The patchwork girls, p.1
The Patchwork Girls, page 1
Elaine Everest
The Patchwork Girls
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A Letter from Elaine
I dedicate this book to the memory of dog
breeders worldwide who fought for the survival
of their breeds during World War Two.
We are forever in your debt.
Prologue
London, October 1939
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wentworth, but you shouldn’t be here,’ the grey-haired porter said, reaching out gently to take the young woman’s arm. He could see she was in shock, her face pale and her body trembling.
Helen looked up at the damaged facade of the Victorian mansion block. The building where she’d started her married life with so many hopes and dreams had fared badly: several window panes were missing and the red brickwork was chipped on the first floor. ‘I need to collect a few things,’ she pleaded. ‘I promise to be careful . . .’
‘Okay, missus, but I’ll have to accompany you. I would never forgive myself if something ’appened to you after – well, after what went on here yesterday.’
Without a word Helen entered the building, heading towards the ornate iron lift residents used to travel to the upper floors.
‘Best we don’t use it,’ he said, steering her towards the wide staircase. ‘It’s not been checked out yet and gawd knows what damage has been done.’ He scowled. ‘I don’t know what the world’s come to.’ He fell into step beside her as they started to climb the winding black-and-white tiled staircase. Already some of the ornate windows had been boarded up, although chinks of light from the midday sun shone through the cracks, illuminating dust motes dancing around them.
‘Here we go,’ the porter said, pulling open a heavy oak door that led to the upper hallway and the entrance to her home, along with several others. ‘You’ll find a couple of coppers in there. I did tell them not to hang about, as that ceiling’s bound to come down before too long. Who’d have thought this could ’appen here in Cadogan Mansions?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll come with you to make sure you stay safe. Do you really want to go in there after . . .’
Helen thanked him, but didn’t say any more. The porter and his wife liked nothing better than a juicy morsel of gossip to keep them going during their live-in job of caring for the old building. She usually did her best to slip quietly past if either of them was hovering in the entrance lobby. They could chat for England, and what had happened in her apartment would certainly keep them interested for many a day.
A police constable standing at the entrance to her home bowed his head and held the door open for her to enter. She stopped abruptly, and the porter stepped sideways to avoid crashing into her.
‘Oh, my goodness; I never thought there would be so much damage! A few broken windows and ruined furnishings, but this . . .’ She clasped a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. The remains of damask curtains flapped in a light breeze coming through the gaps where once there’d been floor-to-ceiling windows. All around the drawing room were scattered pieces of wood and fabric that Helen could only just recognize as her furniture. The desk where John had worked was intact, although scratched by debris, while a large breakfront cabinet had lost its upper doors. Books were everywhere, pages fluttering in the cold air. ‘He didn’t stand a chance.’ Shrugging off the porter’s attempt to place an arm round her shoulders, Helen took a deep breath. ‘I just need to collect . . .’
‘Mrs Wentworth?’
She froze as a tall, fair-haired man in an RAF officer’s uniform stepped towards her from where he’d been standing by the remains of a marble fireplace.
‘Mrs Wentworth, I’m Inspector Richard Gladstone,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Helen looked up at him, confused. His ice-blue eyes grew a little warmer as she shook his hand politely.
‘Excuse me, but – why are you here?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘I wasn’t aware a crime had been committed . . .’
‘Yes, it’s just an unfortunate accident,’ the porter echoed from where he stood close behind her. ‘I can assure you, Inspector, everyone who lives here in Cadogan Mansions is completely safe. It was an accident.’
Inspector Gladstone did not reply, but swept an eloquent glance around the damaged room. He bent and picked up an overturned chair from beside the mahogany desk, wiping away a layer of brick dust before gesturing for Helen to sit down. As she moved towards it, the shock of seeing the scene of her husband’s death finally hit her hard, and she felt her legs buckle.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, gripping the chair’s leather-covered arms.
‘A glass of water for Mrs Wentworth, please, Constable,’ the inspector said. The uniformed officer made his way carefully through the broken furniture, fallen lath and plaster from the ceiling towards the kitchen, where they heard him run the tap.
‘I didn’t realize a gas leak could cause so much damage,’ Helen murmured. ‘I hope John didn’t suffer.’
The three men fell silent as she accepted the glass of water and took a few sips before setting it down on the edge of the desk.
‘Would you be able to tell me where you were yesterday?’ the inspector asked. ‘We had some trouble contacting you.’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t at work,’ she said. ‘John suggested I take the afternoon off to do some Christmas shopping. I help my husband in his work and act as his social secretary,’ she added, looking at the constable, who had started to take notes. ‘He keeps long hours and there never seems to be time for things like shopping – and I like to start early. Then, of course, we have these wretched air-raid sirens interrupting our lives, even though they all seem to be false alarms.’ A sudden thought came to her and she put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh – you don’t think this could have been a bomb, do you?’
The inspector considered her for a moment before replying. Helen Wentworth looked much younger than her twenty-six years. His notes told him that her deceased husband had been some twenty years her senior. Richard Gladstone wasn’t one for sentiment, but it struck him that Helen looked so fragile she might break at any moment, sitting there with her hands tightly clasped in her lap and a smudge of dust across one cheek. She was dressed smartly, as might be expected of the wife of a prominent MP who, according to some, had had the makings of a future prime minister. A smart woollen suit, a felt hat placed jauntily on her head, shining mid-brown curls framing her pale face: she was a true English beauty.
He reined in his thoughts and said: ‘No, it wasn’t a bomb. Would you be able to tell us where you went shopping and at what time?’
Helen nodded, a couple of loose curls shaking. ‘Of course. I had planned to go out around midday to meet a friend, Felicity Davenport, for lunch. As I was about to leave home, she rang to let me know she had a headache. So I lunched at Claridge’s and shopped alone, thinking I would drop in to see her later in the afternoon.’
‘I can confirm that I put a call through from Miss Davenport,’ put in the porter, clearly eager to help with the investigation.
‘I have a receipt to show that I shopped at Liberty’s in the early afternoon,’ Helen added. ‘A silk scarf for my mother and a tie for my stepfather.’ She picked up her handbag from the tiled floor and searched inside it for the slip of paper. The constable stepped forward and took it from her, noting down the details.
‘I’m sure the ladies in the haberdashery department could confirm the time, as we chatted about matching skeins of embroidery silk for my mother-in-law. She’s not able to journey to London as often as she would wish, and had asked John if he would remind me to enquire for her. You could verify that with him – oh . . .’ She took a shaky breath before continuing. ‘They showed me some new stock that had just arrived.’ She was clearly trying hard to offer the police any information that might be useful, pushing the horror of the situation aside in order to answer their questions.
‘But you didn’t come home last night?’
‘No. When I went to see Felicity, she was quite poorly – distraught, even. I’ve never known her to be like that before. I tried ringing to let John know I would be staying the night, but I couldn’t get through.’
‘The GPO only fixed the line this morning,’ the porter said, raising his eyebrows in sympathy. What would his wife think of all this when he told her?
‘I rang John’s office and left a message,’ Helen added. ‘I’m sure they can confirm that. It was only this morning that Miss Jones, our office manager, heard about his death and let one of your colleagues know where I was. Your officers came to inform me. I’m certain all of this can be confirmed,’ she faltered, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her jacket with shaking hands. She managed to unfold it just in time to bury her face in the fine lace as the tears came.
The men fell quiet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized after a minute or two, blowing her nose and controlling herself with an effort. ‘Will you be able to check what I’ve told you?’
‘I’m sure we can,’ the inspector replied. ‘I think that’s all for n
Helen was thrown for a moment. ‘I . . . I suppose I shall have to stay with my mother in Kent. Mrs Hillary Davis, The Maples, close to Biggin Hill.’ She reached into her bag again. ‘Here are her details. It was my family home as a child,’ she added faintly as she handed over her mother’s calling card. ‘May I collect a few things before I leave?’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible at the moment, Mrs Wentworth. We must investigate a little further before anything can be moved.’
‘Investigate? I don’t understand. What is there to investigate about a gas explosion?’
‘Purely a formality, Mrs Wentworth. Porter, can you arrange for Mrs Wentworth’s possessions to be sent on to her once we give permission?’
‘Of course, sir.’ The porter turned to Helen. ‘We can also arrange to put what remains of your furniture into storage, if you wish? Plenty of room in the cellars.’
Helen was beginning to feel overwhelmed. She drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’d be grateful if you could do that. We have a trunk that you could pack my husband’s clothes into, if that’s not too much trouble? My suitcases are on top of the wardrobe.’ She turned to look at the inspector. ‘I wonder – couldn’t I possibly take a few of my own clothes now? It seems unlikely they’ll be relevant to your investigation. Just a few personal items from the small chest in the bedroom? I don’t have anything at my mother’s home,’ she added as her chin wobbled, tears threatening again.
His heart went out to her. She looked very alone and vulnerable. ‘I don’t see why not. If you could do it just now, please; and then I’ll be sealing off the rooms until our investigation is complete.’
The constable guided Helen back across the devastated drawing room and she hurried into her bedroom, pulling a small leather suitcase from the top of an ornate wardrobe. Opening a drawer, she hastily gathered up lingerie, not stopping to fold any of it or worry about creases. From the wardrobe she pulled out a coat, two day dresses, a skirt and several blouses. Finally she turned to the dressing table, pushing a small jewellery box under the clothing along with a silver-backed hairbrush and hand mirror. Her eyes skimmed over the other items and she picked up a bottle of perfume and a small framed photograph of her late father, adding them to the suitcase. All the time, she was telling herself not to think about how John must have suffered, or about her loss. Snapping shut the brass catches of the case, she took a quick final glance around before rejoining the men.
‘I have everything I need. Thank you for allowing that – it means a great deal. If there’s nothing else required of me, I’ll bid you good day – I’m finding it difficult to be here . . .’ Almost before she had finished speaking she was turning away and leaving the apartment, closely followed by the porter.
After a moment, the constable stepped forward and closed the door behind them. ‘That one’s a bit of a cold fish,’ he said to his boss. ‘Not exactly the grieving widow, is she?’
‘Not everything is as it seems, Constable.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, when her husband has just popped his clogs right there on the settee, you would think she’d want to know more about it. Or even get a bit squeamish – what with him dying in an explosion.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Constable. John Wentworth MP did not meet his end because of a gas leak, or even the lump of marble from the mantelpiece that hit him squarely on the head.’
‘What do you mean? Did something else kill him?’
‘Or someone else. Someone handy with a knife, who had no qualms about cutting the throat of a man who could well have been prime minister of this country one day.’
‘Cor blimey,’ the constable said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he looked at the area where the dead man would have been sitting before the explosion. ‘I wasn’t the first on the scene,’ he added apologetically. ‘Do you think she did it?’
‘At this moment in time, Constable, I cannot ignore any possibility.’
1
Kent, December 1939
‘I hate to say this while you are still grieving, my dear, but you really do need to get yourself out into the fresh air. You will feel so much better,’ Hillary Davis said as she leant past her daughter and pushed up the sash window. The heavy damask curtains blew inwards, draping round Helen’s head.
‘For goodness’ sake, Mother, please stop fussing,’ Helen said as she untangled herself from the curtain. ‘Whyever do you want to open the window on such a miserable day? But yes, I’ll go for a walk – if only to stop you nagging me,’ she added ungraciously.
‘Stop talking to your mother like that. I’ll not have her spoken to in such a way in my house.’
Helen glared at her stepfather. ‘You seem to have forgotten that this is my mother’s house. And before that, it was my father’s family home. So please don’t assume a position you don’t have in this household.’
Before he could answer, she flounced out of the room and hurried upstairs to her bedroom. His words floated after her: ‘You can get that bloody great trunk out of the hall as well. This house is not somewhere for you to store a dead man’s possessions.’
Helen threw herself onto her bed and lay there, trying to control her breathing. She knew she shouldn’t let Gavin upset her so much. She’d been able to tolerate him as long as they didn’t have to live under the same roof. But now that circumstances had changed – and until she decided what on earth to do with her life next – she would have to make sure she kept away from him if she didn’t want to get so upset.
She knew that Gavin had not expected to inherit a daughter when he married. He had made that quite clear with his spiteful comments while she was still young. In a way she was glad she had no siblings, and she was the only child who had been the butt of his taunts and cruel jibes, always just out of her mother’s hearing. It was as she’d matured that he’d changed, and even when she rebuffed his cruelty and did her utmost to keep away from him he sought her out, accidentally touching her and forever staring at her growing body. The time could not come quick enough for Helen when she escaped to London and what she thought would be a life away from The Maples. Gavin Davis was a man well worth keeping away from. Even now, after sixteen years, Helen still wondered why her mother had married him. They had been comfortably off after Helen’s much-loved father passed away following a short illness; he’d suffered terribly with his chest after serving during the last war, but losing him had still been a shock. At his funeral, ten-year-old Helen had overheard one of his best friends say that Terence Graham would have been better off succumbing to the effects of the mustard gas attack, rather than suffering all these years. Only then had she realized what a perfect father he’d been: always there to help with her homework, always encouraging her to be the best possible version of herself, without letting her see any sign of his illness until the last few months of his life. Their family, albeit small, had been close, with a house full of love and laughter. Helen’s mother had changed since marrying Gavin, becoming harder and more belligerent towards her only child.
Helen knew she should never have come back to The Maples after her husband’s death. But where else was she to go? When the RAF police inspector had insisted they must have an address for her, it had been the only solution she could think of.
She wiped angry tears from her eyes, sighed deeply and sat up. At this time of year darkness fell early, and if she didn’t hurry her walk would be a short one. If she left quietly, she wouldn’t be challenged and asked where she was going. The other day, Gavin had followed her out and told her off about the bright beam of her torch; she’d had a job shaking him off, and in the end she had simply turned round and gone home. The way that man acted, she thought irritably – it was as if she ought to be locked up in the Tower of London for attracting the attention of enemy aircraft. Not that anything much had happened yet, even though they’d been at war for three months. She hadn’t spotted a single German plane. There again, this house was only half a mile from Biggin Hill airfield; and what with it being a buzz of activity all the time, the Germans would have to be mad to fly over this part of Kent.
