The Lost Soldier (31 page)

Nick listened without interruption, drinking his coffee and sipping his brandy as he did so. As she told him about Molly and Sarah, Rachel found that the story had indeed become clearer in her own mind. She knew now where she would go from here.

“There are so many things I want to check up on,” she said. “I want to go to Charlton Ambrose and find Molly’s grave. I want to find out what happened to Sarah. I want to find out what happened to Tom Carter. I want to know who the ninth tree in the Ashgrove was planted for. I’m sure it ties into this story somehow.”

“Where will you start?” asked Nick.

“Charlton Ambrose, tomorrow,” answered Rachel. “I’ve got to return the history of the parish the Rector lent me, and I want to look at the graveyard and see who is buried there, and I’m hoping to find Valley Farm.”

“Aren’t you working tomorrow?” asked Nick.

“No, as of today I’m on holiday. I took time off to follow this up. That’s how I was able to spend all today in the record office, looking up Cooks.”

“When will you read the letters?” Nick asked. “Or won’t you?”

“Oh, I’ll read them all right,” Rachel said. “I know Gran felt she couldn’t. She was afraid they were love letters and didn’t want to intrude on her mother’s privacy. I understand that, but I have to know what happened to these people. They have become very real to me, they’re part of my history.” She looked at Nick earnestly and said, “We don’t even know for certain that Tom Carter is my grandmother’s father. I can’t think that it can be anyone else, but until I read those letters…. Do you think I’m wrong to read them?”

Nick considered for a moment and then said, “No, I don’t think so. Especially if your grandmother doesn’t mind.”

They changed the subject after that, and Nick told Rachel about his move out of London and how his firm, a partnership of architects, were establishing themselves in Belcaster, and they talked about the city and what it had to offer.

When they left the pub Nick took Rachel’s arm as they walked briskly back to her flat. The night air was very cold and the feel of his arm through hers warmed Rachel. When they reached the house she thanked him for the meal, and he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“I enjoyed it too,” he said. “Good luck with your research. I’ll give you a ring after Christmas.”

“Thanks, that would be lovely,” Rachel said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” said Nick and, with a quick smile, turned and strode off into the night.

Rachel lit the gas fire and flopped into a chair. Part of her wished she had invited Nick in for another coffee, but before she had left home to meet him, she’d already decided that she would not. It might send out the wrong signals and she was determined not to get involved with anyone in the near future. It made life too complicated.

She reached over for the large print of Molly still propped up on her desk and studied it. Her great-grandmother. Tomorrow she would go to Charlton Ambrose and, when she had done all the research she could on the diary, she would turn her attention to the letters.

Thursday morning dawned bright and cold. The sun streamed down on the frosted ground, striking sparkling fire from hedgerows laced with spiders’ webs, and etching the bare branches of the trees against the palest of blue skies. Rachel drove the country lanes to Charlton Ambrose, marvelling at the winter beauty around her. As the road threaded its way through high winter hedges and Rachel met no other cars, she thought that things must look much the same as they had when Molly had lived here.

Her first port of call was the rectory. Adam Skinner was just going out but he greeted her cheerfully as he put a box of papers into his car.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m literally on the doorstep as you see.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rachel replied. “I only wanted to return your booklet on the history of the parish. It was fascinating, particularly the part about the Ashgrove.”

“I glad you found it useful.” The rector put it inside the front door and then pulled the door closed behind him. “Any news on the trees yet?”

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think there’ll be any more on those until well after Christmas,” she said. “Things move very slowly at County Hall, and the building trade closes down for two weeks over the holiday period.”

“Well, good luck with it. Sorry to dash, but I’m late… as always.”

Rachel spent much of the morning in the churchyard. She had a list of names for whom she was hoping to find gravestones. The Hursts were easy enough, theirs was the large sarcophagus tomb beside the path leading to the church door. Protected by the church from the worst of the elements, the inscriptions were still easily legible. Sir George Hurst was the last, born 25th June 1860, died 6th September 1921. His beloved wife, Charlotte, who had died in childbirth in 1900, was also buried there, with their son, James, who died with her moments after his birth. No mention of Freddie, of course, who was buried somewhere in France… if he actually has a grave, Rachel thought. She made a note to look him up on the war graves’ web site, and then wondered with amazement why she hadn’t thought of this before; she could look up Tom Carter as well. No mention of Sarah.

She moved slowly round the churchyard, peering at the stones and reading their inscriptions. In a quiet corner, well away from the church itself, she found the grave of Edwin and Jane Day. The stone simply gave Edwin’s name and dates, followed by
and of his wife Jane
with her dates and the text:

C
OME
UNTO
ME
ALL
WHO
TRAVAIL
AND
ARE
HEAVY
LADEN

Had Gran chosen those words? Rachel wondered. Poor Jane, she certainly travailed. What a bleak life, she must have led, living with a man like Edwin.

Rachel continued to search that area, but it was some time before she finally found what she was looking for, Molly’s grave. She had been beginning to wonder if Molly’s parents hadn’t bother to erect a stone for the daughter they thought had disgraced them, when she came across a small stone cross at the end of the graveyard, tilted tipsily and almost covered with brambles. It was on the very edge of hallowed ground, as if those who had buried her, thought she should not be there at all. Inscribed on the bar of the cross were the name and date:

E
MILY
D
AY

1895–1924

It had to be her, Rachel decided, though she had not thought of Molly as a diminutive for Emily before. Poor Molly, Rachel thought as she looked down at the stone memorial, that was no memorial at all. There was no ‘loving memory’ or ‘beloved daughter’. Disgraced and unloved, Molly lay forgotten in an overgrown corner of her village churchyard.

Rachel took photographs of each of the graves she had found and then continued her search. Nearer to the church she found several Cook graves, one of them Anthony Cook, born 1888, died 1957. That was Tony, Harry’s elder brother. Rachel had assumed that he had survived the war as he was not named in the memorial, and had found him during her search at the record office yesterday. With him lay his wife, Sandra.

Rachel found she was getting cold and she decided that she had seen all she wanted to here. She found no Chapmans, Hapgoods or Winters. Her next stop was the post office. Gail was behind the counter, and recognised Rachel when she came in. Her smile was perfunctory.

“I’ve spoken to my dad,” she said. “He doesn’t want my gran bothered by the papers. Says he’ll tell her about the trees.”

“That’s good,” Rachel was conciliatory. “It’s much better that she hears it from him.”

“Not that she’ll take it in much,” sighed Gail. “She’s not really with it these days, well, it’s not surprising her being ninety-six, is it?”

Rachel agreed it wasn’t. “Did her brother, Tony, have any children?” she asked.

“No. He and Auntie Sandra got married late. Too late probably for her. Anyway, they didn’t have any kids.” Gail looked at her suspiciously. “What do you want to know for, anyway?”

“Gail,” Rachel took a deep breath, “Gail, I discovered something yesterday.”

“Oh yes,” Gail didn’t sound particularly interested, but her eyes were sharp. “And what was that then?”

“My great-grandmother and your grandmother were first cousins. That makes us related.”

“Suppose it does,” Gail conceded with a shrug. “Not close, though, eh?”

“No, something like third cousins, I should think,” said Rachel, disappointed with this reaction. “I just thought you might be interested. Well, anyway, I came in to ask where your grandmother lives, but if your father doesn’t want her worried with this, perhaps I could talk to him instead.”

“He won’t want to talk to you either,” Gail said sharply, “not even if you are some sort of cousin. We don’t want to get involved in this tree business, right? So, leave us alone. My Great-uncle Harry’s long gone. He doesn’t care if there’s a tree or not. We have to think of the living now.” She placed her hands on the counter and looked across at Rachel. “Now, did you want to buy something?”

Gail’s attitude towards her had so changed since Saturday, that Rachel left the shop knowing that Gail and her family had discussed the situation over the weekend, and some sort of decision had been taken. Gail and her husband wanted the building to go ahead for the growth in their business that it might provide; Granny was too old and gaga to be consulted, they could all use a little extra cash, and so they had decided to take whatever compensation was going and shut up about the trees.

Oh well, that’ll please Mike Bradley, Rachel thought.

The sun was still shining when Rachel had finished a quick snack in the pub and she decided to make the most of the afternoon and walk across the hill to see if she could find Valley Farm. She had provided herself with an ordnance survey map, and found Valley Farm still marked on it. A path led from the village starting at a stile in Church Lane, and seemed to lead straight up over the hill and down into the next valley where the farm lay. She went back to the car and put on her walking boots and her fleece and set off with the map in her pocket. As she walked along the lane she saw some large stone gateposts, in need of repair, and swathed with ivy. Attached to one was an estate agent’s sign offering “The Manor” for sale. Period Georgian House, it declared, with two acres, in need of renovation. Across the board was another smaller one saying “Sale Agreed”.

The Manor. Rachel stared at the sign. How could she have forgotten such a thing? It was still there, of course it was, the family home of the Hursts for so long. But who lived in it now, she wondered? Did anybody? By the look of the gateposts and the drive, which Rachel could see was overhung with bushes and overgrown with weeds, it didn’t look occupied; it certainly hadn’t been well looked after. She glanced at her watch and wondered if she had time to go in and take a quick look at the house now. She decided not. She didn’t know how long it would take her to find Valley Farm, but she wanted to be safely back in the village before it got dark. She would go to the estate agent in the morning and get a copy of the particulars, and then come back and explore it properly; take some photos for her file.

She walked on and came to the stile. Molly must have walked this way every time she went home, Rachel mused. It was the quickest way to the farm from this end of the village, unless you had a vehicle of some sort and had to go round by the road. Rachel could have driven and found the track or lane that led there, she supposed, but she was looking forward to the walk, and it pleased her to be following in Molly’s footsteps.

As she headed on up the hill towards the hedge at the top, a small furry creature exploded from the woodland that edged the field and rushed towards her. It was a dog of extremely mixed origins with a woolly coat, long floppy ears and an extravagantly waving tail. It pranced round her barking with delight at having found someone who might throw a stick.

“Down dog, down,” she shouted as the creature began to do vertical leaps in its efforts to please her.

“Wombat! Come here. Come here at once.” Nick Potter emerged from the copse and on hearing his master’s voice the dog, turned his attentions to him. As he leapt within reach, Nick made a grab for his collar and snapped on the lead.

“Sorry,” he began and then on recognising Rachel grinned at her and said, “Rachel, it’s you. Sorry about that. He thinks everyone in the world loves him. We haven’t quite got the bit about coming when called sorted out yet.”

“So this is Wombat,” Rachel said looking down at the still gyrating dog. “He doesn’t look like one.”

“What does one look like?” asked Nick, amused.

Rachel shrugged, “I don’t know,” she admitted with a grin.

“No, nor did I, I just thought one was a small woolly animal, so that’s what I called him. You’re right of course, I’ve since looked one up and he doesn’t look anything like one.”

“What are you doing up here?” asked Rachel.

“Walking him,” Nick replied innocently. “Wombat has to be walked every day.”

“Are you on holiday too, then?” Rachel asked suspiciously. “You didn’t say.”

“Not much happening in the office at this time of year,” Nick said casually. “Where are you off to?”

Rachel fixed him with a beady eye. “You know very well where I’m going,” she said.

“Valley Farm?” suggested Nick with a look of polite enquiry. “Want any company? Wombat’s finished looking for rabbits here.”

Rachel said that she’d love company, and together they went on across the field to the next stile, with Wombat, released from his lead, dashing on ahead of them and then tearing back to make sure they were still coming.

“He does ten times the mileage I do,” remarked Nick.

They finally came to the top of a rise and looked down into the valley below. There was an old farmhouse on its far side, crouching into the hillside that protected it from the worst of the weather. Behind it were farm buildings of much more modern construction, dwarfing the original house, and standing out harshly against the hill.