“She planned her escape.”
“Someone did.”
He looked up from his half-filled pipe, one eyebrow going up.
“When she arrived, last Monday, Vivian told Ronnie’s mother that she wanted to wear her diamonds for the celebration. These aren’t the Beaconsfield family jewels—which, since Edward isn’t married, Ronnie’s mother planned to wear—but a set left to Vivian by her mother. A heavy, old-fashioned necklace, tiara, bracelet, and earrings. So when Lady Dorothy got the Beaconsfield necklace out of the bank vault before the party, she brought Vivian’s as well.”
“And the mad aunt took those with her.”
“Those, and an assortment of other small valuables. The house being in such turmoil with the party, no one noticed—or rather, Lady Dorothy noticed on Friday night that the jewellery was missing, but she wasn’t about to bring it to the Marquess’ attention, since it would have caused a fury. She planned to go down to Bedlam on Tuesday and quietly retrieve them. Except that Monday night, she learned that her sister-in-law was not there.”
“And the attendant?”
“No one has seen her, either.”
The words fell into the night, turning the June air cool. After a time, Holmes stirred, and struck a match to hold to his pipe bowl. Our surroundings danced for a moment in the brightness, then darkness fell again as he shook out the flame.
“Three possibilities?” he suggested.
“I agree. One, Vivian planned her escape from Bedlam, and the nurse is in on it. Two, the nurse fell to temptation, and has either abducted Vivian or done away with her. Or three, someone else has set it up to look as if the madwoman has struck.”
“Why not: four, that Vivian Beaconsfield planned her escape, and has done away with the nurse?”
“I can’t see that,” I said. “True, the woman’s hold on reality appears slippery. But nothing in her attitude or her background speaks to cold-blooded murder.”
“Fireplace pokers?” he murmured.
Well, there was that.
“In any event, I told Ronnie I’d see what I could do. I’ll go up to Town tomorrow and talk with her, then probably take the train down to Selwick to have a word with the family.”
“And the servants,” he added.
“And the estate manager, who will know about insurance and the condition of the Beaconsfield finances.”
“Shall I begin enquiries about the principals? The Marquess, Vivian herself, the nurse?”
“Don’t bother with Ronnie’s mother. Lady Dorothy hasn’t the imagination for crime. The others, yes. If you can keep it very quiet.”
Sherlock Holmes did not dignify my caveat with an answer.
Chapter Four
HOLMES CAME UP TO TOWN with me the next morning, both to set his enquiries under way and (of greater concern) to do some work at the British Library. We went our separate ways at the Victoria station, he to his books and me to my family in turmoil. As we parted, I told him not to expect me back in Sussex for a day or two. His hand came up in a half-wave of acknowledgment.
Ronnie lived along the southern edges of the Maida Vale area. As I walked over from the Edgware Road stop, I thought my preoccupation with her Aunt Vivian had begun to invade my hearing as well as my mind: uncanny wails seemed to echo through the streets as I neared, eerie ululations that grew ever louder as I approached her door. It took some pounding to draw her attention, but she eventually came, looking harried and unkempt and not far from tears herself.
Behind her, young Master Simon broke off his full-throated protests to eye the cause of this outrageous interruption.
“Mary, sorry! Hope you haven’t been here long—come in, I’ll put on the kettle. I don’t know if Simon is teething, though it seems unlikely at his age, or if he’s coming down with something. He may simply be constipated—Nurse is determined to introduce him to the pot and he’s equally deter—”
Fortunately for my delicate sensibilities, the young man decided we’d had long enough on our own and opened his mouth again.
I’d never realised how difficult it could be to carry on intelligent conversation over an unhappy child. Or even carry out intelligent thought: I could well see why the lad’s nurse had taken to her bed with a sick head-ache. After five minutes of trying to speak over the roar, I told Ronnie I wouldn’t take tea, thanks, but thought I’d set off for Selwick right away, and see her on my way back through Town.
I could only hope that by the time I returned, the nurse would either be recovered, or replaced.
Standing in the flat’s doorway while the three-year-old scion of the Beaconsfield clan expressed his utter fury from around her knees, Ronnie handed me a photograph of her aunt, and managed to convey the information that her mother would be home and expecting me. I made my hasty escape, thanking all the domestic gods that I had not been chosen to reproduce. I took a nice peaceable, solitary luncheon while a photographer’s studio made some copies of the photo. I also stopped by a telegraphist’s to confirm my arrival at Selwick, leaving the arrival time vague so Ronnie’s mother would not feel obliged to provide a car.
I’d been to Selwick Hall two or three times, brief visits that tended to be a flurry of social activities rather than leisurely days pottering about the countryside. Which was unfortunate, in a way, since the countryside was classically English Downland, with gently rolling hills and ancient patches of woodland. On a June afternoon, with no cloud in the sky, it would be no hardship to walk the two miles to the Hall.
The hedgerows were white with blossom, the fields scattered with new-cropped sheep. Twice I had to press into the hawthorn so as not to be run down by speeding motorcars, and twice laboriously peel my garments out of the thorns. Once my heart nearly stopped when a trio of partridges exploded up from the silent road, and once I spent an awkward couple of minutes trying to engage a sullen child in conversation before leaving him to his swinging gate.
I eventually turned down the drive from the lane, and made my way towards Selwick Hall.
The house was neither grand nor particularly large by Surrey standards, a redbrick, three-storey building with pseudo-Elizabethan chimneys and a slightly off-centre portico that emphasised the lopsided nature of the two wings, only one of which was deep enough for a series of rooms. It was the kind of house that called for a large and boisterous family, instead of individuals left behind by death.
Ronnie had grown up in the main house, but after her father died, his widow, child, and sister had moved into the side wing to make room for the Marquess. Ronnie had used the grand ballroom and formal dining room to celebrate her wedding to Miles Fitzwarren, but other than that, I gathered the Marquess kept to his side of the baize doors, and his sister-in-law to hers.
The reason for this long-standing and awkward arrangement had never been fully explained to me—few things are a more sensitive topic to an English person than finances—but I thought that despite his younger brother’s financial acumen, the Marquess was fairly hopeless when it came to sensible investments. I suspected that nothing but the caution of previous generations had preserved the estate itself in Beaconsfield hands—although one might have wished that their practicality had extended to giving the women of the family a say in things, so that Ronnie was not faced with a choice of abandoning her home or pinching every housekeeping penny. So far, she had managed to remain in the London flat she and Miles had called home, but as the boy’s costs grew, she might be forced to reconsider.
And so I left the main drive to follow the path to the east wing, and reached out to pull the bell beside what looked like a trades entrance. In a moment, I found myself looking at Ronnie’s mother.
Tears seemed to be a theme for the day. Like her grandson, The Lady Dorothy had been weeping, although perhaps with less vigour and commotion than the lad, and more of a desire to conceal it.
She’d neve
r been beautiful, no more than Ronnie was—they shared their short, verging-on-stout form and unfortunate pug nose, and neither had ever been able to do much with their mousy hair. I imagined looking at her mother would cause Ronnie some degree of despair, at what she would look like when she was in her middle forties. In fact, my friend’s lack of conventional beauty had always been outweighed (at least, until motherhood took over) by her big heart and her eagerness to change the world; her mother’s dowdy simplicity of spirit had been cramped only by a Victorian upbringing in what a woman did and did not do.
(Ironic, that, considering the entire age took its name from a Queen—who, come to think of it, might have been the physical model for the two Beaconsfield women, minus the black dresses, lace mantillas, and scowl.)
The countess had done her best to hide the redness of eyes and nose, so I pretended not to notice, merely greeting her as the old acquaintance I was. Lady Dorothy led me to a stifling sitting room, told the maid to bring tea, and embarked on a cheery conversation about the heat and the garden. The moment the maid shut the door, she sagged a bit—too well-bred to slump in her chair and blow a puff of air over her face, but that was the effect. She smiled, her first genuine expression since I’d arrived.
“It’s very good of you to come, Mrs, er…” People who knew me before I married Holmes had difficulties with my choice of names—although my problem was nothing compared to this woman’s, with her family links not only to inherited peerages and courtesy titles, but a granted position as well. It was the sort of tangle that only those whose male relatives sat in the House of Lords would be able to keep straight.
“Oh heavens, it’s still Mary.”
“Mary, then. Ronnie said you wanted to talk about Vivian’s disappearance, although I’m not sure what she thinks you can do. We’ve searched all over for her—all the paths and trails, the corners of the house, up in the stables. She did not board a train, no one saw a strange motorcar. Edward even…even had the lake dragged.”
“There’s probably nothing I can do that you haven’t, but I promised Ronnie, she being a bit tied down. I hope you don’t mind if I speak to the servants?”
“Of course not, if it can help. Not that it will take you long,” she added. “There’s only Lily and the cook, and a half-time gardener.”
“Really? I’d have thought this sort of place would take a platoon of polishers.”
“The main house has its own staff, of course. Although even it doesn’t have as many as it should.”
“I suppose these days country girls prefer work in a factory over life in service.”
“Hmm.”
My ears pricked at the sound: there was no agreement there, only her unwillingness to disagree—or, to admit to reduced circumstances.
“You must have brought in a lot of caterers and what-have-you to help with your brother-in-law’s birthday last week. I understand it was quite a bash.”
“That’s not unusual. Edward hosts a lot of week-end parties. His political friends, for the most part. But it’s true, this was busier than usual. Which is why we did not think much about Vivian’s absence—we hadn’t the time. Frankly, it was a relief to have her out of the way. She tried to be helpful, but even the silver she polished needed to be re-done after.”
“I’m surprised the Marquess didn’t bring in all the village women to help!”
Her gaze fell to her hands. “Yes, well, Edward’s had some unfortunate investments of late.”
“I see. Well, tell me about your sister-in-law. How was she, up to the point she left?”
Lady Dorothy looked relieved at my change of subject—easier to talk about the family lunatic than the family money. “I thought she looked marvellous! She’d had her hair bobbed, very fashionable. She’d put on a little weight, which was good since sometimes she looks positively skeletal. She mostly paid attention to the conversation, even held up her part of it. But that nurse—I don’t know. At first, I’d have said Vivian enjoyed her company, but looking back, I wonder if the woman wasn’t…controlling her somehow. It couldn’t be difficult to do, considering Vivian’s state of mind.”
“Controlling her, how?”
“Oh, offering up things to talk about, asking pointed questions, getting in the way of family affairs—the woman claimed that the asylum required her to stay in the room with Vivian every minute, which meant that she had to come to dinner with us—can you imagine? Once or twice I caught Vivian shooting these little glances over, almost as if she was afraid of her.”
“Afraid?” I said sharply. “Physically afraid? Or as if the nurse might give a negative report on her?”
“I don’t really know. Certainly when the two of them were alone—in the garden, walking by the pond—they seemed perfectly comfortable. But as I say, when we dined in the main house, Vivian scarcely said a word, barely touched her plate, sat and looked down at her hands. I wondered, afterwards, whether the nurse might have been so uncomfortable, dining outside of her class like that, that Vivian was afraid she’d have to pay for it later. You hear such dreadful tales about…those places.”
It was a vivid and startling picture, the madwoman cowering in anticipation of her nurse’s revenge over a petty scorning. “You are very fond of your sister-in-law, I think.”
“I love Vivian dearly—I did, at any rate. Oh, Mary, you should have seen her before the War! So delicate and charming—the prettiest girl of her Season. And she seemed to adore it—the parties, the dancing, the spectacle and dressing up. It was only afterwards, when the talk turned sober, that she would fade and cower. The young men did not know what to do. She left early—it was barely July—and went off to Paris all by herself. Oh, with a maid, of course, she wasn’t that bohemian. She knew no one, but that seemed to be what she was after. So odd. At any rate, she never married, and now she’s become such a sad and fragile person, wrapped up in the most dreadful ideas and fantasies. The mind is a terrible thing, when it loses control.” Ronnie’s mother looked up, tears welling. “Please find her, Miss Russell. Help me keep her as safe as she’ll allow.”
“Do you think she may have…” I hesitated to finish the sentence, but she did not.
“Harmed herself? I think she could—I know she could. I lie awake at night and imagine her, putting on those heavy old jewels and dancing into the sea somewhere. But then, I also can imagine that awful nurse, looking at the weight of them and at the fragility of Vivian…She was Italian, after all.”
I blinked at the non-sequitur. “Who? The nurse?”
“Yes! Those dark eyes, that skin, the black hair. Crime runs in their veins, doesn’t it?”
“No more than it does in the veins of Englishmen, Scandinavians, or…Faroe Islanders.”
“I hope you’re right.” But it was mere politeness.
However, the description tugged at my memory. “What was this nurse’s name?”
“Trevisan.”
“I met her, when Ronnie and I went to Bedlam—sorry, Bethlem—three years ago. Isn’t she Cornish?”
“Is she? Odd, I could have sworn she was Italian.”
The villainy of Mediterraneans knew no bounds.
I set down my cup of weak, half-drunk tea, and patted her hand, one of those meaningless gestures that seem to comfort some women. “Could I see your sister-in-law’s rooms?”
“They’ve been tidied,” Lady Dorothy said.
Well, I could only hope the overworked maid had taken a few short-cuts.
Chapter Five
I’M NOT SURE WHAT I expected of a madwoman’s apartment. Chaos, certainly. Clear signs of disintegration and terror. But either the maid had been particularly aggressive here, or I did not understand the impulses of lunacy.
Why had I never seen these rooms before? Had my brief visits coincided with times when Vivian was locked away? I’d always assumed that Ronnie’s disinclination to
invite her Oxford friends home was rooted in a faint embarrassment over her living situation and her mother’s lack of intellectual gifts—but it could not have helped to know that a visitor might encounter an alarmingly erratic aunt.
Vivian’s small private sitting room, in the upper reaches of the wing, was light and airy, remarkably free of clutter compared to the stodgy, dim quarters below. Books were neatly confined to a set of shelves, the bottom two given over to a series of leather-bound sketch-books. A simple, flat-topped desk stood beneath one window, with cups holding drawing-pencils and ink pens. Two chairs and a settee were arranged before the fireplace with a small table at their centre. They were upholstered in a soft green-blue cloth that reminded me of the ocean, and could not have been more than eight or ten years old. The wallpaper, similarly new, had a design so subtle as to appear merely texture. Its colour was a sort of faded terra cotta, with stronger touches of the same near-orange in the room’s carpet and throw-pillows. Two carpets interrupted the polished wood of the floor, a small one under the desk, a larger one connecting the group of pieces in front of the fire—both of them thick, modern, and expensive.
The overall effect was somehow Mediterranean, redolent of clear skies, tile roofs, warm nights.
“Such a bare room,” Ronnie’s mother commented. “This happened after one of her first…fits. One afternoon she just started throwing things out of the windows, lamps and pictures crashing to the ground, and insisted that we have the stableboys up to carry out all the furniture. Every scrap of it, down to the walls and floor-boards. She slept on the bare floor that night, and the next morning came down with her gloves on and set off for Town. I was so concerned that I made her take one of the maids, to ‘help her carry things.’ When she came back that night, she began turning the rooms into…this.”