by Amy Myers
She duly found the restaurant, opposite the old church in the square, and went inside not knowing whom to look for, save an Englishman in his eighties. The Cherub had been his nickname, but he was unlikely to look very cherubic now. She became aware of a man scrutinizing her from a window table and walked over to him, even though he most certainly didn’t look English. From his small hunched body and face, one could mentally stick a beret on him and a Gauloise in his mouth and he’d be French. Nevertheless the cool blue eyes summing her up had more than a hint of British reserve, and, she admitted, even a hint of his earlier nickname.
‘Miss Marsh?’
‘Georgia,’ she murmured automatically, doing her own share of summing up.
‘An attractive name.’
At least he didn’t say it had been ‘on his mind’, a retort that came all too easily to many people. That was a point in his favour. His movements were slow but controlled, as was his face. Here was another Jan Molkar rather than a Harry Williams. He’d have made a good spy, she thought, unremarkable to look at – and capable of single-minded thought and action.
‘May I offer you a drink?’ he asked.
‘Water for the moment, thank you, and by the way, lunch is on me. It’s the least I can do.’
That won a slight smile, but one that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I agree, Georgia. You seem to have been exceptionally determined to seek me out to hear my old war stories. I can’t see how they would help you in the matter of Patrick Fairfax’s death.’
‘Did you like him? I realize that’s a trite question since you were fighting a war when you knew him, but it’s relevant.’
‘I did.’
‘You admired him?’
‘He was a beacon in the darkness of those days. In war one needs that. As I told Jack.’
She realized with shock that he might not have heard the news. This man wasn’t the sort to be in contact unless he needed to, and presumably with Jack’s visit that had vanished.
‘I have bad news,’ she said awkwardly. ‘You might not know that Jack died.’
He went very still. ‘How? When?’ he rapped out.
There was no easy way to say it. ‘He was murdered in his home, and his wife believed he had recently been to see you.’
‘Do you connect those two elements? If so, Miss Marsh, you might begin to understand why I live a very low-key life.’
‘I don’t have enough facts to connect them. Do you?’ she threw back at him. ‘The police have charged a man called Paul Stock, whom you would not know. They believe Jack might have amassed evidence that Paul killed Patrick Fairfax.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘No, but I can’t explain why. He did have a motive, he was there – and yet it doesn’t fit.’
‘And for you everything does have to fit?’
‘Yes. In this case they have to fit the dell.’ The minute she had said it, she regretted it. Why on earth did she have to confuse the issue by mentioning that fatal word? It had its effect though. Alan Purcell’s eyes moved as though he were looking at a human being.
‘You are referring to the dell at Woodring Manor, of course?’ he asked quietly.
‘So you remember it?’ He hadn’t asked which dell or what on earth she was talking about. This was going to sound weird, but she would have to work hard if she was to get anywhere with Alan Purcell. ‘It reeks with the atmosphere of decay and death.’
She had his attention now. ‘Patrick Fairfax’s body was found there,’ she continued, ‘and my father and I felt strongly that his unsolved murder is crying out to be investigated. I feel there’s more to be discovered about his death than was revealed at the time, or even than what we’ve found so far. We’ve been talking to Eddie Stubbs, to Sylvia Lee and to the barmaid who used to serve there during the battle. You might remember her, Ruby her name was. She still thinks of you all.’
‘She was pretty,’ he said absently. ‘Yes, I remember her. We all remember Ruby. She was a dainty little thing. Well able to look after herself, however.’
‘I imagine she still is.’ No creeping silent watchers would faze her, thought Georgia enviously.
‘Please tell me what your interest is in the Battle of Britain period, if it is Patrick’s death you are investigating.’
‘It’s partly because Jack was interested in it, and planning to do a book with Eddie Stubbs, which I imagine is why he came to see you, and partly . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Because it seems to have been the beginning.’
‘Of what?’
‘If I knew that, Mr Purcell, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘I think you would,’ he said softly. ‘I do think so.’ Then, with scarcely a pause, ‘Aren’t these mussels splendid? That’s the reason I live in France of course.’
OK, she could play that game too. ‘Not because you’re near the home of the people who sheltered you when you were shot down?’
‘They are long dead.’ He didn’t seem surprised at the question.
‘Were you shot down twice?’ she persisted. ‘The accounts we have read suggest that you were shot down in 1944, yet in Jack’s biography of Fairfax you were in the same group of evaders as Patrick Fairfax.’
‘That was Maurice, my brother. He was captured with Patrick but did not escape from the train. He went to an internment prison, then a POW camp. He survived the war, but only just. He died of tuberculosis in 1949 as a result of his experiences. The line was betrayed of course. I am still in touch with a lady who was a young courier on the line. She was arrested, escaped being shot but spent the rest of the war in Ravensbrück.’
‘Who was the traitor?’ she asked.
‘Who can tell for sure? There are odd stories in that world. The Pat O’Leary line was betrayed by a former sergeant in the British army who had worked on the line himself and saved many lives before he betrayed it. Another line was betrayed by an airman who talked too much. There will always be those who cannot withstand torture, there will always be those who seek money at any price, there will always be . . .’ He paused. ‘Cowards.’
‘Even in 362 Squadron,’ she commented.
‘I take it you have heard about Oliver Tanner and Joseph Smith.’
‘I have. Eddie Stubbs told me you had some sympathy for Tanner. Can you tell me about them?’
‘No more than I can tell you about Harry Williams, Daz Dane, Jan Molkar, Matthew Jones or Bob McNee. Or Patrick Fairfax. That door is closed, Georgia. The one for 1975 is open, but any incidental passages that lie within that room are barred. Nor would it be wise for you to follow them.’
A threat? A warning? Either way, she had to ignore it and make a leap in the dark. ‘Ruby told me Sylvia Lee was present on the same evening that a young airman called Oliver came to Woodring and that there was a fight. Is that one of these closed passages?’
For the first time Alan looked shaken, and took a moment or two to reply. ‘You must talk to Sylvia again, Georgia. I would suggest you tell no one you are visiting her, but relay to her that you have talked to me as I talked to her in 1940. Use those words if you please.’
‘I will.’
‘I appreciate that.’ A pause. ‘As I appreciate this local cheese. The riper it becomes, even a small portion of it can spread its smell around. Perhaps the same is true of that dell, Georgia.’
Chapter Twelve
Alan Purcell had provided either a milestone or another blind alley. He had told her little or nothing, but what he implied might be a way forward – even if by bringing Sylvia Lee back into the picture she would merely be doubling back in a U-turn. But why should Alan mislead her? He clearly had had no part in the events of 1975. Nevertheless if he were, as it seemed, pointing her back to the Battle of Britain then he might have had as much at stake in 1975 as any of the others. Except that he wasn’t there!
Now you see them now you don’t, she thought as she boarded the catamaran for the return journey. At least she no longer had the sense of being watched, despite the hordes of shoppers
returning with their wine supplies. She couldn’t blame them. She had nipped into the wine shop herself at the port, not to mention the charcuterie on the way down the hill. Peter would never have forgiven her if she hadn’t come back with several cheeses, an interesting supper for them both, and several cases of wine. His avoidance of France did not extend, thankfully, to its goodies, and she still had hopes of persuading him into a day visit to Boulogne for a lunch. Not many, it was true. A Kentish restaurant with a French chef was probably the closest they would get.
Her purchases were in a way a justification since she still had no idea why Alan Purcell should have cut himself off from his past, especially since he had been an admirer of Fairfax. Choice, she supposed. It was as simple as that. She had asked him if he had any idea as to the cause of Patrick’s death, and his reply had been curious: more than harmless moths fly to a bright light. Perhaps it wasn’t so curious, when one considered the way stalkers marked down celebs. Stick your head above the parapet, and expect to be shot at as well as cheered. Fairfax was still hero-worshipped by his family to the point that surely no one in it must now recall the real Patrick Fairfax. Jean perhaps? Shades of Queen Victoria and Albert. Albert had grown more saintly as the years passed. Was that true of Fairfax and his admirers? Only Sylvia Lee had said anything about him that spoke of the inner man. She had said that he was gentle and lovable. Had she discovered that in the two brief weeks she’d known him, to such an extent that she still remembered him for it? And if so gentle and lovable, why had she left him with her heart so intact that she married someone else in December that same year? Could the answer be that Patrick had dropped her, rather than the other way around? If so, she couldn’t imagine why. Sylvia Lee must have been a trophy girlfriend, so what had happened during those two weeks? ‘How’s Oliver?’ Sylvia had asked, according to Ruby.
Georgia began to feel the slow growth of excitement.
*
Sylvia looked tired, or perhaps it was that some, at least, of her defences had been dropped. Georgia had needed Alan Purcell’s password for Sylvia to agree to see her again. There had been silence on the telephone when Georgia explained. Then a weary ‘I understand.’
Now that she was here, however, Sylvia seemed resigned to her presence. ‘Have they found Jack Hardcastle’s murderer yet?’ she asked.
‘No. They charged Paul Stock with the murder, but it’s been dropped.’
The CPS must have ruled the evidence too flimsy. Such forensic evidence as there was linked with his story, but not with the murders. There was still unidentified DNA from fibres on Jack’s clothing and fingerprints. Nothing had emerged to provide evidence linking Paul to Fairfax’s death, not even with the Janet Freeman information. Georgia suspected Pullman blamed them for leading him up a blind alley. In short, Mike had told them on the phone, Pullman was temporarily sulking over the case. Now was the time for the Marshes to save Pullman’s career, he had added.
‘It is also time to save Marsh & Daughter’s career,’ Georgia had grumbled when Peter told her.
Peter had been all for her second visit to Sylvia. ‘It’s a tempting new line, even if it’s a hell of a distance away from 1975. It would have to turn a few somersaults to affect that.’
There was one already turning in Georgia’s mind, and now that she was here and had given the password, she had to play the card quickly. No stopping to test the water.
‘It was Oliver Tanner you were really attached to, wasn’t it? Not Patrick Fairfax,’ she asked Sylvia. ‘It was he you were thinking of when you spoke of his being gentle and lovable.’
Sylvia shifted in the large chair. ‘Attached is hardly adequate, although I understand why you use the word. It’s kind of you. I loved Oliver deeply, even though I knew him only for a few weeks. Have you ever been lucky enough to meet someone about whom you knew, to use the cliché, that you were made for each other?’
Zac flew through Georgia’s mind and was pushed out as her stomach churned.
‘If we’d looked in the mirror,’ Sylvia continued, ‘we would have seen two halves of the same person – not twins, but each other’s complement. I met Oliver in the Rose and Crown almost as soon as I came to stay in Town Malling. That was the pub the NCOs used, when they weren’t in their own mess. That was a billet on the field, not like Woodring Manor. He seemed somehow apart, not exactly lonely, because he joined in the fun. The squadron had only just flown in, he told me. We started talking about this and that, I told him about the Ivor Novello play I was in, he told me I looked like Evelyn Laye, and I said he looked like Leslie Howard. So we had this running joke – I’d be Evie, and he was Les. Silly, isn’t it? That’s how it was. We didn’t do much socializing, once we’d found each other. Whenever he could get a pass, we’d meet. Sometimes we’d walk in the Douce Manor grounds, but more often we would take bicycles and go out to the river at Teston, or to country pubs. Away from the war, he said. Some of the pilots coped with the war by being with their mates, but a few such as Oliver needed to get away from it. He liked looking at the river trickling by, the birds having their dusk tuck-in, as he used to call it. That would still be the same when the war was no more, when we were no more.’
‘Maybe that’s like the pilot who wrote “High Flight”; he could touch the hand of God in the sky, side by side with the battle. Did Oliver talk about what went on during the daytime?’
‘Never. I thought that was natural, until . . .’
‘You heard about the lack of moral fibre.’
‘Yes. This is where it gets difficult, Georgia. Patrick warned me about it on the Saturday night at the end of August. He said the CO was seeing Oliver and his friend Joseph Smith the next day. Oliver hadn’t wanted to go to the dance, and I couldn’t understand why. I persuaded him though. He must have known what was brewing.’
‘Had you noticed anything different about him that would explain the LMF charge?’
‘He was increasingly silent. I thought it was just because the battle was getting to him, so the real reason came as a terrible shock. When Patrick told me, I was so shaken I spent the rest of the evening with him. I’d met him quite a few times casually and knew he was attracted to me. When I’d calmed down, Oliver had disappeared.
‘I had time to think it out, and next day he came to see me in the late afternoon. He’d seen the CO by that time. Joseph had been found guilty; Oliver was to return next morning to know his fate. There was no doubt what it would be, and I was hardly sympathetic. I was only young, not able to see the other side. I saw nothing but myself, how I felt. He began to defend himself, but I didn’t believe him. Then he just told me to remember that no one should be judged solely by what they did or did not do in wartime. I flew into another temper, full of empty stupid words and he just walked away. That evening he came up to Woodring Manor. It was a Sunday evening, and we were dancing to a gramophone. I was flirting with Patrick, trying not to think about Oliver. Then suddenly he was there and punching Patrick. I knew it must be about me, and that if they went outside Patrick would surely win. The other pilots wouldn’t let me go after them. They said he was a rotten coward and would be leaving tomorrow. I was all mixed up, and when Patrick eventually came back, he said Oliver had left and someone should get me home. He was too shaken to drive me himself, so Alan Purcell took me in the station brake. He was wonderful, talked as though the evening had been perfectly normal, and fights happened all the time. I asked whether I would be able to see Oliver if I stopped at the NCOs’ mess, and he said no, but he would probably still be around the next day. But he wasn’t. I was told he’d deserted and Joe had already left for the special camp.’
‘Was that true?’ Georgia had a terrible feeling where this might be leading.
‘No. Georgia, I didn’t tell you before because there are those alive whom it might hurt. I only tell you now on condition it doesn’t appear in your book unless . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Unless it affects Jack Hardcastle’s death, though I can’t see how it can.’
&
nbsp; Georgia didn’t like this condition, but Sylvia was immersed in her story. ‘Oliver was dead,’ she continued quietly. ‘He never left Woodring Manor. It was a terrible accident, when he and Patrick came to blows. Patrick was the stronger physically, and hit Oliver so hard he fell backwards and hit his head on a stone.’
Suspicion once confirmed doesn’t shock, Georgia thought. Instead it creeps up and chills the body slowly. She had never met Oliver Tanner but he had lain in the dark shadows almost since they began this case. Now there were glaring questions.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she began. ‘I can see that even now it’s distressing for you.’
‘It was my fault; I can never forget that.’
‘When did you find out about it?’
Georgia thought she sensed a hesitation, but perhaps not for Sylvia answered: ‘Two weeks later, through Alan. He came to see me; he felt I should know. I’d been trying to forget Oliver by seeing Patrick, but every time I saw him it reminded me of what had happened. I knew I had to go. Alan said that after we’d left Woodring that night, the other pilots found a car with sufficient petrol in it, and drove the body to the coast. Alan and I talked it over and decided that for everyone’s sake, particularly Oliver’s parents, we should leave it as it was: that Oliver had apparently deserted and drowned himself because of the disgrace. There was, he told me, no doubt. The verdict had been confirmed the next day and deserted entered after it.’
Georgia had to ask. ‘Do you know where exactly Oliver was killed?’
‘Does it matter?’ Sylvia she asked wearily.
Oh yes, it mattered. ‘If you can tell me, yes.’
‘He hit his head on one of the rockery stones, near where Patrick was found.’