The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  Lucy left the next morning, her car loaded with books and papers and her painting, still damaged and no longer crated, leaning against the back seat.

  Robin was waiting for her outside the gallery with a huge grin. ‘The old place has missed you!’ he said giving her a hug.

  She walked slowly round the flat upstairs. Robin and Phil had turned the studio into a study for her and the windows were opened onto the September sunshine. They hung Evie’s picture, damaged as it was, on the wall. It looked as if it had come home.

  ‘Have you still got a lot of writing to do?’ Robin had brought a bottle of wine and they were sharing it in the back garden after the shop was closed that evening, seated at the little wrought-iron table.

  Lucy nodded. ‘Quite a few loose ends to tie up.’

  ‘But you’re not afraid?’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Of the horrible Edward Marston.’

  Lucy thought for a minute. ‘I suppose I am, yes. I will always be a bit afraid of him, but Maggie’s right. I don’t sense he has followed me here.’

  ‘So can I leave you here alone?’

  She smiled. ‘Of course you can. I am newly shriven by my contact with the Church. I can stand up to the worst ghost. For a while anyway.’ She resisted the urge to peer into the shadows. If Eddie was going to come for her she would sense his presence, she was sure of it. And he wasn’t here. Not at the moment.

  And there was something she had to do as soon as she was alone, something she had been meaning to do for a long time. She switched on her laptop and typed in the words, Anthony Anderson.

  Evie had been devastated by the news that Tony had been killed all those years ago. She had never mentioned him again until her conversation with Eddie. It was time to look up the official record of Tony’s death and the crash which had killed him.

  There were, of course, dozens of men with that name. She refined it down by typing in Battle of Britain and there he was. His squadron, his medals, his career. There were pictures of him, pictures she recognised from the young man in the portrait upstairs. She stared at the screen. There was no mention of a crash. He had been posted to Egypt in 1944, had returned to Britain at the end of the war, had resumed his studies at Edinburgh University. He had become a partner in a law practice in Edinburgh and had in 1970 become a Judge. He had retired in 1990. He was unmarried …

  He was unmarried.

  Lucy shook her head sadly.

  His address was care of the New Club, Edinburgh.

  Tony Anderson, now ninety-five, was still alive.

  32

  Wednesday 25th September

  Christopher pulled his car into the lay-by and switched off the engine. He was shaking violently, pouring with sweat. Opening the window, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths of the cool evening air then he fumbled for the door handle and at last managed to climb out of the car. He stood for a long time leaning on the fence, staring out across the fields. It couldn’t be true, of course. In fact it was impossible, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that Eddie was there, with him, in the car. He had become aware of him as he pulled out of the drive at home. Somehow he had overcome his desire to scream to a halt, leap out and leave the car where it was in the middle of the road. He had turned off up this lane only some two miles from home, swerving wildly, ever more conscious of the still, dark presence on the back seat.

  Now that he was out of the car he forced himself to turn round and look at it. He could see nothing. The sun was setting in a blaze of deep crimson, slowly being swallowed by dense black cloud and the shadows were creeping down the lane towards him. The interior of the car was invisible, stacked as it was with another load of paintings. Almost unconsciously he put his hand in his pocket to make sure he had the keys to the lock-up. It didn’t matter how late he was, the system gave him twenty-four-hour access, but still he had wanted to be there before dark. He took several deep breaths. It was ridiculous to think that the ghost of his grandfather was there in the car with him; that the ghost was malign, vicious even, but that was how it felt, how it had felt from the first moment he had been aware of the presence in his house. Hannah had known. Hannah was sensitive like her mother. In Frances the sensitivity irritated the daylights out of him, but in his daughter it brought out an aching sense of protectiveness. Why else would he have let the family disappear to Scotland, leaving him alone? The kids were at a day school up there now, temporarily, and loving it, apparently.

  And he was alone with more than a ghost; there was his conscience to face as well. He folded his arms with a shiver and turned away from the car to stare back across the fields. He had never suffered from conscience before, but ever since his father had died somehow he had felt as if the death had been his fault. How could it have been? He wasn’t there. He knew nothing of what had happened that night in Hampstead, so close to Eddie Marston’s old home, but it was all connected. Of that he was sure.

  It had started with the will.

  He had found an expert forger to add the codicil to his grandmother’s will, giving him all the paintings, leaving Mike with the cottage; he knew it was not what she would have wanted. He thought she would never know but now he was not so sure about that. She was watching him, he was certain of it, and she was disgusted. No one else knew but the thought of what he had done was for the first time making him uncomfortable. Mike had never suspected and there was no reason for his deception to be discovered by anyone, not even that nosy cow, Lucy Standish.

  The name Standish brought him back to the visit from the police. He shuddered. The sun was dropping lower. It was growing darker. They hadn’t accused him of anything, but they obviously knew that one of his contacts had sent Lee Ponting on his fatal mission. He had not intended to hurt anyone but something had driven him to act as he did. He couldn’t even remember now why he had decided the painting had to be destroyed. Some inner prompting, some instinct that he couldn’t allow it to continue to exist had driven him to do everything in his power to think of a way to get rid of the picture. It made no sense. It would be worth a fortune, like all Evie’s paintings, so why destroy it? What was it about that picture that had to be hidden forever? Only one person knew the answer to that. He realised it now. It was his grandfather. The thought that his grandfather had pushed him to do what he did filled him with horror.

  He turned to face the car again. He knew now why he had felt so panic-stricken, why he had had to climb out of it. He was expecting the car to burst into flames.

  It hadn’t. Not yet.

  It was completely dark when at last he forced himself to walk back and climb into the driver’s seat. The presence in the back had disappeared; the car just felt extremely cold and a bit damp. He turned the key, closed the door and pulled out onto the road heading for Southampton.

  Wednesday 25th September

  Tony Anderson was fairly tall, considering his years. He walked with a stick, but his shock of white hair and his bright blue eyes gave him a youthful appearance which matched his infectious smile. Lucy recognised the smile at once from the portrait.

  They had arranged to meet at the RAF Club. Though his home was in Edinburgh he was, it appeared, staying in London for a couple of weeks after taking part in some of the Battle of Britain anniversary celebrations. ‘Not many of us left from the old days,’ he said with a smile as she and Mike followed him to a corner of a large reception room on the first floor of the club and settled round a low table to wait for the tea he had ordered. ‘So, may I ask what this is about?’

  Lucy had spoken to him on the telephone and given him her name. Other than that she had been deliberately vague about the reason for the meeting. She wanted to make a judgement about how good this man’s memory was and whether she felt he was strong enough to confront a past which seemed to be so full of tragedy. He had assumed, she realised, that she wanted to interview him about the Battle of Britain. Well, in a way, she did.

  She glanced at Mike. ‘First I must introduce you tw
o properly. This is Michael Marston.’ She paused, watching Tony’s face. For a moment a shadow seemed to pass across his eyes, but he smiled gamely. ‘I see,’ was all he said.

  ‘Evie’s grandson,’ she went on gently.

  ‘So I guessed.’ He leaned back in his chair. His hands on the handle of his walking stick were very thin.

  Mike had said nothing. He seemed to be struck dumb.

  ‘I have been researching a book about Evie and her painting,’ Lucy went on, ‘and with Mike’s help we have been going through all Evie’s old records and notebooks.’ She paused. ‘And diaries,’ she added.

  ‘Ah.’ Tony nodded. ‘I see.’

  A bar steward appeared with a tray bearing a teapot and cups and a plate of biscuits. The three of them sat in silence watching as he set the table for them and then withdrew. The full-length windows in the room, looking out onto a balustrade, were open to the warm afternoon sun. They let in the sound of the rumble of traffic from Piccadilly below. On the far side of the busy road the trees of Green Park rustled gently in the breeze behind the railings. Their leaves were turning a golden brown.

  The interlude seemed to have given Tony time to gather his wits. ‘Evie and I knew one another a very long time ago. I followed her career, of course, she was famous, but we lost touch.’

  Lucy looked at Mike. ‘We have found out quite a bit about those early days.’ Suddenly she didn’t know how to go on. She stopped helplessly.

  ‘Why not pour the tea for us,’ Tony said firmly. ‘And you, Michael did you say your name was? You tell me what happened.’

  Mike took a deep breath. ‘From what we gather you gave a letter to Evie’s brother, Ralph. I’m afraid we read it.’ He hesitated before plunging on. ‘Evie never received it. Ralph was killed the next day and the letter and your ring were parcelled up with Ralph’s effects and returned to his mother. She was too upset to look at them and they stayed sealed in the original envelope from Ralph’s CO until last weekend when Lucy and I found it in an old writing case.’

  Tony bowed his head. He sighed. ‘So she never knew.’

  ‘No.’ Mike took a cup and saucer from Lucy and then put them down on the table. ‘I’m not sure how to tell you this.’ He paused. ‘But I think maybe you would like to know. She was pregnant. She was expecting your child. She didn’t know what to do when you flew back to Scotland without saying goodbye. She was devastated and she was under pressure from her parents so she agreed to marry her neighbour’s son, Edward Marston, who had been a suitor for a long time.’

  Tony nodded slowly. ‘Eddie would have been pleased about that.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, I knew him.’

  ‘She had a son, Johnny, my father,’ Mike said simply.

  Tony looked up. ‘So you are my grandson?’

  Mike nodded. To his embarrassment his eyes filled with tears.

  For a moment Tony didn’t say anything, then he leaned across and put his hand over Mike’s. ‘I never had any children of my own; I never married. Evie was the only one for me. You have no idea how much this means to me.’ He gave a beaming smile. Then he sobered again. ‘But why did Evie never get in touch? I told her in my letter that if she didn’t I would assume she didn’t want to marry me, but she didn’t know that. All she had to do was telephone.’

  ‘She thought you were dead. Your plane crashed.’

  Tony looked perplexed. ‘I don’t know what gave her that idea.’ He shook his head and then he nodded slowly as the memory came back. ‘Of course. When I was stationed at Prestwick a plane I often flew did crash out at sea. It was another poor sod who was killed. The base knew someone else was flying it, of course they did. I was on leave when it happened. But someone must have got the news wrong.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘Eddie gave her the message. Her diary records her misery. She mourned you all her life. She almost wrote to your parents and they would have told her the truth but she was too unhappy to finish the letter. We’ve seen it. Oh, Tony, I am so sorry.’

  Tony‘s face hardened. ‘There was a lot of suspicion at the time that someone was out to get me. I don’t know if it was true but I always thought it was Eddie. He was not a man to cross. It would have been like him to tell her I was dead.’ For several seconds he was silent, gazing into the distance, then he went on. ‘Of course her father hated me as well. Or at least he didn’t approve of me, for some reason.’ He shook his head wistfully. ‘I found out later, or perhaps I guessed,’ he paused, staring off into the distance for a moment, ‘that he was part of an Auxiliary Unit, a kind of underground army. He caught me once going to see Evie at night,’ he paused again. ‘I thought he was furious that I was there, but he was angry because I had seen him on his way to some kind of secret exercise.’ There was another silence. ‘I never quite lost touch – my mother kept everything she saw in the papers about Evie’s exhibitions and sent the cuttings to me – but I moved around a lot. I had several postings before being sent to Egypt towards the end of the war. I think my original CO was watching out for me, keeping me out of trouble – he suspected sabotage and knew about my suspicions, but I had seen that Evie was married and had children.’ He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘I assumed she had made her decision and had forgotten me.’ He paused. ‘Is Evie still alive?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘Oh, Tony, I am so sorry. She died fourteen years ago.’

  He nodded. ‘I assumed she must have gone. And Eddie?’

  Mike and Lucy exchanged glances.

  ‘He died in 1989,’ Mike said.

  ‘And Johnny. My son?’ Tony hesitated over the words.

  ‘I am afraid he is dead too.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘But he was young.’

  ‘Sixty. It was cancer.’

  ‘And he had a brother?’

  ‘Uncle George. I am afraid he died only a month ago in an accident.’

  ‘And he was Eddie’s son.’

  Mike nodded.

  Lucy cleared her throat. ‘George wasn’t Evie’s child. He was the son of a woman called Lavinia Gresham. It was in Evie’s diary. She wrote it all down. She lost a baby but shortly afterwards she found out that Eddie had a mistress who lived in Arundel and she went to see her and met the little boy. He was called Paul. Sometime later Lavinia died, I suspect of TB, and Eddie brought the child home. He changed his name to George. Evie seems to have doted on him. I don’t think he ever knew they had adopted him.’

  Mike stood up abruptly. ‘It has just occurred to me that Christopher is no blood relation to Evie at all,’ he said. He spoke more loudly than he intended and glanced round, embarrassed, realising that the room had grown silent and people at the other tables were staring at him.

  ‘I suppose not.’ Lucy nodded.

  ‘And he took all the paintings!’

  ‘I don’t suppose he knew he was no relation. I don’t think George knew either although he did tell me that Johnny had once said he was adopted. He thought it was Johnny being mean and he didn’t really believe it. Or he didn’t want to believe it.’

  She became aware that Tony had beckoned one of the stewards over. ‘I think this needs something stronger than tea,’ he said firmly. ‘What do you two drink?’ He pushed his teacup away. ‘My goodness. An hour ago I had no family. Now I seem to have inherited a grandson, a family scandal, one might almost call it a hornets’ nest, all sorts of relations, through you, my boy, and by the look of things, a biographer as well!’ He smiled at Lucy.

  She returned the smile, almost mesmerised. ‘I am so pleased we found you. It is weird. This all goes back to your friendship with Ralph. My late husband bought a picture which he thought was a self-portrait of Evie. He started to clean it and there was a portrait of you, standing behind her shoulder in your air force uniform. It had been painted out, presumably by Eddie. Then I saw Ralph’s ghost.’

  There was a long silence.

  Mike cleared his throat. ‘There is a lot to catch up on, clearly. I don’t
want to impose on you, but if you would like to take this further, I would love you to come down to Sussex. I inherited Evie’s cottage. It was her refuge from Eddie, the place she and her boys lived for many years.’

  Tony had ordered a double malt whisky. He reached for it and took a hefty swig. ‘I certainly want to take it further, as you put it. Please don’t think I don’t want to know you all. This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.’ He took another sip. ‘I have just one painting by Evie. It is a portrait of me. She did it as a present for my parents in the middle of the Battle of Britain so they would have something to remember me by if I was killed.’ He shook his head. ‘When I went back home from Sussex and told them we weren’t going to be married after all my mother put it away in case I was upset by seeing it in their house but she treasured it and when my parents died I found it. It has always been a very special thing for me.’ Again he paused. ‘I would love to come to your cottage, Michael. Thank you.’

  Thursday 26th September, the early hours

  The banging on the door woke Huw from a deep sleep. He sat up abruptly, reaching for the light switch and groped for his watch.

  ‘What time is it?’ Maggie murmured.

  ‘Two thirty.’ Huw groaned. ‘Don’t get up. I’ll see who it is.’

  Grabbing his dressing gown he turned on the lights and stumbled downstairs, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to straighten it.

  He turned on the porch light before opening the door and peering out. At first he could see no one then he realised there was someone standing in the driveway. As the door opened the man turned to face it, his clothes muddy, his face scarred by a deep scratch. He was trembling visibly.

  ‘Help me, please. I’m Christopher Marston, Frances’s husband. You helped her and my daughter. Please, you have to help me! Please, let me in.’