Chapter Four

Having to put off the party for the Home Guard didn’t go down very well with Ruth. She’d originally hoped to have the get-together in her back garden, in the parts not given over to her vegetable patch, as soon as she’d pulled herself together after coming to terms with what had happened to her son. The problem with this, of course, is how do you come to terms with finding out your offspring’s been badly hurt and there’s nothing you can do about it?

Her son, Joe, the original editor of the Hamble Gazette, had been captured as part of the British rearguard at Dunkirk back in 1940. She still didn’t know the full details of how he’d been injured, as he refused to elaborate in his letters, which made it all the harder. Heaven forbid, if he’d been injured, or worse, back in Dunkirk, she might have known more, and perhaps that would have made it easier to understand. Only he hadn’t, so she didn’t. Just how do you lose a leg in a POW camp? She’d lost count of the number of people she’d called up, trying to find someone who could find out more—anything—for her, but with no luck. Even requests for information from the Swiss Protecting Power hadn’t given her any leads. They said they’d requested information from the German authorities but had only received the bare bones back—shot whilst attempting to escape.

Only one of her circle of friends, Shirley Tuttle, could partially understand what she was going through. Her husband, Ted, had been captured in North Africa, and the younger woman had only just found out he was alive and not dead, as she’d been led to believe, in November last year.

However, even talking together and sharing the letters they received didn’t help. It was one thing agreeing she could do nothing about the situation, but quite another to live with that reality. She was even waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat lately, something she hadn’t shared with anyone. With Lawrence back now, she wasn’t certain how much longer she could keep this secret. As Shirley made so much noise, a little like a buzz saw, when she slept, she’d only woken her up once, and explained it off as some random nightmare. Lawrence made just as much of a racket, but he being a policeman she didn’t think she’d be able to convince him so easily.

So, rather than find herself in the situation where she had to explain the insomnia, she suffered silently instead. Recently promoted to Detective Inspector, her nephew was too astute to be fibbed to. Plus, so far as she was concerned, you don’t lie to family. Perhaps if she talked things over with him, she’d be able to find some balance. Setting out the breakfast things, a pot of tea, toast, and eggs—which reminded her, the chicken coop still needed rebuilding—she put her head about the kitchen door and yelled, “Breakfast! Get it whilst it’s hot!” and was rewarded by the thunder of feet upon the landing.

“Thanks for the shout, Ruth,” Shirley said, pulling out a chair and sitting to finish tying the ribbon on her ponytail. “Blinking alarm didn’t go off.”

By comparison, Lawrence ambled in, still in his ancient dressing gown, hands thrust into pockets more holes than anything else. “As I’m up.” He beamed a smile at his aunt through an unshaven face. “Thanks very much, Aunty.”

Wondering how she was going to get him alone for a chat, since for some reason she’d forgot about Shirley, Ruth was saved from the quandary by Shirley swallowing her tea in a few gulps, then piling her eggs between two slices of hastily buttered toast. Jumping out of her seat, she kissed Ruth on the cheek. “Sorry to run. Lizzie’s loaning me some flying manuals before she goes off, and I want to have a flick through before I start work.”

Torn between her desire to be alone with her nephew and her instinct to tell Shirley to sit down and eat a proper breakfast, the choice was taken from her by the mechanic rushing out of the kitchen, grabbing her coat and bag from the hall stand, and charging out the front door, a shouted, “Bye!” echoing behind her.

“What have I missed?” Lawrence asked, a piece of toast in his hand.

Not wishing to make light of Shirley’s considerable achievement in soloing in a station Tiger Moth, Ruth also wanted to turn the conversation around to her son as soon as possible. “You remember Shirley soloed before you had to go back to London?” Lawrence nodded as he shoveled some eggs into his mouth. “She’s off in a few days’ time for official flying training in the ATA. Assuming all goes well, she’ll go on to Haddenham for lectures and advanced flying training.”

Lawrence let out a whistle and cast his eyes to where Shirley had briefly sat beside him. “Well, well. Our Shirley really has come far, hasn’t she?”

Despite her desire to get off the subject being discussed, Ruth couldn’t deny his words. “She’s certainly done herself proud.”

Lifting up his teacup, Lawrence had a quick sip before putting it back down. “What’s on your mind, Aunty?”

Ruth changed her mind about taking a bite of toast.

“I’m not known as the sleuth of the yard for nothing, I’ll have you know.”

Ruth was glad she hadn’t been drinking her tea, else she’d have snorted hot tea down her nose. “I doubt if anyone’s called anything of the like,” she commented. “However, you’re right. I do want to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Two things. First, and it’s rather silly, but as you’re here, you should know I’m…I’m not sleeping well—still.” Lawrence raised an eyebrow, yet kept quiet. His police training told him to let her continue talking. “I’d hoped to have got used to my poor Joe having lost a foot by now.”

As she had to stop for a deep, calming breath before continuing, Lawrence could guess where she was going here. However, when someone needed to get something off their chest—or conscience, in the case of suspects, so far as police work was concerned—let them talk. Even if a certain amount of waffle and repetition was involved. In his aunt’s case, he sensed she was feeling guilty at being powerless to help. Not surprising, so far as he was concerned. Whilst he’d been back in London, probably slightly abusing his new status of police inspector, he’d tried to see if there was anything anyone could do to help either his aunt or her son. The frustrating answer had been as he’d expected. If he was feeling guilty, Lord alone knew what the poor chap’s mother was going through!

Ignoring his cooling tea—there’d be time to make more later—he pushed his cup aside. “I’ve been thinking about Joe whilst I’ve been away,” he began. “Even wrote to him myself. Wishing him all the best, you know. Anyway, I don’t believe you should try and get used to it. Hear me out,” he hastened to say, when Ruth showed all signs of interrupting. “The only thing you can do, I think, is carry on. Trying to get used to it is impossible, whilst he’s not here. Your imagination is probably running wild as to what—what his leg looks like. I can’t tell you how to go about changing your way of thinking, and you’ll be thinking about what he looks like until the day he walks through the front door there. I do have a suggestion. Something a colleague of mine in the force did after he was injured in Norway.”

Intrigued in spite of herself, Ruth took up a knife and buttered herself a slice of toast. “Go on.”

“Bear with me here,” Lawrence asked, “as this is going to sound rather silly, but he swears it helped him. If it did, I don’t see a reason it couldn’t help you.”

If not intrigued by now, Ruth was certainly very curious and motioned with her free hand for him to continue.

“He held a funeral…for his foot.”

Whatever Ruth may have been expecting to hear, it wasn’t this. Crumbs flew everywhere! Hurrying to push himself away from the table, Lawrence gently pounded his aunt on the back until she waved him away.

Grabbing a cloth from the sink, he swept the remains of her slice of toast into his hand and gave the kitchen table a quick wipe-over. “Sorry. I guess I should have warned you.”

Woken from his slumber by the sound of his owner coughing, Bobby sleepily staggered in from the lounge, where he’d been having a post-nighttime snooze, and raised half-open brown eyes toward her. Upon seeing no sign of a sausage or piece of toast coming his way, he turned his tail toward Ruth and Lawrence, flicked it in disdain, and wandered back to the sofa.

The two humans, having watched the canine interlude with some interest, turned back to what they’d been discussing.

“You know,” Ruth said, “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. It’s such a strange idea, such a strange thing to do, but it sounds like just what I need.”

Lawrence contemplated the lady before him. For the first time he could remember since her son had been maimed, she had a genuine smile upon her face. He had to be sure, though. “I’ve got to check,” he told her. “You did understand what happened, what my mate did?”

She obviously did, and was crying with laughter. She nodded, as she wasn’t quite capable of speaking, though she eventually managed to catch her breath enough to tell him, whilst flapping her hands in front of her face, “I did! When can we arrange it?”

It took Lawrence a few minutes to sort his thoughts out, as in all honesty he never thought his suggestion would be taken up, although what he’d told Ruth had been the truth. His friend had joined up at the outbreak of war, been sent to Norway, and lost his foot in an air attack during what had been a disastrous undertaking. When he’d been discharged, he’d been in a bad place. Not knowing what he would do, he’d stumbled into the pub he used to frequent when he’d been in the police in Westminster at the exact moment his old colleagues had entered. Even their delight at seeing him alive, as rumors had been rife about what had happened to him and they’d heard he was dead, hadn’t been enough to bring him out of his depression. Things didn’t change until a colleague Lawrence vaguely knew from Records came in and took his friend aside. Five minutes after, the Records chap had then brought him back to the group and stayed for a pint of beer before walking back out without revealing a word he’d said, merely whacking his walking stick against his leg, which made a weird ringing-bell sound. A few months later, after Lawrence had secured his place back in the Metropolitan Police, he’d taken him aside. The Records chap had lost his lower leg in the trenches of the Great War, and as he’d been carried away, his last sight had been of his colleagues burying his leg in Flanders mud and erecting a small cross above it.

“What a story!” Ruth exclaimed. “Is he still working in Records? I’d love to do a story on him!”

Pleased to see his aunt happy again, Lawrence snaffled some toast before it got too cold, and replied, “You know, I think old Charley is still there. I’ll call work up later today and see what he says.”

“Wonderful!” Ruth declared, clapping her hands together.

Bobby, as sleepy as before, stumbled back into the kitchen, barked once in their direction, and turned back to the lounge.

Lawrence asked Ruth, “Since when’s he been in such a mood?”

Ruth didn’t seem to have noticed Bobby particularly and ignored the question to reply to Lawrence’s previous statement. “Brilliant. Let me know once you have, please?”

“I will. And we’ll sort out a foot funeral for Joe. You’ll write and tell him?”

“You bet I will,” Ruth replied. “Now, I wanted to ask you something else, remember?”

“You want to know what I’m doing here.”

“Show off,” Ruth informed him. “You could have guessed.”

Lawrence looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s coming up to nine, Aunty. How about we finish up here, and I’ll walk you to the office. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“Bugger!” Ruth exclaimed, also throwing a glance the clock’s way. “You’re right. I’d better shake a leg, or I’ll be late.”

****

Ten minutes later, Ruth and Lawrence were strolling along the riverbank, toward her newspaper office in the center of Hamble.

“You’re here because…” Ruth prompted.

“I’ll tell you shortly. First, you remember my little accident?”

Ruth frowned, and Lawrence was a little surprised he wasn’t actually swatted around the head. He’d been injured and nearly killed whilst conducting an investigation in London a few months back and had come to his aunt’s to recuperate. Once they found out the circumstances and the extent of his injuries, neither Ruth nor Mary were one bit happy with him. Everyone had taken to calling it his “accident” as otherwise arguments would have been all too common.

Lawrence’s brow creased at seeing her expression. “I can, er, see you do. Anyway, I wanted to let you know. Not only have we caught the gang who were stealing the lead from those church roofs, we’ve also arrested the one who caused my injuries.”

Ruth stumbled to a halt, nearly causing Lawrence to trip over Bobby’s leash. Gripping him by both elbows, she fixed him with a determined stare. “Tell me again!”

Lawrence, knowing his aunt needed to be certain he was telling her the truth, returned her stare. “We’ve got the bugger.”

For a second, he thought her legs might go from beneath her. Wiping away a single tear, she squeezed his arms once and then, taking one of his hands, turned back toward work. Whilst walking, he filled her in on what had happened.

“I never told you about my assistant, my sergeant. Durrell’s his name. A bit old for a sergeant. I was never quite sure if he had the wherewithal to become an inspector—you know, as he seemed to like muddling along. Anyway, I thought they’d killed him too, as the last I saw, he was lying in a heap, blood everywhere. He was in the next bed to me in the hospital. Seems I was wrong about him. Whilst I was down here, he discharged himself and went in search of the one responsible for our injuries. This in spite of a broken arm and a knife wound to his neck which just missed his jugular.”

By now, they’d been led by Bobby to the door of the Hamble Gazette. Walter stood outside, his key just in the lock, when they turned up. He opened his mouth to wish them both a good morning, but something about the intensity of the way Ruth was listening to Lawrence held his tongue.

“I’ll be going back to London next week. I’ve to testify against the man who murdered his colleague and tried to do the same to both myself and Durrell. He’s turned on his masters in an attempt to save himself, so we’ve got everyone. The trial will take a while, and then I’ll be back.”

“Back?” Ruth asked, puzzled.

Lawrence treated her to a semi-feral grin. “You don’t get rid of me so easily! Durrell’s taking over my post, and I’m moving into this area. A detective inspector position has come up at Portsmouth. So you’d better be on your best behavior, Aunty. Hamble will be within my sphere of responsibility!”