The Crystal Cage Page 4

  His geography seemed slightly awry, but it would only mean a short stop-off, and it seemed oddly important to him that I went along.

  ‘Okay, but then that’s it,’ I said with what I hoped was finality.

  ‘Agreed. Mind if I take a look around while you’re getting ready?’

  ‘You will in any case.’ I left him making for the conservatory.

  I pulled on the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be skinny jeans, pumps, and a Day-Glo tunic. Nick Heysham was someone for whom you dressed down. It hadn’t been my aim, but he appeared to like what he saw. Noticing his appreciative smile, I told myself I would need to be careful. He wasn’t an unattractive man. In fact he was very attractive, just not my kind of man. I’ve never been a fan of Tigger-type enthusiasm. Still, I should be on my guard and careful to keep this trip strictly business. I didn’t want my relationship with Oliver to get any more complicated than it already was.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, we turned into Red Lion Square. It was one of those civilised London spaces that occasionally you come upon when you least expect it, an oasis surrounded by noisy, traffic-filled roads. A small, neat garden was at its centre, guarded by black-painted iron railings. I’m sure it must have looked very much the same in 1851.

  Number eight was no different from its neighbours, except for the bright yellow door. In Royde’s day the Georgian terrace would have been relatively modern but originally built for a large family, with its three main floors plus basement and attic. By 1851 it must have ceased to be a family residence and been let out to respectable tenants. I wondered which room or set of rooms Royde had inhabited. There was nothing to tell us.

  ‘Well,’ Nick let out a sigh of disappointment. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘I don’t know, some indication that the guy had lived here, I guess.’

  I thought about that. ‘It is strange there’s no blue plaque. He was a celebrated man in his time, hugely influential on the future of architecture. They put up plaques for far less important people.’

  Nick leaned against the house railings and peered down into the uncovered basement window. I hoped the local Neighbourhood Watch wasn’t too active. ‘Perhaps nobody knows he ever lived here if there are no records to say so, except a page from an old census.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ I turned to face him. ‘But this is beginning to feel odd. First we have an Exhibition space that he’s supposed to have designed but which is missing from the official records. Now we have a house where we know he lived but which hasn’t received official recognition either. It’s as though a whole swathe of his early life has been erased.’

  Nick shrugged his shoulders. ‘Blue plaques are pretty arbitrary—there’s not a lot of sense to where they pop up—and it might be that Royde didn’t design anything before 1852. We could be on a wild goose chase. He may never have worked for de Vere’s, and it could be coincidence that we found him living so close to their offices.’

  I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t fathom it out. Lucas Royde had lived in Red Lion Square and I wondered whether he had prospered here, whether it was in this house that he had gained notice for his work on the Great Exhibition and started his long climb to fame and wealth. Or had his life been very different here? Had this been an unhappy lodging, a transient resting place from which those early plans had mysteriously disappeared? For long minutes I stood gazing silently at the house, as though by simply looking I could draw out its secrets.

  But Nick was growing restless beside me, shuffling his feet back and forth. ‘That coffee seems a distant memory.’

  I looked at my watch. ‘It was an hour ago.’

  ‘Okay, Miss Precision, but I’m desperate. And I’m hungry, too. Let’s go.’

  * * *

  The coffee shop wasn’t the smartest of places, but I could see why Nick had been attracted when we passed it earlier. Its display window was crammed with carbohydrates, and he reached the counter in double-quick time and was already shuffling through his pockets for change. If this was his usual diet, I couldn’t imagine how he managed to keep that neat, muscular form. If life was at all fair he should be consigned to the muesli and pasta regime that Oliver maintained was excellent for fuel and figure, not confections of sugar and pink icing. But life wasn’t fair.

  Between mouthfuls of doughnut, he attempted to sum up where we’d got, which was precisely nowhere. He sounded despondent and I felt the same. Something about this search had got under both our skins, but what it was I couldn’t put my finger on. It was as though there were something hidden beneath the surface, not just the missing pavilion and missing plaque, but something else that we didn’t know or understand that was leading us onwards. Except at the moment we weren’t going anywhere.

  He wiped the last sugar particles from his mouth with satisfaction. ‘I say we go to Norfolk,’ he said unexpectedly.

  ‘Norfolk?’

  ‘The Royde Society thought he came from Norfolk, remember. We could go there, try and find where he lived, discover any clues to his early life. We might even be able to speak to some of his descendants, get to know any family gossip that might have been handed down.’

  The goose chase had just got wilder, and I thought it time to bring him down to earth. ‘“We” aren’t going anywhere. And if you decide to make the trip, you’ll find it very difficult to discover where Royde lived and almost impossible to trace a family who knew him.’

  But Nick refused to be put off. ‘I think it’s a great idea. It’s not as if there’s anything else to find here. And Lucy told me that the secretary of the Society was pretty certain that Royde was brought up in Norfolk and travelled to Italy from there.’

  ‘What hard evidence is there of a Norfolk connection?’

  ‘There was something mentioned, though I don’t remember exactly. At the time all I could hear was my sister saying there was work for me. But I think it was something about the kind of house Royde built for himself when he retired.’

  ‘The house was near Taunton, I think. I saw a picture of it once—brick, flint and coursed cobbles—unusual for Somerset, although it was a traditional Norfolk mix in the nineteenth century.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ He sounded smug.

  ‘No, you’re not. It’s nowhere near enough. You’ll need to ask your sister to find out more from the Society. Are you seeing her soon?’

  ‘Unlikely. We don’t socialise—she prefers to keep me in the background. I don’t quite fit the canapés and cocktail circuit.’

  He was smiling, but something about the tone of his voice made me think that he wasn’t as happy with the situation as he made out. I was curious.

  ‘What about the rest of your family? Do you see them?’

  ‘Christmas, I guess. But that’s it. They’re in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘That’s not exactly the end of the world.’

  ‘No, it just feels like it. Not Gloucestershire, but my parents’ whole set up. And since I declined my father’s kind offer of a career in law, I haven’t been the most welcome visitor.’

  ‘You’re not counting on acting the prodigal son any time soon, then?’

  ‘Why would I? Would you fancy the role of prodigal daughter?’

  His casual comment knocked me off balance. ‘I don’t have parents.’

  For the first time since I’d met him, he looked concerned. ‘I didn’t realise. Sorry. I have a big mouth.’

  ‘There I’d have to agree, but that wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘So, no family?’

  ‘A sister,’ I said, and my voice was strained. ‘An older sister, much older.’

  His face invited confession and I blurted out. ‘She brought me up, but we don’t speak.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  There was an awkward silence, and he quickly reverted back to Norfolk. ‘I really think we should go. It might do you good.’

  I didn’t know what he meant by that, but going to
East Anglia was the last thing I intended.

  ‘You’ve only the very flimsiest proof that Royde had connections with Norfolk. You can’t go haring off there on a whim. I certainly can’t. I’ve an Exhibition to move.’

  He fixed me with those very blue eyes and said steadily, ‘You’re still working for Oliver Brooke, then?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I heard the way he spoke to you last night. I didn’t think you’d take that kind of shit.’

  ‘He was stressed.’ I felt the need to defend.

  ‘Still…’ He looked at me thoughtfully as if weighing up how much to say. ‘When I first saw you across the white spaces of the Papillon, I imagined you a bit dizzy, a bit frivolous. Blame that on the blonde curls or perhaps the fact that you only came up to my shoulder! But I soon learned my mistake. You have claws, Grace, and I’m wondering why you don’t use them.’

  I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but his expression was warm and friendly and I couldn’t. Instead I found myself saying, ‘Oliver has been good to me.’ The only person who ever has, I thought, but that went unsaid. ‘I owe him a great deal.’

  He must have heard the edge in my voice and decided against pursuing the subject. Instead he relaxed back into his chair. ‘So there’s nothing more we can do?’

  ‘Nothing, except…’ One further possibility had crossed my mind while we were still in Red Lion Square.

  ‘Yes?’ He was leaning forward again, fired up by the chance of keeping the quest alive.

  ‘The Guild of Architects lives in Bedford Square, and they may have archives going back to the mid-nineteenth century. I think they were founded around 1850.’

  ‘Great idea. So what are we waiting for?’ He gulped down the rest of his coffee and was nearly to the door before I’d managed to snatch up my bag.

  ‘Hang on, Nick. I haven’t the time. I must get to Hoxton.’

  We were standing on the pavement, and I was poised for flight. Suddenly he put both hands on my arms and pulled me towards him.

  ‘I need you,’ he said urgently. ‘I want you to be there if I discover anything.’

  I found myself drawn into his gaze. Once again I looked at him for just a little too long and felt embarrassment seeping through me.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said soothingly, ‘I like looking at you, too.’

  Then he was smiling. ‘On a purely practical level, they won’t let me within an inch of their archive. With your uni credentials, we should manage it.’

  I fought against going. ‘Don’t you have some kind of paperwork to show you’re a researcher?’

  ‘I’ve got a press card from Art Matters, but it’s a bit out of date. They probably don’t like journalists, anyway.’

  ‘No, they probably don’t.’

  ‘Come with me, please!’ And he smiled down at me. What was it about those eyes that made me such a pushover?

  ‘I’ll give you an hour,’ I said, knowing full well that I’d be lucky to be finished by lunchtime.

  Chapter Three

  London, late January 1851

  Lucas Royde banged the door of number eight Red Lion Square behind him and almost jumped down the flight of steps. He was late, and it would not look good. This was only his first month working for what many considered the best architects’ practice in London. As he ran, he straightened his necktie and began hastily to button up his newly acquired frock coat. The rawness of an English winter demanded every particle of warmth. He’d risen at dawn and draped himself in as many blankets as he could find. Then, hunched over the small worktable he’d purchased for his room, he’d become so engrossed in his design that time had vanished from sight. He was working on decorative tiles, new and exciting shapes, new and exciting colours. Curve by intricate curve, angle by angle, he’d been creating another image to add to his portfolio. The tiles were to shine with the most brilliant of tints—ultramarine and cadmium, he thought. Massed in their glory, they would look sublime. It was a relief to immerse himself in this precise world of colour and shape, for it helped to blunt the disappointment he was beginning to feel with the new life he’d embraced.

  He hurried along Proctor Street then swerved left into Bloomsbury Way. Though it was still early, a few threadbare pedlars were plying their wares and the beggar who squatted at the entrance to the Bull and Mouth was already alert to any likely dispenser of largesse. The hard flagstones bit into his thin shoes and puddles left by the overnight rain began to soak upward into the soft leather. His footwear was made for Italian streets, he reflected, not the dirt and grime of a London January. He thought nostalgically of Verona and the long summer days spent in its piazzas.

  He could have stayed, braved the rumours, since Marguerite was to return to France and he would see her no more. She would be married in Paris, as she’d always planned, and the idle talk that had swirled around the small Italian town would have died stillborn. But Marguerite was not the only reason to leave a place and a people he loved. He was destined for great things. It sounded ridiculous when he said it aloud, but he knew its truth as he knew the very limbs of his body. He was going to do great things, push the skill, the artistry that resided within him to its limits, make his audience sit up and take notice. It was the opportunity to light a grander stage that had impelled him towards this new life in the capital of the world.

  Bury Place, as he rounded the corner, looked even shabbier in the dingy light of early morning. The detritus from the Saturday market had not yet been cleared, and there were rotting vegetables in the gutter and clouds of paper scraps whirling in a wind that every minute was growing more vigorous. He bent his head against its ice. He’d come to this forbidding city for opportunity, but what in fact did that amount to? At the moment, it seemed little. A small, dark desk wedged between the walls of a small, dark cubicle and a succession of journeyman tasks. Adjusting a moulding, filling in a background, labelling forgotten plans: work fitting only for an apprentice. Surely once his creativity and skill were recognised, he would be entrusted with more ambitious assignments. He would finally fulfil his mother’s dreams for him and justify the harsh scrimping that had bought his architect’s training. Except…future projects were likely to be no more to his taste than present trifles, for they would have at their centre a style that repelled him—Gothic, the dream child of the north. De Vere’s were ardent in pursuing the current craze and too many of their projects involved the wilful destruction of beauty, the mellow loveliness of ancient English churches refashioned into mediaeval pastiche.

  Enmeshed in these bleak thoughts, he narrowly averted an accident with a horse and carriage travelling at speed along Great Russell Street. He had reached his destination. Once through the double doors that guarded an imposing entrance, he saw immediately that he was the last to arrive. One or two morose assistants looked up from their desks at his approach and even the draughtsmen in the connecting office bobbed their heads in surprise at his late arrival. And it was late, he noticed, the massive oak clock that hung on the far wall showing well past eight. He inched his way past the long trestle displaying full scale plans of current commissions and slid into his cubicle opposite. He made a show of shuffling papers as though the latest paltry chore was a matter of great import.

  Fontenoy, whose desk faced his, gave a broad wink and whispered rather too loudly, ‘It must have been quite an evening, Royde!’

  His fellow workers smirked in the background. A handsome face and a protracted sojourn in the Italian states had been sufficient for them to decide that Lucas was a ladies’ man. Such a reputation was wholly undeserved, he thought. His affair with Marguerite was over, and there were to be no more delicate entanglements. From now on his work would be his life and his every sinew would be focussed on gaining recognition for his talent.

  At ten o’clock, Fontenoy pushed his papers aside and prepared to leave for the coffee house in Grays Inn Road. He would fetch two pints of hot tea and serve them to his fellows on the dot of ten thirty
. The ceremonial walk to Holborn was a source of great pleasure among the assistant architects and they eagerly looked forward to days when the duty fell to them. It signified half an hour of freedom, a time to breathe fresh air and if they were clever, to run small errands for themselves. It was petty, Lucas thought, but then office life was petty. Its regimentation was as killing in its way as the work itself.

  He was doodling idly when the door to the inner sanctum opened abruptly and Mr Daniel de Vere strode out among his underlings. As always, de Vere was dressed with meticulous propriety. A multicoloured paisley vest sandwiched between dark tailcoat and narrow dark trousers was the only suggestion of an artistic disposition. The assistants wielded their pencils ever more energetically, hoping that their employer’s presence would be brief and that they would be left in peace to drink their tea when Fontenoy returned.

  ‘Royde?’ De Vere’s voice was soft but assured.

  He was being singled out for his tardiness, Lucas thought, and seemingly about to receive a public reprimand.

  ‘Royde,’ de Vere repeated, and then, ‘Come through, I wish to speak with you.’

  Lucas looked up, his blue eyes wary, but de Vere was smiling graciously. He got to his feet and followed the man back into the proprietor’s walnut-panelled room. The hiss of whispers in the outer office was evident even before he had closed the door behind him.

  Once through the door, he became aware of another presence. A man was standing with his back to the wall of deep windows that gave on to Great Russell Street. The visitor must have entered through the back entrance of the building. He was a bulky man of average height, dressed in the pinstripe uniform of business, his moustache short and spiky and his expression chilly.

  De Vere turned to his guest, ‘Mr Renville, may I introduce our newest recruit, Mr Lucas Royde. Mr Royde is recently from Lombardy—I am sure that will prove most helpful—and comes to us with the most excellent references.’

  De Vere gave a melancholy smile at Lucas. ‘Royde, this is Mr Edward Renville, a new client.’