‘And I think I’ve solved the case of the child’s bones at Tailors Court. You’re not going to believe this.’
‘Let me guess. It was that Miles character.’
Wesley nodded. ‘That’s right. And it seems that a girl called Belle was involved as well. Mabel said she saw her with Miles
on the day Charlie disappeared and he was taking something towards the paddock in a wheelbarrow. This was around the time
a kid called Charlie – who was Belle’s cousin incidentally – went missing and was never seen again. Shortly after this Miles
left to rejoin his unit. There was another witness too – Otto Kramer, a German
Jewish boy from the village whose father managed to get the pair of them out of danger just in time.’ He paused. ‘Belle threatened
to tell the authorities that his dad was really a spy if he said anything.’
Gerry raised his eyebrows. ‘The innocence of childhood, eh? And we think today’s youth’s bad. I wonder where this Belle is
now?’
Wesley shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m still working on that one but apparently Otto Kramer’s alive and well and living in the
States. Pat’s been in touch with him. Any developments in the Dalcott case?’
‘I’ve got a nasty feeling that we’ve hit a bit of a brick wall on this one, Wes,’ said Gerry despondently. ‘I’ve sent someone
over to have another word with the not-so-grieving widow and to ask Carl Utley some more questions but apart from that … And
we’ve drawn a blank with Syd and Brian. There’s no evidence that either of them has fired a gun in the past few weeks, if
ever. And Brian swears blind that he saw an elderly person visiting the house at around the right time. He said he only caught
a glimpse so the description’s not much use. He couldn’t even be absolutely sure of the sex.’
‘Right then,’ Wesley said, organising his thoughts. ‘I’ll make a start on tracing Belle. Unfortunately, Mabel and Pat couldn’t
remember her surname.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Pat gave me Otto Kramer’s number in the States but he might not be up yet.
I’ll try him later.’
Wesley was keen to get the Tailors Court case tied up so he could give James Dalcott his full attention and he spent a few
minutes in thought, contemplating his next move.
Then he had an idea. He took a local telephone directory from the shelves at the end of the office and looked up
the number of Tradington Primary School. After a short conversation with the head teacher, he looked around and saw that Rachel
was leaning over Nick Tarnaby’s desk pointing something out on the computer screen.
Wesley walked over to them slowly and Rachel straightened herself up. ‘Feel like going back to school?’
‘School?’ She looked at him enquiringly.
‘I’ll tell you about it on the way.’
Half an hour later they were sitting in the headteacher’s office sipping tea from a couple of mugs designed to celebrate the
school’s centenary.
The head herself was a small round woman with curly brown hair who looked rather like a child’s drawing. A yellowing book
lay open in front of her and she turned the pages proudly. The entire history of Tradington Primary was contained in these
pages, she told them. The school log book contained the details of all the evacuees who had joined them in the 1940s to escape
the dangers of the big cities. Some had gone back home after a while, of course – their parents missed them or decided for
some reason that they’d be better off with the family. Others had stayed for the duration. Some had even returned to Devon
later in life and settled. For some it had been a happy time, their first experience of the countryside and its freedoms.
Others, she said ominously, hadn’t fared so well: they had been homesick or been billeted with unwelcoming families. But this
wasn’t the sort of thing the school log book recorded.
The head teacher looked at Wesley, curious. ‘Could you tell me why you’re so interested in our evacuees? It seems rather strange.’
Wesley told her about the child’s skeleton and the possibility that some of the children evacuated to Tradington might be
important witnesses. This seemed to satisfy the woman’s curiosity and, to Wesley’s surprise, she produced a box from a low
drawer. Inside the box were several class photographs swathed in tissue paper – the school’s treasures.
The head selected a black and white group photo of around a dozen children aged between five and eleven and passed it to Wesley.
The children wore the wartime childhood uniform of hand-knitted woollies, knee-high socks and sensible shoes; shorts, grey
shirts and ties for the boys and faded floral frocks for the girls. Wesley turned the photograph over and the handwritten
legend on the back told him that these were the evacuees of September 1943. There were names there too: Mabel Fallon smiled
shyly at the camera, her mousey curls held back with a hair slide. Belle Haslem was blonde and chocolate-box pretty which
made Wesley think how easily looks could deceive. And at the end of the row was pale little Charlie Haslem who had fair curls
and the look of a sickly child. These were the children of Tailors Court and somehow they looked just as Wesley had imagined.
Pat, of course, had arrived some months after this picture was taken but on the back row stood a dark, intelligent-looking
boy by the name of Otto Kramer – now Professor Otto Kramer.
‘May I keep this?’ he asked the head teacher.
But he could see from the look of horror on her face that she wasn’t happy. ‘Well, if …’
But Wesley took pity on her. ‘I suppose a photocopy of both sides would do. And if I could have a copy of any pages in the
school log that mention the evacuees …’ He gave her an expectant smile.
The woman looked relieved. ‘Of course, Inspector. I’ll get that done for you right away.’ She disappeared into the outer office
where the school secretary was working, leaving Wesley and Rachel alone.
Wesley sat, staring ahead. He’d just heard or read something that changed everything but he couldn’t think what it was.
‘Something the matter?’ Rachel asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it something about the photograph?’
Wesley shook his head in frustration. Perhaps if he looked at the picture again …
He had to exercise a great deal of self-control not to grab the picture when the head teacher returned. He took the copy politely
and thanked her for her cooperation. Before they left she tried to extract a promise that a community policeman would come
and talk to the children but Wesley gave her his best apologetic smile and said it wasn’t his department – although he furnished
her with the appropriate phone number and said to mention Gerry Heffernan’s name. He felt she deserved a bit of preferential
treatment.
He let Rachel drive and he sat in the passenger seat staring at the photograph and the names of the children.
Rachel had just set off when he asked her to make a detour to James Dalcott’s house because there was something he wanted
to check.
Rachel didn’t say a word. It was only a quarter of a mile to Dalcott’s place and when she parked neatly at their destination,
she turned to him.
‘Well?’ she said.
Wesley touched her arm. ‘I’m just going to check out
something on Dalcott’s family tree. It’s still in the house. Are you coming in with me or are you going to wait here?’
Rachel grinned. ‘I’d better come in and keep an eye on you, after what happened last time.’
The lead-grey sky was already darkening as they walked slowly up James Dalcott’s garden path. There was a constable on duty
at the door. Since the break-in, Gerry was determined that the intruder couldn’t try again. Wesley nodded to the officer –
the sort people mean when they say the policemen are getting younger – and asked him to open up.
As he stepped over the threshold he was glad of Rachel’s company. When he’d been there alone he’d almost felt the presence
of the murdered man; almost felt Dalcott’s shock and terror as he’d realised that death had come visiting unexpectedly.
Putting this thought from his mind, he marched straight for the drawing room and found the folder containing Dalcott’s family
tree lying in the bureau. Wesley took it out and unfolded it carefully.
There are some moments – Wesley’s mother had always called them ‘eureka’ moments – when everything begins to slot into place,
and this was one of them. He was hardly aware of Rachel standing behind him looking over his shoulder as he whispered a triumphant
‘yes’.
‘Found something?’
He spread the sheet of paper out in front of him. ‘Look at the maiden name of James Dalcott’s birth mother – the woman his
father allegedly strangled because she’d been unfaithful.
‘Haslem. So?’
‘The school photograph has the children’s names
inscribed on the back. The evacuee Belle’s surname was Haslem too. She was the cousin of Charlie, the child who disappeared
– and according to Mabel, she might have had something to do with it.’
‘Belle Haslem. And Dalcott’s mother was an Isabelle Haslem. It must be the same person.’
‘So she’s the link between the two murders – the child’s and Dalcott’s – and she disappeared off the radar after the war only
to reappear again as a teacher who married a local GP much older than herself.’
‘Why should anyone want to kill James Dalcott over something his murdered mother may or may not have done when she was a kid?’
Wesley’s excitement began to drain away. He had been so sure he’d found the answer but now Rachel’s practicality was starting
to make him doubt his own instincts. Gerry Heffernan had always been a devout believer in following your hunches. But was
he right in this instance? Was Wesley reading too much into this unexpected connection between his two cases?
‘Let’s get back to the incident room,’ he said, tidying the contents of Dalcott’s family tree folder and tucking it underneath
his arm. ‘I want to show this to Gerry.’
Transcript of recording made by Mrs Mabel Cleary (née Fallon) – Home Counties Library Service Living History Project: Reminiscences
of a wartime evacuee.Mary was spending more and more time at Gorfleet Farm and I hardly saw her. I missed her and I hated being on my own with
Belle. When the Americans arrived at the end of 1943 it was all very exciting. They were doing something very hush hush down
in Bereton, so everyone said, and all the people from round about were sent away from their homes – just had to pack up all
their belongings and get out. Looking back it must have been awful for them.Then another girl called Pat came and things seemed OK again. We used to follow the Yanks about whenever we saw them and they
always had a smile for us kids when they stopped in their jeeps. They were very generous with what they called candy and they
had this friendly way of talking.
We thought they were the best thing ever and they certainly took our minds off Mr Hilton’s stories and Tailors Court. Belle
had been really quiet since Charlie left and she wasn’t even nasty to Pat which quite surprised me.We never saw old Mrs Jannings much after Miles left because she took to her bed permanently and Miles’s new wife, Esther,
ruled the roost. When the telegram arrived saying that Miles was missing in action, Esther didn’t seem particularly upset.
She never took much notice of us evacuees. We were left to run wild. And some of us ran wilder than others.We’d never heard any more of Charlie and Belle refused to mention his name. Belle hardly talked to me and Pat. But we didn’t
mind because now we had each other.
Roz Dalcott said goodbye to her customers – a middle-aged couple down in Tradmouth for a winter break – with a businesslike
smile as they left the gallery. Like others they’d stared for a few moments at Harry’s work and then moved on to something
more cheerful. Perhaps Tradmouth was the wrong place for his sort of art. But she wasn’t sure whether she could face a move
to London. In fact the very idea made her feel a little sick. Perhaps she was the dull provincial type after all, she thought
with a sigh as she began to tidy her desk – not that it needed tidying but it was something to do. With the baby on the way
– and her estranged husband’s violent death – everything had changed. And that nosy young copper wasting half an hour of her
time this morning asking more pointless questions hadn’t done much to help her mood either.
The urgent drone of the telephone on her desk made her jump. She pushed her hair back off her face and
picked up the receiver. ‘Trad Itions Gallery, Tradmouth. Roz Dalcott speaking. Can I help you?’
‘Mrs Dalcott? This is Green and Talbot, the late Dr Dalcott’s solicitors.’ It was difficult to tell if the voice was male
or female. She pressed the receiver to her ear and listened carefully. ‘We’ve been going through our files and it seems that
Dr James Dalcott left a sealed envelope with us shortly before his death and, as you’re still legally his wife, it was thought
it should be passed to you. It was misplaced, I’m afraid – put in a pile ready for filing – so I’m afraid we’ve only just
found it. In the circumstances would you like me to let the police know or …?’
‘No,’ she said quickly. She could almost sense the caller’s surprise on the other end of the line. ‘No. It might be personal.
I’d like to have a look at it first if that’s OK?’
There was a short pause. ‘Certainly, Mrs Dalcott. When would be convenient?’
She paused for a while to give the impression she was consulting a diary. She didn’t want anyone to think she had too much
time on her hands. ‘Would later this afternoon be all right? About four-thirty?’
Once the arrangement had been made Roz Dalcott put the receiver back in its cradle and placed a protective hand on her abdomen.
Gerry Heffernan studied the school photograph and Dalcott’s family tree. Wesley was glad to see that there was no trace of
doubt on his face.
‘It can’t be a coincidence, Wes,’ he said. ‘But I think we’ve only got half the story. We need to find out more about what
really happened to Isabelle Haslem.’
‘We know what happened to her. Her husband strangled
her because she was playing away from home.’ Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘But Clipton always denied murdering her. Even
at his execution his last words were “I didn’t do it”. And I’m finding it difficult to trace the locum, Liam Cheshlare – the
one on the photograph I found at Dalcott’s house. He was one of the main prosecution witnesses.’ He paused. ‘I’m going to
talk to the nanny who found the body – she’s due back from holiday today. She lives in Looe and I’ve asked Trish to keep trying
her phone number. But I really want to speak to her face to face – it’s only about an hour’s drive.’