by Tessa Arlen
“She knew and did nothing at all about it?”
I must have looked shattered, because he said, “It’s not unusual for the parents of men and women who kill in this manic way to try desperately to protect them, or at least to pretend to themselves that their children are innocent. Mrs. Ritchie saw you with that note in your hand in the village hall storeroom. She had seen her son writing it and worried that it might connect him to Miss Newcombe’s murder. She came back later and took it. She suspected that he was the killer because he had come home early from Wickham on the night Miss Newcombe had been killed: she heard him moving around in his room. When she awoke in the morning, he had already gone back to Wickham to finish his training. But she knew that he was capable of murder and tried to protect him.”
I took a sip of warm consommé. My throat felt like cardboard and my eyes were so heavy I could barely keep them open, but I had one more question.
“How did Sid get here from Wickham and back again? Did he steal a car?”
His look of absolute surprise was so gratifying that it woke me up.
“Yes, he did. He stole a car by bypassing the ignition system.”
“It’s called hot-wiring,” I informed him. “The Americans call it that.”
“I expect they do. After he had murdered Miss Newcombe, he drove back to Wickham to finish his Home Guard training.”
Was he really that cold, that calculating? I saw Sid’s face again, his large eyes full of tears as he mourned the deaths of Doreen and Ivy. But I was simply too exhausted to make sense of Sid’s complex and terrifying nature. “Between his mother’s overprotective coddling, the cruelty of Doreen and her classmates, and then being rejected because of poor health when he wanted to join up, perhaps Sid deserves some sympathy,” I told Hargreaves, because it seemed the easiest way to make sense of it all. “He was so proud of being in the Home Guard, until the Americans came and made him feel second-rate. You know the village children used to joke that he was dressed entirely from jumble-sale clothes? They used to call him Secondhand Sid.”
Hargreaves wasn’t having any of this sentimentality. “There is no such thing as a perfect childhood,” he said. “Most of us have to deal with all sorts of disappointments and hurts in our lives. No excuse to murder half a bloomin’ village.”
* * *
—
THE LIVING ROOM was full of roses again; the scent of their soft petals combined deliciously with the wood fire burning brightly in the grate. Bessie was sitting on my lap and I was gently drowsing in the luxury of having nothing whatsoever to do.
The door opened, and a head came around it. “Sorry I haven’t been here for a couple of days—we’ve been a bit busy.” Bess got down from the sofa and walked over to him. Her greeting was enthusiastic but careful: we were both still aching from our exertions of the other night. Griff picked her up and put her back on my lap, then sat down on the floor next to us and leaned his back up against the side of my sofa.
“The airfield must be a mess,” I said, and he smiled.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed, but we have moved two squadrons down to the home counties until we are operational again.” He looked me over. “Poppy, you look so much better than when I last saw you. Does it hurt to talk?” I shook my head. It did still hurt, but not as much as the bruises all over my back and legs, and I wanted to talk to Griff. Desperately wanted to talk to him.
“Can I ask you just one thing?” His face was unusually grave. “Why did you go out that night?”
“Sid was a brilliant mimic. He called up to my window. I couldn’t see him, and I thought it was you. He imitated you very well. He even used the word ‘developments’—an expression you’re fond of. He asked me to meet him up at the badgers’ sett, so I went.” He thought this one over for a while.
“What a cowardly little worm. Did he really sound like me? How could he possibly do that?”
“I can only assume he followed you. I think he did that with all of us. He watched and listened and waited in the dark. He had you down perfectly, Griff. It was uncanny. It was how he trapped Doreen and Ivy—he imitated Bud Sandusky and Joe Perrone.” Despite the warmth of the fire, I shivered. It was almost impossible for me to reconcile the Sid I thought I had known most of my life with the pitiless killer I had gone out to meet that night.
Griff took my hand. “He would have killed you if there hadn’t been an air raid.”
I shivered again, and his hand closed around mine. His touch made my heart rate race. I turned my palm upward in his hand and curled my fingers around his. When I woke in the night, again bathed in sweat with that stifled feeling that I couldn’t take another breath, as the world was thrown up in the air, I would imagine that Griff was holding my hand.
“One last question, and then that’s it, okay?” he asked, and I nodded. “What were you trying to tell us about fish? There was such a racket and you could barely speak, but was it something about friendly fish?”
For a moment I couldn’t understand what he was on about. Fish? I started to shake my head, and then I remembered and had to stifle a laugh.
“Fisherman’s Friend.”
He stared at me as if I was what the Americans call crazy.
“A Fisherman’s Friend is a throat lozenge. Wait, I have one here. Look in the pocket of my cardigan.” He pulled out the twist of paper that Mrs. Glossop had given to me. “That’s it,” I said. “Try it.” He popped it in his mouth as I explained. “That lozenge is what Audrey smelled on Sid’s breath when he attacked her. He presumably ate Fisherman’s Friends because he likes the flavor.”
He nodded, and then, as the Friend took hold, he turned his head to spit it into the paper and threw it in the fire. “That’s quite disgusting. You English really love to eat things that taste vile. Why is that, do you think?”
“I am not even going to try and answer that, Griff, because it is absolute rubbish and you know it. Now it’s my turn, and I only have one question. Ponsonby was a German spy, wasn’t he?”
He shook his head slowly from side to side. “That again? Poppy, you’re relentless. Yes, he was a British citizen of German descent, and yes, he was spying for the Germans. We had kind of been on to him for a while. It was your badgers’ sett that cinched it.”
“Cinched it?”
“Settled it. Confirmed our suspicions.”
“We?” I had half guessed this bit and I crossed my fingers.
“Yes, me and my opposite number in British Intelligence.”
“Fenella Bradley,” I said quickly. Now I had him. His eyes widened before his poker face blanked all expression.
“Aw, Poppy.” He threw back his head against my sofa and laughed. He was so close I could see the blue flecks in his hazel eyes as he looked up at me. “You are so darn quick. Too quick for your own good, some would say.”
I tried not to laugh because it hurt like the devil. “Well, however much you tried to deny it, you were seen giving a lift to Fenella Bradley. Just in case you thought all your meetings with her were clandestine. It was Sid, of course. He tried to make it sound like it could have been Ivy. He wanted to incriminate you in her murder; that, or convince me that Fenella was your girlfriend.” To my relief, he looked unhappy at the idea.
“Absolutely not. Miss Bradley and I share a professional relationship and nothing more.”
I nodded as if this made complete sense, even though I wasn’t wholly convinced.
“Now, one more last question.” He was at his most teasing.
“Trying to change the subject?”
“Nope. How did Sid Ritchie manage to get his hands on nylon stockings and an American Air Force tie? Do you happen to have the answer to that one?”
I believed I had half the answer.
“I am sure Doreen was wearing her stockings when she went out to meet the man she thought was Sandusky. She was alway
s very particular about her appearance. But the American tie? I am not too sure about that. My feeling is that Ivy had Joe Perrone’s tie and Sid asked her to bring it with her when he threw pebbles at her window and persuaded her to come for a walk in the moonlight. That would be the simplest solution. He definitely wanted to lay blame for the murders on an American.”
“That’s odd, because I talked to Joe and he told me that he never gave Ivy his tie. He still has it. It was proof, he said, that he didn’t kill her with it.”
A flaw—where had Sid managed to get an American Air Force tie? “Now, that is interesting.”
“Isn’t it just?”
“Perhaps he sneaked up onto the base and stole one,” I suggested, wondering if Hargreaves had this information from Sid’s confession.
“Here is a better idea.”
I could tell by his face he was almost helpless with inner laughter. He looked up at me, his eyes shining with pure pleasure. “He put on his ARP uniform, and that lovely red wig he likes to wear, and then he pretended to be you. Some lonely airman, missing his girlfriend, took him out to dinner . . . and . . . that is where he got his tie.”
I laughed, even though it hurt, and then felt guilty. “Poor Sid, we mustn’t make fun: he is so desperately unhappy.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him, he’s a psycho. A psychopath. Come on, Poppy, you use that word over here, I know you do. Psychos aren’t right in the head: they display violent social behavior, like strangling young women. I can’t bear to think that he hurt you, so I have no pity for him. None.” He let go of my hand and ran his fingers through his hair.
“We caught the Little Buffenden Strangler, though, didn’t we?” I said in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Whoever would have thought it possible?”
“You caught him, Poppy. I did very little other than prod you along.” He was right; he had prodded me along, probably because he wanted to know what was going on in our little village. Because, by his own admission, one of his jobs was counterintelligence.
A log collapsed in the grate and he turned his face to look up into mine, his expression so serious that my breath caught in my throat. He picked up my hand again, turned it palm up, and stroked it with his thumb. “I can’t imagine anything more awful than not helping you solve desperate murders, Poppy.”
Oh, how I wanted to believe him.
“What other adventures do you have cooked up for us? I hope you have something in mind.”
“We’ll just have to see,” I said in as level a voice as I could manage.
He lowered his head and I felt his lips brush my palm. “Just give me the all clear, sweetheart!” he said in his best Humphrey Bogart.
* * *
—
“HERE YOU ARE, Poppy darling, a letter just came for you.” Granny has no compunction about examining letters to young unwed women: they must be alluded to, never opened or read—that would be unforgiveable—but remarked upon and if possible their writer’s identity and intentions revealed. “Looks like it’s from London.” With some reluctance she handed it over.
It was from London. I turned the envelope and saw the blue embossed script on the back: “The Bodley Head, Penguin Ltd.” “Thank you, Granny. Do you need help with tea?”
“No, thank you, dear, you just stay here and read your letter. What’s the Bodley Head, something to do with Oxford?”
No, I silently answered, something to do with my book. When she left, I tried to open the envelope with a finger that shook so terribly I had to resort to using the butter knife, which is why, to this day, there is a greasy smear on the first few lines of a letter that changed the direction of my life, once again.
Dear Miss Redfern,
Thank you for your manuscript of “The East End Murders.”
Unfortunately, our publication list is small, at present, due to the restrictions of a wartime paper shortage. But we would be pleased to talk to you again, at a later date, when we anticipate resuming full publication.
With your permission, we would like to forward your manuscript to the Ministry of Information, Crown Film Unit, who are looking for talented scriptwriters. Please let us know, posthaste, if this would be acceptable to you.
Respectfully yours,
A. N. Owen
I managed to stop myself from bounding around our living room, whooping with delight. I had written and completed a book and now it had been commended by the company that published Agatha Christie.
I sat myself down and wrote to A. N. Owen, thanking him, or her, and saying: “Yes, please.”
* * *
—
“THIS IS REMARKABLY good.” Grandad took an appreciative bite of lunch. “Delicious, so very tasty, and so . . .” He closed his eyes as he chewed. “And so tender. That bird must have been an ancient old crock and you turned it into a spring chicken.”
“Tender and succulent.” Granny smiled at me.
“I was going to say chickeny,” my grandfather said. “It’s just like prewar chicken.”
“It is good, isn’t it?” Griff is rarely modest about the food he cooks. “There is nothing more flavorful than a rooster that is allowed to roam, and this one enjoyed a particularly free existence behind our mess unit with his wives. The French always reserve their old birds for coq au vin, which is the name of this dish. Poppy peeled the vegetables.”
“Not to mention doing most of the washing up,” I said, feeling a little stab of relief that when I moved to London I wouldn’t have any time to spend in the kitchen.
Griff was at his most cock-a-hoop as he lifted his glass. “Congratulations to Poppy and a toast to her new job at the Ministry of Information.” We all waved our glasses and drank some particularly delicious wine that had somehow managed to survive the air raid, despite a huge crater in the lane between the lodge and our old farmhouse. Fortunately, the village had not suffered more damage than broken windows and a group of terrified people racing up and down the High Street who were saved at the last minute by the carrying voice and efficient direction of Mrs. Glossop. At least they had left their golf clubs and cuckoo clocks at home, or so the vicar had informed me, when I suggested he make Mrs. G. Little Buffenden’s next air-raid warden.
“Very luckily, I will be able to visit you often in London when I’m up there on duty,” Griff said.
“What sort of duty?” I asked, wondering if it involved Fenella Bradley.
He laughed at me over the rim of his glass. “What is your job at the Ministry of Information about again?”
“I will be an assistant scriptwriter to the Crown Film Unit. The department writes and produces short films about the lives of ordinary people who do remarkable things in wartime.”
“She means propaganda,” said Griff, who knew all about manipulating the public. “Just wait and see: she will be churning out films like Mrs. Miniver before you know it.”
Blimey, dahling, Ilona chipped in, in her best society-girl cockney. I think he’s actually right for once. Well done, such a talent!
Why, thank you, Ilona, I replied, but thankfully not out loud. I could never have done it without you.
HISTORICAL NOTES ON BRITAIN’S HOME FRONT 1939–1945
THE BLACKOUT AND THE DARK OF NIGHT
To make it difficult for the German Luftwaffe (air force) to locate built-up areas, the British government imposed a complete blackout during the years of World War II. The occupants of all buildings had to ensure they did not leak light that would give clues to German pilots that they were flying over inhabited areas. Even the flare of a lit match or the glow of a cigarette could be spotted from above.
Thick black curtains or blackout paint were used to keep windows dark at night. Shopkeepers, hoteliers, restaurant owners, and publicans had to black out their windows and provide a means for customers to leave and enter their premises without letting light escape—the
y risked a formidable fine and even the loss of their license if they were not in compliance. Britain’s streets were not lit at night and motor vehicle headlights, bicycle lamps, and flashlights were fitted with blinkers so that their light was cast downward.
AIR RAID PRECAUTIONS
The Air Raid Precautions (ARP) was run entirely with the aid of civilian volunteers. Their primary task was to protect civilians from the very possible danger of air raids.
ARP wardens patrolled the streets during the blackout to make sure that no light was visible. They also helped firemen and ambulance workers search for people buried in the rubble of bombed buildings, reported on the extent of bomb damage to their local authority, and issued gas masks and prefabricated air-raid “Anderson” shelters from their command post. When the air raid warning siren sounded, ARP wardens were responsible for helping civilians to the nearest shelter—in London the Underground was often the nearest and safest place to spend the night during the Blitz. During the war years, there were 1.4 million Air Raid Precautions warden volunteers working part-time in Britain.
RATIONING
With a civilian population of 50 million, the tiny island of Britain imported most of its food before the war. It became the principal strategy of the German war department to attack shipping bound for Britain, restricting British industry and potentially starving the nation into submission.
Petrol use was restricted as soon as Britain went to war. A few months later, bacon, butter, and sugar were rationed, and by August 1942 almost all foods were rationed except for vegetables and bread. By the time the war ended in Europe, there were children who had never eaten a banana and who thought of an orange as a rare treat.
Ration books were issued for each member of the population, and shopkeepers canceled food tokens with a rubber stamp. It was impossible to buy any controlled foods without producing a ration book, so if you went to stay with your friends or family you took your ration book with you.