Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  I spot the name on the screen – Tim Edwards. Suspicion grips me like an icy fist. Has Tim somehow ‘heard’ about my grandmother’s attack and is now calling to console me? Could he be the real culprit?

  ‘Excuse me, can I have my card back?’

  ‘Sorry.’ The phone rings off. I give the customer back her card and wrap up the tea cosy with shaking hands.

  Tim Edwards. I think back to my last encounter with him – when he came to see me at Mallow Court. He had an answer for everything – a rational explanation for why I should trust him – all reinforced by a doleful look from those big brown eyes. And then his subsequent call – telling me that he wasn’t going to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’. All along, he’s been the person who’s had the best opportunity and motive. Despite what he said about believing in his great-grandfather’s guilt, it stands to reason that he could have been raised to resent Catherine Fairchild – hate her even. So he devised a dual strategy – making mischief to try and drive her out, while in parallel, trying to win me over. Having failed so far with both, he decided to get serious and take her out with a good whack on the head. If he is the mysterious ‘buyer’ who has contacted the estate agent, what better way to incentivise my grandmother to sell up than to scare her out of her own home?

  As the phone rings again, I grit my teeth. How could I have been so swayed by appearances and the fact that Tim knew how to ‘talk the talk’ that I would warm to? ‘Widows and orphans’, ‘us against them’. Why couldn’t I see through the amateur dramatics to the real man underneath—?

  ‘Alex? Are you okay?’

  I look up. Chloe from the café leans in and whispers behind her hand. ‘People are getting fed up.’

  ‘What?’ I stare at her like she’s speaking Martian. Only then do I realise that there’s a long queue of people waiting to buy their soaps, their tea towels, their greeting cards…

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Snapping to my senses, I run out of the shop.

  *

  I jump in my car and drive to the hospital, fear pounding in my head like a brass band. Smooth-talking, soul-melting Tim Edwards. What if he’s already talked his way inside the hospital to ‘finish the job’? I pull into the car park, nick a parking space and rush to the front desk and ask at reception for Catherine Fairchild.

  The receptionist takes an age typing in the name, clacking the keys with long pink nails. ‘She’s in the Hessel Wing,’ she says at last. ‘Follow the blue line.’

  I thank her and walk quickly through the corridors, following a blue line painted on the floor. Those deep, drowning eyes… Am I going to be too late?

  The blue line ends at a set of double doors. I burst through them, expecting the worst. But instead of witnessing murder and mayhem, I see Edith sitting in the waiting area, calmly reading Home and Garden magazine. She looks up.

  ‘Oh hi, Alex,’ she says.

  ‘Where is he?’ I demand. ‘Is he here?’

  Edith’s smile turns to bewilderment. ‘Who?’

  ‘Tim Edwards – the barrister. You know – tall; light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He and I… umm… we dated once. I think he might be the “uninvited guest” – and out to harm Mrs Fairchild.’

  ‘Must have been a pretty bad date.’

  Her flippancy brings me some ways back to my senses and I almost smile. ‘Yeah, I guess you could say that.’

  ‘Your tall, brown-eyed man isn’t here. But there is someone with her – her policeman friend.’

  ‘You mean the man she met at the WI meeting – the detective inspector?’

  ‘Yes. David.’ She looks confused. ‘You know him, right? He said he heard the news about Mrs Fairchild on the police radio and came right over.’

  ‘We haven’t been introduced.’

  ‘What, really? I mean, I was sure that you…’

  ‘Um, no.’ I shrug off the awkward moment. ‘Which room are they in?’

  ‘One twelve.’ Edith points down the corridor.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I go down the hallway and stand before the closed door. Feeling like an ‘uninvited guest’ myself, I knock softly. ‘Grandma?’ I say.

  ‘Do come in,’ a deep male voice answers.

  I open the door and enter the small room. My grandmother is lying propped up in the bed, a wide bandage wrapped around her head and an IV in her arm. Her eyes are closed – she’s asleep. Sitting in the chair next to her bed is a man in his mid-seventies, I would guess, with a thick mop of white hair and a rugged, but surprisingly wrinkle-free face. His eyes are large and brown, and as he smiles up at me, his teeth are white and straight. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a blue and white striped shirt.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, with a friendly lilt in his voice. ‘I’m David.’ Standing up, he offers his hand. ‘You must be Alex. Is it okay if I call you that?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ We shake hands and he offers me the chair. I’m impressed by his manners. Oozing with polite, old-school charm, he’s just the kind of man my grandmother should have to keep her happy in her old age. I want to like him – I mean, it’s churlish not to. When I saw them together having the picnic, she looked so happy. And based on the shenanigans I overheard, whatever rift there was between them must be well and truly patched up. My grandmother mentioned something about a ring, I think. My eyes dart to her hands. Nothing on her fingers …

  I glance at him again, narrowing my eyes. On the day of the picnic, I was too far away to get a good look at him. But now that we’re here in the same room, something about him seems familiar.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,’ he says moving past me. ‘Catherine has told me so much about you. I just wish it hadn’t been…’ he glances worriedly at Mrs Fairchild, ‘like this.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Anyway, I expect you want some time with her alone.’ He goes to the door. ‘You must have been so worried.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As much as I want to ‘vet’ him some more, now isn’t the time.

  Whistling softly, he goes out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  - Chapter 46 -

  ‘Grandma,’ I whisper, sitting down in the still-warm chair. I take her hand in mine and trace the veins with my finger. I sit there with her, tears running down my cheeks.

  ‘Alex?’ After a few minutes, she stirs in the bed.

  I quickly wipe my eyes.

  ‘Oh Alex, I’m so sorry.’ She squeezes my hand weakly.

  ‘Shh, Grandma, it’s okay. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’ She manages a little chuckle. ‘My head hasn’t hurt like this since last time I went clubbing in Soho.’

  I laugh, glad that she seems to be taking it so well. ‘Can you tell me what happened? The police think you fell and hit your head. But it seems obvious to me that you were attacked. Can you remember anything?’

  The heart rate monitor suddenly blips faster. Immediately I worry that my questions are too much for her. ‘I was trimming the grass around the base of the fountain,’ she says. ‘It hadn’t been done all summer, and was starting to look unkempt. I really must speak to the gardeners…’

  ‘Yes?’ I urge.

  ‘Anyway, I was humming. Some song from the 60s that came into my head. I can’t remember the words.’

  ‘And then…’

  ‘And then I woke up here.’

  ‘That’s it?’ I struggle to hide my disappointment at her lack of recall. ‘So you don’t remember anyone sneaking up on you – hitting you over the head?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, Alex. Nothing like that.’

  ‘So it is possible that you could have fallen?’ I feel the wind leave my sails. Could I have got it all wrong?

  ‘I… I don’t know.’

  ‘Either way, I was so worried. You could have been killed. I know that Robin – my mother – suffered from a disease called haemophilia. It interferes with blood clotting. I worried that you might have it too.’

  She shudders visibly. ‘
As you can see, the wound has stopped bleeding. I can’t tell you how many times in my life I wished that I could be the sick one, not my daughter. I tried to bargain with God; ask him to take anything, but just make her well. But in the end, it didn’t work. All it did was make her think I was overprotective – an interfering, out of touch, annoying mother of the worst kind. We loved each other, but she wanted to be allowed to make her own mistakes. So I tried to let her.’ She lets out a sob. ‘She was so young when she died. Not even twenty.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Just after you were born, I told your father – straight away. I told him what killed Robin could be genetic. He took you for a screening test when you were little – I’m not even sure Carol knew about it. So as far as I know…’ she gives a relieved smile, ‘you’re okay.’

  I’m okay. Despite the fact that I ought to feel aggrieved for yet another thing that I – and Mum – should have been told about, the words wash comfortingly over me like waves lapping a beach. I’ll get a test done myself, of course, but it seems that neither I nor my grandmother have the defective gene, as a dominant trait anyway.

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I say.

  ‘And genetic disorders aside, if someone meant to kill me, then they made a meal of it, didn’t they?’ Her tone is brisk. ‘As I’ve been lying here, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About the offer on the house and all.’

  ‘The offer?’ I say. ‘I… didn’t…Well, I guess you didn’t want to tell me.’

  Her smile is brittle. ‘The house isn’t officially on the market – not after you told the estate agent where to go. But someone approached my solicitor and got the estate agent’s details.’

  ‘That sounds very odd.’

  She shrugs, wincing at the pain of physical movement. ‘It was all very sudden. I said I’d need time to think about it. Which is what I’ve been doing.’

  I grip the edge of the chair, knowing full well what the outcome of that thinking must be. How on earth can I blame my grandma for wanting to sell Mallow Court when her life is in danger because of it? And yet—

  Her laugh startles me. ‘The funny thing is, Alex, that before this little incident, I might have come to a different conclusion. I might seriously have considered selling. But now…’ she shakes her head. ‘That house is your inheritance – just like the locket. There’s no way I’m going to be bullied by anyone into selling it. I was mad to even let the thought cross my mind.’

  ‘Really?’ My heart does a flip. ‘But what about the danger?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any real danger. As soon as I’m able, I’ll go and see Sally Edwards. I’ll try to make things right between us if I can. But if I can’t, then I’ll tell her to do her worst. If she has proof, then she should take it to the police. If Frank Bolton was a looter, and there are any victims out there who want restitution, then the law can deal with it. That’s the right way to go about this – not veiled threats and subterfuge. And then…’ she hesitates, ‘whatever comes, we’ll manage it together.’

  ‘We won’t have to, Grandma.’ I squeeze her hand firmly. ‘Because Sally Edwards has got the wrong end of the stick. When I found you in the rose garden, I was coming to tell you the good news. I’ve found evidence – real evidence – not just conjecture, that clears Frank Bolton.’ I take a breath. ‘Frank wrote the journal, not Hal Dawkins. Frank’s the one who pulled you from the wreckage.’

  She gives a little start, but sinks back weakly into the pillow. ‘But I saw the inscription. Are you absolutely certain?’

  ‘Yes. Frank Bolton is innocent. It’s even caught on film.’ I give her a shortened account of the box with the film canisters that I found in the attic (though I decide not to tell her that someone had been up there ransacking the place).

  ‘I… I don’t remember that night,’ she says, shuddering. ‘Though when I read the account in the journal, I almost imagined that I did remember. All I know was that it was dark and cold. I was so scared…’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘And I lost Mamochka.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry that it happened, and sorry that you had to relive those memories.’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s been a good thing. All these years there’s been a little part of my mind that’s been fenced off from the rest. It’s been hard, of course, confronting what’s inside. But it’s freeing too.’ She swallows hard. ‘And after all, it’s my duty to remember her, along with the rest of my loved ones who have gone before. If I don’t, who else will?’’

  ‘There is someone else who remembers Marina.’ I remind her briefly of Mr Pepperharrow. ‘Which reminds me – I found something else up in the attic.’

  I tell her about the newspaper article about the Russian princess, and the note written in the margin: Marina?

  My grandmother is understandably dismissive. ‘A princess? Pish. I thought you said she was a cook.’

  ‘But you – we – know nothing of her life before, her life in Russia – isn’t that right?’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘That is right.’

  ‘Well,’ I spread my hands, ‘maybe someday, I’ll go to Russia and try to find out more about her.’ Speaking the words, it’s the first I’ve even imagined doing such a thing. But the idea – it’s exciting.

  ‘Yes,’ she brightens. ‘It would do you good. When all this is over…’

  ‘Of course. But I did want to clarify one other thing. Other than the locket, did Marina have any other jewellery?’

  Her eyes close, and I fear my question is one too many. I squeeze her hand as she breathes in deeply. When she speaks again, her voice sounds far away.

  ‘She had a gold ring she wore sometimes,’ she says. ‘And then there was the box under the bed. The wooden box with the face and the key. The lock was broken and she asked the man upstairs to fix it. He fixed clocks. That’s the only time I ever caught a glimpse inside.’ Her lips blossom into a beatific smile. ‘It was full of shiny things.’

  I brush a strand of white hair from her forehead and sit back in the chair, holding her hand. Less than a minute later, her grip slackens, and she’s asleep.

  - XV -

  16th November 1940 – 9:24 a.m.

  One by one, the dominos began to fall. Flea was arrested when he returned to Sadie’s house. I heard about it the next day when there was a knock at my door and a policeman was standing outside.

  ‘What about the girl?’ Was all I could say when he told me about the arrest. ‘She was there – with his landlady.’

  He shook his head. ‘The landlady took the girl to the church. From there, she was evacuated to a home for orphans.’

  ‘No!’

  The policeman shrugged.

  ‘I need to find her.’

  ‘You’ve got to come with me first,’ he said.

  ‘What? Why?’ My hands were clammy with fear. Had Flea somehow managed to turn the evidence around? Did he mention the jewelled bird?

  ‘There’s someone who wants to see you,’ he explained. ‘In person.’

  ‘Who?’

  He looked me over – I was still wearing the same tattered trousers, sweat-stained shirt and blood-crusted shoes from the night before. ‘You’d better shave first and put on a suit,’ he said, frowning. ‘And for God’s sake, let’s see some spit and polish on those shoes.’

  *

  The dark-wood corridor smelled of varnish and cigar smoke, my feet sank into the plush carpet runner. A woman in a prim grey suit led us to a door at the end of the hall. She knocked softly.

  ‘Mr Churchill?’ she said.

  Blood thrummed in my ears. The next thing I knew, I was standing inside a vast office – all leather, chrome, and wood. But my eyes were drawn to the man standing at the window, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his large frame blocking out most of the light.

  When he turned towards me, it was like all the air in the room was sucked in his direction. He commanded the space – and everything and anyone in it.


  ‘Sit down, sir.’

  As he greeted me, I was struck by the look on his face. Disgust, plain as the jowls under his chin. Disgust with Flea – of course – but just as strong was his distaste of me – a grass. A snitch. My words snuffing out the Blitz Spirit like a humidor for his fat cigar.

  I sat down. He remained standing, and didn’t offer to shake my hand. There was a rumbling sound – like the distant drone of the bombers. But I soon realised that it was his voice, resonating through the hollow of my skull. I tried to focus on what he was saying…

  ‘…our duty is to preserve public morale during these desperate times…’

  I nodded vigorously, though I can honestly say that I didn’t understand.

  ‘…I can assure you, the matter is being dealt with…’ his lip curled in disgust. And then he called for the secretary to escort me out.

  Looking at the floor, I followed her towards the door.

  ‘One more thing.’ He stopped me with his voice. I raised my eyes to his. ‘You will say nothing. We never had this conversation, and you know nothing of this. And if you ever violate this mandate – then you will be dealt with in the most severe manner. Do you understand?’

  I nodded again. The secretary escorted me out and the door closed behind me. It was over almost before it began. And later on, as I write these words, the memory seems like a bubble frozen in amber. I replay his words in my head, try to remember every second. But it’s no use. I’m struck not by the things the great man said – but by what he didn’t say.

  He never said ‘thank you’.

  - Chapter 47 -

  I sit there holding her hand as she sleeps; watching the rise and fall of her chest and feeling the slow coursing of her pulse. I think about what she said – how she has a duty to preserve the memory of those that came before, as one of the few remaining witnesses from that time. And how close the ‘uninvited guest’ came to being able to rewrite history to serve his own purposes.

  But as much as I’ve learned, I still don’t know what exactly he was after – the films? The jewels? The house?