The Back of Beyond

by Doris Davidson

  ‘The proof of a crime is the body,’ he butted in, stiffly. ‘A buried body suggests a murder, and murder … is … a … crime.’ He looked at her triumphantly.

  ‘Yes, I know, but you need …’

  ‘We need proof of … um … identity. You wouldna happen to know where that Nancy’s folk flitted to, would you?’

  ‘No, they didn’t tell …’ Lexie glanced at the door as the bell tinkled. ‘Oh, it’s you, Aggie. Do you know where the Lawries went? Nancy’s Mam and Dad? The police want to find them.’

  Clearly flattered at being asked, Mrs Mearns drew herself up to her full, well-padded four feet eleven. ‘No, it was like they disappeared off the face o’ the earth and all. Of course, Nettie was black affronted that Nancy’d got hersel’ in the family way …’ It occurring to her who the presumptive father had been, she slid easily into another tack. ‘I tell you what, though. If I mind right, somebody once tell’t me Ina McConnachie up at Leyton kept in touch wi’ Nettie, so you’d better ask her …’ The policeman having already gone, she stopped in mid-sentence and turned to Lexie with a sigh. ‘He’s useless, that ane. I coulda tell’t him that days ago if he’d asked.’

  ‘He’s doing his best. Now, what can I do for you today?’

  The door opening to admit Mattie Wilkie, Mrs Mearns laid a scribbled shopping list on the counter and left the shopkeeper to get on with it. Lexie couldn’t help smiling at her exaggerated version of her brief encounter with Bobby Robbie, and kept her ears open when they lowered their voices.

  ‘It must be Nancy Lawrie,’ Mattie said, in a hoarse almost-stage whisper. ‘The time’s aboot right. D’you think … um … he … could’ve …?’

  Aggie gave this idea, new to her, her deepest consideration for a few moments. ‘It hardly seems like him, but you never ken. They said yon Dr Crippen was as nice a man as you could meet.’

  Outraged at this, Lexie felt like letting fly at them, but they were customers, after all, and she had been taught that the customer is always right. Not these two, though.

  Fortunately, Mattie came up with another rumour which was circulating. ‘I heard ane o’ them tecs saying it could be a gypsy woman.’

  ‘Ach!’ Aggie snorted. ‘They’re aye saying something, and they ken damn all!’

  ‘Lizzie says she heard somebody had seen a couple o’ gypsies fighting one night up by the moor, a man and a woman, aboot the right time, it was.’

  ‘How could onybody mind what happened twenty year ago?’

  Lexie gathered from Aggie’s tone that the idea of it just being a gypsy’s body wasn’t nearly as exciting as the possibility of having known the person concerned.

  Mattie gave it one last try. ‘It could be onybody. If he’d a car, a man could bury a body hunders o’ miles away from where he killed it. Look at that Buck Ruxton doon in England some place. He killed his wife and their maid and drove them up to Scotland to dump them in a burn.’

  ‘They wasna lang in being found, though, and he was a foreigner, an Indian or something, nae English.’ Having lost interest in the discussion, the postman’s wife turned to Lexie. ‘Is that it?’ She handed over a pound note, then said, ‘If you’re nae needin’ a lot, Mattie, I’ll wait and walk along the road wi’ you.’

  They had not been gone long when Detective Inspector Roderick Liddell walked in. In charge of the case, he had been using Lexie’s parlour as a makeshift incident room. He hadn’t bothered her much, but she didn’t think she would have minded if he had.

  ‘May I use your phone again, Miss Fraser?’ he asked. ‘I expect you know we’ve been trying to trace Mr and Mrs Lawrie, the parents of …’

  ‘Nancy. Yes, I know. Did you get anything from Mrs McConnachie at Leyton?’

  ‘She gave us an address, but she wasn’t sure if they were still there, or if they were still alive. It’s some years since she was in touch with Mrs Lawrie.’

  ‘I hope you find them.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you must want to know, one way or the other.’

  She nodded, not actually sure that she did want to know, after all.

  * * *

  Gwen Ritchie was anything but contented – she was alone at Benview for most of the day and missed Marge’s cheery chatter. Leila was working with her father in Aberdeen, and the shop didn’t close until six. This meant making something for David, who came in from school around five and went out about half an hour later on some pretext or other, and having another meal ready at seven for herself and the ‘workers’.

  Leila generally hurried through hers, then gave herself a quick wash, a puff of powder and a dab of lipstick before cycling off to meet her friends. Which left her, Gwen mused, the cook, the laundress, the cleaner, alone with her husband, which was anything but comfortable for her. She could tell that something was smouldering under the surface of his overpolite exterior. He hadn’t mentioned Marge, nor Nicky, nor Ken Partridge since they came back from Lee Green, but something about him made her edgy; nothing definite, nothing she could challenge him with, just the suggestion of doubt on his face at times and, more often, the almost-accusing way he regarded her.

  The peculiar looks Leila gave her occasionally also disquieted her, as if her daughter was turning something over in her mind, and that, too, could only be to do with Nicky. Sure that things were building up against her, Gwen seriously considered making a clean breast of everything to her husband and facing up to the consequences – they couldn’t be worse than this constant dread of an eruption that would blow everything sky-high.

  Detective Inspector Liddell looked apologetically at Lexie when she opened the door to him for the second time that day. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, Miss Fraser?’

  ‘Is there some news at last?’ she asked, anxiously.

  ‘A bit of a setback, actually. According to the coroner the woman was between thirty-five and forty, so that rules out Nancy Lawrie. We haven’t managed to trace her parents yet, I’m afraid. They had moved from the address we were given. We still hope to get a result from our appeal for information on her, of course, even if it won’t help us to identify the body. We have begun the next line of enquiry – the gypsies – but they have their own methods of punishing the wrongdoers amongst them, which do not include bringing in the police. I’ve the feeling that we’re wasting our time there, but I’ll keep you informed if anything does transpire. I’m sorry to have intruded, Miss Fraser.’

  He turned to go, but Lexie said quickly, ‘You’re very welcome to stay for a cup of tea, Inspector, I’d be glad of the company. That is, if you don’t have to go somewhere else?’

  ‘Nowhere else tonight, but if we’re to be drinking tea together, wouldn’t it be more friendly to call me Roddy?’

  ‘Only if you call me Lexie,’ she smiled. Their eyes suddenly locked, but in a moment, she dropped hers in confusion and rose to put the kettle on to boil. She had felt drawn towards this man from the first time he came asking the questions he had to ask. He couldn’t believe that no search had been made for her father and Nancy at the time, even when she said she’d been told it was such a common occurrence it was a waste of police time.

  ‘You have never believed that your father was with the girl?’ he asked, as she set out the cups and saucers.

  It was as if their minds were on the same planet, she thought. ‘Never, and I never will, unless he comes and tells me himself.’

  ‘Maybe he will, Lexie, some day. There has been no response yet to the posters that have been put up in every police station in Scotland for information about her. They say that she went missing from Forvit, Aberdeenshire in May 1929. It’s better that we concentrate on her for now,’ he explained, ‘because, if they are together, there’s the chance that if we find her, we’ll also find him, but if that fails, we will make a separate search for your father, in the hope that he can tell us where she is.’

  Noticing how grim his expression was now, a wave of horror swept over her, and she was almost afraid to ask, ‘Roddy, you think
he … killed her, don’t you?’

  To her immense relief, he shook his head. ‘It’s a possibility, of course, but somehow I don’t think so.’

  The shrilling of the telephone startled her, and she ran through to the shop, the Inspector at her heels. ‘It’s for you,’ she said, handing him the earphones.

  He listened intently for some moments, then said, crisply, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ He turned to her. ‘I’m sorry, Lexie. Something has cropped up.’

  He didn’t say what, and she didn’t like to ask.

  Chapter 26

  With David also working with his father, Gwen was alone from 7.15 a.m. until 6.45 p.m. five days a week, and until 1.30 p.m. on Saturdays, wondering sometimes where the years had gone. One minute, her son had been a tousle-headed, cheeky-faced podge, the next, it seemed, he was a tall, slim young man, hair slicked back with his father’s Imperial Leather brilliantine, his voice varying from treble to bass. But she eventually got more or less used to the change in him and to the long days without a soul for company.

  One balmy August day, she had her usual lonely sandwich at half past twelve, then went out to wage war on the weeds in the garden, and had been at it for less than an hour when she heard a vehicle coming up the track. Apart from Alistair’s old Austin and the postman’s van – Sandy Mearns didn’t have to do his round on a bicycle any longer – this was so unusual that she stopped what she was doing and waited for it to come into sight. It turned out to be a big black car which reminded her of the one Dougal had driven when they were in London for the funerals, then her heart leapt. It was Dougal’s Ford. Marge was in the front passenger seat, waving excitedly to her, and Nicky was in the back seat with his head poking out of the window, and … yes! Peggy was sitting beside him.

  She rushed forward to embrace her sisters, then she was hugging her secret son close to her, smiling somewhat wryly at his, ‘Are you glad to see us, Auntie Gwen?’

  ‘Of course I am, dear. Oh, Marge, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

  ‘Didn’t know myself,’ Marge chuckled. ‘We were just touring and Peggy mentioned she’d like to see Edinburgh, and being so far north, Forvit kept calling to me.’

  By the time Alistair, Leila and David came home, furniture had been shuttled around, beds changed, sleeping arrangements made and – Dougal and Nicky having gone to the village for more supplies – a huge meal had been prepared.

  Nothing of any consequence was said while they dined, and as soon as they finished, Leila jumped to her feet. ‘I’m meeting Barry at eight, Mum, but I won’t be late home.’

  It was Marge who grinned, ‘The postman’s boy? Don’t keep him waiting, dear, but just make sure you don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  ‘That gives her a pretty wide scope.’ It had come out without Alistair thinking, and he tried to pretend he’d been joking by giving her a broad wink.

  ‘We’ll take the boys out for an hour to let you tidy up.’ Dougal’s voice had a tightness in it. ‘That’s if you haven’t got a date, as well, David?’

  ‘A date? With a girl? Who, me?’ David’s shocked expression made them all laugh.

  Desperate to get Marge on her own, Gwen said, ‘Why don’t you go with them, Peg?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Peggy retorted. ‘I’d rather do dishes than plough through heather and ladder all my stockings.’

  The three sisters had plenty to discuss – Rosie had left her house to Gwen, and both Marge and Peggy wanted her to persuade Alistair to come back to London. ‘It would be a waste of time,’ she told them, ‘his shop’s established now, and this is where he wants to be. He was born and brought up in this house, and …’

  ‘Oh, Gwennie!’ Peggy burst out. ‘It would be lovely if all three of us could be together again.’ Emotional tears coming to her eyes, she murmured, ‘I’d better go to bed. See you in the morning.’

  Gwen waited until she heard the upstairs door being closed. ‘She still hasn’t got over Alf and Mum, has she? But I’m glad she’s gone, so I can tell you the bad news at last.’

  A crease furrowed Marge’s smooth forehead. ‘What bad news?’

  ‘Do you remember Ken Partridge giving David a camera?’

  ‘Yes of course, and he took some jolly good snaps.’

  ‘Yes, of all of us … including Ken.’

  It took a minute for the significance of this to sink in. ‘You mean he showed them to Alistair? How awful for you. What did you …?’

  ‘He got it all wrong. He asked David what colour Ken’s hair was, and he’s convinced it was you and Ken …’

  ‘Good Lord, Gwen! Good Lord!’

  ‘I swore to him that you’d never been unfaithful to Dougal …’

  ‘Which was the truth.’ Marge’s smile was a little crooked.

  ‘But he won’t believe it. He’s positive … you and Ken …’

  ‘He’s not likely to tell Dougal, is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, honestly. When we were there for the funerals, he promised me he wouldn’t say anything, but now they’re out together, God knows …’

  ‘He wouldn’t say anything in front of the boys?’

  ‘He’s been so different since he came home from the war, I don’t know what he’ll do.’

  ‘Well, Gwendoline, I’m afraid the only thing we can do is keep our fingers crossed. I doubt if even God would help us now, after the things we did.’

  ‘Oh, Marge,’ Gwen gulped, ‘I don’t know how you can be so calm.’

  ‘Getting in a paddy’s not going to change anything, is it?’

  * * *

  With David pointing out rabbit holes to Nicky, explaining about the lichen on the trees, showing him a badger’s sett, and generally keeping well away from the two men, Alistair decided to take the bull by the horns. It was now … or never! ‘Nicky’s getting to be a nice looking lad,’ he began.

  ‘Aye,’ laughed Dougal, ‘nothing like his father, eh?’

  ‘No, nothing like you,’ Alistair said quietly, then added, ‘but very like his father.’

  Dougal’s face darkened. ‘What the hell d’you mean by that?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think it’s time you knew. His father was a soldier Marge met during the war. He was stationed at Ardley House and they …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, man! You’re mad! Absolutely raving. I was home on leave …’

  Alistair nodded morosely. ‘Round about the right time? What if you were? How long had you been married without having any children? Have you never had doubts?’

  ‘Never. Christ, Ally, I trusted Marge. She wouldn’t have been unfaithful …’

  ‘Wouldn’t she? I’ll have to get David to show you the snaps he took.’

  ‘Photographs won’t prove anything.’

  ‘Wait till you see them.’ Alistair had heard the doubt creeping into Dougal’s voice and recognized it dawning in his eyes. He didn’t relish what he was doing, but it had to be done. No man worth his salt could let his best friend go through life thinking he had a son when he hadn’t. He should be grateful.

  Each wrapped in his own thoughts – Alistair in self-righteousness, Dougal in outraged disbelief and anger – they made the walk back without saying another word, except if either of the boys asked them something.

  * * *

  The minute the men walked in, both wives could tell that something was wrong between them, and when Alistair asked David to bring down his old snaps, Gwen knew that this was it for her. She sought for Marge’s hand to reassure her that she had no need to worry, but when Dougal went to the bathroom and Alistair’s attention was on David, who had brought down the photographs, her sister managed to whisper, ‘Leave all the talking to me, Gwennie.’

  Waiting until Dougal came back, Marge said, brightly, ‘May I see those snaps after you, please? David took them during the war and I’d completely forgotten about them.’

  Gwen held her breath. Dougal’s expression had lightened, but Alistair’s was darker than ever,
and he said, harshly, ‘I’m surprised you forgot about your lover.’

  Marge laughed gaily. ‘My lover? Ken Partridge? He was never my lover. Yes, he came to the cottage nearly every week when he was stationed at Ardley, but only as a friend. He told us about his wife and family, and we told him about you two. And he was ever so good with Leila and David, giving them presents and …’

  Trying to dispel the unpleasantness he could sense but couldn’t understand, David butted in. ‘He taught me how to hold a cricket bat properly, and how to bowl, and …’

  His father turned on him angrily. ‘Stay out of it, David! You don’t know anything about this, so go upstairs and keep Nicky from coming down.’

  The boy blanched and spun round, giving a last appealing glance at his mother before slamming the door behind him, but before she could say anything, Marge, who had been flicking through the photographs, held up the one which had caused all the trouble. ‘Is this what’s bothering you, Alistair?’

  He seemed uncomfortable now. ‘Well, do you see how he’s looking at you? Like you were the only person in the world to him?’

  ‘We were playing the fool for David,’ she laughed. ‘I said something funny and Ken was laughing at me, that’s all.’

  Alistair scowled. ‘That maybe explains the photo, but it doesn’t explain …’ He broke off to take a deep breath. ‘Can you deny that he …’ he jabbed his finger on the shiny black and white card, ‘is … Nicky’s … father?’ He turned desperately to Dougal. ‘Look at it, man. Can’t you see the resemblance? And David says he had ginger hair, as well!’

  Gwen could stand it no longer. ‘That’s enough,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re absolutely right. Ken was Nicky’s father, but it’s not Marge you should be accusing, it’s me.’

  Her husband whipped round to face her, the wounded shock in his eyes tearing at her heart. ‘You? What in God’s name are you saying?’

  Marge stepped in again. ‘Don’t listen to her, Alistair! She’s covering for me, but I admit it! Ken Partridge was my lover!’