He should have warned her. Nash knows what the old bugger’s like. Fox is Waverley’s toady through and through, mouthing the same small-town prejudices, the same vile attitudes. It’s no excuse that he was hacked off because she’d backed him into a corner, persuaded him to take her on. He could have said no.
He should have said no last year. If he hadn’t slept with her then, he wouldn’t be in this tangle of obligation and emotion now.
He’s a fool. A bloody fool, but he can’t let personal feelings get in the way. If Jo will stay, he’ll use that bulldog determination of hers. Set her on to finding out who the dead girl was.
*
‘Morning,’ he says, as his secretary, Miss Haward, looks up from her desk. ‘Any calls for me, Aggie?’
‘Nothing of consequence, sir.’
‘Good. You’ll be glad to hear we’ve got a replacement for PC Dacre.’
‘That is pleasing news. Have the police found us someone after all?’
‘Her name’s Mrs Lester. She’ll be coming in to the office later.’
‘Mrs?’ Miss Haward looks shocked. ‘I know we’re short-handed, sir, but a woman? Begging your pardon, but that’s hardly suitable.’
‘She’s not a child, Aggie. She’s been living in London. Our few deaths won’t shock her.’
‘Even so. What about Cissie and June? I won’t have them upset with gory details.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be discreet. It’s not as if she’ll be in the office much. Like Dacre, she’ll be out and about most of the time.’
‘You’ve seen her references?’
‘I’ll leave all that to you. Just give her a chance, eh? I could really do with the help. Be a saint. It’s been a long, miserable morning. Rustle me up a cup of tea, would you?’
*
I might have asked for a lift back into town, but I hadn’t wanted to squeeze into the rattletrap taxi with Nash. I’d sworn at him. You bastard, why didn’t you tell me about my grandfather? but he hadn’t had a chance to explain and I hadn’t been able to apologise because Dr Waverley had come along just at the wrong minute.
In his posh pinstripe suit, with his thick white hair waved just so, Waverley looks the part: the noble healer in the flesh. But underneath he’s just another rude git who thinks he rules this town. It was there in the way he spoke to Nash, the way he inspected me when Nash introduced me as his new assistant. It made me feel dirty all over. I was glad to escape into the mortuary with its bright white tiles and echoes, its smell of formalin and rot.
I’d had another surprise when Nash introduced Billy Stewart, the mortuary attendant. The Billy I’d known had his name on the war memorial, I’d seen it yesterday.
His son? I ask, and Nash says yes, though he’s nothing like his father. Our Billy was irredeemably scruffy, face unwashed, hair uncombed, backside out of his trousers more often than not. This Billy’s glossy and colourless as everything around him: starched white coat, scrubbed fingernails, pale hair and slick silent shoes. He’s as stiff and abrupt as a stick insect in a glass tank. When Nash says he’ll be grateful if Billy will show me round after he’s gone, Billy takes him so precisely at his word that he doesn’t move until the sound of Nash’s footsteps has died away. Then he rouses himself as if waking, begins to escort me round the premises.
By the time he finishes, I know more than I’d have thought possible about mortuary systems. How everything is logged in and out, how temperature is controlled, the way bodies are tagged and property stored. I’ve learned the statistics of mortality in my home town: the number of deaths, sudden and otherwise.
‘Murders?’ I ask him. It’s an idle question, born of boredom. I don’t expect the answer to be yes.
‘One infanticide this year.’
‘A baby?’ I’m shocked.
‘It was left on the doorstep of the old hospital. We assume the mother was a stranger, who didn’t realise the sign was out of date. It might have been all right even then if the rats hadn’t got to it. Filthy creatures, they are. They’ll eat anything, living or dead.’
I’ve seen some awful things in London, but nothing as bad as rats eating a baby alive.
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Here you are.’
He turns the pages of a big ledger, points to an entry.
24–2–1941: Newborn male. Caucasian, hair reddish, NDM. COD: exposure, dehydration, rat attack. Property: part blanket, wool plaid (stored). MOI: nil. Disposal: B/CG 32, Romsey Cemetery 7–3–1941.
‘These abbreviations,’ I say, more to distract myself. ‘NDM; COD; MOI. What do they mean?’
‘No distinguishing marks, cause of death, means of identification.’ He indicates the last, though I haven’t asked. ‘B/CG. Burial, common grave. They put the babies in the coffin of someone being buried that day.’
‘That’s . . .’ I can’t say terrible again, although it is. ‘Sad. You never found the mother?’
‘Not my responsibility.’ He closes the ledger, lays his hands on top as if he’s afraid the information might escape. ‘There are a lot of strangers around these days. Evacuees and trekkers. It was likely one of them getting rid of an unwanted child.’
It happens, I think. But sometimes we come back.
‘Anything else you want to see?’ His hands tap restlessly at the book. ‘Only I’ve got to get on.’
‘I think I’ve had enough for now.’
It’s been more than enough, but I can’t let it show if I’m going to keep my job.
The coroner’s officer is unknown to the law, although his functions are very important . . . the position requires more than average tact, discretion, shrewdness (Jervis on Coroners, 1927:28).
The offices of Nash, Simmons & Bing, Solicitors at Law, are tucked away in an alleyway. The firm is well established, even by Romsey standards, and half the town’s legal business is done beneath its mossy slate roof. Discreet, ever so respectable, three brass plates gleam by the black-painted door. Like Goldilocks, a prospective client has plenty of choice.
Will it be Mr. Simmons, Solicitor? Old-fashioned script, smoothed by decades of polishing. He and his plate have been here as far back as I can remember. No doubting his experience in the law.
Or Mr. V. B. Bing, LLB (Cantab)? Plate shiny, sharp-edged, fancy border. A newcomer, full of titles and learning. Not afraid to advertise.
Or A. Nash? Nothing to indicate his role as solicitor and coroner. One would be assured of perfect discretion with him.
Inside, there’s a narrow hallway. Two doors on the left, one marked Waiting Room, and the other Miss A. Haward, Senior Secretary. Ahead, a precipitous stairway, lit by a low-powered bulb, vanishes into the upper regions of the building.
I choose the secretary’s door. A woman in a sludge-green jumper is sitting at a desk, typing. She looks up as I go in. Her face is almost clownish, made up in an exaggeration of a fashion that was popular in the twenties: skin powdered pale, hair shingled tight into her neck, harsh red lipstick and black-pencilled eyebrows.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘I’m Mrs Lester. I believe you’re expecting me.’
The secretary flashes her teeth in what passes for a smile.
‘Mr Nash did mention it. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a few moments? Take a seat.’
I sit in the only available chair. A curly-backed escapee from a dining set, it’s as uncomfortable as it looks. She makes a show of opening and shutting the drawers of her desk, collecting up papers.
‘I’m afraid Mr Nash isn’t altogether au fait with recruitment under wartime conditions, Mrs Lester,’ she says. ‘I presume there are no obstacles to your taking civilian work?’
‘I’m not required to enlist, if that’s what you mean.’
‘You’re married?’
Her eyes are on my hands, but I stopped wearing my wedding ring months ago.
‘That’s right.’
‘What about your husband? A job like this – many men would be opposed to their wives doing such
work.’
‘I haven’t asked him.’ I wouldn’t ask, even if I could.
‘Ah.’ She flushes an unlovely pink. ‘Mmm . . . might that be a little awkward? If he were to object?’
I wish she would just let it lie, but I can see she won’t.
‘He’s hardly likely to get a chance. He’s been missing since Dunkirk.’
‘Oh, my dear Mrs Lester, I’m so sorry. Our gallant forces . . . Still, there’s always hope.’
‘He was a civilian. He took a boat across, didn’t come back.’
The eager pity on her face makes me want to bite. What Richard did was sheer bloody bravado. Playing the hero, taking a yacht to Dunkirk against all official advice. And such a waste. A doctor, he’d have been so much more use staying home to help the wounded when they were brought back.
‘You must be very worried,’ she prompts me.
I shrug. I’ve nothing to say that she’d want to hear.
‘I presume the Labour Exchange recommended you to Mr Nash?’
‘I saw the card in your window. I happened to meet Mr Nash and asked him about it. We’re old acquaintances.’
‘Really?’ She raises those improbable eyebrows at me. ‘You have references?’
I fish out the envelope from my bag and hand it over. She takes out the papers, studies them, sniffing. Perhaps I should have let her exercise sympathy on me after all.
‘These references are rather old, Mrs Lester. 1929, 1931. We usually expect something a little more recent.’
‘I don’t have anything more recent.’
It’s not as if there are any references in marriage. And if there were, I doubt Richard would have wanted to give me one.
‘You confirm the Miss Fox recommended here is you?’
‘My marriage lines.’ I snap the document down. ‘And my identity card.’
‘Thank you.’ She inspects the card, poring over the addresses. Makes notes on a shorthand block. ‘“Silverbank, Isle of Wight; 4 Garden Row SE1”. You’ve moved around rather a lot in the last year or two.’
‘I was first registered at my marital home,’ I say, barely able to cling to civility. ‘Then I was looking after my mother who was ill. She died in January.’
‘I see.’ She scrawls something on her pad. This time, she doesn’t bother with sympathy. ‘And now?’
‘I’m lodging with Dot Gray. Tadburn Road.’
Miss Haward pushes my papers across the desk towards me.
‘You haven’t registered your card with the warden.’
‘I only got here yesterday.’
Her eyebrows go up again. ‘That was quick work.’
I’m saved from having to answer by a voice calling.
‘Aggie.’ The rattle of footsteps on the stairs. ‘Aggie?’
The door opens, and Nash appears.
‘Ah, Mrs Lester. You’re here at last.’
‘Miss Haward was checking me over.’
‘I was dealing with the formalities,’ the secretary corrects me.
‘There’s work to be done,’ he says. ‘Don’t fuss.’
Miss Haward looks pained. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to Mrs Lester about conditions of service.’
‘Draw up a contract, Assistant to Coroner. You know the sort of thing. I’ll discuss terms with Mrs Lester, fill it in later. Oh, and let the Labour Exchange know.’ He turns to me. ‘Come up to the office.’
There are a lot of stairs that grow increasingly rickety as we climb to the top floor. I’d have expected Nash’s office to be in a better position, not shoved away in the attic. But when we arrive, I can see why he’s chosen it. The room is large, filled with a northern, painter’s light. A workmanlike desk with a chair on either side of it stands nearest the door, while at the far end there are bookshelves, a low table and a squashy leather armchair. It has a homely, comfortable feel, as if Nash spends time here that has nothing to do with business.
‘Sit down,’ he says, indicating the client’s chair by the desk. His manner is all business as he settles across from me, leans earnestly forward, hands steepled together. ‘Let me tell you what’s worrying me.’
And he does. He lays out his concerns about the unknown girl whose body was found at the pub, his suspicions about her death, the fact the police don’t want to know. He tells me that he’s determined to find out who she was, how she came by her death. She won’t go nameless into her grave if he can prevent it. It’s his job to stand for the dead, and though he doesn’t say it, I know it’s more than that, too. It’s the same fellow feeling for the underdog that made him persuade the others to let me join the gang. And that, more than anything I said yesterday, is why he’s hired me.
‘And you want me—?’
‘To find out anything you can about her. Everything.’
‘Just like that.’
‘I thought you wanted a job.’
‘I do. It’ll be a challenge, though. Like getting past that guard dog.’
‘What?’ He looks startled. ‘I hope you don’t mean Aggie?’
I can’t help laughing. ‘No. I meant the Alsatian at the gravel pit. You remember.’
*
It’s a sultry afternoon at the end of the long summer holidays and we’re bored. We hang around, trying to decide what to do.
‘Birds’ nesting?’ Billy loves climbing trees.
‘’S too late. No eggs this time of year.’
‘Scrumping?’ Bert’s always hungry.
‘You’ll get bellyache again.’
‘The pirate game?’
‘Yeh! Cap’n Abe, Cap’n Abe.’
Playing pirates means going up to the abandoned gravel pits on the edge of the common. There are pools of deep water where they’ve taken out the gravel – sinister orange water thick as soup that stains your clothes and skin. There are spoil heaps to dodge round, crumbling sheds to explore. The game’s all about dares: walk the plank, climb the main mast, swing on the rigging, board the enemy. It means getting dirty, going home to a thrashing as like as not, but I won’t duck out.
It starts to rain, but we don’t care. We’re swashbucklers, nothing stops us. Until we arrive, and find there’s a new chain-link fence around the site, a padlocked gate to keep us out. Someone’s put up a flurry of warning notices: DANGER, KEEP OUT. DEEP WATER. BEWARE OF THE DOG.
We circle the fence. It seems deserted, but they’ve been working here, tidying the site up, bringing in new machinery.
‘Coo, look over there,’ Bert says. A big Burrell steam tractor stands in one of the sheds. ‘Wouldn’ half like a go on that.’
‘Bet I could climb the fence,’ Abe says.
‘Bet you couldn’t.’ Bert and Abe face off.
‘Is that a dare?’
‘Go on, then.’
Abe takes a running jump at the fence, clings. Climbs. As he’s about to let himself down on the other side, a dog appears. A half-starved looking Alsatian. He comes rushing out of a shed, pulls to an abrupt halt as the chain that holds him tightens.
‘Better come back, boss,’ Jem says.
‘No fear.’
Abe lets himself down, moves warily over to the tractor. The dog can’t get close, but he keeps on barking.
‘Next!’ Abe calls across. ‘If you dare.’
Bert goes, then Mike, and then Billy. There’s only Jem and me left.
‘No fear,’ Jem mutters, and turns away.
I’m trying to make up my mind when Bert jeers, ‘She won’t do it.’
I take off my shoes and socks, tuck my skirt into my knickers. More than my life’s worth to go home with scuffed shoes or torn clothes. My feet are tough enough from running around barefoot so the wire doesn’t bother me much. But I can’t jump as high as the boys so it takes me longer to get over. I’m hanging by my hands, ready to drop, when there’s a splintering crack. I can’t look round, but the rush of paws tells me the dog is free. The boys are shouting, trying to distract the animal, but there’s hot breath on my legs, gr
owling right in my ear.
The dog’s teeth pull at my calf. A fierce pain, and I drop, huddle with my arms around my head.
‘Don’t move.’ A man’s voice. ‘You, boy, stand still. I’ll get your mate.’
Dungareed legs come between me and the dog.
‘Blimey, it’s a girl,’ I hear the man say as he lifts me.
He turns, and I see Billy and Bert and Mike frozen like statues on the tractor, Abe standing in the middle of the yard.
*
‘You tried to rescue me,’ I say.
‘Didn’t do any good. We all got a thrashing that day.’
‘I remember.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘You’re telling me someone killed the girl. You’re asking me to go poking around, stirring things up. Causing trouble. People won’t like it.’
‘Ah.’ He rubs his face, a gesture I’m beginning to recognise. ‘When you put it like that, perhaps it isn’t such a good idea after all.’
I look him full in the face. Eye to eye.
‘I think it’s an ace idea. I’m sick of stooging along. I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to stir things up.’
‘I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks.’
‘No dog bites, I promise.’
‘You’ll be discreet?’
‘Getting cold feet, Cap’n Abe?’
A pause. The first ghost of a smile. ‘No.’
I couldn’t have asked for anything better. The job’s perfect cover, the danger, a bonus. I feel alive in a way I haven’t since the Blitz cooled, and London began to sleep at nights. It’s the code of the gang: you never refuse a dare.
7
The same day, afternoon and evening
A coroner or his officer is justified in searching the premises where the body is found, if there is reason to think that the search is likely to lead to the discovery of evidence bearing on the cause of death (Jervis on Coroners, 1927:268).
I GO UP THROUGH THE FIELDS to the Cricketers’ Arms. The path used to be narrow, a foot track only, but it’s wider now, the ground rutted with tyre marks. The rough pastures on either side have been ploughed and planted, and a haze of new shoots shows Romsey is taking Dig for Victory seriously.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 5