How much danger might Nell be in from that single chess figure? For pity’s sake, thought Michael angrily, it’s a lump of wood with a few semi-precious stones stuck on to it!
He made himself a toasted sandwich, poured a glass of wine to go with it, and carried the tray through to his desk. Opening the latest Wilberforce file he worked solidly for the next two hours and by eleven o’clock had almost written an entire chapter. He diligently saved the work to a memory stick, which Nell’s Beth had given him for Christmas, tied up in a huge scarlet ribbon. Last December the real Wilberforce had sat on the computer keyboard while Michael was pouring a cup of coffee, and had activated the log-off key. The computer had obediently shut itself down and Michael had lost four pages intended as an insert for the American publishing house, which had recounted Wilberforce’s exploits at a Thanksgiving turkey dinner, when Wilberforce had fallen into the cranberry sauce and it had died his whiskers crimson. Ellie, thousands of miles away in Maryland, had loved this, and Beth had said they could not risk losing any of Wilberforce again, so a memory stick would be a really cool present.
Michael reread the chapter he had just written and thought it was not bad. But before he let his editor see it, he would email it to Beth and Ellie. They loved being in on the birth of a new Wilberforce exploit and they would be completely honest about whether it made a good story.
As he got into bed, he wondered if Benedict Doyle had traced any of the people in his story. He had been going to get the Title Deeds to Holly Lodge – perhaps he would ring to let Michael know about that.
Lying in bed, his mind was full of fragments of Benedict’s curious story and the vivid collection of people who seemed to have been its major players. It was an extraordinary tale.
He began to drift into sleep, and as he did so, a half-memory nudged uneasily at his mind. He was toppling over into sleep when it clicked fully into place. It was of Benedict sitting in Michael’s study that day, the sinister glint of blue in his brown eyes, saying Nell should not go to Holly Lodge.
Because we both know who’s inside that house, Benedict had said and his voice had once again held the soft Irish overlay.
TWENTY
Nell enjoyed the evening at Nina’s flat. Nina had made a huge risotto which they ate in the large friendly kitchen, together with the bottle of Chablis which Nell had brought. Nina rattled on in her customary inconsequential way, Benedict putting in the occasional word, and Nell listened with amusement. But several layers down, she was aware of an undercurrent of excitement. Only a few hours left, then I’ll see him again, her mind kept saying. I’ll find out who he is. I’ll find out what he is. But this last thought twisted the excitement into such a wrench of apprehension that she pushed it away and focused on what Nina was saying about how people thought you could successfully transport beef Wellington for thirty people halfway across London without the pastry going soggy, could you believe it?
Benedict seemed entirely normal. He teased Nina about the risotto, and helped cut up ciabatta bread to hand round. Afterwards Nina shooed Nell and Benedict into the sitting room while she made coffee, and Nell asked Benedict about the criminology studies.
‘At the moment I’m researching for an essay on old Victorian cases,’ he said.
‘You mentioned that last time I was here. It sounds interesting.’
‘It is. I’m trying to find some really unusual crimes from the late 1800s – the 1890s particularly. Ones that weren’t publicized – ones we don’t know about today.’ He glanced at her hesitantly, then, as if realizing she was genuinely interested, said, ‘To start with, I thought I’d re-examine them, comparing the police methods with today’s forensic science. But then I thought that if I could unearth some really good ones, I’d try to find oblique references to them in the fiction of that time. I don’t mean obvious things like the Artful Dodger representing all the pickpockets in Alsatia, or Mr Hyde being Jack the Ripper—’
‘Mr Hyde wasn’t Jack the Ripper, was he?’ said Nina, coming in with the coffee pot, and sounding startled.
‘No, that’s just an illustration of what I mean.’
‘Where on earth was Alsatia? Oh bother, I’ve forgotten the milk. And I made some petits fours—’ She vanished to the kitchen again.
‘Where is Alsatia?’ said Nell.
‘It was in Whitefriars,’ said Benedict. ‘Roughly speaking, the Fleet Street area across to the Thames. It was sort of a sanctuary place for thieves and general ruffians and crooks.’
‘And now it’s home to newspapers and journalists,’ said Nell, deadpan, and was pleased when he grinned and instantly said, ‘Yes. So what’s new?’
‘I like your essay idea. And it’s such a colourful era, as well. The minute you mention the 1890s, you see all the images.’
‘The street life,’ said Benedict. ‘The hot food sellers and the beggars and toffs, and the ordinary clerks and workers. Apothecaries’ shops with huge glass flagons in the windows, and little dusty drapers’ shops and barrow boys. It would smell different then, and it would certainly sound different. London’s always noisy, but it’d have been noisy in a different way. Hansom cabs rattling over the cobblestones, and people shouting and quarrelling, and the hoot of barges from the river, and the sound of overstrung, out-of-tune pianos played in smoky pubs—’
He broke off, and Nell said warmly, ‘And one of the fascinations is that it’s still just about touchable, that era. Our grandparents would remember their grandparents or even their parents talking about it. And we’ve got photographs from those years. Voices, as well. Those scratchy old recordings. But go back a bit earlier, and there’s only what was written down. We’ll never know what people really looked like.’
‘Yes,’ said Benedict, with a kind of eager gratitude for her interest. ‘And we’ll never know what they sounded like, either. In ordinary everyday speech, I mean.’