We Shall Remember

by Emma Fraser

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

1939. Irena is a young medical student living in Warsaw when the German army invade Poland. Those closest to her are dying and when Irena realises that no one is coming to Poland's aid, it's clear that she is alone. Forced to flee to Britain, Irena meets Richard, a RAF pilot who she's instantly drawn to and there's a glimmer of happiness on the horizon. And then the war becomes more brutal and in order to right a never-forgotten wrong Irena must make an impossible decision.

1989. Decades later, Sarah's mother is left a home in Skye and another in Edinburgh following the death of Lord Glendale, a man she's never met, and only on the condition that Magdalena Drobnik, a woman she's never heard of, is no longer alive. Sarah's only clues to this mystery are two photographs she doesn't understand but she's determined to discover the truth, not knowing that she's about to begin a journey that will change her life.

Gripping, poignant and honest, We Shall Remember is an incredibly powerful story about the choices we make under fire. It will stay with you long after you've turned the final page.

Release date: August 14, 2014

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 432

Sample

Irena cowered under the chassis of the car, pressing her face into the road so hard it hurt. Bullets ripped into the metal only inches away from her, and as spurts of dirt from the side of the road bit into her skin, she covered her head with her hands and screamed.

The drone of the plane receded and she risked a look to her left. A man staggered to his feet, his arm hanging limply by his side, and took a few uncertain steps towards her before falling to his knees. He reached out a bloody hand, his pleading eyes fixed on her.

She was about to scramble out from under the car to help him when she heard it: the whine of the returning plane.

Using his uninjured elbow to propel himself forward, the man inched towards her, in a desperate, floppy movement.

‘Hurry,’ she urged. She wasn’t sure if she’d spoken the words or merely thought them. If he could make it to the car he’d be safe – at least, as safe as she was. Under the car she ran the risk of death; out there in the open, it was almost a certainty.

Please. Help me, he mouthed. His eyes were wide pools of terror.

She wanted to, God, she wanted to, but she couldn’t make her body move.

The screeching of the plane grew louder, and as it descended, Irena could clearly make out the swastikas on the wings. It opened fire again; a staccato of bullets slashing the ground. The man jerked a few times and lay still.

Just when she thought the Luftwaffe pilot was going to make another sweep, a Polish plane dropped down from the clouds. Immediately the German turned his attention to his attacker, and within moments both planes had disappeared from the sky. Irena curled into a ball. Only a few hours ago she’d been sleeping, dreaming of Piotr. Now she was in the middle of a nightmare.

Her father was wrong. Everyone had been wrong. This wasn’t war. This was murder.

 

Yesterday, she and Magdalena, like so many other Varsovians, had been making the most of the last day of the summer holidays. It had been gloriously warm so they’d spent the morning in the park, sitting on a bench chatting, stopping now and again to watch the children as they played close to their mothers and nannies. As an elderly couple strolled past with their arms linked, Irena and Magdalena exchanged an envious look. Like most young Polish men, their fiancés had been with their units for well over a month.

‘Just think! In a few months we will truly be sisters,’ Magdalena smiled. She was to marry Irena’s brother Aleksy at Christmas. She tucked her arm into Irena’s. ‘You and Piotr will be next.’

‘Not for another two years. Not until I have qualified.’

‘I couldn’t wait that long. I can hardly wait three months!’

‘Piotr and I have all the time in the world to be married,’ Irena replied. Even as she said the words she wondered if that were true. There had been talk of war with Germany for some time, and since the invasion of Czechoslovakia and the increasingly strident demands from Hitler for a corridor from the Reich to East Prussia, the prospect had seemed almost inevitable. But then Britain and France had signed a treaty and everyone had relaxed. Germany wouldn’t do anything now, they told each other, and if there was a war it would be short lived. With Britain and France on their side they’d teach Hitler a lesson he wouldn’t forget.

No one was truly concerned about the possibility of war. If anything, most people, especially the younger ones, were excited by it and there was almost a carnival air about the city. All the same, Irena couldn’t help but worry. With her brother in the air force and her fiancé in the army, it would be stupid not to.

‘When do you think we’ll see Aleksy and Piotr again?’ Magdalena asked.

‘Soon, I hope.’ Irena squeezed her friend’s hand, shaking away the feeling of unease. There was no point in worrying about something that might not happen. ‘Come on, Madzia, let’s find somewhere to eat. I’m ravenous and if we still want to go to the concert and make it home before dark we should get on.’ As she often did out of term time, Irena was spending the night at her friend’s home a few miles out of Warsaw.

But in the early hours of the morning, Irena was woken by the sound of rumbling. Assuming it was a summer storm, she’d thrown back her bed covers and gone to close the window she’d left open to allow some night coolness into the room. At first she thought the flashes in the sky were lightning, but then realisation dawned. This was no storm. It was the sound of cannon coming from the east.

She ran to wake Magdalena and they stood at the bedroom window, holding hands, listening to the dull thud of explosions and watching in stunned silence as the sky filled with planes.

‘Perhaps it’s a training exercise,’ Magdalena whispered.

Irena didn’t think so. ‘Come on, we should listen to the news.’

On the landing they met Magdalena’s mother, Elżbieta. The usually unruffled aristocrat looked pale and frightened. Her hair was coming loose from its plait and she was wearing a robe hastily pulled over her nightdress. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We’re going to find out,’ Irena replied. ‘There’s bound be an announcement on the radio.’

They hurried downstairs to the drawing room where Elżbieta switched on the wireless.

‘Poland is under attack. We are at war with Germany, but Polish forces will resist. Stay calm.’ The terse announcement was repeated and followed, a few minutes later, by the national anthem and Chopin’s Polonaise in A major. As they listened they were joined by the two maids and the cook, all in their nightclothes.

‘Dear God,’ Magdalena’s mother murmured, crossing herself. ‘I didn’t think they would really do it.’

As the strains of the Chopin’s Polonaise faded, the announcer came back on. ‘Danzig and Krakow are being bombarded. We urge residents to stay calm and wait for further announcements.’

‘Where’s Tata?’ Magdalena cried. ‘And Piotr and Aleksy!’

Magdalena’s father, Colonel Ĺaski, was Piotr’s commanding officer in the Uhlan and Aleksy, Irena’s brother and Magdalena’s fiance, was a pilot with the Polish Pursuit Brigade.

When Magdalena started to cry, Irena gathered her into her arms. ‘They’ll be all right, Madzia. You’ll see. Our army is strong. Besides, now that the Germans have attacked, the British and French will come to help us.’

Despite her words, Irena wasn’t sure. They would come, but would they come in time? And what about her father? Thank God he had come to meet with a colleague at the Warsaw medical school, otherwise he’d be in Krakow.

‘I must go,’ Irena said. ‘Knowing Tata, he’ll have gone straight to the hospital. I have to go there, too. It’s what he’ll expect me to do.’

Her friend raised her tear-stained face. ‘You can’t. It’s too dangerous. Stay here with us. Tell her, Mama.’

Irena drew away. ‘I have to go, Madzia.’

Magdalena clutched her arm. ‘Have you lost your mind? You can’t go out there. At least wait a while. Perhaps the Germans will leave us alone. Maybe they’re just making a point.’

Her friend had always been a dreamer. All her life she’d been protected from the harsher realities by parents who treated her as if she were too young to make decisions for herself. Irena loved her friend but sometimes Magdalena’s unwillingness to see what was in front of her nose exasperated her. ‘Anyway, you aren’t a doctor,’ Magdalena continued, ‘only a medical student. What can you do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Irena shrugged. ‘Something. Anything. I just have to be there.’

Elżbieta added her protests to her daughter’s. ‘It’s not safe. Your father would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.’

‘Nothing will happen to me!’ Oddly, she wasn’t at all frightened. She wanted to be in the thick of things. Nothing this exciting had ever happened before. It might soon be over and she didn’t want to miss her chance to be part of it. Gently she removed Magdalena’s hand from her arm. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ She ran upstairs and into the guest room, pulled her dress on over her slip and started gathering together the rest of her belongings.

‘Don’t leave, Renia. Please.’ Irena turned to find that Magdalena had followed her upstairs. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’

Irena gripped her friend by the elbows. ‘You mustn’t worry about me. Warsaw is the best defended of our cities. It’s probably safer there than here. You should come with me.’

‘Mama won’t leave, you know that.’

Irena lifted her valise. ‘If there’s any danger take shelter in the cellar and don’t come out until you’re sure it’s safe.’

By the time they went back downstairs, the anti-aircraft guns were in action and the sky had cleared.

‘Perhaps it is over,’ Magdalena said.

Irena thought it unlikely. Aleksy had told her that fighter planes had only enough fuel to remain in the sky for short periods. The German aircraft would have had further to travel and so would need to refuel sooner. No doubt after they refuelled they’d be back. If she were going to go, it had to be now.

Elżbieta tried again to stop her from leaving but when she saw that Irena was determined to have her way, she grasped her hand. ‘Take the car,’ she said. ‘It will be quicker than the train – supposing they’re still running.’ While Irena had been upstairs, Elżbieta had dressed and done her hair. She still looked less than her usual immaculate self, but she’d regained the bearing and courage befitting a Polish officer’s wife.

‘Won’t you need it?’ Irena asked.

‘You know neither Magdalena nor I can drive. And with no chauffeur…’ She frowned as if the inconvenience of being without a driver was more of an irritation than the war. ‘Besides, we won’t be going anywhere. Not until we hear from the colonel. He’ll let us know when it’s safe.’

‘Phone me,’ Magdalena pleaded, as a maid opened the front door, ‘as soon as you have any news.’

‘Of course,’ Irena promised, kissing her one more time. ‘Now go back inside.’

She drove as fast as she dared but outside the city she was forced to slow to a crawl. The road was blocked by a tide of people, travelling in both directions: those with cars – the richer Varsovians – heading out of the city, suitcases tied to their roofs; and the country folk – carts piled high with chairs, beds, suitcases and even livestock, the sick, the old and the very young clinging precariously to whatever they could hold onto – heading towards the city. Those without transport walked, clutching suitcases with one hand and their children with the other. Directly in front of Irena was a family, the mother holding onto her two children by the hands while the father, almost bent double under the weight of several suitcases, led the way.

She tooted the car horn, but it made little difference. It would have been quicker to walk – or to take a train, which, she could see, were still running.

It was then that the German plane had swooped down and opened fire on the train. Irena watched in horror as bullets punctured the metal and windows exploded in a hail of glass.

The plane climbed sharply, and panic-stricken passengers spilled from the train, scattering in all directions.

But the plane circled and came back, losing height rapidly. As people threw themselves into ditches or under carts, it opened fire again.

Irena scrambled out of the car and rolled under the chassis, covering her ears in a vain attempt to blot out the screams of terror and the relentless sound of machine-gunfire.

 

Now, as the sound of their engines faded, the air was filled with the terrible cries of the injured and the dying. Slowly, those who could lurched to their feet while others sat in shocked silence as if they didn’t know where they were.

Irena forced herself to crawl out from under the car and staggered to her feet. As she took in the scene, bile rushed to her throat. She’d never seen anything like the carnage in front of her. Everywhere she looked there were torn and mutilated bodies, their belongings scattered across the field. Her body shaking uncontrollably, Irena moved towards the inert form of the man who had been reaching towards her and, although she knew it was pointless, felt for his pulse. Nothing. Her chest tightened. If only she’d been braver, he might still be alive.

Near him, a woman was on her knees, her body folded towards the ground as if in prayer, the back of her head caved in. Next to her corpse, a man cradled a bloodied youth in his lap. Despair washed over Irena. There were so many. What could she do? Where should she start?

On legs that felt boneless, she stumbled over to a man desperately calling for help. His wife had been hit in the shoulder and was pale and clammy, but conscious.

‘It’s okay,’ Irena murmured. ‘You’ll be okay.’

She tore away the shredded cloth from the woman’s shoulder and within seconds, dark gelatinous blood covered her fingers. The exit hole was about the size of a baby’s fist. If the bleeding couldn’t be stopped, the woman would die.

Irena ripped a strip from her dress and stuffed it in the wound. Almost immediately her temporary bandage was saturated with blood.

The woman needed surgery. She needed a proper doctor. Someone who knew what they were doing. As panic threatened to overwhelm her, Irena forced herself to take a deep breath. Think.

She grabbed the husband’s hand and placed it on top of the dressing. ‘We need to get her to hospital.’ She pointed to the car. The man nodded and scooped his wife into his arms.

‘Put her in the back seat. Press down on her wound as hard as you can and keep pressing, no matter what happens.’ Irena prayed the German planes would stay away a little longer.

As they hurried towards the vehicle Irena caught sight of the family who’d been walking in front of her car just minutes before. The father was face down, a few feet away from his wife and children. His blond-haired son, who couldn’t have been more than five, held his cap in the fingers of one hand while the other stretched out towards his mother as if he were reaching for her. She lay beside him, her body covering her little girl. Irena turned to the man next to her. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

With her heart beating a sickening tattoo in her throat, Irena ran towards the family. She stopped by the father and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Then she knelt by the little boy’s broken body. His bony legs protruded from his too-big shorts and he had a scrape on his knee that was beginning to form a scab. He must have fallen a few days earlier. His green eyes, wide with surprise, stared sightlessly at the sky.

Bullet holes had riddled his small body, almost cutting him in two. Blood had soaked through both his shirt and his neatly buttoned grey jacket and pooled in an untidy circle around his body.

She drew in a long, shuddering breath and turned her attention to the mother and daughter.

As she’d suspected, the mother was dead too, her head almost severed from her torso by the force of the bullets. The little girl, however, had been shielded by her mother. It was just possible she was still alive.

Mustering all her strength, Irena dragged the woman off her child. As the mother’s body sprawled on the ground, her neck lolling to the side at an unnatural angle, bile rose once more in Irena’s throat, making her gag.

The girl was covered in blood and Irena’s hands shook as she felt for a pulse. It was there, thank God, rapid and weak, but there nevertheless. The blood must be her mother’s.

Irena ran her hands across the child’s body before lifting her dress. It was difficult to be sure with so much blood everywhere but she couldn’t see any bullet wounds. But then as the child moaned, she saw it: a small hole, the size of the tip of Irena’s thumb, right at the top of the child’s leg.

She reached into her pocket, yanked out a handkerchief and folded it into a small square before placing it on top of the wound. Then she tugged off her scarf and tied it tightly around the child’s thigh. If she could get her to hospital the little girl might have a chance.

She picked her up, carried her back to the car and laid her gently on the front passenger seat.

She looked around. There were still so many injured. So many who would die without immediate help. But if she stopped to help them, the two in her car would die. She ran around to the driver’s seat, clambered in, and cranked the starter motor. Relieved it caught first time, she looked over her shoulder at the couple. The husband’s face was almost as pale as his wife’s.

‘How is she?’

‘She’s bad. What took you so long? She needs to get to hospital.’

‘Just keep pressure on the bandage.’ Irena laid one of her hands on the temporary dressing covering the child’s leg and pressed down. She manoeuvred the car between the victims, her blood-covered fingers slipping on the steering wheel, but she knew she couldn’t stop, even to wipe them.

If the German planes came back now they’d be sitting ducks.

 

It seemed to take forever to reach the hospital. Irena had to negotiate her way through more fleeing people and with every minute that passed, her injured passengers’ chances of survival were decreasing. She kept glancing at the sky, but there was no sign of the German planes. Every so often, she asked the husband for an update on his wife’s condition. She was still bleeding and along the way had lost consciousness. He kept murmuring to her, telling her she was going to be all right, if only she would hold on. In the passenger seat beside Irena, the child’s breathing had become laboured and she looked pale and clammy. If the wound didn’t kill her, shock might.

At last, the hospital appeared in front of her. It had been hit too. Large chunks of the perimeter wall were missing and the doctors’ quarters to the left of the main building were on fire. She drove into the forecourt and yanked on the handbrake.

It was almost as chaotic here as it had been on the roads. Horse-led carts and ambulances with injured men, women and children streamed in through the gates. Nurses and doctors scurried around, examining the injured briefly, before calling out orders to stretcher-bearers. The Polish Red Cross were there too, rushing towards each ambulance as it arrived.

Irena leaped out of the car and lifted the little girl into her arms. A nurse hurried over to her.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She has a bullet wound to her groin. I’m not sure if the femoral artery is damaged but just in case I applied a tourniquet. There’s another casualty in the back – a woman. She took a bullet in her shoulder. Her husband is keeping pressure to the wound. There are many more casualties out there. About five miles away. On the main road west. A lot of them are dead, but there are others who need medical attention.’

‘I’ll take her.’ The nurse gestured to a man on the steps to come forward. ‘Get someone to deal with the woman in the back, then send some ambulances towards Wesola. See if you can find a nurse to go with them. If you can’t, someone from the Red Cross will do.’

‘They need a doctor,’ Irena protested. ‘And more than one. The planes might have come back.’

‘All the doctors are busy, but I’ll see who I can find.’ As she talked, the nurse placed the child on the stretcher and signalled to the stretcher-bearers. ‘Take her inside. I’ll come in a minute and check her wound before I decide what needs to be done.’ She glanced at Irena. ‘I don’t want to take the bandage off until I’m certain we can control the bleeding.’

At least the nurse knew what she was doing. She had to be a year or two younger than Irena, but, outwardly at least, she was calm and confident.

‘I could go with the ambulance,’ Irena offered. ‘I’m a medical student.’

The nurse shook her head. ‘You don’t look in any state to help.’ Her voice softened. ‘You’ve done well so far and we’re going to need all the help we can get later.’ She wiped a bloodstained hand across her forehead and, for a moment, Irena saw the fear in her eyes. But just as quickly it was gone and the professional mask was back in place. ‘You’re covered in blood, you know. If you plan to stay and help you should wash first – and get changed. We don’t want to terrify the patients any more than they are already.’

As she turned away, Irena grabbed her arm. ‘I’m all right. Just tell me what you want me to do.’ Her teeth were chattering so much she could barely speak.

The nurse gently removed Irena’s hand, placed her arm around her shoulder and led her across to a bench. ‘It’s going to be a long day and an even longer night. Take a few minutes to pull yourself together. Then, if you really want to help, report to Sister Radwanska. She’ll tell you what to do.’

Irena started to protest, but without warning tears blurred her vision. She wanted to follow the nurse inside, she wanted to help, but she no longer trusted her legs to support her. Instead, she buried her head in her hands and wept.

‘There has to be some mistake,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know a Lord Glendale. Never even heard of him.’

She studied the man across the desk. Alan Bailey had a spot on his chin and had cut himself shaving. If indeed he even shaved. He looked barely old enough to be out of school let alone a partner in a firm of posh Charlotte Square solicitors. He was wearing a suit that must have cost a fortune, a pinstripe shirt and a ridiculously flamboyant bowtie. The office was empty apart from the over-large desk and three chairs. It was quiet, almost unnaturally so, given the proximity of Princes Street.

When she’d opened the letter asking her mother to make an appointment to see one of the partners at Hardcourt & Bailey, Sarah had phoned to tell them her mother was in hospital.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Alan Bailey had said smoothly, but without the slightest hint that he meant it. He’d paused. ‘Will she be discharged soon?’

‘No. Not in the immediate future.’ Not that it was any of his business. ‘Look, perhaps you should tell me what this is about?’

‘It’s really a matter best dealt with in person,’ Bailey muttered.

‘In that case,’ Sarah suggested, ‘can I come instead of my mother?’

‘Would you mind holding the line for a moment?’ There was the sound of someone covering the receiver with a hand and then the muffled voices of two people. While she waited, Sarah added milk and wine to her shopping list on the hall table.

‘Sorry to keep you, Miss Davidson, but I needed to have a word with my senior partner. He thinks we should speak to Mrs Davidson in person.’

Sarah’s jaw tightened. ‘My mother can’t talk and can only walk with support, so it’s unlikely she’ll be able to come to your office any time soon. She’s in the rehabilitation ward of Astley Ainslie Hospital, if you’d like to check with her doctors.’

‘Perhaps we could visit her at the hospital.’

‘Only immediate family are allowed to visit at the moment.’ Sarah wasn’t sure if this were true. It hadn’t come up in conversation with the nursing staff as Sarah was the only visitor her mother ever had. But Mum was in no condition to be bothered by solicitors. Come to think of it, Sarah was in no condition to be bothered by solicitors. On top of the twice-daily trips to the hospital – and the visits to her mother’s house in the Borders to check for mail and to see everything was all right – there was work to think about, too. Her boss had been sympathetic about Sarah taking time off at first and had given her a week’s compassionate leave, but over the last few weeks he’d become increasingly fed up with her frequent absences from the office. If it weren’t for the fact her curiosity had been piqued by the solicitor’s letter, she would have been tempted to tell the firm of Hardcourt & Bailey – and Alan Bailey in particular – to take a jump.

Even then Alan Bailey had hummed and hawed about it being irregular but, if she were indeed Lily Davidson’s daughter, and could prove her identity by bringing her passport along, he supposed it would be all right.

But the last thing she’d expected when the time of the appointment finally arrived was this. A complete stranger had left two properties to her mother, should the solicitors fail to locate a woman called Magdalena Drobnik.

‘There is no mistake. Lord Glendale also asked that your mother be given this.’ Bailey handed her an A3 envelope.

Sarah turned it over in her hands. It was made of thick, good quality paper and had Mum’s name on it, written with a fountain pen in a neat, decisive handwriting. Perhaps inside was a letter explaining the strange bequest? But she should get Mum’s permission before she opened it. Dealing with her mother’s business correspondence was one thing, personal letters quite another.

‘And as for Magdalena Drobnik? Who is she?’

Alan Bailey sighed. ‘We were rather hoping your mother would be able to help us with that.’

‘I can’t recall her ever mentioning her.’

He leaned back in his chair and studied her as if he were a teacher and she a schoolgirl he’d caught smoking behind the bicycle shed. ‘As I told you, your mother will only inherit should we not be able to find Miss Drobnik or if she’s deceased. We’ve started looking for her but so far have drawn a blank.’

‘And if you don’t find her, Mum will inherit Lord Glendale’s Edinburgh house and another in Skye. I still don’t understand. Why my mother?’

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you even if I knew.’

‘Didn’t whoever made out the will ask Lord Glendale? One of the senior partners perhaps?’

‘My father made out the will. Sadly he died last year. Even if he were still alive, he might not have been able to shed any more light than I can. Our job as solicitors is to draw up wills, not to question their contents.’ He sat upright, picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers. ‘Lord Glendale’s instructions were straightforward. Apart from the bequest, on his death, your mother was to be handed the envelope I have just given you.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘The estate includes a house in Charlotte Square – just across from here, actually – as well as one in Skye. It may well be that the house in Skye will have to be sold to cover the inheritance tax that will be due prior to the estate being settled. Or, should your mother go on to inherit, she could choose to keep it and sell the Charlotte Square house, although I would advise against it. The Edinburgh property is more likely to keep its value. In the meantime, your mother has been appointed joint executor along with us. We hold a set of keys to both properties should you require access.’

Why on earth would Lord Glendale have named her mother in his will? Could they have been lovers? It was entirely possible that her mother had had a life Sarah knew nothing about. The thought of her mother having a secret lover both depressed and warmed her. It would be good to think she’d found love, even late on in life. She’d never even known her mother to have a friend. However, if they’d had a relationship, surely Sarah would have met him?

‘When did Lord Glendale die?’ she asked.

‘A month ago. He was diagnosed with a fast-growing brain tumour a few months before that.’

Which would explain why he hadn’t visited her mother in hospital. ‘This has come as a bit of a shock. I still can’t help but think some mistake has been made.’

‘As I said, if you are the daughter of Lily Davidson, last residing at Cliff Top near St Abbs, and it certainly seems you are, then there has been no mistake. Naturally, as a reputable firm we have carried out the necessary background checks.’ He closed the folder and set it to one side of his otherwise clear desk. ‘And I do have to emphasise your mother only inherits as a “whom failing”. We will, of course, make every effort to locate Miss Drobnik but that could take years.’

‘Drobnik is an Eastern European name, isn’t it?’

‘Polish, actually.’

‘Have you thought about looking for Miss Drobnik there?’

‘Of course,’ he said, looking as if he’d sucked on a lemon. ‘Unfortunately the Polish government, for all the talk of perestroika, isn’t too helpful when it comes to assisting the West with information regarding their residents, although now that democracy looks a real possibility we may have more success in accessing information.’

As there seemed little else Bailey was able to tell her, Sarah returned her passport to her handbag and stood. ‘I’ll take a set of keys for the houses. I should check on the one in Charlotte Square. It may have sprung a leak or something…’ She tailed off. There was no need to justify herself. He’d already said he was happy to give her keys.

Alan Bailey opened the drawer of his sleekly modern oak desk and tipped the contents of an envelope onto the table. ‘A member of the firm has already carried out an inventory.’

Sarah stiffened. Did he think she was going clear the house and flog Lord Glendale’s possessions on a street corner? ‘I can assure you, Lord Glendale’s belongings are safe with me.’

His cheeks reddened. ‘It’s standard practice. I’m sure you aren’t planning to remove anything from either of the properties until such time as we are certain that Miss Drobnik can’t be located.’

His obvious embarrassment softened her irritation. She took the keys from him. ‘You will let me know as soon as you find Miss Drobnik, won’t you?’

 

Back on the street she paused outside the entrance to Hardcourt & Bailey. She checked her watch: two thirty. Afternoon visiting was from two to four and the Astley Ainslie – or the Ghastly Astley, as she secretly called it – was a good half-hour walk from here. But given that Lord Glendale’s Edinburgh home was only on the other side of the square, she couldn’t resist a quick look.

Situated between Rose Street and George Street, with their designer shops, cafes and bars, and only a stone’s throw from Princes Street, Charlotte Square was one of the most expensive places to live in the capital. Unlike many of the grand townhouses elsewhere in Edinburgh, most of these hadn’t been subdivided into flats and were therefore highly sought after.

She found number nineteen and stepped back to look at it. Lord Glendale’s home – a three-storey, neo-classic sandstone building – had to be worth a small fortune. If Mum did inherit it, she could sell it and there would be money for her to buy a ground-floor flat with a garden near Sarah and if necessary, God forbid, as much private care as she could possibly require. It seemed that fate had stepped in just when they needed it most.

Although she was itching to see inside, her mother was expecting her at the hospital and after that, she really had to get back to the office.

She hitched her handbag onto her shoulder and hailed a passing taxi. There was no point in getting too excited; there was still the matter of Magdalena Drobnik to consider. If she were still alive then her mother would get nothing. But who the hell was Lord Glendale and why had her mother been named in his will?

 

A short while later, Sarah paused at the door of ward 18 where her mother had been a patient for the last four weeks. Mum had only recently turned fifty. According to the doctors, it was unusual but not unheard of to have a stroke at that age. It could, they said, have been caused by any number of reasons, most likely a small bleed. It was possible that her mother would make a good recovery, but equally possible that she would continue to have small bleeds and if this happened her mother might lose what movement she still had.

After a couple of weeks in a medical ward, Mum had been transferred here for rehab. At least that’s what it was supposed to be. In reality it was filled with old people with dementia, a few like her mother who were post stroke, and, heartbreakingly, a young girl who’d come off the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike and who spent most of the time curled up in her bed, her day punctuated only by visits from the physios and her anxious family.

Sarah took a deep breath and walked in, wincing at the faint but unmistakable smell of urine. When she saw Mrs Liversage bearing down on her, she was tempted to hide. Not today of all days. An encounter with the old lady was rarely short and sweet. But too late – she’d already been spotted.

‘Is Mother waiting for me?’ Mrs Liversage, clutching the frame of her Zimmer, stopped in front of her, peering past Sarah to the ward entrance. She always asked the same thing. ‘School’s just finished, and I mustn’t keep her. Mother so hates to be kept waiting.’

‘I didn’t see her,’ Sarah said evasively. ‘Perhaps you should ask the nurses?’

‘Nurses? What nurses?’ Mrs Liversage frowned. ‘Don’t be silly. There’s only teachers here.’

Sarah bent to whisper in the elderly patient’s ear. ‘Don’t tell everyone, but I think there’s cake for tea.’

Mrs Liversage perked up. ‘Tea? And cake!’ She allowed Sarah to turn her around and guide her to the day-room. When she was seated, Sarah poured her some tea from the thermos she’d brought and after scrabbling around in her bag, gave her a slice of the pre-packaged ginger cake she’d intended for Mum.

Leaving a pacified Mrs Liversage munching, Sarah hurried down the ward, past the nurses’ station and to her mother’s bay. Her heart squeezed painfully as she caught sight of her mother. As usual she was in the high-backed chair next to her bed, but the pillows that normally propped up the side that had been affected by the stroke had fallen to the floor and without their support her mother was tipped over to the right. She was dressed in a green cardigan that didn’t belong to her and blue polyester trousers with an elasticated waist. No one had applied her lipstick for her or found the time to comb her hair. Sarah groaned. Before the stroke, Mum would have died rather than let anyone see her like this.

‘Hello, Mum,’ she said, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

Her news would have to wait until she’d seen to her mother. She laid the pile of clean laundry on the bed and pulled the screens. ‘Okay, Mum, let’s get you sorted. What would you like me to do first? Help you with your lunch or change that cardigan?’

Her mother smiled lopsidedly but said nothing. The stroke that had robbed h. . .