by Lorna Cook
He sighed, angry with himself for having been so careless. It was the last remaining vestige of his parents. He had nothing else of them, and he’d mislaid it. He kicked at the tree stump and then regretted it. The pain seared like a blade through his frozen foot. He closed his eyes and resigned himself. As much as he despised the idea of returning to the manor, he was going to have to go back for it.
But as he turned towards Tyneham House, he knew without doubt that the lighter was not the real reason he was returning. Nothing Veronica had said had made any sense. She’d told him she didn’t want him if he only wanted to rescue her. She’d told him she’d always loved him and that if only she hadn’t listened to Bertie back then she’d never have left him. They’d made love. They’d promised to love each other forever. And now she’d rejected him. Cruelly and quickly. She’d been eager for him to leave.
Freddie’s head spun as he relived their final conversation. He’d been so stupid. Just like last time, he’d let her go far too easily. He hadn’t fought for her at all. He wouldn’t lose her again. Not this time. He quickened his pace until he was running up the driveway. He clutched his chest as he ran; his wound aching in the cold.
Damn the consequences. Damn Bertie to hell. He would fight for her this time. If need be, he would fight Bertie for her. He would confront his brother about his behaviour and he would save the woman he loved from the monster she had married.
There was one thing Freddie was certain of as he approached the front door and grabbed at the handle: he would leave with Veronica. Even if it killed him.
CHAPTER 36
Dorset, July 2018
Despite the freezing-cold temperature in the cellar, Guy was breaking a sweat. He’d just lugged five seriously heavy and oversized wine racks out of the corner of the room and piled them up against the adjacent wall.
Melissa held the torch while he worked. She’d offered to help and he’d tried hard not to laugh. It was going to be difficult enough to get her out of the cellar without her doing more damage to herself.
He was only moving this lot to placate her. He didn’t know why his grandmother had been holding on to the cellar key for the past seventy-odd years and right now, with a collapsed staircase behind him and an injured woman in front of him, he simply couldn’t care less. The reality of having broken into an MOD-protected house that was strictly off limits was unnerving him.
‘My career will be shot to bits if people find out about all of this.’ He gestured at the staircase.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Melissa laughed and then clutched her ribs. ‘Renegade bad-boy TV historian Guy Cameron breaks into a manor house, destroys half of it and then rescues the girl from the wreckage. Your career will go stellar.’
Guy rested as he looked towards the sixth and final wine rack. ‘I’m glad you can see the ray of sunshine amongst it all.’ He smiled. ‘But I think we should take a second to remember exactly who it was who crashed through the staircase, shall we?’
‘Have some sympathy.’ Melissa’s shoulders shook with laughter. ‘I think I’ve actually broken some ribs.’
‘Well, we’d be halfway to the hospital by now if you weren’t making me do this.’ He grimaced. ‘Tell me,’ he said, gripping the edges of the final rack but looking directly at her, ‘does the dangerously attractive TV historian get the girl?’
‘Perhaps.’ He heard the smile in her voice.
‘That’s good enough for me.’ Guy heaved the last rack out the way. ‘Say what you like about the Industrial Revolution, but they built things to last back then. They’re ridiculously heavy.’ He dusted his hands off on his shorts.
He looked at Melissa, who was peering towards the travelling trunks as she inched forwards slowly. His heart lurched. He didn’t know what he’d have done if she’d been seriously injured, or dead. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ he said. He thought anything else would sound trite.
‘So am I,’ Melissa teased.
He reached towards the trunks and started to move them one by one. There were only four, so it wasn’t as arduous as the wine rack task. They weren’t pushed up against the wall, but just a couple of feet shy of it. Behind the final trunk something had been wedged in and was covered in a frayed fabric.
Guy hauled the last trunk further out so they could both see what was behind it. He pulled at a bit of the fabric, but it was wrapped around whatever it was covering. He pulled again, a bit harder, loosening it, and it came away in his hands.
He heard Melissa’s loud gasp before he fully registered what he was looking at.
Then it became apparent what the shape in front of him was. Guy swore loudly and sprang back, knocking into one of the wine racks.
Melissa was standing still, her hand had flown to her mouth and her eyes were wide.
‘Oh my God. That isn’t what I think it is?’ she cried from behind her hand.
Guy didn’t instantly reply. He swallowed and then said, ‘I think so, yes.’
‘It’s not real … is it?’
There was silence and then, ‘I think it might be, actually.’
Positioned on the floor at an awkward angle was a skeleton.
CHAPTER 37
Tyneham, December 1943
It was Veronica’s only consolation that Freddie had left. He would be safe and Bertie could never hurt him now.
Bertie entered his study, propped the gun by the door and laid his hand hard on Veronica’s shoulder. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said.
At his touch, Veronica sprang back. She wiped the tears from her eyes and watched him carefully. Bertie reached out and touched her face, wiping fresh tears away with his fingers. She recoiled again. She wanted to throw up. Her head was dizzy and she leaned against his desk to steady herself.
Bertie threw her an angry look and walked towards his decanter, poured a large whisky and drank it in one go. He refilled his glass.
‘Not going to ask me how many of these I’ve already had?’ he asked. ‘Not interested anymore?’
When it was clear his question wasn’t rhetorical, Veronica gritted her teeth and enquired how many.
‘A lot. But not nearly enough, darling. Not nearly enough.’
He looked her up and down as he drank, his eyes rested on her chest and his gaze drifted down her body slowly as he leaned against the empty bookshelves. He looked nonchalant, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But then, he didn’t, did he, not really, Veronica thought. Not now anyway. Bertie always got his own way in the end.
‘May I have one of those?’ Veronica asked. She needed something to steady her nerves. She wanted to curl up on the floor and cry. Maybe Bertie had been right all along. Maybe drinking to oblivion did hold all the answers.
Bertie smiled a slow, curious smile and poured Veronica a whisky. He held it out to her, then pulled it back towards his chest as she stepped forward for it, before he finally gave it to her. Veronica realised she’d never be free of Bertie’s games.
She raised her eyes slowly from the glass and looked at her husband. His own eyes were locked with hers. She knew for certain in that moment that he’d won. He would never let her run. There would only ever be one way to escape him.
The appalling realisation arrived and a state of calm veiled itself over her. She looked at the tumbler, which suddenly held the answer. She would drink as much as she could and then she would walk down to the beach. She would walk into the waves and she would let the tide take her.
‘May I have another?’ she asked as she drained her glass. The liquid burnt at the back of her throat and all the way down into her stomach.
He filled her glass almost to the top and eyed her curiously when she didn’t protest.
She drank as much as she could before she started to feel sick. Whisky was vile. A third glass would be unbearable. But if she was going to do this, she’d need to be as out of her senses as possible. She’d always thought suicide was for cowards, but she realised now it would
be the bravest thing she’d ever done if she was to go through with this. What was the alternative? A life of rape and brutality, sick games and hatred at Bertie’s whim? No, she couldn’t possibly continue like this. Death was preferable. She tipped back the remainder of the drink.
Bertie poured them both another glass.
Veronica started to feel dizzy. She wondered if she’d already drunk too much. Would she even be able to get down to the beach? What if she slipped and fell down the steep cliff steps? She’d break her neck. Veronica laughed and put her hand to her mouth as she realised that would be the most preferable solution to all her problems.
‘What’s so funny?’ Bertie narrowed his eyes.
Veronica shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ She smothered a smile and then felt tears prick her eyes again. So this is what hysteria felt like.
‘Tell me,’ Bertie demanded.
‘No,’ she dared, sipping the last awful drops of brown liquid.
Veronica turned and put her crystal tumbler on Bertie’s desk. But she’d been overconfident, thinking Bertie had already done the worst he could do. In one quick step, he was upon her. He grabbed her hair and pulled her backwards so her back arched the wrong way. He hooked his foot around her legs as he spun her round and pushed her onto the desk. The glass tumbler fell to the floor and smashed. It all happened so fast. Veronica was feeling flush from the whisky, her senses dulled. By the time she realised what was happening, it was too late to fight back.
CHAPTER 38
Dorset, July 2018
Whoever it had once been was in a seated position, their head hunched over towards their knees. Their clothes were virtually intact but frayed through age. Seeing a skeleton fully dressed was almost comedic, like something you see in an advert or biology lab. Guy was having trouble processing what was in front of his eyes.
‘We need to go and tell someone,’ Melissa said.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, his voice flat.
Slowly, he let go of Melissa’s hand and bent down over the skeleton.
‘How long do you think they’ve been down here?’ Melissa asked. She was wide eyed, unbelieving.
‘A long time.’ Guy clenched his jaw, reached out and touched the fabric of the wool jacket that was on the skeleton.
‘What are you doing?’ Melissa cried. ‘We shouldn’t touch anything. This is so awful.’
‘Yeah,’ Guy repeated, but opened the jacket up to look at an inside pocket. Fragments of a blouse or a shirt, thinned by time but covered in something thick, dark, and crusted, brushed his fingers. ‘Jesus Christ.’ Guy shuddered as he accidentally touched the skeletal ribs. He felt inside the jacket pocket, but there was nothing in there.
‘What are you looking for?’ Melissa asked.
‘Some kind of ID.’
‘You don’t think …?’ Melissa trailed off. ‘It’s not …?’
Guy glanced up at her and then looked back at the body, before moving on to the other pocket. Inside, his hand brushed something hard and metal. He dug deeper for a second object. Slowly he withdrew an old, tarnished cigarette case and its accompanying lighter and held it out to show Melissa.
*
Tyneham, December 1943
Bertie was pinning Veronica awkwardly on the desk, his hands now on her shoulders, holding her down. She raised her knee, but Bertie slammed his body onto her.
‘Tell me what is so funny,’ he demanded again.
She’d seen him in a great many states over the years, the majority of which were alcohol-induced. And while he’d clearly been drinking this afternoon he was in nowhere near the same sort of inebriated state he usually got himself into. No, this time he was naturally violent.
‘Bertie, please,’ she begged, knowing it would do no use. ‘What are you doing? You’re hurting me.’ The starkness of her situation sobered her slightly
‘What am I doing?’ he laughed. ‘Surely even someone as glacial and as frigid as you knows what I’m doing?’
‘No!’ She tried to sound stronger than she felt. ‘Not like this. Upstairs,’ she said, playing for time, looking for a way out. ‘The servants, Cook, Rebecca, Anna, they’ll hear us in here.’
‘Cook and Rebecca have gone. I dismissed them. And I don’t care if Anna hears us.’ He dug his fingers into her. ‘I’ll take it in any way I can. You’ve been dishing it out so freely to my brother …’ He whispered into her ear, ‘It’s my turn now.’
She turned her head around, her eyes darting wildly for anything she could use to hurt him. The desk was almost clear of items, Freddie having considerately packed most of them away. A few letters remained at the end of the table, stacked neatly and ready to be packed. Next to them was an ivory-handled letter opener. But she couldn’t move her arms to grab it.
‘We can start this marriage again,’ she lied, trying to buy herself time. ‘But we have to do it properly. You want something from me and I’m prepared to give it. But not like this. If you want to hold me down …’ She blinked back tears. ‘If you want me to do as you ask, then I will. But not here, not like this. Please, let’s go upstairs.’
Bertie looked curiously at her, almost as if he believed her; he released his hold on her, just enough. As she felt his fingers unclasp from her shoulders, Veronica’s survival instinct took over. She turned her head to the side, moved her arm over her head and grabbed the letter opener by its handle.
But Bertie had realised just in time that she was paying him lip service and as she threw her arm forward and lashed out at him, he sprang back from her. Her legs suddenly freed, she slid off the desk and landed on her wobbly feet. She wasn’t used to whisky. She’d drunk too much. She was almost upright and she slashed towards Bertie again as she finally managed to stand to her full height.
She caught him on his cheek and Veronica’s eyes widened in fear as Bertie roared like an animal. Blood trickled from the cut and ran down his face. She’d surprised herself as to how deeply she’d wounded him. But having paused, she’d lost her advantage. She was no match for Bertie. He pushed her backwards onto the desk, slamming her head into it. But she kept hold of the letter opener and as Bertie lunged down on her she aimed it for his chest.
She closed her eyes in horror as she prepared to feel the blade tear through his skin. But, instead, Bertie landed his knee into her stomach, winding her. Veronica cried out and her hand flew down to protect herself. He grabbed it and slammed it into the desk two, three times, until her knuckles bled and she let go of the letter opener.
‘No,’ she cried as it fell to the floor. Despair set in. Bertie would kill her now. She knew it. He would punish her, but he wouldn’t stop there. She looked into his eyes, which were almost black with rage. She pushed her free hand into his chest to attempt to push him off, but it was no use. He landed his knee into her stomach again and Veronica cried out in pain. Tears fell down her cheeks and rolled past her ears onto the desk, but she wasn’t aware of anything other than death shadowing her.
Cowed, pinned, and in agony, she closed her eyes and tried to think of Freddie, the man she loved. But Bertie’s hands moved down. It was clear he still had other intentions and he yanked her skirt up around her waist, fumbling with his trousers.
‘No,’ she cried again as she tried to push him off. Her face suddenly stung as Bertie slapped her hard.
She knew if she carried on fighting, it would take longer to die. She tried to disappear inside herself. Her thoughts of Freddie comforted her as she silently begged Bertie to kill her quickly. Let it be over. Just let it end.
Veronica turned her head to the side facing the study door so she didn’t have to look at Bertie’s face. A movement in the doorway caught Veronica’s attention and she saw Freddie’s face.
‘Oh God, no,’ she cried. ‘No.’ She realised with horror that she wasn’t imagining Freddie. He was there, in the doorway. His face was set purposefully, but even in that split second Veronica knew it was too late to stop what happened next. Bertie’s hackles were up the moment Veronica
uttered the fateful cry and he was more than ready for what followed.
Before Veronica could shout, warning him to run for his life, Freddie had flown across the room, knocking the gun over as he ran towards them. He launched himself at his brother, but Bertie was faster. Veronica, faint and already in so much pain, struggled to get up, struggled to help Freddie. But she could only watch, screaming in horror, as Bertie landed blow after blow on Freddie’s chest. As the man she loved crumbled to the floor under Bertie’s relentless attack, she knew she was watching Freddie pay the price for having fallen in love with her.
CHAPTER 39
Dorset, July 2018
Melissa shone the torch on the cigarette lighter. Where once the sterling silver of the cigarette case and its accompanying lighter would have been bright, both were now entirely tarnished through age. Guy was holding them out in the palm of his hand and Melissa reached down and picked up the cigarette case first. She handed Guy the torch and then prised the case open. If any cigarettes had been inside, they were now a mix of dust and tobacco. Melissa snapped it shut and then turned the cigarette lighter over. One side was smooth, but the side that had been face down on Guy’s palm had something engraved on it. Guy shone the torch onto it and Melissa ran her fingers over the words.
Through the tarnish, the wording was clear and she read it out to Guy. ‘To Alfred, on the occasion of his 21st birthday.’
It took a few seconds for her to realise the significance of the name. She read it again to double-check. Alfred. Not Albert.
‘Alfred,’ Guy reasoned in a sad voice. ‘We’ve been looking for a Freddie or a Frederick. But his name was Alfred.’
‘No!’ Melissa cried. ‘Why did it have to be Freddie?’
Melissa couldn’t contain the disappointment that welled inside her and she half fell, half sat on the floor, wincing in pain and still clutching the lighter and the cigarette case. She looked over at the body and tears started falling down her face.
