The Wickenham Murders

by Amy Myers

  She was eyed sharply. ‘I had Davy and Bill. Anyway, I reckons everyone has a tough time inside themselves. But we all march on somehow.’

  Zac, Rick, her mother – was she marching on? Georgia wondered. She tried. Peter and she both did. That’s what made them a good team. They had a common purpose, which they could not afford to let slip lest they too slid back into the mire of the past. That reminded her of the Randolphs, although her question as to whether anyone had gone missing about the same time as Ada drew a blank.

  ‘Did you know the family?’ she asked.

  ‘I were only a kid when the Randolphs left the village. Went west, they did, and never came back. I remember the young lady, lovely she was. Gwendolen. Now there’s a name.’ Mary rolled it lovingly round her tongue several times. ‘She was seven or eight years older than me. When I grow up I’m going to be like her, I told my mum. Don’t be so daft, Mum said. Dad’s sister Eileen did for the Randolphs, so I reckoned that was as good as knowing them. I think I remember the Major too. I do recall I was sick during the village hall party when the first war ended. I remember the men coming back from the army and talk of those that didn’t. Didn’t mean much to me. And before you ask, Auntie Eileen’s long gone. Like the Randolphs. Like everyone.’

  ‘But not you,’ Georgia said quietly.

  Mary roused herself again. ‘Not blooming likely. Not before you find out about my Davy. So hurry up. God’s knocking at my door and He’s getting tired of waiting.’

  As she drove away from Four Winds, Georgia began to realize she was suffering from indigestion. Not physical – thank heavens she’d avoided the full English breakfast – but mental. She stopped the car on the downs for a few minutes’ reflection. That was the trouble at this stage of a case. There was a tendency to bolt one’s ‘food’, rush at the information partly though enthusiasm and partly because of the pressure of limited time ‘on site’. She knew what Peter meant by the need to lay it aside and listen to what the past was telling you. As in an archaeological site, the exposed skeleton lying in its resting place needed consideration far beyond what the date of the bones could produce. Consideration would bring some gleaned information to the fore, and let less important matters lie fallow.

  Nevertheless, this was hard when someone like Mary Elgin poured his or her story into you. The swamp of emotion that it could justifiably arouse blotted out the distance you struggled so hard to retain. And yet, Georgia reflected, emotion was what led her to get involved in the first place. Thankfully, in her case, Luke stood as an upright pole in the middle of the swamp. If she made it as far as Luke, then she was out of the mud.

  She suddenly had a great longing for home. Only three more ports of call, and then she could return to the safe distance of Haden Shaw. Safe? She picked up on this immediately. What was disturbing – threatening? – about Wickenham? The stirring up of the past or rumbles of the present?

  Neither, she had told herself impatiently – nothing a good brisk walk wouldn’t settle anyway.

  Back in the open fields with the autumn wind blowing, this time clutching her detailed Ordnance Survey map, it was easier to visualize Mary’s Wickenham of the late 1920s. Crown Lea had been a meadow then, though today it was cultivated, and the all but fruitless day in the PRO she had spent last week had revealed the coroner’s inquest report, which concluded from the straw stubble on Ada’s coat that she had actually been killed in the adjoining field, nearer to the wood in which she would have hoped to see the badgers and nightingales. Another point that might or might not have been referred to in the trial. Certainly it wasn’t selected for the law reports.

  Frustratingly, there had been no post-mortem report amongst the exhibits, which would have settled once and for all whether Ada had been a promiscuous trollop or virgo intacta. The inquest proceedings had concentrated on cause of death. Ada might well have been both flirtatious and a virgin, but it was yet another question mark still to be answered. On the plus side, the exhibits revealed that Ada had been wearing gloves. One to Davy Todd (and Marsh & Daughter).

  ‘Ada,’ Georgia said softly, as she stumbled over the rough footpath, ‘what on earth brought you here in the dark, if not the badgers?’

  Map in hand, she continued on along the footpath to the wood, climbing over the stile. Even in the daylight she had a momentary qualm about entering it, public footpath or not. A large sign warned her to keep to the path. This was private property.

  Whose? she wondered, orientating herself on the map. It could belong to Hole Farm who owned Crown Lea, or it could belong to the Manor. Wickenham Manor lay well to the east, but its estates were – or had been – large, so she should look into this. It was clear that few people used this footpath now. Overgrown brambles and nettles were dying off, but their trailing stems lay across the path, which according to the map led past the Manor and on to the hamlet of Wickenham Forstal.

  There was no sign yet of a denehole, even though one was marked on the map. Then the footpath crossed a wide track – and she was in no doubt now that she had reached it. There were recent tyre marks leading to her left. No public footpath, according to the map, but even from here she could see where the denehole must be and she followed the track until she came to it, about ten yards along, boarded over, with danger signs and plenty of evidence of recent police activity.

  ‘Okay, Peter, I’ve tried,’ she told herself, but so far as she could see, to little purpose. Unless, of course, it occurred to her, Ada’s rendezvous had been with John Sadler. Or, she was forced to admit, the skeleton in the denehole.

  By the time she arrived at Alice White’s home she was more than ready for late-morning coffee. Alice looked the part of pivot of Wickenham life, a bustling woman in her late fifties or early sixties, bright of eye and eager to communicate. Almost too eager. The words began to tumble out as though there were a pent-up nervousness there and Georgia noticed that as she talked Alice’s eye contact remained with the cafetière, not with her visitor. Nevertheless, her cluttered dining-room table was a welcome antidote to Four Winds.

  ‘Yes, my mother was in service at the Manor up to the time she married in the 1930s, and I think she went back there during the war. She was the only person who could work with the She-Wolf of Wickenham.’

  ‘The what?’

  Alice giggled, as she dispensed the coffee. ‘Everyone called her that, not just Mum. I’m surprised you haven’t run into Mrs Priscilla Bloomfield before now. Not in person, of course. Thankfully the old besom’s no longer with us. She was the wife of Matthew, the old Squire, the present Trevor Bloomfield’s grandmother. Matthew had just become Squire at the time of the Proctor case – that’s what you’re interested in, aren’t you?’ She looked up suddenly, caught Georgia’s eye, and returned to her study of the coffee pot. ‘He died during the war and her son Bertram took over the Manor. Until Bertram married, and long after it, his mother ruled the roost. She was a wicked old woman – didn’t leave us till the 1980s – but my mum was a lovely soul, and could put up with anybody. Anyway it was so hard to get staff in those days that even the She-Wolf didn’t dare go too far. She’d have had to do her own washing-up, and I can’t see madam doing that. So what is it you want to know about the Proctor case?’

  Georgia was hardly surprised that Alice White knew exactly what she was interested in. The whole village must have known by now. Even so Alice had seemed very eager to see her.

  ‘The Sadlers primarily. He worked as a steward to the estate. Do you know them or what happened to them? Not that there’s much chance they’d know anything about Ada Proctor’s murder, but there seems to be this rumour that Ada was having an affair with John Sadler.’

  ‘Oh yes, I knew Uncle John – that’s what I called him as a child. And that went on till he and Auntie Rose left. She was a sweetie. Everyone loved her.’

  ‘Even John Sadler?’

  ‘I got the impression they were a devoted couple, but then I was a child, so I can’t swear to it. Certainly Mum never s
aid anything to the contrary, but then she wouldn’t. He retired, probably in the late 1950s, and they went to live with or near their daughter. Out in the West Country somewhere.’

  ‘As did the Randolphs,’ Georgia commented, somewhat depressed at yet more vague statements that were getting her nowhere.

  ‘The Randolphs?’

  ‘Did your mother work for them too?’ Georgia had caught the note of interest in Alice’s voice.

  ‘No, but it just reminded me of something. You know how some incidents in your childhood stand out but you can’t tie them in with anything else. There was a day when I was about five or six when this wonderful man came to our house. He spoke in a funny way and Mum told me afterwards it was because he was French. He was in uniform, and even as a child I knew what that meant. He was fighting in the war. He was a charmer, and he paid special attention to me, asked me to show him round the village and Hazelwood House in particular. I fell head over heels in love and pestered Mum afterwards about him. She said his name was Randolph and he was looking for a family that used to live in Wickenham. I think I used to have fantasies that one day he’d come back and claim me for his own. I must have seen too many Hollywood films.’

  ‘But he never did come back?’

  ‘Never a whisper or whisker that I remember. But the name stuck in my mind, especially since not that long afterwards The Firs, which stood opposite Hazelwood House, was hit by a flying bomb, and Hazelwood was affected too. It stood derelict until long after the war and I used to imagine it was waiting to be our house, his and mine. Anyway,’ she added quickly, ‘Mum had no idea where the Randolphs were.’

  ‘Or the Sadlers either?’ Georgia asked without much hope.

  ‘Oh yes, didn’t I say? Mum stayed in touch with Rose, who’s long dead now of course, and so probably is her daughter.’

  ‘Would you have the address so that I can check that?’ Georgia asked, as Alice suddenly stopped short, and her face reddened slightly.

  ‘Yes, it’s in my mother’s old address book. I’ll give it to you.’ She went over to a desk, and scribbled it down on a piece of scrap paper. Then, in a rush, ‘Look, do you mind not telling anyone if I do give it to you? I shouldn’t have mentioned it really.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Georgia was surprised since Alice didn’t seem the sort of woman to keep her mouth buttoned over trifles.

  Alice looked relieved, and the words began to flow again. ‘It’s my husband. He’s, well, funny over the past. That’s why I never told him you were coming. He doesn’t believe in raking up the old case. Says things are bad enough already, without giving the Todds more fuel.’

  Georgia leapt on the salient point – the rest she could disentangle at her leisure.

  ‘But you’re interested in the case?’

  ‘I’m sick of it all. I’m sick of being chair of the WI when all it makes me is a punchbag. It’s time it was sorted, and if you can—’

  The sound of the front door opening, followed by footsteps, silenced her. Her face went pale. ‘Tell him you’re here because Mary gave you a message about needing money.’

  What on earth was this about? Georgia gulped, almost as nervous as Alice was, as the door opened and a tall, burly man in his sixties came in.

  ‘Hello, George. You’re early,’ Alice managed brightly.

  There was nothing bright about George White. He obviously recognized Georgia immediately, though she could not remember seeing him before.

  ‘You’re that journalist poking her nose in everywhere. What have you been telling her, Alice?’

  ‘Mary Beaumont gave me a message for her, Mr White,’ Georgia obediently lied.

  ‘And what’s Mary been yapping about this time?’ But seeing Georgia about to speak, he continued viciously, ‘Don’t bother to tell me, and get out of my house. She’s been bleating on about bloody Davy again. Right?’

  ‘Wrong,’ Georgia retorted, walking towards the door after thanking Alice. ‘Mrs Beaumont doesn’t bleat.’

  *

  She clutched the piece of paper on which the address was written like a lifebelt in the sea in which she felt she was gradually drowning. She shuddered at the thought of the marital row undoubtedly breaking over Alice’s head behind her. Thank heavens for the single life. She could walk out, unlike Alice. What had all that been about? Surely not over the Sadler question. Even if she managed to get in touch with the family, a granddaughter was hardly going to know whether her grandfather had an affair with Ada Proctor over seventy years ago, let alone whether he had murdered her as a result of it.

  ‘How are you getting on then?’ Jim Hardbent asked, when she arrived at his home. He and his wife Janet lived in what used to be the village forge, though the house had obviously become grander and larger since it ceased trading. The old forge itself, where he ushered her, was now the room Jim devoted to village history but the fireplace still had the musty smell of smoke around it, and the heavy beams and brick walls still gave the impression that at any moment a few horses might amble in to be shod. On the bare red brick, old photographs were hung, and one wall was entirely covered with shelving, with neatly labelled box files.

  Georgia made a face. ‘Hardly brilliantly.’ She decided to tell Jim about her latest conflict. It was time she got to the bottom of this antagonism. ‘I don’t understand,’ she finished. ‘Why should this George White be so sensitive about the case?’

  ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ Jim looked surprised. ‘You were putting your head in the den and the lion bit it off. I’m amazed at Alice, I am. She was chancing it all right.’

  A terrible suspicion came to her. ‘He’s not an Elgin, is he?’

  ‘Head of the clan, m’dear. George Elgin White is Vi’s son and so Mary’s nephew, and Tom, the builder, is his brother. They’re leading the opposition to the Todds over this appeal business.’

  ‘But why should Ada Proctor affect that?’ She found it unbelievable.

  ‘Part of the feud.’

  ‘Then why,’ Georgia said, exasperated, ‘was Alice so keen to talk about it? And she was, you know.’

  ‘I do. She and I think the same – that this feud poisoned, and still is poisoning, Wickenham, and that there needs to be an end to it.’

  ‘Then why –’ it was time for plain speaking ‘– are you wary of me too?’

  He grinned unoffended. ‘Because an outsider’s not the one to do it.’

  ‘And do you still feel that?’

  He thought about this. ‘No. Now George has shot his mouth off, things have gone too far, and this appeal is going to bring the feud to a head anyway. Time for me to throw my weight in, I reckon.’

  He threw it. In a trice he was pulling down a bound ledger, from the top of a pile of similar volumes. ‘You can take a look at this, my love. It’s the surgery accounts from 1927 to 1930, all written up in Ada’s own hand, till she died, of course, and someone else took over.’

  Georgia pounced on it. She was no handwriting expert but at least the contents must tell her something about Ada. ‘How on earth did you get hold of this?’

  ‘Ah well, medical records are one thing, but these are the private surgery records, cost of medicines, visits, etc. My dad got it, and more like it, after the bomb hit the house. There was a lot of stuff salvaged and no one in the Proctor family left.’

  As she began to pore over the entries, Jim went on to explain: ‘Dr Proctor was a panel doctor, meaning he was registered with the local National Insurance Committee under the 1911 Act. Some of his patients still had to pay, but those in work paid their dues and got everything free if they were sick. A few years after they retired, the benefits ran out though, and just as folks were really needing free treatment it was taken away from them. Daft, but it was a step in the right direction at the time.’

  ‘“Mrs Hodges, 6d for ABC liniment, Mr Jacobs, nux vomica, Miss Gordon, sleeping draught,”’ she read. But it was the handwriting that most interested her. It was neat but large, bold in black ink, not quite
copperplate but a uniform style; this was the writing of a woman with a mind of her own.

  The next volume Jim brought to her, containing household accounts, was equally well kept, including wages to ‘Elsie’.

  ‘Was Elsie their maid?’ she asked.

  ‘She was. She stayed on with the next owner after the doctor died, and never married, from what I can see. She died along with the new owners when the flying bomb dropped.’

  Georgia spent several hours studying not only the ledgers and Jim’s postcards but a collection of photographs. They were mostly fuzzy snapshots, but they included several of Ada with her father. One or two of them Georgia remembered seeing in the newspapers of the time, but others were new. If you gaze at old photographs long enough, she thought, you can live in the world in which they were created. Ada’s photographs, as her handwriting, suggested a strong-willed lady, handsome rather than beautiful. That chin said it all. She looked tall, about Georgia’s own height, five foot seven, with darker hair than her own honey-brown (as Luke insisted on calling it). Hard though it was to make judgements on such flimsy evidence, especially when one could not help being influenced by the long straight loose clothes and the button shoes, Ada didn’t look to Georgia like a woman who would jeopardize her own and her father’s reputations by carrying on with a married man – or with her gardener. If one was a doctor’s daughter, known and respected with a position of one’s own to maintain, one guarded one’s reputation.

  Just as she reluctantly felt she should tear herself away to return to Haden Shaw, she noticed the boxes labelled ‘Oral History’. ‘What are they?’ she asked curiously. ‘Written memoirs?’

  ‘A few. Most are recordings.’

  By the look on his face, Georgia realized Jim had been teasing her all this time, holding back a possible treasure trove. ‘Recordings of people giving their impressions of life in their times?’ She tried to contain her excitement, but failed.

  ‘Not their times. Their past times. No one can describe their own today. What do you say about it? The refuse collectors call on Mondays? Yesterday is a different matter. Whether it’s the truth or not is another question.’