The Lazarus Secrets (29 page)

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As Sarah soaked in the bath, Max sat in the dining room sorting through the bits and pieces from Top Cottage. The day had been physically and emotionally draining. Heather had offered to help with the clearing out of the cottage, but he had wanted it to be just himself and Sarah that handled and dealt with the personal possessions of his Mother and Charles. They had died suddenly and after their belated confessions when Alexander died he wanted to make sure there was nothing incriminating lying around. His common sense told him there surely would be no more secrets but his suspicious mind had urged caution.

He smiled as he looked again at the charming picture of the beautiful Michelle and almost threw it away but in the end couldn't bring himself to so he dropped it into the box of family photographs along with the one of Alexander. He picked up the photograph frame that Sarah had dropped at the cottage and threw it and the thick backing sheets that had been behind the photograph into the rubbish bin. As they fell, the corner of a stiff blue sheet of notepaper poked out from between them. It was a short letter written in the same stylish hand as the message on the back of the photo.

My Darling Alexander,

Thank God the war is over. I'm so glad you came to me in your distress, I certainly never expected to see you again, but it was wonderful to hold you in my arms once more. I hope you understand that I had to take you to the hospital as I thought you were dying. I know you will soon be well and on your way home to your family. I am extremely envious but hope you will have a good and happy life from now on to make up for all that you have suffered.

Be assured that I shall keep your secret always. Put it behind you, forgive yourself, what you did was not murder, in a world gone mad it was the sanest thing anyone ever did and who knows how many men you saved by taking the life of just one — your own life was saved so live it to the best Alexander!

Michelle

Paris 1918

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Max.

He read the letter again and again searching for some clue as to its meaning but whatever the secret was, it had stayed a secret. No-one now would ever know what other dark deeds lurked in Alexander's past. He threw the letter into the empty fireplace and dropped a lighted match onto it watching the distinctive blue sheet turn grey then curl and collapse into ashes.

“That feels better,” said Sarah as she sat down beside him in her dressing gown and slippers. Her damp hair smelled of chamomile and wet Max's shirt when she put her head on his shoulder, “What are you burning? Not another mystery or love letter to Alexander.”

“No, it's nothing, just a note someone wrote to him when he was in France during the war. I'll put the rest of the rubbish out tomorrow. I don't know about you, but I'm absolutely worn out.”

Sarah went upstairs to dry her hair and Max picked up the box of old photographs and put it into a drawer where they were kept, waiting for the day when someone had time to sort them out. As the drawer slid shut the striking face of the young Alexander Darrington disappeared from view and into the past. Someday, someone, perhaps one of the grandchildren, would pick over the photographs and affix that one in the early pages of a family album. A photo of a great uncle, a World War One soldier, a handsome but austere looking man, and there it would remain the dark eyes staring out intently to each generation, his story lost, his secrets kept forever.

Alexander Xavier Darrington 1891 – 1967.