Shroud of Darkness

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “And nobody ever claimed him, or reported he was missing?” asked Macdonald.

  “Nobody,” she replied. “It wasn’t for lack of asking. They came again and again, and had folks up to see him, but nobody knew him. Of course some of the people from the government offices wanted to put him in a home, but Dr. Carson stood out against that. ‘You’ve got enough of these poor souls on your hands,’ he said, ‘every institution crammed with homeless folk. This boy’s got a home here, and someone to care for him. Let him be, do.’ So they let me keep him, poor lamb that he was. And I loved him from the first, loved him like my own, from the time I took his scorched rags off him and washed him and fed him like a baby, him fast asleep, poor mite.”

  “And he never told you what had happened?” asked Macdonald.

  “Never. He didn’t know. As weeks went by he talked more and more: he could read. That came back bit by bit, and counting and adding up—though I never was sure if he picked it up again from me. He was a clever little boy, Dick was. He was always clever.”

  “How old did you think he was?”

  “Eight or nine. We decided he was nine, and we gave him a birthday—Lady Day—and we called him Richard, after the baby boy I lost. And he went to school that September, like the other children, and was entered as Dick Greville, and he never looked back. He was good at books, and Teacher thought the world of him. But he’s never remembered what happened, though we told him just how he’d come to us. ’Twas only fair to tell him.” Again she was silent for a moment, gazing out of the window to the distant tors.

  “The good Lord knows how many was killed in Plymouth that night,” she said. “They counted and reckoned as best they could, and entered all the missing, but in a seaport like Plymouth, how could they tell how many was killed, or who they all were? You know the way folks poured out of London, away from the bombing, thinking to be safe in the west country. My man and me, we thought our Dick and his folks must have come from away, spending a night in Plymouth, mayhap, before they went on down into Cornwall, trains being that late—you know how ’twas. And his folk got killed and he escaped, and ran out of the town, up Crown Hill as likely as not, with the bombs and guns going all round him and everything afire. Could you wonder it near drove the child crazy?”

  2

  It was an extraordinary story, pondered Macdonald—but the night of the Plymouth blitz had been an extraordinary night. People had survived in the streets; some, indeed, had fled, mad with terror, from blazing houses. They had run, as terrified animals run, from that inferno of fire, and Macdonald was quite willing to believe that a sturdy small boy, bereft of his senses by the horror of it all, might have run until he dropped, right up in the hills under the blessed benison of a sky which boded no ill. But it was unusual to hear of a case in which loss of memory had been permanent—if it had been permanent.

  This was the lad of whom Sally Dillon had spoken. “I said the fog was like smoke wreaths, evil and choking, and I wished I hadn’t said it, because he looked so distressed.”

  Mrs. Greville sat back in her chair, immersed in memory: apparently she was not tired by talking; it even seemed to have been a relief to her to repeat that story, which must have had so much effect on her life, for it was obvious the boy was the joy of her old age.

  As they sat silent for a moment, the door opened and Margie came in with a small tray, her cheeks flushed, her eyes smouldering, and Macdonald could see that she resented this stranger to whom her mother had been talking so eagerly.

  “I’ve brought your hot drink, Mother, and ’tis time you rested.”

  “Don’t you fret about me, dearie. I’m stronger than you think,” rejoined Mrs. Greville. “This gentleman’s came all the way from London to tell me our Dick’s had an accident, Margie. He was knocked down in the fog and he’s in hospital.” She turned back to Macdonald. “I don’t even know your name, sir. I’d like to know it—and I’m grateful to you for thinking to come so far.”

  “My name’s Robert Macdonald, Mrs. Greville. I’m a police officer. It’s our job to get in touch with the parents of lads who meet with accidents in London, you know.”

  He spoke very simply, realising that this woman who lived so far away from crowds and streets and policemen would accept his words unquestioningly, but even as he spoke he glanced up at Margie and caught the look in her dark eyes. Was it surprise, curiosity—or hope?

  In a second there flashed across Macdonald’s mind a realisation of the position implied in the story he had just heard: a widowed mother, an adopted son whom she loved devotedly, and a daughter who seemed to brood and tended to scold.

  “Dick—is he bad, then?” asked Margie, and Macdonald could have sworn it was hopefulness that gleamed in her eyes.

  “He was very badly hurt,” rejoined Macdonald, “but the hospital people are satisfied with the way he’s getting on.”

  “How did it happen?” she asked. “Was it one of these motor accidents?”

  “We don’t know,” replied Macdonald. “If it was a traffic accident, no witness has come forward to give evidence about it, and the boy hasn’t been able to tell us anything. It was partly on that account that I wanted to talk to Mrs. Greville: I thought perhaps she would tell me what he was doing in London, where he was going, and so forth.”

  “Of course I’ll tell you all I can,” said the old lady, but Margie put in:

  “Mother, you’ve talked enough. You’ll be awearing of yourself out. If there’s questions must be answered, let me do the talking.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Greville quietly. “Not about Dick. You know naught about him, Margie. You go and get on with the cooking like the good child you be. If Dick’s in trouble, it’s me has to think for him.”

  “If you can’t trust your own daughter it’s a fine thing,” she flashed back. “Here I’ve come and left my own home to look after you, and all I get is: ‘You go and do the cooking.’ Oh, I’m sorry to speak so sharp, but I get that mad——”

  She turned on her heel and flung out of the door, and Mrs. Greville sighed.

  “You can see how ’tis,” she said sadly. “Mayhap it wasn’t fair to Margie. I tried to do right, but Dick seemed to need me so much more when he was small. He wasn’t like other boys.”

  “I think I understand, Mrs. Greville,” said Macdonald. “Now I don’t want you to get overtired and I know this must have been a shock to you——”

  “Nay. I was thankful to talk to you,” she said. “You see, I’d been worrying. I felt there was something wrong. . . .”

  “Can you tell me what it was that worried you?” asked Macdonald.

  “Indeed, I’ll try . . . but it’d be easier if I told you my own way, like I did about finding Dick out on Roborough Down. As you get old you talk to yourself—or it seems like that. It’s all plain when I think it to myself, but if so be I’m asked questions—when and why and who—then I get muddled and forget.”

  “I’d much rather you told me in your own way, Mrs. Greville. You gave me a wonderfully clear description of finding your Dick, and looking after him when he slept and slept, and I do understand just what you mean when you say he’s not like other boys and that he needed you even more than the strong, healthy daughter needed you. So tell me things as they come into your mind. There’s no hurry. I’m here to help you, not to worry you.” Suddenly she smiled at him. “You say you’re a policeman, so I suppose it’s true; but there’s something kind about you. I knew that when you first told me about Dick being hurt . . . so maybe we’ll see it through together.”

  “We’ll try,” replied Macdonald.

  3

  “I told you Dick went to the village school,” she said. “He was a good learner—books came easy to him. He got his scholarship and went on to the grammar school. But I knew he had his bad times, too. Sometimes he’d go off by himself, wandering . . . and maybe his mind wandered too. I used to think he tried to get it all back—all he’d forgotten—and then he’d come back and sleep for ho
urs, as though he was tired to death, and when he woke up, ’twas all right again.”

  “Did he ever tell you anything about his wanderings?” asked Macdonald.

  “No—I don’t think he’d anything he could tell. It was as though he were in a maze like, being lost in the mists we get up here on the moor. But after a while, he grew out of it. He was the happiest boy, and everything came easy to him, books and prizes and games. They thought a lot of him at school: the headmaster wanted him to be a doctor or a scientist. But no, Dick’s always said he’d farm. He loved the farm. So then the headmaster said: ‘Well if he’s set on farming let him learn the right way of it’—meaning the science of it. I don’t understand all this modem learning, but they said he could go to college and study agriculture. Maybe you know the sort of thing they mean. It’s all strange to me. Why, my folks has farmed for generations, and good farmers, too, with none of this book learning. But there, ’tis modern ideas, and all I wanted was for Dick to have the best he could have.” She paused again, in the way which Macdonald had noticed before, and then went on: “ ’Twas all settled. He was to go to some college which’d teach him all about breeding and modern ways of tending the stock and resowing grasslands and the like. I want to tell you this so you know everything seemed right and happy for him and no bothers. They’d even got the college fixed—Reading he was to go to. They said it was the best place for him.”

  “Yes. That’s quite true. There’s a good department of agriculture at Reading University,” said Macdonald.

  His voice was quite even: it didn’t reflect the way his mind had jumped . . . Reading . . . Was it going to work out this way?

  “But then there was his National Service,” went on Mrs. Greville. “Dick wanted to do that. He wouldn’t shirk it, even though he could have got out of it, they said, with him meaning to farm. I’m not sure about that, but he joined up, same as all the lads do, and he went to camp. And how I missed him!” she sighed. “My husband, he died three years ago, and I kept this place on with two good men. . . . I wanted to keep it till Dick was settled, but, dear life, it was sad without him. He went abroad after a time, to Egypt, and then to Germany. And at last he came back. He was different. I can’t tell you just what it was, but there was a cloud over him. He didn’t talk to me like he used. He’d sit quiet, brooding, and then he’d start a sentence and not finish it. I was sure what his trouble was—things was coming back to him. Things he’d forgotten. But it was the same as it was when he had his bad days when he was a young boy, he couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t fit it together.”

  She was twisting her hands together unhappily, the gnarled fingers working distressfully. “I couldn’t bear to see him like that. I tried to get him to tell me what ailed him. When he first came here, they sent him to these psychologist doctors as they call them—but it wasn’t any good. He just went dumb with strangers. But I remember one of the doctors said to me: ‘Wait till he’s older, when he’s got stronger and the shock’s worn off, and then send him to me again.’ ” She looked across at Macdonald and said slowly: “I didn’t send him. Maybe I didn’t want to send him. He was well and happy . . . and he’d grown to be ours. I didn’t want him upset.”

  Macdonald nodded: he understood what she meant. She went on: “But when he came back from soldiering and he was so different, I asked him if he’d like to see one of these doctors, and he said he’d talked it over with Brian, when they were in Germany together—Brian knows all about Dick—and he was going to see some doctor whose name he’d got from a friend. And it was that same evening he told me, I went and got ill with my heart, and I couldn’t talk to him again for a while. They wouldn’t let me talk.” She gave a long sigh, and Macdonald looked with concern at her pallid face.

  “Nay, don’t you be like the rest and tell me to stay quiet,” she said. “I’ve nearly done. Dick, he stayed at home here until he saw I was safely on the way to being myself again, and then he said he was going to see the people at this college he’s going to, but first he was going up to London to see this psychologist doctor, and that’s how it was.” She hesitated, and then asked sadly: “Could it ha’ been he got worried and muddled and unhappy with it all, and just got knocked down not looking where he was going?”

  “It might have been,” said Macdonald gently. He couldn’t tell this ashen-faced woman what had really happened to her boy. That would have to wait.

  He got up, saying: “You’ve been very brave to tell me all about the boy. I’m glad you’ve told me, because the doctors who are looking after him ought to be told. Now there’s only one other thing I want you to tell me: this lad Brian, who is Dick’s friend—what is his other name, and where is he living now?”

  “Brian Salcombe—why, he lives down to Long Barrow Farm: Horrabridge that’s near. Not far away. Brian and Dick’s going to set up farming together one day.”

  “Good luck to them,” said Macdonald. “Now I’ll write down the name of the hospital where Dick is now, and I’ll see that somebody writes to you and gives you news of him. And I’ll come and see you again if I may before I go back to London.”

  “You’ll be very welcome,” she said. “Somehow it’s helped telling you everything. I’ve been that worried. . . .”

  “I’m glad it’s helped: talking does help when you’re worried,” said Macdonald, “but you’ve talked quite enough for now. You see I’m just like the others, telling you to stay quiet.”

  She smiled, a gleam of mischief shining in her eyes. “And if Margie gives you a piece of her mind when you go out through the kitchen, don’t you be put out. It’s hard for Margie. . . .”

  “I won’t be put out—even though Margie puts me out,” responded Macdonald. “There’s just one other thing: do you mind if I go up to Dick’s room and look through his things? I think the hospital would be glad if I took an extra pair of pyjamas, and a few things like that. I know just about what he wants, so you needn’t bother to help me.”

  She smiled back at him. “That’s right kind of you to think of it, sir. You go straight up. The stairs are just outside this door, and his room’s at the top. All his things are washed and tidy, I do know that. You just take what you think.”

  Macdonald went up to the little room close under the overhanging eaves: it took him a very short time to look through the boy’s belongings. He found nothing to help his case, though he took a book from beside the bed to satisfy the policeman’s inevitable demand for fingerprints “to check by.” Then, with two suits of new pyjamas neatly rolled up under his arm, he made his way downstairs again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN MACDONALD went into the kitchen again, Margie was rolling out pastry on the kitchen table, and judging by the smouldering resentment in her eyes, Macdonald wouldn’t have been greatly surprised if she had set about him with the rolling pin.

  “You did ought to be properly ashamed,” she burst out: “if she dies, ’twill be your fault, letting her tire herself out talking and worrying when all the doctors say she must have quiet.”

  “In spite of what the doctors say, I don’t think talking has done her any harm,” said Macdonald. “She was worrying about the boy, and it was a relief to her mind to talk about him. But I’ll see that her doctor comes out to see her, if you’ll tell me his name——”

  “And how pleased d’you think Doctor’ll be, having to come out here again?” she flashed back. “It’s mad for her to live out here. Half the time in winter you can’t get here at all, what with snowdrifts and mist. When Father died, I did beg her to sell the place and come and live with us, and my husband said the same. But no: ’twas Dick’s home, and Dick must have his home to come back to till he was through with all this college nonsense.”

  She slapped the rolling pin on to the dough in a manner that boded ill for the pastry. “And when she’s ill, ’tis me has to come and see to things in this back o’ beyond—no tap water, no electric, no drains—all along of Dick. It do make me that mad!”

  “I
’m sure it must be very difficult,” said Macdonald. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Mrs. Burrow,” she replied. “Our farm’s down in Branscombe, and it’s a proper dairy farm with a good house, and I don’t like coming and pigging it up here on the moor, but no other woman’d take the job on in a house like this. And now what’s all this about Dick?”

  “I can’t tell you anything more than your mother did,” responded Macdonald. “He arrived in London in a very thick fog, and he was found by a police constable, nearby the station. His head was injured and he is still unconscious and we don’t know how he came by his injuries. It’s my job to find out,” he concluded.

  She flashed a glance at him. “And how will it help you coming up here?” she asked.

  “We obviously want to know if he travelled by himself, if friends were to have met him, where he was going, and what his plans were,” replied Macdonald. “I didn’t ask your mother because I didn’t want to worry her. Can you answer any of those questions?”

  “No. I can’t,” she retorted. “Dick doesn’t tell me his plans and I don’t ask. If he’d had any sense, he’d’ve persuaded Mother to come to me when Father died, but no. Let her bide here, he said. And I told him what I thought of him and since then he’s scarce said a word to me. So it’s no use asking me what he was doing or who he was doing it with, because I don’t know.” She threw the rolling pin down, adding bitterly: “He’s had everything: schooling and clothes and pocket money and petting, and I suppose he’ll have the farm into the bargain. That mad, it makes me. He’s a proper cuckoo in the nest, is Dick.”

  Suddenly she sat down, and Macdonald saw that she was trembling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s no way to talk, to a stranger and all. I always was one to lose my temper. I’m sure you meant kindly, coming all this way, but things have got me down. And if you were in my place here you’d know what I mean. It’s Dick this and Dick that till I’m tired of it, and not a soul to see from morning till night. You talk about fog in London. You try the fog up here. All yesterday ’twas like a pall, and nobody could ha’ got here, no matter what.”