The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 4)

by L. B. Hathaway

  Felicity nodded.

  ‘Good. Can you send them to my Grape Street office by the evening post tonight? I’ll be back in London tomorrow, and I’ll have a look at them then. You never know, they might be useful. I promise I’ll visit you in Hampstead before Christmas Eve. That gives me almost a week to find out what I can. Then you can decide how to proceed, with the colours of your shop window display, I mean. Just don’t expect too much, though. I’m not that hopeful.’

  ‘Thank you. I know that I can depend on you,’ Felicity said quickly, as if in a hurry over her words.

  ‘I saw how others trusted you in the unit. To be honest I was a little jealous of you at times. The men loved you. And I think they loved Helena, my predecessor, too. William never spoke of her to me, and I convinced myself that she wasn’t good enough for him, but everyone raved on and on about her. She was warm, apparently. Nobody warmed to me. It was my fault, I suppose. I was so concerned with being efficient that I didn’t make time for actually getting to know anyone. I think, looking back, that I was nervous. Number 8 was my first post as a Sister-in-charge. I spent the whole time thinking I was about to mess up.’

  Posie almost fell off the kerb in surprise, but she stayed silent. She had detested Felicity when she worked with her at the Clearing Station, but it seemed she had misjudged the woman.

  Felicity Fyne coughed awkwardly. ‘Well, now look at me! Here I am all alone in the world. Some would say it serves me right, I suppose.’

  Posie remembered, out of the blue, Benny Jones’ dark remark, made long ago, about fate catching up with itself, and she pushed the thought quickly to the back of her mind. She shivered in the late afternoon winter gloom, the bitter cold seeming to invade her very bones. She pulled her cream collar tightly to herself.

  Felicity made to leave, then looked directly at Posie and added quickly:

  ‘Forgive the personal question, Posie, but I see you didn’t marry? You don’t wear a wedding ring on your finger. So you’re single, too?’

  Posie’s face smarted, first at the memory of her dead fiancée Harry and then at the complicated mess which was her current love-life; her relationship with the very famous explorer Alaric Boynton-Dale which had been burning slowly for over a year now but which seemed constantly in danger of fizzling out, due to long absences caused by his travelling. It was a relationship which had so far remained a secret to almost everyone.

  Posie shook her head briefly, giving no explanation, hoping to convey the fact that the topic was seriously out-of-bounds. Besides, she had no wish to claim some sort of unmarried solidarity with Felicity Fyne.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Felicity. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all.’

  Felicity inclined her head in farewell and walked off down a lamp-lit Trumpington Street in the direction of the Cambridge train station without another word or a backwards wave of the hand.

  Posie watched her heading back towards the train to London, a sad black figure in her widows’ weeds, disappearing into the endless darkness of the evening; heading back towards her hat shop, and to whatever future Posie might eventually rake up for her.

  ****

  Four

  It had started to rain outside. A sleety, heavy, can’t-see-where-you’re-going sort of rain. Unfortunately Posie hadn’t thought to pack an umbrella in among her things for the Memorial Service earlier that day, but she was thankful that she knew where she was going at any rate, as the wet darkness of the December evening seemed to crowd in on you like a suffocating embrace. Posie clutched her paper shopping bags, trying as best she could to stop them from disintegrating.

  She turned away in the opposite direction from Felicity Fyne and walked quickly back through the centre of town, her thoughts very much with the woman whom she had just taken tea with. Posie knew Cambridge like the back of her hand. She walked in a world of her own along the dark glistening cobbles of King’s Parade, and on past the mass of bicycles tethered together outside the looming darkness of King’s College.

  Coming up Trinity Street a couple of late shoppers with umbrellas were scurrying along, anxious to get home, but generally not many people were about; term had ended for the university students and most had left to go home for Christmas already.

  Posie reached Trinity College, lamp-lit in the darkness, and swung in under the magnificent carved yellow-stone gatehouse with its little bulbous statue of King Henry the Eighth set high up in the masonry. A prim white sign outside announced CLOSED TO CASUAL VISITORS.

  The college clock was just chiming six o’clock as she passed through the little wooden gate set into the elaborate stonework of the main gatehouse. Her boots echoed on the yellow-stone flagstones and she saw that she was the only person about. She stopped at the Porter’s Lodge which was tucked inside under its own cosy little stone archway. The small office was festively arrayed with bits of holly and silver tinsel and strings of Christmas cards. Behind the wooden-and-glass partition a Porter in his early thirties sat reading an evening edition of a London paper by the bright light of a small lamp.

  He was so engrossed in the front page that he didn’t see Posie waiting impatiently, anxious to get to her room to dry off before dinner. She craned her neck to see what the main story might be.

  ‘LOVERS WILL HANG!’ read the headline.

  Posie sighed as she realised it was yet another instalment in the grisly yet horribly sad murder trial which had gripped the nation; the case of Edith Thompson and Freddie Bywaters, the strangely glamorous pair who had both just been found guilty of murdering Edith’s husband, Percy, in cold blood. The Porter was obviously ghoulishly revelling in the tragedy, lapping up the details of the verdict.

  ‘I say,’ cut in Posie, rapping on the glass divide. ‘Are there any telegrams or telephone messages for me? My name is…’

  ‘Miss Rosemary Parker! No need to tell me!’ announced the Porter, getting to his feet hurriedly and nodding his shiny, round, black-bowler-hatted head in Posie’s direction like an old friend. He was very thin and under the hat his ears, which were over-large, stuck out comically. He grinned triumphantly:

  ‘I know you, Miss! I never forget a face! You’re the sister of Dr Richard Parker. As was, I mean.’ Here the Porter doffed his hat momentarily as a mark of respect for the dead before donning it again.

  ‘We was all so sorry to hear of Dr Parker’s death in the war; a real nice fellow, he was. None better. I remember you was up here sometimes, with your dad, weren’t you, Miss? Lots of times, in fact.’

  Posie was stunned. Try as she might she didn’t recognise the Porter at all. And she was jolted back in time unwillingly yet again. It was true; she and her father had visited Richard countless times over the course of several years. First when Richard had been a science student here at Trinity College, and then, later, when he had been made a Fellow and a lecturer in Botany at the university. He had specialised in the use of plants for medicines, and the scientific use of certain flowers. He had been excited about his work: had hoped to contribute to some big medical breakthroughs in the future.

  Looking back to that time before the Great War was like looking through a rose-coloured glass. Posie and her father had frittered away hot afternoons walking together along the River Cam, listening to Richard talk rapturously about his plans for a future which he could not know did not exist for him. They had idled away precious summer days by playing languid games of sloppy tennis at the back of the college. Or sometimes they had punted to Grantchester, taking turns at steering the fragile little wooden gondolas through the sticky bulrushes and taking tea in the Orchard Tea Rooms; napping in green-and-white striped deckchairs and reading novels and newspapers to pass the time. Those long summer days had seemed like they would never end.

  Posie swallowed down a lump in her throat. Would they have acted differently if they had known that their time together as a family was to be so short? Would they have acted more seriously? Spoken of more important things?

  Probably not.


  Posie stared at the big-eared Porter curiously. He had been keeping up a steady flow of chatter as her thoughts had drifted kaleidoscopically over days long gone. He passed her a couple of telegrams solemnly through the cubby-hole of the divide.

  ‘Thank you. But my gosh! How on earth did you recognise me?’ Posie blurted out.

  She was uncomfortably aware that she had changed, and not just a bit. Before the war she had been slim and rakish, boyish even. She had had long dark hair worn in a thick plait down her back with a big straw boater. Now she was pushing thirty she was better dressed for sure, and had had her hair cut in the fashion of the times, very short, but she was fatter all over. A definite layer of seal blubber was all hers now for the taking.

  ‘The eyes.’ The Porter nodded seriously.

  ‘You have the self-same eyes as your brother and I saw him every day, at least once, standing where you are now, Miss, over the course of several years. I knew him out of college too, Miss. We played in the same cricket team on Sundays. Just a pub team, mind. It was the team at the Red Bull. Bit unconventional, I suppose, mixing town and gown, but he was never one for conventions, was he, your brother? He didn’t want to play for the university or his Department for some reason, but their loss was our gain: we couldn’t have asked for a better bowler, and that’s the truth of it. Want to see? I keep a photograph tacked up here of the cricket team before the war, for old times’ sake. Looking at you now is like seeing Richard’s ghost. Uncanny, it is.’

  Ghosts! Posie thought to herself irritably. What was it with ghosts today? Had everyone gone barmy? Why were they the first thing on everyone’s mind?

  The Porter reached up and took down a dog-eared photograph from the wall of his office. He passed it through the divide. And there, among the white-clad team of eleven cricketers, was Richard Parker, nonchalantly leaning on a bat, trying to make himself look shorter, his lopsided grin splitting his handsome face in two. The year was marked in thick white letters at the bottom: ‘1913’.

  ‘But you look happy, Miss,’ continued the Porter in a confidential tone, taking the photo back reverently, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so. Your brother was not. He seemed very out of sorts for the last couple of years I knew him here. Haunted, almost. I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but some of us wondered if everything was quite okay. Do you know what was bothering him?’

  Posie looked for a moment into the man’s gimlet eyes and realised how very astute he was; how nothing much escaped his notice.

  Because it was true.

  In the last couple of years before he went off to the war in 1916 something had changed; something had been wrong with Richard. But Posie was the last person to know what the problem had been. A strange cloud had seemed to hang over her brother which at the time Posie could not understand, which Richard would not let her understand. His laughing, dancing eyes had been filled with a distant pain and a sort of strange disbelief. Posie had never got to the bottom of what the problem had been, and it had eaten away at her. It bothered her still. Even though poor Richard had been dead these last five years.

  Above all she was here in Cambridge now for Richard. To try and work out what had been bothering him. Better late than never, she had reasoned to herself. She had seen the advert in The Times for Dr Rolly’s Memorial Service, and she had decided to attend. But it was the flimsiest of excuses. Posie had been meaning to come up to Cambridge for ages. For a year, at least.

  Ever since she had received a strange letter at Christmas last year. A very odd little letter, in fact.

  The Porter was studying Posie with his eagle, well-practised eyes, awaiting some kind of response. Was it her imagination or was there a sort of knowing watchfulness in the Porter’s gaze? Did he know something useful about her brother?

  Posie shrugged non-committally, keen not to share any of her thoughts or fears about Richard.

  ‘I can’t say I noticed anything much at all. It’s all so much water under the bridge now. Have a good evening, Mr… Mr…? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Simpkins, Miss. And I’m obliged to you. Have an enjoyable stay at the Master’s House tonight, Miss, and a very good trip back to London tomorrow. And an enjoyable dinner this evening, too, at Formal Hall. But take my advice, Miss. You’re sitting to the left of Professor Somerjay at the High Table. Once he gets talking you’ll be stuck with him all night, there’s no escaping him. Better by far to start as you mean to go on; on your left will be Dr Greenwood. He was connected to your brother, in the Botany Department. Talk to him. I think you’ll learn much.’

  Posie almost gasped. That the Porter knew her whole itinerary, not to mention her place at dinner was staggering. Almost uncanny. Simpkins laughed, reading her mind:

  ‘That’s what we’re paid to do, Miss, in this job. Observe. Gather information. Even in a college with more than five hundred students I can still tell if anyone from outside is sneaking in for a free dinner. That’s what we’re trained to do – spot outsiders – and not much gets past me, I can tell you. Photographic memory for faces,’ he tapped his head proudly with two stubby fingers, ‘that’s what I’ve got here. Not much gets past old Stan Simpkins.’

  Posie started at the mention of the photographic memory. It was an odd way to approach things, certainly, but then, it had been an odd sort of day, and it was a dashed strange sort of a problem…

  She dived into her carpet bag, dislodging her box of chocolates as she went. She grabbed them precariously and found the photograph of Dr Winter which Felicity Fyne had given her not one hour previously. She pushed it through the glass divide.

  ‘I say, it would be jolly amazing if you could help me out with this one, Simpkins. I could do with your photographic memory here.’

  Simpkins had picked up the photograph and was studying it intently. He looked longingly at the box of chocolates still clutched in Posie’s hand. Quick as a flash she had pushed them through the divide too.

  ‘These are for you, Simpkins. I need you to tell me if you saw this man today. Around lunchtime. He was a possible attendee at Dr Rolly’s Memorial Service. Take your time. Much is riding on it. I’m expecting a negative response by the way; it’s most likely he wasn’t here today. So don’t be ashamed to say if you didn’t see the man.’

  Simpkins looked crushed. ‘I’m so very sorry, Miss. I can’t help you, more’s the pity. I only came on duty this evening.’ He started to push the chocolates back through the divide, then thought better of it.

  ‘But I tell you what. My colleague Frank Bevans was on duty at lunchtime. He’ll have noticed this fella come through the gates. Never misses a trick, old Frank, like me. Loves the job too, like I do. I know where to find him this evening. I’ll ask him just as soon as I finish my shift in a minute and I’ll let you know what he says first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll come in specially.’

  A gaggle of very wet, very loud, very smartly-dressed American tourists on some sort of a literary conference were suddenly swelling the inside of the gatehouse, all starting to queue for keys to their borrowed college rooms. Posie saw another Porter, an older fellow this time, come out from the back of the Porter’s Lodge. He was jangling a bunch of keys and looking harassed, obviously about to change places with Simpkins for the evening. Posie was suddenly desperate to be away; to be quiet and alone with her thoughts, to get ready for the formal dinner ahead of her.

  She nodded. ‘Thank you, Simpkins. Yes, please go ahead and ask Frank Bevans. I’m obliged to you. Thank you for the tips.’

  Posie turned on her heel, but looked back just in time to see Simpkins disappearing under a crush of fashionable American pinstriped suits.

  ‘Remember!’ she heard him call out to her retreating back, ‘Greenwood! It could be important!’

  ****

  Up in the smart blue guestroom in the Master’s Lodge of Trinity College, Posie flung down her shopping bags and attempted to make a bit of order out of the chaos.

  Her paper bags from Eaden Lilley
’s and Robert Sayle’s were absolutely wet through and she extracted the Christmas presents inside carefully, inspecting them anxiously, hopeful that the inner packaging had proved a little more sturdy. Luckily the gauzy peach scarf she had bought for her best friend Dolly Price was still well protected by some sheets of expensive wrapping paper, and the solid silver rattles she had bought for each of Dolly and Rufus’s twin daughters, the Honourable Bunny and Trixie Cardigeon, and also for her friend Inspector Lovelace’s baby daughter, Phyllis, for whom she was Godmother, were thankfully impervious to the weather.

  But everything else – an expensive tin of Lobster Bisque for her secretary Prudence, a book about allotment gardening for her business partner, Len, and a pure silk handkerchief for the Inspector – had suffered rain damage and looked very much the worse for wear.

  Huffing and puffing Posie placed the ruined items on a chair nearest the fireplace and hoped for the best. She changed quickly out of her wet things and squeezed herself into a navy velour dress which was fortunately cut in the new style and made light of her curves. She wasn’t in the mood to fawn over preparing her appearance for dinner: she made the best of her short hair and added a bit of lipstick, then sat down at her dressing table, her thoughts turning back to her brother Richard yet again.

  Out came that strange short little letter. It was more than a year old now, from December 1921. It had been typed, and was postmarked ‘Cambridge’.

  Posie read it again, frowning as she did so.

  Miss Parker,

  I hope you don’t mind my contacting you. I saw your name and details in The Times and I supposed you were Richard Parker’s little sister. He always said you were a resourceful, clever girl. He was very proud of you back when I knew him.

  The fact is, Richard left something behind in Cambridge. If you are interested in meeting me and finding out more, please send a reply to the Secretary of the Department of Botany, Downing Street. Mark it for the confidential attention of Harry Eden and they will see I get it.