"Indeed."
I stare at him for a beat, wondering who this man, who claims to wear a stranger's feet and to have assassinated a treasonous Margaret Thatcher, really is. "I never knew you had it in you."
"That's because I've been living a life of obfuscation. But when someone I care for is in need..." He spreads his hands, palms up, in front of him. "Of course, if you tell anyone, I shall have to do something extremely violent. Just like in the spy movies. Garrotting, probably."
"I shall take it to my grave."
"If I were you, I'd check the name against the war memorial up the street."
Ah yes, the war memorial. It's the one place I haven't looked, not willing to accept that my soldier never returned home to 'B', and knowing that any one of the names listed for having died in the Second World War could be a possibility.
Carlos raises an arm. "Help me up, my girl. I'll come with you."
A wave of gratitude washes over me. I know this needs to be done and done now because I'm out of time, but I don't think I'm ready to face anything that isn't a happy ending.
I record my video of the clue solving and the soldier's name. Then I ask Lutek to keep an eye on the gallery and, ignoring Jeanette's "What's going on?", head off up the street.
As soon as the war memorial comes into view, a sense of urgency to know, to have the fear of it resolved, comes over me and I quicken my pace.
It's a fairly unassuming-looking monolith in the middle of the roundabout at the top of the high street and has the name of men who died in all the wars Port Derrum men have been involved in in the last one hundred and fifty-ish years.
I am out of breath when I reach it and immediately set to scanning the many names.
It doesn't take me long.
William Brownly is fourth on the list of soldiers who died serving their country in World War Two.
God. There he is. Plain as day and dead before the war was even two years old.
The tragedy of it rolls over me like a breaking wave. He and 'B' never got a life together.
My soldier is real. But he died in action.
Chapter thirty-five
Ed
Mistrallooksupfromher phone. "She's solved the clues."
I whip around in my chair to face her and the bar code scanner in my hand points its beam at her. A flickering red line appears on her chest, like a sniper's laser.
I thinkOh Godand say, "Right. That's...good." Then I add an inane "Cool" just to show how really not cool I am with the news. There is absolutely no avoiding coming clean now. Not with the auction running tomorrow night.
After several moments of watching Mistral watch the video, I venture, "Who was it?"
Mistral shrugs. "A dude I picked out from the war memorial."
If I wasn't already at risk of my organs imploding due to the atmospheric pressure from the shit storm building the last couple of days, I certainly am now. "A dude youpicked out from the war memorial? Christ, Mistral. That could bring a whole new universe of complications if his family becomes aware of the letters and the auction."
"No it won't, actually. What do you take me for?"
"An evil mastermind in the body of a tiny woman in Herman Munster shoes."
"There's an operative word there."
"Tiny?"
'Mastermind'. Chill, Edward," She places a hand on her chest. "I'm a librarian. I did my research. The guy, William Brownly, was an only child. The family line fully ended with him."
