Nine Buck's Row (29 page)

She babbled on, nearly incoherent, for a good five minutes before sitting down in the large chair and arranging the emerald folds of her skirt as though they were butterfly wings.

“It's all been decided,” she told me, calmer now. “We'll say our vows in the Registrar's office—there's no time to fuss with a church ceremony, and neither of us really cares about that, anyway. We'll leave immediately for Brighton—he's already got his leave—and just as soon as we get back we're going to move into the most
adorable
little cottage on the embankment in Chelsea. Jamie's already signed the lease.”

“What is your father going to do?”

“Oh, Daddy's giving up the flat and moving in with one if his friends, a man he works with at the docks. They'll share expenses, and the man has a widowed sister who'll do the housekeeping. Oh, Suzy, I'm so
happy
!”

“I'm happy for you, Millie.”

“I ask for nothing else in life, just Jamie and that precious cottage and keeping it up for him, cooking for him, making him happy. I don't even want children for a while. Just Jamie—”

“Is he still staying at the flat with you?” I asked.

“Oh no, he left three days ago. Hadn't you heard?”

I shook my head.

“Oh—” she said lightly. “Then you don't know.”

“Don't know
what?
”

Millie didn't answer. She was suddenly extremely nervous, glancing about the room as though seeking escape.

“I assumed Mr. Craig had—well, I thought he would have told you.” She frowned, her large brown eyes filled with misery. “This is so difficult, Suzy. We've always told each other everything, and now—I can't discuss it. I can't tell you anything. It's beastly, I know, but I gave my word. Please—please don't question me.”

“You know something about Jack The Ripper,” I said.

Millie nodded, avoiding my eyes.

“Millie—”

“It'll do you no good,” she interrupted. “Please understand my position, Suzy.”

“I don't understand anything.”

“No, you don't, and you're far better off.”

“Nicholas has something to do with it. Friday night, in the parlor, after you were attacked—”

“I'm sorry, Suzy. Oh, this is dreadful! I should never have come to see you!”

She was on the verge of tears. I reached for her hand and squeezed it, ashamed of myself for pressing her after she had told me she couldn't discuss it. It was frustrating for me, of course, but it must be even more so for Millie. She had been through a terrible ordeal, had put it behind her, and I had brought it all back.

“Forgive me, Millie.”

“I
wish
I could tell you, Suzy, but he made me promise.”

“I understand. We—we'll talk about something else. I
do
like your new dress. The color goes so well with your hair. Was it difficult to make? How is the rest of your trousseau coming along?”

This was all that was needed to launch her into another vivacious monologue, the awkwardness forgotten. She talked at great length and with many exclamations and excursions about the clothes she was making, describing each garment in full detail. I listened patiently, pretending an interest I didn't have. My mind was on other things. What had Nicholas said that night in the parlor? Why had Millie been sworn to secrecy? What were they keeping from me?

Millie was eager to tell Maggie about the forthcoming marriage, and we went down to the shop. Maggie was overjoyed by the news and insisted that Millie should have a bonnet as a wedding present. They chattered like two bright magpies, Millie trying on bonnet after bonnet in front of the mirror. I peered through the window at the elegant black carriage standing in front of the house. Sunlight gleamed on varnished wood, and a liveried driver leaned against one of the wheels, casually examining his nails as he waited for his passengers to return. They finally found the right bonnet, and Millie left, smiling a dazzling smile and swinging the gold and white hat box as she hurried down the street. I asked Maggie about the carriage, and she informed me that it belonged to one of Nicholas' visitors.

“Arrived around three, they did, and a swell-looking trio they were, too. Gents, all three of 'em.”

Even as she spoke, there were footsteps coming down the stairs alongside the shop and the sound of lowered voices. The side door opened. Four men strolled over to the carriage. Nicholas wore his dark suit and the sky-blue vest. He was saying something to Sir Reginald Belmount, Sir Reginald nodding his head in agreement.

Dapper and crisp in tailored uniform, waxed moustache twitching, Sir Chalres Warren tapped his foot impatiently, eager to be gone. His face was deeply flushed and he looked extremely displeased about something. The third visitor held a sheaf of official-looking papers. I had never seen him before, but I could tell that he was important. There was a look of authority about him, and he had the stern bearing and granite expression of one long accustomed to dealing with weighty matters and making grave decisions.

“That man with the moustache,” Maggie said, “he looks familiar. I'm sure I've seen his picture somewhere.”

“In the newspapers, no doubt. He's Sir Charles Warren.”

“The
Police
Commissioner? My word, I wonder what reason he could possibly have to be calling on
Nicky
!”

I wondered myself, and the answer suddenly dawned on me. Of course! It was obvious, had been for a long time, and I must have been blind not to have seen it until now. Pieces of that giant jigsaw puzzle began to fit together. The picture was taking shape, although there were still enormous gaps.

Dinner was a difficult meal that evening. Nicholas was preoccupied, a brooding look in his eyes as he toyed with his food. When Maggie inquired about his visitors he grumbled something unintelligible without even looking up from his plate. Offended, Maggie made a scathing remark about uncalled for rudeness and sulked herself. I was silent, framing the questions I intended to ask Nicholas the first chance I got.

Maggie went up to her room immediately after dinner. Nicholas retired to his study. Not at all sleepy, I went into the parlor and tried to read. Lazy and yawning after a bowl of meat scraps in the kitchen, Scrappy curled up on the hearth, snoozing comfortably as tiny yellow-orange flames lapped at the remains of a charcoaled log. A curious melancholy pervaded the room. I couldn't concentrate on the novel. Finally setting it aside, I sat staring at the dying fire, now a heap of golden coals glowing in a soot-black enclosure. An hour had passed, perhaps two.

“You're up late,” Nicholas said quietly. “It's after eleven.”

He had stepped into the room as silently as a wraith and was standing in the shadows beyond one of the lamps, a few feet away from where I sat on the maroon sofa. He wore a pair of black leather house slippers and, over white shirt and dark trousers, a dressing robe of navy blue satin, sash tied loosely at the waist. The heavy material rustled silkily as he placed his hands in the pockets and came closer.

“I'm not sleepy,” I said.

“Neither am I. Perhaps you'll play for me. A little Mozart would be nice.”

“I'd rather talk.”

“Some light conversation, then. Shall we discuss how well that beige dress goes with your golden hair? Most becoming combination.”

“I had something more important in mind.”

“Your appearance isn't important? What perverse abnormality is this? I've never known a woman who wouldn't gladly spend hours on end discussing the color of her hair, the shape of her mouth—”

“Don't mock me, Nicholas.”

“What would you like to discuss?”

“You.”

“Indeed? Shall we talk about my wretched childhood, my youthful dissipations—”

“You've been working with Scotland Yard, haven't you?”

He was taken aback by the question. His eyes widened with surprise, and he lifted one dark brow in a high arch. Too startled to respond immediately, he stared at me, disconcerted. I could see the anger welling up in him, but I ignored it, determined to carry this through.

“Your report, the book you're supposedly working on, it doesn't really exist, does it? You haven't been gathering material at all. You've been doing undercover work for the police.”

“My dear Susannah, I assure you the book is indeed genuine. I've just compiled the last set of notes. Next week I shall begin the actual composition.”

“Nevertheless—”

His face was hard. The eyes were like dark, glowing coals. “I don't care to pursue this any further, Susannah.”

“Do you deny it, then?”

“Over the past few months I've acquired a vast knowledge of the London underworld and, what's more, have established a certain rapport with various denizens. Knowing the purpose of my study, they trust me, readily discussing things no policeman could induce them to talk about. Because of my unusual position, I was commissioned to make a few discreet inquiries.”

“Information about Jack The Ripper,” I said bluntly. “You
are
working for the police.”

“Suannah—”

“Millie was here this afternoon. She—she knows something. You made her promise not to—”

“What did she tell you?” he snapped, interrupting me.

“She wouldn't tell me anything, but—”

“Thank God for that!”

“Nicholas,
please
tell me what's going on! My aunt was murdered, my best friend was attacked. I'm involved. Somehow or other I'm involved with that horrible fiend. I can't stand it! I can't stand the torment of not
knowing
.”

I stood up, tears in my eyes, hysteria threatening to overcome me. He took hold of my arms and held me away from him, looking down into my eyes. I started to tremble, my whole body weak, and his fingers tightened on my arms, steadying me. The tears spilled over my lashes and made salty trails down my cheeks. He let me cry. His anger was gone. There was concern in his eyes now.

“It's over, Suannah,” he said.

“How can it be? They—”

“It's over,” he repeated sternly. “You're not to think about it anymore.”

“But he's still at large! They haven't captured him. The newspapers say—”

“The newspapers don't know anything.”

“But you
do
. You know something, something important.”

He nodded, heavy black locks cascading over his forehead. His face was seamed, deep hollows beneath his cheekbones, his mouth a grim white line. His dark eyes were grave with the knowledge he refused to share.

“You don't intend to tell me?”

“That's right, Susannah.”

I pulled away from him, almost stumbling over a footstool.

“It's not fair!” I cried. “I have a right to know! Whatever it is, you can't keep it from me! Millie knows, you know, Sir Reginald Belmount, Sir Charles—”

“Get control of yourself.”

“I hate you, Nicholas. I
hate
you”

He stared at me for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth lifted in a wry, sarcastic smile.

“I seriously doubt that,” he replied in an icy voice. The frosty, invisible wall had fallen back in place, and he was aloof, frigid, the heartless stranger of old. “Schoolgirl melodramatics don't become you,” he continued. “I suggest you stop indulging in them and conserve your energy. You're going to need it. You'll have to spend all day tomorrow packing your things. We leave for Surrey first thing Sunday morning.”

18

Surrounded by large, untidy gardens, stables and outbuildings in the distance, the house in Surrey was old, rambling, worn at the edges. Once a noble mansion, it had fallen upon bad days, like a middle-aged woman who has lost both lover and looks. Vines of dusty green ivy half covered the brown stone walls, slates were missing from the dull gold roof, and the soot-black chimneys seemed ready to topple. Weathered and mellow, it nevertheless had great charm. The rooms were filled with books, plants, dust and disreputable furniture which, beneath peeling varnish and faded tapestry, proved to be priceless, antiques lived with, not kept on display.

Two plump, giggling housemaids and a temperamental cook worked under the housekeeper, Mrs. Stern, a genial soul whose manner belied her name and who had a decided fondness for port. These four came in early every morning, leaving around eight each night. The gardener, a widower, and his son, the groom, slept over the stables. The only servant to sleep in at the house was Damon, a combination butler-valet who, nearing eighty, had been with the Craig family for decades and called Nicholas ‘Master Nicky' without the slightest fear. The house was run in the most casual, lackadasical manner imaginable, and I was surprised that Nicholas tolerated it, particularly after the way he had complained about Colleen and Mrs. Henderson. The truth was that he scarcely noticed. His needs were tended to, meals were served promptly, and he was comfortable, too busy with his book to pay any heed to dust, tarnished silverware or poorly waxed parquet floors.

I rarely saw him except at meals. He spent almost all his time closed up in the huge library with its thousands of musty volumes and vast mahogany desk, working furiously on the book, the carpet littered with discarded pages, cold fury in store for anyone who dared interrupt him. I was free to roam wild, to occupy my time in any way I chose, and although it was glorious to take long walks in the woods and surrounding countryside or to curl up in the parlor with a book on rainy days, this freedom soon began to chafe. I longed for Nine Buck's Row, for Millie, for Maggie, for someone to talk to. Even Scrappy was little company. There were far too many new places to explore, too many marvels to examine for him to spend much time with his mistress.

I could not understand Nicholas' conduct. I knew the book was very important to him, that he was eager to get it written, but that was no reason why he should neglect me so wretchedly. It was almost as if he were punishing me for something. For that passionate kiss in the moonlit hallway? Or was he punishing himself? He was a cold stranger, far more so than he had been in London, even, and on the rare occasions when he spoke to me he was brusque. I seemed to present a threat to him. Was that it? Was he afraid he might have another moment of weakness, might kiss me again, might give way to emotions that would make him vulnerable?