Clouds among the Stars. Victoria Clayton

I had declared myself an atheist but now I could not afford intellectual pride. I stared gloomily through the window. All the brightness of the previous day had dissolved in swollen grey clouds, piled ominously high.

      I listened to the insistent monotone, hating it, hoping it would stop or that someone else would answer it. For the first part of the night I had been unable to sleep for more than a few minutes before a subconscious prompting had made my eyes snap open to confront some awful danger. I had had to visit the lavatory several times, whether because of the indigestibility of Yell’s cake or the affect of terror on my bowels I did not know. My mind was in rags.

      When the telephone went on ringing, I rolled out from beneath the weight of Mark Antony and ran down two flights to the first-floor landing, my bare feet recoiling from the coldness and hardness of the stairs.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Chief Inspector Foy speaking.’

      The cleft in his chin flashed into my mind. ‘It’s Harriet.’

      ‘Ah. I was hoping to speak to your mother.’

      ‘What’s the time?’

      ‘A quarter past eight.’

      ‘Could you ring back later? She doesn’t like to be disturbed before half-past ten.’

      There was a pause followed by some pom-pomming up and down the scale. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell her that Mr Byng is due to appear in court this morning at nine fifteen.’

      ‘Oh. Oh dear!’ I immediately felt sick. I could not deal with reality following so swiftly on sleep.

      ‘Don’t worry. It’s only a formality. He’ll be put on remand. No need for you to be there.’

      ‘Isn’t there any chance they’ll find him not guilty?’

      ‘This is only the preliminary hearing. The case won’t come to court until we’ve had a chance to sift the evidence. Probably not for months.’

      ‘He didn’t do it. He’s not the sort of man who could kill someone.’ A crushing misery made my throat tight. Tears began to roll down my face.

      ‘Harriet, listen to me. Can I call you Harriet?’ I let out a kind of bleat because I was suppressing a howl. He took it as assent. ‘You’ve got to be brave, Harriet, both for him and for you. British justice is slow and often the way it goes about things seems pretty asinine but it’s the fairest legal system in the world. I know that perhaps isn’t saying much but, believe me, the idea of sending an innocent man to prison is as abhorrent to me as it will be to the judge and the twelve men and women of the jury. Be patient, and trust me.’

      It did not seem to me that I had any alternative but I was grateful for the kindness in his voice. ‘All right. Thank you.’ I tried to sniff quietly.

      ‘Good girl. He won’t be without friends. Mr Sickert-Greene will be with him.’ The cleft in Inspector Foy’s chin was swiftly replaced by a mental snapshot of Sickly Grin’s neck, which bulged in a fleshy roll over his starched collar. I could not imagine him being a comfort to anyone. ‘If I were you I’d spend the day quietly at home. The press will be merciless for the next few days. You might get Mr Sickert-Greene to give them some sort of statement on behalf of the family.’

      ‘All right. Thank you,’ I added, though probably it was silly to thank the man who was accusing my father of murder.

      ‘Chin up.’

      The line went dead. I put back the receiver and the telephone rang again immediately.

      ‘Hello, it’s Crispin. Who’s that?’

      ‘Harriet.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ There was a shade of relief in Crispin’s cultured tones. ‘I hoped it might be you.’

      ‘Shall I go and get Ophelia?’

      ‘Ah – no. Hang on a sec – don’t disturb her. Just tell her I called, will you?’

      ‘Any particular message?’

      ‘Er – just say I’ve gone down to the Towers for a few days. Awful bore – m’uncle’s birthday. Mother insists I show the phisog for a spot of celebrating. He’s nearly ninety and expected to pip out before long.’

      ‘Oh.’ I did not know whether to sound pleased or sorry.

      ‘Tell Ophelia I’ll ring her when I get back. By-ee.’

      ‘The low-down, snivelling, craven wretch,’ said Ophelia when I gave her the substance of the conversation. ‘He’s going to rat!’ She punched her pillow violently. ‘Well, I hate that hideous Mallilieu Towers, anyway. All pinnacles and gargoyles and nasty blue bricks. Henrietta Slotts is welcome. I don’t care.’

      She put the pillow over her face and refused to say another word. After I had closed the door behind me I heard what might have been a stifled sob. I went downstairs to make myself some tea.

      Maria-Alba was washing up the supper things.

      ‘Che c’e? You look beaky.’

      ‘Peaky, I think you mean. I’m all right.’ I could feel my chin trembling ‘It’s delayed shock or something. It seems worse this morning but I expect I’ll be better when I’ve woken up properly.’

      I managed a smile, which changed to a scream as a man with several cameras round his neck jumped from the front garden down into the area outside the kitchen window. He pressed his face against the glass, which clouded with his breath.

      ‘Basta così!’ exclaimed Maria-Alba, picking up a soup ladle that lay to hand. She threw open the kitchen door and ran out. ‘Va fottere la cucina della Mamma!’ she screamed. It was one of her favourite insults. I heard the man yell as Maria-Alba hit him hard on his bald head. He tried to take a photograph of her but she pelted him with blows. He ran off. Maria-Alba came in again, her normally sallow face dark red.

      ‘La feccia!’ She was panting with anger.

      ‘You gave him a good thrashing. I bet he won’t come back.’

      ‘If he do I take a knife to him. I keel him!’

      I wondered if the world had gone mad. I did not want to spend the rest of my life travelling between maximum-security prisons, visiting those I loved.

      Cordelia came down, looking pale but determined. She was wearing jeans, though it was a school day.

      ‘You don’t think I’m going to that stinking convent so those beastly girls can be foul to me? Drusilla Papworth’ll be thrilled to bits. She’s jealous as hell of me and now my father’s a criminal she’ll be able to leave me out of everything.’

      ‘He isn’t! You mustn’t believe that. I can understand that some of them might be unkind but surely your friends –’

      ‘You’ve obviously forgotten what school’s like.’ Cordelia thrust out her lower lip and shook her silky curls. ‘I won’t have any friends after this. Ever again. I shall be ostrichised by everyone. When all my family are finally dead there won’t be anyone left speaking to me. But by then I’ll probably be used to it.’ A faraway look came into Cordelia’s eye. ‘I shall live in a cave in a forest and tame wild animals. People will come and make offerings of food and wine and call me Cordelia the Holy Woman. It might be fun to make a hole in the rock and tell people’s fortunes, like an oracle. You have to say things in an amphibious way so you can’t be caught out. Pa told me all about it.’

      ‘Ambiguous. But it would be very difficult to think up clever answers if you hadn’t been to school and acquired some sort of education.’

      ‘What a poisonous remark!’ Cordelia glared at me. ‘Just the sort of sneaky, trapping thing the nuns say.’

      There was some truth in this but I was not in the mood to be generous and admit it.

      ‘I