No Known Grave Read online

  ALSO BY MAUREEN JENNINGS

  The Detective Inspector Tom Tyler Mysteries

  Season of Darkness

  Beware this Boy

  The Murdoch Mysteries

  Except the Dying

  Under the Dragon’s Tail

  Poor Tom is Cold

  Let Loose the Dogs

  Night’s Child

  Vices of My Blood

  A Journeyman to Grief

  Copyright © 2014 by Maureen Jennings

  McClelland & Stewart and colophon are registered trademarks of McClelland & Stewart, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Jennings, Maureen, author

  No known grave / Maureen Jennings.

  ISBN 978-0-7710-4329-1 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-0-7710-4341-3 (html)

  I. Title.

  PS8569.E562N65 2014 C813′.54 C2013-903012-3

  C2013-903013-1

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by McClelland & Stewart, a division of Random House of Canada Limited

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014944149

  Cover art: © Bert Hardy/Picture Post/Getty Images

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  www.randomhouse.ca

  v3.1

  To Iden. Of course and forever.

  And to the town of Ludlow, our second home.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  There is no moon, no light showing at all. It takes a few moments to become accustomed to the darkness, but the pigeons are easy to locate, cooing softly, rustling in the straw of the coop. They are used to being handled so it is easy to pick one out, a sleek, brown-speckled male. It doesn’t protest when the capsule is fastened to its leg. Death comes swiftly and painlessly with a hard twist of the neck. Then the soft, warm body is removed.

  St. Anne’s Convalescent

  Hospital, Ludlow,

  Shropshire

  July 15, 1942

  1.

  SHE WAS RUNNING. SHE WAS ALWAYS RUNNING. THIS time it was along the bank of the river. She was late for something, but she didn’t know what it was. Then she saw a dense cloud of moths coming towards her. They were big and grey and seemed to click and clatter as they flew. She swerved to avoid them but it was too late, and one of them went straight into her eye, where it got stuck, frantically flapping its hard and scratchy wings. Try as she might she couldn’t pull it out.

  Daisy awoke at once. There had been a knock on the door.

  “Ten past six, Miss Stevens.”

  She sat up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hughes. I’ll be right there.”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, waiting for a moment to steady herself. She’d opened the blackout curtains when she went to bed, and the reassuring light of early morning was seeping in through the narrow window. She licked her dry lips, trying to shake off the anxiety of her dream. It didn’t take a head doctor to interpret this latest nightmare. She didn’t think she’d even bother reporting it to Dr. Beck. He’d said he wanted to hear her dreams, but what good would that do? He was a nice-enough bloke for a foreigner, but talking to him once a week couldn’t really change anything.

  She glanced over at the woman in the other bed. Barbara Oakshutt was the complete opposite of Daisy. Sleep was a place she escaped to, and nothing disturbed her. Daisy didn’t even try to wake her. Babs wasn’t in the early morning massage class and didn’t have to get up until it was time for breakfast. One of the sisters always came to fetch her.

  Daisy stood and padded over to the washstand, curling her toes against the cold surface of the uncarpeted floor. She poured water into the bowl and washed her face, drying herself gingerly. The new skin on her cheek was still tender. Then she sat down at the dresser, examined the row of lipsticks courtesy of the Yank packages, and selected one. This was definitely a day for “Tru-Crimson.” She felt in need of a boost. She took a deep breath, pulled off the towel that she’d draped over the mirror, and leaned in close to apply the lipstick properly. She had well-shaped, full lips that she was secretly rather proud of. At least they were untouched by the accident. That’s how she referred to it in her mind, although strictly speaking the bombing raid was not an accident at all. It was premeditated and quite intentional. The only “accidental” part was that she’d been caught by flying shrapnel.

  Her twenty-second birthday was this weekend. Her mother had sent a card with a picture of a big-eyed puppy on the front. Inside was a scrawled note. Sorry we can’t come to visit this week, but Dad’s lumbago is acting up. We’ll try next fortnight.

  Daisy wasn’t really that disappointed. Visits with her family were always tense: too many awkward silences that her mother tried to fill with silly gossip from the neighbourhood. Daisy knew her mother blamed her for what had happened. She’d been dead set against her daughter enlisting from the beginning. She considered that Daisy had put herself into the line of fire, as it were.

  Daisy replaced the cap on the lipstick tube and studied the effect as best she could. It would have to do. There was a moan from Barbara, followed by a series of whimpers.

  Daisy went over to the bed.
“Buck up, Babs. You’ve got to keep going.”

  There was no response and Daisy gave a little shrug. “I’ll see you later then.”

  Moving more quickly now, she went to the wardrobe that was shoved into a corner of the room and took out her clothes. The patients were allowed to wear civvies if they wanted to, but Daisy preferred to dress in her WREN outfit. Putting on the familiar uniform gave her a feeling of purpose. Crisp white blouse, navy skirt, black stockings and sensible shoes, plain tie. She had just got it right when she heard the stairs creak and another soft tap on the door.

  “I’m coming,” Daisy called.

  “There’s a nice cup of tea waiting. You don’t want it getting cold, look you.”

  “Two minutes.”

  Daisy went to the dresser, where the wig sat on its wooden form. Her mother had insisted they invest in top-quality hair, and it was thick and glossy brown, slightly longer than she’d been used to before. She pulled it on, gave a final check in the mirror to see that it was sitting properly, then reached into the drawer and took out the black eye patch. As a joke, an act of defiance, she’d had one of the sisters paint a dainty white flower on the surface. “I’d rather look like a walking work of art than a bloody pirate. Besides, it takes people’s minds off the rest of my face.”

  She tied on the patch.

  The orderly was waiting for her on the landing.

  “Pretty as a picture as always, Miss Stevens.”

  “If you were an Irishman, Mr. Hughes, I’d say you were full of blarney.”

  “Good thing I’m Welsh then. We always tell the truth, look you.”

  Daisy managed to smile.

  When Nigel Melrose felt his sheet being pulled away from his face, he said, loud and angry, “For God’s sake. It’s still bloody nighttime.” He tried to tug the cover back up, but the other man had a firm hold. “Have a heart, Vic,” spluttered Melrose. “I need my sleep. It knits the ravelled sleeve of care, as the Scottish thane so brilliantly put it.”

  For an answer, Victor Clark lifted his cane and poked him hard in the ribs.

  Melrose yelped. “All right. All right. I’m up.” He sat upright and squinted at his tormentor. “Lord help us, Vic. Do you look especially bad this morning or is it me?”

  Clark pointed at Melrose. Then he lurched over to the windows and opened the curtains.

  The third man, Eddie Prescott, now stirred and Clark went to him. This one he approached more cautiously. A more gentle poke and a step backward, out of range. Prescott sat up at once, his arms flailing as if to throw a punch.

  “ ’Oo’s there? Speak up, you sod. Speak up or I’ll knock your block off.”

  Melrose answered for the mute Clark. “How beautifully poetic as usual, Eddie. But you can relax. It’s just Vic making sure you’re up. Rub-a-dub class this morning.”

  Prescott lowered his fists. “Sorry.”

  Vic grunted.

  “That was his way of saying, ‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ ” murmured Melrose. “He takes no offence. As the call girl said to the bishop when they collided in the fog.”

  Eddie got out of bed, his foot feeling for his slippers. Surreptitiously, Melrose kicked one out of reach. Clark saw him and wagged his finger reproachfully.

  At that moment the door was pushed open and a man in a wheelchair appeared on the threshold. He was wearing a shirt and trousers in RAF blue. Heavy, dark glasses obscured his face.

  “Morning, guys. Melly, I’m glad you’re already in top form. I could hear the quotes falling out of your mouth.”

  “Morning, Jeremy,” said Melrose. “It’s good to know I can still reach the plebs in the balcony.”

  Prescott hooted. “ ’Ere we go again. ’E thinks ’e’s bloody Laurence Olivier.”

  “Better that, old chap, than having no aspirations at all above the gutter,” replied Melrose.

  Before Prescott could respond, Clark thrust his cane between the two men. The rumblings in his throat were clear enough. He wasn’t a big man, but even his inability to speak couldn’t hide the fact that he meant business.

  Melrose threw up his hands. “Don’t worry, Vic. I won’t be drawn. I have more important things to dwell on.” He turned to the man in the wheelchair. “Come on, Jeremy, I’ll take you down. Let me just garb myself more appropriately. Don’t want to embarrass the sisters.”

  He removed a burgundy-coloured silk dressing gown from a hook on the door, slipped it on, then smoothed his hair with a pair of silver-backed brushes from the dresser.

  “All right then, those of you who have eyes to see, speak up. Hmm. I suppose that means just you, Vic. Am I presentable? You nod? Good.” He shoved the wheelchair around so he could take the handles. “We’d better get a move on, my friend. Sarge will have our hides if we’re late again. And I will die if I don’t get my morning cuppa char, paltry as it is.”

  “Oi, what about me? I’m not ready yet,” Eddie called to him.

  “I cannot take responsibility for mandragora heads,” said Melrose with a flap of his hand. “Vic will help you, I’m sure.”

  “See you downstairs,” called out Jeremy Bancroft as the door closed behind them.

  Prescott felt for the clothes that were neatly folded on the chair beside the bed.

  “One of these days, Vic, I’m going to clock that bloke. Bloody toffee-nosed snob.”

  Clark grunted.

  “No, seriously,” continued Prescott. “The only reason I haven’t bashed his head in is ’cos he’s older than me. I never beat up women, kiddies, or old men.”

  Clark handed him his shirt and stood by while Prescott struggled to get dressed. He got into a pair of baggy black-and-white-checked trousers, a brown-striped shirt, and a paisley waistcoat.

  “Do I look all right?” he asked finally. “Yesterday, Melrose made some crack about me applying to join the circus. Sod him.”

  He reached for Clark’s shoulder. “Lead on. The lame leading the blind. What a bloody joke.”

  2.

  THE ROOM THAT THE HOSPITAL HAD MADE AVAILABLE for the massage classes had once been the wine cellar of the manor house. It was awkward for the disabled students to get in and out of, there were no windows, and it tended to be too cool for comfort, but they liked having it all to themselves. Windows were irrelevant.

  “Whose turn is it to be the body?” asked the orderly who had accompanied them.

  “Daisy’s,” said Prestcott and Bancroft in unison.

  “Oh, no,” she replied at once. “If you think I’m going to take my clothes off and lie on that table without our teacher here, you’ve got another think coming. I don’t trust you blokes as far as I could throw you. You’re always making some excuse to bump my bosoms. The tibia–fibula attachment isn’t in the middle of my chest, as you well know.”

  Clark made a sort of gurgling sound.

  “Don’t make poor Vic laugh, he could break his wires,” said Melrose.

  “Come on now,” said Hughes. “Mr. McHattie won’t be happy, look you, if he finds you sitting around idle when he gets here. Mr. Clark, how about you being the victim … I mean, the subject? You’re the only one who will keep his mouth shut.”

  “Ouch, that was unkind,” said Melrose. “I’m sure Vic will be as chatty as any of us when the doctor applies the tin opener to his jaw.”

  Vic Clark waved his hand energetically at the orderly, indicating he didn’t want to volunteer.

  “All right,” said Hughes. “By the authority invested in me by this hospital, I nominate you, Mr. Bancroft.”

  The Canadian moaned. “Must I? I hate being the one they practise on. It’s like having four orchestras all playing different tunes at the same time. Eddie, you are far too tentative, and Melly, you and Vic act like you’re trying to scrub paint off of a piece of wood. Daisy’s the only one of you with any kind of decent touch.”

  “It’s all a pile of shite, if you ask me,” said Prescott. “They just want us to keep busy. We could as easily take up bloody basket-weaving.”


  “Get on the table, for God’s sake, Jeremy,” said Melrose. “I can’t take Eddie’s bellyaching this early in the morning.”

  “Do I have to strip? It’s freezing in here.”

  Melrose’s voice was scornful. “I thought all Canuck children were rolled in snow and ice from the moment of birth. Makes them tough as seals.”

  “I was born in Victoria, I’ll have you know,” snorted Bancroft. “It’s a little England in more ways than one. It’s never cold there.”

  “They’ll warm you up once they get going,” said Hughes.

  “I’ll help you, Jeremy,” said Daisy. “Here. Give me your jersey. Can you manage your trousers yourself?”

  Melrose whistled. “I’d say no if I were you, Bancroft.”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake, do you have to dirty everything?” Daisy’s voice was angry.

  “Thank you, Daisy,” said Bancroft. “I just need a shoulder to lean on for balance.”

  “Here,” said the orderly. “Allow me.”

  Politely, Daisy turned away as Bancroft stripped down to his underwear, but Melrose whistled again.

  “Quite awe-inspiring,” he muttered. “Better than the Rockies, I’d say.”

  Daisy frowned but pretended not to know what he meant. Hughes helped Bancroft to get onto the gurney, where he stretched out on his back.

  “Hurry up, won’t you, I’m freezing.”

  Daisy took a blanket from one of the shelves and covered him. “We can work around it. No sense in catching your death.”

  The other three moved in closer. Vic tentatively lifted Bancroft’s leg. Eddie reached for one arm, Melrose took the other.

  “I have to say,” chuckled Hughes, “a less inspiring bunch I’ve yet to see. Lord help the poor patients if you ever get any. Ladies and Mr. Melrose excepted, naturally.”

  “What on earth has happened to our illustrious leader?” asked Bancroft. “It’s so utterly unlike him to be late.”

  “I hope he’s not been taken ill,” said Daisy. “Come to think of it, I didn’t hear his bagpipes this morning.”

  “Speaking of being ill …” said Melrose. “In the interests of our mental health, can we get him to cease and desist his serenades?”

  “Not a chance,” said the orderly, grinning. “It makes him very happy. And we all want the sergeant to be happy, don’t we?”