‘I’ve got information,’ he says hoarsely. ‘You were asking at the post office about that girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘An’ you were at the wardens’ the other day.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s it worth, then?’
‘I see. A businessman.’ I take out my cigarettes, light one. Offer the pack to him. ‘You old enough to smoke?’
‘Course,’ he scoffs. But he puts the cigarette behind his ear, unlit.
A cold draught is blowing along the alleyway.
‘Do we have to talk out here? If you come inside, I’ll buy you a cup of tea and a bun.’
‘No, ta. If him at the post sees me that’s my job gone. It’s worth more than a bun.’
I take the hint, take the half-crown out of my bag again. No chance it’ll be rejected this time.
‘That more like it?’
He grabs for the money but I close my hand.
‘Not until you tell me.’
‘She used to come in the post office on market day to pick up her letters,’ he says resentfully.
‘I know that already. So why didn’t you say something when the body was found?’
‘’Cos I didn’t know it was her, did I? Talk was the girl up the Cricketers’ was a tart. Even her own mum wouldn’ve known her, then, ’cos when she come in the post office she was dressed up like a nun.’
‘What?’ Now I am surprised.
‘Big blue mac she always had, right down to her ankles. And a scarf thing, covering up her hair. Proper little mouse. Wouldn’ never have thought of her, till I heard you asking the boss.’
‘OK.’ I drop my cigarette end, scuff it out. ‘Not sure it’s worth half a crown, though.’
‘Cor, what a swizz! An’ Alf said you was all right.’
‘You know Alf Smith?’
‘Course I do, he’s a good laugh.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Pete. You ask Alf, he’ll tell you—’
‘All right. And you’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?’
‘Course.’ But he looks shifty.
‘Pete, it’s really important we find out everything we can about this girl.’
‘Yeah. They’re saying she was done in. That true?’
‘You know what they say about careless talk.’
‘I want me money.’
I hesitate. I’m pretty certain he knows more than he’s said, but I don’t want him making something up to get more cash. So I hand the coin over, and he stuffs it in his pocket.
‘Give us another fag?’
‘Don’t push it.’ But I hold out the pack anyway. ‘What is it, Pete?’
‘I did see her a couple of times up the Cut. Mooching about. Never spoke to her nor nothing.’
‘Do you think she lived up that way?’
‘Dunno. Didn’t take much notice.’
The feeling that he’s not telling me everything is even stronger now.
‘Maybe you could show me?’
He edges away. ‘Sorry, miss. Gotta go. Boss’ll have my hide.’ And then he runs.
There’s no point trying to stop him. I can find him again if I want to. Or Alf can.
I wonder about Alf. How much he knows. I’m going to have to have a chat with that young man before long.
Back inside the tea room, I pay my bill. I should go and tell Nash what I’ve learned, but I’m not ready. I haven’t got enough yet to blot out this morning’s fiasco.
*
Edith Waverley is at home this morning. In her role as Officer-in-Command of the local ARP unit, she’s the obstacle Nash will have to circumvent in order to get the information he needs. One of those raw-boned, horse-faced women the county set breeds so well, she’s a middle-aged spinster who seems more at home with blood sports than knitting. Nash sees her through the veil of jagged, gaudy colours that his migraine imposes.
‘Ruth,’ he repeats doggedly. ‘Ruth Taylor. Are you sure you don’t recognise the name?’
Miss Waverley bridles. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Mr Nash? I’ve already told you I don’t know.’
‘She ought to be on the ARP register,’ he says. ‘And she had a child recently, someone must have attended her.’
She pulls a face, grotesquely magnified by the swirling colours of his vision.
‘As to that, I can’t comment. And nor will my brother. You know as well as I do, such matters are confidential.’
‘The girl’s dead, and I suspect foul play may be involved. I think that trumps any issues of confidentiality. I could probably get a warrant to prove it. But I won’t argue the point if we can find out what we need to know from the ARP registers.’
‘You don’t imagine I keep them in my head?’ If anything, she is more unhelpful than ever. ‘I’ll look at the books the next time I’m on duty.’
‘If it’s too much trouble, I’m sure my assistant would be happy to help.’
‘Your assistant? If you mean Josephine Fox . . . God forbid.’
He ignores the rudeness, ploughs on. ‘I’m sure your brother’s told you how eager he is that I should resolve the matter.’
She sniffs. ‘Ridiculous fuss over a little trollop.’
‘You’ll look at those records for me, Miss Waverley?’ he persists. ‘As soon as you can?’
‘Tomorrow,’ she concedes. ‘Or Sunday. Depends how busy we are. I take it you don’t expect me to go haring off right away?’
He expects nothing from her, other than this bristling personal hostility that’s only partly tempered by her recognition of his office as coroner. It’s old news that he offends her. Mostly, it’s a matter of his heritage. The corruption, as she sees it, of his father’s unimpeachable Hampshire stock by his mother’s bohemian Jewishness. She’s not alone in that; there are plenty like her who think Hitler’s policies have merit. And there’s his face. Such bad form on his part, not to have done the decent thing and died.
‘Well?’ She snaps the word. ‘You might have time to waste, Mr Nash, but I’m a busy woman. If there’s nothing else, I’ll get Mary to see you out.’
He clamps down on rising sickness, the roaring dislocation of his vision.
‘I’ll expect to hear from you soon, then.’
She nods, though it’s more dismissal than co-operation. But much as he’d like to, he can’t press the point right now. He needs to get out of here every bit as urgently as she wants to see him go.
11
The same day
WHEN THE NUNS OF ROMSEY were ousted by Henry VIII, the abbey church was sold to the people of the town for £100. From its place overlooking the market square, it sees all there is to see of what goes on. Time passes, and the wheel turns. The nuns are back, though not in the abbey itself.
I skirt the precinct, cross the road. Gravel crunches underfoot as I walk towards the convent’s front door. I know it’s a long shot, but I have to find out if anyone here knows about a girl who went to collect her post dressed like a nun.
I ring the bell, not sure what to expect. I imagine a grille being opened, like in the films. But it’s nothing so dramatic. The door opens in the ordinary way and reveals a woman in a grey habit.
‘Can I help you?’ Her attitude seems somewhere between welcome and discouragement, neither one thing nor another.
‘I need to speak to someone who can tell me about your household,’ I say.
She looks me up and down. ‘You wish to join us?’
‘Not at all. I’m on official business from the coroner’s office.’
A frown flits across the smooth forehead.
‘You’d better come in.’ She shows me to an anteroom just inside the door. ‘Wait,’ she tells me.
There’s the smell of beeswax and damp. A narrow, arched window lets in a greenish light. There are fiercely polished benches against two walls, a hard armchair beside an unlit hearth. It reminds me of a station waiting room, except for an elaborate crucifix which hangs against t
he dark paintwork.
I find the room oppressive. The sense of being watched is overwhelming, and I can’t stop myself pacing restlessly up and down.
‘Good day.’ Another nun, older than the first but otherwise much the same, appears in the doorway. ‘I am Sister Gervase, the almoner. I believe you wish to speak with me?’ Her accent is precise, not-quite-English.
‘To someone.’ Subtlety deserts me. ‘To anyone who can tell me if a girl called Ruth Taylor was ever here.’
Unruffled, she takes a seat in the armchair, folds her hands in her lap.
‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘I’d rather not.’
I regret it almost at once. Standing in front of her isn’t making me feel more powerful, quite the reverse. It’s like being called to the headmistress’s study for an appointment with the cane. My hands tingle with the memory.
‘So,’ she says. ‘Who am I speaking to, please? Sister Luke said you were here from the coroner.’
‘My name’s Lester,’ I say, holding out one of the cards Nash has written for me. She makes no move to take it. ‘Do you know anything about Ruth?’
‘I ask myself why you would wish to know?’
I’m rattled by her air of detachment. It makes me want to bite.
‘Yours isn’t an enclosed order is it, Sister?’
‘No,’ she concedes.
‘Then you must have heard about the air raid on the pub? That there were casualties? One of them, a young woman, hasn’t been officially identified.’
‘You think it could be Ruth?’
It feels like an admission. There’s colour in her face that wasn’t present a moment ago.
‘Did you know her?’
She considers for a long moment. Then, ‘Why are you here, Miss Lester?’
Why is everyone determined to make me into a spinster?
‘The coroner—’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Why are you here?’
I want to say it’s what I’m paid for, but it feels rather cheap.
‘I don’t like the way someone . . . threw her away.’ I’m suddenly aware where my anger’s coming from. It’s not this nun, however infuriatingly calm. ‘Killing her was bad enough. There’s too much death already and her family . . .’ But that’s not my story to tell, and I veer away. ‘She was so young. She’d had a baby, did you know that? And they dumped her like rubbish. Got rid of her. They’re good at that in Romsey. Good at frightening little girls and getting them pregnant and—’
‘You?’ she says.
‘Not me.’ With one part of my brain, I’m sober again, wishing I hadn’t said anything. But the words won’t stop. ‘My mother.’
‘She died?’
‘Three months ago. But they killed her spirit years ago. When they drove her out, threatened her so she never dared come home.’
Though it’s just me being stupid, nothing whatever to do with Ruth, somehow the spate of words seems to have softened her attitude.
‘Ruth was here,’ she admits. ‘She came to us . . . It was Ash Wednesday, I remember that. Late February. It was the twenty-sixth, I believe. She had recently given birth. She was almost too weak to walk, she should not have been out of bed. We took care of her, of course, but she would not talk about what had happened. Only that her child had been taken away to a good home.’
I think of the entry about the baby in Billy Stewart’s mortuary log. Had Ruth lied to the nuns, abandoned it herself? But if she’d been scarcely able to walk on the twenty-sixth, could she possibly have been out of bed on the twenty-fourth? And if she hadn’t abandoned it, who had?
‘She didn’t say where she’d been till she came to you?’
‘No.’
‘No clues? Did she bring anything with her?’
‘She had only the clothes she stood up in.’ The nun sighs wearily. ‘We believed her to be destitute.’
‘We found a case,’ I say, sketching the size with my hands. ‘There were some things inside. A skirt and blouse, a few underclothes.’
‘We provided her with a few garments from our store for decency’s sake. Plain things, old things from charity. But a case? I don’t know.’
As far as it went, the description of the clothes would certainly fit what we found. But it doesn’t explain the rest.
‘There was a letter,’ I say, aware this is going to be another bombshell. ‘From her brother. And some photographs.’
‘A letter? But we understood her to be without friends or family.’ She frowns. ‘Could it be this girl was not our Ruth?’
‘I’m sorry, Sister. It’s certain that the girl who died owned the case. And her name was Ruth Taylor.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She shakes her head. ‘It makes no sense. The description of this girl who was found, it was nothing like her. We had no reason to suppose it could be Ruth, to believe harm had come to her.’
‘But you’d missed her by then?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Monday morning, in the chapel. She was lighting a candle.’
‘She was devout?’
‘Oh, no, not at all, I would say. But we ask our guests to observe the offices if they are well enough. And by this time, she was. As a matter of fact, I had never seen her alone in the chapel before.’ She pauses. ‘Mon Dieu, I wonder . . .’
She falls silent and I wait until I can’t bear it any more.
‘What?’ I prompt her.
‘Sunday evening, Easter Sunday, you understand.’
‘Yes?’
‘We prayed for the souls of those departed. One was a foundling baby, buried the first week of March.’
‘Her baby?’
‘I suppose she may have thought so.’
She may have known so, I think.
‘Was she upset?’
‘I regret . . . I do not know. I do not remember seeing her that evening after the offices.’
‘When did you realise she’d gone?’
‘Tuesday morning, we began to wonder. She had not been present at offices, nor at meals. I went to her room, I was afraid she might be ill again. But there was no sign. All was tidy. She had so little I could not tell if she had truly left us.’
‘You thought she might come back?’
‘I hoped,’ she says simply. ‘But now . . .’
‘Her room?’ I’m the one hoping now. ‘Did you clear it?’
‘There was nothing to clear.’
‘She didn’t leave anything behind? Not even a note?’
‘Nothing,’ she says again. ‘That is to say . . . there was one strange thing, I suppose. In her wastepaper basket.’
My heart skips a beat. ‘What was it?’
‘An empty bottle. Hydrogen peroxide. We use it in the dispensary to clean wounds. I was worried she had injured herself.’
‘No, Sister,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘She used it to bleach her hair.’
She lets out a deep breath. ‘I would like to see her,’ she says. ‘Is that possible?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
And I can’t deny it would be convenient. Provide the final link in the chain, proof positive we have the right identification for the girl.
*
They’re having a good run for their money in Romsey this week. Plenty to gossip about. The air raid, the deaths. And now a murder. It’s all grist to the mill.
There’s one of the old French nuns from the convent, stepping up the street with a face pale and harsh as one of her own stone saints. But it’s no saint walking along beside her.
Whispers shuffle behind hands, mouth to ear.
Josy Fox. Coroner’s assistant. It’s a man’s job, everybody knows that.
Always was a tomboy.
Hard as nails.
Wonder what she had to give him to get the job? You know what they say, like mother like daughter.
Bit long in the tooth for that.
&n
bsp; Nah. I’d be in it for a biscuit. Nothing like dunking a ginger nut.
Dirty devil.
*
By the time I’ve said my farewells to Sister Gervase, it’s almost six. I feel drained, pulled down by knowing who the dead girl is for sure. I should be pleased we’ve got a positive identification at last, but somehow it hasn’t worked like that.
The nun had recognised the dead girl at once, despite the changes Ruth had made to her appearance: bleached hair and plucked eyebrows, face and nail paint. The flirty red dress was still a mystery, they’d never given Ruth anything like that. If she’d had it before she’d come to them, she must have hidden it away somewhere.
The nun couldn’t throw any light on what might have happened to Ruth’s documents, either. As far as she knew, the girl hadn’t owned a handbag. She’d carried her personal possessions round in a gas mask case covered with a scrap of fabric.
‘A pattern,’ Sister Gervase said before we parted. ‘Cherries, I think. Pretty, but faded. It might have been a dress, once upon a time.’
I promise to look out for it, but we both know it must be long gone. It, and everything in it.
Romsey, Rumsey, Rūm’s ēg.
Placename, Rūm, personal name, Old English
Ēg, an island, most often refers to dry ground surrounded by marsh. In late Old English, a well-watered land.
Fire is a quick destroyer, but water will wear down stone. And Romsey is better supplied with water than fire. Its river, the Test: clear running, lively with trout. Its many braids, darting, meandering, busy with mills. The Barge canal: abandoned, heavy, slow; mud and minnows nibbling. Tadburn, Toad stream: rising in bog to the east, cutting downhill by secret ways to the Test. Into this network of waterways many things are subsumed: the careless, the lost, the deliberate. The discarded, the cunningly thrown. Somewhere, in the deep curve pool of a stream, half submerged already in silt, lies a clot of paper, a knot of cloth. The waters fret at the unravelling edges, current fraying the fibres, wearing away words. Fish find nothing to engage them, but a questing leech briefly samples the marks, the smudge of blood. Proof of identity, traces of guilt.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 10