R Raichev - The hunt for Sonya Dufrette

Miss Pettigrew crusaded through her little world, making sure people were provided with suitable reading matter; she had the energy both to read herself, even in the most adverse conditions, as when finding herself in the middle of a crowd, and to encourage others to do so. The trouble was that she was so volubly and forcefully full of suggestions that patrons tended to drift away after a while. Miss Pettigrew also tried to give her ideas for novels, which Antonia invariably dismissed as too far-fetched.

On the positive side – well, yes, there was a positive side – Miss Pettigrew was a forthright, practical, no-nonsense type, who had little patience with displays of irrational emotionalism. She was good at times of crisis. Hers – frequently, though not always – was the voice of reason.

It’s ludicrous that you should be blaming yourself, dear. You are too sensitive for your own good. (Antonia improvised.) What happened twenty years ago had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t your fault – in the same way that your failed marriage is not your fault, but we won’t go into that one. That poor girl, Sonya, needed lots of care – proper care, round-the-clock care – if she was autistic. Well, her parents were there, but they neglected her badly – that’s the upper classes for you. Her nanny shouldn’t have left in the first place. You did your very best. You had a child of the same age, that’s what made it so difficult for you. I fully understand, but, really, you couldn’t have kept a watch over her. What she was doing in the garden while everybody else was inside is what I would like to know. Criminal negligence. I blame the parents – entirely! I know it’s dreadful – the death of any child is a dreadful thing – but it had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.

The crowd was thinning. At the next stop Antonia, feeling much calmer, sidled up the carriage to one of the vacated seats. The train rumbled on. Ten more minutes and they were at Green Park station. Stowing away her book, she made for the opening doors. day before. Walking through St James‘s, London’s club-land, was always a delight. Every time it felt like entering a different world. A group of Japanese tourists were standing at the corner, snapping away with their cameras. There was Lock, the legendary hatter, now more than three hundred years old. She looked through the window – still no signs of modernity. If they used computers, they concealed them carefully. All she could see was handwritten ledgers, sinister-looking wooden moulds and shop assistants wearing morning coats and winged collars. Major Payne had bought a polo cap from them, also a fez. Putting on the fez, he had recited verses from Kipling. Antonia smiled at the memory. On the other side of the street was John Lobb – quality handmade shoes and boots. She looked up. That was where Lord Byron had once held a bachelor establishment -

Suddenly she came to a halt. She thought she had seen a familiar figure go up the steps at White’s. Tall, distinguished-looking in a dark pinstriped suit and an old- fashioned Homburg, grey gloves, a rolled-up umbrella.

Her heart was beating fast. Lawrence Dufrette? Surely not? Before she could take a closer look, the man had disappeared inside the club. He had always hated London, he had told her so himself. Well, that was twenty years ago. She hadn’t seen him since the fatal day. She hadn’t seen Lena either… Lena had been hysterical, deranged with grief, which was odd, to say the least, given that, prior to the tragedy, she had paid her daughter only scant attention. ‘Run along, darling, Mamma’s terribly busy.’ (Busy leafing through the Harrods catalogue – busy drinking a spritzer – busy eating a chocolate gateau as high as Mont Blanc – busy painting her fingernails scarlet – busy watching television.)

Where did the Dufrettes live? St John’s Wood, someone had said. Or had they separated? She seemed to remember a rumour to that effect. Would Lawrence Dufrette be in central London on this day of all days, this tragic anniversary, twenty years since his daughter’s death?

Could Lawrence Dufrette be looking for her, Antonia? Was there going to be a commemorative service perhaps? Or was it possible that there had been… developments? She couldn’t say what developments exactly she had in mind, but if that had been the case, surely it would have been the police looking for her, not Lawrence Dufrette? Though why should the police want her?

I am being reclaimed by my past, Antonia thought. She knew this was nonsense. She was becoming paranoid. Perhaps she should seek medical help?

She entered the Military Club.

Taste of Fears

She could still feel a little surge of excitement when she arrived at the club library. She relished the ‘unknown factor’, the uncertainty as to what might turn up, the possibility that it might be something really exciting. It was the detective story writer and mystery enthusiast in her as much as the librarian. One never knew. The library users sometimes had very interesting enquiries, out of which there emerged the most fascinating stories.

There had been the old boy who had known T.E. Lawrence in the short while before that fatal motorbike accident, which of course, he claimed, hadn’t been an accident at all; the chap whose aunt had been a nanny to the children of King Zog of Albania; the retired MI6 officer who told Antonia in great detail how he had foiled a plot to kill the Dalai Lama. The books themselves – Antonia tended to think of the books almost as people – often yielded surprises too, especially those that were brought in as donations. Old volumes of memoirs, frequently privately published, of the two world wars, of travels in the East when it had really been the ‘mysterious Orient’, and in Africa. Then there were the old personal archives, which she got to investigate from time to time.

‘Ah, Miss Darcy. You are back.’

‘Good morning, Mr Lodge,’ responded Antonia. She had been about to close the library door behind her. Mr Lodge was the club secretary: a small man in his late forties, rubicund and dapper, invariably sporting a bow tie, a polka-dotted one this time.

‘You look as though you’ve had an excellent holiday, if you don’t mind my saying so. You look tanned and fitter than before you left.’

‘Thank you. I had a very good time.’

‘I am glad to hear it. You did seem in need of a holiday. We’ve had upheavals here while you’ve been away.’

‘Really?’

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘New management on the way. It looks like war,’ he whispered. In his normal voice he said, ‘I have some more books for you. More donations.’

‘Oh, good. Thank you, Mr Lodge.’ They had known each other for three years, but somehow there was no question of first name terms ever being established between them.

He was holding a cardboard box containing a number of books. ‘Brigadier Shipton left them for you, in case they were of interest. It’s a mixed bunch. There is a rather unusual recipe book… Not for the squeamish!’ Antonia at once thought of cannibals but it turned out to be for dishes favoured by the ancient Mongols.

Now inside her inner sanctum, she stood beside her desk and looked at the pile of letters that had accumulated in her absence. The one at the top was addressed to Mrs Antonia Rushton, c/o the Military Club, St James‘s, W1.

Antonia stared. Rushton? She had reverted to her maiden name, Darcy, after her divorce, and she had been using it for the past six months. The handwriting seemed familiar, though it might be her imagination. Could it be something to do with Sonya? It didn’t look like an official envelope, so it couldn’t be the police. It was somebody from the past – Lena? – who had written to her. Somebody who didn’t know about her change of circumstances.