“What’s your point, Miss Tupper?”
“Only this—the house is mortgaged to the eyeballs and up for sale, the company is in default and, as far as I can tell, Mrs. Clay was about as broke as a person can be. I don’t know that I would blame her if she has run off.”
“What about the boy?” The detective sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “What kind of mother would run off and leave her son?”
Ruth sighed. “Mrs. Clay never took to Samuel as I’ve told you time and again. She even went to doctors about it and you can check that if you like. All those months in America and she never once wrote to him. You tell me, Detective Rowe, what kind of a mother is that?”
“Ah, yes, the postcards.” His smile was boyish. “You wrote to Samuel pretending to be his mother. Bit strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“Strange? I’d call it merciful. All Samuel did was pine for her and I couldn’t bear to see him so upset.” She touched her hat, pushing it slightly to the left. “So I did what I could to ease his suffering.”
“You lied to him.”
“And I would do it again. I found the book of postcards in a secondhand shop in Penzance a few weeks after Mrs. Clay left for America. Samuel was already asking after her a hundred times a day and coming across those cards felt like a gift from God above.” She allowed a faint smile. “Learning to copy her handwriting was a challenge but I’m a quick study.”
“I bet you are.”
Ruth huffed. “After that, it was just a matter of stamping the postmark, just the date all smudged over, and slipping one in with the mail every few weeks. Mrs. Clay had mentioned a few of the places she intended to visit so I thought it best to keep her moving about, going here and there.” Ruth met the detective’s gaze. “There’s no crime in trying to make a child feel better, is there, Detective?”
Detective Rowe peered down at his notes. “We spoke to a Mrs. Collins. She said that Samuel told her son...” He scanned the page. “Joseph. Samuel told Joseph that he thought you had killed his mother and...where is it?...oh, yes, hid her body in the cellar.” The detective looked up at Ruth. “Where would he get such an idea, Miss Tupper?”
“Where do boys get most of their ideas, Detective? Samuel has a wild imagination and I think you’ll find that it was that fool of a boy, Joseph Collins, who planted that particular bit of nonsense in Samuel’s head.”
“Maybe so. What I can’t work out is why Samuel would be so willing to believe you could hurt his mother.”
Ruth sniffed, shifting in her seat. “A child’s mind is full of conspiracies. As I just said, Mrs. Clay had been gone for months—poor Samuel counted the days—and I think it was somehow easier for him to think somebody had...done something to his mother than to imagine the truth. That she had gone away and left him.”
“But she hadn’t left him, had she? Mrs. Clay caught the train back and had her trunks sent up to the house. She was coming home, Miss Tupper.”
“Well, she never made it, Detective. That is what I’ve been telling you for months.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes?” snapped Detective Rowe.
A constable stepped in. “Got that witness from the Barker Street robbery out front.”
“Tell him to wait.”
“Thing is, sir, Mr. Norris says he’s got to catch a train at two o’clock—something about his sick daughter.”
“Tell him to wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
The constable was closing the door when Detective Rowe called him back. “Send the boy in.” He shifted his gaze to Ruth. “No objections, I take it?”
“I object very much.” Ruth sat forward. “He is a nine-year-old boy whose mother has vanished. I think he’s been through more than enough, don’t you?”
“It’s just a few questions, Miss Tupper.”
There was a murmur of voices and then Samuel walked into the room and took the seat next to Ruth. The boy and the housekeeper did not look at each other.
“Hello, Samuel,” said Detective Rowe. “Remember me?”
Samuel nodded.
“I’m trying to find out what’s happened to your mother,” said the detective. “You want me to do that, don’t you, Samuel?”
The boy nodded.
“Do you remember the day when Miss Tupper went into the village to make a delivery to Mrs. Pryce?”
“Yes.”
“Was there something different about that day, Samuel? Something out of the ordinary?”
“Ruth had hurt her shoulder and I had to pack the lemon tarts and the tea cakes in boxes for her.”
“You saw Ruth fall, did you?”
“No. She was in the bath. But I heard her cry out.”
“When was this?”
“The night before.”
“What time?”
Samuel shrugged. “I was in bed.”
The detective looked down at the file. “So, back to the day Ruth made the delivery to Mrs. Pryce—she left you home by yourself, did she?”
Samuel nodded.
“And while you were there all by yourself, did anyone come to the house?”
“Just Mr. Watson from the station.” The boy placed the red fighter plane on the edge of the desk. “He brought Mother’s trunks.”
“Nobody else?” said the detective.
Samuel shook his head.
“You never saw your mother?” Detective Rowe rubbed his left ear until it was red. “Maybe you saw someone that looked like her? Or maybe a stranger? Someone you’d never seen before?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“Nobody knocked on the door besides Mr. Watson?”
Samuel shook his head again.
“You didn’t see anything unusual outside? Didn’t hear any strange noises? A car, maybe? Or someone crying out?”
“No.” Samuel pushed the hair from his eyes. “I was doing my homework.”
“The day I’m asking you about, Samuel, the day the trunks were delivered—your mother had caught an overnight train from London. Did you know that?”
Samuel nodded.
Detective Rowe said, “She was coming home.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her, do you think?”
“How can the boy answer such a question, Detective?” Ruth’s voice had all the sharp edges. “If you haven’t any decency, at least show some sense.”
“I’m just asking Samuel what he thinks, that’s all.” The detective lit another cigarette and Samuel watched it seethe into life. “Where do you suppose your mother is right now, Samuel?”
The boy watched the smoke coil up from the cigarette, and it made him think of Ruth cutting the baked potato and blowing on the steam.
“Samuel?” said Detective Rowe.
“I think she is resting,” said Samuel.
“That’s enough.” Ruth hit the table, which made Samuel jump. “I won’t allow this cruelty to continue. What would a boy of his age know about such things? Shame on you, Detective Rowe.”
Another knock at the door.
Detective Rowe flicked the embers from his cigarette into an ashtray. “Yes?”
The same constable, looking sheepish, stuck his head around the door. “Sorry, sir. Mr. Norris says he can’t wait any longer and if you can’t talk to him now, well, he’ll—”
“Bloody hell.” The detective closed the folder. “Tell him I’ll be right there.” He regarded Ruth coolly. “I suppose we’re done, but I daresay I’ll be wanting to talk to you again.”
“Detective Rowe, you may be done with me but I am not done with you.”
“I’d love to sit here and chat but, as you heard, I have a witness to interview.”
The detective stood up and so did Ruth.
“I have a few things to say,
” she said, threading her handbag along her wrist, “and as the person in charge of Samuel’s welfare for the present moment, I have every right to speak on his behalf. He should not be subject to any more of this—”
“I thought there was other family?” The detective was collecting his file and didn’t sound especially interested. “An uncle or something?”
“Yes.” Ruth’s voice dropped to a whisper, which seemed silly. “Samuel does have an uncle but he...he’s unwilling to take the boy on full-time. There’s also a grandfather in America.”
“He’s going to live over here, is he? Poor sod.”
Ruth glanced down at the boy. “Samuel will stay here in England and continue his schooling, though where that will be I’m not sure.” She cleared her throat. “As for the holidays, America is very far to travel, and Samuel’s grandfather thinks it best that he stays here.”
Detective Rowe took a long drag of his cigarette. “You’re looking after him, are you?”
“Well.” Ruth moved the straps of her handbag and seemed to have trouble finding a position that satisfied her. “That’s still to be worked out.”
Samuel turned the plane over in his hands.
“Like that, is it?” said the detective with a smirk.
“I beg your pardon?”
The constable reappeared at the door. “Sorry again, sir, but Mr. Norris says—”
“Impatient bugger.” The detective stubbed out the cigarette. “I’m on my way.”
When Detective Rowe headed for the door, Ruth followed after him.
“I have more to say, Detective, things that Samuel need not be troubled by. May I walk with you?”
There were things to discuss. And Samuel was just a boy.
The detective sighed. “If you must.”
He walked quickly and Ruth hurried in his tracks. But she stopped in the doorway. Samuel heard her clear her throat the way she always did. The boy felt her looking at him but he didn’t turn around. He guessed what he might see if he did and he knew what it would mean. Turning around was an act of bravery and he had no courage left.
“Stay here, Samuel,” Ruth said. “I’ll come back for you.”
She closed the door and it hardly made a sound. He waited to hear her go but all was silent. Then he became aware of the ticking clock, its crisp drumbeat, and the sound of his breaths, faint and slow. He wanted to get up and go to her. To see that stern look in her eyes and hear the certainty in her voice and know that it wasn’t the end. That she wouldn’t leave. But then he heard her heels on the floor outside and Samuel understood the moment had passed. Ruth’s footsteps were rapid as she walked down the hall to catch Detective Rowe, fading a little with every step. She was headed someplace else now, moving away from him.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
The impulse to write this book came suddenly but not without warning. I first had the idea over twenty years ago as a budding scriptwriter, and despite it going nowhere, the story of a boy and a housekeeper lingered patiently in my imagination, waiting for me to try again. When I did, the words seemed to fly out in a hurry, as if they feared I might change my mind.
For such a solitary pursuit, a great many people are involved in the life of a writer. My agent, Madeleine Milburn, has taken my stories out into the world and has been a tireless champion of my literary whims. Also at the MM office are a fantastic team including Giles Milburn, Haley Steed and Alice Sutherland-Hawes.
I worked with two editors on this book who were determined to bring out the best in my writing. John Glynn at Hanover Square Press led me through the process with insight and ease. Thanks also to executive VP Loriana Sacilotto, VP Margaret Marbury-O’Neill, editorial director Peter Joseph, senior marketing manager Randy Chan, senior marketing director Amy Jones and publicist Emer Flounders.
Kimberley Atkins at Penguin Random House Australia has sharp instincts and I thank her for brilliantly suggesting the ill-fated rabbit. Thanks also to Kathryn Knight and Alex Ross.
My parents have been a huge support as I navigate this crazy business and I owe them a great debt. Thanks also to Christine, Carol and Paul for support and encouragement. And lastly, thank you to Jacqui, dear friend since ’93.
ISBN-13: 9781488098611
The Boy at the Keyhole
Copyright © 2018 by Stephen Giles
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