Sick of Shadows (18 page)

The earl sat deep in thought. He wished with all his heart that the engagement could be broken off and that his wayward daughter would find someone more conventional. On the other hand, he shrewdly suspected Rose would run rings round a conventional husband to get her own way, and his wife had informed him that Rose was in love with Cathcart.

“All right. When?”

“Tomorrow at one o’clock. Miss Levine and Miss Friendly are invited as well.”

“Levine’s all right, but why invite the seamstress?”

“Because she was part of the investigation.”

“Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”

After Harry had left, the earl went to the morning-room, where Lady Polly was lying on a chaise longue with her head in a book.

“Problem,” said the earl. He told her about Harry’s visit.

“I know my daughter has instructed the staff that she does not wish to see him,” sighed Lady Polly, putting down her book.

“High-handed as ever. I’ve this ghastly feeling now that it’s Cathcart or no one. We’ll be stuck for her for life and I won’t have an heir.”

“I should think it is all very simple,” said Lady Polly. “Tell her we do not wish her to go. She will immediately want to do the opposite. She always does.”

They summoned Rose. She listened in silence. “Tell Captain Cathcart that I am not available.”

“Quite right,” said Lady Polly. “All the wretched man wants to do is to tell you what happened at Scotland Yard. But he has invited Friendly and Levine. I see no reason why they should not attend. In any case, you are being very sensible. I am sure you are just glad the nasty business is all over.”

Rose bit her lip. She hated the idea of Daisy being told all the facts about the winding up of the case.

“Perhaps I should go,” she said. “After all, I was the one who discovered the murderer for him.”

“If you go, it will be against our express wishes,” said her father.

Frustrated, Rose lost her temper. “Am I to be kept a prisoner in my rooms for the rest of my life? I tell you, I shall escape and find work. I have done it before and I can do it again.”

“Oh, stop ranting,” snapped the earl. “Go if you must.”

Rose prepared herself with exceptional care for the luncheon. Normally she rebelled at the constrictions of undergarments to achieve the fashionable S-bend figure and wore only the minimum of petticoats and a light abbreviated corset. But she wanted to be armoured in high fashion, to show the wretched captain that she was a high-born lady and not the silly little girl he had claimed her to be.

Turner lashed her into a long corset of pink coutil—a tightly woven cotton fabric with a herringbone pattern—and put pads on her hips and under her arms. A pad went down the front to accentuate the bust and all to create the hourglass figure. Over that, after the silk stockings had been clipped to suspenders, went six petticoats, three of taffeta and three of organdy. Turner then held out a gown of pink taffeta and tulle and Rose dived into it and stood patiently while all the little buttons were fastened up the back.

She sat at the dressing-table while her hair was piled over pads, or “rats,” as they were nicknamed. On top of her hair was placed a hat created by Miss Friendly, a cart-wheel of straw embellished with pink silk roses and tied round the brim with a pink silk ribbon with long streamers.

The dress had a high-boned collar to add to all the other constrictions.

Rose went gingerly down the stairs in her high heels.

Lady Polly came out of the drawing-room and surveyed her daughter. “I have never seen you look so fine. Such a welcome change from the tea-gowns you always seem to favour these days.” Rose often preferred the tea-gown because it was a soft, filmy garment free from corsetry.

Miss Friendly and Daisy followed behind, equally corseted and hatted.

One of the earl’s carriages took them to Rules in Covent Garden. They were ushered upstairs to the private dining-room booked by Harry.

“I think you know everyone,” said Harry. He pulled up a seat for Rose and whispered, “I have never seen you look more beautiful.”

Rose, who had dressed to impress him, was irrationally annoyed. Typical man, she thought. He only thinks I am beautiful when I am dressed like a doll.

Rose was sitting next to Harry at a round table. Daisy was placed next to Becket, Miss Friendly next to Phil, who had secretary Ailsa on his other side.

“I ordered a round table because this is an informal party,” Harry began. “I am sure you are all anxious to hear what happened at Scotland Yard. But I think I should wait until the end of the meal when the waiters are dismissed.”

Rose envied the ease of Daisy, chattering animatedly to Becket, and Miss Friendly seemed to be getting along famously with Phil. Ailsa drank steadily, smiling all around but not contributing much to the conversation.

The meal was lavish. Consommé was followed by trout fillets. Then quail cutlets followed by ham. After that roast ortolans, followed by asparagus. For the still hungry there was a desert of Gâteau Punch au Champagne, followed by anchovies on toast.

The food was delicious, but Rose was constricted, literally and metaphorically, from eating very much. Each mouthful seemed to tighten her stays even more and the close presence of Harry was taking away her appetite. He did not seem to notice her silences but kept up a flow of conversation about the weather, about the government and the fear of strikes. Only when he asked her about her charity work did Rose forget about her animosity towards him and become animated.

She told him again about her desire to set up a charity as soon as she reached her majority. She described how her work in the soup kitchen made her feel less useless and described some of the down-and-outs.

When the meal was finished and the waiters had been dismissed, Harry rapped a knife on his wineglass and said, “I can now tell you what happened.”

They listened with rapt attention while he told them of Jeremy’s confession. “The whole family was driven mad with ambition and snobbery,” said Harry finally. “And yet, if it had not been for Lady Rose, I might not have had enough for a cast-iron case.”

“What about Lord Berrow?” asked Daisy. “I’m amazed he had nothing to do with it.”

“He did send someone to try to kill Miss Bridge,” said Harry. “But he and Banks were killed in a motoring accident in Scotland, so they will not be troubling anyone again. I will never forget the bravery of our excellent Miss Bridge. Miss Bridge?” He realized he was looking at an empty seat.

“She’s under the table, guv,” said Phil, bending down.

“It’s all my fault,” said Harry contritely. “Please help her up. She is a missionaries’ daughter and I don’t think she is used to anything stronger than water.”

Becket and Phil hoisted Ailsa up. She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily. “Whash goin’ on?” she asked and slumped again.

“Becket, you had better take her down to the motor and take her home. Do you know the address?”

“Been there once,” said Becket. “I’d better take Miss Levine with me. Need a lady along.”

“Very well. I think we should all go. You have your carriage, Lady Rose?”

“Yes, a waiter will tell the coachman to come round.”

“Then I will escort you and Miss Friendly to your home. Phil, you go with Becket and he can drive you to Chelsea after you leave Miss Bridge at her lodgings.”

Harry helped Rose down from the carriage outside the town house. “Go indoors, Miss Friendly. I wish to have a word in private with my fiancée.”

He turned to Rose and smiled into her eyes. “Are we friends again?”

“I think so.”

He shielded their faces with his silk hat and bent to kiss her. At that very moment, a steel in Rose’s corset which had gradually been working its way loose, stabbed her viciously and, as his mouth was about to meet hers, she winced.

To Harry, it looked like a wince of disgust.

He crammed his hat on his head. “Good day to you,” he said, and he turned and strode off across the square.

Harry had been celibate for a long time. As he walked angrily through the streets of London in the direction of Chelsea, he cursed himself for ever having entered into an engagement with such as Lady Rose Summer. She was beautiful, yes, but she was as cold as ice.

Halfway home, he changed his mind and set off to The Club. It was always known simply as The Club and was considered less stuffy than White’s or Brooks’s.

He entered the coffee-room and was greeted by a tall figure. “Good God, old man, is it really you? I thought you had been killed at Magersfontein!”

Harry’s face lightened as he recognized Colonel Jimmy Frent-Winston. Jimmy now looked like a rakish man-about-town. He had a high aquiline profile and bold blue eyes. “Sit down, Harry,” he said. “Let’s have a bottle of champagne.”

“Still in the army?” asked Harry.

“Home on leave. Want to kick up my heels a bit. You’re engaged, I hear.”

“Not working out,” said Harry, suddenly wanting to confide in someone.

“Ah, well, take my advice and cut and run.”

They drank champagne and swapped war stories as the day drew on towards evening.

“I say,” said Jimmy. “I know just the thing to end the day. Let’s go to The Empire and find ourselves a pair of dazzlers.”

The Empire music hall, a dream of blue and gold, was a most luxurious place. But its main attraction was the Promenade. The Promenade was where the aristocrats of prostitution paraded: blondes, brunettes and redheads, moving with a sort of feline grace and all with excellent manners. They never accosted a man; at the most he might feel the touch of a hand against his or the faint pressure of a silk-clad body as he stood at the rail watching the show below. As they moved to and fro, their jewels glittered and their silks swished and they exuded the scent of frangipani or patchouli.

In 1894, their presence had been attacked by a Mrs. Ormiston Chant, crying “white slavery.” She and her supporters battled long and hard, but the assault failed completely. All Mrs. Ormiston Chant achieved was to become the most popular guy at the next Fifth of November, where she was burnt in effigy.

Harry hesitated. His few liaisons had been with respectable women, none of them ever serious. But Rose had wounded his pride and, he felt, his manhood. Besides, he had drunk rather a lot.

They took a cab. Harry was glad of Jimmy’s company. He had been working so hard that he had had little time for friends.

The Empire declared itself a club, and Jimmy insisted on paying the entrance fee. It was full as usual, presided over by the manager, Mr. Hitchins, who ejected the rowdy with one white kid glove on the culprit’s shoulder. Most of the ejected simply went round to the side door and paid five shillings to get back in.

“We’ll go straight to the Promenade,” said Jimmy. “Oh, I do like shopping, don’t you?”

That was when Harry felt a sober jolt go through his body. At heart, he was a romantic, and the whole business of picking up a prostitute suddenly seemed unbearably sordid.

He knew better than to voice such views. Jimmy had a loud voice, the “Hyde Park drawl,” and Harry felt sure he would protest loudly enough to make them certain of attention.

He waited until Jimmy was chatting to a pretty redhead and quietly made his way down the stairs. Someone on the stage was singing “She Was Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.” Harry went on out into the street. A poster at the entrance was advertising the new attraction of The Singing Blacksmith. Harry paused for a moment. Could that possibly be Dolly’s blacksmith’s son? But the case was closed, so he went on his way.

He decided to walk home to clear his head and banish infuriating pictures of Rose which kept coming into his mind.

Then he remembered the seductive Mrs. Losse. He craved the company of a lady who would flirt with him and stir his senses.

Harry set out for Kensington. He was just approaching the pretty house in Launceston Place when he saw a very grand carriage coming down the street. He drew back into the shadows.

The carriage stopped outside Mrs. Losse’s door. Harry heard a voice say, “I won’t be needing you any more tonight,” and the carriage moved on. A portly figure moved up the front steps and then turned as if aware of being watched.

There was a lamp over the door. Harry recognized the heavy-lidded protruding eyes, the sensual mouth and the thick beard. He was smoking a cigar.

As Harry watched, the door opened. Mrs. Losse stood there.

King Edward turned back and entered the house.

Harry began to walk towards Chelsea. It struck him that he had been unkind to Becket. Just because he, Harry Cathcart, had been unlucky in love, there was no need to make Becket suffer. He would miss him, but Becket should have his chance to marry.

He would set Becket and Daisy up in some business and Phil could take over as manservant.

Rose did not hear anything from Harry and fretted, wondering what to do. She and her parents had been invited down to Mrs. Barrington-Bruce’s country home at the weekend. An invitation had been issued to Harry as well, but he had not telephoned to say he would be joining them or to make any apology.

As they travelled to Mrs. Barrington-Bruce’s, Rose was aware that Daisy was in a state of suppressed excitement. She kept taking out a letter and reading it over and over again.