A Question of Identity

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Were photos taken at the end of each year?’ Rona asked, noting that this was dated 1950.

  ‘Yes; there must be a later one somewhere. There’s Miss Cowley, look; she was affiliated to us.’ And Rona, searching along the row of seated staff, recognized the now-familiar face.

  As another page was turned, several snaps that either hadn’t been stuck in or had come unstuck slid out, among them some taken of the interior of the Lodge, identified on their backs as ‘Lower Hall’, ‘Cassie in the Art Studio’, ‘Class 3b’, and so on.

  ‘Mrs Temple would love some of these, if you could spare any,’ Rona said, remembering her promise. ‘She’s building up a pictorial record, and though she has several ghastly pictures of how the Lodge looked as a nursing home, she hasn’t any of its school period.’

  ‘Feel free to take them,’ Heather said, ‘I have masses more. It was an odd sensation,’ she added reflectively, ‘going back there last month. My husband had a bowls tournament in Marsborough and I decided to go with him, to look round old haunts. I’d no idea Springfield was now a hotel, but when we searched on line for somewhere to stay, there it was!’

  Apart from the prints, which Rona gratefully gathered up, the album had yielded little new information, and Heather left her turning the last few pages and went to make the tea. Gradually, things were falling into place, and although there were still a lot of unanswered questions, Rona suspected that her hostess had now supplied as many answers as she was able.

  ‘A worthwhile visit?’ Max enquired, as, having collected her, he drove back towards the town.

  ‘Oh, definitely.’

  ‘She identified the blob?’

  ‘Sadly not. Next stop Maureen Little, if I can run her to earth. Believe it or not, she’s actually on Trish’s photo, so I’m hoping she has an unblemished copy.’

  ‘And hasn’t thrown it away years ago,’ Max said.

  TEN

  Lindsey was preparing for her evening with Hugh when her mother phoned.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she demanded excitedly. ‘The police have arrested someone for the Coombes murder!’

  Lindsey tucked the phone between ear and shoulder and continued with her mascara. ‘The husband, you mean?’

  ‘No, that’s what’s so surprising! They’re not identifying him at this stage, but word has it he’s a “friend of the family”, who called at the house that evening while Kevin was out. Sarah feels quite vindicated – she was always sure it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Then why did he run off with the children?’ Lindsey asked.

  ‘I don’t know – he must have had his reasons. Perhaps to protect them?’ She paused. ‘Do you know where Rona is? I rang to tell her but got the answerphone and her mobile’s switched off.’

  ‘She and Max are in Lincoln for the weekend.’ Lindsey leant towards the mirror to apply lipstick.

  ‘Lincoln? What on earth for?’

  ‘Something to do with this photograph. Look, Mum, I’d love to chat, but I’m due out in twenty minutes. Can I ring you back later?’

  ‘Going somewhere nice?’ Avril enquired.

  ‘For a meal, I’m not sure where.’

  ‘Ah! Dominic?’

  ‘No, Mum, not Dominic.’ Having no intention of revealing the identity of her companion, she repeated quickly, ‘I really must go. Have a good evening, and I’ll phone tomorrow.’ And she broke the connection.

  She was aware of anticipation as she ran down to open the door to Hugh. She’d taken extra care with her appearance, discarding several outfits before settling on a designer dress and jacket in soft gold wool that clung in all the right places and kindled gold flecks in her eyes.

  ‘Hi!’ she greeted him gaily.

  ‘Lindsey.’ He kissed her cheek but his eyes were guarded, and, unusually, he did not comment on her appearance.

  ‘Long time no see,’ she added, keeping her tone light.

  ‘You’ve been otherwise occupied,’ he said.

  It seemed wise to let that pass, and since both his responses had been on the curt side she determined to leave it to him to speak first. However, when, on emerging from the cul-de-sac where she lived, he turned to the right rather than left towards the town, curiosity overcame her resolve and she asked where they were going.

  ‘A new place has opened in Nettleton,’ he replied, his eyes on the road. ‘I’m interested to try it out.’

  ‘Competition for the Deer Park?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  Still monosyllabic. Lindsey lapsed into silence, content to let things take their course. They hadn’t, after all, seen each other since October, when she’d invited him to take any items he’d like from her flat before she disposed of them. Afterwards they’d gone for a pub meal, and though the atmosphere between them was, as always, charged with sexual tension, they’d been as relaxed with each other as it was possible to be. This time, with Dominic no longer on the scene, she was hoping for more.

  Conversation remained sparse throughout the journey, and by the time they reached Nettleton it was starting to get dark. Hugh slowed down, uncertain as to the exact location of the restaurant, but its brightly lit frontage provided a beacon, and as they went inside, Lindsey saw that most of the tables were already occupied.

  ‘Seems popular,’ she remarked.

  ‘It’s one of the few places open on a Sunday. I took the precaution of booking a table.’

  Had he, she wondered, specified a corner one, secluded from the main area? Apparently not; the table they were led to was in the centre of the room, past which waiters continually hurried on their way to and from the kitchen. The noise level was also fairly high, making it difficult to hear what the other was saying. All in all, it hardly seemed destined to be a romantic evening.

  On the plus side, the menu was imaginative and the food good, and Lindsey decided to make the best of it, consoling herself with the thought of the twenty-minute drive home and her waiting flat. Meanwhile, across the table, she surreptitiously studied her ex-husband. He still seemed somewhat reserved, as though holding himself in check, and she wished futilely that the surrounding ambience was more conducive to a tête-à-tête.

  ‘I hear they’ve arrested someone for the Belmont murder,’ she said, aware, for the first time between them, of having to make conversation.

  ‘Oh? I hadn’t heard. They’ve found him, then?’

  ‘Not the husband, a friend of the family.’

  ‘Ah. Well, it’s good to know the husband isn’t always the black sheep.’

  She glanced quickly at him, but his face gave no hint of hidden meaning.

  ‘Is Rona involved?’ he asked after a minute.

  ‘No, but Sarah, my soon-to-be-stepsister, is, so she’s keeping up the family tradition. It was she and her boyfriend who found the body.’

  ‘Plus ça change,’ Hugh said, and, finally submerged in the surrounding noise, the conversation withered and died.

  ‘Well?’ Lindsey challenged, as their dessert was served. ‘Has it come up to your expectations?’

  ‘I’m not sure I had any. You wanted a meal out, this was somewhere new, I decided to give it a try.’

  Feeling he was putting the onus for any shortcomings on her, Lindsey said tartly, ‘And it has the advantage of being far enough away for no one to recognize us.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Would that have been a problem?’

  ‘Not for me, but your new girlfriend might not be too happy.’

  ‘Oh, she knows about this evening,’ Hugh said calmly. ‘She was with me when you phoned.’

  Lindsey stared at him. He was here with that woman’s permission! Damn, damn, damn! She pushed her plate away, belatedly aware that the gesture was petulant. ‘That’s all right, then,’ she said tightly.

  Then they were in the car driving home, and Lindsey’s frustration was building. She’d been so sure the evening would end with them making love; now, this seemed highly unlikely. Though perfectly polite, Hugh had kept her at arm’s
length and such talk as they’d been able to conduct above the general hubbub had been depressingly impersonal.

  He had switched on the car radio, possibly to lessen the need for conversation, and the romantic late-night music seemed a mockery. Damn it, she wanted him, and she was perfectly sure he wanted her too, though he seemed determined to deny it. Was this all down to the redhead Rona had seen him with? Could it possibly be that their relationship was serious? Lindsey had always been confident that, divorce or not, Hugh was there for her whenever she needed him – a fact of which she’d made use more than once over the last year or two. Why, she wondered miserably, had he agreed to this evening, if he hadn’t meant to take advantage of it?

  He turned into the wide gravel space outside the flats, switched off the engine, and, ever the gentleman, came round to open her door.

  ‘Will you come in for a coffee?’ she asked. ‘You’ve not seen the flat since it was redecorated.’

  ‘It’s rather late; I’d better be getting back. Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s a holiday,’ she reminded him, trying to keep the pleading out of her voice, but he shook his head.

  ‘Then all I can say is, thank you for the meal.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ he said neutrally.

  She hesitated briefly, then reached up and kissed him on the mouth. He didn’t respond, though she felt a tremor go through him.

  ‘Good night, Hugh,’ she said, and letting herself into the flat, ran up the stairs and flung herself on the bed in a storm of tears.

  Those tears might have been less bitter had she known that as she shut the door, Hugh rested both hands on the roof of the car and bent his head, drawing in several laboured breaths. It was some minutes before he slowly straightened, walked round to the driver’s side, and drove away.

  It was Tuesday morning before Rona was able at last to reach Kitty Mason, who, it transpired, had been away, and then it took some time to explain who she was.

  ‘Oh!’ Kitty exclaimed finally. ‘Avril Beecham’s daughter! The writer! How nice to hear from you, dear.’ Then, anxiety creeping into her voice, ‘Avril’s quite well, I hope?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Rona hastened to reassure her, ‘never better!’ And realized, with slight resentment on her father’s behalf, that she spoke no less than the truth. ‘She sends her regards, by the way.’

  ‘We used to be in regular contact,’ Kitty said regretfully, ‘but over the last few years it’s become more sporadic – down to Christmas cards, in fact. It would be good to meet again. Now, how can I help you?’

  ‘It’s all rather involved, but I’ve been asked to find out about Springfield Lodge School for Girls, and Mum says your sisters went there.’

  ‘Heavens, you’re going back a bit, aren’t you? Yes, they did.’

  ‘Were they both there when it closed down?’

  ‘Bridget had left the previous year, but Mo was – about to take her O-levels, in fact.’

  ‘I believe it caused a lot of talk?’

  ‘Oh, there was plenty of gossip at the time, but with hindsight it was probably the proverbial molehill.’

  Rona hesitated. ‘Do you think Maureen would mind speaking to me about it?’

  ‘I doubt if it would do much good; she won’t have anything new to say, and she never believed the rumours in the first place. Why the sudden interest, if I may ask?’

  ‘A friend of my sister’s found a photograph belonging to her mother, who’d been on the staff, and someone in it had been vigorously blacked out. She – the friend – is anxious to know who and why.’

  ‘Does it matter, after all this time?’

  ‘Her mother was very upset when she saw it again, years later.’ Rona paused. ‘And I’ve just discovered your sister’s on the same photo, so with luck she can tell us who it was.’

  ‘Ah! Well, there she might be able to help. Hold on while I look up the number.’ There was a thump as the phone was put down, and the sound of a drawer being opened. Then Kitty came back on the line. ‘Her husband died last year,’ she said, ‘and she moved to Somerset to live with Bridget, who’s also widowed. Personally, I can’t see it working; they’ve fought like cat and dog ever since they were girls. Still, it was their decision. Have you a pen handy?’

  Rona took down the number. ‘Thanks so much. If you could tell me her married name, I’ll give her a ring?’

  ‘O’Connell,’ Kitty supplied. ‘Let me know what happens; it sounds quite intriguing!’

  The call ended with Kitty sending best wishes to Avril and promising to contact her. ‘We were each other’s bridesmaids,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs O’Connell?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  Rona went through the routine of introducing herself and explaining what she wanted. ‘It would be wonderful if you could identify who it was,’ she ended.

  ‘A photo dated 1951? My goodness, I should certainly have to wrack my brains!’

  Rona crossed her fingers. ‘I was wondering if you might have a copy yourself?’

  ‘Oh, I very much doubt it, my dear! We moved a lot during our married life, and my husband was always getting rid of what he called clutter. I know I threw out a lot of old albums when we downsized, as they say.’

  Probably too much to have hoped for, Rona thought philosophically. ‘Well, even if you haven’t a copy, if you saw mine you might be able to tell who was missing.’

  ‘I might,’ Maureen O’Connell conceded doubtfully, ‘but it’s a very long time ago.’

  Rona considered asking if she remembered Trish Cowley or Susie Baines, but decided to wait till they met. ‘Would it be all right if I came down to see you? Quite apart from the photo, I’d be interested to hear what you remember about the school.’

  ‘You’d be welcome, of course, but it’s a long way to come on the off-chance.’

  ‘It shouldn’t take much more than a couple of hours, and I’d really like to meet you.’

  ‘Very well, if you feel it’s worth it. We can at least give you lunch. I’m living with my sister now, as Kitty might have told you. She was at Springfield, too.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t go to any trouble. I—’

  ‘Nonsense; you have to eat, and so do we. Now, I can’t manage tomorrow, but Thursday would be all right, if that suits you?’

  Arrangements were made, the address given, and at last Rona, putting down the phone, felt she was getting somewhere. Whether or not her optimism was misplaced, she would shortly find out.

  Having done her shopping the next morning, Rona paused on the corner of Guild Street and Fullers Walk, her carrier bag heavy in her hand. Gus, surprised at the unexpected halt, looked up enquiringly, and when she made no move sat down on the pavement.

  The truth was, she was in no hurry to go home. Earlier that morning her editor, Prue Granger, had phoned.

  ‘No pressure!’ she’d said cheerfully, instantly creating it. ‘Just wondered how the magnum opus is progressing?’

  Almost, Rona thought guiltily, as though she knew it had been temporarily shelved.

  ‘A bit in the doldrums,’ she confessed. ‘It’s pretty routine at the moment, reading through diaries, checking lists and so on.’

  ‘Boring?’ enquired Prue astutely.

  ‘A little,’ Rona admitted. ‘Actually, I thought I might have a week or two’s break, so that when I come back to it, I can look at it with fresh eyes.’

  ‘Fine, as long as it really is only a week or two. Any longer, and you might lose the will to continue!’

  So – decision time. She could either go home, have a snack lunch, and incarcerate herself in her study, or she could give in to temptation and go to the Gallery for one of their deliciously fluffy omelettes, with garlic bread on the side. And to be logical, it wasn’t worth spending time trying to break the work block, when tomorrow would be spent visiting Maureen O’Connell. No contest, really.

  She turned, tugging gently at the lead, and walked back along Guild Street to the wrought-iron steps
leading up to the Gallery.

  As usual, the café was fairly busy, and she was hesitating in the doorway when she heard her name called, and turned to see Gavin waving to her. He rose as she made her way over to join him. ‘I’ve just arrived myself, and was lucky enough to nab this table as someone was leaving.’ He pulled out her chair. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ Rona sat down and Gus, used to the routine, made his way under the table, nudging their feet as he settled down. ‘Actually, I’m playing hooky. I should be slaving over a hot computer.’

  ‘And I should be eating sandwiches at my desk, but I rebelled. I needed a change of scene, and this is as good a scene as any.’

  The waitress stopped at their table and they gave their orders.

  As she moved away, Rona said carefully, ‘You know that after you said you were worried about Magda, I had lunch with her, and she admitted to having worries herself?’

  Gavin nodded, his eyes intent on hers.

  ‘Well, I phoned the other day to see how things were and she insisted everything had been exaggerated, she’d stopped having the dreams and all was well.’

  Gavin toyed with his knife, not meeting her eyes.

  ‘So is there nothing to worry about after all?’ Rona prompted.

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say that.’ He paused. ‘Did she tell you how the dreams stopped?’

  Rona looked puzzled. ‘No?’

  ‘It happened soon after I saw you and it was pretty terrifying, I can tell you. She’d gone to bed early with a headache, and I’d just come into the bedroom when she suddenly sat up and let out a piercing shriek. Honestly Rona, it was . . . primeval, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I rushed over and tried to catch hold of her, but she threw me off, twisting first one way, then the other and shouting, “No! No! No!”’

  Rona stared at him, wide-eyed, and after drawing a deep breath he continued.

  ‘When I finally shook her awake, she looked at me blankly, as though she’d no idea who I was. Then she said in a whisper, “Oh God! Oh my God!” and started to cry as though her heart would break. I held her, rocking her backwards and forwards and stroking her back, but she went on and on sobbing till I began to wonder if she’d ever stop. Eventually she fell asleep in my arms from sheer exhaustion. I laid her back on the pillow, crept in beside her, and lay awake for a long time in case she woke again, but she didn’t.’