Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  I smile. ‘Sounds like a fair result. And I must say it’s umm…’ I pause to think of a word other than ‘attractive’, ‘refreshing… to meet someone who is for the underdog, not against them.’

  He lowers his eyes, reading my subtext. ‘Oh, that’s me, all right. Widows, orphans – the more downtrodden the better.’

  I detect a touch of cynicism but forget it immediately when he puts his hand over mine.

  ‘I see…’ I leave my hand where it is, aware that I’m blushing. ‘It all sounds very philanthropic.’

  ‘What a word!’ he says. ‘Another old chestnut from – where did you say? Cambridge?’

  ‘Oxford.’ I withdraw a fraction.

  ‘Ah, that’s right.’

  ‘What?’ I joke. ‘I mean, you’re a barrister. Hardly a job for your average blue-stocking.’

  He laughs. ‘No, I suppose not. But I am most definitely from humble origins.’

  ‘So you said before. And where exactly is that?’

  ‘East London.’ There’s a hint of pride in his voice.

  ‘Oh? Which part?’ In the years I spent in suburbia followed by my time in ‘the city of dreaming spires’, I’ve had little chance to get to know anyone from what could be classed the ‘rougher’ areas of London. And looking at Tim Edwards, I certainly wouldn’t have pinned him on the map as coming from there.

  ‘Near Shoreditch. A little street of semis that in its heyday used to be a Georgian terrace.’

  ‘Used to be?’

  ‘It was mostly destroyed in the Blitz. Then in the 60’s some sadistic architect with a passion for concrete and pebble-dash got his hands dirty. Gran’s lived in the same road her whole life.’

  ‘How interesting.’ I think back to my Tube ride earlier when I was wondering how people survived the Blitz. Not something I’ve thought much about before, and now, it’s come up again.

  ‘A lot of the elderly people I represent were alive in those days,’ Tim says. ‘Believe it or not, even all these years later, there are still quite a few wrongs that need righting.’

  His face hardens momentarily, and I’m not quite sure what to say.

  *

  In the end I have a drink too many, and the inevitable moment arrives when the bar gets crowded, several groups are eyeing our table, and it’s time to fish or cut bait. I’m warmed by the wine and laughing at some of his anecdotes that prove Tim’s a true crusader for the underdog. Suit or no, it’s an attractive quality in a man. Then there’s those eyes…

  We stand up and I lean on his arm as we make our way to the door of the pub. With each step, I teeter on a knife-edge – my mind telling me that it’s too soon – to go with him to ‘see his flat’, have a nightcap, let one thing lead to another – but my body is looking to take a leaf out of Karen’s book. I mean, what do I have to lose—?’

  ‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek. ‘I hope we can do it again soon.’

  ‘Oh – right.’ All my ‘will I? – won’t I?’s disappear in a cloud of bus exhaust. That’s it then, the evening’s over – early by all accounts. ‘Yes, me too,’ I recover. ‘Thanks for the drink… and the company.’

  An SUV speeds through a puddle, splashing me. But by then, I’m already sobered up.

  ‘I’ve got a big case on Monday that I need to prepare for,’ he explains, obviously sensing my disappointment. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘I should get home too.’ I lift my arm to hail a taxi. ‘Good luck with your case.’

  ‘Thanks. And maybe we could do dinner next weekend?’

  Instantly I brighten. I know I’m supposed to play hard-to-get and that there are dating rules for these types of situations. But I don’t know them, and I’ve never liked playing games. ‘I’d like that,’ I say.

  ‘Great. Because there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My gran.’

  I give a flippant little laugh. ‘I’m flattered. But isn’t it a little soon?’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve got the feeling, Alex, that she’ll want to meet you sooner or later.’

  *

  I decline his offer to come with me in the taxi. Although he seems to have brought out an unfamiliar damsel-in-distress complex in me, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. At least we’ve made plans to see each other again.

  I manage to catch the 21:30 train, feeling tired but satisfied. As the train rumbles out of London to the countryside beyond, I close my eyes and reflect on the two very different men I’ve met up with today – Tim, and ‘Chris’ – the PA had called him – Heath-Churchley. Oddly, though he may be from a blue-collar background, it’s Tim who seems the slightly stiffer and posher of the two, but that could just be his legal training. And Chris – despite being from one of the ‘nation’s oldest, proudest families’ – came across as unassuming and approachable. Not that it matters in the slightest. Because even the thought of him brings the shameful words of ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley exploding into my head: ‘What are you – the cleaner? The gift shop girl? Some little nobody?’

  ‘Daddy’ H-C was angry, and he had a right to be – but not at me. I should have stood up for myself at the time. Instead, I sat there like a limpet on a rock, captive to the tide of abuse. And while he hadn’t actually managed to get me sacked, the curse of that awful day has crawled from the woodwork like a plague bacillus. Because I don’t know how much help, if any, the Clockmaker could have given me in finding out about the locket, but I won’t be going back there to find out.

  - Chapter 14 -

  When I wake up the next morning, I’m still tired and a little groggy from my evening out. The velvet bag is on the bedside table where I put it. I take out the locket and open the clasp. The bird rotates in a full circle, its beak moving in time with the tinkling melody. The tune is sweet and brisk like a folk song, and yet, there’s an undertone of sadness there also. If I knew what the tune was, maybe I could discover where the locket came from.

  And then there’s the golden key. I tip it out of the bag into my hand. Another mystery. ‘What do you open?’ I mutter, turning it over. It’s obvious where I need to start looking for answers – Mrs Fairchild.

  I think back to the years we’ve known each other – how I’ve come to consider her as so much more than an employer. She’s a friend – a confidante. A sort of adopted grandmother, always willing to sit down and chat over a pot of tea and a plate of scones or a Victoria sponge, always open and approachable. Until recently.

  Now, it’s like a smothering velvet curtain has come between us. I want to move it aside, show her that I’m here for her and willing to listen and help any way I can. How can I get her to confide in me? Why did she throw me to the wolves – the Heath-Churchly family – when she knew what had passed between us?

  I glance at the note on the bedside table: ‘For Alex??’. I’ve kept it, just in case I start thinking that I imagined the whole thing. On some level, she must want to tell me – want me to be involved. But it’s obvious that there’s something very painful under the surface. The last thing I want to do is make it worse… I’ll need to tread carefully.

  I tuck the jewelled bird and the key back into the velvet bag. I’ll put them back in Mrs Fairchild’s jewellery box where she keeps her engagement ring and other jewellery that her husband, George, gave to her over the years. Though, I admit, as I slip the bag into my pocket, I’ve already got used to carrying the locket around with me, almost like a talisman…

  I check my diary: three tours scheduled for today, with one guide on holiday, so I’ll be stepping in. Unfortunately. Until I get to the bottom of things, giving house tours has become an unwanted distraction.

  I shower, dress and put on the coffee maker in the kitchen. While the machine is burbling in the background, I unplug my mobile phone from its charger. I feel instantly better when I see that there’s a text from Tim Edwards.

  I had a great time last night. Looking forward to dinner.r />
  There’s also an apologetic text message from Karen. I decide to give her a call while I’m waiting for the coffee to brew. She answers on about the sixth ring, sleepy and cross. But when she hears it’s me, she revives a little.

  ‘Alex! I’m glad you called. I’ve done quite a bit of meditation and prayer over what happened. I really am sorry.’

  I smile down the phone. ‘I know. And – don’t worry. What’s done is done.’

  ‘Yes. I know. And I’ve come to the conclusion that if God wanted me to be a nun, he wouldn’t have set up the C of E.’

  ‘He didn’t – Henry the Eighth did.’

  ‘Technicalities…’

  ‘Whatever.’ I laugh. ‘But I’ve taken it on board what you said about my needing to get out more.’

  ‘Really? Do tell.’

  I give her the lowdown on Tim, holding the phone away from my ear so that her grand whoop! and ‘Go Girl!’ doesn’t deafen me.

  ‘But he didn’t ask me to stay over,’ I add. ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Not a bit – that means he must like you a lot.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘No idea.’ She gives a mock snort. ‘But just go with it.’

  I then tell her about the widows and orphans.

  ‘He sounds perfect for you,’ she says. ‘The proverbial match made in heaven.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘We’ll see. But there’s more too.’

  I give her the short version of other events – from finding the jewelled locket, to being locked in the loo, to the way that Mrs Fairchild is acting. As per usual, Karen glosses over most of it. ‘It sounds like some kind of a prank,’ she says, when I describe the call to the police from someone pretending to be Catherine Fairchild.

  ‘But what about the envelope and the letter? Do you think someone could be blackmailing her?’

  ‘Hard to believe. I mean, do you really think Mrs Fairchild is hiding some deep dark secret?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. But how well do I really know her?’

  ‘You’re a good judge of character. I mean – we’re friends. Right?’

  I detect a note of remorse in her voice. ‘Yeah, we are. And I’m sorry I got so mad.’

  She laughs. ‘Okay. By the powers vested in me by the church, I pronounce that we’re both forgiven. Deal?’

  ‘Deal. But listen, there’s something else too.’

  I tell her about my visit to the Clockmaker. I don’t mention that he was attractive, though in a quirky, unconventional way.

  ‘So what is this jewelled locket? Could he tell you anything about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I ended up leaving in a hurry,’ I say, rushing the punchline. ‘Turns out, he’s a Heath-Churchley.’

  ‘No!’ she groans. ‘The sins of the vicar visited on the flock.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did he know who you were?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I panicked and left before he could figure it out. I didn’t want “Daddy” to know I’d been there.’ I sigh. ‘I need to do something, though. I’m sure that whatever’s bothering Mrs Fairchild has something to do with that locket. Otherwise, why would she have left a note that says For Alex?? with the exhibition things, and then not want me to use it?’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t know anything about it – like she said.’

  ‘But why have me take a look at it?’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but it sounds like you’ve been reading too much Miss Marple.’

  ‘No I haven’t. It is important… I’m sure.’

  All of a sudden at the other end of the phone I hear a soft moan and a playful slap.

  ‘Karen,’ I say, ‘is there someone there with you?’

  ‘Whatever gave you that—’ She gives a high-pitched giggle. ‘Stop that – go back to sleep.’

  ‘I’m going now,’ I grumble.

  ‘Good idea,’ she says. ‘If the locket is that important, then you’d better get to work on it.’

  I hang up the phone, unsure whether to be in awe of Karen’s exploits or downright disgusted. In any case, she can do what she likes, but I’m going to make myself useful. I go over to the main house to put the locket in Mrs Fairchild’s jewellery box. As I pass the dining room, I notice that a few place settings along the banqueting table have been moved, and a glass is tipped over and broken. I detour into the room.

  The dining room is part of the original Elizabethan manor. The walls are covered in dark wooden panelling with a carved frieze of fruit and animals along the top. The ceiling is white, geometric plaster, and there’s a huge fireplace with an intricately carved mantle taking up one entire end of the room. The dark walls contrast with the flood of light that comes in through the large, diamond-paned windows that run the length of the room. The focal point is the long table in the centre of the room on which a tableaux of faux food is set.

  I go over to the table and fix the display, wrapping the pieces of broken glass in a cloth serviette, and taking another cheap glass out of the sideboard to make sure nothing looks amiss. As I’m about to go dispose of the glass, I notice a single sheet of paper lying on a chair near the fireplace. Although this is one of the main rooms on the tour, Mrs Fairchild likes to sit in here sometimes because it’s opposite the modern kitchen. She must have left the paper behind. I pick it up to move it somewhere so it won’t get lost when the next coachload of people begin tramping through. Certainly, I don’t mean to pry into Mrs Fairchild’s private business, but I notice that the paper is a page photocopied from a small notebook or journal. The writing is small and cramped and definitely not hers.

  Giving in to my natural inclination to be nosy, I set down the serviette and begin to read. It’s a single entry of a diary dated November 1940. My heart seizes up. An ambulance driver sees a girl crawl from the rubble of a bombed housing terrace. She lifts her head and begins to catch snowflakes on her tongue. The image is beautiful and heart-breaking all at once.

  But at the bottom of the paper is an angry scrawl in blue biro – the same as on the envelope I found. ‘I know what he did!’ it says.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Oh!’ I jump. Mrs Fairchild enters the room carrying her knitting bag. She looks down at the paper in my hands. I brace myself as a cloud drifts across her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, quickly holding out the paper. ‘I was doing some tidying up in here. A tour is due in half an hour. I think you left this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She takes the paper, folds it, and tucks it into the pocket of her cardigan. Then she turns to leave.

  Afraid the moment will be lost, I speak in a low voice: ‘Please, Mrs Fairchild, I want to help. You know I do. And I think you want me to.’

  She stops walking and turns to me, her face sunny as if nothing’s wrong. ‘I keep forgetting where I’ve left things.’ Her voice is pleasant, matter-of-fact. ‘It happens when you get old.’

  ‘What is the jewelled bird, Mrs Fairchild?’ I press.

  She runs her hand over the carved wood of the door frame. ‘It’s just a locket,’ she says after a moment. ‘A pretty piece of jewellery.’

  Time is ticking, and my tour will be arriving soon. I put my hands on my hips, determined to wait her out. ‘Tell me…’ I say.

  Still hesitating, she looks at my face, but I have the feeling that she isn’t seeing me. That she’s in another place and time altogether.

  ‘Frank Bolton gave it back to me,’ she says finally. ‘I’d lost it somehow. But then, he was there, in the orphanage, and he gave it to me.’

  ‘An orphanage?’ I say softly. ‘Are… are you the girl in the diary entry?’

  My question seems to teleport her back into the room with me.

  ‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘I was orphaned in the Blitz – in a raid on East London. My mother was killed, but I managed to crawl out of the wreckage.’

  ‘You’re an orphan?’ Shock reverberates through me. I never would have guessed – not in a million years. As far
as I – and the world – know her, she’s the daughter of Frank Bolton, the Knicker King. ‘I had no idea.’

  Her smile fades. ‘I don’t like to talk about it, as I’m sure you can understand.’

  I nod, my stomach roiling with empathy. Technically, I’m not an orphan because I have a dad, even if I never knew my birth mother. But growing up, I sometimes used to wonder about her the same way an orphan would do.

  ‘And in fact, there is nothing to talk about,’ she adds. ‘It was so long ago. And to me, Frank Bolton is my father. The only father I’ve ever had or needed. When he collected me that day, he said everything would be fine. And it was. I was his daughter in every way that mattered. I was happy.’ She pauses and something inside her seems to deflate. ‘As for who my blood relatives are – I’ve long come to grips with the fact that I’ll never know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say lamely.

  ‘There’s no need.’ She smiles reassuringly. ‘Young people these days have different ideas – modern ideas. If you’re adopted, you go in search of your birth parents as a rite of passage. But it wasn’t like that in my generation.’ She squares her shoulders. ‘We had orphanages and matrons, not foster homes and social workers. You learned to keep your head down and know your place. And if you were lucky enough to be adopted – and extremely lucky to be adopted by good people who raised you as their own – then you didn’t ask questions. You didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And remember,’ she continues, ‘we didn’t have fancy computers or the worldwide web. The orphanages had sealed records – or no records at all. And there were thousands of children orphaned during the Blitz – I wasn’t the only pebble on the beach. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t discover the truth.’

  ‘I understand,’ I repeat.

  She lets out a long sigh and leans against the door frame. ‘I know you do, Alex. But not everyone does. There are some people who refuse to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘Is that what the message meant – the one at the bottom?’ I know what he did! Angry words, but what do they mean?