by Tracy Groot
She heard the squeak of leather as his hands gripped the wheel. It was a reflex, like the fist on the envelope, like the teacup. She didn’t think he knew he did it.
“Well, anyway, a few years ago, I found the house. We had lived in Manchester. It was very different from what I remembered. It wasn’t kept up. It was all run-down—weeds, dirty windows—and I lost all courage to go up to the door. I merely stood on the street for quite some time. I was just leaving, when a middle-aged woman came out of the house next. She stared at me, as if she couldn’t quite believe it, and said, ‘You’re not Clare, are you?’ And I said, as if in a dream, ‘Mrs. Cleary?’ You’d have thought I was her child, come home at last. She cried and made such a wonderful fuss, told me about my parents, how much she loved them, how kind they were . . .” Clare sniffed, and swallowed very hard. “She said how hateful my uncle was, how she hated what happened to me—she was on holiday when he held the estate sale, and the only thing she could do for me was to try and buy back a set of dishes that had been sold to another woman in the village. But the woman wouldn’t sell. Then she invited me in to tea, and told me there was one thing she could do. And she brought this out.”
Clare pulled the locket up and showed him. It was a small silver pendant shaped like a heart with intricate weavings, like silver ribbons, on the front. “My mother gave it to her as a keepsake when the woman’s mother had passed. She said my mother’s . . .” Clare paused, took a breath. “My mother’s kindness meant the world to her, and she vowed that if I ever showed up, she would give it to me. When I left, I took a flower from Mrs. Cleary’s garden. I dried it, and it’s in here. This is a reminder of good and real people, that they existed, and that they still do. It is all the proof I have of a happy childhood.”
“There’s far more proof than that,” Percy said, in what could be mistaken for a gentle tone. “There is you, Miss Childs. You are certainly not the child of your uncle and aunt. Never could you have come from them.”
She felt light-headed, and teary, and would not cry yet again in front of this man she barely knew. She pinched her leg mercilessly to distract herself, and it didn’t work.
It was the loveliest thing anyone had ever said to her.
Something like that must be inscribed on the back of the locket: You are the child of Gordon and Ada.
“Thank you, Mr. Percy,” she whispered, wiping her nose.
Presently, he said, “I want you to think back to when you came to the police station to murder me. I wondered what on earth I had done. Were you to prepare it again, that speech, what would it be?”
Buildings and people and automobiles flashed past, no trace of a sinister tinge. All was wholesome, and good, and dear . . . and vulnerable past imagining with the peril surrounding the BEF, and the oncoming calamity of Hitler.
But she saw in her mind a white fist on an envelope, and rounded on him.
“I don’t know what spell Hitler cast that people should go along with him, and it terrifies me to death that this spell is nearing our island, but I’d say this: How can you possibly think you’re alone? It’s how you seemed when you’d left the café. Do you truly believe that England would put up with killing children? Or that the rest of the world would? In case it escaped your notice, it was Germans who got the information to the journalist. Germans who risked their lives to do it. That makes me quite sure that Nazism will be defeated in the end, for good people reside yet in a very dark place. Didn’t you say that I did?” Her lips trembled. “That I am the child of Gordon and Ada? If Hitler makes it here, if he crushes our army and crosses the Channel, then let him find us holding high the picture of Erich von Wechsler as proof that his own people would not have his ways. So then, neither will we.”
When the heat subsided, and her vision cleared, she smoothed her skirt and added, “I believe that version was a great deal longer than the other, but I don’t care. And I don’t care how it sounds.” She lifted her chin and looked away.
“How do you imagine it sounds?” he asked.
“Frightfully melodramatic.”
“Well, it does.” Then, “Could you say it again?”
Clare smiled.
“Actually, do you think you could write it down for me? I’ll slip it out when I’m feeling low. Take a little nip off it, like a flask. Perhaps visit a tattoo parlor, add it to my number five.”
Clare laughed, and looked at him. If it wasn’t exactly a smile that she saw on his face, it was an easing of lines.
IT AIN’T OUR WAR.
Dead children are my war.
Murray’s eyes flew open.
Conversations with the Fitz had tormented Murray throughout his sleep. No surprise he should find one when he woke.
If it’s not funny, or pleasant, or happy, or fascinating—it has no part of your world.
You’re just as blind as the people you draw those posters for.
Find that packet, Murray. You’ll believe me.
“I ain’t gonna give you that cigar, you keep that up.”
He became aware of the gentle movement of a boat at anchor in placid water. He’d spent the happiest summer of his life on this boat, until that last day. He hadn’t seen his father, or answered a letter, since. All because his father looked at a broad.
Murray liked to look at broads. But if you’re in a restaurant in Barcelona, and your old man looks at the same senorita you’re lookin’ at with a look that in a younger guy woulda been no big deal but in an older guy was slimy . . . Nah, nothing had changed after all. He was the same man who left his ma for another skirt. She was a waitress, too. Ma didn’t like waitresses. Or barmaids. Or cleaning ladies. Or hairdressers.
His old man got around.
He pushed up on an elbow and looked around his cabin. “Good to be back, Mags. Even if you are the original skirt.”
This great old cabin. Same faint mildewy smell, same damp feel that would never go away, no matter where they sailed. He felt along the bottom edge of the bunk frame and found the hardened drip of shellac. He’d found it that summer, looking for a place to park his gum.
He eased back to look at the bottom of the top bunk. He’d had to clear away a lot of stuff last night, and stowed it up there. One of those things was a box, and in that box were surprises.
First was the little figurine of the dancing native girl. They were in some bazaar in Egypt or Morocco, and his father caught him admiring it. Her figure had made him think of Helen, the secretary who worked with his mother at Florsheim’s. He’d blushed and put it back, afraid his father would think he was only a hormonal teen, but the old man picked it up and said, “A boat needs a talisman. I think a taliswoman would suit, don’t you?”
Next was a sea sponge from the harbor at Paphos, Cyprus. Looked like one of those National Geographic pictures of coral, except it was bile yellow. Fascinating color, fascinating thing, and it came from the sea as is, nothing needed to add to its usefulness. “Nifty,” Murray had said, and the old man bought it. It was the last thing Murray admired out loud to his old man.
There were a few navigation charts that brought back the old man’s lessons. One chart was of the southern coast of Turkey. His father knew the waters well and couldn’t wait to show Murray a special place—a channel opened into a secluded narrow lagoon flanked with high walls of rocky hillside. They anchored in the middle of the lagoon. Murray swam a mooring line out to a rock; then they dropped the dinghy to paddle for shore. They climbed for a spell, and Dad brought him to the ancient ruins of a tiny church. A cross was carved in the white stone above the entryway. You could look out a window to the lagoon below, where Maggie Bright sat, a beauty at anchor. Past her, through a crevasse, you could see the ocean. It became Murray’s favorite place of the summer. They spent a whole week there, swimming, fishing.
Seemed as though the whole box was devoted to Murray.
He’d already taken out volume 2, number 11, and slipped it into a drawing pad to bring home to his mother. Crazy, finding her mis
sing piece among his father’s things.
He listened for Clare and Mrs. Shrewsbury, and smiled to think of the old lady because real fans made him smile, but all was quiet. Then he heard footsteps overhead, near the stern. They sounded heavier than what women would make, reminded him of the footsteps of his old man. The thought did not sadden him, which in itself was kinda sad.
He listened—definitely the footfalls of a man. Must be the fellow who owned the boatyard, the one Clare talked about. He got up quickly to use the . . . what did she call it?
“Loo,” he said, chuckling. Crazy English. Where did they get loo out of john?
“Where should I park?”
“Pull round to the other side of that lorry. Oh dear. I’ve forgotten the marmalade. Do you know,” Clare suddenly mused, “this is the worst day of my life, all that I’ve learned, but now that I know the worst, now that I’ve had time with it, I feel better. I feel . . . pugnacious.”
“Captivating word choice,” William Percy commented.
“Agatha Christie just used it. All I want to do is grab a pistol and run for the front.”
Percy nearly smiled, an action that with him was as good as. He put on the parking brake and switched off the engine.
“Was that amusing?” said Clare.
“The image, yes. You running with a pistol. Not amusing, but rather . . .” and curiously, he colored.
“Rather what?”
“I’m not going to say what.” Then he said quickly, “Well, I was going to say endearing—which is the wrong word, of course—but you made me see grandmothers and aunties all ranged at the top of a fort, brandishing pistols. That’s endearing.” He thought for a moment. “Scary, too.”
He got out of the car and came around to her door.
“An image of me with a pistol immediately calls to mind aged grandmothers and aunties,” she said as he opened her door.
“Why wouldn’t it?” Again, that easing of lines, that almost smile.
A clever retort was in the making when a shout cut it off.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here! Quickly—run for the police!”
Mrs. Shrew stood wild before them with a teakettle.
“If it hadn’t been for that man to subdue him,” the Shrew said, running behind them, “I don’t know what we should have done.”
Clare had a feeling she’d done all right with the kettle.
“I only hope the Shrew hasn’t killed him so that you may,” Clare said to Percy.
“I wish Butterfield hadn’t taken Clemens off,” he growled. “I told him not to.”
They jogged down the wooden dock to Maggie’s berth at the end. The murderer of Murray’s own father was aboard the Maggie Bright.
“Is Murray all right?” Clare said over her shoulder.
“All is well,” the Shrew puffed. “And his hands are fine.”
Clare glanced behind, puzzled, and Mrs. Shrew said, “Famous violinists have their hands broken by thugs. His hands were the first I checked.”
Percy threw up a cautionary hand when they slowed up and neared the boat. He put his other hand in his pocket, which Clare was sure concealed a gun.
“Stay here. He’s a very dangerous—”
“I shouldn’t wonder if my skull isn’t fractured!” came a high-pitched voice from the boat. “Good Lord, that shrieking; I’ll have nightmares the rest of my life. Am I bleeding?”
“Come now, guv, brace up—it’s just a scratch.” It was Captain John.
“I quite understand the threat of Fifth Columnists, with the lamentable influx of refugees, as they call them, but this is ridiculous. A German spy indeed.”
Clare knew that voice. She stared at Percy. “Why—it’s Mr. Hillary!”
It was indeed Mr. Wilfrid Hillary, family lawyer of the Childs clan.
He kept checking to see if the scratch had produced blood on the square of handkerchief he pressed against his forehead.
Maggie’s crew ranged about on her deck. William Percy, in his yachtie apparel, sat on the aft sail locker. Murray, who had slept in his clothing, took up a sprawled post in the captain’s chair at the helm, creased and rumpled from sleep and intensely interested in the ruckus. Mr. Hillary sat on a bench in the cockpit opposite Clare, with a formidable and arms-folded Captain John standing behind his right shoulder, flanked by Captain John’s mirror image, Mrs. Shrew, at his left. She still held the kettle.
Clare’s knees nearly touched Mr. Hillary’s. Ordinarily, none of them would be in such close proximity to one another, but on a boat, one pretended more personal space existed than actually did.
“I’d tried to contact you via the telephone, only to discover you had none,” said Mr. Hillary stiffly. “Twice I sent notification by post, but you hadn’t answered my requests for an appointment.”
No, she hadn’t. The two envelopes from Messrs. Hillary and Sprague remained unopened on the captain’s table.
“Your dear uncle—” here, Clare sent a swift glance at William Percy, gratified to receive one in return—“said you’d not been into the shop in months. There. Look. Blood.”
He showed it to the closest person, Murray, who said, “Boy, I’ll say. You want me to get a tourniquet?”
Mr. Hillary scowled. “This isn’t the sort of thing to occupy a solicitor, you know—making house calls.” He glanced around distastefully. “Rather—houseboat calls. It isn’t done.”
“Awfully appreciate you should take your time—” began Clare meekly.
“It’s not as though I have several names on my door. Hillary and Sprague it may read but there is no Sprague about it, not for years. Threw me off for a London firm.”
This Clare knew. “Yes, well, I’m awfully sorry—”
“No, I’m quite on my own except for a clerk in the village I occasionally hire when work is backlogged. My time is valuable and I am unused to two unanswered summons. Did I have an incorrect address?” His tone and a high eyebrow indicated he was sure he did not.
She couldn’t say in front of Murray that the envelopes had struck a sick dread in Clare—anything legal did, for it came with a threat that this dream she’d been living was over, and Maggie would be seized because of more undiscovered debt, or unrevealed taxes, or any number of unimagined bureaucratic infractions. Or . . . that she actually belonged to someone else, someone the will had missed. Like Murray.
She remained silent, but before it grew awkward, William Percy said, “Mr. Hillary, please get to your point—I have very important business to attend to in the area, but wish to hear this business first.”
He drew himself up. “Well, it’s certainly none of yours.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Hillary,” Clare assured.
“Miss Childs, this is a private matter. I couldn’t even tell your dear uncle. I am quite uncomfortable disclosing—”
And Clare laughed.
Mr. Hillary’s eyes inflated with shock.
“I’m sorry—it’s just . . . Look, I’ve heard the most awful news today. Shocking and dreadful and . . . you will all know soon enough, though I suspect Captain John may know some of it already. The truth is, I don’t feel that any matter is private anymore. Not now.” She looked around at Maggie’s crew, at this young man she barely knew, at the captain and the Shrew, at the man searching for blood on his handkerchief, at the hazel-eyed man on the aft locker with the photo of his sister in his wallet. She felt a rush of affection for these friends and strangers. She could lose them all. Nothing much mattered now, except to say no to a man who kills children.
“You can disclose anything you want in front of these.” She raised her chin. “It’s a day for the worst possible news, so do your worst, Mr. Hillary.” And in her heart, she braced.
“Suit yourself, Miss Childs,” said the lawyer, with the long-suffering air of one accustomed to the poor judgment of the young. “A few weeks ago, I was filing some papers I’d received from the lawyer of Arthur Vance. And something struck me, which I believed warranted fur
ther investigation on behalf of longtime clients. You see, Mr. Vance’s lawyer had suggested that your father, Gordon Childs, was a boyhood friend of Arthur’s. He said as much in his letter. But it isn’t true.”
Clare blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Your father was born and raised in Manchester. But one of the papers, a deed of ownership transferal, stated that Arthur Vance was born in a little village called Ockham, Surrey, where he lived for many years.”
“That is odd,” said Clare slowly.
“Those places far apart?” Murray asked, looking from one to the other.
“About a country apart,” Clare said.
“Miss Childs,” said the lawyer patiently, “do you not remember? You were born in Surrey.”
“Well, yes, I know that. I was adopted out when I was—” Clare broke off.
“You were born in Ockham.”
After a moment, William Percy said sharply, “Are you all right?”
She was clutching the locket.
“Adoption records of course are sealed,” Mr. Hillary continued, “but not the full disclosure of wills. For a shilling you can read one at the Sommers House in London. A few weeks ago, I went to London, paid the shilling, and read the will of Arthur Murray Vance. It turns out that he had left his houseboat to his firstborn. A daughter. Her name listed in the will is . . . Clare Ada Childs.”
Clare remained very still, until at last, she found the eyes of Murray Vance; she likely had the same sort of look on her face as he.
“In the event of refusal, it was to be passed on to his second born, Murray Arthur Vance, of Bartlett, New York. For reasons unknown, Arthur had instructed his lawyer to say that the behest came from a boyhood friend of Gordon Childs. In any correspondence, you were never referred to as anything other than the daughter of his boyhood friend.”
“My old man got around,” Murray said softly to Clare, adding a quick artificial grin. “Prob’ly one of us in every port.”