Authors: Maureen Jennings
No Known Grave
ALSO BY MAUREEN JENNINGS
The Detective Inspector Tom Tyler Mysteries
Season of Darkness
Beware this Boy
The Murdoch Mysteries
Except the Dying
Under the Dragon’s Tail
Poor Tom is Cold
Let Loose the Dogs
Night’s Child
Vices of My Blood
A Journeyman to Grief
Copyright © 2014 by Maureen Jennings
McClelland & Stewart and colophon are registered trademarks of McClelland & Stewart, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Jennings, Maureen, author
No known grave / Maureen Jennings.
ISBN 978-0-7710-4329-1 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-0-7710-4341-3 (html)
I. Title.
PS8569.E562N65 2014 C813′.54 C2013-903012-3
C2013-903013-1
Published simultaneously in the United States of America by McClelland & Stewart, a division of Random House of Canada Limited
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014944149
Cover art: © Bert Hardy/Picture Post/Getty Images
McClelland & Stewart,
a division of Random House of Canada Limited,
a Penguin Random House Company
www.randomhouse.ca
v3.1
To Iden. Of course and forever
.
And to the town of Ludlow, our second home
.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
There is no moon, no light showing at all. It takes a few moments to become accustomed to the darkness, but the pigeons are easy to locate, cooing softly, rustling in the straw of the coop. They are used to being handled so it is easy to pick one out, a sleek, brown-speckled male. It doesn’t protest when the capsule is fastened to its leg. Death comes swiftly and painlessly with a hard twist of the neck. Then the soft, warm body is removed
.
St. Anne’s Convalescent
Hospital, Ludlow,
Shropshire
July 15, 1942
1.
S
HE WAS RUNNING
. S
HE WAS ALWAYS RUNNING
. T
HIS
time it was along the bank of the river. She was late for something, but she didn’t know what it was. Then she saw a dense cloud of moths coming towards her. They were big and grey and seemed to click and clatter as they flew. She swerved to avoid them but it was too late, and one of them went straight into her eye, where it got stuck, frantically flapping its hard and scratchy wings. Try as she might she couldn’t pull it out.
Daisy awoke at once. There had been a knock on the door.
“Ten past six, Miss Stevens.”
She sat up.
“Thank you, Mr. Hughes. I’ll be right there.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, waiting for a moment to steady herself. She’d opened the blackout curtains when she went to bed, and the reassuring light of early morning was seeping in through the narrow window. She licked her dry lips, trying to shake off the anxiety of her dream. It didn’t take a head doctor to interpret this latest nightmare. She didn’t think she’d even bother reporting it to Dr. Beck. He’d said he wanted to hear her dreams, but what good would that do? He was a nice-enough bloke for a foreigner, but talking to him once a week couldn’t really change anything.
She glanced over at the woman in the other bed. Barbara Oakshutt was the complete opposite of Daisy. Sleep was a place she escaped to, and nothing disturbed her. Daisy didn’t even try to wake her. Babs wasn’t in the early morning massage class
and didn’t have to get up until it was time for breakfast. One of the sisters always came to fetch her.
Daisy stood and padded over to the washstand, curling her toes against the cold surface of the uncarpeted floor. She poured water into the bowl and washed her face, drying herself gingerly. The new skin on her cheek was still tender. Then she sat down at the dresser, examined the row of lipsticks courtesy of the Yank packages, and selected one. This was definitely a day for “Tru-Crimson.” She felt in need of a boost. She took a deep breath, pulled off the towel that she’d draped over the mirror, and leaned in close to apply the lipstick properly. She had well-shaped, full lips that she was secretly rather proud of. At least
they
were untouched by the accident. That’s how she referred to it in her mind, although strictly speaking the bombing raid was not an accident at all. It was premeditated and quite intentional. The only “accidental” part was that she’d been caught by flying shrapnel.
Her twenty-second birthday was this weekend. Her mother had sent a card with a picture of a big-eyed puppy on the front. Inside was a scrawled note.
Sorry we can’t come to visit this week, but Dad’s lumbago is acting up. We’ll try next fortnight
.
Daisy wasn’t really that disappointed. Visits with her family were always tense: too many awkward silences that her mother tried to fill with silly gossip from the neighbourhood. Daisy knew her mother blamed her for what had happened. She’d been dead set against her daughter enlisting from the beginning. She considered that Daisy had put herself into the line of fire, as it were.
Daisy replaced the cap on the lipstick tube and studied the effect as best she could. It would have to do. There was a moan from Barbara, followed by a series of whimpers.
Daisy went over to the bed. “Buck up, Babs. You’ve got to keep going.”
There was no response and Daisy gave a little shrug. “I’ll see you later then.”
Moving more quickly now, she went to the wardrobe that was shoved into a corner of the room and took out her clothes. The patients were allowed to wear civvies if they wanted to, but Daisy preferred to dress in her
WREN
outfit. Putting on the familiar uniform gave her a feeling of purpose. Crisp white blouse, navy skirt, black stockings and sensible shoes, plain tie. She had just got it right when she heard the stairs creak and another soft tap on the door.
“I’m coming,” Daisy called.
“There’s a nice cup of tea waiting. You don’t want it getting cold, look you.”
“Two minutes.”
Daisy went to the dresser, where the wig sat on its wooden form. Her mother had insisted they invest in top-quality hair, and it was thick and glossy brown, slightly longer than she’d been used to before. She pulled it on, gave a final check in the mirror to see that it was sitting properly, then reached into the drawer and took out the black eye patch. As a joke, an act of defiance, she’d had one of the sisters paint a dainty white flower on the surface. “I’d rather look like a walking work of art than a bloody pirate. Besides, it takes people’s minds off the rest of my face.”
She tied on the patch.
The orderly was waiting for her on the landing.
“Pretty as a picture as always, Miss Stevens.”
“If you were an Irishman, Mr. Hughes, I’d say you were full of blarney.”
“Good thing I’m Welsh then. We always tell the truth, look you.”
Daisy managed to smile.
When Nigel Melrose felt his sheet being pulled away from his face, he said, loud and angry, “For God’s sake. It’s still bloody nighttime.” He tried to tug the cover back up, but the other man had a firm hold. “Have a heart, Vic,” spluttered Melrose. “I need my sleep. It knits the ravelled sleeve of care, as the Scottish thane so brilliantly put it.”
For an answer, Victor Clark lifted his cane and poked him hard in the ribs.
Melrose yelped. “All right. All right. I’m up.” He sat upright and squinted at his tormentor. “Lord help us, Vic. Do you look especially bad this morning or is it me?”
Clark pointed at Melrose. Then he lurched over to the windows and opened the curtains.
The third man, Eddie Prescott, now stirred and Clark went to him. This one he approached more cautiously. A more gentle poke and a step backward, out of range. Prescott sat up at once, his arms flailing as if to throw a punch.