‘Let’s put it this way. It wasn’t difficult to frighten him. He was a bit of a weakling.’
‘You threatened him?’
‘I can’t remember everything I said, Mary. It was years ago.’
‘Was he scared?’
‘Let’s just say he was probably watching his back for a few weeks after.’
‘You visited him again, didn’t you?’
He took off his cap, scratched his head, then replaced it again. ‘A few times. I just thought he needed reminding. You know how it is. He was walking about a free man while my brother was in his grave. It wasn’t right.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ A robin landed on a low wall. They watched it as it cocked its head, appearing to survey the freshly dug earth.
Tom smiled. ‘There he is again, the little fellow. Looking for more worms. Must have some babies to feed.’
‘Maybe Miller’s still alive somewhere.’
‘Like where?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘No, he can’t be. He wasn’t the sort to take himself off somewhere. His life was too comfortable for that. Had a good job working for the railways. Not on the railways, mind. He had a much easier job than that, working in an office. He had a nice flat too. He probably fell into a ditch, like I said.’
‘With all these people suddenly wondering what happened to him, they might ask us questions.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they might think we had something to do with it.’
‘We didn’t.’
‘But people don’t see it like that, do they? They know what sort of people we are and we’re easy to blame.’
‘No one can blame me for something I haven’t done.’
‘But you know what the police are like. They might think we took revenge on Miller.’
‘I can’t see them doing anything about it ten years later.’
‘But they might, Tom.’
‘Stop worrying about it, Mary.’ He seized his shovel and thrust it into the ground. The muscles in his forearms rippled as he turned the earth over. She could tell the conversation was angering him. And she knew better than to be on the receiving end of his temper.
‘What shall I say if someone asks me questions again?’ she said.
He paused. His eyes were narrow and dark now.
‘You don’t know anything, Mary. That’s what you tell them.’
Chapter 22
After closing the shop that evening, Augusta walked back to her flat with Sparky in his cage and the bundle of John Gibson’s letters in her bag. She was looking forward to reading them and hopefully finding some more clues about Alexander Miller’s disappearance.
She was by the newsagent’s shop on Marchmont Street when she heard the voice behind her.
‘Mrs Peel!’
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. It was a voice she didn’t like.
She turned to see a man in a dull, grey suit. He had a neat red moustache and his wide-set eyes rested on her coldly.
It was Walter Ferguson from the London Weekly Chronicle. The reporter who had claimed to have discovered her real name.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘I was wondering if you received my letter, Mrs Peel.’
‘I did. Were you expecting a reply?’
‘I thought there would be some sort of response.’
The man seemed rather desperate for her attention. She imagined he led quite a lonely existence.
‘I didn’t respond because I didn’t feel the need to.’
‘But surely you’re going to be rather upset when I tell people your real name?’
