Lost Property: A shocking tale of wartime secrets and romance (A Janie Juke mystery Book 2)

by Isabella Muir

  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 sealed, 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 sli
des 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 whole 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.

  'Waste of time,' I say. 'There are two or three women that could be Dorothy, but their faces are too indistinct and faded now, after all this time.'

  'Oh, Libby, do you know, the longer I carry on with this case, the more I feel like I'm on a wild goose chase.'

  'Nil desperandum.'

  'Blimey, I didn't know I had such an intelligent assistant.'

  'I loved Latin at school. Every translation was like a puzzle, trying to decipher all those funny words, with their strange endings.'

  'Were you good at it?'

  'Of course. What about you?'

  'Of course,' I say and grin. 'Now, getting back to the matter in hand, what are we going to do next?'

  'I have an idea.'

  'I always feel slightly nervous when you say that.'

  'You'll like this one. We can make a two-pronged attack.'

  'Sounds painful?'

  'Seriously. I have the details of all the people who wrote in for the nostalgia article. I could visit each of them, explaining that we would like to do an in-depth piece, focusing on their story. I could have the chess article with me and present it to them, in a nonchalant fashion and ask if they remember anything about that day.'

  'Nonchalant?'

  'I can do nonchalant with the best of them, I'll have you know,' she says, beaming. 'Now, the other prong is you. You can do the same thing in the library van. Have both articles out on the counter, or on the noticeboard and engage people in conversation about them.'

  'On what pretext?'

  'You'll think of something.'

  'Great, thanks for that. Only one problem. We only have one copy of the chess article.'

  'Ever heard of photocopying?'

  We agree to compare notes after a week.

  'You sure your boss won't mind? Won't he wonder what you're up to?' I ask her.

  'I'm still in his good books. Sales of the paper went up off the back of the nostalgia article, so I'm on a roll. I need to make the most of it before he changes his mind. But before you dash off, give me your hands.'

  'Oh, crikey, not that again.'

  I hold out my hands, revealing ten chewed fingernails.

  'I've made it my mission to rid you of the disgusting habit, so humour me. Let's make a date and I'll paint them for you. Shall I come to you?'

  'Yes, Saturday night, if you're free?'

  'Perfect, I'll be there.'

  A vague thought is forming in my mind. It's time to come clean with Greg and having Libby there as back up might not be such a bad idea.

  Chapter 15

  I'm due for an ante-natal check-up, so as soon as I drop the van back to the car park I make my way to the clinic. A few of the mothers are huddled around in a group and as I approach I realise they have circled around a young woman who has her head down between her knees and is making groaning noises. Before I can say or do anything one of the midwives arrives and eases her way through the group.

  'If you could all move back and give Mrs Bertrand some air,' she says.

  W
e all step back, but continue watching while the midwife speaks quietly to the woman, rubbing her back.

  'Is she going to be alright?' one of the other mothers says. 'It'll be morning sickness I expect. They call it morning sickness, but it grabs you any time of day. I've had it with all of mine, dreadful it is. Makes me wonder why I keep putting myself through it.'

  'It's alright for you, you're married so you could go on the pill if you wanted,' another woman in the crowd pipes up. A hush descends, as if an imaginary line has been crossed.

  'That'll do,' the midwife says, attempting to take control of a situation that is feeling increasingly uncomfortable. The young woman is now sitting up, still looking peaky and holding her hands across her tummy. As I move away to one of the empty chairs I notice that her ring finger is bare. It would appear Mrs Bertrand is still a Miss, a fact that may have contributed to the flurry of unspoken opinions about the plight of unmarried mothers.

  'How long am I going to be plagued with these hiccups?' I ask the midwife, once she has confirmed that everything appears to be in order, as far as Bean is concerned. 'I'm six months into my pregnancy, shouldn't my symptoms have settled down by now? You would have thought my body would be used it after all this time.'

  'It doesn't really work like that.' The midwife is young, fresh-faced, possibly a year or two younger than me. She has a calm, confident manner about her and I think about the way life filters each of us in a particular direction. What kind of midwife would I make? How would she be as a librarian? Or a private investigator, come to that.

  We chat for a while about breathing techniques.