night in 1941 Gramps was fished out of the Thames, badly beaten.’
‘By whom?’
‘I’m not sure, but it was while he was in hospital that the police came round. They had it in their heads he’d been involved in some sort of blackmail attempt and took him in for questioning. A misunderstanding, he always swore, and if you knew my Gramps you’d know he didn’t lie, but the coppers didn’t believe him. According to the records he was carrying a large cheque made out to cash when they found him, but he wouldn’t say how he came by it. He was thrown into prison; he couldn’t afford a lawyer, of course, and in the end the police didn’t have enough evidence so they joined him up. It’s funny, but he used to say they saved his life.’
‘Saved his life? How?’
‘I don’t know, I could never work that out. Maybe it was a joke, he joked around a lot, my Gramps. They sent him to France in 1942.’
‘He hadn’t been in the army before that?’
‘No, but he saw action—he was at Dunkirk, in fact—only he didn’t carry a gun. He took a camera. He was a war photographer. Come and see some of his photographs.’
‘My God,’ Laurel said, realising, as she studied the black and white photographs that filled the wall, ‘Your grandfather was James Metcalfe.’ Martin smiled proudly. ‘None other.’ He straightened the photo frame.
‘I recognise these. I saw an exhibition at the V&A about a decade ago’
‘That was just after he died.’
‘His work is incredible. You know, my mother had one of his prints on the wall when I was a girl, just a small one—she still does for that matter. She used to say it helped her to remember her family; what happened to them. They were killed in the Coventry Blitz.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Marty said. ‘Terrible. Impossible to imagine.’ ‘Your grandfather’s photographs go some of the way to helping with that.’ Laurel looked at each photograph in turn. They really were exceptional; people who’d been bombed out of their houses, soldiers on the battlefield. There was one of a little girl in a strange outfit, tap shoes and oversized bloomers. ‘I like this one,’ she said.
‘That’s my Aunt Nella,’ Marty said, smiling. ‘Well, we called her that, though she wasn’t really a relation. She was a war orphan. That photo was taken on the night her family was killed. Gramps stayed in touch with her, and when he got back from the war he tracked her down with her foster family. They remained friends for the rest of his life.’
‘That’s lovely.’
‘He was like that, very loyal. You know, before he married my grandmother, he went to look up an old flame just to make sure she was doing all right. Nothing would’ve stopped him marrying my gran, of course—they were very much in love—but he said it was something he had to do. They were separated during the war and he’d only seen her once since he got back, and then from a distance. She’d been on the beach with her new husband and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt them.’
Laurel was listening and nodding, when suddenly the pieces kalei- doscoped into order: Vivien Jenkins had left the house to the family of James Metcalfe. James Metcalfe, with his old and unwell father—why, it was Jimmy, wasn’t it? It had to be. Ma’s Jimmy, and the man Vivien had fallen in love with, against whom Katy had warned her, fearful of what Henry might do if he found out. Which meant Ma was the woman Jimmy had tracked down before he got married. Laurel felt faint, and not just because it was her mother Marty was talking about; there was something tugging at her very own memories.
‘What is it?’ said Karen, concerned, ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I just—Laurel stammered, ‘I just—I have an idea what might have happened to your grandfather, Marty. I think I know why he was beaten; who it was that left him for dead.’
‘You do?’
She nodded, wondering where to start. There was so much to tell.
‘Come back to the sitting room,’ Karen said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on again.’ She shivered, excited. ‘Oh, it’s silly of me, I know, but doesn’t it feel wonderful to solve a mystery?’
They were turning to leave the room when Laurel saw a final photograph that made her gasp.
‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ Martin said, smiling as he noticed the direction of her gaze.
Laurel nodded, and it