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  Deck With Flowers

  Elizabeth Cadell

  Friendly Air Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, locals, business, organizations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1973 by Elizabeth Cadell

  This edition, Copyright © 2017 by the heirs of Elizabeth Cadell

  “About the Author” Copyright © 2016 by Janet Reynolds

  Cover art by Aparna Bera

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Lark Shall Sing

  Also by Elizabeth Cadell

  About the Author

  Afterword

  Introduction

  Madame Landini’s memoirs promised to be sensational. Rodney, who had captured them for his publishing house, and Oliver, his literary agent friend who would handle the business side of the book, could congratulate themselves on a brilliant coup. But having covered her childhood as a Russian princess, her years of exile in Paris, the discovery of her phenomenal voice, the prima donna reached her first husband’s death—‘man overboard’—and declared she would write no more. Rodney suspected there was more to this than a display of temperament. He scented a mystery and he was right.

  Chapter 1

  Rodney Laird drove under the eighteenth-century arch that gave entrance to Belthane Mews, stopped his car in the cobbled courtyard, sat for some moments staring at the line of doll-sized houses, and then decided that he had misread his directions; Oliver Tallent could certainly not be living here.

  His eyes went in wonder down the row. Number 1 was painted lilac, with a front door the colour of violets. Number 2, orange-coloured, had a lion’s mouth as letter box, and window boxes filled with red plastic geraniums. The third in line had a red-and-white striped front door against which a gigantic figure 3 twisted like a silver serpent. The fastidious, unfrivolous Oliver living here? Not possible.

  Then Rodney’s eyes went to the fourth and last house in the row, and he knew he had come to the right place. Number 4 was an all-over, unadorned grey. Its aspect, in contemptuous contrast to that of its neighbours, was plain, cold, severe and withdrawn.

  He drove the remaining few yards to the door, got out of his car and turned up the collar of his coat to keep out the falling sleet. He did not have to use the knocker; the door opened and Oliver, tall, grave and good-looking, wearing a loose Japanese robe, invited him to enter.

  “I’m late; sorry.” Rodney stepped into the warm hall. “At least, the plane was late, and then I stopped to ring Angela and have a few words with her.” His eyes took in the robe. “Judo session?”

  “Comfort. Hang up your coat and come in and sit down.”

  “Can’t I have a look round first?”

  “You can see it all from where you’re standing.”

  “So I can. Won’t you feel a bit cramped after living for so long in that Kensington mansion?”

  “I might, but I don’t think so. The living room’s what they call spacious, and there’s a decent bedroom and bathroom. It’s big enough for two.”

  “Two? Oh, Cynthia. Her firm did the decorating, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. Inside and out.”

  “You’ve made the neighbours look a bit gaudy. Don’t they mind?”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t know them.” Oliver led the way into the living room. “Sit down. What’ll you drink?”

  “Gin and tonic and a slice of that lemon, and no ice. After a month in the States, I never want anything on the rocks again. When did you move in?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. I’m sorry you don’t like the decor.”

  “Did I say so?”

  “Not out loud. What don’t you like about it?”

  “Well, you know me. I’d like a few ornaments to fiddle with—and some pictures on the walls. You had some good pictures—what have you done with them?”

  “In store. What you’re trying to say is that you find it a bit stark.”

  “Let’s say I’m a chintzy chap. If Cynthia likes it, fine; she’s the one who’ll be living here.”

  “Not Cynthia.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “What went wrong?” Rodney asked, and bit off “this time”.

  “Well, I gave her a free hand with the decorating, and I paid her astronomical bill without protest, but I objected to her bringing her clients here at all hours to show them round.”

  “And she objected to your objecting?”

  “Yes. But I like the way she did the place. I asked for sober comfort, and I got it.”

  “You did indeed. Very sober. What I feel it needs is to have Angela let loose in it for a day. She’d soon—”

  He pulled himself up; he always tried to keep his sister’s name out of his conversations with Oliver. Not, he mused, that it made any difference; her name never made the slightest ripple—as now: Oliver was absorbed in putting black olives into a dish.

  Studying him, Rodney saw that he was beginning to have a settled, fortyish look, which was not surprising; he had always looked eight or ten years older than his age.

  “We’re both getting on,” he observed.

  Oliver looked up.

  “We are,” he agreed, “but I’m getting on faster than you. There was always a touch of old-boy in me, and small-boy in you. Henrietta wouldn’t believe you were as much as thirty.”

  “Henrietta?”

  “Henrietta Gould. She’ll be here soon. You met her once at—”

  “That’s right. I met her,” Rodney said, and marvelled inwardly. Here was yet another in the series of women with each of whom Oliver had planned to settle down and raise a family. Except for their names, he mused, you couldn’t tell them apart—all of them large, handsome and hard, and not one of them with any intention of being demoted to domesticity. Pauline, Ianthe, Georgina, then one with a loud voice whose name he couldn’t recall, and then Cynthia, and now Henrietta. Why did a man as decent as Oliver attract the harpies?

  “I’ve ordered dinner here, for three,” Rodney heard him saying. “There’s a good restaurant round the corner in Belthane Street—they send in meals. I ordered lobster salad—a bad choice on a night like this, but it’s what Henrietta always asks for.”

  “Perhaps I’m thinking of the wrong Henrietta,” Rodney said hopefully. “The one I met was living with that architect who—”

  “That’s over. She and I get on very well, but it’s too soon to decide whether we want to put it on a permanent footing. Do you want anything to eat, besides olives?”

  “Yes, please. Cheese biscuits, if you’ve got any. I’m pretty hungry. But I can’t stay for the lobster salad, thanks all the same; I promised Angela I’d be back for dinner. She’s cooked it specially. She—”

  Once more, he broke off, once again he noted Oliver’s total lack of interest.

  The cheese biscuits were produced, and Oliver sat down.

  “And now you can tell me about your trip,” he said. “How did it go?”

  �
��Very well, I think. But you never know with Americans— didn’t you find that when you were over there? They’re all so damned pleasant, and friendly, and hospitable that you find yourself forgetting there’s business to be done. It seemed crude to mention that I was really there to push the Landini memoirs and try to assess how much splash they’d make when they’re published.”

  “I suppose you got some idea?”

  “Yes. Big splash. There’s been a lot about Madame Landini in the newspapers. The odd thing is that it isn’t only the older generation that seems to know her name. I was told that her records still sell to young collectors. Has she been letting you have the manuscript in instalments, as she said she would?”

  “Yes. The later instalments are all neatly typed. I got her a secretary just after you left. There was a slight hitch at first.”

  “I thought there might be. I suppose Claudius made a fuss when he realised that Madame Landini expected him to pay her secretary’s salary?”

  “That wasn’t the hitch. He objected, of course, but he had to give in. The trouble was that the girl—her name’s Nicola Baird—refused to live in, as Madame Landini wanted her to do. She said she didn’t mind arriving early and working late, but she wouldn’t take the job unless she could go on living in the room or rooms she rents somewhere in Pimlico.”

  “And Madame gave in, like Claudius?”

  “Yes. She seems to like the girl.”

  “You’ve got the manuscript here, as far as it’s gone?”

  “Yes. I knew you’d want to take it home and read it.” Oliver opened a drawer and took out a file. “It’s a good deal easier to read now than it was in Madame’s writing.”

  “I’m afraid to ask—is it going on as well as it began?”

  “Even better.”

  “Thank God. How far has she got?”

  “I suppose you could call it a kind of halfway point; she’s just finished the account of her husband’s—her first husband’s —death about twenty-five years ago. I didn’t realise it had caused such a stir.”

  “I could have told you. Last time I was at home, I told them that Claudius was publishing the Landini memoirs, and my mother and father talked about her for hours. I learned one curious thing: that my father actually took part in the search for the body. He was a sub-lieutenant at the time, and his ship was ordered to cruise up and down the Channel and he missed a weekend leave and so never forgot the event. He even remembered the name: Anton Veitch. I’m glad the book’s holding up. I was afraid there might be a flattening after that magnificent start.”

  “You needn’t worry; the separate parts of her life all have the same interest. I’m not sure how far you read.”

  “Her childhood as a Russian princess, and the Revolution. She and her parents were just about to flee.”

  “Well, it goes on with their life in Paris, and her parents’ death, and her discovery that she’d got this phenomenal voice. What impressed me, what’ll impress you, is the easy transition from one stage to the next—the search for a teacher, the years of study, her early career—and then her marriage to Veitch, and his death. Why did she drop her title when she married Landini?”

  “She said it was Landini’s wish. She called herself Princess Anna throughout her career. When she married Landini, she agreed to drop the title and be known as Madame Landini.”

  “I see. There’s still a lot to come—as I told you, the manuscript only takes the story up to her first husband’s death.”

  “Has Claudius seen any of it yet?”

  “Yes. All there is. I would have preferred to keep it until you got back, but he asked for it, and as you hadn’t given me any instructions, I had to let him have it. He gave it back to me yesterday and I tried to discuss some of the things I’d arranged for the book, but he wasn’t listening—he’d gone back to the past, when he used to go to her concerts and sit spellbound. He kept muttering ‘What a voice, what a figure, what a woman’, so I left him. Your glass is empty. Time for one more?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” He opened the file. “What’s in the big envelope?”

  “Illustrations. Photographs. Some letters she’d like reproduced, that kind of thing. Claudius hasn’t seen those yet—”

  “I’ll go through them first.”

  Oliver refilled his glass and Rodney’s and was carrying them back to the sofa when the throb of a taxi sounded outside, and the knocker gave several loud thumps. Oliver went into the hall, and through the open door of the living room Rodney saw a tall girl he recognised as Henrietta Gould. She took off a fur coat, revealing a dark green trouser suit. Oliver, having paid the taxi, carried her suitcase to the bedroom, leaving on the hall table the long cardboard box she had brought.

  “Those are the flowers you sent me,” she told him. “I couldn’t bear to leave them behind at the office, so I put them back in the box and brought them here. Not,” she added, stepping into the living room and looking round it with her face puckered in distaste, “that you could put flowers in this setting. I warned you, Oliver”—she turned to address him as he entered—“I warned you not to let that firm undertake the decorating. This looks to me like an outsize coffin.”

  “In which case, flowers would be in order,” Rodney commented.

  Her cold grey eyes came to rest on him, and the dislike he had felt on their previous encounter revived and grew stronger.

  “You’re Rodney Laird, of course,” she told him. “We’ve met before. Oliver tells me you’re publishing Madame Landini’s memoirs.”

  “D. S. Claud is, yes.”

  “Nobody can make out why on earth she chose to let them do it. Any of the leading publishers would have jumped at the chance. Well, I hope the book will make you all rich. If the publisher makes a lot of money, then the literary agent ought to, and it’s time Oliver had someone of Madame Landini’s fame to act for. Could I have a drink? Rum and orange, please. I’m cold right through. I hope you ordered something warming for dinner, Oliver?”

  “Lobster salad, I’m afraid.”

  “For you, perhaps. Not for me,” she told him firmly. “You must be out of your mind even to think of salad in weather like this.”

  Rodney finished his drink, and rose.

  “Sorry; got to be off,” he said.

  She looked relieved. Putting down her glass, she told him she had met his sister.

  “That is, I think so,” she said. “Isn’t her name Angela?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw her at a party, I forget where. She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

  Spoken, Rodney thought with rage boiling up in him, like a woman well aware that in that direction she had nothing to fear. He picked up the file and walked into the hall to get his coat.

  “Will you be at your office tomorrow,” Oliver asked, “or will you wait until after the weekend?”

  “Depends how long it takes me to read this. I’ve also got some unpacking and clearing-up to do. Thanks for the drinks. Be seeing you.”

  He drove away. The sleet had turned to snow, but he lowered a window and drew in deep draughts of air to clear Henrietta out of his lungs. What was happening to Oliver, he wondered? In their schooldays he had been shy and awkward, but amusing. Oxford had loosened him up and until the last year or two, he had retained his good sense and judgment and something of his humour. Now he seemed to have given himself into the hands of a succession of women who were turning him into a professional escort. Perhaps he had felt the need for some distraction—he had worried about his job more than he cared to admit. He had a large income of his own, but the literary agency he had launched three years ago had only lately begun to find its feet. It was to have been Tallent and Laird, but it was still only Tallent, and Rodney could not for the life of him have said whether he would eventually join it—or not. He was aware that his future as Oliver’s partner promised infinitely more than anything he could achieve by staying with the publishing firm of D. S. Claud, but he liked Claudius and found it impossible to make u
p his mind to leave him.

  He closed the window and drove to the garage he rented close to the house in which he lived. Putting away the car, he walked a short distance up a narrow street to the shabby front door of Number 11—and as he went he could see, despite the darkness and the falling snow, the great changes that had taken place in the neighbouring houses since first he saw them.

  He had come to London three years ago, and had at first searched unsuccessfully for a place in which to live. His inclination was towards Greenwich, whose history he had perhaps absorbed from his naval father. But residential Greenwich was expensive, and he widened his search until at last, wandering round Deptford, he came upon River Street. Something about the small, seedy, dilapidated rows of houses along it made him pause. Late Stuart, he guessed; they were of brick, and some had beautifully carved wooden brackets supporting hoods over the doorways.

  He walked slowly along the street. He knew that many of the houses in this district had unexpectedly large interiors, having in Samuel Pepys’ day been occupied by officials connected with the naval dockyard. As he went past Number 11, he glanced up and saw a card in one of the windows:

  UPSTAIRS TO LET

  He knocked. The knocker came off in his hand, and a short, stout, red-faced, aggressive-looking woman came to the door and asked him what he thought he was a-doing of.

  “There’s a notice upstairs saying—”

  “Oh, that? You’re the first wot’s come since I stuck it up there six weeks since. Want to see the rooms?”

  “Please.”

  “Then gimme that knocker, an’ come in. What’s yer name?”

  “Rodney Laird.”

  “Mine’s Mrs. Major. No kids, and been a widder since the war, if you can remember back that far.”