In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  They had reached Bloomsbury Street. They turned the corner and walked north.

  And there it was. Not quite at Bedford Square, but close enough that the establishment could get away with expropriating its name.

  “Hic est the hotel,” Mr. Deeley said.

  It had, Charlie thought, seen better days. An imposing Portland stone archway curved over its big front doors, flanked by a pair of matching stone columns. The grey stone facade carried on along the building’s ground floor, which was lined with ornate windows that she imagined had once been dressed with deep blue velvet curtains, but which now just looked shabby and faded. Higher up, soot blackened the white window sashes, and the windows were streaked and dirty.

  Inside, the same shabbiness prevailed. The marble floor looked in need of a good cleaning. There was a reception desk with dull brass fittings, and, across from it, two lifts, one of which wasn’t working, as evidenced by a handwritten apologetic sign on a stand. A curving marble staircase led to the upper floors, foot-worn, its banisters in need of a thorough polish. And of course, placed at strategic points throughout the lobby, were the requisite buckets of water and sand, along with several very used-looking stirrup pumps.

  It was respectable, Charlie thought, remembering Betty’s words. Or had been, before the war. Now it just seemed weary. Exhausted—like the Londoners she’d observed on the tube.

  “Hello! So pleased you’ve come!”

  It was their fair-haired gentleman, looking far more presentable in daylight than he had the night before. He’d exchanged his dusty bomb site clothes for a comfortable grey wool suit, with a clean white shirt and a deep red tie.

  “Are you hungry? I’m starving. There’s a pleasant restaurant here. And it’s nearly lunchtime. Will you join me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The restaurant was adjacent to the hotel’s reception area, and was, to Charlie’s surprise, nearly full. She had thought that wartime austerity would have affected eating establishments—if only because of the shortage of food—but this was evidently not the case.

  An efficient gentleman in formal attire seated them at a table beside one of the windows with the faded blue velvet curtains.

  The lunchtime diners were mix of men and women, the men mostly in suits, the women in rather functional-looking skirts and blouses. Charlie guessed they were people who had business in London. Shoppers, perhaps, or those who worked or lived nearby, or who had made the hotel their home, on a temporary or full-time basis. On nearby racks hung their overcoats and hats, and on the floor beside their chairs their gas masks, in cardboard boxes, awaited the attack that was never going to materialize.

  Luncheon menus were offered, and a waitress in a black dress, white pinafore, and black-and-white cap arrived almost immediately to take their orders.

  “As you can see,” the gentleman said, helpfully, as if he’d been reading Charlie’s mind, “the food in restaurants is not rationed. It is what makes living in this establishment such an attractive proposition. But you are only allowed a fish course, or a meat course, one or the other, not both. Also, icing has been banished from the cakes, which I consider particularly appalling.”

  “Highly inconvenient,” Mr. Deeley agreed. “I shall therefore go without.”

  “Fried fillet of cod, I think,” the gentleman said, to the waitress, whom he seemed to know quite well. “With mixed carrots and turnips. And a cup of tea, if you wouldn’t mind, Violet.”

  Charlie glanced over the single-page menu. There were really only a handful of choices. Nothing appealed to her at all, and she found herself, rather shamefully, longing for something familiar and comfortable. A Big Mac. Or something from Burger King.

  “I shall have meat pie and chipped potatoes,” Mr. Deeley decided.

  “I suppose I’ll have the same,” Charlie said.

  “Tea for both of you?”

  “Yes please,” Mr. Deeley replied. “Since I’m to be denied a satisfactory confection for afterwards.”

  Violet collected their menus, and left.

  “Let us begin,” the gentleman said, “and thereby, I hope, allay any concerns we may harbour about one another. May I know your names?”

  “I’m Charlotte and this is Shaun.”

  “Thaddeus Quinn,” the gentleman replied, extending his hand across the table, and shaking each of theirs in turn.

  “Sorry…?” Charlie said.

  “I thought that might be your reaction. Thaddeus Quinn.”

  “My curiosity,” said Mr. Deeley, “is aroused by my knowledge of the existence of a second individual with exactly the same name as the one you have just given us. Are you familiar with this gentleman?”

  The fair-haired man laughed.

  “I understand your scepticism, sir. And yes, I am familiar with him. But he is not Thaddeus Quinn. He is called Silas Ferryman. He has stolen my identity, and used it as his own. No doubt if you were to ask him for some form of official document to prove who he is, he would be unable to supply it.”

  “Silas Ferryman,” Charlie repeated.

  “The name is known to you?”

  “It is,” Charlie said. “Where we live, in Stoneford, Reg Ferryman is the proprietor of The Dog’s Watch Inn. And one of his ancestors, in the 1800s, was called Silas. He was married to a woman named Matilda, who was a victim of a serial killer they nicknamed the Middlehurst Slasher.”

  “Indeed. I hope you are now able to understand my very keen interest in the idea of travelling in time.”

  Their tea arrived in cups with saucers, accompanied by a little china jug of milk, and a matching bowl containing precisely six lumps of sugar. The fair-haired gentleman poured the milk into his tea, and stirred in two of the six lumps.

  “Do continue,” Mr. Deeley suggested, when Violet had gone.

  “I shall. In December 1849, I was a police officer employed at the constabulary in Middlehurst, when my sister, Matilda, was brutally murdered. As you have described, she was the last of three women who had been discovered over a period of two years with their throats cut. It was my contention that they needed not look far beyond the four walls of my sister’s cottage for the killer.”

  “Silas Ferryman was the Middlehurst Slasher?” Charlie said.

  “That is my belief. He was unable to provide proof of his whereabouts for more than an hour on that night. And as for a possible motive, my sister’s marriage was not a happy one. They had no children. This was not by accident, but by deliberate design, and the design was of my sister’s making. She disliked, shall we say, the act that would lead to issue. Almost as much as she disliked her husband.”

  Charlie nudged Mr. Deeley. “Wait until Reg Ferryman hears about this.”

  “I determined that I would interview Mr. Ferryman, but I arrived at his place of employment only to discover he was about to quit the village. I pursued him on foot, and had hold of his arm, when, unaccountably, I discovered the two of us were no longer in Middlehurst, in 1849, but in here, in London. And that, unaccountably, we had undertaken a passage of nearly a hundred years into the future. Unfortunately I was then struck over the head, which rendered me insensible. Ferryman fled. I have only very recently been able to locate him once again. Which is why I was to be found loitering in Harris Road last night.”

  “If you were a police constable in 1849,” Charlie said, “where’s your uniform?”

  “I assure you I do have in my possession a proper police uniform—it was what I was wearing at the time—however it is not with me at this moment. It is hanging in the cupboard, upstairs, in my room.”

  “And do you have any papers which might prove you are who you say?” Mr. Deeley inquired.

  “None which specifically state my occupation,” the gentleman replied. “For which I apologize, but in 1849, it was not required, especially in a village the size of Middlehurst.”

  Their lunches arrived.

  “Thank you, Violet. Have you given any thought to my invitation to dinner this evening?”r />
  The waitress looked slightly embarrassed. “Not yet, Mr. Quinn.”

  “Never mind. Plenty of time.”

  Violet hurried away, and Charlie investigated her meat pie. The crust was rather nice, but she wasn’t altogether certain what was underneath it. She had a terrible feeling it might be rabbit. She had never eaten rabbit, and wasn’t sure what it would actually taste like. A cursory investigation resulted in the conclusion that it was not rabbit at all, but beef and kidney, and that the pie also contained carrots, peas and potatoes.

  “You still doubt me,” the gentleman suggested. “And my intentions.”

  Charlie didn’t say anything.

  “What are your intentions?” Mr. Deeley inquired.

  “Having at last located Silas Ferryman, my only desire now is to return him to 1849, to face justice. You are staying at Number Twelve, are you not? The home of the Singleton family?”

  “We are,” Mr. Deeley replied.

  “I have had the house under observation for some days. I did not see you arrive. Are you related to the family?”

  “We’re friends with Ruby, Betty’s next door neighbour,” Charlie said, not untruthfully. “We came to see her, but she was away.”

  “She has gone to Basingstoke,” Mr. Deeley added.

  “Betty simply offered to let us stay with her until Ruby comes back.”

  “Tomorrow,” Mr. Deeley said helpfully.

  “Yes, I am acquainted with Mrs. Firth,” said the fair-haired gentleman. “So you know nothing about this fellow who is calling himself Thaddeus Quinn? And you have nothing to do with him?”

  “Nothing whatsoever,” Charlie lied. “We’ve only just met him.”

  “Then I must advise you, he is a thief as well as a killer. After dispatching my poor dear sister, he made off with a considerable sum of money. He is also capable of deception upon a grand scale, maintaining a pleasant demeanour which masks an evil, duplicitous personality.”

  He paused as Violet returned to remove the remnants of Charlie’s meat pie, and the empty plates belonging to himself and Mr. Deeley.

  “What have you for afters?” the fair-haired gentleman inquired.

  “Today’s sweet is steamed fruit roll with custard, Mr. Quinn. And there’s also a very nice raisin roll, with custard. An apple tart, with custard. Stewed figs, and custard. And gooseberry tart.”

  “With custard?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I shall have the gooseberry tart,” the fair-haired gentleman decided. “Anything for you two?”

  Charlie shook her head.

  “I shall sample the stewed figs,” said Mr. Deeley.

  “And another cup of tea, if you wouldn’t mind, Violet. Still thinking about dinner…?”

  “I’d have to let my mum know…. She always has supper waiting….”

  “Do, then. It would make such a nice change for you. And afterwards we could go dancing.”

  “And then you’ll see me home safely? There’s ever such funny people about. That poor girl down in Balham…”

  “I promise I shall see you home, safe and sound.”

  Violet left again, and was back a few moments later with his gooseberry tart, and a bowl of stewed figs for Mr. Deeley.

  “Yes, then?” the fair-haired gentleman prodded.

  “Yes,” Violet decided.

  “Shall we meet outside? Seven o’clock? Give you time to change into your civvies and put on some fresh lipstick?”

  “Yes,” Violet said again, more certain of herself this time.

  “Lovely. See you at seven.”

  “How is it,” Charlie said, when Violet had again gone, “that you were able to finally locate this Silas Ferryman person?”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Deeley concurred. “It seems to me that London is a very large city. The fortuitousness of your luck astounds me.”

  But before the fair-haired gentleman could respond, a siren very close to the hotel began to moan, which precipitated a decisive and unanimous groan from the restaurant’s customers, and an immediate rush for hats, coats, and gas masks.

  The maître d’ of the restaurant cleared his throat importantly, and shouted out instructions so that he could be heard above the air raid warning.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll follow me please, I’ll escort you down to our cellar!”

  • • •

  The hotel’s air raid shelter had, in a previous life, been its nightclub. But the nightclub been closed down for the duration of the war, and its dance floor and seating area turned into emergency accommodations for the hotel’s guests.

  There was a sleeping space at the back, with beds and folding cots, for patrons disturbed by night raids. And at the front, adjacent to what had once been a well-stocked bar, a waiting area had been created with surplus chairs and a few tables, to accommodate those displaced by the Luftwaffe’s daylight bombing runs.

  It was into this front waiting area that Charlie, Mr. Deeley and the fair-haired gentleman were ushered, along with the other customers from the restaurant, all of the hotel’s daytime staff, and a number of guests who had been evacuated from its upstairs rooms.

  It was, Charlie observed, a rather interesting cross-section of London life. Not nearly as intriguing as the collection of secret agents, displaced aristocrats, and near-cousins of royalty whom she’d read about moving into London’s top-flight hotels at the start of the war. The Bedford Square Hotel was not luxurious, and it was not as handily located as its West End counterparts, the Ritz and the Savoy. Nevertheless, their fellow shelterers were an instant source of fascination to her. Men wearing military uniforms from several different countries. WAAFs and women from the Voluntary Services. Chambermaids and front desk clerks. One or two gentlemen who looked like newspaper reporters but could just as easily have been German spies.

  “Well,” the fair-haired gentleman said, tucking into the remains of his dessert, which he’d had the presence of mind to bring with him as the restaurant had been abandoned. “At least the gooseberry tart will be safe from Hitler.”

  “Why did you invite us to lunch?” Charlie said. “Other than our mutual interest in time travelling.”

  “But it was that very thing,” the fair-haired gentleman replied. “My curiosity was aroused when I overheard your conversation about altering the future. I knew that Silas Ferryman had moved into a room at Number Twelve, and because I observed that you, too, had come from there, I wondered whether you and he had been previously acquainted.”

  “You must therefore now be satisfied,” Mr. Deeley said, “that we have never before encountered this fellow who calls himself Thaddeus Quinn.”

  “He is not Thaddeus Quinn,” the fair-haired gentleman repeated, a little impatiently. “He is a poor impostor.”

  “Whoever and whatever he is,” Charlie repeated, “we’ve never met him before.”

  “But you are time travellers.”

  “Yes, but only by accident. We didn’t come here deliberately. We went into an air raid shelter and all of a sudden it was 1940.”

  In the far distance, Charlie could hear thuds. Rumbling explosions, at intervals, growing louder as they travelled closer. And with each thud came a small corresponding shake in the earth surrounding the hotel’s cellar. Nervously, she reached for Mr. Deeley’s hand. Last night’s bombing had been one thing, but this was quite another. She had no idea if the Bedford Square Hotel had survived the war without being damaged.

  “I understand your dilemma only too well,” the fair-haired gentleman said. “As I explained, I shall make it my principal task to return Ferryman to the time we originally came from. Of course, he would prefer to see me dead before he would ever allow that to happen, as I appear to possess the one thing he does not: the ability to travel backwards and forwards in time, at will.”

  There was another loud THUD, and Mr. Deeley observed the ceiling, which housed a number of electric lights that swayed perceptibly with each increasing explosion.

  �
��Might we not be better accommodated underneath one of these tables?” he suggested.

  “Nonsense,” said a well-heeled fellow who was sitting nearby. “Built like bunkers, these old hotels. I reckon we could survive anything down here except a direct hit. They say the Prime Minister’s got an underground bolt-hole just like this where he eats, sleeps, and runs England.”

  “Yes,” Charlie said, “Churchill’s War Rooms.”

  She stopped. Loose lips could sink ships. She would say nothing further about the British government’s top-secret headquarters underneath the Treasury building in Whitehall. Even though she’d toured its restored site twice (it was, in the present, one of the branches of the Imperial War Museum), had seen the Map Room and Churchill’s Bedroom, and had bought a Dig for Victory poster and a Keep Calm and Carry On mug in the gift shop. It all seemed rather far away and superficial now. Something jolly and entertaining, like the Blackout Ration Chocolate Bar that went for £4.50, or the tin of Ration Tea for £5.00.

  The real thing was going on outside, and all around her. She hung onto Mr. Deeley’s hand just a little bit tighter.

  The fair-haired gentleman finished his gooseberry tart, and placed the plate on the floor beside his chair.

  “You now know a good deal about me,” he said, “however I know precious little about you. If you don’t mind my asking, what time have you come from? And what are your last names?”

  “We have come from seventy-three years in the future,” Mr. Deeley replied.

  “And we are Charlotte Duran and Shaun Deeley,” Charlie said.

  “Deeley?” the fair-haired gentleman repeated, just as an enormous BANG jarred the room, as if it had been struck by a giant battering ram. Everything shook. The lights dimmed and flickered, but did not go out.

  Charlie dived under the table, and was quickly joined by Mr. Deeley and the fair-haired gentleman.