The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 4) Read online

  THE VANISHING OF

  DR WINTER

  -A Posie Parker Mystery-

  L.B. Hathaway

  WHITEHAVEN MAN PRESS

  London

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Whitehaven Man Press, London

  Copyright © L.B. Hathaway 2016

  (http://www.lbhathaway.com, email: [email protected])

  The moral right of the author, L.B. Hathaway, has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Sale or provision of this publication by any bookshop, retailer or e-book platform or website without the express written permission of the author is in direct breach of copyright and the author’s moral rights, and such rights will be enforced legally. Thank you for respecting the author’s rights.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (e-book:) 978-0-9929254-5-1

  ISBN (paperback:) 978-0-9929254-6-8

  Jacket illustration by Red Gate Arts.

  Formatting and design by J.D. Smith.

  For Ray and Tine, whose story goes on

  By L.B. Hathaway

  The Posie Parker Mystery Series

  1. Murder Offstage: A Posie Parker Mystery

  2. The Tomb of the Honey Bee: A Posie Parker Mystery

  3. Murder at Maypole Manor: A Posie Parker Mystery

  4. The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  Monday 18th and Tuesday 19th December, 1922

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  PART TWO

  Wednesday 20th and Thursday 21st December, 1922

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  PART THREE

  Friday 22nd December, 1922

  Eleven

  Twelve

  PART FOUR

  Afternoon of Friday 22nd and Saturday 23rd December, 1922

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  EPILOGUE

  Thanks for joining Posie Parker

  Historical Note

  Recipe for World War One Ginger Cake

  Acknowledgements and Author Note

  Further Reading

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  Monday 18th and Tuesday 19th December, 1922

  One

  (Cambridge, 1922)

  Felicity Fyne had never asked for help from anyone. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on the freezing slushy pavement and stared through the fogged-up window of the Belgian chocolate shop in All Saints Passage. It was the finest chocolate shop in Cambridge, and she watched the girl inside, the only customer, choosing a half-kilo of fresh cream truffles with obvious delight.

  Felicity had followed the girl here on purpose; down Trinity Street and through the crowded craft market, past the shops with all their gaudy Christmas decorations on display. And now here she was. Felicity swallowed hard. Never in a blue moon would she have imagined she would have had to resort to this. Spying. And stalking.

  The girl inside, a neat brunette with very short hair, was wearing a dark red beret and a matching woollen coat with white piping. Fairly nice things, Felicity thought to herself with reluctant approval; expensive but not showy. The girl was laughing at something the shop assistant was saying. Felicity strained to hear the conversation through the thin glass:

  ‘No. My gosh, don’t bother wrapping it up! It’s for me, a present to myself. I know, I’m a terrible greedy pig.’

  Yes, Felicity thought, that would be about right. She remembered that the girl had had a very sweet tooth and an insatiable appetite. She hadn’t changed much in five years, then. Plumper, perhaps, but not worse for it. Certainly better dressed than the last time they’d met in France, but that wasn’t hard. Oh, and more famous, of course. But the same girl nonetheless. She was even holding that same wretched carpet bag.

  Suddenly, in a flurry of shopping bags the brunette stepped out of the shop doorway into the dark passageway. It was now or never.

  Felicity called out from the shadowy tangle of frozen trees and chained-up bicycles where she was loitering.

  ‘Miss Parker? Miss Posie Parker?’

  She saw the girl blink blindly into the darkness.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the brunette called out nervously, clutching her enormous carpet bag tightly to her body. The green-coloured box of chocolates quivered in her hand.

  Felicity stepped into the oblong of light cast by the shop window.

  ‘You might not remember me, Miss Parker?’ She took off her smart veiled black hat and let the light fall fully on her finely-boned face, revealing very blonde hair drawn up into a tight unfashionable bun in the style of at least five years ago.

  ‘It’s Felicity Fyne. Sister Fyne, as was. I’m sorry to startle you. But we worked together in the war: 1917, Arras. Casualty Clearing Station Number 8. You drove ambulances, and I was a nurse. A professional nurse.’

  The brunette stared curiously and in a none-too-friendly fashion. Felicity extended a leather-gloved hand with a formality she normally reserved only for people much older or richer than herself. Posie Parker seemed to wait a jot more than was quite socially acceptable before shaking hands, and Felicity felt a quick tremor of hostility pass between them. When Posie Parker spoke it was with more than a hint of deliberate coolness.

  ‘Yes. I do remember you, as it happens. But I don’t recall us ever being the best of pals. Rather the opposite, in fact.’

  Posie Parker shoved the chocolate box into her carpet bag haphazardly, and made as if to move off:

  ‘So is this just a happy coincidence or are you following me?’

  Felicity forced a smile. ‘Both, really. I’m in Cambridge for the same reason as you, I suppose: Dr Rolly’s Memorial Service. Poor man, to survive the trenches and then to die of a heart attack in private practice! I wanted to catch you during the luncheon at Trinity College, but you slipped away. So I followed you around town until I could speak to you alone. I read about you in The Times. You’re a Private Detective now, aren’t you?’

  Posie Parker nodded. ‘Can I help you, Sister Fyne? Otherwise I’ll be going. I’m on a pretty tight timetable today.’

  ‘I need you to investigate something for me.’

  ‘Oh?’ Posie Parker replied guardedly. ‘What?’

  ‘The thing is, and I can’t quite believe I’m saying this, to you of all people, but I think I may have seen a ghost.’

  ‘What? Out here?’ Posie Parker laughed, rubbing her bare hands together for warmth. ‘Dash it all! He must have been hardy! It’s freezing!’

>   Felicity Fyne exhaled slowly and clucked her tongue in visible irritation. She had forgotten that Posie Parker was one of those annoying girls who liked to joke: in fact, she had been famous for it in their unit. That was how a girl with a nice but rather plain face and not-so-trim figure could have befriended most of the men around her; made them act like a bunch of silly overgrown schoolboys. Now Felicity was up close she could see that Posie Parker was wearing a novelty silk scarf underneath her smart coat, printed with a silly motif of garish red reindeers. So much for her new-found sophistication! Had she made a huge mistake in asking for Posie’s professional help?

  ‘Frightfully sorry,’ Posie Parker said suddenly, her large blue eyes growing deadly serious. ‘That was jolly unhelpful of me. I shouldn’t joke. It’s been a long day. I think I’m in need of a cup of tea. And a cake or two.’

  She gestured towards Trinity Street.

  ‘I saw a brand new place which looks good. Will you join me? And then you can tell me all about it.’

  ****

  Of course she remembered her. How could she not?

  Posie Parker was queuing up for cakes in Fitzbillies’ Tea Rooms, all the while casting surreptitious glances back over her shoulder at Sister Fyne, who was sitting primly at a table set for two in the window, underneath some flickering fairy lights.

  ‘Once seen, never forgotten,’ or ‘The most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.’ Wasn’t that what the chaps in their unit used to say about Sister Fyne? Well, that was at first. Later they hadn’t been so polite, or forgiving.

  Strange, Posie thought, how just as she was here in Cambridge trying to kill two birds already with one stone, yet another phantom from her past should reappear and darken her door. Generally Posie tried to blank out the horrors of the Great War, but it looked as though she’d have to revisit them today.

  Posie fingered the silk scarf at her neck, tugging at it. She regretted wearing it now; a silly early Christmas present from her brother’s old friend, Lord Rufus Cardigeon. A joke, obviously, but it had also been the only clean thing to hand this morning on the floor of her bedroom which had vaguely matched the colour of her coat. She cursed herself now for offering Sister Fyne tea; she was going to be hampered by limits of time as it was. But something in that lovely face had looked so utterly pained that Posie had found herself almost feeling sorry for the girl. Almost. Posie sighed as she handed over the money for the tea things: she’d hear her out, and then politely make her excuses. Sure as bread was bread there’d be a perfectly rational explanation for whatever it was that Sister Fyne thought she had seen today.

  Posie saw that her companion had now drawn what looked like a small sepia photograph out of her immaculate patent-leather handbag, and she was studying it closely at the table, playing with the folds of the red gingham tablecloth as if for comfort.

  Weaving her way back through the crowds of thirsty Christmas shoppers, Posie balanced a large metal tea-pot on a tray with a plate of iced Chelsea buns. A college clock somewhere outside in the darkness was striking five o’clock and a brass band in Trumpington Street struck up a cheery rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’.

  Pouring the tea, Posie found herself unconsciously studying her companion’s neck, and then her fingers, but she couldn’t immediately think why. A vague memory had been disturbed in her mind and was rising uselessly to the surface. But her search for jewellery, if that was it, was fruitless, for Sister Fyne wore nothing but a plain wooden rosary around her neck.

  The woman suddenly looked up.

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Parker?’

  ‘No. I believe there is usually a rational explanation for most things. So, in my book ghosts don’t exist,’ said Posie resolutely. ‘And if they do, I don’t care a hang for them.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, too. Until today.’

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Posie nodded over at the photo, munching on a bun, keen to avoid all these silly, dramatic turns of phrase. All this talk of ghosts! It was embarrassing for them both. Far better to stick to something certain.

  ‘It’s a photo of my husband,’ replied Sister Fyne simply, turning the photo this way and that in the twinkling Christmas lights. ‘Been dead for almost five years. He died in 1918, at Casualty Clearing Station Number 8, in a direct hit.’

  ‘What? A direct hit?’ Posie whispered numbly, the news just sinking in. Sister Fyne nodded and continued, barely registering the reaction of her tea-time companion.

  ‘Everyone there died, of course. It was a tragedy.’

  Sister Fyne paused:

  ‘Except that I think I saw him today.’

  She pushed the photo across the table to Posie. Posie took a sip of her tea to calm herself and then nearly spluttered it all up again over the photo. She hadn’t seen that face in a good while, and she hadn’t expected to see it again in such strange circumstances.

  ‘Oh, golly,’ she whispered. A cold hand clutched at her throat and she felt herself being wrenched back through time against her will. Black tunnels of memories hissed past her like a shrill whistling wind, unwelcoming and cold.

  ‘I had no idea he was dead,’ she said softly to Sister Fyne, passing the photo back. ‘Or that you actually jolly well went and married him in the end.’

  ‘Of course I married him!’ The girl sounded indignant, and half-triumphant. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I have?’

  Because it was wrong, Posie thought ruefully.

  And with a start, she realised that ‘it’, the whole sorry tale, had happened almost exactly five years before. It had been Christmastime, 1917.

  And quite suddenly, she was back there.

  ****

  Two

  (Arras, France, 1917)

  Ex-policeman Benny Jones took a swig of highly-sugared coffee from his thermos flask and passed it across to Posie, the steam rising in the pearly-grey air. He was a Red Cross medical orderly, and a highly efficient one too. He had just finished checking the knapsack of equipment and supplies their crew kept up front in the ambulance.

  Benny broke off a piece of Fry’s ‘Five Boys’ chocolate and ate it quickly for his breakfast. He had a very sweet tooth: he was even worse than Posie.

  ‘Oh rats! This is my last bit of chocolate,’ he said in his sing-song Welsh voice. ‘I’m hoping me ma will send some more in the post. You live in hope, eh? You got any leave granted over Christmas, Posie?’

  Posie shook her head and stroked Merlin, Benny’s German Shepherd dog. Merlin was an excellent sniffer-dog and proved invaluable to their crew, finding injured men out on the battlefield every day. A trained police dog in his previous life, he had become a kind of mascot for the crew, too.

  ‘Ah, well. I don’t think any of us have been granted any leave, actually,’ Benny said, grabbing a last cigarette and lighting up. ‘Apart from Helena.’

  He inhaled deeply. ‘But no-one can begrudge Helena that. Why, she hadn’t been home since the spring! She deserves it, so she does. Her poor old ma will be pleased to see her and give her a nice big hug; a nice big cwtch, as we say in the valleys. Her being an only child, an’ all. She’s leaving today.’

  The two of them plus Merlin were sitting up front in their motor ambulance outside the military mini-hospital, Casualty Clearing Station Number 8, waiting for the night-shift to return, and waiting for the start of their own shift. It was the second week in December. They were watching the sun rise over the frozen fields of Arras, where just five minutes’ drive would bring them to the front line of the battle. The engine of their ambulance was running, turning over, keeping itself warm, but you could already hear the steady dun-dun-dun of gunfire from the battlefields, and the occasional shell, too. The frozen morning air wafted through the bare window-vents at the sides of the vehicle, where in a normal car glass would have been.

  ‘Helena will be able to share her good news in person with her mother, then, won’t she?’ said Posie conversationally, trying to stay calm.

  Benny no
dded, smiling, wiping the steam from his thick glasses with a bit of rag. ‘Her ma will be thrilled, I’m sure.’

  Posie took a slug of the coffee. ‘Not to mention that anything good to come out of this terrible war is worth celebrating. Especially at Christmas.’

  They were discussing the very recent engagement of two of Number 8’s medical unit; Helena Llewellyn, the nice Welsh Sister-in-charge, and a surgeon, the brilliant Dr Winter, second in command of the unit. An odd match if ever there was one. Nevertheless, the whole unit had celebrated the news of the engagement at an impromptu party the week before.

  The fact that Helena was Welsh made Benny fiercely loyal towards her, but she was undeniably a lovely girl, and everyone thought so. Helena was no beauty, but she was the cheerful sort. She was big and capable with brown doe-eyes and raven hair. She was renowned for sharing out her own precious food-parcels with the injured men and for insisting that all the medical staff address her by her first name, which was absolutely unheard of. She also had a rare talent for cake baking, for putting something together out of virtually nothing on the most basic of cooking appliances. She had become justly famous for her ginger cake, which she baked in vast batches on her afternoon off every second week, using the hotel kitchen at the Lion d’Or in Arras by special arrangement with the manager there.

  By contrast Dr Winter was horribly aloof, but so handsome and good at his job that although people didn’t really like him, he was regarded with respect and something approaching awe by almost all the medical staff. Indeed, it was an undisputed fact that most of the women in the unit could have admitted to having had a schoolgirl crush on Dr Winter at some point during their time there. But not Posie. She had never seen what all the fuss was about, and the haughty Dr Winter had always stayed very much away from her, on the periphery of her existence, which was surprising considering the small team and the cramped working and living conditions.

  Posie’s fingers shook visibly as she held onto the hot drink, and she tried to tamp down her fear. She had been out on the Western Front for several months now, wanting to be useful, ever since her fiancé, Captain Harry Briskow, had been killed that summer on the Messines Ridge, but if truth were told she was always nervous at the start of a shift. Once she got going it was fine, but the waiting took its toll on the nerves. Just last week an ambulance from the next Clearing Station down from theirs had been totally wiped out by a shell as it returned home, carrying ten wounded soldiers and a complete crew.