by Tessa Arlen
“He came out onto the lane after a bit; he was carrying his camp stool and his notebook—he looked downright silly. He muttered something about owls and then beetled off, up the lane. I think he’s touched. Everyone knows bird-watching is done during the day.” She drew a breath. This was probably the longest speech I had heard her make—except for her lecture on Errol Flynn.
“What do you think he was doing?” I asked.
She thought for a moment, as if this had not occurred to her before. “When a man goes in for lurking like that, it isn’t for a good reason, that’s for sure. I think he is one of those awkward types.”
“Do you think he might have killed Dor . . . ?”
She shook her head. “How?” Her laugh was sarcastic. “Just how would he do that? Doreen and Ivy wouldn’t have let a little creep like that anywhere near them.”
But they might have been taken by surprise, I thought. He might have lurked in waiting and then crept up and strangled them from behind.
“When did this happen?”
“The night after Doreen was killed.”
And what were you doing out and about at night when Doreen had been brutally deprived of her life in the churchyard the night before? I wanted to ask, and she answered me as if I had spoken the words aloud. “When it’s this warm at night and I can’t sleep, I go for a walk. Just up the lane and back. I sometimes see you doing your patrol. It’s nice to walk at night, isn’t it?”
My jaw dropped open. “But aren’t you scared of, you know . . . whoever killed Ivy and Doreen?”
“No, I’m not.” She lifted her arm, clenched her fist, and shook it: Boadicea advancing on the Roman legions on her shaggy pony sprang to mind. “If some Yank tried it with me, I’d give him what for.” Her slate gray eyes met mine and she smiled at me—and this time her smile was inclusive and almost conspiratorial.
* * *
—
I WHEELED MY bike down the path from the Wilkes kitchen door and mounted it in the driveway. Bess came running up and jumped around to say hullo, but I was too preoccupied with the strange conversation I had had with Audrey Wilkes to pay much attention to her. As I pedaled down the lane, I think I was more confused than ever. I had always thought that there was something impassive about Audrey, often to the point of being rude. It’s hardly encouraging if you call out, “Hullo, Audrey, how is your mum doing—over her cold yet?” only to be met by a blank stare and a snort of contempt. I could understand her disinterest in village goings-on— I don’t have much interest in bingo, singing in the church choir, and celebrating May Day on the green either—but you simply can’t live in Little Buffenden and ignore everyone.
Up until now, I assumed Audrey wanted to be left alone, and then, to my surprise, she had opened up and had launched into a detailed account of the life of a Hollywood film star whom she had studied as if she were going to sit an entrance exam. I couldn’t put this more forthcoming version of her down to something as simple as my asking her to help us out at the air-raid shelter we had made in the crypt. But perhaps it was as simple as that. Perhaps Audrey rarely spoke to anyone in the village because we had taught ourselves to ignore her. I felt guilty, and, worse, I felt false. Audrey was a lonely girl who had immersed herself in the glamorous lives of Hollywood’s movie stars because there were no friends in hers.
I pedaled miserably up the road and made a promise to myself that, if she was inclined, I would go out of my way to spend time with her. But however sorry I felt for this solitary young woman, I couldn’t get her dislike of Doreen out of my mind. Could Audrey have murdered Doreen? She was certainly physically capable of doing so, but I found it hard to believe that she would have strangled poor little Ivy.
ELEVEN
It was warm in the orchard as I scribbled away in my exercise book, putting Ilona in more danger in the backstreets of East London. Writing about murder and violence has a strong effect on the nervous system, and when a long shadow fell across my exercise book, I nearly jumped out of my skin. But it was just Griff O’Neal standing over me, holding Bess in his arms. Bess usually doesn’t like being picked up, except by me, and here she was perched up there with her head leaning casually back against Griff O’Neal’s chest as if she owned him.
“You look busy,” he said. He bent down to release Bess, and his face was so close to mine that I noticed for the first time that his hazel eyes had flecks of blue in them. His proximity made my stomach do a little flip, and I felt my breath catch. I looked up into his large, clear eyes fringed by long, dark lashes. If the rest of his features weren’t so masculine, his face would be almost feminine in its beauty. As it was, he was only the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life. I turned my head away—writing about Ilona and her string of glamorous admirers was having a ridiculous effect on me. I got to my feet, and to my relief, he did the same.
“Let’s walk Bess up the lane and back, and you can fill me in on all the wonderful things Audrey told you about her secret life. I bet you’re good at getting people to confide in you: you’re such a good listener.”
That’s probably why you like spending time with me, then, I thought, as I brushed bits of leaf and twig off my slacks. And then I caught myself—I might not have Ilona’s boundless confidence, but I must make the effort to be less self-critical. Granny has told me that I have a very nice face, and I know I’m a lot brighter than most girls of my age, so there was no need for a defensive attitude. I resolved to believe that this man was dropping in to say hullo because he liked me—because he might even find me attractive!
“What were you writing—your case notes?” he asked as we walked up the lane with Bess racing ahead to retrieve sticks.
I said yes, because I had no intention of telling him about my book. He was far too curious and would immediately want to read it, and I will never have nerve enough to let anyone do that.
“So, tell me about Audrey Wilkes, any development there? What d’you think she’s all about?”
“She has a bit of a thing for Errol Flynn.”
“Are you kidding me?” He was genuinely at a loss. Well, who wouldn’t be? I have seen only one of Flynn’s films, and he borders on the repellent. “Did you really say ‘Errol Flynn’?” He stooped to pick up another stick for Bess. “He has a tremendous following in the States. I didn’t even know the British knew who he was.”
“Oh yes, we do. I think he is a terrible actor—and I certainly don’t find him attractive,” I said.
“Well, that’s good, because I think he might be batting for the other side.”
I had no idea what he meant. Americans use all sorts of interesting phrases and terms, and unless they are explained, you have no idea what they are talking about half the time, so I just carried on. “I think Audrey Wilkes is rather a curious type. She has the reputation of being a loner in the village: reserved almost to the point of rudeness. And . . . it seems she can be quite aggressive when she is annoyed.” And I told him all about her exchange with Mr. Ponsonby, mostly because he is sharp about people, and because I really needed to run my thoughts about Audrey by someone else—someone who wasn’t from our claustrophobic little community. Someone who came from a wider world who might have a different perspective on our village loner. To my disappointment he wasn’t particularly interested in Audrey and her challenge to Ponsonby to come out from behind his tree. He was much more taken with our nocturnal bird-watcher.
“Bird-watching at night?” He ignored Bess, who was begging for another stick. “Didn’t you say he was a newcomer to the village? How long has he lived here?”
“’Bout a year?” I frowned. Ponsonby was one of those men who sort of melts into the scenery. “No, hold on a moment, he came here at about the time we moved out of Reaches and down to the lodge, more like six months ago.”
“Okay, Bessie.” He leaned back to throw a stick for her, and I saw his face tighten with the effort of
getting it over the hedge into the field. “And he says he’s a bird-watcher,” he said in a thoughtful tone as he watched Bess fly through the gate.
“Is a bird-watcher: tawny owls—there is a family of them in the wood next to Bart’s Field this year.” Once again, I found myself being protective of yet another village eccentric.
“Uh-huh.”
“Bird-watching is the sort of thing city people do when they retire.”
“At night?”
“Owls are nocturnal.”
He lost interest in Ponsonby. “And old Audrey just gave him hell?”
“In her own subdued way.”
“Good for her. I like a woman with spirit. There is nothing worse than a man who hides in hedges when he should be taking off his hat and saying a polite good evening.” His face expressed admiration. “You Englishwomen,” he said, and then he laughed and shook his head. “You’re formidable, you know that, don’t you? For-mi-da-ble.” I must have looked surprised. “No, really, it’s true. Some fella does something you don’t like, you call him out, right then and there, or you grab him by the belt and toss him over your shoulder.” Bess appeared with bits of shredded stick hanging from her lips and danced around us, barking like mad. “Even your dogs don’t care how little they are; they just shout at you to do what they want. Okay, okay, Bessie.”
We climbed the five-bar gate and sat on the top bar. Griff pulled two apples from his pocket and handed me one, and we crunched away in amicable silence.
“I missed oranges when I first came here, had no idea they were considered exotic fruit. But these apples are incredible, crisp and full of juice.” He finished his in two more bites. “Must be the Irish in me, because I feel as though I’ve sat on this fence with you all my life, Poppy,” he said, taking care not to look at me. It was the first time I had seen this serious and rather hesitant side to him. I pushed the hair out of my eyes and took a carefree bite of apple.
“Funny how that is, sometimes,” was all I dare let myself say. Because it was true. I felt so completely at ease with him, as if I had known him for years. Not that sort of longtime comfortable knowing that you have with one of your girlfriend’s brothers—or a boy you grew up with, like Sid Ritchie. But however at ease I felt with Griff, there was always that delicious little current of tension underlying our meetings, as if a hundred possibilities danced on the turn of a moment.
We threw the cores for Bess. And then, laughing at her ferocious greed, we jumped down from the gate and resumed our walk down the lane. The soft light of late summer shone through the oaks, turning everything a glorious golden green, and the rich leaf-mold scent of the hot earth as it cools under their shade was, to me, far more romantic than any Hollywood film starring an Errol Flynn who had lost half the buttons to his shirt.
“You can tell you are inland here,” Griff said as Bess lost interest in us and dropped down into a ditch to lap muddy water. “There is that locked-in feel to the heat of the day. If I was home right now, I would go down to the beach and swim in the ocean. The waves are so powerful that you can coast in on the surf, right to shore.” I wondered what it would be like to go swimming in a great ocean with this man.
We had arrived at the end of the lane and the gate into the orchard. I was about to say good night—I had to change into my uniform for patrol—when he took me by the arm and said, very seriously, “When a man hides in a ditch or cowers behind a tree, it doesn’t say much about his character, Poppy, but I am sure you know that. So how about you give Ponsonby a wide berth, okay? I haven’t met Audrey, but it sounds to me like a lumberjack would envy her physique. And however good at judo you are—black belt, is it?” I told him no belt. “Belt or no belt, it would be a good idea not to mess with Ponsonby—just in case. Who else do you have on your list of suspects?”
I hesitated. “Well . . . it’s a pretty obvious choice—and by the way, I haven’t crossed Audrey off my list, especially since she was out and about at night after Doreen was killed—but Percy Frazer, the Wilkeses’ cowman, was pretty untrustworthy with young women a few years ago. I wondered . . .” Now I felt particularly silly. “If he might have, you know, gone completely bonkers and killed Doreen and Ivy.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Bonkers? Is that the same as being a flasher . . . or is it worse than that?”
“A what?”
He looked momentarily at a loss. “In the States we call them flashers.” When I shook my head, he colored at having to be more specific. “They, you know, flash . . .” He made a brief gesture as if opening a coat and closing it again.
I started to laugh. “Yes, that’s right. We just call them dirty old men.”
* * *
—
TO SAY I loitered on the other side of the stile that led to Bart’s Field that night and the next one, and then, with less patience, the one after that as well, is an understatement. And just when I was about to give up and accept the fact that Mr. Ponsonby had transferred his attention from nocturnal birds of prey to those who favored sunshine, worms in the lawn, and crumbs scattered on the garden path, I was rewarded. As the moon came out from behind a cloud, I saw, scrambling nimbly over the stile I had stood sentinel over for three nights, the slight figure of Mr. Ponsonby.
With his camera and binoculars swinging from his neck, he made short work of the hill that led up to the wood where his tawnies lived. When I was sure he was not aware that I was following, I dogged his steps all the way to the edge of its tree line. I waited for him to unfold his camp stool to wait for his owls, and as if on cue, a long, low to-wit-to-woo echoed seductively from a large beech tree on the edge of the wood. If I was a bird-watcher, I would have pulled out my pencil and my bird journal right then and there, but Ponsonby pressed on into the wood without even so much as lifting his head. And I followed.
I love long walks in the woods on a hot summer afternoon, but there is nothing inviting about a wood at night. I was only a hundred feet in when I wished I could catch up with the tweed-clad figure ahead of me and fall into step beside him for company. Closely grown trees and heavy underbrush can be gloomy places even during the day, but at night with the moonlight filtering through the upper canopy creating shadows and dark hollows, it is an eerie and foreboding place to be. The path veered sharply to the right, and the man I was following was lost to view. As I went on alone, the only sound I was conscious of, when I stopped to make sure that I didn’t come up too close behind Ponsonby, was the incessant soughing that might have been the wind in the trees, or the pattering of animal feet as hunter pursued hunted through the wood’s ferny undergrowth.
The path straightened, and in a patch of starlight I was grateful to see Ponsonby’s shadow moving ahead of me. My breath came a little more easily and my palms had just stopped sweating when the air was split by the eerie whistle of a night raptor followed almost immediately by a stricken shriek from a rabbit that had fallen victim to its penetrating beak and strong claws, but my naturalist hurried on as if he couldn’t care less.
Our journey through the wood had completely unhinged my original resolve, and I was about to lose my nerve completely, when we broke cover into the reassuring moonlit expanse of Bart’s upper field. My bird-watcher started up the climb of a gentle slope toward what was now the open land of the American Air Force base. The ground was still scarred and rutted with the tracks of machines that had leveled pastures for the airfield months ago. And there, against the sky, loomed the wire fence that separated England from America.
Ponsonby hurried out of the wood with an intensity of purpose that had me almost tripping over myself to catch up, but as he approached the slope, he slowed and, bent double, crept toward the perimeter fence, sending me flat on my stomach under the cover of a gorse bush. I watched him as he stopped some way from the fence and ducked down behind the bank of an old rabbit warren, long abandoned since the building of the airfield. Thank goodness I had come out to
night without Bess. Ponsonby’s furtive scurrying would have been irresistible to her strong instinct for pursuit; she would have been on him in a flash and given us both away. Because that is exactly what Ponsonby looked like: prey. Crouched low, his head turning this way and that, he dropped to his belly and lay still before squirming forward, pausing for a second, almost as if to sniff the air.
Mr. Ponsonby, retired solicitor from London, was not quite as bland as he first had seemed. His arrival in Little Buffenden at the end of last year as the land had been leveled for the airfield was not a coincidence. His secretive and clandestine behavior was itself a giveaway. His reluctance to join in the simple village pastimes in our community was for a good reason. This was no bird-watcher! I could have hugged Mrs. Glossop a hundred times for her suspicious mind. How many nights had I walked past this man in the lane as he had crouched in hiding? I looked up again to find that my quarry had disappeared. If I was to find out what he was up to, I must not fall behind.
I went forward, keeping close to the ground, pausing every so often behind a clump of stiff uncropped pasture grass to lift my head. I saw his lean shanks only once before he disappeared completely. I wriggled up to where his rump had disappeared behind a clump of gorse and found myself at the entrance of a badgers’ sett underneath the spread of a mature beech tree.
The sett was concealed under the lee of the bank and, though wide, was low in height. I craned my neck over the top of its grass-covered parapet: there was no sign of Ponsonby. Could he have possibly gone into the sett? European badgers are large creatures with robust bodies; short, powerful claws; and strong jaws; and although reserved in nature, would be formidable if you stuck your nose through their front door. Grandad had told me that badger baiting, although illegal, is still considered great sport in the out-of-the-way parts of Wales and Ireland. If Ponsonby had had the gall to cram himself into a badgers’ lair, he must know that it had been deserted.