A Christmas Hope (8 page)

She did not reply to that, either, but kept walking, her mind already busy with plans.

Claudine began her own inquiries immediately, but it was much more difficult than she had imagined. She had to find a way to ask people about each of the three young men without appearing to be intrusive, or obviously implying that they were dissolute. That could not be done directly.

She wrote Christmas cards, a new custom but a
charming one. She shopped for small gifts to send to friends and the few relations she had. She bought a leather-bound copy of the history of the Napoleonic Wars for Wallace. All the time she was thinking whom she could ask the probing and extraordinary questions she needed to in order to learn about Cecil Crostwick, Creighton Foxley, and Ernest Halversgate. She had decided that the latter might not be as harmless and, frankly, as dull as he seemed.

In the end, she could think of no way to go about it but downright lies. She hated deceiving others, but she could do it without flinching; if there was a hesitation in her voice or a shadow across her face, it passed unnoticed.

She had already tried her best to question a few women at the clinic but had learned very little. It occurred to her then to speak to one of the patrons of the clinic, an immensely wealthy man who had been somewhat dissolute in his youth and who now made amends the best he could by donating very generously, to the clinic and other charities. She disliked approaching him on this subject, but she knew of no alternative. She would lie only to save him from the difficult moral dilemma he would have faced were she to tell him the truth.

“I’m sorry to ask you, Mr. Davidson,” she said seriously. They were seated in his very pleasant study with the winter sun shining low through the windows and picking out the colors of the cushions on the leather sofa.

“Not at all, Mrs. Burroughs,” he replied warmly. “Christmas is an excellent time to give to those in trouble.”

“This isn’t about money,” she said hastily. “I have a friend whose son has lately become very close to a group of young gentlemen, and since then his habits and, to be honest, his character seem to have changed for the worse. I wondered if you could tell me, in confidence, if you have heard anything of these young men. Is their influence as she fears, or is she merely grasping for an excuse for her son’s behavior?”

He frowned. “I’m afraid young men don’t need much leading to go astray, if they are so inclined,” he said ruefully. “I need only my own memory to remind me of that. Who are these young men?”

“Cecil Crostwick and Creighton Foxley,” she replied. “Ernest Halversgate I am less certain of.”

He pursed his lips. “Powerful families,” he said quietly. “I have heard rumors that are less than flattering. Do you wish me to inquire?”

She drew in her breath to say that she did not wish it if it would be a cause of embarrassment to him, then she changed her mind and bit back the words.

“I would appreciate it profoundly,” she answered. “I should not ask if the matter were not serious.”

“I’m sure,” he said with a smile. He spoke gently, and there was humor in his eyes.

She felt a flush of shame rise up her cheeks. She liked Arthur Davidson. There was an integrity in him that made him the last person she would willingly have deceived. He was gentle, and he never made excuses.

“Thank you,” she answered gravely. “It is … it is very important to me.” Claudine rose to her feet, embarrassed now that she had committed herself so openly. “Would it be too indelicate to ask that I might know before it is …” She stopped, unable to finish the request acceptably.

“I understand.” He rose to his feet also.

He did not understand at all, but she could not tell him so. She regretted that far more than she had expected to.

While she was waiting for his reply, she made very unaccustomed morning social calls on people who used to be friends in the most casual sense but who actually
bored her intensely, and whose acquaintance she had let slip since working at the clinic. Fortunately, Christmas was the perfect time to renew friendships, possibly with a small gift of chocolate or candied fruit, and to swap gossip.

It was not difficult to ask about parties, courtships, and who might be on the brink of marrying whom.

“A very nice young woman, Alphonsine Gifford is,” one of her friends assured her. “My daughter is friendly with her. Less so, of course, since she has been courting young Halversgate.” She smiled indulgently. “I know she has my daughter make a few excuses for her now and then, as girls will do, so that she can see him rather more often than she lets on. Of course, all the girls are willing to tell a little white lie for each other, now and then.” She smiled fondly, and Claudine nodded, trying not to let her frustration show. All of this was familiar, understandable, and of no help at all.

It was toward the late afternoon of the following day when Claudine was at the clinic checking on various
supplies, that Squeaky Robinson found her in the small room where they kept the medicines. He came in and closed the door behind him. She turned around in surprise, at first not knowing who it was. She saw the weariness in his face, even beyond his usual rather haggard looks, and also what appeared to be very mixed emotions.

“I done a lot of asking,” he said without preamble. “You want it straight? ’Cos that’s about the only way I can tell it.”

She put down the paper and pencil with which she had been making a list. She stood a little straighter, bracing herself. He was going to tell her Dai Tregarron was guilty.

“Yes, certainly,” she agreed. “If you please.”

“Tregarron drinks more than your average fish, enough so he should be as soused as a herring half his life,” he said. “Takes his women where he finds them. Some o’ the stories I heard I can’t repeat to you. You pass out, I can’t pick you up off the floor! He knew Winnie Briggs, all right. Liked ’er. Went both ways, from the sound of it. But she was a long way from being the only one.”

He waited for her to argue, all but daring her to.

“Is that all?” she said a little shakily. She had been half expecting this, trying to prepare herself. It should not come as a surprise. It was exactly what Wallace had said, not to mention the Foxleys and the Crostwicks.

“No, o’ course it’s not all,” he said irritably. “I just wanted to make certain you got that. But I ain’t telling you any more o’ the details because it’s the kind o’ thing ladies like you shouldn’t hear.”

She was surprised, and in spite of herself a little touched, that he was protecting her. She had heard enough tales from street women here to think there was not much left that would shock her. But all the same, she did not want to hear them about Tregarron.

“Thank you,” she said, being careful not to smile, in case it hurt his feelings.

He went on. “I can’t find ’ide nor ’air of the stupid sod, which means the police probably can’t either. So he’s likely run for the hills. But I don’t think he done what they’re saying. He’s a drunk, but I couldn’t find nobody who’d say he was vicious, like. He’d fight a man, if he were pushed to it, and pretty likely knock ’im senseless—unless he fell over hisself first. Which has happened. But nobody ever saw him hit a woman. Use them, make love to them, then throw them away, surely!
But when I say ‘make love,’ that’s what I mean. Lot of talk, lot of courting them like he actually cared.”

Squeaky shrugged, his expression mystified. “Maybe he did fall in love, or kid himself as he did. Every time! God help us. New one every few days.”

Claudine was not quite sure what she felt—relief, confusion—and she was completely at a loss to know what to do next.

“But all three of the other young men said he did it,” she pointed out.

“Whose side are you on?” Squeaky demanded indignantly.

This time she was obliged to smile, in spite of the bittersweet quality of it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I’m on Mr. Tregarron’s. And it sounds as if you are now, too.”

His face was twisted with emotion from somewhere deep inside himself. “I don’t go for hitting women, ‘less they really asked for it. But if there’s anything I hate like poison, it’s some bleedin’ wealthy little sod committing a crime and then blaming someone else for it, someone who can’t defend himself, while he plays all righteous and walks away with his skin untouched.”

“What do you think happened?” she asked, suddenly finding she respected him. In spite of his lurid past, he
had a code of ethics, and he despised those who trespassed across it.

“I think those three little bleeders were playing with her, and when she couldn’t take them all on, one o’ them lost his temper an’ hit her,” Squeaky replied. “ ’Cos she was ill, like, she took it harder than he meant. He got scared an’ thought he’d really finished her. But she were still alive, and he panicked. Then he had to do her in for real. I think Tregarron tried to stop him, and all three o’ them set on her an’ beat the hell out of her and then blamed him for killing her. They’re all out o’ the same box, so they stuck by each other. Poor bastard doesn’t have a chance against them, and they know that.”

It was hideous, but it fell into place, fitting exactly. Claudine could see it again in her mind’s eye: Dai bent over Winnie, the bruises on her face and the blood, the stiffness with which he had at last risen. Maybe his injuries were not from Winnie fighting against him but from the other three as he tried to defend her?

“How can we prove it?” she said aloud.

“God knows,” he replied in sudden defeat.

“They’ll all have bruises,” she went on, thinking about it. “We’ve got to get evidence of that before they’re healed.”

“No point,” Squeaky told her. “They’ll all agree that they fought. But they’ll say
they
were the ones defending her.”

“Three against one?” She struggled for a different truth. “They couldn’t beat him?”

“He’s used to brawls,” he pointed out. “He’s been in enough of them. It could take three fancy pansies like that to take him. I’d believe that.”

“Then why was he bending over the girl to see if she was all right, not one of them?” she demanded.

He smiled very slowly. “That’s a good one. But it won’t make no difference, ’cos they’re gentlemen with society on their side, an’ there’s three of ’em. But it does make you wonder, don’t it?”

“Then we have to find more.” She stated it as if it were self-evident. “If they attacked Winnie, it won’t be the first time they ever took a prostitute. There’ll be history somewhere.”

Squeaky’s eyebrows shot up. “You think anybody’s going to tell you that? What world are you dreaming of?”

“The one we both know, albeit from slightly different angles,” she replied.

“I like your idea of ’slightly,’ ” he said with a wry twist of his mouth.

“All right, very different,” she conceded. “I have made inquiries. I just don’t have an answer yet.”

“I’ll look some more then, in the places I know,” he said grimly. “See if there’s a girl willing to talk.”

“If you learn anything new, leave me a message,” she said. “I’ll do the same if I find something.”

He nodded.

Claudine began again the very next day. With Christmas fast approaching, time was too short to waste, even if it meant forcing the issue in a manner she would never have done in normal circumstances.

She contrived to get herself more or less invited to an afternoon party at a large house because she knew Eppy Crostwick was bound to be there also. She wore one of the new afternoon gowns that Wallace had suggested she purchase. She had seen it at the dressmaker’s, and it had required only minimal alteration to fit her really very well. It had most attractive sleeves, lending her broader shoulders than she possessed by nature. Both that and the unusually warm color of it were quite flattering.

She arrived at the party to the poorly disguised surprise of several of the other people present, but she was made welcome enough not to feel uncomfortable. Not
that discomfort would have prevented her remaining. She had nothing else to go on, especially considering Arthur Davidson might find nothing of value; worse than that, he might have agreed to assist her only to be civil, and actually have no intention of telling her anything.