Page 84 of The Stranger in Room Six

‘So you know,’ said Cook quietly when she went down into the kitchen.

‘You knew too?’ asked Mabel.

‘Some suspected but no one said anything. But that was in the old days. The war is changing everything. People are more accepting of women who have babies out of wedlock.’

‘Including me?’ whispered Mabel.

‘Including you, love,’ she said, giving Mabel a floury hug.

At dinner that night, the table was empty. ‘Your aunt is in her bedroom,’ said Cook. ‘She has asked me to give you her apologies.’

Your aunt. It seemed as though everyone else was going to continue this pretence.

Thank goodness Clarissa was not present.

Mabel did not know how she could possibly have a normal conversation with her after this.

She lay awake all night, tossing and turning.

Thinking back over her life. Remembering her mother who was not her mother, calling her ‘special’ again and again.

About her little baby, Antonio, whose own adoptive mother was perhaps also calling him ‘special’ that very second.

Outside, the wind was whipping up. Branches were falling. At one point, there was a particularly loud crack as though a tree had fallen.

At 5 a.m., still unable to sleep, she got up and went down to the library.

Reading often helped her sleep but she couldn’t think what to turn to at a time like this.

A book was sticking out from the others as though it had recently been read and then replaced unevenly; Mabel pulled it out and flicked through it.

It was written in a foreign language that Mabel didn’t recognize. She was reasonably fluent in French thanks to her governess in London, but this was different. Then her blood chilled as she took in the printing details on the frontispiece. There was one word there that she did recognize: Berlin.

As she held the book in her hands, a photograph fluttered out.

Mabel gasped at a younger Clarissa, standing alongside the Colonel and a tall, imposing man with a moustache.

There were others next to them, waving placards saying ‘Make Britain Great Again’.

Then she turned it over. There, in her aunt’s writing, were the words ‘Our first march with Oswald Mosley.’

Wasn’t he the leader of the British fascists? The man who openly supported Hitler before the war? So, her aunt had been involved after all.

The following morning, the breakfast table was empty.

‘Where’s my aunt?’ she asked.

Cook looked concerned. ‘I don’t know. She’s not in her room. I went up with a cup of tea earlier.’

She couldn’t be walking the dogs either. They were in the kennels, on their hind legs, barking. Clearly they hadn’t even been out.

‘I’ll see if she’s in the gardens,’ said Mabel.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Cook. ‘You take the route to the tennis courts and I’ll head for the stables. Maybe the groom has seen her.’ The ‘garden’ was so vast that it would take all day for one person to search it.

Mabel had almost reached the courts when she heard the scream.

Running as fast as she could, she followed the yell to the lavender bank. Cook was bent double, standing over what looked like a pile of red rags. Then she realized it was a body, drenched in blood.

Cook was too hysterical to speak.

Shaking, Mabel knelt down, forcing herself to turn the body over. Her aunt’s glassy eyes stared back at her, a bullet hole in her chest. Beside her lay a stone and underneath a note with one word.

TRAITOR.

‘Help,’ screamed Mabel. ‘Help!’

Belinda

Now

I draw a sharp breath. ‘Did one of the locals kill her?’

Mabel’s voice is flat. ‘There was a rumour that Frannie had done it in revenge for her father’s death. But I don’t see her as a killer.’

‘Who do you think did it, then?’

‘Well, quite a few murders happened during the war. It was easier to cover them up when bombs were falling everywhere. The whole village disliked my aunt.’ Mabel shudders. ‘It could have been anyone.’

Then her voice changes. ‘I don’t want to say any more. It’s too horrible. What I do want to know is where Karen is and what you did to her to make her pay.’

Luckily, a bell sounds. ‘It’s time for tea,’ I say brightly.

She puts on the sulking face I’ve grown to know so well. ‘I don’t want any. I’d much rather hear your story.’

‘Mabel, you might own this place but I’m afraid you’re not the only resident I have to take care of. Tonight, I’m on tea duty.’

To be honest I’m not looking forward to it. There’s one woman who chucks food at everyone although she can be as sweet as sugar at other times. Butlins Bill isn’t my cup of tea either; he’s too loud and raucous for my liking.

Mabel makes a long-drawn-out ‘Ohhhh’, like a petulant child.

‘I’m sorry, but I’ll continue my story next time.’

‘Promise?’ she asks.

‘Promise.’