Silver, page 23
As Kate followed the young housemaid up the stairs, she cast a glance behind her towards Avery. She had not made the connection yet between the two of them but Avery’s ashen face and racing heart had not gone unnoticed. Avery and Elizabeth were left looking at one another rather awkwardly. Afraid to put words to the fear rising in his throat, Avery’s jaw was tightly clamped shut. Elizabeth did not look at him directly but instead turned on her heels to precede him to his room.
“This way Miss Silver, do watch the bottom step. My aunt has a penchant for shiny things and this house is no exception. If it were any more polished, one could use it as a looking glass.” She laughed; a hollow sound that gave Avery a chill but he relaxed a little. Although Elizabeth was clearly unnerved by his arrival, she was clearly not going to give him away. He hoped that they would get a chance to talk when they got to his room. As they rounded the top of the stairs however, Elizabeth, several steps ahead indicated a doorway to one side.
“This will be your room, Miss Silver. I hope you find it comfortable. I am sure your maid will be with you shortly to unpack.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the corridor.
“Elizabeth!” Avery hissed, trying to call her back.
“Is everything alright, Miss Silver?”
Avery spun around in surprise to hear Georgina’s voice. Had she not been downstairs only moments ago? As he wondered on this, the widow bustled into the room past him pointing out the view from the window and issuing instruction.
“As the sun looks so fierce, I thought we would spend the afternoon getting acquainted with one another in the house. I could show you both my pottery. I suppose your father has told you all about my collection? I am sure Elizabeth would be delighted to show you.”
Before he followed Georgina into his room, Avery looked down the corridor after Elizabeth, but she had gone.
Chapter Eighteen - Imogen, 1911
As I came down the stairs, Heston took one look at me and suggested that I return home and twenty minutes later he had deposited me inside a waiting cab. He confirmed that he would continue with his task of setting the house in order but that he would arrange personally for my father’s suit to be delivered to the undertakers. It was a scant gesture but one in which I found some consolation. As the cab rolled off, I found his eyes and nodded to him in thanks. Whether Heston was astute enough to recognise I had been crying was not in doubt. I had my suspicions that he was well versed in turning the other cheek. My tears had exhausted me. When I returned home, I sat in silence for a few hours with only my own dizzying thoughts for company. Shock had given way to anger and, in turn, the anger had become confusion. I had begun to accept that my father could not have been my father and if my mother was not my mother, then who was I?
The sound of the telephone ringing in the hall startled me. It had only been installed last year and the noise was still so unfamiliar. John, of course, had been thrilled with it at first, making unnecessary journeys to another exchange just for the sheer delight of calling home. I had yet to get used to the contraption and felt vaguely uneasy whenever I was called to listen to the strangely disembodied voices crackling from the earpiece. Far from being curious about who was calling, I had grown used to the way the fractured tones interrupted other peoples order as one call or other was taken by the staff and directed to John. I was surprised therefore when the door to the parlour opened and Amy stepped in to the room with a bob.
“Pardon me madam but there is a caller on the telephone for you.”
“Who is it?”
“It is a Mr. Evans. The undertaker,” she added as she was met with my blank expression.
“Did you tell them Mr. Bancroft is dealing with all of the arrangements?”
The girl coloured slightly, her hands playing nervously with her apron.
“Yes Madam but he said it was urgent.”
I closed my eyes and composed myself with a deep breath. I stood with mild irritation, not at Amy or John or even Mr. Evans but more with myself that I was not involved with the details. I suddenly felt like I had abandoned my father and I felt a rush of energy as I was given this task. I brushed past the young maid and out into the chilly hallway. The telephone, a dark ebony candle stick style handset with ivory embellishments was stood on the new purpose bought stand, waiting like an unannounced visitor. I took up the earpiece and lifted the stand to my mouth.
“Mr. Evans,” I questioned into the receiver.
“Mrs. Bancroft?” came a distant voice.
The voice was nasal and I began to imagine the face to whom it should belong.
“This is she,” I confirmed.
“Ah. Mrs. Bancroft. I am so terribly sorry to trouble you but under the….er... circumstances I thought it necessary to interrupt you at home. Your husband was not available at his office and I must speak to either one of you directly.”
His tone was a peculiar mix of affected subservience and deference but with a hint of smugness and I took an instant dislike to this man. His face swam into my imagination as that of a rodent. One of the sole delights of speaking via the telephone is, of course, that one does not have to hide any such feelings and I rolled my eyes as I interrupted him.
“What is the matter Mr. Evans?”
“Of course, forgive me. You received my note requesting clothes for… um…the deceased?”
“Indeed. Mr. Heston, my father’s butler, is to deliver them this afternoon.”
There was a pause before he drew out his response.
“Ahhhhhh,”’ another pause, “Yes. Mr. Heston….”
His tone suggested a superiority towards Heston which I found more than a little abrasive.
“Has he been?” I asked
“Ah, yes. That is to say, he is still here Mrs. Bancroft.”
I could feel my forehead crumpling as I sought to comprehend the point of this man’s call.
“If Heston is there, then what on earth is the problem?”
I was met with a silence.
“Did he forget the suit?” I volunteered.
This time, the silence was so pronounced I took the phone away from my ear to look at it.
“Mr. Evans?” I tried to coax the man into telling me the problem.
“Ah, yes. The..er…suit. No, Mrs. Bancroft, quite the contrary. Mr. Heston has indeed delivered a…a...a……suit.”
He placed an emphasis on this last word which suggested that, at last, we had come to the point of this conversation and I relaxed my shoulders a little. I could of course deal with such a trivial matter. Perhaps when I had cried over the sleeves this morning, I had left some salt stain or other.
“What is the matter with the suit, Mr. Evans? Is it not clean? I must confess that when I saw it this afternoon that I did not notice any problems, but of course you will have had greater opportunity than I to inspect it. Surely Heston could arrange for it to be….”
I was so relieved the matter was of such inconsequence that it was a few seconds before I realised Mr. Evans was trying to interrupt me.
“Mrs. Bancroft, you will forgive me for interrupting you. The suit is both clean, and very fine, but quite unsuitable.”
“Unsuitable?”
His interruption had taken me aback and I was so confused that momentarily I wondered what he meant.
“We are aware that there are some peculiarities surrounding the death of the deceased and we are further aware that there has been some misunderstandings but I am afraid it is quite improper to bury a woman in gentleman’s clothing Madam. I can quite understand your wanting to….”
A hot wave of shock flushed over me as I at last understood what this odious man was trying to tell me. The heat made me glow, at first, with shame that I should have failed to interpret his stuttering and then it turned to anger. Both feelings left me momentarily stunned and at a loss for words. I listened, my mind whirling, whilst he continued chattering in an endless stream of idiocy. He made no apologies but only continued to express his own dissatisfaction. I could find neither the words nor my own voice to interrupt him, as he continued with his lecture.
“…I happen to know that we were the third partnership to be offered the body for burial after two refusals from other firms, and of course, we can continue to provide full discretion but I must insist, Mrs. Bancroft, that alternative provisions be made as to the attire of… erm….the deceased.”
They were the third undertakers? John had not told me any of this.
“Heston,” I managed at last.
“I beg your pardon Mrs. Bancroft?”
“Heston. You said that he was still there. I would speak with him.”
There was a brief pause and then Mr. Evans cleared his throat.
“I am afraid that won’t be possible Mrs. Bancroft.” He dragged this last sentence out in a tone of self-importance. I could sense his chest puffing out in triumph.
“And why not?”
There was a kind of amusement in his voice as he answered.
“That was the other matter about which I wished to speak with you. Mr. Heston is being detained by the police.”
~o~
The last time John and I had ridden in a cab together was on the drive to my father’s house on that fateful night when our worlds were turned upside down. That journey had been markedly different from this one in many ways but in one it was blissfully similar. On that first journey before the discovery, John had been my rock of support. Having only too recently supported me through the death of my mother, he had plunged himself into action. He had held my hand in his and kept his arm around me, protecting me from the cold and the gaze of the bystanders outside my father’s house. I was afraid that if he withdrew his support, I would start shaking and not be able to stop. Since that night, he had withdrawn his arms from around me and become cold. Although I had started to shake at first, I already knew that I could stand alone. John was seated opposite me and, far from being someone upon whom I could lean, I considered him to be someone I no longer knew. Could I rely upon him as my mother had my father? But, despite the difference in the reasons, we were united in our anger and outrage with the undertakers. A few minutes after I took the call from Mr. Evans, John had arrived home to find me putting on my coat and gloves and I had recounted the conversation.
“Why didn’t you tell me there had been a problem appointing an undertaker?”
For a moment, he had stared directly at me and tried to take both the measure of me and of the situation. Evidently, entering ones’ house and finding one’s wife riled up and dressing to leave was enough to make one proceed with caution. His tone was calm as he had followed me outside.
“Imogen. What has happened?”
“I have just taken a call from Mr. Evans of Evans & Sons. They have detained Heston and called the police,” I added and John’s face fell.
“What?” he blustered. I turned and swept into the waiting cab. “Imogen!” he had hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “What the blazes for?” The cab lurched as he pulled himself in behind me, pulled the door to and knocked on the roof with his fist.
“Evidently there has been some...” I hadn’t wanted to use the same word as Evans but without knowing exactly what had transpired I had no choice but to repeat it. “...altercation between Heston and a member of Evan’s staff.”
John’s eyes flashed at me and then at his pocket watch.
“This is nonsense! Imogen, I can deal with this. You really should have stayed at home.”
I considered him for a moment, in his anger and his pomposity before responding.
“Why didn’t you consult with me over the funeral, John?”
He had been about to respond curtly, a ready response on his lips but something about the way I had looked at him made him hesitate.
“Imogen, please. You must see that however you felt about…,’ he levelled his gaze at me as he grasped for the word least likely to embarrass us both “…Avery.”
“My father.”
He raised his voice over mine, his eyes indicating he was not prepared to listen
“The fact remains that this is a precarious position for us. If the investors get a whiff of this then be sure and understand that we will...” his voice had begun to rise and he bit his lip.
He lowered his voice and tried to explain. “Imogen, reputation is everything and you have to understand that this is a bad business, and we should get rid of the evidence as quickly as possible.” He immediately regretted what he said and tried to cover his poor choice of words. “I just thought that we should probably get the funeral done with quickly and you being so...distraught...I wanted to...”
“The evidence?”
“I didn’t mean...”
“The evidence? That evidence is my father, John!”
“For God’s sake Imogen,” he leaned back quickly and tipping his head backwards, he blew out his breath towards the roof of the cab.
“I am trying,” he spoke slowly and deliberately as if keeping his temper was a struggle for him and I once again marvelled at this unfamiliar side to my husband. “I am trying to understand all of this mess but I cannot comprehend your loyalty!”
“Can’t you, John?” I leant forward and tried to take his hand but he refused to let me. “Can you really not see?”
He looked at me and, shaking his head, he expelled an audible sigh and looked out of the window instead. When we arrived at the undertakers, there were a good many people in the parlour’s entrance but I could pick out Mr. Evans without an introduction. His sallow skin sagged around his fleshy face. His posture was tall but he held his hands furtively about him in an affected look of servitude. It was evident from John’s expression that he also found this man to be loathsome. I wondered how difficult Evans had made it for John, knowing of the undertakers who had turned the service down.
“Mr. Bancroft. Mrs. Bancroft.” Evans stepped forwards and it was his turn to colour a little as evidently, he had not expected both of us to arrive. The interior of the office was sparsely decorated and was fittingly sombre. A simple desktop of heavy oak was laid bare except for two large catalogues to assist with the sale of coffins and monuments. The room was by no means large, yet we were the eighth and ninth occupants.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
“No damn it, you may not,” John had snapped.
The room, already hushed, fell silent. It was clear that conversation had been about Heston.
“What the devil is going on, Evans? Who are all these people?” John indicated the other people. “You promised me discretion,” he hissed.
John glared around the room, eyeing each of them was a fiery gaze. There were two young men and dressed in uniform black but were not wearing their jackets. I guessed they must have worked at the parlour. A third man at the back of the room stepped forward, his uniform immediately identified him as a police constable. He was young and looked around awkwardly before addressing John.
“Sir? I believe you are the employer of…,” he glanced at the notebook he had been clutching “… Mr. George Heston of Hamble Gardens.”
John looked fazed before he replied.
“Well… I am one of the executors of my father in-law’s…,” he opened his mouth wildly. “… That is to say… er… Yes.”
The constable looked relieved and he lowered his voice.
“Very good, sir. Come through to the office.” He turned and made his way past the hushed crowd to the far end of the parlour where there was a side door which he knocked on before stepping inside. Whilst we waited for a response, my attention was drawn to the rest of the room’s occupants. I could see now that there was someone sitting down behind the group. Evidently, it was this man that the young constable had been questioning as we arrived. He too was dressed in a sombre uniform of black and grey, an employee. Where he differed from his colleagues was that his nose was swollen and bloodied and his white shirt collars were wet with crimson blood. I looked at John who had just seen the same thing and his eyebrows drew together in confusion. Seeing my horror, he clutched my hand tighter. Before we could really take in any more of the scene or discern anything from the hushed whispers which had begun to escalate around us, the constable opened the door and beckoned us forwards.
“Mr. and Mrs…,” he looked back to us as he shut the door.
“Bancroft.” I finished.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, sir,” he announced to the room.
The second room seemed equally as crowded as the first. A back office, there was a desk and drawers and too few places for anyone to sit. I barely registered the response from his superior, instead my eyes took in the sight of Heston, seated at a table, his head hung forward. The familiar posture was evident. His back was straight, his hands were regimentally clasped on top of his knees. He looked less like a smart butler but more like a small boy who had been caught truanting. At the sound of my voice, Heston rose from his seat and caught my eye before staring neutrally as before. The sudden movement of the old man caused some alarm and the senior policemen stood.
“Please stay seated, Mr. Heston.”
Heston remained standing and the constable was visibly annoyed at being ignored. I stepped forwards into the room past John and took Heston’s hand in my own.
“What is the meaning of this?” John’s voice was unsettled.
He was addressing the inspector but he appeared ruffled. The events of the last week had disturbed his core such that he was unsure upon whom to rely except himself. It had brought out an insecurity in him I had not noticed before. If we were still on fond terms, I would have reached for him to assure him. The truth was, I could not be sure of anything myself.
“Mr. Bancroft. I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir…..”
The inspector had stood to draw my husband to one side so that they may speak in hushed tones. I was growing used to this isolation and instead I took the opportunity to talk to Heston. Heston, still rigid in his seat, looked pale and drawn, the fallout of my father’ legacy was weighing heavily on him. A pulse in his temple throbbed with the tension of clenching his jaw and he looked beyond me.
