Winter of Discontent (21 page)
I prepared an absentminded lunch for Alan and me and sat down, notebook in hand, to meddle some more.
THE FIRST THING I DID WAS LOOK OVER MY EARLIER NOTES. ALAS, they hadn’t acquired any brilliant flashes of insight since I had written them.
If there was a likely suspect for the murder of John Merrifield lurking in all that verbiage, I couldn’t find him—or her. Stanley Rutherford, under the thumb of his granddaughter? Barbara Price, fussy old maid? They’d both hated Merrifield, but very few murders are committed only out of hatred. Anyway, if they’d hated him for years, decades, it wasn’t likely that something had suddenly moved them to action.
Poor old Mr. Tredgold? Impossible. He had neither the strength nor the mobility, nor, I was convinced, the moral blindness to commit murder.
And Mrs. Burton? I paused the longest over her name. She seemed a ruthless woman, and she, too, had hated Merrifield. Too fastidious, probably, to kill with her own hands. But she had the money to hire it done. Even in this peaceful English backwater it would, I supposed, be possible to hire a killer. And Leigh Burton was just the sort to eliminate someone without a second thought if it were to her benefit.
But that was the problem. How could Merrifield’s death possibly benefit the wealthy Mrs. Burton?
If he knew something to her discredit … but what? She might have clawed her way out of poverty and a despised class, but there was nothing illegal about that. It was, in fact, rather admirable in a way, as long as she’d done nothing criminal along the way. Alan didn’t think she had, and Alan was seldom wrong about things like that. He had, after all, over forty years of experience with crime.
And then there was the fact that it was Leigh Burton who’d thought there was something funny going on at Luftwich, that their planes weren’t succeeding in as many missions as they ought to.
Could that have been an elaborate double bluff? Don’t tell the nosy American woman anything helpful, but hint at part of the truth, so if she finds out the rest she’ll think I must be blameless?
I didn’t think so. Mrs. Burton struck me as the kind of shrewd, grasping woman who was more direct in her methods. Somehow I couldn’t see her thinking in such a convoluted way. She could, I supposed, have learned the ploy from detective novels, as I had, but I couldn’t remember seeing books of any kind among the valuable ornaments in her expensive house.
Of course Stanley, come to think of it, had hinted about funny business, too. And I suddenly remembered that he had acted frightened when he heard his granddaughter come in. I’d thought at the time that he was afraid of her, domineering woman that she was, but perhaps …
I sat and thought for a long time, my notebook abandoned in my lap. Emmy and Sam jumped up on the couch and settled down to purr, one on each side of me, delighted to find me sitting still for a change. Settled comfortably into feline middle age, they were apt these days to prefer a nap to a game, and a nap with their preferred human was pure bliss.
Finally I picked up my notebook again and began slowly, hesitantly, to write a few words:
Medals“Deceit and treachery”Bats, or?OpsTea tray
Alan came in just as I made the last entry and looked over my shoulder. “Christmas list, darling? It’s hops, not ops. And surely not bats?”
“I—oh, yes. Um—for little Nigel Peter. A crib toy, one of those musical mobiles, you know?”
Alan looked at me thoughtfully. “And I suppose
Deceit and Treachery
is a newly discovered work by Jane Austen?”
Deceit and Treachery
is a newly discovered work by Jane Austen?”
“Certainly not. It’s the latest mystery by Barbara D’Amato. About Chicago politics.”
“Uh-huh.”
Of course he didn’t believe a word of it, but still less would he have believed the real meaning of my list. I didn’t believe it myself. “It’s Christmastime, my love. Stop peeking and asking awkward questions.”
I wasn’t going to confide my ideas to my loving husband until I was a lot surer they weren’t so much hogwash. And I was certainly glad I hadn’t yet written down “blackmail.”
“By the way,” I said, happily changing the subject, “you’ll be delighted to know that Walter Tubbs has been released from the hospital. Jane, bless her heart, has taken him in.” I stood up, to the dismay of both cats (Samantha’s expressed by loud Siamese swearing). “I think I’ll take them some mince pies. Boys that age are always hungry. I expect I’ll be back for tea, but Jane might be boiling up just about now, so if you get hungry ..”
“I’ll look after myself. Don’t fuss. And watch your footing. I don’t imagine you’ve noticed, but it’s been sleeting for the last hour. And I suppose I shouldn’t waste my breath saying it, but you will be careful, won’t you?”
We both knew he wasn’t referring to slippery sidewalks. I groaned, gave him a peck on the cheek, and went to find a jacket and my warmest hat.
The back door was locked, but Jane was home, of course. She would stay home, or take Walter with her when she left, for the foreseeable future. I didn’t know how she was going to keep him tied to her apron strings, unless she told him the truth, but I had great faith in Jane. Shed manage somehow
She shushed the dogs before she answered the door. “Asleep,” she said in answer to my raised eyebrows. “I told him. Knocked him for six. Put him to bed to sleep it off.”
I put my bag of mince pies on the table. “Told him about Bill? Or about Merrifield, too?”
“Bill. Enough for now.”
I nodded. “Actually I’m just as glad he’s not downstairs. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Idea?”
“Well, I do have an idea, but it’s so fantastic I don’t …”
“Tea or coffee?”
Caffeine puts everything, even fantastic ideas, into perspective. Jane does have an instinct for the practical.
“Tea, I think, but something bracing. Not a delicate tea.”
She nodded and got out the tin of Prince of Wales. I organized my thoughts while she made some cinnamon toast and we waited for the tea to brew. When it was ready and we sat down I had decided on my first question.
“Jane, when we went to see Stanley Rutherford, he wanted to show us his medals, but you said you’d seen them. Have you, actually, or were you just trying to get me out of having to admire them?”
“Seen them,” she said, pouring out.
“Were there any special ones, or just the sort they give out to everyone in service?”
“Don’t remember. Some for gallantry, I think. Toast?”
“Thanks. Mmm, good. Would you know the difference, just by looking at the medals?”
“No.”
“Neither would I, even with American ones, let alone British. But, Jane, what I’m getting at is this: You remember I told you that when I talked to Leigh Burton, she thought it was odd that air crews from Luftwich didn’t ever seem to reach their targets or do much to hamper the enemy. Now I can’t quite square that idea with Stanley’s bragging about his medals and how many German planes he shot down and all that. You see the problem. Who’s got the story straight, Leigh or Stanley?”
Jane sipped her tea with deliberation before she answered. “Don’t know. Could find out, about the medals, anyway. Easy research.”
“I suppose there are records of that kind of thing, who got what.”
Jane snorted. “Miles of them. I meant, research what the medals look like and then go see Stanley again.”
“Oh, of course. And I imagine our library would have books about British military decorations. Though”—I glanced at my watch—“it’s probably closed by now.”
Jane shook her head pityingly. “Twenty-first century, Dorothy. Find it on the Web.”
It’s downright embarrassing to be made to feel an old fogy by someone who’s more than ten years older than I. I slapped my forehead. “You’re right, of course. There’ll be nice big pictures and descriptions, I’m sure. Why don’t you come over after supper and we’ll look at them together? You might recognize some of Stanley’s.”
But Jane shook her head. “Better stay here.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I forgot for a minute. How is he, really? You said he was upset about Bill, but is that all?”
“Didn’t tell him much,” said Jane obliquely. “Just that Bill had a stroke, died in the tunnel. Didn’t want to worry him just now. Enough time for that later. Meanwhile, he’s safe here with me.”
I wondered about that. Jane was sturdy and active, but she was at least eighty. How much protection could she provide against a determined murderer?
Then one of the bulldogs nuzzled my hand and whined for some cinnamon toast and I had my answer. Anyone who went for Jane or for someone under her roof would be set upon by a pack of furious dogs. Yes, Walter was safe enough as long as he stayed here.
“You do the searching,” Jane went on. “Ring up Stanley tomorrow and say you want to see his medals.”
“Oh—well—yes, I could do that. I will do that, if you’ll give me his phone number and remind me how to get there.”
I could have sworn my tone of voice hadn’t changed, but Jane knows me very well.
“Wouldn’t ask if it weren’t for the boy,” she said. Her embarrassment lowered her deep voice so far as to be almost inaudible.
“I know. It’s all right. I don’t really think Stanley has murdered anybody. His granddaughter wouldn’t let him.”
“Hmph,” was Jane’s only answer to that. And indeed, what answer was there?
There was a performance of
The Nutcracker
on television that night, and Alan wanted to watch. Well, I wouldn’t have minded seeing the Royal Ballet myself, but I had work to do. As soon as Alan was settled and engrossed, I excused myself, went to his study, and turned on the computer.
The Nutcracker
on television that night, and Alan wanted to watch. Well, I wouldn’t have minded seeing the Royal Ballet myself, but I had work to do. As soon as Alan was settled and engrossed, I excused myself, went to his study, and turned on the computer.
It didn’t take long. There were a good many Web sites devoted to British military medals, and I soon figured out most of the important ones for World War II. There were, of course, all the routine ones handed out broadcast to all who served, but I found a couple of special ones, too, the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal for fliers, and the Distinguished Flying Cross for officers. I wondered if that distinction, officers versus enlisted men, was made with American medals. I rather thought not, but what did I know? I’d never had much to do with military personnel in America.
At any rate, armed with information, and taking my courage in both hands, I called Stanley the next morning and expressed an ardent desire to see his medals. He was thrilled, as I’d expected. I only hoped it wasn’t the thrill of a spider sensing vibrations along its net.
As I finished clearing away the breakfast dishes, I glanced at the calendar next to the back door. Good grief, December 19! Less than a week till Christmas, and I had yet to make that trip to London. The shelves would be half empty by now; some of the stores would be starting their after-Christmas sales. America may begin its Christmas celebrations before Halloween, but England truncates the season at the other end, as if the sole purpose of the holiday were commerce. As, perhaps, for most people nowadays it is.
Well, the day would come and we would celebrate, and somehow I felt I could celebrate more devoutly if I had helped to catch a murderer. Presents could be bought later.
ALAN, A LARGE MAN WHO EXCELS AT BEAR HUGS, GAVE ME A PARTICULARLY lingering one as I was ready to leave the house. I had told him where I was going, of course, and he didn’t care for it much, but he has long since stopped trying to protect me from my whims. He knows I hate to be cosseted. But he can’t help his instincts, any more than I can help mine. I was grateful for his concern, and grateful, also, that he chose to express it silently. I was actually a little scared and didn’t care to be reminded that I might be doing something dangerous.
I had thought briefly about taking some sort of weapon, just in case. But what? I was terrified of guns, even if I had been able to obtain one, a much harder thing to do in England than in America. A knife, a candlestick, a lead pipe? No. No one my age has any business thinking in the silly terms of a board game. I didn’t even know where I could buy a can of Mace. I’d take my wits and the police whistle Alan gave me, and my cell phone, which has a preset button for 999. That would have to do.
I concentrated fiercely on finding my way through Sherebury’s narrow medieval streets. The sleet had changed back to rain, but it was an especially wet rain that kept my windshield wipers flapping furiously and limited both my visibility and my traction. I was grateful for it. Driving with extra care kept me from thinking too much about what might happen when I reached my destination.
Stanley’s granddaughter wasn’t home. I hadn’t expected her to be on a weekday, and on the whole I was glad she wasn’t. I wanted Stanley to be free to say whatever he wanted.
On the other hand, she might have stopped him from doing what he wanted, and just in case he wanted to do something murderous … no, I wouldn’t think about that.
He greeted me as he had before, door open, impatient for me to get inside, an odd mixture of eagerness and rudeness. This time, however, he made no apologies and no preliminary remarks, but simply led me into the crowded lounge and pointed to a small table he had cleared of its load of newspapers and assorted rubbish.
“Look! You’ve never seen anything quite like that, have you, now?”
He pointed to the display that lay on the table. Inside a frame of about nine by twelve inches, covered with glass and resting on silk that had probably once been scarlet, lay his collection of medals. There were all the ones I had expected, the 1939—1945 Medal with its Battle of Britain bar, the Air Crew Europe Medal with a France and Germany bar, the Air Force Medal with the France and Germany bar, the Defence Medal—all the medals routinely issued in World War II to British enlisted men, or “other ranks” as the Web pages had delicately put it.
And there were two set off by themselves, not fastened together with the others.
“Know what that is?” Stanley asked eagerly in his cracked voice, pointing to one.
I did, but I let him tell me.
“That’s the Medal for Conspicuous Gallantry, that is. The one for fliers. That’s the highest award a man could get in that war.”
“Unless he was an officer, right?”
Stanley snorted. “Give out stars left and right to officers, they did. And what did they do? Sit on their behinds and give orders that got the rest of us killed.”
“You survived,” I pointed out.
“Only just!” he said indignantly. “Know how I got that there?” He pointed a shaking finger at the medal with its frayed, faded ribbon. “Hung out in midair, I did, to rescue the other gunner when the kite took a bad hit. Holding on with a rope, and no parachute, mind you, and freezing cold so I nearly lost my hold, too. The way it happened, y’see, was we were on a mission over France …”
He went on and on with great gusto. I listened, but I knew what was coming. The story sounded familiar. Very familiar, indeed. Virtually identical with one I had read the night before on the Web, about one Flight Sergeant Crabe.
“ … and he spent five months in hospital, but he ended up right as rain, and all on account of me! And what do you think of that, eh?”
“Remarkable,” I said fervently. “A wonderful story.” And it was. Apart from the last detail (in Crabe’s citation the other gunner had been dead when Crabe reached him), Stanley had reproduced the heroic story almost word for word. “You must have been very proud.”
“Ah, weren’t nothin’. Wartime, y’know. Did for each other when we could. He’d have done the same for me.”
I was tempted to probe a little, ask for details, but on second thought I left well enough alone. Stanley had proved, to my satisfaction at least, that he was a liar about his war record. I wondered where he’d got the medal. From a dead companion, perhaps? I nearly shuddered. Or maybe it was a replica, purchased years later. One could buy such things, sometimes even the real ones. There were sites for collectors all over the Web.
The point was, if Stanley was a liar, was he also, conceivably, a murderer?
I paid little attention as he went on to describe how he earned the other, the Distinguished Flying Medal, until he began listing the targets he had hit and destroyed, the German factories, the aerodromes, the U-boats. I couldn’t very well make notes, but I tried hard to remember a few place names. The account again sounded familiar; I wanted to look it up when I got home.
“Those must have been very dangerous missions,” I said with what I hoped was the proper awe.
“Solid walls of flak we had to go through, nearly every time. Didn’t bother us. We got them more often than they got us. Wasn’t only me, all of them. Good men, they were.”
“Well, I must say I’m impressed. It sounds as though Luftwich was a real force in winning the war.” Was I laying it on too thick?
Apparently not. Stanley held forth for another half hour, until he had to go to the loo and I could make my escape.
When he had tottered out of the room, I took a moment to pick up the framed collection. If the frame was loose, I might be able to slide the medals out and see the backs. If they were engraved, they might tell me something about their origin.
But the frame was properly sealed, so I shouted a cheery good-bye to the back of the house and got out of there.
I had a good deal to think about, so the tricky drive home was not the blessing the drive out had been. I was happy to pull into my tiny garage and devote my attention to my problem.
It was, I decided in the few steps to my front door, time to consult with Alan. I had a little proof now.
Alan, however, wasn’t home. He had left a note. “Derek asked for some advice. Back soon.”
I smiled a little over that. There was a time when Alan had felt he was, in retirement, out of the loop. He was punctilious about not interfering in police investigations without an invitation, but he certainly did like it when Derek asked.
Well, I’d have to do my thinking alone. Maybe when Alan returned I’d have some better-organized ideas for his consideration.
Stanley. I heated up the last cup of the morning’s pot of coffee and took it to the kitchen table, hoping the caffeine would stimulate my little gray cells.
Stanley. What was I to make of him?
On the face of it, he was a pathetic man, living in the past. Given the nature of his present life, that was perhaps understandable. Was he so eager to be a hero in the eyes of the world—or perhaps the eyes of his granddaughter—that he had bought or stolen medals and adopted other people’s war stories as his own? Or was there some more sinister explanation?
There seemed to me to be only one way to answer that question, and that was to ask some more. Of course, my best source of information, John Merrifield, had been silenced forever. Of the remaining possibilities, Mr. Tredgold was out. He wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, tell me anything, and I would upset him dreadfully. I couldn’t do it.
The other two, Barbara Price and Leigh Burton, didn’t like me. Leigh most particularly didn’t like me, I wasn’t sure why. However, they were sane and competent, and if I could think of a way to frame my questions tactfully, they might possibly answer. If not, well … there was always Merrifield’s son, I supposed, though this was a bad time to approach him, just after his father had been cruelly murdered.
Perhaps the police had asked him some of the questions I’d like to raise, and I could get some answers from Alan. Or perhaps I was being a coward, hiding behind that possibility because I didn’t want to face the others involved—the two women.
Many English people I know have commented that Americans have a noticeable need to be liked, that we are almost embarrassingly friendly and outgoing. I confess that I want to be liked. I want people to think well of me, and I don’t enjoy spending time with those who obviously prefer my absence to my company. If that’s a character flaw, surely it’s harmless enough.
When one is investigating a crime, however, it is likely that many of the people one encounters won’t be pleasant. The police, of course, have the authority to question witnesses and suspects, and although that authority can’t coerce cooperation, it does intimidate, and most people cave in eventually.
My case is different. No one has to talk to me. When I first moved to Sherebury, I could often encourage conversation because I was a foreigner, not a member of the community, and I “didn’t count.” Now that I’ve lived here for years and married a prominent policeman, that ploy won’t work anymore. I have found that losing my temper sometimes prompts a response, but that’s dangerous. I prefer to stay in control, at least of myself.
Well, perhaps it was time for me to develop some backbone, acknowledge that some of my sources of information were unwilling, and act accordingly. It didn’t, after all, matter in the end whether I made new friends. What mattered was the truth.
With that noble sentiment to bolster my confidence, I picked up the phone and called Barbara Price. She wasn’t thrilled to hear from me, but when I said I had a few more questions about Luftwich, especially her work there, she thawed a little and invited me to come for tea. I made a mental note to tuck some Turns into my purse, and splashed my way next door to get explicit driving directions from Jane.
I had planned to tell her what I had learned about Stanley’s medals, but Walter was awake and downstairs, and I didn’t want to bring it up in front of him.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him after writing down the directions to Barbara Price’s house. “You’re looking fine, I must say. You were pretty pale for a while there.”
“Much better, thanks. Still a bit of a headache now and again, but I’m not dizzy anymore. I only wish I could
remember! It’s
maddening to know someone bashed my head and I don’t even know who it was, or why, or anything about it.”
remember! It’s
maddening to know someone bashed my head and I don’t even know who it was, or why, or anything about it.”
“I think they say it’s better not to force it. The memory may return in time. Or it may not, you know. Head injuries are odd. You’re just lucky it wasn’t much, much worse.”
He looked me squarely in the eye. “It would have been worse if you hadn’t found me. No one told me that, but I could guess from the way they talked behind my back. I think you saved my life, Mrs. Martin. I don’t suppose I need tell you how grateful I am.”
“Not at all. I just hope you don’t take the Oriental attitude that I’m now responsible for you. From the looks of you, there’s a good deal of mischief you plan to get into yet, and I don’t think I care to make looking after you my life’s work.”
He chuckled. “No, I think Miss Langland plans to take that on. She’s a fine mother hen.”
Jane turned brick red and changed the subject. “Need to move your things here. This afternoon?”
“Yes, I’ve rung my landlady. She’s not best pleased.”
Jane and I both made indignant sounds. “No, I don’t imagine she is,” I said. “She’s losing a boarder who never gave her a moment’s trouble, or cost her a moment’s work. You’re far better off here. And Jane will enjoy the company. If you’re doing the moving early this afternoon, I can help, if you like.”
“Thanks, but there’s not all that much to move. I haven’t many clothes. There are a few books, though.”
“I can imagine. And books are the heaviest things on earth. Are you up to that yet?”
“I’ll pack them in small boxes. Most of them are at the museum, anyway. I did a lot of studying there.” A cloud passed over his face. “I don’t know what will happen now.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jane. “Know the trustees. Fix it up. You’ll keep your job.”
And he would, too, if the money had to come out of Jane’s own pocket. She’s unstoppable when it comes to the welfare of the young.
“Well, there’s no need to ask if Jane’s feeding you properly. Lunch smells wonderful.”
“Join us,” said Jane.
“Can’t. I expect Alan home, so I have to feed him something. And I’d better get at it. I’ll see you later.” I tried to telegraph a message to Jane that I wanted to talk to her alone, but she seemed oblivious. Ah, well. I’d phone her if nothing else worked.
Alan came home a few minutes after I did, and while I put together a quick lunch out of the freezer I told him about Stanley’s medals. He wasn’t overly impressed.
Other books
The Rogues by Jane Yolen and Robert J. Harris
Five Fall Into Adventure by Enid Blyton
Girl Out Back by Charles Williams
The Ultimate Guide to Sex and Disability by Kaufman, Miriam
Hostage (2001) by Crais, Robert
Come Share My Love by Carrie Macon
Tyrant: Force of Kings by Christian Cameron
Shutter by Courtney Alameda
The Redemption of Jake Scully by Elaine Barbieri
D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology by Burton, Jack; Hayes, David C.