I come out from the shade and stop dead. It’s as if thinking about my grandfather has conjured him up, because there he is, standing by her grave like a sentinel, a guard to keep intruders away.
For a moment I consider turning tail and retreating. But I’ve no reason to run. I’ve as much right as him to visit my grandmother’s grave. I go forward a pace or two.
‘What are you doing here?’ His voice is harsh.
‘I brought some violets for Granny.’
He laughs. It’s not a kind sound, not the sort of laughter I’ve been remembering.
‘She don’t need your flowers.’
He steps aside, and I see beyond him. See the grave clearly for the first time. It’s smothered in growing violets.
‘Oh.’
I feel the way I did as a child, bringing her flowers, finding I wasn’t the first. Only she’s not there to make me feel better, to assure me she loves mine as much as the ones she already has.
My grandfather comes towards me.
‘And you can sling your hook. I told you before, we don’t need you round here.’
‘I’m not a child any more. You can’t make me leave.’
‘Going to keep on nosy-parkering around the town, are you? What’s your game, Josephine?’
‘It’s no game. We’re trying to find out about the girl who was killed.’
‘She was caught in the air raid,’ he says, contemptuous. ‘No mystery in that.’
‘That’s what someone was trying to make us think, but it isn’t true. Someone killed her.’
‘Little tart with her red shoes and bottle blond hair.’
He works at the hospital, he’d know about her hair. But red shoes? I can’t believe what I’ve heard.
‘How do you know about her shoes, Grandfather?’
‘Saw her, didn’t I, prancing down the street. Easter Monday afternoon. Proper little whore.’
‘Why didn’t you say? You knew we were trying to find out where she’d been.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ he says. ‘None of my business.’
‘It’s everyone’s business, Grandfather. She was murdered.’
‘So you say. Don’t have to believe you, do I?’
‘Where did you see her? Where was she?’
‘Don’t have to answer your questions, either.’
‘Perhaps it was you. Perhaps you did it. Where were you that Monday night?’
‘You bitch. How dare you?’
He comes at me, raising his arm in a gesture I’m all too familiar with. I stand my ground.
‘You hit me, and I’ll go straight to the police. Tell them you’ve been concealing evidence. You’ll have to answer their questions.’
‘I saw her once,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘In the street. Coming out of Cupernham Lane. Don’t know where she’d been, don’t know where she was going.’
‘But you noticed her shoes?’
‘I noticed her shoes because she was clacking along like she was somebody. And you know what they say about girls who wear red shoes. Didn’t think no more of it till they turned up in a bag someone left for the jumble.’
‘You don’t know where the bag came from?’
‘I do not. It was left outside the hall. I’d offered to help Miss Waverley out.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention it when you found them?’
‘Leave well alone, that’s my motto. This talk about murder, it’s all a load of rubbish. If Dr Waverley says she died in the air raid, that’s good enough for me.’
‘But, Grandfather—’
‘I’ve answered all I’m going to.’ He pushes past me. ‘Do what you like with your bloody flowers, I don’t care. Just . . . stay out of my way if you know what’s good for you.’
25
The same day, afternoon and evening
NASH HAS BEEN ALL THE way through the register. It’s taken him most of the day. He’s reached the stage where the more he tries to concentrate, the more his vision blurs. Miss Waverley has been proved right, up to a point. There’s no obvious listing for Ruth Taylor.
It’s possible the girl was using an assumed name, in which case it’s anyone’s guess what he should be looking for. But against that is the fact that the nuns knew her as Ruth. It’s strange that there’s no entry for her at the convent. She should have been listed there after her arrival in February.
It’s the first thing that makes him wonder.
As he works through the book, he takes note of every anomaly. The register has page numbers, top centre, as printed by the manufacturer, and page 13–14 is missing, a tag of paper showing where it has been razored out.
That’s the second thing.
Before and after the missing leaf, the households seem to run consecutively, with nothing left out. But there are blank pages at irregular intervals throughout the book, so it’s possible one could have been removed to suppress the name, the page rewritten afterwards. He makes a note of the road and the affected households, but it’s a street of terraced houses that are crammed together, close to the centre of town. It doesn’t seem likely Ruth could have stayed there unnoticed, though it can’t be ruled out. There’s always the possibility of a conspiracy of silence, solidarity against authority.
And then there’s a third thing.
In places, whoever has made corrections in the register hasn’t been satisfied by simply crossing out or annotating information. Here and there, the lists have been amended with strips of stamp paper, stuck on top of an offending line and overwritten. His attempts to peel one off to see what lies underneath are unsuccessful. The paper is glued down so firmly that it rips at the page beneath. All he can do is list each household where a correction like this has been made. There are eighteen in total. Plenty of avenues to explore.
When he finishes, there are three addresses which seem to him to stand out, though he forces himself to consider the whole lot dispassionately. Some of the rest, like those on the missing page, are in streets where there is little privacy. Some are in more secluded neighbourhoods, and might perhaps have harboured Ruth unseen. He won’t discount them, but they’re not at the top of his list. That leaves the three which are. One is the convent, where Ruth’s name doesn’t appear. The other two attract his attention for different reasons.
Common Farm is on the outskirts of Romsey, isolated from the rest of the town. The list of names here is chaotic, multiple strips of stamp paper used to cram in four names on to three lines. It’s a community in itself, insular, the sort of place where people take pride in keeping themselves to themselves. They might not have felt the need to offer information if they had any. It might be worth a visit.
And last, the one which raises his suspicions most. Ramillies Hall, where a name that could be Ruby Sugden has been written on a pasted strip and crossed out. Next to it, someone has annotated the entry in fresh blue-black ink with a single word: Relocated. It makes the hair on the back of his neck bristle. Ramillies Hall, where Ruth, when she was living at the convent, nevertheless had a hideout.
*
Pete brings me the letter with a sheepish air. He shouldn’t have it, of course. He shouldn’t have brought it to me. Come to that, he shouldn’t even have known where to bring it. I thought Dot said nobody would know I’m here. She must have meant some special kind of definition of a secret, particular to Romsey. It’s just a pity the place isn’t so keen to give up information about what I need to know.
‘I clocked it this morning,’ he says. ‘With all that writing on the envelope, it looked like it was important. Sort of urgent, maybe, an’ it’s been all over the place. I thought you maybe didn’t know about it to collect it yourself. So I thought, quickest thing, pinch it when the boss wasn’t looking.’
I look at the envelope. I see Pete’s point. It does look important with that printed origin across the top and the way it’s been redirected from one address to another, following me. I should be grateful for his efforts.
‘Tha
nks, Pete.’ I put it in my pocket. I can see he’s disappointed I don’t open it straight away. ‘If you hang on I might be able to dredge up a copper or two for your trouble.’
‘Nah.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘We’re mates now, aren’t we?’
‘If you like.’ The thought makes me smile. It’s nice to have someone on my side. ‘You’re not going to get into bother for taking it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Who’s gonna know?’
‘Now there’s a question.’ Mates or not, I have to ask. ‘Here’s another one for you. How did you know I was here?’
‘Easy. Took the letter round to Alf’s. He told me.’
‘He did?’
So much for that, then.
‘He didn’t want to, but after I showed him the letter he thought he’d have to. Said he wouldn’t have told me if he could’ve brought it himself but he was on his way to work. Like I said, we thought it was important.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Pete, it is. It was good of you to fetch it. I just don’t want to open it.’
‘Oh. I should’ve thought.’ He reddens, embarrassed. He must take telegrams that bring bad news all the time. ‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind.’
He makes an effort to change the subject.
‘You staying here then?’
‘For a little while.’
‘Coo. What’s happened to the dog lady then?’
I tap my nose. ‘You know what they say. “Be like Dad, keep Mum.” ’
‘An’ the dogs?’
‘Sorry, mate, can’t tell you. Careless talk.’ In this case, it might just be true. ‘Look, Pete, I mean it. I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone I’m here.’
He draws a finger across his throat. ‘Never.’
He’s so serious, I want to laugh. But I don’t. Instead, I have an idea. It might be some kind of reward for him, and it would be company for me.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Am I ever.’
‘I’ve got a bowl of stew with your name on it, then. Come on in. If it won’t spoil your tea.’
‘Nah.’
He eats, and chatters, and I watch him and listen, but I don’t take in much of what he says. It’s Boy’s Own bluster, war and Nazi spies and how he hopes the fighting won’t be over before he can join up. And I hear that, and ask him how old he is, and he tells me nearly fourteen, and I think, God, four more years, surely it won’t last that long? But he’s chattering on, saying he thinks that by next year if he’s lucky he’ll look old enough to pass because his brother did and he’s in the navy already. And I think of Frank’s story and wish I hadn’t fed Pete the stew after all. As far as I can see, the longer he stays small, the better. So when he finishes the food I’ve given him I don’t offer him more though there’s plenty, and after a while he says he’d better get home for tea and saunters off.
I watch him go with mixed feelings. It’s getting dark, and though I don’t mind being alone, never have, I’m conscious of how out-of-the-way this place is. I see him notice the spot where Alf buried the dogs and wonder if he’ll work it out. Whether curiosity will get the better of him and he’ll talk, or whether he’ll keep his promise not to tell anyone I’m here. But whether he talks or not, I’m beginning to see this isn’t the safest place to be. If someone did try to kill Ollie, and they come back to see if the job’s been done, I’m in trouble. Because if it was about her knowing too much, I’ll be in the same boat. Slap bang in the firing line, the minute I see them. Because then I’ll know too.
There’s part of me that’s fired up by the thought. I’ll know. But mostly, I wish I hadn’t let Nash and Dot strand me here. I’m bait, a tethered goat waiting for the tiger to arrive.
I shake myself out of it. I’m being ridiculous. If I’m nervous, all I’ve got to do is go indoors, lock myself in. Put up the blackouts, avoid answering the door to brandy drinkers and purveyors of white powder. If I use common sense, I’ll be perfectly safe inside.
Mrs R. Lester
Silverbank
Isle of Wight
4 Garden Row
London, S.E.1.
Post Restante
Romsey, Hants
THE WAR OFFICE CASUALTY BRANCH
BLUE COAT HOSPITAL School
LIVERPOOL
23rd March 1941
Madam,
With reference to your enquiry of 29th July 1940, which was forwarded to me, I am directed to inform you that it has been announced on the German wireless that Richard Marshall Lester, born 30th November 1894, has been interned in Germany as an enemy alien. The report did not give further information regarding his status or location. The usual practice of the German Government is not to report the address of a prisoner of war an internee until he has been placed in a permanent camp.
I am,
Madam,
Your obedient Servant,
F. Algar
I can’t cry, that would be a hypocrite’s trick. But I did love him once. It’s appalling to think of him consigned to some Nazi hellhole, status unknown. And so pointedly, not a prisoner of war. What on earth does that mean?
*
Nash goes to the ARP post first. His quarry is there.
‘Your register.’
Miss Waverley smirks, secures it under her hands as if it’s holy writ.
‘I hope you’re satisfied.’
‘I think so, yes. It makes interesting reading.’
‘You didn’t find the name, of course.’
‘You made sure of that.’
‘What d’you mean?’
The smirk has been replaced by something like outrage. Or, it would be satisfying to think, with alarm.
He smiles. ‘Didn’t you tell me you’d checked all through the register?’
‘Yes, yes, I did.’
‘So I wouldn’t find anything, would I?’
‘No. No, of course not.’
‘I just wondered—’
‘Yes?’
‘Didn’t you find it strange that her name doesn’t appear at all? We know, for instance, that she was at the convent for several weeks. Sister Gervase identified the body, and she knew her as Ruth.’
Miss Waverley blusters about the difficulty of keeping the registers up to date, complains that people won’t co-operate in telling the wardens about changes in their household. She’s gone out of her way to be helpful, he ought to be grateful instead of doubting her. He lets her talk herself dry without comment, doesn’t push his advantage, though he knows he has one. He keeps his suspicions about Ramillies to himself. No point in showing his hand too early.
When she runs out of steam, he lets the silence settle a moment, then says, ‘I quite understand, Miss Waverley. I don’t expect you to do anything further. In fact, you’ve helped me a great deal already. More than you realise, perhaps. I don’t think it’ll be long before I can say for certain where Ruth Taylor was staying when she first came to Romsey.’
‘I wish you joy of it,’ she says. But the expression on her face says something quite different. Confirmation, if he still needed it, that she knows more than she’s telling. ‘It’s of no interest to me whatsoever. Now, please, I’m a busy woman. I’d be glad if you’d let me get on with my work.’
He tips his hat to her and leaves. He’s almost certain he knows where to look, but it’s not going to be easy. With Oxley dead, and the Waverleys so hostile, he’ll have to tread lightly, work out a way to go roundabout to find the information he needs.
26
The same day, evening and night
THE KITCHEN IS WARM. COSY, with the blackouts up and one oil lamp lit. It’s been a long day, full of emotion, so it’s probably inevitable I should fall asleep in the armchair as soon as I’ve eaten my meal.
I dream I’m standing in front of a huge iron door. Around it, there’s a wilderness of barren, empty plains as far as the eye can see. It’s growin
g dark, and though I don’t want to, though I could easily avoid it, I know I have to go through the door. I raise my hand, bang on the door. The sound echoes as if there is some vast edifice behind the door, invisible to me. A babble of voices begins to call to me out of the twilight, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. A hot wind blows out of the void, bringing the smell of burning. The echo of my knock grows like the thrumming of some monstrous church bell, threatening, sinister.
‘Jo!’
I wake with a start. There’s a knocking on the door, insistent, and a fug of smoke is rising from the enamel dish I’ve carelessly left on the range.
‘Jo!’
‘Who is it?’ But I know, of course. It’s Nash. What I don’t know is why he’s here at – a glance at my watch – ten o’clock in the evening.
‘Bram Nash,’ he says. ‘Let me in.’
I go to the back door, unbolt it. Open it cautiously. Smoke rushes out, replaced by cold air coming in.
‘For God’s sake,’ Nash says as he steps through the door. ‘What happened? I was afraid . . . I could smell smoke. I thought . . .’
‘Come in.’
I turn away, go to the range where the dish is still smoking, pick it up without thinking.
‘Ow.’ Drop it again, put my burned fingers to my mouth. ‘I left Dot’s casserole dish on the heat.’
He comes across the room. Takes my hand in his, inspects it. Frowns in the dim light.
‘Get some cold water on that. Now.’
The tall jug by the washbasin is still half full. He pours water into the sink, a shallow puddle of cool liquid, pushes my hand into it.
‘Five minutes,’ he tells me. ‘Don’t take your hand out for at least five minutes.’
With my back to the room, I can only follow what he’s doing by craning over my shoulder. He picks up the jug, uses a cloth to collect the hot dish from the stove. He takes them both outside, shouldering the door wide. The wind whisks into the room, sets my letter fluttering from the table onto the floor. I’m torn between retrieving it and keeping my stinging fingers in the water. I can hear him operating the pump out in the yard, and then he’s back again, carrying the full jug of water. I notice that this time he shuts the door securely, pushes the bolt home.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 21