Lost Among the Living (12 page)

“It doesn't matter,” Dottie snapped back. “I didn't hear he'd come
home to England until he'd been at Oxford for six weeks. When he was finished, he said he was off to travel the Continent, but I never got a letter or a postcard. Where did he go?”

I stood transfixed, her questions cutting me like needles.

“He married you,” Dottie continued, “a woman we'd never seen. He didn't invite us to the wedding. Yet for all that time, I still saw him as my nephew. My family. He was always Alex. And then the war came, and suddenly he came to visit me on leave. He told me he was visiting you next, that he was going to London before going back to the Front. And at the same time, he never told you anything.”

My stomach turned. I would have done anything—literally anything—to see Alex for a second leave in 1917, and he knew it. I'd been home, worried that every day would bring me the telegram telling me he was dead, and he'd come to England
without telling me.
If I had discovered he had another woman, I could not have felt more empty, more betrayed.

“It makes no sense,” I said. “He could have visited me. Why did he lie about it to both of us? Why?”

“That's a very good question,” Dottie countered. “I have wondered that myself. Perhaps it was the war that did it—I wouldn't know. But the moment he told me Frances was dead, when I looked into his face, I realized he wasn't the boy I'd known. He was a man, and a stranger to me.”

“He wasn't a stranger to me,” I replied. “He wasn't.”

“Then ask yourself why he was here that day while you were at home worrying about him,” Dottie said. “That's what I would do.”

Then she was gone, though I did not see her leave, did not hear the door click shut. I stood in the dim lamplight, my mind spinning and my stomach sick, as the clock ticked quietly on the wall.

O
n our drive from London, Dottie had told me she expected me to serve tea among my other duties. As art buyers began to arrive at Wych Elm House, I put this task into practice.

It wasn't difficult, as Dottie had noted. A potential buyer would arrive for a meeting; a maid would bring in a tray within five minutes, containing a tea service and several dainties; the maid would depart, and I would take over. I would pour the tea and serve it, my job only to be helpful, decorative, and silent. I felt much like I had in Casparov's office, like a brass paperweight with the added bonus of arms. I wore the new frocks Dottie had had me order, and I kept my hair pinned up as neatly as I could. Dottie even loaned me a string of pearls, expensive but understated, to add to the effect. I was the same girl from Casparov's office, but older, wiser, and more elegant.

There were a few advantages. It was easy, for one. And unlike Casparov, Dottie held all of her meetings in front of me, letting me hear every word of conversation while I sat there as if I didn't exist. In this way I learned how she did things, and I also learned how she was going about finding a wife for Martin.

“That last fellow seemed very interested in the Turner,” I ventured to comment one day after a buyer had left.

“He talked too much about painters,” Dottie scoffed. “As if I wish to talk about
painters.
However, his daughter is pretty, and I hear he's going to settle a good amount on her. If he writes asking for another meeting, say yes.”

She did not, in fact, want to talk about painters. Despite months of acquiring it, art for art's sake was not Dottie's goal. Art was simply a means to an end—or, in this case, a means to two ends: to make money and to find a suitable daughter-in-law, now that I was out of the equation.

We did not talk about our conversation in Frances's bedroom. Nor did we discuss her original plans to wed me to her son. Martin told me she'd taken the news of my muddied legal status remarkably well. “I told her to find me somebody else,” he reported to me. “Anybody else, really. Though I hope she finds me someone pretty, at least.”

“I don't like the sound of it,” I told him for the dozenth time. “You should pick your own wife.”

“I think of my life in terms of weeks, not years,” Martin replied. “I can't imagine I'll be with a wife for any length of time, so I can't say it rightly matters.”

We debated this at length, over lunches and walks and the occasional evening drink in the drawing room. He had an easygoing nature—too easygoing, I thought. But he wasn't just being agreeable when he acquiesced to Dottie's plans to marry him off. I sensed true apathy beneath it all, a blankness that was dark and a little frightening. He had grown strong enough to come down from his bedroom again, but his health was dangerously fragile, and he didn't often have the energy to be social. When he did, despite our debates I found myself enjoying his company.

But I often found myself alone in my off hours. I experimented with Alex's camera, wandering about at dusk and—less frequently, for the mornings were increasingly cold—early dawn. The pictures I'd taken of the tableau Frances had left me in my bedroom had not turned out—Mr. Crablow, who developed them for me, showed me that the prints were simply black squares. “Are you quite certain you opened the lens, my dear?” he asked me. I was, but he only shook his head indulgently and encouraged me to try again. So I did.

I had begun using the camera with a specific reason in mind, but
to my surprise I discovered I enjoyed using it. When I took photographs, alone in the slowly failing light, huddled inside a sweater and a coat, my feet damp and cold, my pretty dress and borrowed pearls left behind in my room, everything fell away. I did not think about Dottie's family or my own uncertain future. I did not think about the fact that I could not spend the rest of my life as Dottie's handmaiden. I did not think about Frances's mysterious death and who may have pushed her from the roof. And I did not think the thoughts that threatened to consume my mind: that Alex had lied to me. That Alex had come to England without telling me. That he had been seen speaking at length with Frances the day before she died.
You met a man, and you married him. But what did you know about him? He was a man, a stranger to me.

In the first days after my conversation with Dottie, the thought was like a fist in my gut. I had spent three years with the Alex I had in my mind, the husband I carried in my memories, so certain that the picture I had was accurate. Dottie's words changed all of that. I wavered between shaky denial and cold fear, brought on by my memory of Alex's face, his handsome features and extraordinary blue eyes those of a stranger.

After several days, I could touch the thought of Dottie's conversation tentatively, like a bruise, run my tongue over the thought like a healing tooth. And then I began to grow angry.

“Mrs. Manders.” This was one of Dottie's art clients, sitting on the sofa in the parlor, watching me pour tea. I was so lost in my thoughts, so unused to being acknowledged during these meetings, that for a moment I forgot my own name.

“Yes, sir,” I managed.

“You are married to Mrs. Forsyth's nephew, I believe?”

I paused, the teapot poised just at the end of a pour, and glanced at Dottie. I had not been given instructions should a client ask me questions. Dottie was frowning but silent.

I turned back to the man. He was sixtyish, distinguished, with
upright posture and thick, silver hair. A prominent, well-shaped nose, high in the bridge, made him look especially aristocratic. I searched my memory for his name.

“I was married to him, sir.” I choked the words out—had he known I was thinking about Alex? “He died in the war.”

“A great shame,” the man said. His gaze traveled down my arm to my hands, where they held the teacup and pot, and I wondered if he was looking at my wedding ring, the narrow band of gold Alex had given me one golden day in Crete. “An officer, I presume?”

I gritted my teeth. What did Alex's status matter now that he was dead? “Yes, sir. An officer in the RAF. His plane went down in 1918.”

“Indeed.” He took his teacup from my hand and sat back on the sofa, regarding me. My spinning brain did its job and supplied his name: Mabry. Colonel Mabry, though he did not wear a uniform. “I knew a great many RAF men. They were brave lads.”

I set the teapot down, trying not to bang it. “Yes, sir.”

“Colonel,” Dottie broke in, gesturing impatiently at me for her own teacup, “perhaps you'd like to come to the gallery and see some of the works you've expressed an interest in.”

Colonel Mabry turned to look at her, and for a second I thought I saw faint surprise in his eyes, as if he'd forgotten she was there. “That does sound enjoyable,” he agreed, “but there is lots of time.”

Dottie raised her thin eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am staying in the area,” Mabry said. “I have put up in the small hotel in the village. I'm mixing business with pleasure on this particular trip. I spent some time working in the neighboring government installation some years ago, and I am here again at their request, assisting them with a small matter.”

“I see,” Dottie said. “How fortunate.”

“The Ministry of Fisheries?” I asked. “That is a strange assignment for an army colonel.”

The air in the room grew as brittle and cold as the ice over a
puddle. I did not look at Dottie, but I felt the blast of her disapproval, and I dropped my gaze to the lap of my skirt as I lowered myself to the sofa.

“It was a personal matter,” the colonel said. His voice was low and cautious, but not angry. “Not official business, I'm afraid. It was some years before the war.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I apologize.”

“It's quite all right. I am flattered you take a personal interest in me, Mrs. Manders.”

I looked up at him. He was not flirting with me; his expression gave nothing away. I had an inkling that I was dealing with a man whose words carried a great deal of obscure meaning. “Colonel,” I said, ignoring the poisonous look that was no doubt being sent my way from Dottie's direction, “you say you knew many RAF men.”

“I did,” Colonel Mabry agreed. “I spent most of the war in France and Belgium.”

“Did you know my husband?” I asked, keeping my voice calm. “When you served? Alex Manders?”

Mabry regarded me calmly, but a quick spark of interest crossed his gaze, a light that I could not quite read. “It is possible, Mrs. Manders, that I came across him at some time or another. I will give it some thought. My aging brain does not recall names as quickly as it used to.”

Of course. I had hoped for honesty, but he was humoring me, as would be expected when an army colonel spoke to a civilian woman. The realization did nothing to bank my anger.

“I would appreciate it if you could recall any memories of him.” I tried to sound sweet, though I was not certain I succeeded. “I cherish any memories of him I can find, as you can imagine.”

“As any good lady would,” he agreed. “Where are your people from, Mrs. Manders?”

“London,” I replied, lying blithely, as if I had people. “Though my mother now lives in Hertford. She is retired.”

“Well earned and well deserved, I'm sure,” Mabry said, and suddenly I knew that he knew I was lying.
A liar knows a liar,
my mother had always said. My mad mother, who had retired to an asylum in Hertford, where she dug her nails into her own neck. “I am certain you do both her and your husband credit. The brave widows of the war are a part of what makes England a great nation.”

“Oh, but I am not necessarily a widow.” I was not sure what had come over me, but the words would not stop. “You must not count me in that number. My husband disappeared when his plane went down, you see, and his body was never found.”

“Manders,” Dottie interjected, her voice choked, “Colonel Mabry is not interested in your anecdotes.”

“It's quite all right, Mrs. Forsyth,” the colonel said. “Mrs. Manders, though I do not recall your husband, you can rest assured that he provided an invaluable service to England. Perhaps more so than you, a lady, can ever quite know. It is his sacrifice that matters. That much I am confident of, sight unseen.” He picked up his teacup and turned to Dottie. “Mrs. Forsyth, please continue.”

“H
e was lying,” I said to Martin.

We were sitting on the back terrace as night fell. I was perched on the tiled marble slabs of the steps, my coat around my shoulders, my arms hugging my knees. I still had my hair tied back neatly, and I still wore the new, modest heels Dottie had had me buy. I watched darkness creep over the trees, savoring the slap of fresh air that likely reddened my nose.

“That's a tall accusation, Cousin Jo,” Martin replied. He sat next to me, a scarf wound around his neck. I hadn't seen him all day, and the pained lines of his face told me why. Still, he seemed to enjoy our moment of peaceful privacy as the dinner preparations went on in the house behind us.

“He knew who Alex was,” I insisted. “I'd bet all of my money on it. He fed me a dose of claptrap about brave widows, but it was all a lie. I think he just wanted to watch me swallow it.”

“Jolly good,” Martin said, watching me with some wariness. “You're a little frightening right now, I don't mind saying. However, if you start shouting at one of Mother's cronies, it'll be the most entertainment I've seen in a year.”

“He lied to me,” I said. “Alex, I mean. He lied to me about his leave. I've spent three years not asking questions because I was terrified of the answers—it was too hard. But now I think I want to know. I'd like to know what Colonel Mabry could tell me, if only I could convince him to help me.”

Martin sighed and gazed off into the trees. “I know what you mean. I tried to find answers myself, you know—to his disappearance. While I was over there. I don't suppose I've told you that.”

I stared at his pale profile. “No. You never told me.”

“I didn't know you—I wasn't sure you could handle it,” he admitted. “However, now you've asked. I was in the hospital when Alex disappeared, barely conscious most of the time. But it haunted me. The thought of him simply gone like that—it's hard to get used to, in a different way than death, which I've seen plenty of. I started thinking about it, specifically about his plane.”

“His plane?” I asked.

“Yes. Did anyone see it go down? Who found it? How closely did they go over it? Was there some possibility, some clue that pointed in any direction? Anything at all? I was lying in bed with nothing to think about, nothing to do, and it tormented me. I kept having nightmares about his crashed plane, the cockpit splattered with blood and brains.” He stopped himself and stared at me. “Oh, God, Cousin, I'm sorry. I keep forgetting you weren't over there with me, growing accustomed to it all. I'm an idiot.”

“It's all right,” I said. “I'd rather your honesty than Colonel Mabry's pabulum speeches. Go on.”

“When I was well enough, I made inquiries,” Martin said. “I had a few contacts, and I begged for favors. Alex was my beloved cousin, a heroic officer. I wanted to find answers for my family—
et cetera
,
et cetera
. There are certain phrases one can use when asking favors. I wrote letters from my hospital bed and used the hospital telephone a few times. I finally got the ear of someone in the RAF who found the file with the crash report. He had no authorization to send me a copy, but he read it to me over the telephone line from Berne.”

“For God's sake, what did it say?”

“Not much,” Martin replied. He was looking off at the woods again now, though it had grown nearly too dark to see. The wind was blowing cold down the back of my neck. “It was the most frustrating
thing. Alex's flight that day was listed as a reconnaissance mission, though the objective was not recorded. He was not listed to fly with a gunner, which was a strange oversight—a pilot without a gunner can get into combat without being able to shoot back. Even on reconnaissance, a pilot should have been assigned a gunner, since it gave him a better chance to get back in one piece.”

“So he flew alone?”

“Yes. Odd, though not unheard of, especially at Alex's level. He'd flown enough missions that I expect he could go without a gunner without question.”

I tried to picture Alex flying a plane, as I often had. I pictured him in a pilot's heavy coat and gloves, in the hat and goggles. He'd been good, of course; he was good at everything he did. He'd passed pilot school easily.

Still lost in his own memories, Martin continued. “No one saw his plane shot down, at least no one on record. When he didn't return, a second team, of two reconnaissance planes—this time with gunners—was sent to look for him. They found the plane crashed in the trees just beyond enemy lines, and one of them managed to get aground to look for him. They found his parachute gone, but no other sign of him.” He looked at me. “And there was no blood in the cockpit—that was specifically noted.”

“So he was shot at, and he parachuted out when his plane started to go down.” Though it had been three years, I had never spoken in
detail to anyone about Alex's disappearance, and to do it now was a massive relief, as if a pressure around my rib cage had started to ease. “If there was no blood, then he was not injured when he jumped.”

“Perhaps,” Martin agreed. “There was no one else in the plane to use the parachute. But I have to say, Cousin Jo, that it's possible he was injured without leaving blood in the cockpit. Broken bones, bruises. A head wound can knock a man so hard he's helpless as a baby.”

I was quiet, staring into the dark.

Martin continued. “And if he jumped in broad daylight in the middle of the German woods, where the hell did he go? Why didn't he turn up anywhere? He'd be a valuable prisoner for the Huns—an RAF officer like him. His name should have appeared on prisoner lists.”

“Alex had German blood,” I said. “He knew the language.”

“Which just means he could have negotiated better treatment at one of their prisons if he was taken up. I had my contact do a thorough search, Cousin. Alex's name does not appear in the records
anywhere.
”

I pressed my fingers lightly to my forehead. The pressure from my rib cage seemed to have migrated there. “Alex could have been killed in those woods,” I said. “The enemy could have found him and shot him, buried him in an unmarked grave. If he had a head wound, he couldn't have defended himself. For all I know, he took the chance to—” I clamped my mouth shut, my cheeks heating.

“Took the chance to what?” Martin asked.

To switch sides and join the German army.
The words had been on the tip of my tongue, impulsive—I had almost spoken them aloud. I was shocked that I had even thought them. Stupid words, shameful words. Words I did not mean and could never say, especially to a man who had given his health and nearly given his life fighting for England.

“I'm upset,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

He looked bemused. “Of course you're upset. You needn't apologize.”

I shook my head. I was losing my perspective, letting the dark conversation I'd had with Dottie get to me.
He went off to live with Germans. Germans! And he looked me in the eye and told me he wanted to go
. Alex was fluent in German. He had family there—family he was loyal to. He had never spoken in detail to me about his father's family, but I knew his time with them had been important to him, that he had been grateful they'd taken him in.

He told you nothing
.

If he'd joined the enemy's army, his name wouldn't come up on any lists. If he'd even used his own name, that was—

Hans Faber.

I sat still, my head in my hands, my heart stopped in my chest, my breath going still.

“Jo?” Martin asked.

Hans Faber. The name in the camera case. I had nearly forgotten it until this moment.

No. No. It cannot be. Stop thinking this, Jo. Stop it.

“Jo? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said. I raised my head. “I'm just upset. I've been over and over this so many times, and I never get any closer to an answer.”

Martin rubbed a hand over his face. “I know. I wish I could be more help. But you see, I did try.”

“I'm going to write Colonel Mabry,” I said. “If I meet with him, will you come?”

“Of course. What do you plan to ask him?”

“I want Alex's military record—his file at the War Office. I'm certain the colonel has the authority to get it for me.”

Martin looked at me thoughtfully. “You can try it, Jo, but I don't think the official record is going to tell you very much.”

“It'll tell me more than I know now, which is nothing.” A thought occurred to me. “Unless you can pull more favors and get it for me?”

He shook his head. “My influence doesn't reach that high, I'm afraid. But you know, I've heard Mabry's name before. I'm sure of it. I'm just not certain where.”

“He seems rather high ranking,” I said, “though I don't know much about these things. It isn't strange that you'd have heard his name.”

“No, no, it wasn't through the army. I have it now. It was Mabry's son—he was in one of those hospitals, you know, for shell-shocked fellows. Do you remember the hospital in Yorkshire that was in the news a few years ago?”

I dimly recalled it. “The one that was closed due to mismanagement?”

“That's the one. It was supposed to be an exclusive place, but there was an influenza outbreak and some sort of scandal.”

“I remember,” I said, “though I don't remember Mabry's name.”

“I do. The poor chap was one of the patients. That must have been a tough pill for a man like the colonel to swallow, having his son in a place like that. Not that I'm judging anyone—I'm in no position for it.”

The terrace door opened behind us, and a set of footsteps sounded across the stone. “It's a little cold out here for telling secrets, isn't it?”

We turned. Robert was coming toward us, the light from the house behind him casting him in silhouette. He was dressed in his usual dapper suit, his hair slicked back from his forehead. I had barely seen him in the weeks I'd been at Wych Elm House.

“Good evening, Papa,” Martin said. “Care to join us?”

“No, though I do admit I'm curious as to what you're whispering about. Your heads are bent so close together I'm wondering if we should plan a wedding after all.”

The words had a teasing tone to them, but Martin ignored it. “Let
me guess,” he said to his father. “Mother has spotted us out here and doesn't like what she's seen.”

Robert shrugged. I hadn't considered anyone might have seen us from beyond the terrace doors. Now that I wasn't going to marry her son, Dottie wouldn't like the idea of my acting too intimate with him. “Your mother has asked me to call you in to supper,” Robert said, “which I have the misfortune to be home for tonight. You're welcome to our table as well, Mrs. Manders.”

“That's quite all right.” I stood and brushed off my skirt. “I have a headache. I'll find something in the kitchen.”

Robert put his hands in his pockets and looked at me. I realized that although the light from behind the terrace doors put him in shadow, it illuminated me perfectly well in his view, and I felt exposed. “Scavenge for scraps in the kitchen? How sad. I don't think we've treated you well since you came here, Mrs. Manders.”

“You don't need to treat me any way at all,” I retorted. “I am capable of handling myself.”

“Such a fiery temper for a lady!” he said with a patronizing grin. “You have spent too much time with my wife. Still, I suppose you must fend for yourself, now that you're not marriageable. Does it bother you, I wonder, to still be legally married to a man who's been dead for three years?”

“Papa.” Martin had risen, though more slowly than me, and he now stood at my shoulder. “Enough.” He sounded tired.

Robert turned his attention to his son. From the aroma wafting from him, I realized he'd been drinking, though he held it well. “Your mother is in a mood tonight,” he said. “Something has excited her. I think perhaps she has her sights on a girl for you, though I haven't asked.”

“Good,” Martin said. “Let her be excited, then. At least someone will be happy.”

“I'm surprised she hasn't had the doctors check that you're capable of giving her grandsons,” Robert said. “Though for all I know, perhaps she has.”

“Papa, don't start.”

Robert gazed closely at his son through the haze of alcohol. “Do you think I didn't worry about you?” he asked with a suppressed tremor of emotion in his voice. “Your mother isn't the only one capable of worrying, you know. I did my share these four years, while the doctors took you to pieces. If you would just gather some gumption and get off the morphine—”

Martin winced, so fleetingly I knew I was the only one who saw it. “Yes, I know.”

Swaying faintly, Robert took a step forward, put a hand on the back of Martin's neck, and looked into his son's eyes. “She'll find someone to run over you if you're not careful,” he said, his voice low. “Someone who will make you as miserable as she's made me. I thought I didn't care who I married, either, but I was very bloody wrong. Do you understand?”

Martin returned his father's gaze, unwavering. “Yes,” he replied. “I understand. But this has nothing to do with Cousin Jo, so please leave her alone.”

“I'm trying to give you advice,” Robert said. He dropped his hand and stepped back, and I could only dimly see his features in the half-light. “Let's go in and get this over with, shall we?”

Martin watched his father's retreating back, then turned to me. “I
beg your pardon for my father's behavior,” he said softly. “He can be crude when he's been drinking.”

“Martin,” I said.

“He's right,” Martin said. “Mother is expecting us both to dinner for the first time in weeks. I need to go inside and get it over with.”