The Woman In the Green Dress Page 8

  ‘Hugh was of sound body and mind when he gave Mr Lyttleton his instructions. He visited the day he signed up and then sent further instructions after his brothers died.’ Finally, she dropped Fleur’s hands and sat back in the chair her arms folded.

  ‘Exactly. That was before we’d even met, never mind married. It’s bad enough that I’ve used his money to travel here.’

  ‘Hugh then wrote and told Mr Lyttleton of your marriage, named you as his next of kin.’

  ‘The only reason I’m here, Mrs Lyttleton, is that when I spoke to Mr Waterstone he said if I didn’t come then the property would be sold and the monies deposited in my account.’ Not quite the truth because she hadn’t even had an account at that stage, just the faded brown velvet handkerchief purse she kept under her mattress for her wages. He’d taken matters into his own hands and opened an account with Barclays Bank in her name. She’d even got a chequebook though she couldn’t bring herself to use it. Cashing the pound note for the cabbie was the first time she’d spent any of Hugh’s money. It was from the fifty pounds Mr Waterstone had given her to ‘tide her over’. What a joke—she would have had to work for months to earn that kind of money. There must be someone who could help her sort this mess out.

  ‘… properties.’

  ‘Hugh must have someone, a friend or relative he trusted who might know more.’ What had Mrs Lyttleton said? ‘Properties?’

  ‘Yes. Properties.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘I’m not sure precisely. The commercial premises are just up the road, that I do know. I believe there might also be assets both here and on the Continent but that must be confirmed.’

  ‘Continent?’ God, she was squawking like a parrot. What continent? Was Australia a continent? Fleur flapped her hands in front of her face. It was indescribably hot even with the window wide open. ‘Which continent?’

  Mrs Lyttleton’s cheeks pinked and she ran her hand through her flyaway hair. ‘Europe I believe. Until I find the paperwork I can’t be entirely certain. As I said, Michael is currently involved with the repatriation of our troops. Over 165,000 of the poor boys. I have no idea how they’ll manage. I was hoping to have the boxes unpacked before you arrived. I’m not sure of the exact details as I’ve had some difficulty locating the files. However, it falls upon me to advise you that you are a very wealthy woman, and as such have responsibilities.’

  There was that word again, responsibilities … everyone kept banging on about her responsibilities. The only responsibility she had was to ensure that there hadn’t been some ghastly mistake and Hugh was alive, injured somewhere. ‘Unless Hugh is alive.’

  ‘My dear, you must come to terms with this. What you need is time to settle in.’ Mrs Lyttleton jumped to her feet. ‘Kip!’

  The boy—no he wasn’t a boy, he was a man. She could see that now he had his shirtsleeves rolled down and a jacket on. Tall and lean with a raw uneasy edge to him. Standing with his hands sunk deep into his pockets. Probably about the same age as she was except for his eyes. They seemed tired, as though he’d been awake for too long, and couldn’t think straight. Something she could sympathise with.

  ‘Kip, would you please take Mrs Richards to the Berkeley.’ Mrs Lyttleton turned back to her. ‘We’ll discuss this when you’ve had a chance to settle. I realise it is a lot to take in.’

  Perhaps Mrs Lyttleton was right, it was a lot to get her head around, a lot more than Mr Waterstone had indicated. Maybe he was worried he’d frighten her off. Hugh had to have friends or family somewhere. Worse still, he might be on one of the other ships and had lost his memory. Had no idea who he was.

  ‘I think the best thing is for me to track down the file and go through everything. Mr Lyttleton is very thorough so I have no doubt once I find the papers, everything will become clear.’

  Kip cleared his throat, grasped her suitcase and barged out of the door.

  ‘Don’t go without your change.’ Mrs Lyttleton scooped the handful of coins from the top of the desk and held it out. Fleur took the money and offered a wan smile, it was the best she could manage, before walking back out into the bright sunshine, her overweight coat draped over her arm and her head whirling.

  Throwing a quick look over his shoulder, Kip gestured down the street ‘Shall I call a cab? It’s not far.’

  ‘I’d like to walk. I need the fresh air. I feel a little as though I’ve landed on another planet.’

  Without a word he took off, her bag slung over his shoulder and his head down, just strode out and she had to scamper a little to keep up with his long-legged strides. After a moment or two he stopped, took a deep breath and lifted his head. ‘This is Hunter Street. Down here a pace or two is the Curio Shop.’

  She frowned up at him. ‘Curio Shop?’

  ‘Yes, one of the Richards’ properties. Didn’t Vera mention it?’

  She shook her head, wondering if perhaps she’d missed something. Assets here and on the Continent—she could remember that.

  Her brain felt like day-old Yorkshire pudding, all soggy and flat, and the heat wasn’t helping.

  ‘The commercial property.’ He drew to a halt in front of a shuttered building, like the solicitor’s offices although in a far worse state of repair. Large planks had been nailed crisscross across the door and the windows boarded. ‘The sign is still there. None of the tenants got around to repainting.’

  She craned her neck to read the faded sign above the large front window: The Curio Shop of Wonders. ‘This belongs to Hugh?’ It looked more like some dubious séance haunt in Soho.

  ‘It’s not leased at the moment. A lot of businesses closed. First the depression in the ’90s and then the war.’

  ‘It looks as though it’s been closed for a lot longer than that.’ Both the sign and the timbers across the door had faded to a chalky green colour and in places the paint had disappeared altogether, revealing pale splotches of weather-beaten timber.

  ‘I’m not sure of the details. You’ll have to ask Vera for the ins and outs.’

  The door to the premises next door banged and he flinched, bringing the shuttered look back to his face. He picked up the pace again so she had to trot after him a little like a stray puppy. They crossed a couple of busy streets then entered a shady park.

  Once under the trees Kip’s shoulders dropped and he slowed. ‘That’s the Berkeley over there.’

  A grand three-storey Georgian edifice dominated the road junction. ‘I can’t stay there.’

  ‘Why not? I’d make the most of it if I were you.’ Without giving her a moment to reply he led the way up the wide sandstone steps, pushed open the glass doors and she found herself in the tiled reception area with a long, polished desk almost the length of the wall. Kip marched up and hit the bell. The ping bounced off the high ceiling and a man dressed in a black frock coat, looking as though he’d escaped from a Dickens novel, scurried out.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Richards. Mr Sladdin, at your service.’

  Heavens above, did everyone in the entire country know who she was? A flush rose to her cheeks. How ridiculous. Obviously, the clerk would know Kip; Mrs Lyttleton had booked the room for her and asked Kip to ring ahead. She nodded.

  ‘Just sign here, please.’ He turned the ledger and pushed it across the desk top to her. She scrawled her name and after a cursory glance at her signature he pushed a room key towards her. ‘The Baron’s suite, up the stairs and on the right, nice view out towards the harbour. I’ll have your bags sent up. Breakfast is served in the dining room until nine.’ He pointed across to another double doorway. ‘Luncheon at your discretion and dinner from six o’clock.’

  Fleur turned to thank Kip but he was already disappearing through the door into the street.

  The banister, worn smooth over the years, slid beneath the palm of her hand as she ascended the stairs. When she reached the top, she stopped and took in the long, sweeping corridor then turned to her right and came to a halt in front of a shiny white painted door.
A brass sign, glinting like solid gold in a rogue sunbeam, proclaimed The Baron’s Suite. For goodness sake! She didn’t need a suite of rooms and certainly not one that belonged to a Baron. In London she’d managed quite well in one room with a shared bathroom. Although she wouldn’t miss that, or the cabbage stench.

  The key turned smoothly and she pushed the door open. A curl of excitement twirled in her stomach as she took in the beautiful room. Wide floor-to-ceiling windows with heavy olive green velvet curtains caught back to allow the light to flood in and reflect from the highly polished surface of the small oval dining table. Between the two windows stood a neat desk, headed note paper and envelopes lined up on a leather blotter next to a bottle of ink and an expensive-looking fountain pen.

  Someone cleared their throat and she turned.

  ‘Excuse me, miss. Your bags.’ A uniformed boy, hardly more than twelve, walked in and threw open a door on the other side of the room and placed her bag on a timber luggage rack at the end of a huge bed covered in snowy white linen. ‘Anything else, miss.’ He stood hovering in the doorway.

  ‘No, that’s all thank you.’

  He still didn’t move.

  She tucked her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out a sixpence and held it out to him. His eyes lit up and she had the strangest feeling he was going to snatch it and bite down. ‘Thank you, Miss. If you need anything else …’ He let the rest of the sentence dangle and when she didn’t reply, closed the door quietly behind him.

  Fleur slumped down into one of the soft leather armchairs, her head still spinning. The last time she’d taken stock she’d been the one receiving the tips, now she was dispensing them with hardly a second thought. When she next saw Mrs Lyttleton she’d simply have to be more assertive. Hugh’s family must have had dealings with the solicitors before, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked them to draw up his will. They must know something about his family. They must help her find a definite answer. She didn’t belong here in this life, in the Baron’s suite dispensing tips.

  Ten

  Sydney, NSW, 1919

  Despite the glorious weather outside the window, Fleur couldn’t shake the feeling of lethargy. She sat stirring her cup of tea, throwing surreptitious glances around the dining room at the other hotel guests. Every single one of them looked as though they had an important position to uphold and a list of tasks that only they could complete. The be-suited, starch-collared gentlemen and the women in pretty summer dresses gave no inkling of the deprivations London suffered. Truth was she felt like a fraud. She ought to be serving the tea, not sitting here in this fancy dining room like Lady Muck. She had to do something.

  Leaving the remains of her breakfast she slipped out into the foyer and sneaked through the front door while Mr Sladdin’s back was turned.

  Sydney’s streets seemed different to London’s. Wider and more organised. There was just as much traffic; cars, trams, horse-drawn carriages and bicycles, so many bicycles. The buildings were impressive in their way, though nothing like Trafalgar Square, St Paul’s or the Houses of Parliament with their ancient associations and oozing history.

  It took her a moment or two to get her bearings but once she saw the mass of sandstone buildings the cabbie had pointed out she quickly found her way to Hunter Street and, thankful for the shade the shops provided, wandered along past a furniture business, a pharmacy and a men’s outfitters until she found the Curio Shop.

  From the outside, it gave the impression of having been deserted. With a quick glance over her shoulder she walked up to the front door. Heavy timber was nailed diagonally across the door topped by a dilapidated Keep Out sign painted in rough letters that had faded over time. One large window, equally barred, fronted the street. With her nose pressed up to a tiny corner of glass she squinted inside.

  Nothing.

  She rubbed at the glass with the heel of her hand and then flattened her cheek against the small pane and stuck her fingers under the corner of the plank of wood. Taking a quick look over her shoulder she tugged at the timber. The wet and rotten corner crumbled. She moved along a little and broke off another longer splinter, and another, until she’d cleared a small square about the size of her handkerchief.

  A long, low-ceilinged room stretched the length of the building, a shimmer of light indicating a window at the back.

  Pulling her cloche straight she strolled past the buildings and down the hill to the end of the street counting the premises. Twelve by the time she reached the end of the road. Then she turned left. A little further on she found an alleyway. Despite the warm sun she shivered as she entered the narrow laneway framed by well-maintained fences. It seemed so strange that the Curio Shop would be the only premises locked and barred when all the others were in such a good state of repair.

  The fencelines were broken by tall gates and small yards leading to the back of the buildings. When she reached the twelfth property she stood on tiptoe and peered over the fence. A bare patch of dirt led to the back of the building.

  What she needed was a crate or a box or something to stand on. With a sigh of frustration, she leant her shoulder against the gate. It didn’t budge. Rattling got her nowhere. Who had rented the shop last and why was it empty amongst all these thriving businesses? Next time she saw Mrs Lyttleton she’d ask for the key and demand some answers, not sit there like a speechless fool. There could be something inside that would give her a clue about the Richards family.

  She stuck her foot into a small hole in the gate and stretched up to have another look.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Sprung!

  Her foot slipped from the toehole and she slid down into the dirt in an unceremonious lump.

  With her face the colour of a beacon she turned around to face a large blousy woman, her body cut in half by a lurid, flowery apron and her hair wrapped in curlers, half-heartedly covered in a scarf that had seen better days.

  ‘I … um … I was just having a look over the fence.’ She bent down and rubbed at her throbbing shin. A large splinter stuck out at right angles through her torn stocking. She gritted her teeth and reefed it out.

  ‘Lucky that’s all you’ve got to show for it.’

  She spat on her finger and rubbed at the swelling bubble of blood, her heart racketing against her ribs and the blood rushing to her head. For one horrible moment, the world darkened. Fighting her wavering vision, she concentrated on the woman’s broken-down boots.

  ‘Nasty.’ The boots receded and the woman bent down and peered at her leg. ‘Need something on that so as it don’t get infected. Come with me.’ Not waiting for an answer she disappeared through the gate next door.

  Fleur peered up and down the laneway. Should she, or shouldn’t she? Maybe this woman would know how she could get a look inside now. For goodness sake, it was a little too late to be worrying about taking chances, the mere fact that she was in Australia was the biggest chance she’d ever taken in her life. She couldn’t throw it away now.

  Straightening up she took a deep breath, trying very hard to forget about the blood trickling down her leg and her ripped stocking, and followed the woman through the gate. Ducking under the flapping sheets on the washing line she made her way to the back door.

  ‘Sit yourself down there and I’ll find some gentian violet.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you.’ Fleur lowered herself onto the coal box, gingerly lifted the hem of her skirt and eyed the nasty throbbing mess.

  ‘Now, this’ll sting a bit.’ The woman scrubbed at her shin with a piece of towelling and some warm water. ‘Me old man got a load of sump oil and he did all the fences only last week. Don’t want that muck rushing around in your blood. Don’t know where it’s been.’ She dried the gouge and then undid a small bottle of evil-looking purple liquid and painted it liberally onto Fleur’s knee, shin and stocking. ‘Keep this stuff handy all the time. Me three boys are terrors. Always doing something to themselves they are.’

  Fleur
let out a squeal as the liquid sank into her flesh. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered through gritted teeth.

  ‘Now are you going to tell me what you were up to?’

  Colour flushed her face. What was she going to say? She wasn’t breaking into the property, but there was no way the woman was going to believe her story. ‘I was just having a look over the fence.’ God, that sounded pathetic. She wished she’d never come, she hated this hypocritical feeling, as though she was some sort of gold digger bent on feathering her own nest. It wasn’t what she’d intended.

  ‘English, are you?’

  Fleur nodded. At least the subject had changed. ‘Yes, I arrived a week ago on one of the troop ships.’

  ‘Nurse. Nah. No nurse would react to a scratch like you did. I thought for a moment you were going to pass out on me.’

  True enough. She’d never been good with blood, especially not her own. ‘My family died in the Zeppelin raids in London and I’ve come in search of some distant relatives.’

  ‘In ’Unter Street? I’ve lived here all me married life. Who are you looking for?’

  For some reason she didn’t want to mention Hugh’s name, didn’t want Mrs Lyttleton to know she’d sneaked around the back. ‘No one in particular. I was interested because from the street side it looks as though the houses are only two storeys but when I looked through the window …’ No, that just made it worse. Now she was admitting to being a peeping Tom.

  ‘Well I’m pleased to hear that. You wouldn’t want to have anything to do with the Curio Shop.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Been empty as long as I can remember. My Fred’s lived here all his life. Says it was leased a few times before the depression in the ’90s but the businesses never thrived. A tailor, I think and maybe a milliner. Been boarded up for donkey’s years.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Some say the place is haunted.’ Her voice lowered to a throaty whisper.