In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  The first was the story of Angela Bailey, whose body was discovered on a bomb site, her throat cut and her brooch missing.

  The second was the story of Deirdre Allsop, the young woman who had lived with her invalid aunt and worked in a sweet shop in Balham.

  “Fenwick Oldbutter’s niece,” Mr. Deeley said, holding the fragile slip of newspaper up for Ruby to see.

  “Poor Deirdre,” Ruby replied. “Yes. And wicked, wicked Silas Ferryman.”

  At the bottom of the box were six pieces of jewellery. A ring. A bracelet. A brooch, painted gold, with leaves and three delicate flowers. A locket. And a pair of clasp earrings, tortoiseshell imitations.

  “And those are the earrings she was wearing. Borrowed from her Aunt Phyllis, who, I’m told, always had an excellent eye for fashion, in spite of her gamey legs.”

  There was a brisk rat-tat-tat at the front door, the sound of the knocker dropping against the metal mail slot.

  “I took the liberty of making some inquiries on your behalf last night,” Ruby said. “Once I was aware that you’d returned, and I was quite sure it was you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would we mind?” Charlie asked.

  “Go and see who it is, would you? I think you’ll be frightfully pleased with my efforts.”

  Charlie got up, and went into the front hall, and opened the door.

  On the path stood a gentleman in his midthirties. His dark hair was neatly combed, and he wore trousers and boots, and a shirt and coat that seemed to have come from a much earlier time. But it was the same face that Charlie remembered from the night of October the 14th, 1940, the last time she had seen him, sprawled on the platform at Balham Underground Station, his blood gathering beneath him in a dark and ominous pool.

  “Thaddeus!” she shouted joyously, throwing her arms around him. “Mr. Deeley! It’s Thaddeus!”

  • • •

  “And so,” Thaddeus said, setting down his teacup, “I was saved—in the first instance, by the quick thinking of an off-duty midwife who was sheltering nearby, who staunched the bleeding. And in the second instance by the swift actions of others, who carried me out along the platform after the bomb fell on the other side of the station. Rather than the afterlife, I was dispatched to the nearest hospital to have the damage repaired. And that is where I spent the next fortnight recovering.”

  “And what of Betty?” Mr. Deeley asked, curiously. He had not stopped smiling since Charlie had called him to the door. “Did she not show an interest in your improving good health?”

  “She did,” Thaddeus recalled. “She visited me daily. But unbeknownst to me, while I recuperated, the other man in her life proposed marriage, and she accepted. She broke my heart, Mr. Deeley, but I do not begrudge her decision. Because of me, she had very nearly been killed herself. And she had our child to think of, and her own happiness. Peter Lewis was discharged as a pilot after he was injured while flying. Betty made her choice. He took my place in her father’s grocery shop.”

  Charlie held Mr. Deeley’s hand tightly.

  “It seems this kind of history has a habit of repetition,” Mr. Deeley said. “I have undergone the very same heartache as you. If we reflect upon this, and upon the outcome, perhaps we might reach the conclusion that these decisions were for the better.”

  “At the time, I thought not,” Thaddeus replied. “But after some consideration, and the advantage of distance, I am of a mind to agree with you, sir. The day before I was released from the hospital, a gentleman called Fenwick Oldbutter visited me. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “I am,” Mr. Deeley said.

  “I sent him, of course,” Ruby added. “We agreed it would not be an interference, but rather, a small nudge.”

  “Mr. Oldbutter assisted me in returning to Middlehurst,” Thaddeus said. “And near enough to the time I had departed, in 1849. To those who were familiar with me, I had been gone only a matter of days, which I was able to explain with ease, and a touch of imagination.”

  “But the crimes of the Middlehurst Slasher remained unsolved,” Charlie said.

  “Unfortunately so. But I’m secure in the knowledge that Silas Ferryman did, indeed, pay for his evil acts with his life. Thanks to you, Mr. Deeley.”

  “I take no joy in having sent a man to his death,” Mr. Deeley replied.

  “Nonsense,” said Ruby. “It was either you or him. If you hadn’t pushed him off the platform, you’d have died along with him. And so would Charlotte.”

  “How do you know all this?” Charlie said.

  But Ruby merely smiled.

  “His body,” she said, “was eventually recovered, but it remained unidentified and unclaimed. And his personal effects remained with the police, who were intrigued to discover, in his coat pocket, a string of pearls which had lately belonged to a young waitress, whose own body had recently been found on a bomb site.”

  “There,” said Thaddeus, “is your justice. And before I forget….”

  He rummaged around in his own coat pocket, and withdrew a tiny packet of tightly folded paper. He placed it in the palm of his hand, and held it out, inviting Mr. Deeley to look.

  “Ruby asked me to bring this to you.”

  Charlie watched as Mr. Deeley delicately, and with hesitant fingers, unwrapped the paper. Inside was a snippet of dark brown hair.

  Wordlessly, he turned away, and lifted Matilda’s locket out of the gas mask box.

  “Look,” he said, showing it to Charlie, and Thaddeus, and Ruby. “See the engraved initials. SPD and JEB.”

  “Yes,” Thaddeus confirmed. “That belonged to my sister. And before that, it had belonged to our mother. Of course, I know that JEB are my mother’s initials. Jemima Elizabeth Beckford. But we—my brothers and I—have never known who SPD was. And if Matilda was aware of this person’s identity, she never let it be known.”

  “Shaun Patrick Deeley,” Charlie said.

  Thaddeus looked at Mr. Deeley. “You,” he said.

  Mr. Deeley nodded. “I was engaged to marry your mother. I gave her that locket to celebrate her twenty-first birthday.”

  “And she kept it safe, sir. Even though she married another. I shall vouch for that. That locket contained that snippet of hair for as long as my mother was alive, and then, for many years after her death, until my sister was of an age to appreciate its significance. My sister was the one who removed it, wrapped it in paper, and put it away, knowing that it could not be from our father, as our father’s hair was fair, and had been for all of his life.”

  Mr. Deeley was still holding the locket, and now, also the paper bearing the cutting of his hair. “She did not tell you, then.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Six months after your mother’s wedding to Cornelius Quinn, she gave birth to you. Have you never wondered why you have dark hair, while both of your parents are fair?”

  “I had wondered, yes.” Thaddeus paused. “You…?”

  Mr. Deeley nodded.

  “This is an unexpected development. I may require some time to digest it.”

  Mr. Deeley offered him back the locket, and the folded square of paper.

  “These are rightfully yours.”

  “Not at all, sir. They belong to you.”

  Mr. Deeley gave Charlie a questioning look.

  “You must keep them,” she said. “I’ve still got all of Jeff’s things. How can we possibly object to anyone from the time before you and I knew one another? They were our first loves. And both are dead. And have been for a long time. Life goes on, Mr. Deeley. But we keep the memories of those we’ve loved safe.”

  • • •

  They were, at last, on their way home.

  “You’re sure I can’t offer you a lift to Clapham Junction?” Auntie Wendy checked. “What are you looking for, Jackie? I’ve packed everything up for the day.”

  “My bottled water,” Charlie’s mum said. “Posh fizzy stuff. Could have sworn I’d left it in the kitchen.”

  �
��Didn’t see it,” Auntie Wendy replied. “Have some of mine. Not posh and not fizzy. Sorry.”

  “I think,” Charlie said, “that we’d rather go the long way round. Back to Waterloo by Underground. Mr. Deeley seems to be fascinated by the Northern Line.”

  “Did you tell him about the World War Two bomb at Balham? There’s a bit of history for you, Shaun. Toby’s cousin Arthur lost his mum and two sisters down there that night. He’d have been killed too, except he’d got on a train and ridden it up to Clapham South to deliver a message to someone. And the lady he delivered the message to asked him to stay put until she came back to tell him it was all right to leave. But he never saw her again. And by the time Arthur decided to go back to Balham... the bomb had fallen and the tunnels were flooded.”

  “Bloody hell,” Charlie said.

  “He grew up to be a fireman. Helped rescue people in the Kings Cross Underground fire in 1987. He’d be about eighty now. Wonderful man.”

  Auntie Wendy kissed them both goodbye, as did Charlie’s mum.

  “Lovely to see you again… even if it was under such sad circumstances.”

  She gave Charlie a nudge with her elbow.

  “He’s a keeper, that one,” she said, nodding at Mr. Deeley. “Go on then, off to London with you.”

  • • •

  At a florist next door to Balham Underground, Charlie and Mr. Deeley each bought a perfect white rose. The station, at half past ten in the morning, was nearly deserted. They rode the escalator down in silence.

  At the bottom, they turned left and walked through the short passageway to the northbound platform, where they stood for a few moments, again not speaking.

  “I can still see all the people,” Charlie said at last. “In my memory. All the mums and little children, and the grandmothers and grandfathers… sitting on this platform, making up their beds… getting ready to sleep… thinking it was the safest place on earth.”

  “And I,” Mr. Deeley said quietly. “We were here with them, and would have shared their fate, if it were not for our exceptional good fortune.”

  They walked together to the north end of the platform, past the big old-fashioned clock, to the place where the earth and gravel and rock had filled the station tunnel up to its ceiling. On the trackside wall, the black marks from the water damage were still there, marking the repairs from seventy-three years before.

  “Here, I think,” Charlie said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Deeley agreed.

  They placed their roses on the platform, laying them gently against the glazed tiles, beside the blocked-up cross-passage. And then, they stood for a moment longer, remembering those who had lost their lives on that horrible, terrifying night.

  A lifetime ago.

  Yesterday.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “How was London?”

  It was Reg Ferryman, first through the door of the Stoneford Village Museum after Charlie had opened it the Saturday following her return.

  “Not you again,” Charlie said. “I understand the Village Council voted you down. You won’t be getting your hands on the Old Vicarage after all. What a shame.”

  “I’m not giving up on my Hampshire House of Horrors,” Reg replied. “I’ve still got the Old Stable, next door to the pub. I’m having new plans drawn up as we speak.”

  “You do that,” Charlie said. “We’ll start with Silas Ferryman, shall we? One of your close relatives? I’ve heard a rumour that he was an infamous cutthroat, who dispatched his wife and absconded with the family fortune. I’ve heard a rumour that he was actually the Middlehurst Slasher. It’ll make a marvellous display, anyway. You can sign replica blood-stained tea towels for punters in the gift shop on their way out.”

  “You,” Reg said, “are a menace. And where’s your proof? That’s all it is, a rumour.”

  “Did you specifically want something, Reg, or did you just pop in to see how annoying you could be?”

  “Dropping off some leaflets,” Reg said, producing a little stack of printed papers. “Introducing traditional amusements at The Dog’s Watch. Devil Among the Tailors. Nine Men’s Morris. Ringing the Bull. And we’re negotiating with a troop of mummers for a performance during the Christmas season. Obliged if you’d put their adverts on display somewhere.”

  “Free drink in it for me if I say yes?” Charlie inquired, taking the leaflets.

  “One,” Reg replied.

  “Frightfully generous of you. I’ll leave them on the counter.”

  “Many thanks,” Reg said. “Good morning.”

  • • •

  Opening the bright blue front door to her cottage, Charlie collected the letters that had been dropped through the mail slot. Most of it was rubbish. Another leaflet from Reg; a postcard from Oldbutter and Ballcock, offering a special rate for advance funeral planning; and a slick brochure from Quinn Motor Services, featuring free Michelin wiper blades with every oil change.

  There were two letters, however, which were not rubbish.

  One was from Auntie Wendy, posted a few days earlier.

  Charlie carried it through to the sitting room, where Mr. Deeley was immersed in a continuing investigation of his family’s history on her iPad.

  “You were never this interested in where you came from before,” she said. “What’s changed?”

  “The discovery that I have a son,” Mr. Deeley replied. “And, I suppose, a certain curiosity about my brothers and sisters, and aunts and uncles and cousins. I left them behind in 1825. It has been a fascinating undertaking to discover whatever became of all of them.”

  Charlie smiled. She had earlier discovered that Thaddeus Oliver Quinn had not, in fact, disappeared from the face of the earth following the 1841 census. In fact, he was now present in the 1851 census, and that of 1861, and in every census following, all the way up to 1911, which was the last one that had been made available for public viewing.

  And Charlie was quite happy for Mr. Deeley to continue his research, without sharing the details. She’d deliberately avoided looking up when Thaddeus Oliver Quinn had eventually died. Just as she’d deliberately avoided checking for marriage and birth records associated with his name after 1849. She was saving that for another day.

  And some other things had definitely changed as a result of their journey back to 1940. For one thing, Mr. Deeley was no longer afraid of the cooker. He’d become quite adept at making scrambled eggs. And he’d made a point of going online to research the mysteries of eggs Benedict, which he’d promised for the following Sunday’s brunch.

  Charlie sat down at her desk, and opened the letter from Auntie Wendy. It was in a very big brown padded envelope, the sort of package that you knew right away was going to contain interesting things.

  Your mum and I found this tucked away in a drawer in Nana’s dressing table. It’s addressed to you, so we thought we’d best forward it unopened. Do let us know what’s inside—we’re both terribly curious!

  Inside was a second big brown envelope, sealed, with Charlie’s name written in Nana Betty’s familiar hand on the front. Charlie opened it carefully to find a little blue booklet: War-Time Cookery to Save Fuel and Food Value.

  “Mr. Deeley,” she said. “Look.”

  She turned the booklet over and read aloud what Nana Betty had written in pencil on the night they’d arrived.

  Charlotte Duran says I am going to have a little girl. And I will name her Jackie. And a sister for Jackie, and I’m going to call her Wendy. And, she says, my house will not be bombed. October the 11th, 1940.

  She looked at Mr. Deeley.

  “Nana Betty really did meet us in 1940. And she never mentioned anything to me, not in all the years I was growing up. Me, Charlotte Duran, with the same name as she’s written here… me in 1940, looking exactly like me now. She never said a word to anyone.”

  A piece of notepaper drifted out of the pamphlet, decorated with pansies and violets, and smelling faintly of Nana Betty’s lavender scent. It was dated July 11th,
2011.

  My darling Charlotte. I have thought many times of giving this to you, but have stopped myself, as I believe it would cause too much confusion. Instead I’m putting it away, until a time when I’m no longer here. And after I’m gone, I’m hopeful it’ll be forwarded to you, unopened, to do with as you wish. I remember your 1940 visit so well. At first I thought it a fantastic coincidence, your name and the name of the woman who was Ruby Firth’s friend being the same. Charlotte Duran. But as you grew older, and began to resemble my memory of that young woman more and more, I realized that it could not possibly be coincidence, and that it really must have happened. I have yet to discover whether you will meet your very pleasant young man, Mr. Deeley, but if history has anything to say about it, I’m almost certain you will. I do not know what ever happened to Thaddeus. When he was in the hospital, I went to see him every day. But Pete wished to marry me, and I felt he would be a far better choice for our future. And so Thaddeus went away. I never mentioned him to your grandfather, and I will leave it up to you as to whether you wish to tell your mother and Auntie Wendy. I had always thought there must be something like time travelling that we might aspire to, something I know Nick is investigating very keenly. I don’t have any familiarity with it, but you have obviously discovered how it’s done. If you’re reading this now, it means I am no longer with you. But perhaps we can and will meet again, darling, if you find the means to take yourself back into my time. All my love, Nana Betty.

  Charlie wiped her eyes.

  “Oh, Mr. Deeley,” she said. “She knew. All along.”

  “This letter is very precious,” Mr. Deeley said. “And you must keep it very safe.”

  “I will.”

  “What else has the post brought?” he asked, spying another very official-looking white envelope on the desk.

  Without comment, Charlie opened the envelope from the private firm that did DNA testing, and read what was inside. Then, she handed him the letter.

  “Now you know why I absconded with the teacup Thaddeus had been drinking from—Ruby’s idea, by the way—and why I stole my mum’s bottle of posh fizzy water. And why I wanted a swab from the inside of your mouth.”