Woman Who Spoke to Spirits Read online

  The article, which went on to describe how a young woman who worked part-time in a bar (and, the implication is, the rest of the time on the streets) had been reported missing by other women who shared her lowly lodgings. Some desultory enquiries had been made, but it was assumed the young woman had left and gone back to Yorkshire, where she was born. ‘It is a tendency among such women not to stay long in a place’, a police spokesman was quoted as saying.

  The trouble is that the smug little phrase got under Felix’s skin. It is a generalization, he thinks, and surely neither a fair nor an accurate one. It piqued his interest, and he worked through the back numbers of the newspaper until he found details of some of the earlier cases. Not all, for it seems that the disappearance of one prostitute is not newsworthy beyond the briefest mention, and that a report only becomes worthwhile to a paper once several women have suffered the same mysterious fate.

  Felix glances over to his left, to the south side of the river. It is here that most of the missing women lived; only the fifth one was from the Chelsea side, which might, Felix reasons, be why the newspaper did not report the mystery in any depth or detail until someone more local was involved.

  He is still thinking hard. He has heard a reference to missing women, or some such inference, quite recently, and he cannot recall where it was.

  He goes on standing there, staring down at the great powerful surge of the water, until the fading light suggests it is time to move.

  ELEVEN

  Lily is seated at her desk, deep in thought, thinking how to phrase what she must write, when she hears Felix come in. She half-welcomes the distraction, but the other half knows she should ignore his presence and get on with the task before her.

  Felix takes the choice out of her hands.

  ‘I know what George Sutherland is so worried and guilty about,’ he announces, coming to stand in the doorway to her inner office.

  She looks up. ‘What?’

  He tells her about a court case involving an accusation of negligence, a desperately wounded man, and what his distressed, furious mother might or might not have heard from the accused man afterwards, once he had been safely acquitted.

  ‘And George Sutherland was the briefing solicitor!’ he finishes triumphantly, although she has already guessed as much. She looks at him, frowning. Then she says, ‘So why does George feel so bad?’

  ‘Because, presumably, it was he who persuaded the barrister – who was William Fleurival Hart, by the way – that Granville Roberts was a decent, considerate employer who treated his staff with respect, consideration and kindness, and couldn’t possibly be guilty of negligence leading to such dreadful injuries as those suffered by Gregory Amberley.’

  Slowly she nods. It makes good sense, and Felix has argued well. She respects George Sutherland for his decency in having responded as he has; for feeling so ashamed of having allowed himself to have been so thoroughly hoodwinked by a man like Granville Roberts. ‘I think we may now disregard George from our list of people who might be ill-wishing Albertina, and his son as well,’ she says.

  He nods. ‘So do I.’ He pauses. ‘There’s something else I’d like to talk over with you, if you can spare a moment?’

  Reluctantly she shakes her head. ‘I would like to hear about it, whatever it is, but it will have to be another time.’ She glances down at the writing paper before her upon her desk. ‘I must get on with my report, which I admit is proving challenging.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. Then: ‘What’s the report about? Can I help?’

  She hesitates. This is really something she should do alone, given that she is quite sure he doesn’t see it as she does. But then, considering he has done much more work on the case than she has, it seems unfair to exclude him, so she says, ‘It’s for Lord Berwick.’

  Felix’s expression changes. ‘And what are you going to tell him?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘The truth, of course,’ she says with some asperity. ‘He engaged me to find out certain facts, I – we, or mainly you – have found out at least some of the facts, and now I must pass on these findings to the man who is paying us.’

  ‘Yes, I understand all that –’ there is an ominous note of patience in his tone – ‘but what will you say?’

  She has had enough. ‘I shall write my report and then show you what I have written.’ His expression has lightened but instantly she goes on, ‘Not in order that you may suggest the leaving out or the disguising of any of the content, but to ensure that I have represented accurately what you have discovered.’

  He looks as if he is bursting to say something; to yell at her, perhaps, to leap in with his defence of Violetta da Rosa. He manages to keep his mouth shut. After a short, tense pause, he turns and says, ‘I have some notes to write up,’ and walks into the outer office, pulling her door closed behind him.

  In all the time he has worked here they have never closed that door.

  Feeling inexplicably sad, she picks up her pen, dips it in the inkwell and begins to write.

  Some time later, she calls him into the inner office and silently hands him four sheets of paper covered with her neat, small writing. She turns away while he reads them.

  Presently he says, ‘So you are allowing Violetta no chance to marry her young swain without the protestations and interference of his father.’

  ‘Julian is over twenty-one, he can do as he likes.’

  ‘He can’t marry against his father’s wishes with any hope of preserving his inheritance!’ he protests.

  ‘And since that is obviously why Violetta is planning to marry him, then maybe she’ll call it off!’ Lily retorts.

  ‘She hasn’t done anything wrong!’ he cries. ‘She married a man who already had a wife, but she—’

  ‘She was pregnant when she married him,’ Lily points put relentlessly.

  ‘Yes, but so are hundreds of women, and the children are legitimate provided the parents are man and wife at the time of birth.’

  ‘Violetta – Violet and Archie were never legally married.’

  ‘But that’s not her fault!’ Felix shouts.

  Lily hears the echoes of his loud voice ring in the office. She is quite taken aback by his vehemence. ‘She—’ she begins.

  But he doesn’t let her finish. ‘Violetta’s career won’t last for ever,’ he says roughly. ‘Her sort of looks are fine when a woman is young, but soon she’ll begin to put on too much weight, her hair will start to go grey and she’ll no longer be invited to play the sort of roles that she’s made her own. Is she then to fall into poverty? Become destitute? Starve, unless she takes to earning her living by less honest means?’

  Once again his angry words echo in the small space. When they have died down, Lily says, as calmly as she can, ‘These are not our concerns, Mr Wilbraham. Our duty is to report the facts to the man who is paying us to find them out. And now, if you have no comment to make on the accuracy of what I have written –’ which is the only element upon which I am inviting your comments, hangs frosty and unspoken between them – ‘I shall put it in an envelope and take it to the post.’

  After a tense moment, he shakes his head.

  She is coming back from the post box when she sees him standing on the front step, waiting for her.

  ‘I want to apologize,’ he says disarmingly. ‘You were quite right in what you said. Furthermore, you’re my employer and I had no right to shout at you.’

  She ushers him back inside and closes the door. They go into the office. ‘I admire you for speaking your mind, even if it was a little on the loud side.’ He manages a smile ‘And there is nothing wrong with becoming involved with a case, or, indeed, with developing sympathy for the participants. But we have to be professional, and we have to report what we find without bias.’

  ‘I know,’ he says quietly.

  ‘We cannot—’

  ‘Please, Miss Raynor, don’t decide that this makes me unsuitable for the job of your clerical assistant,’ he says urgently. �
��I applied for this job because I was all but out of funds, and I had no expectation whatever that I would come to enjoy it as much as I do. I want to go on working for the World’s End Bureau, and I believe I can be of use.’

  She watches him steadily. Clerical assistant, she thinks. Well, he is already considerably more than that, even after such a short time, and so far he has generally done well. But, as he reminded her, she is his employer and he has just been apologizing for shouting at her, so perhaps it is not the moment to share this with him.

  So she just says, ‘I believe you can, too,’ then, smiling, goes on into her own office.

  In the morning there is a hand-delivered note waiting on the doormat, addressed to L. G. Raynor. Opening it, Lily finds that it is from Lord Berwick. He has received her report and wishes to discuss it with her. I shall be at my small town house in Bloomsbury this morning, he goes on, if this time and place are convenient. I shall expect you at ten o’clock unless I hear otherwise. It is signed Berwick.

  She looks at the address, printed at the top of the single sheet of writing paper. She knows the square in which the house is situated; it is behind the British Museum. She glances at her half-hunter: it is a quarter to nine. She can be in Bloomsbury in plenty of time.

  She hurries back up to the top floor and, in front of her cheval mirror, tries on one or two different outfits. But this, she reflects, is not an occasion like the invitation to the Rose Tea Rooms; this is a serious, not to say sad, meeting. She puts her severe office shirt, skirt and waistcoat on again, adds the matching jacket and a totally unfrivolous hat, then goes downstairs. She writes a quick note to Felix, who will be arriving any moment, then picks up her bag and her own copy of the report and sets out.

  Lord Berwick’s house in Bloomsbury is small but it is an exquisite little gem, set in a square of similar houses around a well-tended, iron-railed garden where there are trees, flowers and even a modest-sized fountain. It is very exclusive and, for all that it is only a street or two away from main thoroughfares with their bustle of traffic, extremely quiet.

  Lily walks up to the door and rings the bell.

  It is opened by Lord Berwick. He wishes her good morning, then stands back to let her enter. ‘I hope the early hour does not inconvenience you,’ he says.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘And forgive my having answered the door myself: I do not keep staff in residence, for neither my wife nor my son visits the house and I prefer to look after myself when I am here.’

  Lily would not dream of questioning him. She mutters, ‘I quite understand.’

  He leads the way down the short, narrow hall, past an elegant staircase with shining mahogany banisters and into a bright and sunny room at the rear of the house. He invites her to sit down in the chair placed on one side of the small and well-buffed walnut table, and he takes his seat opposite. Her report is before him.

  ‘I will come straight to the point, Miss Raynor,’ he says. ‘Your Agent A observed the woman who my son insists is his fiancée in a box at a rather dubious music hall in the company of a man simply referred to as Billy, and saw them engaging in certain … intimacies. Your Agent B saw her with the same man at the Glass Slipper Theatre, where she is currently in rehearsals for a new play, and the conversation between them strongly suggested they were going that evening to visit the house on the edge of Tunbridge Wells where a young girl believed to be her daughter resides, with an older woman who is apparently a relation-in-law.’ He pauses. ‘Is there information suggesting whether or not the woman and this Billy stayed away overnight together?’

  ‘No,’ Lily replies.

  ‘And did either Agent A or Agent B speculate as to the likelihood of this?’

  ‘The Bureau’s agents try not to speculate, my lord. Their job is to observe and record.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ he mutters. Then he says briskly, ‘I believe my son is being a fool over this woman. I believe that as an ageing actress –’ she can only be in her late thirties, early forties at most! Lily wants to protest – ‘she is all too aware that her future on the stage is uncertain, and she sees my son’s devotion, and his insistence on making her his wife, as a promise of security when her career comes, as it soon surely must, to an end.’ He looks at Lily, his eyes hard. ‘Upon my death my son inherits a title, a considerable amount of property, several houses and what a woman of Miss da Rosa’s sort would probably term a fortune,’ he goes on. ‘I am prepared to believe he really does love her, Miss Raynor; I am even prepared to believe she loves him.’ It is, Lily appreciates, quite a concession. ‘But what I cannot believe is that Violetta da Rosa, or indeed any actress with her – ah, her somewhat colourful past, is the right woman to become the next Lady Berwick.’

  Lily, who well remembers what he had to say about his wife, the present Lady Berwick, keeps quiet.

  But as if he has read her mind, he says softly, ‘You think me hard, I dare say.’ She doesn’t reply. ‘Well, perhaps I am. But if I may be frank, Miss Raynor – for I know this will remain between ourselves – what is guiding me through this sad situation is my fervent wish that my son does not make the mistake I made. Not that Lady Berwick was an actress, or had a bigamous first marriage and an illegitimate child!’ He laughs as if to highlight the absurdity of either scenario.

  ‘Of course not,’ Lily murmurs.

  He is looking penetratingly at her. ‘Do you think me hard, Miss Raynor?’

  It is, she senses, a moment for honesty. ‘I believe your son will interpret your actions so, although for myself, I appreciate that, aware perhaps of his youth and relative lack of sophistication, you are within your rights as his father to try to steer him towards a sensible – er, a mature decision.’

  He laughs softly. ‘Diplomatically put,’ he remarks.

  Silence falls, and he looks down at her report. ‘She was pregnant when she married Archibald Twort,’ he observes.

  ‘So the parish records suggest.’

  ‘And the vicar was certain she had no idea that the man already had a wife.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Hmm. Then little or no blame can attach to her in respect of the bigamous marriage, perhaps, although the conception out of wedlock is, of course, another matter.’ He pauses, once again studying the report. ‘And the child, this Florence, is well provided for?’

  ‘Adequately, it appears, although the work she does is hard.’ But she is loved, Lily could have added. Felix keeps pointing out how much Violetta must love her daughter, to go on visiting her, making her a part of her life, even with the bright prospect of marriage to Julian and all that goes with him in the offing.

  She wonders suddenly what Violetta proposes to do about Florence once she is married. Since it seems this happy outcome is unlikely to materialize, she dismisses the thought.

  Lord Berwick is tidying the sheets of her report and she takes this as a signal that it is time to go.

  ‘I will have your cheque put in the post,’ he says. ‘Thank you for this.’ He waves the report. ‘Lord Dunorlan was right to recommend your Bureau, and I shall put in a good word for you if ever it is appropriate.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She is tempted to offer him a handful of her cards but nerves get the better of her and she doesn’t.

  He sees her to the door. His hand on the latch, he says, ‘I shall find as kind a way as I can to inform my son of the truth about his lady love.’

  She meets his cool, determined eyes.

  ‘Kindness would be right, my lord,’ she says softly. ‘He will not, I think, see that these discoveries discredit her, and will argue that there is no reason to call off the engagement.’

  Lord Berwick sighs. ‘I fear you are right,’ he agrees. Then, more formally and with a crystal-clear note of polite but ruthless dismissal, ‘I will take care of it from now on. Thank you, Miss Raynor, and good day.’

  Then she is out on the street, the door has been closed quietly but firmly, and she has been ejected from Lord Berwick’s
and young Julian’s life.

  She hopes she has done the right thing. She shudders suddenly, although the day is warm and she isn’t cold. What else could I have done? she asks herself. I had to tell him what Felix discovered; what I observed with my own eyes.

  She sets off along the attractive, shady street with its air of privacy and privilege.

  Despite its charms, its beauty, its restful air of calm and the sky-high value of its beautiful dwellings, she is profoundly glad to leave it.

  She knows she will not go on foot all the way back to World’s End, for it is a long way and will take precious time out of her day. But she resolves to walk the first mile or so, for the exercise is doing her good, releasing some of the pent-up emotions.

  She strides down Bedford Way, around Russell Square and along Montague Street, turning to the right down Great Russell Street. The British Museum looms up on the right.

  And she sees a familiar figure crossing the large open space in front of it. Walking at a determined pace, shoulders back, arms swinging, and, if only she could see his face, undoubtedly smiling to himself, is Ernest Stibbins.

  Very early that morning, a long time before it is fully day, Felix wakes in his too short, too narrow and thoroughly uncomfortable bed, shaken out of a light sleep. He has remembered who had spoken to him of missing women. It was the Reverend Mr James Jellicote. They, or rather he, had been talking about how Albertina’s situation had been temporarily precarious, or potentially so, after the death of her great-aunt, when she found herself very much alone in a city where she knew hardly a soul. James Jellicote had been saying that it was fortunate for her to have found a kind, dependable husband in Ernest Stibbins, going on to remark that marriage had saved her from the perils into which she might otherwise have fallen. Even there in his own parish, he had told Felix, girls and young women had gone missing, and he feared that some, at least, had probably taken their own lives.

  There is after all, Felix now thinks, a very ready source of death for the suicide running close by, its strong tidal flow giving very little, if any, chance of survival to someone who falls, or throws themselves, in.