Without a Trace (30 page)

Molly was a bit hurt and surprised by his attitude. She’d expected him to be behind her one hundred per cent.

‘We have to leave the van here and walk the rest of the way,’ she said a little sharply as they drove into Rye Harbour. Charley glanced sideways at her, then pulled over on to a scrap of waste ground.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’m afraid you’ll get yourself into hot water. Just let me kiss you and make it up to you.’

Molly wasn’t able to stay cross with him and allowed herself to be drawn into his arms.

The kiss was so sweet, and his tongue flickered into her mouth, making her heart beat faster and the outside world disappear.

‘I won’t be held responsible for what happens if we stay in this van,’ he murmured some twenty minutes later as he rained kisses on her neck, ‘so we’d better get out.’

It was just the best of days, warm and sunny with only the lightest breeze, and the way Charley was with her – the ready smile, the gentle caresses and his interest in her day-to-day working life – made her feel so very special. They ate their picnic on a grassy bank inside Camber Castle, laughing about everything and anything.

The kissing and cuddling was wonderful, too. Their bodies felt so close it was as if they were one person. ‘I hate not seeing you every day,’ Charley whispered. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else this week but seeing you today.’

‘I’ve been the same,’ she told him. ‘And now you’re here I don’t want to let you go.’

‘It won’t be for ever,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I can swing getting work in Ashford once I’ve passed my exam. I’ve been putting the word around that I want to move this way.’

‘I still wouldn’t be able to see you that much,’ she reminded him. ‘I have to work quite a lot of evenings and weekends.’

‘Then we’d better get married,’ he said.

Molly didn’t know whether he was joking or serious, as he didn’t laugh, and he didn’t enlarge on it further. She didn’t feel able to ask, though, in case he thought she’d taken him too seriously, so she changed the subject.

They walked on later to Winchelsea Beach and then on to Winchelsea, an ancient and pretty little town perched on a hill, as Rye was. They wandered around chatting and admiring all the old houses, then had tea and cake in a tea shop.

‘There’s so much space down here,’ Charley said as they walked back along the road to Rye to pick up his van. ‘In London you always feel someone is breathing down your neck. My idea of heaven would be a little cottage with no close neighbours. To have three or four children and bring them up knowing they were safe playing on the marsh or riding their bikes.’

‘That sounds good to me too,’ said Molly.

He turned to her, put one finger under her chin and tilted her face up. ‘Then let’s make it happen. Will you marry me, Molly?’

She was thrown. For some reason, in his idea of heaven, although she liked it, it seemed like the woman was almost an afterthought.

‘Doesn’t telling a girl you love her come before a proposal?’ she asked.

‘That goes without saying,’ he said, looking surprised.

‘Well, it shouldn’t. It’s important.’

‘Of course I love you. I think I fell for you the moment I clapped eyes on you in the café.’

She liked his words, but not the tone in which he said them. It sounded slightly insincere.

They hadn’t said anything more about it, and when Charley said goodbye and drove off Molly was left feeling very confused. She had expected him to stay till at least ten, but he’d said he had to go at eight thirty, and she couldn’t help but think he had something more exciting planned back in London than sitting in a pub with her on a Saturday night. Then there was that odd proposal.

It hadn’t been mentioned again. They had kissed and cuddled in his van and things had got a bit heated. But he still didn’t tell her he loved her, or ask if she loved him.

Why hadn’t he?

Molly didn’t have any first-hand experience, but in books and films men spoke from the heart when they said such things. It had sounded like an excuse when Charley said he had to leave because he had to be up early for work in the morning. But if it was true he’d been asked to work on a Sunday, why hadn’t he mentioned it when he phoned on Friday evening?

She felt downcast. It had been a lovely day and he had seemed as happy to be with her as she was with him, until he’d said he had to go. But, now she came to think on it, he hadn’t talked about his own life at all, not today or ever, really. He spoke of the men he worked with, of jobs he’d had in the past, but he didn’t volunteer personal information about his everyday life.

Molly went in through the hotel’s back door, as there was less likelihood of her running into anyone and she couldn’t trust herself not to cry if she was asked about her day. Fortunately, she was able to slink unnoticed up the back stairs to her room. Once inside, she fell on the bed and cried.

There was something not right about Charley, but she didn’t know what. She knew he wasn’t only after sex like most men: he could easily have lured her into it today, but he hadn’t even tried.

Then there was the way he’d been about Cassie. On the face of it, he was just being protective, but she had a feeling that wasn’t all of it. Did he have something to hide, and so not want her making a scene about anything in case it turned a spotlight on him?

He couldn’t be married – no man would propose to another woman if he already had a wife. Or could he?

It seemed unlikely, but she couldn’t think of any other reason that might explain things. Yet when she thought of his broad smile when he’d met her this morning and his tender goodbye kiss she felt ashamed that she was doubting him. Maybe she was the odd one?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A few days after her day with Charley, Molly borrowed one of the hotel bicycles and rode out towards Brookland. She had been on breakfast and chambermaid duties and, as it was a warm, sunny day and she didn’t have to be back until seven to turn the beds down, she’d put on a blouse and some shorts and decided to explore.

The previous day she’d received a letter from Charley. He’d apologized for leaving so early and said the reason he hadn’t told her earlier in the day was because he was afraid it would spoil things. He also apologized for proposing. He said it had just come out and, although he did want to marry her, it was all too soon, so would she please forgive him.

She didn’t know what to make of that. She didn’t like that he sounded so weak, but then she told herself that he was right, it was too soon to be talking of marriage and, today, she was trying to put it out of her head.

Being out in the fresh air, whizzing past orchards of apple and pear trees in full blossom, seeing lambs frolicking in the fields and feeling the sun warm on her face, arms and legs, she felt happy. Her mother had always said, ‘What will be, will be.’ And even though she’d found that little homily irritating in the past, today it seemed profound.

She stopped at the post office in Brookland to ask the way to the Colemans’ house.

‘You won’t get no reply,’ the postmistress said. ‘She don’t answer the door to no one.’

As the postmistress had a big, soft, motherly face, Molly didn’t think she was being deliberately obstructive.

‘Why’s that?’ she asked.

The postmistress put one finger to her forehead and made a screwing motion, the way people often did to imply someone was barmy. ‘She’s been that way for years now. I can’t remember how long it is since she came into the village or passed the time of day with anyone.’

‘Does she have a daughter?’

The postmistress looked surprised by the question. ‘Yes, she do, but she went away years ago.’

Molly took the picture of Cassie out of her knapsack. ‘Is this her?’ she asked.

The older woman looked at it carefully for what seemed like minutes. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said eventually. ‘She’s got a bit of a look of Sylvia, but I couldn’t say hand on heart that it’s her.’

‘Sylvia?’ Molly repeated. ‘Is that her daughter’s name?’

‘That’s right.’ The woman continued to look at the picture. ‘It does put me in mind of her, but there’s sommat wrong.’

‘Is it the hair?’ Molly asked. ‘I know you can’t see the real colour of this girl’s hair. It looks so dark in a black-and-white picture, but she dyed it red, you see. What if it was much fairer?’

‘Maybe that’s it. Sylvia had lovely hair – the colour of butter, it were.’

Molly had no idea of the natural colour of Cassie’s hair, but she felt she was getting somewhere. ‘Can you tell me how long ago it was that Sylvia left here? You see, I’m trying to
find the family of this girl in the picture and I don’t want to be going to the wrong house.’

The woman sucked in her cheeks. ‘Must be nigh on six years ago now, though no one is exactly sure, because of the way Miss Gribble was and still is.’

‘Who’s Miss Gribble?’

‘The housekeeper. Local kids say she’s a witch, and she’s certainly disagreeable, tight-lipped as they come. Some folks round here think she’s the reason Reg never come back after the war and why Christabel went crazy.’

Molly was getting excited. ‘Look, the girl in the picture was my friend, and I knew her as Cassandra, Cassie for short. She was killed on Coronation Day and her little daughter went missing at the same time and has never been found. The police seem to have given up on the case, but I thought I’d try to find her family. Would you please tell me, did the girl you know as Sylvia have a black baby?’

The postmistress hesitated and her expression showed the conflict she was feeling. Molly guessed she had suddenly realized she’d already been indiscreet.

‘It’s okay, you can tell me,’ Molly reassured her. ‘I’m sure the family saw it as a disgrace and did their best to cover it up. But none of that matters now: a child is missing, maybe even dead. People must say what they know.’

‘I really don’t know anything.’ The postmistress shrugged her shoulders. ‘There was a story going around that Sylvia had a mixed race baby, but I always thought that was spite, because she were a bit wild and the family was so peculiar. I never really believed it. After all, where would Sylvia meet a black man around here? Besides, no one I know ever saw the baby, so there probably weren’t one.’

‘If Sylvia and Cassie were the same person, which I believe they were, then there really was a child, a little girl. Petal, she was called, and she was a lovely kid, bright as a button and a credit to her mother. Her grandmother may not have wanted her, she might send me away with a flea in my ear, but she ought to be told her daughter is dead and that her granddaughter is missing.’

‘Fair enough. Put that way, I suppose she ought to know.’ The postmistress looked rattled now. She was wringing her hands and bright red spots of colour had appeared on her cheeks. ‘I’ll give you the address, but it would be best if you wrote to Christabel Coleman rather than going there. She won’t open the door to you.’

‘Okay,’ Molly said, though she had every intention of going straight there. ‘I’m really grateful for your help, and I won’t tell anyone the information came from you.’

She rode away slowly from the post office, the address of the Colemans’ house in her pocket, mulling over what she’d been told. She wanted to believe she’d found out Cassie’s real name, and her home and family, but she had no proof at all that Sylvia Coleman was Cassandra March. What she ought to do was go straight to the police and get them to find out for certain. She could almost hear George lecturing her, saying that this wasn’t a job for amateurs.

But the police might take for ever to act, and Molly was desperate to know the truth. Besides, now, she wanted to see mad Christabel Coleman and the fearsome Miss Gribble.

It seemed that Cassie hadn’t spoken about her family for good reason. Who would want to admit that their mother was barmy? But even if Cassie’s mother was as mad as a hatter, she would never have expected her daughter to die young or
her granddaughter to be taken away. So, however weird the family was, surely they’d want to help in finding the daughter’s missing child?

Mulberry House was only about three miles from the post office, but it took Molly some time to find it, as the postmistress hadn’t given her any directions. The entrance was down a small lane and a wall of thick, evergreen trees hid the house. It was only by pure chance that she noticed the faded sign by a large, rusting wrought-iron gate, and she got off her bike to peer through the rails.

The house was set back some hundred yards from the lane at the end of a drive that was overgrown with weeds and broken up in parts. The house was quite picturesque: mellow red brick, with fancy tall chimneys and lattice windows; Molly thought it must be over two hundred years old. Ivy covered most of it, including some of the windows, and, like the drive, it was neglected, with plants growing out of the gutters and roof.

It was obvious that neither house nor grounds had received any maintenance for years. What would had once been a lawn was now more like a field, with clumps of rough grass suffocating the daffodils, which must have been planted years ago and somehow managed to survive. Huge rhododendron bushes had spread and choked any other plants and bushes that may have once filled the borders. The rhododendrons were about to burst into flower, and Molly was reminded that Cassie had been thrilled when she found a couple growing in the woods behind Stone Cottage. Back then, Molly had thought her friend was just a bit of a botanist, but now it seemed clear that she’d been pleased to see them because they were a reminder of her childhood home.