“How was I to know a brush pile could be such a source of disagreement? If you are so unhappy with your jobbing gardener, why don’t you simply stop employing him?” Beryl raised her teacup to her lips and took a sip. As much as she was happy to have escaped the cold and damp of a New England autumn in favor of a milder English one, she would never understand the passion the English had for tea. She vastly preferred Simpkins’notion of what constituted a drink. Give her cocktail hour over teatime anyday. She looked around the shop where china figurines clotted the molding above the windows and faded chintz swathed every flat surface. Beryl wondered if she sat still for too long whether the proprietress would drape a length of polished cotton over her as well.
“I can’t do that. Simpkins is the only jobbing gardener to be had for what I can pay. Thanks to your efforts, I’ve barely managed to convince people I shan’t end up in a pauper’s grave. If I dismissed Simpkins the rumors would run amok once more.”
“If you are so grateful for my help I suggest you forgive me for your brush pile. Tomorrow I’ll head out into the woods and gather all your sticks back up if it makes you feel any better. I hate to see you looking so down. Although your attitude does seem a bit extreme. Even for a devoted gardener.”
“It’s not really Simpkins or the pile. I’ve just been to see the doctor and it’s left me more than a bit on edge.” Edwina dropped two cubes of sugar into her cup and gave it a listless stir.
“Bad news at the doctor?” Beryl asked. “It wasn’t on account of what happened last night, was it? You didn’t suffer any long-term ill effects from the attack, did you?” She leaned across the table and tried to see past the silk scarf swathing Edwina’s throat.
“No, nothing like that. But I did leave feeling quite foolish. I went in to ask him about Agnes and the volunteering she did at the hospital housed in the ballroom of the Wallingford Estate.”
“Drat. There I was thinking I had a lead to share with you from my visit to the garage.” Beryl reached for a scone from the tiered stand Minnie plunked between them on the table. Edwina reached for a thin tomato and cheese sandwich to pass the time while Minnie hovered nearby. Beryl had polished off one scone and had reached for a second before the bell on the door mercifully jingled and announced a new arrival. Minnie scurried off and left them in peace. “Why did you feel foolish?”
“Dr. Nelson pointed out the possibility that the attack on me last night had nothing whatsoever to do with any criminal activity centred in Walmsley Parva. Other than my own making, that is.”
“You? Involved in criminality? I’d be as likely to believe your Simpkins was in line to be the next Archbishop of Canterbury,” Beryl said.
“He’s not my Simpkins.” Edwina frowned extravagantly. “The doctor suggested that the attack was prompted by my advertisement for a lodger and that it had nothing whatsoever to do with Agnes or anyone else from Walmsley Parva.”
“He suggested the attack on you was your own fault?” Beryl dropped her scone to her plate with a clatter. “The very idea.”
“He made a convincing argument.”
“Did he now?”
“He did. He said I had provided my address and even my marital status in the advertisement. Truly it had never occurred to me that such a thing could be dangerous.” Edwina let out a deep breath. “But considering the potential tenants I refused I have to concede the doctor made a strong case for a random act by a total lunatic.”
“You think there is nothing to investigate? Regardless of why it happened, someone tried to choke you to death.”
“I haven’t forgotten that, thank you very much. It’s just that I fear we should consider that perhaps we’ve been making a bit of a fanciful fuss where really the truth is just sordid and ordinary.”
“I have often been accused of my life being sordid, Ed, but I refuse to have anyone call it ordinary. If you don’t wish to continue investigating, I’ll understand. But I intend to keep on. After all, even if it was some nutter there’s nothing to say he or she won’t try again.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?” Edwina’s voice raised and all eyes in the shop turned their way.
“Certainly not. Although a flush of terror now and again does wonders for the complexion. No, I am simply reminding you that it isn’t as if you have moved house since the strangler made the attempt.” Beryl reached for a sandwich and bit into it. Marmite. More than just tea would take getting used to, she decided.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Edwina said. “I bought a week’s worth of advertising and this is only the fifth day, Who’s to say even if the person in the garden last night has worked out whatever ailed him that there won’t be another to take his place? There are a great many people out there who haven’t been well in their minds since the war began.”
“Cheer up, Ed. I’m sure you’ve been in worse spots before. I know I have. And think of the bright side.”
“What’s that?”
“You never feel quite so alive as when you are worried you won’t be for much longer.”
* * *
Edwina managed to down two more cups of sugary tea before they left the shop. Twilight was gathering about them and Edwina regretted not wearing a heavier coat. Up ahead the lights of the cinema marquee shone brightly. Polly Watkins stood at the entrance wearing a thin blue wrap, a frock and the sort of shoes Edwina deemed completely inappropriate for anything but a formal occasion. The lower classes were far too prone to overdress. Still, after all everyone had been through, such things seemed to matter so much less than they had before the war. Polly’s hair was swept up off her neck and as they approached Edwina could see a blue scarf fluttering jauntily at her neck. Truly the girl was all dressed up.
Edwina watched as Polly furtively cast a glance at the cinema entrance. She looked up and down the pavement. A figure on the opposite side of the road called her name. She turned and the figure moved towards her. She looked at the cinema door once more then streaked round the back of the building. Edwina heard the figure call Polly’s name a second time then slink back into the shadows. She felt her shoulders creep up round her ears. Beryl seemed to sense her unease and reached out to take her arm. She tucked Edwina’s elbow into the crook of her own and began to whistle a tune that if Edwina had been forced to guess she would have attributed to a sailor on a third-rate ship.
“What’s gotten into you, Beryl?” she asked.
“If you ever suspect you might be followed, make sure all possible eyes are on you. The person creeping up on you is not likely to make a move if you are making a scene.”
As horrified as Edwina was to be seen weaving down the street like a drunken navvy, she was never gladder to be with her friend.
Chapter 11
“Beryl Helliwell found alive and well,” Jack called down the street. “Takes up residence in idyllic English village.” He waved the morning paper above his head and shouted the headline once more. He turned round to shout the news in the opposite direction then stopped and stared as a woman approached. There, right in front of him, at his very own corner, stood Beryl Helliwell. For a long moment he could not think, let alone speak. Finally, the worry she would think him a simpleton goaded him to recover his voice.
“You’ve been found, you know,” he said, finally finding his voice. She leaned towards him. A heady mix scent of exotic spices and dusky flowers wafted towards him as she did so. He thought he had never smelled something so delicious in all his life. Not even a fresh tray of breakfast baps at Minnie Mumford’s tearoom.
“Would you like to know a secret?” she asked. He nodded slowly as if he was doing so while several leagues under the sea.
“Are you sure I can trust you? You are a member of the press in a way, aren’t you?”
“I promise. If you find out I’ve betrayed your secret you can feed me to one of those lions I’ve seen you pose with in the newsreels.”
“Bravely spoken. I feel I can trust you.” She leaned so close her breath tickled
his ear. His knees wobbled and he clutched at his heavy bag hoping he looked worthy of her confidence. “I wasn’t lost at all. I was hiding.”
“Hiding. From who?” His heart thudded in his chest. It was all too thrilling.
“Everyone.” She gave him an enormous smile and pried his fist from the strap of his bag. She placed a penny in it and held out her hand for a paper.
“Are you still hiding?” Jack looked up and down the street.
“Not anymore. I have things I need to do and it was time to get back to them. You seem like the sort of young man who knows what is what in his village. I think my friend Miss Davenport and I might have need of a bright boy like you with our mission. Do you think you would be able to show discretion if the need arose?”
“I’m sure I could, missus, if you’d tell me what discretion meant.”
“It means not telling people things you were trusted not to reveal.”
“So you mean don’t act like Miss Rathbone at the post office?”
“That’s it exactly. Do you think you could hold your tongue if need be?” Beryl Helliwell looked deeply into his eyes and his mind went blank once more. He was brought to his senses by a motorcar rumbling down the street. The driver slowed down, and then stuck out his hand for a paper. Jack concluded the transaction and she spoke again. “I shouldn’t want you to make any promises you wouldn’t like to keep.”
“I would be more than happy to help you and Miss Davenport in any way you might need. And I promise I can keep my tongue. Even under torture.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If and when I have need of you will I be able to find you on this corner?”
“Every day, rain or shine,” Jack said, doffing his flat cap. “I’m here with the morning edition and then again with the evening newspaper. Or you can ask for me at the pub if it is near closing time. My mum usually sends me to fetch me dad.” Jack grinned. Beryl Helliwell fished half a crown from her coat pocket and pressed it into his hand.
“I believe you are a man of your word. Consider this a retainer. Do you know what that means?” Jack wished he were the sort of man who could have said that he did know such words. But the truth was he could hardly read the headlines of the newspapers he sold. Still, the only way to learn new things was to admit you didn’t already know them. He shook his head. “It is a sort of payment up front that the person who hires you can draw from if the need arises,” she said.
“Like an advance?”
“Yes. But it is a commitment that also reminds us both that your loyalty is to me.”
“It would have been even without the half crown, missus.”
“I think you are going to be just the man for the job, Jack.”
* * *
Beryl stopped in front of the butcher shop to look over the goods displayed in the window. Three wizened chickens and what likely would be claimed to be a ham hung from a pole. Beryl felt the offerings were at odds with the shop’s sign proclaiming the establishment to be owned by one Sidney Poole, Purveyor of Fine Meats. She doubted the interior of the shop would yield a more inspiring inventory. Still, Edwina had insisted that there was absolutely nothing in the house to feed them if you didn’t include a couple pots of raspberry jam put up before Edwina’s mother died and a paltry three gherkins left bobbing in a jar.
Beryl pushed open the door and approached the large man dressed in a snowy white apron who stood at the back of the shop wiping a cloth over the top of the glass meat case with a broad hand.
“Good morning. Are you Mr. Poole?” she said as she peered into the case. It could not be said that Beryl was any sort of a cook. If the need to provide for her own nourishment arose she was perfectly contented with a bit of cheese and an apple. She had, on occasion, if the circumstances were dire, opened a tin of soup. She never bothered to heat it but rather preferred to consume it straight out of the can. Shopping for groceries was well outside her experience and in truth she had no idea whether what she was viewing in the case before her was the least bit suitable for Edwina’s plans. She pulled an old envelope from her coat pocket, which Edwina had used to hastily scribble down a list.
“That I am. Anything I can get for you this morning, missus?” he asked.
“I wondered if you might have a small beef roast. Something suitable to serve three or four with a bit of bone in it for the dog?” Edwina’s note had been quite clear on that. Crumpet must have a bone or there would be no peace at the Beeches.
“I expect I’ll be able to find something for you. You’re that American woman that’s been missing for ages, aren’t you?”
“I am a woman and I am an American. But I would take issue with the notion that I’ve been missing. I’ve known right where I’ve been all along.” Beryl had no interest whatsoever in discussing her decision to eschew the limelight for some months. She couldn’t really explain it to herself and thus had found it utterly impossible to make sense of for anyone else. Not only that, she couldn’t see how it was anyone’s business but her own if she had found herself in need of a break from all the frantic gallivanting. A butcher’s shop was no place for self-reflection.
Mr. Poole snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Beryl Helliwell. That’s who you are. Staying up to the Beeches with Miss Davenport. I’ve got just the thing for her. Now that I hear she’s promptly settling her accounts once again.” He dug round in the back of the case and hoisted a roast about the size of a loaf of bread up for her inspection. “How’s this?” He turned it round for her to see a good-sized bone showing at the end.
“That will do nicely, I’m sure.” Beryl hoped she was right about the roast. She consulted the list once more. “I’d like a chicken as well.”
“I’ve just the one.” Mr. Poole stepped to the window display and selected one of the paltry fowl hanging there. Beryl thought it unlikely such an unprepossessing bird would make much of a meal but she could hardly complain as she wanted to invite confidences from the butcher.
“That’s lovely. Do you think the greengrocer across the street will have some sort of vegetable to go with it?”
“I’m sure they do. My nephew Norman stopped in this morning after he made a delivery there.” Mr. Poole carried the roast to the roll of butcher’s paper fixed to a dispenser at the far end of the counter. He spooled off a bit of it and neatly wrapped the roast, tying it up with a length of string. “Sprouts and parsnips I think he said.”
“Is that the same Norman who used to work with Simpkins up at the Beeches before the war?”
“That’s right. He’s renting some land from the old Wallingford Estate now that the government has left off using all those girls as farmers. Making a real go of it, he is.”
“You must be very proud of him.”
“We are. Norman’s been like a son to us.” Mr. Poole shook his head and his extra chins wobbled. “No kiddies of our own you understand.” Unlike Beryl, Mr. Poole seemed to regret his childless state. Beryl made a noncommittal clucking noise and returned the subject to produce.
“They must be fresh then, the vegetables?” she asked.
“Fresher than usual. Norman said he had a bit of a lie-in on account of his late night. He plucked those sprouts this morning as quick as he could but he still got in a couple hours later than is his habit.”
“I thought farmers tended to keep early hours?” Beryl said. “Up before the birds and all that.”
“He used to until recently.” Mr. Poole lowered his voice. “It’s that girl he’d been walking out with. Crazy for the cinema is Polly. She goes to the evening shows every chance she gets.”
“Not really the right sort of a match for a farmer then, is she?”
“You put your finger right on it,” he said, sliding the parcel across the counter. “Polly told him she wasn’t interested in seeing him anymore on account of the hours he keeps. He’s been staying up far too late trying to win her back. He looked positively done in when he was here.”
“Have all his efforts
paid off yet?” Beryl asked.
“Let’s just say you’d best hope the sprouts are sweeter than Norman’s temper this morning.” Mr. Poole said. “Norman’s the best sort of lad you’d ever want to meet. Whenever I think of how Polly’s treated him it makes me see red.” Mr. Poole wiped his hands on his apron, leaving reddish streaks all down the front. “He’d have been better off if she’d been lost to the influenza.”
Chapter 12
By midafternoon Polly had still not arrived and Edwina was becoming a bit put out. Beryl could see from the set of her chin that she was worrying about it a good deal. She had looked much the same as a girl whenever something was on her mind. When taxed with it she admitted to being worried that Polly had said she would return to the Beeches but had no real intention of doing so.
“I’m afraid she has decided to teach me a lesson of some sort or other.”
“You know there’s no sense sitting round here and stewing about it. I say we head over to her house and ask her to her face.” Beryl took Edwina by the arm and led her to the front hall. She plucked Edwina’s third best hat from the hall tree and plunked it firmly on Edwina’s head. “Where does she live?”
“She still lives with her parents at the far end of the village, on a lane branching off the road leading out of town. You would have passed it on your way here.” Edwina wasn’t sure she wanted to settle things with Polly. In her opinion it might be far better to simply ignore the whole thing. One didn’t like to embroil oneself in unpleasantness if it was at all possible to avoid it. “It’s quite out of the way now that I come to think of it.”
“I can tell you are trying to wriggle out of your duties as an employer but I think it best you attend to this mess as soon as possible.”
“I can’t see why I should be involved at all. You’re the one who offered her a position.”
“I did so as a favor to you. Besides, it is your house. In any case, I shan’t find it by myself if the house is as far out of the way as you are making it out to be.”
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