The Second-last Woman in England (32 page)
‘A shipping firm? You mean like Daddy?’ said Anne, looking up at her mother with a frown as though she could not quite understand anyone, aside from her own father, choosing to work in such a place.
‘Yes, that’s right. Or rather, not quite the same, because this was a company that has commercial ships rather than passenger liners and it was around Hudson Bay and not across the ocean. And Uncle Freddie worked in their accounts department, I believe.’
‘And why has he come back?’ Julius asked.
‘Because he misses us all and he was homesick.’
‘So why didn’t he come back before? If he missed us, I mean?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask him.’
Freddie would not exactly relish such a question, but he was just going to have to deal with the children himself.
‘I don’t think Uncle Freddie missed us at all,’ Anne mused. ‘In fact, I don’t think he remembered us at all, because he never sent birthday presents or Christmas presents, did he? Or birthday cards or Christmas cards. Not once.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Julius grudgingly agreed. ‘One has to concede the old girl has a point,’ and he looked to his mother for an explanation.
They had reached the busy junction outside the station so that Harriet stopped at the pedestrian crossing and it proved quite impossible to continue the conversation.
It was approaching five o’clock as they arrived at South Kensington tube station and already early rush-hour workers were streaming out of the entrance. Harriet, Julius and Anne took up a position just outside the ticket barrier from where they could observe people who had arrived on either the Circle or the Piccadilly Line.
‘If Uncle Freddie left sometime after the war ended, that’s at least eight years.’ Julius was standing slightly off to the right of his mother and sister as though to minimise the possibility that people should assume he was with them. He surveyed the passing crowd thoughtfully. ‘So that’s sixteen Christmases and birthdays combined. Or thirty-two, if you count all my Christmases and birthdays and all Anne’s. That’s a frightful lot of presents we didn’t get,’ he concluded.
Anne stared at him, clearly shocked by these figures.
‘I’m certain that, now that he is back, he will put things right,’ Harriet replied.
She felt fairly sure Freddie was in no position to provide the thirty-two missing presents—and had not, in all probability, given them any thought at all—but she had no doubt that, with a little persuasion and the loan of a cheque-book, he could be coerced into a trip to Hamleys.
‘And when did Uncle Freddie get back?’ asked Julius.
Harriet opened her mouth to reply, then found that there was simply no correct answer to this question, or rather, none that would satisfy the children’s curiosity while at the same time alluding, at least partially, to the truth.
‘Anne, please stop twisting about and stand still—oh, I can see him!’
Freddie had somehow come through the ticket barrier without them spotting him and was standing on the other side of the concourse. Harriet started up and was about to wave before she realised that he was pressed against the tiled wall of the station, beside a chocolate vending machine and a litter bin. As she watched, her hand poised mid-wave, he raised both hands to his face and began to rub his temples violently, then he ran both hands through his hair. He looked wildly from side to side and at last seemed to see them. His face registered dismay.
Harriet let go of Anne’s hand.
‘Children, I want you both to wait here for me. Don’t leave this spot; I shall be back in a just a moment,’ she said, not looking at them, and she pushed her way through the crowd until she had reached him.
‘Freddie, what is it? What’s happened?’
He looked at her with a face so pale she felt her stomach lurch.
‘Would you believe, I just ran smack into my old C.O.?’ he said and he laughed humourlessly. ‘Straight into him. Doors opened, me on the Circle Line train, him on the platform just about to board the train. Face to face. Not sure which one of us was the most surprised.’ He paused, then shook his head and Harriet saw that his hands were shaking. ‘And do you know what I did? I ran. Pushed past him and got out of there just as fast as I could. Suppose that’s what I do best, isn’t it—running.’
They stood in silence as all around them the station filled up and on the far side of the concourse the children waved at them excitedly.
There was going to come a point, Cecil realised uneasily, when his behaviour could no longer be construed as courteous and would, instead, be regarded as improper. Had he reached that point? Perhaps it could already be regarded as improper and he was simply deluding himself about his real motives?
He paused for a moment, frowning.
‘Oy, watch your step, deary. Them stairs is slippery as a bar of soap once they bin washed down. I should know—damn near broke me neck on ’em just last week.’
Cecil started and almost lost his footing. He grabbed at the banister of the stairwell and steadied himself.
A charwoman in a grubby headscarf, a cigarette dangling from her lip, leered down at him from the first floor landing, at her feet a mop and bucket and a slosh of water in a puddle that was dripping in steadily growing rivers down the stairs towards him. Cecil sidestepped a trickle that was inches from his shoe.
‘Thank you. I shall take care to mind my step,’ he replied with a curt nod of his head as he advanced up the stairs towards her.
The charwoman grunted but didn’t move, observing him silently and seemingly in no hurry to step out of his way.
‘You’ll be after that Miss Squires, top floor,’ she said shifting her position so that she was leaning on the other hip.
Cecil paused, his face reddening and the thoughts of a moment ago rushing back into his head.
‘I beg your pardon! I am not acquainted with a Miss Squires.’
‘Anyways you’re outta luck,’ continued the woman, as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘She’s gorn off into the country for the weekend. Over’eard her tellin’ Mr Barnes, the caretaker. Won’t be back till Monday mornin’.’ The woman removed her cigarette and knocked ash onto the nearby window-sill. ‘All right for some,’ she added, as though Miss Squires had done her a personal injury by going away for the weekend.
Cecil did not dignify her comment, nor her insinuation, with a reply and stepped firmly past her, taking some satisfaction in leaving a large and rather muddy footprint on her newly washed floor. He could still hear her grumbling as he reached the third floor of the block of flats.
Leinster Mansions was a four-storey block of apartments built for gentlemen bachelors in the late twenties and a little shabby now, the carpets worn and faded, the paint peeling in places, a number of light-fittings minus their bulbs. The building, situated on a main thoroughfare in the heart of Hammersmith, was a little too close to the tube station to be entirely desirable, but nevertheless it retained a certain faded elegance, a pre-war charm that Cecil still felt drawn to in these austere times of concrete and prefabs. The Rocastles lived here; or rather, Jenny Rocastle lived here alone, at flat number 9 on the third floor.
Cecil looked up the stairwell towards the top floor and for a fleeting moment wondered which was the flat of the absent Miss Squires. He hadn’t seen a lady of the type Miss Squires appeared to be during his previous three visits. Indeed, he had encountered no one at all during his previous visits, excepting Mrs Rocastle herself. And that, perhaps, was a good thing.
But good Lord, he was doing nothing improper! He could just as easily have brought Harriet with him.
And yet he had not. He had in fact (while not uttering an out-and-out lie) certainly given the impression that he was going into the office on this Saturday morning to transact some rather urgent shipping business. But instead he had taken the Piccadilly Line westbound five stops and was even now standing outside the flat of a young lady in Hammersmith.
It did not look good.
He hesitated at the door of number 9. Ought one to have telephoned beforehand to announce one’s intentions? Under normal circumstances he would have done just that, but he had information to relay that had come to light very late the previous afternoon, after the time that a gentleman could respectably telephone a young lady at home. Cecil paused and slowly adjusted his tie. He had not, he now realised, wished to convey the information to Mrs Rocastle yesterday afternoon over the telephone; he had wanted to deliver it himself and in person to her flat.
He raised his hand and pressed his finger on the front doorbell. A tinny buzz sounded distantly on the other side of the door. He waited, but could hear nothing. He ought to have telephoned after all, because it appeared that, like Miss Squires, Mrs Rocastle was not at home.
Blast!
He felt a little annoyed. And a little foolish. He would pass the unpleasant charwoman again on his way down. And she would think he had called on Miss Squires.
Blast!
A sound from behind the front door startled him and a moment later the door opened. Jenny Rocastle stood in the doorway and regarded him with some surprise.
‘Oh. Mr Wallis.’
She was dressed in a pale-blue sweater and a matching blue skirt, her face showed the traces of make-up, but she wore no jewellery. Her hair, freshly permed, shone in a darkly golden way. Harriet would have called it rather cheap, but Mrs Rocastle was ten years Harriet’s junior and the hairstyle she sported suited her. Well, in Cecil’s view it did.
‘Mrs Rocastle. I do apologise for just turning up at your door unannounced like this, but I was in the vicinity and I had some information I wished to relay to you. I do hope it’s not an inconvenient moment?’
‘Well, I do have someone here—’
‘Oh, I do apologise, of course I’ll leave at once.’
‘No, it’s quite all right. It’s only Peter—Jeremy’s brother. Do come in.’
Cecil smiled, but felt a moment’s hesitation. He had not reckoned on another guest. Somehow his own presence now felt a little … questionable.
And Rocastle had a brother?
‘Peter, this is Mr Cecil Wallis—Jeremy’s old boss from Empire and Colonial. Mr Wallis, this is Peter Rocastle, my husband’s brother.’
Peter Rocastle was in the little drawing room positioned at one end of the cramped two-seater settee. He rose as they came in and held out a hand to Cecil. He was a tall man, taller by some inches than Jeremy. There was a slight family resemblance, the same round face and ruddy complexion, but Peter’s hair was fairer and longer than his brother’s and his clothes were somewhat more casual—loose-fitting flannel, brown brogues and a yellow sweater.
‘Hello. Good to meet you, sir. Jenny—you didn’t mention you were expecting visitors?’
Cecil smiled again and began to repeat his words of a moment earlier, but Mrs Rocastle spoke first.
‘Oh, Mr Wallis was in the vicinity,’ she explained, as though ‘the vicinity’ was a vintage motor car of questionable mechanical reliability.
‘Really?’ said Mr Rocastle readily. ‘Splendid.’
‘Yes. I must say, I really had no idea Jeremy had a brother,’ said Cecil politely.
‘Neither did I,’ replied Jenny confidingly.
‘And
I
had no idea Jeremy had a wife,’ said Peter Rocastle cheerfully as he resumed his place on the settee, then on seeing Cecil’s startled face he leant forward and added: ‘Turns out old Jezzer was something of a dark horse.’
‘If not a complete black sheep,’ added Jenny.
‘In fact, he was a veritable monochrome menagerie,’ said Rocastle and Cecil stood in the centre of the room with a polite smile on his face. Neither Jenny nor Mr Rocastle seemed particularly perturbed by this state of affairs, so that Cecil wondered if this was all some sort of bizarre joke.
‘Really?’ he said simply, nodding to cover his confusion.
‘Mr Wallis says he has some information,’ said Jenny, seating herself on the settee and tucking both legs beneath her. She held out a hand and Peter passed her a cigarette then tossed her a box of matches which she caught neatly one-handed. Cecil watched as she lit the cigarette, shook the match to make it go out, then looked up at him expectantly.
It was strange, almost disconcerting. She had not looked like this the previous times he had come to visit. On those occasions she had been … what? Vulnerable, shocked, upset? She had needed help, protection. Now, sitting on the sofa with her cigarette and her expectant look she appeared quite at ease, almost, one might say … confrontational. Mocking.
Cecil sat down on the edge of an armchair and realised they were both watching him. The information. Of course.
‘Yes, indeed. I thought you ought to know, Mrs Rocastle. I came straight round. Or rather, I made the discovery in the office late last evening and came round first thing this morning—’
‘And because you happened to be in the vicinity?’ added Peter Rocastle, helpfully.
‘Quite.’ Cecil hitched up his trousers at the knee. ‘As you know, Mrs Rocastle, the police have been conducting an ongoing investigation into your husband’s disappearance and the theft that occurred at the firm and that was—we must presume—perpetrated by him.’ He paused. Of course she knew that—why was he telling her? ‘And so, naturally, a great deal of time has been spent going through the firm’s records over the period that your husband held his position. A great deal of time has been spent by myself going through those records. Purely to ascertain the extent of the theft, as I am sure you can appreciate.’
Mrs Rocastle smoked silently and gave no indication of whether she appreciated this or not.
‘Anyway, it was as I was perusing records from a year ago that I made the discovery,’ he leaned forward, ‘that your husband made a number of long-distance telephone calls and sent a significant number of telegrams to an establishment in Johannesburg, South Africa. A
financial
establishment.’ He paused, but no one said anything. ‘This may not, in itself, appear to you to be anything out of the ordinary—Empire and Colonial is, of course, a firm with world-wide holdings and interests. But the point is,
we have no dealings
with any establishments of this nature in Johannesburg
.’ He paused. ‘It is my firm belief, Mrs Rocastle, that your husband had been planning this crime for some time and is even now at large in South Africa!’