A Mortal Sin

by Margaret Tanner

  “What!” Tom forgot all about the Blitz and snatched the paper out of Julie’s hand. “There’s a mistake. Paul Ashfield is Daphne’s husband.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am, dirty bastard.”

  “But his wife was killed. There was a huge write up in the papers. He got out of Singapore by the skin of his teeth. He was so badly wounded his father got special permission to bring him straight here from Colombo or wherever they evacuated him to. I remember thinking at the time how sad it was. His wife got killed in a plane crash. He watched it plummet to the ground in flames. There were no survivors.”

  “I don’t know what happened, but he married Daphne. Mum’s got photographs of the wedding. Pretty slap up affair, too. He must think she’s dead, like Daphne thinks he is. God, what a mess.”

  “You’ve got to do something, Tom, I mean to stop the marriage.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want to stop it. We’re only working class people. He might have got married out there to Daphne, then conveniently fell in love with someone more suitable once he got back home.”

  “What if he didn’t? How frightful for the other girl, too. We have to do something.”

  “You’re right, we will.”

  “Sir Phillip Ashfield has a place in Mayfair, perhaps we could see him,” Julie suggested. “Sort it all out before we tell Daphne. No use upsetting her if there’s been some awful mistake.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see Sir Phillip.” Like to smash his face in, too, Tom thought savagely. “We’d better ring first.”

  They hurried to a telephone box and found the number. A male voice answered.

  “Is Paul Ashfield there please,” Tom asked.

  “No, this is Sir Phillip Ashfield’s residence.”

  “Is he there? It’s important I speak with him.”

  “Your name please,” the voice said.

  “Tom Bancroft, but he won’t know it. Tell him it concerns Allison Waverley. He’ll remember that name.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Ashfield.” The voice sounded clipped, upper-class English.

  “You’re Paul’s father?”

  “Yes. What’s this all about?”

  “You don’t know me, Ashfield.” Tom heard a snort of annoyance.

  “What do you know about Allison Waverley?”

  “She’s my mother.” Silence. “Are you still there,” Tom asked, half expecting to have the phone slammed down in his ear.

  “Yes. What do you want? I’m a busy man.”

  “I’ve some information that might interest you, or rather your son.”

  “Oh yes?”

  Ashfield was a cool bastard all right.

  “Paul’s wife is alive.”

  “What!”

  That made you sit up, Tom thought with satisfaction. “She wasn’t killed in Singapore. Daphne’s my sister and very much alive.”

  “Alive! She can’t be. My son watched her plane come down in a fireball.”

  “Daphne got off the plane at the last minute.”

  “Exactly who are you?” Sir Phillip growled.

  “I’ve already told you, Tom Bancroft.”

  “Ah, Tommy Calvert’s boy. Paul told me about you.”

  “Daphne was the baby Allison was minding, the one you wanted dumped in an orphanage.”

  “It might be best if we meet. Do you know London, Bancroft?”

  “Not very well.”

  “The Savoy Hotel, at six, they know me there. I’ll be at my usual table.” The line went dead.

  “What did he say?” Julie asked.

  “Pompous bastard wants to meet me at the Savoy.”

  “Heavens, film stars and politicians go there.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “I don’t.” He grinned. “When we sort all this out I’ll tell Daphne. She’ll be so happy.”

  “I know. It won’t bring her baby back, but at least she’ll have her husband.”

  Tom hugged Julie close. She was like Daphne, a sweet, beautiful girl who had never thought or done a mean deed in her whole life.

  “We were going to see my parents, I rang them,” she said anxiously. “If we don’t show up, they’ll be terribly worried. We could get a taxi from the station to the Savoy if we’re running late.”

  They caught a train and, after alighting at Julie’s village, a local farmer gave them a lift the rest of the way.

  Tom took hold of Julie’s trembling hand. When he stayed with the Whiteheads before, he had met one of her brothers. In the RAF, Geoff had flown in the Battle of Britain. One of the “few” as Winston Churchill called the pilots who had saved England from the German Luftwaffe. ‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’ Tom didn’t think he would ever forget such stirring words. He had not met Brian, Julie’s other brother, who was away with the navy. At this precise moment, he hoped neither of them would be home on leave.

  The vicar and his wife would be mortified because their daughter had had a rushed registry office wedding ceremony, and he would be busy enough on this brief visit, soothing their feelings.

  “You’re frowning, Tom.”

  “Am I darling? I was thinking about what to say to your father.”

  They found the vicar out in the front garden tending his roses.

  “Oh, there you both are. Mother is in the house somewhere.” He waved one hand around vaguely.

  “Tom’s got something to tell you, Daddy.”

  “Has he?” Blue, short-sighted eyes peeped out from behind gold rimmed spectacles.

  “It’s important, Daddy.”

  “Feeling all right now, my boy?” the vicar asked chattily.

  Tom felt far from all right, and anyone but the vague vicar would have noticed immediately.

  In the comfortable sitting room, Mrs. Whitehead insisted they have tea first.

  “Now, what was so important it took me from my roses?” The vicar finally asked.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Julie and I got married this morning.”

  “Married?” The vicar dropped his scone. “How? Where?”

  “At the registry office, Sir.”

  “But it was always planned,” Mrs. Whitehead wailed. “Your father was going to marry you and you would wear my wedding gown like Susan did.”

  “We had to get married quickly.” Tom stood up and went over to Julie whose lips trembled. He picked up her hand and cradled it between his own. “We love each other very much, and I was frightened to wait in case I suddenly got shipped home. As my wife she would be able to accompany me, but otherwise....”

  “I’m most disappointed in you, Julie,” the vicar interrupted, pursing his lips. “You know how much a church wedding meant to your mother.”

  “Shh, don't cry, darling.” Tom comforted. “It wasn’t her fault, I insisted.” He put his arms protectively around his new wife and hugged her tight.

  “As long as you’re happy,” Mrs. Whitehead said in a wavering voice.

  “I am. Oh, Mummy I’m so sorry, I know you were looking forward to a church wedding.” A few more tears all round, another cup of tea, and Tom breathed a sigh of relief, everything would be all right now.

  “You’ll be staying for a few days?” Mrs. Whitehead asked.

  “We can’t, thanks all the same,” Tom regretfully declined. “We have to go to the Savoy Hotel later.”

  Julie went on to explain about meeting Sir Phillip Ashfield. They already knew about Robbie and Daphne.

  “Watch Ashfield, he’s as ruthless as hell.” The vicar looked quite ferocious.

  “Daniel!”

  “It’s true, my dear. He’s wanted this match for years. Lord Bowater has, too. It will unite two powerful families. It must have pole-axed him to hear his son’s wife is still alive.”

  “There’s nothing they can do, Daphne’s married to Paul.”

  “This revelation will ruin all his plans. A r
uthless man like Ashfield might insinuate the marriage wasn’t legal. There’s no one from Singapore to confirm it. What’s Paul Ashfield like?” the vicar asked.

  “A bit of a snob, but not a bad bloke, I suppose.”

  “Well, unless he’s prepared to admit the legality of the marriage, and you can convince him your sister is still alive. I don’t like your chances, my boy.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sir Phillip Ashfield, his charcoal grey suit impeccable as always, sat at his usual table discreetly eyeing everyone who came in. He would buy the young chap off. A few hundred pounds should do it. He was halfway through his second whisky when he heard a slight commotion near the door.

  He glanced up, and his hand froze on the glass. It wasn’t possible. A young, fair-haired soldier with a patch over one eye and wearing an Australian army uniform, was following the waiter. It was like seeing a ghost. Icy fingers played a dirge up and down his spine. Dear God, he was the living image of Tommy Calvert.

  Ever since 1916, a boy with thick, almost-white hair and blue eyes glazed with approaching death had haunted his dreams. This young man appeared older, but he possessed the same jaunty walk and reckless assurance. A quick appraisal of the girl with him showed a rather pretty, apprehensive little thing.

  “I’m Tom Bancroft. This is my wife, Julie.”

  So, this was Phillip Ashfield, arrogance in every line of him. A superbly tailored Saville Row suit and white silk shirt covering a slim, fit-looking body; lines etched deeply about his mouth in an almost cruel look; pitch-black hair combed back severely, with a touch of silver at the temples.

  Sir Phillip stood up. “Good evening.”

  He didn’t shake hands, but Tom didn’t expect him to. “Would you care to join me for a meal?”

  “No thanks.”

  “A drink?” Dark eyebrows peaked in enquiry.

  Tom shook his head. No rationing here. Bet the cooks would not be making their fancy cakes with liquid paraffin like most British households had to.

  “How’s Allison?”

  “She’s all right, under the circumstances.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your brother. Make sure you tell your mother that, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ll pass on your condolences.”

  “Do you mind if I have another whisky?” Sir Phillip clipped out.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Another of the same, Sir?” A hovering waiter asked deferentially.

  “Yes.” Sir Phillip waited until the waiter left before continuing. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me on the phone, er, Tom.”

  “And?”

  “It’s important to me for my son to marry Caroline Bowater.”

  “Too bad, because he happens to be married to my sister.”

  “Paul believes she’s dead.”

  “Yes, she thought he was, too.”

  “What would it take to make you forget you ever knew Paul got back from Singapore alive?”

  “What!” Tom stared at Ashfield in disbelief. Not one flicker of emotion showed on the dark man’s haughty face. He might have been a statue carved from stone.

  “I want my son to marry Caroline. I’ll stop at nothing to achieve that end. You understand? Nothing.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Bastard. Who did he think he was Tom thought furiously, tempted to punch him on the nose.

  “No. Take it as a warning.”

  “Even if I was prepared,” Tom gulped, “to forget.” He clenched his hand under the table. “Paul would be committing bigamy.”

  “I’ll discreetly arrange to have his first marriage annulled.”

  “What about my sister?”

  “I’m prepared to financially reimburse her for, um, her loss.”

  Julie turned so pale Tom feared she would faint completely away. He wanted to get up and flatten this bastard. He had wrought terrible heartache on their family, because he decided to sow a few wild oats out in the colonies, before taking a suitable bride. So much pain and anguish caused by a rich young man’s lust. Months of warfare had trained him not to alert the enemy to what he was thinking, and this man was the enemy. He didn’t doubt it for a moment. He fought to keep himself under control even as rage surged through him.

  “What if Paul ever found out?” he asked.

  “He wouldn’t.” Hard and implacable the tones were now. “Paul isn’t the man he was before Singapore.”

  “I heard he nearly lost his leg.” Tom desperately played for time to give himself a chance to digest what Sir Phillip was saying.

  “Yes.” Momentarily something flickered in the stony brown eyes. “Physically he’s recovered, mentally, well…” Sir Phillip lit a cigar and blew out a circle of smoke. “What’s your price?”

  “Well.” Tom ignored the shocked gasp from Julie. “A thousand pounds.”

  “A thousand pounds?” Sir Phillip echoed.

  “Yes, Ashfield, that’s my price. Five hundred for me and five hundred for Daphne.”

  “Tom, no,” Julie wailed.

  “Why not? We could do with some extra money. It would give us a good start.”

  “And Daphne?” she asked.

  He inwardly cringed at the look of revulsion on Julie’s face as she edged away from him. “Five hundred pounds would be handy for her too. Later on she’ll meet up with someone else.”

  “But you said she…”

  “Julie, be quiet. Well, Ashfield?”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “I want cash.”

  “Cash?” Sir Phillip snapped.

  “Yes, can you get it?”

  “Of course, but not today,” Sir Phillip said haughtily.

  He obviously felt insulted that they should think he couldn’t raise a measly thousand pounds at short notice. Tom didn’t know how he stopped himself from attacking the arrogant bastard right then and there.

  “We could meet here again. Tomorrow at the same time, Sir Phillip?”

  “Agreed.”

  Tom stood up. He went to take Julie’s hand and she snatched it away.

  Out in the street she glared at him through tear drenched eyes. “How could you do such a contemptible thing? Sell your sister’s happiness for money.”

  “Darling, I don’t want his dirty money. I was stalling for time.”

  “You didn’t mean it?”

  “Of course not, silly.” He put his arms around her.

  She collapsed against him with relief. “You sounded so convincing.”

  “Did I?” He hugged her tight. “Rob always said I should have been on the stage. What a cold fish Ashfield is. Did you see his face?”

  “Hard as granite. That man frightens me,” she said, trying to suppress a shiver.

  “We’ve got to find Paul. Wonder what he meant by physically recovered, but not mentally?”

  “I don’t know, Tom, perhaps he had a nervous breakdown.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  Gwen, a friend of Julie’s, who had survived fifty-seven consecutive nights of bombing during the Blitz, had invited them to stay with her anytime they wanted to. It was a miracle that her house had survived unscathed Tom thought, but Julie had said Gwen was now deaf because of the excessive noise. She spent most of her time working in the vegetable gardens that had been created in The Tower of London moat.

  The moment they arrived at Gwen’s little house, Tom started ringing around in an attempt to find Paul but he drew a blank. It was as if Paul Ashfield had dropped off the face of the earth. Even the minister scheduled to perform the marriage ceremony didn’t know his current whereabouts. He tried Bowater residence, and if anyone knew anything there, they weren’t saying.

  He used the line of ‘old army mate in London on leave’ so often he almost believed it himself.

  “What are you going to do now?” Julie asked as they lay side by side in the spare room at Gwen’s. “Poor Daphne.”

  “I don’t know what we’ll do tomorrow, my darling, but right now, Dap
hne would forgive us for thinking of ourselves, and there’s something I want to do very much.” He drew her into his arms.

  * * *

  A plump tabby cat lay on a mat near the front step, watching a butterfly fussing around a window box full of colorful flowers. The door was of heavy, aged blackened oak. Daphne banged the brass knocker and nervously waited.

  Julie answered it. Her hair was the color of toffee, her eyes sparkling with good humor.

  “Daphne, you made it.” Julie hugged her. “Come in and meet everyone.”

  “Where’s Tom?”

  “Out the back. Here, give me your case. We’ve prepared a room, but weren’t sure when you would arrive.”

  “Thanks. So, you and Tom are married now.”

  “Yes.” Julie blushed. “Come inside and meet my mother. Daddy has gone off to a parish meeting. Tom, Tom.”

  The sitting room was full of good quality dark furniture, but colorful paintings on the walls lifted the dullness. “My brother is the artist,” Julie explained.

  “They’re beautiful.” Daphne was almost swaying with fatigue, when Mrs. Whitehead bustled in.

  “Oh, my dear, you do look worn out. Sit down and I’ll get some tea.”

  “Thanks, I am rather tired.”

  “Daffy, you made it.”

  “Tom!” Her tiredness and despair were temporarily forgotten as he engulfed her in a bear hug.

  “You didn’t put much weight on in the hospital, and you’re still as white as a sheet. You’re a wreck,” he said with brotherly candor, as he held her at arm’s length.

  “Have you been able to contact Paul?”

  “No. Bloody Sir Phillip knows we’re trying to contact him, I’d stake my life on it.”

  “Maybe Paul wants to marry Caroline.” Her lips trembled as she forced back the tears. She felt as if she had done nothing except cry over the last couple of weeks. I have the right to shed buckets of tears, after all I’ve lost, but for Tom’s sake she tried to pull herself together. He had suffered too. Losing his eye must have been catastrophic, but at least he had found Julie through it.

  * * *

  “It’s strange,” Tom said. “No one has seen Paul since he got back from Singapore. We asked around, trekked up to Yorkshire, no easy feat with the rationing, but the servants wouldn’t tell us anything. Down at the pub there isn’t much beer, but the locals have got plenty to say. Paul is supposed to be a recluse. None of them have set eyes on him, and it appears he doesn’t care one way or the other what happens to him.”