The Seventh Link

by Margaret Mayhew

  Another deep breath. ‘Miss Warner, please answer this question clearly. Did you hear Mr Wilson coming down the stairs later on, at any time during the night or in the early hours of this morning?’

  ‘Verily, I did not. The arms of Morpheus had reclaimed me and I heard naught.’

  The inspector had finally conceded defeat.

  ‘This is a terrible business, Hugh. It’s upset Heather very badly. She feels we’re responsible, which is rubbish, of course. It was an accident, pure and simple.’

  ‘I’m very sorry it should have happened, Geoffrey.’

  ‘Would you have a word with her, Hugh? I’m sure you’d be able to calm things down. You always talk good sense. People listen to you.’

  He was always being told so, but he couldn’t imagine why. For some reason, people believed that he would know the best thing to do in difficult circumstances. Usually, he had no more idea than they did.

  He found Heather in the kitchen, washing up.

  ‘Can I give you a hand?’

  ‘No thanks, Hugh.’

  ‘I’m quite good at drying.’

  She turned round and he saw the tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry to be so feeble, Hugh, but it’s such a dreadful thing to have happened. Really horrible!’

  ‘It’s certainly very unfortunate, but it wasn’t your fault. And you mustn’t take it to heart.’

  ‘But you heard what the inspector said – we should have put a warning notice up at the jetty.’

  He said firmly, ‘If you’d put ten notices there, Heather, it wouldn’t have made any difference. The man was drunk. He’d made up his mind that he wanted to go for a row in the moonlight and nothing was going to stop him. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his own.’

  She fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of her apron and wiped her eyes.

  ‘We’ll probably get the blame for it, though. And we’ll lose our reputation and all our customers.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Who’d want to come and stay now? After someone has died here?’

  He said, ‘How old is The Grange, Heather?’

  She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How old is the house?’

  ‘About two hundred years or more.’

  ‘And how many people do you think must have died here during that time?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Well, I dare say it would add up to quite a number. The old man who lived in my cottage before me died upstairs in bed in the room where I sleep now; so did his wife. And heaven knows how many before them. People die upstairs and downstairs in houses, indoors and outdoors. It happens all the time.’

  ‘The local paper’s bound to report it.’

  ‘If they do, it’ll be forgotten in a week. He was a stranger from twelve thousand miles away.’

  ‘But he was a war hero, too, wasn’t he?’

  ‘One of many who attended the reunion.’

  She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. ‘The thing is, Hugh, I’ve been thinking about the future anyway. We really ought to give up doing B&B. Sell The Grange and move somewhere much smaller and more manageable.’

  ‘Do you really want to do that?’

  ‘No. But it’s not fair on Geoffrey to stay here. He could be having a nice, peaceful retirement with no work or worries. Instead, he’s slaving away and spending money on a crumbling old pile that will never make much profit. We just about break even, that’s all. There’s no point, is there?’

  He said slowly, ‘I think there’s a great deal of point. Doing nothing when you retire is definitely a bad idea. If you don’t keep busy you can lose your grip on life. The Grange is very good for Geoffrey. It would be a mistake to throw in the towel. And, in any case, he wouldn’t want to leave the old airfield now, would he? He’s become very much involved with it. Very attached.’

  ‘I know. But it seems such a sad place to me.’

  ‘He sees it differently.’

  ‘But I always think about all those young men dying. The terrible waste.’

  ‘You mustn’t look at it in that way, Heather. They died for something worth fighting and dying for. That’s not always the case in wars, believe me.’

  As the Colonel left the kitchen, Bill Steed came down the stairs, carrying a suitcase.

  ‘We’ll be off soon, Colonel. No sense in us hanging around any longer. The inspector said they’d keep us notified about arrangements for Don’s funeral. They’ll be getting in touch with his family in Australia – that’s if he has any to find. Two ex-wives and no children, Don told us. He never mentioned any brothers or sisters or any other relatives that we can remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry that your weekend should have ended like this.’

  ‘Yes, we’re feeling very bad indeed about it. We should have looked after him better.’

  ‘He wasn’t actually your responsibility.’

  ‘Yes, he was. Once a bomber crew, always a bomber crew. It’s for life. People don’t always appreciate that. We chose each other at the start, you know.’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘Rather shrewd of the RAF to let you all pick your own destiny.’

  ‘Yes, it makes for strong ties.’

  The rest of the crew came down the stairs with their luggage and Geoffrey and Heather appeared to see them off. The Colonel was included in the goodbyes.

  ‘Very pleased to have met you, Colonel,’ Jim Harper, the navigator said, shaking his hand. ‘And thank you for what you did for Don.’

  ‘I wish I had been able to save him.’

  ‘You did everything you could. It’s us who let him down. We feel like we’ve lost a brother.’

  He had spoken quietly and without overt emotion, but then death would be no stranger to him, the Colonel thought. Nor to any of them.

  Someone had laid a bunch of flowers by The Grange gatepost. As the cars drove off, Geoffrey went to pick them up. They were brightly coloured and wrapped in shiny plastic. He looked at them with distaste.

  ‘I don’t understand why people do this sort of thing for someone they never knew or met, do you?’

  Heather said, ‘Just throw them away, please Geoffrey.’ She hurried back into the house.

  He went on staring down at the flowers. ‘They must be sick, Hugh. I could just about understand it when the Princess of Wales died – I suppose people felt they knew her, even if they didn’t. But it’s become a sort of gruesome ritual now, hasn’t it? Everyone wants to join in the mourning. God knows why.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d do what Heather asked. Throw them away before they encourage any more.’

  ‘Good advice, as always. I hope you’ll stay on for a few days, Hugh. We’d be glad of your company. Moral support and all that … until we know how things are going to turn out.’

  He thought of Thursday locked up in Cat Heaven. Five-star accommodation it might be, but as far as a footloose stray was concerned, it was still a prison. He would be sulking furiously and maybe refusing to eat, no matter what delicacies were placed before him. If Thursday had considered himself betrayed when he had been left behind at the cottage once before, the Colonel might find he had completely overstepped the mark this time. He might do a lot more than sulk; he might move on.

  He said, ‘I’d need to make a phone call.’

  Mrs Moffat answered the Cat Heaven telephone.

  ‘Thursday is quite all right, Colonel. He was a little bit upset at first but now he’s settled in very well.’

  She would say that, he thought.

  ‘Is he eating?’

  ‘Oh yes. Fish is his favourite, as you probably know. Especially pilchards. He’s very friendly, isn’t he? We have a little chat every morning and evening and he lets me give him a nice brush and comb. Not every cat will do that, I can tell you.’

  She must have muddled the names up, he decided. It would be easy enough, with all those cats. He’d never had such a t
hing as a little chat with Thursday – merely a brief word or two – and the idea of a nice brush and comb being permitted was unthinkable.

  He said uncertainly. ‘That doesn’t sound very much like Thursday. He’s the old black and tan moggie with the torn ear.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. I assure you I know all my boarders, Colonel. And I make a particular point of them getting to know me. It’s all about trust, you see. A trusting cat is a contented cat, I always say. You’re collecting him tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  He said, ‘I wondered if perhaps you could keep him for a day or two longer?’

  ‘I’m usually chock-a-block at this time of year, Colonel, but there’s been an unexpected cancellation, so that would be perfectly all right.’

  He rang Naomi next.

  ‘Just thought I should let you know that I’ve been asked to stay on here for a bit.’

  She cackled; there was no better word to describe the sound that came down the wire. A loud cackle.

  ‘Another woman after you, Hugh?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Found another body, then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you keep bumping into them. First it was Ursula Swynford suffocated at the Manor fête, then that actress you found electrocuted in her bath, and last time it was a Swedish girl’s skeleton you dug up in your friend’s barn.’

  ‘The builders dug her up, not me.’

  ‘Same result. You had to hang around, trying to sort things out. So, whose body is it this time?’

  He said stiffly, ‘As a matter of fact, one of the B and B guests drowned in a boating accident on the lake here.’

  ‘Another woman?’

  ‘No, a man.’

  ‘That makes a change.’

  ‘An Australian.’

  ‘You’d think he could swim, being an Aussie.’

  ‘He could swim, but he was drunk.’

  ‘Well, they usually are in my experience.’

  Naomi’s experience of Antipodeans, so far as he knew, was limited to one visit to stay with her son and Australian daughter-in-law in a very respectable part of Brisbane. And, unlike Naomi herself, her daughter-in-law never touched a drop.

  He said, ‘Anyway, it’s all been very unfortunate.’

  ‘Did you meet the body – before it drowned?’

  ‘Yes. He’d come over to attend a Bomber Command Reunion. His old crew were staying here too.’

  ‘They must have been a bit upset.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘The uncle I told you about flew in Lancasters. He always said his crew were like brothers to him. In fact, he said he knew them better than his own real brothers. And liked them a lot better.’

  He thought of Jim Harper’s sad remark.

  ‘I imagine that was often the case.’

  ‘I’ll tell you another thing about my uncle. After the war was over, he never had to buy himself another pint again. He was the local hero for the rest of his life.’

  ‘The crews at the reunion were treated like that. Everyone made a big fuss of them.’

  ‘And so they should. They deserved it. By the way, what about Thursday?’

  ‘I rang the cattery. The woman who runs it said she’ll keep him a bit longer. She said he’s perfectly all right.’

  ‘Cats aren’t stupid. They know how to look after themselves.’

  That might well be said of Thursday, but nonetheless the Colonel felt that the cosying-up to Mrs Moffat was inexplicable.

  ‘I’ll go round and water anything that’s looking thirsty, Hugh. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Very kind of you, Naomi.’

  ‘Shall I get Jacob to give the grass a once-over?’

  He said firmly, ‘No, thank you.’

  For Jacob to give the grass a once-over meant getting out the lawn mower, which meant unlocking the shed, which meant revealing to Naomi his new hiding place for the keys as well as giving her the perfect pretext to invade his sanctum in his absence.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave it too long, if I were you. Not good for it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a day or two.’

  ‘You might find out that the drowning wasn’t an accident, after all.’

  ‘That’s not very likely, Naomi. It’s cut and dried.’

  ‘It never seems to be when you’re around.’

  Afterwards, he walked down to the lake and on to the jetty where the dinghy had been moored again, the oars retrieved and stowed away. Cut and dried, he had told Naomi. But it wasn’t quite so simple as that, was it? Not when he thought more about it. The boat was the old-fashioned clinker-built wooden sort, not made of flimsy lightweight modern plastic. It was solid and sturdy. The whole crew had squashed into it that afternoon when he and Geoffrey had watched from the bank. Seven old men larking about like kids. They’d shipped some water, rocking it, true enough, but the overloaded dinghy had stayed steady. That night Don Wilson had been on his own and he ought to have been safe enough. Except, of course, that he was drunk. And drunk men do stupid things like losing both oars and then leaning over, trying to retrieve them. And falling into water blanketed with thick weed and with a mud bottom like a quagmire.

  Geoffrey said, ‘That confounded local reporter’s turned up, Hugh. Would you get rid of him for us? Heather’s been upset enough.’

  The young man was waiting in the hall, notebook in hand.

  The Colonel said pleasantly, ‘Mr Cheetham would be grateful if you’d leave. Neither he, nor Mrs Cheetham, has anything to say.’

  ‘I understand, sir. They must be very distressed by the accident. But my editor still wants this article: “Forgotten Heroes.” And he thinks it would be a good touch to put in something special about Mr Wilson … some sort of tribute to the part he played in the war. Coming all that way from Australia to fight on our side, and so on. He thinks it would go down rather well.’

  ‘I agree, but Mr and Mrs Cheetham only met Mr Wilson when he arrived here on Friday evening. They know almost nothing about him.’

  ‘Would you yourself have any information, sir? He might have talked to you?’

  He was a decent young man and a reporter’s job was to dig for lumps of gold or for any possible dirt.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t help you. We hardly spoke.’

  ‘He had some rather interesting things to say about Bomber Command at the dinner in Lincoln. When they were serving the drinks before.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He said that serving as crew was a mug’s game.’

  ‘I expect he’d already had a glass or two.’

  ‘He seemed quite sober then. He said most of them didn’t have a chance but that the RAF didn’t give a damn. It didn’t matter how many of them were killed because there were always plenty of other mugs to take their place. Of course, he got pretty drunk during the dinner later on and finally those other old guys came up and hauled him away. I only realized they were his former crew when you pointed them out to me later, after the church service yesterday. It was nice the way they took care of him.’

  ‘It’s the custom, I believe.’

  ‘They clammed-up completely when I spoke to them at the church. A lot of the veterans are like that though; you’d never guess they’d done a thing in the war. Won’t say a word.’

  Unlike Naomi’s uncle and his free pints, the Colonel thought. He knew that it was not uncommon for people who had suffered a very grim war to keep silent about it, even with their families. Some would reveal things at the very end of their lives, perhaps to their grandchildren; others would take their story to the grave.

  He said, ‘That creepback business you mentioned. Did you ask them about it?’

  ‘Yes, I did. They’d never heard of it.’

  But they must have done, the Colonel thought. According to the Air Vice-Marshal, it was a known phenomenon of the time: bombs falling further and further short of the target as a long raid went on. And if their mid-upper gunner had known about it
, so had they. Still, the Colonel could quite see why the crew had closed ranks against a cocky young reporter with his notebook and his nosy questions.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you. Good luck with your article.’

  ‘Of course, I can’t repeat what he said about it being a mug’s game. Not in this article. Are you sure there’s nothing he told you that I could use?’

  He felt rather sorry for the young chap; he seemed genuine enough and the article was a very good idea. And it was right that there should be something written in praise of the Australian gunner.

  ‘Well, he told me how they crewed up. It was rather interesting. I think your readers would enjoy hearing about it.’

  The notepad reappeared in a flash.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, if you guarantee that there will be no mention in your article of Mr Wilson staying here at The Grange and no photograph of the house.’

  If the local grapevine was anything like the one in Frog End then everyone would know anyway, but at least it might comfort Heather not to have her old home feature on the front page.

  ‘Not a word, Colonel.’

  ‘And no photo of the house?’

  ‘Not one.’ The pencil hovered. ‘How did they do it?’

  ‘Not like you’d imagine at all.’

  ELEVEN

  There were no Bed & Breakfast bookings until the following weekend and the Colonel made himself generally useful. He fed the rescued hens who were already looking brighter and better and bolder, and watched them pecking and scratching and fluffing out their growing feathers. They were even beginning to lay eggs and collecting them warm from the nesting boxes was a new experience for him; he had only known them cold and old in cardboard boxes off shop shelves.

  He mowed the lawns, raked the gravel and helped Geoffrey make yet another assault on the blanket weed. It was, he realized, a hopeless cause – Heather had already told him so, based on her long experience of the lake. But the attempt had to be made. Their ammunition was a new brand killer guaranteeing miraculous results. It came in plastic bags which could be thrown into the water where the bag dissolved, releasing (according to makers) a trillion freeze dried bacteria, harmless to all fauna, fish and flora – except the blanket weed.