The Kirilov Star (29 page)

She bent down and lifted the lid of a tin trunk and then she was in another world. It was filled with things her mother had saved from their childhood. Baby clothes, some blue, some pink, some pale lemon and cream. Tiny little four-inch shoes with soft soles, mittens for tiny hands, little embroidered pillowcases, exquisite shawls, carefully knitted and crocheted, all lovingly wrapped in tissue and cotton. She took them out gently and held them up one at a time. Had Mum meant to pass them on? For a moment, she held one of the shawls against her cheek and felt its softness and felt her mother’s love for her and her brother which, in all the years, had never wavered.

Slowly she wrapped everything up again and laid it lovingly back in the trunk. As she began to close the lid she saw the lining was bulging and pulled it down. Out fell a large brown envelope. She sat on the floor and emptied it into her lap. It was a treasure trove. A pile of unopened letters fell out, all addressed in her mother’s neat handwriting to Yuri Nikolayevich Nahmov at an address
she could not read. The envelopes were covered in Russian scrawl which she assumed said something like ‘return to sender’. The Russian date stamp on them covered a period from April to August 1961, only two years before. Yuri would have been twenty-two, she calculated, just coming into his stride as an adult. Had he sent them back himself or some unknown official?

‘Oh, Mum, how that must have broken your heart,’ she murmured, as tears filled her eyes. She could imagine her mother’s misery and disappointment at getting the letters back and her reluctance to destroy them, but at the same time she had not wanted to upset anyone else in the family and had hidden them away.

She set the letters aside, unwilling to open any of them, and turned to the rest of the contents, a few badly focused snapshots and some scraps of paper, one a certificate of Yuri’s birth and the other a certificate recording the union of Nikolay Nikolayevich Andropov and Lydia Stoneleigh, stamped by someone in Moscow. There was also an
official-looking
letter in Russian on which her mother had written: ‘Notification that Kolya is dead and I am a widow.’

She picked up the first of the snapshots. Her mother, looking incredibly young, was hanging on the arm of a young man, smiling into the camera. So this was Kolya. She studied his features. He was young too, not tall, but slightly taller than his bride and round-faced, looking very pleased with himself. How had he died? Had her mother mourned his death? There was so much she did not know. Another picture was of three adults, Kolya, Lydia and another woman, curvaceous and slightly older than Lydia. Kolya had an arm about each of them. There was another of her mother nursing a baby, wrapped in a shawl. This,
she had no doubt, was her half-brother. It was difficult to tell his colouring in a black and white photograph, but he appeared dark-haired. He was asleep so she couldn’t see his eyes. The next was an old sepia picture of an aristocratic lady in a long evening dress. She was wearing a heavy necklace and long earrings and on her head a tiara on the front of which sparkled the Kirilov Star. And another of her mother with a handsome young man. Her mother was wearing a lovely evening dress and looking young and starry-eyed and she was wearing the Star as a necklace. Judging by other photographs she had seen, the man was Alex Peters. It must have been taken before her parents met and married. Why had this one been hidden away? Had her mother loved Alex? How had she felt when he died? What had Dad made of it? How much of it did he know? How much did anyone really know about other people? All had their secrets, even her most open and above-board mother.

It was a revelation; first her mother’s confidences about how she had felt about her baby, the full extent of which Tatty had never realised, and then to find these letters and pictures. Poor Mum! She could imagine her return to Upstone after that trip to Russia, the tears, the guilt and sorrow, the settling down again to life in England, knowing her baby was in Russia at a time when the Germans were sweeping all before them. She must have suffered unbelievable anguish. Carefully, she returned everything to the trunk and found another case for her purpose.

Bobby, in his second year at Peterhouse, drove himself back to Cambridge, his little sports car so loaded with clothes, books and sports equipment there was no room for Tatty. Robert and Lydia took her in the Bentley, settled her in her
room and made a long list of things she was going to need which she had forgotten, and then drove home to an empty house: no Claudia, no Bobby, no Tatty. It was eerie and unsettling.

In the next couple of days, Lydia did her best to act normally, but she was beginning to wonder what normal was. Her conversations with Robert were stilted and confined to practicalities. He spent a lot of time in the garden, talking to Percy, and doing odd jobs about the house, his demeanour one of forced cheerfulness. Lydia wanted to talk to him about what he had said, but every time the opportunity arose, she simply could not find the right words. And so nothing was said which might have eased the tension.

In the middle of the week, as if he could stand it no more, he told her he was going to sail round to Plymouth. After he had gone she went into the kitchen to make lunch for herself. The house was empty and silent: no voices, no laughter, no clatter, no overloud pop music which Robert deplored. Nothing. For the first time in her life, she felt alone. She kept herself busy for the rest of the day, slept badly that night and rose next morning to more of the same. She had hoped Robert would ring her the next day and be his usual cheerful self but the telephone remained silent. By lunchtime the following day, she realised he must be well on his way and would not ring until he returned to Ipswich. Unable to stay in the house, she picked up her bag and car keys and left, not knowing where she was going. She drove to Swaffham and went to the cinema. Driving home afterwards, she was sorely tempted to drive straight to Northacre Green, and might have done if she had not seen Claudia in the village and stopped to talk to her. 

‘You must feel a bit flat now the fledglings have flown the nest,’ Claudia said, after they exchanged greetings.

‘Yes. I’ve just been to the pictures and was hating the idea of returning to an empty house.’

‘Isn’t Captain Conway at home?’

‘No, he’s gone to Ipswich.’

‘Oh, sailing.’

‘Yes. You know how he loves anything to do with the sea, and he was feeling at a low ebb after the children left.’

‘Come and have tea with me. We can have a good old chinwag. You can tell Claudia all your troubles. Reggie has gone to a meeting of the Upstone Horticultural Society.’

Lydia laughed. ‘I haven’t got any troubles.’

‘Then you must be the only one who hasn’t. Come anyway.’ She took Lydia’s arm and guided her along the street to one of the houses on the new housing estate.

Lydia could always talk to Claudia, who had been her comfort from the very beginning and had remained her comfort through thick and thin. But even she did not know Alex was alive and that she had seen him. Nor would she tell her, even though she knew she could trust her. The secret was a burden she did not want to put upon her friend who would be aghast that she had betrayed Robert. Nor could she tell her what Robert had said about their marriage. Instead they chatted about the wedding and taking Tatty to Girton, and the changes Reggie was making to their garden. ‘He’s digging a fish pond,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s going to have a fountain and a waterfall and a little stream.’ She laughed. ‘Just like Upstone Hall’s, only in miniature.’

It was late when Lydia finally went home and let herself in the house. Even though the building was two hundred years old, she had never thought of it as spooky before,
but tonight it seemed as though there were ghosts in every corner. She switched on all the lights and was in the kitchen putting the percolator on to make a cup of coffee when the telephone rang. Wondering who could be ringing at that time of night, she went to answer it.

‘Mrs Conway?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Upstone Constabulary.’

Lydia’s thoughts jumped to Bobby and that sports car of his which he drove too fast. Had he had an accident? Or Tatty. Her daughter had never been away from home for any length of time before. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, unable to keep the panic from her voice.

‘I’m afraid your husband has been in an accident. Is it convenient to call on you?’

Robert, not the children, but that was still bad. ‘Of course, but can’t you tell me about it on the phone?’

‘Better not. We’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

Lydia put the phone down, shaking so much she couldn’t get it on the cradle at the first attempt. She sat on the bottom step of the stairs and waited. It seemed like the longest ten minutes of her life while her thoughts went incoherently round and round. The ringing of the doorbell startled her. She rose to answer it.

A uniformed policeman and a policewoman stood on the step. ‘Mrs Conway?’

She nodded without speaking and opened the door wider to admit them.

‘I’m Constable David Jackson, this is WPC Penny Brown,’ the young man said, as she led the way into the drawing room. ‘Earlier this evening we had a call from the Devon police. Your husband’s yacht has foundered
off the South Devon coast and he is missing.’

‘Missing?’ she repeated in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. ‘What happened?’

The policewoman, who looked no older than Tatty, took her arm and led her to the sofa. ‘Sit down, Mrs Conway.’

Lydia dropped down onto the sofa with the young woman beside her. ‘We don’t know the details,’ she said. ‘The yacht has been found badly damaged on the rocks at Prawle Point. Your husband was not on board.’

‘He may yet be found safe and well,’ PC Jackson added.

‘But how can it have happened?’ Lydia asked. ‘He is an experienced seaman and knows that coast like the back of his hand. However rough the sea, he knows what to do and it wasn’t rough today, was it?’ She was talking for the sake of talking, but her mind was only half on what she was saying.

‘We don’t know what happened, Mrs Conway. We were given no details, simply told to come and inform you. It was better than learning it from a telephone call. We were asked to emphasise that it is early days and there is no reason at this time to surmise that your husband has perished.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What can we do for you?’ Penny asked. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

Lydia jumped up. ‘Goodness, the coffee percolator! I put it on before you rang.’ She dashed into the kitchen to rescue it, followed by Penny.

The pot had almost boiled dry and the coffee was undrinkable. Lydia put the kettle on to make a pot of tea. ‘I must go down there,’ she said. ‘I can’t sit around here waiting.’

‘How will you go?’

‘I’ll drive.’

‘It’s a long way. Have you got someone to go with you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, thinking of Claudia. ‘I must get in touch with my son and daughter. But not tonight. Tomorrow, when I know more. Robert may have turned up by then. They are both up at Cambridge.’

‘I should not delay telling them any longer than that,’ Penny said. ‘It might be on the TV news and they might see it or be told of it.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll do it before I leave.’

The tea was made and the mugs carried into the drawing room, where they sat drinking in awkward silence. Lydia tried hard to concentrate on what she needed to do: ring Tatty and Bob, and that was going to be difficult. Should she tell them to come home or stay where they were? But she wouldn’t be at home herself, better tell them to wait until she had more positive news. Then she must ring Claudia, probably get her out of bed, and ask her to keep her company, pack a bag, cancel the milk, leave a note for Percy about the hanging baskets and tell Mrs Harrington she wouldn’t be able to do the church flowers. From practicalities, her mind inevitably strayed to that last strange conversation she had had with Robert. Did that have any bearing on what had happened? ‘Forget it,’ he had said, but she couldn’t, could she?

Had he been hinting that their marriage was at an end? Surely nothing more sinister? Why had the boat foundered? Had he left it before that, or had he been injured and washed overboard by the impact? Had he been sailing alone? Where was he?

The two constables left at last, after she had assured them she was all right and not about to collapse or throw a fit. And then she rang her children. She tried to sound calm and optimistic, telling them not to worry, their father was bound to turn up. She promised to ring from Devon and tell them the latest news and where she could be contacted.

She repeated her questions to Detective Inspector Travis at Salcombe Police Station the following morning. She and Claudia had taken it in turns to drive and had arrived in the Devon seaside town at nine, hot, tired and hungry. They booked into a hotel and ordered breakfast, but Lydia found she could not eat. Her insides were stirred into a froth, wondering what she might learn, and she could not wait to find out. At the police station, she was told there was no news of Captain Conway. The
Merry Maid
had been recovered and would be examined.

‘Can I see it?’

‘There’s nothing to see, Mrs Conway, except a boat with a big hole in its hull and you would not be allowed on board until the forensic team have completed their examination. The young lady’s body has been taken to the mortuary.’

‘Young lady’s body?’ she echoed.

‘Yes. She was found in the cabin with a head wound. There will have to be a post-mortem naturally, and we cannot rule out foul play at this stage.’

‘Are you suggesting my husband might have …’

‘That’s impossible,’ Claudia put in indignantly. ‘The captain was the mildest of men. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Do you know who she is?’ Lydia asked, ignoring her friend’s outburst.

‘No, we hoped you would know.’

‘Unless I see her I can’t say, can I? My husband had lots of different people to crew for him.’

‘Lydia, you can’t,’ Claudia protested. ‘Don’t put yourself through it. It doesn’t matter, does it?’