‘Are you able to talk about it now?’ asked Alan when I’d made my way through a generous meal.
‘Yes. Sorry I went wobbly back there. I now know what a person means when they say they’ve had the stuffing knocked out. But I’m okay.’
‘We have to decide what to do.’
Yes, we did. The dreadful story Alice had told us had removed the option of doing nothing, of pretending nothing was wrong. Now we knew there was at least one person who had an excellent reason to hate the late Mr Abercrombie. He was dead under circumstances that were at least questionable. And we had found his body. That squarely involved us.
‘I don’t believe in coincidence, you know,’ I said with apparent irrelevance.
‘I do know. Nor do I. You’re saying there’s a reason we found him.’
‘Yes. We’re meant to do something about it.’
‘The police have come down on the side of accident. They’re going to release his body when someone can be found to claim it.’
‘But even they don’t entirely believe it. Alan, do you think they’ll get upset if we poke around? They’re sure to know. Nobody can hide anything on this island.’
‘It depends on what you mean by poking around. There’s no reason we can’t talk to people. We would, anyway, as visitors trying to learn about the place. And people talk to you. You have a way with you.’
He grinned at me and briefly touched my hand. ‘Oh, Alan, we’re both greasy! I’ll need a good scrub before I can really touch anybody. But I do see what you mean. I like people, and they seem to like me. The trouble is, at home I’d know who to talk to. Here …?’
‘Start with the people at the church. There’s Morning Prayer again tomorrow. They were the ones who probably had the most contact with this chap.’
‘They all seemed to think he walked on water.’
‘And maybe they’re the ones with the true picture. Let’s see what sort of rounded picture we can get, and then if it seems as if there’s more to look into, we can go from there.’
‘You are a sensible and utterly delightful man, sir. I might just consider a closer acquaintance.’
‘I would deem it a great privilege, madam. Would you wish me to engage a carriage for our journey back to the town?’
‘No, but I wouldn’t mind a hand to extract me from this chair.’
As we made our way slowly up Braye Road, I reflected again on my extraordinary good fortune in finding Alan at a time when I thought my life was over.
We got to our room with just time to wash hands and faces, and change from boots to shoes, before going back down to the Visitor Centre for our tour of the town.
The tour turned out to be just us and our guide, who was named Robin Whicker. A tall man with a deep voice and a crooked smile, he introduced himself as a retired schoolmaster, which created an immediate bond. I told him I had taught for forty years. ‘Indeed? In America, that would be, of course.’
‘Yes, sixth grade, mostly, eleven-year-olds. In a public school in Indiana, which I’m sure you know is not what you mean by a public school.’
‘Yes. You taught all subjects?’
‘With varying degrees of success. I’m afraid I was hopeless at trying to teach the poor little things art; I haven’t an artistic bone in my body. And thank heavens there was someone else to take them to gym. Physical education, that is. I’m no good at all at what you Brits call games.’
‘Ah, well, we can’t all be good at everything. And you, sir?’
‘I was a civil servant.’ He used his usual formula when he doesn’t care to reveal exactly what he spent his life doing. I found his reticence interesting.
‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘Now we’ll start up Victoria Street, where some of the houses are actually quite interesting.’
I saw a row of houses, most of them now housing shops or businesses, painted in pastel colours, all looking quite similar. Robin seemed to have X-ray eyes. He pointed out that one building with what looked like a Georgian façade was actually Victorian, reflecting the more elegant older style, and that the ‘cat slide’ dormers on an earlier house suggested a previously thatched roof. He showed us where the original streets of the medieval settlement would have been, explained the origins of the French street names that still prevailed over so much of the island, pointed out the house where the renowned author T.H. White had lived (still called ‘The White House’) and confirmed Alan’s guess that the house with the red archway was in fact medieval. His knowledge was broad, his enthusiasm contagious. When we fetched up back at the Visitor Centre, Alan asked Robin to join us for a cup of coffee, or tea, or a pint – his choice.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, with a charming smile. ‘If you’re happy with the Georgian House, it’s near at hand and has all those things on offer.’
We sat in a corner on Windsor chairs that looked hard and unforgiving but were surprisingly comfortable. Alan opted for a pint; Robin and I chose tea and scones.
‘You know such a lot about Alderney,’ I said after I’d slaked my thirst with the excellent tea. ‘Have you lived here all your life?’
‘No, no. I taught for forty years at a public school – in our sense – in Dorset, and moved here only after my retirement. I’d holidayed here over the years, of course, and made friends. The community has been very generous in admitting me into their midst, though of course I’ll always be an outlander. I’ve even begun to sing in the choir; I suspect they’re happy to have me, as I’m the only bass.’
I began to hum the line from ‘Seventy-Six Trombones’: ‘And I modestly took my place, as the one and only bass …’
Robin smiled. ‘Exactly.’
Alan and I exchanged glances. I took a deep breath. ‘So I suppose you know the man who fell down the cliff. Mr Abercrombie.’
‘Ah.’ Robin drained his teacup. ‘Yes, I knew him slightly.’
We waited for more, some conventional expression of sorrow, at least. There was only silence.
Robin pushed back his chair and started to stand.
‘We found him, you know,’ I said quickly. ‘We were doing the Zig-Zag walk and came across him. It was quite upsetting.’
‘Yes, it must have been.’ He stood. ‘Now, this has been delightful, but I’ve things I need to do, so if you’ll excuse me—’
‘Please don’t go,’ said Alan quietly. ‘We’re trying to work our way through a rather devastating experience, and one way to do that is to learn more about Mr Abercrombie. My wife feels particularly involved with him, since he was also an American. Can you give us any impression of what sort of man he was?’
Robin looked at us searchingly. Funny, I hadn’t noticed before how penetrating his eyes could be. He didn’t sit down. ‘I didn’t know him well, so my impressions are worth little. You’d do better to talk to the church ladies, or perhaps his family, if they manage to find one.’ He began to walk away.
‘Robin, did you like him?’
He pretended not to hear me and walked out the door.
‘Well, that was odd,’ I said when we had gone back to our room. ‘He was so pleasant, so courteous, until we started talking about Abercrombie.’
‘It’s fairly obvious he disliked the man,’ said Alan, taking off his shoes. ‘I wonder why he was unwilling to talk about him.’
‘You don’t suppose there’s some awful story in his background, like poor Alice.’
‘I don’t see how their paths could have crossed. Abercrombie came to Alderney only a few weeks ago, and lived in America before that. Whicker spent almost his whole life in Dorset. There’s rather a famous school there; I imagine that’s where he taught. I think you’re going to have to talk to a lot more people before you can get the picture you want of Abercrombie.’ He lay down on the bed, ready for our afternoon nap. ‘And I’ll try not to interfere. I don’t know if you noticed, but Whicker didn’t believe my story about why we wanted to know more about him.’
‘That was when he got that funny look on his
face, wasn’t it? No, we’ll have to come up with something better. I can usually think up a good lie; I’ll give it some thought.’ I yawned. ‘Later.’
My dreams were troubled, I think. I remembered nothing when I woke an hour or so later, but I felt a vague unease that had nothing to do with my pleasant surroundings. The sun still shone brightly, the room was just the right temperature, my dear husband was by my side. All was right with the world.
Except it wasn’t.
Alan yawned and sat up.
‘Did I have nightmares?’ I asked him.
‘If you did, you didn’t cry out. I slept like a baby, which must mean you did, too.’
‘Maybe. Something’s bothering me.’
Alan gave me a ‘no kidding!’ look.
‘I mean something specific, not just the general anxiety about the whole situation. I’ve missed something.’
‘Another thing to erase from your mind until it comes back of its own accord.’
‘Yes, but how can I not think about it, when it’s occupying every corner of my mind?’
‘Think about something else. I thought we could take a stroll over to the bookshop. We didn’t bring very much to read, and we’re bound to find books about the island there.’
‘That’s a good idea. I’d like to know more about Alderney, and reading some nice boring history might be just what I need.’
It didn’t take me very long to discover that the history of Alderney is anything but boring. From the dim mists of prehistory right up through the Second World War, the island has had its troubles. Annie, the owner of the bookshop, showed us books about shipwrecks, one of them Elizabethan, about the strong fortifications built against the fears of French invasion, and a whole section dealing with the German occupation from 1940 to 1945. We bought reams of them.
‘We’ll have to ship these home,’ said Alan with a groan. ‘We can’t carry all that weight on the Trislander.’
‘I don’t care. I want them all. There’s so much good stuff here.’
Annie provided us with a couple of sturdy bags, and we hauled our loot back to the room, there to settle in for the evening with our pasties and our wine and lots of great reading material.
‘Alan, did you know that the Alderney people evacuated when the Germans came? The people who lived on Jersey and Guernsey stayed, but almost everyone here was sent to England or Scotland.’
‘Mmm. I’ve been reading about what happened to the island under the occupation.’
‘Nothing very good, I imagine.’ And we went back to our own books. After a time I found the story of the evacuation too painful and turned to a rousing adventure book about famous shipwrecks near the Channel Islands.
The books succeeded in freeing my mind from its preoccupation with Mr Abercrombie and his unfortunate demise, but they didn’t help me dredge up the elusive thought I was seeking. Well, I’d remember, or I wouldn’t. Meanwhile, nap or no nap, I was ready for a night’s sleep.
EIGHT
In the middle of breakfast it came to me. ‘Eureka!’ I said. Softly, so as not to startle the other guests.
‘You’ve thought of it,’ said Alan, who is used to me and not easily startled.
‘Well, at least I’ve chased down what was bothering me yesterday, and I’m not sure it’s worthy of all the mental energy I expended on it. It’s only a tiny thing. But I’m wondering how Robin knows about Mr A.’s family.’
‘Sorry, love. I’ve only had half a cup of coffee. Explain, please.’
‘He made that comment about us talking to the man’s family, “if they can find one”, or something like that. Now, if his acquaintance with the man is as slight as he claims, how would he know that his family might not even exist? My pronouns are all mixed up, but you understand, don’t you?’
‘I think so. You’re right, it’s a very slight indication, but worth following up. Shall we seek out Robin and ask him?’
‘I have the feeling he might not be terribly forthcoming. He’s such a nice man, but he certainly clammed up there at the end. Maybe we’d do better to talk to people at the church who know Robin, as well as Mr A. We might get a feel for the kind of terms they were on.’
‘Well, then, get your skates on, woman. Morning Prayer’s in fifteen minutes.’
We arrived in good time and took our places in the choir stalls. There were a few more congregants than before; we took up two rows rather than just one. We noticed that Alice wasn’t there. We were greeted, not with smiles and busy arrangements for our participation as before, but with nods and muted words. The young locum, Mr Lewison, read the service in funereal tones and had to pause during his prayer for the clergy to get his voice in order.
As soon as the service was over, the attendees left the church rapidly. Alan and I looked at each other with puzzled frowns. ‘Have we suddenly turned into lepers?’ I asked in a whisper. Alan shrugged. We walked out into the sunny churchyard.
They were all waiting for us. Oh, it wasn’t quite that obvious. They stood in little groups of two or three, chatting, but when we came out they turned their attention to us. Mr Lewison cleared his throat in an embarrassed sort of way. ‘We – er – wondered if you – that is—’
‘We wanted to talk to you about Mr Abercrombie,’ said Sylvia, ‘and it didn’t seem quite proper to do it in the church.’
‘You see,’ Mr Lewison went on, more confidently, ‘we thought you might have heard some – er – rather odd comments about him, and we wanted to make sure you heard the real story.’
‘But why? What does it matter what we think of him?’ I wanted nothing more than to listen to people talk about him, but I thought it was peculiar, all the same.
‘My dear woman, you’ve been talking to the police.’ Sylvia sounded as if that explained everything.
Alan said, ‘We have talked to the police because we had the misfortune to find Mr Abercrombie’s body. Constable Partridge has been kind enough to keep us informed because he realized we had an interest in the matter. Come now! You know the constable far better than we do. You can talk to him any time, ask him anything you wish. He’s one of you. We are outsiders.’
‘Outsiders to Alderney, yes. Insiders with the police, though. And he’s Methodist.’ That was one of the other ladies, one whose name we didn’t know.
Alan sighed. ‘It’s been a long time since I was an active policeman. But if there’s something you want to tell us, I’m sure neither of us objects.’
‘Then let’s go for coffee, and we can sit and talk.’ Sylvia was taking the lead again.
One or two of the ladies left us at that point, apparently satisfied that things were going as they had wished. The rest of us walked down to Jack’s Brasserie at the bottom of Victoria Street and settled like locusts on the terrace.
When we all had our coffee, Mr Lewison cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps the first thing we’d like you to know,’ he said quietly, ‘is that Mr Abercrombie had a few enemies here.’
‘Not enemies,’ said one of the ladies. ‘Oh, I should introduce myself. My name is Rebecca, Rebecca Smith.’ We nodded acknowledgment of the introduction. ‘I do think that’s too strong a word. Certainly there are – were – some people who didn’t warm to him as the rest of us did. Most of them were English.’
I got the message. English people might be colder, more judgmental, than Alderney natives.
‘You mustn’t think there’s any prejudice toward non-islanders,’ said Mr Lewison quickly, sounding very priestly. ‘I’m English myself, if it comes to that. It’s just that people from outside don’t always understand island ways. Mr Abercrombie certainly did. He realized that a small community relies heavily on volunteers, and he was always eager to volunteer where needed. A most generous man.’
‘And that’s what some people didn’t like,’ piped up another woman, a small, sweet-faced lady who looked like everybody’s grandmother. ‘They thought he was putting himself forward, making himself look better than anyone else. It wasn’t like that
at all! He simply saw things that needed doing and did them. He didn’t expect thanks. He was a sweet, sweet man.’ Her voice broke, and she fished in her purse for a tissue.
‘Sweet, yes, but not smarmy,’ said Sylvia. ‘When plain-speaking was called for, he didn’t mince words. You remember how he stepped in to organize the jumble sale accounts. We all love Lucille, but you know she’s been past working with figures for years. It was time someone took hold of that, and I’m sure no one could have been more tactful about it than Bill.’
Ah. ‘Mr Abercrombie’ had become ‘Bill’. Interesting. I refrained from looking at Alan. Sometimes a meaningful glance can be intercepted.
‘Actually, Mr Abercrombie ended up running the sale, and very efficiently, too,’ said Rebecca. ‘Lucille was a bit hurt, I think, but she understood. She’s nearly blind, bless her, and in the end she seemed grateful not to have to deal with it all.’
‘It’s a pity some of her friends misunderstood,’ said Sylvia, somewhat belligerently. ‘Their refusal to participate in the sale made the profits lower than usual, and that’s certainly not what Lucille would have wished.’
‘Are there others who – um – thought they had reason to resent some of Mr Abercrombie’s actions?’ I received several hostile looks and hastened into explanation. ‘It’s just that if someone seems to have disliked him, I want to try to understand why.’
Sylvia looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I hope you’re haven’t decided his death wasn’t accidental, after all.’
Uh-oh. This woman was a little too observant. Was she the Miss Marple of Alderney? Alan frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Mr Lewison beat him to it.
‘Oh, please don’t misunderstand, Mrs Martin,’ he said, sounding distressed. ‘I’m sure Sylvia didn’t mean to be critical.’
Smile and be a Villain Page 5