Deserted? Pru thought. It made her shiver—who would say such a thing?
When Christopher came into the kitchen, Evelyn leapt up from her chair. One or two of Sadie’s entries drifted to the floor, and as Pru bent over to pick them up, Evelyn said, “I’m sorry I don’t have your breakfast on the table, Mr. Pearse,” but she stopped abruptly. There was a silent moment. Pru encouraged Evelyn with a quick smile, and the cook began again. “I’ll just pop the toast in, you sit down…Christopher.”
“Thanks, Evelyn,” he replied, making no show of the change. He winked at Pru as she put the journal back into its box with the photos, except the one Evelyn gave to Christopher to help with identification.
After breakfast, Pru walked out with him.
“Sadie said that everyone thought Will deserted.” Pru couldn’t keep the indignation out of her voice.
“Did she?”
“Yes, all right,” Pru said. “She wrote that in one of her journal entries. But he hadn’t deserted, had he?”
Now that she could attach an identity to the remains dug up with the Messerschmitt, Will became as real to her as Jack. As she stood with Christopher at his car, she asked the question that had been waiting in her mind when she’d opened her eyes that morning: “Do you think that Jack’s death had something to do with Will? That Jack knew who it was?”
Christopher looked off toward the parterre lawn, as if willing an answer to appear. “As yet, we don’t know it’s Will—and we don’t even have a surname for him. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”
Pru lifted her eyebrows and nodded. But she could feel it—maybe she was getting some spiritual message, like Polly.
“If Jack knew anything about the remains,” Christopher continued, “how did he know? Did someone tell him? And why would he be killed for that?”
“And the person who knocked me over—it all may be connected.”
“It may.” He drew her close. “Will you be in the garden today?”
Pru looked around the desolate yard and thought of Simon. “Not today,” she said. “I thought I’d visit Kitty—to ask about Will. The garden will hold.”
—
“Well, I’m gobsmacked,” Kitty said, both hands holding the edge of the table as if she might fall off her chair. “Is it really Sadie’s Will?”
“Christopher is tracking down his military record this morning,” Pru said, feeling a fizz of excitement. “Do you remember Will?”
“Oh, Will, yes, of course I remember him,” Kitty said, recovering enough to pour the tea. “Well, I was only about five years old. I suppose I know him better from Sadie’s stories.”
“Did no one wonder what happened to him?”
“Everyone said he deserted—ran off to Ireland.”
“Yes, that’s what Sadie wrote.”
“I don’t know how that got put about. And even though she would never believe it, everyone accepted it. It isn’t as if there was a shortage of soldiers in Ratley those days, and so I suppose if one day, a flier disappears from his company, it’s up to the RAF to sort it out.”
“Do you think Will is Evelyn’s dad?”
Kitty applied herself to cutting the apple cake. “Of course he is,” she said. “But you can see why Sadie never wanted to tell her little Evelyn—how would it be if people talked about your dad as a traitor? And that’s what they were considered during the war—deserters would be chucked in prison and can you imagine how he would be treated?”
“I’m surprised Sadie didn’t want to move away.”
“She’d nowhere to go, and folks here, well, they all liked her, and so they were careful. I saw it as I grew up—no one would talk in front of Sadie or little Evelyn about Will. As the years went by, well, it was a story that fell by the wayside. Except Sadie kept Will alive in her heart. And you could see why she’d want to hang on to something good when she had nothing else the rest of her life. Except her little Evelyn,” Kitty said, a smile spreading over her face.
It hadn’t occurred to Pru that Kitty would have such intimate knowledge of Evelyn’s mother. “Was Sadie friends with your mother?” Pru asked.
“My mum didn’t approve of Sadie,” Kitty said, shaking her head. “But we became friends when I got older.”
“Your dad died not long after the war?”
Kitty nodded, but offered nothing more. Pru settled into her wedge of cake and thought it was no wonder Kitty won firsts at the competition—the apples were firm, but not hard, the cinnamon plentiful, and what was that other spice?
“Do you know, I only saw them together the once,” Kitty said. “And after that, it was one at a time—when I became their post box.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes,” Kitty said. “Every day or so, one of them would find me as I tended the ducks and hand me a letter. I’d slip it in the pocket of my pinny and later the other would stop me in the lane to collect the post.” Kitty grinned, her apple cheeks puffing out. “Like as not, Will would have a sweetie for me—once or twice, he gave me chocolate he got off one of the American soldiers. I remember Will as a tall fellow, broad shoulders.”
Pru felt as if she were living a scene from the old wartime black-and-white movie Mrs. Miniver—she remembered how much her mother loved that film. She could see little Kitty and her ducks and a tall soldier striding down the lane and leaving a secret letter for his love.
“I wonder what happened to all those letters,” Pru said aloud, but mostly to herself.
“Lost. Burned. Tucked away never to be found. Who can say?” Kitty studied the cake for a moment. “Would you like another slice?”
“I shouldn’t, really. Oh, go on.” But before she got too wrapped up in cake, Pru turned her mind back to Kitty’s dad.
“And so, because your dad owned the pub, that means your mum owned it after?”
“My dad owned half the pub,” Kitty said. “Jimmy Chatters owned the other half.”
“Jimmy—Martin’s stepdad?”
Kitty nodded. “After my dad was gone, Jimmy up and gave his half to my mum. Yes,” Kitty said in response to Pru’s raised eyebrows. “Just gave it to her—it’s the sort of thing he did for folks. So it was mine after that, until I sold it to Dick and Ursula.”
“And your mum let Sadie work there?”
“Jimmy’s doing. She’d started there after the war, and it was part of the agreement with my mum, that’s all I know. Of course, I was happy to keep Sadie on when I got the pub. And we kept the name the Robber Blackbird,” Kitty said and sighed. “It was my dad that had changed it from the Duke of Wellington—quite a joke, he thought. My mum said shouldn’t they change it back, but Jimmy didn’t seem to mind.”
“Why would Jimmy mind?”
Kitty didn’t have a chance to answer as Pru’s phone rang. She almost let it go to voicemail so that she could hear the rest of the story, but saw that it was Christopher.
“Have you found Will?” she asked.
“It isn’t as easy as we thought,” Christopher said.
Pru waved at Jemima, who came in the kitchen carrying shopping bags. “There are no records?”
“There may very well be records, but at the moment, we cannot see them.” She heard him sigh. “MOD holds all service personnel files from the war. Details of deceased personnel are allowed out, but we’ve no surname for this Will and we don’t know if he has family. I’m sure we can suss it out, but it’ll take time. We’ll need to make a formal request, state our case, and go through the proper channels to sort through the records. It could take a while.”
“That’s ridiculous—don’t they know this is a police investigation?”
“MOD trumps police, I’m afraid.”
“And the records aren’t even online?”
“It wouldn’t matter if they were—they’re classified.”
“When will we get an answer?” Pru asked, fuming.
“Martin’s here,” Christopher said. “He’ll get on it.” That was far too charitable a statement
—Martin must’ve been standing at Christopher’s elbow.
“Are you sure you can’t pull some strings?” she asked.
“We’ll talk later,” he replied.
As Pru finished her conversation, Kitty was saying, “I believe I’ll just go take a bit of a rest before lunch.” She heaved herself out of the chair, and Jemima jumped to put her hand under her grandmother’s elbow. “You won’t mind now, Pru, will you? Jemima will walk out with you.”
At the gate—Pru in the lane and Jemima with Sonia just inside the yard—Pru asked, “Are you still in touch with Orlando?”
“Oh yes, Ms. Parke. We’re co-moderating an online discussion about the third season of Galaxy Raiders: The Pecuniary Universe. It’s causing a great deal of controversy,” she said. “Monstrosa has contracted a rare disease, and we believe they’re trying to kill off her character.”
“Well, I’d love to hear from him. Do you think if I left you my number, you could ask him to ring when he has the chance?” She patted her empty pockets. “I’ve nothing to write on.”
Jemima whipped out her phone. “I’ll put your number in,” and did so as Pru recited it.
“Thanks, Jemima. And please call me Pru.”
—
Pru had made it within sight of Greenoak’s drive when her phone pinged. A message from Orlando: hru, ap? news? atb
She blinked at the screen, and then began a reply: Dear Orlando, How lovely to hear from you. We hope that all is going well…She paused to backspace and correct a mistake, but then dumped the entire message and hit the “call” button.
“Aunt Pru?” Orlando’s voice was just above a whisper, and it sounded as if he was moving around. She heard the click of a door, and his volume rose. “Did you get my text?”
“Yes, Orlando, I did, but I wanted to hear your voice”—an outdated wish these days, she knew—“and so I thought I’d ring. Is everything going well at home?”
“Fine, yeah. So, what do you know about this Will?” he asked, unable to disguise the eagerness in his voice.
“How did you…” Jemima’s thumbs must’ve fair flown over her keypad. “Well, we think that’s who the skeleton is,” Pru said, and relayed the few details they had about Will. “But Ministry of Defence won’t let us into records without jumping through a few hoops. I mean, the police will need to go through an application process. But they’ll get it done, I’m sure. Now, about you—are you keeping yourself busy?”
Orlando offered news of the family, but little of himself, apart from saying his mother had discouraged him from taking a job at the local computer store. A pang of sympathy for the boy clutched at Pru’s heart. Perhaps when Claire cooled off, Orlando could come back for a visit.
—
Clouds were scudding across the sky as Pru walked up the drive. A few fat drops of water hit her smack in the face as she dashed in the mudroom door, just as the rain began in earnest. She noticed Martin’s car in the yard, and in the kitchen saw the man himself standing next to Evelyn’s coat and bag. No Evelyn in sight.
“Is there news?” Pru asked him. “From the MOD?”
Martin raised his shoulders, his face reddening. “Sorry, Pru—the government, you know, not the swiftest creature.”
Evelyn pushed open the door from the hall, her arms full of linens up to her chin. “Martin, I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Ev,” Martin said, “you should be keeping the doors locked, you know, just in case. After what happened to Pru.”
“And should I lock them against you, Martin?” Ev asked, making her way round the table. Martin blushed again and laughed.
Pru had told Evelyn about being knocked over Saturday night in the parterre lawn, but she had made light of it—too light, apparently. “You’re right, of course, Martin,” Pru said. “We wouldn’t want someone bold enough to walk in while you’re upstairs, Evelyn.”
“Let him try,” Evelyn said, heading for the washing machine, “and see what he gets.”
Chapter 30
The week seemed endless to Pru—and it was only Wednesday morning. She wondered if Simon felt the same. There was still no word from him, and she imagined him hunkered over a cup of tea at his kitchen table, brooding. She talked briefly with Polly, who begged off being an intermediary. “He’ll have to pull himself out of this,” she said, “and the two of you need to work it out.” Easier to put it off, Pru thought as she pulled on her weatherproofs against the drizzle and set off to sweep wet leaves from the terrace.
The night before, Christopher had said to her, “Tomorrow, I’ll go over Jack’s every move his last day. There must be something else there.”
“Joseph Hare,” she had reminded him.
Joseph Hare, she reminded herself again as she swept, the broom scraping on the stone. The police had found twenty-three Joseph Hares in England. Stan had never heard the name before, and so Christopher assigned PC Gerald Plumb—Pru had at last learned his surname—the task of winnowing down the list to locate the Joseph Hare who came looking for Jack at the Blackbird.
We know more about the dead Will than the living Joseph Hare. Except, we don’t know for sure if it is Will. Or his surname. Or if he’s Evelyn’s father. Or how he died.
In her reverie, she had stopped sweeping, and lack of activity caused her to shiver. I need a coffee, she thought, heading to the kitchen just as her phone rang. She pulled off a glove to answer.
“Pru, can you come over? Something’s wrong with Gran…I didn’t know who else to ring…I’m here all alone.”
“Jemima?” The young woman sounded like a scared little girl. “What’s wrong with Kitty? Did she fall? Listen, hang up right now and ring 999. Do you understand?” Pru heard Kitty’s voice in the background, saying something about Sonia.
“It’s all right, Gran, Sonia is in the pen,” Jemima said. “Yes, Pru, I did ring 999 right at the start. But we’re still waiting—oh, I hear them now.”
“I’ll be right there,” Pru said.
—
The emergency vehicle was parked at the gate when Pru pulled up to Kitty’s; the cottage door stood open. Along the path lay one side of the duck enclosure—the large pond at the low corner, and on center stage was the wooden “palace.”
The ducks had congregated inside the fence near the cottage door, keeping silent vigil. Jemima waited on the doorstep. The girl’s face was blotchy and tear-streaked; she wore no coat and stood on the front step in her black-and-pink outfit, shivering. Pru gave her a hug. “Now tell me what happened.”
They stepped in the kitchen, where Kitty sat in a chair with two young men standing over her taking her pulse and looking into her eyes as she complained, “I just had a spell, that’s all it was. I’m fine now.”
“Not just a spell, Gran,” Jemima said and sniffed. “You couldn’t remember your name—or mine. You couldn’t stand up, and you almost pulled the kettle off the cooker.”
“Oh, girl,” Kitty said, reaching her free hand out for Jemima’s. “I’m sorry I gave you such a fright. But these gentlemen can go now, you see I’m myself again.”
Kitty didn’t get her wish. It was off to the hospital with her—although she refused to lie on a stretcher, and so they carried her out sitting in her kitchen chair. Jemima and Pru followed. Before they closed the doors of the vehicle, one of the men turned to the girl. “Do you want to ride along?”
Jemima’s wide eyes looked in at her grandmother sitting amid the trappings of tubes and beeping machines, and her face lost all color. Pru took her arm. “Jemima can come with me. We’ll be right behind you, Kitty, all right? We’ll see you there.”
They watched the ambulance turn round and head off toward Romsey, its red light flashing, but without a siren.
“I should’ve been brave,” Jemima said in a little voice. “Do you think Gran is scared?”
“I think Kitty is grateful you took charge of the situation,” Pru said as they buckled themselves into her Mini. “Did something bring it on?”
“Sadie? Sadie was Evelyn’s mother—she was a friend of your grandmother’s. It was a person getting into the pen?” Pru asked. “Not a fox?”
“Oh,” Jemima said, hand to her chest, “was she that bad, do you think? That she’d mistake a fox for a person?”
—
Pru and Jemima arrived not long after the ambulance and spent several hours doing what all family members do in the hospital—waiting, filling out forms, and waiting again. Jemima talked with her father, Rory Bassett; he was on his way down from Telford. Pru got them cups of tea. She rang Christopher—he said he would check on the duck pen—and Evelyn, who met the news with silence before saying “Oh, Kitty,” in a choked voice. Finally, they settled down on plastic chairs in the corridor, Jemima texting, and Pru with a six-month-old copy of Hampshire Life.
When they were at last able to see Kitty, they found her sitting up in bed with a fierce expression, as if to set herself apart from the other three, more feeble, occupants of her ward. The doctor explained that Kitty’s spell was most likely a “TIA”—not a stroke, just a bit of plaque that had come loose in her bloodstream and caused a moment of blockage. Not uncommon at her age, he said. They’d keep her overnight and get her started on medication.
“I’ll stay until your dad gets here,” Pru said to Jemima. “Why don’t you go and keep an eye out for him?”
“Is that all right, Gran?”
“Of course it is. Off you go, girl. Find me some Ribena.”
After Jemima left, Pru asked, “Would you like to sleep, Kitty? I can wait out in the corridor.”
“No, you stay,” Kitty said. “I’ve been thinking about Sadie—our talk yesterday stirred up such memories. I can still see her behind the bar at the Blackbird.”
The past was on Pru’s mind, too. “Why would Jimmy mind that your dad changed the name of the pub from the Duke of Wellington to the Robber Blackbird?”
The Skeleton Garden Page 20
