The House of Memories (14 page)

I hadn’t spoken to the tutors since the dinner and I had barely seen Lucas. I told myself I was leaving him to his studies. The truth is I was avoiding him. He eventually cornered me in the dining room. I was on my knees polishing the fireplace tiles.

“Tea, Ella?”

I stood up immediately. “Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“It’s made. That was an invitation, not a request. Please, come and join me.”

I followed him into his withdrawing room and took a seat by the fire. As he poured my tea, he smiled at me. “I’m getting worried about your cleaning. You do realize it’s the dirt that’s holding this house together? If you keep this up, the walls will cave in before I get a chance to start the renovations.”

“You did hire me to be your housekeeper.”

“No, I hired you to catch a thief.”

“While undercover as a housekeeper. I’m establishing my credentials.”

“You certainly are. Have you actually left the house since you arrived? Apart from what I’m guessing are your hourly visits to the supermarket for ingredients and cleaning products?”

I suddenly felt defensive. “I haven’t just been cleaning. I’ve been doing a lot of walking too.”

“Have you been like this since Felix died, Ella?”

His question shocked me.

“You never stop moving. You clean and you cook and dust and sweep from the moment you get up until the early hours. Do you ever stay still, let yourself be quiet, just think?”

He waited.

I shook my head.

“You can’t keep running away from it, Ella.”

“I’m not. I’m
not
, Lucas.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not.”

“I see. You just really like cleaning.” He put down his cup, walked over and shut the door. “Ella, I had another phone call today. From another client.”

“Another theft?”

“A missing watch this time. An expensive Rolex. Again, it could be a coincidence. They may have misplaced it. But perhaps not. Have you had a chance to talk to any of the tutors yet?”

I shook my head.

“I suppose not,” he said. “Unless they happened to be hiding in one of the laundry baskets or at the back of the cupboards you were cleaning.”

“Lucas, I don’t know where to start. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Didn’t you read all the crime novels I used to send you?”

“Of course I did.”

“What did each of the detectives have to do before they could make inroads in any of the cases?”

“Find a motive.”

“Exactly. Start there. Talk to each of them. Find out what’s going on in their lives. You might get a hint of financial difficulty, or perhaps even of a sudden spending spree. You’re closer in age to them, new to the house. It will seem quite natural for you to ask questions.”

I felt a rise of panic. “I find that hard these days, Lucas. To talk to people. To new people.”

“You? Surely not? You were always so curious. So interested in everything.” He smiled. “Even as a child you were always asking questions. I could barely keep up with your faxes.”

I swallowed. “But I’m not that person anymore, Lucas. I’m sorry, but I—”

My tears took us both by surprise. Lucas came across and held me tight against his scratchy woolen jumper as I cried. Ten minutes passed before he gently eased me back into my chair. He reached across to the side table and rummaged in the mess of books and papers for some tissues.

I took one, embarrassed now, wiping my eyes. “I’m sorry, Lucas.”

“Ella, please. You don’t need to be.”

“I want to be that person again too. But I can’t. Everything is different now. I can’t go back. I can’t explain—” I felt the tears well again.

“You need to talk about it.”

“I’ve tried. It hasn’t helped. I’ve talked to counselors and doctors and—”

“Not with them. Not with me. You need to talk to someone who knows exactly how you’re feeling. To someone who is feeling exactly the same way.”

I knew who he meant.

“I can’t, Lucas.”

Lucas was silent for a minute. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I saw him last month, Ella.”

I stared at him. “Aidan?”

He nodded.

“He’s in London?” I got the urge to run. Now. To go, again.

Lucas shook his head. “He was passing through. He’d been in Ireland to see his parents. Ella, I barely recognized him. He’s brokenhearted. Devastated. Felix was everything to—”

Keep busy. Distract yourself.
I stood up. “I’ve had an idea about the tutors, Lucas. A way of getting them to talk to me.”

“Ella—”

“It might work. I think it’s worth a try. Can I tell you about it?”

He wasn’t pleased. I knew that. But he listened as I outlined my barely formed plan and agreed it was worth a try. Afterward, I left the room as soon as I could.

•   •   •

I made a start over breakfast the next day, getting up early, before everyone else. I cooked pancakes, a stack of them, and prepared three different fillings: fruit, spinach and cheese, lemon and sugar. Peggy was the first into the kitchen, a novel tucked under her arm. If she was surprised to see me up so early, she didn’t show it. She accepted my offer of pancakes and let me pour her a coffee too.

“We’ll never leave the house if you keep this up,” she said, opening her book and putting her feet up on the chair opposite. “Literally. We’ll be so huge we won’t be able to fit through the door.”

She had two large fruit pancakes. For a small woman she had a big appetite. She read as she ate. I had to pick my moment, in between her pancake eating and page turning.

“Peggy, I wonder if I could ask a favor?”

“Mmm,” she said, not looking up.

“I’m writing an article about private tutors—”

“Writing?” That got her attention. “I thought Lucas said you were an editor.”

“I was, yes, but I’ve been commissioned by an Australian education magazine to write about the world of private tutors in London. It’s not something that happens much at home and—” Stop there, I thought. “I wondered if I could ask you a few questions for my article.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m very boring, though. All I do is study, teach, study, teach. Oh, and eat now. Study, teach, eat.”

I reached for paper and a pen. There were always notebooks and pens lying around the house. “Could you tell me your reasons for deciding to tutor as well as study?”

“One, for the money. Two, for the money.” She smiled. “But I can lie and say it’s for the love of learning and to share my knowledge, if you think that would look better in print?”

I looked down at my notepad.
Money. Money.
“And what about your own background? Your own university years?”

“This is like that
Desert Island Discs
radio show, isn’t it? Without the discs.” She leaned back in her chair. “I grew up in Newcastle, the oldest of three. I had a teacher who noticed how much I read, who thought I had a gift for writing. He pushed me into after-school tuition, A levels, then into applying for Oxford. It was very tough. I was the first in my family to go to any university, let alone a posh one like that. But I got in and I loved it, worked hard, did well enough.”

I remembered her CV. She hadn’t done “well enough.” She’d got first-class honors.

“In my final year, I heard about Lucas’s setup here, got added to his waiting list, and now here I am”—she smiled—“doing my PhD and living rent free while the tutoring pays for the rest of my life. Thank God for Lucas. I couldn’t afford to keep studying or live around here otherwise.”

“So money’s a problem?”
Subtle, Ella.

“This is London. Of course money’s a problem. But I’m okay. If I run short, I steal a few antiquarian books from Lucas’s vast uncataloged collection and sell them at Camden Market.” She laughed at my expression. “I’m joking, Ella. But I can tell you, it sticks in my throat when I go to some of my tutoring jobs. My parents had to scrimp and save to help put me through school and into university. I took any job going, cleaning and waitressing. And now I sit in expensively decorated rooms and tutor rich, spoiled children who don’t want to learn and don’t need to learn because their parents will be able to buy or network their way into any job or position they want, no matter what results they get. I know I have a job because of them, but by the time this year is over, I’ll be a fully fledged communist marching the streets chanting, ‘Share the wealth!’”

I glanced down at my notebook. It was still blank apart from the words
Money, Money.
“That’s great, Peggy. Thanks very much.”

“You’re welcome. Any more pancakes?”

I interviewed Mark next. He ate four pancakes, asking if they were a bribe to get him to talk. I admitted that they were.

“Can you tell me what you like about tutoring?” I asked, my pen poised on the notebook.

“It’s a great way to get inside rich people’s houses and scope them for future burglaries.”

I was starting to think they’d bugged Lucas’s withdrawing room. “Seriously,” I said.

He shrugged. “It’s an easy way to earn good money. Money for old rope, really. Money for old algebra, in my case.”

I glanced down at my notebook.
Money. Money. Money.
“And what don’t you like about it?”

“On the record? Nothing. I love every single minute of it. Off the record? I don’t like the students. I don’t like the students’ parents. I do like their houses, though.”

Before I could think of another question, he spoke again. “Who did you say this article was for?”

I stumbled through my answer: an Australian magazine, different education systems, etc., etc.

“Did Saint Lucas get you that job too?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s Mr. Fix-it, don’t you think? Looking after us, looking after you. What does he get out of it? Nothing but a warm glow, as far as I can see. He’s like the Mother Teresa of education. We’re like members of the Cult of Lucas. Lucasians. Lucasites. Lucasades.”

I wasn’t sure whether he was being admiring or critical.

He was sharp enough to pick that up. “I’m not complaining. I know I’m lucky to be a chosen one. Did you know the waiting list for this house is in the hundreds? Though you got to skip the queue, of course. Three cheers for family ties.”

I picked up my notebook again. “Could I ask you another few questions?”

“Sure, if you cook me another pancake. But maybe you’d answer something else for me first. What’s Lucas’s own story? Was he ever married? Is there something going on between him and Henrietta? Or is he gay?”

I’d liked Mark over dinner. Not now. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“Of course it’s not. But you can’t blame me for being curious. We all are. When he told us you were coming to live here, he described you as his only relative in the world. So we decided you were coming to check out your inheritance. It’s true, isn’t it? All this will be yours one day?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“It must be worth a fortune.”

“I don’t know.”

“Believe me, it would be. A place this size, this close to Hyde Park. Lucas doesn’t know how lucky he is.” He gave me an appraising glance. “Nor do you, by the sound of things.”

I didn’t like the way he was talking about Lucas or the house or me. He didn’t seem to care what I thought, though, casually reaching across to pour himself more coffee.

He continued. “I thought this house was amazing when I first moved in, but you should see some of the houses we teach in. I couldn’t believe it the first few times. Artwork everywhere, nannies and drivers and chefs and gardeners. And these kids—they want something, they get it. A new toy, a pony, a holiday. That’s why they’re so hard to teach. They’re not used to working for anything. If their mummies and daddies could buy them a pill to give them extra brains, they’d do it.” He glanced up at the clock. “I’d better go. Hope that’s been a help for your article.”

I looked down at my notes. The only words were still
Money. Money. Money.
“A great help, thanks.”

The third tutor, Darin, was the opposite in manner to Mark. Charming, funny, helpful, answering anything I asked. But it soon became clear he felt exactly the same way about his students as the other two did. The children were spoiled but their parents paid well.

“It’s a means to an end,” he said. “I try to teach them what I can, and in return I get a place to live and study and a good wage for the year. And for all the discussions we have with Lucas and Henrietta about the students, in the end it doesn’t matter what the kids learn. They’ll all succeed in life anyway. We’re for show, along with their paintings and jewelry and sculptures. I mean it—I’ve overheard them boasting to their friends. ‘Our tutor speaks four languages and is a martial arts expert.’ ‘Oh, really? Ours climbed Everest.’ ‘Ours was the first man on the moon.’” He was smiling, but he was serious.

“And that bothers you?”

“It did at first. But now? I’m getting plenty out of it myself, after all.”

“Plenty?”

He grinned. “Worldwide publicity. You wouldn’t be interviewing me otherwise, would you?”

My final interview, with Harry the scientist, took place two days later, in front of the other three. He’d said he’d been waiting for me to ask, that he’d been feeling left out. They were all in good spirits, interrupting, teasing.

I asked him the same questions. He told me he’d been interested in science since he was a small child. Like the others, he’d come from a lower-middle-class background, the first in his family to have a university education.

Also like the other three, Harry was not just bright-eyed and quick-witted, but opinionated. He felt the same about Lucas’s clients—astonished at the wealth on display and at how hard it was to get some of their clients’ children to study.

Darin joined in. “We’re the ones to blame. They don’t take us seriously. They can tell from a mile off that we’re from the lower classes, no matter how many degrees we have.”

Mark interrupted. “It’s not about class. It’s about wealth. That rock star in Belgravia is about as upper-class as I am. All these trappings are to show off their bank accounts, not their class. Why don’t they cut to the chase? Put a big neon sign on the front door with a real-life display of their bank balance? Wear T-shirts that say ‘I’m Stinking Rich’?”