Without a Trace

  This coming Sunday, she had the day off and Charley was coming down to see her. Spring had finally arrived and, unless it decided to pour with rain, Molly thought she would pack a picnic for them and they could have it in Camber Castle.

  Cassie had mentioned Camber Castle in her journal a few times. She’d jotted down that it was built by Henry VIII as a defence for one of his Cinque Ports, but also that people claimed Anne Boleyn had been locked up in it by the king when he grew tired of her. Mrs Bridgenorth said she doubted that was true, but people liked to make up interesting stories about places. It was just a ruin now; sheep sheltered from the sea wind inside its walls. Molly had walked out across the marsh to it the previous week on her day off. She’d eaten her sandwiches in the shelter of its walls, then climbed up on to what was left of the battlements to survey the countryside.

  It had been a lovely spring day. Gorse had sprung into flower all over the marsh and the sweet perfume from its bright-yellow flowers hung in the still air. She loved the look of the black-faced sheep, apparently a much-prized breed known worldwide as Romney Marsh sheep, and lambing was in full swing. She saw twin lambs that day which could only have been born minutes before her arrival, so little and wobbly and utterly adorable.

  Perched up on the castle battlements, the sound of curlews and gulls filling the air, Molly had realized that she was truly happy, perhaps the happiest she’d ever been. She was coming to terms now with the death of Constance, and was even a little glad that any suffering her dear friend had gone through was over. She was no longer brooding on the unfairness of her dismissal from Bourne & Hollingsworth. Dilys was back in her life again – only yesterday she had had a letter from her – and she loved her new job and home. On top of that was Charley, who never failed to telephone at six on a Friday, as he’d promised, and so far she’d had three letters from him, too.

  If it hadn’t been for her sorrow about Cassie and thinking what more she could do about finding Petal, Molly’s would be the perfect life. But even Mr and Mrs Bridgenorth seemed to understand how important these things were to her.

  She had been intending to pick an appropriate moment to tell them what had happened, to see if she could enlist their help but, as it turned out, Mr Bridgenorth asked her some questions on her third day with them which led naturally into the subject.

  Molly had been asked to take a tray of coffee and buttered toast up to the office for Mr Bridgenorth that morning, as he was working on the hotel’s accounts.

  ‘Hullo, Molly,’ he said as she came in. ‘How are you settling in?’

  He was a tall, slender man with very bony features, not unattractive, but she’d been told he tended to be ill at ease with people, so she was quite surprised at his cheery interest in her.

  Trudy, one of the cleaners, who had worked here for years, had told her the background of most of the staff at the hotel. She said that Mr Bridgenorth was an accountant and that, when he married Evelyn, who had been brought up in the hotel trade, he had agreed to handle the business side of the hotel, as long as she took care of the day-to-day running of it.

  ‘I’m settling in very well, thank you, sir,’ Molly had replied, putting the tray down on his desk. ‘I’m finding it all so interesting, and it’s super to be in such a warm, comfortable place.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘My wife and I visited Constance a couple of times in Whitechapel, and we both felt chilled to the bone. How did you get to know her?’

  ‘I found her address in a book after my friend Cassie was killed back in Somerset. I wrote to Constance, because it was clear they had been close friends,’ she began.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Mr Bridgenorth had exclaimed, looking astounded. ‘I had no idea your connection was so dramatic. Please, go on. Tell me the whole story.’

  Molly gave him an abbreviated version of the story, knowing she ought to get back to work.

  ‘And they still haven’t found the murderer or the little girl?’ he asked when she had finished.

  ‘No, they haven’t,’ Molly said. ‘Actually, I think Cassie came from round here. She kept a journal, and in it she mentions Rye and the marshes quite a bit. I’m intending to ask about and show people her photograph in the hope that I might get a lead I can hand over to the police.’

  ‘Gosh, that is interesting,’ he said, then smiled. ‘Well, in a gruesome sort of way. But you have photographs? Might I see them? You never know, she might be someone who worked here at some point.’

  ‘I could go and get them now,’ Molly volunteered.

  She got the pictures from her room but, sadly, Mr Bridgenorth didn’t recognize Cassie. However, he did applaud her persistence in trying to find Cassie’s family and suggested places in town where someone might remember her.

  It was his interest in both the case and her part in it that really warmed Molly to Mr Bridgenorth. She didn’t understand why other staff said he was chilly or aloof.

  Molly had telephoned her mother twice since she’d been at the George, each time in the evening, when she knew her father would be at the pub. She didn’t talk for long, because long-distance calls were expensive and, anyway, her mother was useless at chatter: she dried up after a couple of minutes and Molly had to fire questions at her to keep the conversation going. Yet she did sense her mother’s relief that Molly had left London for a nice part of the country and that she was happy in the hotel.

  Cassie had often asked Molly why her sister, Emily, had left home and hadn’t kept in touch. Back then, Molly had never really admitted how very nasty her father could be, so she hadn’t been able to explain adequately why Emily had cut herself off, or the rage she still felt against their mother.

  Now Molly was beginning to understand and sympathize with her sister’s feelings. She didn’t feel angry at their mother, but she was finding talking to her on the telephone a bit of an ordeal, as it always brought on reminders of her father’s cruelty and how her mother had just accepted it. And she was one for letting unspoken reproaches hang in the air, and there were long, awkward silences which Molly didn’t know how to fill. Without going home and facing both of her parents, she couldn’t ever hope for complete reconciliation, and no sensible person would go home if they knew their father was never going to meet them halfway.

  When asked how the shop was doing, Mum merely said it was ticking over; she never spoke of new lines they were selling, or if anyone had failed to pay their monthly account, and Molly just had to hope her father wasn’t alienating customers with his grumpiness, or hitting his wife.

  The only thing her mother volunteered was to say how kind George was, always popping in when it was cold to see if he could carry coal upstairs for her and generally checking up on her. But even this sometimes seemed to be a reproach, as if her mother was hinting that Molly had let him slip through her fingers instead of encouraging his attentions.

  Molly had told her mother a dozen or more times that there was nothing but friendship between her and George. She did feel a little guilty that she’d never told him why she left Bourne & Hollingsworth; he must be as puzzled by it as her mother was. But then, she couldn’t bring herself to tell either of them the truth, as it still shamed her to be labelled a thief. She couldn’t ever say that she was coming home for a visit either, because it was too far to go and, anyway, she couldn’t stay at home, and taking up George’s offer to stay with his family wasn’t really an option now that she’d met Charley.

  That was another thing she ought to tell George about, but she didn’t know how to go about it. If George saw himself only as her friend, there would be no problem, but she had a sneaky feeling he felt he was more than that, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him jealous. Cassie would’ve roared with laughter about this. Molly could almost hear her friend berating her for being frightened of upsetting people. She would’ve pointed out that it made life unnecessarily complicated.

  Reading through Cassie’s journal again, Molly realized that her friend had spoken of Rye
as a favourite place to visit, not as if she lived there. One entry said, ‘Caught the early bus to Rye.’ To Molly, this implied that Cassie had travelled from an isolated village with a limited bus service. She studied a bus timetable and a map of the area and found that buses going to and from Hastings were regular, as they were on the route to Tenterden. So, in all likelihood, Cassie came from somewhere on the marshes between Rye and Hythe. As she didn’t mention the sea or beaches, Molly felt it must be inland, perhaps one of the tiny villages like Brookland, Old Romney or Ivychurch.

  On her afternoons off Molly usually found somewhere new to ask about her friend and show the photographs. She’d already called at the library, and at the doctor’s and dental surgeries in Rye, but she’d drawn a blank at all of them. No one recognized Cassie.

  Now that spring had arrived, Molly was looking forward to exploring the surrounding countryside and villages on her afternoons off, and she thought the best way to do it was by bicycle, as the land was flat as far as the eye could see. Albert, the old man who lit the fires, had told her there were a couple of ladies’ bicycles in the shed out in the backyard. Apparently, they were kept for the use of guests. All she had to do was check if it was all right for her to borrow one.

  There was just one person who thought he might have seen Cassie before, and that was Ernest.

  He’d squinted at the photograph for some time. ‘Her face is familiar,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I’ve never met anyone called Cassandra, or Cassie. Maybe she was someone who came in a few times when I first got here five years ago. I don’t think it could’ve been more recent.’

  ‘She’s dead now,’ Molly told him, quickly telling him the story and that Petal was still missing. ‘I want to try and find her family. If she did come from somewhere around here, surely someone would remember a black baby.’

  Ernest agreed that they would and said he would ask his wife because, as a teacher, she had contact with people from a huge radius around Rye. ‘Usually, she doesn’t forget anyone,’ he said with a proud smile. ‘We’ll be out together, and someone she taught twenty years ago will come up to her. She always remembers them, not just their name but the things they were good at.’

  ‘Then I hope she might help me with this,’ Molly said. ‘Local knowledge is invaluable.’

  But, for now, seeing Charley was more important than questioning people about Cassie. She sensed from the tone of his letters that he was really serious about her, even if he hadn’t actually said anything to confirm that. She was serious about him, too: he was the last thing she thought about before dropping off to sleep at night and her first thought in the morning. She wished there was another girl of her age working at the George, someone she could talk about such things to, but all the female staff were in their mid-thirties or older, all married women with kids, and, although they were warm and friendly, they were hardly the kind she could have a heart to heart with about falling in love.

  In women’s magazines and films love was always depicted as a kind of sickness, where the victim couldn’t eat, sleep or function normally. Molly, however, was sleeping like a top, eating like a pig, because the food in the George was so good, and, if anything, she was functioning on a day-to-day basis more efficiently than she ever had. It was true that Charley was never far from her mind – her stomach did a little flip every time she thought about his kisses – and she really missed seeing him all the time, as she had in Whitechapel. But was that love? Or just an infatuation that would fizzle out one day?

  ‘You’re looking very nice today, Molly,’ Mr Bridgenorth said on Saturday morning. ‘I take it your young man is coming to take you out?’

  Molly had been leaving the staff room after eating breakfast when she ran into him in the corridor.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said with a broad smile. She’d washed her hair the night before and slept with it plaited, so it was wavy, and she was wearing a new turquoise-and-white dress with a full skirt and three-quarter-length sleeves.

  ‘Yes, Charley is coming to take me out,’ Molly said. ‘We’re going for a picnic. It’s such a lovely day we might even paddle in the sea. But can I do anything for you? Were you looking for something, or someone?’

  ‘Yes, you, Molly. I wanted to tell you that, because Ernest thought your friend looked familiar, I looked through our records to see if a Cassandra March ever worked here. She didn’t, I’m afraid. Well, not if that was her real name.

  ‘But while she was on my mind I suddenly recalled hearing some gossip in the bar about a young unmarried woman out on the marsh having a mixed race baby. I think this was back in 1948, though I can’t be certain. All I really remember is that it was something of a mystery because no one had seen the child except the housekeeper.’

  ‘They must have had money, then, if there was a housekeeper!’ Molly said.

  ‘Some, I suppose,’ Mr Bridgenorth replied. ‘Probably a family with a sizable house and live-in help. The housekeeper might even have been a relative. As I recall, it was said there were mental problems in the family.’

  ‘Cassie didn’t have any mental problems,’ Molly said with a touch of indignation. ‘She was about the brightest person I ever met.’

  ‘People tend to say that about almost anyone who lives out on the marshes. They say it’s down to the wind.’

  ‘How did anyone know the baby was black, or even if there really was a baby if they hadn’t seen it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mr Bridgenorth shrugged. ‘But my experience of gossip is that there’s always some truth in it. Maybe the housekeeper talked. In any case, whether or not it’s true, that girl’s name definitely wasn’t Cassandra, it was something ordinary – Carol, Susan, something like that – and the family name is Coleman.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good start,’ Molly said, suddenly feeling hopeful now she had a name to go on.

  ‘I’m not sure it is, Molly,’ he said doubtfully. ‘You see, I’ve talked this over with Ernest and, after some discussion with his wife, who, as you know, is a teacher, he came up with more detail about the family. The grandfather was a doctor, and his daughter married a man called Reginald Coleman. Rumour had it that the parents disapproved of him. Anyway, he enlisted in the war and never came back. Ernest says he was reported missing, presumed dead, but there were whispers that he had deserted because he had a woman in France.’

  ‘Goodness me!’ Molly gasped. ‘So where is this house?’

  ‘A couple of miles from Brookland, very isolated, not another house near it.’

  ‘So why did no one around here respond when there were pictures of Petal and Cassie in the newspapers and they were asking for information?’ Molly asked. ‘Surely if Ernest thought she looked familiar, other people would recognize her, too?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s all to do with place?’ he asked. ‘If a body had turned up down the road here, everyone would be talking about who had gone missing, who it looked like. But a girl found dead some hundred and fifty miles away doesn’t have the same impact. The newspaper gets wrapped round fish and chips and it’s forgotten.’

  ‘I suppose that’s it.’ Molly sighed. ‘But thank you for all that information. I’ll mull it over and decide what to do.’

  Mr Bridgenorth smiled. ‘Forget it for now and have a lovely time with your young man. I must get off and do some work now.’

  An hour or so later, as Molly was packing a bag with the picnic she’d made, Trudy, one of the cleaners, called out to Molly, ‘Your bloke’s in reception. Lovely smile he’s got!’

  Molly’s heart flipped with excitement and she hurried from the kitchen to meet him.

  Trudy was right, Charley did have a lovely smile, and it seemed even wider and warmer than she remembered. ‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, and swept her into his arms.

  ‘Not here,’ she whispered, blushing furiously, as she knew Trudy and Anne, the receptionist, were peeping round the door to watch. ‘I’ve made us a picnic!’ She picked up the straw basket she’d droppe
d on the floor just before he hugged her.

  ‘You look good enough to eat yourself,’ he said and, taking the basket in one hand, and hers in the other, he led her outside.

  ‘Sorry it’s only a van.’ He waved towards a small blue van with ‘JACK SPOT GARAGE’ stencilled on the side. ‘I wanted to come in a Rolls Royce but, strangely enough, none of my pals have got one.’

  Molly laughed. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d turned up in a horse and cart.

  She directed him away from the hotel, down the hill to the main road, and from there to Rye Harbour, on the way telling him the rumours Mr Bridgenorth had heard about a girl with a black baby.

  Charley looked a bit apprehensive. ‘I can’t help thinking it would be better to leave well alone,’ he said. ‘The chances are it’s not your friend’s family and, if it was and Cassie left after some serious falling out, then you’ll only be stirring up muddy water.’

  ‘If it is her family, I just want to tell them about Petal and hope they’ll push the police to do more.’

  ‘Well, just be careful how you approach them, that’s all I’m saying. If they didn’t want to know the baby when she was born, they aren’t likely to care that much about what happened to her. And some families don’t like outsiders poking their nose in,’ he said.

  Molly was a bit hurt and surprised by his attitude. She’d expected him to be behind her one hundred per cent.

  ‘We have to leave the van here and walk the rest of the way,’ she said a little sharply as they drove into Rye Harbour. Charley glanced sideways at her, then pulled over on to a scrap of waste ground.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’m afraid you’ll get yourself into hot water. Just let me kiss you and make it up to you.’

  Molly wasn’t able to stay cross with him and allowed herself to be drawn into his arms.