‘What about Dora?’
‘What about Dora?’ Joan repeated the question thoughtfully. Her attention seemed to have been caught by a blackbird which had perched on the guttering of the outhouse and was therefore just visible through the kitchen window. ‘Dora disappeared in 1943. She went out on her bicycle and never came back. No one ever saw her or the bicycle again. People mostly believed she was murdered, but I suppose we will never know. I hope I haven’t upset you. I never intended for all this to come out. Ghosts and murders. It isn’t the kind of thing one ought to be telling people when they’ve just moved into a house.’
Wendy ignored the goosebumps on her arms. It came to her that there had been nothing more reported about the Leanne Finnegan case … or Leah Cattermole, subsequent to the discovery of her body. No news of any further arrest. Whoever had abducted those girls, he was still out there. Suppose it had been Peter? Peter who knew his way around The Ashes and knew exactly who lived there. Maybe she should have gone to Mr Broughton after all. But if she had got Peter dismissed from the job, wouldn’t that have given him a reason to dislike her and want revenge? If someone bad came into your life, it wasn’t always possible to be easily rid of them. She pulled herself firmly back to matters in hand. ‘Please, it’s fine. I asked you to tell me all about your family and you have. I’m not at all upset about it. Not by something that happened so long ago … but it must have been terrible for all of you?’
‘As it happens, I wasn’t living up here at the time, because my father’s work had taken us down to Surrey, but I felt it very deeply, because Dora and I had been so close.’
‘Didn’t they find any clues about what had happened to her?’
‘Nothing much. So far as I remember it, the last known sighting was of Dora going along the track which led to Holm Farm, but even that wasn’t very reliable. The lady who saw her was a bit short-sighted and all she could say was that she’d seen a girl on a bicycle, wearing a blue frock. And Dora was wearing a blue frock that day.’
‘Where’s Holm Farm?’
‘It’s gone now. There’s a new housing estate where it used to be. Magnolia Road starts at the place where the farm track used to run off Green Lane. It was all open land across there when I was a child. We often used to walk or bike along the track. The Coxes kept Holm Farm, and before the war you could buy your milk from them.’
‘Do you suppose Dora might have been going to the farm?’
‘It’s possible. The day it happened Bunty was staying with a school friend in Yorkshire and Aunt Elaine was out visiting for part of the afternoon. Uncle Herb was up in Scotland, doing some kind of war work, and the boys were both in the forces, so Dora hadn’t told anyone where she was going – that much I do remember. She might have been heading beyond the farm, down towards the river perhaps. The funny thing is that on almost any other day, one of the Coxes would certainly have seen her, but that particular day they were all out in the motor. That hardly ever happened, what with petrol rationing and everything, but Old Mrs Cox had a hospital appointment and her son and daughter-in-law had gone into town with her. There was a big search, I believe. The police were probably a bit stretched, but I think they got local volunteers and some soldiers to help. They never found anything.’
‘How awful. Did Elaine believe … you know, like she did with Ronnie?’
‘Not that I heard. The strange thing was that though she clung to the idea of Ronnie coming back, after a while she never spoke of Dora at all. Bunty said it was because Ronnie had always been her favourite, but that’s probably unfair. I think she suffered more over Dora, but she suffered in silence. We were able to hold a memorial service for Ronnie. There was no body, but at least we knew what had happened to him. You couldn’t have a service for Dora because no one could ever be quite sure …’
‘None of them lived to be very old,’ Wendy mused. ‘Poor Elaine! Imagine outliving all your children.’
‘I know. Poor old Ronnie was twenty-three and Bunty was forty when she went down to cancer. Hugh was only in his fifties – of course he always was a reckless driver.’ Joan pulled herself up abruptly, as though indulging in a thought which she ought not to have entertained. ‘Killed outright, a great tragedy. And Dora was fifteen when she … went. Well, I think I’ve kept you long enough. I must say you have been awfully generous and hospitable.’
‘It’s been great. You must come again.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. If you would like to see some photographs of the family and the house as it was in the old days, I have several albums.’
‘I would love that.’
There was an enthusiastic exchange of telephone numbers. Joan lived less than ten miles away, which made keeping in touch perfectly feasible. As the two women walked up the drive together, Wendy explained that she had approached the bank just a few days previously, in the hope of finding out more about who had owned the house from its earliest days.
‘How fascinating,’ said Joan. ‘You must promise to share whatever you find out with me.’
Wendy stood in the gateway to wave her visitor goodbye. The gate was always propped open these days, to facilitate the passage of their car. As she turned to go back to the house she was horrified to
