JT02 - To The Grave

by Steve Robinson

  “Aunt Mary moved away to South Africa soon after the war,” Jonathan said. “She became a missionary. I’ve heard that Margaret was very religious so I suppose that’s who Mary got her calling from. She married an Afrikaner called Ingram and took her middle name, Grace, although I always thought of her as Aunt Mary. She was in the ATS during the war.”

  Tayte tapped the photograph. “Who’s the man here with her?”

  “That’s Edward Buckley in his paratroopers uniform - one of the Red Berets. Apparently Aunt Mary used to talk about him all the time. They were supposed to marry after the war, but it never happened. They were besotted with each other by all accounts and Dad always said that he sensed such longing and regret from her whenever she spoke about him.”

  “Do you know why they never married?”

  “I really couldn’t say, but it must have been something pretty serious to break that pair up.”

  “Is your Aunt Mary still alive?” Tayte asked, thinking it would be great to be able to talk to someone from the time when Mena was still around.

  “Sadly, no.” Jonathan said. “Although you’ve not missed her by much. She died last month. Lung cancer.”

  “That’s too bad,” Tayte said, wondering whether Mary Lasseter’s death could be the catalyst he was looking for: a recent family event linked in some way to Mena’s suitcase and why it had been sent to his client.

  The sound of a car on the gravel outside drew their attention.

  “Good,” Jonathan said, getting up. “That will be Geraldine. Don’t call her Geri, or we’ll both be in trouble.” He winked at Tayte as he went to open the door. “Of course, she’ll insist you stay for dinner, unless you have other plans?”

  “None,” Tayte said. “But I wouldn’t want to -”

  “Good. Dinner it is then.”

  Six thousand miles away, a priest was alone in his chambers. He was sitting at his desk, preparing for the Saturday Vigil, just as the man who entered the room and silently closed the door behind him knew he would be. He adjusted the round, frameless glasses that were pinched to the bridge of his nose and stepped closer as the priest’s eyes turned to meet him.

  “I must confess my sins, Father,” the man said through thin lips that barely moved as he spoke.

  The priest stood up. He looked confused. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This area is private.”

  “But I am here, Father,” the man said.

  The priest, a much older man, checked his watch and shook his head. “Maybe you could come back later?” he said. “I am about to -”

  “It can’t wait, Father,” the man cut in. “You see - I keep secrets.”

  “Secrets?”

  “Yes, Father. I’m keeping one now.”

  The priest smiled at him. “Keeping secrets is not such a sin,” he said.

  The man nodded slowly, audibly drawing air through his nose as he filled his lungs. “The way I keep them is, Father.”

  He reached beneath his jacket, never taking his eyes off the priest, who backed instinctively away. When his hand came into view again it was holding a Glock 19 semi-compact handgun with a silencer already attached. The priest cowered and without hesitating the gunman put two bullets into his chest. The priest fell into the desk and then to the floor, and the man stood calmly over him, expressionless and remorseless.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said.

  Then he shot him once more in the head, turned and slowly walked out again, closing the door behind him.

  Jefferson Tayte took an immediate liking to Jonathan’s wife, Geraldine, who hadn’t stopped smiling and talking all through dinner. Small talk had never been something that Tayte was any good at or even comfortable with, and like Jonathan, she’d made him feel right at home. He thought she was an attractive woman. She’d had her hair done in town, cut in a short, steely-blonde bob, and in black trousers and a loose-fitting lilac jumper, she’d returned home all set for the evening, as Tayte supposed she had intended.

  They were still at the table in the dining room towards the back of a house that Tayte felt he could easily get lost in. Slow piano jazz continued to play in the background and Jonathan had managed to tease a glass of brandy into Tayte’s palm against his better judgement; it wasn’t yet nine p.m. but jet lag was knocking on his eyelids and he knew the alcohol wouldn’t help.

  “So are you both retired?” he asked.

  Geraldine laughed at the idea. “Jonathan got out the year before last when he turned sixty,” she said. “Personally, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “Journalist,” Jonathan offered as if that explained everything. “Always on the go.”

  “I work for the Leicester Mercury nowadays,” Geraldine said. “Not as active as I used to be, but I’m not ready to pack it in yet.”

  “And what line were you in?” Tayte asked Jonathan, figuring he never would be any good at casual conversation if he didn’t at least try.

  “I was a GP like my grandfather. Dad was going the same way before the war broke out. I don’t think he had the stomach for it afterwards. He went into engineering.”

  “Tell us about yourself?” Geraldine said. “What do you get up to when you’re not being a genealogist?”

  Tayte couldn’t think what to say to that. He stared at them blankly for a few seconds while he tried to think of something. Then he shook his head and said, “Nothing. I’m always being a genealogist, I guess.”

  He could see that Geraldine was studying his hands and knew where that was leading.

  “No wedding ring,” she said a moment later. “You’re not married, then?”

  “No,” Tayte said, almost laughing at the thought.

  “But you must have a girlfriend. Surely you can’t get away with working all the time.”

  Tayte thought about the woman he’d met on the plane the last time he came to England. His relationship with Julia Kapowski, if he could even call it that, hadn’t lasted and he figured it only began in the first place because she’d been so determined. In part, he blamed the distance: she was in Boston and he was in DC. But in the end he thought he’d probably just been taken in by the idea of having someone in his life over the reality it offered. She didn’t feel right for him - not that he really knew what ‘right’ was because he’d had so little experience. Ultimately, she’d wanted too much of his time and he couldn’t deal with that. At least that’s how he saw it, but a part of him knew he was just running scared again like he always did.

  “There’s no girlfriend either,” he said. “I think maybe my work gets in the way.”

  Jonathan cut into the conversation. “You’re making our guest uncomfortable, Geraldine.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Tayte said. “It’s been me, myself and my work for so long now, I’ve kind of accepted it.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with being dedicated to your work,” Jonathan said and Tayte just smiled.

  He put his nose to the rim of his glass and drew the brandy vapours in. He took a sip and the amber liquid stung his throat. Changing the subject he said, “You told me earlier, Jonathan, that Mena had a friend called Joan.”

  “Yes, Joan Cartwright,” Jonathan said. “The family lost touch with her years ago, but she came to Aunt Mary’s funeral. I don’t know how she heard about it.” He turned to Geraldine. “We exchanged Christmas cards, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, she gave us her address at the funeral,” Geraldine said. “I had a good chat with her. She wanted to keep in touch.”

  “That’s right,” Jonathan said. “Fancy that after all these years. I heard she married well and moved away to Hertfordshire back in the fifties. Nicely set up.”

  “Twice divorced,” Geraldine said. “She told me she gave up on men after that and went back to using her maiden name.”

  “Can I get her address from you before I leave?” Tayte asked, considering that Mena’s best friend from the war years could be a vital source of information. “Do you h
ave her phone number?”

  “She didn’t give her number,” Geraldine said. “Just the address. I should think she’s ex-directory.”

  “I guess I’ll have to take my chances then,” Tayte said. He wondered who else he could go and see. Mary had died recently, but Jonathan had said that she’d married an Afrikaner. “Is Mary’s husband still alive?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Long gone.”

  “Any children?”

  “Yes, a son and a daughter. Her daughter didn’t get on in South Africa. Or rather, she fell out with her mother over something, I don’t know what. She came to England as soon as she was old enough and the family helped her out until she was settled. She lived on the other side of Leicester towards Birmingham.”

  “Lived?” Tayte said, wondering what mother and daughter had fallen out over.

  “Yes, she died about six years ago now - her husband went a couple of years before that. Her son still lives in the area though and we keep in touch on and off. I can take you to see him if you think it might be useful. I know where to find him on a Sunday morning.”

  “Thanks,” Tayte said. “That would be great. My rental car’s being delivered to the hotel sometime tomorrow morning, but if you want to get an early start, I’d be happy to go along with you.”

  “Where are you staying?” Geraldine asked.

  “I booked into the Marriott.”

  “That’s in Enderby, isn’t it?” Jonathan said.

  Tayte nodded. “It’s close by a main highway - a motorway, that is. I figured an out-of-town hotel would make it easier to get around.”

  “Sensible choice,” Geraldine said. “The traffic around here can be a nightmare.”

  Tayte was still thinking about Mary and he didn’t want to lose that thread just yet. “You said Mary had a son,” he said to Jonathan. “Is he still alive?”

  “Oh, yes. His name’s Christopher Ingram. He’s about my age. Doing very well for himself. We only really see them at weddings and funerals - mostly the latter these days. Mary and her husband set up a charitable trust that Christopher ran for several years. I believe he’s taken a back seat on the board of trustees now. It was founded in South Africa, but they branched out into the UK a few years ago. I’m sure I could set something up for you there, too.”

  Tayte sipped his brandy and smiled, thinking that Jonathan was proving to be a great player to have on the team. There were already plenty of people who might be able to tell him more about Mena and it looked like getting to see most of them would pose no problem, but he hoped to learn more from Jonathan yet.

  “Do you think there could be anything of Mena’s still at the house?” he asked. “Any more photos? Any letters from that time?” It was a rambling old farmhouse. He thought it worth asking.

  Geraldine answered.

  “I don’t doubt it,” she said. “The attic’s never been properly cleared out. It’s a challenge just to get up there these days.”

  “That’s true,” Jonathan said. “There’s sure to be something, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “You never know,” Geraldine said. “You might find something valuable up there.”

  Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “I very much doubt that. I’ll take a look tomorrow afternoon, after our visit with Aunt Mary’s grandson.”

  “Don’t forget we’re out for Sunday lunch tomorrow,” Geraldine said.

  Jonathan threw Tayte a wink. “After that then.”

  “Thanks,” Tayte said. “And I’d be happy to lend a hand if you -”

  “That’s quite alright,” Jonathan cut in. “I’m not sure it would be safe for two people to be up there at the same time. And the hatch is on the small side.”

  Tayte got the picture. It was no place for a man his size to go fumbling around.

  Jonathan’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean to say that -”

  “It’s okay,” Tayte said. “I wouldn’t want me in the roof space of an old house like this either.” He laughed to make fun of it. “Actually, I have something of Mena’s I’d like to show you,” he added, changing the subject. “At least, it was in Mena’s care. It’s from her suitcase.”

  He took the library copy of Madame Bovary out from his briefcase, which he’d habitually brought into the dining room with him. He set it down on the table. “There’s a military nametape inside,” he said. “You mentioned earlier that your father believed Mena fell in love with a GI.” He opened the book and slid the nametape out so Jonathan and Geraldine could see it. “Does the name, Danielson, mean anything?”

  Jonathan sat up. “Danielson,” he repeated. “That was it. I’ve been trying to think of his name all through dinner. I was sure Dad must have mentioned it. His first name was Danny. It’s clear as crystal now.”

  Jonathan reached across the table and scooped the book up. He studied the nametape and the inside front cover where Mena’s library card was, clearly reading the name and address that was written in Mena’s own hand so long ago. He lingered over it as though cherishing something lost that had now been returned.

  Tayte smiled to himself. “Danny,” he said under his breath. He reached into his pocket for his notepad. “I’ll see if I can find anything out about him when I get to the hotel.”

  It seemed highly likely to Tayte now that Mena and the GI had fallen in love during the summer of 1944, making Danielson a strong candidate for Eliza Gray’s father. But the arrival of Mena’s suitcase and the note that had accompanied it made him think that there had to be more to it.

  Chapter Ten

  July 1944.

  June came and went for Mena Lasseter like so many lines of chalk scratched on a prison-cell wall, counting down the days until she could join the Land Army and get as far away from Oadby as possible. In that month she had become her mother’s model daughter: she dressed conservatively, was never late for meals, and spoke only when spoken to. She rarely left the house all month other than to wheel her books in silence around the hospitals or to run errands, after which she always came straight home again. Her parents’ roles as far as Mena was concerned had reversed that June. Her mother smiled whenever she saw her and her father often frowned, asking, “Whatever’s wrong with my lovely Mena?”

  By the end of the first week in June, Mena had learnt of the great allied invasion of Europe, codenamed Operation Overlord. She’d run into the yard with Pop and watched the skies with him as wave after wave of allied aircraft passed over Leicestershire. She never would forget that sound - that throbbing sky. Nor would she forget the sense of hope those iron angels carried with them.

  Pop had later told her how upset Edward was that the 1st Airborne had been held back, serving only as a training unit in the build up to the campaign to help prepare those who were going. She also heard that most of the American soldiers camped at Shady Lane had been precluded from the fight and she wished they had all gone. All except Danny, whom she could not quite force herself to forget. By the end of the second week Pop was talking about V-bombs and the terrifyingly indiscriminate long-range attacks that the Germans had begun on London.

  She observed less military matters largely through the eyes and gossip of Joan Cartwright, who - since Mena had also given up fire-watching - visited her often and had been tireless in her quest to understand Mena’s changed behaviour and why she wouldn’t let on about how her date with Danny Danielson had gone. Joan would chatter away about the Americans and Mena would listen without interest, bordering resentment as her friend told her about such trivial things as the van that drove regularly through the village, selling hotdogs and doughnuts, and how the children would chase after it shouting, “Yankee lorry! Yankee lorry!” Joan brought a packet of Wrigley’s spearmint chewing gum with her on one visit, but this was nothing new to Mena as she’d already witnessed her mother’s attempt to remove the sticky substance from the twins’ hair, finally resorting to scissors and resulting in tears.

  It was on such a visit, one mid-July afternoon, that Joan brought with h
er a gift that could not fail to cheer Mena up. It was a Sunday and such a hot day that all the windows in the Lasseter house were wide open, trying to tease in what little breeze there was. Mena was in her room, curled up in her day-dress on the chair by the window, her teddy bear in her lap for comfort. Through the pages of a book by Jonathan Swift, she had successfully managed to escape to Lilliput, but only until she heard Joan’s voice, followed by Pop’s as he called her down.

  Mena found them in the conservatory.

  “Joan has a present for you, Mena,” Pop said, smiling as she entered the room and sat in a low bergère chair.

  “Hello, Joan,” Mena said. It’s not my birthday for a whole month yet.”

  “I know that, silly,” Joan said. “It’s not a birthday present. Here.” She produced an envelope that had been hiding in the folds of her elegant pleated grey dress and handed it to Mena with a grin. “Open it.”

  Mena turned to Pop with a look that was as much to ask if it was okay and Pop eagerly nodded back. She thought it odd that the envelope had already been opened. Inside was a card inviting Mr Childers and guest to a dance at De Montfort Hall in Leicester that coming Saturday. She looked up, confused to be given a dance invitation addressed to someone else.

  “Turn it over,” Joan said.

  On the back Mena read that the dance featured the Glenn Miller Army Air Force Band and that it was supported by the 504th Parachute Swing Band. Her eyes lit up, but she was still confused.

  “Who’s Mr Childers?” she asked.

  Joan sat forward. “He’s a well-connected friend of my father’s,” she said. “He managed to get four tickets to the dance, and guess what?” She began to nod with enthusiasm. “He can’t go and his wife won’t be going either.”

  “So this is spare?” Mena said.

  Joan continued to nod. “He’d invited mum and dad,” she said. “Then when he told dad he couldn’t make it, he said he could take whoever he liked in their place.” She stood with a little jump and crossed the room to Mena. “I asked if I could go and whether I could invite you along too.”