Season Of Darkness (10 page)

Hartmann moaned. Beck reached under the man’s cot, and pulled out a worn leather violin case. He placed it in the professor’s arms the way you might place a doll for a child.

“I fear he will never be completely stable. The trauma he suffered previously at the hands of the Nazis was too great. But as long as he can play his violin, he will survive.”

“It’s not just the announcement today that set him off, Doctor,” said Hoeniger. “This morning I saw one of the guards aiming his rifle at us. He had us in his sights. We were playing chess outside your tent. I think Herr Hartmann must have seen him.”

“That’s unconscionable,” said Beck. “I shall speak to Major Fordham about it. Which one was it?”

“Smallish fellow with a bit of a moustache.”

Beck sighed. “I shall report him. Thank you for your help, gentlemen. I will sit here until the professor wakes up.”

“Can I bring you something?” asked Hoeniger.

Beck smiled. “I do believe that I would thoroughly enjoy my chessboard. I like to play out games with myself.”

“My dear doctor,” said the priest, “I would be more than happy to give you a match.”

“Thank you, Philipp, but you consistently beat me. When our friend comes to consciousness, I’d like him to wake into an atmosphere of tranquility and peace.”

Father Glatz chuckled. “You are getting better all the time, Bruno. When we eventually leave here, I’ll wager you will checkmate me.”

Silber gasped. “God’s socks. I should get going. The show must go on, no matter what happens. Hans, will you help me out?”

He mimed what he’d said.

The seminarian understood and he nodded. “Yah.” He turned to the priest. “May I be excused, Father?”

“You may.”

Beck said, “Will you reassure the others that Herr Hartmann is all right?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Silber gesticulated at the young man. “No say me spy. Understand? Not spy. Don’t tell people.”

Beck helped him out with a quick translation.

Hoeniger grinned. “Tell him I won’t.”

The two of them left.

“I’ll fetch your chessboard,” said the priest.

Beck moved to the cot and gazed down at the sleeping man.

T
HE MARKET WAS BUSY WITH HOUSEWIVES IN SEARCH
of fresh produce and meat at a good price. Alice Thorne’s stall was at the end of the row near a patch of grass where she’d tethered her goat. The locals added this to her long list of unacceptable eccentricities. A little pony was all right, even a donkey, but a goat pulling the cart was queer as far as they were concerned. Alice told all who asked that Nellie was very economical. She ate anything and everything and she provided milk. At the end of her days, she’d be food for the dogs.

Tyler parked the Humber and walked through the market. Ringed around the square were black-beamed Elizabethan houses with their narrow mullioned windows glittering in the sun. Pretty to look at, uncomfortable to live in, said the residents. For one fleeting moment, he enjoyed the illusion that everything was normal. That there wasn’t a war burning up the world and that life was going along in the same way it had for a few hundred years on these old cobblestones.

Alice stood out among the farmer’s wives at the other tables, with their flowered pinafore dresses. She was wearing a coolie-style straw hat tied underneath her chin with a white ribbon. Her khaki dungarees and green cotton shirt were practical, but certainly couldn’t be considered feminine or proper. Two of her dogs were lying beside her. They both looked up as he approached. Tyler had visited Alice’s cottage a few times over the past summer and the dogs remembered him. She saw him and smiled a welcome.

“Good afternoon, Tom. Don’t tell me you’ve come to caution me again? My rabbit fence is escape-proof, I promise.”

Several of the local farmers had complained that Alice was breeding rabbits that escaped and ate their crops. She claimed she was rescuing them from cruel traps and a nasty death from being gassed in the burrows. Tyler believed her, but periodically he was obliged to inspect her property to make sure.

“Afternoon, Alice. No, I’m here on a different mission today.”

Nobody was buying at her stall and he could see the table was still loaded with her produce and herbs.

“The war news must have been particularly bad today,” she said. “I’ve been practically boycotted.” She gestured at the woman a few stalls down who seemed to be watching them. “Also, Mrs. Tanner scares away my customers. I have sold only three herbal bouquets and exactly one cluster of tomatoes to a visitor, an evacuee, I believe, who didn’t notice my sign.”

She indicated a large, neatly printed sign that was propped up against a pot of white poppies.

WEAR A WHITE POPPY FOR PEACE
. Beside that was a larger framed notice.

“These are nervous times,” said Tyler. “Perhaps you could be a little more discreet. The sign is a bit blatant.”

“I’ve never suggested you be more discreet about your sign that says ‘Police Station,’ have I?” she answered tartly.

“You know that’s not that same thing. ‘Police Station’ isn’t a political statement.”

“To some people it is.”

Tyler picked up one of the cards from a small stack by the poppies. The pledge was printed at the top.
“I renounce war, and I will never support or sanction another.”
Underneath was room for name and address.

“Did you have any takers today?”

Alice grimaced. “I respect you, Tom Tyler, but you are a detective after all. I won’t burden you with knowledge you might feel compelled to act upon. These are nervous times, as you so rightly pointed out.” She sighed. “I’ve had a dearth of visitors. Need often overcomes scruples, but today Mrs. Tanner’s tomatoes, although nowhere near as plump and juicy as mine, were more palatable.” She spoke with irony but Tyler thought there was a weariness in her voice he hadn’t heard before. “I think she blames me for the fact that her husband is missing in action in France.”

“That’s not very rational, is it?”

Alice shrugged. “I’m surprised how attached she seems to have become to Alfred Tanner now that he’s missing. It wasn’t that obvious when he was at home. Perhaps absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

The Tanners’ tumultuous marriage was well known in the town. Tyler laughed, nodding his head. For some reason the movement caused a white hot stab of pain over his right eye. He winced and rubbed his temple. A fiendish drummer was playing a tune on his temples.

“You don’t have something for a headache, do you, Alice?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She picked up one of the small brown bottles that were on the table. “This is oil of lavender. Rub it on your temples … do you want me to do it?”

Without waiting for his reply, she took out her handkerchief
and dabbed some of the oil on to it. “Bend forward a bit.” Feeling all of six years old, Tyler did as she said. The oil was pungent. “Of course, you wouldn’t get a headache like this if you drank less.”

“I got too much sun,” he said, trying to muster up some righteous indignation.
Crikey, Alice, a bit of tact goes a long way as the ambassador said
.

“Here.” She handed him the vial. “Keep it. You’ll probably need it again.”

He slipped it into his pocket. Then he glanced around to make sure nobody was approaching them. Mrs. Tanner was as focused on them as a vixen on a hen. He leaned in a little closer to Alice.

“Have you heard about the death of this young Land Army girl?”

“It’s the talk of the market. What happened? There are so many rumours flying around, it is hard to get to the truth.”

Briefly, Tyler filled her in on the situation.

“I am very sorry to hear that.”

“I found a bunch of white poppies lying on her body,” continued Tyler. “I wonder if you know anything about that? Did you sell her some? Her name was Elsie Bates. Light brown hair, pretty girl.”

Alice sighed. “Yes, I know who she was. She often came to the market. My political views didn’t seem to bother her. She particularly liked my lemon verbena soap. She didn’t buy any poppies. We had a laugh about her signing the Peace Pledge. She said she was enjoying the war and hoped it lasted a long time. I don’t think she really meant it, but I think she liked to be outrageous. I liked her a lot. Two peas in a pod, you might say.”

Ever since she had arrived in Whitchurch, Alice had scandalized the local residents. She wore men’s clothes, was
outspoken about her opinions, which were usually different from everybody else’s, and lived by herself in an isolated spot in the country with only dogs and rabbits for company.

“So you’re sure Elsie Bates didn’t buy poppies?”

“Of course, I’m sure. It would have been a momentous occasion.”

“And nobody else has bought any recently?”

“No, they haven’t. But they do grow wild in the woods. Anybody can pick them.”

“One more thing, Alice. Did you hear anything unusual early this morning? Bangs? Shouts? Anything like that?”

“No. Sound doesn’t travel where I am. Too many trees.” Alice got to her feet. “I think I’ll start packing up. It looks hopeless for customers.” She nudged the dogs. “Move Lucy, Skip, there’s good dogs.”

“Need any help?” Tyler asked.

“You can get those paintings down for me if you will.”

Tyler hadn’t noticed the paintings she had propped up high on a wooden shelf behind her. There were four medium-sized canvases; three were landscapes, the fourth was a reclining female nude, her back to the artist.

He stared at the painting. The lines of that shoulder and hip were achingly familiar. He’d studied them often enough, traced them with his fingertips. He felt as if his breath was taken away from him.

“Where did you get that painting, Alice?”

“I have a friend in London. He used to be an art dealer, but nowadays business is terrible for him. He asked if he could send me a few canvases to see if I could sell them up here. So far I’ve had no takers.”

“Can I take a closer look?”

“It’s good, isn’t it? So evocative. The woman is naked and she seems quite at home in those rich furnishings. She’s young
and well nourished; look at the gold echoes: her hair, the sunlight, the satin pillow she’s resting on. A contemporary princess. And yet at the same time, the artist has managed to suggest a certain vulnerability. Very skilful.”

There was a signature and a date in the corner. Pamina Leiderer 1926. Nobody Tyler had heard of.

“You say you got it from an art dealer?”

Alice lowered her voice. “This is in confidence, Tom. Pamina is a German Jew. She was a most respected sculptor and painter living in Berlin, but like many others was forced to flee for her life in ’36 with only a few of her art pieces. At the moment, she’s interned with the other female enemy aliens in Holloway prison, of all places. I took the art in the hope of getting her a little extra money. But you’ve got to keep it under your hat. If word gets out that she’s German, I won’t sell a thing.”

Clare had been in Berlin as a young woman; her path must have crossed with that of the artist then.

“I have another portrait of Pamina’s if you’re interested,” continued Alice. “I didn’t put it out because I’ve found it better to just show a few at a time. Besides, people seem to prefer landscapes. You’re the first person to show any interest in the nude. It’s the same model, I believe.”

She unwrapped another canvas that was in a piece of clean sacking. This one was slightly smaller than the other and less finished. In this sketch, the woman was sitting in a chair, head slightly turned away. Her fair hair partially obscured her face, which was only sketched in. She was wearing a long sheer nightgown of some green gauzy material, and the light made it transparent, revealing the outline of small, exquisitely shaped breasts. He remembered them.

“How much do you want for the two of them?” he asked Alice.

“Three pounds.”

“I don’t have that much with me.”

“You can owe me. I trust you. Here, I’ll wrap them both together in this cloth. You don’t particularly want folks gawking at them, I’m sure.”

He’d have to keep them hidden in his office at the police station.

Alice handed over the canvases and Tyler tucked them both underneath his arm, said goodbye, and headed back to his car. He felt like Jack who’d stolen the golden goose.

As he went by the last stall, the woman called out loudly to him so that Alice could hear. “When are you going to charge that woman, Inspector? Our boys are dying for t’country and
that one’s
preaching peace, as
she
calls it. She’s a fifth columnist if you ask me.”

T
YLER SUBSCRIBED TO THE THEORY THAT THE MORE
you knew about the victim and their style of life, the more you’d get pointers as to who had committed the ultimate act of murder. He’d already gathered a lot from Rose. Now he wanted to see where Elsie had lodged for the last two months.

The Clarks lived at the end of a row of Victorian workers cottages, all of them now quite prettied up. The tiny patch of front garden was full of shrubs and flowers, the handkerchief-sized lawn was bowling green immaculate. Mrs. Clark was a widow with an attentive son.

Constable Collis was standing in front of the door.

“Afternoon, Collis. Anything to report?”

“No, sir. People came when they heard what had happened, but they all stayed in the living room talking to Mrs. Clark. She’s in there now.”

“Where’s the girl’s room?”

“Upstairs, sir, at the far end of the landing.”

“I’ll go straight up and take a gander. Tell Mrs. Clark I’ll come and talk to her.”

Tyler stepped into the dark hall. Both walls were lined with ornately framed oil paintings that were amateurish enough to be originals. There was a wooden hat stand, and a small table cluttered with china figurines. He could hear the sounds of a wireless from the living room.