Текст книги "Without a Trace"

Автор книги: Lesley Pearse

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Molly felt a pang of trepidation as she looked up at the George Hotel.

It was a lovely old inn, probably dating back to the eighteenth century, its front covered in mathematical tiles. She wondered what they represented and thought she would ask. She imagined that the building must have an interesting history; it could even be haunted. But it wasn’t that which scared her. She wasn’t sure she was good enough to work in such a place.

Rye was a medieval walled town perched up on a hill and surrounded by windswept marshes. People in the West Country tended to think all the best towns and villages in England were there but, in Molly’s opinion, Rye was the prettiest, quaintest town she’d ever seen and far exceeded anything the West Country had to offer. As she’d walked from the station up the narrow cobbled streets with their sweet little houses with bow windows and shiny brass on the front doors, she felt she had gone back a few centuries in time.

The sun had come out while she was on the train and, though it was still very cold and windy, the first thing she noticed as she stepped off the train was the fresh smell and the quiet. She’d got so used to London’s soot-laden air, the noise of the traffic and the nasty smells that she’d virtually forgotten what fresh air or quiet was like. There was some traffic, of course, on the main road down by the station but, compared with Whitechapel Road, it was like a country lane.

Already, without knowing anything about the job, she wanted to live here. She understood, too, why Cassie had mentioned this town so often in her journal.

Before going in the door to reception, Molly took a deep breath and braced herself. She hoped they didn’t ask her to take off her royal-blue coat. She knew it looked chic with the matching beret and that it suited her, but the black sheath dress she was wearing underneath looked cheap. It had been cheap, she’d bought it from the market, but it hadn’t created the sophisticated image she’d intended.

She walked up to the reception desk and said to a red-headed woman sitting behind it, ‘I have an appointment with Mrs Bridgenorth. My name is Molly Heywood.’

As she had expected of such an old building, it smelled a little fusty, and the patterned carpet had seen better days, but the hotel had a good feeling about it. It was almost like coming home. She nearly laughed at herself for thinking that, for she’d never ever felt there was anything special about going to her real home.

The receptionist spoke to someone on the phone then smiled at Molly. ‘Mrs Bridgenorth has asked me to show you into the library and bring you some coffee. She’ll be with you as soon as she can.’

The library was a small, book-lined room made cosy by a blazing fire. It wasn’t large enough for anything more than a couch, two button-backed chairs and a couple of side tables. Everything, including the books, looked very old and shabby, but Molly thought that, on a cold day in winter, it would be the perfect retreat.

The receptionist came back with a tray, coffee in a pot, hot milk and a plate of ham sandwiches. ‘Mrs Bridgenorth thought you might be hungry after leaving home early to catch the train,’ she said. ‘Tuck in. She won’t be long.’

Such consideration for her well-being touched Molly; she was hungry and it was also lovely to be in such a warm room. Since moving to Whitechapel, she couldn’t remember ever being really warm.

Mrs Bridgenorth came in some ten minutes later. She was a statuesque woman in her forties with wavy fair hair and she was wearing a blue twinset, pearls and a tartan pleated skirt.

‘Lovely to meet you, Molly,’ she said, smiling and offering her hand. ‘Sister Constance is obviously very fond of you – she couldn’t speak of you highly enough. How is she coping with this bitter weather?’

Once they’d both sat down, Molly explained that Constance had had a stroke. ‘She looked very poorly last night,’ she said. ‘I really didn’t think I should come today, but she insisted.’

‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Bridgenorth looked utterly dismayed. ‘I must try and get up to see her tomorrow, she’s such a dear thing, and we’ve been friends since I was a little girl. I’m sure she told you, but she came to look after me one summer at the hotel my parents owned in Bournemouth. She was marvellous – kind, attentive and also great fun. My family never imagined she’d choose to spend her life in the Church Army. We thought she’d get married and have half a dozen children of her own.’

‘It was such a shame her sweetheart died,’ Molly said. ‘ She’s devoted her whole life to other people since; she really is a saint. I’m awfully worried about how she’ll cope after this stroke, but she’s so well loved in Whitechapel I’m sure everyone will rally round.’

‘Funnily enough, she was afraid you might fall into the same trap as she did,’ the older woman said. ‘She said, and I quote, “Evelyn, the girl is like a young twin of myself. If I don’t give her a push into making a career for herself, I’m afraid she’ll end up like me.”’

Molly was a bit taken aback and it must have showed, as Mrs Bridgenorth laughed.

‘That is exactly what she said, Molly. Maybe right now you feel that ending up like Constance would be no bad thing, but she was very aware that she had turned her back on a comfortable home, a husband and children, and she doesn’t want that for you.’

Mrs Bridgenorth moved on then to talk about the hotel and what duties Molly would have if she were to be offered and decided to take the job.

‘My plan would be to give you experience of all aspects of the hotel at first, so that you totally understand how it works. So one week you’ll be the waitress in the dining room at breakfast, followed by chambermaid duties for the rest of the morning. Then perhaps you’ll serve behind the bar in the evening. Another week you’ll be helping the chef in the kitchens with breakfast, lunch and dinner. Another week it will be reception work, learning to help organize wedding receptions and private parties. How does that sound to you? Constance did tell me you virtually ran your parents’ grocery shop, so I have no fear that you wouldn’t be able to cope here.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Molly said.

‘We tend to be quiet in the winter, just a few commercial travellers staying, but then we perk up at Easter. After that, we’re mostly fully booked right up to the end of September. But the restaurant is busy year round, especially at weekends, and we do have many wedding receptions here, too. I’ll take you to see our Georgian ballroom in a minute; it really is a lovely room.’

A couple of hours later Molly was on the train back to Ashford, where she had to change for a train to London. She had been offered the job and was excited by it and the prospect of a new home, and had assured Mrs Bridgenorth that she did want to take it. She had agreed to arrive on Saturday, 27 March, in eight days’ time, to start work on the following day.

She would be paid three pounds a week, all found, to start, which seemed amazingly generous to her. Furthermore, the bedroom she would have up on the attic floor was lovely. It was only small but had everything she needed, and the bed had felt very comfortable. As Mrs Bridgenorth had explained, her working hours would vary according to what jobs she was doing in a particular week. So, one week, she would have every afternoon off, plus a full day, to be arranged. The next she might work all day and have the evenings off. One Sunday in four she could have off, too.

Aside from John Masters, the chef, all the other staff were local and lived out. He had a couple of rooms down by the kitchen. The owners lived at the hotel, too. Mrs Bridgenorth had pointed to a door on the first floor and said it led to their apartment, but she hadn’t taken Molly in there.

If it hadn’t been for the question of when or if she’d see Charley once she’d moved, Molly would have been jumping up and down with glee. Did he care enough to travel a round trip of one hundred and fifty miles to see her when she had a Sunday off? If she had her day off during the week, would it be worth her taking the train to London to see him for just a couple of hours after he’d finished work? The trains from Ashford to Rye weren’t very frequent and, if she missed the last connection, she’d have to stay on the station all night.

Molly went straight from Charing Cross to the London Hospital to see Constance and tell her about her interview.

The night before, she’d been told that Constance would be taken up to a different ward, so she went straight to the inquiry desk. One of the two men there looked in a register, and then at Molly, with a slightly anxious expression, then said he needed to check with Sister.

When Sister Jenner came back with him Molly knew something bad had happened.

‘Will you come with me, Miss Heywood?’ she said, before Molly could even open her mouth to speak. She led Molly into a small cubicle and asked her to sit down.

‘I’m very sorry, Miss Heywood,’ she began, ‘but Sister Constance died at ten o’clock this morning. I thought Reverend Adams would’ve contacted you.’

‘I left home early this morning to catch a train and came straight here when I got back,’ Molly said.

‘Oh dear! You see, as Reverend Adams has a telephone, we were able to ring him this morning when we felt her condition was worsening. He came straight away, and was with her when she died.’

Molly couldn’t speak for a moment; it was too much of a shock. ‘B–b–but I thought she was getting better?’

‘We thought that, too,’ Sister Jenner said, reaching out to take Molly’s hand and holding it comfortingly in both of hers. ‘But we cannot always predict accurately what results a stroke can have, and she was already frail before it. Yet it appears that the cause of death was actually a heart attack.’

‘I was at an interview for a job,’ Molly bleated out, tears springing up in her eyes. ‘She really wanted me to go. But I wish I hadn’t now.’

‘She would’ve been more upset to think you had missed it,’ the sister said gently. ‘She told me last night how fond she was of you, and that she thought your young man was a good one, too. You wouldn’t want to see her living in pain, unable to communicate properly, would you? She will have no more suffering or indignity now. The reverend was holding her hand and praying for her when her moment came. Be glad that she went as she’d want to.’

Molly knew that what the sister said was right, but it didn’t stop her feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach.

Back home and sitting in Constance’s room a little later, Molly felt her heart was breaking. It was such a spartan room, yet she’d never really thought that while Constance was there. She could see now, in the drab, comfortless room, that by giving her life to the Church her friend had turned her back on everything but the basic essentials of life.

Charley called round later and was horrified when she opened the door to him with red, swollen eyes.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ he said when she blurted out that Constance was dead. ‘Such a shame you didn’t get a chance to tell her about your interview. But please let me in and tell me about it.’

It didn’t seem right to take him into Constance’s room, but there was nowhere else, so Molly left the door open, so none of the other tenants in the house would think she was taking liberties. She quickly told Charley all about the job, and how lovely Rye was, but she couldn’t help but switch right back to talking about Constance.

‘Look around this room,’ she said, waving her arm. ‘There’s nothing of any value, not even a wireless. She would sit with her coat on rather than putting another shovelful of coal to the fire. Yet she’d use the coal if a visitor called, and give them the special biscuits or cakes that would have been given to her as a present. She lived her whole life for other people.’

Charley comforted her with a cuddle, and agreed that people as selfless as Constance were as rare as hen’s teeth.

‘And, on top of that, how will I be able to see you if I take this job?’ she sobbed out.

‘We’ll have to do what people did during the war and write to each other,’ he said. ‘I can phone you at the hotel, too, I expect, and I’ll buy a car and come down as often as I can. And later this year, when I’ve finished my night-school classes, I might be able to get work down that way with Wates. They’ve got projects coming up in both Hastings and Ashford.’

Molly brightened a bit at that. It meant that Charley was thinking long term about them. Yet, however much she wanted to be near him, she knew very well she couldn’t bear to stay on in this cold, depressing house without Constance. As for working at Pat’s, she couldn’t wait to hand in her notice. So, unless she miraculously found another job here and somewhere better to live, she had no choice but to go.

‘That would be something to look forward to,’ she said, and, remembering the advice she’d read in magazines about men not liking to be pushed into corners, she realized she’d have to try to sound more positive. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a drip, and a bit clingy, too. It’s just the shock of losing Constance. I’ve got to look forward, not back.’

‘So you’ll be leaving next Saturday, then?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow. ‘If you like, I could borrow a motor and take you down there?’

‘That would be wonderful!’ she said, hoping she could hold her emotions in check when he left her there. ‘I can’t wait for you to see how pretty Rye is.’

Charley went home soon after. Molly went upstairs first, to speak to Iris, and then went off to bed. Her room felt even colder than it normally did, and she huddled under the covers and cried.

Iris had spoken to Reverend Adams, and it seemed the funeral would be the following Thursday and he had all the arrangements in hand. He was expecting over a hundred mourners, and he had asked the ladies from the church to lay on a tea afterwards in the parish hall. Iris was as grief-stricken as Molly, and with more reason, as they’d known each other for years. That was a reminder to Molly that she didn’t have exclusive rights to Constance. Molly rang Mrs Bridgenorth to tell her, too. She was very upset, but she said she and her husband would come to the funeral, and she commiserated with Molly on what a shock it was, when they had thought Constance was going to recover.

In the days before the funeral Molly worked at Pat’s and spent the evenings helping Iris sort out Constance’s belongings. She had very little, and nothing of any value, but they put little ornaments, books and such like to one side to give as mementoes to people she was especially fond of.

Despite all the sadness at losing Constance, her funeral was uplifting, something Molly hadn’t expected. The sun put in an appearance, and Molly thought half the population of Whitechapel must be there, crowding into the church, and everyone had something to say about how Constance had helped them in some way.

Reverend Adams spoke of her compassion, generosity and understanding of people. ‘True understanding is a rare gift, to know why people behave in a certain way and yet not judge them for it. I believe it is a gift God only gives to very special people who he knows will use it well. And he couldn’t have found a better person to give that gift to than Sister Constance.

‘I know from brief conversations I’ve had with so many of you in the last few days that all of you have your own little story of what Sister Constance did for you but, as you remember it, and perhaps share it with others, please don’t cry for her, because she wouldn’t want that. Just be glad you knew her and take that special quality she had into your own life.’

Molly bowed her head during the prayers, but she wasn’t praying, only thinking about what Reverend Adams had said. Constance had welcomed her into her home and shared what little she had with someone who was to all intents and purposes a stranger. She vowed then that she would make her friend proud of her, because that was the best way to thank her for everything she’d done for her.

Reverend Adams spoke to Molly later at the tea in the parish hall. ‘Many people here will miss you, Molly, when you move on to your new job. But you take all our good wishes for your future with you, and I know Sister Constance will be watching over you. Rye is a beautiful little town, and I feel sure you will be very happy there.’

A few days later, on Saturday afternoon, Charley bent to kiss Molly goodbye outside the George. ‘Don’t look so forlorn,’ he said. ‘You’ll soon make new friends here and I expect, next time you come up to Whitechapel, you’ll wonder how you could ever have borne to live there.’

He had borrowed a friend’s car to drive her to Rye and, once he’d met Mr and Mrs Bridgenorth, he’d felt satisfied he was leaving his girl in good hands. They were nice people, the kind that understood that happy staff created a happy hotel which guests would come back to. They understood what a blow it was to Molly to lose Constance so suddenly, and he knew they’d be kind to her.

But they’d been nice to him, too, insisting on him and Molly having lunch with them. He’d half expected to be shown the door once he’d brought her suitcase in, but instead they welcomed him.

Earlier, he and Molly had walked around the old town and had tea in a shop, because of the bitter wind.

Charley knew that Constance’s funeral had been very difficult for Molly. She had said that she felt she had no real position there; after all, she was the Johnny Come Lately, many of the dozens of mourners had known her friend forty years or more. She’d also had to witness her friend’s rooms being emptied out, and all she had was that tiny, icy-cold room to retreat to.

Reverend Adams appeared to have been the only person who had an inkling of how Molly felt. He’d given her Constance’s bible, which she’d been given as a prize at school. He told her that whenever she was feeling sad or lonely she was to open it at random and read a passage and there would be a message from Constance there.

Charley wasn’t one for thinking about God and had never so much as opened a Bible since leaving school, but he sensed that the reverend had made Molly feel a little better.

But, now, he had to leave Molly to return to London, and he didn’t like that she looked so terribly sad.

‘I don’t mean to look forlorn,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘I think I’m just worrying that I’ll be useless and they’ll give me the sack.’

‘You know that isn’t going to happen,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. The lights on the car aren’t very good, so I have to go fairly slowly across the marshes or I might end up in a ditch. The heater doesn’t work either!’

Molly flung her arms around him and he breathed in the sweet smell of her Blue Grass perfume. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but it was too soon for such statements.

‘Write to me,’ he said instead. ‘And don’t let the barman or the chef lead you astray.’

He jumped into the car then and coasted down the hill until the engine started, waving one hand to her.

When he glanced in the mirror just before turning the corner she was still standing outside the George and waving, despite the cold wind.

‘I love you, Molly Heywood,’ he said aloud. ‘And, before long, I’m going to marry you and make sure you never look sad again.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘You’ve finished the bedrooms?’ Mrs Bridgenorth asked as Molly came down the stairs carrying the carpet sweeper and a basket of cleaning materials.

‘Yes, all done,’ Molly replied. ‘Room six had spilt something sticky on the carpet, but I managed to get it off. Goodness knows what it was, but it smelled like cough mixture.’

‘It never ceases to amaze me what people drop in their rooms, what they leave behind or try to steal,’ said Mrs Bridgenorth with a little ripple of laughter. ‘You’re so quick, Molly. I thought at first you weren’t doing the rooms properly, but I’ve made quite a few lightning checks and they are first class. Well done.’

Molly glowed. She was into her third week at the George now, and she loved it. She’d been given a pink-and-white striped uniform dress, an apron and a little matching stiffened hair band with a lace edge for her chambermaid duties, and she so enjoyed being dressed for the part. For bar work and reception duties, she had a black dress with a white lace collar and cuffs, and when she was waiting on tables she added a frilly white apron. Both dresses fitted perfectly and looked nice, especially the striped one.

Everything about the job was wonderful. The hotel was always warm, thanks to old Albert, who came in early in the mornings and cleared the grates, and lay and lit fires in all the main rooms. The guests’ rooms had electric fires fitted into the fireplaces and there was even a small portable one in her room in the attic. The food was lovely, too, quite the best she’d ever eaten.

Her favourite job was waiting on people at breakfast as, often, they chatted and told her where they’d come from and what their plans for the day were. She liked serving lunch much less, as some of the people could be quite rude. Being a barmaid in the evening was good, although Ernest, the head barman, was a bit stuck-up. He’d told her five years ago he used to be the head cocktail waiter at the Savoy in London and only left because his then fiancée was a teacher in the junior school here in Rye and they wanted to get married.

Working on reception was interesting, as she got to greet the new guests and resolve any problems they might have. There was also quite a lot of work organizing wedding receptions and private parties, putting on special buffets or sit-down meals and dealing with the music and flower arrangements. She thought that, in time, this would become her favourite role, but there was so much to learn it would be a while before she was able to handle it all alone.

This coming Sunday, she had the day off and Charley was coming down to see her. Spring had finally arrived and, unless it decided to pour with rain, Molly thought she would pack a picnic for them and they could have it in Camber Castle.

Cassie had mentioned Camber Castle in her journal a few times. She’d jotted down that it was built by Henry VIII as a defence for one of his Cinque Ports, but also that people claimed Anne Boleyn had been locked up in it by the king when he grew tired of her. Mrs Bridgenorth said she doubted that was true, but people liked to make up interesting stories about places. It was just a ruin now; sheep sheltered from the sea wind inside its walls. Molly had walked out across the marsh to it the previous week on her day off. She’d eaten her sandwiches in the shelter of its walls, then climbed up on to what was left of the battlements to survey the countryside.

It had been a lovely spring day. Gorse had sprung into flower all over the marsh and the sweet perfume from its bright-yellow flowers hung in the still air. She loved the look of the black-faced sheep, apparently a much-prized breed known worldwide as Romney Marsh sheep, and lambing was in full swing. She saw twin lambs that day which could only have been born minutes before her arrival, so little and wobbly and utterly adorable.

Perched up on the castle battlements, the sound of curlews and gulls filling the air, Molly had realized that she was truly happy, perhaps the happiest she’d ever been. She was coming to terms now with the death of Constance, and was even a little glad that any suffering her dear friend had gone through was over. She was no longer brooding on the unfairness of her dismissal from Bourne & Hollingsworth. Dilys was back in her life again – only yesterday she had had a letter from her – and she loved her new job and home. On top of that was Charley, who never failed to telephone at six on a Friday, as he’d promised, and so far she’d had three letters from him, too.

If it hadn’t been for her sorrow about Cassie and thinking what more she could do about finding Petal, Molly’s would be the perfect life. But even Mr and Mrs Bridgenorth seemed to understand how important these things were to her.

She had been intending to pick an appropriate moment to tell them what had happened, to see if she could enlist their help but, as it turned out, Mr Bridgenorth asked her some questions on her third day with them which led naturally into the subject.

Molly had been asked to take a tray of coffee and buttered toast up to the office for Mr Bridgenorth that morning, as he was working on the hotel’s accounts.

‘Hullo, Molly,’ he said as she came in. ‘How are you settling in?’

He was a tall, slender man with very bony features, not unattractive, but she’d been told he tended to be ill at ease with people, so she was quite surprised at his cheery interest in her.

Trudy, one of the cleaners, who had worked here for years, had told her the background of most of the staff at the hotel. She said that Mr Bridgenorth was an accountant and that, when he married Evelyn, who had been brought up in the hotel trade, he had agreed to handle the business side of the hotel, as long as she took care of the day-to-day running of it.

‘I’m settling in very well, thank you, sir,’ Molly had replied, putting the tray down on his desk. ‘I’m finding it all so interesting, and it’s super to be in such a warm, comfortable place.’

‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘My wife and I visited Constance a couple of times in Whitechapel, and we both felt chilled to the bone. How did you get to know her?’

‘I found her address in a book after my friend Cassie was killed back in Somerset. I wrote to Constance, because it was clear they had been close friends,’ she began.

‘Oh my goodness!’ Mr Bridgenorth had exclaimed, looking astounded. ‘I had no idea your connection was so dramatic. Please, go on. Tell me the whole story.’

Molly gave him an abbreviated version of the story, knowing she ought to get back to work.

‘And they still haven’t found the murderer or the little girl?’ he asked when she had finished.

‘No, they haven’t,’ Molly said. ‘Actually, I think Cassie came from round here. She kept a journal, and in it she mentions Rye and the marshes quite a bit. I’m intending to ask about and show people her photograph in the hope that I might get a lead I can hand over to the police.’

‘Gosh, that is interesting,’ he said, then smiled. ‘Well, in a gruesome sort of way. But you have photographs? Might I see them? You never know, she might be someone who worked here at some point.’

‘I could go and get them now,’ Molly volunteered.

She got the pictures from her room but, sadly, Mr Bridgenorth didn’t recognize Cassie. However, he did applaud her persistence in trying to find Cassie’s family and suggested places in town where someone might remember her.

It was his interest in both the case and her part in it that really warmed Molly to Mr Bridgenorth. She didn’t understand why other staff said he was chilly or aloof.

Molly had telephoned her mother twice since she’d been at the George, each time in the evening, when she knew her father would be at the pub. She didn’t talk for long, because long-distance calls were expensive and, anyway, her mother was useless at chatter: she dried up after a couple of minutes and Molly had to fire questions at her to keep the conversation going. Yet she did sense her mother’s relief that Molly had left London for a nice part of the country and that she was happy in the hotel.

Cassie had often asked Molly why her sister, Emily, had left home and hadn’t kept in touch. Back then, Molly had never really admitted how very nasty her father could be, so she hadn’t been able to explain adequately why Emily had cut herself off, or the rage she still felt against their mother.

Now Molly was beginning to understand and sympathize with her sister’s feelings. She didn’t feel angry at their mother, but she was finding talking to her on the telephone a bit of an ordeal, as it always brought on reminders of her father’s cruelty and how her mother had just accepted it. And she was one for letting unspoken reproaches hang in the air, and there were long, awkward silences which Molly didn’t know how to fill. Without going home and facing both of her parents, she couldn’t ever hope for complete reconciliation, and no sensible person would go home if they knew their father was never going to meet them halfway.

When asked how the shop was doing, Mum merely said it was ticking over; she never spoke of new lines they were selling, or if anyone had failed to pay their monthly account, and Molly just had to hope her father wasn’t alienating customers with his grumpiness, or hitting his wife.

The only thing her mother volunteered was to say how kind George was, always popping in when it was cold to see if he could carry coal upstairs for her and generally checking up on her. But even this sometimes seemed to be a reproach, as if her mother was hinting that Molly had let him slip through her fingers instead of encouraging his attentions.

Molly had told her mother a dozen or more times that there was nothing but friendship between her and George. She did feel a little guilty that she’d never told him why she left Bourne & Hollingsworth; he must be as puzzled by it as her mother was. But then, she couldn’t bring herself to tell either of them the truth, as it still shamed her to be labelled a thief. She couldn’t ever say that she was coming home for a visit either, because it was too far to go and, anyway, she couldn’t stay at home, and taking up George’s offer to stay with his family wasn’t really an option now that she’d met Charley.

That was another thing she ought to tell George about, but she didn’t know how to go about it. If George saw himself only as her friend, there would be no problem, but she had a sneaky feeling he felt he was more than that, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him jealous. Cassie would’ve roared with laughter about this. Molly could almost hear her friend berating her for being frightened of upsetting people. She would’ve pointed out that it made life unnecessarily complicated.