Murder in an English Village

by Jessica Ellicott

  “Do you remember if she asked for any examples or if she seemed particularly interested in any specific piece of information?” Edwina asked.

  “She asked if anything criminal had no limitation. I told her murder would always be held to account. She asked about military law and what constituted treason. I told her that military law was not my specialty, especially as concerned wartime. That was the end of the discussion.”

  “Did she seem encouraged or discouraged by your response?”

  “More disappointed I think that I couldn’t tell her exactly what she wanted to know without her sharing confidences. I offered to take her on as a client for no charge if she felt she needed legal counsel but she said she would take care of the matter herself.”

  “Did she ever mention it again?”

  “She didn’t. And I didn’t like to ask. I thought of it several times over the week or so since she brought it up and then it did occur to me again after I heard she had been found dead. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had pressed her to confide in me if she would still be alive.”

  “She was young, but she was an adult, Charles. Both you and I know Polly could not be convinced to do anything she wasn’t inclined to do.”

  “It is very kind of you to say so and your words relieve my mind a bit. As did hearing that Constable Gibbs has determined Polly simply met with an unfortunate accident.”

  Edwina looked at Charles. He was a nice man in many ways but he struck her as being entirely devoid of an imagination. She rather enjoyed shocking him from time to time with the odd suggestion that rousted him from his comfortable and stodgy ways.

  “That’s exactly why I am here, Charles. Beryl and I are completely convinced that Polly did not meet with an accident at all, but rather that someone deliberately killed her.” As if on cue Charles’ mouth flapped open and a strange gargling sound bubbled up out of his throat.

  “You think she was murdered? Here in Walmsley Parva?”

  “Why not? Someone made an attempt on my life the day Beryl arrived—in my own garden. It seems to me it wasn’t so very outrageous for a young woman walking alone at night to meet with danger. It appears the village is not as safe as it once was.”

  “Did you report what happened to the authorities?”

  “I did not. If Constable Gibbs was not inclined to investigate an actual murder, I hardly think she would have been more enthusiastic about getting to the bottom of an attempted one.”

  “Have you considered someone may make another attempt on your life?” Charles leaned across the narrow space separating their chairs and made as if to take her hand. She stiffened like a vole sensing the shadow of an owl and he dropped his hands abruptly and clutched at his armrest instead.

  “Of course I had considered that, Charles. I won’t be able to feel comfortable in my own home until the matter is resolved.” If there was one thing Edwina detested it was being spoken to as though she hadn’t a brain in her head.

  “I suppose that adventuress woman of yours talked you into getting involved in something as potentially dangerous as this.” A pained look flitted across Charles’ face. Edwina wondered if his digestion was troubling him.

  “It wasn’t just Beryl. Constable Gibbs’ refusal to see sense when she declared Polly’s death an accident is what convinced me to take part in looking into this matter.”

  “I had heard the rumors bandied about by that Helliwell woman that you are a pair of secret investigators. You were putting yourself in harm’s way before Polly was killed.”

  “I thought you took no notice of anything to do with adventuresses or Americans,” Edwina said. Charles shuffled his feet.

  “What would your mother say?” Charles asked. It was very low of him to bring up her mother, and not worthy of a gentleman. Edwina felt the interview was at an end.

  “Fortunately, Charles, I needn’t ever know.” Edwina stood. Still, the interview was not a waste no matter how unpleasantly it had ended. She could hardly wait to get home to share with Beryl what she had learned. “I’ll take my leave of you, Charles. I appreciate your time.”

  “Don’t let’s leave off like this.” Charles said. “I confess that while I may have overstepped propriety, I am simply worried about you now that there is no one to take care of you.”

  “As I’ve told you on more than one occasion, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.” With that, she walked briskly out the door, banging it shut with enough verve to let the secretary know the tenor of the interview. Really, Charles was impossible so much of the time.

  Chapter 22

  Eva was at the ticket window once more when Beryl arrived. She looked surprised at Beryl’s request to be directed to the projectionist’s booth.

  “Walter doesn’t like to speak to anyone. Especially not strangers,” she said. “He’ll be very upset with me for telling you where to find him.”

  “What is Walter’s surname?” Beryl asked.

  “Bennett. Why do you ask?”

  “The less you know the better. You just point the way and I’ll keep the fact that you did so to myself.” Eva reluctantly left the ticket booth and led Beryl to a narrow corridor off the back of the lobby.

  “At the end of the hall there is a short set of stairs that leads up to the projectionist’s booth. Good luck.”

  Beryl smiled at her then strode off in the direction of her quarry. She was quite certain nothing would make sense in the case without extracting some information from the reclusive projectionist. She moved down the corridor and then up the stairs silently. Her time spent hunting both big game and small served her well when it came to moving stealthily. The knob on the door at the top of the stairs turned smoothly in her hand and she took a steadying breath before giving it a firm shove and stepping in as though she had every right to be there. A slim man stood with his back to her. He was fitting a reel of film onto the projector. He wheeled around as her weight came down on a loose floorboard and gave off an enormous squeak.

  “Dear me, I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, but I simply had to find somewhere to hide from that odious man,” she said to the person before her. He stood stock-still and said nothing. His expression gave nothing away either. But then it wouldn’t have. The man standing in front of her was one of the many thousands of young men to have had such severe facial disfigurement as to resort to a tin mask. Beryl had seen them before often enough. In fact, the mask he wore was a popular variety. They were all hand painted and made to fit the individual, Beryl knew but she also knew many of the men who required the masks took the opportunity to have the faces painted on it portray that of handsome film stars. Walter Bennett’s tin mask looked remarkably like the face of Douglas Fairbanks.

  “It’s the owner, you see. All I wanted to do was to watch the film in peace but he just wouldn’t leave me alone. Rather quick with his hands I’m afraid. I hope you’re not shocked to hear it?” she asked. He shook his head carefully, she assumed in order to not dislodge his mask. She looked around at the small room. All around the tiny space shelves were stacked to the ceiling with round tins. A waxed paper parcel with a half-eaten sandwich sat on a bench that was mounted on the back wall, along with a pair of scissors and an electric lamp.

  “Of course you are. You didn’t come by the need of a handsome new face by sitting in your mother’s parlor sipping hot milk and reading a book of poetry, did you? A man of action by the look of you. Just the sort to help a damsel in distress. As a matter of fact, when your Mr. Mumford started getting overly familiar I remembered Polly Watkins telling me that she used to come up here and sit with the projectionist in order to avoid him while she watched the films. She said he took too many liberties in the broad daylight and that there was no way to keep him off if you made the mistake of ending up in the dark theater with him,” Beryl said. Still the man said nothing.

  “You are Walter Bennett, aren’t you?” she said. The man nodded again slowly. “Of course you are. Who else would be working in the project
ionist’s booth?” Still the man said nothing until she sat down on a high stool and faced the screen. He cleared his throat rustily then addressed her.

  “Polly said she came in here?”

  “How else would I know about her being here with you? It was a secret, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Mr. Mumford wouldn’t have wanted me to let anyone in here to see the shows for free,” Walter said.

  “He didn’t want the ladies to see them for free unless he was going to be able to get something out of it. Trying to take advantage of nice young women like Polly is just a disgrace,” Beryl said. Walter Bennett stepped up to the apparatus situated in front of a small window and fed the end of the film into its slot on the projector. “Polly was lucky to have found you considering how much she loved films. It would have been a hardship to have to miss out on them rather than submit to Mr. Mumford’s insisted pawing. And worse.” It was difficult to gauge Walter’s reaction to anything she said as his facial expression never changed. Still she was encouraged by the fact that he had not decided to flee the room and had begun to engage in conversation. She pressed on. “I understood she was here visiting you recently. Was she here to see the newest film?”

  “No,” he said. His voice dropped a little. “She was here to visit with me.”

  “The two of you were friends then?”

  “We both loved film and I was surprised to find I enjoyed her company. I don’t like to spend time with too many people.”

  “Did she say anything about being followed here? Someone told me they saw her running away from her former sweetheart, Norman Davies.”

  “She said something about that when I let her into the cinema.” He paused. “She was upset by him following her. She thought he saw her with me and she was worried about what he would say or do. She said he had accused her of being interested in another man when she told him she was no longer interested in him.”

  “Did he follow her often?”

  “He did. That’s how I came to meet her in the first place. I heard a banging on the back door one evening and since it didn’t stop I left the booth to see what it was. Polly was standing there looking small and helpless and she asked me to let her in before Norman found her. So I did. She started coming by regularly after that.”

  “What did she think he would do?”

  “She wasn’t sure. She just said he had a bit of a temper and good reason not to want to let her go.”

  “Did she say what the reason was?”

  “No. She just said he was not an easy man to make a change once he had his mind made up about something. Polly says unfortunately she is one of the somethings.”

  “Was that the last time you saw her?” Beryl asked. A terrible thought had entered her mind. She realized Walter had referred to Polly in the present tense.

  “It was.”

  “Have you spoken with anyone about her since her visit here the other night?” Beryl asked.

  “I never speak with anyone besides Polly if I can help it. And I never have spoken with anyone at all about Polly. Like I said, her visits were a secret.”

  “Have you heard anything that has been going on here in Walmsley Parva this week?” Beryl said. “Does any gossip reach you up here in the projectionist’s booth or at your lodgings perhaps?”

  “I live on my own in a small cottage not far from the Wallingford Estate. I keep to myself. It’s easier that way. Why are you asking me all of these questions?”

  “I am so sorry to tell you this but Polly was found dead two days ago. She died sometime in the night after she left the cinema.”

  “Dead?” Walter dropped his hands from the film reel and faced Beryl. “How can she be dead? I don’t believe you.” His voice dropped to a whisper and even with what little she could see of his expression behind the tin mask she knew from his voice that Polly’s death had affected him.

  “I am so sorry but that is the truth. I had no idea you didn’t know.”

  “How did she die? Was it the flu coming round again?” Beryl understood his concern. So many healthy young people had been fine at breakfast and dead by teatime during the Spanish Influenza pandemic.

  “No. She was struck on the head by something hard and her body was found in a field on the Wallingford Estate.”

  “Someone killed her?” he asked.

  “It appears that way,” Beryl said. “Do you have any notion why anyone would have done such a thing?”

  “Norman must have done it. No one else would have had reason to harm her as far as I know.” Walter sagged against the bench as if he could no longer support his own weight.

  “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I appreciate your time, and if you think of anything else or if you just want to talk you can locate me at the Beeches.” Beryl gave Walter a slight nod and left him in the projectionist’s booth with his cans of film and his thoughts.

  Chapter 23

  Edwina couldn’t help but believe that all that had occurred sprang from events surrounding the Wallingford Estate. She would liked to have said she was absolutely clear about who did what and when, that her mind was a sharp as it ever had been and her memory was completely unsullied. But that was not really the complete truth. Many little details of those days were slightly hazy in her mind. She didn’t think it was her age however, as much as it was a deliberate attempt to forget. Those years held little appeal for most and she had heard others say they were unclear on much of what had happened during the war years. Fortunately she had always been an avid record keeper and note taker.

  Her father had impressed upon her from her girlhood that the mind could be fickle but an accurate real time recording of events was not, so long as the parties doing the recording were truthful in their writings. He had encouraged her to keep a journal from the time she could write and she had made it a habit to do so. Many was the time she had found the act distressing. So much of the past few years were crowded with memories one wished to forget.

  Edwina had taken to storing her war year diaries out of sight. She had no need to consult them and even less desire. The same could be said for the registers she kept on the Land Army girls and the notes in the margins as to the goings-on at the Wallingford Estate. When the organization had been disbanded the year before no one had come to ask for the records and Edwina had not volunteered them. In the first place, she would not have known where to offer to send them. In the second, she never did like to surrender her documentation of anything.

  She left Charles Jarvis’s chambers and set out for home. Anyone who happened to see her would have remarked that Edwina was certainly moving with more vigor than was her habit of late. They might also have remarked that she seemed to be lost in thought as she hurried in the direction of the Beeches.

  Crumpet capered about under her feet from the moment she stepped through the front door. He had not appreciated being cooped up in the house on a fine day. Ordinarily Edwina would have felt guilty and would have accompanied him outside to throw a ball for him or to toss a stick by way of apology. But Edwina had larger matters on her mind and held the door for him to have a good romp on his own. It was light outside and she had no worry he would come to grief when the odd passing motorist could clearly see him.

  Edwina made for the library on the side of the hallway opposite the sitting room without bothering to remove her coat or hat. She had taken to closing off all the rooms save the kitchen, her bedroom, and the sitting room as a matter of financial necessity. It cost a great deal to heat the whole house. Besides, she hadn’t the energy to sweep and dust everywhere after Polly had left her employ. It had been the sensible thing to cover the furniture with white cloths and to pretend the room did not exist. It was a pity though she thought to herself as she entered it for the first time in several weeks.

  The library had always been one of her favorite rooms at the Beeches. She loved the long windows overlooking the gardens beyond and the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that lined the walls. The fireplace tiles had enc
hanted her as a child with their hand-painted images of mythological creatures. She paused for a moment and ran her finger lightly over her favourite, a phoenix rising from a bed of ashes.

  Edwina crossed to a bookcase in the corner and bent down to a shelf near the bottom where she had secreted away the Land Army diaries and ledgers. She pulled out the journal labelled for the months encompassing Agnes’ disappearance and also three ledgers chronicling the activities of the Land Girls on her roster. She carried the pile to the wide mahogany desk and pulled out the chair. In a matter of moments she was lost in the past remembering how she had felt to be someone contributing to the war effort in a meaningful way.

  She squinted over her handwriting and the columns of times and dates and places. She recognized the names of girls she hadn’t thought of in some time. It wasn’t long before her gaze landed on Polly’s name and Agnes’. There in black and white was what she had been trying to remember. Did those two ever work together? Did they have reason to spend time with Norman on the Wallingford Estate? What had their day-to-day responsibilities been like? How had they spent their time?

  Agnes, as Edwina had remembered, was a gang leader. In fact she ended up in charge of two separate groups just before she disappeared. One of the other gang leaders had completed her year leaving the Wallingford Estate shorthanded. At the time there were few girls with leadership qualities and Hortense and Edwina had agreed to double up Agnes’ responsibilities since she was so capable and the girls liked her well enough.

  She had four girls who answered to her, which was at least one more than most other gang leaders. She hadn’t ever complained about the added responsibility and Edwina had never heard a word against her from the other girls. Two of her charges were adept at milking and often were assigned to tasks involving the dairy. They milked in the morning and again in the evening and also turned their hand to some of the animal husbandry like caring for ailing cows or bottle-feeding orphaned calves.