The Crystal Cage (13 page)

‘Nine years.’ It was beginning to feel like an interrogation.

‘A lot can happen in nine years, sweet Grace. He’s not going to stay the same and neither are you.’

‘What are you trying to say? That we should call it a day?’

‘I’m just pointing out that people change and the reasons for the way they behave change, too. Why did you hook up with him in the first place?’

‘I didn’t hook up with him, as you put it. Not initially. He’d just gone through a messy divorce and wasn’t looking for commitment.’

‘And you. Were you looking for commitment?’

I didn’t answer. I remembered the twenty-year-old I’d been, shy, lonely, already bruised by life. If I were honest, I
had
been looking for commitment or at least a safe haven. And Oliver had provided it. Nick was looking quizzical.

‘Oliver gave me what I wanted at the time.’

‘And now?’

I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t sure any longer what I wanted. I must have looked confused because Nick said easily, ‘Like I say, times change, people change. No dishonour in that.’

I hastily swallowed the rest of my elderflower and went to pay. Right now I didn’t want to think through the implications of what had happened with Oliver, and it was worth the expense of funding Nick to keep him happy and off a subject I’d no wish to discuss. We made our way back to the museum without much real hope of seeing the man we sought, but a different receptionist nodded her head when we asked for the local historian.

‘Mr Fawley? You’re in luck. He’s just got in. I’ll go and see if he can spare you a few minutes.’

I felt an irrational surge of excitement. It was becoming a regular occurrence and I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t explain why I was allowing myself to become so interested in this figure from the past and so concerned to discover more of his history. Nick’s foot was beating time on the polished wood floor, a sure sign, as I’d come to recognise, that he was excited, too. Mr Fawley could prove to be our saviour.

He didn’t, as it turned out. At least not obviously so, since he knew little more of Royde’s architectural career than we had managed to piece together for ourselves. Royde was from a poor family, one of six siblings born and bred on a local farm, but a man who had risen to become one of the most celebrated sons of Dorchester. Excitement drained away as he told us what we already knew. But we were riding a rollercoaster of emotions and his next words sent our spirits soaring.

‘There is one person who might be able to help you further. I’m not entirely sure, but she’s certainly worth a try.’

‘Who?’ we chorused.

He smiled at our eagerness but was not to be rushed.

‘I’m sure I have the lady’s details here,’ and he began to trawl the contents of his battered desk.

Dog-eared papers, handful by handful, slowly emerged accompanied by regular puffs of dust. Nick and I exchanged a glance. I knew we were both longing to grab him by the neck and shake him hard until he told us just who he had in mind.

‘Ah, here it is,’ he said at last, brandishing a small slip of crumpled paper. ‘Mrs Gardiner. I’ll give her a ring.’

And he did. Before we knew it, he’d made an appointment for us to see her at ten the next morning.

‘She’s very sorry that she can’t see you today, but Hector has to go to the vets.’

‘Hector?’ Clearly agitated by our lack of progress, Nick was tugging at his hair. The image of Oliver and his beard flashed through my mind. How strange—surely there couldn’t be two more different people.

‘Hector is the cockerel. Most important to get him right, you know.’

We took his word for it, but Nick could contain himself no longer. ‘Who is Mrs Gardiner? I mean what connection does she have to Lucas Royde?’

Our mentor smiled sadly at us. ‘Only a distant one, I fear, but if anyone has anything useful, it will be her. Her godmother was the daughter of a friend of Lucas Royde’s only sister.’

‘That’s pretty distant.’ I was unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. I wasn’t at all sure it was worth visiting this worthy lady, not to mention Hector.

‘True.’ Mr Fawley’s head was nodding in vigorous agreement. ‘However, I have had some conversation before with Mrs Gardiner, and it appears that she has a number of keepsakes, including papers—from the way she described it I would say a cache of papers—that she inherited from her godmother who died some thirty years ago.’

‘I don’t suppose you would know what these papers might be, Mr Fawley?’ I asked without any real hope.

‘I’m afraid not.’

We thanked him for his time and made our way to the exit, wandering disconsolately along the gallery we’d walked earlier and passing stunning Victorian ironwork and an impressive collection of statuary with barely a glance. It was unlikely that anything handed down through godmothers, friends and sisters would be of use to us. It was too distant a chain. But it was the only lead we had, and we decided in the most positive mood we could muster, to keep the appointment but make a dash to the station immediately afterwards and catch the first train back to London.

It was late afternoon and neither of us had the heart to face the lodgings from hell. Instead we retraced our steps along Orchard Street, and this time walked to its very end, where I’d noticed what appeared to be a tree-lined walk. It was an attractive place in which to stroll. The sun was still quite high in the sky and its warm rays filtered through foliage that had not yet lost its spring freshness. For a long time we walked without speaking, both of us feeling low-spirited. Nick had his head down, his hands tugging at his pockets.

‘We shouldn’t feel too bad.’ I decided to try for a positive gloss. ‘Mrs Gardiner might come up trumps and if not, we can state pretty definitely that plans earlier than the Carlyon chapel don’t exist.’

‘I guess so,’ he conceded bleakly. ‘I’ll get my cheque come what may, but I’m sorry I’ve wasted
your
time. You’ve a right to bawl me out.’

‘I won’t be doing that. I didn’t have to come, and at least I’ve seen the town where Royde grew up.’

‘It’s not enough.’

I could see Nick was getting more morose by the second. I was beginning to understand something of his mercurial nature, but I wondered why he was so very disappointed.

‘I really wanted to find something,’ he offered, kicking a stray stone along the paving. ‘I felt sure there was something to find.’

‘I felt that, too.’

‘And if I had, if
we
had,’ he corrected himself, ‘that would have been some story, wouldn’t it?’

‘And freelancers need stories.’ I was sympathetic.

‘It’s not that I haven’t plenty to write. I’ve got several leads just waiting to be followed up.’

‘Why so gloomy then?’

He looked a little self-conscious. ‘I guess I wanted to make a splash.’

‘In what way?’

‘Just for once it would be good to be special—the man who found Lucas Royde’s first commission!’

‘Why is it so important?’ I had a suspicion, but I wanted to hear it from him.

‘I told you about my successful family, didn’t I?’

‘But you also told me that you didn’t much care for them.’

‘They can still make you feel this high.’ And his fingers narrowed to an inch gap. ‘It would have been great to make them eat their words just once in my life.’

‘Which were? The words, I mean.’

‘That I’d never make anything of myself. That I was a drifter, a piece of flotsam—or is it jetsam, I’ve never been sure.’

We’d stopped at an entrance to pretty gardens. In the distance a fountain’s gentle cascade was silhouetted against a sweep of June colour, but he made no move to walk on. I thought I’d try a small homily.

‘You don’t have to value the same kind of success as they do. If they can’t see what you do is worthwhile, that’s their problem, not yours.’

‘That’s counsellor-speak. You know it doesn’t work like that in real life. It’s status—and money—that’s valued. And how supportive is
your
family?’

‘I only have a sister.’

‘And you don’t speak to her, which rather proves my point.’

Chapter Seven

I could say nothing and turned to retrace our steps. It was time to head back to the grim room and the even grimmer bathroom, but by dint of promising ourselves a decent meal that evening, we somehow managed to ignore the worst of our surroundings. On the dot of six o’clock we had showered and dressed in whatever finery we could manage and were ready to escape its four walls again.

Nick had for once ditched his endless supply of tee shirts and was wearing a pale blue shirt that did even more amazing things for his eyes. He looked his most attractive, and I was pleased to be walking beside him. I hoped I looked as good. The bathroom mirror, more tarnish than glass, was not a reliable confidante and I could only wriggle into the skinny emerald shift and precarious matching heels and hope that they would work as well as they usually did. A slick of lipstick and a quick brush through my hair and I was done. Nick gave a low whistle.

‘No one looking like that should ever emerge from a place looking like this.’ He gestured derisively at the stained plasterwork that would need industrial solvent to burn it clean.

We didn’t take long to find a welcoming wine bar, soft lights and even softer music, and settle down for some serious drinking. I guess we hoped that it might make the disappointments of the day seem a little less disappointing. We were well down the second bottle of wine and had argued our way through the works of several artists and their respective merits before Nick’s appetite kicked in.

‘We should find somewhere to eat, somewhere decent. And no salad,’ he threatened.

‘Okay, but no bacon rolls either.’

‘It’s a deal. I saw a rather sharp-looking place in a courtyard off Orchard Street. We could give that a try.’

‘Let’s finish the wine first.’

‘Should you?’

My head was spinning slightly, but his words were too strongly reminiscent of Oliver. That was the second time this day and it jarred.

‘Yes,’ I said belligerently.

His expression remained calm, appraising even; I imagined he was weighing up whether to make an issue of it. But he said nothing and I raised a defiant glass. I’d taken only the smallest sip when out of the blue he asked, ‘What’s your sister’s name?’

‘Verity.’ I blurted out the word, shocked at the brazenness of his attack. If there was someone I didn’t want to think about, it was Verity.

‘Verity and Grace,’ he mused. ‘Someone must have had a sense of humour!’

The wine no longer looked so inviting and I stood up abruptly. ‘Didn’t you want to go to the best restaurant in town?’

‘Only if you’re paying.’

‘Who else?’

I led the way to Orchard Street, thankful that he seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. But when dessert had been cleared and we were sitting over a second cup of coffee, it was evident that he was not going to let the topic go. I didn’t understand his persistence. What possible interest could my family be to him? But my reluctance to discuss the past was enough to make him want to worry his way into it.

As so often, his words were a jolt. ‘So why don’t you speak to Verity?’

‘We just don’t get on.’ I was prevaricating, but it would have to be enough.

It wasn’t. ‘Not many siblings do, but cutting them out of your life completely is pretty extreme.’

‘My sister was eight years older than me and we were never friends.’

He didn’t appear to think that was a good enough reason and I rushed on. ‘Our parents were killed in a car crash when I was only ten. She was on the brink of going to uni and she gave up the chance in order to look after me. I don’t think I was very grateful. I missed mum and dad and felt guilty that they’d died. I couldn’t have been an easy child and we were always having arguments.’

‘Why did you feel guilty when your parents died?’

Another can of worms, but easy enough to answer. I’d been asking myself the same question for years. I felt guilty because I was to blame. It was I who had set the whole terrible event in motion.

‘My parents had been quarrelling, and they were still quarrelling when they got into the car. My father drove off as though all the demons of the world were pursuing him.’

‘And the quarrel was over you?’

I had to hand it to him, Nick was perceptive.

‘It was stupid.’

‘It usually is.’ He looked questioningly at me, and I couldn’t see the harm in telling him what I could remember.

‘I’d wanted to go on a sleepover at one of my very best friends’ and my mother had said I couldn’t. So I asked my father and he said yes.’

‘Because you could always wheedle what you wanted out of your father? Don’t worry, I know the score. I’ve a sister of my own, remember.’

‘My mother was furious—but at him, not me. She said he was always undermining her authority and then…’

I didn’t know after all if I wanted to tell this story, but Nick was waiting.

‘Then she said that the only reason he encouraged me to go to Bella’s house was so that he could see more of Bella’s mother. That he was having an affair with her.’

‘And was he?’

‘How would I know? I was ten years old and not even sure what an affair was. My father was very angry and denied it. He’de’dHHH been drinking heavily. Then he said that as he and my mother had been invited to the Langhams’ party, they should go. Now there was no sleepover at Bella’s house, her parents would be at the party, too, and my mother would have the opportunity of telling her tales directly to Bella’s father.’

‘Ouch.’

‘It was more than ouch. The police found their car upside down in a ditch about five miles along the road. It had caught fire on impact and was still smouldering.’

‘That’s an ugly story.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed in a small voice. It still had the power to haunt me.

‘But no way was it your fault.’

‘Children always think the bad things that happen in their family are their fault.’

‘But not thirty-year-olds.’

‘Hey, wash your mouth out. I’m not thirty for at least three months.’

We walked back along the quiet streets hand in hand; I felt warm inside and strangely mellow. For the first time in years I’d relived that dreadful experience, and it helped that Nick had been with me. When we got to the room, I pulled open the curtains and let the moon shine in. The room looked better like that. I opened the window and the cool night breeze flooded through, wafting the jasmine perfume I’d been wearing into every one of the four corners. We undressed silently, not bothering with the one-in-the-bathroom, one-in-the-bedroom routine we’d adopted the night before. We slipped into bed and let ourselves roll into the centre, bodies touching. He reached for my hand and held it tightly.