When pressed for a description of the man, Mrs. Kelloway again proved her worth. She could not say what age he was. He had a beard that covered over half of his face. He seemed young in a way, but the beard gave him a middle-aged look. But there was one important clue. He was holding some papers in his hand and as he was talking to her he dropped them.
She stooped to pick them up and so did he, and as he did so, she saw the fingers on his hand very clearly. There was something odd about them…something different. One of his fingers looked what she called “a bit funny.” It seemed as though part of one of them was missing.
How grateful they were to Mrs. Kelloway! She had become a celebrity overnight.
Soon the press was interviewing her. We had headlines: “Who Is the Mystery Man in the Case of the Empty House Murder?” “Police Seeking Man with Maimed Hand.”
“If Mrs. Kelloway was right about the deformed hand, it should make the search for the murderer easier,” said my father. “But why…why lure her there…to be killed? For what reason? Can you think of any, Lucinda? You knew her well.”
I wondered. I felt I could not uncover her devious past. I seemed to sense her beside me, begging me not to.
Suppose the story of her misdemeanor was brought to light now? What good could it do? Poor Marcus…and his proud family! They were suffering enough already.
What good would it do to tell?
Those were strange days. It was as though a pall hung over us. Aunt Belinda and Uncle Robert came to London. They were very subdued and sad; I had never seen Aunt Belinda like that before. Sir Robert looked bewildered. He loved his children dearly. I wished Robert would come home.
Sir Robert had aged in a few weeks, but it was Aunt Belinda who surprised me. My mother was very gentle with her and they spent a great deal of time together.
Annabelinda was never out of my thoughts. She had lived dangerously, of course, and these were dangerous times. But who could have wanted to lure her to an empty house to kill her?
I was in a dilemma. I could not get out of my mind that Annabelinda had been deeply worried just before her death. I had never seen her like that before. Of course, she had been terrified that Carl would insist on seeing her and possibly try to break up her marriage, but that was no reason for killing her.
I wondered whether I should tell my father or mother and ask advice. I had promised Annabelinda that I would tell no one. How could I break my word now?
I would lie awake at night…wondering.
I had thought that my mother should know who Edward’s parents were. After all, she was his guardian. I tried to convince myself that Annabelinda’s involvement with Carl had nothing whatever to do with her death. But why?
The days passed. We heard that the police were continuing with their inquiries. Mrs. Kelloway was questioned once more, but she had told all she knew. And the mysterious man with the beard and the maimed hand had not materialized.
I think they had begun to wonder whether he existed outside Mrs. Kelloway’s imagination. There was no doubt that she had enjoyed her temporary importance.
I saw Marcus alone when he came to the house to see my father, who was not just then at home.
There was a certain embarrassment between us.
“Oh, Marcus,” I said. “I am so deeply sorry. This is all quite terrible.”
He nodded. He had changed. He must have loved her dearly, I thought. This was more dreadful for him than for any of us. And if there really was to have been a child, it would be a double tragedy.
“How could it have happened, Lucinda?” he said. “You were in her confidence more than anyone else.”
I shook my head. “It is what they are trying to find out.”
“To what purpose? It won’t bring her back.” He looked at me ruefully. “They suspected me.”
“Not now…only just at first.”
“That’s so. I was with people all that day, so they had to eliminate me. Rather reluctantly though.”
“I’m relieved about that. It must have been dreadful for you.”
“Yes, it was.”
I thought of his family. How distressed they would be! They must never know that Edward was Annabelinda’s child. Nor must Marcus. He himself had had a secret family life, but he was arranging that in a manner which was presumably satisfactory to all concerned.
“Lucinda,” he said. “Let us meet sometime. This will all be cleared up one day.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
I was glad when my father came home.
So thus we continued, and the mystery of Annabelinda’s death seemed as far from being solved as it ever had.
Sometimes I walked along Beconsdale Road to the Square. I walked past the gate where I had stood with Mr. Partington and waited for Annabelinda. I glanced at the house. It certainly looked eerie. The shrubs were more overgrown than they had been. The place looked desolate, a house where a murder had taken place—a brutal, unexplained murder of a beautiful young woman by a man with a maimed hand.
Then one day we had a visitor.
When I came into the drawing room I saw him sitting there. I could not believe it. I had not seen him since before the war.
Jean Pascal Bourdon rose as I entered and, advancing toward me, took both my hands in his.
“Lucinda! Why, you are a young lady now…and a beautiful one at that!” He drew me to him and kissed me on both cheeks.
“I have wondered about you,” I stammered. “How…how did you get here?”
“With some difficulty…as was to be expected in wartime. But here I am and it is good to see you. These are terrible times.”
I nodded in agreement.
“This is a great blow. My granddaughter…such a beautiful, vital girl…”
I thought immediately of the adroit way in which he had extricated Annabelinda from her trouble.
“Is the Princesse with you?” I asked.
“Oh, no…no. It was not easy to get here. I have come alone.”
“And she is well?”
“As well as anyone can be in these circumstances. It is not a thing we like…to have an enemy on our land.”
“I understand the situation is getting better.”
“Perhaps. But until we have driven the lot of them out of our country we shall not be content.”
“You came because you have heard of Annabelinda?”
“I heard…yes. It is one reason why I have come. I wish to see your father. It may be that what I have to tell him may be of some importance.”
“He will be here soon.”
“Then we shall talk.”
“What happened to Madame Rochère?”
“Madame Rochère! That great spirit! She stayed as long as she dared. She would have dared further, but she is no fool. Indeed, she is one of the shrewdest ladies I know. There came a time for leaving. She is with us near Bordeaux.”
“And how do you manage there?”
He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands in a despairing gesture. “It is not good. But our day will come.”
“And the school?”
“The school became the enemy’s headquarters, I believe.”
“Will it ever be a school again?”
“Indeed it will. But not in your time, chérie. By that time you will have left your school days long behind.”
When my father arrived, he was delighted to see Jean Pascal.
“I heard you were coming,” he said.
“Ah. The news travels.”
“You did not tell me,” I said. “I should have been so glad to hear it.”
“Thank you,” said Jean Pascal, with a little bow. He has not changed at all, I thought.
“You must dine with us,” said my father. “And we will talk later. Is that in order? Or would you prefer to talk first?”