A dozen of the good folk of Chalton turned out for the funeral of Colonel Peter Jeffries, DCM, MC, DSC and bar, even though most of them hardly knew him. They had certainly known his father, who had been a pillar of the community, and they had all been beneficiaries, directly or indirectly, of his generous contributions to the village.
But when Sir John had died and his reclusive army officer son, his surprisingly young wife and teenage daughter had moved in, things were never quite the same. The Jeffries family seemed perfectly pleasant types but liked to keep themselves to themselves, so the local population had to resort to rumour and gossip in order to fill in the gaps in their knowledge.
They knew of the twin tragedies that had befallen the colonel, of course: firstly, the untimely death of his impossibly beautiful young wife – “She was foreign, you know” – and then the mysterious disappearance of the daughter. But they had kept their distance, limiting their contact to expressions of condolence when they happened to pass him in the country lanes.
Their sympathy for him had been genuine, but nothing could explain the extraordinary arrival, four years ago, of a young woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to his missing daughter. Tongues began to wag, naturally, and while some simply assumed it was a coincidence that the colonel’s new housekeeper was a dead ringer for his daughter, there was also some vile gossip put about that, having tired of his Latvian girlfriend, he had taken up with a new, young English floosie who could presumably cook more than boiled lamb and potatoes.
There even remained, amongst a few of them, the suspicion that, having conflated the disappearance of one young woman with the arrival of another who was virtually identical, this was no coincidence and indicative of something far more sinister.
But nothing could prepare them for the unexpected arrival of babies, two of them, around nine months after the new girl took up residence at Chalton Manor.
Dismay, outrage and criticism, mainly from the womenfolk, was often expressed privately but never outspoken, as was, from the menfolk, the occasional murmur of admiration that, not only did the old fella still have a few bullets in the magazine, he could hit the target.
So the mourners, if they could be so described, included not only those of a prurient disposition but also those motivated by genuine respect for the departed and concern for the bereaved.
After a simple service, Peter was laid to rest in the cemetery of St Mary’s Church, Chalton alongside his forebears whose headstones monopolised a dedicated area of the graveyard purchased by George Jeffries, Peter’s great-great-great-grandfather, in 1801.
Alice stood rigidly outside the main church door, Sophie and Lucy by her side, each holding her hand. The twins didn’t understand what they were doing there and Alice had not yet had the courage or the opportunity to try and explain, so they had begun to get a little fidgety, kicking their feet in the gravel and twitching their noses in boredom. But Alice held on firmly. It would be over soon.
Michael had been a rock, of course, as had Emma; the only family Peter had. The rest of the congregation comprised people she barely knew, but some she recognised by sight, although only a few expressed their condolences to her personally.
She cut a striking figure, standing there with her beautiful daughters, in black Jaeger cashmere overcoat over a black silk dress and black court Jimmy Choos, with a black velvet hat and lace veil. The twins were equally well dressed considering their age and the good folk of Chalton could tell that the women in the Jeffries household wanted for nothing.
Alice’s relationship with Emma had blossomed after Emma had been made aware of the basic facts and, having no children of her own, she took Alice under her wing during her pregnancy and was a tower of strength after the twins were born. It was Emma who broke the awkward silence.
“Come on, Alice. It’s time to go,” she said. Alice was reluctant to leave this place, leave him behind, but after a moment, sense took hold and she let her body relax. She held her head up and led her daughters, followed by Emma and the rest of the congregation, slowly down the path towards the main entrance gate.
Michael stayed at the back, last man standing, but when he approached the entrance gate something in his peripheral vision caused him to stop and turn. To his right, about hundred yards distant in the corner of the graveyard, stood a figure. He tried to focus, and his eyes were not what they once were but there was a familiarity he couldn’t place.
The figure was dressed in a colourful jacket and wore what appeared to be a woollen hat, not normal funeral attire. The figure stood motionless, staring back at him and the others as they filed out. Behind this figure, another emerged from the trees, similarly dressed in informal colourful clothes. A man and a woman, he judged, and suddenly it became clear. He knew who the woman was.
From the other end of the graveyard, the woman, dressed in a red puffer jacket, blue woollen hat with ear protectors and woollen ties dangling down each side, watched as the funeral party left the churchyard.
She recognised Michael Goodman and watched him stop and look at her, and made no attempt to conceal herself. She sensed a noise behind her but stared straight ahead. She felt the hand placed gently on her shoulder and she put her own on top, before turning her head around and smiling at the Nepalese man looking at her fondly, with a deep sadness.
Down the side of her face, she bore the remains of a once hideous scar, still red and angry after five years, and although she returned his smile warmly, the tears flowed steadily down her disfigured cheek.
Lisa Jeffries had clawed her way out of the rubble of the only school in Langtang with her bare hands and, despite serious head injuries and a broken pelvis, had managed to drag her broken body three miles to a trail where she was picked up by a mule train en route to Chumtang, a remote village to the north, near the Chinese border.
The villagers of Chumtang cared for her, and although her physical condition slowly improved, her injuries, together with the psychological trauma of her ordeal in Langtang, had resulted in retrograde amnesia. She didn’t know her name or who she was, so the women villagers called her Alisha. Protected by God.
Alisha started a new life in Chumtang, adopting Buddhism, returning to teaching; and as the years passed, fragments of her memory began to return. Word spread of a Western girl who had survived Langtang, and it eventually reached Kathmandu, and the ear of Sujay Bahadur Gurung.
It took Sujay a week to get there, and as soon as he saw her he knew she was the Jeffries girl. He told her about her father’s efforts to find her, and the shattered pieces of her lost memory finally fell into place.
Michael took the call exactly one week after Peter had died. He recognised Lisa’s voice immediately, but Alisha sounded very different. She had a calmness and serenity that seemed at odds with the girl he once knew.
He gave her the terrible news. She was too late. Alisha remained composed and said she would return as planned. Michael had sensed the danger and the complications that would arise, and thought it would be better if she delayed her arrival until after the funeral. He thought she had agreed to wait. He was wrong.
Alisha took Sujay Bahadur Gurung’s arm, and they slowly walked out of the side exit of St Mary’s Church.