No Life for a Lady, page 20
‘He gave them to you?’ I sat back on the bench in shock. ‘Why would he give them to you? When?’
‘A few weeks past,’ he said. ‘He owes me a few favours. He’s fond of a bit of cocaine now and then, and I get it in bulk for my eye operations. It numbs the pain. Mind you, Farnham orders more, and if I’d known I could have gone direct.’
That explained Farnham’s twitchiness. I had read in the paper that too much cocaine made you feel like you had ants running under your skin. It didn’t sound like a drug that should be legal. But that meant… that Mr Knight was betraying me, betraying my mother. I had to fire him, properly. He couldn’t stay working for me if he was showing her photographs around indiscriminately, sharing them for titillation. He had to be stopped.
‘Well, thank you for letting me know,’ I said, standing up again. ‘I must decline your request for more.’ Was it marriage or something illicit he was asking for?
‘Violet,’ he said, and that was completely out of order, because we were definitely not lovers and never would be. ‘You are not in a position to set the rules here. You’ll go when I’m ready for you to go. I realise now it was unnecessary to court you in the proper way. You’re not suitable for a wife. But I’d like to see if you’re as saucy as your mother when you get going, so I’ll have a bit of bed sport instead. I’m a handsome chap, you’d like me well enough once we got between the sheets.’
Bed sport? What was that? Did people do sport, in bed, before they actually did whatever it was came next, with the mushrooms? What kind of sport? I could feel my ignorance overwhelming me. Would I ever understand?
‘I am not inclined to partake in any sporting activities in a bed,’ I said. ‘I have to go now. I will not waste time cogitating on what you have said. I think perhaps it would be best if you found yourself another woman, who actually liked you.’
‘I like a challenge,’ he said. ‘I’m bored of paying women to be biddable. Rest assured, you’ll be in my bed before long, for free, and if there’s a bit of wrestling in it, all the better.’
Wrestling? Next he would bring tennis into it. It was all too much. I left him there on the hillside. He did not seem bothered by my rudeness. He stayed seated on the bench, looking out across the vista of Hastings and St Leonards below. He was right about himself, in that he was a very handsome man. It was a shame he was a complete bounder as well. What on earth was I to do about him?
Chapter Fifty
When I got home, Mr Parchment was in the parlour with my father, who was looking very confused. They had obviously been making painful conversation for some time.
‘I don’t know a great deal about waistcoats,’ my father was saying, ‘but your range does sound impressive. I did not know they could come in so many colours and patterns. I shall certainly consider your vest for golfing.’
‘Ask for the single-breasted woollen golf vest edged with braid,’ Mr Parchment said. ‘That is the height of fashion nowadays. Or the Newmarket collarless checked waistcoats. Both are good for the outdoors.’
‘Violet, you are back,’ my father said. ‘This young man is here to see you. I did not know you were still… acquainted.’
‘Apparently so,’ I said. I sat down on a chair, folded my arms and frowned at Mr Parchment.
‘Well, I’ll leave you two young people to it,’ my father said and, good as his word, he was gone.
‘Why are you here?’ I said.
‘I feel our acquaintance has been beset with misunderstandings,’ Mr Parchment said. ‘I thought perhaps we could renew our friendship and start again, on an honest, open footing.’
‘I am not my mother,’ I said. Things couldn’t get more open than that.
‘Yes, I know that,’ he said. ‘I am greatly sorry for your loss, but I do feel you are a little… obsessed with her. It might not be entirely healthy.’
‘Obsessed? Me? It is you,’ I said. ‘It is you who is obsessed with her. You only courted me in the first place because of her.’
‘That isn’t true, Miss Hamilton,’ he said. ‘I knew of your mother’s disappearance, of course, it is well known. But why would that affect my courting of you, except beyond a natural sadness for your loss?’
‘You thought I had loose morals,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you have seen the pictures.’ I suddenly felt less certain of myself. He seemed, today, not quite so ridiculous as he had at times. There was a dignity about him.
‘I have never thought any such thing,’ he said. ‘And I do not know about any pictures. Your father invited me over, with the intention perhaps that I meet you. I was quite taken with you, although perhaps a little nervous at first about the speed at which things progressed. Your mother has very little to do with it, apart from my concern that you talk about her every time we meet. Do you think, perhaps, you are not quite recovered from her loss?’
‘What are necessary things?’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘When we first met, you said you sold necessary things. What are they?’
‘There are many necessary things for ladies,’ he said. ‘Sewing kits, shoelaces, buttons and suchlike. Many of them are for sale in our haberdashery department.’
‘Not bloomer elastic?’ I said and when he blushed red and shook his head, speechless, I knew I had done him a great wrong. But still—
‘When we went for a walk that first day, where were you taking me?’
‘Just to the promenade,’ he said. ‘I thought I might buy you an ice.’
‘Mr Parchment,’ I said, ‘Mr Parchment,’ and I wanted to cry, because I had done him a great disservice, and the contrast between him and the evil Septimus Patmore was too much to bear. I realised I had read Mr Parchment’s shock on the beach in the wrong way. He had not known anything bad about my mother, and had not thought I might be free with my favours because of it.
‘Miss Hamilton,’ he said, his eyes as worried as the Reverend Bartle’s, ‘are you feeling distressed? Is it that… is it that I have a rival?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said.
‘I did go to Mr Blackthorn’s shop,’ he said, ‘because my mother said she had seen you go in there twice. But it was foolish of me to be jealous, just because she said you would prefer a taller man.’
‘Your mother is not kind to you,’ I said. ‘Mr Parchment, I am sorry. I am sorry I have treated you badly. I am not a very good candidate for marriage, really, I am not. I am extremely foolish, and I am really not very domesticated. Sometimes, I pretend to do charity work, when I have never done any in my life.’
‘You keep telling me of your defects,’ he said. ‘I am not convinced.’
He was so earnest and straightforward. Part of me wanted desperately to please him, because he was good, and I had been awful to him, and because if he didn’t care about my mother, then that must mean he cared about me. About me, alone. Which was a wonder in itself.
But there was no attraction. And as I was currently fighting bewilderingly warm feelings for somebody else, which might, perhaps, be classed as attraction, I could not waste that chance on Mr Parchment.
‘We would not suit,’ I said. ‘I have a lot of things to work out in my head, and I am not sure yet if I want to get married at all.’
It did not look as if that was going to work, so I took the final step. ‘It is also my ambition,’ I said, ‘to become a Lady Detective.’
I think that helped him. I hoped it helped him. He went away slightly less upset, I think, after that.
Chapter Fifty-One
If Jeremy Parchment had liked me for me, then how many other men had I maligned over the years? It did not bear thinking about. I realised that for a long time I had always thought of myself in terms of what I was not, rather than what I was. I did not have my mother’s melting green eyes, her cupid’s bow lips, her lean elegance, that luxuriant red-tinged hair. Looking in the mirror the next morning though, I still had all the component parts of a face. It was not unattractive. And although my mother was beautiful when her face was in repose, it was the fleeting expressions that had crossed it – the winsome smiles, the sideways glances – that had made it more appealing. I had never seen my face in regular motion.
If I even had a sliver of my mother’s charm, it opened up… possibilities. There was a power in it. I had watched her wield it on more than one occasion. How much more effective could I be in detective work, if I could add in a dose of charm as well? I thought of Cleopatra, wooing Caesar, and Salome with her veils. It was wondrous, and frightening. I might need to practise a bit at first, because for too long I had regarded myself as a wooden doll beside my mother. I would need to think about who I could practise on.
*
Edith was unhappy with me. I realised this because she was supposed to be polishing our shoes but left them in a giant pile at the bottom of the stairs instead, so that I tripped over them.
I found her in the laundry cupboard, smoking. When she saw me, she dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the heel of her boot.
‘Ah Edith, I did wonder why our linen was smelling a bit odd,’ I said.
‘You can’t run a household,’ she said. ‘You and your father never notice if things are clean or not, and you take no pride keeping a proper house. You’re always out, running about, chasing the men.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ I said. ‘Apart from chasing men. I only follow them. But surely, it’s easier for you, that I don’t care so much? Other women might work you to the bone from dawn till dusk, and we only have a proper clean once every two months.’
‘That’s it as well. That’s no way to do things. It upsets me, that you don’t take pride in keeping your home. That’s not how a proper woman should be. It’s unnatural. I wouldn’t normally talk so, but you’re not even annoyed that I’m here, smoking in the laundry. I have standards, I need to be kept to them.’
‘I apologise,’ I said. ‘I’ve been a bit busy recently. I’ll endeavour to change.’
‘It’s no wonder you’re not married, when you couldn’t offer your man a spotless house to come home to. And you never make an effort to look good at all.’
‘Absolutely, yes,’ I said. It was hard to argue when it was all fundamentally true.
‘Stop agreeing with me,’ she said.
‘What you say is very sensible,’ I said. ‘I do like a cleanish house, but I’m afraid I’m never going to be the kind of person who examines the skirting boards for dust. As long as there is good food on the table, I’m mostly happy. Do you think you can live with that?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I can’t. I’m leaving. I’ve got a job with Mrs Withers.’
My heart dropped at all the gossip she would take with her, but it was clear that Edith and I were not made for domestic harmony.
‘She’ll be perfect for you,’ I said. ‘Congratulations.’
She gave me two weeks’ notice. The big pile of shoes stayed unpolished.
That left me with a vacancy.
*
‘Yes, she did come back,’ Mrs Cherry said. ‘Look!’ She unfolded a blanket made of vibrant slices of landscape; sunrises, lakes, forests. ‘It’s like a work of art. I’m going to put it in the window, to attract customers. She said she would make more, if I gave her the wool.’
‘When you see her next, can you ask her to come and see me?’ I said. I gave Mrs Cherry my address. ‘I have a proposition to put to her.’
*
When Hildebrand came the next day, I knew my instincts had been right. She looked far too tired and miserable for someone so young.
‘I didn’t mean to steal,’ she said. ‘And I’ve given the blanket back. Are you going to charge me?’
‘Goodness no, I’m not a policeman,’ I said. ‘Do you like cleaning?’
‘I don’t mind it,’ she said, ‘but you saw my bedroom. I just get tired when I’m working.’
‘I have a vacancy,’ I said. ‘If you want to come here. As a maid of all work. I’m not very good at managing a household, though, so I might be annoying to work for.’
She smiled at me, hopeful for a second, but then her face dropped. ‘Tibbs would never let me leave,’ she said.
‘Just come,’ I said. ‘Just get your stuff and come here, and if you can’t carry it all at once, make a few trips. In the morning when everyone’s asleep, if need be. Climb out the window, whatever you need to do. Once you’re here, we’ll look after you.’
‘Tibbs will come and try to get me back.’
‘I’ll deal with that when it happens,’ I said. I did not have a clue how.
‘I won’t be good for your reputation.’
‘Reputations are overrated,’ I said, although I was not sure I believed it.
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you can teach me how to knit.’
After solving that problem, I was on a high. I was a woman who Sorted Things, and the rush of it led me to believe I might survive visiting Mr Knight and attempting to fire him again. He had sent me a terse note demanding I call on him, but I had avoided going near since the article had been published. But I was tired of putting up with his ridiculous behaviour. How dare he give photographs of my mother to Dr Patmore? Who did he think he was? It was insupportable, and I was going to stop him.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Unfortunately, when I visited Mr Knight’s office, something had changed. The gold lettering on his window had a big wooden sign propped over it that said, ‘Scutts Boots and Shoes, Made for Marching the Miles’. It was not the class of shop usually situated on the marina, and as I approached a lady scuttled past, her head averted, frightened by the possibility of being associated with ready-made footwear.
Inside, Mr Knight was nowhere to be seen. There were shoes everywhere now, even propped in rows on a rack on top of his desk. Mr Scutts was there, though, according to his apron, and he looked very ready to sell.
‘Shopping for your gentleman? What’s his size?’ he said with a wink, as if discussing the size of men’s feet was salacious. He looked very sad when I asked for Mr Knight.
‘Mondays and Tuesdays,’ he said. ‘Knight has the office Mondays and Tuesdays, and I’m here the rest of the week. Except Wednesday mornings, that’s when Smith sells umbrellas. You can leave Knight a message, he comes in and picks up his post.’
I wrote out a message for Mr Knight on headed paper that was emblazoned with sketches of hob-nailed boots skipping across the bottom of the page.
‘Are you sure,’ Mr Scutts said as I departed, ‘your gentleman doesn’t need any shoes?’
I wanted to tell him to move to Hastings, where his shop would be more appropriate, but as I was not a man of business, he would not listen, so I told him instead that my gentleman had giant feet and would not fit shoes that were not made especially for him. I did not tell him that the gentleman I was thinking of was not my gentleman at all.
*
Later that day I had an odd little note in return from Mr Knight, which demanded I meet him under the pier the next morning at eight o’clock.
‘It is the only time I am free as I am going to London immediately afterwards, and as my office is occupied, I would suggest this is a good place for a private conversation as I have severe concerns about your cooperation on this case.’
The underlining was so extreme that I wondered whether it might have been easier for him to keep his pen in a straight line and underline everything. It was an early start to the day, but I determined it would be the last time he ever demanded anything from me. After tomorrow, hopefully, I would never have to see him again.
*
I was so set on firing him, and preparing my speech, that it was only when I reached the pier, struggling across the shingle, that I realised it was not the best place to share bad news. The pier was built on cast-iron struts, and the combination of the iron pillars and the underside of the wooden slats made it a dark, cold space where sunshine never reached. Lichen had grown up the sides of the pillars, green slime across the wood, leaving a sense of dankness and neglect. It was high tide, and the sea was quite wild against the pillars that were under the water. Tide times changed every day, and I realised I had forgotten to check them on the little weather station that sat on the pier.
Unsurprisingly, no one else was around. Mr Knight was sitting on a wooden crossbeam that was half buried in the shingle, and he stood up when he saw me. I decided I would let him speak first.
‘You wrote that article for the newspaper, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘The Editor wouldn’t tell me, but I knew he was protecting a lady. Anonymous for reasons of delicacy, he said. Ha. Reads exactly like a daughter who’s trying to keep her mother on a pedestal. You knew I planned to write one. Why did you do that? Has anyone contacted you with any leads? Share them with me.’
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I hope you slept well. Yes, I wrote an article, because she is my mother, and I should have the right to write it if I want.’
‘Was your mother,’ he said, with sudden cruelty. ‘Was. I think she was murdered.’
I took a deep breath. ‘You have said this before, and I don’t agree with you. I will share with you, though you must keep it to yourself, that she was not entirely content with my father, or with her life here. The likelihood falls more strongly towards her leaving us, than that she was harmed. My father has always said she left us.’
There had always been a streak in her; wilfulness perhaps, I could not call it selfishness. She might have thought leaving without a word was the only possible way to escape. And it was much easier to think of her alive and happy, forgetting us, than dead. I had never been able to face the thought of murder.
‘But that’s the point, isn’t it?’ Mr Knight said, his protuberant lips twisted in triumph, and I realised instantly I had shared too much. ‘That’s exactly the point. She wasn’t happy with your father, they move to Hastings because of a man, they try a fresh start and, eight years later, she disappears, never to be seen again. And your father tells everyone she has left. What does that lead you, lead any reasonable person, to think?’
