The Daughter of Time

‘I want to know what made him tick. That is a more profound mystery than anything I have come up against of late. What changed him almost overnight? Up to the moment of his late brother’s death he seems to have been entirely admirable. And devoted to his brother.’

‘I suppose the supreme honour must always be a temptation.’

‘He was Regent until the boy came of age, protector of England. With his previous history, you would think that would have been enough for him. You would have thought, indeed, that it would have been very much his cup of tea: guardian of both Edward’s son and the kingdom.’

‘Perhaps the brat was unbearable, and Richard longed to “larn” him. Isn’t it odd how we never think of victims as anything but white innocents. Like Joseph in the Bible. I’m sure he was a quite intolerable young man, actually, and long overdue for that pushing into the pit. Perhaps young Edward was just sitting up and begging to be quietly put down.’

‘There were two of them,’ Grant reminded her.

‘Yes, of course. Of course there isn’t an explanation. It was the ultimate barbarism. Poor little woolly lambs! Oh!’

‘What was the “Oh” for?’

‘I’ve just thought of something. Woolly lambs made me think of it.’

‘Well?’

‘No, I won’t tell you in case it doesn’t come off. I must fly.’

‘Have you charmed Madeleine March into agreeing to write the play?’

‘Well, she hasn’t actually signed a contract yet, but I think she is sold on the idea. Au revoir, my dear. I shall look in soon again.’

She went away, sped on her way by a blushing Amazon, and Grant did not remember anything about woolly lambs until the woolly lamb actually turned up in his room next evening. The woolly lamb was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, which in some odd way emphasised the resemblance instead of detracting from it. Grant had been dozing, more at peace with the world than he had been for some time; history was, as Matron had pointed out, an excellent way of acquiring a sense of perspective. The tap at his door was so tentative that he had decided that he had imagined it. Taps on hospital doors are not apt to be tentative. But something made him say: ‘Come in!’ and there in the opening was something that was so unmistakably Marta’s woolly lamb that Grant laughed aloud before he could stop himself.

The young man looked abashed, smiled nervously, propped the spectacles on his nose with a long thin forefinger, cleared his throat, and said:

‘Mr Grant? My name is Carradine. Brent Carradine. I hope I haven’t disturbed you when you were resting.’

‘No, no. Come in, Mr Carradine. I am delighted to see you.’

‘Marta – Miss Hallard, that is – sent me. She said I could be of some help to you.’

‘Did she say how? Do sit down. You’ll find a chair over there behind the door. Bring it over.’

He was a tall boy, hatless, with soft fair curls crowning a high forehead and a much too big tweed coat hanging unfastened round him in negligent folds, American-wise. Indeed, it was obvious that he was in fact American. He brought over the chair, planted himself on it with the coat spread round him like some royal robe and looked at Grant with kind brown eyes whose luminous charm not even the horn-rims could dim.

‘Marta – Miss Hallard, that is – said that you wanted something looked up.’

‘And are you a looker-upper?’

‘I’m doing research, here in London. Historical research, I mean. And she said something about your wanting something in that line. She knows I work at the B.M. most mornings. I’d be very pleased, Mr Grant, to do anything I can to help you.’

‘That’s very kind of you; very kind indeed. What is it that you are working on? Your research, I mean.’

‘The Peasants’ Revolt.’

‘Oh. Richard II.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you interested in social conditions?’

The young man grinned suddenly in a very unstudent-like way and said: ‘No, I’m interested in staying in England.’

‘And can’t you stay in England without doing research?’

‘Not very easily. I’ve got to have an alibi. My pop thinks I should go into the family business. It’s furniture. Wholesale furniture. You order it by mail. Out of a book. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr Grant; it’s very good furniture. Lasts for ever. It’s just that I can’t take much interest in furnishing-units.’

‘And, short of Polar exploration, the British Museum was the best hideaway you could think of.’

‘Well, it’s warm. And I really do like history. I majored in it. And well, Mr Grant, if you really want to know, I just had to follow Atlanta Shergold to England. She’s the dumb blonde in Marta’s I mean: in Miss Hallard’s play. I mean she plays the dumb blonde. She’s not at all dumb, Atlanta.’

‘No, indeed. A very gifted young woman indeed.’

‘You’ve seen her?’

‘I shouldn’t think there is anyone in London who hasn’t seen her.’