by Rebecca Bryn
‘I hate myself, Charlotte. I don’t know what I can do to put things right. Look, why don’t I drive down?’ His voice held a tremor of emotion.
If he started crying she’d be back in his arms before nightfall. She sat straighter, determined to be strong. This conversation had to be on her terms, not his. He had to learn he couldn’t always have his own way. ‘I won’t be about for a couple of days. I’m going to London… shopping… and looking into that carving of Grandpa’s, at the Imperial War Museum.’
‘What about Wednesday or Thursday, then? I’ll have to square it with Dad.’
‘Okay, give me a ring.’
‘I love you, Charlotte.’ He sounded close to tears.
She swallowed. ‘Love you, too, Robin.’
She ended the call and turned for home, and breakfast. Hearing Robin’s voice had stirred feelings she thought had died. She wasn’t sure she could go there again, not without that essential bond of trust, but Robin was her husband. If she could persuade him to get help with his anger and his guilt, maybe he could once again be the man she’d fallen in love with.
And if he refused? She wouldn’t wait around for him to use her as a punch-bag. The next man would have to earn her trust. The next one? Robin was her last, whatever happened, and anyway, what had she to offer? No, if her marriage was over then she was on her own for good: free, independent, decisive.
She buttered toast. ‘I’m going to the Imperial War Museum. Today.’
Lucy frowned. ‘IWM is a tenuous link.’
‘It’s the only lead we have. I want to check it out. And I need a bit of retail therapy. A new handbag to match these shoes… and this pink top has seen better days. You can use my car while I’m away.’
Lucy sipped tea. ‘And what about sorting things with Robin?’
‘He’s coming down when I get back from London. I promised I’d talk to him, okay? I didn’t promise to run home and…’ Be fist fodder.
‘And if things don’t work out?’
‘I’ll find somewhere to rent… a new job.’
‘Round here?’
‘Why not? It’s not too far to London if I have to commute. I can’t live on my savings and credit cards forever.’
‘My new handbag would match those shoes if you want to borrow it, sis.’
‘If you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘As long as you don’t lose it. It was a Christmas present from Grant. What do you expect to find at the IWM?’
‘I don’t know. I feel like I’m trying to herd cats at the moment, but it’ll give me something to focus on. Grandpa wouldn’t go to all this trouble for no reason, and I like a challenge.’
‘The list of initials could mean anything.’ Lucy held out her hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about the Latin? Did you find a translation?’
‘Qui tacet consentit?’ She’d memorised the words, and tumbled them over and over in her mind like pebbles in a polishing drum. ‘Who keeps silence consents.’ Robin crept uninvited into her mind. Fear might buy silence but it certainly didn’t buy love, yet she’d found love couldn’t be deleted like the work she’d lost from her computer. ‘I’m going to London. It’s our only clue.’
Lucy drove her to the station. ‘Ring me. You have my mobile.’
She sank into her seat. Auribus teneo lupum... Qui tacet consentit. What good would come of chasing the past? She couldn’t change it. The shadow of a wolf with pale eyes stalked the dark places of her mind.
Chapter Seventeen
Dr Adam Bancroft scratched his two-day stubble. The application on his desk was for a peach of a job at The Imperial War Museum’s Department of Documents at Duxford, working with foreign war documents. He was in with a chance, already employed by the IWM in London, and being good at languages: in fact, at forty, he was over-qualified.
To apply, or not to apply? Duxford would be a dream-come-true, but here, in the darkest recesses of the museum, he managed to hide from public view and, to a large extent, the management. It allowed him to work undisturbed, and get away with wearing jeans with holes in the knees, and a sloppy cotton sweatshirt whose original colour was doubtful. It would be of dubious value as an oil rag and was now a pale grey that matched his eyes.
‘Adam.’
He pushed the form away, decision made: Duxford was closer to Effie and Gabrielle. ‘Roger.’
‘Have you found those letters home you promised me?’
He looked up at the older man. ‘I had the file somewhere. Fuck it, why can’t I ever find anything?’
‘You’re asking me? Have you noticed the mess in here, recently?’
His office couldn’t have been more chaotic if the Luftwaffe had dropped a full payload on it. ‘I’ve been busy.’
‘You’re always busy. You work all hours. All you talk about is work, and you wonder why women find you boring.’
Effie had found him boring. ‘You’re right, Roger. I need a holiday. I’ll look the file out later. Have you seen this?’ Papers rustled and he drew something from a cardboard box that exuded the mustiness of age; it was a drawing of a gun barrel, standing erect, in the shape of a penis.
Roger laughed. ‘Some Tommy’s idea of a joke. Probably not far off the mark.’
‘It came in yesterday. Never fails to amaze me how they drew humour from waiting to be blown to bits.’
‘We all have coping mechanisms. Can I take it with me?’
‘Give me half an hour? I haven’t quite finished sorting through.’
Roger stopped by the door. ‘Some of us are going for a drink tonight. You coming?’
‘Too much work, Roger.’ He patted a stomach that was flat for his age. ‘And I need to get down the gym.’
‘Working off frustrated testosterone or hoping to meet a fit bird? Get a life, Adam.’
Roger knew where to hit: hard and low, but there was no malice in his taunt. Effie had gone, and taken his daughter with her. He’d accepted they were over, and he’d only ever be a part-time dad, but the closer he lived and worked to them the more he’d see of Gabrielle. If he got the Duxford job he could take a couple of weeks off before he started: spend time with Gabrielle before Effie whisked her away to France for the rest of the summer.
He stretched. Get a life, Adam. All he needed was a suit and a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t go amiss. He rifled through the box of papers. After an hour he had a sizable file of material for Roger.
He put the folder on a table next to the glass cases that would house the more fragile exhibits. ‘Here’s the stuff I promised you, Roger.’
‘Thanks.’ Roger flicked through it. ‘I don’t see the penis drawing.’
‘Must have left it on my desk. I’ll see if I can find it.’
He strode through the public areas, and caught up with an elderly couple who’d stopped to look at a Battle of Britain Spitfire suspended from the ceiling: the husband pointed, gesturing. Reliving a mission? A passing youth took his hand from his pocket. Something flashed.
Another flash and the boy walked on almost without pause. The elderly woman would notice nothing, until she found her handbag gone. Her generation had given their lives for the freedom of this scum. He followed the boy, who passed the handbag to a blonde woman before targeting his next victim.
His arm went around the youth’s neck and he gripped his knife arm. ‘Keep quiet or I’ll break your arm.’ The youth grunted and he propelled him to the nearest security guard. ‘He cut the strap of a woman’s handbag with a knife. His accomplice is a woman… mid-thirties, tallish, with long blonde hair. She’s wearing jeans and a pale top.’
The security man searched the youth. ‘A craft knife. I’ll call the police. Meanwhile we’ll see if we can locate the woman.’
He left the youth to security’s tender mercies and went in search of Roger’s drawing.
***
A sign informed Charlotte that the museum was built on the site of the old Bedlam mental hospital. Sirens wailed in the bombed-out ruins of burned
homes, bombers droned, shells exploded. She could smell smoke. Was the past leaking into the present? She followed an arrow that pointed to an exhibition of paintings, sculpture and trench art. Sculpture sounded hopeful. The area was closed when she got there, the exhibition still being set up.
She wasn’t at all sure she’d come to the right place, but she wasn’t going to be denied access now. She pushed open the door. Images frowned from the walls, stark in black and white. A glass case held the diaries, pencil sketches and letters home of the soldiers on the front line. She approached a man who was arranging a collection of sculptures: some bronzes and some carved in stone or wood.
‘We’re not open until tomorrow, I’m afraid.’
She showed him the photographs of the carvings. ‘Have you seen anything like these?’ She put the copies Grant had made of the fragmented messages on the table beside him. ‘These were inside them.’
He studied the photographs and messages for a long moment. ‘Can’t say I have. What makes you think I might?’
She explained what little she knew about the carvings and pointed out the initials on the back of the second slip of paper. ‘IWM. It’s a bit tenuous, but it’s the only clue I have. My grandmother thinks they were carved to express Grandpa’s wartime experiences. They aren’t trench art but they have to be connected to the war.’
He frowned. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s the Imperial War Museum, London.’ The man glanced at her left hand. ‘Miss…’
‘Masters.’ The pale band of heartbreak on her ring finger accused her, but the name on her lips was comforting: it had been who she was all her life, before Robin. Saying Cummings, now, would only cause confusion.
The man glanced at his watch. ‘I can fax copies to our departments, and the other IWM sites. It’ll save you traipsing all over the country. It won’t take a minute.’
She gathered the papers together. ‘Thank you. That would be an enormous help.’
The man returned, papers in hand. ‘The fax machine’s playing up. If I can keep these I’ll do it later.’
‘That’s great, thank you.’ She wrote Charlotte Masters, and Lucy’s home number, on one of the sheets of paper.
He reached in his top pocket. ‘Roger Evans… this is my card if you need to contact me. I’ll give you a ring if I get any joy but I can’t promise anything.’
She headed for the exit and Oxford Street. Charlotte Masters… Charlotte Cummings…
An iron hand gripped her arm and fear galvanised her. Robin… She twisted round, lashed out, and Lucy’s handbag hit something solid.
‘Ouch! Bloody hell…’ A stranger’s voice.
Not Robin? Her heart thundered as the man gripped her tighter, pinning both her arms. She kicked out. ‘Get off me!’
‘Stop attacking me and I’ll let go.’
‘I didn’t attack you.’ Bedlam: the straightjacket tightened. She stopped struggling and glared into grey eyes. The catch of the handbag had sliced the skin on his cheek.
He pulled her to her feet, blood dripping down his face and onto his faded sweatshirt. ‘If you weren’t a woman… The police are on their way.’
‘Good. I’m the one who’s been attacked, you… weasel. Get your filthy hands off me. I’ll see you charged with assault.’
‘Not before I see you done for pick-pocketing, inciting a minor to steal, receiving stolen goods… I suppose they’re in this holdall.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Don’t deny it… I saw you.’ He propelled her into the security office, where a youth sat pale-faced but rebellious, and pushed her into a chair. ‘Stay there and don’t bloody move, you… hellcat.’
She shook off his hand. ‘I haven’t done anything.’
Two policemen shouldered in. She leapt to her feet. ‘This man attacked me.’
‘We’ll take your statement in a moment, madam. Sir, you should get that cut looked at.’
The man fingered his face tentatively.
She got to her feet. ‘It was an accident.’
‘You want us to charge her with assault, sir?’
He waved an impatient hand. ‘I don’t have the time to waste.’
‘I shall need a formal statement, sir. Perhaps you’d come into the station when it’s convenient?’
‘I’ll come when I finish here.’
***
Dr Adam Bancroft. Assistant Keeper. Department of Documents.
Adam let the door slam behind him. Bloody woman… He threw aside papers, increasing the chaos on his desk and floor. The drawing he wanted found, he glanced at his watch. The hellcat had wasted more than half an hour of his precious time. More doors crashed and he strode into the exhibition hall.
Roger looked up. ‘What happened to you, Adam?’
‘Citizen’s arrest. Some lunatic woman… wasn’t impressed. Called me a weasel.’
‘You need to work on your chat-up line, mate.’
He gave Roger the drawing. ‘I wouldn’t chat her up if the only other female in the galaxy was a gorilla with bad breath. Caught her virtually red-handed and she has the balls to deny everything. I expect she’ll flutter her outraged eyelashes and get off with a bloody caution.’ He glanced at the photographs on the table. Curiosity overcame anger. ‘Where did these come from?’
‘A woman brought them… now her you would fancy, single too. It’s a bit of a puzzle. She has these two carvings and this is what was in them. She wants to know if we’ve seen anything like them.’
He dabbed at his cheek with a crumpled tissue. ‘They mean nothing to me… curious though.’ He put the photographs down, already thinking of the task at hand. He was soon lost in the past: caught up in the private lives and wartime humour of the men who’d fought for liberty and peace… he fingered the wheal on his cheek… and justice.
***
Charlotte stormed towards the door. ‘Why did you let him go?’
‘Sit down please, madam. I haven’t finished with you. Your name, please.’
She answered without thinking. ‘Charlotte Masters.’
The police officer held out his hand for her handbag. ‘You won’t mind proving that, then.’
‘Why should I have to prove anything? What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’
He emptied it, stony-faced, onto the desk and took out the credit cards. ‘So who is Mrs C. M. Cummings?’
‘Cummings is my married name. I’m… separated.’ It wasn’t quite a lie.
He held out a breakdown service card. ‘I suppose this is you, too, is it? Mrs L. M. Garrett.’
‘That’s my sister’s. I borrowed her handbag. It matches my shoes.’
He looked unconvinced. ‘I suppose the mobile is registered to you?’
‘It’s my…’
‘Sister’s? And I suppose you don’t know this youth, either.’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
The other officer looked across at the youth. ‘And what have you to say for yourself?’
‘Don’t know her from fucking Adam, Pig. I ain’t done nothing.’
‘We have a witness.’
‘One who should wear glasses.’ She couldn’t shake the memory of the pale grey eyes, or the deeper feeling they’d stirred.
‘And someone is fetching the CCTV footage.’
‘Good. Ring my sister if you don’t believe me.’
‘We will, Miss Masters… we will. In the meantime I’d like you both to accompany us to the police station.’
She was still shaking. Not at the thought of going to police station, a phone call to Lucy would put things straight, or even the shock of being assaulted, but the fact that she’d believed Robin had followed her, and that the belief had terrified her.
Chapter Eighteen
Adam twisted the throttle of his BMW motorcycle. The thrum of the twin cylinders sounded as smooth as twenty-year old silk could be expected to sound. He rode into the airfield, set in the flat Cambridgeshire landscape, and parked his bike. He che
cked his hair in the bar-end mirror. Stubble he could do nothing about: his cheek was too sore to shave.
He made a beeline for the Airspace hangar. An Anson drew him in, and nearby, dwarfed by a Sunderland, stood a Spitfire. He wanted this job, really wanted it, and not only for the planes: Effie and Gabrielle lived only ten miles away. He ran his hand over his chin. He was crap at interviews. Damn that hellcat. If he lost this job because of her… Maybe a coffee would help get his thoughts in order.
On the way to the café he paused; in a display case stood a weird carving that had to be the product of a demented mind. He’d seen something in a similar style quite recently, hadn’t he? He read the label.
Lime-wood carving donated by a survivor of two world wars, in memory of those who died under the shadow of the wolf.
Hitler had liked to be called Wolf. He rubbed his chin again and walked on. It would come to him eventually.
***
Adam shook the proffered hands. ‘Mr York, Dr Chapman.’
Mr York showed him to the door. ‘Thank you, Dr. Bancroft. We’ll be in touch.’
He left the office in the old airfield HQ; the interview had gone better than he’d hoped. The wait to hear if he’d be offered a second interview would be hell. He consulted his watch: five o’clock. He had time to see Gabrielle, if she was in. He rang Effie’s number: Gabrielle answered.
‘Hi, sweetheart. It’s Dad.’
‘Hi, Dad. You just caught me. I’m off to Sasha’s. We’re doing each others’ hair. You want to talk to Mum?’
‘I was hoping to see you. I’m in the area.’
‘I could ring Sasha… put her off.’
‘No, don’t change your plans… I should have called earlier. I’ll catch you next week?’
Her voice was breezy. ‘Okay. See you, yeah?’
‘See you. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Dad.’
She was growing up fast, too fast, fourteen already. He rang off. He had nothing to say to Effie that hadn’t been said a hundred times. There was no point telling her about the job unless he was offered it.