Read Online Every Secret Thing by Susanna Kearsley - Free Book Online
Authors: Susanna Kearsley
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You’re giving them a good once-over, are you? Are they yours?’
James had been spared the need of answering by his uncle’s reappearance.
The adult James Cavender paused in his narrative. The lights in the Bugle Lounge seemed to have dimmed. Someone laughed in the shadowy corner behind me; I don’t think he heard it. He lifted his head. ‘I’d never seen my Uncle Andrew angry. I suppose that’s why it stuck with me, that one day at the docks, why I remembered it so vividly – because I’d never seen him look like that.’
James, at twelve, had not known what to do. Andrew Deacon’s eyes ignored the boy, and fastened on the stranger, who had, smiling, lit a pipe and raised his walking stick to indicate the damaged crates. ‘Some trouble with your shipment, was there? Ah, well,’ he said, ‘accidents will happen.’
Andrew Deacon, very calmly, had said, ‘James, go to your mother, would you? There’s a good lad. I won’t be a moment.’
But he’d been a long time talking to the man. And then the man had gone, as inexplicably, it seemed, as he’d arrived.
‘I never knew his name,’ James Cavender said now, to me. ‘We never saw him, after that. But it might have been him in the photograph, there by the windmill. A tall man with a walking stick – the outline of the figure’s fairly clear. One can’t make out the face, but then I don’t remember faces from my childhood. Do you?’
I hadn’t thought about it really.
‘Anyway, I don’t suppose that’s much help to you. Maybe these,’ he told me, ‘will be more.’ And from the seat beside him, underneath his folded coat, he drew a large manila envelope and handed it across to me.
‘What’s this?’
‘They’re the letters that my uncle wrote to Mother, in the war.’
‘Oh, no,’ I said, and pushed the envelope away. ‘I couldn’t…’
‘Nonsense. He wouldn’t have minded.’
I wasn’t so sure anybody would want a reporter to read his old letters, but James Cavender insisted I had no cause for concern.
‘My mother’s dead. Been dead for twenty years,’ he said. ‘She might have lived much longer, but my father wore her down. He came back to us, after the war,’ he explained, ‘but he wasn’t the same man. He’d been in a Japanese prison camp, all those years, and…well, it would have changed any man, what he went through. He was…difficult.’ He left the rest unsaid, and shifted topics to, ‘My Uncle Andrew wasn’t with us anymore, by that point. He went back to doing business as an art dealer. He travelled. It was only after Father died that he came back to Elderwel to settle.’
‘With his garden.’
‘With his garden, yes.’
I looked down, at the envelope of letters.
James Cavender followed my gaze. ‘They’re from Portugal. I thought you might need to know details of what he was doing in Lisbon.’
‘I’m sorry? Why…?’
‘Well, it must have something to do with Lisbon, mustn’t it, this story he wanted to tell you? He sent a report there.’
I nodded, accepting the logic. And then I said slowly, ‘He talked about justice, the day that I met him. He mentioned a murder.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, I’m afraid.’
‘He never spoke of any deaths in Lisbon?’
‘He never spoke of Lisbon. There was Ivan Reynolds, naturally – he died, but that was cancer. And my uncle’s wife, but she was in New York.’ He tipped his head as he considered. ‘I should imagine there were any number of murders in Lisbon, in the war years. It was rather like Casablanca, wasn’t it? A neutral place with people from both sides milling about, plotting things in back alleys…a magnet for spies and skullduggery.’
‘And there’s nothing in the letters to your mother?’
‘About murder? Not that I recall. But you might find a reference that I’ve missed, when you read them.’ He thought of something, brightening. ‘He does mention several acquaintances, people he worked with. Perhaps
James had been spared the need of answering by his uncle’s reappearance.
The adult James Cavender paused in his narrative. The lights in the Bugle Lounge seemed to have dimmed. Someone laughed in the shadowy corner behind me; I don’t think he heard it. He lifted his head. ‘I’d never seen my Uncle Andrew angry. I suppose that’s why it stuck with me, that one day at the docks, why I remembered it so vividly – because I’d never seen him look like that.’
James, at twelve, had not known what to do. Andrew Deacon’s eyes ignored the boy, and fastened on the stranger, who had, smiling, lit a pipe and raised his walking stick to indicate the damaged crates. ‘Some trouble with your shipment, was there? Ah, well,’ he said, ‘accidents will happen.’
Andrew Deacon, very calmly, had said, ‘James, go to your mother, would you? There’s a good lad. I won’t be a moment.’
But he’d been a long time talking to the man. And then the man had gone, as inexplicably, it seemed, as he’d arrived.
‘I never knew his name,’ James Cavender said now, to me. ‘We never saw him, after that. But it might have been him in the photograph, there by the windmill. A tall man with a walking stick – the outline of the figure’s fairly clear. One can’t make out the face, but then I don’t remember faces from my childhood. Do you?’
I hadn’t thought about it really.
‘Anyway, I don’t suppose that’s much help to you. Maybe these,’ he told me, ‘will be more.’ And from the seat beside him, underneath his folded coat, he drew a large manila envelope and handed it across to me.
‘What’s this?’
‘They’re the letters that my uncle wrote to Mother, in the war.’
‘Oh, no,’ I said, and pushed the envelope away. ‘I couldn’t…’
‘Nonsense. He wouldn’t have minded.’
I wasn’t so sure anybody would want a reporter to read his old letters, but James Cavender insisted I had no cause for concern.
‘My mother’s dead. Been dead for twenty years,’ he said. ‘She might have lived much longer, but my father wore her down. He came back to us, after the war,’ he explained, ‘but he wasn’t the same man. He’d been in a Japanese prison camp, all those years, and…well, it would have changed any man, what he went through. He was…difficult.’ He left the rest unsaid, and shifted topics to, ‘My Uncle Andrew wasn’t with us anymore, by that point. He went back to doing business as an art dealer. He travelled. It was only after Father died that he came back to Elderwel to settle.’
‘With his garden.’
‘With his garden, yes.’
I looked down, at the envelope of letters.
James Cavender followed my gaze. ‘They’re from Portugal. I thought you might need to know details of what he was doing in Lisbon.’
‘I’m sorry? Why…?’
‘Well, it must have something to do with Lisbon, mustn’t it, this story he wanted to tell you? He sent a report there.’
I nodded, accepting the logic. And then I said slowly, ‘He talked about justice, the day that I met him. He mentioned a murder.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, I’m afraid.’
‘He never spoke of any deaths in Lisbon?’
‘He never spoke of Lisbon. There was Ivan Reynolds, naturally – he died, but that was cancer. And my uncle’s wife, but she was in New York.’ He tipped his head as he considered. ‘I should imagine there were any number of murders in Lisbon, in the war years. It was rather like Casablanca, wasn’t it? A neutral place with people from both sides milling about, plotting things in back alleys…a magnet for spies and skullduggery.’
‘And there’s nothing in the letters to your mother?’
‘About murder? Not that I recall. But you might find a reference that I’ve missed, when you read them.’ He thought of something, brightening. ‘He does mention several acquaintances, people he worked with. Perhaps
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