Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

“Good lord,” he said, “the Tibbetts. What brings you here, eh? Nice to see you. Hope Barbara’s been entertaining you adequately. What about poor old Lofty—shocking business, wasn’t it? Can’t think what made him do it. You never can tell, can you?” He rubbed his large hands together in front of the fire, and began to hold forth about his morning’s bag of six pigeons and a hare. Then he said, “Well, we don’t want to stay indoors, do we, eh, Blandish? What about a quick flip around the park? Who’s game?”

  There was no escape. When Emmy pleaded the unsuitability of her shoes, Vere brushed the objection aside. “Of course you can’t go out in those civilian shoes,” he said, “but we’ve plenty of boots for you. Come along to the cloakroom, both of you. We’ll fix you up in no time.”

  He led the way to a large walk-in closet in the hall. Inside was a jumble of boots, walking sticks, dog collars, old raincoats, and other characteristic impedimenta.

  “Now, what’s your size, Blandish? Five? Hope we’ve got some small enough. You’re a number nine, aren’t you, Henry old scout? Here. Catch!”

  Vere swung around and threw a pair of mud-caked Wellingtons to Henry. It was then that Emmy saw the flying boots. They were ancient and dusty, but they stood just inside the door, like new arrivals.

  “Oh, Vere,” she said, “you’ve still got your old R.A.F. boots. Weren’t they marvelous? We W.A.A.F.’s always tried to get hold of a pair, even if it did mean dead men’s shoes. They were quite a status symbol.”

  Vere looked puzzled. “Flying boots? Good lord, no. Lost mine years ago. I…” He stopped as he saw the black leather boots, with their short sheepskin linings, standing at his feet. “What on earth…?”

  From the hall Barbara’s voice said, “I found them, darling. In that old trunk in the attic. I thought they might be useful.”

  “Oh, did you?” Vere sounded a little put out. Then he said, “Much too hot for a day like this. Might be able to wear them in the winter sometimes.” He bent down and patted the boots, as if they had been a couple of faithful dogs. “Long time since I’ve seen these old jokers. But we went through a lot together.” He picked up the boots and dumped them at the back of the pile. “Now, let’s see. Boots, size five, W.A.A.F. officer for the use of…”

  Emmy was soon fitted up, and the three of them were walking through the damp muddiness of the park under sodden brown leaves which fell silently and heavily, like tears. Emmy noticed, with some envy, that it was taken for granted that Barbara should remain in the house.

  On their return Vere went into the kitchen, where Barbara was making tea, leaving Henry and Emmy to change their shoes and wash their hands. They were warming themselves by the drawing-room fire when Vere came in. He looked extremely upset.

  “Barbara has just told me the most extraordinary thing, Tibbett,” he said. “It seems that you have some idea that Lofty was murdered.” He sounded not only shaken but frightened.

  “She shouldn’t have told you,” said Henry, “but I suppose she thought that telling you wouldn’t count. For God’s sake, keep it to yourself. Yes—it’s true. But as I explained to your wife, it’s only a private suspicion of my own.”

  Henry went on to ask Vere about his movements on Saturday night, and received a prompt confirmation of what Barbara had said. Old Boys’ Dinner—jolly good show…one of the last to leave…didn’t get home till after two—Babs a bit shirty about it…

  “And the solicitor’s letter written to Parker on your instructions?”

  “I suppose you found that,” said Vere. “It was just a routine precaution. I intended to make sure Barbara didn’t expose herself to the risk of a libel suit. You know what some people are like—ready to bleed the last sixpence out of an innocent amateur like Babs.”

  “Had you anyone particular in mind?”

  “In mind for what?”

  “Was there anyone whom you suspected might bring such an action?”

  Vere laughed shortly. “Any of them, I should think,” he said. “Baggot obviously cares for nothing but money; Price is a shark in business, for all his baby-faced look; Annie Day is as hard as nails and has an impecunious husband and a growing family; and as for Sammy—well—we all know him. And then there’s Beau’s father.”

  “The Reverend Sidney,” said Henry.

  “You know him?” Vere was surprised.

  “No. I’ve never met him,” said Henry truthfully.

  “Nor have I.” Vere frowned. “But you never know. I don’t know how much he—that is to say…”

  “How much he knew?” Henry completed the sentence softly.

  There was a silence. Then Vere said heartily, “My dear old sleuth, who knows how much anybody knows about anything? Anyhow, I can assure you that the letter from old Pringle had no sinister significance. Just a routine check to safeguard the old bank balance.” He threw another log on to the fire. “This is a nasty business. If Lofty really was done in, I mean. I hope you’ll be able to keep Babs out of it.”

  “That’s up to you,” said Henry.

  “To me?”

  “Yes. You must get her to drop this book idea.”

  Vere looked surprised and displeased. “You don’t mean that she intends to go on with it, after this?”

  “She seems keener than ever,” said Henry.

  “God Almighty,” said Vere. “Well, I’ll do what I can.”

  After tea Henry and Emmy said their good-byes and went to collect their coats. Barbara saw them to the door. Vere did not. As they passed the open drawing-room door, Henry noticed that Vere was standing beside the small table gazing broodingly at the smiling photograph of Beau Guest.

  Henry and Emmy did not talk much on the drive to Upper Charwood. Emmy, Henry thought, was quieter and seemed more distressed than at any time since Lofty’s death. At last, with as much tact as he could muster, he asked her why this should be.

  Emmy was staring straight ahead through the rainy windshield. “It’s those bloody boots,” she said.

  “You mean Vere’s flying boots?”

  “They weren’t Vere’s,” said Emmy. “I saw the name written inside them. They were Beau’s.”

  Henry did not take his eyes off the road. Softly he said, “How very interesting.”

  “I don’t know about interesting,” said Emmy. “I found it upsetting—that photograph and the boots and—what in heaven’s name is Barbara doing, Henry?”

  “I thought you had explained that to me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You advanced the theory that she is suffering from a guilt complex. I think you are probably right.”

  “Oh, do you?” said Emmy uneasily.

  They drove on in silence.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE DOOR OF THE WHITEWASHED bungalow opened tentatively in answer to Henry’s ring.

  “Inspector Tibbett?” Emmy hardly recognized the voice. It was that of a tired old man.

  “Yes. You must be Mr. Guest. I think you know my wife.”

  The door opened wider. The Reverend Sidney was visible now, dressed in ancient gray flannels and a sports coat, which made an incongruous frame for his white dog-collar. “Your…? You never told me she was your wife. When you telephoned…”

  “I told you I was coming here in my official capacity, and I’m afraid that’s true,” said Henry. A gleam of hope had appeared in the old man’s eyes, but now it died. “But since my wife has already made your acquaintance…”

  “You’d better come in,” said Sidney Guest despondently.

  As he led the way to the cheerless drawing room, he paused to add, over his shoulder, “I’m surprised, all the same, Inspector. Very irregular, I should have thought, bringing your wife on an official visit.” Before Henry could reply, they had reached the drawing room. Guest motioned them to sit down and did the same himself. Then he said, “Well, out with it. What is it this time? How much?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t beat about the bush, young man.” The fire was
coming back into the Reverend Sidney’s voice. “I shall allege inadequate supervision, of course. You understand that.”

  “Mr. Guest,” said Henry, “I think you’re making a mistake. I believe that my wife wrote you a letter…”

  Guest looked completely bewildered. “What has that got to do with it? You can’t have come about that…”

  “I have, in an indirect way,” said Henry. “You remember that my wife came to see you last week in connection with a proposed biography of your son…”

  “That’s right. And then wrote to say that the whole thing was off, which I consider a very sensible decision.” The Reverend Sidney was looking a lot chirpier now, sitting back and filling his pipe. He added, addressing Emmy, “I presume that means that you and your colleague will not be visiting me. You may congratulate him from me on having found something better to do with his time than…”

  Henry said, “There is no question of congratulating Mr. Parker, I am afraid. Apparently my wife did not explain the circumstances fully to you. The book is off because Mr. Parker, who should have written it, is dead.”

  For a moment the Reverend Sidney looked too surprised for speech. Then he said, “What an extraordinary thing. Dead? But I gathered that he was a contemporary of Alan’s. He must have been very young.”

  “In his forties,” said Henry.

  “A motor car accident, I suppose. Passion for speed, like all these young lunatics. I trust he did not maim any innocent bystanders.”

  “It was not a motor accident,” said Henry, and found that he was speaking a little more loudly than he had intended. “Parker was found dead at his home. Apparently he had committed suicide.”

  This produced an unexpected reaction. The Reverend Sidney snorted in disgust. “Ha! Typical! Typical of the younger generation. No backbone, no moral fiber. Look at Alan. Exactly the same. Suicide. Oh, I know the official announcement said missing, but I know very well what happened. As soon as things got just a little bit difficult he took the easy way out, with absolutely no consideration for other people. And apparently his friend has turned out to be exactly the same.”

  “For what it is worth,” said Henry, hoping he did not sound as irritated as he felt, “I believe that Charles Parker was a courageous, talented, and unfortunate man. However, that is beside the point. I am trying to establish exactly how and why he died, and I hope that you can help me.”

  “I? My dear sir, what a bizarre idea. I never met the man. Haven’t been to London in months.”

  “You knew his name and address…”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “The name and address were on that questionnaire that I left with you, Mr. Guest,” Emmy put in.

  “Ha! A lot of stupid and impertinent questions. I burned it as soon as you left the house.”

  “So you did look at it?”

  “Certainly I didn’t. Put it in the fire.”

  “All the same,” said Henry, “you might just tell me what you were doing last Saturday night between seven and eleven.”

  The Reverend Sidney stood up, majestically. “I was eating my modest supper and going quietly to bed,” he said. “I took early Communion service at Snettle on Sunday morning. The rector is an elderly man and is suffering from a cold in the head. There. Does that satisfy you? If so, you will kindly leave my house. And I would like to put it on record that I consider the whole affair most irregular. If I am pestered again, I shall write to your superiors, my Member of Parliament, and the editor of the Times. Good day to you!”

  As they got into the car, Henry said, “Phew!” and Emmy said, “I did warn you.”

  “It’s very interesting, all the same,” Henry remarked, as he started the engine. He revved up, and then added, indicating a rusty wire fence on their right, “I suppose that must be R.A.F. Dymfield.”

  “Yes, it must be. As the Reverend Sidney said, this is the tail end of one of the runways.”

  “Do you think you could locate the main entrance for me? I’d like to take a look at it.”

  “I think I can find it,” said Emmy. “But it’ll all be bolted and barred. We won’t be able to get in.”

  Twice Henry took a wrong turn down a narrow lane dripping in the autumn rain, but eventually they pulled up beside an ancient double gate, made of metal and topped with rusty barbed wire. A broken-down hut, still bearing traces of camouflage paint, was all that remained of the Guardroom. Henry and Emmy climbed out of the car and peered through the railings. In the deepening dusk they could see a concrete road, weeds sprouting from every interstice, running bleakly to nowhere. A few hangars still stood, with yawning gaps in their corrugated iron walls giving glimpses of stark girders. There were several overgrown Nissen huts whose broken doors were daubed with the scrawls of young trespassers; and a couple of grassy mounds, from which corners of dirty concrete emerged like bones, were identifiable as old air-raid shelters. A few broken and weather-beaten signs gave warning of “No Admittance” or “Air Ministry Property,” while others, older still, bore cryptic markings such as “A,” “B,” or “C,” accompanied by faintly distinguishable arrows. In the damp twilight the impression of desolation was overwhelming.

  Emmy shivered. It was impossible to believe that it was through this very gate that Beau had driven her, in the camouflaged station wagon, for her first flight.

  “You’re very quiet, Blandish.”

  “Am I, sir?”

  “This is your first flip, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excited?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Not nervous?”

  “Nervous?”

  “You’ll be okay with old Vere. Safe as a bloody house. Not like some of us. So just relax and do what he tells you, and you’ll find it’s a piece of cake. What are you laughing at?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir. It’s just that—well—that you should think I was frightened. Do you know, I’ve spent the last year doing nothing except look forward to this moment, when I could actually get into the air…”

  “Sorry I insulted you, little Blandish. I didn’t know you felt so strongly.”

  “Well, I do—sir.”

  “For God’s sake, do you have to call me ‘sir’ all the time? Yes, I suppose you do. Silly, isn’t it? Well, here we are. Out you get. Oh, by the way, Blandish…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes were blue?”

  “But they’re not, sir.”

  “Aren’t they? Let me have a look…”

  “I’d better go, sir. Squadron Leader Prendergast will be…”

  “You funny child. I won’t eat you. All right, run along now. And come to my office when you get back. I shall want a full report.”

  “Oh, yes—sir.”

  “Good luck, Blandish.”

  “Let’s go home,” said Emmy to Henry. “Sammy was quite right. He said it would only depress us.”

  “Hm,” said Henry. He was peering through the window of the old Guardroom. “I suppose records were kept of everybody who came and went. And not a hope in hell of finding them now.”

  “After all these years? Of course not. Let’s go home.”

  They drove back to London in almost unbroken silence.

  Once Henry said, “Isn’t it a bit strange that Barbara should have Beau’s boots?”

  And Emmy replied briskly, “Not at all. I had a pair myself.”

  “Whose?”

  “I don’t know. Some poor type who’d had it, I suppose.”

  As they drew up outside the converted Victorian house in Chelsea where they lived, Henry said, “I shall have to go down again and take a proper look at Dymfield. I’ll go to the Air Ministry for permission.”

  Emmy said nothing.

  “I hope you’ll come with me,” Henry added. “It would be a great help. But of course, if you feel…”

  Emmy turned to him and smiled. “Of course I’ll come, darling,” she said.

 
The following morning Henry went to his office and spent some time studying the documents found in Parker’s rooms. The letter from Messrs. Pringle, Pringle, Pringle and Sprout told him no more than he already knew. Annie’s letter was rather livelier:

  Lofty, you blithering idiot, what in hell’s name do you think you’re up to? It’s bad enough for you to go muckraking, but it’s a really lousy trick to drag poor little Blandish into it. I’m warning you, you nasty low-down tyke. Drop this nonsense now, or else…

  Annie Meadowes

  Henry read it several times. A threatening letter? Surely not. This was the sort of affectionate abuse current between close friends or members of the same family. All the same, it was fairly clear that Annie knew more than she would say.

  James Baggot’s letter was also true to form. He was evidently more interested in the manuscript than he wished Lofty to realize. Henry had the impression that while making a bid to get it on the cheap he would have been prepared to go to quite a high price if pressed.

  Lastly, Henry took a look at the questionnaire prepared by Lofty Parker and filled in by Sammy Smith, the only person, Henry reflected, who had done so.

  The questionnaire was mimeographed inexpertly. It started with no superscription.

  Please answer the following questions in as much detail as possible and return to C. Parker, 86 Nisbet Road, Earl’s Court, S.W.5.

  1. When and where did you first meet Beau Guest?

  2. What was your impression of him?

  3. What are the dates of your service at Dymfield?

  4. What was your job there?

  5. Give as detailed an account as possible of the evening Beau died, including your own movements and those of other people, when you last saw Beau, etc.

  Sammy Smith had not attempted to write his answers on the form. A piece of paper was pinned to the questionnaire, hand-written in a small, neat hand in a bright green ballpoint pen.

  I met Beau at R.A.F. Falconfield in 1941. I hated his guts, although on reflection this was probably Barbara’s fault. My impression of the Guests was that I’d never met such a conceited, line-shooting, name-dropping, and generally bloodstained couple in my life. Soon after Guest’s arrival I was grounded, owing to senility. I was awaiting posting to the Controllers’ Training Course when he crashed. It would be quite untrue to say I was heartbroken about his accident. It made me feel there was justice in the world after all. Sorry about it, Lofty old scout, but that’s the truth.