“How would I know it was safe to speak or give my name?” she said quickly.
“I haven't told anyone about you.”
Unconvinced, she shook her head and handed back the card. Darrington understood, she had mistrusted the police for many years. Why should she change now?”
“Is Norma your only name?” he asked
“No, I'm called Norma Catherine. Why?”
“Well, my name is Max so if you ring, ask for Max and give your name as Catherine, in that way it will seem like a personal call but I'll know it's you.”
She smiled showing something of the old Norma Hammond, “Get lots of personal calls from unknown ladies do you Chief Inspector?”
At the door, they shook hands and he held on to hers for a moment or two and repeated his promise not to betray her whereabouts.
There was no sign of Douglas so Darrington sat in the car trying to assess the information Norman Gordon had reluctantly passed on. It wasn't much more than he already knew, just more detailed and more frightening. He also had to decide how much to tell Douglas who was sure to ask what he had found out, but he had promised Norma to keep it to himself
Douglas came across the road towards the car. “Went for some cigarettes,” he said as he got in. “You were a long time. I began to wonder if you needed rescuing from the dancing girl. Was it worth the trip?”
Max started the engine, “Not really, she was Norma Hammond, well, a reformed version, Norma Gordon, a widow and regular churchgoer who wants to leave the past alone.”
“Well, as you know, those are my sentiments. So didn't you get anything at all out of her?”
“Only confirmation of what I already knew. Oh and two cups of strong tea! So if you see something that looks like a pub or a pee and tea room, we'll stop and get something to eat.”
Douglas sensed his evasiveness, “Well what
did
she say? You were in there a long time, it sounds like it's hardly been worth the journey.”
“She said she saw the man on the stairs but later got frightened and denied seeing him properly. The police then threatened her for withholding evidence so she took off with a young chap from the upstairs flat and settled down to a decent married life.”
“But could she identify him now or give you a description?”
“She says not. Says she can't remember after all these years and probably wouldn't know him and, of course, she's nervous and anxious about getting involved. I suppose it's a lot to expect after so long. I mean everyone changes. Look at you and me, if it comes to that look at Norman Gordon, believe me she's no-one's idea of a showgirl these days.”
Chapter Twenty-One
At breakfast Sarah looked miserable. “How did things go with Douglas last night?” she asked sullenly.
“Oh! We eventually got it all sorted out.” Max tried to sound casual, “As you know he's retired and doing some private investigation work, he's been using police systems he shouldn't have and thought he was going to be prosecuted and lose his pension or something but I managed to reassure him.” She nodded indifferently. “Look Sarah, I'm very sorry. I really did forget about going to dinner with mother but I'm not going into work today so I'll go up to the cottage and apologise myself. “Did she and Charles sort everything out?”
“Yes, and she sent you a list of the bequests, I left it on your desk. It was mostly mementos for the children. His will covered all the finances and the house and he seems to have thought it all out very carefully. The girls got jewellery belonging to his mother and the boys got cufflinks. I never realised how many beautiful sets he had and all kept so carefully in their boxes. It seems to have been his only vanity. Anyway, you can look at the list and see for yourself.”
“Yes I will,” Max answered distractedly chewing on a slice of toast and not noticing her anger as she got up from the table.
Charles and Clarissa closed the large, brown trunk that had been in Alexander's wardrobe for many years but which neither of them had ever seen used. They had spent the morning emptying drawers and cupboards and packing clothes into the trunk to be sent to the Salvation Army. It was the saddest and most emotional moment since his actual death.
Clarissa lovingly folded each item of clothing and occasionally, when Charles was not looking, held one to her face inhaling, for one last time, the special redolence of smoke and spice belonging particularly to Alexander. In a jacket pocket, she found his reading glasses and had the strange sensation they were part of his face. Deep inside her something cried out to keep a few of his favourite clothes and leave his room as he left it, but history had made her wiser than that.
Standing at either side of the packed trunk, they looked at one another sadly, this was their last task in connection with Alexander, after this he would be gone and they would have nothing to distract them from their grief.
“I think I'll have this room re-decorated,” said Clarissa looking around, “perhaps we should exchange this huge bed for a couple of singles for when the grandchildren visit.” When Charles didn't answer, she turned to look at him. Huge tears cascaded silently across his lined, old face and his once square shoulders slumped forward. They cried in one another's arms, loud unfettered sobbing until they could cry no more and then, without speaking, parted.
Charles put on his warm jacket and cap and went out into the garden to rake up the first of the autumn leaves from the lawn and Clarissa watched him from the bedroom window. He was an old man now, how many years did he have left she wondered and shuddered at the thought of being alone. During the war when her house was packed with people, she was often asked how she coped but it was nothing compared to the loneliness of her past. A past that still haunted her and was something she would never be able to cope with again.
She picked up odds and ends to be thrown away. Alexander had been a tidy person with few personal treasures but here and there she found old papers, a set of keys, an out of date diary, an old calendar and surprisingly a tiny red collar with a bell that had belonged to his cat, Midnight. It seemed untypically sentimental of him to keep it. How he had moaned about her rescuing the cat after Max found it on that cold Christmas Eve at the beginning of the war, but like many, the animal felt safe with Alexander and did not leave his side for the next twelve years. When it died, he had got so drunk in the village pub the landlord had rung for Max to go and get him.
Flicking through the diary there seemed to be no entries but wedged between the centre pages she found a photograph a faded, sepia-toned picture of an attractive young woman dressed in an off-the-shoulder evening gown with her hair piled up on her head. The large, dark eyes flirted seductively with the camera and the merest hint of sexuality danced on an almost indiscernible smile. Clarissa turned it over and found a note in a stylish sloping hand.
My Darling Alexander,
I want to hate you for leaving me but, or course, I cannot. Thank you for being honest about your new love, my heart aches but I wish you great happiness with her.
How strange that war brought us together and now love puts us apart but please keep this photograph always to remind you that some tiny part of your heart still belongs to me. Michelle, Paris, 1917
Shocked, Clarissa sat down on the bed, reading the message again and again and scrutinising the pretty young face. She had believed them to have no secrets and Alexander had never spoken of anyone else in his life. Her feelings were a jumble of curiosity and shock, even a touch of jealousy. Nineteen-seventeen, it seems she was the new love, even before Michael's death Alexander had loved her but he kept the photograph so some part of his heart did still belong to Michelle. Smiling at the girl, she imagined that the dark eyes twinkled back at her. Alexander was no ordinary or frivolous man, but one of intense lasting passions. If he once loved Michelle he probably always did but it was nothing of which to be jealous, it was his way, total commitment or nothing at all. Clarissa spoke to the photograph, “I wonder if you are still alive Michelle, where you are and what you look like, but rest assured some part of you remained with Alexander until the last.”
Unable to throw the photograph away, she half-opened the back of a framed photograph of Alexander in uniform and slid it inside between the many sheets of backing paper. Perhaps in another fifty years someone would find it and wonder about the love life of the old soldier but for the moment Clarissa would keep this knowledge between herself, Alexander and Michelle.
Looking out of the window at the sound of a car coming up the hill, Clarissa saw Max pulling up at the door. He looked very tired and stressed. She had been hurt when he hadn't come to dinner with the rest of the family. Sarah had made his excuses but she too had seemed uncharacteristically quiet and sad. Clarissa hoped that all was well between them.
Max kissed her cheek, “Hello Mother, I am sorry I didn't make it last night, I'm afraid I got stuck in Winchester. Did Sarah explain it was work? I hope you and Charles didn't mind too much.”
Clarissa smiled briefly but did not answer which was her way of indicating she did mind. “I sent you a list of Alexander's bequests. Did you read it?”
“Yes,” he lied, “he seems to have thought everything out very well and I'm sure the children were delighted to have something to remember him by. Where's Uncle Charles?”
“He's in the garden.”
Max walked to the window and watched Charles pottering and thought he cut a lonely figure. “Are you both all right?” he asked turning back to his mother and noticed she had been crying.
“Yes we'll manage, Charles and I started our adult life together â just the two of us and it looks as if that's how we shall end.”
“Please don't,” his voice cracked and he touched her arm, “I couldn't bear to lose either one of you, not just now.”
Clarissa held on to his arms, “What is it Max? What's wrong? I thought you were just upset about Alexander, but it's more than that isn't it? And Sarah's not happy either, please can't you tell me? I'm so worried about you both.”
Charles came in from the garden giving Max his way out, tempted as he was, the burden hanging over him was not to be passed to them. Douglas Hood was right about that, if he couldn't confide his mere suspicions to them how then would he admit to having murdered Claudine?
Over lunch, they talked of Alexander.
“What about his terrible singing?” said Max. “On the odd occasion he went to church you could hear him singing out of tune above everyone else.”
Clarissa laughed, “But he did it on purpose Max. He really had quite a good voice. When I first met him he told me that although Michael was a wonderful singer, he was tone deaf but could play the piano rather well. We argued because I said if you were tone deaf you couldn't possibly play the piano well, but he was adamant. Then Eloise told me many years later that he was a very good singer. When he was a boy living in Durham he was asked to sing the Easter Anthem at the village church, but his voice broke and Michael was asked to sing in his brother's place. From that time, Alexander pretended his singing voice never came back so that Michael, who lived very much in his shadow, could be the singer in the family.”
“That's right,” said Charles, “he used to sing in the bath sometimes and he really did have rather a good voice, but in church he always sat as close as possible to Margaret Donaldson and sang as loudly and as badly as he could.”
“Such a wicked man,” said Clarissa softly almost to herself.
They became quiet until Clarissa remembered the little collar belonging to Midnight and they talked about the strange relationship between the man and the cat.
“He was so upset when that cat died,” said Charles. “I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself.”
Max agreed, “You should've seen him when I went to get him at the pub, the landlord and I had to practically pour him into the car. I don't think he'd ever been so drunk.”
“Oh, I don't know.” Clarissa lifted an eyebrow at Charles, “I seem to remember the two of you getting yourselves totally inebriated many years ago in London. She turned to Max, “They were missing for hours and then came rolling home singing a very naughty French song at the top of their voices in the street and in such a dreadful state. Your Grandmamma was furious and the two of us had to fairly carry them upstairs to bed.”
“We'd been to the cinema,” said Charles remembering how he had found Alexander sitting in the row of empty seats after most of the patrons had left. He was sobbing and frightened after watching a documentary film on the First World War and convinced he had seen Michael in it. Charles had taken him to the pub and over copious amounts of drink had finally got him to talk. They had agreed to try and forget about the past and make sure that Clarissa and Eloise did not spoil their nephew. They made a plan to engage the boy in more manly pursuits and move him away from the precious attentions of his doting mother and grandmother.
“Well, you said you had been to the cinema,” said Clarissa, “but Eloise and I didn't believe a word of it.”
Clarissa smiled to herself. Her thoughts were of the moment at the top of the staircase when she had grabbed hold of Alexander to prevent him falling backwards and he had held her in his arms and kissed her and told her that he loved her. He was drunk, of course, but she knew it was true and knew that she loved him.
Max ate his lunch and watched their faces. Charles looked overwhelmingly sad and his mother as if she were dreaming of a happier time.
As Max drove away from Top Cottage he watched them through the car mirror. They stood at door of the cottage door and waved, just the two of them now but the spectre of Alexander would always be at his mother's side.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Yes Miss Bevis I shall be at work tomorrow at the usual time but I won't need access to the red files, I'll be working in my office.” Max hung up quickly giving her no chance to ask questions. Beside the phone he caught sight of a message scribbled in Sarah's handwriting. “When did this arrive?” he asked sharply.