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The Darkest Hour
Barbara Erskine
From the Sunday Times bestselling author comes an epic tale of love, passion and heartbreak.In the summer of 1940, eyes are focussed on the skies above the South of England: the Battle for Britain has just begun. But Evie Lucas has eyes for no-one but a dashing young pilot called Tony. Evie has a glittering career as an artist ahead of her but seems only to be fascinated in sketching portraits of him…Seventy years later, recently widowed art historian Lucy is putting the pieces of her life back together, and to do that she needs to uncover the mystery surrounding a painting in her home. As Lucy ties up the loose ends of one lifetime, she stirs up a hornet’s nest of history in another. Suddenly, Lucy finds herself in danger from people past and present who have no intention of letting an untold truth ever surface.Some stories are buried in the darkness forever. Some are just waiting to be told…
Copyright (#ulink_1c526756-1ca1-551b-be4f-005fb9c923ec)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014 This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover images © Hazel McAllister/Alamy (swallow); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (all other images)
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007513123
Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007513147
Version: 2018-01-30
Dedication (#ulink_589703db-84a6-5715-8ceb-5736203d585a)
For my Dad, with love
and
In memory of my darling Mummy
who had her own part in the origins
of this story, and who would have loved
to join in the adventure of writing it.
Contents
Cover (#u0de3d871-bb00-59b0-b064-69a7c3204c47)
Title Page (#ufde80b37-f3eb-51aa-8493-0d95786c59bd)
Copyright (#u29dfbb42-2971-539f-921c-4f92a8fd55ee)
Dedication (#uafcc0e28-b2ef-5bd3-b5ab-5ea58054e015)
The Family Tree (#u2b20de46-2d8e-587e-b219-981486fe6107)
Prologue (#u2084e57c-35b0-56c4-94d6-e515b2f347e6)
Chapter 1 (#u56a6d066-2ff9-524a-97b9-2161c8f240fd)
Chapter 2 (#u305e1703-3437-59bb-b7d9-1e94ec59dbe1)
Chapter 3 (#u0e3e6acd-f03d-55ec-b356-5bc744b7bfba)
Chapter 4 (#u96ebd1de-d6b8-5d04-a1c8-d5f93021e276)
Chapter 5 (#u014b696e-74fd-5e1c-8730-19e1844248e9)
Chapter 6 (#u39ddd407-d4c7-5074-b48d-d1cbc53da3a1)
Chapter 7 (#u6198e0cb-bef6-5864-8284-a6d89ab9a173)
Chapter 8 (#ub8ce05f3-ce73-5f46-b0ac-922a8b9d8fa2)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Postscript (#litres_trial_promo)
A collection of memories from Barbara’s father, Nigel Rose, which inspired the writing of The Darkest Hours (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading Barbara Erskine’s Novels (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading Sleeper’s Castle (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Barbara Erskine (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_095c30aa-c0b4-5e36-b271-af49dd866153)
March
Glancing into the driving mirror Laurence Standish frowned uneasily as he swung the old Citroën estate off the main road and headed into a side turning which wound down steeply through coppiced woods towards the valley bottom. The sleek black Ford which had been sitting on his tail for the last twenty miles or so had followed him and was drawing closer.
He had first noticed the car coming out of Chichester. It was close behind him. Too close, and he was growing increasingly irritated. Perhaps he shouldn’t have turned off the main road. He was lost now, well off the beaten track, threading his way up and down winding lanes, ever mindful of the car still there in his rear view mirror.
He was approaching a crossroads now. On impulse he spun the Citroën’s steering wheel to the left at the last moment without signalling, feeling the suspension sway and adjust as the road climbed steeply again, becoming narrower and more potholed as it crested the rise and plunged once more into the woods.
The black car followed him. If anything it had closed the gap between them slightly.
He didn’t recognise the car and he couldn’t make out the face of the driver but there was no doubt at all that he was being harassed in an increasingly dangerous fashion. He had no idea why. Was it road rage? Had he offended him by pulling out in front of him or something? He wasn’t aware of doing anything which anyone could take offence at. Did the guy want to rob him? Did he want his car? He doubted it! He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile with the vague idea of calling the police and cursed, remembering that he had thrown it into the battered old briefcase which at this moment lay on the back seat with the surprise birthday present he had picked up for Lucy. A signpost flashed past. He couldn’t see how far it was to the next village, but once there he resolved to pull up outside the first shop he reached and go inside.
The car was even closer now and it was flashing its lights.
Supposing there was something wrong. For a moment he hesitated, taking his foot off the accelerator and as though sensing his hesitation the driver behind him pulled out to try and overtake. Still flashing its lights the nose of the Ford drew level. The road was narrow and winding and there was a sharp left hand bend ahead.
‘Oh shit!’ Laurence stamped on his brake. The car behind him was trying to force its way past. It swerved towards him and there was a scrape of metal, followed by a louder grinding noise as the wheels of the two vehicles locked. Instinctively Laurence pulled his car towards the left, praying there was room for him to manoeuvre. His Citroën’s wheels spun on the muddy verge, then gripped and flung the car into the dense hazel brake. Laurence was aware for a fraction of a second of the tangle of splintering branches thrashing against the windscreen, then beyond, a strip of woodland sloping steeply down towards a stream at the bottom of an area of rolling hillside.
The Citroën banked sharply, racing faster down the hill. Laurence was stabbing frantically for the brake. Shocked and disorientated, he fought to hold the steering wheel. The last thing he saw was the huge oak tree heading straight for him.
The car reared up momentarily as it struck the oak, then it slid sideways in a cascade of shredded bark and started to roll. At the foot of the slope it hit another tree crushing the bonnet like a concertina as it came at last to a stop. There were several moments of silence as the ruptured fuel lines spilled their contents onto the hot exhaust, then with a roar the car burst into flames.
The driver of the Ford had pulled up at the roadside ten yards ahead. He climbed out and ran back, standing by the torn and broken trees, looking down at the burning wreck. That was not supposed to happen.
‘Shit!’
Unknowingly repeating Laurence’s last word he watched in horror as the car exploded, sending a ball of flame and smoke up into the windless air.
For a moment he stood completely still, then swiftly he turned away and ran back to the Ford. It was scraped and dented but still drivable. He climbed in. As he drove away from the scene he pulled the black balaclava off over his head and tucked it into the door pocket.
Nothing in the car would be recoverable.
But no one was going to survive that inferno.
Shit.
1 (#ulink_995dfa4e-d099-5bd8-8b91-50860770a3ff)
Three months later
Lucy Standish was in the kitchen of the small flat above the art gallery in Westgate, Chichester, an open letter in her hand. She had read it twice already, trying in her own mind to make sense of the contents.
Re: Your application for a grant to research the life of war artist and portraitist Evelyn Lucas, with a view to producing a biography and definitive history of her career:
I am pleased to inform you that your application for a grant from the Women’s Art Fund has been accepted …
She had been accepted. She had been given the grant. Lucy put down the letter and walked across to the window. The gallery was part of a terrace of narrow period houses, each one different, some two storey, some three. Hers was three, with a small attic floor under a roof of ancient tiles. From the kitchen, on the first floor, she could look down at the pocket handkerchief back garden she and Laurence had created together from the builders’ rubble which had filled the small yard when they first took over the gallery four years before. The short paved path was lined with flowers now, the small lilac tree they had planted had blossomed. There were butterflies everywhere; she could see them hanging from her pots of lavender and from the clinging roses on the fence.
It was months since she had applied for the grant. She and Laurence had discussed the project endlessly, wondering how she could take time out from the gallery to research a book. It was their part-time assistant, Robin, who had suggested applying for some sort of bursary; Robin who had turned up the obscure organisation which had now come up trumps. Robin who had made it all seem possible. Then, before Larry died.
Now it was too late.
