Without a Trace (31 page)

Molly tried the gate and found it unlocked, but then she thought that perhaps shorts and a blouse were hardly suitable attire to give someone the news of their daughter’s death and decided to come back the next day in a dress.

But she remained at the gate for a while, looking at the house and trying to imagine Cassie growing up there. It wasn’t difficult: it was as extraordinary as Cassie, and her friend had always had an air about her, as if she’d known better things. She knew the names of plants and trees, could talk about composers, writers and artists in a way that ordinary people never did. She wished Cassie had told her about her father going missing in France. Had she heard the gossip that he had a woman over there? Did she hate the implication that he might have deserted?

Molly thought it looked a sad house. Maybe that was just because of the neglect and the sketchy information she now had about the residents, but she couldn’t possibly imagine any child ever playing noisy games in the garden or the house ringing with laughter.

It was going to be even sadder when she gave Mrs Coleman the news. She might have ordered her daughter to leave when she had an illegitimate child, but no mother, however hard-hearted, could possibly be totally immune to grief.

Later that evening, after she’d turned the guests’ beds down and helped out in the kitchen for a while, as the restaurant was busy, Molly wrote to Charley, telling him an edited version of the day’s events. She didn’t think he’d approve of her going back to the house to inform Mrs Coleman of her daughter’s death, so she implied she was going to hand what she knew over to the police.

With police on her mind, she also wrote to George, because
he’d known Cassie and had been as frustrated as she had when his senior officers had given up on finding Petal.

‘I’m hoping that talking to her mother and this scary-sounding housekeeper will result in them demanding a better investigation into Petal’s disappearance,’ she wrote. ‘If they don’t seem to care, then I’ll go straight to the police myself. I’ll let you know what happens.’

She also penned a letter to Mrs Coleman, on headed paper from the George, in case she wouldn’t answer the door and speak to her. In it, she told her about her friendship with Cassie, who she felt sure was Sylvia Coleman, her death on Coronation Day and that Petal had disappeared.

She kept the letter short and to the point, asking Mrs Coleman only that, as Petal’s grandmother, she should insist on further investigation by the police.

It was raining the next morning while Molly served breakfast, but one of the guests said they’d heard the forecast, which said that showers would be dying out by midday. By the time she’d finished the bedrooms she was delighted to see the rain had stopped, and she rushed off to change.

She selected a blue, checked, pleated skirt to wear as it was heavy enough not to blow up in the air and expose her stocking tops as she rode the bike, and with it a toning blue twinset. She tied her hair back with a matching blue ribbon. She looked at herself in the mirror for some time before leaving and, although she had butterflies in her stomach about what she had to do, she at least felt confident about how she looked. Her cheeks were pink again; they’d lost their colour in London, and her hair its shine. But it was shining now and the sun over the last few days had given her blonde streaks amongst the brown.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ she said aloud. ‘I doubt they’ll be that weird. That’s just stuff people love to say.’

When she arrived at Mulberry House she pushed the heavy iron gate open and wheeled her bike up the drive. She had a feeling she was being watched, but she couldn’t see anyone looking out of the windows. She leaned her bike against a low stone wall which surrounded a weed-filled rose bed, then went over to the front door and pulled on the bell.

She heard it ring loudly enough to alert even someone hard of hearing, but no one came, so she rang it again, even harder. Again, no response. She rang it five times in all, and when there was still no response she walked round the side of the house to see if there was another entrance.

Catching a fleeting glimpse of a white-haired woman through a window, she rapped on the glass and called out. But the woman didn’t respond so Molly continued round the house until she came to a kitchen door. It was propped open, and she rapped on it very loudly and called out.

Her early training never to step into anyone’s house uninvited made it difficult for her to cross the threshold, so she stood there for a while calling out. Still, no one came.

Coming through the open door there was an unpleasant smell of fish. She could see a saucepan on the gas stove and guessed it was being cooked for a cat. She hoped so, as it smelled too disgusting to be for humans.

The kitchen was like so many she’d seen in country houses back home: a central table with a scrubbed top; painted cupboards and shelves lining the walls. Here, though, everything looked neglected, untidy and dirty and with peeling paint.

She spotted a brass handbell sitting on the sink. Maybe
Miss Gribble and Mrs Coleman were deaf, but perhaps they would still be able to hear it.

Drawing on all her courage, Molly stepped inside, went over to the sink, picked up the bell and rang it loudly.

On the second ring – and it had been a very loud, long one – the white-haired woman she’d glimpsed through the window appeared.

‘If the door bell isn’t answered, it means we don’t want visitors,’ she barked at Molly.

Molly was scared but stood her ground. She was fairly certain that this was Miss Gribble, not Mrs Coleman. She was perhaps sixty, her face was deeply lined and weather-beaten, but she looked strong, with broad shoulders and thick, muscular forearms, revealed by a faded, short-sleeved blouse. She looked like a formidable woman, and the way she was glowering at Molly was frightening.

‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I have something very important to ask Mrs Coleman,’ she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking with fright. ‘If it hadn’t been so important I wouldn’t have been impertinent enough to come in uninvited. So will you please fetch her and let me get this over and done with?’

‘You can talk to me. Mrs Coleman isn’t well,’ she said.

‘No. In a matter like this, it is important to speak to the right person,’ Molly insisted. ‘It’s about her daughter.’

‘We have nothing to do with her,’ Miss Gribble snapped, drawing herself up very straight, as if doing her best to intimidate Molly.

‘I know that, and the reasons for it are none of my business. But I am not leaving here until I’ve spoken face to face with Mrs Coleman.’

The door through to the house opened slowly, and
another woman came in. She was very dishevelled, with long hair the colour of dirty straw, and her shapeless maroon dress did her no favours, yet, even so, Molly could see Cassie’s face in hers, and it shook her. The same speedwell-blue eyes, the pointed chin and an expression of disdain which she’d seen Cassie flash many a time at people when they were mean to her.

‘What do you mean by coming here and demanding to speak to me?’ she asked. ‘Who are you, girl?’

The tone was so scathing, Molly suddenly felt almost happy to give her bad news. She pulled the photograph of Cassie out of her skirt pocket.

‘My name is Molly Heywood, and I came to ask you to look at this picture and tell me if this is your daughter, Sylvia.’

She knew straight off that Sylvia and Cassie were one and the same person, just by the way the woman’s expression changed as she glanced at the picture. Clear recognition, yet it was mixed with fear, perhaps foreboding, as if she were already anticipating tragedy.

‘It is her, isn’t it, Mrs Coleman?’ she asked. ‘I know her as Cassie. She was my best friend.’

The woman’s expression changed to one of confusion, and she looked at the older woman as if seeking guidance.

‘I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ Molly said, now wishing she were anywhere but here in this grubby kitchen with these two weird women. ‘Sylvia was murdered last year, and her daughter, Petal – your granddaughter – was taken, presumably by the killer. I would’ve liked to sit down with you and talk about this, but it seems that isn’t going to happen. So I’d better go to the police and let them investigate.’

‘Why go to the police?’ Mrs Coleman asked. Now, her voice
wasn’t quite so harsh. In fact, Molly thought she sounded scared.

‘Because this is a murder inquiry. The police have been looking for family members and now I’ve found you they need to talk to you.’

She saw alarm jump into those blue eyes that were so much like Cassie’s and, just as she was about to ask a question, she felt a heavy blow to the back of her head. She reeled and saw both of the women in triplicate before everything went black.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Evelyn Bridgenorth popped her head around the door of the hotel bar. There were only about six or seven people there and Ernest was busying himself polishing glasses. As always, he looked very dapper in a dinner jacket and bow tie, his still-dark hair slicked back with Brylcreem. He’d been working at the George for fifteen years now, except for a gap of six years when he was called up. Evelyn often wondered how they’d manage if he retired or found another job, as he was a great barman and totally reliable.

‘Ernest, have you seen Molly this evening?’ she asked him.

He stopped polishing for a moment. ‘No. Why? Is she missing?’

‘Yes. It’s odd, she’s normally in the kitchen at this time of day, having a bite to eat before going up to turn the beds down.’

‘Maybe she met a friend this afternoon and got chatting. She’ll be back any minute – she’s very conscientious,’ he said.

‘Yes, of course. And it doesn’t matter if the beds aren’t turned down right now. It was just that I wanted to talk to her about the Beauchamps’ wedding next week, a few little wrinkles that need ironing out.’

‘She went out on a bike, so she won’t want to be riding it in the dark,’ Ernest said. ‘Of course, she could’ve got a puncture and had to walk back.’

‘Oh, I do hope not.’ Mrs Bridgenorth looked anxious. ‘She’s such a dear girl.’

By nine thirty, when Molly still hadn’t returned although it had been dark for some time, Mrs Bridgenorth began to get really worried, and consulted her husband, who was doing some paperwork in his office up on the third floor. She explained that Molly hadn’t returned for her evening shift. ‘She isn’t the kind to forget she had a job to do, Ted,’ she said. ‘If something unexpected had cropped up this afternoon, she would have found a phone box and telephoned us.’

Ted put down his pen and turned his chair round to give his wife his full attention. ‘What about that boyfriend of hers?’ he asked. ‘Could he have turned up and whisked her off somewhere?’

‘I doubt that very much, because she borrowed a bicycle. And I saw her minutes before she left. She was plainly dressed in a skirt and twinset, didn’t even have lipstick on, so she wasn’t meeting anyone, and especially not him.’

‘Didn’t she tell you or someone else where she was going?’

‘She said she was just going for a ride to explore. I did tell her the other day that it was a nice easy ride to Lydd, because it’s all flat. But Lydd hasn’t got much to keep you there for long.’

‘There’s the army camp,’ Ted reminded her. ‘Maybe a soldier picked her up.’

‘Oh, Ted, she’s not the kind of girl to allow herself to be picked up by a soldier, or any man, for that matter. She’s too smitten with Charley.’

‘Calm down, dear,’ he said. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve had a girl go missing for the evening, is it?’

‘No, of course not!’ she snapped at him. ‘But all those other girls had family close by; they swanned off because of some disagreement with someone. Molly hasn’t got anyone near here. Neither has she fallen out with anyone. Now tell me, should I phone the police?’

Ted realized then his wife was very anxious about Molly and got up from his chair to give her a hug. ‘And say what, Evelyn? She’s twenty-six, not fifteen. They only consider someone a missing person when they’ve been gone for forty-eight hours or more. Let it go for now. I’ve got no doubt she’ll come bursting in before long with some perfectly good reason for being late back. You’ll see.’

Evelyn agreed to wait until the next day but, as she passed the narrow staircase which led to the attic rooms, including Molly’s, on an impulse she ran up the flight of stairs to see if there was anything in her room which might indicate where she was.

Molly kept her room very neat and tidy, but the little oak bureau which stood under the window had a writing pad, envelopes and a small diary left out on the drop-down flap, as if she’d been halfway through writing some letters.

Evelyn hesitated before opening it, as it seemed a terrible invasion of her privacy, but she didn’t feel quite so guilty when she discovered Molly had only begun the diary since she had come to work at the George, and only used it to enter the duties she was doing each week and her day off. But, right at the back of the diary, Molly had written a few addresses.

Most of them were back in her home town in Somerset. The name George Walsh caught her eye, and she vaguely remembered overhearing Molly telling Trudy that she’d had
a letter from George, an old schoolfriend who was now a policeman.