The Seventh Link

by Margaret Mayhew

‘But it’s only August.’

  ‘It’s never too early as far as they’re concerned. Did you see last year’s?’

  He had been spared by Alison’s visit. ‘My daughter was staying.’

  ‘They did Puss in Boots, if I remember rightly. This time they’ve decided to write one themselves. Be original.’

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t, Hugh. It sounds disastrous. And Marjorie Cuthbertson is to produce, of all people. Apparently she did things with army dramatic societies when she and the Major were serving abroad. Can you imagine?’

  ‘Not easily.’

  ‘Nor me. Well, you have been warned. They’ll be trying to rope you in if you don’t watch out.’

  ‘Mrs Bentley already tried once. Without success.’

  ‘Flora Bentley and Marjorie Cuthbertson are two different kettles of fish, Hugh. Méfiez-vous.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  Naomi downed some more whisky.

  ‘By the way, what about the Australian who drowned in the boating accident?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, tell me more.’

  ‘There’s nothing much to tell. He got very drunk at the RAF reunion dinner in Lincoln on the Saturday evening and his old crew drove him back to Buckby and put him to bed in his room at the B and B. It seems he must have got up some time during the night, taken the rowing boat out on to the lake and fallen overboard. I found him floating face down in the water next morning.’

  ‘You found him?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You’re always finding bodies, Hugh. You really must break the habit, you know.’

  ‘It’s not a habit, Naomi. I just happened to be there. I don’t go around looking for them.’

  ‘And you’re certain that it was an accident?’

  ‘I don’t see why it would have been anything else. The police were perfectly satisfied. The post-mortem showed he was very drunk and he drowned. He obviously fell overboard – most probably trying to retrieve the oars. The boat was empty nearby with the oars floating on the surface.’

  ‘You said he could swim, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but apparently drunks drown very easily.’

  ‘And he was definitely alone?’

  ‘So far as anyone knows. His crew went off to bed after they’d tucked him up. I was at the same dinner with Geoffrey and Heather and when we got back to the house later everyone was asleep with their lights out.’

  Naomi squinted at the lowered level in her glass and hooked out a small insect with her little finger. ‘But you don’t seem very happy about it, Hugh.’

  He frowned. ‘He was a strange sort of chap. Rather the odd one out. The rest of the crew had all kept in close touch but he’d gone back to Australia after the war and they hadn’t seen or heard of him for years. He doesn’t seem to have amounted to very much, in spite of his war service. A bit of a sad case, it struck me. When he won some money on the races he spent it on flying back to England for the reunion. He hadn’t told them he was coming, though. It was quite a surprise for them when he turned up at the B and B.’

  ‘A nice surprise?’

  ‘It seemed so. They were together again after more than fifty years. They’d been young men living through a life or death experience together. They’d done a full tour of thirty operations and somehow they’d all survived. That makes for a pretty strong bond.’

  ‘So my Lancaster uncle always said. What was your Australian’s place in the crew?’

  ‘He was their mid-upper gunner. And a good one, too, I think. They had no complaints. He drank a lot off duty, but never when flying.’

  ‘How about the rest of his crew? What were they like?’

  ‘Thoroughly decent types. Modest. Unassuming. Unpretentious. You’d never guess what they’d done in the war just by looking at them.’

  ‘You didn’t have to try with my uncle. He was a great line-shooter. He told it all.’

  ‘This Australian could certainly tell some stories. He came out with an extraordinary one at the reunion dinner. I didn’t hear it myself but someone else told me about it afterwards.’

  ‘What story?’

  He hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Come on, spit it out, Hugh. I can see it’s bugging you.’

  ‘Well, he claimed that after he and the other six had done their first two operations and found out how bad it was, they agreed between themselves that they would do everything they could to increase their chances of survival.’

  ‘Makes sound sense.’

  ‘In theory, yes, but it wasn’t quite so straightforward. He said that they deliberately planned to drop their bombs short of the targets and turn for home as soon as possible.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘He also said that they decided that if they were given a particularly tough target they’d find something wrong with the plane to give them an excuse to turn back, counting on the next op being easier. Another trick was to simply dump their bombs in the sea.’

  ‘Quite a story!’

  ‘He was drunk, Naomi. It was some kind of sick joke. Those men were the very best. Heroes.’

  ‘They were human beings as well as heroes, Hugh. They can’t all have been perfect.’

  ‘Well the men I met at the B and B were the genuine article. I’d stake my life on them.’

  ‘Luckily you don’t have to. The Australian did, and look what happened to him. Did he say anything else extraordinary?’

  He hesitated again.

  ‘He told a local newspaper reporter that he thought serving in Bomber Command was a mug’s game. He claimed the RAF didn’t care about the huge losses because there were always plenty of other mugs to take their place.’

  ‘Another of his little jokes?’

  ‘It was his opinion, apparently.’

  ‘How about the rest of his crew? Did they share his opinion?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware. They just had the odd grouse, that’s all. Nothing unusual.’

  ‘Well, if they did all think the same – that they were being taken for mugs – then you can bet your bottom dollar that what your Aussie said about them faking things was true. And his turning up unexpectedly for the reunion would have been rather an embarrassment to your modest and unassuming crew. They must have been quite worried. He’d been safely twelve thousand miles away for all those years, hopefully dead, and suddenly he wasn’t. He was very much alive. There they were, all set to have a lovely nostalgic RAF reunion weekend, a great big fuss being made of them at long last, and all of a sudden their old buddy, who’s fond of a drop, starts spilling some very shocking beans. Beans they’d kept secret for years.’

  ‘He made it all up, Naomi.’

  ‘Did he, Hugh? Hasn’t it occurred to you that he might have been telling the truth? In vino veritas?’

  It had, but he had dismissed the idea. His army years had given him experience of all kinds of men. So far as he was concerned, the Lancaster crew were sound; their mid-upper the only questionable link in the chain.

  ‘What exactly are you inferring, Naomi?’

  ‘His crew said they put their chap to bed when they got back from the dinner. Right?’

  ‘Yes. Another guest heard them taking him upstairs.’

  ‘Heard, not saw? Am I right?’

  ‘They made quite a lot of noise, apparently.’

  ‘Noise is easy to make. They could have been faking it. Supposing he wasn’t there at all? Supposing he’d already drowned in the lake?’

  ‘You mean he’d taken the boat out and fallen overboard?’

  ‘No. I mean he’d been taken out and pushed over.’

  ‘That’s ridiculously far-fetched, Naomi.’

  ‘It’s not far-fetched at all. Don’t you see? Once he’d started blabbing about what they’d got up to during the war, something had to be done fast before they lost their precious hero status. He had to be got rid of.’

  ‘Do you seriously think
that one of them was responsible?’

  ‘Not one of them, Hugh. All of them.’

  ‘All of them. For heaven’s sake, Naomi!’

  ‘Just like in that Agatha Christie book – the one that took place on the train.’

  ‘I’ve never read any of Agatha Christie’s books.’

  ‘If you had, you’d have twigged what happened. All six of your heroic crew did it. They didn’t take their gunner up to bed, like they pretended. Instead, they took him straight to the lake, shoved him in the boat and rowed out to where it was deepest. Then they all heaved him overboard together and whenever he came up for air they took it in turns to push him under again.’

  ‘That’s absolutely absurd!’

  ‘No, it isn’t. In the Christie book twelve people take turns to stab a drugged man in his train sleeping compartment, one at a time, so they don’t know who actually delivered the final coup de grâce. That made it easier for them. More acceptable. Exactly the same sort of thing here. When the Aussie finally stopped bobbing up your chaps rowed back to the bank, shoved the boat and the oars out on to the lake and made all that noise going upstairs, so it seemed that he was with them.’

  ‘His shoes were found up in the bedroom. So was his watch. How do you explain that?’

  ‘Easy. They took them off him in the boat and put them up there to corroborate their story.’

  ‘The shoes I could understand. But why the watch?’

  ‘You’re losing your touch, Hugh. It was a cheap watch, right?’

  ‘It certainly looked it. Very cheap.’

  ‘If it had been expensive it would have gone on working in the water. You know what they always say in the classy ads about them being waterproof to a hundred feet or something. Though I can never see why that matters. I mean, who’s going to go deep sea diving with a gold Omega strapped to their wrist? The point is, being so cheap, his watch would probably have stopped the minute they tipped him in, which would have given away the exact time of death. They couldn’t risk that, could they? He was supposed to have drowned much later, during the night when everyone was asleep. So they took it off – along with the shoes.’

  The watch had been positioned carefully on its side on the table. But now that he thought more about it, there had been no need for such consideration, and no precedent from the old wartime days. Wilson waking up, fully clothed, from a drunken sleep would have looked for the time on his wrist, not on a bedside table. Crew huts would not have had such luxurious refinements. Only lockers.

  Naomi had drained her glass. He knew his cue.

  ‘The other half?’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  He got up to do the refills, making them both a bit stiffer than usual. Four fingers at least. When he sat down again, he said, ‘You’ve got quite an imagination, Naomi. You make it sound almost plausible.’

  ‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’

  ‘He could have got up during the night and gone out boating on his own, as everybody, including the police, thought must have happened. That’s very plausible too.’

  ‘When my Lancaster uncle went on a bender in his youth, which was every time he came back on leave, he’d be out for the count for at least ten hours. My mother let him sleep it off and cooked him kippers for breakfast.’

  ‘Maybe Australians have harder heads.’

  ‘Come on, Hugh! That won’t wash. He was a tired old man who’d drunk far too much as usual. It would have taken him all night to recover. The rest of the crew must have planned what they were going to do when they were carting him back after the dinner, drunk as a skunk in a back seat. Six against one. Easy. They didn’t want to stop being brave war heroes, did they? Or have to give back their medals?’

  He said slowly, ‘Actually, I don’t think they had any medals. At any rate, they weren’t wearing them for the church service.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual after a full tour? Surely, the skipper, at least, generally got something? All my uncle’s crew got a gong. But, of course, if your lot kept turning back and their bombing wasn’t so hot, maybe that’s the reason. Didn’t the Aussie say anything to you? People usually unburden themselves to you, don’t they?’

  ‘We didn’t talk much. I do remember him saying that they could have killed a whole lot more Germans, if they’d wanted to. That they didn’t drop nearly enough bombs. It seemed an odd thing to say.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Naomi. I’m not anywhere. He wasn’t necessarily referring to any cowardice. And it’s certainly no proof that his crew drowned him to stop him talking.’

  She shrugged. ‘Have it your own way, Hugh. But you’re letting them get away with it, if you don’t do anything.’

  ‘There was a fully competent police inspector in charge and he was satisfied that it was an accident. There was also a post-mortem.’

  ‘But you’re not satisfied, are you?’

  He fingered his glass. ‘I don’t know what to think, Naomi, to be honest.’

  ‘In the Christie book, the victim was a very evil man who had kidnapped and murdered a child and had never been caught. The twelve people were self-appointed executioners, who had all known the child and wanted to avenge its death. The same number as a jury, you see.’

  ‘What happened in the end?’

  ‘Hercule Poirot, the detective, solved it, as usual – I suppose you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘Well, he decided that justice had been done and he retired from the case.’

  ‘So, they got away with it?’

  ‘Yes. But it’s rather different with your six chaps, isn’t it? They weren’t administering justice, they were saving their precious faces and reputations. They were all seven in it together with the plan to save their skins in the war and those six were in it together when it came to getting rid of their mid-upper gunner at the reunion.

  We were all in it together. Now that he thought about it, the skipper’s remark to him had been open to a very different interpretation.

  ‘Only in your very vivid imagination, Naomi.’

  She waved her hand indifferently. ‘I’ve told you what happened, Hugh. You must do as you please.’

  ‘To change the subject,’ he said after a moment’s strained silence, ‘Do you have any suggestions for my border? I think it needs some improvement.’

  ‘Echinops bannaticus. They’d look good at the back – fill in that blank you’ve got there. Ruth has got some. And I’d get rid of the meconopsis, if I were you. It’s not looking at all happy. Get something else that will be. And you could go in for some of the wild self-seeders and stick them around. Forget-me-nots, poppies, ox-eye daisies, cow parsley would all come up through the other plants so you get a nice natural, meadowy look. Very Highgrove. You have to be ruthless with the cow parsley, though or it will take over. The trick is to cut it down before it seeds.’

  He had long admired the naturalness of Naomi’s own garden where practically everything seemed to have seeded itself, but rather doubted he would ever be able to create the same effect.

  ‘Any more ideas?’

  ‘Well, you could try some verbena. “Lavender Spires”, say. Very well behaved and a good link plant.’

  They went on discussing the herbaceous border until the second halves were finished and Naomi took her leave. The subject of Don Wilson had not been raised again but, as he opened the front door for her, he said, ‘Have you read many detective books, Naomi?’

  ‘I used to read loads. Don’t seem to get the time now.’

  ‘Did you always guess whodunnit?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Never failed. On the button every time.’

  FOURTEEN

  He took another tour of the garden, hoping as he did so, that Thursday might turn up, but there was no sign of him. Back indoors, he opened a tin of sardines in oil, tipped the contents into the cat’s bowl, marked DOG, and mashed the fish up for easy eating. Mrs Moffat had mentioned pilchards, which we
re essentially the same thing, and this particular brand, which he sometimes ate on toast himself, was very good. The bowl was kept near the open door. If Thursday’s sense of smell was still any good, they would be a powerful attraction.

  He went into the sitting room, sat down in his wing back chair and picked up the phone. When he dialled the Cheetham’s number, Geoffrey answered. He told him about Naomi’s tip for the blanket weed.

  ‘Apparently, there’s some kind of special straw you can get that works well. She’s going to find out more about it and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Hugh. I’ll try anything.’

  ‘How is Heather?’

  ‘Rallying, I’m glad to say. We’ve been talking about the B and B and I’ve persuaded her that we should carry on. In fact, we’re going to do up another of the attic rooms. She’s even agreed to keep the boat.’

  ‘So, the police haven’t been bothering you again?’

  ‘Bothering us? Why would they?’

  ‘I just wondered if there had been any more developments about Don Wilson’s death.’

  ‘None at all. It’s all finished and done with. Everyone in the village has been very supportive.’

  Supportive was another key word these days; like stress. If the Cheethams had the village on their side, the accidental death of a passing stranger was unlikely to cause any long-term problems. It would be forgotten very quickly.’

  He said, ‘Did the inspector ever happen to mention how long they reckoned Wilson had been dead before I found him?’

  ‘No. And I never asked. Why?’

  ‘I was just curious.’

  ‘Well, we can get on with our lives now, thank God. I’m looking forward to getting started on that control tower museum project that I told you about. I think we can make it happen.’

  ‘I’m sure you can.’

  ‘We must keep busy at our stage in life, Hugh – don’t you agree?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  He thought of keeping-busy activities he had lined up at the moment. Driving the community minibus once a week, clearing footpaths once a month, cutting the churchyard grass when it needed it. Various other noble deeds and now the distant spectre of the village Christmas pantomime. His old friend was to be envied with his museum.