Chapter Twenty #2
After she had left, Wigston had told Nina that Lady Clemmie had apparently taken leave of her senses, and she should not continue the friendship.
The closest thing to a quarrel between them had ensued.
Things had been cool between them since.
Lady Clemmie had not called again, and there had been another episode of disorder on the 13th of December when she and five other women had been arrested and sent to prison for fourteen days.
Wigston had told Nina that she was not to be received when she came out.
He explained how associating with her could harm his career, and Nina had submitted.
He thought she had seemed a little more receptive, but he was still uncomfortable.
Mawes Morris did him good because he had long ago forbidden his daughter Lepida to take part in anything like the WSPU actions, and was entirely on Wigston’s side.
‘I’m glad to see you on your feet,’ Wigston said now to Richard. ‘I heard you’d had a bit of an accident. Are you quite recovered?’
‘Yes, except that I can’t remember a thing about it.’
‘Oh, by the by, Tallant,’ Mawes Morris said later, when they had risen to leave, ‘I have an answer for you on that little matter of business you raised with me. I was going to write to you, but if you’re in Town, perhaps we can discuss it later?’
‘Business?’ Richard said vaguely.
‘Some drawings you sent to me,’ said Morris.
‘Oh!’ Richard began, recalling that he had sent Alice’s illustrations of the Gulliver book to him to ask if they had commercial application. Could she illustrate children’s books? Fairy tales…the Brothers Grimm…
Suddenly and shockingly something seemed to click in his mind and he remembered.
A flood of images rushed in, like water pouring into a pot.
It was a sickening sensation. For a moment his head and his stomach seemed to change places, the room swooped, and he sat down abruptly on the nearest chair, afraid he might either faint or, worse, vomit.
Voices were exclaiming through the clanging in his head. Then a strong hand on the back of his neck pushed his head down to his knees, and someone said reassuringly, ‘Steady, head down, take some deep breaths. It’ll ease in a moment.’
The strangeness passed, he pushed back against the hand and was allowed to sit up. Mawes Morris was standing close by, looking at him searchingly. ‘Better? You went quite white for a moment. Almost green.’
He heard his aunt say something about brandy. Mawes moved away and Wigston was there with a glass in his hand. ‘Drink it straight down, lad.’
He obeyed, felt his heartbeat strengthen and steady, looked around the three concerned faces, and said, ‘I remember.’
‘Remember what?’ Wigston asked.
‘Everything. The day I was missing. What happened to me – the part I’d forgotten.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘I think Lord Shacklock tried to kill me.’
‘Why on earth should he want to do that?’ Mawes asked, clearly disbelieving.
‘He thought I’d made approaches to his wife.’
‘Oh, Richard, no!’ Aunt Caroline exclaimed.
‘I didn’t, Auntie.’
‘Darling boy, of course you didn’t, but what a dreadful accusation! The man must have been unbalanced.’
Richard was following his own thoughts. ‘I’d seen him earlier, with a gun.
At least, I think it was him. Then when I was riding back through the plantation, it was getting dark, and foggier, and someone hit me from behind with something, and I came off.
I think…I think he must have reversed his gun and hit me with the stock.
My horse ran off. Then, when I was lying on the ground, he hit me again and I passed out. ’
Aunt Caroline made a sound of distress, and Mawes said, ‘But did you see him?’
‘I saw someone looming over me with what I thought was a stick or a club, but it could just as well have been the shotgun. I suppose he meant to finish me off.’ He shuddered.
‘Thank God he used the gun as a club, instead of shooting me.’ He paused, staring hard at his memories, trying to make them yield more detail.
‘Could have been a poacher. Or a vagrant,’ said Mawes.
‘Not a vagrant, not with a shotgun,’ Wigston corrected. ‘A poacher, maybe. Aiming to rob you. Were you robbed?’
‘Not as far as I know. I didn’t have anything on me of value, apart from my watch, and I still have that.’
‘But, Richard, you must go to the police,’ Aunt Caroline said, distressed.
Richard looked at her blankly for a moment, then said, ‘But, Auntie, he’s dead.’
‘Oh! Yes, I’d forgotten.’
‘The same evening,’ Richard said. ‘An accident with his gun.’
‘Was there, by Jove!’ Mawes said, exchanging a knowing look with Wigston. ‘He wouldn’t have known you had no memory, of course.’
‘If the lad was unconscious, he might have thought he had killed him,’ said Wigston.
‘Struck him in a rage without meaning to kill him.’ Mawes took it over. ‘Took his own life in remorse, and fear of the consequences.’
‘If it was him,’ Richard said. ‘I can’t be absolutely sure. Anyway, we shouldn’t discuss it any more. We’re upsetting my aunt.’
‘Quite, quite,’ said Wigston. ‘Just what I was thinking. Subject closed.’ He bowed to Aunt Caroline.
‘Your good nephew, Lord Stainton, has invited Lady Wigston and me to stay for Christmas, ma’am.
And Lady Stainton has most kindly asked us to bring my daughter, too.
Shall we have the pleasure of seeing you there? ’
‘Oh, yes, I shall be going,’ Aunt Caroline said, glad of the change of subject. ‘And his grandmother will.’
‘Nothing like family! Can’t beat it! When are you going to start in that direction, young man?’ he asked Richard jovially.
‘When there’s a special fund set up for the financing of second sons,’ Richard replied.
Richard had a good night’s sleep at his own little house in Bolton Street, ate a large breakfast with the first proper appetite he’d felt since the accident, and made his way to Stafford Terrace to be shown into Mawes Morris’s business room.
Although he also had a large studio upstairs at the back of the house, the walls were covered with his paintings and framed copies of his better-known cartoons, and there were sketching-pads and drawings on every surface, along with an eclectic scattering of objects that he was using, or had once used, as props, like tennis racquets, golf clubs, saucepans, umbrellas, a trident, a Roman helmet made of painted cardboard, a papier-maché royal orb…
He greeted Richard warmly. ‘How are you today, young man? You properly scared us yesterday. Head injuries are tricky things, you know. Have you seen a specialist?’
‘I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve felt under the weather since the accident, but getting my memory back has turned the trick. I slept like a log last night.’
‘Well, that is good news. But if you should get a headache or any other unusual symptom, do seek medical advice, won’t you? You can’t take chances with—’
‘Yes, sir, I know, so everybody tells me,’ Richard anticipated. ‘That business yesterday – what I said about Lord Shacklock—’
‘I shan’t repeat it,’ said Mawes. ‘It was probably for the best that you got it out, part of the recovery process, but neither Wigston nor I is a talker, so rest easy. It’s fogotten.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Richard said. He saw Alice’s drawings spread across Mawes’s cluttered desk, and changed the subject firmly. ‘You have something to tell me about my sister’s illustrations?’
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve made enquiries of several publishers, and it seems that Hardacre and Cass are considering putting out a new edition of Hans Andersen’s fairy tales next year, in time for the Christmas market.
Pilbright is your man there – the director who specialises in children’s books.
Samuel Pilbright. I’ve met him at my club, and he’s a good man, very go-ahead, and with an excellent mind.
He liked your sister’s drawings very much, and would be interested in commissioning her for the new book. ’
‘Oh, that’s excellent news!’ Richard exclaimed.
‘Steady, the Buffs! I said “interested”. Doesn’t mean it’s a sure thing.
But between you and me, if she can come up with some good material, I think they’re likely to take a chance on her, for financial reasons.
Pilbright told me – not to be repeated, if you’d be so kind – that they wanted Rackham to begin with, but his fees are too high now.
To give a new, unknown artist a start would reflect well on them and save them money. ’
Richard laughed. ‘I don’t suppose the new, unknown artist will care what the motives are. What would she have to do?’
‘Pilbright said they will probably want several colour plates – a frontispiece, probably used for the cover as well, and perhaps three or four others, plus some black-and-whites. So if your sister can produce some water-colours and sketches like these she did for Gulliver, on suitable subjects – fairies and witches and animals and so on…Arrange an interview with Pilbright, let her present a portfolio, and we’ll see what comes of it.
I’d wait until after Christmas to make an appointment – they’ll be pretty busy at present.
That should give her time to work something up. ’
‘I’m most immensely grateful to you, sir,’ Richard said.
‘Not at all, not at all. Glad to encourage the young entry. These have so much talent.’ He gestured to the Gulliver drawings. ‘More than I’ve seen in years.’
It was no wonder, he thought, that Ivor Wentworth had taken a shine to her.
He couldn’t blame himself for cutting off the relationship, since he knew more about Wentworth and his probable intentions than Alice Tallant possibly could, but he still wanted to make it up to her.
Pilbright might not decide to go with her, but at least it was a chance. And her work might speak for itself.