In Pale Battalions (31 page)

When did he and Leonora meet? If there was a clue, it was in my compulsion to know, the compulsion Hallows had fed, and primed, and left to find its target. If he had planned my pursuit, its end was already known to him, wherever he was, waiting for me to find him.

At the Mermaid, Fletcher’s sister brought us beer and some supper in the back room. I was hungry and tired after the night’s events, but not too tired to tell Fletcher some of what I knew about Hallows’s family. Late into the night, long after the pub had fallen silent, we sat and talked about Mompesson, the hold I thought he must have had over Leonora, the part I feared Hallows might have played in his death. It was the least I owed Fletcher: some part of what I knew. By the time I’d finished, I was certain Hallows had killed Mompesson, that he had foreseen what would happen to his home and his family 206

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without him, what mischief Mompesson would work with them, had foreseen it all and resolved to prevent it.

Yet, when I woke the next morning in an upper room of the inn, I knew it didn’t make sense. Desertion and murder would hurt Hallows’s family more surely than his death. The price of thwarting Mompesson was worse than the evil he might have wrought.

I had resolved to go at once in pursuit of Leonora. She had written where she might be found on a scrap of notepaper and left it with Fletcher: “c/o Miss Grace Fotheringham, East Dene College, Bonchurch, near Ventnor, Isle of Wight.” I stared at it morosely as Fletcher’s sister served me breakfast in the tiny kitchen.

“This is very kind of you,” I said, to break the silence.

“It’s kind of Dan,” she replied, without smiling. “He’s too kind.

Always has been. That’s his trouble. I never met her”—I knew at once who she meant—“but that was the start. He lost everything because of her.”

“Then he’s fortunate to have a sister like you.”

“My Bill was dead by the time Dan came out. The brewery wouldn’t have let me keep this place without a man to help me. I’ve done him no favours. But this I will say.” She leant over me. “Your type bring him nothing but bad luck. Leave him alone. That’s all I ask.” Fletcher walked down with me to the Hard, where I was to catch the Isle of Wight ferry. The sun was shining, though it did not soften the stark streets of Portsea. To our right, as always, loomed the Dockyard wall.

“Your sister wants you to be left alone,” I said as we passed the Main Gate.

“We can’t all have what we want. You should know that.”

“Sheltering a deserter is a serious offence, especially for somebody with a previous conviction.”

“We’re both taking risks. I wonder if you realize how great they are.”

“I think I do.”

“For instance, I don’t expect you’re aware that we’re being followed.” I made to swing round, but he restrained me. “Don’t look.

Take my word for it. I saw him hanging round the Mermaid this

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morning and I’ve brought you here by a roundabout route, which he’s followed every step of the way.”

“Who is he?”

“A policeman, I reckon. Do you know why they should be after you?”

“I told you Shapland’s no fool. But can you be sure?”

“Sure enough. We’ll put it to the test, though.”

We walked down the jetty to the ferry pontoon. There I bought a ticket and waited with Fletcher on a bench where we had a good view of the other passengers. Fletcher nodded towards a thickset, overcoated man in the ticket queue.

“There’s your man. And this is what we’ll do. He’ll have instructions to follow you, not me. So you’ll wait until the last possible moment before boarding the ferry. He’ll do the same, of course, to be sure you don’t trick him. But I’ll prevent him getting aboard.” “How?”

“Leave that to me. And don’t worry. The worst he can do is arrest me.”

When the ferry came in—a chugging, compact little steamer—the other passengers bunched near the gangway, but I hung back and, true to Fletcher’s prediction, so did the man in the overcoat.

He seemed to glance anxiously towards us, trying to guess what move we would make. After the passengers had gone aboard, some freight was loaded, but still the three of us stood where we were. By then, the other man must have known we had his measure.

It was as the crew were raising the gangplank that Fletcher twitched at my sleeve and I lunged forward. Already, the ferry was easing away from the pontoon as I jumped aboard. The deckhands gave me straight looks, but I was only interested in what was happening ashore.

The man in the overcoat had evidently tried to follow me. He and Fletcher were still entwined, the other man gesticulating and mouthing words I couldn’t hear above the ferryboat’s engine. A porter bustled over to placate him, while Fletcher said something—probably an apology—and glanced in my direction with a half-smile. The ferry was well away now, white water churning behind it as it manoeuvred out into the harbour mouth. Shapland might have been too clever for me, but not for Fletcher.

eight

There was a breeze getting up in the Solent. I sat on deck as we buffeted across, looking back at Portsmouth as we left it, then ahead at the green mass of the island.

From Ryde, I took a train across the island to Ventnor on its south coast, a holiday resort emptied by the war but still genteelly picturesque, a scatter of white-faced buildings fringing the sea at the foot of a steep, wooded slope. At the railway station, I asked directions to Bonchurch and followed them, out of the town to the east, where the houses became larger and less congested, leisured villas tucked away in thickly leafed parks.

The village of Bonchurch was a cluster of mellow cottages round a pond overhung with willows. At the post office, I was told how to find East Dene College. It lay down a winding, rhododendron-lined drive, at the head of which a sign declaimed: EAST DENE COLLEGE, ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES. Not that any of them were in evidence as I approached. The courtyard was deserted, the grey-stoned building in silence amidst the swaying trees. But, as I neared the entrance, a stern-faced lady in a black dress emerged, snapped shut the book she was reading and cast me a sharp look.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m looking for Miss Fotheringham.”

The look hardened. “Miss Fotheringham will be teaching at this time. What is the nature of your business?”

“I’m sorry. It’s a matter of some urgency. Might I see her for just a few moments?”

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“Your name?”

I gave it. She led me into the entrance hall and directed me to a small waiting room with windows looking back down the drive.

There was a photograph of the college staff and students, dated September 1901, above the fireplace, but no trace of Miss Fotheringham in the list of names. Three girls in ankle-length white dresses ambled past the window, carrying tennis rackets. One glanced in at me, but seemed not at all abashed.

The door opened behind me and I turned round. A woman of about Leonora’s age stood there, dressed, like the girls, all in white.

Perhaps she too had been playing tennis. She was dark-haired, with a dimple to her cheeks that suggested a cheerful disposition. But, on this occasion, she wasn’t smiling.

“I’m Grace Fotheringham,” she said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Franklin?”

“I’m sorry if this is inconvenient.”

“It’s certainly irregular. But I was told it was urgent.”

“It is. I’m looking for Leonora Hallows. I believe you know where she is.”

She walked past me and gazed out the window. “Leonora has told me about you, Mr. Franklin. How did you know where to come?”

“Does it matter? Can I see her?”

“She needs rest, time alone, away from her family.”

“I’m not a member of her family. And you may as well know that I shan’t leave until I’ve seen her.”

She looked at me for a moment, as if seeking to confirm what I’d said. Then she spoke in an undertone. “She’s staying at my cottage in the village. Sea Thrift. In Shore Road, just beyond the post office. She’ll be there now.”

“Then I don’t need to bother you any more, Miss Fotheringham.

I’ll bid you good morning.”

“One thing . . .” I stopped at the door. “Leonora is my friend, Mr. Franklin. I don’t want her upset any more than she already has been.”

“Tell me, how much has she told you?”

“If you mean do I know she is with child, the answer is yes.”

“As to the identity of the father?”

“That is none of my business. As far as the locality is concerned, her husband has only recently been killed.”

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“You are a friend indeed, Miss Fotheringham. I am pleased to have met you.” I meant it: I could see why Leonora had turned to her.

I retraced my steps to the post office, then turned into Shore Road.

Sea Thrift was a small, thatched stone cottage behind a flint wall surmounted by a straggling hedge flecked with red valerian. The entrance was a wrought-iron gate set in and shaped to a stone arch in the wall. Through its bars, I could see a well-kept garden of trimmed grass and brightly stocked flower borders beneath canopies of pink cherry and green lime. To one side, a wicker chair had been placed beneath the overhanging eave of the house and there, reclining in the late-morning sunshine in a lilac dress, was Leonora. There was nothing in the world, or the place, or her pose, to tell of the turmoil she must have felt.

She looked up at the first creak of the gate. A King Charles spaniel by her chair pricked up its ears but did not so much as yap.

“Good morning,” I said lamely. Then I saw that she was suddenly breathless. “I’m sorry. Did I surprise you?” I closed the gate behind me and walked into the garden. Still she did not speak. I stood awkwardly in front of her. “Fletcher told me where you were.

I’ve just come from the school.”

“I thought I could trust Mr. Fletcher,” she said at last, her face strangely expressionless.

“You can. He had no choice but to tell me.”

“How much do you know?”

“Everything. I know John is still alive.” Still no change of expression, but a faint catching of the breath. “I think you should have told me sooner.”

“How could I? You must know what it means.”

“May we talk? About what it means?”

“I see that we must.” She rose from the chair and, for the first time, smiled. “I’m sorry, Tom, for deceiving you. I hope you don’t think too badly of me.”

“No.” I tried to smile as well, but the expression froze as it formed. It seemed, somehow, too banal for the moment. “There is much that I still don’t understand.”

“Let us walk a little.” She led the dog into the house through

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some French windows, then closed them behind him. He regarded us mournfully from a footstool as we walked away. “I have taken Swinburne out several times already. Like his namesake, he is not noted for his energy.” She closed the gate behind us as we emerged into the lane. A dog-cart clopped by, with a plump, red-faced parson at the reins. He raised his switch in acknowledgement.

“I think I see what sort of a refuge this place is. But you can’t hide here for ever, Leonora.”

“I shan’t try to. Indeed, they have now heard from me at Meongate. They should have had a letter this morning telling them I am safe and well, though not where I am.”

We turned down past the post office. The butcher in the shop next door raised his boater. Leonora smiled at him and spoke to me in an undertone. “As you see, I am already known and welcome here. Bonchurch is a tight-knit, friendly community sympathetic to my plight. You will appreciate that, if the truth were known to them, I would once again be an outcast, and would disgrace my friend, who has risked a good deal by taking me in.” “There need be no question of it. But is that what you feel from Meongate—an outcast?”

“Entirely. I could not remain there, for all manner of reasons.

Though I am sorry to have left in the way that I did. Here, for the moment, I am safe. I am Grace’s war-widowed friend, sadly with child. Respectable and plausible. But what of you? How did you find me so soon?”

As we went on past the gates of East Dene, down a sloping, ever rougher track towards the sea now visible beyond the trees, I told her of the sequence of events that had led me to her. None of it seemed to surprise her, perhaps because, in so many ways, she’d been there before me.

By now, we were on a path that led through the grassed and shrub-strewn hummocks of some long-ago landslip, the sea below us to our right, sucking at the shingle of a hidden shore. Behind us, across the fields, the gables and roof-trees of East Dene were clearly visible. There, I imagined, in some tall-windowed classroom, Miss Fotheringham would be teaching French with distracted refinement, wondering the while how her friend was faring.

“I do not begrudge you the truth,” Leonora said. “I want you to know that. John had no right to deceive you as he did. Alas, I cannot 212

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account for all that he has done—or may have done. I do not fully understand him any more.”

“But you have seen him. You have known for a long time that he is not dead.”

“Yes. For a month, I thought him so. The news came from France in early May. There was a memorial service at the church.

You wrote to me and I wrote back. Then it happened.

“It was a Saturday: June the tenth. Mompesson was staying at Meongate for the weekend. He’d become an even more frequent visitor since the report of John’s death. And it was apparent to me long before then that he wanted somehow to become a member of our family. I don’t mean by being Olivia’s lover. That was distasteful but not unusual. No, he wanted Meongate, a hold on the title if he could not have the title itself. As soon as I became a widow, I presented an attractive target. At first, I was too distraught to notice, or to care. At worst, his attentions distracted me from my grief. Olivia came to hate me then, I believe, to fear she would be set aside for a younger woman. As a matter of fact, I doubt he would have felt the need to forgo her even if I had agreed to marry him. But let that pass. To all of this I remained oblivious, until that night.” I interrupted to stem the flow of her account. Suddenly, I didn’t want to know too soon. She had held back so much for so long that I was ill-prepared for its revelation, all of a piece, as we stood on the sloping, uneven ground above the sea. “Wait. All of this I’ve only been able to guess at. You speak of Mompesson wanting some way into the family. Why? What for? What was he after?” “I too can only guess. He didn’t confide in me—or anyone else, I dare say. But his own family had land and wealth in Louisiana before the Civil War took it all from them. Was he jealous of us because of that, do you suppose? He had a talent for making money, but talent alone couldn’t give him social status. Is that what he wanted from us?” She turned and took a few paces down the slope.