He brought his face closer to the glass. There were deep shadows under his eyes. Helen had told him that he was looking tired when he’d said goodbye to her earlier that day.
‘You must take care of yourself,’ she said, putting out her hand and stroking his cheek. ‘You will write to me.’
‘You speak as though I’m going off on some dangerous adventure for months at a time,’ he said, rather wishing that that was what he was doing. Setting off on an enterprise which had a smack of danger. But a lawyer does not do that kind of thing. There are no shipwrecks or undiscovered tribes among dusty files and volumes full of precedents.
But, sitting in the railway carriage as night came down, Tom Ansell experienced exactly that, a presentiment of danger. He might have rapped on the wall of the compartment for the comfort of some response from the other side, assuming there was anyone there, but the fear of appearing foolish — more in his own eyes than another’s — prevented him. Instead he made an effort to get into his book but it did not engage him. His eyes kept flicking towards the smeared reflection in the window. He imagined himself as Helen must see him. Dark-haired, long-faced, a little serious perhaps.
‘You must take care of yourself,’ she’d said again that morning, as he took the hand which had touched his cheek.
‘Oh, I will. And when I come back I’ll have something to ask you.’
‘Don’t be so coy, Thomas Ansell. Surely you can say it now?’
She wasn’t being serious, he could see by the mischievous twitch to her mouth.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t ask now. It demands a more. . propitious moment. The evening, and a certain dimness and glow which will suit the occasion. The conversation.’
‘Very well. Though, if you want to spare my blushes, it’s dim enough now.’
She withdrew her hand from his and went to stand by the window. It was drizzling and the grey sky seemed to be fixed a few yards above the roofs opposite. A man and a woman came out of a house on the other side of Athelstan Road. The man urged the woman to shelter under his wide umbrella and they walked off together.
‘Is that an image of married life, do you suppose?’ said Helen, beckoning Tom to join her by the window.
‘How he walks on the outside to protect her from any splashes, even though there’s not much traffic here, how he raises the umbrella so that the woman shall be completely covered,’ said Tom. ‘Yes, it could be an image.’
‘But perhaps she doesn’t want to be sheltered, perhaps she would like to feel the rain on her face,’ said Helen. ‘And I know for certain that though the woman is Mrs Montgomery that is not Mr Montgomery. He always leaves early in the morning to go to his work in the City. Besides, he is stouter and older than the man who is escorting Mrs Montgomery now. Today is Wednesday and every Wednesday it is the same. The gentleman you’ve just seen arrives at her door and the pair of them set off together for. . who knows what or where? They always return at about the same time, in the early afternoon. What have they been up to?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And no interest in speculating about our neighbours? I can see that I’ve surprised you, Tom, and there you were thinking this was such a — such a salubrious area.’
‘You don’t spy on your neighbours, Helen?’
‘I do not set out to spy on them but I can’t prevent the servants telling me things and then, by chance, seeing them for myself. Besides it’s my duty to be curious.’
‘That couple must be innocent, surely? They wouldn’t appear so openly if there was anything to hide.’
‘What better way of diverting suspicion than by appearing openly?’ said Helen.
‘Well, it’s all grist to your mill,’ said Tom. ‘You can incorporate it into your writing. As you say, you almost have a duty to be curious.’
‘Ssh,’ said Helen, raising her finger to her lips. She blushed and Tom was pleased to see her lose her self-possession for a moment. ‘Do not mention that again or I shall regret revealing it you.’
Some time ago Helen had let slip that she was writing what she called a ‘sensation’ novel, involving an heiress who was cheated by a villain out of her property and abandoned by her husband-to-be and who was compelled to go to extreme lengths to recover both it and him. Tom was intrigued by this. He wondered just what the ‘extreme lengths’ would be. Yet every time he referred to the novel, Helen looked uncomfortable. In particular she did not want her mother to know what she was doing. Mrs Scott was a formidable woman, a bit dragonish. Tom could not work out how such a ferocious-looking lady was the parent of a girl like Helen. Now he said, ‘So what does your mother think that you are doing up in your room when you’re scribbling away?’
'Scribbling!’
‘Composing then. Writing. But what does she think you’re up to?’
‘Reading, or polishing up my French, or doing embroidery or something like that, I expect. But never writing. Tom, you are on no account to breathe a word to her.’
‘When will she know then?’
‘When I am published in three volumes and as famous as Mrs Braddon. Then my mother can know.’
‘Surely she ought to be aware she’s harbouring a genius under her roof?’
‘The time is not right, Tom, just as it isn’t right for. . whatever it was you wanted to say to me. The conversation.’
He was tempted to tease her some more but seeing her expression he relented and delivered some guff about sealed lips, and in reward she stretched up and put her lips to his. He drew her closer. She was soft and her breath was sweet. But they were both aware of the door, not quite closed, and the probable nearness of servants, to say nothing of Mrs Scott herself. Besides, it was a grey morning with the drizzle coming down on Athelstan Avenue and the rest of Highbury, and Tom had to be on his way to Waterloo and before that he had to visit the office in Furnival Street to pick up some papers. So he broke away and promised to call again as soon as he’d returned to town.
Now, sitting in the train compartment, he thought of Helen in her room, scribbling (or rather composing) in solitude. He was almost sorry he’d teased her that morning. He resolved to take her more seriously. The train began to shuffle forward again and then picked up speed. Tom abandoned his book altogether, put it in his coat pocket and put his thoughts of Helen to one side too, in order to concentrate instead on his forthcoming business in Salisbury. ‘A strange business,’ David Mackenzie had called it, one requiring ‘tact and discretion’. Well, he’d see about that. Tom did not think he lacked for tact and discretion.
Fairly soon the train slowed once more and the wheels clacked over points. Looking out, Tom saw a platform gliding slowly past before coming to a complete halt. Fogshrouded lamps were burning overhead. If it hadn’t been that his compartment stopped almost opposite the sign announcing Salisbury with, in smaller lettering below, Fisherton he might have doubted where he was.
Tom Ansell hoisted his case from the rack and stepped on to the platform. It was the end of the line or, rather, anyone wishing to go further westwards had to change both trains and railway companies on account of the different gauges. Only a few people got out. A trio of porters had positioned themselves at the point where the first-class carriages drew up but none approached Tom, probably seeing that he was a youngish man and not carrying much luggage. Tom put down his suitcase and intercepted one of them. He asked whether it was far to the Poultry Cross. His inn was near the Poultry Cross, he’d been told. The porter said rapidly, ‘Half a mile at least, sir,’ before scurrying off to help a small elderly gentleman in a shovel-hat.