Truth Will Out (19 page)

She shivered in her thin skirt and jacket, trying to plan what she would say to Lionel and to imagine what he might say in return.

‘Mind you,’ she whispered, ‘you haven’t kept to the plan either. You killed Jem Rider and that was never part of it.’

Her love for him had been changed by his actions and now she was desperately trying to recover the strength of her earlier feelings for him. But since their meeting in the garden that night, Alice knew he could kill and it had shaken her to the core. All the things she had originally loved most about him – his confidence, his ambition, his sense of humour – had been tainted by his admission. She struggled now to find excuses for the change in him because without him she felt empty and worthless. Somehow they must get through the next few weeks and hope that by some miracle they could survive the crimes they had committed.

The idea of the kidnap had originally frightened her but then Lionel had somehow convinced her that the world was a very unfair place. Her husband made her see the idea in a different light. He made it into a game they would play together, pitting their wits against society. He almost made it into a noble fight – the poor against the rich. No-one would be ruined and she and Lionel would be richer.

‘We’re not stealing from her,’ he had argued. ‘Because the paintings were her father’s. She didn’t paint them so why should she benefit from them? She’s done nothing to earn the money.’

It had sounded entirely reasonable at the time. Lionel had explained that once they had the money they could go anywhere in the world and make a new life for themselves. ‘It’s only money, Alice!’ he had insisted and she knew that was true. Rashly, she had put aside her doubts and entered into the spirit of the adventure. The best bit had been the interview because afterwards she had felt so proud of herself. She had acted so well and answered all their questions. They had been totally deceived. She had even wondered whether she had missed her vocation and might still earn a living on the stage.

Later, as she grew fond of Maude and Biddy, it was too late to undo the wrong. She was Lionel’s wife and couldn’t betray him. Nor could she disappear from the household without a convincing explanation and without infuriating Lionel.

Tears came into her eyes as she thought of Maude and Biddy and the hurt she had caused them. Poor old Biddy was confused and fearful, and Maude was terrified that she was going to lose the man she loved – and she was. She, Alice, had ruined their peaceful lives. Worse, she had abused their trust. Weighed down with guilt, Alice sighed deeply.

The clock struck eleven and on the last stroke she rose slowly to her feet. Now she was going to confront her husband and beg him to give up the whole scheme. She wanted them to forget all about the paintings and the money, and slip away in the night before it was too late. Deep inside, however, she felt intuitively that time was running out for them and that the police might be cleverer than they expected.

She felt in her pocket for the slip of paper on which he had written his address but it was not there. Never mind. She knew it by heart. He had told her it was an attic above a cobbler’s shop in George Street at the eastern end of the town. He wouldn’t be pleased to see her but she had made up her mind. They had to give up the whole thing and make their getaway.

She set off briskly, her head held high. Halfway along the seafront a middle-aged man suddenly lurched into her path. She smelled alcohol on his breath and his words were so slurred that at first she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She tried to ignore him but he caught hold of her arm and wouldn’t let go. Finally she translated something.

‘Come with me, little lady!’

‘No I won’t! And let go of my arm!’

‘Don’t be like that!’ he wheedled. ‘Just for a few minutes. Just for a bit of . . . you know!’

‘Not for one second!’ she told him. She jerked herself free but in doing so, stumbled and almost fell and he once again had hold of her arm in a painful grip.

She opened her mouth to scream for the police but abruptly shut it again. She was now on the wrong side of the law, and possibly also a wanted person. Calling for the police might not be a very good idea.

Sobered by the hard reality of her changed status, she kicked him hard in the shin and then stamped on his foot. He let out a roar of pain and relaxed his grip on her arm. As she took her chance and ran off he shouted after her and this time Alice heard every word clearly.

‘Bloody good riddance to you – you cheap little whore!’

No-one had ever spoken to her like that before and Alice felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame. She had reached a new low, she reflected unhappily.

She didn’t stop running until she found a shop in George Street that had shoes in the window. The cobbler’s shop. Holding a hand to her side she stood panting outside a door that evidently led up to the accommodation above the shop where there was a light on in the window. Taking a deep, nervous breath, she rang the bell. She wasn’t looking forward to the conversation with Lionel but she was longing to be with him again. Since the night in the garden she had had terrible doubts but surely somehow they could be reconciled. He would forgive her for her harsh words on that occasion if she forgave him for killing Jem.

‘Please God!’ she whispered.

After a long wait a woman opened the door about three inches. Suspiciously, she peered out at Alice.

‘What is it? It’s gone eleven. Waking decent folks in the middle of the night!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Alice, taken aback. ‘It’s late I know but it’s . . . it’s an emergency. I have to speak to Mr Bre . . . that is . . .’ Just in time! He would obviously be using a false name. ‘I need to see your lodger. It’s really urgent.’

‘Well, since we don’t have a lodger, that’s not going to be easy. Who are you, coming round at this time? What sort of emergency?’

Alice was wondering whether she dare use Lionel’s first name but decided that too would be risky. If the woman reported her visit to the police they might make the connection. ‘He’s a friend of a friend,’ she offered. ‘I–I forget his name but this er . . . this friend of mine needs to see him and I’ve got a message for him and . . .’ She stopped. Even to her own ears she sounded slightly crazed.

‘Friend of a friend?’ The woman opened the door a little wider and examined Alice through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘No! I just . . . This is difficult,’ she stammered. What could she say without giving her husband away? Her mind began to race with possible explanations for the confusion. None of them were good. Maybe Lionel
was
inside the building but was still angry with her and had told the landlady to deny his existence. Maybe this woman was involved somehow in the kidnap and she, Alice, had been used. Was she now going to be cast aside? She felt cold and her stomach churned with fright.

‘Well, we don’t have any lodgers so you’ve come to the wrong place.’

‘No! This is the place. Over a cobbler’s shop, he said.’ She thrust her foot into the gap as the woman tried to close the door.

‘And I say we don’t have any lodgers so sling your hook, whoever you are.’

‘Maybe I could speak to your husband? He might know where I might find my . . . my friend.’

‘He doesn’t know anything about any friends or any lodgers. There’s just him and me and he’s poorly and won’t thank me for waking him up so stop arguing and leave us in peace.’

Before Alice could guess her intention, the woman kicked her foot from the step and slammed the door in her face.

Alice stood there, stunned, her heart racing, sick with disbelief. After a few moments a window above her opened and the woman poked her head out. ‘You still there?’ she demanded crossly. ‘You’ve got one minute before I fetch a policeman!’

Alice mumbled an apology and began to retrace her steps. Passing a pie shop and a draper’s she came to a fishmonger’s. Then, as her legs still felt as weak as water, she stopped to rest. Slowly a terrible numbness filled her and she felt nothing but the ache in her heart. She slid down until she was sitting on the pavement with her back to the wall. She felt lower than the cat that slipped past her without interest, and as insignificant as the scraps of rubbish that littered the street around her. One truth filled her thoughts.

Lionel had lied to her about his lodgings, which meant he wanted to be rid of her. They had no future together.

Moments later she dragged herself to her feet and began to walk back towards the seafront. She walked slowly with her head down, trying to clear her mind and somehow make sense of the situation. He had deliberately given her the wrong address and had done so before they met in the garden . . . which meant he had been planning all along to finish with her. He meant to take the money and run.

‘No! That can’t be true,’ she whispered. They were man and wife. Nothing could change that. And he loved her – at least he had once loved her. She had loved him in return, enough to agree to the kidnap. She sighed as she turned right and walked in the direction of the pier. Presumably this was the night Maude would hand over the money – unless Lionel had changed the plan.

An elderly man slumped on a seat called to her. ‘Over here, me duck! Give an old man a bit of comfort!’ He took a gulp of something from a bottle and began to cough and splutter. ‘I’ll make it worth your while, me duck!’

Alice shied away like a startled horse. ‘I’m not your duck!’ she muttered. ‘I’m nobody’s duck!’ But what exactly was she? she wondered with a surge of anguish. She had no job, no home, no money – and possibly no husband. She was nothing.

It took a few moments for her to rally. She was still Alice Brent. No. She was Alice Crewe – at least that was her maiden name.

‘I’m still Alice!’ she reminded herself with a flash of defiance.

Not that she really cared at that moment. She wanted to be Mrs Lionel Brent but he had abandoned her. Her heartache was a physical thing, tearing her apart, and her conscience was pricking her fiercely. ‘Stupid little fool!’ she told herself. ‘You’ve been duped! You fell for his charm and then his lies and you helped him cheat poor Maude. Too late now to change your mind. Too late to undo the wrong. You’re in it as deep as he is – well, almost!’

Seeing two men approaching she didn’t wait to be accosted again but hurried down the nearest steps to the beach itself and continued to head for the pier. What was to become of her, she wondered anxiously, a married woman without a husband.

Maybe if she waited for Lionel by the pier she could talk to him and make him change his mind . . . but then she might be arrested with him. The idea of prison brought her up short. Standing stock still, she stared out across the moonlit water and felt herself drawn towards it.

Alice crunched over the pebbles until she stood at the water’s edge. Glancing back she could make out the edge of the town, lit by flickering gaslights and her throat contracted with misery. Hastings was her town, the place where she was born. She had gone to school here and vaguely remembered Jem Rider as a snotty-nosed, barefooted child who never had a handkerchief. He was always getting into mischief and always getting the cane. She had earned her first meagre wages as a young barmaid in the Pig and Flute, which was where she had met Lionel and fallen so disastrously in love.

Turning her back on the town, Alice studied the sea. It looked so peaceful. ‘Like a mill pond!’ she exclaimed. Wistfully, she imagined herself floating gently on the placid surface, her hair floating out around her head, her eyes closed. She had known the sea in all its moods – from this calm oily motion, which the fishermen call ‘swallocky’, to the wild crashing waves of a full-scale storm. She had never seen it as a way out before but, with the inner turmoil that now racked her, it was tempting. If she could not see a way out of this trouble she was in, she might dare to think the unthinkable.

It was a few minutes past midnight and the only light in the Romilees Hotel was in the private sitting room where three people conversed in lowered voices. One was DC Fleet, another was Derek Jayson and the third person was Maude Brent. Ever since the detective’s return from Folkestone, Maude had been in a state of utter denial. She refused to listen to his account of what had happened at
Fairways
and was insisting that she would carry out her plan to take the paintings instead of the money. She had angrily rejected the bank manager’s last-minute offer of half the money, insisting that the kidnappers might take umbrage and kill Lionel out of spite. ‘With the paintings I have selected, they will be amply rewarded. What’s the difference between money or goods in lieu of money? If I were a kidnapper I would take the paintings and disappear to the other side of the world.’

Maude also flatly refused to believe a word against Alice, accusing DC Fleet of trying to make a fool out of her with a pack of lies. In a desperate attempt to hold on to her self-control, Maude clung to the previous understanding of the situation and condemned DC Fleet’s latest revised reading of it as ‘highly implausible’.

‘You forget,’ she hissed, ‘that I know Alice better than you do and I have a very good idea why she has run off. It’s nothing to do with my husband or the kidnap. I suspect she has been ill-used by some wretch and doesn’t know how to handle the matter. In other words, she is with child. She is simply too embarrassed to tell us what has happened.’ She glared at DC Fleet. ‘You have jumped to conclusions, DC Fleet. The wrong conclusions. As a policeman, you should know better. As soon as Lionel is home safe and sound I shall make enquiries and find Alice. I shall speak with Doctor Courtney. He may well know something. Whatever her problem, Aunt Biddy and I will see her through it.’

The two men exchanged helpless glances. In her present mood, Maude Brent was implacable.

Lionel and his new friends finally exhausted the pleasures of the beach and, crunching their way across the shingle, made their way unsteadily up the steps to the road level. A small cloud had now covered the moon and there was no reflection from the water so that the whole atmosphere seemed to Lionel to have grown more sombre. He shivered, squinting upward at the dark sky and hoping it was not an omen. He was not normally superstitious but a successful outcome to tonight’s adventure was crucial to the rest of his life and he did not want anything to go wrong.