Four Thousand Days, page 14
‘What’s new?’ He winked at her.
‘I found that page in a box belonging to a dead girl.’ She could have bitten her tongue. A shiver of pain crossed Kipling’s face, but Margaret carried on hurriedly. ‘A girl who was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ the poet frowned. ‘Good Lord!’
‘Her body was found on a beach in Herne Bay, Kent. That page was in a box belonging to her at her college, King’s in London.’
‘But … you’re University College, aren’t you? Sworn enemies, and all that?’
‘Emmeline was an archaeologist,’ Margaret said. ‘So we’re sisters under the skin.’
There was a sudden ‘whoop’ from the hallway and a little boy with a chubby face and brown hair barged into the room, his mother in tow.
‘My boy, Jack,’ Kipling beamed. ‘Stop rampaging about now, Jack, and say hello to Em-em.’
The lad stood in front of her, frowning. Then he said, ‘Hello, Em-em,’ and held out his hand for her to shake.
‘Elsie will be down momentarily,’ Carrie said, moving Jack aside so that the maid could lay out the tea tray. ‘She’s going through a shy stage at the moment.’
‘Sit on Em-em’s lap, Jack,’ Kipling said, ‘and make sure she doesn’t eat all the scones.’
The boy jumped up and Margaret held him, smiling at his dimpled cheeks and bright eyes. He turned to her. ‘Don’t eat all the scones, Em-em,’ he said, and everyone laughed.
‘Carrie.’ Kipling passed the dead girl’s paper to his wife. ‘Does any of this make sense to you?’
Carrie looked at it as the maid passed the tea and Jack didn’t take his eyes off Em-em. ‘My Latin isn’t what it was,’ she smiled. ‘Oh, wait a minute … “Nubes” – that’s clouds, isn’t it? “Essedum” – chariot. “Agnus dei” – Lamb of God, of course. Yes, this is William Blake.’ She mock-frowned at her husband. ‘And you, Rudyard Kipling, should be ashamed of yourself for not recognizing it.’
An odd silence filled the room. Then Margaret picked up a scone. ‘Can I have just this one, Jack?’ she asked.
He looked dubiously at her. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just that one.’
Walnut Mews was more familiar to Edmund Reid in the dark rather than the light. The day was gloomy, but at least he could see if anyone untoward was dodging behind a bin or hiding in an area as he turned into the narrow street. Mews were up and coming all over London, but Walnut seemed to have rebuffed any attempt at gentrification. Even so, some of the tiny houses had tried their best, with window-boxes full of winter pansies brightening up the dull red brick and neglected green-painted windows. He referred to the scrap of paper on which he had jotted down the details and made his way across the cracked and greasy cobbles to number fifteen. It was one of the pansy houses, so he felt hopeful; their brave faces nodding under their purple hoods lifted the spirits at this gloomy time of year.
He had thought long and hard about the best time to call. He assumed that the woman he was visiting would be a student but it had occurred to him as he made his way there from his hotel that this need not be the case. If she worked, he would have to come back later. If she was a student, it would be anyone’s guess. As he approached the door, painted a bright blue and garnished with a brass knocker in the shape of the Lincoln Imp, he was accompanied by a cat, well-fed and glossy, who wound herself around his ankles as he waited for a reply to his smart rapping. He had never been much of a cat man himself, but his wife had had several and it cheered him to hear the soft purr around his feet. What cheered him even more was the sound of heels tapping along the hallway.
The door was flung open and a smiling girl stood inside, a smear of paint down one cheek and a paintbrush stuck in her piled-up hair.
‘Oh.’ Her smile didn’t fade but he clearly wasn’t who she was expecting. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were the pigment man.’ She put her hand to her cheek and scrubbed at it half-heartedly. ‘He’s used to seeing people covered in paint, I would imagine. But you are …?’
Reid touched the brim of his hat politely. ‘I am Edmund Reid, madam,’ he said. ‘Late of Scotland Yard …’
‘Inspector Dier! I love those books.’ Her face lit up, then fell. ‘But … why are you here? Is … is it about Emma?’
‘Why would you assume that?’ Reid asked. ‘Umm … may I come in?’ The cat had shot in through the door as soon as it had opened. ‘And … did you notice the cat? It is yours, I assume.’
‘Actually, it’s Emma’s. She adored the creature; I can take or leave it, to be frank. That’s why I didn’t believe the letter. For a start, it was typed.’ The woman ushered Reid in and shut the door behind him. They were left in the semi-dark of a short hallway leading to a flight of stairs. ‘Do go up,’ she said, extending an arm. ‘The studio is warmer than the sitting room and lighter as well. In fact, since Emma left, I’ve hardly been in there at all. There doesn’t seem to be much point.’
At the top of the stairs, the big room was flooded with light. Reid wouldn’t have believed that a grey London sky could provide such illumination, but added to a few lamps and a crackling wood fire, it was magical. A couch at one end was strewn with jewel-coloured cushions and a tasselled throw. At the other end, an enormous canvas depicting some of a nude dominated the space. Reid walked up to it and looked at it closely.
‘I see you are not offended by nudity, Inspector Reid,’ the woman said.
‘Not at all,’ he chuckled. ‘You have depicted the … the …’ – he waved a hand in the general direction of the bits in question – ‘with particular skill, I think.’
‘Shall we sit down?’ the artist said. ‘I’m Marjorie Simmons, by the way, but everyone calls me Marjy. I hope you’ll do the same.’ She patted the other end of the couch and Reid joined her, still casting glances at the canvas.
‘I understand that you and Emma had shared this mews for a while,’ he began.
‘Since she came to London,’ Marjy told him. ‘I had moved in and to be honest was finding the rent tricky. Emma didn’t have much money, but every little helped back then.’ She smiled and looked down, not modestly but like someone who still couldn’t quite believe the turn her luck had taken. ‘My canvases sell now, though, so I don’t need a lodger. But … well, Emma and I had hit it off, so she stayed. She would just pay for a special meal now and then, but apart from that, she was my guest. A very loved guest, Inspector, I must say.’
‘Did you ever visit her in her house in Hampton?’ he asked.
‘Her house? She would laugh to hear it called that. It was a shack, nothing more. But she loved her digging and delving and all she wanted was somewhere to lay her head.’
‘So you did visit?’
‘Once or twice.’ Marjy Simmons had become used to her comforts, that was clear. ‘But honestly, Inspector, roughing it on a mattress on the floor isn’t my style. It never was, but it certainly isn’t now.’
‘Did she have other guests?’
Marjy smiled and put a painty hand on his knee. ‘You’re very sweet, Inspector. I assume you mean men.’
‘I didn’t say so.’ Reid was used to being circumspect.
‘Not as such, no, that’s true, you didn’t. Emma didn’t care much for men, Inspector, in the normal run of things.’ Her blush made the streak of paint show up more. ‘In fact, I rather think she loved me. Does that shock you?’
‘Miss Simmons … Marjy … I don’t believe anything could shock me. Not even …’ – he tipped his head towards the canvas – ‘that. But the college did receive a letter, saying she had decided to marry.’
‘So did I,’ Marjy said, ‘which is why I took no notice of it. A typed letter from one’s lover to say she is getting married doesn’t really cut the mustard, does it?’
‘Why didn’t you report her missing, then?’ Reid knew the answer but needed it from this horse’s mouth.
‘Can you imagine it, Inspector Reid? “Hello, policeman. I have come to report my lover missing.” “Oh, really, madam.”’ She dropped her voice an octave. ‘“Could you describe the gentleman?” “Well, she’s about five foot five …” I rather fancy the conversation would go downhill from there.’
Reid smiled. ‘Yes, I do understand. But … what do you think happened?’
The artist straightened her back and lifted her chin, as someone waiting for a shock. ‘I assumed she had tired of me, Inspector. But I expect you’re here to tell me she’s dead.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t cry. It will be a relief. As long as she didn’t choose to go, that’s all that matters. I’ve shed my tears.’
Reid had seen some brave women in his time, but this one was up there with the bravest. ‘I’m sorry, Marjy. She is dead, yes. Down in Hampton. I … I found her, actually.’
Marjy dropped her head and she was wrong about having shed her tears. One dropped on to her hand with a splash. ‘And was she …?’
Reid chose his words. ‘She had been murdered, Marjy, but not … interfered with, as far as we could tell. We don’t know why anyone would want to kill her – unless you do?’
‘When?’ The word was hardly audible.
‘In August sometime, we think.’
The face that lifted to him bore a ghost of a smile. ‘She never left me, then,’ she whispered. ‘I waved her off on that stupid Summer Saturday train and never saw her again. But if she died … well’ – she rummaged in a sleeve and brought out a handkerchief stained with burnt umber – ‘she hadn’t left me, not even for a while. That makes it better, Inspector.’ She blew her nose. ‘Sorry about that. Better now.’
Reid waited for her to regain her composure. Emmeline Barker had been loved, more loved than many people ever are in much longer lives. He hoped she had known it, before she died. ‘Can you tell me a bit about her? Her parents were … unhelpful.’
‘Parents! They don’t deserve the name. Her father is a pig, her mother worse for letting him be a pig. When we met, she was sitting in a coffee shop in Surrey Street, trying to keep warm and making a cup of tea last all day if she could. She was homeless, essentially; she had stayed with an aunt for a week or so, but it wasn’t a success, so she was trying to keep out of the house as much as possible. How any father could do that to a girl who just wanted to better herself, I fail to see. Anyway, long story short, she had a little money and when she didn’t have to worry about making it last to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly for three years, she was happy to help me with the rent.’ She wiped her eye again, but was smiling. ‘She knew I would be famous one day, she said. I’m not famous, but I do well. I fell in love with her there and then.’
‘And what about her? Did she fall in love with you?’
Marjy laughed. ‘Eventually. She had had a man at home who was interested in marrying her, apparently, but she didn’t want to marry. Another reason for her letter to make no sense. I think she had friends who were men – how could she not, when almost all the students she mixed with were men? She mentioned one – not his name, though – who she had become fond of, but not in what people call “that way”. He understood, she said. He had other outlets, if you understand me.’
Reid understood only too well. ‘Apart from all this, did you find out anything about her work?’
‘Oh, goodness, it wasn’t for lack of trying, but it was gibberish to me. I know she was very excited about something, but she wouldn’t tell me what. Not until she was sure, she said. She had notes and everything, back at King’s, I suppose. There was certainly no paperwork here, just her clothes and things. She liked to keep her two lives separate.’
‘We have her paperwork,’ Reid said. ‘If you would like it after we’re done …?’
Marjy batted the idea away with a grubby hand. ‘No, no, keep it. I can’t imagine I would be able to make sense of it. Can you? I only ask because she had the most peculiar way of remembering things. I can’t do it, but I can explain it, though best of luck with understanding how it works.’
Reid was intrigued. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, say you want to remember to buy bread, milk and eggs on your way home. What do you do?’
Reid didn’t hesitate. ‘I write it down.’
‘Of course. But what do you write?’
‘Umm … milk, bread, eggs. I might add what sort of bread, brown or whathaveyou, but that’s about it. I might put “buy” or “shops” or something.’
Marjy clapped her hands. ‘Right. That’s what I and most people would do. Not Emma. She would do a little stick drawing of a tree, with a bird sitting in it.’
‘In order to …’
‘Well, she would have constructed a story for herself. She would have imagined herself going for a walk in the country, and seeing a farmer sitting on a gate, eating a sandwich. That would be the bread. She would chat with him and he would say he was waiting there until it was time to move the cows.’
‘The milk?’
‘Correct. Have you done this before?’ Marjy had never met anyone who got the point before.
‘No. Do go on.’
‘Then, she would ask him how to get to the shops from there. And he would say, go up to the top of this hill and there will be a tree. And from there, she will see the shop.’
‘So she added a bird, for eggs, and then just reminded herself with the drawing. It’s complex, but I could see how it would work for some people.’
‘I’m so glad. She thought of it herself and she could remember whole lists of words for months, just by telling herself the story again. It was a bit of a party piece.’
‘So, just to make sure I have this right’ – Reid knew Margaret Murray would ask whether he had double checked – ‘anything that Emma wrote was not likely to be what she meant, more a part of a story to remind herself of what she meant.’ Reid paused. It sounded convoluted, even as it left his mouth.
‘That’s it,’ Marjy agreed. ‘Everything is just a reminder of something else. She used different languages sometimes. She even played about with them. She spoke French, of course, with a smattering of German. She had taught herself Latin. She …’ She leaned forward. ‘Oh, Inspector Dier, I do miss her so!’
Edmund Reid had seen a lot of sad things in his time. He had been sad himself, sadder than he had thought possible in the past year or two. So he gathered the girl to him and let her cry all over his tweed. Finally, she stopped crying, but stayed there, safe in his arms. It did them both the world of good.
‘Tell me, Marjy,’ Reid said as she sat up and tucked her handkerchief away. ‘That painting …’
‘Are you sure you’re not offended?’ she checked.
‘Not at all. I mean, we all have one, don’t we? Well, not all, of course …’ He could feel himself getting a bit bogged down, so changed the subject slightly. ‘It’s what the picture represents. Who is it for?’
‘It’s a retirement present,’ she said, ‘from the staff at the telegraph office, in St Martin le Grand. Apparently, their manager is leaving and they wanted a painting for him as he is a keen amateur.’ She saw his raised eyebrows. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I did check that they wanted a nude. But they were adamant.’
‘And it portrays?’
‘They didn’t specify, but I think I have been rather clever. It’s Mercury, the winged messenger.’
NINE
The Senior Common Room had long ago been appropriated by the teaching staff. Originally, it had been built as a bolt-hole for graduates, but few of them ever turned up so the lecturers moved in, lured by the soft leather furniture, the ginger biscuits and the port. All in all, it had the hallmarks of a gentlemen’s club without the exorbitant membership fees and it was the gentlemen’s angle that annoyed Margaret Murray the most. She was usually too busy to go there, but whenever she could, she would make an appearance just because she wore a dress. She would listen to the tuts and sighs from the older dons and wink at the younger ones, most of whom had no problem with her presence at all.
Today, however, she was on a mission and the two birds she would bring down with a single stone sat opposite each other, hogging the fireplace, looking like Tweedledum and Tweedledee – without Mr Tenniel’s caps and tight jackets, of course.
‘Good morning, doctors,’ she trilled, causing both of them to rattle their papers.
Reluctantly, they clambered to their feet. ‘Dr Murray,’ one of them said. He was arguably the more approachable of the two. Henry Sacheverill was an Oxford man, wondering most days how he had ended up so far down the academic pecking order as to be teaching at University College, London.
‘Dear lady,’ smiled the other one. He was Alistair Wishart, a Cambridge alumnus who had long ago learned to lose his native Arbroath accent in favour of the plummier tones of the queen’s English.
‘I hate to bother you,’ Margaret said, plonking herself squarely between them as though she were there for the duration, ‘but I’d like to pick your brains on William Blake.’
The men looked at each other. ‘Why us, pray?’ Wishart asked.
Margaret could gush with the best of them. ‘Because you, gentlemen, represent the finest brains in the English faculty. Where else would I turn?’
Their egos suitably tweaked, the lecturers made burbling noises and Sacheverill rang a little silver bell by his chair. ‘Will you take tea, Dr Murray?’ he asked. ‘Personally, I find Blake too dry for my tastes.’
‘Wasn’t he a great poet?’ Margaret asked. She had been around undergraduates for long enough to know how to play the ingénue.
Sacheverill snorted. ‘He was mad, Margaret,’ he said as a waiter hovered. ‘Teas all round, Weston, and a pile of your best gingers.’
‘Mad is in the eye of the beholder, Sacheverill,’ Wishart said. ‘I see him as a visionary, a pioneer, if you will.’
‘I won’t,’ Sacheverill scowled. ‘Why the interest in Blake, Margaret?’
‘Oh, it’s some random jottings that a student recently made. I’m trying to make sense of them.’
