The History Room (28 page)

I waited.

‘Merry, I’ve got to tell you that we need money badly. Marcus’s job, it’s looking rocky. There’s the mortgage. And school fees. And my partnership won’t pay
out as much this year.’

‘That’s why you wanted Dad to sell up.’ I tried to keep the accusation from my tone.

‘I admit it crossed my mind.’ She sounded so quiet, so unlike her normal self. ‘But perhaps Marcus and I will simply have to sell the house.’ She seemed to regain her
balance. ‘If Olivia is who we think she is then she deserves her fair share of anything Dad might leave us. There’s a moral responsibility on us to look after her. But we need to know
more about her.’

She made it all sound matter-of-fact. Clara might be bossy and keen on her rights but she was always fair. As a little girl she’d counted all the Smarties out of the tube to divide between
the two of us. When we’d shared a bed on holidays she’d measured out the mattress carefully and allocated us each the same amount.

‘You don’t think Olivia is who she is supposed to be, do you?’

I could see her shrug all those miles away in Clapham. ‘Nobody’s ever talked to her about her childhood. She could be anyone. Dad says she looks like Hana but that doesn’t mean
she’s necessarily Dad’s granddaughter.’

It sounded blunt but it was true.

‘Just don’t let him get too carried away with this,’ she went on. ‘Don’t let him go changing his will or anything like that. In fact, he should probably take advice
from the family solicitor. He’s vulnerable, Merry.’

I supposed he was. Widowed. Lonely. Drawn to a girl who seemed as lost as he probably felt at times.

‘Keep an eye on him. I’ll be down at the weekend. There’s a governors’ meeting with the bursar on Friday night to look at the latest figures, so perhaps I could stay with
you?’

‘Of course!’ I couldn’t wait to see her. After we’d hung up I found myself staring at the silent mobile. It was dark now and I drew the blinds to hide the gloom outside.
My sister’s mention of the bursar reminded me of what Dad had told me about his journey to England in the sixties, about John Andrews, who’d given him a home. That same John Andrews had
become the bursar here years later because he had been such a good friend to Dad.

I tried to work out why John Andrews was on my mind now. There’d been a bit of trouble with the previous bursar, Dad had told me. He’d needed someone he could trust absolutely. I
dialled Clara’s number.

‘Merry?’ She sounded weary.

‘What do you remember about John Andrews?’

‘John Andrews?’ I could hear the sigh in her voice. She’d be trying to get the children to bed, cook a late supper, talk to Marcus about his looming redundancy.

‘Sorry. It’s late.’

‘No, it’s all right. Funnily enough I’d been thinking about him quite recently. It could never happen these days. What had gone on before he took over, I mean.’

‘Some kind of embezzlement?’

‘That’s right. The previous bursar, can’t remember his name, had been operating a fiddle while they were building the new boarding houses and the gym. Getting kickbacks from
contractors. Taking out money supposedly to pay suppliers in cash.’ She broke off to shout a reprimand at one of the boys. ‘It was quite sad. The bursar had a baby with a serious
illness or disability of some kind in special care. He wanted the money to pay for treatment in a hospital in America.’

‘And Dad found out?’

‘He was gutted. Obviously he had to sack the bursar. But he didn’t prosecute.’

‘Was the money paid back?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Where did the family go?’

‘Australia or somewhere like that. God knows how they managed with the baby.’ Something crashed to the floor. ‘I told you not to stack those plates so high, Sam! Got to go,
Merry, speak soon.’

The connection between what had happened in the school all those years ago and recent events was there deep inside my subconscious but I couldn’t pull it out to examine it logically. I
needed to talk through what I knew. I needed my husband’s completely rational outlook. His brain was good at this kind of puzzle. I still had my mobile in my hand. My thumb pushed his number
before my head could stop it.

‘Merry?’ Did he sound put out or merely surprised? I wondered.

‘Do you have ten minutes?’

‘Fire away.’ He still sounded guarded.

‘Something’s bugging me. I need a fresh outlook.’ I started to tell him, coming to a halt when I’d finished relating what Clara had told me about the bursar.
‘That’s it, really. I don’t know if it means anything.’

‘I don’t see how that can have anything to do with what’s been happening here. And the stabbed baby in the cupboard was just a doll, Merry.’

‘It had a paperknife through its chest.’

‘Nasty, but a bit like something a teenager might have picked up from watching horror movies.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And the doll was sent to Olivia’s address.’

‘Her aunt denies ordering the doll. I think I believe her.’

‘Olivia’s not related to the old bursar, is she?’

‘No. I don’t think any of the children here can be. They’re far too young.’ I did some calculations. It must have all happened about twenty years ago now. ‘Unless
he had more children after he left here.’

‘Let me think about it.’ There was curiosity in his voice now. ‘I’ve got some time and I could do some Internet research. What was the bursar’s name, do you
know?’

‘Noel Collins.’ That was it. I remembered Mr Collins as a sad-faced man. But kind. He’d given Clara and me chocolate biscuits on a few occasions when we’d scampered into
his office.

‘You all right?’ Hugh sounded concerned.

‘Fine. Just grappling with other old family stuff.’ I didn’t know whether or not to tell him about Olivia yet. But he was still my husband. ‘I think I might have a new
niece.’

‘Clara and Marcus? They’re having a third? Wonderful. How’ll she fit another baby in with being a law partner?’

‘Not Clara.’ I explained about Olivia and my father’s secret love affair in Czechoslovakia all those years ago.

‘Holy Moley, Charles was a dark horse,’ he said. ‘Poor chap. This must have come as a shock.’

‘He seems delighted.’

‘You said the child’s actually in the school?’

‘And knows nothing about the relationship. If she is in fact who we think she is.’

He said nothing for a second. ‘I might come up and see you again, if that’s OK? Will it be frantic between now and the end of term?’ He obviously remembered the usual frenzy at
school this time of year.

‘It’s not too bad for the next week.’

‘Why don’t we say tomorrow evening. What time do you finish?’

‘I can be free by five.’

‘Don’t get me from the station, I’ll grab a cab. I’ve had some compensation come through and I haven’t exactly had the chance to spend much in the last few months.
I’ll take you out for supper, too.’

‘I’d like to cook.’ He said nothing. ‘I’ve been practising. Before she died Mum gave me some tips.’

‘I’ll bring the wine.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Give Samson a pat from me.’

Emily

An occasional word of praise or a pat on the head, as though she was a pet dog. Well, let them patronize her. It wasn’t long now until the play was performed. End of term
was approaching. Already the cast members were holding their scripts in their hands and murmuring their words as they made last efforts to learn them. Extra rehearsals took place in the lunch hour.
Emily was still working on the costumes, probably being over-fussy, worrying about finishing touches and making sure seams were straight and buttons secure. But those were the things that made the
difference between a professional and an amateur appearance. And Emily was a professional. No matter what else she was, she took this work seriously.

‘You’ve quite a talent,’ Jenny had told her, watching her finish a tuck on one of the maidservants’ dresses. She sounded mildly surprised. Emily thought of the years
she’d spent learning how to design and sew things. She’d sewn her dolls’ clothes and made most of her own outfits as a teenager. The only way to find fashionable things in the
dump where they’d lived.

‘It’s just a shame these costumes are so plain.’ Drab old things.

‘That was seventeenth-century New England for you,’ Jenny said. ‘All Puritanism and primness.’

Why did they have to choose a gloomy play like
The Crucible
? All about guilt and blame and responsibility. Emily herself knew a thing or two about those themes. Perhaps it did no harm,
she conceded, to show what happened when rumours started flying in a small community and the innocent suffered along with the guilty. That part of
The Crucible
was interesting enough. All
the same, it would be more enjoyable to be creating something sumptuous, for a Shakespearean play, say.

Designing clothes was what Emily was born to do. In her dreams she was studying fashion or textiles in London. Becoming a costume designer for the Royal Shakespeare Company. Or perhaps working
for a fashion designer in Paris or New York. In a way she’d have preferred to have created her own gown for the reborn doll. But the linen robe and cap had been what the real child, the one
the doll had been modelled on, had worn to his christening.

Taking the robe and cap from Tracey’s basket in the kitchen back in September had been almost too easy. It had saved her walking over to the drama department and helping herself from the
racks. The ivory fabric had looked so right on the doll. She’d had to keep touching its cold skin to reassure herself it wasn’t the real infant.

‘Shall I send in Olivia for her fitting?’ Jenny asked.

‘Yes, please.’ She didn’t look up as she cut the last thread and hoped her burning cheeks weren’t apparent. Olivia. The reason this whole business was simultaneously
harder and more enjoyable than she’d thought it would be.

When the grey gown was pulled over Olivia’s shoulders and the white apron and cap added to the costume, Emily couldn’t prevent a smile from escaping her. Olivia might have stepped
out of the seventeenth century. The dress was that awful dark grey but Emily had put some thought into how it was tailored, and it showed off Olivia’s slender waist and delicate collarbones
and hid the marks on her arms. The drab colour wasn’t so bad with the girl’s complexion. In her school uniform Olivia looked gawky and uncomfortable. Not now.

‘She’s transformed.’ Jenny stood back beaming, astounded. ‘You’re so clever.’ Emily wished Jenny would leave the two of them alone. Something was happening
deep inside her. Olivia had been something to use at first, a convenient way of hurting the family. It had taken so long to find the chink and it had been so satisfying to find it. She recalled how
she’d sat back in amazement when Sofia had told her about her family. It had been just another ordinary slow night in the club in Reading. They’d found themselves talking over Diet Coke
while waiting for more men to turn up. It had taken a while to get Sofia talking about Olivia but Emily was good at extracting confidences.

‘I always wanted to come to England,’ Sofia had said. ‘My mother nearly came here in sixty-eight, when the Russians moved in. But she stayed. Her boyfriend got away,
though.’

‘Did he ever go back to Prague?’

Sofia shook her head. ‘Not that we know. Mama always thought she’d read something about him. Or that he’d return one day to give an exhibition of his work. He was a wonderful
painter as a boy. But he never seemed to become famous in England.’

‘What was his name?’ Emily collected people’s names the way some collected badges. You never knew when a name would come in handy.

‘Karel Stastny. He left my mother pregnant.’ Sofia’s lip had curled.

Karel Stastny. Emily’s mouth opened and she had to work hard to hide her surprise. Well, well, well. Emily knew from her father that, far from developing his artistic brilliance, Karel had
become Charles Statton, head of Letchford. A person in whom Emily had a deep interest. It had seemed remarkable. So remarkable Emily had been almost unable to continue the conversation with Sofia.
But she’d recovered herself, made an excuse and gone to sit in the toilet to think it over. So Sofia was Hana’s daughter. Charles and Hana had had a kid, an older brother of
Sofia’s. Sofia sometimes talked about a young niece she was bringing up. And Sofia had no other sisters or brothers. Ergo, Sofia’s niece, Olivia, must be Charles Statton’s
granddaughter. Emily had sat on the cracked plastic lavatory seat until the manager had rattled the door and ordered her out.

Up until then Emily’s plan to take a gap-year position at the school had been vague. She hadn’t really known how she could leverage her presence to cause trouble for the Statton
family. But if she had an accomplice . . . All it took was for Sofia to agree to send Olivia to Letchford. ‘You said you were saving a lot of money by living in for the housekeeping
job,’ she reminded the Czech woman. ‘No rent. And there’s as much work here for you as you need.’ Sofia had looked across to the bar. A pair of sales reps in ill-fitting
suits and loud ties had eased in and were eyeing the women over their beer.

‘I don’t make much by getting them to buy champagne.’

‘There are much more lucrative areas.’

Sofia had frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Emily nodded at a door to the right of the bar. ‘Private dances.’

Sofia sat straighter. ‘I would never ever do that. It’s . . .’ She shook her head. ‘What they do in there, it’s awful.’

‘Well, there are other possibilities,’ Emily went on. ‘Outside this club. I suppose it depends how much you value education. Some people earn a lot by going out with men on a
professional basis.’

‘You mean escorts?’ Sofia said the word with disdain. ‘I’m not like that. I have an education. A degree.’

Emily shrugged. ‘Plenty of students and graduates feel it’s worth while. To help their families. Get some money behind them.’

‘Just because I’m a woman from eastern Europe I must be a sex worker, is that what you think?’

Emily leant closer. ‘I’ve done it myself,’ she whispered. ‘There are some respectable agencies. You don’t have to sleep with the men. Sometimes they just want to
hire an attractive girlfriend for a work do. You go along and make conversation and look pretty. Sometimes they take you to really good restaurants for dinner.’