After the Armistice Ball

Chapter Thirteen

Could it possibly have happened like that? I could believe it of Lena that she would stage her daughter’s death as a respectable way out of the wedding and at least if that were true one did not have to believe the even more monstrous idea that she had actually killed her child to save her own reputation. Whether she meant Cara to reappear at some time in the future with a fantastical tale of kidnap or amnesia I did not know, nor had I any clue why Cara had changed her mind about leaving and tried with such terrible determination to put things right. Wait, though. Something was wrong with that. Cara did not know about the plan, we had decided that she could not. So kidnap was not after all so far from the truth.

Of one thing I was sure: this was cooked up by the women alone. I remembered the way Cara’s father had looked at her down the dinner table at Croys, and not one man in a million would look that way at a girl three weeks from marrying his heir and carrying another man’s child. A mother, though, was a different quantity altogether. A mother – a woman herself for one thing, who knew the way the world could turn on a girl – might quite easily do what Lena had done to get her daughter out of shame’s way.

The question remained whether we should tell Mr Duffy now, shrivel his rosy memories in the harsh light of ugly facts, and shine the same light on his wife and elder child so that he would be left with nothing. It had been such a shabby little scheme, all the desperation one associates with people straining to keep a skin of respectability where none is deserved, and it had gone so horribly and obscenely wrong. I could not see any good coming of making him face it.

Besides, the only good I should be concerned with was Silas and Daisy’s. And I knew that the only way to keep Lena from putting the squeeze on Silas was for me to squeeze her, first and harder. I was not proud of this as a plan. It was not lost on me that when there is no decent way to express an action, then the action itself is probably shameful. Still, it was the best I could come up with. Lena thought she knew something dreadful about the Esslemonts? Well, now I knew something dreadful about the Duffys, and although I had not a clue what Lena’s knowledge actually was, I was sure it could not be worse than mine. I had trumped her.

I needed some more proof, of course – Mr McNally’s empty coal hole, Mr Marshall’s paint and paper, and old Mrs Marshall’s girl on a bicycle amounted to almost nothing – and I had an idea of how I might get it, but as I regarded myself sternly in the glass on the morning of Cara’s memorial service, as Grant lowered the huge black hat on to my head, I wondered if I dared. Had I lost all my humanity in the short duration of my detective career? It seemed no time since I thought I was going to find out what had happened to the diamonds and simply show Lena that the Armistice Anniversary Ball was neither here nor there. Such an innocent task! And now a few weeks later I had come to contemplate something scarcely less shabby than what had been planned at Reiver’s Rest. Grant sniffed expressively and my attention returned to the present.

‘More rouge, madam,’ she said.

I shook my head.

‘And a little something around the eyes,’ she added.

‘Grant, it’s nine o’clock in the morning. I am not going to have a little anything around my eyes, nor more rouge.’

‘You can’t carry off all this black, madam,’ said Grant. ‘Not any more.’

‘I never could,’ I said. ‘And I’m not trying to carry it off. It’s a memorial service, practically a funeral. Anyway, I don’t foresee being able to get through the day without tears and then I should look like a panda. A panda with white streaks through its rouge.’

That swung it.

‘I wish you would learn to cry out of the corners of your eyes, madam, I do,’ said Grant and swept out. I was left feeling a lot less charitable after this prickly exchange and besides, Grant’s easy scorn of me and all my works made me want to prove to myself that I had talents, even if neat weeping was not one of them. I decided to swallow my scruples and use the day well.

‘Man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble,’ intoned the minister and from my position halfway back in the church I could see a collective droop of shoulders in the pews in front of me. I have always thought that the jolly, celebratory funerals one comes across in Scotland (whose Church is fearfully Low) are more depressing than doleful High Anglicanism, but today of all days I should have welcomed a fat little man beaming as he spread the good news from behind the coffin, instead of this shockingly empty altar and the cadaverous individual before it telling us adenoidally that each of us was doomed. Beside me, Daisy inspected her nails surreptitiously, and on my other side I could feel Hugh remove himself mentally to the riverbank, or it might have been the stable yard. Curious, that sense one gets of the moods of one’s husband through the long years of habitual proximity, like the way one knows exactly the moment when he has fallen asleep and so will not be going back to his dressing room and leaving one in peace to read. I wondered idly if the flow of intuition went all one way or if Hugh could tell that I was busily thinking instead of praying like a good girl.

Still the minister droned. He was on to an appreciation of Cara’s life now, and far from giving voice to the howl of anger which would be any right-thinking person’s view when a young girl of twenty-two dies weeks before her wedding, he was tucking a blanket of euphemism over the whole sorry mess. I thought of what Hugh had told me about the native villagers in East Africa, how they sit on the ground screeching and wailing, none of this cloying acceptance. Or now I came to think of it, perhaps it was only the women who wailed. Hugh had not said what the menfolk got up to; presumably they blustered on just like this. Men. One good thing about speaking to Dr Milne had been that he told me what he knew in the straightest possible terms. ‘Clear signs of pregnancy’, he had said, and ‘miscarriage’, not like Alec gulping and stammering and only managing to say ‘with child’. Such a silly expression. Like the minister’s ‘born of woman’. Although to be fair Dr Milne had said it too, had he not? That a medical man could tell with one eye shut when a woman was with child.

I sat bolt upright in my pew and my prayer book fell to the floor, landing on the edge of its spine with a sharp crack. I am sure too that I said something, although I do not know what, because Daisy came out of her daydream with a jolt to stare at me and Hugh stiffened with instant embarrassment. Even the woman in front, although she would not crane round to look, was transfixed – I could tell by the sudden quivering attentiveness of the feathers on her hat.

Had I merely been drifting off to sleep? One often thinks one has had tremendous ideas then, ideas which turn out to be not only worthless, but barely expressible in anything but gibberish. But this time I was almost sure. I put my head back down again, concentrating on the wood grain to help me block out the voice of the minister, and started to think. Now, of course, I fell asleep for real and the next thing I knew was that Hugh had gripped my arm rather firmly and hauled me to my feet for the beginning of the final hymn.

Since I could do no more until the reception I turned my thoughts at last to the plain fact of Cara’s death and my real sorrow for it, ignoring the equal measure of indignation – moral indignation – at the lie and at the arrogance of those in this very church who were busily at work under their show of grief covering that lie up.

Old Mrs Marshall would have been relieved, I thought an hour later, that even without a coffin and the subsequent need for the ladies to retire delicately while the gentlemen went to the graveyard, the sexes were to be segregated. We were bundled into cars and carriages to be trundled back to the house, but the men seemed determined to walk. This meant that drinks and luncheon had to be stalled until they caught us up and, meanwhile, the ladies made do with coffee, sitting desolately around the huge double drawing room in our dowdy clothes and looking, I thought, like dead ducks on a mud bank. Mrs Duffy and Clemence were nowhere to be seen, moreover, leaving us quite without occupation. I saw Renée Gordon-Strathmurdle slop a great dollop of something into her coffee cup from a hip flask and wished I had not placed myself so carefully far away from her.

Sha-sha McIntosh was slumped opposite me, without the other members of the trinity for once and looking, in her enforced mourning, like a child who has been sent to sit in the corner for naughtiness. I caught her eye and smiled.

‘You saw Clemence’s charming pictures, I believe,’ was as good an opening as any. Sha-sha nodded and brightened. How very young she seemed to be cheered instantly by a kind word.

‘Poor darling,’ I went on. ‘You were to be bridesmaid?’

‘All three of us,’ said Sha-sha. ‘And now we simply can’t think what to do with the frocks. It seems wrong to throw them into the dustbin, but what are we to do with three frocks all the same? It’s too silly for words.’ A couple of elderly ladies, aunts perhaps, looked over their spectacles at her with reptilian severity, but I understood.

‘Cara would not have minded at all your thinking about them,’ I said, with a glare at the huffy aunts. ‘One can’t – if one’s being sincere – always make sure one has only suitable thoughts.’ I wondered suddenly if Sha-sha or the others were entertaining any thoughts even less suitable, thoughts along the same lines as those of Alec and me. I decided to dip the very tip of one toe into the water and try to find out.

‘Do you know what I couldn’t help thinking, Sha-sha darling? I tell you only to make you feel better in comparison and you must promise not to give me away.’ She mimed pressing her lips tight closed and I went on in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘When I looked at those lovely pictures of Cara, instead of thinking how lucky it was and how clever Clemence was, all I could think was what a nasty frock Cara was wearing and what a shame she wore it in all of them!’

Sha-sha was silent for a moment before she answered, and I thought perhaps I had overestimated her triviality, or rather underestimated my own, for I was sure that such thoughts might have been quite in character for me. However, she answered presently, and her answer was both a relief – she was not shocked – and a disappointment.

‘I can’t think where she got the thing,’ she said. ‘Or why. It certainly wasn’t part of her trousseau because we’ve all been instrumental in that and we shouldn’t have let in such an abomination.’

‘It was pretty frightful,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it was an old thing she kept for the country.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Sha-sha. ‘She did have a crêpe-de-Chine just like that, you know, countless ages ago. It was pale green and fearfully baggy, but we didn’t seem to notice then how ugly she looked.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Perhaps in a few years we shall look back at ourselves now and think: Ugh! what frights we were.’

I tend to think this at the end of each day as I take off the clothes I put on that morning, and I felt more sure than I could politely say that Sha-sha would certainly look back with a shudder upon her current hat, sitting on her pretty head like a monstrous toadstool. One thing was clear: she had no troubling suspicions about the pictures. At that moment, the men began to arrive and the Duffys’ butler came to summon us down to luncheon.

While the stair and hall were thronging with ladies coming down and gentlemen removing coats I slipped unobtrusively away to my work. It would be an exaggeration to say my heart was thumping as I closed the baize door behind me and crept down the stairs – stairs which resounded rather startlingly to my tread no matter how stealthily I moved – but I did feel my pulse thrum a little. I hoped, though, that if my face was red or, worse, my neck blotchy it would be taken as a sign of high emotion and not nerves.

Once arrived at the end of the basement passageway, I set off along it lurching blindly with a handkerchief pressed to my mouth. I even sniffed, but it echoed too much in the empty passage for me to do it twice.

The upper servants were sure to be in the dining room or at their own luncheon, I told myself, and I was much more likely to meet with some mouse-like creature of the kitchens who would be so unnerved by my sudden appearance that she would not have time to question my story until I was gone. Then, even if she reported my strange behaviour to the housekeeper, cook or terrifying butler, they would most likely squash it for fear of showing her any credence and would certainly not carry a tale from the likes of her all the way to ears of the family.

I was half right. It was a kitchen maid – or might have been a scullery maid, for I am insufficiently familiar with the distinctions to tell – who rounded a corner and came upon me blundering towards her, but far from being the timorous child of my imaginings, she was a lusty individual of squat girth, turned-up nose, wide smile, and an air of bustling self-sufficiency: in short Mrs Tiggywinkle in human form, with an Irish accent and no sign of being unequal to meeting me.

‘Lord, madam,’ she said, hitching a tin pail comfortably on to one ample hip and staring. ‘What have you gone and landed up down here for?’

I fluttered my handkerchief and mumbled vaguely, hoping to convey enough distress to explain how lost I was. Mrs Tiggywinkle put down her pail of kitchen scraps and, wiping her hands first, took me in a competent grip and began to propel me back the way I had come. I had expected a seat and a glass of water at least, giving me time to work up my little speech, and so, seeing my opportunity passing much more quickly than I anticipated, I thought I had better quit mumbling and dabbing and get on with it.

‘I do apologize,’ I said. ‘Quite the last thing you need on a day like this, silly women drifting into your kitchen when you’re busy with all these guests.’ She looked at me as though I had gone mad but could hardly say anything. ‘Are you still short-handed?’ I blurted out. She stared at me even more intently then, thinking, I suppose, that I must be a member of the family she had failed at first to recognize for why else would I ask such a thing?

‘Or have I got it wrong?’ I said. ‘I thought that one of your -’ I could hardly say ‘colleagues’ – ‘that one of the maids left. I mean, died. And I was thinking how awful for you if she was a particular chum.’

‘Miss Cara died, madam,’ said the girl in a patient and rather tender voice, clearly having decided that I was some lunatic cousin let out for the day to come to the service.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said. ‘I had heard in the village – in Gatehouse, you know – that one of the Edinburgh families in the cottages had brought their maid from town and that she had died. I don’t know what made me think it was the Duffys.’ We had reached the bottom of the stairs by which I had descended, and just then the door at the top opened and we both heard the voice of the butler coldly telling someone we could not see to stop sniffing and behave herself.

‘Jesus!’ said Mrs Tiggywinkle, clearly as intimidated by the man as I was.

‘Don’t let him find me!’ I hissed and this spurred her to action. She opened a door and shoved me inside before coming in herself and leaning against it to listen. We heard a veritable army of footsteps descend the stairs over our heads as the butler and footmen trooped down from the dining room, then we could hear the butler’s voice demanding to know why a bucket of peelings was sitting in the passageway and where Mary had got to this time.

Mary, as I took her to be, leaned back against the door and let out her breath in a low whistle. We were in a little store room, utterly empty and seemingly without purpose, but I knew from my own housekeeper at Gilverton that the ability to keep a few rooms completely bare was a matter of pride, being a sign of a well-run household where detritus was not allowed to gather. An empty attic is, I believe, the pinnacle of housekeeperly excellence.

‘What must you think of me?’ I said, deciding to abandon my show of feminine confusion and throw myself on her as an ally now that the ice was broken. ‘But that man always looks at me as though I were something the cat brought in and I just simply can’t face him today.’

‘Nice to have the choice, madam,’ said Mary, feelingly, and my frankness had clearly made her feel quite on a level since she took a tin out of her apron pocket and, having wrested it open with difficulty, lit a cigarette.

‘Still,’ I said, refusing her offer of another, ‘I’m glad it’s not one of your friends who died after all. I can’t think where I got the idea.’

‘No more can I,’ said Mary. ‘They never take any of us down to these “cottages”.’ She made the word ooze with scorn. ‘And we’re all fine here. Peggy, Rose, Nan, Jean, Dilly, Margaret and me. What did she die of?’

I was caught off-guard by this, but righted myself quick enough, I think.

‘Went swimming in the sea and drowned herself on her afternoon off,’ I said. Mary and I both tutted and shook our heads.

‘Accident, was it?’ she said, with a last deep suck on her cigarette. I nodded. ‘Accident,’ she said again. ‘Probably in trouble and trying to put it right, don’t you think, madam?’ We shared a look, then she pinched out her cigarette carefully between callused finger and thumb before putting it back in the tin and into her apron pocket again.

‘Well, then.’ This with an air of finality.

‘Indeed,’ I agreed, handing over the half-crown I had ready in my glove for the purpose. Mary checked up and down the passage before slipping out and making her way back to her abandoned pail and the ticking-off to come. I slipped out after her and climbed the stairs again, knowing that at least a frosty look if not a whispered interrogation from Hugh should meet my belated entrance, but knowing too that just as Mary had her half-crown in her pocket I should have Alec’s glance of expectation, an expectation I would certainly satisfy as soon as we had a chance to talk.

Luncheon was purgatory. Had the minister of the morning been there, he would have been convinced of the existence of that Popish venue well before the pudding and been lost to Presbyterianism for ever. The food was cold and depressing owing, I expect, to the upper servants having been at the service and to a feeling that nothing today should be too enjoyable. This was not the worst of it, however. Alec, if you can believe it, had been sat next to Clemence, a placing so monstrously, squirmingly, wrong that no one else at the table could drag their eyes or their minds from it. On Alec’s other side Lena sat, stony-faced, although whether this was a performance of grief or because she had underestimated how shocking her seating plan was and was toughing it out I could not tell. Mr Duffy looked stricken. Grey and shaking, he sat without eating a morsel and stopped his neighbours on either side from doing so either, it seeming bestial for them to stuff away while he just sat there. This reluctance to eat spread out around the table, and the servants kept coming back into the room and then stopping, shuffling in the doorway, not knowing what to do and unable to catch the eye of either of the Duffys to help. The sight of the butler half-reaching for a plate and then stopping himself and smoothing his hair instead, that classic gesture of awkwardness, made me want to weep.

And then just when one thought it could get no worse, Clemence laughed. Not a huge laugh, but a giggle which just happened to fall into a momentary pool of perfect silence. Mr Duffy’s head jerked up and he sent a look of pure hatred down the table, the kind of look which in my boys’ weekly papers is depicted as a thick black dotted line. Clemence did not notice and Mrs Duffy stared back at him coldly until his eyelids drooped and he bowed his head again.

Two things were clear: everyone would be desperate to leave as soon as they could after rising, and since we could not all leave at once, one’s best hope was to get right in at the off. But, since Hugh was far too stiff to make the first move and was impervious enough to ‘atmosphere’ to bear it, I foresaw a long wait amongst dwindling numbers before I could escape. A plan occurred, however, and I put it into motion at the earliest opportunity.

‘Alec Osborne has just told me,’ I whispered to Hugh, ‘that he fears he’ll keel over if he doesn’t get some fresh air. And he wonders if you and I would go with him.’ Hugh, bless him, actually took steps backwards, physically recoiled, and I could not resist going on, although I knew it was cruel, ‘Shall I come with you, or will you and he go alone?’

Poor Hugh may still have been babbling: ‘You, Dandy, you go, you two go without me,’ when, having collected Alec with a whispered ‘Come on!’, I descended the front steps and set off.

We walked through the streets in the growing damp of a chilly afternoon – there is nowhere in the world like Edinburgh for making the same cheerless ordeal out of any time of the day or season of the year, even early May. Our obvious mourning clothes matched all too well the deliberation of our pace and the down-turned gravity of both face and voice as I told Alec all that I had learned. Mary’s evidence could not be talked away, and he did not try.

‘Yes, all right,’ he said at last. ‘It was Cara. Splendid work, Dandy.’ This had a bitterness I had not heard in him before, but which was only too easily understood. I could imagine what he felt to find out that his pretty angel of a fiancee had killed herself trying to get rid of a baby that was not his. Whether there was still only sorrow at her death or a sneaking relief beginning to grow that he had avoided marriage to such a girl, his heart must be heavy with some mixture of grief and guilt.

I felt it most grievously myself that we still did not know what had happened to the jewels and so despite all my muck-raking Daisy and Silas were exactly where they had started. And there they would stay, I was sure, since the only way out of it depended on me. Oh yes, I had been all set, that morning, to blackmail – let us call it what it was – to blackmail Lena into silence. Now, though, I felt that had I the nerve to go through with it, I should never be able to look myself in the glass again. And anyway I had not the nerve, I knew.

We were there. Alec looked up as I laid my hand on the gates of the Municipal Cemetery and pushed them open, then bowed his head again while we traversed a network of paths to the back corner where some newly filled plots sat in a row. There were five recent enough. Five, packed so close that there was barely a strip of flat ground between them and they looked more like the furrows of a ploughed field than graves. Three of them had flowers upon them, some florists’ wreaths as well as little hand-picked posies.

‘So it must be one of these two,’ I said, looking first at one and then at the other of the two graves which lay quite unmarked. ‘Oh, Cara.’ I felt a huge bulge of tears revolve somewhere inside me, but bit down hard on my lip to hold them.

‘You’re sure,’ said Alec. It may have been a question.

‘When I was speaking to Mrs Tig – to Mary just now,’ I said, ‘she pinched out her cigarette in her fingertips and didn’t feel a thing. And I thought, those are kitchen maid’s hands, you know, tough as boots. Not scrubbed raw, as Dr Milne said. With bits of metal pot-scourer under her nails. Kitchen maids don’t have nails to get things stuck under.’ Somehow that seemed the worst thing of all, imagining Lena taking her still-warm hands and setting about them with a scourer to add a convincing little touch to the tale.

‘How do you know this is the place?’ said Alec.

‘Dr Milne told me it was in town,’ I said. ‘Then I just telephoned around, pretended I was organizing a little marker of some kind. It’s the sort of thing a kind employer might do – Hugh has done in the past – although not Lena admittedly. I had to gamble that in fact no marker was already arranged.’

‘And was one?’ said Alec, his voice beginning to sound gruff.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Apparently not.’