Long Live the King (8 page)

Adela sat up but the lady pushed her down again.

‘Don’t look,’ said the smart lady. ‘Best not to look.’ But Adela had already looked. Firemen were carrying out a single stretcher, and silhouetted against the fiery background was a strange shape, composed of two twisted and charred figures, half sitting, half lying, which reminded Adela of what Ivy sometimes did by way of entertainment: took two matches, put their heads together, lit them, and watched the heads fuse and flare up, the stick bodies seem to rise in the air, embracing and twisting. Elise had caght Ivy doing it and had been very angry, for reasons Adela did not understand.

‘Smoke inhalation,’ the coroner had declared later. ‘They did not suffer.’

‘Whole place, up like a torch,’ said Ivy’s mother Doreen. ‘And I’d like to know where you were tonight, my girl, if you weren’t in the bed you should have been.’

‘Oh thank you, Ma,’ said Ivy, sarcastic.

A Journey to Wells

Mrs Henrietta Kennion, the Australian wife of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, had been passing through Yatbury in a carriage on her way home to the Bishop’s Palace in Wells, in the company of her nephew Frank, when they noticed smoke and heard a commotion ahead. Although it was so dreadful a night – she had been up most of it attending the sickbed of an old friend – and it was to be Christmas Eve in the morning and a very busy time indeed in the Church Calendar, she had the carriage stopped. She had been horrified to realize that the fire was at St Aidan’s, in her husband’s diocese, and that the fire, fanned by an unreasonably strong wind, had spread to the Rectory too. She hastened out with Frank into the wet and chaos of the night, and was in time to see, in the reddish, smoky reflected light of flames upon the low clouds overhead, the church steeple with its melting weathercock collapse and fall in upon itself. St Aidan’s and its troublesome rectory had been a thorn in her husband’s side for some time, but all the same it was a most upsetting sight.

‘Magnificent!’ cried Frank – who, Henrietta had to remind herself, was a young man who lived for his art – and he ran back to the coach to fetch the satchel where he kept his sketchbook and charcoal. Thus it was that he missed the sight of George carrying the half-conscious Adela out of the Rectory across the threshold to safety, but in time to see her laid upon the ground, and then the firemen, who seemed hopelessly disorganized, bring two distorted bodies out on their single stretcher. It was a horrible sight: the kind you did not forget. It would not be fitting, in the presence of death, to take out charcoal and draw, though he was tempted. He would record it in his mind for future use.

‘It’s the Reverend Hedleigh,’ said Henrietta, aghast, ‘and his wife. He’s a great trouble to my husband but who could wish an end like this for them?’

‘It will have been from the inhalation of smoke,’ Frank said firmly. ‘They will not have suffered. These are not bodies that struggled to get away,’ and Henrietta was relieved to believe the young man. She was fond of Frank: he saw the best in everything, and so the best tended to happen: saw good where others saw evil. She was glad to have him with her, Frank Overshaw, her sister’s son aged twenty-nine, born in South Australia. He’d come all the way over to England to study for Holy Orders, and then changed his mind, and now he studied art at the Slade, and wrote poetry for little literary magazines. But he was a thoughtful, supportive and practical person, always prepared to make the best of things and share his good nature with anyone who seemed in need of it.

It was Frank who pointed out that the daughter, her face smeared with soot and mud, her hair wet, whose eyes were open but who seemed to be in shock, might be beneath a blanket but was lying on the ground in a thin nightdress on wet muddy ground. Once she was wrapped in Henrietta’s cloak it was Frank who, with the coachman’s help, got Adela to the carriage and settled her there under fur rugs.

A large-boned, practical young woman, who seemed to be the maid at the rectory, and was busy with bandages, told Henrietta there were no immediate friends or relatives, the ambulance had been called but would take its time, and the best thing Henrietta could do was take the girl off somewhere safe and warm. Henrietta said this was what she intended to do. It was fortunate that the maid knew the name of the family solicitor – she had taken letters to the post often enough – and was able to write down the firm’s name slowly but legibly.

So that was how it came to be that when Adela came to open her eyes, it was to discover herself bumping along in a carriage on the road to Wells, all but naked amongst strangers, her hand held by a woman she did not know but who told her she was the wife of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, whom she knew only as her father’s enemy, telling her that her parents were dead.

They asked her what her name was and Adela tried to tell them but, oddly, found she could not. Her lips seemed to be sealed. Adela was a person with a mother and a father; now she was without them she didn’t see how she could claim the name. She had seen the entwined and twisted black shapes on a stretcher and if she thought about it knew what she had seen. Everything from now on would be different. It was not necessarily worse. Dawn was breaking. That suggested breakfast. If she ate she might be able to think.

A young man with watery blue eyes and narrow shoulders was sitting across from her, staring at her. He did not look strong enough to fling her over his shoulders. He had a piece of charcoal in his hand and was drawing her. It seemed a great impertinence. He had a silly expression on his face, a kind of devoted intensity which annoyed her.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ the woman with the big teeth and the large jaw was saying. But she looked kind. She had tears in her eyes. Adela closed hers again.

‘I think she’s in shock,’ she heard the strange woman say. ‘Poor little orphaned thing.’

‘Death shall have no dominion. The body dies, the soul goes on,’ said the young man.

‘Oh please, Frank, none of that Theosophy stuff,’ said Henrietta. ‘Not now. We’re all much too tired. And do put away your artistic things. Just leave the poor girl be.’

‘But this has to be recorded,’ he said. ‘She is an angel, dropped from the skies. An angel in great distress, but look at the purity of that chin, the clarity of the cheekbones. How often in life does this kind of thing happen? I feel we are twin souls. I am blessed. It is karma.’

‘She could do with feeding up,’ said Henrietta. ‘She is much too thin.’

By the time the carriage had reached the moated mediaeval castle that was the Palace of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, Frank Overshaw, unmarried, artist, Theosophist, heir to the hundred-thousand-acre Overshaw Estate in Western Australia, a vast area of scrub and brush, but which included the small town of Overshaw and three working gold mines, announced that he was in love with Adela Hedleigh.

‘Oh don’t be absurd, Frank,’ said the Bishop’s wife, whose brother was Governor of South Australia, whose husband had been the Bishop of Adelaide until promoted to Bath and Wells, who knew nothing about her new ward’s aristocratic connections, and was never one to be nervous of speaking her mind. ‘You have no idea who or what she is. You know nothing about her at all.’

‘She is an angel dropped from heaven,’ he said, stubbornly. ‘She is my destiny.’

Frank tried to take Adela’s hand but she shook his off, instinctively, like a cat might shake off an annoying fly.

His Lordship Fights Back

On the morning of Christmas Eve his Lordship called by his family solicitor and financial advisor, Mr Eric Baum, to sign some papers and receive further dividends from the Modder Kloof mine. He was in fine good humour. The news was that the gold seam showed no signs of running out, and the magnesium mines further north, in which Mr Baum too had an interest, continued to produce effectively and efficiently.

Mr Baum pointed out that native labour was becoming more expensive and his Lordship might consider shipping in coolies from China as a cheaper option.

‘Rosina wouldn’t like that one bit,’ said his Lordship and laughed. ‘She’s a Liberal at heart, the silly girl.’

Mr Baum controlled the urge to raise his eyebrows and snort. He found Rosina a very trying young woman but knew better than to say so. These people fought furiously within families, but bonded instantly at the slightest hint of criticism from without. He let it go, for the moment.

His Lordship announced that he and Isobel were setting off for Sandringham that afternoon to spend a few days over Christmas Week with their Majesties, and Mr Baum nodded, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. But he was awed and impressed, and marvelled at his own good fortune. He had taken on the Hedleighs and their money problems as a favour to the great financier Ernest Cassel, friend of the new King, and here he was himself within spitting distance of royalty.

‘Oh and by the way,’ his Lordship then said, ‘the date of the Coronation has been decided. It’s June 26
^th
. They’ll announce it any day now. We have a couple of spare seats in the Abbey. Perhaps you and Mrs Baum would like to take them up? Watch the Dilbernes parading in all their glory? There won’t be much sitting around for us, of course. But you’re very welcome.’

‘I am sure Mrs Baum would be delighted and honoured,’ said Mr Baum, as calmly as he could. ‘I believe Mr Hubert Parry is composing something for the occasion. She is very fond indeed of Mr Parry.’

To think! Only two years ago he and Naomi had lived above a shop in the East End. Now this! He was as happy for her as he was for himself. More. Her place in London Society was assured. She had given up so much for him, risked so much, suffered so much, complained so little. Thus love was rewarded.

‘Well,’ said his Lordship, ‘you must be busy, Mr Baum. I’ll leave you to it,’ and he was off, with a courteous nod of acknowledgement to Rachel the secretary, who once he was gone said, ‘Oh Mr Baum, the Coronation!’ and all but fainted. Eric Baum had to bring her a glass of water.

He would wait until he got home to tell Naomi. He hoped he would not have to work too late. He would stop by Samuel the jewellers and buy her a Christmas gift. He had bought her a simple gold bracelet for Hanukah but he did not think she would object too much to an extra one set with diamonds, which he had seen at the time but thought too expensive, although in principle Naomi set her face against observing the Christian religious festivals. ‘When in Rome do as Rome does,’ was Eric’s motto. Little by little she would come round to his way of thinking.

But at lunchtime the pattern of the day changed abruptly. The phone rang and it was someone from the Bath and Wells Diocesan Office, with the dreadful news of the calamity that had befallen two of his clients, the Reverend and Mrs Edwin Hedleigh. The caller sounded comparatively young and had a slight Australian accent. Mr Baum found himself oddly unmoved by the news of the deaths. He had met the Reverend and his wife on two occasions and both had been as disagreeable as meetings with Robert were agreeable. He was glad to hear that at least the daughter was safe and well, and said so, but was very conscious of a great deal of hard work ahead. He knew he had Edwin’s will in his safe but not Mrs Hedleigh’s, which she had intended to send by post. When a married couple died in an accident a matter of who died first might well arise. He asked after the girl – Adela? was that her name? Mr Baum could hardly remember – and was told she was well but shocked and was welcome to stay at the Palace in the Bishop’s and Mrs Kennion’s care until relatives could be contacted to collect her. Mr Baum said he would be happy to reimburse any expenses incurred, and that he would at once inform the Earl of Dilberne of the unhappy news.

There was a short silence, and then a surprised ‘Lord Dilberne is a relative? Lord Dilberne the politician, the Tory?’

‘The Earl of Dilberne is Miss Adela’s uncle,’ said Mr Baum. ‘Edwin is, was, as the younger brother of an earl, properly referred to as the Honourable Edwin Hedleigh, Hedleigh being the family name.’

‘Oh I see,’ said the caller. ‘That’s why they all referred to him as the Hon. Rev. I don’t think anyone realized it meant anything. They thought he was just a reverend and a real pain in the ass.’

Mr Baum refrained from asking the caller if he was indeed Australian, fairly certain that the answer would be ‘yes’. Frank Overshaw had the traits of the colonial, too loud a voice, too open in his emotions, too immediate in his approach to others, forgetful of the restraints of a proper Englishman. Being Jewish himself, Eric Baum did not aspire to Englishness, but was becoming, he found, very sensitive to the lack of it in others.

‘Actually,’ said Mr Baum, ‘if it is of any interest’ – it was his experience that titles were of extreme interest to everyone he met, but perhaps in Australia things were different – ‘now that the mother has passed away, the daughter will be a Princess in her own right, though relatives on the mother’s side will be hard to trace. The line is Austrian and somewhat obscure, some kind of Hapsburg dynasty, I believe. Elise, God rest her soul, saw fit not to use the title. The family cut her off when she renounced Roman Catholicism. But all this is of no consequence, of course, in the light of these terrible and tragic events.’ He was taken aback by the joyous voice from the other end of the line.

‘A Princess!’ cried the caller. ‘That angel! Of course! She dwells in a palace, how could she not. It is her natural habitat.’

It occurred to Mr Baum that he might be dealing not just with an Australian but also with a madman. He asked for a name, and was given that of Frank Overshaw – a relative by marriage of the Bishop, it seemed, who was helping out in the office, Christmas being such a busy time in the Church Year.

Mr Baum took the number and called Bow Street to ask the police to check reports of a fatal house fire in Somerset. They called back within the hour to confirm the report. All was as Mr Overshaw had described. Telephone numbers and further information were exchanged. He then spoke again to the Bishop’s wife, Mrs Kennion, a competent and pleasant woman, and she assured him that the girl was in good hands and had been visited by the Bishop’s own doctor.