The Crystal Cage Read online

  Chapter Six

  When the alarm shrilled me awake the following morning, I wondered why on earth I’d set it to ring since I wasn’t going anywhere in particular. Last night before I’d finally dropped into an uneasy sleep, I’d decided that I wouldn’t chase after Oliver but would see him on his return. And I wouldn’t be going to Dorchester either. Why go on a pointless journey? As though in answer, the image of a pair of deep-blue eyes smiled out at me. But I couldn’t risk it, I decided. If I went, Oliver would never forgive me, and I could kiss goodbye to the security I’d been chasing all my life.

  I hadn’t slept well. The fight with Oliver had disturbed me more than I realised, and I had no idea what would happen when we saw each other again. I hate confrontation and there was bound to be one. Hopefully it would be over quickly and I would be able to sink back into the restful drift of my old life. But is that really what I wanted? I was bored, not restful, and it had been fortuitous that a Victorian mystery had landed in my lap and energised me for a few hours. A mystery that in all probability was bogus. But yesterday I’d felt certain there was more to be discovered. So was it worth making another attempt to crack the Royde enigma while Nick was trundling his way to Dorchester? I rummaged in my handbag and found my phone. I’d meant to check the photograph when I got home last night but with all the aggravation, I’d forgotten. The beautiful poster I’d found at the V and A had, alongside the name of de Vere, that of the silk importer. I hadn’t been able to read the name and had taken a surreptitious photograph hoping that with the professional magnifying glass I kept at home, it would become clear. I hovered the glass over the surface, but it remained indistinct, and my eyes quickly began to feel the strain. I thought I could decipher an l and maybe the first letter was a capital B or an R. I switched on my laptop. It was a very long shot and that was probably why I hadn’t thought of it before, but it was just possible that the exhibitors were mentioned in newspaper articles of the time.

  I logged into the British Library and prepared for a few hours of hard work. From 1850 onwards, the Great Exhibition had been a constant topic of news and debate in the papers, weekly and local, as well as the dailies. I was familiar with a number of the articles but certainly not all. I started in April 1851, just before the opening of the Exhibition, and found twenty-five items in the Morning Chronicle alone. Then on to the Daily News, where on April 19 I struck a little gold: a final list of exhibitors in the Crystal Palace along with a brief mention of what they would be showing. Among those listed were importers of various kinds of materials and I looked hard for any Bs or Rs specialising in silks and situated in central London. It took me an age, but I could find only three: a Barnham and a Belotti both with offices in Baker Street in the West End and a Renville in Onslow Street in the City. I glanced through the accompanying articles and spent a long time trawling a number of the other dailies but there was no further mention of any of the three names. Not a breakthrough then, but if Nick contacted me again, I could pass on the information.

  It was long past lunchtime and I wandered into the kitchen and stood moodily staring down the hill towards Archway. I didn’t feel at all hungry. While I’d been involved in the chase, I’d temporarily forgotten my problems, but the calm hadn’t lasted; anxiety had begun to jab. It seemed as though I was at a crossroads, one I’d been approaching for some time, but now I’d actually arrived and hadn’t a clue which direction to take. The clock struck three. Nick would be on his way to Paddington. I reassured myself that there was absolutely nothing to find in Dorchester. It was a crazy journey made by a crazy man. A man with no money, no prospects, I reminded myself. A man with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.

  I began to make tea, hardly conscious of what I was doing, while I listened to the ticking of the clock marking off the seconds. It was five minutes past three and his train would be leaving in just forty minutes. If I were going for that train, I needed to move. But I wasn’t. I was going to stay here in Hampstead and wait for Oliver to come back with tales of a northern triumph. We’d kiss and make up. Rebecca would be consigned to history and the bowels of the Papillon gallery. All would be well. Life would go on as before.

  I turned the kettle off and ran into the bedroom. In ten minutes I’d showered, dressed and slung whatever clothes I could find into my old student bag and was on my way to the underground. It would be quicker by far than any taxi and speed was crucial, for I was going to be very lucky to make that train. The Circle Line into Paddington, notorious for delays, was behaving itself today. I was lucky or maybe unlucky. It’s strange that one’s whole life can be shaped by a simple thing like catching or not catching a train, answering a call or leaving the phone to ring. If I’d missed the 3.45 to Dorchester I would have returned to Lyndhurst Villas and unpacked my bag for good.

  The guard on the platform heaved me through the door of the last carriage as the baton for departure went down. I stumbled over assorted bags, briefcases, into somebody’s newspaper and finally arrived upright in the aisle. Smiling apologies, I tried to straighten my unruly hair. The partial dry I’d managed had done it no favours, and it was now sitting like a slightly mad halo around my head. The man whose newspaper I had trampled looked alarmed at the sight. Still smiling I moved on. It was a long train and heaving the rucksack with me, I realised that thirty was not the new twenty after all. It felt heavier than I ever remembered. I was two-thirds of the way down the train before I found him.

  He was reading, which came as a shock. Somehow I hadn’t seen Nick as a reader—and a reader of Dostoevsky, to boot. That was interesting. All those tortured family relationships reminded me of the way he’d spoken of his own family. As soon as he became aware of me teetering unsafely above him, he bounded to his feet.

  ‘Grace! How great to see you!’

  My rucksack was hoisted on to the rack with annoyingly little effort, and with a good deal more effort I managed to squeeze myself into the seat opposite, beside someone who might have benefited from Oliver’s Spartan diet. Nick smiled encouragingly across at me, but neither of us spoke. Instead we fixed our glance determinedly on the view from the window where the outer suburbs of London were busily slipping past. I knew he was desperate to ask me the all-important question, but unusually for him he hesitated. In the end he did it as delicately as Nick ever could.

  ‘So, the Newcastle exhibition?’

  ‘It turns out that Oliver doesn’t need me after all,’ I said airily. ‘It means that I have a few days free and thought I’d come on this lunatic journey after all.’

  ‘That’s great,’ he repeated, his voice awash with unasked questions. But if he was tempted to probe further, the trundling of the refreshment trolley stopped him.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘A coffee and a bun,’ I said recklessly. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘No breakfast, no lunch.’

  The apricot Danish was quite the most delicious thing I’d tasted for years. I suppose all forbidden things taste that way. Whatever the truth, I felt a great deal better after I’d wolfed it down and despatched a very large mug of coffee.

  We were an hour into the journey and the man beside me was snoring heavily. It was a good time to start discussing tactics. Nick was immediately brimming with enthusiasm.

  ‘I thought I’d start with the address we’ve got—Poorgrass and Fray’s. I looked up Orchard Street last night and found it on the town plan but no indication of who owns the house now. If there’d been postcodes in the1850s, I could have got a bit further, but we’ll have to wait until we can physically visit number 44.’

  I managed a faint smile. ‘It might still belong to the descendants of Poorgrass and Fray.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be something! But you don’t believe that’s likely, do you?’

  ‘Afraid not. Still, as long as it’s not another dry cleaners, I can cope with the disappointment.’

  ‘Perhaps we should give the street a miss,’ he mused, ‘and go first to the County
Museum. They might field a local guru who could tell us a lot more than we’ll discover just looking at a building.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go first to where we’re staying.’ I was remembering the heavy bag on the rack above.

  ‘Okay. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get lodgings.’

  I’ve never thought people’s mouths could just fall open, but I’m sure mine did. I was used to having trips planned down to the smallest detail and the thought of arriving in a strange town without a place to stay momentarily stunned me.

  ‘You mean you haven’t booked anything?’

  ‘What time have I had?’

  ‘Last night, perhaps?’

  His blue eyes had lost their warmth and held a decidedly flinty expression. ‘You’re a little too demanding, your ladyship. I found the train, bought my ticket, downloaded a town plan. What exactly have you contributed?’

  ‘I didn’t know I was coming,’ I said, and then wished I hadn’t. But he didn’t ask the obvious question of why exactly I’d changed my mind. I hoped I’d ruffled him into silence and would be spared an interrogation. To make sure, I lay back in my seat and closed my eyes.

  His conviction that it would be easy to find accommodation was dashed after a fruitless search on our mobiles and two hours trawling the byways of Dorchester. This was a county town in the middle of prime tourist country, and it was, I pointed out, the half-term holiday for most schools.

  ‘How was I to know that?’

  ‘I knew it,’ I said tartly.

  ‘Then don’t keep these good things to yourself.’ He turned off down yet another side street, his shoulders moodily hunched.

  It didn’t look promising, and my bag was now dragging on the floor. I was weary and fed up and wished I’d never come. Halfway down the road, he stopped outside a dusty window, its paintwork crumbling, and displaying a yellowing, lopsided sign. ‘Vacancies’ it read.

  ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘Then you find somewhere to sleep. I’m staying here if they’ve got a room.’

  There was no bell and he lifted the door knocker. The noise echoed down the hall, but there was no sound of feet approaching. He lifted the knocker again and suddenly the door flew open. A middle-aged woman with a stained pinafore tied around her ample waist stood on the threshold, looking none too friendly.

  ‘I’ve only the one room left,’ she said with a martial look in her eye. ‘So if doesn’t suit, you’ll have to go elsewhere.’

  Disappointed callers were evidently a regular feature of her life, and I wasn’t surprised. I was quite sure the room wouldn’t suit and sharing with Nick Heysham was the last thing I wanted, but I found myself following him unwillingly inside. It was no more appetising than the exterior. In a sad crocodile we made our way up the creaking staircase towards a room at the far end of the passage.

  ‘The bathroom’s there.’ She waved her hand at a small, murky space on the left as we passed by. It was like going back to the 1950s—or what I imagined the 1950s to be like.

  ‘Here,’ and she opened the door wide so we could all squeeze into the one vacant room. It was brown like the rest of the house and, like the rest of the house, not overly clean.

  ‘Well?’ Her arms were held across her body and her chin jutted dangerously.

  ‘We’ll take it for two nights,’ Nick said.

  I waited until she’d left and then asked in a voice so cold that I hardly recognised it, ‘There’s only one bed, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I’d noticed. I’ll sleep on the floor.’

  I hadn’t imagined him as a knight errant. ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘There’s no space on the floor or hadn’t you noticed that.’

  ‘Then we’ll both sleep in the bed and you can put a blanket down the middle in case you touch me by mistake.’

  His tone was acid, and I couldn’t blame him. But I was feeling very sore, mostly at myself for having come on this stupid safari. I couldn’t now imagine why I’d done so. I’d risked losing Oliver and for what? This truly horrible house with its sagging bed and its dubious bathroom and a man who was wholly unfazed by finding himself here.

  ‘Hey, lighten up.’ He was wearing a let’s-make-the-best-of-it face, which immediately made me want to scowl. ‘We’ll go and find a meal. Nothing seems as bad after food.’

  He was wrong. The food was on a par with the room and not even copious amounts of cheap wine could make it better.

  After we’d sat in silence for a good ten minutes, he said, ‘You know you’re a real prima donna.’

  ‘If you mean that I value a clean and comfortable room and a meal I can eat without ingesting a month’s fat intake, then I agree—I am a prima donna.’

  ‘If you feel so bad, why did you come?’

  ‘Why indeed? I can’t recall right now.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, then. You came because you had another fight with Oliver. Working with him in Newcastle was out of the question and you had a few days to fill. Perhaps you figured it might also annoy him, even make him jealous, knowing you were with me.’

  ‘Hardly. Why on earth would Oliver be jealous of you?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said grimly, and got up to go.

  The night was every bit as uncomfortable as I’d expected. There was no blanket to partition the bed although God knows I would have done so. We both lay as near to the edges of the mattress as we could, clinging to our individual precipice while constantly under threat of falling into the pit yawning between us. Each time I began to doze I found myself slipping. Seemingly Nick was having the same problem and every so often we would touch and then hastily regain our rocky crag, bodies stiff with tension until we dozed again and repeated the whole sorry performance. At one point during that endless night I heard the grandfather clock in the hall strike three discordant chimes. I clung to the sound as though it was a lifeline back to a familiar world, but when the last tinny echo faded, I knew myself abandoned.

  * * *

  We ate the small bowl of cornflakes and the one slice of toast in cold silence. I could see Nick had slept about as well as I had. The blue eyes had lost their sparkle, and he wore dark smudges beneath. He ate the miniscule breakfast in less than five minutes and looked around hopelessly for more. Our formidable landlady stood in the hall watching our every swallow. Any minute her foot would start tapping. We didn’t linger and were out in the street where she wanted us by nine o’clock.

  Once outside Nick trudged ahead, and I followed meekly. He was upset and I’d been the one to upset him. Last night I’d poured scorn on the idea that he could ever rival Oliver in my affections, and he hadn’t liked that one little bit. I didn’t want to think why it had made him angry, and I didn’t want to ask myself just why I’d been so keen to dismiss him. But it had been an unlucky remark. His usual cheerful manner had disappeared entirely. I wasn’t used to seeing him like this and somehow the morning felt chillier than it should have done on a bright June day.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked when it was clear he had no intention of speaking.

  ‘I’m going to the address I’ve got—the offices where Poorgrass and Fray hung out. But feel free to do your own thing—get a decent breakfast, indulge in some retail therapy, catch a train back to Waterloo.’

  ‘Why don’t we both get a decent breakfast?’

  ‘Because I can barely afford to pay that gorgon her miserable mite as it is. I certainly don’t have money for another meal.’

  We’d stopped at traffic lights and for the first time that morning I managed to make eye contact with him.

  ‘Then let me pay—as punishment,’ I coaxed.

  ‘For what exactly?’ His words floated over his shoulder as he dived across the road. I was getting breathless trying to keep up with him.

  ‘For whatever I’ve done to annoy you.’ Much better not to specify.

  He stopped suddenly at the entrance to a greengrocer’s shop, and I nearly cannoned into a f
ountain of oranges, precariously balanced on one of the open-air stalls.

  ‘Acting the prima donna, you mean.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I can’t punish you for what comes naturally, can I?’

  ‘A hot bacon roll? Fruit yoghurt? Lashings of coffee?’ I tempted.

  For the first time that morning, his face broke into one of those irrepressible grins. I hadn’t realised till now how much I missed them.

  ‘The roll and coffee will do fine.’

  It didn’t take us too long to find a café that fitted the bill. I swear that Nick had a nose that could sniff out carbohydrates wherever they were hiding. The coffee helped to dissolve any surviving strain and two cups in, we’d relaxed sufficiently to discuss the day ahead. After yesterday’s petulance, I wanted to make amends and be willing to follow whatever strategy he chose. Orchard Street was a few minutes’ walk away, and we decided to go there first and check whether the occupants of the offices that had once belonged to Poorgrass and Fray could offer us any help. Depending on our success—or probable lack of it—we’d move on to the County Museum next and ask to see their archive. I knew my uni card should be sufficient to gain us access to any relevant papers. After that, if we’d still not found any leads, we might be reduced to asking at random, targeting the older inhabitants of Dorchester. I wasn’t looking forward to this final slice of the Heysham plan and hoped we might never have to put the idea into practice.