The Silent Woman. Terry Lynn Thomas
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months after that. During this time, Cat had re-examined the choices she made and had found herself wanting.
During Cat’s hospitalisation Alicia had visited her regularly. When Cat requested the nurses turn Alicia away, Alicia sent flowers and books. To this day, Alicia – with the tact and social grace that was her birthright – still made an effort. She had proven to be a true friend, and Cat had shunned her for her efforts.
She walked amid a throng of people, past the tobacco shop, a tea shop, and a dress shop. The woman who ran the haberdasher’s stood outside, surveying the street as though it were her personal domain, a faraway look in her eyes. Cat nodded to her as she walked past.
She needed to make things right with Alicia, but she had no idea how to go about doing so. The foot traffic diminished as Cat approached the block that housed Hamer, Codrington, and Blythe. She passed an insurance office and a watch and clock repair shop. What if she could just start over, someplace where no one knew her? She could adopt a child … She almost snorted with laughter. What would she do with a child? How could she possibly cope with a child by herself, with no job? She was snapped out of her reverie when someone grabbed the strap of her bag and yanked hard.
Cat cried out as pain wrenched her arm and raced up to her shoulder, like electricity travelling up a wire. The force stopped her and yanked her around, forcing her to come face to face with what at first glance appeared to be a small boy. On closer inspection Cat saw that her assailant was a woman, lithe and spry as a dancer, and very strong despite her size. The woman had clear skin, devoid of any cosmetics, brown eyes, and a thin mouth pursed in a line of determination.
‘Let go of my purse!’ Cat cried out.
The woman yanked on the bag. When that didn’t work, she reached inside, her fingers grasping Reginald’s envelope. Cat pulled her bag close to her chest and held fast. Her attacker persisted, but Cat held on.
‘Give it to me,’ the woman said.
‘Let go of me,’ Cat said.
‘You there!’ a man called out from down the street. He took off at a run towards Cat and her assailant, his tie flapping in the wind.
‘Just give me the envelope and you won’t get hurt,’ the woman said through gritted teeth.
With one final pull, Cat jerked the bag free of the woman’s grasp. The woman growled like a dog. The punch came hard and fast, like the strike of a snake. The woman’s fist connected with Cat’s cheek, knocking Cat’s head back. Stars swam before her. Her knees started to buckle. She clung to the bag as she sank to the hard pavement. Once she was down on the ground, she sat dazed and unable to move. Through the crowd of legs that stood around her, she recognised the scuffed brown shoes that belonged to the woman as she walked away, her gait sure and steady.
‘Call the police,’ someone said.
‘Is anyone a doctor? I think she’s in shock. That boy tried to steal her purse!’
The pavement seemed to roll like the deck of a ship.
‘Maybe we should move her,’ another voice said.
Cat’s vision blurred. Blood pulsed into the skin near her cheekbone and her eye. Fluid pushed its way into new places, causing the skin to tighten with swelling. How will I explain this to Benton? Cat thought.
‘Move aside. Move aside, please,’ Cat heard a man’s voice say. ‘I saw everything from down the road. Move, please, and let me get to her.’ The crowd parted and the man squatted near Cat and studied her face. He was very tall, with dark hair worn a bit longer than was fashionable. The strong line of his jaw was covered with the dark stubble of a beard. His intelligent grey eyes peered at Cat. Are you all right?’
‘Not sure,’ Cat said.
‘What is your name?’
‘Catherine.’
‘Do you know what year it is?’
‘It’s 1937. I’m not concussed,’ Cat said. ‘I’ve just been attacked.’
‘Can you stand?’ The man stood and held out his hand. ‘Take my hand, and I’ll help you up. Careful now. If you’re dizzy, just lean on me.’ She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. The man turned to the crowd. ‘All is well now. Carry on.’
Cat allowed the man to lead her to a bench in the shade. He helped her sit down before he went into the closest shop and returned with a glass of water.
‘Drink this. It will soothe you.’
Cat obeyed, letting the cool water run down her throat. While she drank, she noticed the man glance up and down the street.
‘I dare say she won’t come back.’ He studied Cat’s face. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have a black eye. Do you want me to take you to hospital? Maybe you should have that seen to.’
‘I’m fine,’ Cat said. She brushed off her skirt, dismayed to see the large rip at the elbow of her new suit. Her hat had come off and now rested in the street. Cat watched, helpless, as a lorry drove over it, mashing it beyond repair.
‘May I escort you home or at least arrange for someone to come and get you?’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine really. I need to run an errand and then I’ll see myself home.’ She forced herself to sound strong and sure. ‘You’ve been very kind. I’ve an appointment just down the street. I know I must look a fright, but I’m all right, really. When I’m finished, I’ll go and have a cup of tea to settle my nerves.’
‘We really should call the police,’ the man said.
‘I’ll go directly there and make a report in person,’ Cat lied. She had no intention of going to the police.
‘Here’s my card. You’ll give that to the police? Have them call me. I got a pretty good look at her.’ He reached into the pocket of his suit and handed Cat a card printed on thick milky paper. Thomas Charles, Historian. There wasn’t an address, just a telephone exchange. She thanked him, took the card, and said her goodbyes, setting out once again to fulfil her obligation to Reginald. With each step, the anger that had saved her – and prevented the theft of Reginald’s documents – was replaced by a relentless knot of fear.
Fifteen minutes later she dropped off the envelope in the appropriate place. The secretary met her directly and – according to plan – excused himself and left Cat to her own devices. She was in and out of the building in less than five minutes. She resisted the urge to buy a new hat to replace the one that was damaged and turned her attention to more important matters, such as how she was going to explain her bruises to her inquiring sister-in-law and insolent husband.
***
Thomas took a taxi to an antiquarian bookshop in Piccadilly, lodged between a tailor and an estate agent. A rack of old books stood in front of the shop. A man browsed through the titles now, his hat pulled low over his head. As a precaution, Thomas walked past the estate agent and circled back. When he returned, the man was gone. He stepped into the shop and breathed in the smell of the old books.
He loved writing almost as much as he loved reading and books in general. He travelled Germany under the guise of being a writer, a cover that allowed him to move around without question. On a whim, Thomas decided that he would write a compendium on historical churches, a travel guide of sorts, in order to lend credence to his cover story. Thomas actually started the process of writing, jotting down a few paragraphs about the churches and sights he visited. The enjoyment he took from the process surprised and delighted him.
When he submitted the book to a publisher, who snapped it up in exchange for a hefty fee, Thomas was surprised. He studied craft, read how-to-write books, and even took a correspondence course in writing professionally. His career flourished. His books were met with critical acclaim.
The shop’s purveyor looked up from behind a desk and nodded, while Thomas continued to browse along the rows of the old books with their cracked leather