The Skeleton Garden (25 page)

Strains of “In the Mood” drifted throughout the Blackbird. Food was laid out on the buffet, and Dick was pouring drinks. One strand of hair would not stay put, and Pru tucked it behind her ear instead of trying to force it back into its victory roll. She stood at the end of the bar, ticking names off the list as people arrived.

“Leaving it a bit late, aren't you?” Polly asked, coming out of the kitchen and catching sight of the state of Pru's do. “What's happened to your hair?”

At that moment, Christopher passed by and with a sly smile patted Pru's bottom. “Ladies,” he said.

Pru blushed and smiled, watching him walk over to move tables.

Polly looked from Christopher to Pru. “My God, is that where you've been?”

Pru's face went a deeper scarlet, as she pushed the loose strand away and attempted to lay the blame elsewhere. “It was the stockings,” she said.

Laughing, Polly took the strand of hair and repinned. “You're not wearing any stockings.”

“Yes. Well.”

She looked past Polly at the assortment of outfits in the pub. The men hadn't tried at all, apart from one large fellow who wore a green army jacket that strained to reach across his stomach. The women wore a variety of dress styles, several popular long past the war, but at least they'd made an attempt.

“Oh, Jemima, how lovely,” Pru said.

Birdie's dress suited Jemima perfectly—a light floral pattern, it had a narrow skirt, short sleeves, and a modest neckline. It had been made, Polly thought, from a popular wartime material—a chickenfeed sack. Orlando, slouching beside Jemima, had trouble keeping his eyes off her—or on her, for that matter. His gaze darted about the room, resting nowhere for long, but always making its way back to Jemima before bouncing off again. She slipped her arm through his, and Orlando straightened himself up.

Dick's chef had outdone himself on the buffet. Fortunately, he did not try to replicate wartime recipes—not a carrot roll or mock fishcake in sight. Instead, the crowd feasted on a broad selection of in-house specialties. Pru popped a bite-size sausage roll in her mouth and looked over the grilled vegetables, chicken skewers, and mini-pavlovas. As the evening got under way, people alternated between eating, perusing the wartime display, and dancing.

Pru particularly enjoyed slow dancing to “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.” So did Jemima and Orlando, apparently—they were a tangle of arms. But couples vacated the center of the room when “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” started up—except for Evelyn and Peachey. After the first few measures, all eyes were on them as they boogied their way around the floor. The song ended to wild applause, with Evelyn and Peachey fanning their glistening faces.

During a break in dancing, Pru hovered near the bar, waiting to catch Dick in a quiet moment. “Dick,” she said after he'd served two pints and stood loading glasses into the dishwasher, “can I ask you something about the night Jack died?”

Dick paused with an empty glass in hand. “Yeah, sure.”

“You said Martin was in the cellars that evening. Were you round the whole time?”

Dick's eyes scanned the crowd until they rested on the large man in the tight army jacket, who was getting to the bottom of a glass of whisky. Leaning over, the barman said, “I was gone about twenty minutes, I'd say. It was the end of the evening, and no one was left but Affie there.” He nodded toward the large man. “Had to run him home. He'd had a few too many, and I'd taken his keys away from him.”

“You left the pub open?”

“It had just gone eleven, and so I locked the door. I called down to Martin, but I didn't want to leave Affie on his own—he can be a handful at times. I rang for a taxi from Romsey to get back.”

“Was Martin still here?”

Dick shook his head. “But it wasn't a problem. If you can't leave your pub in the hands of a policeman, who can you leave it with?”

Just one further question, Martin, Pru thought, that's all it would've taken for you to have found out the same thing, and then Dick would've been in the clear, too. She looked around the room—and just where was DS Chatters this evening?

She saw Christopher take the call. She had been sitting in a corner with Simon as the evening wore down—he, bemoaning the chalky soil of Hampshire that didn't suit Himalayan blue poppies and Pru saying she'd take English bluebells any day. She glanced across the room to where Christopher stood laughing at something Stan had said. He stepped away and answered his phone, and she saw his body tense, his smile erased. The music and conversation receded as she concentrated on reading him. Simon yawned and left to find Polly, and Pru caught Christopher's eye as he ended the call. She rose to meet him at the bar, but Evelyn stepped in front of her, putting on her coat.

“We're giving Stan a lift home, and Jemima as well,” she said. “Might stop in and say hello to Kitty.”

“Gran stays up till all hours,” Jemima said. “I don't see how she does it.”

“You wait until you're eighty years old,” Peachey said. “You'll learn.”

Stan picked up his dad's discharge certificate from the display table. “You know those papers of Jack's I mentioned?” he asked Pru as he thrust an arm in a coat sleeve. “I remember that he took them that evening. I can see him at the door, tucking them into his jacket. He said, ‘I'll be off, Dad, going to bury some treasure.' ”

The image caught in Pru's mind—Jack tucking papers in his jacket. She could see him, too—not at Stan's house, but that afternoon in the cellars below. He'd stayed back while Pru and Polly went to look for torches. When they had returned—with Dick and Joseph Hare in tow—they had flashed their lights in the room, and Pru had caught a glimpse of Jack tucking papers into the pocket of his jacket.

“No, that's not right,” Stan said. He adjusted his coat and dug his hands in the pockets. “Jack didn't say ‘bury,' he said ‘hide'—‘I'm going to hide some treasure.' ” Stan sighed. “But the papers weren't with him when you found him, so I suppose it's treasure well and gone now.”

Pru stood at the door of the pub while Jemima and Evelyn crawled in the cleared-out back of the van, bracing themselves for the short trip, and Stan got in front with Peachey. Pru watched them leave, as her mind flooded with questions, and she had to lean against the doorjamb for support. Jack must've found the papers among the black-market cache. Were they the treasure he mentioned to his father? What were they? Was he killed for them? Where did he bury them?

No, not bury—“hide.”

“A good place to hide a treasure.” Jack could've been standing beside her, she heard his words so clearly. Not from the afternoon in the cellars, but the day before that, when Pru and Orlando were cleaning out the potting shed. Jack stopped by, and they had uncovered that old seed cabinet—a fine piece of oak furniture with loads of little drawers like a library catalog.

She turned back into the pub and almost ran into Christopher. “That was Harnett,” he said quietly. “I was with him at the station today looking for the records for Jack's mobile.”

“They just came in?”

“They came in days ago,” Christopher said in a flat tone. “The information went straight to Martin at his request and stopped there. We had to call in IT to look at Martin's computer, and they've only just found them.”

“But the call records could be important evidence.”

“Oh, they are. Remember that the evening Jack died Ursula overheard Jack on his phone talking about keeping a secret? He was talking to Martin.”

“Martin?” She barely breathed the name as she looked around the pub. “Where is he? He was to be here.”

Christopher shook his head. “Not answering his mobile, not at home.”

Pru stood closer. “Jack hid something,” she hissed at him, as people drifted by heading for the door. “Papers. He found papers in the cellars here—I saw him take them, but we were so distracted with the black market and Joseph Hare, I forgot about it. And then Jack was dead.”

“Did anyone see what they were?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't think so. But Martin was eager to search the cellars here after he'd heard we'd been down there—he must know what the papers are.”

“That's what he's looking for.” They were jostled as more people left, several of them calling out congratulations. Christopher steered Pru to a quieter corner. “He tried at Stan's and Kitty's, and Peachey's van—the people Jack visited on his last day. You were attacked at Greenoak, where Jack died.” He shook his head, as if arguing with himself. “But they sifted through all the soil and found nothing. He didn't hide anything there.”

She gripped his arm. “I know where they are.” She briefed him on the seed cabinet story.

“Let's go,” he said.

Pru caught Orlando's eye and nodded toward the door. He had hung back when Jemima left and eventually retreated to a booth. Now, he wasted no time following them out. They drove back to Greenoak in silence, Pru and Christopher exchanging glances, and Orlando staring out the window into darkness. In the kitchen, Orlando said good night and Pru called, “Sleep well,” as he thundered up the stairs. They waited until they heard his heavy footsteps overhead, signaling he was in his bedroom, before grabbing torches and hurrying out to the potting shed.

Pru took hold of the sheets of plywood that stood in front of the cabinet. “We need to shift these pieces.” They weren't difficult for two healthy people to move, but the thought occurred to her that if Jack had moved them the night he died, it might have further weakened his heart. Once the cabinet was uncovered, Christopher took latex gloves from the pocket of his jacket and handed her a pair. They began on either end, opening drawer after empty drawer, reaching back into each narrow space, but finding nothing apart from an overlooked packet of marigold seeds, until Christopher nodded to the middle drawer of the middle row.

“There,” he said. Pru drew out a thick packet of papers folded in thirds like a letter.

Christopher aimed his torch and Pru unfolded them carefully, her eyes first falling on a blue
R
OYAL
A
IR
F
ORCE
I
DENTITY
C
ARD
. One corner was discolored a dark brown, and brown splatters were showered across it. Inside, along with his vital statistics, was a head shot of Will. Behind the card, they found Will's leave certificate—for his recovery time from the shoulder wound—and a photo of him with Sadie. This one showed the couple outside the door of the Robber Blackbird pub. A tear ran down Pru's nose and dripped off the tip as she thought about Will's life, barely a memory for so many years. Behind that, a letter folded up into its own envelope with
Sadie
written on it. All of this wrapped up in several handwritten pages.

“Come on,” Christopher said, laying a hand on her back, “let's take this inside.”

They settled at the kitchen table close together and examined Will's papers with care, then turned to a handwritten letter, dated only eleven years ago.

“My name is James Stuart Chatters, retired detective inspector in Romsey, and this is my confession. William Donovan died at my hands on 8 July 1944. It is long past time for me to take responsibility for my actions.

“We met at midnight under a full moon at Greenoak. Will's idea. A Messerschmitt had crashed in the yard in May of that year, and the old man who lived there, Reginald Saxsby, had decided to bury it. He had a pit dug right in the middle of the yard, but the hole was only half full, and pieces of the plane stuck up out of the soil.

“Will was a wounded flier. His airfield was nearby. He spent these months recuperating, eager to get back into the skies and fight. He was a hero, and who was I? I could not fight, and the Home Guard never garnered the respect that a pilot did. I'd lived with those pilots from the airfield for years. It ate away at me, and I looked for an outlet to my misery. Instead of a hero, I became a spiv. We had quite a trade in black-market goods, priding ourselves in offering what couldn't be had anywhere else. For a price. But Will had got wind of it and wanted to talk me out of my business.

“I would've done, too—given up the black market. We'd nearly got caught, and I was getting nervous. But Will brought out my stubborn streak, and instead of saying yes, I argued. It wasn't a physical fight until I gave him a shove and he fell into the pit, where a sharp piece of the wing sliced his throat. He was dead before I got to him. I still remember the blood, so much blood.

“True to a coward's nature, I hid my act. I took Will's identity card and I covered over his body, knowing that the hole would be filled in and no one would ever know what lay beneath. Except I knew.

“I was sick and afraid. I thought of the trouble I was in—already in trouble from the black-market trade. I decided no one would miss Will if they thought he had deserted and gone to Ireland, and so I put it about that's what he'd done. He wasn't a local, and after a time people accepted the story—everyone but his girl, Sadie Farrow.

“Every day since, all through these years, I've told myself that I should've been truthful, that I didn't mean to harm him. But the guilt never went away, only grew. I knew nothing would bring Will back, not even my confession, but I began to think that I could atone for what I had done in other ways. I gave up the black market, and after the war when Len Wheeler died, I gave his widow my half of the pub on the condition she would keep Sadie on and give her a place to live. To give her security. She needed that without Will, because she bore his child. Little Evelyn grew up never knowing.

“But the guilt remains, and I know that I will never be free of what happened unless I tell the story. Through my years of police work, I have seen what writing a confession can do to the guilty. As they say, it's good for the soul, although God alone knows if it's enough. At least I hope it will give me peace.

“I ask forgiveness from those I wronged. Not only Will, but also Sadie, gone long before me, and their daughter, Evelyn. If not for me, she would have had known her dad.

“I have spent my life trying to do good in order to make up for that one act. I want my son, Martin, to understand that it is better to face up to the truth than to hide. I've held back this one last time at his request for his mother, my dear Maude, so that she would not suffer the embarrassment of knowing her husband was a murderer. But when she's gone, I'll have no more of keeping secrets.”

They didn't speak for a moment after they'd finished reading. Pru sniffed, and at last Christopher said, “So this is what Martin's been searching for. He must think he can still keep it quiet.”

They heard Orlando on the stairs. He pushed open the door with his eyes on his phone, but looked up when he realized they were there.

“Didn't know you were still up. Have you got more old war stuff there?”

Pru folded up the letter, got up, and slipped it and the other papers inside
Cookery Basics,
which Evelyn had placed on the counter and assigned her to read. She saw Orlando watching. “Just a few extra papers we came across,” Pru said. Of course they would tell him, but there was much to sort out first.

“We thought you'd gone to bed.” Christopher pulled off his latex gloves and stuffed them in a pocket.

“I was hungry,” Orlando said, looking from one to the other. “Thought I'd make myself a sandwich—is that all right?”

“Of course it is.” Pru spread her hands out. The gloves making a slapping sound as she stripped them off with a flourish, and said, “We didn't want to get the papers dirty. So, let's see what Evelyn has left us.”

Christopher's phone rang, and she saw him glance at Orlando. A call at midnight, Pru thought—this can't be good. Christopher stepped into the mudroom to answer, and Pru began to chatter as a sort of white noise in case he didn't want to be overheard. She asked Orlando about Jemima, the dance, what he ate, what he would like to eat now—all the while trying to keep one ear out on the phone conversation.

“I'll be right there,” Christopher said, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket and stepping back into the kitchen. “That was Dick. I'll need to go back to the pub. I shouldn't be long, but don't wait up for me.” His casual tone contradicted his tense jaw muscles and flinty look.

Pru's eyes widened in fear of being left behind. “I'll go with you,” she said.

“There's no need for that,” he said, his brown eyes flickering to Orlando, whose head was stuck in the fridge.

Orlando looked over his shoulder. “Why? Someone had a few too many? Couldn't you send a panda car instead?”

“It'll be quicker for me to go, rather than sending someone out from the station.” Christopher pulled his coat back on. He took Pru's hand and held tight. “Why don't you put the kettle on. I'll ring you when I get there. All right?”

“There's cottage pie left,” Orlando said. “Could I heat that up?”

Christopher was heading for the door, and Pru rushed after him, saying over her shoulder, “It's all yours. I'll be right back.”

Outside, Christopher put his arm around her. “Martin showed up at the pub just after everyone left. Dick said he was looking through the display—all the war memorabilia—and scattering it around, talking to himself. He wanted down in the cellars, and Dick let him. He's down there now. Dick says it reminds him of when Jimmy used to do that, before he died. Martin sounds disoriented. I'll go and sort it out.”

“I don't want you to go alone,” she said, unable to keep the rising panic out of her voice.

“Dick is there,” Christopher said, giving her a brief hug. “There won't be any trouble. I'd rather know that you and Orlando are here and safe.”

He seemed unaware of contradicting himself—if there was no trouble, why must she and Orlando stay there to be safe? Her fear grew. She nodded but couldn't speak. He kissed her and drove off; she returned to the kitchen. Orlando had found a tin of shortbread fingers, and they were serving as a first course while the cottage pie warmed. He stopped chewing when he saw her, swallowed, and cleared his throat. “You didn't have a row, did you?”

“No, of course not,” Pru said. She set her phone on the table and attempted to control her trembling, not knowing how she could exist until Christopher rang and told her that he had everything under control. Martin isn't dangerous, she told herself. If he did that to Jack, it was an accident. Just like what Jimmy did to Will.

Orlando pulled the barely warm cottage pie out of the cooker. “Uncle Christopher shifted into police mode fairly quickly,” he said. “I could see it.”

That brought a smile. “Yeah, it's easy to spot, isn't it?”

She could come up with no more small talk, but Orlando seemed happy to fill the empty space with a detailed description of the latest episode of
Galaxy Raiders.
Pru caught only fleeting words as she stared at her phone, willing it to ring. She didn't notice when Orlando quit talking, but at last the oppressive silence caused her to look up at him. He'd finished the cottage pie and was now staring at Pru's phone along with her.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

Her phone
ping
ed. She jumped and checked the number to be certain. Not a call, but a text:
come to pub all ok
. She was torn between relief and concern—why didn't he ring and explain? Still, it was the permission she wanted.

“Everything's all right,” she said to Orlando as she jumped up, “but I need to go to the Blackbird.” She rang Christopher's number but got only his voicemail. Of course he would have his hands full, and so she must make decisions. She would not take Orlando. He doesn't need to see Martin in this state. But neither could she leave the boy alone here—almost seventeen or not.

Orlando had hopped up, too. “I'll go with you.”

She didn't reply, as different possibilities ran through her mind. She pounced on the first reasonable one and made another call. While it was ringing, she said, “No, Orlando, it would be better for you to stay. It's just that—Hello, Evelyn? I'm sorry to ring so late. But I was hoping you could do a favor for me.” Evelyn and Peachey lived no more than ten minutes away; she could wait that long.

Evelyn and Peachey, as it turned out, were sitting up in Kitty's kitchen drinking cocoa, and Kitty had only that moment given her such a treasure. But if they were needed, they'd be there straightaway. They could be at Greenoak in two minutes.

“A minder?”
Orlando shouted. “I don't need looking after. I'm an adult!”

“Yes,” Pru said, “and as an adult you have to accept that you can't do every single thing you want to do. I need you to stay here. Please.” Throwing on her coat, she looked down to see that she still wore her parachute dress. No time to change now.

Orlando continued his protest until Evelyn and Peachey walked in.

“Ah, here's the fellow I need to see,” Peachey said, pulling out his phone. “Can you help me find an app that would organize my callouts by district?”

“Orlando,” Pru said, waiting for him to drag his eyes up to hers. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he said, the sullen teenager returning as he took Peachey's mobile.

Evelyn followed Pru out the door. “You sounded frightened. What's happened?”

Pru grabbed the sleeve of Evelyn's coat and squeezed.
Will's letter to your mum—his last letter, never posted to the pocket of Kitty's pinny. It's here, we have it.
But she couldn't begin that now, first she must go to Christopher.

“Everything's fine, really,” Pru said. “We'll explain it later, Ev, but I've got to get to the pub now.” Pru gave her a quick hug. “Thanks so much for doing this—I couldn't leave him alone. I'll ring and give you the all clear.”

The Blackbird looked deserted and not a little forlorn after the evening's activity. Only a dim glow shone from inside, replacing the sparkling lights that had rimmed every window earlier. No cars left parked along the road. Christopher must've pulled round behind to the small car park. Pru approached the front door and gave it a push—it was open. She glanced into the room before she entered. Empty. Where was Dick? The lamp behind the bar cast its light in an arc that fell only halfway across the room. She approached the bar and set her bag down. Dishes and glasses had been cleared away, but, on the shadowy side of the room, she could see papers strewn across the floor, people's keepsakes of the war tossed about by Martin.

“Christopher?” Her voice fell dead. The quiet air seemed to press on her, forcing her to be as silent as it was. On the far side of the room, a beam of light came up from the open trapdoor to the cellar. Yes, he'd gone down to find Martin. They must be in the back room, out of hearing. Christopher had things in hand. She took a few steps and was alarmed by how much noise her shoes—Mrs. Wilson's shoes—made on the wood floor. She took them off, set them next to her bag, and walked silently to the opening. “Christopher?” she called down, stronger now. Nothing. She pulled out her phone and rang him, listening for his phone to go off, but again the call went straight to his voicemail. Where was he? She gave one more glance around the pub, and went down the stairs.