Letters to the Lost (9 page)

‘And so she owned the house as long ago as that?’ Will forced his attention away from the vivid picture Mr Greaves was painting and back to the facts Ansell would demand.
1948
he scribbled on his notebook.

‘I don’t say she owned it. But she lived there, sure enough. Most of the time.’

‘And where did she go when she wasn’t there?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe she had a fancy man somewhere – a nice-looking girl like that, who could blame her? But if she did, she weren’t likely to let on about it. We kept things to ourselves in them days – personal matters, like; not talking, talking, talking all the time, airing our dirty laundry in public like they do now on all these TV shows.’ He waved a disdainful hand in the direction of the enormous glassy screen in the corner of the room. He seemed agitated now and looked at Will accusingly. ‘We got on with things and we minded our own business. We didn’t ask questions about things that was no concern of ours.’

Will shut his notebook. ‘Sorry, Mr Greaves. It must seem like I’m being awfully nosy, it’s just we need to find these things out, for Nancy’s sake – remember? We need to work out who her closest relatives are. Then any money she left can go to them instead of the government.’

That last bit struck a chord. Mr Greaves’s features lit up with indignation. ‘That bloody lot. Cheats and charlatans the lot of them, only out to line their own pockets with the hard-earned cash of the working man.’

Sensing that the conversation was about to take a sharp diversion, Will interjected quickly to nudge it back on track. ‘Do you know if Nancy had any brothers and sisters, Mr Greaves? Did she ever talk about her family at all?’

‘She never ’ad none, did she? A Poor School girl, she was, and not ashamed of it. Used to looking out for herself, she used to say.’

‘Good for her,’ Will said, whilst reflecting that it was far from good for Ansell Blake. If Nancy Price had been sent to what amounted to an orphanage, the likelihood was that her family records would be virtually non-existent, making the case much more difficult to work on. ‘You don’t happen to know if she made a will, do you? She’s listed by the authorities as having died without one, but sometimes it turns out that the document simply hasn’t been found. It could be that there’s one in the house somewhere—’

Mr Greaves gave a crow of laughter. ‘Not likely. She weren’t one for official doings like that; she didn’t bother with no banks or nothing. I got a key for the house though – needs sorting out, it does. I used to look after things for her – pick up the mail and keep an eye on the place – but then I had this stroke . . . Like being struck by lightning, it was—’

Will’s phone rang. Muttering an apology he took it from his pocket and saw Ansell’s name on the screen.

‘Will Holt.’

‘Is it indeed? The elusive Will Holt – wonders will never cease. I thought your phone was more likely to be answered by Shergar, or Lord Fucking Lucan. For fuck’s sake, where are you?’

‘I’m interviewing a neighbour of Miss Price’s. I’ve found out—’

‘Oh, I’m sorry – did I ask where you were? I do beg your pardon. What I really meant to say was getting your posh boy arse into that poncey car of yours and get back to this office while you still have a job here. Is that acceptable, old chap?’

Assuming a guffawing public school accent was Ansell’s favourite method of mocking Will, who’d worked out that it was best to simply ignore this. ‘No problem, if that’s what you want, but Mr Greaves here was just saying—’

‘I’ll stop you right there, if I may, old bean. Because unless your Mr Greaves was just saying that Nancy Price was a first cousin of the Aga-bleeding-Khan, there isn’t a brass farthing in this case. She doesn’t own the house, and her family tree is as bare as a Scots Pine on Twelfth Night. So yes, call me old-fashioned, but you getting yourself back here and doing some actual proper work on a case that’s likely to earn us some boring old money is
what I fucking want
.’

Will put his phone back into his pocket. Mr Greaves was staring out of the window, his glasses blank and bright. Will wondered how much of that unedifying little exchange he’d heard.

‘That was my boss, Mr G. He wants me to get back to the office now, so I’d better . . .’ He trailed off, shoving his notebook into his briefcase and fastening it with a snap, then getting to his feet. ‘Thanks so much for all your time.’

From the depths of the armchair the old man gave an almost imperceptible lift of his right shoulder – the side not damaged by the lightning strike. ‘That’s all right. I ain’t got much of it left, but I ain’t got much to do with it neither. I miss ’er, you know – Nancy. She was a laugh. When she broke her hip and wound up in that care ’ome she thought it was just temporary like, while she got ’er strength up again. She always thought she was going to be coming back. I kept an eye on the place for her, I did, made sure none of them druggies or squatters broke in and took her things. Course, a lot of ’er things ended up going up the home with ’er, but there’s still a lot there . . .’ He turned his face up to Will, towering above him. ‘You’ll find out who it all belongs to now, won’t you? Go through it properly, like. It needs sorting.’

Will was about to say that was no longer any concern of his, but the old man’s face was so full of hope that he found he couldn’t. ‘I’ll certainly do my best, Mr G.’

Oh bugger, he thought, sighing inwardly as he let himself out. What a stupid thing to say. What could he do about it?

As he walked to the car he looked back at the house on the end. In the damp grey morning it appeared more than ever to shrink into the encroaching foliage, but there was no doubt it was an absolute gem. He thought again of the impression he’d had in Albert Greaves’s house of how it could look, with the floors sanded and waxed and the patterned wallpaper stripped off. White walls, right through . . .

There was no way he’d be able to afford it, even if no heirs were found and it did come on the market. A period cottage in such a prime location would be laughably out of his league on the meagre salary he earned at Ansell Blake, but somehow, without meaning to, he was walking towards it. The front gate was half hanging from its hinges and had to be lifted as it was opened. It had once been painted duck-egg blue, but now the wood was soft and wet, the paint peeling. Someone had walked up the path relatively recently, he could tell from the flattened dandelion stems, but whoever it was hadn’t opened the front door. Moss grew in the cracks between door and frame, and the fleecy spires of willow herb were undisturbed, reaching almost to the level of the letterbox in the centre of the door.

‘. . . Attractive cottage garden . . .’ he muttered under his breath, imagining the estate agent’s details as he stepped delicately over trailing brambles to reach the window. Nettles grew in a thick clump beneath it, but he kicked them down and stamped a flat patch on which he could stand to look in.

A thin green film of moss clouded the glass, like pondweed on the lake in the grounds of his parents’ house. Slugs had cleared winding silvery pathways through it. He cupped his hands and peered through.

The curtains were half-drawn, so he had to shuffle sideways to get a view of the room. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and to be able to distinguish shapes through the opaque film of filth. A chair in front of a pre historic TV set, a sofa on the wall opposite the window, some kind of brightly covered blanket placed in a heap on top of it.

He was just dropping his hands and turning away when something caught the corner of his eye. His heart lurched and he swung back, his gaze going straight to the black mouth of the doorway leading into the next room, searching for the figure he thought he’d seen.

There was nothing there.

Skin prickling with unease, he went back to the car.

Jess sank down onto the stairs, her whole body rigid, her legs weak.

It was him again, the good-looking posh guy with the apologetic smile, the one who was trying to find out about the old lady who used to live here. By some amazing stroke of luck, or trick of the light or something, it didn’t look like he’d seen her, but how long would it be until he was back?

If he’d actually gone away. Maybe right now he was discovering the path she must have made through the undergrowth at the side of the house and following it, and any minute he’d emerge from the wilderness in the back garden. The thought had her leaping to her feet and scrambling up the remaining stairs. Going into the bedroom she slid along the wall and ducked down so that she could see out of the window without being observed.

Her breath escaped in a rush of relief. His car – quite a cool car; sporty but kind of vintage – was parked beside the garages opposite and he was just getting into it, glancing back at the house. The wind blew his dark hair across his forehead and he swept it back with his hand. He looked way too tall to fit into such a small car, but he lowered himself into the driver’s seat and the engine started. She leaned against the wall, tipping her head back and closing her eyes, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal, the relief giving way to curious disappointment, as if she’d almost wished he’d seen her.

Which was beyond ridiculous. Hurriedly she went downstairs again and snatched up the borrowed coat. She’d spent too long shut up here alone; she needed to
do
something – like find a job, get herself out of this weird state of limbo, and forget all about fairy tales in which the princess gets rescued from her lonely exile by a handsome prince. And anyway, she had some rescuing of her own to do. The letter lay where she’d left it on the table beneath the window. She picked it up and stuffed it into her pocket.

Outside the air was cold and wet, but fresh. She was aware of the stale, mildewed smell that clung to the coat and infused her hair and skin. No one was around to notice as she ducked out from beneath the branches by the house and walked down the lane, but the main street was busy with morning shoppers and traffic. Builders shouted to each other from scaffolding shrouding a shop front and a man in a suit carrying an oversized cardboard cup of coffee almost charged into her as he talked loudly into his mobile phone. She stepped aside just in time.

Yesterday when she’d left the house she’d felt horribly exposed. Even though the light had been fading and it had been rush hour, when the attention of every single human being was focused solely on getting home; even though this was London where no one made eye contact with anyone else and nothing seemed weird, she’d felt conspicuous, like everyone was staring at her in her not-quite-stylish trench coat and badly fitting shoes.

But today, despite the daylight, it was different. She felt people’s eyes sliding over her, looking through her, just as the guy had done when he’d stared in at the window. No one knew who she was. No one cared. She was in a city full of strangers, and she was invisible.

6

1943

Alf Broughton had got a pig.

Christmas had been a meagre affair, stripped of most of its traditional comforts by the tightening noose of rationing. So, when someone had put it about in the bar of The Albion that the pig club in Palmers Green had a litter of eight going begging, Alf had pictured a glistening ham as the centrepiece of next year’s feast. Before Ada had finished listing objections he had turned the coal house into a sty and installed in it a small, velvety pink piglet called Blossom.

‘Daft so-and-so,’ Ada sighed, propping her generous bosom on the shelf of her arms. ‘He’s that soft she’s more likely to be joining us for Christmas dinner than providing it.’

‘She’s very sweet,’ Stella said, pulling her coat more tightly around herself as she watched Blossom bury her stubby snout in the pile of vegetable peelings she’d brought from the Vicarage kitchen.

‘Well, let’s hope her bacon is sweet and all. Thanks for the scraps, love. Here – let’s go in out of the cold and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

It was mid-afternoon but the February day had given up trying to get light. The whole world had taken on the sordid dirty grey tinge of Reverend Stokes’s vests. Stella knew she ought to refuse – tea was so precious now – but the prospect was too welcome, not just of a hot drink but of someone to talk to. With Reverend Stokes in residence the Vicarage no longer felt like the home she’d so looked forward to having. Ada’s kitchen was warm and damp with meat-scented steam, which billowed out of a pan on the stove.

‘Lamb bone,’ Ada explained shutting the back door with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Mr Fairacre found it under his counter. It’ll give a bit of flavour to a soup, though not as much as you’d think from the smell. Let-Down Soup, Alf calls it.’

‘He hasn’t tried mine,’ Stella said bleakly. She should make more effort to run the gauntlet of Mr Fairacre’s suggestive remarks and bawdy jokes, but her cheeks were always flaming before she’d even managed to ask for what she wanted and it scarcely seemed worth the effort with only herself and Reverend Stokes to cook for. Used to boarding school fare he ate everything she put in front of him with neither complaint nor praise, though Stella was constantly dismayed by the quantity of food he consumed, as if the concept of rationing had passed him by.

‘Give over,’ Ada said comfortably, spooning precious new leaves onto the old ones in the stout brown teapot. ‘It takes time to learn the tricks, that’s all. Long before we’d all heard of Hitler I was trying to feed a family of five on a few shillings – there’s not much I don’t know about cooking with scraps.’ Setting cups down on the table she shot Stella a glance. ‘You eating all right? You look like you could do with a square meal inside you.’

‘Couldn’t we all?’

Ada smoothed her pinny over her wide hips. ‘I’ll say, but some of us have got a bit more padding to keep us going. That was a nasty bout of the ’flu you had; you need to build your strength up again.’

‘I’m fine.’

Stella picked up the cup that Ada slid across the table and folded her hands around its warmth. The ’flu had hit her the day before New Year’s Eve, and she’d spent the first two weeks of 1943 in bed, sweating and shivering and hallucinating, until she didn’t know what was real and what her fevered brain had invented. Recovery had come slowly, but the feeling of unreality persisted.