Lost Property: A shocking tale of wartime secrets and romance (A Janie Juke mystery Book 2)

by Isabella Muir

  I arrive at the Summer household with a packet of jam tarts nestled inside my duffel bag, adjacent to my notebook. I'm hoping the former won't turn the latter into a sticky mess.

  Mrs Summer invites me through to her sitting room, where Hugh is nestled in an armchair close to the coal fire, with a rug around his knees.

  'Well, you look warm and cosy there,' I say.

  'Mrs Juke, you sit here,' she points to an armchair next to Hugh, 'and I will get the tea.'

  'Oh, I've brought these,' I say, digging into my bag to retrieve the jam tarts.

  'Very kind,' she says.

  'Um, may I have coffee? For some strange reason, since I've been pregnant, I haven't been able to drink tea. Silly, I know.'

  'Not silly. I don't understand how you English can drink tea with milk. I drink it with lemon, but it was many years before I get used to the taste. Until then, only water. I drink always water,' she says, holding her hands up with an expression of despair.

  'Ah, I thought I could detect an accent, Mrs Summer. Where were you born?'

  'In Puglia, the south of Italy. Please call me Rosetta.'

  'How wonderful and you met your husband in Italy?'

  'Yes, in the war. We fall in love and then I come here and he dies, leaving me to your cold English winters.'

  I give her a half smile, then turn to see how Hugh is coping with this mention of dying. I'm guessing it's not the upbeat conversation a doctor would recommend for a recuperating patient.

  'You're right about the cold winters,' Hugh says quietly, 'although it's a wonderful excuse for a coal fire.'

  'I go to make the tea,' Rosetta says.

  I sit down next to Hugh and look intently at him.

  'Now,' I say, 'how are you? You're looking better than the last time I saw you.'

  'Hospitals don't encourage wellness. It's difficult to look healthy when you're surrounded by sick people,' he says and smiles. He is still talking slowly, managing small breaths in-between each word. 'Do you have any news for me?'

  I find myself faced with the same dilemma as I did when Hugh was in hospital. I need to choose my words carefully, ensuring I won't upset him in any way and aggravate his condition. Before I can reply, Rosetta comes back into the room with a tray laden with a teapot, a coffee pot and my jam tarts, set out on a delicate china plate. Interspersed with the tarts are assorted biscuits, which she now offers to Hugh and me before pouring our drinks.

  'Milk, sugar?' she asks.

  Hugh and I speak at once, which makes us all laugh, reducing the tension in the room. Now that Rosetta is sitting with us, I'm wondering how much of a conversation I can have with Hugh. I'm certain he won't want her to know about the case he has tasked me with.

  'Would you like to return to Italy?' I ask Rosetta.

  'One day, perhaps,' she replies, but she seems loath to say anything more.

  'Has the doctor advised you to stay indoors, Hugh?' I say. 'I'm sure the cold winds won't help. It's freezing out there today.'

  He smiles and nods.

  'Was your husband from Tamarisk Bay, Rosetta? Is that why you settled here?'

  'Yes, not far away. His family live in Tidehaven. But we like this house, this area. It is quieter than Tidehaven. I like the quiet.'

  'Are you still in touch with his family?' I ask, realising that what started out as an attempt at small talk, now sounds like an interrogation.

  'Yes, I go sometimes. His mother, she is very kind to me. His father too. He helps me with my English. Excuse me please. I must look to the supper. I have a chicken in the oven. Mr Furness likes chicken,' she says and swiftly leaves the room. I feel like breathing a sigh of relief, but suppress it.

  Hugh turns to me, his expression is tense. 'Did you have anything to tell me? About Dorothy?'

  'I do have a little bit more information. It would appear Dorothy was living in Tidehaven after the war. There's no certainty she's still there, but it's possible.'

  'Ah,' he says. 'Yes, that would make sense.'

  'I've also spoken to a lady who knew Dorothy. A Mrs Freda Latimer. Does that name mean anything to you?'

  He shakes his head.

  'Can I ask you something, Hugh?'

  He nods and I pause while I attempt to frame the question in the least antagonistic way.

  'You had a conversation with Kenneth Elm, when you were in hospital.'

  He nods again.

  'The conversation upset you, quite a lot. Are you able to share any of it with me? Did it concern Dorothy?'

  'I'd rather not say.'

  'The thing is, Hugh...' I pause. 'There are some gaps in the information you've given me about Dorothy.'

  I watch him and monitor his breathing, holding my own breath to see if I have already gone too far, said too much. 'I know you're concerned she's in danger,' I continue, 'but you haven't been specific about what that danger is. From conversations I've had with various people concerning the Elm family, well, there are rumours, skeletons in the cupboard, so to speak. Can you throw any light on the rumours? And the press cutting, the one you deposited in the left luggage depot. What relevance does it have?'

  Before he can reply, the door opens and Rosetta joins us again.

  'I have learned to do the English roast. I think I am quite good at it.' She smiles and starts to clear away our cups and plates.

  'Yes, you are an excellent cook, I can vouch for that,' says Hugh. 'I have thoroughly enjoyed all the meals I have had since I arrived. Perhaps one day you would cook an Italian supper?'

  'I think English people do not like Italian food. You like your vegetables soft, all covered with sauce.'

  'Gravy?' I ask and she nods.

  'I would love to try some of your Italian cooking,' Hugh says.

  'I'm with Hugh, real Italian food by a real Italian cook, now that would be a treat.'

  'Then you must come too, with your husband. I make spaghetti all'amatriciana e insalata tricolore' she says, flourishing her hands in the air.

  'Well, that sounds wonderful, but now I should go and leave Hugh to rest,' I say.

  'I'll speak to you again,' Hugh says, pointedly, directing his gaze at me.

  'Yes, of course. And thank you Rosetta, for the coffee. I'll see you again soon.'

  If I was a child I would tip my toybox over and fling my toys around the room in frustration. I'm back at my starting point. I know a little more about Dorothy, a little more about Hugh. But nothing that will lead me to a solution. I'm a good librarian. Perhaps I will heed everyone's advice and leave it at that.

  It's Friday and when Mrs Latimer walks through the door I'm surprised. Framlington Road is further for her to walk. Monday is her usual library day, when I'm parked on Milburn Avenue, just around the corner from her house.

  'I haven't come about books,' she says, presenting herself at the counter. Her face is flushed, as though she's been running. But the thought of Ethel Latimer running makes me think of a Great Dane trying to ride a bicycle, out and out incompatibility.

  'Take a moment,' I say. 'Did you want to sit for a minute, have some water? You look a little hot.'

  She takes me up on my offer, plopping herself down on the wooden chair I've unfolded for her. Each day I bring two flasks with me from home, one with hot water and the other with cold. I pour her a glass of cold water and wait for her to catch her breath.

  'I didn't want to leave it too long to let you know,' she says. 'I had the feeling that when you showed Freda that newspaper article, well, it was important, wasn't it? What she told you about her run in with that woman; I could tell from your face, you were shocked, weren't you?'

  'A little surprised, maybe,' I say.

  'I was too. It's the first time I've ever heard mention of it. It was good of you not to push her for any more information.'

  'I wouldn't want to upset her. She's a really charming character, it's a shame she's not in better health. It must be difficult for your husband, he must worry.'

  Ethel takes a handkerch
ief from her handbag and wipes her face.

  'I worry. About Arthur, about Freda and then there's Bobby.'

  'And who worries about you?' I say, putting my hand on her shoulder.

  'Oh, I'm alright, just having a bad day.'

  'I hadn't realised that Phyllis Frobisher is friends with your mother-in-law. She mentioned it to me the other day. It turns out they've been friends since way back, when Freda was a school governor.'

  She nods. 'That's what I wanted to tell you. Phyllis called in to see Freda. I was there with Bobby, Arthur had to pick up a prescription from the doctor's, so I said we'd wait there with Freda. Then Phyllis turned up and I left them to chat. I was fussing around in the kitchen and I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I heard the name Dorothy Elm and, well, I'll admit I was curious.'

  'Did you find out what it was all about, why Freda and Dorothy had their falling out?'

  'I couldn't make much sense of it, to be honest with you. But if I tell you what I heard, well perhaps it will mean something to you.'

  I hold my breath in anticipation.

  '"I couldn't leave it alone, after all that their poor mother went through. She would have turned in her grave." That's what Freda said.'

  'Couldn't leave what alone?'

  'I don't know, but I do know that whatever it was, Freda is still upset about it now, all these years later.'

  'And she said this to Phyllis?'

  Ethel nods, then stands up and hands me her empty glass. 'You are close friends with Phyllis, maybe she can help throw more light on it? I must go now, thank you for the water.'

  Perhaps my next visit to Phyllis will help me jump the next hurdle, or at least get me off the starting blocks. I'm starting to think that Phyllis and Libby deserve at least half of any money Hugh has given me to solve this case.

  Chapter 19

  Aside from some food shopping, Greg and I are enjoying a quiet Saturday.

  'Cheese on toast for lunch,' I say, putting the last of the fruit into the bowl.

  'Perfect. Did I tell you that dad has offered to help me decorate Bean's room? If we choose the wallpaper and paint, then he'll come over evenings and weekends. It shouldn't take us long if there's two of us.'

  'That's really kind and a good idea to get it done early. It'll mean Bean won't have to put up with the smell of fresh paint for the first few weeks of its life. Crikey, just imagine, a pretty nursery instead of an untidy box room. It'll inspire me to sort out all those old books and photos. I've got stuff in there from schooldays.'

  'Let me guess, old school reports suggesting you should 'concentrate more'?'

  'I think I was a bit of a dreamer. What about yours then? I bet you were only happy when you were outside kicking a ball around?'

  'I couldn't stand being cooped up in a classroom.'

  'George Best probably said the same thing and he's done alright for himself. By the way, I meant to say, Libby's calling in this evening, if that's okay?'

  'Fine with me.'

  'You're not going to the pub, are you?'

  'I hadn't planned to, no. Why? Do you want me out of the way, so you girls can natter?'

  'No, quite the reverse. She's coming to do my nails. She reckons she can cure me of nailbiting by painting them for me. I'm not convinced, but it's worth a go.'

  'I've been meaning to ask you about that. I watch you sometimes and I'm sure you don't even realise you're doing it. When we're relaxing in the evening, or at least when I'm relaxing, there you are chewing away. Is everything okay?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'With Bean, with your dad?'

  'Yes.' I feel a flutter inside me that has nothing to do with Bean. 'There is something though.' I pause, acutely aware he is gazing at my face, trying to read my expression. 'I need to tell you something, but I don't want you to be angry.'

  He moves towards me and takes my hand.

  'Come on, let's sit down. I'm guessing this has something to do with you being late home most days? Has Libby roped you into some hare-brained scheme?'

  'Libby is involved, yes,' I hesitate, struggling to find the best way to explain. 'The thing is, well, I've taken on a case.'

  'God, Janie, please don't tell me you're off on another one-woman mission to save some unfortunate stranger.'

  'No, it's not one woman this time. I've enlisted help. Libby and Phyllis are helping me, well, Libby mostly,' I pause, realising how pathetic my excuses sound. 'I'm sorry I haven't told you before. I know you worry, but you must realise I would never put Bean at risk. It's just that...'

  'It's just what?' he interrupts. 'I'm your husband, Janie. Have you forgotten that? I thought we were partners.'

  'We are partners, of course we are. I'll try to explain, but to be honest I'm not even sure I understand it myself.'

  'Not a great start, then,' he says, his voice heavy with despair.

  'I love being married to you and I'm incredibly excited about being a mum. My job at the library gives me a chance to chat to people and surround myself with books and, of course, I treasure my days with dad. But it's not enough for me.'

  'You should be grateful for what you've got.'

  'I am. But you know how much I love the idea of investigating crime. Agatha Christie and Poirot have been in my blood since forever. It's like trying to solve the best possible puzzle, one where you get to add pieces, move them around and then, if you're lucky, eventually they all fit together and you have a solution.'

  'Buy a jigsaw then,' he says.

  'It's not only that I love doing it,' I continue, ignoring his sarcasm, 'it's that I'm good at it. So good, in fact, that someone is prepared to pay me.'

  I study his expression, which is a mixture of shock and admiration.

  'Is that legal? You taking money for services rendered? Is there some kind of written agreement?'

  'I don't know if it's legal,' I say, waiting for him to assimilate the information.

  'I understand you're ambitious and that's great,' he says. 'I am too, in case you hadn't noticed. But I choose to stay within the law.'

  'That's why we make a good pair.'

  'Why? Because I'm law-abiding and you're not?'

  'No, silly, because we're both ambitious. I'm wrong not to have told you about this case, I know that now. I was scared you would try to stop me.'

  'I would have,' he says, a softness returning to his voice.

  'Okay, so how about I bring you up to date. I'll tell you about the case so far and then we should make a pact.'

  'What kind of pact?'

  'I promise to share everything with you from now on.'

  'And what do I have to do in return?' he says, a smile starting to creep across his face.

  'Ironing or hoovering, take your pick,' I say, standing and holding my arms out to him. 'How about a hug to start though?'

  He gets up, wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.

  'My wife, a private investigator. Blimey, not sure what the lads at work will make of that.'

  'Best not to tell anyone,' I say a little too sharply, before realising he's teasing me.

  'Mum's the word,' he says, planting a kiss firmly on my lips. 'Have you thought any more about my dog idea?'

  'Yes and no.'

  'Well I have. I reckon we should wait until Bean is here and all settled in and then decide how we feel about it. How does that sound?'

  'Perfect.'

  By the time Libby arrives in the evening I have brought Greg up to date with my search for Dorothy.

  'Any thoughts gratefully received,' I say, just before the doorbell rings announcing Libby's arrival.

  'Your manicurist, at your disposal, madam,' she says, handing me a cosmetic bag. 'Five colours to choose from, from the most delicate pink, through to the most vampish red. Take your pick.'

  'Maybe I'll try the lot,' I say, grinning, 'one on each finger, what do you think?'

  'Could be overkill, but you're the boss.'

  'In more ways than one, I hear,' Greg says, coming
into the hallway.

  Libby gives me a quizzical glance, before turning to greet Greg.

  'It's okay, I've told him everything. In fact, I was about to ask him to join our investigating team, if that's alright with you? In an advisory capacity only, of course.'

  'Er, no, you're okay,' Greg says. 'I don't mind being your sounding board, but I'm not really into racing around chasing people.'

  'Don't tell me, you'd rather be in the pub,' Libby says, winking at him.

  On the first of December each year I go up into the loft at dad's house and bring down three boxes of Christmas decorations. Each bauble and piece of tinsel is carefully unwrapped and laid out on the dining room table. I select each piece and work my way around the house, bringing festive cheer to every room, even the bathroom. The first year after dad lost his sight, I waited to see what might change. I was coming up for six years old and Christmas was my favourite time of the year. But even then, I realised how inappropriate it was to have a celebration when something so traumatic had happened to the person who was at the centre of my universe.

  Mum had already left and Jessica had moved in. I never found out whose idea it was, but I recall being asked to hold the ladder while Jessica went up into the loft to bring down the decorations. It was a Sunday and the three of us had enjoyed a cooked breakfast. As soon as the table was cleared and the washing up was done, dad sat in the only armchair we had in the dining room and Jessica and I emptied the boxes of decorations onto the table. We took it in turns to describe each item in great detail and then it was up to dad to suggest where it would look best. It was as though we were the pupils and dad was our teacher, guiding us to create the most perfect Christmas wonderland, when all he could see was in his mind's eye.