The Crystal Cage (4 page)

When I came back into the bedroom, he was sitting on the huge bed that dominated the room and looking drearily down at polished wood. He seemed to have shrunk into himself, or else one of the denim shirts he affected had mysteriously grown. He looked up as I closed the bathroom door and his expression was pleading. We’d never quarrelled quite so starkly before.

‘Grace, I’m sorry.’

I didn’t reply. I still found it difficult to speak to him.

‘I shouldn’t have dismissed your work in that unpleasant way.’ He sounded ashamed, which I suppose was a start.

‘No, you shouldn’t have.’

‘It was a wholly unacceptable thing to say.’

That was a favourite word of Oliver’s, ‘unacceptable.’ It didn’t really describe what I thought of his remarks.

‘Grace, darling, look at me.’

I looked at him, but it didn’t appear to be the right look. He almost blanched in the face of my ferocity.

‘I was very wrong,’ he began again, and I wondered how long the recital was going to take. I started to ruffle through my bedroom chest to find some clean pyjamas. I was tired out and needed to go to bed.

‘I was very wrong,’ he repeated, ‘I lost my temper. That was unacceptable.’

There it was again. I pulled on pyjama bottoms and searched for a tee shirt. He shifted his position on the bed so that his gaze could follow me as I moved around the room. He seemed to gain confidence from my silence because he abandoned his penitent’s speech and went for vindication.

‘I’ve had a most trying day, although I’m sure you don’t want to hear. But some very difficult clients and then this Newcastle business on top of it and Sue is an experienced gallery worker but completely hopeless at organising. I was left to do it all on my own.’

Did he expect me to sympathise? I wondered. I wasn’t going to sympathise.

‘You’re a wonderful companion in all kinds of ways.’ His voice was suddenly much softer. ‘Don’t let’s continue this fight. I’m sincerely sorry.’

He looked and sounded contrite. ‘I couldn’t do without you, you know. I depend on you in so many ways. I know you still hanker after the university job, but it really wouldn’t have been a good idea.’

I was tempted to ask why not exactly, but my antagonism had begun to melt. Who doesn’t want to be needed? The appeal had hit me where it was supposed to. In any case, I hated conflict. I knew from bitter history that nothing positive ever came from it, only damage. And after all, it was Oliver who’d helped set up my business, Oliver who kept it going in the lean times. For years I’d been happy enough to accept his bounty along with his whims because at heart he was a good man, a kind man, and I wasn’t being strictly fair. I went over and kissed him on the cheek, and he pulled me down towards him, stroking my face and hair in just the right way.

The ringing of the phone shattered the moment. I was ready to leave it to ring, but Oliver got to his feet, grumbling. I followed him downstairs to the sitting room.

‘Yes. Who? Just a minute.’

‘It’s a Nick Heysham. Something about the V and A.’ Oliver’s mouth was pursed again and I damned Nick for calling me.

‘It’s a dry cleaners.’ His voice sounded tinny.

‘What?’ I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

‘Great Russell Street, number twenty-two. It’s a dry cleaners.’

‘You went to Great Russell Street?!’

‘I’m there right now. De Vere and Partners were architects, like you said, and these were their offices. But there’s no trace of them—no trace of any architects, for that matter.’

‘It was always a long shot,’ I soothed. ‘At least now you can say that you’ve explored every avenue.’

‘I’m not sure.’

Oliver was banging dishes rather too loudly in the kitchen, and I was anxious to finish the call, but this was tantalising. Had Nick discovered something after all?

‘Why aren’t you sure?’

‘We know there’s nothing to be gleaned from Royde’s workplace. But what about where he lived?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose, but it seems an even longer shot.’

‘Worth pursuing?’

The noise from the kitchen had escalated. ‘You’d have to consult the census to find his address,’ I said quickly. ‘You’re lucky—there was one taken in 1851.’

‘I figured the date, but I don’t know the borough he lived in. Theoretically I could be searching to doomsday.’

‘Don’t exaggerate. If he worked in Great Russell Street, he must have lived reasonably close.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Almost sure. Horse-drawn buses travelled across London, but as a junior employee Royde probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the daily fares. Most likely he walked, as most people did. So his lodgings aren’t going to be that far from his office.’

Oliver’s voice cut brusquely across the conversation. ‘I’ve cooked pasta, Grace. Don’t be long.’

The last thing I wanted to eat was pasta. I didn’t want to eat at all. But it was Oliver’s way of expressing remorse and here was Nick Heysham spoiling it for him. Nick wasn’t giving up on the call either.

‘It might be sensible then to draw a three-mile radius from Great Russell Street,’ he was saying. ‘But isn’t there going to be more than one census district involved?’

‘Three at least, maybe four: Holborn, Bloomsbury, St Pancras and possibly Westminster. Look, Nick, I have to go. I’m sure the search won’t take as long as you fear.’

‘Would you—’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘Just two districts.’

‘What do you mean, just two? I’ve been staring at print all day, and I’m very tired.’

‘You can leave it until tomorrow,’ he conceded generously. ‘And if both of us look, we’ll be speedy. Promise. Lucas Royde isn’t exactly a common name.’

Oliver was in front of me now, the bowl of pasta balanced precariously on a tray and threatening to tip into my lap.

‘Would it be too much to expect you to respond when I call?’ All self-reproach had disappeared, and his voice was hectoring. ‘Perhaps you’d let me know when I can expect some attention from you. Or are you intent on ignoring me today?’

I looked at him and felt sudden dislike.

‘I’ll take Bloomsbury and Westminster,’ I said into the phone, and rang off.

Oliver remained where he was standing, looking thunderous.

‘Nick Heysham?’

‘You remember,’ I said lightly, ‘he wanted some help with a query on the Great Exhibition.’

‘And that’s what you were doing at the V and A?’ His neck was again mottling alarmingly.

‘Yes.’

‘All day?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘So while I was battling to stay upright, you were engaged on this footling quest, researching things that don’t matter for someone that doesn’t matter!’

‘If you put it like that, yes.’

I wasn’t going to apologise. Oliver was probably right and I’d wasted my time. But there had been several moments in the day when I’d been quickened into life, moments when I thought I might be on the verge of discovery. And for once, I hadn’t suffered a single headache.

The thunderous expression had been replaced by one of incomprehension. With elaborate care, he put the tray down on the Pembroke side table. Then, muttering irritably, he retreated to the sofa and disappeared behind the daily broadsheet. I judged it wise to abandon the pasta and go to bed. I didn’t have to feign tiredness.

* * *

Even so, I slept badly and was still tossing from one side of the bed to the other when the doorbell rang out its full Victorian chime. It was enough to rouse a whole village, let alone a body hovering in and out of sleep. I crawled to the front door expecting to find our doleful postman, complaining as always of the climb up to Lyndhurst Villas, but it was Nick Heysham’s patched jeans and Young, Gifted and Slack tee shirt that greeted me.

‘Quite a walk,’ he said cheerfully, his breath coming short, ‘but worth it. What a view—like sitting on top of the entire city. It makes my dingy district seem even dingier.’

I was taken aback at finding this newly minted lover of nature on my front steps and stood motionless in the open doorway. He took the opportunity to invite himself in.

‘Nice pad,’ he said, looking around approvingly. ‘Where’s Bluebeard?’

I ignored him and slunk into the kitchen in search of coffee. I needed sustaining. He followed me and looked around admiringly.

‘What a kitchen! High-tech heaven. Not what I expected after those very expensive antiques in the hall. I like the mix!’

‘Are you by any chance thinking of setting up as an estate agent?’

‘Didn’t sleep too well?’ he queried sympathetically.

‘No, I didn’t and you coming here uninvited at—’ I had to push back a tumble of curls from my eyes ‘—ten in the morning…’ I stopped, not quite believing the clock.

‘Yeah, ten o’clock, Sleeping Beauty.’

‘Have you eaten a book of fairy tales for breakfast?’ I felt waspish.

‘If I had, I wouldn’t be so hungry. Any chance of some toast?’

I ignored him again and smacked down one of the coffees I’d made. With a resigned sigh, he settled himself at the kitchen table.

‘Sorry about last night.’

‘Sorry?’ I played dumb.

‘You know, Oliver. I could hear his fury in Great Russell Street. I didn’t mean to cause havoc.’

‘Then perhaps you’d better stop intruding into my life,’ I said tartly. ‘I was havoc free until you got involved.’ Not strictly true, but I wanted him to feel at least a little guilt.

I needn’t have bothered. ‘Red Lion Square—that should cheer you up.’

‘What? Where?’ I wasn’t in any state to play guessing games, but luckily neither was he.

‘Red Lion Square. I found him. Royde.’ He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.

I opened my eyes a fraction more and squinted at him. ‘For someone who not so long ago wanted to grab the money and run, you’ve become very keen on this puzzle.’

‘Strange, isn’t it? I’m sort of hooked now on finding out about him.’

‘So what did the census tell you?’

‘Quite a bit. In 1851 he was twenty-six years old and listed himself as an architect. He was sharing the house with the landlady and three other men, all in their twenties, another professional guy but also two working men who were recorded as a baker and a saddler.’

‘They were both skilled crafts.’

‘So?’

‘So they could afford to pay a reasonable rent. Their lodgings wouldn’t have been luxurious but quite acceptable.’

The word made me think of Oliver. He must have left for the gallery hours ago. I didn’t know what more needed to be done for the move, but he’d obviously thought better of waking me to tell me. I finished my coffee and decided to put my companion straight.

‘If you’re expecting me to go with you, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. I have to visit the Papillon this morning. But I’ll walk to the underground with you if you can wait for me to dress.’

He seemed startled at the idea that I wasn’t about to fall in with his plans.

‘But you’ve got to come. This is a joint quest now and—’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘You haven’t heard me out yet.’

‘I don’t need to.’

He reached across the table and grasped my fingers. ‘Come with me this morning, Grace. Just this once and then I’ll
never
bother you again.’

I hastily retrieved my hands. ‘I’m sorry, but if you want to carry on with the search, it’s your business, not mine.’

‘At least come to Red Lion Square. It’s in Holborn, on your way to the gallery.’

His geography seemed slightly awry, but it would only mean a short stop-off, and it seemed oddly important to him that I went along.

‘Okay, but then that’s it,’ I said with what I hoped was finality.

‘Agreed. Mind if I take a look around while you’re getting ready?’

‘You will in any case.’ I left him making for the conservatory.

I pulled on the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be skinny jeans, pumps, and a Day-Glo tunic. Nick Heysham was someone for whom you dressed down. It hadn’t been my aim, but he appeared to like what he saw. Noticing his appreciative smile, I told myself I would need to be careful. He wasn’t an unattractive man. In fact he was very attractive, just not my kind of man. I’ve never been a fan of Tigger-type enthusiasm. Still, I should be on my guard and careful to keep this trip strictly business. I didn’t want my relationship with Oliver to get any more complicated than it already was.

* * *

Less than an hour later, we turned into Red Lion Square. It was one of those civilised London spaces that occasionally you come upon when you least expect it, an oasis surrounded by noisy, traffic-filled roads. A small, neat garden was at its centre, guarded by black-painted iron railings. I’m sure it must have looked very much the same in 1851.

Number eight was no different from its neighbours, except for the bright yellow door. In Royde’s day the Georgian terrace would have been relatively modern but originally built for a large family, with its three main floors plus basement and attic. By 1851 it must have ceased to be a family residence and been let out to respectable tenants. I wondered which room or set of rooms Royde had inhabited. There was nothing to tell us.

‘Well,’ Nick let out a sigh of disappointment. ‘Nothing.’

‘What were you expecting?’

‘I don’t know, some indication that the guy had lived here, I guess.’

I thought about that. ‘It is strange there’s no blue plaque. He was a celebrated man in his time, hugely influential on the future of architecture. They put up plaques for far less important people.’

Nick leaned against the house railings and peered down into the uncovered basement window. I hoped the local Neighbourhood Watch wasn’t too active. ‘Perhaps nobody knows he ever lived here if there are no records to say so, except a page from an old census.’

‘Perhaps not.’ I turned to face him. ‘But this is beginning to feel odd. First we have an Exhibition space that he’s supposed to have designed but which is missing from the official records. Now we have a house where we know he lived but which hasn’t received official recognition either. It’s as though a whole swathe of his early life has been erased.’

Nick shrugged his shoulders. ‘Blue plaques are pretty arbitrary—there’s not a lot of sense to where they pop up—and it might be that Royde didn’t design anything before 1852. We could be on a wild goose chase. He may never have worked for de Vere’s, and it could be coincidence that we found him living so close to their offices.’