Читать книгу The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller - Dilly Court, Dilly Court - Страница 11

As the hours went by and still no word from Luke, Clara’s fears intensified. Until now she had had supreme confidence in Luke’s ability to take care of himself, but that was before she had met Patches Bragg, when the world of the gambling dens and the criminal gangs had seemed unreal. It had not occurred to her that Pa was so deeply involved with the criminal fraternity, but now she realised just how far he had sunk. For the rest of the day her thoughts kept returning to the silver button nestling amongst its brothers, and the patch of blood in the snow. It had all but disappeared into a mushy grey slush, but the memory of it was still fresh in her mind.

Clara closed up early, making the excuse of going out to purchase hot pies for their evening meal, but instead she made her way to the club in Angel Court. There was no hope of finding the money that Patches had demanded, but that paled into insignificance in the light of Luke’s disappearance. There was only one way to find out if Patches and her gang were involved. She rapped on the door and waited, but no one came. She knocked again, and when there was no reply she turned the knob and found to her surprise that the door was not locked. With her heart hammering against her tightly laced stays, she stepped inside.

‘Is anyone there?’ Her voice echoed throughout the building. There was no sign of Bones or Old Tom, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but perhaps Luke was there in that dank cellar, bound and gagged and unable to communicate.

She made her way through the dark corridors and down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, and there was no sign of life or sound of anything other than the creaking of old timbers. She opened the door to the gaming room. Light filtered hazily through the grimy window; it was dim but even so she could see that the place was deserted. The tables were bare, as were the shelves behind the bar. Patches and her punters might never have existed other than in her imagination. Clara bent down to pick up a round gaming token that had been overlooked. Even in the semi-darkness she could see that it was similar to the ones that Pa sometimes brought home in his pocket. But for this tiny object she might have been led to believe that she was in the wrong place, or that she had dreamed the whole sorry business.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made her spin round. She held her breath, poised and ready to run. She had expected to see one of Patches’ men, but it was an elderly woman who stood in the doorway and she looked as scared as Clara was feeling.

‘Who are you?’ the woman demanded tremulously. ‘What are you doing here?’

Clara was shaking from head to foot, but it was with relief and not fear. ‘I might ask the same of you. Where is Patches?’

‘Are you one of her gang? I don’t want no trouble. I’m just the cleaning woman.’

‘No, I’m not one of the gang,’ Clara said angrily. ‘Where have they gone?’

‘I dunno, and I don’t ask questions. Nor will you if you’ve got any sense. I’ve got work to do, and you’d better go about your business, whatever that might be.’

‘I need to know what happened here last night. Please tell me anything you know.’

‘Go away and let me get on. I got a family to feed and I don’t know nothing.’ The woman glanced over her shoulder. ‘He’s coming.’ She scuttled into the room and pushed past Clara, brandishing a broom.

Clara attempted to leave but found her way barred by a swarthy man wearing a billycock hat and a heavy overcoat with its collar pulled up to his unshaven chin. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, squinting at her from beneath bushy black eyebrows.

‘I’m looking for Luke Foyle,’ Clara said, hoping she sounded more confident than she was feeling. This man had an air of menace about him that made her feel distinctly threatened, but to her surprise his frown was replaced by a broad grin, exposing a row of uneven, yellowed teeth.

‘What’s your name, lovely?’

‘I’m Clara Carter.’

‘So you’re the one,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Luke has an eye for a looker, and that’s the truth.’

‘Where is he?’ Clara demanded breathlessly.

‘You might say he’s had to go on a trip for the sake of his health, miss. You won’t be seeing him for quite a while.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Haven’t you heard? There was a fight between the Skinners’ gang and the Braggs’ last night. Very bloody it was too. Those what are left have scarpered.’

‘Who are you?’ Clara demanded furiously. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’

‘It don’t matter who I am, my duck. I’ll be off soon meself, but it’s a pity about Foyle. You’ll get over him in time.’

Clara felt a bubble of hysteria welling up inside her, but she mustered every scrap of self-control in an attempt to sound calm and collected. ‘What happened to him?’

‘I told you, girl. He left the country and he won’t be coming back for a long while. If he does he faces the hangman’s noose. D’you understand me now?’

‘Did he kill someone?’ Clara’s breath caught on a sob. ‘Was it Patches? Is that why this place is deserted?’

‘I ain’t prepared to say no more. The less you know, the better. Go home, girl.’ He was about to walk past her but she caught him by the sleeve.

‘Why won’t you tell me where Luke has gone?’

He shook her hand off as if it were an annoying bug. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? How very remiss of me. He’s taking in the delights of Paris, so I believe.’ He sauntered off to inspect the bar, or what was left of it, giving Clara the opportunity to escape.

It was not until she was outside that the full force of events overtook her and she leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. It had all begun with a gambling debt, but everything had spiralled out of control, and now Luke had left the country, if that man was to be believed. There must have been a scuffle outside the shop, which would account for the bloodstain on the snow and the loss of a waistcoat button, but what happened after that would remain a mystery.

She walked home slowly, stopping to buy three hot mutton pies from the pieman, and three baked potatoes from the stall a little further along Drury Lane. Her movements were automatic and she was still in a state of shock. She had done her best to persuade Luke to get away from the gangs, and he had managed to keep that part of his life separate, treating it almost as a joke. Now the reality of gang warfare had struck home – Luke must have killed someone, maybe Patches herself, and he had fled for his life. He was a marked man and if he returned to England he would face the full force of the law.

The sound of footsteps made Clara glance over her shoulder. Home and safety were just a few yards away, but to her relief she recognised a familiar figure. With his muffler flying and his hair tousled by the wind, Nathaniel came hurrying towards her with his violin case slung over his shoulder. As he came to a breathless halt she noticed that he had done his coat up on the wrong button and his stiff white collar was coming undone as if he had lost a stud in his hurry to get dressed.

‘Clara, I thought it was you.’ He sniffed the air, like a hungry hound. ‘Mutton pie, my favourite.’

‘You’re welcome to join us, Nathaniel. There’s plenty to go round.’

‘I wish I could, but I’m already late. I should have been at work ten minutes ago. I just hope the conductor hasn’t noticed that I’m not in my place.’

‘Another time then,’ Clara said, smiling, ‘but perhaps you ought to stop off for a moment and fix your collar. You do look a bit untidy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I was so busy composing that I forgot the time.’

‘You seem to have lost a collar stud.’

‘Devil take the wretched things.’ Nathaniel ran his hand through his windblown hair. ‘I’m always losing them, but I can’t stop now. May I call on you soon, Clara? I don’t want to intrude.’

‘That would be very nice.’ Clara had to suppress the sudden desire to laugh. In the midst of murder and mayhem Nathaniel represented a different world that was infinitely more appealing.

‘Splendid.’ He backed away, smiling. ‘And I haven’t forgotten about the tickets for the show …’ His voice trailed off as he broke into a run, heading in the direction of the Strand.

Clara walked on slowly, making a huge effort to compose herself before she arrived at the shop. What had happened last night was something she wanted to keep to herself for as long as possible.

Jane answered Clara’s knock on the door and she entered the shop with a smile on her face. ‘Look what I’ve got for supper. We’ll eat well tonight.’

‘Did you find Luke? Is he all right?’

Betsy stuck her head round the parlour door. ‘Do I smell hot pies?’

‘Yes to both questions. Luke has gone away for a while, Jane, but he’ll be back before you know it. Betsy, get the plates out, please. The pies are getting cold.’

When her sisters had gone to bed, Clara stayed downstairs on the pretext of locking up, but although she was physically exhausted, she knew that sleep would elude her. She sat by the dying embers of the fire with the box containing her treasures on her lap and she held Luke’s silver button between her fingers. It was beautifully crafted, and the whole set must have been very expensive, but that was typical of Luke – only the best would do. She sighed, wondering what had happened to him. Luke had left the country, or so the man had said, but he could have been lying. Perhaps Luke had simply left London. As far as she knew he had no family living. He had told her that his mother was dead, but he had always been reluctant to talk about his past, and she had respected his right to keep silent about matters that were obviously distressing. She wished now that she had questioned him further as it might have given her a clue as to his whereabouts.

Clara closed the box and rose to her feet, but as she replaced it beneath the counter she remembered that Luke had wanted her to have an elegant gown made from the emerald-green silk. Generosity had been one of his more endearing qualities, and, despite her reservations as to his character, she realised with a sense of shock that she would miss him more than she would have thought possible. She had managed to keep her emotions in check all evening, but now she was alone she could give vent to her feelings and tears trickled down her cheeks. If she were being honest she had to admit that she cared deeply for Luke, despite his many failings, or maybe because of them, but it was his involvement with the criminal world that had made her wary of falling in love. The gangs were constantly at war, but last night Luke had acted on her behalf, and it was her father’s inability to repay his debt to Patches that had brought matters to a head. If she had kept her worries to herself none of this would have happened. She bowed her head and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Lizzie breezed into the shop next morning, smiling triumphantly. ‘Madam was delighted with the lace.’ Her smile faded. ‘What’s the matter with you, Clara? You look dreadful.’

‘I didn’t sleep very well, but I’m fine.’

‘Don’t fib. You can’t fool me. What’s happened?’

There seemed little point in lying. Lizzie would not be fooled easily and Clara knew that she was not looking her best. When she had eventually fallen asleep she had suffered terrifying nightmares that had made her fearful of dozing off again in case they returned. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the parlour door was closed. Jane was working on a creation that Betsy had brought home to finish off, and Clara did not want her to hear what she had to say.

‘I’ll tell you, but you must keep it between us. No one else must know.’

Lizzie’s eyes brightened and she pulled up the stool that was reserved for privileged customers. ‘Do tell, but make it quick. I’m sure Miss Jones times my absences so that she can report me to the housekeeper. She knows I’m a threat because madam likes me, and I know how to keep on her good side.’

Clara launched into a brief summary of the events leading to Luke’s disappearance. ‘I only have a stranger’s word for it that Luke has left the country. He wouldn’t tell me what really happened, but when I went to Angel Court yesterday there was no sign of Patches or any of her men.’

‘How awful, but very exciting, even though I don’t approve of you taking matters into your own hands.’

‘I still don’t know what happened to Luke.’

Lizzie put her head on one side, eyeing her sister with a wry smile. ‘You said you didn’t care for him.’

‘I don’t, not in a romantic way, but I am fond of him. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to him, especially when he was trying to help us. Patches threatened to hurt Jane, and I believed her.’

‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘I thought I could handle it on my own, and I certainly don’t want Jane to find out. The poor child suffers enough as it is.’

‘So what happened to Patches? She can’t have disappeared in a puff of smoke.’

‘I don’t know, Lizzie. I wish I did, but I’m not going back there.’

‘Then you must try to put it out of your head.’ Lizzie rose to her feet. ‘Heavens! I’d almost forgotten why I came here today.’

‘You needed to buy needles and thread? More lace?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Miss Jones needs more blonde lace. Madam has taken a liking to it and she wants another gown trimmed with it, but she needs at least ten yards. It’s a very grand gown and I think she wants to show off in front of her husband’s business colleagues and their stuffy wives. Have you got that much in stock?’

Clara shook her head. ‘No, there might be three yards but that’s all, and it means I’d have to go to the warehouse to order more, which would take time.’

‘She wants it by tomorrow. What will we do?’

‘You could probably get some in Oxford Street.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’ Lizzie reached across the counter to grasp her sister’s hands. ‘But you would, Clara. You have an eye for these things.’

‘I have to look after the shop, Lizzie. I can’t just close up on a whim. I’ll lose customers.’

‘Mrs Comerford is a very influential woman. If she’s satisfied with your service she’ll recommend you to her wealthy friends. Please, Clara.’

Lizzie’s pleading expression made it almost impossible to refuse, and the temptation of a shopping trip to Oxford Street outweighed all other considerations. The lure of the big department stores was too strong to refuse. ‘I suppose I could shut for an hour at midday. It’s quite a long walk but I could do it.’

‘Miss Jones gave me the money for a cab. I don’t mind walking back to Bedford Square. If you could bring the lace to the house you’d be saving my life.’

‘I don’t think Miss Jones would stoop to murder,’ Clara said, chuckling, ‘but I’ll do it for you, Lizzie. Just remember you owe me a favour.’

‘I’ll be in your debt for ever.’ Lizzie delved into her reticule and took out a purse. She pressed some coins into her sister’s hand. ‘That should be enough for the lace and the cab fare.’ She moved to the door and paused to blow a kiss. ‘Thank you. I won’t forget this, Clara.’

Oxford Street was thronged with carriages, cabs and horse-drawn omnibuses. People had braved the snow, and the shop windows were filled with displays designed to tempt customers to come in and look around. Clara alighted from the cab outside Peter Robinson’s department store. She headed for the drapery department and stopped for a moment to take in the sheer size and the vast quantity of stock compared to her own small establishment. She took off one glove and fingered the silks, satins and crisp cottons on display. Filmy muslin and delicate lace hung like cobwebs from tall stands, and black-uniformed shop assistants offered their services with a smile. Bolts of linen and other materials had their own fresh smell that acted like wine on Clara’s heightened senses, and she drifted towards the counter, drinking in the atmosphere until she was dizzy with delight. This was what she wanted for herself. An emporium to satisfy the senses and provide beauty and luxury at prices that almost everyone could afford.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ A small, pretty assistant was suddenly at her side. ‘What would madam like to see?’

‘Blonde lace,’ Clara said firmly. ‘I need ten yards.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t stock it any more. It’s fallen out of fashion, but we have some very fine Valenciennes lace, which is very popular at the moment.’

Clara thought quickly. ‘I’d like to see it and also if you have any Chantilly lace, perhaps I could compare the two?’

A flicker of respect lit the girl’s dark eyes and she inclined her head. ‘Certainly, madam. If you would like to take a seat for a moment I’ll fetch them for you.’

Half an hour later Clara had her purchase of Chantilly lace tucked under her arm and she had taken time to walk through the store and inspect the merchandise. She stood outside, and was about to hail a hansom cab when she spotted a ‘To Let’ sign a little further along the street. She could not resist the temptation to have a look at what was on offer.

The four-storey building had once been a town house but the ground floor had been turned into a shop. Peering through the grimy window she could see very little, apart from an upturned chair and the floor strewn with rubbish. The dilapidated exterior, with peeling paintwork and faded lettering on the fascia indicating that it had once been the premises of a bespoke tailor, gave the impression that the shop had been empty for quite some time. In her mind she began refurbishing the interior and filling the shelves with irresistible items that would tempt women of all classes to come and buy. She sighed and turned away. It was just a dream after all. She hailed a cab.

The thaw had set in and the trees in Bedford Square seemed to be weeping as the snow on the branches melted and fell in icy tears to the ground. Spikes of grass had begun to poke through the white blanket and the pavements were slippery with slush. Clara made her way carefully towards the steps leading down to the area, but as she was about to open the gate a waft of warm air made her look up to see Joss Comerford emerge from the house and head down the steps. She was about to continue but he had spotted her and smiled.

‘Miss Carter, this is a pleasant surprise. Has my mama been putting more business your way?’

‘In a manner of speaking, sir.’

‘There’s no need to use the servants’ entrance.’ Despite her protests, he ushered her into the house. James stood to attention, gazing into the distance, but Clara could feel disapproval emanating from him in waves. She walked past him with her head held high.

‘I have a package for Miss Jones,’ she said firmly.

Joss took off his top hat and tucked it under his arm. ‘James will see that she gets it.’ Joss curved his lips into a lazy smile as he slowly peeled off his kid gloves.

Clara tightened her grip on the package. ‘Thank you, sir, but I really need to speak to Miss Jones in person.’

‘Oh, all right, if you insist. James, I want you to find Miss Jones and ask her to come to the morning parlour.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Holding himself stiffly erect, James headed for the back stairs.

‘Come, Miss Carter. I’ll show you to the morning parlour. It’s much warmer in there and you’ll be more comfortable.’

‘Thank you, but I really can’t stay long. I had to close the shop.’

‘Really? An inconvenience, I’m sure.’ Joss led the way across the wide entrance hall and ushered her into an elegant reception room where a fire burned in the grate. He laid his hat on a rosewood side table together with his gloves. ‘Do take a seat and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some refreshment?’

Clara remained standing. ‘No, sir. Thank you, but as I explained I have to get back to the shop.’

‘Ah, yes. The shop – it’s rather small, isn’t it? I mean it can’t provide much of an income.’

‘It’s a living, sir. I’m only just starting out in the drapery business, but I have ambition to go much further.’ She glanced around, taking in her surroundings with a feeling of envy. The morning parlour had been decorated and furnished with a feminine touch, and no expense had been spared. The delicate blues and greys of the silk upholstery and the elegant furniture seemed dwarfed by Joss Comerford’s presence.

He unbuttoned his greatcoat and perched on a chair that seemed too fragile to bear his weight. ‘Have you indeed? I’d like to hear more about that.’ He stretched his legs out to the fire.

‘There’s not much to tell. It’s a dream really, but when I’ve made enough money I’d like to rent premises in Oxford Street. I’d start quite small and I’d build up gradually until I had a treasure house filled with beautiful things at a price that most people could afford.’

‘That sounds wonderful, but aren’t there already several department stores in Oxford Street?’

‘The more, the better. It would bring people in from the country, and with the railways spreading ever further it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that people could come to London just for the day. Imagine Christmas with lights and decorations all along the street and shop windows filled with luxury items.’

‘By golly, you’ve sold the idea to me already. When will you start this odyssey?’

Clara folded her hands tightly around the parcel of lace. ‘As I said, sir, it’s just a dream at present, but one day—’ She broke off at the sound of a faint tap on the door.

‘Enter,’ Joss said grandly.

The door opened and Miss Jones sidled into the room. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘Miss Carter has something for you, Jones.’ Joss rose to his feet. ‘I’ll wait for you in the hall, Miss Carter.’

Clara shot him a questioning look. ‘Why, sir? I explained that I have to hurry home.’

‘I’m going your way. Another luncheon at Simpson’s. A bit of a bore, but I have to keep in touch with friends.’ He left the room, allowing the door to swing shut.

‘What is this, Miss Carter?’ Miss Jones looked down her pointed nose, glaring at Clara as if she had done something unforgivable.

‘I had to go to Oxford Street to get the lace, Miss Jones.’ Clara handed her the neatly wrapped package. ‘They didn’t have any blonde lace and the assistant told me that it went out of fashion some time ago.’

‘I don’t know about that. I always thought it was a favourite with royalty,’ Miss Jones said stiffly. ‘You provided us with such lace from your little shop.’ The emphasis she put on the last two words made them sound like an insult.