‘What?’ I ask him.
‘I employed you because of your tenacity. I should have been more open with you from the start and I’m sorry for that. But it will have made little difference to the ending.’ There is a desperate sadness, even exhaustion in his voice.
‘Nothing has ended yet, Hugh. I promised you I’d find Dorothy. Well, I’ve done that. But now you need to tell me the real reason you hired me.’
His hands are in his lap and I notice they are shaking.
‘About eighteen months after Winnie and I were married I received a letter from Dorothy. She had tracked me down through the RAF. The day the letter arrived was the same day Winnie had her second miscarriage.’
Tears are now running down his face, along the side of his nose, dropping onto his chin. I have to stop myself from jumping up and wiping them away for him.
‘I’m so sorry, Hugh. That must have been difficult for you both.’
‘More difficult when I read the contents of Dorothy’s letter. She told me I had a son.’
I suppress a gasp, not wanting to distract him from sharing his painful memories.
‘Dorothy was demanding money. She said that life was very difficult, trying to manage on her own with a baby. She asked me to send money once a month. I didn’t show Winnie the letter, I knew it would break her heart to think I had a child out there somewhere. I wrote back to Dorothy, telling her that of course I would send money to help her care for my son, but in return I wanted to know about the child. I asked for a photo, begged her to tell me what he was like. Of course, if I’d been single I would have offered to do the decent thing and marry her, but I told her that wasn’t possible. I said if she told me where she was living I would visit. I wanted to see my son.’
‘What happened? Did you meet him?’
He shakes his head, using the handkerchief to dry his face. His hands are still trembling and he is looking away from me, avoiding my gaze. ‘Dorothy wrote back saying she would never let me see him. The letter was ranting, almost hysterical. She said I had betrayed her by marrying someone else. All she wanted was money and if I didn’t send it she would tell my wife everything.’
‘Oh, Hugh,’ I say, searching for the right words and failing miserably. ‘So, you’ve been paying her ever since?’
‘I was to send the money to a PO Box at the main Tidehaven post office. I guessed she must have been living somewhere nearby, but I couldn’t be certain. Winnie must have known all along. I couldn’t understand why she would have been taking the Tidehaven Observer, but she must have guessed something. When she died and I found the press cutting, I realised we had both kept secrets from each other. Twenty-five years of secrets and lies.’
His gaze is down and his voice is almost a whisper. I can’t bear to see him brought so low.
‘She’s taken an awful lot of money from you over the years. I guess now you have told her that the payments will stop she has realised she will have to move?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When we were there the other day, at her house, Libby and I took a look around. All her stuff is in boxes. Then Dorothy came to see me at the library van. She told me to tell you that you will never see her again. She is moving somewhere you will never find her.’
His expression is pained now, as though he is torturing himself by replaying the memories. ‘She has played me like a fool. For twenty-five years I’ve sent her money, to help support my son. A son I was never allowed to meet, I didn’t even know his name. I used to imagine what he looked like, wonder if I’d recognise myself in him. She never told me about his schooldays, his friends, his hopes or his dreams. And do you know why that is?’
When I don’t respond he continues, with vitriol in his voice, ‘The reason is, my dear, that I don’t have a son. How about that? Dorothy has had the last laugh alright. Finally, I am here with a chance to meet him and he doesn’t exist.’
His voice has become louder, almost shrill, his breathing quickens and I notice he is sweating. Then his cough starts, the moment I have been fearing all along. As I move over to him to put my hand on his back, to offer some comfort, his cough gets louder. The sitting room door opens and Rosetta rushes in.
‘Oh no,’ she wails. ‘I call an ambulance?’ She stands on the other side of Hugh, who is now struggling to breathe in-between the coughing. I nod at her, our eyes meeting above Hugh’s head. I listen solemnly to her making the phone call from the hallway, as I continue to rub Hugh’s back, talking quietly to him, reminding him to breathe slowly, in the hope that a soothing voice may help to calm him.
After half a lifetime of hoping that one day he would meet his only son, to be told that he never existed, is the cruellest of blows.
Chapter 27
An hour or so later Hugh is being well cared for in hospital, back on oxygen and I am making my way to the Tidehaven Observer offices. Fortunately, Libby is at her desk.
‘Janie,’ she says, her face lighting up and then changing into a frown when she sees the concern on my face.
‘Can you get away for a while?’ I whisper, having already piqued the attention of her colleague at the neighbouring desk.
She grabs her jacket and handbag and follows me out of the building.
‘Where are you parked?’ I ask her. ‘Did you drive in or catch the bus?’
‘I drove, I’m due to go over to Brightport. Some competition to do with cake-making or some such nonsense. What’s going on, Janie, you look really frazzled?’
‘I’ll explain on the way.’
‘Where are we headed?’
‘73 Faversham Road
‘Righto, I’m on it.’
As we drive up to Dorothy’s house I fill Libby in on the day’s events, as well as the encounter I had with Dorothy yesterday.
‘What a cow,’ she says.
‘Don’t hold back,’ I say, smirking.
‘She’s made the poor man believe he has betrayed his wife for years, handed over money, all for nothing. He’s held on to his hopes for more than twenty years and now she’s told him there is no son. But you think Hugh does have a son, don’t you?’
‘We’ve seen him.’
‘The dishy bloke?’
‘I’m sure of it. Kenneth’s job was to keep Hugh from finding out the truth. Plus, I reckon the boy doesn’t even know what his mother has been up to for all those years. I’m so mad with myself that I didn’t get a photo. If I’d caught the three of them on camera, then Dorothy wouldn’t be able to deny it. As it is we’re going to struggle to get an admission from her.’
‘Will Hugh be okay?’
‘He’s not a well man and all this turmoil isn’t helping.’
We park outside Dorothy’s house and I am barely out of the car before Libby is pressing the buzzer.
‘I’m a girl on a mission,’ she says, turning to me and grinning.
We hear the chain going on, then the door opens a crack.
‘Oh, it’s you two,’ Dorothy says, ‘well, there’s a surprise.’
‘Let us in, Dorothy. We have some information for you that is to your advantage,’ I say.
She slides the chain back, opens the door wide and stands back for us to enter.
‘What’s that then?’ she asks.
‘I’m not speaking to you standing here on the doormat. How about you do the courteous thing and show us into your dining room?’ I say.
She makes a grumbling noise, turns and walks along the hallway and we follow. Once inside the dining room, we stand beside the mahogany dining table, where the single apple is still on display, now even more shrivelled.
‘Hugh is in hospital,’ I say, watching for a reaction.
She raises an eyebrow and then pulls out a chair and sits down. ‘Might as well take the weight off.’ She gestures to us to sit down on the opposite side of the table.
‘He’s extremely poorly, the doctors are concerned about him,’ I continue, ignoring Libby’s questioning glance.
‘What
’s it to me?’ Dorothy says.
‘Do you really want your son to lose the chance to meet his father?’ I say.
‘What son?’ she says.
‘Come on, Dorothy, don’t play games with us. We know you’ve lied to Hugh. You do have a son - his son.’
‘How dare you call me a liar? You’d better have some proof. I could do you for defamation of character.’
‘Dorothy, do you realise there is a strong possibility that Hugh could die?’
‘We’re all going to die,’ she says.
‘I don’t believe you are a bad person, Dorothy. This is your opportunity to make amends,’ I say, trying to keep my voice objective, yet persuasive.
‘Why should I want to make amends? My life has been tough. He was alright, with his fancy wife and all her money.’
For a few moments none of us speak. Dorothy glares directly at me, as though she is trying to weigh up her options. I hold her gaze, wondering which of us will be the first to surrender.
‘Raymond,’ she says, her voice almost reverential. ‘He’s a good boy.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Oh, I know, he’s a young man now, but he’ll always be my boy.’ There is a softness in her voice I haven’t heard before.
‘Hugh doesn’t want to take him from you, Dorothy. Is that what you’re frightened of? Is that why you lied to him?’
She shrugs her shoulders.
‘You know that his wife had two miscarriages, Raymond is Hugh’s only child, his only son.’
‘She might not have had children, but she had a husband, didn’t she? That’s more than I had.’
‘What about Mr Madden?’ Libby pipes up.
‘There never was a Mr Madden. When I came back here, pregnant with Raymond, I had to say something. So I told everyone I’d met a pilot, got married, then he died in the war. Proper war hero he was.’
‘Is that what Raymond believes? That his dad was a war hero?’ Libby asks.
Dorothy nods.
‘Well, it’s true enough,’ I say. ‘Hugh was a war hero. Flying dangerous missions, taking risks to save lives.’
‘I made the mistake of taking my mother’s maiden name,’ she says, her voice stern again. ‘Then some busybody got suspicious, accused me. I soon put her right.’
Freda Latimer’s face comes to my mind, another puzzle piece clicked into place.
‘Do you still love your poetry, Dorothy?’ I ask her.
Her eyes widen, and I detect a quiver in her voice. ‘Poetry? What do I want with poetry?’
‘You used to write it, didn’t you? Hugh told me how he loved listening to you reading verses out to him.’ I pause, watching for her reaction.
‘I was a young girl, with fancy ideas. Life knocks the stuffing out of you. You wait and see,’ she says, gesturing at my midriff.
‘Stopping your son from meeting his father would be the act of a vindictive person. Don’t be that person, Dorothy. Find the gentleness that was in your heart all those years ago. It’s still there somewhere, isn’t it?’
‘It’s hard being a mother, harder still when you’re doing it on your own. If I didn’t have Kenneth…’ she stops mid-sentence, her gaze drifting away from us, towards the windows. A dark cloud is passing across the house, blocking out the fading light, so that each of us becomes a silhouette against the wintry sky. We have reached an impasse.
‘We’re going to leave you now, Dorothy. But before we go, I am going to ask you one more time to take this chance to be honest with your son. He will thank you for it in years to come and I think that in your heart you know that.’
She stands and in a business-like fashion walks to the door, opening it and gesturing to us to walk ahead of her.
‘Will you give it serious thought? Before it’s too late for all of you?’ I say, grasping my last opportunity to persuade her.
I don’t see her reaction, if indeed there is one, because a few moments later she is showing us out of the front door, without another word.
‘How do you think that went?’ Libby asks, as we get into her car.
‘You were surprisingly quiet.’
‘I thought you had control of the situation. You’re better at keeping calm, so I decided it was best not to stick my oar in and mess it all up.’
‘I didn’t feel calm. I felt furious, if I’m honest. Okay, so Hugh has made mistakes, told lies, kept secrets. But when it comes to dishonesty I think Dorothy would win first prize. Poor Raymond.’
It seems my powers of persuasion are more than adequate.
I would love to have been present when Dorothy told her son the truth about his father, to hear her explain how Hugh had supported them for twenty-five years, without once being able to meet his only child. But it is enough for me to know that, finally, father and son will meet. The note that advises me of this happy development is there, on dad’s doormat, with the remainder of his post. It’s been hand delivered, but offers no clue as to who wrote it, or put it through the letterbox. I have barely two hours’ notice to get myself and Libby over to the hospital, so that I can at least be present, albeit briefly, when Hugh meets his son for the first time.
When Libby and I first meet Raymond in the foyer of the hospital I am taken by his demeanour, which is polite, almost chivalrous, in stark contrast to his mother. Libby is taken in quite another way entirely. She had spent the previous hour worrying about her make-up, turning the collar of her coat up and then down again.
‘You do know why we are meeting Raymond, don’t you?’ I say.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, I’m guessing his mind will be focused on things other than women.’
‘First impressions and all that,’ she says, taking a mirror from her handbag and checking her lipstick for the hundredth time.
He arrives promptly, wearing dark green bell-bottomed trousers, cowboy boots and a cream Aran sweater. I have a brief moment of concern he might overheat in the sweater once he is at his father’s bedside. On the two previous occasions we have seen him his hair has hung loose, but today he has it tied back in a pony tail, accentuating his strong jawline and dark sideburns. He walks towards us with his hand extended and shakes my hand first and then Libby’s. I notice she holds onto his hand for a moment longer than necessary and he smiles at her. I can already imagine the conversation we will be having on our homeward journey, when she will delight in replaying each second of the meeting.
There is a build-up of tension as we walk along the corridor to Hugh’s ward. I had taken advice from Hugh’s doctor about the best way to approach this first meeting. Having explained to the doctor about the emotional significance, we were advised to forewarn Hugh, only an hour or so before Raymond’s arrival. Of course, there was an outside chance that Raymond wouldn’t turn up and then the disappointment for Hugh would be impossible to bear.
I kept my earlier meeting with Hugh short, but I will never forget his expression when I told him that he was finally about to meet his son. I let him absorb the news.
‘He’s coming to see you, Hugh. He’ll be here in about an hour.’ I held his hand as I spoke and could feel it trembling. The young nurse who had been so kind to me when Hugh was last in hospital, was in attendance, monitoring Hugh’s breathing. The oxygen mask had to remain in place, so he wasn’t able to speak, but the brightness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. Hugh may have made mistakes in his life, he may have made bad decisions, but over the months I have worked for him I’ve grown fond of him. I am certain Poirot’s advice would be to avoid emotional attachments when working on a case, as you never know who may turn out to be the culprit. Blame can be laid at the doors of Dorothy and Hugh, and even poor Winifred. However, it strikes me the real victim is Raymond. A young man who had to grow up never knowing his father. At least it isn’t too late to put that right.
Chapter 28
In the end, there is no crime to present to DS Bright. I am certain a crime has been committed, not just the probable
theft of the brooch, but the way Dorothy used threats to obtain money from Hugh. But as Poirot would confirm, to bring a case to court, I need to present the police with concrete evidence and that is sorely lacking.
With the case all wrapped up I can finally relax. On my return from the hospital, I have a long soak in the bath, then wrap my favourite fluffy dressing gown around me and pad down to the sitting room, where Greg presents me with a mug of hot water and lemon.
‘So, what about the brooch? Did you find out if she sold it?’ he asks.
‘Dorothy wouldn’t tell me, but I guess she sold it and spent the money years ago.’
‘And that Furness chap carries on paying out all that money, every month. It’s incredible his wife didn’t notice.’
‘It sounds as though they were quite well off. I think there was money from his wife’s family and I suppose Hugh took charge of all the finances. That’s the way things were done back then.’
‘Sounds like an excellent plan,’ Greg says, trying to keep a straight face.
‘Don’t go getting any ideas. In fact, let me go and check the tea caddy, see if the three pounds, four shillings and tuppence is still there.’
Every week we each put money in the tea caddy and every few months we choose a treat to splash out on. Last month it was the Beatles’ Abbey Road album, which is now playing on repeat in the background.
‘And to keep a son from knowing his father, I can’t believe a mother could be so cruel.’
‘Well, it’s like Frank Bright said to me ages ago, you see the worst of human beings in this job.’
‘I’m guessing you don’t mean the library,’ Greg says, with a cheeky grin. ‘Speaking of jobs, has he paid you like he promised?’ Greg says.
‘Yep, and that is most definitely not going into the tea caddy.’ I put my hands on my midriff and pretend to whisper, ‘Bean, tomorrow we’ll go out and order your Silver Cross pram, shall we?’
‘Don’t I get a say in it?’
‘You, Mr Juke, will be responsible for pushing it home,’ I say, laughing.
Christmas is just a couple of weeks away, giving us all more than one reason for a celebration. Having checked with everyone that they are happy to give Italian food a try, I call in to see Rosetta Summer. We settle on a Saturday evening, so that she has a few days to consider the menu and buy whatever is needed.
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