The Lazarus Secrets

by Beryl Coverdale

  *

  Max woke up with Sarah shaking him roughly, he was sweating and didn’t recognise her. He gasped for breath pushing the sheets away from his face, “I must get out of the water.”

  “Max wake up you’re having a nightmare. Max!

  “Don’t leave me, Claudine,” he yelled, then opened his eyes to Sarah’s hurt face.

  *

  Clarissa opened the cottage door, “I didn’t realise you were walking Max,” she kissed him on the cheek, “I was listening for the car. Is it all right for you to climb the hill?”

  Max kissed her on the cheek, “Yes it’s fine Mother, in fact, it’s just what the doctor ordered that’s the treatment now. No sickly invalid taking things easy, I have to keep myself fit and healthy.”

  “Well, you certainly look fit and I hear from Sarah that you’re going back to work, that’s wonderful news.” She ushered him in, “Charles and Alexander are in the garden. Just go through and we’ll have coffee out there.”

  He put his hand on her arm, “Sarah told me about Alexander, I’m so very sorry Mother.”

  She nodded sadly, “Yes we all are, but we don’t talk about it Max.” She held up her hands, her palms and long fingers facing him she crossed them gently back and forth as if preventing the conversation. “We go on as usual and refuse to let it spoil the time we have left together, the three of us.” She turned and led the way through to the house and into the garden, “Look who’s here! Go and sit down Max and I’ll get the coffee.”

  Like relics of a more genteel age, Charles and Alexander sat in wooden and canvas deck chairs beneath the flowering shrubs that climbed the garden fence. They were reading the morning papers and smoking, Charles his pipe and Alexander a cigarette. They both wore straw hats and their only concessions to casual dress on this bright sunny morning were rolled up shirt sleeves and the absence of ties.

  “Come and sit here,” Charles said taking his pipe from his mouth and pointing it at a spare deck chair next to him. “Good to see you looking so well Max.”

  Alexander waved a hand, “I hear the young ones are to reproduce again and there are to be more Darringtons running amok around the place.”

  Max stared at him unable to quite believe his time was almost done, and already feeling the vastness of the void his passing would leave, something of them all would die with him. He was in his seventies and looked it but showed no sign of weariness or fear, the aggressive humour, so much part of his character, still emanated from him. Max searched the craggy face for some indication of impending death, averting his eyes only when he realised Alex­ander was looking straight back at him. Could he see into his soul? If so he would see such sadness.

  The garden was in full bloom and the air was still and gloriously fresh, the quietness broken only by birdsong. Clarissa carried out a tray of coffee and homemade biscuits and sat down. “Isn’t it just a perfect morning?” she beamed, “I’m so glad you came today, Max.”

  Handing the cups around, she sat back contentedly between Charles and Alexander. It was a scene Max had witnessed a thousand times, but Sarah’s questions had reminded him that the story behind the picture remained shrouded in mystery. At intervals, they had separated, but some irresistible force, whatever its origin, had always drawn them together again and he never could decide if it had been a positive or negative factor in their lives. It was just so.

  Footsteps and the chatter of children’s voices announced the arrival of Clive and his family at the side garden gate. “We knocked at the front door,” called Carol cheerfully, “but you didn’t hear us.”

  They always seemed so happy and uncomplicated to Max. Like his father, Clive was handsome and having inherited a fortune from his parents could have had his pick of occupations and partners but was content to be a village parson and had eyes for no-one but Carol the plain, good-natured daughter of the late Reverend and Margaret Donaldson.

  Clarissa hugged them both and the children kissed everyone. Vanessa made her way to Charles and sat on the grass next to his deckchair. Having spent years believing he would have none, Charles adored all his grandchildren but after Barbara died and Vanessa daily grew to look more like her, he had difficulty concealing his undoubted favouritism.

  Thirteen-year-old Julia was the beauty of the family favouring her great-aunt Clarissa. She sat beside Grandpa Alex who poked fun at her short skirt comparing it to an army belt he had once worn. The young girl smiled condescendingly and kissed his forehead. Alexander was her great-uncle but from an early age she had worried about him having no grandchildren. So, in spite of his constant assurances that he disliked children intensely, she had adopted him as Grandpa Alex and he was secretly delighted to be referred to as such by all the children in the family.

  “Isn’t it wonderful about the new babies,” Carol said enthusiastically.

  Everyone agreed except Alexander, who, much to the amusement of the adults gave forth a tirade about such irresponsibility with the exploding population and standing room only being imminent.

  “Babies are born to replace the people who are going to die,” Julia suddenly stated seriously. Clarissa spilled her coffee. The others glanced at each other but not at Alexander. Sensing she had said something significant the child coloured and looked at Clive, “Isn’t that right Daddy? That’s what you said when Grannie Barbara died, people die and go to heaven and babies take their place.”

  Before Clive could answer Alexander gently touched her head, “That’s true, Julia your daddy is absolutely right. I was only joking. It is wonderful that we’re to have new children in the family.” She smiled thankfully and giggled when he added, “I’m just a silly old man and I worry about Christmas and birthdays and all the money I have to spend on so many gifts.” He shuddered with mock horror and everyone joined in with relieved laughter.

  Clarissa went to make more coffee. Max followed and found her weeping in the kitchen, “I don’t know how I shall bear it Max. He’s been at my side since your father died, since before your father died and life without him seems inconceivable.” She looked up and spoke urgently, “There are things that bind us together, the three of us, things no-one else knows about, things we can’t …” She suddenly stopped and looked almost frightened, but when she didn’t continue Max folded his large arms around her, he could offer nothing other than his love.

  When the Longfields left, Max begged a lift and found himself squashed into their large station wagon, the youngest child Susie on his lap and the other children plus a large Old English sheepdog occupying every square inch of space.

  “You’re back early. How were they all at Top Cottage?” Sarah sat at the dining-room table and gave him a fleeting smile.

  “Very well really, we had coffee out in the garden and it was beautiful up there. Alexander was exactly the same, grumpy and amusing, Mother was a bit upset but that’s to be expected. Clive and Carol and the children called in so they gave me a lift home.” Sarah nodded then looked down at her hands that were spread flat on the table concealing something. “What’s that?” Max asked.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly and then looking embarrassed lifted her fingers. “It’s a photograph of Claudine. I was doing a clean out while you were in hospital and I found it in a box in the safe. I’d never seen it before. I didn’t realise how very beautiful she was.”

  “Why have you got it out now?”

  “Why did you keep it?”

  “I kept it for Jules. He never knew her and I thought one day he might ask what she was like, but so far he hasn’t shown the slightest curiosity about Claudine. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it. I put that part of my life behind me, too many bad memories. Alexander collected a box of my belongings from the navy when I left and when we moved in here I dumped it in the safe.”

  “She looks very like Jules, or should I say Jules looks like her.”

  “Yes, well that’s what I mean. I never saw my father or my grandfather but as a child I always wondered what they look
ed like and wanted to see photographs of them and just because Jules doesn’t show an interest doesn’t mean his children won’t.”

  Sarah kept her eyes on the photograph. They had become awkward with one another and Max hated it. Their marriage had always been one of open good humour regardless of what was happening but lately they picked their words carefully watching for each other’s reactions.

  “Sarah, what’s this all about?” Max asked sharply.

  “It’s the dreams Max, nearly every night I have to wake you, you scream and shout and wake up terrified and you always call out for Claudine. Why is that? You must have loved her very much. I suppose I’m being silly, but it’s making me very insecure especially when I see how very beautiful she was.”

  Max sat down beside her and spoke softly, “When I married Claudine I’d only known her a few months, she was pregnant, there was a war on and we gave no thought whatever about tomorrow because we didn’t know if there would be one. It was the biggest mistake I ever made, for her and for me. Yes, she was beautiful and yes, I thought I was madly in love with her but I wasn’t. I didn’t even know her and she turned out to be selfish and unfaithful and didn’t even love our son. Believe me even if she hadn’t died, the marriage was over. The only good thing to come out of the whole mess was Jules and you became his mother and you’ve loved him as much as Heather and our other children.”

  “But these nightmares Max, they started when I told you about David and they’re not going to go away until you face up to what happened to you during the War. Won’t you at least talk to me about it? I’ve never asked you before because we agreed to forget the past, but now the past is reaching forward and destroying your relationship with your son. I think you must talk to him otherwise he’s going to go through life with this tremendous guilt hanging around his neck.”

  Max sounded exasperated, “My having a heart attack had nothing to do with David joining the navy. How many times do I have to say it? I told you and him at the time, I’d been feeling ill all day. Can you imagine what it’s like listening to someone tell you the details of how they raped and murdered a ten-year-old girl and then face her parents? For a stress factor that’s pretty high.”

  “Don’t get defensive Max and don’t raise your voice. You’re getting agitated at the very mention of this problem. If you can’t talk to me or to David perhaps you should talk to some else,” she hesitated, “someone professional, a psychiatrist or someone.”

  “No,” he said emphatically, “I did that during the war and it created as many problems as it solved but I’ll write to David. He has nothing to feel guilty about. I’m very happy he’s found his niche in life. Now please put the photograph back where you found it and try to remember that although I don’t tell you nearly often enough, I love you more than anything or anyone I’ve ever loved and always will.”

  Chapter Ten

  The archives were beneath a high street bank in Winchester town centre and accessed through an unmarked door from a car park at the rear of the building. The entrance looked insignificant, as if it might be a back door to the bank, but was in fact heavily reinforced and led to a completely separate building monitored by surveillance cameras. Darrington pressed a buzzer on the door and a voice using his rank and name asked him to enter. The door clicked open to admit him then closed quietly but firmly behind him and a narrow staircase led him down to an ultra-modern, brightly lit underground complex.

  A small woman with birdlike eyes and short, greying hair sat at a large reception desk behind which stretched rows of shelving filled with files. “My name is Alice Bevis,” she said in the scratchy voice Darrington had heard over the intercom. “I’m the superintendent in charge of the archives and this is a copy of the regulations. Please read them very carefully, as they are very important.”

  Darrington took the sheet of paper and smiled at her, but she peered at him over large spectacles that were attached to a gold chain hanging around her neck, and did not smile back.

  “You may access green files at any time,” the scratchy voice continued. “I’m aware of the nature of your investigation so I’ve taken the liberty of placing the pertinent files in the office allocated for your use.” She indicated with her hand to a door behind him. The office had glass panels facing out onto the reception area through which Darrington could see a large wooden desk, a chair and filing cabinets and cupboards all of which looked brand new. “Should you require any other green files, Miss Derbyshire, our filing clerk will get them for you, but red files must be signed for. They can only be issued by myself and must on no account be removed from the building. There’s only one other member of staff and that’s Mr Houseman, he deals with maintenance and anything heavy.” Again she looked over her spectacles, this time with the hint of a smirk on her thin lips, “That’s heavy lifting or heavy security, you’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bevis.” Darrington wondered who she really was. Certainly not the little old lady he had first supposed. To be aware of his brief her security clearance had to be fairly high and in spite of the scratchy voice, she spoke with the authority of one used to being obeyed. The sharp, bright eyes indicated a sharp, bright brain right behind them. “That’s most helpful, I’ll settle into my office and get started.”

  She handed him a key. “Please ensure you lock up whenever you leave the office.”

  The office was a good size, it was pleasant and expensively equipped but had the clinical hollowness of miscellaneous territory, a spare room with the only window looking into another office. It smelled of leather, wood and new carpet and Max felt the urge to make it less impersonal, bring in a plant or family photograph, something he had never even considered in his previous offices.

  A young woman with short, stylishly cut blonde hair looked through the office window, tapped on the door and entered. “Good morning Sir,” she said smiling widely through glossy, colourless lips, “I’m Fiona Derbyshire, I do the filing, and other general office work. Did Alice tell you about me?”

  “She did indeed.” Darrington stood up and shook her hand, something that seemed to please her. She was tall and slim and wore white, knee-high boots and a tartan mini-skirt and in contrast to the blonde hair, her eyebrows were dark and cleverly shaped above intricately made up eyes.

  “Would you like coffee?” she asked, “I always need a cup before I get into the swing of things and Alice and Matt drink it all day long. Oh, look here’s Matt now! I’ll introduce you.”

  The incredible bulk of Matt Houseman’s body made him appear shorter than his medium height, but he looked extremely fit and capable of dealing with anything heavy, as Miss Bevis had inferred. They shook hands and Darrington expected his fingers to be crushed by the outsized paw, but the young man, whose arms arched from his body to accommodate huge biceps, had a firm but gentle grip.

  “How do you do, sir,” he spoke confidently. “Welcome to the bunker.”

  “Thank you.” Darrington glanced through the window at Miss Bevis, who smiled then looked away.

  Delighted to be back in harness Darrington settled to his task immediately, approaching the case as he would a current murder enquiry. During the next few days, he ploughed through the grubby files and faded, yellowed letters and notes written more than twenty years earlier.

  The first victim was an 18-year-old prostitute named Jenny Doig whose body was found beneath a pile of rubble on a piece of waste ground after an air-raid on 29 September, 1940. There were thousands of casualties and the emergency services, not yet accustomed to dealing with death and destruction on such a momentous scale, were stretched to breaking point and but for a sharp-eyed policeman this murder might well have been overlooked altogether.

  The chronological police report compiled by Constable Arthur Dennison was a list of facts betraying no hint of the utter moribund helplessness encompassing the city after the ceaseless attacks. Max could clearly remember how it had been. The images for public consumption were dish
ed up in chirpy newsreels depicting brave ‘we can take it’ smiles of steadfast Londoners carrying on determinedly, thumbing their noses at the enemy and cheering their leader Churchill. The reality was heartbreak, fear and death on an unimaginable scale. In the chaotic aftermath, casualties congested the overburdened hospitals and the dead were laid out in makeshift mortuaries in municipal centres or church halls to be inspected and identified by relatives looking for missing loved ones.

  When Constable Dennison pulled back the grey blanket covering the body of Jenny Doig, the middle-aged couple with him gasped at the sight of the pale, badly mutilated face but shook their heads in relief and quickly left. Whoever the poor girl was she was not their daughter. Replacing the blanket the policeman noticed a thin, red line at the side of the dead girl’s neck and closer inspection revealed that, beneath the disfigurement and a thick coating of dust, the line continued across the throat. The duty doctor agreed the matter should be investigated and separated the body from the others for a possible post-mortem.

  In what seemed like an afterthought, the last paragraph of Constable Dennison’s handwritten statement noted that a post-mortem had not been carried out as, after further consideration, the damage to the throat was later deemed to be part of the injuries sustained from falling masonry.

  Darrington flipped the pages looking for details of Dennison. He was 45 years old and having been a London policeman for twenty years, hardly likely to make a mistake about a cut throat. He wondered if perhaps the fact the victim was a prostitute had influenced the decision not to pursue the matter. The body was eventually released for burial and like thousands of others that week Jenny Doig became a number in a batch of statistics instead of the victim of a vicious crime.

  There was absolutely no doubt about the second victim. 28-year-old Paula James, a married woman with a husband serving in the army, was found dead in a boarding house that had been bombed on 30 October, 1940. Her fully clothed body was discovered the morning after the air-raid by the house owner, 52-year-old Mrs Beatrice Parker who, on returning to collect some of her belongings, found Mrs James in the room she had rented the previous day. Although there was no damage to that particular room, the victim’s face had been smashed with what was thought to be a building brick and her throat cut.