The Lost Lover

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Flora stood at the boutique window, staring in. The signs meant nothing to her: Le Trousseau – La Lingerie – La Layette; but she studied the posed mannequins styled in silk and lace-trimmed nightgowns, their hands splayed in upturned positions and wistful gazes directed into the distance.

Was this... was this what was expected of her? In spite of the Egyptian cotton sheets she now slept on, her old rough nightdress from home had become a comfort to her as she drifted into sleep each night. Sleep had been her only refuge as her entire world was upended – the only place left where she could be with James and their son – but seemingly even that couldn’t be protected any longer.

She saw a figure pass behind her in the glass and turned around quickly. During her walk over here, she’d had a sense that she was being watched – almost preyed upon – but when she looked back, there had been no one she could pinpoint as observing her directly. Pepperly had warned her that some people might recognize her from the newspapers or from posters for the show, perhaps without quite knowing why she looked familiar. She was used to being stared at, but fame was a different proposition, she was beginning to realize. And she wasn’t at all sure she liked it.

A man in a hat and overcoat nodded politely as he passed her, his gaze sliding to the seductive attire in the window display and then straight back to Flora. She could almost see the connection link up in his mind’s eye – her, in those scraps of nothing – and she quickly pushed on the door and disappeared inside.

A bell overhead sounded her arrival.

A woman behind the counter looked up, and from the way her eyes widened, Flora knew she had recognized her too.

‘Bonjour,’ the woman smiled, looking delighted as she came round the desk and stood before Flora. ‘Comment allez-vous, m’selle?’

‘Très bien, merci,’ Flora smiled, repeating the common phrases George had taught her when they’d first arrived in the city. She held out her hands apologetically. ‘Désolée, je ne...’

‘Ah, bien s?r, d’accord, d’accord, vous ne comprenez pas?’

Flora smiled blankly.

‘Ah... how may I help you?’ The woman’s English was heavily accented, but Flora supposed her own was too. She pointed in the direction of the window.

‘Ah oui, la peignoir? Négligée? You wish to try?’

Flora simply nodded, wondering if her shame could be read on her face.

‘Toute suite, m’selle. I come back straight now.’

She disappeared into a back room, leaving Flora alone in the shop. The walls were lined with shelves, mannequins standing in the room like cocktail party guests. She ambled slowly, her gaze tripping over brassieres and girdles, a few corsets of the older style; there were some nightgowns in heavier cotton, and short bed jackets with marabou collars and long silk ribbons. Everything was cut in a gentle palette of ivory, primrose, apricot, pale pink or ice blue.

She came to a corner dedicated to children’s clothing: piles of perfectly folded jumpers with ornate cable knits, poplin shirts trimmed with coloured rickrack and mother-of-pearl buttons, tiny bootees... They were clothes she could now afford, gifts she could give. The irony wasn’t lost on her that she had been forced to give up her child on account of penury – but now that she had money, she had no child on whom to spend it.

She realized her breath was coming faster – too fast, feelings surfacing – and she turned quickly away, just as the shopgirl returned with a selection of nightwear draped over her arm. Flora watched as she arranged the pieces, hanging them from full-height silk privacy screens. The fabrics were buttery silk, liquid satin, and a chiffon that was completely translucent.

Flora stared at it in horror. The thought of standing before Edward in that...

‘Do you like?’ the assistant asked, stepping back so that Flora could move closer and inspect them. Lightly, she trailed her hands over the fabrics, seeing their sumptuous handle and how they refracted the light, the intricate hand stitching even more beautiful up close. Each item was exquisite, possessing more beauty than she had ever expected to be hers; and yet she could take no joy in knowing she must wear it for a man she did not want. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a wave of nausea, her body protesting just at the thought.

This is Paris.George’s words drifted through her mind. Let him have you.

Women did this all the time, she told herself, though it might be dressed up in different guises. Sex is always a transaction: getting a business deal over the line, the prize of a good marriage – and the tax on a bad one. It was difficult to imagine Donald and Crabbit Mary ever having desired one another. Their marital bed had lain cold for years, Mhairi had told her in confidence.

She handled a pale lemon silk crêpe-de-Chine gown, seeing how it fell in narrow folds; the bust was criss-crossed with deep lace and threaded with a black velvet ribbon. She knew just by looking at it that the colours would be offset perfectly by her dark hair. She would look beautiful, even when she didn’t want to be.

‘This one,’ she said, swallowing hard and stepping back.

‘You wish to try on?’

But Flora shook her head.

The shop girl looked surprised, but she nodded and smiled. ‘Bien s?r.’ Carrying the gown to the counter as if it was fragile, she laid it out carefully and began to wrap it in layers of tissue. Flora stood patiently as she waited, her attention falling to the objects displayed beneath the glass counter.

She blinked and stared at the accoutrements of the rich: lace-frilled bloomers to cover a nappy; handkerchiefs embellished with embroidered flowers...

‘And that too, please.’

The shop girl looked surprised as she saw what Flora was pointing to. ‘Ce-la?’

Flora nodded, feeling her heart quicken again as the silver baby rattle – glinting like a knife, wounding her – was plucked from the cabinet and wrapped in tissue too, bound in ribbons and placed like something precious on top of her other purchase. One necessitated the other, she thought, staring down at it as the girl rang up the bill. If she had to wear that négligée, the rattle would be emblematic of her reasons. It was the reminder she needed that she could endure anything; she had lived through far worse than a night with a man she didn’t love.

She would surrender herself to save her son. To get back to him...

She paid with the plentiful supply of francs George had given her and headed back towards the hotel. With every step, the shopping bag tinkled lightly, breaking her heart, but she kept walking across the Place Vend?me. Tonight, it would be done.

And then, God willing, she would be free.

‘Ah, M’selle MacQueen,’ the manager at reception said, catching her attention as she crossed the marble floor. ‘... Your guest is awaiting you in the salon.’

She stopped walking. ‘... My guest?’

Surely it couldn’t be Edward – not already? Although it wouldn’t be very surprising to find he had been trailing her around the city, lurking in shadows, still watching and waiting for her? Catching out Pepperly’s lies?

‘A Monsieur Bonner from The Times. Shall I take you to him?’

‘Oh.’ She exhaled with relief. She had forgotten all about the interview. George had only mentioned it in passing last night, not even giving her a time; he had been too busy trying to ‘save’ her. ‘No, I can find him, I’m sure.’

The hotel’s public spaces were grand, but after ten days of living here, she no longer felt intimidated by them. The staff knew her name and always looked at her admiringly when she passed through the lobby. George had told her that self-assurance was two-thirds of success, and nothing spoke of confidence like holding one’s chin in the air.

She walked into the gilded salon, where velvet sofas sat amid potted ferns. A man in a tailcoat was softly playing the grand piano. The assorted guests were mainly – at this hour – women in pairs, drinking from dainty cups, but there was one man sitting alone near the windows overlooking the Place. He was dark-haired, with a thick moustache that covered his top lip, and he wore a limp overcoat of visibly inferior quality to anyone else’s in the hotel.

‘Mr Bonner?’ she asked, as he saw her approaching and rose courteously.

He tipped his hat. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss MacQueen. I’m Mr Bonner, from The Times newspaper in London.’

‘Aye – hello.’ Back home, The Times had been considered The Authority on All Things Important on the mainland. The idea that she was being interviewed for its pages felt almost... ridiculous. ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

‘Not at all.’

She held up her shopping bag with a guilty look. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t...’

‘You weren’t expecting me?’

‘I just wasn’t quite sure of the time. I understood you weren’t covering the show, but then...’

He gave a small, apologetic smile. ‘Well, when we saw the reviews...’ He shrugged.

‘Of course... Are you happy to do the interview here?’

‘If you are.’

‘I’ll have some coffee sent over,’ she said, catching the eye of the ma?tre d’. ‘Or tea?’

‘Tea would be much appreciated.’

‘Du thé et petits fours, s’il vous pla?t,’ she murmured.

‘Bien s?r, M’selle MacQueen.’ With a nod of the head, he was gone.

Bonner looked around the salon with an admiring expression. ‘I see the rumours are true – you have become an overnight sensation.’ He smiled, his moustache splaying as his lips stretched. ‘Staying at the Ritz seems due reward for headlining the biggest show in Paris.’

‘Oh, aye,’ she nodded. ‘I’m very lucky.’

‘Although I’m sure you’ve worked very hard for your success.’

‘It’s been a busy time getting the show ready, aye.’ She set the bag on the floor, hearing a last tinkle, and her heart flinched in silent reply. Her hands went to her hair, fussing slightly as she tried to compose herself. ‘I apologize – I must look frightful.’

‘If it’s any consolation, your “frightful” is most people’s “on a good day with a following wind”.’

‘You’re very kind.’

‘I mean it. Even on St Kilda when your hair was still long, you possessed a rare beauty that had no need of hairstylists and make-up artists.’

Flora stared at him, her hands falling back to her lap. ‘St Kilda?’

‘Yes.’

‘You speak as though you’d seen me there.’

‘I did... I was there on the day of the evacuation, and I remember you quite well, Miss MacQueen. Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, holding up his hands. ‘I take no offence that you don’t remember me. I’m scarcely memorable to my own mother.’

She stared at him in amazement. He’d been to her home?

‘Wait...’ Vaguely, she recalled the brouhaha surrounding a reporter; he had tried to stay behind on the isle as the villagers left. Norman Ferguson had found him hiding out in one of the cleits by the dyke. No one could understand the logic behind it. The Dunara Castle was scheduled to drop anchor a few days after they left, but that landing was weather-dependent and, it being so very late in the summer, there was every chance it would be delayed if not cancelled altogether. He might have risked being stranded there for weeks – or worse. The island men had taken a very dim view of the ‘prank’.

‘Was it you? As tried to stay behind?’

‘Indeed.’ He seemed pleased with himself.

‘But why? You might have starved to death if the weather had turned.’

He gave a small chuckle. ‘Well, I hope my employers would have called in a favour with the Royal Navy or some such if it had looked like it was coming to that!’

She did remember him now. Details of that awful day drifted back in snippets: she had glimpsed him sitting on the deck as she had been there with Mhairi, just before they hauled anchor. A stranger in their midst. But she had barely been capable of much coherent thought during those hours.

‘But why did you want to stay? Surely you were there to cover the evacuation. What was there left to see after we’d gone?’

His smile was enigmatic. ‘Actually, I was looking for evidence of Frank Mathieson’s criminal enterprise.’

She stared at him in utter bewilderment. ‘... What criminal enterprise?’

He hesitated at her mildly scoffing tone. ‘Did you know the Earl of Dumfries is a close friend of your former landlord, MacLeod?’

‘I did know that, aye.’

‘Well, the earl’s steward – a Mr Weir – has recently been arrested on suspicion of theft and of handling stolen goods. It is believed that Weir and Mathieson were working together: stealing to order from their respective estates for a circle of private clients overseas. America, I believe.

‘I’d been onto Mathieson for a while – a tip-off put me on the trail originally, and I’d been investigating for five months when word came of your evacuation. I’m convinced Mathieson and Weir were smuggling stolen items onto the isle, and then Mathieson – or a third party – was hiding them in the cleits, moving them on once the heat had died down.’

‘And that’s why you stayed behind?’

‘Tried to stay behind.’ He shrugged. ‘But perhaps it was just as well I was unsuccessful, or I might have found myself in more trouble than I’d bargained for. I would have been in a tight spot, being found on an abandoned island with the dead body of the man against whom I was conducting a criminal exposé.’

Flora stared at him. ‘I don’t know what to say. It all seems so... unlikely.’

‘You don’t believe Mr Mathieson was capable of such things?’

‘I’m not saying that—’

‘Then you do think he was capable of them?’

‘I’m not saying that either,’ she said curtly. ‘But I won’t speak ill of the dead, Mr Bonner.’

A waiter appeared beside them, bearing a large tray set with a teapot, milk jug, two cups and saucers, and a small tiered stand of petits fours.

Neither one of them spoke as the waiter began to pour. ‘Tea and a piece’ was much the same routine wherever you were, she had found; the teapot might be Limoges porcelain, the ‘piece’ rose-petal macaroons, the tea leaves a rare Ceylonese blend specially formulated for the Ritz, but the ritual here was just the same as at home with their Lipton’s brew and the smell of Black Twist tobacco in the air. And it always came with a helping of honest conversation.

Mr Bonner withdrew a notepad and pencil from his coat, preparing for the interview as the waiter served. He held it up with a questioning arch of his eyebrow and she nodded her consent, waiting until they were alone again before resuming the conversation.

‘Your former landlord has been much in the press himself lately,’ he said. ‘He’s been very exercised about his factor’s death.’

‘Naturally. It’s a terrible thing, what happened to Mr Mathieson.’

Mr Bonner reached for his cup and took a sip of tea before looking back at her. ‘It was a brutal attack, from what I’ve heard. The police have already questioned several people of interest.’

‘Well, that’s good. As they should. A man is dead, after all.’ Slowly she returned the cup to her lap, trying not to let her hand tremble or betray her wild curiosity. ‘Who, exactly, have they questioned?’

He pulled back slightly. ‘I probably shouldn’t say—’

‘Please, Mr Bonner. Anything you say here will go no further, I promise, but I’m far from home and of course, this concerns my friends and neighbours.’

He blinked, looking reluctant to gossip – until she smiled at him. It always worked.

‘Well, I do know that one person of interest was a young woman named Effie Gillies.’

Her smile faded in a trace, even though it wasn’t news to her. ‘Effie wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘She’s a skilled hunter, I believe.’

‘Hunter?’ Flora scoffed. ‘Of puffins, perhaps. Frank was double her size!’

‘The police feel she has a clear motive,’ he shrugged.

Oh, God. What did they know of Effie’s motives? Did they know the truth about Effie and Frank’s ‘relationship’ – about the night of the storm, when she and Mhairi had been attacked? The jumping of the broom...? Flora sat straighter, thrusting her chin in the air as she tried to hide her mounting panic. ‘Which is?’

‘Allegedly, a priceless book from the Dunvegan estate was found underneath her bed at Dumfries House. Weir has pointed the finger at her, saying she was the one involved with him and Mathieson.’

Flora looked at him in horror. Effie had mentioned none of this.

‘It’s her word against his at the moment; the earl’s family is siding with Miss Gillies, and Weir has been sacked from his position. But the police are convinced he’s telling the truth on one count: that there was a third party involved.’

‘And... do the police think he was murdered by his accomplice? This third man?’

‘Or third woman,’ he corrected her, reminding her of Effie’s inclusion in inquiries. ‘They’re looking at all angles. Mathieson was an unpopular man. He had enemies on the isle and it appears many of the islanders had motives.’

‘No, they didn’t,’ Flora rebuffed. ‘I know every person on that isle and none of them could have done this. None of them were criminals.’

‘Anyone can commit a crime in the right circumstances, Miss MacQueen.’ He paused. ‘Donald McKinnon certainly seems to have had reason enough to kill Mathieson. From what I’ve heard, the two of them were constantly at loggerheads. They had come to blows several times in the preceding months, I understand.’

Flora swallowed down the panic she felt whenever she thought of Donald’s arrest. It was tied far too closely to her own fate, her own heart. ‘Donald just... he didn’t like the rates the factor was offering. He said Mathieson was undercutting us. But that’s not a reason to kill someone.’

‘Maybe not; but apparently it wasn’t just the rates causing friction. Donald also stole something valuable belonging to Mathieson and sold it out from under him.’

She looked at him steadily.

‘You mean the ambergris?’ She was determined to show him they had no secrets. ‘Donald didn’t steal that. It was no more Mathieson’s than it was mine, or Effie’s, or Ma Peg’s. He retrieved it from a whale that had burst in our bay and tried to sneak it out under all our noses as a cure for his mother’s gout! He took us for fools – but he didn’t like it when Donald took him for one back and sold it direct to the big boss at Salvesen Whaling. Mathieson would dish it out but he couldn’t take it.’ She could still hear the echoes of Mathieson’s threats that day back in July, the savage fight between the two men and Donald’s eventual victory over his old foe.

‘Hm. It sounds like all-out war between them.’ Bonner frowned, seeming almost to read her mind. ‘Men kill over money all the time, Miss MacQueen.’

Flora pulled herself back. In trying to defend Donald, had she achieved the opposite? ‘Actually I know for a fact that Donald didn’t kill Frank.’

‘How?’

‘His wife was in labour the night Frank was killed.’

‘Yes, yes – that was certainly her alibi. But if he... how can I put this delicately? If he was a devoted father, it seems he was a less than devoted husband. He and a Miss MacKinnon – with an “a”, no relation – were having an affair. Were you aware of that?’

Flora held her breath as another secret fell out into the open, a shadow crawling on the ground reaching for her now-scrubbed, pretty feet. She looked away. ‘I prefer to keep my nose out of other people’s business.’

The reporter didn’t care two hoots about her sense of propriety. ‘Well, it transpires he was with his mistress that night and not his wife as she gave birth.’ Flora felt her heart pound as the truths – and half-truths – came thick and fast. He was a hair’s breadth away from her own secret. ‘Miss MacKinnon’s statement has been enough to see him released on bail – at least for the moment – but one has to question her moral rectitude and therefore her reliability under oath.’

Flora bristled at this. He knew nothing! His facts painted a very different picture to the truth. ‘Perhaps we’d better get back to the real reason you’re here, Mr Bonner,’ she said, forcing a blank smile as she rearranged herself on the sofa. ‘Tawdry gossip from a remote Hebridean isle is hardly likely to be of interest to your readers, after all. They want the glamour of gay Paris.’

‘Your dazzling life now certainly contrasts starkly with your humble origins,’ he agreed. ‘But you’re quite right. I’ll come to the point of my visit.’ He picked up the notebook and pencil, flipping to a clean sheet, and looked up at her. ‘Miss MacQueen... Did you kill Frank Mathieson?’

‘... What?’ The word escaped her like a bark.

‘A witness alleges you had a combative relationship with the deceased. Is that correct?’

Witness? What witness? ‘Who... who said that?’ she whispered, disoriented. What was happening here? He was supposed to be asking her about the show. George had said...

‘I can’t reveal my sources, I’m afraid, but I understand Mathieson tried to meddle in your engagement with a Mr James Callaghan. Is that the same Callaghan who was recently awarded the Polar Medal for Arctic services?’

Flora stared at him. Where was he getting all this information?

‘Did he break up your engagement, Miss MacQueen?’

‘What? No!’

‘And did you kill him for that?’

‘No! You’ve got this all wrong...’

‘Well, that’s why I’m here, you see. I want to hear your side of things.’

She blinked, pulling her gaze away from him and looking around the room at the ladies sipping on afternoon tea, oblivious to the nightmare engulfing her. She tried to catch the eye of the ma?tre d’, but his back was turned. ‘You need to leave.’

‘Just tell me about Mathieson. Why did you hate him so much?’

‘Leave now, or I’ll call someone to take you out.’ As calmly as she could, she rose to her feet. She wouldn’t let him see her tremble at his accusations. ‘Monsieur!’ she called to the manager.

Bonner watched her intently, as if reading her panic. Slowly, he picked up his hat and stood too. ‘Just one comment for the readers, Miss MacQueen, that’s all I need. What have you to say in your defence?... No? Nothing? The police will be coming to interview you, you do know that?’

She did know it. Effie had already warned her. She just hadn’t warned her about him.

‘Monsieur!’ She waved her arm as the manager turned and caught sight of her.

The reporter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card. ‘My number, if you decide you’d like to make a statement. Be on the front foot, so to speak.’ He set it down on the table when she made no move to take it from him. ‘You’re a public figure now, Miss MacQueen. Different rules apply. Do yourself a favour while you can; this exclusive will be running in tomorrow’s edition and then the whole of Fleet Street will be beating on your door. I’m trying to help you get ahead of the pack...’

‘I said get out!’ The words burst from her before she could stop herself. Every head turned in their direction – but he wasn’t the one embarrassed by the scene.

He gave a shrug. ‘Just think about it. You can call me any time – day or night,’ he said, as the manager approached with a stern expression. ‘... Yes, yes, I’m leaving... Think about it, Miss MacQueen!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘This isn’t going to go away!’

Flora watched as he was escorted out, the memories of that terrible night playing through her mind on a loop: blood in the moonlight, screams in the silence. She could never forget it, never unsee the events burned on her soul, no matter how much she tried. Life and death had been locked in an interplay that night – like the eagles’ mating dance, plummeting claw to claw, head over tail, through the St Kildans’ final starlit sky.