“I’ve made a right mess of things,” said Grace.
Constable Wallace had offered to show her around Saltwell Park. It was the sort of winter day when warmth and greenery were part of a half-forgotten dream. A January sun, sharp and cold as a reflection in polished steel, illuminated the fairy-tale turrets, towers, and chimneys of the mansion Grace and Wallace faced. Saltwell Towers, Wallace had called it.
“Nowt you could have done to stop Stu springing out of the dark, Grace. It happened too fast,” Wallace replied. “Since he’s still a minor they’ll only put him away for a while in a place where he can study for his future criminal career.
He paused. “I happen to know a member of the staff where Stu is currently held and he told me over a pint the lad got into a fight the night he arrived. Attacked another boy for making shadow pictures on a wall. You know, rabbits and elephants and such. Needless to say, some of the other boys started making them to start fights. He’s already been in sick bay several times because of such brawls, but all they can get out of him is something about shadows with knives being after him. Apparently he’s terrified of them, not that anyone else sees them.”
“That’s ironic, given his penchant for following people around in the blackout to frighten them,” Grace replied.
The thought of Hans’ death did not bring forth the feeling of grief Grace imagined it should. Rather she felt anger at how he had deceived her. “Hans didn’t have to kill Ronny to protect Mavis, did he?”
“No. But the situation offered a good excuse to get Ronny out of the way.”
The conversation turned to the repercussions of recent events.
Grace had taken a temporary room while seeking other lodgings. Mr. Elliott was holding church services in a school in Benwell. Sergeant Baines was in hospital.
“The doctors call it a mental breakdown,” Wallace mused. “I hope headquarters finds someone to replace him soon. If I have to deal with one more frightened woman demanding we demolish what remains of that bloody temple I’m going to have a breakdown meself.”
“I gather Mr. Rutherford isn’t going to be treated too harshly?”
Wallace shrugged. “He’s a old man who thought he was doing his bit for Blighty. Mona was a tart, so he’ll likely just get a slap on the wrist for tampering with a corpse. He’s already paying a fine for his mystical nonsense in the shape of smashed windows. I advised him to move but he won’t leave his temple, as he put it.
“Mavis Arkwright isn’t being charged for black marketeering,” he went on. “We can’t make a convincing case. She not only insisted those ration books weren’t hers, you yourself confirmed none could be found in her maisonette. The only evidence we have they belonged to her is Stu’s word and what’s the word of a murderer worth?”
“Then there’ll be no further investigation into that?”
“There’s not the time or manpower to look further into it, Grace. Nothing to be gained. Courts have bigger fish to fry when it comes to black marketeers.”
It struck Grace that Wallace was oddly vehement that the matter would be pursued no further.
“Besides,” Wallace went on, “she helped clear up Ronny’s death.”
“You mean she blamed it on Hans! There’s nobody to contradict what she said happened that night, is there? That he came back through the unlocked back door, saw Ronny beating her, had some sort of murderous fit, picked up the kitchen poker, and whacked him on the head. Hans disposed of the body in the way I had guessed. After that she was too afraid to come to us in case Hans turned on her too. Or so she claims,” Grace replied, angry with herself for saying too much and giving her former landlady valuable information she had used to protect herself.
“Not much we can do about it, Grace, especially given your own statement concerning what the Dutchman told you practically in his dying breath.”
I didn’t step into a fairy tale in Newcastle, Grace thought, as she stared at Saltwell Towers. Then she realized she and Wallace were standing near the spot where Mona and her friend had been the day they’d had their photo taken, the snapshot the young woman had carried in her handbag.
The thought gave her a chill.
Was it a coincidence?
What about the séance? Baines had been told he was forgiven. About what? His absence when his family were killed, his being unfaithful to his wife?
Hadn’t Grace’s grandmother’s communication said “home”? Grace’s lodgings with Mavis were, indeed, where she had located Ronny’s murderer. Or by home, assuming the message was genuine, had she been advising her to return to Shropshire?
Had the messages been contrived by Mrs.Llewellyn? The words “forgiven” and “home” would mean something to everyone.
The apparent concentration of evil happenings around the temple must surely have been coincidental.
“Cat got your tongue, eh?”
Wallace’s question made Grace realize she had been standing silent, lost in a brown study.
“You’ve had a terrible introduction to Newcastle,” he continued. “I expect you’ll be wanting to return to the countryside where things are familiar and quiet.”
Grace looked away from Saltwell Towers and toward Wallace. “You still underestimate me, don’t you, Arthur?” She pulled up her collar against the wind. “It’s time we should be gannen. It’s parky out and I’m clamming.”