Apportionment of Blame (22 page)

“You've done very well today. Don't demean yourself. You might prove to be the best in the business.”

I laughed.

“As long as I can solve the mysteries bothering your family, I shall be content. I shall take the rest as it comes. But you've reminded me. There's something else I need to do while we're here.”

I took out my mobile and dialled the number of the taxi company.

“Staffcabs.”

“Hello. I wonder if you could help me. We're making enquiries about our late grandmother.”

“Oh yes?”

I realised it must have sounded strange.

“We know she used to come to Stafford a lot, and stay at the Stafford Knot. What we don't know is where she used to go when she was here.”

“Don't ask me for private information about clients, because I can't give it to you, even if you say she is your grandmother.”

“Was.”

“All right, was.”

“What harm can there be in telling me where someone, now deceased, used to visit?”

“It may be that the person she visited doesn't want people to know about it.”

“What if it was not a person, but a place?”

“Ah, well, I suppose that might be different.”

“Listen. Her name was Mrs Glenn. Could you ask your drivers if they remember taking a Mrs Glenn anywhere? I'm in the teashop opposite Boots in the High Street. If anyone comes up with useful information, I shall make it worth their while. My name's Greg.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

I ordered more tea.

“What will you do next?” Joyce asked me.

“Take you back home and spend a lot of time remembering how much I enjoyed being with you.”

“Me too,” she said.

We continued to sit in companionable silence while we sipped our tea.

After a while the teashop door opened and a woman came in and looked round. There were few customers for her to see and her eyes rested on us. A waitress came down to greet her and I heard the woman mention my name.

“I'm Greg,” I said, and stood up.

The woman came towards me and I asked if she would like a cup of tea.

“Oh, yes. Thanks.”

I looked at the waitress who had clearly heard the exchange, then I held out a chair so the woman could join us at the table.

“I'm told you've been enquiring about Mrs Glenn.”

“Yes. Thanks for coming. Did she ever use your cab?”

“Several times. Not exactly as a regular, you understand. But we're a small firm, and it was often me who picked her up.”

“Did you always take her to the same place?”

“Yes. The German cemetery.”

“The German cemetery?” Joyce and I said together.

“You sound surprised.”

“Just a bit. Did she tell you why she visited there?”

“I remember her saying she was visiting a friend. Someone very special to her.”

“You've no idea who or why?”

“No. None at all.”

We didn't say much else. She drank her tea and I gave her a generous tip for coming. Then we set off back to the station.

On the train we considered what we had to go on now.

“So we know Granny knew someone German who died. How would she know a German?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “But it must have been a member of the German military, if he was buried at Brocton. You remember what the guy told us. All Germans who died on British soil during both World Wars were taken there for burial.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“Neither does leaving her inheritance to Ilse Chambers. Wait a minute.” A penny had just dropped. “Ilse is a German name.”

“So she could be related to this friend.”

“That certainly seems likely. Perhaps Annie was her godmother.”

“That might give her a reason to leave her something, but not everything, surely.”

“There has to be a very close connection,” I said.

“Well I can't think what it might be. She was married to Alan, that doesn't sound very German, and she had two sons with Scottish names. There was nobody else.”

The journey continued and we both fell silent, eventually collapsing against each other in a rather undignified, exhausted heap.

When the train arrived at Euston I had that tell tale horrible taste in my mouth that happens after a daytime sleep.

As we set off for the tube together I couldn't stop thinking of the German link. What could it be?

“Penny for them,” Joyce said from opposite me in the tube train.

“Oh I can't get this German thing out of my mind. Perhaps there is something obvious we're missing.”

“Let's not think about it any more. Let's think about other things.”

She smiled that smile.

“And don't get me excited. It's too distracting.”

But the smile didn't go away.

Chapter 12

I
persuaded
Joyce that we should go our separate ways from the station, and later I flopped down on my sofa and considered the need for another visit to Ilse. If I could make it the last visit, so much the better, as every one got harder, in particular the thinking of excuses for going.

Perhaps I should phone ahead and warn her of my visit? But I realised that would give her the chance to plan what to say, and hide anything that might need hiding. Far better to stick to the surprise principle and hope.

But during the evening I discovered something which made a visit even more necessary.

I'd called the office to check my answerphone messages. I had no idea how the system worked, but it was very useful and I'd come to depend on it.

Jocelyn Swindle's PA had called to tell me that Annie's maiden name was Lamont. So that explained Ilse's name, and confirmed what I felt I was beginning to realise anyway.

The next morning I drove out there, armed with the photos Helen had with her and what I now knew. It was time for a bit of bluffing. Somehow I had to flush out the missing facts, preferably by getting her to tell me things, rather than just by asking questions.

“I'm sorry. It's me again,” I said when the door opened. “Could you spare me another few minutes of your time?”

There was a resigned look on her face, an appearance of extreme world-weariness. It occurred to me that I may not need to push very hard to find what I needed.

She showed me into the living room, which was as cold as before.

“You'd better sit down,” she said.

“Thank you.”

She was watching me very cautiously.

“I went to Stafford yesterday.”

Her eyebrows creased, just a little.

“There is a war cemetery near there.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I suspect it's all part of the story you haven't told me.”

“I haven't done anything.”

“No, I don't think you have, intentionally.”

I was watching her very carefully.

“There are two cemeteries there,” I continued, “one for the British and their allies and one for the Germans.”

No real response, except that her eyes never left mine and I sensed a slight look of concern.

“I thought it was unusual,” I added incidentally, “that there should be a cemetery for Germans in this country. There can't have been many Germans killed in Britain during the two world wars.”

She began to wring her hands in a very distressed way.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Ilse,” I said, trying to inject some extra patience into my voice. “your reaction to my mentioning the German cemetery was clear. What does it mean?”

“I can't tell you. My brother.” Her voice tailed off.

“Your brother what?”

“How much do you know?”

“Not very much. I know your name. I know you inherited a fortune. But I have no idea why. And I don't know why Helen Hetherington died so close to your house.”

She was now wringing her hands so hard I thought she might wear off the skin.

“I don't know what to do,” she said and turned and walked away from me across the room.

“Look,” I said to her back, “if you're finding this as difficult as that, why don't we go and make some tea, while you think about things.”

What I didn't add was that we could then sit in the kitchen where the temperature had previously been considerably higher.

“All right.”

She moved to the door and I followed her along the hall to the kitchen. I was right. It was warmer.

What would the British do without tea, I thought? The panacea for all problems and sources of distress.

I sat back in the same chair I'd used before, while Ilse began the ritual of kettle and pot.

When she was seated across the table from me, I knew I had to get the next bit right.

“Ilse. I've told you what I know, and that is all I know. Can you fill in any gaps for me? I think it might take a weight off your mind. And it will also make Helen's parents feel a lot better. I can then go away and leave you alone.”

I paused.

“No one should lose a daughter,” she said. “But sometimes it can't be helped.”

“Are you saying that what happened to Helen couldn't be helped?”

“No.” She came back so suddenly and loudly it made me jump. “I didn't mean her. What happened to her was terrible. I was thinking of somebody else.”

“What do you mean? Who?”

She visibly collected herself, drawing her knees together and clasping her hands tightly, as one waiting for a dentist's needle to enter the gum.

“Ask me what you want to know.”

“Good. Thank you.”

So, one thing at a time, I thought, and chose my next words with great care. I didn't want to lose her co-operation now.

“I know you are the person who inherited the fortune Mrs Glenn left when she died.”

“Did that solicitor tell you? He said he wouldn't.”

“No. I worked that out for myself. But it is you, isn't it?”

“Yes. But I never wanted her money.”

She said that very quickly, but with a sense of conviction. Could it be true?

I placed the three pictures of her on a low table.

“This is you, isn't it?”

She picked up the picture of herself as a child, and looked at it as if looking at a stranger.

“Yes. She brought these pictures here.”

“Who did?”

“The young lady who died.”

“I thought she must have done. How did she find you?”

“I'd been up to London, to the flat to get some things. She recognised me at the station and followed me home.”

“What happened?”

“She came to the door and showed me the photos. I asked her to come in.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Everything. It wouldn't have been fair not to. She should have had that money, not me. It was all wrong.”

“Then?”

“She left. I never saw her again.”

“When she left, did you see anyone else about?”

“It was dark by then. I watched her walk down the path, then I closed the door. I didn't do anything.”

“No, Ilse. I don't believe you did.”

I would leave Helen's death for now, I thought. It might be easier to start with Ilse's link with Annie and leave any blame for the death till later.

“Can you tell me why these photographs were found among Mrs Glenn's belongings?”

“Oh dear. No one was supposed to know.”

“Know what?”

“I told that girl. I suppose I might as well tell you. She was my mother.”

“What?” I couldn't help myself.

So that was it. She looked straight at me as she said it. I had no doubt she was telling me the truth.

“Yet, no one else in the family had heard of you.”

“No. They wouldn't have.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I was adopted. My mother told me I was born in Aberdeen, in a special place where she was able to have me in secret. Then she let me go to a couple who wanted a daughter. That's why I went to school in Aberdeen.”

“But why should your mother want to have you in secret?”