It Begins in Betrayal

by Whishaw, Iona;

  “Agatha, please. You are only making this more complicated than it need be”

  “No, listen, Alphonse. It is not just Lucy’s heart that is doomed. We are doomed. You can never make an honest woman of me, nor an honest marriage of us. We began in deception, and we will suffer the consequences.”

  “I say! Henderson! How do?”

  Alphonse looked up, shocked by the intrusion, and stood up hastily, dropping his napkin, and offered his hand to the man who had appeared at their table.

  “Carruthers. What are you doing up in town? Oh, excuse me. Miss Browning, Mr. Carruthers. We were up at Oxford together.”

  Carruthers bowed in Agatha’s direction. “I say, you aren’t related to old Geoffrey Browning, member for Dorset? Only I’m articling with my uncle in the Commons. He’s quite a live wire. Always on his feet!”

  Agatha inclined her head slightly and glanced at Alphonse.

  “We’re just on our way, I’m afraid,” Alphonse said. “Or I’d invite you to sit.”

  Carruthers grinned. “I’m late myself. Supposed to meet my sainted mother here. Much rather be at my club, but what are you going to do? There she is!” He waved toward a table across the room and then turned to Agatha, touching the brim of his dove grey hat. “Miss Browning, Henderson.” And he was off.

  France, April 1943

  THE STEADY ROAR of the plane was interrupted. Jones looked back. Evans was peering anxiously out into the night, alert, his arms resting on the gun. Up ahead, Watson and Anthony were hurriedly conferring. In a moment they would be with the pilot. He could hear the engine faltering already. He shook his head. The attack had come like lightning from below them somewhere in the dark. Still. Darling was good . . . if anyone could get them down, he could.

  Darling was shouting now, “Brace, brace!”

  Jones leaned over in his seat and put his arms over his head. The impact threw his head back and down again, and he felt like his teeth had gone through his bottom lip. They hit the earth hard, and then the plane began to scream along the ground. The wheels had not deployed. The sound of metal tearing and crashing into whatever was outside reverberated, drawing cries from the crew. Finally, with a thump, the plane stopped. There was a moment of stillness, and then the men began to move. He could hear Darling shouting for them to get out. He looked back toward the rear of the plane. Evans was moving, was jumping to the ground from his perch. Jones stopped, now, momentarily panicked, and then followed him out the gaping hole that was the torn rear gunner station, and into the darkness.

  Paris, March 1947

  “IT WAS A lovely idea for us to come here for our anniversary,” Irene Salford said, taking a conciliatory tone. They were sitting on a bench on the edge of a pond in the Tuileries.

  “Well, you say that,” returned Salford grumpily, “but you complained about the bed all night, and said the coffee was too strong.”

  “I know, darling. I’m sorry. You know how I get when I don’t get any sleep. As to the coffee . . . well, we probably don’t even remember what real coffee tastes like because of the war, so finally getting some is a shock! Anyway, I’m as happy as a lamb now sitting in the sunshine in this beautiful park. Look at those elegant buildings beyond the trees. It hardly seems like there’s been a war.”

  “Well . . . I have to confess I could use something besides a flakey bun for my breakfast. Still, it will be nice to tell the others when we get home. They’ll be dead jealous!” Salford closed his eyes and leaned back, turning his face to the sun, feeling its warmth. He put his arm around his wife and thought how good it was that it was all bloody over.

  “Harry, look at that man. Isn’t that one of the fellows from your crew?”

  Salford sat up and opened his eyes. His eyes were still a little dazzled by the sunlight, and he and tried to focus where his wife was pointing. He could see no one clearly.

  “Where?”

  “Over there, see, by the kiosk.”

  Salford finally saw what his wife was pointing at. The shock made him turn away and shake his head, and then look again, his eyebrows knitting.

  “Stay here,” he said to his wife, and he got up and went across the wide dirt walkway toward the kiosk. It couldn’t be him, of course. It couldn’t be. But the resemblance was so striking that he thought he even recognized that grim set of the mouth Jones always had.

  “Jones,” he said, when he got near him. The man, who was drinking coffee from the kiosk, did not even turn his head. He was reading a newspaper.

  “I say, Jones, is that you?” Salford said, putting his hand on the man’s arm.

  At this the man turned and looked at Salford, puzzled. “Oui?” He asked.

  Salford stepped back. It was him, he could swear it, but this man did not seem to recognize him at all. “I’m sorry,” he faltered. “I could have sworn you were someone I know.”

  The man shrugged, and gave a rueful smile. “No English,” he said apologetically, his accent so thick Salford could barely understand him. The man turned, put down his coffee cup, folded his paper, and touched the brim of his hat. “Monsieur,” he said, and then walked away toward the Louvre.

  It was three months later that Harold Salford sat down at his desk and started a letter, his second, to his old flight skipper, Frederick Darling.

  Dear FL,

  Remember I told you a couple of months ago that I thought I’d seen Jones alive and well in Paris, only to find he was some dead ringer who couldn’t speak a word of English? I tell you what. I can’t stop thinking about it. I know we all gathered at that church in Fadmore all the bloody way up in Yorkshire for his funeral service, complete with the unhappy father and the weeping wife, but I can’t shake the feeling that it was him in Paris.

  I mean, we knew Evans had copped it because we had his body, but we never did find Jones, did we? We just assumed he went up in the plane. I’ve been racking my brain about those moments before the crash. I remember where everyone was, but I have this idea Jones wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He passed me going to the back of the plane. I couldn’t make out where he was going, especially as we were about to crash land.

  I think the bloody bastard deserted, that’s what. I think he saw an opportunity, and he left out the rear gunning window. Leaving us to fight on while he buggered off to lie low for the duration.

  Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now, but it’s bloody annoying. I keep wondering if I should tell someone.

  When are you coming over? You’ve promised before, you know!

  Salford

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “IT’S SO GOOD OF YOU to come with me, Sandra,” Lane said, pulling out her change purse. They were at King’s Cross buying tickets to Norwich in Norfolk. “No, no, let me,” she added as Sandra tried to hand her money. She smiled at the ticket seller and thanked him. “That’s that then. The train will be pulling out in ten minutes. Let’s get a nice seat and think about how to approach this.”

  They walked along the train, checking with the conductor that it wouldn’t be splitting anywhere, and picked a carriage.

  “Who is this we are seeing first?” Sandra asked, looking at the notebook Lane had in her hand.

  “This is Harold Salford. He was the wireless operator. Once we’ve covered him, we can go to down to Sussex.” She became thoughtful. “Higgins believes they’ll all have been got at. I hope not.”

  They had already decided that being direct was the best way forward, so having reviewed how they would approach Salford, they settled in to talk about their own lives. Lane talked about her home in King’s Cove, a circumstance that was wondrous to Sandra, who was mostly mystified at Lane’s wanting to live so far away from “civilization.” Lane was happy to talk about the people she’d left behind in her new community. It took her mind off the crawling fear about what had happened to Darling. She earnestly hoped Higgins was having luck demanding that his client be produced.

  The tea trolley further distracted them with s
trong cups of tea and egg mayonnaise sandwiches.

  “Of course, if you hadn’t gone out to Canada, you wouldn’t have met Frederick,” Sandra said between bites. “I’m a terrible romantic. I believe in fate.”

  Lane smiled. “I don’t know that I believe in fate . . . or anything really. The war, I always feel, cannot have been fate. Fate makes things seem inevitable, but surely a devastating war could have been avoided. I imagine even Darling could have been avoided if someone hadn’t died on my property.”

  “Fate, you see. I don’t think you could have avoided him. From what I have gotten to know in the few days he was with us before . . . anyway . . . I think he’s a perfect man for you. You know how I can tell? He didn’t talk about you except to say, in a voice I’ve never heard from any man, that if anything happened you were to be notified. That you were intelligent and deserved to know. That’s when I knew.”

  “You do talk nonsense, Sandra,” Lane said lightly, but all she could feel inside was the terrible fear that her fate was to lose him.

  “THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, FIFTEEN. I think this must be the one.” Lane checked the address again. The house was in a row of houses along a still-cobbled street, with little fenced front gardens that seemed to have benefitted from some sort of neighbourhood competition for attractive floral display.

  Sandra frowned. “The curtains are drawn. I hope they haven’t bugg . . . gone off on holiday or something. As it is we’ll have to stay here in town overnight. It would be an awful waste of a trip.”

  Lane looked at the house. It seemed unnaturally still to her. She had a fancy that the people who lived here had left for some darker reason, but when she applied the dragonhead brass knocker, she was rewarded with a sound from inside. At length they could hear the lock being pulled on the dark green door and the handle being turned. The door opened a crack, disgorging a strong smell of cigarette smoke. A young woman in a black dress with a large men’s cardigan wrapped around her came to the door. She said nothing but just looked at them for a moment. Lane felt sharply the contrast between them; Sandra and Lane in summer dresses, standing in a flood of early afternoon sunshine, and this exhausted woman inside the shadows of the smoky house.

  “Mrs. Salford?” Lane asked, finally. Lane could see out of the corner of her eye that a neighbour on the way into the house next door had stopped and was watching the interaction.

  “Yes?” The woman made no move to open the door but leaned on it instead, as if she could scarcely hold herself up.

  “I’m Lane Winslow, and this is Sandra Donaldson. We’ve come to talk to your husband on behalf of Flight Lieutenant Darling to just collect a few details about a crash they had in ’43. Would he have a little time for us?” This explanation seemed desperately inadequate to Lane suddenly. If she were Salford, she’d be wondering why Darling wasn’t there himself. Time enough to explain, she decided, hoping it would not make him clam up the way it had Watson.

  “He . . .” Mrs. Salford began, and then she closed her eyes. For a minute Lane and Sandra thought she was going to faint, but she only wavered and then put her hand on the door frame to hold herself up.

  “Goodness, lovie, you don’t look at all well!” Sandra said, taking charge of the situation. She put her arm gently around Mrs. Salford’s shoulder and pushed through into the house. “Come on, then. Let’s get you onto the sofa. You don’t look like you’ve had a decent meal in days.”

  The woman put up no objection and collapsed onto the couch, watching listlessly as Lane and Sandra bustled, opening curtains and windows, filling the kettle, looking for something to feed her. Lane saw the neighbour turn and continue into her own house.

  Mrs. Salford began to cry, her head down, her hands kneading the edge of the cardigan in her lap. “He’s dead,” she said, as if saying it for the first time. “He’s dead. He was just going to the post office and he walked over the tracks into the path of a train. They tried to tell me he committed suicide. That he was despondent because of a crash he was in. You know that shell shock soldiers seem to get. But he wasn’t, you know.”

  “But when did this happen?” Lane asked, her heart sinking.

  “Two days ago. The police came. I haven’t even told his parents. I should have. The padre’s arranged for a funeral on Friday. It would be horrible if they found out from the papers.”

  “How dreadful for you! Especially with people saying he did it himself.”

  “I know he didn’t. We’re going to have a baby. He was ever so happy about it. He just wasn’t like that. He was always cheerful and upbeat. He got a little bit funny after Paris, but he is just preoccupied about his work, especially with the baby coming.”

  “Look,” said Sandra. “Get this toast and egg down you, and then run along and have a bath. Give me your in-laws number, and I’ll call them. How about for you? Do you have someone we can contact?”

  “No. There’s just my sister, but she moved to Australia with her husband before the war. Thank you . . .” her voice faltered. “I didn’t know what to say to them about Harry. They doted on him.” She began to cry again silently.

  Sandra was able to persuade the unhappy widow to go upstairs and was running a bath for her. Deeply preoccupied, Lane wondered what the death of a potential witness must mean. She could not shake the idea that it was no coincidence that one of the men on the crew had been warned off and another had, possibly, been silenced permanently. She busied herself tidying the kitchen and washing up as she pondered what they ought to do. There was a timid knock at the door. Lane hesitated, suddenly wary, but looking out the window toward the doorstep she saw only the elderly neighbour, looking concerned. She opened the door.

  “Oh, hello. I live just next door. I couldn’t help seeing you coming into poor Irene’s house. She’s let no one come near her since the . . . accident. We’ve been powerless to offer any help or condolences. I just wonder if there is anything I can do? I was so glad to see she let you in.”

  “That’s very kind, Mrs. . . .?”

  “Glover,” said the neighbour.

  “Very kind, Mrs. Glover. We’ve only just found out the dreadful news ourselves, but we are visiting from London. I imagine you could be a very great help because you are right here. I think she’ll need some support, especially on Friday when the funeral is.” Have I said too much? Lane wondered. After all, Mrs. Salford may well despise her neighbours and want nothing to do with them. Indeed, she and Sandra had no standing in this matter at all. But she knew she was right. Mrs. Salford would need support. “May we call on you when we have a clearer picture of the situation?”

  “Absolutely. Thank you. She’s a sweet woman. I believe they were . . . are . . . expecting.”

  Lane closed the door. If she was right that Salford’s death was no coincidence, was Mrs. Salford even safe? She would suggest to his parents that she go back with them after the funeral. She busied herself cleaning up the kitchen and opening windows and curtains to air out the house. The back garden looked as though it had been well cared for, and, hoping she would not upset Mrs. Salford, she picked a few daisies and marigolds to put into a glass; perhaps it would bring a little joy into the house, she thought.

  “All right. She’s bathed and I’ve left her dressing,” Sandra said coming downstairs and swishing the teapot hopefully. “She’s in an awful state. I mean, it’s not just that she lost her husband in this way, she seems actually a little frightened.”

  “I’m frightened for her myself, but what makes you say that?”

  “Well for example, she said she hasn’t dared to open the door to anyone. When I asked why, she said someone had been in the house about a month ago. Her husband told her he felt someone had come in and gone through his papers. At first he was surprised because nothing seemed to be missing, but then he discovered he was missing a letter that he’d been writing to Frederick . . . oh!” Sandra put her hand to her mouth. “What if there was something in the letter that has to do with Frederick being charged in that ridicul
ous way? Was he warning Frederick of something?”

  Lane sat down with a thump. It was another coincidence that she couldn’t overlook. She had asked herself what event could have precipitated this whole business. A stolen letter from one of his crewmen meant for him would certainly qualify.

  “It’s maddening not to know what was in that letter!” She exclaimed. “I’m certain he hadn’t received anything earth-shaking from any crew member, or he would have said.” Or was he, she wondered, keeping things from her? Why not, especially if it had to do with the war? She kept things from her past from him.

  DARLING WOKE UP feeling disoriented. He had to look around at his cell to try to place himself. The cell was significantly different from the previous one. Smaller, though a window high in the wall let in more light. He must be in a cell on an outside wall. He was grateful that it was summertime. There was a clamminess to the cell that suggested it would be icy in the winter. He stood up and banged on the door. He had no idea what time it was or how long he’d been there. He only remembered a hasty removal from London in a windowless van, and a trip that must have lasted three hours. He struggled to remember what kind of facility would be that far away.

  “Hello! Guard!” He banged again. Crestfallen at the lack of response, he was about to turn and go back to sit on the cot when he heard footsteps. The metal plate covering a small window on the door was pushed open.

  “Yes?” He could see just the puffy face of a middle-aged man, a face not improved by the dull green cast of light emanating from the hallway outside his cell.

  “Yes. Hello. Is there any chance I can talk to my lawyer, Higgins?” He kept his anger, which was fuelled by real fear, under wraps. No good antagonizing one of justice’s foot soldiers.