Poppy Redfern and the Midnight Murders

by Tessa Arlen

  “Yes, we did, and how wrong we were.” An undefeated Mrs. Angus leaned an angular hip up against the counter and folded her arms over her flat chest. “One night, old Mrs. Herrick who used to run the haberdasher’s remembered she had forgotten to bring in her washing. Out she goes, and there’s Percy standing under the window of her youngest daughter Gail’s bedroom. She said he was just standing there watching Gail brush her hair in front of her mirror.”

  Mrs. Glossop wasn’t going to have anyone telling her story.

  “Gail was in her nightdress—and hadn’t the decency to pull her curtains closed. Mrs. Herrick bustled Percy away and then went up and gave Gail a good box round the ears for making such a spectacle of herself. Herrick gave Percy what for, I can tell you.”

  Mrs. Angus snorted with derision. “That’s not the way I heard it. Gail was still fully clothed. All she was doing was brushing her hair: lovely hair it was, thick, glossy, and such a beautiful golden yellow. I think it reminded Percy of his mother—she had a beautiful head of hair before all that trouble over Ned shooting hisself. And it didn’t end there, this gazing up at women’s bedroom windows. One night, Gladys Pritchard was pulling her bedroom curtains closed and saw Percy peering up at her from behind the laurel hedge that separates their house from the rectory. She was in her nightie: tiny, little flimsy thing, she said it was. Bert and her had just got married, and what a magnificent bustline Gladys had then. Though Bert in his day was a handsome man too.”

  “What with one thing and another,” Mrs. Glossop interrupted unnecessary descriptions of the Pritchards in their heyday, “the police were called in and Percy was sent down for six months, first offense as a Peeping Tom. And if Percy was a bit odd before he went to jail in Wickham, he was a good deal odder when he came out.” She shut her mouth tightly and didn’t say another word, but the glare she directed at Mrs. Angus carried far more meaning than any good-bye.

  “Good Lord above, would you look at the time.” Mrs. Angus put the cigarettes in her shopping basket. “I have to pick up some more yarn. Me and Gracie are knitting socks for soldiers.”

  Mrs. Glossop picked up a duster and flapped it up and down the counter until she was quite sure that Mrs. Angus was on her way. “The rest of Percy’s story is not common knowledge, by the way—so don’t you go repeating it. About seven years ago, young Doreen came home one summer afternoon and told her mum that Percy had been hiding behind a hedge while she, Audrey Wilkes, and Ivy Wantage had been swimming in the river. The details were not ones I could bring myself to repeat.” She tucked her chin down into her neck as she glanced at me to see if I understood. Obviously, she didn’t think I had. “If I had a daughter who went swimming in just her knickers and brassiere, the little hussy, I would be the last one to point fingers at a man for taking notice and behaving indecently. Good box around the ears is what I would give a daughter of mine, I can tell you.

  “Mrs. Newcombe called in Constable Jones, and he talked to Doreen and Ivy. Doreen said that Percy was hiding in the bushes watching them, and Ivy, after a lot of hemming and hawing, agreed. Then Jones went over to the Wilkeses’ to talk to Audrey.” She paused and nodded as if this next bit of information would be significant. And it was. “Audrey said that she had not seen Percy behind any hedge along the river and neither had Doreen nor Ivy told her that they had seen him. She said she was wading in the river with her skirt tucked up into her underwear and that she had a much better view of the river’s edge than the other two girls. She was very clear about it.”

  “So, Ivy was just corroborating Doreen’s story?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows what was going on—girls in their teens are untrustworthy to say the least. Jones went to talk to Percy—luckily, he was helping Mr. Wilkes with the evening milking. Mr. Wilkes heard everything Jones asked Percy, and when Percy had stopped crying he said that he had never been near the river—for months. Wilkes wasn’t going to have Percy bullied by a policeman. He called Audrey into the cowshed, and she confirmed again that she hadn’t seen Percy by the river—and that she thought Doreen had just been making up a story!” Mrs. Glossop walked to the door of the shop and shook her duster outside before folding it up and putting it away in a drawer.

  “I suspect, since you asked me about Percy, that there is talk going around that he might have murdered Doreen and Ivy. Am I right?”

  I put on my innocent face and she nodded. “Yes, I thought so. Just remember that there is always talk in a village; most of it’s idle speculation that over the years has become what some people take for truth. Percy is a natural scapegoat. But”—her fierce little eyes bored into mine—“he is one of life’s unfortunate casualties too, and the last thing he would ever do is harm anyone, let alone strangle them. He just doesn’t have it in him. Just you remember that, when you go poking about asking questions.”

  * * *

  —

  I PONDERED THE Percy story as I walked over to the vicarage to discuss Little Buffenden’s first air-raid drill with Mr. Fothergill. Part of me wished I hadn’t heard the full story of what amounted to Percy’s victimization by two adolescent girls. But it did give him a motive for revenge. More than anything it was not Doreen’s, but Ivy’s behavior that puzzled me.

  “Do you think it is at all likely that Percy Frazer might have, you know, murdered Doreen and Ivy, as revenge for that business by the river?” I asked the reverend when we were finished with ARP business. What I like most about our vicar is that you can just come right out and say a thing; you don’t have to beat about the bush.

  “Interesting you should say that; Inspector Hargreaves was asking the same question. And he hasn’t arrested Percy, so I am assuming that his inquiry turned up an answer that made sense to him.”

  “I expect Percy was the first person everyone in the village suspected.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it at all.” He slapped his pockets and looked around for his tobacco pouch and found it. “Every village has a Percy.” He began to fill his pipe. “Or at least in the days before the last war they did. Poverty, drink, physical abuse—it’s a vicious circle and it doesn’t make for very sound mental health.” He sighed as he drew on his pipe. “Ignorance and lack of education round out the tragedy of families like the Frazers. And as you know, memories are long in small communities, and gossip makes life difficult for the likes of those who don’t quite fit in.” He waved his pipe toward the sherry decanter. “There are some glasses somewhere. Ah yes, there they are.” He poured us two generous glasses. I’ll say this for our Rev—his sherry is exceptional.

  Lifting his sherry in salute, he continued. “It was Davey Wilkes and I who persuaded Constable Jones to drop the business of Percy spying on Doreen and her friends by the river that summer. What was it, about five years ago? Percy was probably just walking along the towpath and Doreen saw him: girls can be a bit fanciful in their teens, some of them. But there again we mustn’t disbelieve them just because they are going through a silly phase.” He sipped his sherry for a moment. “I was called in simply because I am the vicar, and Jones felt uncomfortable talking to both the girls alone. We thought very hard about Doreen’s account of what happened. I know you didn’t run around with girls of your own age in the village, because you were away at school. But”—he paused and fiddled about with his pipe—“Doreen was rather a spoiled and vengeful little girl, if she was thwarted. I suspect she was pretty cruel to a boy like Percy, and the others in her group followed along. When we talked to Ivy, her account was a little different. It was Audrey being so sure that Percy had been nowhere near that part of the river that convinced Jones not to take it further. So, Jones let Percy off with a warning. And after that Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes made sure he didn’t wander about at night, kept him busy on their farm. Good people, the Wilkeses. Yes, Poppy, I understand your concern, but for once Mrs. Glossop is right: Percy doesn’t have it in him to be violent. Poor chap saw enough of that when he was a child. An
d if you would like another glass of sherry, I’ll tell you something else that exonerates Percy Frazer.”

  THIRTEEN

  Once I get something in my head, it is hard for me to let it go, and I was still annoyed with Griff and his offhand response to my information about Ponsonby. As I walked down the lane that night, I slowed down at the stile into Bart’s Field, and there to my pleased surprise I saw a familiar figure walking rapidly toward the wood. It was Ponsonby! I called Bess to me and made a leash of my belt. “No barking, Bess,” I whispered into her alert ear. “We must be very quiet.” And we set off through the long, dry grass at the edge of the field and followed our bird-watcher into the wood. Bess is not used to being restrained—I put her on a leash only when she is being particularly unruly—so she walked obediently at my heel, looking up at me every so often as if asking what she had done wrong. I reached down and stroked her head to reassure her that all was well and then concentrated my full attention forward.

  Mr. Ponsonby strode ahead, a dark shadow in the dappled cold gray light of the moon. He took the same route as before, and I made sure that I stayed well back. When he broke the cover of the wood, I paused to see which way he went before walking forward.

  And to my delight he made for the badgers’ sett. Bess caught my excitement and began to forge ahead, straining against the short length of my belt. I reined her in as we came out of the wood and into the open and then dropped down next to her to crawl through the meadow grass. She was panting so loudly in my ear I couldn’t hear a thing. “Shush,” I whispered, and she covered my face in lavish kisses.

  We crawled up the slope, settled ourselves behind a nice thick gorse bush, and waited. Against the pale light of a star-filled sky, Mr. Ponsonby’s shadow made its way toward the entrance of the sett and was lost in the darkness of the beech tree. I pulled Bess down close beside me and snuggled her under my arm. Always responsive to being close to me, instead of cuddling up she started to squirm and wriggle. “Bess, stay,” I muttered, trying to pull her back to me, but she resisted with all her might. I could feel her little stump of a tail wagging frantically. Worried that she would start to bark, I hauled her back toward me as a strong hand clamped down on the small of my back, pinning me flat in the grass.

  I heaved upward, my heart racing, as an even stronger hand cupped my mouth. Why wasn’t Bess barking? I started to panic that she had been hurt by my attacker. A heavy body rolled half on top of me, crushing the breath out of me. Ponsonby! He must have circled around out of the shadow of the beech tree. What a fool I had been. Why on earth hadn’t I listened to Griff? I struggled with all my might, but I was helplessly pinned.

  “Will you lie still, for God’s sake?” a familiar voice grunted in my ear.

  It was Griff. I went limp and he rolled off me. “What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered in my ear and released his hand from my mouth.

  I turned my head to his. “I might ask the same thing of you,” I hissed. Bess had wriggled herself between us and had settled in to enjoy this new game.

  “Be quiet.” Griff lifted a pair of field glasses to his eyes.

  “Ponsonby’s in the badgers’ sett.”

  “Yeah, I know, but not for long.” He lifted his head above a tussock of grass and so did I. Against the sky on the other side of the wire fence I thought I saw the long shadow of our nocturnal bird-watcher. And then another and another. I strained my eyes, wishing for more moonlight so I could see him. Surely that was him standing upright on what must be the edge of the runway?

  A large shadow broke into separate shadows and moved forward. There was a reception committee waiting for Ponsonby. I held my breath and waited, staring into the dark.

  I was dazzled by the glare of headlights from a jeep parked on the runway.

  Griff put his hand on my shoulder. “Now, for once in your life, listen to me, please. Stay right here. When we have gone, then you can leave.”

  “Please don’t tell me that you are arresting Ponsonby for trespassing.” I didn’t spare the sarcasm.

  “Yes, that’s about it.” And he got up and walked toward the entrance to the sett.

  As he left I raised my head and shoulders above our hiding place. The slender figure of Ponsonby—he had not brought his campstool—was standing upright with his hands raised above his head. A group of three helmeted men—US Military Police—were gathered around him, their dogs crouched on the ground. Bess growled deep in her throat as she watched.

  Griff emerged on the other side of the fence as the moon came out from behind the cloud. He strolled over to the group of men and appeared to have a few things to say to Ponsonby. He had joined them by using my badgers’ tunnel! One of the MPs was handcuffing Ponsonby’s hands behind his back. Another was searching through the bag he always wore over his shoulder.

  “Bess!” I said, pulling her intent little body close. “They’re arresting Ponsonby—he has to be a spy!”

  Another jeep raced across the runway and pulled up: Ponsonby was stowed away in the back with a police escort, and Griff got into the other one. They dimmed their headlights and I heard them drive away into the night.

  As I got to my feet, I realized that I was trembling from head to foot with the excitement of it all. But it was nothing to the jubilation I felt as Bess and I tramped back to the lane—through the wood and to the stile, where I sat for a moment or two to collect myself. If Fenella Bradley could have witnessed that scene, it would have been a coup to end all coups. “So much for boring Little Buffers,” I said aloud and heard Ilona’s answering silvery peel of laughter in my head. I wouldn’t mind being rolled around in a flowery moonlit meadow by Lieutenant O’Neal, darling. Not one little bit!

  * * *

  —

  MRS. PRITCHARD SET down a frothing pint of bitter in front of Captain Bill Peterson and a glass of sherry for me. And then she set up three more pints on the oak bar top.

  Griff lifted his pint to me in silent salute and took a long swallow.

  “Best beer in the world,” Hank Dexter said as he lowered his tankard and smacked his lips. “And I love it that you serve it in . . . what’s this called again?” He waved his tankard.

  “A pewter tankard, ducky, that’s the right way to serve a pint.” Mrs. Pritchard clearly enjoyed the company of handsome young Americans in her pub. She winked and laughed her loud, happy, publican’s laugh, her cheeks as rosy as the sweater she was wearing.

  Bill Peterson drained the rest of his pint in two swallows and wiped his mouth with the back of his immense hand. “That’s it for me,” he said as he set his empty tankard down on the bar. “I have a date in Wickham with a stunning young woman who I must not keep waiting.” He spun some coins down on the counter. “That’s for the first round. Poppy, are you on patrol this evening?”

  “No, it’s my night off. I get two a week now we have recruited another ARP warden.”

  “Recruited another ARP warden?” Griff put his beer down on the counter. “That sounds very official.”

  “It isn’t really. Mr. Fothergill enlisted Sid’s help so I can have a day off occasionally.”

  “Sid Ritchie,” Griff explained to Hank Dexter as Peterson left the pub, “is an interesting sort of guy—a real English eccentric. He’s the one who wouldn’t come over to join us for a pint.” And he explained about Sid’s passion for the Royal Air Force and his devotion to Biggles. I had to admit when you hear Sid described by someone who has never spent a minute in his company, he sounded even more idiotic than he was in real life. “Bananas” was the term Griff used.

  “And now I am taking Miss Redfern to a movie, and we must leave now, or we’ll miss . . . what are we seeing again?”

  “Mrs. Miniver—with Greer Garson.”

  “And who else?” It was a leading question and I laughed.

  “Walter Pidgeon.”

  “See, Dexter, the Brits call the
ir leading men after birds—the entire country is obsessed with birds.” He was so delighted with his joke that I didn’t like to tell him that Walter Pidgeon was a Canadian actor.

  * * *

  —

  “ARE YOU GOING to let me in on what was going on at the airfield?” I asked as we drove down dark lanes at white-knuckle speed, hopefully toward Wickham.

  “No need to clutch at the door handle. There is nothing to fear. If I can fly a plane at night, I can certainly get us to town without landing us in the ditch.” All pilots, Griff had explained many times, have something the rest of us mere mortals don’t have: natural night vision.

  “But if you can see in the dark, why did you have your night-vision binoculars up by the badgers’ sett?” I teased, because I was just as pleased as he was that we had returned to our easygoing ways with each other. He laughed, and I immediately pursued my quest for information. “Don’t try and avoid my question. What was going on at the airfield?”

  “Ah yes, you want to know about your local bird-watcher. But I’m going to have to disappoint you there, Poppy. I’m not being stuffy; it’s classified information. Unfair, I know, because we would never have caught him so quickly without you . . .”

  You might not have caught him at all, was what I wanted to say, but I bit down on the hot words: I didn’t want to fall out with him again. Instead I said, “It can’t be classified if everyone in the village knows Ponsonby was arrested. We’re not that gullible. This business about him having to return to London because his mother is sick is a laughable cover story. Why don’t you just say you arrested him for spying?”

  He slowed at the crossroads before turning right toward Wickham, and on we sped. “When you say ‘everyone in the village,’ you really mean Mrs. Glossop, don’t you?” He slowed to negotiate a cyclist wobbling along the narrow lane in the dark.