Page 105 of Strangers in Time

Molly meticulously cleaned his wounds again, rebandaged them, and arranged his bed covering and pillows. She then stood at the foot of his bed staring at him. One of Charlie’s mates. The one who had been with him on that night. But then where was Charlie? Had he been beaten as well? Was he lying somewhere injured or…?

After her workday was over, Molly, with Tweedy’s permission, had brought home bandages, antiseptic, and wound ointment. She had told Tweedy that her “father” was an air warden who had sustained injuries during the bombing.

“Then you take good care of him, Molly. We will surely need him in the future.”

When Molly arrived at The Book Keep she put her things down, waved to Mrs. Macklin across the way as the woman stared pointedly at her through the glass, and then went in search of Oliver. He was not in his bedroom, but she looked down in horror at the remains of his warden uniform that was lying, bloody and shredded, on the floor next to his bed.

Dearest God, thought Molly.How did he survive?

She hurried downstairs and over to Imogen’s old study. She knocked on the door. “Mr. Oliver? It’s Molly. I have bandages and medicine to treat your wounds. Mr. Oliver!”

There was no answer, and she was now worried that he might be lying in there unconscious from the result of his injuries. She tried the door but it was locked.

Thinking quickly she raced up to Oliver’s bedroom and after a quick search found the key she had seen Oliver use before to secure the study door. She rushed back downstairs and unlocked it.

Once she got inside it was readily apparent that Oliver was not here. Molly should have left then and there, but her curiosity got the better of her. She looked in the tin at the stack of typed pages representing the unfinished work of Imogen Oliver’s book. Reading several of them, Molly concluded that the dead woman had been quite the extraordinary wordsmith. She put the pages back and continued her search. In one desk drawer she found the George Medal. She reverently ran her fingers over the engraved image of their current king.

As she returned the medal to the drawer Molly noted that there was another photograph of Imogen on the desk. She knew because it was the same woman in the crepe-covered framed photo out front.Oliver was standing next to her. He looked younger and carefree. He was staring at the woman beside him with the utmost adoration. Molly could only hope that the man she married one day would look upon her with even half that level of admiration and love. Imogen was very pretty, with long, thick, luxuriant hair, but Molly was inexorably drawn to her powerfully intense eyes. Molly was quite intimidated simply by the woman’s look from the photo. She imagined it would be altogether something more to experience Imogen Oliver for real.

She noted the letter that lay next to the photo. Molly hesitated, but only for a moment. She unfolded the paper and quickly read it.

It was addressed to Oliver and was from the constabulary in Cornwall. As Molly continued to read she gasped and then hurriedly put the letter back where she had found it. The official communication had detailed the circumstances of Imogen’s death.

She hadkilledherself. InCornwall.

Distressed, Molly glanced wildly around the room. She flinched when she saw another George Sand novel on a shelf, this one titledJacques.

She took the book down and slowly opened it.

Her expression filled with despair when she saw that its guts had been cut out, leaving a compartment where something easily could be hidden.

She put the book back, left the room, and locked the door.

THEBUSYBODYBECKONS

WHENMOLLY RETURNED TOthe front of the shop after putting the study key back in Oliver’s bedroom, her mind was awhirl. Why had Imogen taken her own life? Then she thought back to something that Oliver had said—that he felt guilt for her death. If he had acted she might still be alive, he had told Molly. Had Imogen taken her own life because she couldn’t live with whatever Oliver was involved in? And was that why Oliver had felt guilty?

She looked up to see that Mrs. Macklin was outside now, sweeping but really watching. She motioned to Molly, who opened the door and came outside.

“Hello,” said Mrs. Macklin. “I don’t believe we’ve met, luv. I’m Desdemona Macklin. This is my tea shop.”

“Hello. I’m Molly Wakefield.”

Macklin set her broom aside and lit a cigarette from a pack pulled from her apron pocket. She sucked in smoke and then exhaled directly at Molly, who irritably waved it away.

“And how do you know our Mr. Oliver?” said Macklin, ignoring Molly’s displeasure.

“He’s the cousin of my mother,” Molly said automatically.

“So they don’t live in London then?”

Molly said, “No, in Suffolk. That’s why I’m staying with Mr. Oliver.”

Macklin eyed her uniform. “Surely, that’s a sister’s outfit. But you can’t be more than fourteen or so.”

“I’m older than I look. And I have medical training, you see. I’m a nurse auxiliary at the Covent Garden Medical Clinic. They need all the help they can get.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure they do,” said Macklin, shooting her suspicious glances. “And very good of you, too,” she added, though her tone was distinctly lacking in sincerity.

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