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

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘Oh, not much at first. Harold was set on pursuing his career and climbing up the ladder as quickly as possible in college and in the Department, too. He had little time for me. But Richard had all the time in the world.’

  She turned her purple gaze on Posie. ‘So, you see what happened.’

  Posie nodded. Suddenly everything made sense. She remembered her brother’s strange unhappiness: the uncharacteristic moodiness; the way he seemed withdrawn, as if he had a problem he couldn’t fix. And now she knew why. He had fallen in love. And Evangeline had been that worst sort of thing. Unavailable.

  Posie was surprised, too, for her brother had usually been scrupulously moral in his actions, and getting involved with the married wife of a colleague seemed far off his usual behaviour.

  As if she could read Posie’s mind Evangeline laughed:

  ‘I can see on your face that you disapprove. But don’t! I’m not ashamed. These things are done. And I don’t regret it for a minute. I’d do it all again in an instant; for Richard, and to have Harry. I’d give everything for both of them.’

  Posie almost squirmed beneath the weight of the woman’s honesty.

  ‘My mother used to quote an old Indian proverb: You never know where the heart will decide to rest,’ Evangeline said in a low voice.

  ‘And it’s true. We were in love, and it was inconvenient and dangerous. And it caused Richard much heartache. He asked Harold if he would agree to a divorce, but of course Harold said no. Harold thought it would ruin his career, that he would be a laughing-stock if I left him for Richard. We even said we would leave Cambridge altogether, go someplace else, so that Harold wouldn’t be made to look a fool. But Harold still said no. Even when I told him about Harry; even when I told him that Harry was Richard’s son. But he wouldn’t let us go. In fact, it was worse than that; he threatened to get Richard arrested for trespass and adultery and a host of other trumped-up nonsenses. In the end it all came to nothing, but Harold threatened Richard’s career here and made life very difficult for him in a number of ways.’

  ‘So Richard knew that Harry was his son?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Evangeline. ‘Harry was born in 1914, and Richard tried to see him as much as possible. In snatched moments of course, like today. He was so proud of him. He was always talking about him. Harry was two years old in 1916 when Richard went off to war, and I made sure he had a photograph of Harry with him when he left. Harry used to call Richard “uncle”, and it was fine, but I could tell that Richard minded. It was as if his heart were being ripped out, constantly. But he didn’t know what to do for the best: we were at loggerheads with Harold and his career was about to be brought crashing down. I think that was why Richard volunteered for the war in the end. He felt he had to get away, rather than stay on here, hurting. Of course we didn’t realise he would be killed. None of us knew the scale of the thing, the sheer uselessness of it all. What a waste! Even now, I can’t believe it.’

  Posie thought the same. Even now she couldn’t believe it. And she also couldn’t believe how little she had known her brother, either. How on earth had he shouldered the weight of such a big secret for so long without telling her?

  ‘I have one quick question,’ Posie asked in a hurry as the band of small boys had started to break up, hungry for their tea.

  ‘Why did you sign that letter to me from Harry Eden? I don’t get it?’

  Evangeline sighed. ‘“Harold” was my husband’s choice of name for “his” son. I shortened “Harold” to “Harry” which is more bearable. But when I was pregnant Richard and I nicknamed the baby “Eden”. The baby was our little piece of paradise, that’s why. The ultimate name for two botanists. I insisted that “Eden” be used as a middle name on the birth certificate for the baby; I lied and said that it was an old tradition in my family, that unless the name was used, the baby wouldn’t be entitled to any of the Trust Fund in the future. Absolute balderdash of course, but Harold swallowed it. Hook, line and sinker.’

  ‘And wasn’t it awfully reckless of you to sign the letter in that way? Your husband works at the Department, after all. He saw my reply to your letter last year, after all…’

  Evangeline shrugged, almost carelessly:

  ‘Maybe it was reckless, but who cares? It felt good to be using the name we chose for our baby in public. It felt right to see it on the front of an envelope. It made it “real”. Made it thrilling. Who knows what the future will bring? One day I hope to be able to explain to my son who his father really was. It goes beyond the bounds of reality to expect that Harry will adopt the surname “Parker”, but who knows? Maybe he will ditch his current surname and use his middle name instead? Names aren’t that important, really, are they? So many people ditch one name and take another; whether the name is real or made up, and whether they can lay claim to it or not. It will be up to him to decide. Anyway, I thought I should let you know about him.’

  Harry was coming over, his face turned upwards, expectant with interest. Evangeline whispered so only Posie could hear her:

  ‘I owe it to you and I owe it to Richard. I want Harry to have a connection with his real father. You might like to visit us sometimes, as his special “auntie”? But my husband mustn’t find out, it’s more than my life is worth. I can tell Harry that you’ve been living abroad, in a far-off land. And that you’ve just returned, if that suits you?’

  Posie nodded, excitement filing her very core, the earlier events of the day paling into total insignificance; even the horrible Dr Winter with his wretched gun seemed a million miles away. Evangeline’s description of her sounded eminently sensible. And somehow very right. Hadn’t she been lying her head off recently about returning from a trip to India?

  ‘Hullo, Harry!’ She put out her hand to Harry and she had to stop herself from trembling as he shook it in a bemused manner and stared at her quizzically as only little boys can. For here was an outcome she had never imagined was possible. What a shame her father hadn’t lived to know he had a grandson.

  ‘I’m starving, mummy,’ Harry said, turning his father’s blue eyes up to Evangeline hopefully. ‘Is this funny lady coming with us for cakes?’

  ****

  PART FOUR

  Afternoon of Friday 22nd and Saturday 23rd December, 1922

  Thirteen

  Back at her desk at the Grape Street Bureau, Posie sat with her head in her hands, thinking. The day had been long, and surprising, and fruitful, too.

  The luminous hands of her desk clock showed it was almost half-past five. The light had fallen a couple of hours ago, and the office was very quiet. Prudence had left early, Christmas holiday bound, and had expressed her thanks at the gift Posie had offered; promising to unwrap it on Christmas Day itself.

  In return Posie had received a small box of Brazil nuts dipped in a cheap chocolate. She ripped off the foil covering carelessly and delved into the box. She ate a sweet slowly, crunching down noisily, and thoughts crowded into her mind.

  Mainly she was thinking about secrets.

  She thought about Dr Winter with his many secrets which he wanted to remain hidden, and she thought too about her new nephew, whose true identity was also a kind of secret.

  Posie thought briefly of Felicity Fyne, sitting waiting for news in her hat shop in Hampstead. What on earth was she going to say to her? That Felicity wasn’t a widow, or entitled to her War Widow’s Pension? That it was a good job she didn’t want to marry again as she wasn’t legally free to do so? That her husband was alive and well, and that he was a bigamist with two sons and a pretty new ‘wife’? And that he had forsaken his whole identity and way of life simply because Felicity was too awful a person to live with? Nobody deserved that sort of an explanation.

  Besides, she couldn’t contact Felicity yet: she still hadn’t resolved the question of the blackmail which was part and parcel of the whole case. It was all very well if Dr Winter was willing to pay up, but there seemed no question that Felicity could, and the whole sorry mess neede
d to be sorted out once and for all.

  Posie was troubled. There was a level of vitriol behind the blackmailer’s threats which seemed malicious and personal, as if they wanted to cause intense hurt, or perhaps wreak revenge. So surely there was more to it than just money? But what motive would Dulcie Deane have for hurting Dr Winter and Felicity Fyne so badly? Why did she care so much about them? They had been a source of gossip in the past, for sure, but not much more so than anyone else. Had Dulcie harboured some strange love for Dr Winter which went beyond the normal schoolgirl crush which most of the nurses had felt for him at some point? If so, more fool her, thought Posie grimly. The man was a first-class horror.

  But if Dulcie Deane had also somehow survived that bomb blast, and had returned to the life she had lived and loved before, even choosing to stay in the same hostel on Rupert Street, why on earth was she working like crazy at several jobs? Why did she need money so badly? Why wasn’t she working in just one hospital for a decent salary like the trained, professional nurse she was?

  Had something happened to her? Something didn’t add up.

  But who was Posie to know the secrets of Dulcie’s life. So many people had secrets; so many people had different and borrowed identities.

  Just then something tugged at Posie’s brain; a forgotten phrase, a half-remembered memory. Then it went again. Posie chewed her lip thoughtfully, her mind still scrambling. She sighed and turned a note over in her hands.

  It was from Alaric. One side of small blue Basildon Bond notepaper covered in his spiky, almost unreadable handwriting. It had been waiting for her on her otherwise clear desk. She read it over again:

  Po,

  Talk went well. Out of town now for 2 days, quick trip back to Boynton Hall to check on hives. I’m driving the Triumph motorcycle, giving it an airing. Bikram riding in the side-car.

  See you Christmas Eve up at Rebburn Abbey. Looking forward to it!

  Love,

  Al

  p.s. There’s an early Christmas present for you in your strong-box. I thought you might like to bring it up to Rebburn with you.

  She was surprised. Never one for big displays of affection, the note felt cosy, companionable. Alaric and Posie had been together as a couple now for more than a year, but they had not spent Christmas together before.

  Rebburn Abbey was the big old country pile up in the north belonging to her old friend Rufus, Lord Cardigeon, and his lovely wife, Dolly. They had invited Posie up to them for Christmas after the fiasco of the year before, when Posie had been forced to spend the Christmas holidays all alone in her office with only a cat and dog for company, due to a central heating breakdown in her London block of flats, and an unfortunate mix-up with Alaric. Unusual circumstances, granted, but miserable too. Posie had complained bitterly about it afterwards to anyone who would listen, with the result of having had several invitations foisted upon her this Christmas.

  And Christmas with Rufus and Dolly and their twin baby daughters would be wonderful, if a little chilly, as Rebburn Abbey was notoriously draughty, but nothing a good, thick jumper couldn’t solve. And the icing on the cake was that Alaric had been invited too.

  On the whole Posie was looking forward to Christmas, and to spending it with Alaric, but just lately she had been aware of feeling worried about the way things were going between them; as if the permanent twilight world of their relationship, which seemed to involve lots of absences caused by Alaric’s travelling, might not be leading to anything more certain. He lived with her when he was in London, granted, but only like a lodger, and their relationship was such a secret that even Alaric and Posie seemed to have forgotten it really existed sometimes. But now, here, perhaps, was evidence to suggest it was going somewhere.

  She was just going over to the strong-box which she kept in a cupboard when she heard keys jangling in the lock to the main office. She went out into the dark waiting room and saw Len silhouetted against the glass-stencilled front door, taking off his tweed homburg hat and shaking out his umbrella. Unexpectedly, her heart lurched a bit and her pulse quickened. Len bustled in.

  ‘Wotcha doin’ standin’ out here in the dark, Po? I thought I saw your office light on from outside on the street,’ he said cheerily, snapping on a desk light. ‘I’ve got some last-minute bits and pieces to finish up here before Christmas. How was Cambridge? Prudence said you’d gone up there again.’

  And Posie told him what had happened, including the bit about Dr Winter and the gun.

  Len exhaled noisily.

  ‘Coo-ee! What a day, eh? A dangerous one too.’

  Posie nodded and sank down on the couch, suddenly exhausted and aware of the fatigue which had been creeping up on her since her return to London. Len perched on the arm of an armchair, and they lapsed into a companionable silence. Mr Minks skulked into the room, and chose, predictably perhaps, to jump onto Len’s lap and purr there.

  Posie and Len had been very careful to keep things professional at work since their almost-relationship had failed back in 1921. They painstakingly avoided each other’s offices unless Prudence or a client was about. Even now they avoided talking about Alaric and Aggie, their respective partners. They maintained a false sort of jollity.

  If truth were told there was probably still a modicum of feeling on both sides for the other, but it would never be spoken of, or acknowledged again. In fact, this was the very first time which either of them could remember in more than a year when they had sat together alone, unchaperoned. That thought hung perceptibly in the air between them.

  Len reached into his briefcase. He took out a greaseproof-paper parcel of something dark and sticky and offered it to Posie. She shook her head and he started to chomp away.

  ‘I was over on Rupert Street today,’ he said, between bites.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I thought I’d take a look at that restaurant, the Florence; the one you were going on about.’

  ‘I wasn’t “going on” about it,’ Posie retorted archly. ‘I simply said I went there with the Inspector. And? What did you think?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Len nodding. ‘Booked a table for New Year’s Eve. It’ll make a change from fishcakes at Kettner’s; Aggie’ll love it. And while I was there I took a look along the road. Went to see where the nurses’ hostel was; you know, scene of my former crimes and all that. They’ve put up a brand new hostel in its place next door.’

  Posie nodded. ‘I was there too, yesterday. Nice new building, isn’t it? I don’t think you got around to telling me the original had been bombed. Is that how you lost touch with your girlfriend, then? The “stunner”?’

  She saw Len colour, even in the dim light of the desk lamp.

  He nodded and looked sheepish.

  ‘Yes, it is, actually. I tried to locate her when I came back after the war, but with no success. The records had all been lost in the bombing; it was a total wipe-out. The only thing I could find out for certain was that my former girlfriend, Dora, wasn’t one of those killed. Which was a relief.’

  There’s something else he’s not telling me, Posie thought to herself. Len was looking slightly shifty. Thank goodness she hadn’t taken up with him, she reminded herself wearily. She would have run herself ragged trying to keep Len’s interest. And failed miserably, too. She even felt a bit sorry for Aggie, Len’s annoying wife. Then she realised what Len must have done.

  ‘Did you go in, today? To the hostel? Have a look around?’

  Len nodded, his colour high. ‘They’ve done it up nicely. That new style. It will look a treat when it’s all finished.’

  ‘And so you asked them, did you, if they knew Dora? If she’d come back after the bombing and was living there now?’

  My gosh! Sure as bread was bread she had got it in one! Len’s face was almost purple. He tried to shrug carelessly:

  ‘Purely out of interest, of course. For old times’ sake. But I got nowhere. They’d never heard of Dora, and she’s not living there now. They don’t have any details for he
r from before, either, as everything went up in the blast. Useless asking anyway, as the wardens are new. They don’t know anyone from before the war.’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘That the wardens are brand new to the place, although they seem to like pretending they’ve been there since the dawn of time. They didn’t know me from Adam. I told you already, the previous one, like a watch-dog she was, was killed in the bombing, not that I was on the best of terms with her. But at least she knew me. These new ones are from Wales. Nice enough, but dismally slow. Why, do you know, when I got there I had to wait a good five minutes while they had a whole conversation in Welsh with one of their nurses! Can you believe it?’

  But Posie’s mind was racing and her heart was thudding, throwing itself against her rib-cage. For no apparent reason the words of Evangeline Greenwood earlier in the day came flooding back into Posie’s mind, word for word:

  ‘So many people ditch one name and take another; whether the name is real or made up, and whether they can lay claim to it or not.’

  Everything came together suddenly, the puzzle pieces fitting tightly. Posie stared at Len with unseeing eyes. The smell of what he was eating suddenly seemed to overwhelm her, to take over the room. It was the same smell as yesterday, in the warden’s office in the hostel. Sticky, sweet.

  ‘Quick! Is that a ginger cake?’

  Len nodded, bemused. ‘I say, Po. Are you okay?’

  ‘What did she look like, the nurse who was speaking in Welsh?’

  ‘No idea really. I only saw the back of her head. But she makes fantastic cake! She was leaving a great big ginger cake with the wardens, and when I started chatting to the woman warden afterwards she insisted on giving me a piece, too. It was delicious. You missed a trick there, Po.’

  Posie nodded bitterly. ‘Yes. Yes, I certainly did.’

  And then she got up and headed to the telephone to place a call.

  ‘New Scotland Yard, please,’ she asked the Operator. ‘Fast as you can.’