‘There is some truth in the saying: There is no greater cause for melancholy than idleness. I feel quite my normal self.’ Elizabeth relaxed back in the chair with what might have been a satisfied smile on her face. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought that Michael’s name might be tarnished. My dilemma is in no way comparable.’
Which was the perfect lead for Jane. ‘Does the name Daisy mean anything to you?’
‘My name is Elizabeth.’ She turned her vibrant blue eyes up, and offered her trademark half smile. ‘I will always be Elizabeth, and in my heart, I will always be Michael’s sister, in the same way as he will always be my brother.’
Jane’s mind stilled as she stared into Elizabeth’s eyes. But for her dark hair caught in a carefully wound chignon, she was looking at a face so similar to Marigold’s as to be uncanny. The more she studied Elizabeth, the less ridiculous the idea became. She had been four when she and Michael left for Australia. Michael had arbitrarily given her a birthday because no one knew her birthdate. Just the same as he’d given her a name, his sister’s name. Why wouldn’t she know her own? Surely at four, a child knew their name. Unless for some reason she’d hidden it, forgotten it, or suffered some tremendous shock. What had Lethbridge said? A traumatic event causing amnesia and loss of speech.
‘I think I’ll ask Lucy to bring us some tea, this rain has chilled me to the bone,’ said Elizabeth, ringing the small bell on the table. ‘No, on second thoughts, a glass of Michael’s whiskey would be appropriate.’
Jane didn’t answer, too busy searching for facts to prove Daisy and Elizabeth were one and the same. The prospect of solving such an intricate puzzle left her giddy and a little light-headed.
‘I do think that Langdon-Penter man is appalling. I can’t get over the fact that he helped himself to Michael’s whiskey.’
‘And another man’s name to boot. His real name is Tyler Penter. Langdon was Timothy’s great-grandfather’s name.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Marigold’s family home has always been known as the Langdon estate.’ Jane glanced down at her notebook and for the umpteenth time wrote the name Daisy. Who had taken her and how had she got from Somerset to the workhouse in Liverpool, where she met Michael?
‘In his eyes he’s the Lord of the Manor. It’s archaic.’ Elizabeth gave a derogatory toss of her head. ‘He is a particularly offensive little man. I have no idea how much longer it will take them to give women the vote in England. His attitude is outrageous. Ah! Thank you, Lucy. Put the tray down here. The jug of water was a thoughtful addition; however, I don’t believe we’ll be needing it.’
Throwing Jane a look of pure loathing, Lucy left the room.
‘Do you remember any of the paintings at the Tost and Rohu Exhibition?’
‘You aren’t expecting me to go back over that debacle, are you?’ Elizabeth took a mouthful of whiskey and let out a long sigh. ‘I didn’t know Michael drank whiskey until he came home incapable, swaying from side to side, after he’d lost five hundred pounds at the race track. I took over all the finances after that and we agreed on a weekly allowance.’
‘Do you remember the paintings?’ Jane asked again.
‘No, no I don’t. If I close my eyes all I can see are swooping birds. Take this, and sip it slowly.’ Elizabeth pushed a cut-glass tumbler into her hand.
As Jane’s fingers closed around the glass she inhaled. Michael, his study, all she owed him, and those final words. Do this for me. She has to know.
She brought her lips to the glass, sipped, and choked.
The palm of Elizabeth’s hand came down on her back, knocking what little breath was left in her lungs out in a rush. She put the glass down and groped for some air.
‘It’s an art.’
An art Michael, and Elizabeth, had obviously perfected. It took Jane a good few moments to recapture her breath. ‘The painting at the technical college exhibition was The Village Church. I found your hat under a display case beside it. Do you think the combination of the picture and the taxidermied birds might have triggered your …’
‘Dilemma.’
‘Yes. Your dilemma. The Village Church was also on show at the preview.’
‘The occasion of my second dilemma.’
‘Indeed.’ Jane took another sip of the whiskey, held it in her mouth for a moment then let it trickle down her throat. Warmth blossomed, giving her courage. She’d never reached a satisfactory resolution without a neatly written equation, but this conundrum didn’t lend itself to equations. She took another sip. ‘This is more a hypothesis.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Daisy Dibble disappeared on the twenty-eighth of August, 1862, at the age of four. On the first of September, five days later, a young girl of similar age was found in Liverpool and taken to the workhouse, one hundred and seventy-one and a half miles from Daisy’s home. Could that girl have been Daisy?’
‘How would a four-year-old child travel that far in a matter of days? Someone must have taken her there.’
‘Correct.’ Jane took yet another sip. The flavour was almost smoky, pleasant, if it wasn’t taken at speed. ‘On September the seventh, a week later, Michael’s sister, Lizzie Ó’Cuinn, died, along with twenty-one others in a fire in the girls’ dormitory at Brownlow Hill in Liverpool. The following day, Michael set sail for Australia with his sister.’
Elizabeth topped up the two glasses. ‘Impossible. She was dead.’
‘Correct.’
‘Are you being a little pedantic? We are well aware I boarded the ship with Michael.’
‘Just ensuring we haven’t jumped to any unproven conclusions. The last person to see the little girl at the workhouse was Gertrude Finbright, when she was talking to Michael the day after the fire, and she gave him the news of Lizzie’s passing.’
‘I see your point. You think the little girl who boarded the ship with Michael was Marigold’s sister, Daisy.’ Elizabeth downed the contents of the glass, her pale skin instantly infused with colour. She sat statue still for a moment then slowly lowered the glass to the table. ‘Which would mean I am Daisy Penter.’
‘Dibble. Daisy Dibble. Marigold’s maiden name was Dibble.’ Jane waited as a play of emotions swept Elizabeth’s face.
‘I’m not sure I want to be Daisy Dibble. It’s a ridiculous name. I prefer Elizabeth Quinn.’
Jane smothered a laugh, or perhaps it was a hiccup, and pushed herself to her feet. ‘That would make the offensive little man your brother-in-law.’
Another hiccup managed to escape Jane’s lips. Her knees didn’t appear capable of supporting her legs. The ceiling of the room merged horribly with the floor and the rose-patterned wallpaper took on a bilious hue.
Elizabeth tucked her arm under Jane’s elbow and led her upstairs to her bedroom. ‘It’s an acquired habit. You’ll be fine in the morning.’
Dear, oh dear. The girl’s education was seriously lacking. There was no one to blame but herself. She could well remember the first time Michael handed her a glass of whiskey. It was in the early days of the depression, the day she’d bought the first of the properties at auction, while he was busy trying to find somewhere for the poor owners to stash the remains of their belongings.
Aye! How she missed him. Missed his comforting presence, his rollicking laugh, his over-protectiveness and, more than anything else, his friendship. She couldn’t have asked for a better brother … yet he wasn’t. It was all a little strange. More peculiar than knowing she wasn’t Elizabeth Quinn.
She was. She’d become Elizabeth the moment she’d followed him up the gangplank and taken his hand.
So many people standing on the dockside, shouting and screaming, pushing barrows and heaving packing cases. It was impossible to know where she was going. Knees, hundreds of legs and knees, some patched, some scratched and bleeding, others covered by skirts and petticoats, one set bare, petticoat hitched to waist height as a man leant against a woman and bumped her into the wall.
All she wanted was to find Michael.
She’d seen him leave the workhouse after he’d spoken to Miss Finbright, his big broad shoulders heaving. She knew he was crying.
He’d walked so fast, not looking back, almost running. She could hardly keep up. It wasn’t until he’d reached the gangplank that she caught up. As he took a step she recognised the sole of his shoe, covered with ash and dirt. The ash and dirt they’d thrown over Lizzie, and the other girls. Dropping them deep into the pit, hiding them from the light. Lizzie didn’t like the dark; Daisy didn’t either.
Her chest heaved and she rushed for the bowl and vomited, vomited all of Michael’s best whiskey and a bundle of memories she hadn’t known she carried. She swished some water around in the bowl, opened the window and chucked it out into the rain, hopefully beyond the verandah. She wiped her face and lowered herself onto the bed. She should sleep, but the dark tide of memory refused to abate.
Ebb and flow. Like the magic lantern show she’d seen with Michael. Flickering images, a darkened path, a sweaty hand dragging, no, hauling her along.
‘G’woam! G’woam.’ Her feet went from under her, stuck under his stinking armpit like a basket of dirty washing. The slam of the door, the darkness, and the stench. Worse, worse, the flapping wings, diving and swooping, brushing her cheeks with their feathers, the strangled shrieks.
‘G’woam. G’woam.’
She burrowed under the bedcover, arms shielding her head. Deep breaths, slowly pulling the air into her lungs.
Clicketty clack, clicketty clack. The smell of burning coal, belching smoke. Tonk, tonk, tonk. Grit in her eyes, scratching and sore, and dark, so very, very dark. The plaintive cry of a whistle. Then light. Bright, bright light. A great door creaking open. Hands, the reek of stale cabbage and sweat, tutting sounds. Hop in here with Lizzie.
A small body, arms pulling her close, and blessed warmth beneath the rough blankets.
Jane groaned and closed her eyes against the blinding light shafting through the curtains.
‘Miss Elizabeth thought you might like a cup of jasmine tea.’ Lucy’s face drifted into focus.
‘I never have jasmine tea.’ She ran her tongue over her parched lips, struggled into an upright position. ‘Yes, please.’ The banging in her head reached a crescendo. ‘Leave the curtains, Lucy. I’ll sort them out when I get up.’
‘That’ll be right now. Miss Quinn’s in the dining room waiting on you. She’s had her breakfast.’
The mere thought of the smell of kedgeree set her stomach roiling. ‘Tell her I’ll be down in a moment.’
‘She says you’re to bring your notebook.’
‘Thank you, Lucy.’
For some reason it took Jane much longer than usual to get downstairs, and when she finally reached the dining-room door she realised she’d forgotten her notebook.
‘I’ll be there in a moment, Aunt Elizabeth.’ She trooped back upstairs, each footstep reverberating inside her skull. What was wrong with her? She never suffered from headaches, not even at that time of the month she wasn’t supposed to mention. With a sigh, she pushed open her bedroom door, collected her notebook and trotted back downstairs.
Elizabeth eyed her with a half smile. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in.’ She pushed a small teapot across the table. ‘Drink this.’
‘I’ve had some.’
‘This is green tea, and you need to eat that with it.’ Elizabeth pointed to a shrivelled, blackened piece of something on the small saucer.
‘What is it?’
‘A dried plum.’
Jane popped the shrivelled nugget into her mouth and spat it straight back out again.
‘Better if you nibble on it while you drink the tea. An excellent cure for over-indulgence the morning after.’
And how would Elizabeth know that?
‘How do you feel?’
‘A little strange. Disorientated. Vague.’ So vague she hadn’t noticed Elizabeth was dressed in her hat and coat, and her large black umbrella sat propped against the table. ‘Are you going out?’
It wasn’t Sunday, was it? What difference did that make? Elizabeth hadn’t set foot inside a church since Michael’s funeral; perhaps it was something she’d done to please him, not for any belief of her own.
‘I am, and so are you.’ Elizabeth peered down at her, almost a challenge. ‘Finish your tea.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the auction house.’ She glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘We’re meeting Mrs Penter there in half an hour.’
‘Marigold? Not Mr Penter?’
‘The message I sent asked her to meet me there at eleven. As you can see, we have fifteen minutes. Hurry up. Lucy has fetched your things. You’ll need an umbrella. It’s been raining nonstop since last night.’
Had it? She hadn’t noticed. ‘We can call a cab.’
‘No time. A bit of rain never hurt anyone.’
‘Why do you want to see Mrs Penter?’
‘It occurred to me last night that unless I face my fears I may never know my origins.’
Jane finished the rest of the plum and washed it down with some tea. ‘How so?’
‘Who is going to believe the incoherent ramblings of a nostalgic woman of a certain age? Lethbridge would have me up the river before anyone could say Les Darcy. We must tell Marigold of our suspicions, share everything with her. If she is my sister, she has a right to know as much as I do. I must face the past.’
‘You and Marigold are similar. You have the same eye colour, the same mannerisms, the same bearing.’
‘Well, how did I get to the workhouse in Liverpool?’
Elizabeth’s question made Jane start. ‘You’ve remembered something.’ No need to ask the question. She could tell by the look on Elizabeth’s face.
‘Last night I had this … I don’t know what to call it. It wasn’t a dream …’
Jane straightened. ‘A repressed memory surfaced, as Lethbridge said it might …’
‘Indeed. I was being dragged down a path, struggling. I was thrown into some place, and the birds came, as before. Then I was on a train. I’m certain it was a train. I could smell coal smoke and my eyes were gritty with soot.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘No.’
‘Who was with you?’
Elizabeth stopped her pacing and picked up her umbrella. ‘I don’t know.’
By the time they reached the auction house the rain was coming down in sheets.
‘Good morning, John.’
‘Good morning, Miss Quinn.’ He took Elizabeth’s umbrella and held out his hand. ‘Miss Jane.’
She handed over her dripping umbrella. ‘Good morning, John.’
‘Mrs Penter is here. She’s waiting in the auction room.’
‘Very good, thank you. Come along, Jane.’
Marigold stood in the middle of the room looking damp and more than a little forlorn; no colour tinted her pale face and dark circles shadowed her eyes.
‘Mrs Penter, thank you for coming.’
‘I expect you’ve decided you want to cancel my exhibition.’
‘No, on the contrary we are expecting it to go ahead. I thought I made that clear yesterday.’
‘Circumstances have changed.’ Marigold took off her hat and gave it a shake. Drops of water scattered across the floor.
‘Why don’t you take off your coat as well? You’re wet through.’
She fumbled with the buttons and shrugged out of the sopping garment. ‘Thank you. It’s been pouring all night.’
‘Surely you didn’t spend the night outside?’
‘No, only since early this morning.’ Her shoulders heaved. ‘Timothy and I have been searching for my husband, he seems to have vanished.’
‘He’s gone back to Sydney?’
‘I have no idea. Timothy is still out looking for him. No one saw him leave our rooms last night. Timothy is checking the railway station.’
‘I’m sure he will turn up in his own good time.’
‘I hope so.’ Marigold’s face flushed. ‘We had an argument last night.’
‘Why don’t you come and sit?’ Elizabeth led Marigold to the bench seat in the middle of the room. ‘Jane, perhaps some tea?’
Damn. That was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘I’ll ask John.’
‘I’m sure you can manage. Milky tea with sugar. John will have some milk and bring some of those Iced VoVos you’ve got stashed in the drawer upstairs.’
Elizabeth waited until Jane left the room before sitting next to Marigold. ‘How can I help?’
‘I feel so bad I even considered the possibility your brother Michael might be responsible for taking Daisy.’
‘Think nothing of it. We all jump to conclusions.’
‘Last night Tyler lost his temper. He’d been drinking and he, well, when he drinks he becomes arrogant, difficult. He accused me of sabotaging his attempts to secure the estate, our future.’
‘I’m sure it was simply the alcohol talking.’ Elizabeth offered the platitude even though it didn’t ring true. ‘May I ask a personal question?’
Marigold rummaged in her pocket and brought out a soggy handkerchief, patted the reddened end of her nose and then nodded.
‘Your mother’s will. Is there provision should Daisy’s death not be proven?’ Surely the family had received advice from solicitors. Fifty years was a long time to indulge her mother’s fey belief.
‘Indeed there is. If Daisy is not found then her share of the estate passes to Timothy on his twenty-first birthday, next year.’
‘I can’t imagine it causing any great problem. Surely Timothy would want to keep the estate intact.’
‘Of course he would. When I die, as my only son he will inherit my portion. However, my husband doesn’t see it that way. He firmly believes he is entitled to it.’
Elizabeth could quite imagine that. She had no doubt Penter saw himself as the squire, not a pensioned-off relative dependent on his son’s charity.
She patted Marigold’s hand and stood and edged towards the paintings, waiting for her heart to begin pounding and the birds swooping. Like a fleeting shadow, Lethbridge’s words drifted through her mind. A repressed memory of a traumatic event … She boldly fronted the painting of the pair walking along the path hand in hand. ‘Who are the people in this painting?’
‘I don’t know. In her later years, my mother suggested that the bond between twins might mean I had, in some way, absorbed Daisy’s memories.’ She lifted her shoulders in defeat. ‘That painting represents one of many memories that flit in and out of my mind—when I wake, before I fall asleep. You must know what I mean.’
Oh yes, she did. The night before she’d possibly experienced a very similar memory, except she hadn’t walked happily away, she’d been hauled, screaming and kicking.
‘Do you believe that painting relates to Daisy’s disappearance?’
‘As I said, Mother was convinced it did.’
Elizabeth studied the painting. ‘The little girl doesn’t seem to be afraid. She seems to be quite comfortable holding the boy’s hand.’
And he was a boy, not a man. Small and thin, a smock over a pair of ragged trousers and dirty bare feet. How could she have let the odious Penter man suggest it could have been Michael? They’d called him a big strapping bloke, wide shoulders and a grin to match, not cowered and scrawny.
‘Where were you when it happened?’
‘I don’t remember. Mother and I went over this time and time again. When she discovered Daisy was missing she searched the garden and then went down to the gypsy camp.’
‘She took you with her?’
‘Of course. After Daisy vanished she never let me out of her sight. She was terrified I’d be taken too.’
‘If you don’t know who took your sister, how can you presume that the girl in the workhouse in Liverpool and Daisy are one and the same?’
‘That’s the very argument Tyler and I had last night. I can’t understand how he knew to go to the workhouse. He is convinced Daisy died in the fire, but how did she get there? A four-year-old couldn’t find her own way to Yeovil and onto a train to Liverpool.’
‘If we could answer that question it would solve both of our …’ Elizabeth cleared her throat, ‘our dilemmas.’
Marigold’s head came up with a snap.
Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and sat down next to her. She reached out and took one of Marigold’s cold hands in her own and chaffed it. Peculiar to think that she might be holding her sister’s hand.
‘I believe I might be Daisy.’
The poor woman let out a mournful wail, which brought Jane skidding into the room scattering pink biscuits and coconut all over the floor. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘Pick up the biscuits and pour some tea.’ Elizabeth slipped an arm around Marigold’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’ Marigold sniffed. ‘It’s all too much. After all this time.’
Jane produced a cup of milky tea laced with sugar. The mere thought of it turned Elizabeth’s stomach but Marigold took it in both hands and sipped. Gradually the colour returned to her cheeks.
‘I’m not sure I quite understand.’ Marigold rubbed at her arm and Elizabeth’s skin prickled in response.
‘It’s a very long story, and one I would like to share with you. You’re wet through. We’ll take a hansom cab and return to Church Street.’
Marigold started to rise then sank back down again. ‘I told Timothy I’d be here. When he finds his father he’ll bring him here.’
‘If he finds …’
‘I beg your pardon, Jane.’
‘Nothing, nothing, Aunt Elizabeth. Why don’t I stay here and you and Marigold take a cab home?’
‘An excellent idea. Marigold and I are much of the same size. I’ll find her some dry clothes and we’ll wait for you there. Please make sure you clean up those biscuits.’