Twenty-Five

Tim was woken several times in the night by Katrin as she got up hurriedly to go to the bathroom. As dawn was breaking, she finally managed to fall asleep. He was worried enough to work from home until she awoke at around 10.00 a.m. Eventually, she emerged from the bedroom, pale and shivery. Her creamy skin had taken on a greenish tinge and there were purple shadows under her eyes.

“I’ve called Holbeach and told them you’re not well,” Tim said. “I’ll make you something to drink and then, if you don’t need me, I’m going to have to go.” He moved across the room to embrace her. “I wanted to check you were OK before I left.”

Katrin allowed herself to be embraced, but she stiffened nevertheless. Noticing it, Tim released her so that he could meet her eye.

“Is something wrong? Apart from feeling unwell, of course?”

“You know that I don’t want to tell anyone just yet that I’m pregnant. If I start taking days off, they’ll begin to put two and two together pretty quickly.”

“Don’t worry. I told them you’ve got summer ’flu and that you’ve had a very disturbed night. It’s the truth, more or less. Besides, you’re much more likely to be able to keep it a secret if you take a few days off now. From my recollection of those two pantomime dames in your office, they’d be willing to pin anything on to the first symptoms of pregnancy: a broken arm, toothache or cholera would all do the job equally well. You can bet they’ve been observing you closely for months.”

Katrin laughed in spite of herself.

“OK, I’ll stay here today, on condition that you agree that I may do some more work on Florence Hoyle’s journal. But I’m not promising to take several days off. Unless I feel really dreadful tomorrow, I shall be back at my desk again.”

“Well, take it easy. But do some more work on the journal if you feel up to it. You’ll probably feel better if you’ve got something to do. Besides, I’m looking forward to hearing what you make of it.”

“Don’t raise your hopes too high. So far, although I agree with you that Florence’s relationship with both her husband and her mother-in-law is a bit odd, I can’t find anything to link any of them to your skeletons – except, perhaps, the periodic appearance of a mysterious Mr Rhodes in their lives, who I think may be the famous Cecil Rhodes.”

Tim whistled.

“You mean the Victorian colonialist?”

“Yes. But don’t jump to any conclusions yet. I have no proof that it is that Rhodes that Florence speaks of. I need to establish that it was possible for the Cecil Rhodes to have visited Lincolnshire at the dates that she specifies and even then I’d need to find a concrete link between him and Frederick Jacobs before I could be convinced. And even then, I’d still need to find a reason for them to have abducted black women and brought them to Sutterton to kill them.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences, as you know. One thing that is sure is that Cecil Rhodes must have come into contact with plenty of black women in his time.”

“I agree; but why would he have brought them to Spalding, to the country house of an obscure English landowner?”

“Ask me another.”

“There’s no point in asking you! But I will try to get to the bottom of it. Let me finish reading the journal first. Then I’ll find out more about Cecil Rhodes and see if he had any specific links with Lincolnshire.”

“Perfect!” said Tim, kissing her first on the lips, then on the forehead. “I can’t wait to hear more. Let me know if you find out anything significant before the end of the day. But do take it easy. Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Katrin, smiling as vivaciously as she could manage. She was beginning to feel queasy again and was quite anxious for Tim to leave so that she could make dry toast before she took a shower. She was glad that he’d already forgotten his offer to make her a drink. She waved to him from the window as he set off in the BMW, then headed for the kitchen.

An hour later, having eaten two slices of toast, drunk some weak tea and taken a quick shower, she was seated at the kitchen table, once again immersed in the journal. Certain passages had struck her as quite poignant and she wondered if they’d been constructed as artlessly as at first appeared. There was one entry in particular that she’d read over several times. It appeared to chronicle the conception of Gordon Jacobs, Florence and Frederick’s only child, which was not only in itself a strange thing for someone who was striving to be a lady to have written about towards the end of Queen Victoria’s reign, but also suggested that Florence’s sexual relations with her husband occurred so infrequently that she was able to pinpoint the date. This in turn led Katrin to suspect that the journal entry had been written retrospectively. Once again, Lucinda Jacobs seemed to have played a leading part. The entry was dated July 1896, almost four years after Florence and Frederick had married.

Frederick has been very melancholy for some weeks. I’ve tried to cheer him up and divert him in all sorts of ways, even learning to play chess, though not well. He’s taken to sleeping in the blue room, because he says he has no wish to disturb me. Before I retired last night, I asked him if there was anything that he wanted. He repeated that there was nothing, and that I should go to bed. Mamma was still in the drawing-room, looking very displeased. I asked if she felt well, and she said yes, quite, and bid me goodnight. She rose to kiss me and called me a dear child, I think to reassure me that she wasn’t cross with me.

While I was washing my face I heard raised voices coming up the stairs. I think that Mamma was being angry with Frederick, but she was speaking in a low, rapid voice and I couldn’t hear the words. Frederick bellowed something back at her once or twice. It’s not a very polite word to use, but it’s the best I can think of: he was really shouting.

They were quieter after a while. I heard Frederick say goodnight to Mamma as I was getting into bed. I sat up in bed for a few moments, and was about to blow out the candle and lie down when there was a light tap at the door and Frederick came in. He said that he had changed his mind about wanting company for the night and asked if he could stay. Of course I said yes.

In the same ink Florence had written above this entry My dear son, Gordon Cecil George Jacobs, was born on 23rd April 1897.

Had Florence added this note for herself, or for posterity, and if so who had she expected might read it? And what of the boy’s names? Either Florence or Frederick had probably chosen George because their son was born on St George’s Day. Was Cecil Frederick’s choice? And was there anything significant about the child’s first name, other than that, presumably, they had liked it?

The next entry was of yet more interest. It was dated 10th September 1896.

I have been quite unwell, so I have written nothing for some time. I’m beginning to feel better now. It is as Mamma had supposed all along: I am with child. She is very happy about the baby. Even Frederick seems quite pleased, though I know he finds my condition hard to cope with. He says that he hates to see me suffer, but although he is too gentlemanly to say so, I sense that he is affronted by my nausea and by my increasing plumpness. He used to say how much he admired my boyish figure.

Mamma says that Fredrick should be taking better care of me, and that I need sea air. She has booked The Grand Hotel in Brighton for all of us. We are to leave on Monday. I am quite excited, as I have seldom seen the sea. Frederick has agreed to escort us, although he says that he may not remain for the whole week. Mr Rhodes is in London and they have business there. Mamma says that London is not far from Brighton if Frederick takes the train, or that Mr Rhodes could stir himself to visit Frederick at The Grand. Frederick says that unfortunately some of the business needs him to be in Lincolnshire, and that he may have to return to Laurieston in our absence. I can tell that Mamma is extremely annoyed about this, though she has said nothing out loud. I am a little upset that Frederick always puts Mr Rhodes first, but even more that he and Mamma seem always these days to be at odds with each other. To be fair to Frederick, at the moment I would not be good company if he were to spend every day with me; I’m no longer sickly, but I’m still weak and tired.

Katrin felt a sudden wave of nausea sweep over her. She just made it to the bathroom. The intensity of these bouts of vomiting was beginning to frighten her now. Afterwards she returned to the kitchen table and tried to take up the journal again, but was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. Angry with herself for succumbing, she knew that she was able to do nothing but lie down and rest. She returned to the bedroom and huddled under the quilt. She was asleep within seconds.