‘I take it you had a good journey here and a satisfactory tour around the school, Mrs Eden?’ said the Headmaster with a look of real concern in his eyes. Mr Doge was obviously someone for whom his job and his boys were his whole life, and for a second Posie felt terrible about lying: for inventing a son who quite simply didn’t exist; for wasting this man’s time.
‘It is the Christmas holidays, of course. So we’re just left with a few boys here, those who will stay here over Christmas. Those whose parents are too far away to collect them, diplomat’s sons and the like. If it was term-time you would have got a completely different picture of the place; I could have arranged for our Head Boy to take you around, but he’s obviously gone home for the festive season. It probably wasn’t entirely satisfactory…’
Posie smiled and assured him that everything had been eminently satisfactory.
‘And I’m not quite sure what the hurry was, Mrs Eden. It’s not in my notes here. Why does your boy need to come to us so urgently? No trouble, I trust? Not expelled, I hope? We do have standards here at Wickham…’
And here the Headmaster’s shaggy eyebrows rose anxiously, and Posie had to stifle a laugh. She coughed and made something up on the spot.
‘No, of course not. We’ve just returned from India ahead of time. Little Harry’s a good boy. I’m sure he’ll fit right in here.’
That trip to India. Again. Posie was almost beginning to believe the story now herself. Heaven only knew why: she had absolutely no connection to India whatsoever.
Posie was amused though to watch Mr Doge nod with obvious relief and then she listened politely as he rattled on about class sizes, and school uniforms, and then, very delicately, he approached the question of school fees. He passed her a brochure tied with a ribbon and all the bits of paperwork he had fetched.
‘So you’ll consider Wickham Academy seriously then, Mrs Eden?’ he asked nervously.
‘Of course.’ Posie nodded sagely. She poured the paperwork into her carpet bag without looking at it. She suddenly had the uncomfortable realisation that she was being dismissed. This wasn’t what she had planned at all!
She had expected to be introduced to Dr Winter (or Mr Florizel, as he now was). What was going on? Wasn’t Dr Winter here, after all? Had Constable Smallpenny made a horrible mistake? Or had Prudence, in booking the meeting, messed it up somehow?
‘Frightfully sorry,’ Posie began calmly, ‘but I had wanted to meet your Master for English Literature. I had expected to meet him today. Your Masters normally don’t leave until right before Christmas, do they? That was the reason little Harry wanted to come here, after all. In fact, we had a personal recommendation that the literature teaching here was excellent.’
More small white lies. Posie flaked off another bit of Watermelon nail varnish underneath the desk.
Mr Doge coloured. Was it just possible that he was in on this with Dr Winter? That he knew that in his English Literature Master he had none other than one of the top surgeons in the country? Was he shielding him?
‘I’m really very sorry, Mrs Eden. I had expected you to meet Mr Florizel, as per your request. It’s true, he is a truly excellent teacher. And he’s a Housemaster, which means he stays here year-round, looking after those boys who don’t or can’t go home. He lives in the grounds. So that should normally be no problem.’
He coughed with some embarrassment and fingered the horrible paperweight on the desk nervously:
‘I’m afraid that was why I kept you waiting so long. I’ve been trying to find Florizel myself, along with most of the boys in my care. I can’t understand what’s happened to him – he was supposed to join you on your tour of the school – I can only think he’s been called away to some sort of emergency in his Schoolhouse. It’s not like him to be flighty: he’s utterly dedicated. I can only pass on his apologies and wish you a safe trip home.’
Thwarted, Posie could only smile sweetly and leave.
Mr Doge walked Posie down endless echoing corridors which still smelt of sweat and gravy and old plimsolls, and left her rather formally at the large Entrance Hall with its gold-inscribed boards showing those who had made it into Oxford and Cambridge on specific years. It also showed those old boys who had died in battle in the Great War. There were a good many names listed and the gilding looked very fresh.
Posie made a show of looking at her wristwatch.
‘If you don’t mind, Headmaster, I’ll take a walk through your lovely grounds. My train is not for another forty minutes, and I have rather a “head” on me, which this sharp air might just clear.’
Mr Doge sniffed unhappily. Outside the rain was practically torrential. Wickham Academy was in a remote spot and although the grounds might have been described as beautiful on a sunny summer’s day, they were just a blur of endless greys and browns today, even to the Headmaster, who loved the place dearly.
‘As you like, Mrs Eden. But you are welcome to sit in our Library and wait it out. It may be more comfortable? At least, do you have an umbrella?’
Posie brandished her trusty black Brigg, which she had mercifully remembered, and set out as if she hadn’t got a care in the world. Which was very far from the truth.
****
The boathouse on the River Wick was beyond the school playing fields.
Posie found herself there without meaning to, having walked through the wet grass and gravel paths in an absent-minded fashion.
For a few seconds along the way she had fancied that she was being followed; but after scanning the remote landscape and empty school premises she banished the thought from her mind, putting it down to a mere flight of fancy. Who was around anyway on such a horrible day apart from a few lonely schoolboys trying to kill time in their Christmas holidays?
The boathouse was an old Victorian building in dire need of a lick of paint. A single floor above was all closed up, presumably for storing the rowing boats in over winter, and underneath, in the murky water, a few small boats were lashed together, rocking in the current caused by the rain. The smell of damp rotting wood pervaded everything. The place felt horribly deserted and inhospitable. To make matters worse, the wind was getting up.
A long thin jetty jutted out beyond the boathouse over the water and Posie found herself unaccountably drawn to it, walking to the end of it. The wind came in big gusts off the river and she stood firm. She closed her Brigg umbrella for fear of being blown into the water and watched the wide span of the brown river beyond, rain-pelted and choppy. Frozen reeds and rushes blew about in a frenzy. In every direction all you could see was the river and the marshes, and in the distance a wash of yet more empty wintery fields. Land and sky blurred together in a grey smudge and clouds the colour of lead scurried overhead. A brave family of moorhens swam by, the only other sign of life. Posie breathed in the salty-damp air, wishing she were safely back in London.
After a few moments of useless contemplation she resolved to herself to leave promptly and catch the next train up to Cambridge. She walked back along the jetty, not looking ahead of her, but checking her wristwatch for the time. A voice, unbidden, made her almost jump right out of her skin.
‘You always did take risks, Parker. You looked like you were going to topple over there for a minute. I thought I might have to come in and save you.’
Blocking her path at the end of the jetty was a very tall and straight-backed figure wearing a black floor-length gown. His arms were crossed underneath it, as if for warmth. He wore no hat on his fair head and he had no umbrella.
Once she had recovered herself she gave a light laugh, much lighter than she really felt. For here he was. At last.
‘And would you have saved me, Dr Winter? Or should I say, Mr Florizel?’
Dr Winter gave a humourless bark of a laugh.
‘That’s what I was trained for, wasn’t it? To save lives. Training like that doesn’t desert you that quickly.’
Posie drew closer. They were standing just a couple of feet away from each other now,
staring at each other, the rain lashing down on both of them. The rain ran in rivulets down the back of Posie’s felt cloche hat, running down her neck like unwelcome clammy fingers. She wanted the shelter of her umbrella, but the wind was too strong out here and Dr Winter didn’t seem in a hurry to move. He was still blocking her path. Why didn’t he let her pass?
Something in his keen gaze told Posie to beware. There was something about the way he was holding his arms under his gown, as if he was holding onto something delicate or dangerous. Her gut instinct kicked in and suddenly a random and completely unwelcome thought entered Posie’s mind and she had to stop herself from gasping aloud:
He’s going to shoot me.
Sure as bread is bread he has a gun under his gown.
She felt sick in the pit of her stomach and her pulse raced. She was trapped, with nowhere to run to. She was like a fly caught in amber, standing all alone at the edge of a river with nothing but her trusty gut instinct and a big umbrella to fight back with.
What a silly little fool she had been to think she could just arrive and have a cosy chat with Dr Winter, all pally-pally! What a little idiot Posie had been to imagine that Dr Winter would offer up all his hard-won secrets out of the very goodness of his heart.
And suddenly, too late, Posie remembered Professor Winter describing his altercation with his son years ago over Perdita; the hurt and bemusement which had lain behind Professor Winter’s words:
‘He threatened me with a gun once… Underneath that cool calm exterior of his I wondered just what sort of a son I had sired.’
So he was certainly capable of it.
Posie swallowed uncertainly, waiting for Dr Winter to draw his weapon. Time seemed to pass very slowly.
But nothing happened.
Her pulse slowed a little. She chided herself for her rash thinking and counted to ten in her head, trying to calm herself.
She was wrong! She was wrong! There was no gun. This man was a doctor, after all; as he said, he had been trained to save lives, not take them. For once the famous Posie Parker gut instinct must have been decidedly off-kilter. Posie willed herself to keep staring at the man in front of her, undaunted, as if she trusted him completely and always had; as if they were simply two old colleagues catching up for old times’ sake.
‘How did you find me?’ Dr Winter asked quietly, calmly, still not moving from his place on the jetty. ‘I’ve spent more than four years here, lying low, wondering if I’d ever be discovered. I’d convinced myself I’d managed it. I’d got away with it.’
His voice was calm, unruffled. At last he indicated with a nod behind him to the scanty shelter of the boathouse and Posie followed him, thankful to get out of the rain at last. She noticed he walked with a pronounced limp, as the Porter at Trinity College had mentioned.
‘That was your undoing,’ she said in as normal a fashion as she could manage to his retreating back. ‘You’d become complacent, sir. You shouldn’t have gone to Cambridge on Monday, to that Memorial Service. You were seen. By your own wife! By Felicity. She thought she’d seen a ghost!’
Dr Winter rolled his eyes as if in disbelief.
‘I hoped against hope that she hadn’t seen me. I saw her of course, for the first time in five years. She looked like a professional widow. Like she was revelling in it.’
‘She certainly still carries a candle for you, sir. She told me she’d never marry again. Owed it to your memory. I was quite surprised, sir.’
Posie heard Dr Winter make a harrumphing, dismissive noise from up ahead.
They reached the boathouse and stood there together awkwardly. Posie stole a sideways glance at him as he lit a Turkish cigarette with a match. So that was all he had been holding under his gown! Just a packet of ciggies! She breathed a sigh of genuine relief and noticed how his right hand shook almost uncontrollably as he steadied the flame.
She watched him from under her wet eyelashes, stealing glances at his profile. He was still handsome, but he looked older, much older than when she had last seen him in France. His likeness to his father was even more pronounced now. However, there was still something there which she didn’t altogether like. He looked physically well and he was immaculate, clean shaven and well fed. But she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that his presence was like that of a snake in the boathouse; ready to pounce on her whenever it suited him.
‘I had to go to that Memorial Service,’ Dr Winter said shortly. ‘I thought I wouldn’t be noticed; I wore my gown so as to blend in with the other fusty old academics and I kept to the shadows at the back. I owed Neil Rolly almost everything I knew. The fact that he died of a heart attack and not out in the field of battle doesn’t mean he wasn’t a war hero in my book. Thank goodness he left our unit before that appalling bomb blast. He worked further up the line for the rest of the war, and then tirelessly these last four years repairing facial war wounds in London and in Cambridge. Pioneering stuff. They’re calling it ‘plastic surgery’ now. I’ve followed his progress in The Lancet, which I buy from time to time. That man deserved recognition. I wanted to be there. Pay my respects.’
A silence followed in which Dr Winter smoked with relish and occasionally glanced over at Posie.
‘You’ve changed, Parker,’ he said, after a minute or so. He took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘During the war I wouldn’t have given you a second glance. You’ve changed for the better, I mean.’
Posie almost choked in disbelief at the backhanded compliment but she swallowed her anger down.
‘You’ve changed too, sir,’ said Posie calmly, without adding the compliment on at the end.
He stubbed the cigarette out on the damp stone wall of the boathouse with a jabbing motion. He had obviously decided to stop with the niceties and cut to the chase. He watched Posie intently.
‘Why exactly are you here?’ he asked curtly. ‘I smelt a rat the minute I was told someone wanted to meet me. I mean, why would someone come all the way out here into the sticks, out of term-time, to meet some bit-part literature teacher in a third-rate school for boys? So I watched you arrive and then I followed you on the tour you were given by that fat lad, Evans. I wasn’t sure at first: you’ve cut your hair, and, as I said, you’ve changed. But I realised pretty quickly who you were. I got the shock of my life. Felicity send you here, did she? You mentioned her just now. To do her dirty work for her? Funny, I don’t recall the two of you being pals in the unit. I don’t remember her having any pals, in fact.’
Posie shook her head. ‘I’m not her pal, and no, Felicity doesn’t know I’m here. She doesn’t even know that I’ve found you, or where you are. But I am working for her. She asked me to find out what had happened to you.’
Posie explained about the Grape Street Bureau, about her job as a Private Detective, about how she was here today posing as a parent. She watched Dr Winter for a reaction, but saw that his face remained smooth and impassive, giving nothing away.
‘Shall we walk along the river and talk as we go?’ said Dr Winter, in what was less of a question and more of an order. ‘I need to get back to the school and it’s on your way if you’re heading to the train station.’
Posie nodded. She had no other choice really. She put the Brigg up over both of them. Dr Winter hardly seemed to feel the rain though. He dragged his leg markedly as they walked along the line of the river on a bloated muddy tow path, passing the sweep of the school fields on their right-hand side. The silence became unbearable and so Posie, now reassured of her own safety, started cautiously with her questions.
‘So what did happen to you, sir?’ Posie asked softly. ‘People thought that you had died. Your parents thought you had died, too. You’re listed as missing in action. You should have died. The Clearing Station took a direct hit, for goodness’ sake!’
Dr Winter dug his hands down further into the gown.
‘Of course I should have died. I do realise that, Parker. Practically every other poor blighter in that place did. But for some reason I w
as spared. One minute I was operating on a particularly difficult shoulder wound, and the next minute I woke up under some gorse bushes in the mud, lying in the undergrowth. I thought at first that I’d died, and that I was still there, in Arras, for some reason, just looking down on everything. Must have been the shock of the thing.’
He lit up another cigarette and inhaled. ‘I must have been lifted clear somehow and dropped from several feet up in the air. I was fine. Well,’ he indicated his jittery hand and his leg, ‘as fine as could be, in the circumstances. Fine enough to get the very devil out of that place.’
‘But what about Felicity?’ asked Posie.
‘What about her?’ asked Dr Winter. He scowled. ‘Terrible woman. She was the reason I ran off. As I was lying there under my gorse bush watching the carnage of the bombsite, who do I see come along and start wailing like a banshee but Felicity. She got down on her knees among all the debris and bodies and started blubbing. She got herself into a real state. Looked like some sort of vexed hedgehog snuffling about. It was terrible.’
Posie had stopped and was looking at Dr Winter incredulously.
‘But that was understandable – she was your wife, sir! She thought you’d just died! What did you expect her to do? Sing a song of sixpence and start dancing the can-can?’
‘Look here, Parker. I admit it; I’d made a mistake. I should never have married Felicity. She reminded me of someone from my past. It was my fault, I suppose. You know what they say; ‘marry in haste and repent at leisure.’ Well, I was certainly repenting by then, let me tell you. And I decided on the spur of the moment that I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life repenting. No, thank you! Two months was enough!’
‘Was Felicity really so bad, sir?’
‘Worse. The marriage was a nightmare. Awful from the beginning. The gloss wore off very quickly. I was bored out of my brain. Every second of it was an agony. Just because she reminded me of this person from my past didn’t mean she was her. In fact, they were polar opposites. Felicity was so cold, so unfeeling, and an arch catholic to boot, too: something she never mentioned in the first place; so she’d never have agreed to a divorce, more’s the pity. All she could talk about was nursing, and being “efficient”. She was a bag of nerves, too. Always asking me if I thought someone or other hated her. Verging on the paranoid, I’d say. Sometimes she read a fashion magazine, but that was the extent of her tastes in literature. She didn’t have any creativity, either. I told her time and again about my love of the theatre and books but I swear to goodness she was never listening. Can you imagine? Being tied to such a creature for life? It was like being married to an ice-block. I think she was incapable of any love or passion. Wretched woman.’
The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 4) Page 12
