Alberta made a quick mental checklist of possible callers at this time of the day. Victor might have returned from his weekend away in the country with Helen, but she could not fathom why he would come calling today. Unless Eustace Clarence had somehow been caught up in something- unpleasant?
But no, not her Eustace Clarence, he was a reasonable boy for all his faults. (He was her son.)
So she rose, still mystified, as the doorbell rang again, and fought the childish urge to peer through the peephole. Instead, she grasped the handle (lovely cool brass), and pulled the door open.
Before her stood a uniformed constable, aluminium report case in one hand.
Constable, she thought, wondering whether this was some strange alternate universe. A Constable.
Quickly she wondered whether she should speak.
It wasn't Eustace Clarence, she wanted to say, immediately followed by the thought, Harold would never have done anything, it was his colleagues, the paper was always going to be controversial!
But before she could speak, the constable cleared his throat. He was young, she thought, almost a boy- not much older than her brother's son, Peter. And he looked nervous. She could detect a slight hunch in his shoulders and fought the urge to tell him to stand up straighter.
"Are you Mrs Alberta Scrubb, wife of Mr Harold Scrubb and mother of Eustace Clarence Scrubb?" the constable asked, and Alberta detected a strain of unwillingness in his voice. He looked down at the report in his hands and shuffled his left toe perceptibly. "And are you the sister of Professor Victor Andrew Pevensie?"
Something inexplicable gripped at Alberta, and she felt as though she had been plastered to a cardboard backing with no space to move.
"Yes," she said weakly and wondered that the voice was hers. "Do- do please come in."
He half shuffled inside, peering around the hallway.
And do mind your own business, she thought snappishly.
"Come through," she said instead, her marionette hand gesturing at the lounge in the sitting room. "Please, take a seat."
The constable visibly swallowed.
"Mrs Scrubb, Ma'am," he said, a slight tremor in his voice. "I think it might be best if you took a seat."
I think it might be best if you took a seat.
Alberta steeled her back.
"I think I would prefer to stand," she snapped, unsure of whether she felt more petulant or afraid. "Please, Constable-"
"Watson," he said, clearing his throat. "Constable Watson, Mrs Scrubb. And- that-"
"And please say what you wish to say," she finished curtly.
He looked as though someone had stuck a pin through his chest.
"I'm afraid I have some terrible news to tell you," he said somewhat thickly, eyes trained upon the left cornice above the bay window.
Alberta had a wild, inane flash of thankfulness that she had cleaned the cornices the other day.
"There- there's been a train accident with the British Railways. A train- derailed, it must have been taking a corner too quickly. Your son, Eustace Clarence Scrubb, was involved in the accident and he sustained serious injuries. He was taken to St Bartholomew's Hospital for treatment, but he died from his injuries almost immediately upon arrival."
Train accident. Eustace Clarence Scrubb. St Bartholomew's. Died from his injuries. Eustace Clarence Scrubb. Died from his injuries. Died from his injuries.
"I'm sorry," said Alberta's voice, from Alberta's lips. The sound echoed in her head like a fork that had been dropped in the sink. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
Eustace Clarence Scrubb. Train accident. Died from his injuries. Died. Eustace Clarence Scrubb. Died. Died.
The constable looked stricken.
"Mrs Srubb," he said, a crack creeping into his voice. "I'm afraid there's more."
More?
Alberta fought a wild urge to laugh.
"Your- your brother, Professor Victor Andrew Pevensie- he was on the train as well."
Victor?
But it couldn't be.
"Victor, what it is it this time?"
A broad grin, and her irreverent brother, doffing his hat with a hint of a wink.
"Look, I know it's not an ideal time, and I don't know when I'm going to be called up for this war, but Bertha, you should have a read of this! See what Old Possum turned out this month!"
"Old Possum's Practical Book of Cats? Victor, what is going wrong with your current research?"
"But Victor was coming back from the country," she said stupidly. "He and Helen were returning from Herefordshire. He always drives. There must be a mistake, Constable Watson, there must be a mistake!"
Yes, a mistake, and Eustace Clarence is fine, there has been no train accident, and he is not injured, he never went to St Bartholomew's. Victor is driving home from Herefordshire with Helen, and he will call tonight with some inane tale that Harold and I will laugh over. It has all been a mistake.
"Ma'am," said Constable Watson, and the tremor in his voice made her look at him. He was looking at her, too, and she felt his dark eyes coated with pity and trepidation. "Your brother and your son are currently at the mortuary in St Bartholomew's Hospital. You may go and identify them."
Identify.
"And what if I don't wish to?" she said brusquely.
"Ma'am," Constable Watson said gently, "please, will you go and identify them? You may wait for your husband to return home, but please, come. Your niece, Susan Pevensie, is out of the country, and we need you to-"
We need you to.
Alberta did sit, then, very abruptly.
"There is more," she said flatly.
"I'm sorry," said Constable Watson, and he sounded it. "Your husband's wife, Helen, along with your nephews, Peter and Edmund Pevensie and your niece, Lucy Pevensie, were also involved in the train crash. They are currently lying in the mortuary at St Bartholomew's."
Helen, she thought, and saw the bubbly, friendly (if somewhat vapid) woman her brother had met while walking through Putney.
"Victor, why did you choose her? You could have had Petulia."
"But Alberta, Petulia is not Helen."
Peter, she thought, and she saw him with his earnest smile, his hands shoved ungracefully into his pockets. Edmund. Edmund, who had once almost been her son's equal. Lucy. An immature girl, but her niece, and only just finished her schooling education. She had been about to enter university.
And Eustace Clarence.
Eustace Clarence.
"Please go," she murmured, grasping at the lounge armrest. "Please leave me."
"Ma'am-"
"Go!" she cried, and threw the nearest vase across the room. It shattered, a disappointingly quiet sound.
And I will have to clean up the splinters, she thought.
There were splinters behind her eyes, too. Or were those tears? She wasn't sure.
I will speak with Harold, and we will reason what it is.
Harold.
Harold did not know.
Quickly, she jerked her head up. Constable Watson had stood and was leaving the room.
"Wait!" she called, and he turned around.
You have no right to look anguished, she thought, wondering why she was not angry or irritated in the slightest. You have not been told that your son, your brother, his wife and three of his children are lying in a mortuary. You have not been told to identify your family, you have not-
"You haven't- has anyone told my husband?" she asked, piteously.
Constable Watson cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am," he said, "there were a lot of people involved in this accident, and our protocol is to call upon the home of relatives. Your husband is-"
"At the London School of Economics."
He nodded.
"I will try to see if he can be contacted," he said, and Alberta nodded mutely. "Goodbye, Mrs Scrubb. I- I'm very sorry for your loss."
I'm very sorry for your loss.
Alberta waited until she heard the door close before she closed her eyes.
Her marionette eyes, and her marionette hand that came to rest on her stuffed, cold forehead.
The tears did not come.