‘So, how can I help you?’ Margaret went on.
‘Um,’ said Libby, ‘it’s a bit difficult.’
She heard a sigh. ‘It wouldn’t be about anonymous letters, would it?’
Chapter Thirty-eight
‘WELL, YES, IN A WAY,’ said Libby, after a moment.
‘Paddy got some, you know. The police weren’t happy that they’d been destroyed.’
‘Ah,’ said Libby, and wondered how to go on. ‘Um, it wasn’t exactly Paddy’s letters I wanted to know about.’
‘Oh?’ Margaret’s voice was much warier now.
‘Yes. I’m really sorry to be so intrusive,’ Libby rushed on before she lost her nerve, ‘but it was letters to your mother I was thinking about.’
‘To my mother?’ Now it was surprise in Margaret’s voice. ‘My mother?’
‘Yes. We – the police, that is – have reason to believe she was sent at least one back in the early fifties, or maybe late forties.’
There was a long silence that Libby didn’t dare to break.
‘I don’t know about my mother,’ Margaret finally continued, ‘but it’s possible. I was too young to know then. I started getting them in the seventies.’
Libby sat down hard. ‘You did?’ But this was all wrong. Maud Burton was dead by then. Or disappeared, at least.
‘Yes.’ A sigh. ‘Not that I’d done anything, but they just talked about my background.’
‘Your background? How do you mean?’
There was another silence and Libby decided she’d better back off. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stephens. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, no, it’s all right,’ said Margaret. ‘I should have told the police at the time, but the letters weren’t threatening, and didn’t ask for money. They were just – nasty.’
‘How long did it go on?” asked Libby. ‘And did you never find out who was writing them?’
‘I got them every now and then for quite a few years, then they stopped. After a year or two I realised no more were coming. I thought perhaps whoever was writing them had died. They must have been quite old.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because they were talking about my mother,’ said Margaret. ‘That was what it was all about, wasn’t it?’
‘Was it?’ Libby was now completely lost.
‘Well, of course,’ said Margaret. ‘Josie and I worked that out.’
‘Josie?’
‘Josephine – Cy’s mother.’
‘You knew Josephine?’
‘Well, of course. We were nearly the same age. She was a bit older.’
‘Right,’ said Libby, frowning in concentration.
‘And her letters were even worse than mine.’
‘H-her letters?’ Libby squeaked.
‘Didn’t Cy tell you? I thought he knew.’
‘But what did they say? Was it about Josephine’s mother?’
‘Yes. But that’s probably why Josie didn’t tell Cy. She wasn’t proud of the fact that her mother was a murderer.’
‘Well,’ said Libby, hesitantly, ‘yours couldn’t have been about the same thing. Ada was your mother.’
‘But, according to the writer, my father wasn’t my father.’
‘Ah.’
‘So that’s why I think the writer must have been old – to have known, or thought that they knew, about that.’
‘Would Josephine have kept the letters, do you think?’ asked Libby.
‘I don’t know. She showed me some, but I can’t think she would have kept them.’
‘But someone might have thought she had,’ said Libby.
‘Are you thinking about that second attack on Cy?’ said Margaret. ‘Someone could have been looking for those letters?’
‘Yes,’ said Libby slowly. ‘But it’s interesting. Cy knew nothing about his grandmother, and I got the impression that Josephine didn’t know anything about her, either.’
‘Oh, but she did,’ said Margaret. ‘I can understand her saying that to Cy – or to anybody else for that matter. I told you, she wasn’t very proud of Cliona Masters, or whatever her name was.’
‘You can see why,’ said Libby.
‘Anyway,’ said Margaret, ‘I don’t see what all this has to do with my Paddy.’ Her voice wobbled.
‘Neither do I,’ said Libby. ‘And I’m very sorry to have bothered you. I really shouldn’t have.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Margaret cleared her throat. ‘I know you’re only trying to help. Dolly said you’d been to see her, too.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, glad of the change of subject. ‘She wanted to tell us about Larry Barkiss.’
‘And has that helped?’
‘Oh, yes. I saw him this morning. The police are seeing him this afternoon.’
‘Really?’ There was a gasp in Margaret’s voice. A gasp and hope.
‘I don’t think he was involved, though,’ warned Libby, ‘but if he was the police will prove it.’
‘Will they tell me?’
‘I will, if you like,’ said Libby, hoping Ian would share his information with her and Fran.
‘Thank you,’ said Margaret, appearing not to question the fact that Libby would have privileged information.
Libby rang off and berated herself for intruding on someone with so recent a tragedy in their life.
‘How insensitive can you get?’ she asked Sidney, who twitched his ears but declined to answer. She looked at her watch and decided it wasn’t yet time to call Fran, so she put the kettle on.
Fran had been received very coldly by Sheila Blake.
‘I don’t know what you want,’ she said in her whispery voice. ‘You’re not the police.’
‘No,’ said Fran, ‘but you know I’m working with them.’
‘What do the police want with fortune tellers?’
Fran sighed and was glad Libby wasn’t with her. Libby would have fired up immediately, but Fran was as dubious about her strange “moments” as many other people and had learnt not to take offence.
‘I don’t see the future, Mrs Blake,’ she said now. ‘I simply see odd things from the past occasionally. Sometimes it helps the police.’
Sheila made a disparaging sound, but turned and led the way into the sitting room. Fran sat opposite her where she could see the photograph, still displayed on top of the china cabinet.
‘Your brother came back to this country, didn’t he?’ she said without preamble.
Sheila’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Fran noticed her hands gripping her brown skirt so tightly the knuckles were white.
‘Larry Barkiss told us,’ Fran went on. ‘We saw him this morning. The police will be visiting him this afternoon.’
Now Sheila’s face was as white as her knuckles and Fran wondered if she’d gone too far, but reflected that Ian would be coming to speak to her about the same thing, so better that if anything were to happen, at least a woman would be here. Not, Fran hoped, that anything would happen.
‘Will you tell me about it?’ she asked gently.
Sheila shook her head. Jerkily, like a robot.
‘But why be so secretive about it? It must have been wonderful to find him again.’
‘Why should I tell you anything?’ Sheila’s voice came out in an almost guttural rush. ‘What’s anything got to do with my brother?’
‘Your father let him go to Australia with the Child Migration Programme. This was a direct result of his association with Norma Cherry, wasn’t it?’
Sheila didn’t answer.
‘And is his grandson over here?’
This time Fran really thought Sheila would faint. She felt the symptoms herself, the heavy thump of the heart, the tingling of adrenalin under the skin and the draining of consciousness from the head. But Fran wasn’t the one suffering, and quickly she rose and pushed Sheila’s head between her knees, then knelt at her side as her breathing became more normal and she sat up. Shakily, but she sat up.
‘Would you like s
ome tea?’ Fran asked.
Sheila focussed her eyes on Fran and nodded vaguely.
‘Will you be all right while I go into the kitchen?’
Sheila nodded again, beginning to look slightly better. Fran left her, unwilling, however, to leave her for long, so popped back until the kettle had boiled, and then as quickly as possible, made the tea and took it back to the sitting room. Sheila didn’t appear to have moved.
‘Tell me about your great-nephew,’ said Fran, placing a cup and saucer by Sheila’s side.
‘How do you know about him?’ Sheila’s voice was back to whispery again.
‘I’m afraid Larry Barkiss mentioned him.’
‘Him.’ Sheila spat the word.
‘You know him?’
‘Course I know him. And his so-called mother.’
‘Amy?’ Fran frowned.
‘Stephanie, she called herself.’ Sheila looked down at the tea, but didn’t pick it up. ‘Mother. Grandmother, more like.’
‘Yes, she was,’ said Fran.
Sheila looked up quickly. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘The police investigation,’ said Fran. ‘And now they’re looking into Maud Burton’s death, as well. You know that.’
‘Stephanie got letters, too.’
‘The same as you did? And was that about Norma Cherry, or your real mother?’
‘My real mother had been dead years. No, Stephanie got letters same as I did. Mine said – well, said about Norma Cherry. Cliona.’ She looked as though she had mud in her mouth.
‘But it wasn’t you that was affected, was it? There was no shame attached to you?’
‘Wouldn’t have wanted it known.’ Sheila’s mouth snapped shut.
‘So Stephanie got letters – about Julian not being her son?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now, Sheila, tell me about John and his grandson.’
‘He was sent away. I don’t know why I wasn’t.’
‘Perhaps because you were older. Didn’t anyone protest?’
Sheila shrugged. ‘How do I know? I was kept out of it all. Who told you, anyway?’
‘Dolly Webley.’
Sheila sniffed. ‘Ada Weston’s oldest. I told that Libby about them in the war.’
‘Yes, I know. What was wrong with Ada Weston?’
Sheila’s eyes slid away and Fran made a leap in the dark.
‘Your father found them somewhere to live after they were bombed out of Hoxton, didn’t he? You told Libby that, only you didn’t say it was your father.’
Sheila gave a brief nod.
‘And what? He had an affair with Ada?’
Sheila’s colour was fluctuating and Fran watched her anxiously.
‘It wasn’t like that.’ Sheila finally picked up her cup with a shaky hand and took a sip.
‘So what was it like? Was your father also the father of one of Ada’s children?’
‘Margaret.’ Sheila put the cup down. ‘After that woman was arrested.’
‘He turned to Ada after Norma Cherry was arrested?’
Sheila was now bright red and her breathing had become shallow. Her eyes went from side to side.
Fran took another leap in the dark. ‘He raped her?’
Sheila seemed to sag with relief and her colour faded. Fran guessed she just hadn’t been able to put it into words.
‘That’s terrible.’ Fran spoke softly. ‘You must have felt terrible, seeing Margaret grow up and knowing your own brother had been sent away.’
Sheila gave another small nod.
‘And you started receiving anonymous letters. There were more than one, weren’t there? What were they actually about?’
‘Norma Cherry and my father.’
‘And about John?’
‘And Margaret. She knew everything.’
‘She?’
‘Maud Burton. It was her.’
‘Didn’t you report it?’
‘Told you. Wouldn’t want it known.’
Fran thought for a moment. ‘So you let it go. Did you speak to Ada Weston about it?’
‘They moved to Maidstone. I stayed in the village until I could leave home.’
‘What about John? Did you try to find him?’
Sheila shook her head. ‘Didn’t know how. He just turned up one day.’
‘Really? When was that? And how did you know it was really him?’
Sheila looked over at the picture. ‘He had that with him. And his teddy.’
‘I thought all their belongings were taken from them?’ said Fran.
‘Not always. Anyway, he hadn’t had too bad a time. And he’d married and had two children. His wife died, so he came over here to find me.’ She swallowed and lowered her eyes. ‘And he found me.’
‘And now his grandson’s here?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
Fran stared at her, leaning forward. ‘Oh, I think you do. He’s been here, hasn’t he?’
Sheila’s hands were now gripping the sides of her chair. ‘I’m not going to answer any more questions.’
Fran sat back. ‘All right. Tell me how you and John felt about Norma Cherry. And Josephine.’
‘She ruined our lives,’ said Sheila. ‘And that Josephine and Margaret, they both had better lives than we did.’
Fran wondered if she would get anything more, and decided she probably wouldn’t and had already upset Sheila enough.
‘It was good of you to see me,’ she said, standing up, ‘and I’m sorry if I upset you. Can I get you anything else? More tea?’
Sheila shook her head. ‘You can see yourself out.’
Fran did just that, sparing a glance at the photograph on her way. Outside, she took a deep breath and glanced across the road to the bungalow she knew was Cy’s and Colin’s. A curtain twitched at the front. She ignored it. She had some thinking to do.
Chapter Thirty-nine
LIBBY GOT NO REPLY from Fran’s mobile. She waited another quarter of an hour and rang again. Still no reply. She looked at the clock and wondered if Ian’s two hours were up. It was dark now and she was getting anxious.
It was nearly half past four when the phone rang and a knock at the door happened simultaneously. She picked up the phone on the way to the door.
‘Fran!’ she said.
‘No, it’s Ian. Have you heard from her yet?’
‘She’s in front of me on the doorstep. Do you want to talk to her?’
She handed the phone over to Fran and went to put the kettle on, listening to Fran relating her interview with Sheila to Ian, then watching Fran’s face while she listened to Ian.
‘So? I heard what happened at Sheila’s, but what happened with Ian?’ She handed Fran a mug of tea.
‘The amount of tea we drink,’ said Fran. ‘I never seem to go anywhere without being offered a cup.’
‘Did you get one at Sheila’s?’
‘I made one after she nearly suffered a heart attack, poor thing.’
‘So what did you think?’
‘Of Sheila? I’m still working on it, but you wanted to know what Ian said?’
‘Of course!’
‘Well.’ Fran put down her mug and took off her coat before sitting down. ‘Larry met him because John went looking for Julian after he’d found Sheila. They’d have been a similar age and both lived in Curtishill. How he found out about the name change I don’t know.’
‘I bet it was Sheila. She’s kept tabs on everybody, even if she won’t admit it.’
Fran nodded. ‘And she knew who was sending the letters. And it wasn’t only her and Ada Weston that got them, it was Stephanie Brissac, too.’
‘Really? Gosh, what a busy woman. I wonder which one of them bumped her off?’
‘It wasn’t Stephanie. She was questioned by the police at the time of Amy’s suicide, so they would have been bound to have connected her with Maud’s disappearance.’
‘So what did Ian find out about the boy?’
‘Nothing, as far as I can
tell. But he did find that Larry Barkiss had been behind the trouble at Cy’s work in Maidstone. He was daubing the walls with graffiti. Ian thinks because Cy had got a good job and he – Larry – had turned into a loser.’
‘So why didn’t Cy tell us that?’ said Libby.
‘No idea. Perhaps we should ask him.’
‘Anyway, go on.’
‘That’s all, really. Not much to tell.’
‘Well, I have,’ said Libby. ‘Listen to this.’ And she repeated her telephone conversation with Margaret.
‘See how they all link up?’ she said when she’d finished. ‘Maud Burton’s friends with Amy and knows where baby Julian’s gone, and what his background is. She goes to Curtishill and helps out there. She knows all about Norma Cherry and baby Josephine and where she went. She knows about John being sent abroad and about Farmer Feltham raping Ada Weston. She knows Margaret is his daughter. So when she comes back to Steeple Martin she starts blackmailing them.’
‘Or just sending them nasty letters,’ said Fran. ‘Sheila was the only one who said she was asking for money.’
‘Well, what about the letters that Margaret and Josephine got?’ said Libby. ‘They can’t have been from Maud, she was dead by then.’
They looked at each other.
‘And why didn’t Cy know about Josephine’s letters?’ said Libby.
‘I think Margaret was right. She wasn’t proud of her parentage, so she didn’t tell him.’
‘So there’s actually three generations of letters, then?’ Libby stood up and went to draw the curtains. ‘First, Sheila, Ada and Stephanie, then Margaret and Josephine and now Patrick and Cy.’
‘Well, it’s obviously not the same writer each time,’ said Fran. ‘So someone is copying the first writer.’
They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Libby said ‘I think you’d better call Ian.’
‘I think I want to call Cy,’ said Fran.
‘About Josephine’s letters? But he didn’t know anything about them,’ said Libby.
‘We assume he didn’t.’
‘He said he knew nothing about his mother’s background. He was gobsmacked when he found out about Norma/Cliona.’
‘Well, let’s find out. I’ll do it, after your last bout with Colin.’ Fran asked for Colin’s mobile number and keyed it in.
Murder Imperfect Page 28
