Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Pamela Oldfield from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Recent Titles by Pamela Oldfield from Severn House
The Heron Saga
BETROTHED
THE GILDED LAND
LOWERING SKIES
THE BRIGHT DAWNING
ALL OUR TOMORROWS
EARLY ONE MORNING
RIDING THE STORM
CHANGING FORTUNES
NEW BEGINNINGS
MATTERS OF TRUST
DANGEROUS SECRETS
INTRICATE LIAISONS
TURNING LEAVES
HENRY’S WOMEN
SUMMER LIGHTNING
JACK’S SHADOW
FULL CIRCLE
LOVING AND LOSING
FATEFUL VOYAGE
THE LONGEST ROAD
THE FAIRFAX LEGACY
TRUTH WILL OUT
TRUTH WILL OUT
Pamela Oldfield
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2009
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2009 by Pamela Oldfield.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Oldfield, Pamela.
Truth Will Out.
1. Missing persons–England–Hastings–Fiction.
2. Ransom–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-262-7 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6785-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-150-8 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
PROLOGUE
Friday, April 8th, 1921
Maude stared at the letter in her hand. Did she recognize the handwriting? She didn’t think so. The envelope looked cheap.
Her Aunt Biddy glanced across at her from the far side of the kitchen table. ‘What’s wrong, Maudie love?’
‘Nothing, probably, but . . .’ As her voice trailed off she held up the letter for her aunt’s inspection, took up a knife and slit the envelope. Withdrawing the single sheet she unfolded it and began to read aloud.
‘Dear Mrs Brent, I shall be attending promptly at four thirty, Friday, for the interview . . . That’s today!’ She glanced nervously at the clock on the dresser. Ten past two. Plenty of time.
‘What’s today? What’s happening?’
‘That’s just it – I don’t know.’ She read on. ‘. . . and look forward to meeting you. Your husband assures me that I will suit and, if that proves to be the case, I look forward to a satisfying relationship. Yours faithfully, Alice Crewe.’
Biddy Cope, a comfortably round figure in a voluminous apron, was as baffled as her niece. ‘Alice Crewe?’ she repeated. She stopped rolling pastry and looked thoughtful. ‘Do we know an Alice Crewe?’
‘I certainly don’t but Lionel obviously does. “I will suit.” Suit what exactly?’ She frowned. ‘What on earth does it mean?’
‘I once knew an Alan Crewe but that was years ago. Or was it Arnold? Could be a relation of this Alice . . . Or maybe it was Adrian Crewe. Oh dear! My wretched memory. No! Adrian Trew. That was it.’ She smiled. ‘He worked in Grandfather’s emporium. Nice curly hair . . . He could sell anything, that man. Father used to say he’d sell ice to the Eskimos!’
‘It could be an April Fool’s trick from Lionel – you know what he’s like! But if so it’s a week late.’
‘Last week he sent you that so-called declaration of love – “eyes so green” . . . “your hair’s dark sheen” . . . Some such nonsense.’ She laughed at the memory. ‘He’d disguised his handwriting but you still guessed it was him. But your face when you first read it!’
‘Lionel’s such an innocent.’ Maude rolled her eyes in mock despair. ‘I wonder if he’ll ever grow up!’ She read the letter aloud again, frowning.
Her aunt’s initial fear had faded. ‘Whatever it is, if she’s expecting to be interviewed, it must be possible for you to turn her down. You don’t think he’s hiring staff, do you, because I can manage perfectly on my own.’ Alarm flickered in her eyes. ‘I don’t want any flibbertigibbet girl in my kitchen, getting under my feet and muddling me all up!’
Maude nodded and smiled reassuringly but her aunt’s words had dismayed her. Biddy, a spinster, had lived with her family for as long as she could remember and had acted as an unpaid housekeeper – not because the family had demanded her services but because she loved to be busy and to feel useful. Latterly, however, she had started to become a little vague and Lionel had commented on this once or twice.
‘I don’t think he would hire anyone without consulting me first,’ said Maude.
‘But that’s just what he is doing, by the sound of things.’ Her aunt sat down on a nearby stool and regarded Maude with wide eyes, suddenly fearful. ‘It’s because I burned the rock cakes yesterday.’
‘Of course it isn’t!’ Maude tutted impatiently. ‘Rock cakes are supposed to be a bit on the rocky side – yours were a bit too crunchy, that’s all. We scraped off the burned bits and they were fine. Anyway, how could he have organized this Alice person so quickly? She’d hardly have had time to write the letter, let alone post it!’
Biddy was still worried. ‘But if it is about me . . . it might be a maid or a cook.’
‘Then I’ll send her away. It will be that simple, I promise you. But Lionel will be home before she arrives and all will be revealed.’ She glanced round before leaving to take one of her frequent walks to Folkestone beach to feed scraps to the gulls that congregated there when there were no fishing boats to offer richer pickings. The bolder birds could be rather alarming but Maude was used to them and enjoyed their noisy clatter. ‘What are you making?’ she asked her aunt.
Biddy brightened. ‘I thought I’d do a Bakewell tart,’ she said eagerly. ‘I came across some ground almonds I’d forgotten about so I thought I’d use them up. It’s Lionel’s favourite, Bakewell tart.’
It wasn’t, but Maude had been brought up not to contradict her elders and she didn’t want to argue with her aunt.
She said, ‘I’ll take Primmy with me and hope we don’t meet any large black dogs. Primmy hates them! I’m always having to apologize to the dogs’ owners for the way she behaves.’
Ten minutes later Maude set off for her walk, warmly wrapped in a tweed skirt and jacket and matc
hing beret, and carrying some scraps of bread for the seagulls. It was already early spring and today the weather was fine but Lionel insisted that she took no chances. He lived in fear of her catching a chill and she understood his anxiety and tried not to fret at his well-meant restrictions. She had caught a cold when she was fifteen, which had developed into a severe bout of pneumonia and congestion of the lungs. In fact for several days she had been seriously ill and had hovered between life and death but had mercifully survived.
As soon as Lionel heard the account from her aunt he had become over-anxious about a possible recurrence and Maude was ‘confined to bed’ for the mornings until eleven o’clock when she rose, washed and dressed in time to go downstairs for lunch. It was irksome being treated like a semi-invalid but Maude had become used to it during her year-long marriage, and her aunt played her part by bringing breakfast on a tray and doing most of the cooking.
The house was built on rising ground overlooking Folkestone harbour and the walk to the beach took around fifteen minutes. Maude paused for a few moments to watch the queue of eager passengers waiting to board the boat that would take them across to Boulogne. She and Lionel had made the trip once, on their honeymoon, but Maude had been queasy in the slight swell and had not enjoyed the sensation of being away from firm ground. Although the return journey was smoother, she had been extremely pleased to see Folkestone reappearing through the mist when they returned.
Today she stood on the beach feeding the raucous gulls while Primmy raced up and down across the shingle in search of something to carry home as a prize. Last time it had been a dead seagull, which the dog refused to surrender. Slowly Maude made her way down to the water’s edge and watched the small boats bobbing at anchor on the incoming tide – a sight she usually found very relaxing. Now, however, Maude’s thoughts were anxious and centred on the mysterious Miss Crewe.
Moving further along the beach she met and spoke to Tom Wheeler, the deckchair attendant, about the programme of Sunday morning music promised for the bandstand.
When she finally turned to retrace her steps she spotted Lionel hurrying towards her across the shingle, waving to catch her attention. Instinctively, at the sight of him, a smile lit up her face.
Lionel was a slim, handsome man, with fair hair and a moustache – he was as fair as she was dark. His eyes were hazel while hers were blue-green. His hair was fine and fair and well-behaved and he wore it fashionably parted in the middle. Hers was dark chestnut, curly and often unruly. As soon as he reached her, Lionel gave her a fierce hug.
‘Mrs Brent, I believe!’ he said with a grin – his usual greeting.
‘Mr Brent. Fancy meeting you!’
‘It’s a small world.’ He kissed her, and slipped an arm through hers as they began the walk back. ‘Have you forgiven me – for the surprise?’
‘The letter, you mean? No I haven’t. You’ve given us cause for concern. What on earth are you up to?’
‘I knew if I suggested it you’d say no so I thought I’d surprise you, but I think you’ll like each other and I do want you to give her a chance.’
‘If she’s to help Aunt Biddy the answer will be a definite no, I’m afraid. She’d hate—’
‘It’s not exactly for her benefit, dearest, it’s for you. You need care and your aunt is getting older and rather frail. She’s doing much too much and Alice will ease her burden by looking after you.’
‘But I don’t need looking after, Lionel,’ she protested. ‘You make too much fuss of me. I’m perfectly healthy. Ask the doctor if you don’t believe me. The pneumonia was years ago! If I can survive that, I can survive anything!’ She glanced down at the dog and groaned. ‘Oh no, Primmy! What have you found?’
Ignoring her comment, Primmy trotted proudly beside Lionel carrying part of a dead crab.
Lionel looked annoyed at the interruption. ‘I disagree, Maude. You’re very brave and you make light of your frailty but I’m your husband and I intend to protect you from yourself, whether you like it or not.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Where would I be without you?’
His smile disarmed her as it always did. Maude knew she was loved and Lionel was the centre of her world. If anything happened to him, she would be devastated. If anything happened to her she knew it would break his heart.
He went on eagerly. ‘If the two of you like each other, and I know you will, she will live in and be a companion for you. And before you say you don’t need one, I must remind you that for most of the week while I’m at work, you have no-one to talk to except an elderly lady who is becoming distinctly doddery and likes to spend all her time cooking! I love your aunt dearly – you know I do – but look at the quality of your conversations, Maude.’
‘My conversations? What d’you mean?’
‘How often do you discuss art or books or the state of the theatre? When do you discuss the state of Europe . . . or the winner of the Nobel prize?’
‘How often do you discuss them?’ Her tone was indignant.
‘Frequently at my club. I’m not criticizing you, Maude. I’m simply afraid that your world is much narrower than it should be. You’re a very intelligent woman.’
In spite of herself, Maude still felt slighted by his comments. ‘So is this Alice person constantly watching the operas at Covent Garden . . . or reading The Lancet for the latest medical discoveries?’ Maude glanced up at his face and recognized the determined set of his jaw. Her husband could be hard to move when he had set his heart on something and now it seemed it was Alice Crewe. She changed her line of attack. ‘Isn’t a companion rather old-fashioned, Lionel? I mean, aren’t they intended for elderly widows or spinsters? I’m young and I’m hale and hearty and—’
‘You are nothing of the kind, Maude. But you’re right in one respect. Miss Crewe was exactly that – a companion to an elderly widow who has just died. The poor young woman was at her wits’ end with nowhere to go and Barlowe at the gallery was asking if anyone needed a governess or a companion. I thought of you.’ He held up a hand to forestall her objections. ‘The fact is I think we could take the pressure off Biddy. Miss Crewe could run up and down for you more easily than your aunt and you would have someone more your own age to talk to.’
They left the beach and started back along the road while Maude tried to think of further reasons why Alice Crewe should go elsewhere. The fact was she was becoming intrigued in spite of her initial objections.
Lionel said, ‘The old lady travelled widely and she must have talked to Miss Crewe about her earlier life. I’m sure you’ll find her interesting to talk to.’ He took a quick glance at her face and added, ‘There’s something else. She doesn’t cook!’
They both laughed and Maude relaxed and punched his arm playfully. ‘That’s not nice!’ She decided not to mention the Bakewell tart. Lionel was always complaining that the lighter puddings he preferred – stewed fruit, jelly or ice cream – rarely appeared on the table. Instead pies, steamed puddings and hearty fruit crumbles were carried in relentlessly by a beaming Aunt Biddy, who made certain that none of it was ever left.
As they came in sight of Fairways, their house, Maude sighed. She could see that her kind-hearted husband was hoping to offer the unfortunate Miss Crewe a new home and a job. He had convinced himself that he would be helping his delicate wife. They had four bedrooms so they could easily accommodate her. Maude could not object on that score but, still wary of the project, she felt there must be a way out of the dilemma, if only she could find it. She said no more on the subject but before they reached home Maude had made a decision. Bringing a stranger into their small household was a risk she was not prepared to take. Reluctantly she was going to disappoint her husband. Alice Crewe would not be joining them.
In fact, Alice Crewe was not at all what Maude had expected and as they sat down together in the elegantly furnished sitting room, she was forced to make an immediate reassessment. Several inches shorter than Maude, Miss Crewe was a friendly, bubbly person with surprising warmth. She r
eminded Maude of a cheerful gypsy in her dark-red skirt and white jacket. Her neat straw hat was decorated with dark-red ribbon. Only her sensible shoes suggested that she might previously have been someone’s paid companion.
‘Of course I miss the poor Mrs Patterson, the funny old dear,’ Miss Crewe confessed with disarming honesty, referring to the death of her former employer. ‘But four years is a long time and pushing a Bath chair to and fro along The Leas twice a day was hard work. And not very exciting, to be frank. I read to her from the Bible first thing in the morning and last thing at night.’ She leaned forward confidingly. ‘She was dear soul but, considering her wandering past, strangely terrified to step outside the routine she had devised for herself. It probably made her feel secure. Probably felt more vulnerable as she grew older.’
‘Were you the only other person in her life?’ Maude asked curiously.
‘No. There was a Mrs Hacket who came in each day and prepared meals for us. Not breakfast but a simple cooked lunch, mostly steamed fish and mashed potatoes, and the inevitable sandwiches for tea.’ Her rueful smile faded abruptly. ‘Am I talking too much?’
Maude smiled. ‘Not at all. I’m interested. So you haven’t travelled yourself?’
‘Oh no. We did go to Italy once for a holiday but she was very nervous and rather critical of the hotel and its staff. I got the impression she had once been used to better things. She did most of her travelling before she needed me. “Globetrotting” she called it. She was troubled by arthritis in her hips towards the end and was forced to give up her wanderings.’
‘May I ask how old you are, Miss Crewe?’
‘Twenty-three last time I counted!’ She looked round the room. ‘I thought there was a dog. I’m not allergic to dogs or anything.’
‘Primmy is almost certainly sulking in the kitchen with Aunt Biddy because we’ve thrown away a dead crab she found on the beach. She’s a rather wild cross terrier “of dubious extraction” – my husband’s description – but she knows that all tasty titbits come from my aunt. She spends too much time in the kitchen, I fear.’
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