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Blanche watched through a veil of unshed tears as the village woman came toward them carrying two teacups.
The old man with the bandaged head took one of the cups with a nod of thanks. Blanche turned her head away as the woman thrust the second cup under her nose.
“I put sugar in it,” the woman said. “To heck with rationing, I said to myself. You’ve had a nasty shock and you need strong sweet tea.”
“No, no, take it away.”
The woman frowned and offered the cup again. “It’ll do you good.”
“No, it won’t.”
The woman still did not move, and it occurred to Blanche that the tea was only an excuse. That woman, in her flowered apron and her hair still up in pin curls, wanted to know what was going on, and she was going to stand there until she found out.
The detective, Slater was his name, frowned at the village woman, but she stood her ground.
“I want to know what’s going on,” she said, looking directly at the detective.
“You’ve been told,” Slater replied. “There’s a German mine loose along this part of the coast. We’re not sure where or if it will come ashore, but we’ve evacuated the houses that could be affected. Now, please, go back to making tea.”
The woman settled her hands on her hips. “I will not.”
The old man with the bandaged head chuckled and dug Mr. Slater in the ribs.
“You might as well tell her,” he said. “You might as well tell everyone. Once Elsie Shenton gets her teeth into something, she don’t ever let go.”
“It’s police business,” Slater muttered.
“It’s village business,” Elsie retorted. “Sam’s right. We want to know if we’re all going to be murdered in our beds by the likes of Terry Chapman.”
Her glance went to the woman in the corner who had her arms around a thin trembling man.
“Terry Chapman hasn’t done anything,” Slater said.
“Then why is he here?” Elsie asked.
Mrs. Chapman rose to her feet. “That’s what I want to know. Why am I here? Why can’t you leave us be?”
To Blanche’s surprise, Miss Clark, the old lawyer’s secretary, rose and put a comforting hand on Mrs. Chapman’s arm. “I’m afraid you’re here because your daughter is involved in something.”
“My daughter is in America.”
Elsie crowed with triumph. “No, she’s not. She’s here in this village, or leastways she was.”
Mrs. Chapman’s face crumpled, all pride and defiance gone. “She can’t be. She’s in America with my granddaughter.”
Blanche felt a draft of cold air as the outer door of the hall opened and two people came in. She saw the distinctive outline of a policeman in a helmet, and beside him, Vera Malloy, upright and indignant.
“Vera!”
Blanche thought that Mrs. Chapman was going to faint, but the lawyer’s secretary held her upright.
She heard a surprised choking sob from the dark corner of the room where Terry Chapman huddled, deep in his own fears.
Vera had been looking at her mother, her eyes wide and defiant, but now she saw her brother. Blanche saw the defiance give way to anguish. For the first time, she detected real emotion in Vera’s face.
“Terry?”
He shambled forward.
“Oh, Terry, what happened to you?”
She held out her arms and he lurched into her embrace, resting his head on her shoulder.
Mrs. Chapman’s voice was high and scolding. “What do you mean by coming here and not telling me? I had to hear it from someone else. What kind of daughter doesn’t tell her mother that she’s coming all the way from America, and where is my granddaughter?”
Blanche bit her lip. Should she say it? Should she get this out in the open? She looked to Harry for affirmation. She saw him nod his head and saw admiration in his eyes. She would not be weak. She would not cling to a false hope.
“She’s not your granddaughter.”
A stifling silence blanketed the room. Blanche felt as though time was standing still. She saw the village woman staring, her eyes greedy for information. She saw anger overtaking compassion on Vera’s face, and a flush of shame suffusing Mrs. Chapman’s cheeks.
She looked at Lady Sylvia’s confident smile. Lady Sylvia thought she was going to get away with it, but she wasn’t. Blanche was not about to confirm Lady Sylvia’s claim. That woman, with her aristocratic ways and her cold triumphant smile, had sullied Jack’s memory. Jack would never have married a woman like her. Jack had been better than that.
Blanche kept her eyes on Lady Sylvia and watched the smile fade. “She’s not your child. You were never married to my son.”
“Ha!” The old man with the bandaged head emitted a triumphant snort and looked at the detective. “I told you. I knew it all along. Baby-stealing, that’s what I said.”
Blanche looked from one face to another. “Doesn’t anyone care where she is now? I don’t know who her father is, and I don’t even know her real name, but I know that she’s not here.”
The door opened again. Blanche looked behind her and saw Mrs. Pearson slip out into the night.