“Did your mother ever mention someone called Edward Buckley?”
“I know the name,” Ingram said, “but she never mentioned him as such. I saw his photo, too. It was an army portrait of a well-turned-out captain. A champagne cork was taped to the back. When I asked Mamma who he was, she told me his name, but that’s all she would say about him. It upset her as I recall.”
“They were engaged to be married during the war,” Tayte said.
Ingram raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he said. “I didn’t know that.”
“They also fell out over something,” Tayte said, “but no one seems to know why that was either. Do you know why your mother wouldn’t talk about him?”
“Who knows?” Ingram said. “Painful memories perhaps. I had no real interest in him. Just a young boy’s curiosity.”
Despite something having come between them to prevent their marriage, it was clear to Tayte from what Ingram had said that his mother had still cared for Edward. It led him to think that it was perhaps Edward who had called the wedding off. But why? And what, if anything, did it have to do with Mena? He felt himself going around in circles and coming back to the same empty answers: no one knew anything, or if they did, they didn’t want to talk about it. That was the message he was getting and the lack of any useful information had clearly contributed to the reason why Mena’s life had become a family mystery - and as far as Mary-Grace was concerned, it appeared that she had taken the answer to at least some part of that mystery to her grave.
Tayte had let his coffee go cold. He drank it down as the stage lighting changed, signalling that the next phase of the event was about to begin.
“Well, thanks for your time,” he said as he got up and shook Ingram’s hand. He passed him one of his business cards. “In case you think of anything else,” he added. “And good luck with your expansion plans in America. I’ll look out for you.”
“Thank you,” Ingram said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
Chapter Twenty
T
ayte’s standard king room at the Leicester Marriott hotel looked like a hundred others he’d stayed at, although this one was brighter than some, clean and new and perfect for his needs. It had custard-cream walls and brown carpet, with two tangerine upholstered chairs and a table by the window. The usual desk with the in-house services guide and complimentary notepad ran alongside the wall at the end of the bed. He dropped his briefcase under the desk and threw his jacket onto the bed as he went to the window to look outside. It was a new development - not much to see beyond the car park below and the fringe of trees that were barely more than saplings.
It was just after six p.m. and he’d ordered a room-service meal at reception on his way in, as he’d grown accustomed to doing over the years because he was usually hungry whenever he got back to whichever hotel he was staying at, irrespective of the time. It saved having to call down later. He didn’t like eating in hotel restaurants by himself. He’d tried it a few times, but he always felt uncomfortable and self-conscious sitting there by himself. Taking a book for company and pretending to read it never really helped either.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about Mena and how bad his day had gone all the way back from London. Mary-Grace’s descendants had offered him little beyond a better picture of how their respective lives had turned out and although Joan Cartwright had given him plenty to consider, he couldn’t see how anything he’d heard was going to help him to find Mena.
He sat on the bed and kicked off his shoes, thinking that he might have a look around the local churchyards at some point, although he didn’t really expect to find anything worthwhile. He hoped a visit to the local record office would turn something up though and he might have gone sooner if he hadn’t landed at the weekend.
Moving to the desk, he consolidated his notes while he waited for his meal, which arrived with a knock at the door barely ten minutes later. Half way through eating, his jacket buzzed and the theme from one of his favourite Broadway shows,
Anything Goes,
started to play. He took out his phone and checked the display. It wasn’t a number he recognised. He swallowed the mouthful of food he was chewing and answered.
“Jefferson Tayte.”
“Mr Tayte, it’s Joan. Joan Cartwright.”
Tayte’s eyes widened. He pushed his meal away. “Ms. Cartwright. I hadn’t expected to hear from you again after -”
“Yes, and I’m sorry,” Joan cut in. “The memories upset me, that’s all. I was rude to you and I apologise.”
“There’s really no need to,” Tayte said. “I fully understand.”
“No, you don’t,” Joan said.
The phone went quiet. Tayte expected her to say more, but if she’d called to tell him something else, she was having trouble saying it.
“Is everything okay?” Tayte asked.
“No. Not really. I’d like to come and see you if it’s not putting you out. There’s something I need to show you.”
“Of course,” Tayte said, thinking that his luck might have changed. He wondered how she was going to get there. “Would you rather I came to you?”
“No, I have someone who can drive me,” Joan said. “And you’ve been to see me once already today. I should have shown you then. I can be at your hotel around eight o’clock.”
“Okay,” Tayte said. “It’s the Leicester Marriot. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”
“Until eight then, Mr Tayte.”
As soon as the call ended, Tayte gulped the rest of his meal down and hit the shower, buzzing with anticipation.
She has something she needs to show me
, he thought, wondering what it was.
Chapter Twenty-One
T
he hotel lobby was a modern, airy reception lounge with a high glass wall at the entrance and a vaulted ceiling. Tayte was sitting on a lime-green sofa surrounded by yellow armchairs and dark wood, all set on a psychedelic green rug that had waves running across it in colours that picked out the furnishings. He had one eye on the entrance and the other on his watch. It was a little after eight p.m. now and he figured Joan wouldn’t be long. Maybe the traffic was heavy.
It was another five or six minutes before he saw Joan standing at the entrance, talking to the man he assumed had driven her to see him. He stood up so she knew he was there and he watched the driver go back out into the night, presumably to wait for her in the car. If Tayte hadn’t been expecting her he didn’t think he would have recognised her; she looked so different. She wore a turquoise trouser suit with a silk scarf in the neck and her hair was loose on her shoulders. She was wearing makeup, too, he noticed. It was light but the overall effect as she walked towards him seemed to have taken ten years off her. She had a smile for him as she approached and it put him at ease.
Tayte shook her hand. “Hello again,” he said and they sat down.
He’d been looking to see what she’d brought to show him since he saw her at the entrance and he figured that whatever it was it had to be small because all she had was a black clutch bag.
“I’ll try not to take up too much of your evening,” she said. “I’m sure you have plans.”
A part of Tayte wished that was true, but he had no plans at all beyond a little reading and an early night.
“Quite the opposite,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”
“First things first then,” Joan said as a grave expression washed over her. “I had a phone call not long after you left this afternoon. I didn’t mention it when I called earlier because I thought it could wait until I saw you, but the more I think about it now the more it unnerves me.
“What was it about?” Tayte asked, concern in his voice.
“It was about Mena.”
Tayte sat up.
“I’ve no idea who the man was and at first I thought perhaps he was working with you, but then I realised you didn’t have my number and there was something about his tone that didn’t feel right.”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to know where Mena was, just as you do. He became quite insistent that I should talk to him. Then when I asked him how he got my number he wouldn’t say, so I hung up the phone.”
“Did he say why he was looking for her?”
Joan shook her head. “It was a very one-sided conversation, but whatever his reason, I believe it’s important that you find her first.” She opened her clutch bag and reached inside. “I don’t know if it will help at all, but I’ve brought some letters to show you.”
Tayte’s eyes were on them the instant Joan withdrew her hand.
“They’re Mena’s letters from Danny,” she continued. “Perhaps before you look at them I should explain how I came by them.”
“Please do,” Tayte said, unable to decide which he’d rather have first, the letters or the explanation. Both excited him equally.
“I saw Mena again,” Joan said. “Not recently, but after she left home. It was early in 1945, Late January perhaps. I was still living in Oadby with my parents then and she was waiting for me when I came home one afternoon. I was quite speechless as I recall and she didn’t say much either. I could see she’d been crying. She just thrust the letters into my hand and asked me to look after them until she came for them.”
Tayte eyed the letters again. That Joan still had them was telling enough. “And she never came back?”
“No. I never saw her again after that.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“She just said that she had to go, and with some urgency as I remember. She was heavily pregnant and I wanted her to come inside but she wouldn’t. It can’t have been long before the baby was due.”
Before my client was born
, Tayte thought. Then he wondered about the suitcase again and whether Mena still had possession of it at that time.
Joan passed the letters to Tayte and he unfolded them. The first thing he noticed was the stamp that all but one of them carried, centred at the bottom of the page. He pointed it out.
“V-mail,” he said. “It stands for Victory Mail.” He told Joan what he knew about it. “The US military borrowed the idea from the British Airgraph Service,” he said. “It was designed to cut down on freight space so there was more room available for war materials. They photographed every V-mail letter sent to and from servicemen and women during World War II and they put them all onto microfilm, which was then sent to the States for censorship and forward processing. It meant that around forty sacks of mail could be condensed into one.” He looked up from the letters. “Sorry,” he said. I can get a little carried away at times.”
“No, it’s very interesting,” Joan said. “I never knew. The microfilm must be a valuable resource to you nowadays.”
“I wish that were true,” Tayte said. “But it was all destroyed after the war.”
He noted the boxes in the top right-hand corners of the V-mail letters and smiled to himself. Danielson’s name and contact information at the time of writing were there. And so was his army serial number.
Touchdown!
He took out his notepad and wrote the details down, knowing that he would have no problem finding the right Danielson now. He ordered the letters by date, eyeing the larger boxes in the middle where the main body of the letter was written.
“They were strictly single page,” he said. “This box is here to ensure that the sender couldn’t take up any more space than the next guy.” He smiled to himself. “I’ve seen some written with tiny writing so as to fit more in.”
With that, he turned to the first letter and began to read.
Chapter Twenty-Two
September 1944.
M
ena had never felt so alone. She hadn’t seen Danny in almost three weeks and his attempts to call on her were becoming less frequent; he’d only tried twice in the last week. She was losing him. She knew that, but she couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes and tell him what had happened and the longer she left it the worse it became. She was letting him go simply because she didn’t know what else to do and it felt like the only good thing in her life was slowly dying while she just stood back and watched.
She couldn’t see Joan again either. Sheer embarrassment and the disgusting shame of it all had come between them. What must she think of her? She’d written Joan a letter the night she came home from the pictures. She’d been in such a panic. She’d told Joan not to come to the house - not ever again. She was so scared that Joan would tell her mother or Pop. And she’d written some hurtful things in that letter - things that could not now be undone. She’d told Joan to keep her big mouth shut; told her what a busybody she was. She’d even threatened to write to her parents to tell them what the real Joan Cartwright was like. All those secrets. How that would shatter the illusion they must have of her. Joan was no little Miss Perfect either.
Mena regretted writing every word.
The result of her uncharacteristic behaviour that night, however, seemed to have had the desired effect and that was what mattered most to Mena. Joan hadn’t once tried to see her and so far her parents appeared oblivious.
So far.
Mena put her book down and went to the full-length mirror next to her dressing table. It was late morning on a Tuesday. She was still in her nightdress and she hadn’t done a thing with her hair. She stood sideways to the mirror and ran her hands down the front of her nightdress, smoothing the material over her skin. There was definitely a bump there, she thought. Was it bigger than yesterday? She thought it was. It was definitely bigger than it looked a week ago. She monitored her condition like this every morning and the truth of it was that to anyone else, if she was showing at all, it was negligible. She was thankful that the sickness seemed to have passed, which was something that until recently had also been part of her morning ritual.
She forced a breath out like she was practicing her contractions. Then she gripped her hair with both hands, scrunched her fingers into tight fists and began to pace the room in a silent rage. When her eyes fell on her book again, face down on the floor by the window, she sat and calmly continued to read.