‘Fine.’ He pushed open a door on to a grim yard with a phalanx of evil-smelling dustbins. A motor stood waiting. ‘Now, where should I take you? Carrie and Mrs Jenkins have been at Brookburn for a couple of days, but now they’re back over the shop. I could take you there or to your grandfather’s.’
‘The shop, please.’
He smiled. ‘I’m glad you said that. It saves me having to rush round the front of the building to deliver a change of plan to Geeson.’ He cranked the starting handle and jumped in, steering the motor carefully out of the shadowy yard. ‘He’s passing the time of day with the reporters and if he happens to drop the name of the road where Major Baxter lives, well, it isn’t his fault if the press acts on information received, is it?’
So he had come for her. Her heart swayed under the impact.
‘Do the reporters know about the flat over the shop?’ she asked.
‘If they don’t, they’ll soon find out. You’ll have to lie low for a while. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy. Your mother’s going to need a lot of help.’
She listened in amazement, shaking her head in disbelief. Mother’s recovery – Ralph’s part in the crime ring – the danger that had stalked Carrie through the fog. Astonishment upon astonishment; and also resentment. She had thought herself to be the one in dire need – the one. Her breath hitched as shame engulfed her. She was a better person than that. She hadn’t always been, but she was now.
Yes, she was bruised, both physically and emotionally. Comfort would be lavished upon her by Carrie, that great looker-afterer, and Mother, however incapacitated, would be filled with concern for her suffering. But as well as receiving their comfort, she would give comfort in return. Her sister and mother had suffered too and she wanted to support them.
And when Evadne Baxter wanted something, she went all out to achieve it.
Chapter Forty-Six
Carrie placed the pot of snowdrops on Joey’s grave and gazed at his inscription, laying a hand against her breastbone. How could Ralph have known her darling little boy wasn’t his? How had he found out? How? Her mind raced, seeking answers – and finding none.
All along, she had thought herself the clever one for providing a decent home for her child and her mam, yet Ralph had known all along. She was the one who had been manipulated. Was she hypocritical to feel wronged, duped – tricked? She had tied herself in knots trying to make good her deception of Ralph. How hard she had tried to please him, to be the best wife she could, to make up for not loving him. Had he ever felt the need to make up for his own deception? Had he tried harder to please her, to be the best husband he could?
No. He had felt no such impulse. If he had wanted to do the decent thing, he would have admitted to knowing her secret. But he hadn’t wanted to do the decent thing. He had wanted to manipulate her. He had been skilled at controlling her, she saw that now, right from the early days of their marriage when she had been so eager to be a suitable wife. From the first, she had let him rule her, because she had so much to be grateful for. But if she was honest, wasn’t it more than that? Hadn’t fear come into it? Ralph was a bully boy and she had learnt to walk on eggshells.
And the ultimate form of control had been those vile letters, which had urged her deeper into grief and self-recrimination, deeper under his control.
The more she thought about it, the more she realised not just how cruel he had been but also how clever. His timing had been faultless. There was the letter that arrived the day following Evadne’s arrest, which had served the dual purpose of distracting her from perhaps finding out that he had been a party to the arrest and also injuring her just as she was emerging from the seclusion that, now she thought about it, had given him power over her every limited move. And that time she had ventured out to see Mr Weston, she had returned to another letter – punishment and sabotage rolled into one, for her attempt to rebuild her life.
In the couple of days she and Mam had spent at Brookburn, they and Adam had agreed on their public story. Blackening Ralph’s name would tarnish – further tarnish – the reputation of his surviving family. She and Mam had clutched one another’s hands. They were already a deserter’s family. But to be a murderer’s family to boot? It was too much. So the murder of Joseph Armstrong must never be spoken of.
All Carrie had told the police was that she had walked in on a row between Ralph and Alex Larter, whereupon Mr Larter, believing her to have overheard and understood something that she hadn’t overheard and therefore couldn’t possibly repeat now, had turned on her. She had escaped into the fog, pursued by Mr Larter, himself pursued by Ralph. No mention was made of the safe, the poison pen letters or the poker; and Mam’s actions remained a secret.
Carrie, clasping Mam’s hand throughout the police questioning, had felt Mam tremble and held on tighter.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispered reassuringly.
But the eyes that had swung round on her snapped with resentment. Mam’s mouth worked before she was able to squeeze out the words. ‘Not scared, not up … set. Angry.’
Who could blame her? Ralph the murderer, of whom she had lived in such fear during her secret recovery, had got away with it in death just as he had in life.
And then there were Ralph’s criminal acts. Carrie shuddered with shame to think she had been married to a thief, and not just any old thief, but one who had stolen from their wartime allies.
Murderer. Thief. Liar. Tormentor. It might be a sin to be glad someone was dead, but honestly, the world was a better place without Ralph Armstrong in it. She had had him buried in Southern Cemetery, which was where everyone was buried these days.
‘I have examined the grave papers and there is still space in the old family grave in Chorlton,’ the undertaker had said.
She went cold, but kept her voice steady. ‘My late husband told me that before his father was buried there, there were two more spaces – now occupied by his father and my son.’
‘Ah, well, Mrs Armstrong, the little boy was so tiny, d’you see? It’s always possible to …’
‘No!’ What? Make Joey budge up to make room for Ralph Armstrong? Not flaming likely. Carrie’s hands balled into fists. She wouldn’t make Joseph Armstrong lie with his murderer, either. ‘I should like my husband to go to Southern Cemetery, please.’
And he did, more or less the moment the coroner released his body. It was a small, private ceremony, attended by just her and Adam, the widow and the brother, both of them already armed with suitable phrases about letting press interest die down, should anyone ask.
If ever anyone deserved to have their misdemeanours paraded for all the world to see, that person, that criminal, that cruel, conniving so-and-so was Ralph Armstrong. He deserved to have his name reviled, but, oh no, this was something else he was going to get away with.
A quiet burial … and they had buried the truth with him.
Adam had arranged for Carrie to meet Mr Drummond, one of the investigators. He had offered to bring him to the flat, but Carrie preferred Brookburn, wanting to protect Mam as far as possible – though she knew what Mam would say to that.
Adam came out to meet her as she climbed Brookburn’s front steps. She saw the concern in his eyes, the warmth, the … She looked away.
‘The most private place for this is my sitting room upstairs,’ said Adam, ‘or I can bring Drummond down here if you prefer.’
‘Upstairs.’
Adam’s sitting room looked like it was trying to be an office. Didn’t he have anywhere else to put all his papers and files?
A man stood by the window. He looked round.
‘I remember you,’ she said, before Adam could perform introductions. ‘You came to the auction room to see pieces that had been sold. Later that day, my sister was arrested.’ She gave him a challenging look, making it clear she knew he had been instrumental in the arrest.
Mr Drummond asked a great many questions. Finally, she was fed up with it.
‘I’m
not answering any more until you do some explaining.’
Mr Drummond raised his eyebrows at her. She raised hers back at him.
‘The stolen items are discreetly being traced to their new owners. Renton, Kemp and others around the country have been arrested, including your deliverymen.’
‘Charlie and Tom? Nonsense! Wait – I remember now. The day you and your colleague came to the auction, there was a secretaire with brass handles that Tom and Charlie were meant to bring for you to see, but they brought a different one. They must have hidden the first one because it was stolen. That was the one Mr Kemp bought, even though he had bought a bureau only two weeks earlier. I thought it strange that he wanted two.’
Mr Drummond made rapid notes. ‘Kemp’s job was to buy any stolen piece that might otherwise be knocked down to a dealer. They couldn’t risk these articles being sold on the open market. The trouble is, all the evidence points to other people, and not one scrap of it to Alex Larter.’
‘I’m not surprised. Look how he manipulated my sister.’
To cap it all, Alex Larter had disappeared. So, it seemed, had Mrs Bentley.
‘Oh,’ said Carrie. ‘Poor Evadne.’
‘May I ask more questions now?’ Mr Drummond asked wryly.
His skilful probing made more memories surface.
‘The silver salver!’ Carrie repeated the snatch of conversation she had overheard, remembering how Ralph had made her distrust her own ears. ‘But of course, that doesn’t mean it was stolen.’
Then she remembered how the salver later vanished from Miss Deacon’s house when the dear old lady was brutally killed. Ralph again? She clamped her lips shut so as not to blurt it out. Letting a murderer get away with it went against everything she believed … yet here she was, doing it.
He was still manipulating her.
Adam had brought Mr Weston back to Armstrong’s to hold the fort while Carrie, Mam and Evadne recuperated. While Mam’s journey back to health would take rather longer, Carrie felt better once she had had a good rest.
‘The shop is yours now,’ Adam told her. ‘You must decide what to do with it.’
‘Mine?’ She hadn’t given it a thought. Good heavens. ‘But I don’t know anything about antiques.’
‘What shall you do? Silly question. You need time to think.’
‘No, I don’t. I know exactly what to do.’ She almost bounced on her toes in her eagerness. ‘I’m keeping it, and the first thing I must do is ask Mr Weston to take back his old job permanently. We can’t manage without him.’
When he was asked, Mr Weston wasn’t ashamed to shed a tear. ‘My dear Mrs Armstrong, it would be a pleasure and a privilege.’
‘Only you would have such a lovely way of saying yes.’ Carrie had to knuckle the corner of her eye to deal with her own tears.
Now she and Mam were on a crusade to feed up Mr Weston. Carrie insisted that when the shop shut for dinner, he must come upstairs and share their meal. Hearty stews, savoury pies and indulgent puddings were the order of the day.
But Mr Weston’s permanent return was only part of Carrie’s plan. She had an idea she hadn’t shared with anyone.
Today was the day. The four of them ate a creamy vegetable ragout with hunks of crusty bread, followed by rice pudding, which was one of Mr Weston’s favourites.
‘Evadne, I need to show you something downstairs,’ said Carrie. ‘Mr Weston, you’ll stop and have a cup of tea with Mam, won’t you? We shan’t be long.’
Evadne allowed herself to be led into the shop.
‘Has something come in that you want me to see?’
‘No, I want a private word.’ Carrie huffed a breath. She couldn’t quite believe that she, Carrie Jenkins-as-was, former shop girl, ordinary daughter of an ordinary man, was about to say these words to her socially superior, educated sister, the Beautiful Baxter. ‘I want to offer you a job here in the shop. I know you like antiques and you started learning from Mr Weston; and it’s no secret that you never wanted to be a teacher or work in the office at Brookburn; but I thought – hoped – that you might like this.’
Evadne’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Do you mean it? Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, Carrie, I’d love to. Thank you.’
‘You shan’t be free to visit Major Baxter every Saturday,’ Carrie warned her.
Evadne glanced away, then changed her mind and looked straight into Carrie’s eyes. ‘That isn’t the hardship it would once have been. I’ve spent a long time trying to ingratiate myself with Grandfather in the hope he would take me in, but he never did. It’s time for me to back away.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll mind.’
‘Sweetheart …’ Carrie wanted to hug her, but Evadne was strictly a hands-to-yourself person.
‘I … I made rather an idiot of myself over Alex Larter. I really thought he was interested in me.’
‘I thought as much.’
Evadne’s eyebrows lifted. ‘How? I never said anything.’
‘Evadne, you might have had the posh education, but I’m not as green as I am cabbage-looking.’
‘That’s one of Pa’s sayings.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve made mistakes over the years. I loved Pa’s admiration, but I rather despised Mother for marrying down, and I always had my sights set on the glory that is Parrs Wood.’ Sarcasm curled her lips. ‘When Alex came along, I was ripe for the plucking. What a twerp he must have thought me. I believed in him until the last possible moment, when Ted Geeson made me face the truth. I’ve certainly found out who my friends are.’
Aha! A chance to put in a word for Ted Geeson? ‘Mr Geeson is a good sort. I like him.’
‘Doctor Armstrong has shown himself a good friend. He wanted to support me through that first police interview, though I wouldn’t have it; but he attended the court hearing, and then he was the one who drove me home. Pa would say he’s a proper gent.’
‘Yes,’ Carrie said briskly. She wasn’t about to be drawn into a conversation about Adam. ‘Anyroad, I’m delighted you want to work here. Let’s go and tell Mam and Mr Weston.’
Evadne could barely believe how much she was enjoying herself. She had a job that made her glad to get up in the morning. Through her years of teaching and her time at Brookburn, all she had wanted was to get married and leave. It had never occurred to her that in the right job, she might feel satisfied and fulfilled, and now here she was in just such a job.
The auction room had been shut down, its remaining pieces removed for examination, only to be returned as being nothing to do with the stolen goods.
‘What will we do?’ Evadne wailed. ‘We haven’t got room.’
‘The smaller pieces can come into the shop or we can store them,’ said Mr Weston, ‘and we can ask a dealer to look at the bigger things. Actually, the furniture Mr Ralph listed as the Withington collection could do well at auction.’
Evadne’s heart gave a sickening lurch, but she refused to evade the matter. ‘Would it be worth shipping it to Chester?’
‘Foster and Wainwright’s? Undoubtedly. They should get us a magnificent price. Would you wish to be present?’
Part of her wanted to return to Chester with her head held high, as befitted the innocent party; but it was more important not to revive memories of how she had been duped by Alex. She wanted to put all that behind her.
Anyway, she had more important things to do these days – like learning all she could about fine things and reading to the chaps at Brookburn and helping Mother with her sewing, which meant for every three good stitches unpicking a clumsy one, as Mother battled to restore her dexterity. She was learning to gauge her mother’s moods. Sometimes quiet encouragement was needed, other times mock exasperation in an atmosphere of shared laughter.
‘Once I’m prop’ly better, I’ll offer my … services at Brook … burn,’ Mother announced. ‘No need for … you two to be the only … ones.’
Remembering her former distas
te for the stricken soldiers made Evadne squirm. She tried to make up for it by spending two evenings a week and one afternoon reading to them – and Ted Geeson’s usually being around to walk her home afterwards genuinely wasn’t part of her plan, though his company was the cherry on the cake.
‘It’s an improvement on when I used to see you home from the Lloyds,’ he said with a grin. ‘At least these days we’re side by side and talking.’
‘You’re a good friend. I’m only sorry it took me so long to see it.’
She risked a quick sideways glance. Would he take the hint? Would he respond? Oh, please. But he didn’t. In the evenings, he dropped her off outside the private front door, but in the afternoons, he left her at the shop door and she watched him through the window as he walked away, admiring his broad manly figure and the confidence of his uneven gait. He managed so well with his artificial leg. You couldn’t possibly pity him, because you were too busy respecting him.
She held one elbow and tapped her knuckles against her lips. Had she put him off? She was sure – well, as sure as she could be – that he used to like her. Had she rejected him once too often? She had treated him sharply, dismissively; she had shut a door in his face once, the memory of which made her want to crumple with shame now. But even after all that, he had come to see her after her court appearance and had tried to visit her in prison, only she had refused to see him; he had helped bring her home.
She had thought – she had hoped … but maybe she was wrong. Maybe he had done these things purely out of a sense of justice, because he knew she had been wrongly accused. After all, he had once been a police sergeant. Maybe … maybe supporting her through her ordeal had been as close a return to police work as he could get. Maybe it was his last hurrah as a copper and he would have done it for anyone.
Certainly, he hadn’t made any advances since her release from prison. Walking her home didn’t count. She wanted it to count – oh, how she wanted it to count – but it didn’t, because he hadn’t used those occasions to further their relationship.
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