21.

After posting her letter to Simone and having braved the seething mass of rickshaws, cars, bullock carts and bicycles, narrowly escaping a collision with an electric tramway carriage, Belle arrived at the spectacular offices of the citadel-like Secretariat. This was the administrative seat of the entire colonial government. Set in extensive gardens on Judah Ezekiel Street, the sprawling complex of buildings was built of red brick in the Victorian style. Once inside, Belle faced a confusing labyrinth of halls and corridors. Each department was signposted, from Revenue to Judicial, to Sanitary, plus many, many more.

An army of clerks, secretaries, record keepers and so on scurried from one place to another, giving her brief and confusing directions while on the hoof, so it took Belle an age to locate the office of the registrar. She worried she’d be late for her meeting with Oliver. He’d turned up unexpectedly the night before to hear her sing and although the words on the note – Think you know who to trust? Look harder – had played on her mind, because they might well refer to him, they’d agreed to meet today for another visit to Golden Valley, this time with the keys.

When she finally located the registry, a bored, badly dressed man glanced up from his desk and indicated she should sit. Odd that crumpled suit, she thought, because his fingernails were carefully manicured, so he clearly cared about some aspects of his appearance. While she explained her situation, he didn’t meet her eyes, his gaze resting on a spot inches above her right ear.

‘You’ll need your father’s death certificate and his will.’ He’d spoken quietly, in the way of people who force you to lean forward so you have to put in all the effort.

She withdrew the documents from her bag and passed them across the desk. He studied them and nodded.

‘I see you are the sole beneficiary to his entire estate,’ he said, his voice thin and bored.

She nodded, the emotion of dealing with her father’s death once again catching in her throat.

‘I need your birth certificate and passport to prove you are who you say you are.’

She pulled herself together. ‘I have those.’

‘And something to prove your father is the same Douglas Hatton as this one on the deeds.’

‘How do I do that?’

He gave her an excruciating look, as if the whole experience of working at the registry was insufferable. ‘Well, first, we need to conduct an official search for the land registration documents and the deeds. There may be a deed of sale attached which should include his previous address in England.’

‘Can we look for it now?’

‘There is a fee. And if everything is in order you will also need to prove your residence here.’

‘I have a contract of employment.’

He nodded and as he bent his head to look at the will again she noticed a bald patch ineffectively disguised by a thin comb-over of hair.

‘A contract of employment should suffice,’ he said, looking up again.

‘What about the keys to the house?’

‘With the solicitor, I imagine. We will need to retain an authenticated copy of the will. Once we’ve located the deeds, the solicitor’s name should be on the deed of sale. If the solicitor is also a notary public, he has authority to sign it off.’

‘And I get an authenticated copy how?’

‘The solicitor’s clerk can do it.’

‘Gosh, it’s a lot to have to sort out. I was hoping to have the keys today.’

He gave her a condescending smile. ‘Come back in a few days and we’ll look at the registry details.’

Back at the hotel, unsure if Oliver had already been and gone, Belle waited beneath the porch. She was late, very late, but hoped he still might turn up. The Indian doorman noticed her pacing back and forth and offered to help. When she asked if he’d seen a tall man with piercing blue eyes and light-brown hair, he beamed at her.

‘Mr Donohue?’

She grinned. ‘You know him?’

‘I do indeed. A good man. Got to the bottom of a burglary at my wife’s shop when the police did nothing. Helped a lot of us local people get justice. As I say, a good man.’

He went on to tell her that Oliver had not been seen outside the hotel during the last few hours.

When three of the dancers came out, giggling and laughing, they greeted Belle with waves and smiles. Rebecca had been good for her word and Belle’s relationship with the dancers had lost its sourness. She rolled her shoulders and waited a little longer, but then, feeling disappointed, was just turning to go back to her room when she heard Oliver call her name. She spun round and felt a burst of pleasure as she saw him striding towards her, more deeply suntanned than ever.

‘Hello,’ he said, blue eyes sparkling, she hoped, with the same satisfaction at seeing her that she was feeling at seeing him. ‘My editor insisted on some last-minute changes. I didn’t think you’d still be here.’

Even more relieved to see him than she’d expected to be, she smiled broadly.

‘Shall we take the tram?’ she said.

‘Sure, let’s make tracks.’

As they sat close together on the tram she felt his presence intensely and found it hard to articulate her thoughts. Was he feeling it too? Or was it only her? Either way she felt invigorated at his proximity, although a little bit shy too. She shifted a little to defuse the tingling sensation going on all over her skin and after a moment or two managed to explain she didn’t have the keys. They could enter the same way as before and, while they were in the area, they might also find some neighbours to question. Whatever Edward had hinted about it being a waste of time, she increasingly wanted to find out what had happened to the baby. And you never knew, someone might remember something.

Although she was excited to see the house for a second time, Belle couldn’t help thinking about her mother again. But not the one who lived in the upstairs room and who’d once woken her at midnight insisting they put on their wellington boots and slip out to the garden to cut flowers. Instead, a different and magical version of her mother occupied her imagination. She smiled at the thought and Oliver glanced at her.

‘What?’

‘Oh, silly memories. That’s all.’

‘I’m sure your memories aren’t silly.’

You might not say that if you knew, she thought, as the mother of her imagination helped her with her arithmetic while they sat at the kitchen table together, teasing each other and laughing at the silly mistakes they both made. This mother made up delicious picnics they shared sitting on a tartan rug beside the lake, before throwing the crusts to the ducks and geese.

‘You lived in the countryside?’ Oliver said, interrupting her thoughts.

She shook her head. ‘A town. A Regency town in Gloucestershire.’

‘I grew up in the city too.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t think Cheltenham compares to New York. But we went to the countryside and sometimes to the sea.’

The only time she had actually been to the seaside in the summer was to stay with her grandfather in Devon. Her mother found the beach too untidy, the sand scratchy and too unforgiving, the sea too wild. And it had given her a headache, so they’d gone home early. Home for the week had been her grandfather’s sweet little cottage in Bantham, although he was a quiet and solitary soul who wouldn’t play games and spent most of the day alone in his study. They’d only gone there once again, and that had been for Christmas.

Oliver’s voice broke into her thoughts again.

‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘You keep drifting off.’

Once inside the house, Belle felt suddenly awed. Everything was exactly as it had been the last time they had broken in and yet it was different too.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ he said, picking up on her mood.

‘Of course. I’m excited.’

But she wasn’t simply excited. She was full of questions too. How had they kept so much from her? How was it possible she had never known she’d once had a sister? And now, because of what had happened here, her mother’s illness began to make sense. Had she spent her whole life judging Diana Hatton unfairly?

‘You never explained what happened to your mother,’ Oliver was saying with such a perceptive look in his eyes. Had he known what she’d been thinking? He was certainly shrewd enough.

‘I know your father died, of course,’ he added.

Belle hesitated. This was not something she usually discussed.

He put a hand on her arm. ‘Sorry. You don’t have to.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said, but all the same waited a little longer for her emotions to subside. They didn’t and she continued to feel edgy as she glanced around her. The room smelt stale and it seemed as if her lungs were preventing her from breathing properly. For a moment she felt as she had done as a child when things became too hard to bear.

‘She went,’ she said rather sharply.

‘Where?’ he asked, unperturbed by her tone.

‘Nobody knows.’

‘Must have been tough for you.’

She looked right into his eyes. ‘No. It was a relief. Well, mainly it was. Is that awful?’

He held her gaze and shook his head.

‘And then she died. Eventually. My father was the one who told me.’

She paused, wishing she could shake off the wretched memory of the rainy day her father had passed on the news. True, it had been a relief in a way, and she’d never hinted how frequently she still dreamt of her mother standing at the foot of her bed with a strangely significant longing in her eyes. Nor did she ever reveal she’d woken day after day with wet cheeks. It would have upset her father to know the truth, and so she’d lied.

She dug her fingernails into her palms. ‘Look, do you mind if we change the subject?’

‘Of course. Shall we go outside?’

She had the sense he’d wanted to comfort her, hug her maybe, but she didn’t want his pity. She’d never really come to terms with her conflicting feelings about her mother and doubted she ever would.

When she’d written to Simone the night before, a wave of homesickness had caught hold of her and an echo of it still lingered today. And yet there was no longer a home to go to, no longer a family to which she belonged. She was on her own.

As they made their way through the tangles of tropical plants surrounding the house, Oliver asked what she intended doing with the place once it was hers. The truth was, she had no idea. Sell it at a knock-down price to Edward perhaps? He’d already expressed an interest and she hardly relished the responsibility of its restoration. Apart from anything else, how long was she likely to remain in Burma? Her plan had been to travel and keep on singing. And yet the house was so beautiful – or at least it could be.

She thought again of the letter she’d sent Simone. When she’d asked the clerk at the post office how long it would take to reach her, he’d said it was fortunate she’d used airmail paper as it would only require about nine days. By sea and rail, it would be at least fifteen, possibly even a month. So, she’d be unlikely to hear anything back for at least twenty days and that was assuming Simone replied quickly.

Once away from the house, she glanced at the little green birds lining the telegraph wires threading along the road, birds with yellow heads and long tails, looking so sweet. Despite her earlier unsettled feelings she now felt buoyant and relaxed. This place had done it … this place with its beautiful old houses and lovely gardens. But then she remembered something and in a flash her mood changed.

‘My father upset someone important,’ she said suddenly as the memory returned. ‘An old boy I met at the Pegu hinted at it.’

‘You went there?’

She nodded. ‘With Edward de Clemente.’

The skin around his eyes tightened but he only asked if she knew what her father had done and who he had upset.

When she told him she wasn’t sure, he hesitated as if he was deciding what to say and she felt there might be something he was keeping from her.

She spun around and took one last look at the house. ‘I’ll be back, you lovely old place,’ she whispered, ‘and then we’ll work out what to do with you.’

‘I think you’ve fallen in love,’ he said.

She could feel herself blushing furiously.

They passed a middle-aged Indian man standing in front of the gate to the nearest house. A gardener, she thought, judging by his clothes.

She and Oliver exchanged glances and then stepped towards him.

‘Good morning,’ she said, and the man inclined his head. ‘Does he understand me?’ she asked Oliver, who just looked amused.

‘Yes, madam, I speak English for many years now,’ the man said.

She felt herself blushing again. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Do you mind me asking how long you have worked here?’

His smile was proud. ‘All my life, madam.’

‘So, you started here when?’

‘As a boy. I was fifteen and so it must have been 1895.’

‘Quite a while then.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I don’t suppose you remember the time when a baby disappeared from the garden next door?’

He frowned and then with a solemn look he spoke. ‘A terrible time it was. The police were everywhere.’

‘And what did people think had happened?’

‘Many of the British thought it was the lady herself.’

‘And you? What did you think?’

He shook his head. ‘I knew the poor lady. She was always polite to me, enquiring after my family and such. No, I never could believe such a thing of her.’

‘So, what did you think happened to the baby?’

‘I do not know, but the local Burmese people said the baby was taken by supernatural forces summoned by the angry family of a man the lady’s husband had convicted.’

Oliver glanced at Belle and nodded. ‘The Burmese are highly superstitious.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, they believe in nats. Spirits, if you like. They erect magical devices outside their houses to prevent the evil spirits from entering.’

‘But what exactly are nats?’

‘Anything from a spirit living in a tree to a Hindu deity. We could probably find out if your father had ever been threatened with a nat.’

‘Oh, come on, Oliver. What would be the point?’ She turned to the gardener. ‘Thank you for talking to me.’

He bowed, then opened the gate and walked through.

‘So,’ she said. ‘What now?’

Oliver hesitated for a moment. ‘Coffee at my place? I have something to show you.’

And I you, she thought. Intrigued, she said she’d be delighted.

His apartment was in a purpose-built Victorian block. The sitting room was painted a soft white and, equipped with rattan furniture, comfy emerald-coloured silk cushions and beautiful blue and green Persian rugs, felt unexpectedly homely, as if it had enjoyed a woman’s touch. Four tall oriental-looking lamps stood in the corners of the room casting a soft patterned glow on to the parquet flooring. Billowing white curtains framed a fine view of tall trees in the street beyond, a polished coffee table sat in front of a sofa and a small desk was pushed up against one wall. Another wall boasted floor-to-ceiling shelves of teak packed tightly with books almost to overflowing. Pleased to be in his apartment, and smiling to herself, she felt at ease. She walked along the length of the shelves, glancing at the book titles and running a finger over their spines.

‘You have eclectic tastes.’

‘I have to in my game.’

‘Game? Is that what journalism is to you? A sport?’

He grinned. ‘You’re very hard on me.’

She laughed. ‘Am I?’

He went into another room, and she could hear the clunk of china and cutlery as he prepared their coffee. After a few minutes he came back carrying a tray with the coffee already poured into dainty white cups, accompanied by a selection of unusual biscuits, or maybe they were cakes.

He saw her looking. ‘They’re Indian. Try one.’

She picked one and bit into the scented sweetness.

‘So what was it you wanted to show me?’