by Blythe Baker
She leaned forward, her smile widening.
“Where did you two meet, anyway? He told Patrick, but I only ever heard half the story.”
The memories came flooding back, filling my mind. “Well…we met at the park, actually. It was early June, and I was visiting a friend here in London. Roger was playing cricket with some friends, and one of their plays landed the ball right beside our picnic blanket. Roger came running over to collect it, and when we saw each other…” I paused, the color in my face deepening.
“That’s wonderful,” Lily said. “A proper love story. Then what happened?”
“Well, according to his friends, he ruined their whole game because all he wanted to do was sit there with us and talk. We offered him a sandwich, which he happily accepted. We exchanged names, and my friend gave him her number in case he wanted to call, which rather caught me off guard.”
“Did he?” Lily asked. “Call, I mean?”
I smiled, in spite of myself. “Yes, he did. That very night, in fact. And my friend wouldn’t let me say no, even though we had plans to go to the theater to see a play. She insisted that I take him instead. And…well, that was really the start of it all, I suppose.”
Lily beamed at me. “How exciting. That explains why he was so utterly giddy when he came by for dinner a few weeks later. I’ve never seen a man so in love before.”
It was as if a stone had been tied around my heart, and someone had tossed it into the depths of the sea.
“Oh, dear, what’s the matter?” Lily asked, her brow furrowing. “Did I say something – ”
I shook my head, my eyes welling with tears. I could do nothing to stop them. “No,” I said, my face starting to burn. “No, I just…I wish I could have had closure. Even though I know the truth now, I still have so many questions.”
“There, there…” Lily said, patting my arm affectionately. “It’s quite all right. And I understand. But there is something you must understand. There will likely be questions that you will never have answered. I know that’s true for my marriage, and it took me a long time to accept it.”
I dabbed at my eyes with the corner of a napkin that Lily offered me. “But how?” I asked. “It feel as if it’s eating me from the inside.”
She nodded. “It certainly does. I wrestled with the same thoughts for years. It caused me so much grief…far too much, if I’m honest.”
“How did you come to terms with it?” I asked.
“You just have to,” she said. “I had to learn to make peace with it. For myself. For my own mind. I knew that if I were to continue to live that way, I would be robbing myself of life’s greatest joys. My husband. My children. Our friends. Our community. And I suppose one day…I just realized that wasn’t the way I wanted to live.”
I took a long, slow sip of my tea once again, thinking.
Since Roger died…I have had no peace. Not any. It doesn’t matter that I’ve tried. Peace has done nothing but elude me.
“I understand what that’s like,” I said. “That’s how I feel right now. I even…I even moved away from home to an entirely new place, completely on a whim, with the hope that I might be able to put my past behind me.”
Lily shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. We can never run from our pasts. They always find a way to follow after us, reminding us that they are still there.”
“I had desperately hoped that Brookminster would be the place where I could start over, begin my life anew…”
“And there is nothing wrong with that,” Lily said. “But a place is not going to replace your husband, or help you to forget about him. You likely never will. You will just learn to deal with the pain in your own way.”
“It makes me wonder if I was too hasty in my decision to move,” I said. “Perhaps I would have been better off had I decided to stay in Plymouth with my family and friends…”
“You may never know,” Lily said. “But the answer may not be to completely uproot yourself again and move back to be sure.”
I looked up at her, smiling halfheartedly. “You are quite perceptive, Lily. How did you know I was thinking just that?”
“Because it is precisely what I would have thought to do as well,” she said. “But you have been there for how long now…four months? Five?”
“Just about, yes,” I said. “I moved in March.”
“Then you must have some new friends, some sort of life that you are enjoying. I mean, if you hadn’t, then surely you would have left by now?” Lily asked.
I considered her words, and realized quickly how right she was.
“Indeed,” I said. “I do have new friends. And I think it would hurt them if I were to leave. Some were even wondering if I was considering it, when I was preparing to come here for the week.”
“And how would you feel if you left them?” she asked.
I thought of Irene, her husband, and their son. They were practically family to me now. They always cared for me so much, and went far out of their way to help me.
I thought of Sidney, my neighbor, also new to Brookminster. He had been a wonderful friend, going above and beyond, helping me with anything that I ever needed help with. Not only was he handy, but he was wonderful company. He always seemed to know exactly what to say to make me laugh.
I thought about Inspector Graves, and the unlikely friendship that had developed between us. He had been reluctant to allow me to help with all of the latest troubles in Brookminster, but had come around. The truth was, we made a good team, working off each other very well. He was strong where I was weak, and vice versa.
“You’re right…” I said, smiling at her, wiping the last of the tears from my eyes. “I suppose that it would be foolish to be so impulsive, and pick up and leave. Especially now.”
“Good,” Lily said, smiling. “That is where healing begins, after all. And perhaps now you can find that peace you are looking for…knowing the truth like you do.”
“Perhaps I can,” I said. “I certainly hope so.”
5
The rest of the week with the Gordons passed in a comfortable blur. They were so utterly kind to me, and it felt as if I had known them for years. Their affection for Roger had translated very easily to me, and I felt like I could have gotten along with them quite well had Roger still been alive, and was rather regretful when the last night of my stay came upon us.
“Do you really have to leave?” Amelia asked me as she sat upon my lap, a book clutched in her hands, pouting up at me.
“I do,” I said. “I have a shop that I need to go back to.”
“The haba-dash-…” she started. “The haberdasher…y?”
I laughed. “Yes. There will be many ladies in my village who will be looking for replacements for their buttons for their coats, and zippers for their skirts, and buckles for their shoes. And if I know little Brookminster at all, I will have quite a few dashing men at my door, inquiring after my silk for handkerchiefs and ties.”
“We have really enjoyed having you here, Helen,” Patrick said from the floor where he played with wooden blocks with Robert. “I hope you know that you are welcome at any time.”
“Yes, you certainly are,” Lily said. “We would love to have you over once again. Perhaps in autumn. We could take you to the market, and show you around some of Roger’s favorite places.”
I smiled. “I would like that.”
The next morning, I was waving goodbye to Lily and the children; Patrick had already left for work. I stood beside the cab, my heart aching. It felt as if I was saying goodbye to Roger…or at least those who helped me to feel the closest tie with his memories.
“Please make sure to call when you arrive back at home,” Lily said. “Have a safe trip!”
Amelia’s bottom lip was protruding, and she soon burst into tears, burying her face in her mother’s skirt.
“Take care,” I said. “Thank you again!”
I climbed into the cab, the echo of the smile still on my face.
&n
bsp; The cab driver, a rail of a man with bad teeth, turned around and grinned. “It’s always hard to leave family, isn’t it?”
I smiled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
I told him which station I was leaving from. Patrick had kindly found a better price, and time, for a train, and had booked it for me. He wouldn’t accept any form of payment to cover it, either.
I arrived at the station when the sun was shining high above us, and it was quite warm. I was all too pleased to get inside the station, despite all of the people who seemed to be taking the same train I was.
Elbow to elbow I pushed my luggage trolley toward the platform, but my mind was on the week I’d spent with Patrick, Lily, and their children.
It was a very pleasant week. I learned a great many things about Roger that I had never known. I learned that his favorite treat was an ice lolly, particularly the cherry flavored kind. I learned that he spent mornings strolling down by the Thames, reading letters that I’d written to him. I learned that his favorite songs were from Mozart, and that he played piano when he was a boy.
I learned some of his favorite meals from Lily, things that he’d hoped we could one day make together. Patrick told me that he was quite good at playing card games, often winning all the money off the other soldiers when there were quiet nights on duty. Amelia and Robert told me that he would ride around in the living room on hands and knees, neighing like a pony so that Robert would tire himself out enough to go to sleep at night.
It was as if I was falling in love with him all over again…and it broke my heart.
I had asked Patrick for more information about Roger’s death, but he was unable to give me any. “I told you everything I can,” he said with a shrug. “I would tell you more if I knew anything. I promise to let you know if I find anything else out, though. I promise.”
I believed him when he said that.
The trip back home to Brookminster seemed to take longer than it had the first time. I couldn’t get comfortable on the train, no matter how I sat. The old man who was sitting in the cabin beside me was snoring, his mouth hanging open, spittle trailing down his chin. A young infant cried mercilessly, her mother trying desperately to comfort her by walking up and down the length of the car.
It didn’t matter, though. I was going home, and I knew that I couldn’t wait to arrive.
I stared out the window as the countryside rolled past, my mind racing as I enjoyed the sight of the hills and the sheep farms as the train raced by.
Even though Lily had warned me there was a chance I would never get all the answers I was looking for, I had at least learned the truth about Roger’s death. And that was more than I thought might happen.
But even still…there remained a great deal that Patrick Gordon didn’t know, information that Roger must have discovered before his death. Roger may have learned who the mole was that had infiltrated their ranks, but apart from that, he had revealed very little. Was it possible that the information he’d discovered was still out there somewhere, in some form that could be discovered in the future?
Well, there were likely very few people Roger could trust with that sort of information, especially if he wasn’t completely certain who this spy was. How long was he searching, afraid of those he worked with? Did he suspect it all along?
It was frustrating, not being able to know. These questions had chased themselves around in my mind all week. I finally had the courage to voice them to Patrick on the last night, and what he said had rather surprised me.
“Well, it’s possible that he hid his notes somewhere, though he never would have left them in plain black and white,” he said.
“Plain black and white? What do you mean by that?” I’d asked.
“We would never find a notebook where he’d written something like I’m suspicious of Sergeant Green, or anything like that. If he wanted to leave clues behind, he likely would have left them in the form of a cypher. A code of some sort. Spies use them often in order to communicate secret messages that can go without detection by the ordinary eye. I thought the same thing after his death, but I’ve gone through every letter he wrote to me within six months of his death, and found nothing.”
That got me thinking, though, that perhaps he hadn’t sent letters written with those cyphers to Patrick at all.
…What if he’d sent them to me, instead?
I realized it was quite a stretch, thinking Roger’s letters would have been anything aside from just that. Letters. Especially given his desire to protect me from anything that had any connection to him whatsoever. Wouldn’t he have realized that someone might try to come after me if they suspected he had been sending me secret information?
It isn’t entirely impossible to think that he might have buried some vital information in his letters to me, I thought, the train rumbling along toward a dark patch of clouds in the distance. What if he did, and hoped that I would read between the lines, realizing there was invisible information imbedded within?
It did seem a bit farfetched, and yet…
If there is, somehow, this information buried within my letters, then surely he would have wanted me to pass that information on.
A sobering thought struck me.
…Did he know that he was going to die? In the weeks leading to his death, he was sending me more letters than he usually did…and they were quite a bit longer than normal, as well.
This was intriguing.
My enthusiasm was quickly extinguished, though.
This may seem like a good idea, but it’s impossible for me to examine the letters he sent me any closer…seeing as how they were all stolen when that thief broke into my home.
As the train began to slow, coming close to the station just inside of Gloucestershire, I was beginning to put some more of the pieces together of the mysteries surrounding me.
Roger must have embedded some sort of code into my letters. Why else would the thief have stolen them?
I was very nearly positive that was the reason as I gathered my suitcase from the luggage rack and walked off the train.
I hoped that I would have the chance to speak with Sam Graves about the matter. He’d promised me that in my absence he would look further into the break ins that had happened in my home. I was well aware that Sam had no success in finding any clues before I’d left, and so there was little cause to suspect he would have found much while I was gone.
Still…I feared those letters were now in the wrong hands. What if I had somehow unknowingly allowed this all to occur, and betrayed Roger’s trust, albeit unintentionally? If he had left any sort of message, what if the plans that he and the others had laid in place were now in jeopardy?
I had to find those letters. And who stole them.
On top of all that, I was starting to think…no, believe now…that the person who had been stalking me in the shadows of the alleyway was the same person who’d broken into my house. They’d likely been watching my every move, awaiting a time when I wasn’t home to strike. How many of my conversations had this person overheard? Was it someone hiding in plain sight, someone I knew? Or was it someone who was just always off to the side, just out of my view, yet all the while knowing precisely who I was and what information I likely possessed?
Either way, it was troubling…and made me all the more concerned about returning home to Brookminster.
I must get to the bottom of all this, I thought as I walked away from the much quieter, much smaller platform. I will not let Roger down.
I moved my trolley out into the foyer of the station, the dark clouds rumbling overhead.
What a joy to return home just before a storm…I thought darkly.
George, Irene’s brother, was waiting for me at the station in his cab. I’d called Irene the night before to let her know my change in plans, and she’d promised to let her brother know. Apparently, he’d received the message.
“Welcome back,” he said brightly as I approached, eyeing the clouds overhead warily, just waiti
ng for them to open up upon us. “It’s good to see you. How was your trip?”
“It was very pleasant, thank you,” I said.
He scooped up my suitcase as easily as if it weighed no more than a book, and walked it back to the boot. “That’s good to hear. And your family’s doing well?”
“Oh, they’re not my – ” I said, but then caught myself. They very well may as well have been my family, given Patrick’s relationship with Roger. “Well, they aren’t my family. They’re my late husband’s, but I suppose that’s all semantics, anyway.”
George laughed. “I know what you mean. My ex-wife’s family was her family, and I was happy to keep it that way.”
“Well, it wasn’t like that,” I said as we both climbed into the cab. “I just had never met them before, but now I suppose I would be happy to count them among my family as well.”
“That’s good to hear,” George said. “You know, Irene was missing you something awful. Michael, too. He said on Friday last that he wished you were there to eat some of his mother’s rhubarb pie with him.”
I smiled. “Yes, they’ve started having me over on Friday evenings. It was rather strange not being there with them this week.”
George gave me a wry, sidelong look. “I’m starting to think you spend more time with my nephew than I do.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that,” I said, my cheeks flooding with color. “I just happen to find myself at the tea house often throughout the week. They’ve certainly established one of the coziest places in the village, haven’t they?”
“Indeed they have,” George said, in all of his good humor. “I was just teasing, you know. My family knows I love them. But I’m glad that you’ve knit yourself to Irene. She needed someone like you.”
“I needed her, too,” I said, smiling.
He asked me about my trip, and I freely told him about all the excitement of London, and all the wonderful food that Lily had made for me. I was discreet with the Gordons’ names, not wanting to bring any sort of undue attention to them, either.