Begun by Time (17 page)

Epilogue

25 May 1953, Chelsea, London

Catherine was heavy with her first child and suffering because of the unusually hot weather. Arthur brought her a glass of ginger ale and repositioned the electric fan. With Arthur’s help, she eased herself onto the sofa and then luxuriated in the cool stream of air.

“I’m as big as a blooming elephant,” she groused.

“Yes, and did you know I happen to love elephants?”

She laughed. “I never dreamt it would take me years and years to get pregnant, and it just so happens we’re having the hottest weather of the century
this
year. Gosh, what’s this summer going to be like? Even after the baby comes, I fear I’ll be an enormous, sweating heap of flesh.”

“My poor darling.”

She could tell he was trying to hide a smile, the dear, and she smiled back. “I’m thrilled about the baby, of course, but I do also have the right to complain.” She raised her leg as best she could and waved her foot about. “Puffy ankles. And please don’t get me started about my fingers. At least I had the foresight to remove my rings before my fingers grew fat as sausages.”

His smile finally shone through as he sat by her side and kissed her cheek. “You look beautiful, love.”

She chuckled. “No, I don’t. You obviously can’t tell the truth. But you do know how to charm an elephant, don’t you?”

He grinned just as the doorbell chimed, and Catherine watched as he rose and left for the foyer.

She heard the front door open and recognized a voice
—
Clive Wakefield. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Quarter past six. What was he doing here at this time of the evening? She no longer held any hope of finding out anything about Jonnie’s whereabouts, or what had happened to him, the case having grown ice-cold despite Arthur and Clive’s persistence.

But still…

Muffled conversation ensued, and Catherine tried to discern what was being said, but then she heard the men move off, presumably to the library. Sipping her ginger ale, she looked around the lounge, confident her new home gleamed with care and polish, everything in its place and ready for unexpected company. Their new television set had been placed center stage in the room, and Catherine was thrilled with the shows she’d watched so far, especially a new series on the BBC called
Robin Hood
, starring Patrick Troughton. As far as she knew, they were the only people on their street with a telly, and, despite her advanced pregnancy, they’d invited everyone to come over and watch the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, which would be shown live on 2 June.

The thought of witnessing such an event in her own home took Catherine’s breath away. Her parents had also purchased a telly, and she guessed that in the next week more than a few of her friends would do the same. And to think she had met their new queen in the most extraordinary circumstances! Elizabeth had continued to keep in touch with Arthur and her via lovely Christmas cards. Without fail, she graciously included a personal note, along with a photograph, the most recent of her adorable little children, Prince Charles and Princess Anne.

And her coronation was just a few days away! To help with their forthcoming party—and with life in general—Arthur and Catherine had a new housekeeper, a young Scotswoman named Trudy MacCunn, who happened to be the daughter of the day maid her mother had hired the year before. Trudy proved herself a blessing, now that Catherine was so near to term and unable to do any cleaning or heavy lifting.

Trudy came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “I see Mr. Howard saw t’ the door. Is there anythin’ else you’ll be needin’, Mrs. Howard? I’ve got some tidying up t’ do in the kitchen, and then I’ll let Duffy in from the garden. After that, I’ve got a date with Mr. James Bond. He’s a charmer, he is.”

Catherine smiled. “Really, Trudy, you are itching to get me to read that spy novel, aren’t you?”

“
Casino Royale
, ma’am.”

“Well, as soon as you’re finished with it, please do pass it my way. I’ll give it a try, although I would guess it’d be more Arthur’s cup of tea. And yes, I shan’t need anything more tonight. Thank you, and have a good evening.”

Trudy nodded and headed back to the kitchen just as Arthur showed Clive into the lounge. Catherine felt a sense of expectation given the unusual nature of Clive’s visit, but dampened her feelings because of the string of disappointments and cold trails leading up to this moment.

Clive made his apologies to Catherine about the disruption. “Forgive me for barging in, my dear.”

“It’s quite all right,” Catherine said. “Please, do sit down.” She indicated a chair. “May we get you anything, Clive? A ginger ale, perhaps, or something stronger?” When he shook his head, she asked, “What’s this about?”

As Clive took the chair, Arthur sat on the arm of the sofa near Catherine. His tone betrayed his excitement. “Darling, Clive has some rather interesting news. It might be mere coincidence, but it is intriguing, nonetheless.”

“You see,” Clive explained, “I’ve gotten word a letter has been advertised in the current Sotheby’s catalogue, one addressed to a Catherine Hastings. The bloke who discovered it knows Arthur, too, and he thought it an amusing coincidence this particular missive bears your maiden name.”

Perplexed, Catherine asked, “I don’t quite understand.”

“I can’t say I do, either,” Clive said. “But my instincts have flared, for the good, I might add, and I always trust my instincts. Lucky for us, they’re having a viewing of the auction goods this evening at Sotheby’s until ten o’clock, and I thought it might be well worth the effort to go there and examine the letter. Besides, the man gave me one additional bit of information, one that makes a personal examination even more imperative.”

“Wait until you hear this, Catherine!” Arthur exclaimed.

Heart racing in anticipation, she looked from her husband to Clive. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“It’s a stunner,” Clive said. “You see, the letter is signed with the initials JB.”

Catherine gasped.
No, it can’t be true! It must be a jest, or a mistake.

“I am sorry to say I have no other details,” Clive told her. He glanced at Arthur. “We should hurry if we’re going to make it to Sotheby’s before closing time. I know we must try to contain our enthusiasm, should this turn out to be a coincidence, but if it is genuine, and I would emphasize the
if
, then we may actually find out what happened to Jonathan Brandon.”

Catherine regarded her pregnant belly with dismay.
Oh, bother!
She bit her lip and looked Arthur squarely in the eyes. “I’m going with you.”

“Catherine, no. You mustn’t tax yourself,” he implored.

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’m not an invalid, Arthur. Besides, I’ll go barmy with the waiting, and it might set me off so that I have the baby right here on the sofa for all my nervousness.” She smiled, suddenly feeling strong and determined. “I shall accompany you both, and nothing you say will stop me.”

…

Catherine, Arthur, and Clive arrived at Sotheby’s an hour and a half later.

To her annoyance, she had to waddle into the auction house.
Yes, bloody waddle
, she thought, cursing under her breath. To make matters worse, Arthur seemed to hover over her as if she were a porcelain doll.

A very large porcelain doll
, she thought wryly as she waddled on.
Elephant-sized, just the way Arthur loves them.

A banner strung across the entrance to the exhibit hall suddenly caught her attention:
The Hastings Family Collection of Rare Books, Manuscripts, and Memorabilia.

“Hmm,” Arthur murmured. “What do you think of that? It might explain things. They’re no doubt your distant relatives, Catherine, and I would guess others in the past bore the same name: Catherine Hastings. The letter was addressed to one of them, I presume.”

Her heart fell. Of course, he was right. It had to be a coincidence, and Jonnie would remain among the missing.

Clive nodded. “Yes, but whilst that may be true, we’ve come this far, and we should examine the letter.”

“Lead on,” Arthur said, as he and Catherine followed.

Given the late hour, there were only a few potential buyers in the exhibition hall, along with several security guards. Hundreds of items were on display, most held in glass cases, the exception being a rather elaborate lot of sixteenth through nineteenth century furniture, along with some clothing displayed on mannequins.

As the clock ticked toward closing time, they searched the glass cases for the letter, to no avail, before Clive said, “Perhaps I should flash my badge and ask for the curator.”

Catherine was about to agree when Arthur called out, “I found it!”

He stood before a case filled with documents.

Upon arriving at his side, Catherine caught Arthur’s stunned look.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

“What is it?” Catherine asked, suddenly fearful.

Clive came alongside, and together they gazed down at the letter, brown and spotted with age.

Catherine read.

Miss Catherine Ellen Hastings

Stratford, London

Dearest Catherine,

I am well. As well as a man with a broken heart can be. I shall always endeavor to return to you, but have little hope in that regard. Fear not, for in the meantime I have found safety and acceptance in Smithfield, at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

I hope and pray my words shall find you one day, or that I may somehow be able to deliver them in person. Know that I love you still.

Yours ever,

JB 3627555

25.2.1559

Catherine felt faint
. This couldn’t be. It doesn’t make sense
.

She swayed, and Arthur caught her. With Clive’s help, they got her over to a chair. People swarmed about, someone bringing her a glass of water, another fanning her with a Sotheby’s brochure.

“My God, Catherine,” Arthur said. “Should we call for a physician?”

She took a sip of water and shook her head, feeling stronger. “No,” she reassured him. “I’ll be all right.”

Catherine looked at Clive, her thoughts crystal clear. She motioned him forward and whispered into his ear, “Use your badge. Pull that letter from the exhibit. Say it is evidence. I can’t take the chance of losing it in a bidding war should it go to auction. Arthur and I shall pay the asking price—higher than the asking, if we must—but it must come home with me. Tonight.”

Clive nodded. “Jolly good plan,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket for his badge. “This is obviously a forgery. I’ll need it as evidence.”

Once he left, Catherine looked at Arthur.

He kissed her on the cheek. “The string of numbers… They’re RAF, aren’t they?”

Nodding, she softly repeated Jonnie’s military I.D. number from memory, “Three, six, two, seven, triple five.”

“A forger, even a great forger, would not know that,” Arthur said.

Catherine thought back, recalling how Jonnie told her about fading in and out, his senses getting clearer with each episode. She needed time to think, to gather her thoughts. How did this letter connect to his vanishing? Despite what Clive said about forgery, she had little doubt it was in Jonnie’s handwriting. Plus, her entire maiden name and her parents’ address were in the heading. Why would anyone go to the trouble of forging such a document? Jonnie had no real fame, no money, and neither did she. This wasn’t a ransom note. A cruel jest, perhaps, but the how and why did not make any sense.

She looked back at the letter.

“1559. And the handwriting, Arthur,” she said. “I’m certain it’s Jonnie’s.”

Arthur nodded. “However strange, the evidence is compelling.”

Not wanting to voice her thoughts, she said, “And the evidence points to…?”

“Bloody hell.” Arthur stared straight into her eyes. “Bloody, bloody hell. It boggles the mind.”

At that moment, she guessed the truth, but without research she could never put this to rest. She resolved to investigate, to prove what happened to Jonnie. If she didn’t, it would plague her to the end of her days.

…

Four weeks later, Catherine rocked her newborn son, Reginald Nigel Howard, named in remembrance of two wonderful men: Arthur’s father and Jonnie’s dad.

She cooed to him as he snuggled against her. Little Reggie was a happy baby, sweet of temperament and quite bright. The way his gaze searched her face made her feel as if he were an old soul come back to life.

She turned and stared at the framed letter resting on the mantle, a message sent across the years from another soul, lost to her forever.

Time travel!
How?
The question nagged at her. Clive and Scotland Yard had compared Jonnie’s earlier letters with this one and determined what she’d already felt to be true; the letter was authentic, written in Jonnie’s own hand. 1559? Time travel? The possibility of such a thing happening seemed beyond belief. Yet somehow, despite the strangeness, she sensed it was true.

“Where are you, love?” Arthur called from the foyer, before walking into the room. He smiled at her and Reggie.

With an answering smile, Catherine placed the baby into her husband’s sheltering arms. Arthur kissed his son on the brow, then studied her face. “What is it?” he asked.

She glanced at the letter and shook her head. “I have such happiness, but what of him? I wish I could know what happened to Jonnie.”

“He’ll make it, darling. He’s a brave man, resourceful. We’ll look for other letters. There must be something more. As for the time travel question, Clive is still on the fence, but said he planned, in an official capacity, to contact Albert Einstein in Princeton, New Jersey, to ask for his opinion. I would very much like to hear what Einstein has to say on the matter.”