Dead to Me (32 page)

She stored apples and potatoes from her garden, bottled fruit and jams down here. Shelves lined the walls, food stuff in one area, paint in another, and coal at the far end beneath a hatch that lifted up outside for deliveries. There was an old pram too, which must have been used for her boys. The sight of that made him wish he hadn’t taunted her about them not coming home. She didn’t really deserve that.

He laid her down on a pile of old sacks, and saw her stocking tops were visible again. He put one hand on her plump, soft thigh, and felt a sudden arousal. But he shook it off, pulled her coat and dress down over her knees and went back up the stairs.

Locking the cellar door, he poked the key down through a crack in the floorboards. With luck she wouldn’t be missed for a few days, and it would be even longer before a search was organized.

His fingerprints were everywhere. But it would be pointless to try and wipe everything clean, as he’d be bound to miss one or two. All he could hope for was that the police wouldn’t question that the prints belonged to Stephen Lyle. They might find out he was thought to have been killed in the Blitz, they might even connect him with
the murder of Mildred Find too. But that should keep them busy enough. And with London being bombed again now, they were unlikely to find any thread to connect Stephen Lyle with Archie Wood.

Now he must pack his clothes and leave. London first. He’d have time on the train to plan where to go next, and how he was going to find a new identity.

‘Wilby,
are you really suggesting we poke into Verity’s private letters? Shame on you!’ Ruby said in her most haughty voice, but then grinned because Wilby looked so guilty.

‘In my defence I will say she’s told us in the past that they weren’t soppy ones,’ Wilby said. ‘It just strikes me as odd that a man as level-headed and kindly as Miller sounds, who in his own words said Verity was “the one”, should suddenly write and say he’d met someone else. Neither of us met him, we can only go on what Verity has told us, but if we read his letters to her, we’ll get an understanding of what kind of man he is.’

‘She’s read bits of them to me,’ Ruby said. ‘I had hoped for something more titillating, they were lovely, very poetic letters, but not passionate.’

‘So does that mean you think he found passion with someone new?’

Ruby screwed up her forehead as she considered the question. ‘Maybe, but if he had, wouldn’t the “Dear John” letter have alluded to that? I mean wouldn’t he say something like, “I thought it was the real thing with you, but now the real thing has come along I see you were just a very good friend.” That’s putting it a bit bluntly, but you get the general idea?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Wilby said. ‘Mind you, that’s a hard thing for
anyone to say, especially if you are trying to let someone down gently.’

‘Then let’s do it,’ Ruby said, suddenly looking animated in the way she used to before the bombing. ‘We won’t read all his letters, just a random selection, and compare it with the final one.’

‘Okay, I’ll get them,’ Wilby said, getting to her feet. ‘This is a bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it? Verity would be furious, if she knew.’

Ruby looked up at Wilby, suddenly feeling a surge of love for this woman who’d done so much for her. Under normal circumstances she knew Wilby would never sneak a look at anyone’s private letters, but Ruby sensed this was a ploy to get her involved with something as much as it was about sorting things for Verity.

Half an hour later, the pair of them were reading a selection of six letters from Miller, and then the Dear John one.

‘You are right, Wilby,’ Ruby said ‘The Dear John has got a different tone. He should sound apologetic, sad even, but instead he sounds hurt. That line, “I came to a different world up here, I’ve found I’m not the man I was in London.” Even when he says about falling for this other girl, she is “a quiet wee thing who fits into the forest like a rabbit or a pheasant”. What kind of barmy talk is that? What man wants a girl like a rabbit or a pheasant?’

Wilby laughed, Ruby had always been good at saying exactly what she meant. ‘Yes, it doesn’t sound as if he lusts after her, and surely the only thing that would make a man throw a girl like Verity over is red-hot lust!’

‘Ooh, Wilby,’ Ruby said, pretending to be shocked. ‘What would you know about such things?’

‘I’ve had my moments,’ Wilby said, folding her arms and trying to look fierce. ‘So if Miller’s heart wasn’t really in it, why would he pack Verity in?’

‘Because he wanted to see other women without guilt?’ Ruby suggested. ‘Or he just got cold feet at the thought of this leading to marriage? Or he did it to save face, because someone told him something about Verity?’

‘Who could tell him something about her? Did he have friends in London who might have been watching Verity?’

Ruby shook her head. ‘I don’t think he knew anyone much in London except her.’

‘What motive would anyone have for splitting them up?’ Wilby asked.

‘Maybe Verity had a girlfriend who was jealous?’

‘Or a man who wanted Verity for himself?’ Wilby said.

‘The only person she’s ever mentioned to me as being a special friend was that girl who shared her house. I think she said she was called Amy,’ Ruby said. ‘But she didn’t become pals with her until after Miller had gone to Scotland.’

‘Maybe this Amy wanted her pal to go out dancing and suchlike, but Verity wouldn’t out of loyalty to Miller?’ Wilby suggested. ‘That could be a reason to split them up!’

‘From what Verity said about Amy, I can’t see her being that devious. Besides, she shot off one day, left the house and her job without giving Verity a reason. That was after Mr Wood came back and moved in.’

‘Ah ha,’ Wilby exclaimed. ‘Mr Wood! Doesn’t everything seem to come back to him?’

Ruby shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t see how he could have had any part in Miller dropping Verity. Mr Wood never met Miller, as far as I know.’

‘Just suppose Mr Wood threatened Amy to get rid of her, because he wanted to be able to control Verity. Wouldn’t he want to get Miller out of the picture too, in case he turned up and got in the way?’

‘So how would he do that?’ Ruby asked. ‘It wouldn’t be any good just writing to Miller and threatening him, Miller wasn’t the kind to accept that.’

‘What if he wrote him a clever letter telling him something really bad about Verity, and suggested Miller save face by writing her a Dear John?’

‘It sounds a bit implausible to me,’ Ruby shook her head. ‘Do gentle souls like Miller care about saving face?’

‘Well, it depends what that rat wrote. He could have told Miller she was pregnant by another man, or that she’d caught a social disease – anything, really.’

‘A social disease, what’s that?’ Ruby laughed. ‘Is it like “Come-to-tea-itis”?’

Wilby spluttered with laughter. ‘No, it’s one of those nasty diseases you get from sex. Soldiers get them in brothels.’

‘Oh, you mean syphilis and the like?’

‘Yes, dear, but let’s not dwell on that sort of thing, it’s so very vulgar.’

Ruby smiled. ‘Well, why don’t we write to Miller ourselves? Tell him a bit about what Verity’s been through and say we have our suspicions that Archie Wood may have thrown a spanner in their works. If Miller did really want to pack Verity in, he’ll just ignore our letter. But if not, and he’s still pining for her, he might write back. It’s worth a try!’

Wilby looked at Ruby’s flushed cheeks and the new sparkle in her eyes and felt that anything which made her
look so animated was a good thing. It might not work out. Miller might be happy with his little woodland rabbit. Verity might be furious at them for interfering. And Bevan was likely to be cross that they didn’t consider his feelings, either. But as Ruby said, it was worth a try.

Archie decided on the train to London that he would call himself David Close. The name had come to him out of nowhere, but he liked it. He pondered for some time on how to get some kind of proof of identification together. It was an offence not to carry an identity card, and although he hadn’t been asked by the police to show his yet, it was likely to happen before long. He needed a ration book too.

On the one hand, with the Luftwaffe making night-time raids on London again, he could probably get around unchallenged, or even unnoticed, but on the other hand he did have a contact in Bermondsey to get a forged identity card. But he didn’t fancy staying in London; the police were sharper, people were naturally suspicious, and if he was forced to go into a bomb shelter he’d have to endure questions.

So where else could he go?

The north of England, the Midlands or Wales were out of the question. The natives were always curious about someone who didn’t share their accent. Bristol was a possibility, a big city and a pleasant one. There were docks there too, people constantly coming and going, which was good. He would go there, but first he’d go and see the man in Bermondsey for his identity card.

Ruby took her time writing to Miller, as she wanted to get the tone exactly right. She needed to make it quite clear
Verity knew nothing of her inquiry, as she’d accepted he had a new lady in his life. She felt she must also point out that Verity had suffered a great deal at her stepfather’s hands, and she suspected the man had in some way engineered Miller to call it off with Verity, so that he could more easily control her.

She didn’t belabour the point of the physical and mental abuse Verity had suffered, leaving that to his imagination when she said she and Wilby had brought Verity to Babbacombe when she was released from hospital. But she said Verity was now working for the Post Office in the Torquay area.

The letter was rounded off by saying that if Ruby had got her wires crossed, and if he had indeed wanted to end it with Verity, she was sorry for contacting him, and wished him well for the future.

‘Well done,’ Wilby said after she’d read it and put it in the envelope. ‘I’ll pop out and post it in a minute, and then we just have to wait.’

With his new identity card in his pocket in the name of David Close, and his address as 14 Culverley Road, Catford, South East London, Archie arrived in Bristol. He had put down his occupation as being a surveyor, and he’d claimed to be fifty-five, three years older than he really was.

He’d had to pay twenty-five pounds for the card, which had left him a bit short, but he thought he could easily rectify that. As he recalled from his last visit to Bristol, there were some very nice houses on the other side of Clifton Down, and he was fairly sure some of the residents
would have moved out to some funk hole for the duration of the war.

It was icy cold as he came out of Temple Meads Station. He had intended to catch a bus and book into one of the many boarding houses in Clifton. But the prospect of a chilly boarding house, and having to go out to get some supper, decided him. He hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to The Grand.

He had only been to the hotel once, long before Verity was born, and he’d liked the plush comfort of it so much he’d promised himself he’d come back.

It was something of a shock to see how badly Bristol had fared in the bombing raids, especially in the old part of the city, in Wine Street and High Street. There were many gaping holes where once there had been fine buildings. Living in London tended to make people feel they were the only ones affected by the war. But he was glad to see St Mary Redcliffe Church was still intact. Tomorrow he would take a walk around and see how the rest of the city had fared.

‘How long were you planning on staying with us, sir?’ The man behind the reception desk at The Grand in Broad Street looked at least sixty, with so much loose skin around his eyes it was astounding he could still see, and he was as skinny as a rasher of bacon.

‘I’m not sure, it depends on how my business goes here,’ Archie replied. ‘But at least four days, I imagine.’

He handed over his identity card, signed the register, and the reception clerk handed him a key. ‘Enjoy your stay with us, Mr Close, your room is 212 on the second floor. Your luggage will be brought up in a few minutes.’

‘No need for that,’ Archie said, picking up his suitcase. ‘I’ll take it with me.’

The room looked a little tired, but then that was the same everywhere since the war began. But it was warm, the bed felt soft, the heavy curtains were drawn, and it had its own washbasin. Pearl’s house had been cold, often chaotic and mucky, and there was never enough hot water. One of the things Archie dreamed of quite often was having a really deep, very hot bath. With the wartime restriction of two inches of water, a bath was no longer a pleasure, just a necessity.

As he put his clothes away he wondered how long it would be before they found Pearl’s body. He would have to find some way of changing his appearance, as no doubt a picture of him – or at least Stephen Lyle – would soon be plastered over every newspaper.

He lay down on the bed, suddenly feeling exhausted. As good as it felt to be in such a pleasant room, he knew he couldn’t really stay for more than a couple of days. He didn’t intend to pay for his stay anyway. He’d just pack a few things in a shopping bag and make off, leaving his suitcase and some clothes here to fool them into thinking he was coming back.

But changing his appearance was going to be tricky. A moustache and beard took too long to grow, and as he wore a trilby all the time there was no point in dying his hair. Maybe he could put a patch over one eye? People always noticed that and nothing else.

All at once he felt angry about his position, and once again he brought it back to Verity being to blame. ‘Why
did she have to lie to me about meeting a friend?’ he thought bitterly. ‘Everything was alright back in Weardale Road, but she had to ruin it.’

He went down to the bar, sat on a stool and got very drunk because he’d had nothing to eat. He didn’t speak to anyone, not even the barmaid, just downed one brandy after another. He couldn’t understand why, when he’d arrived at the hotel feeling fine, had been delighted with his room and was looking forward to a nice supper, suddenly Verity had to pop into his head and spoil it.

‘I think you’ve had enough now, sir,’ the barmaid said when he asked for yet another brandy. ‘Why don’t you go up to your room now?’

The barmaid was around thirty, plain, with straight dark hair, thick-rimmed glasses and no breasts. He was about to tell her that The Grand must be desperate for staff if they employed someone as plain as her, but he stopped himself just in time. They would probably throw him out of the hotel, and might even call the police if he didn’t have enough money to pay his bill.

‘I’m sorry. I had some bad news today,’ he said, slurring his words. ‘No excuse, I suppose, but please accept my apologies.’

Archie woke the next morning with a thundering headache, and feeling anxious. He regretted being so impulsive as to book into The Grand. The staff in good hotels were trained to be observant; he’d known concierges who sensed what a guest wanted, be that female company, a game of cards or theatre tickets, just by looking at them.

He thought he ought to leave now, before anyone became suspicious of him or got his face firmly fixed in their mind.

Looking out of the window, he saw it was snowing. That made him even more anxious.

He got up, washed but didn’t shave, and dressed, putting on two pullovers, long john pants and two pairs of socks for extra warmth. He got some sheets of brown paper and a ball of string out of his suitcase, and began to make a parcel. He couldn’t put too much into it, just a spare pair of shoes, a couple of shirts and underwear. He looked at his tweed sports jacket and his cavalry twill trousers still hanging in the wardrobe and for a moment considered packing his suitcase with everything. But he knew that the risk he’d be taking in leaving the hotel with a suitcase was a huge one. However much it grieved him to leave most of his stuff here, it had to be done.