Dying in the Wool by Frances Brody Page B

Don’t you think Daddy should be at my wedding?’
    ‘Well, no, Tabitha, I don’t, for the simple reason that a dead man would not make much of a positive contribution. I’m sorry to be so blunt.’
    A tap on the door interrupted us. The dressmaker had arrived for Miss Braithwaite’s fitting. Tabitha shot to her feet, having forgotten all about the appointment.
    ‘I’ll ask her to come back another day.’
    ‘Not at all,’ I insisted, trying not to appear too relieved. ‘You must have your fitting.’
    ‘Yes, do go,’ Evelyn said impatiently. ‘Perhaps there’ll be alterations and so on, or extra lace to order.’
    ‘All right. But only if you’ll come up and see me, once I have the dress on.’
    When she had gone, Mrs Braithwaite leaned back on the sofa and looked at me steadily. Her hair was almost black. Her eyes were brown and her face chiselled, like thecountenance on a china figurine. Fine lines around her eyes, mouth and throat gave away her age. She was the kind of woman who would look young, until seated beside a twenty-year-old. Her beauty would draw some photographers, yet her face seemed strangely empty and lifeless. A slight frown betrayed annoyance.
    She set down the cocktail glass with a sigh, as if it had made her a promise and then disappointed.
    I felt awkward about being a guest in her house and an investigator into something so painful and personal. Really, Tabitha had placed me in a difficult situation. I owed her an explanation. ‘Mrs Braithwaite …’
    ‘Evelyn.’
    ‘Evelyn, I’ve had some success in tracing missing persons since the war. As a result of that, Tabitha asked me if I would look into the mystery surrounding her father’s disappearance. But if you’d rather I didn’t stay here, or …’
    ‘Then Tabitha has taken leave of her senses. What little thought she has was entirely diverted into snaring a chap. Having achieved that, she now thinks all she has to do is want a miracle and it will happen.’
    ‘And you think it would be a miracle if your husband were to be found?’ I gave Evelyn an encouraging look. When she did not continue, I forged ahead, overcoming my discomfort at the situation. ‘Tabitha believes her father is alive.’
    Evelyn rearranged her ankles. ‘How much did she tell you about Joshua’s disappearance?’
    ‘I know the date, and the barest of circumstances. I should very much like to hear about it from you.’
    She rose and walked away from me towards the window. A great sighing breath seemed to let all the air from her body. After a moment she turned back, and opened the door of a black lacquer cabinet from which she produced a silver-framed photograph.
    ‘This was the two of us. Joshua and Evelyn – on our wedding day.’
    I looked at a slender, elegant young woman with smiling eyes. She sat on a straight-backed chair, wearing a long white dress, her veil tossed back over her head. The man standing beside her looked proud and erect, yet not very tall. He had a wiry frame, a small moustache and smooth fair hair. They were a good-looking pair. People often appear so solemn in a formal photograph. These two looked as though they couldn’t wait to laugh.
    ‘You look happy, both of you.’
    ‘Oh we were happy, for a long time, when the children were small.’
    She took the photo from me. ‘Tabitha looks like neither of us. She takes after Joshua’s late mother. She’ll turn frumpish in later life. Edmund was like me.’ She indicated another photograph, this time not hidden in the cabinet but holding pride of place on a hexagonal cocktail table. A fine-featured young man dressed in regimental uniform looked out at us with the kind of intensity that always unnerves me. Perhaps it is the way I look at a photograph, but when it is a young man, a soldier or a sailor, I can always tell whether he is dead. The eyes tell me.
    Evelyn reached out a finger, as if to stroke his face. ‘He was taller than his father.’ She drew herself up. ‘I