Fifty-Four

Juliet stepped out of the taxi into Acacia Avenue, the rather faceless street where she lived. She felt quite weak, as if she were walking on slippery, treacherous glass, but her mood was euphoric. It seemed as if she had been away for a million years. She took out her purse and paid the driver, adding a substantial tip.

“Thanks very much, duck. You stand there and I’ll bring your bags round. Do you want me to carry them up the steps for you?”

He leered at her in a way which made her feel uncomfortable. He had a large wad of gum in his mouth which he was chewing noisily.

Normally she would have disdained such an offer, especially from such a character, but today she could not trust her powers of balance. Although she only had a small suitcase on wheels and an overnight bag, she was worried she might not make it up the shallow outside stairs flight without stumbling. She forced a smile.

“Thank you.”

He scrambled up the steps, a bag in each hand, and dumped them in front of her doorstep.

“There you are, my darling. Anything else I can do for you?” He winked.

“No, thank you,” said Juliet firmly. She waited until he’d got back in his car before searching for her key and inserting it in the lock. She might still be a little frail, but she could recognise a perv when she saw one. The man would have had no inkling of her police training, so he might have thought of trying it on. She’d have been ready with the pepper spray she kept in a special zipped pocket in her bag. Despite her weakness, she thought she could probably have managed one of the arm grapples she’d learnt on the kick-boxing course she’d gone on when she joined the force. However, there was no need: the taxi driver reversed to the end of the road and roared away, giving her an ironic little wave. He had ducked his head under the sun-shield so that he could grin at her. He reminded her of someone, but at first she couldn’t think who. Suddenly it came to her: Harry Briggs. It wasn’t him, of course, but the resemblance probably explained why she’d taken such a dislike to the driver.

Juliet turned her back on him and let herself in, dragging the case and the bag with her and dumping them inside the door. The flat felt warm and there was a pleasant smell. She turned from the tiny hallway into the main room and saw there was a vase of roses standing on the table. Her fruit bowl had been filled; her mail had been neatly gathered into a small pile to one side of it. A plain postcard had been propped up against the fruit bowl. The gas fire had been turned on and switched to a low setting.

Juliet pulled out one of her dining-room chairs and sank on to it gratefully, dropping her handbag to the floor. She picked up the postcard.

Hi. Hope you’re feeling OK. Sorry I couldn’t fetch you from hospital. I’ll drop by tonight. There’s food in the fridge and a bottle of wine! Regards, Nick.

She let the postcard fall again. Nick Brodowski was the neighbour who had found her when she’d collapsed and who’d called the ambulance. He was a large, plain man in his mid-thirties, but she’d always been quite drawn to him. She found his kindness engaging and, although he was often shy and reserved, he could be extremely witty once he’d managed to relax. She’d thought for a time that they might try dating, but both had been too reticent to be the first to suggest it and now the idea had somehow lost its appeal. She pushed the thought away. She hoped Nick hadn’t gone to too much expense on her account. She knew that he was a draughtsman. She’d no idea what kind of salary that meant he could command, but she suspected it was quite modest.

She hauled herself to her feet again and tottered the few steps to her kitchenette. She was amazed at how light-headed she felt. She’d make herself some tea.

She opened the fridge and saw it had been stacked to the gunnels with food. Milk, water, wine, butter, salads, cheese, cold meats and a packet of chicken breasts all sat, neatly arranged, on the shelves. She’d have to pay Nick for all of this stuff; she couldn’t accept it as a gift, on top of the flowers and fruit. She knew it was churlish of her, but she realised she didn’t actually want to accept it from him. What was it she’d read about gifts? That they never actually came free?

She filled the kettle and put it to boil. A glance at her kitchen clock reminded her that it was time to take one of her antibiotic tablets. She moved slowly back to where she’d left the bags and opened the valise. The box of tablets lay at the top of the bag. She lifted it out. Immediately underneath was Florence Jacobs’ journal. Juliet took that out, too. She’d been discharged so quickly from the hospital that Verity Tandy hadn’t had time to pick it up to take it to the Archaeological Society. Juliet peered at the small patch of protruding yellow paper once again. She was impatient to get to the bottom of this mystery. She’d call Katrin after she’d drunk her tea – or perhaps it would be better to call Tim. She didn’t think it would be appropriate for her to get in touch with Jackie Briggs without clearing it with him. The request she wanted to make wasn’t related to any of the current de Vries investigations, after all. She knew Tim would give her the go-ahead if he possibly could, but he might have some reason for not allowing it. Superintendent Thornton’s thick-set figure loomed in her imagination.

She felt better after she’d drunk the tea. She picked up her phone and dialled Katrin’s number.

“Juliet? Sorry! I meant to call you earlier. There’s been a lot happening. Are you at home now? How are you?”

“Yes, I’ve been here about half an hour. I’m feeling a bit shaky, but otherwise OK. It’s I who should apologise, because I haven’t managed to get the journal back to you. I hope Verity Tandy didn’t have a wasted journey. I haven’t called Jackie Briggs, either, because I thought I ought to ask Tim if it was OK first.”

“I’m pretty certain that in the end Verity wasn’t asked to pick it up. I don’t know if you’ll be able to get hold of Tim at the moment, but you could give him a try. He probably won’t want you to talk to Jackie Briggs, though. I understand her husband has gone missing – and Tim thinks he’s involved in some way in whatever it is that happened at Laurieston House.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Harry Briggs probably isn’t the shiftiest character I’ve ever met in my life, but he certainly strikes me as one of the most unwholesome. I certainly won’t bother Tim if he’s dealing with a crisis. Pity, though. I’m desperate to find out what’s under the cover of the journal. And I thought your idea of asking the Archaeological Society to help was a good one.”

“Well, as you know, I’m champing at the bit myself, but I think we’re just going to have to wait. How soon can we meet? I’d really like to see you, not just because of the journal! Have you got the all-clear now?”

“I’m still taking antibiotics. I’ll check with my GP – I think she’ll visit me tomorrow. My guess is that she’ll say I should finish the course before I see you. But I’ll ask.”

“I’d better go. I’ve got a terminally boring job to do at the moment, but I need to get on with it.”

“OK. Take care.”

The antibiotics were making Juliet feel thirsty, as well as light-headed. She debated whether to make more tea, but decided she couldn’t be bothered. She poured herself a glass of water and sank down on the sofa.

 

Two hours later she was awoken by the sound of a key turning in the lock of her front door. She’d been asleep on the sofa, her legs tucked up on the cushions, her head and neck resting on the arm at an awkward angle. She swung her feet to the floor and tried to sit upright. Her neck was aching and her head felt muzzy.

“Juliet?” It was Nick’s heavily inflected voice. “Are you there? Can I come in?”

“Hello, Nick. Yes, of course. In here.”

He came padding into the room. He was still wearing his jacket, an old-fashioned thigh-length quilted garment that her father would have called a ‘car coat’. His heavy black square-framed spectacles accentuated the flabbiness of his face and its apparent absence of bone structure. Juliet reflected that nevertheless he did not at this moment look unattractive, largely because his features were lit up by a broad, ear-to-ear smile.

“Juliet? You are better?” He stooped to peck her shyly on the cheek.

“Getting there,” she said. “But, Nick, I’m so grateful to you for all that you’ve done for me – warming the flat and buying everything that I need. You must let me pay for the food, though.”

“It is out of the question,” he said, still smiling, but with a warning note in his voice. “It is my pleasure to do this. I should be insulted.”

“The flowers and the fruit are wonderful gifts and I’d love to accept them. But it’s over the top to let you pay to fill the fridge as well.”

He shrugged.

“The fruit is nothing. The flowers I did not buy.”

“I don’t believe you! Who else could they be from?”

Nick shrugged again, clearly struggling not to appear to be offended now.

“I do not know. I took delivery of them this morning. They were brought to your door when I was getting ready for work. I heard the delivery man and came out to get them. There is a small card to say who they are from. Look, I will show you.”

He poked gently among the flower stems for a few seconds, then scrutinised the glass vase from several angles. Then he flipped through the pile of mail, dealing the letters and cards into a fresh pile.

“It is strange. The card is not here. It was a small mauve card.”

Juliet decided that he had determined to cover up his generosity in order to persuade her to accept all of his gifts. She could see that he would be both humiliated and offended if she pursued the point further.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure that it will turn up. And thank you again for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you when you called the ambulance. And today, as well.”

The smile returned.

“I will make you a cup of tea?”

“I’d love one. But I should be making it for you. Have you come straight from work? You must be tired.”

Nick held up a hand.

“Today I am in charge. Tomorrow, perhaps, you can make tea for me. After I’ve made tea, I shall prepare supper for us both.” He was grinning properly again now.

Juliet felt a great wave of happiness wash over her. Just for today, she’d forget about being independent and shelve her great dislike of being beholden to anyone. She could see that Nick wanted to look after her and suddenly she realised that she not only needed but wanted to be looked after. She lay back against the cushions and returned his smile.

“What will you cook?”

“Chicken breasts in breadcrumbs. It is a Polish dish. You will like it?” he added anxiously.

“Yes, I’m sure I shall.” She closed her eyes again for a few minutes.

“There is your tea,” said Nick. “Should I put it on the table?” he added as she tried to focus, her eyes still filled with sleep.

“What? Oh, yes, please, I’ll drink it in a few minutes, when it’s a bit cooler.”

He found a mat and carefully placed the mug of tea on it. “What is that book?”

Juliet was struggling to wrest open her eyes.

“Uh? Oh, you mean the journal. There’s a bit of a mystery attached to it. It was written by a young woman at the end of the nineteenth century. Or perhaps it wasn’t. I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it while I’ve been in hospital.”

“Now you’re confusing me. But I would like to hear the story, I suggest when we have eaten. Did the young lady perhaps come from Africa?”

Juliet was wide awake in a moment.

“Whatever makes you think that?”

Nick shrugged again.

“That flower on the cover. It’s very pretty – and distinctive. There’s probably no connection – it may just be a pretty flower that the young lady took a fancy to. I don’t know how easy it would be to get it in nineteenth century England. But she may have had relatives who travelled. Brothers, perhaps.”

“Her husband certainly travelled, and in Africa, too. But tell me about the flower. Is it some particular type? As you say, it is very pretty, but I thought that it was just decorative, an invention of the manufacturer of the visitors’ book, which is how the journal started out in life.”

“It’s an Eryngium Planum. A few years ago I spent some time in South Africa, working for a construction company, and while I was there I visited Zimbabwe. They grow everywhere there. When they bloom, they’re really beautiful. I think it’s the country’s national flower now. I don’t know about in the nineteenth century.”

“The country was called Rhodesia then,” said Juliet absent-mindedly. She was trying to think what significance Nick’s identification of the flower might have.

“At the end of the century,” said Nick, with rising indignation, “it was called after an individual who was not a monarch or one of the ruling class, purely for his own self-aggrandisement.”

“Cecil Rhodes. You seem to know a lot about him.”

“I studied politics and history at university. I’m interested in colonialism, in all its forms. The so-called Iron Curtain countries, like Poland, were colonies of a kind.”

“I suppose they were. I hadn’t thought of that,” said Juliet. Nick’s mood had darkened considerably.

“Would you mind passing my tea? I’m very thirsty.”

His gently courteous demeanour returned as quickly as it had disappeared.

“Yes, of course. Here you are. I’m sorry; I got side-tracked. Now I will go and cook.”

Juliet could hear a lot of banging about in the kitchen and the opening and shutting of cupboard doors as Nick searched for crockery and utensils. She decided to leave him to it; she’d probably only irritate him if she tried to interfere. She spent the next half hour luxuriating on the sofa, flicking through the journal and re-reading some of the passages in it. Skimming through it in this way pointed up its falseness more than reading it straight through. The uniformity of the writing and the ink, the recurrent use of certain words and phrases over what was ostensibly a period of several years, all suggested that it had been written during a much shorter period of time than the carefully-inscribed dates indicated.

Nick came in from the kitchen, his face red and dripping with sweat. He was bearing white wine, which he had poured into one of Juliet’s only two delicate crystal glasses. They’d been a present from the one serious boyfriend she’d ever had.

He peered at her anxiously.

“You are fully awake now? Are you allowed to drink wine? I didn’t think: perhaps your pills don’t allow it.”

“I don’t know. I’ll have a look.”

Juliet cast around for the antibiotics and finally found them on the floor, almost hidden underneath the sofa. She must have knocked them down when she’d been sleeping. She inadvertently picked up something else when she was retrieving them. It was a small mauve card with a loop of silver ribbon threaded through its top left-hand corner. She dropped it again deliberately and, with a surreptitious flick of one finger, sent it scudding under the sofa. It looked as if Nick had been telling the truth about the flowers, but she certainly didn’t want to revisit that conversation again. She’d take a look at the card when he’d gone home.

“It doesn’t say anything about alcohol,” she said, turning the packet over and scrutinising the tiny printing on the label. “I think I’ll risk it. I feel like a glass of wine!”

“Well done!” Nick pressed the glass gently into her hand and went back into the kitchen, returning instantly with the other glass. He clinked it very carefully against hers.

“Cheers!” he said.

“Cheers!” Juliet responded, rather more quietly. Her feeling of euphoria was evaporating. She was now apprehensive about where all of this might be leading.

 

In fact, Nick’s supper proved to be very enjoyable. The dish that he produced was rather like Wiener schnitzel, but made with chicken. It was accompanied by a potato salad, which he had also made, and a large green salad. They laughed and talked while they were eating. Juliet was astonished to see that by the time they had finished eating they had also polished off the whole bottle of wine.

“Do not worry, I have another bottle in my flat,” said Nick. “I will go to fetch it.”

“Certainly not,” said Juliet, laughing. “I may not have been told not to drink alcohol, but I’m sure my doctor didn’t mean me to get drunk on my first night at home.”

Nick shrugged, but good-naturedly.

“As you wish. I think that a bottle of white wine is not much, but I don’t wish to encourage you in bad ways. Let me make coffee instead and you can tell me about your journal.”

Juliet recounted what she knew of Florence’s journal as briefly as she could: where it had come from, what it contained, why Katrin had sent it to her, her suspicions about its authenticity and her conviction that Cecil Rhodes was involved in some way with Florence’s husband. Nick was spellbound all the time that she was talking. She almost told him about the skeletons in the cellar at Laurieston House as well, but decided against it. There had been no public announcement about the skeletons yet and, since nothing that she’d read in the journal linked them to Florence, she realised that to tell him would be an uncalled-for indiscretion on her part. She was equally careful not to mention Jackie Briggs, except in passing. She identified Jackie as the owner of the journal, but didn’t say that she couldn’t get in touch with Jackie at the moment because of Harry Briggs’ disappearance. Instead, she concluded her tale by explaining to Nick that she was hoping that someone at the Archaeological Society would be able to help her to discover what was sandwiched in the cover of the journal without damaging it too much.

“But I can help you with that!” Nick cried. “There’s no need to involve the Archaeological Society. I have craft knives and my hand is very steady.”

Juliet looked doubtful.

“I don’t doubt your skill,” she said, “but I’m not sure that we ought to tamper with the journal until we have Jackie Briggs’ permission. It could get my boss into trouble if it goes wrong.”

“But that means you do doubt my skill!” said Nick with a grin. “Let me fetch my craft knives. I will just try to lift a tiny piece of the paper. If it doesn’t work, we’ll leave it. You want to know what is under there, don’t you? And I would like to know myself, now that you have told me the story.”

Still dubious, Juliet sighed but nodded her head slightly.

“All right. You’ve persuaded me. But promise me you’ll stop if I ask you to.”

Nick was gone before she could change her mind.