by Hazel Holt
Wednesday. That Italian had the nerve to be insolent to me this morning. He refused to sluice down the yard – said it wasn’t his job. I told him he’d better mind his manners or else I’d have to tell Mr Brown about his black-market activities. At first he pretended that he couldn’t understand what I was saying, which is nonsense – his English is perfectly good. Then he blustered for a bit and then, when he saw I wasn’t impressed, he started to whine and begged me not to say anything. I said I’d have to think about it and went away. That’ll give him something to think about! Actually, I want to find out a lot more about all this before I say anything to anyone.
Sunday. May came back from the dance very late last night and today she’s been in a strange mood – half broody, half excited. I think there’s something she wants to tell me but she can’t quite bring herself to do so.
Monday. Nearly a nasty accident today. I was ploughing the top field. It’s a bit hilly, but I was managing quite well. Mr B. was doubtful at first about letting me use the tractor, but I told him I’d done the course at Wye College and since then I’ve used it quite a bit. This, of course, doesn’t please our Italian friend, who was hoping to do the ploughing himself and is now carting stone up to Lower Barton field to mend the walls! Anyway, I was about half-way through, when the tractor turned over. Fortunately I was thrown clear. If it had fallen on top of me I would have been killed. As it was I’ve got some nasty bruises and I was covered in mud. At first Mr B. went on about women not being able to manage machinery, but later he discovered that the wheel had come loose and the extra pressure put on it going downhill had tipped it over. I am beginning to wonder, though, if it was an accident. I saw Dino in the yard this morning before I took the tractor out. I wouldn’t put it past him to have loosened the wheel nuts.
Tuesday. I’m sure I was right about Dino and the tractor. This morning when Mr B. told him about the accident he gave me a very sly look and said very pointedly that Miss (he always calls me Miss in a rather slimy way) had better take care – or who knows what will happen! I don’t know if he wanted me to be so badly injured that I’d be taken away or if he was just warning me. I shall have to think what to do.
Thursday. Of all the ridiculous things. I’ve got to take part in a Wings for Victory parade in Oxford. They’ve got people from the services and the NFS and Home Guard and so forth. Our District Organiser’s just been round to say that they want a few Land Army girls ‘to make a representative showing’. God knows where my hat is. I seem to remember throwing it on to the top of the ward-robe soon after I got here and I haven’t seen it since. Mr B. is grumbling about my not being here for the milking but I’m hardly doing it for pleasure as I pointed out to him. He’s particularly annoyed because May has decided that she wants to come into Oxford to watch the parade – not particularly marvellous entertainment I would have thought, but I suppose anything is better than being stuck here – and he’ll be short handed because it’s not Dino’s day for being here.
Monday. An absolutely vile day for the parade. Freezingly cold with an iron grey sky and a biting wind. We all assembled and were marched to the Cornmarket where the Mayor and various Council high-ups were standing on a platform. Then a Wing-Commander (rather good looking) made a speech about the value to the war effort of National Savings, which no one could hear properly because the micro-phone wasn’t working very well. A couple of ATs collapsed in the bitter cold and the Red Cross contingent had to break ranks and attend to them. My fellow land girls were very scornful and said the – ATs ought to try pulling Swedes in a frozen field if they wanted to know what – cold was really like! After it was over and we were all dispersing I happened to see the Council people getting down off the platform and to my amazement I saw Dino going up to one of them and saying something. The man looked a bit nervous and took him by the arm and led him behind one of the hoardings covered with National Savings posters. I couldn’t stay to see how long they stayed talking because the other girls dragged me off to see if there was any beer at the Queen’s Head. But I would dearly like to know what’s going on there! As we were all going down the High I saw May and her airman – so that’s why she wanted to go and watch. He’s got dark wavy hair and is rather good looking in a flashy sort of way (I can see what she means about Stewart Granger). He looked rather embarrassed at the way she was clinging to his arm.
Tuesday. I told May that I’d seen her with her young man. We were washing all the milking equipment in the dairy – a miserable job – my hands felt raw with the cold water. She went to the door and looked outside to see that no one was around. Then she stood for a moment looking down at the dirty water in the old stone sink and said slowly, ‘Gwen, I’m in trouble.’ I asked what sort of trouble and she said impatiently, ‘In trouble – you know...’ ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you mean you’re pregnant.’ She seemed to find the word embarrassing and flushed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I daren’t tell my Dad – he’d kill me.’ I thought she was exaggerating, dramatising the situation, because, as I’ve said, her parents dote on her. But she seemed really frightened. ‘Have you told your mother?’ I asked. ‘No. She’d only tell him.’ She seemed to be screwing herself up to ask me something and then blurted out, ‘Gwen – do you know anyone?’ ‘Know anyone?’ I echoed. ‘Someone who could do something...’ ‘An abortion?’ ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘No, sorry – not my line at all. What about the young man? Did he suggest that?’ ‘Yes.’ She looked so wretched I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, though she had really no one to blame but herself for being such a little fool. ‘You’ll just have to make him face up to his responsibilities. Is he married?’ ‘Johnny? – that’s his name – no he isn’t, but his family’s ever so well off – they wouldn’t want him to marry someone like me.’ ‘He should have thought of that before he started messing around with you.’ ‘He’s worried about something else. I oughtn’t to be telling you about this – but, well, he and his friend (the one I call James Mason) have been doing something on the black market – just for a lark, really, I don’t think they need the money, they always seem to have plenty. Anyway, last week they stole a whole tanker full of petrol – aviation fuel they call it – it was ever so exciting, just like a film. They drove it off the airfield and along that track behind Hanger Wood – I told them about that, they were ever so pleased, they wouldn’t have known about it else – and got round to the village that way and put it in Ray Burton’s tank at the garage. They’ve got something else planned, but I don’t know what it is – something really big.’ ‘You’ll have to tell him that he’s got to marry you and if he makes any difficulties you must say that you’ll tell his Commanding Officer about all this black-market stuff – that’ll bring him to heel.’ ‘Gwen, I couldn’t.’ ‘Well, it’s that or face your father.’ I don’t know if I’ve persuaded her, but I don’t see why the man should get away with it...
There, maddeningly, the diary ended. The remaining pages were filled with accounts – details of her pay, tax and so forth. I wished to goodness that Molly had found the other notebook; it was infuriating not to know the end of the story.
What I had read only confirmed my opinion of Gwen Richmond. Even as a young woman she had obviously been totally self-centred and eager to manipulate other people’s lives. I wondered what had happened to the wretched May and if Dino had got away with all his nefarious activities. One day I would find out from Molly where the farm was and go and have a look at it – rather like going to look at a place that had been the setting of a novel.
Chapter Eleven
‘I’ve told the parents about Pamela,’ Tony said next morning as he and I were making toast in the kitchen. ‘Mother’s invited them to Sunday lunch tomorrow.’
When he’d gone Betty and I had a little chat about it over our second cups of coffee.
‘What’s she like?’ Betty asked. ‘I gather you’ve met her.’ ‘Only because Tony wanted me to tell her what a terrific success Peter, Mother and I living together was,’ I explain
ed hastily, though Betty wasn’t at all the sort of mother who resents her children confiding in other people. ‘She’s a nice girl – very shy – what you might call “biddable”. She’s devoted to her mother and they both dote on Tony!’
‘Good gracious! Well I’m absolutely delighted that he’s found someone – he never seemed at all interested. Harriet brought several really splendid girls back from Greenham Common, but he simply ignored them.’
‘Well, he found Pamela all for himself,’ I said.
‘Tony says that she’s leaving the Bodleian.’
‘Yes, she’s going to do some work for the University Press. But, quite frankly, I don’t think she’s a career girl.’
Betty’s face fell and I smiled.
‘I think Tony has found himself what used to be described as a home-maker.’ ‘Oh well, it’s early days yet,’ Betty said. ‘Just look at me!’
***
We were a large party that Sunday lunchtime because Betty insisted that Michael and I should be included. ‘It will be much easier for them if it’s not just family and they’ve met you already and feel comfortable with you!’
Any doubts I might have had about how the Turners would fit in were swiftly dispelled. Robert was marvellous with Mrs Turner, discussing her treatment with his usual enthusiasm – obviously only his sense of professional etiquette stopped him from launching into a vigorous condemnation of her present GP and I felt that it was only a matter of time before he would have her whisked into the Nuffield Orthopedic and generally sorted out. Betty, too, was delighted to have what was practically a captive audience – and one, moreover, who seemed genuinely interested in her various projects. I foresaw many droppings-in on Mrs Turner to discuss the latest strategy in some new campaign.
I began to wonder, indeed, if the Turners were not in danger of being totally taken over and didn’t dare to catch Michael’s eye when Betty asked Pamela if she would like to go with her to a meeting about nuclear waste.
‘We’re going to mark out the way they take the lorries by putting up placards saying “nuclear waste route” all round the ring road.’
Still, I was sure that the newly confident Tony was quite capable of keeping his parents within bounds.
When it was obvious that they were all getting on splendidly and didn’t need any outside help, I said I would drive Michael back to Oxford.
Because it was a lovely sunny Sunday the roads were crowded and there was a solid jam of traffic just past the Blenheim roundabout. Michael wound down the window and peered out.
‘It seems to be a crack of doom situation.’ he said regarding the long line of cars stretching into the distance.
We sat peacefully in the warm sunlight. The sky was a brilliant blue and on either side of the dual carriageway there was a glorious white froth of cow parsley. For a while we neither of us spoke, then Michael said tentatively, ‘I’ve come to a sort of decision, if that’s not too grand a word for it. I think I’d like to go to the College of Law and be a solicitor like Pa.’
I smiled encouragingly, but didn’t say anything and he went on, speaking very rapidly.
‘I think there’s still time to register for September – I’ve got to have my degree of course, so fingers crossed and all that – I don’t know if we can afford it – the course costs quite a bit and living in London is frightfully expensive, and it’s for two years – but I thought I might be a lodger with Cousin Hilary, she’s always been marvellous about my staying there in the Long Vac – anyway, I could find out what it would all cost…’
His voice trailed away and he looked at me enquiringly.
I tried to blink away the tears that I knew would embarrass him and said, ‘Pa would have been so pleased. What made you decide?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it for ages and then I talked to William – you remember William, my year, reading Law – and it all sounded pretty interesting…’
I approved of William, a solid young man, over six foot with a shock of bright red hair and an imperturbable manner. I always felt, somehow, that Michael would be safe in his company. I now felt a glow of gratitude towards him as well.
‘Of course we’ll afford it somehow and Cousin Hilary is a brilliant idea. ‘She’ll love having you there – you’ll be able to feed the cats for her when she goes away.’
A loud hooting made me aware that the traffic was now moving and we completed the journey into Oxford happily making plans for Michael’s future.
I managed to nip into a parking space in Museum Street and walked along with him to his college. The gardens were looking marvellous and we strolled round the corner of the chapel and sat down on a seat from which we could contemplate the rather surrealist statue of an eccentric former dean. The bronze torso merging into the bronze chair usually irritated me, but today, overhung by spring foliage and surrounded by a carpet of bluebells it seemed an agreeable piece of whimsy.
Michael was talking about Tony and Pamela and the Bodleian.
‘Not the place I would go to choose a bride – they all frighten me to death!’
‘Well if you will go in there wearing full biking gear, complete with boots and helmet you must admit they have every reason for looking at you sideways! Anyway, Pamela is a sweet girl.’
‘A bread-and-butter miss,’ he said, ‘but just right for old Tony, who will now become a Victorian paterfamilias with a watch-chain across his waistcoat and eleven children.’
Talk of the Bodleian brought me back with a jolt to the mystery of Gwen Richmond and I now gave Michael a brief summary of what had happened and what I suspected.
‘Poor old Tony, what a vile thing to have happened. She sounds a real platinum-plated bitch, if you ask me, and simply asked to be batted over the head.’
‘That’s as maybe, but as a future upholder of the law you must admit that people can’t be allowed to go around batting people over the head, however unspeakable they may be.’
‘You’ve got a fair old number of suspects. There’s those two old Arthurian birds and Gwen whatsit’s sister, and Pamela, of course.’
‘No, not Pamela,’ I said quickly.
‘Suit yourself, but she ought to be on the list, and Tony, too, come to think of it.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
‘Well, I agree they’re neither of them likely, but in a detective story they’d be the strongest suspects.’
‘We are not,’ I informed him severely, ‘living in a detective story and Tony is my godson.’
‘Right. No godson shall be deemed to be a murderer – I wonder if Crippen had a godmother?’
I disregarded this flippancy and said, ‘I’m a bit suspicious, too, of this Dr Lassiter. She was there in the Bodleian on the day in question and I have a feeling that she used to be in Athens when Gwen was. Actually, I’d like to have a chat with her. I wonder ... do you have the Hoard with you here in Oxford?’
The Hoard, I must explain, was a collection of ancient coins that Peter had bought in the Middle East when he was out there in the Army at the end of the war. We always used to joke that they were worth a fortune and were our little nest egg for a rainy day. When Michael was sixteen Peter handed them over to him with stern admonitions to keep them safe for a Real Emergency.
‘Yes, I have. I was going to show them to Hardwick, he’s quite a collector, but I haven’t got round to it yet.’
‘Could I borrow them for a few days? Dr Lassiter is in the coin room at the Ashmolean and I could use them as an excuse for getting to see her.’
‘I don’t quite see how you propose to make the leap from old coins to murder. “How interesting about the tetradrachms and by the way did you murder Gwen Richmond?’”
‘I expect I’ll think of something,’ I said vaguely. ‘Anyway people do tend to tell me things – it’s all those years of practice with listening to the Meals on Wheels people.’
‘Not quite the same thing – but if anyone can get anything out of her, you can!’
&nbs
p; We went back through the quadrangle to Michael’s room. As always, I tried to shut my eyes to the wild disorder but had to be restrained by Michael from picking up books and scattered essay papers from the floor.
‘No, Ma! Incredible though it may seem to you there is a sort of sublime order about this seeming chaos, rather like the organisation of the spheres. Remove but one sheet of paper and the whole structure falls apart. Meanwhile I will make you a cup of tea and get you the Hoard.’
He plugged a kettle in, saying, ‘The whole electrical system here is pre-Faraday but it seems to work’, and unearthed two mugs from beneath a pile of Proceedings of the Society for Mediaeval Studies. I tried not to notice if the mugs had been washed or not and watched him make the tea.
‘Oh good, a new packet of chocolate digestives,’ he said, tearing off the wrapping and casting it on to the floor.
I picked it up, biting back the reproof that rose to my lips. I’ve got this compulsive need to pick up bits of paper – the sight of litter makes me really quite ill! Michael stopped pouring the tea for a moment and said, ‘Oh, Ma, really!’ as he always does on such occasions.
He gave me the mug and a biscuit and, opening a tin marked ‘TEA’, tumbled out a pile of old silver coins.
As I held them in my hand I felt, as I always do, an almost superstitious awe when I think that these objects have been in existence since before the birth of Christ.
‘They’re really in remarkably good nick,’ Michael said, picking one up and examining it lovingly. ‘“Extremely fine”, is that what they call it?’
‘I think so. I’ll take great care of them, of course, and give them back to you as soon as I’ve been able to see the Lassiter woman.’
I found a plastic bag in my handbag and stowed them carefully away. That evening, when all the aspects of the visit by Pamela and her mother had been fully gone into, I managed to take Tony to one side and ask him if he’d managed to make a list of the people who had been in Room 45 on the afternoon that Gwen Richmond was killed.