The Darkest Hour (67 page)

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.

‘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.’

Lucy left the next morning, her car loaded with books and papers and her painting, still damaged and no longer crated, leaning against the back seat.

Robin was waiting for her outside the gallery with a huge grin. ‘The old place has missed you!’ he said giving her a hug.

She walked slowly round the flat upstairs. Robin and Phil had turned the studio into a study for her and the windows were opened onto the September sunshine. They hung Evie’s picture, damaged as it was, on the wall. It looked as if it had come home.

‘Have you still got a lot of writing to do?’ Robin had brought a bottle of wine and they were sharing it in the back garden after the shop was closed that evening, seated at the little wrought-iron table.

Lucy nodded. ‘Quite a few loose ends to tie up.’

‘But you’re not afraid?’

‘Afraid?’

‘Of the horrible Edward Marston.’

Lucy thought for a minute. ‘I suppose I am, yes. I will always be a bit afraid of him, but Maggie’s right. I don’t sense he has followed me here.’

‘So can I leave you here alone?’

She smiled. ‘Of course you can. I am newly shriven by my contact with the Church. I can stand up to the worst ghost. For a while anyway.’ She resisted the urge to peer into the shadows. If Eddie was going to come for her she would sense his presence, she was sure of it. And he wasn’t here. Not at the moment.

And there was something she had to do as soon as she was alone, something she had been meaning to do for a long time. She switched on her laptop and typed in the words, Anthony Anderson.

Evie had been devastated by the news that Tony had been killed all those years ago. She had never mentioned him again until her conversation with Eddie. It was time to look up the official record of Tony’s death and the crash which had killed him.

There were, of course, dozens of men with that name. She refined it down by typing in Battle of Britain and there he was. His squadron, his medals, his career. There were pictures of him, pictures she recognised from the young man in the portrait upstairs. She stared at the screen. There was no mention of a crash. He had been posted to Egypt in 1944, had returned to Britain at the end of the war, had resumed his studies at Edinburgh University. He had become a partner in a law practice in Edinburgh and had in 1970 become a Judge. He had retired in 1990. He was unmarried …

He was unmarried.

Lucy shook her head sadly.

His address was care of the New Club, Edinburgh.

Tony Anderson, now ninety-five, was still alive.

Christopher pulled his car into the lay-by and switched off the engine. He was shaking violently, pouring with sweat. Opening the window, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths of the cool evening air then he fumbled for the door handle and at last managed to climb out of the car. He stood for a long time leaning on the fence, staring out across the fields. It couldn’t be true, of course. In fact it was impossible, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that Eddie was there, with him, in the car. He had become aware of him as he pulled out of the drive at home. Somehow he had overcome his desire to scream to a halt, leap out and leave the car where it was in the middle of the road. He had turned off up this lane only some two miles from home, swerving wildly, ever more conscious of the still, dark presence on the back seat.

Now that he was out of the car he forced himself to turn round and look at it. He could see nothing. The sun was setting in a blaze of deep crimson, slowly being swallowed by dense black cloud and the shadows were creeping down the lane towards him. The interior of the car was invisible, stacked as it was with another load of paintings. Almost unconsciously he put his hand in his pocket to make sure he had the keys to the lock-up. It didn’t matter how late he was, the system gave him twenty-four-hour access, but still he had wanted to be there before dark. He took several deep breaths. It was ridiculous to think that the ghost of his grandfather was there in the car with him; that the ghost was malign, vicious even, but that was how it felt, how it had felt from the first moment he had been aware of the presence in his house. Hannah had known. Hannah was sensitive like her mother. In Frances the sensitivity irritated the daylights out of him, but in his daughter it brought out an aching sense of protectiveness. Why else would he have let the family disappear to Scotland, leaving him alone? The kids were at a day school up there now, temporarily, and loving it, apparently.

And he was alone with more than a ghost; there was his conscience to face as well. He folded his arms with a shiver and turned away from the car to stare back across the fields. He had never suffered from conscience before, but ever since his father had died somehow he had felt as if the death had been his fault. How could it have been? He wasn’t there. He knew nothing of what had happened that night in Hampstead, so close to Eddie Marston’s old home, but it was all connected. Of that he was sure.

It had started with the will.

He had found an expert forger to add the codicil to his grandmother’s will, giving him all the paintings, leaving Mike with the cottage; he knew it was not what she would have wanted. He thought she would never know but now he was not so sure about that. She was watching him, he was certain of it, and she was disgusted. No one else knew but the thought of what he had done was for the first time making him uncomfortable. Mike had never suspected and there was no reason for his deception to be discovered by anyone, not even that nosy cow, Lucy Standish.

The name Standish brought him back to the visit from the police. He shuddered. The sun was dropping lower. It was growing darker. They hadn’t accused him of anything, but they obviously knew that one of his contacts had sent Lee Ponting on his fatal mission. He had not intended to hurt anyone but something had driven him to act as he did. He couldn’t even remember now why he had decided the painting had to be destroyed. Some inner prompting, some instinct that he couldn’t allow it to continue to exist had driven him to do everything in his power to think of a way to get rid of the picture. It made no sense. It would be worth a fortune, like all Evie’s paintings, so why destroy it? What was it about that picture that had to be hidden forever? Only one person knew the answer to that. He realised it now. It was his grandfather. The thought that his grandfather had pushed him to do what he did filled him with horror.

He turned to face the car again. He knew now why he had felt so panic-stricken, why he had had to climb out of it. He was expecting the car to burst into flames.

It hadn’t. Not yet.

It was completely dark when at last he forced himself to walk back and climb into the driver’s seat. The presence in the back had disappeared; the car just felt extremely cold and a bit damp. He turned the key, closed the door and pulled out onto the road heading for Southampton.

Tony Anderson was fairly tall, considering his years. He walked with a stick, but his shock of white hair and his bright blue eyes gave him a youthful appearance which matched his infectious smile. Lucy recognised the smile at once from the portrait.

They had arranged to meet at the RAF Club. Though his home was in Edinburgh he was, it appeared, staying in London for a couple of weeks after taking part in some of the Battle of Britain anniversary celebrations. ‘Not many of us left from the old days,’ he said with a smile as she and Mike followed him to a corner of a large reception room on the first floor of the club and settled round a low table to wait for the tea he had ordered. ‘So, may I ask what this is about?’

Lucy had spoken to him on the telephone and given him her name. Other than that she had been deliberately vague about the reason for the meeting. She wanted to make a judgement about how good this man’s memory was and whether she felt he was strong enough to confront a past which seemed to be so full of tragedy. He had assumed, she realised, that she wanted to interview him about the Battle of Britain. Well, in a way, she did.

She glanced at Mike. ‘First I must introduce you two properly. This is Michael Marston.’ She paused, watching Tony’s face. For a moment a shadow seemed to pass across his eyes, but he smiled gamely. ‘I see,’ was all he said.

‘Evie’s grandson,’ she went on gently.

‘So I guessed.’ He leaned back in his chair. His hands on the handle of his walking stick were very thin.

Mike had said nothing. He seemed to be struck dumb.

‘I have been researching a book about Evie and her painting,’ Lucy went on, ‘and with Mike’s help we have been going through all Evie’s old records and notebooks.’ She paused. ‘And diaries,’ she added.

‘Ah.’ Tony nodded. ‘I see.’

A bar steward appeared with a tray bearing a teapot and cups and a plate of biscuits. The three of them sat in silence watching as he set the table for them and then withdrew. The full-length windows in the room, looking out onto a balustrade, were open to the warm afternoon sun. They let in the sound of the rumble of traffic from Piccadilly below. On the far side of the busy road the trees of Green Park rustled gently in the breeze behind the railings. Their leaves were turning a golden brown.

The interlude seemed to have given Tony time to gather his wits. ‘Evie and I knew one another a very long time ago. I followed her career, of course, she was famous, but we lost touch.’

Lucy looked at Mike. ‘We have found out quite a bit about those early days.’ Suddenly she didn’t know how to go on. She stopped helplessly.

‘Why not pour the tea for us,’ Tony said firmly. ‘And you, Michael did you say your name was? You tell me what happened.’

Mike took a deep breath. ‘From what we gather you gave a letter to Evie’s brother, Ralph. I’m afraid we read it.’ He hesitated before plunging on. ‘Evie never received it. Ralph was killed the next day and the letter and your ring were parcelled up with Ralph’s effects and returned to his mother. She was too upset to look at them and they stayed sealed in the original envelope from Ralph’s CO until last weekend when Lucy and I found it in an old writing case.’

Tony bowed his head. He sighed. ‘So she never knew.’

‘No.’ Mike took a cup and saucer from Lucy and then put them down on the table. ‘I’m not sure how to tell you this.’ He paused. ‘But I think maybe you would like to know. She was pregnant. She was expecting your child. She didn’t know what to do when you flew back to Scotland without saying goodbye. She was devastated and she was under pressure from her parents so she agreed to marry her neighbour’s son, Edward Marston, who had been a suitor for a long time.’

Tony nodded slowly. ‘Eddie would have been pleased about that.’

‘You knew him?’ Lucy asked.

‘Oh, yes, I knew him.’

‘She had a son, Johnny, my father,’ Mike said simply.

Tony looked up. ‘So you are my grandson?’

Mike nodded. To his embarrassment his eyes filled with tears.