The Shifting Fog (62 page)

‘Darling Harry,’ she said, smacking her lips together. ‘Prepared for every event.’ She took another swig and tucked the flask back into the coat. ‘Come on then. I’ve had my pain relief.’

I helped her up, my head bent over as she leaned on my shoulders. ‘That should do it,’ she said. ‘If you’ll just …’

I waited. ‘Ma’am?’

She gasped and I lifted my head, followed her gaze back toward the lake. Hannah was at the summer house and she wasn’t alone. There was a man with her, cigarette on his bottom lip. Carrying a small suitcase.

Emmeline recognised him before I did.

‘Robbie,’ she said, forgetting her ankle. ‘My God. It’s Robbie.’

Emmeline limped clumsily onto the lake bank; I stayed behind in the shadows. ‘Robbie!’ she called, waving her hand. ‘Robbie, over here.’

Hannah and Robbie froze. Looked at one another.

‘What are you doing here?’ Emmeline said excitedly. ‘And why on earth have you come the back way?’

Robbie drew on his cigarette, fumbled with the filter as he exhaled.

‘Come on up to the party,’ Emmeline said. ‘I’ll find you a drink.’

Robbie glanced across the lake into the distance. I followed his gaze, noticed something metallic shining on the other side. A motorbike, I realised, nestled where the lake met the outer meadows.

‘I know what’s happening,’ Emmeline said suddenly. ‘You’ve been helping Hannah with her game.’

Hannah stepped forward into the moonlight. ‘Emme—’

‘Come on,’ said Emmeline quickly. ‘Let’s all go back to the house and find Robbie a room. Find some place for your suitcase.’

‘Robbie’s not going to the house,’ said Hannah.

‘Why, of course he is. He’s not going to stay down here all night, surely,’ said Emmeline with a silvery laugh. ‘It might be June but it’s rather cold, darlings.’

Hannah glanced at Robbie and something passed between them.

Emmeline saw it too. In that moment, as the moon shone pale on her face, I watched as excitement slid to confusion, and confusion arrived horribly at realisation. The months in London, Robbie’s early arrivals at number seventeen, the way she had been used.

‘There is no game, is there?’ she said softly.

‘No.’

‘The letter?’

‘A mistake,’ Hannah said.

‘Why’d you write it?’ said Emmeline.

‘I didn’t want you to wonder,’ said Hannah. ‘Where I’d gone.’ She glanced at Robbie. He nodded slightly. ‘Where we’d gone.’

Emmeline was silent.

‘Come on,’ said Robbie cagily, picking up the suitcase and starting for the lake. ‘It’s getting late.’

‘Please understand, Emme,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s like you said, each of us letting the other live the life they want.’ She hesitated: Robbie was motioning her to hurry. She started walking backwards. ‘I can’t explain now, there’s no time. I’ll write: tell you where we are. You can visit.’ She turned, and with one last glance at Emmeline, followed Robbie around the foggy edge of the lake.

Emmeline stayed where she was, hands dug into the coat’s pockets. She swayed, shuddered as a goose walked over her grave.

And then.

‘No.’ Emmeline’s voice was so quiet I could barely hear. ‘No.’ She yelled out, ‘Stop.’

Hannah turned, Robbie tugged her hand, tried to keep her with him. She said something, started back.

‘I won’t let you go,’ said Emmeline.

Hannah was close now. Her voice was low, firm. ‘You must.’

Emmeline’s hand moved in her coat pocket. She gulped. ‘I won’t.’

She withdrew her hand. A flash of metal. The gun.

Hannah gasped.

Robbie started running toward Hannah.

My pulse pumped against my skull.

‘I won’t let you take him,’ said Emmeline, hand wobbling.

Hannah’s chest moved up and down. Pale in the moonlight. ‘Don’t be stupid, put it away.’

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘Put it away.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t want to use it.’

‘I do.’

‘Which of us are you going to shoot?’ said Hannah.

Robbie was by Hannah now and Emmeline looked from one to the other, lips trembling.

‘You’re not going to shoot either,’ said Hannah. ‘Are you?’

Emmeline’s face contorted as she started to cry. ‘No.’

‘Then put the gun down.’

‘No.’

I gasped as Emmeline lifted a shaky hand, pointing the gun at her own head.

‘Emmeline!’ said Hannah.

Emmeline was sobbing now. Great hulking sobs.

‘Give it to me,’ said Hannah. ‘We’ll talk more. Sort it out.’

‘How?’ Emmeline’s voice was thick with tears. ‘Will you give him back to me? Or will you keep him the way you have all of them. Pa, David, Teddy.’

‘It’s not like that,’ said Hannah.

‘It’s my turn,’ said Emmeline.

Suddenly there was a huge bang. A firework exploded. Everyone jumped. A red glow sprayed across their faces. Millions of red specks spilled across the lake surface.

Robbie covered his face with his hands.

Hannah leapt forward, seized the gun from Emmeline’s slackened fingers. Hurried backwards.

Emmeline was running toward her then, face a mess of tears and lipstick. ‘Give it to me. Give it to me or I’ll scream. Don’t you leave. I’ll tell everyone. I’ll tell everyone you’ve gone and Teddy will find you and—’

Bang!
A green firework exploded.

‘—Teddy won’t let you get away, he’ll make sure you stay, and you’ll never see Robbie again and—’

Bang!
Silver.

Hannah scrambled onto a higher part of the lake bank. Emmeline followed, crying. Fireworks exploded.

Music from the party reverberated off the trees, the lake, the summer-house walls.

Robbie’s shoulders were hunched, hands over his ears. Eyes wide, face pale.

I didn’t hear him at first but I could see his lips. He was pointing at Emmeline, yelling something at Hannah.

Bang!
Red.

Robbie flinched. Face contorted with panic. Continued to yell.

Hannah hesitated, looked at him uncertainly. She had heard what he was saying. Something in her bearing collapsed.

The fireworks stopped; burning embers rained from the sky.

And then I heard him too.

‘Shoot her!’ he was yelling. ‘Shoot her!’

My blood curdled.

Emmeline froze in her tracks, gulped. ‘Hannah?’ Voice like a frightened little girl. ‘Hannah?’

‘Shoot her,’ he said again. ‘She’ll ruin everything.’ He was running toward Hannah.

Hannah was staring. Uncomprehending.

‘Shoot her!’ He was frantic.

Her hands were shaking. ‘I can’t,’ she said finally.

‘Then give it to me.’ He was coming closer now, faster. ‘I will.’

And he would. I knew it. Desperation, determination were loud on his face.

Emmeline jolted. Realised. Started running toward Hannah.

‘I can’t,’ said Hannah.

Robbie grabbed for the gun; Hannah pulled her arm away, fell backwards, scrambled further onto the escarpment.

‘Do it!’ said Robbie. ‘Or I will.’

Hannah reached the highest point. Robbie and Emmeline were converging on her. There was nowhere further to run. She looked between them.

And time stood still.

Two points of a triangle, untethered by a third, had pulled further and further apart. The elastic, stretched taut, had reached its limit.

I held my breath, but the elastic did not break.

In that instant, it retracted.

Two points came crashing back together, a collision of loyalty and blood and ruin.

Hannah pointed the gun and she pulled the trigger.

The aftermath. For, oh, there is always an aftermath. People forget that. Blood, lots of it. Over their dresses, across their faces, in their hair.

The gun dropped. Hit the stones with a crack and lay immobile.

Hannah stood wavering on the escarpment.

Robbie’s body lay on the ground below. Where his head had been, a mess of bone and brain and blood.

I was frozen, my heart beating in my ears, skin hot and cold at the same time. Suddenly, a surge of vomit.

Emmeline stood frozen, eyes tightly closed. She wasn’t crying, not any more. She was making a horrible noise, one I’ve never forgotten. She was crawing as she inhaled. The air catching in her throat on every breath.

Moments passed, I don’t know how many, and a way off, behind me, I heard voices. Laughter.

‘It’s just down here a little further,’ came the voice on the breeze. ‘You wait until you see, Lord Gifford. The stairs aren’t finished—damn French and their shipping hold-ups—but the rest, I think you’ll agree, is pretty impressive.’

I wiped my mouth, ran from my hiding spot onto the lake edge.

‘Teddy’s coming,’ I said to no one in particular. I was in shock of course. We were all in shock. ‘Teddy’s coming.’

‘You’re too late,’ Hannah said, swiping frantically at her face, her neck, her hair. ‘You’re too late.’

‘Teddy’s coming, ma’am.’ I shivered.

Emmeline’s eyes snapped open. A flash of silver blue shadow in the moonlight. She shuddered, righted herself, indicated
Hannah’s suitcase. ‘Take it to the house,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Go the long way.’

I hesitated.

‘Run.’

I nodded, took the bag and ran toward the woods. I couldn’t think clearly. I stopped when I was hidden and turned back. My teeth were chattering.

Teddy and Lord Gifford had reached path’s end and stepped out onto the lake bank.

‘Dear God,’ said Teddy, stopping abruptly. ‘What on earth—?’

‘Teddy darling,’ said Emmeline. ‘Thank God.’ She turned jerkily to face Teddy and her voice levelled. ‘Mr Hunter has shot himself.’

The Letter

Tonight I die and my life begins.

I tell you, and only you. You have been with me a long time on this adventure, and I want you to know that in the days that follow, when they are combing the lake for a body they will never find, I am safe.

We go to Germany first, from there I cannot say. Finally, I will see Nefertiti’s head mask!

I have given you a second note addressed to Emmeline. It is a suicide note for a suicide that will never take place. She must find it tomorrow. Not before. Look after her, Grace. She will be all right. She has so many friends.

There is one final favour I must ask of you. It is of the utmost importance. Whatever happens, keep Emmeline from the lake tonight. Robbie and I leave from there. I cannot risk her finding out. She won’t understand. Not yet.

I will contact her later. When it is safe.

And now to the last. Perhaps you’ve already discovered the locket I gave you is not empty? Concealed inside is a key, a secret key to a safe box in Drummonds on Charing Cross. The box is in your name, Grace, and everything inside it is for you. I know how you feel about gifts, but please, take it and don’t look back. Am I too presumptuous in saying it is your ticket to a new life?

Goodbye, Grace. I wish you a long life full with adventure and love. Wish me the same …

I know how well you are with secrets.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the following:

First and foremost, my best friend, Kim Wilkins, without whose encouragement I would never have started, let alone finished.

Davin for his endurance, empathy and unwavering faith.

Oliver for expanding the emotional boundaries of my life and for curing me of writer’s block.

My family: Warren, Jenny, Julia and, in particular, my mother Diane, whose courage, grace and beauty inspire me.

Herbert and Rita Davies, dear friends, for telling the best stories. Be brilliant!

My fabulous literary agent, Selwa Anthony, whose commitment, care and skill are peerless.

Selena Hanet-Hutchins for her efforts on my behalf.

The sf-sassies for writerly support.

Everybody at Allen & Unwin, especially Annette Barlow, Catherine Milne, Christa Munns, Christen Cornell, Julia Lee and Angela Namoi.

Julia Stiles for being everything I hoped an editor would be.

Dalerie and Lainie for their assistance with Oliver (was ever a little boy so loved?), and for giving me the precious gift of time.

The lovely people at Mary Ryan’s for adoring books and making great coffee.

For matters of fact: thank you to Mirko Ruckels for answering questions about music and opera, Drew Whitehead for telling me the story of Miriam and Aaron, Elaine Rutherford for providing information of a medical nature, and Diane Morton for her extensive and timely advice on antiques and customs, and for being an arbiter of good taste.

Finally, I would like to mention Beryl Popp and Dulcie Connelly. Two grandmothers, dearly loved and missed. I hope Grace inherited a little from each of you.

The Shifting Fog
is a work of fiction; nonetheless, its setting in history demanded extensive research. It is impossible for me to list here every source consulted; however, I would like to mention a few without whom the book would have been much the worse. Mary S. Lovell’s
The Mitford Girls
, Cressida Connolly’s
The Rare and the Beautiful
, Laura Thompson’s
Life in a Cold Climate
, Anne de Courcy’s
1939: The Last Season
and
The Viceroy’s Daughters
, and Victoria Glendinning’s
Vita
provide colourful illustrations of country house life in the early part of the twentieth century. For more general historical information, Stephen Inwood’s
A History of London
and the Reader’s Digest
Yesterday’s Britain
are both very informative. Beverley Nichols’s
Sweet and Twenties
, Frances Donaldson’s
Child of the Twenties
,
Punch
magazine, the letters of Nancy Mitford, Evelyn Waugh and Katherine Mansfield offer excellent first-hand accounts of literary lives in the 1920s. Noel Carthew’s
Voices from the Trenches: Letters to Home
and Michael Duffy’s website firstworldwar.com are two excellent sources on the First World War. For information on Edwardian etiquette I turned, as have countless young ladies before me, to
The Essential Handbook of Victorian Etiquette
by Professor Thomas E Hill and to
Manners and Rules of Good Society or Solecisms to be Avoided
published by ‘A Member of the Aristocracy’ in 1924.