as some thought, a left-over from the Blitz which had defied decay? The newspaper ought to give some help there. Then, if the foot did not belong to the Shepherd child, ought they not to be searching for the girl as alive? Could he trust his boss’s judgement on this? Could he trust his boss?
As he walked, his mind performed the throwing away act that lightened his burden every night. First out went the worry of his boss: probably nothing there; next went Alex: let that lad get on with his own troubles. Professional problems did not go away, but were deposited more comfortably about his person so he could think about himself.
He thought: Although I don’t like living at Mrs Lorimer’s and shall get out of it as soon as I can, we are an interesting lot. There’s Lady Olivia for one. Then there’s Chris Mackenzie always composing on the piano, and when he’s not doing that he spends his spare time carving model toys – aeroplanes and motor-cars. These he sells. Gets a good price, he says. Sociable chap. Gave us a drink on our first night here from some Padovani wine, and didn’t complain when a glass got spilt. Said he always spilt a glass himself on principle.
Mrs Lorimer complained, though, next day and said Alex had spilt some as well. He denied it, but I know he had because it was all over the Penguin I’d lent him.
He walked on.
He had plenty to think about. When he got home that night, just over one month since he had arrived in Greenwich, he began to write an aide-mémoire. A misnomer to call it a diary.
He dated it carefully: April 29, 1946.
And then at once burst into a flow of words about his own personal and private problem.
What Aunt Gert told me: that in August 1922, she thinks the third day of the month, a child was born to Julia Fairbain who later became Julia Coffin, my mother. This child was put out to adoption within the next two months. And Gert said she did not know the sex of the child, nor who adopted it. Her sister told her nothing about it, except that the event had taken place. In 1943 just before she died she told Gertie that the child was still alive and had been in touch with her. She wanted the two of us to get to know each other.
Aunt Gert kept quiet about all this because she didn’t see what I could do. Also, I was in Germany, then in hospital. When she heard I was going to be a detective, she thought I ought to know.
He raised his head from his notebook; he had chosen a red one as being strong and positive. These qualities might rub off on him. Then he wrote:
Aunty is still alive and bearing down on me to come up with an answer.
Query? Aunt Gert is becoming senile. Did she invent the whole story?
If she did not invent it, then can I rely on the details?
If she is passing on those details accurately, then did my mother tell the truth?
He raised his head again. One thing was sure: she had not told much of a story.
Pinned in the back of the red notebook were the only pieces of documentation that his aunt and mother had produced.
A picture-card, addressed to his mother, postmarked, Charlton S.E. And dated October 1940. It said:
Got home safely, so don’t worry. The Blitz won’t get me. I’ll keep in touch.
The picture on the card was of a church and a road.
There was also a single sheet of newspaper. The Kentish Mercury for November 1941. It carried various stories. Also a column of births, deaths and marriages.
That was all he had, and all he would ever have to help him find his unidentified sibling. If he had one.
I have been to the Kentish Mercury [he noted in his aide mémoire], and read the whole of that week’s papers through. I got no help.
I have walked around Charlton and I cannot identify the church or the road.
Think of it as your little hobby, he told himself, when you’re not looking for the murderers of prostitutes, and missing children. Or falling in love with girls like Stella Pinero.
Stella was not writing an aide-mémoire, but she had one great friend to whom she was writing a letter.
Thanks for your letter. Funny to think of you in Stratford. You seem to be getting some marvellous parts. Lucky of you to get your teeth into Ophelia. No one’s offered me Ophelia here, but I’m not doing so badly. What do you say to Major Barbara, Trelawney of the Wells, and Amanda in Private Lives? And I stand a good chance of being Prince Charming in the pantomime at Christmas, so beat that. Also, there’s something more in the offing but that’s still a secret and I mustn’t say.
The Delaneys are super, marvellous management. They’ve got some tremendously good people here. No one I’ve worked with before but names. Edward Kelly, for one. I mean, he really can act. I’m learning a lot.
There’s another bonus too. Where I live. Angel House belongs to Rachel Esthart. Yes. That surprises you, I bet? Remember how we used to try to be like her. Now I don’t have to try. I feel as though I practically am her, I see so much of her, and she’s teaching me. Proper lessons. We go through my parts. She’s got a room rigged up for a theatre. I haven’t told the Delaneys, but I think they know.
Here the writer showed a hint of nervousness. Rachel Esthart had so powerful a personality. I must struggle to be myself as well as her, she thought before going on:
There’s a funny thing about her. She never goes out. Well, hardly ever. I have heard tales that she sometimes hires a car and drives to a first night where she sits in the back of the box wearing white gloves and clapping. Or not clapping if she’s displeased. Then she has supper at the Savoy and drives back.
So she’s not quite a recluse. The house was a shock at first, but the bit we live in is all right. The rest, cobwebs, dear, and dust. Apparently the Miss Havisham thing goes back to when she lost her son. It’s a form of agoraphobia, I suppose. It’s what Miss Havisham could have had, if you think about it.
But there’s something even odder. She drinks a bit. And one night she let out that she doesn’t believe her son is dead. Just gone. One day he might come back. And these last few days she’s acted as if she’d had messages from Heaven that he’s on the way. Oh, poor lady. Most of the time she’s so sane, too. I suppose it’s the gin talking. We all have our fantasies.
I won’t tell you mine, but I will say there are some gorgeous men here. Two policemen (yes!). One so fair, one so dark. And there’s Eddie Kelly. And a pretty good musician who’s our stage manager.
I think I’ve clicked. It might even be the real thing. There’s something very sexy about a slight maiming, isn’t there? The Byron thing. He’s very attractive, rather brutal, I suspect.
Stella finished her letter and posted it.
That afternoon she got the call from John Coffin which obliged her to go to the police station and collect Rachel Esthart and take her back to Angel House on the bus. A journey not without difficulty as Rachel was withdrawn and hostile. The sympathetic union between them was now so strong that Stella felt sick, angry, and yet frightened at the same time and knew this
