He’s not your child, your lover, or your husband. He’s NOT your responsibility!
Mary chided herself for being soft and foolish. She should have been long gone by now. Like that starling, swooping off to some far-off hot country. He was a grown man and whoever had jumped him, beaten him, knifed him, they were the ones who should carry any burden of guilt. Not her. Anyway, she had to look out for herself, since no one else was going to. She was in the position she was in – whoring, thieving in order to pay the rent on that piss-stinking room – because she’d been stupid and naïve enough to let her heart rule her head.
That wonderful plan of hers. That plan that seemed like a lifetime ago. As it happened, she’d found work not as a piano tutor, as she’d hoped, but as an au pair. A nanny for a wealthy family – Mr and Mrs Frampton-Parker and their two boys – living in a beautiful, crescent-shaped drive in Holland Park. Such a lovely place. They had another home in Italy they went to in the winter months. Six months abroad, then returned for spring and summer. They were that kind of rich.
Mr Frampton-Parker, a man fifteen years older than her, married to a woman ten years older than himself. Quite clearly a marriage for money. His eyes wandered; of course they did. And they’d very quickly rested on her. Eighteen then, just turning nineteen. Still a child, she realised now. So she had wholly believed him – stupidly believed him – when he said he was going to announce to his wife that he had fallen out of love with her and was going to instigate a divorce. That they would be free to be together and could live just fine on his half of the divorce settlement.
But then, of course, one day not too long after they’d ‘started’, his wife caught them out. A careless tryst in a dark corner of the large house and the man, in a blind panic, had turned savagely on Mary. Blamed her for everything, for flirting with him, throwing herself at him. That he’d succumbed to a moment of weakness in the face of Mary’s relentless campaign to steal him away from his wife.
She wasn’t going to get any work like that again. She wasn’t ever going to get a job like that again. It was the need for a reference that finished her chances. Even chasing jobs as a shop girl, they wanted to know her life story. She did actually manage to get work on a stall in the Covent Garden market for a while, but the money wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. The other girls who worked on the stalls there lived with their families still; their money contributed to a family pot. Mary’s money was all she had.
And that was where her slippery slope began.
She placed a forkful of a gloriously light sponge topped with thick cream and jam into her mouth and savoured it with eyes firmly closed. Luxury she hadn’t enjoyed in over four years. Not since she’d packed her bag and been escorted out of that house by the Frampton-Parkers’ cook and valet.
I could make a home for us.
Mary opened her eyes. The idea had popped into her head from nowhere. But she could; she actually, really could. The Frampton-Parkers left their home for Italy at the beginning of September, didn’t they? Like bloody clockwork. Every year. It would be closed for the winter, the furniture dressed in dust sheets, the window drapes drawn. And it remained like that until late February, a week before they returned, when their staff came back and dusted, cleaned and aired the property, and fired-up the coke-burning boiler in the basement ready for their return.
She knew Mr and Mrs Frampton-Parker left the keys to their home with a property letting agent in the hope that a convenient and ‘acceptable’ short-term tenant could be found. But they bemoaned the fact that the agent had been unsuccessful thus far in generating some income from their empty house.
Mary smiled. I really could.
She knew the house well. She knew where she could break in without alerting anyone. Or better, if she had the brass nerves to do it, she could walk right into the letting agent’s office and place six months’ rent right there in his hand. He wouldn’t know who she was – the scurrilous au pair who’d ‘tempted’ Mr Frampton-Parker. That was three years ago, anyway. So long as all the money was up front and she appeared to be suitably well-mannered.
I can do that.
There was something in that idea that provided a unified solution to variously conflicting dilemmas. Yes, she could run with this money – but she realised she didn’t want to. Her wiser, older self rationalised that quite reasonably: ‘John’ might just be a businessman, as Dr Hart had suggested. A businessman with significantly more money back in America. Who knows? A business empire of some sort? Factories? Warehouses? Ships? Her wiser, older self calmly explained that she didn’t want to run because there was, quite possibly, much more money to be made from this poor lost soul than the five thousand she’d found in his satchel.
But another part of her also couldn’t help suspecting she didn’t want to run because, well, truth be told, she was rather fond of John Argyll. There was something about him. A gentleness. A kindness. An innocence.
Oh, Mary. Get a grip!
She looked at the sponge cake, her appetite suddenly gone. Her stomach lurched and churned with butterflies. Nerves. If she was going to do this, she was going to need to be smart and calm, and not play around with childish fantasies and dreams of romance.
John’s my investment. Nothing more.
CHAPTER 11
17th July 1888, Great Queen Street, Central London
‘This has become very dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.’
The others present nodded in agreement as they watched the crackling fire in the grate send phantoms dancing across the oak panelled walls of the Barclay Room.
‘George, how the hell did this happen?’
Warrington stirred in the winged-back armchair, worn leather creaking beneath him. ‘I used a local thug to deal with the matter. Local and not particularly well-connected. Awful scoundrel wouldn’t have been missed by anyone.’
‘But now this scoundrel appears to be blackmailing us?’
Warrington shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of the others. ‘He claimed to have something in his possession. A memento, a keepsake. Some sort of damned locket. I would have given our chaps the nod to . . . deal with him then and there. But, I just thought we need to be sure if he’s telling the truth or not. He could be trying to play us for silly buggers. Or he really could have found something.’
‘Perhaps, George, whether he has something or not is irrelevant. The fact is he suspects there’s reason to blackmail. That alone means I’d rather this low-life was at the bottom of the Thames and crab-food as soon as possible,’ said Henry Rawlinson. His eyes twinkled beneath thick white brows and above drawn, liver-spotted cheeks. He stroked a bare chin thoughtfully as the others nodded in silent agreement.
‘If the fellow even suspects there’s some rich pickings to be had, then he already knows far too much,’ said Rawlinson.
‘My concern, Henry, is that he does really have something.’ Warrington wondered if there was ever going to be a better time to tell them the worst of it. ‘He mentioned a portrait . . . a small photographic portrait. A miniature.’
A spoon clattered noisily against fine china.
‘Good god!’ one of them gasped.
‘Warrington, are you serious?’
‘That’s what he claimed.’
‘Please tell us you mean a portrait of the woman alone.’
If only.
‘All of them, I’m afraid. “Very much the happy family.” Those were his words.’
The men sat in silence, contemplating that information. The old man, Rawlinson, stirred his tea gently. The three others in their little group – The Steering Committee, which was Rawlinson’s euphemism – waited to see what Rawlinson had to say.
‘A photograph?’ He shook his head and tutted.
‘The stupid fool,’ muttered one of the others.
‘He’s still so young,’ said Rawlinson, ‘and so reckless.’
‘That’s no excuse. The young man has to be much smarter than this. After all, this girl, she was Fr
ench, wasn’t she?’
‘And Catholic. An artist’s model, I believe.’
‘The man is a damned liability!’ growled one of them: Oscar Crosbourne. Warrington looked at the man as he agitatedly thumbed the stem of his pipe. Younger than Rawlinson, but still one of this unofficial committee of silver-haired elders. ‘With these bloody problems we’re having in Ireland, the troubles the press are stoking up in the East End, grumblings of revolution not only on foreign city streets, but right here in London! And the stupid young fool decides to get a foreign Catholic tart pregnant?! We’d be better off tossing him into the Thames!’
There was a long silence. Warrington watched the old men sharing glances that spoke of age-old allegiances and hidden agendas, accepted protocols and boundaries of behaviour.
‘Let’s not have any more talk like that in here, Crosbourne. We’ve all sworn oaths, you understand? No more talk like that.’ Rawlinson turned his rheumy, old, grey eyes onto Warrington. ‘Now, George, what are you suggesting?’
‘I would suggest we need to treat Tolly’s claim seriously.’
‘Do we know where to find him? Surely he could be paid a visit, his rooms searched for the item?’
‘He said he used some associates on this job. More than one. There is a danger that if something unpleasant was to happen to Tolly, then his associates might panic, might flee, might go to ground . . . perhaps might even go to a newspaper with what they have, what they know.’
A log in the fire place spat a lump of glowing charcoal onto the tile hearth.
‘God help us!’ whispered Rawlinson, ‘if that happened.’
‘So, come on, George,’ said Crosbourne. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Much as I’m appalled that this little . . .’ He wanted to curse, but manners before his elders stayed him.
‘You can call him a little bastard if you want,’ said Rawlinson.
Warrington nodded. ‘This little bastard thinks he has us in a fix, and I would be inclined to let him believe this is so. Let him think he will have the money he’s asked for, in due course.’
‘How much has he asked for?’
‘Two thousand pounds.’
‘Is that all?’ gasped one of the others. ‘Good lord, George, well pay the bloody man then and let’s have that picture back!’
‘But if we do, what’s to stop them asking for more? What’s to stop them taking our money, and then trying to get some more from a newspaper, for example?’
‘Of course, of course, George is quite right,’ said Rawlinson. ‘We don’t just need this item back – that is, if they really have it. We also need to be sure that there is no one, other than those of us in this room, who know about the woman.’ He looked at them. ‘More importantly, the baby.’
They were silent for a while, watching the flames licking around the glowing ends of the last log in the grate.
‘Our mistake was assuming the woman had nothing left, nothing on her that was evidence of this . . . affair. And perhaps your error, George, was employing a local amateur.’
‘I used Tolly because, well, he’s expendable. That was the plan, gentlemen. This is what we agreed to. To make sure he did the job, then in turn was disposed of.’
Rawlinson reached out a hand and patted Warrington’s arm. ‘I understand why, George, but it has turned out to be a problem. An amateur has no reputation to preserve. An amateur is an opportunist, someone who might decide he would like a little more money later on. Perhaps after he has spent all his swag, acquired a gambling debt, spent it all on alcohol or opium or whatever that type spend their money on, perhaps an amateur like that would come knocking for more money.’
The old man settled back in his winged leather chair and tipped the last of the tepid cup of tea into his mouth. He smacked his lips thoughtfully.
‘I have an old friend in New York. He’s one of us.’ He nodded assurance. ‘They use a chap over there for problems such as this one. Bit of a bloodhound, I’ve been told. Good nose for finding people, finding things. Very, very reliable.’
‘This man’s in America? It will take weeks to get him here.’ Oscar looked at the others. ‘We need this Tolly chap dead now! Before he gets impatient and—’
‘George, will he?’
Warrington stroked his jaw thoughtfully. ‘I left Tolly with the assurance that he will get his money. But that it was going to take me some time to get hold of it. I think he believes that. To him, two thousand pounds is an unimaginable fortune. He’ll be patient. He’ll wait around for his money. For a little while yet, anyway.’ He looked at the others pointedly. ‘Just as long as he isn’t spooked.’
Rawlinson nodded slowly. ‘I shall send a telegram to my friend, then. See if he can contact this fellow they use.’
CHAPTER 12
25th September 1888, Marble Arch, London
Argyll looked on in admiration at the horse-drawn tram running on metal rails down the middle of the Strand. He shuffled in his wheelchair to watch it go past.
‘You like the trams, John?’ said Mary.
He nodded. ‘They remind me of . . . something.’
‘Do they have trams like these in America?’ she asked, steering the chair around a fruit seller.
He rubbed his temple in a repeated circular motion, a habit she had noticed he’d developed over the last week, something he did when he was trying to coax something from his mind.
‘Yes . . . I think so.’
She wondered if that was an answer he had drawn from his memory, or just an assumption he was making. She knew he had produced some fleeting images of his life before. Last evening, as they played cards again on his hospital bed, he was able to tell her he thought he lived in a big city once – tall buildings and busy streets. But it was not London he was seeing, he was almost certain of that.
America. That’s where he was from, but no idea where in the country precisely. She knew nothing about the country. Nothing but the occasional things she’d seen in the penny papers: terrifying-looking Indian warriors and continent-spanning railroads.
Last night, John, beginning now to try and piece the fragments of his life together, had asked her how they’d first met. She replied with one of her rehearsed answers, one she’d practised several times over back in her lodgings, knowing the question was going to arise sooner or later.
‘Covent Garden,’ she’d said. She went on to describe how they’d bumped into each other quite by accident. He’d literally bowled her off her feet and had felt so ashamed and apologetic, he’d offered to make amends by buying her tea.
He craned his neck to look up at her. ‘So do we live near here, Mary?’
‘Not too far. Our home is in a place called Holland Park.’
‘Is it a busy place, like this?’
‘No. Quiet and peaceful. Just what you and I both need, I fancy.’
His bandaged head bobbed with approval.
‘It’s a beautiful place. A tree-lined avenue with a row of lovely, tall houses.’
Mary smiled. She’d done it. She had gone and done it. She’d walked bold as brass into the letting agents and enquired about Number 67. There’d been an awful moment when he’d looked up at her, and Mary had wondered whether a trace of the East End had been in her voice. Or that she might have swaggered in through the agency’s double doors instead of gliding. But then he’d smiled warmly, and offered her a chair to sit in.
She had her ready-made story: her American cousin was convalescing in London after an unfortunate accident. They needed somewhere quiet for a few months, just the pair of them. The little park in front of the tree-lined row of houses seemed absolutely perfect. Oh, and was it suitably furnished?
Ten minutes later, the gentlemen had his bowler hat on and keys jangling in his eager hands as he showed her around bedrooms and stairwells she was already very familiar with. She nodded politely at his sales patter, laughed tolerantly at his gushing attempts to be humorous. And when he showed her the boiler in the basement and ask
ed whether she would like to pay a little extra for the property’s handyman to come in once a day to keep an eye on the coal burner, she declined.
‘My father taught me how to run a steam tractor. I can manage a domestic boiler quite adequately.’
The deal was done, money exchanged, and her name – Mrs Argyll – tidily written on a rental contract by the end of the morning.
She slowly pushed his wheelchair along Oxford Street, past Marble Arch, on to Bayswater Road, and finally through to Hyde Park, where they stopped for tea and watched a brass band playing on the band stand and children chasing pigeons across freshly clipped lawns.
His eyes . . . John had eyes with well-defined crow’s feet – a mature man’s eyes. She could imagine them squinting back prairie sunlight from beneath the brim of a felt hat, counting heads of cattle. Or gazing out upon factory floors full of noisy machines and a thousand immigrant workers. Eyes of an intelligent man. Now, though, they lit up with childlike innocence and pleasure as the pigeons scattered, circled and swooped down behind their tormentors to resume pecking at seeds and breadcrumbs on the ground.
Mary realised, as she quietly studied his face, how far she had become immersed in this little fiction of hers. It had all started out as an impulsive gamble to see whether a dying man she’d callously robbed was alive or dead. Now . . . ? Now she was taking on the care of a total stranger. A boy-like man she knew absolutely nothing about. She smiled at John’s little-boy delight at the fluttering of pigeons, at the toy sailing boats bobbing on the duck pond. She realised that although she had to be about half his age, in a funny way it was as if she’d become his mother.
Oh my . . . what am I doing?
Something one of the other street girls she knew often said: In for a penny, in for a pound.
As midday passed and the morning’s sun ducked behind scudding grey clouds, she decided that it was time to take John home. To their new home.