Lost Property

by Isabella Muir

  ‘I’m so sorry, you were sleeping. I was trying not to disturb you, but I must be allergic to hospitals,’ I say and smile. ‘Are you feeling a bit better?’

  He nods and goes to remove the oxygen mask.

  ‘No, don’t,’ I say, anticipating the Ward Sister’s wrath if my presence should exacerbate his condition. ‘I’ll sit and keep you company for a while.’

  He closes his eyes again and I take the opportunity to do the same. The ward is even stuffier than usual and I can feel myself drifting off. Suddenly, I’m being shaken awake by a hand on my shoulder. It’s the young nurse who was given a verbal battering by the Ward Sister during my last visit.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she says. ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘I can’t believe I was dozing off. I’ve never been able to sleep sitting up, give me my bed and blankets every time.’

  ‘Pregnancy can make you more tired than usual. How far along are you?’

  ‘Six months, come Christmas I expect a good night’s sleep will be a distant memory.’

  She smiles and moves over to Hugh’s bed, straightening the covers and refilling the glass of water that is on his bedside locker.

  ‘How is he doing? He seems a little brighter than the last time I was in,’ I say. ‘A bit more colour in his face, but I see he’s still on the oxygen.’

  ‘Yes, it’s helping a little. Are you family?’

  ‘A friend of the family. Do you think he’ll be in for much longer?’

  ‘Oh, I’m only the nurse. It’ll be up to the doctor.’

  We hear the ward door open and she turns towards it. ‘I must move on now. If you could try not to tire him.’

  ‘Of course, but before you go, can I ask you about the man who was in last time, when Mr Furness took a turn for the worse?’

  She looks timidly around the ward, perhaps aware that the Ward Sister could appear at any moment. ‘I can’t really say, patient confidentiality, you see.’

  ‘I don’t want you to tell me anything about your patient, just his visitor. Did you overhear their conversation? Were they having a row?’

  She turns her back to Hugh and faces me, then she bends down and drops her voice to a whisper.

  ‘He kept saying “They’ll never believe you”, over and over. Shouting at poor Mr Furness.’

  ‘Was that it? Was that all he said?’

  ‘“You’ll be the one to suffer in the end.” That’s what he said, just before he stormed off. It was terrible, he caused such a scene, upset the other patients and poor Mr Furness, well, we thought we were going to lose him.’

  She looks so distressed I feel like suggesting she takes a seat while she recovers.

  ‘It was all my fault,’ she continues. Her face is flushed and her bottom lip is trembling.

  I put my hand on her arm. ‘Don’t blame yourself. How could you have known what he was going to say or do. And there’s no real harm done. Mr Furness looks as though he’s perking up a bit.’

  She turns around just as Hugh opens his eyes.

  ‘Hello there, good sleep?’ I say. ‘I nearly dozed off myself and this kind nurse almost offered me a bed.’ I smile at the nurse before she moves away to see to other patients.

  Hugh beckons to me, so I stand and move closer to him.

  ‘What is it? Did you want a drink? You’re not in pain, are you?’

  He shakes his head and points at the drawer in his bedside locker.

  ‘Something in the drawer I can get for you?’

  He nods and I pull open the drawer to find a small Bible (hospital property, I guess) and a pocketbook.

  ‘Is it the book you want, Hugh?’

  I remove the book and hand it to him. He opens the front cover, takes out a slip of paper and passes it to me. It’s a handwritten note.

  Take the left luggage ticket to Tidehaven Railway Station left luggage office. What you find there will help you understand.

  ‘Understand what, Hugh? Will it explain why you are searching for Dorothy?’

  He nods and then gives the book back to me. I return it to the drawer and when I glance up at him again he has his eyes closed and seems to have drifted off. The bell goes to signify the end of visiting hours and I leave the ward, clutching Hugh’s handwritten note in my hand.

  I put the left luggage ticket in my purse for safekeeping and on my next day with dad, I leave at lunchtime and catch the bus to Tidehaven. The bus is full and I manage to get the last seat downstairs, which is an enormous relief on two fronts. Sitting upstairs is like sitting in an ashtray, with all the smokers puffing away, plus I’m convinced that if the bus set off while I am climbing the stairs it would result in disaster. There are times when I look down at my bump and struggle to believe there is only one Bean in there. What’s even more of a worry is that there are still nearly three months to go, by which time I am certain I will be the size an elephant. Not a pretty thought.

  I had to wait a while at the bus stop and despite borrowing dad’s extra-large umbrella the moisture has seeped under my collar and down my neck. Now we are in well into November each day is either cold, wet, grey or windy, or a mixture of all four. Today the rain is more of a mizzle than a downpour, the kind of rain you can’t see, but which soaks you nevertheless.

  It’s a short walk from the town centre to the railway station, which sits at the top of King’s Road. It’s a busy station, with a direct line to London and Brighton, but at this time of day there aren’t many people about. I watch an elderly couple at the ticket office, him in a smart suit and thick overcoat, her in a camel-coloured winter coat, with a felt hat that I’m sure will spoil in the rain. They buy their tickets and then walk arm-in-arm towards the ticket barrier, off on a shopping trip, perhaps, or for afternoon tea. There is a gentle normality about them, which is at odds with the way I feel as I walk to the left luggage depository. A uniformed man glances up from his copy of the Daily Mirror as I approach.

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’ he says.

  ‘I’d like to retrieve this please.’

  I hand over the ticket, hoping he won’t ask me what I expect to be given in return. He stares at the ticket and frowns.

  ‘That goes back a while. Been away, have you miss?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ I prepare a tale of an imaginary trip overseas, but I hesitate to offer any further information and wait for him to make the next move.

  ‘Won’t be a moment, miss.’ He walks off into the back of the depository. To one side of the counter is a row of metal lockers, large enough to store a briefcase or handbag, each distinctly numbered. Further back are long wooden racks, partly filled with suitcases and holdalls of various sizes and shapes. Finally, at the back of the depository is a long rail, where coats and jackets are hanging.

  I’m trying to imagine why someone would leave a coat in left luggage, when the railwayman reappears with a large envelope in his hand.

  ‘Just this, miss?’ he says, holding it in front of me, but looking as if he is loath to release it into my hands.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ I say, moving forward to take it from him.

  ‘That’s two shillings and sixpence, miss,’ he says, still clinging to the envelope.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ I’m relieved I’ve got enough in my purse to pay the bill and make a mental note to add the cost to my out-of-pocket expenses.

  I hand over the money and he gives me the envelope. I start to walk away, when he says, ‘Just a minute, miss.’ I feel like a criminal about to be found out. Instead, he says, ‘Your receipt, miss. I’ll write one out for you, won’t take a minute.’

  I nod and smile, conscious that my heart is thumping a little too energetically.

  There’s a small café to the side of the station. I ask for a glass of lemonade and sit at one of the metal tables on a particularly uncomfortable metal chair. The table is sticky with the residue of spilt drinks and I’m tempted to ask for a cloth to wipe it, but decide against it.

  The envelope is not s
ealed, the flap is just tucked inside the opening. I ease it apart and slide my fingers in, pulling out a single piece of paper. It is a press cutting, a half page, carefully cut and folded in two. I lay the envelope onto the sticky tabletop and put the press cutting on top of it, in an attempt to keep it clean. One side of the paper is a collection of adverts; I recognise the names of some of the shops. I notice the date at the top of the cutting and see that it is from the Tidehaven Observer, 19th September 1946. On the reverse of the paper is a large photo of a group of men and women, posing in front of the Elmrock Theatre.

  The headline reads: Chess crown captured.

  The caption below the photo reads: A local delegation supports British success.

  Staring at the photo for several minutes, I reflect on Poirot’s words from The Mysterious Affair at Styles.

  ‘There is something missing - a link in the chain that is not there.’

  Is this photo a clue? If so, what does it mean? Why would Hugh consider it so vital that he has locked it away in left luggage? Nothing makes any sense.

  Chapter 14

  The Tidehaven Observer offices are at the opposite end of King’s Road, close to the town centre. To one side of the entrance is a printed list, indicating that the newspaper is run from the third floor of the office block. I use the short journey in the lift to adjust my hair band, teasing a few knots from my hair with my fingers.

  I haven’t been into the Observer offices before, in fact, it’s my first time in any newspaper office. I don’t know what I’d imagined, but the first thing to take me by surprise is the quiet. Rather than a frenetic buzz of chatter and telephones ringing, there is one reporter tapping intermittently on a typewriter. Beside him are two desks, both unattended and covered with papers, scattered untidily. One of the desks has a wire filing basket, piled high with magazines and papers, which looks ready to topple over onto the floor. The strong smell of cigarette smoke rings alarm bells. I’ve never liked the smell, but since I’ve been pregnant any whiff of tobacco turns my stomach.

  My arrival appears to have gone unnoticed. I take a quick glance around the room; there is no sign of Libby. Behind the untidy desks is a frosted glass partition. I can see the shadowy outline of two people, both seated and engaged in a quiet conversation. Then a phone rings and I hear Libby’s voice say, ‘No problem, I’ll catch you later then,’ and she emerges from behind the partition.

  ‘Janie, how lovely to see you. What brings you here? Is everything okay?’

  My face must have a residual frown. The day has not turned out quite the way I had expected. Although I’m not sure what I did expect. She beckons me over to one of the desks, the one with the toppling mountain of papers.

  ‘Come and sit down. What’s happening?’ she says.

  Everything about Libby exudes enthusiasm. Her short, bobbed blonde hair accentuates her big blue-green eyes, expertly enhanced with eyeliner and mascara. She has a permanent beaming smile and a wide-eyed expression that reminds me of a startled fawn. Now I know what she earns, I’m intrigued as to how she manages to keep up with the latest fashion. Today she is wearing a Biba-style purple gingham mini dress, which accentuates her pencil-like figure. I’m guessing the rain we had this morning encouraged her to ditch the strappy shoes she usually wears for the white, knee-length boots that now complete her outfit.

  ‘Not an advocate of the clean desk policy?’ I say, winking.

  ‘Not like you, eh? With your notebook and your lists. You should give me lessons.’ She brushes some of the papers to one side and laughs. ‘How come you’re in Tidehaven? Isn’t this one of your dad days?’

  ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ I scrabble around inside my duffel bag, take the envelope and hand it to her.

  ‘Crikey, is it evidence?’ she whispers, glancing over at her colleague who has stopped typing and is making it obvious our conversation is more interesting.

  ‘Come on, let’s take a walk,’ Libby says. She stands and grabs her coat from the back of her chair.

  It’s a relief to be out in the fresh air. I take a few deep breaths to clear my nose and throat of the stale smoke.

  ‘How do you stand it?’ I ask her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The smoke. At least you should open a few windows.’

  ‘It’s winter, or hadn’t you noticed? It doesn’t bother me, I’m used to it. Let’s dive in here,’ she says, pushing open the door to the Wimpy Bar. She looks at the row of raised stools in front of the window.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I say. ‘When you’ve a bump this size, anything other than the norm is out of reach.’ I head over to an empty table beside the counter. ‘Your local?’

  ‘You’ve discovered my secret,’ she says and winks. ‘Milkshake?’

  I smile in agreement and she orders, then brings the drinks over to join me at the table.

  ‘Now, what’s this all about. I’m intrigued,’ she says.

  I push the envelope towards her and gesture to her to open it.

  ‘Take a look and see what you think,’ I say.

  She opens the flap and gingerly slides out the press cutting. Spreading it flat on the table between us, she does as I did and turns it over, looking at both sides.

  ‘An article about a chess tournament, in Tidehaven.’ She peers more closely at the date. ‘In 1946. Right, so how is this relevant?’

  ‘I have no idea, but it’s important enough for Hugh to secrete it in left luggage.’

  ‘That’s weird. Hasn’t he told you anything else?’

  ‘Hugh worked with a secret organisation during the war. Have you heard of the Special Operations Executive?’

  ‘I’ve read bits and pieces about it, yes. Crikey, no wonder he comes across as a man of mystery. Was Dorothy caught up with the same thing. Is that why she’s in danger?’

  ‘It’s possible, but now we have this cutting, I was wondering if you could do some digging around.’

  ‘You mean professional research?’

  ‘Er, yes. Maybe check back through the archives? Perhaps something else happened on the day of this chess tournament, maybe the date is the clue?’

  ‘Can’t you just ask Hugh?’

  ‘He’s too poorly. He could barely speak last time I saw him. He looks so vulnerable tucked up in his hospital bed. I can’t help but feel sorry for him.’

  ‘Well, in my opinion this case is a no-hoper. Your client isn’t telling you what you need to know and now he’s too poorly to tell you anything at all. Why not forget about it and wait for a better one to come along?’

  ‘Oh, Libby, there’s such a sadness about him and I’m certain it’s not just his illness.’

  ‘He must still be grieving for his wife?’

  ‘Yes, there’s that too. I don’t know, maybe I’m developing a motherly instinct in advance of Bean’s arrival.’

  ‘He’s old enough to be your dad.’

  ‘Well, maybe I have a weakness for hopeless causes. But if you’re hoping I’ll take on another case after this, you can forget it. I’m going to have a baby, remember?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll have a ferret around and see what I can dig out.’

  ‘Come and see me in the library tomorrow? Let me know what you’ve found?’

  ‘Crikey, you believe in cracking the whip. I’m not sure I can drop everything, just like that.’

  ‘Pretty please? From the look of your desk I’m guessing you’re not run off your feet with exciting assignments?’

  ‘As it’s you. But you’ll owe me, don’t forget.’

  Libby is as good as her word, arriving a few minutes before lunchtime on Wednesday, waving a paper bag at me.

  ‘Cheese and pickle, or cheese and salad?’

  ‘I’m not fussed. Just give me five minutes to close up.’

  I put the Closed for lunch sign on the door, lock it and offer Libby the spare chair.

  ‘What have you found?’ I ask her.

  ‘Bad news. Precisely nothing. I scoured the w
hole of that week’s edition and there was nothing remotely of interest. The usual write-ups about the local WI, births, marriages and deaths. I get the feeling Tidehaven was desperate to return to normality after D-Day. Rationing was still a big problem, though. There were dreadful shortages, and for the families who had lost a breadwinner to the fighting, or maybe their whole house, well it would have been awfully grim.’

  The surge of hope I’d felt when Libby arrived immediately dissipates. It’s as if I’ve just been ditched.

  ‘Eat your sandwich,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’

  ‘Come on, don’t be so easily discouraged. Let’s take a look at the article again. Have you got it here?’

  I pull the envelope out from under the counter, remove the press cutting and spread it out between us.

  ‘Right, what would Poirot do?’ she says.

  ‘I have no idea. The problem with the whole Poirot thing is that it’s not real and this is. It’s not just frustrating. If Dorothy’s life is truly in danger I need to find her and soon.’ I push the sandwich away, as the hiccups begin. ‘Oh, Bean, give me a break with these blessed hiccups. It’s driving me nuts.’

  ‘You need to calm down. Take some deep breaths and we’ll approach this in a professional manner.’ She winks and points to the glass of water beside me.

  ‘You’re right,’ I take a sip of water and steady my breathing and the hiccups dissipate. ‘We have to assume it’s the article that is relevant. Not the date, or the fact that it’s in the Tidehaven Observer.’

  ‘Yes, good. What else?’

  ‘We have a photo of a group of people in front of the Elmrock Theatre. There was a chess match. Maybe it’s to do with that? Perhaps there was some kind of scam, maybe Dorothy witnessed something and now someone is after her?’

  ‘Why wait so long?’

  ‘Maybe she’s blackmailing them?’

  ‘Yes, but why wait twenty-five years? It doesn’t make sense. But you have triggered a thought,’ Libby says. ‘If Dorothy was there, maybe she is in this photo. We could be looking right at her.’

  I put my duffel bag up on the counter, rifle through it and take out my notebook. Slipped inside the front cover is the photo of Dorothy that Hugh gave me. We study it and compare it to the faces in the press article.