The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (8 page)

Edith, her squat figure emphasised by a shapeless black dress, smiled briefly as she shook Marie limply by the hand. Marie turned to Stanley’s father. He was positioned stiffly in front of the fireplace, his ruddy complexion and bristling moustache giving him the appearance of a sergeant major in the British Army. He appeared to have been crammed into his best suit, which was obviously too tight for him. He didn’t offer to shake her hand but nodded a welcome, the starched collar allowing little room for movement.

At Stanley’s invitation, Marie perched uncomfortably on the edge of one of the brown leather armchairs. It was stuffed with horse hair and was extremely uncomfortable. Gladys, the daily maid, served ginger cake and tea. Marie’s gaze settled on a glass dome on the mahogany sideboard. It contained a stuffed bird of prey with its claws wrapped around a dried twig, its wings frozen in flight. “That’s very…” she struggled to find a suitable word, “unusual.”

Edith nodded, accepting it as a compliment, while Stanley’s father was too busy concentrating on chasing crumbs around his plate, before dabbing at them with his one remaining piece of cake, to say anything.

Stanley had told her that this was where they would be living when they married. Surreptitiously, she tried to take in her surroundings. From the little she could see, she found the rooms dark and oppressive. The curtains in the front parlour were closed against the sun and the air was permeated by the smell of stale cabbage. Perhaps she would be allowed to make some small changes?

It was a short visit, filled with pauses and slightly stilted conversation. She sensed their disapproval of her and mentioned it to Stanley. He waved aside her concern.

“You’re imagining it,” he said. “They’re just not used to entertaining visitors.”

*

John Pickard hammered on the door of her room. “Are you ready yet?”

“Nearly.”

Marie leant forward to rearrange the circle of forget-me-nots that held her veil in place. There was a hammering at the door again.

“Miss Montrecourt, we are already late. I must insist we leave now.”

“I’m coming.”

It was the last time she would look into a mirror and see Marie Montrecourt. In future, it would be Marie Minton who would be staring back at her.

Despite a heavy downpour, a few curious passers-by lingered for a moment outside the chapel in Ilkley as the bride’s carriage drew to a halt. Pickard, resplendent in a canary yellow waistcoat, helped Marie to alight. The pavements were running with water and she held up the skirt to prevent it discolouring her wedding dress, which was
peau de crepe
trimmed with small silver crosses.

The little Wesleyan chapel was dark and uncluttered by ornaments. There was nothing here to remind her of the rich hangings and jewelled crosses of the past – and for that she was grateful. She was too nervous to look at the small congregation gathered to witness the marriage and was only aware of the back of Stanley’s head and the folds of pink flesh that rested on his collar. As she arrived beside him, the Reverend Jackson stepped forward and the service began.

It all happened so quickly; strange hymns, people standing, people sitting. She vaguely heard Stanley mumbling his vows and she tried to control the tremble in her own voice as she repeated the same words. Her hand shook as Stanley held it to place the plain gold band on her finger, then she realised that his hand was shaking too. It gave her some comfort.

The Reverend Jackson said something and Stanley carefully lifted Marie’s veil. It caught on one of the flowers of the circlet holding it in place and she had to help him to release it. He kissed her briefly on the cheek, then placed her hand on his arm and they walked towards the door side by side. The small congregation fell into step behind them. She was Mrs Minton, now and forever.

It had been left to Isabelle and Gladys, the Minton’s daily maid, to arrange the reception at Marie’s new home. They’d decorated the front parlour with white ribbons, tying them to whatever a ribbon could be tied to, and had carefully placed vases of white carnations and roses throughout the house. The curtains were fully drawn back and one window was thrown wide open, but Marie was still aware of the smell of stale cabbage.

As the front parlour filled with people, Marie, still wearing her wedding dress, received warm congratulations from Jenny Godson and a sour smile from Alice Smith. She didn’t hear or see either, however, as she was too busy watching Stanley lead his mother to an armchair. Her mother-in-law had said very little to her all day and she wondered if she had done anything to displease her.

“Can I get you something to eat, Ma?” she could hear Stanley asking.

She saw Edith wince painfully as she sat. “No. I’m not hungry. Don’t you worry about me.” As Stanley was about to take her at her word, she quickly added: “Well, perhaps a cup of tea then. I might manage a sip of tea. Just a small one, and very weak.”

Marie watched Stanley trot obediently into the kitchen in search of the housekeeper. She glanced around and saw Edwin, Stanley’s father, sitting near the window. She contemplated going over to talk to him, but she wasn’t quite sure what she would say.

“You look very beautiful, Mrs Minton.”

Startled by the whisper so close to her ear, Marie swung around and was surprised to find herself face-to-face with a young man. A shock of blond hair flopped over his forehead. His face seemed familiar, but she couldn’t think where they might have met.

“Did I frighten you? I don’t usually have that effect on the ladies. I’m Peter Minton, Stanley’s younger brother. Welcome to the family. Welcome to Ilkley. Not sure it can measure up to Paris, though. Isn’t that where you’re from?” His smile was so infectious that Marie found herself smiling back.

“No. I’ve never been to Paris,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter, neither have I. That’s better,” he added, as she smiled again. “You are French, though?” She nodded. “Thought so, there’s a tantalising hint of an accent. You looked like a frightened little mouse during the ceremony. You still do.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so… it’s all so strange. I’m pleased to meet you. I didn’t realise that Stanley had another brother besides Geoffrey.” She extended her hand.

“That’s a little formal, isn’t it? We’re family now.” He bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips. Startled, Marie recoiled. “It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s permitted. It’s an English custom to kiss the bride, but only family members. Don’t let old George Smith try it.” The thought of George Smith even attempting it while his wife was around made her laugh. “Where on earth did Stanley find you?” he asked, softly.

Isabelle’s arrival was a great relief to her, as she had no idea how to answer the question.

“Bring Marie outside will you, Peter? Stanley wants a photograph now that the rain’s stopped.”

As he led her out of the room, Peter said, “I’ve been studying you and, you know, I‘m certain we’ve met before.”

“I have that feeling too.”

“I never forget a pretty face. It was outside Ogden’s. It was snowing heavily. You ran away from me, down some alley.”

She remembered now. It was the day she’d first met Daphne. “You were following me,” she said, accusingly.

“I obviously made an impression.” He grinned.

It was decided it would be better to have the grey stone house as the background of the photograph rather than the pen that the dogs occupied, so the photographer asked everyone to shuffle around. Damson and Major, excited by all the activity, were pacing up and down inside their cage, emitting the occasional bark for attention. The photographer was something of a martinet, however, and no one dared to move.

As he fussed one last time with the composition, Marie stole a curious glance at Peter who was chatting to Isabelle. It was impossible to believe that he was a Minton. He caught her looking at him and winked, and she quickly busied herself with arranging the skirt of her dress. The photographer clapped his hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Now, please, no one must move until I say so.” As they all obediently froze, the photographer uncovered the negative. Startled by the flash that followed, a blackbird took flight.

As the group broke up, Marie heard Alice Smith say to Stanley’s mother: “Are you all right, Edith? You look like you’re at a funeral, not a wedding.”

And Edith’s curt reply: “As all right as can be expected.”

*

The guests had left and Marie sat alone in the front parlour, surveying the debris left over from the celebration. Antimacassars lay crumpled on the seats of the horse hair armchair and sofa, and the glass dome over the tableau of the dead bird had been covered by a napkin. She’d seen Peter do that. He had been aware that she was watching him and he’d done it to make her smile. She looked up to see her husband observing her silently from the doorway. When he realised she’d seen him, he rubbed his hands together as if to warm them.

“Well, Peter’s always the last one to go.”

“Has he gone? He didn’t say goodbye to me.”

“That’s Peter, I’m afraid. Not one to stand on ceremony.” Another awkward pause followed as they both searched for something else to say. “He’s gone back to Bradford. Ma’s gone up to her room. Oh, she said to excuse her as she’s very tired. Pa’s gone upstairs too. It’s been a bit of a strain for them both.”

Marie glanced at the marble clock on the mantle. It was just seven o’clock. If she were in Devonshire Place now, she’d be dining with the other lodgers. If she were in the convent, she would be at prayer. “I should unpack, I suppose.”

“No need. Gladys has done that for you,” Stanley said. “You can rearrange everything to your liking tomorrow. I expect you’re tired.”

“Yes.” She was grateful for his consideration, but she was longing for some small sign of affection. He’d been correct and formal all day, except when his hand had trembled as he slipped the ring on her finger. Impulsively, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “Stanley, I do so want to make you happy.”

Immediately, she knew she’d done the wrong thing because he became even more awkward. “Of course,” he said, “I’m sure.” He cleared his throat uneasily, then picked up one of the oil lamps that Gladys had lit before leaving, indicating for her to follow him up the stairs.

She had some idea of what would happen next. She’d listened to her fellow pupils gossiping in the dormitory, but they had never been explicit. She remembered hearing them say: “The man will know what to do.”

They reached the first landing and Stanley obviously felt he should make some effort at conversation. “That’s Ma and Pa’s room,” he whispered, pointing to a closed door. “And that’s Peter’s.” He indicated another closed door next to his parent’s room. “It’s always kept ready for him. Ma believes he’ll come back home to live here some day, but I don’t think so. Trouble is Ma doesn’t like to lose her sons.”

There was another door next to Peter’s room that was slightly ajar. Through the gap Marie could see an ornate stand made of wood and wrought iron, which supported a small sink. One of the new water closets stood beside it, decorated with a brown ivy design. Stanley saw Marie looking at it.

“That’s Ma’s pride and joy. It flushes when you pull the chain. But she insists we still use the privy outside in the yard. This one is only for show.”

“What’s in that room?” She pointed to a closed door opposite Peter’s.

“It contains all Ma’s ‘collectables’, as she calls them. Well – it’s stuff we don’t use any more really. And up here…” he continued on up a narrow staircase, “is my room. And the one opposite is yours.”

“Oh.”

She was thrown. She’d assumed they were to share a bedroom, like Geoffrey and Isabelle, and Stanley’s Ma and Pa. Why was it to be different for them? Not sure how she felt about it, she glanced inside. It was a small, neat box room, which smelt strongly of fresh paint and wallpaper paste. It had a window overlooking the back. The wallpaper was dark blue and patterned with large red flowers, and the curtains were of matching blue linen fringed with red. The dark colours made the room feel stifling.

“Ma got it redecorated for you.” Stanley became aware of her lack of enthusiasm and added, “I hope you find it acceptable.”

So was this to be her future? A marriage lacking in warmth and affection – and, yet, he had wanted to marry her. Had he since discovered something disagreeable in her, but gone through with the marriage anyway? She felt unwelcome and unwanted on what should have been a day full of hope.

“Is it acceptable?” he asked again.

She kept her voice strong when she replied. “Yes, perfectly acceptable, of course.”

She entered the room and closed the door behind her.

No matter how hard he tried, Evelyn could not forget the meeting he’d had with Harlik. He was angry with himself for allowing it to trouble him. The suspicion that his father would stoop low enough to participate in fraud was unthinkable, and even more obscene was the suggestion that he would kill a man to protect his reputation. However, those last words of his father kept crawling out of the back of his mind to plague him: “Bury him”.

The problem was he didn’t have enough to do, which meant he had too much time to think. He was making little impression in the Lords and he was beginning to believe he never would. “Bury him” – there they were again, those words. They continually wormed their way to the front of his mind and he couldn’t stop them. In an effort to stop torturing himself about it, he returned to the old ways – drinking too much, dining at the club, playing at the gaming tables – but none of it gave him pleasure any more. His participation was intense rather than joyous, and Siggy noticed.

One night Siggy took him aside and asked quietly: “What’s going on, Evie?” At first Evelyn tried to shrug off the question, but Siggy persisted: “I know you too well, my friend. Something is troubling you.”

Although Siggy had a reputation in society as an empty-headed, good-time playboy, Evelyn knew better. He was an intelligent, loyal and discreet friend, and after a few more protests Evelyn found it a relief to confide in him.

Siggy listened quietly as Evelyn told him about his father’s missing journal and how he had found his mother burning it, and his meeting with Harlik and the accusation he had made about the gold claim. He didn’t mention the other accusation – the killing of Montrecourt – that was too ludicrous.

“He implied that my father had profited by being on the Board of the River Valley Mining Company when they cheated Montrecourt.”

“Oh, come on. That’s absurd. Apart from anything else, business was a dirty word to your father. The man is obviously lying.”

It was exactly the reassurance Evelyn needed to hear. “Yes, but why?”

“Oh, come on, Evelyn. To ruin the Party, attack the government – a million reasons.” Siggy shook his head. “You had a complicated relationship with your father, Evie. And that you can even doubt him proves that it’s still there. Love and hate, admiration and envy, they’re very close together.”

“But why did mother burn the journal? Why did my father say the name Montrecourt when he was dying if he didn’t feel guilty about him?”

Siggy ordered them both another brandy. “I don’t really understand these things, old fellow, but my advice – for what it’s worth – is to stop all this nonsense about your father. You have to look to the future. Make your mark in the Lords.” Evelyn was about to say he couldn’t hope to do that, but Siggy interrupted him. “No, you are not your father, and if what you say is even half true then you’re the better for it.” He saw that Evelyn was still troubled. “Listen, search through all the papers at Ardington and look for this supposed link with the River Valley Mining Company. If it exists, you’ll surely find it. If it isn’t there, then in my opinion it
doesn’t
. Now, drink up. There’s another brandy waiting to be ordered.”

*

Evelyn decided to take Siggy’s advice. His mother was in Derbyshire visiting Harriet for a few weeks, so he was able to shut himself away in the attic without arousing her curiosity. After two days he had found nothing to link his father to the Mining Company, although he did discover one thing that surprised him: a series of letters and bills that revealed that his grandfather, Theodore Harringdon, had been a serious gambler. It was a trait he feared he might have inherited.

It seemed that the man had lost the family a fortune by betting on anything and everything that had an element of chance attached to it. He sold most of the contents of the house, and every painting he could lay his hands on, to fund his addiction. When he died, Evelyn’s father had inherited nothing but debt, and by the 1870s Ardington was facing financial ruin. No wonder his father had been so fierce in his opposition to his son’s gambling. He feared history repeating itself.

Evelyn searched further through the papers. There were letters from his father to some of his creditors asking if he could delay payment of his debts. His pride must have made those letters difficult to write. In them, he explained that there’d been a run of bad winters, which had driven workers off the land and into the cities where industry promised more secure employment. Farms had been abandoned and left to fall into ruin. It was clear that his father was faced with the very real possibility of having to sell off Ardington and everything he owned.

It took Evelyn another two weeks of searching through documents to find the outcome of that crisis. By 1880, miraculously, the debts had all been paid. The house and the lands were saved, and the estate was in profit again. Evelyn could see no reference as to how that had been achieved. What had occurred between Ardington’s threatened demise and its salvation a few years later? It could be explained away if his father
had
been on the Board of the River Valley Mining Company and shared in the profits from Witwatersrand. That would certainly explain how Ardington had been rescued.

*

“
I don’t mind boys staring hard, if it satisfies their desires…
”

The audience in the Waterloo Empire whistled appreciatively as Marie Lloyd swung her skirts high, letting the words of the song roll off her tongue with all her usual innuendo.

“More champagne down this end, Evie. Don’t hog it all to yourself.” Siggy, leaning on the bar at the back of the stalls, had to shout above Marie’s singing. The rest of the group bellowed their agreement. “Come on, old man. Share it out.”

Evelyn slid the bottle down to them. It was supposed to be a celebration of Siggy’s birthday, but it was mostly just an excuse to get drunk.

“
Do you think my dress is a little bit…?
”

The audience roared as Marie Lloyd pulled her skirts a little higher.

“
Just a little bit
.
Not too much of it.
”

Shouts of encouragement came from the audience.

“Wouldn’t have thought music hall was Renfrew’s kind of bash at all. Eh, Evelyn?”

One of the group nodded to the opposite side of the bar where Lord Renfrew was in deep conversation with a young man. Evelyn glanced over to him. He’d begun to wonder how deeply Renfrew was involved in his father’s affairs. Harlik had said he was on the Board of the River Valley Mining Company, too.

Renfrew spotted Evelyn and raised a hand in acknowledgement. After a moment, he took leave of his companion and crossed over to join the group. He placed a friendly hand on Evelyn’s shoulder.

“Drop by to see me in the Commons tomorrow at three, will you, young fellow? Need to talk.” He nodded to the others and headed for the exit.

“Thought he wouldn’t be staying long.” Siggy indicated for the barman to open another bottle of Moet Chandon. “Smile, for God’s sake, Evelyn. We’re celebrating.”

*

The next day Evelyn woke with a terrible headache from the night before, the result of mixing too much champagne with too many glasses of Miss Lloyd’s cheap whisky in her dressing room afterwards. He groaned. His meeting with Lord Renfrew was at three o’clock and he would be late. If only he could stop his head throbbing.

When he was shown in, Renfrew waved aside his apologies. “No matter. No matter. Thank you for calling by.”

For a little while they exchanged pleasantries until, at last, his lordship got to the point of the meeting. “So, Evelyn, I believe you had a tête-à-tête with an enemy of ours – the so-called journalist, Joshua Harlik?”

Evelyn wondered how on earth he knew about that. “A little while ago, yes. He wrote a pamphlet and I wanted to challenge him on it. That’s all.”

“He is not a good individual, as I’m sure you realise.” Evelyn nodded and Renfrew continued. “He’s going around saying you sought him out, tried to persuade him to suppress some scandal involving your father?”

Evelyn flushed angrily. “That is absolutely untrue. I did seek him out, but only to tell him to stop printing lies in his pamphlets.”

“Not a wise move, Evelyn. I should think he took full advantage of the meeting and spewed out a few more lies to you.”

“Yes.” Why was it that every time he thought he’d managed to push his father’s past out of his mind, it kept returning to plague him?

“So, what juicy scandal did he try to sell to you?”

Evelyn took a deep breath. He would never have a better opportunity to lay his doubts to rest than the moment just presented to him. “He said there was a link between my father and the River Valley Mining Company. Do you know if that’s true?”

“And have you found one?”

Answering a question with another question was a technique Renfrew used to great effect in the House of Commons. “No. None.”

“Good.”

Evelyn hesitated, aware that his next question could sound like an accusation. “Were you yourself on the board of the company in ’79, sir?”

“Harlik tell you that?” Evelyn nodded and Renfrew’s face expressed his contempt. “That man has his nose in everything. Well, that one is true. I’m afraid war does create strange bedfellows.”

“I’m sure there was a good reason for it, sir,” Evelyn said, waiting to be convinced.

“There was. It was in this country’s interest that I accepted a place on the board. It enabled me to influence the drawing up of a contract between the British government and The River Valley Mining Company that was very beneficial to us both. The government promised to fund them, and in return they promised us a large percentage of any profits they made, which we used to help pay for the war. Taxes alone couldn’t cover it. As I said, that contract was in this country’s best interests. I hope you can understand that?”

Evelyn nodded. In truth he understood very little, except that the ways of politics were extremely tortuous.

“I have told you this in the strictest confidence,” continued Renfrew. “Very few people were party to this agreement and it has to remain that way. It would be very easy to misrepresent the government’s intentions. No private person gained any profits from it, I assure you. You must take my word for that.” Renfrew sat back in his chair. “Did Harlik mention that contract?”

“No. He might suspect something, but he can’t have proof – otherwise, I’m sure, he would have already used it to discredit the government.”

Renfrew smiled. “You learn fast. It would not be helpful for any of us if details of that contract were to become known prematurely; which is why knowledge of it was limited to a very few. In time, the facts will be made public, but until then I would ask you to keep it to yourself.”

“I understand the need for discretion.” Evelyn couldn’t help but feel affronted.

Renfrew settled back, reassured. “Of course.”

Evelyn wondered if he was being dismissed, but here was an opportunity that might not present itself again. “Can I ask you something of a more personal nature, Lord Renfrew? Did you know of a man called Montrecourt?”

After only the slightest hesitation, Renfrew replied, “I believe I have heard that name, yes.”

“Was Montrecourt cheated out of his claim by the River Valley Mining Company? Forgive me, I‘m not suggesting you had any part in it,” he added hastily.

“Evelyn, Evelyn,” Renfrew shook his head reproachfully. “I hear the voice of Harlik again. The extremes to which that man will go to discredit us never ceases to amaze me.”

“It’s just that Montrecourt told everyone that the River Valley had cheated him out of his claim and Harlik told me that my father was on the board at the time.”

“Montrecourt was a deluded man and Harlik is a liar. Your father was never on the board of any company.”

Evelyn felt the need to press him further. “Just before my father died, the last word he tried to say was Montrecourt. I heard him myself.”

Renfrew seemed genuinely surprised. “Really? He said Montrecourt?” He regarded him in silence for a moment. “Evelyn, you say you want the truth. Very well, here it is. It’s true that Montrecourt went around Pretoria accusing people of cheating him, but he had no proof. If there had been proof, others would have listened to him.”

“But why did my father say his name with his last breath?”

“Reliving the moment after Majuba when he nearly died? When he was rescued by the man, perhaps? I believe Marcus White told you the story of his survival and how Montrecourt and his wife saved him? If your father had cheated him, would the man have helped him?”

“I suppose not.” Evelyn hadn’t thought of that.

“You realise that it’s in Harlik’s interest to believe what the Frenchman said, don’t you, because he wants to destroy this government and the men who represent it? Don’t let him succeed. If he can make you, Sir Gordon’s son, harbour doubts about his own father, then think what mischief he can make among our enemies.”

“I never really doubted my father,” Evelyn said, with more fervour than was necessary.

“I should hope not. He served his country loyally.” Evelyn nodded. “In fact, your family has always served this country well, which is the reason I asked to see you today.” He paused for a moment. “As you know, there’ve been one or two unfortunate by-elections recently, which have resulted in our losing some valuable members of the cabinet. It’s meant a re-ordering of responsibilities. The result is that there’s a position to be filled in government. An unofficial position for the moment, but you’d be working to me, and it’s a step up in your political career. I know your father would be pleased. Your mother certainly is.”

Evelyn was surprised that he’d discussed it with his mother before mentioning it to him, but he was flattered. So he
had
begun to make an impression on his peers.

“I’d like to offer it to you. How would that sit with you?”

“It would sit very well with me, Lord Renfrew.”

“Excellent. I’m delighted to hear it. I’m afraid I shall keep you busy, though. Very busy. It will leave you very little time for gallivanting off to the Waterloo Empire to see Marie Lloyd. Call into my office tomorrow. We’ll have luncheon and take it further.” He stood up, indicating that the meeting was over.