‘Poor lass, my arse. Got to be a whore, hanging around in that dump. But he’d know all about that, wouldn’t he? Dirty Jew. He’ll have to put a knot in it now Sal’s gone.’
‘You know what, mate? I think you’ve been listening to that bugger Hitler too much. Captain Nash is all right.’
‘Arselick,’ Fred sneers. ‘Yes, Captain, no, Captain, three bags full, Captain. Man’s a conchy.’
‘Don’t talk daft. You know what’s under them glasses. Didn’t get that picking his nose.’
‘He’s a bloody coward, then, isn’t he? Not doing his bit this time. Afraid he’ll get another dose.’
‘If memory serves, Fred Deeds, you never got further than the Remount camp in the last lot. Came home to tea every night. And what’s more—’ Tom pauses as the abbey clock strikes the hour – ‘that says you’ll be late for your shift over the brewery if you don’t get a move on. Don’t let me hold you up.’
*
It’s midnight, pitch black. No moon yet. The train hardly pauses at the little halt, stopping just long enough for the guard to step off and pick up a mailbag before it sets off again. There’s no one waiting to board, no porter, just the empty platform. Frank lets me go when he sees it, pushes me out of the door at the very last minute.
‘Remember what you promised.’ He whispers it, hoarse, shoves something cold and heavy into my hand.
I stagger with the momentum as the train door swings behind me, bangs, and swings again. Someone on the train calls out, but I shrink into the shadows, hiding instinctively. Turn my face away from the dim glow of the passing guard’s van as if I’m the one who’s done something criminal.
As now, perhaps, I have. Helping a fugitive to escape capture. And alarmingly, now, in possession of a gun.
Even in the dark, I know. As I did in the stinking kitchen behind the photographer’s studio. The object I’d grabbed like a lifeline as I struggled for balance was Frank’s gun, pressed into my hand as I fell out of the train. Clever of him to get rid of evidence that would damn him every bit as much as being AWOL, and make it harder for me to report him at the same time. It’s going to take an awful lot of explaining if I’m found in possession of a firearm.
Just for a minute, it’s almost funny. I can imagine what Nash would say if I were arrested and had to call on him to bail me out.
But I’m sober again just as quick. What am I going to do with it? Wipe my fingerprints off, stash it under the nearest hedge? A child might find it. I can’t take that risk. I hate having it in my hand. Everything I know about guns comes from films, and while Bogie might know if the safety is on, I’ve no idea. Frank had been carrying it in his pocket, so I can probably assume it isn’t going to go off by accident. I slide it gingerly into my bag. What now?
Sit and wait on the platform till morning, till someone comes along? I’ve been forced to wait too long already today. Had to sit passive while Frank decided what to do. And he’s cleared out every last penny from my purse so I can’t telephone even if I want to.
I could bang on a cottage door, wake up some righteous sleeper. Beg for help.
Never.
I can’t face it.
It’s not much more than six miles to Romsey. I can walk it in a couple of hours, get some shut-eye before I have to tell my story to Nash in the morning.
The night road is very quiet. In all the time it takes me, only two cars pass, people with a petrol allowance to squander. I hear them in plenty of time to get off the road, the instinct to hide strong in me. I don’t want to have to explain to anyone what I’m doing on the road at midnight – and besides, I gave my word to Frank that I wouldn’t tell anyone about him until he’d had a chance to get away.
The moon comes up as I walk. The night is fine, and the movement soon warms my muscles. But I’m cold inside, chilled by the hours I’ve been held captive, the threat of the gun. At least walking eases the feeling of helplessness. I just can’t work out whether what I’ve learned has been worth it.
Ruth. Ruth Taylor. I know her name, some of her story. Frank told me she was almost fifteen when she’d been evacuated to Romsey.
‘She shouldn’t have gone at all, she was too old to be an evacuee, but she was small, like. She slipped in with the kiddies when they shipped them out. Said it was all such a bloody muddle no one noticed. She was scared silly, see. Hated being in tight places. Reckoned she’d go mad if she had to be shut up somewhere small if there was bombs.’
They hadn’t been close, but they’d kept in touch after a fashion. She was all he’d got left, he said. No one else.
‘Mum an’ Ted got caught in a raid last summer. Thought it had saved her, being scared. There I was, out on the convoys and I thought, lucky bitch, she got away with it. Always thought she’d get away with it.’ He’d almost cried, then. I hadn’t known how to comfort him. ‘Dad did a bunk when Ruth was a baby. It’s why I come here. Old Snappy Legge, he’s like an uncle, sort of thing. Know what I mean? Mum used to clean for him and that. He had a soft spot for her and I thought he’d be good for a few quid. But there’s been no sign of him, just the bloody parrot. Nothing to eat in the cupboards. Can’t make it out.’
I told him what the woman in the furrier’s had told me. That the photographer only came back a couple of times a week. I said I wouldn’t tell anyone if he wanted to wait in the house for Mr Legge. I even offered to go and get him some food to tide him over, but he wasn’t having any. He’d been angry about Ruth’s death as much as grieving.
‘Asked for it, probably. Sly little bitch.’
He hadn’t been able to tell me anything much about her after she’d left home. Where she’d been living in Romsey, who she’d been working for.
‘Never told me nothing. Had to find out about Mum an’ Ted from a telegram. Couldn’t hardly be a secret where she was, for Chrissake. But Miss Hoity-toity couldn’t let her brother know. Had to write to her care of the post office.’
I’d wondered if it was her pregnancy she’d been concealing. I hadn’t had the guts to tell him about that. But I felt sorry for him when he told me how his ship had gone down far out in the Atlantic. How he’d been picked out of the sea, while all around him men drowned if they were lucky, or burned in blazing fuel oil if they weren’t. The memories had made him jumpy, more dangerous than ever.
He wanted money, and food. He wanted to get to London. Whatever I might feel about him, working out how to help him was a matter of self-preservation, not sympathy. He’d seen my bank book, wanted fifty pounds, but I persuaded him people would be suspicious, ask too many questions if I tried to draw out everything I had in my account. We bargained, and in the end he settled for thirty. That was bad enough, it was nearly everything I’d saved to be independent of Richard, but it couldn’t be helped. If I had to choose between pride and staying alive, I’d choose staying alive every time. I said I’d go to the bank, draw a cheque for cash, give it to him. Though I promised not to betray him, he wouldn’t trust me to go alone.
I made him wash, and shave his face with an old blade and cold water. Though he complained, he looked less like a fugitive when he was clean. I brushed him down, combed his hair. Combed mine, and put on fresh lipstick. If he wanted us to get away with this, we both had to look normal. I made him let me have my bag, my empty purse, my documents so I could prove who I was at the bank. He kept the photographs. I’d have liked to think he wanted them as a remembrance of his sister, but when we got to the pub where we killed time till the last train and he drank too much beer, he tore them across and across, set fire to the pieces in the ashtray.
He held me close as a lover all afternoon. In the bank, where the cashier tutted and sighed before releasing my money; in the cafe where he ate and I refused curling fish paste sandwiches; when we got onto the train. I hoped he’d let me go then, but he held me even closer till the train pulled out, the barrel of the gun pressed hard into my side. I didn’t know whether he planned to take me all the way to London, or whether he was go
ing to throw me out on the line somewhere in the dark. I tried to be ready, but I was so exhausted I hardly cared which it was, so long as he let me go. Not surprising, then, that I couldn’t believe it when he pushed me out at the dark little halt and I realised I wasn’t far from home.
10
18th April, Romsey
‘YOU SHOULD HAVE CALLED THE police,’ Nash says.
First thing in the morning, in his office, my confession isn’t going well.
‘I didn’t have any money.’
‘Don’t play the innocent. You don’t need it to dial 999. Or you could have asked the operator to put you through to me. You didn’t have to let him get clean away.’
‘Don’t shout at me.’
I’ve had less than three hours’ sleep, and it feels as if I’ve got one skin too few to face the world.
‘I know he put you in fear.’ His voice is gritty with temper. ‘But after he let you go, you could have called for help.’
‘I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘Good, because I don’t. You must go to the police. I’ll come with you now if you like.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Fine.’ Cold. ‘Just so long as you do go.’
‘No.’
‘Then I will.’
‘You wouldn’t?’
I don’t really understand why I’m so appalled by the thought.
‘Of course I would. It’s my civic duty.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a prick.’ I take the half-crown that I borrowed from Dot this morning out of my pocket, slap it down on his desk. ‘What if I claim privileged information? If you’re my solicitor, you can’t tell anyone what I’ve said to you.’
Hands in his pockets, he stares at the coin.
‘You’re asking me to act for you?’
‘I’m asking you not to tell anyone about Frank.’
It occurs to me that part of this is purely selfish: I don’t want to have to parade my embarrassment for all and sundry. So stupid, walking into a trap. A prisoner of my own foolishness.
A pause. Then he reaches out, pushes the coin back across the desk.
‘Keep your money. But I wish I understood what’s going on in your head.’
I sit down in the client’s chair. I’m tired, and my feet hurt.
‘I felt sorry for him.’ And I did – I do – feel sorry for him even though that isn’t the only reason. ‘He was vile about Ruth, but he was terrified. He’s the last of the family, and he’s afraid he’s going to die too. He says he’s doomed if they send him back to sea.’
Nash sits down. I don’t know if I’ve convinced him, but it’s an improvement that he’s stopped looming over me.
‘Had you thought he might be the killer? You say he was angry with his sister.’
‘He didn’t know where to find her.’
‘He says he didn’t.’
‘I don’t believe he’s the type to kill. He was angry with me, too. If he’d wanted, he could easily have done me in. But he let me go.’
‘He stole your money.’
‘The police would say I gave it to him. And I’d be in trouble for that, too.’
‘You could at least let them know where he was heading for.’
‘I could.’
‘But you won’t?’
‘He could be anywhere. He said he was going to London, but he could have got off the train at the next stop. He might be just down the road.’
‘Is that what you’re scared of?’
‘I’m not scared.’ Not of Frank, anyway. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me except lack of sleep.’
He rubs his face, the familiar gesture of frustration.
‘All right. You win. What do you suggest we do now?’
I’d like to go back to bed and sleep for a week, but it wouldn’t be very productive.
‘Frank said he sent letters poste restante for Ruth. I thought I could ask at the post office. See if anyone remembers her picking them up.’
‘A pity we haven’t still got the photographs.’
‘I suppose.’ At least he hasn’t pointed out it was my fault they’d been lost. ‘We’ve got her name.’
‘That’s something. If she’s been in Romsey since evacuation, she must be on the ARP register somewhere.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t understand why no one had any idea who she was.’
‘Perhaps they did. They’re just not admitting it.’
‘True.’
‘And don’t forget . . .’
I’ve had plenty of time to think in the last twenty-four hours.
‘What?’
‘She’d dyed her hair. And the stuff in the suitcase, it was nothing like the clothes she was wearing. She must have looked quite different ordinarily.’
‘It’s a point.’ He frowns. ‘If she’d been going to meet a lover, I could understand it. But why would she glam herself up for her brother?’
‘We don’t know it was for him. We don’t know she was going to meet him. Frank didn’t know himself. He was just hoping.’
‘I suppose we’ll never know. Ah, well, better be grateful for what we’ve got. I’ll speak to the Waverleys. They’ve got access to the registers.’
‘You’re welcome to that conversation.’
‘They aren’t the easiest, it’s true. But I’ll have a shot at it.’
I stand up. ‘I was wondering . . .’
More than wondering. I’ve been trying to stave off the conviction all night. In the waking dream of my walk, in the dead sleep after, Ruth was on my mind – her secrecy, her apparent readiness for flight.
‘What?’
‘The baby. The post mortem on Ruth said she’d had a baby. Do you think it could’ve been her child that was abandoned? The one who died of rat bites?’
‘Oh, Christ, of course. Where are my brains?’
For a minute, I think he’s going to be sick.
‘Are you OK?’
He brushes it off, brusque. ‘I’m all right. You get on to the post office. If you find out anything more, let me know.’
*
Nash has a killer headache coming on. He gets them from time to time, a result of his injury. Anything can start them off. Overwork, lack of sleep, strong emotion. Sometimes they happen for no reason at all.
Now and then, he can stop one in its tracks. The doctor’s pills work, if he takes them soon enough. Physical effort may nip it in the bud, digging the garden or chopping logs. Or sex, if he’s lucky.
The sickness comes in waves, and the flashing lights. He’s got no time for this now. No time for weakness. He’s got things to do, people to see. He has to get on.
*
‘I really cannot help you, Miss . . . ?’
‘Mrs Lester. I’m here on official business for the coroner. Mr Nash.’
‘That’s as may be.’ The post office official who’s been summoned to speak to me puffs himself up to his full five foot nothing. ‘But without a police warrant, I cannot release any item. His Majesty’s mail is sacrosanct.’
‘I’m not asking about the King’s mail,’ I say, exasperated. ‘Just Ruth Taylor’s. You know, the girl who was found dead after the Cricketers’ was hit. She can’t exactly come and get it herself.’
‘No need for sarcasm. King or commoner, no one may interfere with the mail.’
‘Can you at least tell me if there’s anything waiting for her?’
‘No.’ He turns to go back to his station behind the grille. ‘Good day to you, miss.’
‘Mrs.’ It’s not the title that bothers me, but his attitude. Run away and play, little girl. ‘You have to understand. We need to find whatever we can to help us identify her killer.’
He doesn’t even pause, cracks the counter down behind him.
‘Get your employer to ask Sergeant Tilling. It’s police business.’
‘And the coroner’s.’
But I’m speaking to thin air. I stalk off, hoping I don’t look as ridiculous as I feel
.
At the bank, a similarly infuriating interview awaits; though at least when it’s over I’m in possession of more funds than the half-crown Dot lent me. The bank manager’s the post office official’s twin for disapproval, though he maintains a politer veneer as he sounds me out about my profligate spending. Grudgingly, he agrees to cash another cheque, but he isn’t pleased. By the time he’s finished, I’m ready to explode. I can’t go back to Nash like this. Nothing to tell him, a morning wasted. He’ll only remind me that I lost our lead when I let Frank go.
Across the road, the Palmerston tearoom beckons. A cup of tea and whatever the café can provide in the way of food might give me a chance to think what I’m going to do next. Inside, the chalked-up menu offers Welsh rarebit or beetroot stew. The rarebit turns out to be mostly leeks gone khaki with cooking, in a sauce that might once have been in the same kitchen as a piece of cheese, but it’s hot, and the toast’s thick, and when I’ve eaten it and drunk a cup of tea I feel better. I’m beginning to relax when the waitress comes over. She’s uneasy, peering about her as if she expects someone to shout.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, miss, but – are you the lady that’s working for Mr Nash?’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘There’s a boy round the back. Says he needs to speak to you. Urgent, he says.’
‘What’s it about, do you know?’
‘It’s the lad who brings telegrams. It’s maybe . . . I hope you’re not expecting bad news?’
If I was, it could only be about Richard.
‘I hope not too.’
‘Please, miss. If you’d just come?’ She’s practically wringing her hands, like a character out of a bad play. ‘It’s only a step. Won’t take a minute.’
I get up, follow her out through a steamed-up kitchen. I can’t think what the message might be. Could Frank have tracked me down? But I don’t see how or, for that matter, why he would.
An alley runs behind the tea room, a dank narrow passageway that can never get the sun. A boy’s waiting, and I recognise him straight away. It’s the scout I saw a couple of days ago at the ARP centre. He’s excited, or perhaps frightened, I can’t tell from his expression in the gloom. He moves eagerly towards me as soon as I come out of the door.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 9