Abigale Hall (13 page)

What are you doing here, child?
he seemed to say.
Get out of here, harlot. Get out
of my Thornecroft.

No longer able to look at it, Eliza moved to the next painting as Sir Charles watched her.

Go on. Remove it
, he whispered.
Maybe he'll
prefer your kind.

The sheet fell to the floor.

Another oil portrait –
Felix Brownawell
1782–1827
. He stood by a table, hand inside his jacket, a spaniel at his feet. His hair was thin and his gaunt, white face stood out, pale like a sick man's. There was something in his eyes, a certain quirk of his lips that beckoned her forward even as she wanted to pull away.

Come here, child. Let me get a good look at
you. Yes, yes. You'll do. Come here.

Eliza tripped on the sheet as she hurried to the third painting. Don't remove it, she told herself, leave it there.

Please, please.

She glanced around. She was alone.

Please.

She pulled off the sheet.

Richard Brownawell 1819–1877
– unfinished. His face was completed but the rest of the proposed portrait – the chair, the stack of books at his side – was merely sketched out in black pencil on the brown canvas. There was a kindness in this one's eyes, but something about his mouth implied he wasn't all there, that although he was looking at her, he imagined something else entirely.

Yes, welcome. Welcome, child. Do have a seat. Tea
? Where is the . . . oh yes. Here. Have you seen my
. . . I'm sorry. Who are you?

Eliza stepped away.

Who
are you? Why are you here? Come here, child. Why
else are you here? Get out of my sight, wretched
girl. What are you doing here?
Their silent voices echoed through the parlour.

‘I don't need to explain myself to any of you. I don't even want to be here.'

Her lifeless voice caused a shift in the room, as if the men were no longer looking at her but behind her. A pressure formed on her back, the tension that came with being watched. Her breath caught in her breast as she turned. Above the fireplace hung one final portrait. She wanted to leave it covered, but the men, they urged her forward.

He wants to
meet you. Let him see you. Yes, he must see
you. Go on, child. You must. Yes, you must.

She stepped around the dining table, hesitating at the foot of the fireplace. A cold breeze tickled her back, encouraging her, and she lifted her hand to the sheet. She pulled, but it stuck, caught on the sharp corner of the frame. She reached up further, standing on the edge of the raised hearth, one hand clinging to the mantle for support, as she got a firmer grip on the sheet. Again, she pulled. With a jerk, it came free.

Eliza lost her balance and toppled backwards. She landed hard, knocking her head on a dining chair. She thought she heard laughter as the sheet floated down and covered her legs, but it must have been her own ears ringing. She sat up, dazed, and rubbed her head. No blood, but she felt a lump forming. Wincing, she looked up to see a man twice the size of the others staring down on her. He, like Sir Charles, was mounted on a horse – a pitch-black stallion with a wild grimace. A young man sitting proud, shoulders straight and tall, his face was dark and handsome – the kind Eliza pictured when reading Austen – but his expression was hard, his blue-grey eyes narrowed. This portrait was silent, but there was something in his gaze that held her in place. Something that made her feel that as soon as she turned away, rider and horse might leap from the frame.

A grating cough broke Eliza's trance. She jumped to her feet and ran from the parlour, never wanting to return to that dead man's hall, yet knowing she must.

*

Eliza went to her room straight after dinner, making excuses to Rebecca as to why she wished to be alone. After seeing Mr Brownawell's portrait, the thought of meeting him on Friday weighed heavily on her mind. If a portrait could so torment her, what would it be like to meet him in person?

Tonight, the floor seemed uninviting and the bed still unsound. Eliza compromised and pulled the entire mattress to the floor. Resting her head on the pillow, she looked up out of the window. The days were getting longer now and, despite the hour, some light crept through the dirty glass. As she watched the night grow gradually darker, her thoughts turned to London.

Today was the first day of April. April meant springtime, her favourite season – fresh grass growing in the parks, warm rain showers, no overcoats – and they deserved a good spring after that dreadful, freezing winter. Eliza imagined going dancing, to a film, dinner at a Corner House. The city would pulse with a new energy. If she concentrated, she could feel its rush of life, picture walks along the Thames hand in hand with Peter while black cabs and red double-deckers rumbled past. There were demolished buildings and entire blocks destroyed by bomb blasts, but still the city would sparkle, especially at night with the lights from Parliament and Big Ben and St Paul's – all of them survivors of the Blitz.

Eliza opened her eyes, saw the sky darkening over an empty field, and felt a longing stronger than she had ever known. It was the feeling she'd had when they first arrived at Aunt Bess's, the funeral fresh in her mind as she moved in with a woman she barely knew after being so briefly reunited with the father she missed for years. Yet the feeling now was worse, ten times as strong, because, before, at least she remained in London; at least Aunt Bess was family. Here, the land was unfamiliar and her only family Rebecca, who lately felt more a stranger than a sister.

‘This isn't where I'm meant to be.' She didn't realise she was crying until she felt the warm tears on her cheeks. She turned into her pillow, hoping to muffle her sobs, when her hand brushed something foreign against the sheet. She shot up. Another mouse? Or had a piece of rabbit somehow found its way into her room? With shaking hands, she lifted the pillow. There lay the photograph she had left at the cottage. A slender girl with dark hair, one Eliza didn't recognise, had been circled, the name ‘Pip' written above her. On the back was a message.

Eliza, I'm sorry. I should
have told you. It is not for me that you

should leave Thornecroft, but for your own safety.

As soon
as possible.

– Ruth Owen

Horrible thing, that's what the detective constable was saying. It was a horrible thing to see, but verdict of suicide expected. No further inquiries. Peter was having trouble understanding. The station was too loud – PCs laughing over tea, new arrests shouting, phones continuously ringing. This detective, with his pencil moustache bobbing up and down, lips curling to reveal the gap between his front teeth, spat out words which made no sense.

No further inquiries
.

The room was hot, stuffed with bodies and whining electric lights and the stench of sweating men. Pain kept shooting down his right leg, made worse by the hard wooden chair he'd been sat in the last half an hour.

Bess Haverford had been in debt. Poor woman couldn't cope. Her nieces leaving must have been a private matter – and Jessica Rolston? Different part of London, different matter, different station. No further inquiries. Now if you please, busy day, busy times. The PCs laughed. A phone receiver slammed down. The detective held out his hand. The man's calloused fingers scratched his skin.

Peter left Fenchurch Street Police Station, the London weather a too apt reflection of his mood. A cold wind blew through the street, chapping Peter's hands and face as he limped to the Rood Lane bus stop. It was supposed to be springtime. Hadn't the winter chill lasted long enough? The sudden change from the warmth and noise of the police station to the cold and muffled sounds of the streets did nothing to clear his mind. Suicide. Was it possible? Was that why she had come to his flat that day? Could he have helped her? What about Eliza? Someone needed to tell Eliza about Bess's death, but how could they if no one knew where she was? He picked at a scratch on his cane and stared at the men passing by in their suits, clutching their briefcases, their faces set in stoic determination. Surely one of them would know what to do, if they were in Peter's situation. If Peter were more like them, he could do something.

He went to the end of the long bus queue. Though the chair in the police station had been uncomfortable, standing was worse. He shifted his weight to his left leg as he tried to process the events of the past few weeks. First the police couldn't find his attacker and now they were calling Bess Haverford a suicide with barely any investigation, despite everything he told them. It was wrong of them to dismiss him so. He might not have the presence of his father, but he was a man – an honest, hard-working Englishman – and it was his right, as such, to have his opinions heard. Something awful happened to those women and if the police were going to sit on their hands pretending it was nothing, then he would have to investigate himself.

He left the queue and walked to Tower Hill underground station. The cramped bodies of the Tube were more a comfort than a bother as he took the District Line to Whitechapel. Pride rose up inside him. He could do something. He could do this.

Outside the Haverfords' building, he stood straight and tall, ignoring the discomfort it caused in his thigh, and struck the handle of his cane against the landlady's door. The woman eyed him suspiciously as he put forth his case.

‘We've had all sorts round here lately,' she said. ‘All to do with that lady in number seven. How do I know you're not one of 'em?' She chewed on the end of her cigarette, a new utility dress hugging a soft body that had seen better days.

‘I understand, ma'am. But I can assure you I am – was – a friend of Miss Haverford. God rest her soul. And I'd never do anything to disrespect the dead. In fact, I saw her just the other day. She gave me this.' Peter pulled out a banknote. The landlady kept her slack posture as she removed the cigarette from her mouth, but Peter saw the change in her eyes. ‘I work at the Palladium, you see, and she asked me to get some tickets for the upcoming season. But I suppose she won't be needing them now. She wasn't one to talk about money, but she did let slip that she may have fallen behind in the rent.'

‘That she did. Should've kicked her out ages ago. If it weren't for those girls . . .' She kept her eyes on the note.

‘Well, I might as well pass this on to you, seeing as Miss Haverford can't repay the debt in person. God rest her soul.'

‘God rest her soul.' The woman took the money and stuffed it down her bra. ‘Let me get the key.'

Peter waited while she unlocked the door to the Haverfords' flat.

‘Mind you,' she said, ‘anything goes missing it'll be my head. Policemen asked me to pack it all and send it to her next of kin.'

‘You mean her nieces?'

‘Some cousin in Manchester.'

‘But wouldn't they . . . ?'

The landlady stepped back, allowing Peter entry.

‘No idea where those girls buggered off to, but I were told to send it to Manchester, so to Manchester it goes. You get five minutes.'

Peter closed the door behind him. The air of death clung to the flat in the untouched post, the forgotten dishes in the sink, the still-open oven door. It felt as if Bess should be here, as if she still was, hiding just out of sight, disappearing from Peter's view when he turned to see her. But Bess Haverford was gone. The last thing he had seen in this flat was her body. He could still picture her lying on the kitchen floor, see her cold grey legs and smell the rancid gas. The images wrapped themselves around him, choking his will.

‘What am I doing here?' he muttered as he sifted through the sitting room, the determination which propelled him on the Tube shrunk to a mere speck. ‘I'm not a bloody detective. Can't even find my keys half the time.' His hands shaking, he stopped and took a deep breath before looking through the papers on the coffee table.

Peter's head snapped up. Had he heard something? No, the flat was quiet.

There was no correspondence from Eliza, nothing to say where she might be. There were bills, however. Loads of them. All past due.

‘Bess had been up to her ears in it.' He glanced at the clock to see how much time was left, but it was stuck – nine forty-seven. There was no one to wind it. It would always be nine forty-seven in this flat. A bottle of perfume rested on the coffee table. Peter released one short spray. The mist diffused into the air, returning Bess's presence to the flat. He inhaled and remembered the angel that visited him in hospital. She smelled of this. He set the bottle down and grabbed a ball of crumpled paper from the floor. As he flattened out the pages on the table, he recognised the words and handwriting – rough drafts of the letter he'd received from ‘Eliza'. The back of one page was covered in Bess's attempt to copy Eliza's signature.

A heavy thud sounded from within the bedroom. Peter started but, upon hearing no other noise, approached the room and used his cane to push the door open.

The room was empty.

‘Must've been from upstairs.' He checked the wardrobe and its drawers, but they held nothing save dust and an errant flannel. Across the room, the vanity mirror was broken. Two children's gas masks lay on the floor beside it. The wastepaper bin had not been emptied, but there was nothing there except bits of string and a crumpled pamphlet on bed-wetting.

At the sight of her books, which sat abandoned on their shelves, Peter felt Eliza's presence. They were the only sign she had once existed in this place. Eliza would never go anywhere without her books, not unless she had to. Even if she had run away, like the letter said, she would have found a way to take them with her. Lying separate from the others was the copy of
The King's General
he bought her that day at Foyles, that day he had been so utterly, utterly foolish. He picked it up and ran his hand over the cover, tracing the same route her fingers took after happily plucking it from the cramped store shelf. She hadn't read it yet, he could tell. She never broke the spine or folded the corners, but something happened to a book when Eliza read it, as if she poured a bit of herself into every page. He would give her this book again. He knew he would. He put it in his coat pocket.

His five minutes were almost up, but there was only one place left to search. The perfume lingered in the air. He followed its scent into the kitchen and caught himself stepping over the place where Bess's body had been. There were a few letters on the table, nothing but pots, pans and empty liquor bottles in the cabinets.

Footsteps approached from the stairwell.

Such a fool. There was nothing here. All he had done was waste his afternoon and his money. He closed the bottom cabinet.

Something compelled him to turn back. The perfume was stronger here when it should have dispelled to almost nothing. His eye caught something between the oven and the cupboards. There was just enough space to slip his fingers into the dusty gap and pull it free. A plastic poker chip – green and white with a joker's face on one side. Exactly the same as the one he found with Jessie's belongings.

The key slipped into the front door lock. Peter shoved the chip into his pocket as the landlady entered.

‘'Less you start paying the rent, best you leave now.'

Peter limped from the kitchen, unable to look back at this, his last connection to Eliza. The smell of the perfume had vanished. The landlady shuddered as she shut the door after him.

‘Something wrong with that place. Could you feel it? Weren't for the shortage, doubt I'd be able to let it with the history it's got now. Can barely stand being in there meself. Me mam was always going on about spirits. Thought she were a nutter. But . . . Was hoping that man would come round, collect her things, so as I wouldn't have to.'

‘The policeman?'

‘Nay. That older gentleman of Bess's. One who covered her rent from time to time. Too bloody tall for a short 'un like her, but to each his own, I suppose.' She held open the front door for him. ‘Evening.'

Peter tipped his cap and hobbled down the street, fingering the chip in his pocket as the cold air solidified the ice settling in his stomach. He knew who the landlady meant. Eliza complained about him enough. But why would Mosley be coming round their flat? Eliza never mentioned that. Unless Eliza hadn't known. All those nights at the Palladium, when she wouldn't get home until eleven or later. Peter remembered the last time he spoke to Bess, that bruise around her eye. The poker chip grew warm in his clenched fist. Perhaps today wasn't a complete waste.

The crowds thickened as people poured out of the side streets, filling Whitechapel Road like cockroaches as they scurried towards the bomb-damaged remains of the station. They collided with him, pushing him forward, knocking him back, this anonymous mass of faces that swarmed the street, closing in on him, crushing him till he could not breathe. Till there was no air. Till his cane caught in the pavement, and he tumbled forward, the cockroaches ready to consume him.

A hand reached out, pulled him from the swarm. The blank faces peeled away, leaving behind one that was familiar.

‘Stephen?'

‘Hello, mate. Blimey, look worse than I thought. Hope you gave as good as you got.'

They shook hands.

‘It's not so bad.' A clanging sound echoed in his ears, nearly blocking Stephen's words.

‘Went round to see you in hospital, but you'd already gone. Doctors said you can't remember a thing. Is that so?'

Peter nodded, feeling ill.

‘What're you doing in this part of town? Eliza come back?'

‘No. Stephen . . .' Peter tried to speak, but a wave of nausea nearly brought him to his knees. Only Stephen's support kept him from collapsing.

‘Easy, mate. Over here.' Stephen helped him to a ruined shelter. They leant against the corrugated steel as Peter let his mind right itself.

‘So what is it? What's wrong?'

Peter felt the poker chip in his pocket. He should tell someone, explain what happened to Bess, but every time he opened his mouth, he felt too sick to speak.

‘Nothing. It's nothing. Went round to see if Eliza . . . But I better be off.' His nails scratched against the metal as he pushed himself away, sending tremors from his head to his gut.

‘Need a hand? I have a few spare hours. Could help you back home.'

Peter swallowed back sick. It burned his throat. ‘No, no. It's no trouble. I'll be fine. I should––'

Stephen interrupted. ‘The police have any leads on who mugged you?'

‘No. No, they say there's nothing more they can do unless . . . unless my memory returns.'

‘Bloody typical.' Stephen smiled. ‘Well, I'd keep an eye on that head of yours if I was you. Never know what might come pouring out.'

They parted ways on a handshake, the nausea so bad Peter thought he would never make it home. When he did, he used the hall telephone to ring the detective investigating his case. The response was simple – no further inquiries.

*

The street was pitch black except for the orange light of the street lamp. He shivered.

Peter had often had nightmares as a child, even before the bombs began to fall. He often woke in the night, his throat hoarse from screaming. As he stared at the street lamp, a dampness seeping into his back as he lay on unseen ground, he knew he was dreaming. Yet, same as when he was a child, he could not wake himself, not even when Bess leaned over him, looking down with clouded eyes. Her face was covered in wet, dark lines that dripped onto her neck and dress, his angel no longer.

‘Leave her,' she said.

I can't
, Peter mouthed. There was no sound. Beside him, Rebecca skipped.

‘One, two, three, four . . .' she counted. ‘Five, six, seven, eight . . .' The ground cracked with every skip. Peter felt it falling apart beneath him. He could not move. Bess's limp, dead hand stroked his face.

‘Leave her,' she whispered, lips splitting like the pavement.

‘Nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .'

‘Leave me,' Eliza said. She was grey – her dress, her skin, her hair. Black tears ran down her face.