Winter of Discontent (24 page)

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Authors: Jeanne M. Dams

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Winter of Discontent
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“Sounds positively Greek.
Ancient
Greek.”
“A little like that, I think. Leigh Burton is a single-minded woman, and she’s not in the least intellectual or well educated. It’s a frightening combination. And do you know, I think in a way my visit to her might have been a catalyst of sorts. She hinted something of what she knew, perhaps in hopes that I might learn the truth without it coming from her. But I also started her thinking, and she must have come up with the same conclusion I did: that the man behind the sabotage had to be an officer in charge, had, in fact, to be John Merrifield. And I had further stirred up all her old memories. So she killed Merrifield.”
“And today? When she denied her earlier hints?”
“Today she knew she was a murderess. The penalties for that are worse than for simple assault.”
“Indeed.”
Alan took my hand and we sat in silence, staring at the trappings of Christmas.
 
 
 
WE WERE PICKING AT OUR SUPPER WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG. Alan brought Derek back to the kitchen and, after a quick glance at him, poured him a glass of scotch.
“Thanks,” he said. “A little water, please, but not much. I need a stiffener.”
“Bad?” asked Alan.
“Fought like a tiger. Literally.” He took a long pull at his drink, and then held out his hands, which were badly scratched.
“You’ll have those seen to,” said Alan calmly. “Humans are among the most germ-ridden animals.”
I was shocked and said so. “She did that? The Ice Princess?”
“Not so icy anymore. I won’t quote the language she used, but it wasn’t pretty. Not at all what I would have expected.”
“Did she admit anything?”
“Eventually. Not at first” He took another sip of scotch and water and settled back in his chair to tell us the story.
“We caught her just as she was leaving the house. She did have a WI committee meeting, incidentally. We sent men there in case we missed her at home, and the good ladies waited quite a while until they decided their chairwoman wasn’t coming. At any rate, she insisted she couldn’t stop to talk to us, that she had duties to attend to, it was most inconvenient—all that. Then when we insisted—I had Bledsoe with me, Alan, he’s a very good man—when we insisted, she gave in with very bad grace, let us into the house, and stood there in the hall tapping her feet. I suggested we sit down, she said there was no need. You know the routine. Eventually I simply ordered her to sit, and she lost her temper. Who did I think I was, ordering her about in her own house, shed complain to the chief constable, to the Home Office, whoever. I think she’d have got to the Queen if Bledsoe hadn’t simply walked over to the little desk and opened it up, and there they were, just as you said, Mrs. Martin.
“Of course she claimed at first they were hers, and then when Bledsoe read out Mr. Fanshawe’s name from inside the cover, she couldn’t imagine how they’d got there, and so on. It wasn’t until I told her we’d have to take her cane in and test it for blood and tissue that she went over the edge. Started screaming, went at me with those fingernails of hers. One wouldn’t have thought a woman her age would be so strong.”
I shuddered. Alan, without a word, got up and brought some bourbon for both of us. He also refilled Derek’s glass.
“No, Mrs. Martin, it wasn’t pleasant, but it was instructive. She told us the whole story, or nearly. It dates back to the old air base, Luftwich, during World War II.”
And he meticulously went through it, one step at a time, beginning with Bill’s discovery of the letter. It all went much as I had surmised, with one outstanding exception.
“And who do you think was at the heart of the thing in the first place, according to Mrs. Burton?”
“Merrifield, of course,” I said confidently.
“No. It was the sainted Mr. Tredgold.”
“No! That sweet old man?”
“That sweet old man was a pacifist, remember.
Is
a pacifist. If Burton’s story is accurate, Tredgold began to spout pacifist doctrine early on at Luftwich. At some point he must have been approached by a German spy—England was rife with them in the early days of the war—who persuaded him that the way to end the war early, prevent further deaths, was an exchange of information and a private nonaggression agreement. They’re persuasive arguments, of course. War is never a simple issue of good versus evil, and it’s never easy to know what’s best. The poor naive man thought the German line sounded good, so he took it to Merrifield. With all he had to lose, Merrifield loved the idea.”
“And that’s why Mr. Tredgold refuses to talk about the war,” I said. There was a catch in my voice. “Once he began to realize what he had done, what he had unleashed …”
“Probably. He’s a man with an active conscience. It simply became confused. And he’s had to live ever since with what, with the best of motives, he made happen.”
“And now there’s another murder on his conscience,” said Alan, “because Merrifield’s death was a direct result of those wartime activities. At least, has Burton admitted murdering Merrifield?”
“Admitted it! She boasted about it. By that time she was treating Bledsoe and me like a pair of naughty schoolboys who were interfering with her duties. She quite patiently explained that we could deal with her later, after she’d killed Tredgold and Rutherford and Price. ‘But you do see, surely, that they must be executed?’ She used that word. Her rationale was that they were war criminals and deserved to die.”
“And maybe they do,” I said after a little silence. “And maybe Merrifield did, too. But not at Leigh Burton’s hands. She’s neither judge nor jury, nor yet God.”
“No,” said Alan. He sipped from his glass.
“What will happen to them?” I asked eventually. “To Barbara and Stanley and poor old Mr. Tredgold?”
Alan and Derek looked at each other; Derek sighed. “Probably nothing. Rutherford is very ill, I understand.”
“Emphysema, he claims, but I wonder if it isn’t lung cancer. He coughed terribly when I was there.”
“If that’s the case, he might well be dead before the cumbersome machinery of the law could be cranked up and set in motion. In any case there’s no real evidence against any of them. What have we got to take to a jury? A coded letter that could mean anything. A collection of medals, some of which might be stolen—or might be purchased legitimately. Some statements about Luftwich that may not be true, but made to one person, without a witness. Tredgold would almost certainly confess, if confronted, but given his mental state, who would believe him?”
I looked at my glass.
“We have nothing to support a charge of war crimes,” Derek went on. “And they’re old. I intend to let them be.” He surveyed our faces.
“They caused Bill Fanshawe’s death, between them,” I protested.
“We can’t prove that, either. Oh, I believe he was down in that tunnel to hide the precious original document, just in case one of the people he’d asked to explain decided to destroy it. And I believe the stress of his discovery, and the physical effort involved, led to his stroke. But I can’t prove it.”
“They’ll be facing judgment soon,” said Alan, almost to himself. “A truer judgment than any we could mete out.”
“And they have been punished and are being punished, Stanley by his miserable existence with his daughter, Barbara by her loneliness and the loss of her fiancé, Mr. Tredgold with his terrible, agonizing memories. Yes,” I agreed. “Leave them alone.”
“And now who’s being judge and jury?” said Alan wryly. “Oh, I think it’s the right thing to do. It’s only …” He raised his hands and let them fall.
“Yes.” I tried to reason it out. “We know some things no one else does. The question is, do we have the right to keep them to ourselves? On the other hand, do we have the right to ruin what might be the last few months of life for three people whose crimes were in the distant past?”
“For a policeman, it’s simpler than that,” Derek pointed out. “It comes down to what it always comes down to, in the prosecution of any criminal: Do we have a case? How often have you, Alan, been forced to release someone you knew perfectly well committed the crime? You hadn’t enough evidence to convict him, so you had to let him go. That’s the case here. I do intend to go to both Rutherford and Price and tell them what I know. Then if they had any thought of further cover-up action, they’ll think again.”
“And I suppose,” I said, “you’ll manipulate the evidence against Leigh Burton so she is tried only for the murder of Merrifield, and that with no mention of motive.”
“She has confessed, before a police witness. Unless she recants that confession—and she won’t, she’s gone right round the twist—we’ll have no trouble with a conviction. I don’t imagine Her Majesty will have to provide accommodation for Mrs. Leigh Burton very long.”
“No.”We finished our drinks in silence. There was nothing more to say.
 
 
The next morning, early, I went next door. I wanted to give Jane the news before Walter was up.
She had, of course, already heard it. I’ll never know how she does it. Perhaps living in a small town for over eighty years has given her antennae for disturbing vibrations.
“So it’s over,” she said, pouring me coffee without my asking.
“Yes. You heard about Mr. Tredgold being the mastermind behind the whole thing? He’s the one I feel sorry for, really. He truly is a fine person, and one horrible mistake of judgment in his youth ruined not only his life, but so many other lives.”
“Bill’s,” said Jane flatly. “Mine.”
“Oh, Jane, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”
She waved away my apology. “Dead, anyway. Last night.”
I caught up after a second or two. “Mr. Tredgold? Dead? Goodness, he surely didn’t commit suicide! That would be against all his principles.”
“No. Just—died. Left a note. Confessed everything.”
“How do you know?” This time I couldn’t resist asking.
“Friend, nurse at Canterbury House. Rang me up.”
“Was it a heart attack, or stroke, or what?”
“Heart failure. What we all die of. Nurse said sometimes they decide to die and do, just like that.”
I nodded slowly. “He’s wanted to die for a long time, I imagine. If he knew about Mrs. Burton’s crimes, especially the murder, it could have been the last straw for him.”
“Said he was responsible for everything. In the note. Even Bill’s death.”
I touched Jane’s hand. She accepted the sympathy for a moment and then moved briskly away.
“More coffee?”
“Yes, please. Jane, are you going to be all right? I know this must have come as a terrible shock to you.” It was a lame remark, but Jane hates effusiveness.
“Got one good thing out of it,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the ceiling. I could hear some sounds of movement upstairs; Walter was awake.
“Walter? Yes, he’ll be a companion for you, at least until he finishes at the university.”
“More than that.” Jane swallowed and cleared her throat, as if what she had to say was difficult. Her face had become flushed. “He’s my grandson.”
I thought at first Id heard wrong. “Walter—he—you—” I couldn’t find anything sensible to say.
“He doesn’t know yet.” She sat down at the table, speaking more easily now that the worst part was over. “I had a son. Bill’s son. Thought Bill was dead, gave the boy to my cousin. She was married, never able to have kids. Loved having the baby.
“Then Bill came back. Never told him, better for the boy.”
“But you kept track of him.”
“No. Cousin moved to Scotland. Lost touch. Wanted to forget. No one knew I was teaching—” She let it go at that, but I understood. A single woman with an illegitimate son, in those days, would not have been allowed to go on teaching. She would have had a hard time getting any sort of decent job, in fact. Jane had been forced to make the hard decision to abandon her son. I nodded.
“Cousin did write me when the boy married. Thought I might want to come. Didn’t. When I met Walter, name of Tubbs, didn’t mean anything to me. Did some checking with the university when he was hurt, trying to find family. Records had father’s name. My son’s name. Father was dead, mother had remarried, husband, name of Tubbs, adopted the boy. Stepfather dead now, too, mother no better than she should be. Walter oldest of four, neglected …” She spread her hands. “I took him in. Only thing to do.”
“And you’re thrilled. Go on, admit it.”
One of Jane’s rare smiles broke over her face. I felt I should have heard trumpets, as at an Easter sunrise. “Fine boy. I’ll tell him someday. He loved Bill. Would be happy to know he was his grandfather.”
Walter came clattering into the kitchen.
“Good
morning! Hi, Mrs. Martin! What’s for breakfast, Aunt Jane? I’m perishing of hunger.” He gave her a peck on the cheek before turning to bury his head in the refrigerator.
A tear escaped Jane’s eye. She wiped it away with one corner of her apron and frowned furiously at me, for my eyes were brimming, too. I waved, not trusting myself to speak, and went out to walk in the garden for a few minutes. I couldn’t show Alan tears I wasn’t prepared to explain. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The sky was a dark gray, and as I watched, a few flakes of snow began to fall. Snow for Christmas. I thought about long-held bitterness and new happiness and knew that Christmas, even for the old, was a time of miracles.

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