Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  Which brings me full circle around to the same old questions: who? why? And how the heck am I going to get to the bottom of things?

  *

  When I return to Mallow Court, there’s a silver BMW parked in a no-parking area in front of the house. My stomach clenches, thinking that it’s Tim come back to ‘check up on me’.

  But just then, Mrs Fairchild comes out followed by a middle-aged man in an immaculate pin-striped suit, his brown hair slicked off his forehead with gel, and they walk together to the car.

  ‘Oh, hello, Alex.’ Mrs Fairchild looks flustered when she sees me. She turns to the man. ‘As I was just saying, my granddaughter is the manager here. She’s the one you’ll need to speak to about the estate accounts.’

  I raise a cool eyebrow. ‘The accounts? They’re all filed at Companies House.’

  ‘Of course.’ He gives me a coy wink which I find distasteful. ‘But how rude of me not to introduce myself. I’m Alistair Bowen-Knowles. Of Tetherington Bowen Knowles.’

  He says the name like I ought to know it, and proffers his hand. I reluctantly shake it.

  ‘It’s the management accounts I’d like to see.’ He fiddles with a right cufflink shaped like a golf club. ‘The day-to-day running of the estate. That way a purchaser will know the turnover numbers, the employee and maintenance costs, and exactly what they’re taking on.’ He gives me a smarmy smile.

  The bottom falls out of my heart. ‘A purchaser?’

  My grandmother looks at me with round, pleading eyes. ‘Alex, can we discuss it later?’

  ‘You’re what, exactly?’ I turn and face the man full on.

  ‘Sorry?’ His close-set eyes narrow. ‘I’m Mr Bowen-Knowles. Of Tetherington Bowen Knowles.’

  ‘So you said. I’m afraid I haven’t heard of your firm. We aren’t looking to change auditors that I’m aware of.’

  ‘I’m the estate agent.’ His obsequious manner slips, and for a second, he views me with rife hostility.

  ‘The estate agent.’ I wave a hand casually, pretending I have even the slightest clue what’s going on. ‘Of course you are. I’m afraid I’m not going to have any time this afternoon to go over anything with you. Can you ring and make an appointment?’

  ‘But can’t you just email me the—’

  ‘And by the way…’ I cut him off and begin to walk away, flicking him a bored glance over my shoulder, ‘can you please move your car? As the sign clearly says, it’s no parking.’

  I go inside the heavy studded doors to the great hall – a double-high panelled room with a huge fireplace at one end, and tiny windows set high up along the two long walls. My breathing is shallow and laboured as I lean against a carved wooden coffer chest, and stare up at the ribbed plaster ceiling. My grandmother called an estate agent – here – to Mallow Court. A day or two ago it would have seemed unthinkable. But now …

  The door opens and closes. I stand up, steeling myself as she comes inside for whatever she has to say. Unwittingly, I notice the hunch to her shoulders – years of back-breaking work in the garden, I suppose – and how – in a word – old she looks.

  She stops in the centre of the room and stares up at the ceiling just as I’ve been doing. The heraldic bosses between the geometric ridges of plaster seem to frown down on both of us, as though the house too is feeling the tension.

  Without looking at me, she sighs. ‘I’m sorry, Alex. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you.’ She turns and looks at me, and I see the tears running down her cheeks.

  Part of me wants to rush over and hug her, but the other part… I put my hands on my hips and stare at her. ‘Tell me what, Grandma?’

  ‘Oh Alex.’ She goes over to one of the long upholstered benches positioned around the edge of the room and sinks down onto it. She wrings her hands together. Her nails are crusted with dirt from the garden. Her beloved garden…

  Again, I remain where I am.

  ‘These came earlier today.’ She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and takes out a few folded pieces of paper. ‘For a while, the diary entries stopped, but I knew it wasn’t the end. I didn’t know what was coming. But…’ her voice quavers, ‘now I do.’

  I take the papers and unfold them, skimming quickly over the words written in a cramped hand. A diary entry describing in great detail, Badger catching Flea red-handed in the act of looting. Though I’ve been expecting that my grandmother would be confronted with this, I’d hoped to have more time find evidence to counter the eye-witness truth that’s staring up from the page. But the upshot is, I’m too late.

  ‘As soon as it arrived and I read it, I knew what I had to do. Mr Bowen-Knowles is an ex-colleague of a friend’s granddaughter-in-law who used to be an estate agent. I called him in to start the process of selling the house.’

  The words are like knives to my ears.

  ‘For so long I’ve felt so muddled about everything,’ she says. ‘I know it’s nothing compared to what you must be feeling – and I’ll say it again – I’m sorry that things were kept from you. But now…’ she hesitates, ‘now everything is perfectly clear.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s just so hard to believe that my father – who I loved so much – could have done what he did.’

  ‘Whoa, wait a minute.’ I hold up my hands. ‘What do you mean, “what he did”? We don’t know that he did anything.’ My heart begins to thud in my chest.

  ‘Look around you,’ her tone is exasperated, ‘this place says it all. I’ve often wondered – well, maybe not often…’ she corrects, ‘—but I have wondered how my father who, by his own admission, came from nothing – no money, no status, and no family name – could ever have bought this house and all its contents.’

  ‘He was a self-made man,’ I assert. ‘He had a successful factory. I’m sure it was possible for a young man with a grain of ambition to pick up a factory cheap after the war. Not to mention a run-down old house. And then he built up the business using grit and determination.’

  ‘Grit and determination.’ Her eyes darken in disgust. ‘I wonder how he did it? Did he rush in when all the other paramedics and emergency services were trying to save people? Did he take what he could fit in his pockets, or did he pile things into his ambulance and not bother taking casualties to hospital? Or did he pick the rings and jewellery off the corpses and remove their gold teeth, just like the Nazis did?’ Her voice drips with venom. ‘Or… maybe he wasn’t really bothered if they were dead or not. Maybe he “helped them on their way” with a hand over the mouth or a quick blow to the back of the head.’

  ‘Grandmother!’ In a few strides I’m over to her. I sit on the edge of the sofa and try to take her arm but she turns away from me. Her body begins to shake with sobs. I know she’s beyond comfort, but I stay with her as she cries, sitting next to her without speaking. After my own childish displays of late, I’m more than ready to get back to crisis management mode.

  Eventually, she begins to calm down. I put my hand on her back, letting her feel its warmth. She wipes her tears on the sleeve of her cardigan and lifts her head.

  ‘You knew already didn’t you? About the looting.’ She sighs. ‘You must hate the way I’ve dragged you into this family.’

  ‘Of course I don’t hate it. I love you.’ The words feel right.

  ‘How long have you known? How did you find out?’

  I grip her hand tightly and explain briefly about meeting Tim and Sally Edwards, nee Dawkins.

  ‘Sally Dawkins,’ she snorts. ‘I tried, but I could never bring myself to like her. She had a face like a rat, and a personality to match. She and her mother used to turn their back on us in the street whenever Frank took us back to his old stomping grounds. He wanted to make sure his children knew that we weren’t born with a silver spoon in our mouths. I hated those trips – the noise and the smells; all those people living on top of each other. But I guess…’ she sighs, ‘I guess I was just a stuck-up snob.’

  ‘I doubt that’s true. And as for Sally, I suppose she wa
s upset about what happened to her family – that much I can understand. But the diary isn’t conclusive proof.’ I keep my voice soft and no-nonsense. ‘And we may never know for certain. I don’t know what Sally Dawkins was like when you knew her, but now, well… I don’t think the elevator quite reaches the top floor, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Maybe so. But if there’s even a chance that I’m – we’re – related to someone who could do that.’ She exhales in a gasp. ‘I can’t be a part of it. I can’t keep living here in this house – always wondering if it came from … what he did. The whole thing makes me sick.’

  ‘I understand.’ I take her hand in mine. ‘But you’ve stuck by Frank Bolton for all these years when he was your adoptive father. Now, it’s even more important. We both have to be brave – there are lots of holes – things I’m trying to find out, and things we may never know. And some things may come to light that are…’ I choose my words, ‘…difficult to accept.’

  She sighs, glancing down at our intertwined hands. ‘I was so fortunate to be brought up like a little rich girl. In this pretty bubble.’ She gestures with her free hand. ‘But perhaps all along it was destined to burst.’

  ‘It was your right to be brought up here. You were Frank Bolton’s daughter. That’s why he left the house to you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She lifts her chin. ‘His sons – my brothers – were much younger than I was. Frank got married a few years after I was… after he got me from the orphanage. He told me that he wanted to give me a mum. His wife Mabel had a wealthy grandmother. When she eventually had children, the boys each got a trust fund. Neither of them had any particular affinity for Mallow Court – other than to carve their initials in the old wood, or track mud all over the antique rugs. They both went off to boarding school, and then uni. After that, both of them wanted to live in London. We were never close, though we’re still in touch – Christmas and birthdays – that sort of thing. On some level, I suppose they do resent my inheritance. But they’ve never been short of money, and besides, Dad’s will – Frank Bolton’s will – was unassailable. He always said that he liked the fact I came from nowhere, just like him. “You and I come as a package, he used to say”.’

  ‘That makes sense. And in any case, the house is yours. He left it to you, and you’ve got a perfect right to be here.’

  ‘Even if it came from ill-gotten gains?’ Her voice rises. ‘All those things I said. All those things in there…’ she points at the papers in my hand, ‘you don’t think they matter?’

  ‘Of course they do. I feel sick too – just thinking that someone did those things during such a dark, terrible time.’ I shake my head. ‘But for all the digging I’ve done, I haven’t found anything to prove if Frank was guilty – or innocent. I’m afraid we may never be able to prove it one way or the other.’

  ‘The diary is pretty damning.’

  ‘I need to read it. All of it. You have it back right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighs. ‘They’re all there – the ones from a few weeks back, and the new lot too.’

  ‘And did your policeman friend make anything of them?’

  ‘I… haven’t seen him for a few days.’ She turns away. I can tell she’s upset. There must be trouble in paradise.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Things were moving a little fast for me.’ Her laugh is hollow. ‘In fact, he bought me a ring. I mean, really – at my age?’

  I feel an odd mixture of panic and relief. ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Oh Alex. How should I know? This is hardly the right time, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I think of Chris – to me it feels like exactly the right time.

  She shrugs. ‘I suppose I should be grateful that he hasn’t seen this new entry. He’s a very moralistic person. I like … liked that about him.’

  ‘Maybe. But no matter what the diary says, remember, it’s not conclusive. It lacks… provenance. In my view, it’s not enough to justify giving up everything you love – this house, your garden. The place you’ve lived all your life.’

  Her lip quivers but she remains stoic. ‘I do love it here. But it wouldn’t be right to keep the house if there was even the slightest question. I couldn’t walk through these rooms, tend to my garden, sleep in my bed and have tea in my kitchen, with all those ghosts swarming around.’ She shudders. ‘When you read the diary – you’ll see.’

  ‘I understand – really I do. So in that case, I’ll keep looking – dig even deeper.’ I stand up. ‘I just need a little more time.’

  She sighs. ‘I don’t know, Alex. Everything feels so raw right now.’

  ‘I know. But we’ve got each other.’ I reach out and take her hand. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea. Surely even the swarming ghosts won’t deny us a cuppa.’

  ‘Okay, that’d be nice.’ She smiles.

  ‘And if I can’t prove Frank Bolton’s innocence, then by all means, call back the toff in the suit.’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I begin to wonder – if I’ve just doomed my grandmother’s beloved home to death by Tetherington Bowen Knowles.

  - XIII -

  15th November 1940 – 12:05 a.m.

  I ran over to the bottom of the ladder. ‘What are you doing, Flea?’ I hissed as he jumped down.

  He put a finger to his lips. ‘You didn’t see me, Badger.’ With a bold smile, he took a diamond bracelet from his sinewy wrist and tossed it to me. ‘Right?’

  ‘You’re a goddamn looter,’ I said. ‘The rest of us are out risking our necks to save people, and you’re dripping with diamonds like a two-shilling whore.’ I threw the bracelet into the gutter.

  ‘What the hell?’ he snarled. He grovelled around in the rubble for the glittering bracelet and slipped it in the pocket of the coat.

  I turned away, my heart battering my chest, rage blinding me to any danger. But a second later, I realised my mistake. He clicked open a switchblade that was still sticky with blood.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said, my gorge rising.

  ‘Don’t worry – I swear she was already dead.’

  ‘My God. I… I don’t know you.’

  He laughed. ‘Good ol’ Badger. You know that I can’t let you just walk away.’

  ‘What? Do you think I’ll grass on you?’

  ‘Do you think I can take the risk – I mean, since you “don’t know me” and all?’

  I laughed uneasily. ‘Put that away,’ I said, indicating the knife. My mind was tying itself in knots over what to do next. I hadn’t realised it before, but now I knew – Flea would do whatever it took to make me keep quiet.

  He took a step towards me. The knife didn’t waver. It took all my courage to stand my ground. ‘You won’t do it,’ I gasped.

  His eyes were dark pools as he laughed. ‘The problem with you, Badger, is that you’re so naïve,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what you’d be capable of if you weren’t so selfish. If you had other mouths to feed.’

  ‘Selfish?’ I snorted. ‘You think I’m selfish?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s more precious to you than your moral high ground. But if you had a child – a daughter say – you’d do anything for her – I promise you. You want her to grow up like we did? Stitching the crotch into some grannie’s knickers till her fingers crook and her eyes go square? You want her living in some two-bit shit-hole with a privy out the back and hot water every other Sunday? You want her to live where you did – with lowlife boys hanging round the corner shop whistling and waiting to pick her cherry?’ He shook his head. ‘Or do you want to own the factory? Set her up in a nice big house, with a bit o’ garden, and fresh air. Going to church in a little white dress and satin ribbons in her hair. Saving herself for a bloke with a title – hell, maybe even royalty.’

  I met his eyes over the blade of the knife. ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘No,’ he said forcefully. ‘I’m not. I’m realistic. My girl’s got one “in the oven”, so to speak. I already love that little bean more than life itse
lf. I want more for her – or him. I want everything. And if that’s at the cost of some dead git’s signet ring or his wife’s diamond bracelet, then I’m all for it. As they say, “all’s fair in love and war”.’

  ‘No – I don’t believe that. It’s not the war that made you a lowly, two-bit crook.’ I stepped forward until the blade was practically touching my chest.

  His laugh rang with bitterness. ‘I’ll be a lowly two-bit crook living in that nice, big ol’ house, running my own factory. No more clocking in and clocking out, getting spittle in the face from some fat foreman with a stick up his arse.’

  I shook my head. It sounded crazy – deluded. But I could feel a crack widening inside me. I thought of the girl – Catherine – catching snowflakes on her tongue amid the ruins of her life. More than anything, I wanted to take her in my arms, fill her life with happiness until there was no more room for the pain. Flea’s words rang true. Where would we live? And what kind of life could I give her?

  He seemed to read my mind. ‘You thinking of that girl, ain’t you? The one you pulled from the wreckage and pitched up on ol’ Sadie’s doorstep?’ He gave me a look – he knew. Somehow – he knew it all. ‘I went round there earlier,’ he continued, ‘to make sure the little mite had settled in.’

  ‘And had she?’

  ‘She was crying her eyes out. Kept going on about some trinket her mum gave her. Thinks she lost it. It was all she had left.’

  ‘No!’ I said.

  ‘Course…’ he smirked, ‘it could be that someone took it off o’ her. You pulled her out, right? You see any of that sort around who could have done something like that? Stealing from a child who’d just lost her mum?’

  It wasn’t like that! I wanted to scream. But what would be the point? If I told him that I was going to give it back – and I am going to give it back – he’d just laugh in my face. He thinks I’m like him… And suddenly, the fog lifted from my mind and I knew what I had to do.

  I reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘Put that knife away, Flea. Let’s talk man to man.’