An Old, Cold Grave

by Iona Whishaw

  “Let’s go find a nice bun. I have some pennies that man gave me. Do you want to?” she took his hand, brushing the drying mud and dirt from the edge of the river off it, and she pulled him up the embankment to the street. The street was still crowded, and she stood, bemused by the noise and movement.

  Someone pushed past them and she nearly lost hold of her brother’s hand. He started to cry and wanted to be picked up. “No, don’t. Come. Look, across the street, there’s a bakery.”

  But the boy put both arms up and leaned on her, whimpering. She shook her head and scooped him up, and he turned, more confident now, in her arms, and looked out at the street. This change of position threw her off balance and she stepped off the curb, narrowly avoiding a pair of horses drawing a wagon full of barrels. A man in a frock coat helped her back onto the pavement and bent down to look at her. She could see his dark eyes in the shadow of the rim of his hat.

  “Where’s your mother?” he asked, not entirely unkindly.

  The girl looked across the street to the bakery. “She’s just over there, sir. She’s getting us a bun.”

  “Bun,” said the boy, looking at the man. “I’m hungry, and we’re going to have a bun!”

  The man stood up and sighed. The streets were full of these urchins. The little girl was almost certainly lying about the whereabouts of her mother. But getting them something to eat would be good. Then he’d take them along to the Children’s Shelter Society. “Come along then. I’ll get you across the road, and we’ll get you something to eat and find your mother, eh?” He used his gloved hand to give her a gentle push into the road when the traffic allowed, and they gained the other side of the street, the little boy beginning to slip down through his sister’s exhausted arms. Somehow knowing that they should not go into the shop, the children waited while the man went in. The bell tinkled and then sounded again a moment later when a woman with a basket came out and wrinkled her nose at the sight of them. The girl leaned her back against the wall enjoying the feel of the weakening sun on her face, and kicked backward against the building, singing, “See saw, Marjorie Daw, Jack shall have a new master,” over and over under her breath, and holding tight to her brother’s hand.

  The bell rang again, and the man was out with a paper of Chelsea buns, which he handed her. “I didn’t see your mother in there. I think we’d better go along to a place where you can wait for her.”

  The girl felt a wave of fear. Her mother had said she must be by the river. That is where she would try to find them.

  She clutched at the buns, the sweet smell of them spiking her aching hunger. Her brother clutched urgently at her arm to get one. “No. We have to go to the river. Mum will find us there.” She pulled at her brother and darted back into the street and was drawn into the flow of the crowd. The man thought of going after them, but decided that the little girl was probably telling the truth this time. Her mother was off somewhere, drunk, prostituting, who knew what, and had told them to wait there. Fervently hoping the mother would return, he made his way home. He would talk to his sister. She did some sort of charity work for these sorts of cases. The police made sweeps as well. Someone would find them.

  IT WAS DARK when their mother found her way back to the bridge. She had a small cloth bag with a little food. The temperature was starting to drop, and she hoped her daughter had had enough sense to pull some clothes out of the bundle she carried, to keep them warm. The light from the few gas lamps on the street did not penetrate the area under the bridge. She could hear movement and sharp, rasping, alcoholic voices. A rat ran up from the river and made her jump and cry out as it passed her.

  “Children!” she called out, but softly, fearing to alert whatever street life had begun to settle under the bridge for the night. She got no answer. She found the bush, and could see the pale form of the bundle Isabel had been carrying. She seized it and shook it as if her children might be inside it. “Stop this nonsense, now. It’s me. I have some food.”

  “Do you?” said a harsh voice from somewhere in the dark. “You won’t mind sharing it. Them kiddies you’re calling ain’t anywhere. Maybe they been took up by the workers. Maybe they been took up by someone else, eh?”

  Feeling the blood drain from her face, the mother experienced pure panic. She called for them loudly now, terrified, running and stumbling farther under the bridge into the dark. She stopped. In the noisome obscurity she could hear shuffling and movement. The sound frightened her, but she said shakily, “Did someone take them?”

  “Come on, luvie, give us some of what you got in that bag, and we’ll say.” The voice was so close that she recoiled and moved, stumbling toward the other side of the bridge, calling for her children. An old causeway went up toward the street, and the mother started up it, her heart pounding. A man stopped her, his hand on her arm. She jumped away, clutching her bags tightly away from him.

  “I seen them earlier, but they went away and didn’t come back. Maybe they was looking for something to eat.”

  “Yes,” she managed, and then continued up onto the street, where the pale light created the blackest of shadows. It was nearly morning when she gave up and slumped onto the stoop of a doorway. She didn’t even know where she was anymore. In the fitful sleep she fell into, she dreamed of the house where she’d been in service in Bloomsbury. She was fifteen again, only there was something wrong with the house. All of the stairs went down into darkness, and no stair would go up. She became more and more desperate and could feel herself crying and calling out for her husband, Tommy, who never came.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE RECTANGLE OF EARTH AT the side of the house that had been the location of Lady Armstrong’s garden looked, Lane thought, forlorn and neglected, and not a little resentful. It had sat fallow for several years and was now covered with a layer of rotting grasses and weeds. It was, she now saw, an enormous space. Did she need this much garden? She wasn’t homesteading, after all. A little patch of green peas and a few carrots was all she had in mind. With a feeling of guilt for betraying the work of the industrious Lady Armstrong, Lane determined she would have to get into the barn and find the tools she needed as soon as she’d finished her map. Tomorrow, or the next day, at the latest.

  Having successfully put off a daunting task, she went back inside to study her timeline. Taking up her pencil, she reviewed it from 1903 at the top, to 1910–1913, the possible time the Anscombs had left. Down at the very bottom, she put 1947, with the date the body was discovered. Not much to go on. She wondered how Ames was getting on with finding lost children. She was just considering whether she should call the inspector with what little she had, and had decided it wasn’t quite enough to bother him with, when the phone jangled. Perhaps Kenny had thought of something else. “KC 431, Lane Winslow speaking,” she said, wondering if she should have brought her notebook along.

  “Miss Winslow, good afternoon.” She smiled at the sound of his voice.

  “Inspector. Have you called for an update? You must think me very efficient, if so. Still, as it happens, I do have some names for you to check into.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to putting Ames on the job. But I am calling on another matter, as it happens. Remember that girl I was telling you about who damaged a local mill? She’s run off and we’ve tracked her down to a bolthole near you. I’ve got to go and retrieve her, but I’d feel more comfortable if a woman were along. I don’t relish trying to persuade her on my own. Unfortunately we have no women on the force at the moment.”

  Lane tried to cover her combined surprise and delight at being needed in this completely unexpected way. “I would be glad to help. It will be useful to know where the local boltholes are in case I ever need one.”

  “I’m leaving now, so I’ll see you in a smidgen under an hour.”

  “Just you? No Ames?”

  “I knew you’d be disappointed by that, but he has to do some real work some of the time, so yes. Just me. And I have a photograph of the locket found aroun
d the child’s neck. I’ll give you more details when I see you. I want you to show it around, see if anyone recognizes it.”

  Lane hung up the receiver and leaned against the wall trying to control how un-disappointed she was that it would just be Darling.

  WITH LANE BESIDE him giving instructions, Darling drove across the main road to the narrow rutted dirt lane that led to the wharf.

  “What happens when you meet someone coming the other way? One of you would have to back all the way up or down,” he asked her as he leaned forward in an attempt to see around the blind corners.

  “The only traffic here is Kenny Armstrong, except during apple season, then it’s quite busy,” she replied. “People deliver their harvest to the shed here, and the boat picks it up. Otherwise it’s pretty quiet. We should be okay.”

  The last corner revealed the lake, shimmering light weaving in and out of the deep green and blue of the water in the sudden burst of sun that penetrated the dense grey cloud cover of the earlier part of the day. He pulled the car in front of the shed and got out. The sound of the water lapping softly at the shore intensified the quiet and beauty of the moment.

  Darling wondered what it would be like to live out here where this peace was readily available. You’d probably get used to it in no time and then ignore it, he thought, and turned firmly to the task of finding the path. “The boy said there was a path to the first cottage through a wood.”

  “That’s right. You can see a string of cottages along the bay, there. We walked here in the summer, Angela and I, and that brood of boys. It’s just over here.” The path led through a stand of pine and bare birch trees and a creek that emptied into the lake below. Lane worried that the girl would try to run if she heard them, and was grateful for the sound of the water rushing over the rocks.

  The stand of trees ended abruptly and they could see the cottage just ahead, at the highest point of the sloped, rocky beach, tucked against the hill. They stood still, listening. They heard only the sound of the creek in the background. The cottage had a screened-in porch that looked over the lake, and they could see panels stacked against the side of the house that would probably be put over the screened area during the winter, Lane assumed. The cottage had a weary look. The pale green paint was peeling and the screens sagged. Darling mounted the three stairs that led up to a weathered blue door. He knocked. “Erin, it’s Inspector Darling. We spoke in Nelson. We’ve been looking for you. People have been very worried. Can I come in?”

  There was a brief sound and then silence.

  “Erin, you can’t stay here. For one thing it’s trespassing, and for another, your parents are frantic. We’re going to come in. I have a friend with me, Miss Winslow.” At this he tried the door, which swung open. Erin was sitting on a tattered sofa, a pile of books on the floor and a notebook and fountain pen beside her. She had a pale brown man’s sweater on that was much too big for her, which she had pulled tightly around herself. She was staring at her feet, her dishevelled red hair covering most of her face. She looked up, and Lane thought she could see relief in her eyes. Lane came forward and sat next to her. “I’m Lane Winslow, Erin. I’ve come along to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I don’t know what you have to do with anything,” the girl said, looking down.

  “Well, I know. I’m a complete stranger. But I do have a lovely house up the road. You can have a wash and I’ll make you something to eat. You must be absolutely famished, and it can’t have been that warm here at night.” A grey wool blanket lay discarded on the edge of the sofa, giving proof of this. “Once you’ve cleaned up and had a proper meal things might look a little different.”

  “I doubt it,” the girl said, sighing heavily. “But I can see I’m powerless, again. We might as well get this over with.” She stood up and took up her books and writing equipment. She handed Lane two large textbooks.

  Lane took them, smiling. Her offer had been accepted and she felt pleased, as though she’d tamed some wild creature. Darling, relieved at the lack of fuss, said, “You two go ahead to the car. I’ll just close up here. Erin, were those panels on the windows when you came?”

  “No. Not even earlier in the winter. They don’t take very good care of it. That’s why I didn’t think it would matter if we came here.” She watched the inspector retrace his steps along the path, and then they went to stand by the car. Erin said suddenly, “I got pretty scared this morning because I thought the owner was coming back.”

  They had been leaning on the car, looking out at the lake. At this, Lane turned to her. “You saw someone?”

  “I heard someone first. I could hear the footsteps on the gravel, so I started to gather all my stuff, but then the footsteps seemed to stop. I snuck a peek through the window and I saw it was just an old man bathing in the lake.” She shuddered. “It must be freezing!”

  “You must be a very brave girl to stick two nights on your own out here!” Lane said, and then cursed herself. What a patronizing remark! The sort she’d absolutely hated when she was on missions, as if bravery were a male preserve. “I’m sorry. What a stupid thing to say. I want to ask you why you ran away, but it’s none of my business.”

  At this the girl looked at her and almost smiled. “No it’s not,” she said. “You’re very pretty. Do you find it a problem?” she asked after a pause.

  Lane hid her surprise at the turn of the conversation. She could be honest, or she could demure. Honesty on the whole with this girl, she thought. “Yes, actually. Sometimes. Though one doesn’t think of oneself as pretty, does one? Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered. You said ‘I,’ as in ‘I have a house,’ so I’m guessing you aren’t married. Didn’t your parents try to marry you off? That’s what happens to pretty girls here, anyway. Obviously you’re from England or somewhere so maybe it’s different there.”

  Lane laughed. “No, I suspect it’s the same. My mother died when I was a child, and we’ve just had a war, which kept me busy, so I suppose that’s how I avoided it!”

  “You are so lucky,” Erin said bitterly, as Darling emerged along the path. They drove in silence up the winding road to Lane’s gate.

  Darling stopped the car and, leaving the engine running, said “Thank you, Miss Winslow, I’d better get this young lady back to her parents.”

  “Nonsense. She hasn’t had a bite to eat. Erin, would you like a little something before you have to go back and face the music?”

  The girl nodded almost gratefully at Lane. “I am pretty hungry.”

  Smiling brightly at Darling, Lane opened the car door. “Good then. Come on in.” Once inside she handed the girl a towel and washcloth. “Here you go. Why don’t you have a wash up and I’ll put the kettle on and see about some food. We could all use some lunch I expect,” said Lane. “And if you want a change of clothes, I’m sure I have something that will fit. Just let me know.”

  “Deftly done,” remarked Darling when Erin had disappeared up the hall. “But I suppose you’re right. She’ll be in a better mood on the long trip back if she has some food. Can I help?”

  “No. Relax. I think you’ll need all your strength for the drive back!”

  Darling occupied himself scanning Lane’s bookshelf, noting with approval that her choices included a wide range of interests from histories of medieval England to poetry by Dylan and Yeats, along with dictionaries for French, Russian, and German, and a massive Columbia Encyclopedia of music. He was contemplating the view from the window when Erin appeared, still wearing the brown sweater, as if unwilling to give up this one security. “I won’t bite, you know,” Erin said. She did not look at him, but instead she looked around Lane’s sitting room, perhaps imagining something like this for herself one day.

  Darling smiled. “I didn’t expect that you would,” he said. “I was rather thinking you’d like to have something to eat before I start grilling you.”

  “Maybe instead of ‘grilling’ you could try to understand. You just think I�
�m some sort of juvenile delinquent. You have to lock me up and then return me to my real jailers.”

  “By that I suppose you mean your parents,” Darling said. He sat down on the arm of the second easy chair Lane always seemed to have in front of the fire. For whom? He wondered, thinking for an unnerving second of what it would be like if the chair was for him. “I suppose the grilling I mean is an attempt to understand. You haven’t, so far, been willing to say much to me, so I am finding it hard to know how to proceed.”

  “You should try being more like her,” here Erin jerked her head toward the kitchen, where they could hear Lane running water into the kettle. “She, at least, is honest. You might get more out of your prisoners if you were honest and tried to listen.”

  Darling sighed and was about to protest her characterization of herself as his prisoner, when Lane appeared in the doorway. “I’m looking into sandwiches for our lunch. It’s not very glamorous I’m afraid, but maybe I can put him to some good use helping after all.” Lane smiled in a way that made Darling turn away in confusion, and she was rewarded by Erin smiling back at her and looking at the inspector with a little shake of her head. “Yeah. He is pretty useless,” the girl said.

  In the kitchen Lane was slicing through a loaf of bread, another gift from the Hughes kitchen. They’d left Erin to sit by the fire. “For the record, I don’t think you are,” she said. “I’ve got some cheese. We’ll have grilled cheese sandwiches. What do you think?”

  “You don’t think I’m what?”

  “Useless. I don’t even think you are insensitive, though she clearly thinks you are. Here. Cut this cheese into thin slices. I have a cast iron frying pan here somewhere. One of Lady Armstrong’s treasures.”

  “She thinks you’re the bee’s knees. She says you are honest and you listen.”