That Dr Waverley is the man who . . .
I should tell Nash what my grandfather said about the shoes. I should tell him what Alf told me about the photograph. It’s what I came to do, but now it hardly seems relevant. We know, we have the evidence.
Waverley’s the man who took the photograph.
The man who . . .
He must be the one.
I don’t want to think it. I don’t want to admit . . .
I’ve found my father, and he killed Ruth.
I’m conscious Nash is laying out the sensible course. I nod and agree as he explains about chains of evidence, building a case. It’s all so dreary. So horribly likely to go wrong. He talks about interviewing Baxter, Oxley’s manservant, so I tell him what the maid told me, that Miss Waverley’s gone to measure up at Ramillies, ready to move in.
‘Has she just?’ The light of battle gleams in his eye. ‘We’ll see about that.’
And he gives me some footling task to do, something about Ruth’s ration book, and he’s off up to Ramillies in Mercer’s taxi before I’ve had time to draw breath.
After he’s left, I think he’s not the only one who can go on a quest. With Waverley away and his sister occupied, the field’s clear for me to investigate. Forget ration books, I’m starting with Waverley’s consulting room.
*
There’s an art to theft, going unnoticed in a place you’re not supposed to be. I’ve spent enough time in hospitals, one way or another, to know that if you look as if you’re meant to be where you are, no one will challenge you. Everyone’s too busy going about their own business to worry about yours.
It’s quarter to three, almost visiting hour. Hair tucked into a snood to hide the telltale colour, I aim to look anonymous, official. So long as I don’t bump into Grandfather, I should be all right. I know Waverley’s safely out of the way, and the woman on the front desk said his secretary only works mornings. She apologised for the inconvenience, but I couldn’t be happier.
I step into the corridor leading to Waverley’s office. If someone asks what I’m doing, I can make an excuse about getting lost. But it’s deserted, there’s no one to ask me anything. For form’s sake, I knock on Waverley’s door.
No answer. I turn the handle and go inside.
There’s a desk where Waverley’s secretary must sit, a door beyond which leads to the inner sanctum. I knock on that door too, but no one answers. Not that I’m going to go in straight away. I need to make sure I can get away if I need to. There’s a small window at the far side of the room. I open the sash, poke my head out. A blank wall to the right, windows that must be Waverley’s inner office close by on the left. Ahead, there’s nothing overlooking the window. It’s only a short drop to the ground, where a narrow bank skirts the building, then there’s an overgrown cutting falling thirty feet or more to a rough piece of ground beside the railway. I could go that way if I need to. I draw back, leave the window as wide as it will go.
There’s a key on the inside of the outer office door and I turn it, lock myself in. Put the key safe in my pocket. Another minute gained if I need it. I take a deep breath, open the consulting room door. The room smells so strongly of Waverley’s mix of cigarettes and tweed it’s almost a physical presence. I half expect him to rise up out of the shadows like the Demon King.
I steel myself to go on. It’s dark in here; the windows I noticed before are blocked by fixed shutters. I leave the door to the secretary’s room open so I can see what I’m doing without having to put on a light.
After the institutional green-and-cream of the corridors, this room is opulent, fitted out like a grand drawing room. There’s a red Turkey carpet, an impressive desk and chair. A Chinese lacquer screen cuts off one corner, shields whatever’s behind it from view. The only sign that this is a consulting room is a stainless steel trolley which stands to one side of the screen, stethoscope laid ready on the top.
I try the desk first. There’s only one drawer that will open. Waverley obviously doesn’t think it’s worth locking up this jumble of accumulated junk. Rusty paper clips, a broken leather bootlace, the stub of a lipstick. A jar of aniseed balls.
A thermometer, some surgical gloves. The gloves make me think of fingerprints. I’ve been careless so far, but it isn’t too late. I put on a pair. Rub over the surfaces I can remember touching.
Now for the dragon in the corner.
I cross the room, pull the screen aside. I’m ready for it, expecting it, but even so my heart clutches when I see the couch behind. It’s all very proper with its starched linen draw-sheet, but unmistakable. The twisty legs, the animal feet. Alf was right. It is the one from the picture of my mother.
At the foot of the couch, in the corner, there’s another door. A red light bulb is fixed to the wall beside it. A notice says DARKROOM. DO NOT ENTER.
As I open the door, there’s a whoosh of stale air, a chemical reek. It’s pitch black inside, but a switch turns on another red light bulb hanging unshaded from the ceiling. Though it’s not much bigger than a cupboard, the room’s been neatly fitted out. There’s a bench, a sink, a pile of stacked trays. A drying line overhead, pegs twisting at angles along its length, an array of iodine-brown bottles lined up on top of two narrow filing cabinets.
I try the drawer of the nearest one. It opens.
To start with, it doesn’t seem as if Waverley’s got anything to hide after all. The files crammed in these drawers are all patient records. Some of the paperwork seems to date back as far as the last war. There are photographs, but they’re of wounds and amputations, stomach-churning, but not illicit. My courage begins to fail. The only crime here is paper-hoarding.
I try the second cabinet. It’s locked.
I take the bottles off the top, stand them on the floor. Drag the cabinet far enough out from the wall to tip it. It makes a racket, but once it’s tilted, it’s simple enough to reach underneath and release the lever that locks the cabinet. I ease it down, breath catching. Has anyone heard?
Far off, there’s the sound of a bell, doors banging, voices. Visiting hour. With luck, the noise I made will be put down to that.
I open the top drawer. Like the other, it’s crammed. Folders labelled Board School. Pictures of children in their underwear. These are what Alf was talking about. The children look cowed, miserable, but however exposing, the photographs seem to be official. Year by year, the pictures show each child standing against a yardstick. On the back of the photographs, there are details of age and weight, some kind of percentile calculation. The next drawer’s the same. Folder after folder, records of growth and development. There’s a set of pictures of faces gridded with lines and measurements. They make me feel uneasy, but their purpose, outwardly at least, is scientific.
But when I get to the bottom drawer, I hit gold. Gold Flake tins, to be precise, the kind that hold fifty cigarettes. Two neat stacks of them, the same as the one we found at the summer house. I pick up the top one, open it.
More photographs. They’re anything but official. Not of my mother this time, but the subject’s the same. A girl in early adolescence. Wearing, or mostly not wearing, rags. Hand and face dirty, bare feet. Traces of tears and bruises. I don’t recognise her, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Tin after tin the same. Different girls, different poses, but the same intent. Inside each lid there’s a bit of tape with initials. C.H.; I.W.; L.D.
Crouched on the floor, surrounded by open tins, I have to fight not to be sick. I pick two photographs, shove them in my pocket. Shut and stack the tins. I don’t know if I’ve kept them in the same places. I don’t care. Let him make a fuss if he dares. I slam the drawer shut, regret it at once. The echo is as loud as a gunshot. More cautiously, I wrestle the cabinet back against the wall.
My hand’s on the light switch when I hear footsteps outside. Purposeful this time. A hand rattles the outer door.
‘Is there anyone there?’
I hold my breath. The rattle com
es again.
‘It’s all right, Joe. It’s locked.’
Slower steps, halting.
‘You sure?’ My grandfather’s voice. I think my heart has stopped.
‘See for yourself.’
The rattle again, more determined.
‘It’s gotta be the pipes. You know what they’re like. It’ll be another airlock.’
A pause. The footsteps move off.
There’s no time to tidy up. Waverley will know someone has been in here as soon as he comes inside, but that’s too bad. I switch off the light, close the door, push the screen back in place. In the secretary’s office, I pause, draw breath. Everything seems quiet. I’ve got the key in my hand, ready to unlock the door, when I hear a muffled cough.
Grandfather. As if I can see him, I know. The old devil is lying in wait.
Lightning fast, I turn back. Drop the key into a jar on the secretary’s desk. At the window, it’s a struggle to squeeze through. I don’t want to land on my head, and my legs scrape as I twist to drop feet first. On the ground, I stumble and lurch to the top of the slope. I should’ve thought to close the window behind me, but it’s too late now. Someone’s shouting, the door’s being rattled loudly beyond. I can’t go back.
I launch myself into the undergrowth, worming my way into the empty spaces beneath the bushes. Brambles tear my skin. My hands and knees shred, my hair catches on thorns as I leave dignity and my snood behind.
While it’s still daylight outside, deep in the bushes it’s dark. I don’t think anyone will be able to see me hunkered down here. But someone’s brought a torch. A light stabs through the bushes, searching into the hidden spaces. I make myself as small as possible, turn my face away from the light. Freeze as the beam searches along the slope. The hunt is up.
There are voices. One’s my grandfather’s.
‘There’s someone out there, I tell you.’
‘I can’t see anything.’
‘There’s something moving. Over there, in the bushes.’
‘You’re imagining it, man.’
‘Listen, you fools.’
I hear it myself. Movement in the bushes beside me. I put my head down as the torch beam moves closer. There’s the sudden musk reek of dog fox, the sense of a presence going past.
A shout of laughter goes up. The light withdraws.
‘It’s your namesake, Joe.’
‘You’ve woken Brer Fox.’
‘Come away, man. Get in out of the damp. There’s a cuppa going cold inside.’
I wait a long time, cramped and stiffening. A train goes by and the fox comes back but still I wait. I’m locked into my hiding place. I’ll have to move eventually, but I don’t know where to go, who to go to.
29
The same day, early evening
NASH’S VISIT TO RAMILLIES HADN’T gone well. He wasn’t able to make Oxley’s manservant, Baxter, understand that his master was dead. As for remembering the girl – it was hopeless. If she’d given birth in front of the old man, he wouldn’t have remembered. Not unless it had happened fifty years ago.
And Edith Waverley was behaving equally strangely. He’d found her in the dining room, blinds drawn but all the lights on. She was emptying a china cabinet, making stacks of dusty cups and saucers on an even dustier table. She’d greeted him with open hostility. What do you want now? Things to do. Uncle’s funeral. He’d taken a certain amount of satisfaction from telling her that he would be acting on behalf of Mrs Olivia Waverley in the matter of her father’s will. Edith was shocked. There’d been the gleam of something desperate, almost hunted, in her eyes as she looked around the room. He might have felt sorry for her, until she snapped that Ollie was mad, unfit to live in a place like this. But it was Edith, he thought, who looked mad, clutching a precious Minton teacup so tightly in her hands he was surprised it didn’t break.
*
When I finally find the courage to crawl out of the brambles, I know there’s only one place I can go. I get some strange glances on the way, and I know I must look a fright with my hair dishevelled, scratches on my face and legs. And there’s a tear in my skirt. But I don’t care. I’ve got the pictures.
Nash is still in his office, though it’s clear he hasn’t been expecting me.
‘What’s happened?’ he says. ‘You look as if—’
‘I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards?’ I finish for him. ‘Well, I have, in a manner of speaking.’
There’s nothing for it. I tell him what I’ve done. I’ve never seen him so angry.
‘Do you know what you’ve done? These photographs – they’re no use to us now. You broke into Waverley’s office, stole them.’
‘I didn’t break in. The door wasn’t locked.’
‘Don’t chop logic with me, Jo. What you did was illegal. They’re not admissible as evidence.’
‘There are hundreds of them, Bram. Girls he’s frightened, humiliated. Who knows what else?’
‘I know that. But you’ve made sure we can’t bring him to justice for it. Out of context, they mean nothing. And as soon as Waverley realises someone’s been in his darkroom, he’ll get rid of the rest. Destroy the evidence.’
‘He’s away till tomorrow. Can’t you get someone to go in? Sergeant Tilling? Surely he’ll listen now?’
‘Indecent photographs?’ Nash says. ‘They’re wicked, Jo, disgusting, but they’re not enough. Waverley wouldn’t get more than his knuckles rapped for those. We want him for Ruth’s death. For her murder.’
‘That’s Ruth,’ I tell him, pointing to one of the photographs. She looks much younger than the sixteen we now know she was. ‘She’s pregnant in that picture, you can see it. He knew. He must have . . .’
‘It’s still not proof.’
‘What about this one?’ I say.
It’s different from the others. An outdoor scene. A girl in water, floating like Millais’s Ophelia, flowers all around. She’s naked, and she can’t be more than ten. I never knew her, but I know who she is. I’ve seen the portrait in Ollie’s cottage.
‘This is his daughter, Adele. His daughter, Bram. It’s horrible. Ruth had a tin of his photographs. Who knows who was in them? What if he was afraid she’d expose him? It’d be a motive for him to kill her.’
‘I don’t deny it,’ he says, and the heavy patience in his tone is worse than his anger. ‘But we can’t prove it, can we? None of it. Nothing. There’s no real evidence, just our word against his.’
‘You’re scared!’ I’m blind with rage, I don’t care what I say. ‘Just like the others. Scared of Mr I-am. Just like my mother was.’ I slap the original photograph down on the table. ‘That’s her, Bram. That’s Nell. My mother. It makes me sick to think it, but . . . he’s probably my father.’
There’s a long pause. Nash rubs his face. ‘I know.’
‘You . . . know?’
He pushes a piece of paper across the desk. It’s a letter.
I acknowledge that the female infant born to Ellen Fox on 5th July 1901 is my child. In respect of this (and so long as the matter remains secret between us) I undertake to pay Mrs Rose Fox the sum of £12 per annum until she or the child shall die or the child attains independence.
It’s signed by Edward Waverley.
I drop the letter back on Nash’s desk. If I say anything, I’ll say too much. I turn on my heel and walk out.
30
The same day, late
IN THE CANDLELIGHT, THE BARREL of the navy-issue revolver gleams. Tucked into the shed roof in its wrappings, the steam from a succession of baths doesn’t seem to have damaged it.
I weigh it in my hand. Frank’s gun, the one he made me take. I was frightened of it then. Now, I’m glad of it.
I know what I have to do. It’s almost time.
I slide it into my bag.
Tomorrow.
It will serve.
31
24th April
I SHADOW MISS WAVERLEY FROM FIRST light, follow her as sh
e moves from The Briars to Ramillies Hall and back to The Briars again. Watch as Mary comes storming out of the house a little while later, hat rammed skew-whiff on her head, coat dragged half over her shoulders, suitcase in hand. It looks as if she’s leaving before the funeral after all.
When she’s gone, I venture closer. The side gate swings free, and the back door is open. It’s careless of Miss Waverley, not to have locked up after the girl. But I’m glad I won’t have to break in.
There’s nowhere to hide in the scullery, but a big cupboard door opens to reveal a spidery space full of mops and brooms, a pail of dirty water. Definitely below-stairs territory. I can’t imagine Miss Waverley ever comes in here. I squeeze inside. And wait.
It must be almost midday before someone comes into the kitchen.
‘Dratted girl. Whatever will Eddie say?’ It’s Miss Waverley, I recognise her voice. She’s alone as far as I can make out, and talking to herself. She rattles around the room, clattering doors, drawers. ‘Now, where did she put the—?’
‘Edie? Where are you?’
‘I’m here!’ Her voice is loud, so close to the cupboard door I freeze. ‘Just looking for a knife.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Trying to find something for your lunch. Stupid girl walked out on us this morning. I told her she wouldn’t get a reference, but—’
‘Never mind.’
It’s him. It’s my father’s voice. It’s all I can do not to shout.
‘What news?’ Miss Waverley says. ‘What did Struther say?’
‘I’ve hardly got in the door, my dear. Can’t it wait?’
‘Not for a minute. Tell me, Eddie. Don’t keep me in suspense. Who gets Ramillies? Did Uncle Paul break the entail?’
‘I’m afraid not, my dear. The whole estate passes to Olivia.’
‘No!’ It’s a wail of distress. ‘It’s not fair, Eddie. She doesn’t want it.’
‘You could look on the bright side, my dear. Uncle Paul didn’t break the entail. That means—’
‘We’re next in line?’
‘Of course. And you may like to know, Struther tells me Olivia has made no will. At least, not with him.’
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 24