CHAPTER 34

LONDON

MAY 2019

The taxi drove me into the heart of Chelsea and the tidy residential square of Cadogan Gardens. Tall redbrick mansions clustered together like old men overlooking the private garden in the center, the crisp white moldings on the top window arches of each building rising like lifted eyebrows.

I’d been here a few times with Arabella while we were at Oxford, for tame parties Colin hosted while his parents were away at their home in Surrey. Their town house had not been subdivided into flats, like many of their neighbors’, although Colin’s parents did rent the basement apartment. According to Arabella, Colin acted as property manager to justify his parents’ refusing to accept any rent payment from him.

As we pulled up to the central house on the east side of the square, yellow sun stroked the wrought iron fencing, lending a glancing blow to the sienna bricks of the houses and camouflaging them with coral. Colin met me at the taxi, insisting not only on paying the driver but on carrying my backpack inside. I allowed him, not exactly sure why. It might have had something to do with the way his damp hair curled around the collar of his shirt, and the way his blue eyes smiled in tandem with his mouth. I didn’t want to stick around the taxi being forced to look at all that, so I headed up the front steps and opened the door.

George greeted me with his usual unbridled enthusiasm, which made up for Oscar’s continued antagonism. My phone vibrated, silenced now, as I was unwilling to discover what other ringtones my brother had gifted me with—and I wasn’t surprised to see it was Aunt Cassie. No one else would have been up at three o’clock in the morning.

I answered just as Colin came through the door and George began barking in greeting, as if he hadn’t seen Colin in a month. “Good morning, Aunt Cassie. I’m in the middle of something—can I call you back later?”

“Sure,” she said, and disconnected.

I’d started to put my phone away when a text appeared on my screen. Who’s barking?

That’s George, Colin’s dog. He likes me.

Good to know. Is it getting serious?

I responded with an eye-roll emoji. I was talking about the dog.

It’s a good sign if Colin’s dog likes you, though.

Oscar—who belongs to Precious’s nurse—hates me.

She didn’t respond right away, so I made to put my phone in the back pocket of my new pants—before I realized that my new pants didn’t have pockets. “Ugh,” I said. “This is why I wear jeans, as I tried to explain to Arabella before she made me buy these.”

Colin shut the door and gave George a stern look; the dog immediately stopped barking and sat at attention. “I would have thought you’d realize by now that my cousin doesn’t recognize the word ‘no.’ We’re somehow both here helping with her work project, aren’t we?”

“Good point.” I gave up searching for a pocket and resigned myself to holding my phone. “Dining room or library?”

“Upstairs, actually. I have a work space in front of a large picture window that faces the gardens. There’s far more light.”

“Sure.” I frowned down at my phone as it vibrated.

That’s odd about Oscar. Dogs usually love you. Maybe he’s jealous of Colin’s feelings for you.

That’s ridiculous. We’re just trying to do a job. Speaking of which . . .

I didn’t get to finish; Aunt Cassie sent me another text right away. Trust me. Dogs are good at sensing underlying tension or emotions.

I sent her an eye-roll emoji, then: I need to get to work. Was there something you needed?

Beef or chicken?

I frowned. ???

For the wedding reception. We’re having a sit-down dinner at the old bowling alley—it’s now an event space. The Dixie Diner is catering.

I guess that explains no vegetarian or fish options. Either is fine.

And Colin?

“Tell her I’m fine with either as well. But what’s a Dixie Diner?”

I spun to find Colin looking over my shoulder. “Seriously? What is it with you and Arabella being so nosy? It’s very un-British.” I began climbing the steps as I texted, He won’t be there, so it doesn’t matter.

Before I could turn off my phone, her quick reply popped up. Okay. I’ll put him down for beef.

Colin called up to me. “First room on the right at the top of the stairs. You’ll see a big table in front of the window. I’m going to make coffee.”

“Bring the pot up, if you would,” I said, retracing my steps to relieve him of my backpack, dropping my phone in one of the outside pockets. “First room on the right—I’ll see you there.” I began to climb the stairs again.

“They look nice, by the way.”

I stopped, turned. “Excuse me?”

“Your new trousers. They fit you nicely, even if they don’t have pockets.”

“Thank you,” I stammered, feeling my face redden, thankful that he’d already headed back toward the kitchen and couldn’t see.

I’d never been upstairs in Colin’s house, though I’d always wanted to know what existed at the top of the curving staircase. I walked slowly, trying not to gawk at the twelve-inch egg-and-dart moldings of the ceiling cornices or the lovely carved pediments over the doors. I wanted to explore more, but dutifully turned in to the first door on the right instead. Out of habit, I tapped on it briefly before opening. A person didn’t grow up in a large family sharing a bathroom without learning that one simple rule.

Despite the drizzly day outside, light from the large window opposite the door flooded the high-ceilinged room. A parquet floor softened by Persian rugs made the cream walls and brilliant white trim pop.

I crossed to the window and carefully emptied the hatbox of cut photographs onto the table, then placed my backpack on the floor. Outside, in the gated gardens across the street, an elderly woman was walking two small fluffy dogs with no apparent interest in going in the same direction as their owner or each other.

It made me smile, reminding me of outings with my parents and siblings when we were young, how our parents must have felt the same way with the five of us running around in different directions. They’d probably wished for leashes and muzzles—at least I know that I had. Although I remembered it had usually taken only a word or a single look from Mama to get us to behave. Daddy had called it her magic touch; he’d said that of all her many talents, her best was being a mother.

Turning my attention back to the room, I noticed a wall of bookshelves, a comfortable couch upholstered in a subtle check pattern of black and white—probably to help disguise dog fur—and a cozy red wool throw with matching pillows. A leather reading chair with an ottoman; a copy of Harlan Coben’s latest thriller sitting on a small table built from what appeared to be airplane parts. Black-and-white photographs of architectural masterpieces—Notre-Dame, the Houses of Parliament, the Taj Mahal—in simple silver frames were placed around the room. A Star Wars poster signed by George Lucas hung next to a shadow box with a toy lightsaber. I smiled as I pictured a little Colin playing Jedi warrior.

The room had obviously been professionally decorated but curated by Colin. It was functional and nonfussy but showed parts of his personality I hadn’t expected.

An open door on the far wall captured my attention. If it hadn’t been ajar, I’d like to think my curiosity wouldn’t have been piqued. But it sat open, inviting inspection. And it wasn’t like Colin hadn’t sent me up here alone to begin with.

I walked over, making an agreement with myself that I wouldn’t go any farther than the doorway, and peered inside. A large king-sized bed dominated the center of the big room, flanked by two nightstands. The bed was unmade, the sheets mostly kicked to the floor, a duvet puddled on the rug, as if having lost a fight with a restless sleeper. A large red blanket with black printed paw prints covered one of the pillows, letting me know that Colin didn’t sleep alone.

Looking at the bed felt so intimate, the way it allowed me to picture Colin’s nighttime tossing and turning. I’d imagined him to be a focused sleeper, one who remained in the same position all night long without moving. But, as he frequently pointed out to me, I apparently didn’t know him very well at all.

I looked around the room, brightly lit by a window matching the one in the adjacent room, and I wondered if they might have originally been two bedrooms, converted at some point into a two-room suite. The furniture in here was all midcentury modern, flat fronts, no ornamentation. It surprised me, as it was so different from the rest of the house, but it fit Colin somehow. Not just that it wasn’t fussy or antique, but it showed that he’d cared enough to make his own mark.

I heard the jangling of china and the tread of footsteps on the stairs. Quickly, I returned to my backpack, pulling out the two framed photographs I’d taken from the wall in Precious’s flat. I placed them on the edge of the very large table, really looking at it for the first time.

It was almost what I would have described as rustic, with rough-hewn and weathered wood, rusty screws holding the large rectangular top to the picnic table legs. A thick piece of glass had been placed on top to make it functional, the beveled edges dressing it up to fit the room.

But it was the stack of architectural renderings neatly piled in the corner near a felt-lined box of drafting tools that I found the most interesting. I’d leaned over to get a better look at the drawings when I heard Colin enter the room behind me.

“I’ve brought coffee, lots of milk, as you like it, and in a cup big enough to be considered a serving bowl in most countries.”

I stood back so he could put the tray on the table, rattling the cups as he set it down. “Just in case your job as—” I stopped, unable to fill in the blank.

“Financial analyst,” he supplied with a wry look.

“—your job as an analyst doesn’t work out,” I continued, “you seem qualified to run a B and B. Except you’ll have to learn how to make beds.”

“Actually, I do know how. And I make my own. Every morning. A habit from boarding school I can’t seem to break. It’s just that I’m not used to being awakened at the crack of dawn and having to squeeze in my morning run and shower before entertaining guests prior to breakfast. But it’s nice to know of your interest in my bedroom habits.”

I felt my cheeks heating, but before I could defend myself, he said, “I brought toast and jam, by the way. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Ravenous—thank you.” I lifted off the silver domed lid and took a slice of thickly cut brown bread for my plate. We both spent a moment slathering black currant jam on our toast and eating; then I reached into my backpack again and pulled out the purse, and placed it next to the array of cut photographs.

I stood, sipping my coffee, washing down the toast and jam, my gaze wandering to the pile of drawings on the corner of the table. “What are those?” I asked.

He wiped his fingers on a napkin from the tray and picked up the stack to move it. “Just a hobby of mine.”

“A hobby?” I said, putting a hand on his arm so I could get a better look. “Did you draw all of these?”

“I did,” he said.

“You’re pretty good, you know. They look like they were done by a professional architect.”

He frowned. “Doubtful, but thank you. Nana is actually the one who got me started. She bought me my first drafting set when I was very small. Happily, I seemed to have an affinity for it.”

I took one of the pictures from the pile. It was a drawing of a house that had more windows than walls, with wraparound decking and a gabled roof that would allow for soaring ceilings inside.

“It looks like a beach house,” I said.

“That’s because it is. Besides taking me to see the great architectural masterpieces of London, Nana talked about the house she wanted me to build for her, should I one day become an architect. This is what I came up with.”

“It’s lovely,” I said, imagining I could hear the shrieks of gulls and see the blue reflections of sky in the wide windows. “This is all better than a hobby, Colin. You never thought of architecture as a career?”

“Not really. Even when we were children, Jeremy was always so much better at this than I was. Mother still has some of the drawings of buildings he made as a child, and they show so much promise—much more than I had at the same age. I suppose, as I grew into adulthood, I always thought of it as his career choice, not mine. Since I was better at maths than he was, I followed a different route.”

He seemed uncomfortable under my gaze and turned to place the stack of drawings on top of the small table by the chair. “So, what is it that you had to show me so bright and early?”

“A few things.” I opened the purse, then placed the ivory dolphin, brooch, and lace handkerchief on the desk. “The handkerchief has Graham’s monogram, so I’m going to assume it’s his. But the purse belonged to both Precious and Eva, so it’s impossible to determine who this all belonged to without asking Precious.”

Colin picked up the brooch, rolling it between his long fingers. “From Graham?”

“Again, I can only speculate. But since he was RAF, it would make sense.”

He examined the dolphin, then watched as I pulled out the five envelopes.

“These don’t appear to have been opened. And they’re all addressed to Graham. Which raises the question of whether they were never delivered to him, or if he chose not to open them.”

His eyes met mine. “And you didn’t steam them open.”

“Definitely not,” I said, attempting to sound as offended as I felt, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to me more than once. “It was bad enough that I opened her purse. If I opened sealed letters, I’d be in a fine pickle trying to explain it to her.”

“A fine pickle?”

“It wouldn’t be good. My mama would probably come down from heaven and open up a can of whoop ass on me for reading someone else’s letters.”

“That’s a bad thing, then?”

“Very. Mama wouldn’t appreciate being called down from her fluffy cloud, where she’s probably listening to her favorite eighties music, so let’s leave those letters be until we can ask Precious about them.”

The corner of his mouth quirked as if he wanted to smile. “All right. But why did you bring these?” He pointed to the framed photographs.

I picked up one and handed the other to him. We took them out of their frames and placed the photos flat on the table. “Something has been bothering me, but I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. I thought I should look at all these photographs to see if I’m right.”

“Right about what?”

“Look,” I said, studying David and Sophia’s wedding photo. “Here’s the only photo we can find of Precious and Eva together—well, sort of, since we don’t see them both clearly. Remember all those empty spots in the wedding album? Remember how we thought that someone had deliberately removed photographs? I can’t help but wonder if they were photos of the two women together since this is the only one I could find.”

Our eyes met again, but neither of us said anything.

“That’s why I wanted to look at this one more closely.” I turned the photo of the glamorous woman stepping out of the car so that it faced Colin. Looking closely at it in the clear morning light, I realized that I’d been right. What I’d thought I’d seen wasn’t a spot on the glass. I turned, looking for my phone, but Colin put his in my hand without my asking. As if he’d read my mind.

I flipped on the flashlight and aimed it at the photograph. “There,” I said, tapping on the glossy picture. “Look—there.”

I kept my finger pointed at the spot, waiting for him to see it, too. Eventually he pulled back. Regarded me. “There’s some sort of mark on her neck. It’s practically invisible unless one is looking for it.”

“That’s right.” I turned back to the wedding photograph, pointing to the woman standing next to Sophia, her head turned away from the photographer. “Precious said this is her, right? But her head is turned to the left, so no birthmark is visible. And in every single photograph we have of her, her head is turned or facing forward.”

“You could have just asked me if Nana has a birthmark. She’s always worn high collars or makeup to hide it, but I’ve seen it a few times. I think that she simply wanted perfection—she was a model, after all. Maybe that’s when it started.”

“That totally makes sense. But bear with me.” I began sorting through the cut photographs from the hatbox, the ones that had been deliberately sliced with scissors. I trained the phone flashlight on them again, wishing they were digital, that I could simply spread my fingers to make the pictures bigger.

“Without really analyzing all of these closely, I can’t say for sure, but from just a random sampling, it appears she’s not caring at what angle she’s being photographed from. And in the ones where we can see the left side of her neck, I don’t see the mark. Yes, it could be concealed with makeup. But it’s very odd, don’t you think?”

Colin nodded, his face closed in thought.

I pulled out the blown-up candid pictures of Precious I’d taken in her flat, and slid them over. “When I was snapping random photos of her just a few weeks ago, she made sure her face was turned to the left. As if it still mattered. As if she still didn’t want people to see it.”

When he eventually spoke, his voice sounded tight. “I appreciate your observations, but I think we’ve already agreed that even at ninety-nine, Nana is still vain, so it’s not like it’s out of character. And old habits are hard to break.”

“I agree. But that doesn’t explain the missing photographs in Sophia’s wedding album, or an entire hatbox full of cut-up pictures.”

“Or these,” Colin said as he picked up the stack of sealed letters.

I frowned at them, staring at the large block print of Graham’s name on them. Then I turned toward the stacks of Sophia’s letters, which I’d placed in bundles, separated by sender. I found the ones written by Precious after the war and placed them on the table in front of us. “Does this look like the same handwriting?”

We compared the two, our heads moving from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match. “It could be,” Colin said. “Except on the sealed letters the person printed in block letters. It’s really impossible to tell.”

“Unless we open the letters and look at the handwriting inside, which I’m not going to do.”

“Neither am I—not without Nana’s permission, at any rate.” Our eyes met, both of us contemplating the chances of receiving it.

I straightened as a thought occurred to me. “Where’s the photo of Graham—the one with the writing on the back? It’s definitely a woman’s handwriting. We can assume that’s Eva’s, right? Because she and Graham were . . .” I searched for the correct mid-twentieth-century word.

“Lovers,” Colin said with the hint of a smile, the word on his lips doing interesting things to my breathing.

“Yes, that. Do you know where the photo is?” I began searching through my backpack, trying to recall where I’d last seen it, and straightened as I remembered. “Never mind. Precious was looking for it, and I gave it to her—right before she collapsed. But I don’t think it’s in her room at the flat. I would have seen it when I picked up her purse.”

“She must have had it with her when she checked into the hospital, then.”

“Maybe it’s with her personal effects?” I said hopefully. “Or they gave everything to your parents.”

He checked his wristwatch—the fact that he wore a watch was one of the things I liked about him. “They said they’d call by eight with any updates. I’ll ask when I talk to them.”

I nodded absently, thinking about the valise. “I searched online for the name and address on that valise you brought over from your parents’ attic. The address doesn’t exist anymore—possibly because of an air raid during the war. I’ve got four phone numbers of people with the last name Nash that I can call, but otherwise I’m afraid it’s a dead end.”

“Unless Nana knows. Even Hyacinth Ponsonby seems to have run into a brick wall. I’m beginning to think that Nana is the only person alive who holds any of the answers. And we’re running out of time.”

I picked up one of the cut photographs, looking at the woman’s bright, open smile, and felt the same zing of recognition that had nothing to do with knowing what Precious looked like now.

Before I could examine the thought further, Colin’s cell phone rang—a normal ring that came with the phone. I found it refreshing. “It’s my father,” he said as he answered it.

I busied myself picking everything up and returning it all to my backpack. When I heard the word good-bye, I asked, “Any news?” I reminded myself not to hold my breath.

“Nana is awake but not completely coherent. She’s asking for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. Come on, I’ll drive you.”

He took my pack, then placed a gentle hand on the small of my back, leading me out of the room toward the stairs. At the bottom I stopped to face him. He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Precious told me she doesn’t like to talk about her time with the Resistance during the war because people would ask why.”

“I don’t follow.”

“She told me that no act of heroism is done for truly altruistic reasons. That every good deed is done in penance. To repay a wrong.”

He kept his steady gaze on me for a moment. “Every time I think about our questions, all the answers seem to swirl around what became of Eva and Graham. Everything seems to come down to that, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “I’m not sure we’ll like where this is going.”

“Neither am I. But I think we need to find out the truth. Not for us. For her.”

His cell phone rang again. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Father says they have the photo of Graham. And Nana is asking for the dolphin.”

I squeezed my brows together. “It’s in the purse—I’ll bring it.”

I made to move past him, but he gently pulled me back. “There’s one more thing.”

I met his gaze.

“The photograph of Graham. With ‘Sweet dreams, darling’ written on the back, supposedly by Eva. That doesn’t really make sense, though, does it?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, if I were to give you a photograph of me, I’d write something on the back, to you from me. Not the other way around.”

“Then why would Eva have written that on the back of Graham’s picture?”

Our eyes met in mutual understanding. I swallowed. “Because she knew he was already dead.”

He didn’t look away. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.” It was as much a confession of my feelings as I would allow myself to share.

He continued to regard me closely, his eyes searching mine. I turned away and headed toward the door. I stood on the front steps while he locked up. I stared into the garden across the street without really seeing it, wondering to what lengths a person might go to seek atonement.