The India Fan

I did not sleep that night. I kept on thinking of Janine and how easily it might have been the end for Fleur, Lavinia and me.

The next day Polly and I made our way to The Firs. The gate, with "The Firs" on it in brass letters, was open. Memories rushed back as I went up the drive. The walls were surprisingly still standing in some parts. I looked through the windows onto the scorched pile.

Polly said, "It makes you think. I'll tell Eff we've got to be specially careful. Make sure all the fires are out before we go to bed. Watch out for candles. Them paraffin lamps could turn over as soon as you could say Jack Robinson ... and then it would be a case of God help you."

It was difficult to recognize the place. I tried to work out which room would have been Lavinia's and mine, which Mrs. Fletcher's sanctum on the first floor and Janine's room ... and that of Emmeline and the others.

It was impossible, and Polly thought we should not try to mount the remains of the staircase.

"You'd only have to take a look at that and it would collapse."

I was thoughtful and sad, remembering so much.

Polly said, "Here. Let's go. We've had enough of this."

It was as I stood with Polly among the debris that I heard quick footsteps coming along the drive. A middle-aged woman came into sight. I saw her before she saw us. Her face was pale and her eyes tragic. She stood for a few moments looking up at the grim remains. Then she saw us.

"Good morning," I said.

"Oh ... er ... good morning."

"Like us, you are looking at the burnt-out house."

She nodded. She looked as though she were fighting to conceal her emotion.

Then she said, "Did you have ... someone ... someone who perished?"

"I don't know," I replied. "There was a girl I used to know at school. Mrs. Fletcher was her aunt."

She nodded. "It was my daughter who was here. We didn't know she was. It wouldn't have mattered. She could have told me. She was so bright ... a lovely girl ... to go like that."

I guessed the story. It was similar to others. The daughter was going to have a baby and she had come here in secret and here she had died.

"Such a tragedy," said the woman. "It should never have happened."

"It doesn't really help us to come here," I replied.

She shook her head. "I have to. When I found out she was here and died in the fire ... I would have done anything ..."

Polly said, "Things like that happen sometimes. It's hard to know why. Makes you bitter. I know."

The woman looked enquiringly at her.

"My husband was lost at sea."

It is amazing how someone else's tragedy can make one's own seem lighter. The woman certainly looked a little comforted.

"Have you been here before?" I asked.

She nodded. "I can't seem to keep away. I just had to come."

"Do you know anything about the people who died?"

"Only what I've heard from others."

"There was a young girl with whom I was at school. I wonder if you knew whether she was saved."

"I wouldn't know. I only know that my daughter was there and it happened to her . .  . my girl."

We left her there contemplating the ruins as if by doing so she could bring her daughter back.

We walked slowly to The Feathers. There was a bench on a stretch of grass in front of a pond and on this sat two old men. They were not talking ... just staring into space.

Polly and I sat down on the seat and they regarded us with interest.

"Staying there?" said one of the men, taking his pipe from his lips and jerking it towards The Feathers.

"Yes," I replied.

"Nice place, eh?"

"Very nice."

"Used to do pretty well before the fire."

"That must have been terrifying."

One of the old men nodded. "Reckon it was the vengeance of the Lord," he said. "The lot they had up there. Sodom and Gomorrah ... that's what it was. They got their just deserts."

"I heard there were several old people there."

The old man fiercely tapped his head. "Not right up there. Offended against the Lord in some way. It was the punishment of the Lord, that's what I reckon. Her ... she was a queer one ... and all them women ... no better than they should be."

I was in no mood to enter into a theological discussion. I said, "Did you hear if there were any survivors?"

The two old men looked at each other. The religious fanatic said with satisfaction, "All burnt to a cinder ... taste of hell fire that's waiting for 'em."

Polly said ironically, "You're destined for the heavenly choir, I reckon."

"That's so, Missus. Good churchgoer all me life. Regular every Sunday ... night and morning."

"My goodness," said Polly. "You must have a good record. Wasn't there any time you did a bit of sinning?"

"I was brought up in the shadow of the Lord."

"Oh, I reckon the recording angel would have looked the other way when you got up to your little bits of mischief."

I could feel a real antagonism building up between them and I guessed that if I were going to get any information from them this was not the way to do it.

"So everyone there died," I said.

"Here," put in the other. "Wasn't there some niece or something, Abel?"

I said eagerly, "Her name was Janine Fletcher. Do you know what became of her?"

"Oh, I remember," said the man to Abel. "You know that young woman ... wasn't she out of the place on a visit or something? That's right. She was the only one who didn't die."

"It was God's will," said Abel.

I was excited. I turned to his companion. "So she didn't die?"

"No ... that's it. She came back. There was some sort of to-do about insurance and that sort of thing."

"It wasn't insured," said Abel. "They was like the foolish virgins unprepared when the bridegroom came."

"Doesn't sound much like a wedding to me," commented Polly.

"Do you know where she went?" I asked.

"Can't tell you that, Miss."

I could see that that was all the information we could get. I rose as Abel began reminding me about the rewards of evil. I said, "We must get back."

Polly agreed. "I reckon," she said, as we walked away, "that that Abel's got a nasty surprise waiting for him when he gets to Heaven."

I felt our journey had not been wasted. We had not discovered where Janine was, but we knew she was still alive.

I had not been back at the rectory for more than two days when, to my surprise, Fabian called.

In all the years he had not called before, except with Dougal, and I was surprised to see him.

I must have shown my surprise.

"I heard that you had been to London," he said. "I came to assure myself of your safe return."

I raised my eyebrows. "That was extraordinarily kind of you."

"I was concerned. Had you told me I should have made my visit coincide with yours."

"The journey is not long and I was met at the other end."

"By the inestimable Polly, I guess. And how is her sister and that enchanting ward of theirs?"

"Very well."

"That is good. I have news of a friend of yours."

"Really?"

"Dougal Carruthers."

"What news?"

"He has become an exalted gentleman overnight."

"What do you mean?"

"You were aware that his cousin had an accident. Alas, the cousin died from his injuries."

"Were they close friends?"

"Relations." He smiled sardonically. "That is quite a different thing. They say that one chooses one's friends, but one's relations are thrust upon one."

"There is often a stronger bond between relations than friends."

"The proverbial blood being thicker than the proverbial water."

"Exactly."

"Well, I don't think the cousin ... or to give him his full name, the Earl of Tenleigh ... had very much in common with our friend Dougal. He was the hunting man—more at home on a horse than on his own two legs. Athletic, all physical activity and a brain that hardly ever got any consideration and had begun to pine away from neglect. Ah, I'm speaking ill of the dead and perhaps shocking your conventional heart just a little."