35

‘Did you believe him?’ asked Henry.

‘I don’t know.’ I stroked the cool, silky glass in front of me. ‘I’m sure some of it was true. The question is how much.’

Henry was good at finding nice little pubs. He’d found one near Liverpool Street Station, a place of engraved mirrors, burnished brass, dark, gleaming woodwork and stained-glass lights in all the windows. The downstairs bar was full of office workers snatching a quick drink before going home. Henry and I were in the little upstairs bar, which was much quieter. We had a table in the window and could talk without the risk of being overheard. Not that there was any sign of Harold Munro.

‘I think he’s a gambler by nature,’ Henry said. ‘You don’t start life in Swan Alley and end up fifty years later with a slice of Holborn unless you’re prepared to take chances.’

‘So what are you saying?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Just that he may have been taking another gamble with us. Admitting part of the story as a way of keeping the rest of it concealed. I mean, he couldn’t really get away from the date on that photograph. You set a trap for him and he walked right into it. When you come down to it, there’s very little he told us that can be proved. Anyone who could have supported the story is dead.’

‘Except perhaps the sister.’

Henry cocked an eyebrow, a trick I’d seen him practise in the mirror. ‘You think she’s still alive? After what Martlesham told us?’

The story had emerged by fits and starts. It was as if Martlesham was in the witness box, reluctantly disgorging information, volunteering nothing, and leaving the cross-examining counsel to do as much of the work as possible. The Martlesham children’s mother had died in childbirth. At the time there wasn’t a man living with them. ‘Pregnancy scared them off, I reckon,’ Simon told us. ‘And she was getting very sickly.’ He never actually said, but it was clear that Mr Martlesham had not been seen for many years. Simon hinted that his parents might not have been married and there was even some question as to whether his father was also Nancy’s.

Simon had met Francis during the winter before his mother’s death. The relationship sounded innocent, even praiseworthy. Francis lent Simon books and encouraged him to go to evening classes in English literature and arithmetic. He invited both Simon and Nancy to tea at the Dark Hostelry, where he was living at the time. Francis was looked after by two elderly servants, a cook-housekeeper and a maid who disapproved of the Martlesham children.

‘For me and Nancy,’ Martlesham said, ‘it was like a glimpse of paradise. Sitting on a comfortable chair in a clean house. Afternoon tea with sandwiches and as much cake as you wanted to eat. Youlgreave gave me a penknife and let me carve my initials on a walnut tree in the garden, to show how well I could make the letters. He used to put Nancy on his knee and read us stories. Is the walnut tree still there?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s only an apple tree now.’

When the mother died –‘I heard her screaming,’ Martlesham remarked in a matter-of-fact voice – the only other relative in Rosington had been an aunt, the mother’s elder sister who worked in a haberdasher’s in the High Street. ‘She’d come a long way from Swan Alley, Aunt Em had,’ Martlesham said. ‘Us kids were just a burden to her. And she was walking out with someone she wanted to marry, a very respectable man with a house and everything. She didn’t want us queering her pitch. Hard woman. But I can’t say I blame her.’

That was when Francis had stepped in. He helped to pay for the mother’s funeral. One evening he called on Aunt Em with a proposal. He was willing to arrange for Simon to go to Canada, where he could learn a trade and make a fresh start in life. And he had an even more alluring offer for Nancy. A lady and gentleman who lived near his brother’s house in Middlesex were unable to have children. They wanted to adopt a little girl and bring her up as a lady. Nancy would be perfect for them. She was quick, intelligent and pretty. Her eyes were the same colour as the lady’s. She would live in a house with a big garden and have a pony and a room of her own.

‘Aunt Em was pleased, of course, then she said I was old enough to make up my own mind. Nancy said she wanted to stay with me, but there was nothing I could do for her. Or not for years, until I got myself established. No, it was the right choice, no doubt about that.’

‘You said she accused you of selling her,’ I said. ‘What did you mean by that?’

His face darkened. I guessed he hadn’t meant to tell us that, that the words had slipped out. He wasn’t angry, I realized a moment later, he was embarrassed.

‘Just before I left Rosington, Mr Youlgreave gave me fifteen pounds.’ He hesitated, selecting the right words. ‘To help me settle in Canada. But Nancy was only a kid, she misunderstood what was going on.’

Now, in the upstairs room of the pub, Henry said, ‘We’ve only Martlesham’s word that Nancy was adopted. As we’ve only got his word about so much else. There’s another reason why he might not have tried to get in touch with his sister when he got back to England. Perhaps he knew there was no point.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘What if he knew she was dead?’

‘That’s horrible.’

‘It’s where all this is going, if you ask me.’ Henry lit two cigarettes and passed one to me. ‘There was a very strange side to Francis Youlgreave – that’s obvious from the poems. And Martlesham got very worked up when you asked him about the animals.’

He had come the nearest I’d seen him to losing his temper. He said that was typical of all he hated about Rosington. People had said that Canon Youlgreave was mad, going around cutting up animals for sadistic reasons of his own. But he, Simon Martlesham, knew better, and so did many other people, including Canon Youlgreave’s servants. Mr Youlgreave had an interest in animal physiology. Once or twice Simon Martlesham had helped him to dissect small animals. There was one occasion when Simon had found a drowned kitten floating in the river and had fished it out for Youlgreave, who had rewarded the boy with half a sovereign for his pains. But the twisted minds of others had soon interpreted this absolutely innocent scientific enquiry into something sinister,

‘Call themselves Christians?’ Martlesham had said, just as he had done on the first occasion I met him and echoing Janet a few hours earlier. ‘They were no more Christian than this desk is. And from what you say, it sounds like things haven’t changed.’

‘Suppose he’s feeling guilty?’ I said to Henry, wondering if there was time for another drink. ‘He’s had a stroke, he’s lost his wife, he’s got no children. Suppose this is the first time in his life he’s had time to think about what he did to his sister. I think he needs to find out if she’s still alive.’

‘Because he wants to see her again?’

‘Not necessarily. He might just want to reassure himself that Francis was telling the truth, that she was adopted, that she did grow up to be a lady. He feels guilty. He simply doesn’t know what happened to her.’

Henry picked a shred of tobacco from his lip. ‘I suppose it would explain a lot. The private investigator going to Roth, going to Rosington, taking an interest in us. This isn’t just about Youlgreave.’

‘If she – she died in 1904, do you think The Voice of Angels tells us anything about how?’

‘For God’s sake, Wendy.’ Henry stared at me. ‘You’re not suggesting that Youlgreave took that tripe literally?’

I shrugged and pushed aside my empty glass. ‘It’s time I went.’

There was a scrap of pleasure to be derived from the knowledge that I’d shocked Henry. It was usually the other way round. He walked with me to the station. I wouldn’t let him see me on to the train. At the barrier, I paused to say goodbye. Suddenly he leaned forward and put his arms around me. He was clumsy about it, which was unlike him. He tried to kiss my lips. I turned aside so he kissed the lobe of my right ear instead. I pulled his arms away from me and stepped back.

‘Wendy, listen, when can I see you again?’

‘I don’t know. I expect I’ll be coming up to London sooner or later.’

‘Can’t we fix a time? If it would help, I could come to Rosington.’

If Henry was seen in Rosington, the Touchies would really have something to gossip about and he’d run the risk of being snubbed as he came round every corner.

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

‘I thought perhaps the wedding ring meant –’

‘You thought wrong.’

‘Wendy, please –’

Suddenly furious, I turned on my heel and left him. I had my ticket punched at the barrier and walked up the length of the train. I knew Henry was still watching me but I didn’t turn round and wave.

How dared he think he could snap his fingers and I’d come running back? Damn Henry, I thought, as I squeezed myself into a compartment already crowded with commuters, damn Francis and damn everything.

Between Cambridge and Rosington I indulged in an unpleasant fantasy conversation with Henry. I told him that I fancied his friend David much more than him, that David was much better looking and had a much nicer body. David’s bottom didn’t wobble, I told Henry, and his skin wasn’t so flabby it looked as if it needed ironing. I knew I’d never say any of these things, and I felt rather sick for even thinking them.

At Rosington, I walked quickly up the hill and went into the Close by the Porta. There was no sign of Mr Gotobed, or indeed of anyone I knew, and for that I was glad. I didn’t want to make conversation.

I opened the gate to the Dark Hostelry garden. Rosie’s tricycle was standing on the lawn. Janet made a fuss about things being left out in the garden overnight, so I picked it up and put it in the little shed in the corner by the honeysuckle.

The garden door was unlocked. I went into the hall.

‘Nurse!’ called a man’s voice from the landing on the floor above. ‘Is that you?’

Dr Flaxman’s head appeared over the banisters. He frowned when he saw me.

‘Come up here,’ he barked. ‘Come and make yourself useful.’