by Pam Lecky
Northcott grunted again and drummed the steering wheel. ‘Well then, have you anything to tell me? Anything useful?’
For a split second, Sarah considered lying again; but what was the point? Besides, the quicker this was over, the better for everyone. ‘I met Rob in Winchester last Sunday.’
‘I am aware of that,’ he ground out. ‘You told me you were going to meet him. Something about an exhibition?’
Sarah stiffened with annoyance. Northcott was showing a less pleasant side this evening. ‘Yes. We attended the event, but it was uncomfortably crowded. Rob suggested a walk down by the river.’
‘How delightful. Do go on. Did McArthur make his move?’
Sarah had to bite her tongue. ‘He didn’t waste much time at all. The conversation turned to the bombing in Dublin … the one—’
‘Yes, Miss Gillespie; I do know to what you are referring.’
‘And he tried to convince me it was a British plot to force the Irish to join the Allies.’
‘Good Lord! That was a clever move. And did you fall for this ruse?’
Sarah sighed. ‘Yes, I led him to believe I did.’
‘And?’
‘That was it. We talked of other things after that.’
‘Hmm, so he has laid the groundwork. Very good. We shall have to hope he will broach the subject of plans sooner rather than later. You have hooked him. I knew you could do it. But you must appear co-operative. When he eventually asks for them, you must provide him with the most up-to-date drawings you can get your hands on. Working at Supermarine, he will know well what the latest mark will be. It is my understanding that a new high-altitude version is being worked on. Keep a lookout for those plans specifically. He won’t be fobbed off with something out of date. It is imperative you convince him you are genuine and want to help him.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘When do you meet him again?’
‘Sunday.’
‘Do your best to encourage him along, Sarah.’
‘Certainly; that is what I have been doing. I feel he is close to revealing his plans. However, there is something troubling me. Can I ask you something?’
Northcott grunted. ‘Fire away, if it’s relevant.’
‘Rob seems to be close to one of the other tracing girls. A girl called Ruth Howard. They walked out together briefly, but they still seem to be on very good terms. Obviously, she has not provided him with plans or you would have no need of me, but do you think she could be helping him? Or even just sympathetic to his cause? She was very annoyed with me initially when I didn’t want to see him again. It didn’t make much sense to me.’
Northcott continued to stare out the windscreen. ‘I haven’t heard of this girl. Trust me, if she were working with him, I would know about it. You are far too easily distracted. You must concentrate on the job in hand, Sarah.’
‘I am doing my best in very difficult circumstances. Any advice you can offer would be appreciated. What do you suggest I do next … sir?’ Sarcasm was the only weapon in her arsenal. Northcott threw her a nasty glance, but it was worth it to know she was needling him.
‘McArthur is a fascist. Tell him about your father and his less-than-angelic past. McArthur may know of this already through his contacts, but either way he should be impressed. That should open up the conversation to all manner of—’ He broke off as a head popped above the wall opposite. ‘Good God!’ Northcott froze, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
With dismay, Sarah watched the figure climb over the wall, then pull a large bag and an easel up after him, before walking down the boundary for a couple of yards. From there, the young man pulled a bicycle out from behind the hedgerow and strapped the bag and easel to the back carrier.
The man wheeled his bicycle along the road towards them. When he reached the car, he stopped and stared, first at Northcott, then at Sarah as if struggling to place her.
It was Alfie Atkins.
‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘Alfie must have been painting at Merdon Castle.’
Northcott swung round, his eyes wide. ‘You know him!’
‘Yes. What a coincidence! He was the artist whose exhibition I was at on Sunday. He’s very talented.’ Northcott gave her a look which bordered on murderous.
Afraid to react, Sarah sat still, cursing her bad luck, avoiding eye contact with Alfie. Of all the people to turn up! She knew Northcott would be mad with her, since she had claimed no one used this road. And worse still, someone who knew her had spotted them.
Alfie frowned at her, then continued on his way, wheeling his bicycle for several yards. Sarah sighed with relief; but to her horror, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the car once more before mounting the bicycle and heading towards the main road.
‘What’s his name and where does he live?’ Northcott hissed the question.
‘Why? I don’t think he recognised me. He’s just a harmless kid who paints landscapes,’ she said. But Northcott’s eyes blazed into hers. She crumbled. ‘His name is Alfie Atkins, and he has a studio above Rob McArthur’s flat in Winchester. I don’t know his home address. He lives in his own little bubble, Captain. I doubt he even remembers who I am or where we met.’ Sarah gave him Rob’s address.
Northcott ignored her protestations and wrote it all down on a scrap of paper before tucking it into his pocket. ‘Clearly, we cannot meet here again.’ His voice shook with rage. ‘I will contact you next week to make new arrangements.’
It was a dismissal. Sarah released the door lever, but just as she swivelled her legs around to exit the car, her arm was gripped tightly, forestalling her. She had to twist back to face him.
‘Don’t fail me, Miss Gillespie. Ensure you make progress with McArthur on Sunday or I will be extremely dissatisfied. I have invested a huge amount of time and effort in this operation. I will not have it flounder because of you—’ he glanced down the road at Alfie’s retreating figure ‘—or a boy artist.’
Sarah glared back at him and ground out: ‘Yes, sir.’
Northcott released her arm and started the engine. Sarah jumped out, then stood back and watched him pull off and speed away. Hateful man!
The light was fading as she trekked homeward, rubbing her upper arm. There would be a lovely bruise there in the morning, she had no doubt whatsoever.
23
26th October 1941, Winchester
Steel-grey clouds hung low on the horizon and the air held the promise of rain as Sarah bade farewell to the Lambes outside St Peter’s Church after Sunday Mass. As she stood and watched, they headed off to catch the bus back to Hursley. She waited until they disappeared from view, half wishing she could go with them. Aunt Alice was in poor spirits. Judith had cancelled yet again, and at the last minute. Her excuse of being inundated with work rang false to Sarah. Alice had spent all day Friday baking in her honour, having saved up her rations for the expected visit. If Sarah ever met this cousin, she’d have something to say to her about her treatment of her parents.
Sarah headed south towards the riverbank. A sharp breeze met her as she turned the corner and she had to tuck her scarf more securely round her neck. With a tug, she pulled her knitted hat, which Aunt Alice had produced for her that very morning, down around her ears. October was showing its teeth today, Sarah thought, and increased her stride. Down by the river, the fast-flowing water reflected the bleakness of the sky. It wasn’t half as inviting for a stroll on such a day; not one other person was walking the Weirs. Even the ducks were missing. Continuing at a brisk pace, she was relieved to see Rob sitting on the bench waiting. He was staring out over the water, preoccupied, and she wondered what mischief was brewing in his head.
‘Hello, there,’ she greeted him, stopping in front of him. ‘Penny for those thoughts!’
Rob looked up and a flash of surprise crossed his features. ‘Sarah!’
‘Had you forgotten we were meeting today?’
‘No, no. Sorry, I was miles away.’ Rob patte
d the bench. ‘Come and sit, please; you’re a welcome sight.’
Sarah shivered as she sat down. ‘Not too warm here today, is it?’
‘Definitely a change for the worst.’ He leaned over and kissed her, his lips a cold surprise and in sharp contrast to the warmth of his gaze. Luckily, she had expected it and didn’t recoil.
‘We might go for a coffee in a bit to warm up. How are you? I haven’t seen you all week, not even at lunchtime. Are you busy?’ he asked.
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Need you ask? The work seems to increase exponentially every week. There’s talk of them hiring more draughtsmen and tracers, though where they are going to put them, I do not know.’
Rob nodded, but it didn’t look like he was listening. She studied his face; if she wasn’t mistaken, he had been weeping; his eyes were red-rimmed. ‘What’s wrong, Rob? Are you unwell?’
‘Ah, Sarah, you won’t believe it. The most awful thing has happened. I heard about it yesterday afternoon.’
Sarah gripped his arm. ‘Oh no! Is it one of your family? Your brother in Cairo?’
Rob shook his head and swallowed hard. ‘No, my family is fine. It’s young Alfie.’
‘Alfie? What about him?’
‘He’s dead, Sarah.’
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. ‘What? How?’
‘He was found yesterday morning in a ditch just outside town. Looks like a hit and run some time on Friday night.’ Rob sighed. ‘He isn’t the first, either. With practically no lights on bicycles these days, cars can’t see you until they are right on top of you, and then it’s too late.’
With horror, Sarah grappled with the news, her instincts screaming at her that this was no accident. ‘Yes, it can be scary on the roads at night; but Alfie would have heard a car coming up behind him. Which road was it?’
‘The road from Hursley. He must have been out painting somewhere Friday evening, poor sod. It happened on that dangerous bend.’
‘My God! What a terrible waste. Alfie’s family must be devastated, Rob.’ Sarah’s heart sank as she recalled Northcott’s anger at Alfie’s sudden appearance; his insistence on knowing his address. Her mind was churning with questions. When Alfie left Merdon Castle, he would have turned left and journeyed home via the Winchester Road. She tried to remember which way Northcott had turned when he got to the main road. But she had been too preoccupied, mulling over their conversation and nursing her grievances. Northcott lived in Southampton; he must have gone in the opposite direction to Alfie: he would have taken a right turn. Still, he had been livid. Was he that concerned about being seen with her that he would have—? Could Northcott have followed Alfie onto the Winchester Road and killed him? It would be easy to make it look like a hit and run. Everyone would assume it was a terrible accident.
‘They are in an awful state, as you can imagine,’ Rob said, breaking into her jumbled thoughts. ‘Mr Atkins came by the studio first thing yesterday morning. Alfie hadn’t come home on Friday evening and he was worried about him. He thought Alfie might have worked through the night in the studio. He had done so a couple of times before. Time was something Alfie didn’t pay much attention to. But I would usually hear him knocking about or playing his music, and I told Mr Atkins I hadn’t heard Alfie at all the previous evening. Of course he had to check, so I went upstairs with him. The attic was empty. The best advice I could give him was to go to the police and report Alfie missing. But just as Mr Atkins arrived at the station, a local farmer came in and reported finding a body out on the Winchester Road.’
‘Poor Mr Atkins!’
‘Yes, and then he had to identify the body once they brought Alfie to the morgue. Later, he came back to the studio and I found him sitting on the stairs, sobbing his eyes out, wondering how he was going to break the news to his wife. Alfie was their only child.’
Sarah closed her eyes as adrenaline pumped through her. If only she hadn’t admitted she knew Alfie. This was all her fault. Unless it was a genuine accident … No! That would be too much of a coincidence. But what threat could Alfie have really posed to Northcott? It didn’t make sense; but at least she knew what kind of ruthless man she was dealing with now. Could the secret service get away with such behaviour? Unfortunately, there was no one she could ask – certainly not Northcott.
An icy gust blew along the riverbank and Sarah shivered. She tucked her hand through Rob’s arm. ‘Come on, it’s freezing here. I think we could both do with a stiff drink.’
Rob glanced at his watch. ‘An excellent idea. If we hurry, we can catch the Fox and Goose before it shuts for the afternoon. It isn’t too far from here.’
The Fox and Goose was half empty; most of the clientele were flat-capped old men, sitting over their pints, or nursing a glass of spirits in the gloom. A fire smouldered and smoked in the grate, and every so often released puffs of smoke out into the room. Sarah’s eyes watered. Decades of that smoke had stained the ceiling and walls to a rich mahogany. Sarah headed for a table near the window, as far away from the fireplace as she could get, while Rob went to the bar. She was still shivering, but it wasn’t from the cold. How was she to remain composed? The news about Alfie had shocked her deeply. But she had to act normally. To let down her guard now might prove fatal. How naïve she had been; this was no game.
The door pushed open and a middle-aged couple entered, arm in arm. The man’s gaze swept the pub and rested on her for a few moments. Sarah froze. Did the man’s gaze linger just a little too long? Under her lashes she watched the new arrivals, heart thumping, as they searched for a free table. Eventually, the couple sat at a table on the far side of the bar and Sarah’s breathing slowed. She was becoming paranoid.
Rob returned and placed a welcome gin and tonic down in front of her. She had to resist the urge to down it in one go.
‘To Alfie,’ Rob said, clinking her glass with his malt whisky.
‘To Alfie,’ she echoed.
‘I still can’t believe it, Sarah. I’ll miss the poor little blighter.’ Rob scratched his head, as if bewildered. ‘He was a queer fish; totally absorbed in his work. He was one of those characters you only come across once in a lifetime, I suspect. Sometimes, I’d sit and watch him paint up in the studio. He didn’t even notice me, most of the time. It was a fascinating process, to watch a scene evolve before your eyes. The tiniest mark with his knife or a brush, and suddenly it would come to life. But I don’t need to tell you. You saw the results for yourself.’
His words twisted her gut, but what could she say? ‘Yes, he was exceptionally talented. Such a shame that so few will get to see his work now.’ The platitudes rolled off her tongue far too easily. In that moment, she hated what she had become. It probably had something to do with the company she was keeping of late.
‘Or the art he was yet to create,’ Rob said with a sigh. ‘He could have gone on to great things.’
‘I’m glad I met him, even if it was only briefly,’ she said.
‘Poor old Alfie. Of course, you do realise he could have met you the following day and he wouldn’t have had a clue who you were.’
His words stabbed her conscience, and she took another gulp of her gin. If only she hadn’t said his name when he had stopped in front of Northcott’s car. ‘Did he often paint outdoors?’ she asked.
‘He did most days, weather permitting, but every evening he’d be up in the studio by the time I’d get home. I’d hear the music halfway down the street.’ Rob’s tone was bleak. Sarah reached over and held his hand. Rob couldn’t be all bad to be so affected by the young man’s death.
They sat in companionable silence for several minutes.
‘Drew, is that you, old man?’ A young man approached their table, a wide grin on his face. He slapped Rob’s shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages. Not since we left school. What are you doing in Winchester?’
Rob’s grip on her hand tightened. He turned to face the man and blinked. ‘I’m sorry, I think you must have mistaken me for someone else.’
The man stalled, frowning down at Rob. ‘Oh! Sorry, mate, my mistake.’ His tone and puzzled expression suggested otherwise, and Sarah studied Rob’s reaction closely. He was blushing.
Rob cast the man a peculiar glance before looking down into his glass, his body rigid. The stranger nodded to Sarah, his face flushing bright red before he walked away, shaking his head.
‘He seemed sure he knew you,’ Sarah said. Rob isn’t his real name.
Rob shrugged. ‘Happens all the time. I have one of those faces, I suppose.’ Then he seemed to shake off his ghosts. ‘Pity you didn’t come to the cinema; I missed you on Friday night. It was a brilliant film.’
Sarah played along with the change of subject. ‘I had an Agatha Christie to finish and I was dog tired. Martin told me all about The Maltese Falcon yesterday morning over breakfast. In fact, he has been raving about it ever since. He is a big Humphrey Bogart fan.’
‘As am I! It was marvellous.’
‘If it’s still on next Friday, I’ll go and see it,’ she said.
‘Let me know if you do want to go. I’d be only too glad to see it again.’
‘Sure, why not?’ she replied, doing her best to smile.
‘Thank God the cinemas are open. Films are a great escape from reality just now.’
‘Very true. It’s nothing but bad news. The war, now Alfie …’
Rob frowned across at her. ‘I know; poor Alfie’s death must have come as a shock to you, too.’
A shock! It was utterly terrifying. If only you knew! Sarah sighed. ‘I’m finding it difficult to comprehend. He was far too young to die.’
‘I know. I’m struggling to make sense of it, too,’ Rob said. ‘If it wasn’t for this bloody war and blackout, the poor little sod would still be alive.’
‘I wish to God it would end soon,’ she said.
‘Well, it won’t while people insist on casting the Germans as the only baddies, now will it?’ Rob said with a frown. He swallowed the rest of his whisky. ‘When will this country see sense?’
‘You know, after what you said about what happened in Dublin …’ she lowered her voice, ‘… that it might not have been Jerry? I have been thinking about little else. And do you know what? It makes so much sense. Now, I have to question what I am doing here helping the British war effort.’