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

by L. B. Hathaway

  ****

  Fourteen

  Things made more sense now. But it took a huge leap of the imagination to get to the solution she had just come up with. Posie felt that she just had to run the whole thing past Inspector Lovelace, even though it was now past six-thirty on the Friday before Christmas. And even though Felicity Fyne had expressly forbidden her from involving the police.

  She held the telephone receiver anxiously to her ear and thought it all out. Someone was looking for Inspector Lovelace and she could hear muffled shouting on the other end of the line.

  Posie had always assumed that the wardens at the hostel had been the original ones, and that they would have known the original Dulcie Deane from before the war, thus giving the current Dulcie Deane her legitimacy. But if they were newly installed after the war, along with the new hostel, why would they think to question a nurse who arrived and claimed she was Dulcie Deane, a resident of the hostel before the war?

  Particularly if, like them, the nurse in question was Welsh, and friendly. Apparently she treated the wardens well, and baked them ginger cake, too.

  It had to be Helena Llewellyn. Masquerading as Dulcie Deane.

  But why? And could it be? Helena was supposed to be dead, after all. But if there was one thing this case had taught Posie, it was to keep an open mind. Especially when it came to those who were supposed to be dead.

  ‘We’re looking for the Chief Inspector for you, Miss Parker,’ came a harassed-sounding voice the other end of the line. ‘I’m afraid we can’t find him just yet. Can you hold?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Posie was thinking nineteen to the dozen.

  Yes, she told herself. Yes, it could be.

  If Dr Winter had survived a direct bombing, then didn’t it follow that somehow Helena Llewellyn could have survived a shipwreck? It seemed there was no end to the number of people who had, against the odds, survived the Great War and were now living incognito, in other people’s lives, in other people’s identities.

  If the blackmailer was indeed Helena Llewellyn then the vitriol and revenge behind the whole campaign was completely understandable, and Helena would, if she were that way inclined, want to cause pain to both her former fiancée and his wife, the insufferable Felicity, the woman who had supplanted her in his affections.

  But the Helena Llewellyn who Posie remembered was not like that. She was kind and forgiving, and she had had a good heart. So how could it be?

  And another thing; why on earth was Helena not just living out her life as herself? It would be much easier. She had her own nursing qualifications and could presumably get a senior job for herself in a hospital in town somewhere. Why on earth was she pretending to be Dulcie Deane and living such a scratch existence?

  A familiar voice came on the line. A distinctly unwelcome one.

  ‘Parker? What is it you want? Make it snappy.’

  It was Inspector Oats, an old adversary of Posie’s. He was an old-fashioned bobby-on-the-beat style policeman who did things the only way; his way. It would be fair to say that he hated Posie’s guts, and thought her a timewaster and a busy-body, and she, in turn, thought him a bad policeman, not to mention an old stick-in-the-mud.

  ‘Where’s Inspector Lovelace?’

  She heard his puffy intake of breath. ‘I don’t see as it’s any of your business, little lady. But, as it happens, there’s been an incident: his little daughter Phyllis has been taken bad with an ’orrid bout of pneumonia, an’ they’ve got her in the kiddies ’ospital in Great Ormond Street.’

  ‘Oh, gracious me,’ said Posie, filled with concern. ‘Poor Inspector Lovelace, and poor baby Phyllis, too. Is it serious?’

  ‘Dunno. Is this a social call then, Parker? Can I ’ang up? Or were you after some genuine police input on summit?’

  Posie caught the note of interest in his voice. The fact that he was giving her any time at all on the telephone struck her as strange. Posie needed urgent help, and if this was the only way, then so be it. It would be harsh on Helena, but it looked like involving the police was the only way. Any port in a storm, she told herself.

  She forced herself to be polite, and reverential, qualities Inspector Oats seemed to prize above all others, including talent.

  ‘Do you have time, sir? It is the Friday before Christmas after all…’

  ‘Aye.’ She could imagine the Inspector nodding his big head, getting his pencil and leather-clad notebook out, expectantly.

  ‘As it happens I’m on duty here alone for the next two days. I’m on pre-Christmas cover and the place is fairly quiet. And you’re in luck, I don’t have many other cases on.’

  What he means is he’s bored silly! thought Posie with amusement. Inspector Oats was well known for being like a terrier, chomping at the bit for work, which, when it arrived, he would chase to the bitter end. He hated sitting around doing nothing, twiddling his thumbs.

  ‘It’s small fry, sir. A blackmailer, sir, but I want them stopped. In addition I think it may be a case whereby the person can be prosecuted for fraud, as well as false representation. Oh, and having fake identity papers too, and previous extortion offences. The person may also be claiming state benefits not rightly theirs.’

  She knew that in mentioning the wrongly-claimed benefits she had ignited his interest: Inspector Oats had a pedantic bee in his bonnet about scroungers.

  ‘Not such small fry then,’ he harrumphed, sounding pleased. ‘A first-class scrounger! Righty-ho. And mebbe we can get ’er with crimes of extortion under the Larceny Act if she’s a blackmailer to boot. Can you give me the details of the case so far?’

  Posie gave a quick outline without giving away the identities of either Dr Winter or Felicity Fyne, and she took care to omit the fact of Dr Winter’s bigamy, a real crime which, sure as bread was bread, she knew Inspector Oats would pursue in the courts. She stated what it was that she wanted done next:

  ‘Above all, sir, I think we need a warrant. I don’t think that Helena Llewellyn will magically appear if I request a meeting, and she’s got those Welsh wardens at the hostel eating out of her hand, so they’ll protect her, come what may. Can you get one of your lads to seize her tonight when she returns to the hostel from work? Send one of your Constables over? Get her into an interview room?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Inspector Oats briskly. ‘I’ll do more than that, though, I’ll get over there meself. No matter if it’s a long wait. I’ll call you when we’ve got ’er in custody.’

  Posie agreed to wait on at the Grape Street office where the telephone was located and gave the Inspector the relevant details and the address of the hostel on Rupert Street.

  ‘One thing, though, Parker. Are you going to be able to bring the victims of the extortion in, to press charges? Otherwise, who exactly is alleging a crime? I don’t want this turning into a mare’s nest, Parker. I do have targets to consider.’

  ‘Mnnn, I’m sure it won’t be a problem, sir,’ said Posie breezily, knowing full well it would be downright impossible to bring either Felicity or Dr Winter in.

  ‘But, regardless, sir, you can press charges anyway, on behalf of the Crown, can’t you? If there are enough charges against the state, I mean, which there might well be. I just ask that I can speak to the woman before you formally press charges.’

  ‘Mnnn, fine. You’ll hear from me later.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. I appreciate your help. Truly.’

  ‘Bah, I’m just doing my job, Parker.’

  And as he rang off, Posie tried to ignore the horrible feeling which came to her immediately that maybe she had got this all wrong; that Dulcie Deane was just Dulcie Deane after all, and that what she had just involved the police in was indeed a mare’s nest of the highest order.

  ****

  Len had left for the night, leaving a scrawled note wishing Posie a very Merry Christmas. Mr Minks was sulking in the kitchen, and wasn’t in a cuddly mood at all.

  Posie stood at the main bay window of the waiting room and lo
oked down at the dark and empty street below, three floors down, at the lights of a café on Shaftesbury Avenue which twinkled through the darkness and the incessant freezing rain.

  Posie felt unaccountably sad.

  She felt bad about having got the police involved in arresting Helena Llewellyn, if it was Helena Llewellyn, and the more she thought about the woman, the more she felt sorry for her. She pictured her now, tired and aching after a long day’s work, pleased to return to her single room at the hostel, looking forward to a bath and a book, perhaps. Except that tonight Helena would be met by Inspector Oats, which was no laughing matter. Then she would spend a night in the cold dank cells at New Scotland Yard.

  If Posie had been right in her reasoning.

  She felt quite alone suddenly, a feeling which fortunately didn’t come upon her very often, as it brought its own depressing train of thoughts. All these lonely women I’ve met, she thought sadly: Felicity Fyne, without a husband, but sworn to him for life; Evangeline Greenwood, with a husband she detested; and now Helena Llewellyn, living life as someone else, with only a vendetta of revenge left to warm the cockles of her heart.

  The telephone rang. Posie checked her wristwatch. It was only half an hour since she had spoken to Inspector Oats; it simply wasn’t possible that he could ring back so quickly. The Operator put a call through from Oxford.

  It was Alaric. He never messed around with niceties on the telephone.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘“Well,” what?’ Posie almost snapped down the line at him.

  ‘Did you like it? What do you think? Too over the top?’

  Too late she remembered his note and the present in the strong-box.

  ‘Rats! I totally forgot. I haven’t had time to open your gift just yet. Shall I get it now?’

  ‘Never mind. Got to go. I’m at Oxford Station in their ticket office using the telephone and my train’s just come in. The motorcycle conked out near Jericho and I’ve had to leave it with a garage here over Christmas, worse luck. But I’ll see you up at Rebburn.’

  He rang off. No love, no kisses, no anything special. Posie scowled and replaced the receiver into its cradle. She banged her way through into her own office. Alaric was insufferable sometimes!

  She went to the cupboard where the strong-box was stored and took the key from a piece of string round her neck.

  A small brown cardboard box was within, nestled among the petty cash. Posie sat down at her desk and opened the box. Inside was another one, this one made of black and gold-tooled leather. It was utterly sumptuous. On its outside it said:

  CARTIER

  Posie tried not to get too excited and took miniscule, teeny-tiny little breaths. She opened the box and closed her eyes.

  There was a stunning rose-gold ring inside which caught even the dim light in the room and sparkled. A pale pinky-peach stone the size of a penny was surrounded by diamonds in the shape of petals. The whole impression was of a cheerful, sparkling daisy.

  She breathed out slowly. A tiny note had been folded into the box too. She read it quickly:

  Po,

  I got this stone for you when I was in India. It’s a pink sapphire, which seemed apt as you always see the rosy side of life. That’s what I love about you.

  I do love you, you know. Let’s make it official for goodness’ sake.

  Can’t think what took us so long.

  Love,

  Al

  Posie slipped the ring on to her left hand ring-finger and grinned. Now she really did have a proper connection with India.

  Just then the telephone rang again. The Operator announced a call from New Scotland Yard.

  ‘We had a lucky break,’ said Inspector Oats in bluff gratified tones. ‘We got ’er just after we arrived. Want to come along now or wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘Now,’ said Posie, already grabbing at her carpet bag, her own joy and surprise at Alaric’s gesture completely forgotten for the moment.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ****

  Fifteen

  ‘Any news on Inspector Lovelace’s baby?’ asked Posie on her arrival at Scotland Yard.

  Inspector Oats shook his head dourly and led her down to the interview rooms.

  ‘Your wee lassie didn’t make a fuss at all, your lady blackmailer. She’s not making one now, either. She’s a rum one an’ all. Just sits there, silently, like she’s lost in her own world. You sure she’s quite the ticket? I’ll give you half an hour, Parker, and two of my Constables will be watching you through the two-way mirror, so no funny business. I expect you to help me, too. Afterwards. Give me a detailed list of the crimes I can charge her with. You know, you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours…’

  The thought of this was too repulsive to even contemplate, for Inspector Oats bore an unfortunate and more than passing resemblance to a trout, but Posie smiled and thanked him anyway.

  She was steeling herself for a confrontation with a woman she hadn’t seen for years, a woman who had changed, who wasn’t expecting to see her, who might not even recognise her…And was the Inspector right? Had Helena simply lost her mind? Could that be the explanation behind all of this?

  Posie opened the door to the interview room which the Inspector had indicated and walked in briskly. She looked quickly at the person sitting at the single bare desk underneath the one bright lightbulb. Posie had to stop herself from gasping aloud, and recoiling in shock and disbelief.

  The woman who sat there stared at Posie with familiar, huge, dark doe-eyes. She was very, very thin, almost emaciated, and about as far away as it was possible to get from being the large, buxom woman Posie remembered from the days in Arras. She was virtually unrecognisable.

  The woman had short bobbed dyed red hair and was wearing a blue and white nursing overall. Posie thought that she looked as if she had saved up all the sadness in the world and kept it just for herself. But it was undeniably her.

  It was Helena Llewellyn.

  ‘Posie Parker?’ The voice was the same, and incredulous. On the ball. Gone went the idea of Helena being mad, or incapable. Posie took the chair opposite Helena’s.

  ‘Good evening, Helena, or should I say, “Dulcie”?’

  ‘Why are you here, of all people? You working for the police or something?’

  Posie shook her head. ‘I’m here in a personal capacity. But there are criminal charges listed against you, you know.’

  Helena sighed and looked down at her hands. They were scabbed and calloused, the result of huge amounts of rough work. Posie’s heart lurched when she saw that on Helena’s ring finger she was still wearing the poor little pearl ring which Dr Winter had managed to buy for her in Arras. Posie found herself hiding her own hands in embarrassment, what with their well-tended skin and nails, and her very recent new and expensive pink ring from Alaric.

  ‘What’s this all about, Posie? For old times’ sake, let’s forget this and treat it as a misunderstanding, can’t we? It’s nearly Christmas, after all.’

  Posie looked at the salmon-coloured charge-sheet on the table between them. She shook her head.

  ‘There’s quite a number of charges listed here, Helena. And if you don’t help me out tonight, you’ll hear them all formally read out to you tomorrow, with or without a solicitor at your side. That’s your choice. So I don’t think we can pretend it’s all just a misunderstanding. Besides, I’m only interested in the charge of blackmail, of extortion. And you were happy enough to continue with that, weren’t you?’

  Posie was thinking how strange it was to be in this position, sitting here. She thought too about all the patients who had appreciated Helena in the past; all the kindnesses Helena had shown them. She remembered the real sadness when their unit at the Clearing Station had received the news that Helena had died. Ironically most of those who had mourned her had themselves now been killed, one way or another.

  What had happened to the woman? Helena stayed silent, her hands in her lap. Posie changed tack:


  ‘I knew you, Helena. I know you’re not a bad person. You’re a kind person. What’s going on? I’m here because of Dr Winter and Felicity Fyne, and your threats to ruin their lives. I need you to promise me that it’s going to stop. Then you’ll walk out of here. A free woman. You have my word. Otherwise, I’ll get the police to charge you formally tomorrow.’

  For a moment Helena stared at Posie in a challenging way, and then looked to her side, away to the horrible olive-green painted wall. She was obviously considering what was the best course of action.

  ‘Why did you have to bring me in here?’ Helena said at last, a note of pleading in her voice. ‘Why are the police involved? Couldn’t we have had a nice chat back at my hostel?’

  Posie laughed ironically. ‘Come on, Helena. There was no way you would have met me for a chat, nice or otherwise, if you knew what it was I wanted to chat about. So what do you say?’

  ‘Very well, then.’ She nodded at last. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why are you pretending to be Dulcie Deane? She died in a bomb blast in Arras in 1918. You know that, don’t you?’

  Helena sighed:

  ‘Of course I know that. But I supposedly died on a ship, the SS Victoria, which went down on Christmas Eve, 1917. I was on the list of passengers. But I didn’t make the boat; my train to Dover was running ten minutes late and I missed the boat, fortunately or unfortunately, however you look at it. When I found out what had happened out at sea I turned heel and went back to my ma, in Wales, to let her know I was still alive. When I got back home I found chaos; my mother had been informed by telegram that I was dead, but worse, she had received a second telegram from William Winter, my fiancée.’

  ‘Telling you the engagement was off?’

  Helena nodded grimly. ‘So you all knew he dumped me by telegram?’

  Posie nodded. ‘We all hated him for it, too.’

  Helena continued. ‘That evening was the end of my life as I knew it. My mother had had a stroke shortly before I arrived, and was left totally paralysed and without her faculties. She didn’t recognise me, her only child. Imagine!’