At the question, Clare looked round the room. Like the rest of the house, she’d renovated it over the years. A wreck when she’d bought it in the days when Spitalfields was considered a backwater to which no respectable person would ever aspire, it now stood along a terrace of similar residences in a narrow cobbled street where once French Huguenot weavers had plied their trade. They’d lived in abject conditions of damp, darkness, and disease, the stench of their poverty a miasma not even the rain could clear. Right into the middle of the twentieth century the place had been a ghetto. Now, on the other hand and like more and more of London, it was something of a coup to find housing that was remotely affordable in this spot, so gentrified had it become.
Cleverly, Clare had done little to change the exterior of her home. Her front door was still spattered with yellow graffiti, and the window boxes—where they existed and had not fallen off the building entirely—offered up dead plants and the occasional bird’s nest. The windows were never washed, and the ill-hung venetian blinds behind them were intended to suggest that nothing worthwhile could be found within. This made sense to Rory in an area undergoing great change. It also made sense when the house stood unoccupied for weeks at a time while Clare was in Dorset or off lecturing somewhere.
Inside the place, though, all was first-rate. This included the kitchen which Clare admitted ruefully, she’d never used to cook a full meal. She did her breakfast, of course. She made the occasional sandwich as well. She heated up soup. And she did bring in takeaway, if that counted for something. Rory laughed and told her it didn’t. To her question of Why go to the expense of a kitchen like this, you mad woman?, Clare offered the excuse of It’s quite nice to look at, wouldn’t you say?
She poured herself the last of the wine, dividing it with Rory. Above them on the street, they heard footsteps running along the pavement. Someone shouted and someone else replied. The smell of cigarette smoke came to them faintly through the open basement window.
“You were brilliant tonight,” Rory told Clare. “I could tell something special set you off. What was it?” When Clare didn’t reply at first, she added, “Have you put a man in his place recently? A lover who began to have expectations of you?”
“It was the audience,” Clare said. “There was a group of women right up front, some religious group, I daresay. They were positively firing eye bullets at me from the moment I picked up the microphone. Lord, how I love getting up people’s noses.”
Rory smiled. “This book’s done it for you, Clare. D’you know we’ve gone back for a ninth printing?”
“That’s down to the Darcy bit,” Clare declared. “I’m not so stupid as to think the book took off on its own merits. It’s the title. And the cover image, coming up with the visual that the name implies. Tight trousers, knee boots, some sort of delicious cutaway, frothy whatever at the neck of his shirt, tousled hair, burning eyes directed across the room at Elizabeth Bennet. Who wouldn’t want Darcy? I bet even you want him. He could probably turn a heterosexual man.”
Rory laughed. “You really are terrible. But, on the other hand, it’s true.”
“Which part? That Darcy could make you like men or that you’re a genius for coming up with the title and the image?”
“The latter,” Rory said. “Those tight crème trousers—”
“Aha!” Clare pounced. “So he’s in there, isn’t he? In the back of your mind. You’re waiting for those burning eyes of his, Rory. Every woman is, no matter her inclination.”
“You included?”
Clare shot her a look. She did not, however, make a reply. Instead, she sawed off another chunk of salami, topped it with a large hunk of cheese, and took a huge and very Clare-like bite. “Thank God for imported food,” she said, past her chewing. “What about you?”
“Me and food? I adore imported food.”
“You and you-know-very-well. Anyone on the horizon yet?”
Rory bent and ran her fingers through Arlo’s tousled fur. “I just don’t think I want to go there again, Clare.”
Clare nodded thoughtfully in that way she had. It told one she was considering what she wanted to say. This was characteristic of her when she was with friends. Out in public, the woman was a cannon of witty or acerbic off-the-cuff remarks. But with those close to her, she was entirely different. She was careful, she knew her power to wound, and she never used it with those she cared for. She said, “I’m not about to say to you that what happened was a lifetime ago, because it wasn’t. But what is it now, Rory? Nine years?”
“Nearly.”
“And you’ve come a bloody long way in recovering. But for someone like you, there’s a final step. Unlike me, you aren’t meant to be alone. There’s a woman out there who wants what you have to offer, and who’s also ready to receive it.”
Rory felt that hardening inside of her, as if part of herself was undergoing a very quick freeze. It had always been thus when the truth wasn’t quite being spoken as it needed to be, and that was especially the case just now. She reached for her wineglass and said to Clare, “You know this, do you?”
Clare tapped her temple and said, “You need to listen to Auntie Clare. She knows what’s what.”
“If that’s the case . . . knowing what’s what . . .” Rory glanced at the bottom of the stairway that led up to the living quarters in the house. It was an automatic move on her part to check for listeners. Clare followed her gaze and frowned. She was no conversational fool, so she would sense a coming change in topic. Rory said, “Listen, Clare, something quite extraordinary happened this evening.” And she told her about Caroline removing Clare’s business card from the woman to whom she’d given it. Rory referred to her as “that tee-shirt woman: She turned out to be a detective from the Met. I only mention it because this isn’t the first time I’ve noted that Caroline tends to overstep. Now, don’t say anything for a moment. I understand that part of her job is to keep you out of trouble when you’re being too generous with people, but when I spoke to this woman—the Scotland Yard detective—”
“Scotland Yard detective?” Clare barked a laugh. “I feel like Miss Marple!”
“Let me finish, Clare. When I spoke to this woman and found out why you’d given her your card—because of this tee-shirt thing—it seemed to me that as she’d been standing right there, Caroline must have known fully well why you’d handed your card over: so the woman could post you something. Look, I know it’s none of my business—”
“My life is your business.”
“—but do you want her to do this sort of thing so arbitrarily? You might have given your card to someone who wishes you to speak, to be part of a conference or a seminar, to travel to Europe or even to America where, as we both know, the opportunities for your books are virtually untapped.”
“Always the businesswoman,” Clare said lightly.
“That’s part of my job. But this situation . . . it’s more than that. She really shouldn’t be overstepping herself.”
Clare reached for her wine and a handful of olives. She began popping the latter into her mouth as she took in Rory’s words. Rory thought at first she meant not to answer at all, but she finally said, “Listen. I really couldn’t do without her. I might not be competent at reining her in when she truly gets going, but she’s only doing what you would do in the same position.”
“Fishing your business cards out of the pockets of people to whom you gave them? I hardly think so.”
“Attempting to keep me on course. That’s all it is.”
Rory was unconvinced. There was something about Caroline Goldacre that worried her. She wanted to get to the heart of what it was, but she couldn’t put a name to it, so she said, “At least tell me why she’s begun to travel with you. You’ve never before needed a minder on the road.” A thought suddenly struck her. She said, “Clare, is something wrong? You’re not ill, are you? Has something happened that yo
u can’t manage on your own any longer?”
Clare hooted. “Darling, I’m strong as a horse. Unless . . . d’you mean early dementia or something? Absolutely not. I’m fit as a mule. Pardon the equine references. I do note I just gave you two. That’s certainly not a good sign.”
“I’m not joking. You’ve always had me to manage things when it comes to your book signings. You’ve had me as well if you needed someone when you’ve gone on tour. So now to have us both with you . . . I have to ask it. If there’s nothing gone wrong with you, with your health, is there something else happening that I need to know about?”
Clare took more olives. She looked at Rory frankly. “What would that be?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But I’m asking because I’m rather worried. Look, I understand how you might want her in Shaftesbury: dealing with your mail, managing your schedule, setting up appointments and engagements, even keeping your house and doing your cooking. But beyond that . . . Clare, I must be frank. It seems as if she’s rather too dug into your life.”
“Because I brought her with me to London? That’s nothing. She wanted to see her son. He lives not far from here. She popped over there late this afternoon.” As Rory had done, Clare glanced towards the stairway before going on. “See here, Rory. This is what it is: Her younger boy died three years ago, a short time before she and I met. He killed himself, and there was no mistaking it for an accident. She’s had a rotten time of it since then. The way I see it is that she lost someone quite precious to her and when that happens, the survivor needs . . .” Clare seemed to catch the expression Rory couldn’t keep from her face because she said, “Oh Christ. I’m so bloody sorry.”
“It’s all right. Fiona didn’t kill herself.”
Clare nodded but her brow furrowed. From this, Rory knew she believed she’d gone too far. It was the wine, she was thinking. It made fools of them all. At her feet Arlo had begun to snore lightly. She glanced down at him, feeling how her heart actually did swell—as they always declared in novels—with love for the little beast. She said, “I’d be dead myself without this bloody little dog.”
“I don’t believe that. You owe your life to your courage. But Caroline doesn’t have that. And she’s not found a way to cope with her loss, aside from working for me.”
“Is that what she tells you?”
“It’s what I see.”
“So are you trying to do for her what you did for me, then? Giving her time and a place just to . . . I don’t know . . . just recover?”
“I’m giving her employment.”
“And is she at least good at her employment?”
“Not particularly. Not all of it.”
“Then why not have her do something else? Be . . . merely a housekeeper for you?”
Clare rose from the table and began removing the items. She told Rory to stay where she was in order not to disturb her sleeping dog. She loved the little pooch, perhaps not as much as Rory but with equal gratitude for how Arlo made it possible for Rory to go out again in the world. She said, “I did try that, but she wouldn’t have it. Oh, she did a bit of housekeeping for me at first, but she kept declaring herself capable of so much more. Research, ideas, a resource of individuals available for me to interview or study, editorial services, website designs and maintenance, Twitter feeds, blogs, the whole lot of what you at the publishing house would have me do and what I’ve been avoiding. She asked me for a chance just to show me how many ways she could be useful to me and—for my sins—I decided to give her that chance. Well, heavens, darling, what else could I do? There was always the possibility that I’d stumbled on a gold mine of talent there in Shaftesbury.”
“So how has it worked out? Is she helping you with the next book? Has she blogged in your name? Is she maintaining a Twitter feed for you?”
Clare wrapped the salami, began to dump the olives and peaches and grapes into their separate containers. “I expect you know the answer to that.”
“Then why not sack her? Or if not that, why not say, ‘Afraid it has to be merely housekeeping full stop, old girl, as you’re not up to the rest’?”
“It’s simply not that easy.”
Rory frowned. There was something Clare wasn’t telling her. She could feel it there, just out of reach, hovering like one of the Huguenot ghosts who walked the nighttime streets of Spitalfields. She said, “Tell me why. Please.”
Clare seemed to think the request over as she stored their food in the fridge. She didn’t answer till she’d finally returned to the table and sat. Then she said, “As women, we have a responsibility to one another that men don’t have. I’ve lived my life trying to follow that creed.”
“As you did with me. I know.”
“So when I first met Caroline—this was at the Women’s League in Shaftesbury—and I heard her story, I thought how simple a thing it would be to extend my hand to her, if only to relieve one small part of the suffering she was going through. I’ve been enormously lucky in my own life and—”
“You grew up on a bloody sheep farm in the Shetland Islands. You had a brother who in the dark of night—”
“Yes. Right. Let’s not go there please. My point is that I had parents who believed in me, a bloody good education, a chance to travel the world, a wonderful gap year in East Asia that opened my eyes to what women in male-dominated societies—not to mention real poverty—have to endure. And on and on. While she had an early and very unhappy marriage to flee from her mum, and she never managed to find her own strength and purpose. She made her purpose her children, like so many women do, Rory. And then one of them killed himself. These are things I’ve never had to face. And when one’s been lucky as I’ve been lucky . . .” She shrugged. “I have no other way to explain it to you. Other than to say it’s who I am.”
Rory took this in. Everything Clare had said was the truth. She did believe in a fellowship of women. She had spent most of her life acting upon that belief. So there was really nothing untoward in what she’d been doing for Caroline Goldacre. Yet Rory continued to feel unsettled.
She said, “I suppose I have to accept it all then,” although she could hear the reluctance in her voice. “But . . . she’s not getting in the way of your next book, is she? How’s it coming along? It’s a brilliant idea as a follow-up to Darcy. I salivate each time I think of it, Clare.”
“The going’s a bit slow at the moment with all the Darcy hoopla. But, dear editor, I shall make the deadline as I ever have.”
“If you can’t, all you need to do is to let me know. Anything can be pulled from the catalogue.”
Clare waved off this idea. “I’m entirely dedicated to striking while the iron is et cetera, as you well know,” she said. “I fully intend to have it finished on time so that you and I can move into the future rich and fat and famous, my dear.”
31 JULY
VICTORIA
LONDON
As he approached her from the labyrinthine security area, Lynley didn’t realise at first that the woman waiting for one of the lifts was Dorothea Harriman. He had never seen the departmental secretary reading a book and because of this, he didn’t at first take note of the perfect ensemble and perfect blonde locks that marked her as forever Dorothea. It wasn’t until she said his name that he recognised, from her habitual use of his full rank, Dorothea as the speaker.
“Why’ve you got paint on your hands, Detective Inspector Lynley?” she enquired. “And are you aware there’s also quite a streak of it in your hair above your right ear?”
“Is there indeed?” He felt for the latter and recognised from its unusual texture that she was correct. Of course, the colour alone would have indicated paint to her since fuchsia rather announced itself in ways that, perhaps, brown would not have done. “Ah,” he said. “Clearly, not enough shampoo this morning.” And to divert her from repeating her question, he asked one of his own, “What are y
ou reading? You looked fairly engrossed.”
She closed the book and handed it over. “Rubbish,” she said.
He read the cover. Looking for Mr. Darcy: The Myth of Happily Ever After. He took in the author’s name and flipped, as was his habit, to see if there was a recent photo of the well-known feminist. There was. Over the years, Clare Abbott had become quite rakish in appearance, wildly grey-haired and looking fierce behind thick-framed spectacles of a style that had gone by the wayside at least seventy years earlier. He started to return the book to Dorothea, who held up her hands in a gesture that told him she wanted no further part of the thing. The lift doors opened, and they entered together. She punched for their floor and settled back against the railing that ran along the wall.
“You’re not enjoying it?” he asked politely.
“Stuff and nonsense written by a lesbian, a man-hater, or a general misotrist.”
Lynley didn’t correct her on the final word. He got the point. “So I suppose you’re not reading in advance of taking the marital plunge?”
“Detective Sergeant Havers gave it to me.” She gazed up at the numbers that lit to show them the floors they were passing. She sighed and gestured to the book. “This, I’m afraid, was the result of our first experience together in life beyond the walls of New Scotland Yard.”