Authors: Morgan O'Neill
Chapter Eighteen
Catherine glanced at her watch. She planned to meet Arthur in London at noon for a Saturday lunch, and she’d be late for the next train if she didn’t hurry. She hadn’t seen him in a week and was excited about their third date.
She pulled on her coat. It was new, a lovely red wool with golden buttons, a real treasure. It even had a hood, perfect for cold weather. Most people still made do with their old coats, and she saw a lot of shabby, threadbare outerwear these days. The post-war recession hit everyone hard, and this coat was another instance where her father accepted a gift in lieu of payment. Her first inclination was to feel embarrassed to wear her beautiful coat in the face of such privation, but her mum told her to remember that it came to her because of her father’s willingness to help others in need.
Catherine opened the front door and braced herself for the cold. The blast hit her full in the face, the first snowflakes of the season awhirl in the bitter wind. But the sight did not lift her spirits as it had when she was a child. She couldn’t forget the trauma of last winter, the worst in memory, with heavy snows and freezing cold. The entire country was shut down by the terrible weather, with most people spending long weeks trapped inside their homes with little food and no heat. She hoped the flakes weren’t the harbinger of another winter like that.
Adjusting her hood, she hurried toward the tube. She rode the train into London in silence. There were few people in her car, and they seemed withdrawn, their heads down, eyes averted. She snuggled deep into her coat and waited for the stop at the Chancery Lane Underground Station.
When she alighted from the train, she spotted Arthur waiting for her several cars down. He was searching for her in the opposite direction. She called out his name, and he turned with a smile.
“Hello, love,” he said as they raced into each other’s arms. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and then grabbed her hand. “Let’s be off. I have a surprise for you.”
When they got to street level, the snow had increased, big flakes dancing in the air. The wind had died down, and London seemed soft and hushed by the snowfall, even more apparent given the sparse traffic in this part of town on weekends. Despite the early hour, the streetlights were on, a counterpoint to the gloomy sky. Lit from above, snowflakes sparkled like diamonds, and Catherine made out individual patterns: tiny lace doilies and twinkling stars.
She drew her hood up to protect her hair. “Gosh, it’s so beautiful,” she said, and Arthur laughed as she stuck out her tongue to capture several flakes. “They taste like vanilla,” she added, grinning.
“Do they, now?” He made a show of tasting them, too. “Hungry, are you? Well, follow me!”
…
Arthur strolled with Catherine toward one of his favorite spots in the legal district, a handsome Victorian era pub called The Palace. They would have it to themselves, since he’d reserved the establishment by private hire.
He glanced at Catherine and swallowed. This was the moment. He was going to ask her to marry him. Today. His mind was made up, even if it had been a whirlwind courtship. He’d never been the impulsive type, yet this felt right. He would give her the ring he’d chosen just yesterday, a so-called “trilogy” engagement ring of eighteen carat gold, with three sparkling diamonds.
The jeweler insisted it was what all the young ladies desired nowadays, the trio of stones representing the past, present, and future. This didn’t truly matter to Arthur; he’d made his decision the moment he saw the delicate ring, imagining how lovely it would look gracing his intended’s left hand.
Of course, the rashness of his plan might have untoward consequences. In his haste to act, he’d neglected to tell his aunt or uncle, or formally ask George for his daughter’s hand. He tamped down his nerves, reminding himself the man clearly liked him, and resolved to ask his future father-in-law for the sake of formality and respect. Arthur was certain he’d be forgiven for this lapse in good manners and welcomed into the family.
They finally reached Furnival Street and headed toward The Palace.
And my destiny?
Arthur nervously thought.
He glanced at Catherine, her eyelashes twinkling with snowflakes, her cheeks pink with the cold.
She smiled at him, a pretty smile that set his heart racing, and the whole world seemed bright with possibility.
…
Catherine had a jolly time at The Palace, surprised and pleased that they had the place to themselves. She enjoyed being spoiled by Arthur and the wait staff. Everything was perfect, from the gleaming brass and rich, dark woods of the Victorian decor, to the warmth of a real fire and flavorful food. She particularly enjoyed the dessert they shared, a big helping of Spotted Dick. She declared the pudding tasted positively scrumpy. He pronounced it ambrosial. That made her smile, but when he told her about an American client of his who had been scandalized by the name of the concoction, she blushed furiously and laughed out loud.
“Ah, the Yanks don’t speak proper English,” he said with a wink.
She grinned, shook her head, and took another bite, savoring the mingling of luscious custard and tangy currants.
Arthur’s smile waned, before being replaced by a frown, and she wondered at the sudden change in his mood.
“What is it, Arthur?”
“Hold on a moment, love.” He signaled to the waiter hovering nearby. “Please give us some time to ourselves.”
The waiter nodded and retired from the room. They were alone.
Arthur went down before her on one knee. “Catherine, my dearest.”
Oh, my word!
This was so soon, so unexpected.
But she understood, too. During the war—and ever since—people had put aside convention and rushed toward their futures. Lessons learned. Life could be short. Seize the day.
Catherine looked into Arthur’s eyes, so loving.
Yes, everything about this feels right
.
Slowly, he withdrew a heart-shaped box from his pocket.
Excited, she felt her hands tremble and clutched the front of her dress in an effort to steady herself.
He opened the box, revealing a glittering diamond ring.
How beautiful!
Tears blurred her vision. She felt thrilled beyond measure, her thoughts soaring.
“Catherine, will you do me the honor? Will you marry me?”
She suddenly remembered another moment very much like this.
Brighton Pier…and Jonnie.
…
Arthur saw Catherine’s gaze go wide, and he immediately knew something was wrong. She glanced around in panic and started to rise.
He grabbed her and pulled her into an embrace. She went rigid, but to his relief, she didn’t struggle. They knelt together for a long moment, until her muscles went slack. He held her tight, rocking her.
She trembled. “I saw him, Arthur. At Brighton. I saw him on his knee, asking for my hand.” Her voice caught, and she rested her head against his shoulder. “I…I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, seeking to find a way to comfort her, asking the heavens for guidance. “I do understand.” But he didn’t. Not really. What misery had she suffered through all these years? How, or… Would she get over the loss of Brandon? Never knowing where he was or what had happened to him must have cost her dearly. Suffering as if he had died, without ever knowing if he were actually dead.
She sought to move away, and he let her go. She rose to her feet, and he did, too.
Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”
Arthur looked down at the jewel box in his hand and then snapped it shut. “The moment was not right, love.”
Catherine reached out and touched his hand. “Forgive me,” she whispered. She kissed him on the cheek, her lips lingering and sweet. “Let me go now. I shall ring you up tonight after I get home.”
He watched as she gathered her things and walked out into the snowstorm.
Cold air surged into the room just before the door closed, but it felt warm compared to what filled his soul: the chill realization that Brandon, whether he lived or not, would continue to haunt his darling Catherine and prevent her from moving on.
Arthur needed to find out once and for all what had happened to Major Jonathan Brandon. He needed to resurrect the ghost, and in doing so, find out the whole truth, before he could ever hope to banish it forever.
…
After paying the bill, Arthur left The Palace. He felt unsettled by the turn of events, yet he possessed a renewed sense of optimism they would move beyond this impasse, given Catherine’s sweet good-bye and her promise to telephone him that evening. The weather had changed to a bone-chilling drizzle, and he cursed not having his brolly. Pulling his collar up and his hat down, he started walking toward his flat off Grenville Street.
First up, he decided he must speak to his friend, Clive Wakefield. They’d worked together during the war, and Clive was now with Scotland Yard. He should be able to tell him exactly what was known about the Brandon case.
Arthur looked at his watch. Saturday at a quarter past three was not the ideal time to begin an investigation. He smiled grimly. Monday morning, then. He would give his friend a call—
He was brought up short by a sign at Ely Place.
The Bishop’s Crook
.
Of course.
Why hadn’t he thought of going straightaway to the very spot where Brandon vanished? He walked into the cobblestoned alley, the walls lined with
gray rain-streaked bricks
. He marched with purpose right up to the front door of The Crook, the old bottle glass windows splattered by rain. He glanced inside in an attempt to see if anyone was about on this Saturday afternoon.
He knocked and waited. No response.
Arthur decided to give up and leave, to get out of the bloody cold rain. He turned to go just as the door opened, and a young man called out, “Yes?”
“Forgive me,” Arthur said, as he faced a dark-haired lad in his teens. He seemed too young to be working in a pub.
“Sir, how may I help you?”
Arthur remembered himself, removed his gloves, and offered his hand. “My name is Arthur Howard. I wonder if I could talk to the publican of this establishment. Or, if he isn’t about, perhaps you would consent to answering a few questions?”
The young man looked down at Arthur’s extended hand, then narrowed his eyes. “You’re a copper?”
“No, I’m a solicitor on a mission to help a friend. She needs information about a man’s disappearance. One Major Jonathan Brandon.”
Arthur saw the lad’s gaze spark with…what? Recognition? Wariness?
“To whom am I speaking?” Arthur pressed.
The young man finally took the proffered hand and shook firmly. “Please do come in, sir. I’m Tom Lloyd.”
A middle-aged man approached, wiping his hands on a rag. “An’ I’m Tom Lloyd, Sr.”
They shook, and Arthur introduced himself again, as the young man left them to talk.
“What can I do for you? Can I pour you something?” Mr. Lloyd asked.
“Thank you, no, unless you’re having something. I don’t wish to be a bother.”
“No bother. Was about t’ have a brew-up meself, as I just finished with me chores, before we open up for the evening.”
Arthur removed his hat and coat, then blew on his freezing hands. “Tea, yes. That would be marvelous.”
He placed his things on a chair and then watched as Lloyd poured from an electric teakettle. The man offered him a steaming mug. The heat felt good on Arthur’s fingertips.
They sat at a table near the bar, and Arthur caught the scent of bergamot orange in his mug of Earl Grey. He was grateful for the chance to gather his thoughts as he blew at the surface and sipped the fragrant tea.
“Ah, that’ll chase away the chill,” Mr. Lloyd said after he tasted his own.
Nodding, Arthur thanked him, then told Lloyd what little he knew of Brandon’s disappearance, ending with, “Many believe he was murdered.”
“Nah. That ain’t true,” Lloyd answered vehemently. He gave Arthur the once-over. “Sure you’re not a copper?”
When Arthur shook his head, Lloyd continued, “You see, I’ve had me fill o’ them coppers, as they never believed what I saw. Caused me heaps o’ trouble, an’ some called me lunatic.” He frowned at the memory. “Ah, well, it’s been nigh on two years since I saw what happened to the major.”
You saw it?
Stunned, Arthur stared into Lloyd’s unflinching gaze and asked, “What exactly did you witness?”
Pursing his lips, Lloyd shook his head. “It were right strange, the strangest thing I ever did see. The bloke faded away, ghostlike, an’ I’m not lying. He bloody faded into thin air, an’ I could do naught but stand like a bloomin’ statue an’ watch him vanish. No one else saw it, just me. An’ it’s haunted me t’ this very day. He was sittin’ right over there,” he added, pointing to a dark, empty corner. “I took the bench and table, cut ’em up, and burned ’em down t’ ash. We’ve not had anything like that occur since, but still, I’ve not been tempted to put another bench in that corner. Would be a crime t’ do such a thing.”
“I see,” Arthur said, scarcely believing what he’d heard. Yet he did not doubt the man’s sincerity for an instant, given his air of conviction.
“You think I’m barmy, eh?”
“Quite the contrary,” Arthur said. “If you don’t mind, I’ve a friend at Scotland Yard, and I’d like to broach the subject of Brandon’s disappearance with him. Would you mind awfully if I did? He may be able to help us find some solid answers.”
“Nah, I don’t mind, but I can’t imagine what good it’ll do. Brandon’s gone
—
God knows where
—
but he’s gone. An’ I fear wherever he’s gone off to, there’s no comin’ back.”
…
Still reeling from Tom Lloyd’s bizarre tale, Arthur opened his front door, removed his damp things, and turned up the heat.
Holding his hands before the radiator, he relished the steamy warmth. He was just about to make some tea when the telephone rang.