Page 64 of Strangers in Time
T HE B USYBODY B ECKONS
W HEN M OLLY RETURNED TO the front of the shop after putting the study key back in Oliver’s bedroom, her mind was awhirl. Why had Imogen taken her own life? Then she thought back to something that Oliver had said—that he felt guilt for her death. If he had acted she might still be alive, he had told Molly. Had Imogen taken her own life because she couldn’t live with whatever Oliver was involved in? And was that why Oliver had felt guilty?
She looked up to see that Mrs. Macklin was outside now, sweeping but really watching. She motioned to Molly, who opened the door and came outside.
“Hello,” said Mrs. Macklin. “I don’t believe we’ve met, luv. I’m Desdemona Macklin. This is my tea shop.”
“Hello. I’m Molly Wakefield.”
Macklin set her broom aside and lit a cigarette from a pack pulled from her apron pocket. She sucked in smoke and then exhaled directly at Molly, who irritably waved it away.
“And how do you know our Mr. Oliver?” said Macklin, ignoring Molly’s displeasure.
“He’s the cousin of my mother,” Molly said automatically.
“So they don’t live in London then?”
Molly said, “No, in Suffolk. That’s why I’m staying with Mr. Oliver.”
Macklin eyed her uniform. “Surely, that’s a sister’s outfit. But you can’t be more than fourteen or so.”
“I’m older than I look. And I have medical training, you see. I’m a nurse auxiliary at the Covent Garden Medical Clinic. They need all the help they can get.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure they do,” said Macklin, shooting her suspicious glances. “And very good of you, too,” she added, though her tone was distinctly lacking in sincerity.
“Do you know where Mr. Oliver is?” asked Molly.
“He left the shop around one. Didn’t say a word to me. Just a wave and then he was gone. He looked like he was limping.”
“The bombing last night. He was injured.”
Macklin made a clucking sound that, Molly thought, did not have much actual sympathy behind it. “Poor man. Yes, last night was a corker all right. Thought the ceiling was going to come down on me.”
“You didn’t go to a shelter?”
“I have a basement here. As good as any shelter, I reckon. And I don’t like hiding in the dirt. Doesn’t show proper spirit.”
“Well, if one is dead it doesn’t do much for one’s spirit. Now, I must be off.”
“I did notice what looked to be a police inspector here the other day talking to Ignatius?”
Molly slowly turned back around. “Yes. Someone tried to break into his shop, but nothing was taken.”
“Oh my, those hooligans. Here now, was that tied to what happened with that constable and the lad that got struck by the lorry?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“My, my, how terrible.”
“Yes, yes it was.”
“I also noticed through the glass that you went into the study, Imogen’s study, I always called it. Her father, Mr. Bradstreet, once told me it was her favorite place in the whole bloody world.”
“Yes, I’m sure. It is very nice.”
Macklin gave her a cagey look and said, “So did you find what you were looking for in there?”
Molly was disturbed by the woman’s obvious probing, but did her best not to show it. “I was looking for Mr. Oliver. So you knew her father and Imogen?” asked Molly. Yet her unspoken thought was, You know, the woman who thought you an insufferable busybody?
“Oh yes. The bookshop passed to Imogen after her father died. That was when she and Ignatius came to live there.”
“And then she died. How very sad,” said Molly, looking inquiringly at the woman. Molly was now doing some delicate probing of her own.
“Yes, yes, it was quite sad. Now, we didn’t see eye to eye on much. She was Labour and I’m a Conservative, as was my father and grandfather. She liked to read all the time, but I think books can do odd things to folks. Look at that one Hitler wrote, I forget the name. You think he didn’t change some minds with that rubbish?”
“But other books thoroughly refuted all of which he argued,” countered Molly.
“I guess it comes down to what you read and what you believe from what you read, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“And it seems Germany believes him ,” said Macklin.
“I think some of them may not have a choice in the matter.”
“Murderers, all of them!” exclaimed Macklin. “Look at last night. Bloody heathens.”
“Um, did you go to Imogen’s funeral?”
Macklin placed a malicious stare on Molly. “There was none.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There was no funeral because there was no body to bury.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You mean Ignatius never told you?” she said, obviously enjoying this.
“No.”
Macklin took a puff of her cigarette. “Well, perhaps he thought you too young. Though you’re a sister and all,” she added disdainfully.
“So what happened?” asked Molly, ignoring the other woman’s ugly tone.
“I’m not sure I should tell you if Ignatius thought not to.”
Molly realized by Macklin’s body language and expression that she was simply dying to convey what she knew. “I can assure you that I am mature enough to be told the circumstances of her passing.”
“You sound like you read lots of books, too,” said Macklin in a way that was clearly not a compliment.
“I’ve been known to pick up one or two,” Molly replied diplomatically. She had faced individuals like Macklin who, though she ran her own business, thought that a woman should probably never open a book, but only cook, sew, clean, and make babies. “But if you’d rather not tell me, that’s fine. I have some things to do.” She started to turn back to the bookshop.
Macklin tapped out her smoke on the cobbles and drew closer to Molly, her expression one of ill-concealed delight at what she was about to communicate. “Well, she took a train to the coast, Cornwall, I believe it was.”
Molly faced her. “And Mr. Oliver?”
“He said he had no idea she was going there. Anyway, she apparently walked all over the place till night fell. Then do you know what Imogen did?”
“What?” said Molly breathlessly.
“She went up on one of them cliffs there and… jumped into the sea.”
“Oh my God.”
Molly’s visceral reaction was real. While she had just learned that Imogen had taken her own life in Cornwall, she did not know the exact details because the letter had not mentioned them.
Macklin’s eyes danced merrily at Molly’s stricken expression. “Oh yes. Now, folks saw her do it, and tried to stop her. That’s how we know what happened. The tide was fierce and they never did recover her body. There were ships and mines, and U-boats all over. And, well, she was done for anyway, right? No sense in risking more lives to bring back a dead body. Especially one what done herself in.”
Molly let out the breath she had been holding. “How horrible.”
“Took her own life, she did. A mortal sin.” Macklin made the sign of the cross, kissed her fingertips, and looked to the sky. “Poor thing,” she added, with far more relish than sadness, at least to Molly’s thinking.
“Mr. Oliver must have been devastated.”
“Man didn’t leave his shop for weeks, except to do his air warden bit. I did what I could after he told me what happened, brought him some food and such. But the man was clearly in pain. Thought he might go out of his mind, actually. But he finally come round. And I’m sure it’s done him good having you here, dear. Men shouldn’t be alone. They get all sorts of wrongheaded notions, don’t they?”
For one awful moment, Molly suspected that Mrs. Macklin knew something about Oliver that might be very damaging. “Yes, I’m sure he does like having me here. He is so very kind and gentle… and patriotic. You know, his George Medal and everything.”
Macklin just stared at her without comment, which was odd in itself, but perhaps not, if the woman knew something.
“Well, I must be going,” said Molly.
“Yes, and I must finish up here. Work, work, it’s never done. Now, don’t go telling Ignatius what I told you. It’ll be our little secret . Seems to be lots of those floating around these days.”
With Macklin’s Parthian shot still ringing in her ears, Molly went up to her room and lay on the bed, her mind full of worry.
“Our little secret”? And “lots of those floating around these days”?
Molly felt terrified that she might very well end up losing both Oliver and Charlie.
And then I’ll truly be all alone.