Chapter Twenty
I’ll tell Arthur tomorrow. I’ll let him know I’m no good for him.
Catherine thought her mind was all made up about heading home when the wind started to blow, driving the rain sideways. She needed to get out of this storm in a hurry. Pulling her hood close about her face, she glanced around and saw the shimmering marquee of the Crown Cinema, which proclaimed: “Now playing! Cary and the Bishop’s Wife. With Cary Grant, David Niven, and Loretta Young.”
Also known as The Bishop’s Wife. The title was different than advertised in the newspapers, because she’d heard the film company was trying to drum up business with the prominent mention of its leading star. She wondered if the ploy was working, because word on the street deemed the film weepy.
Which is the last thing I need.
But given the storm, she had no real choice; she needed to find shelter. Minding her feet so she wouldn’t slip on the slick footpath, she bent into the gusts and headed for the Crown. She went to the ticket booth, plopped three pence on the counter, and reached for her ticket, suddenly aware of her shaky hand. In fact, her whole body had started to tremble, a clear combination of the damp chill and her powerful emotions.
“Enjoy the show,” the woman in the booth said with flat boredom.
“Th-thank you,” Catherine replied, her voice trembling as well.
The woman looked up, straight into Catherine’s eyes. “Enjoy, luv,” she gently repeated, clearly sensing her pain.
Enjoy? Catherine wanted to scream.
Instead, she forced a smile and entered the cinema lobby. She got a big whiff of buttered popcorn mingled with cottony candy floss, which made her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten since noon and realized if she didn’t purchase some food, she might get that migraine after all. She ordered a Coke and some popcorn and then turned and caught from the corner of her eye the figure of a tall, dark-haired man, standing on the other side of the lobby.
Lord, could it be…?
Heart racing, she tried to find out, but a couple stopped in front of her and blocked her view. Oh, bother! Move! She stepped aside and saw the “man” was actually a life-size, cardboard cutout of Cary Grant. How she felt the fool! Certainly, the actor had always reminded her of Jonnie; they possessed the same smile and joie de vivre, both men blessed with that rare combination of handsomeness and dry wit. But still, she felt herself spiraling down the drain. What was wrong with her?
She shook her head. No matter where she turned, Jonnie was here, there, and everywhere.
What would a psychiatrist say about my obsession? Will it ever stop?
Catherine felt a dismal certainty it wouldn’t as she skulked into the cinema. She recalled what the woman in the ticket booth had said. Enjoy.
How? Truth be told, she doubted she would ever enjoy anything again, so dark were the depths of her memories.
I’m such an awful mess!
The cinema had but a few scattered patrons, and she walked to an empty section, removed her damp coat, and draped it over the back of a seat. She took the next one and sat, just as the lights dimmed and a Pathé newsreel flickered onto the screen.
First up was a retrospective of the royal wedding, titled Our Heiress Presumptive Is Wed!
Catherine sank into her chair and ate her popcorn in silence, watching Princess Elizabeth greet her future with grace and hope, Prince Philip at her side. His love for her was apparent, his smile touching and filled with devotion. Catherine recalled her own small part in the glorious day, when Arthur pulled her from danger and gave her that first wonderful kiss. Because of him, the gates of Buckingham Palace would always have a special place in her heart.
Always.
The film went on, winding through the wedding ceremony and the happy couple’s ride back to the palace in the glittering Glass Coach. When Elizabeth and Philip boarded the train for their honeymoon, Catherine wept with foreshadowed regret as to her own future. Heart breaking, she imagined herself as an old maid, sitting in the cinema and watching newsreels and Cary Grant films. There would be no one at her side. Just like now, she’d be all alone.
Catherine choked back a sob, lovesick and bereft, knowing what she must do, for Arthur’s sake.
How could she not, given her obsession with the past?
…
Blessedly, the pounding rain had stopped, but now a thick fog descended upon London. Arthur walked beneath a street lamp and glanced at his wristwatch. Just a bit past 7:10.
He was late for his appointment with James Findley, but logic dictated the man would have passed him on the street had he already given up and left Ely Court. Arthur hurried on and entered the alley at Ely Place.
Despite the fog, he could just make out the soft light coming through the ancient windows of The Bishop’s Crook. He looked at his watch again—quarter past seven—and walked on, passing the pub. Someone had started singing inside, and he heard laughter and cheers. A pint would taste good, he thought, but shrugged off his thirst. When he reached Ely Court, a man appeared in the gateway.
“Detective Findley?” Arthur asked. He extended his hand. “Arthur Howard. Sorry to be late.”
Findley shook with him. “Not a problem, old chap. Bloody awful storm. Shall we?” He indicated Ely Court with a tilt of his head.
Arthur followed him to the entrance of St. Etheldreda’s. The church was closed up for the night, the courtyard dark and empty. The only light came from beyond the gateway, making the fog take on an eerie glow.
Findley turned to face Arthur. “Clive filled me in on your interest in the investigation of Major Brandon. I have a theory as to what happened to him, and what Tom Lloyd saw in his pub.”
“Do tell,” Arthur said.
“I was part of the initial investigation of Brandon’s disappearance. Clive gave you the details. I have spoken to Lloyd on several occasions.”
“Quite so. I should like to discuss that with you in detail, perhaps at another time. My own interview with Lloyd was illuminating, to say the least,” Arthur went on. “He really seems to believe Brandon disappeared before his eyes. Yet it seems much more probable the authorities were correct—he imbibed too much that day and hallucinated.”
“I had the same thoughts—initially. Yet something happened to me on 3 February, 1946, something that made me reconsider the man’s story. I was here at St. Etheldreda’s with my wife and children. A fellow officer with the Yard, along with his entire family, attended as well. We came for the Blessing of the Throats.”
“The what?”
Findley smiled. “They have a service for people with sore throats and other throat ailments. It’s quite ancient, going back many centuries. Always takes place on the third of February. My friend, the other officer, brought his father, who was suffering with cancer of the throat. I’ve never believed in blessings and other such nonsense, or in the supernatural, for that matter, but we came along for moral support. The father died six months later.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Findlay nodded. “Yes, well, something strange happened to me that day, something that made me question my skepticism.” He pointed toward the gate. “Please follow me.”
He waved his hand in the air. “It was here we first heard the music. It sounded like someone was playing the lute. It seemed to emanate from the direction of the pub.”
A lute at The Crook? That sounded a mite unusual. Arthur listened to the ambient sounds surrounding them. The distant blare of an automobile horn. Another chorus of cheers and laughter coming from inside The Crook. No lute, of course, but if someone had been playing music there, he would be able to hear it.
Findley went on. “I’ll admit when the lute first started I didn’t suspect anything unusual. Neither did anyone else in our party. To be honest, I didn’t even know what a lute sounded like. My wife recognized it.”
He moved through the gate, and Arthur followed. They stopped outside The Bishop’s Crook, where Findley pointed to a spot several paces beyond the door.
> “The music was still playing when it happened. It was just the two of us who saw it, Officer Smith and me. The women and children had lagged behind with his dad and the wheelchair. It looked like an old newsreel or film, where everything moves a bit faster than real life, sort of like something in a Charlie Chaplin comedy.” He glanced back at Arthur. “A man and woman were dancing around a tree. They were in costume, as if they were performing Shakespeare at The Old Vic. They didn’t seem to notice us as we watched them. Smith and I could hear their laughter and a few words, including the man’s given name, for the woman called him Christopher. The entire episode took perhaps four or five seconds. And then, they vanished. Faded, actually, into thin air.”
Faded into thin air. Arthur recalled Tom Lloyd said almost the same thing about Brandon. He pursed his lips and considered the alley, no vegetation in sight. “What about the tree?” he asked.
Findley snorted with satisfaction. “You don’t miss much, do you, old chap? Yes, the bloomin’ tree disappeared, too.” He looked straight into Arthur’s eyes. “After everything disappeared, I got chills and gooseflesh like I’ve never had before. Felt ice-cold. Smith told me he had the gooseflesh as well. Since then, I’ve learned it’s a common occurrence among those who claim to see such things.” He nodded to himself. “I’ve given this much thought. The incident reminds me of what happened in The Crook. I’ve put two and two together, and, to me, it seems quite possible Brandon was already dead when Lloyd saw him that day in the pub. Just like those two dancers, dead and gone.”
Arthur gaped at him. “Are you telling me you think Tom Lloyd saw Brandon’s ghost?”
Findley nodded. “In theory, yes.”
“Bloody hell.”
…
Catherine cried through The Bishop’s Wife. She didn’t know exactly why, because the critics were wrong; the film wasn’t the least bit weepy. It was, in fact, filled with lovely sentiment and brilliant bits of comedy. Yet she wept through it all, even the funny sequences where an angel visiting Earth—Cary Grant as Dudley—mischievously bedevils an Episcopal bishop named Henry, played by David Niven. The bishop asks God for guidance, having become obsessed with fund raising for a new cathedral, to the detriment of his family and parishioners. And God answers him by sending Dudley to the parish to help the bishop see the error of his ways.
Catherine’s eyes streamed tears as the bishop’s forlorn wife—Loretta Young as Julia—delighted in the attention given her by the debonair Dudley. She felt a true bond with Julia, who’d suffered in silence because of her absentminded and neglectful husband. Of course, Catherine realized her case involved a far more devastating loss—Jonnie’s vanishing—but then Arthur Howard had arrived on the scene, hadn’t he? Like a gift from God. And he’d taught her how to enjoy life again, giving her hope for the future.
The plot twisted and turned as the film moved toward its inevitable happy conclusion. Catherine’s tears suddenly dried up as she watched the scene where poor Henry, now filled with remorse over his negligence, meets with his friend, a kindly old professor. They have a mutually illuminating discussion about Dudley, both having discovered he is not a mortal man. When Henry reveals he thinks he’s lost Julia to the angel, the professor emphatically disagrees. Dudley’s not human, he responds. You are. You have the advantage. Fight for Julia, and she will be yours again.
Catherine sat back and stared into space, her mind awhirl at the implications. The bishop was a man of blood and bone. That was the key. He could give his wife what the angel could not—love of the spirit and the flesh, a real future.
Arthur is here. He’s alive. Jonnie is not. He’s gone.
She loved them both, but her destiny was clear, the only path to true happiness awaiting her in a flat not far away. First she would telephone her parents and let them know she wouldn’t be home that night. She’d make up some excuse… Staying with a girlfriend… Something innocuous.
She blushed as she considered the true nature of her plans.
Heart pounding with newfound expectation, she rose, grabbed her coat, and left the cinema, knowing exactly what she must do.
…
Arthur sipped rum and cream, which went quite well with his cigar. After such a long, emotionally draining evening, much of it spent out in the cold and damp, he nestled into his easy chair and enjoyed the warmth of his cozy flat. He took a last puff of his cigar, put it out, and carefully rested it in the ashtray. With a sigh of pleasure, he opened his new historical novel, The Moneyman by Thomas B. Costain. He’d bought it last week and finally had the time to start reading.
Knock, knock.
He glanced at his wall clock. It was half past ten. Who could be at his door at this hour?
Rising from his chair, he cinched the belt on his robe and set off for the door. The knocking grew more insistent, a veritable pounding.
“See here! I’m coming!” he shouted.
Knock, knock, knock!
What in God’s name…? Who could possibly be so insistent? Perhaps Findley, with some information he’d forgotten to tell him? No, it was ridiculous to assume the man would bother him at home. More likely, it was Mrs. Brooks, his pesky next-door neighbor, with another plea for help with a lost cat or leaky sink. The woman was always in a panic over something.
Bloody hell, just what I need. Another faux emergency. Shaking his head, he opened the door. To his surprise, Catherine promptly fell into his arms.
“Arthur!” she said as she kissed him full on the mouth.
She tasted of popcorn and breath mints. Wacky. Wonderful…
“Oh, Arthur, I love you.”
He felt a deep jolt to his gut as she moaned into his mouth. Groaning back, he drew her into a tight embrace, then lifted her, cradling her against his chest. Her softness yielded to him, his body hardening in return. Their kiss deepened as he pushed the door shut, then fumbled with the chain, locking them in, the rest of the world be damned.
She drew back, her breathing fast, matching his. “Arthur, please. I love you. Let me stay the night.”
He looked into her eyes, so filled with desire, and knew this was the moment. No more worrying about propriety. No protests. No questions as to her past and the troubled times they’d shared. No mention of Jonathan Brandon and James Findley’s ghost theory.
Certainly not tonight.
…
Deep places, secret places. Catherine’s body pulsed with heat, an animal lust. She moaned as Arthur lay beside her in his bed, kissing her. They were naked now, flesh to flesh, her breasts against his chest. She could feel the pounding of his heart, a match to her own, two fast drumbeats, passions raging.
He kissed and stroked her body, and her legs parted at his touch, her instincts driving her to let him in. His fingers gently explored, her places secret no more, and then he rose above her, poised and ready.
“Catherine, I love you,” he whispered as his mouth covered hers. The world around her seemed to vanish as he entered her. To her surprise, she felt no pain. He filled her deep to her core, down to his very root, and then they began rocking back and forth, in and out, in and out.
The sensations were exquisite, beyond her imaginings. They built with each stroke until she felt as if her body lifted to the stars. Arthur called her name and pumped harder, taking both of them to a pinnacle, the tipping point. Suddenly, the heavens sparked and thundered in an explosion of bliss.
As her heart pounded at a deeper and slower pace than she’d ever known, she held him close. A languid warmth enveloped her, and the world returned from love’s oblivion. She caught the faint scent of his cigar, the soft feel of the mattress beneath her, the ticking of his wall clock.
He rose on one elbow and gently kissed her lips. “Will you marry me, Catherine?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I want to be your wife.”
He kissed her again, and she felt his passion renew.
“To my mind, you already are, my darling,” he whispered as he began to make lo
ve to her again. “And I am already your husband.”
Chapter Twenty-One
4 December 1947, London
Catherine woke to bright sunshine and promptly recalled the past night. With a smile, she turned and noticed Arthur wasn’t in bed.
“Arthur?” she said, suddenly remembering he’d kissed her on the cheek and whispered sweet nothings to her before leaving for work.
She stretched languidly before spotting a note resting on his pillow.
With a grin, she opened it and read.
Dearest Catherine,
I love you! I adore you!
Please make yourself at home. I must work in the office today, but do telephone me when you have a chance. I think I’ll be able to sneak away early. Will you join me for supper tonight?
I shall apprise you of the details of last evening’s meeting once we talk on the phone.
Ever yours,
Arthur
P.S. I love you, darling! I’ve left pajamas for you on the bed. And a spare key to my flat is located on the transom above the front door.
She glanced over the top of the note and saw a folded swath of baby blue fabric at the foot of the bed. She rose and fingered the pair of men’s silk pajamas. Soft to the touch and seemingly new, she held the bottoms against her waist and found the legs too long. She tried on the top, which fit her just fine, and decided to wear it like a short nightie.
Turning back to make the bed, Catherine stopped short when she saw bloodstains on the sheets. Embarrassed, she hoped Arthur hadn’t noticed and promptly stripped the sheets from the mattress. She’d been a virgin, yes, but when she felt no pain, she assumed there would be no blood. After carrying the sheets to the bathtub, she rinsed them out in cold water. When she telephoned Arthur, she would ask him the name of his laundry and take them there for a proper wash and drying. By the evening, all would be done, tidy and set, his bed clean again.
And ready for another go.
She laughed out loud at the audacity of the thought. The secrets shared between them had taken on a new dimension, now that they’d made love.
Begun by Time Page 14