The Victim in Victoria Station (11 page)

Heavens, I'd never thought about anyone checking my identification! I broke into a light sweat as I thought of the terrible mistakes I could have made. What a good thing Tom was thorough.

I had two phone calls after dinner. I was in my bedroom, dithering about what to wear for my first day on the job and wondering just how early a train I'd have to catch, when the first call came in.

“Dorothy, it's Lynn. Now,
listen
. Tom's told me what you're doing. He didn't want to tell, but I made him. He may be able to keep secrets from
other
people, but they haven't been married to him for twenty-seven years.”

“Oh, dear.” I sat down on the bed. “I suppose you don't approve.”

“I think it's
thrilling!
I'd have done it myself if I'd thought of it. Tom had
fit
when I told him
that
. But he said you were going to be taking the train in to London every morning, and that makes
no
sense at all. Come and stay with us for as long as you need to. I
won't
take no for an answer.”

“Oh, Lynn, I'd love to, and it's very kind of you to offer. But there's the house, and the cats—”

“You know
quite
well Jane will look after the house and the cats.”

“Yes, but I don't want to explain myself to her. I do feel very strongly that the fewer people know about this, the safer we all are.”

“Yes, I know. Make up something for Jane.”

“I don't lie very well. It's an art I should cultivate, I know.”

“I'll teach you. I lie
beautifully
in a good cause. Let's see. A friend from America has just arrived in London and wants you to show her around. Or your godchild is getting married a week from Saturday at St. George's Hanover Square. Her mother is
beside
herself and asking for you. Or your friends Tom and Lynn Anderson are going away and need a house-sitter. Or the Queen has invited you to a garden party, and you have to do some
serious
clothes shopping. Or you've decided to take up Zen, and someone has told you about a
marvelous
guru near Hampstead Heath. Need any more? I'm just getting started.” She paused for breath.

I was laughing by that time. “No, I expect one of those will do. Lynn, you're wonderful. I'll see you tomorrow sometime, probably not until I get off work.”

I settled for the godchild story as the likeliest and presented it, with some embroidery, to Jane. She accepted it with calm acquiescence, though she did not, I was sure, believe a word. Biding her time, that was Jane. Well, I'd tell her the whole story. Someday.

Alan, calling later, was harder to deal with.

“Alan! I'm so glad you called. I'm sorry I've been out of touch. I was going to call you, but I was afraid it was too late.”

“Close on midnight, but we keep late hours here. It's too hot at midday to do anything productive, so we carry on the siesta tradition. Life takes up again somewhere about four, and goes on quite late. They view midnight as the shank of the evening.”

“I thought mad dogs and Englishmen went out in the midday sun.”

“Not this Englishman, not here. You're sounding a good deal more like yourself, I must say. I thought you were a bit under the weather last time.”

“I'm feeling better; it finally stopped raining.” We discussed that useful subject for an expensive minute or two. I've never gotten the hang of talking long-distance to someone I love. There's too much to say, so I end up saying nothing in particular.

“What have you been doing to keep yourself so busy you couldn't phone your neglected husband?”

Conversation is especially difficult, of course, when you have something to hide. I'd been making little notes while we talked—things I could safely say. “Oh, this and that. I went to see Tom and Lynn last weekend. Lynn and I have decided to go to Glyndebourne this year. And oh, Alan, I've been having Nigel teach me to use a computer. It's fascinating!”

“A computer? Whatever for?”

“Because I was feeling old and didn't want to turn into a stick-in-the-mud, mostly. But now I'm beginning to think I might want one. I've learned a little about the Internet, too, and I'm hooked. Are they terribly expensive?”

That lasted us a while, too. Alan was beginning to sound sleepy, so I took a deep breath and dived in.

“Oh, I nearly forgot. I'll be in London for about a week, or maybe longer, starting tomorrow. Have I ever mentioned my godchild Crystal?”

Where that name came from, I'll never know. It was the first one that came into my head.

“I don't believe so.”

“Well, I've been out of touch with her for quite a while. Crystal Redgrave. No, no relation, unfortunately—I'd love to meet
that
family! Her mother was one of Frank's students, and when she married and had a baby girl, we were the godparents. Then they all moved to England… .” I went on for some time providing details of a fictional family who were beginning to seem quite real to me. “So, anyway, Crystal is getting married in a few days, and she and her mother want me there to help. They're sort of frantic, I guess, with a house full of guests. I'll be staying with Tom and Lynn again if you need me. Do you have their number?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Alan? Are you still there?”

“Yes.” Pause. “Dorothy, are you?—is there something?—I have the oddest feeling you're not telling me everything. You sound—different.”

Alan's naturally keen perceptions have been honed by long years as a policeman. His sensitivity is one of the reasons I love him so much.

Usually.

“I'm a bit distracted, that's all, love. This came up rather suddenly, and I've been running around trying to decide what to take and getting Jane to look after the cats and all. Really.”

“Dorothy, I wish—I'm sorry I can't be at home just now.”

“Me, too!” And if that came out a little more like a wail than I'd intended, at least it had a positive effect. Alan dropped that speculative tone and became soothing, and I relaxed. He hung up after I promised to call him in a day or two.

I'd have to keep that promise, too, or he'd get really concerned. I hated lying to him, but I simply couldn't explain over the telephone. Besides, he'd worry, and he needed to keep his mind on his job. I wished he were here to help, but he wasn't, and that was that. I'd just have to do my best on my own.

I
WAS UP
at dawn on Thursday, having slept, between the rigors of packing and the prickles of worry, only a few hours. I called a minicab, having no wish to struggle with two large suitcases by myself or leave my car parked at the station for who knew how long. The cats were indignant. They don't care for disruptions in their routine, and they hate suitcases, whose implications they understand full well. The cabdriver was greeted by anguished Siamese howls and thought, I'm sure, that someone was being murdered. I donned my wig and new glasses in the cab, not wanting Jane to see them, and when an apparently strange woman climbed out of the cab, the cabbie's demoralization was complete. He deposited my bags and got away as quickly as he could.

The packed train got to London on time, by some miracle. But miracles don't often come in bunches, and they ceased when I got to Victoria Station. I had never before witnessed the daily commuter crush, much less tried to negotiate it. It was no place for a lady of mature years and a slightly gimpy leg. I stood helpless as the tide of humanity surged past and around me, running for the station exits, the escalators to the Underground, the taxi stands. I had planned to leave my luggage in the checkroom and take the tube to the Temp-Assist office. I altered my decision in thirty seconds flat. Forget the Underground. Across the station, down two escalators, through several short tunnels, into a sardine-can train, up more escalators, another walk—no, thank you. I would be doing very well to make it to the taxi stand in one piece.

I hurried through the station, got a cab without too much delay, and took it as far as a traffic jam just around the corner from the Temp-Assist office. It would look more realistic, I felt, to arrive on foot. Louise Wren was not terribly well-to-do. I hoped I was coming from the right direction, as if I'd come from the Underground, but when I got to my destination, I realized that was the least of my worries.

The office was packed with young women, all dressed in the same uniform of short dark skirt, white blouse, and black high heels. Oh, the pattern of the skirts and blouses varied, as did the height of the heels, from moderate and almost comfortable to Grand Inquisitor. But there wasn't another soul in the place in a dress. And there wasn't one over thirty. Three of them were sitting together in a little knot near the door. They stopped talking when I walked in, looked up with mouth agape, and then went back to their conversation.

I was very sure I heard a stifled giggle.

I
survived the condescension of the young job applicants in the Temp-Assist office and their ill-disguised astonishment when I was the first to be called to the desk of the woman in charge. I survived her scornfull disdain. She plainly had no use for anyone who got a job by pulling strings. She was careful to make sure that, no matter who my friends might be, I knew who was in control of this situation.

“It is most irregular for us to allow anyone to work under our auspices, even briefly, without the necessary credentials. You have no identification papers, nor have you been tested. I can only hope that you will be able to carry out your duties properly. Our reputation is of the highest; bear that in mind. And you do quite realize that you will receive no compensation of any kind? So far as we are concerned, officially, Miss Scott is still the receptionist at Multilinks. Is that clearly understood?”

I humbly said that it was, and murmured something about emergencies that could happen to anyone. I was ignored.

“Very well. This is the address of the Multilinks office. The tube stop is Russell Square. Left out of the station, cross Woburn Place, second right is Northampton Way. They expect you at ten sharp.”

She handed me a form, turned away from me, and, picking up another form, addressed the room at large. “Miss Hamilton, please.” If she had literally washed her hands, she couldn't have made her meaning clearer.

I also survived the glares of the young things. “Well!” said one of them to her companion, in a voice meant to be overheard. “Seventy if she's a day—that wig doesn't fool me!
And
with an American accent! And will you look at those shoes! This agency isn't what it used to be!”

I survived all of these indignities, but I didn't enjoy them. My morale dipped lower and lower on the way to Multilinks. Once more I had hailed a cab as soon as I got out of sight. I didn't intend to start my new job by being late, or by looking decrepit, an effect that a run to and from stations would certainly create. Seventy, indeed! I pulled my shoulders back. It must be the wig. It looked, I was sure, very odd. And I felt naked without a hat, though the light brown wig was certainly hot enough to count as one.

At least I was going to a familiar part of London. Northampton Way was only a block or two away from Russell Square, the heart of Bloomsbury. Frank and I had stayed once at the venerable, old-maidish Russell Hotel there, in the old days when he exchange-taught at the University of London and we used to haunt the British Museum. I loved Bloomsbury, with its neat white houses and shiny black railings, its unexpected little squares and gardens. On impulse I sat up and tapped on the driver's window as we were rounding Russell Square.

“Set me down at the corner, would you? I'll walk from there.”

“Right you are, madam. Lovely day for a bit of a walk.” His good cheer was probably enhanced by the fact that the corner in question was right in front of the big hotel, where he was guaranteed a quick fare.

I had fifteen minutes to spare. I spent five of them watching the activity in the square and regaining my composure. It didn't matter what those rude young women thought. I might be an American, but I had known London since long before they were born. I remembered things they had never seen—shillings and half crowns and great copper pennies, tea at Lyons Corner House, fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. I remembered sitting with Frank on a bench in the chill winter sunshine, on that very bench there, or its predecessor, on our very first day in London, all those years ago. We'd held hands in silence, drinking in the great city around us, too full of sheer happiness even to speak. We'd opened a small account at Barclay's Bank, that very branch I was looking at now, and had thought ourselves too cosmopolitan for words.

My memories made this place mine. London belonged to me as much as to the giggling girls in the office, as much as to the Arab and Indian and Chinese and Egyptian and Nigerian students who hurried past me, intent on reaching their lectures on time.

On time. Yes. Was I dillydallying because I had a little extra time, or because I was nervous?

Scared stiff would be more like it. I abandoned nostalgia with a sigh and got myself moving.

It was a clear, still day. Over the babble of street noise I heard Big Ben, only a couple of miles away, strike the four quarters as I turned into Northampton Way. By the first stroke of ten I reached the door marked Multilinks International and, obeying the instructions on the sign, walked in.

The front desk, located in a spacious black-and-white-tiled foyer just beyond the entrance hall, was unoccupied. That was no surprise, since I was destined to be its next occupant. I had been told to ask for Mrs. Forbes, who was, as Nigel and I had guessed, the boss's secretary. I was wondering whether to knock on the door out of the foyer, when it opened and Mrs. Forbes came out.

I knew it was she before she spoke. She matched her telephone voice perfectly. Well dressed, well groomed, poised, and—bless her—in her late fifties, at a guess.