Daughter of Deceit (12 page)

She was pale and tense.

“I’ve done a bold thing,” she said. “I don’t know what made me. I wrote a note to Roderick Claverham and asked him to come to the theatre tonight as I’m playing the lead.”

I was astounded.

“What will he think?” she went on. “He probably won’t come.”

“Why did you?” I asked.

“I just had a feeling that I needed in the audience all the friends I could muster.”

“You’ll be all right,” I said. “I wonder if he’ll come.”

“He did say he was sorry he missed my performance before.”

I really could not give my attention to much except what was wrong with my mother. I wished I could talk to Martha about it. Charlie wasn’t in London at the time. He would have been very understanding and would have helped us to find the right specialist. For to a specialist we were going. Martha had made up her mind about that … and so had I.

I was glad of Robert that night. It was his custom to take a box for as long as the play should run for all my mother’s shows, so we were able to use it whenever we wanted to. It was most convenient.

Robert was very concerned about my mother, and I felt I could talk to him as openly as I could to Charlie.

He said: “This is most disturbing.”

I told him that we were going to insist on her seeing a specialist tomorrow. We didn’t think Dr. Green was good enough.

“You think it is something really bad?”

“Well, it has happened three times, all within a short space of time. She has to feel really ill to give up a night’s performance. It can’t go on. We are wondering if there is some reason for it … something wrong … internally.”

“She always looks so … how do you say it? … so full of the good spirits.”

“Healthy! Vital!” I supplied. “I wanted to stay with her but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said Lisa would need my support.”

“That is what she say to me. Dear Desiree, she think always of the others.”

“Yes. And I’m terribly worried about her.”

He took my hand and pressed it.

“We will do something,” he promised.

I looked down below. In the tenth row of the stalls I saw Roderick. He looked up at the box and waved. So he had come to see Lisa.

I was wondering what would happen when Dolly came out onto the stage and said his piece. The audience listened aghast, then the murmuring started.

Dolly looked distraught, his hand to his brow, his pose one of acute melancholy. He faced them bravely.

“Desiree is desolate. She hopes you will forgive her. Believe me, if she were fit to stagger onto this stage, she would have done so.”

One or two people walked out. We waited in trepidation for more to follow. There were some anxious moments, and then they settled down.

They had come to see a show. It was an evening’s outing, and although it might not be what they had expected, they would stay.

The curtain went up; the chorus was singing; it parted and there was Lisa. “Can I help you, madam?” She was giving it everything she had. I thought she was good.

Let them like her, I prayed.

Dolly came silently into the box and sat down, watching the audience rather than the stage.

After a while the tension eased. It was not going too badly. I felt even Dolly relax a little, but he was still watchful, still alert.

In the interval he left us.

Robert said: “It goes well, eh? Not bad? The young girl … she is no Desiree … but she is good, eh?”

I said: “Yes. It’s the third time she’s done it and she improves every time.”

“It is a trial for her.”

The door opened and Roderick looked in.

“Hello,” I cried. “I saw you below. Robert, this is Roderick Claverham, Charlie’s son. Roderick, Monsieur Robert Bouchere.”

They exchanged courtesies.

“It was good of you to come,” I said. “Lisa will be pleased.”

“How is your mother?”

“It’s another of those horrible attacks. We’re going to make her see a specialist. Martha is going to insist, and I agree with her. She can’t go on like this. How are you enjoying the show?”

“Very much. I am somewhat far from the stage, but it was the best seat I could get at such short notice.”

I looked at Robert. I said: “This is Monsieur Bouchere’s box. He kindly allows us to use it.”

Robert said quickly: “You must join us. Here you get a good view of the stage, except for the one corner. It is the right one. But that is rarely of importance.”

“How kind of you. I shall be delighted.”

“You are staying in London long?” I asked Roderick.

“No. My visits are brief. There is a good deal to do at home.”

“And your father?”

“He is at home now. I expect he will be coming to London soon.”

The bell was ringing and the curtain was about to rise.

I noticed with interest how Roderick watched Lisa.

“She’s doing well,” I said. “I’m glad.”

He nodded.

The final curtain had fallen. Lisa took the applause with obvious gratitude. It did not last very long. If my mother had been there, they would have called her back and back again.

We went into Lisa’s dressing room to congratulate her. She was half elated, half apprehensive and looked frail and vulnerable. I felt sorry for her and I sensed that Roderick was, too. Her great chance had not really brought her what she had hoped for.

Roderick said: “I wonder if I could take you out to a little supper … you and Noelle and perhaps Monsieur Bouchere?”

“What a lovely idea!” cried Lisa.

Robert said: “You must excuse me,” and I added that I wanted to get back at once to see how my mother was.

Lisa’s face fell and Roderick looked disappointed, too.

Robert said: “Why should you two not go, yes? It is good for you, Mademoiselle Fennell … to sit over supper … and what is it you say? … relax … release the tension. What you have done tonight is a stress … is it not? Yes … it will be good for you to sit … and talk … to laugh … to forget. I will take Noelle home.”

“Thomas will be there with the carriage for Martha and me,” I said.

“Then we shall all go in the carriage … the three of us … leaving these two to their supper.”

Roderick was looking expectantly at Lisa. I told myself he was implying that he would like to go back to the house to discover how my mother was, but Lisa was looking so dejected, and Robert was right when he said she needed to relax. As for Roderick, having made the invitation, he could scarcely take it back. So it was decided that Roderick and Lisa should have supper while the rest of us went back to the house.

When we arrived Robert said he would wait to hear the news of my mother, and as soon as we were in the house Martha and I went immediately to her room.

Martha knocked at the door. There was no answer.

“Asleep,” she whispered to me. “A good sign.”

She opened the door and looked in. Moonlight showed me that my mother was not in her bed.

Hastily we went into the room. And then we saw her. She was lying on the floor and it struck me that her head was in a very unnatural position. Then I saw that there was blood on her face.

I ran to her and knelt beside her. She looked strange … unlike herself.

I called to her in anguish. She did not move; she did not answer; and some terrible instinct told me that she would never speak to me again.

When I look back over the night that followed, it is just a jumble of impressions. There is the memory of all the household crowding into that room. Robert was amongst them. They were all shocked, unable to accept this terrible thing that had happened.

Dr. Green arrived.

He said: “She must have fallen and cut her forehead on the edge of that dressing table as she fell … and she has suffered further injuries.”

She was taken to the hospital, but by that time we all guessed that nothing could be done.

We had lost her. I was trying to think what it would be like without her, never to hear her voice again … her laughter, her gaiety, her easygoing acceptance of life. All that was gone … taken from us in the space of a few hours.

It was not possible to accept it at first. I wondered whether I should ever be able to. Life would never be the same again. I just could not imagine it without her. I could not bear to. She had been right at the heart of my life, and now she was gone, in one night.

Why had I not been there? I could have caught her before she fell. I could have saved her. While I was at the theatre, completely unaware, talking to Roderick, Lisa and Robert … this had been happening … and she was gone … forever.

It was past midnight when Lisa came in. She was flushed and elated. She had clearly enjoyed the evening with Roderick.

She took one look at me and said: “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

I said: “My mother is dead.”

She went pale and stared at me.

I said: “She got out of bed. She must have had a dizzy spell. She fell. She injured herself … and … it’s killed her.”

“No,” said Lisa. “Oh
no …
”

Then she fainted.

When she recovered, she kept saying: “No, no, it can’t be. She’ll get better, won’t she? She couldn’t die … just because she fell.”

I did not answer. I just turned away. She caught my arm. There was anguish in her face. She had really cared for my
mother. But of course she had. Everyone had cared for my mother. I had thought in my heart that Lisa was too preoccupied with her own success, her own chance to show the world what she could do. It was natural. But she had really cared for my mother. She looked stunned. Yes, she had really cared deeply.

I got her to her room and asked Mrs. Crimp to bring her a hot drink. Mrs. Crimp was only too glad to have something to do.

“I can’t believe it,” she kept saying. “What shall we do without her?”

I could not answer that question.

The household was numbed by the shock. It was no longer the home we had known.

The papers were full of the news about Desiree.

“One of our greatest musical comedy artistes, Desiree had revolutionized the genre; she had brought it into favour. She was too young to die.” She had been cut off in her prime. She would be sadly missed. There were lists of all the shows in which she had appeared. Cuttings from the papers were reproduced.

There were reporters lying in wait for us. Jane’s opinion was asked. “She was a lovely lady,” said Jane.

Mrs. Crimp said: “Her sort are rare. There’ll never be another like her.”

Lisa was interviewed more than any. Lisa was the understudy. “I owe everything to her. She was wonderful to me. She gave me my first chance.”

I read the reports again and again. The newspapers were soaked with my tears. I wanted to read the laudatory notices … sometimes I would smile, remembering what she had said of some of those roles. Then my misery would descend on me. I could not rid myself of memories. They came flooding back. Going into a room when I was very young. “Is this a party?” and people laughing, frightening me a little until I was caught up in her loving arms.

People had loved her, but none more than I. I was the one closest to her; for me was the greatest loss.

Charlie was heartbroken: Robert was deeply unhappy: Dolly was despondent. The theatre was closed for a week out of respect
for Desiree. And then what? demanded Dolly. It was doubtful that
Countess Maud
would continue. Dolly was deeply grieved, but, like the rest of us, what he was really mourning was the loss of Desiree. Like us all, he had loved her.

Then we heard that, in view of the suddenness of her death, there would have to be an inquest.

What an ordeal that was!

We were all there—the servants, Martha, Lisa, Charlie, Robert and Dolly. Lisa sat beside me, tense and nervous.

There was no question as to my mother’s death: it was due to a fall during which she had broken her neck, and there were multiple injuries which had resulted in instant death. But because Dr. Green had reported that she had been subject to bilious attacks which had come in rather rapid succession and for which the only explanation was that these were due to food she had eaten, a coroner’s inquest had seemed desirable.

Two doctors gave evidence. Traces of poison had been discovered in the stomach, although the poison was not the cause of death … only indirectly. The sickness and dizziness which had made her fall had, however, been due to the fact that she was suffering from the effects of this poison.

They talked of
Euphorbia lathyrus,
and I began to understand why men had been sent to examine the garden. The doctors explained that they were referring to the plant commonly known as spurge … caper spurge in this case. It would have been in bloom at the time of the death and could have contributed to it. In this plant was a milky substance which was a drastic purge and irritant. The results of taking it could be sickness and diarrhoea— and in some instances this could result in dizziness.