The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  A quick Google search revealed that the House of Nazarene orphanage was now a care home – Christ, he’d seen enough of care homes and hospitals in this case to last him a lifetime. He jotted down the address and called the general enquiries number. The girl who answered sounded as though she was at the end of her shift and couldn’t care less, but she did say that the home’s manager, Dan Christie, would be in at 8.30 a.m. And that, yes, they did hold a few records from ‘the past’, but she couldn’t be sure what. He put the phone down and thought for a few minutes. There wasn’t much more he could do tonight, so he decided to go back to the boat and try to get the case straight in his head. There was also the small matter of speaking to his father, who he still hadn’t managed to track down.

  Before leaving, he opened up Helen Linehan’s will, which Dianne had sent over, and skimmed through the legalese until he came to the section marked Beneficiaries. He read the section several times just to be sure. Helen Linehan had left Charles Palmer not only Marsh House but also a sizeable amount of money; in fact, she’d left him virtually everything. The only thing she hadn’t left him were some drawings of the house, which he noted were bequeathed to RADE, where Connie worked. Not that Palmer would give a damn about a few drawings, because whoever he was – Helen’s son or Ian Carswell – he was now a very, very wealthy man indeed.

  CHAPTER 36

  It was Monday morning and the atmosphere on the roads was fractious, everyone thoroughly fed up with the weather and just wishing it would get back to normal – and that included Kirby. He’d finally managed to speak to his father the night before, albeit briefly, which wasn’t helping his current mood either. His dad had remained tight-lipped about Livia and their conversation had been strained, exacerbated by bad reception. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an awkward conversation with his father, and had actually felt a sense of relief when the signal finally gave up completely and cut them off.

  After what seemed like an eternity of red lights, being beeped at and cut up, he pulled up at his destination, the House of Nazarene care home. Like Littledene, it was situated in what had once been a Victorian house, but that’s where the similarities ended. It was smaller than Littledene and had been added to over the years – and not sympathetically. The 1960s additions clung to the original building like parasites; leaching whatever character it had once had into a miasma of grey panels and peeling paintwork. Ramps with corporation-yellow handrails led up to double doors with wire-mesh security-glass panels. It looked more like a halfway house than a care home, and Kirby felt his already-low spirits plummet even further as he entered the hallway. If the day carried on like this, he’d be scraping them off the pavement by lunchtime.

  ‘Can I help?’ a young woman asked from behind a tattered reception desk. She looked worn out, her navy uniform crumpled and flecked with unimaginable things.

  Kirby explained who he was and asked whether Dan Christie was in yet. With a bored look she picked up the phone and spoke to someone – presumably Christie – to tell them ‘the fuzz are here’, and then buzzed him through another set of double doors into a corridor painted pale blue. By comparison, Blackwater was rather attractive – despite standing empty for nearly twenty-five years. The artificial lighting, scuffed skirting boards and the cold shade of blue all gave Nazarene an intensely depressing atmosphere.

  Christie’s office was first on the right, and soon after knocking a chirpy voice from within called, ‘Come in!’

  The contrast was astonishing – although, admittedly, it would have been hard to get much worse. The office was painted – freshly, judging by the smell – in orange and yellow. Potted plants lined the windowsill, which looked out on to a car park. Photographs of ageing film stars adorned the walls, and a small two-seater sofa had been crammed into the room along with an old wooden desk and antique swivel chair. It was quite a sight. As was Dan Christie. He was a small man, in his forties, wearing a checked shirt and knitted tank top. Either he or a family member was an amateur knitter, Kirby guessed, looking at the uneven V-neck. Even his tie was knitted, something Kirby hadn’t seen since his school days. Christie wore wire-rimmed glasses whose lenses were so thick that they made his eyes look the size of golf balls. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Big Top.

  ‘How can I help?’ He stood and extended a hand, which Kirby took, half expecting a mild electric shock.

  ‘I’m interested in the records you hold for the House of Nazarene orphanage,’ he said, sitting on the small sofa, which despite its size felt like it could swallow him whole. There was probably a whoopee cushion inside. ‘I called yesterday and was told that you still have some.’

  ‘Ah, the House of Nazarene orphanage. What period were you thinking of?’ Christie sat down on the wooden swivel chair and regarded Kirby with interest. The chair creaked as he leant forward eagerly.

  ‘I’m looking for someone in particular. A baby who came here in 1964, possibly 1965, name of Ian Carswell.’

  ‘I can tell you right now that we won’t have his personal records,’ said Christie. ‘All those would have been sent to the local authority.’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose, the lenses so heavy that they kept slipping down. ‘Good luck with trying to trace anything there,’ he added.

  ‘Do you hold any records at all for that period?’ Kirby asked, feeling disappointed already.

  ‘That’s what I was coming on to. We do hold a few – they tend to be more general records about the orphanage. Its day-to-day running, finances and so forth.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s see what the old Wheel of Destiny has to say, shall we?’ Dan Christie swivelled – if that was the correct terminology for a man in knitwear – to his left, deftly stopping just in time to pull out what looked like an enormous, oversized filing cabinet drawer. Within the drawer was a circular filing system, a bit like an old-fashioned Rolodex – Kirby’s mother still had one – only on its side.

  ‘We don’t hold a lot of files for that period, but you never know,’ he said, spinning the file like it was a roulette wheel, stopping it with his fingers at a tab, which Kirby could see from the sofa said 1965.

  Christie pulled out a file and twisted round to put it on his desk. ‘Bloody chair, only goes one way,’ he said, continuing his swivel until he was facing Kirby again. He opened the file and began going through its contents.

  After a few minutes, Christie looked up. ‘What were the child’s circumstances?’ he asked. ‘Do you know where he came from?’

  ‘He was born in Blackwater Asylum in 1964. His mother died during childbirth.’

  Christie went back to the file. ‘This could be something.’ He pulled out a page and began going through the text, running his finger under each line, as though fearful he would miss something. ‘Minutes from a meeting held on 5th January 1967,’ he mumbled. ‘Interesting . . .’

  Kirby could feel himself gradually being swallowed by the sofa. The springs had gone, and he kept having to shift his weight forward to sit on the edge of the frame.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ said Christie all of a sudden. ‘I think this is it!’ He rummaged about in the file and pulled out another piece of paper. ‘Here we are. The pages were out of order – this was originally stapled together.’ He held out the papers to Kirby. ‘Third paragraph down.’

  He skimmed the text on the first page, but couldn’t spot Carswell’s name, and so glanced at the following page. He looked up at Christie. ‘What is this? It looks like some kind of travel document.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is,’ said Christie. ‘Take a closer look.’

  He went back over the third paragraph and stopped halfway. ‘Baby C?’

  Christie nodded. ‘If you read further, you’ll see why.’

  A short itinerary was listed, beneath which several declarations had been signed. They briefly outlined the suitability of each child for the journey and had then been signed by a guardian or representative. ‘Christ,’ he muttered, looking up at Christie. ‘Is this what I think it
is?’

  Christie nodded. ‘The list you have in your hands is the final list of child migrants sent from the House of Nazarene to Australia. The last boat sailed on 24th January 1967, and your baby was on it.’

  Kirby looked down at the document in his hand and felt a flutter of excitement. Baby C had been sent to Perth. Not only that: his declaration had been signed by Ena Massey.

  CHAPTER 37

  It had just turned midday when Connie walked up the drive of Marsh House. She’d called Bonaro earlier, to explain what had happened at the Four Sails over the weekend, and he’d said that once she’d collected the drawings bequeathed by Helen Linehan, she would be free to take the rest of the day off. She planned to get the lock changed on the cellar door, and the ones on the front and back doors, just to be sure. Why anyone would break into her house and fiddle with the boiler and cat flap was a mystery, but the idea freaked her out. Perhaps it was meant to.

  An expensive-looking Merc was parked at an angle across the drive, as though someone had stopped in a hurry. Circumnavigating the car, Connie approached the front door and was about to knock when it opened, and she found herself face to face with a tall, tanned man in what looked like a very expensive suit, with a clutch of papers under his arm.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked. She noticed that his eyes scanned the driveway behind her before coming to focus on her.

  ‘My name’s Connie Darke. I work for the architectural archive, RADE, on Queen’s Square. I’m here to collect some drawings.’

  ‘What drawings?’

  ‘The owner Mrs Linehan bequeathed them to us in her will – drawings of the house. The executors called us last week, and my boss, Richard Bonaro, arranged for me to collect them.’ She watched as the man processed what she’d said. He didn’t seem to know what she was talking about. Had there been some mistake?

  Suddenly his face changed. ‘Drawings of this house?’

  ‘That’s right. I was told to contact a Charles Palmer. I did call earlier, but it went straight to answerphone. I left a message.’ There was something about the man’s gaze that was unnerving.

  ‘Oh . . . I’m sorry. It’s been a busy morning. There are areas in the house where there’s no signal.’ He smiled. ‘Do come in.’ He stepped aside to make way for her, and she went inside.

  The hall was dark, all but one of the doors off it shut, some light filtering down the stairs. It was crammed full of packing boxes, and freezing cold.

  ‘The house is being cleared, as you can see.’

  ‘So, are you Mr Palmer?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, how rude,’ he said, extending a hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, and my condolences,’ said Connie, taking the hand, which felt unnaturally soft. They stood awkwardly in the hallway for a few seconds, Palmer making no move to get the drawings.

  ‘How many drawings are there?’ she prompted. ‘We’re very excited to be acquiring them. We hold the entire James Neville collection – apart from Blackwater. Unfortunately no one knows what happened to those.’

  ‘Actually,’ he smiled, ‘I have no idea how many there are.’

  ‘Okay, perhaps I could take a look? If there are too many I’ll call a cab.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Palmer asked, suddenly.

  The question was so unexpected that she accepted without thinking. She could do with a cup simply to warm her hands, if nothing else. Palmer led her into a sitting room, which was equally cold, and told her to wait. She went over to the window and looked out across the garden and wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this. Terror would love it, she thought, as a robin landed on a frozen birdbath. The garden was large and ran down to the river, where there was a boathouse – she’d seen it once on a boat trip down the Thames. Lost in thought, she didn’t hear Palmer when he came back in the room a few minutes later.

  ‘Your tea,’ he said, making her jump.

  She took the mug of steaming tea. ‘Thanks. You not having one?’

  ‘Oh, no. I finished one before you arrived. Right, this way then,’ he said, sounding far jollier than he had on her arrival.

  She followed him into the hall and up the stairs, noticing the papers still clutched in his hand.

  ‘I suppose they’re in some kind of portfolio?’ he asked, as they reached the landing.

  ‘That’s what I was told. So you haven’t looked at them then?’

  ‘To be honest, stuff like that has been left to the solicitor to sort out. I’ve had more important things to attend to.’ He opened a door to a room on the left. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘They’ll be in here somewhere.’

  Connie looked around the room. It was packed to the rafters with boxes of books, clothes and household ornaments. It looked as though Palmer had swept all the shelves of ornaments and shoved them randomly into any box he came across. It was chaotic, to say the least. She couldn’t see a portfolio anywhere.

  ‘And these are definitely drawings of the house, you said?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes – plans.’ It was odd that he didn’t seem to know where they were, especially as it had been prearranged for her to collect them.

  ‘Perhaps they’re behind here,’ he said, moving to close the door of the room.

  She moved back a step and felt a box against her legs, spilling scalding tea over her hand in the process. There was really no room to move up here. ‘Ouch,’ she muttered, wiping the back of her hand on her jeans.

  Palmer seemed not to notice, and had almost pulled the door to the room shut when the doorbell rang. For a moment he seemed unsure what to do, turning to look at her. The room felt claustrophobic with the door pulled to, and she suddenly felt trapped.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘See who it is.’

  ‘Of course.’ He collected himself. ‘Let me know if you find anything. You have me intrigued now.’ He smiled. ‘And don’t let the tea get cold.’

  Fat chance, it was positively Vesuvian. When he left the room, Connie looked for somewhere to put the mug down. The tea smelt dreadful, worse than the builder’s tea Mole drank, and she put it on the mantelpiece. She could hear Palmer hurrying down the stairs as the doorbell rang again, and was relieved to be alone.

  She picked her way over to the window and peered out. It overlooked the drive, and a van marked Opus Crates was parked in the driveway. They must have come to collect the boxes in the hall. She was glad Palmer was out of the way; there was something about him that gave her the creeps. Turning back to the room, she scanned the jumble of boxes. At least she was only looking for something that might contain large architectural drawings, which narrowed it down considerably, although the journals could be anywhere. Outside, the van’s doors slid open.

  Not wanting to waste any time, she began rummaging through some of the boxes. It was mainly knick-knacks. There was nothing resembling a roll of papers, or journals – let alone a portfolio. She tried moving boxes to make sure the plans weren’t buried beneath, lying flat on the floor, but found nothing. Within a few minutes she realised the search was pointless. Perhaps they weren’t in this room after all, Palmer hadn’t seemed that sure. She idly began flicking through a box of framed photographs by the window, which were mainly family portraits featuring the same four people – two adults and two young girls, one of whom was several years older than the other. Deciding that she was wasting her time, she was about to leave when something made her stop in her tracks. The girls in the photographs. She went back and looked again. The older girl looked different, resembling the mother but not the father in any shape or form. The younger one had her father’s brooding eyes, and they were unmistakably related. Her eyes went back to the older girl. She could only be about ten years old, but something about her made Connie’s hair stand on end. It was the melancholy in the child’s eyes. The same haunted look that she’d seen recently at Tom Ellis’s flat, when she’d looked at the photograph of Sarah Carswell.

  ‘Christ,’ she muttered, realisation dawning. It was the sam
e family; they’d never left.

  Downstairs, she could hear voices. She quickly replaced the photos and picked her way over the boxes, creeping out on to the landing. Opposite, she could see the bathroom and suddenly remembered the mug of tea. She went back and picked up the mug, sniffing it again. Rank. She poured the offending liquid down the sink and noticed a packet of sleeping tablets lying open on the shelf. Palmer must be a bad sleeper, and she was about to take a nosey peek when something caught her eye in the bathroom mirror.

  It was behind the bathroom door, a strange place to leave such a thing, and stranger still not to remember it was there. It was a red leather portfolio with black corners. She quickly undid the ties, the front of the portfolio flopping to the floor with a loud smack. Some of the smaller papers inside slid out, skidding across the tiled bathroom floor; the larger ones secured by inner flaps. She bent down to pick up the smaller pages and realised that they were sketches of the house and garden.

  She hastily sifted through them, aware that it had gone quiet downstairs. They really were rough sketches – ideas, more than anything. About to put them back in the portfolio, one caught her eye; it was bolder than the others, more definite. Picking it up she found that, in fact, it was two drawings on fine tracing paper, one laid over the other. She flipped the top sketch up, looking at the one beneath, then flipped the top one down again. It was like an old-fashioned flick book – now you see it, now you don’t. She did it several times, making sure she wasn’t imagining things. It was a tunnel – or rather two tunnels – linking Blackwater and the garden at Marsh House.

  Adrenalin pumping, she swiftly rolled the small drawings up and slid them into one of her front pockets. After replacing the portfolio where she’d found it, she silently slipped out on to the landing, grabbing the mug as she went. Someone below was whistling – she guessed the van driver – but there was no conversation. Making her way down the stairs, she saw the man from Opus Crates lifting one of the boxes from the hallway. She nodded to him and waited as he hefted the heavy box out of the front door and into the back of his van. There was no sign of Palmer anywhere. She put the mug down on a small table by the front door, next to a mobile phone, and peered out of the front door. Strange, the Merc was gone.