The Crystal Cage Read online

  Even before we stood in front of number 44 we’d spotted the blue plaque. At least we’d got the right place, and I couldn’t stop myself feeling just the slightest tremor of excitement. And it still housed an architects’ practice, although one with a completely different name. The girl on reception stopped her phone conversation to smile vaguely in our direction.

  ‘I wonder if we might speak to someone about Lucas Royde,’ I said, feeling a little foolish.

  ‘Sorry, but we don’t have a Mr Royde here,’ the girl sang out, ready to make a swift return to the phone.

  ‘No, we know you don’t, but you do have a plaque on your wall engraved with his name. We wondered if there was someone—one of the partners perhaps—who might be able to tell us something about the man.’

  She looked nonplussed and then said slowly, as though addressing an alien being, ‘Mr Hammond is in this morning. He’s an architect.’

  ‘Mr Hammond will do fine if he can spare a few minutes.’

  He could—and more than a few minutes. Roger Hammond was a jovial man with time on his hands. He was delighted to welcome us into his comfortably furnished office, ordering refreshments on the way. By now we were almost floating on a sea of coffee but we tried to look suitably grateful.

  ‘Lucas Royde?’ He rocked backwards against expensive cream leather. ‘I see you’ve spotted the plaque. No relation of course to the existing partners but an architect we’re proud to have succeeded in the same offices.’

  ‘Royde was famous in his time?’ Nick had gone down the route of pretending ignorance. It was a good decision.

  ‘Very famous, probably the most celebrated of all Victorian architects.’

  ‘What did he design—would we know any of his buildings?’

  ‘You might. You’ve come from London, I believe? There’s a splendid church in Shoreditch—Hoxton Road or Hoxton Street?’

  I realised that I must have passed very near the church for the last ten years but had never realised the connection.

  ‘Was that his first commission?’ I continued Nick’s naivety and was rewarded by an expansive beam. I was Mr Hammond’s kind of audience.

  ‘No, it’s an example of his more mature work. I have the feeling that his first work was a chapel for some aristocrat. Yes…that’s right.’ He was remembering his past studies, too. ‘It was quite different from anything that had gone before and caused a storm. Of praise, I hasten to add.’

  I decided to go straight to the vital question. ‘I expect he was involved with the Great Exhibition,’ I said innocently, flashing the green eyes. ‘Such a famous architect wouldn’t fail to have been commissioned to produce something for it.’

  ‘Now there you have me. The Exhibition was 1851? I’m pretty sure Royde did most of his work after that date.’

  Nick was getting restless with a conversation that appeared to be going nowhere, fidgeting this way and that in his chair; either that or the coffee was making him twitch. His interruption verged on the curt when our host began to recite a list of the Royde triumphs that he remembered.

  ‘I don’t suppose you still have any of Royde’s plans here.’

  Mr Hammond laughed uproariously as though Nick had told the joke of the year. ‘I doubt we ever had anything, and if we had it would have disappeared forty years ago.’

  ‘Why forty?’

  He leaned towards me with a conspiratorial air. ‘A fire!’ Then warming to his theme, ‘You could see the blaze from Maiden Hill two miles out of town. The rear storage area had to be completely rebuilt. I designed it, I was a very young man then and it was my first job.’ He must be older than he looked. Having a happy nature certainly keeps you young. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘No,’ I said rather too definitely. ‘You’ve been most kind, Mr Hammond, but we mustn’t trespass on your time any longer. Thank you so much for the coffee and talk.’

  We’d almost reached the street when we heard him calling after us.

  ‘Quick,’ Nick breathed, ‘run for it.’

  Mr Hammond’s plump figure moved with surprising agility and in a few minutes he’d caught us up. ‘If you’re really interested in Royde, you could talk to Mr Fawley. I’m not a great one for local history, but he knows just about all there is to know about Dorchester.’

  We stopped on the spot. ‘Mr Fawley?’

  ‘That’s right. He works at the County Museum.’

  We thanked him again profusely, only this time it was sincere. We’d planned to visit the museum, but now we had the name of a person who, according to Mr Hammond, would know anything there was to know. We walked quickly along the rest of Orchard Street and turned into the High Street outside a black and white Tudor building. A pub sign depicting a cloaked and bewigged figure swung in a breeze that had sprung from nowhere.

  ‘That must be Judge Jeffreys,’ I said, pointing at the grim face above our heads. ‘He probably lodged in this house when he came to Dorchester to hear the trials of men who took part in the Monmouth Rebellion.’

  Nick looked impatient. ‘Thank you for the history lesson. How about we stick to architecture?’

  ‘It was called the Bloody Assize,’ I teased.

  He grabbed my arm and hurried me along the pavement. He was high on anticipation and Judge Jeffreys an unnecessary distraction, but when we reached the museum, his hopes were dashed. Mr Fawley wasn’t in. He was working from home.

  ‘Are you able to give us a contact number?’ I sounded professional, but to no avail.

  The assistant looked shocked. ‘I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Could you perhaps ring him for us?’

  Her face remained in shock mode. ‘Mr Fawley doesn’t take office calls when he’s working at home—not unless it’s an emergency.’

  She saw our faces somewhere around our knees and said more kindly, ‘Come back this afternoon, he said that he might pop in for a few hours. You never know, you might just catch him.’

  ‘Might catch him,’ Nick repeated once we were out on the pavement again. ‘I’m beginning to think you were right. This is a wild goose chase.’

  ‘Hey, it’s not like you to give up. It could be worth coming back. If we hang around the museum long enough, the receptionist might get fed up and decide that we’re an emergency!’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s my turn to be a prima donna.’ He grinned and his blue eyes were alight with laughter. ‘It’s the carbohydrates, you know.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Losing heart. I’m starving again, and I can’t operate on less than three thousand calories a day.’

  I sighed. Too much time spent with Nick Heysham and I would be as wide as I was tall.

  ‘Okay, we’ll find somewhere to eat, but it’s got to have salad on the menu.’

  Halfway through a very large plate of lasagne, he suddenly stopped eating and fixed me with a penetrating look.

  ‘So where is Oliver?’

  I was caught on the hop and answered before I thought, ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘Without you?’

  ‘As you see.’

  ‘I thought you were essential to his comfort.’

  ‘I thought so, too.’ I must have sounded a little sad because he reached out and squeezed my hand.

  ‘We’ll be back in London tomorrow. You could always get a train up there.’

  ‘I could, but I won’t. He assures me that I needn’t worry over arrangements at the Newcastle gallery. He has a new assistant to help him.’

  ‘And she is…I take it, it is a she?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a she. Rebecca. She’s on work experience.’

  ‘Blonde and petite?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  His smiled compassionately. ‘Have a think.’

  ‘They don’t have that kind of relationship.’ I knew he wouldn’t believe me, but pride required me to say it.

  ‘Who says they don’t?’

  ‘Oliver.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘When I accu
sed him, he told me I had a vulgar mind.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he? No man likes to get caught out and I guess he was—caught out, I mean.’

  I thought about Rebecca at the door. Oliver hadn’t expected me home so early. He’d told the girl to come to the house on the assumption that I wouldn’t be there. He would have left me a note saying he’d had to go earlier than expected and not to worry about making the journey myself. I could see it all now.

  My silence made Nick uncomfortable. ‘It’s probably one of those middle-aged flings,’ he said. ‘Over in a trice. He’ll be back in a few days, begging your forgiveness.’

  ‘Middle-aged?’ The description was annoying.

  ‘How old is Oliver?’

  ‘Forty-five.’

  ‘There you are. Classic case of the male menopause. How long have you known him?’

  ‘Nine years.’ It was beginning to feel like an interrogation.

  ‘A lot can happen in nine years, sweet Grace. He’s not going to stay the same and neither are you.’

  ‘What are you trying to say? That we should call it a day?’

  ‘I’m just pointing out that people change and the reasons for the way they behave change, too. Why did you hook up with him in the first place?’

  ‘I didn’t hook up with him, as you put it. Not initially. He’d just gone through a messy divorce and wasn’t looking for commitment.’

  ‘And you. Were you looking for commitment?’

  I didn’t answer. I remembered the twenty-year-old I’d been, shy, lonely, already bruised by life. If I were honest, I had been looking for commitment or at least a safe haven. And Oliver had provided it. Nick was looking quizzical.

  ‘Oliver gave me what I wanted at the time.’

  ‘And now?’

  I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t sure any longer what I wanted. I must have looked confused because Nick said easily, ‘Like I say, times change, people change. No dishonour in that.’

  I hastily swallowed the rest of my elderflower and went to pay. Right now I didn’t want to think through the implications of what had happened with Oliver, and it was worth the expense of funding Nick to keep him happy and off a subject I’d no wish to discuss. We made our way back to the museum without much real hope of seeing the man we sought, but a different receptionist nodded her head when we asked for the local historian.

  ‘Mr Fawley? You’re in luck. He’s just got in. I’ll go and see if he can spare you a few minutes.’

  I felt an irrational surge of excitement. It was becoming a regular occurrence and I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t explain why I was allowing myself to become so interested in this figure from the past and so concerned to discover more of his history. Nick’s foot was beating time on the polished wood floor, a sure sign, as I’d come to recognise, that he was excited, too. Mr Fawley could prove to be our saviour.

  He didn’t, as it turned out. At least not obviously so, since he knew little more of Royde’s architectural career than we had managed to piece together for ourselves. Royde was from a poor family, one of six siblings born and bred on a local farm, but a man who had risen to become one of the most celebrated sons of Dorchester. Excitement drained away as he told us what we already knew. But we were riding a rollercoaster of emotions and his next words sent our spirits soaring.

  ‘There is one person who might be able to help you further. I’m not entirely sure, but she’s certainly worth a try.’

  ‘Who?’ we chorused.

  He smiled at our eagerness but was not to be rushed.

  ‘I’m sure I have the lady’s details here,’ and he began to trawl the contents of his battered desk.

  Dog-eared papers, handful by handful, slowly emerged accompanied by regular puffs of dust. Nick and I exchanged a glance. I knew we were both longing to grab him by the neck and shake him hard until he told us just who he had in mind.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ he said at last, brandishing a small slip of crumpled paper. ‘Mrs Gardiner. I’ll give her a ring.’

  And he did. Before we knew it, he’d made an appointment for us to see her at ten the next morning.

  ‘She’s very sorry that she can’t see you today, but Hector has to go to the vets.’

  ‘Hector?’ Clearly agitated by our lack of progress, Nick was tugging at his hair. The image of Oliver and his beard flashed through my mind. How strange—surely there couldn’t be two more different people.

  ‘Hector is the cockerel. Most important to get him right, you know.’

  We took his word for it, but Nick could contain himself no longer. ‘Who is Mrs Gardiner? I mean what connection does she have to Lucas Royde?’

  Our mentor smiled sadly at us. ‘Only a distant one, I fear, but if anyone has anything useful, it will be her. Her godmother was the daughter of a friend of Lucas Royde’s only sister.’

  ‘That’s pretty distant.’ I was unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. I wasn’t at all sure it was worth visiting this worthy lady, not to mention Hector.

  ‘True.’ Mr Fawley’s head was nodding in vigorous agreement. ‘However, I have had some conversation before with Mrs Gardiner, and it appears that she has a number of keepsakes, including papers—from the way she described it I would say a cache of papers—that she inherited from her godmother who died some thirty years ago.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you would know what these papers might be, Mr Fawley?’ I asked without any real hope.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  We thanked him for his time and made our way to the exit, wandering disconsolately along the gallery we’d walked earlier and passing stunning Victorian ironwork and an impressive collection of statuary with barely a glance. It was unlikely that anything handed down through godmothers, friends and sisters would be of use to us. It was too distant a chain. But it was the only lead we had, and we decided in the most positive mood we could muster, to keep the appointment but make a dash to the station immediately afterwards and catch the first train back to London.

  It was late afternoon and neither of us had the heart to face the lodgings from hell. Instead we retraced our steps along Orchard Street, and this time walked to its very end, where I’d noticed what appeared to be a tree-lined walk. It was an attractive place in which to stroll. The sun was still quite high in the sky and its warm rays filtered through foliage that had not yet lost its spring freshness. For a long time we walked without speaking, both of us feeling low-spirited. Nick had his head down, his hands tugging at his pockets.

  ‘We shouldn’t feel too bad.’ I decided to try for a positive gloss. ‘Mrs Gardiner might come up trumps and if not, we can state pretty definitely that plans earlier than the Carlyon chapel don’t exist.’

  ‘I guess so,’ he conceded bleakly. ‘I’ll get my cheque come what may, but I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time. You’ve a right to bawl me out.’

  ‘I won’t be doing that. I didn’t have to come, and at least I’ve seen the town where Royde grew up.’

  ‘It’s not enough.’

  I could see Nick was getting more morose by the second. I was beginning to understand something of his mercurial nature, but I wondered why he was so very disappointed.

  ‘I really wanted to find something,’ he offered, kicking a stray stone along the paving. ‘I felt sure there was something to find.’

  ‘I felt that, too.’

  ‘And if I had, if we had,’ he corrected himself, ‘that would have been some story, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘And freelancers need stories.’ I was sympathetic.

  ‘It’s not that I haven’t plenty to write. I’ve got several leads just waiting to be followed up.’

  ‘Why so gloomy then?’

  He looked a little self-conscious. ‘I guess I wanted to make a splash.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Just for once it would be good to be special—the man who found Lucas Royde’s first commission!’

  ‘Why is it so important?’ I had a suspicion, but I wa
nted to hear it from him.

  ‘I told you about my successful family, didn’t I?’

  ‘But you also told me that you didn’t much care for them.’

  ‘They can still make you feel this high.’ And his fingers narrowed to an inch gap. ‘It would have been great to make them eat their words just once in my life.’

  ‘Which were? The words, I mean.’

  ‘That I’d never make anything of myself. That I was a drifter, a piece of flotsam—or is it jetsam, I’ve never been sure.’

  We’d stopped at an entrance to pretty gardens. In the distance a fountain’s gentle cascade was silhouetted against a sweep of June colour, but he made no move to walk on. I thought I’d try a small homily.

  ‘You don’t have to value the same kind of success as they do. If they can’t see what you do is worthwhile, that’s their problem, not yours.’

  ‘That’s counsellor-speak. You know it doesn’t work like that in real life. It’s status—and money—that’s valued. And how supportive is your family?’

  ‘I only have a sister.’

  ‘And you don’t speak to her, which rather proves my point.’

  Chapter Seven

  I could say nothing and turned to retrace our steps. It was time to head back to the grim room and the even grimmer bathroom, but by dint of promising ourselves a decent meal that evening, we somehow managed to ignore the worst of our surroundings. On the dot of six o’clock we had showered and dressed in whatever finery we could manage and were ready to escape its four walls again.

  Nick had for once ditched his endless supply of tee shirts and was wearing a pale blue shirt that did even more amazing things for his eyes. He looked his most attractive, and I was pleased to be walking beside him. I hoped I looked as good. The bathroom mirror, more tarnish than glass, was not a reliable confidante and I could only wriggle into the skinny emerald shift and precarious matching heels and hope that they would work as well as they usually did. A slick of lipstick and a quick brush through my hair and I was done. Nick gave a low whistle.