No Known Grave (9 page)

Polly was a few years older than Shirley and a hundred times more experienced in the ways of the world. Sometimes Polly
scared her with that knowledge, but mostly Shirley found her new friend great fun to be with. Shirley craved fun. Ever since they had moved to Ludlow, her life had been completely dull. No dancing, only a few visits to the pictures. Nothing to do except get bigger and heavier every day. It was on one of her rare unaccompanied visits to the market square that she’d met Polly. Shirley thought she was so pretty and smart in her trim red costume and matching hat. She’d stood out among the dowdy housewives shopping for bargains at the stalls. Polly had been the one to strike up a conversation. “I see you’re expecting. When are you due? I’m a midwife. I know a lot about babies if you want to ask me anything.”

From somebody else that might have seemed intrusive, but Polly had grinned in her cheeky way and Shirley had felt immediately at ease.

“Do you want to walk down to the Wheatsheaf?” Polly had asked, and Shirley had happily agreed.

Polly said she was staying at the hotel. “But you must keep that to yourself. I’m not using my real name. My fellow is putting me up, see, but we can’t tell anybody. He’s already married.”

Shirley was shocked, but Polly had linked arms in such a friendly way that she didn’t want to get all uppity with her. Who was she to talk anyway? “I could do with a chum,” said Polly. “It’s bloody lonely being a kept woman.” She laughed infectiously and Shirley was captivated.

“Me too. I could do with a chum.”

“That’s it then. We can be secret friends. We can leave each other messages.”

“What sort of messages?”

“You know, ‘Meet me at the pictures next Friday,’ or ‘at the butcher’s tomorrow,’ that sort of thing.”

“I might not always be able to get away. My ma watches my every move.” Shirley remembered she’d said that with some bitterness and her new friend noticed. “You’re going to have to
stand up for yourself sometime, Shirle. But if you can’t get together, just leave a message, saying, ‘Can’t make it’ and then give another time.”

“Why do they have to be secret, Poll?”

“It’s much more fun that way. We can pretend we’re spies. Besides, you don’t want your parents to know, do you? They might stop you from meeting me.”

Polly was right, it was fun. The delicious excitement of finding a message in the hiding place; the nervous thrill of deceiving her mother and father when she went out. She adored her new friend and would have missed her terribly if she had not been able to see her regularly.

The only fly in the ointment was that, as the days passed, Polly became more and more interested in Shirley’s pregnancy. She always wanted to know how she was feeling. Was she eating, was she resting? Shirley found this irksome. She wanted to talk about film stars and the pictures they’d both seen. Sometimes, she talked to her friend about her time with Rudy, brief as it was. To tell the truth, even though she went on about how handsome he was, his image was fading somewhat in her mind. She hadn’t clapped eyes on him for months, after all.

Polly never reciprocated with her own confidences. “I daren’t, Shirle. Nobody must know. All I can tell you is that my fella is a doctor of some renown.”

“Is he going to get a divorce and marry you?”

Polly laughed. “He wants that – but not me. I like my freedom.”

One hot afternoon when they were sitting by the river, Polly had winkled out of her the fact that her parents were insisting she give the baby up for adoption. Rudy might never come back, or at least not for years. Jock was adamant he didn’t want a grandchild of his to be a bastard.
It will go to a good Christian home
. Shirley couldn’t honestly say she was too upset about that.
She didn’t really want to be encumbered by a child, especially if she was single. She’d poured all this into Polly’s sympathetic ear.

“Don’t worry, pet. I’ll help you,” said her friend. “I know lots of people who would be more than happy to take the babe. And you’re right. You’ve seen nothing of life yet. A baby will hold you back.” She gave her a big hug and Shirley felt comforted. Polly never uttered a word of criticism.

Shirley had reached the riverbank and she stood for a moment watching the sun as it made little butterfly shapes that danced on the water. It was another hot day and she felt sticky and uncomfortable. The river looked so cool and inviting. She giggled a little. Polly said once that she should swim in her birthday suit. Nobody would see her up here and it was such a marvellous experience. Maybe when she was thin again she’d give it a try. She sighed. Time to get back. She didn’t want her mother sending a copper after her.

For the first time, she allowed her thoughts to dwell on what had happened to her father and brother. Her eyes filled with tears, but she brushed them away. Better not to think about things. Always better not to think about things. She started to trudge back along the path. She didn’t expect to find a message from Polly, who usually dropped one off in the afternoon. But she might as well take a look. Shirley had been the one to find the hiding place. She’d noticed a loose brick in the wall just past the eastern gate. If you removed it, there was a little space, perfect for a note. So she and Polly started to exchange their messages.

Shirley pulled out the brick and let out a little cry. Glory be. There was a note. She took it out quickly and unfolded it. When she read the message, she actually felt as if she might faint. It hardly seemed possible that her deepest longings would be fulfilled.

HE’S HERE. HE WANTS TO SEE YOU. MEET AT THE RIVER TOMORROW NIGHT AT 11.

12.

T
YLER STOOD OUTSIDE THE DOOR TO THE COMMON
room, readying himself. It was eerily silent. The wireless had been switched off and nobody was talking. He’d known it was going to be hard delivering the news to Mrs. McHattie and her daughter, but in some ways he was dreading this meeting even more.

When he was serving in the Great War, Tyler had been witness to many horrendous injuries. Shrapnel slicing off the top of a man’s head. An explosion removing a man’s legs as neatly as a butcher might. But for the most part, they were discrete incidents; after an attack the injured were removed from the front line to the field hospital. He’d also known men to crack under the stress of the constant bombardments and do truly strange things. Curl up and whimper in the corner of the trench, unable to move, paralyzed by fear. Sometimes, he’d been impatient with these shell-shocked cases, sometimes he’d felt pity. He was a young man in his twenties back then, still imbued with a sense of invulnerability, fit and strong. Fear was something you pushed aside – and you got on with the job at hand. That was all there was to it.

He realized the almoner had been watching him.

“Let’s get this over with, Sister.”

Tyler had told himself he knew what to expect, but even so, the first impression of the patients was shocking. Perhaps it was the unnatural lack of response as he and the almoner entered the room. Few heads turned to watch them, no bodies shifted
in their wheelchairs. Faces rendered immobile by scar tissue had no expression. They were silent.

The room had been set up to be as comfortable and homelike as possible for the patients. There was a large hearth, pictures on the walls, chintz-covered armchairs, and a couple of matching settees. The almoner led the way to a space that had been cleared in front of the fireplace. She waited while one of the sisters manoeuvred a woman in a wheelchair a little closer. Tyler glanced around. Seated a few feet away was a man whose face was a macabre death head. He had almost no hair and no lips, which exposed his teeth in a perpetual grin. His dark glasses made sockets of his eyes. Next to him was the young woman Tyler had seen earlier, standing at the window. Someone had drawn a white flower on her black eye patch, and a long purple scar puckered her cheek. This must be Daisy Stevens. Beside her was the man dressed in clownish attire. His face was brick red, as if he’d been scoured with a wire brush. There was a hole where his nose had been, and he had no ears. That would be Eddie Prescott. The older man next to him in the paisley cravat had to be the actor, Nigel Melrose. A scar ran across his face, obliterating his left eye. The most normal-looking one of this little group was a gaunt man with dark, intense eyes. He was leaning forward in his chair, supporting himself with a cane. Must be Victor Clark. His eyes were fixed on Tyler.

The almoner glanced over at him.

“Inspector?”

He nodded and she began.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for keeping you here like this. I know you must all be anxiously wondering what is happening. I’m afraid we have some bad news to impart to you. This is Detective Inspector Tyler. He will explain what has happened.”

Tyler braced himself. “I am deeply sorry to have to tell you …”

13.

W
HEN THE POLICEMAN TOLD THEM THE DREADFUL
news, Daisy could hardly comprehend it. Jock, dead. And his son? Both killed. Murdered, in fact. The inspector said he could offer no explanation at this point, but he would have to talk to each of them and please not to go anywhere without letting him or Sister Rebecca know. Melly had seized on that of course. “What a jackass! As if we could?” he’d hissed. “Half of us are blind – or hasn’t he noticed?”

Daisy squirmed. She thought the inspector might have heard him. He seemed a nice man, genuinely upset to have to tell them the news. You couldn’t blame him for inadvertently touching on a raw nerve.

After fielding a few questions, the inspector had left, together with Sister Rebecca. The almoner, not surprisingly, looked tired and drawn, but as usual she managed to convey an air of calm competency. Daisy, more accustomed to her own highly strung mother, admired Sister Rebecca a lot.

A young policewoman had taken over. She moved to the front of the room and stood there, almost at attention. Daisy couldn’t help but scrutinize her. Ugly uniform and too thin by far, but a pretty face really. When she was little, Daisy had expressed a desire to be a police officer, but her dad had laughed at her. There wasn’t any such thing back then. The war had changed all that, and a few women were now being employed as auxiliary constables. Too late for Daisy, of course. Involuntarily, she touched her cheek, the deep scar tender beneath her fingers.

She was squashed between Jeremy and Eddie on the settee,
but what at first had felt uncomfortable now was reassuring. She could feel the warmth of both men’s legs pressed against hers.

“I knew something serious had happened when the sarge didn’t turn up for class,” said Melrose. “But I confess I thought he’d had a heart attack or a stroke. He always seemed too tightly wound up for his own good.”

“No he weren’t,” snapped Eddie Prescott. “Jock was a damned good bloke. Loved a joke same as anybody else. You two just didn’t hit it off was the problem.”

Daisy turned to Vic Clark. “Sorry you’re not getting a chance to put in your tuppence worth, Vic. Do you want us to get some writing paper for you?”

Clark mumbled and gestured at them. His question was clear.

Melrose answered, “He wants to know who did the deed. Any theories, comrades?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Melly,” said Bancroft. “How would we know?”

Melrose snorted. “I’m putting my money on one of the Itie
POWS
. They can get out of the camp easily enough if they want to. They’re treated better than the locals if you ask me. Driven everywhere, easy work.”

“But why Jock? What has he ever done to the Italians?” said Daisy.

“Besides, how would anybody get in the grounds?” asked Prescott. “The sisters are always nagging us about the night routine and how Hughes has to lock the doors and bolt the gate. Half past ten on the dot. We might as well be in a bloody prison.”

“You’d know about that, I’m sure, Eddie,” said Melrose. But before the other man could retaliate, Daisy jumped in.

“I don’t think anybody could get over the wall either.”

“I’m sure any able-bodied man could do it, my child,” said Melrose. “How fortunate Chief Inspector Tyler doesn’t have to worry about us chickens.”

Daisy shivered and leaned into Bancroft. “I can’t take it in, I really can’t.”

“What does the detective look like, Daisy?” the Canadian asked. “I’m always curious about checking my impressions against the reality.”

“Does it matter, old chap?” interrupted Melrose. “I for one thought he had two heads, but I think that’s a function of my new, improved eyesight.”

“Ignore Melly,” said Daisy. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you. He’s a redhead, for one thing. The carrot-top kind. He’s above average height, rather on the muscular side, over forty, I’d say. Keen blue eyes.”

Prescott snorted. “Good God, Daisy. You
were
paying attention. Fancy him, did you?”

Daisy glared at him. “It all comes down to that with you, doesn’t it?”

“Come on, kids, sorry I asked,” said Bancroft. “Except for the red hair and the blue eyes, keen or otherwise, that’s pretty much how I envisioned him. His voice conveys authority. Now, let’s not quarrel at a time like this. Like you, I am totally stunned.”

“We all are,” said Daisy.

They were silent for a moment, then Daisy continued, “I don’t know about you blokes, but I’m famished. I only had a cup of tea for breakfast. If we’re going to be stuck in here for who knows how long, why don’t I see if Mrs. Fuller can rustle up some toast or biscuits?”

“What a little mother you always are, Daisy,” purred Melrose. “Such an attractive quality in a woman, no matter what.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Daisy with a flash of anger.

“Nothing at all, my dear. It meant nothing at all, except as a compliment.”

Prescott turned himself in the direction of the other man’s
voice. “You’re a shite, do you know, Melrose, a complete, toffee-nosed shite.”

“Hey, you two, cut it out!” exclaimed Bancroft. “We’ve got a lady here, don’t forget. This isn’t the place nor the time to fight the class war.”