The Shifting Fog (42 page)

‘1925.’

‘Then you must have been there when that fellow, that poet, what’s-his-name, killed himself.’

The light is making me warm. I am tired. My heart flutters a little. Or something inside my heart flutters; an artery worn so thin that a flap has come loose, is waving about, lost, in the current of my blood.

‘Yes,’ I hear myself say.

It is some consolation. ‘All right. We can talk about that instead?’

I can hear my heart now. It is pumping wetly, reluctantly.

‘Grace?’

‘She’s very pale.’

My head is light. So very tired.

‘Dr Bradley?’

‘Grace? Grace!’

Whooshing like wind through a tunnel, an angry wind that drags behind it a summer storm, rushing toward me, faster and faster. It is my past, and it is coming for me. It is everywhere; in my ears, behind my eyes, pushing my ribs . . .

‘Call a doctor; someone call an ambulance!’

Release. Disintegration. A million tiny particles falling through the cone of time.

‘Grace? She’s all right. You’ll be all right, Grace, you hear?’

Horses hooves on cobble roads, motor cars with foreign names, delivery boys on bicycles, nannies parading perambulators, skipping ropes, hopscotch, Greta Garbo, the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, Bee Jackson, the charleston, Chanel Number 5,
The Mysterious Affair
at Styles
, F Scott Fitzgerald . . .

‘Grace!’

My name?

‘Grace?’

Sylvia? Hannah?

‘She just collapsed. She was sitting there and—’

‘Stand back now, ma’am. Let us get her in.’ A new voice. The slam of a door.

A siren.

Motion.

‘Grace . . . it’s Sylvia. Hold on, you hear? I’m with you . . . taking you home . . . you just hold on . . .’

Hold on? To what? Ah . . . the letter, of course. It is in my hand. Hannah is waiting for me to bring her the letter. The street is icy and the winter snow has just begun to fall.

In the Depths

It is a cold winter and I am running. I can feel my blood, thick and warm in my veins, pulsing quickly beneath my cold face. Icy air makes my skin stretch taut across my cheekbones, as if it has shrunk smaller than its frame, is stretched over a rack. On tenterhooks, as Myra would say.

The letter I clutch tightly in my fingers. It is small, the envelope marked a little where its sender’s thumb smudged still-wet ink. It is hot off the press.

It is from an investigator. A real detective with an agency in Surrey Street, a secretary at the door and a typewriter on his desk. I have been dispatched to collect it in person for it contains—with any luck—information far too inflammatory to be risked in the Royal Mail or over the telephone. The letter, we hope, contains the whereabouts of Emmeline, who has disappeared. It threatens to become a scandal; I am one of the few who have been trusted. The telephone call came from Mr Frederick three days ago. Emmeline had been staying the weekend with family friends at an estate in Oxfordshire. She gave them the slip when they went to town for church. There was a car waiting for her. It was all planned. There is rumoured to be a man involved.

I am pleased about the letter—I know how important it is that we find Emmeline—but I am excited for another reason too. I am seeing Alfred tonight. It will be the first time since that foggy evening many months ago. When he gave me Lucy Starling’s address, told me he cared for me, and late that night returned me to my door. We have exchanged letters in the months since, with increased reliability (and increased fondness), and now, finally, we are to see each other again. A real, proper engagement. Alfred is coming to London. He has saved his wages and purchased two tickets to
Princess Ida
. It is a stage show. It will be my first. I have passed the signs for shows when I have walked along the Haymarket on errands for Hannah, or on one of my afternoons off, but I have never been to see one.

It is my secret. I do not tell Hannah—she has too much else on her mind—and I do not tell the other staff at number seventeen. Mrs Tibbit’s culture of unkindness has ensured they are all the sorts to tease, to poke cruel fun for the smallest reason. Once, when Mrs Tibbit saw me reading a letter (from Mrs Townsend, thank goodness, and not Alfred!), she insisted on seeing it herself. She said it was her duty to ensure that the under-staff (under-staff!) are not behaving improperly, keeping up improper liaisons. The Master would not approve.

She is right in one way. Teddy has become strict recently in matters of staff. There are problems at work, and although he is not by nature ill-tempered, it seems even the mildest man is capable of bad humour when pushed. He has become preoccupied with matters of dirt and filth, and has taken to checking our fingernails daily; it is one of the habits he’s adopted from his father. That is why the other servants are not to be told of Emmeline. One of them would be sure to tell, to score points from having been the one to inform. The others are on Teddy’s team. I am on Hannah’s.

When I reach number seventeen, I enter via the servants’ staircase and hurry through, anxious not to draw undue attention from Mrs Tibbit.

Hannah is in her bedroom, waiting for me. She is pale, has been pale since she received the call from Pa last week. I hand her the letter and she immediately tears it open. She scans what is written. Exhales quickly. ‘They’ve found her,’ she says without looking up.

‘Thank God. She’s all right.’

She continues reading; inhales, then shakes her head. ‘Oh, Emmeline,’ she says under her breath. ‘Emmeline.’

She reaches the end, drops the letter to her side and looks at me. She presses her lips together and nods to herself. ‘She must be fetched immediately, before it’s too late.’ She returns the letter to its envelope. She does it agitatedly, cramming the paper too quickly. She has been like that lately, since she saw the spiritualist: nervous and preoccupied.

‘Right now, ma’am?’

‘Immediately. It’s already been three days.’

‘Would you like me to have the chauffeur bring the motor car around?’

‘No,’ says Hannah quickly, ‘No. I can’t risk anyone finding out.’

She means Teddy and his family. ‘I’ll drive myself.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Well, don’t look so surprised, Grace. My father and husband both make motor cars. There’s nothing to it.’

‘Shall I fetch your gloves and scarf, ma’am?’

She nods. ‘And some for yourself.’

‘For myself, ma’am?’

‘You’re coming, aren’t you?’ says Hannah, looking up with wide eyes. ‘We stand more chance of rescuing her that way.’

We. One of the sweetest words. Of course I go with her. She needs my help. I will still be back for Alfred. He is a film-maker, a Frenchman, and he is twice her age. Worse yet, he is already married. Hannah tells me this as we drive. We are going to his film studio in North London. The investigator says this is where Emmeline has been staying.

When we arrive at the address, Hannah stops the car and we both sit for a moment, looking through the window. It is a part of London neither of us has seen before. The houses are short and narrow, and made of dark brick. There are people in the street, gambling it turns out. Teddy’s Rolls Royce is conspicuously shiny. Hannah takes out the investigator’s letter and checks the address again. She turns to me and raises her eyebrows, nods. It is little more than a house. Hannah knocks at the door and a woman answers. She has blonde hair wrapped around curlers and is dressed in a silk wrap, cream in colour, but dirty.

‘Good morning,’ says Hannah. ‘My name is Hannah Luxton.
Mrs
Hannah Luxton.’

The woman shifts her weight so that a knee appears through the gap in her gown. She widens her eyes. ‘Sure, honey,’ she says in an accent similar to Deborah’s Texan friend. ‘Whatever you like. You here ’bout the audition?’

Hannah blinks. ‘I’m here about my sister. Emmeline Hartford?’

The woman frowns.

‘A little shorter than me,’ says Hannah, ‘light hair, blue eyes?’ She pulls a photograph from her purse, hands it to the woman.

‘Oh, yeah, yeah,’ she says, handing the photograph back. ‘That’s Baby all right.’

Hannah exhales with relief. ‘Is she here? Is she all right?’

‘Sure,’ the woman says.

‘Thank goodness,’ Hannah says. ‘Well then. I’d like to see her.’

‘Sorry, sugar. No can do. Baby’s in the middle of shooting.’

‘Shooting?’

‘She’s in the middle of shooting a scene. Philippe don’t like to be disturbed once filming’s started.’ The woman shifts her weight and the left knee replaces the right, peeking through where her gown parts. She tilts her head to the side. ‘You all can wait inside if you like?’

Hannah looks at me. I raise my shoulders helplessly, and we follow the woman into the house.

We are shown through the hall, up the stairs and into a small room with an unmade double bed in its centre. The room’s curtains are drawn so there is no natural light. In its place three lamps have been turned on, each shade draped with a red silk scarf. Against one wall is a chair, and on the chair is a piece of luggage we recognise as Emmeline’s. On one of the bedside tables is a man’s pipe set.

‘Oh, Emmeline . . .’ says Hannah, and is unable to continue.

‘Would you like a glass of water, ma’am?’ I say. She nods, automatically. ‘Yes . . .’

I don’t fancy going back downstairs to find a kitchen. The woman who showed us in has disappeared and I don’t know what might lurk behind closed doors. Instead, I find a tiny bathroom down the hall. The benchtop is covered with brushes and makeup pencils, powders and false eyelashes. The only cup I can see is a heavy mug with a grimy collection of concentric rings inside. I try to wash it clean, but the stains are resistant. I return to Hannah empty-handed. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am . . .’

She looks at me. Takes a deep breath. ‘Grace,’ she says, ‘I don’t want to shock you. But I believe Emmeline might be living with a man.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I say, careful not to reveal my own horror in case it inflames hers. ‘It would appear so.’

The door bursts open and we swing around. Emmeline is standing in the entrance. I am stunned. Her blonde hair is curled up high on top, cupping her cheeks, and long black lashes make her eyes impossibly large. Her lips are painted in bright red and she is wearing a silk robe like the woman downstairs. Grown-up affectations all, and yet she looks younger somehow. It is her face, I realise, her expression. She lacks the artifice of adulthood: she is genuinely shocked to see us and unable to conceal it. ‘What are you doing here?’ she says.

‘Thank goodness,’ Hannah says, breathing a sigh of relief, rushing to Emmeline.

‘What are you doing here?’ Emmeline says again. By now she has regained her poise, droopy lids have replaced wide eyes, and the little round ‘o’ of her lips has become a pout.

‘We’ve come for you,’ says Hannah. ‘Hurry up and dress so we can leave.’

Emmeline struts slowly to the dressing table, sinks onto the stool. She shakes a cigarette from its crumpled packet, pouts when it catches, then lights it. After she’s exhaled a stream of smoke, she says, ‘I’m not going anywhere. You can’t make me.’

Hannah seizes her arm and pulls her to her feet. ‘You are and I can. We’re going home.’

‘
This
is my home now,’ says Emmeline, shaking her arm free.

‘I’m an actress. I’m going to be a film star. Philippe says I have the looks.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ says Hannah grimly. ‘Grace, gather Emmeline’s bags while I help her dress.’

Hannah releases Emmeline’s robe and we both gasp. Underneath is a negligee, see-through. Pink nipples peek from beneath black lace. ‘Emmeline!’ says Hannah as I turn away quickly to the suitcase.

‘What kind of film have you been making?’

‘A love story,’ says Emmeline, wrapping the robe around her middle again and dragging on her cigarette. Hannah’s hands cover her mouth and she glances at me—round blue eyes, a mix of horror and concern and anger. It is far worse than either of us imagined. We are both lost for words. I hold out one of Emmeline’s dresses. Hannah hands it to Emmeline. ‘Get dressed,’ she manages to say. ‘Just get dressed.’

There is a noise outside, heavy feet on the stairs, and suddenly a man is at the door; a short, moustachioed man, stout and swarthy with an air of slow arrogance. He has the look of a well-fed and well-sunned lizard, and wears a suit with a mottled waistcoat—gold and bronze—which mirrors the decayed opulence of the house. A cigar smokes greyly from between purple lips.

‘Philippe,’ says Emmeline triumphantly, pulling free from Hannah.

‘What is zis?’ he says in a heavy French accent. The cigar, apparently, is no impediment to speech. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he says to Hannah, striding to Emmeline’s side, placing a proprietorial hand on her arm.

‘Taking her home,’ Hannah says.

‘And who,’ says Philippe, eyeing Hannah up and down,

‘are you?’

‘Her sister.’

This seems to please him. He sits on the end of the bed, pulls Emmeline down next to him, never taking his eyes from Hannah.

‘What’s the rush?’ He says, smiling around his cigar. ‘Perhaps big sister will join Baby in some shots, eh?’

Hannah inhales quickly then regains her composure. ‘Certainly not. We are both leaving this minute.’

‘I’m not,’ says Emmeline.

Philippe shrugs in the way only Frenchmen can. ‘It seems she does not wish to go.’

‘She hasn’t a choice,’ says Hannah. She looks at me. ‘Have you finished packing, Grace?’

‘Almost, ma’am.’

Only then does Philippe notice me. ‘A third sister?’ He raises an appraising eyebrow and I squirm beneath the unwarranted attention, as uncomfortable as if I were naked.

Emmeline laughs. ‘Oh, Philippe. Don’t tease. That’s only Grace, Hannah’s maid.’

Though I am flattered at his mistake, I am grateful when Emmeline tugs at his sleeve and he turns his gaze away.

‘Tell her,’ Emmeline says to Philippe. ‘Tell her about us.’ She smiles at Hannah with the unchecked enthusiasm of a seventeen year old. ‘We’ve eloped, we’re going to be married.’

‘And what does your wife think of that, monsieur?’ says Hannah.