Dangerous Decisions (25 page)

When at last alone in the privacy of her room, Helena sat in the bedside chair, rocking to and fro, weeping with grief, her fear and longing for her baby a physical pain. It was not only worry for Rosalind's safety – an unfamiliar formula could make her ill, she had a nappy rash that needed zinc and castor oil cream, and unused to strangers she would be so bewildered and frightened. Repeatedly, as the dark hours lightened into dawn, she paced the room and stared out of the window at the empty street. How could anyone be so cruel as to steal a child?

Jacob too had slept badly, convinced that Oliver was wrong, that his decision was hazardous. Had he no conception of what evil men were capable? In fact, Jacob's hope was that some poor woman had taken the baby as a replacement for her own; at least she would be less likely to harm her. The night seemed endless and his valet's ministrations in the morning were more welcome than usual. Jacob was a great believer in the restorative powers of a shave and hot towel. Later, as he descended the staircase his desperate hope was that the morning post would at least bring some information – even if it was a ransom demand. However, as soon as he reached the hall the butler came forward. ‘Good morning, Mr Standish. Might I have a word, Sir?'

‘Do you have news?'

‘I'm afraid not.' He hesitated. ‘It's just that Hines informs me that Mr Faraday's bed hasn't been slept in.'

Jacob stared at him. Was that so unusual? Oliver could simply have slept in his wife's room. He frowned. ‘You mean that he is not in the house?'

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘Did he leave the house last night?'

‘Hines was not aware of it – a most unusual occurrence.'

‘Mr Faraday could have gone to his club I suppose, although I can hardly believe that after the happenings of yesterday …'

‘Hines would normally wait up for his return, Sir. Mr Faraday always informed him of his intentions and whether further service would be required.'

‘Thank you, Gray.' Jacob went into the dining room only to find that the post contained a letter for Oliver from his stockbroker, a couple for himself from his constituency office, and the other addressed to Beatrice in handwriting he recognised. There was no cheap envelope with badly spelt words, or even those cut from a newspaper, or did that only happen in fiction? Slowly he walked over to the sideboard, only half concentrating as he helped himself to his usual breakfast, wondering once again whether all was well in his daughter's marriage. For the staff to be concerned that a married man's bed had not been slept in did seem a little odd.

‘Good morning, Jacob.' A pale and tired-looking Beatrice joined him at the table. ‘I haven't had a wink of sleep. I have just been in to see Helena. She is still not dressed and I'm terribly worried about her, she looks dreadful.'

‘Good morning, my dear. Yes, I too found sleep difficult. May I ask – was Oliver with Helena?'

‘Jacob, I would hardly enter her room if he were.'

‘But how would you know? I'm sorry Beatrice, I'm not asking out of idle curiosity.'

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Oliver always rises much earlier.'

‘Would you mind my dear, going to ask whether she knows where Oliver is? Apparently his bed has not been slept in.'

Jacob was becoming fidgety and after a few minutes he went into the hall to gaze up the staircase, only to see that Beatrice was already on her way down.

She shook her head. ‘She is as mystified as we are.'

As they sat on opposite sides of the table, Jacob was so on edge that the even the sound of Beatrice scraping butter on her toast irritated him. Where in God's name had Oliver got to? His newspaper still folded and unread at the side of his plate, he gazed across at his sister, his fingers drumming on the tablecloth. ‘You know I haven't changed my mind. I think Oliver is badly mistaken in not involving the police.'

‘It's very difficult for you, I can see that.'

They both turned as a dishevelled Helena came hurrying into the room. ‘Papa, what is this about Oliver? Aunt Beatrice tells me that his bed has not been slept in.'

Distressed by the shadows beneath her eyes, Jacob said, ‘It appears not, and he hasn't been seen this morning.'

‘I heard his door close about an hour after I went to bed … I thought he was unable to rest, that perhaps he had gone down to his study.' Her voice wavered, ‘Papa, the kidnappers may have contacted him – he could have gone to meet them.'

He shook his head. ‘He would have told us – certainly me. And it wouldn't make any sense, not without the means of paying a ransom. And for that he would need to wait for the bank to open.'

But Helena had agonised all night and burst out, ‘I don't know
where
Oliver is! It is Rosalind who concerns me. I cannot bear this waiting, this worrying, this inaction! It was Oliver's decision not to involve the police, but he isn't here …'

‘You are prepared to go against his wishes?' Beatrice spoke sharply.

‘I would do anything to bring Rosalind back.'

Then Jacob said, ‘I cannot believe that Oliver would be so selfish as to deliberately cause us further anxiety. I shall go to Scotland Yard and make discreet enquiries.'

Helena said swiftly, ‘You will tell them about Rosalind?'

‘I intend to make that judgement at the time.' Jacob rose from the table. ‘Helena, do take breakfast, you need to keep up your strength.'

She went wearily to the sideboard but even the sight of kidneys and sausages turned her stomach.

‘Just settle for toast and coffee as I have, dear.' Beatrice gave a long sigh. ‘It is going to be a very difficult morning.'

The New Scotland Yard building was on the Victoria Embankment and although familiar to Jacob, he had never before actually entered its premises. Walking briskly, he went through the entrance to where at the Enquiry Desk the station sergeant was looking down at some papers. Jacob stood before him. The man's voice was laconic. ‘Yes?'

‘Good morning,' Jacob said. ‘My name is Jacob Standish and I am a member of His Majesty's Government. I wish to make some enquiries.'

The sergeant's head shot up, his face reddening above his handlebar moustache, but already on hearing Jacob's commanding tone another officer was coming forward to replace him. ‘I am the senior station sergeant, Sir. I will detain you only a moment.'

As he waited, Jacob glanced around at some of the posters on the walls, mostly warning of penalties, with Helena's word ‘inaction' still ringing in his mind.
Could
Oliver have gone to meet the kidnappers? He would not like to think that by coming here to report his disappearance, that he was putting any arrangement in jeopardy. But Jacob still felt that kowtowing to criminals was beyond the pale. That was not the English way at all.

Then almost immediately he was ushered along a corridor and into the presence of a hawk-nosed man with silvering temples. He was not in uniform.

‘Mr Standish? My name is Chief Inspector Morris and I am with the CID. Please,' he indicated a chair opposite his cluttered desk. Jacob took a seat and leaned forward, both hands resting on his silver-topped cane.

‘So Mr Standish, how can we be of help?'

‘May I speak in confidence?'

‘You have my word on it.'

Jacob hesitated, unsure of exactly how much to reveal at this stage. ‘I am concerned that a gentleman of good character has failed to return home.' He saw the man opposite frown.

‘It is merely that he has been missing overnight?'

Jacob nodded. ‘Yes. But there are particular circumstances that would rule out any of the normal, er …'

‘I see. Well, there are two possibilities. An accident or illness in which case we can check the hospitals for you, and also …' He pressed a buzzer on an intercom on his desk and spoke into it. ‘Please bring in a list of any incidents reported since'—he glanced at Jacob for confirmation—‘shall we say ten o'clock last night?'

Jacob nodded.

‘The gentleman you speak of, you have not yet furnished me with his name.'

‘May I beg your forbearance, Chief Inspector? At least for the moment.'

He turned at a light tap at the door and watched as a manila folder was handed over. The detective opened it and began to run his finger down a typewritten list, its length confirming Jacob's opinion that the less salubrious areas of London abounded with criminals and ruffians. The finger paused. ‘Mr Standish, might I have a description of the person you are worried about?'

Jacob's answer was swift. ‘About six feet tall, aged around thirty, fair-haired. And clean shaven apart from a moustache.'

There was a moment's silence, and Jacob's fingers tightened on the knob of his cane. Then the Chief Inspector said, ‘There is a report of a serious incident that took place last night on the Embankment. Now we have no reason to suspect that the victim is the person you are concerned about but …'

‘The description?'

‘It is not dissimilar.'

Jacob felt a cold dread in the pit of his stomach. ‘You say a serious incident …'

‘A man was robbed and stabbed.' His gaze was steady. ‘I am afraid it is a case of murder.'

After the warm sunshine outside, the chill in the airless room seeped into Jacob's tense bones as he and the Chief Inspector stood waiting in one of the city's mortuaries. Then at last a trolley was wheeled in carrying a shrouded still form. At a nod from the Chief Inspector, the mortuary attendant partly drew back the white sheet. Jacob's gaze, at first fearful and then appalled, fixed on the grey and waxen features of the battered face of his son-in-law. Slowly he turned his head away and lowered it in assent.

‘Might I ask his name, Sir?'

Jacob's voice was hoarse. ‘Mr Oliver Faraday.'

‘My commiserations, Mr Standish. Might I ask how he is known to you?'

‘He is my son-in-law.'

‘And so the victim's next-of-kin would be your daughter.'

Jacob stared at him, suddenly shocked out of his stunned state. What if whoever had done this … If it was connected with Rosalind, she could be in mortal danger … He was already moving away, heading towards the door. ‘She must not be contacted, not until you have heard what I have to tell you. Chief Inspector we must return to Scotland Yard immediately. Hurry, man!'

At Faraday House, after her father had dismissed the notion of Oliver having gone to meet the kidnappers Helena scarcely gave her husband another thought. She was feeling physically sick, her mind so wild with fear for Rosalind that she felt she would go mad, and her continual pacing around the drawing room caused Beatrice to snap, ‘For heaven's sake sit down, I'm beginning to get a headache.'

Helena swung round. ‘Then you'd better go and lie down before it turns into a migraine!'

Pale-faced, her aunt left the room and Helena went back into her own desperate thoughts, fighting a need to go up to the nursery, to bury her face in Rosalind's soft blanket, longing to breathe in the sweet baby scent of her. But to do that she would have to face the woman whose carelessness … And Helena didn't trust herself, not yet.

Then at last there came the sound of the motor car and hurrying to the window, she saw it draw up only to be closely followed by another. Had her father any news? Had he told Scotland Yard about Rosalind? Anxiously she watched their chauffeur stand aside for Jacob to alight and two men climbed out of the other vehicle. One was tall with greying hair, the other portly with a beard; both had an air of authority. Her father's expression was grave and it was with growing dread that Helena went to wait before the fireplace. She could hear the sound of hats and canes being received and the heavy tread of footsteps on the tiled floor, and when they paused, she heard Jacob's deep voice, ‘If you would be so kind as to give me a few moments, Chief Inspector.'

Her gaze fixed on the door and as it opened Helena's eyes were wide with apprehension.

‘My dear …'

She felt suddenly cold as her father came to take her hands in his. ‘Please, come with me.' He led her to the sofa.

As she sat beside him, her whisper was one of terror. ‘Is it Rosalind?'

He shook his head and she felt sick with relief. But then her gaze searched his face only to see in his eyes a profound sympathy. ‘I'm afraid, my darling, that it's Oliver.'

Her throat closing in horror, she listened to his strained voice, to the terrible and shocking words. She looked at him, her voice shaking as she said, ‘Surely there must be some mistake. There must be.'

His eyes were full of sadness. ‘Helena, I have been to the mortuary myself, there is no mistake.'

‘But I don't understand,' her voice was shaking. ‘On the Embankment – at that time of night? Whatever would he be doing there?'

‘I don't know, sweetheart.'

‘Do you think …' she clutched at his sleeve. ‘Do you think he could have heard from the kidnappers, gone to meet them?'

‘Helena, how can we assume that? In any case, it is all out of our hands now. The police know about Rosalind. There is a Chief Inspector and a Detective Sergeant here to interview Nanny Evans.'

She closed her eyes. ‘Thank God.'

‘I will fetch Beatrice to be with you.'

‘No, Papa, she has one of her heads.'

‘But …'

‘Please, I'd rather be on my own for a while.'

‘I understand.'

Helena sat alone in the quiet room and despite the sunshine streaming in through the windows, wrapped her arms around her chilled body. He had not deserved to die so young, not in such a cruel and senseless way, no one did. She closed her eyes trying to shut out the ugly image of him being attacked, of suffering violence, praying that his end had been mercifully swift. And then, the slow tears came, because whatever Oliver's faults he had not only been her husband, he had given her the precious gift of Rosalind. And yet, she would never see him again, never face him each morning across the breakfast table. And it was only several minutes later that to her shame the unworthy thought flooded into her mind; never for the rest of her life would she have to dread the handle being turned on that inter-connecting door.