The Thornless Rose (2 page)

Jonnie.

A few old men passed him on their way out, removing their caps with nods of respect. He grinned at them and looked around, blue eyes squinting, allowing his gaze to adjust to the darkness of the pub.

“Jonnie!”

“Catherine, darling.” Smiling, he glanced down at his chest. There was a small, squirming bulge under his overcoat, not far from the warmth of his heart. “I’ve got your Christmas gift. It’s rather early, but the breeder insisted.”

“The breeder?” she asked, rising to her feet.

Just then, a little face poked out from beneath Jonnie’s coat, a tiny nutmeg head, not bigger than a hedgehog’s.

“Smashing!” She rushed to his side and studied the puppy. “However did you guess?”

“I’ve watched you these last months, sweetheart. You can’t keep your eyes off the dogs in the pet shops.”

“Yes. It’s been so difficult, not having a dog since the war began.”

“But it’s over now, and here’s the proof.” He paused. “Catherine Ellen Hastings,” he intoned, striving to make his voice sound formal in mock introduction, “let me present Mr. McDuff, the finest Cairn terrier south of the Highlands.” His grin widened. “I hope you don’t mind. I named him after a fellow surgeon, Major Angus McDuff. They look remarkably alike—hairy with short legs.”

She laughed. “Oh, he’s such a love!” She melted into Jonnie’s embrace. They held each other gently, taking care not to crush the wiggling puppy.

“Merry Christmas, darling.” Jonnie’s head bent toward hers, and he kissed her softly on the mouth. There was a little
yip
, as if in protest from the lack of attention. They drew apart and smiled down at the tiny terrier.

“Such a formal name for such a small pup,” Catherine remarked as she stroked its head. She glanced at Jonnie. “If you don’t mind, I should like to call him Duffy for now.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Jonnie, for the wonderful gift.”

He whispered in her ear, “It is but the first gift I shall give you. Our wedding is soon, and then—oh, my darling!”

He kissed her again, and she felt a stirring, a melting warmth deep within.

Catherine wanted more than anything to tell him to get a room for the evening, to love him the way a wife loves a husband, but she held back, bound by the constraints of her station, as any young woman of good family was expected to do––

…

Ruff!
There was a sudden scratch at the loft door, followed by another loud bark. Catherine’s heart leapt and instantly her mind veered to the present. More scratching and the door pushed open. Mr. McDuff the Ninth bounded toward her, tail wagging, brown eyes sparkling with simple canine anticipation.

“You found me, didn’t you, Duffy?” She ruffled his fur, then paused, studying the age-speckled skin of her hand, feeling the stiffness in her joints.

“How long it’s been,” she whispered to the air. “And yet, Jonnie, sometimes, it seems like yesterday.”

Chapter Two

Anne stood alert on a curb of the Holborn roundabout, waiting for a break in the traffic so she could dash across the street.

It was half past noon as she squinted at the sky. The morning rain had eliminated the pervasive odor of diesel fumes so typical of London’s busy streets. The sun now poked through the clouds, what the weather gal on the ITN had picturesquely forecast as “blue sky with clouds of fluff and candy floss.”

Anne smiled. Clear skies and cotton candy clouds. It finally felt like summer! She was glad she’d changed into lighter clothing—a white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers.

Anne looked around, seeing people and cars everywhere. Dozens of black cabs honked as pedestrians tried to jostle forward, all in a hurry.

She could see the moment coming as cars stacked up, unable to move while someone attempted to parallel park. Her muscles tensed, ready to leap and weave when she heard a woman singing. Her mind skipped over the simple song and raced on, focusing on the traffic before her. Then a new voice yelled, jarring her concentration away from the street.

“Gardyloo, all ye buggers an’ pea-hens. Watch out below! I’ll no’ be held ’countable for yer lackin’ o’ common sense or speed. Gardyloo, ye scurvy knights, if ye’re no’ wantin’ me shyte hittin’ yer heads!”

The skin along the back of Anne’s neck crawled as she ducked and turned to see what might be coming from above, but she saw only the façade of a modern, glass-faced building.

She gaped at the people on the sidewalk nearby. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

The other pedestrians stared back as if she were unbalanced. Then something splashed on the pavement behind her. She instinctively leaped away, trying to avoid getting any of the foul liquid on her bare legs, crashing into a boy with spiky orange hair and ear buds jammed in his ears. Until now, he was one of the few who hadn’t noticed her bizarre behavior.

“Bugger off!” he cursed and shoved her back.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t you hear––?” Anne looked down and gasped, realizing her legs and the pavement were dry. What had she heard? It sounded like someone had dumped the contents of a chamber pot out of a window. But who would do that? And why was there no evidence of it?

By now, everyone around her looked nervous, trying to avoid her eyes. She mumbled an apology, but one woman continued to study her with an uneasy expression, so Anne smiled back weakly. Her mind raced as she tried to remember what happened right before the splash. The warning voice hadn’t belonged to a young person. It had, in fact, sounded like an old lady, her tone harsh and crackling with age, like a crone from a Disney flick.

Then she recalled the first woman’s song, “Cheese and eggs, sweet milk for the babes. Come along quick to Smithfield Dairy.”

Anne glanced about again, seeing no sign of a dairy, let alone open fields or animals, just the same office buildings and street-level shops. Urban London. A shiver swept through her, an icy prickling of dread, and she shook her head to get rid of the feeling. She scanned the area around her once more, but found nothing to explain the strange sounds and voices.

The light changed. The crowd waiting on the curb pressed away from Anne, avoiding her touch as they moved past her into the street. Shaking her head in bewilderment, she crossed to the other side. Once there, she leaned against a shop window and looked up and down the far side of the street, still seeing nothing unusual.

“Are you all right then, luv?” A short, large breasted woman stepped out of the shop.

Despite her nerves, Anne gave her a tentative smile, thinking she looked like every man’s idea of an English shopkeeper. Her frizzy gray hair was swept back in a very practical knot at the base of her head. She wore a blue floral print dress with a well-worn beige sweater vest, and her small feet were encased in sensible shoes. Glancing at the broom she held with her sturdy hand, Anne wasn’t sure whether she was preparing to use it as a weapon against sidewalk dirt or nutty passersby.

The woman frowned. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” Anne hesitated. “I mean, I know this will sound ridiculous... I thought I heard someone calling to me in Old English, but there was no one.”

“Ah, ’tis just the city playin’ tricks on the ears.” The woman nodded knowingly. “And you’re American, as I hear it. Just come over, have you?”

“Yes, I got in four days ago.”

“Well, missy, you’ve got a terrible bad case of what I call the travel fatigue, I’ll wager,” she reassured Anne. “That’s it, then, you’re jet lagged. Why, I’ve even had it, but without the plane trip, mind you! Once I went clear out to have a look at Windsor Castle. Was knackered for two days after ’cause of it. You’d best get yourself on home and have a bit of a kip, and you’ll be right in no time.”

She began to sweep like all was well, but Anne didn’t move.

The woman glanced up, eyebrow arching. “Do you know where you’re headed, or will you be needin’ some help?”

“No, no. I’m okay.” Anne paused, then added, “I’m looking for a pub called The Bishop’s Crook. I think it must be around here somewhere.”

The woman cheered noticeably. “I know the Crook, sure. Best brew ’round here and right cozy, too. Why, me husband’d run up one hell of a tab there if I let him, he would. Hah!”

That last sounded more like a mule’s honk than a laugh. Startled, Anne smiled.

“C’mon, then.” The shopkeeper hobbled down the street, talking to Anne over her shoulder. “There’s been more than a time or two we’ve stopped by after a long day, an’ put our feet up with a pint. The owner says it’s been in his family for fifteen generations, an’ his eldest is looking to take it over in his own turn. He got papers says it were built in 1540-something.”

Anne was delighted. This stream-of-consciousness tour guide she’d stumbled onto was a treasure.

The woman prattled on. “An’ that would have been during the reign of King Hal anyway. You know, Henry VIII. Now don’t that just beat all? But that’s not the only old building there. St. Etheldreda’s is, too, which is where you’d end up if you keep followin’ the alley past the pub.”

“St. Etheldreda’s?” Anne asked. “Is that the Catholic chapel?”

“Aye, now she’s a pretty little church, though I’m no Catholic. Got the prettiest windows, she has. And she’s a site older than the Crook, I can tell you! Why, she’ll take you clear back to the twelve-somethin’s, if I’ve got it right, and I do. Here you are, then.”

With a bright grin, she thrust out her hand and took Anne’s in a firm grasp, pumping it up and down. “It’s well after noon, so the doors are open. You just tell him Jane Woodward sent you down, an’ he’ll treat you better than he’d treat the queen herself. Go on now, luv, an’ have a time. It’s been a real joy, it has, meetin’ you.” She turned, making her way back to her little shop.

“Thanks, Mrs. Woodward,” Anne called after her. She started down the alleyway, with its cobblestone path and brick walls, until she found the pub’s bottle-glass windows and solid oak door. Above it, a sign creaked on rusty hinges, faded but still showing a bishop’s ceremonial staff. The plaque on the door read:
The Bishop’s Crook, established 1541
.

Feeling a rush of excitement, she pushed on the wrought-iron knob and stepped inside, stooping slightly to avoid the lintel beam. Although smoking was now banned in pubs, a faint trace of pipe tobacco lingered still. That and the warm, inviting smells of ale and oak wrapped around Anne, welcoming her in.

The room was dark, its ceiling low. Even though her eyes hadn’t quite adjusted yet, she saw built-in benches along the nearest walls, square tables and chairs facing them. Off in the far corner, there was an unoccupied table.

That has to be it
, she thought. She wanted to rush over to examine the spot, but she felt apprehensive, remembering what happened to Brandon.

Several patrons were eating at nearby tables, and Anne let her gaze roam on to the long oak bar, black with age. A ruddy-faced barkeep dried a mug as he chatted with a man standing at the far end.

She smiled. “Excuse me?”

“Hullo, welcome. American, eh? Make yourself at home. What’ll you have?”

“I’d like a shandy, please.”

He grinned. “Just as I thought. American birds do love the shandy.”

Nodding, Anne glanced about approvingly. “Mrs. Woodward sent me here. You know her, don’t you? She said I’d like the place.”

“She’d be the one to know what’s best. She’s in here often enough, making sure I haven’t lost me touch.” He spun the mug through his fingers and righted it under a spigot with one hand, just as he tipped back the tap with the other.

Anne leaned against the bar.

The barkeep added lemonade to the bitter, then plopped in two fresh green beans. “Your lunch, miss.” Eyes twinkling, he placed the mug before her.

“Thanks.” Anne took a sip, the ale light, citrusy. “Are you the owner?”

“I am at that. Can I be gettin’ you somethin’ more?”

“This is fine,” she replied, nibbling on a green bean.

As he returned to his chores, she quickly added, “Actually, if you’re not too busy, could I ask a couple of questions? I’m kind of on a mission, and now Mrs. Woodward’s really gotten me interested in the history of this place, too.”

“Sure, I can make time if you like. The crowd’s thinnin’ out. It’s quiet now ’til ’round about five thirty.”

“Mrs. Woodward said your family has owned this pub for a long time.”

“Right she is. The wife did the family tree and it’s seventeen generations, if you count me grandson. In 1541 they first opened the door for business, an’ we ain’t hardly had a minute of peace ever since.”

“Go on.” The man at the end of the bar guffawed into his mug.

Anne smiled. “I’m a high school history teacher from one of the oldest areas in the States, and we can hardly find a place built before 1750. I don’t know anyone who’s stayed in business more than three generations.”

“Eh, you Yanks, you’ve got the itch real bad, you have. Always needin’ to move about an’ wantin’ to see where you’ve never been.”

“Ants in our pants.”

He nodded. “You’re a restless lot.”

“Well, if it helps, I’m half British. My dad’s a Brit, but he fell for an American from Chesapeake, Virginia.”

“Yeah? That so, miss?”

Clearly, from his tone, the barkeep was losing interest. “Look,” Anne said. “My grandmother told me about this pub. She used to come here with her boyfriend right after the war—said it was a great place for young lovers to meet.”

“Right. Always had lots of dark spots.”

“Have you got any ghosts in an old place like this,” she asked, “or trap doors?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nah. Never found a trace of either one, but we do seem to have a certain history of strange occurrences that’ve always been part of the place. When I were a lad, me dad had plenty of stories to tell about how people turned up missin’ in the old days. They’d be here, and then not. I always figured there must be a secret passage somewhere ’round here.”

“Or devilry,” the man at the bar muttered.

Anne felt a delicious chill. “Something weird happened to my grandmother’s boyfriend. Do you remember a man disappearing from here after World War II? Around Christmastime?”

The barkeep’s features darkened. “He’s your grandfather?”

“No. They never married because he vanished.”

He shifted uncomfortably and glanced at his seated customers. “Well, that was a long time ago. No need to worry now. That was the last of it. We’ve not had any trouble since.”

“I believe you,” Anne said. “Please, tell me what you know about––”

“Brandon,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t thought of the name in years.

“You do know him!”

He exchanged a look with the man standing by the bar. “The owner was me dad. I was here, but only old enough to be workin’ the back room then.”

The customer suddenly pushed away, leaving his mug half empty on the counter. Grumbling about meddling foreigners, he stalked to the door.

The barkeep stared after him, then turned back to Anne, lowering his voice, “What happened to Brandon brought lots of bad publicity on us, and we had nothin’ but coppers here for weeks on end. Every man jack of us was under suspicion ’cause they couldn’t figure out what happened. Like the times weren’t hard enough after the war, an’ him comin’ in here a bloody hero. Then he up an’ disappears right under our noses.

“I was here that day,” he continued uneasily. “Nearly killed me dad, it did. Wouldn’t hardly talk of it afterward. I heard Dad holler out loud, and I came runnin’ in from the back. He was standin’ right here, white as a bloody ghost, he was. White as a bloody ghost. I’ll never forget what he said to the coppers, trying to tell them what he saw, but they wouldn’t have none of it. Some called him a lunatic ’cause of it. Even I thought me dad was tryin’ to play on the history of the place to bring in the business. But it weren’t so.”

Anne held her breath. “What did he say?”

The barkeep nodded slowly, remembering. “Dad said, ‘The bloke faded, he just bloody faded, an’ I could do naught but stand here an’ watch him go.’”