The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (6 page)

“Go. Leave me. Look after yourself,” Daphne managed to say.

“No.” She wouldn’t abandon Daphne, not a second time. “Come on. Keep going. Keep going.”

A flicker of flame caught at Marie’s dress. With a whimper of fear, she let her friend go, frantically beating the fire out with her hands. Daphne attempted to crawl along the floor by herself, but her face creased with pain. The flames had crept into the front of the shop now, leaping in an arc towards the ceiling. Marie was quickly beside Daphne again, urging her on.

“Nearly there. We’re nearly there. Come on, Daphne. Please, please keep moving.”

Her words ended in a cough as the acrid smoke entered her lungs. The heat was intolerable and her eyes were stinging. Then, a cold rush of air hit her. They were outside. They’d made it; they’d reached the safety of the alleyway.

A crowd had begun to gather. Someone had sent for the fire brigade, but Marie was only hazily aware of what was happening. A man was bending over the inert form of Daphne.

“He’s a doctor,” someone said.

The fire brigade arrived but the alley was too narrow for them to get close enough, and the crowd was in their way. Everybody was hustled out onto the main street. Daphne was carried off by the doctor. He placed her into a hansom cab and climbed on board with her.

A woman asked Marie if she was all right. She didn’t reply. She had to stay with Daphne and go with her to wherever she was being taken. Just as she reached the cab, however, it drove off. The doctor hadn’t seen her.

“Daphne.” She tried to run after the hansom but she was too weak. She stumbled. Someone tried to help her but she brushed them aside. She didn’t hear the policeman demanding her name and address. A man said, “She’s from the Minton’s lodging house in Devonshire Place.”

That was it; she must get back to Devonshire Place. The Mintons would be able to find out where Daphne had been taken. She started to run across Long Street, down Stirling Avenue. She wasn’t aware that she was crying. She wasn’t aware that passers-by were turning to look after her – this wild woman, her hair awry and her face covered in grime. She hurled herself against the door of the house and pushed past the startled housekeeper, before rushing up the stairs, bursting into her room and throwing herself onto the bed in a state of collapse.

She had no idea how long she was lying there before Isabelle came in. It felt like it was hours, but it was only a few minutes. Isabelle was shocked at the sight of Marie’s gaunt face, which was covered in soot. Her clothes were torn and smelt of smoke, and her hands were blistered and raw.

“What on earth has happened?”

It was a rhetorical question because Marie was in no state to reply. Calm and practical, Isabelle opened the door and ordered the housekeeper, who was hovering on the landing outside, to heat water and bring it up to the room. Marie was sobbing now, deep rasping sobs that tore her apart. Isabelle eased off her dress. The material was badly singed.

“Daphne’s shop. It’s burnt down.” Marie shuddered and clutched Isabelle. “Daphne’s hurt. She’s been taken somewhere. I don’t know where. We have to find out where.”

“All right. We will, we will,” Isabelle said soothingly and Marie calmed down a little.

Hot water was brought in. Isabelle took it and waved the housekeeper away. She started to wipe Marie’s face. There was bad bruising on her forehead and a trickle of blood near her mouth. Marie winced as Isabelle bathed it.

“Tell me what happened,” Isabelle urged.

It was an effort for Marie to speak. “There was a man in the shop. He must have attacked Daphne. He pushed me and I fell.”

“Who was it?”

“I didn’t see him clearly.” All she could think of was Daphne. Was she suffering? Had they saved her? “You will find out where Daphne is? You will, won’t you?”

“Of course we will. Of course.”

Reassured, Marie allowed Isabelle to undress her and put her to bed. Even so, she couldn’t sleep. She wouldn’t be able to do that until she’d found out where Daphne had been taken.

*

For three days after the fire, Marie was barely conscious of her surroundings or of the fuss that was going on around her. She sometimes thought she was back in the convent, and other times she imagined she was on a train. The steam from its wheels scalded her and the furnace that was being stoked consumed her. She was burning.

“She’s crying. Why is she crying?”

It was Isabelle’s voice she could hear. Marie tried to lift herself up in bed and managed to say: “I’m frightened.”

“No, lie back. You’re all right.”

There were more whispered conversations in her room. Isabelle’s voice came through again: “She’s still crying. I don’t know what else to do for her.”

*

For another three days, Marie slipped between reality and nightmare. Finally, on the third morning, she opened her eyes and saw the room clearly. Isabelle was sitting by her bed.

“Isabelle, where’s Daphne?

Her voice was weak but Isabelle was instantly on her feet. “Are you all right?” She nodded and Isabelle leant against the bedpost in relief. “I’ve been so worried. We all have.”

Nothing mattered to Marie except news of her friend. “Have you found out where Daphne is?”

“No, not yet.” She saw the expression on Marie’s face. “We are trying, I promise. Geoffrey’s brother, Stanley, has called to ask after you several times.”

“That’s very kind of him,” Marie murmured, but it meant little to her.

*

Over the next few days, thanks to Isabelle’s care, Marie grew stronger. When the doctor saw her again, he agreed she was now strong enough to be helped downstairs. There was a parcel waiting for her in the parlour.

“It arrived two days ago,” Isabelle said
.

There was an envelope attached. Inside was a card. It read:
All that is left of the fire. It seemed to interest you, Daphne.

As Isabelle went out to answer a knock at the front door, Marie opened the parcel. It contained
Farnsworth’s Medical Dictionary
. She smiled – so Daphne had never got round to returning it to the publisher then. She looked back at the card. At least she was well enough to write.

Isabelle entered with Mr Pickard and Marie immediately assumed that he had come to give her news of Daphne. “Have you found out where she is? Can I see her?”

John Pickard was very angry. “She’s at St Martin’s Hospital being well looked after. My main concern is you.”

“I’m well enough,” she said.

“I warned you against seeing Daphne Senior and this is the result. You will never communicate with that woman again, do you understand? If you do, the consequence will be an immediate return to the convent.”

“I will see her,” she said to Isabelle when they were alone. “She mustn’t think I don’t care.”

*

For another two days the Mintons and John Pickard refused her request, but the anxiety about her friend was threatening to make Marie ill again. So, Pickard reluctantly gave his permission for them to meet one last time. It was agreed that Isabelle would accompany her to the ward, while Geoffrey waited outside the entrance in a hansom.

St Martin’s Hospital for Women was not a very prepossessing place. It was small and cramped and not very clean. There were eleven beds crammed into each of the eight wards. There were three wards on the ground and first floor, and two wards on the second. A small group of grim-faced women in starched white caps and aprons attempted to keep the place clean – obviously not very successfully, though, because the smell of urine and vomit was overpowering.

Daphne was on the second floor of the soulless building, and Marie and Isabelle climbed the bleached stone staircase to reach it. When they arrived, Marie saw a figure at the far end of the ward putting on her coat. She moved forward quickly.

“Daphne?”

As her friend turned, Marie was distressed to see that her face was still badly lacerated and swollen. One eye was severely bruised and her upper lip was split. Daphne’s attempt at a smile ended in a grimace.

“Look at me. It’s a good thing I was no picture to begin with, isn’t it? I knew you’d come. They told me you weren’t hurt.” Daphne put an arm around her friend and hugged her. Isabelle turned away, evidently finding the familiarity embarrassing.

Marie dropped her voice so that Isabelle wouldn’t hear. “Daphne, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I ran away after the march. I was such a coward.”

Daphne smiled grimly. “My best advice to you is to keep on running. Get as far away from me as you can. I’ve ruined enough lives already. The women will be sacked from their jobs. They’ll be destitute. I’ve let them down. I’ve failed in everything I’ve tried to do. I’m not sure things will ever change. Maybe I was wrong to even try.”

Marie hadn’t expected Daphne to sound so defeated. She tried to think of something encouraging to say. “You did what you thought was right.” It wasn’t quite the inspiring turn of phrase she’d intended.

“Come along, Miss Senior.” The matron had arrived. “We haven’t all day to stand around waiting while you two gossip.” She clapped her hands briskly.

“Will I hear from you?” said Marie, as she followed Daphne towards the door. Isabelle trailed a few feet behind.

Daphne kept on walking. “Best not, I think. I’ve caused enough trouble for you as it is. Did you get the book?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes. I wanted to thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You might as well have it.”

Outside the entrance, Geoffrey was pacing up and down. He was relieved to see his wife and Marie emerge at last, and he opened the door of the carriage for them. Isabelle climbed in, but Marie lingered for a moment longer on the pavement. There was a cab parked a little further down. She caught a glimpse of its occupant. His complexion was pale, and his hair was long, fair and wispy. He glanced towards Marie with piercing blue eyes – Daphne’s eyes. He was then hidden from sight as he sat back to let his daughter enter. As they disappeared around the corner, Marie climbed into her own carriage to sit beside Isabelle and an impatient Geoffrey ordered the man to drive on.

The war was over at last. The Boers had been soundly beaten and the old humiliation of Majuba had been avenged. Evelyn joined in the national celebrations with Siggy. As soon as the celebrations were over, however, the recriminations had begun. There were rumours in the country that the government had not been open in its dealings with the people, that there had been corruption in the handling of the war. Spread by the government’s opponents, it was having the desired effect of undermining confidence.

When the first war against the Boers had ended, Evelyn had only been four years old. He wondered if the same kind of rumours had been circulating then? Had his mother destroyed his father’s journal because it revealed some official scandal involving this man Montrecourt? It was just a thought.

Relations between Evelyn and his mother were still strained so it was impossible to ask her. Though, if he was going to take his father’s place in the political arena, he felt he had the right to know. Lord Renfrew, his father’s closest friend, might be willing to discuss it with him, but he was an extremely busy man and was currently travelling around Europe on government business. Instead, Evelyn approached another acquaintance of his father: Marcus White. They arranged to meet at The Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall.

It was a club not entirely to Evelyn’s taste. He agreed with Siggy that it was too stuffy and too formal. He preferred Whites, where William Arden, Second Baron Alvanley, had once laid a bet with a friend as to which of two raindrops would be the first to reach the bottom of its famous bow window. The desire to bet on anything and everything was still alive and well at Whites. Evelyn couldn’t imagine any such thing happening here among the Doric columns of the Athenaeum.

Evelyn stood up when he saw Marcus approaching. He was one of the City’s most successful investors, but it was hard to believe that he was also one of the richest men in England by looking at him. It seemed that money alone could not buy style. Evelyn had long thought the man must be the despair of his tailor, as he always seemed to be on the point of bursting out of his waistcoat and trousers.

“It was good of you to find the time to see me,” Evelyn said.

“Not at all.” Marcus beckoned a waiter, and a whisky and a brandy were ordered. The two men settled back against the leather of their winged armchairs.

“Congratulations on your maiden speech in the Lords, by the way,” Marcus said.

Evelyn knew it had lacked the power of his father’s oratory, but it had been adequate. “Thank you.”

“So, what can I do for you?”

Evelyn hadn’t actually thought of a way to broach the matter that had brought him here. He didn’t know how well acquainted Marcus was with the inside workings of the government. He decided to tread carefully.

“My father’s death was so sudden that it was a shock to me. And all these celebrations have made me realise just how little I knew about his time in Africa. He would never discuss it.”

“He was a very modest man, and it was in all the newspapers anyway.”

“Yes, but I’d like to know more than just the facts that the newspapers published. I thought, perhaps, he might have discussed things with you.”

“Lady Sarah can tell you more than I can.”

“His death is still difficult for her to accept. Talking about him is too painful for her.”

“Yes, of course. I presume it’s Majuba you’re asking about. We all felt it was a dreadful waste of lives. Colley took the hill in the night, against all advice. It had no strategic value. Having taken it, he was negligent in guarding it, and the Boers easily retook it. Colley was shot in the head. Your father was second in command and he took over. He charged the Boers alone, while his men were cut down around him. He was wounded but he escaped and survived, alone in enemy territory, until he rejoined what was left of his regiment six months after its defeat at Majuba. I think that sums it up.”

There had to be something else. Colley’s criminal negligence was common knowledge – no one had been able to cover that up. “That’s what it says in the newspapers. I was hoping to learn more.”

“I’m not sure I know more. Your father hated discussing it. All the adulation that greeted him when he returned to England would have turned the head of most men – not your father. If anything, it made him withdraw even more into himself.” Marcus took a cigar from his pocket and offered one to Evelyn, who shook his head. After lighting it, Marcus studied it for a moment before continuing. “To be honest, he did discuss it a little with me. Not in any great detail, you understand, but perhaps I can fill in a few of the gaps if you’re really curious.”

Evelyn nodded eagerly. “Thank you. I am.”

Marcus ordered two more drinks. He waited until they’d been served before continuing. “It must have been a terrifying experience for him. As he charged through the enemy lines, he was hit in the back by rifle fire. He clung onto his horse but he was finally unseated.”

“He was thrown from his horse?” That wasn’t in any of the newspapers.

“After some miles, yes. He told me he lay there for days, bleeding profusely, without food, without water, in dreadful heat. He became feverish. By rights, he should have died. He thought he would die, but he stubbornly clung on to life.”

“Yes, my father was a very stubborn man,” Evelyn wryly agreed.

“His body was wedged between boulders and that’s where he was found by a young French woman. Her husband, also French, was a local farmer. He had no love for the English, but luckily no love for the Boers either. The woman persuaded him to help the wounded soldier. Who knows why he agreed to it – some whim? They put him on the back of a cart and took him to their farmhouse where the woman nursed him back to health. Just as he was growing stronger, the farm was attacked by a group of Boers who’d heard a rumour that he was in there. The woman hid him. The husband fought them off but he was killed in the process. After their attackers had gone, and being afraid to stay at the farm alone, she led your father across country until he remade contact again with his regiment.”

“But there’s no mention of a woman helping my father in any of the newspaper accounts I’ve read. No woman has ever been mentioned.”

Marcus shrugged. “It makes the story stronger without her, doesn’t it? It was the image of your father’s lone survival that caught the public imagination. The heroic survival of one man against all odds. It loses some of its power if he has to thank a woman for his escape – and a Frenchwoman at that.”

“You mean, without her it made better propaganda.”

Marcus inhaled on his cigar and let the smoke trickle out through his nostrils as he studied Evelyn. “Don’t judge your father, Evelyn. Things are very rarely black and white.”

“My father always insisted that they were. Something was either right or wrong, and there was no middle ground.”

“Different times give rise to different values. My understanding is that your father assessed the benefit to the country of propaganda as opposed to truth, and propaganda won – so the image of the lone survivor was born. What harm did it do?” He inhaled the smoke from his cigar. “I’d let things rest, Evelyn. We’re heading for a general election and there are enough people trying to stir up trouble for us. Your father’s story is as potent as it ever was, so let’s not water it down with the truth. For the country’s sake, for the Party’s, don’t pick the scabs off old wounds. You never know what you might uncover.”

So that was the secret his mother had wanted to conceal: the existence of the Frenchwoman. She had wanted to protect the image of the lone hero. Evelyn wondered if his father had ever regretted his decision to bend the truth and had used his journal to ease his conscience by confessing it.

Marcus leant forward and lowered his voice. “Evelyn, the Liberals are looking for any stick to beat us with. Don’t give them one by raising questions about Majuba. No matter how small it might seem to you, they will turn it into something big, I assure you. Will you drop the matter and let sleeping dogs lie?”

Evelyn finished his whisky. “What was the name of the farmer who helped my father?”

“Montrecourt, I think,” replied Marcus. ““His wife was called Hortense.”

Evelyn frowned. Montrecourt – that name again. It was becoming as troubling to him as it had so evidently been to his father.

*

Evelyn crumpled the pamphlet in his fist and hurled it to the floor. It had been stuffed through the letterbox of the front door at Carlton Terrace. Normally, Wilson would have found it first and destroyed it without bothering his master, but this morning Evelyn was too early for him.

The pamphlet was an abusive attack on the Tories written by some member of the gutter press, who was too cowardly to sign his name on it. The electorate had just voted to return the government – by a much reduced majority, it was true, but they were still in power. It was frustrating to read rubbish from people who refused to accept that fact. He bent down and picked up the pamphlet again. He’d taken his seat in the Lords now, so it was his duty to denounce such attacks. He smoothed out the creases so that he could read it properly. Someone with the initials J.H wrote it. He read:

My friends, Victoria is dead and we have a new monarch on the throne, but nothing else has changed. The election that our ‘esteemed’ Tory government hoisted upon us was a sham. Even though they lost votes, even though they barely have a majority left, they still control our lives. So-called great families like the Harringdons still grow rich by sacrificing the British soldier to their self-interested, expansionist ideals.

Evelyn gave an exclamation of disgust. The man should not be allowed to get away with such a blatant lie. He should be taken to court – not ignored as the elders of the Party had advised.

Our politicians appeal to our nationalism; they talk glibly about the war; they try to persuade us that Great Britain had to avenge past insults and assert the rights of its British citizens in the Boer-controlled region of Transvaal. People, do not be fooled.

This government’s desire for war was being driven by nothing more than greed. That is what our men fought and died for. To secure the gold fields of South Africa for a group of adventurers and financiers, who have no allegiance except to profit, and no patriotism – merely a commitment to the marketplace.

Who are these politicians? Unelected peers of the land who need new injections of gold from the Transvaal to uphold their hereditary position. You were, and still are, being used, my friends, and we are still failing to challenge them.

At the bottom, in small print, was the address of the printer: Wickam’s of Chain Alley. Evelyn rang for Wilson.

“My coat.”

“Your breakfast, sir?”

“No time for breakfast,” Evelyn said grimly. “I’m going hunting.”

Chain Alley was off Fleet Street, he discovered. The printers were housed in a suitably grubby little office in the basement of a four-storey building that housed a number of other dubious-looking businesses. The man running the press was tall and lanky, and he’d long ago outgrown his suit. He had a permanent sniff.

Over the noise of the machinery, he didn’t hear his visitor enter. Evelyn had to tap him on the shoulder to make his presence known. The man leapt in the air and then stared uneasily at the gentleman facing him.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are you Wickam?”

“Yes, sir.”

Evelyn pulled the pamphlet from his inner pocket. “I want to know the name and whereabouts of the author of this.” He waved the paper in front of the man’s nose.

Wickam shifted uneasily. “I honestly couldn’t say, sir. I just do the printing see.”

Evelyn moved closer. “I think you will remember. Or I’ll have you closed down. What you have printed in this pamphlet is scurrilous.” He saw that the man looked puzzled. “Have you any idea what scurrilous means?”

“No, sir.”

“All you need to understand is that it will land you in serious trouble. I want the name and address of the author of this garbage. If you make me leave without it, I will return with the law and have you put out of business.”

“I just print what I’m given,” the man protested. He saw the set of Evelyn’s jaw and quickly added: “His name’s Joshua Harlik, but I don’t know where he lives. We do business at the Lamb and Flag down Wiltshore Street. That’s the only place I’ve ever met him. He just sends word and I meet him there at the table by the window nearest the door. He’s usually in there every morning about ten.”

Evelyn nodded. “There, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?” Pleased with himself, he headed for the Lamb and Flag.

It was a narrow building, squashed between two warehouses. It consisted of one dark, smoke-filled room that smelt of rancid fat and stale beer. He headed straight for the table nearest the door. Joshua Harlik didn’t look like a rat or a weasel, as Evelyn had supposed he would. He was a smartly dressed young man, with a waistcoat and jacket of good quality. He looked like an educated man. He glanced up as Evelyn stopped by his table.

“Ah, Sir Evelyn, I presume. Good morning. I was told that you were looking for me.”

“News travels fast,” Evelyn muttered. He took the leaflet out of his pocket and flung it on the table. “Are you the author of this trash?”

“I am, although I would disagree with your description of it.”

Evelyn sat down on the bench that was facing Harlik, itching to knock the smug expression off his face. “By what right do you accuse the government of leading this country into war for profit?”

“The right of a free man.”

“The men you attack have dedicated their lives to this country.”

“Men like your father, you mean?”

“Yes.” Evelyn knew he must keep calm. He mustn’t lose his temper because that was precisely what a man like Harlik would want him to do. What he
was
going to do, he wasn’t sure. Reason with the man, perhaps? “My father fought beside his men. He was wounded in battle. He didn’t cower behind a desk wielding a pen. He wielded a sword.”

“The pen can be more effective at getting to the truth.”