by Amy Myers
‘Do you have them here?’ Georgia feared she was going too far now, but Celia seemed to see nothing odd about the question.
‘They’d be in Terence’s flat.’
Memo, ask Mike about that. ‘Where was your father brought up in France?’ She tried to sound casual.
‘On a farm up near Lille somewhere. I’ve got the address somewhere. I think the family still own it, but he had nothing to do with them. I never went there. Of course things were difficult when I was small, because of the aftermath of the war and he’d had a row with his mother anyway. There was a lot of bitterness over the farm, he told me. His father walked out when he was six, that would have been in the 1920s sometime, and his mother carried on alone. During the war my dad came to fly over here with the Free French forces, and France was occupied of course. His brothers took over the farm and that was that. Froze him out, didn’t want him back after the war, so Dad said, so he had to start again. He never spoke to his family again.’
*
Peter was totally focused now on the skeleton. Any mention Georgia made of Ada was ignored. They had visited the mortuary to see the collection of bones, but had learnt nothing new, save that it brought a reality to what they were doing. The bag of artefacts found near the body had been more fruitful. Besides scraps of cloth, the old francs and something they had identified as a British threepenny piece, they had found the remains of an old watch, whose metal had survived the interment well, though its leather strap had long vanished. Peter was fairly certain it was a Bréguet, since he discovered the tiny blue-jewelled crown from the winder, which had become separated from the watch remains.
‘Well, well,’ Peter had said softly. ‘French, eh? Those coins were no coincidence then.’ After begging for permission from a doubtful DCI Lockhart, he had taken the watch to an expert in Canterbury for cleaning, ‘Just in case,’ Peter explained. ‘He might have had his initials on it.’
It cleared up one point: Denehole Man was probably no vagrant. Vagrants and casual hop-pickers couldn’t afford Bréguet watches, and the chances of one picking up such a treasure by chance or gift were slim.
‘We’re going to find the man’s name,’ Peter declared. ‘Blowed if I’ll let him be immortalized as Unknown Man. When he’s released by the coroner, he’ll be given a churchyard burial with headstone, complete with name, even if we have to pay for the whole bang-shoot.’
After Georgia’s visit to William and Celia Scraggs, Peter was even more convinced there was a case to answer for the skeleton being Guy Randolph. Part of Georgia still fought it, however, despite the fact that the lover returned from the war was an attractive idea, and Luke was all for it. A terrific story for the book, he pointed out on the telephone.
‘What story?’ she had countered. ‘He murdered his fiancée, then fell in a hole. Answers are needed, Luke.’
‘I’ll help you look for them in France,’ he told her placidly. ‘I’m sure you’ve already made plans to go there. I need a break.’
‘The Elgins are not going to follow me to France.’ She was half pleased, half irritated that Luke was determined to be present, but the pleasure won.
‘I’ll bring my trusty sword in case. Only it won’t be between us in bed. Okay?’
Chapter Nine
Luke had his own ways of doing things, and this was one of which Georgia approved: taking the Eurostar to Lille rather than driving. The short journey to northern France by rail made the switch in countries pass imperceptibly, and – for her – removed the need for the conscious effort of driving on to French soil from the shuttle or ferry. In the ten years since Rick’s disappearance she had only visited France once, and then it had been to Paris. Not the vast expanses of flat fields of the north, the mountains and valleys of the Midi, the scorched hills and plains of the far south, or the Celtic mysteries of Brittany, where he had vanished. The countryside held question marks, whereas a city offered a cocoon to those safe within its walls. Georgia had never visited her mother in the Dordogne, and nor had her mother – with rare tact – ever suggested it. They met in London or Kent instead. Georgia often marvelled that Elena was able to close her mind so completely to Rick’s loss, but then that was Elena. If it was too much to cope with, she turned her back and walked away. Or at least, Georgia conceded, appeared to do so.
Georgia had (feebly she admitted) protested to Luke about the expense of train travel compared with driving one of their own cars, but Luke had merely retorted, ‘This may be work for you, but it’s my holiday.’
She had taken to Lille immediately. She had passed through it years ago when she was a student, and had had no desire to linger in its grey industrial gloom. Now it seemed a different city: on the one hand, geared for tourism; on the other, sporting a life of its own, from its bustling brasseries to the winding cobbled streets of the old quarter, and from magnificent museums and parks to the bedlam of the flea markets. For all its flaunted Euro-culture it remained, thank heavens, stubbornly French.
‘What precisely are you hoping to discover at this farm?’ Luke asked her at breakfast in their small, comfortable hotel. Dinner last night had been too precious a time to discuss work. They had laughed, they had drunk, they had eaten well, strolled back to the hotel and made love.
‘After all,’ he continued, ‘Terence Scraggs’s parents didn’t seem to know much about the Randolphs, although it was her father who came visiting Wickenham in the war. What worries me is that you seem to be dodging between Randolphs and Proctors. I thought the book was to be centred on the Proctor case, yet apart from the fact that Ada was once engaged to a Randolph there’s no evidence that the two are connected.’
‘Not yet,’ she remarked. ‘This coffee is exceptionally good, isn’t it?’
‘If that’s to put me in my place as a mere publisher, tough.’ He reached across to seize another croissant. ‘You and Peter work in your own way and you usually produce results, but every so often we poor publishers have to be reassured that we’re still on the same tramline so far as our precious books are concerned.’
‘A week or two ago I’d have been right with you,’ she assured him. ‘I thought Peter had a bee in his bonnet about Guy Randolph.’
‘Carried away with the old Victorian melodrama scenario?’
‘Yes. Now I’m not so sure and, since there are no leads to follow up on the Proctor side, I might as well look into the Randolph theory, if only to dismiss it. And after all it was Wickenham we were interested in at the beginning of this case; I plumped for Ada, Peter for Denehole Man as the chief line to follow.’
‘You said you’d got an address for some chum of Ada’s, though the jury was out as to whether it was the husband or the wife.’
‘The Sadlers. I’ve written to them. No reply.’
‘Ring them.’
‘Unfair. They might at this very moment be crawling around their attic turning out old boxes of correspondence and photographs that will give us the vital clue to what happened to Ada. Meanwhile, on to the Randolphs. At least now we know about that watch, we have a somewhat more credible thesis to work on that Denehole Man came from France.’
The watch: Peter had been over the moon when he got the report that it was indeed a Bréguet, and in good condition considering its incarceration. It was still sealed, which meant that, once cleaned, the hands were visible. It had stopped at six thirty.
‘Which,’ Georgia had immediately pointed out to Peter, ‘tells us nothing at all.’
The watch could have gone on merrily ticking away until the mechanism ran down, irrespective of when it landed in the denehole. She suspected her father had been hoping that like the clock in the old song, it had ‘stopped short, never to go again, when the old man died’. Evidence was seldom as positive as that. All the watch told them was that its owner had liked quality possessions (who doesn’t, given the choice?), that he could afford to buy such a watch and that, coupled with the French coins, which might or might not have belonged to the same person, he probably
came from France.
‘Let me get this straight, though,’ Luke persisted, ‘all we really know about Guy Randolph is that he went missing, believed killed, in the war, and nothing has been heard of him since.’
‘Peter’s heard from his niece,’ Georgia offered defensively.
Luke heaved a sigh. ‘These Randolphs could well be complete red herrings unless you change the approach of the book.’
‘They could,’ she agreed, ‘but since this is a holiday for you, you don’t have to worry about that.’
‘Authors are supposed to keep quiet and not answer back.’
‘Even when they’re sleeping with the producer?’
Luke reached for her hand. ‘Tonight, Josephine. Right now, there’s work to do.’
The worst part of any city was finding one’s way out in a car, particularly a hired car, and Lille was no exception. By the time Luke had been honked at several times in traditional French style, Georgia was beginning to wish she had forced herself to go one stage further in her resolution to face France again, and stayed in the countryside, rather than a city. But then she wouldn’t have had that night-time walk round floodlit Lille or the meal at Brasserie André. Next time, perhaps – if there was one. Luke was no poodle, and wouldn’t wait for ever, and whereas she would travel the rest of the world quite happily on her own, France was another matter.
Once out of Lille and on to the Dunkirk road, she relaxed. The farm, she calculated, was about twenty miles away, and when they turned south at Armentières on to a minor road they found themselves in a familiar northern landscape of flat fields, with the occasional village or farm tucked away, often approached only by single-track lanes. A village meant a few houses, the church, the estaminet. Georgia realized she was slipping into First World War terminology, but it was difficult not to do so here, especially since it would be Remembrance Sunday shortly. The land around them had all been fought over at some time during the two wars, especially in the first, and the surrounding towns, St-Omer, Béthune, Armentières and Hazebrouck had been transport, rest or training areas. Lille itself had been in German hands not only in the second war, in common with the rest of France, but for most of the first war too; areas such as this so close to the front line even during the long stalemate periods had been under constant bombardment.
Only twenty miles or so across the Franco-Belgian border lay Ypres, an epicentre of bitter fighting for four years with its salient bulging into the front line, which led from Switzerland to the North Sea. Ypres itself never fell but the men defending it did, in their hundreds of thousands, and their remains were still being dug up. One of those missing was Guy Randolph, and it was a valid thesis at least that he was not an unidentifiable or unfound corpse, but that the Randolphs of Berthès Farm, where they were heading, were descended from Guy. Randolph was a reasonably common name, but the coincidence was a strong one.
If Guy had been made a POW, news would have got back to Britain. He could have left the battlefield in a fit of genuine amnesia or shell-shock, as it was termed then. Many men did genuinely lose all memory of who they were in these circumstances and would wander off, finding work where they could, especially on farms. The other alternative was that he was a conscious deserter, and in 1917 deserters were shot. That would be reason enough for a man who could not take any more of the horrors of trench life to hide away until after the war. Even afterwards they would face trial, so was it all beginning to add up?
Berthès Farm was near Estville, a tiny village on the River Lys. The farmhouse was a neat twentieth-century bungalow and neither it nor the farm itself hinted of the terrible past history of the area. The house looked well maintained, and the farm prosperous. The farmer’s wife, Jeanne Randolph, had been highly suspicious when Georgia spoke to her on the telephone, and it was only after Georgia explained about Denehole Man that she grudgingly agreed to seeing them. She was still grudging when she opened the door. She was a small tidy woman with dark hair and beady eyes, perhaps in her late forties, and there was nothing of the friendliness of the Lillois to be seen here.
‘But then there wouldn’t be,’ Luke pointed out cynically when Georgia mentioned this later. She knew he was right. This was a different culture to that of Lille itself. Out here there was no need to be friendly with anyone if one did not wish to be. The Randolphs would run their lives on the price paid for their produce and the subsidy they would receive for producing it.
The outside of the house might have been standard twentieth-century, but the interior did not match it. Any antique dealers would give their eye teeth for a look at this, Georgia thought. There was a magnificent eighteenth-century long-case moon clock in the living room, ancient rustic table, chairs and settle, a glorious array of old china on the dresser, and a hearth of old Flemish tiles. To crown this, in a typically French gesture, three flying china ducks and a pink fluffy teddy bear gazed down at them from walls and settle respectively. The bear looked much friendlier than Madame.
Madame Randolph wasted no time over the courtesies, but immediately summoned her husband, who lumbered in from the rear of the house. Roland Randolph was a huge man in height and girth though not so formidable as Madame. ‘Ah. Les Anglais,’ he roared. ‘Une petite absinthe, peut-être?’
This was declined, if regretfully by Luke, but a small apéritif of some home-made wine or liqueur made its appearance nevertheless, and a plate of Madame’s biscuits joined it.
A certain amount of ceremony followed, while Georgia explained with Luke’s help (his French was better than hers) why they were here. This was none too easy, since she wasn’t sure whether to centre the reason on the murder of Terence Scraggs or Denehole Man.
Madame watched eagle-eyed, obviously still suspicious that they might run off with the spoons, but Roland concentrated on what Georgia was telling them.
‘You are the police?’ Madame enquired, after Georgia elected to begin with the Scraggs connection.
‘No, madame. We’re investigating privately.’
‘Ah, from the newspapers.’
‘No, madame. I am a publisher,’ Luke weighed in. He could be impressive when he chose, and this was one such occasion, as he spoke offhandedly of the reputable books he published.
‘And you write a book of this murder?’
‘No. The book’s about a murder in the past,’ Georgia took up the story, ‘but the one of Terence Scraggs, which took place only two, three weeks ago, does have a connection with you. I met his parents, and his mother’s father was born on this farm. His name was Randolph.’
‘Ah!’ Roland cried. ‘Mon oncle. François.’
‘I gathered there had been a disagreement, and he left the farm after the war.’
This caused an excited spate of rapid French between Monsieur and Madame, followed by a wry: ‘Disagreement, yes. My father Bernard and his brother Joseph worked on this farm throughout the second war. François then came home, and say as eldest brother he want all of it. He does not want to help us, he want to rule us. My father and uncle say no, and my mother agree with them.’
This was a different version from the Scraggs’s story, and this François bore little relation to the gallant airman of Alice White’s dreams. Georgia listened intently.
‘He think that because he fly with the Royal Air Force he do more for France than we do here,’ Roland continued. ‘My father tell him he, François, is the deserter. The true fight was here, with the Germans who occupied our country and took all our family had.’
‘Was it just the two brothers on the farm? What about your grandfather?’ Georgia held her breath. Roland must be in his late forties, and his father must therefore be over seventy. François, Bernard and Joseph could have been Denehole Man’s sons.
‘Grandfather? He was not here. It was my grandmother ran the farm in the war. My uncles were young men, and she feared they would be taken by the Germans to work for them as slave labour, but she managed to get help to stop that. So they stayed here. She was truly formidab
le, my grandmother.’
‘And her husband died when? He was the first Randolph in the family?’
‘Oui, but the farm was hers, left her by her father. My grandfather helped her run it, but then he left.’
‘Was his name Guy?’
‘I am sorry?’
Luke intervened, pronouncing it in the French way, and light dawned.
‘Yes, that is so,’ Roland agreed.
Another rung on the ladder climbed. A cautious hope sprang up that she was getting somewhere at last. ‘When did he leave here?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Was it to go to England?’
Luke shot a look that read ‘leading question’.
‘That I do not know. My father died last year, but my uncle still lives. He likes to keep to his room, he is old, you understand, but perhaps he will talk to you.’
‘Pah!’ snorted Madame, which made her views on her uncle-in-law quite clear. ‘I will call him. That one, if there is something in it for him, he will run here fast.’ She could be heard screaming upstairs and shortly she returned in triumph. ‘See, he comes.’
When Uncle Joseph appeared, wearing the blue blouson and trousers of the French worker, he looked far from decrepit, though he must be over eighty, Georgia thought. His eyes were sharp though. He talked rapidly with Roland in French for a while until Georgia decided to intervene. She began carefully in French. ‘I am interested in the bones of a dead man found in Kent. It is possible they are your father’s.’
‘Angleterre?’ Joseph looked interested and took a healthy (or unhealthy) swig of absinthe, contemplated his glass, then banged it down on the table. A decision had obviously been arrived at.
Luke translated the stream of patois that followed as best he could. ‘I think he’s saying that he was a child when his father left home, only about five. And a good thing that he left, because he was a lazy layabout. They were better off without him.’