‘There’s something else,’ said Louisa, tentatively.
‘What is it?’
‘I get frightened now and then that someone will come to the house and try to fetch me away,’ said Louisa, wondering as she said it just how much she could reveal.
‘Goodness, that sounds rather thrilling,’ said Nancy. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s my uncle, my father’s brother. You see, when I arrived that day at your house, the reason I looked so awful and had no things was because I’d run away from him. He had my letter from Mrs Windsor and had tried to hide it from me.’
Nancy raised her eyebrow. ‘I suppose that does rather explain things.’
‘The thing is, I can’t quite shake the feeling that he’ll try to find me.’
‘Is there any way he could find out the address?’
‘I don’t think so. I haven’t told Ma exactly where I am, and nobody else knows.’
‘Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about,’ said Nancy, with the simple faith of a child.
‘No, perhaps not,’ said Louisa, and though she knew Nancy couldn’t really understand, she still felt lighter and less alone.
They walked along in silence for a few more minutes.
‘Do you have a sweetheart, Lou-Lou?’ said Nancy, out of the blue.
‘What?’ said Louisa. ‘No, of course not.’ Though she thought of Guy as she said it and wondered if that wasn’t a flip in her stomach.
Nancy sighed. ‘No, nor do I. Except for Mr Chopper, of course.’
‘Mr Chopper?’
‘He’s Mr Bateman’s assistant, Farve’s architect. He’s deeply serious and couldn’t be moved to look at me even if I danced a jig by the fireplace. He comes around for tea to show the plans and refuses any distraction. It must be love, don’t you think?’ Nancy rolled her eyes and Louisa rolled hers back, which made them both laugh.
‘Farve says there’s a shortage of men, anyhow. Perhaps we shan’t ever marry and we’ll be the “surplus women” they’re always worrying about in the newspapers. We shall wear thick worsted stockings and glasses, and grow our own vegetables. We could read books all day long and never dress for dinner, like the O’Malley sisters.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Louisa, smiling. It really didn’t sound so bad.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On their fourth afternoon the Mitford party had made a hurried dash back to the café from the beach when the sky had turned black and a thunderstorm threatened. By the time the first fat drops splashed on the pavement, the girls and Tom, together with Nanny and Louisa, were huddled around a table, squashed in the corner by the window, bickering gently over the choice of cake. Louisa chanced to look up and saw Guy Sullivan walking into the café.
She panicked. What was he doing there? Before she could stare any more, she realised that Nancy had followed her eye and was also looking at the smartly turned-out policeman, his hat tucked under his left arm. She could see that behind his thick glasses he was squinting slightly as he walked towards Rosa, who was wiping her hands on her apron and smiling as she stood behind the counter that displayed the best of the day’s cakes.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ he said politely. ‘I’m looking for Rosa Peal.’
‘Then look no further,’ she said, still smiling. ‘That’s me.’
‘Ah,’ said Guy. ‘I need to talk to you about Miss Florence Shore.’
The smile vanished from Rosa’s face. ‘That poor woman,’ she said. ‘I still pray for her every night. That was a terrible thing that happened to her. But I don’t see how I can help you.’
Guy looked around. ‘Perhaps it would be better to talk somewhere privately?’ he suggested, taking in the craned necks and paused conversation of the squeezed tables around them.
‘There isn’t anywhere,’ said Rosa. ‘And besides, I’ve got nothing to worry about. Tell me what you think I can do. But first, let me get you a cup of tea and a bite to eat.’
Guy tried to protest but she dismissed him, and before he was quite sure what had happened, he was sitting at a table and had eaten most of a scone that had arrived with the sweetest raspberry jam and thickest clotted cream he could dream of. Absorbed in the task of eating this as quickly as possible, while also wanting to prolong the pleasure, he failed to see Louisa, who was in a state of high panic.
What if he mentioned something about how he had found her, in a dishevelled heap on the tracks? That she’d had no money to get to her job interview? None of it would put her in a good light. She was trapped. So long as he was in the café, she had to stay in her chair, thankfully in the far corner, where she was pretty sure he couldn’t see her.
‘What do you want to know, then?’ said Rosa, sitting down in the chair opposite and setting her own cup of tea down.
Guy, mid-mouthful, crumbs on the corners of his lips, hurriedly tried to resume a professional pose. He pulled out his notebook and pencil. ‘Thank you, Mrs Peal,’ he said. ‘You see, the investigation has reached a bit of a dead end, so I thought I’d try to find out a bit more about Miss Shore. I understand she was on her way to stay with you, on the twelfth of January this year.’
‘Yes, she was,’ said Rosa. ‘It was a terrible shock. She was on the three-twenty from London, so I knew she’d be arriving about half past five. I had got to St Leonards station in good time to meet her, only to be told the train had been stopped at Hastings. There was another woman who was supposed to meet someone off the same train and she said she would get a taxi there and kindly agreed for me to share it. When we arrived, there was such a commotion, I didn’t know what was going on, but I certainly didn’t think it was anything to do with Flo.’ She paused and took a breath, visibly moved by the memory.
‘Go on,’ said Guy.
‘I saw a woman being carried off on a stretcher and suddenly realised it was Flo. I couldn’t do anything as she was put in an ambulance and taken straight off to the hospital.’
‘Did you go to the hospital?’
‘No, I couldn’t. I’d walked down and was a bit out of puff, and they took her off very fast. I knew her good friend Mabel would be there as soon as she could be so I just went home. I didn’t really think there was anything I could do for her then.’
‘No, you were right,’ said Guy sympathetically.
‘I went to see her in the hospital a day or two later but, of course, it was no good; she never revived. The wake was here, of course, before they took her body to London for the funeral. Oh, but it was terribly sad. All the good things that woman had done, to have her life ended like that …’ Rosa brought a slightly grubby handkerchief out of her apron pocket and started to dab at her eyes.
‘How did you know Miss Shore?’ Guy asked, pencil still poised.
‘We were nurses together, before the war. We worked in St Thomas’s. I was a few years younger than her and she looked out for me. She was a very good nurse and so brave, too. Did you know she went to China when she was a young woman? Not many can say that. Never been further than Dieppe myself and that was enough for me. Can’t get a proper cup of tea on the Continent.’ She gave a sniff, exactly like her twin. ‘I think they have funny water.’
Guy brought her back on track. ‘How long did you work together?’
‘About a year, I think. I wasn’t very good at nursing. I was happy to chat and tuck them up in bed, but sometimes it got a bit harder than that and I’m not too good with blood, you know. Makes me a bit faint. Anyway, I met my husband and that was that. We moved down here and opened up this place.’
‘You kept in touch with your friend?’
‘Oh yes, she was a terrific letter writer. And sometimes she liked to come and stay down here. She’d walk up and down the beach for miles.’
‘Did she always come alone?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosa. ‘Apart from one time, she came with her friend Mabel. A nice lady but it was difficult for me to put them both up, so it didn’t happen
again.’
‘Do you know, did she have a gentleman friend?’
‘She kept herself to herself, did Florence,’ said Rosa. ‘There was someone she was fond of, I think. She never really spoke to me about him but occasionally mentioned someone of an artistic nature that she thought very highly of. I’m not sure if he was a gentleman friend or not. Is this really helping?’
‘Yes, Mrs Peal, it’s very helpful indeed,’ Guy said, trying to convince himself. Now that he was here, he wasn’t at all sure what he’d thought he’d find.
‘Humph, well. The funny thing is, during the war she wrote me letters about where she was stationed. One time, she was in Ypres and she noticed that the transport officer there was David Mitford – he’s Lord Redesdale now – and she remembered that my twin sister worked for the Mitfords, as their nanny. Flo wrote to me so that I could let them know that he was safe and well. That was such a kind thing to do. Anyway, what’s funny is that my sister’s down here for a few days. Isn’t that a coincidence?’
‘Yes,’ said Guy, baffled. He wasn’t sure what the connection was, if any. But the name she had mentioned rang a bell and he couldn’t think why. Then he saw that Rosa was waving to a table in the corner with a large group of assorted children and another woman who closely resembled Rosa.
There was also another young woman who looked familiar in some way. He peered at her, although it was difficult, she was looking out of the window, refusing to take her eyes off whatever it was out there – the lamppost? He couldn’t see anything.
Then she lifted her head, almost as if she had felt him looking at her, and his heart thudded as he realised who it was: Miss Louisa Cannon. She must have got the job, then. Redesdale! That was the name in the letter. Lady Redesdale. Guy allowed himself a small moment of congratulations for remembering this detail; it seemed like a very policeman sort of thing to do.
Before he could stop her, Rosa had got up and was walking over to the table to talk to her sister. He could see Louisa first try to busy herself with one of the younger children and then, perhaps, she saw that her attempts to hide were futile. She looked up, turned her head and her brown eyes caught his. Guy gave her a smile and when she had read it and was sure of it, she gave him a smile back. At least, he hoped it was a smile, he couldn’t always be sure. He took his glasses off and gave them a rub.
Rosa was at the table now, talking to her sister, explaining that the young policeman was here to ask about Flo, though goodness knows why, she didn’t know anything. Nanny Blor clucked sympathetically in return.
‘What?’ said Nancy. ‘This policeman is investigating the murder? I want to talk to him, Nanny. Let me talk to him.’
‘Whatever for, dear?’ said Nanny.
‘All the evidence I collected on the train, I ought to tell him about it.’
‘I hardly think you had better do that. He’s got far more important things to think about, I’m sure.’
‘Perhaps Miss Nancy should talk to him, Nanny,’ said Louisa. Nanny looked at her in wonderment. ‘It’s just that, well, don’t policemen have to look at everything? Perhaps Miss Nancy spotted something he missed out.’
‘I don’t agree, but if you want to talk to him, you go ahead.’ Nanny huffed a little and started rubbing Unity’s face with her handkerchief, much to her displeasure.
Rosa had already beckoned Guy Sullivan to the table. ‘This is Miss Nancy Mitford,’ she said as he approached. ‘She’d like to talk to you. I’d better get back to my customers, if you don’t mind.’
Nanny got up from the table and gave him a cursory glance. ‘I’m going to take the others upstairs,’ she said. ‘Mind you both come along soon. It’s time for their baths.’ This last was directed at Louisa, who blushed.
‘Hello, Miss Cannon,’ said Guy. ‘Do you mind if I sit down here?’
Flustered, Louisa said nothing but motioned at a chair. Nancy had the good grace not to watch this scene with her mouth open. Louisa tried to give Nancy a look that would seal her sympathy and discretion; it did.
Nancy spoke up first. ‘How do you know each other?’
Louisa made sure she answered before Guy. ‘We don’t, not really. Mr Sullivan helped me when I was trying to find the right train on my way to my interview with Lady Redesdale. We talked for a little bit.’
She turned to Guy with what she hoped was a calm expression, though she felt far from calm inside. It was as if her entire future depended upon his answer. ‘What can we do for you, Mr Sullivan?’
Guy understood immediately. In fact, Louisa had not needed to worry a jot. He pulled his chair into the table a little closer. ‘It’s good to see you, Miss Cannon,’ he smiled. ‘Please, tell me how you are.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Louisa and Guy sat down on a bench overlooking the seafront. Between them was a bag of hot chips, each one covered in salt and the sharp tang of brown vinegar. Louisa thought that the combination of these and the cold air that whipped her face was a perfect sensation, and she briefly allowed herself a moment to think of nothing else as she licked the salt off her fingertips.
For just one hour, Louisa had been excused from her duties with the girls. She had intended to walk alone along the beach but when she came out of Rosa’s teashop, she had been gratified to see Guy waiting for her outside. He wasn’t in uniform, so she almost hadn’t recognised him in his long brown overcoat, a cap pulled down low over his forehead. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, trying to get warm. He had been standing outside for some time.
‘I thought you had to come out eventually,’ he confessed. ‘Though I hadn’t dared to hope that you would be by yourself. Will you come for a walk with me?’
Taken unawares, Louisa couldn’t think of enough of an excuse not to, and nodded her assent. ‘But I only have an hour,’ she said. ‘And I’m hungry, even though I shouldn’t be. I think it’s the sea air.’
‘Chips it is, then,’ said Guy, laughing, and they walked side by side, braced against the stiff sea breeze, to Wharton’s Fish & Chips, which he assured her his informants had declared the best in town. Guy felt his chest swell as he walked. He watched Louisa hold on to her hat with a gloved hand, saw her quick steps in her neatly laced boots and wished he could offer her his arm to hold on to but knew that moment hadn’t arrived yet. Patience, he told himself, a little more patience.
Once they were on the bench, looking out at the steel-grey sea, the swell visible and terrifying, the waves rhythmically crashing on to the stones, he started to tell her about Florence Shore. The day before, in his pleasure at seeing Louisa, Guy hadn’t discussed the case at all, much to Nancy’s disappointment. Relieved not to have to talk about herself, Louisa now prodded him with questions.
‘What do you think she was like?’ asked Louisa, after he told her that the investigation had ground to a halt for lack of a murder weapon and witnesses. The ‘man in the brown suit’ had apparently vanished into thin air – the train guard had seen someone alight at Lewes from the rear carriages but he couldn’t be sure he came from the murdered woman’s compartment and it had been too dark to catch anything of his clothes or face.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out now,’ said Guy. ‘I don’t know if it will help but I thought if I could talk to people who knew her, I might discover a reason that someone would murder her.’
‘Perhaps there was no reason. Maybe it was just terrible luck that she was in that compartment and a robber got in.’
‘But if someone just wanted to rob her, they could have done that easily and run away at the next stop, they didn’t need to be so savage. She was almost an old lady; she couldn’t have fought back if someone had snatched her jewellery and money from her. And Dr Spilsbury, the pathologist, said there were no signs of a struggle. I think that means she knew her attacker.’
Louisa sat and thought for a minute. Having the physical strength to fight back didn’t always mean you could. Fear or shame held hands down tighter than any rope. Even when – perhaps
especially when – you knew the person who was threatening you.
‘What about the men who found her on the train – might it not have been one of them?’
‘Possibly,’ said Guy, ‘but none of them had any blood on their clothes. It doesn’t seem possible to have hit her that hard and not get blood somewhere. After all, it was on the floor and wall of the compartment. And they alerted the guards as soon as they got to Bexhill instead of getting out and running away. There’s something else, too. When they got on, they didn’t notice she was dying because whoever had attacked her had sat her up, to make it look as if she was reading. Why would a robber do that? I’ve gone over and over it.’
‘What if,’ she said, ‘they intended it to be a murder and they ran out of time. They might’ve wanted to make sure that her injuries weren’t discovered too soon, so they could be sure she would be dead before anyone could get her to a hospital.’
Guy leaned back to look at Louisa in admiration. ‘I think you’re right. Someone meant her to be killed and that someone was someone she knew.’
They both took this in quietly.
‘But why are you talking to Mrs Peal? She couldn’t have done it,’ said Louisa.
‘No, but Miss Shore was on her way to see her. Mrs Peal knew she was on the train, for one thing. And she knew her well.’
‘It couldn’t have been her. She wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ said Louisa.
‘I’m not accusing Mrs Peal,’ said Guy, his policeman’s hat mentally back on, cautious of making litigious statements. ‘I just thought she might shed some light on Miss Shore, that’s all.’
From the investigation so far, Guy had built up a picture of Miss Florence Nightingale Shore that felt quite definite in his mind: an educated, middle-class woman who was brave, serious and diligent. She had been a respected nurse during the war, full of compassion for the soldiers in her care, often staying behind to nurse them in the makeshift hospitals when the shelling outside would send others running for more solid shelter. She had earned a certain renown for looking after the Indian and black soldiers from the colonies and treating them with equal priority and respect as she did for the English officers. She had never married, although Mrs Peal had made those allusions to an artistic man, possibly a gentleman friend, but there was no identity for him as yet.
The Mitford Murders Page 10