The Forgotten Letters of Esther Durrant

by Kayte Nunn

  * * *

  Richard said nothing at supper that night, but watched the two men carefully for any sign that might give them away. If he hadn’t seen them with his own eyes, he would have doubted there was anything untoward between them, but he could not shake the scene; it flashed back at him like a silent film, the images flickering in his memory.

  He turned the problem over in his mind. On the one hand, who was he to deny them, let alone judge them? Did he perhaps share some of the blame for this, locking them away in such a remote place with nowhere to turn for comfort but to each other? Was the torture they’d experienced in the prisoner-of-war camps somehow part of the cause? On the other hand, what they were doing was immoral, more than that, illegal, and he had a responsibility to uphold the law. How long would he be able to pretend ignorance? Was anyone else aware of it? He eyed Jean, who was forking up mashed potatoes with enthusiasm, smiling at something Wilkie had just said. She missed little, that he knew.

  Chapter Forty-One

  London, Spring 2018

  Rachel’s phone buzzed and she turned it over. A message from Eve.

  Not sure how long you’ll be in London for, but Grams is feeling better and would really like to meet you. She wants to ask you about the letters.

  She was due to see Dr. Wentworth that morning and had woken early, anxious about what he might have to say to her. In the few short days she’d spent in London, she had found herself missing the cool gray skies and low islands and, disconcertingly, a certain charismatic water-ambulance officer. She didn’t want her supervisor to sack her before she’d scarcely begun the study.

  Her train back to Cornwall was due to leave that evening—she’d booked the sleeper, which would get her into Penzance early the next morning and in time for the daily ferry to St. Mary’s. She thought a moment before texting back.

  Can we make it this afternoon?

  As she pulled a brush through her hair and twisted it in a messy bun, her phone buzzed again.

  Four o’clock?

  She would just have time to spend an hour or so there before returning to the station for her train. She sent a thumbs-up emoji and then grabbed her bag before heading off to her meeting.

  * * *

  “So, Rachel. Perhaps I might hear this sorry story from the beginning?”

  Charles Wentworth looked at her disapprovingly over his glasses as Rachel began to explain, his expression darkening as she described her decision to try and tow the dinghy to shore.

  “I must say, I find myself somewhat at a loss. Less than a week into the job and you’ve lost your only mode of conducting this research. It’s all extremely UNFORTUNATE,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  Rachel could hear the word as if it were capitalized like his emails and she felt what little optimism she had brought into the room evaporate. “I’ll replace it, of course,” she said, knowing that the cost would probably wipe out her savings. “If the insurance doesn’t come through that is.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll have to see about that. You said the outboard quit?”

  “It did.”

  “It was supposed to have been serviced before being handed over to you . . . I’ll check on that. Leave it with me,” he said abruptly. “You brought the police report?”

  Rachel handed it over.

  “Now, as to your ability to continue the research . . .” He looked pointedly at her arm.

  “It’ll heal soon,” Rachel said quickly. “And I’ll work extra days to catch up, when I’m back on board that is. And I’m sure I can find a boat to borrow too.”

  He made a steeple of his fingers and looked at her with an expression that Rachel struggled to read.

  “I believe that when we last met, I raised the fact that funding hadn’t been signed off on,” he said.

  Rachel’s spirits sank even lower. Was the project to be abandoned before she’d even properly begun?

  “The good news is that it’s been approved—in fact, we’ve managed to secure funding for the project for the next five years.”

  “Five years?”

  “One of the bigwigs at Ag and Fish caught wind of it and gave it a leg up in the committee hearing.”

  “Ag and Fish?” she asked.

  “Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Food. And then the Department for Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs got involved. Best not to ask exactly why, but the upshot is that we’re expanding the scope of the project. However,” he paused, “in light of recent developments I’m sorry to say that we will be looking for someone else to run it.”

  “What?” Rachel was astonished. “But why . . . ?” He held his hand up to silence her but she plowed on regardless. “I’m ideally qualified for this and my references are excellent. Please, I would ask you to reconsider. Why waste more time trying to find someone else when you’ve got the best candidate already in place? I know I am the right person for the job.” Rachel was surprised to find herself arguing so vehemently for a posting that would mean staying in one place for the next five years.

  “You would need to commit to the entire project. I noted from your previous experience that you don’t tend to stay anywhere longer than a couple of years. Can you assure me you would be there to complete the project?” It was as if he were reading her thoughts.

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  There was a long silence. She felt like a specimen squirming under a microscope but held his gaze, did not back down.

  “Very well then,” he said. “I will discuss the matter with my superiors, but remember that I’m going out on a limb here for you. We can’t afford to have any more such incidents in the future.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” No more near drownings or wrecked boats.

  “I only hope I’m making the right decision.”

  So did she.

  * * *

  Esther Durrant was a very old woman. That was Rachel’s first thought as she stepped into the living room of the house in Hampstead she’d visited a couple of days ago.

  “Grams,” Eve said loudly. “Grams, Rachel is here, you know the lady I told you about, the one who brought the photo.”

  Esther was sitting on a chair facing a vase of daffodils. She was frail-looking, with hair that flowed over her shoulders like a silver river, and a deeply lined face. Her shoulders pulled across a cardigan like a coathanger, and impossibly slim wrists extended from the sleeves. Her legs too were long and thin as sticks and her feet were set at an awkward angle on a small footstool. Her eye sockets were deep and the eyelids hooded, but beneath them Rachel could see that her eyes were the same color, if a little more faded, as her granddaughter’s. She might be old, but Rachel could see that she must once have been a striking woman.

  “Hello, Mrs. Durrant,” Rachel began.

  The woman waved her closer. “It’s Esther, please. And come and sit where I can see you. My eyesight’s not what it once was. Nor my hearing, I’m afraid.”

  Rachel sat on a chair that had been thoughtfully placed next to Esther’s, putting the daypack she’d been carrying down on the carpet beside her.

  “Eve, darling, perhaps we might have some tea? You would like tea, my dear?”

  “Oh yes please, thank you.” Rachel had skipped lunch and hadn’t even brought water with her.

  “And some of those flapjacks too,” Esther called out as Eve left the room.

  A few minutes later, Eve reappeared carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups, and a china plate stacked with the requested flapjacks. “Here you go Grams. Would you like me to pour?”

  Esther waved her away. “We can manage, darling. I’m sure Rachel can help.”

  “All right then, just let me know if you need anything else. I’ll be upstairs.”

  “Poor girl,” said Esther when Eve had left. “It must be tedious for her to be here looking after me. She was supposed to be in Africa, helping to build a school with her boyfriend. Instead, she’s been stuck here all winter. Now, where were we?”

  “Eve said
that you wanted to see me about the letters that I found.”

  “Tell me again where exactly they were.”

  Rachel explained about the suitcase that Leah had brought down for her.

  “I’m afraid I left the island in rather a hurry,” Esther said. “A suitcase of mine was supposed to be sent after me, but never was. I still don’t understand how the letters got there.”

  Rachel shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help on that front.”

  “There is something you can help me with. If you’re willing?”

  Rachel looked at the old lady. Was she going to find out the story of who had written the letters?

  “I wonder if you might help me track down the author?”

  “Of course. But do you think he—or she—is still alive?” Rachel said doubtfully. “Those letters were written a long time ago. Sorry if that comes across as harsh, but I am just being realistic. I’d hate to get your hopes up.”

  “Who’s going to get her hopes up?” said Eve, entering the room.

  Esther sighed. “You might as well hear this too,” she said. “After all, you’ll know soon enough.”

  “Know what?”

  “The name of the person who wrote the letters.”

  Rachel and Eve looked at her expectantly.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Little Embers, Spring 1952

  Jolted awake by a scream that shredded the air around him, Richard shot out of bed, reaching automatically for his dressing gown. Early morning—or middle of the night, for that matter—disturbances were not uncommon, but there was something about the tone of this cry that was different.

  Terrified.

  Urgent.

  Shrill enough to curdle the blood.

  It propelled him down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out of the back door before he even had time to consider the fact that he was barefoot.

  He looked around frantically. Nothing seemed to be untoward. The first rays of the sun glowed through the damp mist that cloaked the trees and shrubs. There wasn’t a breath of wind and a curious stillness overlaid the island. Even the birds, which should have been tuning up for the dawn chorus, were silent. The orchard, not a hundred yards from where he stood, was an army of shadows, each one a soldier marching as if in battle formation.

  Richard rubbed his eyes and warned himself against such fanciful imaginings—it must have been the claret he’d drunk last night in an attempt to dull the fact of Esther’s decision. His head pounded in time with his pulse and his tongue was thick in his mouth. He was about to turn back, thinking the heartrending sound must have come from inside the house, when someone screamed again. This time there was no mistaking the owner of the sound, nor the direction from which it came.

  He ran toward the orchard, his heart in his mouth. “Esther! Esther, is that you?” he cried. “Where are you?” He stumbled on a tussock of grass, oblivious to the fact that the bottoms of his pajamas were now soaked with dew, and ran on, toward the sound. He imagined her hurt, injured, certainly in pain: what catastrophe might have befallen her?

  Within a few seconds he was at the edge of the orchard, and then, by Esther’s side. He noticed that she held a shovel in one hand and that the empty clamming bucket lay on its side on the ground next to her. Her eyes were as dark as pansies in her pale face, her body shaking with violent spasms. She didn’t seem to register his presence, didn’t seem to see him at all, staring off into the distance, her eyes glazed over.

  He grasped her firmly by her forearms, trying to still the shaking. “Esther,” he said. “Esther, it’s me, Richard. What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  She collapsed into his arms, not speaking for several minutes while he continued to hold her. Eventually, she spoke, but he could barely make out her words. “It’s Robbie. Poor, poor Robbie,” she sobbed before uttering another wild, keening cry. In all the time he’d been treating her, Richard had never seen her lose her composure like this. It scared him more than her screams had.

  “What?” He shook her, as if the action might bring her to her senses. “Esther, what is it?”

  “Robbie . . .” She gulped again. “He’s over there.” She pulled away from him, turned and pointed into the thick of the orchard, where the old trees grew close together, their branches so intertwined that it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began. Then her knees buckled and she sank to the grass, the shovel abandoned, her face in her hands.

  Richard walked toward the knotted trees, glancing back several times to check that Esther was still there. She hadn’t moved an inch. As he walked farther into the orchard the mist became thicker and he struggled to see more than a few feet ahead. Then, all of a sudden, the dark shape of a man loomed in front of him.

  The first thing he noticed was his shoes. Unlaced, as if he’d been in too much of a hurry to tie them properly. And only then that they were suspended a few inches above the long grass, a pile of flattish stones lying in disarray beneath his feet.

  The soldier dangled from a thin noose that had been tied to an upper branch of one of the apple trees, his head at an unnatural angle.

  Richard had no idea where Robbie would have obtained the cord. He had always been careful to keep such items—knives and skewers too, anything that might be misused—carefully locked away.

  His face was bloated, eyes bulging, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Richard felt a wave of nausea roll over him and he recoiled from the sight, staggering a few footsteps before retching bile onto the grass, heaving until there was nothing left in his stomach.

  Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he returned to the body that swung ever so gently, as if it were a metronome marking out adagio time. Richard had seen his share of harrowing sights, had imagined himself immune to them, but this, a man he had come to care for . . . it was unthinkable.

  Why had this happened? How? He’d had a brief conversation with Robbie just yesterday and nothing seemed to be amiss. How could he not have foreseen this? He kicked himself for having been so intent upon Esther in recent weeks that he failed to notice any warning signs. He had counseled suicidal men before and once, at Northfield, a colleague’s patient had used a razor blade in the bath, but this was the first time someone under his care had chosen to end his life.

  After a while, he turned away and retraced his steps. There was nothing more he could do for Robbie, at least not in this moment, but he hoped, at least, to comfort Esther.

  He found her where he’d left her, sunk to her knees and oblivious to the seeping damp. She was still shaking, her body quivering and her teeth chattering.

  “We should return to the house.”

  She looked up at him with fear in her eyes. “I should have known. He tried to tell me,” she said. “Last week, on the beach.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That he was in love with George.”

  Richard remembered a conversation he’d had with George just before his visit to the mainland. He had spoken of contemplating suicide while he was a soldier. “I had been living in such bitter cold and was utterly miserable,” George said. “I got to the point where I didn’t really care what happened to me. One day I was cleaning my gun and the thought floated to me—a click of the safety, a tug of the trigger, and it would all be over. Blissful escape. My fingers were trembling as I forced myself to put the safety catch back on. I didn’t want to kill myself, at least I don’t think so, but after that I was afraid. Afraid that I was going to do it on impulse, and that if I did that, I’d be letting everyone down, especially my men.” Richard had warned Jean to keep a close eye on George while he was away, but it hadn’t occurred to him to worry about Robbie.

  He had believed the man was making solid progress and would have been ready to return to the mainland within weeks. In fact, they had discussed just the day before what his life might be like when he left Embers and Richard had confirmed that Robbie’s time on the island was drawing to a close. Could that have been the trigger?

&nbs
p; Richard put his head in his hands.

  The police would have to be summoned; his practice would be scrutinized, perhaps even suspended, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. His first concern was for Esther and his other patients. He could well imagine the effect on them, that months of recovery might be lost as they were plunged into uncertainty and their own private despair again. Suicide would have a devastating effect on all of them, but George would take the news especially hard.

  “Come on, darling, let’s get back to the house.” He held a hand out to Esther and helped her up.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  London and St. Mary’s, Spring 2018

  His name was—is—Richard Creswell.” Esther’s voice shook as she said the name, as if it was one she’d not allowed herself to say for the longest time. “He was the doctor at Embers. We didn’t mean to fall in love. We were the best of friends . . .”

  “But he was your doctor. You were his patient. You were ill, vulnerable,” Eve interrupted, a look of astonishment on her face. “And you had been committed by your husband.”

  “Don’t judge me, Eve,” said Esther. “Not without knowing how it was. To begin with I was as angry as you. I couldn’t fathom that John would send me away, away from Teddy and my home, without my consent. But it wasn’t as black and white as that—”