‘So who have you told?’
‘I caught the bus in the village and went to the hospital, even though she’s still unconscious. I told Hope. If she could hear what I was saying, I wanted her to know the truth.’
‘Bloody hell, of all the people to tell! Why did you do that?’
‘I had to tell someone, the secret was too much for me to keep to myself. And there’s something else you should know; Arthur insisted a doctor from Harley Street came to see me. He claimed I was unwell, that I was suffering with a nervous disposition.’
That much was obvious, Ralph thought. But he kept quiet.
‘The pills the doctor gave me made me feel worse,’ she continued. ‘I felt so awful I couldn’t get out of bed. Which I now think was the plan. But I stopped taking them, although I’ve been pretending that I am still.’ Her words tumbled out of her in a breathless rush, as though she couldn’t contain them a second longer.
Ralph knew his father was capable of many things, but drugging his wife to keep her captive – to keep her from talking to anyone – well, that was beyond anything he might have imagined.
But what was he thinking? If his father was capable of running over his own sister and not stop to help her, drugging his wife was small potatoes!
He was mulling this over when it occurred to Ralph that perhaps the reason his father had been in London for as long as he had was because he was having the car mended.
Another thought came to him. ‘What about Charles in all of this?’ he asked. ‘Does he have any idea what’s going on?’
‘It’s Charles I’m most worried about,’ Julia said. ‘Arthur insisted that I was too unwell to make the journey to fetch him home from school and so he sent Miss Casey to bring him back on the train. She’s trying to keep him away from me, saying I need to rest. But I don’t.’
Swallowing a large swig of whisky, Ralph contemplated everything Julia had told him. ‘We need a plan,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘You believe me, then?’
Frankly he didn’t think Julia had the cunning to come up with such a story. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But what happens next depends on what you want to happen. If we tell the police the truth, all hell will break out. And worse still, with that scenario, if Hope dies, my father won’t hesitate to insist it was you driving, and you’ll go to prison. But if we’re clever we can find another—’
‘I just want Arthur to love me like he used to,’ she wailed, interrupting him. ‘He did once upon a time. I know he did.’
Ralph stared at her in astonishment. ‘You can’t mean that! You know what he’s capable of, and yet you still want to be married to him?’
‘But he’ll take Charles away from me. I can’t lose my son. He’s all I have.’
‘Julia, he’ll try to do that anyway. He might even have that doctor from Harley Street – if indeed he was any such thing – certify you as being off your rocker, and you’ll never see the light of day again, never mind your son. And to be honest, unless you do perform as though you’re fully in charge of your faculties, nobody will believe your story.’
The sternness of his voice instantly calmed her. ‘You really do believe me,’ she said quietly, more to herself than him.
She was right, he did. But perhaps that was because he was his father’s son and he could see a way to take full advantage of what Julia had shared with him. But he would have to find a way to ensure his stepmother and stepbrother didn’t suffer as a result of what he was prepared to do.
‘Julia, I want you to trust me,’ he said. ‘Can you do that?’
Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she nodded.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Evelyn
In the early hours of Christmas Eve, and unable to sleep, Evelyn was downstairs in the semi-darkness of the kitchen, warming a saucepan of milk on the stove.
It was so cold in the kitchen she stood as close as she dared to the gas flame without running the risk of catching her dressing gown alight. The last time it had been this cold was back in 1947. The country had practically ground to a halt, with snow so deep the army had to be called out to clear it. There were fuel shortages too. It had been a miserable time, coming so soon after the war when rationing was still in place and people had hoped for life to be so much better. Pip and Em, who were only young, had thought it all a big adventure. Even sleeping under a weight of blankets and eiderdowns with a hot water bottle apiece had been a lark for them. ‘Snug as bugs in a rug,’ she would say when tucking them into bed at night.
Sleep, she thought. What wouldn’t she give to sleep the night through? Every night was the same. Including this one when, following a scant few hours of sleep and after listening to Kit gently snoring, and the grandfather clock in the hall striking first two o’clock, then three, she had given in and slipped quietly out of bed.
How much longer would this go on for? Would there ever be an end to the guilt and the gnawing fear that Kit himself would be sent a letter? In the days since they’d had lunch at Island House and she’d admitted to Kit that, along with Hope and Florence, she too had been sent anonymous letters, he had stood guard at the front door in anticipation of the postman’s arrival. With the flying school closed now until mid January, he was able to perform this duty three times a day for each delivery. She knew he was doing it to protect her from any further unpleasantness, but as he methodically sorted through the Christmas post, it terrified her that he would indeed find a third poison pen letter for her. Or worse, one for himself.
She would sooner die than have Kit’s happiness destroyed. Or that of the children. She thought of Pip and Em, home now and sleeping soundly in their beds upstairs, and felt a tremendous surge of protective love for them.
There had to be a way to find out who was behind the letters, and then stop them.
The milk now warm enough, she switched off the gas beneath the pan and filled the mug on the draining board.
‘Any chance of a drink for me too?’
‘Kit!’ she said, so startled the pan nearly slipped from her grasp. ‘I’m sorry, did I disturb you?’
‘Not really, I was having one of those annoying dreams that take you round in ever decreasing circles.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ she said, passing him the mug of warm milk she’d made for herself. She went over to the ancient refrigerator that was buzzing like an angry hornet and took out the opened bottle. While she heated more milk, Kit sat at the table.
‘It’s still snowing,’ he remarked.