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Toby looked down at the bloated face as Slater flicked the sheet aside. It was five days since he had seen her alive in the drawing room at Southwold. The intervening days had been busy ones for him, but for Nurse Tierney, they had not been kind.
“Her name’s Tierney.”
“First name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where does she come from?”
“Ireland, I think. Northern Ireland.”
“And why does she have your business card?”
“Ah.”
Toby’s hesitation had not been intended to try the patience of Detective Sergeant Slater, but the man had a short fuse and was already suspicious of every word that came from Toby’s mouth. Who could blame him when he had another dead body on his hands and Toby’s card in her pocket?
“Was she your client?” Slater asked impatiently, gesturing with his remaining hand to the cold, damp figure on the table.
“No, not exactly.”
“And you don’t know her first name. Do you know her address?”
“No. All I know is that she was a nurse. Well, not really a nurse, more of an orderly.”
“When is the last time you saw her?”
Toby hesitated. He could tell Slater the when but not the where.
“I saw her five days ago.”
“Do you want to tell me anything else?”
Toby considered his instructions from Mr. Champion. Don’t volunteer information but answer truthfully. What was the truth? The only truth he knew of the woman on the slab was that she spoke with an Irish accent. He had no proof of anything else, not even her name.
“No, I don’t know anything else,” he said.
“Irish you say?”
“Yes, definitely Irish.”
Slater reached forward and inserted his left hand under Nurse Tierney’s head. Toby saw movement in Slater’s right shoulder as though he still could not overcome his body’s instinct to move the nonexistent right arm. He moved clumsily, lifting and turning the dead woman’s head. The hair that had been tucked under a hat for her interview at Southwold was now revealed as a clumsy mass of drowned gray curls.
“Can you state for the record that this woman presented herself to you as a Miss or Mrs. Tierney, that she claimed to be a nurse or an orderly, and appeared to be Irish?”
“Yes.”
Slater replaced the sheet.
“Normally I wouldn’t take a blind bit of notice of something like this. I could easily put it down as death by drowning resulting from a fall from the cliff. I would even assume that she was drunk at the time.”
“Why?”
Slater looked at Toby with raised eyebrows. “You say she was Irish, so we can assume she was drunk; drunkards, all of them.”
“You can’t say that,” Toby protested.
Slater gave him an icy smile that matched the temperature of the mortuary. “It would be easier all around if I did say that, don’t you think?”
Without waiting for Toby’s reply, he pulled the woman’s limp arm from under the sheet and looked at the multiple gashes and scrapes.
“Dragged along the seabed by the tide,” he said. “All kinds of stuff lying on the bottom these days, barbed wire, tank traps, not to mention rocks. My guess is that she entered the water, unwillingly, from the cliff path at Saltdean and the tide brought her down here. If she hadn’t been tangled in the wire, she would have gone out with the next tide and never been seen again.”
He tucked the corpse’s arm back under the sheet. “We’re busy people. One war is over and another is beginning. They’re calling it the Cold War; let’s hope it stays that way. We’re on the lookout for Soviet spies and we’re still rounding up Nazis. Normally I wouldn’t go to much trouble over a drunken old woman falling off a cliff, but this one is not as simple as it looks, is it?”
Toby stared down at the shrouded body. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ll spare you another look at the damage,” Slater said, “and I’ll just tell you that Miss Tierney here received a heavy blow on her head, and it was not caused by anything she encountered underwater.”
He made a movement with his right shoulder and then groped in his pocket with his left hand. Toby felt a pang of sympathy. The missing hand was Slater’s constant companion; his brain had not accepted the truth.
Slater looked down at his notes. “Robert Alderton, Miss or Mrs. Tierney, and Sam Ruddle.”
Toby gasped. Last he had heard, Sam Ruddle was still unconscious. Had he taken a turn for the worst?
“Is he dead?”
“No, not yet, but if he dies, we may not be charging Terry Chapman with murder. In light of this latest evidence, we may be looking at someone else.”
“You’re trying to connect these three things, Alderton, Ruddle, and Tierney?”
“I don’t have to try very hard.”
Slater fumbled the notebook back into his pocket.
“So, Mr. Whitby, let me ask you again. What is your connection to this woman?”
“She had evidence to give in a civil matter. I’ve told you everything I am able to tell you without breaching my client’s need for confidentiality.”
“And your client is?”
“I can’t answer that.”
Slater sighed. “Southwold.” He shook his head. “No, you don’t have to confirm it; it’s written all over your face. Let me tell you, Mr. Whitby, I don’t regard anyone as being above the law. Go ahead and claim client confidentiality, but it makes no difference to me. I have my eye on you.”
He gestured with his head. “Go out that door. The desk clerk will have forms for you to sign to say you identified her as someone named Tierney. We’ll take it from here.”
Toby emerged from the mortuary and walked the narrow lane to the seafront. The office was just a short distance away, and he hoped that brisk wind blowing from the sea would clear his mind.
He made his way past the repaired Palace Pier, once again open for business, and no longer a potential landing ground for Hitler’s invasion forces. The short winter day was drawing to a close, and lights winked on outlining the dome of the theatre perched precariously at the end of the pier. He tried to take his mind off Slater’s veiled accusations by examining the posters that proclaimed the many entertainments on offer. He imagined inviting Carol to see a show; a musical was playing at the Palace Theatre. Would she like Ivor Novello? Would she go with him to see The Dancing Years?
He looked at his watch. Four o’clock. He would like to have stayed at the foot of the pier, dreaming about a date with Carol, but Mr. Champion would expect him to return to the office.
Anthea Clark rose from her desk as soon as he entered the door. “You have a visitor,” she said disapprovingly, “an unpleasant woman in an unsuitable hat.”
“Did she give her name?”
“She refused.”
Toby tried to imagine how anyone could refuse Miss Clark. The visitor must indeed be formidable.
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“Only that she wanted to see you and she has information. She is in the waiting room. She’s been there for over an hour. I gave her tea, although I did not use the best china. She does not appear to be the kind of woman who should be served on our best china.”
Toby frowned. Miss Clark’s social barometer was no doubt accurate, but if this woman, whoever she was, had information to give, perhaps she should be treated with more respect.
“I also gave her a biscuit,” Miss Clark added.
Well, Toby thought, a biscuit was probably more important than the quality of the teacup.
He pushed open the door of the waiting room and was greeted by the sight of Vera Chapman’s mother dressed in a black woolen coat and a bright yellow hat pulled down low over her forehead and topped with a cockade of red feathers. He had to agree with Miss Clark; the hat was indeed unsuitable, both for the time of year and also for the wearer, whose scowling face negated any possible levity suggested by the colorful headgear.
Mrs. Chapman rose from her seat. “I’ve been waiting since three o’clock,” she said accusingly. “Shall we get on with this?”
“I’m sorry,” said Toby. “Did we have an appointment?”
“No.”
Toby wondered why he had apologized. He had no appointment with this woman. She could have waited all day and he still would not need to apologize.
“I have something for you; something you’ve been looking for,” said Mrs. Chapman, patting her battered leather handbag. “You can have it for a price.”
“Mrs. Chapman,” Toby protested, “this is a law firm. We don’t pay for information.”
“It’s not information; it’s proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Proof my Vera had a baby. Proof that Nellie Pearson up at the Hall is lying through her teeth. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You wrote me letters, didn’t you? You wanted proof.”
“Yes, I did, but—”
“But nothing. You wanted proof, and I have proof. If I give it to you, what are you going to give me?”
Toby took a deep breath. “Mrs. Chapman, it would not be lawful for me to give you money.”
Mrs. Chapman drew herself upright, and her face assumed an expression of outraged innocence.
“Money? Who said anything about money?”
“Well, you said—”
“I didn’t say nothing about money. Did you hear one word about money pass my lips?”
Toby’s anger was sharp and sudden. He knew it was anger that he should have directed at Detective Sergeant Slater and his accusation, but Slater was not standing in front of him, and Mrs. Chapman was. He stretched out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“Police?”
Mrs. Chapman’s voice rose to a protesting shriek, and Toby heard the door of the waiting room open behind him. He knew Miss Clark would be standing behind him disapprovingly, but he could not, and would not, take his eyes off Mrs. Chapman.
“Withholding evidence is a criminal offence, Mrs. Chapman.”
“I ain’t. This ain’t a criminal—”
“Yes, it is,” Toby persisted. “I suggest you give me whatever you have before you further incriminate yourself.”
“Incriminate?” Mrs. Chapman’s voice cracked as she repeated the word.
Toby heard Miss Clark speaking softly behind him. “Mr. Whitby, I don’t think—”
“Not now,” Toby snapped. He continued to glare at Mrs. Chapman. His extended hand remained steady. “Give it to me.”
Mrs. Chapman fumbled her purse open and pulled out a folded paper.
“I don’t want no money,” she said softly, “I just want you to help my Terry.”
She thrust the paper into Toby’s hand and collapsed suddenly into a chair. Her face crumpled, and Toby saw her expression for what it was, not the greedy desire for money, but the despair of a woman who had suffered too much loss.
Toby glanced over his shoulder at Miss Clark. “Tea,” he said, “and biscuits. The best china.”
“I think so,” Miss Clark agreed.
Toby desperately wanted to read the birth certificate, but he knew that this was not the time. He sat down next to Mrs. Chapman.
“How is Terry?”
“I don’t know. They won’t let me see him.”
“Has he been charged?”
“No. I asked Constable Arkwright, and he said they won’t charge him until they know whether Sam Ruddle is going to live or die. If he dies, then it’s murder. He didn’t do it, Mr. Whitby. He wouldn’t do nothing like that.”
“I agree with you.”
She looked at him with surprise in her faded blue eyes.
“You don’t think he did it?”
“I’m quite sure he didn’t,” Toby replied.
“Then who?”
“I don’t know who, but I think I know why.”
“Why?”
Toby looked down at the folded paper. “This is why.”
“That’s just a birth certificate,” Mrs. Chapman said, “just to prove that my Vera had a baby. Vera had a passport for the baby when she left to go to America, so she didn’t need the birth certificate no more. She threw it away in the dustbin, but I took it out. I knew I’d need it one day. I know what people are like, and I won’t have Nellie Pearson saying that my Vera is lying. Vera didn’t steal no baby and she married that American; it was all legal and aboveboard. I don’t know why they want to say that it’s Her Ladyship’s baby. Why would they say a thing like that?”
“They have their reasons,” Toby said.
He unfolded the certificate. The document was printed on heavy paper with a raised seal; an original, somewhat stained and faded along the fold lines, but an original. At long last he had something in his hands that was indisputable evidence of the birth of Anita Mary Malloy on April 15, 1945. Her mother was listed as Vera Chapman Malloy, and her father as Nicholas Joseph Malloy. The raised seal indicated that the birth was registered by the registrar of Dorking in Surrey.
“Dorking?” Toby said. “Not Brighton?”
“What?” said Mrs. Chapman.
“The baby’s birth was registered in Dorking, not Brighton.”
“Of course it was.” Mrs. Chapman looked at Tony with a baffled expression. “Why would the baby be born in Brighton? Vera was with the Land Army in Billingshurst right up until the end. She wasn’t nowhere near Brighton. Who says the baby was born in Brighton?”
Toby refrained from answering the question and continued to study the document. “It doesn’t actually say where she was born. It doesn’t give the name of a hospital.”
“She wasn’t born in a hospital.”
Toby raised his eyebrows.
“You think every baby is born in a hospital?” Mrs. Chapman asked. “Babies come when they’re ready. They don’t wait for an ambulance; they just come.”
“So Vera talked to you about this? She talked about the birth?” Mildred Chapman’s eyes slid sideways. “She didn’t say much. Just said it was sudden. She didn’t give me all the gory details. Not everyone wants to hear all the details. I’ve had my own babies; I didn’t need her to tell me what it was like.”
“So you don’t know where ...”
“On the farm, I suppose,” Mrs. Chapman snapped, “just like one of the animals. Do you think I want to tell that to everyone? You have what you were asking for, so what are you going to do for my Terry?”
Toby wanted to reach over and pat the woman’s hand. Unpleasant as she was, Mrs. Chapman had been given more than her fair share of grief, and the idea of Terry Chapman being charged with murder was more than any mother could be expected to bear.
Before he could make a gesture of sympathy, Miss Clark came quietly into the room, carrying a bone china teacup and a small plate of biscuits.
Toby rose. “I’ll see what I can find out,” he said, “and I’ll visit your son myself.”
“You do that,” Mrs. Chapman said with a return of her usual belligerence. “And you tell those people up at the Hall that they’re not getting their hands on my granddaughter.” She took a sip of tea. “Don’t you have no sugar?” she asked.