by Lizzie Lane
‘Yes. I suppose you’re right.’
Meg smiled and thanked him before saying goodnight.
Once the door was closed he heaved a big sigh. Learning of Meg’s pregnancy had come as something of a shock. He supposed a woman expecting her dead husband’s baby wouldn’t be interested in a new man entering her life. She certainly seemed a bit cooler than she had been.
‘Oh well,’ he muttered, disappointed because he’d dared to dream. ‘No point crying over spilt milk.’
The cottage was in pretty much the same state as he’d left it except that water dripped from the overhanging eaves. Some of it found its way into the collar of his tunic. Just to make sure all was safe and sound, he shone his torch over the windows but there was nothing to see. Seeing as batteries were becoming scarce, he turned it off again even though it meant finding his way around the back of the cottage in darkness.
Once he entered the blackest shadow he turned the torch back on again. In its yellowish light he picked out the lean-to porch, a poor affair of bits of odd wood and glass panes. He saw the shelves first, the barrels of scrumpy cider and odd bottles of weed killer and methylated spirits. Sniffing the air persuaded him he had not been mistaken: mothballs, just the same as at the two burglaries.
Directing the beam down to the ground picked out Rudy’s blanket bed, a dish of water, a half-gnawed bone and a tin plate with something resting on it, something that looked like a snout and a black nose. Please God, don’t let it be the dog. He couldn’t bear telling Lily the bad news.
The beam from his torch picked out a canine muzzle resting on the dish, saliva frothing around a rictus grimace. Carter felt the grip of tension between his shoulder blades. Fearing what else he would see, he held the torch more tightly. First the beam picked out a glassy eye, then a pair of pointed ears and a tawny red coat. There was no sign of life.
A sound somewhere further down the garden caught his attention. He shone the torch in that direction and detected movement. A long lean form picked out by moonlight strode purposefully towards him. Carter pushed his helmet back on his head. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed …’
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There was Rudy charging down the garden path with a rabbit hanging from his jaws. Relieved, he burst out laughing. He recalled the night noises he’d heard earlier. Perhaps the dead fox lying in the porch had been called by its mate. The vixen had received no answer. Perhaps she’d dropped the rabbit she’d caught or perhaps Rudy, not satisfied with just a bone and water, had gone hunting for food. Like Lily, the dog had learned to look after himself.
Panting and looking mighty pleased with himself, Rudy dropped the rabbit on to the policeman’s highly polished boots. He picked it up. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s get you settled for the night and that rabbit skinned for tomorrow.’
He picked up the water dish, blanket and bone. The dog took a quick sniff at the fox before nudging it with his nose. ‘Poor thing,’ said Carter, frowning. He’d come back tomorrow to deal with the dead fox. Might even be able to tell how it had died. It wasn’t unusual for people to keep rat poison in their garden sheds and outhouses. The plate was a bit suspicious. He’d ask Meg if she put it there. If she didn’t, then who did?
Before leaving he looked up at the back of the house. It looked secure enough and he knew that Reg Puller made a point of checking for any sign of forced entry. So far he’d reported that nothing was disturbed. The house was unchanged since Ivy Dando’s death.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. A second job for tomorrow.
After tucking Lily in bed, Meg hadn’t felt like sleeping. Instead she went downstairs and made herself a cup of tea. As she sipped at the sugarless brew, she looked around the cosy kitchen-cum-living room. Her eyes settled on the oak bureau where she kept all her paperwork. Ray’s letters were bound together with a purple ribbon. She had a sudden yearning to read them all again. Once the ribbon was untied, they slid apart like a pack of cards.
Meg took the last letter from its envelope and read it through again and again. When she’d first read it, her tears had spotted the paper so that the ink began to run. It surprised her that she could no longer cry and it wasn’t just because she’d evaluated their marriage and decided it was not perfect. From what she could see, there was no such thing as a perfect marriage.
On reflection, she decided that it wasn’t only that. She was expecting a baby and not only was it a part of Ray, it was a new dimension to her life, as though she were an explorer and had found a new and enchanting island that held a wealth of new experiences.
Having a nice home hadn’t mattered that much to him; she knew that now. But he’d had a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong. It also went without saying that he would have loved their unborn child, perhaps to the extent that he might have been less adventurous, more content to stay home. To Meg this meant more than anything. Being home together was between them. Other people had shared his other life. Nobody else had shared his home life but her. At least she had that, even though deep down she knew he hadn’t been a settled man, certainly not the sort to contentedly mow the lawn on a weekend or plant runner beans, or shop with her for curtain fabrics. However, he would have made a wonderful father. Of that she was sure.
‘You have to go on living,’ Alice had said to her. ‘Especially now.’
Meg spread her hand protectively over her stomach and smiled. Well she certainly had good reason to go on living. There was far more to live for now.
Up in her bedroom, Lily lay awake thinking about what had happened in her life. Faces she’d forgotten came and went, but she knew her name and those of her parents. She could even recall fragments of her life in France. What she couldn’t seem to get into focus was the period following her time living in France. She knew that in France it had only been two rooms and that food was scarce and life was dangerous. But after that she remembered nothing, so what was the point of telling Meg that her real name was Leah?
The faces faded away. She wanted to call for them to come back and help her relive her time with them. Without anyone needing to tell her, she knew for sure she would never see them again. They were dead. The smell of the cattle wagon, the bodies she’d been buried under, were like messages in solid form. Like Uncle Ray, that was the way they had gone. That was the way many more would go.
Meg had become her lifebelt in a tumultuous sea. She was all she had to cling to. Her foster mother had the kindest eyes in the world, a fresh complexion, and although she often smelled of baking nowadays, she brought bunches of sweet-smelling violets to mind – just like the ones growing in the woods. Thinking of Meg helped her fall asleep.
After hiding Rudy in the back room, Constable John Carter shook Mr Amble’s hand but had already decided to dislike him.
‘I’ve a warrant,’ said the other man loftily.
Carter unfolded the document and began to read. Mr Amble fidgeted and frowned. Carter was giving it a thorough perusal.
‘You don’t need to go through it with a fine-toothed comb. It says there that the dog was legitimately signed over to the Royal Air Force by Flight Officer Malin.’
‘Hmm,’ said Carter, holding the document in both hands, one at the top of the paper, one at the bottom. ‘It would indeed be a legitimate document if Flight Officer Malin had been the legitimate owner. The fact is that Mr Malin did not own the dog so it wasn’t his to sign over.’
Mr Amble’s fleshy face turned the colour of cooked crab. ‘Please explain yourself.’
Carter nodded. ‘Certainly. Flight Officer Malin rescued a little girl and a dog from France. The dog belonged to the little girl. Ray Malin was only looking after it until the little girl was better again. Unfortunately she lost her memory so he had to look after the dog longer than expected, which meant he had to take him on to the base. The dog cannot belong to the Royal Air Force because it didn’t belong to Flight Officer Malin, and so he couldn’t sign it over. The dog belongs to the little girl.’
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br /> Amble stiffened. ‘Can you prove it?’
‘The little girl has lost her memory, but we can approach the cloak-and-dagger brigade in London and get it confirmed, or Flight Officer Malin’s commanding officer. A report was made at the time of the mission. It shouldn’t be too much bother. I’m surprised you didn’t look at the history of this case before coming down here.’
Looking totally demoralised, Amble took back the warrant. ‘This is most unconventional,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘But very legal,’ Carter countered.
‘Perhaps I should go and speak to this little girl – in the presence of her parent or guardian, of course.’
‘Her foster mother. We think her parents are dead.’
‘Then if I could talk to her perhaps, let her know she would be doing the country a service if she handed the animal over …’
‘Mr Amble,’ the policeman stated in his most official voice while barely controlling the urge to aim a left hook at the smug man’s jaw. ‘Mrs Malin has lately lost her husband; missing in action, presumed dead. Can you not be a little bit more considerate of her and the child’s situation?’
‘There is a war on, Constable Carter.’
‘Yes,’ Carter snapped. ‘And Mrs Malin has already paid the price. She’s sacrificed her husband. What more would you take from her, eh? How about we just let sleeping dogs lie, as they say. Give this one a wide berth and leave a family to heal.’
Amble blustered about coming here in his official capacity, but Carter knew he had him beat. Pompous to a fault, he thought.
Amble shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t quite know how to handle this …’
‘Tell them back at your office that a mistake was made. The dog is no longer available.’
‘Very well. But I must advise you the animal may still be requisitioned.’
‘Well. Better get on with sorting it out, old chap, while there’s still a war to fight.’
PC Carter watched from the window as Amble slid into the back seat of his government car. Fancy that – a car, and a state car at that, just to collect a dog. But that was government for you. He gave it five minutes after the car drove off before opening the interconnecting door between the room used as his police office and his private living accommodation. This was where he had hidden the dog. He smiled as he imagined Amble’s surprise had he known.
Rudy was very alert, almost as though he wanted to hear the outcome of the meeting between the government official and his good friend John. ‘Well,’ said Carter, getting down on one knee so he could more easily ruffle the dog’s thick fur collar. ‘That’s him done, at least for now. How about we go home and make a full report to them that count?’
Meg opened the door, invited him in, and made a big fuss of the dog before asking if John would like a cup of tea. ‘Only if it’s no bother,’ he said to her.
‘Take a seat. I wouldn’t have asked if it were any bother. Besides, I’m grateful for what you’ve done. A cup of tea is the least I can do.’
He told Meg all about his exchange with Mr Amble. Meg laughed when he told her Rudy had been on the other side of the door.
‘Hidden just a few feet away.’
‘What would you have told him if he’d insisted on going through that door?’
‘That Rudy was Ted, a police dog, and should not be approached. One word from me and he’d chew his leg off.’ Meg’s peal of laughter was a joy to John’s ears.
While her back was turned making the tea, he spotted Rudy looking at him enquiringly, then looking at Meg, then back at John. He almost felt like blushing. Was the dog reading his mind? Perhaps. John winked. The dog’s jaw dropped, his tongue lolling out. In a human, it would be a wide grin.
‘Dogs are clever fellahs, don’t you think?’
Meg threw an amused look over her shoulder. ‘I think they are. In fact, I’m sure they are.’
Once the kettle had boiled and the tea was poured, she sat opposite him and smiled. ‘Enjoy your tea. It’s only the second time these leaves have been used.’
‘Refreshing enough for me,’ said John. He eyed her speculatively. ‘You look really happy today.’
It was true. There was a bloom on her face that had been sadly absent since coming to the village. She was also a little plumper than she used to be, but not overly so. To him she was quite stunning.
Would she still fancy coming to the village dance? He told himself probably not; after all, she was expecting a baby. With that in mind, what she said next surprised him.
‘I was wondering if you’re still on to take me to the village dance?’
‘Yes. Undoubtedly. As long as you can cope with dancing, that is.’
Meg threw back her head and laughed. ‘I’m not ill, John. I’m only in the family way and I’m not so big yet that I can’t enjoy myself at a dance.’ Her expression turned serious. ‘But I will understand if you don’t want to escort a pregnant widow when there are lots of single young females in the village who’d jump at the chance of going with you.’
‘Not at all!’ John exclaimed, determined not to miss his chance. ‘I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather take than you. I mean that, sincerely I do.’
Meg’s smile was sweet and her eyes glistened. Her expression changed when she added, ‘You do realise it might set tongues wagging?’
There was rich amusement in John’s eyes as he thought what fun that would be, but he had more respect for Meg than to say it. ‘Please be assured, Meg, I wouldn’t do anything that might sully your reputation. You mean too much to me …’
He saw her gaze drop down to his hand. Unwittingly he’d covered hers with his. He swiftly snatched it back.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’
To his surprise, she reached out for him, cupping his jaw in her hand, her face alight with emotion. ‘Yes, you should have, John,’ she said softly. ‘Despite my condition, I need affection. I appreciate your friendship, but I also appreciate your affection. And your respect.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was the night of the village dance and Constable John Carter was thinking what a lucky man he was to be having a date with Meg Malin when the unforeseen happened. He was just about to button up the trousers of his best suit when a call came through from Rethman’s Farm that a sheep had been found with its throat torn out.
The farmer concerned had made up his own mind about the likely culprit. ‘Damned dogs! People dumping them out here in the country rather than doing what’s right and proper!’ Carter knew Farmer Rethman was referring to people abandoning dogs to find their own way in the world rather than facing up to rationing restrictions or having them put down.
The farmer was one of the few in the area with a phone so there was no excuse not to traipse out there and investigate. If it had been over ten miles away he would have left the call until the morning, but this particular farm was only five miles distant. He could get there on his bicycle in roughly half an hour.
‘It would be tonight,’ he muttered to himself as he stepped out of his suit trousers and into his uniform.
Before heading for the farm, he got the young lad from next door to take a message to Meg. ‘Tell her I’ve been called out on a case so I’ll see her there. Have you got that?’ Young Tommy Potter wiped his nose on his sleeve, said he fully understood and accepted a penny for his trouble.
Alice was there when the message was received, having called round to tell Meg that Lily had settled in perfectly with her kids under her sister’s care. ‘She’s reading in bed. Right little brainbox, isn’t she!’
Meg smiled in agreement. She had to admit that Lily did love reading almost as much as she loved drawing. At least I get other colours nowadays, she thought.
‘How do I look?’ Meg was wearing a blue-and-white-flowered dress beneath her coat.
‘Like a film star.’
Meg gave her a telling look. ‘Does my bump show?’
Alice, who was wearing a red d
ress that would look better on somebody slimmer, shook her head. ‘You’re lucky. By the time I was four months, I looked as though I’d swallowed a beach ball!’
Satisfied that she didn’t look too pregnant, Meg reapplied a smidgen of lipstick, pressed her lips together, studied her reflection and decided it would have to do.
Bert dined on some of the mutton he’d stolen from Rethman’s farm. At the same time he congratulated himself for selling some of it on the black market in Bath, cutting the sheep apart in the field, leaving the fleece and taking only the meat. He congratulated himself still further on slitting the throat of one of the sheep, ripping it out with the teeth of a fox trap. Clever old Bert Dando! The police wouldn’t be looking for him. They’d be looking for an animal with jaws big enough and strong enough to rip out the throat of a sheep. There was only one dog in the vicinity that fitted that picture and, with a bit of luck, the finger of accusation might point in the devilish creature’s direction.
He grinned at the thought of what he’d done. The poison hadn’t worked but smearing the animal’s reputation would do the job. The farmer would be beside himself, demanding the animal be put down. Only he, Bert Dando, would know the truth.
From the attic window he heard and saw the shadowy figures of Alice and Meg, their progress lit only by torchlight. The two women were going out on the razzle. Lucky them. Lucky him too. He guessed the little girl was being taken care of somewhere else. Only the dog remained in the cottage. The sound of the women’s shoes and their excited chatter soon melted away, and the night was once more silent and dark.
Bert crept out from the bushes in the lane at the side of Bluebell Cottage. His first choice would have been to enter via the garden gate, but he’d heard it squeak loudly when the women had left earlier. Best if he climbed the back wall and swung down from the lower branches of the apple tree he recalled growing there from way back. As a child he’d free-ranged through every garden in the village, taking anything he wanted, including apples.
He made a crouched landing from the tree on to something that felt remarkably like a cushion. Lucky me, he thought to himself. Keeping low, he made his way to the back door. Like most back doors in the village it was of a simple plank design. If it was locked, the planks would be easy to pull off, but he guessed it wouldn’t be locked. That was the kind of village it was.