‘Please, don’t distress yourself. Time enough to think about all of this when you’re better. I’ll act for you in whatever way I can.’
‘I won’t have to see Eddie?’
‘Not if you don’t want to. Or at least . . .’ He doesn’t like to tell a client outright lies. ‘I promise, whatever happens, you won’t have to see him alone.’
*
Inside the shed, there’s the sound of metal on metal. Something being filed? I tap on the door.
‘Alf?’
The noise stops. The door opens, just a crack, and Alf peers out.
‘Mrs Lester.’
‘Can I have a word?’
‘Sure thing.’
He comes out, making sure I don’t see inside the shed.
‘Busy?’ I ask.
‘Never you mind.’ He laughs. ‘What you don’t know won’t hurt you.’
‘That’s what I want to talk about. Something you know and I don’t.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Yesterday, at the cottage, you said you thought you knew who might have taken that photograph Pete found.’
‘Yep, I did. Probably shouldn’t’ve said anything, but I was upset about the dogs and that.’
Feeling my way cautiously, I say, ‘The picture’s old. It must have been taken a long time ago. But you still think . . . ?’
‘I told you. I recognised the thing she was lying on.’
‘And will you tell me? Who took it, Alf?’
A pause. He doesn’t look at me. And then, ‘He’s a dirty old man, that’s what he is. Takes pictures of all the kids. Line up, stand against a screen, one at a time, just in your knickers. Says it’s a study. Medical records. That’s bad enough, makes you feel dirty, ashamed. But there’s some, you hear he gets them back in his consulting room. Gives them sweeties, dresses them up for other kinds of pictures. Dirty stuff.’
I feel as if I’ve swallowed a brick of ice. I know already, but I need him to say it.
‘Tell me, Alf. You have to give me his name.’
‘Dr Waverley!’ he spits out. ‘I hate him. Everyone thinks he’s so good, but he’s a bastard. Look what he did to her.’
He jerks his head towards the house.
I didn’t think I could feel any colder, but I do.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Dot told me he tried to have her put away. She lives out there in that cottage hand to mouth, while he swans around like Lord Muck. Bloody bastard.’
‘Yes.’ It feels like an effort to speak. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
He looks at me properly. Now he’s said it, he seems relieved.
‘You don’t look so hot, missus.’
‘I’m all right. Just . . . angry, Alf. Like you.’
More than angry, but I don’t want him to know it. I start to move away, round the side of the house.
‘What are you going to do?’
Even through the haze of my thoughts, I hear the anxiety in Alf’s voice.
I don’t know.
*
Nash is at the front gate when he sees Jo coming down the path towards him. She seems preoccupied, as if she doesn’t notice him until the last minute. Or as if she’s deliberately ignoring him. He stands in her way, hand on the gate.
She stops, avoids his gaze. ‘Let me through.’
‘If this is about last night—?’
‘Not now,’ she says. ‘Let me pass.’
He stands firm. ‘Look at me, Jo. Talk to me.’
She turns her face to him. Her pale skin is as white as milk, as marble, as snow. Her gaze is hard, an intensity of pain that shocks him. He steps back, leaves the way open.
‘Jo.’
He reaches out to her, but she evades him. Stumbles out into the street.
‘Things to tell you,’ she says. ‘Later. I’ll come to the office later.’
*
The pain comes in waves. Like childbirth, I suppose, though I’ve never given birth to a child. Like a stone in the kidney, griping, a blockage that won’t be dislodged, a useless warning, functionality destroyed.
Waverley took the picture.
Waverley might be . . .
Even in my own head, I can’t complete the thought.
Waverley, the bastard . . .
The bastard I’ve been looking for?
I don’t know what I’ll say but I’m determined to confront him. Make him admit . . .
That photograph.
My mother.
How did Ruth get the photograph of my mother?
I know where Waverley lives. The doctor’s house is where we used to go for summer fetes. We’d look forward to the occasion each year, a chance to see how our betters lived. But try as I might, I can’t remember Waverley being there, nor his sister. I’ve a kind of recollection of his mother opening the fetes, a joyless woman in black with a stern face and a cut-glass accent. And now I think of it, she had red hair. Back then, Waverley would have been newly qualified, I suppose. Not so much older than Nell, but miles above her in class. Mr Oxley’s nephew, taking advantage of the servants, exploiting her. Taking his dirty pictures.
Does he know about me? Does he see me and think about her? Was it the pictures that made her stay away, frightened of what people would say if they were ever revealed?
The bastard.
But I’m the one who’s a bastard.
The pain convulses me. I think of what Alf said. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.
I think of Nash’s face, so shocked as I passed.
What will I tell them after this?
28
The same day
NASH IS LATE AGAIN AT the office. Two days in a row, and nothing in the diary. No wonder Miss Haward looks shocked.
‘Mr Hollis called, sir.’
‘What did he want this time?’
‘He wanted to know if the codicil was ready.’
‘And is it?’
‘On your desk, sir. Waiting with some other papers for your approval.’
‘You didn’t give him an appointment, I hope?’
‘No, sir. I didn’t like to, the way things have been.’ She sniffs, prim and repressive. ‘I told him I’d have to wait until I’d spoken to you. He was rather annoyed. I should think he’ll telephone again later.’
‘I’m sure he will. Tell him . . . Oh, I don’t know. What about Monday? That should be all right. He can come and sign it in the morning, if he hasn’t changed his mind again by then.’
‘I’m afraid he won’t like that. He told me this morning he was having palpitations. He’s concerned he might die before he can sign.’
‘The old devil’s got the constitution of an ox, he’ll see us all out. If he insists, you could suggest that Mr Bing might be able to see him before the weekend.’
‘Very well, sir. I assume you’ll want to check the insertion yourself?’
The emphasis on sir, her insistence on peppering every other phrase with it tells him how annoyed she is with him. But like Mr Hollis, she’ll have to put up with it.
‘I’ll see to it, Aggie. Anything else?’
‘A Superintendent Bell telephoned. He wants to speak to you. He left a number. I said I’d ask you to call him back.’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘He offered no information at all, sir. Except that it was confidential.’
‘Well, I’ll be in my office, Aggie. I’m not to be disturbed unless Mrs Lester calls or comes into the office. I want to see her as soon as possible.’
‘Very well, sir. Shall I get Cissie to bring you coffee?’
‘Thank you.’
‘And a biscuit?’
‘Aggie . . . !’
‘Sir.’
It’ll be arrowroot today, for sure. He hasn’t earned anything nicer.
*
The Briars is a nice house. When I was a child, its position near the hospital gave it importance, a role to play. Like the rector
y close to the abbey, its incumbent was always at hand, ready for any emergency. Now, with the hospital moved to higher ground, it seems ordinary, somehow, any special significance lost.
I still don’t know what I’m going to say, but my anger carries me up to the front door without a pause. I ring the bell, knock, ring again, but no one comes.
There has to be someone home. I crunch across gravel to a brick arch at the side of the house, where a gate leads through to the back. I’m expecting someone to challenge me as I pass in front of the bay windows, but nothing happens. The gate has a black iron latch, but no lock. From the garden beyond I can hear a rhythmic noise, like chopping wood. The sound of a voice, cheerfully vigorous, singing ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, is punctuated by the strokes of sound. I’m puzzled for a moment, and then it comes to me. Someone’s beating a carpet.
I lift the latch, go through. The singing and the flogging beat get louder as I walk along the side of the house to the back garden. The glorious space, site of those summer garden parties, is the same as it ever was, except that today there are no stalls or coconut shies. Only a red-cheeked girl in the uniform of a maid, and a pile of rugs. There’s one already hung over the washing line: bright with sumptuous colours, orange and gold. The maid, rattan carpet beater in hand, falters when she sees me, hits the rug a glancing blow. It slips from the line, slithers onto the grass below.
‘Oh, bother,’ she says. And then, ‘What do you want? See what you’ve made me do.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Dr Waverley.’
‘He’s not here,’ she says sullenly. ‘Neither of them are. Went out first thing. Give me a hand, can’t you? If it hadn’t been for you . . .’
She’s trying to get the golden rug back onto the line. I move up next to her, help her wrestle it back. It’s a beautiful thing, with a long silky fringe that blows in the breeze, but it’s awkward to lift.
‘Ta,’ the maid mutters, picking up the beater again.
‘Do you know when the doctor will be back? Or Miss Waverley?’
‘He’s gone to London. Not coming back till tomorrer.’ She hits the rug a hefty blow, and a cloud of dust rises from it. ‘Dirty old thing. Picks up the dust something chronic. Only did it last week and look at it now.’
‘And Miss Waverley?’
‘Gone over to the big house. Measuring up, shouldn’t wonder, and the poor old bloke not even cold.’
She’s being remarkably indiscreet, but I don’t mind taking advantage of it.
‘Do you mean Mr Oxley?’
‘That’s right.’ Another hammer blow. ‘She was off up to Ramillies at first light. Couldn’t wait, could she? It’s all “Get the rugs done, Mary, we’ll want them fresh at the Hall. Polish the silver, Mary, we’ll take it up to the Hall.” Says it’s for the funeral, but that’s all my eye. They’ll have their feet under the table before sexton gets the hole filled in.’
I know Nash said the Waverleys were related to Oxley, but surely Ollie must be the heir? And now I know what happened there, I can’t believe she’d ever go back to Ramillies. Or that she’d take Waverley back as her husband wherever they might be. But perhaps her father cut her out of his will.
‘They’re moving to Ramillies Hall?’
‘It’s what they seem to think.’ Her words are punctuated with vicious thumps of the beater, more clouds of dust. ‘“Oh, Eddie, it’s our birthright.” Make a cat spit she would. But if she thinks I’m going with them to that ruddy . . . great . . . draughty . . . old . . . falling-down . . . dump they got another think coming.’
At the last slap of the carpet beater, the rug falls off the line again.
‘Drat it,’ she says. ‘It’ll have to do.’
‘Would you like me to give you a hand?’
‘Wouldn’t I? Awkward bloomin’ thing. If you just grab that side?’
We lift it between us, shuffle our way indoors. I catch fleeting glimpses of a scullery as we pass through, get an impression of a chilly cold kitchen that reeks of cabbage and bacon fat. Then we’re through the green baize door and into the hallway beyond, an altogether different kind of space. From the flashes of brass and gloomy oil paintings I get as we struggle past, everything here is in keeping with the status of the town’s most senior doctor.
‘Last door on the end,’ the maid pants. ‘Study.’
The study’s fitted up to suit a man of substance. Everywhere I look, there’s the solid gleam of polished wood and metal. Oak panelling, a magnificent fireplace, fire irons that wouldn’t disgrace a medieval knight’s equipage. Silver-framed diplomas on the walls, testifying to the achievements of the Great Man. But I’m past being impressed by Waverley. The stink of him, stale tobacco and musty tweed, fills the room. Makes me feel sick.
Arms aching, I’m about to drop the rug onto the floor when the maid stops me.
‘Doesn’t go on the floor,’ the maid says. ‘Blimey, whatever next? Gotta put it over the ottoman.’
So we drape it to her satisfaction and all the while I’m wondering if he keeps the photographs here, or if they’re in his consulting rooms up at the hospital. What wouldn’t I give for a minute alone in here to search. But it’s not going to happen. The maid might be indiscreet, but she’s not daft enough to let me go rummaging about in her master’s things.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ the girl says. ‘The missus won’t be back for ages yet.’
I look at my watch. ‘I’d better not.’
If Waverley and his sister are out, there’s nothing I can do here. I might as well get the meeting with Nash over and done with. It’ll only get worse, the longer I leave it.
‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ she says, as she sees me out through the back door, ‘you don’t seem like one of the missus’s friends. Wouldn’t catch any of them helping out. Not if I was drowning.’
I smile. ‘No. I’m not a friend.’
‘Won’t go telling on me, then?’ She giggles. ‘Not that I care. Soon as the funeral’s over, I’m off. Got a job up Winchester way. War stuff, hush-hush. Better pay’n this and no bloody rugs. Ain’t half looking forward to seeing her face when I tell her.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
I’m at the gate, ready to go.
‘I’ll tell them you called, shall I?’
‘If you like.’
I’m out through the gate now.
‘Hey. You never told me your name.’
I wave, walk away.
*
Nash is in his office when Jo slams in.
Before he can open his mouth, she says, ‘Can we start by not saying sorry to each other?’
‘What?’ He’s startled.
‘Oh, you know the drill. I’m sorry for having coerced you, you’re sorry I was ever born.’ Her tone is brittle enough to break them both.
‘That’s not—’
‘These things happen. Maybe it’ll happen again, maybe it won’t. We’re adults, if there’s a spark, if sometimes there’s a spark and we choose to . . . It’s no one’s business but ours who we fuck.’
‘That’s such an ugly way of putting it.’
‘Ugly word for an ugly deed—’
‘Shut up, Jo.’ He closes the distance between them. ‘We need to get this sorted out.’ His gaze falls on something glittering and fine on her sleeve. He reaches to pick it off. ‘What’s this?’
She peers at the orange fibre.
‘A hair, I suppose. One of mine. It looks the right colour.’
‘This isn’t a hair. Oh, I grant you, it’s not far off your colour, but . . . I’ve seen one like this before.’
He moves to his desk, lays the thread down on the blotting pad.
‘See. It’s too fine for a hair. It’s silk. Careful now, don’t make a draught or it’ll blow away.’
She pulls out a hair, lays it beside the other to compare.
‘You’re right, it isn’t mine. I suppose it must have come off Waverley’s rug.’
/>
‘What?’
‘It’s a long story. I was helping Waverley’s maid with a rug from his study. Why does it matter?’
‘Because of this.’ He pulls an envelope from a drawer, opens it. Takes out a folded piece of paper. It’s dated, 15th April 1941. Underneath, Fibre retrieved from body of unknown girl.
It’s signed with his name. He unfolds the paper, discloses what’s inside. An orange–golden thread that shifts in the slightest movement of air. A perfect twin of the one on his blotting pad.
‘You got this—’
‘From Ruth Taylor’s body.’
‘It came from Waverley’s rug.’
He folds the paper away, puts it back in the envelope. Picks up another blank scrap and writes on it. 23rd April. Fibre retrieved from Mrs Lester’s sleeve. Possible origin, rug in Dr Waverley’s study. Signs it. Folds the filament from his blotting pad into it, puts it in a separate envelope. Sticks down the flap.
‘Sign across here,’ he says. ‘Date it.’
She does. ‘Possible origin? You know it must have come from there.’
‘To stand up in court, we’d need a proper sample. Taken by an independent witness. A policeman, for preference.’
‘So you’ll take it to the police?’
‘I don’t know, Jo. At this stage, it’s just supposition.’
‘You can link her body to his study, and it’s supposition? What the hell does it take to convince you?’
‘I’m convinced, but I’m a lawyer too. Think how this looks. He’d only have to say there were two threads on your sleeve, and we used them to fabricate evidence against him.’
‘He’ll get away with it.’
He hears the anguish in her voice, but feels none. Only a steely determination.
‘Oh, no. Not now we know where to look. It all comes back to Waverley. We just have to get evidence he can’t contest.’
She paces. ‘What can we do?’
‘It wants thinking through. We’ve got to get it right. Won’t do any good if we go off at half-cock.’
*
There’s so much going round in my head I can’t make sense of it. It’s hard to keep track of what Nash is saying.
Evidence found. Evidence of a murderer.
Ruth was in Waverley’s study the night she died.
Evidence, conclusive evidence that that man . . .
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 23