* * *
—
After Frobisher’s death, Lottie was institutionalized in a large house in the country. It was an expensive place, an asylum for the wealthy, blessed with extensive grounds, good food, plenty of pastimes to occupy the unbalanced minds within. Lottie’s fees were paid for the rest of her surprisingly long life by a benefactor, a Miss Kelling, who never visited.
* * *
—
Nellie lost nearly all of her money in the 1929 crash and died a few years later. According to her daughters, standing vigil at her deathbed, her last words were “Oh, look, here’s Maud,” words which made no sense to any of them. She had lived long enough to see both Betty and Shirley married to minor aristocrats. She treated herself to a new fur for each of their weddings. Luckily, she didn’t live long enough to witness their divorces. Edith continued to run the remnants of Nellie’s clubs, less and less profitable as time went on. The Amethyst, along with Edith herself, was destroyed by a direct hit during the Blitz. Kitty ended her days as a fixture at the bar in the Colony Room Club, where she slowly drank herself to death.
* * *
—
William Cobb retired in 1951 as a Superintendent in the Metropolitan Police, which just goes to show how far a dull man can rise if he simply turns up for work every day.
* * *
—
The spate of mysterious killings in London came to an equally mysterious end. The murder of Vivian Quinn was considered to be the final flourish of whatever “deranged maniac” （the Daily Mail） had walked the streets of London choosing his victims at random. One of the many, many theories suggested over the subsequent years was that the killings were not in fact random, but misdirections to disguise the fact that Quinn was the intended target all along. No motive was proposed for Quinn’s murder, although several rumours took life and then died. One was that he was writing an investigative piece about London criminals, who decided that he knew too much. Another suggested he had been involved in a “homosexual liaison” with one of the more promiscuous members of the Royal Family. Eventually, Quinn’s death faded to become no more than the occasional small footnote in the histories written about this period.
Arrangement
“You’ve got a dog?” Niven said, glancing at the little terrier that was standing in the hallway behind Gwendolen, regarding him expectantly.
“I do.”
“Are you going to let me in?”
“I suppose I should.”
They sat down at opposite ends of the pink velvet, rather formal. She had no memory of the kiss, although that didn’t prevent her from imagining it now.
“Does he have a name?” Niven asked, making a fuss of the dog. Niven’s own dog held himself aloof from sentiment.
“Pierrot,” she said.
“Pierrot?”
“He’s Frobisher’s dog.”
“Ah.”
“His wife’s really, I suppose, but she didn’t want him.”
“I didn’t know he had a wife.”
“No, well, he kept her very quiet,” Gwendolen said. “She’s rather a sad case.”
“Poor Frobisher. I think you were close to him.”
“I was at his funeral this morning. I accompanied his wife.”
“Ah.”
“It was a fancy affair—dress uniform, sword salute, that kind of thing. He would have hated it. Did you want something? I’m rather tired, I’m afraid.”
“Yes. I came to ask you if you would come away with me.”
“Away? Where?” She imagined he meant Brighton or Eastbourne. Her last day trip hadn’t ended well.
“Anywhere you like,” he said. “France, Italy, America, even. We could buy a ranch. Ride horses.”
“Horses?” She laughed. “I barely know you! I was thinking of returning to York. London’s charms have rather faded for me.”
“Don’t go. I don’t want to live without you.”
“Goodness, how dramatic you are, all of a sudden!” Gwendolen said. “We’ve barely exchanged a word and now you want to ride horses with me on a ranch in America. You sound like a romantic novelist.”
“I didn’t say I can’t live without you—I expect I can live without you very well, I’ve managed for thirty-odd years, after all. I said I don’t want to live without you.”
“Is this really your idea of a proposal? To harangue me?”
“It’s not a proposal. Not a marriage one, anyway,” he said.