The Forgotten Letters of Esther Durrant

by Kayte Nunn

  “Rachel found something that she thinks belongs to you,” said Jonah, helping her over her hesitation.

  “Oh yes?” He looked puzzled.

  “Letters,” she said. “I apologize, but I read them before I knew exactly what they were. You’re the ‘R,’ aren’t you?”

  The doctor slumped back in his chair. It was clear he knew exactly which letters she was referring to. “They were merely the foolish imaginings of a much younger man,” he said eventually.

  Rachel didn’t believe him for a second.

  “Do you have them?” he asked.

  “Er . . .” Rachel hesitated once more. “Actually, I gave them to Esther—Mrs. Durrant. It was her name on the envelopes you see. She told me your name, but that’s all I really had to go on to start with. She asked me to help her find you.”

  He started. “She did?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Let me be clear, you’re telling me that Esther’s read the letters?”

  “Yes, I believe she has,” said Rachel.

  “And that she asked you to look for me.”

  “She did.”

  Richard ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes glistening. “It feels like it was yesterday. She was the loveliest of women,” he said. “Fair took my breath away when I first saw her, I don’t mind telling you now. And she had more guts than even I realized. I followed her life—from a distance of course.”

  “But you never made contact with her again?” Rachel was surprised.

  “No. It was best that way . . .” His voice trailed off and he appeared lost in memories.

  “Would you like to see her again?” asked Jonah, interrupting.

  Surprise dawned on Richard’s face. “Oh no. Absolutely not. It’s been far too long.” Then, a few seconds later, “Does she really want to see me? Where is she? Still in London?”

  Rachel nodded, her eyes alight with the possibility of reuniting two lovers after so many years.

  “I couldn’t possibly manage the trip,” he said, a frown on his face. “It’s a long way, and then there’s Anna.”

  “Anna?” asked Rachel, puzzled, for she had seen no evidence of a female presence in the house. Was Anna his wife? That could complicate things.

  “Anna Freud,” he explained. “The tabby lounging in the sun over there.”

  “Oh, right,” said Rachel, breathing a sigh of relief. “I thought you meant your wife.”

  “No. Never married. Never lucky enough. The cat’s named after Sigmund’s daughter.” He smiled at her.

  “Could we leave some food out? We’ll have you there and back in a day or two,” she suggested.

  Richard appeared to consider the suggestion.

  “But there’s Meals on Wheels,” he prevaricated. “They deliver on a Thursday. Would I be back by then?”

  “Why don’t we take their number, so we can call just in case we’re not?” she suggested, countering his objection.

  “Rachel,” said Jonah. “How about we let Dr. Creswell have a think about it? There’s a fine old church in the village that I saw on the way through that I’d like to check out. Why don’t we get some fresh air for a bit?”

  She realized what Jonah was doing. Best to give the old man some time to absorb the information they’d just landed him with. “Oh yes. All right then. Would you mind if we called you in the morning?” she asked Richard. “Would that give you enough time to decide what you’d like to do?”

  * * *

  On their way into the village, Rachel had seen a bed and breakfast and she suggested to Jonah that they see if there were any rooms available. As they drove toward it, she got out her phone and called Eve. “I think we’re on the way to solving the mystery of why the letters were never sent and reuniting them,” she said after hellos had been exchanged. “I’ll see you tomorrow. About two? Perfect.”

  She hung up and looked at Jonah, the satisfied grin of a Cheshire cat on her face.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, flicking a brief look at her before returning his focus to the road.

  “Understand what?”

  “How you think the doctor will agree to go. Don’t you think we should wait until we’ve spoken to him again?”

  “Did you see how he looked when we told him about Esther and the letters? He’ll definitely say yes.”

  Jonah shook his head. “How can you be so cynical about love and commitment, and yet you’re like a dog with a bone about this reunion?”

  “They’ve been separated for more than sixty years. She was the love of his life,” she said, exasperated.

  “I know. Exactly.”

  Rachel turned to face the window. She, who was normally so rational, who had built her career on the evidence before her, not hunches or feelings, had become involved in something intangible. She didn’t have an explanation as to why this had become so important to her, nor why she so fervently believed it would all work out.

  “So why don’t you believe that’s possible for you?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Well, it’s never happened, has it? I’m thirty-five. If it was going to happen, it would have done so by now; the odds are against it.”

  “Says who? There’s not a timeline on love, you know.”

  “Maybe it’s not in my destiny—not everyone gets that, do they? And I’m okay with that; there’s plenty of other stuff going on for me. I like the way things are, as it happens,” she said, a defensive note creeping into her voice. “And there have been men in my life if you must know.”

  “Yes, but being in love and having someone love you back is different. It changes everything. To have someone who sees you for yourself, someone who can read your heart. We all want to be seen, Rachel, to be acknowledged for our true selves. Even Narcissus, who looked into the pool and fell in love with his own reflection.”

  She looked at him askance. “You can’t tell me that you’ve ever been in love like that. If you had, you’d be married. Kids. The whole shebang.”

  “Don’t be so certain you know everything, Rachel.”

  “What, then? What don’t I know?” She pushed for more from him.

  “She left the islands,” he said carefully. “Didn’t want a bit of them. Getting away was more important to her in the end than me.”

  “Oh God, Jonah. I’m sorry. I’m being completely insensitive.” She paused, thinking. “Why didn’t you go after her?”

  “It wasn’t that simple. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

  They reached the bed and breakfast and their conversation was interrupted. Jonah parked while Rachel went in to inquire about a couple of rooms.

  She was signing them in when Jonah arrived, carrying their bags.

  The woman handed a set of keys to each of them. “Two rooms. But there’s an adjoining door,” she said with a wink.

  Rachel ignored her, still feeling as if she’d put her foot in it with Jonah.

  “Here for the conference, are you?” the woman asked.

  “No,” said Jonah. “Just a short break.”

  “Lovely. The food at the pub’s not bad, or there’s always the Indian. They do a good tikka masala.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Just sing out if you need anything.”

  “We will.” His usual good humor seemed to have deserted him.

  They walked upstairs and found their rooms. As Jonah reached his, he turned. “I’m tired from the drive. Might have a nap.”

  Something had definitely changed between them. There was a new coolness in his voice, a distance.

  “See you for dinner?” she asked.

  “Sure.” The answer was curt and before she knew it she was standing on her own in the corridor, his door having shut smartly behind him.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Little Embers, Spring 1952

  It was several days before the police arrived. Richard had sent a message with the weekly supply boat, but the captain reported that the islands’ only police officer had gone to v
isit relatives on the mainland and they would have to wait until he returned. Wednesday, he reckoned.

  By noon of the expected day, the tide was high and the water calm and glassy. It looked like summer, with the sky reflected in the deep blue water, but an unseasonal cold snap chilled the air and Richard shivered in his thick sweater, pulling the sleeves down over his freezing knuckles and jamming his hands in his trouser pockets.

  He couldn’t confide in Esther, much as he might want to, and he would never dare admit it to Jean. He was her employer, not to mention that there was something in Jean’s regard for him that made him wary. He suspected that she would take any confidences as a sign of intimacy and he had no wish to encourage her in that way. He kept his worries to himself, bottling them up in exactly the way he always counseled his patients not to.

  * * *

  Sergeant Taylor, a stocky man with a luxuriant mustache and gimlet eyes, jumped off the boat onto the jetty. He wore the uniform of any British bobby—navy serge trousers and jacket resplendent with silver buttons and a hard domed helmet. A truncheon swung from his belt. He looked smart and businesslike, in contrast to Richard’s casual attire, and Richard felt a sense of relief at his arrival. It hadn’t been easy for any of them knowing that Robbie’s body lay in one of the cottages while their lives carried on. “Dr. Creswell?” he said as he approached.

  Richard nodded, extending his hand.

  The sergeant’s grip was firm and dry. Reassuring. “I understand we’ve got a body to inspect. The tide will be too low to leave again in a few hours’ time so let’s dispense with any niceties. If you could show me where it is, I’ll get right to it.”

  Richard led him along the path to the cottages and indicated the door behind which they’d left Robbie. “I’ll need you to accompany me,” said the sergeant. “In case I’ve any questions.”

  “Of course.”

  They walked into the small room and Richard pulled back the blanket. “Death by strangulation.” He found the only way he could cope with the situation was to maintain a professional distance. “We found him in the morning earlier this week, hanging from one of the apple trees in the orchard. I can show you that later if you like.”

  “Yes, I shall need to inspect the scene.” The police officer leaned forward and gingerly inspected the neck, using one finger to prod the livid mark.

  “He used a thin cord, a strap I believe,” Richard explained. “It’s still attached to the tree. We did all we could to keep anything potentially dangerous away from our patients, but—”

  “Did he leave a note? Any sign of his intentions?”

  Richard shook his head. “Nurse Bardcombe searched his room, but no, there was nothing.”

  “I understand this is a facility for the treatment of former servicemen?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  “Then did he give no indication that he was contemplating suicide?”

  “None at all. I’ll let you have my notes. Of course, we took precautions against this kind of thing, but somehow he managed to get hold of a strap.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “Poor bugger.” He finished his inspection, replaced the blanket, and turned back to Richard. “The orchard, if you please.”

  When the sergeant returned from the orchard, he asked to interview each of the island’s residents separately. “I’ll send Mrs. Biggs in with some tea,” said Richard as he escorted him to the parlor.

  “Aye, I’d be glad of that,” said the sergeant, blowing on his hands to warm them up.

  “We might as well start with you, Doc. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Of course.” Richard had no intention of mentioning what he’d seen in the orchard, when he had come across Robbie and George. It wouldn’t change anything now.

  * * *

  The sergeant emerged from the parlor an hour later, his movements quick and footsteps certain. He was in a hurry. “Got to catch the tide,” he said, looking at his watch.

  “I see,” replied Richard, relieved that they would soon be away. “Do you require assistance with the body?”

  “There’s some sailcloth onboard. I’ll go and fetch it and meet you at the cottage. We might need one more to help us.”

  George was the stronger of the remaining men, but Richard immediately dismissed the idea. The man had enough to deal with. “I’ll ask Colonel Cooper-Jones to give us a hand.”

  En route to find Wilkie, Richard stopped at Esther’s room. “Do you think you might find George and sit with him?” he asked. “We’re moving Robbie’s body and I don’t want him to be on his own.”

  “Of course.”

  He found Wilkie and the two of them met the sergeant at the cottage. They wrapped Robbie’s body as gently as they could, securing it with a length of rope, and carried it between them down to the jetty. It was awkward to get it aboard and for a moment Richard worried that they might fumble and drop him into the water, but eventually they managed it.

  “I shouldn’t need to return,” said Sergeant Taylor as the boat prepared to leave. “It all seems pretty straightforward. I’ll send a message if there’s anything else.”

  “Right you are,” said Richard. “You have the details of the next of kin?”

  “Aye. And your letter to her, the sister, isn’t it?”

  Richard nodded.

  “I’ll personally see that it gets delivered.”

  “Much obliged.” Richard and Wilkie stood at the edge of the jetty, Wilkie holding a salute until the boat was a dot on the horizon.

  * * *

  While Richard was assisting the police sergeant, Esther went in search of George. She had an idea that he might have gone to the far side of the island, the eastern shore, where waves lashed against steep cliffs and you had to be careful not to lose your footing on the tussocks of grass that fell away to the water below. Every time she went there, she felt her stomach somersault as she looked down onto the whitewash. It was as far away from the main house as it was possible to get and it was where she often found herself on her walks around the island.

  She had been correct in her assumption, spotting a lone figure sitting at the edge of the cliff as she drew near. “Halloo!” she called out, giving George plenty of warning of her approach.

  He raised his head, but did not greet her. There was a look of complete desolation on his face and his eyes were red-rimmed. It was clear he had been weeping.

  “I thought I might find you here,” she said gently. “Hope you don’t mind. Would you care for some company?”

  He didn’t reply, staring out to sea as if there were answers somewhere out there beyond the horizon.

  Undeterred, she sat down next to him, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs. The wind blowing off the ocean was bitter and she could see that he looked nearly blue with cold.

  “Desperate business.”

  She rested her chin on her knees, joining him in his gaze out to sea where the waves lapped at the shore in a never-ceasing motion of water. Esther wanted to scream along with the high-pitched gulls as they hovered above the water, scanning for food.

  “The world’s gone to hell in a handbasket.”

  “Oh, George.” Esther put an arm around him.

  “He was more than just my friend,” he blurted out.

  “I know.”

  “I loved him. He made me believe in something good in the world, after all the darkness. But it was impossible. We could never . . . never be. We knew that we would both be leaving the island soon, and we had our old lives to return to, that my wife was expecting me to come home, that I couldn’t abandon her, or our son, no matter how I felt. It was the last thing we talked about. We argued, if you must know. I told him that I couldn’t continue to see him when we left.”

  “And you think that somehow you are responsible, because of that?”

  “Well, aren’t I?”

  “Of course not, George. You cannot blame yourself for what he did. It’s all so bloody sad and such a wa
ste of his life, but it’s not your fault. Do you understand that?”

  “This is worse than El Alamein ever was. Even with the drugs.”

  “Drugs?” Esther was puzzled.

  “Bennies. Speed. All of us were hyped up on it, awake for hours on end. That’s what I’m here for—got addicted to the bloody stuff, didn’t I? Couldn’t stop. And it wasn’t hard to get hold of, even afterward. My wife was at her wits’ end. It was her father who eventually persuaded me to come here. He pays for all this. Which makes me feel even worse.”

  “Oh, George.” She thought of her former reliance on the little red pills she had been prescribed.

  He looked at her, his expression stricken. “It feels like everything is coming to an end. Nothing matters anymore. I’m going to miss him so much.”

  Esther gripped his shoulder as he leaned in to her, his head resting in the curve of her neck. Her own sorrow over Robbie, over leaving Richard, paled in comparison.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Cornwall, Spring 2018

  By seven o’clock, Rachel was pacing the small entryway of the bed and breakfast. She’d texted Jonah suggesting the time to meet for dinner, but hadn’t received a response.

  Unable to relax, she had spent the late afternoon tramping through a nearby woodland, finding a narrow footpath that cut between emerald-green fields and curved gently upward toward a long, low hill. As she walked, she had plenty of time to think about what Jonah had said. And to examine her own resistance to love. She reviewed the several boyfriends she’d had over the years. All of them considerably younger than her. She’d told herself that those type of men were easier, more fun, less complicated, that they wanted little from her, an assumption that had been mostly correct. None of them had been what you might call long term. She realized with sudden clarity that she had become bored with them after only a few months. Had used the excuse of new jobs and new countries to avoid anything deeper, anything that might smack of commitment, might tie her down.