by Amy Myers
The day’s official plan was straightforward, according to the programme thrust into her hand by a PR lady. An official welcome from Martin, now in his element, then a buffet lunch followed by a screening of extracts from the film in the improvised cinema in one of the conference rooms – this one was in the converted stable block. After that there would be a press free-for-all. Publicity packs were to be seen everywhere.
‘I miss David Niven. He always looked good in an Irvin jacket,’ Luke whispered ruefully as the film extracts began in the cinema.
‘I bet Sylvia does too,’ she whispered back. The female lead was a sultry beauty called Sharon Cross, who in Georgia’s view looked as if she lived up to her surname, but perhaps she was only being soulful.
Leo Jakes, the star of the film, was well cast as Patrick, she thought, looking much like the real Patrick and possessing his charm and sexiness. Sexiness, that is, to the world at large. Not to her. She preferred Luke. Unbidden, Zac reminded her of his particular brand of sexiness. Time had moved on, she told him. What was sexy at twenty-four was less so over ten years later. Then why are we having this conversation, Zac enquired gently. Go away, she ordered him, and surprisingly he did.
It wasn’t her style of film but she had to admire the expertise with which Patrick had been brought back to life. She was even gripped by the extracts from his student life, then the war hero, then the jewel in the crown: the aviation club. He came over as a man of vision as well as action. The film gave a good overview, so far as she could judge, cleverly twisting past values to accord with something recognizable today.
Even Paul Stock was impressed when she met him after the presentation. He was with Jean Fairfax, who raised a cool eyebrow of welcome to Georgia as if daring her to comment adversely, and then departed with Cerberus.
‘As the only one here who hated his guts,’ Paul quipped, once Jean was out of earshot, ‘I was impressed. Maybe I could get to like the fellow.’
Janet Freeman had strolled up to join them. ‘Why not? I did,’ she countered coolly. ‘I came to tell you someone was enquiring for you at the desk, Georgia.’
‘Did he have a gun in his hand?’ she was tempted to ask. But then, the answer might be yes.
‘There,’ Janet pointed to a casually dressed young man walking towards Peter, who was just emerging from the conference room. Curious, Georgia left Luke with Paul and Janet, and went to join them.
‘My daughter, Georgia. She met your grandmother,’ Peter said to the young man. ‘Madame Fleurie’s grandson, Philippe,’ he explained.
‘Monsieur Arthur?’ she immediately asked him, alarmed. Had he come to tell her he had died?
‘He is well,’ Philippe said hastily. ‘This is from him.’ Georgia glanced at Peter, her heartbeat quickening in sudden hope as Philippe produced from his canvas holdall an old-fashioned ledger and a smaller bound notebook. ‘You are to see these, if you please, and do what you wish with them. They were in my grandmother’s house, and therefore not burned. He asked you please to greet his old comrades.’
Georgia handed the smaller notebook to Peter, and quickly looked inside the ledger. What she saw there made her heart race. Columns, dates, careful entries in one handwriting: Alan’s. There were lists of operations, and Fairfax and Tanner’s names, and source notes.
‘Merci, merci,’ she heard herself babbling, even as she turned to see what treasure Peter might be holding. He seemed glued to the notebook, and she peered over his shoulder. Dates – and a familiar handwriting.
‘Tanner’s diary,’ Peter almost choked. ‘The real McCoy. You take this, Georgia.’ Peter handed her the diary. ‘Leave the ledger with me. I’ll look after Philippe and wait for the police.’
It was three o’clock now and there was no sign of them. She began to panic. The afternoon was scheduled to end in two hours’ time, and perhaps this meant the police weren’t coming. Or were they deliberately leaving it late to avoid the full glare of the press?
She had to read this diary, for there, if anywhere, would be the evidence they needed. She needed a place where she wouldn’t be disturbed by curious eyes. Inside the hotel? No, she would see this story through and go where it had begun. No one would pry on her there. Besides, it would be a test for her.
When she came to the point in the path where she had stopped in May, however, she regretted her decision. It seemed unnecessary, even melodramatic, but it would be equally melodramatic to turn back. The leaves were falling now, and without the bluebells the dell seemed a forlorn place indeed. It was in all probability still the grave of Oliver Tanner and it was all she could do not to turn and run. With a great effort of will, she sat down on a rock and opened the diary. Immediately she forgot her surroundings:
Airfield under fire again today. One of the airmen copped it. Joe took a shovel to help fill the craters in; he’s bearing up well. Unlike our noble section leader. Straight for the quickest way through and no matter what happens to the rest of us. Does he even think? Probably not. Two days ago I found him stuck in the cockpit staring glassy-eyed at the black specks heading for us. He blanks out, I reckon. Doesn’t remember a thing about it afterwards. Hauled him out, pushed him to the shelters, and jumped into the crate myself. Only just made it.
Another entry caught her attention.
Who is Sylvia? She is the best of me. She is my life, the reason to see this bloody war through, so that we can roam this green and pleasant land without jackboots bearing down on us. Last night . . . ah, last night!
‘I thought I might find you here.’
Georgia froze. What a fool she’d been.
‘Is that Purcell’s file so-called proof?’ Martin Heywood continued easily. ‘I realized you’d tracked him down. Well done. Shall I take it?’ He sounded as casual as if they were speaking on the phone and yet she was terrified. He was standing between her and the only accessible way out of the dell. His voice offered no threat, but his body language suggested otherwise.
‘Here.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’ He moved further towards her, and trying not to display fear she stood up, retreating slowly down the dell.
‘I didn’t believe a word of this nonsense,’ he continued, ‘when Jack told me he had doubts about Patrick’s place in history. And I still don’t believe it now. You do know Patrick was my grandfather, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she managed to say. Talk, that was the best way. Talk. ‘But only when I saw your mother’s maiden name on the birth certificate. I’d forgotten she was divorced. I thought of your brother’s children being involved, but not hers. Foolish of me.’
‘What was foolish was to believe all these lies about Patrick. You saw the truth today on that screen and that truth isn’t going to be wrecked by any dirt you or that devil Purcell can throw at it. It’s too late.’ He moved impatiently towards her, and involuntarily she stepped back again.
Talk, she commanded herself.
‘I presume it was you who hacked into my computer and kept a watch on me?’
‘My son, actually. He’s a bright lad. He’s here today because he believes in the family name too.’
‘You let him follow Purcell home and set fire to his house?’ She was appalled.
‘No. I did that. That rubbish you’re holding has to be destroyed. Jack told me Purcell had some kind of nonsense he called proof. I had to act. I couldn’t let him besmirch Patrick’s name. Or you.’
She saw his fist coming out, she saw him lunging towards her, then the pain as the blow struck and she felt herself tumbling downwards and hitting the ground, with something jabbing sharply into her. His voice above her almost pleading, ‘I have to have that diary. You see that, don’t you? I have to have it.’ It must have been lying beneath her, for she felt herself being hauled up. The cavalry, where are the cavalry? Crazy thoughts jumped around in her spinning head as another fist hit her.
*
She opened her eyes and something seemed to crash into her head. Then she remembered the dell. She wa
sn’t there any more; she was in a room – no, a tent, and it was Luke, not Martin Heywood who was bending over her now. She seemed to be lying on a couch – the first-aid tent?
‘My lovely,’ he said, kissing her lightly. Even that hurt.
‘The cavalry,’ she managed to stammer.
‘They came. Now keep quiet.’
‘The diary – did he get it?’
‘No. The police did.’
‘The mounted police cavalry?’ This wasn’t making sense but her head couldn’t cope with it.
‘No. The ordinary sort, I’m afraid. They picked Heywood off the ground where he was investigating the dell’s soil content.’
‘Then who was the cavalry? Me? Did I hit him?’ She had to get to the bottom of this.
‘I was the cavalry, my pet.’
‘Oh, Luke.’ She closed her eyes again.
When she next woke up she was much clearer. ‘Where’s Dad?’ For some reason that seemed easier to say than Peter.
‘Talking to the St John’s ambulance chaps who want to cart you off for a check-up, and to the police who need a statement from you. They seemed to think I was the one who knocked you out, so you might put them clear on that. They’ve got his nibs though.’
‘Is it,’ she asked, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice in case she burst into tears, ‘acceptable for a publisher to interfere in his author’s research? What about moral rights?’
‘You can’t claim any. You’re about to become an immoral woman and move in with someone you aren’t married to. Yet.’
She considered this proposition. It sounded a pleasant, homely idea. One thing was for sure: Zac wouldn’t have joined the cavalry.
‘. . . keep your own house or office, at least for a while,’ Luke seemed to be saying. ‘Not too many nights working late though. Anyway, Medlars won’t be fit for habitation right away. We might be looking at Christmas if we’re lucky.’
Christmas. A Christmas tree. With lights on it and a fairy at the top. Like the ones Peter and Elena had dressed for her as a child. And for Rick. Unbidden, the tears began to roll down her cheeks.
‘Don’t you like Christmas?’ he teased.
‘Yes,’ she managed to say. ‘I do.’
*
Sunday lunch never tasted better than when someone else cooked it. Today Luke had. Or rather he’d arranged with the White Lion to send their best over when he arrived at Haden Shaw. The hospital had insisted on keeping her in overnight and sent her away with Luke on condition she rushed straight back in at the slightest ominous symptom. Eating lunch was not forbidden. Nor was talking. Provided, Luke said, she didn’t do too much herself. Mike had promised to look in to tell them what had happened after her dramatic disappearance yesterday.
‘DI Jennings arrested Heywood for assault on you. Pullman was most grateful to you, Georgia. While Heywood’s being held, he has a chance of sorting out the other matter.’
‘Jack’s murder,’ she said.
‘Correct. They’re expecting a match for his nibs’ tenprints and DNA for that. Tenprints already here, DNA takes a little longer but before tomorrow’s out it should be OK.’
‘Has he confessed?’
‘Not even to assaulting you. Apparently you got in the way of his fist while he was demonstrating a left punch at your request,’ Mike told her straight-faced. ‘Alternatively it was self-defence.’
‘My guess,’ Peter said, ‘is that Jack warned him when he first mentioned the film that he thought Fairfax’s reputation was suspect. Heywood must have watched him like a hawk after that. Of course, Jack probably didn’t have the benefit of knowing he was talking to Fairfax’s grandson, otherwise he might have held his horses, knowing how besotted Jean Fairfax is about his memory. Heywood is even more of a fanatic than his grandmother.’
‘It’s often left to the next generation to carry the flame, so Mary Fairfax remarked,’ Georgia said. ‘Not the sons or daughters, but the grandchildren.’
‘Quite. When Heywood saw you talking to that boy he was on your case. He knew it must be the diary and Purcell’s records that Jack had told him about. Luckily Luke managed to remove the diary from Heywood’s grasp before he could eat it,’ Mike said straight-faced.
‘I said something to him ages ago that must have made him think I was on to this question of Fairfax’s reputation.’ At Tangmere, she remembered wryly. Just a few idle words misinterpreted, a man killed, a house burnt down and its owner badly burned, not to mention two punches to her face as a result. ‘But at one point he was anxious to help me,’ she pointed out, struggling to work it out.
‘Of course,’ Peter said, ‘but only to draw you out. He must have been desperate to find out where Purcell lived and what lines we were working on. He thought you might tell him if he cosied up to you.’
‘Ugh,’ Georgia said. ‘But he did send Barnaby’s statement.’
‘Which supported Fairfax’s noble nature. Barnaby was the other evader who was given a free pass to Blighty. It probably included a cruise liner from Bordeaux, rather than a stiff climb over the mountains.’
‘All the same, murder and attempted murder on Heywood’s part seem over the top, even if both were spur of the moment reactions.’
‘Not to him. He firmly believed and still does that this is a dirty-tricks campaign to throw mud at the Fairfax name, in some misguided attempt to make excuses for Oliver Tanner.’
Georgia’s thoughts went sickeningly to Jean Fairfax. ‘How is she?’ she asked.
‘As you might expect. Furious. All your fault. The worst is still to come. They think he’s only arrested for assault at present. There was much discussion amongst the pilots afterwards, but I doubt if it touched the Fairfaxes.’
‘At least some of the truth about Patrick will have to come out if Heywood’s charged with murder or even with manslaughter.’
‘I don’t think they would believe it. Heywood doesn’t, so why should they? It’s all part of the conspiracy against the man they love. It’s knocking heroes time, they will argue to themselves.’
‘There’ll be enough proof now. The press will leap on it during the trial.’
‘Will they? Isn’t there something you’re forgetting, Georgia?’ Mike asked.
She was. It must be the bruises and bumps to blame.
‘The motive for Hardcastle’s murder doesn’t depend on its proof, only that Jack made these allegations,’ Mike continued. ‘And . . .’
Georgia could finish that for herself. ‘No one has yet been accused of Fairfax’s murder. And of that, Heywood most certainly can’t be guilty.’
*
Georgia was amused to see Peter’s reaction to welcoming Sylvia Lee to Haden Shaw. She and Helen had stayed the night at Woodring Manor in view of the attack on Georgia and Martin’s Heywood’s subsequent arrest. Now Sylvia had taken the initiative, and suggested that if convenient they would drive over to see them later that afternoon.
They arrived an hour or so after Mike had left, and Peter almost glowed in a severe attack of fan dottiness. Sylvia, Georgia thought, had the effect of lighting up the room as though the breath and romance of Fifties’ romantic musicals had swept in with her. It seemed amazing that an elderly lady of eighty-six could still convey this, but charm, once possessed, seldom departed. Even Luke was fussing around, more than normally assiduous in settling their guests in comfortable chairs. There were even strawberry tarts – how did he manage that in September? An appeal to Pat Mulworthy? A special crop grown overnight? Or did he whip them up himself while she wasn’t looking?
‘Georgia dear.’ Sylvia leaned forward. ‘It was all my fault.’
‘That I won these?’ Georgia managed to laugh, pointing to her battle wounds.
‘Because I didn’t – I couldn’t – tell you the full story. If I could have done, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘I doubt,’ Georgia said, ‘if it would have made any difference. Alan would still have been attacked, and perhaps I would too. Fortu
nately Martin Heywood didn’t know about your involvement.’
‘He still doesn’t know.’ Sylvia said. ‘The story was mine, and Helen’s, and even partly Richard’s. What I told you was true so far as it went. I loved Oliver very much and . . . Helen?’
‘Go ahead,’ Helen said comfortingly. She took her hand like a mother to her child rather than the other way around.
‘Helen and her twin were Oliver’s children. You might have guessed that, or that they were Patrick’s. That’s a distressing thought. I was still too close to Oliver even to have thought of another man in that way. I told you what happened when I went to the dance with Oliver on the Saturday night. Oliver said he wanted to talk to me about it, but Patrick scooped me up and took me away. I wasn’t sorry. I couldn’t bear even to think of it. All those pilots I’d known who’d lost their lives – maybe, I told myself, they’d lost them because of Oliver. I’m not proud of what I did, but who knows? If I were nineteen again, I might do exactly the same.
‘Late the following afternoon, Oliver came to see me and tried to explain. He’d just seen the CO and would be getting his verdict the next day. Again, it sounded like excuses. He said false rumours had been circulating for weeks, because one of the pilots had it in for him. I still couldn’t believe him. He said he didn’t expect me to understand, but it was all in his diary. He wanted me to look after it for him if he were sent away to camp. We had an awful row, and I flounced off, though I took the diary as he asked. That evening Patrick had said I should come to Woodring Manor to take my mind off it; I didn’t want to, but I went. I felt so wretched. And then Oliver came, out of the blue, demanding to speak to Patrick. Naturally I thought he’d come to find me and not finding me at home, hitched a lift and came up to Woodring. The fight broke out and Alan took me home. I didn’t hear any more about Oliver except that Patrick told me he’d deserted before he could be formally charged.
‘Two weeks later Alan came to see me, concerned that I was still seeing Patrick. He told me that Oliver had been accidentally killed that evening, and he assumed as I did that the fight was about me. You can imagine how I felt. I just wanted out. I thought I’d been completely mistaken about Oliver, and appalled though I was at his death I just wanted to blot everything out. I pushed the diary into Alan’s hands, and decided to go.