The Keeper of Lost Things(22)

“And so my dear, it’s all yours.” Mr. Quinlan peered at her over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles and smiled.

“Here’s the lovely cup of tea.”

Sunshine barged the door open with her elbow and inched her way into the room like a tightrope walker. Her knuckles were white from the weight of the tray she was carrying, and the tip of her tongue poked out of her tiny rosebud mouth in agonized concentration. Mr. Quinlan leaped to his feet and relieved her of her burden. He set the tray down on a side table.

“Shall I be mother?” he asked.

Sunshine shook her head.

“I’ve got a mum. She’s at the work.”

“Quite right, young lady. I meant shall I pour the tea?”

Sunshine considered carefully for a moment.

“Do you know how?”

He smiled.

“Perhaps you’d better show me.”

Three expertly poured cups of tea and two custard creams later, all consumed under Sunshine’s unswerving observation, Mr. Quinlan’s visit was drawing to a close.

“Just one more thing,” he said to Laura. “The third condition of the will.”

He handed Laura a sealed white envelope bearing her name in Anthony’s handwriting.

“I believe this explains it in greater detail, but it was Anthony’s wish that you should endeavor to return as many of the things in his study to their rightful owners as you possibly can.”

Laura recalled the groaning shelves and packed draws and balked at the enormity of the task.

“But how?”

“I can’t begin to imagine. But Anthony clearly had faith in you, so perhaps all you need is a little faith in yourself. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

Laura was less sure than hopeful. But then hope went well with faith, didn’t it?

“She had wonderful red hair, you know.”

Mr. Quinlan had picked up the photograph of Therese.

“Did you ever meet her?” Laura asked.

He traced the outline of the face in the photograph wistfully with his finger.

“Several times. She was a magnificent woman. Oh, she had a wild streak and a fiery temper when roused. Still, I think every man who met her fell just a little bit under her spell.”

With some reluctance to let her go, he put the photograph back on the table.

“But Anthony was the only chap for her. He was my friend as well as a client for many years and I never saw a man more in love. When she died it crushed his soul. It was the saddest thing . . .”

Sunshine sat quietly, listening to every word and gathering them all in so that she could try to sort them into the proper story later.

“Let me guess,” said Mr. Quinlan, getting up and going over to the gramophone.

“‘The Very Thought of You,’ Al Bowlly?”

Laura smiled. “It was their song.”

“Of course. Anthony told me the story.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

Since Anthony’s death, Laura had been increasingly saddened by the realization that she knew so little about him, and in particular his past. Their relationship had been firmly fixed in the present, forged by daily routines and events and not by sharing the past or planning for the future. So now Laura was keen to find out anything she could. She wanted to better know the man who had trusted her and treated her with such kindness and generosity. Mr. Quinlan returned to his seat in the best chair.

“One of Anthony’s earliest and most precious memories was when he was a little boy dancing to that tune. It was during the Second World War and his father was home on leave. He was an officer in the RAF. That evening his parents were going to a dance. It was a special occasion and his father’s last night, so his mother had borrowed a beautiful blue evening gown from a friend. It was a Schiaparelli, I believe . . . There was a photograph Anthony had . . . Anyway, they were having cocktails together in the drawing room when Anthony came in to say good night. They were dancing to that Al Bowlly song—his dashing father and elegant mother—and they gathered him up into their arms and danced with him between them. He said he could still remember the smell of his mother’s perfume and the serge of his father’s uniform. It was the last time they were together, and the last time he saw his father. He returned to his air base early the next morning before Anthony was awake. Three months later he was captured behind enemy lines and was killed attempting to escape from Stalag Luft Three. Many years later, not long after they met, Anthony and Therese were having lunch in a wine bar in Convent Garden that favored Deco over Donny Osmond and David Cassidy. The pair of them always did seem to belong to another age. The Al Bowlly song started playing and Anthony told Therese the story. She took his hand and stood up and danced with him then and there, as though they were the only ones in the room.”

Laura was starting to understand.

“She sounds like an amazing woman.”

Mr. Quinlan’s reply was heartfelt. “Indeed she was.”

He began packing his paperwork into his briefcase. The silent Sunshine stirred.

“Would you like the lovely cup of tea again?”

He smiled gratefully but shook his head.

“I’m afraid I must go or else I shall miss my train.”

But in the hall he paused and turned to Laura.

“I wonder if I might use the loo before I go?”