The Ice Cream Seller

By

Stephen Phillips

Published by

Stephen Phillips

Folkestone, Kent

United Kingdom

www.phillips-writer.co.uk

stephen@phillips-writer.co.uk

Copyright © Stephen Phillips 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, other than known historical figures, is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all those who checked the initial drafts of this book, especially Hilary Tyler and my brother, Nigel Phillips, both of whom made very useful suggestions, as well as commenting on the text itself. A special thanks to my friends at the Leas Cliff Hall, Folkestone, who commented on the first two chapters relating to Psychic Pete’s public reading. Any mistakes, however, remain my own.

Contents

Chapter 1 – Croydon: November 1999

Chapter 2 – Croydon: Spring 1865

Chapter 3 – Croydon: December 1999

Chapter 4 – Following the evidence

Chapter 5 – Bringing the past up to date

Chapter 6 – Dinner for two

Chapter 7 – London: August 1915

Chapter 8 – Croydon: September 1915

Chapter 9 – Croydon: March 2000

Chapter 10 – Sifting through the quagmire

Chapter 11 – London: Late September 1915

Chapter 12 – London: April 2000

Chapter 13 – Croydon: October 1915

Chapter 14 – Somewhere in Southern England: May 1944

Chapter 15 – East Grinstead: June 1944

Chapter 16 – East Grinstead: August 1944

Chapter 17 – Sutton: May 2000

Chapter 18 – Croydon: June 2000

Epilogue – Purley: September 2010

Chapter 1 – Croydon: November 1999

The house lights in the Ashcroft Theatre dimmed, cocooning each member of the audience in their personal envelope of darkness. Lucy Bowen wondered what on earth had made her come to a psychic reading. It was not as if she believed in such things, after all.

Well, to be honest with herself, she did know why she was there. She had not long ago broken up with her long-term boyfriend – was that the effect of the ‘seven-year-itch’ she wondered, or simply that she and Simon had grown apart – and her closest friend Karen had wanted to ‘take her out of herself’. Karen had planned a full evening during which she would be unable to think about him; drinks at a wine bar, the show and then supper at their favourite Indian restaurant, just round the corner from the Fairfield Halls complex in Croydon.

This really was not the sort of performance Lucy would normally go to. She was more attracted to bright and lively musicals; mainly modern ones, although she did have a soft spot for Gilbert and Sullivan, especially when the extra-lyricist had added something of topical relevance to the words of one of the comic songs. But living and working in Croydon meant there were not many of those playing nearby and she could not face the prospect of a train ride to Victoria Station followed by goodness knows how long through busy London traffic, to reach a suitable theatre. So when Karen had suggested a quick trip to a local theatre to see ‘Psychic Pete’ – a well-known television personality who had written several books on psychic phenomena – she couldn’t summon the energy to say no. But at least in the setting of this intimate theatre she could sink back into her comfortable seat and ruminate uninterrupted – whatever Karen had intended.

It was not just the breakup with Simon that had upset her. As Karen knew, Lucy had only recently started to recover from the shock of losing her mother to cancer and the absence of her long-term partner at such a time had been particularly hurtful. It seemed that he was incapable of providing the loving support that she needed at this point in her life. Was this part of what had driven him away, Lucy wondered; her apparent neediness at such a critical time? Losing her mother had felt like being cast adrift in an open boat, bounced around by a relentless series of increasingly insistent waves. She didn’t know what had driven Simon away. And right now, she still felt too battered to think straight about anything to do with her emotions.

Whether the death of Lucy’s mother was why Karen had chosen a psychic show, or it was just chance, Lucy faced the prospect of sitting through an hour and a half of the sort of mumbo-jumbo that she could probably live without. But at least she could use the time to think about her life.

What Lucy had not allowed for was Karen having purchased seats at the front of the auditorium, just below the stage, ‘so that they could see more easily’ she had said. As Lucy looked surreptitiously behind her at the sea of faces there to witness a famous personality performing live, she feared there might be little chance of anonymity so close to the stage. It also didn’t help that Karen had co-opted a group of their friends from work to join them on a ‘girls’ night out’ and that they’d had several drinks at the wine bar before the performance; some were becoming quite boisterous, already drawing attention to themselves.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, the dark platform area started to brighten; a spotlight focussing on a handsome man sitting completely still on a throne-like chair in the centre of the stage. He must have been there for some time, thought Lucy, since she had not noticed any movement on stage since their arrival – and the curtains had been open as far as she could recall. Perhaps this was part of the illusion he was about to perform for them – appearing as if a spectre himself. Lucy had never been to a psychic show before, so she had nothing to act as a reference point.

Psychic Pete sat still for so long that the audience started to rustle in their chairs, wondering if the show was ever going to start. Lucy took the opportunity to look more closely at him; evaluating what she saw. The slightly greying hair at his temples suggested he might be about ten years older than herself. His almost perfectly symmetrical features and pleasing eyes making him even better-looking in real life than on the television. Not that she had ever paid much attention to him, she told herself, but there had been a time a year or so earlier when he had been somewhat ubiquitous in the media. She couldn’t recall why.

Then, he spoke; a mellifluous sound that was equally soothing and compelling. His words wafted across the expectant audience, challenging them to ask him questions, throwing out suggestions that might elicit a reaction from them. First one person, then another held their hands up for the microphone that would allow them to communicate with the psychic and, hopefully through him, either to contact someone in the ‘afterlife’, or find the answer to a question that had been troubling them.

Looking surreptitiously at the people around her, Lucy wondered what drew them to performances of this sort. They were probably far from gullible. In fact, they looked like a cross section of any group you might find in a restaurant, library or shop. But perhaps they tended to be self-selecting, in that they had some sort of agenda for being there. In many cases, she suspected that it might have been the loss of a loved one and a desire to establish any kind of contact, in order to achieve closure. This had not really been her motive for coming, but she had to admit to herself that the possibility of a message from her mother had been at the back of her mind, when agreeing to Karen’s suggestion.

Listening carefully to the proceedings, Lucy realised that in many cases, the ‘words from beyond the veil’ were predictably anodyne, with messages of love and well-being. Several people were apparently selected from the audience by Psychic Pete to receive more or less specific predictions. But what seemed to be happening, as far as Lucy could tell, was the psychic was throwing out vague statements in the hope that someone would react in a way which allowed him then to weave some sort of story round them.

Occasionally, however, there was something less easy to explain. One woman asked for the microphone and, in a broken voice which told of her extreme emotion, told Psychic Pete that she had lost a valuable coin which had belonged to her late husband. He would be upset if she was unable to find it, so could he help? Nobody in the audience seemed to question the implication that the dead man (or Psychic Pete) would know either way – such was apparently accepted by a communal suspension of disbelief. Pete took only a moment to assess the situation and the audience looked on in wonder as he guided her towards a zipped section of her handbag which she seldom used.

“Look there and you will find what you are liking for,” he said, winning a round of applause when he proved correct. Of course this could have been down to trickery, or the woman might have been a ‘plant’. But the sincerity with which she greeted the discovery suggested that there was more to it. Either Pete was good at reading body language and could tell that something was concealed in the bag – and her subconscious – or he had a genuine extra-sensory gift. There was no way Lucy could tell which was the case. But her interest was piqued.

Quite out of the blue, the psychic pointed to a man sitting a few rows behind Lucy and her friends. “Would that gentleman kindly answer his telephone before it disturbs everyone?” This caused a ripple of comment in the audience; nobody had heard a phone ring at all. The murmuring turned to a crescendo of applause as the mobile telephone actually rang a few seconds later and the man quickly answered it.

“Sorry,” he said to the people around him, red-faced as he rose to move out of the auditorium. His voice carried further than intended against the background noise so that everyone heard him add: “I need to get to Mayday Hospital as soon as possible. My wife has gone into labour.”

“Should have been New Labour,” shouted a wag in the audience, above the growing sound of approval at the accuracy of the prediction. Gentle laughter followed the husband’s hasty retreat from the theatre where he probably should not have been in the first place, given his wife’s condition.

Again, Lucy felt that this could all have been a ‘plant’. But the alacrity with which the man had reacted at least added some verisimilitude to the performance.

And so it went on for quite some time, and Lucy suddenly realised that she was actually enjoying the surprising variety of the evening. Even if she did not entirely believe what she was seeing, it was vastly entertaining and she was able to see that – at the very least – many of those present were gaining solace from the messages of wellbeing and love they received from the ‘other side’.

“Why don’t you ask him about your father, Lucy?” prompted Karen, perhaps louder than she had intended. She knew everything about her best friend. “Your mother might tell you now,” she added, more quietly.

Being so close to the stage had its disadvantages, because Psychic Pete seemed suddenly to become aware of the attractive young red-headed woman sitting near the front. He did not, however, invite her to ask the question that seemed to be in her mind.

Instead he went suddenly quiet, sitting completely still for perhaps thirty seconds during which the audience started to rustle in their seats, wondering what had happened. Lucy looked at him and noticed his eyes had closed and he seemed to be listening to something. She wondered if he was angry at the disruption. After a moment he spoke.

“I want to speak with Lucia,” he said, looking directly towards her and uttering the words clearly, without needing to project his voice by artificial amplification. The acoustics in the theatre were good, but his voice seemed to Lucy to be capable of carrying as far as he wanted it to – wherever he was.

“That must be you, Lucy,” whispered Karen loudly, putting her friend on the spot. “Raise your hand so he can see you.”

The idea appalled Lucy, not just because she was dubious about whether she could be the person he was asking for, but also because his words had created a strong sense of foreboding in her; she felt a chill in the pit of her stomach. Could it possibly be that her mother wanted to contact her, after all? Perhaps it was to tell her who her father had been, as Karen had suggested; something Sandra Bowen had steadfastly refused to say right up until her death some months earlier in a hospice at the young age of 57, despite their having been very close. They had had to be, because there was nobody else in their lives until Simon had come on the scene; and mother never really liked him. Lucy had been deeply hurt by her mother’s unwillingness to give her any information on the subject of her paternity, but never let it show. Perhaps mother had somehow perceived her feelings and now wanted to make amends.

Looking round to ensure that nobody else had put up their hands to identify themselves as the person Psychic Pete was calling for, Lucy half rose from her seat and waved tentatively towards the stage. There was a ripple of applause around her, largely led by the group of girls she was with, encouraging her to participate in whatever was about to happen.

“Are you Lucia?” asked the psychic in his clear, resonant voice, from his throne-like position; he had not stood during the entire performance, Lucy suddenly realised.

“My name is Lucy,” she said. “I don’t know if it is me you want, but nobody else seems to be volunteering. So here I am.”

Pete smiled at her, recognising she was not really attuned to this type of event and that she probably only spoke at all to save him the embarrassment of getting no response. He decided that he liked this slender young woman.

“I have a special message for you,” he said. “But not one suitable for everyone to hear; at least not now. Please come and see me after the reading is finished.”

Lucy sank back into her comfortable seat, red-faced from this brief exposure to the rest of the audience and wondering what on earth this message might be, why it could not be shared generally, as all the others had. And why the name he had called out was not quite right.

*

This brief exchange effectively brought the psychic reading to an end, as Psychic Pete slumped back into his chair and the lights dimmed on stage. The curtains finally closed and the house lights rose again. Lucy had to admit the evening had, after all, been entertaining. But she also decided the invitation to speak with the psychic later was probably a mistake. In any case, Pete had apparently decided against offering her any messages, so perhaps she was the wrong person after all, and he had not wanted to admit to the fact – perhaps to embarrass her for having volunteered incorrectly. No, she decided, he would not want to see her after all. As Lucy followed Karen and the girls to collect their coats from the cloakroom, nobody mentioned the final exchange involving their friend; perhaps they were planning to make jokes about it at the Indian Restaurant. Making their way out through the broad, stone floored entrance hall, Lucy too had almost forgotten the incident. So when one of the ushers approached them in the foyer, she wondered why; had they left something in their seats, perhaps? It was the sort of thing some of her friends were given to do.

“Mr Walters has asked if you could spare him a moment, please, miss?” the usher said quietly to Lucy. It took a moment for her to realise that ‘Mr Walters’ was the psychic, rather than a manager at the venue as was her initial fear on being approached. Not that Lucy felt she had done anything to attract disapprobation from those who ran the theatre, but she was the type of person who frequently had the sense of having ‘done something wrong’ even when this was patently untrue. She was therefore pleasantly surprised to learn that it was, after all, the performer who wanted to see her.

She looked hastily at Karen, reading her quizzical smile as an indication that she should take the opportunity to meet an interesting and handsome man. The colour rose in her cheeks and, quickly saying she would catch up with them at the Indian Restaurant later, she followed the usher along the corridor that ran between the Ashcroft Theatre and the main concert hall towards the dressing rooms. Lucy wondered why she had accepted this unusual invitation. She was, after all, entering a domain with which she was unfamiliar. Should anything go wrong – you heard such strange stories these days – she was not at all sure she could find her way out quickly enough to escape. But the performer had not looked like a potential rapist and at least one of the attendants knew that she had been invited backstage, as well as Karen and the girls.

The usher knocked on the dressing room door and showed Lucy in without waiting for a reply. She entered to find Psychic Pete in a state of mild disarray. It was not that he was unclothed, even partly so; but the room was strewn with articles of clothing, half-drunk cups of a beverage (probably once tea or coffee), even a half-eaten sandwich. It was a mess – in complete contrast to his smart appearance on stage. The psychic recognised her surprise, possibly even distaste, from Lucy’s raised eyebrow and almost imperceptible inhalation.

“Sorry to be a bit untidy, Miss …” he realised that he did not know anything about her other than her first name. And he had that wrong. “Um, Lucia. I tend to unwind after a show by dressing in casual clothes and having a drink. Would you like some sherry?” That really surprised her; she somehow saw him as a whisky drinker. And as a restaurateur, she was seldom wrong about people’s drinks preferences.

“A sherry would be very nice, thank you,” she replied, knowing that this would sit better with the wine that she had been drinking earlier – and would probably return to later – than a grain based drink. “And my name is Lucy Bowen, not Lucia.” As she accepted the proffered chair, Lucy inspected him more closely than she had been able to while he was on stage, She realised that the developing lines on his face made him really very good looking, in a slightly lived-in sort of way.

“Oh, yes, I am sorry,” he replied, ignoring her scrutiny of him, to which he was accustomed. “You said that earlier. I’m sorry to ask you to come and see me like this, but I simply cannot get a particular image out of my head; I have not been able to do so all evening, in fact. The impression started even before I spotted you in the audience.” Lucy looked into his eyes, hoping for some indication of when he had first noticed her, but he continued with his story without noticing the slight stiffening in her body which indicated her growing interest in him; sorry, in what he was saying, she mentally corrected herself.

“I don’t really know where to start, but I must tell you that you have lived before; so much came over to me very clearly when you stood up in the stalls; I knew immediately that you were the person I was looking for. In a previous life, you were an ice cream seller; I think it must have been in Victorian England. When I looked at you in the audience, the strange feeling which had started earlier crystallised and I saw a young woman, lying on the ground in the arms of a young man.” Lucy looked at him, suddenly round eyed in astonishment.

“You must realise that most of my performance is an act,” he continued, choosing not to be distracted by her visible reaction, keen rather to explain himself. “It is a form of entertainment; one that is based on my ability to ‘read’ people from their body language and to anticipate what they want to hear. Occasionally, however, I am overcome by a sense of knowledge that is completely beyond even my ability to understand. I experienced such a feeling this evening. Because of the direction of the lighting, my face is largely in shadow, so that I can see the audience. When I noticed you, a few moments before I spoke of it, the name Lucia sprang into my mind and I saw the girl again. She had been killed in the most horrible way. The feeling actually started earlier this evening, even before I saw you; but your face brought the image more sharply into focus.” Lucy didn’t quite know what to say. As a chat-up line, this was certainly original, she decided, keeping her face as impassive as she could.

“I don’t know if you believe in reincarnation,” continued Pete, unaware of her thoughts, “but all the evidence I have seen during my career suggests that people – well, at least some people – are born time and again, throughout history. Of course since there are so many more people alive today than throughout the whole of history to date, some souls must be ‘new’. But others are already caught in an eternal merry-go-round of birth, death and rebirth.”

“I find that difficult to accept,” replied Lucy, allowing herself a sip of the remarkably good Fino Sherry the psychic had poured for her to gain time to marshal her thoughts. “I cannot believe there is anything beyond the grave – certainly not ‘life’ giving us a second chance.”

“An interesting choice of words,” he said, smiling at her. “It suggests there are already things in your life you regret; and which you might like the opportunity to put right. How old are you, may I ask?”

“That is very forward of you,” she countered, but not actually resenting the question. Glancing surreptitiously in the mirror behind Psychic Pete’s head, she found time to hope she was still attractive to men – despite having been out of the ‘dating game’ to which she would soon have to return, for a long time. She did not realise that it was her pleasing features – particularly the petite nose and elfin figure – which had first drawn Pete’s eye to her. “I am thirty-four. Which I suppose is better than thirty-five,” she added, in a self-deprecating way.

“Don’t knock it,” he replied. “Some of us are seeing that age fast disappearing in the rear-view mirror of life. I am over forty,” he added for some reason she could not immediately discern.

“I can’t prove the fact that we have all lived before,” he continued his theme, “and will probably do so again, to the satisfaction of anyone. In fact, I frequently have difficulty in really believing it myself. But there are such strong indicators in its favour, discounting the possibility is equally challenging for me.”

He paused for a few moments, sipping from his glass, which Lucy noticed he had not refreshed when he had filled one for her. Was he abstemious, she wondered? Or is mine drugged, she suddenly thought, with rising panic. Feeling no ill effects from the fortified wine, she took the opportunity of his silence to look round the room in greater detail. It was a normal dressing room, she imagined – not having any personal experience of such places – with a large mirror with strip lights round it to facilitate putting on makeup. Had he been wearing makeup she wondered, smiling internally at the thought that such a high-profile man might have to resort to it in order to avoid looking ‘washed-out’ on stage. Strong lighting can be so unforgiving, as any girl knows. There were few humanising touches in the room, nothing that reflected his personality. But given that he would probably only be there for one night – or at the most two – this was hardly surprising. Only his overcoat, hanging neatly behind the door, gave any semblance of order, of his really occupying the room. Lucy wondered if this itinerate life suited him; whether he lived far away and, if so, whether he stayed in a hotel while on tour, or commuted home. It depended where he was, she supposed, wondering why she was even asking herself such questions about a man she had only just met.

“I live quite close to here; Purley in fact,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “My parents have a biggish house there. It pleases my mother to have me around – keeping an eye on me, she says – but I know she is worried because my father is getting older and rather forgetful. I think it helps her to have me on tap. They have even given me space for an office and consulting room.”

“You make it sound as if you are a doctor or psychiatrist,” replied Lucy, not knowing why he was telling her this.

“An interesting analogy, Lucy … um, if I might call you that?” he added quickly. “What I sometimes do is try to help people privately find answers to the questions which may arise out of public performances. Of course, as you probably realise, evenings like this are all rather superficial; they have to be given their impersonal nature. But people also consult me directly if there is something they need to know about themselves or their families. I am very honest and always tell them that I cannot help. My services are not exactly cheap, and I would not want anyone to feel cheated.”

Here comes the sales pitch, Lucy told herself, suddenly unsure of her position in his room. No wonder he is softening me up with a drink.

“What I want to say now might surprise you,” he said, “but I would very much like to practice past life regression on you. I was deeply upset by what I saw earlier. The attack on that young woman was particularly violent and I had the intense feeling the circumstances of her killing were never completely resolved – or avenged. She needs to know who killed her; I have no idea why, but that is what I think.”

“What is past life regression?” she asked, while adding to herself: and what will it cost?

“I would hypnotise you and enable you to go back into your past life – her life – in order to relive the experiences that led up to the murder,” he replied. “Some of it will not be very pleasant, I imagine, given what I saw, but I can quickly bring you out of the trance if you become distressed. Oh, and I should add that my mother will be present as a chaperone. She is a bit deaf, but having her there prevents any suspicion of malpractice while clients are hypnotised. And this is for my benefit. I will not be charging anything at all, however long it takes to get to the truth. Why don’t you think about it and get back to me when you are ready?” he added, giving her his card.

He offered to drive her to meet her friends, but the restaurant was only a short distance so she said she would walk. In Croydon nothing of interest is too far away; although it is not a small town, the amusements are largely concentrated in the town centre. Lucy’s favourite Indian was just on the corner of Park Street. Pete courteously insisted on accompanying her to the restaurant to make sure she was safe. It was after ten, and some parts of the town were not quite as safe for a young woman alone at that time of night as one might wish.

Lucy walked into the restaurant giving very little attention to her conversation with this somewhat enigmatic man. Pete really was attractive, she admitted to herself. But so had Simon been, and look what a mistake that had eventually turned out to be. It was not just that he had failed her when she most needed his support, but that she never really knew where he was – or where their relationship was going for that matter. In the end, she accepted it had been going nowhere; they had been coasting in a meaningless way for more than a year. Had he found another woman? To be honest, she now neither knew nor cared. But she was not about to leap into another relationship on the rebound, so she put the psychic to the back of her mind, once she had satisfied her friends with what had occurred during this ‘tryst’, as Karen put it.

*

A week elapsed before Lucy made contact with Psychic Pete. She had put his card in her handbag without thinking; and given it very little thought since then. She only came across it again when she was looking for her purse to put some change into the till of the small but smart restaurant she managed. Looking round the main dining area, which she had been responsible for redecorating the previous year, she felt it was a pleasant establishment. The walls were a relaxing shade of dark green, below an off-white ceiling. The suspended light fittings could easily be dimmed from ‘bright lunchtime’, to ‘convivial evening’, and the tables just far enough apart not to feel cramped. She admitted to herself that the furniture was a little basic, but then their prices were generally aimed at the small-business community so it seemed appropriate. Situated in South Croydon, the restaurant was close enough to the main town to attract a good clientele for casual luncheons, whilst a quiet room at the back allowed larger groups to hold meetings or private luncheons. Most bills were settled by credit card or on account, but the occasional drop-in customer would pay in cash, so having change in the till was essential.

Psychic Pete’s card gave Lucy something of a jolt, because she had just been checking stock levels and found that they were almost out of ice cream. Seeing it brought to mind Pete’s comment about the death of a young Victorian ice cream seller. In her customary decisive way, she immediately resolved to give him a call and make an appointment. After all, what did she have to lose?

“Hello, Mr Walters,” she said into the receiver, looking in the mirror while she spoke so she could watch her own reaction, as she wondered how her call would be received, “this is Lucy Bowen. I don’t know if you remember. We met …

“Of course, I remember you,” he interrupted her, with a smile he hoped she could not hear. “In fact I was just thinking that I had not heard from you. Mother gave me some ice cream after lunch and it brought you to mind,” he explained. No need to tell her that she had seldom been out of his thoughts since they had first met. “I do hope you have decided to come and see me so that we can start looking into your pasts.” Lucy noticed the plural, but decided that this was not the time to discuss it. This was, after all, company time and she should not really be using the telephone at all. She worked out when she would next be ‘off shift’ for a few hours and made an appointment to see him.

A few days later, on a cold morning at the start of December – not long to go until the end of the century, indeed, of the millennia – Lucy found herself walking up the frosty pavement on the hill from the Purley Railway Station towards the address Pete had given her. She did not have a car of her own, although she had driven Simon’s on occasions in the past – usually so he could drink while they were out. She found it easier – and cheaper – to commute by train from Selhurst, where she lived, to her work in South Croydon. It was also probably quicker than fighting her way through the Croydon traffic, anyway. It was therefore a simple step for her to catch the train to Purley. It also meant that she could easily get back to South Croydon for work, later, and then on home at the end of her shift. Which would be late that evening; there was a special party on for a local business to promote itself, which is how she had managed to justify a late start.

Feeling unaccountably nervous, she walked up to the front door of an imposing, double-fronted, three-storied Victorian house. It had a semi-basement, so she had to mount a half flight of stone steps in order to reach the rather grand entrance portico. Pete must have been watching out for her, because he already had the heavy, black painted front door swinging open before she could ring the bell.

“The bell does not work very well,” he apologised, “and as I work in one of the front rooms, I tend to keep an eye out if I am expecting anyone. I don’t have a secretary or anything – it would be such a waste of time, given the nature of my work.” It was almost as if he was talking nervously in order to fill a vacuum, she felt. But he is on his own ground in every sense of the word, so why should that be, she wondered? In truth, this was actually one of the few occasions on which Pete had had any visitors to the house. Describing his office as a consulting room had been something of an exaggeration. He normally performed on stage and only met individuals in exceptional circumstances. This case, he felt, justified the additional effort of opening his home to a client. Or was it rather that Lucy was ‘his type’ of woman; he could see from the way her eyes seemed to penetrate his own, reaching into his very soul, every time she looked at him that she was intelligent. And being a redhead helped. She was far closer to his ‘ideal’ than the series of vacuous blondes to whom his mother kept introducing him; in the hope of finally securing some grandchildren, he assumed. Her strong but delicate features made her someone he would not mind getting to know better. But this was a professional meeting and he needed to focus on the business in hand.

Slightly intimidated by the surprisingly grand black-and-white tiled entrance hall though which she was conveyed, Lucy said little more than to offer a polite greeting. She would not settle until the mother appeared to act as chaperone; and that did not seem to be happening any time soon, she thought, as she was ushered into the office. The room Pete used as an office was apparently intended to double up as a sitting room, because there were comfortable chairs as well as a chaise longue, in addition to a desk and chairs in the bay window. A computer sat on the desk with its large upright ‘tower’ taking up rather more space than was helpful, leaving little room for much more than a keyboard and the heavy screen.

“Why not put the computer tower on the floor, to make more room on the desk?” were almost the first words Lucy had spoken since arriving. “And surely you could have one of the new flat screens, too? That would make it far easier for you to work.”

Pete smiled at her and thought for a moment. Was she taking an interest in him – or was it simply her well-organised mind encouraging her to seek order in her surroundings? Speaking with her for a short while the previous week, he had quickly formed a good opinion of her intellect, although he could not have given a logical reason for the thought. Now, the way her lively eyes seemed to dart round his office, evaluating everything she saw, seemed to indicate an active brain which would not take things on trust, but would require proof.

“Actually, I do most of my work sitting in the comfortable chairs. I only use the desk for checking e-mails and my diary,” he replied. “Would you like to take a seat so that we can talk?” Well there was little point in being there if she was not to sit down, but Lucy was still concerned that the promised mother had not shown up. She was not a particularly nervous person; indeed, she was confident that she could take care of herself in most circumstances. But on this occasion, she was sitting in a house with a well-built strange man about whom she knew relatively little – other than his media reputation. What is more, nobody knew she was there. She had made a point of not telling Karen and the others too much about her interview with Pete, when she had reached the restaurant that night. Instead she had pretended that he simply wanted to thank her for offering to participate in the evening and to see if he could take her out for a meal. She had not, at that stage, mentioned his assertion about a murdered girl, thinking they would consider her a convert to his form of ‘mysticism’. Nor had she told Karen she was going to see him today. She was completely at the mercy of this man, except for any defence she could provide for herself. And what if there was a second man in the house, waiting to connive at who knows what being done to her?

The door from the spacious, oak-panelled hall suddenly swung silently open – Pete had not actually closed it when entered, but it was certainly ajar – something Lucy only noticed out of the corner of her eye. Here it comes, she thought to herself, while forcing herself not to look in that direction, for fear of appearing weak.

“Am I too early?” came a voice from the opening, its owner hovering hesitantly, as if slightly in awe of the psychic.

“Not at all, mother,” he replied, instinctively standing up as she entered. “May I introduce Miss Bowen to you? Lucy, this is my mother, Mrs Walters.”

“How do you do, my dear?” said the older woman, addressing Lucy directly, who had turned to see who had entered the room as soon as the voice spoke. The woman, smartly dressed in a twin set and skirt (no pearls, Lucy noticed) looked as if she was somewhere in her seventies with white hair and sunken cheeks within a strong bone structure. She must once have been very attractive, thought Lucy, relaxing more completely than she had thought possible. It made her smile involuntarily. “Oh, what a pretty smile you have,” Mrs Walters added, hoping that her son might find this one more interesting that the last girl to whom she had introduced him. Like most mothers, she was concerned about what would happen to him after she was gone. It was not that he was incapable of looking after himself physically – there would be plenty of money when she and father died to allow him to employ people to do the cooking and cleaning – it was more a matter whether he would have any emotional support, when they were no longer there to provide it. And for a sensitive boy (as many mothers also think of their sons) that would be essential.

Normally, Lucy was embarrassed by compliments. Well, she would be had she been in the habit of receiving many. The problem with Simon was that he had seldom even looked at her after their first few years together and certainly never commented favourably. Nor had any of the friends with whom he had surrounded himself – and her. But this tall, slim woman seemed to have a knack of setting one at ease, and her age made the comment somehow maternal, and therefore acceptable.

“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Walters,” replied Lucy, smiling again. “You have a lovely home here,” she added, taking in the room with a sweeping gesture of her eyes.

“Thank you, my dear,” the older woman said, making Lucy wonder whether she had a problem remembering names. “I try to keep it nice for Peter to bring his friends here. Not that he does so very often. You must be special,” she added her eyes dancing with a surprisingly impish expression, for a woman of her age. Or perhaps it was not really surprising; we tend to make assumptions about the elderly that are seldom borne out in practice. And this woman seemed to have seen much of life; had probably served in the forces during the war.

“Please don’t embarrass my client, mother,” said Peter reverting to the persona attached to the name by which she had always called him, even as a child. He chose his words deliberately to re-establish the correct tone for the meeting and remind her that she was there for a specific purpose. It was not just to make Lucy feel safer that she was present. His mother seemed to have a special gift for reading people and knowing when they were genuine and when they were being insincere. This would be important to Peter when he hypnotised Lucy; he needed to be sure that she was fully 'under' and not simply humouring him. Not that there was any reason to think that she would do so – she had no reason to act unnaturally. After all, it was he who had called for the session, rather than Lucy, so she would gain no benefit from pretending to be hypnotised and then making up stories.

Lucy turned her most devastating smile on Peter and admonished him for speaking in such a way to his mother.

“I am not in the least embarrassed by Mrs Walters, Peter,” she used his full name for emphasis, to reinforce her amity with his mother. “Shall we get on? I only have a few hours before I am due at work.”

Mrs Walters moved gracefully across the spacious room and sat on an upright dining chair standing close to the corner of the room diagonally opposite the doorway. It was typical of a woman of her generation that she should prefer to sit upright, rather than to relax – or slouch as she would have put it – in a more comfortable armchair. At least when they had visitors.

Peter sat Lucy down on the chaise longue, with her back to the corner position taken by his mother, and himself took the nearest chair to her after drawing the curtains slightly, to darken the room. It was north facing and as the sun was covered by clouds there was no need to do more, to create a relaxed atmosphere.

“What I am going to do first,” he explained in his normal voice, “is help you to relax physically and then clear your mind. After that, I will put you into an hypnotic state. To achieve this, you need do nothing other than to place yourself in my hands and trust me not to harm you. If I did, I suspect mother would come over and give me a thick ear,” he added, to the accompaniment of a disapproving noise from the older woman indicating he had better not try!

“Just as long as you don’t put any post-hypnotic suggestions into my mind,” Lucy joked.

“Actually,” replied Peter, “while that is perfectly possible, it would not make you do anything dangerous or even very much out of character. Stories about people being made to run around and cluck like chickens after being hypnotised may have some truth in them, but those involved were probably people who might do so of their own volition, for fun. In any case, I won’t be doing anything untoward to you,” he added, thinking to himself that there might be one or two things he would like to do with (rather than to) this young woman. But not in front of his mother. He moved some cushions so she was comfortable, being very careful not to touch her in any way, and then told her to lie back and relax.

“Now, if you are completely comfortable, I would like you to focus on the sound of my voice,” he said in a soft, gentle tone which made Lucy think of waves on a beach. “Please relax and forget where you are. There is nothing in the world for you to listen to other than my voice. Don’t try to focus on anything at all, not even your own memories, because we are going beyond your own childhood. We are going to find Lucia in your subconscious mind,” he added.

“Now I will start counting backwards from ten and by the time I reach one, you will be completely relaxed and able to hear me and answer my questions. Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four …”

Chapter 2 – Croydon: Spring 1865

Lucia’s brown eyes carefully scanned the faces of the people milling around her small corner of the fairground, hoping that some of them would come and buy her ice creams. If she failed to sell everything Uncle Giuseppe had made, he would be angry. And she knew from harsh experience the nature his punishment for her failure would be likely to take; a stormy face at best, harsher treatment at worst. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, he was always telling her that such a ‘pretty face as hers’ should easily be able to attract customers. If she failed, she wasn’t trying hard enough and must be chastised. There were all sorts of people at the fair: fine ladies parading with top-hatted gentlemen at a sedate pace, the women wearing the crisply laundered morning dresses which she knew they would go home at lunchtime and change; shop assistants who had managed to get a little time off work were walking briskly with their sweethearts, dressed in their Sunday best – even though this was a Tuesday – eager to catch a sight of everything before having to scurry back to work. And as for the rest, Lucia noticed with disgust that you could still see on their faces the grime in which most of the manual labouring classes existed, despite their endeavours to wash it off in order to attend the event. At least she hoped they had washed, the smell might otherwise have been far worse! And the fair visiting town was still an ‘event’ for a population whose lives normally consisted of five and a half days working hard for inadequate pay, then half a day off, followed by virtually obligatory attendance at church on the seventh.

Lucia didn’t really like the Croydon Fair. She was not sure why, but it sent a shiver down her slender back every time Uncle Giuseppe took them there. Perhaps it was because, with its densely populated streets and tall buildings, this was one of the larger towns they visited on their annual progression round the country; it seemed so impersonal to her. But her uncle insisted that they should go every year; and since her mother and father had died over a decade earlier, when she had been about four years old – she was not exactly sure of her age – Lucia had had no alternative but to do whatever he said. It was either that, or making a living on the streets, selling herself to the men who already looked at her as if she was a delicacy on a plate they would like to devour before moving swiftly on. She would not even have been entitled to any parish relief under the poor laws; having been brought to England by her parents as a baby meant that she had no 'native' town or village in which to claim assistance. The family had come over as part of the mass immigration of more than 4,000 people from the Italian peninsular, seeking a better life. Like many Neapolitans, her father had carried on the family tradition of ice cream making and gone into business with his brother. When he and his wife died in one of the many cholera outbreaks to hit London during the 1850s – two of the thousands of people to die from vomit- and diarrhoea-induced dehydration in the span of only twenty-four months – Giuseppe had quickly taken over sole control of the business; and with it, perhaps less enthusiastically, responsibility for his niece. But he had at least provided her with a home, whatever the cost to her frail body. At least her mind remained her own.

The girl could hardly remember her father at all, and her mother was little more than the memory of a pleasant smell. But she knew she had hated Uncle Giuseppe from a very early age. It was not that he was unusually cruel to her – the beatings and other punishments she received were no more severe than those given to other children she knew. But the barely suppressed smile on his face while chastising her, suggested he actually enjoyed hurting her; while the strangely distant look in his eyes as he forced her to ‘be nice’ to him afterwards – to make up for her alleged misbehaviour, he said – terrified and revolted her. As Lucia grew older and formed a friendship with Pietro, a boy some years older than her and another of Giuseppe’s adoptees, she began to realise that there was something fundamentally wrong with what the old man demanded of her. Pietro was kind to her and never hurt her. She supposed that she loved him, but was not really sure what that meant. Certainly his gentle ways and pleasing smile made her feel safe when they were alone together. But was she simply clinging to the only person who did not make her feel afraid, or was there more to it? Perhaps time would tell.

Frantic to sell her stock of ice cream, Lucia started to walk about in front of the stall, hoping that the sight of a bright-eyed young woman in a newly pressed dress that rode just above the ankle would catch the eye of some of the gentlemen, so that they would buy ices for their ladies. Her skirt was not deliberately kept short, showing the bottom of her leg – something that was no longer acceptable in polite society – it was simply that Uncle Giuseppe was too mean, or to canny, to replace it for her as she had grown to her current height of five foot two inches. Keeping it clean and smart was a challenge, but the effort of doing so made her feel better than the other showgirls, in their generally grubby skirts and blouses. And their poorly washed hair, even faces, which made her shudder internally.

Lucia caught a gentleman’s eye and forced a smile.

“An ice cream for your lady, sir?” she asked hopefully, thrusting a glass ice cream holder towards the finely dressed, but rather vapid-looking, woman accompanying him in the hope she might take pity on the girl and ask for one to be bought for her. In this case, she was lucky and the man asked for two penny licks.

“After all, my dear,” he said to the lady, his imperious look around taking in all the bustle, “who knows how long we will have the fair to enjoy. I understand that the burghers are talking about closing it down for being too riotous. In any case, there will be little room to hold it in future, if the railway company gets its way. They want to use the space for a new station, closer to the main commercial centre of town.”

“Riotous, Mr Brown?” she retorted, her hand to her ill-covered bosom in mock horror at his first words – railway companies were of no interest to her. “What do you mean by bringing a respectable lady to a place like this …” The remainder of their conversation was lost to Lucia as they strode away, having quickly enjoyed the meagre quantity of ice cream provided, before returning the receptacles to her. But she could see the woman was by no means displeased by his attentions.

Perhaps the woman was right, mused Lucia while she sought out more customers. Respectable ladies did not go to fairs – or at least, not as much as they once did, by all accounts. Something seemed to be changing in English society and, according to her uncle, it had much to do with the Queen, a woman not so long ago bereaved by the death of her much loved Prince Albert. During the intervening four years, some of the joy seemed to have gone out of the upper classes and this was beginning to permeate down to the middle classes, who were ever eager to emulate their betters. Lucia hoped this attitude would not eventually reach the working classes, because they were usually her best customers. Their obvious delight at spending their hard-earned pennies on the miniscule but tasty and exotic portions of ice cream they were given always gladdened her heart. It was something she could offer people of her own class normally only available to their betters. Lucia was always careful to speak with an Italian accent – but clearly enough to avoid any misunderstandings over price – so the small element of mystery might be preserved. Unsurprisingly, she was always more successful selling to young men than anyone else.

While she was engaged in thinking about the state of the world, such as she knew it, Pietro crept up behind her and gave her waist a gentle squeeze. He did not want to cause her to drop the glass penny lick receptacle she was holding, or she would be made to pay for it later by Giuseppe. He never used the honorific ‘Uncle’, even though the older man constantly demanded it of him – to show that they were ‘all one family’. That Giuseppe had taken Pietro in at all was amazing, given his penny-pinching and highly unpleasant personality. Pietro was not related to them, but was a boy Giuseppe had encountered some years earlier, shortly after he had taken on responsibility for Lucia. Pietro being a little older than his niece may have influenced his decision unofficially to adopt this son of another couple who had died in the epidemic which had killed his brother and sister-in-law. He would not only be a companion for the girl, but also help to keep an eye on her, while Giuseppe was busy with his drinking and women.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said in a mock gruff voice trying to imitate Giuseppe.

“That had better be you, Pietro,” she said, without looking round, “or I will scream the place down.” He was a lad of sixteen or so summers, with strong hands which never pressed to hard – or inappropriately – with a pleasing face. His smile was shy, but engaging; at least, to her.

“How did you know it was not your uncle?” he asked, knowing the answer; Giuseppe wouldn’t have been so gentle. Or as careful where he put his hands. Pietro was already in love with Lucia, but recognised that she was probably too young to make a similar commitment. He was also aware of the physical demands placed on her by the older man and wanted to distance himself from them.

“Have we sold much?” he asked, knowing he should have been there to help, but that she usually sold more when he was absent.

“Not enough to satisfy uncle,” she replied. “Where is he, making more ice cream?”

“You must be joking,” replied Pietro. “I watched him stagger to the Wig and Pen in Katherine Street. I wish the building would fall down on his rotten head, then we could run the business ourselves.” His most secret desire was to have Lucia all to himself. He sometimes wondered whether this made him any better than Giuseppe, or if his regard for her was of a purer form and therefore more deserving of success. After all, he did not want to possess her but to share his life with her. Well, if he was honest with himself, he did want her in a physical way, but that was only part of his desires; he wanted to protect and provide for her even more than to cure the ache in his body which only being with her would be able to assuage.

“Neither of us knows the secret recipe he stole from my father, when he died,” she reminded the boy for the umpteenth time. It was a shared dream of theirs, to be able to have their own business someday. For Lucia, it may have been little more than a desire to get away from her uncle; for Pietro, it was more a matter of settling down with the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. “If only we could find out what special ingredients he adds to the cream to give it such a wonderful taste,” she continued.

“He must have it written down somewhere,” said Pietro. “I have seen him looking at a paper secretively when making a new supply. It is as if he cannot remember the right proportions to use and has to remind himself.”

“More likely it is a magic spell that he has to cast on the ingredients to ward off the evil influence of his own involvement in its manufacture,” she replied and they both laughed.

“No wonder we never sell enough ice cream to make a living,” boomed a man’s deep voice behind them, causing then to spring apart as if they had been doing something illicit. “We cannot clear all this stock if you two are always conniving together behind my back, while it goes off. Get back to work both of you. We are not going home until you have sold everything.”

Home, at this time, was the most miserable inn that Croydon had to offer. Even that was a concession because, despite the sunshine, it was still too cold after a harsh winter to camp as they usually did; the cramped wooden and canvass-covered wagon in which Giuseppe made the ice cream serving also as their living and sleeping quarters. The fact of having to pay for their accommodation was another reason for Giuseppe’s foul temper, although truth to tell, he required little provocation. It would be nice, thought Lucia, if his personality was the result of years of hard work, having to bring up his brother’s child without the support of a woman. But in reality, she knew, he was only alone because no woman would have him, for his rough ways and reported ferocity on the few occasions when he was able to entice a woman into his bed. Only the most experienced prostitutes would have any congress with him, these days. He had always been a thoroughly unpleasant man and his sister-in-law had been terrified of him when she was alive, according to the few people Lucia had ever met who had known her mother. Even her father had seldom, apparently, challenged him on his behaviour towards women. That Giuseppe had brought up Lucia after her death would have filled her mother with horror. But she would also have felt pride at seeing how well the girl was turning out, despite the malevolent influence of this man. Lucia was an open and honest girl who disliked disobeying her uncle not because she feared him – although there was an element of that – but because it was in her nature to try and accommodate people. Pleasing her uncle was a matter of conscience for her, however harshly he might treat her.

“I wish you would let me help making the ice cream, sometimes, uncle,” said Lucia. “After all it was my father’s recipe …” she was unable to continue her sentence, as Giuseppe grabbed her roughly by the throat with one of his ham-sized fists and snarled at her, waving the other in front of her nose. She hated the feel of his breath on her face, but tried to conceal her repugnance to avoid making matters worse.

“It was my family’s recipe, you little guttersnipe,” he almost spat into her mouth, “and don’t you ever forget it. I clothe and feed you out of the goodness of my heart. If you don’t do as I say, you will be cast out on the street, to earn your living like the other motherless strumpets. And as for you, boy,” he turned his ill-temper towards Pietro, who refused to cower, “you can forget any ideas you might have about marrying her. She will make a fine prize for anyone who can pay me a suitable price for her virginity. And it won’t be you.” With that he strode off, with only a backwards injunction that they must sell all the ice cream before the end of the day.

Smiling secretly to himself, Pietro was unaccountably heartened by the exchange. While he had never made a secret of his regard for Lucia, he had equally never declared himself to her as a potential suitor. That Giuseppe had felt the need openly to reject him in such a capacity meant his would-be sweetheart could no longer be in any doubt as to his intentions. If she was not interested in him, she would certainly tell him so and he could reply that it was only Giuseppe, speaking in his cups; if she was interested, his life would be complete. Almost. But what really pleased him was the assertion that she was still a virgin. Pietro had always assumed that Giuseppe’s attentions to his niece had involved forcing her to share his bed. This, it now appeared, was not the case. His relief must have shown on his round, soft face, which was something of an open book to Lucia; she already knew how he felt about her – but was not quite sure how much she reciprocated his feelings.

“I know you think my uncle has been abusing me,” she said to him, more gently than she had ever spoken to him before. “And I know that you hate yourself as much as him, for not being able to prevent it from happening. But you should know that whatever he has forced me to do – and some of those things are too horrible to describe to you – I can still look forward to giving myself to the man I marry, for the first time. Don’t look so glum,” she added as his face fell a little. “I didn’t say that it couldn’t be you. Nor am I saying that it will be. Yet.”

Later in the afternoon, just as Lucia was starting to feel they might achieve their aim of selling everything before the sun finally lost what little warmth it offered late in the day and the fair closed, she happened to overhear a conversation that was clearly not intended for general consumption. Having found a bush behind which she could relieve herself, she was squatting down and could not be seen. So when a pair of smartly dressed gentlemen came into the nearby clearing in the scrub, she was able to remain hidden and silent.

“The town has received a magnificent offer for this land, Councillor Williams,” said the first man. Peeping carefully through the bushes, Lucia could see that it was the tall man with bushy mutton-chop whiskers who had bought ice cream for himself and his lady earlier.

“That is all very well, Councillor Brown,” replied the other, a rather overweight, slightly nervous-looking man. “But we risk the wrath of the traders – and those who enjoy the fair – if we sell it and there is nowhere for them to hold this eyesore in future. Not that I mind upsetting the general populace, but what about the property owners; the ratepayers? Don’t forget there will be an election soon and if we get on the wrong side of them, they might vote us out of office. Who would then benefit from the generosity of our ‘friends’, in order to put profitable opportunities their way? I believe we must exercise caution.”

“Then what we need is some sort of pretext for closing the fair which has nothing to do with the proposed development of this site,” said Brown. “Though what it might be I have no idea. It is too late to repeat some of the trouble we incited amongst soldiers coming back from the Crimea; a pity, because they were good at creating terror amongst the locals. But they will all have disbursed by now. Perhaps something to do with India, do you think, Williams?” he added tentatively.

“I am sure you will come up with something, Brown,” replied the other, his eyes betraying a dislike for the Brown that might have been obvious, had he been paying any attention. “You seem to have quite a knack for getting what you want. I have always wondered what happened to change the mind of the Town Clerk when he initially opposed you over your idea for expanding the alms houses in North End. More of your corruption, I assume ...”

“Quiet,” interrupted Brown, urgently. “I think we are being watched. Yes, behind that bush, a girl.” As he spoke, Lucia, realising that she was observed overhearing something she should not have done, rose from her hiding place and fled back towards the main fairground and the relative safety of the ice cream stall.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Williams. “She is young and looks foreign. She probably didn’t understand us – probably too ignorant to know what we were talking about in any case. She’s only a child, dammit, man.”

“I have seen her face somewhere before,” mused Councillor Brown, “but I cannot remember where. We cannot afford anyone to know what we are planning. If she did understand us, she is a potential threat. And you know how I deal with those.”

“This is no time for any of your extreme measures, Brown,” said Williams, his sense of honour finally challenged. “I will not be a party to anything of the sort. I would rather drop the entire scheme.”

“Please do not alarm yourself,” said Brown promptly, in a conciliatory tone. “I intend no more than to pay the girl to keep her mouth shut. Ten pounds is nothing to me, but would be a fortune to a fairground waif. That’s it! I saw her earlier when I was walking your wife round the fair. She was selling ice cream. I will go and talk with her.” It was news to Councillor Williams that Brown had been to the fair with his wife, whom he had thought to be at home. But he decided to let it pass; Brown was not a man to cross lightly.

Lucia fled the scene intent only on getting back to Pietro and telling him what had happened. Seeing him there clearing up after selling the remaining stock, gladdened her heart in a way that surprised her. Perhaps it was just relief at being safe from pursuit; or might it be the pleasure of knowing he would always be there for her? Her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and excitement, she quickly explained to him what she had heard.

“Should we tell your uncle?” he asked. “If the fairground is sold, he and the other traders and showmen would not be able to come here and make money. He will be very angry and might incite the others to take some sort of action. If we are lucky, he might even start a riot and get killed,” he laughed.

“That would be nice,” said Lucia, uncharacteristically harshly, “but others might be hurt too and I wouldn’t want that on my conscience. And nor would you, if you think about it for a few moments, Pietro. If you truly love me, there must be another way.” She had finally decided he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with; if they didn’t act now, they might never have a better opportunity. She had an embryonic idea and needed to talk it through with the only person she really trusted. Him.

He stooped slightly to kiss her, gently brushing his lips against hers for the first time, delighting in the softness of her skin. “How can you doubt that I love you? I would do anything for you, you must know that.” He kissed her again, this time more fervently, savouring the sweet taste of her lips and the clean scent of her breath.

“I do. I have always known it,” she replied, shyly returning his kiss. “I want us to make a life together, but it must be on the right foundation. I want to open a shop that sells ice cream. If we had access to the family recipe, and could get hold of some money, we could run away and start a business of our own, far away from fairgrounds – and Uncle Giuseppe. I am sure that one of the men recognised me from when he was walking round the fair with a young woman. If he did, he is likely to come back to ensure my silence, and I can ask for money.” She thought for a few moments, sorting out some details in her own mind before sharing her idea with Pietro

“I have an idea how we can turn this to our advantage,” she told him. “You stay out of the way and keep an eye out for a tall whiskery gentleman in a dark blue coat with yellow breeches and a tall grey hat with a dark blue band round it. If he comes to talk with me, I will try to negotiate with him, but I will not keep him talking for too long. As soon as I engage him in conversation, you go and tell Uncle Giuseppe that a gentleman is taking an interest in me – that will bring him here, at top speed. But if you are not too quick getting the message to him, he is bound to be too late actually to see anything. I will get rid of the man by arranging to meet him later to be paid,” she added, developing her thoughts as she spoke. In truth, it was she, rather than Pietro, who had the brains. But he was brave and kind, which was what mattered. “In the meantime, you must use Uncle Giuseppe’s absence to find, and recover, the recipe. It must be in the wagon and I think I know where.” She described a hiding place that her uncle thought she did not know about, and told him how to open it. “If you are careful, he will not discover the loss until he next makes some ice cream and that won’t be until tomorrow morning ...”

“…by which time we can be far away, Dolcezza,” he finished her thought using a term of endearment from their native Italian. And living as man and wife, he added in his own mind, relishing the thought of spending the rest of his life with her. They kissed again with growing intensity, enjoying the physical contact so long denied them by uncertainty, increasingly oblivious to their surroundings.

*

Not long afterwards, Councillor Brown approached the now denuded ice cream stall. It looked bleak and soulful, bereft as it was of its usual adornments and stock. Not that this made much impression on a man who only saw columns of figures wherever he looked. Even the allures of Mrs Williams were nothing more than a distraction for him, a way of securing a voice in her husband’s ear, in support of whatever he had planned. She was just a means to an end; he could not even be bothered to bed her very often to achieve his goals, except when it was essential. She was, after all, rather insipid for his taste.

Seeing only Lucia at the stall, he strode purposefully up to her and spoke. He looked at her in contrast to ‘the Williams woman’ and decided that this one was certainly prettier, but in a common sort of way, with her overly clean face and lack of makeup – not that she needed any, he decided. Of course, she was far too young to be anything other than a casual plaything, but that could be fun in itself, he thought. There was much he could teach her. But he had no time for that; well not at the moment, anyway.

“I know that you were spying on me earlier,” he said accusatorially, without any attempt at greeting or preamble. What would be the point with a girl of her class? “Who put you up to it?” he demanded.

Using her best Italian accent and thickest English, she replied: “I no understand. What you say I do?”

“Don’t waste time with me, strumpet,” he fired at her, deliberately using a term with sexual overtones to see if she reacted. She didn’t seem to know the word, so his subtlety was wasted. “I heard you speaking perfect English earlier. Now; who told you to follow me?”

“Nobody, sir,” Lucia said, reverting to her normal voice. “I had simply gone to relieve myself when you and your friend Councillor Williams came along. I know nothing about plans for the fair field,” she added showing she had indeed understood what she heard.

Brown looked at her in an appraising way. This was going to be easier than he had thought; she clearly had a sharper mind than he was expecting and that should make her possible to deal with; one way or another. He smiled, unaware this made him look more like a ravening tiger than a friend, to her eyes.

“If that is true what do you want in order to remain silent?” he asked, confident in his belief that everyone has their price; which in her case he could easily afford to meet.

“I want fifty pounds to disappear completely, sir,” she responded promptly, convincing him he was right. “Then you will never see me again and nobody will hear a word from my lips on the subject.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” he challenged. She might easily try to double cross him. Would it be safe to pay her and trust to her silence, he wondered? Or would more permanent measures be needed, after all. It might be exciting to try a new experience.

“Who would believe the word of a common working girl against that of a gentleman, sir,” she countered. “Give me what I want and we will both be satisfied.”

“Very well,” he replied, still uncertain about precisely what course he would follow, but prepared to act in whatever way was necessary to help him achieve his objectives. He had to be decisive; but for that much money, he would expect more than just her silence. “Meet me here in three hours and I will have your money for you. It will be dark and nobody will see us then.”

“Yes sir,” replied Lucia to his already departing back, confident that all her troubles would soon be over. As expected, Giuseppe arrived wheezing and puffing, too late to catch her with her alleged admirer. He glowered at her innocent face, but said nothing and stalked off; towards a public house, she hoped.

Pietro returned to the ice cream stall later, without the recipe. He told Lucia he had managed to find the recipe in the place she suggested, but Giuseppe had returned unexpectedly quickly from the wild goose chase on which he had been sent. The old man was in such a foul temper from all his running about that he had apparently decided against a drink, so Pietro had quickly put the paper back in its hiding place. Her uncle had been deprived, as he thought, of a bribe for selling his niece’s virtue, simply by the mischance of having arrived too late to catch the man. He did, however, overhear their last words agreeing to meet later, as he arrived panting from the exertion, on the opposite side of the stall. He determined to catch them in whatever transaction they were about to undertake and grab the money for himself. If the gentleman wanted to deflower his niece, who cared? Once he had his money.

*

Later, as soon as they felt Giuseppe must finally have left the wagon to return to the inn at which they were staying and drink himself into a stupor, Pietro left Lucia at the fairground to meet their ‘benefactor’ and went back to the hiding place, to recover the precious recipe. Having done so successfully this time, he returned towards the place where the empty stall still stood so that he and Lucia could make good their escape.

Passing through the dark, eerie fairground he became disorientated, losing his way amongst the scrub and bushes. He was not careless, but wanted to avoid seeing anyone who might be on the same path, so late at night. Not that this was likely in the moonless gloom. After almost a quarter of an hour of blundering about as quietly as he could, he suddenly heard a loud scream. Knowing in his heart that it must be Lucia, he dashed in the direction of the noise, no longer concerned whether he was seen or not. Reaching the position of the ice cream stall after three or four minutes, which felt like an eternity, he thought he saw a figure running off into the darkness. Possibly it was Giuseppe, but it was too dark to tell. Anyway what would the old man be doing there at that time of night?

But all other thoughts were expunged from Pietro’s mind when he came across Lucia lying on the ground in a pool of her own blood. Her life was ebbing away and there was nothing he could do about it. He could not see precisely where she was wounded, or, indeed, what had happened; but she was clearly beyond human aid, the light in her eyes which he loved so much quickly fading. There was nothing that he could do for her other than to be there for her – to ease her passing.

“My love,” he said tenderly, “I got lost. But I have the recipe.”

“And I have the money,” she replied, opening her hand and showing the fifty pound note that she had been given, now stained with blood, and making no mention of the dreadful pain she was in, from the savagery of an attack that she didn’t really understand.

She managed a smile, but said nothing more as her failing vision recognised a policeman approaching them, carrying a lantern that reflected his badge of office carried proudly on his left breast.

*

Lucy came slowly back to consciousness in Peter’s consulting room, visibly shattered by the experience of ‘sharing’ the death of a young woman; her lips compressed, her cheeks fiery red spots in an otherwise colourless face, while tears welled in her eyes. Mrs Walters was sitting bolt upright and unmoving in her corner chair, shaken to the core by the increasingly dreadful story Lucy had recounted over the space of ninety minutes. Peter himself was red-faced, inexplicably angry at what he had heard; that men of ‘his class’ – even though it was more than a hundred years ago – should behave in such a way was incomprehensible to him. Towards the end of the regression session, his mother had looked at him, suggesting with her eyes that he should stop the recital to save his patient from having to relive so much horror. But he had been powerless to halt the story, fearing that to do so at so sensitive a point might actually cause harm to Lucy.

“That must have been the worst experience of my life,” he said to nobody in particular as they each strove to recover themselves. Lucy had put her hand to her head as if she had a headache and was clearly physically uncomfortable, not to mention wet through, having perspired profusely when recounting the last, most harrowing, part of the story.

“It was even worse for Miss Bowen, Peter,” his mother told him quietly, recovering herself more quickly than her son. Perhaps she had seen bad things in her long life. “She must have been living the part. I hope she doesn’t remember the attack in any detail.”

“Of course, what was I thinking? Are you all right, Lucy,” he asked, turning to her.

“No, But I will be shortly,” she spoke as herself for the first time in ages. Recovering after several minutes from the emotions of the experience, Lucy looked enquiringly at Peter. “How is it that I remember almost everything that happened? I mean, not just having been able to recall events from a century and a half ago while under hypnosis; but now I am awake, how am I recalling everything I told you. And so clearly?”

“It seems to me the subconscious mind can somehow ‘know’ things the conscious mind doesn’t,” Peter explained, hoping that a prosaic conversation might help her overcome, if not forget, some of the trauma which still showed in her ashen face. “It is the basis of past life regression that previous lives can be brought to mind. I must admit that neither I, nor anyone else, fully understands the mechanism by which such memories can be transmitted or retained – or whatever process is involved – or subsequently recovered in a session such as this.” He hoped this explanation made sense to her, it didn’t always to him.

“Your second question is easier to address,” he continued. “Once having recalled events from a previous incarnation, it becomes firmly implanted in your conscious mind, like any other memory. Whether or not we can retrieve any additional information, we can easily go over what you told us, as much as we want to. The question is, do you want to?”

Lucy thought for a few minutes before answering, during which time, Mrs Walters quietly left the room, before returning just as silently, without either of the others knowing she had been absent.

“I cannot leave this as it is, Peter,” Lucy told him, the horrors of her newly found ‘memories’ still showing on her face, but now more in control of her emotions. “This young woman was brutally murdered. But we don’t know by whom. What you said last week suggests that Lucia did not know either. Or perhaps she somehow suppressed the memory; certainly, I have no perception of the actual attack on her, so she must have done – unless she was rendered unconscious at the start of it.” Peter had noticed the description of Pietro finding Lucia had not been preceded by one of a meeting with Brown – or the presence of Giuseppe. Only the severest trauma could have put that out of the young girl’s mind. What had the attack involved, he wondered?

“If she asked you to find out who killed her, it might have been that there was never a public enquiry and that nobody except Pietro ever mourned her,” continued Lucy, unaware of Peter’s thoughts. “We need to find out who did it, if we can. It is too late for retribution, but at least we can allow Lucia to rest in peace if we discover the truth for her.”

“I believe you have to get to work, Lucy,” said Mrs Walters, using her given name for the first time. “You probably want to freshen up,” she added practically. “I have prepared the bathroom for you. It is on the first landing, you will find soap and fresh towels there. Take as long as you need. Peter will drive you to your place of work, won’t you dear?”

He smiled at them both, thinking what a devious creature a mother can be.

Chapter 3 – Croydon: December 1999

December was always a busy period in the catering business. But this year was different, because it was not just the usual party season which created additional activity. This New Year’s Eve would represent the end of the second millennium. Well, not to those purists who knew that, there being no Year Zero, two thousand years would not actually end until 31st December 2000. But the hype surrounding the change of first digit to the year number, together with an almost hysterical level of fear associated with the ‘millennium bug’, as it was known in computer circles, somehow made things more frenetic – a busy time for everyone. The problem with computers was that when people started programming them, nobody took into account the numerical impact of the end of the century, which was approaching within 25 years. Almost all dates were in the format DDMMYY. That is fine when every year starts with ‘19’ but when years suddenly start with ‘20’, to an unsuspecting computer anyone born in 1960, for example, might appear to the system to have no age, or even to have a negative one! Many months of effort had been put into changing computer programs to allow for this, but nobody really knew what would happen when computer clocks reset the year to the new paradigm. None of which was of real concern to Lucy. Or to Peter, for that matter. All they knew was that Lucy was busy at work because this season was starting early, so they couldn’t get together.

Not having any thoughts about how to move the investigation regarding Lucia’s murder forward, Peter had delivered Lucy at work on that day a week earlier, and then gone off to think. He had, in any event, a number of engagements to fulfil at the start of December, including another public reading, at which nothing exciting happened, and a book signing for his latest hardback: ‘Psychic Pete’s tales of the Mysterious’. But he simply couldn’t forget the story of Lucia and Pietro. And he was certain that Lucy would also be worrying at the topic like a dog with a bone. Not that he thought of her as a dog, he told himself – far from it. But she struck him as being tenacious, otherwise why had she stayed for so long in a previous relationship which was clearly going nowhere. She had opened up a little to him during the relatively short car journey to her restaurant, perhaps as a diversion for her mind from what she had just been through. It was immediately clear to him that Simon had been something of a no-hoper. Not that he was prejudiced in any way, of course, but Lucy certainly deserved better.

Completely changing the subject (he told himself) we need to make some progress; a subject to which his mind returned almost daily. While he was thinking about this in his office/sitting room one afternoon, the telephone rang and a familiar voice spoke.

“Hello, Peter,” she said, not even bothering to announce who she was. She was confident he would know. “I’ve had an idea about how we can find more information relating to what happened to Lucia; or at least, an avenue that we can try. The Croydon Advertiser wasn’t started until 1869, which I suspect is a few years after Lucia’s death from what we were able to pick up about Prince Albert and the Crimea. But I understand there were local newssheets before that, because I overheard someone saying that the Advertiser might have copies of some of those from the 1850s and 1860s. Do you think one of those might include a mention of the killing?”

“That is brilliant, Lucy,” replied Peter, kicking himself for not having thought of something so obvious – at least it was obvious now she had suggested it. “I suppose we could also take a look at The Times from that decade. It was certainly being published then and there could well be mention of any mysterious bodies having been found, even if nothing got reported in detail. I have to go to London to see my publisher on Friday,” he added thinking quickly. “Would you like to come with me?”

“I do have a day off due to me sometime this week and I can easily make it then,” she replied. “I am off on Saturday too, so it doesn’t matter if we are too late getting back.” Suddenly flushing with embarrassment, Lucy wondered what had made her add that comment. He will think I was asking to be taken out afterwards. Damn!

Dinner afterwards was the last thing on Peter’s mind, as he ended the conversation with a promise of meeting at London Bridge late on Friday morning, so that they could travel out to Wapping together. First, he had to set up a meeting with his publisher, in case Lucy asked how it had gone, then he had to ensure that they would have access to the relevant papers and how to do the search they needed. Fortunately, he was able to kill two birds with one stone.

“Sarah,” he said to his editor, after making an appointment for 10 o’clock on Friday morning – he did not have to worry about using off-peak trains to save money, thank goodness. “Do you know anything about accessing old newspapers for information?”

“Why do you ask?” she countered, always wondering what this enigmatic personality-author might be planning next.

“Just something that came up at a recent session,” he obfuscated. “Someone happened to ask a question to which I didn’t have a complete answer and I have an idea that The Times might have more details. Is it easy to find out? Can anyone go there and look at old issues?”

“Yes,” she replied, now satisfied that this was nothing she needed to know about. Yet. “Just give them a call to make sure that they are open. This is a difficult time of year, particularly with all this nonsense about the millennium bug going on, so be prepared for shortened opening hours.” She looked in her personal planner and obtained the telephone for him. As he had anticipated, she knew everyone.

Peter thanked her and rang off, immediately dialling the number for The Times she had given him and making an appointment for him and a ‘colleague’ to visit them. The man on the telephone was most helpful and asked if there was anything specific he wanted to look into. Peter explained he was interested in suspicious deaths in Croydon during the 1860s and the man at the other end of the telephone said he would make sure that suitable information was made available.

“I am afraid there will be rather a lot of papers involved for an entire decade, of course,” he said. “But they are kept on microfilm, so it is much quicker than leafing through two or three thousands hard copies.”

*

“This was a great idea of yours,” Lucy told Peter as they met on the concourse at London Bridge Station, late in the morning, somehow managing to ‘forget’ it was actually she who had suggested the newspapers in the first place. Wanting to make other people feel good about themselves, rather than promoting her own merits, was typical of her. She looked very professional wearing a jumper and smart jeans underneath a smart warm-looking red coat, which was still hanging open from having been on a warm train for half an hour. Her beige knitted scarf offset the ensemble perfectly. Not that she had spent hours working out what to wear, of course.

“I telephoned the Croydon Advertiser and they said that they did have some old paper copies of many of the pre-launch newssheets, but that they were not in particularly good condition,” she continued, as they stood outside the WH Smiths branch they had selected as a meeting point. “Apparently, the first editor was something of an antiquarian and recognised the importance for posterity of having a record that went back beyond his own efforts. He filed them in date order, but there are gaps. We can go there next week, if we want to,” she added diffidently, not wishing to be too blatant about her ongoing interest. In the case, of course.

“Remarkably foresighted of him,” replied Peter, taking in her outfit appreciatively and wondering for the first time in ages whether he looked smart enough. “So if we find anything of value in The Times, we will be able to focus more accurately on the local publications. And we can then look at court papers too, if we find anything of real significance,” he added, his eyes sparkling attractively, she noticed, as he warmed to the subject.

Lucy couldn’t know he had taken a deep interest in very few things during the past decade. His inability to focus on very much worried his mother. Ever since the break-up of his last relationship when he was in his thirties, he had been unwilling to invest too much commitment into anything other than his work. He had been badly hurt by a girl with whom he had been in love but who, it transpired, had been something of a gold-digger. When she discovered that his family – while prosperous – was not quite as wealthy as she had imagined, the girl had immediately dumped him for a better prospect. Actually, that was not the entire story. Mrs Walters had got the girl’s measure very quickly and subtly misled her about their financial position. The ploy had quickly revealed the girl’s motives and, while her sudden departure had devastated Peter, at least he had not made the mistake of marrying someone who was wholly unsuitable for a man of his temperament. Nevertheless, Peter had gone through a long dark patch that had not really ended until his sudden interest in Lucy. As a good judge of people, Mrs Walters believed that she would be good for him whatever happened; Lucy was the right sort of woman for her son, she felt. She was not from a moneyed background, but that didn’t matter in the least. From her open face and easy manner, it was clear to Mrs Walters that Lucy was a warm person with a good heart.

They arrived at The Times archive office after stopping for a quick bite to eat. Neither was particularly hungry, but had felt they might be in for a long session that afternoon, so having something inside them would be a good idea. Peter asked for the man he had spoken to on the telephone and they were shown to a glass partitioned area of the office where they could look through the microfilms and make notes without interruption.

“The archive will shut at six o’clock this evening,” said the young and rather flamboyantly dressed archivist, in his 1960s flared psychedelic trousers and tight fitting ribbed polo-neck jumper. He gave their clothes an appraising look and smiled to indicate they were probably trustworthy with his invaluable records. “We opened late today, so we will not be closing until an hour and a half later than usual. You might find that it gets noisy later, as some of the journalists who come in to look up old articles are likely to have had a liquid lunch today; it being Friday.” Or any other day, he might once have added, his lip curling with distaste at the thought of such excess. But not any longer; the hard drinking culture had started to die out when the newspapers had left Fleet Street, a decade or so earlier. There were only a few diehards left, these days.

“Thank you,” replied Peter. “I hope we will have everything we need well before then.” As soon as they had been left with the appropriate box of microfilm reels and given instructions how to use the equipment and find relevant pages quickly, Peter sat in front of the machine and started the search.

“I hope you don’t mind me ‘driving’,” he said. “It might be better for you to take any notes, as my handwriting is atrocious. So is my spelling, actually.” Lucy smiled her agreement; she was not really comfortable with technology, and saw this machine as being almost as complicated as the laptop she had bought Simon, not long before they had split up. In some ways, it actually was more difficult to use, as Peter discovered, because it had no search facility or any of the hyperlinks that would have made it easy to jump from one page to another. Websites were far easier to navigate.

The room was relatively quiet at that time, so that the only sound was the whirring of the spools containing the film and the occasional comment as they followed a blind alley, or enjoyed a rare success in finding a potential reference to an appropriate article. Scanning through old copies of The Times took longer for them to find anything significant than they had expected. Eventually, however, they spotted a brief reference to a serious case which had been referred to the Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey for trial. It related to the murder of a young woman in mysterious circumstances at a fair in Croydon that spring.

“This looks promising,” said Peter, smiling broadly as he dictated the details to Lucy. “It is too similar to our story not to be Lucia.”

“Even if it is another case,” said Lucy, almost breathing the words in his ear as she looked over his shoulder at the details on the screen, “it might be relevant. If there were two murders around the same time, they might well have been connected. Is there anything to say when the case was heard?”

“No,” replied Peter, scanning the article as fast as he could read the small print. “But it shouldn’t be too difficult to track down, now that we have this much. Wait!” he added, the sudden excitement in his voice making Lucy start, knocking the back of his head with her shoulder. “The name of the victim is here; it wasn’t included in the first paragraph, but lower down it mentions a Lucia Lamberti, whose body was identified by her uncle Giuseppe Lamberti. The forenames match exactly. And the name of the prisoner was Pietro Nespola.” He pointed out the names on the screen, real excitement showing in his voice. “This must be it. But why is he the prisoner, we know he didn’t kill Lucia.” The excitement in his voice was so tangible, Lucy wondered if he might be tiring of their joint project, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“That is strange, but at least we have found something that moves us forwards, Peter. Now we can move on to see if there is a court report,” she said, hoping that he would carry on looking with her.

“Of course, Lucy,” he responded, not noticing the edge of doubt in her voice. “This is far too interesting to give up on now. Let’s grab the microfilm for the second half of the year, I am at the end of this one. It is unlikely that they delayed the case very much, so there could be a newspaper entry reporting on the full case. If necessary, we can then go to the Old Bailey in order to view the trial records themselves. If you would like to, of course?” Lucy made no reply but simply nodded, a warm feeling spreading throughout her body as she realised he was not losing interest, after all.

The archivist watched them change to the next set of microfilms, from his vantage point beyond the glass partitioned office they were using, with amusement; it had been an unusually quiet day even for him and it was nice to have a couple of good looking researchers working together so harmoniously, he thought. Even if they were a bit old; they must be over thirty, he decided.

“Here it is,” said Peter after only a few minutes of scanning the court reports on the new reel. Now he knew what he was looking for it was far easier – and quicker. “The headline says: ‘Italian youth accused of murdering fiancé – Guilty verdict handed down’.”

“But that is absolutely impossible,” replied Lucy. “Lucia remembers him finding her after she had been attacked, muttering something about having the recipe and having seen someone running away.”

“Actually,” said Peter, after a moment’s reflection during which he was staring at Lucy without realising it, “you didn’t say that bit, about someone running away I mean, during the regression session. Or at least I don’t recall you having done so.”

“Now you mention it,” she admitted, fighting down the blush his unflinching scrutiny of her had initiated, “I don’t think I have that quite right. He did mention the recipe, but not the man running off. But what made me think about that? Is it possible that Lucia saw something that she has suppressed from her memory, but it somehow transmitted itself to me? Or am I simply making an assumption based on my belief – Lucia’s belief, I suppose – that Pietro would not have hurt her, so someone else must have done so?”

“We really don’t know very much about past life regression and how it works,” said Peter. “But it is a thought that she might have seen her killer and – for some reason – refuses to admit it to herself. We could try putting you under again to see if we can get more details, but I am reluctant to do so. If she experienced significant pain or terror during her killing, it could be highly traumatic to you.”

“It might be worthwhile trying even at that price,” replied Lucy, her brave determination making Peter even more attracted to her. “But let’s consider our options later. You don’t think it might have been Pietro after all, do you?” she added in a doubtful voice, after a slight pause, her eyes downcast at the thought.

“No, I don’t. I trust your initial judgement about their mutual love,” replied Peter, giving her a devastating smile without realising how it made her go a little weak at the knees, before turning quickly back to the court report. He summarised it for Lucy to take notes. In essence, a policeman had come upon a young man holding a dying young woman, covered in her blood. It had been late at night in the fairground in Croydon which was well known as a trysting place for young couples late at night. The time had been a little after ten so it was dark – suitable for such nefarious practices, the constable had opined, before being told to stick to the facts. The girl had been stabbed. There was no weapon to be seen, but a long-bladed knife was later found within throwing distance of the murder scene and there was no reason to believe that anyone else had been involved. The young man had made no attempt to escape but was holding the young woman, crying ‘I’m so sorry’ over and over again. The constable had immediately arrested the young man on suspicion of her killing.

Later medical examination had revealed that the young woman had been subjected to a violent sexual assault. The body had been identified by the victim’s uncle, one Giuseppe Lamberti, an itinerant ice cream vendor, who mentioned that the accused had long been in love with his niece. Council suggested to the court the accused might have raped and then killed the victim, because she had resisted his advances. Giuseppe refused to pass an opinion on this assertion, but said the youth had previously stolen a valuable document from him, which had been found to be in his pocket when he was arrested.

Mention was made by the Inspector in charge of the investigation that the victim had been in possession of a large sum of money, but no assertion was made as to its origin, or what relevance it might have had. An outburst from the gallery – presumed to have been made by the bereaved uncle – suggested that the boy had stolen it from someone in the hope that he could entice his niece away, but that she was a good girl and would never have gone with him. That comment was ordered to be struck from the record. The verdict was a foregone conclusion.

“That is complete bunkum,” said Lucy, when she had finished writing her notes, once again completely certain of his innocence, after her sudden doubt a few moments earlier. “There is no way that he killed her. And nobody mentioned Councillor Brown. Surely, it was he who gave her the money. But would he have raped her? Would her uncle have done so? Was anyone else involved?”

“Good questions, Lucy,” he replied, hoping he did not sound patronising. “We could go and look at the court report itself, but would that tell us anything more than this article in The Times?” he asked, rhetorically. “It seems very complete. There is no point in looking at the official records unless we can’t make progress in any other way. They are probably closed for the whole of December while they plan for the millennium bug, so we couldn’t do anything until the New Year, anyway. In the meantime, we have two other avenues to follow.  I want to see if the Croydon Advertiser archive has any more information and I now also want to see if we can find any records of the police investigation. Did they turn up anything that was not reported in the court, I wonder?” he mused.

By now, it was almost a quarter past six and the now over-coated archivist was clearly impatient to lock up; they had already kept him so late that he would miss his usual train home to New Cross, but he hadn’t liked to interrupt what they were doing. With a few words of apology and the promise of a signed copy of his latest book from Peter, earning himself a broad smile, they left and found themselves alone on the pavement, standing near to Shadwell station, as the archivist dashed off towards the nearby Shadwell underground station.

“Let’s catch the DLR to Bank and walk down to London Bridge from there,” Peter suggested, as they followed at a more leisurely pace. “We might even get a drink on the way.” Lucy didn’t want to appear too eager, but she made no objection when he walked into a wine bar, when they later emerged from the underground. It was, inevitably, filled with city traders, bankers and insurance brokers, but it emptied rather more rapidly than they had expected at about seven o’clock, not long after they had arrived.

“Poet’s day,” said Peter, as they perched on two bar stools near the window, adding on seeing her slightly quizzical look: “Push off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Or at least, that’s the polite version.”

Lucy smiled, recognising the more common expression he might have used in male company. Then she realised she knew very little about him and how he might behave when she was not there. But somehow, she felt his mother’s son would always be a gentleman, whatever the circumstances.

“I think I might have worked out something similar,” she replied, a smile tweaking her eyes attractively. She sipped appreciatively from her glass. “Thank you for the wine, it is very nice. I don’t often drink white, but I really like this one. What is it?”

“A Chardonnay,” he told her, topping up both their glasses from the bottle he had bought. “It is really popular at the moment, but I have a feeling people will start to move on to the next ‘fad’ soon; which is a pity, because it uses the same grape as Champagne. I love this oaked version; it tastes so buttery.”

They sat drinking in companionable silence for some time, savouring the wine and lost in their respective thoughts about the case. Peter was particularly concerned by some of what they had learned. He had always suspected rape, but not wanted to say anything. Now they had read it in the news report, there was no doubt.

“I cannot help feeling sorry for Lucia,” he said with gentleness in his voice. “Rape must be the worst possible experience for any young woman, but somehow her being a virgin seems to make it even worse.”

“She probably was a virgin. At least I do not recall her having thought about full sexual intercourse, but I did pick up that she had experienced some pretty close calls with that odious uncle of hers,” replied Lucy. “And you are right, the rape of a virgin must be a particularly unpleasant experience – she might have blocked it from her mind, which is why I got no sense of the attack itself.” She shuddered at the thought, worried not for herself at having to experience it second hand, but for the young girl – little more than a child – who had actually done so in her last moments of life.

“You didn’t mention the details of what Giuseppe did to her during the regression session,” said Peter. “Surely that was not out of sensitivity towards my mother?”

“No, I don’t think it crossed my mind at the time, it is more of an impression than anything,” said Lucy. “It was possibly something that Lucia had not wanted to share; I don’t really understand it. But I could not control what I said in the session. And your mother must know about sex – she had you!” she joked.

“I wonder if there might be other things you have learned but have not realised so far,” commented Peter. “In particular, whether Lucia saw her attacker. After all, if she was raped before being murdered, surely she must have seen his face? Yet you made no mention of that.”

“Unless she was taken from behind, although that doesn’t seem likely, given the circumstances. I know if I had been attacked in such a way,” replied Lucy with an involuntary shudder, “I would probably have tried to suppress the memory as effectively as she apparently did. I don’t think she will ever recall his face; otherwise why did Lucia want you – or us – to find out who killed her?”

“Perhaps she knows it wasn’t her lover and simply wants his memory vindicated,” suggested Peter. “Would you like something to eat?”

Lucy wanted to avoid this if she could; not because she didn’t like Peter, but because she did not want to appear too forward – or expecting to be treated as if this were a date. He was clearly well off and could afford to feed her, but she had no desire to appear demanding in any way. Better to let things develop slowly. Even if she was quite hungry by now.

“Thanks, but I think I should get back to feed my cat,” she replied, shaking her head with a warm smile, to show she was not offended by the offer.

“Ah! Well, at least it is only one cat,” he responded light-heartedly. “I would hate to think that I had fallen in with a mad cat lady whose home is overrun by a hoard of furry animals.”

“No, just the one,” she said. “And it is not really that furry.” They finished their drinks and left to catch their train. Each in good spirits, for various reasons.

Just as Lucy got off the train – Peter had caught the same stopping train as her even though the faster one would have got him home much sooner – they agreed to meet up the following Tuesday afternoon to go to the Croydon Advertiser offices to see what they could find.

*

Having the date of the trial should make searching the nineteenth century newssheets easier. Perhaps that was just as well, because the newspaper office was in a dreary 1960s building rendered even less attractive by the atrocious December weather outside; not the sort of place to hang around for too long. Lucy felt as if she was back inside her secondary school as they were led down a series of corridors with an external semi-glazed wall on one side and glass-walled offices on the other, towards the archive. The memory made her shudder almost as much as had the grime and dirt she had ‘seen’ in 1865 through Lucia’s eyes – but for a rather different reason. School had not been a pleasant experience for her. Studying had not come naturally to her in her early teens and she had always felt slightly different from the other girls; perhaps it was due to her lack of a father, she didn’t know. Nor had she enjoyed the company of boys. Well, not until her mother had given her ‘the talk’ and she had started going to parties; but that had been different. And it was not at school!

“I’m afraid you will have to look through the boxes for yourself,” the rather off-hand junior sub-editor told them. He was not impressed at having been delegated to look after a couple of uninteresting visitors – he had no idea who Peter was – and wanted to get back to checking the writings of the equally junior reporters, whose work was assigned to him for correcting, before passing it on to the editor. Not so many years ago, this would have been a manual job, involving blue pencils on paper; at least he was spared that. He showed them into a room with no natural lighting and numerous box-files, more or less marked with their contents by year, before asking if they needed anything else – in a voice that dared them to say ‘yes’ – and then beating a hasty retreat.

“What a charming young man,” said Lucy to his departing back. Adding “not” after the door had closed firmly. “Does anyone over the age of twenty work in the newspapers?” she added, thinking of the rather more pleasant archivist they had met in London.

“Never mind,” said Peter, with equal sarcasm. “I am sure he is very good at his job, which is bound to be highly important, given his demeanour towards visitors. Anyway, we have more to think about than a pouty teenager. Let’s see what we can find.”

A single strip light illuminated the room barely adequately, revealing the extent of the task ahead of them. Glancing at what looked like hundreds of cardboard containers, each of the same size and all incredibly dusty, Lucy felt her heart sink. She hoped the corners of her mouth did not follow in direction, or Peter might think she wanted to back out of their task.

“How can so much dust have accumulated in just a few decades since these files were moved from the old building?” asked Peter, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the mess. His mother kept everything so clean and tidy at home, even his office … when he allowed her in.

“It was probably done by men, so they wouldn’t have bothered to remove the dust accumulated over the previous hundred years,” suggested Lucy indicating mocking, but friendly, contempt of the efforts of the ‘stronger’ sex when it came to cleaning.

“Ouch,” exclaimed Peter, in pretended horror at the cutting sarcasm of his co-investigator. “That is grossly unfair; you have never seen me in action with a feather duster.” Neither has anyone else, he admitted to himself.

“I’d like to see you at work with one of those,” replied Lucy, before realising that her words had the potential to be interpreted in more way than one. Peter smiled rather more broadly than he intended, perhaps thinking about he might use a feather duster; but was too much the gentleman to say.

Fortunately for their investigation, a quick inspection revealed the labelling on the box files to be far from random. The boxes were stacked neatly on metal shelving, each one relating to a three-month period. Some were empty, presumably because nothing had been found relating to that period but the original editor had wanted to make it easier to add any material which might later come to light. They quickly identified the series of box-files relating to 1865 and 1866, grabbing all eight of them without disturbing the rest. They were uncertain whether a report would have appeared immediately or slightly later than the trial itself so better to have everything to hand. The boxes could be put back later – perhaps by the ‘pouty teenager’ suggested Peter, to Lucy’s artificial shock at the suggestion they should leave someone else to clear up after them. Lucy made space on the metal-legged table in a corner of the room so that they could read the contents of each box and take notes. Fortunately, there were two sturdy wooden chairs rammed under it, so they could at least sit down while they read.

“Your eyesight is probably better than mine in this dingy room,” suggested Peter, acknowledging her comparative youth. “Would you like to take a stab at reading while I make notes, this time?” He was keen not to assume she fulfilled the secretarial role within their partnership; all labour should be divided equally.

Initially, they read everything together, Lucy holding the pages while they both scanned the words, working out the meaning of some of the more arcane language – sometimes faltering over words that had fallen out of use, occasionally arguing about meaning in a good-humoured way. Sitting as close as they were, Peter could feel the warmth of Lucy’s body penetrating his clothing, but made no comment on the subject. Better simply to appreciate the camaraderie their work engendered. He would have liked to put an arm round her shoulder to bring them even closer together, but realised it would be inappropriate; might even offend her and bring an early end to their relationship – such as it was.

The work was relatively slow, because they were keen not to miss anything that might be relevant. After all, it was not just the court reports that they were interested in – there was unlikely to be anything in them that was not covered by The Times – but the possibility of finding any ancillary information.

“There are three issues that we particularly need to identify,” Peter had summarised on their way to the Advertiser’s offices. “First, why was there no mention of Councillor Brown? Secondly, what happened to the £50 note that Lucia was holding when Pietro found her? And thirdly, what happened to Giuseppe and the recipe for ice cream? Was there still a business in existence after the crime – a family to take over from him, perhaps?”

“Actually, I am certain that there was no other family at the time,” said Lucy, “and Uncle Giuseppe did not seem the kind of person to find a wife at his age, at least not one young – and willing – enough to provide him with children. But we may as well be thorough.”

“Well said, Lucy,” replied Peter. “I had not intended to mention this, but I wonder if there might be a book in this for us to co-author, when we have finished,” he added diffidently, hoping again this was not overstepping the mark. Lucy was flattered, as he had intended. She had never even considered the possibility of writing a book; but was hooked on the investigation and would be reluctant to see all their effort go to nothing, once they had finished. She looked at him, wondering what the invitation really meant and nodded, allowing slight misapprehension to show in her eyes so he would not read too much into her agreement – either way.

After an hour’s reading, Lucy finally came upon the first mention of the case. It was in a short-lived and typically sensational publication aimed at meeting the growing demands of an increasingly news-hungry population. Many newspapers had come into the market driven by growing literacy levels and an explosion of book reading following the Public Libraries Act of 1850 – as Peter later explained to Lucy. But most went out of business almost as quickly. Some had found it difficult to raise sufficient money to cover their printing costs, others were quickly subsumed into more successful rivals. The Croydon Town Crier was published only for sixteen months between January 1864 and July 1866, but that was sufficient to mention their case.

“Listen to this,” she said to Peter, as he returned to the room carrying two plastic cups full of washing-up water coloured tea. “It says: ‘The execution of a young man of Italian extraction took place on Tuesday 14 November 1865 outside Newgate Prison in the City of London at 8:00 am. Despite the early hour a crowd of more than two hundred witnessed Pietro Nespola, the murderer of an innocent young girl, receive his just deserts.’ Oh, Peter, how awful to be hanged in front of all those people – and for something we know he did not do.”

“We are not absolutely sure of his innocence at this stage, Lucy,” replied Peter gently. “We only know what Lucia remembered of the events. She did not recall who actually killed her; she may only have shared what she wanted us to know.”

“How can you even imagine that he killed her?” responded Lucy angrily, all her previous doubts now dissipated. “We know that they loved each other. What motive could he possibly have had for hurting her, especially as she had the money and he the recipe?”

“Don’t be cross with me, Lucy,” he said in his gentlest tone. “I am simply trying to avoid excluding any possibilities at this stage. But I am sorry. Nothing we have seen so far suggests his guilt. Read on and see what else there is to be learned.”

Chapter 4 – Following the evidence

Lucy continued to read the report, précising the text for Peter to take notes.

“The style is all rather sensational, I am afraid, but that’s consistent with what we have seen in other publications. Probably they were written like that to attract interest. Nothing changes,” she said wryly, having calmed down after her outburst. “It says that Pietro made a brave ending, declaring his innocence and forgiveness of this executioner and his willingness to go and meet the woman he loved ‘in a better place’. He made no explicit accusation of guilt, but asked the assembled crowd to consider who might have wished for the death of such an innocent young woman. There is a description of how long it took for him to die; I suppose they didn’t adopt the more humane long drop method until later on.”

“No, that was in the early 1870s, I believe,” Peter interjected.

“Apparently he was still kicking occasionally after ten minutes, until the executioner took pity on him and pulled on his feet to finish him off,” continued Lucy. “It says he had no friends to perform that kindness for him. There may have been some sympathy for him amongst the crowd because of his youth and good looks, but nobody bothered to give him any succour. How dreadful.” She continued reading ever more intently and Peter decided not to interrupt her.

“This is interesting,” she said after reading the second half of the article several times. “Apparently, the reporter was interested enough to look into matters more carefully after the hanging and made some startling discoveries. First, the uncle disappeared immediately after the end of the court case, having reclaimed the £50 that Lucia had been clutching in her hand. At the time of writing, he had been totally untraceable.”

“Well that closes down one avenue of enquiry for us,” said Peter. “But I am not sure that it would have got us anywhere. However, the fact that he claimed the money is at least suggestive of a motive for her killing. If he knew about the money, which I suppose he would have done from the police, he had every reason to try to place the blame for Lucia’s killing on Pietro.”

“Even more so if he was the killer,” said Lucia, sharply. “For all we know, he came upon his niece after she had been paid for her silence and then killed her for the money. Perhaps Pietro’s arrival made him run off without it – Lucia did have some memory of a disappearing man.”

“But does that mean Giuseppe assaulted his own niece, or did he find her afterwards with the money, think she had become a prostitute and killed her for besmirching the family name?” suggested Peter.

“Such an ‘honour killing’ doesn’t seem consistent with what we know about him,” replied Lucy. “Mind you who knows what goes on within another person’s mind? He might have been jealous of another man having her, when he could not. Or he may have come across her with the money and raped her himself,” she added with horror. “We know that he had a reputation for roughness. But why stab her, it could hardly have been to protect his own reputation. Apart from Pietro, who would have cared what he did to a young woman in his care? And the boy was hardly a physical match for her uncle.”

“Actually, you had not mentioned that before, Lucy,” prompted Peter. “What were the two men like?”

“Pietro was about seventeen, not much taller than Lucia, so about my height, and typically slim for an underfed lad of his age and station in life,” she replied. “Uncle Giuseppe was taller but also much heavier. In a fair fight he would have easily overcome Pietro. And I have no doubt, from the dread in which Lucia held her uncle, it would never have been a fair fight, anyway. I rather wish that they had found some evidence pointing at that awful man. But it is not clear that anyone ever tried to find any alternative to the obvious belief that Pietro was the killer. There is a note at the foot of the article that an Inspector McBride from the Croydon police was looking into the matter after the trial, despite the verdict. Surely he would not have done so had he been satisfied with it?”

“I very much doubt it,” affirmed Peter. “You mentioned discoveries – in the plural. What other points of interest were there in the article?”

“It says that, following the horrible murder, some of the Council were pressing for the fairground – where the murder took place – to be closed in the interests of public safety. Apparently one Archibald Brown was the prime mover,” said Lucy. “Don’t you remember; Brown was the name of the man Lucia reported seeing conspiring to get the fairground closed and who was supposed to have given her the £50?”

“That gives him motive for the killing,” added Peter. “And might he have been responsible for the physical assault as well? Was that all part of the same murderous attack – the two went hand in hand? But, if so, why did he then leave the money?”

“I don’t know, but one theory might be that he gave Lucia the money to put her off guard, then decided to rape her and afterwards killed her to dispose of the evidence,” opined Lucy. “He might have forgotten to take the money back, or perhaps he was disturbed by Giuseppe. He would look threatening even to a gentleman with a swordstick, especially if he was not really in a position to draw his weapon. Oops, sorry. Bad choice of words, under the circumstances.”

Peter looked askance at her, before bursting out laughing, confident that he was forgiven for having questioned Pietro’s innocence. Clearly, Lucy had taken a shine to the 134-years dead youth.

“There are so many permutations that we cannot really move much further forwards at this stage,” said Peter.

“Well perhaps not,” replied Lucy, with a wicked smile. “But there is one thing I have not mentioned. Although ordinary people in the 1860s did not wear what we consider to be underwear, the police apparently kept her underskirt, which was smeared with blood and another substance, which I take to be semen. It was almost certainly her blood, but there might be DNA evidence in the other dried substance, if we could still find the underskirt.”

“Lucy that is wonderful,” exclaimed Peter, moving towards her as if to give her a kiss on the lips, before remembering himself and altering it to a warm hug, instead. Lucy recognised both movements and was not sure which she appreciated more, the initial impulse or subsequent show of respect for her, more. She certainly returned the hug with interest.

Nothing was in any way clear yet, but the pair decided that their next step should be to see whether the police still held any evidence from cases so far back. It was just possible, because it had been a notorious case and that may have justified its retention; it might even be in a museum of crime. At the very least, bureaucracies tend not to throw things away without a positive decision to do so, so there was some reason to hope that they might still have the underskirt.

“The offices will be closing soon,” Peter told Lucy, “and I cannot imagine that we will get much more done until after Christmas. Why don’t we meet up in early January and, in the meantime, I will see if I can make an appointment for us to see the police evidence records.”

Lucy was unaccountably disappointed at the prospect of not seeing him for three weeks, but she was aware from his website that he had several engagements over the festive period and it was her story, rather than his that they were investigating, so she could hardly complain. But she admitted to herself that she would miss him.

Peter, meanwhile had decided to take matters further, so that he had something to tell Lucy after the New Year celebration had died down. Without telling her, he made an appointment to return to the archives the following day and carry on reading, including looking at the box labelled 1866.

Peter wanted to know whether the fairground actually had been closed at that time and, if so, what had become of the land. More importantly, had Councillor Brown made a killing – financially speaking – out of what happened as well as a possible literal one? He knew that the fairground had been used as a railway sidings and workshops as recently as the 1930s, even though the railway station had lasted for a much shorter time. What he wanted to know was who had made any money out of it. If it was Brown, then he would have had a motive for the killing after all. He had said, according to Lucy’s account of Lucia’s eavesdropping, that they needed an excuse to close the fairground. What better one than a gruesome murder that would offend the sensibilities of polite Victorian Croydon society, so their natural antipathy to such base entertainment could be reinforced by public safety arguments?

Searching through the second box the next morning, Peter started to find references to debates in the Council Chamber relating to a plan to sell the fairground site to a railway company. These were not going well – some councillors believing that it was an essential leisure asset for the people of the town – until a separate debate was held about the murder and the difficulty the police would have preventing similar outrages from happening in the future. One article on the topic reported that: ‘Councillor Brown was of the opinion that, to provide a guarantee of public safety during future fairs, it would be necessary to recruit an additional ten policemen. When it was pointed that the additional expense would cost the borough’s ratepayers an additional ten shillings a year, he argued strongly that the money was justified if it kept the community safe. The motion for a precept on the rates was defeated and a vote passed permanently to close the fairground.’

Peter was interested to see that the first part of Brown’s objectives had been achieved; the fairground would be finally available for purchase. Reading on, he found an announcement later in the year that the Railway Company had purchased the entire site and planned to open a new Central Croydon railway station within two years. Listed amongst the directors of the company in the prospectus to raise money for the development were Councillor Archibald Brown and Mrs Anne Williams, both of whose names Peter was now familiar with.

So that was it. Whether or not he had been involved in Lucia’s murder, he was certainly in a position to make a financial killing.

*

There were still a few days during which it might be possible to undertake some worthwhile enquiries, before everything started to run down for the Christmas break – or in the case of the police, they prepared for a series of drunken parties lasting up to two weeks, stretching up to New Year’s Day. At least by then, most people could be expected to be suffering from hangovers and therefore relatively pacific! This gave Peter time to consult his police contact, Detective Sergeant Odugu.

“Hi, Roger,” he said into the telephone, “It’s Peter Walters. How are you?”

“Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Psychic Pete,” came the slightly guarded reply. “To what do we owe the pleasure of hearing from you at this festive season? I hope you are not after anything, I am still in bad odour for having accepted your assistance in finding that dead body, last year. The Chief Superintendent says that we do not need assistance from the spirit world to find trouble – and we would have discovered the man anyway. Eventually. You needn’t tell anyone I added that.”

“You are a rogue and you know it, Roger,” countered Peter. “It might have taken years to find the body by chance and without it you could never have secured a conviction. After all, it was the forensic evidence that tied it all up for you. By then your suspect could have fled the country to South America, or wherever it is they go to escape extradition treaties.”

“Good point,” said the Sergeant. “I have to give you that. Now I suppose I am in your debt for ever?”

“Not if you don’t want to be,” offered Peter, “But I thought you might like a quiet drink before your busy period starts. How about this evening, at the Grey Horse? Six o’clock suit you?”

“You are an officer and a gentleman, Peter, I accept,” he replied. “Anyway, this period is not so busy for us as the ‘woodentops’; they are the ones who have to deal with the drunks. All CID has to do is chase the people stealing Christmas presents from other people’s homes. Far less frenetic.” Roger had lost all trace of any accent when at Trinity School with Peter more than twenty-five years earlier. They had made unlikely friends. Roger was the out-going, sports-loving son of a mother who had come originally from the Indian sub-continent and married a Kenyan husband in his home village during the 1950s, prior to moving to England. Peter, by contrast, was the slim and introspective scion of a family that had not strayed far from Croydon for generations. Yet as in so many cases, opposites had attracted and they had become firm friends, before separating at eighteen, when Roger had gone to Hendon Police College and Peter off to Oxford University in the footsteps of his forefathers.

The two had not met for many years, until Peter had experienced a premonition about a case that was vexing the Metropolitan Police. A young man had disappeared in what looked like a drugs related incident, but there was no evidence as to what had happened. The parents of the missing youth had been well placed socially within the local community and managed to put pressure on the Chief Superintendent at the time to put more resources into the search. Nevertheless, there had been no progress until Peter had volunteered his belief that the body had been stashed under a drain cover on a building site. Naturally, the correct prediction placed him under intense scrutiny – how could anyone have knowledge of where the body was if they had not put it there, or at least been a party to events? It was the newly promoted Detective Sergeant Roger Odugu who had been delegated to delve into the informant’s background, to see whether he might be involved. Roger had recognised the name and, having something of a wicked sense of humour, had arranged for a colleague to initiate the interview in an apparently hostile manner. He allowed matters to reach the state where Peter was becoming alarmed and wishing he had never proffered his assistance, before making his grand entrance and sorting everything out.

“I have never really forgiven you for what you put me through, last September,” Peter told Roger, when they sat down in the Grey Horse with their glasses of strong lager to relax. To be honest, the pub was not as nice as it once had been, but it was convenient for the police station and car park, so they tended to use it when they occasionally met.

Running his finger along a surface that should not have deposited dust on his finger, but did, Roger apologised, but not very sincerely. They had long since reached the position where they could laugh over the matter. And Peter had managed to give his friend some minor assistance on other cases since then – although his input was never acknowledged and Roger’s already well-deserved reputation as a first class detective was only slightly enhanced by the help. Nevertheless, he was always pleased to see his friend, with or without some insight into his current case. That Peter had approached him now suggested that either there was a killing he did not already know about, or his friend needed his help. Either way, he was prepared to listen.

“I am looking into a cold case, Roger,” Peter told him. “Someone I know of was killed here in Croydon and I am certain that the wrong person was punished. I believe that you can help me to find the truth – at least, I hope so.”

“Tell me more, my friend,” said Roger, “and which case is it, I might remember?”

“Not unless your memory goes back almost a century and a half,” replied Peter. “And I don’t think even you could manage that!” One of Roger’s greatest attributes as a detective was a phenomenal memory for facts. Peter explained the details of the case, somehow forgetting to mention Lucy and her role in it. The incisive mind of the detective was not easily deceived, however and he quickly got the full story out of his friend.

“I assume she is rather attractive, this Lucy?” said Roger.

“Oh, I haven’t really noticed,” said Peter, while having the good grace to blush at having lied to his old school friend. Roger made no further comment, other than saying he hoped to meet her – to get her side of the story, of course – and then replenished their drinks from the bar.

“So how can I help your investigation, Peter?” He asked, placing the drinks on the slightly sticky-surfaced circular table at which they were sitting.

“Well, it’s a very long shot, Roger,” he replied after a moment’s pause to wonder if he was wasting everyone’s time. “But I found an old newspaper article suggesting that an underskirt belonging to the victim was found and kept as evidence by the police. It seems that there was more than just blood on it …”

“… and you wonder if there might be some of the killer’s DNA in the dried semen,” added Roger, having worked out the probable scenario. “But even if there is semen, it might not be the killer’s. You do not know that the rapist and killer were the same person. You would need more than that to make a case.”

“I realise that,” replied Peter, “but we don’t have to make a case to satisfy a judge and jury, simply one that offers closure for Lucy. And me,” he admitted. “Anyway, I cannot really create a story that makes sense in which the rapist and killer are not the same person. It is possible, of course, but not likely.”

“What about this boy, Pietro?” asked Roger. “How do you know he did not do it?”

“Well, it seems implausible to me that he would have killed the girl he was about to run off with and marry, especially as she clearly had the £50 – which he did not touch, himself – and had the ‘secret’ ice cream recipe in his pocket.”

“Ok,” said Roger, “I can see that this is important to you. I will do some checking to see if there is anything in our old archives relating to the case. Give me the details and I will have a look.” Peter gave his friend the dates and places, as well as where the information was in the paper’s files, in case they were needed. He then offered Roger a lift home. “Thanks, but I have to get back to work. I will walk you to your car, though.”

As they reached the space in the underground car park Peter had used, he gave an involuntary shudder and turned to Roger.

“You know, I have the strangest feeling that we are on the precise spot where Lucia was killed,” he said. “I’m not trying to wind you up, by the way. But now I think about it, I was parked roughly here when I got the first sense of a ‘message’ from Lucia that I was to find out who killed her. That started the whole thing off and I have the same sense now that I am very near to her. Perhaps I should call Lucy and tell her.”

Roger gave him a smile, much as to say: ‘any old excuse to chase the lady’. He nodded and made his farewells, to see what he could find.

“Please don’t put too much store on this,” were his parting words. “The chances that we have anything from so long ago are ‘highly remote’ – as Mr Greyson used to say about the probability of my learning any Latin in the fourth form. And even if we do, the Super will never agree to spend any of our budget on a DNA analysis. Especially as you have nothing from today to compare it with. ‘Bye.”

Peter decided that this was not the time to say anything to Lucy. In any event he did not want to appear too pushy with their embryonic friendship, so he would wait until he had some definite news. One thing he was certain of was that if the evidence was available, he would pay for the DNA testing, whatever if cost. But how could they find some form of modern DNA to compare it with, he wondered?

Driving home to Purley, stuck in the inevitable traffic as the main Brighton Road merged with the Purley Way – always busy whatever the time of day – he suddenly had a flash of inspiration. He and Lucy were pretty sure that Giuseppe had never had a family of his own, although it might be worth checking the census records for that. But what if he had impregnated one of his prostitutes? If that was the case, and the registration mentioned the father’s name, a link could be made which might provide a modern descendent who’s DNA could be used for comparison. It could either prove that Giuseppe was the rapist – or that he was not, which would put Councillor Brown squarely in the frame. The problem was that such a birth would probably not be registered or, if it was, the father not mentioned. And there was the added problem that the uncle himself had apparently disappeared off the face of the earth. But was that really the case? After all, it was only the newspaper report that suggested he had disappeared. As an itinerant showman, he might simply have moved on, being an independent rather than part of a particular group. It could simply have been too difficult – or at least too much work – for the reporter to find out where he had gone. Especially as there appeared to be no reason to make the effort.

This close to Christmas, there might be little general interest in such documents as the census records, so he decided to spend the next day at the Croydon Library, looking at them to see what was available.

“What, going back into town again, Peter?” asked Mrs Walters, with a secret smile. She was perfectly well aware that her son was looking deeper and deeper into this case involving that nice Lucy Bowen and while keen to encourage his interest, did not want to see him get hurt, should the young woman lose interest. In the case, and him. “Why not wait until after Christmas and you can go with your client, Lucy?” She decided to maintain the fiction that theirs was a commercial relationship. For the moment.

“No, Mother,” he replied. “This is something that I can do on my own and it is such a long shot that I don’t want to get her hopes up.”

Settled into the reading room of the Victorian Building that still served as the central public library for Croydon, Peter started to work his way through another set of microfilms looking for entries, this time for the births records for the 1860s and 1870s, as well as the 1871 census. His objective was something of a needle in a haystack, but at least the librarian had been able to direct him towards the geographical areas that were most likely to contain women of the ‘occupation’ which matched his criterion. Prepared for a long session, he started to look for a single entry for the surname Lamberti. It was relatively rare and he hoped that (a) such a child existed and (b) the mother had registered the father’s name, even if he was absent, so that the surname would be present in the records of births, or even the census. It was a longer shot even than he had admitted to his mother, or himself. But despite the fact that few single mothers seemed to have recorded a father’s name, Peter was keen to at least make the effort to pursue this avenue, even if it proved fruitless.

After an hour of tracking through the births register, where he found nothing at all – and then three more staring at a screen containing the census records – his eyes were starting to smart. He almost missed the entry. It was really surprising. There was an entry for a child aged three called Duilio Lamberti, listed as son of Giuseppe Lamberti, caterer. No mother was listed; either she had died in childbirth, or shortly afterwards. There was a young woman living in the house with father and son, and Peter fervently hoped that she had been safe. The fact of Giuseppe having accepted responsibility for a son was so inconsistent with what Lucia had remembered about him, as related through Lucy, that Peter doubted if it could be the same man. Checking the 1881 and 1891 census records, both names continued to appear – but not that of the young woman after 1881 – with also Duilio being listed as an ice cream maker, in the latter census. It seemed too good to be true, so to be absolutely sure, Peter called for copies of the Croydon Advertiser from July 1881, reasoning that if it was the same family and Giuseppe was still in the same trade, there would be an advert for ice cream during the summer months.

He was not disappointed. After looking through only a few issues, he came across a rather garish advert for a restaurant specialising in ice cream and Italian food. The graphics were surprisingly sophisticated compared with the other block adverts on the same page, but that at least made it stand out. It was located in East Croydon, not far from the business centre, but also near to where some of the larger houses were situated. A good position for such a specialist trade, Peter felt. Only as he was driving home, did Peter realise he had not noticed the name of the restaurant, only that of its proprietor, Giuseppe Lamberti. Damnation, he thought. Lucy would think he wasn’t really trying …

After the discovery of this evidence, Peter was busy with his own work right up until Christmas and then had to fulfil a number of family obligations until the New Year celebrations were over. He knew that Roger was unlikely to have had the opportunity to find anything out about the possible forensic evidence. Even if he had, he could hardly rush it through for examination as being urgent – not after 134 years. On the other hand, he had made some progress himself, finding that the restaurant from the 1880s had continued to appear in business directories well into the 1960s. It was less than forty years since the last owner had died and his family not been interested in carrying on the family business. What really pleased him was that the Lamberti name still appeared in the local telephone directory. So the family was still in existence. That might prove useful, but also potentially difficult should they not be prepared to assist them with a sample of DNA for any comparison.

It was now time to let Lucy know what was happening, he felt. He called and arranged for a meeting – they had left the date open, because Lucy had not known what her shifts would be after Christmas. With anticipation on both sides, they agreed to meet for a drink in a bar in Central Croydon; neutral ground, Lucy felt, in case his apparent interest in her had been tempered by their enforced separation. For his part, Peter was not sure how Lucy felt about him and was similarly willing to keep things on a professional basis – for now.

They met in what looked like an old bank, part of a building that might have been there in Lucia’s time, at the end of Surrey Street. This had long been the site of a market selling everything from fruit and vegetables to household goods. The barrows from which the traders operated were unlikely to have harked back to Victorian times, but Lucy liked to think that it gave her a link to her almost-namesake from so long ago. She had spent a considerable amount of what little free time she had enjoyed over the holiday period thinking about their search – and Peter. She felt that whatever he wanted to do, she simply could not give up the search to find what had happened – even if she had to do so alone.

“Hello, Peter. Happy New Year,” she said, as they met outside. He had known that she was unlikely to want to go inside a bar on her own, so he had arrived early to be ready to enter with her. “I hope you had a good Christmas?”

“Well, it was rather busy with some public readings and the usual family obligations with relatives you never see from one year to the next, other than for births, deaths and marriages,” he replied. He wondered what Lucy did with her spare time, but did not like to ask. “I didn’t tell you over the telephone,” he said, as they ordered their drinks and went to sit at a square wooden table by a high-silled window, “but I have made a number of discoveries since we last met.”

Lucy was pleased that he had not forgotten their main reason for being together and asked him for details. He outlined his research in the records, revealing that there was probably still a living relative of Uncle Giuseppe in the area. “That makes it a relative of yours – sorry, of Lucia’s.”

“I suppose we can consider that Lucia and I are – if not related, exactly – then at least linked,” Lucy replied, following the thought behind the verbal slip. “It is not as if I was a direct descendent, of course, because she never had children, nor am I likely to be related to Giuseppe – I think I would know if I had Italian ancestors – more that we are ‘spiritually’ linked, if that does not sound too fanciful?”

“I know what you mean, and it is certainly not fanciful,” said Peter. “Of course, those who believe in reincarnation would certainly say that you are linked by the spirit. But we should not ignore the possibility that you have some family link that you are unaware of. After five or even six generations, such information could easily have been lost. Actually genealogy is one of the things I wanted to report to you. I have two bits of news, based on what I discovered just before Christmas.” Peter told Lucy about the search for genetic evidence from the underskirt and that he hoped to hear from his friend Roger, soon. He also outlined his investigations into what happened to Giuseppe after the trial and his hopes that they might find some sort of link to the family living locally. “I have found a telephone number for a Guy Lamberti living in Sandilands,” he concluded.

“Wow,” replied Lucy. “I don’t think I have ever been in one of the houses up there. I wonder if he would see us. But what would we say? We can hardly say that we suspect his three- or four- times great grandfather of killing his niece!”

“Oh, I don’t think we will need to do that,” said Peter. “I was looking through some old school magazines last week and I happened to find that he went to the same school as Roger and I, albeit some years after we had left. I was thinking of asking to see him to help me with an article I am doing on the family histories of old boys.”

“You just happened to be looking, did you?” asked Lucy. “Or did you deduce that if he was from a well off family, he would have gone to Trinity, Whitgift or some other posh school?”

“Ok,” he said. “I admit that it was worth a try. And it worked. Now I either have to introduce you as my research assistant, or as a girlfriend. Which would you prefer for this outing?” Lucy almost imperceptibly drew in her breath, as if surprised by the question and Peter wondered whether he had misread her interest in him and overstepped the mark.

He felt it better to say nothing more: when in a hole, stop digging.

He needn’t have worried. Lucy made a joke of his comment, replying that she had always wanted to be a rich man’s plaything – something that he guessed was completely untrue – and that she would never pass as a secretary, which might have been the case, given her reluctance to take notes on some occasions. Peter wondered if she might be mildly dyslexic. It was something he had observed before in a person who had not been to university to get a formal higher education, yet still had a demonstrably good brain. In his generation, difficulties with reading letters that seemed to jump all over the page was invariably a bar to taking examinations; indeed, dyslexia had not really been identified as a condition. It might well have prevented Lucy from getting the A-levels necessary to get a university place. At least things were starting to change in that respect, now, he knew.

Chapter 5 – Bringing the past up to date

“You have caught me at a good time,” said Guy Lamberti, as he opened the door to Peter and Lucy, a few days later. “The markets are not too busy this early in the year, so I don’t have to be in the office all the time. But I hope you will not mind if I keep an eye on my pager? It is set up to alert me if markets move significantly. I run our Far East desk, so I tend to keep rather odd hours, anyway.”

“You have a lovely home, Mr Lamberti,” said Lucy, as he led them across a wood block floor towards a lavishly furnished sitting room.

“Please, call me Guy,” he replied, indicating that they should take a seat. “Everyone does. I understand you are an old Trinity boy, Peter. I assume that you were amongst the first intake at the new building on the old Shirley Hotel site? Are you an Old Palace girl, Lucy?”

Peter chose to ignore the question aimed at his ‘girlfriend’, simply saying that he had gone to the school three years after the move of buildings from Central Croydon out to the Addiscombe/Shirley border, in 1968.

“Oh, I only missed you by five years or so then,” replied the younger man, cursing himself for his minor solecism of thinking Peter older than he was. “I gather you are something of a celebrity now,” he said, showing that he had checked up on his visitor before the meeting. “You have written several books already – in addition to your television appearances.”

“Yes, but this is something of a departure for me,” said Peter, willing to stretch the truth in this case. “I am interested in the family histories of some of the more prominent old boys in the hope of getting published in the magazine. A bit of diversification. Lucy has been kind enough to indulge me in this and has even managed to convince me that she is interested in the work.”

“A real treasure,” said Guy, eyeing up Lucy to see whether she was worth trying to steal away from Peter. “So how can I help you?” he asked, deciding that she was not sufficiently exotic for his taste and refocussing his attention on his male visitor.

While Guy poured out some coffee for them from what looked like a Georgian Silver pot, Peter explained that he believed Guy was one of the first members of his family not to have been in the restaurant business and that, while his current occupation was something to which younger generations might aspire, that the family had successfully run a going concern for so long would be of even wider appeal.

“Well, actually,” said Guy, clearly willing to relate the family history, “it is rather a romantic story, in some ways although it had a tragic start. The business was started in the 1870s by Giuseppe Lamberti with money he inherited from his niece, who had been brutally murdered by a jilted lover, I gather. He was apparently traumatised by the events, because he was reputedly something of a brute in his younger days. But, then, he had been an itinerant ice cream seller with his brother, scratching a living for the two of them and the niece, so perhaps he was only acting according to the mores of his caste. Anyway,” he continued, “they apparently came to Croydon every year, to the fair held on the site of what is now the Fairfield Halls, I understand. That was where the killing took place. It was rather grisly, involving a very serious assault.” For some reason Guy seemed unable to use the word ‘rape’, in association with one of several-times great aunts, even as the unfortunate victim.

“After the murderer was hanged, Giuseppe went even further off the rails – I think his brother must have died earlier – and it was only a year or so later that he returned to the town and used his £50 inheritance to open a restaurant. He had known that it was a cherished ambition of hers to do so and he apparently wanted to honour her aspirations. Anyway, the restaurant specialised in ice cream in the summer and hot Italian food in the winter. It was successful enough for Giuseppe to take a wife, but she unfortunately died in childbirth – when my two times great grandfather Duilio was born. The old man took on a nurse for him and she lived with them for several years, until Duilio was able to be apprenticed into the business. Giuseppe never forgot his niece, apparently. He even named the original restaurant after her: Cassa Lucia. The name was carried on right up until father closed it while I was a child.”

Lucy was deeply moved by the story and hoped that her face did not reveal too much of her inner thoughts about the apparent change that had come about in Giuseppe. She had, after all, seen the brute only through Lucia’s eyes. It seemed to her either that Giuseppe was responsible for Lucia’s killing and deeply regretted it, or that he was not, and was truly sorry for what happened to her. Either way, he did not seem to have remained the same man whom she had ‘seen’. Something really had changed him.

After the recital of a few more generations of the family’s history, Peter thanked Guy and, promising to send him a proof of the article, he and Lucy left.

“I really will write that up, adding in some of the information that we have from the newspapers, but not what we learned from your regression,” he told Lucy as he drove her to work. “It is possible that the item might even bring up additional information from other sources – depending who reads it. Publication should also help justify what I have asked Roger to do. I wonder how he is getting on.”

“We are getting a totally different picture of Giuseppe from the one we gained from Lucia’s perspective,” said Lucy as Peter wove his way through the traffic. “Perhaps she misjudged him?”

“Or perhaps the family recollection is tinted by the rose coloured spectacles of remoteness in time,” he replied. “Nevertheless, I will be interested to see how Roger is getting on with our evidence. Can you give him a call on my mobile, while I’m driving, please, Lucy?”

She used the pre-set number in his phone. It was answered more quickly than she had expected, so she was not quick enough to announce who she was, before he started talking.

“I might have some good news for that delightful young lady of yours, you old dog,” he said. He had used his detective skills to find out a little about Lucy and wondered just how serious Peter was. He paused long enough for Lucy to speak.

“Hello, Detective Sergeant Odugu,” she said. “This is Lucy Bowen. I’m using Peter’s telephone because he is driving, which is why his caller ID appeared on your phone.”

“Quite right too,” replied the officer, recovering from his error with absolutely no trace of embarrassment. “Please call me Roger, Lucy. Tell that chap you are with that he owes me big time. I have found the dress in the evidence store and a preliminary look suggests that there is, indeed, semen in addition to the victim’s blood. The lab is confident that it can get a DNA sequence from the specimen, but it may not be sufficient for a definitive comparative test with a modern descendent. It is going to take some time for the lab to do the sequence, but if you can get a sample of your ‘suspect’s DNA, we can run both at the same time. It will save time and money. I am afraid that our budgets will not cover this. Ask Roger where he wants the invoice sent, will you?”

His voice was loud enough for Peter to have heard most of what he said, so he replied directly.

“Send it to my home, Roger,” he replied, “but let’s wait until I give you the sample I have collected, so they can be run together. I will see you later.”

As she ended the connection, Lucy looked quizzically at Peter. He really was an enigma, at times. “What sample? Guy didn’t give us anything like a swab. You never even asked him to.”

“Well, no. But why bother him with details,” said Peter. “If Giuseppe was innocent, the family need never know about our suspicions. And to be frank, even if he wasn’t, there is no reason to say anything at this stage. It might influence how I write the article, however. What I did get was a sample of his hair. Did you notice that he almost certainly lives alone? There is no evidence of a feminine touch in the house – probably a function of the hours he works …”

“… or of the fact that he is a pig ‘up with whom no self-respecting woman would put’,” opined Lucy, paraphrasing the famous remark about the use of prepositions attributed to Winston Churchill, in her best ‘posh’ voice. She seemed to have forgotten wealth can be a powerful aphrodisiac.

“Anyway,” continued Peter, ignoring her opinion of their recent host even if he did share it, “he obviously has a cleaner in, because the place is spotless, so the hair I found on the occasional table we were sitting round is almost certainly his. I ‘borrowed’ it for Roger to have tested. So I will drop it in to him later.”

“Can we do it now, Peter?” asked Lucy. “I have never met a real detective. In fact I have never been in a police station, either.”

“Ok, it’s on our way, if you have time?” he replied. She had time.

Parking behind the Fairfield Halls, they walked the few hundred yards to the police station and Peter asked for Roger.

“Come to berate me for my bad manners, have you?” Roger asked his friend, looking at Lucy and assessing whether the highly unofficial (and favourable) report he had heard about her from the beat constable who covered South Croydon had been an exaggeration. He decided that it was not. She was not exactly young, but had a youthful air that made her seem even more attractive than she was. And she was pretty enough in the first place. No wonder Peter was going out of his way to help her.

“No,” replied Peter. “But I should have warned her what an ill-mannered scoundrel you are; for which I apologise to her now,” he added with a nod towards her. Lucy responded with a generous smile at him and a mock curtsey, completely confusing Roger. “Now, here is a sample of hair from a descendent of our ‘suspect’ for your friends at the lab to compare. So good luck with it.”

“I won’t ask how you got this,” said Roger. “I really don’t want to know. But have you two got a few minutes to spare? If so, I would like to share something more with you. Come and have some execrable coffee in the canteen.”

Lucy was enchanted at being allowed into what she saw as being the inner sanctum of a building that had been designated as a high security location for housing high risk and terrorist suspects when it was built two decades earlier. Peter had explained to her as they walked up to it that its ugly fortress-like appearance, was because it effectively was one. This was a window on another world for her, totally unlike the one that she inhabited; or that which had been opened up for her on Victorian life, when she had inhabited Lucia’s mind. Of course then, she had experienced every aspect of the young girl’s life; the squalor with which she was surrounded and the lengths she had gone to in order to make her existence bearable – if only for fourteen or fifteen years. Unlike Guy Lamberti, Lucy knew that Lucia’s parents had died when she was very young and that she had been dependent on an unmarried and largely unsympathetic uncle for a long time. She felt the terrors of the child’s short life in her memories, sharing with her a sense of powerlessness that few young women today could fully comprehend, not least herself. It made her want even more to find the truth of who had killed the child.

“I will get this off to the lab together with the evidence sample, as soon as I can,” Roger told them, as they sipped their not-too-bad-after-all coffee. “It will take at least two weeks for any sort of answer and I have to send them through official channels, even though this is a private job, because they are still technically evidence in a capital case – albeit a closed one.” Peter thanked him and, rather unnecessarily, reminded him to send him the bill. There was no way Roger would have sent it to Lucy – he would rather have lost the paperwork, he felt. She was very attractive; if Peter didn’t look out, he would be after her himself. As long as his wife never found out; and given his lengthy and irregular working hours, that was always unlikely.

“Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that I looked up the police records for the case and it is rather interesting,” he continued. “The inspector who investigated the case, one George McBride, was remarkably thorough for one in his position, at the time. I rather suspect he was of the ‘officer class’ and destined for higher things because he had been a Major in the British Army in India – prior to the formation of the Armies of the Presidencies there, in 1858 – at a very young age. He had not wanted to join the new force and came back here as a thirty-five-year-old inspector, to learn the ropes.” He flourished a photocopy of a handwritten report.

*

Death of Lucia Lamberti, 6th May 1865

Notes made by Inspector George McBride – 19th May 1865

I am not totally satisfied with the assertion that the prisoner, Pietro Nespola, is the killer in this case. He denies having had sexual relations with the girl at any time, specifically not the day of her death. In fact, he asserted her virginity, despite evidence to the contrary, based on her own assertion to him, earlier.

I find the prisoner’s grief at her death convincing, although this might be due to remorse at having killed her, just as much as to sorrow at her loss. He tells a strange story of a plot to recover the victim’s father’s receipt for ice cream from the uncle, Giuseppe Lamberti, as well as of a meeting with a gentleman, whose name he did not know, later that evening, at which time his fiancé, as we might term her, was expecting to be paid a considerable amount of money. This was apparently in return for her silence about a business plan which she had overheard being discussed and which the gentleman did not want to have recounted. This admission of blackmail has a ring of truth to it, incriminating the young woman as it does, and certainly accords with the large sum found in her hands when she died, observed by the constable and the prisoner. Unfortunately, she was not able to give an account of who had attacked her before her death.

The prisoner said that the gentleman had purchased ice cream from the young woman earlier in the day, but that he had been away at the time and therefore did not see him, or the lady he was with. They were, however, clearly of ‘quality’ and I have been able to prepare a list of possible individuals who might fit the bill, based on other witness statements. Included amongst these are two influential councillors, one Archibald Brown and one Henry Williams, with whose wife, Brown appears to be ‘close’. Could that be the real reason for the blackmail?

I have been unable to find any evidence to link either Brown or Williams directly to the killing and therefore have no grounds to seek an interview with them. The Superintendent has said that the matter is closed and I have therefore no option but to lay the evidence that I have against Mr Nespola before the courts.

God have mercy on his soul – because the courts will certainly have none on his neck.

*

“The point is,” Roger summarised to an entranced couple whose coffees were rapidly cooling in their plastic cups, so interested were they in the report, “that there were other potential suspects and this seems to accord with what Peter told me about your past life regression session.”

“Can you tell us what happened to Councillor Brown?” asked Lucy, increasingly confident that he was their best prospect as the killer.

“I know that he became a director of, and shareholder in, the railway company that built Central Croydon Station,” interjected Peter.

“Did he, indeed?” said Roger. “Then it may interest you to know that he died – presumably by his own hand – only a few years later, in 1872. Apparently, he lost a considerable amount of money – not all of it his own, when the new station closed in 1871, after only three years’ operation. If he was a director then it might not have been fraud, as I initially suspected, but simply incompetence – or even bad luck. Whatever the cause, it was a financial disaster and the circumstances of his death were hushed up, apparently in deference to his mother, who was something of a force in the town. Perhaps he lost his own money and could not face those investors whose money had also been lost.”

“And you know this because …?” asked Peter.

“... Because I followed up on Inspector McBride’s notes for later years,” said Roger. “I discovered that shortly before he was promoted to what later became Scotland Yard, as a Superintendent, he had investigated Brown’s death by hanging. There were slightly suspicious circumstances and it was never clear, even to a detective of his acuity, whether it really was suicide, or he had been killed by someone else and the death made to look like suicide. There had been persistent rumours of an ongoing relationship between Brown and Mrs Ann Williams; McBride apparently rather like the cuckolded husband for having undertaken a successfully concealed killing, but there was never sufficient evidence for him to follow it up. He did, however, note that Mrs Williams gave birth to a son a short time after Brown’s untimely death.”

“There is an alternative theory, I suppose,” suggested Lucy, “If Uncle Giuseppe cared enough about his niece, then had he somehow come to suspect Brown of killing his niece he might have decided that ‘suicide’ by hanging was a good way of avenging Pietro’s death on the gallows. I rather hope it was, because it would make me like him a little more than I did after meeting his descendent.”

“That is a brilliant thought, Lucy,” said Roger, starting to appreciate what Peter really saw in this woman. “It would be a rather elegant solution and, because Brown had no wife or children of his own, nobody bothered too much about the details of his death, while the rest of the family wanted to avoid any scandal.”

“Were there any newspaper reports at the time?” asked Peter.

“I must admit that I wasn’t sufficiently interested to follow that up,” replied Roger, “but there is no reason why you and Lucy shouldn’t do so. What would you hope to prove?”

“I am not really sure,” was the reply. “It’s not as if we have any specific interest in proving that Giuseppe was Brown’s killer. Nor do we like Brown sufficiently to want to prove that he was not a suicide, especially as we have him down as Lucia’s killer. But there are some loose ends that I would like to tie up.”

“Like was Brown really Lucia’s killer, did he defraud his investors and was he killed in revenge?” said Lucy, completing Peter’s thoughts for him. “I don’t see that we can solve a murder at this long distance in time that Inspector McBride failed to do – nor the question of the suicide, for that matter. But I suppose we could find out how many people lost money in the company and whether any of those might have taken revenge on Brown.”

Roger escorted them out of the building and Peter drove Lucy to work. Before she got out of the car, they agreed to meet up a few days later and return to the Library to look at the Croydon Advertiser archives again. By the time of the failure of the railway company, it was in full flow, so information would be more readily available than for the original murder trial. So no more sifting through dusty boxes for extracts from extinct publications; this time, they would be able to look at back issues of the paper itself.

*

The disinterested young man they met on their previous visit was nowhere to be seen when they reached the newspaper’s offices at eleven o’clock on a cold January morning. Instead they were met by a competent looking young woman who was only too willing to help them in their search.

“We have a relatively good database of the articles in our old newspapers,” she told them proudly. “There is a search engine covering our internal database on this computer here,” she added, pointing to a vacant machine that they could use. “I rather hope to make it available to everyone through the World Wide Web at some time, but the directors are not too keen at the moment. Something to do with security of data, I believe. Now what is it you are looking for?”

Lucy and Peter had agreed that the main area of interest would be finding out more about the failure of the railway company. It did not directly impinge on their investigation into Lucia’s killing, but there was no prospect of any DNA evidence for some weeks, and even when it did come, it would probably prove only that Giuseppe was definitely not involved, not who was. They really wanted something that proved Archibald Brown was the murderer and that someone had exercised vengeance on him – or at least that he had paid some price for his crimes. They asked how they could find any articles about him and relating to the railway company he had run. The young woman showed them what sort of search criteria to use and left them to print out a list of publications in which the articles were printed.

The readout gave them publication dates and pages, as well as the unique reference to put into the machine that read microfilm for them. This was by far the best system that they had used so far and they were quickly able to identify the information they wanted.

“How about I read the articles and you take notes?” suggested Peter, whose handwriting was far from tidy and would be illegible to anyone else. Lucy reluctantly agreed and got out her notepad she had brought for the purpose, concealed in her unusually capacious handbag.

“I wondered what you kept in there,” quipped Peter, confident that they knew each other well enough for her not to take offence. “I suspected it was intended to carry food supplies; or are we to use it to steal these rather nice computers?”

“Yes, you could certainly do with something more modern,” she replied, before they settled down to what could be a long session.

They decided to look at the references to Councillor Brown first. It was largely rather dry and related almost entirely to Town Council matters. He was a leading light in the chamber, but appeared to have no interest at all in anything that did not directly relate to business and making money. Councillor Williams, on the other hand was far more socially minded and tried hard to improve the lot of the working classes by encouraging employers to respect the various Factories Acts limiting working hours for children. He also spoke frequently on initiatives to improve ventilation, sanitary conditions and the addition of machinery guards in appropriate places.

“There is a quote here that I rather like,” said Peter, reading it out to her. “It says, ‘Councillor Williams noted that while the Factories Acts were primarily aimed at those operating cotton mills in the North East of England, it would be shameful were those of our fellow citizens employed in factories in Croydon not given the same full benefit of the law’s protection in such matters. We must insist that employers protect their workers. If we need an example of good practice in employment matters, we need only watch the progress of the young chocolatier, Joseph Rowntree and his plans for housing his employees in better conditions.’ How could his wife have preferred the company of a swine like Brown, compared with a man of principle like him?”

“Some women simply prefer a rogue,” replied Lucy, smiling at him so that he wondered if she saw him in such a light. He did, after all, appear to be something of a dilettante, given that he did not really work very hard to make a living. And if he was a bit of a rogue, was that a good thing? Or was she one of the women who preferred a man of greater worth? He hoped the latter. Even if he did not fall into that category, he would rather think of her as aspiring to what was good in life, rather than that which was merely convenient.

Further reading indicated that Brown was every bit as unlikeable as they had thought. But there was nothing that actually indicated criminality. They paused for a quick lunch – Lucy had indeed brought some sandwiches and Peter managed to find a coffee machine – before going back to the start and looking for information about the railway company that had built Central Croydon Station.

A picture quickly started to emerge that suggested the prospectus had been overly ambitious about the prospects for success. The proposed new station was, admittedly, closer to the commercial centre of town than was East Croydon Station – and in a far more convenient location than West Croydon Station (which latter was more commercially orientated, it being founded on the iron trade, rather than being suitable for high volumes of passenger traffic). The problem was that the new central station would lack the facilities of the alternative one at the eastern end of George Street, which attracted passenger traffic from amongst the wealthy residents of those parts of Croydon where the larger houses tended to be – Shirley. What’s more, East Croydon Station was close to the East India Company College in Addiscombe, which would have given it more ‘pull’ as a communications hub. Central Croydon Station was never really a commercial success and it quickly became apparent that it lacked – and was unable to generate – the funds necessary to expand sufficiently to overcome the obvious attraction of its more established competitor. Reports started to appear in the paper highlighting shareholders’ complaints about the way the company was being run and how quickly money disappeared from its coffers. In fairness, there was nothing to suggest actual malfeasance by anyone at all, not even Archibald Brown, who was now the leading individual in the company. What was clear was that an undercapitalised business was never going to succeed and that it could not attract additional investment under its current business plan. Eventually, the business failed and Archibald Brown died shortly after the station and its associated line closed.

The whole sorry tale added little to the mystery of how Lucia had died. If, as Peter and Lucy firmly now believed Brown was directly responsible for Lucia’s murder, then the failure of the business which had almost certainly been the root cause of her killing was at least poetic justice on the perpetrator. Whether their view was based on evidence, or from simple prejudice, neither knew.

“Of course,” said Peter, “it might have been that Williams killed Brown, to avenge the alienation of his wife’s affections.”

“What a lovely expression,” smiled Lucy, who was frequently fascinated by Peter’s sometimes archaic turn of phrase. “I must remember that one. But don’t really think Williams killed Brown. I suspect that his passions were directed more towards his political and social activities than to his wife. He probably didn’t care, provided she produced a son for him. He might not even had known, or cared, if it was his or Brown’s child. Did you notice that in a later council minute, he is referred to as Sir Henry? I suspect he was knighted for his good works.”

“Where did you see that?” asked Peter.

“In an entry for 1890, when the council agreed to purchase part of the railway site for its proposed new, larger Town Hall,” she replied. “I see that the station did reopen for four years in the late 1880s, but there was no drive, with Brown long gone. Perhaps Lucia’s revenge was complete after all, even if her beloved Pietro had died for her murder.”

After such a sombre development in their investigation, neither Peter nor Lucy felt particularly eager to go much further. Nevertheless, there was the question of the DNA evidence to be looked into, so there was no point in stopping. At least they could be certain that Giuseppe was innocent after all, if the tests came up negative for a match, but for the moment, there was little to discuss.

*

It was more than a fortnight before Peter was able to telephone Lucy with the results of the tests that he had just heard. He had been unable to think of a reason for calling her in the meantime; well, he had had many reasons – centring mainly on his simple desire to at least hear her voice – but no excuse. He still felt ambivalent about her regard for him and was unwilling simply to call for a chat.

“Roger has just called me with the results,” he said into the mouthpiece in his office telephone. “Would you like me to give them to you now, or would you rather come down here for a chat?”

“I have a better idea,” replied Lucy, who had been missing their investigations together every bit as much as Peter. “Why don’t I buy you lunch as a ‘thank you’ for everything you have done to help resolve this. I feel that you have invested a lot of time in this,” and money she added to herself, “and it was not really your quest.”

“I will trump that, Lucy,” he quickly replied, glad of the opening. “Why not come down here after work, I will show you the article I have written on the Lamberti family for the Trinity old boys’ magazine and Roger’s results. Then I can take you out for a proper dinner. After all, it was my fault this entire hare started running. Wear something smart, you can change here if you like. Mother and Father will be about; you have not met the old duffer so far, have you?” he added, knowing that she could not have done so, since the old man seldom left his sitting room, these days. “He is quite harmless – with the emphasis on ‘quite’,” he added enigmatically. In truth, his father was becoming something of a trial and he was not quite sure how much longer his mother would be able to cope with his increasingly erratic behaviour, loss of short term memory and violent mood swings. But Peter wanted Lucy to know the worst about the family – just in case.

Lucy accepted without a second thought. She was keen to see Mrs Walters again and had no fear about meeting someone with dementia. She had seen it before at close quarters, although not in a family member, and understood how distressing it was for carers and loved ones alike. That she might be able to give a little solace to a woman who had shown her only kindness was a pleasant thought.

And, of course, she would see Peter again. Almost a date, she told herself, but not quite.

It was late February by the time their dinner came round and Lucy had made very sure that she had a new hairdo and was properly made up, before turning up at Peter’s home in a taxi. She was carrying her dress in a smart blue fabric suit carrier and had a pair of new dark-blue high heeled shoes in another bag. She could have changed at work, but felt that it would have been rude to reject the offer of changing at his place. And Mrs Walters was bound to have gone to great lengths to ensure she was comfortable. Besides, she hated walking too far in ‘heels’.

Mrs Walters answered the door.

“Good evening, Lucy,” she said slightly formally. She seemed tense. “I am afraid Peter is tied up with his father at the moment, but he will not be long. Would you mind coming upstairs with me and I will show you where you can change, although you look splendid already to me and men never seem to notice, no matter how much trouble we go to.” Talking to Lucy seemed to help her relax.

“Please do not concern yourself, Mrs Walters,” replied Lucy. “I can get changed and then wait until Peter is ready. Perhaps I can sit in his office when I am ready?”

“Oh, yes, that is a good idea,” said the older woman as she showed Lucy into a guest bedroom with en suite facilities. She really did like this girl; such nice manners.

Lucy quickly changed and checked over her makeup and hair, before walking downstairs to the front office. As she passed a closed door, she heard Peter’s exasperated voice saying something to another person. As she moved quietly past, the door suddenly swung open and Peter strode out bumping into her, almost knocking her to the ground.

“Now see what you have done,” shouted his angry father, who had seen the accident reflected in a large mirror sited above the mantelpiece. “Hitting the maids is totally unacceptable, however angry you might be. Apologise to Myrtle at once, boy.”

“I’m so sorry, Lucy,” Peter said to her under his breath, ensuring that she was unhurt. Myrtle was something of a family ‘thing’; she had been his father’s nursery-maid when he was a child and frequently cropped up in his father’s ramblings. “This is not Myrtle, Father. She left when you were twelve. This is a friend of mine.”

“Well bring her in for me to see, boy,” said his father, suddenly over the fit of temper that had led to Peter’s exasperated flight from the room. “My goodness, she is pretty,” he added as the door swung open for Lucy to see an elderly man sitting in a comfortable chair, surrounded by newspapers and magazines, as well as a drinking vessel of the type used by children once they are too old to use the bottle. Taking in the full significance at a glance, Lucy smiled at the old man and spoke gently to him.

“Please do not worry about me, Mr Walters, she told him. “Peter and I have a few things to talk about and we are then going out for dinner. I won’t keep him away for too long.”

“Well come in and let me see you properly,” he ordered. “What is your name, child?”

“She is Lucy, Father,” said Peter.

“Let her speak for herself, fool,” roared his father in a sudden mood-swing typical of some forms of dementia.

Lucy stepped quickly through the door and knelt next to the old man, putting her hand on his. The impact was immediate and remarkable. He was suddenly calm, enchanted by her friendly approach and completely relaxed with her.

“You always were a good girl, Myrtle,” he said to her, “so kind and thoughtful.” Lucy looked quickly at Peter, who had been about to correct the name and shook her head. Let him have his delusions, she thought. She started talking to him about inconsequential matters, things that might interest him such as the seasons and their associated flowers. She was a keen amateur horticulturalist and had quickly noticed a selection of well-thumbed gardening magazines strewn round the old man. She guessed that this was his ruling passion now. While they were talking together, with Peter hovering just inside the doorway, his mother came in gently put her arm through his, as she had when he was a boy. She looked at her husband with this young woman, perfectly happy and at ease and then smiled at her son; who immediately blushed, knowing what his mother was thinking. Not that he was against the idea of having Lucy around a bit more.

Chapter 6 – Dinner for two

Eventually, Mrs Walters edged into the room and took command of the situation – something at which she was clearly practised.

“Darling,” she said to her husband, while her son helped Lucy to her feet, “Lucy and Peter have some work to do and I know you would not want to interrupt that. I am sure they will come and see you after dinner.” She guided Lucy out of the room, adding to her quietly that her husband would not remember the promised return visit, so she need not worry.

“Oh, but I would like to come back,” she replied, before thinking of the implications of what she had said. She most certainly did not want Peter’s mother to think she was chasing him.

“That is charming of you, my dear, then you certainly shall,” said his mother. “Peter, you must bring Lucy back later. Now go and have your meeting, or you will be late for dinner.

A somewhat bemused Peter led Lucy downstairs. He was not sure what had just happened, but he most certainly did not object to whatever it was. That his parents had taken to Lucy was important to him. It was not as if he needed anyone’s permission to form a close relationship, but he had always craved approval. It might have been one of the reasons he took his work onto the stage, so that he could earn the approval of audiences, as measured by their applause at the end of the evening. And why he wrote books, if the truth be known, although the rewards were slower coming.

“My goodness,” said Lucy on entering his office. “Your desk is a lot tidier than last time I was here. And you have a new computer. Well done.”

“Actually, it is only the screen that is different,” he countered. “It is one of the new flat ones, like they had at the Croydon Advertiser. The tower is still the same, but it is under the desk now. So more space for my doodling.”

Lucy was about to sit down, when Peter looked at his watch and grimaced.

“Oops, we will be late for our table if we don’t get moving now,” he said. “Sorry about that, it was father’s fault; it was so kind of you to spend time with him. But would you mind if we grabbed the envelope I received from Roger and we discussed it over dinner? The taxi is booked for a few minutes’ time.”

A black cab, of the type more normally seen in London, arrived at the door almost immediately and they got in the back, Peter telling him the address of a very expensive restaurant.

“Are you trying to turn a young maid’s head, taking her to such a swanky place?” asked Lucy with a warming smile at him.

“Oh, no,” he replied, “that was just to impress the driver. We are going to the transport café opposite. I hope you like fried food.”

The taxi driver looked in the rear view mirror and smiled to himself. He knew that there were no such establishments within a mile of the address he had been given. What was this chap up to, he wondered? Not that he was worried for the young woman, he had picked up from this house before and knew something of the family background. Mr Walters senior had been a well-known academic and his son had the reputation for being a reliable sort.

They arrived at what had once been a private house in Selsdon Park and was now one of the best hotels in Surrey. Lucy knew that perfectly well, but played along with the joke, in order not to break the light mood that the evening was starting to take on. The entrance was grand and it was clear that, while Peter was not a regular diner there, he certainly knew his way around.

“We used to come here for family dinners, before father became too troublesome,” he confided as they walked into the stone-mullioned restaurant. The tables were well spread out, to allow privacy for each couple or group and the plain walls were beautifully offset by the rich curtains and brass chandeliers. It took Lucy some time to realise that there were no pictures at all. The food was expected to speak for itself. “I do hope you are hungry; the food here is unbelievable.”

“I must remember to ask the maître how they get the table cloths so brilliantly white,” quipped Lucy very quietly to Peter as they were given the menus, causing him to splutter into his water. “Professional courtesy.”

“Don’t you dare,” he felt that they were getting on well enough for this level of banter. “I will be barred for life.”

“Then I had better behave myself,” she replied with eyes demurely cast down and a wicked smile that he could see all too easily. His heart melted the final bit it needed to for him to know that this was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Now, how to convince her of that?

Peter had chosen the best restaurant that he could think of for this special meal. It was, in his mind, their first ‘date’ and it was intended to bring their search for the truth of Lucia’s death to an end, in view of the information he had received from Roger and which was sitting in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. They looked a perfectly normal couple, close, but not necessarily intimate and perfectly balanced, she in a discreetly floral dress to below the knee and he in a smart suit. They fitted in but, Peter suddenly realised, this was not the venue for an intimate dinner. It was too brightly lit. Never mind, he told himself, make the best of it.

The waiter presented Lucy with a menu with no prices on it, so that she was unable to select relatively inexpensive dishes, as she had intended on seeing where they were going.

“A drink for madam, while you make your choices?” he asked.

“Thank you,” she replied. “A Campari and soda, please.”

“Sounds nice,” added Peter. “Make that two, please.”

The waiter left to fetch their drinks, while Lucy and Peter looked through the menu. It was not as extensive as Lucy had expected, but everything on it looked as if it would be delicious and she had difficulty in deciding what to eat.

“Do you have any specific preferences?” asked Peter.

“Not really, Peter,” she replied. “I am not particularly fond of fish, but I don’t mind shellfish.”

“In that case, might I suggest the scallops with bacon in a cream sauce?” he offered. “I have had it here several times and it is my favourite starter – they serve it in fine porcelain scallop-shell shaped dishes, which is rather nice. After that, their Duck à l’Orange is wonderful, or perhaps you prefer it pan fried with a cherry sauce, that is wonderful too.”

“Yes,” she replied, “I do like duck, but don’t have it often enough. I think I’ll have the scallops and Duck à l’Orange, please.”

“I will have the scallops too, but I prefer the duck in cherry sauce,” he told the waiter as their drinks were discreetly delivered to their table. “And perhaps a bottle of Chablis with the starter, please?” As soon as the waiter had left, he added: “the service here is excellent, but everything is prepared freshly, so there will be a fifteen-minute wait before that arrives. Time to savour our Campari.”

Peter was not sure whether to broach the subject of the information he had received now, or to leave it until later. Lucy, however, was clearly in no hurry to pursue the subject and instead started to talk about the hotel and the restaurant, Lucy expressing admiration for every aspect of it.

“I hope I don’t sound too much like a country girl come to town, but I take a real interest in this sort of establishment. It is the type of place I wanted to end up running when I was at college,” she told him. “I studied catering at Worthing – largely to get away from home – and it was fascinating learning all aspects of the business. I was not quite so hot on the cooking side,” she admitted, “but I found everything else relatively easy. I suppose that is how I ended up working where I do; it is not the sort of restaurant people go to for really special meals – like this – but we do a good business-lunch trade, as well as evening parties. I find the logistics of how they make something work on this scale really interesting.”

Perhaps because of his profession, Peter was a good listener and he soon learned a lot about Lucy’s background that he had not previously known. Her childhood without a consistent father-figure; a mother who had tried to make life bearable for them both, but without much success; the difficult teenage years, when she had rebelled and finally escaped to college; her return to Croydon when her mother had first fallen ill and her relationship with Simon. When she reached her mother’s death, Lucy faltered. It was still too raw in her mind. To fill the gap in the conversation, Peter started to tell her some anecdotes from his school days; about the time when he and Roger had got into trouble for fusing the lights in the newly built theatre – during a performance – and their sporting exploits. Peter failed to mention that he had been cricket captain. If his mother ever had the opportunity, she would no doubt tell Lucy all about that. Lucy recovered quickly from her dark thoughts about her own mother’s death and started to probe Peter for more details about himself. She was amazed that he had allowed her the time to share so much about herself. It was unusual in a man, she felt. In one evening – well, half an evening, so far – Peter had learned as much about her as Simon had bothered with in seven years.

By the time it came to order desserts, Lucy felt that she could not face another morsel of food.

“Why don’t we simply go through to the lounge and have some coffee, then?” suggested Peter. “They are bound to bring us some Petit Fours with it and they are as good as a dessert, but incredibly light.”

“That sounds wonderful, darling,” replied Lucy, without realising that she had used such an intimate pronoun. Perhaps it was only the drink speaking, thought Peter without reacting. Nevertheless, he had an extra bounce in his step as he led her from the table.

As they settled down in deep leather chairs, set at right angles to each other, round the corner of a low glass-topped table – Peter had deliberately not chosen a sofa to sit on in case it seemed too close for her – Peter introduced the topic of their investigation.

“Roger gave me this DNA analysis,” he announced, drawing the envelope from his pocket, a last. “It proves conclusively that the dried ‘liquid’ did not belong to Giuseppe, provided that Guy really is a legitimate scion of the family, which we have no reason to doubt.”

“So it seems that Brown must have been the killer, as we suspected,” said Lucy, sitting forward, so that she could see the document. Her knees were almost touching Peter’s but neither made any effort to move apart. The waiter brought a modern silver coffee pot with matching cream and sugar containers, with two small cups for them to serve themselves and a selection of four rich looking mini cakes, one topped with an almond, another with a flake of chocolate, the third with a strawberry and the last with a cape gooseberry, each indicating the flavour of the creamy filling. This forced them both to sit back in their chairs for a moment, which suited Peter perfectly. He had a mini bombshell to lob into the conversation and wanted to watch Lucy’s face as he unleashed it.

“Roger found something else in the evidence boxes, when he returned the underskirt to the store,” he said after they had each tried a Petit Fours and sipped their coffee. “It was a letter to the Police from a Roman Catholic priest. He has given me a copy, it isn’t very long, but it may finish the story for us.”

He took it out and read it in full, occasionally glancing at Lucy to gauge her reaction.

Prison Chaplain,

Newgate Prison

14th November 1865

Dear Inspector McBride,

You will be aware that the prisoner Pietro Nespola was hanged this morning. I had the privilege of acting as his Chaplain and confessor during the final days of his life and came highly to regard his integrity and honesty, as well as his acceptance of the will of the almighty that he was to die.

I am writing to you because something he said, outside his final confession, gave me cause to believe that your doubts about the case were well founded. It appears that although he had no new evidence to offer in his defence, he had increasingly come to the conclusion that it was not the victim’s uncle who had killed her in a rage over their intended elopement, as he had once thought – and therefore blamed himself for the loss of his beloved fiancé. He had become convinced that the killer was really the mysterious man whom she was to meet later on and who was to give her the money that was found on them. He reasons that Giuseppe would have taken the money and absconded had he been the killer. But, and this you cannot know, Giuseppe Lamberti contacted Pietro in prison and offered to spend the money that had been recovered from you at the scene, in order to pay for his defence. There was a problem, however, that they could not get hold of the money until after the trial and it was no longer required in evidence and that Giuseppe could not obtain a loan against his expected inheritance because of the circumstances, not to mention his rather dubious personal reputation.

Pietro was certain that the offer was genuine and would not have been made by a guilty man, who might, by securing Pietro’s acquittal, endanger his own position. What is more, he thought that Lucia had said something more, before she died. Something like a name, but that he had not been able to hear it distinctly. Even if he had, who would have believed him?

I am pleased to report that Pietro Nespola died in a perfect state of grace, an innocent man. I am confident that you will not take action against me if I admit that I removed his body from the prison grave, to which all convicted murderers are consigned, and have had it reinterred in hallowed ground. God will forgive me; I trust that you will too.

I remain, sir, your humble and obedient servant,

Fr. Francis Doyle S.J.

For a moment, Lucy said nothing. As that moment extended into a minute, Peter wondered if Lucy had gone to sleep during his reading, exhausted by the meal and wine. He need not have worried.

“Peter, that was truly wonderful. Thank you so much for bringing me here to hear it read so beautifully,” she said, almost in tears at the emotion of hearing a first-hand account of Lucia’s beloved Pietro’s last hours. “Perhaps we could find his grave?”

“Perhaps. But I wonder what it was that Lucia …” Peter’s response was interrupted by a waiter suddenly appearing at Lucy’s side.

“There is a telephone call for you Miss Bowen,” he said discreetly. “A lady for you.”

“Sorry, Peter,” she said to him, rising to her feet. “Only Karen knew we were going out this evening and if she managed to track us down to here, it must be important.”

“I hope it is not your cat,” said Peter with genuine concern. Everything about Lucy’s life was becoming important to him, too.

“Hello, Lucy, it is Audrey Walters speaking,” said Peter’s mother’s voice in the earpiece. “I am so sorry to interrupt your evening, but Peter’s father is having a turn and asking for you. Well actually, he is asking for Myrtle, but he thinks you are she. Would you mind asking Peter to bring you back here, rather than directly home, as he may have intended. I thought I had better ask you myself, rather than speaking to Peter, in case you did not want to come, for some reason. I know it is an imposition on you, but it would be a great favour.”

“Of course, I will come,” replied Lucy without a second’s hesitation. “We will be with you in twenty minutes.”

*

Peter paid the bill immediately on Lucy’s return with all the good grace he could muster. He was not concerned about his father’s health, but annoyed that Lucy was being taken advantage of. The taxi took only a few minutes to arrive, as the hotel always had some on call, so they were back at Peter’s home within the time specified by Lucy.

Mrs Walters was waiting for them at the front door, looking rather worried, although whether this was because of her husband’s condition, or because she feared she had interrupted Peter’s plans for the rest of the evening, was unclear.

“Thank you so much for coming back, Lucy, my dear,” she said as they entered the hall. “Let me take your coat. Peter, will you hang this up, while I take Lucy upstairs to your father? Thank you dear,” she continued without waiting for a response. By now, her agitation had finally penetrated Peter’s frustration at how the date had developed. It had been going so well, but there really must be something wrong for mother to inconvenience a young woman like this. Perhaps father was ill?

“Who are you,” he heard his father challenge, as he followed them upstairs to his sitting room. “Are you Myrtle? You look different. Where have you been all evening? Look at this mess.”

“Yes, Mr Walters,” replied Lucy, adopting the tone that she felt would have been appropriate to a housemaid. “I am sorry to have left you for so long, sir. It was my evening off and I have been out with my gentleman-friend. He took me to a very nice place for something to eat.” She continued talking about inconsequential matters while quietly tidying up the mess that Mr Walters had created in his frustration – born not just by wondering where she might be, but also by his inability to think as clearly as he once had. He had been developing dementia for some time and, typically, was largely unaware of the fact, except that it meant he was unable to communicate as clearly as he wanted to. People did not seem to understand him anymore and he did not realise that this was because he was seldom sufficiently coherent for them to do so. For a retired academic and teacher, the loss of his communications skills was particularly hard.

Soothed by the sound of her voice, and the fact that she was clearing the mess remarkably quickly, by the simple expedient of passing everything she picked up to Peter and his mother, Mr Walters started to become less stressed.

“Thank you, child,” he said, after a few minutes. “Of course you are entitled to a follower and some time off. But I could hardly allow the mistress to clear up, could I?

“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” she replied in what she hoped was not a parody of how servants might have spoken. Of course, it was a long time since many people had had live-in servants and she idly wondered how wealthy this family might be that they must have done so as recently as the 1920s or 1930s. As far as Lucy knew, most families had lost the majority of their servants during the First World War and were unable to get more than a few replacements after hostilities had given way to peace.

“Well, then, Myrtle,” he said, “You can sit and read to me for a little while, like you usually do at bedtime.”

“Of course, Master Walters,” she replied without thinking. “What would you like me to read?” She picked up one of the magazines that had been placed on the table behind him and found an article on Nymans Gardens in West Sussex. It was only really recently starting to recover from the great storm of 1987, which had devastated arboretums and formal gardens over a vast swathe of southern England and the article told of the decade-long struggle that had taken place to repair the ravages of such extreme weather. Lucy read to him for an hour, showing him pictures of ‘before and after’ the devastation, as well as how well things were getting back to normal during the intervening years. After as long as she could hold his attention, although it sometimes seemed that he was enjoying her voice more than the content of the words, Audrey Walters intervened.

“It is time for me to get you to bed, dear,” she said to her husband. “Myrtle has to be up early in the morning for her work and you are getting tired.”

“Myrtle?” replied the old man, as Peter quickly ushered Lucy out of the room. “I haven’t seen her since I was at school. And who was that pretty girl and the man with her?”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” said Peter diffidently, after they had left the room, “but mother wants to know if you would rather stay the night here, instead of going all the way home and then having to come back for work in the morning. It is rather late, after all.” Lucy thought for a moment, before replying. She was warming to this family in a way that she had never thought possible. It was not just Peter, although he was an attraction for her, but his parents, who seemed decent people coping with an increasingly difficult situation and, as far as the mother was concerned, someone who was worried about her son’s happiness.

“I don’t have to be in until lunchtime, tomorrow – sorry, today,” she replied. “But I really cannot face the thought of going all that way this evening. It is not that I mind having spent time with your father this evening – after all, at least one of the men in your family has to be interesting – but I am ready for bed.” By then they had reached the room that Audrey Walters had set aside for her. It was the same room she had changed in earlier, on the same level as Peter’s room, and she found the work clothes she had been wearing neatly folded on the bed. She was ashamed to recall that that she had left them ‘hanging up on the floor, as her mother used to say of her, as a teenager.

“Me too,” he replied with a smile. “See you in the morning.”

“I’m not too tired if you want to come in, I’m not like Lucia; I won’t break,” she said on impulse, almost immediately regretting it, not because she didn’t want to get to know him better, but because it was rather presumptive of her to say it. Her doubts must have transmitted themselves to her face, because Peter immediately smiled and whispered to her in a conspiratorial manner.

“No. You must realise that I am falling in love with you,” he said, hoping that this was not a step too far, too quickly. “But this is not the time. I will not take advantage of your tiredness – or the fact that we downed almost a bottle of wine each, this evening, all told. I will see you in the morning; not too early, you could do with some rest. Good night.” With that, he kissed her lightly on the forehead and was about to step away when she gave him a smile that almost broke his resolve.

“You too,” she said, deliberately not saying whether it was the good night wish she was reciprocating or the declaration of love.

Lucy slept in outrageously late that morning. It must have been after ten before she awoke and when she did, it was to be greeted by the sight of a set of neatly wrapped packages. It was a spacious room with dressing table and chair as well as a sitting area as generous as any in the best hotels she had trained in, in addition to the double bed. She had been too tired to look round much when she went to bed; and to be honest she was more interested in thinking about the way her relationship with Peter – and his family – seemed to have blossomed.

The parcels were sitting on the table by the easy chairs, so she went over, failing to trip over the clothes she had again piled on the floor as she undressed, because they had mysteriously moved to the back of the other chair, and sat down to look at them. At the top was a card, addressed to her, so she opened it.

Dear Lucy, (it read)

I hope you don’t mind, but I sent Peter out this morning to get you a few essentials. He has no idea about such things as sizes and colours, so I had to give him very specific instructions. I do hope that my ‘old lady’s’ tastes are not too wide of the mark for you young people.

Thank you for everything you did for us last night; the enclosed are to ensure that you can feel fresh going to work.

Love,

Audrey Walters.

P.S. Peter is far too shy to bring these into your room, so I will do so! AW

In the various small boxes were pretty underwear of a slightly better quality than she would normally buy for herself – but not excessively so – as well as a pair of really expensive tights; but Peter would have no idea what to buy, she thought. There was also a smart skirt and jumper that would not look out of place in any setting. Almost overwhelmed by the act of kindness from a woman whom she was starting to respect as much as any other she had ever known, Lucy went into the bathroom for a shower, before returning to dress in the new outfit. There was even a discreet bag into which she could put her old clothes, so that they were not cramped in the suit carrier into which she had at least remembered to pour her printed dress from the previous evening.

Lucy went downstairs, wondering where everyone was. She followed her nose into the kitchen, a room she had not previously visited, where the smell of a wonderful English breakfast was emanating from a frying pan, wielded by Peter. He turned round and looked quickly at her.

“You look wonderful, Lucy,” he said, earning himself another smile. To have said that yesterday evening would have been predictable. To do so at this time of the morning, she felt, was significant of a genuine feeling. “I hope you like eggs and bacon, but if not, there is plenty of toast. I have done enough for both of us, because I was out early this morning.”

She walked over to the stove, put her arms around him from behind, while he concentrated on the food and kissed his ear. “I could eat a horse,” she told him, truthfully.

“Ok,” he replied, “I will go out to the stables and shoot one.”

“You have stables, here?” she exclaimed.

“Well, not any more. It is more of a large garage with a self-contained flat above. It was once used by the coachman in my great-grandfather’s time, but since we moved over to motor cars, there has not been the demand and it had rather fallen into disrepair. Which is a shame, because it is quite homely.”

“All right then, I will put up with the bacon and eggs. And is that tomatoes and black pudding that I see in the other pan?” she asked. “I love black pudding. Where is your mother?”

“Oh, keeping out of our way, I suspect,” he replied. “She is a shameless romantic and believes that no woman could possibly resist her son’s charms for long.”

“Well for once she is right,” said Lucy, abandoning any pretence that she was not in love with him; pretence to herself or to Peter. The time for that had passed. Now the dance could begin and lead who knew where? He turned to face her, after carefully reducing the heat on the stove and gave her a proper kiss, which she returned with interest, almost causing him to turn up the heat with his back pressed against the cooker controls.

After a few minutes – not long enough for either of them – his stomach rumbled and they both laughed, completely comfortable with each other.

“Time for breakfast, I believe,” he said, serving up the food directly onto two plates. “Bring the toast over, would you?” he asked, nodding towards the toaster before carrying the food to the kitchen table. “We usually eat here, to save the fuss of using the dining room. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Today, I don’t mind anything at all,” she replied. “Except that I have to go to work in half an hour or so.”

“I’ll drive you there,” he said. “Now eat up.”

They ate in companionable silence. Peter wondering how he could have been so lucky to meet this girl – and Lucy wondering what on earth she should tell Karen, who would know that these were not her usual clothes. Let her guess for a few days, she thought to herself.

“How long are you working today?” Peter asked her, as they drove the short distance to South Croydon. “I rather hoped to see you again this evening.”

“That would be nice, replied Lucy, feeling a glow of warmth at being back in a relationship, and one with such a nice family. “But I don’t finish until late and then I must get back to feed the cat; she will be frantic, unless Karen went in and fed her. Mind you, she is so artful – the cat, not Karen – she probably has several other families feeding her as well as me. Cats are like that, they have the ability to look starved, when they have just eaten a big meal. Then people feel sorry for them and give them some more. I am not at work for another three days, however, so we could get together tomorrow.”

“I will pick you up from home at ten o’clock, after the rush hour traffic has died down a little,” he said. “You can decide what we do.”

“I already have,” said Lucy. “I want to come and see your father again. And then, perhaps we can go down into your office and relax. I noticed that there is a lock on the door.”

“Why, Miss Bowen,” he said in mock horror. “Whatever do you have in mind?”

“Precisely what you have,” she replied, smiling. “Or at least, I hope so. But I also want to have another go at regression. According to the letter from Father Doyle, Pietro suggested that there is something Lucy knows about her killer that we might be able to find out. Do you remember that he said Lucia had mumbled something indistinct just before she died? Well I wonder if I might be able to get back into her mind and find out what it was. It might have incriminated Councillor Brown. If it did, there would be no room for doubt, at least for us.”

*

“Nice outfit,” said Karen, as Lucy walked into the restaurant. “Is this the posh man’s totty’s version of the walk of shame? I saw ‘Psychic Pete’ drive you up to the front,” she added to Lucy’s quizzical look. “I gather you had a nice time.”

“Down girl,” replied her friend. “I spent most of the night with his father, not Peter. No, not like that; you have a filthy mind. He is suffering from dementia and thought I was his nursery-maid from seventy years ago. I like him. In fact, I like all the family.”

“Especially Peter?” asked Karen.

“Well, I’m seeing him tomorrow, so work it out for yourself.”

Chapter 7 – London: August 1915

“Ok Lucy, same routine as last time. Just relax and focus your thoughts on Lucia,” he told her. The only difference was that they were alone in his study and had been for several hours. Long enough for them both to enjoy their burgeoning relationship almost to the full. Not something that his mother’s presence would have facilitated. In fact, the older woman had discreetly gone out shopping, leaving her husband asleep. She had told Lucy that she would not be back until after lunch, so could she sort something out for them to eat, later. Her discretion made Lucy like her even more.

“If you leave your hand there, darling, I will never be able to relax,” she chided. He kissed her yet again before finally removing his hand from just above her knee, where it had been resting, and announced the countdown, using the same formula as before.

“Now I am going to start counting backwards from ten and by the time I reach one, you will be completely relaxed and able to hear me and answer my questions. Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four …”

“Lucinda,” said the head chef, at the end of a busy luncheon session. “I am really pleased with your work on the pastries today. Several of the clients have praised them. You are my best student for years. You can have the rest of the afternoon off.”

This was exceptional treatment from Monsieur Philippe. Nobody at The Star of Ceylon Hotel in Mayfair was ever allowed time off; other than their normal half day, once a week.

“But first, I want you to go to Suite 3, to see Mr Williams,” added the chef, looking slightly embarrassed. “He wants to see who made the dessert he so much enjoyed. Run along now, don’t keep the gentleman waiting.”

Lucinda immediately went to the scullery to wash her face which was, as usual, covered in flour. She bumped into Pete, a young man of twenty-four, whom she had known since she came to work at the ‘Star’, as the staff called it, three years ago at the age of fifteen. Having reached the age of eighteen a few weeks ago, she was well aware that Pete was looking at her as a potential wife. She was not sure how she felt about that, but certainly liked him more than anyone else she knew. They had occasionally walked out, but Pete had been careful not to say or do anything that might frighten her and she always felt safe with him. He was generally tipped to become a head waiter at some time in the future, but at the moment he was a lowly assistant waiter, learning the sommelier’s trade in his spare time. To be a really effective head waiter, you had to know every aspect of the trade, not just waiting at table.

“You are in a rush Lucinda,” said Pete. “Got a date?” He knew her well enough to recognise the agitation in her face, but also that she would not be walking out with anyone else, unless she told him first. Something was worrying her.

“I have been called up to Suite 3 to see Mr Williams,” she told him. “I have never been above stairs before, how do I get there? I can hardly walk up the main staircase with all the ladies and officers.” Since the war had started a year earlier, most men seemed to be in uniform, even those who never left the capital for the front in Belgium, or France, or wherever it was.

“There is a special service staircase at the back of the kitchen,” replied Pete. “Surely you must have passed it thousands of times since you started work here, did you never wonder where it went?”

“I suppose I never really thought about it,” she replied honestly. Nothing seemed to impinge on Lucinda’s mind except those things she was really interested in, like cooking pastries, pretty flowers and, she admitted to herself, Pete. “Where is Suite 3?” she asked.

“Go up two flights of stairs, past the ground floor – that’s where the restaurant, reception and lounges are. When you reach the first floor, left out of the green baize door, he told her. “It is along there on your right, at the front of the hotel. Suite 3 is one of our best rooms, so mind your p’s and q’s,” he added rather unnecessarily, as she was already mentally quaking in her shoes at the thought of meeting a real gentleman.

“Thank you,” said Lucinda, reaching up to kiss Pete on the cheek – the most she had ever done, even when they were walking out – something of a risk in the scullery in case they were seen and reported to the management. She passed out of the scullery and back through the kitchen, before mounting the stairs towards the most important floors in the hotel. As she reached the right level, she noticed a mirror with a table under it on the servant’s side of the baize covered door. Presumably, this was for waiters to ensure that they were suitably smart before carrying trays to the guests. The table would be a place to put things while making any final adjustments. Lucinda simply brushed a hand over her hair before passing through and going to find the suite. I am a cook, she told herself. He will have to take me as he finds me.

She knocked on the door and waited.

“Come in,” announced the sonorous voice of a man in his mid-forties. As she walked into the room, Lucinda felt a sudden sense of déjà vu. Had she seen this man before, she wondered? Perhaps in the street – certainly not in the restaurant, she never went there. But even if she had seen him, why such a strong sensation?

“Ah!” he said, his deeply appraising glance taking in her clothes and the smudge of flour that she had not spotted above her left eyebrow, which did nothing to reduce her attractiveness; perhaps enhanced it. The smudge was the legacy of her habit of brushing back her auburn hair with the back of her hand, to keep her fingers clean, whilst working. “You must be the little patisserie of whom I have been hearing from Monsieur Philippe. He tells me you are his star pupil. Did you know that he started as a pastry chef before graduating to a broader cuisine? If you want to become a chef yourself, you will have to get wider experience, too, my dear.”

“But girls cannot become chefs, sir,” she had found her voice by being given something she really cared about to say.

“You are right, my dear,” replied Williams, with what appeared to be fellow feeling for the injustice. “What an unfair age it is that we live in that prevents women from fulfilling their destiny on equal terms with men. Perhaps Mrs Pankhurst and her friends are right to want the vote, in order to start redressing the balance. But that will take many years to achieve, by which time it will be too late for you.”

“We must live the lives we are given, under God’s grace,” replied Lucinda, assuming that this was the proper reply for a girl of her status.

Williams looked at her for half a minute, drinking in every aspect of her features, rather than the appropriateness of her reply. She was pretty enough, but there was something more about her; an intelligence that belied her words, he felt.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” he challenged, not really expecting a reply. “What is your name?

“My name is Lucinda Smith, sir,” she replied.

“Very well, Lucinda,” he said. “How would you like to come and work for me? I have an elderly cook who will teach you everything you need to know about cooking and I will pay you £25 a year while you are learning and £50 a year when you take over as my head cook, which should be in five years’ time.” Lucinda almost sat down in her surprise at the offer; she could hardly believe her luck. She currently earned no more than £8 a year plus board, this would be three times as much – a vast fortune. Sensing her confusion, Mr Williams continued. “Please do not make a decision, now, Lucinda. I would like you to come to Croydon to see the house and meet Mrs Cooper, the cook. If you get on together, you can start your training immediately. The hotel will release you if I ask them to, I am a regular guest here and they will respect my need for you. Please be ready to come with me in half an hour. Your chef is aware that you will not be back today.” That explained the day off; Monsieur Philippe clearly approved of the opportunity for her.

With that he dismissed her with an injunction to meet him in the reception area at half past three. Lucinda went back downstairs in a state of great excitement. She had so much to do. First she must put on her Sunday best clothes, then she must let Pete know that she would be back later that day. She rushed to the garret she shared with two other girls by a staircase that led directly from the staff hall only to the women’s quarters. Of course, the room was empty at that time of day, the other girls would be working still – and jealous of her having time off. Lucinda would have liked to tarry to speak with Pete, but he was not allowed in the part of the building where he would be resting before the evening mealtime. Hopefully, she would manage to see him before she left. She washed and dressed, keeping an eye on the old clock that she kept by her bed, her sole memento of her late mother, to ensure that she was not late. At twenty-five past three, she knew that she had no time to look for Pete after all, so she hurriedly left a note for one of the other girls, asking her to explain to Pete where she was and that she would see him tomorrow at breakfast, if not that evening when she got back.

*

“Peter, it was him,” Lucy gasped, as she came out of her hypnotic trance. She had become so visibly distressed that Peter had decided to bring her back to consciousness.

“It was whom, darling?” he asked evenly, although he had a suspicion already.

“That gentleman, who called himself Mr Williams, it was Councillor Brown, albeit a little older,” she replied. “I tried to warn Lucinda about him, but could not communicate with her.”

“I am afraid I suspected something of the sort,” replied Peter. “When I tried to send you back to Lucia’s time, I couldn’t because she had already died. Instead, you went to the next incarnation. I must admit that I have never experienced this before myself, but there have been articles in Psychic News about cases of linked lives and you seem to be somehow involved in such a situation. Do you remember the name of the woman Brown was with when he bought the ice cream?”

“If I recall correctly, she was a Mrs Williams,” replied Lucy still shaken by the revelation that Lucy’s nemesis had apparently come back to life.

“Well she became Lady Williams when her husband was knighted for good works,” said Peter. “But I believe that her son was, in fact, Brown’s rather than her husband’s. The child was born three or four months after Brown had died, so the age is about right and the resemblance is significant. It also links up the theory Roger told us about, that Williams had somehow killed Brown and made it look like suicide. I think there is a definite link between you and Lucia/Lucinda on the one side and Brown/Williams on the other.”

“Peter, what if Lucinda is about to meet the same fate as Lucia?” Lucy asked in a panicked voice. “We cannot just leave her to be killed by that swine’s son, we have to warn her somehow.”

“That is the harshest thing I have ever heard you say,” replied Peter as gently as he could. “But there is absolutely nothing that we can do. You are somehow reliving her memories, but it is a one-way street. But even if we could somehow manage to warn her, it would change history – with unknowable consequences. The only thing we can do is to monitor her carefully and see if we can gather sufficient evidence this time to reach an unassailable truth. If your – our – fears about her being killed are correct, we are eighty-five years too late in any event; for justice and for her. But at least we will know. Are you game to try again?”

“As long as you are with me all the time, Peter,” she replied. “I don’t see how I can do any less. And without you, I could not do it in the first place, she added with a little of her sense of humour returning. Lucy was naturally empathetic towards the young girl who was, she feared, about to be killed, but sufficiently realistic to know that there was nothing to be done in practice to prevent what had already happened. “I want to go on with this, for Lucia’s sake, just as much as Lucinda’s. Isn’t that a strange name for a servant girl born in Victorian England?”

“Well it certainly wasn’t a popular one,” replied Peter. “Perhaps it was one of the aspirational ones that people sometimes gave their children in the hope that they might somehow better themselves and then fit in more easily. Difficult to tell, really. Anyway, are you ready, darling?”

“Give me a kiss first, and I will be,” she replied, upon which they lost a quarter of an hour in two seconds.

*

“Have you ever been on a train before, Lucinda?” asked Williams of her as they entered the train at Victoria Station.

“Oh, yes, sir, but never before in first class,” she replied. “We always travel ‘third’ when we go to Brighton. We usually leave from here, but I have never stopped at Croydon.” A more accurate answer might have been to say that she had once been on an express train trip to Brighton – an outing from the Star – and that it had been a real adventure. It was there that Pete Harrison had first started to take an interest in her. It was the previous year, just after her sixteenth birthday and he had noticed how shy she was. He had rather taken her under his wing, but had been careful not to appear overly friendly, for fear of giving her a bad reputation at the hotel – or of frightening her off. She was turning into a really attractive young woman and he wanted to ensure that, when the time came, it was he she would think of as a possible partner in life. And she was already starting to be a reputable cook, he had added to himself, mentally patting his stomach at the thought.

“When we get to East Croydon Station, my carriage will pick us up and take us along Addiscombe Road to my house,” he said. “It is not far. All the larger villas are in that area,” he added with pride, although why he would wish to impress a servant girl, she could not imagine. The journey passed in almost complete silence between them, which Lucinda took to be normal when people of different classes, who did not know each other, were forced to travel in close proximity for some time. For his part, Williams was inspecting the girl very closely under hooded eyebrows, savouring every aspect of the figure that he could imagine in detail under her modest clothing. She was just the sort of dish to appeal to his already jaded desires.

“A very tasty morsel,” he muttered out loud, rather than in his mind, as he had intended.

“I’m sorry sir?” she asked, unsure whether he had intended her to reply.

“I was just thinking how nice it would be to have you in my house,” he said thinking quickly; no need to let the girl know what her fate was going to be too soon, he decided, “preparing your wonderful pastries. I am sure that Mrs Cooper will be as pleased with them as I am. And that she will be able to tell you about your other duties,” he added, knowing that she would take this to refer to other forms of cooking. Whether or not Mrs Cooper knew about the ‘other duties’ he demanded of the younger women, he neither knew, nor cared. But she had been there long enough to ensure that the girl was compliant to orders.

After leaving the train, they walked up the incline from the platforms towards the late-Victorian booking hall, outside which Williams was confident his coachman would be ready and waiting. He had had a telephone installed in his home a few years earlier and was assiduous in calling ahead from wherever he was, to announce the time of his train’s arrival. If only father’s money had been sufficient for him to have had a valet to travel with him, he thought, I would not have to attend to such trivia myself. Nevertheless, he was able to employ a housekeeper, cook, two maids, a manservant and a local man who came in each day to do the garden and anything else that was needed round the house. Plus, now an assistant cook. A shame about old Mrs Cooper. Reliable, but hardly an adornment to the household, given her age. This new young woman would fit in very well, he felt. Once she understood all her duties. But there would be no rush about it this time, he decided. The last girl had been frightened by his advances and run off before he could …

This time, he would wait a little.

Arriving at the house, Lucinda was surprised by its modern appearance. It was nothing like the grand Victorian buildings she was accustomed to in London but, instead, a substantial new house, surrounded by pleasant gardens alongside which ran the main road eastwards. It had a turret at one corner and six or seven rooms of various sizes on each of two main floors and, as she learned a little later, a range of small bedrooms on the top floor, partly concealed within the roof space. These were the servants’ bedrooms – with the luxury of one room each, she was amazed to see. The Housekeeper had a small sitting room on the ground floor, behind the kitchen, but there was no basement.

Lucinda was rapidly separated from ‘The Master’ by the housekeeper and led directly to the kitchen where the kindly, but slightly deaf, cook made her a cup of tea and gave her a slice of bread, thickly buttered, with a hunk of cheese and an apple.

“There you are, my dear, you must be hungry after your long journey,” said Mrs Cooper. In truth, she had never moved more than a few miles from where she stood, in her entire life and thought London must be a very long way away. “Now don’t mumble,” she said in a loud voice, as Lucinda thanked her, “I have trouble hearing people who mumble.” In reality, she had trouble hearing anything at all. “After you have had your tea, you can go to your room and unpack your things. Where is your bag, child?”

Lucinda managed to make her understand that she was only there for an interview, but Mrs Cooper simply replied that ‘The Master’ had told her that she was coming to stay that day and that she would start working in the morning.

“There is a lot for you to learn, dearie,” she continued, “because I understand you only cook pastries at the moment. You will soon pick up more complicated dishes, so don’t you worry your head. I will soon have you cooking meals fit for the finest in Croydon, to your heart’s content.”

Not knowing what to do, Lucinda finished her tea and, on the pretext of going up to her room, went to find the housekeeper, Mrs Garraway, to find out how she would get home to the hotel, now she seemed to have passed the interview. The sharp featured woman was talking with one of the maids and Lucy was initially reluctant to speak in front of a third person.

“Please miss, I understand I have the job here, but I need to go back to the hotel to collect my things,” she said, as soon as she was instructed to ‘stop hovering in the doorway and spit it out, girl’.

“It’s Mrs Garraway, to you, young lady. And you are not going back there,” said the housekeeper. “You are part of Mr Williams’s establishment now; it has all been arranged. You will find your uniform in your bedroom; Nancy will show you the way now,” she instructed both girls with the same sentence.

*

Lucinda awoke at six o’clock in the morning, just as she had every morning since arriving at the house in Croydon a week earlier. She had started work in the kitchen at half past six on the day after her arrival and had had hardly a moment to herself until the previous evening, which was her half day off. She had taken the opportunity to write to Pete, explaining why she had not been back since leaving him so suddenly, and hoping that her message had reached him. Her main responsibilities included cleaning the pots and pans as well as the cutlery and crockery, but she also sometimes helped clear the table after lunch and yesterday had been such a day. By the time she had written to Pete, she was too tired even to go out and have a look round town.

She had told Pete in her letter that she was enjoying learning the different types of cooking and that Mrs Cooper said she was a ‘quick study’, whatever that meant. Anyway, she seemed very pleased and that made up for the hard work she had to do. It was more strenuous than at the Star, but then she was earning so much more, so that only seemed fair. She said that if he wanted to, and was free, he could come down on the following Tuesday in the afternoon and take her out for a walk. Mrs Cooper had told her there were plenty of public parks in Croydon and she could meet him at the railway station. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the house where she worked.

Lucinda went downstairs as usual, to ensure that the range was lit before Mrs Cooper needed it to heat the water for the tea as well as to start preparing breakfast. This was nothing like as difficult as at the Star, although this had not been a daily task for her there; the range here was much smaller and more modern, as befitted a gentleman’s residence. Nevertheless, she hated having to fill it with coal every day – her hands got so dirty. But Mrs Cooper said that the Master was talking about allowing her to get one of the very new electric ovens. The house had been converted from gas to electricity soon after the first power station in Croydon had opened in 1896. The original coal fired ovens were then only ten years old and Sir Henry, Mr Williams’s father, had told Mrs Cooper at the time that electricity was too unreliable to rely on for a cooker, so they had better stick to the old range. However, she had been working on the son for more than a year, now, and had high hopes.

“Mrs Cooper,” said Lucinda, as her teacher walked into the rapidly warming kitchen, “I had trouble sleeping last night. There were lots of noises outside my bedroom. I went to the door, but couldn’t see who it was, the corridor was empty by then. This house is too new to have ghosts, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, you foolish girl,” replied the cook, although not in too unfriendly a way. She had taken a shine to this girl and hoped that she would do better than some of her predecessors. But best say nothing about that. “Just make sure your door is locked at night.”

“I can’t, Mrs Cooper,” she said. “There is no key for the lock.”

“Well just make sure you sleep with one eye open, then,” said the cook, cryptically.

Mrs Garraway came into the kitchen, a rare enough occasion. She ignored Lucinda, whom she neither liked nor disliked, seeing her as ‘another silly girl’.

“Mrs Cooper,” she said in her usual formal manner. “Mrs Downing is joining the Master for breakfast again this morning.”

“I didn’t hear the front door bell go,” said Lucinda to Mrs Cooper, as soon as the housekeeper had left the kitchen. The cook thought to herself for a moment, wondering whether she should obfuscate, or simply tell the girl the truth. The problem was that young people these days were either totally naive, or far too knowing. She had not worked out which applied to Lucinda, but rather suspected that it was very much the first. Better to let the girl know some of the secrets of the house now.

“Well, Lucinda,” she said not unkindly. “Mrs Downing occasionally stays the night here. As you were off yesterday afternoon, you would not have known that she had dinner here. That was probably the noise you heard, the Master going to her room, which is just below yours, during the night.”

“Why,” asked the wide-eyed girl, “was she unwell and he needed to call a doctor?”

“No, child, she was perfectly all right,” replied Mrs Cooper. “That is not the reason a man visits a woman in the middle of the night.”

“Then why …” But before she could ask any further questions, Mrs Cooper decided to give her a responsible task to perform, to take her mind off such matters.

“Enough of your questions for the moment, Lucinda,” she said. “You have learned so much in a short time that I want you to prepare the breakfast today. Now what will you need to get together before you start? Lucinda was so excited that she forgot her earlier line of thought and started to work out the ingredients for a sumptuous meal.

“They will probably eat at half past eight,” she said to Mrs Cooper, “so I should start …” and she listed not only the ingredients she would need, but also the timings to bring everything together at the same time, ready to be served piping hot. Mrs Cooper congratulated herself on the escape from the interrogation by an enquiring mind – as well as on the quality of her teaching.

*

The following Tuesday, Lucinda met Pete – who had written back to say he had managed to get the afternoon off as well – in the booking hall at East Croydon Station. He was not sure how to greet her, whether a hug, or even a kiss might be appropriate. In the event, he decided to carry some flowers that he could hand to her and she could then respond as she wished. As he walked up the slope from the platform, he became increasingly nervous. Would she have changed in the fortnight since he had last seen her, or was she still the girl he wanted to get to know much better?

“Oh,” she exclaimed on seeing him in his best suit, “are those flowers for me? They are lovely. She leant up and gave him a chaste, but lingering kiss on the cheek. Well at least that hasn’t changed, Pete thought to himself. “If we walk back to the house, I can put them in water.”

Pete had no desire to lose any precious private time with her by going to where she worked, however; the last thing he wanted was to be side-tracked into meeting all her friends instead of finding out how she felt about him. So he suggested instead that they leave the flowers in ‘left luggage’ for her to collect when he had to catch his train back to London.

“This way, we can spend more time looking round Croydon,” he said as he collected a ticket in return for the flowers. “I have never been here before. Now, would you like some tea?” Lucinda had eaten about an hour earlier, but was always ready for a cup of tea, so she led Pete into the town and they found a small café in which there was a free table. There was almost no evidence of the war in Croydon that day. Soldiers’ uniforms were few and far between and there were only the newspapers to tell what was going on in Flanders. Tea was rather more sumptuous than Lucinda had expected, with small sandwiches and cakes, in addition to the elegant china teapot, which the waitress gladly refilled for the good looking young couple – even though she felt the lad should have been in the army, like her own young man. She wondered how he was coping; his letters did not really tell her much, but then he never had been much good with a pen and paper. Better with his hands, she thought, blushing at the memory.

Pete was oblivious to the thoughts of either young woman around him, but rather tucked into the food as if he had not eaten since breakfast – which was actually the case. He did not mind the expense, because he knew there would be few occasions for him to treat Lucinda, especially if … but he decided to push any thoughts of enlisting out of his mind. For now. He had overheard one of the hotel guests talking about something called ‘conscription’ and when he had asked the head waiter what that meant, he had been told parliament was considering passing a law making it possible for them to force anyone over the age of 18 into the army, which was starting to suffer manpower shortages, now that the initial groundswell of volunteers had begun to dry up. Well he had good reason not to like the idea of that, so he thought he might volunteer for the navy, instead.

After tea, they walked together aimlessly, she simply enjoying his company, he wondering if the opportunity might arise for him to kiss her properly. But the time never seemed right, even though they had an entire afternoon and evening together. It was still warm by eight o’clock in the evening, when he finally had to think about getting back to the station to catch his train.

“Lucinda,” he said diffidently, as they queued in the ticket office to collect her flowers. “May I ask you something?” She nodded, her girlish imagination wondering whether this was to be a proposal of marriage and, if so, how she should respond. She liked him and was certain that he would make a fine husband. But she also liked the idea of having a career; her recent good fortune had presented her with the opportunity for one, she believed and might be reluctant lightly to give that up. To be a professional cook would surely be more rewarding than simply cooking for one man. And perhaps her children, she thought with a thrill. But if she was married, she would have to give up her work; her training, even. Oblivious to her thoughts, even though they were far from inimical to some of his own, he continued. “If I were to enlist, would you write to me?”

“Of course I would, Peter, why ever should I not? We are friends, after all,” she replied, slightly disappointed – and slightly relieved – that this was not, after all, a proposal. Yet.

“No,” he continued, his mouth so dry that he could hardly enunciate the words. “Not just as a friend. As a sweetheart?”

Lucinda made no reply, but simply lifted her face to his, so close that he could not mistake her intention, and waited to be kissed on the lips. He moved gently towards her, giving her the opportunity to move away if she wanted to, but when her eyes closed, he knew that the answer to his questions, both asked and unasked, were a resounding ‘yes’. This was to be the start of their life together. They did not separate until he heard his train approaching from the south, slowing down underneath the ticket hall, and he had to press the left luggage ticket into the palm of her hand, give her fingers a last gentle squeeze, and dash down the slope and leap into the carriage, just as the train was starting to move.

Lucinda collected the flowers and walked dreamily along Addiscombe Road, towards the Williams house. She felt intoxicated by the revelation that Pete wanted her as a sweetheart and wondered what he would say in his letters. She then went suddenly very cold, perspiration trickling down her back, as she realised that going to war would put him in danger. She wondered if they should get married before he left; but when would that be? She had no idea what he was planning, there had not been time to talk about it.

*

The next morning, Lucinda awoke as usual and went downstairs to prepare the kitchen. On her way down, she bumped into a lady whom she had not seen before, but took to be the mysterious Mrs Downing.

“Oh, I am so sorry, miss,” she said, using the normal address for any woman under the age of thirty whom she did not know. “I am not really supposed to use the main stairs, but I didn’t expect anyone to be here at this time of day.”

“Who are you?” asked Mrs Downing in a neutral voice. She had not known that there was a new young woman on the staff, and if she had, she would certainly have hoped that she was not as pretty as this one. Not after the last girl had suddenly ‘left’ after Mr Williams started paying her too much attention.

Mrs Downing’s husband was a Captain in the British Army, serving in Flanders, and she found it congenial to spend as much time at Mr Williams’ house as she could. She and her husband lived frugally in South Norwood, not too far from her mother, having little more than his army pay to live on. Mr Downing and Mr Williams had been as school together and shortly before she had married, her husband to be had introduced her to his friend. He was then simply a gentleman of no particular means, but her fiancé had told her that he was due to inherit a fine house in Croydon, with a significant income, from his father in due course. Angelica Downing had quickly recognised that she was marrying the wrong man, not only because Archibald Williams was a far more striking looking man, but also because he could offer a wife far greater creature comfort than a humble Lieutenant (as he then had been) might be able to do. But it was too late; the die was cast – her father would never allow her to back out of the marriage at such a late stage, so there was no option but to marry the man selected for her, while her interests rested elsewhere.

Their honeymoon had been a present from Mr Williams, who had honoured them by accompanying them on a tour of some of the European capital cities, including Paris, Vienna and Berlin. It was during their stay in Berlin that the newly promoted Captain had insisted on visiting some military sites. This had been of no interest to Mrs Downing, or Mr Williams, so the two had gone off to see some sites of their own. This had included the inside of Mr Williams’ suite at the Hotel they shared – far grander accommodation than the room shared by the honeymoon couple – and they had been lovers ever since.

The last thing Angelica Downing wanted was some young servant girl turning her protector’s head and getting pregnant. Not that the latter would have mattered, she could easily be turned out. But Mr Williams could be strange at times and he very much wanted a son to carry on the family tradition. Since she could hardly present him with one – at least officially – unless something happened to the Captain on the front line, he might do something outrageous and marry the mother of his unborn child. There was no way Mrs Downing would put up with that, so she was always wary of new girls entering the house.

“My name is Lucinda, miss,” she told the older woman. “I am the new assistant cook.”

“Oh,” replied Mrs Downing, in a deliberately dismissive voice, “a kitchen maid.” Lucinda wanted to explain that she was not simply a kitchen maid, but felt that getting into an argument with a friend of the master’s – in a place where she should not really have been at that time of day – was probably unwise.

“Sorry to have disturbed you, miss,” she said instead. “I will go to the kitchen now, unless there is anything I can get you?” Receiving a curt dismissal, she beat a hasty retreat, watched by a pensive Mrs Downing.

Shortly after Lucinda had prepared the oven, Mrs Cooper came in.

“Why whatever is wrong with you, child,” she said taking in Lucinda’s agitated face. The girl quickly explained that she had bumped into the master’s ‘friend’ in the corridor and that she had been most unfriendly.

“I do hope that she will not get Mr Williams to dismiss me for being in the wrong place,” she concluded.

“Don’t you worry about that, Lucinda,” said the cook with a kindly expression. “He pays less heed to that sort of thing than Mrs Downing does; but then he comes from money, she doesn’t, so he is less concerned about what servants do. Anyway,” she added somewhat cryptically, “a pretty girl like you can get away with anything. But just be careful of Mrs Downing. She can be petty and nasty when she wants to. And DON’T go telling anyone I said that; especially Mrs Garraway. She would go running to the master to bad-mouth me in a second.”

“I have seen the way the housekeeper looks at you, sometimes,” replied Lucinda without thinking. “Do the two of you not get on well together?”

“There can only be one mistress in a house; and one head servant,” was all that Mrs Cooper would say.

Lucinda pondered on this, but soon found that her mind, when not occupied with her work, which was both interesting and highly demanding, was filled more with thoughts of Pete and his declaration of … well he hadn’t actually said that he loved her, but wanting her as a sweetheart while he was in the forces was almost as good. These thoughts naturally started her worrying about what might happen to him while he was away and almost made her make a mistake with the lunch preparations. Fortunately, Mrs Cooper saw what she was doing and corrected her in time to avoid a potentially costly error.

“I see you had an enjoyable afternoon and evening with your young man,” she said. “Just you make sure that you do not allow him any liberties. There is no place in a decent house for young women who get into trouble. That is what might have happened to the last girl …

Chapter 8 – Croydon: September 1915

During the next few weeks, Pete and Lucinda met every Tuesday. When they were not meeting, they were writing to each other, outlining the details of the trivial things that happen in the lives of people largely unaffected by the war raging a hundred miles or more away on mainland Europe. Peter had said nothing more about his plans to enlist, although Lucinda was certain that he would carry this through fairly soon. Something appeared to be holding him back from going to the recruiting office, but at the same time, there was no repeat of his direct allusion to a closer relationship between then. Instead, he seemed to take it rather for granted and instead to focus on the immediacy of their burgeoning relationship. He took no liberties other than kissing her hello and goodbye each time they met, and his letters were everything she could possibly want. Affectionate and funny, but never pressing her to make a definite commitment.

“It isn’t that I don’t want more,” Pete had said to her during a walk round one of the public parks that Croydon had to offer. “It’s just that you are still very young and I do not want to push you into something that you might regret later.” She had started to say that she could never regret being with him, but he had stopped her talking in the most effective way he could think of. After a longer kiss than usual, he had simply smiled and said: “Let’s talk about it in a few months’ time.”

On one occasion, Pete had had sufficient time before his train was due, to walk Lucinda home to see where she worked.

“This is a really nice house,” said Pete. “Not too large, but big enough for a reasonable establishment. How many of you work here, did you say?”

“Six, including me,” replied Lucinda, “but the gardener does not live in, so there are only five of us in the house at night.”

“I would love to see where you write your letters to me,” he said.

“But that is my bedroom,” said Lucinda, genuinely shocked that he could possibly want to go there. “That would be impossible.”

He flushed bright red, the first time she had really seen him nonplussed. For some reason, he had not considered that she might have had the privacy of a room of her own to write in; he naturally assumed she must do so in the servants’ hall. He managed to stumble out an apology, but Lucinda quickly realised his error. At the Star, nobody had their own room until they were very senior employees. And a private writing desk was something that he could never have imagined.

“I was only joking, Pete,” she lied. “Of course I would like to take you there, but Mrs Cooper would go mad and Mrs Garraway, the housekeeper, would have me sacked on the spot for having a man in my room.”

Mollified by Lucinda’s gentle words, and realising he had inadvertently made an improper suggestion in the first place, Pete managed a half-hearted laugh and said what he really wanted to do was to meet Mrs Cooper and see the kitchen she worked in.

Lucinda led him round to the kitchen door and knocked meekly on it, before entering. Mrs Cooper was sitting at the large kitchen table, which had recently been used for the servants’ evening meal but was now cleared of anything other than a massive tea pot and a few ‘second best’ cups and saucers.

“Mrs Cooper,” she said meekly, “is it all right for me to bring my friend, Pete, in to meet you?”

“Of course it is Lucinda,” she replied without a moment’s hesitation. Seeing the good looking, tall young man entering the room with her pupil, she added: “well, my dear, he is every bit as handsome as you had led me to believe. I hadn’t thought that could be possible,” she added, causing Lucinda to blush deeply, in her turn. “Come in and sit down both of you.

“Thank you Mrs Cooper, that is most kind of you,” said Pete in his most polite voice.

“Oh, and doesn’t he speak nicely,” said the cook. “I can see that I will have to mind my ‘p’s and q’s’ with you, young man,” she added in a friendly way that instantly put him at ease, contrary to any implicit criticism that the actual words might have implied.

“They all have to speak like that in the restaurant at the Star, Mrs Cooper,” said Lucinda, quickly. “They don’t mind how we sound in the kitchen.”

“Well now, you seem to have picked up a pretty way of speech yourself, child, replied Mrs Cooper. “I daresay you will make an excellent cook one day, easily able to talk with the lady of the house. And with a man like Pete at your side, you could easily run a household together.” Mrs Cooper had never married, her honorific a habit in addressing cooks and housekeepers whatever their marital status; and seeing how Mr and Mrs Garraway carried on when they thought nobody was listening, she was usually satisfied with her lot. Nevertheless, she sometimes wondered whether life might have been better with a man at her side. But in the old days, Sir Henry had forbidden followers and it was a bit late to start now. Besides, she had trained up a number of assistant cooks over the years and saw them as being surrogate daughters to her. She certainly kept in touch with many of them – but not those who had left under a cloud, as a surprising number had, especially since Mr Williams had returned from university some twenty years’ earlier. Perhaps that was why Lady Ann had moved out of the house so quickly after her husband had died, not so long ago?

“If you are not too pressed for time before your train, Pete” said the cook, “would you like to join Lucinda and me for a cup of tea?” She continued without waiting for the obvious response – how could a lover not want to spend more time with his girl? “Lucinda, go and take your coat off and then come back and get the best crockery out. We will have a party of our own.” The noise from the drawing room indicated that the small dinner party Mr Williams and Mrs Downing were giving for a few friends had moved on to the stage where everyone was drinking coffee and talking so loudly that even if they had played a harmonium in the kitchen, they would probably not have been heard. One of the disadvantages of the modern design of house was that the servants were no longer able to hide below stairs. Instead, their existence was concealed behind heavy baize doors which were frequently inadequate for the purpose of separating the two social classes. The servants had always to be circumspect. But the upside was that they frequently knew precisely what was going on ‘upstairs’. Including in the master’s bedroom – or those of his guests. The details were of little interest, but knowing what alliances – or did she mean dalliances? – existed made it easier to avoid making any faux pas, felt the cook.

While Lucinda was away, shedding her coat and freshening herself up, Mrs Cooper gently probed the young man, seeking to ensure that he was the sort of person to whom she would wish to entrust a young girl in her care.

“Why are you not in the army?” She asked him directly.

“I had a brother who enlisted in August last year,” he replied. “As soon as war had been declared. “He was sent to Flanders soon after completing his basic training. He was killed after less than ten days at the front. My mother made me promise that I wouldn’t follow him and I have so far kept my word. But I have been told that there may soon be conscription and I have no desire to follow him into the trenches, so I am thinking of joining the Royal Navy. I understand that they need able bodied men to serve in a range of capacities, including gunnery. I rather want to do that, so that I can get my revenge on the Huns for killing George.” As he had spoken, bitterness had entered his voice for the first time that Mrs Cooper had heard and she realised that this was a man capable of passion, even anger. But she felt the emotion would always be directed by a sense of honour and right, so she let it pass.

“Please don’t tell Lucinda any of this, Mrs Cooper,” said Pete, just before the girl in question entered the room. “I want to tell her in my own time.”

“Of course, dear,” replied Mrs Cooper.

“Of course, what? Mrs Cooper,” asked Lucinda as she re-entered the kitchen. But to prevent her having to invent a reply, Pete bounded to his feet and stood in front of her.

“You look as fresh as a daisy, Lucinda,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “I don’t know how you do it, but you look even more beautiful every time I see you – even after just a few minutes away.”

“If a young man said that to me,” said Mrs Cooper, smiling at her protégé, “I’m sure it would turn my head. You had better watch out for this one, Lucinda.”

“I am sure Lucinda knows me sufficiently well not to be led astray by fine words,” said Pete. “Besides, every word I said is true.”

What remained of the evening was spent more than pleasantly, with Lucinda and Pete getting to know far more about each other in the presence of the older woman, than they might otherwise have expected to do during their enforced long-distance relationship. In this they were particularly fortunate, because it was the lot of many young working people to get married without really knowing much about their future life-partners. It was not that young people fell easily into love and then married quickly, rather that the conditions in which they lived seldom presented opportunities for meaningful discussions that could reveal so much about feelings and private thoughts. For many, any precious stolen moments were devoted to more physical intimacy, but Mrs Cooper acted as a catalyst on the young couple that enabled them to learn what was important to each other. Mrs Cooper was confident that they would get on well together and that they could look forward to the prospect of a long and happy marriage. But only if Pete survived the war.

Having Mrs Cooper there made him decide that this was the safest time to tell Lucinda his plan to go to sea, including the warning about looming conscription for those who did not jump first. The more mature woman’s presence would be a calming influence on the girl, he felt, should she become unnerved by the news. Lucinda took it well, however, sharing his view that the Royal Navy might be safer than the army – even though there was little more than optimism to justify it. She fervently hoped that he was right and that he would be able to return soon to her, and to a new life together. This war, which had originally been expected to last only until Christmas 1914 could not carry on for ever. But then the second Boer War, which had cost her father his life, had run on for almost three years, just over a decade ago. There were many more nations involved this time, so who knew what might happen?

All too soon, it was time for Pete to go and catch the final train to London. The three parted as real friends, Mrs Cooper confident that her young charge was in safe hands.

*

Lucinda went to bed early on the Monday evening following Pete’s visit to the house. She was due to see him the next day, as usual, after lunch and knew that she would have a lot to do in the morning, before she could get away. Mrs Downing had spent a few days away with her mother in Sydenham. Mrs Cooper had explained the reason for her absence as being that her husband, the Captain, had been killed in Flanders and that she had needed to get away, to arrange her mourning clothes; not something a young woman of her social status and age would have been accustomed to possessing. Tomorrow there was to be an unusually grand luncheon for her and several guests, in commemoration of Mr Williams’s late friend. The change in her circumstances made for an interesting situation. She was already mixing with Mr Williams and his friends more openly than before the Captain had been posted overseas; but she had to keep up appearances, so it was unclear whether she would be able to stay at the house for some time. Or at least, not on too many occasions.

“Why does Mrs Downing’s mother not come here to stay? At least that would satisfy propriety?” Lucinda had asked; she was starting to understand the nuances of middle class life. “Where is Sydenham anyway, is it very far off?”

“I believe it is only about five miles from here, towards London,” replied the cook who, truth to tell, was not entirely sure in which direction London lay. “But it takes about an hour to get there by train and the master will never send a carriage for her. They really do not get on at all,” she said, finally answering the initial question. “Of course, the other reason she is not invited to stay here is because it would make it more difficult for the master and that woman to spend ‘time’ together,” she added, hoping that Lucinda would not ask too many pointed questions about what sort of time. It really was time this girl found out a little more about the facts of life. But on the other hand, the young man would probably supply all she needed to know when the time was right.

“Anyway, everything has changed now, with the death of Captain Downing. You mark my words,” Mrs Cooper had said to Lucinda. “Mrs Downing will not be wearing black for long. Her dress will turn white, within six months.” That could only mean that she intended to marry Mr Williams.

“Now, off to bed,” she told Lucinda. “We both need to be up bright and early tomorrow for a busy morning. Goodnight, child.”

“Goodnight, Mrs Cooper.”

*

It must have been about half past eleven when the handle to Lucinda’s bedroom door rattled gently, bringing her to drowsy consciousness. She always remembered Mrs Cooper’s injunction to sleep with one eye open, although she was still not quite sure why. Now, however, she was instantly alert, thanking her stars that she was a light sleeper. At the Star, this could be a problem, because if one of her roommates snored, it would keep her awake for hours, making it more difficult to rise the next morning. Here, at least, such problems did not exist; if she could hear anyone snoring at night, they were at least separated by a door and walls, so the sound was easy to block out.

The door opened sufficiently for her to see the outline of a person entering the room, clearly keen not to be seen. In her semi-dream state, Lucinda wondered if it might somehow be Pete, come to give her a kiss. Or more. Not that she knew too much about the mechanics of what men and women did together, but she trusted him not to hurt her. She was not sufficiently alert at that hour to rationalise that he had never been in her bedroom, probably did not even know where it was, and that he was in London at the time. Hoping, rather than believing, that it was him, Lucinda said nothing; made no noise at all to show that she was awake, while the tall figure moved silently towards her side.

A hand laid itself roughly over her mouth, to prevent her screaming out; it smelt strongly of tobacco. Her heart sank; Pete never smoked, he hated cigarettes – it was one of the things that she loved about him. In an age when most men were seldom seen without a cigarette in their lips, he was one of the few exceptions. It meant that he had a naturally clean smell, something she appreciated. This smell, however had the richness of cigars, rather than the sharpness of cheap cigarettes. The type of cigars that Mr Williams smoked.

“Make a sound, and you will be sacked without a reference in the morning,” came his harsh voice. Terrified, Lucinda shook her head slightly, to indicate her acceptance of the injunction. Her mind flooded with a range of thoughts, but fear was her paramount emotion. Was this why she was supposed to be wary? Was she about to be beaten, or worse? What had she done to deserve such treatment? Yet no blow landed on her; no chastisement.

“Good girl,” he said, sitting down on the side of the bed and taking his hand slowly from her mouth and moving it down her throat towards her breast. “Your heart is beating fast; I can feel it under your nightdress. Don’t be afraid, this is all perfectly natural. It is what men and women do,” he added, as he raised his night gown and slid under the covers of her bed. Lucinda froze completely, she neither resisted what was happening, nor gave any encouragement for it. To be honest, she was not completely sure what was happening to her – only that it hurt, was unpleasant and messy. It was also over remarkably quickly for which, at least, she was grateful.

Without another word, Mr Williams rose from her bed, adjusted his nightshirt, turned to look at her with a finger to his lips to indicate that she must say nothing at all, and crept out of the room, as silently as he had entered it.

Holding herself tightly and crying as silently as she could, Lucinda tried to tell herself that it had all been a bad dream; that nothing had really happened. But the ache inside her belied her own denial. Her mind raced. How could she marry Peter now that she had lost her virtue, she fretted, for she realised this was what had happened? It must have been her fault; that she had somehow brought this upon herself – encouraged the master to want to do that to her. Perhaps she should have seen the signs in his attention to her on the journey down from London, all those weeks ago. But since then, he had hardly spoken with her – although she did sometimes have the impression that she was being watched, when she washed, or undressed for bed. But how was that possible?

Had she somehow given him the impression that she was available to him? After all, he had no idea that she had a follower, how could he? What she didn’t know – wouldn’t have been able to understand even if she did know – was that he would not have cared about Pete. For him, servant girls are only there for two things, and only one of those was the work they were paid for. His mother had never had the courage to tell him not to interfere with the servant girls, and his father had neither known nor cared about his behaviour. Sir Henry had never really recovered from knowing how his wife had behaved with a man he had thought a friend, Councillor Brown. Insisting that her son was to be called Archibald, ‘in honour of a friend who recently died’ as Lady Williams had put it to her husband some forty years earlier, was as near as she had actually come to an admission of her guilt. Not that he had really needed it. The two had been as thick as thieves all the time, plotting and scheming – and doing who knew what, as well. Well, he had had his revenge by sending the boy to school as early as decently possible and keeping him away for the house for as long as he decently might. Only in his later years, did Sir Henry relent slightly. He did not like the boy, but he had no one else to leave his property to – Lady Anne would not get his money, but would have to live in a dower house nearby – so the boy had been allowed back into the house. But kept as distant from Sir Henry as possible.

Lucinda could never tell anyone about what had just happened, she decided. Better to pretend that it had never occurred. Who would believe her, in any case? Mrs Cooper might, but what had she warned only last week about not getting into trouble? Then the thought struck Lucinda. What if he had made her pregnant? She was sure this was how it happened, although she had always assumed that it was far more pleasant an experience, or why would women go through it so often, and have all those children? If she was now expecting a baby, she would be thrown out – and Pete would never want anything to do with her; a fallen woman.

After a tiring hour of self-recrimination, Lucinda finally dropped off to sleep, dreaming of being heavily pregnant and chased by a hoard of angry women, calling her all sorts of nasty names that she had only heard in the gutters of London. However much she ran, she never seemed to be able to escape them. The bump in front of her weighed so heavily that she felt it was dragging her down into the sewers into which she felt her life to be consigned. She found herself wading through ordure, carrying a tiny baby, crying out for Pete – anyone – to help her. She saw herself in a small garret, having to sell herself to men she didn’t know with her infant son sitting in the corner of the room, looking on and smiling to himself, with the face of that awful man, his unnatural father – Mr Williams.

In the morning, Lucinda awoke from a fitful night with awful cramps in her stomach. It was like nothing that she had ever experienced before and she was convinced that it must have something to do with what had happened to her the night before. Mrs Cooper, whose room was not far away heard her sobbing and came to the bedroom door. It was already light, even though it was six in the morning, and she had awoken to make herself a cup of tea. She sometimes went down to the kitchen to do so before even Lucinda was ready to start work.

“Are you all right, my child?” she asked kindly; it was the first time she had heard Lucinda crying and wondered what could be wrong. Of course, there were always lovers’ tiffs, but Pete was not coming down until later that day, so it was unlikely this could be the problem. And Lucinda had seemed pleased enough at the prospect of seeing him when the cook had spoken with her the previous evening, before going to bed. What a nice young man he was, she thought to herself, again. Nice manners, good looking; everything a girl could want, in fact. Perhaps there was something else wrong.

Poking her head round the door, she saw Lucinda curled up in a ball, clutching her stomach. To her, there could only be one cause for that: “Bad time of the month?” she asked in a not unfriendly way.

Lucinda was not sure at first what the older woman meant, but she could not possibly admit to what had happened to her – at least, not now. She felt so vulnerable, so dirty. She thought it best to nod, but did not feel up to saying anything, especially as it would have to be a lie.

“Oh, well,” continued Mrs Cooper, “I don’t suppose you have much experience of this sort of thing yet. Is it your first one?”

Lucinda simply didn’t know how to answer her. Could Mrs Cooper have known what had happened in the night? Had she heard something, some noise that she or Mr Williams had made? Or did she know that this was what the master did to young girls in his house – and, if so, why had she not warned Lucinda. Perhaps she had tried to when talking about sleeping with one eye open and the inexperienced girl had not recognised the meaning. Whatever the case, her secret was out, she was not only ruined physically, but her reputation would be lost. Forever. Would Mrs Cooper tell Peter about her disgrace? How would he react?

“Don’t worry, child, all women have to put up with this monthly inconvenience,” she continued, unaware that her meaning was only slowly penetrating the girl’s mind – this was just a heavy period. “At least, they do until they reach my age. If it is really bad this time, you might find that it gets easier and if not, there are some herbs that you can use to reduce the pain. My grannie used to swear by Cramp Bark, if she could get it, although it was expensive because she had to get it from France. My mother also used Black Haw, which started to come in from America last century, but I never had much trouble anyway. I understand the late queen preferred cannabis, but that is said to have side effects.” Mrs Cooper hoped that talking would somehow help take the girl’s mind off her discomfort; but she could perhaps have chosen a different subject to chatter about. Nevertheless, it started to dawn on Lucinda that her pain might not be the result of some internal injury caused by the violent penetration she had suffered, but part of a natural process that she had experienced before, if never in such excruciating agony. As she came to this recognition, her sobbing subsided and Mrs Cooper decided that her vocal ministrations were working. She risked a little joke.

“Well, at least I know you and your Pete have not been misbehaving,” she said. “You don’t get periods when you are expecting.”

This intelligence hit Lucinda like a brick. She was not pregnant after all. The relief was so palpable that she burst out into a renewed bout of tears, but this time with less desperation and Mrs Cooper noticed the change.

“There, there, my dear,” she said. “I was only joking. I know you are a good girl, and Pete is far too much the gentleman to take advantage of you. Now stop your crying and I will get you a nice hot cup of tea. It will help you to relax. You can take breakfast off, this morning, and just come down to help me with lunch, today. You will feel better once you are up and about.” With that she left to perform the early morning functions normally undertaken by Lucinda.

Lucinda drank her tea and then went to the bathroom and was able to soak in the bath for a quarter of an hour before any of the other servants were about and needed to use the room. She was confused by the events of the previous night. Was this something that was to be expected in her situation? Had she been lucky to escape attentions of that sort before, at the Star? She could not believe that anyone of her own class might have treated her in such a way and risked instant dismissal. But a gentleman might feel that he had the right to do whatever he wanted, with impunity. She was not naïve enough to think that Mr Williams might be in love with her – at least she hoped not, because that was an experience she never wanted to go through again. Not with him and not, as far as she felt at the moment, with anyone, not even Pete. No, the master had used her – presumably because his ‘friend’ was away – and would surely not want to do so again, once she was back. It was, she fervently hoped, a one-off event and she should forget all about it. But never, she told herself, look at Mr Williams directly, never smile at him, never catch his eye. Otherwise, he might think you want to do it again. Not that she had actually done anything, simply lain there terrified. In fact it might be better if he thought she did not even remember it. Better to sweep it under the carpet and pretend that it had never happened.

Feeling far better, at least having resolved how she should behave, Lucinda went downstairs at half past nine, ready to help clear the breakfast things and assist with the preparations for the luncheon. It would take her and Mrs Cooper more than three hours to get everything prepared. Unusually for a lunchtime, there were to be several hot dishes, as well as cold ones. This was to be a three course meal for twelve guests, starting with fish in a white wine sauce, then roast beef and roast turkey with all the trimmings – as well as a light salad for any of the ladies who could not face such a hearty meal – and a selection of ices and fruits for dessert. There would, of course, be a selection of continental and British cheeses to finish, but no nuts; those were reserved for after dinner, for some reason Lucinda did not understand. The manservant, Mr Garraway, of whom Lucinda saw very little other than at mealtimes, was to serve the wines, including Champagne with the first course and a choice of claret or white Burgundy for the main course. There would be a sweet Muscatel to go with the desserts and cheeses. He was a man of late middle age, older than the master, and was married to Mrs Garraway, the housekeeper. Theirs was an uneasy relationship, because she nominally had higher status than him; he liked to think of himself as a butler but, to be honest, he lacked both the skills and the presence for such a position, even if the house had been sufficiently grand to warrant one.

Lucinda actually smiled when she saw and greeted him that lunchtime, remembering that Pete had said what a convenient thing it was that he and Mrs Garraway shared a surname. It was the sort of silly joke he made, which made her love him more deeply – it was not that his jokes were particularly funny, rather that he was always bright and cheerful, at least with her. She suddenly realised that this was the first time she had admitted to herself the true depth of her feelings for Pete. Then came the pain at knowing that they could not share their first experience together, as she had hoped, because she had already had hers. In that moment, she hated Mr Williams in a way that she had never hated anyone else before. She knew it was a sin to wish anyone dead, but she did him at that moment. Not that it could restore her maidenhead, she knew, but at least its thief would no longer be in the world.

In larger houses, the kitchen staff would never have entered the dining room. But with so many guests this lunchtime, Mr Garraway and the general maid, Nancy, could not be expected to serve the entire table alone, so Lucinda had been drafted in to help. She had spent the entire time avoiding the eyes of both Mr Williams, who she never wanted to see close up again, and Mrs Downing, of whom she was rather afraid. Nevertheless, she had the intense feeling of being watched the entire time she was in the dining room. This in itself was strange, because it was customary for servants to be completely ignored under such circumstances. Lucinda did not look up to know who it was who was observing her. She had enough to do making sure she did not spill the dishes she was serving, in any case. Fortunately, it was butler service, so each diner was responsible for managing the serving cutlery, while she held the dish in a convenient position for them.

The meal lasted for an hour and a half and as soon as it was finished, and the guests had left – including Mrs Downing’s mother, who had to get home to prepare an evening meal for her second husband (whose relatively low station in life was one of the reasons Mr Williams disliked her so much) – Mrs Cooper sent Lucinda to her room so that she could change, ready to go out to meet Pete at the railway station.

She was eager to see him, but nervous about what had happened the previous evening. If it had happened, that is, and was not all really part of a bad dream. During the course of the morning, it had begun to seem so unreal that she started to doubt her own memory. Perhaps the pain inside her had simply been her period starting. She had not had many, although they were now regular, and they seemed to be getting worse each time. She decided not to say anything to him. He would be cross with her if it had all been in her imagination – such a dreadful thing to have thought up – but even angrier with Mr Williams should it have been real. But if it had been, how could she prove it? It would be her word against his and who would believe a servant girl against a gentleman. And even if they did believe her, would they care? Perhaps she and all her class were seen as fair game, by Mr Williams’ peers. If Pete was about to enlist, telling him that she was no longer a virgin would hurt him, at the very least. At the worst, it might lead him to take some sort of retribution on the perpetrator. Then he would be imprisoned and hanged. She could not bear that. Better to keep everything a secret and hope that it never happened again.

As she sat on her bed, thinking all these bitter thoughts, she failed to hear the door behind her open and a silent figure entering the room. She never heard the soft footsteps. Hardly felt the heavy object hitting the back of her head, only partly cushioned by her new hat. Never felt anything again. Ever.

Chapter 9 – Croydon: March 2000

“Oh, Peter,” cried Lucy as she came out of the trance he had induced in her. “It’s happened again. She has been raped and killed.” She had been shaken by the events of the previous night, but not to the same extent as Lucinda, because she had rather been expecting something of the sort. But the killing, coming as it did out of the blue, had deeply shocked her, especially after having previously experienced Lucia’s death.

Knowing how Lucy would be reacting to another rape, let alone the killing, Peter was careful not to invade her personal space. Although they were almost lovers themselves, he recognised that the reaction of any woman to living through the rape of another might be to want to avoid intimate contact for a while. It was only natural that she might resent all men, not just the perpetrator, at least initially. If she loved him as much as he did her, the effect would soon wear off. He hoped. For now, the best thing was to be supportive, but not too tactile.

Lucy, however, had other ideas. At least to an extent. She looked at the hurt expression on Peter’s face, knowing that it was genuine empathy with what she had had to endure with the other young woman, and her heart filled with gratitude. For his sensitivity, for his understanding and for the fact that he was there. She reached out her hand and gently took hold of his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then she pulled it up to her face and kissed the palm of his hand. It was all Peter could do to resist climbing back onto the sofa with her. But he did resist it. Instead, he moved across to sit next to her and put a protective arm around her.

“I wonder who it was who killed her,” mused Peter after a while. “Did you get any sense of that, Lucy?”

“Well, there is an obvious choice,” she replied. “It was either Mr Williams, to shut her up, or Mrs Downing, to dispose of a rival.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But which one? Williams might have wanted to dispose of a troublesome servant, but Lucinda had hardly had time to become that. And it seems more likely to me that he would have been back for more later on. Mrs Downing had more to lose if the ‘relationship’ had blossomed; or feared that she had. Williams would not have considered marrying a servant even if she became pregnant, but Mrs Downing, coming from humbler stock herself, might not have realised the truth of the situation and seen the pretty assistant cook as a potential rival. With her husband gone, she could not countenance that. Did you notice anything in the air, just before Lucinda was hit over the head?”

“You mean a scent of some sort?” replied Lucy. “Not really. There was a faint smell of Mr Williams’ cigars, but since they had probably all been smoking them downstairs, even Mrs Downing might have had that on her clothes. There was also a vague hint of perfume, but I don’t know if it was Mrs Downing’s and even if it was, it could have come off on her lover during – or after – the meal. Of course,” she added, as if it was a serious afterthought, “it could have been Mrs Cooper, getting rid of Lucinda, so that she could have Pete all to herself. He was remarkably handsome, you know!” At which point Peter took the hint that Lucy was no longer traumatised and that he was free to do whatever they both wanted him to. So he did. Slowly at first, but with increasing intensity as Lucy responded positively to his advances.

This first coupling was far more significant – and enjoyable – than either of them could have anticipated. For Lucy, there came the overwhelming impression that she had somehow known him all her life – the feeling that this was what she had been longing for since even before they had met. For Peter, it was experiencing the greatest sense of fulfilment that he had ever known, the completion of a half-lived life, so far.

It was as if they belonged together; had always done so.

*

“I do hope I am not going to have trouble with you and good looking young men,” said Peter a little later, harking back to Lucy’s joke about Mrs Cooper and Pete. “I don’t want to lose you to Roger Odugu.”

“That rather dishy Detective Sergeant friend of yours?” mused Lucy, as if in a dreamy state. “Yes, I can see what you mean.” Then as an afterthought, she added: “What made you think of him? The size of his …”

“Ego?” responded Peter quickly, to avoid his lover making a stereotypical joke. “No. Because I think we might need his help again, if we are to find out what happened. At least he can let us know if there are any police reports still on record of the killing. If we need further information, we can always go back to the Croydon Advertiser archives.”

“Oh, joy” replied Lucy, sarcastically. “I love microfilm.”

*

“How did I know you would be after something again, so soon?” asked Roger, when Peter called him later that day.

“Hang on, mate,” replied Peter in a similarly jocular mood; in his case, the result of having spent a spectacularly enjoyable afternoon with Lucy, following their regression session. “I’m supposed to be the psychic, not you.”

“True,” said Roger, “but I don’t need your special abilities to be able to tell that you would be back for more information about something connected with that lovely young woman of yours. I hope you are not being too shy with her, otherwise I might have to come and give you lessons.”

“Mind your own business, you old rogue,” replied Peter without any acrimony. “But you are right, this is to do with Miss Bowen. We tried to go back to 1865 again, in order to get a better identification of the killer, or at least the rapist, from her memory. Unfortunately, we could not get back into that life at all, but were bounced into a second time frame, this one during the First World War.” He outlined what they had learned, hoping that Roger’s detective mind would enable him to spot any avenues for them to follow up.

“You are convinced that it was really this Williams chap, aren’t you?” said Roger. “You clearly have him pegged as the same ‘person’ if I might express it that way, as the Brown chap, who you think killed Lucinda. You are also implying that Lucinda and Lucia are the same ‘person’ too, although there is no indication of any family link there, I suppose?”

“I suppose that we are rather thinking that about the Brown/Williams link,” admitted Peter, answering Roger’s first point. “After all, Williams is actually Brown’s natural son, born posthumously. But I agree; the girls cannot actually be connected. Lucinda could not be a direct descendant because Lucia never had any children. The only possible link could be through the Lamberti family and I cannot see any of them ending up in service, given that they were quite prosperous.”

“I think that is a fair bet, although it is not relevant to your investigation. It might be interesting to look into later, if you need another reason to see the lovely Lucy,” replied Roger, archly. “Anyway, I can see some avenues for enquiry, so let me see what I can dig up and you can take me for lunch to brief you. You had better bring Lucy with you, just in case.”

“Just in case you can find an opportunity to get her on your own, I assume,” said Peter, smiling into the mouthpiece at the thought that he was way ahead of his friend, as far as Lucy was concerned. He said goodbye and hung up.

“You seem to have made an impression on him,” he told Lucy, “better make sure there is no reason for him to raid your restaurant, or he will be there in force.”

“Are you two coming out for dinner, or should I send in food parcels, asked Mrs Walters, through the still locked door. Lucy went bright red, more so than any person Peter had ever seen before. He hoped that she was not about to have a fit.

“Oh, god, Peter,” she whispered. “She must know what we’ve been doing all afternoon. How embarrassing.”

“What could possibly be embarrassing about a regression session?” asked Peter in an innocent voice.

“Possibly the fact that the door had been firmly locked for hours and that we are not wearing very much, now,” replied Lucy.

“She can’t see that,” he reasoned, but they quickly tidied the room and got dressed, while Peter shouted to his mother that they would be going out for dinner.

Mrs Walters made herself discreetly absent for some time, before coming back to the now open-doored consulting room and saying that her husband wanted to see Lucy again. “I think he means Myrtle, but it is not really clear, my dear,” she told Lucy. “He is far from lucid at times, but at others, his mind is quite as sharp as it once was. He asked for you by description, rather than by name and he knew exactly what you had been wearing last time he saw you,” she said, sounding proud of this modest achievement.

Lucy bounded up the stairs to see the old man. As she walked in, she had the sense that he was living in the present, rather than the past, today, so she knocked on the door and walked in.

“Hello, Mr Walters,” she said. “It’s me, Lucy. Peter’s friend. How are you today?”

“How nice of you to come and see me again, my dear,” he said, justifying her assumption. “I do hope that Peter has not been boring you with all his fanciful stories about people having lived previous lives and being able to remember them. I think that one life is quite enough for anyone, and mine will soon be drawing to a close. I so much hoped to see grandchildren before I die, but I don’t suppose I will now …” his voice trailed off, as his mind drifted into a past which only he knew. “Will you read to me again, please Myrtle?” he asked. So Lucy sat with him for half an hour reading from a gardening magazine she had seen previously. By the time she had finished, he had drifted off to sleep. Mrs Walters had crept into the room to watch them several minutes earlier and motioned to Lucy to follow her out.

“You and Peter seem to be getting on very well,” she said in a tone that implied absolutely no censure for what she suspected had gone on for much of the afternoon. “I do not want to interfere in any way at all, my dear, but I really do think you are good for him. He has not taken to anyone seriously for a long time and I was starting to worry that he never would.”

Lucy started to feel uncomfortable and it must have shown on her face because Mrs Walters continued quickly.

“Please don’t get embarrassed, Lucy,” she said. “I really only wanted to make it clear that you are welcome here at any time and for as long as you like. My husband likes you in any case – and so do I. Now, shall I make up the room you have been using for you and Peter to share, while you stay?” Lucy was fond of both Peter’s parents, but was surprised – and delighted – to find that her regard was reciprocated, with interest, apparently. All embarrassment forgotten, she simply hugged the older woman and thanked her.

“Mind you, Peter will require gentle handling over the sleeping arrangements,” added Mrs Walters. “He won’t like the thought that you and I have discussed the matter. Men can be so sensitive about such topics; and we don’t want anything inhibiting him, do we?” she added with a conspiratorial expression that could almost have been a wink.

“I will let him think it was my idea and that we needn’t say anything to you until it is a fait accompli,” Lucy promised, giving his mother a gentle squeeze on the arm.

“What are you two up to,” asked Peter coming upon the two most important women in his life, suddenly.

“Nothing, at all, Peter,” said his mother. “I was simply thanking Lucy for spending so much time with your father and suggesting that it would be a nice idea – if she wants to – to keep her room here to use whenever you two are going out, so that she can see him again and not have to go home afterwards. She has graciously accepted. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” replied Peter abstractedly, while asking himself what those two women – easily the most important in his life – were plotting; and what it would cost him.

“Now, take Lucy out,” she ordered, forgetting that she had previously offered them dinner. “She must have had enough of this place for today. And don’t forget she has a cat to be fed, so make sure you call in to her flat to see that it is all right, before coming back here,” she added, thereby establishing that Lucy was expected to spend the night at the house. How Lucy got Peter to share her bedroom was Lucy’s problem; but Mrs Walters would ensure that it looked right for a couple.

Not giving Peter time to think about what his mother had said about bringing her back to Purley for the night, Lucy followed up on the feline aspects of the comment.

“Would you mind if we went to Selhurst first,” she said as he started the car. “I really must see how Flora is getting on. She is a bit feral, but always comes home when she wants feeding. The trouble is that you never know what else might get in through the cat flap. Have we time before dinner?”

“Yes,” he replied, focussing on his driving rather than worrying over his mother’s comments. He rarely listened to her in much detail, anyway. “I haven’t booked anything, I thought we might just find a wine bar in town and grab whatever they have to offer. So I’ll drive you home first.”

“Thanks, there are some things I need to get, if I am to stay at the house for a little while,” she explained. She looked across to the driver’s side of the car and could see a smile spreading across his face, as he thought of the prospect of having her so near.

“Yes,” he said, “no need to get out of a warm bed to go home!”

“Now you are being vulgar, Timothy,” she joked, deliberately misquoting a popular television programme from the 1980s, to fit the occasion. “Take me home at once.”

The drive took 20 minutes, despite being less than five miles, but it would have been longer by train, thought Lucy. When they got there, Peter parked, wondering if he would see any wheels on his car when he got back, and they went up to the second floor flat which Lucy shared with Flora. It was an ex-local authority flat which she had bought a few years earlier. The mortgage was crippling, but it was worth it to have her own place, she felt.

Passing thought the front door, Lucy found a note on the doormat from a neighbour, telling her that she was feeding Flora and not to worry if she did not get back for a little while. Her friend Karen had warned her that she might be away for a little while – cheeky mare, thought Lucy without any acrimony at all, I’ll make her pay for that. Having quickly read the note, Lucy led Peter into the living room, thanking her stars that she had thought to tidy up before leaving, sat him down while she went to the bedroom to pack some essentials. After half an hour, Peter got bored of watching the news on television and went into the bedroom to find her.

“Come on slowcoach,” he chided, “I’m getting hungry.” She looked up at him and smiled.

“I’m ready now darling,” she replied.

“So am I, but we had better eat first,” he leered. In any other man, it would have been rather repulsive. But for Lucy, Peter was not ‘any other man’. He was someone she really cared about – and wanted in the same way as he clearly desired her. She hoped that this relationship would not descend into the same comfortable boredom as her time with Simon had, but she somehow doubted that boredom would ever enter the equation.

They found a suitable place to eat in Croydon town centre, after parking underground in Park Street. Neither of them had eaten there before, and they were pleased to find that the menu was rather more varied than they had expected. There was a range of sandwiches and filled Paninis, as well as the usual chicken in a basket, but they also offered a range of tapas snacks, which both opted for, to go with a glass of merlot. Only small glasses, as Peter was driving and Lucy wanted to keep a clear head.

“I know Roger is looking to see if there are any police records of Lucinda’s death,” she said once the food had arrived in its various individual dishes. “But we really need to plan how we move forward. Unless, of course, there was a court case and it is all cut and dried.”

“That is possible,” said Peter, “but given the social class to which Lucinda belonged, I suspect that little was done about the killing. She was living in a gentleman’s house as a servant. If he did not report the death, how would anyone know? And even if he did, would the police have been in a position to gather sufficient evidence to bring about a prosecution? I am not even sure whether they would have been allowed to interview the staff without Williams’ presence. Or at least his permission. If he killed her, or knew who did, he would be unlikely to allow that.”

“I still believe that either he or Mrs Downing killed Lucinda,” replied Lucy, after sipping her wine more deeply than usual to cover the strong chilli she had just bitten into. “But we will have to dig for any evidence to support that. I am not sure that we can do much without Roger’s input. Going to the Advertiser without some sort of information from him first seems wasteful,” she concluded, wanting to get onto more personal matters.

“Your mother has invited me to stay for as long as I want, Peter,” she said. “But I don’t want there to be any pressure on you. If you like, we can cool things down and just work on this case, while I keep your father amused in the evenings.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked uncertainly.

“No,” she smiled. “What I want is to spend as much time as I can with you – and your family. What I do not want is for you to get bored with me, or feel that you have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“The only thing I can imagine that I don’t want to do, right now,” he said, “is to miss seeing you for a single day.”

“Or night?” she added. “Let’s go home and see if I can sneak you into my bedroom.” The use of the word ‘home’ was not lost on him, but he said nothing as he paid the bill and imagined what they would be doing half an hour later.

The next morning, Mrs Walters knocked gently on Lucy’s door to bring in some tea. Peter hid his head under the bedclothes, but Lucy pulled the cover back, making sure he remained decently covered, as his mother came in with a tray with a large pot of tea and two teacups. She smiled at Lucy, ignoring her son, set down the tray and went out without a word. From that moment on it was unsaid, but acknowledged by everyone – except Mr Walters, who had no idea what day of the week it was – that Lucy and Peter were living together and would not use separate rooms. How long this would last would depend only on them.

“Have you got work today?” asked Peter, after they had finished their tea.

“Oh, good heavens,” exclaimed Lucy, checking her diary, which was hidden in the cavernous depths of her handbag. “I have to be in early today, we have a big lunch on.” Without stopping for breakfast, she washed, dressed and was out of the door in twenty minutes. Thank goodness she had short hair, or she would have been ages drying it, she thought as she ran for the 407 bus to take her two miles up the main road, to South Croydon, where her restaurant was. At that time of day, it would take only 11 minutes and she had insisted that Peter should not drive her, this time. She did not want to become dependent on him for getting around. She was an independent woman in an equal partnership, not someone who needed to be mollycoddled all the time; just when she wanted to be. And she could always buy a small car if she needed one.

Denied the pleasure of taking her to work, he decided instead to pick her up after work; sitting in the car where she would be able to see him as soon as she came out. Her smile on spotting him was reward enough for his half-hour wait.

“Come in and say hello, to Karen and the others,” she said. “We needn’t stay long, but Karen is dying to see you again.” He locked the car and went over to the entrance, where the staff were crowded round the window to catch a glimpse of him. It was not so much that he was a ‘personality’, but rather that they wanted to know who had managed to win the heart of their friend, after the ending of her last relationship with someone whom none of them had really liked. Not even Karen, her best friend, who had tried very hard to do so.

“Thank you for picking me up,” she said, as they finally managed to extract themselves from the gaggle of cooks, waiters and waitresses who worked with Lucy. “I have missed you all day. Mind you I had to tell them everything about you – well, almost everything – so you were never out of my mind. What have you been doing?”

“Largely catching up on some correspondence,” he said as he drove off. “I have just been given a new date for a reading in Brighton, so we can make a weekend of it. It will be in September, which is a nice time of year on the South Coast. Accommodation is included. I have asked for a big double bed,” which told Lucy that he expected the relationship to last at least that long.

“By the way, Guy Lamberti called to thank me for the article on his family, so I took the opportunity to ask him whether any of his family had ever been in service,” said Peter. “After he had stopped laughing, he said that he didn’t think anyone in his family had done an honest day’s work in their lives – which is a bit unfair, given that they ran a successful business for seven decades and he works all the hours God sends. But it confirmed that there could be no genetic connection between Lucia and Lucinda; at least not a legitimate one,” he added.

“I’ve also had a call from Roger,” he added, as Lucy realised that they were heading away from Purley, towards town. “He has asked to meet us in Croydon, so that he can bring us ‘up to speed’, as he put it. He is getting more and more into management-speak all the time. It must be something to do with his selection board for Inspector. I half expect him to ‘run an idea up the flagpole, to see if we salute it’, sometimes.

Parking at the Fairfield Halls, Peter led Lucy through the underpass that came up in front of St George’s House, and they walked the short distance to the Grey Horse.

“Roger wanted to see us here to keep things unofficial, so I have great hopes that there is something of interest, or even salacious,” he said, as he spotted Roger nursing a bottle of Grolsch at a corner table. The detective beckoned them over and asked what they would like to drink.

“I would offer to get them myself,” Peter told him, “but I am not sure I can trust Lucy with you, so you had better go.”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Roger, smiling at more than the implied compliment. “You can help me celebrate my promotion. I have just been told that I will be a Detective Inspector from next month.

“Congratulations, Roger,” they chorused.

“That is wonderful news,” added Peter, “where will you be based? Not here, I assume? I understand you normally have to move on promotion.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, as he walked off to go to the bar, “I will still be here to do all your work for you.” He returned from the counter with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. “By the way, nobody in the station knows about this yet, so we had better pretend that this is for you two. You look as if you have something to celebrate,” he added archly. Neither rose to the bait.

After a little inconsequential talk about his children and other matters, Roger came to the point.

“There is a police report on file, but it is not very detailed,” he told them. “I will give you the headlines, but you will have to look under the bonnet yourselves.” Peter could not tell if this was an intentional pun, referring to Lucinda’s probable headwear, or an example of the management-speak he had been telling Lucy about on the drive up. He had outlined some of the worst examples he had heard about – until her laughter and comments about ‘low hanging fruit’, which her mind turned into a suggestive reference to the scrotum, rather than simply the most easily obtained rewards in business, almost caused Peter to drive off the road.

Roger outlined what he knew for them.

There had been a report of the death. It had been made to the Croydon Police Station at 11.15 p.m. by telephone. The report had been made by a Mrs Garraway, after a maid had checked Lucinda’s room and found the body. The Police Surgeon had attended the scene with Inspector Pritchard, who was in command of the station at that time, and a sergeant. The cause of death was given as a blow to the back of the head and the Surgeon opined that death would have been instantaneous. When pressed, he suggested that death might have occurred between 2:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. on the same day. After a post mortem examination, these details were confirmed. Given the time of year, it was difficult to be more precise regarding the time of death, because it had been warm and that could have delayed the onset of rigor mortis. Roger explained to Peter and Lucy that this can begin at any time from two to six hours after death, depending on a number of factors, including the deceased’s gender, physical condition and age, in addition to the ambient temperature. The examination also indicated recent sexual activity of a violent nature.

Initial investigations had indicated that the deceased had been planning to meet a friend, which was backed up by her mode of dress and the limited make-up, which she would not have worn when working. It was her afternoon off and she was known to be walking out with a waiter from a London Hotel, who she customarily met at the railway station. The body had been discovered because the cook, Mrs Cooper, for whom the deceased worked, became concerned that she had not come in for her usual cup of tea on returning to the house in the evening. She had sent the maid, Nancy, up to see if Lucinda might have gone straight to bed. The maid returned downstairs to report what she had found, whereupon the cook called for the housekeeper, who telephoned the police.

“Why was the owner of the house not called in the first instance?” asked Peter, interrupting his friend for the first time. “Surely that would have been normal in such cases? I would have thought that, given the social set-up, to call the police without consulting him would be out of character.”

“Apparently, he – Mr Williams – had left the premises during the late afternoon,” replied Roger, without the need to consult any notes. “He was in the company of a Mrs Downing, and nobody knew where they had gone, or when they would be returning. The housekeeper took it upon herself to act, because the cook was too distressed.”

“Yes, she was very fond of Lucinda,” said Lucy, quietly.

“There was, of course, a police investigation,” continued Roger, “but Mr Williams did not press matters, so the enquiry quickly lost momentum as war concerns took precedence. Apparently, there was some unrest about shops with German sounding names at that stage in the war, and what police resources were available had to be allocated to protecting the various premises concerned.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “I know the Royal Family changed its name from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, to Windsor during the Great War, although I seem to recall that that was not until 1917,” he added.

“There were three main avenues for possible enquiry,” continued Roger. “Personally, I would have sacked any of my officers who had done such a sloppy job on an investigation as to ignore any one of them.”

He listed the lines which had been followed:

First, the boyfriend had come under suspicion, on account of the sexual activity and the fact that he had been in Croydon that day, although nobody admitted to having seen him at the house.

Secondly, the housemaid, Nancy, was suspected of having resented the arrival of a new young woman in the establishment, although Roger admitted this would have been a very weak line of enquiry.

Thirdly, the gardener/handyman had been seen inside the house during the afternoon, even though there was no known reason for him to be anywhere other than in the vegetable garden all afternoon.

“The problem was that, not having a precise time for the murder, made it very difficult to check movements and alibies,” concluded Roger. “I don’t know how much that helps, but I do know that there was some press speculation at the time. You might want to follow that up.”

“Thank you Roger, that is really helpful,” said Peter, although he was not sure if it really was. Nevertheless, it was a start. “We have two other possible suspects whom the original investigation appears to have completely missed.”

“Yes,” added Lucy. “We have reason to be suspicious of Mr Williams himself. The regression session we did suggests that he had raped Lucinda the previous evening. That would give him a motive to kill her if he was afraid she might tell someone about it. It also coincides with the evidence of sexual activity. I am certain that Lucinda was a virgin prior to the attack. Pete had never touched her. Of course, there is no way we could prove that now, but Williams’s sudden disappearance that afternoon is suggestive, to say the least.”

“That ties up with what the boyfriend, Pete Harrison, told Inspector Pritchard, when he was interviewed later on,” replied Roger. “He claimed that, that afternoon, he had missed Lucinda at the station and, after looking round the town in case he had mistaken where they were to meet, had gone to the house at about half past five, to find her. He says he did not enter the house, being deterred by a fear that Lucinda had simply changed her mind about meeting him and not wanting to cause a confrontation. But then he would say that to the police, for fear of incriminating himself had he admitted to being on the premises the day of the killing.”

“When did Williams and Mrs Downing get back?” asked Peter, changing tack slightly.

“Not until well into the following day,” replied Roger. “They said they had been visiting Mrs Downing’s mother.”

“That seems strange,” said Lucy, “given that she had been there for lunch earlier, and Mr Williams could not stand the woman.”

“Yes, well the police didn’t know that at the time,” said Roger, slightly defensively. It was the sort of detail that he would never have missed. “Anyway,” he said, changing the subject as adroitly as he could. “Who is your other suspect?”

“Mrs Downing,” replied Peter. “We think she was jealous of Lucinda’s youthful beauty and saw her as a threat.”

“Did she?” said Roger, really interested now. “Now that is worth following up, although a bash on the back of the head does not sound like a woman’s way of killing.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lucy, looking at the back of Peter’s head. “Given the right provocation …”

Chapter 10 – Sifting through the quagmire

It was some time before they could arrange a day when neither of them was working – the restaurant was experiencing a relatively quiet period, but Lucy still had to turn up for work most days, and Peter was busy working on a series of articles that had been commissioned for an American publication and the deadline was getting closer. Eventually, however, they were free to visit the Library again to look at the old Croydon Advertiser records.

“At least we don’t have to see that snooty young sub-editor, we met on our first visit to the paper,” said Lucy, as they walked into the front entrance.

“No,” replied Peter, “But there is a rather nice young woman here …” earning himself a dig in the ribs, for his pains. “So what do we want to look at first? Who can we eliminate? You were ‘there’, after all” he asked, changing the subject to avoid further punishment.

“There are a number of people we can probably discount quite quickly,” she said. But first, let’s give ourselves a flavour of the news as it was reported. Who knows what that might throw up of interest?”

Peter ordered the microfilm for the September and October issues of the paper from the young woman he had seen on his last visit and they sat down to find and read everything they could about the case. By now Peter, in particular, was relatively adept at finding the references and he and Lucy could easily navigate to the right pages. Nevertheless, looking at a vertical screen for long periods was becoming tiring, until they discovered that they could print the screens they we interested in and then read the articles at their leisure.

Lucy read out the first one:

Young Woman found dead in bedroom

Thursday 16th September 1915

The body of a young woman was found in a top floor bedroom of a house in Addiscombe Road, last Wednesday. Miss Smith, 17, was assistant cook in the house of Mr Archibald Williams, son of the late Sir Henry Williams.

Her head had been struck from behind with a single blow that killed her instantly. Mr Williams was not in the house at the time, having visited the mother-in-law of his old friend, the late Captain George Downing, in the company of his widow, Mrs Angelica Downing. The Captain was killed in a valiant action on the front several weeks ago and a memorial service is to be held next week at St James’ Church in Addiscombe, lately chapel of the East India Company.

The police currently have no evidence regarding the person responsible for the killing.

“Oh, Peter,” said Lucy, “It’s dreadful. They seem to be more interested in that awful couple than in Lucinda. I don’t even think they have her age right.”

“I suppose that is a function of the social hierarchy of the day,” he replied. “Nobody really cared very much about servants, especially the people who bought the newspaper each week – or ran the businesses that paid for advertising. But the activities of the middle classes were always of importance. Never mind, I think that was only the initial report. Listen to this,” he said, turning to the next reference.

Gruesome killing in Croydon

Thursday 23rd September 1915

Last week, this newspaper reported the murder of a young woman in a private house in Croydon in a vicious attack with a blunt instrument, thought to be an old-fashioned umbrella of the type used by a woman. Detective Inspector Pritchard of the Croydon Police Station has said that the perpetrator may be apprehended shortly. Several members of staff have been interviewed at length in order to ascertain their whereabouts at the time of death, which is thought to have been during the mid- to late-afternoon. The body was not discovered until the evening, because the young woman was thought to have been out with a male friend and was not therefore missed. He was Mr Harrison, 25, a waiter from the Star of Ceylon hotel in London, and is thought to have been in Croydon on the day of the killing. Police expect to interview him shortly. No motive for killing the victim has so far appeared, although we are able to reveal that the young woman was believed to have had carnal relations (despite having been unmarried) during the day before her death. This adds to the mystery.

“Well, they seem to be taking an interest now,” said Lucy, “but if they think it was Pete who killed Lucinda, they are plain wrong.”

“Um,” started Peter, “do we know that for certain, darling? We know that they were planning to meet and he knew where the house was. What if he went there early to surprise her and went up to her bedroom without being seen. Something he saw could have made him kill her, I suppose.”

“Then you suppose wrongly,” replied Lucy, angrily. “There is no way that he killed Lucinda. He loved her. Why would he destroy the woman he wanted to marry?”

“Sorry, Lucy,” he said gently, “I didn’t mean to make you cross. I simply don’t want to ignore any possibility at this stage. I agree it is unlikely he would have killed her, but I suppose if he had somehow discovered that she’d been raped, he might have held her to blame in some way and become sufficiently enraged to strike her without thinking.”

“In the first place,” said Lucy, calming down as she recognised the fairness of Peter’s words, “she had no conversation with her killer – didn’t even see him, or her – so how could he have known what had happened to her the previous day? In the second place, would an angry lover have struck her from behind? Surely in a fit of temper, she would have been hit from the front?”

“It said that she was probably struck by an umbrella,” conceded Peter. “So it is not as if someone had pushed her and she fell against something that killed her by accident. In any case, your memory has her struck without warning from behind, so by that account – information we have, but the police didn’t – I agree it is most unlikely to have been Pete.”

“It wasn’t,” Lucy replied, still slightly annoyed by his insistence on following logic, rather than simply believing her.

“So, I wonder whose umbrella it was, if indeed that’s what it was they used,” continued Peter as if he had not heard Lucy’s intervention; in fact, she was not even sure she had said anything out loud at that point. “Would a servant have one lying about, which someone might have picked up and used on the spur of the moment?”

“Well, if she did,” replied Lucy, finally reaching equilibrium of temper, “I would have expected it to be an old one. She could hardly afford a new, fashionable lightweight one. If it was Victorian, say, it could easily have had a heavy carved or even metal handle on it, although I tend to associate such ornaments as being on men’s umbrellas, like their walking sticks. Would a woman want anything heavy enough to kill someone?”

“Well, they might if they were accustomed to walking round late at night,” mused Peter. “I suppose Mrs Downing might have had one like that too,” he added. “After all, she was in straightened financial circumstances, from what we can tell, and it might be more likely for her to have such an item than a servant.”

“On the other hand, it might have been a man’s walking stick,” said Lucy, having finally regained her usual good humour, “rather than an umbrella. The police might have discounted that possibility because Williams was the only man in the house and he couldn’t have done it, could he!”

“But we know better,” responded Peter, relieved that he had done no harm to their burgeoning relationship by seeming to doubt her. “He is still our best candidate; or one of them. I still like Mrs Downing for the crime.”

“How can we find out about the others in the house at the time?” asked Lucy. “I cannot imagine that any of the servants were involved, but for completeness we should at least consider each one and then see if there is any evidence we can garner to help us.”

“Good idea, Lucy,” said Peter, “Let’s take the printouts and get out of here. I’m hungry.”

“I thought you would be, darling, so I brought us a picnic,” she replied. “It is a nice sunny day and I’m not too cold, so let’s go and sit in the Town Hall gardens and review each one, as we eat?”

“I wondered what you had in that capacious bag of yours,” said Peter, amazed at how this woman planned ahead. He was more of a spontaneous person, but then he could afford to eat out whenever he wanted to and didn’t have to think about food in advance. He hoped that one day, perhaps soon, Lucy might share his good fortune.

While they sat amongst the still leafless trees on a stone bench, basking up what sunlight they could while others scurried about their busy lives like a colony of termites, Lucy and Peter had time to talk about the inconsequential things that lovers do, before she brought him back to earth with a bang.

“Nancy,” she exclaimed so suddenly, that Peter could not immediately recall who she could be and wondered if Lucy had seen a friend and wanted to speak with her. “What do we know about her?”

“Oh, right,” he replied. “The maid. Very little. Your account did not really give any details of interaction between the two young women. I suppose there might have been some jealousy of a new – and possibly prettier – girl. But why? She was in a different job and unless she had wanted to learn to be a cook, there could have been no professional rivalry. And there were no young men to compete over – he said in a wholly non-sexist way,” he quickly added.

“Forgiven, in this case,” she allowed. Actually, Peter was almost incapable of sexism, she felt. For him there was no fundamental difference between men and women, other than that he was attracted to only one gender. He never demonstrated any tendency to belittle women, although he could sometimes appear to ignore some comments they made, not because he felt them to be inconsequential, but because he did not necessarily understand the point being made. If he was dismissive of something anyone said, it was the content, not their gender that he was challenging.

“I agree with you,” she said. “But what if she had somehow become aware that Williams had raped Lucinda. Might she have seen the ‘master’ as somehow her ‘property’, if she had also been taken to his bed, willingly or not? Might she have been afraid of losing his affection?”

“Somehow I doubt that very much,” replied Peter. “In my reading he is not the sort of man of whom any woman would become possessive. At least not one of her class who had probably been more or less coerced into having sex.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Lucy. “He hurt Lucinda with his roughness and it is likely that if he did take Nancy too, she may have hated and feared him; but she would surely have had only fellow-feelings for the younger innocent. In any case, I cannot see how she would have known, unless she observed something in Lucinda’s demeanour that day. And I don’t think they really saw each other during the morning, each was busy with preparations for the lunch. I think we can write her off.”

“You don’t suppose she could have seen Pete and wanted him for herself, do you?” asked Peter, after a few moments of companionable silence between them.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted Lucy. In her circle, a friend’s boyfriend was ‘out of bounds’, but she was well aware that such a view was not universal. Some women might see a man they liked and not care who was in their way in getting to them. No doubt some men are just as bad, she thought. “But Pete only went to the house once; and as far as we know, he only met Mrs Cooper. Surely, Nancy never saw him, and Lucinda struck me as a very private girl; she would have been unlikely to mention her ‘friend’ to anyone she was not close to, like the cook. No, I think she would be a red herring. Who else have we?”

Still being early in the year, it was starting to get cold, so Peter suggested that they should go back to the house and carry on there. During the drive back to Purley, Lucy was very quiet. Peter wondered if she was still slightly cross with him, but said nothing. ‘When you are in a hole, stop digging”, was his motto.

When they reached the house, his mother met them at the door.

“Peter’s father is asking for you again, Lucy,” she said. “He seems to know you for yourself, at the moment, though goodness knows how long that will last. Would you mind going up to see him for a little while?” Lucy had actually spent the short car ride contemplating how much she was looking forward to Peter warming her up after their picnic, but she liked Peter’s parents and they had to come before her own desires, she felt. They had made her so welcome that she felt part of the family already. “By the way, I don’t suppose Peter has given you one already, he never thinks of such practical matters, but I thought you ought to have this,” said Mrs Walters, giving her a front door key, before standing back so that she could run upstairs to see the invalid.

By the time Lucy came downstairs to the front room, Peter had been able to prepare some notes for them to discuss. He had read a number of other newspaper articles that enabled him to put together how the afternoon had probably panned out.

“I must admit that I had a little extra help from Roger,” he told her. “After our visit to the library, I called him and told him what we had discovered. He said that he had come across some additional material that had previously been misfiled and only came to light when someone spotted him returning the papers he had consulted to the archive. Apparently, the move of Police premises in the 1980s had resulted in several pre-war files being broken up, and never reunited – it had not been deemed a good use of manpower. Only when someone asked to see one of them, did anyone bother looking to see if there was anything else that might cross refer. And in this case, there had been some notes taken by Inspector Pritchard, but not included in the report, for some reason.”

The police investigation had been surprisingly thorough, although based on his experience of working with them, Peter was inclined to think that the modern inclination to devalue the historic abilities of the constabulary was rather unfair. It seemed to be due to the influence of writers such as Sir Arthur Conon Doyle and Dame Agatha Christie, rather than being based in observable fact. For both of these iconic storytellers, the police were almost invariably buffoons who needed the help of ‘experts’ such as Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot, or ‘gifted amateurs’ such as Jane Marple.

The World War 1 Inspector had taken note of the possible involvement of someone in the house and – after being told Mr Williams had taken Mrs Downing to her mother’s to return a purse she had left after the lunch, so was out for the rest of the day – had closely interviewed Nancy, Mrs Cooper, the Garraways and the gardener/handyman, one Arthur Potter. He had discounted the maid for the simple reason that she had no apparent motive and was a relatively slight girl, presumed to be incapable of wielding a weapon with sufficient strength to kill. Lucy said that the Inspector had clearly never had to do any cleaning at home, or he could not have made such an assumption! Mrs Cooper was similarly discounted since she had no motive – unless she wanted Pete for herself, joked Peter, at which point Lucy grabbed him by a tender part of his anatomy and pointed out that however old she got, she would still like a handsome man’s attentions. They lost half an hour further debating the topic, very quietly, behind the suddenly locked door.

Mrs Cooper also, the Inspector had decided, was the only person in the house who was genuinely sad about the girl’s death. Neither she nor Nancy had a complete alibi for the afternoon, but both were discounted. For then.

Mrs Garraway was a rather different proposition. Even an outsider like Inspector Pritchard could see that she had disliked Lucinda, although the reason for this was far from apparent. Her alibi for the afternoon appeared solid in that she had been either with Nancy, her husband or Mrs Cooper for the entire time. All three corroborated this in separate interviews, according to the Inspector’s notes. He did, however, note an apparent gap in Mr Garraway’s time-line (not that he used such as expression, Roger had said). There was part of the early afternoon when his movements were unaccounted for, and Pritchard had decided to delve into this more deeply.

His interview notes indicated that he had taken a dislike to the manservant; or, at least had mistrusted him and his account of what he had been doing.

“Listen to this, darling” said Peter, reading from the transcript that Roger had faxed through to him. “Garraway is a shifty character who clearly has an eye for the ladies. Married Mrs G when they were both teenagers in Sir Henry’s household, but while she was promoted to be housekeeper, he was set to be discharged for ‘flirting’ with a young housemaid. He was only kept on in deference to the value placed on his wife by the master and Lady Williams. Since then, there had been no complaints, but he had been heard by Nancy to remark on the new assistant cook and said ‘what a tasty morsel’. Nancy, mistrusting the man, had chosen to interpret this as referring to her cooking abilities, although in retrospect claimed that he was probably referring to the girl herself.”

“This Inspector sounds quite a perceptive chap,” said Lucy. “He certainly rooted out one strong possibility. What if Garraway had sneaked up to Lucinda’s room while his wife was busy with Nancy, seen her on the bed and knocked her on the head in the hope of having his way with her while she was unconscious.”

“My goodness what an imagination you have,” replied Peter. “I cannot imagine anything worse that ‘having my way’ with a woman who was unconscious. What would be the fun in that?”

“You only say that because you are a thoroughly nice person,” smiled Lucy.

“Or because I prefer the interaction …” replied Peter, wondering if he dared start a little interaction with her, again. But she pressed on with the discussion and the moment passed.

“No, but you must admit that it is a possibility,” she insisted. “What if he simply hit her too hard and then panicked.”

“Well, if the umbrella was hers, that is just about possible,” replied Peter. “But I should have told you that Pritchard also noted that the murder weapon had been found. In fact they had always known that it actually was a woman’s umbrella with a heavy wooden handle, the sort that had been popular in Edwardian times amongst women in the rougher parts of London. They did not release that information to the press. It belonged to Mrs Garraway.”

“Well in that case, it could well have been Mr Garraway who killed Lucinda,” said Lucy. “He had easy access to the murder weapon.”

“Yes, except for the fact that if he had taken it up to Lucinda’s room with him, then it would have been with the intention of killing – or at least seriously hurting – her,” said Peter. “Simply to stun her would have been risky with such a heavy instrument. In any case, I should also have mentioned that the umbrella was habitually kept in the hall stand. It should not really have been, as it was a servant’s. But it was apparently left there in case any visitors needed it. Mrs Garraway seldom went out but, when she did, she was allowed to use the front door, as a concession to her length of service, so she could simply collect it as she passed. It disappeared.”

“Well that doesn’t help us at all, then,” said Lucy. “Everyone seems to have had access to the murder weapon – at least anyone who passed through the hall. What about Mrs Garraway herself?”

“Well, Inspector Pritchard had wondered that too,” said Peter, “but as we learned earlier, he felt that her alibi was solid. To be honest, I believe that there must have been some unaccounted time, but they don’t appear to have checked into her any further, despite the fact that it was her umbrella that was used. I rather believe it was due to the influence of Mr Williams, who seemed to respect her and didn’t want her troubled. Unfortunately, he was well enough connected in the higher echelons of Croydon society to have some clout, so Pritchard had no option but to look elsewhere. In any event, he was then pointed in another direction.”

“Don’t tell me, the gardener/handyman,” guessed Lucy.

“Well initially, yes,” replied Peter. “How did you guess?”

“Class,” she replied, monosyllabically, but without rancour.

According to Inspector Pritchard’s notes Potter, the gardener, was well known to the police. He had a record of prison sentences for larceny. He was fortunate, in that only fifty years earlier, just one further conviction would have resulted in him being transported to Australia for life. As it was he had spent a total of more than ten years in prison conditions that might have killed a weaker man. That he was employed in the Williams residence was more a tribute to the good works of the late Sir Henry than his son, who probably neither knew nor cared about the man’s record. He was beneath notice.

Mrs Garraway was well aware of Potter’s history and had always been careful to watch him when he was around the house itself. He was normally restricted to working in the grounds and, in all justice, he did an excellent job of keeping the living rooms and bedrooms stocked with flowers and the kitchen well supplied with fruit and vegetables in season. There was even a modest glasshouse, set against a south-facing wall, which allowed him to produce some ‘out of season’ fruits as well. Mrs Cooper, who was unaware of his history and generally well disposed towards him – as she was to anyone whom Mrs Garraway didn’t seem to like – allowed him access to the kitchen when the housekeeper was not about. It was here that he had seen, and sought to befriend, Lucinda. He was a rough sort of man and certainly not the sort that she would have encouraged, but she was aware that the cook liked him and therefore tolerated his occasionally off-colour comments. In truth, he was not really interested in women at all. He liked a pretty face, but only to the extent that they were better to look at than ugly ones. (In that, he was probably wrong, mused the modern Lucy as observer, following one of his more suggestive comments about the attractiveness of Lucinda’s petite nose. Irregular faces are, she felt, generally more interesting than those which display uniform symmetry. But then, it was all a matter of personal taste, she supposed.)

Unbeknown to Mrs Cooper, Potter had got into the habit of looking round the house when she was not paying attention, something that only came to light from Nancy’s testimony; she had seen him in places he should not have been on several occasions and only her desire not to get the cook into trouble had prevented her from telling Mrs Garraway. When this was relayed to the Inspector, he had called in Potter to the police station for interview. He had left detailed notes on the events.

*

The constable sent to pick Potter up from his home, a shared house in the worst part of Lower Addiscombe, came back without him.

“Sorry, Inspector,” said Constable Jones, a young Welshman who had recently joined the force, and whom everyone – including the Inspector – called Ginger, on account of his flaming Celtic hair. “He seems to have disappeared. His landlady, if that is what she is, said he had not been there for several days. Since the murder, if she is telling the truth.”

“Don’t worry, Ginger,” said the Inspector. He was one of those rare people who could accept that shooting the messenger for bearing bad news was neither fair, nor productive. “You did well to get that much information from someone in that part of town. She must have taken a fancy to you, my lad.” The boy blushed, not knowing how to react to such a comment.

The Inspector dismissed the lad and thought for a little while. From what he had read in the files relating to Potter, temporary disappearances were far from uncommon if he had been drinking. His record was a long and undistinguished one, with a list of convictions, largely for petty theft, with the occasional affray thrown into the mix; the latter usually in connection with his visits to one public house or another. There had been no entries on the record for five years and this could either be because he had managed to get his life in order, thanks to regular employment at Sir Henry’s house, or because he had become smarter and not been caught. Guessing that his mind was generally befuddled with gin, when not actually at work, Inspector Pritchard assumed that the man had not managed to become more careful and was therefore probably not stealing – at the moment. Certainly, one more conviction would result in the maximum punishment that could be imposed for such crimes, no longer execution or transportation, but potentially ten years to life with hard labour. Good enough reason for a man, even (or especially) a habitual drunk, to try to stay out of prison.

Pritchard had to consider, however, that the man might have been caught in the act of pilfering from his employer’s house and killed the only witness in order to avoid another, harsher term in prison. He had to try and find the man.

“Ginger,” he shouted to the young constable whom he knew would be hovering, waiting for his next job. “We are going hunting,” he said as soon as the lad popped his head round the door. “Come on, I will show you some real policing.”

There were dozens of public houses dotted in and around the area where Potter was currently living and Inspector Pritchard knew every one of them. He also knew that a man of Potter’s class would be barred from some of the better establishments; but that still left more than twenty to be visited. He would have liked to split the task with his constable, but the lad was too green to be sent into such places on his own, and he had few other spare officers at that time. Too much trouble brewing with German shops being attacked and troops from training camps on embarkation leave looking for some entertainment. Well, he had promised the lad’s mother that he would look after Ginger, so they had better go out together. It was probably a fool’s errand, anyway. As they walked towards the first hostelry, Pritchard thought about Mrs Jones. Like her son she was a redhead, plenty of fire in that one, he mused. No husband; like Pritchard’s own wife, her husband had died of tuberculosis at the end of the Victorian age. Even in these enlightened times, it accounted for one in every ten deaths in England, he knew. Since then, she had struggled to raise her son – and done a fine job, although Pritchard would never tell the boy that. He had remained single and childless, but he sometimes wondered whether he might find comfort for his declining years in the arms of such a woman. It would never be boring, he guessed. But although he was a fine prospect for such a widow, he had held back ever since first meeting her, when Ginger had been interviewed for the position in his station. He was not quite sure why, but perhaps, he thought, he was a little scared of allowing anyone into his life. And who knew what the war might bring. He was too old for service, even if he had not been in such an important job, but things changed and if men grew scarce, he could find himself drafted. He was already involved in secret preparations for enforcing the conscription that the government was planning. That was another issue. If he had to let Ginger go off to war, how would his mother react? Would she blame him for failing to protect the boy, or would she need the comfort that he could so easily offer? He did not know what to think, and he had work in hand as they neared the first pub door – The Duke of York.

Walking into its smoky atmosphere, he could nevertheless smell beer above the tobacco fumes. This was a ‘spit and sawdust’ bar, one where the sweepings from a local sawmill were spread on the floor to absorb spillages of beer and whatever else the habitués might deposit. Screwing up his nose to block out the rancid odours, Inspector Pritchard told Jones to keep close to him. He looked towards the range of barrels ranged behind the bar and identified the landlord by his relatively white apron, stained only by beer spillages. All the other staff had worse things smeared on theirs.

“Mr Jenkins?” he said, having ensured he knew the names of the licensees in every place they were to visit. This man was new to the area – an unknown quantity. “My name is Inspector Pritchard, and this is Constable Jones. May I have a word, please?” No harm in being polite. If this man had been in the business for long – and even to reach running an establishment as basic as this, he must have been – he would probably be accustomed to brutish and rude police behaviour. Without appearing in any way ‘soft’ – Pritchard was a tall and powerfully built man with whom few people would lightly take issue – he managed to distance himself from other officers who might bully their way towards a blank wall of non-information. Better, he always found, to make friends with the landlords and earn their trust and respect. With this new man, he had little time, but it was his habit to be reasonable – at least initially – and this was no exception.

The landlord led the officers to a corner of the bar where they could talk; it was early in the morning, about half past eleven, but the place was already busy.

“How can I help you Inspector?” he asked, offering a glass of beer, which was politely declined.

“We are looking for a man called Potter,” he replied. “He is about fifty years old, of middling height with short grey hair and a bit of a stoop. He has a gash under one eye from a bottle fight.” No need to mention that it was a fight in prison, where there should have been no bottles. “He works as a gardener, but has been missing for about two days and his employer is concerned for him”. That was a lie, and the landlord would know it, because few employers would care one jot about the whereabouts of a man of that description. Even if one did, it was unlikely that a police Inspector would become involved in the search. However, it had the benefit of indicating that this was a working man they were looking for, not a vagrant. Someone who had money to spend in a public house.

His interest piqued by such a strange enquiry, Mr Jenkins paid closer attention to his visitor. Charles Pritchard was a sharp looking man in his forties. While not of the ‘gentleman’ class, he had a greater air of authority than one would normally have associated with his rank in life. He was certainly well educated; nobody’s fool. The landlord therefore actually thought about the question he had been asked, rather than simply saying ‘no’ out of hand. After all, a friend in the police force might be useful, some time.

“I’m not sure that the description applies to anyone I have seen here recently, Inspector,” he said. “But I still don’t know everyone who comes in; I have only been running the place for a month. I will ask my bar staff if any of them have seen him, or recognise the description and will get word to you at the station.”

“Thank you Mr Jenkins,” said the inspector. He was confident that this man would do as he said, so he moved swiftly on to the next bar, to repeat the question. “If only we had a picture of Potter,” he said to Ginger as they walked the relatively short distance to their next port of call, “but the only one we have is more than twenty years out of date and is unlikely to be a good representation of how he looks now – although I imagine that if we saw him in the flesh, we might have a chance of spotting him. He had seen a picture from the files and felt that he could imagine how the man would have aged.

After the ninth or tenth stop, they struck lucky. Entering a side door of the East Indiaman, an even worse establishment than most of the others they had visited, Inspector Pritchard spotted a man slumped over his drink at one of the small round tables that were dotted round the room. He was alone and nobody seemed to be taking any notice of him. Since the previous year, the government had severely limited the hours in which people could purchase alcohol in public houses. To avoid an adverse impact on the war effort, they could only open from noon to 2:30 pm and 6:30 pm to 9:30 pm. The problem was that not all bars actually observed the law, many of them seeing this as an unreasonable restriction on their businesses – some even openly flouting it as being an attack on the working man’s leisure activities. Many would allow regular customers to sit nursing their drinks even after closing time, and it was not unusual for one to be found in the same place on opening for the ‘supper’ session, as he had been for the close of the ‘luncheon’ one.

Something about the man’s general demeanour suggested that he probably had not moved for more than a day; in breach of the new regulations. But his dress also told the Inspector that this was a man accustomed to working on the land and, there being little farming in Croydon these days, the chances were that he was a gardener.

Walking over to the man, Pritchard spoke to the down-turned head.

“Buy you a pint, mate?” he asked. The effect was almost miraculous. From a virtually comatose pose, the man instantly became alert as he sat up to accept the offer, revealing a face that the Inspector had broadly expected to see on the man they were seeking.

“I don’t mind if you …” was as far as he got before his eyes focussed on the uniform standing in front of him, encasing the maker of what he assumed to be a fake offer. He rose in his seat, as if to make a run for it, only to find himself restrained by the surprisingly firm hand of Constable Ginger Jones, on his shoulder. He slumped back into his seat, while the Inspector sat opposite him. “Give me a break, guvnor,” he said to the Inspector. “I ain’t done nuffink. And I could really do wiv that drink.”

Pritchard looked at the man who, given his instant denial, he was now certain was the missing Arthur Potter. He signalled Jones to get him a half of bitter. As the constable walked over to the bar, the Inspector spoke again.

“We can do this here, or in a police cell,” he told the slightly sobering man. “Which would you prefer?”

“I don’t ever want to see the inside of a police station again, guvnor,” replied Potter.

“Then tell me why you have been missing for the past two days,” challenged Pritchard. “Have you been here all the time?”

“No, sir,” avowed the other, “I have been walking round the town visiting as many pubs as I could to forget what I seen. It was awful, guvnor. I never seen anything like it – and never want to again.”

“Tell me about it,” asked the Inspector, as Ginger put a small glass of beer in front of the man. Potter looked at it as if it was a thimble full of water, but drank deeply of it nevertheless, almost draining the glass immediately.

In a halting manner, the gardener told the policemen that he had been in his employer’s house towards the end of the afternoon, looking for something – no, not to steal, simply to use in the garden – when he had happened upon the scene in the assistant cook’s bedroom. She had been lying on the floor, with her back to the door, as if she had been sitting on the bed and simply fallen forwards. Only when Potter had moved into the room to see if she was alright – no, not to see if he could interfere with her while she was unconscious – did he notice that the back of her head had been staved in. He had almost retched at the sight of the blood and brain matter spilled over the rug, but managed to get outside in the fresh air without doing so or, as far as he was aware, being seen. He had been so shocked by the sight, he claimed, that he left the place immediately, passing a young man near the garden gate, and had been drinking ever since.

That was as much as Pritchard could get out of the man, before he collapsed in a heap on the floor, finally exhausted by his marathon drinking bout. Believing that he had told the truth, the Inspector told the barman to ‘tidy the mess up’ and make sure that they were appropriately shut when his officers came back after closing time, to check.

“And make sure you point Mr Potter back in the direction of his workplace, so I can find him for further questioning, if I need to,” he added to the barman.

“Should we not have taken him to the station after all?” asked Jones, as they left.

“No point, lad. He would only tell us the same story again,” replied the Inspector. “And I believe he was telling the truth. Anyway he would undoubtedly have made a mess of our nice clean cells. No it’s better if we let the pub sober him up and send him to work. Police work is about thinking what is best, not simply chasing people all round the town,” he told Jones.

“I wonder who it was that Potter saw by the gate?” asked Jones – with which question, the Inspector agreed.

Chapter 11 – London: Late September 1915

“That was all really very interesting, Peter,” said Lucy, after he had finished reading her the first set of pages that Roger had sent. “This Inspector Pritchard seems to have been quite a live wire, I wonder whether there was any significance in the gardener’s claim to have seen a young man by the gates. You don’t suppose it was Pete, do you?” she added as an afterthought. “Is that what you meant by ‘well initially’ when I asked if they suspected Potter?”

“Well, that was the subject of Roger’s second fax.” replied Peter. “There was a full investigation of Pete, once they managed to track him down from Mrs Cooper’s rather sketchy information. It is clear that Inspector Pritchard suspected the cook of somehow protecting Lucinda’s boyfriend, because she did not give much information about him. But he was relatively easy to trace from his description and first name. And they found his letters to Lucy, which named the hotel anyway. There was a report from the Saville Row police station, made out by a Sergeant Farrow, who had interviewed Pete at his place of work.” Peter summarised what it said.

*

Pete had already become worried that he had not heard from Lucinda for more than a week after they should last have met up in Croydon. He had not seen her for a fortnight – the longest they had been apart for a very long time. Since she had first come to work at the Star, he thought. He hoped that she was alright – and that she had not decided she didn’t want to see him again, for some reason. But had that been the case, she would surely have written to him, after missing their date. But you never knew with young girls, he feared.

He knew that she was the girl he wanted one day to marry and had hoped – even dared to believe – she felt the same way. If he did join the navy and he was now fairly certain he was going to, would she wait for him? Or might she find another love in Croydon? This fortnight was nothing like as long as the time they would be separated if he went to war; but at least it was something of a test of her feelings. He was certain of his own.

It really concerned him that she had made no attempt to contact him since missing him last Tuesday. It had been a really odd day. It had started well enough with him catching his usual train from Victoria Station to East Croydon. From then it had gone downhill. He had found himself in a compartment with a contingent of soldiers, home from the front – amongst the first to get home leave, they proudly told him. They were in grand humour and not a little the worse for drink. He did not mind this, they were after all only celebrating being alive after enduring what he gathered from their conversation to be terrible and dangerous conditions.

“Why aren’t you in uniform?” one of them challenged him. “You should be doing your bit like us.”

“Perhaps his mummy won’t let him go,” said another, unknowing that Pete’s mother had already lost one son to the Germans at the Battle of Armentières the previous October.

“Leave the lad alone,” said a third. “It’s probably not his fault. He looks too weedy for the army, anyway,” he added unjustifiably since Pete, while not exactly muscle-bound, was far from slight.

Stung by their comments – they did, after all, have some truth to them – he did not know what to say. He decided to ignore the soldiers and pretended to be busy reading the paper. Fortunately, they left him in peace after they had passed Clapham Junction and he was able to carry on his journey unmolested. He was slightly concerned, however, when they followed him off the train at East Croydon and was pleased when he was able to loiter in the ticket hall waiting for Lucinda, while they went on to whatever they were planning to do, apparently having forgotten all about him.

It was unlike Lucinda to be late. Pete waited patiently for her for half an hour before wondering whether he had somehow mistaken the day, or the time, or where they were to meet. They had talked of going to Grants, the smartest ‘department store’ in Croydon, to have tea. Pete wondered if she had suggested meeting there and that he had simply not been listening closely enough. He decided that his best chance of finding her was to go down there and see if she was waiting for him. How to explain his error was something that occupied his time as he walked the half mile or so to the High Street. Walking in through the front entrance, Pete went quickly up to the second floor where the restaurant was located at the front of the building. Checking his appearance to ensure that he was not too poorly attired for such a place, he stepped into the restaurant, nervously looking for Lucinda. He saw a young woman standing with her back towards him and wondered for an instant if it might have been Lucinda in a new hat. It would be just like her to buy something that expensive to impress him, if she could have afforded it. As she turned, he realised that it was someone else, a slightly older woman with fair hair who was clearly waiting for her mother, because an older woman moved quickly towards her, giving Pete a sharp glance in the process. Instantly, Pete realised that the clothes were altogether too fine for a trainee cook. He turned away before the girl herself noticed he had been staring at her. A rapid glance round the restaurant told him that Lucinda was not there. He thought of asking the waitress if anyone had left a message for him, but realised that this might make him look absurd – as if he had been ‘stood up’. Without speaking to anyone, he left the restaurant and went back downstairs and out of the door onto the street.

Not knowing what to do next, Pete decided that Lucinda might be unwell. It was getting rather late, by then, so he decided to walk the mile or so to the house where Lucinda worked in order to enquire after her. It was then that his bad luck became even worse. Walking back past the railway station, he was unfortunate enough to bump into the same group of soldiers he had seen on the train, reeling out of the Bridge public house. Clearly they had got no further than across George Street from the ticket hall before finding somewhere to become even more inebriated.

“Well, well, well,” said the first soldier, who appeared to be a lance-corporal. “If it isn’t our Nancy-boy friend from the train. What’s the matter sonny? Your mummy still not letting you play with the rough boys?”

This time, perhaps frustrated by his inability to find Lucinda, Pete made the mistake of responding to the jibe.

“You are drunk, Corporal, and a disgrace to the uniform you are privileged to wear,” he said in his best imitation of the head waiter at the Star. Another mistake.

“Oh, listen to little Lord Fauntleroy. ‘Privileged to wear’ the uniform are we?” said the lance corporal. “Let me tell you something, boy,” he almost spat out the words. “Don’t you dare speak to us about the ‘privilege’ of being in the bloody British Army in the bloody trenches until you have had the ‘privilege’ of being there yourself. It is dirty, cold and frigging dangerous. So if you want to speak to us about the uniform, put one on for yourself first.”

Angered, Pete continued to argue, rather than simply walking away, as his better judgement would have advised, had he been listening to it.

“I wouldn’t wear your uniform anyway,” he retorted. “I’m enlisting in the Royal Navy,” he affirmed, making his final decision then and there. He was sick of being seen as a coward, even if most people were too polite to say anything directly to his face about it. He knew there were harridans in the Order of the White Feather, who had started handing out tokens to men who they thought should be in the forces as early as August 1914, but those women probably thought him beneath their attention, anyway.

“Oh, she wants to be a sailor, does she?” taunted the NCO, by far the most vociferous of the soldiers and probably the least drunk.  “Well boys, let’s show the lady what we think of the frigging navy.” With that, he swung a ham-sized fist at Pete’s nose, almost breaking it and knocking him to the ground. Pete had no chance to defend himself. The others joined in kicking him on the ground and it was only their drunken state that protected him from receiving a thorough beating. As it was, he was able to crawl away as soon as a crowd gathered, shouting at the soldiers to behave themselves.

The lance-corporal realised that he was in danger of losing his one stripe and called his men to order, removing them from the area as quickly as he could, before the police arrived. A middle-aged woman in the crowd took pity on Pete and helped him to his feet.

“You have ruined your shirt, young man,” she told him. “It’s covered in blood.” It was kindly meant, but a slight exaggeration; he had managed to avoid the worst of the beating, and only the front of his shirt was spattered with his nasal blood, although there were also some dark stains on his jacket.

“Come with me,” she continued. “I live nearby and will get you tidied up. What is your name?” Pete told her and explained that he was visiting from London, hoping to meet his sweetheart, but that he had somehow missed her. He was too dazed from the attack to notice where he was taken by the woman. In any event, he did not know the area well enough to recognise the warren of streets through which she had led him.

Eventually, they reached her home, a surprisingly large house over three floors. There were three rooms on the ground floor, one of which was a parlour and another the kitchen, with at least five or six more rooms above. The woman got him to remove his jacket and shirt and then wash himself, while she chatted away to him, trying to find out as much as she could about him, and cleaning his clothes as best she could. His shirt she soaked where most blood was, before drying it on a rather dirty towel and watching him while he put it back on, not much better than when he had taken it off, but at least the blood was less obvious now. The jacket she dabbed with a wet sponge, probably doing more harm than good, however well-intentioned she might be. Perhaps she was not quite as ‘domesticated’ as she appeared.

“There,” she said, “almost as good as new. And your young lady is hardly likely to be cross with you, if she is as lovely as you say she is.” She sighed for her own lost youth and sent him on his way. He was sufficiently befuddled by the entire experience – from the soldiers’ violence, to the woman’s kindness – that it was only after he had left the house did he realise he was completely lost. He didn’t like to go back and ask for directions, so he wandered about aimlessly, until he heard the faint sound of a steam engine and realised that following it should lead him to the railway track, from which he could find the station. At least he knew he was north of East Croydon, so he could simply go south to find it, now.

It was quite late in the afternoon before he reached the station. He pondered what he should do next, for a few minutes. He could either turn left onto Addiscombe Road and go to see if Lucinda was alright, or cut his losses and turn right into George Street for the booking hall and home. But he could not bear the uncertainty of knowing how Lucinda felt about him any longer – or if she might be unwell, so he turned left. At the very least, he could see Mrs Cooper and ask after his sweetheart; if she was unwell, she would appreciate the thought and if she was tired of him … Well, let’s wait and see, he decided.

He walked along the road towards Shirley, fretting all the time that Lucinda might no longer want to see him. Would he embarrass her by calling into the place where she worked? Would she be cross with him for missing her?

As he neared the house, his nerve finally failed him. Better, he thought, to write to her and see how she reacted. As he was just about at the gate, he saw an older man stumbling out of the house. Pete realised this must be the gardener/handyman and decided that he simply could not face meeting anyone from the house just then, so he turned at the gate and went home.

Sergeant Farrow had ended his report of Pete’s account by saying he had interviewed a number of other members of Star of Ceylon hotel staff, one of whom – a laundry maid – had reported seeing his shirt ‘dripping with blood’ after his return from Croydon. Given that this was certainly hours after Lucinda’s killing, the sergeant knew that this must be an exaggeration, and that the girl was probably romancing in order to enhance her importance amongst the hotel staff.

His final comment was telling:

“On telling Mr Harrison of the death of his sweetheart,” he wrote, “the young man collapsed on the floor in a dead faint. When he was revived, his first words were ‘Oh, God, it’s all my fault’. He did not elaborate on this comment and I leave it to the investigating officer to decide whether this amounts to an admission of guilt, or not. My opinion was that it was not sufficient to arrest him, although I advised him not to leave his place of work without telling us, first.”

*

“But he couldn’t have done it,” said Lucy, “he loved her, I am sure of it. Remember I ‘saw’ him looking into her eyes, no man can fake that.” But perhaps women can, she might have added to herself.

“I believe you, darling,” Peter replied. “Just because he was seen in the area of the house does not put him there at the time of the killing – and his bloodied clothes were explained by the beating he took. Nor does his account, as given to the sergeant, suggest that he had time to go inside the house and even find the body, let alone kill her. Perhaps his words simply meant that, had he prevented her from taking the job, or not missed her at the station, she might still be alive. After all, he did not know the circumstances of her death, so he might have assumed that she had been out to meet him, and been killed after they failed to find each other.

“I suppose the sergeant actually told him the circumstances of Lucinda’s death?” queried Lucy.

“No way of telling from what Roger sent me,” replied Peter. “But my guess is that he didn’t have sufficient information to impart any of the details to Pete, so the poor lad could not have known how it happened. Or where, for that matter. And, of course, there is the rape. If he had had sex with Lucinda, would it have been so rough as to cause internal injuries?”

“Of course not,” she said, “anyone could tell that, however inexperienced he might be in that area, he would never have hurt her – had she started to show signs of discomfort, he would have stopped immediately; you would have.” She already knew him well enough to judge.

“Well perhaps the sergeant somehow guessed that, which is why Pete was not arrested on the spot. Some policemen can be highly perceptive,” he added, reddening slightly on remembering his friend’s accurate guess that he and Lucy were now sleeping together.

“We need to find out two things,” said Lucy, not noticing his change in complexion. “What Pete did next, and what Williams and Mrs Downing were up to all afternoon. I don’t suppose Roger has any way of estimating the exact time of death, after all this time, can he?”

“I asked him, but all he would say was that from the description of the body, a guess of mid- to late-afternoon is most likely to be correct,” he said. “The police didn’t really interview Williams or Mrs Downing, but there might be another avenue we could investigate. Many women in those days kept diaries. It is unlikely that we will find one for Mrs Downing admitting that either she or Williams killed Lucinda, but if there are any relatives living in the area today, they might have some letters or other documents that reveal some of their movements. After all, Williams was a far from poor man and he must have left his estate to someone. We really need to know about his family. Let’s look into that.”

While Lucy was next at work, Peter used his connections to find out anything he could about the Williams family and their relations. His first port of call was to ring the archivist at The Times. Telephoning at what he hoped would be a quiet time of day, he asked if there were any mentions in the Society pages, relating to a Mr Williams, son of the late Sir Henry Williams of Croydon.

“Oh, I can tell you that immediately,” said the man he had spoken with earlier. “It is very unusual to receive two requests for the same information within a few days, but I was asked about him by another enquirer yesterday.” Peter wondered if Lucy might have had the same idea and initiated a search herself, but the archivist continued, “A gentleman called saying he was a relative and wanted information for a family history he is writing. He sounded rather elderly – must have been at least 80 by the sound of his voice – and people of that age tend to want to relive their youth. Anyway, I can fax you what I gave him, if you like. It is all in the public domain, but I cannot, of course, give you his details.” Peter thanked the archivist and awaited the information impatiently.

By the time Lucy returned from work, and had spent her customary half hour with his father – sometimes as herself, but increasingly in the persona of Myrtle – Peter had summarised the information he had gathered from The Times. They sat down together after a light meal shared with his mother, in the front room, relaxing with the last of the bottle of wine they had been enjoying, determined to have a little time to themselves. Much as they enjoyed their nights together, they also liked to spend time talking about a wide range of topics. Peter was always keen to hear Lucy talk about her day, particularly about some of the more eccentric diners in the restaurant. There were often odd requests that people made, some of them absurd, and it was sometimes all Lucy and her staff could do at the time not to laugh out loud at them. One diner had actually complained that the gazpacho soup was cold. Peter had thought this only happened in comedy sketches on television, and 1970s TV at that. But Lucy assured him that it did occur – which was probably why it was seldom on the menu. However, this being a warm spring, they had decided to try it out, as part of a Spanish promotion.

Lucy loved this time with him as much as anything. He was one of the few men she had ever met who were genuinely interested in her as a person and listened to what she had to say. He even respected her political views, although she rather suspected that they were not necessarily in accord with his own. He seldom expressed strong opinions on any topic, but seemed very well informed on most, always prepared to see ‘the other side of the argument’.

As soon as they had exhausted today’s fund of anecdotes – and a few other matters of mutual interest which could be attended to without locking the door, Peter returned to the topic of Williams and Mrs Downing.

“It is all a bit sketchy, I am afraid,” he told her. “There is a report of the luncheon at the Williams house because some of the people there were from a higher echelon of Croydon society, which is why The Times was interested. There was even a brief reference to the menu, but I won’t bore you with that. The point is that the occasion was a sort of unofficial engagement for Williams to Mrs Downing, which is presumably why her mother was there. It was too soon after the Captain’s death for anything official, of course, but in times of war, these things seem to have become more relaxed …”

“Some would have said ‘lax’,” came a voice from the open door. “Your grandmother had something to say about that case. I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening in deliberately, Lucy; I simply came to see if you two wanted a cup of coffee, and overheard the names. According to mother-in-law, it was something of a scandal. I had no idea this is what you were investigating. Of course, I was not born at that time – well, not that I am prepared to admit to – but your father was, Peter, he would have been about six months old at the time.”

“No thanks to coffee, Mrs Walters,” said Lucy, “we are still on the wine. But we should love to hear what you can tell us.”

“Well, let me sit down and collect my thoughts,” she said. “Granny Walters was at the luncheon, you know. Such a nice house, but it was never quite the same after Sir Henry died and his widow ‘encouraged’ to move out. Nevertheless, the cook was really first class and had recently taken on an assistant. She was getting rather old – well not old, but apparently rather deaf, and becoming slightly forgetful. Anyway, she needed to ensure that there would be someone to take over from her, when she could no longer cope, so she took on a young woman, whom Mr Williams had found in London at some hotel or other. Anyway,” she continued in a conspiratorial voice, totally unaware that this much was already known to her son and Lucy, “this young girl was killed – murdered – on the very same afternoon as the luncheon. So your Grandmother would have been some sort of witness, had they bothered with such things for a servant girl in those days. Oh, I’m sorry Lucy; that must have sounded awful to you. Perhaps I had better stick to the facts as I heard them.”

*

The luncheon was a great success Victoria Walters had felt. Of course, the Downing woman was ‘beyond the pale’, totally unsuitable for polite society, but perfectly adequate for that odious man Williams. Such an appropriate term that, she believed; outside that area of Ireland which was directly run from England during the middle ages and therefore ‘not quite us’. But then, was that troublesome country any better now, with its ongoing demand for home rule which was bound to resurface sooner or later? Her rambling mind was not the result of stupidity, but rather an active interest in topics such as politics that were still deemed inappropriate for women and therefore offered little opportunity to be voiced in company. She had to think things through for herself.

Never mind, the meal had been excellent and she had even noticed the pretty little thing who was helping Mrs Cooper, the cook. Well, if Williams could not afford to hire another servant for the luncheon and had to use kitchen staff, who was she to mention the fact? Of course, this was the girl who was killed later that day. Such a shame, but nobody seemed to know who had done it. Some had said it was a jilted lover from London, others suspected the gardener. At least the manservant appeared to have an alibi – she believed it was called – that put him in the clear.

It was strange that Mr Williams and Mrs Downing had apparently gone out immediately after the luncheon. That was most unusual in her experience, but then she was still so influenced by her Victorian mother and her views on what was proper, she supposed. Why shouldn’t they go out? But if they had, where had they been at the time of the murder? It was rather strange. Nobody she had spoken with had actually seen them leaving the house, or anywhere else, for that matter. Of course, they might have taken her mother home … but no, she had had her own hired carriage for the luncheon, so she would not have required being driven home. Then, of course, there had been the rumours that Williams was not quite the gentleman he seemed. But which of them was, she wondered?  Most gentlemen of that time seemed to have ‘colourful’ histories and many continued these beyond marriage. But he had not so far married, which was unusual for a man of his age. Nevertheless, he had clearly decided on Mrs Downing, now that she was ‘available’.

That was another thing. If Mr Williams and Captain Downing were such good friends, why was the former not also in the army, in the country’s time of need? And who had posted the Captain into a position where he was likely to be killed? Perhaps Mr Williams had some influence in the War Office who had kept him safe, but not, apparently, his best friend – whose widow he was now intending to marry. Life is full of strange coincidences, she decided, unconvinced of the veracity of such a conclusion. She knew the way the world worked, having a young baby did not render a woman less intelligent, after all.

*

“Anyway,” concluded the modern day Mrs Walters, “your grandmother was convinced that Mr Williams had not really left the house during the entire afternoon and that he must therefore have been there when the girl was killed. Perhaps he and Mrs Downing had been ‘together’ and not to be disturbed, but other interpretations are possible. Of course, nothing was ever proved, nor could it have been, but it is unlikely that grannie would have made such an error. She was really sharp you know.”

“We believe that it was actually Mr Williams or Mrs Downing who killed Lucinda – that was the girl’s name – Mrs Walters,” said Lucy. “My last regression was into her life and I got the strong impression of cigar tobacco smoke and scent before she died. It suggests the killer was someone who used one substance and had been in close contact with the other.”

“Possibly, my dear,” replied the older woman, “but in those days all gentlemen smoked cigars and all ladies used perfume. It could have been anyone.”

“But not,” interrupted Peter, more explosively than he had intended, “a servant.” He had never quite come to terms with how wide had been the divide between the rich and poor in earlier times. And he was by no means convinced that the gap was narrowing, despite so much (alleged) progress within society.

“Very true, Peter,” said his mother, “but you have to prove that, if you are to solve the mystery of this murder. Lucy’s experience in regression is not evidence and there must be something that backs up the fact that it was that odious man or his strumpet who killed Lucinda.”

Mrs Walters decided that she had spent enough time with the young people and that they should be allowed a little time to themselves before retiring for the night. She had lived a full life and completely understood the physical attractions between a man and woman. But she had also lived long enough to be aware that any long-term relationship needed the nurture of simply being together and sharing thoughts, laughter and experiences. Only in this way could a truly mature and lasting friendship develop that could underpin a marriage – yes, she admitted to herself, she dared to hope for that between them – when the first flush of passion started to cool.

Peter and Lucy spend another hour in his study, simply sitting and relaxing, talking of nothing in particular until it was time for bed.

“Peter,” said Lucy, just before they went upstairs, “how can we prove that it was Williams who killed Lucinda? I don’t really see it being Mrs Downing, but we must find the truth. I would hate it if Lucinda did not have the ‘closure’ of her case being resolved – even after all this time. It sounds to me as if the story about having to return her mother’s purse was nothing more than an excuse to cover them leaving the house.”

“Well, we know that the police never closed the case, or it would have been noted in the papers Roger found,” replied Peter. “I suppose the best we can hope for is that there is some other reference to those involved in the case in later issues of the local papers. Presumably Williams married his mistress, we can at least check on that, although it will not help directly with the case. If there was any evidence against them, it would have been recorded somewhere, but only if it had been easily accessible. I suppose the only forensic evidence available would be the murder weapon and that was never found, I believe.”

“Not as far as we know,” replied Lucy. “But I wonder what happened to Pete. He cannot simply have disappeared from the case. He now knows that Lucinda was murdered, so what would he have done next?”

“Mr Walters” said a vaguely familiar voice on the telephone, the following day, while Lucy was at work. “I think I have found something that might be of interest to you.”

“Who’s calling, please,” Peter replied guardedly. People in his position often received unsolicited calls from anyone ranging from people of dubious sanity offering esoteric knowledge, to ‘investment advisers’ hoping to rope him in to some more or less legitimate deal that sounded too good to be true – and therefore invariably was so.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the voice, this is Adam Dryden from The Times,” even when spoken, the initial letters of the paper’s name seemed to be capitalised. “We spoke a day or so ago about the Williams family from Croydon and something else has come to light. It may or may not be of interest, but I thought you might like to know about it. Can you come up to see me sometime? It is not the sort of thing that I could easily copy and fax to you, this time.”

Intrigued, Peter immediately thanked him and offered to travel up the following day. He hoped that Lucy was free to go as well, but if not, he could go alone and report back. On the other hand, it might be a red herring, so best not to waste her time as well as his. After all, Adam had told him almost nothing about his ‘find’.

“Trust you to do a woman’s job on your own?” Lucy joked when he told her about the call that evening, suggesting that he might go alone, “you must be kidding. Anyway, Adam might be after your body, so you will need me there to protect you.”

“I have no idea what it is he claims to have found, darling,” he told her. “Much as I would enjoy your company, I don’t want to drag you up to London on a fool’s errand.”

“Just you try and stop me,” she replied. “Unless, of course there is something I don’t know about you and you want to be seduced by a good looking young man.”

“I don’t think he is good looking enough for me,” said Peter feigning disdain at being offered anything less than perfection. “You’ve seen him.” He then carried a squealing Lucy upstairs and reminded her that his interests were solely directed towards her. She just had time to hope that she had not made so much noise as to embarrass his parents, whom she liked more and more each day and would hate to have offended them. If she had seen Audrey Walters fondly take hold of her husband’s hand, as she heard the sounds of Lucy being whisked off to the bedroom, she would not have worried.

Later on, she let out an exhausted sigh of pleasure and told Peter that she was free the next day, if he could stand seeing any more of her.

“I thought I had seen everything,” he replied deliberately misunderstanding her.

“Oh, I am sure I can find something else to surprise you,” she said, expertly extricating herself from his embrace, wriggling off the bed and dashing out of the bedroom towards the kitchen. “I’m famished,” she said, laughing at him for being so slow. “But for goodness sake be quiet as we pass your parents’ room. They must think we are depraved.”

Chapter 12 – London: April 2000

It was actually a week later, on a beautiful clear April morning, that Peter and Lucy actually managed to get up to London. She had been called in to work the following morning after all, because Karen had been taken ill and there was nobody else to cover the restaurant for that lunchtime. In fact, it was several days before she could make herself free again, and Peter had no intention of letting her miss out on the fun. Despite his fears that it could be a waste of time, he had a feeling that it would not be. And a day out with Lucy in London would be enjoyable, whatever the information at The Times might prove to be.

They left early in the morning, catching the commuter traffic; but getting on the train at Purley had the advantage that they were able to get seats before the mass of people boarded at South and East Croydon stations. Anyway, they were travelling first class, which was usually less crowded. Coffee on the train was almost drinkable, but seeing the face Lucy pulled after the first sip, promised to take her for a decent coffee and a croissant when they reached London.

They got into London Bridge station at about half past eight and joined the throng of people walking over the bridge itself.

“I always think that the building on the south side of the river is a very strange colour,” said Lucy, turning back to point at 1, London Bridge.

“Actually, it was worse when it was first built in the mid 80’s” said Peter, who had seen it at the time. “It has mellowed a lot – or perhaps I have simply become accustomed to it. Before they put it up, they put one of those stone facing blocks up on some scaffolding to see if it would work with the other buildings. On balance, I rather think it does. Now, anyway.”

“Always something new to see,” said Lucy. “I think London might look rather nice, when they have finished building it,” she joked. It never would be completed, of course; any capital city is bound to be an eternal ‘work in progress’.

They found a small café just off Monument Street and had the promised late breakfast, before heading off for The Times’ offices, to meet Adam Dryden.

On arrival, they were greeted by the same young man, who was perhaps older than they had thought; he was already starting to lose some of his hair, Lucy noticed, as she looked more closely.

“A bit old for you, don’t you think, darling?” she whispered to Peter.

Adam greeted Lucy and Peter with a surprising charm that somehow suited his rather dapper appearance, treating them as old friends, even though they had only met once before. He led them to an office where they were provided with really good quality coffee. When she remarked on it, Lucy was told that it was an Arabica bean, which was naturally lower in caffeine and therefore favoured by many modern businesses.

“Of course, less caffeine means that the journalists are not kept awake all day,” quipped their host, in a rather mean-spirited way. “But they can make the loss up with copious quantities of alcohol to help them sleep in the afternoon.” Even Lucy knew that this was no longer the case. Since the general exit from Fleet Street, decades earlier, the hard drinking lifestyle once enjoyed by its habitués has disappeared, to be replaced by a more earnest – and for some, less attractive – breed of journalism.

I thought you might like to have some peace and quiet in here, while I show you what I have found,” he told them. “Would you like to browse through these documents? I am afraid I became so interested I have read every word. They are largely handwritten and not very east to decipher. But then for a man of his class, it might be seen as being acceptable, I suppose.” (Meow, thought Lucy.)

“It is a diary written by a young man called Pete Harrison, who was a waiter in a London hotel at the start of the First World War,” he said. “It is quite short, but it mentioned the death of a young woman in the house of the same Mr Williams you were enquiring about, Mr Walters, and it makes interesting reading. Harrison was apparently in some sort of relationship with the girl.”

“How did it come into your possession?” asked Lucy, wishing to take the initiative, at least in part.

“Well, that is really interesting,” said Adam, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, almost as if noticing her as a person for the first time. “It seems that one of our reporters became interested in the murder and tracked down the boyfriend to his lodgings, knowing that he had been interviewed by the police. He got to know the young man and somehow obtained the journals that Harrison had been keeping for some weeks; ever since the girl had left the hotel suddenly, in fact. I think he suspected that something was amiss, but didn’t know what. Anyway, here they are, for what they are worth.” He left them to get on with their reading.

*

August 17th: Today, Pete had written, Lucinda left the Star to work in Croydon. She told me she was going for an interview, and would be back later in the day. But when she didn’t get back to her room by this evening, I asked in the kitchen and Monsieur Philippe told me in his haughty way that she had found a better position and would not be coming back. I thought it strange, because she had taken no luggage with her. One of the girls she shares – well, shared – a room with told me that she had left a message for me, but that it made no mention of not coming back.

August 19th: Well, that explains everything. She has written to me from her new employment, telling me that she had no idea that she was going to start work immediately, but that she has a half-day off on Tuesday next and if I can get to East Croydon railway station after lunch, she will meet me. The letter was really very sweet and seeing her again will make it worthwhile to lose my entire day off.

August 24th: We met up today, as planned, and Lucinda seemed very pleased to see me. We walked and talked for a long time, but all too soon it was time for me to catch my train back to London, and Lucinda had to get off home. Just before we parted, I asked her to be my sweetheart and she let me kiss her, so I suppose that was a ‘yes’. Anyway, we are meeting again next week. I am in love with her; I hope she is with me. But what if I join the Navy? Will she wait for me? Would it be better for me to wait to be called up, so that I have no option, but to go? Should we get married before I go? Does she even want to marry me? She has the beginnings of a new life of her own now, will she outgrow me?

August 31st: Saw Lucinda again, today. She really is the most wonderful girl in the world. We walked and kissed, she let me hold her hand, but nothing else. She is very young and I don’t want to do anything to frighten or hurt her. We have plenty of time – at least until I join the Navy, as I think I must.

September 7th: Lucinda let me walk her home, so I met the cook, Mrs Cooper. Freda, I think her name was. She was very nice and seems very much attached to Lucinda. She almost seemed to be interviewing me to make sure that I was good enough for her and that my intentions are ‘honourable’. Of course, they are. I love her. Lucinda, not Freda Cooper. Well, she’s nice too, but in a different way.

September 14th: Something has gone wrong. Today was horrible. I went to meet Lucinda, as usual now, but when I got to the station, she was not there. I was not worried at first, thinking that I had missed her, so I went to Grants tearooms to see if we had agreed to meet there and I had forgotten. I thought I saw her, but it was someone else. On my way to the house where she works, I met a group of soldiers from the train and they started to pick on me. I rather got the worst of it, but a nice woman helped clean me up and I eventually found my way to the house in Addiscombe Road. Couldn’t go in. Didn’t want her to see me in this mess, she might be cross and think that I am the sort of young man who gets into fights. I’m not; perhaps if I were, I would not have taken such a beating. Decided to go home without seeing her – probably for the best.

September 29th: I am getting really worried now. I have heard nothing from Lucinda for ages. I think I will go and see her next week, whether she wants me to or not!!!

October 2nd: This is even worse than the beating I had, and not having seen or heard from Lucinda for weeks. A police sergeant came to see me today and told me that she was dead. Killed. I must have fainted, because I don’t remember much. I know I gave him a full account of my movements that awful day. I am sure that he suspected me of harming Lucinda, but he didn’t arrest me. I wonder why not? Surely, the poor boyfriend or husband must have done it. Isn’t that what the police always think? At least it says so in all the books.

October 7th: I have heard nothing from the police for days, now. I think they have lost interest in the case, so I am going to Croydon to see if I can find out who murdered my Lucinda. I know that I didn’t kill her, so someone else must have. It is October now and business in the hotel is dropping off a bit. There are still plenty of officers staying, but they seem to be eating elsewhere a lot of the time, so the restaurant is becoming quiet. Several waiters have already been laid off, and I think I may be next. Perhaps I will go and enlist now, and then see if I can take some time off to visit Croydon and find out what happened, before I am due to be ‘called up’.

October 9th: I managed to find the nice lady who patched me up after the fight. Her name is Mrs Edwards and I met her by chance, as soon as I reached East Croydon. She spends a lot of time around the station, for some reason. She was very kind, recognising me at once and asking if I needed any help. I told her everything and she was most sympathetic, saying that she had a spare room that I might use free of charge, for as long as I wanted. I think she likes me because of what happened on my last visit. Apparently she has gentlemen visitors sometimes during the day and early evening, but I was to ignore them. My first visit was to Mrs Cooper. She seemed really pleased to see me and sat me down with a large mug of tea. She told me as much as she could about what had happened – which wasn’t much – and that she would help me if she could. After finishing my tea, I went outside to look round. Bumped into the man I had seen by the gate on the day Lucy had been killed. He seemed to suspect that I had done it, but I told him I had only just reached the house when he had seen me. He told me that Lucinda had already been dead, by then; he had seen the body, although he had not told anyone he worked with – Just the police – because he should not have been in the house anyway. We talked in the garden for some time, as he seemed rather lonely and I had no idea what to do next.

While we were walking round the garden, we went near the place where he burns off old branches from the garden and other rubbish. I saw an object poking out of the remains of an earlier bonfire. That looks like the handle of Mrs Garraway’s umbrella, says Mr Potter, adding that he had never really liked her. Most of it was burned to a crisp, but the handle was undamaged, so we agreed that I should take it to the police.

October 10th: Met Inspector Pritchard, who had been investigating Lucinda’s ‘case’ as he put it. Showed him the Umbrella and told him that Mr Potter and I had found it. He said he could see traces of dried blood on it – which made me feel rather sick. He said it was probably the murder weapon, as it fitted the injury pattern. I was sick then, but he was very nice about it. He said that they could not use it to find the killer, because there was no possibility of any fingerprints having survived the fire. I am not sure if he really believes me about how we found it – he might think it is a trick to throw suspicion off Mr Potter and me, because we are each other’s alibi, Mr Potter told me. Anyway, he let me go, but asked for my address in Croydon, if I was staying. When I told him, he raised an eyebrow and smiled, but would not say why.

Mr Potter and I seem to have struck up a friendship of sorts. Perhaps it is because he and Mrs Cooper seem to be some sort of friends and she liked Lucinda. It makes me feel as if I am among friends myself, perhaps for the first time since I left home more than ten years’ ago to work at the Star. I knew plenty of people there, but it was not really family, or even close friends; other than Lucinda, of course. And we were only just getting started. Perhaps I will find the same sort of camaraderie in the Navy. I hope so. I am definitely going to join-up – as soon as I discover what happened to Lucinda.

October 11th: Talking with Mrs Edwards, I was telling her about the discovery and mentioned that it was at the house of a Mr Williams. ‘Not Archie Williams’ exclaims she. She said that he was one of the gentlemen who occasionally called to see one of her young ladies. It was news to me that there were other women in the house – they must be very quiet, or only there when I am out. Apparently, he was not a popular visitor.

I now realise what sort of house I am living in – no wonder the Police Inspector looked surprised at where I was staying. Anyway, Mrs Edwards said that he was often rather rough with the girls and that they had been pleased when he had taken up with the wife of a Captain in the army. She felt sorry for the woman, but if she was married to someone else, then she was probably getting what she deserved. At least her girls only did it for money.

Mrs Edwards then told me Mr Williams had actually been at the house the day I had been attacked, only a little later. He had stayed the night in the very room I was now occupying, in fact, claiming there was a funny smell at the house. It seemed rather strange to Mrs Edwards, but he paid well, so … Anyway, she did not know if he stayed in all night. But Mrs Cooper had told me that they had been visiting Mrs Downing’s mother that night! What had been going on?

“Something is very wrong,” Lucy said to Peter as they read through the document. “Williams clearly lied to everyone – including the police, perhaps, if they ever really bothered with him – about where he was on the night Lucinda was killed.”

“Of course,” replied Peter, “That does not necessarily mean he killed her, even though we suspect it to be the case. But it certainly makes him appear suspicious; it needed to be looked into. But would the police have done so, given his social position?”

“I wonder what Pete did next?” said Lucy, ignoring his comment. “Let’s read on.”

October 12th: What Mrs Edwards told me had been worrying me all night. Well that and some noises from the room above mine that I suspect have nothing to do with the occupant being ill. All that moaning sounds rather theatrical – but it’s not my business and I am not paying for the room, after all. Not sure what to do next. It seems unlikely that Inspector Pritchard would want to go and question a gentleman on the basis of what a brothel keeper and cook say about his whereabouts. Indeed, they might be reluctant to testify even if it did come to a court case. The one might not wish the notoriety for her ‘house’ and the other could fear losing her employment – without a reference.

I have no option but to go and see Mr Williams and challenge him. After all, what have I to lose? But why should he agree to see me? And what can I do, even if he admits to having killed my darling Lucinda?

Later: A journalist from The Times came to see me this afternoon and I think I may have the answer. He had read these notes and says that all we need do is to get Williams to make a false statement in front of a witness and that should be sufficient for the police to investigate. If not, he will find a way of printing a story about the suspicious circumstances and use what he called ‘the court of public opinion’ to punish Williams, even if the law courts cannot. I am going to see him tomorrow morning, if he is at home.

October 13th: I have spoken with Mrs Edwards and she is willing to say Mr Williams was in her house that evening. Hopefully that will make Mr Williams say something about his actual activities.

Mr Williams agreed to see me, rather to my surprise. I think it may have been in deference to Mrs Cooper, who told him that I was a friend of Lucinda’s and needed to clear my name of involvement in her death. When I challenged him about his whereabouts on the night of her death, he was remarkably cool about it. He told the same story about having visited Mrs Downing’s mother, but when I mentioned that I was staying with Mrs Edwards, he became rather more agitated. He asked if she had mentioned him and I said she had, and what she had told me about him and Mrs Downing being there, rather than in Sydenham. He asked me and Mrs Edwards to meet him later that evening at the Marquis of Granby, a public house in Moreland Road, not far from Mrs Edwards’ house, so that we could talk about it. I think he means to bribe us to keep quiet; it won’t work!!

We are just off. I am leaving these notes in a letter addressed to the journalist, so that he can carry on with the investigation should Mr Williams try anything.

*

“And there it finishes,” said Adam, who had returned to the room they were using to read the document with more coffee for them. “I saw you were coming to the end, so I thought you might need this to revive you. Not easy to read his handwriting, is it? Although it’s quite well constructed … for his class.”

“I don’t want to appear rude,” said Lucy, accepting the cup of aromatic coffee, “but is that all there is? It was very interesting, and certainly gives us more information than we already had, but it rather finishes in mid-air, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Adam, “I rather thought so too. So I couldn’t resist checking the archives for around that time. There was nothing in The Times, but the Croydon Advertiser had a story of interest.” He showed them the printout of a newspaper article he had clearly been keeping to himself. For dramatic effect; a would-be actor, Peter suspected. Perhaps musical comedy was his forte?

Late news: Tragedy in Death House

Thursday 14th October 1915

This newspaper is sad to announce the death of Mr Archibald Williams, recently married to the former Mrs Angelica Downing, widow of the late Captain George Downing. He was killed in a surprise Zeppelin raid on Croydon, yesterday night. Readers will recall that a young servant was brutally murdered in his house in September and that police were unable to find any evidence as to the identity of her killer. Mr Williams will be missed by Croydon Society. His late father, Sir Henry Williams had been a leading light in the political and charitable life of the town and it had been expected that his son would soon follow in his footsteps. Mr Williams was understood to have been in the vicinity of the air-raid and may have taken refuge in a public house, which was subsequently struck by an explosive device dropped or thrown from the Zeppelin.

Strange coincidences

Mr Pete Harrison, a waiter at The Star of Ceylon hotel in Mayfair, was apparently in the same location with a friend, Mrs Edwards of Leslie Park Road, both of whom were also killed in the vicious and unannounced aerial raid by the Bosch. Mr Harrison was the friend of the young servant who was killed last month and Mrs Edwards was a well-known ‘hostess’ amongst certain sections of the Croydon community.

It has been scurrilously suggested that Mr Williams occasionally frequented Mrs Edwards’s house and might have been there on the night of the girl’s murder. It is, however, understood that he had stated he was actually visiting his fiancé’s mother at the time, some miles away. This being the case, he could not have been at his own home at the time of the death, due to the distances involved. A reporter from a London newspaper is understood to have been investigating the killing at Mr Williams’ home, but was unable to furnish any additional information to the Croydon Advertiser at this time.

“There is one more item,” said Adam with a flourish which Lucy was certain was aimed at impressing Peter, rather than herself. He placed a further cutting from the Croydon Advertiser in front of them.

Posthumous son for Double Death Tragedy House

Thursday 15th April 1916

Mrs Angelica Williams, widow of the late Archibald Williams of Williams Lodge, Addiscombe, is pleased to announce the birth of her son, Archibald George, named for the child’s father and in remembrance of her beloved first husband, Captain George Downing. The Captain had been a close friend of Mr Williams, who died in Flanders early in the war.

“Thank, you, Adam,” said Peter, shaking the young man warmly by the hand and smiling. “You have given us an insight into the story that answers most of our questions. We really mustn’t take any more of your valuable time,” he added to the now crestfallen young man, who had hoped to get to know Peter rather better – perhaps for his fame, although Lucy rather doubted that. They beat a hasty, but polite, retreat – not because Peter actually feared he was becoming the focus of some rather, to him, unsavoury attention, but because they wanted to talk between themselves about what had transpired.

“It seems to me that Mr Williams must have been our killer,” said Lucy as soon as they got out of the building.

“I agree, but let’s get some food, first,” replied Peter.

They walked to a café near to The Times offices so that they could have something to eat and ruminate over what they had learned.

“I am convinced that Williams – with or without the direct involvement of Mrs Downing – killed Lucinda,” said Lucy. “But do you think that he might somehow also have been responsible for the deaths of Pete and Mrs Edwards? He clearly had a motive to ‘deal’ with them and whatever Pete might have thought, he would have known bribery was a dead end; Mrs Edwards would have held it over him for ever, even had Pete proved susceptible to an offer of money.”

“He could hardly have orchestrated a Zeppelin raid. But we can at least try and find out more,” replied Peter. “I think we should bear in mind the alternative, however. It could still have been Mrs Downing who killed Lucinda and Williams was simply trying to protect her. After all, she had a motive to kill a possible rival. We have to ask ourselves whether Williams had sufficient motive for the killing.”

“Perhaps he feared Lucinda would complain to someone and that Mrs Downing would hear about it,” suggested Lucy unwilling to give up her pet theory about the identity of the killer. And to be fair, Peter shared her view; only throwing Mrs Downing into the mix for the sake of balance.

Whatever her belief, Lucy accepted that Peter was at least right to have an open mind on the possible involvement of Mrs Downing. Instead, she decided to suggest they should pursue the circumstances of Pete’s death. They telephoned the newly-promoted Inspector Roger Odugu, to see if he could help, while finishing their lunch.

“I hope you are not too important to talk with a humble member of the public now, Roger,” said Peter, as soon as he was put through. “They didn’t seem to want to put me through without knowing what I wanted to talk about.”

“Yes. Sorry about that, Peter,” replied his old friend. “Inspectors don’t seem to have the freedom of action that Sergeants do. I am thinking of asking for my old job back,” he joked. “What can I do for you and that lovely young woman of yours? Isn’t she tired of you yet?”

Ignoring the jibe, Peter briefly outlined that he was looking for information about the Zeppelin raid that had taken place on 13th October 1915 in Addiscombe. “We are particularly interested in the location and condition of the bodies of three people, if the reports are that detailed,” he added, giving Roger their names.

“I’ll see what I can find, and get back to you,” he promised. “Now, can I get on with some real police work?” he added without sounding in the least eager to do so.

During their train journey home, Lucy was rather quiet. Peter didn’t want to disturb her thoughts. After all, they were in love, not joined at the hip; she was entitled to some private time and he did not begrudge her a little privacy. In any case, she might be fantasising about him, he mused a smile spreading over his face as he wondered what new delights she might possibly be planning for that night. Lucy noticed his smile without knowing its cause and returned it with interest. She loved being with him and found some of the silences as endearing as the other activities they shared.

“I was thinking about your grandmother,” she said after a few moments, shattering his amorous daydreaming. “I wonder if she knew anything more about the Williams’s. She seemed to have been pretty observant, from what your mother said, and wasn’t unnecessarily discreet. Let’s ask mum,” she said, unconsciously using that term for Mrs Walters for the first time. Of course, it was not really appropriate unless she and Peter were married, but neither of them seemed to notice – or would have cared, had they done so.

“Now you come to mention it, grannie Walters did say something more about Mrs Downing – Mrs Williams as she became,” said Mrs Walters, during one of the rare family meals that they had shared. It was an infrequent event for Peter’s mother to bring his father downstairs for meals, but this was far from being an illustration of any unfriendliness towards a young woman whom she increasingly regarded as an important member of the household. She was sensible enough to want to give Lucy and Peter as much space as possible to reach whatever longer-term accommodation suited them. There was also the issue of Mr Walters senior. It was not often that he was lucid enough to sit with them for an entire meal – without wondering why the nursery-maid was eating with them. On this occasion, he seemed to accept Lucy for who she was, but took no part in the discussion, simply listening to the chatter; or being in a world of his own – it was often difficult to tell which.

“Apparently, there was some money in the family that nobody knew about. You will recall, my dear,” she told Lucy, who had broached the subject, “that Mrs Downing and her mother lived in one of the less salubrious areas to the north of Croydon. Well, that was because they had no money. But the Captain came from a wealthy family and that was the trouble. As soon as he declared his intention to marry the young woman, his family threatened to disown him. Of course, he took no notice and they married anyway, initially living with her mother. His army pay was totally inadequate to support them, of course.”

“What a sad story,” said Lucy. She had no fears that her own lover’s family would reject him should he marry her; indeed, they seemed rather keen on the union. So much so that she sometimes worried that they might be pushing Peter in a direction he didn’t really want to go – or at least faster and further than he was comfortable with. It was something that she might need to watch out for, sooner or later.

“Yes,” continued Mrs Walters, “but what only a few people knew – grannie had it from a close friend, Peter – was that after the Captain died, the family relented and decided to settle a lump sum on Mrs Downing, in case there were any children to be provided for. Of course, Williams was far from poor, so he could afford to provide for her himself; but nobody in the family knew that he intended to marry her as soon as she became ‘available’. Perhaps the attraction of her inheriting £80,000 would have been an incentive for him to marry her, had he been in any doubt about it. He certainly knew the money was on its way, because he was instrumental in communicating the details to Mrs Downing immediately after news of her husband’s death reached Mr Downing’s parents. Williams was, after all, the Captain’s closest friend and could be relied upon to look after the widow. Which he did, in his own way, I suppose.”

Lucy recognised that what seemed a substantial sum in 2000, would have been a significant fortune in 1915. “Of course there was a child, born the following year,” she said. “Although it was not the Captain’s but Mr Williams’s, so the family might not have wanted to part with so much money after all.”

“But the money was settled irrevocably on her immediately after the Captain’s death, according to grannie Walters,” said Peter’s mother. “Apparently it was considered indelicate to enquire whether his widow was already ‘with child’ when her husband died, so they effectively made over the money on the spot.”

“So if Mrs Downing had taken against Williams, he would have lost access to the cash,” triumphed Peter. “We have our motive after all.”

“While in reality, it was the double widow who became independently wealthy,” concluded Lucy. “I hope she was good to her mother.”

*

“Roger wants to see us,” Peter told Lucy, a few days later. She was finding it increasingly irksome to have to go to work five shifts a week, but could not decide whether it was because it prevented her from spending more time with Peter, or because it impinged on their investigation. She hoped it was the latter, because she had no desire to become financially dependent on anyone, even someone she loved as much as Peter. Besides, she was not the type to sit around doing nothing all day – although there were plenty of other, perhaps more productive, things she could be doing instead of running a restaurant, she felt. Like working full time with Peter.

“Is it time for us to give him lunch?” asked Lucy. “There is a new chef at the restaurant and I would like to try him out on someone we know.”

“What if he poisons him?” asked Peter in mock alarm. “We don’t want the rozzers after us for manslaughter! They tend to take it to heart if one of their own cops it.”

“Quite apart from the awful pun,” replied Lucy with mock hauteur, “he is really quite a good chef, so I don’t think you need worry for your friend. Unless he has a delicate stomach,” she added. “Raymond is a demon with the spices.”

“Roger has the constitution of an Ox,” said Peter. “In fact, thinking about it, that is not his only resemblance to a bovine, from what I recall from the school showers. But I had better say nothing more, I don’t want you making unfavourable comparisons. I’ll invite him down for when you are next off duty and you can eat as a guest yourself.”

“This is delicious, Lucy,” Roger said as they attacked their starters. “I hope you didn’t mind me bringing along my Detective Sergeant, Greta Skarin,” he indicated the leggy blonde sitting next to him, who spoke perfect English with only a faint trace of accent. She was clearly out of Roger’s league, being much younger than any of them and was, he told them, a fast-tracked secondment from the Stockholm police department. “She has a doctorate from Stockholm University in criminology and I wanted her to study you two,” he added.

“Not at all,” replied Lucy, “we are pleased to meet someone who is able to keep an eye on you. How long are you here for, Greta?” she asked.

“I am here for six months – or until I get tired of baby-sitting an old man,” she added. Clearly, their working relationship was adequately close to allow such jokes. Peter knew that this was rare amongst the police, where deference to rank held one of its last bastions. Perhaps this was due to the temporary nature of their association. “To be honest, I much prefer his wife, but she is kept at home with the children,” she added, possibly to make it clear that there was no romantic element to their otherwise close bond.

“Actually, I have wanted to meet you both ever since Roger told me about your investigation,” she said, closely looking at Lucy. “I find it fascinating that you are able to recall the details of someone else’s life in such detail that is corroborated by independent evidence. Do you feel that you are in some way related to these two women?”

“I don’t see how I could, be,” replied Lucy. “Neither had children, or close siblings, as far as we can discover. The connection between me and them seems to be one of locus, rather than family. Everything seems to revolve around this geographical area, where I have always lived. But there appears to be nothing more direct.”

“From my perspective,” added Peter, taking on a more professional aura, “Lucy is a ‘sensitive’ someone through whom the dead can somehow communicate, but only with the assistance of a ‘medium’. Some people argue this would only be possible if there is such a thing as an afterlife and ghosts really do exist – which many deny. But I think some events are so psychically significant that they can leave an impression on a building, or other place, which can be felt by someone suitably receptive. I suppose that sounds like bunkum to you?”

“If the word ‘bunkum’ means ‘nonsense’, Peter, then the answer is no,” said Greta, smiling. “As part of my doctoral research, I investigated whether some killers were motivated by something outside themselves, rather than inherent evil, or some other internal driver. I must admit that, on occasions, I felt as if some of the cases I was studying had a dimension far beyond any evidence the police could find. It was as if certain killers were driven by something outside themselves. I could not accept the concept of a personified devil, so there had to be something else. I suppose it was this general uncertainty which made me decide to enter the police department after finishing my degree. I have to know.”

“And that is why I brought Greta with me today,” said Roger. “She has been doing some research into the Croydon bombing raid on 13th October 1915. I think you will find it interesting.”

“Yes,” said Greta, as they finished their desserts. “There were some inconsistencies in the position of the bodies that nobody seems to have taken an interest in at the time. I suppose this being one of the first air-raids in England, the nature and extent of people’s injuries were not fully investigated. It seems that everyone was too shocked by what had happened to look too closely at the details. I have summarised the police surgeon’s report for you, and added my own comments. Perhaps you would like to read it while we have some coffee?” she suggested as the waiter came to see if they required anything further.

Chapter 13 – Croydon: October 1915

Report of Police Surgeon G. Peters – 14th October 1915

Called to the Marquis of Granby in Moreland Road to witness deaths following Zeppelin raid, last night.

Found five bodies already uncovered by Police Constable Jones. Two more found in rubble while I was present which I also examined.

Body 1. A gentleman, subsequently identified as Mr Archibald Williams of Addiscombe Road. Injuries consistent with having been struck by debris from building rubble following the detonation of a landmine dropped from above. He appeared to have been leaving the building at the time of his death, presumably being unaware that the silent airship was above him. Death instantaneous at about 9:30 p.m.

Body 2. A woman, subsequently identified as the landlady of the Marquis of Granby, one Mrs Green. She had been in the bar at the time and was killed by the collapse of the floor above her following one of the detonations. Death instantaneous at about 9:30 p.m.

Body 3. A working man, currently unidentified, who appeared to have been drinking in the main bar when it was struck. Cause and time of death as for Body 2.

Bodies 4 & 5. Two children under the age of seven, believed to be those of Mrs Green. They had apparently been sleeping above the bar and were killed instantly by the explosion, subsequently falling through the floor into the bar area.

Body 6. A young man, well dressed in working class attire with clean hands, suggesting that he was not a manual worker. His body was only found after police started clearing the rear taproom, which was empty other than for bodies 6 and 7 (see below). His injuries were far less obvious, there being no visible sign of the trauma usually associated with an explosion. Given our inexperience of aerial bombardment it might be that the injuries, which included a nasty gash on the throat, were a natural corollary of shrapnel distribution.  Time of death could have been no later than 9:30 p.m.

Body 7. A middle aged woman, whom one of the constables recognised as the keeper of a house of ill-repute near the railway, one Mrs Edwards. She was found in the same location as Body 6 displaying almost identical injuries, which I found slightly strange, but for which I can offer no explanation other than chance. One difference was that she had a deep cut on her right hand, as if she had grasped a sharp knife, of which there was no trace.

I have issued death certificates for all seven bodies and see no reason for a more detailed post-mortem examination.

Signed: Gilbert Peters MA, MRCP

A hand written note was appended: Mr Williams’s walking stick was later found in the rubble outside the building.

“I was amazed that Dr Peters decided not to investigate the last two deaths in greater detail given how different they were from the other five,” said Greta. “Unfortunately, there is no more detail and forensic evidence from the Great War period is almost non-existent.”

“Yes, I told Greta how lucky we had been to find the underskirt in Lucia’s case,” said Roger. “There was absolutely nothing to be found in this one; we both looked.”

“What strikes me most is the cuts to Mrs Edwards’ hands,” said Peter. “If I were a gambling man, I would say they were caused by the swordstick, rather than a knife, if they were still in use then?” he added looking at Roger.

“Way ahead of you, old chum,” the Detective Inspector replied. “They were falling out of fashion from the end of the Victorian era, but their sale was not actually made illegal until 1988, so it is easily possible for Williams to have used one. In fact, knowing he was meeting two people who could potentially implicate him in the death of his servant would make it probable that he would have armed himself.”

“I suppose we could put the story together something like this,” said Lucy who had been thinking about the timeline. “If Williams told Mrs Edwards and Pete to meet him at the Marquis of Granby at nine, he could have lured them into a back room, ostensibly for a private talk, while the main bar was busy with people drinking before closing time. I think I recall that bars had to close at 9:30 p.m. in those days.”

“Yes,” said Peter, picking up the thread of her thoughts, as they increasingly did with each other. “One can imagine that he was ready for anything, ranging from bribing them into silence, to something more drastic. Pete would certainly not have agreed to suppress the information they had about Williams having lied regarding his whereabouts on the day of the death, although I suppose Mrs Edwards might have been more amenable, given the right incentive.”

“Oh, no, Peter,” said Lucy. “I think she probably hated Williams and had certainly taken a shine to Pete. No, she would have resisted any such offer, too.”

“Which left Williams with only one option,” continued Peter. “To silence them, once and for all.”

“He must have been prepared for their refusal and somehow overpowered them,” said Lucy. “I imagine that he killed Pete first, as he was a relatively fit young man, and this gave Mrs Edwards time to at least try to protect herself.”

“Yes, but having slit two throats, how did he intend to get away with murder – again?” asked Peter. “The air-raid was completely unpredictable. He must have had some sort of plan.”

“That brings us back to the killing of Lucinda,” said Lucy. “If it was him and not Mrs Downing – as seems more likely now we know he knew about her inheritance – he must have nerves of steel …”

“… and the ability to improvise,” added Peter.

“It’s so sweet, the way you finish each other’s sentences,” said Roger, smiling. “Just like an old married couple.” Neither seemed embarrassed by his analysis, as they might have been not so very long ago. Nevertheless, for form’s sake, Peter told him to stop talking such nonsense.

“Actually,” said Greta, “given everything I have heard about your Mr Williams, I rather suspect that he is just the sort of man who could get away with murder. He clearly had a quick mind and little regard for the views of society. Perhaps a man of his class, in his time, really was above the law; but he seems to have displayed many of the traits that we now think of as being those of a sociopath. His disregard for those he considered beneath him, for convention and for his family. Look at how his own mother seems to have disappeared from his life, as soon as he inherited his father’s money.

“Yes, I can easily believe that he could kill and then plan his escape ‘on the hoof’,” said Peter, regaining the initiative for himself and Lucy. “Look at the way he created an instant alibi for himself and Mrs Downing, after he had killed Lucinda. He told everyone he was taking his fiancé to her mother’s house and then calmly went to use a prostitute. What he told Mrs Downing was anyone’s guess, but I suspect that he told her there had been an accident at the house and that he had to go and sort it out.”

“Yes, but why did she back him up in the lie that they had spent the night together at her mother’s?” asked Lucy. “Is it possible that she was involved more deeply than we suspected in the original murder and had no alternative but to back him up in his lies?”

“Or,” added Greta, “It may have been that she was scared of him and felt she had no choice. After all, she may not have known then that she was due to inherit a large sum of money very soon. Mr Williams might have kept that from her. Lucy, what did Lucinda really think of him – before the rape, of course?”

“Looking back, I suppose that there was something more than the usual respect for an employer and the risk she might be sacked at any time without a reference,” replied Lucy. “In retrospect, I wonder whether I failed to notice her instinctive mistrust of the man, at the time. After all, I had recognised him and was already suspicious; but she could not have known that. Our ‘communication’ was not a two-way street. But now you mention it, I think even she felt it rather strange how she was whipped out of the hotel and into his service without really understanding what was going on.”

“It’s interesting,” added Peter, who had not really thought of this before, “but Williams had never seen Lucinda before she came up to his room for the ‘interview’. It was not as if he had spotted an attractive young woman and decided that he would employ – and then seduce – her. He simply asked to see the person who had made such a delightful dish. It could have been a man, for all he knew. Someone he wanted to tip.”

“Then his decision to take her to Croydon must have been on the spur of the moment,” responded Lucy, again picking up the direction of Peter’s thoughts. “He must have arranged her departure from the Hotel after meeting her, not have planned it in advance, simply to secure a new cook, as we had understood. That makes him a fast thinker and an audacious planner.” She shuddered involuntarily at the thought that Lucinda had fallen into the clutches of such a man.

“What you tell me makes me even more confident that he was her killer,” said Greta. “That he deliberately murdered Pete and Mrs Edwards is almost certain. My reading of him is that he never really intended to try and bribe them into silence; he simply would not have trusted people of their class. In fact, the profile I am building up of him suggests that he would not be inclined to trust anyone at all.”

“The little we know about Mrs Downing also suggests that she was not likely to have the initiative to commit murder,” added Roger. “Admittedly, she would have had a motive to kill a rival, but no servant girl would have been that. Anyway, women of her class were all too accustomed to their husbands, even future husbands, having affairs. Yes, I know that is horrible,” he held up his hand as Lucy made to object, “but that was how the world worked then. Remember it was less than half a century since the 1870 Married Women’s Property Act had given women control over their money within a marriage and it was not for a further dozen years that the situation reached its current position. Women still largely had to accept their husband’s actions without comment.”

“Yes,” added Peter. “Women who complained about the behaviour of their husbands would have risked facing financial ruin. It is likely that this mind-set remained for a long time after the law changed.”

“Surely the change in the law would have meant the new Mrs Williams would have been entitled to keep the settlement from her first husband’s family, whatever happened,” said Lucy, to whom this was all rather new. She was a fast study. “But then she didn’t know about it in the first place, as far as we can tell.”

“No,” replied Peter. “Had he lived, Williams could not really have spent his wife’s money without her consent – and she would have had to know of its existence eventually.”

“On the other hand,” countered Lucy, “he sounds such a pig that she might have had difficulty in preventing him from doing whatever he wanted to. But we are wandering from the point, which is that we seem to have proved – at least to our own satisfaction – that Williams killed Lucinda, just as his natural father, Brown, murdered Lucia. Thank you so much for everything you have done for us, Roger.” She rewarded him with a beatific smile. “And you, too, Greta. I don’t suppose we would have had such useful insight into the case without your input.”

“That’s all very well,” said Peter, “but what about Pete’s letter? Why was nothing done with it?”

“What letter?” asked Greta, who had not known of such a document before.

“One of the things that helped us on our trail of discovery was a sort of diary written by Pete in the lead up to his death,” explained Lucy. “He left it with a letter to a Times journalist, which is how we got our best lead in the first place. Adam, a dear friend of Peter’s, found it in their archive and showed it to us.”

“He’s no friend of mine,” interjected Peter quickly, remembering the interest that the somewhat effete man seemed to have been taking in him. “I am sure that he was really more interested in you.”

“You think that, if it makes you less uncomfortable, darling,” replied Lucy with an impish expression. “But I think you should have been flattered …”

“That’s all very well,” blustered her victim, “but it still doesn’t tell us why the contents of the waiter’s note were never followed up.”

“Can’t help you there, old son,” said Roger. “Anyway, Greta and I need to get back to some real police work. So, thanks for lunch and please do not hesitate to call on someone else, next time you need some help, Peter.” With which he and his detective sergeant left to digest their larger than usual lunch and show their faces at the station before people started to suspect them of having an illicit affair. Which Roger might have liked, but Greta most certainly was not interested in. She was already involved with a pretty brunette civilian support officer; but prejudice being what it was in the police force here, she felt that suspicions about herself and the notorious lothario who was her DI would be excellent cover.

“That was a good point, darling,” Lucy told Peter as he drove her home.

“Which one?” he asked. “I made so many, as I recall.”

“Then your memory must be different from mine,” she joked. “I only remember the one about Pete’s notes and the letter to the journalist. We know that he found it, but not why no further action was taken. How can we find that out?”

“My guess is that the letter was circumstantial and uncorroborated – and they were in the middle of a war, you remember – so The Times would probably not have touched it with a ten-foot barge pole,” opined Peter. “They had bigger fish to fry.”

“No, perhaps not,” agreed Lucy, ignoring his somewhat mixed metaphors. “But I wonder if the Advertiser might have run an additional story, if approached? They did, after all, report everything else, including the subsequent birth of Mrs Williams’ son. I suppose they may have felt that a negative story would be injurious to the family – and serve no useful purpose. After all the killer was dead, so there could be no prosecution, and no chance for Williams to defend himself.”

“On the other hand, you cannot defame the dead,” said Peter. “So unless Mrs Williams was somehow implicated in the murder, the story could have been run with impunity. But there was also his mother. She was still alive; perhaps she had the influence to stop anything potentially damaging being printed. How can we find out more, I wonder?”

Once again, it was Audrey Walters who provided some assistance. She had moved beyond simply encouraging the research that Lucy and Peter were doing in order to foster their relationship, to taking a positive interest in the whole thing. Of course, she had witnessed the initial regression session, if not the second, and had listened to their deliberations. It was therefore natural for them to tell her what had happened that day. As soon as they got home Lucy spent her usual half an hour with Peter’s father reading the same articles from the gardening magazine to him, over and over again while Peter checked his e-mail and messages. Afterwards – they could not face a meal that evening, given the size of their lunch with Roger and Greta – they sat down with his mother to discuss the day’s events.

“Well of course,” said Mrs Walters, “you know grannie Walters never had much time for the Williams’ – they really lived in different circles, other than the occasional event she could not avoid. My mother on the other hand, grannie Delaney, was something of a free spirit and got to know a wide variety of people before she met my father. Possibly afterwards; I was never really sure about some of our visitors. Anyway, that is beside the point. What I do recall was that she had a job. Not quite as outrageous as it sounded at the time, because with the war on, several women from good families did. She worked at the Croydon Advertiser as a typewriter, or whatever they were called at the time and she did tell me once about an important London reporter who went to the offices several times shortly after the first air-raid and asked to see the editor. Well, on the second occasion, there was apparently an almighty row, because granny could hear all the shouting from the office at the other end of the building. Well, so she said, anyway.”

“Have you any idea what the argument was about?” asked Peter, with bated breath.

“Well, all grannie Delaney would tell me was that the reporter stormed out of the office shouting something along the lines of ‘well if all you are worried about is your advertisers, rather than the truth, you can go to hell’,” replied his mother. “Sorry about the language, Lucy dear, but those were mother’s exact words to me, some years later when she was telling me about the war. Of course, father never spoke about it; none of the men did.”

Peter and Lucy repaired to his office to mull over what his mother had told them. Spending time in the front room was also something of a ritual and by tacit agreement, nobody ever entered if the door was shut. The party line was they might be attempting another regression session or talking on the telephone with someone. The reality was that Audrey Walters was far too worldly to doubt how much of their time was spend, and far too understanding of young people to suspect that they would confine their amorous activities to the bedroom. She didn’t care, she just wanted her son to be happy. And to give her grandchildren, before it was too late to enjoy them, of course.

“I don’t think there can be any doubt that the reporter who went to the Advertiser was the one who had been in contact with Pete and was the recipient of the letter and notes,” summarised Peter. “That the Advertiser refused to run the story is probably why the notes languished in The Times’s archive until my ‘friend’ – as you so eloquently put it – came across them and told us.”

“But why did they refuse to run the story?” asked Lucy. “Your ‘other’ grannie clearly mentioned ‘advertisers’. Could it be that one of them put pressure on the editor to suppress the story? And, if so who were they and why were they concerned?”

“The pressure seems incontrovertible,” replied Peter. “But the ‘who’ and the ‘why’ are a different matter. I don’t think we could ask Roger for any more help at the moment; in any case, I am not sure that he would be in a position to know anything. I suggest our best option is to go back to the Advertiser and identify who was prominent in their pages at the time and see where that takes us.”

“Not you two again?” said the archivist at the Croydon Advertiser, although not in an unfriendly manner. Visitors were rare enough to be interesting and this couple were a pleasant distraction from more routine matters. “How can we help you, this sunny spring afternoon?”

Lucy smiled and asked if they could see the microfiche for September to December 1915. Directed towards the appropriate place, they sat down to look through the adverts, rather than news articles. They were looking for the frequency and size of adverts for each company.

“We can clearly ignore any small adverts and personal announcements,” said Peter. “None of them are likely to spend sufficient to influence an editorial decision.”

“Actually, we had a party of journalists at the restaurant a few months back,” said Lucy, “and they said editors are never influenced by advertisers.”

“I hope you didn’t take too much notice of them, darling,” replied Peter. “Saying that is a mantra of their profession that flies out of the window as soon as they are threatened by anyone they cannot afford to do without.”

“You sound as if you speak from bitter experience,” she countered.

“Well, perhaps I have had a run in with some reviewers in the past,” he admitted. “Apparently, they are more interested in pandering to the whims of the people who promote lots of shows at various venues, than the artistes who actually appear in them. If push comes to shove, it is always the performer who is at fault, never the venue or the organisers.”

“Ouch!”

They gathered their evidence and returned home, where they got down to comparing the column inches for each advertiser during the four-month period. It quickly became apparent that there were fewer than half a dozen companies advertising on any significant scale. One of these was Cassa Lucia.

“Now there’s a name to conjure with,” said Peter. “Could there have been any connection between the Lamberti family and Williams, I wonder?”

“Well Williams might have patronised the restaurant, perhaps,” suggested Lucy. “From what Guy told us, it was relatively up-market by the time of the First World War. But I cannot imagine that he would have been so significant to them that they might use their influence to protect his reputation.”

“Neither can I” agreed Peter. “I suppose we could ask Guy. It might be that Williams was a silent investor in the restaurant, although that seems rather unlikely. I don’t suppose that Duilio – Giuseppe’s son who must have been running the business by then – knew anything about the connection between the Williams’ and his cousin’s murder, but it seems equally unlikely to me that an Italian family would have welcomed an external investor, whoever it was. Might there have been some other link between them?”

“It seem unlikely to me,” concluded Lucy. “They really moved in different social circles. Upper middle class people don’t usually consort with caterers,” she added with humorous malice, to see if he would pick up the comparison. He did and they spent the remainder of the evening with Peter demonstrating to Lucy how their ‘consorting’ was special. To them both.

“There is another option,” said Peter the next morning, as they shared a leisurely breakfast with his mother. “What if Mrs Williams, as she had become, had some sort of connection with the restaurant. She was now married to a wealthy man – and would soon have even more money, although I don’t suppose she knew about that so soon after his death. They could have been regular diners at the Cassa Lucia and she might have felt that she could protect her late husband’s reputation by asking Duilio for a favour. Heavens, she might even have worked for them in her more penurious days; had some sort of relationship with one of the family even.”

“That is a possibility,” replied Lucy, “but we might be moving rather far from what we can possibly know, now. Anyway, from what we can tell she was rather an insipid woman. Would she have had the drive – and intelligence – to work out such a plan to keep her husband’s name out of the papers? She had just lost the man whom she presumably loved,” Lucy shuddered at the thought of losing the man she loved – and at the idea that anyone could have loved Williams. “She would have been far too distraught to take such decisive action. Some women might, but not her, I am certain.”

“You are right, of course,” admitted Peter. “It was something of a long shot in any case. I am not keen to go back to Guy for more information about the restaurant, so I suggest we put this on the back-burner for a little while,” he added, proud of his culinary pun – to which neither his mother nor lover reacted.

“Yes,” said Mrs Walters. “From what I know of the family – which isn’t very much, admittedly – it seems most unlikely that she had even been in that form of service, it just wasn’t done, even in financial extremis. And I really don’t believe that even as a valued customer, she could have exercised any influence over them. Would you feel pressurised to threaten to withdraw your advertising, just because a regular customer asked you to, Lucy?

“No, I don’t suppose I would,” she admitted.

“Who were the other advertisers you identified?” asked Mrs Walters, giving them the opportunity to regroup their thoughts, having followed what she instinctively felt was a complete red herring.

“There were three main buyers of space on a regular basis, plus one or two others,” replied Lucy, who had been keeping their notes. “The largest advertisers by far were: Grant Brothers, the department store which Pete mentioned; a cycle and motor factory in Guildford, called Dennis Brothers; and the Croydon Mental Hospital.”

“I know quite a lot about Grants,” said Mrs Walters. “They were a highly reputable business for a long time before it closed. I gather it is now about to open as an ‘entertainment complex’ whatever that might be. No doubt the original tailor brothers are turning in their respective graves. As far as I am aware, there were no external investors – at least none were ever talked about – and it was highly popular with the smart set from France as well as South London, although that might have been after the Great War, when flying to Croydon Aerodrome became popular with the Parisians. I forget, now, it was slightly before my time.”

“It seems difficult to imagine that they would have been any more susceptible to external influence than the Lamberti family – probably less so, given the extent of their business,” said Peter. “No, I think that we can discount them, unless any new evidence appears.

The others agreed and they went on to discuss the other two primary advertisers. Dennis Brothers were largely discounted on the grounds that they were geographically remote from Croydon, even by train, and would have no obvious reason to be connected with a middle class family who did not appear to have embraced motoring that early – as evidence by the carriages they had used for getting around – and evinced no interest in cycling.

“I think Lucinda would have noticed a bicycle and I would have been aware of it,” said Lucy. “Of course, their use was far from new at that stage, but for a girl of her age and social position, surely it would have been noteworthy, at least? No I am in favour of discounting them as well. But what about the Mental Hospital. Did you notice what they were advertising for, Peter?”

“Actually, I did,” he replied. “They were looking for benefactors and subscribers to help them run the place. This was more than thirty years before the National Health Service was founded, of course, so they needed financial support to cover the operating costs – no pun intended. Let’s take a break and I will look on the internet to see if there are any details of their supporters.”

Peter was rather proud of the fact that he was an early adopter of this technology and liked to look up whatever he could on his computer. Not very much information was available, since the World Wide Web depended on what information people and businesses published online, but he liked to play with his browser and hoped to get some reward for his diligence.

“Here,” he said to Lucy after a quarter of an hour searching various websites, “as I thought, the hospital opened in 1903, so after a dozen years, we can assume that it was starting to require additional capital to cover equipment and other running costs. And, of course, as a mental institution, there would be expensive new treatments to be paid for. It even became a pioneering centre for psychosurgery in the 1940s, so perhaps money was always tight.”

“Well, that explains why they were looking for sponsors’” replied Lucy. “And don’t forget, Sir Henry had been something of a public benefactor, prior to his death. I suppose there could be some connection between the family and the institution.”

“Way ahead of you, darling,” said Peter, turning back to the screen. “Look, I noticed the names Sir Henry and Lady Anne Williams amongst those of the original donors. But now I come to look in more detail, I notice there is no note of any Archibald Williams – nor of his mother, after the father’s death, for that matter.”

“Maybe not,” admitted Lucy, “but they could have been open to the promise of a further donation if they helped suppress any questions about Williams and his nocturnal activities. Lady Anne might very well have been astute enough to arrange that. But then, I suppose, we would have found a later donation from her; and you didn’t, did you?”

“No,” he replied. “That doesn’t mean we can discount them altogether, but it does seem unlikely that they were responsible for any pressure on the Advertiser’s editor. I suppose they might have done something out of respect to the memory of the late Sir Henry, but we could never prove it. We are a bit stymied, I’m afraid.”

“Peter,” said Lucy, rather more diffidently than usual. “I’ve been thinking about the minor advertisers that appear regularly, but not using such large panels as the ones we have already considered. One that sprang out at me for some reason was for a hotel, but it sounded rather odd – not the sort of thing one would normally expect to see. There was no reference to the number of rooms, facilities or terms for accommodation and board. I made a copy of it, while you were getting some coffee, at the Advertiser’s offices. Listen to this.”

Discreet hotel in East Croydon

Looking for a room for just a few hours?
Enjoy some well-earned relaxation in convivial company.
No requests too unusual or difficult for us to assist you.

Confidentiality guaranteed.

The Edwardian Rooms, Leslie Park Road, Croydon.

“My goodness, Lucy,” exclaimed Peter, “how could I have missed that. It is all so obvious. The Edwardian Rooms – Mrs Edwards. She lived in Leslie Park Road and we suspect that she was running some sort of bawdy house …”

“You mean a brothel, Peter,” replied Lucy. “I have heard of them, you know. I am just surprised that you have – you told me you were such an innocent before you met me.”

“Liar,” he said with equal good humour. “I have told you everything about my disreputable past and I assure you there are no prostitutes in it. Anyway … getting back to more important matters,” he continued, “the advert is clearly a discreet way of attracting custom, as well as Mrs Edwards cruising near the railway station – probably with some of her girls in tow in case they needed to ‘advertise’ more directly.”

“Why, Mr Walters,” Lucy batted her eyelashes at him. “Whatever do you mean by that?” Whereupon Peter dropped what he was doing and reminded her of what it was about women that appealed to men.

Later.

“I see what you mean, sir,” said Lucy demurely buttoning her blouse and making sure that he too was decently covered. “Shall you leave the usual ‘present’ by my bedside?”

“We are nowhere near the bed,” he responded. “But perhaps you would like this little token of my good intentions?” He produced a simple gold ring with a rather large diamond in it, from his desk. “Will you marry me, Lucy?”

Lucy let out such a shriek of delight that his mother rushed into the room to see what was wrong – only to find them in a tight embrace.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she muttered, “I thought something had happened.”

“It has,” said Lucy, flashing the ring that Peter had managed to slip onto her finger while they were kissing.

“Well about time too,” said Audrey Walters, smiling as if her face would burst. “I am so pleased for both of you, my dears. We must tell your father – and break out some champagne. I know we have some, somewhere …”

“It is in the fridge, mother, you old rogue,” replied her son. “It has been lurking there for weeks. You knew,” he added in an accusatory way.

“A mother always knows,” was her sole comment, although there was so much more in her heart that she wanted to say. The bond between mother and son – especially an only son – is very close. But she had worked hard to ensure that it was never so tight that it smothered him. After that disastrous escapade with a gold digger a few years earlier, she had promised herself that she would watch, but not interfere. On the other hand, Lucy was the only woman that she had actively encouraged. “Now, let’s see how your father takes to you marrying the staff,” she joked to Peter, knowing that in his lucid moments, her husband was as fond of Lucy as she was.

“I know I wasn’t going to get involved in your activities any more,” said Roger, when Peter telephoned him with his news and had received the expected congratulations, “but Greta couldn’t resist looking into the story a little deeper. Would you like to know what she found out?”

“If it pleases your lordship,” replied Peter in his best imitation of a courtroom voice.

“Very funny,” said Roger. “Well it seems that the editor of the Croydon Advertiser from that period was caught in flagrante delicto with a young lady who was no lady, if you get my drift. She worked for a Mrs Edwards at a house in East Croydon which had rather a reputation with the local police. I rather think you might find he decided to suppress the story about Mr Williams having been in the brothel for reasons of his own. I have no real proof of it, but I suppose you could try going back to your primary evidence to see if anyone remembers anything,” he added, in an obscure reference to the regression sessions that had started the hare running.

Chapter 14 – Somewhere in Southern England: May 1944

“Ok Lucy, you know the routine now. Just relax and focus your thoughts on Lucinda, and let’s see if she knew anything else, although I admit it is rather a long shot,” Peter admitted. “I don’t see how she could have known anything about a newspaper editor, unless he had been a visitor to the house. Which is, I suppose a possibility, given his shared proclivities with Williams.”

“I am going to count backwards from ten and by the time I reach one, you will be completely relaxed and able to hear me and answer my questions. Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four …” He always kept the mantra identical, so there were no distractions.

“Hey, Lucky,” called the US marine, “how about some of that tea you NAAFI girls are supposed to be famous for.”

“You can take your place in the queue with the rest of the soldiers, Sergeant Richards,” she told him. “Just because you are a visitor, doesn’t mean you get preferential treatment.” Nevertheless, she favoured him with a smile that thanked him for the silk stockings he had given her on their date the previous evening. She had had to pay the usual price for them, but then it wasn’t her first time; nor, she hoped would it be her last. And he was rather good looking. On the other hand, no reason to make things easy for him.

He sidled up to her, cutting in at the front of the line of soldiers in a way that made him seem less attractive to Lucky after all.

“Anyway, why do they call you ‘Lucky’?” he asked. “Is it because you never seem to get …” His sentence was cut off by the slightly stocky British corporal who should have been served next.

“Look, mate,” he snarled at the senior NCO, “we have ways of doing things here that you Yanks don’t seem to understand. We stand in line and wait to be served. Now get to the back of the queue.”

“That’s not what Lucky told me last night,” replied the American, seeing no reason to conceal his conquest of the pretty English girl. Lucky was in her early twenties and had lustrous red hair – not necessarily totally natural – which was currently tied back under the severe headscarf that all the girls had to wear while serving. Her curvaceous figure was similarly concealed within an almost androgynous overall. Well, almost.

The corporal had been watching this girl for weeks, hoping for an opportunity to talk with her so that he could ask her out. Enraged either by the American’s attitude, or his words, he lashed out with a straight right armed jab at the sergeant’s chin. Being shorter than his victim, the punch was effectively an uppercut which jerked his head back, almost rendering him unconscious. There was a cheer from the rest of the British troops, who had little sympathy for the small group of US marines who had been embedded with their division for liaison purposes. ‘Overpaid, oversexed and over here’ was a genuine complaint amongst the home forces, who felt – perhaps unjustly, given what was going on in the Pacific –their American allies were having it too easy in England, while the British had been fighting in North Africa, Italy and other parts of Europe.

Before the sergeant could recover his wits and rise to his feet to retaliate, the Military Police, who had been ready for trouble of this sort and wanted to prevent any escalation, stepped in and arrested both men. They could sort out the details later. The two were roughly manhandled out of the NAAFI building and taken to the cooler, where they could think about their actions before being called before an officer. There was an American Lieutenant in charge of the liaison group, but it was the British who held command on the camp and US forces were subject to their discipline.

“What was that for?” snarled the American at his assailant, quietly enough not to be overheard, rubbing his tender chin to ensure nothing was broken. “A bit touchy about ‘our British way’ of doing things aren’t you?”

“No, mate,” replied Petie. “Just more careful about the way we treat our young women. Lucky is a nice girl and deserves respect. From everyone; even the Americans.”

“Oh, I respect her OK,” said Glen, deciding that it might be better not to reveal just how well he had got to know the girl in question. To be honest, she had been his first conquest, despite the aura of confidence that he exuded. He was not much older than her, and was far from home. He did what he did to help dull the pain of feeling so alone. It wasn’t easy being one of just a handful of Americans amongst thousands of British – and Canadians, but they were just as bad as the limeys. “In fact, I might want to take her home after this is all over.” Petie tensed his muscles as if he wanted to punch the American again, but decided better of it.

Not noticing his body language, the sergeant continued.

“Why do they call her Lucky, anyway?” he asked, unaware that Lucky had also been brought to the military police office and was sitting only a few feet away. She could hear every word they said. “You seem to know her quite well.”

“I have only spoken with the young lady a couple of times,” replied Petie, “but I know that she is a very nice person. She certainly wouldn’t want two men talking about her behind her back.”

“We’re not ‘talking about her’ as you put it,” said Glen, “we are simply talking and she came up. So what gives with the name?”

Petie relented. He had taken the trouble to find out as much as he could about the girl and hoped that, if he said enough, the sergeant might think they were in some sort of relationship and back off.

“If you must know,” he said, “she survived a number of air raids in London early in the war. As a young woman in 1940, she was in an underground shelter that was hit by a bomb and was one of the few people to survive. Apparently a man had fallen on top of her and that had saved her life. On another occasion, when she was working on a farm in the land army, she tripped over an object in the soil that turned out to be an unexploded bomb. The Bomb Disposal Unit officer told her that if she had struck the detonator in its nose, it would have blown her up. Apparently, she was so shocked by the incident that she was discharged from the land army and joined the catering service instead – that’s the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes or NAAFI, to you. And last year she survived an accident at an airfield, when one of the returning Lancaster Bombers crashed badly on landing and slewed into the kitchens, where breakfast was being prepared. Again, she survived without a scratch while several other girls were killed. It was all hushed up but word gets around. That’s how she got her nickname. Not many people know her real name.”

Petie had told just about everything he knew – except her real name, which he had no intention of sharing. What he was unaware of was that, far from being indifferent to him, Lucky had noticed him coming in there every day for his meals. It was not that he was anything like as good looking as the American sergeant who had swept her off her feet with promises of excitement – and gifts of otherwise unobtainable lingerie. The British NCO was rather short and slightly thick set. But there was something about him that spoke to her in a way that simple physical attraction couldn’t. It was as if she had known him all her life – been somehow waiting for him. Well, not really waiting in that sense, because there had been several lovers on the way. Who knew how long one had to live in wartime? She had been seventeen when war was declared and her virginity had not survived that September by very long. Whatever her personal behaviour in the past, she somehow felt that this strange, rather shy young soldier was important to her. She had no intention of allowing him to be browbeaten by the system simply because he had tried to protect her from Glen; a man to whom she was grateful, but felt little more. That was why she had volunteered to bear witness as to the events.

A weary looking young Lieutenant sat behind a desk in the Spartan wooden hut that acted as the offices of the Military Police on the camp, as the two NCOs were marched in. The difference in the smartness of the British Corporal’s entry, compared with a more ambling American approach already inclined the officer to favour his own man. He knew of Corporal Jenkins; had actually been instrumental in obtaining his promotion, as soon as his platoon sergeant had indicated that this was someone who had the ability to lead, perhaps despite appearances. A pity if he blots his copy book at this stage, he thought to himself. It would reflect badly on his own reputation for selecting suitable material for advancement. He was not a career officer, but had joined the army just prior to the start of the war and had himself been selected for Officer Training soon after hostilities had commenced. He had quickly advanced through the rank of Second Lieutenant and was in line for a Captaincy soon. He needed to handle this potentially diplomatic incident sensitively. But he was a good judge of character and decided to offer the men an easy way out.

Seated to his left was Lucky Andrews, demurely looking at her feet, rather than at either man standing before the desk.

“Miss Andrews tells me that this was all a misunderstanding,” said Lieutenant Cattermole. “Apparently, Sergeant Richards slipped on something wet when he joined the queue – at the wrong place,” he added looking severely at the American, “and that Corporal Jenkins was helping him to his feet, when the MPs arrived. Is that correct?”

Both men were by now eager to avoid anything that might either be marked down on their records – or to cause problems between their armies – so they gladly assented to the version of events Lucky had given. After all, they were supposed to be fighting a common enemy, not each other. Besides, thought Petie to himself. If Lucky really likes this man, I will do myself more harm than good by becoming his rival – at least overtly.

“In that case,” continued Cattermole, who didn’t believe a single word of what he had been told, “the matter is closed. I suggest that you go and have a drink together and resolve any issue that might remain as gentlemen. I must warn you both, however, that any repetition of this sort of ‘misunderstanding’ will be adversely noted on your records. Dismiss.” With which they saluted, turned to the left and marched out of the room. “Better make sure there are no wet patches on the floor, in future, Miss Andrews. And try to keep your boys out of trouble,” he said to her as she smiled her thanks at him and left the office.

‘My boys,’ she thought to herself. How true is that, I wonder? She had used the American just as much as he had used her, although she was certain that he was less experienced than he had led her to believe. She felt herself to be a thoroughly modern woman and was prepared to enjoy herself when the opportunity arose. But Petie Jenkins was something different. He was clearly intelligent and – however much he tried to hide it – interested in her. She could always tell. But he had, overlying his air of innocence, an aura of profound calm and sensitivity. He seemed to her to be the sort of man whom she could dedicate herself to wholeheartedly, if he gave her the opportunity – and they both survived the war. Not that she was worried for herself. Everything Petie had told Glen was true – and then some. Not everyone knew all the close escapes she had had, including an early miscarriage that had saved her from a definitely unwanted pregnancy. Glen almost seemed to have divined something of the sort; Petie must have sensed what he had been about to say when he hit him. Thank goodness both ‘her boys’ had opted to accept her version of events.

Lucky stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine, it had taken since teatime to get this sorted out and the pubs would be open soon. She was finished for the day and decided it might be nice to go for a walk before deciding whether to seek out Glen for another session – or to look for Petie Jenkins.

“Thank you for providing the cover story,” said Glen to her as soon as her eyes had acclimatised to the brightness of the afternoon, after the gloom of the MP’s office. She just managed to avoid colliding with the two soldiers who were deep in conversation – and, she wondered, waiting for her?

“Yes, Miss Andrews,” added Petie, speaking to her directly for perhaps the first time. “You saved us both from a reprimand at the very least.”

“That’s all right, Corporal Jenkins,” she replied. “And please call me Lucky, Petie, everyone does.” He blushed with pleasure at the invitation – and the fact that she knew his name. Perhaps I have a chance after all, he thought, although it was obvious from their body language that he had some way to go to achieve the intimacy enjoyed by Glen and Lucky, whatever that might have been.

“Why don’t we follow the officer’s orders, and all go for a drink,” suggested Glen. “I guess that the first round is on me. I somehow got out of order in the canteen and I want to make amends.” The truth was that he, like Lucky, could see something in Petie that made him want to know him better. It was an unusual reaction for him; something that he had only ever experienced with people he had truly come to respect and who could teach him something. Why he should feel drawn to this relatively diminutive, junior NCO, he had no idea. But he had sufficient life-experience to trust his own judgement.

“That’s very big of you, mate,” replied Petie. “And the second is on me.” Lucky simply linked her arms through each of the soldiers and guided them in the direction of the bar she preferred. It was some way outside the camp gates and, for reasons that managed to engender fear in the pit of everyone’s stomach, it was due to become ‘off limits’ from the following morning. Time for a final session there, before the camp became closed for what was to come. Everyone knew that this was to be the invasion of Northern Europe, but nobody, not even the officers on the camp, knew precisely where – or when – it would take place. The closure of the gates meant that they were soon to find out what their objectives were. They had been training for many months, but now they were about to put what they had learned into practice.

They walked to the pub, linked arms as if they had been friends for ever. And Lucky somehow felt that they had been, without having any idea of how that might be. Her link to Glen was carnal; she had enjoyed him, might do so again, but that would not last. Her link to Petie was something she could not fathom, but hoped that it might develop in the future.

The evening was spent convivially enough. The two men got on very well together and there was, surprisingly, no rivalry between them for Lucky’s attention. Petie was sensible enough to recognise that Glen had some sort of prior claim on her – but he also felt that it was tenuous, at best, and that playing a long game for her attention might serve him better, later on. Lucky might tire of the brash American sooner or later and it might then be his opportunity to console her. For his part, Glen liked Lucky well enough, but had no intention of becoming tied down with a British girl – especially in view of what was to come within the next few weeks or months. For now, he thought, let’s enjoy ourselves as friends and see what – if anything – develops later.

Towards the end of the evening, the air raid sirens sounded their long wailing tone. It was relatively unusual for German bombers to stray so far from the cities and ports that usually attracted their attention and all the lights went out in the bar, just in case the blackout over the windows and doors proved inadequate. There were no bomb explosions heard and after a little while, the all clear sounded.

“I suspect that was an intelligence gathering raid,” Glen told his friends, quietly, betraying rather more of his knowledge than was wholly appropriate, given how little he really knew about them. “They are probably probing to find out our troop dispositions. The Hun knows what’s coming as well as we do; just not when or where.”

“Well that puts them in the same place as the British Tommy,” replied Petie, in a not unfriendly manner. It had become clear during the evening that the American liaison unit was in possession of more information than the British, but that was the nature of inter-army cooperation and there was no reason for Petie to feel slighted.

A little the worse for wear, the three – now firm friends, it is amazing what alcohol can do to some people – headed back towards the base. Lucky was one of the quasi-civilian employees now required to sleep-in, because once the base was closed, the thousands of troops would still require feeding and it would have to be done by those within the gates; nobody would be allowed in or out. Previously she and the other girls had had digs in a nearby town. It was living on the base that had allowed her and Glen to get together. But things like that were never easy to arrange with so many other women about, some of whom were older and would have warned her against establishing such an intimate relationship on so short an acquaintance – especially with an American. So it was that evening. As they approached the women’s huts, they bumped into one of the supervisors from the canteen who, seeing one of her girls with two soldiers, feared the worst and took her under her wing.

“You look as if you have had one too many drinks, young lady,” said the matronly figure. “I suggest I take you inside and get you to bed. We have an early start in the morning.”

“Yes, Mrs Gower,” replied Lucky meekly; rather more acquiescent than was usual, she realised. Lucky was a person who usually understood herself very well, but on this occasion she was surprised to notice that, while she was ready for just about anything, she actually preferred to go off with Mrs Gower than fall into an inevitable passionate embrace with Glen. Was she tiring of him already, she wondered? Or might there be something else? Could it be, she wondered, that Petie was getting to her? Well, she was in no condition to give rational consideration to such matters at this stage and she was tired. Perhaps tomorrow.

The camp is now closed. Confirmation of the expected news passed round the canteen like wildfire. Soldiers and civilian staff alike were now confined to the grounds and could not communicate in any way with the outside world, except with permission for official purposes. The order had been long anticipated, but was still something of a shock to everyone. For the army, it meant all their training was soon to be put into effect; for Lucky and the other girls, that some of the young men they had got to know and like would soon be dead.

Petie was no less nervous than anyone else, but he was equally excited that he would finally be able to do something to fight back against the Nazis. He, like everyone else, had heard stories of their atrocities; on the other hand, he was probably in a minority in believing the Germans might not be quite as bad as they had been represented – at least, not all of them. He also wondered whether his own side might have committed similar atrocities in the heat of battle. Even in training, he had experienced some of the excitement of combat and (theoretically, in this case) killing. Nothing in this life was purely black and white, he felt.

Lucky was suddenly worried for her two friends, both of whom were trained to go into combat in the first wave of any attack on Northern France or Belgium. Or the Netherlands, nobody knew where they were actually going, but everyone knew that it was Northern Europe. Her feelings for Glen were, she decided, purely physical. She liked him, the strength of his arms around her, but she had failed to make any connection with his mind, either during their physical relationship, or even last night, when they had been with Petie. It was not that the American was stupid by any means. He must be intelligent in order to do the work he did, of which she only had some vague notion; he could not be there as second in command of a small US marine unit had he not been highly capable. It was more a matter that they had no common frame of reference. That the Americans and British are two nations divided by a common language seemed true to her. She understood (most of) the words Glen used, but seldom fully comprehended their underlying meaning, she felt.

For Glen, this was simply the next stage in training that had started in Camp Lejeune soon after Pearl Harbour in December 1941. His twelve-week basic induction had turned into a series of specialist training courses, including unarmed combat, intelligence gathering, communications and a host of other tasks that would equip him to work with the best soldiers in the world, embedded as one of the liaison teams that would be required later in the war. By 1943, he had been promoted to sergeant at the early age of twenty-three and attached to a unit that would eventually come to the UK as part of what would become Operation Overlord. He felt ready, but not unapprehensive. At least he now had some sort of working relationship with some of the soldiers within the unit in which he was imbedded. Even Petie, to whom he could see himself losing Lucky at some time in the future. If either or both of them survived what was to come.

During the next two weeks Petie, Glen and Lucky spent as much time as they could together. Lucky was becoming more attracted by the shy Englishman, but still enjoyed the attention of the American. She had contrived, however, to ensure that there were no repetitions of her physical relationship with the latter. She initially blamed her period – the arrival of which told her she had not made any ‘mistakes’ with him – for the celibacy, but later simply never allowed the opportunity for renewed intimacy to arise. Glen was not stupid; he would know that he had lost her. At least for now. Who knew what the future would bring?

Lieutenant Cattermole ordered Petie to see him one morning at the very end of May. Standing smartly (for him) to attention at the side of the room in which they had received their dressing down only a fortnight earlier, was Sergeant Glen Richards.

“Corporal Jenkins,” said the Lieutenant, “I have been observing you during final training. Your men seem to regard you as a leader in a way that goes far further than your two stripe warrant. You could easily ask to be considered for officer training and I am formally giving you the opportunity to make a request to that effect now.”

“Permission to speak, sir?” intoned Petie, to which the officer nodded assent. “Thank you sir, but that would mean me leaving the platoon just when we are about to go into action. I could not do that now. Might I apply later on?”

The Lieutenant smiled, recognising that this ambitious young man was putting duty before his own interests, but wanted to reserve the right to have a go at bettering himself later on.

“I was hoping you would say that, Sergeant Jenkins,” he said, apparently mistaking the soldier’s rank. “I don’t want to lose you now; we all have important work to do. I will see what I can do for you when this is all over, but right now, you have earned your third stripe. But it comes at a price. Sergeant Richards here has been attached to our company as sole liaison officer. It is important to us that he is looked after when we land and I want you to take responsibility for him. You will find that he is a fine soldier – I have seen his records – but the British Army has a special need for him and his kind, in order to help us fully to understand the nuances of any messages coming to us from the American forces who are fighting nearby. That means he will not always be able to look after himself and your role will be to watch his back. Will that be a problem for you, Jenkins?”

“No, sir, not at all,” replied Petie, catching Glen’s eye and seeing a broad smile covering his entire face. “It will be an honour to serve alongside one of America’s best.”

“I am glad to hear you say that, Jenkins, because you are going to be together all the time, from now on. And I mean all the time,” he added. “Dismiss, both of you.” They saluted and, turning to the left crisply, each marched smartly out; Glen in his best imitation of the British manner.

“I hope you don’t mind this,” said Glen. “I actually suggested having you as my buddy. Although the promotion was all the Lieutenant’s idea”, he added, pronouncing the word as loo-tenant, in the American way, making Petie suddenly wonder for the first time how the English pronunciation had ever become ‘lef-tenant’. But then Latin derivations were hardly within his education.

“I don’t mind at all, Glen,” he replied without a second’s hesitation. “I look forward to working with you.”

“I was real impressed that you didn’t take the option of officer training and staying out of the fighting,” offered Glen.

“Don’t be silly,” said Petie. “How could I leave you to fight the Germans unprotected? Lucky would never have forgiven me.” Glen made no reply, wondering whether it might not be his function to keep Petie safe for Lucky’s sake. To be honest, as much as he had enjoyed his brief dalliance with her, he was rather pleased to have gained some distance. She would never have fitted in with his folks, and the way they had been carrying on, she would have ended up carrying his child sooner or later. And in his family, that meant marriage.

Although they did not know it, they were now only days away from the invasion. Information about individual targets and roles were beginning to filter down to the officers and NCOs in different levels of detail. Petie and Glen knew that they were to be part of the airborne contingent that was to attack a bridge somewhere in northern France. They would be leaving from an airstrip in Dorset, but had no other details. And even this information was far more than any of their colleagues knew. Most of the others in their battalion were going directly onto the beaches and would be leaving for their embarkation point almost immediately. Petie and Glen had one extra day with Lucky before they were shipped out the short distance to RAF Tarrant Ruston. Unlike Glen, Petie had never made a parachute jump and was therefore relieved to discover that they were to be part of a small glider incursion. Their job, as they discovered on arriving at the airbase, would be to prevent the Germans from attacking the main British/Canadian invasion on what was called Sword Beach.

Before their departure, Glen contrived to leave Lucky and Petie together alone. They had become almost inseparable as a threesome during the past few weeks and this had given rise to some rather unsavoury sexual innuendo from some other soldiers. But the three friends were oblivions to what was being suggested behind their backs and simply enjoyed each other’s company. Glen felt, however, that Petie needed to say something to Lucky that he would not do were there three of them present.

It was a lovely evening, just before the onset of sudden bad weather that would delay D-Day slightly, and Petie took Lucky for a walk. He knew what he wanted to say, but not really how to put it to her. She was perceptive and knew that he was already in love with her, so she made things easy for him.

“Petie,” she said. “You know that Glen and I were close before you came along?” he nodded. “Well, we are still friends, but I don’t feel the same way about him as I once did.” That was enough, she felt. Petie was silent for a few moments as they continued to walk thought the quietest part of the camp – which was as far as they could roam, these days.

“My job is to keep him alive, if I can,” he told her, probably breaking every military ordinance there was. “I wanted to do so for you, at first. But he is my friend too and that counts for a lot.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “But I am going to ask him to keep you safe too. I want you both back here, when your work is done. But I want you more than him, if you understand me. I feel you and I have not only ‘unfinished business’, but the need to learn about each other in a way we have not even started yet.” She took a deep breath and risked everything. “I love you, Petie. I think I did, even while I was with Glen. He is an exciting, exotic man, but you are very special. To me. Please come back safely. And you can bring him back too, if you want to.”

“Yes,” replied Petie, taking a similar risk, but one he felt justified in. Now. “After all, we will need a best man.” For the first time, he took Lucky in his arms, not caring if anyone could see, and kissed her. Tentatively at first, but with growing intensity as she quickly responded with her wider experience of such matters.

“I hope that was a proposal, Sergeant Jenkins because, if not, I might have to sue you for breach of promise,” she said softly in his ear.

“It was,” he said quietly. “Miss Andrews, will you marry me, please?”

“We can name the day when you get back from Fr… wherever you are going,” she answered. They returned to the more populous part of the camp, now down to a skeleton staff and stood drinks for all their remaining friends – especially Glen – in celebration of their news, which they saw no reason in concealing.

The next few days were a frenzy of activity that eventually saw Lieutenant Cattermole and sergeants Richards and Jenkins installed in the belly of a glider, being towed out over the English Channel, behind a Lancaster bomber, headed towards the Pegasus Bridge over the Caen Canal.

Most of the aircraft, largely occupied by men of the Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry landed just after midnight on June 6th. The glider which contained Petie and the others had been amongst these, while another one headed onwards for a further seven miles to secure a bridge over the nearby River Dives. The invasion of Northern Europe had begun.

The men from the Oxford and Bucks, supported by some sappers from the Royal Engineers, overcame limited German opposition within ten minutes, for the loss of only two men, taking control of the Pegasus Bridge efficiently – just like a training exercise. Petie and Glen had followed Lieutenant Cattermole at the back of the other troops; their role was not to fight unless they had to, but to be available to Major Howard for communications purposes. Within half an hour, a drop by the 7th Parachute Brigade had reinforced the initial troops, but by then the bridge was already secured; the Germans would be unable to bring in any tanks to threaten Sword Beach from that direction. The main landing on the coast started at 7:25 am and the Pegasus team were able to join up with their comrades relatively quickly, ensuring that they had sufficient support to create a solid bridgehead and a launching point for further moves inland.

During all this time, there had been a flow of messages, largely between the British army and its headquarters. Occasional messages from General Eisenhower at SHAEF (the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force) were passed by Glen, so he could ensure there were no misunderstandings. There were none and he started to wonder whether he was really necessary. Nevertheless, he and the two British soldiers sent to guard him continued to follow their orders; as did everyone else on the battlefield that day.

They spent a relatively quiet night camped in a French field; not far, they knew, from the Germans, but at least able to relax and get some food, ready for whatever the morrow would bring. The Lieutenant and two sergeants were virtually inseparable and all distinctions of rank were abandoned, except when orders made them necessary. They spent most of the evening talking quietly about their lives before the war. Cattermole had been to a minor public school, so his experience was quite different from the two sergeants, both of whom were from more ‘ordinary’ backgrounds. He regaled them with stories of scientific experiments that had gone wrong, some of them in the dormitory, and the punishments which had been meted out to him – some of them by the older boys as prefects, rather than by the masters. In turn, Glen told them both something of his upbringing in America and Petie gave a flavour of living in South London; not so very far from Cattermole’s home geographically, but worlds apart socially and economically. Yet these very differences seemed to meld the three men together into a coherent fighting unit.

At the start of the second day, the troops started moving further forward alongside a stream, having eaten a Spartan breakfast so as not to inhibit ease of swift movement. The three joined a unit moving forwards, the Major having indicated that they should stay at the rear, close to the radio operator.

Suddenly, as they passed a seemingly deserted spot in the woods, a small group of German soldiers from the Hitler Youth, as it later transpired, sprang from their concealed positions and opened fire on the rear of the group that had just passed. They had been left behind for the specific purpose of killing as many of the invasion force as they could, before expecting to be killed themselves. Such was their fanatical devotion to the fatherland that they had no hesitation in following their orders.

Seeing a glimmer of movement out of the corner of his eye, Petie threw himself on Glen, pinning him to the ground, so that he could not be injured by their gunfire. It was then that he heard Lieutenant Cattermole shout ‘flamethrower’. He turned to look in the direction indicated only to see a wall of flame rushing toward him. He recalled nothing more.

Chapter 15 – East Grinstead: June 1944

Lucky listened to Glen’s narrative unaware that her face was becoming increasingly pale as the full horror of his description of what had happened in France was revealed.

“You should have seen Petie, Lucky,” he continued. “He was more than just a hero, he saved my life – or at least saved me from serious injury. He threw himself on top of me to protect me from a cowardly attack from our rear. It was not just guns they were using, but one of those flamethrowers that pours flammable liquid at you. It not only burns, but sticks to any surface it hits. His bravery meant his body took the entire impact of the flame – all I got was a few burns on my hands, hence the bandages and my trip back here. The Lieutenant was brilliant too. As soon as he had shouted his warning to us, he pulled up the Thompson submachine gun he always carried and sprayed the attacking force, killing every last one of them. They were little more than kids you know.”

“When can I see Petie?” asked Lucky, with little sympathy for those who had died in hurting her fiancé.

“He is still in surgery, Lucky,” replied Glen. “I was easy to patch up, in fact they didn’t want to bring me here to the Queen Victoria Hospital, because my injuries were not as bad as his, but I pleaded to be allowed to stay with him and they agreed. I will be no use in battle for at least a month or two myself and, to be honest, they didn’t think Petie would make it back to Blighty, as the medico called it. They thought he had earned a friendly face to see him out of the world. But he is a tough one, your Petie, and he fought with every ounce of his strength to get back here to see you again.”

Lucky rewarded him with the most beatific smile that he had seen, even when they had been sleeping together.

“Thank you for everything,” she said. “By the way, what happened to your Lieutenant?”

“He was awarded a field promotion – several of the senior officers had been killed in action – and will also get a medal. One that Petie really deserves, but I don’t suppose he will mind. Captain Cattermole is now leading a company into Northern France.”

Just then, a nurse came into the waiting room and asked who was there with Sergeant Jenkins.

“I am,” said Glen and Lucky simultaneously. The nurse looked at them both, noticed that Lucky was wearing a ring – the one her mother had given her years ago – on her ‘engagement’ finger and addressed herself to the American. “Your friend has survived surgery, sergeant,” she said. “But his injuries are severe. Perhaps we should talk in private,” she suggested, looking sideways at the fiancé.

“No, please,” said Lucky quickly, “I need to know the worst. Please don’t cut me out now.”

“Very well, miss,” replied the kindly nurse. “I am afraid that his arms, legs and back were severely burned and the surgeon has had to make what repairs he can, using skin from his front. His hair was completely burned off and it is unlikely that it will ever grow back, but his face is largely unscarred. We thought his eyes might have been damaged, as well, but they weren’t I am relieved to say. You might like to know that, but for the fast actions of your friend, here, he might not have done so well. Whatever made you think of dowsing him in salt water, sergeant?” she asked turning back to Glen. This was news to Lucky, she had not heard of her former lover’s actions in the service of her new love and was more grateful to him that she could express. She was not really in a position to follow a detailed discussion, but half heard Glen explaining that it was something he read about the treatment of airmen who had been shot down early in the war.

“I understand that this way of handling burns was actually developed here?” he added.

“You are right,” replied the nurse. “The surgeon concerned, Mr Archibald McIndoe, deals with the worst cases, but Sergeant Jenkins was slightly less badly injured – thanks entirely to your swift action. He is in the hands of one of our most brilliant young surgeons, Mr Williams. Here he comes now.”

A tall dark haired man in his late twenties strode into the waiting room, clad still in his scrubs and whistling quietly to himself. He looked tired, but satisfied with himself for a job well done. This, he thought, is another one to escape death. And he will never be going back to war, either. Like most intelligent people of his class and education, he abhorred war but recognised the need for it in this case. But that did not mean he had to like it, or not to celebrate every small – or large – victory that he could score over its consequences.

“Hello, sergeant,” he said addressing himself to Glen. “You must be the American soldier who saved this man’s life. Well done for your quick thinking. Wherever did you find salt water so far inland?”

“Actually, sir, I didn’t,” admitted Glen. “I pushed him into the stream we were following. Then I pulled him out and sprinkled cooking salt from our field kitchen all over his body and rolled him back in slowly, so that it didn’t all wash off. To be honest, sir, I expected a reprimand from the quartermaster for misusing supplies.”

“Please call me AG, sergeant,” said the surgeon, “everyone does. I think we should issue a general order to all medical units that this is an excellent idea for first aid on severe burns, especially if the Germans are going to make more use of flamethrowers. Mind you, the medics will have to be careful. Perhaps I should get Mr McIndoe to draft something suitable.” He turned his attention on Lucky, smiling at her and feeling compassion for her suffering on behalf of her friend. “You must be the fiancé who was listed in Sergeant Jenkin’s papers as next of kin. Miss Andrews?”

Lucky looked at him and gave an involuntary shiver for no reason that she could discern.

*

“Oh, my God, Peter,” exclaimed Lucy shocked out of her hypnotic state. “It’s that bloody man again!”

“It can’t be, can it?” he replied incredulously, before pausing to think. “Mind you, you did say his name was Williams and the initial AG are the same as the name in the birth announcement from 1916. It could be the posthumous son of that murderous bastard Archibald Williams.”

“It is him,” replied Lucy. “There can be absolutely no mistake. He looks the spitting image of his father and natural grandfather. And the way he looked at me – I mean Lucky – suggests that he is every bit as attracted to young women as either of them was. But at least she has more experience of the world – and men – than the other two girls and should be better able to look after herself.”

“And she is far from unprotected,” added Peter, keen to avoid Lucy becoming overly concerned about something that might never happen. “She has Glen with her, as well as Petie, albeit the latter in a weakened state.”

“Perhaps, but he has the same eyes as the previous killers and I don’t trust him one inch,” she replied. “There must be some way we can warn her to be careful?”

“What you are seeing had already happened, my darling,” Peter reminded her, gently. “It is all history. Even if you could plant an idea in her mind, it would make no difference, she either dies, or does not. We cannot change the past.”

“But what if I am supposed to warn her so that she avoids contact with him,” posited Lucy. It may be that she will survive, but only if she is somehow warned …”

“… or she may survive the surgeon only to be run down by a lorry two days, weeks or months later,” added Peter. “This is wartime, everyone is at risk all the time. No there is nothing we can do other than to witness what happens and then seek justice for her in the worst case. This is a one-way street, remember, Lucy?”

“Do you mind if we take a break, Peter?” she said. “I cannot face that bastard again; just yet.”

They had already had a long session, so they stopped, both ready for some food – and a drink. Neither wanted to face a formal meal, or even to talk with his mother about what had happened, there would be too many questions they simply didn’t want to answer. Instead, they decided to get some fresh air and take a walk down towards Riddlesdown, a long narrow strip of rough land not far from Peter’s home with a pleasant pub at the end of it. During the hour-long stroll, they started to talk about almost anything other than the war and its participants.

“Mother will want to know what our plans are sometime,” said Peter. “When do you want to get married, where are we going to live, and so on. I know it’s not her business, darling, but she is bound to ask.”

“I disagree with you,” Lucy replied gently. “It has everything to do with her. She is your mother and she wants the best for you – and, I think, for me as well. She has made me so welcome ever since I first came here that I could not consider excluding her from our plans. Anyway, I have no mother of my own, so I will need her help. Getting married is a first for both of us – unless there is something in your murky past that you haven’t told me about, yet.” Peter was pleased to hear her words. He did not want to do anything to hurt his mother, but knew that he would now always put Lucy first.

“In that case, darling, unless you want to move quickly, I suggest we sort ‘this’ out before we start making detailed plans,” he told her, referring to the Lucky/Petie saga. “I don’t suppose it will take us too long.”

“I agree, it would hang over our wedding arrangements like a black cloud if we didn’t get to the bottom of it first,” she replied, as they walked into the bar to order some drinks and food. “As soon as we have finished here, we should get back and finish what we have started.”

*

Lucky looked at the handsome surgeon without any special interest. She was more concerned about Petie than fluttering her eyelashes at other men. Even Glen, grateful as she was to him for bringing her man home, was now nothing more than a cipher in her life, compared with the man lying in post-operative recovery still, for all she knew, fighting for his life.

“How do you do? Mr Williams,” she said in her Sunday-best voice. Talking with gentlemen was not something that occurred frequently for her. The officers seldom came into the NAAFI so there was no occasion to do so. In fact, the last time she had spoken to anyone of this rank was when she was called into the company office at the camp by the Lieutenant Colonel who had been left in charge, once all the fighting men had left, and told of Petie’s injuries and evacuation to a hospital somewhere in Sussex. She had pleaded with him to have her sent there and, given that her fiancé was expected to die soon, and because she reminded him of a young woman he had known (only vaguely, he had assured his wife at the time) fifteen years earlier, he had agreed to make the arrangements.

“Thank you for everything you are doing for him,” she said to the surgeon. “How long will Sergeant Jenkins be here?”

“I am not sure, Miss Andrews, but I suspect that it will be at least six months, probably longer,” he replied. “I have removed skin from his front for grafting onto some of the worst damaged parts – largely his back. The areas I have taken it from will need time to recover, before I can repeat the process for other damaged parts, and we then have to repeat the process several times. This sort of thing is still very new, you know, we cannot race matters.”

“No, sir,” she explained, “I understand there is so much for you to do; and I am grateful for it. I really am. But I was wondering whether it would be possible for me to transfer here, to work in your catering facility, so that I can be near to him.”

“What a splendid idea,” said Mr Williams. (Oh, no, thought Lucy.) “I’ll see what can be organised. Where are you currently based?” Lucky told him and he promised to see what might be arranged. In the meantime, she had several more days’ leave, before she needed to be back on base.

Lucky went to find the sister in charge of the ward she had been told Petie would be moved to after his post-operative recovery period in intensive care.

“He will be back here in about six hours,” said Sister Florence. “Visiting hours are strictly regulated, from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. To be honest, we don’t get many visitors in any case. Not many people want to see their loved ones in so much pain … and so badly disfigured,” she added wanting to prepare this young woman for the worst.

“I have a five-day pass from my camp, sister,” she explained. “I would really like to be able to spend some time with my fiancé.” She felt it better not to say that she was hoping to move to the hospital to work, in case that made her attendance on Petie now seem less time critical to the nursing staff. Fortunately for her, the middle aged sister in charge was something of a romantic and liked the idea of having a young woman around who might brighten the place up for the patients.

“I’ll tell you what, my dear,” said the sister, “You come back at teatime and I will see if we can’t let you sit with him for a little while. He should be conscious by the time he is sent down here from post-op. A friendly face might be just the tonic he needs.”

“How badly was he injured?” Lucky asked her.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “I understand that the entire back of his body suffered severe burns from one of those evil flamethrower things. But Mr Williams is very clever, he has learned a lot from Mr McIndoe – the man who invented this form of treatment. In fact, he is rather brilliant himself and he seems to be developing additional ways of speeding recovery after the initial treatment that reduces the initial impact of the burns. His technique for taking small pieces of skin from various unaffected parts of the body, to patch over the damaged parts, allows for faster recovery than if larger sections were removed and grafted on where needed. By getting us to keep the burned parts constantly treated with a salve he has developed, Mr Williams finds that there is plenty of time for new skin to regrow elsewhere and to be grafted on to the worst affected areas. It also seems that this allows some natural dermatological regeneration at the edges of the injuries.”

“I understand that Petie’s face was not scarred,” Lucky was almost too afraid of a possible negative answer to ask this question, but she felt she needed to know.

“That’s right, my dear,” said Sister Florence. “There was some slight scarring on the left side of Sergeant Jenkins’s chin, but otherwise he took the entire brunt of the attack on his back. I believe it might have been the way he held that nice American down. Is he so very important that he needed protecting? Oh, sorry! I suppose that is not the sort of question I should have asked in wartime.”

“No,” replied Lucky. “I don’t think he was very important as such, but Petie knew that he was a friend of mine and the two of them had become good friends as well. I expect you will see something of Glen about for a few days, too. That’s his name Sergeant Glen Richards.”

“It is ‘Master Sergeant’ now,” said Glen, who had tracked Lucky down after having had a longer chat with one of the other surgeons and arrived behind her to hear her last comment. “I have just heard from my acting C.O. that I have been promoted so that I can undertake a staff role at regimental headquarters. It will not be like getting back into action, but at least I can do my part.”

“Congratulations,” said the sister, walking off to leave them to talk.

“That is wonderful news, Glen,” said Lucky. “But does it mean that you are off soon?”

“Unfortunately yes,” he replied. “My injuries are not severe enough for me to get extended leave and I am needed back at division so that someone else can be released to go to France. I am sorry to be leaving you again so soon, but I am truly glad that Petie has come through his operation safely and should make a full recovery. It will take time and there may be psychological scars as well as the physical scars.” He was truly glad for Lucky that she would not end up living with a disfigured husband. She would have coped, of course, but he was pleased she didn’t have to.

“The problem is that his face will show almost no trace of either,” he continued, concerned about how many men injured in the First World War had found it difficult to readjust afterwards. “You will have to make allowances for him in many ways, Lucky. He might find it difficult to adjust to the changes that his condition will demand of him – of you both. But there is also a chance that he will have recurring nightmares about the way he was hurt. It is one of the most horrific forms of battlefield injuries that can happen and you will need to help him find his own way of dealing with it. The army will not do so; they failed so many people during and after the last war and there is little chance that they will do better this time.”

While she had been listening to him, Lucky had been becoming increasingly sure of two things. First, she would never see Glen again – and she didn’t really mind that – secondly, that she loved Petie more than ever and wanted to be there to help him through his recovery.

“Will you have time to see Petie before you go?” she asked him/

“I don’t think so, he replied. “I have been ordered to catch the six o’clock train to Victoria this evening. He is unlikely to be conscious before I leave. But we have time for a last meal together before I go. I think Petie would like that. Let’s go and find a pub where we can get a sandwich.”

Refreshed physically and emotionally from having a quiet time with her one-time lover – a man whom she would always remember fondly, but nothing more – Lucky returned to the hospital after seeing Glen to the railway station. She made her way to the ward where Petie should now be recovering from the anaesthetic to see if she could sit with him.

Walking down the line of identical beds, with apparently identically dressed – and similarly bandaged – men lying in them, Lucky was suddenly panic stricken that she might not recognise Petie. What if she walked right past him without noticing? That would be mortifying for both of them. She need not have worried. Apart from the fact that he was one of the few patients with no bandages on his face, he was also the only one with an army insignia on his pyjamas. All the others were RAF. And then, again, she could not have missed him even had there been no such evidence. She was drawn to his bedside as if by a magnet, without the need for any visual clues. The man in the sixth bed from the door, on the left by a large open window, was Petie.

His eyes were open, and he was staring vacantly into space. Yet as Lucky neared, he seemed to sense her presence and turned to look at her, uncertain of her possible reaction, but overcome with gratitude that she had at least made the effort to come. He had spent his few lucid moments since the battle wondering how she would react to his injuries, which he had instinctively understood were grave. He had heard of cases where girlfriends, even fiancés and wives, had abandoned severely injured men, unable to cope with the prospect of living with the disabled or disfigured. Although he loved Lucky, he did not really know her well enough to be able to predict how she would react. The fact that she was here so quickly after his operation suggested that she was not about to leave him. Unless she had just come to see how badly injured he was before making a decision, of course?

Such a thought was unworthy of both of them. As she recognised him and his tentative smile, Lucky almost broke into a run to reach his bedside. Sister Boden had been watching over her newest patient, knowing that this meeting would take place soon and concerned that it should do nothing to upset him. She quickly moved in to intercept Lucky, firmly grasping her arm to arrest her forward momentum.

“Don’t touch him,” she said urgently. “He is still weak from the operation. You can sit with him and talk, but I must insist that, at least for the moment, you do not touch him. Not even a kiss, or holding hands. Any breach of this rule, and I will have you expelled.” The words sounded harsh, but were kindly meant. Lucky somehow understood this and smiled her acquiescence, moving more slowly and drawing up a chair so that she could sit beside the bed, but keep her distance.

“Hello, darling,” she said to the recumbent figure. “You look far better than I had expected.”

This was precisely what he needed to hear. She could bear to look at his shattered body and that was the first hurdle. He tried to talk to her, but found that he couldn’t utter a sound. Lucky saw the anguish on his face and looked at the sister, who was hovering to ensure compliance with her edict, for assistance.

“Don’t worry,” she said to both of them. “Sergeant Jenkins’s throat is very dry from the anaesthetic, but he will be able to talk normally soon. Best not to try at the moment. I’m sure Miss Andrews has enough to say for both of you,” she added smiling at Petie before tactfully retiring to a safe distance. As soon as she was confident Lucky could be trusted not to try anything ambitious, like kissing her fiancé, she would leave them to it.

Oblivious to the sister’s withdrawal, she spoke again, deciding to address inconsequential matters, rather than his injuries.

“I have just seen Glen back to the station, so that he can re-join his unit,” she told the prone figure who was still groggy from the operation and starting to feel the pain of it. “He has been promoted to Master Sergeant, I suppose that is the same as our Sergeant Major. He will be fulfilling an administrative role from now on, he tells me. Anyway, he asked me to give you his best wishes and hopes that you will be able to meet up when this is all over. Well, all of us really. I hope you don’t think you are getting rid of me this easily? I have decided to try and get work here while you are in hospital and once you are out, we can think about getting married. I don’t suppose the army will want you back in, so we will need to think about some way of earning a living. Do you think the insurance company you worked for before the war will have kept your job open for you?”

Petie managed the most imperceptible nod. He was sure that Mr Chambers would have taken on someone to replace him during the time he was in the army, but there was an explicit agreement that he would be taken back when hostilities ceased. He was not sure whether this was because he was such a good worker, or was intended to encourage people to enlist before they were conscripted, or perhaps because they didn’t really expect many of the men to come back at all, so the promise would not cost employers very much. Petie had had no real option about becoming a regular soldier. Having joined the Territorial Army just before the war had started, he was amongst the first to be brought in. He had done well to become a corporal during a time when there were relatively few service deaths, once the Dunkirk evacuation had been completed. He had never been sure whether his elevation to sergeant had been on merit, or simply so that he was not outranked by the man he was duty bound to protect; and had done so with honour.

Unaware of this thoughts, Lucky continued.

“Of course, we could combine your accounting and clerical skills with my catering experience and start a café together. I have always wanted to run my own business and to do so with you would be wonderful” she said all in a rush, more to fill any potential gap in the conversation, than to secure his agreement at this stage. “Of course, we don’t need to make any decisions yet, there will be plenty of time …” Her voice tailed off as she noticed Petie had gone to sleep.

“Well if that’s the effect I have on him,” she joked quietly to a very young-looking nurse who was going round checking the patients were comfortable, “I had better sharpen up my conversation skills.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Nurse Carter, in a similarly low tone. “What matters is that you are here for him – and he knows it. Few of the patients get any visitors at all, other than the occasional officer checking up on his men, or the Chaplain, of course. Are you Miss Andrews, by any chance?” she asked.

“Yes I am,” said Lucky. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just that I overheard Mr Williams – he’s ever so handsome, isn’t he – telling sister that you would be staying here,” said the nurse. “Apparently, he has arranged for you to work here. It is very unusual for him to take such an interest, but perhaps he thinks it will help with your fiancé’s recovery,” she added doubtfully. “He was very terribly burned, you know. He was not expected to recover at all, for some hours. But he seems to have pulled through alright. But there will be a long slow process to go through to get him back on his feet. You will have to be patient. My name is Mavis Carter, by the way.”

“Everyone calls me ‘Lucky’,” she replied, formally shaking the nurse’s hand.

“Well you have certainly earned that name today,” replied her new friend Mavis, although whether she was referring to Petie’s almost miraculous survival, or something to do with the interest that Mr Williams was taking in her, was not clear. (Except it was clear to Lucy and Peter, following the story from sixty-odd years later.) “Sister says will you go and see Matron when you leave here. She has made all the arrangements.”

Lucky thanked Mavis and found her way to a small office on the first floor. Hardly the place she expected to find someone responsible for running such an important hospital, but then, she supposed, it was probably really the consultants who ran things – and they were men. Matron would be insignificant to them; but not to the nurses and sisters, who she terrorised, in her quest for cleanliness and good practice.

Knocking on the office door, Lucky had the sense to wait the two minutes until she was invited to enter, rather than making any further noise. If Matron was busy, she reasoned, she would not want to be interrupted; if she was not there, knocking again would achieve nothing. After what seemed an eternity, Mr Williams opened the door, smiled at Lucky and turned back into the room.

“Ah! Here she is now, Matron,” he said. “I am sure you will find her most satisfactory. Please come in, Miss Andrews,” he added, assuming territorial rights over even this dragon’s den, before leaving to do whatever it was important consultants did in the evening.

“Please sit down, Miss Andrews,” said Matron – who apparently had no other name that anyone knew. She was short and powerfully built, a woman of perhaps fifty-five years of age with greying hair and an air that would clearly brook no nonsense. “Mr Williams has explained your circumstances and I must admit, I am interested to see how this experiment of his will work. Although, of course, having wives and sisters looking after injured soldiers is far from new. Even as late as the Crimean War, before the advent of more professional nursing, many ‘other ranks’ were only properly looked after if they had family members who could come into what passed for hospitals in those days, to do so. Of course, the standards of cleanliness were atrocious, but at least the sainted Florence Nightingale put an end to that.” Lucky made no comment, not really knowing sufficient about the topic to have an opinion and suspecting that she would not be expected to proffer one, even if she did.

“I understand that you have extensive catering experience?” Matron asked Lucky with a rising inflection in her voice.

“Yes, Matron,” replied Lucky, the implicit capitalisation of the initial letter earning her a faint smile.

“In that case,” said the older woman, “I want you to move into our kitchens and see what you can do about creating somewhere that the staff can eat in comfort. Currently, we feed the patients, but doctors, nurses and everyone else have virtually to fend for themselves. I have heard about works canteens in some factories and wonder whether we could not organise something along those lines here. I believe it would be in the interests of efficiency if we could ensure the nurses in particular are well fed. Hunger can adversely affect efficiency and we do not want any mistakes costing the lives of our brave soldiers and airmen. And” she added, perhaps revealing rather more of her thinking than she intended, “they will require shorter breaks if they do not have to go out to eat. We will also be able to keep a watchful eye over them at all times.” Rather than having them off chasing men, she might have added, remembering her own younger years as a nurse.

During the next few weeks, Lucky split her time between setting up the canteen along the lines of a NAAFI, visiting Petie and getting to know the hospital and learning more about its work. She was fascinated to discover how a new science – becoming known as plastic surgery – was developing under the exigencies of war. It also became clear why Petie had been taken to this hospital, rather than Basingstoke, where most army people went. Mr Williams, who seemed always to have time to talk with her, explained that it was largely an accident brought about by the presence of the American that had resulted in their arrival in East Grinstead, but that the fact that Petie’s injuries were so severe, meant their skills learned on airmen had proved invaluable to saving his life. There had also been a fear that some of the flaming liquid expressed by the flamethrower might have seeped into Petie’s eyes and Mr McIndoe’s team were specialists in that area. As it transpired, there had been no such injury to the eyes; but better safe than sorry.

After ten days, Lucky was able to sit with Petie for several hours every day and update him on the progress of her project. Their meetings were initially limited to the ward, but as Petie’s health improved, Mr Williams suggested that she might be allowed to have his bed wheeled outside so that he could enjoy the fresh late-June air. There was a space just outside his office, said Mr Williams, where they could be uninterrupted, and he could keep a friendly eye on his patient.

As days turned into weeks and weeks towards months, a routine formed whereby Lucky and Petie would be able to spend some time together in the gardens, whenever it wasn’t raining, while Mr Williams would make sure that he came out to see them at some point. A ritual developed whereby he would turn up with Nurse Carter, who would then take Petie back into the ward to be settled, while he and Lucky took a stroll in the gardens and discussed first Petie and his treatment and latterly a wide range of subjects, including a love of flowers which they apparently shared. Lucky found that the surgeon was actually interested in what she had to say and listened to her views with courtesy. He seemed particularly interested in her plans to start a café with Petie, after the war, but suggested that she might have the mental agility, as he put it, to do so much more. With her husband to be, of course.

Lucky found his interest in her to be flattering. She was accustomed to the attention of men, but rarely someone of this standing and intellect. Mr Williams, or AG as he insisted she call him, was not only good looking, but also had the ability to listen to her in a way that was becoming increasingly attractive. Even so, she never for a moment waivered in her loyalty to Petie. The polite attention paid to her by a gentleman could never, she knew, develop into anything further. And even if it could, she had made her choice and nothing would change her mind. Nothing at all.

Chapter 16 – East Grinstead: August 1944

In mid-August, some ten weeks after Petie had suffered his horrendous burns, his condition started to deteriorate, almost imperceptibly at first and then more quickly. Lucky noticed that his conversation, which had improved rapidly after the operation, was becoming more laboured and his words slurred. He also seemed to be losing interest in the plans she was constantly outlining to him.

“It is as if he has somehow lost his will to live,” she complained to AG during one of their many conversations in the garden outside his office, after Petie had been wheeled back into the ward by Nurse Carter. He had become something of a favourite of Mavis’s and she spent as much time as she could, ensuring his comfort. Lucky didn’t mind; she and the nurse had struck up a close friendship during the time she had been there and she was confident that Mavis had no interest in Petie – or even if she did, there was no danger that she would try to ‘pinch’ her friend’s man. It just wasn’t done; not even in times of war.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Lucky, my dear,” said the surgeon. It was a long time since he had progressed beyond calling her Miss Andrews and had gradually introduced some terms of endearment; so gradually that she was unaware of it until it became almost the norm for their conversation. “Some sort of lapse is not uncommon in such cases. All we need to do is remain positive and carry on with his treatment and he will be fine.” But his face carried evidence of some deeper thoughts than his words revealed and he hurried away to look at his notes again, as soon as he decently could. The truth was that he had developed deep feelings for this persistent young woman and was ambivalent towards the fiancé. Of course, he was sworn to preserve life, but he still couldn’t help wondering if Lucky wouldn’t be better off with a professional like himself, rather than a man with few prospects. She would have to be called by her proper name – whatever that was, he still didn’t know – if she were to become consort to a rising surgeon, but that was a minor detail. Right now his priority was to get the man fit, so that he could be replaced in her affections by a more deserving person. Himself. That Petie Jenkins was deteriorating was a problem; a dead rival was far more difficult to supplant than a living one and there was the danger that Lucky might even want to move away, if there was nothing to hold her there. He could hardly declare himself to a newly bereaved woman, but how could he let her go?

In his concern for his patient/rival, AG even went so far as to call in his mentor, the great Mr McIndoe, to see if there were any underlying problems that he might not have anticipated, but to no avail, Petie’s condition continued to deteriorate. The trouble he took was naturally misinterpreted by Lucky as being solely based on his wish to ensure her future happiness by saving her fiancé’s life – as opposed to wanting to keep the lad alive so that he could replace him in her affections.

Nurse Carter was the first to admit to Lucky that things were becoming crucial.

“We really don’t understand why Sergeant Jenkins is not improving,” she said privately to Lucky. “In fact he is getting so much worse that you need to prepare yourself for the worst,” she confided, tears in her own eyes, though whether for Lucky or her compassion for the young soldier, neither woman really knew. “Mr Williams has not told us nurses anything, but every time he comes to see your Petie, he looks more worried. Some of the drugs he is using, I have never even heard of, but he is scrupulous about recording everything ‘just in case’ he says. But in case of what, I ask?”

Devastated as she was by Mavis’s prognosis of the severity of Petie’s condition, Lucky was still supremely confident in AG’s ability to save Petie for her.

“I am sure it will be alright, Mavis,” she said to the nurse. “I really am grateful for everything you and the others are doing for Petie. I cannot believe that Mr Williams will fail – or that my luck will run out right now. That would be so unfair.” Mavis made no reply. She had seen men decline and die before.

Petie lasted another week before he finally succumbed to whatever it was that had sapped his strength – and his will to live. When he died, Lucky had been sitting at his bedside for several hours and was joined as the crisis came by a silent AG, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

*

It had been an incredibly long regression session by the time Lucky had witnessed her fiancé dying and Peter decided that it was time for Lucy to come back to the present. She demonstrated some reluctance to waken, perhaps out of sympathy for the young woman, or perhaps because she simply wanted to know what happened next.

“I know there are some unanswered questions here,” he said to Lucy as she finally came round, “but I think you have had enough. Besides we can probably find out more from the perspective of history than by living in the past.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, wondering if he was gently criticising her for being too involved in the lives of people who were probably no longer alive – forgetting this was how he made his living.

“Only that medical records which would have been closed at the time might be available to us now,” he answered.

“You mean we might be able to prove that Williams – or AG, as he prefers to be called – deliberately killed Petie to get his hands on Lucky,” she said. “Well at least it is better than simply raping her, like he did before. Oh! Sorry. That sounds as if murder is somehow ‘better’ than rape. Of course I didn’t mean that.”

“I know what you meant, darling,” replied Peter sensitively. “But there is something in the narrative you gave that at least makes me question his guilt. Not least is his scrupulous note-keeping …”

“…which he could have lied in – about dosages and so on …” interrupted Lucy,

“…which he could have lied in,” agreed Peter. “If he didn’t mind risking discovery should there be any form of investigation into the death. I assume there might have been an inquest; we ought to check that. The other point that we might take account of is that he seems actually to have cared about Lucky at an emotional level, not just for sexual gratification, as in the case of his father and grandfather. Perhaps the times were different; it was no longer so easy for a ‘gentleman’ to abuse a young woman from the ‘servant class’ and get away with it, as it once was. But we also need to consider he was brought up by his mother; his father had died before AG was born. It is possible that she had been able to inculcate him with better values than his forebears.”

“Not if Mrs Williams had been complicit in Lucinda’s death,” replied Lucy. “Remember we never really resolved that.” Another thought struck her. “You don’t suppose the nurse, Mavis, might have been tampering with his prescription in order to keep him under her control, do you. She did seem to me to be rather attached to Petie.”

“You mean some sort of Munchausen syndrome by proxy?” suggested Peter. “It is a possibility, although as far as I know nine out of ten cases relate to mothers and their children. And if that was her intention, it went too far.”

“So what is our next move, maestro?” asked Lucy, reverting to her more teasing mode, as she recovered from the stress of the latest regression session. “Back to Roger for more police reports?”

“Actually I thought we might start with the military medical records to find out the precise cause of Petie’s death, for starters,” he said. “After that, I want to know more about the main protagonists. What happened to Lucky, Mavis, and Glen? And of course the famous AG Williams.”

“Do you mean Sir Archibald Williams, the plastic surgeon?” asked Peter’s mother as she walked in through the newly opened study door. “Oh, I can tell you about him. He is quite famous now. Of course, he was the son of that Mr and Mrs Williams you were talking about before, but he was quite the charmer – unlike what grannie said about his father. The funny thing is that he never married. Of course, he is long retired now. I gather he is living in Sandilands, on the edge of East Croydon. He is a member of the Golf Club at Selsdon Park. Where you went for dinner not long ago, Lucy. I read about it in a magazine.”

“Thank you for mentioning that, mother,” said Peter dryly, too kind towards his mother to mention that the information might have been useful to them a little earlier!

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” she replied, knowing that he was being ironical with her. “Actually I met him briefly after the war. I had been in the ATS, as you know, working alongside the Royal Army Service Corps, as it was then. After I was demobbed, I returned here and was looking for a job. We didn’t really need me to work. Granny and grandpa Walters were well enough off for me not to, but I would have been bored after the excitement of the war, so I applied to a number of places in the area, including the Hospital at East Grinstead where Mr Williams, as he then was, had just taken over as chief consultant. It was just before the National Health Service came into being in 1948, I remember, and a lot of people were rather up in arms about it. Mr Williams interviewed me for the position of his secretary, but I think he was looking for someone younger – and prettier. He didn’t seem very happy, I remember, but I suspect that was something to do with not wanting to work for the government any more. Quite a lot of doctors felt like that after their wartime service, although many others embraced the new NHS with enthusiasm.”

“Mother,” said Lucy, who had used that name for her ever since the engagement, “you are a fountain of useful information. Thank you. It will give us somewhere to start.”

“Yes, I agree,” said Peter, after his mother had left the room, having forgotten why she came in, in the first place. He was far from certain that he wanted to beard an old man with questions about whether he had committed murder almost sixty-six years earlier! “But I wonder if we might do some background research first?”

“OK, let’s see what we can find out and then track him down and challenge him,” allowed Lucy, who was convinced that ‘he’ had killed twice before (admittedly in previous incarnations) and could easily have done so again.

Peter agreed, although he was far from convinced of AG Williams’s guilt in this case. He felt the Hippocratic Oath would have prevented the surgeon from deliberately killing a patient and his professional pride would have made him reluctant to allow an ‘error’ to see-off the young man. Besides, his family pride, which his mother’s comments about the man’s quest for a pretty secretary suggested he had inherited, would have made him confident of replacing such an ‘inferior’ suitor for Lucky’s hand, had he needed to compete.

Lucy went off to the kitchen to see what mother had wanted, which turned out to be some help with the meal she was preparing, so Peter took some time to plan and implement the next stage of their enquiry. A quick search of the internet suggested that he would be able to find army medical records at the National Archives, so he gave them a call, while Lucy was busy.

“Oh, I’m afraid we don’t have those records here,” said a helpful young voice at the other end of the telephone, once Peter had given a general indication of what he was looking for. “The sort of detailed information you want is more likely to be held at the Army Medical Services Museum at Aldershot. I can transfer your call to them, if you like, but if the call gets lost – this is rather new technology for us, I’m afraid – I will give you the number as well.”

Peter was successfully put through, he sometimes wondered how much further technology might develop in his lifetime, and made an appointment to see the Commandant of the museum the following week, which was when he knew Lucy was next due to be free from work. He was slightly irritated that she still felt the need to work, but largely because it created times when they could not be together – and frequently delayed their research – rather than any desire for a stay-at-home wife. That his mother had never worked outside the home since her marriage did not mean he expected his own wife to do the same; it seemed to Peter that to do so would be too restrictive of her personal fulfilment.

Of course, his own work occasionally interrupted their search for the truth about these historic deaths, so he could hardly complain, but he missed Lucy when she was not with him. When he had somewhat diffidently broached the question with her a few weeks earlier, she had made it plain that, much as she loved his company, she felt that having some sort of life outside their investigations gave their time together an added dimension. He accepted Lucy’s view, particularly when she suggested that, as soon as their research was completed, she would consider his suggestion that they might work together in some way. But at the moment, their research was all too personal.

She had not added that she hoped to have children with him quite quickly, who would then take up much of her time for several years, at least until the youngest was of school age, she had decided. This desire was based not solely on her deep feelings for Peter, but also recognition that she was ‘not getting any younger’; and her desire to present his parents with grandchildren before they were too old – or Mr Walters too forgetful – to enjoy the experience. And Peter was older than her, too!

On the following Monday, Peter and Lucy set off on the sixty-minute trip round the M25 to Aldershot – waiting until after rush-hour to depart. Nobody wanted to get stuck on the world’s largest carpark unless they had to. They arrived early for their eleven o’clock appointment with the Commandant. Their ‘cover’ story was that they were researching into the life of an ordinary soldier and had discovered he had been severely injured in a fire attack and wondered what had happened to him.

The museum was housed in a modern building with little of intrinsic interest, other than the museum exhibition itself, which they did not have sufficient time – nor any real interest – to do justice to. Instead they had a quick cup of coffee in the café and then went to reception to sign in for their meeting.

Commandant Hilary Dawkins SRN was most welcoming. She had few visitors and even fewer with the reputation Peter enjoyed within his field.

“How do you do, Mr Walters?” she greeted him. “And Miss Bowen, I understand?” she added, taking a long look at Lucy.  A well-covered woman in her mid-fifties, it was clear that she was a highly experienced nurse and in conversation it transpired that she had served in a number of territories throughout the world with the Army Medical Corps, including some of the better known trouble spots such as the Gulf War and the United Nations Peacekeeping Force in the former Yugoslavia during the 1990s. That she sported the two narrow blue vertical edges on a red background of the Distinguished Service Order ribbon on her uniform, attested to her service in a battlefield situation. Peter was aware this medal was only given to officers displaying the highest level of valour in leadership.

On hearing the precise nature of their enquiry, she was rather apologetic.

“I am afraid that we may not be able to tell you as much as you might have been led to believe,” she told them. “We really only have records relating to individual officers who served in the medical corps. Only in exceptional cases do we hold actual medical records and only if they are of historical significance. Of course, that might apply to one of the ‘Guinea Pigs’, but I would have to look into the question of – Sergeant Jenkins, was it – to find out if he was one of those. It will take several hours to dig out any information. I’m sorry, but you might have had a wasted journey here today.”

“Oh, that is disappointing,” said Lucy, hoping to prompt more information by asking a specific question. “Do you have details of the service of any of the surgeons who served at East Grinstead, during the war? We were particularly interested in AG Williams, who we understand worked so very hard to save the life of this unfortunate soldier.”

“Ah, Major Williams was your man was he?” (The title came as a surprise to Lucy and Peter, although they should, perhaps, have assumed he held a military rank.) “Well now, he is someone we certainly know about,” she said with a degree of proprietorial pride.

“Sir Archibald as he later became, was one of the leading lights of the plastic surgery movement, largely after the war,” she continued. “I know he did some sterling work with Mr McIndoe at the Queen Victoria Hospital working on burns injuries. Mr McIndoe became ‘Sir Archibald’, too, shortly after the war – and very well deserved it was in both cases. Of course, I never worked with either of them, but I met AG, as everyone called him, after he retired. He was quite charming, but with a touch of sadness, I felt.”

“I gather from my mother that he never married,” prompted Peter.

“Oh no, but there was nothing namby-pamby about him, you know,” the Commandant replied defensively. “There were rumours that he had fallen in love with someone during the war, but that she had been unsuitable, or something like that. I never really got to the bottom of it. Although I did meet someone who worked with him. Now what was her name?” Lucy and Peter held their breaths, hoping against hope that this was someone who was still alive and could furnish them with more information. “I remember! It was Sister Mavis Carter. I met her once. Of course she would be well into her seventies by now, but I imagine she is still alive – she was a tough old stick. I am sure I could find an address for you, if you like?” The visitors managed not to react too excitedly to the news that someone they had encountered in the regression sessions – other than Williams himself – might actually be available for them to interview.

“That would be very kind of you, Commandant,” said Lucy. “We would love to meet someone who was working at the hospital at the time.”

With a promise to look into the records for possible information about Petie and an address for Sister Carter, Commandant Dawkins bade them farewell. Just as they were leaving her office, she stopped Lucy and spoke directly to her.

“Miss Bowen, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have we met before?” she asked. “It’s just that you look so very familiar. I never forget a face, but I have reached the stage in life where remembering the names to go with them is starting to become more difficult. I am certain that I recognise you from somewhere, but it seems to me that it was quite a long time ago. Many decades, in fact. Of course, you can only be thirty or so now, so I don’t see how it could be …”

“I am sure that I would remember meeting someone as important as you,” she replied with flattery, but no irony. “Perhaps I just have ‘one of those faces’.”

“Well, I suppose she could have met Lucky after the war; and, of course by the 1960s she would have been only a little older than you are now,” Peter told Lucy as they walked back to the car. “But only you can tell how much you look like her and the ‘other’ girls.”

“Well I suppose there is a passing resemblance,” she replied. “I think we are all of the same build and hair colouring, but everyone tells me I look like my mother,” she added without quite knowing why she had done so. Perhaps she had been thinking of her mother, now that she and Peter were so settled. Mum had had no husband, only Lucy, and their lives had been far from easy. But there was no resentment in the memory.

“Well she must have been beautiful, too,” was the correct response to that.

“Well thank you, kind sir,” she said with a mock curtsey. “I hope the fine gentleman does not intend to take advantage of a poor young girl’s innocence.”

“I most certainly will, when I get you home, you little minx,” said Peter to their mutual amusement and anticipation.

Stopping for lunch on the way home, they had time for a conversation unrelated to long-ago deaths, but of more immediate interest to them, being of more domestic matters.

“Peter,” said Lucy, “I am spending almost all my time at your house now.”

“Yes, isn’t it nice, having me on tap when you want me – for anything?” he replied.

“Don’t be vulgar, Timothy,” replied Lucy, reprising their occasional private joke. “Anyway, that isn’t what I was about to say. I am worried about my cat – I nearly said pussy, but I don’t want to give you any more openings for silly jokes. Flora is having to put up with neighbours feeding her almost all the time now. Karen goes in occasionally, but I only get there once a fortnight or so. How do you feel about the patter of tiny feet at your parent’s home?”

Peter knew that she was talking about moving the cat, nothing more, but chose to take the opportunity deliberately to misunderstand.

“Well, I thought of two girls and a boy, if that’s all right with you,” he said. Lucy looked at him in stunned silence. She had been thinking of children only recently, but had no idea how he felt about it. He had, after all reached this stage in his life without encumbrances. Now he had her to think about; how he would react to babies was something she had not wanted to discuss quite yet. But Peter had other ideas. “Ok, I know you were talking about the cat, but I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you and that having little versions of you would make everything perfect for me. So what do you say we get home quickly, so we can start practicing?”

“Much as I love the idea,” she smiled, looking directly into his eyes with an intensity that almost enveloped him in the depth of hers, “I think mother would prefer it if we got married first. And we need to plan that very carefully. So I suggest our ‘practicing’ continues to be protected, for the moment, darling. And yes, I want a little boy just like his father, too.”

The rest of the day was irrelevant to their research.

*

“Mr Walters?” said the voice on the telephone, two days later. “I have Commandant Dawkins for you. Please hold the line.” Peter did as he was ordered.

“Hello, Mr Walters, Hilary Dawkins, here, from the AMS Museum,” she explained somewhat unnecessarily. “I have some good news for you. Sergeant Jenkins’s was a strange case and one that was felt to be worthy of recording in the museum records. I am sending you the file by fax to the number on your business card, if that is alright? My secretary is sending it now,” she added as soon as he confirmed that the line could accept it while their conversation continued. “I have also got a telephone number and address for Miss Carter. I have spoken with her over the telephone and she is only too pleased to talk with you and Miss Bowen.” Peter thanked her and hung up, hovering over the fax machine eager to read the medical file.

It was all rather technical in nature, but there was nothing in it that leapt out at Peter suggesting any form of malpractice. On a hunch, he called Roger Odugu’s Sergeant.

“Dr. Skarin,” he said, deliberately using her academic title rather than the police rank she held while in the UK. “It’s Peter Walters, we met with Roger a few weeks back.”

“Of course I remember you, Peter,” she said, “and please just call me Greta. How are you and that delightful fiancé of yours? You had better appreciate her, or you will find you have competition.”

“We are both fine, thanks, he replied, unsure which what quarter the competition might come – or caring, for that matter. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wondered if I might fly something past you. I know your doctorate is in psychology, but did you cover any other aspects of medicine before that?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, Peter,” she gave the response he had hoped for. “I studied medicine for three years, before deciding that clinical psychiatry was not for me and that I was rather more suited to the academic world and criminal psychology. Of course, I am not up to date with recent developments, but I remember most of what I learned. How can I help?”

Peter explained that he had a medical file dating back to the end of the Second World War and that he would be most grateful if she could cast an eye over it to see if there were any obvious anomalies in the treatment given. With specific reference to the types and dosages of medicines given, he added. Greta said that she could do so and promised to let him know later in the day if she found anything, so he forwarded the fax to her immediately.

“Peter,” Greta called back within two hours. “I have looked at the file. I see it had been faxed more than once, and the original cannot have been very clear, so there might be some room for error. But I cannot see anything untoward – if that is the correct word?” she added unnecessarily. “With your permission, I will show the file to the Police Surgeon when he is free.” Peter assented with enthusiasm and thanks. “Oh, and Roger says he owes you dinner, so would you and Lucy like to join him and Rachel tomorrow night. He says you know where he lives. I am invited too, so I will hopefully have some information for you then.”

The following evening, Peter and Lucy arrived in the statutory casual attire suitable to such an invitation and carrying a bunch of flowers for Rachel and a couple of bottles of wine to help lubricate the evening. Rachel knew Peter well, but she had not previously met Lucy and was keen to find who had managed to captivate her husband’s old friend.

“We haven’t had an engagement party,” explained Peter, handing over the expensive bottles of Champagne he had purchased specially for the occasion, “so this is by way of being an unofficial one. I hope you don’t mind?”

They were introduced to Greta’s ‘plus 1’, an attractive young brunette called Harriet, whom Peter half recognised from the reception desk at the police station. Lucy could tell immediately that the women were lovers, but saw no reason to tell Peter. It was an interesting two story four bedroomed house on the Park Hill estate with a full-height central dining room that allowed Roger’s two children to look down on proceedings; until they were spotted and sent smartly to bed. The evening went with a swing and by the end – rather later than any of them had intended and probably to the detriment of the neighbourhood’s ability to sleep – almost everyone was slightly the worse for drink. Greta had also brought a bottle and Roger’s ‘cellar’ was well stocked in any event. Fortunately, everyone had come in taxis.

“I almost forgot,” said Greta, her hand lightly round Harriet’s waist as she kissed Peter and Lucy goodbye. “I have the police surgeon’s report on the file for you. Here it is,” she added, handing him a sealed envelope. “I hope it tells you what you needed to know.”

In the taxi on the way back to Purley, neither Peter nor Lucy were inclined to read the report Greta had given them,

“There was no point in you ogling Harriet,” Lucy gently chided Peter. “She is not interested in men, not even good looking ones like you.”

“It wasn’t that … Oh, I see what you mean. She and Greta are ‘together’ are they,” he replied. “I wondered why Greta had her arm round her. I thought it was just because they were drunk. Oh, well, I’m afraid I am not very good at spotting these things. The reason I was looking at her was that I was trying to place her. I’m sure she works at the police station, but I can’t help thinking I have seen her somewhere else before, too. But I cannot for the life of me think when – or where it was.”

“Could she have attended one of your public readings?” asked Lucy, more for the sake of keeping awake, after so much food and drink than out of genuine interest. Everything about Peter was of concern to her, but she was not really in the mood for detective work of any sort, so she didn’t really pursue the matter. Peter, however was in that state of his cups that small things started to take on greater importance than they merited and he would not let it go.

“No. Apart from you, I seldom remember anyone from my audiences,” he told her. “She may just have one of those faces, but I cannot help thinking there is definitely something about her.” They sat quietly in the taxi as it approached Peter’s house, when he suddenly said: “perhaps it was just the unusual colour of her eyes. Did you notice that they were a rather striking shade of green? That is the least common eye colour; she might have Icelandic blood, that is one of the countries where it is most prevalent, I understand.”

“Possibly,” replied a wholly uninterested Lucy, “but let’s get to bed now. I am exhausted.”

The next morning, after a disreputably late – and necessarily quiet – breakfast about which Mrs Walters said nothing, Lucy and Peter decided to go and sit in the office and see if their eyes could focus on the medical report about Petie’s death. They sat together on the two seater opposite the window and started to read. It was rather technical in places and neither of them had the necessary skills to interpret the data. Fortunately, the Police Surgeon’s summary of the coroner’s summing up at the inquest made matters clearer.

SUMMARY OF THE INQUIRY INTO THE DEATH OF SERGEANT PA JENKINS HELD ON AUGUST 21ST 1944

The death of Sergeant Peter Arthur Jenkins (it said) was the result of pneumonia exacerbated by injury caused to the lungs by the effects of smoke inhalation. He had been severely injured in a flamethrower attack on 7th June 1944 in Northern France and repatriated to the Queen Victoria, East Grinstead, where he was under the care of Mr AG Williams, a highly experienced plastic surgeon, well versed in the treatment of such conditions.

Sergeant Jenkins’s injuries were such that no infection of the lung was noted at the time of his admission and he had apparently displayed no particular respiratory difficulties during his initial treatment.

His treatment for the burns was clearly progressing well, although he was finding it difficult to come to terms with the nature of his injuries and the circumstances in which they arose. His heroic act in saving a fellow soldier and their officer resulted in a commendation for bravery, but he appeared to have some feelings of anger for the nature of the attack which he was unable to communicate to anyone. (Probably what we would now call PTSD.)

His fiancé, Miss Lucy Edwina Andrews, who worked at the hospital’s refectory, had been encouraged by the medical staff to visit him regularly as part of his therapy for mental trauma. She was no more successful than the staff in getting him to talk about his experience, but she was able to encourage him to think about the future.

He quickly deteriorated during the period leading up to his death and this was correctly diagnosed as pneumonia, so that he could be given appropriate treatment. Unfortunately, he failed to respond to the antibiotics prescribed for him. Given the new nature of such drugs at that time, the outcome was hardly unexpected.

Mr Archibald George Williams, giving evidence, had said he accepted full responsibility for the loss of his patient, which he deeply regretted. The coroner advised him he had been completely correct in his diagnosis and treatment of the deceased and that he had nothing with which to reproach himself.

Miss Mavis Carter, his primary care nurse, affirmed that she had administered the medicine prescribed by Mr Williams at the intervals, and using the dosages, indicated. She said that there had been no indication of adverse reaction, but had reported to Mr Williams, the day before his death, that Sergeant Jenkins was failing to respond as predicted.

The deceased was attended at the time of his death by his fiancé and Nurse Carter. Mr Williams was also present.

The Post Mortem Examination had revealed extensive, and previously unrecognised, damage to the lungs. There had been no indications of this in any of the ante-mortem examinations

The coroner found that the deceased had died of complications following surgery for severe burns, compounded by pneumonia. No blame attached to the hospital or its employees and consultants.

Signed: Dr C Turner, Police Surgeon – 20th April 2000

“Well,” said Peter, after they had finished reading as much of the file as they could, to see if there was anything which contradicted Dr Turner’s analysis, to the layman’s eye. “As far as I can see, either Williams is so clever that he managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes and killed Petie, presumably so that he could get his hands on Lucky, or he was innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“In which case he is not the same man as his father and grandfather,” added Lucy. “There is, of course, one other alternative. He might have acted in collusion with Nurse Carter and they killed him together. Although I cannot see her angle in helping the surgeon. She seemed to be very friendly with Lucky and Petie. Even if she was in love with Petie, she would have been more inclined to kill Lucky than him.”

“I wonder what happened to Lucky after Petie died?” mused Peter.

Chapter 17 – Sutton: May 2000

Sister Carter, as Mavis had become some years after the war, was now approaching her eighties and not in the best of health. Peter had telephoned her using the information from Commandant Dawkins and asked if they could go and visit her. She was delighted to hear from someone whom she had seen regularly on television and immediately agreed. She would have liked to go and see him performing live, she told, him – not realising that ‘performing’ might be taken as a pejorative term – but her health would not allow her to do so. Meeting him in person would be a real treat; and of course he should bring his fiancé with him, she had said, wondering whether she might invite her neighbour in so that she could see Mavis’s famous guest. But she decided against that, as it might seem somehow boastful.

As soon as Peter and Lucy arrived at her home in a quiet part of Sutton, the borough in Greater London immediately to the west of Croydon itself, Mavis started to make a fuss of them. It was a small flat in a block aimed at the retired. One living room, a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. Of course the space was nothing to what she had enjoyed in her bungalow, but that had got too much for her not so long ago and her nephew had encouraged her to ‘downsize’ as he had called it. And, of course, there was a resident manager, who could help out if there were any problems. To be honest, there had been times when she was very grateful for the presence of someone on the premises at night. Independent as she was, you never knew who might be lurking around these days. Better safe than sorry.

Mavis already had her gate-leg table laid out for afternoon tea, although it was barely half past two and therefore a little early for more than a drink. It created less space for the rest of the furniture; but they wouldn’t be dancing would they, she reasoned, so once they were sitting there would be no problem. Her mind went back to the tea dances of her youth, something she had enjoyed so much, but seeing Peter’s enquiring face, realised that she must have drifted off into a reverie for a moment – something that seemed to happen more frequently, these days – and offered them her most comfortable chairs. She herself sat on a dining chair, explaining that it was better for her back, which had been giving her some trouble ever since she retired.

“I suppose it was all that lifting of patients we had to do,” she opined, declining Peter’s offer that she should have a more appropriate seat. “They did teach us to do it safely, but people started to get heavier and heavier after the war – all that rich food, once rationing had finished soon after 1950, I suppose – so it put such a strain on one’s back.” Lucy was enchanted by the old lady. She was an older version of the young nurse she had ‘seen’ through Lucky’s eyes, something that Lucy had never experienced before. Mavis, as she most certainly did NOT invite them to call her, was rather slight, but with a demeanour that suggested she might have been a highly effective ward manager in her day. Cleanliness was clearly a mania with her, given the immaculate state of her living room, and this would have been as important as medical accuracy in her work. Making sure the wards were clear of infection had been one of her principal jobs as a ward sister. Indeed, during her final years at the Queen Victoria Hospital – where she had remained for her entire career – she was in charge of infection control for all wards. She was more proud of that, than all the other achievements from her long service.

“I understand you wanted to ask me some questions about that nice Sergeant Jenkins,” she said, after having struggled up from her seat to pass them some teacups full of lukewarm beverage. “It was such a tragic case, you know. In fact, I had rather a soft spot for him. To be fair, I had a soft spot for quite a few of those brave boys during the war, but he was special because we had so few army people there. The rest were RAF … and largely officers, although there were some Sergeant Pilots, as well. He never really recovered from the awful burns he received. Of course, you couldn’t really see them except when you were treating him, because they were largely on his back. I don’t think his fiancé – Miss Andrews, she was – really knew the full extent of his injuries. She was devastated when he died. Well, of course she would have been; but then it was all so very sudden. In fact,” she added in a conspiratorial voice, “I was rather suspicious at the time. That handsome Mr Williams was quite taken with Miss Andrews, Lucky as we called her, himself. Between ourselves, I couldn’t help wondering if he was planning to try and win her for himself. So tragic,” she said again, although neither of her visitors noticed the re-use of that word immediately.

Peter decided to take the bull by the horns and see if Sister Carter had any tangible reason for suspecting Williams.

“In your statement to the coroner, I believe you said that the treatment seemed to be working well, but that Petie Jenkins than started to deteriorate quickly,” he prompted.

“Well yes,” replied the former nurse. “It was an awful shock when the sergeant started to go downhill. He was doing rather well and his face was unscarred, as I mentioned, so there was no reason to think that he had any additional internal problems – at least, not respiratory ones. Unfortunately, he must have had something in his lungs; at least, that is what they thought after the post-mortem examination. Nothing we saw beforehand suggested he was suffering difficulties with his breathing. Well, not until the last day or so and by then, it was too late.”

“Did Mr Williams do everything he could to help Petie?” asked Lucy.

Mavis Carter gave her such a strange look, that Lucy wondered if she had somehow insulted the now famous, but retired, surgeon.

“Oh, yes,” replied the former nurse, slowly. “I know there was a suspicion that he should have spotted the problem earlier, but they were all so desperately busy all the time, there was little opportunity for second guessing a diagnosis. And anyway, even if he had been attracted to the fiancé, he would never have seriously considered marriage with her. She was very nice, but not quite of the same class as him. In fact, I only ever knew him become properly romantically involved with a woman once in his entire life and she was his … Oh, my word,” gasped Mavis Carter, staring intently at Lucy. “You are her.”

Lucy and Peter looked at each other, wondering precisely what was coming next. Had the elderly nurse somehow divined a link between Lucy and the hapless Lucky? Was the resemblance stronger than they had realised?

“I am whom?” asked Lucy, evenly.

“That young woman,” replied the retired nurse, “the one Mr Williams was so very fond of. But of course, I know you cannot possibly be the same woman. You are far too young. But you look so much like her.”

“Who do you mean – Lucky Andrews?” pressed Lucy.

“Oh, no, my dear,” said Miss Carter. “You couldn’t have been her. I was talking about the young woman whom Mr Williams, Sir Archibald, as he is now, was in love with. It was a long time after the war, of course, perhaps twenty years. I was just about to be made up to Sister at the time and I remember that, however discreet they were about it, there were starting to be rumours about his relationship with his secretary. I had more contact with her than most, because I was being interviewed for the promotion and she was handling all the paperwork for Sir Archibald and Sister Dawkins – Commandant Dawkins as she is now; oh, of course, you’ve met her. Silly me. Sir Archibald was head surgeon by then you know.”

“What was her name?” Lucy breathed.

“Oh, now,” said the nurse. “I am not sure that I can rightly remember, but it was something like Miss Brown, or Miss Breeden. Her first name was Sandra, I believe.”

“Not Sandra Bowen, by any chance?” asked Lucy.

“Well, now you mention it, I believe it was,” replied Miss Carter. “Now how could you possibly have known that, I wonder?”

Lucy looked at Peter. This was part of her family history over which her mother had been particularly vague. One of the things she had so much wanted to question her mother, but had never had the chance.

“Because I believe she was my mother.”

“Of course, she must have been,” said the nurse. “You look so much like her; you must be about the same age now as she was then. Of course, there were rumours that she might be expecting and Mr Williams could not possibly have an unmarried mother working for him. I’m afraid he must have discharged her without a reference, because none of us ever heard of her again. Mr Williams was apparently concerned that he might have treated her unfairly, because he tried looking for her – perhaps to see if he could help. But I never heard that he had succeeded in finding her.”

The bastard, thought Lucy to herself. Sacking mother just because I was on the way.

“But then,” continued Miss Carter, unaware of Lucy’s thoughts, “we always thought that he never recovered from Lucky Andrews’s death.”

The words struck Lucy like a bombshell. She had known that the women desired by the Brown/Andrews men had been likely to come to a sticky end, but she was becoming accustomed to the idea that perhaps in this ‘incarnation’ he was not quite so bad as his father and grandfather. Now there seemed to be evidence that he had been back to his old tricks.

“What happened to her?” asked Peter, to give Lucy time to recover from the shock he knew she must have been suffering. “You said earlier that this was a tragic case. Were you referring to more than just Sergeant Jenkins’s death?”

“Well, yes,” replied the former nurse. “I thought you must have known about Miss Andrews, because it was not long after the Sergeant that she died. Mr Williams and I did the best we could to console her in the run-up to the coroner’s court sitting, but afterwards we were all so busy with more and more casualties coming in from the ‘second front’ in Northern France that we didn’t really have the time to spend with her. As far as I knew she was hard at it in the canteen and I assumed she was simply trying to work through her loss. But I overheard Mr Williams say to Sister Florence that Miss Andrews was becoming rather withdrawn and had stopped coming to see him for their usual talks. He had apparently been in the habit of discussing Sergeant Jenkins’s case with her in the garden outside his office and felt that she might have benefitted from a continuation of the habit after he had died.”

“How did Miss Andrews – Lucky – die?” asked Lucy, re-finding her voice.

“Well, Lucky eventually proved to be something of a misnomer for her,” replied Miss Carter. “She apparently went home on a visit to her family – or what was left of it, after the ravages of the Blitz and so on – and was killed in a V2 attack near the Selhurst marshalling yards, just north of Croydon. You might know them; they are still there. She was apparently killed outright. Mr Williams was so upset when he heard. Stayed in his office all day. It was almost as bad when your mother left suddenly, all those years later, my dear.” She smiled at Lucy in a way which suggested she felt there was something about the story she didn’t know, but could only guess at. And she was not about to make any further comment on the subject.

“I believe we have taken sufficient of your time, this afternoon Miss Carter,” said Peter, rising to his feet. “Thank you so much for tea – and for everything you have told us.”

“Yes,” added Lucy. “I am pleased to have met someone who knew my mother before I was born. I would love to come back and talk with you again, sometime. There is a lot I don’t know about my mother and it is too late to ask her now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” replied the nurse. “Is she no longer with us?”

“No, she died of cancer just over a year ago,” Lucy told her. “We never seemed to have time to talk about her youth when I was living at home. As a single mother, she had to work very hard – long hours for little reward, even though she was a qualified secretary. In those days, it was difficult to get a good job in her circumstances. But she was a good mother and I loved her very much.” It was the first time she had said anything like that, even to her mother; she wished that she had made the time to tell her so before she died.

As they drove back to Purley, Lucy was very quiet. All she could think about was her mother and how not only her father, but also the surgeon for whom she had been working, had apparently abandoned her when she became pregnant. But then, her distaste for the Williams men was such that she felt able to blame him more than her actual father for the desertion. Whoever he might have been. Could Williams possibly have sacked her mother because he was jealous of her relationship with another man, she wondered?

“Thinking about your mother?” he asked, after giving her just enough time to think, but not sufficient to become maudlin.

“Partly,” she replied, “but mostly about Williams. Or Sir Archibald as we should now call him, I suppose. You realise that he was almost certainly no more than negligent, at worst, in respect of Petie’s death. Probably not even that, given the circumstances. And, unless he was in league with Hitler, he could not have been responsible for Lucky’s death,” she managed to joke.

“You are thinking that he might not be the killer that his father and grandfather were?” asked Peter, although he had already reached this conclusion himself.

“No,” she finally admitted to herself, despite her deep prejudice against him. “I rather suspect that he was not. But, then, thinking he might have been, was probably unreasonable of us. Well, of me I suppose. I get the impression you were always more open minded on the question than I was.”

“I admit I was disposed to allow him the benefit of the doubt,” said Peter. “But I was equally open to his being a complete rotter and hating him for it. After all, he plays golf, you know!”

That made Lucy laugh for the first time in hours. She knew Peter was not a fan of a sport that consisted of hitting a silly white ball round the countryside, when you could be walking and enjoying the views. She had learned that Peter was someone who was sensitive to light and shade, colours and shapes. As such, he enjoyed nature in its own right, seeing golf as an artifice. She shared these views; but then, each to his own, she felt. If the retired surgeon wanted to get his exercise in that way, why not?

They continued in companionable silence – well as much as one could when negotiating early rush-hour traffic in South London.

Reaching home, Lucy suddenly wanted to spend time with Peter’s mother. She left him reading what he could find about Sir Archibald on the internet while she went to find Audrey Walters. She was in the kitchen, fighting with a chicken, which she was trying to stuff with a duck, to make a two bird roast.

“Would you like me to help you bone both birds?” Lucy offered.

“Good heavens,” replied mother. “Is that what I am doing wrong? I thought it was difficult to get the smaller bird inside the larger one’s cavity. How clever you are Lucy, darling. Yes, please help me.”

While they were working together, Lucy started to tell her future mother-in-law all about their meeting with the retired nurse and the revelation that her mother had worked with Sir Archibald, although presumably before he had been knighted.

“I had always known she was a skilled secretary and that her career was put off track when she fell pregnant with me,” Lucy admitted. “It was not necessarily that she held me responsible for being born and stopping her from working – she always used to joke that the only thing children are not to blame for, is being born – it was more a matter of wishing that she had been more careful. She was always telling me to be ‘careful’ when I started dating boys, and made sure I knew exactly how to avoid what she called ‘getting into trouble’.”

“Did she ever say anything about your father?” prompted Audrey, gently.

“No,” replied Lucy. “She never told me anything at all about him. She never accused him of having deserted her, or of failing to support her. In fact, I am not sure she ever told him she was pregnant. I always assumed he was married and that was why she was on her own. She was the sort of woman who would not want to be beholden to a man, anyway. She always stood on her own two feet. I never knew her parents. As far as I know they died in the war. I know the family had always lived in the Croydon area, but no more.”

“Did you ever think about trying to trace him?” asked Audrey.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said, flatly. “I suppose Peter might have some ideas, but it is not the sort of thing I want to raise with him right now. He knows I was illegitimate and has never said a word about it. But to start raising issues about my paternity now would somehow seem ungrateful for the way you have all taken me in. I love being part of this family; I don’t think I need any other.”

These words affected Audrey Walters so deeply that she had to pretend that it was cutting the onions that made her eyes water so severely. Recognising the true cause of the emotion and accepting it as further proof of her acceptance, Lucy accepted the minor fiction and suggested that she should cut the onions under water in future, so that the fumes did not affect her so much. She said it was a trick she had learned from one of the chefs at the restaurant.

“Why don’t you go up and see Peter’s father? Audrey asked. She knew he had become very attached to Lucy in his own way and that her kindness to him was one of the things to which he looked forward, in his more lucid moments. These were, unfortunately becoming rarer. The form of dementia he suffered from resulted in a gradual, but increasing, loss of his short-term memory. This was compensated for by a greater ability to relive past episodes in his life and Lucy felt she would never tire of listening to stories from his own youth and that of Peter – although she was never quite sure which life each story applied to. Certainly, Mr Walters seemed to be confused as to whether Myrtle had been his nursemaid, or Peter’s, and this sometimes made it more difficult to follow his tales.

Lucy went upstairs to the sitting room that was now virtually the only place, other than the adjoining bedroom and bathroom, Mr Walters ever went. He had recently stopped going downstairs for meals, preferring the sanctuary of the familiar. He seldom stirred from his seat from one hour to the next. Yet he never failed to try to rise from his chair whenever Lucy entered the room. Given that he usually saw her as Myrtle, the maid from the past, this was strange. Audrey told her, however, that she was clearly in his mind as Peter’s future wife, just as much as the totally separate girl from the distant past. His brain was now so befuddled that he could not distinguish one from the other; but neither did he conflate them. Had he thought his son was marrying a maid, he might have accepted her, but not with the same degree of warmth and courtesy, Audrey felt.

She found him sitting quietly, humming a nursery rhyme to himself.

“Would you like me to read to you?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, yes, please, Myrtle,” he replied in a child-like voice. “One of the bedtime stories, please.” This was the first time he had made such a request and Lucy was temporarily at a loss. She usually read to him from the gardening books he so loved; this was a change and she had no idea where to find anything suitable. Looking round the room, which had changed very little since she first entered it months earlier, Lucy noticed that there were now some old children’s books piled neatly on a table in the corner. She was certain they had not been there before and promised herself that she would ask Peter when they had arrived. But for now, she sat down beside the elderly man and read to him from The Tale of Peter Rabbit, a story she had never read before. Her own mother had not been a fan of Beatrix Potter, preferring C. S. Lewis’s Narnia Chronicles as being more suitable for a girl who would have to find her own way in life, but should not be deprived of the magical. Given the struggle for literary independence Miss Potter had endured, this was perhaps a little surprising. At some levels she was probably a good role model for any young girl, so perhaps it was simply the more aspirational nature of the Narnia tale which had appealed to Sandra Bowen.

After half an hour, Mr Walters dropped off to sleep. Actually, it might have been sooner, but Lucy found herself engrossed in the story and had moved on to one of the other Beatrix Potter books on the table before she even noticed his stillness. She made sure he was comfortable and then, passing though the kitchen to let Audrey know her husband was comfortable and sleeping, she went to find Peter.

“Quite a chap, your Sir Archibald,” he told her as she entered the office.

“Hardly, my Sir Archibald,” she replied, rather more sharply than she intended, although she did not know why. “Even if he is not a killer, he is the son of one and might have been negligent in the case of Petie.”

“We still have no absolute proof of his father’s guilt,” said Peter, in a conciliatory tone, “and for that matter, nor of his natural grandfather’s. Although we have resolved all three –even six – deaths to our personal satisfaction, we have nothing that could be used in a court of law.”

“I know, Peter,” she said, “and I’m sorry I was so touchy. I don’t know why, but I suppose I might even be disappointed to find that he was not the villain after all. I was so sure that he would kill Lucky, or even she and Petie. Now we have to blame their deaths on the war.”

“We have come a long way since this all started last year, darling,” said Peter, leading her to the two-seater settee that had been the scene of many of their confidences – and more. “Lucia asked you to find out who killed her, and as far as we can establish, we have done so. That led on to Lucinda and her story, which was something of a bonus. That Lucky’s story ended in a different sort of tragedy made her untimely death no less something that needed to be investigated. We have done that. I used the internet to check on the dates of V2 attacks on South London and it certainly ties in with what Mavis Carter told us. She was even listed as a casualty.”

“So all that remains is for us to go and see Sir Archibald, I suppose,” she concluded. “At least that way, we can complete the circle. What do we know about him?”

“Well, as I was saying, when I was so rudely interrupted,” Peter smiled warmly at Lucy, “he was quite a man. He was a leading plastic surgeon after the war, right up until a few years ago. He finally retired in 1995 at the age of eighty, having been knighted in 1967 for his services to medicine. That must have been about the time your mother worked for him, I suppose. Anyway, he never married, as we knew, but there were never rumours of homosexuality or anything of that sort. Reading between the lines, he seldom had much to do with women, either. Although to be fair, the sources from his younger days were seldom as salacious as they are today, so a simple liaison might have gone unreported. Anyway, he lived in Croydon for most of his life and had a private practice there and in Harley Street. He also continued to work in the National Health Service. He supported a number of charities, something he seemed to have inherited from his grandmother, Lady Anne Williams.”

“He sounds almost too good to be true,” opined Lucy.

“Well I hope so, because we are going to see him next week …” replied Peter.

“Peter,” called his mother from the hall, interrupting whatever he was going to say next. “Would you mind coming upstairs to see your father, dear?” Something in her voice made him rise quickly from the settee – and sent a chill into Lucy’s heart. She also rose and slowly followed mother and son up the stairs.

She caught up with them standing in the doorway of his father’s sitting room.

“I found him like this a few minutes ago,” she said. There was a stillness in the air that somehow told the entire story. Sometime during the past few minutes, Mr Walters had died; perhaps even while Lucy had been reading to him. For a moment, nobody said anything at all. Then Audrey quietly put her arm round her son’s shoulder and turned so that they were both facing Lucy.

“Thank you,” she said, directly at the young woman who had brought so much life into the house. “You made his last few months very happy. I will never forget your kindness to him.” Detaching herself from her son, who had put a protective arm around her waist as soon as he saw the scene in the room, she stepped forwards and hugged Lucy. She didn’t give way to tears for the loss of her partner of almost fifty years, but simply held the young woman who meant so much to her and had somehow eased the passing of the man she loved. His death was far from unexpected, but had still somehow come as a shock. Lucy, near to tears herself, gently led Audrey to the kitchen and made a cup of tea for them all. Peter went downstairs to his office to telephone the doctor. He had no idea what he needed to do in such circumstances, but felt that having a medical practitioner on hand would not only ensure nothing could be done to revive his father, but also guide them as to what to do next. Having few relatives nearby meant that they had no experience of proximity to death. Lucy had not had to deal with the immediate aftermath of her mother’s death, because she had been in a hospice at the time. In any case, she was as deeply affected by the death of this elderly man as either of the others and was unlikely to be of much practical help for some time. She had never known a father and this was the closest she would ever get to having had one.

While they awaited the arrival of the doctor, an old family friend who had abandoned his surgery and jumped into his car as soon as the receptionist had given him Peter’s message, the three sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Little was said, except to repeat an occasional phrase which had made them all laugh in better times, each individual trying to lift the spirits of the others. Gradually, Audrey started to take charge.

“We can either sit here maundering over Cedric’s passing,” she said, naming her late husband for the first time in Lucy’s hearing, “or we can talk about something completely different, while we wait for Doctor Hartnell. Tell me, Lucy, are you making any progress with the case?” It almost seemed as if she had forgotten everything Lucy had told her only an hour earlier, which would hardly be surprising. But then she continued: “I mean, I know you saw Nurse Carter and so on, but do you think you are now at the end of the trail, or is there anything more you can do to satisfy yourself and Peter that these historic killings can finally be put to rest?”

“I think we have to go and see Sir Archibald, mother,” Lucy replied. “Peter has made an appointment for us to visit him next week, although I think we should defer that until …” She had been going to say, ‘after the funeral’, but decided this would be too harsh so soon, so altered the sentence to finish “… when things have quietened down a little.”

“You are very sweet, my dear, but I wouldn’t hear of any such thing,” replied the older woman. “The sooner you can get to the end of your quest, the sooner you can get on with your own lives. I am grateful to this ‘Lucia’ character for having brought you to us, but the dead must look after themselves. I know that now, even more than ever. Cedric was very fond of you on several levels, my dear and I am confident he would want you to move on as soon as possible. Go and resolve your remaining questions, we will bury my husband and you two can go ahead and get married when you are ready.”

The level headedness of the new widow was too much for Lucy. She dissolved into tears for her lost ‘father-in-law’, the deaths they had been investigating and even for her own mother. Peter was comforting her when he heard his mother, who had quietly left the kitchen and answered the door, talking with Doctor Hartnell and taking him upstairs to inspect his father’s body. He decided that Lucy needed him more than his father – and his mother had the support of an old friend, with whom she could probably let herself go, should she wish to. He remained downstairs with the woman he would share the rest of his life with.

A quarter of an hour later, with a quietened Lucy sitting beside him in the study, Peter heard the doctor and his mother enter the room.

“He died very peacefully,” the doctor said without any preamble. “In view of his health – he had acute angina, you know – I feel justified in issuing a death certificate immediately; there will be no need for a post-mortem or inquest.”

“Thank you for that, Doctor Hartnell,” replied Peter. “It really is kind of you to come so quickly.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” replied the elderly doctor, kindly, “I would have been disappointed had I not been available to come. Your father was one of my first private patients and we have been friends for even longer, although he was at Trinity some years before me. We shared an interest in gardening, you know?” It was almost as if he was talking to fill a void, but whether that was in the conversation, or in his own heart was difficult to tell. Lucy couldn’t help feeling that the frail old man she had met so recently must have touched so many hearts over his lifetime.

While she was deep in thought about Cedric Walters, the doctor was giving Peter instructions on the practicalities of dealing with a dead body, contacting the undertaker and so on. They had an office in Purley High Street and could be there within minutes.

“I believe they tended to your grandfather, Peter, so they will know your father,” he said. “By the way, did you know I am your father’s executor? It was set up a long time ago, while you were at school and he never altered it. I can easily stand down and let you take on the reins, if you prefer?” he put it as a question.

“No, thank you, Doctor Hartnell,” he replied without even looking at his mother. “I think mother and I would very much prefer it if you would act on father’s wishes for us. If you don’t mind, that is? I am sure he would have wanted you to do so.”

“Well, I know the provisions of his will and there will be no difficulties,” said the doctor. “He wanted to make a rider to the effect that a sum be settled on Miss Bowen,” he looked at Lucy indicating that Audrey had filled him in on who she was, while they were upstairs. “He wanted her to have sufficient money to pay for a wedding should he die before it took place; otherwise I know he intended paying the full costs himself. Unfortunately, I had to tell him that he was not in sufficiently sound mental capacity to make such a testamentary change. I am sure, however, that we can come to some arrangement to ensure his wishes are fulfilled. Having heard about your kindness to my old friend,” he said directly to Lucy, “and now having met you, I can see why he wanted to do this. I approve.” So did Peter and his mother, who moved further into the room and hugged her again.

Turning back to Peter, he said: “I see no reason why the funeral should not be held as soon as it is convenient. There is a family plot at the Croydon Cemetery in Mitcham Road, as you must know since your grandparents are buried there. Cedric wanted his remains to be placed there as well.” No need to mention that he also wanted his wife buried there, in due course. “Talk with the Funeral Directors and they can contact me for the details, Peter.”

Peter thanked the doctor who then left the family to grieve, and to make the necessary arrangements.

*

The funeral took place two weeks later on a rainy, blustery June day. Such events are never pleasant, but the weather somehow compounded the sense of finality experienced by Peter. His father, although unwell for the past decade or more, had always been a bulwark against life; not so much protecting him from it, although the financial security he provided had meant Peter never had to worry about his career, but more because he acted as an anchor for Peter in times of uncertainty. Peter realised that the only significant decision he had ever made without first talking it over with his father had been the one to propose to Lucy. It was not that he had doubted his father’s ability to enter into a rational discussion by then, but rather he had been so confident about his intention to bring Lucy into the family that he never even questioned the matter himself. Why consult anyone over something so obviously right?

Lucy and Audrey were dressed in almost matching black dresses; not because they had colluded, but because there was something in their shared taste that predicted they would always be drawn to similar things. Peter wore his darkest blue suit and read a lesson at the packed Croydon Parish church, tucked away behind the Old Palace Girls School in the oldest part of the borough. No longer part of the diocese of Canterbury, which had been an anomaly based on the town’s historic connection with the Archbishops, it remained an imposing building that should one day be recognised as an important centre of worship. After the funeral service, the small cortege wound its way the few miles to the cemetery where the coffin was lowered into the ground next to the grave of Cedric’s parents in a private ceremony. The funeral had necessarily been a public affair, given Cedric’s social standing within the community, his long time as an academic and his involvement in a number of charities, when younger, but his interment was just for the family and very close friends.

Lucy hated seeing the coffin disappear; it seemed so forlorn and final. Peter felt her silent sob and put his arm round her. He instinctively did the same for his mother, who was on his other side, bearing up better than her future daughter-in-law.

Chapter 18 – Croydon: June 2000

By the time Peter and Lucy managed to reschedule their meeting with Sir Archibald Williams – the meeting having been cancelled at the elderly surgeon’s insistence as soon as he read of Cedric’s death in the local paper – it was almost mid-June, some fifty-six years since Petie Jenkins had arrived at the Queen Victoria Hospital to be treated for his burns.

“I was very sorry to hear about your father, my boy,” he said to Peter as they were shown into the large and comfortable sitting room of an unattractive but spacious 1930s house in the expensive Sandilands area of East Croydon. “I knew him vaguely through the university; and we played golf at the same club years ago, although I have not seen him for some time. I read in the paper he had been unwell for ages, so that explains it.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Peter. “May I introduce my fiancé, Miss Bowen?”

Sir Archibald, whose sight was deteriorating, looked closely at her and nodded.

“A very pretty girl, you have there, young man,” he said. “Were I a few years younger, I might have tried to take her away from you.”

Although intended as a compliment, Lucy could not help giving an involuntary shudder – which she hoped nobody noticed – as she recalled what she feared this man might have done to Lucky, had he had the opportunity; what his father had certainly done to Lucinda and Pete and his grandfather to Lucia and – by failing to admit his own guilt – to Pietro. She managed to smile. In return, Sir Archibald’s face froze.

“My dear,” he addressed her directly this time, “have we met? You must forgive me, but my memory isn’t quite as good as it used to be, at least not for recent events, but I cannot help thinking we have met before.”

“No, sir,” she replied. “But I believe you might have known my mother, Sandra Bowen. I was told recently that she had worked for you in the 1960s.”

“My goodness, so she did,” he replied. “I recall her very well. She was the best secretary I ever had. And then she upped and left me without as much as a by-your-leave. I never saw her again. What became of her?”

“Me,” replied Lucy. “She had become pregnant and apparently left because you could not have an unmarried mother working for you.”

Sir Archibald said nothing, but simply stared at Lucy. He looked at her so long and hard that she started to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Noticing her discomposure, Peter decided to start the conversation again.

“It is very good of you to give us some of your time, Sir Archibald,” he said, jolting the old man out of his reverie. “I believe I explained to you on the ‘phone about our interest in one of your patients from the war. We are doing some research into local families and the name of Sergeant Peter Jenkins came up. He was usually known as Petie, I believe. I don’t know if you recall him, sir?”

“Of course, I do, young man,” replied Sir Archibald rather more tartly than Peter had expected. Although given his earlier admission about his memory, he was probably rather sensitive on the subject. For whatever reason, he needed no time to bring the details to mind which, given his long career was quite remarkable. Peter doubted if he could be so confident about more recent cases.

“I’m not senile, you know,” continued the retired surgeon. “His was a rather interesting case for several reasons. We received very few soldiers into the Queen Victoria; most of our patients were airmen. But this was an interesting case. He was with an American whom the authorities were keen to keep safe and his burns suggested that there might be some danger to his eyes, which was a speciality of my leader, Mr McIndoe. As it turned out, we were right to suspect there was something more wrong with the unfortunate young man, but not what it was. He did rather well for several weeks, his recovery helped by a very attractive young woman to whom he had foolishly become engaged just before going on active service on D-Day. She was very attentive and I found her a job in the hospital so that she could be near him. I suspected that she might speed his recovery.”

Sir Archibald explained that few of the airmen ever had visitors, many had facial burns that were quite disfiguring and some wives and girlfriends found it too distressing to see their men in so much pain to come often. And, of course, there were difficulties with travel during wartime.

“In Lucky’s case,” he continued, revealing he knew her name, “she was so bubbly – and there were no off-putting facial scars to worry about – I felt that she might be a tonic for him. And she even spent some time with some of the other, more badly injured, patients,” he added; it something of which they had been unaware.

“She was very good with them. To be honest, I wanted to see whether this was something we should encourage more widely. We had a reputation for innovation in the plastic surgery group and this was just another of the experiments we tried to see what might speed recovery. Of course, we were primarily thinking of patients’ physical wellbeing, rather than their psychological recovery, but the two are closely intertwined, so it was worth a try. I spent hours with the young woman discussing what she was going to say to her sergeant and it seemed to be going so well. Then one day – well over the space of two or three days, actually – he started to deteriorate rapidly.”

“What did you do, sir?” asked Peter, who had read the file, but wanted to get the surgeon’s own perspective.

“Well, as soon as we identified the lung infection, I prescribed a course of antibiotics,” he replied, confirming the official version. “They were still relatively new and we were a little in the dark, regarding how they worked. I still do not understand why they were not effective in this case. In fact, after he died, I asked Mr McIndoe to go through my notes to see if I might have made a mistake.” That was not in the report. “His view was that the treatment was as good as he could have done, so I wondered if the person in charge of him, Nurse Carter, might have made an error. I spoke with Sister Florence, who ran the ward with a rod of iron,” he said with a wry smile, “but she was convinced her nurse was very careful at all times. Still, you always wonder with the cases that get away from you.”

“Did you suspect any form of foul play?” hazarded Lucy. Sir Archibald gave her a strange look. Again.

“Now why would you ask that? I wonder,” he asked.

“Well, if your diagnosis and prescription were both correct and the nurse followed your instructions, why did the sergeant die?”

“I cannot imagine anyone who had any reason whatsoever to harm the young man,” replied the former surgeon in a rather stiff-backed manner, as if insulted by a slight on his professional ability. “I became aware that the American had had some sort of relationship with Lucky before her engagement to the sergeant, but he was long off the scene before anything happened. I heard from him after the war; he returned to America and married a girl from his home town, he said. He might have done away with his rival, had he still been around. Nurse Carter was slightly in love with her patient, but then she was with all of them and that was certainly no reason to kill one of them – rather more likely to do away with the fiancé, I would have thought.”

“What was your own relationship with Lucky?” asked Lucy, tentatively. Again, the direct stare into her eyes – almost into her soul, she felt.

“Well, I suppose I must admit to having been attracted to her,” he said evenly. “She was very pretty, in a common sort of way. Probably my ‘type’, if there is such a thing, but not the sort of person with whom I could have risked starting a serious relationship. My family would never have approved. And if I am honest, I would probably have tired of her in due course. I am sorry if that sounds harsh, but it is better to be honest with oneself. And at my age, there is no reason to mislead you, either, Miss Bowen. Of course, my interest in her might have given me a motive to finish off her fiancé, but I didn’t. You will have to take my word for that.”

Lucy blushed at the thought she was so transparent, but said nothing.

“I know that the young lady died a little later in a rocket attack. It was sad, of course; I had enjoyed speaking with her. But I could not say that it affected me very much.” He paused and sat still for a few minutes – long enough for Lucy to wonder whether he had, after all, been affected more than he could admit.

“I have taken the liberty of ordering a little light luncheon for us all,” he said quite unexpectedly. “I hope you are able to join me. There is something I would like to discuss with you.”

They agreed, somewhat hesitantly, and were led into a wood-lined dining room where the long oak table was set with three places of good quality silver for what was clearly going to be more than a simple meal. There was no cloth on the dining table, but rather placemats on which were put, in succession, gold-rimmed plates full of delicious food covering three courses. While these were worked through and a bottle of Chablis broached and served, the discussion took an unexpected turn.

“I am afraid I have not been completely open with you, so far, Mr Walters,” he said. “For that I apologise and will now rectify matters. It’s not that I have lied, but rather I failed to tell you everything.” Lucy and Peter looked at him, wondering what was coming next.

“You will be aware that I have no family of my own,” he explained. “I never married, although there were times when I may have wanted to. Well one occasion, anyway. His mind drifted for a few moments before he continued.

“But I have often wondered about my forebears. So I started doing some research into family history – my family’s – and found that we are apparently looking into the same matters, albeit possibly from a different perspective. I heard from a contact at The Times, some while ago, that you had been asking about my father, my late – and apparently unlamented – namesake. We may well have come to the same conclusions as I did, but might I ask you what your interest is and what you learned?”

Peter explained, as concisely as he could and without making any accusations, what had started their investigation, starting with the ice cream seller in the 1860s, then on to the assistant cook in the First World War and subsequently to the events surrounding Petie’s death.

“In that case, I quite understand your interest in me,” admitted Sir Archibald. “Your investigations suggest that my father killed this young cook and her lover, as well as my ‘natural’ grandfather having killed the young Victorian girl. It is therefore not unreasonable to have assumed that I may have killed Sergeant Jenkins to have my way with his fiancé.”

“I wouldn’t put it that baldly, sir,” replied Peter. “In fact we quickly became convinced you had done nothing wrong at all.” He had not been totally sure prior to meeting the old man, but now had no doubts about his innocence at all. Nor clearly had Lucy, from the way she gently rubbed her foot against his leg under the table, in approval of his words.

“Thank you for your candour, young man,” replied Sir Archibald. “In return, I will share with you some family history of which you cannot be aware.”

The elderly surgeon went on to reveal what his mother had told him about his father.

“My mother died some years ago,” he told them. “Of course, at my age, you could hardly think otherwise. But before she did so, she told me a story about my father; a man whom, of course, I had never met. Apparently she had been as much afraid of him as she was in love. She didn’t say whether she and he had been lovers before her first husband had been killed during the war, but I got the impression that they must have been – and with the connivance of her own mother, who saw his fortune as a way of improving her daughter’s lot in life. It was clear that my father’s old friend, Captain Downing, was one of those men who would lead his troops from the front and was therefore likely to be killed in action. As indeed he was. With little money of their own – they had no idea about the possible endowment from the Downing family – mother and daughter were likely to have hatched a plot for their financial survival in the event of his death.”

Sir Archibald went on to explain that his mother had been aware that his father had been in the habit of visiting houses of ill repute in London and Croydon, although the latter infrequently, for fear of being seen and comment made. Not that it would have worried him too much. There were also occasional dalliances with servants and more than one had left in disgrace after falling pregnant. When the news of Captain Downing’s death had reached them, Sir Archibald’s mother made it clear to his father that she was not prepared to accept his ‘foibles’, should they marry. This had been a high risk strategy, to which her mother had objected, reasoning that he would simply reject her and move on to the next woman. Neither of them knew, as Williams had, that Mrs Downing was to receive a significant sum of money from her husband’s family, following his death in action. He therefore had a financial interest in marrying her.

Unfortunately, he had already brought his latest proposed ‘paramour’ into the house before Mrs Downing had given him her ultimatum. He was not the sort of man to be gainsaid, however, so he stepped up his plans to have his way with, and then sack, the assistant cook. Her reaction to his attentions was far more severe than he had experienced before. He had not realised – nor cared – she was a virgin and that she would be devastated by his attack on her. Worried she might say something to Mrs Downing, who had been away, but returned the next morning, he had panicked and gone to see her in the early afternoon shortly after the big luncheon at which his engagement had been unofficially announced, in order to secure her silence. Naturally, Mrs Downing had been unaware of this at the time, but when Mr Williams had returned to the drawing room after visiting the girl, it was clear that something was wrong. He was covered with blood and had a darkened gamp – Miss Garraway’s large and unwieldy umbrella – in his hand. Quickly recovering from killing the girl – far more quickly than was appropriate, Mrs Downing had later thought – he had given her the full story, and telling her that her best interests lay in helping him to cover up his involvement. She had acquiesced, since this would enable her to marry into a well-off family and have a weapon with which she could ensure his compliance with her wishes.

Mrs Downing had arranged for them to visit her mother on some pretext relating to a lost purse or handbag or something of the sort, so that they would be out of the house when the body might be discovered. When they reached her house, however, he apparently made an excuse and disappeared for several hours. She had assumed this was to clear up any evidence he may have left, although it later transpired that he had been to Mrs Edwards’s house, probably for some ‘light relief’. Unaware of this for the time being, Mrs Downing agreed that they should marry immediately – she was already pregnant by then and had no time to waste – and life returned more or less to normal.

The circumstances of her second husband’s death had been something of a mystery to the new Mrs Williams, but she was aware he had gone to a less salubrious part of town to meet two people. She did not know why, but later discovered that one of the women killed was a brothel keeper and the other the dead maid’s boyfriend. She had sufficient information to be confident her husband had not only raped and subsequently killed the assistant cook, but had also somehow undoubtedly been complicit in the deaths of the other two. A visit from the editor of the local newspaper, sometime later made it clear that the brothel keeper had been the one whose house her husband had sometimes frequented. Mrs Williams now knew her late husband for what he was. She regretted that the death of her first husband had placed her in the power of such an evil man and was actually pleased he had died before he could endanger her own life, as she was confident he would eventually have done, as soon as he tired of her.

“My mother, brought me up to respect my father’s memory,” concluded Sir Archibald. “But I believe that was only as a matter of form. I was sent to boarding school as early as possible, so that I should mix with the ‘right’ people and discovered an interest in medicine. The rest is a matter of record – which I imagine you have researched in full, Mr Walters.”

“Thank you for telling us all that,” said Lucy, after a pause. “There was no need for you to have done so.”

“No, my dear,” he replied. “But I believe I owe it to you to have given you the full story after all the work you have done. And as some recompense for the trauma you must have experienced in witnessing the crimes of my forebears.” He had deliberately used the plural, but this could have simply been an acknowledgement of his mother’s complicity in the cover-up, if nothing more.

“My mother was a good woman,” he said. “She was the product of an age in which few of her gender were permitted to follow a career other than marriage. Her mother made it clear to her that failure to have a husband would leave them both in penury. As it turned out, the war killed so many men that an entire generation of women found it difficult to marry, although she was actually better provided for than she had imagined. As have I been, in addition to my own earnings from medicine.” He stopped talking for some while and Lucy wondered if he had actually fallen asleep at the dining table. They had been there for several hours, a long time for an elderly man. Should they move, make a noise or call for the valet, who had prepared and served the meal?

“Let’s move into the sitting room and have some coffee,” Sir Archibald suddenly said, before adding, as if he had read Lucy’s mind: “I have been in this upright chair for far too long. But I have not finished yet, if you have time?” Peter instantly replied, with his customary good manners, that they had no other engagements for the day and were completely at his disposal. The party moved slowly back into the room they had visited earlier, which had been tidied to remove any evidence of their previous occupation of it. As they left the dining room, Sir Archibald gave some instructions to his valet.

Sir Archibald painfully seated himself in the same chair he had occupied on their arrival. It was one of the old fashioned porter’s chairs with a high back and hooded cover which offered protection from the drafts that a lack of double glazing – and inadequate central heating – could produce in houses of that age.

“It’s not that I cannot afford to update the place,” he said again almost divining their thoughts, “but I simply cannot face the upheaval of getting builders in. I shall probably have to move to something much smaller soon – it is far too big for me to rattle around in. The new owners, whoever they are, can do it up to their own taste.”

They settled into their seats and coffee arrived.

“You said there was something else you wanted to tell us,” prompted Peter.

“Not to tell you, young man,” replied the elderly surgeon, “but to show you. You and Miss Bowen were not only interested in my father, but the events of 1865, I believe.”

“That’s right, Sir Archibald,” said Lucy, earning herself another bout of his scrutiny.

“You sound like your mother, as well as resembling her, my dear. I really did miss her when she left; quite the best secretary I ever had,” he said. He handed her a piece of paper and Peter moved closer so they could read it together. It was written in a clear and regular script, of the type no longer taught in schools.

“I found this amongst my father’s old papers, after mother died,” he said simply. “I don’t think she can ever have read it, as it was addressed to my father; nor do I think he could have done so, as the seal was intact.”

Addiscombe Road

Croydon

May 1910

To be opened after my death

My dearest Son,

The death of our late King Edward had given us all pause to consider our own lives and there is something I need to tell you about yourself. I hope you will forgive me for what I am about to tell you – and that I have not shared this with you before.

The man whom you thought of as your father was not the man responsible for bringing you into this world. As a young woman, I had a brief relationship with a man; one I came deeply to regret. His name was Archibald Brown and it was he who was your father, and after whom you were named. Sir Henry, whom you treated and respected as a father was well aware of this fact and decided to accept you as his own, for my sake and that of the family. He loved you as his own right up until his own death, earlier this year.

My relationship with Mr Brown was a far from happy one. I was a very young bride when I married Henry Williams and, to be honest I was not at all in love with him; that came much later, when I saw how he took you to his heart. My parents had insisted I married Henry because he was judged to be suitable. But he was dreadfully dull and I became enamoured of his close friend Mr Brown, flattered by his attention and too innocent of the ways of the world to see in what direction his actions were leading. By the time I came to my senses, it was too late. You were on the way and before I had to make a decision about my future, Mr Brown had died and your best interests demanded that I throw myself on the mercy of a generous husband.

Mr Williams was very good to us both. I believe he had fallen out with Mr Brown over a business matter, but was for some reason beholden to him and had therefore tacitly acquiesced to the relationship – of which he had become aware – between us. Brown’s death meant that we were able to restart our marriage in a true sense and I never, ever, betrayed him again.

He did, however, tell me that your father had been complicit in the rape and murder of a young girl at the Croydon Fairground six or seven years before he died. It was something to do with her having witnessed a private discussion between the two of them. My husband was in favour of your father’s plan to bribe her to ensure her silence and, given her personal circumstances, Mr Williams was confident that this would succeed. Unfortunately, your father came upon her and decided that she was the sort of girl he would enjoy and, having done so, felt compelled to kill her. I have heard that some men find such things exciting, but I cannot imagine you will understand this any more than me.

Knowing what your father intended to do – and subsequently must have done – made it impossible for him to report matters to the police. Not only would he have been considered an accomplice in the killing, but also his involvement in a rather dubious business plan would have been revealed. So he kept silent.

His greatest regret was that an innocent young man was sent to the gallows for the crime his former friend had committed. It was this that eventually made your adoptive father the great man he became, spending the remainder of his life in the service of the people of this borough and thereby earning the Knighthood. He had been offered a Baronetcy, but felt that it would be dishonest to have an honour inheritable by the son of another man. For that I was sorry, but hope and believe that you will prove to be more your adoptive father’s son than that of your natural one and thereby earn one for yourself.

Today, I will tell you I am moving out to live on my own, so you can make your own life in this house. I wish you well, but will tell you nothing of this until after I am dead.

Your loving mother,

Anne Williams.

When Peter and Lucy had finished reading the letter, which confirmed everything they had learned, for the first time, Lucy spoke to Sir Archibald.

“Your own father never knew about this, because he died before his mother,” she said.

“That is right, my dear,” he replied quietly, almost as a prayer. “And from what I can tell, he was no better a man than his natural father; nothing like his adoptive one. I can only hope I have not taken after him, myself.”

Lucy’s eye filled with tears for his obvious distress at having had to live with this secret for so long and then having shared it with virtual strangers.

“Sir Archibald,” she said to him, with absolute conviction. “I am certain from what we know that you are a far better man than any of the others. I wish my mother had remained your secretary, so I might have got to know you better.”

The elderly surgeon sat quietly for a moment, as if wrestling with himself before speaking, perhaps filled with an emotion that his visitors could only guess at.

“Thank you, my dear young lady,” he said eventually. “I rather wish the same myself.”

“What will you do with this letter, sir?” asked Peter.

“I have no desire to launder my family’s dirty washing in public, young man,” he replied some of his earlier spirit returning. “I shall leave this with my will – together with a statement as to what my mother told me of my father – for my heirs to decide what to do about it. By then, it will be such ancient history, that nobody is likely to be interested in it,” he added hopefully.

Lucy stood up, causing the elderly knight to do the same and stepped over to him, drawing both her hands into his.

“Sir Archibald, we are most grateful for everything you have told us,” she said, looking into his eyes, which were slightly watery; as were her own. “Your secrets are safe with us for as long as you wish. We have no interest in publicising this. Our quest was to find the truth about a young Italian ice cream girl and we have been on a journey which encompassed two more generations of tragedy, love and loss. But it has also brought us to you, and for that I am grateful. We’ve taken too much of your time, sir, and probably tired you. With your permission, we’ll leave now.”

The old surgeon smiled at her and simply nodded his assent. The valet appeared as if by magic, nodded to his master and escorted the visitors to the door, wishing them a safe journey home, on behalf of Sir Archibald.

*

Peter and Lucy drove home in total silence, neither wanting to break the spell generated by the information they had been given. Peter parked the car and they went in to see his mother. She was sitting in the room in which her husband had spent so much of his time, during his long illness. The room somehow looked different without him, but Lucy also noticed, as Peter didn’t, that Audrey had moved some of the furniture round and removed some of the clutter of books and magazines. Instead of a shrine to a dead partner, the room had taken on a new lease of life; one that reflected looking forward, rather than backwards.

“I know it seems far too soon to be starting afresh, my darlings,” she told them, “but father would not have wanted me to sit about moping and, to be honest, I have been preparing for this for so long that it has come as something of a relief. I hope that doesn’t sound heartless?” she added. “Now we all need to get on with our lives. When are you two getting married?”

Peter looked between Lucy and his mother before speaking.

“We had rather intended to wait until next year,” he said. They had discussed this after the funeral and decided it was best not to move too quickly. “We didn’t want to distress you with all our preparations while you are grieving.”

“Now you mustn’t think that at all,” replied Audrey. “Father was keen for you to be married as soon as possible and so am I. Lucy will have her inheritance to cover the cost of the wedding and I don’t want to have to wait much longer for grandchildren,” she added, looking speculatively at Lucy, who managed a very discreet smile and shake of the head towards the woman she now considered to be the most important one in her life, indicating that she was not yet pregnant. The signs were wasted on Peter, who was already starting to make plans in his head.

“By the way,” continued Audrey, “How did you get on with Sir Archibald Williams?”

They told her most of the details; Sir Archibald would not have worried about her knowing his innermost secrets, and would never know anyway, because she was the soul of discretion and would never repeat anything her son told her in confidence.

“So that is the end of your investigations, darlings?” she said when they had finished. Seeing their nods, she added: “then I think we need to start planning your wedding now. Lucy, get rid of this man to do something useful downstairs and let’s get to it. There is a lot to do and I rather fancy a September wedding. You can go somewhere warm for your honeymoon; I will be perfectly alright here. And I might even have your cat here for company,”

The quest that had brought these two people together was over; they had their answers and Lucy was confident Lucia, Lucinda and Lucky could rest easy knowing that the truth was known at least by a small number of people.

The wedding invitations included all those who had helped them along the way, together with a large number of friends and relations even Peter didn’t know the family had. For her part, Lucy had a circle of friends whom she felt she had neglected for some time, not least Karen, who had carried the burden of running the restaurant while she had been otherwise engaged.

“You will have to take on the role permanently, now,” Lucy told her over the din of a rather disgraceful ‘hen’ party – not her own, Lucy felt she was too old for that. But they had timed their more sedate party unfortunately to coincide with a similar event for a young bride in her early twenties. “Peter and I are going to work together from now on, so I am not coming back after the honeymoon. I have spoken with the owner and he agrees you are the best person to take over. Good luck.

Epilogue – Purley: September 2010

“Mummy,” shouted an excitable eight-year-old voice, “the postman had been. There is a letter for you with a typed envelope.”

During the decade since the end of their quest, the house in Purley had gradually filled with life and the sound of children. First Sarah, a precocious young lady who promised to be as pretty as her mother, then the twins, Alexander and Christopher, who favoured both their parents in different ways. Audrey, by now in her late eighties, was still living in the house and it was getting rather cramped. Neither they nor she could face the thought of her moving to a retirement home, however, so they were rather stuck.

“Bring the letter to me, please, darling,” said Lucy to her daughter, “I am in daddy’s office. Where did you leave the twins?” Sarah was very fond of her five-year-old brothers and took the opportunity to look after them whenever she could. Of course they were now at school, as well as her, so it was mainly at the weekends that she could practice her maternal skills. Lucy idly wondered how long it would be before her daughter discovered boyfriends were more interesting than siblings. A good few years, she hoped. Especially as she was pregnant again; hopefully only one, this time. Another girl according to the scan – but those could be unreliable.

“They are in the kitchen with grannie,” said Sarah as she brought the missive to her mother. “They’re all right, but I’ll go and check they are not tiring her out,” she added as she dashed back out of the room, a bundle of energy. What a responsible child, thought Lucy to herself.

“What have you got there?” asked Peter, who came in from fetching the newspaper while she was reading the letter.

“It is all rather strange, darling,” she replied. “I am not entirely sure I understand it all. You had better read it.”

The letter was headed from some well-known solicitors in Croydon and addressed to her, not to them both.

Dear Mrs Walters,

In re: The estate of the late Sir Archibald George Williams, deceased

We are instructed as executors of the estate of the late Sir Archibald Williams to contact you as beneficiary under his will. He informed us that this would come as something of a surprise to you and therefore instructed that you be given the enclosed letter from him, by way of explanation. If, having read it, you would be kind enough to contact the writer, we will be in a position to advise you of the nature of your bequest.

We remain, Madam,

Yours (etc.)

“What does the enclosure say?” asked Peter, who had come into the office and read the covering letter, putting his hand out to receive it from Lucy after he knew she had finished reading.

Dear Lucy, (it read)

Please forgive me for addressing you in this familiar way, but I have something rather startling to tell you.

When you and your husband came to see me in 2000, I was astonished to see how much you resemble your mother. I was not entirely truthful with you about my relationship with her, for which I apologise. It was not that I lied, simply that I left out one important detail, which I needed to verify before speaking to you.

Your mother was, indeed, my secretary and we became very close indeed. To put no further gloss on the matter, we became lovers and I was hopeful that she might, one day, become my wife.

She left suddenly in the autumn of 1966 and I never heard from her again. I assumed that she had found someone else and abandoned me. You can imagine, having known her, how devastated I was and I determined never to allow another person into my life, for fear of being hurt again. I was by then fifty and threw myself into my work, only to emerge when I retired not long before you came into my life.

I had no idea why your mother fled, and until you told me of her pregnancy, I had no reason to think that it was anything other than to escape me. I wondered whether she had fallen for another man and that you were therefore the product of their union. However, I was suspicious enough – and here you must forgive me, my dear – to get my valet to take a sample of your DNA from the glass you used at luncheon and send it to some friends of mine in London.

They compared it with mine and, in short, you are, as I suspected, my daughter.

I have no idea how you will feel about this, given what you know of our family history. But it is an incontrovertible truth and one that I wish to act on.

I have no other family and, although I will never understand why your mother hid your existence from me, I have made a will leaving my entire estate, including certain documents that we discussed at our one and only meeting, to you.

Forgive me for not having had the courage to make contact with you when I became aware of the facts, ten years ago, but I was aware of your impending marriage and did not wish to impose myself on your new family. I have, however, followed the progress of your family with interest, and no little pride. I have included in your legacy a trust fund for all your children, to cover their educational costs. From what I know of your increasingly famous husband, such provision is unnecessary, but it is something that I want very much to do and I hope that he and you will indulge me in this. You will have this house – I couldn’t bring myself to move, once I had decided it should come to you – and a substantial amount of money; the children will have a first class education.

To you and your husband, I extend my heartfelt good wishes. Please look after my valet; I have left him a small annuity, but he would hate to leave the house in which he has served me for many decades.

Until we meet again in a better place, perhaps with those we have all lost, I wish you a long and happy life,

Your affectionate father.

Archibald Williams.

By the time he had finished reading the letter, even Peter was close to tears, while Lucy was sitting stupefied.

“You know, I wondered whether there might be more to his decision to open up to us than simply liking your pretty face,” Peter said to his wife. “He clearly guessed the truth almost immediately on seeing you. He must have known that your mother loved him too much to have an affair with someone else while she was with him and that you must therefore be his daughter. The old rogue.”

“I don’t know what to say, Peter,” she said, finally moving herself to speak. “All this started with that séance at the Fairfield Halls. Had Karen not dragged me along to that, we would never have met, the children wouldn’t have been born and I would never have found out about my father.”

“Well,” Peter replied. “Look at it this way, at least you will have enough money to do up that old house. It needs modern windows and central heating. And your father said the next owner would have to sort that out.”

Other books by Stephen Phillips

•              Ozymandias

•              Heraclitus

•              Zarathustra

For details, please visit www.phillips-writer.co.uk