The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  George went to the keypad and unset the alarm, closed the door behind him and stood for a moment looking down at the hall stand. His cleaning lady had picked up the post and laid it out there for him. One cursory glance told him there was nothing there he wanted to see. He turned into the living room and switched on the lights. It was a gracious room, subtle, he always liked to think, with perfect handpicked furniture. Every now and then he would change the pieces round, bring some things back from the shop, change the mood, but for now it was a restful place, gentle on the eye and perfect as a setting for the five Lucas paintings which hung on the walls. They were all examples of her later work, three that she had given him herself, as were the two sketch portraits he kept in his bedroom. Those he had bought from an auction in Brighton. Over the fireplace was a painting which had been given to him by an old friend of his mother’s who no longer had any room for it. It was large, more strident than her usual palette, in some ways uncomfortable in its depiction of a stormy scene on the Downs, the great trees of Chanctonbury Ring in the background, trees which had later been felled by the great storm of 1987. He loved that painting. It was elemental; violent. It contained rage and frustration and sorrow, somehow predicting the violent end the trees would suffer, and yet, there in the distance was a break in the clouds with a promise of gentle warmth and summer skies to come.

  He went over to the front window and drew the curtains. The tree outside was moving slowly in the slight breeze from the heath which had teased his hair as he approached the house. He would enjoy showing Lucy the paintings and if she wanted he would allow her to photograph them for her book. His mother would be pleased, he was sure. He smiled again, aware that supporting Lucy would undoubtedly piss off Christopher.

  The noise behind him made him turn round with mild curiosity. He still attributed any untoward noises in the house to dear old Marcus, his wonderful, much missed, tabby cat, alas now departed to the great cat hotel in the sky, although, sometimes, he had to admit he did wonder if his beloved wife, Marjory, though she had been dead for over twenty years, still kept an eye on him. There was no one there, of course. There never was. The house, so full of furniture and paintings and beauty, was, sometimes achingly, empty. He took a step towards the door and another, suddenly aware that there was a shadow there, a shadow which looked strangely like that of a man.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. He felt nervous now, suspicious. ‘Is someone there?’

  To his astonishment the hazy figure that appeared looked exactly like his father.

  November 30th 1940

  Evie had made Ralph drive her out towards the coast. They parked at last in a lonely lane near Pagham. Ralph pulled on the handbrake and turned towards her. ‘Not another mile till you tell me what this is all about.’ It was raining hard and a cold wind had scoured the last leaves from the hedgerows.

  ‘It’s Tony. I have to see him.’

  Ralph let out a groan. ‘For goodness’ sake. We have been over this so many times. Can you please leave me out of it! Ring him. Meet him in Chi or somewhere. Daddy will never see you there, but look out for Eddie. You and Tony are both miserable. You are making everyone else miserable. You are both being annoying.’ It was the closest she had seen him to being angry with her for a long time.

  ‘I did ring him. I left two messages at the Mess and I had no reply. If he cared he would have come to see me. He could have done it. He could have found out when Daddy was away from the farm and come up to see me. He did before.’

  Ralph let out a groan. ‘Evie, the poor guy is fighting a war! He does have to do other things. He can’t just chase after you all the time.’

  He took her hands in his. They were very cold and he could see the stains from the oil paints in her fingernails. A wave of compassion swept over him. His baby sister always brought out the soft side in him and he cursed himself for it.

  ‘All right. Just one more time. I will tell him, but if you two can’t arrange something this time then that is it. The end. Right? If he can’t or won’t meet you then you must give up. It means he just can’t do it now. You are putting so much pressure on the chap, Evie, and he is being harangued on every side, being told to leave you alone.’

  ‘I hate Eddie.’ She said it so quietly he had to bend towards her to hear. ‘It is Eddie, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eddie is very protective of you, I do know that. And he’s very jealous. So, for God’s sake don’t blurt out that you still love Tony. Eddie is too important to your career.’

  Two more of her paintings had been bought by the Commission and were even now on display in London. She had had a personal message from Sir Kenneth Clark praising her work and asking her to produce more sketches of the women of Southampton rallying round to bring some semblance of normality to their lives after the endless repeated bombing of their city. Even now there was a painting on the easel in her studio showing two young women with a group of small children. Their hair tied up in colourful scarves, their coats flapping open over dull brown dresses, the women, barely more than girls themselves were playing with the children in an underground shelter. The small faces were thin and grey with fatigue but they were laughing, as were the adults round them as they all looked down at a game of spillikins, the pins lying on the ground in a small patch of sunshine. The picture had moved Ralph to tears.

  ‘You heard they have given Tony the DFC?’ he said suddenly. He looked up at her.

  She was staring out of the windscreen. A dead leaf had plastered itself on the glass. She shivered. ‘No one told me. That’s good. He’s a brave man.’ She gave a sad little smile.

  Ralph frowned incredulously. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

  ‘Of course I am. He’s a hero. He’s in danger every day.’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Ralph replied. ‘So why can’t you see that you have to give him a bit of space, Evie?’ He didn’t point out that all this applied to him as well. That he too was in danger every day, that he too was exhausted and under interminable pressure. She had never even asked if he had a girlfriend, someone somewhere who worried about him and maybe cried when he was late back from a sortie. As far as she was concerned Ralph was her property, there for her and her alone. He reached for the starter button. One of these days he would tell her about Sylvie. ‘I must take you back. There is someone else I have to see before I get back to Tangmere.’

  She didn’t even ask who it was.

  21

  Saturday 24th August

  Christopher and Frances were seated in silence at the kitchen table when the doorbell rang. It was nine o’clock in the morning. The table was bare save for a coffee pot and two mugs. Christopher swore as the bell rang again. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you might as well go and see.’

  Frances pushed back her chair and walked out into the hall. She was dressed and made up, and her hair was neatly brushed in a half-fringe so that it more or less covered the fading black eye. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. There were two uniformed police officers on the doorstep.

  ‘Mrs Marston?’ The elder of the two looked at her with such a solemn face she felt her stomach turn over. ‘The children?’ she gasped. ‘Has something happened to the children?’

  ‘No, Mrs Marston. We are not here about your children.’ The older man had his cap tucked under his arm. ‘I am Sergeant David Hawkins and this is Constable Simon Jones. I wonder, is your husband in, Mrs Marston?’

  She turned to call Christopher but he had followed her out of the kitchen and was standing in the hall. ‘What is it?’ he called. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘If we might come in please, sir.’

  The two policemen followed them into the sitting room. ‘Does your father live in Keats Grove, Hampstead, sir?’

  ‘Oh God!’ Christopher said. His face had drained of colour. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I am afraid your father has been found dead, sir.’

  Christopher opened his mouth to say something, found himself incapable of speech an
d sat down heavily on one of the armchairs.

  ‘What happened?’ Frances echoed in a whisper. ‘Did he have a heart attack?’

  ‘At present we don’t know the cause of death. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You must know something! Who found him? That useless cleaning lady of his, I suppose.’ Christopher looked wildly from one man to the other.

  ‘At present we know very little, sir. I gather he was found downstairs in his living room. He was alone and there were no signs of a forced entry, but a painting which I gather had been hanging over the fireplace was lying near him. It had been badly damaged. His neighbour found him. I gather he had a key to your father’s house and when he couldn’t get an answer this morning and saw the curtains still shut he let himself in. They had an arrangement to go out together, I understand, and he thought it strange that your father hadn’t rung to tell him if there was a change of plan.’

  Christopher seemed incapable of speech. It was Frances who told the police that they had been estranged from Christopher’s father and had not seen him for several years, that he had been ill on and off with a bad heart, that they knew nothing about his friends or business colleagues and who might have seen him last, and it was Frances who calmly locked up and ushered her husband into the back of the police car before climbing in beside him for the drive to London.

  The body had been removed when they got there; the painting of Chanctonbury Ring was lying where the police had found it on the carpet in front of the fireplace. There was an ugly hole ripped in the centre. With an exclamation of horror Christopher moved forward to pick it up. The sergeant stepped forward to stop him. ‘I am sorry, sir, but just for now we mustn’t touch anything. Detective Inspector Swire will be here in a moment to speak to you.’

  Christopher moved back. He was still staring at the picture. ‘That’s Evie’s,’ he whispered to Frances. ‘One of Evie’s from the seventies. How the hell did he get hold of it?’

  ‘She was his mother,’ Frances retorted, rather more sharply than she had intended. They both glanced at the sergeant, who pretended not to have heard the exchange. ‘I am sure he had a great many of his mother’s pictures. Surely you didn’t think you had the total monopoly.’

  ‘Why did he smash it like that?’ Christopher appeared far more concerned about the damage to the picture than his father’s death. He swung round as another man walked into the room.

  ‘Detective Inspector Swire, sir.’ Medium height, compact build and thinning fair hair gave the inspector a deceptively meek appearance as he held out his hand. ‘Could you tell us, just for the record, where you were last night between midnight and the early hours of this morning?’

  ‘You can’t possibly think –’ Christopher exploded.

  ‘No, sir, I don’t.’ Inspector Swire’s voice was cold and surprisingly powerful. ‘Nevertheless I would like to confirm your whereabouts.’

  ‘We were at home in bed.’

  ‘And do you know a Mr Derek Hemingway?’

  Christopher looked blank. ‘No.’

  ‘Or,’ the inspector consulted a piece of paper, ‘a Mrs Lucy Standish?’

  December 5th 1940

  ‘I want to marry your sister.’ Tony was sitting opposite Ralph in The Unicorn bar. The continuing run of bad weather meant they were grounded for the time being, as was, presumably, the enemy. ‘I don’t know where I am with her any more. And I miss her so much. To keep everything above board, I want your permission to ask her. I can’t ask your father, he will only say no. I know why he has taken against me, and I understand that Eddie is threatening everybody, but I need to be with her and I need to know that she wants to be with me! I love her so much. We can be married by special licence and if you are there it will make it respectable.’

  Ralph shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that’s right, Tony.’ He picked up his glass. ‘I’m not sure she wants to rush into this, however much she loves you.’ If she loves you, he almost added. He wasn’t sure now. ‘She adores Daddy and she won’t want to risk him getting angry. You do know how ill he is, don’t you? Can’t you just put it all off for a bit?’

  Tony’s shoulders slumped. ‘Supposing I give her a ring? Then she will know I mean it.’ He sat back on his seat, his face a picture of anguish. ‘I have one. I asked my mother to send Grandmother’s ring down to me. It was always going to be for the girl I marry. It is very pretty. I think Evie would like it. I’ll tell her not to show it to anyone. Eddie mustn’t see it, or your father, but we would be secretly engaged.’

  Ralph pursed his lips. ‘It’s an idea, certainly.’

  ‘But how am I going to ask her if she won’t see me?’

  ‘Write to her and I will see she gets the letter. That way there can be no mistake. I will guarantee to give it to her personally and I will bring her reply. How about that?’

  It had to be up to them to sort this out but he could help, he could let them have one more chance to see each other. Didn’t he owe them both that much? Ralph sighed as from the rain-swept night outside the air raid siren began its eerie wail. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Not in this weather. It will be a false alarm.’

  Tony smiled for the first time. ‘There hasn’t been a raid for days. I reckon they have forgotten about us.’ He sat forward. ‘Ralph, there is a rumour my squadron is going to be posted. I have to know before I go. Supposing they send us back to Scotland?’

  ‘Write the letter. If you go to Scotland perhaps that would be a good thing. If Evie wants to marry you she can jump on a train and meet you up there. You could go to Gretna.’

  For a moment the two young men held each other’s gaze.

  ‘Write it now so I can take it with me,’ Ralph said at last. ‘Ask for a bit of paper at the bar.’

  A sheet of notepaper and an envelope were produced and Tony retired with it to the corner. Barely half the people drinking had left to seek the air raid shelters. The others downed their beers steadfastly, half an eye on the blacked-out windows and door. There was no noise of overhead planes and only ten minutes later the all clear sounded.

  ‘Here.’ Tony folded the letter into the envelope and wrote Evie’s name on it. ‘Shall I give you the ring?’

  ‘You have it here?’ Ralph stared at him

  ‘I’ve carried it since my mother sent it. Just in case.’ Tony rummaged in his battledress and felt in an inner pocket. The pretty sapphire ring sparkled in the dim light of the bar. ‘Tell her I will put it on her finger myself when she says yes.’ He grinned weakly. ‘Remind her about the milkwort flower. I’ve told her this is the last chance, Ralph. If she says no, that will be it. If she chooses her dad and Eddie over me, I won’t push her any more; I can’t fight them unless she wants me to. I won’t ask again.’ He pushed back the chair. ‘I don’t want the ring back. There will never be anyone else. Let’s go. You can drop me off.’

  As he climbed out of the Morgan at the gate to Westhampnett Tony stooped to Ralph’s window. ‘If I don’t hear from her I will know it is all off this time. That will be it. I will go back to Scotland and she will never see or hear from me again. You will persuade her, won’t you?’

  Ralph nodded. He raised his thumb. ‘I might not get up there for a few days, but don’t worry, I’ll see she gets the letter.’ He couldn’t promise any more than that.

  Monday 26th August

  Huw walked up the stairs ahead of Lucy. Behind them, Robin followed them into the kitchen and straight through into the studio. The skylights were open and sunshine poured into the room.

  ‘It’s clear.’ Huw turned to Lucy. ‘He has gone.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Her mouth was dry.

  ‘I can feel it. But Robin and I agree, the painting should not return here, and maybe you would be more comfortable staying with us a little bit longer.’

  ‘I want you to take another week or so off, Luce.’ Robin folded his arms. ‘This has all been an awful strain on you.’

  The police had arrived at ten a.m. and Robin had hes
itantly told them where Lucy was staying. Maggie had sat with Lucy when they told her of George’s death. Her alibi for Friday night was cast iron – she had been on the train by six, still had a receipt for coffee from Victoria Station, and another for the train ticket. She had spent the evening with Huw and Maggie and one of the churchwardens and his wife who had come to supper and stayed till almost midnight. She had been able to tell them nothing about George other than that he had been going to the opera that evening. Her sadness for the loss of someone who to her had been kind and friendly was compounded by the irreplaceable loss of information about Evie’s life.

  Juliette rang them later at the vicarage. ‘Frances told me. The police took them up to town to see if anything had been stolen, which of course they didn’t know, and then they had to go and identify him. It is just so awful.’

  ‘So they think it was a robbery?’ Maggie had passed the phone to Lucy.

  ‘They don’t know, but one of Evie’s paintings was badly damaged. It was lying on the floor when they went into the house. Obviously George wouldn’t have done it. There was no sign he was trying to move it or anything. He would have had to stand on something and there was nothing near him. They think maybe he disturbed someone who was trying to steal it. They will know more after the post mortem.’

  After she had hung up the phone Lucy looked at Maggie and grimaced. ‘You don’t think …?’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘The entity who tried to destroy Evie’s painting in my studio. You don’t think he had turned his attention to George? You don’t think he followed me to London?’ The colour had drained from her face. ‘Huw was so sure it had left the studio. Did I take it with me? Did I cause George’s death?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Lucy.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘It was probably some low-life scum who followed him home.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Don’t tell Huw I said that. I know I should forgive and understand but I get angry! This sort of thing is so needless!’