October 1941
Resting. All the time, resting. I’ve not listened to the wireless much of late. I knew it was bad about Russia. It makes me sick to think that we’re not really helping them. Halifax has put his foot in it again by telling the Americans and Hitler that we can’t invade at the moment. This war is far from over; it will almost certainly outlive me.
That was Doris Sloan’s final diary entry. Morton’s assumption that she had died at the end of 1941 was confirmed in the national death index.
He looked at the time: he still had a few hours left until his meeting with Tamara Forsdyke, but there was little else that he could do here; it was time to leave. He gathered his things, stood and quickly searched the room: no sign of Miss Latimer, thankfully. He hurried into the lobby, cleared out his locker and quick-marched through the double doors and out into the waiting sunshine. He reached his Mini, elated to have escaped without seeing her again and turned to open the car door.
‘Oh, do be careful,’ a familiar voice warned from behind.
It was her. He turned. ‘Pardon?’
‘I said to be careful,’ Miss Latimer repeated. ‘They’ve punctured your tyres and put a tracker under your bonnet.’
Morton was horrified. He jumped back from his car, as if he were about to be electrocuted. ‘Who did?’
‘Men with guns,’ she replied, her eyes wide, as she walked towards The Keep entrance.
He crouched to examine the front tyre, running his fingers carefully around the rim then hammering it with his fist. It looked okay. He moved to the rear tyre. That too seemed undamaged. ‘What did you see them doing to my car, exactly?’ he shouted.
Miss Latimer stopped and turned with a frown. ‘Who?’
Morton stood impatiently. ‘The men—the men with the guns.’
Miss Latimer almost smiled. ‘Oh, I didn’t really see anything, but that’s just what usually happens when you come here, isn’t it?’
Morton wasn’t in the mood. Without giving her the satisfaction of a response, he climbed into the Mini and sped from the car park like a teenager on a joyride.
One day he might just win a battle against her. Might.
Total darkness was still minutes away, but, on Capel-le-Ferne’s unlit back streets, Morton was struggling to get his bearings. With little traffic on the road—and none at all behind him—Morton slowed the Mini to a virtual crawl, the headlights slicing through the cool duskiness. Cliff House was hiding in the shadows, like some timid Edwardian aunt.
He realised, too late, that he had driven past the side road that he needed. He brought the car to a gentle stop, reversed past the entrance, then turned up the hill.
The gate was open and he slowly wound his way down the long drive.
The headlights plucked the house from the darkness. He drew to a halt in the car park and killed the engine, wondering if he had arrived on the correct evening. There was not a single light on anywhere in the house or grounds. He realised that he was seeing it exactly as it would have been during the war: blacked out and melding seamlessly into its environment, cowering under the enemy above.
Morton stepped from the Mini, an uneasiness beginning to prickle him inside. Spooky, was how Juliette had described the house. And that was in daylight.
He didn’t budge, just stood beside his car, staring at the house.
Then, in his peripheral vision, there was movement. He glanced up and saw something—no, someone—at one of the windows. He could just make out the ghosted face of the person. Man or woman, he couldn’t tell; they were standing back, trying not to be seen.
He smiled, trying to act normally. But something didn’t feel right. He shuddered, took a cursory glance all around him, then walked towards the house.
He tapped the door lightly, almost hoping that it went unanswered, and turned his back so that he was facing outwards.
At last, light! Instantly, Morton’s fears abated as the door opened, bathing him in a warm yellow glow.
‘Morton, do come in.’ It was Tamara, he recognised her voice immediately. She was smiling, extending her hand.
He shook it, smiled, and followed her through a large opulent hallway to the lounge.
‘Take a seat,’ she directed. ‘Can I get you a drink before we begin? I’m on Pinot Grigio.’
‘That would be lovely, thank you. Just a small glass, though.’
Morton sat at one of the three large sofas and took the opportunity of absorbing his surroundings. This was the place that Elsie Finch had come to for a month in July 1940, before returning to have the baby here in May 1941. Now, it was simple and elegantly designed with soft grey walls, pale curtains, wooden floors and cream leather sofas. He pictured a drabber version, a wartime sanctuary for young women who had got into trouble.
‘Here you go,’ Tamara said, handing him a glass filled almost to the brim. ‘Mother will be down in a minute—she’s your best bet for anything war-related.’ Tamara sat in one of the armchairs and curled her legs up under herself. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t come along until after the war was all done and dusted, and
