Letters From the Past

by Erica James

  ‘I . . . I don’t remember. And I’m not really hungry.’

  He tutted. ‘Don’t fight me, Isabella, you don’t have the energy.’

  What resistance she still possessed vanished under his firmness, and before she knew it, she was sitting up in bed, the sheets and blankets straightened, and the pillows plumped and positioned for maximum comfort.

  ‘There now,’ he said, a short while later and placing a tray on her lap. ‘A mug of tomato soup and a round of cucumber sandwiches cut into tempting triangles, the crusts removed. The best remedy I know for reviving an ailing patient.’

  ‘How did you manage all this,’ she asked, staring at the tray, while he put a fresh jug of water and a clean glass on the bedside table. As muddle-headed as the fever had made her, she could have sworn he’d have had as much chance of finding gold bars in the kitchen as anything fresh and wholesome to eat.

  ‘I came prepared,’ he said, ‘like Little Red Riding Hood with a basket of nourishment.’

  ‘More like the Big Bad Wolf,’ she said.

  He dragged the velvet-covered stool over from her dressing table and placed it next to the bed. ‘Is that how you see me?’ he asked, when he was seated.

  ‘I’m not sure how I should see you,’ she replied. ‘Or how you want me to consider you?’

  He smiled, causing starbursts of lines to deepen around his eyes. ‘Drink your soup while it’s hot,’ he said. ‘We’ll discuss weightier matters when you’re better.’

  She lifted the mug of soup, put it against her dry lips and took a cautious sip. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ she asked, not really knowing what he did, other than he said he was just a boring civil servant.

  ‘How can I work when there’s a medical emergency to deal with?’

  ‘I’m hardly that.’

  ‘I remember all too well the smog of 1952. So let me determine what is, and what isn’t an emergency. Okay?’

  She nodded and drank some more of the soup, then nibbled on a sandwich. Although she had claimed not to have any appetite, she was now glad of something to eat. All the while she ate, Max’s eyes never wavered from her face. ‘Stop watching me,’ she said, ‘you’re making me nervous.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Weightier matters for when you’re feeling stronger.’

  Not daring to wonder what he meant, she said, ‘Tell me about you and Evelyn.’ Ever since they’d met, she had been curious about him knowing Evelyn. To Isabella’s knowledge her aunt had never once mentioned the handsome and charismatic man sitting here by the side of her bed. To her surprise, Max suddenly looked awkward.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘How did you two meet?’

  ‘War work,’ he said.

  ‘The hush-hush variety?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled again and put a finger to his lips. ‘So hush and concentrate on eating.’

  She drank some more soup. ‘Were you close friends?’ she asked.

  ‘Everyone was a close friend in the environment we worked in,’ he said. ‘Intense relationships were forged in the fire of the pressure we were under. It was the nature of the beast.’

  ‘Were you more than friends with Evelyn?’

  ‘I’ve never been a monk, Isabella. I’ve always enjoyed the company of women. I flirt as unconsciously as I breathe.’

  ‘That’s not exactly an answer to my question, is it?’

  ‘Yes, I flirted with Evelyn. She was a beautiful young girl with the kind of intelligence I admired. There was a time when I thought she was just the sort of woman with whom I could spend my life. But she loved another. I was no match for Kit.’

  At his candour, and feeling as though a dark cloud had passed across the sun, Isabella wished now that she hadn’t asked him about Evelyn. That’s what you get for poking your nose in where you shouldn’t, she thought. Then, and as if to teach her a further lesson, a racking cough took hold of her. With her shoulders heaving, it felt like her lungs were threatening to burst through her aching ribs.

  On his feet, Max removed the tray from her lap and placed a hand to her back as she doubled over with the pain her chest was in.

  When the coughing fit had run its course, she sank back against the pillows, exhausted and again bathed in sweat. ‘I’d like to sleep now,’ she murmured.

  Once more he straightened the sheet and blankets, smoothing and patting them into place. Such was the care he took, it made Isabella think of her father doing the same for her when she’d been a child.

  When he was standing at the door, Max said, ‘I want you to know something important, Isabella. What I said before about Evelyn, that was then. This is now. This is you and me. And it’s altogether different.’

  Weightier matters, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Fifty

  Chelstead Cottage Hospital, Chelstead

  December 1962

  Evelyn

  It had been a particularly trying day for Evelyn.

  A large part of her morning had been devoted to reasoning with an indignant parent who refused to believe her daughter might be dyslexic. The way the mother reacted to Evelyn’s carefully worded proposal that the girl be referred to a specialist for testing, anyone would think she had recommended seeking help from a witch doctor.

  No sooner had Mrs Bridgewater taken her leave and Evelyn had eaten a hurried lunch, than she had received a telephone call from a furious school governor. He had just learned of the existence of a well-thumbed copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in the school library – the full unexpurgated version, no less. The book had been discovered by the librarian, Mrs Woods, and the general consensus was that it had been put there as a prank by one of the girls. Evelyn had read the novel shortly after the ruling two years ago that it could be published here in Britain, and had not found it half as salacious as the press and the Church of England had made out.

  The school day now over, Evelyn was on her way to the hospital to visit Hope. She remained in a coma and the police still had no idea who had run her over.

  Darkness had fallen early this evening, due in part to the smog; it had spread out of London and across the country. Those who suffered with weak chests and heart complaints were advised to stay indoors. Evelyn had begged Kit not to go out when she’d kissed him goodbye this morning. Every year he succumbed to a shocking chest infection, just as he had as a boy, and subjecting his battered lungs to the current foul air was to be avoided at all costs. She suspected he would have ignored her advice and gone to see his sister anyway.

  With her gloved hand, Evelyn wiped at the windscreen. The heater, such as it was, wasn’t working and it was so cold inside the car her breath was misting the glass. She kept wriggling her toes in a vain attempt to keep them warm. Bill Noakes – the school caretaker, and general seer and clairvoyant – claimed the weather was set to take a turn for the worse. No doubt he knew this by conferring with a shrivelled-up piece of seaweed.

  At the hospital, Evelyn parked alongside Romily’s Lagonda. Switching off the engine, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. She hadn’t seen Romily since the night of Hope’s awful accident, and when Evelyn had learned that her sister-in-law had received an anonymous letter just as she had. Knowing that she wasn’t alone in being singled out had initially given her a sense of relief.

  Finding it impossible to be entirely truthful with Romily, especially with Stanley present, Evelyn had made vague noises about some person with whom she had worked during the war being the culprit. She had not revealed the true nature of the accusation made either, only that she was accused of betraying Kit.

  If Romily had doubted any of what Evelyn had shared, she had not pressed for more details. Romily had then been away on yet another tour of speaking engagements, and for a while Evelyn h
ad felt as though she were off the hook. Which was nothing but a display of short-sighted and cowardly behaviour on her part.

  Out of the car, and covering her mouth and nose with her scarf, she made a dash for the entrance to the hospital and the private room Hope had occupied since being admitted. As she thought she would, Evelyn found Romily sitting by the side of Hope’s bed. She was reading to her.

  ‘The latest Ngaio Marsh mystery,’ Romily said, holding up the book for Evelyn to see. ‘Hope’s always been rather fond of Roderick Alleyn.’

  ‘I must confess that I have a weakness for him too,’ said Evelyn. Removing her coat, scarf and gloves, she sat on the other side of the bed. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘In a word: cold. It’s good to be home. Even with this smog.’

  Evelyn smiled. ‘It’s good to see you again.’ Then taking hold of one of her sister-in-law’s hands, she said softly, ‘Hello Hope, it’s me, Evelyn, here to bother you again. Apologies for interrupting Romily reading to you. Do you remember the two of us once discussing who would make the better dining companion?’ she went on. ‘Hercule Poirot, Lord Peter Wimsey or Roderick Alleyn? And we both said Roderick because he would be so quietly attentive to one’s needs, whereas Wimsey would be a little too full of himself, and Poirot irritatingly pedantic, questioning the precise way the food was cooked.’ She forced a small laugh, trying hard to keep her voice light and upbeat.

  Edmund, along with the rest of the nursing staff, had told the family that they should talk to Hope as normally as possible. ‘There’s every chance she can hear what you say,’ Edmund had explained, ‘so keep the chatter going at all times.’

  To begin with Evelyn had felt self-conscious talking to Hope this way, but it gradually became perfectly natural. She talked to her about work, about the children and how it would soon be Christmas and that before too long Hope would be back with them, right as rain.

  ‘Keep what you say light and positive,’ Edmund had further instructed. Which was not easy, given that Hope was neither of these things and conversation with her had always tended to be on the serious side. Hope had never been interested in the mundane, so why bore her with it now when she couldn’t escape the grinding tedium of it?

  Edmund had stressed that he didn’t want his wife knowing that her condition had now been reported in the national press, following the story being plastered over the front page of the local paper. Many column inches had been devoted to the bestselling children’s author who had been ‘mown down by a callous hit and run driver’. Local and Fleet Street hacks had tried to talk their way into the hospital to get the inside story, but thanks to the smog, that was suddenly of more interest and now dominated the newspapers.

  Sack-loads of letters and cards written by children from all around the world, wishing their favourite author a speedy recovery, had been delivered to Fairview. Evelyn had read just a handful of them with Edmund and had been reduced to tears. Hope was adored by her young fans and for the first time, Evelyn pondered what that pressure must have been like for a woman who was essentially so private and undemonstrative.

  Romily had now closed the book she had been reading from and put it away in the locker. She then shut the door of the small room. ‘I think it’s time we put our heads together,’ she said, coming back to her chair.

  Evelyn looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean we have to turn detective and root out who has been sending the anonymous letters you’ve received. Florence has also been sent two.’

  ‘Florence? But what could anyone accuse her or Billy of? A more blameless couple never walked this earth.’

  ‘I don’t think the letters are about blame, they’re a means merely to cause trouble.’

  Evelyn wanted to believe Romily was right, but she wasn’t so sure. ‘So that makes three of us who have received letters,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Romily responded with a small nod. ‘There may be others, all of whom have kept quiet, just as you, Hope and Florence did. I think the person who sent the letters was perhaps banking on that. The letter we know Hope received was so obviously sent to undermine her confidence and make her suspect that Edmund was being unfaithful to her.’

  ‘My brother would never cheat on Hope!’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but I think we should pool resources and see if that gets us anywhere.’

  ‘By that, do you mean you want to know exactly what my letters accuse me of?’

  ‘Only if you want to tell me. It might help us pin down the culprit.’

  Before Evelyn could answer, the door opened and two nurses came in. Leaving them to tend to Hope, Evelyn beckoned Romily to continue the conversation in the corridor. If Hope could hear what was being said around her, Evelyn didn’t want her to hear what she was going to tell Romily.

  Alone in the corridor, her voice low, she said, ‘The accusation in both letters I’ve received is that Kit isn’t Pip and Em’s father.’

  Not missing a beat, Romily said, ‘And is there any reason why somebody might think that?’

  Evelyn steeled herself. ‘There was a man where I worked during the war . . . he and I . . . well, it was a terrible mistake. A one-off moment of madness. You know him. Max Blythe-Jones.’

  Again without missing a beat, Romily said, ‘And I believe he came to your party when I was in Palm Springs?’

  Evelyn nodded. ‘Kit tracked him down, along with a group of other people I hadn’t seen in years. He did it to surprise me.’

  ‘And you’d had no contact with Max in the intervening years?’

  ‘None at all. When I left the Park, that was an end to things with Max. Then when I saw him at the party after all this time, and when I had just received the first of the letters, I leapt to the conclusion that it was him who’d sent it. It was too much of a coincidence. I even challenged him, but he was adamant it wasn’t him. And now that I know about Hope and Florence, I’m certain he was speaking the truth.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Does Florence have any idea who it might be?’

  ‘Her mother-in-law is her most likely candidate.’

  Evelyn frowned. ‘That would make sense if Florence was the only recipient of a letter, but I can’t see a reason for Ruby Minton wanting to target me, it’s not as if we’ve ever crossed swords.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Evelyn smiled ruefully. ‘We need Roderick Alleyn, or better still, your Sister Grace to help us find the culprit.’

  Romily smiled too. ‘Life is seldom as straightforward or as tidy as it is in a crime novel.’

  Yes, thought Evelyn, thinking back to the mess she had made of her time at Bletchley Park.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Wayside Cottage, Buckinghamshire

  September 1942

  Evelyn

  It was the discovery that Tally my housemate was a spy that led to my moral disgrace.

  After a night-time shift at the Park, I cycled home in the early morning sunlight to our cottage and found that it had been burgled. There was no sign of Tally, but every room had been ransacked; the cupboards in the kitchen had been emptied and the paucity of furniture in the sitting room had been thoroughly upended.

  Upstairs, my small collection of books had been swept from the shelf, the mattress had been removed from the bed, and the contents of the wardrobe, dressing table and chest of drawers lay strewn about the place. It was when I saw my framed photograph of Kit on the floor, the glass smashed and the back of the frame prised off, that I suspected that this was not a straightforward burglary: somebody had been searching for something specific.

  I stared at the mess in bewilderment and dismay. Who could have done this? And why? Worried that whoever had been here might not have found what they were looking for and return, I cycled to the nearest telephone box, some two miles away. I rang Max’s number at the house in
Bletchley where he lodged. It was an age before anybody answered. His landlady informed me that Mr Blythe-Jones was asleep, but after I insisted it was imperative I spoke to him, that it was an emergency, she reluctantly went to knock on his door.

  ‘Who the devil wants me?’ he demanded when he picked up the receiver.

  ‘It’s me,’ I said, and hurriedly explained the situation.

  ‘Why haven’t you called the police?’ he asked when he arrived within thirty minutes on his Norton motorbike.

  ‘Because I don’t think it’s an ordinary burglary. See for yourself,’ I added.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said when he’d looked around. ‘What do you know about your housemate?’

  He had clearly leapt to the conclusion I had. ‘If I’m honest,’ I said, ‘I don’t really know that much about her.’

  It seemed so implausible, given that we shared a house, but it was true. I knew her name and her age and that in her free time she loved to be in the garden, but that was about it.

  ‘What does she do at the Park?’ Max asked.

  ‘I don’t know. We never talk about work, we’re not supposed to. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘But you must have some idea, surely?’

  ‘I honestly couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Has she ever asked you about your work? Or behaved in a manner you thought odd?’

  I shook my head. But then I recalled her recently joking about her duties at the Park, how none of her friends would ever guess that she had access to such important information regarding the war effort. Another time I had found her looking through my books. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’m desperate for something to read,’ she’d said, a copy of Murder at Midnight in her hands. At the time I hadn’t thought anything of it, but now I couldn’t help but think she had been snooping. But what had she thought she would find in my bedroom?

  I had just shared this with Max when there was a loud hammering at the front door.

  ‘I suspect you’re about to be interrogated,’ he said.

  He was right. When I opened the front door, two sombre-faced men dressed in suits stared back at me. Without introducing themselves, they barged their way into the narrow hallway, then into the sitting room. ‘Are you Miss Evelyn Flowerday?’ one of them asked.