She continued along the path, hurrying past Mr Falkirk’s property, praying not to be seen. The path ahead had veered around a corner and Agnes had momentarily disappeared from view. Elsie ran on. At the corner, she paused and gasped.
Agnes had stopped with one hand on her hip and the other still clutching whatever was in her hand. Violet was stomping towards her from the opposite direction.
Words were exchanged, but Elsie was too far away to hear.
She had to get closer, but without being seen. There was only one way. She lay flat on her stomach and began to drag herself along the trench path towards the pair, pausing momentarily as she went, trying not to cry out at the scratches that lacerated her face and arms. More and more words filtered through to her but they made no sense. She raised her head above the line of bushes that concealed her, just as Violet barged past Agnes, heading in her direction.
She was about to be caught; she had to move.
Elsie began to wriggle backwards but stopped instantly and watched with incredulity at what was happening in front of her.
Agnes raised the implement in her hand—a metal torch, Elsie realised—then brought it down towards Violet’s head, but Violet was quick and ducked out of the way, the torch silently crashing down on her right arm.
Violet yelped in pain and grabbed Agnes by the wrist, reaching out with her other hand for the torch, which she launched over the edge of the clifftop. With a quick violent motion, Violet spun Agnes around, holding both of her hands behind her back, pushing her towards the edge of the cliff.
Elsie gasped.
Garbled, hurried words were exchanged between the two women.
Elsie was transfixed. She should stand up and stop this from happening. What was she waiting for? She stood up hurriedly and shouted, ‘Violet!’
But Elsie was too late.
With one gentle, effortless push, Violet had sent Agnes over the cliff to her certain death.
Elsie’s legs were suddenly very heavy, refusing her brain’s request to move. Her lungs suffocated, refusing to form the dry words that she tried to speak.
Violet stood stationary, gaping out to sea, her red dress an absurdly glamorous juxtaposition to the setting and context of what had just occurred. Her face glanced sideways at Elsie. ‘Your baby’s gone from here. They sold her. Your mother-in-law’s last words will tell you where to find your baby.’
Elsie walked slowly along the path, cutting a striking figure. Flaps of her ripped blue dress danced gaily in the breeze and slow streams of bright red blood flowed down from an abundance of scratches on her exposed arms and legs.
She edged forward, to the spot of flattened grass that, just seconds before had been where her mother-in-law had stood. Elsie leaned over as far as she dared and peered below. She gasped and stepped back in horror; the body had fallen to a ledge part way down and was now motionless, lying broken and entwined in great ringlets of rusting barbed wire.
Elsie closed her eyes, her thoughts brittle, suddenly. The desire to flee, to escape this nightmare was overwhelming, but there was one thing left to do.
She tried to replay her mother-in-law’s last words before she had plummeted over the cliff, but they were grainy, vague and distorted. The Spyglass File—that was what she had said.
If Elsie found The Spyglass File, she would find her baby.
Chapter Thirty
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this today,’ Juliette moaned from beside him in bed. ‘It’s the day before our wedding.’
Morton was sitting up in bed, checking his emails on his mobile phone. At the top of the list was one from Ancestry DNA. Your results are in. He set the phone down and stroked her hair. ‘That’s exactly why I have to work today—I need the case closed before we go to America.’
‘To work on yet another case…’ Juliette mumbled.
Morton laughed. ‘That’s your fault—you booked the honeymoon. Look, it won’t take me long.’
‘If your plan works, that is.’
‘My plans always work,’ he replied with a grin, switching back to the email. He clicked to view the results and frowned as they loaded onscreen.
He checked each of the three results in turn, perplexed.
They made no sense whatsoever.
Morton found Rose’s stepfather in exactly the same position as the previous day; sitting by the window, his legs crossed at the ankle. Only his change of clothes told Morton that he hadn’t remained there unmoved since yesterday.
He smiled when Morton approached him. ‘So, you came back, then?’
Morton nodded. ‘Yes—I’d like some answers, if you don’t mind.’
‘Take a seat and I’ll start at the beginning.’
Morton obeyed, took out his notepad and pen and waited.
‘I do know more about Elsie’s war than I let on yesterday,’ he began. ‘You see, we met during the war.’
‘Oh?’ Morton said, ceasing to write to fully take in the old man. It was a curious thing to have kept secret from his stepchildren all this time. Clearly, he still wished for Rose to be kept in the dark.
‘I was a pilot with 32 Squadron and I used to
