The Orphan's Dream (37 page)

She had intended to walk home, but her footsteps had taken her towards Lower Thames Street and the river, where she had always found solace as a child. The jingling of the stays against the wooden masts and the toot of the steamboats was a sound as familiar as the chirping of sparrows or the mournful mewing of seagulls swooping overhead. The metallic clanking of the umbrella cranes and the rumble of barrels being rolled into warehouses was accompanied by the constant babel of voices and the shouts of the stevedores. The smell of fresh fish mingled with the tarry odour from the fishing smacks, hot engine oil and belching smoke, and the ever present stench of horse dung that carpeted the streets. It was all familiar territory to someone raised in Shad Thames and St Catherine's Court. She only realised now how much she had missed her native London, despite the luxury she had enjoyed on board the
Servia
and in the plantation mansion at Loblolly Grove. She chose not to remember the Fakahatchee swamp and the burning prairie; those memories were woven around the intimate moments with Jack and were too poignant to think about without pain and tears.

She found herself standing on Custom House Quay, staring into the tea-coloured water of the River Thames. Watching the busy river traffic was oddly soothing, and there was the ever present element of mystery and excitement attached to the ocean-going vessels. The smaller coasters unloading their cargoes at the wharves on either side of the river still had the power to capture her imagination, and the lighters and other small craft criss-crossed the water as they went about their daily business. She realised suddenly that the sun had disappeared behind an ominous bank of clouds and the oily smooth surface was suddenly pockmarked with drizzle, which evolved rapidly into a downpour. Mirabel wrapped her cape around her shoulders and headed home, but she had drawn strength from the familiar surroundings and the river which was the heart's blood of the capital. She put her head down and hurried towards Great Tower Hill.

She arrived home and found the house in an uproar. Tilda's cheeks were streaked with tears as she let her in, but before she could control her sobs enough to speak Gertie appeared at the top of the basement stairs, red in the face and furious. ‘Thank God you've come home. You'll never guess what's happened.' She grabbed Mirabel by the hand and dragged her along the hallway without giving her time to take off her sodden bonnet and cape.

‘What's going on?' Mirabel demanded breathlessly.

‘You wait until you see what that evil person has done.' Gertie released her hand, leading the way downstairs and out through the kitchen into the back yard. She came to a halt by the greenhouse. ‘Look.' Her finger shook as she pointed towards the shattered windows, and the shards of glass sticking out of the wet ground below like icicles thrown by the hand of a vengeful Norse god.

Mirabel's hand flew to cover her mouth as she gazed in horror at the carnage within. Pots were strewn on the floor, the precious orchids bruised and damaged beyond help. Alf was standing in their midst, a look of horror etched on his face and tears running down his cheeks. ‘Who did this?' Mirabel demanded breathlessly. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?'

Alf looked round slowly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Can't you guess? It's Ma Flitton's way of getting her own back on you, missis.'

‘I can't believe she'd do such a thing,' Mirabel said slowly. ‘She knew how much my husband loved the orchids. They were his life.'

‘And he's dead.' Gertie's shrill voice reverberated off the tall brick walls surrounding the yard. ‘She blames you for that, Mabel. I don't think the old bitch would have the guts to do this herself, but I know who would and he's not a million miles away from here.'

‘Wiley,' Alf said angrily. ‘She had a key to the back gate and it's missing from its hook. That was the first thing I checked when I come out here this morning. She must have given it to him and told him to do his worst. It don't take a 'tec to work that one out. I'm going round there now to give him what for.'

‘No.' Mirabel stepped over the fragments of broken glass, and made her way into the wrecked greenhouse. ‘It's probably what he wants and I refuse to play his game.'

‘I'll go and find a copper,' Gertie said eagerly. ‘Let them deal with it.'

Mirabel shook her head. ‘We can't prove anything and who'd believe that a nice old lady like Mrs Flitton would suddenly turn into an evil witch? Wiley can be very convincing too, if he puts his mind to it. I'll deal with this in my own way.'

‘I dunno how, missis.' Alf pushed his cap to the back of his head, staring round at the ruined plant collection. ‘This lot must have been worth a small fortune. He should be made to pay.'

‘He will. Just give it time.' Mirabel picked up a crushed flower, holding it to her cheek. ‘I'm just glad that Hubert didn't live to see his beautiful orchids crushed and dying.'

Alf signalled to Tilda, who had been hovering anxiously outside the door. ‘Put the kettle on, girl. The missis looks as though she needs a cup of tea with a good splash of brandy. I'll have one too; plenty of sugar, if we can afford it.' He laid his hand on Mirabel's shoulder. ‘Chin up, missis. I'll get me boys to help and we'll have this lot cleared up in a jiffy.'

‘Yes,' Mirabel said dazedly. ‘Thank you, Alf.' She made an attempt at a smile. ‘At least we'll save money on coal.' She stepped outside, turning her back on the vandalised greenhouse. It was the end of an era as far as Hubert's orchid collection was concerned, but someone would pay for it, and that someone would be the man who had tried to destroy her and take what rightfully was hers.

Leaving Alf and his sons to sort out the greenhouse and clear up the mess, Mirabel braved the rain and paid another visit to the solicitor. Yardley himself was in court and likely to be there for some time, according to his clerk. It seemed that the day was going to be one of frustration and disaster, but Mirabel was not about to give up. She left Hubert's will with the clerk, instructing him to send it for probate on her behalf, and asked him to get a copy of her father's will. Hubert had promised to do so, but he had been busy arranging the expedition to Florida and must have forgotten.

She left the office feeling that at least she had done something constructive, and was even more determined not to be beaten by Wiley. At least the rain had stopped and a pale sun was edging its way through the clouds. She was halfway across the lawn in Lincoln's Inn Fields when she saw a fashionably dressed woman walking towards her. There was no mistaking her identity. ‘Zilla.' Mirabel quickened her pace, realising that Zilla Grace was about to walk past. ‘Zilla, it's me.'

Zilla came to a halt, looking her up and down. A slow smile animated her painted face. ‘Why, it's Mabel. You look so fine I didn't recognise you. How is Hubert?'

‘DEAD?' FOR ONCE
Zilla seemed at a loss for words. She tucked Mirabel's hand in the crook of her arm. ‘Walk with me, Mabel.'

Zilla had never been one to show emotion, but Mirabel sensed that she was genuinely upset at the news of Hubert's demise. ‘It was quite sudden.'

‘I suppose he was getting on in years,' Zilla said slowly. ‘If it was anyone but you I'd suspect foul play.'

Mirabel withdrew her hand, coming to a halt. ‘That's a terrible thing to say.'

‘It's what many people would think, although I know better. How did it happen?'

‘The doctor said it was an apoplectic fit.' Mirabel was in no mood for lengthy explanations and she set off, walking briskly in the direction of Carey Street.

Zilla hurried after her. ‘I would have liked to pay my respects at his funeral, and I'm sure my girls would have too. Why didn't you let me know?'

‘Hubert was taken ill and died in America. He's buried there.'

‘It might have proved expensive to travel so far for a funeral.' Zilla quickened her pace to keep up with Mirabel. ‘I'm teasing you, Mabel. I know it was in poor taste but I'm agog with curiosity, and I won't be satisfied until you tell me the whole story.'

‘I have to be somewhere, Zilla. I really can't stop.'

‘Now I know there's something you're not telling me.' They had reached Serle Street, where a cab had just drawn up in order to drop off its passenger. Zilla hailed the cabby. ‘Tenter Street.' She seized Mirabel's hand. ‘Hubert was my friend and I'm truly sorry to hear that he's gone to his maker. You can spare me a few minutes of your time – you owe me that, Mrs Kettle.'

It seemed like years since Mirabel had set foot in Zilla's establishment, although nothing had changed. Florrie acknowledged her with a curt nod of her head as she let them in, and Gentle Jane gave her a hearty slap on the back as she passed them wearing nothing but a skimpy robe, with her hair wrapped in a towel. ‘Left the old bloke and come back to join us, have you?' she chortled. ‘Welcome home, Mabel.' She clattered off towards the stairs, her slippers making wet slapping sounds on the floorboards.

‘Never mind her,' Zilla said impatiently. ‘Come to my parlour and we'll talk.' She glanced over her shoulder at Florrie, who was loitering by the front door. ‘Don't stand there looking like an idiot, girl. Bring us coffee and cake. No, make that my best Madeira and cake.' She marched off along the narrow hallway towards her parlour.

Mirabel followed her more slowly. The house with its familiar furnishings and the stuffy atmosphere heavy with the smell of stale cigar smoke, wine and cheap perfume had once been a welcome refuge, but the memories it held were bittersweet. It was not her husband's ghost haunting the corridors; it was the memory of Jack, whose lazy, lopsided smile was etched forever in her memory. Resolutely closing her mind to his presence she entered Zilla's parlour. ‘What were you doing in Lincoln's Inn?' she demanded without giving her hostess the chance to speak. Perhaps, she thought, if she could deflect the conversation away from herself she might get away with a brief explanation as to why Hubert had died on foreign soil.

Zilla pulled a long and vicious-looking hatpin from her wide-brimmed hat, which was embellished with ostrich feathers dyed an unbelievable shade of purple. She laid it on the rosewood table next to a bowl of bronze chrysanthemums. ‘Oh, the usual,' she said casually. ‘The police raid us on a regular basis. My solicitor attends court in my absence and I pay a fine. That's an end to it until the next time.' She slipped off her mantle and tossed it on a chair before taking a seat. ‘Now then, Mabel. What is it you're not telling me?' She reached for a silver box, took out a small black cigarillo, struck a match and lit it, inhaling with obvious enjoyment. ‘Go on, I'm listening.'

It was impossible to keep anything from Zilla. The scent of the tobacco and the relaxing effects of the fine Madeira, which Florrie had delivered with her customary lack of finesse, made it easier to mention Jack's name when it came to that particular part of her narrative. Mirabel kept her eyes focused on Zilla's face, searching for a change in her expression when his name cropped up, but she merely nodded her head and tapped the ash from the cigarillo into the grate. ‘He has a habit of turning up unexpectedly. I suppose you're in love with him.'

‘Of course not,' Mirabel said hastily. ‘I hardly know him.'

‘When did that ever stop a female heart from fluttering, especially when the man in question is an attractive devil like Jack Starke?' Zilla downed the last of her wine. ‘So you left him in Florida.'

‘He chose to stay. There's nothing between us, Zilla. You can have him back for all I care.'

‘My dear child, I wouldn't take him back if he crawled from Liverpool to London on bended knees. I like my freedom and I treat men in the same way they treat us. I take what I want and then I move on.' Zilla put the cigarillo to her lips and inhaled, exhaling slowly and thoughtfully. ‘So what were
you
doing in Lincoln's Inn? You must be a wealthy woman now.'

‘Not exactly. Hubert spent a great deal of money on the expedition and the bank manager told me that he'd made some ill-judged investments.'

‘So you're broke – I can give you a job here?' Zilla's lips twitched and she tossed the butt of her cigarillo into the fire. ‘Maybe I could find you another elderly suitor?'

‘Thank you, no. I expect to inherit a considerable some from a tontine that Hubert had belonged to, and I intend to invest the money myself. I don't trust banks.'

Zilla eyed her thoughtfully. ‘What sort of investment were you thinking of?'

‘I don't know exactly. I want something to do, Zilla. I can't see myself as a woman who occupies her time with domestic matters and good works. I'm never going to have children of my own and I need something that will occupy my mind. I'd like to have my own business; I just don't know how to go about it.'

‘I might just have an idea, but I'd need to look into it further.' Zilla rose to her feet and tugged at an embroidered bell pull. ‘Florrie will find you a cab. I'm sure you have things to do at home. I'll let you know whether or not I think my idea will be of benefit to you.'

Mirabel stood up, swaying slightly as the Madeira wine took its full effect. ‘Thank you, Zilla. I know you're a good businesswoman and I'd appreciate your help, but I'd like to hear more before you go to any trouble on my behalf.'

Zilla resumed her seat, reaching again for the silver box. ‘One of my clients is a seafaring man.' She selected a cigarillo and struck a match. ‘Don't look so worried, my dear. He's nothing like Jack. He's a serious sort of fellow but he enjoys the comforts my girls provide when he spends a night ashore.'

‘I don't know anything about ships,' Mirabel said hastily. ‘I was thinking of a shop, perhaps, or setting up a lending library.'