All Things Undying (6 page)

It had been a while, but I'd read Small's book, too. ‘Small doesn't exactly say, does he? He's really rather secretive about it. Too bad he died back in 2004, or you could ask him.'

‘Do you think that farmer he wrote about is still alive?'

‘I don't know. He could be, I suppose, but since Small never identified him . . .' I shrugged. ‘What can you do?'

‘I think there needs to be an investigation. I counted the number of missing and unaccounted for. Eighty. Their bodies have to be somewhere, Hannah! They didn't simply go
poof
! Somebody
must
have seen something.'

‘I'm not so sure about that, Cathy. Everyone agrees that security was super tight back then. The Home Army kept everyone out of the American Zone, and not even the displaced locals knew what went on in their homes and in their fields during the war. The US really kept the lid on.'

‘I guess so,' she admitted. ‘Thousands of people involved, from Eisenhower down to the lowliest seaman, and yet they were able to keep the screw-up that was Operation Tiger secret for more than forty years. I'll bet that took some doing!'

I hated to mention it because she seemed so distressed, but I wondered aloud if her father had been one of the sailors who went down with the ship.

Cathy shook her head. ‘We thought of that, but no. Through the VFW, I was able to track down a couple of his buddies. One of them, a guy named Jack, told me they'd been asleep in their bunks, heard the klaxon, grabbed their gear and were halfway up the ladder to their duty stations when all hell broke loose. The ship was on fire, men were screaming for their mothers, they were jumping into a sea of burning diesel. Jack says that he and my father jumped together, but got separated during the night in the freezing water. Jack was picked up by a lifeboat, so Dad could have been, too. Dad could have drowned – I can concede that – but I
know
he didn't go down with the 531.'

I laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘I hate to deflate your balloon, Cathy, but some people around here believe that Small made up the bit about the bodies as a publicity stunt to help drive business to his guest house.'

She ran her hand along the flank of the vehicle as if it were a prize steer. ‘I don't think so. I believe it's all part of a massive cover-up.'

I'd heard anecdotal tales about bodies being unearthed while doing back garden renovations, but nobody had ever confirmed that. Alison Hamilton's father in particular had pooh-poohed the whole notion, going on and on (when Alison let him!) about the inaccuracies he'd discovered in
The Forgotten Dead
. I could tell Cathy about them now, or . . .

Looking at my new friend's hopeful face, I took the coward's way out. ‘I know someone who grew up on a farm near here. Her father was one of the people evacuated back then. Stephen Bailey. He might be able to answer some of your questions.'

Cathy's face brightened like a child on Christmas morning. Santa Claus might be coming after all. ‘That would be super! Would you put me in touch with him?'

‘Of course.'

‘How soon can you do it?' she hurried on. ‘I have to fly home next Thursday.'

‘I'm seeing Alison for dinner tomorrow night. I'll ask for her father's telephone number. Best if you talk to him directly.'

‘I really appreciate this, Hannah.'

I didn't have the heart to tell her that I knew almost precisely what Stephen Bailey would say. If Cathy actually got to speak to him, I knew he would totally shatter her hopes.

FIVE

Lisa Williams,
www.lisawilliams.com

W
hen Alison and Jon Hamilton arrived for dinner at Horn Hill House on Thursday and we'd settled ourselves down on the sofa in Janet's cozy lounge, I asked Alison how her father was doing. I remembered Stephen Bailey as a spry, weathered man with a shock of Clintonesque white hair and hands calloused from a lifetime of farming.

Alison snorted. ‘Cantankerous as always. Just celebrated his eighty-sixth, but he's still milking the cows himself every morning. He's always had help with the crops, of course. Barley mostly. Some maize.' She sighed. ‘Don't know why he bothers with the bloody cows. Most of the milk comes from Holland these days.'

‘That's one of the reasons we've put the farm on the market.' From behind thick lenses, Jon's smoky eyes considered me somberly.

Like a bobblehead doll, I glanced from Alison to Jon and back to Alison again in the moment it took for that news to sink in. ‘Oh, Alison! I'm so sorry. That farm's been in your family for, gosh, how many years?'

‘Since Cromwell's corpse was beheaded, at least that's what Granddaddy always said.'

‘Which Cromwell?' I asked. ‘Thomas or Oliver? There's a century difference.'

Alison made a face. ‘The second one. They dug up his body and decapitated it later. I guess they wanted to make sure the old tyrant was really dead.'

‘I can't imagine your father being happy with the idea of selling.'

‘Lord, no! But it was time, Hannah. He's getting too old to manage the chores on a working farm. There's Tom Boyd to help out, of course. I don't know what we'd do without Tom. Dad's been getting forgetful lately.'

‘Talking him into just visiting one of those retirement communities was like pulling teeth,' Jon said.

‘Practically had to kidnap him,' Alison added.

‘We took him on a drive up to Coombe Hill in Dittisham,' Jon said, anticipating my next question. ‘It's a historic house on Riverside Road, not far from the town center. They converted it into thirty-six one-bedroom flats. Nicer than most.'

‘Dad wasn't very keen, at least not at first.'

Jon caught my eye and winked, then grinned at his wife. ‘And that extremely attractive widow who conducted the tour? I don't suppose
she
had anything to do with your father's sudden about-face?'

Alison looked at her husband sideways, through her lashes. ‘I think it was the fact that they'll let him keep his cat.' She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Anyway, once we were over that hurdle, and he actually agreed to help assemble the Home Information Pack, it was smoother sailing.'

‘With a few squalls,' Jon added, sipping his wine. ‘Stephen complained that he wasn't one of those white-shorted, tennis-playing types that they seem so fond of featuring on all the brochures. He's afraid he won't fit in.'

Alison snorted. ‘Did
you
see any tennis courts at Coombe Hill? Of course, he'll fit in,' she continued, without waiting for an answer. ‘I'm more worried about getting him to keep the house tidy for viewings. With Jon busy teaching, that falls to me, of course, and frankly, I'm exhausted.'

‘Any interest in the property yet?' Paul asked.

‘We had an offer early on, but Dad turned it down.'

‘The estate agent is advising him to lower the asking price, the economy being what it is . . .' Jon let the sentence die. ‘But Alison's father is a stubborn old goat and we feel we can push him only so far.'

‘Doesn't sound like he's serious about selling,' Paul commented.

Alison scowled. ‘And he won't sell, either, if he can't keep his dirty clothing picked up off the floor when he has viewings.'

While Janet puttered about in the kitchen putting finishing touches on the hors d'oeuvres, refusing all offers of assistance, and Alison and I waited for our husbands to reappear from the wine cellar where they were consulting with Alan on the wines to be served with dinner that evening, I filled Alison in on my trip to Slapton Sands with Cathy Yates. ‘She says her father's body is not at Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey, nor at Madingly near Cambridge, so she's convinced herself that he's lying in an unmarked grave somewhere in Devon, along with hundreds of others.'

Alison heaved a long-suffering sigh, filled with exasperation. ‘We've heard those rumors for years, and there's not a bit of truth in them, yet Americans keep reading that damn book, coming over here, tramping all over our fields, looking for the ruins of those bomb shelters Ken Small claims he saw. If the man were still alive, I swear to God I'd strangle him. I wasn't born until after the war, of course, but as far as I know, there were no air-raid shelters out here in the countryside. Nobody considered us a target-rich environment, for one thing. Philips' Shipyard up at Noss, sure, but not South Hams. The Naval College was bombed, as you know, but everyone seems to think that was more of an accident. Some German pilot jettisoning a couple of surplus bombs on his way back to France.'

‘Would your dad be willing to talk to Cathy about the war? Set her straight? I sort of volunteered him, I'm afraid.'

‘He'll be flattered to be asked, but from what you say, she's not going to be easily swayed.'

‘She's a Duracell bunny, that's for sure. Indefatigable. Bears more than a passing resemblance to Ken Small's Sherman tank, too, if you want to know the truth.'

‘Is Cathy joining us for dinner tonight, then?'

‘No.' I grinned. ‘She was having a Big Mac attack, so she went off in search of the golden arches. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the nearest McDonald's is in Torquay!'

Alison rolled her eyes. ‘And thank heaven for that! So, who else is coming, then?'

‘Didn't Janet tell you?'

Alison considered me over the rim of her sherry glass, shook her head. ‘Maybe it's a surprise? Prince Charles, perhaps? Sting? Sir Paul?' She flapped a hand. ‘Be still my heart.'

I laughed. ‘No, but she
is
a television personality. Have you ever heard of Susan Parker?'

Alison had relaxed into the cushions, but at the mention of Susan Parker's name, she snapped to attention so quickly that a bit of her wine sloshed on to the upholstery. ‘Susan Parker? The medium?' She dabbed frantically at the wet spot on the cushion with her cocktail napkin.

‘That's right.' I explained about my strange encounter with Susan on the street earlier in the week. ‘Turns out she's a friend of Janet and Alan's.'

‘I can't believe this. I love her show! I record every episode!' She set her wine glass down on the end table and leaned forward, hands resting on her knees. ‘One of her shows was taped at the Naval College, did you know that?'

‘No kidding!'

‘You have
got
to see it! The woman is incredible.' Alison slapped her chest with the flat of her hand as if trying to jumpstart her heart. ‘I can not
believe
that she's coming here for dinner! Maybe I've died and gone to heaven.'

‘Not yet, I hope. Good friends like you are hard to find. But when you do pass on, Susan'll be able to talk to you.'

‘Very funny, Hannah.'

We were giggling like schoolgirls when Janet breezed into the lounge carrying a platter of broiled mushroom caps. ‘Susan just phoned and said she'd be a few minutes late, but there's no reason to hold off on these. Careful. They're hot.'

I stabbed one of the mushrooms with a toothpick, waved it briefly in the air to cool it, then popped it into my mouth. Flavors exploded gloriously over my tongue – goat cheese, basil and another ingredient I couldn't immediately identify. When the platter came back in my direction, I skewered another mushroom, chewed thoughtfully – for research, of course – and was able to put a name to it – kalamata olives. ‘These are
so
good,' I moaned.

‘Dead easy, too,' Janet said. ‘The recipe calls for pine nuts, but I'm not overly fond of pine nuts, so I leave them out.'

‘Fine with me. Pine nuts leave a metallic taste in my mouth,' Alison said as she polished off another one of the hors d'oeuvres.

I speared a third. ‘You, too? I thought I was the only person in the world to suffer from a pine mouth affliction. Weird. Last time I ate pesto, it took me two weeks to get my taste buds back in order. One thing a person definitely needs while staying with you, Janet, is taste buds in proper working condition.'

‘Ooops! There's the bell.' Janet set the tray of mushrooms on the coffee table and hurried to answer the door.

When she returned to the sitting room with Susan Parker in tow, I was amused to see that the guest of honor and I had dressed in almost identical, loose-fitting linen dresses from Flax, except hers was lavender and mine was rose.

‘So, you are a psychic!' I said, indicating our matching outfits.

‘No, not a psychic,' Susan replied with a grin, shaking my hand. ‘Psychics can see into the future. I've never been able to do that. I don't dream about fiery plane crashes, then rush off to Heathrow to start warning people not to take off on flight number whatever to Los Angeles, thank God. Think what a terrible responsibility that would be!'

Alison had captured Susan's hand and was holding on to it with both of hers. ‘She's clairvoyant. She sees things other people can't. Like dead people.'

Susan extracted her hand, set her handbag down on the sofa and plopped down next to it. ‘Thank you. And the medium part means I serve as a go-between, bringing messages to the living from spirits on the other side.'

I felt a chill crawl up my spine. ‘Like my mother.'

‘Precisely.' She might have elaborated, but I'll never know because we were rudely interrupted by the return from the cellar of the ‘boys', bearing half a dozen bottles of wine, each covered with a dusting of gray. ‘Here we go, ladies,' announced Alan, carrot-topped, freckle-faced leader of the pack, as they jostled one another, tumbling into the sitting room like eager puppies. ‘Oh, Susan, you're here!' Alan tucked the bottle of Bordeaux he was holding under his left arm and shook the medium's hand. ‘I'd like you to meet Hannah's husband, Paul. And this reprobate over here, the studious-looking chap cradling the Chateau Macquin St George, is Jon Hamilton. He belongs to Alison.'