‘Perhaps it’s I who should get an award then.’ Helen considered the thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want one. I’m happy enough as it is. Did I tell you Rob said they were giving him a fortnight’s leave and it might last even longer than that?’
‘Yes, my darling, you did.’
‘And they don’t know yet how long the repairs will take?’
‘That, too.’
‘Poor Rob. He was so upset. He asked me if I realized it might be weeks before the Bristol was fit for sea again and wasn’t it awful? I tried to sound sympathetic, but I don’t think he believed me.’
Laughing, she turned back to the mirror, but after a few more strokes with the silver-backed hairbrush she set it down.
‘I can’t be bothered this evening.’ She stretched her arms luxuriously, then rose from the low stool she’d been sitting on and went to the window, where she drew the curtains apart a fraction and peered out into the night.
‘It’s still snowing. We’re going to have a white Christmas.’
Madden had returned from London earlier that day to find his wife waiting on the platform at Highfield station for him with a smile and a look in her eyes that had told him what to expect even before she had broken the good news that their son’s ship was back in port.
‘Rob rang from Hull just an hour ago. They had a dreadful time coming home. They collided with one of the merchantmen they were escorting in heavy seas and started shipping water, and for a while it looked as though they might sink. It must have been horrible, but you know Rob. He’s just cross that they’re stuck in port now.’
She had poured out the story into his ear while they embraced one another on the platform.
‘They docked in the early hours of this morning but he wasn’t able to ring us until now. He’ll get away as soon as he can. With any luck he’ll be home the day after tomorrow. On Christmas Eve.’
Madden’s happiness had equalled hers, and in the short time they had spent together while Helen drove him home before leaving to carry on with her afternoon rounds, he had said nothing about his visit to Southwark, feeling his news would keep. It was too late to go to the farm, and on returning to the house he had joined Mary Morris, their maid of many years, in putting the finishing touches to the fir tree that had been installed in the drawing-room in his absence, stringing it with lights and the familiar ornaments brought out of storage each year for display on the drooping green branches. It was a ritual he had come to enjoy, being associated in his mind with past Christmases when his children had been young, and the thought that with any luck this might be the last to take place in time of war had given added meaning to the small ceremony.
Shortly before six Helen had returned, but almost before she had had time to hang up her coat and join them in the drawing-room the doorbell had rung to signal the arrival of the Highfield church choir come to sing carols. It was the group’s habit, established by long precedent, to make the Maddens’ house the final stop on their round, and as soon as the last notes of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ died away, Helen had hustled them inside out of the snow for the hot drink she always had waiting for them. Wartime rationing had imposed its own stringencies on this pleasant occasion, but in spite of a much diminished cellar she’d been able to offer their guests mulled wine spiced with cloves, and in place of the traditional mince pies — missing that year for lack of the necessary ingredients — a tin of sweet biscuits sent to them by an old comrade-in-arms of her husband’s, a man who had served with Madden in the trenches more than twenty years before and long since emigrated to South Africa.
Bundled up in their coats and scarves and wearing a variety of headgear, the singers had arrived looking like survivors of a long march, but familiar faces and forms soon reappeared with the shedding of these garments, among them the imposing figure of Will Stackpole, a stalwart of the choir whose rich baritone had made itself heard a little earlier outside. Not having seen Madden for several days, he had greeted him warmly.
‘Is it true then, sir? Is Rob’s ship back? I had it from Mrs Highway just after Miss Helen called in there.’
Stackpole had known Madden’s wife all his life; they had played together as children, and in spite of changing customs and forms of address, to him she would always be Miss Helen.
‘He’ll be here for Christmas, Will. It’s the best present we could possibly have had.’
With the party happily settled before the fire, Madden had drawn the constable to one side and told him briefly about his visit to Southwark and what it had yielded.
‘It was a stroke of luck. God knows if the police would have got on to this man Ash otherwise. He’s as slippery as an eel.’
They were still huddled together when Helen came over to them.
‘You’re neglecting our guests, John. And I want to talk to Will myself. I do wish Ted was here,’ she had added, pressing the constable’s hand. ‘Rob always asks about him. It’s the first thing he’ll want to know. Whether you’ve heard from him lately? I hope they aren’t freezing in that prisoner-of-war camp.’
In the event, and at the urging of both Helen and Madden, Stackpole had remained behind after the others had left to eat supper with them in the kitchen and to listen to the news, which that evening had brought welcome word that the fighting in Belgium was swinging the Allies’ way; that the sudden German thrust into the Ardennes had been blunted and much of their armour destroyed.
‘It can’t go on for much longer.’ Helen meant the war itself. ‘Surely it’ll be over soon.’
When they had finished their meal, Stackpole took his leave, and as Madden closed the front door behind him he heard the telephone ringing. Ten minutes later he joined Helen in the drawing-room. He found her down on her knees with an armful of Christmas presents which she was starting to stack around the tree.
‘That was Angus …’ Madden had stood scowling into the fire. ‘I was hoping this business would be over soon. But it doesn’t look that way.’ Feeling her eyes on him, he glanced down at her. ‘There And I hope Nelly will I was in London. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it yet.’
The omission was soon repaired, but since Helen had wanted to know all the details, it was not until they had gone upstairs and were getting ready for bed that Madden had completed his account of his evening with Nelly Stover.
‘What you said made me realize we’d been overlooking the simplest explanation of how Alfie Meeks might have come to know his killer. Neither Angus nor I had imagined it might date from so far back in his life.’
Quicker to undress than his wife, Madden had lain under the covers watching Helen make her more leisurely preparations for the night. Although he’d been away for less than a week, he had missed this moment of intimacy which dated from the earliest years of their marriage when they had set aside the last hour of each day to share with one another whatever was in their minds. Unused to such openness — he had been reserved as a boy and the habit had grown into one of silence later in life — Madden had been taught by his wife to hide nothing from her, and of the many blessings his marriage had brought him this was perhaps the most precious.
That evening, however, their conversation had stuck to a single subject. Eager to know everything, Helen had questioned him closely, saying little herself, but shaking her head in something akin to despair when he reached the end of his story.
‘Poor sweet Rosa. To die at the hands of a creature like that.’
To soften his grim tale, Madden had told her about his suggestion that Nelly send her grandchildren down to visit them.
‘They’re a lively pair but, knowing Nelly, probably quite well behaved.’
‘I don’t care how they behave. I’d love to have them.’ ‘Helen had smiled for the first time. ‘And I hope Nelly will come as well. She sounds like a caution.’