Johnny Swanson (20 page)

After the meal, he and Hutch sat down together and composed their advertisement. After a lot of deliberation they came up with:

They got it into the first post after Christmas, and it was in papers across the country before New Year.

Over the next week, a number of letters arrived addressed to PO Box 9, but they all turned out to be replies to Johnny’s last spurt of adverts before he had confessed all to Hutch. With Hutch watching over his shoulder, Johnny sent all the money straight back.

Then a letter came that didn’t contain a postal order. It was just a small sheet of paper saying:

I do not know where Marie Langford is, but if you value your safety, you will stop asking questions
.

It was unsigned.

Hutch looked at the postmark. ‘It was posted in Brecon,’ he said.

‘Should we go to the police now?’ asked Johnny.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Hutch. ‘Maybe we should try to find out more first.’

‘Where is Brecon, anyway?’

‘It’s near Swansea, I think. In Wales.’

‘I know someone who comes from Swansea,’ said Johnny, excitedly. ‘Olwen. That girl from school I told you about. If we could find her, maybe she could help.’

‘Don’t be silly. That way we end up searching for two people, not just one. And anyway, what use can a child be?’

Johnny had to admit that Hutch was right. ‘I know,’ he said, calming down. ‘I didn’t really mean it. We’ll have to do something else.’

Hutch was thinking. ‘We could put in another advertisement – in the paper that covers the Brecon area. How about:
Langford. Any news? PO Box 9, Stambleton.
’

‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘Don’t mention Stambleton. That’s put the wind up someone already. Let’s get a box number at the paper this time, and ask them to send any replies on to us.’

Hutch found out the phone number of the local paper, and called to ask about their advertising rates. He was allocated Box 102. He sold himself a postal
order to cover the fee, and asked Johnny to write the message out neatly, and to put everything into an envelope.

Johnny went upstairs and did as he was told. But sitting there with pen and paper, he couldn’t resist working out the wording for another advert that had come into his mind in an idle moment. He thought quite a few people might fall for it, and though he knew Hutch wouldn’t approve, he felt uncomfortable without any cash coming in. After all, he couldn’t live off Hutch’s kindness for ever, especially with business so bad, and he wanted to keep paying the rent on the house in Dagmouth Lane, ready for his mother’s return.

He still had some postal orders he’d received just before Christmas, from people who had been so desperate about the behaviour of their pets that they had written in to find out how to
Solve the Problem of a Barking Dog
. They had each paid a shilling, only to be told to
Swap it for a cat
.

Johnny wasn’t particularly proud of that one. But as so often, a simple idea had turned out to be very lucrative. He knew Hutch would never cash the postal orders now, and he thought he should probably return them to his ‘customers’, but he had lost their
addresses when he had sent back their stamped addressed envelopes. So he thought it wouldn’t do any harm to use them to pay his next advertising fee. There was enough for a few more words than usual. He wrote out the advert:

With only a moment’s hesitation, he popped it in the envelope alongside Hutch’s personal ad about Mrs Langford. He sealed the letter and took it downstairs just in time to catch the postman, who was collecting the outgoing mail.

The response to both advertisements was quick and surprising. A week later, Hutch answered the phone in the kiosk by the shop door. People who had no phone at home occasionally arranged to take calls there, but at that moment (as was so often the case since Hutch had taken Johnny in) there were no customers in the shop.

‘Hello,’ said Hutch.

There was a pause while the person at the other end spoke.

Hutch replied in his ‘post office’ voice. ‘I’m sorry, that’s quite impossible. The identity of a box holder is a confidential matter …’

Johnny was weighing flour from a huge sack into three-pound bags, and it took a little while for him to notice that Hutch’s tone had changed, and that he was leaning out of the phone booth, clicking his fingers to attract Johnny’s attention.

‘… but as it happens,’ Hutch was saying, ‘the lady is in the shop at the moment. I’ll put her on.’ He called across to Johnny, hoping he’d take the hint that the person on the phone was calling in response to the advertisement about Mrs Langford. ‘Ada!’ he shouted. ‘Ada. You have a telephone call.’

Hutch handed Johnny the phone, but stayed close, listening in.

‘Hello?’ said Johnny, hoping that his voice sounded more like a woman’s than a boy’s. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You can help yourself, darling,’ said a man’s voice at the other end. ‘You must be mad if you thought I wouldn’t spot that new advert in the local paper.
Langford. Any news?
Well, there’s no news, and there won’t be any. I told you before. Keep your nose out if
you want to stay safe. Do you hear? And remember. I know where you are.’

The line went dead. Johnny was scared. It was true. The caller knew where Ada lived, even if he was unaware that she didn’t exist. And if he came to Stambleton, he wouldn’t have any trouble finding the post office. He might use force to get Hutch to say who Ada really was. Things could turn nasty. But the man on the phone had given Johnny and Hutch some important information too. He was the author of the threatening letter; he was involved in the Langford case; and, most importantly of all, he had a Welsh accent.

Almost as soon as he had posted the Change Your Appearance Permanently advert, Johnny had regretted it. He had made a solemn promise to Hutch to stop the advertising scams, and he had broken his word the first time he was tempted. He prayed that no one would reply, and dreaded the arrival of a package from the Welsh newspaper, even though it might contain information about Marie Langford. He could picture Hutch’s rage if he found that the contents of Box 102 was a haul of postal orders and stamped addressed envelopes. So he was relieved that Hutch
was out on the paper round when a fat letter arrived from Wales.

Johnny took the packet upstairs to open it, sensing that Change Your Appearance Permanently had been one of his greatest successes. He was right, but the old feeling of excitement was mixed with a sense of shame as he split the seal. No one had answered the personal ad, but there were thirteen replies to the other one. Despite his promise to Hutch, Johnny knew he would secretly write out the answer thirteen times and stash the postal orders inside his rabbit. He shuffled through the stamped addressed envelopes. Most of them were cheap little things, the kind Hutch sold for 4d. a dozen. One was thicker, with scalloped edges to the flap. Another was pink and scented. Halfway through the pile, he found a buff-coloured envelope that looked as if it had come from an office. It was made out to an address in Wales, and the distinctive, curly handwriting seemed familiar. The address read:

He couldn’t remember where he had seen the writing before. He was pretty sure that it was different from the earlier, menacing, note from Brecon, but he thought he’d better make sure. He’d put that one aside in his mother’s box, safe with the medals and birth certificates in case he ever needed to show it to the police. He compared the two. He was right. There was no similarity at all. And yet he was sure he had seen the writing on the new envelope recently. Was it an old customer? One of his lonely hearts, perhaps? If it was someone unlucky in love, they might well want to change their appearance. But how could he ever check? He had burned all their desperate letters, to keep himself warm when he had been alone at home.

He went to put the threatening letter back in the box. And that was when he saw it. There, alongside the telegram announcing his father’s death, was the testimonial that Mrs Langford had written for his mother on Remembrance Day. The envelope said simply:

The similarity to the writing on the new envelope was unmistakable. The ‘w’ of ‘whom’ began with a
swirl on top of the first downstroke, almost like a child’s drawing of a snail’s shell. ‘Wales’ in the new address began in the same way, and so did the ‘w’ in J. W. Morgan. The ‘con’ in ‘concern’ matched the end of ‘Brecon’. Johnny unfolded the letter of recommendation. The ‘w’s in the heading ‘Mrs Winifred May Swanson’ both had snail-shell swirls. There was also a flourish on the last leg of the ‘m’s, just like the ‘m’ in Morgan on today’s envelope. Johnny knew what that meant: Marie Langford and J. W. Morgan were the same person; Marie Langford was not in France – she was living in a castle in Wales; and for some reason she wanted to transform herself instantly, and for ever.

J
ohnny put the stack of new letters under his mattress and ran down to show Hutch the new envelope from Brecon.

‘Hutch! Hutch! We’ve got a reply,’ he shouted as he bounded into the shop.

Hutch had only just returned from delivering the papers, and he was preoccupied with opening up for the day.

‘Look, Hutch! Look! It’s in Mrs Langford’s handwriting.’ Johnny thrust the envelope in front of Hutch, who took it and examined it carefully.

‘And what does she say?’ he asked.

Johnny was silent.

‘We said,
Langford. Any News?
What’s the reply?’ Hutch looked inside the envelope. It was empty. He was puzzled for a moment, and then furious. And Johnny knew at once that he should have covered his tracks more carefully.

‘Johnny,’ said Hutch, sternly. ‘Johnny, tell me, and
tell me honestly. Why has this woman sent us an envelope addressed to herself?’

It was a sorry scene, which might have had terrible consequences for Johnny had it not been pensions day, with a stream of customers coming in to use the post office. In whispered conversations between transactions, Johnny admitted that he had run one final scam in the Welsh paper, and Hutch left him in no doubt that he was even angrier than before. But his rage was tempered by the need to be polite to the customers, and the dawning realization that at last they had a lead on Mrs Langford’s whereabouts. Hutch was intrigued by the address:

‘Craig-y-Nos Castle. It sounds like an imposing place.’

‘How can we find out more about it?’ said Johnny. ‘Shall I go to the library?’

‘No. I doubt you’d find much about Wales in there.’ Hutch pushed back his shoulders and straightened his tie. ‘I think this is a sufficiently important matter for me to use my Post Office contacts.’

So Hutch put in a long-distance call to his opposite number in Brecon, more than 150 miles away. Johnny listened in to them sharing Post Office chit-chat (both of them had received a circular from Head Office saying that they must empty the coin boxes on
their telephones at least once a month; both of them thought that an unnecessary imposition). Then Hutch asked his question. His bad leg was twitching. Johnny could tell that he didn’t like lying.

‘I’ve got a letter. It’s somehow ended up here, and I’m thinking that it might be important. It has that sort of “urgent” look you get a feel for, if you see what I mean. But the handwriting is very bad. Let me tell you what I think it says.’ He read out the Craig-y-Nos address, spelling it out with all the hyphens, and pretending to have trouble reading it, though it was, in fact, perfectly legible – if a little unusual.

Johnny could hear the voice of the man at the other end, but he couldn’t work out what he was saying in the long pauses between Hutch’s questions. Eventually Hutch ended the call. ‘Right you are, then. Many thanks. I’ll forward it on.’

Johnny couldn’t wait to hear what Hutch had found out.

‘Well,’ said Hutch, as he put down the receiver. ‘That was very interesting indeed. This Craig-y-Nos place. The name means Dark Rock, or Rock of the Night.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Johnny impatiently. ‘Where is it? What’s it like?’

‘It really is a castle, apparently – but a modern one.
And it used to belong to a famous opera singer: Adelina Patti. She spent a fortune on it. It’s got its own theatre, massive grounds, even its own station. Oh, she was a big star before the war.’ Hutch seemed to have become infected with the Welsh postmaster’s long-windedness.

Johnny interrupted again. ‘What would Mrs Langford be doing staying with an opera singer?’

‘Ah, but that’s the thing, see. Madame Patti’s long dead. And Craig-y-Nos Castle isn’t a private residence any more. It’s been turned into a hospital.’

Johnny gasped, and Hutch delivered his next fact with a flourish of triumph. ‘And guess what kind of hospital it is?’

Johnny was bursting with anticipation, desperate for Hutch to get on with it.

Hutch puffed out his chest, and announced: ‘Craig-y-Nos Castle, Johnny, is now a sanatorium.’

‘That’s it!’ yelled Johnny. ‘Mum was right. That’s what this whole business is all about. Everything’s linked to phthisis.’

‘It seems so, Johnny. But please call it TB like everyone else.’

‘Shall we tell the police?’ said Johnny. ‘Surely they’ll listen to us now?’

‘Yes, I’ll phone them straight away.’

Hutch went back into the booth. Johnny hovered outside trying to listen in, but Hutch dropped his voice very low when he heard the bell on the shop door announce the arrival of a customer. Johnny served her. She was curt with him, like most people nowadays, and made it clear that she had only come in because she had unexpectedly run out of matches, and it wasn’t worth her while to walk to another shop to buy some more. She left just as Hutch slammed down the phone. Johnny opened the door to the kiosk, hoping for good news. Instead, he found Hutch punching the wall with rage. He had never heard him curse before.