The Carlswick Affair

by SL Beaumont

  Chapter 22

  A little while later, seated on the train, she sent Michael a text to let him know that she would be arriving at two forty-five pm.

  He didn’t reply, but she guessed that maybe he was still at the library. If they hadn’t allowed him to borrow the memoir, he may have had to stay there to read it. She sighed and closed her eyes, only opening them again when the driver called her stop over the intercom. Quickly gathering up her things, she jumped off the train as the doors opened. She looked up and down for Michael, as the train pulled away, but she was the only person remaining on the platform.

  She walked through the little station waiting room out to the car park. Being a Saturday, there was no commuter traffic, so only a few cars were parked there. Michael’s wasn’t one of them.

  Strange, she thought, he must have forgotten the time. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and sent him another quick text. A few minutes later, she still hadn’t heard from him and was about to walk up the hill to the library, when Matt drove past and screeched to a stop.

  “Hello. You look like you are waiting for someone?” he called, opening his passenger window. “Do you need a lift?”

  “Actually I’m waiting for Michael to pick me up, but he seems to have gone AWOL,” she said.

  Matt’s face fell. “You haven’t heard,” he said.

  “Haven’t heard what?” she responded slowly, a knot forming in her stomach.

  “Michael had a car accident earlier this afternoon. He was run off the road. The other driver didn’t stop,” he said.

  Stephanie gasped and put her hand over her mouth, feeling nausea rising. “Oh my God! Is he…?

  “He’s still unconscious from what I understand. He’s up at the hospital. Do you want me to take you to see him?” Matt said.

  Stephanie’s hand was already opening the passenger door. “Yes please.” She lifted her bag onto the back seat before climbing in the front. They drove quickly to Carlswick Memorial Hospital.

  Michael’s mother was sitting on a chair outside his hospital room looking pale, when they walked down the corridor towards her several minutes later. She stood and gave Stephanie a hug.

  “How is he?” Stephanie asked in a whisper.

  “They are just running some tests. He’s still not conscious, but otherwise appears to be uninjured,” Mrs Morgan explained.

  “It’s my fault. He was on his way to pick me up.” Stephanie could feel her eyes filling with tears.

  “It’s not your fault, dear,” Mrs Morgan said, patting her arm kindly as Michael’s door opened and the doctor came out and explained that there was no change, but he was stable and they could sit with him.

  Matt offered to drop Stephanie’s suitcase at their grandmother’s house, and said he would come back later to visit. She hugged him goodbye and followed Mrs Morgan into Michael’s room. He looked peacefully asleep and without his glasses, a lot younger. She felt a huge stab of guilt. This was too much of a coincidence – first the SUV last night in London and now this. She reached out and took Michael’s hand. The back of it was covered in superficial cuts, probably from broken glass, Stephanie guessed.

  “Sorry, mate. I would never have asked you to help if I knew I was putting you in danger,” she whispered, before sitting on a chair beside the bed.

  “What did the police say, Mrs Morgan?” she asked.

  “They don’t really know. He was sideswiped and spun off the road just outside town and the other driver didn’t stop,” she said. “There were no witnesses apparently, but his car has black paint down the side and is a real mess.”

  “Poor Michael. He will be upset about the MG,” Stephanie said.

  “I know,” his mother agreed. “But it can be repaired.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Stephanie looked around the sterile hospital room. On the cabinet beside the bed were Michael’s belongings – his glasses, wallet and a single piece of paper. Stephanie’s eyes picked up on the writing. It was a receipt from the Carlswick Library for a copy of Lt. David Cooper’s Memoir.

  So he had got it. Stephanie picked up the receipt and showed Michael’s mother.

  “Do you know if Michael left this at your place?” she asked.

  Mrs Morgan looked at the receipt. “Is that for your great-uncle’s book? Michael showed me. He was very excited about it and he was bringing it to give to you.” She looked around the room. “It’s not here, is it? The police emptied out the car and brought his jacket and iPad, but there was no book,” she frowned. “I wonder if it was thrown from the car?”

  Or stolen from the car, Stephanie thought grimly.

  But to Michael’s mother she said, “It’s not important now. We can look for it once Michael is back on his feet.”

  A thought suddenly crossed her mind. The receipt was for a copy of the memoir, which meant that the original must still be at the library.

  Stephanie glanced at her watch. It was four o’clock. Hopefully, the library would still be open.

  “Mrs Morgan, I’m going to have to go – Grandma is expecting me at home. I came straight here from the station as soon as I heard. But I will pop back in after dinner, if that’s okay,” she said.

  “Of course, Stephanie. Give me your number, so I can let you know if there is any change,” Mrs Morgan said, pulling her mobile phone from her pocket.

  They exchanged phone numbers and Stephanie hugged her goodbye and gave Michael’s hand a squeeze.

  She hurried from the hospital, down the hill to the library. It was still open. She had guessed correctly. Michael had checked out a copy, but the original was still available to be read. She sat in the library’s tiny reading room, wearing cotton gloves, so as not to damage the fragile book.

  David’s writing was hard to read. She quickly scanned through the early sections on his childhood, education and air force training – she could come back and read those later. Her heart began to race as she reached the section entitled World War II. She had to force herself to slow down and read carefully. He mentioned that his sister Sophie was seeing his friend Edward Knox and several dinners they shared whilst on leave. She and David had begun to suspect that all wasn’t right with the Knox family and their many foreign house guests. Other people had obviously noticed too, as the Ministry of Defence launched an enquiry into the family. Edward had been livid and he and David had argued.

  Stephanie looked at her watch. It was ten to five – she would get thrown out of there shortly. She flicked over a few pages; an entry dated June 1946 caught her attention:

  I do believe that old man Knox is storing artworks stolen by the Nazis, but as yet I have been unable to prove it! All of the visitors before and at the start of the war had one thing in common – they were wealthy Germans, and we now know for a fact that Hitler was forcibly confiscating art works, particularly those belonging to Jews or by artists he deemed to be Degenerate. And of course, we were to find out after the war, that he would also plunder all the major galleries and cultural institutions of Europe.

  Stephanie gasped. Oh my God – I have come to a similar conclusion about the Knoxes, so there is something going on here. She kept reading. There were more pages on the subject, covering his investigations and conclusions. However, at that moment the librarian came into the room and told her time was up and they were closing. She was welcome to come back when they were open again.

  Stephanie looked longingly at the memoir. She felt it still had more to tell her. In fact she hadn’t read anything on Sophie’s death and from what her grandmother had told her, it was David who believed that it wasn’t an accident, so he was sure to have written a lot about that.

  Stephanie sighed and reluctantly handed the book and gloves to the librarian. It would have to be Monday now, as the library was closed on Sundays, but she checked with the librarian, just in case that had changed.

  “No, we are closed now until Monday,” the librarian confirmed. “It must be a good book. You are the third person to enq
uire about it in as many days.”

  “It’s my great-uncle’s memoir,” Stephanie replied. “My friend Michael borrowed a copy of it for me, as I was out of town, but who else wanted it?”

  The librarian went back to the front desk and tapped on the computer. “It doesn’t say who requested it, I’m afraid. I wasn’t here, but I know that when I went to retrieve it for Michael, it had already been brought out of the archive and was waiting to be put back. It was only when I scanned it for him to take into the reading room, that I noticed that there was a copy, which is the one that I loaned out to him,” she explained. “We have started copying the old memoirs as some of the pages are deteriorating.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” Stephanie said, the cold feeling engulfing her again. She seemed to be several steps behind whoever else was looking into events in the village during the war.