To Love a Traitor (16 page)

Chapter Twenty

The journey down to Ashwood the next day proved a long and wearisome one, necessitating as it did several changes—they had to first go into London, and then come back out again, there being no more direct route available. They’d said their good-byes to Matthew’s family the previous evening, and set off by the first train in the morning, taking most of their gear with them. Dinner jackets and the like had been left at the rectory for collection at a later date.

Matthew, at first his usual, cheerful self albeit with dark circles under his eyes, talked of everything under the sun—Christmas, his family, plans for the New Year. But as their train approached London, he became more subdued, and by the time they’d caught the Ashwood train by the skin of their teeth, he wasn’t talking at all.

The train sped through the London suburbs and out again into the countryside. As they neared their destination the view became more clearly Kentish, dotted with old stone churches and clusters of oast-houses with their funny conical roofs. Their compartment was half-full, which had a further dampening effect on their conversation. Matthew, although still quiet, became restless, and George began to question anew what he was doing.

When Matthew, clearly able to remain silent no longer, leaned forward and spoke in a low tone, George had to practically bump their heads together in order to hear him. “George, what will happen if, well, Donald should confess to us? Will you feel duty bound to report it to Sir Arthur?”

George had been wondering that himself. “I honestly don’t know. I mean, I’ve no official standing, and neither has Sir Arthur these days, but isn’t there a duty to the country?” And to Hugh, he reminded himself—but was vengeance for Hugh really worth Matthew’s happiness? “We don’t have to do this, you know,” he burst out impulsively. “We can get off at the next station and take the first train back to London, if you want.”

For a moment, Matthew looked tempted. “No,” he said in the end. “We have to do this, or you’ll never be certain of me, will you? And besides,” he said over George’s objections, “I rather think
I
have to know for certain too. It can’t be worse than worrying about it. Just…promise me you’ll listen to his story, if there is one, and take his circumstances into account? Even if he did…what we fear, he may have been forced into it somehow.”

George wished he could clasp Matthew’s hands in his own, but they weren’t alone. “Of course I’ll listen. If he was being”—he lowered his voice still further—“blackmailed, that would put an entirely different complexion on the affair.”

Matthew gave a weak smile. “Thank you. That’s all I ask.”

Finally, the train clattered to a halt in Ashwood. They scrambled out, George, for one, extremely glad to be stretching his legs after the long journey. “Right, let’s go into the station house and see if they know of your man or his people there.”

They strode confidently in—only to find the ticket office with its blinds drawn down.

“Bother,” Matthew said. “Oh, well, we’ll just have to find someone else to ask.”

Their chance came in the shape of a short, heavyset man of late middle age, who had, it appeared, got off the train just after they had, but had taken significantly longer to make his way down the platform.

Matthew intercepted him on his way out. “Excuse me, are you local to Ashwood? Then I wonder if you can help us? We’re looking for some people named Fuller.”

The man nodded curtly, red-faced and breathless from his exertions. “End house, up the hill.” He pointed.

“Thank you,” Matthew said, peering in the direction he indicated. “Is that—”

But the man had already set off, huffing, in the opposite direction with an odd, waddling gait.

“It’s lucky there’s only one hill in the immediate vicinity,” Matthew whispered, sounding amused.

George was relieved to find their encounter with the queer little man had broken the tension a little. “Yes, there seems little chance of us missing our way, despite his rather brief directions.”

Their path took them through the village square. Although the few shops were closed for the bank holiday, there were signs of life upon the green. Ducks quacked in the pond, excited by the stale bread being thrown by a couple of small children. Several young lads of about school-leaving age larked about with a ball.

Matthew turned to watch them like a pointer indicating his master’s kill.

“No, you may
not
go and join them,” George said lightly.

“Spoilsport. I’ll get you playing football yet, you see if I don’t.” Matthew took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Lord, that’s better. I always feel my lungs are full up with smuts after travelling by rail. And isn’t it quiet here? You’d think the motor car had never been invented.”

“You know, if we’d had one of those we could have got here in half the time.”

Matthew grinned. “When I’m made partner, I’ll buy one and take you for a drive to test the theory.”

“No, when
I’m
made partner, I’ll buy one myself.”

“Even better—we could race one another.”

George laughed. “And there goes the quiet and fresh air of all the villages we pass through.”

“Sacrifices must be made in the name of progress.”

“Although come to think of it, by the time either of us achieves a partnership in our respective firms, we shall be old and staid and will potter along at twenty miles an hour, muttering about the disgracefully fast habits of modern youth.”

“Old, perhaps, but staid?” Matthew shook his head firmly. “Never. If I ever start to potter, George, you have my permission to put me out to grass. Lord, we’re nearly there, now, aren’t we? I’m a little nervous.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” George said stoutly. “I’ll look after you.”

“You know, I really believe you will. Oh, watch out—here come a couple of fast young ladies.”

They stepped aside as two girls whizzed past on bicycles, perhaps en route to cheer on the efforts of the young men on the village green. The lane they’d hurtled down, and up which George and Matthew now strode, was bordered on one side by a field, barren now, that might in the summer be bursting with hops, waiting to be harvested by London families on their annual working holiday. On the other side was a row of cottages which, although brick-built, were pretty enough in their way, with brightly painted doors bearing wreaths of holly, and well-tended gardens.

The end house, however, had a more forbidding aspect. The front door, sombre to start with, had been battered by the elements, and the flower beds had long ago ceded their territory to the weeds.

“Doesn’t look like the place is in very good repair, does it?” George murmured as he put his hand on the weathered and peeling gate. As if in agreement, the hinges screeched when he pushed it open.

“No,” Matthew said. “I don’t like this. George, you don’t mind, do you? My dragging you here to meet someone I used to be intimate with?”

“I should have minded more if you’d insisted on coming alone,” George said, trying to keep his tone light.

“That’s a good point.” Matthew scrubbed his hand on his trouser leg. “Lord, I really should just knock, shouldn’t I?”

“Best to just get it over with, I’d say.”

Matthew rapped smartly on the front door, and after a short wait, it opened.

They beheld a thin woman, perhaps around thirty years old, with a pinched-looking face and deep lines on her brow. She must have been handsome once, but time and care had not been kind to her. Her dress looked washed out and hung from her shoulders as if it were on a clothes-hanger. “Yes?” she said sharply.

Matthew smiled winningly, but she remained, to all outward appearance, unmoved. She must have had a heart of stone, George thought.

“Sorry to turn up out of the blue like this,” Matthew began, dauntless as ever, “but I was hoping to find Donald Fuller—I served with him in Ypres, you see. Would I have the honour of addressing Miss Fuller? He used to speak of you often.”

Her face, pale to begin with, blanched further—then flushed. With anger? “Are you Lieutenant Connaught?”

“Sorry. Awfully rude of me. Yes, I am—or rather was; it’s plain Matthew Connaught these days. And this is my friend, George Johnson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Fuller,” George said, extending his hand.

She made no move to take it, just stared at them for a long moment, her lips tight. “You’d better come in, I suppose.”

Matthew and George exchanged glances as they followed her stiff figure through the hall and into a small, bare sitting room. The air inside was stuffy and overheated; a fire blazed in the grate despite the mildness of the day. Sitting in a straight-backed chair pulled close to the hearth, Miss Fuller took the poker and prodded the fire into even greater heat. “You can sit down,” she said ungraciously.

George took a seat on the faded sofa, grateful for Matthew’s presence beside him. There was something unnerving about this place and its solitary occupant; the furnishings, and her dress, so humble, yet the fire so fierce, as if all her money went on coal.

Oddly, there was no picture of Donald on the mantelpiece.

Matthew tried again. “I was very much hoping you’d be able to tell me where to find Donald.”

She laughed, but there was nothing of humour in it. “Oh, I can do that all right.” She fell silent.

George and Matthew exchanged glances once more. “Is he still living in the village?” George asked. “When we asked at the station, we were directed here.”

Miss Fuller gave a vicious prod to the coals. Sparks flew and danced in the fireplace. “He isn’t still living here, no. You’ll find him in the churchyard, in the far corner. Three feet from the wall. There’s no stone. They buried him at night.”

Matthew gasped, and George wished more than anything he could hold him. There was only one possible meaning to be drawn from her words.

Suicide.

Then… Then surely this was their proof. Donald Fuller
must
have been guilty. Had he been threatened with exposure? Or simply overcome by a belated attack of remorse?

“When…” Matthew’s voice broke, and he swallowed. “What happened?”

“He hanged himself. Have you seen a man who’s been hanged, Mr. Connaught? He doesn’t look like himself any longer—his face dark with blood, his eyes—”

“Please, no more!” George begged. Damn it, did the woman have to be so brutal?

Matthew had paled and hunched into himself. “Good God. But why? I mean, do you have any idea why he’d do such a thing?”

She nodded. “I know why he did it. He left me a letter. Told me everything.
Everything
.” She gave another angry thrust with the poker. A coal teetered but just failed to fall from the grate.

George realised he’d been holding his breath and tried to let it out unobtrusively.

Matthew spoke again, his voice tight with emotion. “Please… I know this must be very painful for you, but would you consider letting me see it?”

Her response was sudden, and almost wild. “No. You can’t see it. I burned it,” she ended defiantly.

George was certain she was lying.

Matthew leaned forward. “But you must remember what it said. Please, would you give us some idea why he did this dreadful thing? I swear to you it won’t leave this room.”

George wasn’t so certain he was prepared to make any such promise—surely Mabel and Sir Arthur deserved to hear all the evidence? But he held his tongue.

The lady stood up, and the two gentlemen hastily followed suit. “He left another letter,” she told them, her tone bitter. “He said if Lieutenant Connaught should ever come searching for him after the war, I was to give it to him. Wait here.”

She strode stiffly out of the room, closing the door behind her, practically in their faces.

George was glad of it. Finally he could offer his friend some comfort. He gripped Matthew’s shoulder, trying to impart some strength through his fingers. “Matthew, I’m so sorry. What terrible news for you.”

“It’s awful. I simply can’t think why he’d do such a thing. And… Unless there’s something in that letter he left for me, it means we’ll never know. I’ll always wonder if he was a traitor… Lord, I hate this.”

George tried not to let his surprise show. Wasn’t it self-evident that Fuller must have been a traitor? Why else take his own life? “Well, we’ll find out in a minute what the letter has to say. Not long to wait.”

“George… You don’t suppose it was my fault, do you?”

“What? God, no. Matthew, no.”

“But we’d quarrelled just before he came home—” Matthew broke off as the door opened, and Miss Fuller stepped back into the room, carrying a white envelope.

She thrust it at Matthew violently, as if it were something foul she wished to be rid of. “Take it. Take it and go. I don’t want you here any longer.”

George’s blood boiled. Couldn’t she see how much she was hurting Matthew? Or was that her deliberate intention? Perhaps she blamed him for her brother’s death—for all George knew, the man might have told her a pack of lies about Matthew, and about their quarrel—but whatever it was, he couldn’t let it stand. “You go on, Matthew,” he said. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Matthew frowned but did as he was asked.

Chapter Twenty-One

When he heard the front door close behind his friend, George turned back to Miss Fuller. He did his best to rein in his temper to an appropriate degree. “Miss Fuller, do you
have
to be so hateful to him? Whatever you may think of…of their friendship, Matthew and your brother were very fond of one another.”

If anything, her face grew darker, her eyes more pinched. For a moment, George feared she was about to scream at him, even lash out hysterically—then, all of a sudden, her rage seemed to subside. “He wasn’t my brother,” she said with quiet dignity. “And my name isn’t Miss Fuller. It’s Mrs. So don’t you presume to tell me how I should or shouldn’t act towards my husband’s seducer.”

George’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say. “I had no idea. I swear Matthew didn’t know either. I’m so very sorry for you. I’ll go now. I hope… I hope you find peace, and happiness.”

It seemed a faint hope, but she acknowledged his efforts with a nod. George left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Matthew, who was loitering by the gate, gave him a questioning look.

“I…had an idea,” George said, attempting to gather his thoughts. Instinct made him shy from revealing what he’d just heard—what purpose would it serve but to wound Matthew deeper? “But I was mistaken. Come on, let’s get away from here.”

He took Matthew’s arm, and they hastened back down the lane to the village green.

The small children had gone, no doubt whisked away by their parents for an early lunch and a nap. The young men still played at football, their loud cries punctuated by the giggles of the girls who watched them, their bicycles laid flat upon the ground.

Matthew loosed his arm from George’s grip and took Donald’s letter from his coat pocket. “I’m afraid to open this. It was me, I’m sure of it. It was my fault he became desperate.”

“You don’t know that. Remember why we came here in the first place?” George tried to sound as if he were convinced of it himself. But after Miss—
Mrs.
Fuller’s revelation, he’d begun to doubt. Maybe Fuller had just been stricken with remorse for betraying his wife, once he’d come home to her—and wouldn’t Matthew blame himself for that just as much?

God, what horrors of guilt and anguish would the man’s last letter unleash? It could put all George’s efforts at preserving Matthew’s feelings to naught. George had half a mind to rip it from his friend’s grasp and tear it to shreds, unopened. He screwed his eyes shut—then opened them and fixed his gaze on Matthew. “You have to open it. Until you do, we’re just going to carry on torturing ourselves.”

“You’re right. Of course you are. But I can’t do it here.”

“No, of course not.” George racked his brain for somewhere they could go. It was a bank holiday; even if they were able to find a tea shop in this tiny place, it would be shut. “Will the pubs be open today?”

“Even if they are, I’m not sure I could stand reading this in some low-ceilinged bar reeking of stale tobacco smoke, while half-a-dozen dour-faced locals look on. Let’s go back to the station. Chances are we’ll have the waiting room to ourselves.”

And they could catch the next train back to London. George had a sudden longing to return to the cosy familiarity of Mrs. Mac’s. “Good idea. Let’s go.”

They were in luck. The waiting room was cold and damp, and smelt equally of mice and Jeyes Fluid, but it was empty. They sat upon the hard wooden bench, and Matthew drew out the letter from his coat pocket.

“You open it,” he said, passing it to George.

“Are you sure?”

Matthew nodded, and shrugged jerkily. “It’s a rotten fiddly business, opening a letter with only one hand.”

George forbore to point out that he’d seen Matthew do just that with remarkable facility any number of times at Mrs. Mac’s. Taking the letter from a hand that wasn’t quite steady, he ripped open the envelope.

“Here.” He tried to pass the contents to their rightful owner, who simply shook his head.

“We should read it together. I don’t want us to have secrets from each other. Not any longer.”

George supposed he should feel guilty over his silence regarding Mrs. Fuller, but found himself unable to regret anything that might save Matthew pain. Praying the letter wasn’t about to take the matter out of his hands, he smoothed the pages and started to read.

The writing was shaky, uneven and, in places, blotched. There were several crossings-out. George could picture only too well a man half out of his mind, no doubt having sought a little Dutch courage to help him go through with it, writing his last letter as tears blurred his vision.

Dear Mattie

George bristled at the pet name.

Funny old thing, isn’t it, that the first time I pick up my pen to write to you is the last time I shall ever pick it up again. If you’re reading this, I’m glad you made it through. I wonder who won? Our side, or theirs? Except I’m not sure which side is mine, not any more.
Perhaps you know
I never told you, did I, that I’m German on my father’s side? His people are the only family I have left—apart from Esther, of course. That’s why it started. They found out about my cousin, and what we’d done. You remember I told you of Alfred? Only he was German, not English.

“Alfred… He was Donald’s first lover,” Matthew explained quietly. “He did speak of him, once or twice. They were very young, I think.”

There were letters I’d written, thinking I was in love, just before the war, and they said they’d be made public if I didn’t help. And it seemed harmless at first, what they wanted me to do. I thought it might even save lives, not cost them.
Of course it c
At any rate, what’s done is done. I tried to stop, but they told me if I didn’t carry on passing messages, I’d be exposed as a spy and a filthy invert to boot. I didn’t know they knew about us, I swear it.

George stifled a gasp. Damn the man, for putting things down so openly in a letter anyone might have found and read. He glanced at Matthew. “Are you all right?”

“Not…not really. I wish… Lord, but it’s too late now for wishes, isn’t it?”

“Do you want to leave the rest of the letter until you’re feeling more up to it?”

“No.” Matthew turned the page with a decisive air, although the paper shook in his hands. “Let’s get it all over and done with.”

I’m not sorry I shot you. I’d do it again, if it was to save your life. I am sorry for those poor fellows who died in no-man’s-land. That was the first time I knew I’d killed someone.

George felt sick.
Those poor fellows
… Hugh. Hugh, and the men who’d gone with him.

“That’s it, then,” Matthew said, his voice oddly flat. “That’s it. That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?”

Guilt prickled, hot and painful, in George’s breast. Yes, he
had
wanted to hear it, whether he’d known it or not. A tidal wave of relief had washed over him at this evidence of Matthew’s innocence in Hugh’s death. “I never wanted you to be hurt,” he said, and that, at least, was God’s truth.

Matthew took a shaky breath, and they carried on reading.

That was when I tried to stop, after that. I sent a message to say I wouldn’t do it any longer, but they sent back to say that if I stopped they’d let slip my name and what I was up to and everything would be up.

Life has been wretched since we quarrelled. I didn’t want to come home to Esther, but they said I had to take the leave. Said I was showing signs of overwork. But at least here I’ve been able to take time to think. And there really is only one way out. I know it now, and I don’t mind it, not really. For your sake, and for Esther’s. Matthew, please believe me I’m sorry about Esther. And I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough, before, to tell the truth. I love you, you know. Utterly and completely. Try not to think too harshly of me.

Yours, forever

Donald.

Matthew folded the sheets of the letter back over. “Oh Lord.” His voice was ragged. “I…I thought I’d hate him, you know, if I found out he’d betrayed us, but I just feel so wretchedly sorry for him.” He looked up suddenly. “God, you must despise me for that.”

“Don’t be bloody silly,” George said thickly. He coughed to clear his clogged throat. “I could never despise you.”

“I don’t see why not. I slept with—I
loved
—the man who caused your brother’s death.”

It hurt. God, it hurt. He’d known—of course he’d known—but to hear Matthew come right out and say it like that… “It wasn’t your fault,” George said fiercely. “It was his doing, all of it. And maybe I can’t…can’t pity him, like you do—but I could never think the worse of you for doing so. You’re… You’ve got a good heart, and you always see the best in people. I don’t want you to change.”

Thank God Fuller hadn’t been more explicit about his wife. Matthew was a wreck already. How much worse would he feel if he knew this last, bitter truth—that his lover had betrayed him from the very start? George had always been certain he could never deliberately kill a man, but he thought he might have managed it after all, had Donald Fuller still been alive, and had he chosen that moment to walk into the waiting room.

They were alone, but someone might come in at any moment, so all George could do was place his arm around Matthew’s shoulders and hold him, as a man might comfort a friend who’d received bad news. It wasn’t enough.

Well, he could do one more thing. George fumbled in his pocket and brought out his handkerchief. “I shall have to start carrying two of these around,” he said lightly, passing it to Matthew.

It raised a watery smile. “Lord, what must you think of me?” Matthew asked after he’d had a good blow.

“All sorts of things. All of them good. And none of them suitable to be said in a public place,” George teased him.

It seemed to work. Matthew’s voice was much steadier when he spoke again. “What do you suppose he meant—about Miss Fuller, I mean? Why did he say he was sorry? And why did she seem to hate me so?”

George took a deep breath. “I think he didn’t know quite what he was writing. It seems clear to me that the balance of his mind was disturbed—no wonder, with all the pressures he’d had upon it.” Another lie—but he thought the Lord might forgive him for this one. “And Miss Fuller—I think she’s had a hard time of it, since Donald died. It isn’t fair of her to blame you, but I suppose it’s natural to want to blame someone.”

“Yes. I suppose so.” Matthew sounded tired. “Lord, I do hope there’s a train soon. I just want to get home now.”

“I’ll check.” George searched his pockets until he came up with the scrap of paper on which he’d noted the return train times. “Good God, there’s one in two minutes—and we need to be on the other side. We’d better hurry. In a place like this, it may not even stop if we’re not there upon the platform.”

They raced across the footbridge and made the platform as the train steamed into view. As they sat back in the seats of their second-class compartment, they exchanged rueful smiles. George was heartened to see the exercise had put some colour back into Matthew’s cheeks.

“Thank goodness you mentioned it in time,” he said, puffing a little from the dash. “We’d have had to wait another two hours otherwise.”

“Lord, yes,” Matthew began, and broke off, wincing, as the train whistled. “We’d have had to brave the pub after all,” he continued once he could again be heard, “and beg them to feed us some lunch. I’m famished already. By the way,” Matthew added, turning to the only other occupant of the compartment, an elderly lady engaged in knitting what looked like an immense woolly muffler. “Sorry to burst in upon you like that.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” she said with a placid smile. “I’m used to young people. I’ve been down visiting my grandchildren down by the coast, and they’re as lively as anyone could wish for.”

“How many do you have?” Matthew asked with that easy interest he always displayed in other people, and they were off, talking nineteen to the dozen of families, travel and Christmas before and after the war.

Another time, perhaps, George might have resented the presence of a stranger interrupting their tête-à-tête. But he could see this was exactly what Matthew needed right now—to be drawn out of his own morbid thoughts and self-recrimination. George even found himself joining in the conversation and not minding in the slightest.

The only time Matthew’s cheerful chatter faltered was when the lady spoke with affection of her daughter’s dog, a black Labrador cross.

“Thinking of your friend’s dog?” George whispered while their companion’s attention was distracted by several dropped stitches, casualties of an unexpectedly uneven section of track.

Matthew gave a rueful smile and nodded. “I’ve been wondering what became of Scout, after Donald…”

“Probably adopted as a mascot by the troops,” George reassured him, although privately he thought it far more likely the beast had come to grief somewhere in no-man’s-land, like so many young men. Then again— “We still don’t know for sure if Donald was using him to carry messages, do we? Still, I suppose it’s not all that important whether he used dogs, pigeons or the Royal Mail.”

“No, I suppose not.” Matthew sighed.

“There,” the old lady broke in with a tone of deep satisfaction. “All picked up again. Now, did I tell you what my eldest grandchild said to the vicar of St Stephen’s on Christmas Day? Oh, we did laugh…”

George and Matthew were rewarded, as the train neared Maidstone, by their companion insisting they share her sandwiches, “as dear Dorothy always sends me home with far more than I can eat,” and they bade her a fond farewell when they finally reached London.

“And now for the Hampstead Line,” Matthew said with a sigh, as they dragged their gear from the luggage rack for the umpteenth time, George standing by to help his friend should aid become necessary, which it never did. “By the time we get back to Mrs. Mac’s, I shall feel like I’ve travelled halfway around the world.”