The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette (3 page)

Major Payne was always giving her ideas. Well, he had ideas, unlike her former husband. He actually read books - had insatiable curiosity about things.

None of the young people, she noticed, was reading. They hadn’t the energy, she supposed. It didn’t look as though they were curious about anything. Such pasty faces - and must they pierce their noses?

Antonia smiled. That was Miss Pettigrew speaking and Miss Pettigrew always made her smile. Miss Pettigrew invariably put in an appearance at times of emotional upheaval, she had noticed. Miss Pettigrew seemed able to provide her with a safety valve of sorts. Antonia had been toying with the idea of having Miss Pettigrew playing the amateur sleuth in a series of novels she might write one day, though Major Payne hadn’t cared much about it. Heaven knew there were enough musty elderly spinster detectives already. He wanted her to use a sleuthing couple - now why didn’t she do that? A husband and wife team. They would be endowed with equal deductive powers
and
they could take it in turns to play the detective and the Watson.

Miss Pettigrew had arrived fully evolved at the time Antonia started work at the Military Club library. She was a much older woman than Antonia and, apart from the fact that both worked in a library, her complete antithesis. (Major Payne had warned Antonia against turning into a Miss Pettigrew - that was when she had told him off for spilling pipe tobacco over a biography of Younghusband, the improbably named Victorian explorer.) Well, Miss Pettigrew wasn’t a particularly likeable character. The librarian spinster par excellence, genteel, even lady-like, frustrated, chronically disapproving, rigidly adhering to archaic codes of behaviour, an anachronistic throwback to a previous age. Her favourite authors were Trollope and Barbara Pym, and, when not reading those, she perused books on library lore of the kind Antonia held in her hand at that very moment.

Miss Pettigrew crusaded through her little world, making sure people were provided with suitable reading matter; she had the energy both to read herself, even in the most adverse conditions, as when finding herself in the middle of a crowd, and to encourage others to do so. The trouble was that she was so volubly and forcefully full of suggestions that patrons tended to drift away after a while. Miss Pettigrew also tried to give her ideas for novels, which Antonia invariably dismissed as too far-fetched.

On the positive side - well, yes, there
was
a positive side - Miss Pettigrew was a forthright, practical, no-nonsense type, who had little patience with displays of irrational emotionalism. She was good at times of crisis. Hers — frequently, though not always - was the voice of reason.

It’s ludicrous that you should be blaming yourself, dear. You are too sensitive for your own good.
(Antonia improvised.)
What happened twenty years ago had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t your fault — in the same way that your failed marriage is not your fault, but we won’t go into that one. That poor girl, Sonya, needed lots of care — proper care, round-the-clock care — if she was autistic. Well, her parents were there, but they neglected her badly - that’s the upper classes for you. Her nanny shouldn’t have left in the first place. You did your very best. You had a child of the same age, that’s what made it so difficult for you. I fully understand, but, really, you couldn’t have kept a watch over her. What she was doing in the garden while everybody else was inside is what I would like to know. Criminal negligence. I blame the parents - entirely! I know it’s dreadful — the death of any child is a dreadful thing — but it had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.

The crowd was thinning. At the next stop Antonia, feeling much calmer, sidled up the carriage to one of the vacated seats. The train rumbled on. Ten more minutes and they were at Green Park station. Stowing away her book, she made for the opening doors.

day before. Walking through St James‘s, London’s club-land, was always a delight. Every time it felt like entering a different world. A group of Japanese tourists were standing at the corner, snapping away with their cameras. There was Lock, the legendary hatter, now more than three hundred years old. She looked through the window - still no signs of modernity. If they used computers, they concealed them carefully. All she could see was handwritten ledgers, sinister-looking wooden moulds and shop assistants wearing morning coats and winged collars. Major Payne had bought a polo cap from them, also a fez. Putting on the fez, he had recited verses from Kipling. Antonia smiled at the memory. On the other side of the street was John Lobb - quality handmade shoes and boots. She looked up. That was where Lord Byron had once held a bachelor establishment -

Suddenly she came to a halt. She thought she had seen a familiar figure go up the steps at White’s. Tall, distinguished-looking in a dark pinstriped suit and an old- fashioned Homburg, grey gloves, a rolled-up umbrella.

Her heart was beating fast. Lawrence Dufrette? Surely not? Before she could take a closer look, the man had disappeared inside the club. He had always hated London, he had told her so himself. Well, that was twenty years ago. She hadn’t seen him since the fatal day. She hadn’t seen Lena either ... Lena had been hysterical, deranged with grief, which was odd, to say the least, given that, prior to the tragedy, she had paid her daughter only scant attention. ‘Run along, darling, Mamma’s terribly busy.’ (Busy leafing through the Harrods catalogue - busy drinking a spritzer - busy eating a chocolate gateau as high as Mont Blanc - busy painting her fingernails scarlet - busy watching television.)

Where did the Dufrettes live? St John’s Wood, someone had said. Or had they separated? She seemed to remember a rumour to that effect. Would Lawrence Dufrette be in central London on this day of all days, this tragic anniversary, twenty years since his daughter’s death?

Could Lawrence Dufrette be looking for her, Antonia? Was there going to be a commemorative service perhaps? Or was it possible that there had been ... developments? She couldn’t say what developments exactly she had in mind, but if that had been the case, surely it would have been the police looking for her, not Lawrence Dufrette? Though why should the police want
her?

I am being reclaimed by my past, Antonia thought. She knew this was nonsense. She was becoming paranoid. Perhaps she should seek medical help?

She entered the Military Club.

3

Taste of Fears

She could still feel a little surge of excitement when she arrived at the club library. She relished the ‘unknown factor’, the uncertainty as to what might turn up, the possibility that it might be something really exciting. It was the detective story writer and mystery enthusiast in her as much as the librarian. One never knew. The library users sometimes had very interesting enquiries, out of which there emerged the most fascinating stories.

There had been the old boy who had known T.E. Lawrence in the short while before that fatal motorbike accident, which of course, he claimed, hadn’t been an accident at all; the chap whose aunt had been a nanny to the children of King Zog of Albania; the retired MI6 officer who told Antonia in great detail how he had foiled a plot to kill the Dalai Lama. The books themselves - Antonia tended to think of the books almost as people - often yielded surprises too, especially those that were brought in as donations. Old volumes of memoirs, frequently privately published, of the two world wars, of travels in the East when it had really been the ‘mysterious Orient’, and in Africa. Then there were the old personal archives, which she got to investigate from time to time.

‘Ah, Miss Darcy. You are back.’

‘Good morning, Mr Lodge,’ responded Antonia. She had been about to close the library door behind her. Mr Lodge was the club secretary: a small man in his late forties, rubicund and dapper, invariably sporting a bow tie, a polka-dotted one this time.

‘You look as though you’ve had an excellent holiday, if you don’t mind my saying so. You look tanned and fitter than before you left.’

‘Thank you. I had a very good time.’

‘I am glad to hear it. You did seem in need of a holiday. We’ve had upheavals here while you’ve been away.’

‘Really?’

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘New management on the way. It looks like war,’ he whispered. In his normal voice he said, ‘I have some more books for you. More donations.’

‘Oh,
good.
Thank you, Mr Lodge.’ They had known each other for three years, but somehow there was no question of first name terms ever being established between them.

He was holding a cardboard box containing a number of books. ‘Brigadier Shipton left them for you, in case they were of interest. It’s a mixed bunch. There is a rather unusual recipe book ... Not for the squeamish!’ Antonia at once thought of cannibals but it turned out to be for dishes favoured by the ancient Mongols.

Now inside her inner sanctum, she stood beside her desk and looked at the pile of letters that had accumulated in her absence. The one at the top was addressed to
Mrs Antonia Rushton, c/o the Military Club, St James‘s, W1.

Antonia stared. Rushton? She had reverted to her maiden name, Darcy, after her divorce, and she had been using it for the past six months. The handwriting seemed familiar, though it might be her imagination. Could it be something to do with Sonya? It didn’t look like an official envelope, so it couldn’t be the police. It
was
somebody from the past - Lena? - who had written to her. Somebody who didn’t know about her change of circumstances.

Now this won’t do at all. There’s no one out there who wants to get you. Pull yourself together, girl. Snap out of it.

Mr Lodge appeared at the door once more. ‘I am sorry, Miss Darcy. I keep bothering you. I have received the new
Who’s Who.
Would you like last year’s edition?’

‘Thank you. It would be very useful.’

‘Here you are ... So heavy, aren’t they? Someone’s cranium could easily be smashed with this. The perfect murder weapon, eh?’ He gave her a knowing look and left. Major Payne had told her that it was common knowledge now that she had penned a mystery yarn. On an impulse she opened
Who’s Who
and went to D.

Dufrette, Lawrence - well, last year, at least, he had been alive. He would be seventy-one in September. He lived in South Kensington and listed as his interests ‘the Babylonian brotherhood and walking’.

Hearing the sound of running steps, she looked up. It was Martin, the porter. ‘Oh, ma’am, look what I’ve got!‘ He was carrying three large hardbacks. ’These came back for you, at last! I thought we’d never see them again.‘

Grinning with genuine pleasure, he showed her the books. Of course. She’d completely forgotten about them. The memoirs of various cricketers, which Martin, a keen amateur sportsman, had been borrowing and slowly but delightedly reading, regaling everybody who would listen with anecdotes. Their absence from the library shelves had hit him and his fund of stories hard. ‘They were left on the table in the hall, Miss Darcy. Can you imagine?’

Antonia tut-tutted and shook her head. (What
was
the Babylonian brotherhood?)

‘They should have brought them here, shouldn’t they? What can they be thinking of?’ The porter tapped his forehead significantly. ‘Some of these old codgers ...’

‘Don’t talk like that, Martin,’ she reprimanded him.

On the floor beside her desk there were more books in cardboard boxes, some of them sticking out of the heap at crazy angles. More donations, left for her by various well-meaning club members while she had been away. Buchan’s
Greenmantle. They Die With Their Boots Clean
by Gerald Kersh. MacDonald Fraser’s
Flashman.
Anthony Powell’s
The Military Philosophers.
So far so predictable. Her brows went up.
Lesbia’s Little Blunder
by Frederick Warne. She picked it up. The blurb promised ‘two ripping school yarns’. The book had been published in 1934 - the picture on the cover showed two smiling girls, bursting with rude health and holding hockey sticks. She leafed through it. No, it wasn’t a spoof - it wasn’t what the title suggested either. All perfectly innocent, actually.

Pushing the boxes out of the way, she sat down in her swivel chair. She found she was still holding the letter from the top of the pile, but postponed opening it. All around her apparent chaos ruled. In the days leading up to her holiday she had felt too unwell to do anything about it. The wooden table topped with red tooled leather on her right was covered with uncatalogued books and sprinkled with notes on little bits of paper, pens, pencils and equipment for labelling books. Another, smaller, table was stacked high with yellowing papers, most of which bore copperplate writing, apparently from another age. The shelves above contained filing boxes, heaps of typewritten paper and variegated volumes.

Her ‘office’ was situated underneath a staircase and so the ceiling tapered down to the floor at the back. The space in which no one could stand up straight was occupied by piles of enormous ledgers, bound in red or black leather, some of them with brass corners, some ancient and mouldering, some in uniform sequences, some not. The organizing of all this material was part of her work.