Free The Return of Captain John Emmett by Elizabeth Speller Page B

behind a low hedge where large cobwebs held drops like jewels. The smell of privet after rain was one he always associated with London.
    A tiled path led up to a dull black front door. He walked up and pulled the bell, hearing it jangle in the rear of the house, and almost immediately he heard swift footsteps inside. The door swung open and a young woman stood there, her fair hair loose on her shoulders. She had a sleeping cat draped over one arm and looked surprised, as if she had expected someone else.
    'Can I help you?' She was much younger than he'd imagined, just a girl really, but her face was quite composed.
    'Mrs Lovell?' Laurence began.
    '
Miss
Lovell,' she replied. 'Catherine Maude Lovell.'
    Laurence was suddenly and embarrassingly aware of how impulsive his decision to visit had been. In his haste to help Mary he hadn't thought of the effect of his enquiries on those at the receiving end. How the hell could he explain himself to the slender girl in front of him?
    'I'm looking for someone called Lovell who knew one of my friends.'
    'Who?' she said.
    'A man called Emmett. Captain John Emmett.'
    There was no sign of recognition on her face.
    'He died a few months ago.' He was beginning to feel it was hopeless. Rain was starting to fall again.
    'My brother was killed in the war,' the girl said, matter-of-factly. 'But I don't know a John Emmett. Perhaps it's my mother you want? She's out but she should be back soon. I thought you were her, forgetting her key again. You could wait if you want?'
    How could he have been so stupid? Of course this girl was too young to have known John. She was what—fifteen? Younger? But he had at least established that the family had a son who had fought. That was the likely connection to John.
    He followed her indoors with some relief; water was now trickling down the back of his neck. A daily woman, by the look of her, emerged from the back of the house. She took his hat and coat, shaking them out as she did so. Catherine Lovell showed him into a small sitting room. It was neat, respectable, perhaps a little old-fashioned, and decidedly cold, but there were some good books in a glass-fronted case. He looked sideways and read those with larger lettering on their spines: Trollope, Dickens'
The Old Curiosity Shop,
Sir Walter Scott, Tennyson, Wordsworth; it was more or less the sort of collection he had at home. There were even some bound operetta scores. The girl sat opposite him talking to the cat.
    Eventually he heard the door open, and the gasps and protestations of someone retreating from a downpour.
    'Martha. Martha, oh thank you—no, I'm not soaked. I had my umbrella. Just take my hat and coat and put them in the scullery, not too near the stove, mind.'
    A handsome woman, in her early forties perhaps, came through the door. She was dressed entirely in dark blue and, like the room, her dress was sedate and unremarkable. But she had an alert face, pale, fine skin and hair almost as fair as her daughter's, though fading with middle age.
    Catherine jumped up and spoke before either she or Laurence had a chance to do so. 'He's looking for a man called Captain Emmett.'
    'Catherine—' Mrs Lovell looked anxious for a second but then her expression lightened. 'Not now, my love, I don't even know who our visitor is. Mr—?' She had a slight provincial accent.
    'Bartram,' he said, 'Laurence Bartram. I'm very sorry to intrude, Mrs Lovell, but your daughter suggested I came in and the rain...'
    Although Mrs Lovell had every right to be put out by his uninvited presence, she shook his hand and smiled. 'Quite right too, Mr Bartram,' she said. 'Catherine,' she nodded in the direction of the door. 'Can you go and ask Martha to make tea? Stay and help her, I think.'
    The girl made a face. She was younger than he had guessed. She left the room and the door banged slightly behind her.
    'Look, I'm awfully sorry to barge in like this,' Laurence said. 'It's obviously not convenient.'
    'Not at all, Mr