Murder in Hell's Corner

by Amy Myers

  ‘With him? Lucky the Spits were single-seaters. I wouldn’t like to have flown a bomber with him, I can tell you. He was a fair-weather flyer. When the storms came, you were apt to find yourself in the clouds alone.’

  ‘Like Miss Prism, I’m sure you speak metaphorically,’ Peter said blandly.

  ‘No,’ had been Paul’s blunt reply. ‘We were pleasure flying at the club, but in the war they weren’t. You know his reputation, and decorations are seldom won for steady flying. The spectacular one-off was his style in everything, including women. I’m surprised that Jean hung on so long. I suppose only because she was a long-term worshipper and they’re valuable. When you look in the mirror they tell you that the face you see is exactly as you see it yourself. It would take courage to point out the warts to Patrick Fairfax.’

  ‘And there were warts? There’s nothing to suggest that in Jack’s biography.’

  ‘His book was a lot of crap, and I told him so. He didn’t like it.’

  ‘So if I were to ask you if there was any doubt about Fairfax’s worthiness for having won his decorations?’

  ‘I’d be the first to want you to prove it. That’s what Jack was on about when he asked me over that evening. He said he wanted to talk about Patrick, that he was beginning to think I was right and that he wasn’t the great hero he’s cracked up to be. I hadn’t got that far along the line, but then I began to think. He was a great flyer; flying didn’t scare him, but blazing guns might have done. Ironic that he was shot in the end.’

  ‘Did you tell the police this?’

  ‘I began to. Then I could see I might be digging an even deeper hole for myself. So what’s going on?’

  ‘Did Jack mention Oliver Tanner?’

  ‘Yes – that’s why I wanted to see the logbook.’

  ‘Good of him to drop by,’ Peter said drily when Paul had left, obviously disappointed that the logbook, as well as Marsh & Daughter, had revealed so little.

  *

  Eight days. Driving off the ferry in Calais brought back memories of her last visit to France. This time she knew the net must surely be closing, even if it wasn’t clear around whom. Madame Fleurie lived in the hinterland of Calais in the small town of Guines. It was here, Georgia remembered, that Henry VIII had stayed before the Field of Cloth of Gold with his vast retinues and no expense spared, a display of nationalism which today was sneered at. Was today’s alternative – military power – preferable? At least no one could be blown to bits by cloth of gold.

  Guines’ days of grandeur were over now, but Madame Fleurie lived near a pleasant canal. Her apartment on the first floor had a view across to its banks where townsfolk were strolling. She was younger than the five pilots, a spry eighty-two, Georgia was informed, but even so she immediately guessed that this was Alan’s ‘friend’, the courier from the Garibaldi line.

  ‘Many children my age were,’ Madame explained, when Georgia asked her about it. ‘We were not so instantly suspect as our parents were, but we understood what we must do, and why.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Shot after the line was betrayed. I was sent to Ravensbrück concentration camp, where I kept out of sight so far as I could.’

  ‘And that’s how you survived?’

  ‘Survived?’ She shrugged. ‘One returns home, and one sees one’s neighbours. Nothing seems changed except so many dear faces gone. And then the questions. Could it be that one who betrayed you, or this one? We have a phrase – résistant de quarante-quatre – to describe those who helped the cause only after the Germans had left.’

  ‘You led the group that included Patrick Fairfax and Maurice Purcell?’

  ‘Oui, madame. I took them from Amiens to the last safe house before the Pyrenees mountain pass. When Monsieur Fairfax crashed, he was brought to my parents’ home, near Etaples. There were already two other airmen there and an army sergeant. Patrick, he was charming. They were there for several weeks; we were not so organized in 1941 as we became later. You have heard of the Abbé Carpentier?’

  ‘No,’ Georgia admitted.

  ‘A priest who made false documents for the Garibaldi line. Also then for the Pat O’Leary line. Alas, when that was betrayed he too died, most horribly.’

  ‘Were you with Patrick’s group when they were arrested?’

  ‘Non. I had taken them to meet the guide for the crossing of the mountains, and it was then that it was stopped.’

  ‘By betrayal or by a routine check?’

  ‘We do not know, but after the capture, we were all arrested, certainly betrayed, perhaps by one of our own, but Monsieur Arthur and I believed that one of our charges talked. When the Vichy took you for interrogation, the Gestapo was not far away. It was hard for the servicemen to remember that for us the penalty is death, but for them only a POW camp. Bad enough, but not death.’

  ‘You talked about it with Monsieur Arthur?’

  ‘Oui. Often. His brother was in that group. When we meet our charges, we see where there are signs of fear, who we can trust and who perhaps not. Some are content to let us lead, others wish to interfere. That was not possible for not only were our lives at stake, but those of the other charges. We wanted to get the pilots and other servicemen back to England so that they can fight the Germans for us. My parents go through the First War. We all knew what to do when war came again. We had to resist in whatever way was open to us.’

  ‘Do you know which of them might have betrayed you?’

  ‘Ah, we know, Miss Marsh. Monsieur Arthur and I. His brother told him. It was Monsieur Fairfax, and already I had suspected that. But Alan will tell you when we see him. Shall we go?’

  The end of the trail must be approaching, Georgia thought, even though it was not yet in sight. It was inevitable now. What happened then would be a different matter. The truth did not always result in a book, however.

  ‘We will take my car, Georgia.’

  Madame Fleurie had a lovely way of pronouncing her name, though the car drive was less attractive. She approached driving with all the dash and determination that she must have shown as a teenage courier. At least they were heading for a hospital, Georgia thought wryly.

  There was still a policeman on guard outside Alan’s door in the hospital, but Madame Fleurie was clearly a frequent visitor for he barely looked up as she approached. To Georgia’s relief Alan was sitting up in bed, and although bandaged he looked in better shape than she had feared.

  He managed a smile in greeting. ‘As you can see, Georgia, rumours of my pending death have been greatly exaggerated. I regret to say that even you came under suspicion from Roseanne, however.’ He indicated Madame Fleurie.

  ‘It is natural,’ Georgia said, as Madame cackled. ‘How is your recovery going?’

  ‘Physically the burns will mostly heal. Mentally – it is one more sign.’

  ‘Of what?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Of the reasons I left England. Roseanne tells me it is time to speak. The fire sets me free to do so.’

  At last. Even so, Georgia realized she must tread carefully. ‘About what happened on September first 1940 at Woodring?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said gravely. ‘When I learned what happened then, I could not bear the responsibility of holding such a secret. I too was a coward. I walked away.’

  ‘Too?’ she queried guardedly.

  ‘Wasn’t Oliver Tanner accused of lack of moral fibre?’

  Now for it. ‘But that wasn’t justified, was it?’

  His eyes flickered. ‘Did Sylvia tell you that? Please tell me. Don’t be afraid to speak out. I have a wonderful ability to keep my own counsel when necessary, and being close to death because of my age only adds to that.’

  ‘No. Sylvia spoke of an accident, but my father and I have a theory that Oliver Tanner was deliberately killed by Patrick Fairfax and that the main reason was that it was not he, but Fairfax, who was guilty of LMF.’

  It was out now, and with it her last long shot.

  ‘That
is a belief that I have had for some time, Georgia.’ His face relaxed.

  ‘Tell her, Alan,’ Madame Fleurie commanded.

  ‘You are favoured, Georgia. Roseanne now trusts you.’ He smiled when Madame Fleurie scowled at his gentle mockery. ‘It was my brother who told me about Patrick,’ Alan continued. ‘He had medical training, and knew Patrick was lying about being beaten up by the Vichy. So it was no surprise that only two pilots escaped from that train. Fairfax needed a grateful witness. There were even shots at the side of the railtrack, to make it seem as if it were a real escape. My brother knew it was not. Those doors opened and shut too conveniently. Fairfax was lucky. No such arrangements would have been possible when the Gestapo took over later.

  ‘My brother’s POW camp, where they were sent after the Germans occupied Vichy, was not in Germany itself but in Poland where conditions were much harsher,’ Alan continued. ‘Two of the men died in captivity, and in 1949 my brother died too. His tuberculosis was sparked off by the last bitter winter in the camp. Already suspicious of Fairfax, I made it my business to look into his career and came to the same belief as you, Georgia. I told Sylvia what I had discovered since I knew how much she had loved Oliver Tanner. It came as an enormous shock to her. To be told that Oliver had died at Patrick’s hand had been bad enough, but to suspect he had been deliberately murdered and why was quite terrible.’

  ‘Why did you still say nothing publicly then?’

  Madame Fleurie glanced at Alan, as if again giving him permission to speak. ‘We would not begin the witchhunt; we would not hurt those that loved him. Roseanne had seen enough of that in France, and I would not distress my comrades from 362. Sylvia agreed.’

  ‘But you had told her the truth.’

  ‘Yes. I went to see her after the war ended. I told her exactly what I felt about Patrick, and she too decided that since there was only suspicion and no proof of murder that we should do nothing.’ He looked at Roseanne, who again nodded. ‘I had a great affection for Patrick,’ Alan continued. ‘I believe he was a good man with one big fault. He wanted – needed – to be liked, to be admired. Most of us do, but for him it was an obsession. He had to believe himself worthy of that admiration, he had to be the best. It was, I truly believe, fear of losing that respect that drove him to his impulsive, desperate act, because Tanner knew the truth. He had saved him on 362’s first day in action, and again in August. Patrick forced himself to go straight into the heart of the oncoming enemy fighters, guns blazing, even though he had a horror of guns, but the effort required made him forget that those he was leading needed his support.

  ‘Tanner must have stood by while rumours circulated about himself, but when he had to listen to Fairfax insinuating he was responsible for Lyle’s death, he might have snapped. He came storming up to Woodring after seeing the CO the next day. Patrick would have realized it had to be sorted out, especially since Sylvia was there, whom he was convinced that he and he alone deserved. Tanner was always there; Tanner could cast aspersions on his reputation if he chose; Tanner knew his weaknesses.’

  ‘But murder—’ Georgia began.

  ‘We believed it an accident at the time, Georgia,’ Alan interrupted. ‘I hadn’t seen the body, my fellow pilots had, and it was only in talking about it later that one of them mentioned the position of the body, and how it had looked. My brother, who had just returned from the camp, told me it seemed wrong for a blow to the back of the head caused by a fall.’

  ‘And now, do you still have that affection for Patrick?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can answer that. What I am sure of is that Patrick, being the man he was, genuinely believed he had shot down those planes himself, that he was the daring pilot who went straight in for the kill. He was a brilliant man of the air, and he must therefore, in his view, also be the greatest battle hero. After the war, when I had a chance to read This Life, This Death, I talked to Patrick about Tanner and his death.’

  ‘That was brave,’ Georgia said sincerely.

  ‘Far from it, alas. I can only say that if Patrick did indeed murder Tanner he had no memory of it. He believed his own tale, that he had killed him by accident in righteous fury over putting the lives of his fellow pilots at risk. I didn’t believe that, but I swear that he did. Just as Patrick firmly believed that Tanner was LMF, because he couldn’t face the fact that it was he who could not face the guns.’

  ‘He still should be judged,’ Georgia said.

  ‘Then so should I,’ Alan said. ‘I walked away; I came to France. I too am a coward. Which of us can throw the first stone, Georgia?’

  She could not answer him; it needed thinking about. ‘There’s a film ready to be released next year and on September fifteenth, in eight days’ time, the producer is officially launching the publicity for it. Patrick will be a household name again. There’ll be a celebration at Woodring Manor, the press will be there, the pilots interviewed. What are my father and I to do? We know the story, but we can’t tell it without proof. And there is the question of Patrick’s death.’

  ‘You mean do I know who killed Patrick?’ He smiled. ‘Fortunately for me I am excluded. Your zealous police could find no evidence that I was there, for the best of reasons. I was not. Nor can I believe that any of my old friends from 362 Squadron would have taken it into their heads to kill him.’

  Still getting nowhere. ‘Someone,’ she said firmly, ‘is anxious about what we might find out about Fairfax’s death. Someone set your house on fire and nearly killed you. Someone killed Jack Hardcastle. Someone hacked into my computer in order to be able to silence you and perhaps my father and myself as well. He or she is still out there. Where will you go, if you don’t speak out?’

  ‘Madame Fleurie and I are good friends. She is to look after me, and we who have seen such horror in our lives acquired the strength to survive. And as for your question about evidence, I think you will find that Oliver Tanner is the root of this business.’

  ‘We still need proof.’

  ‘Once you are there, so may the proof be.’ He slumped back against the pillows and it was clear that she should go.

  *

  Six days to go. ‘He’s holding something back,’ Peter said gloomily. ‘He must be. Purcell looked into this thoroughly at the end of the war. So why won’t he cough it up?’

  ‘He seemed to imply that we need to do some more work.’

  ‘He’s right. We don’t know who killed Fairfax, for a start. Yesterday evening I managed to speak to Bob McNee at last.’

  ‘Did he toe the party line?’

  ‘Yes. I hammered him over Tanner and Fairfax though. He did tell me Patrick had come straight to him at dispersal on the day of the dance, accusing Tanner of being responsible for Lyle’s death, and that was far from the first time he’d made formal allegations of his behaviour in battle. He’d decided he was going to the CO about it, and asked Patrick to gather all the evidence he could. Patrick tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. He said it happened once too often and that was that.’

  ‘So presumably when the CO talked to Tanner,’ Georgia reasoned, ‘Tanner would hardly have taken it lying down. He’d have put forward his side of the case. That’s why the verdict was postponed. And that’s why Tanner was so furious that Sunday evening. And now?’

  ‘Now we have six days left. If we come up with evidence after that, it would be a two-day wonder, but it would be the film and book that would survive in the long term. High Noon is coming fast, Georgia.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day was here. Somehow Marsh & Daughter had survived the whirlwind and reached Woodring Manor. September had vanished for Georgia while she and Peter had grappled with the ramifications of the Fairfax case. Just as on every Christmas Eve, however, there came a point where one had to decide it was over, not another parcel to be tied, not another decoration to be hung, not another card written. That, as the boy had remarked in the A.A. Milne poem, once clad in his waterproofs and Wellington boots, is that. And she had
declared it last night.

  ‘I agree,’ Peter had said thankfully. He was looking tired this morning, she thought, and she was doubly glad that Luke was going to be there too. He had been spending so much time whistling between Haden Shaw and South Malling that she had hesitated to ask him. Peter had had no such compunction.

  ‘A publisher needs to keep an eye on his investment,’ Luke had quoth merrily when they met in the car park.

  ‘Medlars?’ she asked, deliberately misunderstanding.

  ‘Signed and sealed,’ he said offhandedly. ‘Completion by November. Just in time for Christmas.’

  ‘But . . .’ she began, unable to face the idea of yet another whirlwind.

  ‘Later,’ Luke said firmly. ‘Work first. Remember I have an interest in this book too, if it ever gets written.’

  That was the question. Would it? Today was crunch time, and yet Marsh & Daughter were helpless to influence the course of the day. That was in police hands. They were the deus ex machina who would descend from the skies to decide the issue. Or not descend at all. That was the worst scenario. If they failed to show – which meant they hadn’t made their case – Marsh & Daughter would achieve only a Pyrrhic victory of knowledge without resolution. And Jack’s murderer might yet walk free. There were obligations to be met to others who had risked a great deal to help them. Not least an obligation to Susan Hardcastle.

  That was why they were here. Two days ago she and Peter had met Pullman and his counterpart from Downs Area, DI Jennings, now in charge of the Fairfax case, plus Mike Gilroy who, for all his placidity, couldn’t bear to be left out. For good measure, Christopher Manners had also been there. She and Peter had both left with a sense of anti-climax, however. The pace of the last two weeks had dissolved, understandably enough, into a world of maybes and ifs, dependent on fingerprint matches, footprint matches, labs coming up with the right answers, and procedural OKs. Where Patrick Fairfax was concerned, there had been over sixty years of ifs and buts, and now what might be the last effective chance of justice for Oliver Tanner might be slipping away.