Free Hitler's Girls by Emma Tennant, Hilary Bailey Page A

there bare-arsed but if they moved, “here he had the temerity to put his hand over mine on the wheel,“if they moved just one little bit, then the curtain was brought down and the audience was plunged into darkness. It used to be great sport to see if we could get Arty Miss Carter—her stage name—to run off the stage in a fit of giggles.”
    The best way to silence a bore is to maintain absolute silence. I was so intent on doing this that I found myself shooting past the Palladian gates of Amesbury House. I had no option but to go right on, almost to Stonehenge. My state of mind was not improved by this mistake, nor by the loud laughter from my companion at my oversight.
    I record this interlude—plus my unfortunate reversal onto the pineapple gate stoppe, which are now rare and found only at Syon Lodge, to remind myself, when I compile my file later, of the extreme provocation I was under on the occasion of accepting an invitation to take tea at Amesbury House.
    This provocation contributed to a certain brusqueness in my manner when addressing Lady Ray. My companion was, I knew, leering at our hostess. I witnessed Lady Ray consumed by an emotion I could not identify, after hearing his muttered compliments. The chiffon scarf went repeatedly up to cover the mouth. She appeared to be shaking. She voiced further expressions of remorse over “losing” the island near Mull.
    “Lady Ray, may I enquire whether your sister”—here the old lady bristled and all at once looked her true age—“whetherMiss Clemency Wilsford had—at any point before going to live at St Ronan’s—“
    “I say old girl,” warned my unspeakable companion, “watch it, eh?”
    Lady Ray, I observed, now looked at me with what appeared to be deadly hatred. “Whether she gave birth to a child,” I finished. “There is a reason—a good one—for my enquiry. I give you my word as a Trustee of the Ancient and Historic Buildings of Scotland.”
    Lady Ray now employed the silent treatment, unnerving me considerably. I could hear my stomach rumbling as a result of the too-rapid ingestion of scones and anchovy paste.
    “Certainly not!” Lady Ray said eventually.
    It has been observed that persons of superior intelligence know, above all, when to deploy their advantages. Timing is everything. I dug into my bag, retrieving the brooch from Monica’s house. Its modest diamonds were eclipsed by the Amesbury House chandeliers. I put it down on the table, causing the tea cups to tremble (Rose de Sevres, no chipping nor stains: rare these days, but proof in my opinion of Lady Ray’s artificial nature, of a love for the flowery and unreal).
    Lady Ray stared at the brooch. I turned it over so she could see the initials. I exhibited the preternatural calm of a hostage negotiator.
    Lady Ray let out a long sigh.
    I would not at this point have looked away from my hostess, down through the open library door to the Long Hall and the stone-paved vestibule beyond, if Lady Ray had not herself suddenly glanced—with an expression of great alarm—in that very same direction.
    A figure in a nurse’s uniform was crossing the tesselated marble floor, carrying a metal tray. I could not see what was on the tray. There was a strong likelihood that medication of some kind was being taken upstairs. The figure paused momentarily at the foot of a particularly handsome Jacobean staircase—oak and well maintained—before ascending without a further glance at Lady Ray or her guests.
    Lord Ray, I know, has been dead some years. Does she have a secret guest, someone desperately ill, perhaps?
    It was Jim Graham who now seized the moment. Lady Ray no longer concealed her paroxysms of mirth. Her mouth trembled violently with barely stifled laughter.
    “Artemis!” Jim Graham scolded. “We have a serious matter to discuss here. If your sister did in fact give birth to a child—a daughter—who was then given up for adoption…”
    “No!” she cried.
    “Then I must inform