Page 91 of Murder in Blackfriars

A tow-haired man followed in her wake. He halted on the brick walk and gaped at Daniel.

“Good Lord.”

“He says he’s Uncle Robert’s son,” the woman babbled. “He looks just like him, doesn’t he?”

“Good Lord,” the gentleman repeated. He wore a rumpled gray flannel suit as though he’d decided to stay at home and read newspapers all day. “He does. The spitting image. I say, you don’t remember me, do you?” The gentleman peered at Daniel with ingenuous hazel eyes.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Daniel said. “Nor you,” he said to the woman. “Though I suppose you are my cousin.” He swallowed as he said this, as though the unfamiliar words were difficult.

“I suppose I am,” the woman said, brightening. “I’m April. April Meade, now. Used to be Munro.” She smiled, her eyes lighting.

Daniel’s eyes, I realized. They were very much the same.

“I’ve known April since we were toddlers,” Mr. Meade said. “I lived over yonder.” He waved down the lane. “My folks still reside there. April and I decided to move in here, as it was alarge place, plenty of room for a family.” He finished proudly, and I suspected that family had already been started.

“Do you have any photographs?” I asked, when Daniel, his cousin, and her husband continued gazing at one another in both awkwardness and excitement. “Of your uncle Robert? Your aunt?”

April started. “Oh, yes. Why didn’t I think? Yes, yes, come in, do. We are having a little holiday today, as Gerald’s offices are being painted—he’s a junior solicitor—and they gave him a few days’ leave. I will have Mrs. Bullen bring up some tea. She’s our cook, and a very good one, fear not.”

So saying, she peeled off her garden gloves and rushed into the house. Mr. Meade grinned at us good-naturedly and waved us to follow him.

Daniel and I exchanged a glance, he with great agitation. I could only take his hand and squeeze it as Mr. Meade led us into the house.

It was a cozy home, I saw as we entered. The downstairs hall was cluttered with coats and hats on a rack, boots for the garden below it. A smaller pair of boots rested there as well as a little coat, one a lad would wear.

“You have a son?” I asked as Daniel and I shed our wraps.

“We do indeed.” Mr. Meade seemed surprised I’d concluded this. “Jeremy. Jemmy, we call him.”

“He’s upstairs pretending to study,” April said. “I told him he must finish a chapter of history before he could help me in the garden.” She made her way to the backstairs door, pulling off her apron as she went.

“The photographs will be in here.” Mr. Meade opened the door to a front sitting room that overlooked the garden.

A tree shaded the window, dappling the sunlight on this fair day. A fireplace stood ready to warm it on winter nights,and the mismatched furniture, some worn, some new, told me that this room was well used.

Mr. Meade waved us to sit on the sofa that faced the fireplace. He rummaged in a bookcase and brought back two fat books that proved to be filled with photographs. Most were old, when photography had been in its early stage, with people posed stiffly, their eyes too white under the glare of the lights.

“Here we are.” Mr. Meade pried a photograph from a middle page and held it out to us. “That’s April’s Uncle Robert. And her Aunt Rose.”

“Good heavens,” I said in astonishment.

The man, sitting in a carved chair, was Daniel. Or rather, Daniel if he’d put on a suit from thirty years ago, grown a thick mustache, slicked his hair back, and stared hard at a camera.

The man had Daniel’s face, his build, his thick hair that curled no matter how he’d tried to tame it. At any moment, the man would break into a grin at the ridiculous pose and wave at us gazing at him.

A woman stood beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder. She had a softer stance, as though unworried about the long time she had to keep still. Her mouth was curved into a half smile, a little bit crooked, as Daniel’s often was.

She had long curls of hair that were pulled back behind her head but allowed to cascade along her shoulders. They framed the rather stiff bodice from those days, her belled skirt half-hidden behind the man’s chair.

“She is quite beautiful,” I whispered.

“Rose Patterson,” Mr. Meade said helpfully. “Yes, she was quite lovely, in face as well as inside. We all loved her. She and April’s uncle were very happy. Such a shame.”

A splotch of water fell on the photograph. I turned quickly to Daniel, to find tears streaming unashamedly down his cheeks.

He touched the picture of his mother, and then his sobs came. He clutched the photograph to his chest, his body heaving as he cried for the parents he’d lost and the child he could have been.

Mr. Meade discreetly left us alone, and I gathered Daniel to me and held him close.