All Things Undying

SING IT TO HER BONES

UNBREATHED MEMORIES

OCCASION OF REVENGE

IN DEATH'S SHADOW

THIS ENEMY TOWN

THROUGH THE DARKNESS

DEAD MAN DANCING *

WITHOUT A GRAVE *

ALL THINGS UNDYING *

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This first world edition published 2010

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2010 by Marcia Talley.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Talley, Marcia Dutton, 1943–

All Things Undying. – (The Hannah Ives mysteries series)

1. Ives, Hannah (Fictitious character) – Fiction. 2. Women

mediums – Crimes against – Fiction. 3. Detective and

mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

813.6-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-048-7   (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6879-4   (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-263-5   (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

In memory of the 946 American servicemen who died off the coast of Devon in April 1944 during Operation Tiger.

‘That Others May Live'

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to:

Charles and Marilyn Mylander, who shared tales of Charles's time as a faculty exchange professor at Britannia Royal Naval College in Dartmouth (as well as a huge box of memorabilia!), and especially for introducing me to:

Jill and Ian Rowe, David and Maralyn Norman and Richard and Anna Alexander, who adopted me when I came to Dartmouth and made sure I lacked for nothing. Chauffeurs, tour guides, lunch, tea and dinnertime companions extraordinaire. Come to Annapolis!
Mi casa es su casa
.

MaryLou Symonds, who graciously loaned me a copy of her unpublished journal,
Brilliant! Adventures of an Academic Wife Abroad
, which is . . . well, brilliant!

Dr Richard Porter, Curator of Britannia Royal Naval College, who took me on a behind-the-scenes tour of the college and supplied me with guidebooks, photographs and a pair of cufflinks, too.

Robbie Robinson, Curator at the Brixham Battery Heritage Centre, Devon, who told me the ‘real' story of Slapton Sands.

Jean Parnell of Strete whose girlhood memories of the Evacuation of South Hams in November and December of 1943 remain vivid, and whose book,
The Land We Left Behind
, published in association with The Blackawton and Strete History Group (BASH) was an invaluable resource.

Sarah Glass, who was there from the beginning, when Susan Parker was born.

Brent Morris for Paul's book; Eileen Roberts for Samantha and Victoria's story; and Dot Lumley, for a blustery but delightful afternoon at Greenway House.

Kate Charles, the best of friends, who held my hand throughout, and helped keep my Brits from sounding too much like Americans.

The Annapolis Writers Group – Ray Flynt, Lynda Hill, Mary Ellen Hughes, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingly and Bonnie Settle – for tough love.

That said, all mistakes are mine alone.

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest

He who has found our hid security,

Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,

And heard our word, ‘Who is so safe as we?'

We have found safety with all things undying,

The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,

The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,

And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.

We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.

We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.

War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,

Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;

Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;

And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

Rupert Brooke,
1914: Safety

ONE

Nigel Evans,
Reflections of Dartmouth
, Richard Webb, 2008, p.29

W
hen it's late July and so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, I find it hard to look seriously at fall fashions in shop windows.

Except I was in Dartmouth, Devon, UK, and the only fried egg I was likely to see that day had been at breakfast at our B&B at the top of Horn Hill.

‘You'd look good in that, Hannah,' Alison said, nudging me with her elbow.

‘That' was a knee-length, nubby-knit sweater coat in tweedy, earth-tone, crock pot colors that had been all the rage back in the 1960s. We were vacationing in Devon, and I'd forgotten to pack the brown leather belt that I liked to wear with my favorite pair of jeans, so Alison and I had poked our noses into every boutique and charity shop along Duke Street looking for a replacement.

‘
You
can wear orange,' I said, considering my friend's neatly bobbed, fashionably fringed, coppery-blond hair and green eyes. ‘Me, I look like the Great Pumpkin in orange.'

Alison seized my upper arms with both hands and spun me around gently until I was standing with my back to the window. She squinted at me in the mid-afternoon sunlight, then stared into the window, sizing me up against the coat. ‘You're right,' she agreed, dropping her hands to her sides. ‘I'm remembering you from before, back when you had dark hair and pale English skin.'

I turned to study my reflection in the glass. ‘This tan will fade soon enough,' I said. ‘I slathered myself with SPF thirty-five in the islands, wore hats, but . . .' I shrugged. ‘The price one pays for six months in the Bahamas.'

Alison grinned. ‘Poor you.'

‘Tragic,' I agreed.

‘As for the hair,' I continued, combing through the curls with my fingers, fluffing them out, ‘I was getting panicky about the gray. Before we left Annapolis, I let my hairdresser talk me into highlights.'

‘Goes with the tan,' Alison said. ‘I like it.'

‘Me, too,' I confessed. ‘Until my pale English skin returns and I get roots.'

‘We
do
have hairdressers in England, you know. Remember Beautopia?' she said, naming a hole-in-the-wall salon where we once had our faces done on a particularly fine Girls' Day Out.

‘Eeek! How you talked me into that eye shadow, I'll never know. Acid Rain?' I said, remembering a particularly vile shade of yellow sold by an upstart cosmetic company called Urban Decay.

‘You made
me
buy the roach-colored lip gloss, as I recall, so nobody's vying for sainthood here.' Alison punched me lightly on the arm. ‘We had fun, didn't we, Hannah? I'm already missing you, and you've only just arrived. Three weeks isn't much of a holiday, if you ask me.' She looped an arm through mine. ‘Jon and I haven't seen you in ten years. I wish you could stay longer.'

We turned right and strolled down the center of Foss Street, an ancient thoroughfare that had been neatly cobblestoned and pedestrianized. Upscale galleries, shops and restaurants stood cheek by jowl on both sides of the narrow lane. ‘Alas, Paul has to teach,' I said, stopping for a moment at the corner of Flavel to admire a watercolor in the window of Baxter's Gallery. ‘Classes begin again on August twenty-fourth.'

‘Rotten luck. You're going to miss Regatta, and the fireworks, and the Red Arrows!'

‘And the beer barrel roll, and the trolley race. I know.'

The Royal Regatta, an extravagant three-day city fair, featured sailboat and rowing races, too. Regatta had been a highlight of the year we spent in Dartmouth over a decade ago, when Paul had participated in the faculty exchange program between the United States Naval Academy and Britannia Royal Naval College. Sadly, the program had been discontinued in recent years, so Paul's newer colleagues wouldn't benefit from the same broadening opportunity.

‘I'll have to make do with the Blue Angels, I suppose,' I said, referring to the US Navy's own precision flying team.

‘Ah, yes,' Alison said with pardonable pride, inclining her head close to mine. ‘But there are only six Blue Angels. We have nine!'

As far as places to live go, Annapolis is about perfect – historic colonial seaport, vibrant cultural life, temperate winters. Yet all those years ago, when the taxi carrying me, Paul and a mountain of luggage from the train station in Totnes had popped out of the hedgerows over Jawbones Hill, and I first laid eyes on the ancient town of Dartmouth sprawled along the Dart River valley below me, it had been love at first sight. A steam locomotive slowly chug-chug-chugging its storybook way up the opposite bank from Kingswear to Paignton had been the proverbial icing on the cake.

For the exchange all those years ago, Robert and Sally Gardner (now retired to Ludlow) had moved into our home on Prince George Street in Annapolis, and we'd taken over their spacious Victorian on Dartmouth's Vicarage Hill. ‘I'm teaching Robert's courses, living in Robert's house, and driving Robert's car,' Paul had quipped at our first drinks party. ‘And this,' he had added, throwing his arm around my shoulder, ‘this is Robert's wife.'

Men! Jon Hamilton had laughed so hard he'd dropped a Pringle into his sherry, until Alison's evil eye silenced him in mid-guffaw. Alison and I have been friends ever since. So when an email arrived from the Hamiltons urging the Ives to consider a return visit, it had not been a question of when, but how soon.

Alison and I wandered into Baxter's where I pawed through a basket of ceramic buttons, selecting interesting shapes and designs for a sweater I planned to knit for my granddaughter, Chloe. Alison sought out my opinion on a colorful Chas Jacobs print of the Dartmouth boat float (
Fabulous, you must have it!
) then I gathered up my purchases and wandered over to the register. To the buttons I added a whimsical Lynn Antley rabbit pin with a red heart for a tail that the savvy shopkeeper had displayed all too temptingly next to the till.

‘I like your hair,' the shopkeeper said as she toted up my purchases.

‘You do?' I felt a blush coming on, thinking that the highlights had been a good idea after all.

Alison slapped my arm playfully. ‘Your
hare
, Hannah! The brooch!'

I burst out laughing. ‘Lifts, bonnets, boots, lorries, braces, and now hares. George Bernard Shaw was right. Two countries separated by a common language.'

‘Two friends separated by an ocean,' Alison pouted as she reached out and gave me a one-armed hug.