The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘I could quite happily sleep for the entirety of it,’ Elsie said.

  Violet turned to her, just about able to make out her shadowed features. ‘Oh God, don’t be so frightfully boring. Please don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about London, Elsie Finch?’

  Elsie laughed. ‘No, not at all, but I do worry about what you’re going to get me into.’

  ‘Well thank goodness for that; it’s all I live for. All this’—she waved her arms at the madness in the skies above them—‘Daimler—all that, it’s all nonsense. Lunacy. Not real life. One day, it’ll all be over—then what?’ She took a breath, then continued, ‘Life for me is what was there before and what will be there afterwards—simple pleasures: a few gin and tonics in some squalid London pub; a handful of cigarettes and some intimacy with a nice chap—or girl—I’m not bothered which—that’s life!’

  Elsie laughed again—slightly nervous about their planned trip. They were going to hitch-hike into London, find a hotel and Violet was going to take Elsie to some of the dreadfully sordid places that she knew. ‘Is it really wise, though, given the nightly bombings?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll be fine, Elsie Finch. The Luftwaffe won’t see any merit in hitting the places we’ll be going, don’t you worry.’

  Elsie told Violet to lower her voice—-they had reached their billet—a slightly run-down, but comfortable cottage. As she had expected, the lights were all off and the other girls had gone to bed. They crept quietly up the stairs, Elsie heading into the bathroom and Violet into their bedroom.

  Elsie sighed contentedly. It was a good day’s work, but by God was she exhausted. She really didn’t know if she had the energy to hitch-hike to the end of the road, never mind into London. She brushed her teeth and used the lavatory. Still no period.

  She pushed open the door, passing an entirely naked Violet on her way to the bathroom.

  In their small shared bedroom, lit only by a muted bedside lamp, Elsie glanced down at the discarded uniform on the floor and rolled her eyes in pseudo-displeasure, in the same way that she would have reacted to a mischievous child at school. It was Violet’s habit to live a slovenly and blithe existence in the house—something that riled the other girls, but which quite enamoured Elsie. She smiled as she folded the clothes neatly back onto Violet’s bed. It was all part of Violet’s nonchalant, blasé behaviour that Elsie was certain would one day see her kicked out of the Forces.

  Elsie turned to her bed—her precious, wonderful bed—and spotted something on the pillow. Her heart faltered, then sped up dramatically as she leant over and picked it up—a telegram. Thoughts of the previous one flooded her senses. Her hands quivered as she read it. It was typed, the strips of words—all in capital letters—stuck neatly to the paper. URGENT NEWS PLEASE COME BACK FROM AGNES.

  Violet returned from the bathroom. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asked.

  Elsie handed her the telegram, saying nothing.

  ‘Urgent news about what?’ Violet asked, turning it over, as if there might have been a further clue on the back.

  Elsie shrugged. She had no idea. Various scenarios began to play out through her mind, each of them as plausible and as implausible as the next. The house had been bombed. Kath was dead. The baby had arrived. News of Laurie. But for each scenario, she couldn’t find the part that made it so urgent that she must return immediately to Cliff House.

  Violet touched her arm. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ll catch the first train out tomorrow,’ Violet clarified. ‘We can be there by lunchtime.’

  ‘What about London, though?’

  Violet laughed. ‘I know it’s taking a ruddy good pounding, but London should still be standing when we’re next issued a pass. Come on,’ she said, moving Elsie towards the bed, ‘get some sleep and try not to think about it.’

  Elsie felt queasy when the house came into view. She stopped. ‘That’s the one,’ she told Violet.

  ‘Outlandish-looking place,’ Violet remarked, craning her neck to get a better view over the hedge.

  So one of her theories, that the place had been bombed, had been dispelled. She placed a hand on her tummy and gently rubbed it.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ Violet asked. ‘You’ve been touching your stomach all the way here.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘It’s just nerves—you’ll be fine as soon as you find out what the urgency is—nothing, I’ll wager, if the old woman is anything like you’ve described her.’

  Violet being the type of devilish person that she was, Elsie began to regret spending much of their journey here telling her what an awful person Agnes was. Elsie touched her tummy again, then her chest. She was certain that she could feel her heart rising far beyond its normal size, like a ball of heavy dough swelling inside of her. Like Violet had said, she just needed to hear whatever the damned urgent news was and then maybe she could relax. The answer was there, just a short walk up the drive. But her leg muscles were leaden, refusing to move.

  ‘Right, come on, Elsie Finch,’ Violet directed. ‘I’ll go, if you want to wait here.’

  Elsie grabbed her wrist and walked beside her, all the way along the drive. They reached the front door and Elsie stifled all of her thoughts and placed her key into the lock.

  The door swung open and a split second of laughter from inside the house ended abruptly.

  Agnes entered the hallway, looking hot and cross. ‘What on earth?’

  Elsie held out the telegram. ‘I got this and came straight away.’

  The knotted features on Agnes’s face softened, slightly. ‘We weren’t expecting you—you might have called ahead first.’ Agnes looked over her shoulder into the house and lowered her voice. ‘Kath hasn’t been well at all. She’s been in bed most days.’ Another look into the house. ‘It was the baby—a still.’

  So that was the news. Kath had lost her baby. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Elsie said. ‘I wish I’d brought flowers or something.’ She smiled, kindly. ‘I just had no idea what the urgent news could be, you see.’

  ‘She wondered if you’d been bombed out,’ Violet added.

  Agnes turned to face Violet with narrowed eyes. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Violet Christmas,’ she answered, without bothering to offer her hand or further explanation.

  Agnes studied Violet for a moment, then turned back to Elsie. ‘You’d better come in, then.’

  They found Kath in the sitting-room, her head peering above a thick knitted blanket. She looked a little grey around the eyes, but other than that, looked exactly the same as she had the last time that Elsie had seen her. Elsie rushed over to give her a hug, then changed her mind at the last minute, uncertain of how it would be received. Instead, she crouched beside her and took her soft hand in hers, gently caressing her fingers. ‘I’m so sorry, Kath.’

  Kath smiled weakly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It must have been truly dreadful.’

  ‘It was,’ she stammered, lowering her face, as though she were about to cry. After a moment, she looked up and sniffed. ‘Tell me what’s been happening with you. Who’s your friend?’

  Elsie introduced Violet and, whilst Agnes went to make tea, told Kath what she could about her job.

  There was a pause in the conversation whilst Agnes set down a tray and began to pour tea from a pot into four cups. Elsie noticed with curiosity that Agnes had brought out the best china, as if she were trying to impress.

  ‘Is Gwen out for the day?’ Elsie asked.

  Agnes tittered. ‘Heavens, she’s back in her own home now.’

  ‘Oh, has she had the baby, then?’ Elsie asked, instantly wondering at the sensitivity of her question.

  Agnes beamed, took a sip of tea, then answered. ‘Yes, a healthy boy.’

  Elsie smiled. She wanted to know more—ask what Gwen had named him—how they were getting on, but she didn’t like to be indelicate. ‘I’ll call in on her before we go, just to wish her well.’r />
  ‘Oh, there’s no need for that,’ Agnes said firmly. ‘You barely know her. I’ll pass on your regards when I see her next. Now, Elsie, we do have some news for you—the reason for the telegram.’

  Elsie shot a look at Kath and set down her tea cup. ‘You mean, the news wasn’t about the baby?’

  Agnes shook her head. ‘It’s about Laurie.’

  Elsie felt the breath rushing from her and her doughy heart beginning to rise once more. ‘What?’ was all she managed to say.

  Agnes walked over to the mantelpiece, took down a piece of paper and handed it to Elsie. ‘He’s alive.’

  Elsie gasped and her insides quivered, as if every thought and every worry encapsulated in her mind had suddenly turned to liquid and was running down into her stomach, thickening and congealing. The thoughts turned to nausea and she rushed from the room. She just made it to the toilet in time, before being horribly sick. She stood up and tried to breathe, her eyes wet with tears. He couldn’t be alive, could he? Not after all this time? Surely someone would have told me!

  The door was pushed open and Violet stepped in, placing a hand on Elsie’s back as another wave of sickness lurched up from inside. Violet said nothing but handed her some tissue. Elsie wiped her mouth then almost collapsed onto her friend. She sobbed on Violet’s shoulders for some time, then took out her handkerchief and wiped her face. ‘I’m okay,’ she whispered, moving towards the door.

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready to go back down there?’

  Elsie nodded. She wasn’t ready—not in the slightest. She wanted to run away from here as fast as she could. She wanted to go back to the early hours of this morning and tear up that bloody telegram. How stupid she suddenly felt. She opened the door and walked back downstairs to the sitting-room, every thought directed at holding her composure.

  She sat back down, with Violet beside her and, without looking at Agnes or Kath, picked up the piece of paper. It was in French. Madame, Je suis chargée de vous faire savoir que votre mari ou votre fils, Lawrence, est passé à Douvrin dans le Pas de Calais comme prisonnier de guerre. Il est en bonne santé. Votre dévouée, Madame Léguillé.

  Elsie’s French was not excellent, but she understood it. Laurie had been taken prisoner-of-war and had passed through a place called Douvrin, where, presumably, he had handed a note to a French lady.

  Finally, Elsie looked at Agnes.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful news?’ Agnes exclaimed, rising quickly from her chair, her face alight with joy, as Elsie had never seen her before. She clasped her hands to her face. ‘I still can’t believe it, I have to read it over and over, then check the translation.’ She sighed loudly. ‘My son—your husband—he’s alive!’

  Elsie wanted to stand, to at least pretend to share their excitement, but she knew that her trembling legs wouldn’t hold her up. She had no idea how on earth she was ever going to get up and leave this house.

  The conversation continued around her, between Violet, Kath and Agnes, but Elsie was unable to latch onto it sufficiently to join in with anything more than a nod or a ‘Yes, quite.’ She felt as though she were drunk and just wanted to leave—to go back to Bramley Cottage and disappear into her bed…what was she thinking? Bramley Cottage wasn’t her home any longer…it took an absurd amount of time for her to bring to mind her billet in West Kingsdown.

  ‘We need to go,’ she managed to whisper to Violet, the words almost failing to come out of her dry mouth. She knew that Violet was looking at her. She felt her stand up. Felt Violet take her arm. She said something. Something about tea? Or trains? The conversation was moving far too fast for Elsie to be able to get a purchase on it. She felt her side moving, being lifted. Someone’s face—Agnes—appeared right in front of her. Violet spoke again in that fast, mumbled and foreign way that Elsie couldn’t understand. Her legs were moving! But they were wrapped in something heavy, like treacle. Then there was more talking. Then fresh air. Ah, fresh air! At last.

  The talking stopped, but she was still moving. Violet was speaking again. Telling her to breathe. She was lying down, now. Perhaps in her bed. She closed her eyes and sank into a comfortable darkness.

  Time had kindly waited for her.

  She woke with clarity. She was lying on the grass verge just beyond the boundary of Cliff House. Violet was sitting beside her.

  ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m pregnant,’ Elsie said quietly.

  Violet seemed not to be shocked, showing no reaction. ‘Well, Elsie Finch, either you’ve just taken the record for the world’s longest pregnancy, or you’re in a spot of trouble.’

  Chapter Twelve

  A marble sunset, the colour of blood, had drawn Cliff House into silhouette. Tangled clouds of pink and orange stretched out in the sky behind it, as a lone figure strode a well-trodden track from the house through the dewy grass. In her arms she carried another mixed stack of documents. She reached a rough patch of sun-scorched grass, where a pyre of files, diaries, letters and other assorted paperwork had been dropped. She opened her arms and the contents fell haphazardly onto the pile. Then, she calmly picked up a bottle of lighter fuel and squirted the pugnacious liquid all over the documents. She squeezed out every last drop, then lit a match. For a short moment, she held the flickering flame, making certain for one last time that she was doing the right thing. There was no choice; she had to do it. She tossed the burning match down and took a necessary large step back. Instantly, the entire heap was enveloped in flames.

  Tamara looked at the house, suddenly bathed in an eerie tangerine glow. Beadily observing from one of the windows was her mother’s stony face staring down.

  She turned back to face the fire and watched as it greedily gorged itself on the pile. Memories and stories of the past were triggered in her mind, when singed snippets of paper danced mournfully in the air above the fire, the only trace of their ever having existed, just seconds away from obliteration.

  The Spyglass File was destroyed.

  Her work here was done.

  She turned and walked back towards the house, under her mother’s severe gaze.

  ‘Give it here,’ Juliette said, taking the letter from Morton’s hand. She held it out in front of her. ‘Ready?’

  Morton nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, just get on with it,’ he said, a little too snappily.

  ‘19th March 1976. Dear Margaret,’ Juliette began in a terrible, vaguely Texan drawl.

  ‘Just in your normal voice,’ Morton suggested, not in the right frame of mind for humour.

  She continued reading, in her usual voice. ‘I really hope you’re doing well. I know you won’t reply to my letters—maybe you’re not even getting them—but, in a way, that helps. You’re my silent friend! Life here is getting real strained. Since the vacation to England I’ve found out some stuff about my dad—not good stuff! I don’t really want to write it down, just in case… Let’s just say it’s from his past and that it isn’t great—even Mom doesn’t know about it. I don’t know what to do about it or who I can say it to. So far, I’ve told nobody—well—I’ve told you, now! I still think of you all the time, Margaret, I really do! I know it was only a week, but I think we had something pretty special. I wish you’d write me back. I’m going to close now. Yours, Jack xx.’

  Morton was aware that Juliette was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. But he was too absorbed trying to follow the disparate threads of thought the letter had instantly generated. He tried to slow his mind, picking up one thread at a time. There was the clear sense that even after two years of having his letters ignored, Jack was still fond of Margaret. For him, it had been more than a youthful, quickly forgotten holiday romance. Of all the people in Jack’s life, he had chosen Margaret in whom to confide. Then there were questions of who had intercepted the letters, and why had his adoptive father kept them all these years? Why not have just destroyed them? The main thread, though, was the mystery of what Jack had discovered about his father. Morton s
lackened in his seat, feeling his insides tighten as possible scenarios scurried through his mind, each of them corroding the fantasy life that he had created for his biological family.

  ‘Read the next one,’ he instructed.

  Juliette tore it open and read. ‘27th June 1976. Dear Margaret, Well, my silent English friend, since my last letter things have gone from bad to worse. Friday I got into a terrible row with dad and we ended up yelling at each other. I blurted out what I knew about his past. He beat me real bad and I ended up in hospital. I’ve got a broken nose and I’m pretty bruised up. Margaret, I wish you would write me back—I could sure use your advice right now. Dad told Mom I got beat up at school, so she’s being nice at the moment—I wonder whose side she would take, though if she knew the truth… I don’t know what to do next, now that I’ve blown the lid off it—Dad and I aren’t even talking—he only speaks to me when Mom’s around. I don’t know how much more I can take of it. What should I do, Margaret? I wish I could just get on a plane and head back to you in Folkestone. Do you miss me at all? If you get this, Margaret, I sure would appreciate a response. Yours, Jack xx’

  Juliette lowered the letter and stared at him. ‘Wow. That was pretty intense. I wonder what your dad found out that was so bad? Maybe he found out that his father was having an affair? Or had had an affair in the past? What do you think?’

  He heard Juliette speaking but the words were not connecting with his mind, quickly lost as the mystery deepened. ‘Read the last one,’ he said.

  She picked up the final envelope, tore into it and briefly scanned the contents. ‘It’s a short one,’ she said, before beginning to read. ‘30th December 1976. Dear Margaret, This is probably the last time you’ll hear from me. Dad’s dead. There was a big fire on Christmas Eve—our place is now a pile of ash and Mom and my sister are living with a neighbor. They blame me, so I’m staying with a friend from college. He’s lending me everything—I have nothing left. The truth is out, it’s all over. I don’t know what to do. Except I need to leave town. I hope you have a good life, Margaret and maybe one day we’ll meet again. Yours, Jack xx’