Authors: Sarah Rayne
A Dark Dividing (48 page)
Simone realized she had been sitting hunched over the workbench for so long that her neck muscles had cramped. She leaned back, trying to ease them, her eyes still on the photograph. The camera could lie, of course, and frequently did, but it was not lying now. Sonia had been in Mortmain that day, and she had died there—here was the proof of it. Mother had said Sonia had died soon after she was born—just after the operation to separate her from Simone—but either Mother had lied for some reason or she had not known the truth herself. Simone could not decide which was the likelier of the two. I’ll have to tell her, she thought, appalled at the idea. I’ll have to phone her as soon as I get home, and somehow I’ll have to find a way to tell her that it really was Sonia that day and that I really did kill her.
And then a small voice said, But when you went back to Mortmain that day, Sonia was no longer there. And dead bodies don’t pick themselves up and climb out of well-shafts. Sonia could not possibly have got out of the old well by herself. Simone considered this fact, and a small voice inside her mind suddenly said, Of course she couldn’t have got out. But someone could have got her out.
Who?
The woman you saw in Sonia’s mind. The dowdily dressed woman with brown hair and anxious hands whom Sonia had wanted to kill.
Simone had remembered the woman’s face vividly, even though she had only glimpsed her through Sonia’s mind. But that glimpse had stayed with her, and the woman whoever she was—had become one of the ghosts and part of the memories.
Charlotte Quinton’s diaries: 10th November 1914
All these years I had kept the memory of Viola and Sorrel as those two tiny curled-up creatures, warm and safe and loved in their crib. It’s been a good memory, one to hold on to. But now I have to face that the memory has changed into a nightmare, and that it’s a false memory. Viola and Sorrel were stolen away from that safe warmth, almost certainly by Edward, and they were taken to Mortmain House. Were they there the day Maisie and I went to Mortmain, the day Robyn and Anthony and the other children dealt out their dreadful vengeance to the child-trader? The dead man standing on air…
But whenever they were taken to Mortmain they must have lived there for years, shut away behind those grim walls. They would have lived as one of the ragged orphans, nobody’s children, forced to work, to scrub or scour, or pick oakum… Oh God, did they find any happiness at all during those years? Did they have friends and were they ever shown any kindness or pity? And did they understand what was happening when they were snatched up by the child-traders, the men Robyn called pigs, and put into a freak show for people to pay to stare at them?
If it were not for Floy, believe I might go mad thinking about all this, or sink into a decline. And
then
Edward would regretfully put me into an institution of my own, and people would say, Oh dear, poor Charlotte, the war quite unhinged her, you know: but then of course she never really recovered from the deaths of those poor afflicted children… And Edward’s
mother
would tell everyone it was a great tragedy, still, what can you expect; Charlotte never had any stamina, only look at how she never even gave poorest Edward a son… If I think about the part Edward’s mother might have played in this I think I
will
go mad, because I will never believe the evil old besom was not part of the whole wicked plan!
Floy has only the sparsest of information about Matt Dancy, and what he does know comes from one of the soldiers who was in the convalescent centre for a while with shrapnel wounds. The man came back to visit one of the other patients, seemingly, and mentioned a travelling group (or should it be troupe?) of performers. The twins had sung several songs at the end, he said, but for his part he had not much enjoyed seeing them; a bit cruel, he thought it, this business of putting such unfortunates on show, although the two girls had very sweet voices. (I
know
this is being supremely illogical, but I am aware of a jealous rage every time I think of Dancy or one of his revolting minions teaching my babies how to sing…)
One of the ironies about the situation is that the convalescent centre where I am working was apparently leased by Dancy himself and used as a music hall and supper club until the War Office requisitioned it. Since then Dancy has taken his performers on the road (think this is the correct term), and is travelling the country with them. The twins are billed as the Gemini Songbirds, which I find truly dreadful.
Floy has questioned the soldier carefully, but so far has only managed to elicit the information that Dancy and his performers have been touring the outskirts of London—places like Hackney and Hoxton—but that they left London a week ago.
Charlotte Quinton’s diaries:
15th November 1914
Was reading over breakfast an article in
Blackwood’s
about Government plans to revive compulsory military service. For the moment it will apply only to unmarried men between eighteen and forty—cannot help feeling
agonized
for all those boys being summarily sent out to fight, and cannot help remembering Floy’s recurring images of the mudfields and the relentless shelling like iron rain beating down, and of all those heartbreakingly young boys dying in pain and confusion, and horses screaming in terror. One day Floy will write about it, I think, and if he does it will make scalding reading.
The morning post brought a letter from Edward who is grumpy at being given what he calls inferior billeting—believe that when he volunteered for this War Office post he saw it in terms of proper servants and featherbeds, and civilized drinks before dinner with the Colonel. He says, irritably, that this is a very inefficiently run war; there was not all this nonsense about short rations and Jack’s-as-good-as-his-master when we fought the Boers. He does not think his digestion will comfortably support the kind of food he is being given either, which he knows will cause me great concern. It does not cause me any concern at all, in fact I hope he is suffering the torments of
hell
from his digestion.
However, Edward is convinced that the war will be over by Christmas, and a good thing too if you ask him. He will be coming home this weekend, and looks forward to seeing me. Fondest love.
I will see to it that Edward has no love, fond or otherwise, from me ever again.
2.00 p.m.
It is not my day for attending the convalescent centre, and I have felt guilty at being in the comfort of my own home for a few hours. Spent the morning writing letters, and checking household stores with Mrs Tigg. There are shortages of a great many things now: Mrs Tigg does not know what the world is coming to, and will I have a nice baked egg for my lunch today?
I was just sitting down to the baked egg, when a note was delivered by special messenger. Floy’s writing. Absurd that the sight of it still sends my pulses racing.
Floy writes that he must speak to me urgently—can I possibly come to his house right away? He has found Matt Dancy and his performers. They left London three days ago, bound for the Welsh Marches.
9.00 p.m.
I have thrown a random assortment of garments into a portmanteau, and I am writing this in my bedroom while I wait for Floy to collect me in a hackney. (Mrs Tigg horrified that I am going anywhere in a hackney, never mind to that nasty draughty Paddington railway station—whatever can you be thinking of, mum?—but I am beyond caring. I would go after my daughters in a wheelbarrow if it was the only means available.)
Just under two hours ago Floy and I held a snatched conversation at his house. Dancy seems to be heading back to Mortmain House, which seems odd to me, but Floy thinks Dancy might be fleeing from some kind of police pursuit. He is such a villain he has probably transgressed any amount of laws, and Mortmain would make a very good hiding place for him—especially if he is in league with the beadle.
But when Floy said he would confront Dancy on his own I stared at him incredulously. ‘Without me?’
‘Yes.’ He paced the length of the room restlessly a few times, and then said, ‘Charlotte, this could be extremely awkward. We don’t know the legal situation. I suspect Dancy could have legally adopted Viola and Sorrel—Edward might have signed some sort of contract renouncing all claim on them. And if Dancy is some kind of criminal escaping justice he might be violent—’
‘I don’t care how violent he is,’ I said. ‘Floy, you can’t expect me to stay in London while you go after Viola and Sorrel. You
can’t
!’
‘The whole thing could be so distressing for you—’ He broke off, thrusting the fingers of his hand through his hair, and I said that if he did not take me with him I would simply travel to Weston Fferna on my own, and search for Matt Dancy by myself and very likely end up shooting him.
‘My dearest love,’ said Floy, with infinite tenderness, ‘do you even so much as possess a shotgun?’
‘No, but if necessary I’ll steal one.’
We stared at each other, and then with a gesture of exasperated resignation, Floy said, ‘All right. We’ll travel together. I believe there’s a train from Waterloo at ten o’clock. Can you be ready at nine if I collect you in a cab?’
‘Of course.’
‘What about your family? Your parents and your sisters? They’re still living up there, aren’t they? Will you feel it necessary to stay at your father’s house?’
‘No.’ I had already thought about this. ‘There’s no need for my family to know any of this—at least, not yet.’
‘But there are people you might want to call on?’
I thought about Maisie, living in respectable mediocrity with her small daughter: I had visited her a couple of times while staying with my parents, and her little girl was a pretty, although rather oppressively well-behaved child. But Maisie had embraced her repentance with such zeal and lived such an austere, Bible-driven life, that there had been an atmosphere of cold disapproval towards me all the time I was there. Then I thought about Robyn and Anthony who had vanished so completely and whom I had never been able to trace.
I said to Floy, ‘There’s no one. For the purpose of this journey I’m a respectable married lady travelling on an urgent errand in wartime. No one will raise any eyebrows but if anyone does I shan’t care. We’ll book two rooms at The Bridge.’
‘What if you’re seen? Recognized? Charlotte, you spent your childhood in that part of the world, and if we’re travelling about the countryside trying to find Dancy—’
‘I’ll wear a veil,’ I said in desperation. ‘I’ve got one of those motoring things. It’s as thick as a shroud, for goodness’ sake! And if anyone speaks to us, I’ll—I’ll pretend to be foreign. A Belgian refugee from the war.’
Floy threw up his hands in resignation, but then said, ‘What about Edward?’
‘Oh, bother Edward,’ I said, although in fact I used a much stronger word than bother, which I feel is inappropriate to write down here. ‘Edward’s still away, fighting the war from an office,’ I said. ‘So he’s not likely to even know I’m away as well. But if it troubles you, I will leave a letter for him implying that I have travelled home to see my sisters.’
