Without a Trace (27 page)

It was eleven o’clock when Charley got Molly home to Myrdle Street.

‘Will you come in?’ she asked.

He put his arms around her and held her tight. ‘That wouldn’t be an appropriate thing to do tonight, as much as I’d like to. Besides, you’ve got to do what she said and go for that interview tomorrow.’

Molly smiled weakly. ‘She’s going to need a lot more help when she comes out of hospital. I’m going to feel really bad about leaving her.’

‘She has dozens of friends in this area who will all come to
help her, and the church will find a nursing home for her if she can’t manage alone. Now, I’ll be around tomorrow night about seven to see how you got on at the interview. Just take one day at a time, Molly. Things always work out when you don’t over-think them,’ he said, tilting her face up and bending to kiss her. ‘Now go to bed and try to sleep. Good luck for tomorrow.’

Charley walked back up Myrdle Street to Whitechapel Road in deep thought. Would she go tomorrow? Or would a misplaced sense of duty make her stay?

He knew the East End had a habit of sucking people in and keeping them there. Sister Constance was a fine example. Molly could so easily go the same way, involving herself in saving people, be it drunks, tarts, criminals or the very poor. She had made a couple of pointed remarks about her father that had made him think the man was a bully, so it was possible he’d already trained his daughter for martyrdom. If so it would be second nature to her to feel obliged to take care of anyone who needed it.

She let Pat at the café treat her like a slave, and he had sensed that Molly had already half formed a plan in her head that she would take care of Constance when she was released from hospital. He couldn’t let her do that; she was worth more than what she had now, and a job in a decent hotel could be the making of her. If she channelled all those special qualities she had into making guests feel they were the most important person in the world, she’d rise to the top in no time.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Molly felt a pang of trepidation as she looked up at the George Hotel.

It was a lovely old inn, probably dating back to the eighteenth century, its front covered in mathematical tiles. She wondered what they represented and thought she would ask. She imagined that the building must have an interesting history; it could even be haunted. But it wasn’t that which scared her. She wasn’t sure she was good enough to work in such a place.

Rye was a medieval walled town perched up on a hill and surrounded by windswept marshes. People in the West Country tended to think all the best towns and villages in England were there but, in Molly’s opinion, Rye was the prettiest, quaintest town she’d ever seen and far exceeded anything the West Country had to offer. As she’d walked from the station up the narrow cobbled streets with their sweet little houses with bow windows and shiny brass on the front doors, she felt she had gone back a few centuries in time.

The sun had come out while she was on the train and, though it was still very cold and windy, the first thing she noticed as she stepped off the train was the fresh smell and the quiet. She’d got so used to London’s soot-laden air, the noise of the traffic and the nasty smells that she’d virtually forgotten what fresh air or quiet was like. There was some traffic, of course, on the main road down by the station but, compared with Whitechapel Road, it was like a country lane.

Already, without knowing anything about the job, she wanted to live here. She understood, too, why Cassie had mentioned this town so often in her journal.

Before going in the door to reception, Molly took a deep breath and braced herself. She hoped they didn’t ask her to take off her royal-blue coat. She knew it looked chic with the matching beret and that it suited her, but the black sheath dress she was wearing underneath looked cheap. It had been cheap, she’d bought it from the market, but it hadn’t created the sophisticated image she’d intended.

She walked up to the reception desk and said to a red-headed woman sitting behind it, ‘I have an appointment with Mrs Bridgenorth. My name is Molly Heywood.’

As she had expected of such an old building, it smelled a little fusty, and the patterned carpet had seen better days, but the hotel had a good feeling about it. It was almost like coming home. She nearly laughed at herself for thinking that, for she’d never ever felt there was anything special about going to her real home.

The receptionist spoke to someone on the phone then smiled at Molly. ‘Mrs Bridgenorth has asked me to show you into the library and bring you some coffee. She’ll be with you as soon as she can.’

The library was a small, book-lined room made cosy by a blazing fire. It wasn’t large enough for anything more than a couch, two button-backed chairs and a couple of side tables. Everything, including the books, looked very old and shabby, but Molly thought that, on a cold day in winter, it would be the perfect retreat.

The receptionist came back with a tray, coffee in a pot, hot milk and a plate of ham sandwiches. ‘Mrs Bridgenorth thought
you might be hungry after leaving home early to catch the train,’ she said. ‘Tuck in. She won’t be long.’

Such consideration for her well-being touched Molly; she was hungry and it was also lovely to be in such a warm room. Since moving to Whitechapel, she couldn’t remember ever being really warm.

Mrs Bridgenorth came in some ten minutes later. She was a statuesque woman in her forties with wavy fair hair and she was wearing a blue twinset, pearls and a tartan pleated skirt.

‘Lovely to meet you, Molly,’ she said, smiling and offering her hand. ‘Sister Constance is obviously very fond of you – she couldn’t speak of you highly enough. How is she coping with this bitter weather?’

Once they’d both sat down, Molly explained that Constance had had a stroke. ‘She looked very poorly last night,’ she said. ‘I really didn’t think I should come today, but she insisted.’

‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Bridgenorth looked utterly dismayed. ‘I must try and get up to see her tomorrow, she’s such a dear thing, and we’ve been friends since I was a little girl. I’m sure she told you, but she came to look after me one summer at the hotel my parents owned in Bournemouth. She was marvellous – kind, attentive and also great fun. My family never imagined she’d choose to spend her life in the Church Army. We thought she’d get married and have half a dozen children of her own.’

‘It was such a shame her sweetheart died,’ Molly said. ‘ She’s devoted her whole life to other people since; she really is a saint. I’m awfully worried about how she’ll cope after this stroke, but she’s so well loved in Whitechapel I’m sure everyone will rally round.’

‘Funnily enough, she was afraid you might fall into the
same trap as she did,’ the older woman said. ‘She said, and I quote, “Evelyn, the girl is like a young twin of myself. If I don’t give her a push into making a career for herself, I’m afraid she’ll end up like me.”’

Molly was a bit taken aback and it must have showed, as Mrs Bridgenorth laughed.

‘That is exactly what she said, Molly. Maybe right now you feel that ending up like Constance would be no bad thing, but she was very aware that she had turned her back on a comfortable home, a husband and children, and she doesn’t want that for you.’

Mrs Bridgenorth moved on then to talk about the hotel and what duties Molly would have if she were to be offered and decided to take the job.

‘My plan would be to give you experience of all aspects of the hotel at first, so that you totally understand how it works. So one week you’ll be the waitress in the dining room at breakfast, followed by chambermaid duties for the rest of the morning. Then perhaps you’ll serve behind the bar in the evening. Another week you’ll be helping the chef in the kitchens with breakfast, lunch and dinner. Another week it will be reception work, learning to help organize wedding receptions and private parties. How does that sound to you? Constance did tell me you virtually ran your parents’ grocery shop, so I have no fear that you wouldn’t be able to cope here.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Molly said.

‘We tend to be quiet in the winter, just a few commercial travellers staying, but then we perk up at Easter. After that, we’re mostly fully booked right up to the end of September. But the restaurant is busy year round, especially at weekends, and we do have many wedding receptions here, too. I’ll take
you to see our Georgian ballroom in a minute; it really is a lovely room.’

A couple of hours later Molly was on the train back to Ashford, where she had to change for a train to London. She had been offered the job and was excited by it and the prospect of a new home, and had assured Mrs Bridgenorth that she did want to take it. She had agreed to arrive on Saturday, 27 March, in eight days’ time, to start work on the following day.

She would be paid three pounds a week, all found, to start, which seemed amazingly generous to her. Furthermore, the bedroom she would have up on the attic floor was lovely. It was only small but had everything she needed, and the bed had felt very comfortable. As Mrs Bridgenorth had explained, her working hours would vary according to what jobs she was doing in a particular week. So, one week, she would have every afternoon off, plus a full day, to be arranged. The next she might work all day and have the evenings off. One Sunday in four she could have off, too.

Aside from John Masters, the chef, all the other staff were local and lived out. He had a couple of rooms down by the kitchen. The owners lived at the hotel, too. Mrs Bridgenorth had pointed to a door on the first floor and said it led to their apartment, but she hadn’t taken Molly in there.

If it hadn’t been for the question of when or if she’d see Charley once she’d moved, Molly would have been jumping up and down with glee. Did he care enough to travel a round trip of one hundred and fifty miles to see her when she had a Sunday off? If she had her day off during the week, would it be worth her taking the train to London to see him for just a couple of hours after he’d finished work? The trains from
Ashford to Rye weren’t very frequent and, if she missed the last connection, she’d have to stay on the station all night.

Molly went straight from Charing Cross to the London Hospital to see Constance and tell her about her interview.

The night before, she’d been told that Constance would be taken up to a different ward, so she went straight to the inquiry desk. One of the two men there looked in a register, and then at Molly, with a slightly anxious expression, then said he needed to check with Sister.

When Sister Jenner came back with him Molly knew something bad had happened.

‘Will you come with me, Miss Heywood?’ she said, before Molly could even open her mouth to speak. She led Molly into a small cubicle and asked her to sit down.

‘I’m very sorry, Miss Heywood,’ she began, ‘but Sister Constance died at ten o’clock this morning. I thought Reverend Adams would’ve contacted you.’

‘I left home early this morning to catch a train and came straight here when I got back,’ Molly said.

‘Oh dear! You see, as Reverend Adams has a telephone, we were able to ring him this morning when we felt her condition was worsening. He came straight away, and was with her when she died.’

Molly couldn’t speak for a moment; it was too much of a shock. ‘B–b–but I thought she was getting better?’

‘We thought that, too,’ Sister Jenner said, reaching out to take Molly’s hand and holding it comfortingly in both of hers. ‘But we cannot always predict accurately what results a stroke can have, and she was already frail before it. Yet it appears that the cause of death was actually a heart attack.’

‘I was at an interview for a job,’ Molly bleated out, tears springing up in her eyes. ‘She really wanted me to go. But I wish I hadn’t now.’

‘She would’ve been more upset to think you had missed it,’ the sister said gently. ‘She told me last night how fond she was of you, and that she thought your young man was a good one, too. You wouldn’t want to see her living in pain, unable to communicate properly, would you? She will have no more suffering or indignity now. The reverend was holding her hand and praying for her when her moment came. Be glad that she went as she’d want to.’

Molly knew that what the sister said was right, but it didn’t stop her feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach.

Back home and sitting in Constance’s room a little later, Molly felt her heart was breaking. It was such a spartan room, yet she’d never really thought that while Constance was there. She could see now, in the drab, comfortless room, that by giving her life to the Church her friend had turned her back on everything but the basic essentials of life.

Charley called round later and was horrified when she opened the door to him with red, swollen eyes.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ he said when she blurted out that Constance was dead. ‘Such a shame you didn’t get a chance to tell her about your interview. But please let me in and tell me about it.’

It didn’t seem right to take him into Constance’s room, but there was nowhere else, so Molly left the door open, so none of the other tenants in the house would think she was taking liberties. She quickly told Charley all about the job, and how
lovely Rye was, but she couldn’t help but switch right back to talking about Constance.