Begun by Time

by Morgan O'Neill

  …

  After paying the bill, Arthur left The Palace. He felt unsettled by the turn of events, yet he possessed a renewed sense of optimism they would move beyond this impasse, given Catherine’s sweet good-bye and her promise to telephone him that evening. The weather had changed to a bone-chilling drizzle, and he cursed not having his brolly. Pulling his collar up and his hat down, he started walking toward his flat off Grenville Street.

  First up, he decided he must speak to his friend, Clive Wakefield. They’d worked together during the war, and Clive was now with Scotland Yard. He should be able to tell him exactly what was known about the Brandon case.

  Arthur looked at his watch. Saturday at a quarter past three was not the ideal time to begin an investigation. He smiled grimly. Monday morning, then. He would give his friend a call—

  He was brought up short by a sign at Ely Place. The Bishop’s Crook.

  Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of going straightaway to the very spot where Brandon vanished? He walked into the cobblestoned alley, the walls lined with gray rain-streaked bricks. He marched with purpose right up to the front door of The Crook, the old bottle glass windows splattered by rain. He glanced inside in an attempt to see if anyone was about on this Saturday afternoon.

  He knocked and waited. No response.

  Arthur decided to give up and leave, to get out of the bloody cold rain. He turned to go just as the door opened, and a young man called out, “Yes?”

  “Forgive me,” Arthur said, as he faced a dark-haired lad in his teens. He seemed too young to be working in a pub.

  “Sir, how may I help you?”

  Arthur remembered himself, removed his gloves, and offered his hand. “My name is Arthur Howard. I wonder if I could talk to the publican of this establishment. Or, if he isn’t about, perhaps you would consent to answering a few questions?”

  The young man looked down at Arthur’s extended hand, then narrowed his eyes. “You’re a copper?”

  “No, I’m a solicitor on a mission to help a friend. She needs information about a man’s disappearance. One Major Jonathan Brandon.”

  Arthur saw the lad’s gaze spark with…what? Recognition? Wariness?

  “To whom am I speaking?” Arthur pressed.

  The young man finally took the proffered hand and shook firmly. “Please do come in, sir. I’m Tom Lloyd.”

  A middle-aged man approached, wiping his hands on a rag. “An’ I’m Tom Lloyd, Sr.”

  They shook, and Arthur introduced himself again, as the young man left them to talk.

  “What can I do for you? Can I pour you something?” Mr. Lloyd asked.

  “Thank you, no, unless you’re having something. I don’t wish to be a bother.”

  “No bother. Was about t’ have a brew-up meself, as I just finished with me chores, before we open up for the evening.”

  Arthur removed his hat and coat, then blew on his freezing hands. “Tea, yes. That would be marvelous.”

  He placed his things on a chair and then watched as Lloyd poured from an electric teakettle. The man offered him a steaming mug. The heat felt good on Arthur’s fingertips.

  They sat at a table near the bar, and Arthur caught the scent of bergamot orange in his mug of Earl Grey. He was grateful for the chance to gather his thoughts as he blew at the surface and sipped the fragrant tea.

  “Ah, that’ll chase away the chill,” Mr. Lloyd said after he tasted his own.

  Nodding, Arthur thanked him, then told Lloyd what little he knew of Brandon’s disappearance, ending with, “Many believe he was murdered.”

  “Nah. That ain’t true,” Lloyd answered vehemently. He gave Arthur the once-over. “Sure you’re not a copper?”

  When Arthur shook his head, Lloyd continued, “You see, I’ve had me fill o’ them coppers, as they never believed what I saw. Caused me heaps o’ trouble, an’ some called me lunatic.” He frowned at the memory. “Ah, well, it’s been nigh on two years since I saw what happened to the major.”

  You saw it?

  Stunned, Arthur stared into Lloyd’s unflinching gaze and asked, “What exactly did you witness?”

  Pursing his lips, Lloyd shook his head. “It were right strange, the strangest thing I ever did see. The bloke faded away, ghostlike, an’ I’m not lying. He bloody faded into thin air, an’ I could do naught but stand like a bloomin’ statue an’ watch him vanish. No one else saw it, just me. An’ it’s haunted me t’ this very day. He was sittin’ right over there,” he added, pointing to a dark, empty corner. “I took the bench and table, cut ’em up, and burned ’em down t’ ash. We’ve not had anything like that occur since, but still, I’ve not been tempted to put another bench in that corner. Would be a crime t’ do such a thing.”

  “I see,” Arthur said, scarcely believing what he’d heard. Yet he did not doubt the man’s sincerity for an instant, given his air of conviction.

  “You think I’m barmy, eh?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Arthur said. “If you don’t mind, I’ve a friend at Scotland Yard, and I’d like to broach the subject of Brandon’s disappearance with him. Would you mind awfully if I did? He may be able to help us find some solid answers.”

  “Nah, I don’t mind, but I can’t imagine what good it’ll do. Brandon’s gone—God knows where—but he’s gone. An’ I fear wherever he’s gone off to, there’s no comin’ back.”

  …

  Still reeling from Tom Lloyd’s bizarre tale, Arthur opened his front door, removed his damp things, and turned up the heat.

  Holding his hands before the radiator, he relished the steamy warmth. He was just about to make some tea when the telephone rang.

  “Hello?” Catherine’s voice crackled to life in a miserably bad connection, but to Arthur it sounded heavenly. True to her word, she had called. His spirits lifted.

  “Hello, Catherine. Are you safely home?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “I am so sorry about today. Oh, Arthur, I had a lovely time, I truly did. Thank you.”

  He knew how difficult this was for her and didn’t want her to be too hard on herself.

  She sighed. “Arthur, please know this… These last few weeks with you have been wonderful.”

  He closed his eyes in relief. “I know. I’ve loved every minute I’ve spent with you.”

  “Yes. Except for today…and Selfridges.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice and grinned. “I’ll understand if you need more time before we take the next step.”

  “Yes, thanks. Arthur, I’m so sorry about what happened.”

  “It’s understandable, and I don’t want to push.”

  “Thank you. You are a dear.”

  He smiled. “Good night, love. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Good night.”

  He heard a click and the line went dead, but Arthur felt renewed and more alive than he had in years. He was certain she was falling in love with him. She’d come very close to saying as much, and he, he was undoubtedly, irrevocably head over heels.

  She would be his wife. He would make it happen.

  Nothing—and no one—would stand in his way.

  …

  Catherine snuggled in her bed. Arthur, dear Arthur… She smiled as he leaned in to kiss her, but frowned when she heard a sob. She looked around with curiosity, but saw nothing. When she returned her gaze to Arthur she gasped, seeing… “Jonnie!”

  He looked haggard and pale, but worse than that was the hurt in his eyes.

  “How could you, Catherine?” he said, tears spilling down his face. “I’ve been looking for you. Trying to get back to you. And I find you in another man’s arms?”

  “But…”

  He started to fade, and she grasped at him, to no avail.

  “You betrayed me, Catherine,” he said, his voice distant. “Turned your back on our love.”

  “No, it’s not like that! Jonnie, Jonnie, come back to me!” she cried. “Don’t leave me again!”

  Catherine bolted u
p, wrenched from her dream. She clutched at her covers and Duffy came to her. She folded him onto her lap and rocked him. Badly shaken, she got out of bed still cradling her dog and began to pace her room. The faint glow coming through her window lit her clock, showing it was 11:25. She’d barely been in bed an hour. How would she make it through the night?

  Time passed. An hour, then two. It was almost two o’clock. She needed to sleep, or she’d be worthless in the morning. Eventually, her anguish eased, and she drifted off.

  “Why didn’t you come for me?” Jonnie shouted.

  Catherine felt stunned and cringed at his recriminations. She’d never seen Jonnie this angry.

  “You left me hanging without a word. You were no help, no help at all!”

  “But I looked everywhere, I swear.”

  “And now you are acting like a floozy, kissing a complete stranger in public. You threw away our love like yesterday’s rubbish. I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed. Ashamed.”

  Catherine reached for him, pleading for understanding.

  Suddenly a look of surprise crossed his face and he was swept backward, screaming. Swept into a dark abyss.

  “Jonnie!” she cried out, grasping at him, but he was gone, gone.

  “Cathy! Cathy, wake up. Cathy, dear girl, wake up!”

  She felt hands on her shoulders, gently shaking her to wakefulness. She opened her eyes and saw her parents standing over her with expressions of sorrow and concern.

  Shattered, she covered her face with her hands and wept.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monday morning found Arthur Howard walking along the embankment of the Thames heading for New Scotland Yard. The red brick building came into view, its Victorian embellishments looking rather old and out-of-date.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost noon. He and his friend, Clive Wakefield, would lunch together in Clive’s office, brown-bagging it, so to speak, as they discussed the case of Jonathan Brandon. Arthur had already picked up fish and chips for them to share, Clive promising to provide the tea, and, Arthur hoped, some new information.

  Two bobbies came out the front door, and Arthur nodded to them before going inside. Clive was waiting for him in the lobby. A plainclothes detective with the Criminal Investigation Department, or CID, Clive wore a suit and tie, no uniform. The front of his jacket was unbuttoned, and Arthur noted his friend had gained a paunch since they’d last seen each other, nearly a year ago. Desk job, he thought.

  Instinctively, he pulled in his own stomach muscles and made a mental note to start exercising more to keep fit. Catherine was almost ten years his junior, so he couldn’t afford to let himself go. Add regular squash games to my schedule, perhaps.

  The men shook hands, and Arthur followed Clive into his office.

  They sat across the desk from each other, enjoying fish and chips drenched in vinegar, while catching up on the past year. Clive’s wife Margaret was pregnant with their second child, and, given their growing family, Clive told him they were actively searching for a house with a small garden, perhaps in nearby Paddington.

  As the conversation turned toward Arthur’s life, Clive was interested to hear about Catherine and wasted no time in asking Arthur if this meant he’d finally decided to settle down.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Arthur said with a chuckle, but then he turned to more serious matters. He told him about Catherine’s past with Jonathan Brandon.

  “I remember that case,” Clive said, nodding. “Unsolved and bloody maddening, given that Major Brandon vanished without a trace.”

  “It is interesting you should choose to use those very words.” Arthur went on to describe what Tom Lloyd had told him about that fateful day.

  Clive kept his expression neutral throughout Arthur’s discourse, even during his description of the vanishing.

  “Hmm,” Clive said, mulling it over. “Let me make a few inquiries, and I shall get back to you straightaway with everything that’s known.”

  Arthur stood and shook hands with his friend. He left Scotland Yard none the wiser, but filled with a measure of hope.

  …

  On Wednesday morning, Arthur arrived at work early. His secretary, Eleanor Philips, wasn’t at her desk, so he started brewing the tea himself. Mug in hand, he went through the door to his office and found a note on his desk.

  “Sir, that’s from Scotland Yard. They called just before you arrived.”

  Eleanor smiled, walked past him, and placed a fresh copy of The London Times on his desk. As a solicitor, he received calls from the Yard from time to time, so her air of business-as-usual was no real surprise. He felt differently, of course, since the Brandon case was unusual and highly personal.

  She nodded toward his mug. “Terribly sorry I didn’t have your tea for you, sir. May I get you anything else?”

  “Thank you, no, Mrs. Philips.” Arthur was anxious to open the note, but he waited until she left the room. He read, Clive Wakefield called 8:59 a.m. Metropolitan Police Phone: WHI 1212.

  He dialed and asked for the detective.

  “Wakefield.”

  “Arthur Howard, returning your call.”

  “Ah, yes, old chap. I’ve found something of interest. I’d rather tell you in person. Mind if I come to your office ’round about an hour from now?”

  Arthur glanced at his schedule. He had no meetings until the afternoon. “Yes, I’ve the morning open.”

  “Cheerio. I’ll see you soon.”

  Arthur placed the telephone receiver in its cradle and took a sip of tea. He stared at the desk clock, drumming his fingers. It was half past nine.

  He’d always prided himself for his patience, but he felt the exact opposite now. He shook his head and settled in, guessing this was going to be the longest hour of his life. He watched the clock’s minute hand crawl by on its downward path, then begin to creep up again.

  And he waited.

  …

  Catherine moped around the house for days, embarrassed and more than a bit confused by the events at The Palace and her terrible dreams. She chose not to tell her parents about her disastrous date with Arthur on Saturday. To make matters worse, she’d discovered it was her time of the month after she got home that night. By Sunday evening her cramps were so vicious she spent the night tossing and turning, a hot water bottle giving her only a small measure of comfort.

  She still didn’t feel well on Monday morning, so she asked her mum to fill in for her at the dentist office. Tuesday was no better, as she woke up with a migraine. Wednesday, however, dawned bright, with the worst of her health issues over. Regardless, she asked her mother to watch the front desk, promising she’d be ready to resume work on Thursday.

  With a yawn, Catherine took some aspirin and then picked up the telephone to call Poppy. A bit of chitchat ensued, and they decided to meet at a little tea shop in Stratford.

  The shop was empty of patrons when Catherine arrived, and because of the early hour she guessed she was the first customer. After being seated, she ordered a pot of English Breakfast tea and two crumpets with butter and marmalade. She knew Poppy wouldn’t mind, as she’d developed the unfortunate habit of being late. Catherine smiled, recalling how Poppy blamed it on the need to take care of her new husband. It was a given when dining that everyone should start without Poppy.

  Catherine ate in silence, wondering how long it had been since they’d last seen each other. Six months, at least. They’d lunched with Susan and Mirin in June—or was it May? Sadly, the old group appeared to be moving on, and Catherine made a vow to try to stay in touch with more regularity.

  The bells above the door jingled, and she glanced up as Poppy walked in. Her friend smiled and waved before moving to the hall stand.

  Catherine immediately noticed Poppy’s smart wool suit, a blue tweed. The suit was gorgeous, and Catherine wondered if it was from Paris, since the cut and style oozed couture. Poppy’s blond pageboy was sleek perfection, too, more fashionable than the fringe she used to wear. The w
aves flowed over her brow and down toward her left eye in a peek-a-boo effect, à la the American actress Veronica Lake. It covered the old injury to perfection without giving any indication that was its purpose. Other than the scar, she knew her friend was fully recovered, and she looked happy and prosperous. Her husband of one year was a banker, and they lived in a beautiful home in Manor Park.

  Poppy motioned over her shoulder as she got to the table. “Is that red coat yours? Gosh, it’s ritzy!”

  “Yes, Dad got it.”

  “Lovely.” Poppy gave Catherine a kiss on the cheek, then sat across from her. She wafted the delectable Chanel No. 5.

  After ordering tea and scones, Poppy pushed her hair back behind her left ear and said, “I have missed you.”

  “And I, you.” Catherine noticed the scar on Poppy’s brow had faded significantly. Time and some carefully applied makeup must’ve done the trick, and she was glad for her friend. “It’s been too long since our last visit.”

  “Yes, it has,” Poppy agreed. “I spoke to Mirin the other day. She’s getting along quite well in Dorset. Did you know? She moved there in September.”

  Catherine nodded. “Yes, she called me. She’s the town librarian.”

  “From what she said, the headmaster at the local school is a handsome bachelor. Mirin has joined him on several fossil hunting expeditions. Jurassic junkets, she calls them. She said he’s in love with dinosaurs and the like. Now she is as well. A little bird tells me that chap won’t be free for long.”

  Catherine laughed. “Yes, when Mirin puts her mind to something…”

  Poppy grinned. “Indeed. You know, I haven’t heard from Susan in a long while.”

  “I got a call from her not too long ago. She said she’s up to her neck in baby nappies.”

  “Ah, twins will do that.”

  They chuckled as the waitress brought Poppy her tea and scones.

  As the friends ate, the conversation turned to Catherine’s life. She told Poppy about Arthur and all the events leading up to his proposal, then hesitated, bit her lip, and forged on, divulging what happened after Arthur went down on bended knee.