by Winona Kent
“Interesting,” Nick replied. “A focused electrical charge, then.”
“Among other things, which I cannot pretend to understand.”
“And what was it like?” Nick said, sitting forward on his chair. “What did it feel like, to be transported like that?”
“It was the most terrifying experience of my life,” Shaun answered. “And, to be honest, it is not a journey I am anxious to repeat.”
“But how did you arrive here?”
“In an instant. Without any lightning strikes whatsoever. And previous to that, I—we—travelled to the year 1940. Again, without any sort of electrical interference at all.”
“So what, then, do you think caused those journeys?”
Shaun thought for a moment.
“I believe the travel back to 1940 was precipitated by a lump of metal. It was a relic from the war, given to Charlotte by a woman called Ruby Firth, who once lived in the house next door to this one.”
“I remember Ruby,” Wendy said, finishing the bandaging on Shaun’s arm. She snipped one last piece of adhesive tape from the roll and pressed it into place. “There you are. Much quicker than A&E at the hospital.” She gave him a highly suspicious look. “And no questions asked.”
“I am indebted to you,” Shaun replied.
“Ruby was great friends with my mum when I was growing up. But I haven’t seen her in years. Her grandson lives in the house now. Andy Wiggins.”
“I have met him,” Shaun said. “He drove me to the university this morning. I had no idea he was Ruby’s grandson. Perhaps he could shed some light on the lump of metal.”
“Oh yes, that’ll go down well,” Wendy said, collecting the bandages and tape and antiseptic. “Mention you were born in the eighteenth century while you’re at it. He’ll love that.”
She went back upstairs.
“And what’s in the suitcase?” Nick hinted.
Shaun opened it, to reveal the two boxes within. And then he opened the gas mask box, and arranged the jewellery and the newspaper clippings on the table.
“Is any of this familiar to you?”
“I’ve not seen any of it before,” Nick said. “Why do you ask?”
“Have you never heard of the Middlehurst Slasher…?”
Nick shook his head. “Should I?”
“I suppose not.”
Shaun picked up the locket, and held it, delicately, in the palm of his hand, to show Nick. “I gave this to Jemima Beckford to celebrate her twenty-first birthday, in 1815.” He paused, to try and gauge Nick’s reaction. But if Nick doubted him, he did not, this time, betray any scepticism.
“If you were to research the Middlehurst Slasher on your computer, you would learn that he killed three women in 1849, in the New Forest near Southampton, and that he took from each of them an item of jewellery. One was a bracelet—here. And another was a silver ring. Here. And the third was this locket, stolen from Jemima’s daughter, Matilda.”
“And how did these come to be in my grandmother’s air raid shelter?” Nick said.
“Again, this is something I do not know. Although I have developed a very good theory.” Shaun paused again, smiling.
Nick laughed. “Go on.”
“I believe that the Middlehurst Slasher was a traveller in time, like myself. Two similar murders were committed in 1940—here you see the jewellery that the killer collected. And here are two stories from a newspaper from that time, detailing the killings. And everything was put here in this gas mask box. I believe this suitcase belonged to the man who is responsible for all five of these foul acts.”
“That is intriguing,” Nick agreed. “But still no explanation for their presence in my grandmother’s air raid shelter.”
Wendy returned from her excursion upstairs.
“You’d have noticed it, wouldn’t you, Mum? That suitcase in Nana’s shelter?”
“Not me,” Wendy said. “I was never allowed near the place when I was growing up. And neither were you or your sister when I brought you to visit. It was Mum’s private domain. She used to disappear down there for hours at a time.”
“You ought to show Nick the blue cooking pamphlet,” Shaun said.
Wendy retrieved it from the drawer in the sideboard, and placed it on the table in front of Nick.
“The note on the back was written by your grandmother in 1940,” Shaun said. “I knew exactly what it said, as I was there during the conversation.”
“That’s true,” Wendy said. “He did know. To the word. And I don’t know how he could have come by that knowledge, really, unless he’d seen the pamphlet before.”
“Not likely,” Nick said. “And still you dismissed him as a fantasist?”
“I’m not one of your scholars, Nick. I did my degree in nursing. It’s very down-to-earth and factual. My experience with self-professed time travellers generally involves medication and a psychiatric evaluation.”
“I apologise on behalf of my mother,” Nick said to Shaun, lifting the camera out of its yellow and black cardboard box. “You used to have one of these, didn’t you, Mum? I remember playing with it when I was small.”
“I did,” Wendy replied, taking it into her hands. “That’s the lens. You point it at what you want to take a picture of, and you look down into the little window on top to see what it’s seeing. You push the lever down here and that’s what takes the photo.”
She looked through the second little window.
“And there’s still film in it.”
• • •
Andy Wiggins opened the door.
“Hello again!” he said, seeing Shaun. “Is this the famous Professor Nick Weller?”
“It is,” Shaun replied. “And once again, many thanks for your kind assistance. I have only just learned that you are the grandson of Ruby Firth.”
“That would be me,” Andy said.
“Does she still live in this house?”
“In memory only, I’m afraid. She passed away three years ago.”
“Ah,” said Shaun. “A shame. I knew her. My condolences.”
“Andy,” Wendy said, holding out the camera. “Look what we’ve found.”
The young man’s eyes lit up. “Excellent,” he said. “That’s an antique. 1937, I should think. Or 1938, judging by the packaging. Instruction booklet and everything. You could get a nice little sum for this if you decided to sell it.”
“You interested?” Wendy asked with a laugh.
“I might be. I’ve got quite a collection of cameras upstairs.”
“It’s still got film in it. Can you work your magic and develop it?”
“Absolutely. It’s 620, the same size as 120. Got a tank that’ll take it, got the chemicals. An hour to develop, fix, rinse, and dry. Another hour for the prints. And I’ve got an old ferrotype dryer I can use to give them a nice glossy shine.”
• • •
Wendy had made a late breakfast in Betty's kitchen: toast with butter and ginger marmalade, and scrambled eggs with grilled tomatoes and sausages. In the dining room, she'd set out three Blue Willow cups and saucers, a little jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. She carried the teapot to the table, covered with one of Betty's striped knitted cosies.
Shaun dug in hungrily.
“I remember Nana loved this ginger marmalade,” Nick said.
“Indeed. In 1940 it was the only marmalade that was available,” Shaun replied.
"This is what I don’t seem to be able to get my head round,” Wendy said. “To be able to travel from the nineteenth century to the twenty-first, and then back again to 1940… and then forward once more… as easily as getting on a train and riding off to Brighton for a day beside the sea.”
“It is nothing at all like riding on a train,” Shaun said. “I only wish it were.”
“And,” said Nick, “to actually meet someone who has come from a different reality. And who personally knows another version of me! Am I much different?”
“You are very much the sam
e,” Shaun assured him. “I would not, in truth, be able to tell you apart from your other good self.” He looked at Wendy. “Nor you. But in the other time that I’ve come from, a woman exists whom I love more constantly than anyone else in the world. And that is why I must find a way back.”
“I do understand,” Wendy said. “Well, I can’t really understand, because it hasn’t happened to me. But I understand the feeling of being disconnected and isolated. I spent a little time in South Africa after I married Toby, and before you were born, Nick. It was a terrible time for the country, and we lived in a gated community. I had no friends there, and I couldn’t go out without Toby worrying about me, so it was easier just to stay at home. It was the best day of my life when Toby was transferred back to England.”
The sound of the front door knocker interrupted their conversation. Wendy got up to let Andy Wiggins in.
“Here we are,” he said, following her into the dining room, handing over a large brown envelope.
Wendy pulled out eight black and white photographs and eight pieces of thin plastic.
“Negatives,” she said, showing them to Shaun. “You don’t see these anymore.”
Shaun examined the pieces of plastic. They were much larger than the little strips with the perforated edges that Mrs. Collins kept in her photograph books. And they were black, without colour.
“I’d guess that all eight photos were taken during the war,” Andy said, “which would have been quite a feat, as film was notoriously difficult to get hold of back then. Whoever took those must have known someone in the business.”
Wendy spread the photographs out on the table.
The first picture showed a copse of trees and wild grasses. A landscape, with no particular beauty or point of interest. The second, a collection of rubble, the remains of a building. In the background Shaun recognized the telltale signs of a bombing—the insides of rooms missing their walls, with dressing tables and beds and chairs exposed to the elements. The third photograph was similar—a bomb site—but in a different location. And the fourth showed a row of brick arches, atop which ran railway tracks, judging by the presence of a train, driven by steam, crossing from the right side of the picture to the left.
The fifth photograph was of a young woman with fair hair. She seemed unaware that her picture was being taken, as she was not facing the camera. She was walking out of what looked like a sweet shop.
The sixth was of another young woman, again seemingly oblivious that the photographer had singled her out as a subject of interest as she approached the entrance to Balham Underground Station. Something on the collar of her coat was catching the sun… was it a brooch?
The seventh picture caused Shaun to pause. It was the waitress from the restaurant in London. Violet. She was wearing her black and white uniform, and the picture had, once again, been taken without her knowledge.
Shaun stopped cold as he saw the eighth and final photograph.
It was Mrs. Collins.
She was standing in the road, looking at the devastation caused by the bombing of Mrs. Crofton’s house. It was morning… the same morning, Shaun realized, that they had travelled up to London to have lunch with the fair-haired gentleman. Mrs. Collins was still wearing her skirt and blouse from their other present time.
Shaun could not stop staring at Mrs. Collins’s face. If the person who had taken these pictures was Silas Ferryman… and if the first two women were Deirdre Allsop and Angela Bailey… and if the first photograph was Mitcham Common… and the second, the bombed house where Angela Bailey’s body had been discovered….
He shook his head, realizing why Ferryman had photographed a different bomb site, and the railway arches.
“Do you know who any of these lovely young women are?” Nick asked his mother.
“Not a clue,” Wendy replied.
“This,” Shaun said, showing them the photograph of Mrs. Collins, “is Charlotte Duran.”
“Oh!” Wendy said. “Well, there’s a mystery cleared up, anyway… Are you all right, Mr. Deeley? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
• • •
He was not all right at all.
He had placed the photograph of the fair-haired young woman with the picture of the copse of trees and wild grasses and then matched both pictures with the tortoiseshell earrings, and the newspaper story about Deirdre Allsop. There. Complete.
Then he placed the photograph of the second young woman, approaching the entrance to the tube station, with the picture of the bombed building, and then the brooch, and then the second newspaper story, which had been about Angela Bailey. Complete again.
And then he matched the photograph of the second bomb site with that of Violet, the waitress. And the last two pictures… the railway arches… and Mrs. Collins.
He placed these last two photographs with the brown envelope that contained the receipts from the cemetery confirming payment for Mrs. Collins’s grave, and the photograph of her headstone.
He had a dark and dreadful feeling, like a dagger tearing into his soul. He knew why Mrs. Collins had died. And by whose hand. And, very likely, where Ferryman had left her body.
He picked up the gas mask case, thinking he would replace the jewellery and the newspaper stories.
Something inside made a tiny rattling sound.
Shaun investigated, wondering what he had missed, and how.
His blood ran cold.
Nestled at the bottom of the box was a slender silver chain. And upon the silver chain was a pendant which said: MRS. COLLINS.
• • •
"The shrapnel seemed to have some sort of... energy,” Shaun said. “It had the ability to make the hands of a timepiece travel backwards. And it became hot, entirely of its own volition. Charlotte was holding it in her hand when we were taken back to 1940. And she kept it in her bag while we were there.”
“Mum paid for her headstone and the upkeep of her grave,” Wendy said. “So it stands to reason that no one else identified or claimed her body… so Mum must have done it.”
“So,” Nick reasoned, “if Nana claimed her body, then her personal effects would have been given to her as well. Might we assume that would include her bag?”
“I think so,” said Wendy.
“Then all we need to do is find Charlotte’s bag,” Nick said. “And we’ll find the shrapnel. And you know Nana, Mum. She never threw anything away.”
“It is made of leather which has been dyed black,” Shaun said. “It has a long carrying strap, and many small compartments.”
“I’m positive I haven’t come across any handbags that sound like that,” Wendy said. “Twenty-three others, yes. But all brown. And one faux alligator. Nothing at all in black leather.”
She paused.
“But I haven’t looked in the air raid shelter.”
• • •
They stood inside Betty Lewis’s private domain, considering what was there: the armchair and hassock, the bookcase, the table, and the chest.
“If you were Nana,” Nick said, “and you wanted to keep something secret and safe for a long, long time… where would you put it?”
“In here,” said Shaun, kneeling down in front of the chest.
It was very old. As old as a similar chest he had seen in Monsieur Duran’s manor, where he had worked in the first decades of the nineteenth century. It was constructed of wood, with a curved lid surfaced with embossed tin, and three reinforcing wooden straps. Its latches and locks were of metal, quite tarnished, but without rust.
He tried the lid, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Key,” Wendy said, thinking. “Where would you keep the key if you were my mum?”
“The sideboard in the dining room?” Nick guessed.
Wendy left the shelter, and was back five minutes later, with a Cadbury chocolate tin filled with keys.
Shaun tried them all, unsuccessfully, until there was only one left.
He inserted it… and the lock clicked.
&n
bsp; He lifted the creaking lid.
Inside were boxes of games: Scrabble and Monopoly and Cluedo. And plastic action men, and toy motor cars and train engines, and an entire family of dolls in various states of undress.
“Our toys,” Nick said. “We used to play in Nana’s sitting room. I can’t believe she kept everything.”
Wendy lifted each item out of the chest and placed it carefully on the shelter’s carpeted wooden floor.
“We had so many toys,” Nick said. “One lot at home. One lot here. I don’t think kids today would know what to do with half of these things. No computers. No Xbox.”
“You were Mum’s only grandchildren,” Wendy reminded him. “She loved to indulge you.”
The chest had been emptied.
“Not there, obviously,” she said, starting to put everything back again.
“One moment,” Shaun said.
He felt around the inside of the chest until his fingers located a nearly invisible slot along one edge. And then another, on the opposite side.
“There,” he said with satisfaction, lifting the false bottom up to reveal what was beneath.
“Oh!” Wendy exclaimed.
“Oh, indeed,” said Shaun.
Nestled in the cavity were three items.
The first was a little black and white photograph, old and faded.
“Thaddeus Quinn,” Shaun said. “Or rather, the man Charlotte and I believed to be Thaddeus Quinn.”
The photograph showed him perching, with great nonchalance, atop the Anderson shelter. He had the same dark hair and the same expression upon his face that Shaun remembered. And he was wearing similar clothing: the same coat and trousers, the same tweed flat cap, and very nearly the same tie and shoes.
Wendy turned the picture over.
On the back someone—likely Betty—had written: Thad, July 1940.
“Any further doubts about Mr. Deeley’s time travelling abilities?” Nick inquired.
The second item was wrapped in tissue, but Shaun recognized the pattern showing through the thin paper immediately, even before Wendy had lifted it out.
“That is a knitted pullover,” he said. “It has a V-shaped neck and no sleeves, and it has a peculiar repeating design, worked in brown and deep orange and yellow, and green and blue. When I saw this pullover in 1940, it was unfinished. You may also find a knitting pattern.”