Bonfire Memories

by Sally Quilford

  “I agree,” said Cara.

  “Shall we talk about it this weekend?”

  “Oh, I’m going to London with Guy this weekend, sorry.”

  “That’s fine,” said Meredith, looking at them both with the same shrewd eyes as her aunt. “We’ll talk about it when you get back. It won’t need much alteration.”

  People started leaving the chilly village hall, wanting to get home. Actually they wanted to go to the pub, but that was impossible. Peg Bradbourne came out and joined them all.

  “It’s a sad business for Midchester,” she said. It was the first she had spoken all afternoon. Nancy’s death seemed to have hit Peg harder than anyone, except for Cara. “I’ve seen a lot in my time here. Midchester has had more than its fair share of murders, despite it only being a small place. But this …” she shook her head, disbelievingly. “Two people killed in the prime of their lives. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not teenagers or children either. The poor little buggers get blamed for everything around here. There’s a wickedness in Midchester at the moment that goes beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. And yet, I can’t say I haven’t felt it before. I can never quite put my finger on it, but it’s there, eating away at everyone.”

  “You don’t think it was an accident either, do you, Peg?” asked Guy.

  “No, Guy, I don’t. Sammy ran away for some reason a long time ago, leaving the lass he loved behind. Because whatever else anyone might think of him, he’s always loved Nancy. Then he comes back, and within days, he’s dead, and so is she.” She changed moods very quickly and said to Guy and Cara brightly, perhaps too brightly, “Why don’t you both come for tea tomorrow night?”

  “We’re off to London tomorrow,” Guy explained. “We could come and see you when we get back.”

  “Very well, but I want to know everything.”

  “Peg…” Cara threw her arms around her, suddenly afraid that it might be the last time she saw her old friend. Losing Nancy had made her want to cling to all the other people she loved in Midchester. “Do be careful what you say to people about what you know, or what you think you know.”

  “Oh, I haven’t got to this age by being careless, Cara. Don’t you worry about me, my dear.”

  Peg walked off down the path. At the gate, leading to the village hall, she stopped and looked at something on the ground, off to the side of the gate post. She picked it up and put it in her pocket.

  At the same time, Eric Black, Barbara Price, Mrs. Abercrombie and Miss Watson, along with several other villagers, stood watching Peg leave.

  Chapter Twelve

  1966

  I’d barely finished searching Anderson when I heard footsteps approaching. Damn it, why couldn’t he have dropped dead further away from the houses? The path next to the village hall would have been ideal. I could have dragged him back there, but it meant moving out into the open. Even in the fog, I dared not risk it. I made a frantic grab for his notebook and bits of paper and moved as fast as I could.

  I didn’t realise it was her at first, I just knew that someone was coming and that I had to get off the street. I managed to duck down one of the alleys and hide. It was even darker there, so I was well hidden.

  When she was close enough to see through the fog, I had to fight the compulsion to laugh. There was a sort of synchronicity to her being there. Is the gypsy girl going to haunt me forever? Or worse still, is she to be my downfall?

  She’s not a grubby little child anymore. She’s a beautiful young woman, and like many others around here, I’m attracted to her. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t fear her and what she can do to me. I’m being ridiculous. There was no way she could connect Anderson with what happened before. She doesn’t even know him.

  Then the Sullivan man joined her. I was too far away to make out what they were saying to each other.

  When people came out of the back of the houses, I had to keep my head down as I walked past, hoping and praying they wouldn’t recognise me.

  By the time I was able to walk around to the far end of the village and seem as if I’m just arriving with all the other onlookers, the police and ambulance were there and everyone else had gone up to the village hall.

  I managed to keep out of sight, until I could hang around the village hall, waiting for someone to come out. She was there again, the little gypsy girl, and she seemed to think I was Sullivan. That was when I find out that he was searching Anderson’s pockets.

  Why would he do that? Unless he was the one who sent Anderson here…

  Oxford Street was full of late night shoppers when Cara and Guy arrived in London on the Friday afternoon. They had booked into a hotel and then gone straight back out to take in the sights.

  The Christmas lights were already up, giving everything a festive feel. Despite the sadness of the past week, Cara’s spirits lifted. She had never been to London, so was taken by the glamour of it all. The change of scenery had done her good. They walked hand in hand to Soho, which was full of young men and women dressed in the type of fashions of which she could only dream. Though wearing a red sweater, with black a mini skirt, knee high boots and a sheepskin coat, she felt like a country mouse compared to them.

  “You hold your own,” Guy said, as if reading her thoughts. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll take you to the Marquee club. It’s just around the corner.”

  Cara had wanted to visit the Mary Quant shop, but hoped she could save that for another day. If she only went home with one Mary Quant mini-skirt, she would be very happy indeed.

  “Do you know the Marquee club?” Guy asked, as they walked there.

  “Of course I know of it. We do get music magazines in Midchester, you know. It’s supposed to be the best club in London. All the best new bands play there. The Rolling Stones, The Who and loads more.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I’d heard. Let’s hope there’s a good group on tonight.”

  The way the media spoke of the Marquee club and the stars that frequented it, not just as performers but as punters, Cara had expected it to be very plush. Instead it was a jumble of plastic chairs, long tables and grubby looking booths. The carpet had a tendency to stick to their feet as they walked across it. Cara did not like to think about what might have been spilled on it over the years. “The village hall is better equipped than this,” she whispered to Guy as they waited to be served.

  “Snob,” he teased. “I show you the high-life and you’re complaining about the décor. Mind you, in America places like this usually end each night with a police raid.”

  “Really?” Cara half-hoped, half- dreaded that might be the case at the Marquee.

  As it happened, hardly anyone sat on the chairs or at the table. Everyone stood shoulder to shoulder near to the front, nursing their drinks and waiting for the bands to play. Girls in mini-skirts and with no bra under their sheer blouses sidled up to young mods.

  When the music started, Cara forgot all about the décor and just revelled in the music being played. Some of it was a little bit too psychedelic for her, but she loved the rhythm and blues bands. She had never seen a live group before, and had no idea just how exhilarating it could be. Forgetting all about Guy, she instinctively moved to the front and started dancing with all the other spectators.

  When she finally remembered him, she turned around and saw him watching her with a smile on his face. "What?” she mouthed.

  “Nothing,” he mouthed back. He moved towards her and stood behind her with his arms around her waist. He whispered in her ear, “You’re only supposed to dance for me, remember?”

  She turned to him and reached up, pressing her lips against his. The rest of the world drifted away. All she could think about what the taste and feel of him. “Well, then we’d best go somewhere more private,” she suggested, lightly touching his mouth with hers.

  It was cold outside, yet she hardly noticed, as they huddled close together on the way back to the hotel. The air was filled with anticipation. Cara’s longing for him
built up with each passing step.

  They had booked two rooms, but as it turned out, she did not need hers. Guy unlocked the door to his and, taking her by the hand, beckoned her inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hans? Guy Sullivan is Hans Mueller? He won’t recognise me. Not after all these years. What if he does? He’ll connect me to Greta. He’ll realise she came looking for me, even if he does not suspect the reason.

  Is it possible that after all this time my lies are unravelling? I’ve been careful. I’ve stayed in the background, guiding instead of leading. And now it’s cost two more deaths. I don’t care about that idiot Sammy, but I liked Nancy. She had colour whereas most of the villagers are grey Sad that she became a casualty of war. Why couldn’t the gypsy girl have been in the pub instead?

  And then I saw that Peg Bradbourne had found something outside the village hall. I knew it came from Anderson’s notebook. I recognised the size and shape of the paper. It must have fallen out and blown away when I searched him. What does it say? Does it implicate me? Does it mention my name? None of the other notes did. He’d found out about Newcastle and Reginald Crumpler, but that doesn’t matter so much.

  If I have to abandon that sinking ship, I’ll gladly do so. But I can’t get away until I find out what else they know. There can be no danger of anyone coming looking for me.

  I realised it was time to pay Peg Bradbourne a visit. She’s stuck her nose into other people’s business once too often.

  I arrived at her house late at night, when the rest of the village are fast asleep. It’s so easy to get into her little cottage. She doesn’t even lock the back door at night. No one around here does, not even during the war.

  Where would she have put that paper? In her writing desk perhaps? That’s the first place I look, but it’s only full of letters to her sister, and old love letters from a beau who apparently died in the Great War. Then I check the waste paper bin. After all, she might not realise if there’s anything significant on it.

  I was just sorting through the rubbish when she came through the sitting room door.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  Cara woke up with a blissful smile on her face. She rolled over in bed and reached out for Guy, only to find an empty space. She heard the sound of the shower in the bathroom and mischievously thought about joining him when there was a knock at the hotel room door. She was not sure whether or not to answer, so she threw on some clothes and knocked on the bathroom door. After the night before, she realised she could have just walked in, but somehow the visitor at the door had made her feel shy about the whole situation.

  “There’s somebody at the door,” she said, knocking on the bathroom door.

  “Can you get it?” he called back.

  “Telegram for Mr. Sullivan,” said the bellboy when Cara had answered. If he was shocked to find her there, good manners prevented him from showing it.

  She found some change in her purse and gave it to him, wondering if she should give more, given the prestige of the hotel. He thanked her and left.

  “You’ve got a telegram,” she called through the door. The shower stopped, and she heard movement, presumably as Guy dried himself.

  “What does it say?”

  “You want me to read it?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Okay.” Cara opened the telegram. As she read the contents, her heart plummeted in her chest. She struggled to read it in calm tones. “It says, Have come to Midchester. Stop. Need to see you urgently. Stop. All my love. Stop.”

  The bathroom door flung open and Guy, wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, all but snatched the telegram from her. He read it, almost as if he thought Cara might have left something out. “We’ll have to go back as soon as we’ve seen this Haxby man,” he said to Cara in business-like tones. “You go and get ready, and I’ll call and ask him to meet us earlier.”

  “Okay.” Cara did not know what else to say. It seemed that she was being dismissed. “I’ll get out of your way,” she added, through gritted teeth. She went to get the rest of her clothes. They seemed to be mocking her by the way they were strewn all over the floor. She snatched them up, wanting this humiliating moment to be over.

  As she left the room, she looked at him, willing him to say something to her to show that he was still as interested in her as he had been when she was in his bed. He was too engrossed in reading the telegram to notice her.

  The atmosphere as they walked through London to meet Richard Haxby was very different to the one of the night before. A few times Guy went to take Cara’s hand but she pulled away. She had made a fool of herself over one man. She would not do it again over Guy Sullivan.

  She had to accept things for what they were. It was nothing more than a one night stand, and whilst she did not like to think of herself as that type of girl, it was obviously all that Guy wanted. He probably saw her as a way of killing time until he was back with Selina Cartier or whoever it was who had sent him the telegram. She had to behave as though it did not matter to her.

  So much for saying that he was different to Tony Weston. Perhaps, in the end, all men were exactly the same.

  Richard Haxby’s office was in a discreet mansion near to the Houses of Parliament. Everything about the place said secret service. Guy made small talk as they waited, but Cara only answered him in monosyllables.

  They were shown into Haxby’s office, and Cara saw that everything about him said secret service too. He was a very handsome man, in his forties.

  “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Sullivan. And you, Miss?”

  “Baker. Cara Baker.” She stifled a nervous laugh when she realised she had just introduced herself in the same way as James Bond.

  Richard Haxby grinned. “It’s rather contagious, isn’t it?” he quipped.

  Cara thought that in different circumstances she could really fancy Richard Haxby. If she had not so stupidly gone and fallen in love with Guy Sullivan. At that realisation, she had to suppress a cry of agony. Luckily, neither Guy nor Haxby noticed.

  “Haxby?” Guy raised an eyebrow. “Any relation to James Haxby, the adventurer?”

  “Yes, he’s my father.”

  “I’ve read about him,” said Cara. “He and your mother have had some thrilling adventures.”

  “And they haven’t stopped, despite my best efforts to get them both to slow down,” said Haxby. “Now, about the reason you came to see me.”

  “I think Reverend Cunningham filled you in on all the details.”

  “He did indeed.” Haxby turned to Cara as if an explanation were needed. “Andrew and I were at university together, studying theology. I decided that being a vicar wasn’t for me, so here I am. Though having met Andrew’s wife, I’m kicking myself.”

  “She is very lovely,” said Cara. “She’s a lovely person too.”

  “Yes, I agree. Sorry,” he said to Guy. “I looked into our files from that time, but any spies that were imprisoned or hanged at that time were named. There was no one, even amongst those named, matching your sister’s description. It’s odd though.”

  “What is?” asked Guy.

  “There were rumours that someone was spying in that area. A man called Professor Solomon was arrested during the war, but very quickly cleared. It turned out that some local postman had a grudge against the American soldiers in the area. Oh, what was his name?” Haxby glanced through his notes.

  “Herbie Potter,” Cara said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s my stepfather,” she told Haxby, ignoring Guy’s shocked glance in her direction. “His girlfriend run off with an American airman and got pregnant. He knows what he did was silly.”

  “People do strange things for love,” said Haxby, kindly. “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you, Miss Baker.

  “It’s okay. So that was the only time you thought there was a spy in Midchester?”

  “No, I was just getting to that. There have been rumours that someone was there, deeply undercover, but we’ve
never found him. There were also a few dodgy five pound notes circulating for a while. We never tracked down the culprits, but we do know from experience that German spies often used forged currency. It was a way of hitting at morale, not to mention the economy.”

  “What about Eric Black?” asked Guy. “He’s a fake if ever I saw one. I don’t recognise him as my brother in law, but he could be. He’s the right age.”

  Haxby shook his head. “We know all about Mr. Black. We’ve had our eye on him for a while. He’s a fake alright. He claims to have come from Newcastle, where he was a big businessman. The bit about Newcastle is true, but Eric Black began his working life as a housebreaker by the name of Reginald Crumpler. His trick was to break into houses during the blackout, when everyone else was safely inside their Anderson shelter. He did some time, and when he left prison he fell out of sight for a while. Our guess is that he hid some of his ill-gotten gains and used them to set up as a respectable businessman in Midchester. He thinks he’s going to parliament, but I can assure you that’s not going to happen. He’ll be staying where he can’t do any harm.”

  “So if the hanged woman isn’t my sister, what happened to her?” said Guy. It was a rhetorical question, but he sounded so unhappy that for a moment Cara forgot to be angry with him. She put her hand on his arm. He covered it with his.

  “I did look into your brother-in-law’s history,” said Haxby. “His name was Frederick Schwartz, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “I’m sorry to say that he died during the Africa campaign. His name is listed amongst the dead, so it’s very unlikely he got away from there and became a spy in Midchester.”

  “Poor Brigitte,” said Guy. “Whatever can I tell her? Her mother abandoned her, and never came home, and now we know her father is dead.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news,” said Haxby. “But your sister was not a spy. I hope that gives you some comfort.”