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 t
his 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.
'We will bring a bottle of wine,' I say, but she waves her hand at me.
'No, I have kept some wine from my last visit home, for a special occasion. And this is special,' she says, beaming. 'So sad Mr Furness will not join us, but I will meet his friends.'
'It's not possible for him to be any happier at the moment, Rosetta, so don't worry about him,' I say, 'and I promise to give him a full account of our Italian extravaganza on my next hospital visit.'
Greg and I pick up dad, managing to squeeze Charlie into the back of the car. Libby brings Phyllis, who is still hobbling a little as a result of her swollen ankle, but has no hesitation about using a walking stick. As Ethel Latimer said, there isn't much that will stop Phyllis once she sets her mind to something.
When Rosetta opens the door to us an infusion of garlic, basil and oregano wafts through from the kitchen. As we walk into the dining room I notice the absence of tinsel and coloured streamers that bedeck dad's house. Instead, in the bay window, is a beautiful hand-made crib. While Libby takes control of all the introductions, I bend down to inspect the crib. The figures of Joseph, Mary and the three wise men are exquisitely hand-painted and the little baby Jesus is even wrapped in a muslin swaddling cloth. Rosetta has positioned the crib on the window seat that fills the bay and has the curtains pulled back, allowing the warm yellow streetlight to shine over the nativity scene, as a reminder of the Star of Bethlehem.
It has me so entranced I miss Libby's questions, which have resulted in Rosetta telling us all about her homeland. According to Libby, it is the one country she has always wanted to visit. It's the first I have heard of it, but as Rosetta's face lights up as she chatters away, I realise Libby has done exactly the right thing to kick-start the evening.
'Your nativity scene is perfect,' I say. 'Where did you get it?'
'I bring it from my home,' she says, beaming. 'A little bit of Puglia in Tamarisk Bay.'
I walk dad over to the bay window and describe the crib to him, promising that by next year we will have one just as beautiful, even if I have to make it myself. 'Can you imagine,' I say, feeling the thrill of anticipation as I speak, 'it will be Bean's first Christmas.'
'Don't rush the months away. Your little one might even be crawling by then,' Phyllis says, having overheard our conversation. 'So, you can forget about hanging Christmas baubles. The whole lot will be on the floor before you know it.'
'Rosetta, in a few days' time my Aunt Jessica is visiting,' I tell her, as she pours drinks for us all. 'I'd love you to meet her. She has spent the last few years in Italy, I don't know which region, but perhaps she will know about your home town?'
'It would be wonderful to talk about Italy with your Zia. Does she make only a short visit?'
'We don't really know. We have years to catch up on and it seems we will also be meeting her friend,' dad interjects, with an emphasis on the last word.
'It is not a surprise if she has found love in Italy, it is the country of amore,' Rosetta says, beaming.
'All we know is that his name is Luigi,' I say.
'Another mystery for you, perhaps?' Rosetta says with a wink. We take our seats around the dining table, ready for a starter of salami and olives. It's my first experience of both and Greg explodes with fits of laughter at the face I pull when I bite into the first olive.
'Ugh,' I exclaim, when the bitterness of the dark flesh hits my tongue.
'You will get used to it,' Rosetta says, smiling.
'Er, no, I don't think I will,' I say, surreptitiously returning the other untasted olives to the central dish.
I manage to get my own back when we launch into the main course. I delight in watching Greg and Libby struggle to wind the spaghetti around their fork, with sauce being splashed everywhere, but Phyllis shows us all up with her masterful manipulation of the wriggling strands. To save any embarrassment for dad, I cut his up, but then proceed to make as bad a job of eating my own and Rosetta watches on amused.
'It is not hard,' she says, 'you do it like this.' Using just a fork, she twizzles the spaghetti around in the plate, gathering a perfect quantity so that once it reaches her mouth it is popped in without any mess or trouble.
The chatter is lively and comfortable. Now and then I glance over at Rosetta. She is like the proverbial cat with the cream, completely in her element, revelling in the company and an opportunity to immerse herself once more in the tastes and smells of her homeland.
A couple of hours later and we are all replete. The men have enjoyed Rosetta's vino rosso and Phyllis surprises us by announcing that she has spoken to the Central Library manager about helping out with the library van, starting in January.
'Don't think you can take a back seat, though,' she tells me, with a wink. 'I'll drive and you can do the rest.'
'Sounds like a perfect deal to me,' Greg says, a little too enthusiastically.
Before I can get into a conversation about driving, Libby intervenes. 'Janie has an important task to accomplish before we have dessert.'
Everyone turns to look at me and for a moment I'm not sure what she is expecting of me. Then I remember.
'Ah, yes, finally I get the chance to use this,' I say, pulling my camera from my bag. For the next ten minutes I fuss around, positioning everyone for various group shots. While I am in the middle of snapping away, Libby takes the camera and holds my hands out in front of her to study my fingers. 'Is it working?' she asks.
'See for yourself.'
'I'll give you eight out of ten for effort. Your nails are still a bit scruffy for my liking, but I reckon the varnish is doing some good. Just keep it up, okay?'
'Yes, boss.'
'Now, let me take a picture of you and Bean before its arrival?' she says.
'One of mum, dad and Bean, I think,' I reply, grabbing Greg's hand.
The end of the evening comes too soon, but I have to admit to being the first to flag a little. We say our goodbyes and Libby and Phyllis follow us out to the cars.
'Okay, I've decided,' Libby says, giving me a hug. 'The money you kindly gave me, I know what I'm going to use it for. I'm booking a trip to Roma and with that extra money I'll be able to really see the sights. Fancy joining me?'
Greg sidles up to us, takes my hand and squeezes it and, in unison, we both reply, 'maybe next time. We have a baby to plan for, remember?'
With my newly developed photos in my duffel bag I make my way to the hospital. If Raymond is visiting I will make my excuses and disappear, but as I approach Hugh's bedside there are no visitors and his oxygen mask is still in place. This might be a one-sided conversation, but I've come to recognise his expressions over the time I've known him, so body language will tell me all I need to know. For the moment he is dozing, his eyes gently closed and his breathing steady. The frown that had become an almost permanent feature has dissipated. I sit and watch him for a while, imagining that first meeting between him and Raymond, his only child. I hold my hands over my bump and whisper to Bean. 'We are so lucky, you, dad and me. The three of us will be indomitable, caring and sharing, with no secrets and no lies.'
The sheets rustle as Hugh wakes and turns his head towards me.
'Hello,' I say, wishing I could give him a hug. 'How are you feeling?'
He gives me a thumbs-up and smiles.
'It's been quite a journey, hasn't it? I've brought some photos to show you the celebratory supper we had in your honour. It's just a shame you couldn't be there.'
I take the photos and lay them out on his bedspread. He picks each one up to examine them more closely.
'As you can see, we all struggled with the spaghetti. Except for Rosetta, of course. She is the only one who doesn't have spaghetti sauce down her front. Phyllis did rather well too. I have a feeling she might have been to Italy at some point, when she was young maybe.'
He gives me a quizzical look.
'Phyllis? She's Libby's grandmother, part of the Janie Juke mystery solving team,' I say, winking at him. 'You're thinking there's bound to be a few interesting anecdotes that I need to coax out of her, aren't you?'
He nods, lifts his hand and removes his oxygen mask.
'We are all coloured by our experiences, that's for sure,' he says, his voice barely a whisper.
'You shouldn't take that mask off, we'll have Sister shouting at both of us if we're not careful.'
'I want to thank you.'
'It's funny but when I took on your case I was pleased to earn some extra money and honoured that you believed in me and my abilities. But the best reward of all is knowing you and Raymond have found each other.'
He nods and smiles.
'I don't need to ask you how it was when you first saw him, I can imagine it all too well. And what about Dorothy, do you think you can ever forgive her?'
He shrugs his shoulders and gestures to his bedside locker. 'In the drawer,' he says.
I slide open the drawer and inside, on top of the Bible, is a postcard with a photo of a fighter plane on one side. I hand it to Hugh, he turns it over and gives it back to me.
'You will always be my hero, dad. Your son, Raymond,' I read it out to Hugh and then give him the card back.
'Winnie,' he says, his voice now fading.
'You wish Winnie could have met him, don't you?'
Lost Property: A shocking tale of wartime secrets and romance (A Janie Juke mystery Book 2) Page 18