It may have been the look of disappointment on my face, curiosity, courtesy, or a combination of all three, but the two of them simultaneously asked me to come in.
As it turned out the painting was going on upstairs, one of the reasons it took so long for them to come to the door. They both came down, they explained later, because they saw me approaching from the front upstairs window and wondered what I was doing there.
The main living area of the house was on the lower floor, and I was led into the closest room on the left of the entryway, the dining room. This room had also recently undergone a facelift. The only furniture present was a dining room set and a large sideboard. The walls were so recently painted, a light yellow, you could faintly smell the scent.
I sat down in the dining room chair indicated and my hosts pulled up two more. Immediately the older one said, “What is it you wanted with our grandmother, madam?”
“Your grandmother?” I squeaked.
They nodded.
“You’re an American, aren’t you? Or Canadian?”
Whenever I look on a map, it seems to me Canada and the United States are both in America, but Canadians and fellow countrymen alike always seem to consider Canada another realm. Apparently the British made the same delineation.
“I am an American,” I informed them, “and I never knew your grandmother. But I did know her sister, Amelia.”
The older, who had been leaning forward casually in his chair, now leaned back and gave me an incredulous grin.
“Long lost great aunt Amelia? You don’t say! Peter, put the kettle on for the lady. Looks like there might be a story here. Wait until we get a hold of mum!”
They were Roger and Peter Simington, the two sons of Mary’s daughter, Sandra. We introduced ourselves to each other, and Peter went off to put the tea kettle on, but not before he said, “Nice of you to come by, Mrs. Nimitz. We were dearly sick of painting, anyway. Just half a room to go, thank the Lord.”
While Peter got together cups and waited for the water to boil, I asked his brother if this was the house where his grandmother had lived.
“For forty years,” he answered cheerfully. “Most of that was with my grandfather, of course. He died about eight years ago. The place has needed some work for awhile, but they liked it the way it was, and she didn’t want to change anything after he was gone.”
“And, you say she just passed on recently?” I prodded.
She had indeed. Mary Whitaker had died peacefully in her sleep, the day after her sister had been killed.
“She was a dear, our Gran',” Roger went on conversationally, “rather like the queen mum, always there. I guess one forgets no one goes on forever.”
He eyed me speculatively. “Did you have a message for her or something from her sister?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted, “but it’s rather a long story. Perhaps we’ll wait for your brother to come back, and I’ll explain.”
To fill the time, I asked Roger if the house was being sold, and he told me it had been willed to his mother, the oldest of Mary’s children. She in turn decided to allow himself and Peter to lease it for their use.
“Pete is finishing graduate school,” the older sibling explained, “so money is a bit tight for him. For myself,” and a shadow of regret flickered over his not unhandsome face, “I’m recently divorced.”
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely.
“Life goes on,” he shrugged, “and here, I’m not too far away from my girls, my two daughters. What about yourself, Mrs. Nimitz? It is Mrs.? Did you come over with anyone?”
I explained my marital status and traveling arrangements. I politely asked if he and Peter had any other siblings and was told there were two sisters between them, neither of who lived in Coventry. Peter returned in about fifteen minutes with a tray. On it were not only steaming mugs of tea, but hastily made sandwiches and a plate with a wedge of cake.
“We didn’t stop for lunch,” Peter explained as he handed out the mugs and set out the food. Of course they offered me a sandwich but I eyed the thick ham with misgivings and took a piece of cake instead, declining milk or sugar for my tea.
“This is good,” I complimented honestly as I sipped the tea, “and while you gentleman eat your late lunch, as we would call it in the states, I will explain what I am doing on your doorstep.”
So I did.
They were suitably interested. Eventually Roger asked me to excuse him for a moment, and tried to call his mother. He returned to say she was at the dentist, so that would have to wait. Would I continue?
“You have heard most of it. Your great aunt was a charming, interesting lady. I found myself on a quest to learn more about her, and here I am.”
I continued with a brief synopsis of the investigation of George, Anne, and myself, to inform them of how I had ended up in Coventry.
“None of us know why she didn’t keep in touch with her relatives. In fact, we didn’t know she had any. Do you know what happened?”
Peter nodded toward his older brother. “Roger is more interested in the family history that I am. All I know is Gran' had one sister, but no one has heard a word from her in decades.”
There was a pause as Roger offered to refill our teacups. I took the opportunity to take a couple of bites of the cake. It was a little dry, but I ate it anyway.
“I don’t know much more,” Roger admitted as he took a seat again. “You wouldn’t have any photos of her, would you, Mrs. Nimitz?”
“I think you could call me Sally, if you don’t mind,” I reached into my bag.
I had brought a few select photos with me and had been guarding them carefully. Now I pulled the manila envelope out of my shoulder bag and produced them all. One was the family portrait done when Mary and Amelia had been girls, the second of Amelia as a young woman, and the third a snapshot of Amelia and Leonard done shortly after they had settled permanently in New Jersey. The last was of Amelia taken by Anne at a garden party just weeks before her demise.
The boys scrutinized them all with interest, making a random comment as, “Nice looking girl, wasn’t she?” and “She didn’t resemble Gran' that much, do you think? Not,” Roger added loyally, “that Gran’ wasn’t a looker in her day.”
They were both interested in seeing what her husband looked like. I asked if they had known she was married, and neither recalled hearing either way. Roger was sure the boys in the early photo were the older brothers, and knew one of them had died during the war.
“Harold, his name was,” he volunteered. “I think he left a family, but his wife married a Scot and Gran’ lost touch with them after a time. I saw a photograph like this in an album as a kid, and asked about them all. Now the other brother was Gordon, and his family still lives in Staffordshire near the old farm. He’s gone, too. Of course he’d be over ninety now. We met him a couple of times as kids, don’t know if you remember, Pete. His kids were mother’s cousins, of course, and I know she gets Christmas cards from some of them still.”
So I heard bits and pieces of Amelia’s family history. But time was passing, and I thought I had taken enough of theirs.
“But you must meet our mother,” Peter insisted when I told them so. “She wouldn’t hear of you leaving Coventry without talking to her personally.”
“Certainly not,” Roger agreed courteously. He added with a bit of discernment, “and I think she may be able to tell you at least some of what you would like to know.”
I could hardly deny that I wanted to meet their mother very much. We discussed how that could be done, and it was decided I should return for tea the following afternoon. Roger thought it most appropriate we have our meeting in their grandmother’s house, and as an after thought remarked there was a great deal of memorabilia in the cellar his mother might want to look at in conjunction with our look back into the past.
When I pointed out their mother might have other plans for her Saturday, the young men discarded the notion anything would keep her away.
“Do take down the name of my hotel and room number, in case there’s a glitch,” I urged, and they did.
“Would you be offended if I brought something to add to the refreshment?”
Not at all.
With a lot of mixed feelings and emotions, I wandered around Coventry and took a very long detour back in the direction of my lodgings. It was extraordinary that Mary and Amelia had died within a day of each other. I felt a sense of loss in not having been able to meet the older sister, but at the same time elated that her family would welcome a virtual stranger just because I had known the mysterious aunt they had lost connection with so long ago. Wouldn’t George and Anne love to sit in on tomorrow’s tea party! Would Sandra Simington be as congenial as her sons had been? And most of all, would she finally be able to supply some answers to the second greatest mystery about Amelia Marsh, why she had disappeared into an English sunset never to be seen or heard from again.
Before going up to my room for the night I asked the attendant at the front desk if it was too late to sign up for breakfast. She was a complete contrast to Mrs. Oliver. With a bright smile on her plump face the young woman assured me it was no trouble at all, she would add one more to the list. Breakfast was served between seventy-thirty and nine.
I showed up between getting dressed and fixing my hair and make-up. The dining room was small, maximum seating capacity about forty, and maybe half full. I shared a table with a very elderly woman who was not interested in conversation. She did give me a weak smile before returning full attention to her eggs and beans. I munched on some toast, ate a bowl of bran flakes, and carried a second cup of coffee back to my room
My date with the Simington family was at three-thirty. By ten I was wondering how to pass the time. At this point side trips didn’t appeal to me; my focus was back to my mission for being here. A conversation with some loved ones back home sounded good, but there would be more to tell if I waited. Besides, a quick calculation on the time difference told me no one would be up yet.
A walk? A cold steady rain was tapping at my window. Just walking back to my appointment would give me enough exposure to that.
I eyed my disheveled suitcases, the gifts not yet organized or re-packed, and the jumble of notes taken from Texas to Virginia to Britain. There was enough here to keep me busy for a couple of hours if I could put my mind to it.
I left early enough to stop somewhere to eat a salad and to browse for something to bring to the soiree. I settled on a raspberry cream cake from a bakery shop I had seen and drooled over the day before. It was a bit of a job to manage my umbrella, my bag and the cake, but the lady at the counter put some string around the box, which made it manageable. The rain was only a drizzle now, but the air was humid and cold. I was grateful for the lining in my coat, a heavy sweater, warm tights under my maxi-skirt, and warm gloves. I wasted no time getting back to Manley Place.
The Simingtons apologized profusely for allowing me to walk the dozen blocks in the raw weather. Their call to the hotel to offer me a ride came too late to catch me. I was secretly relieved to know I wouldn’t have to call a taxi or walk back.
There were three of them now, but only Roger was a familiar face. Peter would be along later. The other two faces who stood welcoming me at the door were Sandra and her husband, Norman.
Norman had not come up before, but the boys never said Sandra was a widow so I knew he might exist. He was an older version of Roger, who could expect a bald pate by his fifties. Peter resembled his mother more in his looks, though not in physique.
Sandra was about my own height, perhaps a dozen years older, and comfortably plump. Dressed in a dark skirt, white blouse, and Kelly green sweater, she was completely gracious, consciously or not, taking over the position of house host. She was also a talker. Her husband and Roger didn’t seem to mind at all, they had to be used to it. Her chatty nature could be a big plus for me. I took off my boots and was relieved of my umbrella and soggy raincoat before being escorted back to the dining room. My cake added to a nice assortment of food. Our visit began.
“Life is full of surprises!” Sandra exclaimed as she poured me a fine cup of coffee.
I fully agreed. One of them was being offered a cup of coffee at an afternoon tea in a British home. Sandra offered me a choice of tea or coffee as soon as I was settled in the same chair I had occupied the day before.
“Norman has developed a taste for coffee,” my hostess explained, “and he thought you might prefer it, so we have both.”
I thanked Norman, who gave me a nod and a small smile. After pouring another cup for her husband Sandra served tea for Roger and herself. While his mother took care of the beverages her son took it upon himself to offer the refreshments. The table was just small enough for Roger to pass the cakes, cheese, and small sandwiches around without having to get up. There were no mugs today, we were using delftware. I wondered if it once belonged to Mary Whitaker.
Sandra continued. “When the boys told me someone from America had come with news of my mother’s sister, I could hardly believe it! After all this time! But they have shared your story, Mrs. Nimitz, and told us about the photographs. You must have known Amelia.”
I pulled the packet of the four pictures out of my bag and handed them to her. She scrutinized them and exclaimed, “By all that’s holy, Norm! Look at these!”
Norm did so. “The oldest one, taken when she was young, is like the one you have, Sandy,” he commented. “Your mother, her sister, and your mother’s family.”
“Did you ever meet her, Mrs. Simington?” I ventured.
“Oh yes,” Sandy turned a pair of bright blue eyes back to me. “As a girl, I saw her a few times. Not too often, but I remember her. I think the last time was near the end of the war and I was about eleven. We moved here to Coventry shortly after that, as my father was hired to help with the restoration of the city. She came here to visit mother once several years later, but I wasn’t home. That was the last time anyone saw her.”
Before I could interject anything she leaned forward in her chair and asked me earnestly, “Is it true that she was killed, that someone took her life?”
“I’m afraid so. There’s no doubt about it.”
“There’s something extra harsh about the violent death of someone that age,” Roger mused. It was the first time he had said anything since greeting me at the door. “I don’t know why it should be so, since eighty is the end of life for most of us, but there it is.”
“Because it is so unnatural, perhaps,” his father contributed quietly. “Old people are supposed to be able to fade away, the way Mary did. When you are younger, risks are expected.”
These were refined people, I thought, nice people. Why had Amelia turned her back on them?”
“This was her husband you said,” Sandra was scrutinizing that particular picture more closely. “A distinguished looking man. Do you happen to know what he looked like when he was young?”
I admitted there had been a few photographs from London in the war years, and described him as well as I could in his forties. I went on to tell them what we had learned about his childhood and his profession as an intelligence officer. As I had done before, I omitted the darker side of his work.
There was a quiet moment when I finished, as each of us munched or sipped, busy with our own thoughts. It’s now or never, Sally, I said to myself.
“Mrs. Simington,” I looked at her directly, and she gazed back at me as if she already suspected what was coming. “Do you know why your aunt left England for good after she married Leonard Marsh?”
“Why yes, dear, I do,” she answered without hesitation. “It is because she was married already.”
Roger gave a low whistle. “Shame and scandal in the family! You were holding out on us, Mother.” There was a hint of amusement, and more than a hint of surprise in his comment.
Norman sat placidly sipping his brew. He knew. I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. Sandra watched me.
“Did you guess?” She asked.
“It had crossed my mind. For weeks I’ve gone over everything we have known and learned about Amelia’s life. One fact I learned early was that your aunt had born a child. In the weeks to follow, not even her sister-in-law or her best friend’s daughter ever heard of Leonard and Amelia having a baby, not even a stillborn. They could have, and never talked about it, but a former marriage was another explanation.”
Roger looked at one, then both of his parents. “How long have you known?”
“Only for a couple of years,” his mother answered him. “When your grandmother told me about it I told your father, but no one else. That was her wish.”
“And now? Would you tell the story now?” I was the one who asked.
“Yes,” she smiled at me gently. She had a nice face, I thought, framed by graying dark hair, and heavy eyebrows. It was no longer pretty, but it was easy to look at. “We talked about it last night after the boys came over to tell us about you. If I am to start at the beginning it is a rather long story, but if you want, I’d be glad to tell it. Almost everyone concerned is gone, now.”
So we refilled our cups and Sandra Simington, Amelia’s niece, took center stage.
She was only beginning when Peter arrived. He wanted to know what he had been missing, and it took a few minutes to put him in the loop. Fully informed and very interested, he poured himself a cup of tea, grabbed a large piece of the cake I had brought, and waved us on.
“It all started, really, back at the old home place in Staffordshire. Amelia’s mother, my grandmother, was, as you know, second wife to Garrison Tucker. He had two boys by his first wife, and two daughters by Caroline. Stafford has long been known for its pottery and factories, you know that too, but it also had large prosperous farms and mining. Grandfather was left a nice lot of land and interests in both of those by his own father. The Tuckers were well placed. Mother was the oldest girl, and Amelia about four years younger.”
Here Sandra paused and backtracked a bit. “I think I should tell you Mother only told me all of this winter before last. She was very ill with a bad bout of bronchitis, and I stayed here with her for a few days. I was looking at the picture she always kept on the mantle in the sitting room, one that is similar to the one you brought, Sally, of the family taken when they were still girls. She was tucked in her shawl and blankets in front of the fire and I said, ‘Mum, did you never hear anything from your sister?’ She thought about it for a bit, then decided to tell me the whole story.”
Later that night back in my room I thought about how fickle life can be. If Amelia Marsh’s sister had not been ill and her niece had not asked that casual question, a lot of the truth would have died with Mary.
“The girls had a very happy childhood. As I said, the family was comfortably off and my mother described my grandmother as a wonderful woman. The boys were enough older that Mary didn’t know them all that well, and Amelia even less so. When they weren’t at school, they were sometimes with their mother’s people in Wales. After my granddad died, Gordon came back to take over the place, but that’s another story. The point is, the girls had a very nice life. Their mother adored them and their father was indulgent. According to mother’s memories he was especially soft on Amelia, who was the youngest child and knew how to have her way with him.
“But when my grandmother died that all changed. My mother had just gotten married the year before. That night in front of the fire she remembered it so well, and she described to me that evening in great detail. It was the last time the whole family was together for a festive occasion, her brothers were there too, and it was a very happy time. My parents loved each other for four years, and waited to marry until Dad passed his law exams. Eleven months after the wedding, when Mum was already carrying me, Caroline died suddenly. She just collapsed one day and died within hours. The doctor said it was a massive stroke.
Mother had her husband to comfort her and a baby to think of, but Amelia had no one to lean on. My grandfather was devastated, and never the same after that. He became morose and depressed. Looking back on things later, Mother realized they lost both of their parents when Caroline died. It was terrible for Amelia. She was nineteen, in the prime of her life, a very pretty girl, and her safe, happy world was gone.
Her father decided it was Amelia’s place to take charge of the domestic duties at home. He wanted her to step into her mother’s shoes and she wasn’t prepared for that. I asked Mother why she and my Dad did not move back, and she said it was impossible at that time. Dad’s mother was terminally ill and they were living with and helping to take care of her. Both Harold and Gordon came home for the funeral, then were gone again with their own lives.”
Our storyteller shifted in her chair and took a couple of sips of her tea. We all waited expectantly.
“Amelia did not have the temperament to give in to this new state of affairs,” she continued. “It was domestic warfare. There were terrible arguments. After a couple of months she would sneak out at night to go to a dance in town or a party somewhere. Her father did not consider this suitable for a girl who should still be mourning her mother, and he often found out. Perhaps in time things would have gotten better. I know grandfather mellowed because I remember him, and he was not so terrible then. But Amelia, or Amy as Mother called her, found it unbearable. She had been the pampered youngest child for so long.”
“There was a very handsome young man from a neighboring farm who showed up at some of the same social functions, and liked Amelia very much. My mother says she attracted several, but this one was very serious to have her. His name was Robert Treadwell. When he proposed marriage, she said yes. It was her way out. One night she packed a bag, met him at the railway station, and off they went to Gretna Green.”
Apparently Gretna Green was where young people went to elope, as the boys both understood immediately. It was, had been for as long as anyone could remember, they explained.
Sandra sighed. “Well, just like in some of the old romantic novels, two things happened. First, her father was livid and refused to acknowledge the marriage or have anything to do with either one of them. In those days a girl was still expected to have her parents’ approval, as my mother had. It was a terrible insult and social faux pas to do what Amelia had done. And second, the marriage was a disaster.
“Robert loved the farm and everything about it. They moved back in with his parents, and here was another problem. Robert’s mother adored him. He was her only son and he was a mama’s boy. His two sisters were already married and gone, but she had no intention of parting with him. She resented the marriage, and certainly an independent young lady she could not control. After a few months Amelia asked Robert for a home of her own, but he saw no need for it. He wasn’t sensitive or sympathetic to his wife’s position in his parents’ home. According to what Amelia told my mother, Robert was happy to be out on the land all day, to have a hot supper at the end of it, and his wife willing and waiting for him in bed after.”
Peter groaned. “Poor aunt. The party was definitely over.”
“Yes, and there was no going back. Her father may have opposed the marriage, but as far as he was concerned she had made her bed, and she was going to lie in it.”
I had a sudden thought. “My friend back home was told there was no church record of Amelia getting married. Was it never entered there because of the circumstances?”
“Probably not,” Sandra shrugged. “In Mama’s day the bride’s family or the vicar usually entered marriages in the registry. It may never have happened because of the way my grandfather felt about it”
“How long did she stick it out?” Roger asked from his chair on the other side of the table.
“Six years,” Sandra answered. “When her second baby died at birth she packed her bags and left for good.”
“But she couldn’t go home,” I guessed, “She went to London.”
“Yes. My mother had moved back in with Granddad by then. The war was on, she had two of us, and my father was away on active duty. Aunt had been in touch with a cousin working for the war department, or some such agency. She helped Amelia get a job and let her move in.”
“The rest is not too hard to fill in,” Peter stretched and scratched his head. “Aunt fell in love with a Yank, and the feeling was mutual. Robert wouldn’t give her a divorce. I must say I’m not sure how they managed to circumvent and ignore a perfectly legal marriage contract, but obviously, they did.”
“I might be able to fill that in,” I offered. “Leonard had contacts in high places. There are some interesting holes in documents and security clearances of that time. He managed to have Amelia’s marital status erased from the records. Not too many people in London knew she was already married, and those who did were willing to keep silent.”
“How did Gran’ feel about this?” Roger wanted to know. “She never divulged her sister’s secret, never talked about it.”
“She was sympathetic, as I said,” Sandra answered, “but she did not approve of Amelia deserting her child.”
“Her child,” I repeated stupidly.
“Oh yes,” Sandra smiled sadly. “There was one living child from that sad union, a boy. He was born a year after I was.”
“Did you ever meet him?” Roger asked this time.
“Not that I remember,” was the reply of his own mother. “Amelia thought having a baby would be wonderful and make her life better, but she hadn’t reckoned on her mother-in-law. Mrs. Treadwell took over the child as another little Robert, and even Amelia’s strong nature was no match for her. By the time he was two he was much closer to his grandmother than his own mother, and there was nothing she could do about it.”
“So she gave him up,” I said softly. “Would you know what happened to him?”
“I’m afraid that is another sad story,” Sandra reached for her cup again. We waited, and in a moment she enlightened us.
“Mother did keep up with him a bit, and asked Gordon about him from time to time, after Grandfather died and Gordon moved back. Old Mrs. Treadwell died in the early sixties, and eventually it was just the boy and his father left on the place. They kept to themselves, rather reclusive. Sydney never married, and his father never married again. Gordon said Sydney was not tall and handsome like his father, but small, nearsighted, and shy. I should add that Mother said she saw him for the last time just before our family moved here. She happened to see him at church in Stafford with his grandparents. By the time Aunt came to visit in Coventry, Sydney was almost grown, and my mother asked her if she had gone to see him. Aunt said no, there was no point. She had lost him long ago. She didn’t want to see anyone back at the old place. She had come to say goodbye, for good. She was afraid her first husband might make trouble if he knew where to find her, so she would not return to Britain again.”
“Well,” Roger mused. “It would seem she kept her word. And no letters, nothing?”
“Your Gran’ said, and I will try to quote, ‘There were some hugs between us, and we shed some tears. Amy said it would be best if she just disappeared. That way wounds wouldn’t be opened again, for anybody. I asked her how would I let her know if Dad died, or if there was an emergency. She said I should consider her dead and buried, like Dad already did.’ Gran’ hoped for several years she would change her mind and get in touch, but she never did.”
“Did your mother mention if Amelia said she was happy?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Yes. Amy said she was very happy. She told her sister there had been another miscarriage, and there would be no children, but otherwise, her life was good.”
I reached for the coffee server but Roger was there ahead of me. He gave me a reproving look that said I had no business serving myself. Chastised, I held out my cup and saucer and allowed him to pour.
“Could you tell us a bit more about what she was like, Mrs. Nimitz?” Surprisingly, it was Norman who asked.
I considered my description carefully, remembering my own impressions and recalling what Elaine Barclay, Claire Marsh, and the others had told me. “She was witty, charming, and social. Everyone remembered her, but only a few knew her very well. For the most part she was happily married to Leonard Marsh for about forty years. Personally I knew her only when she was elderly. She was still very sharp, very interested in other people. She was still very British, too, which held a certain fascination. In her later life she made a commitment to the Christian faith.”
“Did she now!” Sandra exclaimed, obviously pleased. “That’s good.”
“You have answered a lot of questions for me, for us,” I told Sandra sincerely. “I can’t thank you enough for that.”
“But you have done the same for me!” my hostess modestly deferred my gratitude. “I have always wondered what became of her.” She paused. “I’m truly sorry Mother didn’t get to meet you, but perhaps it is better this way. It would have upset her dreadfully to hear how she died.”
“I may have felt the need to omit that part in your mother’s presence,” I said truthfully, “but it’s a mute point now. I am sorry for your loss of her, and that I missed meeting her