Beneath the Southern Cross (23 page)

He stood beside the drapes, praying that Amy Kendle had gone downstairs as was her custom. What if she had not felt well? What if she had retired instead? He crept to the four-poster bed—it was empty—and breathed a sigh of relief.

Paddy looked about him in the half light cast through the windows from the garden lamps below. This was far more than a bedroom. The massive four-poster bed was to the left, and to the right was a mahogany desk and chair, two armchairs and a sofa. Gilt-framed pictures and elaborate mirrors adorned the walls; two large brass tubs, ablaze with pink and white petunias, flanked the windows, and on a pedestal in the corner stood a statuette in bronze. A nude female, fine and delicate.

Beyond, to the right, through a wide arch in the wall, was another room altogether. A decorative room, feminine. A vanity table with ornately framed mirror and matching chair, two wardrobes and several chests of drawers, all lacquered white and
trimmed with gold. A grooming set laid out upon the table. Silver-backed hand mirrors, hairbrushes and combs, silver-topped jars of perfumes and powders, solid silver glove hooks and boot hooks. The silver alone would fetch a tidy sum. And this would be where she would keep her jewellery, Paddy told himself as he stepped through the archway.

Downstairs, Amy toyed with her poached salmon, lonely and depressed. She wished Stephen would visit more often, but then he was engaged to be married so she supposed it was understandable. And she wished yet again that Anne was still living in the house. She would never have thought she would so miss her sister-in-law, unobtrusive as Anne had been, but at least she had had another female to talk to apart from the maids.

If only Anne were here now, Amy thought, as she pushed the poached salmon to one side and sipped at her glass of wine.

There was the crash of thunder. The storm had travelled quickly, it was nearly overhead. The windows, she thought as she heard the sudden downpour of rain. The drapes would be soaked if she didn't hurry. She stood, pushing back her chair, just as Mrs Marett appeared at the door, tray in hand.

‘You do not wish for dessert Madam?' she enquired disapprovingly. The mistress could have told her, Mrs Marett thought.

‘Yes. Thank you, Mrs Marett, I would like dessert.' Why did the woman unnerve her so? ‘I need to fetch something from the bedroom, however. A magazine.' As if she should need to explain herself.

‘Very well, Madam.' Mrs Marett collected the salmon and placed the creme caramel upon the table whilst Amy left the room.

Paddy had found what he was looking for in the top drawer of the vanity table. Diamond bracelets, earrings, strings of pearls, gold clasps and hatpins, brooches of precious stones. Some were wrapped in velvet, some were in boxes, but most were lying carelessly loose in the drawer. The nonchalance of a wealthy woman. It was all too easy, he thought, stuffing them into his pockets. He could simply take the jewels, along with the silver grooming set, and leave. He was already carrying a fortune in his old winter coat.

But it was not enough to hurt Charles Kendle. He must rob the man of something more precious than his wife's ornaments. Paddy needed revenge.

Suddenly there were footsteps in the hall. The knob of the bedroom door turned. Paddy dived for the archway and pressed himself into the corner, watching as Amy Kendle crossed to the windows. If she were to light the lamps, if she were to come into her dressing room, she would see him. But she did neither.

Outside, the storm was raging and, driven by the howling wind the rain was whipping at the windows. Amy struggled for a moment, then finally got them closed. She looked about in the gloom, picked up a magazine from her bedside table, closed the drapes, and left the room in darkness as she pulled the door closed behind her.

Paddy waited for several minutes before creeping to the bedroom door and opening itslightly. He looked along the landing, illuminated by lamps set in alcoves beside each bedroom door. The main staircase was up ahead. Creeping to the railings, he peered down at the main lounge below. No-one was in sight. He must decide on an avenue of escape and wait until the household had retired. There would be time enough then for him to explore downstairs, to find Charles Kendle's personal treasures.

He crept along the landing and tentatively opened the door to the next bedroom. No light shone from within, but could someone be sleeping? Surely it was far too early. Spike had not mentioned any visiting family members, and Paddy knew that the servants' quarters were downstairs. The room must be empty.

It was. Paddy closed the door behind him, crossed to the French windows and opened them. This would be his escape.

Outside, the storm was raging. Angry thunder roared above; lightning cracked the sky, and the gardens of Kendle Lodge were whipped into a frenzy by the wild, windswept rain.

Paddy sat on the floor, the windows ajar, and looked down the balcony to the master bedroom. Amy Kendle would soon light the lamps in that room, then a half an hour later she would extinguish them. Paddy would wait for one more hour after that, and then he would venture downstairs.

 

Charles Kendle sat in the armchair by the windows of his sitting room on the sixth floor of the Australia Hotel and looked out over Martin Place as the two waiters set down their trays, one of them opening the champagne in the ice bucket whilst the other laid the table.

When they had gone, the adjoining bedroom door opened and Harriet peeped out.

‘They have gone,' he said, ‘may I pour you a glass?' He made to rise.

‘No, please, my dear, let me.' She poured two glasses of champagne and brought his to him. He liked the way she waited on him.

They had been occasional lovers for five months now, although they never discussed their relationship. Every so often, and only on a Friday, Charles invited Harriet to dine with him. Always in his suite of rooms at the Australia Hotel, and always, after they had eaten, they would make love as if by accident, as if it were not a foregone conclusion.

Charles had been surprised to find the seduction of Harriet Winterman so easy. Certainly, her surrender had not been wanton, indeed had it been so he would not have found her attractive. She demurred at first, she murmured that she mustn't, she tried, feebly, to resist his advances, but it soon became apparent that her own desire was her undoing, which excited Charles at the time. Now, although they never spoke of it, he was sure that she was in love with him.

It was Harriet's subservience which had attracted Charles. It reminded him of Anne. She even looked a little like Anne, he thought. Slim, demure in her dress, she wore her hairtied back in a bun. Her mannerisms, too, were similar. Eyes, shy, cast downward at times, hands genteelly clasped at her waist.

His sister's departure and the humiliation of her unjustified suspicions had eaten away at Charles for months. He had worked sixteen hours a day at the store in order to distract himself, he had got drunk on Fridays at the Australian Club, but he had not been able to erase the image of Anne from his mind.

Not until the Kendle and Streatham quarterly meeting attended by the heads of each department. How come he had never really noticed Harriet Winterman before, he wondered? And his attraction quickly became obsession. He started to court her. Subtly at first. Business meetings to discuss the women's haberdashery lines, lunch or coffee at the Wintergarden rooftop restaurant to discuss still more business, then finally the invitation to dine.

These days Harriet was the answer to his problems and Charles
was no longer tormented by the image of his sister. He even toyed vaguely with the notion of setting Harriet up in a small place of her own, making her officially his mistress, the idea had its appeal. But then, if he tired of her, it could become complicated. As it was, all he had to do to get rid of her was to dismiss her from his employ. No, he decided. No house. Too risky.

‘Shall I serve for you, Charles?' she asked, removing the silver dome of the heating dish.

‘Please, my dear.'

 

At Kendle Lodge, a shaft of light shone through the slit in the drapes of the master bedroom. Paddy watched it from further along the balcony. A half hour later, the light was extinguished and the room was in darkness. One more hour to wait.

 

Harriet Winterman knew how to please men. She knew how to pander to their egos and make them feel like kings. How to excite them in bed by feigning her own pleasure, just as she was doing now. She moaned with simulated ecstasy as she felt Charles approach his climax.

Harriet was thirty-eight years old. She had been in the employ of Kendle and Streatham for twenty years and was now not only in charge of women's haberdashery, but was the only female in any position of authority within the company. She had learned how to play the game. Subservient, modest and respectful to the men who were her superiors, and a martinet to the employees under her control.

She had never married but there had been a number of lovers. Two of them wealthy. Both married men. One had even talked of setting her up in her own little house. But that's all it had been, talk, three years later he had gone back to his wife. Harriet was hoping that Charles Kendle would be different.

 

The hour was up. Paddy opened wide the French windows of the guest bedroom in preparation for his escape, then crossed to the door and stole out onto the landing. He crept down the main staircase, aware that he was clearly visible in the glow of the night lights which remained lit in the downstairs living room. He circled the room. Wary. Tentatively checking each door, prepared at any
second to dive behind a sofa or beneath a table. It was still relatively early. Not yet eleven o'clock. The housekeeper and the butler might well be up, although presumably they were in the servants' quarters to the rear of the house.

 

Charles had seen Harriet into a hansom cab and hailed one for himself. He wondered whether or not to go to the Australian Club, it was still early, only eleven, then decided against it. It was a filthy night. Besides, he was content, sated. He felt like a nightcap but he didn't need to get drunk.

‘Potts Point,' he said to the driver and settled back into his seat as they trotted through the storm. Perhaps he would wake Amy when he got home. They could have a liqueur together and talk of the family. She would enjoy that, and he felt like being nice to Amy. He didn't find her sexually attractive any longer it was true, but she had been a good enough wife, putting up with his tantrums all these years. He had to admit he was ill-humoured at times, he really should make more of an effort.

 

Paddy had found Charles's study. Through the open door, in the dim light, he could see that the walls were hung with paintings and photographs. A closer inspection revealed that the photographs were of the Kendle and Streatham Emporium in all its various stages. From the early days to its present glory, each photograph was enlarged, ornately framed and cased in glass. Amongst the paintings, some collectors' items, some personally commissioned, was a striking watercolour of Kendle Lodge, a family portrait of a young Amy Kendle with her two children and, in pride of place behind the desk, a large portrait in oils of Charles himself.

The shelves were lined with yachting trophies and hand-carved models of Kendle's prized sailing craft. Yet more carved yachts, some large, some small, but all impressive, stood atop bookcases and on plinths around the room. Each was to scale, the larger ones with canvas sails, sturdy shining masts and booms, the smaller ones with gossamer stays and ropework as delicate as the thread of a spider's web. It was a precious collection. The man's pride and joy, Paddy thought triumphantly.

The desire to destroy outweighed the desire to steal and,
throwing caution to the winds, Paddy closed the door, lit the gas lamp in the wall bracket and took the knife from his inner pocket.

He started on the portrait first. As he plunged his knife between the eyes, it was Kendle himself he was destroying. He slashed again. This is for spitting on my mother's grave. Another slash. This is for having me done over by Cocky and his mates. A third slash. This is for stealing my cottage. And then he was slashing for no other reason than the sheer pleasure of killing Charles Kendle.

The portrait in shreds, Paddy cametohis senses. He must be more methodical. Destroy the man's treasures and get out, he told himself. No need to steal anything further, the jewels in his pockets were more than enough.

He took the first of the framed photographs from the wall. He daren't smash the glass, but it was easy to hack the backing apart with his knife, pull out the picture and rip it to pieces. There were six in all, it didn't take long.

The watercolour of Kendle Lodge, despite its size, took barely ten seconds to demolish. The portrait of Amy and her children Paddy left intact—he had no quarrel with them. Then, finally, leaving the choicest till last, he turned his attention to the models.

Works of art each and every one, but Paddy knew which was most precious of all. It wasn't the biggest or the grandest, in fact it was the smallest of the carvings which stood upon the shelves. The name, etched in gold on the wooden base, was
Wings of Honour I
. The first proud yacht that Kendle had owned. Paddy lifted it down. This was the prize. Grasping the base in one hand, with his other he embraced the delicate, polished masts and the billowing sails of paper-thin crafted wood, and slowly he crumpled them. They dropped like so much ash and kindling to the floor of Kendle's study. Then he picked up the next model.

 

Charles cursed the rain as he dashed from the hansom cab to the front porch. It was only twenty yards but the downpour was so heavy he was soaked when he got there. His good mood had evaporated as he unlocked the front door.

He hung his coat and hat on the stand, crossed the tiled entrance hall and opened the door to the main living room. He stopped. There was a lamp lit in his study to the left. He could see the light spilling from beneath the closed door. His irritation turned to anger. No-one,
neither the servants nor his wife, was allowed to enter his study. Even the maid when she cleaned it had to seek his permission.