Pins-and-needles set into her toes after a while so she sat on her bed and hoped that Edward would be outside in the lane as his note had said, but she had hours to wait yet. She began to feel herself drifting with her thoughts and she wanted to lie down but she knew if she did she would fall asleep and in all probability she’d be discovered fully dressed on her bed with her suitcase in the morning. She took a deep breath and was about to go back to the door when she heard a floorboard creak. She froze, wondering whether she should jump into bed in case whoever it was had come to look in on her. A moment later the decision was made for her.
She heard a key in the lock. It turned slowly and grated with such clarity that it set her nerves on edge. She shot up and was at the door in an instant. She wanted to turn the handle, open the door and run before it was too late, but when she heard the metallic thump of the bar going across, she knew that it already was. Her mother had locked her in. She felt sure she would have overlooked it tonight. She’d been good, hadn’t she? She’d played along, giving her mother every notion that she wanted to go to Trinity House after all.
So why had she locked her in?
Mena paced the room, her face contorted by a jumble of thoughts. Instinct took her to the window and she threw aside the blackout curtains and opened it, allowing the cold night air to rush in. As she leaned out into the moonless night she saw that it had started to snow. The tiles below her dormer window would be slippery, but she thought the guttering would break her slide. From there it was only an eight or nine feet drop into the yard. But what if the guttering failed to break her slide? She shook her head, like she refused to believe this was happening. Then she sat in her chair, not stirring for several minutes, pondering the window and wishing there was some other way out of this nightmare.
When nothing presented itself she leant out of the window again to get a better idea of the distance. She sat in the frame this time and swung her legs out, testing what now appeared to be her only means of escape. The ground suddenly looked too far below her now and she caught her breath, legs dangling as she tried to reach the roof tiles. Then she stopped. What was she thinking? If she did slip - even if she survived the fall - what about her baby?
Mena came back into the room and sat down again, shaking with fear and anger; mostly anger. She was so close. How could her mother snatch her hopes away like that? How dare she? She stared at the door like she was willing it to open until her breathing at last slowed and her head began to rock and bow, and some time later she finally slumped in her chair and began to dream.
It was the sound of the key turning in the lock again that woke her. She came back to herself with a start, having no idea how long she’d been asleep. Her bedside clock told her that some hours had passed and there was a faint glow at the window. It was almost daybreak and she was suddenly in a panic. Her first thought was that she had to go to Edward, hoping he would still be waiting for her. Her second thought returned to the sound that had awoken her. Had she really heard a key turning? She thought it must have been a dream but she had to find out. She went to the door and slowly turned the handle, holding her breath like she was cracking a safe. When the handle stopped turning she pulled and to her surprise the door opened.
She thought it must be a trap; that her mother was playing one of her cruel games. Was she testing her? The hallway was dark and still. Perhaps it had been Mary? She hadn’t heard her come up to bed last night and she thought she must have fallen asleep on the settee. She wondered whether Mary and Edward were in on this together. Perhaps Mary had been putting on a show for her mother? She smiled to herself, thinking that if she had been she’d made a good job of it.
Mena picked up her suitcase and crept towards the top of the stairs like a seasoned jewel thief. Her heart was beating so fast she felt that she could barely breathe. She descended, keeping to the edges so the steps wouldn’t creak. When she arrived at the bottom she made straight for the coat stand.
A muffled cough stopped her.
She caught her breath and turned towards the sound. It came from the sitting room. The door was open. As she peered inside she saw that there was still a glow in the fireplace and before it she could see a thin line of blue-white smoke.
“And where are you stealing off to?” Mary said. She sounded half asleep and very drunk. “How did you get out of your room?”
“Someone unlocked the door,” Mena said, certain now that it had not been Mary. She turned away, collected her coat and scarf and began to put them on, thinking only that she had to leave right away.
“He said he needed to think things over,” Mary said.
Mena spun around to see Mary standing in the doorframe, leaning heavily against it for support. It took her a moment to realise she was talking about Edward and now she could see her sister better, it looked like she’d been crying. Her makeup was smudged. She looked like a rag doll.
“Quite the little detective, aren’t you?” Mary continued. “Or should that be, little Miss Busybody?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
Mary scoffed. “All those bloody questions last night. You knew how it was with Eddie and me, but you just couldn’t let me get on with it, could you? Couldn’t let me forget it just for one bloody night.”
“I had no idea,” Mena said. “I was concerned, that’s all.”
Mary staggered towards her. “So where are you going, Miss Busybody?” She had a sarcastic smile on her face and her breath reeked of gin.
“Away,” Mena said. She reached for the door, turned the key and opened it only for Mary to slam it shut again. The sound jarred Mena’s nerves. She lashed out at Mary, hitting her with her suitcase. “I’m going!” she said. “You can’t stop me!”
Mary laughed back at her like they were playing some childhood game. She continued to lean against the door, blocking Mena’s exit.
“I’ll hit you again,” Mena said, “and you’ll feel it this time. Now get out of my way!”
Mary laughed through her nose. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m sure I deserve it. Give it your best shot.”
Mena swung her case back, ready to give it her all and send Mary flying into the Jardinière for all she cared. But when the case caught on something and she turned to see what it was, she felt her mother’s hand slap hard across her face. It stung her cheek and knocked her sideways. At the same time, she felt the case go, tearing through her fingertips. As she recovered she saw her mother standing before her in her dressing gown, enraged eyes glaring like Mena had never seen before.
“You deceitful little harlot!” she said. “I’ve a good mind to let the Sisters of Enlightened Providence keep you!”
Mena watched in disbelief as her mother came at her again, this time with the suitcase raised above her, ready to bring it crashing down. She cowered from the blow, thinking only that she had to protect her baby, but the blow never came.
When she looked up again she saw Pop in his striped pyjamas. He was standing behind her mother and he had the suitcase in his hands. She watched him wrench it away from her mother with a determination Mena thought had long since abandoned him. She caught his eyes, alert and purposeful, his jaw firm with authority.
“Get up, Mena,” he said. “Mary, come away from the door.”
“You stay where you are, Mary!” her mother said.
Pop raised the back of his hand and Mena’s mother cowered towards the stairs. Mena had never seen him do that before. He didn’t hit her. He didn’t have to.
“Mary, do as you’re told,” he said. “I won’t tell you again.”
Mena watched her sister drag herself away from the door.
“I’m sorry, Mena,” Mary said. Her sullen tone sounded sincere, but through her drunken slur as she disappeared back into the sitting room it was hard to tell.
Margaret Lasseter looked livid. Mena could see the anger physically racking her body like she might explode again at any minute, but Pop’s sudden change in character seemed to keep her in che
ck. She was frozen to the spot, mumbling silent incantations to herself as she squeezed and rubbed her crucifix like a woman possessed.
Pop came to Mena and put the suitcase in her hand. He gave her a firm smile and produced her letter from the breast pocket of his pyjama jacket. “I must have gone through too much tobacco last night,” he said, and his words immediately calmed her.
Just knowing that Pop had read her letter made her eyes well with tears; she could feel them straining behind her cheek bones. It was Pop who had unlocked her door. Pop who knew her plans long before they sang Auld Lang Syne together and yet did nothing to stand in her way. Quite the opposite.
“I only ever wanted what was best for all of you,” Pop said.
Mena smiled kindly at him. “You’ll say goodbye to Peter for me when he comes home? Explain things?”
“Of course.”
“And if you see Joan, tell her I’m sorry. She’ll know why.”
Pop nodded. “I’ll make a point of it.”
Mena looked at her mother again and her mother turned away and sank her head, shaking it as if to say what a disappointment her youngest daughter was. Mena couldn’t hate her. She felt sorry for her as she opened the door and drew in the cold early morning air. It tasted sweeter than anything she had known in a long time.
“Promise me one thing,” Pop said.
Mena turned back to him and she could see that he had tears in his eyes, too. “Anything.”
“Get as far away from here as you can and never look back,” Pop said, his voice wavering. “You deserve better.”
Mena could hardly speak. She sniffed and swallowed back the lump in her throat. Then she ran to him and embraced him. “I will,” she said, and she cried so hard she thought she would never stop.
Chapter Thirty-One
Back in his hotel room, Jefferson Tayte was trying to sleep. He’d turned in at nine p.m. which was early for him, but he was tired from the day’s travelling, or thought he was because it was now nearly ten p.m. and he was still wide awake. He supposed the jet lag was upsetting his biorhythms - his body still running on DC time. Or maybe it was the girl. He couldn’t shake her from his head as he lay there and he realised after the first thirty minutes had passed that he didn’t want to. She felt like something misplaced that had to be found and he knew he wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep again until he had.
He gave up trying and swung his legs out of bed. Then in stars-and-stripes boxers he strode across the room and put on his dressing gown. From his briefcase he took out the papers he’d gathered and he saw the photograph of Mena again. He sighed at it without really knowing why. Perhaps it was because it caused him to reflect on how young she was then and how she’d had her whole life ahead of her - and how that life must have been turned on its head by the events of 1944.
His thoughts spurred him on as he sat at the desk and took his laptop out. While it was booting up, he fetched his notebook from his jacket and found the information he had on Danny Danielson and Edward Buckley, deciding to look into Buckley first. He would be easier to get started on, he thought, and he was keen to go and see him if he could find him - assuming that he was still alive.
He logged into Burke’s Peerage and Gentry where he had a paid subscription. Then he brought up the A-Z listing so he could see all the ‘Buckley’ entries at a glance. He scrolled down through the alphabetical list and found six in all, but there was only one Edward. He clicked the name and was presented with an address for somewhere called Bramshott House. He checked the county.
“Hampshire,” he said to himself.
It tallied with the information Joan had given him earlier when she’d told him where the Buckleys were from. He thought an address was a good start, but he didn’t have time to write to Edward Buckley to ask if he’d agree to see him. What he really needed was a phone number and he knew that wasn’t going to be so easy.
Or an e-mail address, he thought as he brought up another browser.
He Googled Buckley’s name and scrolled through several screens of search engine results, reaching several dead ends before he found something that looked relevant. It was a website for the British 1st Airborne and he knew from what Jonathan had told him that Edward had been a paratrooper with the Red Berets during World War II. It had a forum and a list of members among other things. When Tayte clicked on the list he was presented with the members’ names beneath each person’s online avatar.
He could see from the images that most of the members were too young to have fought in World War II and he figured they were the soldiers’ dependents, carrying the flag for their fathers. But as he looked further down the list he saw a few older faces and then he saw the name he was looking for. The avatar was small. It was of a man wearing a red beret and a navy blazer with a bright red poppy pinned to the lapel. Tayte had little doubt that this was the right Edward Buckley. He clicked the image and was taken to a member profile page that gave some background information and a larger version of the image. Most importantly it had an e-mail address.
Tayte smiled to himself and marvelled as he often did at the power of the Internet. He clicked the contact button and began typing his introduction, briefly explaining his reason for writing and asking Edward Buckley if he would see him. Once he’d sent it he sat back and stretched and as he did so he eyed the sachet of hot chocolate that was on the tray by the kettle. He thought it might help him sleep. Reaching for it, he told himself that it was okay to have just the one as long as it was for medicinal purposes.
At a London railway station, standing beside a locker that was one of a hundred or more in the rack before him, a man in a long raincoat was about to put his key in the lock when his mobile phone buzzed. He adjusted his glasses and read the display. He wasn’t expecting the caller to contact him again so soon, but in his line of work the parameters were prone to change.
“Hello.”
He listened to the caller. Then he nodded and said, “The priest is dead.”
He was silent again. Listening. A loud tannoy announcement caused him to cup his hand over the phone.
“The train about to depart from platform six is the ten-fourteen service to…”
He tuned the sound out, still listening. “Why the change of plan?” he asked. “Why the sudden urgency?” He nodded and continued to listen for several seconds. “Jefferson Tayte,” he repeated. “American.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ll take care of it,” he added, ending the call.
Inside the locker was another small case: this one moulded from black, ABS plastic. The man shuffled the travel case at his feet closer to the locker and unzipped it. Then he opened the ABS case and inspected the Walther P99 semi-automatic handgun that was nestled inside. Everything was just as he expected it to be, but he liked to be sure. He preferred the Walther, although international travel meant that he couldn’t be choosy and the Glock he’d used for the priest had served its purpose.
He closed the gun-case again and took a quick look around. There were plenty of people about - London never slept - but no one seemed interested in him. He lifted his travel case up onto his knee and slipped the gun inside, zipped it up again and made for his train.
Tayte dunked one of the hotel’s complimentary biscuits into his hot chocolate and opened his notebook to the page where he’d written Danny Danielson’s information. As he ate the biscuit he woke up his laptop and awkwardly tapped in the details for the US army enlistment records website. They were available to search in a number of places, but he typically used NARA - the US National Archives and Records Administration.
He went into the AAD - Access to Archival Databases - and was presented with two files: one for reserve corps records, the other for enlistment records. He clicked on the latter, which covered the period between 1938 and 1946. The first entry field was for the army serial number. Into it he typed Danny’s number and then he sat back with his hot chocolate while he waited for the results to come back.
There were almost nine million
records in the file, but it only took a couple of seconds to pull out the one Tayte was interested in. On a single line he was presented with all the information that was pertinent to a US soldier’s enlistment into the army during World War II: name, residence state and county, place and year of enlistment and the year of his birth.
He noted everything down in his notepad and paused over the name. It was shown as Danielson, E. Not D for Danny. He supposed ‘Danny’ must have been a nickname or simply the name he commonly used, thinking that he really had no chance of finding the right man when he’d looked for him before.
His residence state was West Virginia and that put Tayte in mind of the name he’d seen on his client’s original birth certificate. He thought it made sense that Mena would have chosen the name Virginia for her baby given everything he’d learnt so far. He underlined the words, wondering whether it was possible that Danny could have come back for Mena and taken her home to West Virginia with him. The thought made him smile, but it was just a thought.
He went back to the entry on the screen. The leftmost column had the option to view the record, which he did. It added the subject’s specific date of enlistment, the term of enlistment, their race and education level, along with several other fields of information that were of less value to Tayte just now. What he really wanted to know was whether or not Danny had survived the war and what became of him if he did.
He sat back and pinched his eyes. Maybe it was the screen-work or the hot chocolate or both, but he was beginning to think that the pillow on the bed behind him was about ready to swallow him up as soon as he put his head on it.
JT02 - To The Grave Page 18