Deceit (18 page)

It is noisy and dangerous… little pieces of chipped stone are raining down. I have to protect Jeanne’s head with my shawl. And when we are spotted, a man comes over and tries to shoo us back with his hands. But I grasp his arm and say, “Ralf Roberts. Do you know Ralf Roberts?” Well he doesn’t understand what I am saying but he recognises the name all right. Now he is all smiles. “Ah… Ingleesh… Ralf.” And he is pointing up at the scaffold and I can just make out a short stocky figure with a thatch of dark hair.

We have to wait for the man to climb up to Ralf with my message… which is just my name, Martha… and for Ralf to come down. We are sitting on the grass and Annie is nursing Tomas and I am dandling Jeanne on my knee when something catches my eye and I look up. A man is moving slowly down the scaffolding. When he reaches the ground he stands a while looking thoughtful, as if he is wondering what he should do next. But then he starts to walk towards us and I stand up and, hitching Jeanne onto my hip, I run towards him.

“Hello, Ralf.” I am trembling. Relief and fear and hope swirl around in my head all together. I can see his hands are bunched into great fists and his knuckles are white. He’s never been one for showing much emotion and even now I cannot tell what he’s thinking. Then I become aware that Jeanne is watching Ralf intently. And Ralf isn’t looking at me, but keeps his eyes fixed on Jeanne.

He holds out his palm and makes his fingers trot on it, as if they are the legs of a horse, clip clopping up and down. Then he makes a neighing sound. Such a little noise to come from such a broad heft of a man!

Jeanne watches him, her eyes as wide and dark and deep as the water in the depths of a well. All of a sudden her little solemn face breaks into a smile. And then she laughs out loud. I have never heard her laugh before and it is so merry a sound that both Ralf and I begin to laugh too. And she claps her hands and bounces up and down in my arms. So over and over the little horse trots until Jeanne is quite worn out with laughing and begins to cry and I cuddle her and she falls asleep on my shoulder.

Then he speaks, “Well, Martha. What have you to tell me?”

My heart misses several beats and my throat closes up tight. Where to start? How to convince him that what I had to tell him was the truth: that Jeanne is not my child, but Margrat’s. I search his face for any sign that might show me whether he still cares for me. But his face is impassive. Unsmiling now. I must look worn out and defeated. Is that it? But it seems his heart softens and he holds out his hands, takes Jeanne from me and lays her, still fast asleep, against his shoulder.

We talk for a very long time, sitting in the shadow
of the cathedral. And by the end of it I know that Ralf believes what Annie, in her funny, disjointed English, has told him. And he believes me. His face is purple with anger when he hears about Margrat and the Doctor. How he had murdered her parents and then seduced her. How he will come after Jeanne the minute he knows she’s been born and is alive. Well, I only have to see how Ralf looks down at Jeanne then. How gentle his rough and calloused hands are as he strokes her hair and cheek. How kind, when they fold my hand in his.

Ralf says there is work he must finish here. Another two months. But then we will go back to England. Annie agrees to stay with us a few more weeks. But then she says she must go back to Paris and to Luc.

Ralf pays her fare and I give her money. I cry when she leaves and we make promises. I say I will let her know somehow that we have reached England safely. That Jeanne is well. And she says she will send word through Ralf’s family if she hears any word of Margrat.

By the time we leave Amiens for Dunkirk, Jeanne is nine months old and has her first two teeth.
But she is still a solemn little thing, at least with me. Though Ralf can always make her laugh. It is a blessing that he’s come to love her so much. And that he still loves me.

I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am when we enter London again. The rain stops and the sun comes out… which I take for an omen that all will be well. We have taken a coach from the port of Dover and stay several nights on the road. We leave the coach in Southwark and cross the river at London Bridge. Ralf carries Jeanne on his shoulders.

And so we make our way slowly through the crowds towards Darke House. I talk to Jeanne all the way, until my voice grows hoarse with it; pointing out, in my excitement, every familiar sight as we walk towards the Strand. “Look and here’s where I used to buy the candles. And here the bakers where I purchased bread every day. This is where I bought some lace for Margrat, your mother, to trim her grey silk dress. And this is the place where Margrat told me she first saw Christophe.”

Jeanne of course says nothing! But her dark
eyes dart about taking everything in. People who didn’t know she was not my child would often say, “Ah she is so very like you, Martha. Quiet and thoughtful.”

The intensity of her gaze could quite unsettle people. Catching her watching them so gravely, they would begin to prattle or pull faces to try and make her laugh. But only Ralf can ever do that. Sometimes I even feel jealous. Yet I am grateful that he loves her so.

Now that we are close to Darke House, I begin to see people I know and they call out greetings to us. “How goes it, Ralf?” and, “I thought you were dead and buried Martha!”

Seeing we have a child, a baby with us, the women come across, smiling, curious. All except one… a close friend of Ralf’s. He looks shocked to see us and with a child. Ralf calls out to him and he opens his mouth to say something then turns sharply and walks away.

I guess Ralf’s family will know of our return soon enough and I wonder what they will say. Their favourite son and with that hussy Martha in tow, who left him so distraught. And now here they are, returned home and with a child. But Ralf
and I have talked about it and we have agreed to say she is our child. Jeanne’s safety is our first concern.

But first there is something we must do. Margrat told me that the casket was buried in the orchard and so I mean to dig it up. I cannot leave it there. Margrat may have had faith Nicholas would not find it, but I do not. To that end we have bought a little spade from a chandlers on Holywell Street.

The great oak door to Darke House has been sealed up with wooden planks nailed across it and we cannot enter the house that way. Mmm. It seems Ralf did more damage to the door that night when he came looking for me than he confessed to! So we go down the lane that runs along the garden wall.

I pray the gate will be open still and it is. The garden is untended, but even though it is late summer, the roses are still in bloom and the honeysuckle growing against the walls smells sweetly. Through the long grass we go and into the orchard, where the fruit on the trees is already formed and swelling.

I know exactly the place I buried Margrat’s
stillborn baby. I had marked it with a little pile of stones. “This is it, my poppet. This is the place your little brother is buried.”

We sit Jeanne down on the grass in the shade of an apple tree and take out the little music box I’ve carried with me all the way from France and we set it to playing. Then I give her the little toy wooden horse Ralf has carved for her. She seems content enough to chew on it, as she solemnly watches us at work, for there are more teeth on the way.

I know where I buried the baby, but Margrat said only that the casket was ‘nearby’. I look closely and see where a patch of grass has turned a little yellow. Ralf starts to dig, but there is nothing there.

Three holes later and Ralf is sweating hard and I have begun to get tired and dispirited. Then I see an iron stake at least five feet high that has been a support for a climbing rose, but is now tumbled over and rusting in the long grass. So I pick it up and, wrapping my hands in my shawl, I use the stake to push into the grass all around. I work outwards in circles from the baby’s grave, careful not to disturb it.

It’s hard work and my back aches and, even with the shawl, blisters are forming on my hands. Ralf wants to help and gets cross when I won’t let him. But I do not give up. I block out the pain and I’m rewarded at last. The iron stake hits something hard not far below the surface. When I’m sure it is the casket and not a stone, I set Ralf to digging again and at last see a bundle of cloth which I know at once is one of Margrat’s beautiful embroidered petticoats. I stop Ralf from digging then and use my hands instead.

At last I’m able to lift out the bundle and unwrap it. There is a manuscript written in Margrat’s hand and the casket, which I show to Ralf. I let him hold it in his hands and feel how light it is, see how magical it looks. Then, as he takes the box, as his hand brushes away the earth and he can see how it is burnished and holds the light, I say, “Now you see that I have been telling the truth.”

“I never doubted it,” he says, all the while looking down at Jeanne who is fast asleep now, her eyelashes like smudges of soot against her cheeks and the beautiful curve of her mouth, for all the world to see, the mirror image of the Doctor’s.
Then he gives me back the casket and lifts Jeanne up, light as a feather in his arms, and holds her against his shoulder gently so she does not wake, and we leave the garden.

We go back to the house, off Bishopsgate Street, that Ralf shares with his mother and father, and his two brothers. I do not receive a warm welcome. Ralf’s mother has a sharp tongue at the best of times. Now she lets it loose, calling me all the names under the sun; saying she had never thought I was good enough for Ralf and now she knows she has been right.

I keep my mouth shut. Let her words shower over me while she takes charge of Jeanne, saying she needs to be fed. Tutting and huffing all the while that the poor child looks half starved. She does not. She is as plump as a raisin!

Ralf’s mother isn’t in the least happy that I have come back and brought chaos in my wake. For now Ralf has decided we must leave London and travel north. Her temper flares up when we talk about it – her precious son living far away, with a brazen hussy and an illegitimate child!

“It will not do unless—” Her mouth clamps
tight and she quickly tries to swallow her words, for she had been going to say, “Unless you are married.”

Ralf smiles and puts his arm about her shoulders, looking fondly all the while at his mother, though she scowls up at him with a face as sour as a sucked lemon. “Well then that is what we shall do. We have been betrothed long enough after all.”

No one has thought to ask me whether I will be happy to be married to Ralf! But then I watch as Ralf scoops Jeanne into his arms and throws her up to the ceiling… making her squeal in delight… catching her as she falls back. Jeanne shows no fear, for she knows she is in safe hands.

I breathe in deeply, straighten my back and raise my chin. I will do whatever it takes to keep Jeanne safe. And I do love my Ralf. How could I not, when I see what he is prepared to do for me? He doesn’t have to travel north. He could stay safely in London. There’s a great deal of work for a stonemason after the Fire. So much needs to be rebuilt.

He’s making a great sacrifice and as it happens, one that has to be made sooner than we expected.
For Ralf comes home unexpectedly one morning in late September, looking pale and in a state of great agitation. “Pack our things. Pack our things, Martha.” His breath is coming hard and I don’t need to ask what has happened.

“So
he
has returned to London then?”

“Just a few moments past I saw him stepping from a wherry at Lyme Wharf. I ran back here as fast as I could. Where is Jeanne? Fetch her quickly now.”

Jeanne is his first thought… I don’t think he cares a jot about the ring or the casket. He loves her above everything… including me.

So it is in haste that we begin our long journey north, carrying the ring, the casket, the manuscript and Jeanne with us. Every moment of every day since, I have prayed that we may keep them all safe and that Doctor Nicholas Robert Benedict will never find us. God willing, my prayers will be answered.

L
indsay was arrested the moment they were back on the quayside, but because of her injured hand and loss of blood she was taken to hospital first, along with Micky and Claire. As Micky was being bundled into the ambulance, Claire managed to hang back, and while Dan was busy fending off the press, she passed Jacalyn the backpack. The casket and all Robert’s spells safely inside. The relief was immense.

Later Jacalyn explained to Claire how, with Dan’s help, she had traced her and Micky to the barge. How she’d known that something wasn’t right about Lindsay the moment they’d met. And her ring, though she’d been confused at first by what it had been telling her, had confirmed it… getting hot and tight whenever Lindsay was around.

She’d guessed it was Lindsay who’d been visiting the Paris house, because she matched the description and from their brief meeting, it was clear that Lindsay spoke French perfectly too. Dan had given Jacalyn his phone number when they’d met at Claire’s grandma’s house and so she took a risk and trusted him. She was a better judge of character than Claire after all!

Jacalyn had rung Dan and told him what she suspected and asked for help. Time was running out and she didn’t have many options left. A warrant to search Lindsay’s office had thrown up several possible places Robert might be hiding. They’d checked them all out, but come up with nothing until Jacalyn had spotted a reference to
The Annalise
.

“But you didn’t tell him anything about the spells and the casket?” Claire had sounded anxious.

“
Zut!
I am not as trusting as you, Claire!
Non
. Dan suspected there was something else going on, but he kept his mouth shut. He is…
un bon type
; he’s okay!”

But what a confusing, total mess the rest of their life was now. Of course, Claire knew she would
never be able to tell the whole truth, and so family ties were strained to their limit. Claire’s mum and dad were devastated that Claire had lied and put Matthew and Micky’s lives at risk… and all for the sake of some stupid box. And her dad had been devastated to find out that Lindsay had used him, had never really loved him at all. That she was now under arrest for involvement in Micky’s kidnapping and would go to prison.

Claire tried to tell him that in the end it was Lindsay who had saved Micky, but nothing she said could make him feel better about it. Just the mention of her name reminded him how stupid he’d been. How gullible. He said he hated Lindsay now… but he hated himself just as much.

But right now there was something important Claire had to do. And this time, she wanted Jacalyn with her.

They entered Darke House through the little window Claire had used before. But this time she was carrying the casket and Jacalyn had Robert’s 20 spells. Once they were safely inside, she felt Jacalyn pressing in close beside her, her arm about Claire’s waist. “Are you okay?”

Claire nodded and squeezed her hand. “Sure. Let’s do it.” And she led the way through the house and into the great parlour and there she was. Nefertaru. Waiting for them.

First they had to change the hieroglyphics on Nefertaru’s mummy case. Nef
AR
taru to Nef
ER
taru. Simple really! Except that it wasn’t. They’d needed to do some in-depth research at the British Museum to get the spelling of the hieroglyphics right.

The smallest of chisels would do the job. But Claire hesitated, terrified she would make a mistake, that the chisel would slip.

She felt Jacalyn’s hand light on her back as she leaned in. “Don’t think about it. The more you think, the worse it will be.”

Tap, tap. There. Nefartaru was Nefertaru once more.

Claire imagined she could hear a sigh as she lifted off the lid of the mummy case. As if Nefertaru knew her long years of waiting were nearly over.

Claire steadied herself. She half closed her eyes and centred her thoughts. Would she be able to
do it? Her lips parted and the blue dust swirled and glittered and she reached a hand to touch Nefertaru’s hair, her cheek. She heard Jacalyn swear under her breath and take a step back.

Then there was the swish of linen, the smell of incense… the sweet darkness of sandalwood and lily flower… and gentle clattering of bangles and beads as Nefertaru, her right hand whole now, stepped out of the mummy case and opened her eyes for the first time in over two thousand years. And they were looking straight into Claire’s.

Then Nefertaru held out her right hand, her fingers spread wide, and Claire felt her ring loosen. For the first time since she had slipped it on, two years ago, she was able to pull it easily from her finger and push it swiftly onto the third finger of Nefertaru’s hand.

Nefertaru smiled and she held out both hands, palms upwards. And Jacalyn stepped forward at once with the casket. Nefertaru took it and pressed the ring into the cartouche.

At first nothing happened, but then the casket opened. Claire held herself still, barely able to breathe, and waited. Claire locked eyes with Nefertaru and felt a fluttering inside her chest…
a sickening, swirling sensation inside her head. And as she tried to draw breath all the glittering blue dust poured out of her mouth in a stream and every last sparkling mote was sucked back down into the casket.

Now for Robert’s 20 spells. Jacalyn placed them one by one inside the casket, where they crumbled quickly to dust. Nefertaru gave a little nod of satisfaction and then she snapped the lid shut and stepped back into the mummy case and stood with her arms crossed over the casket.

She seemed at peace. She was ready now for the long journey into the afterlife… and, even as they watched, Nefertaru and the Emerald Casket began to fade from sight. All that was left was the mummy case, a few beads, a scintilla of dust. Claire picked up a blue bead and pocketed it. A memento. Then she placed the lid back on the mummy case.

“She didn’t want my ring.” Jacalyn was holding up her hand and looking at it. “Why not?”

“It isn’t needed any more. The spells are safe. We’ve done it. And this time it really is over.” After Claire had seen Jacalyn off on the train to Paris and she was back at what still felt like
Grandma’s house and not her home at all… she found herself alone and lying on Grandma’s bed. It felt as if gravity had quadrupled overnight and she was being pressed down by an unimaginably heavy weight. She knew now what people meant when they said they felt tired to death.

She was relieved it was all over, but she was also still afraid. Not of Robert. He was truly dead this time. No, it wasn’t fear of him that dominated her thoughts now. It was just that the spells and the casket and Robert had taken over so much of the last few years that she wasn’t sure what she would fill her life with now. School? College? Joe?

There was definitely no going back with Joe. Too much had happened. He’d forgiven her now and they were friends again, but she felt differently about him. Because how could she have experienced all that she had and not be changed by it?

And there was the blood of course. Nicholas Robert Benedict’s blood. She was still the
red-haired
maiden of the prophecy and the only true daughter. Poor Lindsay had been badly deceived over that. But Claire decided she would write to her in prison anyway, because whatever else
Lindsay had done, she had redeemed herself in Claire’s eyes when she’d turned on Robert and tried to save Micky.

“Claire!” Micky pushed open the bedroom door and came into Grandma’s bedroom. Her face was wild with excitement. She was holding the orchid from the landing window sill. The one that had been sorely neglected these last few weeks and was on the point of death again. “Claire, look… I went past it and there was a spider making a web on it… and I blew on it to make the spider scuttle away… and see what happened!”

The orchid was starting to bloom. Micky blew again… and the air was filled with the very faintest shimmer of blue dust.