Season of Darkness

by Maureen Jennings

  He pulled over a folding camp seat for Tyler, and his manner became grave. “Sir Percy came in person to inform me about the young woman who was killed. I have told Mrs. Devereau. We are both dreadfully shocked. Dreadfully. I knew the girl, Tyler. She used to come over here regularly to help some of the internees write their letters and to teach them English. God forbid with her accent, but better that than nothing as far as I’m concerned.” He grimaced. “She was actually teaching some of them a few good old Saxon cuss words, but I had to put a stop to that.”

  “Have you found out any more about what happened?” Clare asked Tyler.

  “Not yet. The coroner promised to rush through the post-mortem, so I’ll know preliminary results later today.”

  Fordham picked up a piece of paper and began to fan himself. “Elsie Bates was a lively girl. Very attractive. A diamond in the rough. Who on earth would attack her?”

  Tyler had no answer for him.

  “Sir Percy told me about the gun being a German Luger P-08,” said Fordham. “He wants me to question the internees and of course I will, but I tell you now it’s not likely to have come from here. The place is guarded and I don’t know how anybody could slip out and back again undetected. Besides, we hold regular surprise inspections just in case one of them is concealing something they shouldn’t. But as I told Sir Percy, we are dealing with refugees for the most part, mostly professional men, teachers, musicians, students. We’re even housing some priests. They’re all in here because they were originally German citizens who emigrated to England and for one reason or another hadn’t got their British papers in order. You should see what they’ve set up. It’s a veritable university. Talks and lectures take place all day long. We’re not dealing with the criminal classes here, Inspector.”

  He spoke with undisguised pride, a school headmaster sort of pride, which he’d been before he was called up.

  “We’re going to have a roll call and you can come and address them. Mrs. Devereau will act as translator. A lot of them speak English, some of them better than I do, but there are others for whom it’s still rudimentary. Mrs. Devereau’s help is invaluable.” He beamed at her. “She acts as a sort of ombudsman as well, fielding complaints or requests for them. She also handles the post.” He frowned. “We haven’t told them anything about what has happened but I’m sure they’re speculating. They’re probably getting frightened. Contrary to what our esteemed war cabinet might think, these men have no reason to want Herr Hitler to take over England. A few of them have already had terrible experiences under Nazi rule. They feel tied and trussed here, as one man put it. In the event of an invasion they are convinced Jerry will massacre them … Ah, thank you, Nash.”

  Private Nash had returned holding a tray with a jug of lemonade and some glasses. Fordham took the tray and put it on the table. “Nash, you know who the camp father is, don’t you? Dr. Beck. Tell him to start the roll call. I’ll be there momentarily.”

  “Yes, sir.” He marched off, full of self-importance, to do his job.

  The major poured three glasses of lemonade and handed them around. Tyler downed his at once. Somehow the cook had managed to cool the drink, and it was sweet and tart at the same time. Not as good as a long pint of bitter, but it would have to do.

  He was so aware of Clare, but he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. He hadn’t lost his hair, thank God, but he was heavier than when she first knew him, although the extra weight was mostly muscle. He wished he didn’t have the sunburn on his nose and cheeks, then cursed himself for that little bit of vanity.

  Fordham put down his glass. “I’ll just go and keep an eye on things. Be right back.”

  He ducked out of the tent.

  “Tommy …”

  At the same time Tyler said “Clare,” and they both laughed.

  “Rock, scissors, paper,” said Tyler. “You first.”

  “No, you.”

  If you had asked him a month ago if he would ever say what he said next, he would have scoffed.

  “Clare, I have never forgotten you …” He stopped. “But then what bloke would ever forget the first beautiful lass that put out for him?”

  It was a crude thing to say and he was glad to see she reacted with a flinching of her shoulders.

  “I suppose it’s a bit late to apologize?”

  “What, for putting out? Not necessary.”

  “You know what I mean. I shouldn’t have left so suddenly.”

  He shrugged. “At least you sent me a letter. I’ve still got it. It’s in my ‘life lessons’ file.”

  She took a deep breath. “I suppose I deserved that. Now isn’t the time, but I do hope that we will have a chance before long to talk properly.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.”

  He was being a right pillock and he knew it, but the hurt and anger was as strong as if it were last week that she’d left, not twenty years ago.

  10.

  The internees were jamming into the mess tent. A half dozen irrepressible younger men were kicking around a football on the strip of grass outside. He would have loved to join in, to run and tackle, show off how good he was, but he dared not. A couple of months ago, he’d foolishly revealed some of his skills when a loose ball had come his way. They’d pestered him then to join in. But teams were demarcated, skins or shirts. His scars might be noticed and he couldn’t risk that.

  Fear had raced through the camp like a wind. First, a big white Bentley arrived and the driver, a typical tweedy Englishman, upper crust, had hurried over to the major’s tent. Nobody’d seen him before, but one man said he was the local squire. One of the guards at the gate was summoned and he quick-marched to fetch the translator. The squire stayed about half an hour, then drove off fast. A while later, one of their regular sentries had bicycled into the grounds. There was usually two of them arriving in a lorry. The soldier, an older man, had also gone straight to the major’s tent. This unusual activity had started to attract attention and rumours sprang out of nowhere that the second soldier was dead, shot by a Jerry parachutist. Something was up. More whispering. Another rumour. The Nazis had taken London. The beginning of the invasion. Churchill was dead.

  The older sentry emerged and went to the guard towers where he had a confab with the sentries. Must be the invasion. All activities stopped. The men started to gather around the camp father, Dr. Bruno Beck. He had been a psychiatrist by profession and it stood him in good stead. He listened to the agitated comments and questions of the internees and reassured them that there was no invasion imminent, nor was Churchill dead. The commandant would tell them soon enough what was afoot.

  Yet another car drove in. Not a toff but a man with authority. He too went into the commandant’s tent.

  He wondered what his next orders would be. Hold tight, look and listen. “Never show them your fear, they will turn on you like a pack. No matter what you feel, no matter how much pain you are experiencing, never ever show it.” That had been drilled into him in the early days, and time after time in the training sessions, he had been put to the test. And never failed. Truth was he missed that. Longed to show his mettle again, to be commended and praised. It was all very well to say he’d been specially selected for this important task, but there was nothing exciting about being stuck behind barbed wire for months, with nothing to do but watch and wait.

  One of the guards came with the message to gather in the tent. Roll call was going to be taken. He joined the others and squeezed himself into the back row. There weren’t enough tables for everybody to sit in one shift, and getting all the internees together meant many of them had to stand. There was a lot of grumbling and, in spite of Dr. Beck’s reassurance, the anxiety in the air was palpable. Dr. Beck set the roll call in motion, each section leader checking off his list.

  Finally, they were done and the group fell silent. Three people from outside the wire, plus a guard, were coming through the gate: the commandant, the female translator, and the man who had been the last to a
rrive. The major, stick under his arm, led the way. He was soft and out of shape and he always looked worried.

  He had only contempt for such transparency.

  The woman was different, which was why he rather admired her, although she wasn’t really his type. Too long in the tooth and too thin. He liked his women young, coarse, and full-bodied. Nevertheless, he had to admit she had presence, a cool English elegance that he could see would be attractive. She had an erect carriage, head high, chin up. Her clothes were of good quality but not ostentatious. In her dealings with the internees, she was invariably pleasant and had quickly become popular in this woman-starved environment. However, he found her hard to read. He wasn’t sure if her aloofness was a typical characteristic of the well-bred Englishwoman, or if it was from some other cause.

  The third member of the trio was walking at her side. He was above medium height, with carrot red hair, and he looked as if he’d been in the sun too long. But he wasn’t a milksop like Major Fordham. He seemed fit and strong. He was in civilian clothes but there was something about the way his eyes roved quickly around the assembled men that suggested invested authority.

  As they entered, the red-haired man stood back to let the woman through first, and as she went by he touched her lightly on her back.

  Most men would have missed that, would not have seen the feeling in the redhead’s body, but he saw it. So that was the story, was it? He coveted her. Was the feeling returned? It wasn’t possible to tell at this point, but he registered the impression. You never knew when such knowledge would come in handy.

  The doctor called for silence, and the commandant made his announcement. The woman translated fluently. She spoke excellent German with a Swiss accent.

  What the major said was very disturbing.

  A Land Army girl had been found dead. He knew who she was. A tasty bit he’d often fantasized about. She had been shot with a German Luger.

  For a moment he doubted himself, but he knew nobody could have stolen the gun he had hidden so carefully. It had still been there this morning. He checked daily.

  The redhead was a policeman, as he’d suspected, and his speech was brief and to the point. “Please do not think you are betraying a comrade if you report to me any suspicion, however slight. I will assess any information. This is a vicious murder we are dealing with.”

  He’d got through to them, although the likelihood of any of this bunch telling on one of their fellows was slim. They had learned to be leery of any police authority. “See everything, say nothing.” They were, after all, enemy aliens.

  Dr. Beck raised his finger for attention. His English was impeccable. “I am sure I speak for all of my fellow internees when I say that I am deeply shocked to hear what Inspector Tyler has said. Miss Bates was a kind and generous young woman in the prime of her life. We will miss her. We will, of course, do everything we can to help you facilitate his investigation. However, I do want to point out that we here in this camp are at a disadvantage. Most of us are irrefutably German and it is possible one of us may be familiar with weaponry, as you say, particularly German weaponry, but we are here behind barbed wire and we are guarded. We hope there will not be what perhaps might be referred to as scapegoating if the real perpetrator of this crime is not found soon.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from those of the men who understood, and they translated for the others around them, not waiting for the Englishwoman to do it.

  “Our relationship with the local people of Shropshire has improved over the summer,” continued Dr. Beck. “Some of them even come to our entertainments. I would hate to see that friendly climate spoiled by the irresponsible spreading of rumour regarding this particular gun.”

  One of the internees, their captive poet and self-proclaimed genius, waved his clenched fist to emphasize his support.

  “I agree with Dr. Beck,” he yelled.

  The commandant asked the section captains to start organizing the men for the search. All belongings were to be placed outside the tents in orderly rows. With everybody’s co-operation the whole thing wouldn’t take long and they could soon resume their regular activities.

  He had to reassure himself of the security of the hiding place he’d created for his own gun. But he knew the search would be perfunctory. Nobody wanted to act like a Nazi toward their own countrymen.

  The trio was leaving now. The redhead went through the gate and the woman was close as she passed. He was right. The policeman did desire her, and perhaps the feeling was returned; he couldn’t quite tell. They were not strangers to each other, he was certain of that.

  The internees started to move away, talking excitedly and nervously among each other. With this incident and the policeman, a door had opened. Suspicions could be discreetly voiced. He’d have to be very careful. This stupid girl’s death could really upset everything.

  11.

  THE MAJOR WENT OFF TO SUPERVISE THE SEARCH.

  “Why don’t you take a break, Mrs. Devereau? It might be best for the internees to deal with this among themselves. We’ll be all right for now.”

  “Thank you, Major.” Clare turned to Tyler. “Shall we take a quick run into Whitchurch for a bite to eat? I’m famished.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “How about our old pub? They used to have the greatest cider.”

  “Are you referring to The Feathers?”

  “Yes, the one on Main Street. We went there lots of times for their cider.”

  “I’ve become a beer man myself. But let’s give it a try. I can recommend the pork pies.”

  “I’ll follow you in my car.”

  “You’d better go first. The Humber isn’t exactly speedy.”

  He soon lost sight of the MG and must have fallen behind by at least five minutes when he arrived at The Feathers. She was waiting for him at the entrance.

  “Come on, slow poke. I’ve already ordered our ciders, and I’ve got us our favourite spot. The booth by the window. The place hasn’t changed a bit.”

  Tyler had almost convinced himself that Clare had no interest in connecting with their shared past, but now he wasn’t so sure. Our old pub, we went there lots of times … The strange thing was that instead of making him happy that he wasn’t the only one obsessing about the past, the turnaround was confusing. Maybe he’d been a policeman too long. You developed a suspicious nature.

  He followed her through the smoky lounge, aware of the curious glances thrown in their direction. Even at forty, Clare turned heads.

  She slid into the booth and he sat opposite.

  “They changed the upholstery,” she said. “It was brown before.”

  “After twenty years, I think they should. That’s a long time.”

  The publican, who was also one of his football mates, came over immediately with two glasses of cider.

  “The pork pies’ll be ready in a minute.”

  As he was leaving, he raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Tyler ignored him.

  Clare lifted her glass. “Cheers, Tom.”

  “Cheers.” They clicked glasses and their eyes met. Even in the low light of the pub, he could see how green her eyes were, how friendly they appeared.

  He took out his cigarette case, snapped it open, and offered her a cigarette.

  She shook her head. “No, thanks, I gave up smoking years ago.” She noticed the silver case. “Didn’t I give you that for your coming of age birthday?”

  “One and the same.”

  He didn’t tell her he had only begun carrying it again after they met in the market.

  She grimaced. “Twenty-one. Were we ever that young, Tom?”

  He lit his cigarette. “Young and foolish. But here we are in 1940. Why don’t you bring me up to date on the last twenty years?”

  “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

  “I thought you only had an hour.”

  “Short version then.” She started to run her finger around the rim of the glass. He coul
d see she was choosing her words carefully. “Two years after I left here, I met a Swiss man, Valentin Devereau. I’d known him casually when I was at school in Lucerne. We married and I have lived in Switzerland ever since, really. Shortly before war broke out, I decided to return to England – I told you that already. I still consider this my home. I knew my fluency in German might come in useful and it has. I was hired as a translator with the War Office. Then the big sweep occurred and eventually I was sent up here to Shropshire. That’s it. Life up to date.”

  He was keenly aware that she hadn’t mentioned falling in love with her husband or how she felt about being separated from him.

  “Any children?”

  “No. All right. Your turn.”

  Frank returned with the pork pies and mash, both covered with steaming gravy.

  “Tuck in.”

  Clare started on her meal, eating with gusto. He smiled at her.

  “What? Why are you laughing at me?”

  “You always liked your grub, didn’t you? I don’t know why you’re so skinny.”

  She shrugged. “Never mind. It’s your turn to talk.”

  “Short version. I got married to a local girl not long after you left. Vera Lambeth. Maybe you remember her?”

  Clare dabbed at her lips with the serviette. “She was the butcher’s daughter, wasn’t she? She always had a pash for you.”

  So she noticed that. He was glad. “We have two children. A boy, Jimmy, who is with the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry. He’s twenty now. He managed to get out of Dunkirk and he’s waiting to be reassigned.”

  “That was a rough go from what I’ve heard.”

  “He won’t talk about it. My daughter, Janet, is sixteen. She’s working in her grandfather’s shop, also doing her bit for the war effort.” He wanted her to be as curious about his marriage as he was about hers, but she didn’t comment.

  He balanced his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and began his meal. He’d thought he was hungry, but his stomach was churning so much, it was hard getting the food down.