Flowers Stained With Moonlight (15 page)

I was taken aback by her vehemence.

‘Once burnt, twice shy? Surely you do not think that
your experience is typical! I am not yet married, to be sure, but I have lived four years of such delight in my engagement that I cannot believe marriage will be anything other than a lovely continuation of it, with the added riches of children and a home of my own.’

‘I don’t want children, I don’t care!’ she said, her lower lip taking on its now familiar rounded, obstinate shape. ‘I shall never marry because I – because I don’t want to, I want to be free and – and – do as I like!’

‘A husband who loves you would let you do as you liked,’ I murmured, but gently, for I didn’t want to argue with her; my words were more of a quiet tribute to Arthur, destined for my own heart.

‘Perhaps, but I don’t care. I don’t want a husband – never again! Anyway, I know what I want.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘I want to leave this place forever, leave England even, and live abroad, in Paris, and in the South of France, and in Italy, with …’

‘With whom?’

‘With enough money,’ she said hastily.

‘You must have spent a heavenly time when you were abroad,’ I said, ‘if it left you with the desire to spend the rest of your life so.’

‘Oh, I did,’ she said, a dreamy, enigmatic look coming into her eyes.

‘What was it like? What did you do there?’

‘Oh, nothing really. We – I – we just went out. To cafés, you know, and to the theatre. We made a lot of friends, we
went dancing. We went to concerts – there’s so much music in Paris! At midnight on the first of the year, we stood with half the city on the Pont Neuf and watched the fireworks against the moonlit sky. We visited the frightful tower that Mr Eiffel built for the Universal Exhibition three years ago – just think, he meant it as a joke and then it was to be pulled down, but they changed their minds and now they want to leave it up forever! We climbed the stone stairs of Montmartre at night, by the light of a hundred lanterns, and gazed at the Sacré Coeur; in the dark, under the stars, under the snow, it’s like a sparkling fairyland. We walked for hours along the Seine, and took the boats. We stopped on the islands for ices. In Versailles, we learnt everything that was ever known about Marie-Antoinette. We studied the French Revolution in the libraries and museums. We became fascinated by the Princesse de Lamballe. Did you know – she was murdered by a savage crowd, accused of – of—’ Her voice broke off, and she glanced at me suddenly, as though seeking some response or knowledge in my eyes. Seeing that I was totally ignorant of everything concerning the Princesse de Lamballe, however, she continued more quietly, ‘She was accused of crimes against the people. She was like our emblem, the Princesse de Lamballe. They carried her head on a pike under Marie-Antoinette’s windows in the Temple, where she was a prisoner.’

‘How horrible!’ I exclaimed, shocked at Sylvia’s gruesome fascination.

‘Oh, no, it isn’t. I mean, the crowd was horrible, but the fate of the princess is beautiful. She gave her life for … for
her friendship with the imprisoned Queen. I still daydream about that story.’

‘But did she give her life willingly, poor lady?’

‘She did, although she did not know how it would end. But she returned to the dangers of France when she could have remained safely abroad. She was resigned, and went where her gaolers led her, like all the other prisoners – like early Christian martyrs! What choice did they have? None, except to be resigned and accept death open-eyed when it came. The French Revolution was dreadful and frightful, but do you know – we often used to say that people
lived
during it – they drank life to the dregs, they knew fear and passion and loss of control. Loss of control! Do you ever think about that? Do you even have any idea what it means?’

‘No,’ I admitted. I must be a very simple creature, but I have a sort of cheerful appreciation of the natural, harmonious course of things, and the violence associated with loss of control does not appeal to me. I do not mean merely that I would not like to encounter it, for I believe most people love peace and are shocked in the presence of real violence. I mean that I am not even attracted by the study or the contemplation of it. My mind shies irresistibly away to sunnier regions. Still, I was oddly fascinated by this unsuspected dark side of Sylvia’s personality. It awoke my curiosity about her secret, and reawakened my vague suspicions about some possible connection between the secret, and her life in Paris, and the murder of her husband; suspicions which Ellen’s story had very nearly put out of my head.

‘Were you much alone in Paris?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said, still with her dreamy smile. ‘I hate to be alone. We were always together – Camilla and I, I mean.’

‘And did you meet very charming people there?’

‘Yes, heaps! People are so different there. If you only knew! The freedom that you feel, because others feel free, and also because nobody knows you! We were obliged to go visit friends of Mother – Mrs Clemming, you know, for old times’ sake, and the Hardwicks at the Embassy whom she used to know quite well, but we tried to avoid it as much as we could, at least I did; Camilla quite liked Mrs Clemming’s old professor friend who kept sending her to the library to read his books!’ She laughed to herself a little, glancing downwards, and went on, ‘But we met all kinds of other interesting people, and mostly frequented them.’

‘Did you meet anybody really … special?’ I blushed at my own bluntness and lack of taste, but Sylvia seemed perfectly unconcerned, and I really do not think she was feigning, as she answered,

‘They were all special! Writers, painters, artists, actors. Those are the kind of people that Camilla likes. She would like to be a writer.’

‘Really? I had no idea! Has she written anything?’

‘Well … she started to write a novel.’

‘How exciting! What about?’

‘Love, of course,’ and she laughed archly. ‘Her father was not so happy about her leaving for more than a month, but she told him she needed to get local colour for her novel. And it was perfectly true, for she worked quite hard at it while we were there.’

‘And what has become of it now?’

‘She stopped writing it. She wrote only the beginning. She says that now that we’re back in England, she doesn’t know how to make it go on.’

‘The inspiration is gone – is that it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know exactly why she stopped. She doesn’t want to go on with it. It was in Paris, and we aren’t there any more; it wouldn’t ring true.’

‘If one cannot write about a place without being there, then even less can one write about things one has not lived, or at least observed from the closest quarters,’ I remarked. ‘I wonder what Camilla based her novel on?’ My question sounded more tactless than ever, and I hastened to qualify it by adding a little flattery. ‘She is a fascinating person, really; so mysterious, and rather difficult to approach.’

‘She is, isn’t she,’ agreed Sylvia, a little abruptly, and jumping to her feet, she began to gather up the picnic things which we had been unceremoniously nibbling directly from the basket as we spoke. ‘Look how late it’s getting – we must hurry back! Come, Vanessa,’ and I found myself traipsing along behind her through the tall grasses in the yellow light of the lowering sun, and our talk was replaced by the whush of the breeze through the trees, and the buzz and hum of insects.

I wrote down everything I could remember of our conversation the very moment I returned to my room, and read it again and again. I do not find that I made much of my opportunity, yet at the same time, I cannot get rid of the feeling that she was trying to tell me something; that there was something she was holding back, dared not speak of,
perhaps, and yet longed to. But I can’t put my finger on it! She said so much, and yet not enough; between the lines, there is more. She didn’t love her husband, she almost hated him, and she hardly tries to hide it. But what conclusion can be drawn from that? It isn’t suspicious in itself … yet something in the air is! Oh, Dora, I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels. Ellen? Sylvia? Somebody else entirely? Mrs Bryce-Fortescue herself, perhaps? Believe me, I have reflected upon the possibility! After all, she may have deeply resented the unpleasant behaviour of Mr Granger in making the whole world believe that he cared for her, and then publicly preferring her own daughter. And furthermore, if Mr Granger’s money devolves to her daughter, then she would have a freer hand with her house than she would when he himself was the parsimonious administrator. Yes, I have certainly thought about her.

But I admit that I have dismissed the idea, for if I assume it, then I cannot understand what purpose she could have had in calling me in. To help in the rightful exculpation of her daughter, without which the inheritance would be lost? Impossible – it could not be done without discovering the truth. Can she wish, secretly, to be uncovered as the murderer? No, that is really too ridiculous. Why all the drama – it would be easy enough simply to confess! No, it is absurd; I cannot think it for a moment.

But I do not know
what
to think! Oh dear, I am not doing well at all. I am quite adrift – whatever shall I do?

Your dreadfully impatient to hear from you

Vanessa

My dearest sister,

Finally – a letter from you!

I have read it a dozen times, trying to see whether I could not convince myself – of something, of
anything
. Oh Dora, I want to kiss you for your beautiful words, and hug you for your honesty, and appreciate you for your limpid soul. Of course you cannot believe anything of the kind – of course not! But why, why does everybody lie, why does everybody have secrets? So she told you about it – but only after you knew already. So she explained why she hid it – and I feel more indignant than ever at the description of Mr Granger’s heartless attitude. And I can understand why a plea thus rejected may appear humiliating, before ever it is made, and a hundred times more afterwards. Yet the fact remains: she went, and she tried, and she failed. Yet she received confirmation that her child would benefit under Mr Granger’s will – and just afterwards, he died!

And then there was no will. Or was there? Might he not have redacted a last will and testament with his own hand, without giving it to his lawyers? Perhaps he left everything to the child and nothing to Sylvia! Could she or her mother have found and destroyed such a will? Or – what if Sylvia found it, but instead of destroying it, she kept it – could
that
be her hidden secret? No, it is totally impossible. No one, but no one could be so foolish as to keep such a thing, when it would be enough to put it to a candle. And did she not say that she
could
not destroy it, whatever it was,
because she cared too much about it? No, this theory is not convincing. In any case, it seems highly unlikely that a man of Mr Granger’s type should make a will without the official stamp of his lawyer, the very man who is also his executor and who was a close and personal associate in all his business dealings. I am afraid that it is far more likely that he spoke of the will as an accomplished fact, when in fact it was merely an intention.

But Dora, the existence of the will is immaterial in what concerns Ellen, for
she herself
thought that it existed, that is clear! No, the real proof of her innocence lies in what you wrote to me.

Of course, when you say she is incapable of such an act, I believe you. But your description of her life, simple, hard-working and full of privation, all centred around her little boy, is even more convincing. I understand perfectly that she could not possibly leave her child alone for more than the briefest moment; you say that whenever she must be away from him even for a few hours, she leaves him with you. A little boy of six, not yet in school, knowing nothing but his home and his mother, a little boy whose greatest expedition is the much desired visit to Miss Dora (who can, I am certain, be counted upon to provide him with plenty of sweetmeats) – indeed, it does not seem possible that Ellen could leave him alone frequently enough, or long enough, to somehow arrange … a murder, even by means of an accomplice.

Naturally, you wondered, as I did, whether she might not have left him on occasion with somebody else, or whether she had not, in spite of all appearances, become close to
some man during the long period of her loneliness. But I find myself compelled to agree with you that she cannot have done so in total invisibility. If, truly, the neighbours know of no such thing, and if little William himself does not, then it is false and must be discounted.

And the child is to be believed, of course. A child cannot lie, or even if he does, even if he has been ordered to do so, his sweet little face is sure to show some sign of it. You cannot have been misled about such a thing. No, I must resign myself, for the moment, to believe you absolutely.

Dora dear, you mustn’t feel guilty about having questioned poor little William. It isn’t wrong, wasn’t wrong, cannot have been wrong! You speak of a betrayal – you speak of using the child to convict the mother – of forcing him to condemn her as the little Dauphin did poor Marie-Antoinette (about whom I have learnt a great deal lately, in discussions with Sylvia and Camilla, who returned from Paris utterly fascinated by her history). But it was not so – surely nothing, nothing at all in the innocent question of whether he had ever spent a day alone at home, or with somebody else, or whether he would be frightened if he did so, could harm his innocent soul, or sow even the tiniest seed of suspicion against his mother in his tender mind. You say that if in some horrendous (and impossible, I now freely admit) manner she could have turned out nonetheless to be guilty, it would be as much of a crime to have her hanged, or more, as it had been to shoot the odious Mr Granger. Perhaps you are right – and God alone knows what action we would have taken if that had been the case! I myself do not know, and neither can
you. But it has not happened so, and as far as I can see, Ellen appears to be innocent of any connection with the fatal shot. An alibi discovered on the rosy lips of a six-year-old boy is not to be doubted for a single second, although were the police themselves to tread on that delicate and sacred ground in their heavy boots I cannot swear that they would believe this as fully as I – as the two of us – do. I promise you, they will learn nothing about Ellen from me, and I dearly hope that it will never even occur to Mrs Bryce-Fortescue to suspect her in any way, or to mention her to the police (whom she abhors), especially as doing so would reveal to the light of day a scandalous and horrid deed of her precious son-in-law, which she surely would wish to avoid at any cost. So Ellen is safe.

And yet, and yet, you who know me as you do yourself, must be able to guess that I am not completely and totally satisfied that we have learnt everything there is to learn from her. You feel that your loyalties are sadly divided between Ellen and me – but it is not so! Do not forget that I am your twin, and it is difficult or impossible for me even to imagine my feelings truly differing from yours on a matter so important. Telling me what she told you is not a betrayal; you put no weapons into my hands, and if you did, I should not use them, certainly not without your full consent and agreement. But there are things you have not told me – very probably, because she has not told them to you. Yet they exist!

Why did she lie about her visit to Mr Granger? Simply because she was afraid, or ashamed, you will answer, and it may be the plain truth. Well, then, more
intriguingly: what is the meaning of her strange attitude towards Sylvia? I noticed it myself in her conversation with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and you say you have noticed it even much more strongly.

If it were merely her conviction, expressed in front of me, that Sylvia should never have married, one could attribute it (altogether wrongly, perhaps, but I am merely trying to be logical) to jealousy on the score of the man who after all was the father of her child. But why should she say that Sylvia will never make a good wife to any man? Sylvia herself said she would never marry again – but how could Ellen know that? Even if Sylvia used to say it as a young girl, it means nothing; half of all young, independent girls say so. Could a natural jealousy and anger over the course taken by events lead to such a remark? But you assure me that she is not jealous and freely avows that she never for one moment envisioned becoming Mrs Granger herself – that at least at first, she felt more grateful to Mr Granger for aiding her during the first terrible months than resentful about his abandonment. She could, of course, be lying – but there, I must trust to your instinct – and I do!

Yet she seems to hold a grudge of some kind against Sylvia, to speak thus of her. Either that, or to know some fundamental flaw in her character, something so serious as to make her unfit to marry and live normally! I cannot imagine any such thing … unless it be that Ellen knows that Sylvia is capable of murder – but that’s nonsense! Sylvia can hardly have been in the habit of murdering anyone as a child.

I cannot imagine what it could be, then. Might Ellen
have actually seen Sylvia during these last years, as she saw Mr Granger, and be hiding something about it? I must ask you, persuade you, beg you to help me once again, Dora – leave all notion of betrayal aside, and try to find out everything that Ellen knows about Sylvia, and what it can all possibly mean.

Sylvia – all paths lead strangely back to her, and yet none proves that she committed any crime. There is something that eludes me, and yet – there are moments when it appears so close, so clear, so transparent, like a butterfly fluttering nearby, that I can hardly believe it cannot be caught with a simple gesture. Surely, together, we will succeed in elucidating this at last!

Your loving

Vanessa