Death of an Unsung Hero

by Tessa Arlen

  “Have we, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson almost wrinkled up her nose in disbelief.

  “Well yes, I think we have. I remember once being completely taken off guard, dangerously so. VAD Fuller could have killed Captain Bray before she left the kitchen garden, they were completely alone together here.” They had stopped to catch their breath under the shade of walnut tree and Clementine threw out her arm to indicate the great open space before them completely enclosed by ten-foot walls. Mrs. Jackson lowered her eyes.

  “Well first of all she would have to have killed him after he helped her pick beans, m’lady. But now I come to think of it, Mr. Thrower was rather irritated by the mess they left his vines in.”

  Clementine tried not to laugh at her housekeeper’s earnest face. “I think it would be a good idea to dig around a bit there, Jackson. For instance, why did Captain Bray offer to help her pick beans, wasn’t that rather out of character? The captain was closed down almost to the point of being antisocial, so why would he go out of his way to help a young girl who had an embarrassing crush on him?”

  “You are quite right, m’lady. I will see what more I can find out about Fuller and Captain Bray.”

  “Thank you, Jackson.” They walked on together toward the north gate of the drive. “And another thing, I am wondering if Carmichael could have ridden Dolly up through the wheat field by Brook End Lane to the kitchen garden and back again in twenty minutes. It wouldn’t do to be caught off guard by that possibility either.” And with that they said goodbye for the time being and went about their morning, Mrs. Jackson to return to do more of what she privately called snooping, and Clementine to continue on down the drive, hoping to find out how Lord Montfort had fared with Mr. Howard at Holly Farm.

  “Oh dear, now why are they back from Holly Farm already?” she said out loud as she rounded the corner of her house in the direction of its main entrance to find her daughter’s little Morris and the Iyntwood Daimler drawn up in the drive. “Surely that wretched Howard has not turned down our help again!” Her frustration evident, she marched around to the front of the house, where annoyance turned to alarm. For there, in the great sweep of the north entrance to the house, was an ambulance and the chief constable’s Lanchester.

  * * *

  Mrs. Jackson was feeling just a little grumpy after Lady Montfort left her at the north gate of the kitchen garden. She walked along the gravel paths under the grape pergola toward its east end. Well, they evidently picked from there, she thought as she contemplated the rather chaotic tilt at the far side of the long bean arbor. What a wicked waste, she thought, tutting as she surveyed shriveled beans hanging from broken stems.

  “You see, Mrs. Jackson, this is exactly why I told the cook not to let the VADs come in here and gather vegetables. Look at this.” Mr. Thrower appeared on the other side of the vines and waved a disgusted hand at its lopsided end. “There was weeks of eating left in these two plants.”

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Thrower, I will most certainly talk to the cook about instructing our volunteers. I am surprised they made such a mess of it.”

  “‘They’?” Mr. Thrower propped his rake against the arbor. “They—who else has been meddling in my garden?”

  She felt that little prickle of excitement when something is in the air, the beginning of something momentous. “Why, Captain Bray of course, it was he who helped Fuller pick them.” Mr. Thrower was shaking his head. He pushed back his battered felt hat and scratched his forehead.

  “He never did this sort of damage, you can be sure of that. The captain was a careful man, methodical in his work. He would never have made such muck of it. It was not the captain, God rest his soul, who tore away at these vines, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  Mrs. Jackson was momentarily at a loss. Then who? she wondered and went hot and cold at her next thought.

  “Well, I won’t detain you in your workday, Mr. Thrower,” she said as she walked back to the central garden path and stood staring down it in the direction of the shady walnut tree and its bench where the captain had taken his ease to eat his luncheon. But he had no luncheon at all on the day he died, she reminded herself.

  She shaded her eyes against the sun and thought about VAD Fuller and her bean-picking expedition. If she had gathered the beans alone, that would explain the havoc she had left behind. And if Mr. Thrower believed that the captain was too careful and respectful to have torn at the vine, then why had the girl told her that Captain Bray had helped her? She walked back down to the potato bed and, lifting the hem of her skirt out of the little hillocks of soil, walked to where the captain’s body had been found. She crouched down briefly and looked up the garden back to the east wall. All she could see from here were beds stretching to the left and right. She stood up; even standing she could just see the far wall, but not the beans vines, as that quadrant of the garden was completely obscured by the pergola and the raspberry canes.

  “I met Captain Bray in the kitchen courtyard when I arrived. He was sharpening his spade in the potting shed. He followed me into the kitchen garden. I told him I was in a rush and he helped me to pick beans. He was ever so nice!” She saw Fuller’s complacent, catlike smile as she remembered her words. And then she stood up and walked back up; the garden again, through the gate, crossed the kitchen-garden courtyard, and continued on to the hospital.

  * * *

  When Mrs. Jackson sat down at her office desk she discovered that she had little interest in the hospital inventory and what Cook had done with twenty-eight pots of strawberry jam in just under two months. She did her best to apply herself to the endless forms and requisitions the War Office demanded of its clerical staff, but she was too restless to concentrate. She had promised Major Andrews that she would sort out the paintings done by Haversham Hall’s patients in the art room. She stopped off in the old servants’ hall to enlist Fuller’s help, and together they went up the stairs and along the corridor to the little-used east wing of the house and the large sunny room that had become the hospital’s art studio.

  “It’s quite simple, Fuller, I will go through this stack of paintings and you can make a group of the ones I select in that corner.” She walked to the far end of the empty room and, rolling up her sleeves, started to go through a stack of canvases propped against the wall. “It’s interesting how it’s always the new patients who spend most of their time in here when they arrive,” she said as she went through paintings of muddy landscapes with harsh colors emanating from the centers of the canvases and black curly spirals and tangles of what she took for barbed wire.

  “This one is quite colorful, Mrs. Jackson.” Fuller turned with a painting in her hands—it was black with a massive ball of orange and red in its center.

  “Yes, put that with the others over there. Look, this one is rather pretty in its own way,” Mrs. Jackson selected a pastoral scene with rolling green hills covered in neat white squares, blue sky, and puffy white clouds, “except for the headstones. Yes, it’s a recent one by Captain Martin. He was obsessed by graveyards when he first came, he still is really. Put that one over there with the others.”

  Major Andrews had put together a group of the officers’ paintings he wanted to keep against the far wall by the door, and out of curiosity Mrs. Jackson started to flip through the canvases. Each was labeled with the name of the artist, the date on which it had been painted, and sometimes, if they had given their work a name, its title. She turned a painting toward her and tilted the canvas and the midday sun shone full on a rather crude resemblance to man with yellow hair and blue eyes. She turned the painting more fully toward the light of the window. “No bombs going off in this one,” she said more to herself than to Fuller. “Why, it’s by Captain Bray. What a terrible thing to have happened. I hope it has not made you and Ellis anxious about going into the kitchen garden.” She turned toward the young woman, the better to concentrate on Fuller’s response.

  There was no answer but Fuller blinked her eyes furiously, her breathing becam
e uneven, and she ducked her head. Mrs. Jackson put down the painting and steered the girl over to the window seat and sat her down. And then she waited. But Fuller did not speak; she bit her lip and kept her head down. Mrs. Jackson reached over and patted the girl’s shoulder. Often the simplest acts of sympathy can precipitate a strong response when someone is struggling to maintain control. But she was shocked at the great gasping sob that finally wrenched free of the tensely held body sitting next to her.

  “My poor, dear girl,” she said with genuine compassion. Her kind words and gentle tone completely undid Fuller, whose shoulders shook as she struggled to calm herself. “Would it help to talk about it?” After a while Fuller lifted her head. Her eyes were dry, but there were dark circles around them, as if she had not slept for weeks. The pale face that lifted to hers was so drawn that Mrs. Jackson felt real alarm. These young girls are in my charge, she thought. It is my job to look to their welfare here. I have been so bound up with this inquiry that I have neglected to notice that this young woman is suffering.

  All thought of finding out more about Fuller’s alibi in the kitchen garden evaporated. She must sit here patiently and wait for her to speak. After a few minutes Fuller said something that caused Mrs. Jackson even greater alarm than the agonized tearless sobs.

  “I don’t think he knew how much I c-c-cared,” the young girl managed to get out as she balled up the handkerchief in her hands. “I tried to talk to him when Cook sent me to the garden to fetch vegetables. You see,” she struggled to steady her breath, coughed, and after much throat clearing managed to continue, “I told him how much I admired him. How much I … loved him … and he just walked away.” She worked at the handkerchief in her hands, balling it up and then smoothing it across her knee, her movements jerky. Mrs. Jackson’s eyes had nearly popped out of her head. Oh dear God, and what did you do after you told that deeply troubled man that you were in love with him and he ignored you? It was quite clear from her wide, staring eyes and restless hands that Fuller was far from calm or even rational. Did you hit him over the head? was the first question on her lips, but all she said was, “Did this happen on the morning he was killed?”

  “Oh no, it was about a week or so ago. He has avoided me ever since then.” Her voice broke and she shook her head as if to rid it of a painful memory.

  “Have you told anyone about this?” She wondered if Fuller had confided in Ellis. Of course she had.

  “Yes, I told Ellis that I loved him, and she laughed at me.” There was some satisfaction in her voice. “But she would, wouldn’t she? She is such a flirt.” Said the sweet little flibbertigibbet who had told a man suffering from the acute stress of war that she loved him, when all he had wanted to do was dig in a garden and listen to the birds sing.

  Why on earth does the VAD send us such babies? Mrs. Jackson wondered, remembering that Fuller’s father was a bank manager in Liverpool. These immature, overprotected middle-class girls have no idea of the havoc they cause with all their emotions … and feelings. A sensible, mature woman from the village would be far more useful to us. But she knew she must not underplay the genuine hurt that Fuller felt.

  “I understand why you are so upset, Fuller. But you see, the captain had been seriously ill for quite some time. He was recovering slowly from months of stress and anxiety in the most terrible of conditions. Why, just three weeks ago he was hard put to remember his name; can you imagine what that must be like? I am quite sure he was confused when you told him of your feelings for him. I think we need to arrange some home leave for you.” She kept her tone professional.

  “No, thank you.” The girl smiled. It was a smile full of courage. “He did his duty and I will continue to do mine, even more so now that he has … gone.” Her words sounded like lines from a play, the whole thing sounded like the worst sort of romance novel. Oh my giddy aunt were the words that bubbled to the surface and Mrs. Jackson shut her lips firmly against them. Then inspiration came.

  “Yes, sometimes it is best to be occupied when we feel sad. But you have a responsibility to the men in this hospital, don’t you?” Fuller evidently approved of this idea, as she nodded, her face serious. “And as you say, duty comes first! Our patients have been through a most harrowing time and they are still suffering from severe shock. So we must be quite sure that all of us who look after them are able to cope with what are often the most distressing situations. Now you are grieving for a man you admired … and cared about.” The girl nodded and licked her dry lips. “And if you would like to continue here it is important that you tell me exactly what happened while you were in the kitchen garden on the morning Captain Bray was killed. Do you understand the importance of being accurate with your account? Major Andrews”—at the mention of his name the girl straightened her back—“will need to be convinced that you are capable of continuing to work here. No detail is unimportant, Fuller, do you understand?”

  There was a long silence. “Thank you,” said VAD Fuller, putting her grubby handkerchief away. “I would like that.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Harry, what on earth is going on?” Clementine made short work of crossing the gravel sweep of the drive as her son walked out from behind the Red Cross ambulance. “Why aren’t you all up at Holly Farm?”

  “Lieutenant Carmichael has been found—dead, I am afraid. They are bringing up his body now.” Clementine turned and looked down the north drive. And there across the bridge that spanned the lake, at its narrowest part, was a procession coming through the trees toward them.

  “An accident? An accident at the farm?” Her heart sank.

  “No accident I am afraid, Carmichael was shot. We found him by the drive just after the lake bridge. He must have died sometime last night; his body was soaked with dew when we found it.”

  “What was he doing up here by the lake, and does anyone know who shot him?” And then she answered her own question with another: “Oh, Harry, he didn’t shoot himself, did he?”

  Her son shook his head. “No, he was shot in the back. No sign of a weapon anywhere, but I am sure it was an army-issue revolver, you can’t move in England for them these days. Don’t say anything for a moment—Althea is awfully upset. You see it was she who spotted his body.” They watched the procession cross the bridge onto the drive, feet crunching on the gravel as it made its way toward them.

  “Spotted his body—do you mean as you were driving off to Holly Farm?”

  “No, as we were driving back from a rather unpleasant meeting with Mr. Howard, which I will tell you about later. Althea slowed down before she got to the bridge and as she negotiated the turn she said she saw something flash in the sun under the trees.”

  “Gunfire?” She couldn’t help but interrupt him.

  “No, Mother, please listen. It was most probably the sunlight catching his cap badge. When we left this morning we didn’t see him, probably because the mist gathers quite deeply in that little hollow. On our return, the area where Carmichael’s body was lying was in sunlight. Althea saw what she thought was someone lying on the ground, so we stopped and I went to investigate and there he was.”

  Two constables carrying a stretcher covered by a canvas sheet came up onto the circle of the drive. Behind the stretcher, as if they were mourners at a funeral, came Lord Montfort walking protectively at his daughter’s side and then a little behind them Colonel Valentine. There was no sign of Inspector Savor, Clementine noticed with relief. Perhaps we have seen the last of him since this murder cannot possibly have been committed by Lieutenant Phipps, safely locked away in our hospital. She started to walk toward her daughter, who broke free of her father’s arm and ran to her.

  “Ian … shot,” she said, and Clementine turned her daughter toward her, to shield her from curious eyes. Althea put her head on her mother’s shoulder and soaked the light material of her blouse with her tears.

  “There, there, my poor darling. Come along now. Let’s go inside, away from all of this.” She walked a weeping Althe
a through the front door of Iyntwood, where her butler stood waiting for them.

  “Will you bring some tea to the morning room as quickly as possible please, Hollyoak?” And she steered Althea across the hallway and into the sunlit warmth of the room. “Here we are, darling.” She handed her daughter her handkerchief and sat with her arm around her as she waited for the shock to ebb a little. But not all her attention was directed to Althea, as her brain could not help but click through the possibilities that popped into her consciousness, demanding to be examined.

  “There, there,” she soothed. “There, there, darling. Nice, slow, deep breaths. I know, I know, my poor dear girl, such a terrible thing to find.”

  Of all people, she wondered as she soothed her child, why was Carmichael shot? Her first thought was that the two murders were tied to each other. Perhaps Carmichael knew, saw, or heard something that had resulted in his death last night. How long was he lying by the side of the drive? Was he killed yesterday evening or later that night? She would check this with Valentine. But what was Carmichael doing at Iyntwood? Surely the staff at Haversham Hall would have noticed his absence last night or earlier this morning. Why has no one said anything? Mrs. Jackson would surely have the answer to this one.

  Had Carmichael come up to the house to meet someone? Clementine felt a flutter of anxiety. Surely Althea did not leave the house to meet with this man after her promises to be sensible about her behavior? Her daughter made a loud trumpeting noise into her handkerchief. No, it can’t be possible, Althea is a flirt, most girls are, but she would never arrange a clandestine meeting with Carmichael.

  Althea had found the body this morning, quite by accident. If she had known of the murder last night she would not have swanned down to breakfast in her breeches and trench coat full of bobbance and bounce, ready to bring in the harvest at Holly Farm. As her hand gently stroked her daughter’s rather clammy one Clementine continued to sift through the possibilities.