‘Maybe, but so what? She probably talked about him in the other letters she sent as well.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not. And maybe he didn’t mean to lose the others. Why would she mention her child at all, to a man convicted of murder who she’s clearly uncomfortable writing to, and when she clearly has more important things to write to him about?’
‘I don’t know … aren’t all new mothers a bit obsessed with their kids?’ he countered.
Leah took a printed page from her back pocket. ‘I found this in the newspaper archive – it’s Hester and Albert on their wedding day.’
‘Oh, so that’s what they looked like. That’s great,’ Mark said.
‘Did you bring the picture of Thomas? Hester’s son? Can I see it?’ Leah asked. Mark pulled it from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She held the two portraits up side by side. The flimsy printout flapped a little in the breeze. ‘What do you notice?’
Mark obediently studied the two pictures for a while, and then shrugged.
‘I don’t know. What am I supposed to be seeing?’
‘The eyes, Mark. Any A-level biology student will tell you – it’s almost impossible for two blue-eyed people to have a brown-eyed child. Thomas wasn’t Albert’s son. He was Robin Durrant’s.’
‘My God … are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. They must have had a fling or something. Something that of course ended badly when the murder and all the rest of it happened. The CWGC can do a DNA test for you, if you like. Your great-grandfather was a theosophist, was convicted of a murder he didn’t commit, and was sent to fight in the trenches like a lot of convicts. And he died there, with all of his secrets intact. Until now.’
They walked on for a bit longer, still searching, until Leah’s eyes lit upon the name she’d been looking for.
‘Here! Here she is,’ she said. But her excitement quickly faded into something more subdued. It was a small gravestone, so weathered and furred with lichen that it was easy to overlook. It sagged sideways with a slightly weary air, and the turf in front of it was tussocked and neglected. Just visible were chiselled words, the name and the epitaph. Catherine Morley, April 1889 – August 1911. Safe in the Arms of the Lord. ‘Her nickname was Black Cat, according to the papers,’ Leah said.
‘Why?’ Mark asked, as they crouched down by the stone. He put out his hand and brushed gritty lichen from her name with his thumb.
‘Who knows? Some things are just lost, after so much time. It could have been a slur on her character,’ Leah sighed. She put the bouquet of flowers on the grave and they looked out of place, too bright.
‘God, she was only twenty-two. So young. You haven’t got anything else to spring on me, have you? Cat Morley wasn’t my long-lost cousin or something?’ Mark smiled.
Leah shook her head. ‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘Well, you did it.’ He patted Cat Morley’s stone. ‘You found out who the dead soldier was, and solved a murder along the way. And you managed to get me out of the house. Thank you, Leah,’ he said seriously.
‘Don’t thank me – thank you for all your help! I couldn’t have done it without you,’ Leah said, embarrassed.
‘Yes, you could.’
‘Well. Thank goodness you decided to go for a pint at The Swing Bridge that first evening. I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to knock on your door again, after the reception I got the first time.’
‘And I probably wouldn’t have answered it if you had. Which would have been a huge mistake,’ he said. Leah smiled briefly and looked down at the grave between them. His steady grey gaze was disconcerting, made it hard to think. There was a heavy pause, the wind rustling quietly through the cheery flowers.
‘So, when is this meeting with your CWGC … contact, then? Where the grand reveal of the soldier’s name will be made?’ Mark asked, with a note of fake drama, fake lack of interest in his tone. Leah watched him across Cat’s grave for a moment, until he looked away across the cemetery and into the black depths of the yew tree.
‘Tomorrow. There’s a party at his parents’ house. I said I’d drop it in then.’ She searched around for something else to add, but found nothing.
‘A party. Sounds nice. Do you want me drive you? Surrey, you said before, didn’t you? It’s not far. Then you could have a drink,’ he offered casually.
‘Oh, that’s kind of you, but there’s really no need to bother—’
‘It’s no bother,’ he said, quickly.