Chapter 7
Odette
IN THE DEPTHS OF the night before, as the train rocked on its rails towards Munich and rain slicked along the windows, Odette wrote.
It could be no desperate, quick or fumbling task.
It required thought, precision, care – all in such terribly short supply to her.
But this, of all the things she had done in her life, mattered.
The train would arrive after breakfast, and by then it would be too late.
The plan that had come to her made her sick with guilt, but when she lingered before the fresh paper and ink, cold fingers twisted in her hair and her mother’s voice was clammy against her ear. ‘Do not hesitate, my girl. They all deserve it. They did this to us. Do not let them get away with it.’
So Odette wrote.
She took great care over the shape of her letters, keeping her hand steady and even.
It did not need to be a long letter, just as Claudine’s was not, and she echoed its language.
Driven mad by grief, a danger to others – delusions, paranoia.
Then she wove in the new thread, a recent delusion: a girl who believed herself pushed out into the position of a lady’s companion, and in turn, the real companion forced to travel as a lady of good breeding in order to bring about her charge’s delivery into the care of the asylum.
When the first light of morning came, she held up both letters, overlaid against the window, and traced Claudine’s signature.
It was only a moment’s work to replace the letter in its envelope and reseal it. At breakfast in the restaurant carriage, she waited again until Miss Rosebury excused herself and slipped the letter back into place.
Now, she watches the carriage pull out of the alley and into the main street. There are no windows, so she cannot see innocent Miss Rosebury in all her confusion and fear. She did not deserve this. But neither did Odette.
The mistake will be worked out and Miss Rosebury freed, she tells herself, but the trick will give Odette enough time to return to London. In her pocket, she has Miss Rosebury’s train tickets and a fold of money lifted from her bag when she replaced the letter.
Now Frau Sterne’s demeanour changes. ‘We will send a telegram to her family and assure them of her safe arrival. You are dismissed.’
Odette bobs an uncertain curtsy and does her best to walk calmly away and into the anonymous crowd. At every moment, she expects to feel firm hands close around her arms, to be jerked away into imprisonment.
She turns into Karlsplatz, where the crisp winter sunshine is glaring and bright.
She has done it. She walks faster and faster, breaking into a run to dodge trams and omnibuses and carriages, then rushes across the square, up a street to the Hauptbahnhof.
Her body shakes like a dog’s, and it is all she can do to find herself a quiet café and tuck herself into a corner.
There is a train west departing soon, and though it will not get her all the way to Cologne, she cannot bear to stay here any longer.
She drinks a cup of coffee and a glass of water and waits for her hands to stop shaking, then finds herself a space in a third-class compartment and does not breathe easy until they are pulling out of the station.
The journey is a blur. She joins the night train, and arrives in Cologne the following morning, after a ragged night’s sleep.
She falls into another café, hot from bodies and steaming coffee urns, the windows fogged like mist. There is a British family at the table next to her, newly arrived from England, as their conversation makes clear, and when they go, they leave a paper behind them.
The Illustrated Police News, the most recent edition, published after Odette left.
The open page catches her eye.
She frowns.
She picks up the paper and glances over the image that has struck her: a girl surrounded by flowers, sinking into a pond.
Beneath it, the article is short:
Drowning victim rescued from Hampstead Heath Ponds – shortly after tragic death of the girl’s mother in a terrible accident at —— station, as reported in this paper – admitted to Hampstead Hospital, thought to be in critical condition – attempted suicide or accident?
Odette’s hands grip the paper so tightly it could tear. The sound of chatter and cutlery against plates and cups grows distant; there is only the ringing in her head, like she is a bell that has been struck, hollow and reverberating.
She has no doubt who this girl is. Her anger rips through her high and strong like storm winds against a sail.
Better anger, than horror, blame, grief.
No, she has had enough grief. She is sick to death of mourning.
Her mother coils around her, lank, rotting hair falling into her face.
She has her task yet: revenge.
Only Odette can put this right.
Everyone must pay.