As Felicity Fyne spoke, a single tear rolled down her pale, unmade-up face.
‘There was just this huge crater in the ground where the staff hut and the ward hut used to be, and everyone was dead. It was horrendous.’
‘So no chance of any survivors? Dr Winter couldn’t have escaped somehow and done a bunk?’
Posie was thinking about how the war had offered endless chances for people to disappear, to reinvent themselves, to find a new life; to live double lives. And nothing could be proved. Especially after the mess caused by large-scale destruction. She’d never dealt with such a case herself, but she was aware of the possibilities.
Felicity Fyne shook her head. ‘No way. Not a chance. Everyone died that day. Staff and patients.’
Posie was busy scribbling. Felicity Fyne continued, staring at the photograph on the table between them.
‘There’s another thing, though, if you’re after “proof”. Naturally it was I who was asked to go through William’s personal things, and I swear everything important was left there in his tent: this photograph, his identity card, his passport, his ration book, a crummy old copy of a Shakespeare play, his medical practice certificates, our marriage certificate, even though we’d only been married six weeks at that point. So there’s your proof!’
‘How so?’
‘I needed most of those documents when I applied to the War Office to claim my War Widow’s Pension. And there’s no way that if William had somehow survived that blast he could have run away without those documents. He wouldn’t have got far. Certainly not all the way home. He would have been brought back again. Or Court Marshalled instead, for cowardice.’
Posie changed tack, feeling her way: ‘But you think you saw him today?’
Felicity Fyne nodded. ‘Yes. Just for a moment. At the very back of Trinity College Chapel. Near the marble carvings and memorials. I went cold all over. It gives me goose bumps just talking about it now, even. He was loitering there, leaning against the last pew, and I swear that when he saw me he turned quickly and walked out.’
‘What made you think it was him? It was fairly dark today, especially in the Chapel. It could have been anyone, surely?’
‘No.’ Felicity Fyne looked Posie straight in the eye. ‘Don’t you remember his height, his way of standing? It was definitely him, or a twin brother, if he had had one, which he didn’t. Or, as I said, his ghost.’
‘I told you. Ghosts don’t exist.’ Posie frowned. ‘Was there anything special about him today, or different, maybe? Anything especially noteworthy?’
‘No. Oh! Oh, yes! Wait a minute… There was one strange thing. He was wearing a university gown. And he looked sort of dusty. Shabby really. He was always so very smart before, even during emergencies on the wards. Impeccably turned out. So that was odd.’
Posie noted this all down in her notebook, privately surprised at how scanty the details were and trying not to look at her wristwatch for the time.
‘Did your husband have any other family at home? Anyone you’ve been in touch with?’
Felicity shook her head. ‘He was an only child of only children. His parents lived in Glasgow before the war. His father was a bigwig surgeon up there at the Royal Infirmary. Famous, apparently. William followed him into medicine; I gather it was a family tradition. The father was a really cold fish, though. He didn’t want to know me when I wrote to him asking if we could meet following William’s death. He sent me a short note basically telling me to bog off. Very unfriendly.’
‘And the mother? Were you in touch with her at all?’
Felicity shook her head. ‘No, I never heard from her at all. Although I addressed my letter to both of them.’
Posie nodded and took a few other personal details such as Dr Winter’s date of birth and height and eye colour, and then she asked her routine final question: one she always asked clients, whether or not she took the case on.
‘And is there anything else important which comes to mind?’
Felicity Fyne shook her head, but just for a second Posie saw what looked like a flutter of fear, or a smidgen of embarrassment pass over her features.
‘You’re sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’
‘No, nothing. So what do you make of it all, Posie?’
Posie looked up into Felicity Fyne’s hopeful face. Personally she thought it was a mare’s nest and that the woman was being delusional, and that her short, heady marriage to Dr Winter had turned him into some sort of saint in her memory. This was evidenced by the fact that Felicity still wore old-fashioned black mourning clothes almost five years after his death, and clutched at a photograph of the man as if he had just died yesterday. Felicity Fyne couldn’t, or wouldn’t, move on. Posie put down her pen and pad and splayed her hands apologetically.
‘Honestly, I think I’m going to find out very little. It sounds implausible to me. Perhaps it was a trick of the light in the Chapel? Or a lookalike? Unless of course Dr Winter was, by some miracle, hurt rather than killed at the time of the bombing in 1918 and disappeared for some private reason of his own. But then why on earth would he decide to come back today to Cambridge and honour his former colleague, Dr Rolly? Why would he be so stupid? To risk being found out in such a blatant way; in a place where he had a high chance of being recognised?’
A flicker of anticipation flashed across Felicity Fyne’s face. Posie cut in quickly, sensing her mistake in allowing false hopes to take root.
‘But I don’t believe that theory for one minute. I have to tell you, Felicity, that I get a lot of cases of women coming to me, asking me to investigate their missing menfolk from the war. Mainly it’s women whose men went missing in action, so there’s no grave for them to grieve at. They continue to hope and pray that by some miracle their men will still turn up, all these years later, perhaps having been injured or having developed amnesia or something.’
‘And? Have you had any successes with those cases? There must be some good news?’
Posie made an expressive grimace. ‘Actually, I’ve simply never taken on one of those cases. I listen sympathetically and then I turn the women away. The truth hurt the first time around when they got those dreadful telegrams. I don’t want to be the bearer of the same awful truth a second time over. Besides which, they’d be paying to hear me spell out the sad old news all over again. I can’t justify it and I jolly well won’t do it. They’re hopeless cases.’
‘So what you’re saying, politely, is that you’ve listened to me tell my story, and now you won’t take it? It’s – as you call it – a hopeless case?’
‘Yep. I’m afraid so. It wouldn’t be fair. To you. Or to your purse.’
Felicity Fyne seemed to hesitate, and then she pulled out something else from her black patent-leather handbag. It was a regular-sized white envelope, stamped and addressed and post-marked from London. It looked a little worn at the corners, as if it had been carried around quite a bit.
‘This might make you change your mind,’ Felicity Fyne said softly. ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I believe I saw William today, or whatever it was that looked like him, but I probably wouldn’t have followed you, or tried to obtain your help if it hadn’t been for this.’
She gingerly pushed the envelope across the table. ‘You see, the idea about William still being alive has been very much in my mind lately. Someone else thinks so, too. And wanted me to know about it. I received this last week.’
Posie took the envelope deftly and drew out a plain, cheaply-printed Christmas card of a group of carol singers, the sort you could buy at any London Underground stationery booth. A sliver of cheap green glitter came off on her fingertips as she opened the card.
Posie read the written message inside:
DECEMBER 1922,
MISS FYNE,
YOUR HUSBAND IS ALIVE AND WELL. (AS I’VE TOLD YOU TWICE BEFORE BUT WHICH YOU’VE CHOSEN TO IGNORE.)
IF YOU WANT MORE INFORMATION ON HIS WHEREABOUTS IT WILL COST YOU DE
ARLY, ALTHOUGH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN MUCH CHEAPER IF YOU HAD RESPONDED WHEN I FIRST WROTE TO YOU IN 1920.
TO INDICATE YOU WISH TO OBTAIN THIS INFORMATION PLEASE FILL YOUR WINDOW WITH RED HATS ON CHRISTMAS EVE THIS YEAR. I WILL THEN TELL YOU HOW TO PROCEED AND HOW TO GET THE MONEY TO ME.
IF I DO NOT SEE THE RED HATS ON DISPLAY THIS YEAR I WILL NOT COMMUNICATE WITH YOU AGAIN.
HOWEVER, I WILL REPORT YOU TO THE RELEVANT AUTHORITIES AND SEE THAT ALL NECESSARY MEASURES ARE TAKEN AGAINST YOU. IN IGNORING THIS INFORMATION, YOU ARE COMMITTING A CRIMINAL FRAUD. AS YOU WELL KNOW.
MERRY CHRISTMAS.
Posie looked up, gobsmacked:
‘Let me get this right. You’re being blackmailed? And this is the third communication you’ve received from this person?’
Felicity Fyne nodded dismally. ‘Yes. It’s the third Christmas in a row I’ve received the very same card.’
Posie whistled softly. ‘My gosh! This certainly puts a different spin on things.’
She picked up her pen again and re-read the Christmas card thoughtfully.
‘There’s so much here I don’t understand. But,’ Posie added after a moment, ‘I can only help you if you’re willing to fill me in on the background. There’s no use if I only know half the story. Are you willing to answer my questions truthfully this time?’
Felicity Fyne nodded and murmured, ‘Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t show you this before. In truth I was ashamed, I didn’t know what to do. And I was scared. I was approaching Christmas with a sense of dread, knowing I would probably receive this, but hoping that the writer would simply give up this year. I didn’t believe them, either. I thought it was all a hoax. Until today, that is.’
‘So you’ve no idea who the writer of the cards is, then?’
Felicity Fyne shook her head quickly. ‘No. It could be anyone. I worked in several hospitals before I came out to Arras, and then I worked at several more Clearing Stations after Number 8 was bombed, up until the war ended. I always rubbed people up the wrong way somehow. It could be anyone who bears me a grudge.’
‘How much does the blackmailer want? There’s no price mentioned here.’
Felicity Fyne sighed. ‘Thirty pounds. That was two years ago, and it says they want more now.’
Posie inhaled sharply: it seemed an awful lot to ask for. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but can you afford that? It seems such a great deal of money. As if they believe you do have spare money to hand over.’
‘No.’ Felicity Fyne shook her head certainly. ‘I can’t afford it in a million years.’
Posie nodded, jotting things down, underlining some of them. She looked up again and went on:
‘“Red hats”? Does that make any sense to you?’
Felicity Fyne nodded and took a small silver card-holder from her handbag. Out of it she took a neat cream business card, and passed it to Posie, who read it quickly:
VERY FYNE HATS.
FOR ALL YOUR MILLINERY NEEDS.
Address: 2, The Parade, Hampstead Heath, London, NW3.
Proprietor: Mrs Felicity Winter-Fyne.
‘Ah!’ Realisation dawned on Posie, mixed with real surprise. Felicity Fyne had always been so adamant at pointing out to people that she was a professional nurse, rather than a lowly volunteer, and had seemed very proud of her chosen profession.
‘I see. Sorry, I assumed you were still a nursing Sister. So you own a hat shop now?’
‘Correct. I own the shop and design all the hats I sell. I gave up nursing when the war finished. I couldn’t bear it any more. I had seen too much. I wanted a new start, and I’ve always loved fashion, and hats especially. I felt like doing something frivolous. I sold everything I had, and I started the shop up in Hampstead. It’s early days, of course, but it’s not doing too badly. But it’s certainly not making enough money for me to squander away thirty pounds on information which may or may not prove to be accurate.’
Posie nodded, more and more surprised by Felicity Fyne. An image of a surreal hat shop, very like a hospital ward, all starchy and steel-panelled, came uncalled for into Posie’s mind. She shrugged it off quickly. She waved her pen in the air, business-like.
‘Last question, I promise.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Do you know what the writer means in this last part? Saying they will “report you to the relevant authorities”? What fraud are they on about?’
Again Felicity Fyne nodded, and smiled ruefully.
‘I presume the writer means to report me for drawing a War Widow’s Pension each month. It’s quite a substantial amount, you know. And if William is alive, obviously I have no right to it. Not to mention that I would have to pay it back, all five years’ worth. A tidy sum. And one I can’t afford. To be honest it’s the pension which has kept the hat shop afloat these last few years really, allowed me to pay for fabrics and a couple of local seamstresses. There’s only so many of your own things you can sell. I don’t have anything valuable left.’
Instinctively Felicity’s hands flew to her neck.
That was it! The memory broke through into the here and now and Posie spoke without caution.
‘Your engagement ring from Dr Winter, you mean? That huge diamond you wore on a chain? You sold it?’
Felicity nodded.
‘Yes. That’s right. It was my engagement ring, but it was my grandmother’s ring first, actually. It was an heirloom. William didn’t buy it for me, if that’s what you’re getting at. I had it with me in my knapsack when I was sent out to the front line. I always had it with me; it was my good luck charm. It seemed silly for William to run off and buy another ring when he proposed; I had this perfectly good one with me already. Anyway, where would William have got a diamond engagement ring like that from? There was a war on!’
Posie raised her eyebrows. She remembered the resentment the ring had caused when Felicity had worn it so proudly, and Benny Jones’ stinging attack. How wrong they had all been! It seemed appearances could be very deceptive.
‘You’re thinking about that horrible Christmas dinner, aren’t you?’ said Felicity, softly. ‘When I wore the ring out in public?’
Posie nodded uncertainly.
‘You didn’t help yourself much there. You put people’s backs up. We all thought Dr Winter had bought you the ring and you were showing off. It just made an awkward situation worse, somehow.’
‘I know. I wanted to celebrate – it was Christmas after all – and I thought it would be an instant way to show people we were engaged, without having to make big explanations. Especially after William’s broken engagement with that fat girl. But I knew it was wrong the moment I sat down and everyone stared at me with real hatred in their eyes. I was burning up inside, but I couldn’t rip the thing off, could I? I just had to get on with it as best I could and sit it out.’
Posie was surprised at the girl’s frankness, and said so.
Felicity shrugged:
‘What do I have to lose in telling you all this now, anyhow? I wish I hadn’t worn it, but what’s done is done. Besides, everyone who was sitting at that dinner table in 1917 except you and me are now dead, and beyond caring. Anyway, I didn’t give a hang about any of those people there that day. They were all wretched bores.’
That included me! Posie thought wryly, trying to keep a straight face and not let her personal feelings enter the equation. I was just another wretched bore.
She reflected how Felicity Fyne, no matter how altered by the making of hats rather than the fixing of bodies, had an unfortunate manner. She was still arrogant and strange. In fact, there was something detached about her; as if she was looking at the world and everybody in it through the thick glass lens of a camera. Try as she might Posie couldn’t begin to feel even slightly sorry for her.
She looked up and saw Felicity Fyne’s eyes burning intensely across the table at her, filled with desperation.
‘So what do you think?’
Posie realised that she still disliked Felicity Fyne, but if
there was one thing Posie really couldn’t stand it was a blackmailer, particularly one who could get people’s hopes up in this awfully cruel way: it seemed almost one hundred percent certain to Posie that Dr Winter was dead and buried.
‘I’ll take the case,’ Posie said quickly, before she could change her mind. She drew out her own business card from her carpet bag and pushed it across the table. ‘I’ll try and get to the bottom of this for you. I take it you don’t want me to involve the police?’
Felicity Fyne shook her head. ‘Not if you can help it. No.’
‘Tell me, do you want to know the truth about your husband, at any cost? Even if it’s not what you really want to hear?’
Felicity nodded her head firmly. ‘Yes. He was my everything. But I need to know what’s happened.’
‘Can I just ask something rather indelicate?’ Posie said quickly and quietly. At Felicity’s silence she continued:
‘I take it you haven’t met someone else, since Dr Winter died, I mean? It could make things a bit tricky, that’s all, if, for example, you wanted to get married again and we find Dr Winter alive and well. Then obviously a second marriage won’t be an option for you.’
Felicity made a moue of distaste:
‘Don’t you worry on that score. I’ll never marry again. Never. I owe it to William. To his memory.’
‘But you’re…’
‘His. Still.’ Felicity said conclusively, indicating that the subject was not up for further discussion.
Posie had been about to say beautiful. What a waste.
‘Can I take these?’ Posie gestured towards the Christmas card and the photograph of Dr William Winter on the table.
Felicity Fyne nodded and the two women collected their coats and hats and passed out of the tea rooms together onto the cold street outside, Posie jiggering around awkwardly with her many shopping bags, and Felicity Fyne as graceful and unencumbered as a lone swan.
‘Oh! Hang on a minute!’ said Posie. ‘Did you keep the other Christmas cards from the blackmailer?’
The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 4) Page 4