Death of an Unsung Hero

by Tessa Arlen

  Surely we would have heard the shot so close to the house. And then she knew what time it had been. Just after Sir Winchell had left the house and Mr. Bray had retired to bed. Harry, Althea, Ralph, and I were still in the drawing room. Harry had laughed as he had said, “Old Meacham is still stamping down the drive to his house. I can guarantee you that a strongly worded letter will be written to catch tomorrow morning’s first post—to the War Office.”

  “But what on earth made him so frightfully angry? He seemed quite reasonable at dinner; you just have to skirt around certain subjects,” Clementine had answered, privately thinking that neither her husband nor her son could be trusted with their touchy neighbor.

  “My fault,” Harry had said. “I forgot how peppery he was. I was talking to Edgar Bray about his brother. You see, I knew Captain Sir Evelyn Bray before the war. He was seen everywhere in London—belonged to all the clubs. He was what we called a boulevardier; there was always a pretty girl on his arm, never the same one twice. He was perfectly pleasant, a complete gentleman, but aimless and irresponsible. A life dedicated to pleasure. I told Mr. Bray that the war had turned up some oddities. Men who you thought would be great officers and leaders folded up, and the ones you believed would be hopeless surprised you by their courage and bravery. Evelyn Bray was the last sort: the war brought out the best in him. He had the common touch: his men trusted him completely; he was a born leader—and, as it turned out, most awfully brave.”

  Lord Montfort had interrupted. “Sir Winchell had had far too much port and he started up with the usual guff. ‘Then what the hell was your hero brother doing in a place for crackpots and cowards?’ he said, and you heard the rest. Of course Bray didn’t know that Sir Winchell is devastated by the death of his sons. It was an awful moment, we did our best to divert an argument, but once Meacham’s dander is up…”

  It was a little after half past ten when Althea and I returned to the drawing room to witness this embarrassing scene. Clementine calculated that it must have been about a quarter to eleven when Sir Winchell had stamped off home. Mr. Bray, looking quite exhausted, had immediately apologized. And then, after thanking them most courteously and sincerely for the work they did for the hospital, he had left the room. What happened next? Ah yes, Harry heaped logs onto the fire and for the first time in weeks we all sat together, it was almost pleasant.

  Lord Montfort had chided Harry about creating an inferno so powerful that he was dying of heat, Althea had said she was looking forward to roasting chestnuts in the evenings. And Harry had said that some of the logs were perhaps a bit unseasoned when one practically exploded and the deliciously pungent scent of hot pine sap filled the air. If there was a shot then, would we have heard it over the hiss and crackle of our fireside evening? Clementine wondered. It was perhaps an hour after that they had all retired for the night. Althea’s room was in the front of the house, in the corner looking out toward the lake and the bridge.

  “Althea, did you hear anything after you went to bed last night?”

  Her daughter visibly pulled herself together. “Are you talking about a shot, Mama?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My windows were open, so I would have heard something like that. Colonel Valentine said Ian had probably been shot early last night. We were probably all still in the drawing room when he was killed.” Her face was woeful but she was had stopped crying.

  It was hard to reconcile the lively Althea of last night and the stunned and frightened girl sitting next to her now with her white face and tear-stained cheeks. She was such an outgoing and confident young woman that one tended to forget she was still so very young. “The image will fade in time, Althea, it really will, darling.”

  She lifted her face from her hankie. “I know it will, Mama. Just such a shock to see him lying there.” She shuddered. “All he wanted was to go back to France to his unit. You see he was not from our background at all, no Eton or Harrow for him, and then a commission in some fashionable regiment; just a nice, ordinary young man, willing to do his bit.” She started to weep again and Clementine lifted her hand and stroked her hair until she fell quiet.

  “There, there, darling,” she murmured.

  The door opened and Harry, Lord Montfort, and Colonel Valentine came into the room, closely followed by Edgar Bray, whose alert eyes went straight to her daughter sitting on the sofa, recovering from her tears. There was concern on Mr. Bray’s face and for a moment it looked to Clementine as if he might cross the room to join them on the sofa. But he had too much tact for that and she was grateful that he remained where he was, and said instead, “I am so very sorry you were the one to find him.”

  Althea straightened her back and stopped sniffing. “Thank you, Mr. Bray,” she said under her breath.

  Lord Montfort looked across at his wife, his eyebrows slightly raised, perhaps with hope that she and Mrs. Jackson would sort out this awful mess before the War Office and Medical Board arrived next week. Summoning all her energy, Clementine got up and walked over to Colonel Valentine, who had already stepped forward to claim her attention.

  “If I may intrude at this time, Lady Montfort, just for a brief moment before I drive over to Haversham Hall. I have spoken with those of your family who found Lieutenant Carmichael. When did you last see him alive?”

  “I only met him a couple of times. It was probably days ago. He has been at the hospital for such a very short time. I think it would be a good idea if you and I were to drive over to Haversham Hall and on the way I will tell you what I can. If you will give me a moment, I must see that everyone has what they need and then I will meet you in the hall.” She desperately wanted to talk to Mrs. Jackson as soon as she could, but before that she needed more information from her family before she left. She turned to her husband. “What happened at Holly Farm?”

  “Absolutely nothing at all. Howard was at his most adamant. He believes he will have brought in all his crops from the edge of Brook End Lane all the way across to Oddman’s Folly by the end of the week. How he imagines he can accomplish that with two young boys, his brother, and their wives, I don’t know. And the barometer is dropping, so it will be a wet end to the week—but there you are, nothing I said could shift him. But if he lets us down I will take away his tenancy of the farm.” Now is not the time to ask him further about what has clearly been not only a fruitless but unpleasant morning. “I am going over to the hospital with Valentine. Will you please keep an eye on Althea?”

  “It was an awful experience but she is much more resilient than we imagine. Will you be back in time for tea?” She said she would.

  Deciding that it would be better to give Althea something to do, she returned to the sofa. “I am going over to the hospital for an hour or so with Colonel Valentine. Please tell Hollyoak that you will be four at luncheon, and will you take my place, darling? I really shouldn’t go and leave you all like this but…”

  Althea put away her handkerchief. “Of course, Mama, I will just run upstairs and wash my face and change. In the meanwhile I will ask Hollyoak to offer sherry.”

  Relieved that her daughter seemed to be rallying—a hot meal and the kind solicitude of Mr. Bray would improve things greatly—Clementine made for the door.

  To her surprise it was Harry who opened it and walked out into the hall with her. “There is something odd going on at Holly Farm,” he said to her.

  “There is something odd going on all over the county,” she replied. “For one thing, the way the police have been dealing with this inquiry is quite laughable. I would not be surprised if Sir Winchell is arrested for shooting the lieutenant; they seem to jump to the first most-likely suspect. But what do you mean about Holly Farm?” They trudged up the stairs together.

  “Mr. Howard is hiding something or at the very least covering something up. I knew it the moment I saw him last week. He and his family have always been reclusive but never devious—he looked downright shifty the other afternoon last week when I dropped in on them, and
when I first arrived this morning he was defensive, almost truculent.” Clementine didn’t like this description of a man who farmed so many of the Talbot acres, but she was pleased to see that her son appeared to be far less withdrawn this morning. Inquiries keep us on our toes and in the moment, she thought before she returned to the topic of Farmer Howard.

  “What do you mean by ‘shifty’?” she asked as they reached the top of the stairs. Harry pantomimed: hands in pockets, shoulders drooping forward, he lowered his head and glanced up out of the corners of his eyes, and Clementine laughed. “You look like Fagin in Oliver Twist,” she said.

  “Bang on the nose, Mama. He looked furtive, deceitful, you know—shifty! Althea and I took the dogs across country one evening last week. As we neared Holly Farm from the Iyntwood side, the land lifts sharply and on the highest part of the rise is the Holly Farm barn. Well, I have keen eyesight, and flying makes you acutely aware of any movement above you.” If you are not half cut with brandy, thought Clementine, but wisely said nothing. “I saw someone running across the barnyard. For one split second I was quite sure that it was a young man, but the bushes on the side of the barn cut my line of vision.”

  “A boy or a man? Don’t forget Howard’s younger sons are twelve and fourteen or something like that, you know how fast they grow at that age.”

  Harry smiled at her and said he knew the difference. “This was a grown man.”

  “In uniform? Was it one of our officers?”

  “One of your patients, you mean?”

  “Yes, a man in uniform, officer’s uniform.”

  He shook his head. “No, he was wearing what looked like an old brown corduroy coat and a flat cap.”

  “Who did you think it might have been?”

  He sighed and pursed his lips. “I don’t know. I thought it might have been a tramp. But later on when Althea and I dropped in at the farmhouse, Mrs. Howard was not particularly happy to see us; I know she is a reserved woman but her hands were shaking. I think our dropping-in not only surprised but scared her. I accept that the Howards keep to themselves, but usually she has enough composure to say good afternoon without falling completely apart. And then Howard came out of the barn with that shifty look and when he saw it was us he looked almost angry. Althea said it was because he doesn’t hold with the Land girls but I think we had taken him, both of them, unawares.” They had reached the top of the stairs and she stopped and looked back down the graceful curve of the flight to Colonel Valentine waiting patiently for her in the hall. “I simply can’t see a tramp having the cheek to wander about the Howards’ barnyard in broad daylight with them both at home.”

  Clementine’s frustration with the Howards was running high this morning, as they kept getting in the way of her train of thought. “Just a moment, Harry, if you saw a strange man there, running for cover in the barn, then he might very well be the man who killed first Captain Bray and now Lieutenant Carmichael!”

  But her son shook his head at her. “Yes, that would be convenient wouldn’t it, Mama? But however much the locals don’t quite approve of your hospital for the shell-shocked, they are hardly likely to be quietly bumping them off one by one. I think your villain is one of the officers. One of them who has gone completely dotty and thinks it’s his job to protect Haversham Hall from a German attack; don’t people suffering from shell-shock keep reliving the worst bits of their war?” She decided not to take issue with this ridiculous thinking.

  “But what I came to suggest was this.” Harry was smiling now, a broad, pleased smile, his eyes shining with pleasure at the prospect of an entertaining diversion. Standing in front of her was the Harry of old; he put his hand on her shoulder and held her gaze, his face a picture of boyish enthusiasm.

  She started to laugh. “Suggest what?”

  “That after luncheon Althea and I take a nice country walk together. It will take her mind off of Carmichael, and perhaps we might see something at the Holly Farm barn.”

  He looked so pleased with himself that she had to stop herself from saying, Oh no you don’t! Instead she said, “You mean you are going to spy on Mr. Howard.” Her eyes narrowed. Ralph most certainly would not approve of this idea at all.

  “Spy? What an unattractive suggestion. We are going to reconnoiter. Althea and I, together, it will be fun! Althea needs a distraction, otherwise she will mope about the place feeling sorry about Carmichael. What harm is there, Mama, if we are careful?”

  There might be useful information to be gained, but with Harry’s rather flippant attitude and Althea’s earnest determination to be of practical use on behalf of the Land girls, they might cause irritation and foster even more obstinacy from the farm, and Ralph would be livid if any of the precious harvest was lost. She wasted no time in offering some cautionary advice.

  “Whatever you do, Harry, please do not intrude on the wretched Howards—it will only make a muddle. Just go for a walk and observe from a distance and perhaps keep a lookout for this man in the brown corduroy coat—though doesn’t every farmer in the county wear a brown corduroy coat in summer? And lastly…” because there is always a last thing when one is giving instructions to one’s son, “on no account, if you discover that all is not as it should be, ought you to do something about it. This is a reconnaissance mission and not a surprise attack,” she said as she held her son’s gaze, willing him to be cautious.

  “I understand you completely, Mother,” he said, gazing back and matching her tone exactly. “And hopefully one of these days you will understand me, and stop worrying every time I have a brandy. It’s what we have for breakfast in the RNAS.”

  She lifted her hand and patted his cheek briefly but with great affection. “I know, my darling, but your feet are firmly on Talbot land right now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I didn’t tell you earlier this morning, Jackson, but we had quite a dreadful dinner with Sir Winchell last night. You know the usual rubbish. Angry displays about the hospital—that sort of thing. The upshot was he just stormed off into the night, with all the drama of a Wilkie Collins novel. And the next thing we know is that this morning Lieutenant Carmichael is found shot dead practically outside our front door. But that is not quite all, I am afraid: on the way over here Colonel Valentine told me that Inspector Savor drove over to Meacham Hall and took Sir Winchell into custody on suspicion of the murders of both Captain Bray and Lieutenant Carmichael.” Lady Montfort lifted both hands to heaven as if asking for divine intervention before she added, “Of all the stupid men I have come across in my life, this Inspector Savor really takes the cake. He periodically arrives out of nowhere and without asking any of us a single question makes one daft arrest after another.”

  Mrs. Jackson could only nod as she struggled to take in all this information. Her ladyship had arrived minutes earlier with flashing eye and heaving bosom and had barely planted herself in the privacy of her office before she had delivered this disturbing news at top speed. You only left me a couple of hours ago and now this? Her ladyship’s quivering hat feather was the only indication that she was waiting impatiently for her response. When she did not immediately comply, her stunned silence was evidently taken for something else.

  “Did it ever cross your mind that it might have been Sir Winchell, Jackson? I mean have I missed something?” Her ladyship sounded so plaintive that it was easy to see that not only had her dignity been deeply offended by Colonel Valentine appearing to ask for her advice only to ignore it, but that her confidence was beginning to fray a little around the edges. “Did you for one moment suspect Sir Winchell?”

  “Certainly not, m’lady, I think it is one of Inspector Savor’s rushed jobs.” This was all she could really think of to say to this astonishing account of what had happened in the last few hours. Apart from a perennial tetchiness to his nature, and a reputation as a fusspot, Sir Winchell was referred to in the village by everyone as a harmless old duffer. But there again, even a harmless old duffer can turn nasty, given the rig
ht circumstances.

  “I can certainly understand that the inspector might suspect him, Jackson. But arrest him just because he left Iyntwood last night in a very distressed frame of mind? It would be ludicrous if it wasn’t so disturbing. Even Colonel Valentine seems to believe that Sir Winchell bumped into Lieutenant Carmichael as he walked down the drive, and in his rage at finding one of our cowards wandering about the grounds quarreled with him and shot him.”

  Mrs. Jackson ventured a question: “Shot him, m’lady, with a gun?”

  Lady Montfort’s eyes widened and her brows rose a fraction. “That is usually how someone accomplishes such a thing, I believe.”

  “I apologize, m’lady, for not being clear. I was thinking that if it was an army-issue revolver it might suggest the murderer was one of our officers, but that would be difficult because small arms are banned from hospital premises. But if it was a shotgun, that might point to one of our farmers, or anyone locally. Do Colonel Valentine and Inspector Savor believe that Sir Winchell came to your house for dinner and brought a service revolver with him or his shotgun? That does seem rather strange.”

  “Well, exactly, it is hardly the sort of thing that a gentleman would do. After all, this is not the Wild West, one’s guests do not come to dinner armed to the teeth. But the belief is that Sir Winchell has lost his marbles: the strain of bereavement, Valentine called it. He had the gall to tell me that he thinks that when we opened our hospital it in some way tipped the fragile balance of Sir Winchell’s sanity, and that he decided to eliminate some of our malingerers. A sort of one-man court-martial, I suppose.” Her indignation was so great that her already straight back grew another two inches in her chair.

  “And he is also being charged for the murder of Captain Bray too, m’lady?”