‘I know that,’ replied Sally witheringly. ‘I’m only ‘tending. Do you like my plates? I’ve got to have leaf plates ’cos I haven’t got a proper dollies’ tea-set.’
‘I’d rather have leaves,’ said Haldean, sitting on the grass, and solemnly receiving a cup of muddy water from the old kettle. ‘Jolly good tea, this. Is Mabel having some?’
Sally put a cup to the doll’s lips. ‘There,’ she said with great satisfaction. ‘She’s drunk it all up and now it’s time for her nap.’ She picked up the doll and put it carefully into the waiting cot, covering it up with the blanket. ‘I wish I still had Daisy,’ she said wistfully. ‘Daisy’s cot had roses on the blanket and the pillow. I liked the roses. Poor Daisy got all trodden on. I found her cot but it had got broken but I never did find Daisy’s pillow. Still,’ she said, brightening, ‘Mabel’s a good dolly. She’s fast asleep now.’
There was an inarticulate exclamation from Haldean and Isabellc laughed out loud.
‘You’re not meant to really drink it,’ said Sally, watching Haldean wipe the water from his lips. ‘It’s not really tea. I told you. I’m just ‘tending.’
He froze for a few brief seconds, then relaxed. ‘Of course you are. I should have known better, shouldn’t I? I say, Sally, about Daisy’s pillow. Are you sure you looked everywhere for it?’
‘Everywhere,’ she said with round eyes. ‘Mummy helped me too, because it had roses on it.’
There was a shout from the yard behind them and a young, apron-clad woman came to the gate. ‘Who’re you talking to, Sally?’ She stopped as she saw Isabelle and Haldean, looking at them enquiringly.
Haldean scrambled to his feet and raised his hat. ‘Mrs Mills? I’m Jack Haldean and this is my cousin, Miss Rivers. We met your little girl at the fête the other week.’
Mrs Mill’s face cleared. ‘Oh, you’re the gentleman who gave Sally her doll. That was very kind of you, sir. Wasn’t it a shocking business what happened?’
‘Terrible,’ agreed Haldean. ‘Look, Sally, Miss Rivers and I have to go now, but if Mummy says it’s all right, here’s something for your money box.’ He took out his pocket-book and gave the awe-struck child a ten-shilling note. ‘It is all right, Mrs Mills, is it?’
‘Why, yes sir. And it’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Say thank you, Sally. But you shouldn’t have done that, sir. It’s far too much.’
‘No, it’s fine, really it is.’ Isabelle caught the note of suppressed excitement in his voice. ‘She’s just helped me to think of something that’s been bothering me. I’m very grateful to her. And perhaps, Sally, if Mummy agrees, you could buy a dollies’ tea-set with some of the money.’ He tipped his hat once more. ‘It’s nice to have met you, Mrs Mills.’ He ruffled Sally’s hair. ‘Enjoy your tea-set, won’t you?’
‘What is it, Jack?’ asked Isabelle urgently, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I know there’s something biting you.’
He looked at her with a jubilant gleam in his black eyes. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Jack!’
‘No, I really can’t – don’t hit me, woman! – because I don’t know what it is yet. I might if you let me work it out. There’s a ghost of an idea but it needs to be left in peace for a while. There’s one thing I can tell you for certain though, Belle.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You said I needed faith. I’ve never needed anything less. I’ve been a damn sight too trusting altogether. Cynicism is what I need, real cynicism. Trust? Forget it.’ His lips set in a hard, straight line, ‘It’s about time I started disbelieving everything I’ve been told.’
Chapter Thirteen
Anne-Marie Verrity sat up on the sofa of the morning room at Thackenhurst and looked at Haldean in undisguised astonishment. ‘Monsieur Haldean, are you serious? It is true, yes, that I own the Augier Ridge and what remains of the chateau.’ She shrugged. ‘I have never thought about it, but I suppose that as the entrance to the tunnels is on my property, the tunnels are also mine. But why do you want to go down them? They have not been entered for years and I cannot see why you should want to do so now. They cannot have anything to do with Richard’s death. If I thought you could help poor Richard by doing such a thing, then of course I would give you my permission. But how will such an action benefit anyone?’ She got up and walked to the window, pointing across the grounds in the direction of the tithe barn. ‘That is where Richard was killed. That is where you should be looking for evidence to convict the horrible man who murdered him.’ She turned and shook her head. ‘The tunnels and the war – they are yesterday. They cannot affect what happened to Richard.’
Haldean shifted forward in his chair and looked at her seriously. ‘It’s precisely because of Richard Whitfield that I’m asking you to let me go. You see, everything that’s happened here has its roots in the past. Martin Tyburn . . .’ Mrs Verrity snorted at the name. ‘Martin Tyburn swears he’s not the traitor.’
‘Who then does he accuse?’ asked Mrs Verrity savagely. ‘Richard?’
He looked at her with great sympathy. ‘I’m afraid he does.’
She froze, then very slowly walked across the room and rested her hand on the table. Her tension was nearly tangible. ‘He says that? He says these things about Richard? No one will believe him, I tell you, no one. As soon as he says it, it will be dismissed like that.’ She snapped her fingers together. ‘Richard was a hero. He had the VC for his bravery. He and he alone stopped the Boche in the tunnels. Tyburn – who cares what he says? He will be laughed at, you hear me, laughed at.’
‘He’ll still have said it.’ She tossed her head dismissively, then turned, compelled by Haldean’s measured voice. ‘When Tyburn comes to trial he’ll be allowed to make a statement. It’s his right under the law and he proposes to base his defence on Colonel Whitfield’s guilt. Of necessity it will be discussed, debated, argued over. And, even if it’s ultimately rejected, you will always have a rump of people – influential people – who will think there’s more to Colonel Whitfield’s heroism than met the eye. Mr Tyburn’s a likeable man, Mrs Verrity. He has the gift of persuading people that he’s right.’
Her hand clenched. ‘This is nonsense.’ Her voice shook. ‘An outrage.’ She jerked her head up and glared at him. ‘Et vous, vous le croyez?’
‘No,’ said Haldean quietly. ‘I don’t believe it. I am merely pointing out what will happen if Tyburn is allowed to make his statement. Colonel Whitfield cannot defend himself, but if I am allowed to find out the truth – and prove it – then his good name might be preserved. I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Verrity. I hardly knew Colonel Whitfield but he meant an awful lot to Marguerite Vayle and I know, if you’ll excuse me mentioning it, he meant a lot to you.’
Mrs Verrity raised her hands high. ‘But how will going into the tunnels prove anything, Major Haldean? Still, I do not understand.’
Haldean hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Let me try and explain. The Allied end of the tunnels was blocked off by German grenades but beyond the landfall things should be as they were left that day in 1916, unless the Germans interfered, of course. But really, once the link to the British lines was closed they would have no reason to enter the tunnels again. The soil, as you know, is chalk. With only a little bit of good luck everything should be bone-dry and therefore perfectly preserved. Mr Tyburn has said enough to make me curious as to what really is down there. I might as well tell you that I wonder if there’s another element in the case we haven’t looked at.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, such as someone else, another man altogether, being the real traitor. Boscombe, as you know, wrote a book about his experiences in the tunnels. But that wasn’t the only record of what happened that day. Robert Petrie, who also went into the tunnels, left a diary. Now we haven’t been able to find the diary, more’s the pity, but we know enough to have a pretty shrewd idea of what was in it. And it’s those ideas, Mrs Verrity, that I want to have a shot at either proving or disp
roving. I think I know who Petrie implicated, but I can’t know I’m right and certainly can’t prove I’m right until I can get into the tunnels.’ He half-smiled. ‘I might be completely up the creek of course, but I don’t think I am. After all, look how much it would explain. Tyburn’s story might be true, as far as it concerns the Augier Ridge.’
‘Nonsense! He is lying. How can there be another man? Even if there was, you will not find him in the tunnels. I will hear none of it. This Tyburn is the traitor and is blaming Richard to save his own skin.’
‘And that also is possible. But –’ he smiled apologetically – ‘I really want to know. Obviously I’m not expecting to find the bloke in there waiting for me, but he’ll have left evidence of his activities that should put me on his track. But with no proof, I’m helpless. I can theorize until I’m blue in the face but once I’m in the tunnels I’ll know.’
She lifted her eyebrow. ‘You have great confidence, Major Haldean. What if I refuse my permission?’
‘Well, there’s more than one way of skinning a cat.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘I’ve learnt enough to have a good chance, a very good chance, of obtaining the information elsewhere. But that would take time. I’d probably get there in the end, but this is the simplest way. And, of course, there’s nothing to stop me taking a short holiday in northern France . . .’
‘No!’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘Please, do not even think of it. You will be on my property without my consent but, believe me, that is not the reason I say no. Have you any idea how dangerous that land is? Why, I have tenants – farmers – on the ridge who thought that after the war all their troubles were over. But the land is full of unexploded bombs and rotting mines. One of my tenants, Raoul Rimet, has a barn full of old rifles, ammunition and shells that he has dug up from his fields. I would be surprised if the Boche did not use the old cellars to store their fearful weapons. There might be many tons of explosive under the soil. I tell you, Major, I do not care to live near the Chateau d’Augier any longer. To go into the tunnels? You would be in great danger.’
Haldean gave her a brilliant smile. ‘I survived the war. I think I’ll be able to survive the tunnels.’
She bit her lip, then, shaking her head, came to a rapid decision. ‘I will come with you.’
‘What?’
‘It is better so. I know the old entrance from the cellars of the chateau. The building is destroyed but the cellars are still there.’
‘No.’ Haldean shook his head. ‘You can’t do that, Mrs Verrity. Why, you’ve just told me how dangerous the place is. I can’t possibly let you risk it.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘It is not for you to say what I can and cannot risk.’
‘No, but . . .’
‘But rather than have you climb over the ruins I would prefer to take you a way that I know is safe,’ She smiled briefly. ‘You are young and courageous, Monsieur Haldean.’ She crossed the room to him and held out her hand for him to take. Her smile increased. ‘You are also inquisitive and – I am old enough to say this – very handsome.’ She looked down at him thoughtfully. ‘I would not like you to come to any harm.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Ashley unenthusiastically.
‘Of course I’m not sure!’ exploded Haldean. ‘If I was able to be sure I wouldn’t have to go down the damn tunnels at all. But you must admit that what I’ve said makes sense. Lots of sense. It adds up, which is something that no other theory does. No loose ends. You said yourself I was on to something.’
Ashley grudgingly nodded. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. In fact the more I think about it, the more convinced I am. But it’s hellishly risky, Haldean.’
‘Knowing I’ve got your support takes as much risk out of it as it’s possible to do. And Greg’s in on it as well. I can’t tell you how much his backing means to me. I really think we should do this, Ashley. After all, what have we got to lose?’
‘Your neck, you young idiot,’ said Ashley wearily.
‘Only if I’m right.’
‘Which will be a great consolation to anyone who’s allowed themselves to care tuppence about you.’ Ashley drummed his fingers on his desk and sighed. ‘Leave it with me. Yes, of course we’ll do it. God knows what you’d get up to if I said no. You’d probably go ahead without me, as there’s absolutely nothing I could do to stop you. I’ll have to get permission, of course, but with any luck that shouldn’t be a problem. I can’t say I’m happy, though. I wish . . .’ His mouth tightened, then he shook his head. ‘Oh, forget it.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Haldean. ‘I might be wrong, you know.’
‘Fat chance,’ grunted Ashley. ‘You know damn well you’re not.’
‘Now there you’re mistaken, old son,’ said Haldean seriously. ‘I think I’m right; you think I’m right. But until we can prove it we can’t know we’re right. And as I said to Mrs Verrity, I really want to know.’
It was the British Fifth Army that had eventually taken the Augier Ridge in a grim struggle which included Beaumont-Hamel. Picking over the charred timbers that rose like dead men’s fingers from the smoke-blackened stones of the chateau, Haldean had a sudden recollection of flying over this insignificant hump of ground. One eye on the sky around him – his stomach churned at the memory – and the briefest of glances at the ant-like figures crawling up the hill. Take out the machine guns; those had been the orders. God, he’d loathed strafing ground troops. Every man armed with a spark of light that turned into bullets. Three flights a day, four when the light was good. Height; dive; fire; zoom; height. No use twisting in aerobatics here. Skill was redundant when death was a many-headed monster. And the only response to the men who plunged to the earth below was another scrawled letter to some English town. They’d taken a beating here. The Germans had fought savagely. Or gallantly. It all depended on your point of view. The ruins of the chateau faded from sight and superimposed themselves on a creased map and a board of aerial photographs. And the ants? There must be a name carved on some memorial for every square foot of ground. He shuddered, then turned as he felt a hand touch his arm.
‘Major Haldean? You are all right, yes?’
He shook himself and forced a smile. The aerial photographs faded and he was standing in a ruined house on top of a blustery ridge overlooking lush valleys filled with pale living gold and green. If it wasn’t for the chateau you’d never know there’d ever been a war . . . ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Verrity. Just thinking back. It must be hard for you, seeing your old home like this.’
She shrugged. ‘The first time, yes. But I have made my home in England and I am happy with my choice. It is not the first time I have been back, you understand, and, of course, I was here during the war. Every so often I like to visit my tenants. It keeps them “up to the mark”, as you put it. And, I think, they are pleased to see me.’
‘They certainly made us very welcome,’ said Haldean, diplomatically. They had gone by hired car from the hotel to the farmhouse of Raoul Rimet and his wife. Here Madame Rimet had insisted on Haldean trying her home-made cheese washed down with wine of startling roughness, while Monsieur Rimet took Mrs Verrity on a tour of the farm. From what he could follow of the torrent of rapid and idiomatic French, Haldean guessed he was attempting to negotiate a decrease in rent. His slightly surly farewells indicated how well he’d got on. ‘Have we got very far to go?’
‘By no means, Major.’ She pointed to where part of a wall still stood. ‘If we go through what remains of that doorway it will bring us to what were the servants’ quarters and the entrance to the cellars.’
It was a depressing walk through the ruins. What struck Haldean as odd were the remnants of occupation that remained. A wall which still showed fragments of eighteenth-century wallpaper, rich with flower-entwined urns. Scraps of what had been inlaid woodwork. Countless crystal beads from a chandelier scattered over the stones and, still hanging drunkenly on part of a wall, most of a heavily gilded picture frame, its gilt faded by the ra
in and sun that now came freely through the few remaining rafters. They came into an area which had obviously been the kitchens. A doorway yawned open, leading into blackness.
‘These are the cellars,’ said Mrs Verrity. ‘The entrance to the tunnels is down there.’
Haldean snapped on his torch and prepared to lead the way when Mrs Verrity stopped, frowning at the ground. ‘What is it?’
‘Someone has been here.’ She pointed. ‘Look, in the dust the other side of the door. That is a footprint, yes?’
‘It could be someone helping themselves to stone,’ suggested Haldean. ‘With all this free building material lying around, it’s only to be expected.’
‘This is my property, Major Haldean. Anyone who wants to come here should seek my permission first. Even ruined, it is still mine. No matter. I shall see to that later. Shall we go down?’
‘Right-oh.’ Haldean picked his way round a fallen timber then turned to give Mrs Verrity his hand. ‘Carefully does it – that’s right. Shall I hold your bag for you? It looks a bit heavy. You might find it easier if I take it.’
‘I am fine, thank you. You have the torch to manage.’
Following the beam of white light they descended the steps and Mrs Verrity confidently led the way through cobwebby cellars which still contained rack upon rack of empty wine-shelves. There was smashed glass but no wine; the Germans would have seen to that and the British cleared up any which remained. Room led on to room. In the fifth cellar she paused before an ancient trap-door set with an iron ring.
‘This is the entrance. I will hold the light for you.’
Haldean grasped the iron ring and heaved. The door rose up and Mrs Verrity peered down the flight of rough-cut steps that sloped away into the earth. Suddenly she swung round, sending the light flickering round the cellar walls.
‘What is it?’
‘I felt . . .’ She shuddered. ‘I felt as if I were being watched. Excuse me, it can be nothing but nerves. The dark – I do not like it. There is an English expression . . . Ah yes . . . Someone is walking over my grave.’
A Fête Worse Than Death Page 26