by Amy Myers
Georgia could not be sure which company Guy Randolph had been in, but it seemed likely that it was in one of the two that had been all but wiped out. They had been on their own, men disappeared for ever in the mud, and with so few landmarks left on land that had been bitterly fought over for three years, the survivors must have been disorientated. Guy Randolph probably didn’t even know which direction he was walking in. From the map he might have been walking north-west to Polygon Wood or north to Polderhoek Château, or west to Glencorse Wood, but how could he have known? And how could she know whether at first he intended to be a deserter or whether he thought he was rejoining his regiment?
It was a chilling story no matter whether Guy was villain or hero. It was only a few months since men had been shot for desertion at Ypres. The news might not have been officially released then, but rumours spread and the purpose of the executions had been to deter others. But desertion could mean merely disorientation, followed by succumbing to temptation, overwhelmed with fatigue, fear and horror. On the other hand there would always be those who might consciously take the chance to escape and sweet-talk themselves into a new life.
So where did that leave them? Georgia returned home, feeling that one more piece had been fitted into their puzzle, but not one that helped Davy Todd. She had established where Guy had been and that the story he told the Berthès family was therefore probably true, especially as his identity number checked with the one Mike had given them. Nevertheless, this background was only an interesting sideline to Ada’s story, unless they opted for the theory of Guy the unproven killer, and this brought Georgia back to what had happened to him. There would be no one alive now to bring forth evidence on whether he had murdered her, and then taken a train towards Chatham and Dover; no one to tell them they had picked up a hitchhiker that night, or had given casual labour to anyone. Moreover that watch and coin still tantalized. Christmas was only eight days away now, and Georgia had to force herself to concentrate at least a small part of her mind on the remaining essential preparations. At least, she consoled herself, they were an achievable goal.
‘How long do we give it before we decide to write the story as we see it?’ Peter asked her next morning, taking the practical approach for once. One glance was enough to tell her that after she had reported her discoveries last night, he had spent the evening with World War I books and maps, poring over pictures of Gheluvelt and the route Guy might have taken – they were still lying around. It was obvious he was still trying to salvage a tenable Guy Randolph theory. So was she, come to that.
‘We have to check first if Luke reckons the book is still worth it, Peter. He might think a half-baked solution isn’t good enough. Our story’s all ends and no neat bows, which doesn’t make for satisfactory reading. I know there are always question marks in our books, but here there are more questions than hard facts, which is getting distinctly dodgy.’
‘It’s also true to life.’
‘Luke won’t see it that way.’
‘I suppose I agree.’ Peter cast a glance at the file copies of their earlier books. ‘Did we feel this way about any of our other cases?’
‘I suppose we might have done.’ One tended to forget too easily and the torments of research became lost in memory after publication. ‘Remember how we couldn’t tie up the blood groups in the Cornish case?’
‘I do.’
‘We could begin a new case,’ Georgia said hopefully. ‘Then perhaps inspiration will come out of the blue on this one.’
Peter cast her a scathing glance. ‘Nothing comes by inspiration, only by hard work and a bit of luck.’
‘Then we’ll have to hope luck strolls along.’
‘We had our dose – or so we thought – in Rose Sadler’s granddaughter.’
‘There could be some more.’
‘Let’s give it till the New Year. Then reconsider.’
‘Agreed.’ Nothing would happen, but it would be a relief to postpone the decision. Relief didn’t last long, however, as the phone rang, and Peter picked up the receiver.
‘What’s new, Mike?’
Apparently quite a bit from Peter’s attentive silence. He even gave Georgia a thumbs up.
At last he put the phone down. ‘The good news is that the village is wholeheartedly co-operating in volunteering DNA samples.’
‘And the bad?’ Georgia asked resignedly.
‘No matches so far with the famous alien hair DNA, including from those known to be anywhere near him, to the Bloomfields, Todds and Elgins.’
‘Aaaaarrgh!’
‘Very expressive. They’re not finished yet, of course. Far from it.’
‘But suppose Scraggs’s killer was an outsider.’
‘On the reasonable assumption any outsiders would be professional protestors they’re checking against the National DNA Database for a matching profile.’
‘That could button it up,’ Georgia said hopefully.
‘With our luck I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘I presume Darenth Area told Mike the bad news about the skeleton.’
‘Yes. He was not amused, but fortunately it appears that Lockhart at least is not so deterred as we feared. To him, Scraggs was a Randolph, and therefore probably had some mission in the village which wasn’t fighting protests or painting pretty pictures. The skeleton was only one angle.’
‘I’ll give Mike a ring and tell him that the disk checked out with the PRO records.’
‘And then what, Georgia?’
‘I’ll cook some mince pies.’
‘Your mother was good at them.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ A silence, then she added, desperate to break it, ‘I don’t suppose she gets much chance to do it in France. They think our mincemeat and heavy puddings are a big joke.’
Peter laughed to her relief. ‘They’re welcome to confit of duck and foie gras. I’d rather have turkey and Christmas pud, wouldn’t you?’
‘Much,’ Georgia agreed fervently. She caught his eye, and looked away. Times past were past. She couldn’t bring Elena back – Peter wouldn’t want her – but the hurt could never quite be put to rest. ‘Plus a good bottle of Kentish white?’
‘Burgundy,’ roared Peter. ‘English wine is a contradiction in terms.’
‘Nonsense, you fuddy duddy. Get up to date. Try some.’
‘Never.’
‘Stick in a mud. Afraid to, eh?’ Back on safe ground. Home and dry – for the moment. ‘To answer your question properly,’ she continued, ‘my next job is to reread all about Ada Proctor in the local papers. I might have missed something.’
‘That would be unlike you.’
‘Thanks for the compliment, but I might overlooked the importance of something. I read them at the beginning of this quest, and one doesn’t know the ins and outs at that stage.’
She almost begrudged the time at the reference library on the Friday, when she re-read the Ada Proctor trial case reports; they added little more to those of The Times. The death, the arrest of Davy Todd the following day, his appearance in court, his committal and the trial. Nothing new struck her. This was before the days of interviews with family members and witnesses. The most she could find to justify her visit was a short statement by Alfred Todd, Oliver’s grandfather, that Davy had been innocent and that he would prove it, but she could find nothing more. The Times at least was indexed. Here one had to read every single issue. She studied the obituary of Ada’s father again, then on impulse the obituary of the old Squire in 1929. Gerald Bloomfield had died in July that year. At the funeral mourners included, of course, Matthew and Isabel, and a couple from the US, presumably sister Anne and spouse. The service was taken by the Reverend Percy Standing. Poor chap. He only had fourteen years to go himself. On yet another impulse she decided to search through for his obituary. Not easy, for it took nearly an hour, but at last she found it.
The Reverend Percy had died suddenly on 18 November 1943 of gastroenteritis, aged sixty-nine. So that was how the rumours
of poisoning must have begun. The She-Wolf surely couldn’t have fancied him too much, even if he was described as ‘much-loved vicar of Wickenham’. Moreover his widow and children were at the funeral, and the She-Wolf would have been in mourning for her own husband, who had also died in 1943. A busy year in Wickenham, Georgia thought. New Squire, new vicar, and the year François turned up. She turned back to check the funeral of poor old Matthew, the hen-pecked husband, and found he had died of heart failure in July. She didn’t know what time of year François had come, but it was odds-on the vicar was still alive then, so wouldn’t he have gone to call on him for information about the Randolph family if he got no joy at the Manor? Perhaps he did, but he obviously didn’t get any or Jean would surely have known about the existence of the French family. For some reason, François seemed to have had made no more investigations however. If Guy didn’t die here what happened to him? Jean’s practical question still taunted her.
*
‘Peter, what are you doing?’ On her return Georgia found him at his computer, eating a late lunch with one hand and manoeuvring the mouse with the other.
‘Going through our notes. We must have missed something.’
‘Perhaps we have, but this is not the time. Bad for digestion.’
‘So’s this spaghetti. Guy Randolph has to be involved,’ he continued without pause.
‘Why?’ She might as well give in and get it over quickly. If they didn’t get rid of the Randolph story, perhaps they’d never see Ada Proctor clearly.
‘He strangled her, and disappeared to start a new life just as he did at Gheluvelt.’
‘Here we go again. Too many holes in the story.’
‘Such as?’
‘Holes such as if he strangled her on the spur of the moment, he forfeited his chance to make money out of his family – his main reason for coming.’
‘Spur of the moment reaction to Ada’s threats. What else?’
‘Why didn’t François Randolph go to the vicar, and if he did, why bother to go to see the maid?’
‘Perhaps the vicar was out.’
‘True. But why didn’t François make another visit? The vicar could surely have put him in touch with the Randolphs.’
‘Perhaps he did, but there was a war on, and François was on active service. Perhaps François decided to follow it up after the war.’
‘But he didn’t,’ she almost shouted in frustration.
‘We don’t know that. Major and Mrs Randolph would probably be dead by then, and perhaps he couldn’t trace the daughter.’
They were getting nowhere. Round and round the Randolph maypole, with no conclusion ever reached. Georgia knew her father was feeling as desperate as she was, especially when he grasped at a straw. ‘At least we still agree Guy Randolph was at the Manor that evening.’ Peter glared as Margaret came in, took one look at his half-empty plate on the corner of the desk, and bristled with disapproval.
‘Leaving good food,’ she muttered.
‘I’m not leaving it. I’m relishing every mouthful, damn you,’ Peter informed her. ‘I’m just busy.’
‘So,’ declared Margaret, ‘am I. I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. I am washing up now. All right by you?’
‘Understood.’ Peter shoved another mouthful in. ‘I still say Randolph is the key.’ He waved his fork at Georgia. ‘He turns up at the Manor and, hey presto, a few hours later his ex-fiancée is strangled. These are incontrovertible facts.’
‘So’s your spaghetti,’ Margaret warned him.
‘Just a minute. This is important, Georgia. They are facts, aren’t they?’
Before she could answer, Margaret intervened. ‘No, Peter, they are not.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ Margaret snorted. ‘I could go up to the Manor myself and say I was Guy Randolph. Doesn’t mean to say I am.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Margaret’s right, you know.’
‘Why?’ Georgia couldn’t see the wood from the trees any longer, particularly where Wickenham Manor was concerned. They’d been thrashing it out over the weekend, but getting nowhere. ‘Why,’ she tried again, ‘should he not be Guy Randolph? Did Rose Sadler get it wrong?’
‘Possible. Unlikely though. They didn’t know Guy, and I doubt if you mentioned Randolph in your initial letter to the Sadler family.’
‘No. So –’ Georgia battled with yet more theories – ‘the visitor lied about his name or the Bloomfields lied, or some other mistake was made. An older Randolph perhaps. His father – that would explain quite simply how they stayed in for the evening.’ At the moment this explanation appeared like heaven, to be grasped and cherished.
‘And when Ada rang up, eager for a lover’s tryst, this simple fact wasn’t given to her, and the elderly Major Randolph then strangled her. You’re not following through, Georgia.’
She had the grace to laugh. ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘Getting lost in the wood though. If the old major landed up in the denehole, firstly, he’d be missed, and secondly, we’re back with the DNA problem again. He’d be even closer to Jean than Guy.’
‘No. They only checked the maternal line.’
‘Care to suggest to Darenth they do more tests?’
‘No thanks, the idea’s stupid. Anyway, it’s like that old round you use to sing to me,’ Georgia said viciously. ‘There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Charlie, dear Charlie . . . Round and round, and back we come to where we began. But there’s a hole in my bucket.’ She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Ada would have realized as soon as she saw him, if Margaret’s thesis, unlike Charlie’s bucket, holds water, that this wasn’t her beloved Guy. Shock, horror, devastating disappointment.’
‘Reason for murder?’
‘Could be. Neither the maid nor the Sadlers would know this wasn’t Guy Randolph, since they came to the village after the end of the war. But Matthew Bloomfield would, even if the She-Wolf didn’t, and so would Ada.’
‘But the coins, and the watch,’ wailed Peter. ‘And Guy Randolph of the farm was the real Guy Randolph. No doubt about that now. So the Scraggs connection tied in.’
‘And yet Terence Scraggs died, perhaps coming to investigate it. It’s interesting, you must admit. This chap comes in 1929 and says he’s Guy Randolph, he disappears, probably murdered. Ada comes to see Guy Randolph, probably murdered for her pains. François comes to find out about Randolph – not murdered, but inquiries seem to end there, and Terence Scraggs comes to ask about the Randolphs and, blow me, he dies too.’ A pause. ‘Not to mention the vicar!’ An idea began to form in her mind.
A howl from Peter. ‘What about the vicar?’
‘Died of gastroenteritis not long after François’s visit, and, if rumour is correct, a close association with the She-Wolf Bloomfield.’
‘What possible connection . . .?’ Peter stopped.
‘What do vicars do?’ Georgia promoted him encouragingly.
‘They marry, baptize, bury. People confide in them or they might listen to confessions.’
‘Like that of the old Squire Gerald, who died in July 1943.’ She produced her plum from the pie.
Peter was cautious. ‘Another leap in the dark.’
‘Maybe I landed safely on the other side this time.’
‘Maybe you fell in a denehole.’
‘It’s a thesis,’ she said defensively.
‘Go away, Georgia, and come back to me when you have supporting evidence.’ And as she went out of the door he hurled after her, ‘And remember the Bloomfields are clear so far as Terence Scraggs is concerned.’
*
There was only one place she could go, and that was Wickenham. She had no plan, nothing but a vague hope that something might emerge – either in fact or in her mind. She was sorely tempted to ask Luke if he were free to come with her, but decided against. Her antennae needed all her concentration, and never were they more necessary than now. She salved her conscience
for coming to Wickenham without specific purpose, by persuading herself she could throw herself into a supermarket for the final round of the hell of Christmas shopping. On Christmas Eve this was not to be welcomed, and she blessed on-line shopping and the obliging village stores, which between them had already taken care of most of the chores. Christmas cards had gone and presents had been bought, only awaiting wrapping. Somehow she’d managed it, by letting Wickenham lie in the back of her mind.
Now she was here again, and decided to let her instinct guide her as to where to go. It was a grey day and she parked the car and wandered round the Green. Everyone seemed so intent on their own business, she wasn’t, to her relief, greeted with any hostility. She pondered between the Green Man and the Forge, and decided on the latter.
Jim Hardbent was in, fortunately, and seemed reasonably pleased to see her though it could hardly have been welcome so close to Christmas. ‘Thought you’d deserted us,’ he said, leading the way to his beloved workroom.
‘You and Wickenham are always in my mind,’ Georgia said truthfully.
‘Anyone throw rotten tomatoes at you?’
‘No. What’s the general feeling now?’
‘It’s moved on, I reckon.’
Janet produced coffee and they chatted for a while.
‘Funny how things work out,’ Jim observed. ‘Having been at each other’s throats, the village is getting together now because they’re volunteering for DNA profiling.’
‘That doesn’t mean they’ll welcome me again.’
‘You’re safe enough, to my way of thinking. No one now is connecting Ada Proctor to poor old Terence Scraggs. Except us, of course.’
‘You do?’ Georgia was surprised. She didn’t think Jim knew about the Randolph link. She should have known better. Jim liked keeping a few surprises up his sleeve.