The Girl From Cobb Street. Merryn Allingham

riffling through papers she had no right to read. The letter she’d found, though, had stayed with her, its memory lodged deep and only temporarily blotted from view by the overwhelming disappointment she’d been feeling. But it was back now, sitting squarely before her, and a thought caught at the edges of her mind. It trembled there for several seconds, then burst into full flowering. She had begun to think the unthinkable, she realised. She found herself shaking her head as if to signal a warning not to entertain such ideas. Her suspicions had to be mere fancy.

      But what if Gerald were the real recipient? If the letter had been meant for Gerald, what Pandora’s box would that open? She knew all about Pandora, and where her curiosity had led her, from the reading she’d done with Miss Maddox. If Gerald had been the intended recipient, he must be the Jack Minns addressed. And that meant he must be two people. Which was absurd. Why would he be two people? She told herself not to go on with this train of thought, but somehow found herself continuing. If he were Jack Minns, which was quite mad, it would mean that Gerald had a mother and father alive. He had told her that sadly his parents had died together in a car crash five years ago. It would mean he had lied to her. And if he’d lied about something as important as his family, he might have lied about other things too.

      She would not think it, yet the notion continued to niggle. If he were Jack Minns, then some of his childhood at least had been spent in Spitalfields, a stone’s throw from Eden House. He had not played in the spacious rooms of a manor house, as he’d told her, or run carefree through its Somerset estate. The repercussions of such a lie were too enormous to take in. So she wouldn’t. She definitely wouldn’t. She would dismiss them as ravings brought on by the sun. But she had enough of Pandora about her still, to want to discover why that letter was on Gerald’s desk.

      Except that it wasn’t. Not this morning. The papers that were left were conspicuously tidy, a small, neat pile placed carefully in the middle of the desktop. And she could see at a glance that the letter from Spitalfields was not among them. She had been right about Rajiv. He had told his master what he’d seen, and Gerald had acted. He had squirrelled the document away to ensure there would be no discussion. And if she dared to ask questions, she felt sure he would deny the letter’s very existence.

      Rajiv came in bearing tea and fruit for her breakfast and she wondered if she dared mention her night-time experience. A mysterious letter and an unknown intruder were not the most cheering of introductions to her new life. Since she’d arrived, the sense of being watched had grown on her and, though she recognised that solitude and an unnerving servant could be making her foolish, a strange man in the garden did nothing to soothe. If, in fact, there had been a man. She was beginning to wonder if he was part of a dream, a figment of sleep, and decided to put it to the test.

      ‘Were you walking in the garden last night, Rajiv?’ She looked directly at him.

      His eyes did not meet hers and his face was without expression. ‘Last night,’ she repeated, ‘were you in the garden? I’m not cross. Perhaps you couldn’t sleep. But I need to know.’

      ‘No, memsahib.’

      ‘You’re sure you didn’t walk there in your sleep?’ This was getting laughable.

      ‘No, memsahib.’ Rajiv was looking decidedly anxious and no wonder. He must think he had gained a madwoman for a mistress.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said feebly. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’ He slipped silently away, leaving her no wiser but feeling a great deal sillier.

      She had barely finished the tea and fruit when she heard footsteps on the veranda and a knock at the door. Anish Rana was standing on the threshold and greeted her with a smile.

      ‘I hope you slept well, Mrs Mortimer.’

      She was surprised at how glad she was to see him. ‘Thank you, I’ve slept for hours Mr—Lieutenant Rana,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t give you your proper title yesterday.’

      ‘That is no problem for me. I am an Indian officer, you see, and we do not stand on ceremony. My name is Anish.’

      ‘And mine is Daisy,’ she said shyly, aware of the slightest edge to his voice. But his smile appeared sincere and she thought him a most engaging character. ‘Gerald is not home,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid you must have missed him.’

      ‘It’s not Gerald I came to see, but you. I wanted to make sure you had survived the journey and your first day in India.’

      ‘I did, as you see.’ She pinned a smile to her face, unwilling to show how downcast she was feeling, and quickly changed the subject. ‘Did you travel back with us on the same train?’

      ‘No. There were people I had to see in Bombay. I decided to take the later train and return overnight.’

      ‘You must be very tired then. Perhaps I can offer you some breakfast?’

      ‘A cup of tea only. That would be wonderful.’ He settled himself in a seat opposite her. ‘So now that you are recovered from the journey, how do you intend to pass the day?’

      She looked blankly at him. ‘I’ve no idea except … if I could get to a shop, I might buy some material.’ She saw him looking puzzled. ‘To make a dress, you know. I’ve not brought enough lightweight clothes. It was stupid of me.’

      ‘No one has sufficient clothes for this climate, so you’re not alone,’ he said easily. ‘You must visit the bazaar, that’s the answer. It is a paradise of materials. Why don’t I take you? I’ve commandeered the regimental transport this morning, complete with chauffeur. If you crane your neck, you can see him through the window.’

      ‘That enormous tree is in the way but I can just see him, I think.’ Through the branches she glimpsed a flash of brass buttons and the very top of a turban sporting a highly starched and pleated plume.

      ‘That enormous tree is a banyan. You will see them everywhere and know them by their forest of roots. But surely you cannot intend to sew your own dresses?’ He sounded almost shocked.

      ‘I’m not so bad with a needle,’ she defended herself.

      ‘An English lady sewing her own clothes! It is unheard of. You must employ a durzi. A tailor.’

      ‘But won’t that be costly?’ Instantly she regretted the words uttered unthinkingly. She had no wish to advertise her poverty and Gerald would hate her background to become common knowledge.

      ‘It will be very cheap, I promise. And very good. You will not be wanting to work in these temperatures,’ he said in the manner of a reproving schoolmaster. He was probably right, though it would have given her occupation.

      ‘Thank you, Anish, you are very kind.’

      ‘Not at all, and it is a good plan.’ He was warming to his idea. ‘Simla is much cooler, of course, but you will still need plenty of summer dresses there. The social life is very jolly, I believe.’

      She frowned at his words. She seemed to have missed a vital link in the conversation. ‘Simla? I am going to Simla?’

      ‘Everyone goes to Simla. All the ladies at least. It is in the foot of the Himalayas as you call them, a mountain paradise with magnificent views. And the warmth is of the gentlest. There are gardens everywhere, filled with English flowers. You will love it. You will be able to ride out every morning and enjoy good company every evening.’

      She wasn’t too sure about the riding but otherwise it sounded a paradise indeed and she was already looking forward to it. ‘When does the regiment leave?’ she asked innocently.

      He laughed. ‘The regiment does not leave, Mrs Mortimer.’

      ‘Please, call me Daisy.’

      ‘Thank you—Daisy. We men have work to do, we must toil on the plains. It is for the ladies to go. Some are already there but the rest of the womenfolk will leave shortly and you will be able to travel with them.’

      ‘I’m not sure