Property of a Lady(90)

So Jack’s long silence was explained as easily and as ordinarily as that. Michael was immensely relieved – he had been visualizing all manner of things happening to Ellie. But it looked as if they could come to Marston Lacy for Christmas as planned, and Ellie would be perfectly all right. As he got ready for bed, he was smiling at the prospect of introducing Nell to Jack and Liz, and of seeing Beth and Ellie together.

It had been difficult to get the builder to come out to Charect House again so near to Christmas, but Inspector Brent had added his persuasions to those of Michael and Nell, and a lorry and a couple of men had finally trundled along Blackberry Lane.

Charect House was silent and still. There’s nothing here now, thought Michael, standing in the hall with the scents of new timbers and paint around him. Whatever was here – some lingering fragment of that strange, unhappy man who loved Elizabeth Lee beyond sanity, and who saw her die that night – it’s gone.

The builder went up to the attics, admiring the renovations along the way.

‘Nice piece of oak for that banister,’ he said. ‘And that coving on the landing – you wouldn’t believe the problems we had putting that up. High ceilings in these old houses, see.’

He stood in the attic, which had been opened up for Ellie’s playroom and which was due to be papered with bright wallpaper chosen by Liz, and looked disapproving.

‘Crying shame to disturb all this,’ he said. ‘Still, if it’s police orders.’ He tapped the wall and nodded. ‘Be a breeze to break that down. I’ll get the sledgehammer.’

As he clattered down the uncarpeted stairs, Michael stood for a moment in the attic room with the views towards the smudgy Welsh mountains. Ellie would love this room – it would be her hideaway, and she would make up so many stories about the people who had lived here. But let them be happy stories, thought Michael. Because this house must have had happy times. He looked back at the wall that the builders were going to demolish and hoped he was doing the right thing. But I think you’re still here, Harriet, he said in his mind. I think you’ve been part of whatever’s lingered here.

The builder and his assistant came noisily back up the stairs, and Michael stood back as the sledgehammer swung through the air. It landed squarely on the centre of the wall, and this time it gave way almost immediately. Huge sections of old, dry plaster fell away, and there were several confused moments when the entire attic was a mass of whirling dust. Fragments of plaster and shards of brick seemed to go on and on cascading down, catching at Michael’s throat, making him cough and stinging his eyes.

Then, little by little, the dust cleared and began to settle, and it was possible to make out what was beyond the huge, jagged hole. Huddled against the inside of the wall was something that might, at first glance, be household debris. But as the dust cleared—

‘Jesus Christ,’ said the builder. ‘Oh, Christ Al-bloody-mighty, it’s a sodding body.’ He turned to Michael, his face, beneath the plaster dust, patchily red and white with shock. ‘A corpse,’ he said, his lips flabbering over the word.

‘Yes.’

Michael had hoped very strenuously that she would not be here – that he would be able to think of her escaping, returning to Cheshire, perhaps becoming involved in some interesting, useful war work. Even that she might have met someone to replace her beloved Harry.

He brought his mind back to the builder who, white-faced, was asking if the police should be called. ‘Will I go down to phone them?’

‘I think you’d better. Ask for Inspector Brent, if possible. But tell him there’s no frantic rush.’

‘You don’t mind staying up here with – with that?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Michael, and he turned back to the jagged hole and to what lay just inside it.

Harriet Anstey’s bones were small and fragile, and Michael found them unbearably sad. The hands were stretched upwards as if the last act might have been to bang vainly on the wall for help. Clinging to those hands were shreds of what might once have been striped cotton.

‘Oh, Harriet,’ said Michael softly. ‘I’m so sorry no one found you.’

It seemed incredible there had not been a search for her. But perhaps there had. Perhaps people had tried to find her, but been unable to do so. And it had been 1939 – the lights were about to go out all over Europe for the second time that century and England stood on the brink of chaos.

How long had it taken her to die? Had she died in darkness or had it at least been when a few threads of light were coming in through the small, round window – the window at which she had stood, trying to attract attention? The window where Michael had seen her that day . . . ?

In the same soft voice, he said, ‘I don’t know if I can arrange for you to be buried next to Harry, because his body’s probably in France. But if I can, I’ll find out where he is, and if there’s any way of ensuring you lie alongside him, I promise you shall.’

With the words, he had the vivid impression that a small, soft hand slipped into his and held it firmly for a moment. He stood very still, wanting the sensation to go on, willing there to be more.

But there was not. The feeling melted, and there was only the dusty attic.

Brooke Crutchley’s body was cremated in a brief, private ceremony one week after Christmas. Michael and Nell attended, together with Inspector Brent.