The Crystal Cage Read online

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His eyes narrowed as though I was about to play a trick on him, which I suppose in some ways I was.

  ‘I’m resigning, Oliver. I don’t wish to be your assistant. You can take your job back.’ He was looking shocked, but I ploughed on, ‘And your house. And your sponsorship.’

  There, I’d done it, finally jumped free. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. It was as though he was a stuffed exhibit in a museum. I decided against staying to pack suitcases.

  ‘I’ll take a few things today and clear my belongings next week.’ I pushed past him up the stairs. ‘And I’ll be sure to leave my key on the special hook you had made.’ I couldn’t resist that.

  The bedroom looked different, somehow alien as though I had never slept there. But my clothes still hung from the rails, my shoes were tucked neatly beneath the dresser and my potions and creams still nestled on the bathroom shelf. I had slept there but I no longer did. I had burned my boats.

  * * *

  I walked down the hill in a daze. I guess I was making for Nick’s flat, but I wasn’t entirely sure; I just needed to keep moving. Down the hill and towards the centre of London, shimmering in the distance. I passed underground stations, passed bus stops, and kept walking. I needed the journey back to Thetford Road to take a long time. I felt too upset to return immediately, upset but also relieved. I had just thrown away nine years of my life and that was distressing but it was also inevitable. The business with Kezia had been absurd, a symptom of all that was wrong between Oliver and myself. For years I’d travelled quietly, smoothly, comfortable day following comfortable day, but only because I’d been quiescent. If I’d voiced any hint of challenge, there would have been trouble: Oliver had to be in control. Once upon a time I’d accepted that as a price worth paying, but no longer. For all his kindness and generosity, he couldn’t cope with independence and since meeting Nick I’d shown that to an alarming degree. Nick was so different, it appeared—easygoing, spontaneous, almost careless in his attitude to life. Being with him had blown a refreshing breeze through my world but from the first hello, he’d been pushing at an open door. I’d been ready for change and he had been the catalyst. I felt sad and scared. Sad that I’d left Oliver with only unkind words; he’d looked dumbfounded as I’d walked through the front door. And scared because I’d thrown away my hard-won security, irrevocably. But I’d had no choice. I’d been living behind a sheet of glass, I could see that now, living a life but never truly in it. And despite dark forebodings, something very strong was compelling me to walk through that glass and out the other side.

  By the time I reached Thetford Road, I had blisters on my feet and my legs felt woolly and disjointed. I wasn’t used to walking any distance and kitten heels were hardly the most suitable footwear. Around Kentish Town the small haversack I carried had begun to feel as heavy as a cabin trunk. I couldn’t imagine I’d ever feel grateful to be descending the dingy stairs to Nick’s basement, but I found I was.

  He was sitting on the floor of the main room, surrounded by a scatter of art Catalogues, and with the remains of breakfast congealing beside him. He’d been busily sifting through one Catalogue after another, marking pages, scribbling notes, but he looked up as he heard my footsteps.

  ‘Hi Grace, I think I may have an idea for—’ He saw my face and broke off. ‘What’s up?’

  I slumped down into one of the two bedraggled armchairs, dropping my bag heavily onto the floor. He was on his feet and at my side in an instant. ‘Was Oliver there? Is that what it is?’

  I nodded and the stupid tears began to fall. He put his arms around me and soothed as though I were a child. When I’d snivelled to a halt he went into the tiny alcove that masqueraded as a kitchen and made two large mugs of tea. I saw him ladle spoonfuls of sugar in mine. Normally I can’t stand sweet tea, but this morning it was just what I needed.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said, sitting at my feet and slowly sipping from his mug.

  ‘We had a row.’

  ‘Why are you so upset?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I felt nettled. He seemed to assume that I was dead to normal feelings.

  ‘It’s not exactly the first row you’ve had. I thought you’d be accustomed to the yelling by now. Ever since we met, you’ve been at odds with Oliver.’

  ‘There was no yelling,’ I answered a trifle sullenly.

  But he was right of course and I tried to explain. ‘It was over such a stupid thing. His daughter had her birthday while we were in Dorset and Oliver blamed me for not being here. I should have bought a present and gone to the party.’

  ‘While he was in Newcastle? Makes sense.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous, I know. He’s never taken much interest in Kezia since the divorce. And if you believe her mother, not much when they were married. Oliver and children don’t really gel.’

  ‘So the two of you never talked babies?’

  The question took me aback.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised. You were together nine years. It’s not unreasonable to expect the topic to have come up.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I conceded. ‘Knowing Oliver wasn’t a fan of small people meant that I never raised the subject.’

  ‘What about you? Didn’t what you want come into it?’

  ‘I’ve no burning wish to populate the world,’ I said airily but then realised that I’d never examined my feelings too closely. It hadn’t been worth it, knowing Oliver’s likely reaction.

  ‘And the problem over Kezia did for you both?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. The whole thing was ludicrous. Kezia was the small straw, I guess, the death knell.’

  ‘Wild mix of metaphors!’

  ‘It’s how it felt. Oliver was utterly uncompromising—all he could say was that I should have stayed in London because it was my job.’

  ‘So how did you leave things?’

  ‘I left. I resigned. I don’t have a job. At least not that job.’

  Nick didn’t reply straightaway, which surprised me. I’d expected him to rush in with sympathy and hearty words. When he spoke at last, his tone was just this side of peevish.

  ‘What will you do?’ He must have seen my dismayed expression, because he added quickly, ‘Of course, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.’

  It wasn’t quite quick enough: in a few minutes, it seemed, I’d been demoted to an unwanted lodger. I’d never had any intention of staying too long. I suppose I’d thought that Oliver and I would eventually patch up our differences and then Nick and I would say a friendly farewell. The flat had only ever been a temporary reprieve, but his lack of enthusiasm decided me to go as quickly as possible. As soon as I’d found new work and a place to stay.

  He tried again and this time the sounds were a little more encouraging. ‘Let’s give it a go—you never know, we might enjoy it. Then if we both wanted to, we could make it permanent.’

  Did I want to? I hardly knew. But I did know that right now I had little alternative but to stay.

  ‘Thanks, that would be good.’ I hoped I sounded suitably grateful and then wondered why. Hadn’t I just escaped from years of gratitude?

  There was another lengthy pause and it was evident that Nick was thinking hard.

  ‘I suppose it’s unlikely that Oliver will keep you on as his assistant? I mean, despite the personal stuff.’

  I couldn’t quite believe he was asking the question. ‘I have no idea,’ I said tartly, ‘and I’m not about to find out. I’ve no intention of falling into Oliver’s clutches again.’

  ‘Fine. I can see that.’ He ruffled his hair and despite my annoyance, the gesture was endearing. ‘But things are going to be tight. I don’t have a job either, remember.’

  ‘I do remember and I’m not going to be sitting around hoping something comes my way. First thing tomorrow I’ll be out looking.’

  He looked relieved. That was another surprise. I hadn’t thought anything worried him greatly,
least of all money.

  He stood up and put his arms tightly around me, dragging me from the chair and pulling me close.

  ‘Don’t fret, we’ll get through. Did I tell you how delighted I am that you’ve split with him?’ He kissed both my cheeks and then my lips.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you now.’ And his kiss hardened. I tried to kiss him back, but I felt too miserable.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick. It’s been a difficult morning.’

  He smoothed my crazy curls into some kind of shape. ‘I can imagine. But it’s over and the future is bright.’

  ‘It is?’

  He laughed aloud. ‘Sure it is. We’re going to knock this Royde investigation on the head and claim our rightful prize. That means a nice large cheque and by the time we’ve spent it, we should both be gainfully employed.’

  It was a good enough plan. He’d already mentioned a store of ideas for his freelance work and been about to share one when I dissolved into water.

  ‘Sorry, I hijacked the conversation. What are you planning to write?’

  He glanced at the Catalogues piled high on the carpet. ‘It’s a pretty vague notion at present, but I think it will run. On second thoughts, though, I should probably put it to one side and concentrate on Royde. That means certain money.’

  He let go of me and started searching among the accumulated litter beneath the small gate-legged table that functioned as his desk. After a few minutes of tossing papers aside, he pulled out a large black object.

  ‘Let’s get on with the research.’

  ‘Now?’ For the moment I’d lost interest in the Royde story—my own felt too important—but I knew we couldn’t afford to let the investigation slip.

  ‘Why not? We’ve still got to figure out who the mysterious A is.’

  I thought of the handkerchief I’d picked up this morning and the discomfort I’d felt in that schoolroom. It had been an uncanny coincidence, that was all, and I needed to forget it. Nick had been harping on about our missing person for quite some time, all the way back from Dorchester in fact, while I’d been thrilled that we’d finally made the connection between Renville, Royde and the Great Exhibition. It meant that we knew for certain that the Exhibition plans must have existed.

  ‘It might be that A was an employee, someone working at Renville’s offices.’ I was doubtful but willing to hazard a guess. ‘He could have been deputed by his boss to oversee the design process. Renville himself would probably be too busy, but it would be important for his company to get the Exhibition space right. If Lucas Royde made an appointment to see this man at Renville’s, it would have been to discuss progress. So if we’re still after the plans, I guess we should try to trace A.’

  ‘I knew he was important.’

  Nick’s calm superiority was annoying. ‘You had a hunch,’ I reminded him.

  ‘And I was right.’

  ‘Okay, brain, how do you suggest that we trace A?’

  ‘No idea. Over to you—that’s your province.’

  ‘I don’t have much idea either,’ I confessed, but I’d started to think.

  If A were being trusted to oversee such an important project, then he must have been a particularly valued employee. If he were an older man with a decent salary, he would have lived in his own property and without his name we had no way of tracing him. But if he’d been young and single, he might have lodged with his employer. It was common for proprietors of businesses to house one or two of their employees if they had room. It had to be worth a shot.

  ‘We could go census searching again.’

  Nick looked blank. ‘To find Edward Renville’s home address,’ I explained. ‘It’s possible A lodged with him and if we find him listed at that address, we’ll have his name and age and we can go from there. If not, it’s another dead end.’

  ‘Let’s get cracking and then we can wrap up this investigation for good.’ He’d started to bounce very slightly.

  ‘Tomorrow maybe.’

  I felt weary and worn. The morning’s upheaval had taken its toll. I could have easily tucked myself into the chair, moth-eaten or not, and dozed the afternoon away. But Nick was on to it in a flash.

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’ I was still suffering from waking in the early hours and I hoped he was, too.

  ‘What’s to be tired about? Come on, let’s get going. We’ll use two computers and if we narrow it to the four districts that I searched to find Royde, it shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘Edward Renville might have lived in the City,’ I warned. ‘Near his workplace.’

  ‘Then why did he employ a firm of architects based in Holborn?’

  ‘Not too many architects in the City?’

  But Nick naturally had an answer. ‘He could have gone to the West End—I’m sure there would have been plenty there. No, I think he went to de Vere’s because it was well known and because it was on his doorstep.’

  I must have looked unconvinced. He came up to me and wound one of my curls round his finger, letting it unravel slowly. He did it again and I felt a wave of tenderness seep through me.

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘We can try, but if we don’t hit gold with Bloomsbury or Holborn then we give it up for today at least.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ He turned on one of the most battered computers I had ever seen. He saw me looking. ‘Salvation Army reject,’ he said cheerfully.

  Reject or not, it worked and it was Nick who found the Renvilles rather than me and my flashy laptop. There he was: Edward Renville, aged forty-five, importer and living at Wisteria Lodge, Prospect Place, in the borough of Holborn, a short distance from Great Russell Street. There were two children living at the house, girls aged eight and six, named Florence and Georgina. But no lodger.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘No lodger,’ Nick said excitedly, ‘but there is an A at Wisteria Lodge. A wife, Alessia Renville, aged twenty-eight.’ He mused a while, ‘That’s not too far off Royde’s age.’

  I couldn’t see why that was relevant and couldn’t believe the A who had met Royde was indeed Mrs Renville.

  ‘That’s it, Grace,’ he insisted, seeing my doubtful expression. ‘Alessia Renville must be A.’

  ‘She might be,’ I conceded, ‘but it would be most unusual. It’s more likely that we’re chasing a different A.’

  ‘But why? It makes sense that she was involved in the scheme and sense that Royde was asked to meet her at her husband’s offices in Onslow Street. He said as much in his note on the theatre programme.’

  ‘We can’t make that jump, Nick. You may be right, but why would she be in charge of any project? As a middle-class wife and mother of young children, it would be strange for her to be involved in anything other than household affairs.’

  But Nick wasn’t giving up. ‘Perhaps this was a particularly enlightened marriage.’

  Doubt must still have been written large on my face because he immediately cast around for more ammunition. ‘Perhaps she had experience that would make her useful to an architect like Royde. Her name sounds Italian.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I tried to think it out. ‘We know that Royde spent time in the Italian states and that the display space at the Exhibition was to sell Italian goods. And it’s true that he and Alessia Renville would share a knowledge of Italian culture.’ My confidence was returning. ‘So if she was Italian—and we can’t be sure of that—it might just provide a clue to the unusual arrangement.’

  Nick was beaming. ‘Great. It’s sounding good, so where do we go from here?’

  ‘It might be worth trying the newspapers again.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘When I was searching the British Library, I found Edward Renville mentioned in an article published in The Daily News. Only his name, but I’m wondering…’

  Nick leaned towards me, his eyes bright, urging me on.

  ‘…he was probably too small a fish to be of major concern to a national paper
but a smaller, local weekly might be more interested. Local events, news of important families residing in the borough, and so on. There was a paper for the Holborn district around the mid-century—The Holborn Times, The Holborn Mercury—something like that. I think it survived for about ten years.’

  ‘And there’ll be records?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it’s worth a try. I’ll check online first—we may be lucky. If not, I’ll have to visit Colindale tomorrow.’

  ‘Is that in London?’

  ‘Yes, of course it’s in London—North London to be exact.’

  ‘How would I know?’ he said a tad indignantly. ‘I imagine it’s just another fusty record office.’

  ‘A fusty record office that might provide our most important breakthrough.’

  I started to type in the Colindale website while he switched his computer off and came to stand behind me.

  ‘This could save me a long journey,’ I told him. The site was complex and it was taking me time to navigate. He leant over me, his lips brushing the top of my hair.

  ‘Do we have to do this right now?’ It was another of his rapid mood changes. A minute ago he’d been impatient to get on with the search, to follow the new clue wherever it led.

  ‘Let’s leave it till tomorrow and have fun instead.’ His voice was soft and persuasive. I felt him nibbling at my ear and then his hands began doing nice things to my breasts.

  ‘We haven’t celebrated your freedom yet.’

  I wasn’t sure how tasteful celebrating the breakup of a long-term relationship was, but the occasion seemed to need marking in some way.

  ‘It won’t hurt to do a brief search first.’ My protest was half-hearted.

  ‘We could, but this will be more interesting.’ He was nuzzling my neck and his hands had begun their downward journey. ‘Much more interesting. Party time, Grace?’

  ‘Shall we open the champagne then?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘But I’m thirsty,’ I teased.

  ‘And I’m hungry, so what are we waiting for?’