Winter of Discontent (22 page)
“It’s a bit off, of course, him passing them off as his own, but it’s not unheard of. Not the ‘done’ thing, but Stanley isn’t likely to care much about that.”
“Not ‘an officer and a gentleman’?” I said, bristling a little.
“No. And you needn’t go all democratic and American about it. Whether you like it or not, the class system exists. And don’t pretend you don’t have one in America, either. Your system is based on money rather than birth, but it’s a fact of life.”
“I suppose. Then there’s race, and location. Those who live in the really big cities, especially New York, view themselves as superior to us hicks from the sticks.”
“And don’t forget the stigma of age.”
“Yes, and of all the unfair distinctions—”
“Yes, love. Life is unfair. Eat your stew.”
I took a bite. “And speaking of age, what has Derek learned about Merrifield’s murder? And what did he want from you?”
“He’s stuck. He’s taken statements from everyone he could think of, including some of the residents at Heatherwood House. No one saw anything or anyone peculiar. No one acted in any way out of the ordinary. He made a list of all known visitors. No surprises. He asked me to look over the statements in case I might spot something he’d missed. Flattering of him, but I wasn’t any help at all. It all looked straightforward and exactly what one would expect.”
“Didn’t anybody get suspicious? I mean, wonder why the police were asking questions about the death of a very old man in a place where death is almost an everyday occurrence?”
“Derek was clever about that. He claimed to be conducting an inquiry for Merrifield’s insurance company, looking into any possible dereliction of duty on the part of the staff. If anyone thought there was more to it, no sign appeared in the reports.”
“Hmm. I wonder. Official reports often leave out nuances.”
“Not in this county, they don’t! My people knew I’d have their heads if they left out a blinking thing, even the slightest hint of a suspicion of a hunch. Derek’s carrying on the tradition. It makes for long reports and tedious reading, but one knows everything’s there. No, I think the fact of murder is still our secret.”
“Good. That means the murderer thinks he’s safe. It’s a small advantage, but a valuable one.”
“God knows we can use any advantage we can get. This one’s getting away from us.”
So we talked about that and Stanley was forgotten, at least for the moment, but I filed him away. Something was odd, there, and I hoped Barbara Price could help me learn what it was.
MISS PRICE, IN A PLAID WOOL SKIRT AND RATHER ELDERLY SWEATER, was dressed much more casually than when I had last seen her. She’d been expecting Alan last time. I, a mere woman, and an American at that, wasn’t worth dressing up for. I was apparently worth cooking for, though. I smelled fresh-baked scones as I walked in the door, and lovely little sandwiches sat ready on a tray.
The food was good, too, though the tea was as strong and tannic as before. We made small talk through our meal: Christmas, the depressing weather. When we had finished the tea in the pot and I had declined more as tactfully as I could, my hostess sat back in expectant silence.
“I’m so glad you could find time to talk to me a bit more,” I began. “You see, I’ve hit a snag in my work. I can’t seem to find anyone who can actually document the part Luftwich played in the war. I mean the number of missions run, some of the outstanding successes, that sort of thing. Mr. Merrifield might have helped, but of course he’s gone now, poor man.”
I didn’t mention the manner of his departure. It wasn’t a matter of public knowledge, and if she knew—but she reacted perfectly normally.
“Yes, well, I wasn’t fond of him, but he was a link to the old days. Soon we’ll all be gone, and no one will remember.”
“Yes, you’re right, and of course the point of the museum exhibition is to help people remember. So I wondered if you could give me any of the facts and figures I’m looking for.”
“Well, I hardly—that is, surely the RAF would have records. Unless they were destroyed in the Blitz, of course.”
“I thought of that, but my heart quails at the idea of trying to get information from a government agency. At least in America, red tape can tie you up for ages. And of course I haven’t a shred of authority to ask for anything; I’m just trying to help out. And I know so little. Is there anything at all you can tell me?”
“It was all confidential information.”
“Of course, but surely after all these years it wouldn’t matter. I mean, the men involved in those missions would have told their stories, to their families at least, after the war was over. There must be thousands of people who know pieces of the story. The thing is, I don’t know any of them except you few who live in Sherebury. Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated, I assure you, and of course acknowledged in the exhibit.”
Indecision chased across her face, but at last she stood. “Oh, very well, but I’ll have to get my diaries. I can’t remember the details after sixty years.”
I got out the notebook I had stuck in my purse, and waited.
She was away for some little time, and came back breathless and apologetic. “I’m sorry, it took me a while to find the old diaries. I haven’t looked at them for years. Now then, what was it you wanted to know?”
“Well, for a start, can you tell me how many missions were run out of Luftwich?”
“Oh, I never knew that. I only knew about my own shifts, and what I picked up occasionally from the men. They didn’t talk much, though. They weren’t supposed to talk at all, of course. But as to a number—oh, no, I’d have no idea.”
“Well, perhaps I can get that from the RAF if somebody can tell me how to approach them.”
“Well, there, again, I’m afraid I’d be no help. You may be right about the difficulties. The military can be so very—military, can’t it? Ordinary people like us have no chance dealing with them, do we?”
“Probably not. So what about some of the more notable success stories? Important targets destroyed, or large numbers of planes shot down—that sort of thing. I thought you might remember those.”
“Well, you understand that anything I knew, I knew from the men, and of course they didn’t always know just how things turned out. They might be quite sure they’d hit a factory, but they couldn’t see much through the smoke and the flak. Not to mention the fact that they got out as fast as they could. And then most of our raids were made at night. So I never had anything like a complete record. But I did just note down some of the more exciting missions, the ones I knew about. Just let me find—ah, here. I made a list. I thought I remembered doing that, near the end of the war. This is as of November 27, 1944.”
She cleared her throat and began to read. “31 August, 1941: Ruhr valley, fires started near factories. 8 September, hit machine factory. 28 December, Nine SBC x 30-pound incendiaries, bullseye. 26 January 1942, bombed Rotterdam—”
“Hold on a minute, I’ve fallen behind.” I scribbled furiously. “I don’t suppose you would let me borrow your diary? I could make photocopies and use them in the—”
She hugged the book to her breast. “Oh, no, no, I couldn’t let you do that! No, this is precious to me. I never let it out of my hands. No, I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t do that! It would do you no good, in any case. It’s written in code, of course. My own code, you understand. I couldn’t make a record of that sort of thing that just anyone could pick up and read.”
She sounded quite alarmed. I hastened to reassure her. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be happy to copy down what you tell me, then, but you’ll have to read more slowly, and explain some of the terms to me. Go ahead.”
The list was endless. It was also extremely interesting. She explained what “SBC x 30-pound” meant, although the explanation left me no wiser. She amplified with details of what she remembered of the missions, as she had seen them from the Ops Room. She told me little stories about the men involved, including the ones who didn’t come home from this or that mission.
And all the time, as she was talking and I was taking rapid notes, I knew I’d heard it before. From Stanley.
And from the Web. She was reproducing still more of the information I’d found about entirely different men from entirely different bases.
Why were Stanley and Barbara Price telling me almost identical lies?
At last Miss Price closed her diary. It was one of those leather affairs with the little locking flap, and she was careful to make sure the lock clicked. She wanted her secrets kept safe. Such a lock could be picked with any respectable nail file, of course, or easier still, the soft old leather flap could be cut. The lock was symbolic. I only wished I knew for certain what it symbolized.
I was sincere in my expression of thanks before I left. I had, indeed, learned some very interesting things, even if they weren’t quite what Miss Price thought she was telling me. This time, I thought as I climbed into my car and headed home through the early December twilight, Alan might pay attention to what I had to say.
I had completely forgotten we’d been asked out to dinner that night. My oldest friends in England, a pair of American expats living in London, had invited us to be their guests at one of their favorite restaurants, The Old Bakehouse out near Maidstone, a good hour away. By the time I got home I had barely enough time to bathe and dress. I did take a minute to put my notebook in a good safe place. I wanted that evidence to present to Alan.
The rain was still pelting down. Alan, driving on roads crowded with traffic, had his hands full. It was not only Friday night, but the beginning of a holiday as well. Most English businesses give their employees the whole week off for Christmas; some give two weeks. I was reminded yet again of my sad neglect of Christmas chores, and spent the ride making to-do lists. Alan had no attention to spare for my theories.
We had a lovely dinner, and a lovely time. Tom and Lynn Anderson are two of the nicest people I know. They have enough money that they never have to give it a thought, but they’re not the way I always imagined the rich to be. They’re funny, and kind, and altogether delightful company. They reminded me about the first time I’d ever visited The Old Bakehouse, also at Christmastime, when I was in the middle of another murder, and just getting to know Alan. Lynn recounted all the details, and I nearly disgraced us all by laughing myself into hiccups, as I had on that earlier occasion.
Sated, content, and full of goodwill, we parted with mutual wishes for a happy Christmas. I’d had a fair amount of champagne and fell asleep on the way home, so it wasn’t until breakfast the next morning that I got around to telling Alan about Barbara Price.
“The same stories? You’re sure?”
“Well, I didn’t make notes at Stanley’s house. But the details sound the same, and I did check my Price notes first thing this morning against what I’d printed out from the Web. I’d wanted to print one story about one medal, and ended up doing forty-odd pages because I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, some of the material in those pages is identical to what Barbara was quoting to me.
Identical,
Alan. Dates, places, events, even the names of the men involved. The only thing is, those men weren’t from Luftwich. The reports list their squadrons, and none of them are right. Here, look. I’ve marked the items.”
Identical,
Alan. Dates, places, events, even the names of the men involved. The only thing is, those men weren’t from Luftwich. The reports list their squadrons, and none of them are right. Here, look. I’ve marked the items.”
I handed him my notebook, with a sheaf of printouts tucked inside. He studied them, frowned, and handed them back to me.
“All right, exactly what is it that you’re thinking?”
I took a deep breath. “I think they’re in it together, Stanley and Barbara. I think they’re cooking up a false history of Luftwich. Stanley’s medals are part of it, and Barbara’s pretty little war stories.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but it must be because the real history is dangerous. It must have to do with that letter, Alan. It has to!”
He ran a hand down the back of his neck and finished his cup of coffee. “Any more?” he said, holding up the cup.
“No, I just made two cups this morning, in the French press. Shall I put on the coffeemaker?”
“Please.”
When I got back to the table his fingers were tented in front of him. I recognized the pose. He was about to hold forth.
“All right. Let’s be logical about this. You believe that there was deliberate sabotage of missions from Luftwich, that they failed to achieve their goals because someone made sure they wouldn’t.”
I nodded.
“And you believe that Stanley Rutherford and Barbara Price knew about it and are now covering up the facts.”
“Yes. I know the evidence is thin, but—”
He waved away thin evidence and continued.
“When you first propounded your sabotage theory, you were quite certain Merrifield must have been the saboteur, by reason of his position of superiority in the organization.”
“Also because he had the most to lose from German air raids over here. That’s if the information someone was providing from the other side was in payment for those sabotaged missions, and it makes sense to me.”
“We’re not evaluating at the moment, merely formulating. Are you still of the opinion that Merrifield was involved?”
I hesitated. “Well, it would be a big coincidence if he suddenly got murdered when all this other stuff was going on and his murder didn’t have anything to do with it, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s a trifle muddled, my dear. Try again.”
I thought a moment. “All right. How’s this? Merrifield was the big cheese, but the other two knew about it. At the time, I mean. The sabotage would have been easier with more than one person involved, even though the more people knew about it, the riskier it was. Now suppose Merrifield had some sort of attack of conscience or something in the past week or so. Suppose he was about to tell what he knew. Maybe Bill’s death triggered some memories. For whatever reason, suppose he told the others he was going to spill the beans. If they didn’t want them spilled, they’d have to do something about Merrifield, wouldn’t they?”
“I’ve not met either of these charming people, but obviously they’re not young. Would either of them have the strength, physically, to get out to Heatherwood House and smother Merrifield?”
“Not Stanley. He can barely walk, and his granddaughter is a tyrant. She wouldn’t let him go off on his own, let alone drive him way out there—if in fact he still drives. And I doubt he, Stanley, I mean, would have the strength to do the murder even if he could have got to Heatherwood House somehow. But Barbara—yes, Barbara could. She’s fussy and somewhat silly and tries to look much younger than she is. She doesn’t manage it, by the way. But she’s fit enough, even if overweight. She walks easily and carries heavy tea trays. She could have done it, easily, and she could have attacked Walter, too.”
“Why?”
“Obviously because she didn’t want—oh, I see. You’re saying it takes more than just fear of the exposure of a very old secret to make a motive for murder.”
“Murder has been committed for sixpence, or a pair of shoes. That wasn’t exactly what I meant. I meant, why now, in particular? If your theory has any basis in fact, either Stanley or Barbara could have simply said that Merrifield was senile, that he was imagining things, or denied that they were ever involved. That’s if they couldn’t talk him out of his purported confession. Why resort to murder?”
And I had no answer to that.
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