Baby Drop

by Jennie Melville

  ‘I think I’ll drive back to Windsor after all.’

  ‘You won’t stay overnight? I promise not to be a nuisance.’ He looked at her. ‘It’s late and you’re tired.’

  ‘There’s a case on the go that’s worrying me.’

  ‘The child?’

  ‘Yes, the child.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ he reminded her. ‘You could stay here and rest.’

  ‘I want the day for thinking. And I think best at home.’

  He let her go without arguing, but she thought he looked sad. Thin and tired.

  I’ll do something about that when I’ve got this case over, she thought as she went over Hammersmith flyover and headed for the motorway.

  As if to punish her, Sunday saw her laid low with a migraine so that she did no thinking but lay there in a thick, painful stupor.

  In the middle of the night, she was violently sick, watched by an interested but unmoved cat. Then they both went back to bed.

  That was the nadir, the bottom, when she woke up in the morning, she felt full of energy. The kitchen was bright with sunshine as she made coffee and toast and fed Muff.

  On such a morning, she could believe that life, even her life, could knit itself together into a whole. All it needed was courage, she had a lot of courage.

  She had finished her third cup of coffee and eaten two slices of toast and homemade marmalade (made by Birdie) when she heard the post drop through the door. She went through the narrow, white-panelled hall to get the letters before Muff could, so she was standing there holding them when the telephone rang.

  ‘George.’ It was Rewley, even before he spoke she knew who it was. Not because she had telepathy but because he had a way of rustling papers on his desk which she recognized. ‘Anything wrong? How is Kate?’

  ‘Offish,’ he said. ‘But that’s not it. She wants to see you, I hope you can go.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll try, I can’t say when.’ She was hastily trying to remember what her diary held. A committee, a visit from Chief Superintendent Custom about ethnic recruiting, not her responsibility but she was supposed to know everything, other appointments too probably.

  And the current crop of cases, of course.

  ‘Is there a special reason?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m not sure, I think she wants to talk to you about something … Or she may just need company. I can’t get in much. Especially today, I’m in court and who knows when I’ll be through. It’s a brute of a day,’ he added gloomily.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she promised. ‘ I can’t say exactly when, but I’ll get there.’

  She put her hand in her dressing-gown pocket and drew out her letters. Two bills, one circular, and an envelope addressed in pale blue blotched ink, as if it had been rained on.

  Inside was a card.

  Mary gave me your address. You asked for a photograph of Sarah, so here it is.

  Did I ask for a photograph? Charmian felt inside the envelope for the photograph. The answer is perhaps I should have, but I didn’t. But she wants me to have one.

  A small face, wearing a large sunbonnet, stared up at her. A little peaky face, almost as if Sarah had been coming out of an illness. Perhaps one of those nameless little fevers that some children seem to pick up all the time.

  The eyes did not look at her straight but stared obliquely over her shoulder.

  Poor little scrap.

  Charmian slid the photograph back into the envelope. ‘I’ll have to see you, lady,’ she addressed Biddy Holt. One more task to fit into the day. She dressed while working out the details of the day ahead.

  But she couldn’t forget the little face and it reminded her, for no reason she could pin down, of the locket and the skeleton in Baby Drop land.

  She tidied the house so that it was not too sordid to return to, and left some food out for Muff. Not that there was much food in the house, she would have to go shopping. Possibly to that new supermarket, where she could see the woman who had thought she had seen Sarah in the street? Suddenly, she remembered it was her turn to have Benjy, it was week and week about, this was her week/ but with no Mrs Chatham it was difficult.

  She knew whom to ask, her friends and neighbours the two white witches of Windsor.

  Winifred Eagle and Birdie were anxious to help.

  ‘I can suggest a nice young woman,’ said Birdie, ‘ one of us, you know, very reliable. Not pretty but a good little face.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She didn’t want a white witch doing the dusting, you couldn’t be sure what spells she might lay on with the polish. Charmian did not believe in witchcraft but some experiences of her neighbours had taught her that they and their peers knew a few tricks. ‘And what about the dog? Can you have him?’

  ‘Well, we could, darling, although we are going away, but he could come, he’s such a good traveller, never bites anyone or not often, but he ought to be with you more, he’ll forget he’s your dog.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Did any thoughts ever pass through Benjy’s dreamy mind?

  ‘And he did save your life once … And may do so again.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Just a feeling I have. A picture of you comes into my mind, no details but it is dark.’

  They played this game sometimes, hinting that they knew what her future was and that there was trouble to come. About once in three times, they were right. Which come to think of it, Charmian reassured herself, was about the score with one’s own moods of foreboding.

  ‘Now what about that nice little witchlet I can get you? Not quite trained yet, only one bare term at our college near Stonehenge, but very promising and a willing worker.’

  You could never tell when Birdie was laughing at you or not. Surely she was now. ‘ I think not,’ said Charmian. ‘But thanks for trying.’

  ‘You’re no good in the house.’ Birdie was tolerant but honest.

  ‘I’ll find someone.’

  ‘Be careful with yourself,’ said Birdie, and suddenly her voice was sharp and true: This is real, she was saying. I give you a warning. ‘Don’t be too nosy, you are nosy. Curiosity took you into your trade in my opinion.’

  —Damn you, Birdie, Charmian thought, putting down the telephone and walking away.

  As soon as she got to her office, she made an impulse telephone call to Dan Feather.

  ‘Have you got a photograph of Sarah?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Do you want a copy?’

  ‘No. Her mother has just sent me one. Unasked.’ She was sure of that now.

  There was a pause. ‘ She must want you to have it.’

  ‘I think so. I wonder why?’

  ‘Generosity?’ Feather’s voice had a sardonic note.

  ‘Perhaps.’ In her experience you did not trust generosity, not even from a close relative, in a case which might involve death: there was always a motive, sometimes a hidden one.

  Yourshop was the new supermarket which had recently (and not too successfully according to Rewley) established itself in Peascod Street. On the corner of the street a row of empty shops was being knocked down to be replaced by offices. These places were boarded up but Charmian’s professional eye noticed automatically that a hole had been knocked in the boarding. Rats, she thought, human rats. By contrast, the supermarket was new and brash, perhaps too much so for the conservative shoppers of Windsor. Huge plate-glass windows fronted on the street. Behind these windows you could see a long row of checkout desks.

  The store closed in mid-evening so that late shoppers could fill their food cabinets. Behind the checkouts the broad aisles were lined with expertly laid out displays of eatables, there was nothing original about it, the time-honoured formulas of where you put the fruit and vegetables and where you put the chilled meat and fish had been followed, but somehow it all seemed specially enticing. It was much more expensive than she had expected, the exterior, all bright colour and plastic, was misleading, but every item from biscuits to smoked salmon was of
high quality. Windsor was a prosperous town and the quality market was being targeted, so it was surprising really that it wasn’t flourishing. The recession probably, even food was being hit.

  It was the first time Charmian had visited the store and she paused at the door for a look. It was true – the woman who claimed to have seen the child could have seen a lot from her perch on a checkout desk. There was one desk that commanded a splendid view up and down the street. Nosy, she could hear Birdie’s voice in her ear.

  At once she could see there was trouble. A uniformed constable was talking to a young woman who had her hands on a trolley which was stacked with goods. The young woman was crying. By the side of the pair was an assistant in a pale blue uniform. A man in a grey suit made up the quartet. Charmian stood at the entrance, watching as slowly the little group moved to the back of the shop.

  The young woman stopped crying and looked tense.

  At the checkout desks some of the girls were looking at the scene in between bending over the till for the next customer, but one or two were sitting stiff backed and carefully not seeing anything. None of them liked the scene being played out. Shoplifting was a crime, all right, but the kid was young and looked desperate. But perhaps she shouldn’t have taken quite so much and how had she expected to get it out unchecked? That door at the back, stupid. Well known that door was.

  The woman nearest to the door and not as young as the others, she who had the best view up and down the road and was Charmian’s mark, was staring straight out into Peascod Street. Charmian could not be sure that she was seeing anything, her eyes had a blank look. She stayed that way until the man at the head of the line reminded her he was there. ‘Come on, miss, haven’t got all day.’

  Her till proclaimed itself as being only for those with five or less purchases and since most shoppers bought considerably more than that, her line was short.

  Charmian made her way round the store, carefully selecting her four items. Bread, cat food, salad, and a bottle of dry sherry.

  She waited until there was no one else before going up to pay for her shopping. What was the woman’s name? She dug in her memory, Feather had surely mentioned it. Amabel Mercer floated to the surface.

  ‘Do you want a bag?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Charmian accepted the plastic carrier bag with the name of the store splashed across it. ‘Miss Mercer?’ she said, putting her change in her purse.

  She got a surprised look. ‘I’m Amy Mercer.’ Then the look became appraising. ‘Are you a journalist?’

  Not stupid, Charmian thought, she has connected me with her statement about the child. Perhaps she wants me to be a journalist and is looking for publicity.

  ‘No, I am a police officer.’

  ‘Oh?’ The tone was cautious, even sceptical.

  Charmian showed her police identity card. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m working.’

  ‘But the store closes soon.’ Charmian had timed her visit with care. ‘ Not late opening tonight. I’ll be in the coffee shop across the road. Join me there. I’ll wait.’

  She didn’t have long to wait. The coffee in her cup was still warm when she saw the slight figure crossing the road. Out of the blue and pink uniform which all the checkout girls wore, Amy Mercer displayed her own dress sense with jeans, a tweed jacket, and a cream shirt. She wore a round badge which said: I AM A BLOOD DONOR.

  Charmian drew out the chair for her on the other side of the table between the two angles of the wall, thus effectively imprisoning Amy.

  ‘Espresso or white?’

  ‘White, please.’ Amy moved her chair an infinitesimal fraction towards the door and escape, thus indicating to Charmian that she was a free woman. ‘And sugar.’

  Charmian pushed the bowl towards her.

  Amy leaned forward to spoon some out. ‘I got away early.’

  ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble with the store.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m leaving anyway. Only a temporary job, the regular girl was ill and now she’s coming back. Lot of redundancies there anyway. It’s hard to get a job in Windsor.’

  ‘I’d heard.’

  ‘And I quite liked that spot, I liked looking out. That’s how I saw the girl, that’s what you wanted me to say, isn’t it? I did see her.’

  Charmian drank her coffee and took her time answering. ‘You sat there looking, I expect.’

  ‘Well, I did, till the supervisor came up and gave me a sharp look … we’re checked there, you know. Have to pass so many articles a day through the scanner or we get a bad mark.… I always get bad marks, that’s why they put me on that five articles only desk. Doesn’t matter so much there … Yes, I sat looking, so would you have done, it was quite a sight, this kid dancing up and down the street, she was getting in people’s way. You ought to ask around see who else saw her.’

  ‘As far as I know no one else has come forward.’

  Amy shrugged. ‘ People.’

  ‘And you knew her?’

  ‘Well, I thought I did. Why, that’s Miss Sarah, I thought, what’s she doing and what’s her mother thinking of?’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Course I did. Know the family.’

  Charmian laid down the photograph that Biddy had sent her. ‘Was this the girl?’

  Amy studied it briefly. ‘ Yes, that’s Sarah. Mind you, she’s changed a bit since that was taken. Grown up more, not quite such a baby face … I’ve seen that photograph before. Who sent it to you?’

  Charmian took the photograph back without answering.

  ‘Not her ladyship, I’ll be bound, not Mr Peter. Mrs Holt, I bet you.’ She gave Charmian a sharp look. ‘ Since you don’t answer, it has to be yes.’

  And I’m still not answering. ‘And you saw her again?’ she said.

  ‘You seem to know all about it already. Yes, I saw her again, the next day.’

  ‘And she was crying?’

  Amy silent, she stirred her mug of coffee. ‘Yeah … I think you could say that. Looked like it. Not happy like the other day.’

  ‘What did you do about it?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. I thought, though.’

  ‘But you knew she was missing.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was missing, wasn’t in the papers. I haven’t been in touch with Aunty.’

  ‘Aunty?’

  ‘She’s Lady Grahamden’s housekeeper. I worked there myself, I liked it, I like kitchen work, but there wasn’t enough to do and Aunty and I didn’t always see eye to eye.’ She took a long drink of coffee. ‘So what is it you want from me?’

  Charmian stared out of the window. What do I want from this woman? I wanted to test her, to see if she rang true like a good piece of china. Was she one of those people who like notoriety and come forward with a made-up story … Did she really see the child? Yes, I think she did.

  But there was something.

  Amy caught the glance. ‘You’re not meant to like me,’ she said. ‘Just question me.’

  Charmian ignored the thrust. ‘Which days that week did you see Sarah?’

  Amy frowned. ‘Was it last week? Still seems like this week even if it is only Monday. That’s the trouble, I can’t be sure. One day is just like another when you work at a cash till.’ She took another sip of coffee. ‘But I’m working on it, trying to remember, pick up just that little extra detail that will say to me, well it was Friday after all. That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘It would be a help.’

  ‘But at least it shows she was still alive. Whenever I saw her, that is. Let’s say it was early last week.’

  ‘We don’t know that she’s dead.’

  ‘Likely though, isn’t it?’

  Nearly three weeks now, she had been gone.

  Dancing, then crying, what a picture it summoned up. ‘Why was she dancing? Why was she crying? Where was she going and where had she come from?’

  ‘Problem, isn’t it?’ Amy shoo
k her head. ‘Sometimes when children go missing, they seem to creep into holes and hideaways like little animals.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charmian remembered an earlier case in a Windsor school and the hideaway that a frightened child had found. Yes, children did find a hole to hide in, not necessarily a good hole or the best hole, but one in which they felt safe. Lost, frightened children. Was that what Sarah had been? If so, she had learnt something about her which hadn’t come out. ‘You seem to know.’

  ‘Ran away once myself.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Oh, here and there. I hid under the arches down by the riverside once, not for long, there were rats.’ Amy was carefully vague, she didn’t say which riverside and which arches although it must be Windsor, and must be those near the old railway station. ‘And came back. Coming back, that’s the trick.’

  Charmian probed. ‘I suppose the old railway arches could still be used that way. Of course, the police will have looked.’

  ‘Always new places,’ said Amy, as if it was of no interest to her, not of interest to anyone but she might as well say it.

  There seemed no return from this remark, so Charmian made none.

  ‘What will you do when this job ends?’

  ‘Look for another one. I like housework best, that’s what I am really; a kitchen worker.’

  ‘You could go back to Lady Grahamden.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Amy shifted her eyes. ‘Not easy. Quarrelled.’

  Charmian picked up the menu, tore a scrap from it, and scribbled her telephone number on it. ‘I need help in the house. Ring me if you feel like it.’ She put some money on the table and left.

  Amy watched her go, then picked up the piece of paper and stowed it carefully away in her pocket. Then she returned to watching Peascod Street, it was always an interesting thoroughfare to a girl with an open mind.

  Charmian knew that Amy was watching her as she walked away, she had developed a sense about that sort of thing.

  She longed to take a shower to wash the day off her body, but first things first. Dan Feather had a right to know what she was up to, Rewley too of course, but Feather had the best claim. It was his case she was walking into. He couldn’t say anything, of course, but he could certainly think it. On the other hand, sometimes he gave the muted impression of being glad of her help, as if he admitted that she saw further into the dark wood than he did.