A Christmas Hope (11 page)

She could not yet answer those questions. Maybe it depended on whether Squeaky could confirm in any detail what Arthur Davidson had told her.

She remained talking idle nonsense to Tolly Halversgate until good manners were satisfied then took her leave.

Outside in the fresh air she walked briskly, her mind crowded with thoughts. The police might catch Dai Tregarron any day, unless of course he had left the country and gone overseas. The thought of him in another country, no matter how civilized or how beautiful, made her sad. She pictured an exile’s loneliness, the rootless unbelonging of a man whose art was inspired by the land he loved.

She shook herself out of such useless speculation. She had spoken to him exactly twice, but his bruised and troubled face haunted her mind, making her behave like a stupid girl. She still hadn’t confirmed that he wasn’t guilty, and she needed to remember that and conduct her inquiries accordingly. Collect the facts, then deduce a theory to fit them—don’t invent your theory
then select your facts to suit. Hopefully, Squeaky could locate Tregarron and hear his side of the events. In the meantime, she must work with what she had. Begin again at the beginning.

She was obliged to find Oona Gifford at an early evening soirée. An exceptionally large soprano was giving a recital of songs celebrating Christmas in different languages. Donations were to be given to charities in aid of the unfortunate.

She had not intended to attend; it was a last resort in order to find Oona. As such, Claudine arrived late and was obliged to sit in the back row. That turned out to be a blessing, since from there she could see everyone else, and in the intermission Oona would be obliged to pass by her if she wished to leave for the refreshments. Considering the seriousness and the monotony of the songs, that was extremely likely. Claudine herself would certainly leave and do everything within her power to avoid being invited to meet the hostess, or anyone else for whom she would have to invent a flattering opinion. It
would be comparatively easier to part with a suitable financial offering.

In the end, Oona saw Claudine before Claudine saw her.

“Thank goodness!” Oona said with intense relief. “Please say you have something urgent to discuss with me and we must do it alone, because it would be most ill-mannered to disturb other people’s listening enjoyment by making a noise. We must find somewhere private … as soon as possible. My head is ringing from these high notes. I’m not sure I shall ever hear a top C again without ducking in case the chandeliers shatter in pieces.”

Claudine did not bother to hide her pleasure, even if she made a rather poor attempt to disguise it as surprise.

“How fortunate I am to see you,” she said, quite seriously. “I’m afraid I must ask you to interrupt your enjoyment and spare me time to speak with you a little more privately. Most inconsiderate of me, I know, but it really does matter.”

Oona looked taken aback. She searched Claudine’s face for sarcasm and found none.

“I’m perfectly serious,” Claudine assured her. “Seeing
you is actually the reason I came. You didn’t think I came for the music, did you?” She made the tone light and her smile a little rueful. She liked Oona, and being candid was not difficult, only a little uncomfortable in that she did not wish to hurt her.

Oona held out her hand in a gesture of invitation. “Then let us find somewhere uninterrupted and discuss whatever it is you wish.” She turned and led the way out of the gallery and up a flight of steps to a landing out of sight from the main hall.

“What’s happened?” she asked when they faced each other. “Not something more to do with Tregarron, is it? I really don’t know who invited him. It certainly was not I. I suspect it might have been Creighton Foxley.”

“It is to do with Tregarron, one way or another,” Claudine admitted, trying to get her thoughts in order. She had expected to have to work her way toward candor, not be pitched headfirst into it at the moment of meeting. Now her careful plans were completely overturned. “I had a delightful meeting with Alphonsine the other day,” she continued after a pause. “She told me she is shortly to become engaged to Ernest Halversgate.” She let the statement hang in the air as if it were a question. She studied Oona’s face as she framed her
reply. She saw anxiety in it and a degree of uncertainty. It mirrored her own feelings exactly.

Oona was extraordinarily candid, more than any other woman in Claudine’s acquaintance would have been. “Do you know something about Ernest Halversgate that you think perhaps I don’t?” she asked.

Claudine replied with another question. She was surprised how much she cared that Oona should think well of her, or at the very least know that she spoke out of honesty and concern, not unkindness.

“Do you know Mr. Halversgate very well?”

“No. Alphonsine is my stepdaughter. This arrangement has been made by her father, and I do not believe it is my place to question his judgment—even had I any cause to.” She frowned, the concern in her face deepening. “Are you suggesting that there is some reason why I should?”

“I know nothing ill of him,” Claudine assured her. “Except perhaps he is a tad unwise in the company he keeps. But it might be prudent to delay the announcement until there is more of a resolution to the death of that unfortunate young woman. I … I appreciate that it would be loyal to express your confidence in him, publicly, but perhaps be certain beforehand that that is
what Alphonsine herself wishes. I may be speaking quite out of turn.” She felt the hot color burn up her face. It was more than out of turn; it was meddlesome and possibly quite unjust. But Mr. Davidson’s information was too serious to ignore, for Alphonsine’s sake, quite apart from the need to know the truth about Winnie Briggs’s death.

Oona was regarding her intently. “Are you carefully avoiding saying that you think there is something in Ernest Halversgate’s behavior that we would find more than youthful indiscretion? Please be honest. Alphonsine is not my daughter, but I love her as dearly as if she were.” She took a deep breath. “Ernest is not my choice, he is her father’s, made with every consideration for her happiness. Ernest has an excellent reputation, both for sobriety and for wisdom, and the considerable ability to handle money well. Alphonsine will have a very large inheritance, eventually. She is an only child, and my husband loves her deeply.”

“I can understand that it is a fundamental consideration that she marry a man who is both honest and prudent,” Claudine agreed. The fact that Wallace Burroughs was both these things loomed in her mind.

“I hear no enthusiasm in your voice,” Oona said unhappily.
“Alphonsine is being very … awkward about it herself. I had attributed it to the fact that Ernest is—to put it frankly—dull. When we are young we look for romance, excitement, even a little danger. Only when we have tasted those qualities and find they leave a bitter taste, do we see the beauty of reliability, and of kindness, if you like.”

Claudine closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing hard, then opened them again. “The voice of wisdom,” she said in little more than a whisper. “But I notice you make kindness important. Real kindness has its roots in strength, don’t you think? Without it, and courage, when would his apparent kindness become merely good intentions, which at the slightest chill can wither into nothing?”

Oona blinked several times, her face bleak with anxiety.

“I have the strongest feeling that you are trying to warn me against something, but I cannot see what. I know already that Alphonsine does not love Ernest, and I am not at all sure whether he loves her or not. But at twenty who knows the difference between love and infatuation? I have been infatuated a few times, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Claudine agreed ruefully. The memory brought sudden pain, not of grief but of embarrassment.

Oona was smiling. “I see your choices were no wiser than mine. My parents decided my first marriage, and I know they meant well. He was much older than I, and he died quite early, leaving me free to choose my own second marriage. I am fortunate enough to be very happy in that. Enough that I will not impose my advice over his when it comes to a husband for his daughter, even if I might find poor Ernest both pompous and with little passion or humor.” She gave a slight shrug. “But then, I liked Mr. Tregarron, so what does that say for my judgment?”

“I liked him, too,” Claudine admitted. “But I would not let my daughter marry him, had I a daughter.”

“Would you let her marry Ernest Halversgate? And please, do answer that honestly, or not at all.”

“Not until the death of Winnie Briggs has been resolved more fully,” Claudine said gravely.

“I see.” Oona nodded. “Yes, I think I do see. Perhaps Alphonsine’s reluctance to obey her father’s wish in the matter should be considered more seriously. She loves him very much and would not be awkward just on a whim. I think I shall try to persuade him that after this
recent unpleasantness, she should be given rather more time. He thinks women are fragile.” She smiled with a sudden bright tenderness. “Which is utter nonsense, of course, but on this occasion I might pretend that I agree with him. Thank you. This cannot have been easy for you to say.”

Claudine smiled back at her. “Easier than listening to the rest of the songs,” she said lightly. They both laughed with fellowship, and there was a sudden easing of the tension.

Claudine went to the clinic the next day, determined to coerce Squeaky into further action regarding Winnie Briggs, even if it meant taking over some of the bookkeeping herself. The weather was still mild, but it was raining. She was glad to be inside where she could take off her wet boots and put on dry ones.

She intended to remain only until she could speak with Squeaky and find out if he had learned anything further. Regardless of what he said, she must tell him of her growing conviction that Ernest Halversgate was lying about something, and perhaps Alphonsine was, too. Might he even have confided in her? Or possibly she had guessed as much from his manner, or a slip of the tongue?

Claudine worked for nearly two hours, mostly on arrangements to provide a really good Christmas dinner for any patients who were resident in the clinic or who might come in longing for a dry bed and a warm roof over their heads on the days that were set aside to celebrate the birth of Christ, and the charity that went with that event. Efforts to ease the longing for a sign there was an eternity beyond the grief of this world, where so many had so little chance of happiness.

It was almost midday when Squeaky staggered in, disheveled and bleary-eyed. He led the way to his office and sat down heavily in his chair. Claudine looked at him. Both compassion and practicality sent her away immediately to fetch him a pot of tea and several slices of toast. She set them down in front of him and then took the chair opposite the desk and demanded his attention.

“Take your breakfast,” she ordered him brusquely. “Eat the toast, whether you feel like it or not, and drink two cups of tea. I shall tell you what I have learned. Then, when you have finished and feel fit to conduct yourself like a man, you will tell me what you have learned.”

For once he did not argue. It was only too clear that he had spent a long and supremely testing night, and
much of it had been unpleasant. She wished to know exactly where he had been and what he had learned and did not intend to allow him to evade answering.

Carefully she recounted to him whom she had seen and all that had been said that mattered. She had brought two cups on the tray, and had tea herself, then wished she had also brought more toast. He ate all five slices himself, with butter and marmalade.

“Well?” she said impatiently when he had swallowed the last mouthful.

He shook his head slowly, pursing his lips. “Foxley and Crostwick are two very self-indulgent young men,” he said, framing the words carefully, his eyes on hers to watch her reaction.

“Self-indulgent,” she repeated. “Don’t wrap it up, Squeaky. We don’t have time.”

“Couple o’ drunken sods.” He relaxed a little. “Bullies, lechers, arrogant bastards, but with enough money, and charm when they need it, so’s they get away with it. You won’t get anybody to swear to it—not that they’d be believed anyway. Can see how they get along with Dai Tregarron. Natural companion, you might say. Except that he can hold his drink better, and charm the women so as he don’t have to pay nobody.”

“But not Ernest Halversgate?” she pressed. Squeaky had confirmed what Arthur Davidson had said.

“Not him.” Squeaky lifted his shoulders exaggeratedly. “Much too tight-collared and stiff-necked to do that sort of thing. Wants to be one of the boys, but only to be included, not for its own sake. Too careful, too clean.” He raised his hands dramatically, the gesture losing something because of the ink stains on his fingers.

“By nature or out of fear?” she asked.

“Ah,” he sighed. “Clever. I don’t know. Does she have a lot of money, this Miss Gifford?”

“She will do,” Claudine answered. “Why? Do you think he’s careful because he wants to be master of that? Forbes Gifford has a deep affection for his daughter. And so, actually, does her stepmother. If anything really unsavory were known about Ernest, I am sure the engagement would not go ahead. Actually—” She stopped, not sure what she wanted to say, or if it should be said to Squeaky Robinson.