Horses hooves on cobble roads, motor cars with foreign names, delivery boys on bicycles, nannies parading perambulators, skipping ropes, hopscotch, Greta Garbo, the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, Bee Jackson, the charleston, Chanel Number 5,
‘Grace!’
My name?
‘Grace?’
Sylvia? Hannah?
‘She just collapsed. She was sitting there and-’
‘Stand back now, ma’am. Let us get her in.’ A new voice.
The slam of a door.
A siren.
Motion.
The Shifting Fog
‘Grace… it’s Sylvia. Hold on, you hear? I’m with you… taking you home… you just hold on…’
Hold on? To what? Ah… the letter, of course. It is in my hand. Hannah is waiting for me to bring her the letter. The street is icy and the winter snow has just begun to fall.
IN THE DEPTHS
It is a cold winter and I am running. I can feel my blood, thick and warm in my veins, pulsing quickly beneath my cold face. Icy air makes my skin stretch taut across my cheekbones, as if it has shrunk smaller than its frame, is stretched over a rack. On tenterhooks, as Myra would say.
The letter I clutch tightly in my fingers. It is small, the envelope marked a little where its sender’s thumb smudged still-wet ink. It is hot off the press.
It is from an investigator. A real detective with an agency in Surrey Street, a secretary at the door and a typewriter on his desk. I have been dispatched to collect it in person for it contains-with any luck-information far too inflammatory to be risked in the Royal Mail or over the telephone. The letter, we hope, contains the whereabouts of Emmeline, who has disappeared. It threatens to become a scandal; I am one of the few who have been trusted.
The telephone call came from Mr Frederick three days ago. Emmeline had been staying the weekend with family friends at an estate in Oxfordshire. She gave them the slip when they went to town for church. There was a car waiting for her. It was all planned. There is rumoured to be a man involved.
I am pleased about the letter-I know how important it is that we find Emmeline-but I am excited for another reason too. I am seeing Alfred tonight. It will be the first time since that foggy evening many months ago. When he gave me Lucy Starling’s address, told me he cared for me, and late that night returned me to my door. We have exchanged letters in the months since, with increased reliability (and increased fondness), and now, finally, we are to see each other again. A real, proper engagement. Alfred is coming to London. He has saved his wages and purchased two tickets to
It is my secret. I do not tell Hannah-she has too much else on her mind-and I do not tell the other staff at number seventeen. Mrs Tibbit’s culture of unkindness has ensured they are all the sorts to tease, to poke cruel fun for the smallest reason. Once, when Mrs Tibbit saw me reading a letter (from Mrs Townsend, thank goodness, and not Alfred!), she insisted on seeing it herself. She said it was her duty to ensure that the under-staff (under-staff!) are not behaving improperly, keeping up improper liaisons. The Master would not approve.
She is right in one way. Teddy has become strict recently in matters of staff. There are problems at work, and although he is not by nature ill-tempered, it seems even the mildest man is capable of bad humour when pushed. He has become preoccupied with matters of dirt and filth, and has taken to checking our fingernails daily; it is one of the habits he’s adopted from his father.
That is why the other servants are not to be told of Emmeline. One of them would be sure to tell, to score points from having been the one to inform. The others are on Teddy’s team. I am on Hannah’s.
When I reach number seventeen, I enter via the servants’ staircase and hurry through, anxious not to draw undue attention from Mrs Tibbit.
Hannah is in her bedroom, waiting for me. She is pale, has been pale since she received the call from Pa last week. I hand her the letter and she immediately tears it open. She scans what is written. Exhales quickly. ‘They’ve found her,’ she says without looking up. ‘Thank God. She’s all right.’
She continues reading; inhales, then shakes her head. ‘Oh, Emmeline,’ she says under her breath. ‘Emmeline.’
She reaches the end, drops the letter to her side and looks at me. She presses her lips together and nods to herself. ‘She must be fetched immediately, before it’s too late.’ She returns the letter to its envelope. She does it agitatedly, cramming the paper too quickly. She has been like that lately, since she saw the spiritualist: nervous and preoccupied.
‘Right now, ma’am?’
‘Immediately. It’s already been three days.’
‘Would you like me to have the chauffeur bring the motor car around?’
‘No,’ says Hannah quickly, ‘No. I can’t risk anyone finding out.’ She means Teddy and his family. ‘I’ll drive myself.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Well, don’t look so surprised, Grace. My father and husband both make motor cars. There’s nothing to it.’
‘Shall I fetch your gloves and scarf, ma’am?’
She nods. ‘And some for yourself.’
‘For myself, ma’am?’
‘You’re coming, aren’t you?’ says Hannah, looking up with wide eyes. ‘We stand more chance of rescuing her that way.’
We. One of the sweetest words. Of course I go with her. She needs my help. I will still be back for Alfred.
He is a film-maker, a Frenchman, and he is twice her age. Worse yet, he is already married. Hannah tells me this as we drive. We are going to his film studio in North London. The investigator says this is where Emmeline has been staying.
When we arrive at the address, Hannah stops the car and we both sit for a moment, looking through the window. It is a part of London neither of us has seen before. The houses are short and narrow, and made of dark brick. There are people in the street, gambling it turns out. Teddy’s Rolls Royce is conspicuously shiny. Hannah takes out the investigator’s letter and checks the address again. She turns to me and raises her eyebrows, nods.
It is little more than a house. Hannah knocks at the door and a woman answers. She has blonde hair wrapped around curlers and is dressed in a silk wrap, cream in colour, but dirty.
‘Good morning,’ says Hannah. ‘My name is Hannah Luxton.
The woman shifts her weight so that a knee appears through the gap in her gown. She widens her eyes. ‘Sure, honey,’ she says in an accent similar to Deborah’s Texan friend. ‘Whatever
