A Dangerous Fortune(106)
He dropped the bundle and stood behind the door.
The footsteps went past and faded.
He untied the ribbons and scanned the documents. They were in Spanish, and bore the stamp of a lawyer in Palma. They were the sworn affidavits of witnesses who had seen floggings and executions at Micky’s family’s nitrate mines.
Micky lifted the sheaf of papers to his lips and kissed them. They were the answer to his prayers.
He stuffed them into the bosom of his coat. Before destroying them he had to make a note of the names and addresses of the witnesses. The lawyers would have copies of the affidavits, but the copies were no use without the witnesses. And now that Micky knew who the witnesses were, their days were numbered. He would send their addresses to Papa, and Papa would silence them.
Was there anything else? He looked around the room. It was a mess. There was nothing more for him here. He had what he needed. Without proof, Tonio’s article was worthless.
He left the room and went down the stairs.
To his surprise there was a clerk at the desk in the lobby. The man looked up and said challengingly: “May I ask your business?”
Micky made an instant decision. If he ignored the clerk, the man would probably just think he was rude. To stop and give an account of himself would allow the clerk to study his face. He said nothing and went out. The clerk did not follow.
As he passed the alley he heard a feeble cry for help. Tonio was crawling toward the street; leaving a trail of blood. The sight made Micky want to throw up. Disgusted, he grimaced, looked away and walked on.
3
IN THE AFTERNOONS, wealthy ladies and idle gentlemen called on one another. It was a tiresome practice and four days of the week Maisie told her servants to say she was not at home. On Fridays she received people, and there might be twenty or thirty during the course of an afternoon. It was always more or less the same crowd: the Marlborough Set, the Jewish set, women with “advanced” ideas such as Rachel Bodwin, and a few wives of Solly’s more important business acquaintances.
Emily Pilaster was in the last category. Her husband Edward was involved in a deal with Solly about a railway in Cordova, and Maisie assumed it was on the strength of that that Emily called. But she stayed all afternoon and at half-past five, when everyone else had gone, she was still there.
A pretty girl with big blue eyes, she was only about twenty years old and anyone could tell she was miserable, so Maisie was not surprised when she said: “Please can I talk to you about something personal?”
“Of course, what is it?”
“I do hope you won’t be offended but there’s no one I can discuss it with.”
This sounded like a sexual problem. It would not be the first time that a well-bred girl had come to Maisie for advice on a subject she could not discuss with her mother. Perhaps they had heard rumors about her racy past, or perhaps they just found her approachable. “It’s hard to offend me,” Maisie said. “What do you want to discuss?”
“My husband hates me,” she said, and she burst into tears.
Maisie felt sorry for her. She had known Edward in the old Argyll Rooms days and he had been a pig then. No doubt he had got worse since. She could sympathize with anyone unfortunate enough to have married him.
“You see,” Emily said between sobs, “his parents wanted him to marry, but he didn’t want to, so they offered him a huge settlement, and a partnership in the bank, and that persuaded him. And I agreed because my parents wanted me to and he seemed as good as anyone and I wanted to have babies. But he never liked me and now that he’s got his money and his partnership he can’t stand the sight of me.”
Maisie sighed. “This may sound hard, but you’re in the same position as thousands of women.”
Emily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and made an effort to stop crying. “I know, and I don’t want you to think I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’ve got to make the best of it. And I know I could cope with the situation if only I could have a baby. That’s all I ever really wanted.”
Children were the consolation of most unhappy wives, Maisie reflected. “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t have babies?”
Emily was shifting restlessly on the couch, almost writhing with embarrassment, but her childlike face was set in lines of determination. “I’ve been married for two months and nothing’s happened.”
“Early days yet—”
“No, I don’t mean I expected to be pregnant by now.”
Maisie knew it was difficult for such girls to be specific, so she led her with questions. “Does he come to your bed?”
“He did at first, but not anymore.”
“When he did, what went wrong?”
“The trouble is, I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen.”
Maisie sighed. How could mothers allow their daughters to walk up the aisle in such ignorance? She recalled that Emily’s father was a Methodist minister. That did not help. “What’s supposed to happen is this,” she began. “Your husband kisses and touches you, his doodle gets long and stiff, and he puts it into your cunny. Most girls like it.”
Emily blushed scarlet. “He did the kissing and touching, but nothing else.”
“Did his doodle get stiff?”
“It was dark.”
“Didn’t you feel it?”