by Tessa Arlen
I was only too happy to respond: “No, after you, Cecil,” and I heard him giggle. Phew, said Ilona as I walked over the bridge that we had found Ivy Wantage lying under in what seemed like another lifetime. I’m glad all that’s sorted out and you can be friends again.
* * *
—
I LAY AWAKE staring at the ceiling all night with a sleeping dog on my stomach and a head full of ridiculous fantasies. I couldn’t get what Sid had said out of my mind. Why was Griff allowed to leave the base when everyone was restricted from leaving? There was no doubt that he had left with permission, because he was in his car, which meant he had had to go through a well-guarded gate. Had he been off base on the nights that three girls from our village had been attacked?
I had almost confided in Grandad—or at least I had asked him for information, which is the same thing, because he always knows when I’m rattled.
“Do you think they do some sort of intelligence work up at the base? You know the sort of clandestine stuff our Navy Intelligence gets up to—like spying?” In my mind I saw a red sports car driving down Smithy Lane to Lower Netherton.
“I shouldn’t think so, but they probably have a counterintelligence officer or two up there. Most military installations do; they must protect themselves from espionage, you see. But I can’t imagine that they actively gather intelligence—their job is to attack the enemy and defend us by counterattack. Are you thinking about Ponsonby and all the gossip circulating about him? You shouldn’t bother yourself; you know what the village is like. He probably does have a sick mother.” I hadn’t told my grandparents that I had seen Ponsonby’s arrest, or my involvement in discovering how he could get onto the airfield, because Griff had asked me to keep it to myself, and if they thought I was putting myself in the slightest danger, my ARP patrol would be a thing of the past. “I like Griff. He is a very decent, straightforward sort. If he is in counterintelligence, it shouldn’t be something you should worry about.”
He was right; there was nothing dishonorable in protecting your country’s military secrets. But still I couldn’t sleep. I tossed around, disturbing Bess, who groaned theatrically and jumped off the bed to sleep in her basket. I thought Sid was color-blind. How could he be so sure it was a red car? Ilona put in as I thumped pillows and searched for a cool spot to lay my head. I smiled in the dark: all the American Air Force vehicles were a sort of muddy green, easily confused with red in the dark. But at night when you are overtired and agitated, the slightest thing becomes important and takes on all sorts of dire portents, so it was at least an hour later before I dropped off into a deep and exhausted sleep.
TWENTY
I awoke heavy-eyed and low in spirits: the sort of feeling I used to get when my trunk was packed and it was time to go back to school. I brushed my hair and put it up in a victory roll the way Fenella Bradley wears hers, and then shook it down and left it the way I always wear it, which is in no particular style at all. I decided that I wasn’t going to examine what Sid had said about Griff until I had had a chance to talk to him.
I have a lot to do today, I told myself as I made my bed. There were several chapters to write, and Audrey had given us a very useful clue that I would start to work through. I got out my list of villagers plagued with rheumatism, stiff joints, and bad backs and read it through.
Cedric Fothergill was at the top of my list, and whether I liked the idea of him being our strangler or not, he was known to be lavish with Foster’s Embrocation, which made the church vestry reek of wintergreen.
Bess and I arrived at the vicarage just in time for a prelunch glass of our vicar’s excellent Amontillado sherry. I pray his cellar is never depleted before the end of the war, because a good glass of sherry has a very civilizing effect during difficult times.
“Sid seems to be shaping up as our assistant ARP warden—you have done a good job of training him. Do you think his nerve would hold up in an air raid?”
“He seemed pretty calm on the night of our drill.” I was fed up with Sid and his ridiculous fancies.
“Bert Pritchard told me that Sid was pretty hard on him showing light on his patrol last week. Threatened to close the pub down.” Mr. Fothergill smiled into his generous glass of sherry.
I could see Sid’s earnest face as he shouted through the door of the pub at Mr. Pritchard and giggled. “He doesn’t hold with the demon drink,” I said in Sid’s Biggles voice as I sipped my sherry. Its nutty warmth trickled down my throat. “Actually, he doesn’t hold with much at all—except perhaps the Royal Air Force and Biggles.”
I hadn’t noticed a particularly strong smell of wintergreen hanging about the vicarage hall when I was blown through the front door by a particularly rough autumn wind. And even though I had accidentally dropped my keys on the floor as Mr. Fothergill took my coat, there was not the slightest whiff of Foster’s hanging around his knees.
It is always pleasant passing the time of day with our vicar. He is one of the most relaxed clergymen I have ever met and enjoys a good gossip just like any other country bachelor. He once told me that vicarhood in a comfortable rectory with a few pleasant neighbors is a perfect way to live a country life. I honestly don’t think he lets ecclesiastical stuff bother him much. He is the sort of vicar who appreciates the architectural glories of the church rather than worrying about his congregation’s relationship with their maker.
“Bitterly cold out,” I said, and he obediently poured me another glass of sherry.
How on earth do you ask your vicar how his knee is doing? I wondered as I brought the conversation around to the change in the weather.
“And wet—hope it’s not going to be a hard winter,” he dutifully replied, because according to Griff, we English know a thing or two about a proper conversational exchange on the elements.
“I hope it isn’t as wet as it was last year,” I observed. “ARP patrol won’t be much fun if it is.” And thanks to the miraculous way a glass of sherry loosens inhibitions: “This damp weather hasn’t given you any trouble, then, with your knee?”
He looked rather surprised at my inquiry after his physical person but answered quite readily. “Dr. Oliver diagnosed arthritis.”
“All that cricket up at Cambridge, I expect.”
“Cricket?” He laughed. “Oh no, I wasn’t really good enough for the university team. I enjoy playing, but I was hardly a Cricket Blue. My passion was the theater in those far-off days. Did I tell you that I was the star in HMS Pinafore for May Bumps?” I shook my head. The only thing I knew about what Cambridge called its week of rowing races was its wild parties in celebration. “Ah yes, I was quite good at comic opera.” He took a breath, and to my surprise, he warbled in a rather faulty baritone:
When I was a lad I served a term
As office boy to an Attorney’s firm.
I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,
And I polished up the handle of the big front door.
I polished up that handle so carefullee
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!
I was grateful he treated me to only one verse. “Somewhere . . .” He looked around and picked up an old well-worn photo album that was lying on a low table. “Where is it, now? Ah yes, here we are. That was me in HMS Pinafore. Brought the house down with that one.” And there he was, looking like a younger, brighter, and more chipper version of himself, wearing a theatrical navy uniform. “And here is another of me, when we did The Mikado. Just for a lark, I played one of the Three Little Maids. That was awfully good fun.” I nodded, my face stretched in an approving smile that was beginning to ache with the effort of trying not to laugh at a photograph of our vicar dressed in kimono and a full black wig smiling coyly over his fan. “It wasn’t all Shakespeare at Cambridge in those days!” He smiled at his joke. “Anyway, the doc has had me off embrocations for a couple of years now, says they are a waste of time
. Just two aspirin in the morning and two again at night. It’s astonishing what a difference it makes. Whatever you do, Poppy, don’t get old.” I finished my sherry and he got up from his chair to walk me to the front door.
“Oh dear,” he said as he threw it open—it was hammering down outside. He handed me an umbrella. “I think Mrs. Ritchie left this one in the church hall when she came to help Mrs. Martin get ready for the jumble sale. That woman has a passion for jumble sales, doesn’t she, Viv?” he asked as Mrs. Martin came through the baize door from a kitchen that smelled of warm apples and cinnamon.
“She’s a jackdaw; she buys all sorts of useless things,” his housekeeper said. “In the end I gave her her own key to the village hall storage, so she could come and go whenever she wants to, so she can earmark all her coveted treasures. Tell your granny that I’ll have a couple of jars of crabapple jelly for her when it sets.”
They stood together in the hall. “No need to return it, the umbrella, I mean. I notice that they have a way of circulating among the village at this time of year,” Mrs. Martin said as they ushered me out into a day probably reminiscent of the one when Noah decided it was time to start building his ark.
* * *
—
WHENEVER I GO into Mr. Angus’s shop I try not to look at his hands—especially if he is holding a meat cleaver. I have always been a bit squeamish about raw meat, and Fred Angus’s hands look like two immense mutton chops. Not that we see many of those these days.
“Mrs. Redfern has already picked up your meat ration, Poppy.” The butcher was stuffing ground pork and bread crumbs into sausage casings, a repulsive sight, so I looked away to say good afternoon to Mrs. Angus.
“I was wondering if you could spare some marrowbones—I am making stock for Sunday’s lunch.” She was sitting at her little desk in a corner by the door that leads into their house with her coupon ledger open in front of her.
Mrs. Angus is narrow where her husband is wide, pale and fair in contrast to his ruddy complexion and black hair. It’s rumored that she was a nut cutlet girl before she met Mr. Angus and he converted her to meat.
“I am so sorry, dear, but we can’t let you have anything without your ration book, and strictly speaking, marrowbones count as meat. But we really are looking forward to joining you and your grandparents for lunch.” Even though the Anguses eat better than most of us do, roast beef is a rare treat even for them.
A thwack as Mr. Angus lifted his cleaver and cut through a pork shoulder lying on his chopping block—to my delight he winced.
“Looks like you have a sore shoulder, Mr. Angus. The vicar swears by aspirin to ease arthritis.”
“Not me.” A short, wheezy laugh. “I have my Elliman’s Embrocation.”
A loyal user! Did he have an alibi for the nights of the three murders? I reminded myself to tread carefully. Rather than go back to the night of Doreen’s death, I decided it would be simpler if I dealt with the night of Audrey’s attack and went on from there. Where had Mr. Angus been at eleven forty-five, when Bill Peterson left Audrey in Bart’s Field? I had seen him in the High Street at the time of our air-raid drill in his natty pajamas, which meant he had either been in bed or was about to go to bed. He could have easily followed Audrey up to Bart’s Field and hidden there until Bill Peterson left and then returned home to change.
Remembering that he was a stalwart member of Little Buffenden Cribbage Club, which got together at either the Wheatsheaf or the Rose and Crown, I posed an idea I had had about inviting the Americans to become more involved in our village. “Good idea,” he said with panting brevity as he took another whack at the mound of bone and gristle in front of him. “Except that we have two full teams already.” He reached for a towel and dried his hands. I could see bits of raw pork still stuck to his meaty knuckles and looked away.
“And o’ course they probably don’t play cribbage over there in America. They play . . .” He thought for a moment. “They probably play poker.” A short, breathless laugh. I remembered that Mr. Angus was not overfond of Americans.
“Anyone can play cribbage,” piped up Mrs. Angus from her corner. It was well-known that Mrs. Angus and Mrs. Pritchard both thought the Americans were charming boys. “Anyway, it’s not really about the game, is it? It’s about making those boys feel welcome. No harm in asking them, is there?” She raised her thinly plucked eyebrows.
I beamed across at her. “What a good idea! How often do you play, Mr. Angus?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Now and again.”
“Every night, except Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays, from six o’clock in the evening until half past whatever time they stop playing.” Mrs. Angus pursed her lips and sharpened her pencil.
I couldn’t imagine any of the poker players up at the base being the least interested in cribbage. “Who is in your club?” I asked.
“Len Smith, Tom Wantage, and Davey Wilkes and me, and some of yer grandad’s Home Guard chaps, Mr. Edwards and Mr. Wilson. They never miss a night,” said Mrs. Angus with some resignation. It was also known in the village that Mrs. Angus liked to keep her husband on a short leash. Was it because he had a wandering eye? “They normally play at the village hall, but on Fridays they play at the Rose, so Bert Pritchard can join them.”
“That’s right—every Friday,” said Mr. Angus virtuously.
Friday night. It was the night of the air-raid drill and Audrey’s attack.
“Wait a moment, Fred, you said as Bert Pritchard couldn’t play with you last Friday.”
“No more he couldn’t. Too busy clearing out his cellar, and Mrs. Pritchard was run off her feet, so we had to cut the evening short. I was home in time to listen to It’s That Man Again on the radio, with you, wasn’t I, dear?” His watery eyes fastened themselves on her face, as if he was making a point.
“For once,” she replied, and I realized that I was witnessing an argument between the butcher and his wife about how much time he spent with her as opposed to his cribbage mates.
If they had listened to ITMA together, he wouldn’t have had time to run up to Bart’s Field and back before the air-raid drill.
Mrs. Angus returned to her figures and I couldn’t help but put Mr. Angus on the spot. “You might like to ask your club if they would be willing to invite some of our Americans.”
Mr. Angus started to shake his head, his eyes on his wife as she added a long column of numbers. “Like I said, we already have two . . .” Mrs. Angus wrote down her total and looked up—straight at her husband. “Course I will, Miss Redfern, be glad to ask,” he added.
* * *
—
I LEFT THE butcher’s shop and walked across the green to the Rose and Crown. I was Bert’s first lunchtime customer. And as he put up my half a shandy on the polished oak of his bar, I opened our conversation with thanks for his help during our drill.
“Glad to be of use, Miss Redfern. But it looks like it would have been a fiasco if it had been a real one.” He wiped down the countertop.
“Yes, but you were well prepared, and that matters more than anything,” I flattered as I took a sip of shandy and put it down carefully on the cardboard beer mat on his gleaming countertop.
He laughed. “Just between us, the vicar tipped me the wink. The wife took care of the customers while I was down in the cellar. There was a lot of stuff that had to be shifted to make room for them all. Len Smith and a couple of the cribbage lads gave me a hand.”
“Is Len supposed to be lifting things with his bad back?”
“He just helped me with the light stuff.” He winked at me. “Dr. Oliver has got him on some sort of medicine—little white pills—that stops his back from flaring up too badly. So, I went along to the doc about my lumbago, and he told me that all those embrocations are rubbish. Put me on those little white pills and you wouldn’t believe the difference. Mrs. P. has never liked the smell of Fos
ter’s.”
No embrocation for you or Len Smith, then, I thought, which put him in the clear, thanks to our doctor’s passion for aspirin.
Bert set about polishing glasses. “I think we should do another drill; they should practice until they get it right.”
“If we do too many drills, they won’t react quickly enough when a real raid happens. They need to know that the next time the siren sounds, it will be the real thing.”
“So, you think there’ll be a real air raid, then?” He looked disbelieving. “I thought the Germans only bombed industrial cities, like Coventry, or London and the south coast.”
“I hope you are right, Mr. Pritchard, but you never know. We have an airfield, so that increases the chances.”
“More’s the pity. Course, it would be different if we had our flyboys up at that airfield and not a bunch of Americans.” He caught himself and looked embarrassed. “Begging your pardon, Miss Redfern. I didn’t mean to cause offense.” He bent down to stack glasses under the bar, and I realized that here was another one who thought I was “seeing a Yank.”
I took my shandy over to a table by the window and watched the leaves on the oak tree that spread its boughs over the pub roof fall in rain-drenched twos and threes to join a thick russet carpet on the grass, as I finished my drink.
* * *
—
TO MY SURPRISE, Mrs. Wantage was in the kitchen, mashing potatoes for lunch. She looked up as I came in through the door. “Lunch will be ready in a jiffy; I was about to lay the table,” she said. “Wasn’t sure if you would be back in time.”
“How are you doing, Mrs. Wantage?” She had lost weight and her skin looked dull and papery.