by Oster, C. G.
They sold cake slices and biscuits, cups of tea and jam. When she got into the swing of things, Dory found that she loved selling from the stand, meeting the people who came and seeing the pleasure on their faces when they came away with a treat. Even her Victoria Sponge had some takers.
The whole community was there, but Michael still hadn’t appeared. What would she do if he didn’t come home and she’d conveniently locked herself outside? Who could she ask to assist her? Perhaps Penelope, who she hadn’t seen yet but would surely be there. They had prepared for this for so very long, especially the three raffle prizes that stood behind the stand. Hampers filled with goodies. They would be a delight for anyone to win, and Dory couldn’t enter the draw either. A real shame.
“So what do we have here?” said a woman wearing a dark green oiled coat and a hat.
“Oh, hello, Eleanor. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. How are you?” Ruth asked cheerily. It was the friendliest Dory had seen her today, and probably any day before that.
“Good,” the woman said. “Hard year, but aren’t they all? Could have been worse. All these delights before me.”
“Would you like a slice? I’ll give it to you on the house,” Ruth continued, and Dory turned to her. Giving away their baked goods was not something they did, but clearly they made an exception for this woman. Were there other people they made exceptions for? If so, it could certainly have been that harried woman who looked like she was at the end of her tether with her children.
The woman, Eleanor, and Ruth chatted for a while, and Dory was glad to see she actually paid for the jam jar she bought.
“A decent crop this year. We had good rain over the summer. Too little rain and the fruit is small and hard when you want them plump. How is all with the farm? You are so brave doing it all by yourself.”
Clearly Ruth liked this woman, or admired her. Ruth didn’t bother introducing either her or Mary, and then finally she moved away.
“I’m going to find the privy,” Ruth said and took off her apron before marching away. A light drizzle had started, but not enough to deter anyone.
“That’s Eleanor,” Mary said. “She was a member when I first started, but I only saw her a few times. When her husband left, she had to manage the farm on her own. Doesn’t have time for the institute anymore. I understand she’s keeping the place afloat.”
“That’s extraordinary,” Dory said and accepted that such an achievement perhaps deserved a complimentary slice of cake. The same as Henry, except he was a farmer. Eleanor had had to take on her husband’s role too. Something Dory couldn’t imagine.
“She even drives the tractor.”
“I suppose in her situation, she has to do everything.”
For the first time, Dory feared that something had actually happened to Michael. A potential she strictly forbade herself from considering. He was simply late, that’s all.
“Have you seen Constable Worthing around?” Dory asked.
“Can’t say that I have,” Mary said. “Oh, here’s Sue and Maeve to relieve us.” Maeve was another person Dory hadn’t had much to do with, but she seemed a nice woman. Older with children finishing their schooling. “I guess our duty is complete and we can enjoy the festival. I think the dancers are starting. Are you staying for when evening sets in? It goes till nine, I think. Maybe even ten.”
“I don’t know.” Dory hadn’t admitted the predicament she’d placed herself in. “I’ll see how I go, and when my husband turns up.”
“He's a very dashing man,” Mary said with a smile.
“I know. That’s why I married him,” Dory replied with a wink.
“I better go find my mum. I’ll see you later, Dory,” she said and waved as she walked away. Dory liked Mary, but both her and Sue seemed so very young. In reality, it hadn’t been that long ago since she’d been their age, when she’d started working at Wallisford Hall, but so much had happened in the years since. The world really had rewritten itself in so many ways.
For a while, she wandered around the stands, surveying the crops and vegetables, which all looked so lovely. There were so many things she wished she could buy, particularly the honey jars with their golden hue like captured sunlight. The dancers had started over by a hay-covered wagon, old dances from long before anyone could mention. There were also a pair dressed in produce and painted green. Old village traditions. They had similar ones in Swanley.
A longing for home washed through her, but this was her home now, her village. If only she could stop feeling like such an outsider. In many respects, she was an outsider. There were a few people from her street that she recognized. Often they stood out by their clothes, which were ill suited for country life. They were city people who had moved out here. It could even be that they thought village life like this was strange.
Through the crowd, she saw Michael and relief washed through her. He’d made it. He was safe. That was all that was important.
“Hello,” she said with a smile as he approached her and kissed her on the cheek.
“Sorry I’m late. Something came up.”
“Well, to make it up to me, you can buy a jar of honey.”
“It would be my pleasure. Perhaps after, we can get a drink at the pub.”
“Alright,” she said, hardly surprised by his request.
Chapter 17
THE PUB WAS WARM AND a little humid after the light rain. It was crowded, so they ended up with a tiny table along the far wall, luckily so as a couple was just leaving. It was a squeeze when she took her seat on the bench that stretched past several tables when he returned from getting drinks at the bar. Dory accepted her cider and took a sip. It was nicely dry, as she liked it.
The din of talking was loud, as the pub was as crowded as it could be. It seemed everyone in the village had come for the harvest festival. Towns folk and farmers.
Constable Worthing was at the bar, talking to a man Dory didn’t recognize. His movements seemed a little enlarged and he laughed. Watching him, Dory wondered if he’d had quite a bit to drink.
“Is everything alright?” Michael asked.
“Yes. Sorry. I just saw Constable Worthing. He seems to be enjoying the festival.”
“How did the sales go at the stand?”
“Good. The jams were very popular. The cakes too. My sponge was popular enough, so I’m happy with my effort.”
“And how are they taking the death of Mrs. Wallis?”
“It’s curious. Everyone seems to have taken it in their stride. We had a quick moment in her honor at the last meeting. Obviously there is some gossip about who could be responsible.”
“And who do they implicate?”
“Penelope Middlesmore, primarily because she’s stepped into the role of caretaker for the husband, Henry Wallis.” It was nice to actually speak to him about it. Biting her lip, she wondered if she should mention her concerns. “I’m still worried that Constable Worthing is out of his depth.”
“I’m sure his superiors are directing him,” Michael said in that dismissive voice she was used to hearing.
At times she wondered if his faith in the police force was so strong that he felt they could do no wrong, or if it was a lack of faith in her judgement. Then she felt ungenerous for thinking so, because it wasn’t her place to question every investigation that went on in the community around her. Then again, there were a few murders that wouldn’t have been solved if it wasn’t for her paying attention—and investigating. Was it wrong that she felt resentful that her skill and observation wasn’t acknowledged? No, he did acknowledge her contribution to the murders she’d solved, but it wasn’t a pastime he encouraged. And really, was it a seemly hobby for her according to anyone other than Lady Pettifer? No.
“It’s just that women don’t always talk to men,” she finally said. “And there are things that they would never say to policemen.”
“What you say is true,” he conceded. “The police can be unnecessarily confrontational when they
don’t need to be, but I suspect that is not Constable Worthing’s problem.”
“He simply doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“We all need to start somewhere.”
That was true as well, and she was being ungenerous due to his lack of experience.
“Dory, I know you feel frustrated by it, but please try not to be. You will drive yourself mad if you take on the role for yourself to enforce the quality and standards for policing work. It isn’t your place, and you can’t see it as your duty. I cannot take on responsibility for every crime that happens in England. I haven’t the capacity or mandate to do so. It isn’t my business to pass judgement on the investigative abilities of my colleagues either. That is the job of their superiors, and I cannot take on the role of judging them either. I have my business and I stick to it.”
Now she truly felt admonished, because she had definitely passed judgement on the investigators she’d dealt with, and they had been substandard. Truthfully, she hadn’t seen how they would have solved the murders.
“And yes, you are an excellent investigator,” he continued, “but there are people who are tasked with the roles to investigate, and we just have to leave them to it. Don’t charge in and take over. It isn’t your place.”
It was nice to hear him say that she was good at it.
“I just find it frustrating.”
“And as I said, you will drive yourself mad constantly thinking how you would do things differently.”
In some ways, she felt acknowledged and understood. She was a good investigator, she had solved murders, but it didn’t naturally mean it was her due to take over an investigation. “I will watch from a distance,” she finally said.
“How is the winter crop going?” he asked and changed the subject entirely.
“Good, so far. Apparently I have to watch out for slugs. Soapy water should do the trick, I’m told. I have to watch over these plants like precious wards.”
“it will be nice to eat our own crop this winter.”
Behind him, that woman appeared again, Eleanor, who walked over to some of the farmers and was included in their discussion. It seemed she was accepted by her fellow farmers, which was nice to see.
“There was a disappearance in the village a year or so back. One of the farmers,” she said. “Everyone thinks he absconded.”
“I think the war made quite a few people think about their lives and how happy they were in it. It hit home to everyone that life is short.”
“Maybe he didn’t like being a farmer.”
“Not everyone agrees with what they’re raised to be.”
“Or maybe it was his wife he wanted to get away from, and desperately enough that he could give up his farm and livelihood,” she said. “That does sound a little extreme. Why not simply kick her out if he disliked her so much?”
“You can like someone and still want to leave them,” he said.
The statement was startling to her. “Why leave someone you like being with?”
“If you are detrimental to them.”
The statement still didn’t make sense to her, but she churned it over in her head. She couldn’t think of any instance she knew where someone had left because they were detrimental to the person they loved.
“Or he simply wanted adventure,” Michael said. “It’s not entirely uncommon with missing people. They get to a certain age and realize they are disappointed with their lives. I had this one suspected murder investigation where it turned out the man had simply sailed off to Australia to start a new life.”
“How did you find out?”
“He wrote to his mother. There have even been cases where someone has faked their own death to implicate a partner they believed were untrue, in revenge.”
“I don’t understand people sometimes,” she said.
“And sometimes, you are better off not trying.”
A man took the seat next to them. “You’re that copper from London, aren’t you?” he said. Mid-forties, the clothes of someone with an agricultural living.
“That’s right.”
“You investigating Edith?”
“No, that is for Constable Worthing to do,” Michael informed him.
“That boy couldn’t find an ale in a brewery.”
“I’m sure he is guided by experienced officers.”
“There was an incident a while back. This man came to town, accusing them of covering things up. It was some months ago, but there was animosity there.”
“You know the name of this man?”
“Comes from a farm some miles out. Something about Tommy and the war.”
“Tommy, Edith’s son?”
“People hide all sorts of things in a village like this.”
“Sorry, what was his name, the man accusing them?” Dory asked.
“Leslie Hartman. His family have lived here for centuries, so have the Wallis family. Wounds that run back centuries.”
“Do you think he could have harmed Edith?”
“With Leslie Hartman, you never know what he’s capable of. A damned drunk, and always has been. Always felt he was cheated out of a portion of his farm.”
“By the Wallis family?”
“No, that would be the Turners. Some gambling debt that had to be seen to. The Hartmans have always done things that aren’t good for them.”
“Constable Worthing should know about this,” Dory said.
“’Course he knows. Everyone knows. Nothing new here.”
“So what are they hiding?”
“I don’t know. Something about the war. Both families lost their sons. Maybe it has to do with who takes the farms when it comes time. Both have lost their intended succession. Not the only ones around these parts. With so many sons lost, who will farm this land in the future?”
Dory’s eyebrows drew together. What could they possibly be hiding about the war? It must be about these sons. It wasn’t as if the war had particularly affected this regions. Granted, there had been intelligence operations in the area. Michael had been here during the war, but what would that have to do with two farming families in the district? Or could this be about inheritance now that their heirs were lost? Inheritance was a big issue for families, with family legacies, gains and losses.
The Fellingworths came to mind. Cedric got the whole of the Wallisford Estate and the title, while Vivian got very little. Inheritance was a big, emotive topic for a lot of families, and maybe something about inheritance tied the Hartmans and the Wallis families together in ways not everyone liked. Was it enough to murder Edith Wallis? Not so as to influence inheritance, because what would that achieve? It wasn’t as if she was of age to produce more children. If so, it would be rage and vengeance that had caused someone to act.
It seemed a little like a whole new line of enquiry had opened up—a line that could very well be the source of the motive. Why had no one mentioned this? None of the ladies had mentioned this tension. Why would they not? Was Constable Worthing pursuing this? Perhaps he was, but he had decided not to mention it to her, and granted, he had no obligation to. In fact, he was probably required not to openly discuss the investigation with all and sundry. And she was one of the all and sundry.
Chapter 18
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS cold, but sunny, and Dory enjoyed being outside as she walked toward the village square. Remnants of day before still littered the square, the stands looking forlorn and deserted, even as there were people cleaning up and dismantling. It still looked like a mess, but it had been a lovely evening.
The entertainment had continued after dark, including a bonfire that had attracted all that wanted to stay out, which were mostly older youths and couples. The children had all been taken to their beds, probably at protest. Music had played and the pub had done a roaring trade. Michael had enjoyed it immensely and Dory had been glad.
Across the road, the police station door was open and Dory peeked inside. “Constable Worthing?”
“Yes,” he said in
a tired voice. Dory heard him before she saw him. He appeared, looking worse for wear. “I hope you enjoyed the evening. It was lovely.”
“What do you want, Mrs. Ridley?” he asked, sitting down heavily in his desk chair and wincing at the abruptness of it.
“I just wanted to ask you about the Hartmans. There seems to have been strong words between the Hartmans and the Wallises.
“The Hartmans and the Wallises have had words for centuries,” he said dismissively. Bringing up his fingers, he pressed them to the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I’m being curt. I may have overindulged a little last night.”
When really he should be the one who guards against such behavior, Dory thought. “Everyone does every once in a while. It was mentioned that the inheritance expectations are a little muddled now that both the sons from these respective families were lost in the war. Are you aware who inherits each farm?”
“No one is going to inherit because of Edith’s death.”
“True, but it could be that it’s given rise to some degree of awkwardness between these two families.”
“Are you suggesting Leslie Hartman came into town and whacked Edith on the head and left her there?”
“Would it be impossible?”
“Why would he?”
“That is for you to uncover. Is there some awkward entanglement with the inheritance of these farms that have given rise to anger? Rage even?”
He shrugged. “I suppose that depends on the closest male relative.”
“That fight between Henry Wallis and Leslie Hartman was about something. If for no other reason, you must rule it out. If there is no way forward, it’s best to eliminate what it isn’t. The motive is there to be uncovered.”
“Perhaps you should do this job, Mrs. Ridley,” he said tartly.
She could probably do a decent job of it. The war had proved that there wasn’t much she couldn’t do if she set her mind to it, but they would never hire her even if she’d be excellent at it. Firstly, she was a woman, and would be given the most office-based, light duties, secondly, she was married, which meant she shouldn’t be there at all. Going into any of these details probably wasn’t helpful. “But it’s for you to learn, Constable Worthing. You’re going to be a policeman for the rest of your life. This is a wonderful opportunity. Either you will have the skills to investigate, or you won’t. It could open up untold career opportunities for you—unless you wish to be the sole constable in a very small village. That is the dream job for some.”