He fought on.
There was nothing further of interest in the register until he reached the 1940s, when he located several of the fallen women taken in by Agnes Finch. Given her own past, it was of little wonder that she had opened her home to other women in similar circumstances. All the women had cited Cliff House as their place of residence. All were single and none had named a father. Morton had hoped to find Elsie among their number, but she didn’t appear.
Finally, the glorious words, in white capital letters on a black background announced that he could pack up and go home. END.
He went to close his laptop, then spotted that he had two new emails. One from Barbara and one from Liu Chai, the journalist. Despite his head, he couldn’t ignore them.
Liu’s message, being the most recent, opened first. It was brief and to the point. I have nothing to say about Shaohao Chen except to advise that you steer well clear of him.
Well, that was helpful, Morton thought, typing a more detailed reply, explaining the reason for his having asked. Then, he opened the email from Barbara. Dear Morton, Delighted to hear that Elsie’s WAAF records have arrived. I cannot wait to read them! I passed on your query about ‘Valletta’ to Paul and Rose—they are in agreement that the house was named after the place where their mother and stepfather honeymooned. Paul seems to think that they stayed in the Westminster Hotel. Hope this helps! Looking forward to your findings soonest. Warm regards, Barbara.
So that explained the reason for the house name. But, underneath the ache in his head, something bothered him. He was sure that Elsie’s letter to Susan Stubbs, where she had revealed the name of her cottage had been written in May 1968—yet she didn’t marry her second husband until the September quarter of that year. He quickly scrolled through the photographs on his phone and found the picture of the letter. Yes, it had been written on 19th May 1968. The earliest possible date that her second marriage could have appeared in the September quarter was the 1st July 1968.
He was perplexed, tired and in pain; it was time to go home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
19th May 1941, Hawkinge, Kent
The base of the heavy orange sun began to slink behind the hills at Hawkinge, leaving in its wake a pastel sky of deep reds and yellows. The aerodrome was beginning to fade into the blackout as the last Spitfires and Hurricanes of the defending squadron returned to their base at Biggin Hill; an uneasy stillness settled on the village.
Daniel Winter, in his RAF uniform, strode through the aerodrome gates, nodding to the duty guard as he left. A mechanical fault—minor, yet significant enough to ground his plane—had granted him a welcome overnight stay in the village. He grinned when he thought of Susie’s face when she saw him; that idea made him increase his stride, as he made his way towards her billet.
He reached the house and ran his fingers through his thick blond hair, suddenly worried about his appearance. Normally he would at least have had a wash before seeing her. When had he last bathed? Two nights ago, or was it three? He couldn’t remember. Whatever, it was too late now.
He tapped lightly on the door and waited, looking up in vain at the blacked out windows for sign of movement.
The door opened and there she was—his wonderful fiancée. ‘Good evening, madam,’ he greeted. ‘I noticed you’ve got a light showing upstairs—I’m afraid I’m going to have to come in and switch it off.’
He watched with a smile as the split-second shift from uncertainty to delight lit up her face. She reached out and hugged him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, finally pulling back, her eyes settling on his.
‘Just thought I’d pop by and say hello,’ he answered. ‘I see you’ve got dressed up for me.’
Susie blushed as she looked down at herself—she was wearing her oldest nightdress. Then she touched the rollers in her hair and grimaced. ‘I must look dreadful.’
‘You look stunning,’ Daniel countered, leaning in for a kiss. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’
Susie glanced over his shoulder into the darkening evening, then stepped back and allowed him inside. ‘But what are you doing here?’ she repeated.
‘Kite trouble; I’m grounded for the night,’ he answered with a grin, as they entered the tiny sitting-room. ‘I was hoping I could stay here.’
‘Were you now?’ she muttered. ‘I’ll just turn that racket off.’ She reached over and switched off the wireless. ‘You sit down and I’ll go and make myself more presentable.’
Daniel caught her arm as she began to leave the room. ‘Please don’t—I’ve only got the night; let’s not waste it. I told you, you’re beautiful as you are.’
Susie hesitated. ‘At least let me get us a drink.’
‘Now, that I won’t stop you from doing,’ he said with a grin.
Daniel slumped down into the two-seater sofa and exhaled. It had been a hell of a few days. He and the rest of the squadron were exhausted. Every day he thought that the skies couldn’t contain any more Luftwaffe planes, yet every day the casualty lists and numbers of destroyed aircraft proved him wrong. He had lost so many friends that death was now a significant part of his everyday life. He looked upon death as a simple waiting game.
‘Jamaica Rum,’ Susie announced, bouncing into the room with two glasses.
‘Thank you,’ Daniel said, taking a sip and savouring the warm dark liquid. ‘Lovely.’
‘Tell me—if I can bear to hear it—what you’ve done today. Many scrambles?’ she asked, squeezing in beside him and placing a hand on his leg.
Daniel shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he breathed. And actually he couldn’t. His day-times already haunted his night-times; the last thing that he wanted to do now was to talk about it. He pushed himself back into the sofa and closed his eyes. ‘Tell me about what you’ve been up to, instead.’
‘Work—usual stuff,’ she began. ‘Then I went to see Elsie Finch—do you remember her? She used to be stationed here.’
Daniel nodded. ‘Is she the one who stayed up at Cliff House?’
‘Yes, she’s back there now.’
Daniel opened his eyes. ‘Why? Is she working back with you?’
‘No, don’t you remember me telling you that she was pregnant? She gave birth last week.’
Daniel sat bolt upright, almost spilling his drink. ‘Did she have the baby up there? At Cliff House?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, why?’ Susie asked. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Did she say anything? About the baby?’
‘Not much, no. Her sister-in-law is going to adopt it, I believe.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Susie begged. ‘She couldn’t very well keep it, could she? She’s married and what with William Smith being the father—’
‘—What?’ Daniel snapped. ‘Is that what she told you?’
‘Yes. Why are you having this reaction, Daniel? I don’t understand.’
Daniel downed his drink, banged the glass down on the floor then marched towards the door, again feeling the numbing wash of guilt that he had felt last August. ‘William isn’t the father...’
Susie leapt up behind him. ‘How do you know, Daniel? Where are you going?’
Daniel hurried from the house.
‘Daniel!’ he heard Susie calling after him.
A shot of adrenalin, akin to that which he felt on every scramble as he lifted the nose of his Hurricane from the ground, was injected into his bloodstream, increasing his sense of remorse. He wanted to run, to get there before it was too late, but he knew from what Susie had just told him that it likely already was.
He walked quickly, the waning moon softly brushing the blossoming hedgerow and the narrow lane, lighting his path. The throbbing desperation continued to bang inside his heart, worsening when Cliff House finally came into view.
Daniel paused and stared up at the house, unblinking. He waited for his pulse rate to return to normal before walking ghost-like in the footprints of his memorie
s towards the house. Snippets and snatches of his life here began to resurface in his mind, but he blocked them out; now was not the time.
He rapped hard on the door and waited.
It seemed to take an age, but eventually it was opened and he was immediately blinded by a light being shone directly in his eyes.
‘Who is it?’ a voice called out.
‘Me—Daniel,’ he answered, shielding his eyes.
The beam dropped down to his feet, but it took several seconds more for his eyes to adjust and for Agnes Finch’s rancorous face to crystallise before him.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to see Elsie,’ he demanded.
Agnes shook her head, then lifted the heavy metal torch, returning the beam painfully to his eyes. ‘Impossible. What do you want her for?’
Daniel reached out and pushed the torch down. ‘I want to warn her of what goes on here,’ he yelled. He looked past Agnes. ‘Elsie! Elsie! Are you in there?’
Agnes raised the torch above her head. ‘Get off my property before I call for the police.’
Daniel took a step back and watched as she slammed the door in his face. He backed away from the house and looked up at the window above the front door. It was blacked out but he detected movement. He was sure Agnes was there, making certain that he left. He shook his head and turned back in the direction in which he had come.
The darkness of the overgrown shrubbery at the gate absorbed him and he knew he could no longer be seen from the house. He leant on the gate and gazed back at it, bathed in a cool pale blue, as he pondered how he was going to get inside to warn Elsie.
Cliff House did as it had always done, and drew him in. The memories that earlier had simmered gently below the surface of his mind now bubbled through, revealing themselves with stark clarity.
He had arrived here in the summer of 1939, taking lodgings at the house after seeing an advert in the local paper. He had moved here from his home in Worthing in order to start his job in the banking industry, never imagining that war would so decisively end that career before it had even begun. Even with the outside chance of surviving this war, he couldn’t imagine returning to the staid safe life of banking. It now seemed no less absurd than saying he wanted to live his life on the moon. Frankly, he couldn’t picture any job or any life other than that in which he now found himself.
With his elbow propped on the gate, Daniel rested his chin in his hand and watched the house, recalling the happy, carefree days that he had spent here. Outside of work, he had spent his time fishing, bathing in the sea and enjoying a fleeting relationship with Kath Finch. Their courtship had ended amicably when Daniel had signed up to become a pilot with the RAF. He had left Cliff House in October 1939.
The wind gently teased a lock of Daniel’s blond hair over his forehead. He pushed it back with his fingers, as his rumbling memories began to slide into the black obscurity of where it had all gone wrong. An uncomfortable wavering grew in his stomach as he remembered vainly waltzing up the drive in June 1940. It had been during the Phoney War, before the raids had started and he wanted to show off his new pilot’s outfit. In hindsight, his expectations that life at Cliff House had been on permanent pause since his departure, when his had evolved so much, was plainly naïve. And yet, the changes had been so profound and so surprising. He had found Kath pregnant, then another girl and then another.
His recollections abruptly ceased; the air raid siren—positioned close to the house—began its painful wail, forcing Daniel to cover his ears. With the moon still bright enough to see by, it looked like England was in for another night of attacks.
There was a sharp movement in his peripheral vision. He strained his eyes to the rear of Cliff House and watched as several blurred figures bundled hastily into the Anderson shelter that he himself had built. Had one of them been Elsie? He couldn’t be certain.
Keeping himself stooped below the top of the hedgerow, Daniel crept towards the house; the conversations that issued from the shelter were torn by the wind, offering him just fragments of sentences and isolated words. He listened carefully, straining his ear to the breeze. He thought that one of the voices might have belonged to Agnes, but the other voices he couldn’t be sure about.
Slowly and cautiously—barely moving—he sneaked towards the shelter. The conversations solidified. Agnes, Kath and two other women and an unsettled baby were inside. He was almost positive that Elsie was not among their number.
The shelter was within touching distance. He crouched to the ground, his breathing short and shallow and craned his neck to the house. As he had hoped, the kitchen door had been left wide open. But the only way to reach it was to cross in front of the opening to the Anderson shelter. He needed to know if, as was their usual habit, the women had hung the heavy army blanket down over the entrance, but the shelter had gone quiet and he daren’t move.
Minutes passed. Cramps began to bite into his calf muscles, as the siren continued to wail nearby.
‘Did you hear that?’ Agnes mumbled.
‘What is it?’ one of the women asked.
‘Listen,’ Agnes retorted sharply.
Daniel stiffened, wondering if he had been detected. Then, on the dying ebb of the undulating siren, he heard what Agnes had heard: the droning of approaching aircraft over the channel.
‘Oh gosh,’ one of the women whispered. ‘Not again.’
‘It sounds like there’s a lot of them.’
As the humming of the imminent aircraft increased, Daniel shifted his weight, allowing the blood to return to his feet. He flinched at the burning in his toes, as life returned to the cells.
Finally, he stood up. The conversation inside the shelter had become more heightened, disturbed, yet was lost to his ears. He was silhouetted against the night sky, watching as the first in a shockingly large formation of black planes whirred overhead. Heinkel bombers, he thought they were. Hundreds of them—no more than three hundred feet above him. The sight might have been impressive in peacetime, but right now, it terrified him.
His stomach tightened and his heart began to pound when he noticed that several of the aircraft were breaking away and not continuing along the bomb corridor to London; they were going to target Kent.
Using the hideous cacophony of aircraft and siren as cover, Daniel edged his way to the front of the Anderson shelter. Holding his breath, he slowly peered around to the front. The blanket was down. Wasting no time, he stole across the lawn to the house and dived inside the kitchen, grateful for the respite from the dreadful noise outside. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The house was entirely dark and only a thin pool of moonlight fell on the floor beside the open door.
He crossed the kitchen into the sitting room, then emerged in the near pitch-black hallway. He guessed that if Elsie weren’t in the shelter, then she would likely be in her own bed. ‘Elsie!’ he called in an urgent whisper. He was being too quiet. ‘Elsie!’ he called, more loudly this time. ‘Elsie!’
Nothing. He felt around with his foot, searching for the bottom step. He found it and slowly began to climb. ‘Elsie!’ he repeated.
Still nothing.
He made it to the top of the stairs, having no idea which room was hers. He called again. No sound.
He was going to have to try every door and find her. At the very end of the corridor was the study. It was in that very room that Daniel had overheard Agnes talking to the social worker when he had visited in June 1940. He remembered creeping along the corridor and catching their conversation. ‘Things are different now, Agnes,’ he recalled the social worker saying. ‘It’s not been the same since 1927; there are stricter rules governing adoption now.’
‘But The Spyglass File is brimming with prospectives,’ Agnes had answered.
Daniel had stood, rooted to the spot, made uncomfortable by what he was hearing being discussed. He had retreated and waited downstairs until Agnes had appeared, surprised to have seen him. Later that day, he had entered the study
in search of The Spyglass File. He had found it with ease. It was a simple folder containing a bundle of paperwork. Adoption paperwork. He had flicked through the pages quickly but then something had caught his eye and he had turned back. It had been his own name, complete with a fake signature. He had flipped to the pages that came before it and everything suddenly made sense. He had been named as the father of Kath’s unborn child on a raft of adoption papers. There was absolutely no way that he could have been the baby’s father, since they had not slept together.
Suddenly from very close by, there came a deafening whoosh, as a bomb ripped through a neighbouring property, sending a juddering shock-wave through the house. A brief flash of light that accompanied the explosion illuminated a figure in the hallway behind him. He spun around as the single, powerful beam of light shone onto his face. Daniel lifted his arm to shield his eyes.
‘You just couldn’t keep away, could you?’ It was Agnes, her voice laced with a whispering venom.
‘Where is she?’ Daniel asked.
‘As good as a million miles away,’ Agnes hissed. ‘When I heard you outside I moved her away.’
‘You’re lying,’ Daniel countered. ‘Elsie!’ he shouted.
Agnes laughed. The beam of light jiggled in the air, as she moved across the hallway. There was the sound of a door opening, then the light fell on a bed with dishevelled blankets. Empty. Daniel’s determination failed as he realised that Elsie was not in her room.
‘Elsie!’ he shouted, barging past Agnes. ‘I’m going to tell her everything, then I’m going to the police.’
Another explosion nearby forced Daniel to reach out and steady himself on the wall.
He reached the top of the stairs. The beam of light danced at his ankles as Agnes moved behind him. The ceiling became momentarily illuminated. Daniel turned, confused, and had a split-second view of the metal torch racing down towards his head.
The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4) Page 24
