“Dimity Westwood, you say? Well, there were a lot of girlfriends coming into the old Flamborough in those days. It was a lively place back then, not the museum piece it is now—begging your pardon, Miss K.”
“That’s alright, Archy, no offense taken,” said Miss Kingsley. “Things are rather quieter around here nowadays.”
“Dull as dishwater,” Archy muttered, with a conspiratorial wink at Paul. Stroking his mustache, he looked carefully at each picture. “I couldn’t say that I recognize…” He paused. “Wait, now…”
The rest of us craned our necks to see what had caught his eye. He had come to one of my favorite pictures, a shot of Dimity standing in front of a shop with shattered windows. She had reached inside to touch the dress on a toppled mannequin, and was grinning mischievously at the camera. Archy contemplated the photo for a moment; then his eyebrows shot up and he slapped the table with his hand. “The belle of the ball,” he exclaimed. “You remember, Paul—the beautiful belle of the ball—that’s who she is.”
“By heavens, you’re right, Archy. That’s who she is,” said Paul. “The sweetest girl you’d ever want to meet…”
Archy cupped a hand to his mouth and in a stage whisper explained, “Paul took a fancy to her.”
“Look who’s talking,” Paul retorted. “I seem to remember you being rather fond of her yourself.”
“So I was, so I was,” Archy conceded. “But who could help being fond of her? She was… something else. Something you don’t find every day, I can tell you. You may know her as Dimity Westwood, but we called her Belle. She came in here all the time, on the arm of that Scottish fellow. Frightful accent, mind you, but how he could dance. Bobby… yes, Bobby and Belle. What a pair.”
“Lit up the whole place when they came in,” said Paul.
“I kidded them about spoiling the blackout—you remember that, Paul?”
“I do, Archy.”
Archy put his arm around Paul’s shoulders and the two men gazed, misty-eyed, at the photograph before Archy returned it to me. They emptied their glasses, and stared stolidly into the middle distance.
“It’s easy to remember the happy times,” Archy said. “No one likes to think of the rest, but it was there all the same, wasn’t it, Paul?”
“It was, Archy.”
“I remember the last time Belle came in here. She was on her own that night and I could tell just by looking at her what had happened. I’d seen it so many times before, but my heart broke for her all the same. I gave her the message and off she went, without saying a word. She never came back after that.”
“That’s how it was in those days,” said Paul. “Dancing one minute, and the next—”
“There was a message?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” Archy replied. “The chaps were always leaving messages with me here at the Flamborough, billets-doux for their sweethearts and the like.”
“That’s why they called it the Telegraph,” said Paul.
“Do you remember what the message was?”
Archy was taken aback. “I never opened it,” he said. “It wouldn’t have been proper.”
My face must have fallen, because he pushed his chair back and lumbered to his feet. Raising a crooked finger, he said, “Now, you come over here, and I’ll show you something. It’s not something I show to everyone, mind you. You can be sure I didn’t show that young bloke who came in after me. He got very snippy when I tried to show him the ropes—you remember him, don’t you, Paul?”
“A regular Mr. Know-Ail,” said Paul.
“So I said to him, ‘Fair enough, Mr. Know-All, figure it out for yourself.’ But seeing as you have a personal interest in all of this…”
I followed him to the bar, and the others drifted over from the table. Archy lifted the hatch and motioned for me to go inside, then closed it behind him as he came in after me. He spread his hands flat on the smooth surface of the serving counter, looking very much at home.
“They called it the Telegraph,” he said, “but in point of fact, it was more like a post office. It was a sight more efficient than your official post office, and Paul here will vouch for that.”
“It was,” said Paul, “especially in those days, with so many house numbers disappearing, thanks to Mr. Adolf-bloody-Hi tier—oh, excuse me, miss.” He covered his mouth with his hand and looked a good deal more shocked than anyone else in the room.
“No need to excuse yourself,” Archy declared. “Now, about the Telegraph…” Archy ran his hand lovingly up one of the pillars that supported the decorative woodwork overhead, every square inch of it covered with scrolls and flourishes. “I was the postman, you see, and this”—he pointed up to a knob that had been camouflaged by the elaborate carving—“was the postbox. That’s where I used to put all the messages the boys left with me. Didn’t want them getting wet, so I had Darcy Pemburton—where’s old Darcy got to these days, Paul?”
“Living in Blackpool with his sister.”
“Blackpool? What’s he want to live in Blackpool for?”
“Says he likes the donkey rides.”
“The donkey—You’re having me on, Paul.”
“That’s what he says.”
“Then he’s having you on. But never mind…. Darcy was a fine cabinetmaker in his day, and I had him fit this little box up for me to keep the notes and such out of harm’s way. You see, you just give the knob a twist and the door swings—” Archy’s mouth curved into an unbelieving grin as a cascade of papers rained down on his leonine head.
* * *
It took us a while to gather them all up, and a little while longer to persuade Archy to let us read them. Piled neatly on the bar were folded note-cards, sealed envelopes, and slapdash notes scrawled on scraps of napkins, train schedules, betting cards, whatever had been at hand, it seemed. Most were brief (“Pru: Bloody balls-up at HQ. Can’t make our date. Will call. Jimmy.”) and not all concerned romance (“Stinky: Here’s your filthy lucre, hope you lose your ration book”—unsigned, but accompanied by a faded five-pound note). A few were cryptic (“Rose: You were right. Bert.”) but some were all too clear (“Philip: Drop dead. Georgina.”).
“I can’t understand it,” Archy muttered, twirling one end of his drooping mustache. “I might have left one or two behind, but never this many.”
“Archy?” Paul said softly.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Archy continued. “The new man didn’t know about the Telegraph, so how could he manage it, eh? Tell me that.”
“Archy?” Paul repeated, a bit more loudly.
“Not as though he’d do a favor for—”
“I did it!” Paul declared.
Archy turned to Paul, shocked. “You, Paul?”
“I did it for the lads, Archy.” Paul’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “The notes kept coming in after you left, and someone had to look after them, so I did. Then Mr. Know-Ail caught me behind the bar one day and booted me out of the lounge, and after that I… I must’ve lost track of time.”
“I’ll say you did.” Archy looked from Paul to the notes and back again. “Poor old Stinky went short five pounds because of you.”
“I know, Archy,” Paul said miserably.
“And let’s hope this one hasn’t caused more serious mischief.” Archy bent down to retrieve a white envelope that appeared to have a raised coat of arms on the flap. Archy examined it closely, then, without saying a word, handed it to me.
“It’s addressed to Dimity.” I locked eyes with Bill. Archy came up with a polished breadknife, and I used it to slit open the envelope. The others clustered around me as I pulled out a single sheet of paper and read:
Miss Westwood,
It is my duty to inform you that I recently came into possession of a certain object that belonged to my late