The Darkest Hour (43 page)

‘That’s very brave.’ Maggie grinned at her. ‘Have you spoken to Mike about his girlfriend yet?’

She nodded. ‘But I was angry.’

Maggie smiled. ‘Oh dear.’

‘And he hasn’t rung me back. I wasn’t sure I would still be welcome before. Now I might have blown it completely. Perhaps he won’t let me go there again. He might be like Christopher and ban me from the whole project.’ She grimaced unhappily. ‘But I am not going to give up. I have to know what happened. I have to! I live and sleep Evie now. I can’t get her out of my head. I need to know what happened to them all. Not just for the book but because I need to know what happened and how it all ended. I have to know. It might be more sensible to sell the painting, give up the grant and forget the whole project but I can’t. I won’t.’ She gave Maggie an apologetic smile. ‘I owe it to Evie.’ She paused again. ‘I do have another line of enquiry. George Marston. Evie’s younger son is still alive. I am going to go and see him if he’ll let me. Perhaps he can explain the mystery behind all this.’

‘Listen to me, Evie!’ Ralph caught her arm as he used to when they were children. ‘Shut up and listen for once in your life!’

They were walking up on the Downs behind the farm, far away from listening ears. The sky above them was quiet, clouds massing in the distance, a tension in the air which came not from the imminent threat of yet more planes but from the knowledge that there hadn’t been any sign of the enemy for several days.

‘I want to know what has been going on. Is Dad ill? He looks as though he’s at death’s door. Has Tony been up here? And Eddie?’

Evie nodded. ‘They were both here. Mummy says Daddy’s heart is giving him trouble. She seems to think it would kill him if Tony came up here again.’

Ralph stared at her incredulously. ‘I had no idea there was anything wrong with him.’

‘No.’ She groped in the pocket of her dungarees for a hanky.

‘Oh God, Evie, what a mess.’

‘Tony came up here, Ralph, when Eddie was here to talk about the paintings. They had a terrible row. Eddie was unspeakably awful.’ She raised her eyes to his and he saw how pale and thin she had become. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

Ralph shoved his hands into his pockets. He let out a soundless whistle and slowly shook his head. ‘The trouble is this is not just about you and Tony any more, is it, Sis, there are others involved. Besides Daddy, I mean. My CO, for a start. And Tony’s. I was asked to have a chat with Tony about all this.’ He glanced at her sideways. The sight of the misery on her face decided him. What was the point of making things worse by telling her that someone might be trying to hurt Tony, someone who was supposed to be their ally? He wandered on, a few paces in front of her. Was Eddie the culprit? Everything pointed to him. He was jealous and angry and had resented Tony from the start, but would he really be in a position to get someone to try and kill his rival? Almost as the thought crossed his mind he realised it was perfectly possible. Eddie had contacts everywhere. He was a fixer and he was not someone who would allow himself to be crossed. Ralph stopped, staring down across the stubble fields below them. All their fields would be under cultivation next spring. There would be no more grazing sheep, only a cow for milk and the old horse in the orchard and the pigs. His poor father, no longer the master of the farm, not only in hock to Eddie, but obeying orders from the government, ploughing up ancient meadows to feed the nation. No wonder he was ill.

Evie caught up with him. ‘What shall I do, Ralph?’

‘Nothing for now. Let Tony do his job and,’ he turned to face her and gripped her upper arms, forcing her to face him, ‘watch out for Eddie, Sis. Don’t antagonise him but don’t let him get too close either. Concentrate on your painting. That is your bit for the war effort, and important, and it is your life.’ He paused, holding her gaze.

She nodded slowly.

‘Plenty of time after the war to think about Tony. It will be over soon and anyway you needn’t worry about him. He’ll make it. He’s a survivor.’ He wished he felt as certain as he sounded. ‘You mustn’t distract him, Evie. None of us can afford to be distracted. One lapse of concentration for even a second could be the difference between life and death.’

She looked appalled. ‘You are saying I am putting his life at risk?’

He nodded. ‘Let him go. Just for now. Just for a while.’

When he had gone she climbed wearily to her studio and stood looking round the room. She loved it up here with the low sun slanting through the skylight. It was peaceful in here and safe. She must never let Eddie come up here again. He spoiled the atmosphere with his eagle eyes darting round the place, cataloguing the paintings and sketches in his mind, checking what she was doing against some list he carried in his head. She walked over to her easel. The canvas depicted a scene of desolation and destruction, the predominant colours greys and browns and black. In the foreground she had painted a mother carrying a baby in her arms. They were both swathed in a blue shawl, the colour standing out, drawing in the eye, the baby reaching out towards his mother’s face in total trust, the shawl a safe warm place, apart from the rest of the scene. In the background she had sketched in the faces of three ARP wardens watching her anxiously as they dispensed blankets and tea to the shadowy figures around them. Evie shook her head slowly. She hadn’t realised she had drawn a Madonna and Child. Without conscious thought she picked up her palette knife and reached for a tube of paint. In minutes she was immersed in the painting, oblivious to everything around her, filling in a sea of faces, depicting their horror and their fear, showing that fear lessening as they focused on the wonder of the little group at the centre of the picture, showing the terror and stress dissolving in the faces close to the central scene to be replaced by a look of wonder and joy.

She painted on until it was too dark to see properly and at last she put down her palette with a sigh. She stood back staring at the picture, unaware that she was resting her hand gently on her stomach in the age-old gesture of a woman protecting her unborn child.

Charlotte’s brief phone conversation with Mike earlier that evening had been very unsatisfactory. He had mentioned that he was with his mother, which she supposed was some sort of a relief as she had been terribly afraid he was with Lucy. She rather rashly retorted that in that case she might as well not have come down to Rosebank, and that in fact she might as well stay in London for the rest of the summer, and to her dismay he had agreed. ‘I know you’ve got a busy schedule, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘It might be easier than racing up and down to Sussex. Just for a few weeks, anyway.’ She hadn’t been sure if that was an effort at reconciliation. Somehow it didn’t feel like it.

What about their meetings, at the cottage, and the romantic meals to follow? What had happened to them? Why had he gone to see his mother again? She wondered if bloody Lucy had rung Juliette and told her everything. Of course she had!

Rosebank Cottage was in darkness when Lucy arrived. There were no lights on in the front room or upstairs, as far as she could see. Almost certainly Mike had gone back to London. She had driven past the place where he usually left his car and it was empty, as was the verge at the top of the lane where Charlotte parked. She parked there herself, tucking her car in close to the hedge, then retraced her steps down the lane. She opened the gate and climbed the steps to the front door, and then, her nerve failing as she reached into her pocket for the key, she ducked around the side, over the steep front garden with its rockery and flowers and onto the back lawn. A glance at the cottage showed no lights there either.

She had been too restless to sleep after supper at the vicarage; instead of going to bed she had gone out and climbed into the car, heading almost automatically back towards Rosebank. It was nearly midnight when she got here and the whole village was in darkness as she drove across the small green, past the church and turned down the lane. The pull of this place was too strong to resist. Evie’s very soul was here, waiting for her. Whatever terrors the research held, the draw of Evie was greater. She refused to think about Mike. Charlotte seemed to think she liked him, which was ridiculous. As if she would be so disloyal to Larry. The woman also seemed to think Mike liked her. Not very likely now, although once or twice – for a moment she relived the occasions they had touched hands. Had there been a spark there? No. Nothing more than the shock of two people accidentally brushing against one another in a crowded space.

She followed the path across the grass to the studio and unlocked it, pushing open the door and peering in. She was reluctant to turn on the lights but there was no alternative. She clicked on the central lamp which hung low over the table and glanced round. Nothing had changed, as far as she could see. The piles of books and papers were as she had left them, the boxes and suitcases stacked against the far wall. With a sigh of relief she closed the door behind her and walked over to the table. There were various things she had meant to take away, a box of receipts and bills from the battered desk, an old leather satchel which she had discovered in one of the suitcases, some envelope files which she had found stacked on a high shelf over the window. If she could take those with her she could work on them without coming back to the studio for a while, and avoid the risk of another meeting with Mike or Charlotte. It was as she began to collect things together she noticed another box on the floor in the corner. In it were some more notebooks – maybe diaries – written in Evie’s hand. Where had they come from? Dolly must have found them somewhere and put them in the studio for her. She picked the box up and began to glance through its contents, her heart hammering with excitement as she saw more and more items in Evie’s distinctive untidy handwriting. Underneath them was a wad of newspaper cuttings held together by a rusty paperclip. She held them up to the light and saw they were articles and reviews of exhibitions all written by Edward Marston. Not surprising, come to think of it, considering his interest in art and all his contacts in the art world.

A noise behind her as she stacked the books and papers on the table made her freeze. For several seconds she didn’t move then slowly she turned towards the door. Nothing had moved in the studio. The door was still closed. She glanced at the nearest window. It was so black outside all she could see was the reflection of the room behind her. Hastily she shoved everything she needed into the large canvas shopping bag she had brought with her and put it by the door. Again she looked round. Was there anything else she would need? She could feel herself getting more and more nervous as she seized another couple of cases at random. She doubted if she could carry any more. Tidying the chair back into place and checking that nothing had obviously been moved she made her way back to the door and, turning out the light, silently pulled it open.

Light was streaming out across the grass from the kitchen window. Lucy caught her breath. Mike must have come back. Or both of them. Silently lugging the bag and cases outside, she closed the door as quietly as she could and turned the key. The patch of light from the window reached almost to her feet as she crept down the side of the lawn, aware that her footsteps would be clearly visible in the heavy dew. She reached the pergola and peered round to the front of the cottage. The windows there were lit now as well and she could see a car pulled up close to the gate. She thought she recognised the outline of Mike’s Discovery, but she couldn’t be sure in the play of shadows beyond the hedge. Why didn’t they pull the curtains? It was impossible to get out of the garden without using the front path. She piled the bag and cases near the apple tree in the deepest shadow and waited. She was not prepared to have him catch her creeping about like a thief, and if Charlotte was with him that would be worse. She froze suddenly. She was parked in Charlotte’s usual place at the top of the lane. They could not have failed to see her car and surely they must have seen the light in the studio.

She shivered, her wet feet growing colder as she waited, pondering the wisdom of trying to climb down the rockery and over the fence to drop into the lane. Almost as she decided she would have to do it someone in the house drew the curtains across the front window and a minute or so later the bedroom light went on, to be muted almost at once in its turn by the curtains. She gave a sigh of relief. Reclaiming her bags she tiptoed over the wet grass to the path and ran down it, letting herself out of the gate and turning up the lane as fast as she could. As far as she could see there was no sign of Charlotte’s car, but she only relaxed when she had reached her own, thrown the bags in the boot and climbed into the front. In seconds she had started the engine and pulled away from the hedge.

It was nearly two in the morning when at last she drew in behind Huw’s car at the vicarage and let herself into the hall. They had left the light on for her and Roger the cat was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs studying her with a look of faint disapproval. She lugged the bags in and as quietly as she could made her way up to her bedroom.

It was only when she was sitting on the edge of her bed that she took out her mobile and saw that it was switched off. When she turned it on she saw there was a message from Mike:
Stop skulking and come in for a coffee
. He had sent it at twelve forty-five when she was standing under his apple tree.

Tony had heard nothing from Evie since their meeting up at the farm, nothing about her since his CO had called him into his office. Now he had summoned him again. ‘That incident we discussed. Evie’s father.’ Don looked at him closely. ‘Dudley Lucas has been checked out. No problem there. All right? He was merely looking out for his daughter. And please, old boy, no more midnight trysts!’

An orderly put his head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt. A Flight at readiness in five minutes!’