Broken Music (14 page)

‘But in your capacity, you must recall it. I mean to say, that sort of thing was out of the usual run for you, wasn't it? Pub keeping open too long, unlicensed guns, abrogation of fishing rights by strangers from the towns, that's about it around these parts, isn't it? You're very pleasantly situated here, very comfortable life, I reckon.'

‘Mustn't grumble.'

Reardon saw what Henry Paskin had meant about Bracey: a leisurely life in Broughton Underhill inducing in Bracey a certain disinclination to bestir himself, or to disturb the status quo. The constable stopped and leant his bicycle against the garden wall of a cottage, propping himself up beside it. He gave Reardon a look that could only be called old-fashioned. ‘Don't mind me asking, but are you here, official like?'

‘Not at all. Holiday, as I said.'

‘So why all these questions?'

Reardon had prepared for this. He hesitated, then asked, ‘Remember Gifford, the superintendent in charge of the case?'

Bracey nodded. His chins wobbled. He loosed the tight collar of his tunic. ‘Retired now, hasn't he?'

‘He's writing his memoirs. And this was one case that was puzzling.' Both statements were true, but he hoped Gifford would never hear that he seemed to have acquired a self-appointed amanuensis.

‘That so? Well, what is it he don't remember? It'll all be down in the records somewhere, in black and white,' Bracey said, preparing to set out again. He was sharper than he looked, if no more inclined to put himself out.

‘The facts, yes. It's what's behind the facts that matters, though, isn't it? What did you know of the Wentworth girl?'

‘I knew who she was, of course, but I don't think more than half a dozen words ever passed between us. Time of day and so on. Nothing more.'

‘Nobody seemed to want to talk to us at the time. In fact, it was all a bit hushed up, wasn't it?'

‘Just as well. They wouldn't have liked it else, up at the Big House.'

‘Oaklands Park? What had it to do with them?'

‘Happened on their land, didn't it? And that jetty wasn't safe, everybody knew it, should have been taken down or repaired years before, not left to rot all of its own. They didn't want no blame.'

‘Well, you see, that's the problem. If Marianne Wentworth knew it wasn't safe, why did she run out on to it? What was she doing down there at all, in fact?'

Bracey produced a pipe, looked at it for a moment, then put it back in his pocket. ‘You married? Children?'

‘No,' Reardon said shortly.

‘Then you won't know about young women, growing up. I've two daughters of my own, both married with their own families now, and I tell you, there's no knowing what they'll do at that age. It wasn't the first time. I've seen her more than once going down there when she thought nobody was about.'

‘Who did she meet down there?'

The constable shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Now, how should I know she
did
meet anybody? None of my business.'

‘Well. I should think, as the village policeman, it was very much your business.'

‘Look here, Sergeant Reardon, I'm here to keep the peace, not to go shoving my nose into other folks' concerns. I've already said more'n I should, and I hope it won't go down in Superintendent Gifford's memoirs.'

‘I can certainly promise you that, Constable,' Reardon said, as Bracey nodded, mounted his bicycle and proceeded in a stately manner down the street.

Young Master Noakes had scarcely yet made his appearance into this troublous world, but his mother was already up and about again. Mattie, young and strong, couldn't abide the idea of lying idly in bed when there were things to be done. A whole month, the conventional lying-in time, wasn't even to be thought of. Her mother had never had that luxury and she'd been none the worse after seven children. As a concession, she had promised the midwife she would rest as much as she could, and for the sake of her Sam and Baby Sammy, she was keeping to her word – cooking bacon and eggs for their guest could hardly be classed as hard work.

 

Herbert Reardon was enjoying a breakfast such as he hadn't seen before the war.

He had made the right decision to seek accommodation here at the village pub, rather than use his motorcycle to travel back and forth to Dudley every day, he thought as he munched the last pieces of crisp bacon and black pudding, mopped up egg yolk with his fried bread and prepared to embark on the toast and…real butter, by God, if he wasn't mistaken! No bread and scrape for the village of Broughton Underhill, or at least not for the Greville Arms. He poured himself a last cup of tea. Unfortunately, there was barely a scant teaspoonful of sugar in the bottom of the basin, but sugar was still scarce as gold dust and you couldn't expect everything.

It had, of course, occurred to him that he was being given special treatment, although he did wonder why, because he knew he must have been recognised by now, despite his face, marked down for who he was. A stranger, who was asking the sort of questions he was asking, it wouldn't have taken long for two and two to be put together.

They'd given him breakfast in a small parlour off the main bar, a shining-clean room (as was the rest of the public house), and lit a good fire. He sat back with his tea and was just about to put his feet up on the fender when the young landlady came in. ‘Everything all right, sir?'

‘Best breakfast I've had in years. You do yourselves well in Broughton Underhill.'

‘Not to say that – but we like to give our guests the best of what we have.'

She was a well-spoken young woman with a kind of Irish beauty – pale skin and dark hair, very blue eyes. He liked the way both she and her husband met his gaze fairly and squarely, though he was getting used to people avoiding it, and didn't blame them. It was some time before he had been able to meet his own reflection himself.

‘Can you spare me a moment or two, Mrs Noakes?' he asked as she began to clear away his breakfast things with movements that were quick and efficient.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have timed his request badly. At that instant what sounded like the cries of a very young baby began somewhere in the back regions, but she answered, smiling, ‘I can if you can give me about ten minutes. My baby needs seeing to first.'

She picked up the tray, balancing it on her forearm while she opened the door with her other hand, practised movements that were too quickly done for him to get up and help her. In almost exactly ten minutes, she was back, smoothing her apron and standing in front of him. He motioned to her to sit down. ‘I dare say I'd better explain who I am.'

She sat down neatly and crossed her ankles, her hands, large and capable, work roughened, clasped together on her lap. ‘I know who you are, Sergeant Reardon, and I can guess why you're here.'

News had got around as quickly as he'd expected. No doubt he'd been the subject of interested speculation in the bar last night. He'd given the idea of a drink there a miss and gone to bed early. ‘It's not Sergeant anymore, Mrs Noakes. I'm not yet back in the police force.' (Factually true, if deliberately misleading.) ‘Which might make you think I've no right to be stirring matters up again, poking my nose in.'

‘Why should I think that? It's about Miss Marianne, isn't it? It was a mystery how she died, and if it's cleared up…well, I can't see it matters what way. I know how it looked, but I never did think it was right, the way everything was so rushed. The police couldn't get out fast enough. Crying shame, it was.'

‘There was a war just started. Things were in a turmoil.' He trotted out the explanation, though he was gratified, if surprised, that someone at least had shared his doubts. ‘So you knew Marianne Wentworth?'

‘Oh, yes. I've lived in Broughton all my life, and I worked up at Oaklands before I married and came here – went as nursery maid when I was fourteen. Miss Eunice was already seven or eight but her nanny was too hoity-toity to manage the nursery without help. I was used to a houseful of brothers and sisters so a job like that – only one little girl, and a brother that was only home for the holidays – seemed a bit like heaven to me. Besides, she was a lovely little girl, Eunice. She looked like a picture book fairy and was no trouble, though I'm not saying she didn't have a mind of her own…' She smiled. ‘I'm sorry, all that's not what you want to hear, but anyhow, that's how I knew the Wentworth girls. They used to come up for their lessons with Miss Eunice.'

‘What can you remember about Marianne's accident?'

She looked down at her hands for a moment, then raised her eyes. ‘As you said, it was a very confusing time, but I remember it like it was yesterday. How could I forget it, with everything that was going on that time? My Sam and his mates going off together – in the Terriers they all were, and couldn't wait to get in the fighting, you know? Silly beggars, men are, if you'll excuse me. Women don't see it like that, most of us, at any rate. If only they'd known! But there was that much excitement being whipped up…Well, anyway, some of us went up to Kidderminster first thing to see them off on the train – me and Phyllis Hobbs, and one or two more. Lady Sybil gave me time off, which was very good of her, considering.'

‘Considering what, Mrs Noakes?'

‘There was a party that same evening, one her ladyship had arranged for Mrs Villiers's seventieth birthday. Any excuse for a celebration, that was always Lady Sybil! It had been planned for some time, and she refused to cancel it just on account of all the war news. There was a deal of work to be done, so it was nice of her to give me most of the day off, but she was always considerate. Mind you, I had to make up for it when I got back to the house, straight into my cap and apron and get stuck in.'

He had thought her quiet and reserved, but once started, she seemed glad to let come out what had evidently been on her mind for some time. He wished all witnesses were the same. ‘Family affair, was it, this party? Lot of guests?'

‘Twenty-eight at table there were. Family, a few special friends, and all the Wentworths. And the other two boys, of course.'

‘Which two would that be?'

‘The Rafferty boy, Steven, from the pottery, and that German…Austrian, I should say, that was staying at the rectory. They'd been together all summer, all the young folk, Mr Greville home from his music studies in Paris, and William Wentworth down from Oxford. There was always a lot of coming and going between Oaklands and the rectory. Well, of course, they were such close friends, more like family…and it was a lovely summer, that one before the war, if you remember. There was tennis and picnics and swimming in the lake, all that sort of thing, sometimes larking about in that dangerous old punt, till Mr Foley had it taken away. I bet he wished he'd had that rotten old jetty taken down, too, afterwards. The young ladies didn't swim, of course. If they had, Miss Marianne might have saved herself…' For a moment, her eyes clouded, then she said, ‘There was no harm in it, you know. At least…'

‘What?'

‘I suppose there was a bit of feeling between Mr Greville and the foreigner.' Her mouth set in a disapproving line.

‘Rupert von Kessel,' he said, digging into his memory.

‘I think that was the name, yes.'

‘When you say ‘feeling' what do you mean, exactly?'

‘Oh, they used to argue about whether there was going to be a war and what they'd do if there was. Dead against joining in, Mr Greville was. And then, there was Miss Marianne. I think that Austrian…' She hesitated. ‘All the young fellows liked her, but she wasn't a bad girl, you mustn't think that. I reckon, if things had turned out different, her and Mr Greville might have made a go of it…but then, she'd have had sorrow to contend with. You know he joined up and was killed? It surprised us all, I can tell you, when he went off and enlisted like that, even though he went as one of those – you know, noncombatants. Because he was as much against the fighting as the rector was, you know. And especially him going off with his father poorly as he was – Mr Foley. They said it was all the excitement of the party, but I reckon it was more to do with Mr Greville than anything – and then on top of it, Miss Marianne, of all people, being found like that next morning.'

She was losing him. ‘What are we talking about, Mrs Noakes? What was wrong with Mr Foley?'

‘Why, he had a heart attack! The night of the party, he was taken bad. The house was in an uproar. They called for Mr Greville but he was nowhere to be found. We were told the next day, he'd already gone off and joined up, without telling anybody.'

‘Even though he was so against the war?'

‘Even so, and that was what was so queer. He'd taken his mother's motor car and driven over to Birmingham and enlisted there. Left the motor with the stationmaster to be picked up.'

And von Kessel, Reardon remembered, again dredging his memory of the case, had made a hurried exit back to Austria at the same time, having left his departure until practically the very last minute – just before Britain had declared war against Germany…although his own country, Austria-Hungary, if Reardon remembered rightly, had not been involved in the conflict for perhaps another week. It had been foolish in the extreme, with a reckless disregard for his own safety, to leave his going so late, but when had hot-blooded and careless young men of that age ever listened to caution? Reardon didn't give much for his chances of having got out of the country, however. More than likely he had been intercepted and imprisoned as an alien. He made a mental note to investigate this.

So, both young men had disappeared in a great hurry, at the same time. And the very next morning, Marianne Wentworth had been found in the lake.

‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Noakes. You've been very helpful.'

‘I don't know that I have, really.' She stood up and then said, uncertainly, ‘You wonder how I could've known all this…? Well, servants see and hear a lot, you know, though if you're a good one you keep what you hear to yourself. They say things in front of you, the gentry, as though you're deaf and blind, look through you as though you're not there, some of them, pass you cleaning the stairs as though you didn't exist. The Oaklands folk aren't like that, none of them, but all the same, you pretty much know what's going on. Well, anyway…' She stood up.

‘Thank you, Mrs Noakes.'

‘You're welcome.' She nodded and left him.

 

Sam was in the taproom when Mattie went through, polishing the pewter tankards kept on hooks behind the bar, all of them different, each of the regulars having their own.

‘What did he want, Mattie?' he asked suspiciously.

‘What everybody thinks he wants – to know about Miss Marianne.'

‘Are the police opening that business again, then?'

‘He's not in the police now.'

Sam stared. ‘What's in it for him, then?'

‘He didn't say. And I didn't ask.'

Her husband leant across the bar and lifted her chin with one great forefinger. ‘Well now, Mattie, don't you go getting yourself involved in this. I know what you think about all that business of the rector's daughter, but it won't do no good. I'll have a word with him.'

‘Don't be stroppy with him, Sam.' Despite his flaxen hair and his blue eyes, her husband, with his big shovel hands and the muscles and sinews developed with working in the smithy, could be intimidating at first sight, to those who didn't know him, and he'd become prone to arguments against authority since he'd been in the army. ‘Poor chap. Whatever could've happened to him out there?'

‘You don't want to know about that,' Sam replied grimly, as he always did. He would never talk about his experiences; none of them would, those who had returned. They never said in their letters, either. It was as though they had entered into a conspiracy to keep their womenfolk from knowing what it had been like, though sometimes Mattie had thought it was worse, imagining. ‘Don't you worry, Mattie m'duck,' he said now, ‘I wouldn't think of causing no trouble with him. He's all right, I can tell.'

If Sam said so, Mattie was happy enough with that.

And that night, Sam joined Herbert Reardon in the parlour after another tasty supper of tender chicken and fresh vegetables, followed by apple pie. He came in with two pints of the strong, home-brewed ale that the Greville Arms was famous for, reckoning Reardon wouldn't want to join the locals in the bar. What they talked about, far into the night, Mattie didn't know, but she could guess, she heard it often enough since her husband came home.

Sam had gone into the war not caring much about politics or politicians, except for his admiration for the visionary Lloyd George and his Liberal reforms. What working man didn't admire him? Dole for the unemployed, pensions for the old folk, and support when they became sick and infirm? Sam had believed in the great man's grand promise after the war that Britain could be made into a land fit for heroes to live in. Believed it for a while. Dust and ashes now, when the bloody government, who had managed to find millions a day to defeat the Germans, left the same heroes – crippled, hungry and despairing, without jobs – to beg on the streets.