getting into the taxi Barker had summoned and prepared to enjoy the ride. She considered that it was a lot of fuss about some papers or other; anyone else would have sent them by registered post. But since it allowed her an hour or two of freedom she wasn’t going to quibble about it. The driver was a cheerful Cockney, and they enjoyed a friendly chat as he took her into London’s heart. The evening rush hadn’t started but the City pavements were crowded, lights shining from the vast grey buildings.
‘This is where the money is,’ said the cabby. ‘Talking in millions behind them walls, I dare say. Pity they can’t use some of it ter do a bit of work on the ’ospital. Up that lane there, St Giles’. ’Ad me appendix out there—looked after me a treat, they did.’
Franny said with real sympathy, ‘Oh, poor you. Are you all right now?’
‘Right as rain. ’Ere’s yer office. Going back ter where I picked yer up?’
‘No, I’m to go home. I work there, but I live near Waterloo Station.’
She got out and paid him and gave him a handsome tip. ‘Thank you for a nice ride.’
‘A pleasure—enjoyed it meself. Mind ’ow yer go. Waterloo ain’t all that nice for a young lady.’
The solicitor’s office was in a large grey building with an imposing entrance and a porter guarding it. ‘Take the lift,’ he advised her. ‘Third floor—Ruskin, Ruskin and Ruskin.’
Brothers? wondered Franny, stepping gingerly into the lift and pressing a button anxiously. Or grandfather, son and grandson? Cousins…?
The lift bore her upwards smoothly and she nipped out smartly. She disliked lifts, so going back she would use the stairs.
The office was large, thickly carpeted and furnished with heavy chairs and a great many portraits—presumably of dead and gone Ruskins—on its walls. Franny made herself known to the severe lady sitting behind a desk facing the door and was asked to sit. But only for a moment, for after a word into the intercom she was bidden to go through the door behind the desk. It had MR AUGUSTUS RUSKIN in gold letters on it and when she peered round the door she saw him behind a vast desk. He must be a grandfather, even a great-grandfather, she thought. He stood up politely and she saw that he was quite shaky. But there was nothing shaky about his manner or his voice.
‘Miss Bowen? You have an envelope for me? Lady Trumper informed me of it.’
He sat down again and held out a hand.
‘You are Mr Augustus Ruskin?’ Franny asked. ‘I’m to give it only to him. Lady Trumper’s orders.’
He fixed her with a sharp old eye. ‘I am indeed he. You do quite right to query my identity, Miss Bowen.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Franny, and handed the envelope over. ‘Do I have to take any messages back?’
‘Thank you. No.’ He stood up again and Franny bade him a hasty goodbye, fearful that all the getting up and sitting down wouldn’t do someone of his age much good. The severe lady inclined her head without looking up as Franny went past her and ran down the stairs and out into the street.
It was well past five o’clock now, and the pavements were packed with people hurrying home. She didn’t know the City well and made for the nearest bus stop. There was a long queue already there and the bus timetable was miles away. If she attempted to go and look at it, the people in the queue would think that she was trying to get on first. She walked on, intent on finding someone who could tell her which bus to take, but there were no shops and no policemen. She stood on the edge of the pavement on a corner, waiting to cross the side street. She would have to take the Underground.
There was a steady stream of cars filtering from the side street into the main street, and she waited patiently for a gap so that she could dart across, thinking longingly of her tea. Finn would be hungry, he always was, and Auntie wouldn’t have bothered to eat much during the day. She would make a cheese pudding, she decided, filling, tasting and economical…
Professor van der Kettener saw her as he edged his car down the lane, away from the hospital. There she was, this very ordinary girl in her shabby mac, obviously intent on getting across the street. She looked remarkably cheerful, too. As he drew level with her, he leaned over and opened the car door.
‘Jump in quickly,’ he told her. ‘I can’t stop.’
Franny did as she was told, settled in her seat, fastened her safety belt and turned to look at him. ‘How very kind. I was beginning to think that I would be there for ever. If you would put me down at the next bus stop? You don’t happen to know which bus goes to Waterloo, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid not. Why do you want to go to Waterloo?’
‘Well, I live fairly near the station.’
He drove smoothly past a bus stop. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Oh, I had to take some papers to Mr Augustus Ruskin, Lady Trumper’s solicitor. Such a dear old man; he ought to have retired years ago. There’s a bus stop.’
The professor said impatiently, ‘I can’t pull up here. I’ll drive you home.’
‘No, I don’t think so, thank you. You sound cross. I expect you’ve had a busy day and you’re tired. The last thing you would want to do would be to drive miles out of your way. I’m quite able to get on a bus, you know.’ She sounded motherly. ‘Look, there’s a bus stop—if you’ll stop just for a minute.’
‘Certainly not. Kindly tell me where you live, Miss Bowen.’
‘Twenty-nine Fish Street, just off Waterloo Road. You have to turn off into Lower Marsh. You can go over Waterloo Bridge.’ She turned to smile at his severe profile. ‘You can call me Franny, if you like.’
‘Tell me, Miss Bowen, are you so free with your friendship with everyone you meet?’
‘Goodness me, no,’ said Franny chattily. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t dare be friendly with Barker.’
‘Ah, you don’t count butlers among your friends?’ observed the professor nastily.
She refused to be put out. ‘I don’t know any, only him. At least…’
‘At least what?’ He was crossing Waterloo Bridge, and when she didn’t answer, he asked, ‘Well?’
‘Nothing,’ said Franny. ‘It’s the next turning on the right and then the third street on the right.’
Fish Street, even with the evening dark masking its shabbiness, all the same looked depressing in the light from the street lamps.
‘Left or right?’ asked the professor.
‘The left, halfway down—here.’
He drew up smoothly, got out and opened her door. She got out too, to stand looking up into his face. ‘It was very kind of you to bring me home,’ said Franny. ‘You need not have done it, you know, especially as you didn’t want to.’ She gave him a sunny smile. ‘Your good deed for the day!’ she told him. ‘Goodnight, Professor. Go home quickly and have a good dinner; it will make you feel better.’
He towered over her. ‘I have never met anyone like you before,’ he said slowly. ‘I trust Lady Trumper doesn’t have to listen to your chatter?’
‘No. No, she doesn’t, I only speak when spoken to. I’m sorry if I bored you, only I thought—well, I thought you looked the kind of person one could chat with.’ She crossed the narrow pavement and took out her key.
‘Goodnight, Professor.’ The door closed softly behind her.
The professor drove himself back over Westminster Bridge, along Whitehall, into Trafalgar Square and so into Pall Mall, going north until he reached Wimpole Street. He had a flat here, over his consulting room, for he spent a fair amount of time in London. He drove the car round to the mews behind the row of tall houses,