Begun by Time (13 page)

“Hello?” Catherine’s voice crackled to life in a miserably bad connection, but to Arthur it sounded heavenly. True to her word, she had called. His spirits lifted.

“Hello, Catherine. Are you safely home?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “I am so sorry about today. Oh, Arthur, I had a lovely time, I truly did. Thank you.”

He knew how difficult this was for her and didn’t want her to be too hard on herself.

She sighed. “Arthur, please know this… These last few weeks with you have been wonderful.”

He closed his eyes in relief. “I know. I’ve loved every minute I’ve spent with you.”

“Yes. Except for today…and Selfridges.”

He could hear the smile in her voice and grinned. “I’ll understand if you need more time before we take the next step.”

“Yes, thanks. Arthur, I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“It’s understandable, and I don’t want to push.”

“Thank you. You are a dear.”

He smiled. “Good night, love. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

He heard a click and the line went dead, but Arthur felt renewed and more alive than he had in years. He was certain she was falling in love with him. She’d come very close to saying as much, and he, he was undoubtedly, irrevocably head over heels.

She would be his wife. He would make it happen.

Nothing
—
and no one
—
would stand in his way.

…

Catherine snuggled in her bed.
Arthur, dear Arthur
… She smiled as he leaned in to kiss her, but frowned when she heard a sob. She looked around with curiosity, but saw nothing. When she returned her gaze to Arthur she gasped, seeing… “Jonnie!”

He looked haggard and pale, but worse than that was the hurt in his eyes.

“How could you, Catherine?” he said, tears spilling down his face. “I’ve been looking for you. Trying to get back to you. And I find you in another man’s arms?”

“But…”

He started to fade, and she grasped at him, to no avail.

“You betrayed me, Catherine,” he said, his voice distant. “Turned your back on our love.”

“No, it’s not like that! Jonnie, Jonnie, come back to me!” she cried. “Don’t leave me again!”

Catherine bolted up, wrenched from her dream. She clutched at her covers and Duffy came to her. She folded him onto her lap and rocked him. Badly shaken, she got out of bed still cradling her dog and began to pace her room. The faint glow coming through her window lit her clock, showing it was 11:25. She’d barely been in bed an hour. How would she make it through the night?

Time passed. An hour, then two. It was almost two o’clock. She needed to sleep, or she’d be worthless in the morning. Eventually, her anguish eased, and she drifted off.

“Why didn’t you come for me?” Jonnie shouted.

Catherine felt stunned and cringed at his recriminations. She’d never seen Jonnie this angry.

“You left me hanging without a word. You were no help, no help at all!”

“But I looked everywhere, I swear.”

“And now you are acting like a floozy, kissing a complete stranger in public. You threw away our love like yesterday’s rubbish. I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed. Ashamed.”

Catherine reached for him, pleading for understanding.

Suddenly a look of surprise crossed his face and he was swept backward, screaming. Swept into a dark abyss.

“Jonnie!” she cried out, grasping at him, but he was gone, gone.

“Cathy! Cathy, wake up. Cathy, dear girl, wake up!”

She felt hands on her shoulders, gently shaking her to wakefulness. She opened her eyes and saw her parents standing over her with expressions of sorrow and concern.

Shattered, she covered her face with her hands and wept.

Chapter Nineteen

Monday morning found Arthur Howard walking along the embankment of the Thames heading for New Scotland Yard. The red brick building came into view, its Victorian embellishments looking rather old and out-of-date.

He glanced at his watch. Almost noon. He and his friend, Clive Wakefield, would lunch together in Clive’s office, brown-bagging it, so to speak, as they discussed the case of Jonathan Brandon. Arthur had already picked up fish and chips for them to share, Clive promising to provide the tea, and, Arthur hoped, some new information.

Two bobbies came out the front door, and Arthur nodded to them before going inside. Clive was waiting for him in the lobby. A plainclothes detective with the Criminal Investigation Department, or CID, Clive wore a suit and tie, no uniform. The front of his jacket was unbuttoned, and Arthur noted his friend had gained a paunch since they’d last seen each other, nearly a year ago.
Desk job,
he thought.

Instinctively, he pulled in his own stomach muscles and made a mental note to start exercising more to keep fit. Catherine was almost ten years his junior, so he couldn’t afford to let himself go.
Add regular squash games to my schedule, perhaps.

The men shook hands, and Arthur followed Clive into his office.

They sat across the desk from each other, enjoying fish and chips drenched in vinegar, while catching up on the past year. Clive’s wife Margaret was pregnant with their second child, and, given their growing family, Clive told him they were actively searching for a house with a small garden, perhaps in nearby Paddington.

As the conversation turned toward Arthur’s life, Clive was interested to hear about Catherine and wasted no time in asking Arthur if this meant he’d finally decided to settle down.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Arthur said with a chuckle, but then he turned to more serious matters. He told him about Catherine’s past with Jonathan Brandon.

“I remember that case,” Clive said, nodding. “Unsolved and bloody maddening, given that Major Brandon vanished without a trace.”

“It is interesting you should choose to use those very words.” Arthur went on to describe what Tom Lloyd had told him about that fateful day.

Clive kept his expression neutral throughout Arthur’s discourse, even during his description of the vanishing.

“Hmm,” Clive said, mulling it over. “Let me make a few inquiries, and I shall get back to you straightaway with everything that’s known.”

Arthur stood and shook hands with his friend. He left Scotland Yard none the wiser, but filled with a measure of hope.

…

On Wednesday morning, Arthur arrived at work early. His secretary, Eleanor Philips, wasn’t at her desk, so he started brewing the tea himself. Mug in hand, he went through the door to his office and found a note on his desk.

“Sir, that’s from Scotland Yard. They called just before you arrived.”

Eleanor smiled, walked past him, and placed a fresh copy of
The London Times
on his desk. As a solicitor, he received calls from the Yard from time to time, so her air of business-as-usual was no real surprise. He felt differently, of course, since the Brandon case was unusual and highly personal.

She nodded toward his mug. “Terribly sorry I didn’t have your tea for you, sir. May I get you anything else?”

“Thank you, no, Mrs. Philips.” Arthur was anxious to open the note, but he waited until she left the room. He read,
Clive Wakefield called 8:59 a.m. Metropolitan Police Phone: WHI 1212
.

He dialed and asked for the detective.

“Wakefield.”

“Arthur Howard, returning your call.”

“Ah, yes, old chap. I’ve found something of interest. I’d rather tell you in person. Mind if I come to your office ’round about an hour from now?”

Arthur glanced at his schedule. He had no meetings until the afternoon. “Yes, I’ve the morning open.”

“Cheerio. I’ll see you soon.”

Arthur placed the telephone receiver in its cradle and took a sip of tea. He stared at the desk clock, drumming his fingers. It was half past nine.

He’d always prided himself for his patience, but he felt the exact opposite now. He shook his head and settled in, guessing this was going to be the longest hour of his life. He watched the clock’s minute hand crawl by on its downward path, then begin to creep up again.

And he waited.

…

Catherine moped around the house for days, embarrassed and more than a bit confused by the events at The Palace and her terrible dreams. She chose not to tell her parents about her disastrous date with Arthur on Saturday. To make matters worse, she’d discovered it was her time of the month after she got home that night. By Sunday evening her cramps were so vicious she spent the night tossing and turning, a hot water bottle giving her only a small measure of comfort.

She still didn’t feel well on Monday morning, so she asked her mum to fill in for her at the dentist office. Tuesday was no better, as she woke up with a migraine. Wednesday, however, dawned bright, with the worst of her health issues over. Regardless, she asked her mother to watch the front desk, promising she’d be ready to resume work on Thursday.

With a yawn, Catherine took some aspirin and then picked up the telephone to call Poppy. A bit of chitchat ensued, and they decided to meet at a little tea shop in Stratford.

The shop was empty of patrons when Catherine arrived, and because of the early hour she guessed she was the first customer. After being seated, she ordered a pot of English Breakfast tea and two crumpets with butter and marmalade. She knew Poppy wouldn’t mind, as she’d developed the unfortunate habit of being late. Catherine smiled, recalling how Poppy blamed it on the need to take care of her new husband. It was a given when dining that everyone should start without Poppy.

Catherine ate in silence, wondering how long it had been since they’d last seen each other. Six months, at least. They’d lunched with Susan and Mirin in June
—
or was it May? Sadly, the old group appeared to be moving on, and Catherine made a vow to try to stay in touch with more regularity.

The bells above the door jingled, and she glanced up as Poppy walked in. Her friend smiled and waved before moving to the hall stand.

Catherine immediately noticed Poppy’s smart wool suit, a blue tweed. The suit was gorgeous, and Catherine wondered if it was from Paris, since the cut and style oozed couture. Poppy’s blond pageboy was sleek perfection, too, more fashionable than the fringe she used to wear. The waves flowed over her brow and down toward her left eye in a peek-a-boo effect,
à la
the American actress Veronica Lake. It covered the old injury to perfection without giving any indication that was its purpose. Other than the scar, she knew her friend was fully recovered, and she looked happy and prosperous. Her husband of one year was a banker, and they lived in a beautiful home in Manor Park.

Poppy motioned over her shoulder as she got to the table. “Is that red coat yours? Gosh, it’s ritzy!”

“Yes, Dad got it.”

“Lovely.” Poppy gave Catherine a kiss on the cheek, then sat across from her. She wafted the delectable Chanel No. 5.

After ordering tea and scones, Poppy pushed her hair back behind her left ear and said, “I have missed you.”

“And I, you.” Catherine noticed the scar on Poppy’s brow had faded significantly. Time and some carefully applied makeup must’ve done the trick, and she was glad for her friend. “It’s been too long since our last visit.”

“Yes, it has,” Poppy agreed. “I spoke to Mirin the other day. She’s getting along quite well in Dorset. Did you know? She moved there in September.”

Catherine nodded. “Yes, she called me. She’s the town librarian.”

“From what she said, the headmaster at the local school is a handsome bachelor. Mirin has joined him on several fossil hunting expeditions. Jurassic junkets, she calls them. She said he’s in love with dinosaurs and the like. Now she is as well. A little bird tells me that chap won’t be free for long.”

Catherine laughed. “Yes, when Mirin puts her mind to something…”

Poppy grinned. “Indeed. You know, I haven’t heard from Susan in a long while.”

“I got a call from her not too long ago. She said she’s up to her neck in baby nappies.”

“Ah, twins will do that.”

They chuckled as the waitress brought Poppy her tea and scones.

As the friends ate, the conversation turned to Catherine’s life. She told Poppy about Arthur and all the events leading up to his proposal, then hesitated, bit her lip, and forged on, divulging what happened after Arthur went down on bended knee.

In sympathy, Poppy patted Catherine’s hand. “Oh, my dearest, I’m so sorry. Jonathan still weighs on you, I know that, and it’s to be expected,
since there was never a resolution in his case. Like you, I’ve always wondered what happened. And now Arthur wants to know and wishes to help you. He should be commended for that.”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “God knows Jonnie’s case has nearly driven me mad with questions at times. I’ve had nightmares ever since. How often have I dreamt of him leaving the pub in a daze, seeing things that weren’t really there, and then ending up in a ditch somewhere, or in the Thames? I thought they were over, but I had terrible dreams again the other night. It’s awful, just awful, not knowing.” Her voice caught and tears threatened. She swallowed hard, pushing back her emotions. “Poor Jonnie. This is still so difficult for me. If I only had an answer to the mystery. If only I could be certain he was all right, or at least that he hadn’t suffered.”

Poppy reached for Catherine’s hand once more, this time not letting go. “I’m so sorry, and I understand completely. Such things take time. It took me months to overcome my nightmares after the bombing. Even now, I have them occasionally.”

“Oh, dear. You are so brave.”

“I don’t feel brave,” Poppy admitted, withdrawing her hand and waving it in the air. “God, sometimes I’m a mess! We have to remember it takes time for such things to fade. The wounds can be both physical and mental.” Poppy touched her brow. “I think it’s easier to heal the physical scars.”

Catherine vividly remembered her friend’s suffering and put a hand over hers in sympathy. “If only I could be like you. Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever feel normal again.”

“Oh, my dearest, you will! I’m so sorry I pressed you about Jonnie. Perhaps we should speak of something else.”

“No, please, let me go on,” Catherine said as she swiped at her tears. “I do need to talk about it. I know I can confide in you.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” Poppy said, “but have you told Arthur of Jonnie’s suffering
—
his hallucinations?”

“No, I haven’t. I can’t tell Arthur about them. Only a few people were privy to his troubles. His father, you, his friend Angus, who I eventually told
—
I don’t think anyone else knew, including his physicians. He did go to a psychiatrist off base, but I don’t think Jonnie even gave his real name. I’ve held back with Arthur because I don’t want him to think Jonnie was going mad when he wasn’t. In fact, he seemed so much better in the months before…” Catherine’s voice faded to a sigh.

“Yes, I know,” Poppy said quietly. “Before he left us.”

…

Arthur rose from his desk as Mrs. Philips ushered Detective Wakefield into his office. She asked if she could get them tea, but when Clive declined, she left, shutting the door behind her.

They shook hands and then Arthur indicated a chair across from him. “So, what have you turned up?”

Clive unbuttoned his jacket and sat. “Well, it’s much as I thought, although there are a few strange twists I came across as well.”

Arthur felt his interest pique. “Do tell,” he said as he took his seat.

“It’s a muddy case, to be sure. You see, there have been other missing persons’ cases in that very area. A disappearance at The Crook some sixty years before the Brandon case, and also something tantamount to that in Ely Court.”

“Were there any eyewitnesses? Did anyone see something akin to what Tom Lloyd described?” Arthur asked.

“If you’ll bear with me, I’d like to come back to that later. I talked to the detective who interviewed Mr. Lloyd back in ’45. His conclusion was the man must’ve been imbibing that day, perhaps for several days, taking more than a nip or two from his own stock.”

“Hmm. That’s not what Lloyd told me. He said there were those who called him a lunatic. He never mentioned being accused of going on a bender.”

Clive frowned. “Yes, well, those who drink too much usually don’t admit to it, even to themselves, now do they?”

Arthur nodded, recalling that Clive was a bit of a teetotaler, only allowing himself the occasional lager.

“The Brandon investigation is still technically ongoing, yet it is not active,” Clive said. “The unit assigned to it handles murders, many of them unsolved. There have been several dozen disappearances and murders in the area in the past century.”

“What about at The Crook?”

“It’s difficult to say what happened there long ago, and there’ve been rumors of disappearances since the seventeenth century. With the exception of the documented missing person case of a man who supposedly vanished from the Crook in 1889, and the Brandon case, we just can’t say with any certainty what happened. Since the latter part of the nineteenth century, deaths in the vicinity have been caused by rather mundane things
—
if murder can ever really be classified as mundane
—
things like domestic disputes or pub brawls that ended badly. In the past two years there’ve been three very troubling unsolved murders in the area, a worrisome statistic given the perpetrator has not yet been caught.”