Why would I want my dancing girl in that lonely place?”

I
missed the next part of Wheeler’s evidence,
because I had to travel back to London and take tea with Nicholas’s friend Lady Curren in her house off Eaton Square. Mother would have been gratified to see me climb those marble steps, drag on the bell-pull, and be shown by a butler across a black-and-white-tiled floor, like a chessboard, into a drawing room furnished in highly conventional style, pale greens and creams, including the floral arrangements. Across another acre of polished boards and exquisite rugs, French windows were open to reveal a lawn and beds planted exclusively with white flowers. Even I, with my untutored understanding of art, could tell that the walls were hung with original paintings, including an example of the Impressionist school: water, flowers, a couple of long-haired girls, whose frocks merged with the meadow upon which they lay.

The diminutive Lady Curren, Meredith’s height and even slighter, was seated at the edge of what I guessed was an eighteenth-century sofa, next to a tall vase of lilies, whose fragrance weighed heavy in the air. On the same table were arranged a number of framed photographs, in which Lady Curren and a thin gentleman (presumably, her husband) were standing in a line of smiling people or shaking hands with assorted dignitaries; I recognized the Prince of Wales, Lady Astor, Stanley Baldwin.

Lady Curren wore a flowing dress in oyster pink crepe, which provided an unsettling contrast with her hair, cut in a razor-sharp bob that must surely need the attention of a hairdresser at least twice weekly, if not daily, to maintain its incredible shine and symmetry. She was dark-skinned, with a thin but prominent nose and brows that arched up to her straight little bangs. Her mouth was very small, her eyes narrow and heavily outlined with kohl.

Tea was served in what might have been a set for a large doll. Altogether, perched opposite little Lady Curren with that fragment of porcelain balanced on my palm, I felt like Alice in Wonderland after she’d grown or the world had shrunk.

“So you are a lawyer,” said Lady Curren, her voice high and creaky as a shed door, the vowels strangulated.

“I am still in training. At present I am an articled clerk.”

“How
fas
cinating. Oh, you young things are so fortunate. In my [
maay
] day we gels were expected to sit around and look gorgeous. Full stop.”

I smiled dutifully. Mother would have known how to deal with Lady Curren—flattered her by commenting on her
lovely
drawing room, the tea service, the flowers, the
glorious
view to the garden—but I found her immeasurably out of reach, especially having just spent a morning immersed in the Wheeler marriage. The tea was tepid and there was not even a slice of bread and butter, though I was very hungry.

“Now, to business,” said Lady Curren, dabbing her lip with a speck of a napkin. “As I expect you’re aware, you’ve caused quite a stir at our home and we can’t have that. We are all full of admiration for our dear Miss Buckley who does sterling work for those poor children.”

“It was not my intention . . .”

A brow was raised. One did not interrupt Lady C. “You see we spend hours [
ares
] and hours on the board discussing every aspect of the life of the home and this includes regulations for visitors, for children’s playtimes, for treats, for meals, all, all are regulated upon the best advice of our doctor and other experts. Be assured, we consult
experts
, Miss Gifford.”

That word,
expert
, was intended to annihilate me, as was the infinitesimal flicker of her heavy eyelid. I, in her book, was no more an expert than the women who typed her husband’s letters or polished her silver. She continued: “Then I had a letter from dear Nicholas Thorne, whom I adore, and whose judgment I trust absolutely.” Her hand made a gesture like a petal opening as she picked up one of the photographs on the side table and handed it to me.

Dear God, there he was, in army uniform, amid a group of people sitting on steps outside French windows, probably the ones that now stood open in this very room. And beside him, gripping a plait of hair that fell across her shoulder, was Sylvia, and behind her another uniformed boy and an older couple. I recognized Sir David Hardynge, mustached and bespectacled. Next to him was his wife, presumably, with her hair coiffed in a prewar cloud of waves and coils.

“He’s such a dear friend of the family, engaged to my niece, Sylvia. Sylvia’s mother, Margaret, is my sister.”

“And the other boy in uniform?”

Her voice tightened. “My nephew, Donald. I’m afraid he suffered tragically in the war.”

Nicholas, in the photograph, was not smiling in the way that he smiled at me but still his eyes were warm, head slightly inclined, hands behind his back as if he were a touch diffident about being in the picture. The other boy, Donald, had his sister’s exquisitely well-drawn features and dark hair but his expression was stern. “I’m sorry about your nephew,” I said.

She flicked her hand as a sign that I had kept the picture too long. We were not, then, to embark on a cozy conversation about the Hardynge family. “I can’t deny Nicholas anything. He put it to me that perhaps everyone got a little worked up because this is an exceptional case and one that has attracted a good deal of publicity. We try to protect the children in our care from all this, Miss Gifford. In Nicholas’s view, and ours, the mother has brought the whole thing on herself, first by committing a crime which rendered her penniless, then by surrendering the children to the home. Not to mention the kidnapping of poor baby Charles. But we can see that she might have misunderstood the papers she was signing—so many of these women cannot read, it has happened before—and that she expected to take the children back at any time. Nicholas also points out that some mothers, less devoted than Mrs. Marchant, might not have admitted that their children needed care, and that it was an act of self-sacrifice on her part to give them up.

“I don’t need to tell you, Miss Gifford, that in all our deliberations parental rights are subordinated to the welfare of the child. However, we think perhaps that in this case the mother has shown sufficient devotion for us to consider releasing her children, under certain conditions.”

I was still so startled at seeing Nicholas’s face, and Sylvia’s, and the rest of the Hardynge clan that I scarcely knew what she had said. Could it really be the case that the Marchant children were to be dropped into my lap like ripe plums? “Thank you so much. Thank you.”

“We shall expect twenty pounds to be paid as a token toward the cost of their board and education over the past months; we shall of course inspect the home to which the children will be returning, and our people will pay regular visits thereafter.”

“Your people, Lady Curren?”

“We have people trained in making such visits.”

“Perhaps you would explain to me what they’ll be looking for.” Alarm bells were ringing; I saw a terrible danger to poor, sometimes drunken Leah, were she to be subjected to the stranglehold of regular inspections. Thankfully, however, I had learned a little circumspection since my disastrous visit to the Good Samaritan’s Home, though I rather despised my own honeyed words. “It’s reassuring to know that you have such a care for these children. Mrs. Marchant will welcome such visits. I’m wondering if you have any written guidance about how the inspections are conducted. Presumably a procedure is set down in writing.”

“Miss Gifford, I’m afraid I have no time now to embark on a discussion of the organization of our home. The details can be discussed later.”

She was reaching for the bell, so I said hastily: “Of course. But there’s just one more thing before I go, Lady Curren, I can’t help being curious about what would have happened to the children, had we not intervened.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Would they have stayed in the home, for instance, or been sent elsewhere?”

“The policies of the home are a matter for the board of handpicked individuals, all highly respected members of our society, who give freely of their time and money and who work closely with the Church of England Waifs and Strays Society, an organization with which we have close links—my sister, Lady Hardynge, is one of its most distinguished members—and Doctor Barnado’s.”