At the wreck of the pub, someone’s put up a barrier of rope and a shaky-lettered notice. DANGER, KEEP OUT. In the green quiet, the bombed-out building seems more shocking than whole streets of blitzed London.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. Clues. Traces, however thin; like walking into a cobweb first thing in the morning, seeing nothing but knowing there’s a spider creeping somewhere. Nash and Alf said the girl’s body had been found deep in the cellar, dead but unburied, and I can see the opening where Alf must have gone in. I stay well clear, though. I don’t much fancy poking about in the shadow of that precariously standing wall.
Here and there, piles of brick and lath show where the Heavy Rescue Crew worked to clear the cellar. There are odd bits of rubbish littered about: a newspaper, an old tin can, the end of a walking stick. Nothing that looks as if it could help identify the girl. They must have taken everything away they thought might belong to the casualties. I’ll have to find out where.
The rescue crews have trampled the ground round the bomb site into an anonymous stretch of dirt. A rank crop of nettles and alder stands undisturbed behind, and the cut into Green Lane is rutted too deep to show any signs I can read. I can’t help but think I’ve wasted my time. It was naïve of me to suppose I’d be able to find some vital clue lying around. Even to imagine I’d recognise one if I saw it. The only sensible thing to do is get back to town. If I go the long way round, there might be someone at the cottages who saw something that night.
Green Lane’s tunnelled by trees on either side. If the girl came along here alive, she couldn’t have been a stranger. It’s too obscure, too far off the beaten track. And if her killer brought her, or brought her body, what had he planned? He might have meant to leave her somewhere out on the common. Unless he’d already known about the bombed-out pub.
But who had known?
A regular at the pub? Someone from the neighbourhood? Even with the speed of Romsey gossip, I can’t imagine how anyone further afield would have known so soon.
I’m reaching for the thought when a dog begins to bark, steady as a metronome.
‘Got you, you little—’ An irritated whisper comes from a thicket of brambles. ‘Hold still.’
The barking stops, but I can hear heavy breathing, some kind of struggle. A muffled yelp, and then a curse.
‘No, dammit, Tizzy, leave it!’
A skinny, khaki-clad backside forces its way out of the tangle of briars. It’s the rear view of a woman in a make-do-and-mend striped jumper, tugging at a piece of hairy string. It turns out to be attached to the collar of a white lurcher with a scratched and bleeding nose. I half expect it to bark again, but instead it thrashes its tail in greeting.
‘What?’ The woman on the other end of the string turns. ‘What do you want?’
The dog abases itself at my feet, turns belly up for patting. I crouch to oblige.
Speaking more to the dog than its owner, I say, ‘Been chasing rabbits?’
‘None of your business!’ the woman snaps. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
Her aggression is startling.
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘You’re not after me about the dogs?’
‘Not at all.’
The woman sucks at her hand where the brambles have drawn blood.
‘Nosy parkers keep going on about food regulations. Want me to gas ’em. Have to gas me first.’
‘I’m not that kind of nosy parker. I’ve just been up at the Cricketers’ Arms.’
‘Sightseeing.’ She sounds disgusted.
‘Coroner’s assistant. I’m new.’
The dog woman looks surprised. ‘You’re working for Bram Nash?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He was bloody lucky to get away with it.’
Get away with what? Before I can ask, she continues.
‘Saw him Monday night on his way home. He was really fed up. Suppose Sal was busy. Just as well for him, though. If he’d stayed, he’d have been a goner with the rest.’ The dog woman pulls the little lurcher away from my feet. ‘Anyway, can’t stand here gossiping. Lots to do.’
Stunned, I watch as the woman and dog lollop off along the hedgerow. Nash was at the pub?
Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he say something? It doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .
My brain’s fizzing with conflict. He can’t have had anything to do with her death – I don’t believe it. And a guilty man would have covered it up, not insisted on investigating.
The dog woman said he was walking away from the pub before the air raid happened. On his own, because Sal was busy. I don’t know who Sal was, though I think I can guess what she might have had to offer. But surely he could have told me? After how we’d met in London, he can’t think I’d have been shocked to know he’d been there looking for company.
Unless it’s deeper than that. If he’d known the girl, cared for her, it might explain why he’s so keen to find out how she died.
But why would he have pretended not to know who she was?
She was sixteen. I can’t believe . . . I don’t want to think that he might be another like my father, a seducer of young girls. All my instincts are against it, but what do I really know about him after all? A boy who was kind. A man who’s afraid of commitment.
One thing I do know. If he thinks he can use me for his own ends, divert me or obstruct me, it isn’t going to happen. I will find out.
I have to go back to the mortuary, see the girl’s body. I have to try and understand. Till now, I’ve been thinking of her as a convenience. A smokescreen for my own search. But I owe her more than that.
I have to face her.
I have to find out.
*
The chill of the tiled room is infinite, sucking at living warmth. There’s a smell of Jeyes Fluid and formaldehyde laid over something meatier, more visceral. Billy Stewart, reluctant, opens a drawer, slides out a shrouded shape. Disapproving, he uncovers the body with its long scar.
Her face has a shuttered look, possessed of the ultimate secret. She isn’t going to tell me anything after all.
‘Can I see the ledger?’
Without acknowledging what I’ve said, he covers the body again, pushes the drawer back into the cabinet. In the office, he takes off his white coat and hangs it on a peg behind the door, adjusts the folds precisely. I’m ready to slap him before he fetches the ledger down from the shelf.
15–4–1941: Female, approx 16–17 years. Caucasian, bleached hair, brown eyes. NDM. COD: subdural haematoma. Property: white cotton brassiere and knickers, pink rayon slip, red artificial silk dress, red and white patterned wool cardigan (stored). MOI: nil. Disposal: retain at mortuary until released by coroner.
‘Have you got some scrap paper?’
He hands me a neatly cut strip. Fishing a pen from my bag, I copy down the information.
‘No handbag or jewellery?’
‘Everything is listed.’
And no shoes either, but I don’t say it aloud.
‘What would happen to any property that was found near the body?’
‘The ARP warden would have kept it. Unless it was thought to be of value. Sergeant Tilling would take anything like that.’
‘Thank you. I know where the police house is, but the ARP post?’
‘The Head Warden’s usually at the depot in Church Street. You could try there.’
*
A boy in scout uniform half leans, half squats against a wall outside the ARP post, an old sit-up-and-beg bicycle propped up next to him in the late afternoon sun. There’s a canvas satchel slung over the handlebars, and he’s wearing a khaki armband that shows he’s the shift messenger. He’s younger even than Alf, and I’m glad it’s Romsey, not London – that he’s bored, not frightened, by his duty. With any luck, Hitler’s lightning won’t strike twice.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘I’m looking for the warden.’
‘Miss Waverley’s
gone home,’ he says. ‘Feeling poorly. And Mr Fox has popped over to the police station. He won’t be long if you wanna wait.’
The name gives me a jolt. I know I’m bound to run up against one or another of my relatives at some stage, but if my grandfather might turn up, I’m not waiting around. I’ve had more than enough of him today.
‘Which Mr Fox is that?’
‘Mr Jim Fox,’ the boy says. ‘He’s our second-in-command today.’
Relief washes through me. Not my grandfather. But I’d just as soon not meet Jim now either.
‘Is there anyone else I could talk to? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
‘There’s Miss Margaret on the telephones.’
Inside, the girl at the telephone switchboard has the anxious features and bony limbs of a racing greyhound.
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m Mrs Lester, Mr Nash’s new assistant. I’m trying to find out a bit more about the casualties at the Cricketers’ Arms. I’ve been told you have the property that was retrieved from the bomb site here.’
‘There’s nothing much.’
‘If I could just see what you’ve got?’
‘You’re working for Mr Nash, you say?’
‘I started today. I have a card if you want to see it.’
She colours, seems embarrassed. Perhaps she’s not used to being left in charge.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ She tries a smile. ‘I couldn’t let you take anything away without authority from Miss Waverley. But I don’t see why you can’t have a look, if you think it might help.’
‘It would be a great help.’
‘Hang on a mo.’
The girl gets up from the telephone, goes to a rickety-looking cupboard. She picks out a cardboard box that has Horlicks Tablets stencilled on the outside, and Cricketers’ Arms 14th–15th April scrawled over the top in purple indelible pencil.
‘Here it is.’
She puts the box down on top of a card table, shoving aside the assorted papers. She’s started to unfold the flaps when the telephone rings.
‘Excuse me a moment. I must answer that.’
‘Of course.’
The interruption couldn’t be better timed for me.
I pull the box open. There’s a litter of trivial bits and pieces inside. A grubby child’s handkerchief. Half a dozen dominoes, an almost new Tangee lipstick in film-star scarlet. A broken comb. Three pages out of an onionskin Bible, a crumpled slip of pink paper I recognise at once. There’s no time to inspect it, but a glance across at Miss Margaret shows she’s intent, copying down a message from the telephone. Fragments of what she’s saying float across the room.
‘Code PAIGE . . . unidentified cylinder . . .’
Quicker than thinking, I palm the scrap of pink.
‘Tuff’s Field . . . righto . . .’ The girl puts down the telephone. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to leave. I have to deal with this and it’s confidential. No offence.’
‘None taken.’ No offence, anyway.
‘Would you like me to give a message to Mr Fox?’ She practically shoos me towards the door.
‘There’s no need. There’s nothing of significance. But I’ll let you know if we need to pursue it further.’
I keep my hand in my pocket as I thank her, make my way out into the street.
Behind me, in the doorway, Miss Margaret engages the messenger boy in earnest conversation. I peel the scrap of pink paper off my palm, tuck it into my bag as the abbey clock strikes six. I need to get my skates on. Dot won’t like it if I’m late for tea.
*
Basswood House has been Nash’s home all his life. He’s lived elsewhere – at school, at war, in hospital, at university – but it’s the place he’s always come back to. The tidy Georgian façade fronting The Hundred, the ramble of outbuildings extending behind, are not what they once were, before the last war, but then neither is he.
There’s a big walled garden that had begun to run down in his father’s time, lawns growing weedy, fruit trees unpruned, fish pond glossy with lily pads. Nash had liked it that way, the wild encroaching beauty of it. Had left it mostly to itself, only keeping the grass cut, the roses at bay. Even semi-wild, it had been productive. Plums and apples from the old trees, blackberries from head-high thickets of bramble. But now, much of it has been tamed into strict utility with rows of carrots and potatoes, cabbages and onions – as much as he and his housekeeper, Fan Stewart, and her son Billy can look after between them.
As he lets himself in through the front door, Fan pops out of the kitchen. She’s as neat and precise as ever, the grey and white she chooses to wear almost as much of a uniform as the nuns down the road: dark skirt, spotless apron, salt-and-pepper hair.
‘Evening, Fan.’
‘Mr Nash, sir. How was your day?’
‘Could be worse.’ He takes off his coat, hangs up his hat. ‘And you?’
‘My boy was very late home. He said your new assistant came in just as he was getting ready to leave.’
Nash winces inwardly. That won’t have gone down well.
‘Really?’
‘Billy says he doesn’t think it’s right, having a woman look at dead bodies.’
Nash doesn’t answer. So many things Billy doesn’t think are right, especially if it puts his routine awry.
‘He says her grandfather was hopping mad about her being there, too,’ Fan persists, following him as he pushes the dining room door open. The room is chilly, but his place is set at the head of the table as usual, glassware and cutlery gleaming. He’d much rather eat in the kitchen where it’s warm, but Fan won’t hear of it.
He goes to the sideboard, pours himself a whisky. Thinks about putting water with it. Decides not to bother.
‘That’s because Joseph Fox is . . .’
Nash takes a sip of his drink, lets the burn in his throat edit his comments. He wants to say, an evil old devil, bollocks to him, but he’d better not. He starts again.
‘You know what he’s like, Fan, all hellfire and retribution. He’s never been reconciled to her birth. It wouldn’t matter what she’d done, he wouldn’t approve.’
‘I remember what she was like. Josy Fox. Proper little tomboy, always in trouble.’
‘Mrs Lester, now. She’s going to be a help to me in my job. I’m sure she’ll soon settle in.’
‘Whatever you say, sir. Shall I serve your dinner straight away?’
‘What have we got?’
‘Macaroni casserole.’
‘Right.’
‘And a nice little chop,’ Fan says, triumphant. ‘I’ve got it under the grill already.’
Nash tries to look enthusiastic. In all the time Fan’s been at Basswood, her cooking’s been as awful as her housekeeping is exemplary, but he can live with it. The widow of his childhood friend, he feels he owes her. Billy the elder had followed Nash into war as unquestioningly as he’d followed him in their childhood gang. And when Billy died a few months after the Armistice of wounds received, and left his pregnant wife unprovided for, Nash had persuaded his father to take Fan on. He doesn’t regret it. It was the right thing to do, the only thing. There’s bicarb in the cupboard; a little indigestion is a small price to pay.
*
The stable at Basswood House has been opened up, the partitions that divided it into stalls removed. But Nash has kept the farrier’s raised chimney-hearth at the end, added workbenches down one side. Tonight, he has a small charcoal fire burning, hot enough to work the silver. A single bulb lights the section of bench nearest to the hearth and picks out a jumble of metalwork pieces. A pair of spectacles, dark framed. And one blue eye, unwinking.
He doesn’t use the glasses when no one else is around. He can see well enough, though his depth perception is poor. But by the end of the day the mask is an irritation he’s glad to be rid of. It isn’t vanity that makes him wear it, but a wish not to shock. He’d no more go out in public without his glas
ses than he would without his trousers.
He learned to work metal in the last war. Cutting shapes from shell cases behind the lines. Twisting salvaged scraps to make things – God help him – in the midst of destruction. Not souvenirs, though he’s heard them called that. No one who was there needs help to remember. Not a gentleman’s pastime, he’d been told, but it suited him. There in the mud and terror, the craft had fascinated him, offered a distraction. It still did.
Lately, he’s been working on a set of animals. He’s beaten out the hoarded scraps, soldered on tails and legs made of wire. He’s made a cow and a carthorse, a pig with a curly tail. A five-point stag, fantastically antlered. Now he thinks about a fox. A little vixen on high alert, ears pricked and nose in the air.
He can’t help remembering what Aggie said about Jo, pouring scorn into his ears however little he wanted to hear it.
In confidence, Mr Nash. As if anything in the office should ever be anything else. She’s a cold one, sir. So hard, the way she talked. Her poor mother dead, her husband lost. A hero, but she never turned a hair. Are you sure you’ve done the right thing?
He’s sure. He knows she’s not cold, but he’s banking on her hardihood. That she’ll do what she has to – that she won’t go soft or sentimental on him. Let Aggie think what she likes, he needs Jo to be tough. It’s precisely what he wants her for.
*
The water’s hot, deep. It’s the best bath I’ve had since war broke out. And blessedly guilt-free, because Alf swears the water I’m using is the run-off from the nursery’s heating system, and will only go to waste otherwise.
It’s late, and the lean-to shed abutting the boiler house isn’t exactly glamorous. But the light of my candle flame makes the surface of the water in the zinc tank glitter, choppy reflections silvering the pipework above. The steam rises leisurely, and the fragrance of my last hoarded scrap of English Fern soap blends well with the assorted earth and oil scents of the shed.
A few of the Land Army girls bath here, Alf said. Just hang a towel over the door handle and no one else will come in. He’d been on his way out, another man-and-dog appointment best left unspoken, but he showed me how to turn the water on and how to siphon it out again when I’ve finished.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 6