Dead of Winter

by Rennie Airth

  Mary shook the blanket she was holding vigorously and then paused to look up at the sky through the tall sash window. The clouds seemed a trifle lower and still heavy with promise. She wondered where Freddie and Evie had got to. The house had been empty when she’d returned, cheeks flushed red from her walk, but forsaking the warmth of the kitchen where the old iron range was kept burning day and night, she had gone upstairs where it was always colder, to start preparing the room that would be Bess’s when she came to them for Christmas.

  The house wasn’t an easy one to manage. Old and rambling, it was an uneasy mix between the farm it had started out as and the country villa it had become thanks to additions made in the last century. These Victorian touches had given it a somewhat gloomy aspect seen from the front, where high eaves overlooked an elaborate garden now run wild. At the rear, however, the less formal surroundings of the stable yard and the stalls behind it made for a more cheerful picture, particularly now that it had become Freddie’s playground, and Mary never tired of watching her small son as he scampered about the cobbles.

  Discovering on their arrival that the house was without a central heating system – the uncle from whom she had inherited it had spent his winters in the south of France – Mary had decided at the onset of the cold weather to restrict their living quarters to as few rooms as possible. Apart from the kitchen, where an oak table with matching chairs provided ample space for family meals, and where by far the greater part of her time was spent, the only room she had made use of downstairs was a small sitting-room reached via a passage that ran the length of the house, where she and Evie would sit together in the evening listening to the wireless while they read or sewed. She had abandoned the spacious drawing-room beyond it completely, finding it cold even in late summer; likewise the dining-room that lay on the other side of the kitchen at the far end of the passage.

  Upstairs there were six bedrooms, two of which were occupied by Mary and Evie, while Freddie was accommodated in what must have been a dressing-room adjoining his nanny’s living quarters. Luckily the single bathroom still supplied hot water, thanks to a wood-burning furnace in the basement whose mysteries Hodge had explained to Mary once he was assured that her unexpected arrival at the Grange held no threat to himself.

  Again it was Bess who had come to her aid when Mary found her initial advances to the elderly couple rebuffed. Employed by her uncle during his lifetime, they had been left to take care of the house after his death.

  ‘Old Hodge is afraid you’ll put a spanner in his works,’ she had explained with a chuckle. ‘Don’t forget, he’s been lord of the manor for the past few years. Monarch of all he surveys. He keeps two cows in the stalls there, as you’ve probably noticed, besides his dray horse, and raises porkers in the pigsties. What’s more he and Mrs H have taken over the old kitchen garden. They do a thriving business at the village market and he’s wondering if they’ll be allowed to continue.’

  ‘Well, he needn’t,’ Mary had protested. ‘I’m perfectly happy for things to go on as they are.’

  ‘I should tell him that then, and also offer to buy milk and cheese off him and a side of bacon next time he slaughters one of his pigs. Chances are he’ll offer them to you for nothing, which strictly speaking he ought to, seeing they’re your facilities he’s using. The important thing is to make the gesture.’

  Mary had wasted no time in following this advice, with the result that her relations with the couple had improved to the point where Mrs H now came in three mornings a week to help with the housework while her gnarled husband, unasked, delivered fresh milk and butter, as well as vegetables from the garden, to their doorstep, assuring Mary meantime that he was ready to help with any problems that might arise.

  Chief among these was the amount of wood needed to keep them warm, and here Hodge had proved his value, supplying them with logs gleaned from the woodland that was part of the twenty or so acres that went with the house. Mary herself had become adept at chopping up these large pieces into smaller sections for use in the stove, though not nearly as skilful as Bess, who wielded an axe and saw with all the aplomb of a lumberjack and who apparently liked nothing better than to round off her working days with half an hour of brisk exercise by the woodpile in the yard.

  She had seemed happy, too, to join with Mary in picking out a few acceptable items of furniture from among the mass of heavy, ornate pieces with which the house was stuffed. Together they had rummaged through the cold, empty rooms and the attic above, accompanied always by Freddie, who had enjoyed these expeditions. A man of some means – and as far as Mary could remember, one little inclined towards work of any kind – the uncle who had left her the house, and whom she had barely known, had spent much of his life abroad. Not an explorer exactly, rather a wanderer, he had accumulated a bizarre collection of souvenirs from his travels: tiger-skins and hookahs from India; puppets from the Indonesian archipelago; Maori carvings and other totems that hailed from the South Sea islands. Some they had discovered hanging on the walls, others relegated to the attic or the basement. A Red Indian headdress found hanging on a hook in what had once been the gun-room had been appropriated by Freddie and now decorated the wall above his bed. His attempt to take possession of a Zulu shield and assegai that came to light in the attic, however, had been blocked by Mary and his pleas had moved her only so far as to agree to allow the objects to be mounted on the wall in the sittingroom well out of reach of his eager hands.

  Having shaken out the bedclothes, she left the bed stripped to air and went downstairs to the warm kitchen, where a stew made of scrag ends, the only meat available in the butcher’s that week, had been simmering on the iron range all morning, and where Hodge’s wife – known to all as Mrs H – was busy peeling potatoes and chopping up carrots and parsnips to add to the pot. A cheerful woman with a face as red as a lobster, she’d become a great favourite of Freddie’s once he’d discovered she had a glass eye.

  ‘There’ll be snow before the day’s out,’ she remarked to Mary. ‘You’ll see. And once it starts it’ll go on. That’s what they say.’

  The topic had been much discussed between them, Mary’s romantic wish for a white-clad countryside countered by Mrs H’s countrywoman’s dislike of the stuff because of the disruption it brought to everyday life, a dislike tempered now by her realization of how much it would mean to Freddie. She had had two sons herself, she had told Mary, both killed in the last war, and within only a few weeks of one another, a tear rolling down her cheek from one eye as she spoke, while the other had remained fixed and staring.

  Having lingered for a moment longer to inspect her stew and give it a stir and a cupful of water, Mary went to the other end of the room, where the latest proof of Ezra Hodge’s now well-established benevolence towards her household was on display in the shape of a Christmas tree. A week earlier the old boy had knocked on the kitchen door and presented her with the object, which he had dragged from his cart.

  ‘Spotted it in Foley’s Copse a month ago,’ he had said, referring to a small wood at the edge of the property, his weathered countenance split by a toothless grin. ‘Been keeping an eye on it.’

  Together he and Mary had filled a wooden tub unearthed from a pile of junk in the barn with soil and set up the tree in a corner of the kitchen. Later that same afternoon, when Freddie had returned from a walk with Evie to the neighbouring MacGregor farm, he had found his mother down on her knees stringing fairy lights on the pliant branches and had watched open-mouthed as she crawled behind the tree to plug the set in and then sat back on her heels with a sigh.

  ‘I noticed these in a box when we were going through the attic,’ she told them both. ‘I’ve no idea if they still work.’ (A small fib; she had already tested the circuit.) ‘Freddie, why don’t you switch them on and we’ll find out.’

  Holding his breath, eyes popping with suppressed excitement, her son had found his way under the branches to the switch and a moment later, like magic, the score of brightly coloured
bulbs had come alight. Red, blue and gold, they had twinkled amidst the branches while the little boy gazed in wonder at the sight.

  Further embellishments had since been added to the tree, thanks to Bess, who had produced several yards of silver string to drape on the green branches and an angel with hands folded in prayer to perch on top. But although Mary loved seeing it lit up, she was conscious of the need to save electricity and only turned on the switch after dark.

  Pausing for a moment to set the angel straight, she went to a door beside the tree which gave access to the cellar beneath the kitchen. Steep steps led down into darkness, but there was a light at the top, and, having switched it on, she descended to the dank depths and, before pursuing the mission that had brought her there, attended first to a task that by now was almost second nature: checking the woodfired furnace that occupied a corner of the basement to see if it needed feeding. Maintaining a supply of hot water for the house was one of her principal worries: both the furnace and the water tank above it were relics of an earlier age and Mary lived in dread that one or the other, or perhaps both, would fail, leaving the household deprived of this basic amenity.

  Relieved, as always, to find all well, and having added some logs to the fiery mass within, she turned to scan the cellar’s varied contents, which included old wine racks, discarded pieces of furniture and crates of books too mouldy to put in shelves but which Mary hadn’t had the heart to throw out. She had not found the item she was searching for when she noticed that the door which gave access to the yard had been left unlocked yet again. The culprit was undoubtedly her son, who, though he’d been told countless times not to play down there, persisted in exploring the stored rubbish whenever he got the chance, safe in the knowledge that a swift escape was always possible should his presence be detected.

  Having rebolted the door for the umpteenth time – and reminding herself to speak to Freddie yet again – Mary resumed her search and almost at once spotted what she was looking for: a full-length mirror that was standing propped against the wall beside an empty wine rack. Grasping hold of the glass on either side, she retraced her steps and ascended to the kitchen, pausing at the top to switch out the light and delaying a few seconds more when she saw her own reflection close up: her brown eyes (which Mary secretly had always thought of as her best feature) now showing the first faint creases at the corners that one day – one day all too soon – would turn into crow’s feet; her cheeks still unmarked by age but grown thinner and browner these past months, a development she ascribed to the healthy outdoor life she’d been living, and last of all her hair, which she hardly dared look at. Deprived of the services of a beauty salon – the nearest one was in Petersfield – she’d been forced to rely on the combined efforts of Bess and Evie to keep her thick brown hair trimmed and manageable, and though they had done their best (she was sure) the results had not been happy, and for several days after each barbering session Mary had gone around feeling like a shorn sheep. She wondered what Peter would say if he saw her: she wondered what he would feel when they met again after so long. (It was more than two years now since he’d been posted abroad with his regiment.) Would they have to get to know each other again? Would something have been lost between them? Shuddering at the horrid thought, she thrust it from her mind.

  The mirror was destined for Bess’s room, which for some reason was lacking one, but as Mary reached the top of the stairs with her burden and stepped into the kitchen she heard the creak of wheels outside and saw through the window above the sink that Hodge’s cart, drawn by his old dray, had appeared in the yard and was moving slowly across the cobbles. The mystery of Freddie’s whereabouts was solved at the same moment; she spied her son sitting perched on the driver’s seat beside its owner, holding the reins while Evie, buttoned up in her coat and with a woollen shawl shielding her head and ears, walked alongside them.

  ‘Keep an eye on this, would you, Mrs H?’

  Leaving the mirror propped against the sink, Mary went outside into the freezing afternoon air. She waved to Freddie, but he gave no sign of seeing her, being far too occupied with managing the reins. Hodge, however, lifted his cap in a salute.

  ‘Lad’s getting the idea,’ he called out.

  Evie waved her free hand. She was carrying a basket of pine cones from the wood, where they must have gone with Hodge, and Mary watched as she took off her shawl, shaking her head and letting her red hair fall free; smiling as she did so. It seemed the talk they had had that morning had lifted her spirits, and thinking over the events of the past few weeks Mary thought she understood better now how the girl’s worries must have been accumulating until they reached the point where she felt the need to share them. She walked across the yard to join them, smiling herself as she saw Freddie, with his mentor’s help, bring the cart to a stop. Still bubbling with pleasure as his feat, he sprang off the seat into his mother’s arms.

  ‘Did you see me, Mummy? Did you see me?’

  Before Mary could reply, the clip-clop of trotting hoofs sounded from the lane outside and next moment Bess swept into the yard, the wheels of her trap rattling on the uneven cobbles.

  ‘Whoa, Pickles!’

  She pulled back on the reins, drawing to a halt beside the cart.

  ‘Just the man I’m looking for.’ She peered down at Freddie. ‘I’ve got a parcel in the back for you all the way from Canada. I wonder what’s in it.’

  Turning, she hoisted up the package from the bed of the trap and lowered it into his waiting arms.

  ‘Careful! It’s heavy.’

  Bundled up like a parcel himself in a tweed coat and scarf, Freddie’s short arms offered little in the way of purchase, but somehow he managed to hang on to the precious object, and ignoring his mother’s offer to take it from him he turned and set off on a weaving path towards the kitchen door. Evie hurried after him, still clutching her basket of pine cones, ready to catch the package if it fell.

  ‘Hodge, thank you for all this lovely wood.’ Mary turned to the old man, who had climbed down from his seat and was starting to unload the logs from the back of the cart. Here, let me help you with those.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry, Missus. I can manage.’

  Gnarled and gnome-like though he was – Mary could only guess at his age, but she thought he must be seventy at least – Ezra Hodge still possessed surprising strength, and it took him only a few minutes to haul the logs he’d brought out of the cart and carry them to the stall that served as a woodshed. Bess, meanwhile, had jumped down from the trap and she shooed Mary back towards the house.

  ‘You’ll catch your death of cold standing out here without a coat.’

  ‘It’s freezing, isn’t it.’ Mary hugged her elbows as she obeyed, turning to go back to the kitchen. ‘But I love it here in the country. I’m so pleased we’re not in London. It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas. I feel it in my bones.’

  And just then, as she spoke, she felt a touch light as a feather on her cheek, and looking up she saw that the air was filled with spiralling shapes, countless numbers of them, drifting down in their hundreds from the low clouds above.

  ‘Freddie … Freddie …’ She called to her son. ‘Come outside. It’s starting to snow.’

  20

  ‘DAMN IT!’

  Bennett stood with his hands thrust in his pockets looking out of his office window over the Embankment and the muddy Thames beyond. Not that there was much to see. Snow had been falling since early that morning and the spiralling flakes blurred the buildings on the farther bank to faint outlines in the gathering dusk.

  ‘It’s frustrating, isn’t it? I thought after Madden’s stroke of good fortune we’d get on to him quickly. So did the commissioner. He asked this morning whether we were doing everything we could. Pointed out that the newspapers were asking the same question, though less politely. And they only know about Wapping.’

  He looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Well, Angus – what should I tell him?’

&n
bsp; Sinclair muttered to himself. He shifted in his chair, wincing. His gout was playing up again and he was beginning to suspect there might be a psychological element to his malady. The pain in his toe seemed to wax and wane according to the progress being made in the investigation, and that day it was feeling particularly tender.

  ‘Firstly, it’s kind of you to call it a stroke of good fortune, sir. But as I’ve already admitted, John made a connection I should have made myself. Right from the start we were looking for a link between Alfie Meeks and this killer, and his father’s death was the one event in his past that might have explained it. If I’d realized that myself and acted sooner we might have had Ash in custody by now. By all means pass that along to the commissioner. If he wants a sacrificial victim I’m ready to offer him my head. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to think I’m too old for this job.’

  ‘Now, now, Angus …’ Bennett spoke soothingly. ‘There’s no need to take this personally.’

  Billy Styles, who was sitting in a chair beside Sinclair, eyed his chief with concern. He and Cook had been invited to join in what amounted to a council-of-war in the assistant commissioner’s office, and he could see from Lofty’s expression that he, too, didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken.

  ‘It’s no more than the truth, sir. To use a sporting metaphor, I took my eye off the ball and we’ve paid for it as a result.’

  The chief inspector’s regret was heartfelt. The discoveries made in the past thirty-six hours – the span of time that had elapsed since Madden had rung him late in the evening to recount what he’d learned from Nelly Stover’s lips – had left him burdened with a sense of what might have been had he acted sooner.

  The search, begun in earnest the following morning, had seemed at first to promise success. Although a man of Ash’s age would have been too old for military call-up – Sinclair calculated their quarry must be in his late forties by now – he would still have been liable for national service of some kind, and the chief inspector had ordered a check made of all Civil Defence rolls in the capital, his reasoning being that if Ash’s aim on returning to Britain had been to avoid notice he almost certainly would have abided by the rules and regulations.