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Chapter 6 (#u98feb200-d0da-50c8-aca5-2f0bec3ce6d5)
The houses in this part of town were set in steep terraces that must have originally sheltered the town’s shipwrights. My sharp rap on the metal door knocker was lost in the musical jingling as boats and their yards shivered in the light breeze at the nearby harbour. Those two men and their demands might never have existed. The only footsteps I heard were the muffled ones that approached in the passage behind the blue front door.
They belonged to the aproned figure of Sue Williams. My ex-mother-in-law.
Rhys’s mother was pretty and plump in the manner of the quintessential housewife in an advert for baking powder and she stared at me from an armchair that was well-hung with doilies. It was placed in the corner of a small room made dark by heavy burgundy wallpaper and thick curtains that might have easily been blackout curtains left over from the war. I suppose she must have been in her late-sixties by now. She looked younger. “Well,” she said finally. “It’s a long time since I last set eyes on you.”
“It is,” I said and settled on the settee, wondering if the stuffy shadows replayed the old scenes as vividly for her as they did for me. It took bravery of many different sorts to come here. “It is. How are you?” Then I felt like an utter fool. How exactly should she be, given what had happened.
“Well enough,” she said, and reached for a half-drunk cup of tea. It seemed she did recall those old scenes.
I smiled one of those sympathetic smiles that are nothing to do with happiness and made some stilted offerings of regret, which were received graciously but coolly, and tried to remember what I had come here for. I was glad at least that her husband was not present. That man was like a cumbersome caricature of his son; the same forceful personality and strong features, but without the brightness of mind which marked his son. Had marked his son.
Seeing her like this abruptly brought it home to me. If there had been any lingering doubts about whether or not he had really died that day, they couldn’t survive this visit. Rhys would never have let her suffer like this. It came as a violent little shock somehow. Perhaps I really had never quite accepted it before now.
Her softly accented voice covered my stumbling halt. “So, you’re here to read the condolence messages?” She swept a collection of cards off a gloomy dresser and passed them to me without leaving time to demur. I had to carry them to the small shaded window to make them out. They were a varied bunch, some inclined towards mourning and some treading a fine line nearer disbelief. All expressed sympathy and care to the parents of a lost man and they did not remotely make for easy reading.
One in particular caught in my hand. It was written in elegant curls and it read; ‘We each want to make our mark, to stand out a little from the rest and Rhys did just that. He always will. I will miss him.’ and an indecipherable scrawl that I knew must read ‘Gregory Scott’.
“What is it?”
I turned in the light from the window to find Mrs Williams staring at me. “Oh, Sue,” I said, shaken into a guilty realisation of what this visit must mean for her. “Gregory called me the day after I heard the news. He wondered if I would help him go through the prints Rhys had kept for him from that project they did together but I said I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
I stopped short when I registered the hurt that had passed over his mother’s face. Gregory was one of Rhys’s oldest patrons. When he, Rhys and I had first been introduced I had still been a young painter studying classical lighting techniques under the tutelage of my long-suffering uncle at the old man’s gallery in Cirencester. That had been twelve years ago. Six months after that, Gregory had been signing his name as the witness on my marriage certificate. And a year after that, Gregory had performed the next in a long line of introductions by bringing a famous critic to the launch of Rhys’s one-man show. This critic had promptly dubbed Rhys the Most Promising Photographer to Emerge from the Depths of Wales and I might add that Rhys had mildly resented this title. He hadn’t particularly liked being considered only promising.
“Oh, Sue,” I repeated. “I’m so sorry. I’m letting you think the unforgivable.” I moved back to my seat before adding firmly, “Gregory didn’t mean that I should march over the gallery threshold as if I’d never left. He wasn’t thinking about retrieving his old sporting photographs; he was thinking that we should do our utmost to honour the work that Rhys had done with him. Whatever else happened between Rhys and me, however our marriage ended, I could never forget the sheer beauty of his talent and the important part that Gregory played in it.”
This determined eulogy did far more to smooth the waters than any wild outpourings of emotion could. Her demeanour transformed and she showed the bright cheerfulness of the truly bereaved. “I know. And you’re right; Gregory was the friend Rhys needed. I remember the rows when Rhys first told his father he was going to pursue photography rather than engineering.”
I also remembered the other rows, like the one in this house that last summer before Rhys left us all for the war and the other one in our Cirencester home when he came back again. Looking back now, it amazes me that I had let his creative impulses dictate my life for so long. If I was looking for proof my judgement was poor, this was it. Not, it must be said, that I mean to imply that I call his going off to war one of his impulses.
His decision to lend his considerable skills to the Army Film and Photographic Unit was a raw opportunity to test his talent against the grittiest subject matter of all. The war was the muse to end all muses, and even I can admit that he had never lacked the kind of resolve a person must need to face the long years of hard work and utter bravery of sustained conflict. It could have changed him like many other men, but it didn’t. When he came back he only brought with him a new muse, a revitalised urge to create and the expectation that his wife would once again give way to the weight of his point of view and compromise as she always had; which really meant redrawing every fresh line, reforming every fragile emotional boundary that previously had been the last one I’d thought would never be crossed.
The surprise I think was for him, because he came home to a wife who understood herself a little more clearly. The war for me had come as a glorious respite. The hardships and terrors of bombing were nothing. War gave me the solitude I needed to rediscover a sense of balance and to break the old patterns so that by the time Rhys came back again I was a little more capable of perceiving where I was right and a little less wedded to the idea of sacrificing everything for the sake of his art.
Or perhaps I was still shackled. He came back as demanding as ever. I won my little victory by divorcing him. But he got to stay in our beautiful home while I scuttled meekly away to the north of England and my parents like the dreary little cast off I’d always played. And yet, feeble as it might sound, it had seemed right at the time. Even before the war I must have had opinions. After all, our rows were always pretty heated affairs. But this wasn’t an argument I would have even attempted to win, for my own sake rather than his. Anything else would have felt painfully like revenge.
“He left a note, you know,” his mother suddenly announced.
Before the divorce she had liked me well enough I think – though without children, what was the point of me? – but Sue Williams was a woman who was fiercely committed to the idea that it was a woman’s duty to maintain the appearance of happiness even when it was absent. I think I’d offended her more than anyone by suddenly deciding to set my own desires above the luxury of continuing to care for her flawless, incomparable son.
Today the acrimony of my sudden departure was like a shadow that faded in and out of her manner as she wavered, quite reasonably, between despising me for being the woman who had walked away from her son, and treating me as the only other woman who had known him intimately enough to appreciate the full horror of his loss. Her lightness of tone now was so far along on the scale of control that it practically met devastation coming the other way. She told me, “He left a note but the police have it so you can’t see it. He just said sorry. No explanation or anything. Just sorry.”
Behind it all, I think her voice cracked and I nearly put my hand out to her but she raced on. Her eyes were held wide open and they glittered in the dim light as she rushed into saying, “He only visited us a few weeks before, and he seemed fine, absolutely fine. He’d just opened an exhibition in the gallery so he was tired of course but nothing that …” Her voice suddenly deepened. “Nothing that could imply he was thinking of—” Devastation really did show itself this time.
It was beginning to tell on me too. Rhys belonged to that set of artistic temperaments that verge upon genius. He had been prone to bleak periods of self-doubt and foul moods, and the run-up to a new exhibition had always been our most fraught time. But stubborn, beautiful, magnetic, inspiring and exacting though he was, no one could ever pretend that the stress of a new exhibition would have been sufficient to drive him to this lonely end.
Instead, this dark heavy room was filled with the echoes of his presence. His personality lingered in the gramophone in the corner and in the terrible prints his mother kept on the wall in a kind of merry defiance of his lectures on taste. He lurked in the desk where I knew she had written her regular fortnightly letters to tell him the news.
I asked, “In this last visit did he say anything about any kind of harassment or some sort of trouble or anything? Anything at all? I mean, are you really sure that this note meant that he was planning to …?” I trailed off helplessly, not at all sure I could justify this crime of interrogating a recently bereaved mother and not even sure I wanted to ask any more. In the midst of all the real grief for the loss of his life, it felt intensely selfish to have come here for the sake of worrying about the difficulties of quietly going on living mine.
Her reply was a flat croak. “You mean to ask if anyone was pressurising him? No. One of the people who saw him there was Mrs Thomas from next-door’s sister’s girl. She was out for dinner with her new husband. She actually called in barely minutes after the police came knocking on my door. I told her she was a fool and a liar. She told me she wished she was. He was … alone.”
The way she said the word alone made the shadows of that desolate bridge in the night time loom now from the corners of this gloomy room. Her son’s isolation in his last moments was her own loneliness now.
Then she beat the shadows back with a stern little shake of her head. She was a stronger woman than I. “He said nothing about any trouble. Nothing. He talked about his future projects and the latest one which was a new little collaboration with a newspaperman who was proving a touch unreliable but nothing of any note. The police asked about shell shock, and at the time I didn’t really know how to say for certain it wasn’t, but I’m sure now he never gave me any sign.” She paused and looked uncertainly at me; focussing on me, I think, for the first time. Her voice was suddenly a little firmer, a little harder. “He did mention you at one point, but I don’t think it was anything important.”
My heart began to beat.
There was another pause and I began to worry that I would have to decide whether to prompt her or to let it pass but then when she spoke I realised that her hesitation had only been because she was carefully editing his phrasing. I was sure Rhys would not have put it so politely. “He said you were going to try to take the gallery from him.”
Sue Williams gave a brief pursing smile at my exclamation. “You’re in Lancashire for now aren’t you? Your sister told him – she’s still in his neighbourhood isn’t she? – that you’d started dabbling again. Perhaps Rhys thought you might want to come back. I don’t know. He wasn’t very clear about it. But I told him that you wouldn’t; you couldn’t. Not that you mightn’t have the right but I was sure even you wouldn’t be so cruel as to take the rug out from under his feet, not when he had such talent.”
I was thinking; dabbling?
My voice was perfectly measured. “I don’t want to go back there; I thought you knew that. I’m sure he knew that. Gregory certainly did. He wasn’t remotely surprised when I refused after he called the other day. So I can’t imagine what Rhys thought could possibly have changed my mind.”
Her odd little pursing smile came and went again. I’d actually surprised her. Rightly or wrongly, she had expected me to be quietly bewildered by Rhys’s doubts. Now I was decisive and clear. The funny thing was that Sue gave the distinct impression that she approved of the change. She even made me wonder if she might have liked me better had I been like this in the days of my marriage.
It made me think if this was a new me I must be getting things very wrong indeed.
Or perhaps this was just the old patterns repeating themselves. I hadn’t broken them as much as I had thought. These people had always made me feel terribly guilty. They’d always made every desire of mine feel somehow like a selfish whim; even in the days when I’d been an optimistic young thing and the desire had been to love their son.
Now I was feeling the shame of coming here and burdening this woman with my questions when I ought to have been displaying the grief she was looking for in the ex-wife. I felt guilty for forcing her to acknowledge I was the survivor when Rhys had died. I felt guilty for thinking she was the sort of person that would think like that when she and her husband were probably perfectly decent and it was only my own petty resentments that made me so inadequate here.
I saw her glance at the clock. It made me realise I should leave before her husband came home. I shouldn’t have come here, knowing what I was facing. I should never have imagined that I could withstand this encounter with the past.
Of course, if I hadn’t been trying to deal with an appalling threat, I would never have been desperate enough to have come here at all.
Very carefully, I rose to my feet and stepped down the passage. The door opened. I would have to step outside but first I concentrated specifically on the selfish whim of wishing not to be persecuted in my ex-husband’s name. I made her squint against the unaccustomed light. “Just one more thing, if I may? Have you had any unexpected visitors? Anyone else asking questions?” I knew the answer before she even spoke. There never were going to be any witnesses to confirm my story.
There was a pause, and then she added with a terrible blandness; “If they find his body, I’ll let you know. For the funeral.”
That was supposed to be her final word. It had every right to be her final word. But as she prepared to shut the door, I paused and turned back, asking entirely on an afterthought:
“Was there a film in his camera? The one they found in the riverbed, I mean?”
Her expression blanked and for a moment I thought she was going to close the door before she conceded, “Yes. I think so. We were shown some pictures at one point so I suppose there must have been; yes. The police still have it.” Then her face wrinkled and I realised with a sudden pang that I thoroughly deserved to feel guilty this time because I’d made her cry. She added, “I can’t bear the thought of his beloved things lying in a storeroom somewhere. I wish you hadn’t reminded me. I suppose I could ask for them back but I just can’t bear that either. I wish you hadn’t reminded me.”
I put out my hand to her then. I gave her fingers a little squeeze. I was sorry. I really was sorry. For all of it.
---
I’d been sustained until now by the belief that I was pursuing something that might yield my escape. Now I’d paid this visit and discovered nothing except guilt and the very bitter truth that after this I had absolutely no purpose at all. If I wasn’t careful, I’d find myself forming a new plan, any plan, even to the extent of sneaking off into that impenetrable gorge and personally scouring beneath every rock within about four miles for Rhys’s body; just for the sake of doing something, anything rather than giving up.
I was hurrying once more down that increasingly familiar street that led to the pier and the turn to the hotel. It was colder here. The buildings at the left hand side were extraordinary. They belonged to the university and were a long line of insanely tall towers and halls that had all the magic and style of a misplaced Arthurian castle. They cast a long shadow but it wasn’t this that made me cold.
It was because there on the far side of the road, under the calm gaze of the towering university buildings, stood a black Morris Eight.
I’m not even sure which was worse; the fact that the car was there at all, or the knowledge that I had been wandering about all morning with barely a thought for where its owners were. I glowered at it for a moment, disbelieving; trying to convince myself that it wasn’t just a coincidence; this wasn’t another needless panic about a perfectly common breed of car. I didn’t need to debate with myself for long. Even with the risk of further embarrassment, the case for inaction wasn’t one I was going to win.
I did at least pause long enough to take the precaution of scanning the street in case someone should be watching or even worse there was some sign of the owners, innocent or otherwise. About a dozen more swift cautious glances at the street, the buildings and behind me – always behind me – as I crossed the road told me that no one was around. No one was watching. There was no one in the car either. I made sure of that. The whole place was so still, the only sound of movement was of the distant wash of the tide on shingle.
The black car stood there trying to look innocent. I glared at it. It felt like an extension of the meeting with Rhys’s mother. Faintly unreal, like it was manipulating my emotions purely for the purpose of challenging my resolve. The difficulty began with the fact that I had no memory of the licence plate, not even of one digit. Somehow I’d thought the image of it would pop up in my mind as clear as day the moment I needed it. The letters on this vehicle’s plate proved that it had not been registered in Gloucestershire, but this taught me nothing when I realised any old car might well have moved home many times since its original registration. I cupped my hand to the glass and peered inside, trying to see if there was any sign of the owner’s identity. I believe I was expecting to find a photograph of me or something else profoundly obvious but there was nothing of the sort, of course.
A newspaper lay curling on the back seat but bar it being a tattered edition of yesterday’s local newspaper, it wasn’t conclusive evidence of anything. A tin of sweets had fallen to the floor but I wasn’t remotely confident that the memory had been accompanied by a particularly strong scent of liquorice. I moved round to the other side and cupped my hand again.
I could just make out a few scraps of paper on the shelf under the dashboard but salt and grime had crusted the glass and it was hard to distinguish more. With another quick glance along the deserted street and paying particular attention to my unguarded back, I ducked against the wing to peer inside. Hoping vehemently that no one would spot me in this position I wiped the glass, squinted against the gloom, and finally saw what the papers were.
The first was a till receipt for drinks and bore nothing but a few numbers and a code for the items bought. The second was a garage receipt but I couldn’t make out much from the scrawl of handwriting; the final scrap was just the remnant of an empty matchbook with no branding whatsoever. Frustrated, I wiped a little harder and squinted again at the handwritten note.
It was, it transpired, a receipt for fuel and a top-up of oil. I couldn’t make out the name of the garage. I rested my eyes for a moment before looking again.
There was, predictably enough, the word ‘Garage’. Something Garage, Garstang Road, Ca— I concentrated fiercely on the untidy lettering. Of course. Catterall. I enjoyed a moment of triumph at identifying this small garage in a small town on the road south from Lancaster; before crashing back down to earth with a very sudden bump indeed.
My first thought, after all that watching and waiting, was not ‘they’re here; they’ve found me’, but with a kind of desolate relief: It’s true.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_1653e5e7-43ef-5107-88a6-3407faeb9c55)
There was in my mind a certain terrifying wish for them to take hold of me again because then it would all be over and I could stop this ridiculous pretence that I could do anything about it. The other part of my brain, the sensible part, was already propelling my body sternly back up the hill towards shops and shelter from the stiff breeze, and down again towards the police station. I wasn’t intending to beg for sanctuary. I’d learned that lesson before and I wasn’t that desperate. Yet.
I had a small, very fragile germ of an idea and I suppose it was growing from the sudden shock of finding the car. Nothing else would have had the power to cut through the fog of helplessness that had followed me from that house. It was just a shade unfortunate that the relief of finding a new strategy – or indeed any strategy at all – subsequently led me to veer off course into the telling of downright lies.
The police station stood on the main shopping street opposite the post office. The street was called Great Darkgate Street and fittingly the police station was constructed in fearsome black stone and had crenulations. It squatted menacingly between dwellings and innocent shop fronts like a miniature fortress. Or perhaps that description was just indicative of what I wished it to be that day.
A woolly-haired sergeant looked up from her post behind the desk as I entered, clearly very busy and clearly very worn out by the world. She was not at all pleased by the interruption. She gave me a brief look up and down and I think she could scent fear, but mistook it for guilt.
“Yes?”
At her resigned bark, I withdrew my hands sharply from where they had been defensively thrust into my deep coat pockets and approached the desk. “I’d like to talk to someone about viewing Rhys Williams’ possessions, if that is possible. Are they available?”
“I don’t know. Do you have a case number?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. He died. At Devil’s Bridge. The investigation has concluded, I believe. That’s why I’m here.” I counted breaths in an effort to calm my sense of urgency as she fussed with some documents, and stumbled blindly into telling my first lie. “His mother was told the possessions they found were ready to be collected. I believe someone is expecting me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh dear – perhaps I can speak to the policeman in charge? Is he available?”
“No.”
Failure stung. “Is there anyone else I can speak to?”
“No.”
Perhaps lying really did reap its own rewards. I was about to add a little truth when she abruptly deigned to expand a little. “You have to see Detective Inspector Griffiths. It’s his case.”
I waited. I don’t think I was being brave. I think the truth is I was numb. I don’t think I was really thinking anything except that I didn’t want to have to go back out onto those streets like this. So I waited, face moulded into something bordering on polite encouragement and at long last she mustered the energy to concede, “He’s back in tomorrow. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“On a Saturday?”
She peered up at me beneath lowered brows. Meaning, I think, to imply that a policeperson’s work didn’t stop for the weekend.
I said contritely, “Yes, please.”
“Eleven o’clock suit you?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
This was where I made my second mistruth. Some wildness within me made me say after only the tiniest of hesitations: “Mrs Williams.”
The foolish thing about it was that technically I was still entitled to use that name. It was on my passport and on various other documents such as my account with the bank. However my latest ration book was most definitely in my maiden name and it was the one I had very recently taken to using on a daily basis so really the truth here was a touch blurred. I suppose if I’d been truly honest I’d have dictated Mrs Kate Williams (indicating divorcee) rather than Mrs Rhys Williams (indicating that a husband still had ownership of me).
I watched as her hand carefully entered the name in the large diary on her desk. Then the hand recorded the name of the case I’d mentioned in my enquiry. The pen paused hovering over the paper. After a moment she looked up and suddenly seemed considerably more human. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Williams, I’m sure Inspector Griffiths will be glad to help you. I’m sorry he isn’t in today. It’s his mother’s birthday. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Lies really are an ugly thing, and they definitely do bring their own punishment. I walked out with my head wavering between the unexpected return of hope and the rather grimmer calculation of waiting another day and whether or not it mightn’t be wiser to abandon everything and make for the nearest train, and I only came to when I caught myself glaring fiercely at every man I met as I hurried along. My heartbeat kept intensifying until they were past and I was safe again. Which was ridiculous because if they were that close it was already far too late. And as it was, I ought to have been watching more closely for someone else because Jim Bristol was following me.
Or rather, remembering my terrible mistake yesterday with another man from the hotel, it would be more accurate to state that he was sauntering along at his ease some way behind me.
It was hard to be sure. He seemed to have his head thoroughly buried in his guidebook so he might have just been completing his much discussed tour of the town. As I hurried along another shopping street towards the promenade with half a plan of going from there to the hotel to retrieve my bags and pay my bill, I kept throwing little glances over my shoulder and at first I thought I had lost him. But the second time I looked, a carefully staged examination of a pair of gloves in the window of a gentleman’s outfitters, I saw him more clearly. He seemed to vanish just as I turned but I was confident now that I was not mistaken; he was following me.
It was exhausting work guarding myself from this specific threat at my back at the same time as remaining ever watchful for the uncertain threat of the two men who might approach from any side they chose. It was exhausting to the point that it made my brain ache. Part of the difficulty lay in the fact that with each passing day since the accident, I was growing less confident about my memory of those men from Lancaster. I knew I would recognise them if I saw them. I also knew they weren’t Jim Bristol and I’d managed to eliminate the other faces I’d met so far from my endless watch. But these days when I tried to fix my mind upon a definitive description, their eyes and noses slid away into nonsense. Sometimes the faces in my memory were the doctors at the hospital. Sometimes they had the faces of old friends like Gregory or even my husband. And the more I fought it, the more I found it hard to tell if any of it was real. As was happening now, in fact, with the uncertainty of being followed.
In the end, I opted for ambush. I turned a full circle and doubled back up the main shopping street. I crossed again as I neared the junction onto the street that led down to the pier. There was a tearoom there, just on the corner. Jim Bristol was still behind as I followed an old lady step for step around a man selling newspapers and finally slipped inside. I waited by the door for a few thrilling moments; nerves and eyes fixed on the street outside and eventually he obliged me by walking past. His coat today was a well-cut pre-war sports jacket. It was burgundy and unmistakeable. I shrank back in case he saw me, but he only seemed interested in the antics of a group of young soldiers on the opposite side of the road who were clearly on leave. They still wore their uniforms even for a day at the seaside.
I waited a while longer before finally acknowledging the waitress’s ushering and I allowed myself to be shown to a table in the heart of the room for a rest and a sandwich. It was an expensive bolthole. After the outlay of funds for the train journey and the hotel it was perilously close to being above my means but it was the perfect position. I was screened from the street outside by the line of crowded booths that were arranged along the high glass windows and yet I could see the car. It was still entirely deserted and ordinary.
The tearoom was reassuringly ordinary too. It was the sort that appealed to wealthy older couples and thankfully none had the fearsomely brutish form that my two would-be kidnappers must take. The patrons did unfortunately put me through the usual rigmarole of making my heart jolt every time one of them spoke in a tone that was reminiscent of Rhys’s voice or turned their head in just such a way to cause a momentary spark of recognition before it evaporated again, but I was getting used to that by now.
Then my solitude was disturbed by a loud call of ‘Katie’ and it was clear that someone had managed to surprise me here.
Mary James bore down on me like a whirlwind through a rose garden and to be honest it was a relief to find that it was only her. I’d been surveying the shadows around that parked car. I hadn’t imagined I could have been so inattentive to the traffic through the door.
Mary draped her coat over the back of the chair opposite, dropped like a bomb into its seat and stole a sip of my water while the bright whirlwind slowly settled into the standard garish print of her day dress. Modern frocks were frequently rather garish. The cynic in me suspected that it was a deliberate tactic – probably engineered by a committee somewhere – founded on the principle that we women might not notice the shortages and hardships of our daily lives if we were sheathed in bright things.
If that was their aim, it hadn’t worked for this woman. I had thought before that she was testing the peace for its tedium and now I saw she was actively working to break it at any cost. She was made up again today with rather too much drama about the eyes that outdid the customary flash of crimson upon her lips. Her frock was narrow-waisted but whereas the extreme restrictions of a girdle made her sister look angular and severe, Mary only looked impressively fashionable. I didn’t think the cost of my lunch would have meant much to her. She observed cheerfully, “It smells of cabbage in here. Are you having a nice day?”
She must have noticed my rather blank expression because she gave me an astonishingly genuine smile. She leaned in to rest her chin upon a hand and said in a confidential whisper that was anything but discreet, “I’ve been abandoned by my sister. Dear Aged Albert has decided he feels unwell. Oh no, nothing serious, don’t worry.” There was a waft of her hand in response to my automatic shift from bewilderment towards polite concern. “Being a doctor he is well versed in a variety of complaints that aren’t awful enough to mean he shouldn’t take his usual luncheon but still absolutely require his wife to tend him lovingly. It just means that our planned adventure has had to be postponed yet again so I’m at a loose end – and sulking like a five year old.”
I began to feel a stuffy prude. There was something truly disarming in this assault – there is no better word for it – by her determined good humour. I’d seen it at work on the men at the hotel and scorned their weakness then. But now I couldn’t help asking amiably, “Does your loose end happen to extend to having lunch? I’m just having mine. There’s some tea left in the pot if you can get a fresh cup.”
In many ways she was a very clever woman.
Mary shook her head. “I’ve already eaten, thank you. I couldn’t face waiting any longer. What are you going to do now? Do you fancy being my chaperone for the day? I fully intend to drop you as soon as my sister is free but if you don’t mind I’d love to borrow you for a while. We could catch the bus to Ynyslas.”
I thawed and only then did it occur to me to wonder if she was somehow a rogue sent to winkle me out of my hiding place. But she didn’t leave much room for scepticism because she was already hurrying me into finishing my tea and in truth, I wasn’t particularly hard to persuade. That fatalistic part of my brain that wanted to end this hadn’t faded away with the brief rest in this tearoom. The defiance had revived a touch but that was all. If they had found me, this was it. If Jim really was part of this, I had no hope of evading anyone if they chose to come and get me. And if he wasn’t, I didn’t want to pin my hopes on being able to hide away in my room till the next day, attempting to turn the hotel into a garrison with the other guests cast as my guards; achieving nothing and doing nothing until the time came to face the race across town to my meeting with the inspector at the police station tomorrow. That was the kind of waiting game that felt it must leave scars on the mind.
