London - Edward Rutherfurd [573]
“Jenny herself, Mr Fleming, has no idea that I have come to see you, and I do not wish her to know. But I am going to tell you something. What you do with the information, of course, is entirely up to you.”
It had taken a little gentle persuasion from Mrs Silversleeves before Jenny had agreed to go. The second letter, saying that he was going away for the whole winter on account of his health had done it. “I think, if you can bear to, that it would be a kindness to see him,” Esther said when Jenny consulted her. And so, two weeks later, in a nice little café called the Ivy, just off the Charing Cross Road, she found herself sitting opposite Percy again, having tea.
He looked cheerful enough, though a little pale. They made the usual enquiries. Her life was the same as ever. She had been to Brighton. Mrs Silversleeves was well. Maisie and Herbert were involved in a Christmas pantomime with Maisie’s drama club. His lodgings at Crystal Palace were as nice as ever. Not until after the first ritual cup of tea did Jenny approach the big subject.
“So, you’re going away.”
“That’s right.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s silly really, I suppose, but the doctor said I should.” He smiled a little wanly. “It was that cough of mine. They were afraid it was tuberculosis, actually.” It was the curse of the time. “It wasn’t, but the doctor says to me: ‘If you really want to get well, you should go somewhere warm for the winter.’”
“That’s just like the rich people, Percy. They go to the south of France.”
“I know.” He smiled. “Funnily enough, that’s just what I’m doing. It turns out if you go to a little guest house or something, it’s much cheaper in France than in England. And I’ve actually got quite a bit saved up now. Not being married,” he smiled a little sadly. “I’ve nothing to spend it on. So,” he continued cheerfully, “it’s off next week for a five-month holiday in the south of France! They think when I get back in the spring I shall be fit as a fiddle.”
“Oh, Percy! Parlez-vous?”
“No. Not a word. I’ll have to learn I suppose.”
“You’ll be meeting all those French girls, Percy.” She managed to laugh quite easily and was pleased with herself. “You’ll bring back a French wife.”
Percy frowned and seemed to hesitate. Looking at her a little oddly, he remarked: “I’m not sure about that, Jenny.” He was silent again for a moment or two. “Actually, it turns out you did better than you knew when you turned me down. When they were doing all these tests on me trying to find out what was wrong with me, they told me something else. I can get married – and all that – if you see what I mean. But it seems there won’t ever be any children. No little Percys. Pity really, but there it is.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Oh,” she said.
It was dark when old Edward Bull came out of the lodge and walked from the Wallbrook up towards St Paul’s. He intended to spend the night at his club.
There had always been a great many Freemasons in the City of London. Some found their secret ceremonies, their initiations and hidden membership sinister. Personally, Edward Bull had never found it to be any such thing. He had become a Mason as a young man, knew a great many City men through it, and regarded the whole business as a sort of club, with admittedly some rather quaint and medieval rules, but which was mainly concerned with doing charitable works, rather like a medieval City guild. It was the pleasure of these associations that had brought him into London that spring day in 1912, for a meeting of his lodge.
He had just started up Watling Street when he picked up a newspaper from a stand and saw the headline.
He found Violet in a cell. The police had been very kind to him, taken him to see her at once, even asked him if he’d like a cup of tea. They seemed to think it was a pity for such a respectable old gentleman to have such a daughter.
She was astonished