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

by L. B. Hathaway

  With best wishes.

  H.E.

  And Posie had written back straightaway, as instructed, expressing her interest in the writer’s news.

  But then days and weeks and then months had passed and nothing had come back. She had even gone so far as to investigate the identity of ‘Harry Eden’, only to have it confirmed by the university that no one registered under that name existed. She had drawn a blank.

  She had even telegrammed the Secretary of the Botany Faculty, but she had received no reply either. Some days she dismissed the original letter as a joke, a fraud, a wind-up; other days she had worried about it constantly, about what the writer might possibly know about her brother which she didn’t.

  She planned to visit the Botany Department first thing tomorrow. If the search was entirely fruitless she would leave it and sure as bread was bread she could say she had at least tried.

  She crammed the letter back into her bag and wrapped herself carefully in her warm red hat and coat and made her way to the Great Hall. Visitors to the college were expected to dine there at the candle-lit, long, shiny wooden tables which filled the hall. The Master’s guests, like Posie, were accorded the double privilege of sitting at the ‘High Table’ along with the academic staff.

  There weren’t many women about. Trinity College was, like all the other old colleges in the university, just for men. Women couldn’t take their degrees here, and if they wanted to study anything at all they had to take themselves off to an out-of-the-way college on the only hill in the whole city. They were depreciatively known in the newspapers as ‘bluestockings’, and viewed with equal amounts of awe and ridicule by differing members of the university, depending on who you spoke to.

  Posie would never normally have been allowed to stay in the regular student accommodation in the college; that was reserved for male students and male visitors, but she had kindly been invited to stay in the altogether more comfortable surroundings of the centrally-located Master’s Lodge by the kindly Master, who had known Richard, and had wanted to make Posie feel comfortable and welcome for her stay.

  She felt a momentary tug at her heartstrings as she passed by her brother’s old set of rooms on her way to eat in the Great Hall, and stifled the urge to cry. She focused instead on being business-like and methodical, and reminded herself to keep her eyes and ears open for clues as to Richard’s last years at the college. Posie remembered Simpkins’ recommendation to talk to Dr Greenwood. It was strange: Posie wracked her brains but she couldn’t remember Richard ever having mentioned anyone called Greenwood. Other friends’ names hovered tantalisingly, suspended in her memory forever, but she knew that most of Richard’s Cambridge friends and colleagues were, like him, dead and buried, casualties of war.

  Perhaps Dr Greenwood was a rare survivor. A last chance.

  ****

  But dinner was a disappointment.

  Posie had no idea why Simpkins had directed her attention towards Dr Greenwood, or why he had warned her off Professor Somerjay, who turned out to be a first-class storyteller, funny and inspiring by turns, and who held the whole High Table captivated, riveted with suspense.

  By contrast, Dr Greenwood, although very good-looking (if you liked your men bland and anodyne) was dull and peevish, and hugely pleased with himself, talking mainly about his publications and his recent boring appointment as Deputy Head of the Department of Botany. Posie was hugely surprised that someone like her brother, funny and devil-may-care about most things, could have been friends with such a stick-in-the-mud. Posie was bored all the way through the starter and the first course, and her attempts to talk about her brother with Dr Greenwood were politely rebuffed and avoided, so much so that she doubted he had ever really known Richard at all. Had Simpkins got his facts wrong somewhere along the lines?

  Eating up her crème brûlée with gusto Posie decided to blow caution to the wind. The candles were flickering, the port wine was flowing and the clock was ticking. Posie decided that it was now or never. She took the year-old letter from Harry Eden out of her carpet bag.

  ‘I say, Dr Greenwood. Would you mind taking a look at this for me?’ She passed the paper across to the man quickly, before her nerve failed her.

  ‘Do you happen to know a Harry Eden? I think you may be the only professional colleague and friend of my brother’s left in the college here. Do you have any idea what the letter may be alluding to? What it was that Richard “left behind”? I’m just drawing endless blanks. Is there some connection to the Botany Department? The letter makes reference to a Secretary there…’

  Dr Greenwood read the short letter in the light of one of the candles and Posie swore that she saw all the colour drain out of his handsome dark face in the dim light.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Greenwood smiled tightly, ‘I haven’t a clue what this letter is on about. Perhaps it was referring to some papers, or to a book which your brother was working on? Which might be worth something financially to you? Is that what you’re after?’

  He was talking very fast now, his hand clamped down over Posie’s letter. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you if that’s the case, but members of the Botany Department went through all of Richard’s work after he died, and nothing valuable was found of that sort at all. Nothing which will get you money. So no, I have no idea what the letter is on about. Sorry.’

  ‘And Harry Eden? Do you know him?’

  Dr Greenwood pursed his lips in a thin line and shook his head quickly.

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for clearing that up for me.’

  He knows exactly what this letter is referring to, Posie thought to herself sharply. Sure as bread is bread he knows, but he doesn’t want me to find out. Why? Could it be some brilliant new piece of research which Richard had been working on, and which Dr Greenwood was now passing off as his own?

  And who the blazes was Harry Eden? Was he a former colleague? And where was he now, if that was the case? Had Harry Eden moved on, or died, or been silenced somehow? Or had he been disgraced? Dr Greenwood seemed a pretty unscrupulous sort, and if so, having Posie meddling about here into this matter would be most inconvenient.

  Posie hadn’t had time to be offended at Dr Greenwood’s implication that she was simply after money, but her mind was racing sixteen to the dozen, trying to puzzle-piece out what Dr Greenwood could be hiding. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that her brother might be on the verge of a new, secret discovery when he went off to war. It seemed that Dr Greenwood was protesting a little too much for her liking. Posie carefully extracted the letter from his hand with one sharp tug.

  ‘Thank you for looking at it anyway,’ she said politely.

  They were interrupted by Professor Somerjay, leaning over, offering port.

  ‘Posie Parker, isn’t it? The famous woman Private Detective I’ve been reading all about in all the newspapers over the last year? Scotland Yard’s right-hand gal, aren’t you, kid? By Gad, if Richard could see his baby sister now! Quite the professional, aren’t you?’

  Posie laughed merrily and had the instant satisfaction of seeing Dr Greenwood’s face turn even paler beside her.

  ‘A detective?’ Dr Greenwood asked, a laughing note covering what sounded like a murmur of panic. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ****

  Five

  The next morning Posie woke early and dressed immediately.

  For some reason she felt apprehensive and fidgety. To calm herself she watched the sunrise from her mullioned guestroom window in the Master’s Lodge. The day promised to be cold, with yet more rain; the sky was a pink blur and the sun burned angrily at its very centre. Her room enjoyed a splendid view across the back of the college, across the sweep of the immaculate frost-covered lawns of the Master’s Gardens, all the way down to the mist-covered River Cam. It was a scene straight from a Christmas card, but, in truth, Christmas cards and Christmas itself were very far from Posie’s mind right now.

  She decided on the spur of the moment to forgo
breakfast downstairs with the Master and his wife and to take an early-morning walk instead in the direction of the Botany Department: she was crazily early, she knew, but she could always hang around waiting for a member of staff to arrive, or perhaps kill some time by walking along the Cam. Posie had already packed her overnight bag, re-packing her Christmas purchases as best she could. In fact, she was ready to leave Cambridge as soon as her visit to the Botany Department was over. The visit to Cambridge had certainly proved eventful enough already. Besides, she was itching to be back in her beloved London.

  Leaving a scrawled note of thanks for the Master and taking her bags with her, Posie left the Lodge as quietly as she could, exiting out of a side door. The college clock was just striking seven o’clock.

  Wrapped up warmly, she walked briskly down the neat frosty paths of Nevile’s Court and away from the golden buildings of Trinity College. As she scurried along in the early-morning silence Posie thought she caught sight of a woman walking up ahead of her on the gravel path, just visible through the mist; a dark-haired woman in a vivid red coat, who turned once or twice at the sound of Posie’s hob-nailed walking boots.

  Who was walking around at this early hour in the Christmas holidays? And a woman too, in a place where they were certainly few and far between.

  The sun was growing stronger now and the mist was lifting a little, and Posie heard the Chapel bells begin to ring. Perhaps the woman would stop and talk? Posie hurried on ahead, on over the neat little brick bridge over the Cam and on through the further set of lawns. She lost sight of the figure in red walking ahead of her.

  Someone appeared in front of Posie, emerging suddenly through the ribbons of thin white mist rising off the river. It was the bowler-hatted Porter from yesterday, Simpkins. He was wearing the same uniform as on the day before, a thin black waistcoat over rolled-up white shirtsleeves. His lack of a coat or scarf made Posie, who always felt the cold despite her permanent insulation, shiver profusely.

  ‘Miss Parker? Good morning! Looks like we’ll be having more rain today, more’s the pity. Doesn’t look like it’ll be a white Christmas, does it? Shame!’

  Simpkins did a half-bow and passed Posie a brown envelope.

  ‘Your photograph, Miss,’ said Simpkins brightly. ‘The one of the fella you were asking about? It’s in the envelope.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Posie had almost forgotten about Felicity Fyne and the case of Dr Winter; she was so immersed in her own thoughts about Richard. ‘Thank you. Any joy?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually.’ Simpkins looked pleased with himself and drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much.

  ‘I tracked Frank Bevans down to his regular, the Dog and Ball on the Cherry Hinton Road. He said he definitely saw your man yesterday lunchtime. Tall blonde fella, wearing a gown. He left Trinity College about half-past one. Frank said that the fella seemed in rather a hurry; kept his head down, as if he didn’t fancy being recognised.’

  ‘Oh?’ Posie’s heart was pounding. This news meant that Dr Winter was alive after all. Could it be?

  She was astounded: she had expected a negative outcome, not a positive identification. Her senses were immediately drill-sharp and she found herself wishing that she had been able to question Bevans herself. After all, the college got a lot of visitors, and yesterday had been no exception to that rule. Just how accurate was this man Bevans’ memory, and how could you trust the word of a man you had never met, anyway? It was second-hand hearsay evidence.

  Simpkins broke in on her train of thought:

  ‘Two points, Miss. Frank Bevans said to mention them to you particularly.’

  ‘Oh? I was just thinking that maybe I should talk to Bevans myself. No offence intended.’

  ‘None taken. But that won’t be possible, Miss. Frank Bevans is indisposed for the time being. He can’t get around as much as he’d like to at the moment, as much as he did in the past. You’ll have to make do with me. He told me to mention that your fella had a very bad limp; the right leg dragging. And the second point was that the man was wearing a black academic gown, but Frank said there was summit strange about it. It wasn’t a university gown, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Really?’

  Posie’s mind was racing: the detail of the limp was new; she didn’t recall that from her dealings with Dr Winter or from her conversation with Felicity the day before. But the other detail given by Bevans was very similar to that which Felicity Fyne had reported – she had said Dr Winter had worn a black gown and that he had looked dusty, or shabby, in fact, when she had spied him.

  ‘I’m much obliged to you, Simpkins.’

  He nodded and made to move off in the direction of the college, when something else occurred to Posie.

  ‘I say, did you pass a woman in a bright red coat on your way in just now?’

  ‘Mrs Greenwood, you mean, Miss? Yes, of course. She’s our resident college beauty, if you don’t mind my saying so. She walks this way most mornings; it’s the quickest route to get to her job. She lives in the college with her husband. You remember? Her husband is Dr Greenwood, who you met last night at dinner. She works on Downing Street. Goes in early.’

  Posie couldn’t believe that Dr Greenwood hadn’t mentioned his wife once during the long, boring dinner.

  ‘He didn’t talk about her then, to you?’

  Posie shook her head, shifting her bags.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said the Porter, his head on one side in a knowing fashion.

  ‘It’s all a bit tricky. Well, if that’s everything, Miss, have a good day.’

  ****

  When she reached the Department of Botany on Downing Street, Posie saw that the shutters were still closed and the night-lights were still burning in the porch.

  Posie walked around the grand red-brick building with its many long white-stone windows, wondering whether to wait out of politeness for a member of staff to arrive, or whether to give up now and catch the train home. It was all needle-in-a-haystack territory anyway: she didn’t even have a definite contact person who could help her here, just that strange name – Harry Eden – and that might all come to nothing, if he had died or left the place.

  Just then, on her second lap around the building, Posie happened to look through the ground-floor window nearest the main door of the porch. The windows of this room were unshuttered, and inside, a blur of bright red could be glimpsed. It resolved itself into the shape of a woman removing her coat, then sitting down at a wooden desk and angling a desk-light over a thick blue tome of papers before her.

  Mrs Greenwood.

  How opportune! Was she an academic too? And if so, Posie felt a mixture of joy and admiration that a woman was managing to pursue an academic career in this totally male-dominated place.

  In a jiffy Posie had rapped on the window. She waved frantically when Mrs Greenwood looked up, caught unawares; half-surprised, half-anxious.

  ‘Can you help me?’ Posie mouthed through the glass.

  ****

  Inside, the large office was dark and messy. The room was a reception of some sort, with a small velvet couch and a coffee-table, all strewn with papers. There was paperwork all over the place, stacked up in great toppling piles rising up on every surface. Charts and graphs and photographs covered the cork pin-boards which ran around the walls. The beginnings of a fire in the grate were just starting to warm the high-ceilinged room, which was freezing cold.

  ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  Mrs Greenwood was unfriendly. But Posie was convinced that her curt manner belied some sort of anxiety. But anxiety about what?

  Posie explained quickly who she was and why she had come, and passed across her business card and the letter from Harry Eden, while all the time studying the open blue leather-tooled tome gripped tight under Mrs Greenwood’s hands on the desk in front of her. It appeared to be a great mass of research and graphs and hand-painted illustrations with small labels attached to them. The tiny graphs looked horribly familiar som
ehow, and the sight of them there brought back clear memories, like echoes rippling through time. Richard had drawn up diagrams such as these, and the sight of what could very well have been one of his sketches peeping out of a page gave Posie quite a shock.

  ‘No, I can’t help you,’ said Mrs Greenwood certainly and quickly, looking over at the doorway behind Posie as she spoke. ‘I’ve never seen this letter before and I’ve never heard of the man it alludes to. It must be a hoax. I’m sorry for you. You’ve had a wasted journey.’

  But as she passed back the letter, Posie noticed how the woman’s hands shook. Just what on earth is going on here, she thought to herself.

  She noticed smaller details too: the sallow duskiness of Mrs Greenwood’s skin and the silky dense blackness of her hair, hinting at an oriental descent which must be her inheritance somewhere down the line; the intense exotic beauty of her great purple eyes set within a face which spoke of other continents and other languages. But most of all Posie noticed the ugly bruise which had spread, bloom-like in all its yellow and green splendour across that lovely dark face, from forehead to chin.

  Fine, Posie thought to herself, I’ll have to play it like this if that’s how she wants it. But sure as bread is bread I’ll get to the bottom of this.

  She vowed that if the Greenwoods were using Richard’s notes or research without permission she would create merry hell for them. Perhaps he really had been on the verge of some wonderful new breakthrough: found some new ingredient for a miracle drug? Mrs Greenwood was up to something illicit, Posie was sure of it. Probably hand in glove with her insufferably boring husband, too, no doubt.

  But who on earth had Harry Eden been?

  Just then what seemed like a crowd of men swung in through the door to the office, all taking off their thick winter coats and hanging them on a coat-rack in the corner, and changing into their academic gowns for work. Posie saw that Dr Greenwood was among the people in the group, but that he made no attempt to welcome Posie or to introduce her to his staff, as Richard’s sister. In fact, he shot Posie a look of barely-concealed irritation and dislike. She was left standing foolishly in the middle of the room, feeling awkward and out of place. She couldn’t have imagined Richard ever having worked in this place; it seemed so bereft of any joy. Dr Greenwood stormed over to his wife.