Without a Trace

  The kiss was so sweet, and his tongue flickered into her mouth, making her heart beat faster and the outside world disappear.

  ‘I won’t be held responsible for what happens if we stay in this van,’ he murmured some twenty minutes later as he rained kisses on her neck, ‘so we’d better get out.’

  It was just the best of days, warm and sunny with only the lightest breeze, and the way Charley was with her – the ready smile, the gentle caresses and his interest in her day-to-day working life – made her feel so very special. They ate their picnic on a grassy bank inside Camber Castle, laughing about everything and anything.

  The kissing and cuddling was wonderful, too. Their bodies felt so close it was as if they were one person. ‘I hate not seeing you every day,’ Charley whispered. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else this week but seeing you today.’

  ‘I’ve been the same,’ she told him. ‘And now you’re here I don’t want to let you go.’

  ‘It won’t be for ever,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I can swing getting work in Ashford once I’ve passed my exam. I’ve been putting the word around that I want to move this way.’

  ‘I still wouldn’t be able to see you that much,’ she reminded him. ‘I have to work quite a lot of evenings and weekends.’

  ‘Then we’d better get married,’ he said.

  Molly didn’t know whether he was joking or serious, as he didn’t laugh, and he didn’t enlarge on it further. She didn’t feel able to ask, though, in case he thought she’d taken him too seriously, so she changed the subject.

  They walked on later to Winchelsea Beach and then on to Winchelsea, an ancient and pretty little town perched on a hill, as Rye was. They wandered around chatting and admiring all the old houses, then had tea and cake in a tea shop.

  ‘There’s so much space down here,’ Charley said as they walked back along the road to Rye to pick up his van. ‘In London you always feel someone is breathing down your neck. My idea of heaven would be a little cottage with no close neighbours. To have three or four children and bring them up knowing they were safe playing on the marsh or riding their bikes.’

  ‘That sounds good to me too,’ said Molly.

  He turned to her, put one finger under her chin and tilted her face up. ‘Then let’s make it happen. Will you marry me, Molly?’

  She was thrown. For some reason, in his idea of heaven, although she liked it, it seemed like the woman was almost an afterthought.

  ‘Doesn’t telling a girl you love her come before a proposal?’ she asked.

  ‘That goes without saying,’ he said, looking surprised.

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t. It’s important.’

  ‘Of course I love you. I think I fell for you the moment I clapped eyes on you in the café.’

  She liked his words, but not the tone in which he said them. It sounded slightly insincere.

  They hadn’t said anything more about it, and when Charley said goodbye and drove off Molly was left feeling very confused. She had expected him to stay till at least ten, but he’d said he had to go at eight thirty, and she couldn’t help but think he had something more exciting planned back in London than sitting in a pub with her on a Saturday night. Then there was that odd proposal.

  It hadn’t been mentioned again. They had kissed and cuddled in his van and things had got a bit heated. But he still didn’t tell her he loved her, or ask if she loved him.

  Why hadn’t he?

  Molly didn’t have any first-hand experience, but in books and films men spoke from the heart when they said such things. It had sounded like an excuse when Charley said he had to leave because he had to be up early for work in the morning. But if it was true he’d been asked to work on a Sunday, why hadn’t he mentioned it when he phoned on Friday evening?

  She felt downcast. It had been a lovely day and he had seemed as happy to be with her as she was with him, until he’d said he had to go. But, now she came to think on it, he hadn’t talked about his own life at all, not today or ever, really. He spoke of the men he worked with, of jobs he’d had in the past, but he didn’t volunteer personal information about his everyday life.

  Molly went in through the hotel’s back door, as there was less likelihood of her running into anyone and she couldn’t trust herself not to cry if she was asked about her day. Fortunately, she was able to slink unnoticed up the back stairs to her room. Once inside, she fell on the bed and cried.

  There was something not right about Charley, but she didn’t know what. She knew he wasn’t only after sex like most men: he could easily have lured her into it today, but he hadn’t even tried.

  Then there was the way he’d been about Cassie. On the face of it, he was just being protective, but she had a feeling that wasn’t all of it. Did he have something to hide, and so not want her making a scene about anything in case it turned a spotlight on him?

  He couldn’t be married – no man would propose to another woman if he already had a wife. Or could he?

  It seemed unlikely, but she couldn’t think of any other reason that might explain things. Yet when she thought of his broad smile when he’d met her this morning and his tender goodbye kiss she felt ashamed that she was doubting him. Maybe she was the odd one?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A few days after her day with Charley, Molly borrowed one of the hotel bicycles and rode out towards Brookland. She had been on breakfast and chambermaid duties and, as it was a warm, sunny day and she didn’t have to be back until seven to turn the beds down, she’d put on a blouse and some shorts and decided to explore.

  The previous day she’d received a letter from Charley. He’d apologized for leaving so early and said the reason he hadn’t told her earlier in the day was because he was afraid it would spoil things. He also apologized for proposing. He said it had just come out and, although he did want to marry her, it was all too soon, so would she please forgive him.

  She didn’t know what to make of that. She didn’t like that he sounded so weak, but then she told herself that he was right, it was too soon to be talking of marriage and, today, she was trying to put it out of her head.

  Being out in the fresh air, whizzing past orchards of apple and pear trees in full blossom, seeing lambs frolicking in the fields and feeling the sun warm on her face, arms and legs, she felt happy. Her mother had always said, ‘What will be, will be.’ And even though she’d found that little homily irritating in the past, today it seemed profound.

  She stopped at the post office in Brookland to ask the way to the Colemans’ house.

  ‘You won’t get no reply,’ the postmistress said. ‘She don’t answer the door to no one.’

  As the postmistress had a big, soft, motherly face, Molly didn’t think she was being deliberately obstructive.

  ‘Why’s that?’ she asked.

  The postmistress put one finger to her forehead and made a screwing motion, the way people often did to imply someone was barmy. ‘She’s been that way for years now. I can’t remember how long it is since she came into the village or passed the time of day with anyone.’

  ‘Does she have a daughter?’

  The postmistress looked surprised by the question. ‘Yes, she do, but she went away years ago.’

  Molly took the picture of Cassie out of her knapsack. ‘Is this her?’ she asked.

  The older woman looked at it carefully for what seemed like minutes. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said eventually. ‘She’s got a bit of a look of Sylvia, but I couldn’t say hand on heart that it’s her.’

  ‘Sylvia?’ Molly repeated. ‘Is that her daughter’s name?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The woman continued to look at the picture. ‘It does put me in mind of her, but there’s sommat wrong.’

  ‘Is it the hair?’ Molly asked. ‘I know you can’t see the real colour of this girl’s hair. It looks so dark in a black-and-white picture, but she dyed it red, you see. What if it was much fairer?’

  ‘Maybe that’s it. Sylvia had lovely hair – the colo
ur of butter, it were.’

  Molly had no idea of the natural colour of Cassie’s hair, but she felt she was getting somewhere. ‘Can you tell me how long ago it was that Sylvia left here? You see, I’m trying to find the family of this girl in the picture and I don’t want to be going to the wrong house.’

  The woman sucked in her cheeks. ‘Must be nigh on six years ago now, though no one is exactly sure, because of the way Miss Gribble was and still is.’

  ‘Who’s Miss Gribble?’

  ‘The housekeeper. Local kids say she’s a witch, and she’s certainly disagreeable, tight-lipped as they come. Some folks round here think she’s the reason Reg never come back after the war and why Christabel went crazy.’

  Molly was getting excited. ‘Look, the girl in the picture was my friend, and I knew her as Cassandra, Cassie for short. She was killed on Coronation Day and her little daughter went missing at the same time and has never been found. The police seem to have given up on the case, but I thought I’d try to find her family. Would you please tell me, did the girl you know as Sylvia have a black baby?’

  The postmistress hesitated and her expression showed the conflict she was feeling. Molly guessed she had suddenly realized she’d already been indiscreet.

  ‘It’s okay, you can tell me,’ Molly reassured her. ‘I’m sure the family saw it as a disgrace and did their best to cover it up. But none of that matters now: a child is missing, maybe even dead. People must say what they know.’

  ‘I really don’t know anything.’ The postmistress shrugged her shoulders. ‘There was a story going around that Sylvia had a mixed race baby, but I always thought that was spite, because she were a bit wild and the family was so peculiar. I never really believed it. After all, where would Sylvia meet a black man around here? Besides, no one I know ever saw the baby, so there probably weren’t one.’

  ‘If Sylvia and Cassie were the same person, which I believe they were, then there really was a child, a little girl. Petal, she was called, and she was a lovely kid, bright as a button and a credit to her mother. Her grandmother may not have wanted her, she might send me away with a flea in my ear, but she ought to be told her daughter is dead and that her granddaughter is missing.’

  ‘Fair enough. Put that way, I suppose she ought to know.’ The postmistress looked rattled now. She was wringing her hands and bright red spots of colour had appeared on her cheeks. ‘I’ll give you the address, but it would be best if you wrote to Christabel Coleman rather than going there. She won’t open the door to you.’

  ‘Okay,’ Molly said, though she had every intention of going straight there. ‘I’m really grateful for your help, and I won’t tell anyone the information came from you.’

  She rode away slowly from the post office, the address of the Colemans’ house in her pocket, mulling over what she’d been told. She wanted to believe she’d found out Cassie’s real name, and her home and family, but she had no proof at all that Sylvia Coleman was Cassandra March. What she ought to do was go straight to the police and get them to find out for certain. She could almost hear George lecturing her, saying that this wasn’t a job for amateurs.

  But the police might take for ever to act, and Molly was desperate to know the truth. Besides, now, she wanted to see mad Christabel Coleman and the fearsome Miss Gribble.

  It seemed that Cassie hadn’t spoken about her family for good reason. Who would want to admit that their mother was barmy? But even if Cassie’s mother was as mad as a hatter, she would never have expected her daughter to die young or her granddaughter to be taken away. So, however weird the family was, surely they’d want to help in finding the daughter’s missing child?

  Mulberry House was only about three miles from the post office, but it took Molly some time to find it, as the postmistress hadn’t given her any directions. The entrance was down a small lane and a wall of thick, evergreen trees hid the house. It was only by pure chance that she noticed the faded sign by a large, rusting wrought-iron gate, and she got off her bike to peer through the rails.

  The house was set back some hundred yards from the lane at the end of a drive that was overgrown with weeds and broken up in parts. The house was quite picturesque: mellow red brick, with fancy tall chimneys and lattice windows; Molly thought it must be over two hundred years old. Ivy covered most of it, including some of the windows, and, like the drive, it was neglected, with plants growing out of the gutters and roof.

  It was obvious that neither house nor grounds had received any maintenance for years. What would had once been a lawn was now more like a field, with clumps of rough grass suffocating the daffodils, which must have been planted years ago and somehow managed to survive. Huge rhododendron bushes had spread and choked any other plants and bushes that may have once filled the borders. The rhododendrons were about to burst into flower, and Molly was reminded that Cassie had been thrilled when she found a couple growing in the woods behind Stone Cottage. Back then, Molly had thought her friend was just a bit of a botanist, but now it seemed clear that she’d been pleased to see them because they were a reminder of her childhood home.

  Molly tried the gate and found it unlocked, but then she thought that perhaps shorts and a blouse were hardly suitable attire to give someone the news of their daughter’s death and decided to come back the next day in a dress.

  But she remained at the gate for a while, looking at the house and trying to imagine Cassie growing up there. It wasn’t difficult: it was as extraordinary as Cassie, and her friend had always had an air about her, as if she’d known better things. She knew the names of plants and trees, could talk about composers, writers and artists in a way that ordinary people never did. She wished Cassie had told her about her father going missing in France. Had she heard the gossip that he had a woman over there? Did she hate the implication that he might have deserted?

  Molly thought it looked a sad house. Maybe that was just because of the neglect and the sketchy information she now had about the residents, but she couldn’t possibly imagine any child ever playing noisy games in the garden or the house ringing with laughter.

  It was going to be even sadder when she gave Mrs Coleman the news. She might have ordered her daughter to leave when she had an illegitimate child, but no mother, however hard-hearted, could possibly be totally immune to grief.

  Later that evening, after she’d turned the guests’ beds down and helped out in the kitchen for a while, as the restaurant was busy, Molly wrote to Charley, telling him an edited version of the day’s events. She didn’t think he’d approve of her going back to the house to inform Mrs Coleman of her daughter’s death, so she implied she was going to hand what she knew over to the police.

  With police on her mind, she also wrote to George, because he’d known Cassie and had been as frustrated as she had when his senior officers had given up on finding Petal.

  ‘I’m hoping that talking to her mother and this scary-sounding housekeeper will result in them demanding a better investigation into Petal’s disappearance,’ she wrote. ‘If they don’t seem to care, then I’ll go straight to the police myself. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  She also penned a letter to Mrs Coleman, on headed paper from the George, in case she wouldn’t answer the door and speak to her. In it, she told her about her friendship with Cassie, who she felt sure was Sylvia Coleman, her death on Coronation Day and that Petal had disappeared.

  She kept the letter short and to the point, asking Mrs Coleman only that, as Petal’s grandmother, she should insist on further investigation by the police.

  It was raining the next morning while Molly served breakfast, but one of the guests said they’d heard the forecast, which said that showers would be dying out by midday. By the time she’d finished the bedrooms she was delighted to see the rain had stopped, and she rushed off to change.

  She selected a blue, checked, pleated skirt to wear as it was heavy enough not to blow up in the air and expose her stocking tops as she rode the bike, and with it a t
oning blue twinset. She tied her hair back with a matching blue ribbon. She looked at herself in the mirror for some time before leaving and, although she had butterflies in her stomach about what she had to do, she at least felt confident about how she looked. Her cheeks were pink again; they’d lost their colour in London, and her hair its shine. But it was shining now and the sun over the last few days had given her blonde streaks amongst the brown.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she said aloud. ‘I doubt they’ll be that weird. That’s just stuff people love to say.’

  When she arrived at Mulberry House she pushed the heavy iron gate open and wheeled her bike up the drive. She had a feeling she was being watched, but she couldn’t see anyone looking out of the windows. She leaned her bike against a low stone wall which surrounded a weed-filled rose bed, then went over to the front door and pulled on the bell.

  She heard it ring loudly enough to alert even someone hard of hearing, but no one came, so she rang it again, even harder. Again, no response. She rang it five times in all, and when there was still no response she walked round the side of the house to see if there was another entrance.

  Catching a fleeting glimpse of a white-haired woman through a window, she rapped on the glass and called out. But the woman didn’t respond so Molly continued round the house until she came to a kitchen door. It was propped open, and she rapped on it very loudly and called out.

  Her early training never to step into anyone’s house uninvited made it difficult for her to cross the threshold, so she stood there for a while calling out. Still, no one came.

  Coming through the open door there was an unpleasant smell of fish. She could see a saucepan on the gas stove and guessed it was being cooked for a cat. She hoped so, as it smelled too disgusting to be for humans.

  The kitchen was like so many she’d seen in country houses back home: a central table with a scrubbed top; painted cupboards and shelves lining the walls. Here, though, everything looked neglected, untidy and dirty and with peeling paint.