Born of Woman (59 page)

Jennifer tensed. If this were some reporter on the line, trying to track Lyn down, then Matthew would return to the attack. He had been so engrossed in the Ellen story, he seemed to have forgotten Lyn's absence, or at least accepted it. She watched him anxiously. He was jotting down some figures, talking fairly equably. No—it couldn't be a press-man, just a business colleague. He replaced the receiver, stared down at his pad.

‘Er … what happened then?' she urged. Safer to fill the pause with Ellen than with Lyn.

Matthew added up his figures, scribbled down the total, scratched it out again. ‘I'm sorry. Where were we?' He looked confused, disorientated.

‘
Ellen
,' Jennifer said. ‘Just arrived in Bristol.' Matthew had never needed prompting before. ‘Why Bristol?'

‘Apparently, she'd lived there before she went to India and it was the only place she still had contacts. Rowan tracked her down in a geriatric hospital and was lucky enough to get an interview—though perhaps ‘‘luck'' is not the appropriate word. I understand a considerable sum of money changed hands.'

Jennifer stared. ‘Surely not? I mean if Ellen was ill and almost senile …'

‘Not so ill that money didn't rally her. A wad of twenty-pound notes slipped into her handbag and her memory improved dramatically. She not only recalled the baby Edward's birth and all the fuss which followed when her strict and shocked parents more or less disowned Hester and drove her from the house, but also the name of the foster-parents and the fact they were New Zealanders. After that, it was easy. All Rowan had to do was search the passenger lists of any boat sailing to New Zealand in the spring of 1919. In actual fact, she turned the matter over to those odious little people on the gossip column. Rowan likes to keep her hands clean, so when the story showed signs of getting … well … shall we say a trifle insalubrious, she realised it was more in Jasper's line. So he took over—went to the Public Record Office at Kew, and found a Mr and Mrs Edward Fraser—with infant child—passengers on the
Corinthic
which sailed for New Zealand on March 14th, 1919. I've seen the entry with my own eyes.'

Jennifer was frowning. ‘So you did know, Matthew?'

‘No, no, certainly not—not then. I only went to Kew a week or so ago, when the story had broken already. Way back in June, I was still completely in the dark. All I
did
discover was that Ellen had left India for England. What happened was that Rowan Childs invited me to lunch and steered the conversation round to Ellen. I still thought she was dead, of course, which is why I hadn't bothered to contact Rowan myself, a second time. But it was pretty obvious at the lunch that Rowan was on to something. She even mentioned Bristol. I realise now it was all a deliberate lead—what the Press call a ‘‘carrot'', I believe. Rowan hoped I'd bite on it and then spit out my own secrets—give away something she didn't know herself. She was under the illusion that I had a lot more facts on Ellen than I actually did, including, of course, her recent return to this country for her health. Alas—I was a long, long way behind her, though I did my best to catch up—drove straight to Bristol the following morning and scoured every hotel, hospital and old people's home in the area.'

‘You didn't tell me, Matthew.'

‘I didn't want to worry you. You had enough on your plate as it was, with all the publicity and so on. You were right in the middle of it, then, if you remember, and the last thing you needed was any additional strain. Anyway, my trip proved highly frustrating. I did find out that Ellen hadn't died in Delhi. In fact, she had died in Bristol—just two days before I got there—suffered a second stroke. Rowan Childs had made it just in time. She may even have hastened the death. Strokes are often caused by extra stress and excitement.'

‘Ellen was almost
eighty
, Matthew.'

‘Yes, all right. But it was still extremely unfortunate. All I managed was to speak to one or two of the staff at the hospital, who told me very little except that Rowan had been there twice and …'

‘Twice?'

‘Oh, yes. Rowan's very thorough. It was on her second visit she left the money.'

‘But how did you know all this, Matthew? I mean, if she was dead when you arrived and …' Jennifer stopped. Had he used Rowan's methods and offered inducements himself, bribed the nurses at the hospital? She remembered her own cheque, signed in Matthew's hand. ‘I wish you'd told me all this, Matthew. I mean, you didn't say a word and …'

‘You'd only have been distressed. I was trying to spare you.' Matthew eased his back. Both the phones were ringing now, and he was switching between the two of them. Jim Allenby was hovering at the door, waiting to have a word with him, and a secretary had just knocked and entered with a pile of urgent papers for him to sign. She felt a sudden rush of sympathy. Matthew had tried to save her strain and worry—and yet was overburdened himself. He looked too sick to deal with all that desk-work, on top of everything else. Easy for Susie to criticise when she had never seen him in his office, faced with all the pressures.

She wondered what might have happened if he had managed to talk to Ellen, got in touch with Edward before Rowan tracked him down. She would have welcomed a chance of meeting Ellen herself—come face to face with someone who had actually grown up with Hester, shared her girlhood, known all her quirks and strengths. She tried to picture Ellen lying in that hospital—old, alone and feeble—betraying her sister's confidence for the sake of a wad of notes she would never have a chance to spend. Perhaps the cash had been used to purchase her coffin and her winding-sheet. She flashbacked seventy years, saw Ellen as an innocent young girl, shocked by her sister's pregnancy, acting as her confidante, torn between sympathy for Hester and loyalty to her parents.

Matthew was off the phone now, though he still had the receiver clenched in his hand, as if he feared to replace it and face yet another call. Allenby and the secretary had gone, leaving their wake of problems and new work. Jennifer stole a glance at her watch. It was already 10.30 and yet he hadn't mentioned Lyn again. He was normally well aware of the time, all too ready to denounce unpunctuality. She had her lies prepared—the faulty clutch, the blackouts—but preferred to postpone them as long as possible. She was bound to make another gaffe. Matthew looked up suddenly, frowned across at her.

‘Listen,' she said, jumping in before he could explode again. ‘This Ellen thing. I mean, if you didn't see her yourself, when did you first find out that she'd … er … sold her story to Rowan?'

‘I didn't. Matthew scribbled a note to himself, then pushed the pad away, made an effort to concentrate. ‘Well, not until the damage was already done and Edward had come storming into my office. I knew money had changed hands, of course, so I suspected Rowan might have got something for her pains. After that, I read every word she wrote—watched her column like a hawk—and Jasper's. But the subject never came up at all. Weeks passed—still nothing—not even that piece on Fernfield Rowan mentioned. So I assumed she'd
wasted
her time and money and that Ellen had stayed mum.' Matthew reached for his pad again, made another jotting. It was as if the story were reminding him of certain points he could use in his defence. ‘What actually happened was that Jasper had passed the matter on to one of his stringers in New Zealand. These Fleet Street types have contacts everywhere. He already knew the Frasers' destination—Warkworth—he'd got that from the records. So he phoned his man in Warkworth, or Auckland, or wherever, and told him to get on with finding baby Edward—though hardly a baby now. That's where the delay began. The New Zealand reporter, who has the unfortunate name of Wilbur Crank, realised that this was the best and biggest exposé he was ever likely to have a finger in, so he decided he'd try and claim the credit for his own exclusive scoop and run the story first in Auckland, under his own by-line. As you know, the book's a bestseller in New Zealand as well as over here. So every time London nudged him over the telephone, Crank simply stalled—said he was digging hard, but had come up with nothing much to speak of. In actual fact, he was doing pretty well, sniffing round anyone and everyone who'd ever seen or heard of Edward—offering bribes to cleaning ladies or greensmen at his golf club, laying on fancy little lunches wherever they'd pay off. Unfortunately for him …' Matthew paused a moment, as if the memory were painful for him, also. ‘Edward was tipped off just before Crank was ready to confront him and obtain the final clinching interview. Edward was upset enough already. He'd read the book himself, found his mother's maiden name—
his
name—but no record of his birth or existence, nor mention of his father. He'd also heard the rumours which Crank's enquiries had started stirring up, and which had surfaced at the worst possible time for him. You see, he was standing for re-election for the local council. Apparently, Edward's quite a little grandee in his home town—been a councillor for years and JP before that, so his personal reputation is obviously pretty crucial to him.'

Jennifer broke in. ‘Surely he didn't tell you all this, Matthew?' From what she had gathered, Edward had stormed in with an ultimatum, not stopped to chat about his career or election prospects. She was confused and bewildered that this whole painful complex story should have been unfolding around her and beyond her, and yet she herself had been in total ignorance.

Matthew was shaking his head. ‘Not as such. He mentioned ugly gossip and I could see he was really thrown by it, but he didn't give the details. No—what I did was get on the phone to Colin Bailey—he's the export sales manager at Hartley Davies—a very decent chap. You've met him, actually, at the sales conference last November. Reddish hair and spectacles—remember? He visits New Zealand once a year, at least, and he's always said the country's small enough for him to know a lot of local people mere and have a good idea what's going on. Anyway, he did a bit of sleuthing for me and reported back with quite a little saga. Apparently, what happened was that Edward's opponent in the local election—a character called Elkins and quite a nasty piece of work, according to Colin—was one of the people approached by Wilbur Crank. Elkins realised that here was something he could turn to his own advantage. He persuaded Crank to confide in him, made a few enquiries of his own, and then started a sort of … smear campaign, based chiefly on rumour at this stage—you know the sort of thing—hints that Edward was an upstart and a fraud who had cashed in on the Fraser name and money when he was nobody and nothing, and had deceived all and sundry by hushing up his background. It appeared to work. Edward lost, in any case, whatever the actual reason. It wasn't just defeat which so upset him, but the danger of publicity and the fact that reporters were involved. As I told you, someone had warned him already that Crank was on his tail, and he was so alarmed by now that he took immediate legal advice and discovered that Crank was under orders from Fleet Street where the probe had originated. He immediately flew to London—in a panic, I suspect—to try and supress the whole damaging issue of his illegitimate birth and so-called shady background before it made the national headlines. But his dramatic dash to London only made things worse. The rest you know.'

Jennifer flushed. She would never forget it—the day that Jasper's story broke—her own guilt and shock as she saw Edward's bewildered face blinking from the gossip columns, the ugly word ‘bastard' bandied about by unfeeling journalists. Edward had successfully quashed that word for over sixty years—or so the papers said. He knew he was not the Frasers' son—how could he be when he had a different name from theirs?—knew he was English-born and illegitimate, but he had always hushed the latter up, claimed Ainsley as his true mother's
married
name. If people pressed or probed, he informed them that the young and tragic Mrs Ainsley had been widowed in the Great War before he was even born—and then clammed up, refusing to discuss his background any further. Now, that background was being shouted from the rooftops. There had never been a Mr Ainsley, only a poor, single, shameful pregnant girl. Ellen had given no details of Edward's father, despite Rowan's bribes and pressures, so all the papers resorted to speculation, much of it unpleasant.

Jennifer's nails were digging into her palms. She could see the shocked and sniggering town of Warkworth whispering behind its respectable net curtains, pointing the finger of scorn at baseborn Edward. Susie might shrug off illegitimacy, but Susie was seventeen and easy-going. Edward was in his sixties, living in a small old-fashioned community who regarded bastardy, if not as a crime, then as a stigma and a shame. Edward had been respected and respectable, a pillar of his local church, an elder statesman living a quiet, conservative, almost old-maidish life, untouched by the faintest breath of scandal. Now, all that was changed. Jennifer could hear the racy adjectives resounding in her head, the mocking headlines blistering the newspapers. She herself had helped to bring him down. In urging publication of the diaries, she had overruled his rights as elder son and his claim to copyright, risked his name and reputation. It was no excuse to say she had assumed him dead. Neither she nor Matthew had had any real proof of that, whatever Matthew claimed. Yet, eighteen months ago, Edward had seemed so substanceless—a stifled whisper, two blushing lines on a concealed and secret page.

She glanced across at Matthew. Edward had put that tremor in his eye, aged him ten years in a fortnight. Edward was the enemy, and here she was wasting her pity on him, even though he was attacking Lyn as well, threatening all the profits from the book, wresting Hernhope from them. All her hopes of returning there with some money in her pocket were now totally extinguished. Hester's Will had never turned up; but even in its absence, Edward had a right to half her property. Illegitimacy was no bar to inheritance. She and Lyn could still fight for their half share, but Edward had the edge on them, since he was employing skilled solicitors and was clearly the wronged and innocent party. Lyn wasn't even there to fight, and Matthew was battling chiefly for his own rights, not for a remote and jungled house he had always hoped to sell. True, he had given her money these last few weeks, but what was a cheque or two compared with Hester's home, and his whole financial position was now threatened, anyway. Besides, no amount of cash could be worth this new upheaval, the swoop and jeer of all the journalists as they pounced on Hester's private life and flung it to the goggling bitching world. Some of the papers were fixated on the money side, and had even hinted that Matthew had cheated not only Edward, but her and Lyn as well—exploited them all to make himself a Midas. That was truly libellous. Matthew lived simply, almost frugally. Anyone could see that. He had no time for spending money, no room in his life for luxuries. Work came first and last.