Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  I kiss my grandmother on the forehead and return to the waiting area. Edith is sitting in the same place reading a magazine and drinking tea from a plastic cup.

  ‘How is she?’ she asks.

  I slump into the chair beside her. ‘Asleep. Is David still here?’

  ‘No, he had to leave.’

  ‘Oh really? What did he have to do that’s so pressing?’ Maybe it’s my prejudice against him, but it’s almost like he’s avoiding me.

  ‘I don’t know. He said he’ll come back later – swing by Mallow Court and pick up some of her clothes and books to bring her while she’s here.’

  ‘I could have done that.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just telling you what he said.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I don’t mean to snap at you.’ I realise I’ve been giving Edith the third degree because there’s no one else. Other than the odd doctor or nurse, there’s no one else around. No one to keep guard over my grandmother if the police happen to be wrong.

  I don’t even realise I’ve spoken aloud until Edith answers. ‘I feel a bit bad for earlier,’ she says. ‘It didn’t even occur to me that you hadn’t met David. I assumed she’d introduced you.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘I remember that time when I saw him in the stockroom and thought he was a burglar.’

  ‘What?’ I straighten up. ‘He’s the man you saw?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles. ‘It turns out that he was just helping out an old woman who was looking for the loo and got lost. He’s such a gentleman.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say drily. ‘He seems it. Maybe I should ask him if he knows who locked me in the loo – that same day, remember?’

  Edith frowns. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ She stares at me, her eyes wide. ‘You think David had something to do with it?’

  ‘He’s a dark horse, isn’t he?’ I shrug. ‘Turning up at a WI meeting, and sweeping my grandmother off her feet. He even offered her a ring, did you know that? But she turned him down. Maybe he thought he’d convince her by a blow to the head.’

  ‘Really Alex, I know there’s a lot been going on, but that sounds preposterous. I mean, why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’d really like to ask him. Except…’ I stare back down the corridor at the door to my grandmother’s room. ‘Someone needs to stay here in case she’s in danger.’

  Edith shakes her head. ‘I know you’re strong, Alex. And independent too. But you can’t distrust everyone.’

  ‘Right now, I’m struggling with that.’

  ‘I know, and I care about Mrs Fairchild – your grandmother – too. If you really think that she’s in some kind of danger, then why don’t I call Paul? He could send someone from the police to keep an eye on things here. Not the local police – but someone from his station in Oxford.’

  ‘That’d be good,’ I say. ‘I’d feel a lot better.’

  ‘And I could get back to work.’

  I check my watch. It’s nearly 4 o’clock. ‘You should go home, Edith – you’ve been such a great help today.’ I give her the best smile I can muster. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘No problem.’ Edith stands up. ‘But are you going to stay here?’

  ‘For now. I don’t want to leave her alone.’

  ‘Well here, take these.’ She hands me her stack of magazines. ‘I bought them earlier in the shop. Everything around here was either medical or out of date.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll call Paul now. And if there’s any change with Mrs Fairchild, ring me right away, okay?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’

  ‘And Alex…’ she purses her lips, ‘you will be careful, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  *

  Time ticks on. Chris finally calls me back, apologising that he’s been at an antiques fair all day with his Dad. I tell him what happened as best I can – in between his bursts of anguish that he wasn’t there for me.

  ‘God Alex, I can’t believe this. Is she going to be okay? How are you doing? Let’s see – I’m driving up from Portsmouth now and I need to swing by my workshop. I can be with you by nine maybe. I’m so sorry. This is just awful…’ I let him gabble on for a minute.

  ‘I miss you,’ I say. ‘And if you could come tonight it would be good. I just feel so… tired.’

  ‘I’m sure. Damn it! This traffic is terrible. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  We ring off and I feel better knowing that Chris will be with me later. Then Edith calls and tells me that her boyfriend will send someone round. I read the magazines that she left from cover to cover. There’s an article about a house in London where three teenage girls found an unexploded bomb in the back garden and managed to save their father who was about to dig it up. There’s also a news item about a Georgian house near Bath that’s about to be opened to the public. It makes me think about how I felt when Mallow Court had its grand opening – pride that I’d got everything ready in record time; trepidation that something would go wrong; and above all, determination that I could – would – make it work.

  And I have. Now that I’ve cleared Frank Bolton’s name, and my grandmother has agreed to keep the house, I feel a renewed energy, like it’s a new start. But there’s a niggle in my head that won’t go away. Does my new start involve staying on as manager of Mallow Court, or turning the job over to Edith and going in a whole new direction?

  I shift in the uncomfortable chair, my eyelids growing heavy. In my mind’s eye, I picture a young girl standing in front of the Winter Palace in St Petersburg – its elegant green and white facade and hundreds of windows dwarfing her as she stares at it in wonder. She cranes her neck upwards as snowflakes begin to fall, lightly at first, and then in a flurry. Something drones in the air above – planes. She stands there, paralyzed as silver incendiary bombs begin to rain down all around her. And the sky shimmers with jewels and bombs and snow and the world is burning and freezing and exploding all at the same time, and I open my mouth to scream and the whole world shifts on its axis around me.

  ‘Alex Hart?’

  My eyes snap open, the terror of the dream dissolving into the dark maze of memory. My heart is galloping in my chest and I breathe deeply until the panic subsides.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to the uniformed police officer who is standing in front of me. ‘I must have nodded off.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Paul asked me to hold the fort here. So you can go home.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I rub out a crick in my neck. ‘What time is it anyway?’

  ‘Just gone half seven. Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. Had to help give the baby a bath.’

  ‘No worries.’ I stand up, my right knee feeling like a rusty gate hinge. ‘How long are you going to stay here?’

  ‘Well…’ he hesitates. ‘I checked the file. The lads who visited the scene said it was an accident.’

  ‘Look,’ I say firmly, ‘I know that’s the official line, but can you stay here a few hours until I sort one or two things out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Give me your mobile number, and I’ll phone you when it’s okay to leave.’

  ‘Fine.’ He takes out his phone and I copy down the number. ‘But you’re not going to do anything stupid are you?’

  I shake my head, thinking back to Mrs Fairchild’s brave statement about needing to confront the danger head on. She said that when she was well, she would go and visit Mrs Edwards. Try to make things right. But with everything that’s happened, I can’t wait until my grandmother is better and finds the time to confront Sally. Not now that I’ve learned the truth about the diary. Frank Bolton’s diary, not her father’s. I need to know exactly how Sally Edwards came by it. It has to be Tim – it just has to be. And if not … My head aches as I put two and two together, and feel a little closer to getting four.

  I give him my meekest smile. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  *

  I leave my grandmother under guard at the hospital, make a quick stop back at the house,
and drive to the train station. The London train is delayed, and as I wait on the platform, I take out my mobile phone to input the policeman’s number. I have four missed calls – after speaking to Chris I put my phone on silent at the hospital. My heart judders as I scroll through the numbers – three of the calls are from Tim, and one from Chris.

  I press play, determined to listen dispassionately to anything Tim has to say, and forward anything important on to Edith’s policeman boyfriend.

  ‘Alex, it’s Tim here. Please can you give me a call? I think you might be in danger. I’ll explain more but we need to talk. Can you meet me?’

  Beep.

  ‘Alex, please call. I heard what happened to Mrs Fairchild and I think I know who did it. Seriously – you won’t believe it. Give me a call.’

  Beep.

  ‘Hi Alex, it’s Chris.’ My stomach flutters like a bird taking off at the sound of his voice. ‘Traffic is awful. I’m still not even back in London yet. Give me a call. I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you today. Shit – idiot!’ In the background, a horn honks. ‘Sorry about that, I—’

  Beep.

  ‘Alex – Tim. Listen, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but it’s important. I’m at Gran’s house. Give me a call as soon as you can.’

  Beep.

  I quickly call Chris back and get his voicemail. ‘Listen, Chris,’ there’s been a change in plan. Don’t come up to Bucks – I’m coming to London. The train’s delayed, but give me a call when you get back to your shop.’

  Hanging up, I scroll down to Tim’s number. Should I call him back – arrange to meet him? Or just turn up at his gran’s and confront him. Obviously, I shouldn’t go there alone, even though I still can’t believe in my heart of hearts that he’s responsible for knocking my grandmother on the head. A part of him, at least, is a competent, professional barrister with a lot to lose from shenanigans like that. Could he really be the clever arch villain that I’ve conjured in my mind? I mean, what does he – or someone else – have to gain from all of this? It’s not like there’s a fortune in Romanov jewels hidden somewhere, that managed to survive the London Blitz.

  Or is there?

  The train limps into the station, grinding to a halt at the platform. I climb aboard and move through three carriages until I finally find an empty seat – a middle seat occupied by a handbag – the owner of which is none too pleased when I ask her to move it so I can sit down. Ignoring the sharp elbows on both sides, I continue my speculation.

  What if the ‘uninvited guest’ assumed that Marina had given the jewels to Frank Bolton – the father of her child – to take away for safekeeping? It makes sense that he might have used a few of them for ‘seed money’ to buy his factory, and hid the rest at Mallow Court. Is that why the intruder is so desperate to get rid of Mrs Fairchild – so he can buy the house and do a proper search? It seems like an extreme measure for something so speculative. But who knows what lengths a criminal might go to?

  The train crawls along, punctuated by frequent announcements from the guard apologising for the delay due to a broken train further down the line. My mind, at least, is racing onwards. Everything hinges on what happened on a bombed-out London street in November 1940. A girl crawls from the wreckage as it begins to snow. A man rescues her, but can’t save her dying mother. A mother gives her daughter a jewelled locket…

  The jewelled locket. I’m still wearing it, tucked under my shirt, with the small gold key dangling from the chain. I can no longer feel it’s weight – it’s part of me now…

  And later on, the girl’s rescuer adopts her. He gives her a nice life, a nice family, and a beautiful house. He’s also a hero in another way – he informs the authorities of a colleague on the ambulance service who is abusing his position and looting corpses and bombed-out buildings. The looter’s actions are hushed up without a trial, and he’s sent to the front lines to die. But his daughter grows up bitter and hateful of the little girl pulled from the wreckage. She finds a journal somewhere – I’m still not clear where she got it – that seems to clear her father’s name. But the journal wasn’t written by her father at all. This is proved by a film hidden in the attic.

  My head hurts with the effort of trying to puzzle everything out. As the train limps along, I check my phone again, but neither Chris nor Tim has called back.

  The train comes to a dead halt at another station. My heart revs with tension at the delay. I stare out the window at the people on the platform – a few looking angry, but most looking resigned. The guard makes another announcement – we’ll be stuck here for ten minutes. Ten minutes. I glance at an old style clock (one with hands and numbers) hanging on the platform next to the electronic board. Eight p.m. – I’ve been stuck on the train for almost forty-five minutes, like a wild beast in a cage. I stand up, debating whether to abandon my quest and get a train back home. But those trains aren’t running either. With a sigh I sit back down and look at the platform clock again. It still says eight p.m.. I notice that the second hand isn’t moving. It’s broken, just like the bloody train down the line. A stopped clock…

  I reach for the chain around my neck and feel its pulsing, elemental electricity. There’s a rumbling sound as the train lurches slowly forward. But my mind is racing like a bullet train. I reach for the key dangling from the chain and hold it up to my eyes. I unclasp it from the chain and slip it into my pocket. A key that unlocks the answer to the mystery.

  A jewelled bird, a wooden box, my great grandmother Marina, a Russian princess, who fled the revolution with a treasure trove of jewels.

  And I know where they are…

  - Chapter 48 -

  I curse, I cajole, I silently will the train to move forward more quickly and reach its destination sometime this century. Another twenty minutes feels like twenty years. And just as we’re finally pulling into the platform at Euston, my mobile rings.

  I pull out my phone and check the screen: it’s Chris. All of a sudden I want nothing more than for this all to be over, so we can snuggle up on his old sofa, watch more films on the reel-to-reel, and take all the time in the world to explore each other’s bodies the way we already seem to know each other’s souls. I savour the feeling of happy, bubbly warmth, in just seeing his name on a screen; the feeling of promise, like with the two of us together, anything might be possible. Possible, that is, once my murky, star-crossed past is finally resolved into something coherent.

  ‘Hello,’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘Alex, I just got your message. I’m at the auction house. Are you in London?’

  ‘Just got here,’ I say. ‘I’m on my way to Larkspur Gardens.’

  ‘No, Alex.’ He whispers into the phone, sounding panicked. ‘Don’t go there. Not alone. I’ve found out something else.’

  ‘What?’ I say, worried by his tone.

  ‘I had my PA – Dad’s PA – check through all the records. Up to the present. It turns out that just three months ago some pieces were listed – some American impressionist paintings and some items of jewellery.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘They were put into the auction by a D Kinshaw of Grand Cayman Island.’

  The train judders to a halt and the world seems to tip on its axis. The truth – or the version I wanted to believe – turns on its head. The other people in the train carriage hurry to stand up and get off the train, but I sit still, unable to move. ‘D Kinshaw’ aka Hal Dawkins – is alive. Hal Dawkins – still engaging in ‘mischief’ and criminal activities all these years later. Still creeping out of the gutter to exploit the ruination of people’s lives, and ‘help them on their way’ as necessary. And this time, those people are my grandmother and me. He messed with her house, her head, and her heart. But what I find completely infuriating is that he didn’t even bother to change his first initial.

  ‘D Kinshaw’.

  David.

  ‘Alex, are you still there? Do you think he could be your “uninvited guest”?’

  I rea
lise I’ve dropped my hand to my lap. I put the phone back to my ear. ‘Thanks, Chris, that’s really helpful information. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘OK, where? Can you come here —?’

  ‘No – I can’t. There isn’t time.’

  ‘God Alex, don’t go—’

  I press the button to end the call, and join the queue to get off the train, my pulse drumming in my head. As I’m rushing through the crowded station, the phone rings again. I press the reject button on Tim Edwards’s call, and switch off the phone.

  - Chapter 49 -

  I don’t bother with the tube or the bus. Outside the station, I get a taxi and ask the driver to take me directly to Larkspur Gardens. My head is galloping as we drive past crowds of pub-goers in Shoreditch, and continue east to the less salubrious wilds of the city. I phone the policeman at the hospital and tell him that in the event that my grandmother’s ‘boyfriend’ turns up, he should keep him away from her. As the cab reaches the top of Larkspur Gardens, I hang up, pay the driver and get out. Right now, the element of surprise is my only advantage.

  Pulling the hood of my jacket up over my head, I walk down to the end of road. There’s a light on behind the brown curtains in the Edwards’s window and I can hear the noise of the television from several houses away. Tim’s message said that he was at the house. I could go there, knock on the door, ask to see Sally like I’d originally planned to do. But in doing so, I might well be walking into a trap. Instead, I detour up the narrow walkway that leads to Mr Pepperharrow’s house. My stomach plummets when I see that the windows are dark. How can he not be at home? Where on earth can he—?

  A sharp bark startles me. ‘Down Winston,’ an old man’s voice says from behind me.

  I turn. ‘Oh, hello.’

  Mr Pepperharrow frowns at me. ‘No soliciting.’ He points a finger to the sign next to the door.

  ‘It’s me, Alex Hart,’ I remind him. ‘Marina’s great-granddaughter.’

  The old man takes a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his coat, wipes them, and puts them on. ‘My apologies, young lady. I didn’t recognise you with the hood.’