Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2)
Page 24
He was coming down the stairs when the front door opened and Fiona appeared wearing Lycra leggings and a pink hoodie. Under her arm she carried a blue rolled-up yoga mat.
“Hi Mum. I just got back from the hospital.”
She dropped the yoga mat and opened her arms wide to embrace him.
“We’re going to make a new start,” she said. “I promise. I’ll cook us some dinner, but first let me go and change.”
She picked up her yoga mat and started to climb the stairs. “Oh my God. My hamstrings are going to kill me tomorrow.”
Dan grinned to himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In the early days of our marriage, whilst Billy was working long hours in his new job, I followed the trial of Harry Doyle in the papers. It was impossible to avoid as the case was widely reported. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being found guilty for something he hadn’t done, even though it was apparent from the newspaper coverage that the man was no saint. I experienced a flicker of hope on Mr Doyle’s part when I read that his defence lawyer had argued that his client couldn’t have killed Theodore Franklin because if he had he would have shot him, not hit him over the head with an ornamental bedside lamp. It wasn’t how men like Harry Doyle operated. It wasn’t much of a defence, but maybe Mr Doyle’s lawyer knew he was dealing with a shady character and that was the best he could come up with. The lawyer argued that the nature of the crime made it look more like a crime of passion or a lovers’ tiff. That was certainly closer to the truth. Each evening I cut out that day’s article and added it to the growing collection in the bottom of my jewellery box. I always made sure that all references to the trial were out of the way when Billy came home.
Then one day there was a twist in the court case that caused me to worry all over again that the inspector would renew his enquiries. A woman had come forward as a witness for the defence and claimed that Mr Doyle couldn’t possibly have killed Theodore Franklin because he had not gone near Mr Franklin’s room on the night of the murder. Yes, he’d been at the Grand Hotel, but she could vouch for his whereabouts after the scene in the ballroom. He’d spent the night with her. This caused a huge scandal in the town and I wondered about the courage, or foolhardiness, of the woman in coming forward. She must be very attached to Mr Doyle, I thought, to risk her reputation in such a public way. But what would the jury make of her? If they believed her evidence then they would have no choice but to find Harry Doyle not guilty and he would be free to go, which in some ways would be a good thing, but what then? Would the inspector start his enquiries all over again? The thought made me sick to the pit of my stomach.
Eventually the case against Harry Doyle collapsed due to lack of evidence. He was acquitted but ordered to return to America. The judge made it clear that he wouldn’t be welcome in this country again, although I’m not sure he had any power to keep him out.
We were very happy, Billy and I, living in our tiny rented house in Bethnal Green. I carried the secret of Mr Franklin’s death deep inside myself and learned to live with it. That was my punishment. Letting the truth surface would have ruined Billy’s life and I wasn’t prepared to let that happen. My beloved husband was killed in 1945 whilst working as a cameraman in war-torn Europe. War had now claimed the lives of my father, my brother and my husband. Utterly bereft, I moved back to Scarborough with the children, Janice and David, and have been here ever since.
I thought the truth would die with me, but now I understand that I cannot be allowed to rest in peace until I have set the matter straight. The letter from Ruby’s daughter, after all these years, brought the whole sorry business back as if it only happened yesterday. I have written down my story so that I may die in the knowledge that I have finally told the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Slice of apple strudel with cream?” asked David.
“Yes please,” said Rose and Dan together. They were sitting side-by-side on the sofa in David’s open-plan kitchen-dining room and the smell of spiced apple mingled with the scented Christmas candles, flickering on the coffee table.
“I hear the Futurist is going to be pulled down,” said David, handing them plates of warm apple strudel topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream.
“That’s a shame,” said Rose.
“Do you think so?” asked Dan. “I always thought it was an ugly building.”
“Apparently the council wants to build a Bingo Hall,” said David. “As if Scarborough needed more Bingo for goodness’ sake.”
Rose and Dan both laughed. Rose had been discharged from hospital a couple of days earlier and although Andrea had tried to insist that she stay at home for at least a fortnight until she was stronger, David had persuaded Andrea that it wouldn’t hurt Rose to come over to York for the afternoon. He’d extended the invitation to Dan as a matter of course.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said David, pouring himself a cup of jasmine tea from a white china teapot, “did you discover anything else about those newspaper cuttings you found in mother’s jewellery box?”
Rose thought for a moment about Lilian’s memoir. She’d finished reading it in bed the previous evening. It wasn’t so much a memoir as a confession. Before she’d died Lilian had wanted to confess her sins, as it were. But the only person, apart from Rose, who knew what she’d written was Rose’s grandmother, David’s sister, and she was now dead. Her gran hadn’t shared the secret with David; instead she’d passed it on to Rose. Was it right for Rose to tell David that his mother had killed a man when she was younger? What would that do to his memory of her? It was all water under the bridge now and Rose decided there and then that some things were best left buried.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t find out anything else about the murder of Theodore Franklin. I guess it was just an interesting event that happened when she was young and she cut out the clippings and then forgot about them.”
“Yes, I daresay you’re right,” said David. “Mother could be strange like that sometimes. But aren’t all mothers a bit odd?”
Rose and Dan exchanged glances and burst out laughing.
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OTHER BOOKS BY MARGARITA
Oranges for Christmas
Berlin 1961. The War is over.
But for Sabine the fight for freedom has only just begun.
The Sleeping Angel
Something is astir in Highgate Cemetery.
The dead want justice and so do the living.
Scarborough Fair
(Scarborough Fair series, Book One)
Dare you step inside? All is not what it seems at Scarborough Fair, a world of illusion, thrills and danger.
FIND MARGARITA ONLINE
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Margarita Morris was born in Harrogate, North Yorkshire. She studied Modern Languages at Jesus College, Oxford and worked in computing for eleven years. She lives in Oxfordshire with her husband and two sons.
I would like to thank Josie and Catherine for their careful proof reading. But above all, I would like to thank Steve for his honest, constructive feedback and constant love and support.