No Known Grave

by Maureen Jennings

  “But I will still be blind. And hideous.”

  “Good thing you won’t be able to see yourself then, isn’t it?”

  There was a spasm across Bancroft’s mouth that was the closest he could get to a smile.

  “Daisy, will you marry me?”

  She tapped him playfully on the top of his head. “I thought I’d already said yes to that. If you think I’m going to sully my virtue and not get something out of it, you’ve got another think coming. You’re going to have to make an honest woman of me.”

  “Done.”

  She bent over and kissed him.

  40.

  DAISY HALTED OUTSIDE THE WHEATSHEAF.

  In fact, she was losing some of her courage. Somehow the brightness of the day made the idea of a tryst seem even more wicked. No cover of darkness; everybody would know what they were taking a room for. They hadn’t thought this through. Neither of them could stay away from the hospital for long. They were being ridiculous.

  Jeremy bent his clawed fingers in a sort of beckoning motion. Daisy leaned over him.

  “Daisy, your breast was as soft as a pillow.”

  She burst out laughing. “Not a very romantic description. Makes me sound fat. You’ve got to do better than that, Mr. Bancroft.”

  “Words fail me, but I hope the same won’t be true of my actions.”

  She tapped him on the head. “Were you having me on when you said you’d never had relations with a girl before?”

  “No. I swear. I’m as untried as a schoolboy.”

  “Ha. These days that isn’t saying much.”

  “Would you prefer me to be experienced, Daisy? Come on, tell the truth.”

  She hesitated. “I suppose so. I don’t have a clue myself.”

  “We’ll learn together.”

  “I did read a book once when I was fourteen. My two friends and I sent for it from Women’s Weekly. It was intended for “the new bride.”

  “And?”

  “Useless. Said that marriage would have its ups and downs and it was important to maintain a sense of humour and always be cheerful when your husband came home.”

  “Nothing about the other kind of ups and downs?”

  “Don’t be cheeky,” Daisy said, laughing.

  Bancroft shifted in the wheelchair. “All right. Properly speaking, I should be the one to get the room, but it should probably be you, Daisy. They might think I have something catching, like the bubonic plague.”

  “Stop it. You don’t look that bad, honest. If anything, you look like you’ve got some rare strain of measles.”

  “Thanks. That’s most reassuring.”

  “Why don’t you stay outside? I’ll feel better lying through my teeth if you’re not listening.”

  Suddenly he caught hold of her arm. “Daisy, you won’t run away, will you? You won’t leave me here, bellowing like an unweaned calf for its mother? I won’t know where you are.”

  This time, it was she who planted a kiss on his lips. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  She pushed the wheelchair into a patch of sunlight, facing him down towards the river. Both sides of the wide, cobbled street were lined with narrow-fronted houses. House-proud women kept the windows sparkling clean, and the curtains were lace. Probably none of the doors or trim had been painted since before the war, but you wouldn’t know it today. The sun bathed everything in a warm, golden light. Even in these austere times, the window boxes were filled with brightly coloured flowers. Except for a black wreath on one of the doors, the ravages of war seemed far away.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Daisy opened the door of the hotel and went inside. The lobby was dim after the brightness of the sunlight, warm and fusty-smelling; beer and tobacco odours lingered in the air. The woodwork was dark, weathered by time and smoke. The bar was off to the right, empty now, closed until the evening opening time. The tiny reception area was tucked beside a flight of stairs. A sign proclaimed, PRIVATE. GUESTS ONLY. There was a big red ledger on the counter and a neat plaque that read, M. ALLTHORPE, PROP. Daisy dinged the bell on the counter and waited. Nobody appeared. She dinged it again. Still nobody. She was tempted to rush outside and tell Jeremy there was no room available when the door beside the counter opened and a woman emerged. She was wearing a pair of blue overalls and was in the act of removing heavy leather gloves.

  “Beg pardon, madam. I was out in the back garden tending to my bees. You can’t rush bees, so you’ll have to forgive me being slow.”

  It was hard to determine how old the woman was. Her skin was tanned and her body wiry, but when she pulled off her straw hat, she revealed iron grey hair, cropped short. As she lifted the counter flap and squeezed into the cubicle, she gave Daisy a friendly smile. If she was shocked by her disfigurement, she hid it well.

  “Dearie me, I do hope you’re not wanting accommodation. What with all the workers coming in for the factories, I’m completely full.”

  Daisy could feel her resolve melting away. How on earth could she say to this brisk, respectable woman that she was hoping to get a room for the afternoon so she could have illicit sex?

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I was hoping …” Her voice trailed off. Stalling, she pointed at the plaque. “I’m speaking to Mrs. Allthorpe, I presume?”

  “Not missus. I’m Maud Allthorpe, Miss.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Daisy.

  Miss Allthorpe nodded an acceptance of the apology. “What sort of time were you thinking of?”

  “Er, anytime really. Now, I suppose.”

  The proprietor opened the large ledger and ran her finger down the page. Her hands looked strong and capable, the nails cut short.

  “I’m totally booked until at least the end of next week. I might have something then.” She looked up and her keen blue eyes met Daisy’s.

  “Booking for you and your husband, are you?”

  Daisy nodded, trying not to be too emphatic. “Er, yes. As a matter of fact, he’s outside at the moment. He has a bit of leave and, well, we were hoping – such short notice, I know …”

  Miss Allthorpe raised her eyebrows. “He’s outside?”

  “Yes, he’s disabled. Plane crash.”

  “He’s in a wheelchair, you mean?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Miss Allthorpe closed the ledger. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear, but all my rooms are upstairs. We have no way to accommodate people if they can’t walk. No lift, you see.”

  This wasn’t a problem that either Daisy or Jeremy had foreseen. The woman was being perfectly polite and kind, but Daisy felt a spurt of anger.

  “He was a pilot in the RAF. His plane was shot down. He’s lost his sight and most of his hands. For now he can’t use his legs.”

  Again the blue eyes stared into hers. Appraising.

  “That must be very hard for both of you. You’ve been in the wars yourself, I see. What was it? A bombing raid?”

  “An unexploded bomb decided to go off.”

  Miss Allthorpe made tutting noises of sympathy and shook her head. But she gave Daisy the same shrewd look.

  “I didn’t think the WRENS accepted married women.”

  “No, they don’t. We’ve only just tied the knot. I’m going to have to sort all that out later. Frankly, we’re keeping it quiet for now. We haven’t even had a honeymoon.”

  Daisy was amazed how easily the fibs slipped from her lips. But she’d caught the quick glance Miss Allthorpe had thrown down at her left hand. Another thing she and Jeremy had not thought about, the lack of a wedding ring.

  “Where have you come from?” Miss Allthorpe asked.

  “We’re both convalescing over at St. Anne’s.”

  “That’s where you met, was it?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  At least that part was true, thought Daisy.

  “I see. No privacy for married couples, is that the problem?”

  “That’s right.”

  Miss Allthorpe smiled. “I
have a very nice couple booked in here from that hospital. At least, I should say, the wife stays here. Her husband works long hours and can’t always get away. But he likes to come as often as he can.” She smiled slightly. “I don’t think they’ve been married very long either. All lovey-dovey when they’re together.”

  Daisy was puzzled. St Anne’s was small and she hadn’t heard of any wife stashed away in Ludlow.

  “You say the husband works at the hospital?”

  “That’s right. He’s a doctor. Young fellow, good-looking.” Miss Allthorpe positively beamed. “He reminds me of a younger Walter Pidgeon, you know, the movie star, with his dark hair and brown eyes.”

  “Really? What’s his name?”

  “I’m not supposed to say. He wants to keep his private life private. You know how people gossip. The market’s a terrible place for people talking. Even today, with all the warnings about loose lips sinking ships, you can’t stop them. It’s been going on for generations. Hard habit to break, if you ask me. Mind you, I think it’s only harmless stuff … Who’s having a baby, who’s just had one.” She winked. “Whose husband’s away at sea and how long has he been gone? That sort of thing.”

  Daisy wasn’t sure that kind of gossip was entirely harmless, but she didn’t want to antagonize the woman by contradicting her.

  “I can understand the need for discretion,” she said. “I feel the same way.”

  “Dr. Sargent said he—” Miss Allthorpe’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oops, I let his name slip out. Don’t tell anybody, will you?”

  “I won’t. Besides, I don’t think I know him.”

  Miss Allthorpe leaned her elbows on the counter and looked from side to side in a conspiratorial fashion.

  “He’s very good. About a fortnight ago, he comes up to me and says, ‘You’re looking a bit peaked. Are you getting enough shut-eye, Miss A?’ That’s how he refers to me, Miss A. Well I admitted that I’d been having some bad nights. Sometimes I get terrible migraines. ‘We jolly well can’t have that, can we?’ says he in his posh voice. He’s very well educated.”

  She hardly paused to get her breath. Daisy nodded politely. She was still puzzled as to who this paragon might be.

  “So next time he comes, doesn’t he bring me a bottle of something to help me sleep. Vile-tasting stuff, it was. Bitter. He poured a splash into a cup and had me toss it back as if it was a whisky. He says, ‘My wife suffers from headaches and this always helps her. Take it before bed and you’ll sleep like a baby.’ And I did. Never charged me a penny. ‘Just keep my little secret, Miss A,’ says he.”

  Miss Allthorpe reached under the counter and took out a piece of chamois. She began to rub at the brass bell. “I like things tidy, I do. I always have their room clean as a new pin. She can be a bit messy, I’m afraid. I make sure I put something nice in there. A bunch of my dahlias. A bit of savoury pie when I can.”

  For a moment, Daisy watched mesmerized as the polishing extended itself to the trim along the counter.

  “They’re lucky to have you for a landlady,” she said, not quite sincerely.

  Miss Allthorpe continued what she was doing. “Thank you, my dear. I know I am a bit of a chatterbox, always have been. You wouldn’t think running a hotel would be lonely, but it can be. Everybody’s got their own lives to live.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Daisy thought she might try to steer the conversation back to the matter on hand. “How long do you think the doctor and his wife will stay with you?”

  “It’s hard to tell. They’ve been here three weeks altogether. He only just graduated, he told me. St. Anne’s is his first appointment.” She lowered her voice. One woman to another. “Frankly, it’s dull for her with nothing to do during the day. I mean, I do all the housework and when he does come, they eat in the dining room, so there’s none of that to worry about.”

  Daisy couldn’t help but smile. “Goodness me, how does she occupy her time?”

  “I encouraged her to join the WVS, and she has been getting out more regularly lately. I think she’s made a friend in town.” More vigorous rubbing. “She’s a pretty young thing, very fashionable. Not what you’d expect for a doctor’s wife. She’s not got much education, by the sound of it. Not like him.” Miss Allthorpe shrugged. “But it takes all sorts. Probably it was a love match, and you know how love is blind.” Again her hand flew to cover her mouth. “I hope what I said wasn’t offensive, my dear. You did say your poor husband had lost his sight, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  Miss Allthorpe lowered her eyes. “I myself lost my chance at marriage in the Great War, when my fiancé died in the Dardanelles.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Daisy.

  “The letter from his captain was ever so nice. ‘Donald succumbed to his wounds,’ he said. Perhaps it was a blessing. I saw so many young men come back with dreadful injuries. Both of the mind and the body. I saw women crushed under the burden of taking care of them. I admire you, my dear.”

  Miss Allthorpe stopped her polishing and gazed at Daisy. “Just because you’ve got some scars doesn’t mean you’re not still an attractive young woman, my dear. Don’t throw your life away.”

  Daisy didn’t know how to respond, but just then a young woman came down the stairs. She was smartly dressed in a tailored, cherry red outfit with a matching, saucer-shaped hat.

  Miss Allthorpe turned to greet her. “Good day, Mrs. Sargent.”

  The young woman nodded coolly. “I’m going out for a few hours, Miss Allthorpe. I’ll be back for dinner.”

  She was busy buttoning on her gloves and didn’t seem to take in Daisy, who did her own appraisal. If Dr. Sargent was the medical profession’s answer to Walter Pidgeon, his wife seemed to have modelled herself after Jean Harlow. Or maybe Veronica Lake. Her pale blond hair fell in a smooth pageboy, drooping over one eye to her shoulders. Her lips were crimson, her brows plucked and reshaped into thin arches.

  Not Daisy’s idea of a doctor’s wife, either.

  Then the woman saw Daisy and immediately averted her eyes. She’d seen this type of reaction many times before, but Daisy still wasn’t indifferent to it. She instinctively ducked her head and shrank down into her shoulders.

  “Are we to expect Dr. Sargent tonight?” asked Miss Allthorpe.

  “I don’t think so. It’ll just be myself.” The other woman kept fiddling with her glove buttons. Daisy knew she was avoiding looking at her.

  Suddenly there was a loud thumping on the front door and Daisy heard Jeremy’s voice.

  “Daisy. What’s happening?”

  “Thank you, Miss Allthorpe,” muttered Daisy, and she shot off to open the door. Jeremy had wheeled himself up closer and she almost bumped into the wheelchair. He must have been kicking at the door.

  “Daisy, is that you?”

  “Of course it is. Who were you expecting, Vera Lynn?”

  “What kept you so long? Do we have a room or not?”

  Daisy grabbed hold of the arms to the wheelchair and turned him around.

  “No, we do not. Ludlow is as full as Bethlehem on the night of Christ’s birth.”

  He laughed. “Never thought I’d identify with St. Joseph, but you know what, if you can find us a manger, I’m all for it.”

  “Well, I’m not. Too itchy, all that straw. We’ll have to try again.”

  Jeremy uttered an exaggerated groan. “Forgive me for being crude, Daise, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold up.”

  “These days, things can change fast. Somebody could be called away to work somewhere else. We can come back tomorrow. Maybe try the Feathers.”

  “If we live that long.”

  Daisy stopped the wheelchair, pushed on the wheel brake and came around to stand in front of Jeremy. “Don’t say that.”

  He threw up his hands. “I’m just joking.”

  “Well, I’m not. I promise we’re going to be together and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I’m so happ
y to hear your confidence,” said Jeremy. “Give us a kiss to seal the promise.”

  She did, and it was a long and lingering kiss.

  He sighed. “I’d say that was well and truly sealed.”

  41.

  THE SMALL OFFICE FELT TOO HOT AND STUFFY AND the long day was getting to Tyler. He’d been going through all of the patient files with a fine-tooth comb, but nothing had yet thrown any new light on the investigation. He stood up. Maybe another walk around the grounds would yield something.

  He stubbed out his cigarette, stowing the butt in a flat tin, which he returned to his jacket pocket.

  Outside, the sun felt hot on his face. He’d have to watch it. His fair skin burned easily. As he rounded the corner, he saw Alfie Fuller seated on the bench directly in front of the pigeon coop. His stance, stiff and straight, suggested he was on high alert. He was holding a bicycle horn in one hand.

  “Hello, Alfie. What are you doing over here?” Tyler asked.

  “I’m keeping guard of the pigeons. I seen a hawk around and he’ll come in for the kill if I’m not careful.” He squeezed the horn, and it gave off a harsh blast. “You took me gun, so I’m going to use this. ’S not as good, mind you. They’s still alive even if they fly off.”

  “Do you mind if I join you for a bit?”

  “S’pose so. I’ve got to go and help me ma soon though.”

  Tyler sat down next to him.

  “Grand day, isn’t it?”

  “S’pose so. Me ma don’t like me to get too much sun. She says it can turn your head funny.” Alfie glanced sideways at him. “Not as bad as the moon though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody told me that all the patients here go funny in the head when it’s a full moon.”

  Startled, Tyler looked at him. “Who told you that, Alfie?”

  “I can’t remember. I think it was Miss McHattie.”

  “Shirley?”

  “Yep. She don’t like living here. Mind you, she said living in Scotland was like living in hell, so it must have bin worse.” He turned to gaze into Tyler’s face. “Did you know she has a bun in the oven?”

  “She’s having a baby, you mean?”