He smiled in that way she liked, which illuminated his face. He was a little older than her, she thought, but not by so much. His tanned skin and short, sun-bleached reddish hair signalled long hours spent outdoors. She sat, chin in hand, watching him roll a cigarette and light it with slow, capable movements. She wanted to ask him about himself, but she sensed a barrier.
‘So you’re on holiday?’ was the question she settled on.
‘That’s about it.’ He stared past her, out to sea. Finally his eyes met hers. ‘I’m an Army officer. Just finishing home leave after a long stint in Afghanistan. Reporting for duty again Monday.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘You’re frowning. What are you thinking?’
‘Just that it sounds a bit more important than TV film production.’
‘That’s what you do?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Historical drama at the moment. With the odd documentary thrown in.’
‘Which is the kind of programme I enjoy watching when off-duty. Therefore vital to the world.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes.’
She hesitated for a moment then said, ‘Have you had an awful time?’
Again, that far-off look out to sea. After a moment he nodded. He took a long drink of his beer. ‘It’s good to be home, to sit on an April evening by the sea.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Hey, what about you? Holiday?’
‘Not really – well, sort of. I mean, I don’t have to be back at work till Monday either, but this trip was a bit unplanned. I’m trying to solve a family mystery.’
‘That sounds interesting. A skeleton in the cupboard?’
‘Possibly, yes. My granny’s family used to live here. In Carlyon Manor up the road.’
His face betrayed surprise. ‘That burnt-out place? I walked past it the other day.’
‘The man at the museum said it happened a long time ago.’
‘Oh, I’ve met him.’
‘He’s been very kind. Fixed me up to see an old lady who turns out to be my great-aunt by marriage.’
‘And she’s got a story to tell?’
‘A fascinating one. I’m on the trail of a great-uncle who disappeared in the Second World War. My father was obsessed with the mystery, and I’m trying to find out why. She’s still telling me about it all.’
‘What did your great-uncle do in the war?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Something to do with Special Operations.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I’ve read up a bit about that. Would I have heard of him?’
‘I’ve no idea. His name was Rafe Ashton.’
‘Rafe Ashton. No, it doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘His official file was empty.’
‘Was it now? Cover-up by our people, do you suppose?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Let me know if you want me to sift around. See if I can find anything through my channels.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She brought out her purse.
‘It’s definitely my round next,’ he said.
‘No, I’ll buy,’ she replied, ‘but it’s not that. I was looking for this.’ She handed him one of her business cards.
‘Lucy Cardwell,’ he read aloud. ‘Blue Arch Studio. That’s you?’
‘Yes, that’s my mobile number. And my email.’
He pulled his wallet out of his jacket and stowed the card away safely then gave her his contact details.
‘Well, Lucy Cardwell,’ he said, ‘it’s definitely my round. And I’ll bring out the menu – unless you’ve got other plans.’
Later, in her hotel room, she checked her phone and found another message from Will. He was beginning to sound impatient and she knew she couldn’t pretend any longer. It wasn’t fair on either of them. She called his number, and when he answered they had one of those stumbling conversations at the end of which both parties were in agreement that things weren’t working. It was, they decided, best that they return to being friends.
After switching off her phone again, Lucy was surprised to feel not sadness but a soaring relief. She lay down on her bed and thought of the time she’d spent with Anthony, their laughter when they’d regained the safety of the quay – and she smiled.
Chapter 10
Today, Tuesday, a large flat cardboard box had joined the photograph albums on Beatrice’s table. Beatrice coaxed off the lid, lifted several layers of tissue paper and shook out a gorgeous dress of silver slashed with midnight blue, onto which was sewn a small train of a pewter-coloured gauzy material.
‘It’s the dress from your photograph. How wonderful,’ Lucy said, stroking the soft garment. ‘To think it’s survived so long.’