The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  Saturday 21st September

  ‘So, that is how she came here.’ Mike looked up at Lucy. They had been poring over Evie’s diary for 1960. Lucy was overjoyed to find three more diaries in the case as well as several envelopes and packets. The next notebook was a form of diary but not so detailed, and spanned a dozen or so years. Johnny graduated with a law degree from Oxford and joined her parents’ former solicitors in Chichester as a trainee. At university he had met another undergraduate, Juliette Phelps, and shortly after he took the position in Chichester they were married, to Evie’s delight. George took his A levels and then went to study art, first in Florence then in Rome. The cottage which for a few years was bursting at the seams with the two young men as well as Evie was now a lonely place, or would have been had it not been for Dolly. Evie’s affection for her housekeeper was obvious on every page as it was for her daughters-in-law. George and Marjorie were married in Italy in 1967. Christopher was born in 1972 and back in Chichester Johnny and Juliette’s son, Michael, was born four years later.

  ‘So, now we are into the present,’ Mike said as they reached the end of the book. ‘Christopher and me.’

  ‘But nothing about Evie painting again,’ Lucy commented. ‘She mentioned it that once. She had her lovely studio and enough time and she was happy here. So why no further mention of her pictures?’

  ‘Perhaps she had a separate notebook for that as she did in the early days?’ Mike reached into the case for another of the notebooks. He flipped it open and stared at it. ‘Oh Lord. Look.’

  Eddie had come back into her life.

  1989

  Evie opened the door to find him standing on her doorstep one rainy day in March. Her hair was grey now but still curling loosely over her shoulders.

  He pushed the door open and walked in. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Where are what?’ She was alone in the house and completely unprepared for his arrival.

  ‘The paintings.’ He seized her wrist and held up her hand. ‘I know you have been painting. Look, you can hardly deny it.’ Her fingers were stained with oils and the smock she was wearing over her slacks was covered in old paint stains. ‘I’ve seen several of them now in galleries around the country.’

  ‘Probably paintings you sold,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘No. I remember every painting I sold.’ He walked across the room and pushed open the French doors into the garden. ‘That, I take it, is your studio.’ Without waiting for her reply he was striding across the grass through the rain. She hadn’t locked the door. It hadn’t occurred to her. She watched in dumb horror as he pushed open the door and walked in.

  There was no point in following him. He had always been taller and stronger than she. Now in his seventies, he had put on weight but he still looked a fit man. He could easily overpower her if he chose. She stood staring out of the window as he carried the paintings out of the studio one by one to his car. There wasn’t room for all of them. Some he left, stacked against the wall by the door. He would no doubt return for those and if she called the police he would invoke his supposed contract as her agent. It felt as though she had been raped.

  He did not come back into the cottage. After a while she realised he had gone, his car loaded, the door to the studio hanging open, allowing the rain to soak the boards of the floor. She stood looking round in complete misery, noting which of her favourites were missing, then she turned and went back into the house and picked up the phone. Johnny and Juliette were there within an hour. Within a day Johnny’s senior partner had initiated divorce proceedings. She and Eddie had been separated so long it was a mere formality. He did not contest it.

  For a few months there was no further contact with Eddie. He came once more when Juliette and Johnny happened to be there and then in September 1989 he appeared for the last time.

  This time when she said no she threatened him with the police and told him that enough was enough. It was time both boys knew their story. Then he would have no hold over her any more.

  He stood looking down at her with an expression of extreme contempt. ‘Do you think either of them would care now?’ he said at last. ‘Johnny is forty-eight years old, for goodness’ sake. He wouldn’t care if his father was the Archbishop of Canterbury!’

  Evie looked at him with real loathing. ‘No. But he would be so pleased to know his father was a war hero and not a black marketer who never lifted a finger to fight the enemy.’

  Eddie reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘War hero, eh? Maybe. But he was a coward as well. He left you without a word so he could save his own skin. I had him killed, you know.’ He smiled. ‘I tried once when he was stationed here, but later, in Scotland, when his plane crashed, that was my doing.’

  Evie felt her face drain of colour. She couldn’t move.

  ‘I was sorry I couldn’t tell you what I had done, but at the time it seemed better for everyone to keep it quiet. Tony Anderson, DFC, downed by some dissident Commies from Clydeside who didn’t need asking twice when we suggested a small stick of gelignite strapped to the engine cowling of his Spitfire might be a fine gesture in the support of the Marxist cause. That and a suitable donation, of course.’ He was silent for a moment studying her face. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t know.’

  ‘It hardly matters. So much for his beloved Evie. Did he even know you were pregnant? No, I don’t suppose he did. You were just a passing flirt. Did you really think I was fooled even for a minute by your sudden show of affection for me?’ He opened his cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and reached for his lighter. ‘You’ve always played me for a fool, Evie. That was stupid.’

  ‘Get out!’ Her voice was very quiet, but its force surprised him.

  ‘I’m going. As soon as I have collected one or two paintings.’

  ‘No. You are not taking any paintings. You are never coming here again.’

  He took a long draw on his cigarette, watching her carefully. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. ‘I will do as I wish, Evie. No one will stop me. There is no point in you telling anyone what I have just told you. No one would believe it. Not in a million years. They will just say you are a dotty old woman with a grudge.’ He smiled. ‘And I have a legal right to your paintings, don’t forget that.’ He tossed the end of the cigarette into the fireplace and strode towards the French doors.

  The studio was unlocked. He took two small watercolours and an oil portrait of George and strolled back towards his car in the lane. He went back once more and this time he had her painting of Chanctonbury Ring under his arm. He raised the other in her direction in an ironic wave and then he was gone.

  For a long time Evie stood still. She realised she was shaking.

  Tony. Eddie had killed Tony.

  These days she drove an MG sports car, chosen for her sixty-eighth birthday present by her two sons. It took less than two hours to reach London. He wasn’t expecting her and opened the door at her ring. She pushed past him, just as he had done to her, and ran to the staircase. The house had not changed much in all the years since she had walked out that fine day in May nearly thirty years before, but she was more agile than he now.

  Her former studio had been repainted and carpeted and fixed up as a gallery. On the walls hung some two dozen of her works, some taken from Rosebank, some from the old days when she lived here, and several which must have been bought from galleries in the south of England. She glanced round, then turned to face Eddie as he pounded up after her.

  ‘You bastard!’ Her anger had not dissipated in the drive from Sussex. If anything it had intensified. ‘You utter murdering bastard. I will kill you for this!’

  He laughed. ‘How nice to see you here, Evie. Well, if you kill me all I can say is that I will haunt you forever. But you’ve got to do it first! I must say, I’ve missed your fiery presence, my darling.’ His smile vanished and his eyes grew hard again.

  ‘Have you?’ She took a step towards him, her face
a mask of anger. ‘Have you indeed?’

  He stepped backwards in spite of himself. ‘Yes, I think I have. So, what do you think of the gallery?’

  ‘It proves you are a thief!’ She took another step forward. Her hands were balled into fists and suddenly she flew at him. He stepped back out of the room onto the landing, and then once again, missing his footing on the top step of the stairs behind him. For a moment he staggered, grabbing for the banister, then with a shout of fright he fell, heavily and awkwardly down the full flight of stairs, landing at the bottom with an horrific crash.

  Evie froze. ‘Eddie?’ she whispered. ‘Eddie, are you all right?’

  He didn’t reply.

  Slowly she walked down the flight of stairs, pausing at the bottom to look down at him. ‘I warned you, Eddie,’ she said at last. ‘I warned you I would kill you.’ She could see from the angle of his head that his neck was broken.

  She didn’t touch him; what was the point. No doctor could help him. Slowly she walked down the next flight of stairs and then along the passage to the front door. Her painting of Chanctonbury Ring was still there, leaning against the wall. Eddie had not had time to bring it in and hang it. She picked it up and it was only as she opened the door and stepped outside clutching the picture that she realised she was still wearing her soft leather driving gloves. She had left no fingerprints; her car was parked several streets away. As far as she knew no one had seen her. It was the perfect murder.

  Saturday 21st September

  ‘Jesus!’ Mike looked up at Lucy. ‘She killed him!’

  ‘And then wrote it all down in her diary?’ Lucy said softly.

  ‘And he killed the man who was my grandfather.’ He exhaled loudly, rubbing his hands up and down his face several times. They looked at each other in silence for several seconds. ‘She didn’t actually murder Eddie,’ Lucy said at last. ‘It sounds as though that was an accident.’

  ‘But she pushed him.’

  ‘Even so. She couldn’t have known he would die.’ She stood up and walked over to the window, staring out at the studio. ‘Did she ever tell anyone, do you think?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘I don’t know. My parents never said anything to me but I was only thirteen when he died so even if they suspected anything they wouldn’t mention it to me, would they? But then I saw his ghost.’ He shivered.

  ‘And he had already planned his revenge by leaving everything to George and then in turn to Christopher.’

  ‘And now we know why. He obviously didn’t realise he was going to die at her hand, but he was determined to cut Dad out. I wonder when he made that will.’

  ‘That’s easy to check.’ She turned to face him, leaning with her back to the sink. ‘The Record Office is just round the corner from me at home. You know, I think we are going to have to tell Huw and Maggie about this.’

  He frowned. ‘Why?’ He stood up and came to stand beside her.

  ‘Because he is a ghost and now we know why. He swore he would haunt Evie, he is still obsessed with Evie’s paintings and he is still obsessed with his hatred of Tony Anderson. My God, he killed the man! He got some communists to blow up his plane! Surely that’s treason or something. There was a war on, for goodness’ sake! It needs professionals like Huw and Maggie to sort out someone so obsessed with hatred.’

  ‘They haven’t managed to cope with him yet, Lucy,’ Mike said slowly. ‘After all, he followed the picture to their house and attacked it again there.’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘I feel safe with them.’

  ‘I know you do.’ He reached out and touched her hand. ‘Perhaps now if they know what they’re dealing with they will be more successful. You’re right. We should tell them. I am sure they would be discreet.’

  ‘Do you think Evie ever saw his ghost?’

  They looked at each other. ‘Unless she wrote it down, we’ll never know.’ It was Lucy’s turn to shiver.

  ‘You can’t write about this, Lucy. You realise that, don’t you? None of it.’ He paused, still stunned. ‘All that stuff about him blowing up the Spitfire. I just can’t believe that that could really be true.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She glanced at him. ‘Do you think she told Dolly?’

  ‘It’s possible. Dolly was always her confidante. But I don’t think we can ask her.’

  ‘No.’ Lucy moved away from him. ‘And you’re right, I can’t write about this, but the fact that Eddie died as a result of a fall would be part of the historical record. I can put that in.’

  Mike moved back to the table and pulled the case to face him. ‘There are more things in here.’ He glanced at the last remaining notebook. ‘This takes her story up to 2000.’ He flipped through the pages. Of course she never exhibited again after Eddie died. And although he sold her paintings they were never exhibited by him either. I suppose he couldn’t without her say-so.’

  ‘Which is where I came in because I wanted to put her back on the map.’ Lucy gave a rueful smile.

  ‘At least I know now why he left nothing to my dad, and why Dad seemed to hate him so much,’ Mike said.

  ‘Quite a family history.’ Lucy smiled. ‘Shall we see what else is in here while we are at it?’ She nodded towards the attaché case.

  In one of the pockets was a large sealed envelope. Lucy pulled it out and read the scrawled inscription on the front. Property of Flying Officer Ralph Lucas. She passed it to Mike.

  He tore open the flap. Inside was a small sealed envelope, two sheets of paper and a ring. He glanced at the ring. It was a delicate, filigree gold design set with a sapphire. The first sheet of paper was written in the same hand as the inscription on the front of the envelope. Dear Mrs Lucas, It is my sad duty to pass on these items to you. They were found at the back of your son’s locker after his other belongings had been returned to you. Please accept my apologies for the delay in returning them. Yours sincerely …

  The other sheet had some lines of poetry on them. The envelope, inscribed in another hand was simply addressed to Evie.

  Mike looked at Lucy, then he opened the letter.

  My darlingest Evie,

  You know how much I love you. I have been trying to reach you to ask you again to marry me. Please, my love. You are the only one for me and I want so much to make you my wife.

  I am giving Ralph my grandmother’s ring for you. It is the colour of the milkworts we found that day on the Downs. Remember? Wear it for me. We are being posted north at any moment and I will have no more chances to see you for a while but come to my parents farm and we can be married from there. I have told Ralph so that he can help you arrange it.

  Until then, my darling you have my love forever, Tony. xxxxx

  PS. If I don’t hear from you I will know that you don’t want me.

  ‘She never got the letter,’ Lucy whispered.

  Mike shook his head. ‘Look at the date. It was the day before Ralph was killed. He never delivered the letter and Tony must have left thinking she didn’t want to marry him.’

  ‘And she was pregnant with his child and loved him so much that one day, nearly fifty years later, she would kill Eddie for killing him. Oh God, Mike, this is like some Shakespearean tragedy.’ Lucy had tears in her eyes.

  ‘Is that what Ralph has been trying to tell us all these years?’ Mike said. ‘Great-granny Rachel was too upset ever to open his things and when Evie inherited all her stuff, she never bothered, she just shoved this in her writing case. If she had opened it she would have known how much Tony loved her.’

  Mike put his arm round Lucy’s shoulders and pulled her against him and they stood in silence for a long time like that, together, lost in thought, as outside the evening began to draw into night.

  As the shadows lengthened the roar of an aircraft engine grew louder in the distance. They both turned to the window. The Spitfire flew low and straight over Rosebank Cottage, then turned and flew off into the darkness.

  Monday 23rd September

  ‘I can’t
go on staying here with you.’ Lucy cornered Maggie before she went out of the front door. ‘It’s not fair. I have to go home.’

  Maggie was on her way to what she described as a vicar’s wife’s meeting, something about which she had been complaining at breakfast. She looked distracted, her arms full of books and ledgers.

  Lucy smiled in spite of herself. ‘You know, it doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘What doesn’t suit me?’ Maggie tried to brush her hair out of her eyes with her forearm only to succeed in dropping one of the notebooks.

  Lucy stooped to pick it up. ‘You should be swathed in beads and shawls and hung with lucky charms and on your way to talk to the trees!’

  Maggie smiled. ‘How do you know I’m not?’

  ‘Because of this.’ Lucy glanced at the writing on the book in her hand. It said Budget. She tucked it into Maggie’s elbow. ‘Trees don’t have budgets.’

  ‘So true.’ Maggie gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Let’s talk about what you want to do this evening. Huw is burying someone this morning and taking a class of some sort this afternoon, so we’ll foregather about six.’ She gave Lucy a fond smile. ‘I shall miss you so much when you go.’

  They had all talked for a long time the previous night about Eddie Marston and the latest revelations about him. No decisions had been reached. Maggie had sent Mike back to his cottage and despatched Lucy to bed with firm instructions not to worry. ‘Eddie’s not here now,’ was all she would say. ‘That is what matters. If you go home tomorrow with the picture I want you to feel safe. I am pretty certain that Eddie has other fish to fry now. I don’t know how I know, but I feel I am right. Perhaps this house is too holy for him.’ She smiled. ‘I almost said too hot! Let things be for a while and we will see what happens.’