by Susan Sallis
Tom said, ‘Sorry, girls. I just threw that in to try to shock you into telling us what was really in that damned letter you wrote.’
Rose half-laughed. ‘Well, that’s all it was.’ She looked at her father. ‘Honestly,’ she added.
So we got the kettle, the kazoos, the wooden spoons and the tambourines and began practising the Souza march again.
Tom said, ‘All that old stuff coming up again. We know it’s not true – we discovered the body, for goodness’ sake!’
It was cold in the front bedroom and my dressing gown was at the cleaner’s. I huddled into one of our old army blankets and stood by the window, looking out.
I said, ‘Killing people . . . it doesn’t stop even when war is over. Imagine someone planning Kennedy’s murder.’
Tom said, ‘Unless there was something we didn’t know. It was hushed up so suddenly, wasn’t it?’
I knew he wasn’t talking about Kennedy; I watched someone cycling from the Northgate. A sudden gust of wind made him veer into the kerb, and he almost fell off. I said, ‘Does it matter now? It’s so long ago.’
‘It matters. Even when we don’t know, and might never know, what happened, it matters. Like my dad.’
I dropped the curtain and went to the bed and put my arms around him. My blanket dropped away, and I shivered, and he tucked me under the covers, and we held each other. He whispered, ‘I know what you mean. What matters is you and me here, now, right now.’
I whispered back, ‘Are we going to grow old together, Tom?’
‘I pray about that, Rache. I pray that we will.’
‘So do I.’
Eventually we slept.
The next day Tom took the car. He was driving Uncle Gilbert to a lovely old inn at Broadway in the Cotswolds, where he was lunching ‘intimately’ with the lord lieutenant and a select few of about a dozen people who actually ran the county. That evening there was going to be a reception at the Shire Hall where Uncle Gilbert would be given the freedom of the city, but the lunch was what he called the ‘real McCoy’. He had always been able to pull strings and now that was being officially recognized. I was invited to the evening’s reception, but certainly not the lunch. I think Uncle Gilbert had had to pull lots of strings to accommodate Tom.
As soon as he had left and the girls had plodded off to school I fetched my bike from the coal cellar, flipped a duster over it, went upstairs, put on some extra clothing and different shoes, and set out for the no-longer-rough road, which had been ‘adopted’ by the County Council and named Winterditch Lane. It would always be the rough road to me.
It was a typical December morning; the combined river mist and city smog made it intensely cold, but there was no ice about; it was what my grandmother had called ‘roar’ meaning raw. There was no wind either, so I made good time once I was out of the city. I zoomed past the Nightingales’ house and cut left where the old-fashioned finger sign said Cheltenham and Tewkesbury. Then I was between low hedgerows and felt the flat lands all around me, though I couldn’t see them. It was incredible – impossible – that Mr Silverman had been murdered, but I had to talk to Dad about it. He’d been home almost three weeks and I’d seen him every day and never known why he had come to this country at this time and why he was staying with Hermione. All right, it was his home still, but . . . Hermione?
I sped down Winterditch Lane; no more pot holes, no more skidding. Rough Road Cottage was looking good; Hermione had had it painted for Dad’s return. The outside of the house was of course his responsibility, but I doubted whether she would mention the painting, and he probably hadn’t noticed it. I realized that Hermione had been in a tizz about Dad coming back ever since I told her about it, which was ages ago now, back in the summer some time. It was a strange situation for her; she was put into the position of being a cuckoo in the nest – or was that Dad?
I propped my bike against the side of the house and fiddled for a handkerchief to wipe the moisture from my eyes and nose. During the war the rough road had been graced with several enormous oil cans which were lit by the air raid wardens when an alert sounded, in order to screen the ack-ack guns in a pall of oily smoke. Afterwards we used to be blowing soot into our handkerchiefs for ages. It felt like that again as I mopped at the smog on my face and fumbled round to the kitchen door. It was a bit of an anti-climax to find it locked. If Dad had been in it would have been open; Hermione fed Mr Myercroft’s cat and he had access to the porch, where there was always a saucer of fresh milk.
Even so I peered through the dining-room window, then went to the front of the house and cupped my hand against the glass to see into the sitting room. No one was there. I should have phoned, of course, but somehow I had wanted to surprise him.
I was at a completely loose end, my sense of anti-climax rolling in with the fog. I wheeled my bike to the road and cycled slowly back the way I had come. Conditions, as they say on the wireless, were worsening, but still I saw something I hadn’t noticed earlier. Hermione’s bike was parked outside the Smiths’ house. Hermione used her car for getting to and from the manor; Dad must have borrowed her bike.
I propped mine next to it and went up to the well-remembered front door. It had been maroon, and was now sunbleached and almost free of paint. The Smiths were very comfortably off, it didn’t make sense. I knocked and then crouched to open the letter box. ‘It’s only me!’ I called. Silence.
I lowered my head until I could see through the narrow space. The stairs were on the left, the banister on which Hermione’s school uniform had hung minus the tie was just visible. Behind the stairs the hall led down to the kitchen. To the right it led to the dining room and then the sitting room. The telephone had been there. If I pressed my face hard to the letter box I could just see it. It was still the old fashioned two-part arrangement, a separate mouth and earpiece. The earpiece was dangling on its cable, slightly swinging.
I bawled, ‘Dad! Where are you? It’s me – Rachel!’
His voice came back immediately; the usual, unruffled tone.
‘Just a minute, honey. Hang on.’
I straightened, holding my back in sheer relief. I don’t quite know what I had imagined; perhaps Mrs Smith knocking Dad unconscious with the frying pan? Voices came through the letter box now, Dad’s soothing, Mrs Smith’s even higher-pitched than normal. Grumbling about something, grumbling more than normal, in fact hectoring, in fact escalating to hysterics. Then Dad saying something quite loudly and Mrs Smith shutting up, cut off instantly.
The kitchen door opened and Dad’s voice spoke clearly, ‘No need to see me out, my dear.’
Mrs Smith said, ‘The phone—’
Dad said, ‘I’ll see to it. You’d better sit down again.’
There was a pause. Perhaps he was shrugging into his top coat. Then there was a clatter and he said, ‘I told you to sit down. Now put your legs up like a good girl.’ It was sickening. Mrs Smith had never ever been a girl, let alone a good one.
He moved around in the hall quite a lot, probably replacing the phone and finding his cycle clips and gloves . . . he opened the door, gave me a reassuring grin, glanced back down the hall, then closed the door with a very sharp click.
‘Damned thing needs oil.’
He took my arm and manoeuvred both of us down the path to our bikes. For some reason I hung back.
‘Dad, what’s happening? Is she all right?’
‘She is now. She got upset. Hermione doesn’t have much to do with her, so she rang up last night and said some awful things. I told Hermione I would warn her off. And I have.’ He swung his leg over the saddle. ‘There was a bit of a scuffle when she tried to ring the police.’
I looked at him, expecting him to grin at me; he didn’t.
We got on our bikes and went back home. I made some coffee. Dad knew his way around the kitchen and produced a biscuit tin full of home-made biscuits. I raised my brows; he shrugged. ‘Hermione should have a husband and a family; she is a beautiful, intelligent woman. The Sm
iths put the kibosh on that, of course. Things were much better when she moved here, but her mother is going to wear her down eventually. She should go and live in America the way I did.’
‘You were running away – is that what you mean?’
‘I was running towards warmth. She would be running towards excellent funding for her work. Maybe that husband I mentioned. She’s not forty yet.’
‘Dad . . . she won’t let them rule her life again. She’s strong.’
‘None of us are that strong, Rache. You would have done lots of things for Mum and me.’
‘I loved you both!’
‘That’s the most powerful weapon of all. Funnily enough, Hermione loves that vampire too.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the rough road. Then he shrugged. ‘Kids love their parents even when they’re beaten and starved. Hermione knows that. She is doing some research into it at the moment.’
I drank some coffee, coughed on it, spluttered a bit and managed, ‘Dad, what is happening? I don’t understand. Have you come home to – to sort out – something? Roland Beard made up some story and told his brother Colin, who’s got a crush on Daisy. So of course he told her, and she told Rose, who wrote to Vicky. The story was that Mrs Smith had murdered Mr Silverman.’
Dad looked into his coffee cup as if he might find an answer there. Then he looked up, frowning slightly.
‘Yes. That’s it in a nutshell. Vicky said I’d got to come back and find out the truth. Because if Mrs Maude Smith had killed Mr Silverman, then Hermione would know about it and would be in danger.’ He sighed. ‘I prevaricated like hell, Rache. Because you and Tom had found him hanging.’
‘We did. If he’d been murdered . . . there would have been . . . signs. Surely?’
‘Yes. That’s what I thought. I didn’t want to open it up all over again, Rache. Mum was at peace and Florida . . . nobody cares out there what happened in little old England nineteen years ago. Meriel is my link with home. And her family treat me like one of themselves. Why turn the clock back?’ I waited. He took a breath. ‘Vicky questioned Roland like mad, and he fed her more stuff. Roland’s father drinks with the Wingco. Who is scared of Maude. Scared of his own wife. Scared for himself. And scared for Hermione. And the Wingco was taken into hospital with food poisoning four weeks ago.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Yes. Maude didn’t mention it to Hermione until last Monday. And Hermione went to see her father in the evening. She was in a bit of a state when she got back. Obviously she wouldn’t tell me why, but she did say that her father does not want to go back home. So on Tuesday I went to see Gilbert Carfax. He’d done the cover-up when the bodies of Strassen and Eva Schmidt were dug out. He did another when Sylvia Strassen was murdered. Had he done a third when poor old Silverman died?’
‘Uncle Gilbert?’ This was fast taking on the proportions of a nightmare; I tried to wake up and nothing happened.
Dad nodded. ‘He would have done anything for your mother. You know that.’
‘Mum? What has Mum got to do with any of this? My God, Dad, Mum is dead!’ The fog was pressing against the window, and it was almost dark in the dining room.
He looked surprised. ‘I thought you realized, Rache. It has all been for Mum. All of it.’
I stared at him, thinking he was talking about his own actions in selling the designs for the tail fin. I said – not without sarcasm – ‘And what are you going to do this time . . . for Mum?’
‘Darling . . . you’re not listening. This time it is for Hermione. And I am going to murder Mrs Smith before she can murder her daughter.’
I kept staring at him, then felt for the edge of the table, found a chair, pulled it out and sat down with a crash.
Eighteen
I TOLD MYSELF this was actually happening, and was not a nightmare at all. Dad had said he intended to murder someone. This was no joke. Even so, I said, ‘Dad, stop messing about.’
He gave a little smile, pulled out another chair and sat down. Our knees were touching; I knew mine were shaking but his were steady.
He leaned forward and took my hand. ‘Darling girl. I couldn’t talk about it when it happened back in ’44. I almost said something when you and Merry got involved with Strassen . . . I was terrified, actually. But then he was killed in that raid and . . . well, it was best forgotten. Then almost ten years later, when Merry suggested I go for a holiday to Florida, I told you then. Just in case there was a plane crash or something.’ He tried to laugh at himself, but I just kept staring.
He squeezed my hand. ‘Rache, it was nothing. Not really. Mum was such an innocent, she handed over a name to her posh neighbour, Mrs Smith, whose husband was a wing commander and on the board of Smith’s Aircraft Company. She was so respectable she frightened Mum to death. Almost literally. Mum’s job entailed keeping records of men who were working for the Allies in France. She found the name Mrs Smith had asked for; he was based in Lyons, a railway engineer. He had died in a sabotage operation that had gone wrong. Of course it was still covered by the Official Secrets Act, but when Mum saw that the man was dead, she saw no reason to hold back – Mrs Smith said she wanted to help his family. Mrs Smith actually gave Mum her very own ration book as a reward. You know how Mum loved to feed us, however difficult it was. It wasn’t like taking money – she couldn’t have done that. But, well, you have guessed it, Mrs Smith didn’t stop there. She wanted other names. She had other ration books.’
I was gripping his hand tightly. Mum . . . so sweet, so kind, such a low opinion of herself. I said hoarsely, ‘How many ration books?’
Dad shook his head. ‘Mum was innocent, but not stupid, Rache. No more ration books. She hadn’t used the one she had, and she gave it back the moment she realized what was happening. Mrs Smith tried to paper over the cracks – used to sit by you in church, didn’t she? Mum found out that the man’s family had been evacuated to America soon after the outbreak of hostilities and she felt better about it. But of course her morale had hit rock bottom. It was Gilbert who suggested to me that I let Mrs Smith have the designs for the fin. He said it would shut her up, and be good for Mum.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Sounds crazy now, doesn’t it? But the war was almost over, and when I looked at bits from some of the German crashed planes it seemed as if they were already developing their designs parallel with mine.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘It so often happens, Rache. Mum gave out that name in all innocence, because the owner of it was dead. And I did the same. My invention was dead.’
I discovered I was weeping. I said, ‘I don’t get it. Why did Uncle Gilbert think it would help?’
‘He knew it would help. And it did. Mrs Smith left Flo alone. She thought she had landed a much bigger fish. Anything to impress Willi Strassen, of course. She even killed Silverman when he threatened to expose Strassen . . .’ He paused morosely, recalling that time, and then grinned unexpectedly. ‘Mind you, how long Mum would have been free of her is a moot point. But the Nazis sorted that one out!’ His grin became rueful. ‘Mum didn’t believe I’d actually given away my precious tail fin. Not at first. Then I dragged her to Düsseldorf with me after the war was over and she believed me then.’ He nodded. ‘Actually, it did make her feel better about the whole nasty business. We were in it together, you see, Rache. Even treason!’ He tried to laugh, then added, ‘Like you and Tom. Mum was so thankful for Tom.’
I broke down completely. If only he’d talked like this years ago.
Dad took me on his shoulder and patted my back and said that he had thought I would put two and two together and see exactly what had happened. He described the 1944 events as ‘a storm in a teacup’, Sylvia’s death four years later as ‘a tragedy’. I managed to tell him about our Oliver typewriter and the rent book so blatantly signed by me.
‘Ah. I don’t think Gilbert realized that. He just saw the name Strassen and thought that the whole horrible business might rear its head again and Mum would be back to square one. By that time she was really ill.’
I said, ‘There’s no way Uncle Gilbert could cover up Mrs Smith’s death. And anyway, Dad, you couldn’t kill her.’
‘You should have seen me earlier this morning. I nearly broke her arm when she tried to phone the police.’ Again, I could not laugh, and he said seriously, ‘What a waste, Rache, if at the end of it all Hermione is poisoned. Or her car brakes don’t work. Or her dear mum visits her and pushes her down the stairs.’
‘Uncle Gilbert would not even try to cover that up.’
‘No. But Hermione might still be very dead or injured. And the Smith woman isn’t fit to live, anyway.’
‘Dad. You cannot do it. That’s that.’
He put more coal on the fire and settled back down with his lunch.
‘I’ve thought about it so much, Rache. I confronted her this morning about her husband. She said she had also been sick four weeks ago and it must have been the fish they had eaten. I asked her whether she had used the same poison she’d used on poor old Silverman. She said the post-mortem had not shown any poison so far as she knew, and anyway how would she have hoisted a man, even a little man like Silverman, up to a noose on the ceiling beam? I told her she had done it with Strassen’s help while we were at the park celebrating Holidays at Home. I told her she’d killed Silverman because he’d threatened to tell the authorities what she was up to. She denied it all, of course.’ He looked morosely at his plate. ‘Nothing rattled her, Rache. She is without conscience.’
‘The jury will see it as without guilt.’
He looked up at me. ‘We can’t take her to court, Rache. She would drag Mum’s name into it.’
I met his eyes. They were no longer vague; Dad was focused for the first time since Mum died.
I said, ‘You mean we’re going to forget Strassen and Eva and Sylvia and Mr Silverman?’
‘Of course not. But revenge is never sweet, my love. I’m not going to kill anyone for vengeance. But to prevent another death . . . yes. If that is the only way, and I cannot think of another one, can you?’