The door slammed. The four engines fired into life. Elsie took an empty seat by a window. Tears began to stream down her face, as she waved him goodbye and the Sunderland began to float along the water’s surface.
She stared at Woody, craning her neck to keep him in her vision. Then he was gone.
The plane sped jauntily over the bay, picking up speed until the nose began to lift into the air.
Through the glaze of moisture in her eyes, Elsie watched the island growing smaller, quickly being dwarfed by the vast Mediterranean Sea. She was going back to England, leaving behind the only man with whom she had ever truly been in love.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morton had arrived at the Eventide Rest Home early. He was sitting in his Mini in the car park outside the home, waiting for an attachment from Folkestone Library to open on his laptop. He glanced up at the time: still another ten minutes before his scheduled meeting with Rose.
The scanned image began to load in horizontal blocks until the whole picture was in front of him. It was a report from the Town Clerk’s Department about the bombing raid that had killed Daniel Winter. Morton skim-read the document. It was, as he had been expecting, a list of properties and the extent of the damage inflicted by a particular raid. He located the entry for Heron’s Brook and read across the page. It stated that the property was owned by Mr Wren, had a rateable value of thirty-eight pounds and the damage was to roof slates, ceilings and windows. At the end of the row was typed ‘Interior not examined’. It struck Morton as curiously odd that a building suffering sufficient enough damage to kill a man should only warrant external inspection. Other properties listed in the document had garnered such comments as ‘Fit for demolition,’ ‘Majority of windows smashed, ceilings down,’ or ‘Generally very extensively damaged.’
The document had done little to dismiss his hunch that Daniel had visited Cliff House on the night of his death. But what had happened after that? Morton mused.
A silver Astra drew into the car park and Morton saw Rose behind the wheel. He closed his laptop, slid it inside his bag and stepped from the car. She parked opposite him and greeted him with a wave.
‘Hello! Sorry—not late am I?’ she asked, ambling over to him, as she stuffed her car keys into her handbag. She’d had her hair highlighted and styled since he had last seen her and, with the white trousers and burgundy shirt that she wore, looked even more like Barbara.
‘No, no, not at all.’
Rose stood in front of Morton and raised both hands. ‘Now. I don’t know what Barbara’s told you but we didn’t tell him anything about her. It’s not that we’re ashamed or embarrassed or anything, we just didn’t know how to tell him and…well, we never have. So, please don’t bring that up.’
‘No problem,’ Morton said. ‘I understand.’
They began to walk towards the steps that led up to the entrance. It was an old Victorian property with a well-tended front garden.
‘I’m not sure how useful this visit is going to be for you, to be honest,’ Rose said, as they entered the building.
‘Well, there’s no harm in asking a couple of questions,’ Morton replied.
They signed themselves into the visitor’s book, then Morton followed Rose into a sweltering dayroom. It was large and open with chairs dotted all around the outside, many of which were vacant.
‘There he is—usual place by the window,’ Rose muttered, pointing to a high-backed chair, at which a white-haired figure sat.
It was a nice spot. It overlooked a neat garden that sloped down to a terrace then a large lawn beyond.
Rose gently placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Good morning!’
The old man was thin and gaunt-looking. He turned and beamed. ‘Rose!’
She leant in and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Do you remember, I said that I was bringing someone to see you today?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he answered, seeing Morton for the first time. ‘You must be Mr Farrier.’ He extended out his bony right hand.
‘And you know who he is from the records,’ Rose quipped to Morton.
Morton sat down and looked at the old man. He was wearing an open white shirt, flannel trousers and a pair of fluffy slippers. Morton looked into his moist grey eyes.
‘So, what is it I can do for you?’ he asked.
‘I’m doing some research for Rose on her mother’s wartime and wondered if you could shed any light?’
He frowned. ‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t know that much about what she got up to, but fire away.’
‘Morton wanted to know why the house was named Valletta,’ Rose blurted before he could ask anything. ‘I said you went there on honeymoon with Mum.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But the house was named before you married Mum,’ she countered with a hint of detective pride in her voice.
The old man looked slightly perplexed. ‘I believe Elsie was stationed there at some point in the war,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘She liked the place, so we went back there for our honeymoon in 1968.’
‘Was that why she named the house, then?’ Rose asked, seemingly disappointed with his explanation.
‘Yes.’
‘I had no idea she got up to so much—fancy Mum travelling to Malta,’ Rose began, turning to Morton. ‘What was she in the WAAF? Her rank, I mean?’
‘She ended up as a Squadron Officer.’
‘Yes, a Squadron Officer,’ Rose repeated. ‘Why did she never say that?’
The old man shrugged. ‘People were encouraged not to talk about what went on in the war. Being in the WAAF, I expect she would have signed the Official Secrets Act.’
‘Even so…’
