It was a glorious late August day, and the Northumberland sky was the brightest of blues. The few fluff balls of cloud were like reflections of the sheep on the farmers’ fields on either side of the Great North Road. Andrew Ridpath’s green Austin 7 purred its way through farmland north of Newcastle, past the mediaeval market town of Morpeth and then skirted the walled citadel of Alnwick, home of the dukes of Northumberland. He then turned right towards the small fishing village of Alnmouth and hugged the coast for the rest of the ride north.
Clara was delighted with the views: the vast expanse of sandy beaches, the jagged rocks and higgledy-piggledy inlets, guarded by lighthouses, marking off the miles until they could glimpse the hulking fortress of Bamburgh Castle, brooding over the bay. Andrew gave her a running commentary on all she could see, his warm, Northumbrian burr nearly lulling her to sleep. She apologised as she caught herself nodding off, telling him she hadn’t slept well the last two nights. He chuckled, telling her she needn’t sugar-coat that he had no future as a tour guide.
He was though an excellent host. He stopped the car and unpacked a thermos flask of tea and poured a cup for Clara. Refreshed, but hoping it wasn’t too far to their destination and a lavatory, Clara climbed back in the car for the final leg of the journey. It wasn’t long before Andrew, pointing to his right, said: ‘And there we have it. Can you see, Clara? The Holy Island of Lindisfarne.’
Clara looked out at the flat expanse of sand with a road running through it. On the horizon she could just make out the houses of a settlement and beyond that, on a cliff, the dramatic silhouette of a castle. ‘Is that where the monks lived?’ she asked.
‘No, that’s a more recent building. Fifteen hundreds, I think. The monks lived in a monastery and priory next to the village. Henry VIII had it destroyed. There’s not much of it left, just some ruins in the grounds of the island church.’
‘I thought it was the Vikings who destroyed the place.’
Andrew chuckled. ‘Oh, they did. On numerous occasions. But the monks kept rebuilding. It was old King Henry who finally did them in, though when he was out to suppress the Catholics. I believe they used some of the stone from the priory to build the castle.’
Andrew turned the car onto the tidal causeway, streaked with seaweed and still wet in patches from the sea that covered the road twice a day. ‘I’ve checked the tides and the sea will start to come back in again at four o’clock. We’ll need to be off the island by then or we’ll be stuck here overnight. There have been cases of people mistiming the crossing and having to be rescued from their vehicles by fishermen from the island. See that little hut on stilts,’ he said, pointing ahead, ‘that’s where people have to try to get to if they get stuck. I imagine it’s a cold place to spend the night!’
‘And the cars?’ asked Clara.
Andrew shrugged. ‘I suppose they get covered by the sea. It would be a nightmare to dry out after that,’ he said, tapping the dashboard of the Austin. ‘Best not to put it to the test.’
‘Best not.’ She smiled back at him. ‘So, where is the Crown and Anchor?’
‘It’s on the far side of the village,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’ He checked his watch. ‘Just in time for a bite to eat. I’ve brought a picnic, but perhaps if we’re going to be asking questions at the place then maybe we should act like customers first.’
Clara nodded her agreement. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. But I wouldn’t want your picnic to go to waste. And it is a lovely day.’ She looked out at the grassy dunes as the causeway road joined the island proper. ‘Should we just have something light then we can have the picnic later, after a walk? Before we have to head back home?’
He grinned. ‘That sounds like a plan.’
They drove through the small village and came to a stop on the edge of a triangular-shaped green, flanked by quaint cottages and overlooked on one corner by a whitewashed double-storey building with a sign swinging over the door: The Crown and Anchor.
Andrew helped Clara out of the car. Customers sat on wooden tables and benches on a lawned area outside, enjoying the clement summer weather and the uninterrupted views of the priory ruins to the right, the picturesque harbour to the left and beyond that the castle. Clara and Andrew went into the dimly lit pub where a few men were propping up the bar having a lunchtime pint. A smiling landlady greeted them. They ordered two glasses of cider and a fish pie to share. Then Clara asked if she could use the lavatory.
When she emerged she saw, through the window, that Andrew had bagged them a table outside and was waiting for their order. She decided to get down to business. She had told Andrew about Mrs Hobson’s claim that she and Bob had spent some time together here, but she had not told him about her concerns that Hobson might have hastened her uncle’s death. Nor about his homosexuality.
Clara smiled at the landlady as the woman dried some glasses.
‘Your gentleman friend’s outside,’ she said.
‘Thank you, I see that. I’ll join him in a minute. I was wondering if I might ask you something.’
‘Aye?’
‘Yes, you see, I’m up from London because my uncle has passed away.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, miss.’
‘Thank you. We hadn’t been in touch much in his last years, and that’s something I regret. So I’m trying to find out more about him. Apparently, he used to love Holy Island, so I asked the gentleman outside, who was my uncle’s accountant, to drive me up here to see for myself. And I see why he felt that way. It’s a very beautiful place.’
The landlady beamed. ‘Aye, it is, miss. I’m very lucky to live here.’
‘And to work here too. He spoke very fondly of the times he stayed in your establishment. And I’m trying to find out the last time he was here. You see, he was an enthusiastic photographer, and I found a whole lot of photographs he took of the island. I’m trying to put a date on them, because I want to have them published in a book in his memory, but I have no idea when they were taken. Might you be able to check your register to see when he was last here? That might give me a date to work from.’
The landlady looked at Clara, puzzled. Clara hoped that her blatant lie was not about to be questioned. But no, the woman’s face soon settled into neutrality and she nodded. ‘I think I can do that. But I’ll need to finish the dinner rush first. But then I’ll get the register and we’ll see what we can find for you, miss.’
Clara smiled, congratulating herself on her cunning improvisation. ‘Thank you.’
An hour later with the cider drained and the scrumptious fish pie devoured, Clara returned to the now-quiet bar with Andrew. The landlady waved to her, indicating she and Andrew should take a seat at one of the inside tables, and then she carried over a large leather-bound book.
‘We’ve only four rooms, and this goes back three years. But if it was before that, then I’d have to get my husband to go up into the loft to get the old registers. And he’s not here at the minute.’
‘Let’s hope it is here, then,’ said Clara, thinking that three years was a good time frame. She hadn’t seen a date on Mrs Hobson’s note from Bob, but she had the sense that the alleged relationship had not been going on for years and years. But she could be wrong. Both about the affair not having really existed, and the time frame.
‘What was your uncle’s name?’ the landlady asked.
‘Bob Wallace. Or Robert Wallace. Or the initials RWW.’
The landlady ran her finger down the register, page after page, as Clara and Andrew watched. Finally she said: ‘Here we are, 7th August 1927. R. Wallace.’
Clara leaned over and had a look. ‘Was he accompanied by anyone?’
The landlady ran her finger up and down a few entries either side. ‘No, it doesn’t look like it.’
Clara looked at Andrew and he nodded. ‘So there you go, Clara, there’s your answer.’
But Clara wasn’t satisfied. ‘Can you look further on. More recently? That was two years ago. He might have come again.’
The landlady looked around the bar. There were two men sitting in the corner, with their pints still half full. ‘All right.’ The finger continued its search until she came to 12th April 1928. Just after Easter. ‘Here he is again: R. Wallace. And this time he did have someone with him.’
Clara’s stomach lurched. ‘Is there a name?’
‘Someone called J. Smith.’
‘J. Smith?’ Clara remembered what Mrs Hobson – Jane Hobson – said. ‘He called me Jay and I called him Bee.’ But Smith. Not Hobson. It could have been an assumed name, of course.
‘Did they share the same room?’
The landlady looked again. ‘No. Adjoining rooms.’ She looked at Clara curiously. ‘Why did you say you wanted this information again?’
‘To date some photographs. But it would also be useful to know if he was here with someone so I can ask them to look at the photographs too. A J. Smith, you say. Does it say whether that was a Mrs or Miss?’
The landlady cocked her head to the side and gave a half-smile. ‘Neither. Just J. Smith. But I can tell you now that it wasn’t a lady.’
‘Oh?’ said Clara, flashing a look at Andrew. ‘How can you tell?’
‘Because here,’ said the landlady pointing to a pencilled note in the margin, ‘it says “gentleman requests trouser press”. That’s next to J. Smith. So I think we can assume J. Smith is a gentleman. Besides, we always note if there is a lady in case of shared ablutions. See here,’ she said, pointing to other entries, ‘Mrs, Miss, and so on. So J. Smith and R. Wallace will both be men.’
A shadow filled the doorway. Another customer had arrived. ‘I hope that’s helpful, miss. I have to get on.’
Clara nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. You’ve been an enormous help.’
The landlady closed the register and carried it to the bar where she greeted the customer. ‘Af’noon, Jerry, the usual?’
Clara remained seated, her mind racing.
‘So Mrs Hobson lied?’ asked Andrew.
‘It looks that way.’
‘And she forged that letter.’
‘Possibly,’ said Clara, not wanting to meet his eyes.
‘Possibly? She must have.’
Clara let out a sigh. Perhaps it was time to tell Andrew the truth. Not all of the truth, but some of it. Perhaps he knew already. The Levines both knew. Bob’s doctor knew. Maybe others did too. ‘Not necessarily,’ she said, eventually. ‘She could have stolen it. Or found it in Bob’s things before he sent it. And she could have rewritten the envelope with her address on it. Or even used an old envelope that Bob had written to her and put the unrelated note inside. I think the important thing here is that it refers to someone called Jay, and the man on the register is a J. Smith. Of course, it might very well not be the man’s real name. Isn’t “John Smith” the classic alias of men who want to be anonymous?’
‘But why would he want to remain …’ Andrew tailed off, realisation dawning. ‘You mean?’
Clara nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve only found out recently myself. Juju Levine told me and Bob’s doctor confirmed it.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Bob was a homosexual. But please, don’t tell anyone. It didn’t appear as if he was open about it in his life, so I don’t think it’s up to me to blab it to the world after his death.’
Andrew nodded slowly, taking it all in. ‘I didn’t know this, Clara. He hid it well.’ He looked up. ‘But I don’t think any less of him for it. He was still a good man.’
‘Of course he was! People get far too het up about these things,’ she snapped.
‘I agree,’ said Andrew, placatingly. ‘But let’s not forget it’s still illegal. So I understand why Bob kept it quiet.’
Clara, grateful that Andrew had taken it so well, softened her voice. ‘Yes, so do I. Which is why I ask you to keep it to yourself.’
‘Of course. But the bottom line from all of this is that it was not Mrs Hobson who was here with him. In fact, we don’t know if anyone was here with him in that sense. J. Smith might very well just have been a friend. But even if he wasn’t, she can no longer claim that it was she who was. And so I think that lets you off the hook – as far as any sympathy you might have had for her regarding the will is concerned. So then,’ he said, looking out the window, ‘that’s mission accomplished. Should we go for that walk now?’
She smiled at him. ‘Yes, I think we should.’