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

by L. B. Hathaway

  Was it possible? It seemed fantastical.

  It was Len’s stupid talking about that nurse that had done it: he had mentioned a hostel on Rupert Street, and only today she and Chief Inspector Lovelace had seen a couple of nurses in the Post Office there. That walk with the Inspector had seemed so unpromising at the time.

  Here it was.

  Posie found the sepia-coloured postcard near the bottom of her things. She read it quickly and gasped aloud.

  She had been right. Here was her blackmailer. But how could it be?

  Dulcie Deane. Back from the dead. Another one back from the dead.

  She was skim-reading the postcard from Dulcie Deane from January 1918, which had informed Posie of the death of her crew, including Merlin the dog. In which Dulcie had invited Posie to meet her in London after the war.

  Dulcie had often mentioned living at a London hostel for nurses, but Posie had never paid much notice to her. But here now was the proof; the postcode, W1D – the postcode for Rupert Street – was given emphatically. And even more damningly, the clear, schoolgirlish hand from 1918 was the same as the one which had written the three Christmas cards to Felicity Fyne.

  But Dulcie Deane was dead! It was a given. The Imperial War Graves Commission even had an exact place for her burial site.

  Posie racked her brain. If Dr Winter had somehow come out of that annihilating bomb blast alive, why not Dulcie Deane, too? She wouldn’t be the first person to fake her own death and go back to what she had loved best: London, the bright lights, the safety net of a hostel in Soho. But perhaps it hadn’t worked out that well, after all. Perhaps Dulcie had gone back to a job which paid too little, and returned to a life which proved just a little too lonely, and had been fuelled by feelings of jealousy for a woman who had seemed to have had much more going for her, even if appearances could be deceptive, as Posie now knew.

  But was Posie wildly wrong?

  Did Dulcie – the Dulcie she had known – have it in her to blackmail someone? Surely not. But sadness and loneliness could change a person. That was true, too. And how did Dulcie know that Dr Winter was alive, anyhow? Posie chewed at her lip, sitting on her haunches, holding the years-old postcard in her hands.

  She decided that she would go back to Rupert Street tomorrow, after her appointment with Professor Winter at King’s Cross. She would investigate. Try and find out for certain if Dulcie Deane was living there now or not.

  Posie barely noticed that Bikram had slunk in through her bedroom door and had sat companionably down at her side, his eyes mournful and sad.

  ‘Poor old fella,’ Posie said absently, stroking his silky coat. ‘Both of us are being ignored tonight, aren’t we? Oh, the glamour of living with a world-famous explorer. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, is it? What a funny old world!’

  And Posie packed away her tin trunk quickly, as if keen not to delve further into any of her other ghosts and memories which were carefully stored there.

  She had quite enough on her plate as it was already.

  ****

  Eight

  The next day Posie stood, seven-thirty sharp, at the entrance to Platform 5 at King’s Cross. She was clutching two steaming paper cups of black tea in her hand.

  She watched the steam train from Glasgow pull in to the platform, and then about a hundred people dismounted, most looking crumpled and ashen after the long journey south.

  Posie didn’t need to worry about missing Professor Winter, or about not recognising him. She saw him emerge, unrumpled and pristine; black-suited with a matching homburg hat and carrying a neat overnight bag. He was a carbon copy of his son, Dr William Winter, or rather, his son had been a carbon copy of the father. She remembered Felicity Fyne’s comments about how William Winter had always been incredibly smart in the past, and she saw that he had got that from his father, too. Incredibly tall, straight-backed, white-blonde in colouring and resembling a fairly terrifying streak of lightning, Professor Winter looked every inch the cold, humourless professional he was. He had on a red bow tie and wore a fresh red carnation in the lapel of his expensive black woollen coat. They were like small slashes of blood in his otherwise colourless appearance and Posie found herself wondering if the effect was intentional. She also found herself annoyingly distracted; wondering how on earth Professor Winter had managed to keep the flower from wilting in the stuffy carriage of the overnighter.

  She stepped into his direct path.

  ‘Miss Parker?’ There was a raise of a shaggy grey eyebrow but nothing more friendly was offered.

  ‘That’s me, sir. Cuppa?’

  The Professor took a cup from her without a word and continued walking, indicating with a subtle movement of the head that they should exit to the right, through a small emergency exit, away from the crowds off the train. He obviously knew the station well and he strode along fast, Posie almost galloping along in her smart high-heeled boots to keep up with him.

  Out on the busy thoroughfare outside the station they made their way past the usual early-morning crush of newspaper sellers and beggars. The rain had stopped but the pavements were black and glistening, waiting for more rain to fall. Commuters were spilling from the station like a million shiny black ants, all clutching newspapers and briefcases and cups of tea, bound for offices and shiny wooden desks all over London, all set for the last couple of work days of the year.

  There was a faintly festive feeling in the air too as ex-soldiers tried to ply their trade among the crowd, offering small cheap wooden Christmas gifts for sale on brightly-decorated trays. As Posie and Professor Winter moved off from the crowds and started to walk down the Gray’s Inn Road, Posie was conscious of the silence between them, and the limited time available. She didn’t know where they were going, but she guessed it must be near. As if he could read her thoughts, the Professor inclined his head a little and looked down at her.

  ‘I’m lecturing at the Royal College of Surgeons this morning,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘So, we have about twenty minutes’ walk to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. What’s this all about then?’

  Posie noticed the slight Scottish burr, more like Edinburgh than Glasgow, in his voice, and she noticed how it was unlike his son’s voice, which had betrayed nothing of his Scottish roots. A searing image of Dr Winter, as she had last seen him came suddenly into her mind: rising abruptly from the table on Christmas Day in 1917, the telegram about Helena’s death clutched in his hand, his face unreadable.

  It had not been her intention to reveal her personal connection with the case to Professor Winter, but she knew suddenly it was right. She felt sure that this tall, upright man who had granted her a precious twenty minutes of his time had the right to know what she was up to. She quickly explained her background, and outlined the unusual case so far: the likely vanishing, rather than the death, of Dr Winter. She mentioned Felicity Fyne and watched a cloud settle darkly across the man’s face.

  ‘I just wondered, sir,’ she concluded, studying the Professor’s silent, closed-up face, ‘whether you or your wife had had any contact with your son these last four years, since 1918 when he was supposed to have died?’

  The Professor emitted a short, sharp shrill of ironic laughter.

  ‘You ought to be grateful, girl, that I’m used to hard knocks and shocks. What you’re telling me, in other words, is that my only son, my only child, is still alive?’

  Posie nodded.

  ‘Bah, humbug! Rot! Sheer rot! I don’t believe it! In my book the dead stay dead, and I should know, eh? I see enough corpses in my line of work. And you should be ashamed of yourself. Call yourself a Private Detective? Seems to me you’ve gone along with the ravings of a fantasist! That woman! That Fyne woman. She was a really bad lot. You should get hold of some real facts before you go around making sweeping statements like that. It sounds like a wee mare’s nest to me, Missie.’

  Posie winced. She realised a lot of what she was going on was a hunch, and she was desperately looking for a break; a l
ead to make this all concrete, to make connections. She hated the ring of truth in the Professor’s words, so like Inspector Lovelace’s comments to her on the telephone the previous day.

  ‘I know it seems unbelievable, sir, and I’m sorry if it comes to nothing. I just wondered if there might be anything you could add which might help me find him. If he is still alive.’

  The Professor stopped in the middle of the pavement. The rain had started up again but he didn’t open an umbrella. Anger flashed in his pale blue eyes:

  ‘My son is dead, full-stop. He was our only son, and if he had somehow lived I can guarantee he would have contacted us. Don’t you think so? He was his mother’s pride and joy, and she lived for him. He knew that very well. Lived for him, understand me?’

  Posie swallowed. You lived for him too, she thought to herself sadly. But she didn’t like the Professor’s use of the past tense when speaking about his wife. She nodded mutely, slicking her wet hair out of her eyes.

  ‘My wife Morag collapsed when we received the telegram about William’s death.’

  Posie nodded again, remembering it was almost exactly the same thing that had happened to her own father on learning of Richard’s death. She held her tongue though. They started to walk again, the rain now slapping the pavement. The oily tarry smell of the wet tarmac filled their nostrils, that unmistakeable scent of London. A smart wind was getting up again. The Professor resumed.

  ‘But Morag would probably still be here today if we hadn’t received another letter, a month later. We received a wee letter from this upstart; this good-for-nothing girl, Felicity Fyne.’

  Posie frowned, not understanding the malice behind the words. Many would have agreed with the Professor about Felicity but only after having met her, so what exactly lay behind the hatred?

  ‘That letter from Felicity Fyne caused my wife to suffer a fatal heart attack,’ the Professor continued, negotiating a crowd of barristers coming out of Gray’s Inn, holding onto their wigs and gowns for dear life. ‘She practically caused my wife’s death.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault, and I’m not asking for your sympathy. It was probably for the best. Morag wouldn’t have wanted to go on living anyway without William. It wasn’t as if there were even any children as a result of the marriage. Or were there, do you know?’

  A keen intense light shone for a split-second in his eyes, then died when Posie shook her head firmly. Professor Winter looked away quickly and continued:

  ‘You see, as I said, William was Morag’s whole life. It was all right for me: I had, and still have, my work.’

  Your work. And an empty, aching heart within that straight-backed exterior, Posie thought to herself. She felt an unexpected stab of pity for the man next to her, but she forced herself to be logical; to shake off the sentiment which was beginning to weigh on her heavily.

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ she questioned in as professional a manner as she could muster. ‘What exactly was your problem with Felicity Fyne, sir? What did she say to you that was so shocking?’

  Again the ironic laughter. They took a sharp right onto High Holborn.

  ‘The fact William had got married to the woman at all was a huge shock. It was news to us. He hadn’t bothered to inform us. Here we were with a daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Well, sir, I think it all happened in a bit of a rush…’ Posie hazarded guardedly. ‘There might not have been much time to tell you. Your son was working in very demanding conditions. Maybe he didn’t have time to write to you?’

  ‘Rot!’ spat the Professor. ‘He wrote every week to his mother, without fail. He’d written to his mother the day before his death. Never mentioned this woman once, let alone that he’d bally well gone and married her! And don’t talk balderdash – of course he had time to break the news; they’d been married at least a couple of months when he died.’

  Posie winced. ‘I don’t know why that was, then, sir. I can only imagine your shock.’

  ‘Oh, I know why he didn’t mention it, all right,’ said the Professor acidly. They were drawing close to Chancery Lane and they took a shortcut through the law court gardens, empty but for a few black-suited men sheltering under large, precarious looking umbrellas.

  ‘That woman, that flibbertigibbet, Felicity Fyne, she sent a photograph of herself and William together on their wedding day, as if to prove it to us, I suppose. Smugness itself. So we’d believe that the marriage had actually happened.’

  ‘Was that so bad? Perhaps she was just trying to make a connection with you? I’m no friend of the woman, I can assure you, but she seems genuinely broken by William’s death. If he has died.’

  ‘More likely she was after our money. But that wasn’t the problem. It was what she looked like that brought back terrible memories.’

  ‘Oh? I don’t quite follow.’

  They were passing under the big terracotta brick arch of Lincoln’s Inn and out into the sodden square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Outside the grand Grecian-columned building of the Royal College of Surgeons they came to an abrupt stop.

  The Professor looked intently down at Posie. Something changed in his expression and the steely cold resolve seemed to melt a little before her eyes. He’s going to tell me something important, Posie thought to herself. Something he’s hardly told anyone. She willed him to go on. She nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Look here, I feel I can trust you for some reason. But you mustn’t break my confidence in what I’m about to tell you, Miss Parker. These are private family matters. Understand?’

  Posie nodded again. She had this effect on people sometimes; they felt they could spill the beans on all sorts of things without any consequences, which was jolly handy in her line of work.

  ‘As you know, my son was a skilled surgeon, and he was making quite a name for himself before the war.’

  You were proud of him, you mean, thought Posie. Why can’t you just say it?

  ‘But he had a weakness.’

  Posie stared. She couldn’t imagine what the man was talking about. The Dr Winter she had known had seemed like control itself. What secret demons had he harboured? Was it drink? Drugs? Gambling on the dogs or horses?

  Professor Winter sighed.

  ‘I’ll be candid with you. My son was a frightful womaniser. He had a weakness for women. All the same type. Particularly beautiful women.’ And here he half-glanced at Posie through lowered eyelids, as if just checking to make certain he couldn’t include her in that dangerous category. Evidently satisfied, he continued:

  ‘When he was eighteen my son met a woman, a wee actress. It changed his life, changed him. He met her when she was playing the lead role, Perdita, in The Winter’s Tale. It was in Glasgow, at the Theatre Royal, and she was a real piece of work. Beautiful, but common as muck, and she lived in a very fast manner, if you get my drift. She dragged William into all kinds of trouble. He was going to elope with her to Gretna Green – imagine – my son, with an actress! I stopped them just in time. I broke it up. It would have ruined him. He’d never have gone off to Cambridge. Imagine…’

  The Professor looked over at the shiny wet steps under the big portico of the Royal College where several men were now gathering. Posie read regret and suffering in his pale tired eyes.

  ‘Well, of course, because of the play’s title, William thought it was “meant to be” or some such rot. I managed to pack him off to university just in time and threatened to cut off his allowance if he didn’t go but when he came back for Christmas that first year he was still determined to marry the bally woman. His mind was made up. But fortunately she’d disappeared. Vanished into thin air. Thank goodness! The Winter’s Tale had finished its run, of course. But William lost his head over it. Blamed me. Went a bit potty. Threatened me with a gun once, too, which I never told his mother about of course. Underneath that cool calm exterior of his I wondered just what sort of a son I had sired. To be honest it drove a big rift between us. He never
forgave me for his loss. My son and I were always somewhat estranged after that debacle. More’s the pity.’

  The Professor was staring into the distance, beyond the here and now. He suddenly regained his grip on the present:

  ‘He never forgot her. In fact, he carried a copy of The Winter’s Tale with him forever after. He always was mad keen on literature – Shakespeare, the lot – if I’d left it to him that’s what he would have studied at university; not medicine. People think he followed me into the profession willingly, but it wasn’t the case at the time. He continued to love the theatre. It was a passion. Always went to a show when he got the chance, both in London and Cambridge…’

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry, but I don’t quite see, sir…’

  ‘He spent the rest of his time at university studying, but really he was mooning after this actress, Perdita. For seven years. Always looking for her, putting advertisements into the papers; enquiring on the theatre circuits. But he never found her. She must have gone to the bad, or else died. Well, when we got that letter and photograph from Felicity Fyne after William had died, it was like seeing a ghost. There she was! The spitting image of this wretched Perdita whom I had spent all that time prising him away from! In fact, I thought it was her at first. Of course William wouldn’t have wanted me to see that photograph, or to ever meet Felicity. It was obvious that he had only married her because of the very close similarity to the actress.’

  ‘Golly! How unfortunate. I see.’

  ‘Morag and I had a huge row about that ruddy letter and that photograph. Dredged up the past; all my dealings with William over that actress. Morag felt I’d been too harsh on the lad. Even suggested we meet this Felicity girl! Worked herself up into a right old state when I said no, and then, well… I’ve told you what happened.’

  So you caused your wife’s death, thought Posie. It wasn’t Felicity at all.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the Professor, a note of real interest in his voice, ‘I can imagine that William was almost beside himself when he first encountered Felicity Fyne, wasn’t he? He must have thought it was all his Christmases come at once! Perdita, restored to him. I bet he couldn’t wait to get married to Miss Fyne, huh?’