‘Davidhasto be the missing baby they talk about on that podcast,’ I say, frustrated that Roddy seems so reluctant to dissect all this.
He sighs. ‘Surely if a nanny kidnaps the baby of an aristocrat, it would be a huge news story, and it wasn’t. So it makes no sense.’
I sip my coffee, thinking about this. ‘I found an article about Celia Fitzhenry, Cricket. I read up on her. Been married three more times and she’s still alive, I think. Runs some British equine charitable trust supporting disabled kids. Anyway,’ I take another sip of coffee, ‘Winston Applegate, her dad, was a bigwig in the media.Superrich and powerful. A bit of a Rupert Murdoch.’
‘And?’ says Roddy.
‘Maybe Cricket shut down the story. You know, buried it.’
‘Because she gave away her baby and … what? It would make her look bad? That’s a total stretch.’
This must be hard for Roddy. He loved David. They were the best of friends throughout childhood and were both enrolled at university in Sydney until David dropped out when he got sick. I suppose he is trying to reconcile the David he knew with this mysterious person who once lived in an English manor house where a gruesome murder took place. Or maybe this reluctance is because he is worried for Phyllida. I am too.
I peer out the window to make sure nobody is milling around the box of bargain books, or about to come inside, then slide the scissors beneath the flap of the next letter. I feel like a voyeur, but since Phyllida didn’t burn the letters, it was probably my grandmother’s intention that I read them.
22 November 1995
Dearest Francis,
Louis is so sick. How do I help him? He cannot eat or walk. My remedies are not working. The universe has decided I shall pay for my sins here on Earth, not in the afterlife; that I shall force myself through every hour, pushing through hot tar and burning embers.
Mary from next door checks on me constantly. She is infuriating, popping over, dropping off food, forcing me to eat. My boy is barely able to speak or move and still I am expected to eat. So, I eat, drink and sleep, although poorly, and haunted by that day, and by this.
Your brother has made me promise to keep tabs on Miriam. Made me promise to provide for the child. It is all he cares about. He pesters me relentlessly, his face sunken and worried. He admitted he told Miriam about the trust I had set up to beavailable to him when he turns twenty-one. So, I have done it. I went to the bank and organised that Miriam be given money, once a month for as long as I live, to support her child. The money was ill-gotten, but Miriam can have it; she will house and keep the child and there will be no need for her to work. This is Louis’s wish, and so it is mine. When I die, the child will inherit the balance. I will make it a monthly sum because I will not abandon hope that Louis’s health will improve, then he can decide for himself. I am going to try a new herbal mix that I have researched. It might be just the thing. The nurses and doctors keep telling me I must accept the end is coming, but what sort of a world is it if we live without hope? I cannot abide it.
I am so tired, Francis. The sun is setting and the day will soon be gone. A child will be born, and I wonder, could I be wrong? Will the child look like Louis David?
I miss you every day, Francis. I am sorry for all of it. I am sorry for leaving you.
Yours ever, D.
I hand the letter to Roddy. ‘Christ,’ I say, ‘she actuallysaysit here. She refers to Louis as “your brother” when writing to Francis. So therewasa Fitzhenry baby. The midwife wasn’t lying.’ A burning sensation rises in my gut. Apart from that revelation, what does she mean when she writes:Could I be wrong? Will the child look like Louis David?
Roddy reads the letter then looks up at me.
‘I’m not David’s child? Is that what she’s saying?’ I ask.
He shrugs, but I can see a reticence to meet my eyes.
‘You suspected that?’
‘How would I know? David thought you were his.’
I look at the letter again. ‘And what does she mean about the ill-gotten money?’
He remains silent, his face pensive. I sideline the implication that I may not be David’s child, and that Phyllida has a mysterious source of money. They feel too big to deal with now.
‘I just can’t work out why the baby’s disappearance wasn’t in the papers,’ says Roddy.
I begin turning pages of one of the old scrapbooks from another of the cellar tubs. It is full of articles and magazine pictures about Francis Fitzhenry, known as Frankie Fitzhenry in the fashion world. They cover his brief foray into fashion design before specialising in costume design for theatre. Articles in various British rags: ‘Behind the Scenes: Dressing London’s Elite’ and ‘London’s Most Eligible Creative Talents’ where he is listed at number five. Frankie Fitzhenry was single, it seemed, and ‘spotted in the company of a dashing young man’ at a club. Elsewhere, he is described as ‘a confirmed bachelor, and discreet about his private life’. It seems he was pretty famous (as far as costume designers went) in the nineties and the early 2000s. But after that there’s almost nothing about him; just a few articles rehashing old facts from his childhood and his father’s murder. Nothing that gives any clues to his whereabouts, assuming he no longer lives at Bleddesley House. I will ring them again during their business hours to see if I can find out anything, but in the meantime, my internet searches have been pretty fruitless.
It’s as if Francis Fitzhenry became a ghost. There are no articles about his life or ‘at home’ interviews. I got hits on his namea couple of times, but none help much. One tabloid in 2015 briefly mentions his appearance at a National Theatre gala premiere in London, where he was pictured wearing a houndstooth three-piece suit and was seen speaking briefly to Dame Maggie Smith before disappearing into the crowd. Then another in 2016 states that the ‘famously retiring Viscount’ was seen at a London literary fundraiser but left before the speeches in the company of ‘a mystery woman’. Then there are a couple of Twitter posts from 2018 and 2019 reporting sightings at theatre events in Florence, one using the hashtags #ghostlord and #thespianviscount but reporting nothing useful. None of these searches tell me anything apart from the fact that Francis likes the theatre and was sometimes in London and sometimes in Florence.
I did a search for his death onThe Peeragewebsite, which tracks all the titled people in Britain going back centuries. Nothing was noted.
‘I suspect Phyllida might have bought one of Frankie Fitzhenry’s outfits. There’s a note of thanks slipped into the back of this scrapbook. Look.’ Roddy holds up a card with a flamboyant embossed inscription: Frankie Fitz Designs. In scrawled handwriting beneath it says:Dear Phyllida, Thank you for your order. We value your custom. I hope your son enjoys wearing this suit to his formal event. Yours,then an illegible signature that could be anything. But the flourishes make me think it says Frankie Fitz.
‘David would have been eighteen,’ I say, looking at the 1993 date on the note. ‘It must have been for his school formal. Imagine!’ I grin. ‘He would have been quite the man about town in a Frankie Fitzhenry bespoke suit.’
