Page 90 of The Last Night in London
“I hear nothing from her.” She lifted her chin to show that she wasn’t embarrassed. “She doesn’t know how to read or write.”
“Ah, yes. And your father?”
“You know very well that he was illiterate, too. And I haven’t seen him since I was a little girl.”
“Poor little fatherless Ethel. Is it good news, then, that he’s been visiting your mother?”
Eva froze, the food and drink she’d consumed over the evening threatening to come back up. She remembered her mother’s arm, crooked where it had been broken more than once and not set properly; her jagged nose, which made it hard for her to breathe; the way her fingers and arm hurt in the cold because of her mangled bones. Remembered, too, her mother’s bleeding and bruised face after she’d tried to prevent her husband from taking her wages and spending them at the local pub on drink and gambling. Recalled the way her mother protected her from her father’s fists more than once by taking the blows herself.
“He’s dead.”
“I assure you, he’s quite alive. He’s been in prison for so long that you and your mother were most likely happy to assume he was no longer living, but he is, and he’s been released. If he’d succeeded in killing the man he assaulted with a bottle of gin instead of simply maiming him, he’d still be in prison. Alas, both survived. I was going to suggest that you write your mother when you send her money and tell her she should move where he can’t find her. But if she can’t read...”
“How do you know all this?” The words rushed out of Eva’s mouth. She was going to be ill.
His smile disappeared. “Eva, I’m very disappointed in you. Imake it my business to know things. And as I’ve mentioned, Mr. Zeman is very helpful in finding out what people would prefer remained hidden. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
Eva desperately began to think about how much more money she could afford to send to her mother, about how to make her move yet again.
“You’re lying,” she said, proud that she kept her voice steady.
“I assure you I’m not. Your mother lives near Muker, yes? In Angram. And your father loves his ale but has a special weakness for gambling. He’s good at darts, isn’t he? When you were a little girl, he won a lot of money in a tournament and spent it all on drink. It was an argument at that very pub about his unconventional rules that got him locked up. And your father went right back to that pub the day he was released from prison.” Alex smiled kindly. “You see, Eva, I’m telling the truth.”
Her breath was coming in shallow gasps, and she thought she might faint. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I think I have a solution. We can move your mother here, to live with you and Precious. Surely your father wouldn’t think to look for her in London. Then you could take care of her. I know St. John would enjoy meeting her. Perhaps inviting her to tea with his mother?”
His mock seriousness was worse than if he’d laughed in her face. Eva tasted bile in her throat.
How could this be happening to her carefully constructed world? It was like watching two trains on the same track heading toward a certain devastating collision. She wanted her mother to be safe and well. That was why she sent money each month. But her mother couldn’t come here. She couldn’t. And the guilt of that last thought made Eva’s knees crumple.
Alex grabbed her elbows, catching her before she fell. She was shivering, as if she were outside in the cold without any clothes. He settled the fur coat around her shoulders, then pulled her into his arms, pressing her head against the lapels of his coat. He patted herback and uttered consoling words as if she were a small child. “There, there, Eva. I have another idea that you might find more palatable.”
She wanted to lift her head, to step away from his embrace, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength. “What?” she whispered.
“I own a little country cottage in Dorset, in the seaside town of Bournemouth—won it playing cards, I’m afraid. I’ve never seen it—apparently, it’s where the former owner kept his mistress, so it’s nicely appointed although quite small. I could set your mother up there, put it about that she’s a military widow with a new name. Perhaps Harlow, since it’s worked so well for you? Or is that too obvious a connection? I’m sure you’ll think of something, and your mother will be too grateful to care. She could retire from washing other people’s clothes.”
“Why would you do that?” Eva whispered, unwilling to look up into his face. “I could never pay you back.”
“Oh, my sweet Eva. I wouldn’t ask you to pay me back in kind.”
“It’s so I’ll feel beholden to you so that I can be useful in some way.”
“You’re very clever, Eva. You passed the test tonight, by the way. Well done.” He held her away from him so she could see his face and smell his cologne, sharp and tangy and not entirely pleasant. Graham didn’t wear cologne, and she loved that, loved the clean sandalwood soap scent of him.
Alex pulled her closer. “You’re almost as clever as you are beautiful.” He pressed his lips against hers. His were dry and hard, and she was so surprised that she stood unmoving, unsure of what was happening. Then she reached out her hand and pushed him away, stepping back, gulping air.
“I want proof. Proof that my father is out of prison.”
“I will get it—something signed by the prison warden, perhaps? I suppose you don’t need proof that he’s found your mother. You said yourself that he has established a pattern of finding her wherever she goes. I suppose he’s who you got your industriousness from.”
She was shaking now, her jaw hurting as she clenched it, trying tokeep her teeth from chattering. “And I will come up with a surname for her. I will at least do that.”
Alex smiled. “Good night, Eva. It’s been a most pleasurable evening.” He tipped his hat and headed down the stairs, his footsteps stealthy on the carpeted runner, then clicking as he reached the marble of each floor. It reminded her of the disembodied smile in the car, as if Alex were an invisible man choosing the moments in which he wanted to appear.
She heard a small sound behind her, and she swung around to the closed front door of her flat. She stuck her key in the lock, opened it, and looked down the long hallway, hearing a door softly click shut. Eva waited for a long moment for Precious to reappear so she could explain what her friend might have seen through the small peephole. Or maybe the noise had been Eva’s imagination.
The fur coat fell from her shoulders, puddling on the floor. She stared at it, feeling ill, and left it where it lay and made her way to her bedroom at the back of the flat. She hesitated outside Precious’s door, listening for movement, for any excuse to knock and try to explain. But she heard only the creak of a floorboard from the flat above and the sound of old water pipes burbling in the walls.
