Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist by Neil Richards

access, Sarah. But this is serious stuff, you know.”
    But he didn’t press her on the details.
    Jack was right.
    Her father had faith in her, and in Jack.
    He’d ended with, “I’ll see what I can do and ring you back.”
    Now they walked into the lounge of the hotel, French windows open, letting in the delicious heat of a totally summery morning.
    Mary sat in a wing-backed easy chair, hands folded in her lap, waiting for them.
    She looked up as they entered the room.
    As planned, Sarah went over and took the chair closest to her, while Jack sat on the stone ledge of the room’s fireplace.
    The woman’s eyes went from Sarah to Jack, those eyes looking so tired, so haunted.
    “You've found out something?”
    Sarah looked to Jack. “Maybe. We’re not sure, Mary. But we needed to talk with you.”
    The woman nodded.
    Almost, Sarah thought, as if she expected what was to come.
    “There are some things we have to ask you. About your brother … your family.”
    A nod. Was that a flicker of guilt on the woman's face?
    “We need to know about this …” Sarah said slowly, removing the printout of the Thanksgiving picture from her purse.
    She handed it to the woman.
    Her lower lip began to tremble.
    Sarah let her just look.
    And when she shot a look at Jack he was hunched over, hands on knees. A small smile and a nod from him told her that this was okay; they could wait until Mary O’Connor was ready.
    When the woman's eyes returned to Sarah, each eye held a tiny glistening pool. As the woman began to speak a small trail started from one, the tear running down a cheek.
    “Where … did you get this?”
    Sarah took a breath.
    She and Jack had agreed that they didn't want to tell her about the mugging, least not yet. “Someone found your brother's camera. There were pictures.”
    Mary suddenly reached out and with a grasp that was so strong, grabbed Sarah's wrist.
    “And were any of the pictures taken here, in Cherringham?”
    Sarah nodded.
    Then, Mary’s voice rising, “Then he was here . My brother has been here. The pictures show that …?”
    “They do. But—”
    She hesitated. For the first time Patrick O’Connor’s sister had actual confirmation that this was a place he had been.
    And that this was also the place he had disappeared.
    And now for the question.
    “Mary,” she said.
    The woman's hand still on her wrist as if Sarah might blow away if untethered. “In that photo, there's a soldier.”
    The woman didn't blink.
    But she did take a deep breath, tears drying … steeling herself.
    The question — maybe for her — inevitable.
    “Can you tell us who that is?”
    Only then did she look away, turning from Sarah, from Jack to the otherwise empty sitting room with its dowdy chairs all garnished with antimacassars, the once bright material worn to a dull colour.
    Mary didn't return from that moment of drifting away.
    “You know him, Mary? Right? You can tell us?”
    The pause interminable. Mary O’Connor had a secret in all this.
    When her eyes finally returned — so slowly — her face showed that she was about to reveal it.
    “That soldier …” she said slowly, the room so quiet, “he was my nephew.”
    And then, as if it might not be clear enough, “He was Patrick's son.”

15. A Tale of Two Warriors
    Sarah had stepped out into the sun.
    Jack watched her just stand there, outside the hotel.
    In all the years Jack had asked people about things, secret things … and watch them slowly begin to talk, to open up about something they so much wanted kept secret … he had not seen anything like the hushed conversation between his partner and Mary O’Connor.
    He stood by her, also enjoying the sun, its wonderful warmth, but waiting for Sarah to … what?
    Come back?
    Return from the conversation she had just had and all the thoughts?
    “You okay?” he said.
    Without turning, she nodded.
    Then she asked Jack the question that was also running around his brain.
    “Jack, what Mary told us? What