by Amy Myers
‘A terrible story,’ Georgia agreed. ‘What was he like as a person? He comes over as a dreamy poet, victim of a love affair, but you knew him as a friend and colleague. Why did Elfie love him? There must have been a definite rapport between them to bring them together, yet at present it seems like a Hollywood romance without a cause.’
Clemence looked blank for a moment, almost cold, and Georgia wondered if she’d gone too far. ‘Time reduces everything to Hollywood stereotypes,’ she replied flatly.
‘I don’t agree,’ Georgia said firmly. ‘You must remember the real Alwyn, at your discussions and everyday dealings. Was he sulky, good-humoured, funny, selfish, untidy, tidy? Could you paint a picture with words for me?’
‘Oh, Georgia,’ Clemence answered regretfully. ‘If only we could pour out every single recollection in a heap and let people like you sift through the results. Instead we have to select. I select as a painter, both consciously and subconsciously. I can’t paint everything I see or believe about someone. I paint what I think is the essence, which no doubt thereby acquires a layer of myself as well.’
She began to look tired, and Georgia remembered how old she was. It was easy to forget, as Clemence was such an energetic and forthright presence.
‘Alwyn laughed,’ Clemence offered at last. ‘We had an innocence in those days, a silly sense of humour, harking back to P. G. Wodehouse days, I suppose. That’s what made it all the harder as war clouds gathered. Alwyn liked puns,’ she added vaguely. ‘They’re unpopular now, in this non-verbal age, when the eye has taken over from the voice. But he and Gavin leapt on them as eagerly as on the crosswords …’ She broke off. ‘I’m not doing very well, am I?’
‘Did you like him?’ Georgia asked, still puzzled.
‘Of course. We couldn’t have worked together if we didn’t like and respect each other.’
‘And Roy? Did you like him?’
‘That’s an easy one. Everyone liked Roy. Alwyn probably suffered because of that. He was in his shade as a poet. When Roy was killed …’ For a moment she looked her full age.
‘Was that on active service?’
‘Yes and no. He was in the RAF at Biggin Hill at that time, with 609 Squadron; he had a forty-eight-hour pass that weekend and that’s how he came to be in London at the Café de Paris. It was in Coventry Street, near Piccadilly, underneath a cinema, which should have protected it, but by an architectural fluke failed to do so. The Café de Paris was the most glamorous spot in London for the youth of society – which in those days included lots of young officers. A friend of Gavin’s had been one of the survivors, and told him that night was a particularly glittering one. The dancing had just begun and the band was playing “Oh, Johnny”’ … She broke off. ‘Now where is this going, Georgia?’ she shot at her. ‘We’re getting away from Alwyn. Are you intent on proving that someone faked his suicide? I can think of no reason that anyone would have bothered.’
Taken aback, Georgia replied without thinking. ‘He can’t have won friends over his love affair with Elfie.’
‘Are you suggesting Gavin killed him?’ Clemence looked outraged, but gradually calmed down. ‘The idea is ridiculous. Elfie had stayed with Gavin and he’d had over ten years to get used to the idea that Elfie was or had been in love with Alwyn. You may think of it as a Hollywood romance, but it was very real at the time. I watched its progress.’
‘But what brought them together, apart from, presumably, sex? Hindsight must surely suggest something.’
Clemence looked at her steadily, as if considering whether this deserved an answer. ‘I suppose you could say it comes down to the medieval four elements: earth, air, water and fire. Gavin was a creature of the earth, as I am. Alwyn was of the air and so was Elfie.’
That was reasonable, Georgia thought, even if it got her no further. And that, she thought ruefully, could be because there was no further to get.
Clemence was still watching her closely. ‘Gavin might have loathed Alwyn when Elfie first fell for him, but hardly later. He’d won the battle, and had no reason to kill him.’
‘And no one would do so over the plagiarism charge?’
‘Roy would have been the only one to feel murderous, and he was dead.’
Back to square one, and possibly, Georgia thought, knocked out of the game. One last throw. ‘What about Birdie? Do you mind if I talk to her?’
‘Why should I mind?’ Clemence whipped back. ‘I’m not her keeper. If anyone is, it’s Christopher. I should ask him to take you there. He likes being included in things. Oh, and Georgia,’ she added, seeing her rise to leave, ‘don’t be surprised if Birdie informs you I murdered Alwyn. She does tend to get bees in her little bonnet nowadays, and I’m not her favourite person.’
Was this a sign that not all relations were harmonious in the Fernbourne Trust circle, Georgia wondered? She remembered that in the Fernbourne Room there had been no portrait of Birdie. She wasn’t one of the Five, despite the fact that according to Matthew’s book she had artistic talent. So what had that been like for Birdie? Talented but not sufficiently to be in the group, on the outskirts but not part of it. Would she be devoted to the Five’s memory or, as the outsider, might she break the united façade of the trust, if façade it was? Would Birdie be longing to tell hidden secrets or even more determined to keep the flame alive?
Four
The only obstacle to Georgia’s plans to see Birdie Field had been Christopher Atkin, not entirely to her surprise. At first he had flatly refused to allow her to see his mother, although he could give no reason such as poor health. Then he had had a change of heart, and telephoned to say that she could come over on Saturday afternoon. Luke had groaned at the intrusion into their weekend, but she couldn’t miss the opportunity.
Christopher seemed amiable enough today, fortunately. She found the cottage in a lane just off the main street, a hundred yards away from the square and on the opposite side. It was a small, uninspiring nineteenth-century building with a neat but equally uninspiring garden. From what little she saw of the interior – the hallway – it looked the bachelor pad it was. Tidy, dull, and somewhat soulless. A large stuffed bird in a glass case on a table by an old-fashioned coat stand stared out at her with lacklustre eyes.
‘Dad’s hobby,’ Christopher said briefly, which conjured up a weird picture of vicarage life in an earlier decade. His own was carpet-making and toy soldiers, he told her with pride, and the woolly rug she was standing on was obviously an example of the former.
‘We can take the footpath,’ he told her, giving her no choice. This, he explained, was a short cut to the retirement home.
Georgia didn’t mind walking. The day was fine and she was a dab hand at karate if he decided to protect the Five’s secrets by force. She wondered why that notion had occurred to her, until she remembered that Damien Trent had been killed on just such a footpath. In the event, Christopher proved to be the great big softy of the group, obviously devoted to his mother and her welfare. Talking wasn’t his strong point, and she had to make most of the conversation, while he ambled at his own pace, examining hedgerows and flora as he went.
‘You have everything you need for life in this village,’ she commented. ‘Church, surgery, school, post office and retirement home.’
He looked at her doubtfully, as if wondering whether her observation was as light-hearted as it seemed. ‘Mum’s happy there.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ Georgia said hastily, and he beamed. She wondered how much actual use he was on the trust board. All committees needed a listener, and willing pairs of hands were a must, even if they were slow. Christopher would provide both services, she guessed, whereas Ted Laycock was more of a force to be reckoned with.
‘I’m to be doorman at the new arts centre,’ he told her proudly, when she mentioned the trust. ‘Matthew said you wanted to write a book about us, but he’s written one. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, and it’s a good one,’ she agreed. ‘At the moment we don’t kn
ow whether we will write one, but it wouldn’t be the same as Matthew’s. We’re just interested in the Fernbourne Five, like Damien Trent,’ she added experimentally to see what resulted.
That did receive a reaction. ‘He’s the dead man. We reckon it was drugs. That Nick Baker.’
‘Is that Emma’s father?’
‘No.’ He looked amazed at her ignorance. ‘Her older brother. Had up for dealing. He’s out now.’
‘Was Sean Hunt involved?’
‘Don’t know,’ was all Christopher offered on that score. ‘Get the village a bad name, drugs do. Drink’s one thing, drugs another.’
‘Have you lived in Fernbourne all your life?’
‘Yes,’ he said, stooping to admire a butterfly. ‘That’s a Red Admiral, that is. I look after Mum. And work at a garden centre near Sittingbourne till I start work at the manor.’
Christopher could only be in his early fifties, she thought, so retirement would be a way off yet. ‘Did you ever live at Shaw Cottage?’ she asked.
‘Went there when Dad died. Then I got my own house. Suits me better.’
‘Didn’t you like the cottage?’
He thought about this. ‘Not with that Mrs Elfie there.’
‘Didn’t you like her?’
‘Yes.’ He seemed doubtful though. ‘Funny lady. Always out in the garden, but didn’t want no help. Said it was hers, but it wasn’t. It was Mum’s, so I went and got my own house and garden.’
After a quarter of an hour he pointed out a gate ahead in the hedgerow. ‘There it is. That’s where Mum lives. Use this path every day, I do. Bring Mum’s clothes, sweeties, magazines.’
‘Will your mother feel like talking about the old days?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said simply. ‘Some days she does, some days she doesn’t.’
The retirement home was a large but unspectacular Victorian house with a modern annexe. Georgia followed Christopher into the back door of the main house, and was pleasantly surprised at how light and smell-free it was, even though it was necessarily warm. She crossed her fingers that Birdie would not be in the home’s communal room, in which talking always tended to be difficult, in her experience, as so many pairs of curious eyes were fixed upon the visitors. Fortunately Christopher was walking past the general lounge, and then turned up a flight of stairs to the first floor. Birdie’s room was on a corner at the end of the corridor and Christopher peered round the half-open door.
‘Visitor, Mum,’ he called out. ‘Wants to know about Shaw Cottage, she does.’
Birdie Field, or Atkin as she legally was, lived up to her forename. She must always have been a small woman, Georgia thought, but now she seemed tiny, sitting in a large armchair by the window with only her head peeping out from an otherwise all-encompassing blanket for extra warmth. Her silver hair was elegantly waved, which suggested a woman fully in command of her life, despite the restricting circumstances. Her features were sharp, her nose almost beak-like, and her eyes were as bright as buttons, despite her physical frailty. They were busy summing Georgia up with great suspicion.
‘What about it?’ she snapped.
Was this a good or a bad day, Georgia wondered? ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she began tentatively.
‘Is it?’
‘Especially the garden,’ Georgia persevered, under that unwavering gaze.
‘She did that.’
‘Elfie Lane?’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘That’s what she called herself, Mrs High and Mighty Hunt.’
‘You liked her though. You invited her to live with you.’
‘How did you know that?’ The eyes gleamed like a falcon spotting prey.
‘The licensee of the King’s Head told me.’ She was glad she wasn’t forced to mention Clemence’s name. ‘My father and I are interested in the Fernbourne Five. You must have been very proud of your association with them.’ She was aware that this last comment was a hostage to fortune, but Birdie merely stared at her. It was Christopher who replied.
‘We are. It will be nice when the manor opens next year. Mum will be at the opening, won’t you, Mum? You’re making a speech.’
‘Depends on whether the pearly gates open for me first. I’m ninety-one.’ She looked at them triumphantly.
‘And still hale and hearty,’ said Christopher. He looked upset, as though the merest mention of her eventual departure was too much to bear.
‘It must have been a great loss to you, as well as a shock, when your brother died,’ Georgia said gently. ‘Do you mind if we talk about him?’
‘Why should I?’ she countered. ‘He was one of the Five, wasn’t he?’
‘He was,’ Christopher confirmed anxiously.
‘You must have loved him very much, especially as you had lived with him so long.’
‘Must I?’
Georgia almost gave up. This was getting nowhere, but fortunately Christopher took a hand. ‘Now then, Mother, don’t tease the lady. She’s read Matthew’s book.’
‘Then she doesn’t need to talk to me.’
‘I’d like to know what Alwyn was like,’ Georgia began again, aware she was making a pig’s dinner of this interview.
‘He killed himself. That’s what he was like,’ Birdie told her, glancing at Christopher almost like a child taunting its mother.
‘Because of his love for Elfie, and the charge that he put his own name to Roy Sandford’s work?’
The eyes flickered. ‘Rough music,’ she announced.
Exactly what Alice Laycock had said in the pub garden, and now the words began to ring a bell with her. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked Christopher, who shifted uneasily in his seat. Neither answered her, and she tried a different tack. ‘Was Alwyn often depressed?’ she asked Birdie.
‘Of course he was. Wouldn’t you be? Loving that stupid woman.’
‘Mother,’ Christopher said warningly. ‘Mrs Elfie wasn’t daft, you know that.’
Birdie stirred under the blanket, and apparently heeded whatever her son was implying, because when she next spoke it was in a lilting monotone. ‘She was a pretty little thing, and so fond of that garden of ours. I was no use at it, so she had it all to herself. Always there she was. “Love needs its gentle mist.” She wrote that. Or was it my Roy?’
She looked at Georgia, who suspected that Birdie knew quite well what she was saying. And what was this ‘my’ Roy about?
‘Now there was a man,’ Birdie continued more normally, and with sudden warmth in her voice. ‘I loved him. So long ago. “All the bells of heaven would ring, For you, my love, and me.” He wrote that for me,’ she ended sadly.
Birdie in love with Roy Sandford? Of course, Georgia remembered, there had been a brief implication of it in Matthew’s book. Roy had lived with Birdie and Alwyn for some years, she remembered. As Birdie’s lover or as a lodger?
Then Birdie was off on another track. ‘I met that Damien Trent. They say he’s dead too. Rough music, I daresay. Then came the war. Alwyn was turned down and became a teacher. My Roy went into the air force.’ A pause. ‘Elfie, well, she had a child to look after so she didn’t do war work. I did though.’ Georgia detected a note of satisfaction that she was getting one over Elfie. ‘I was single then, so off I went to do my bit at the Kent and Canterbury Hospital.’
‘What about your parents? Were they living with you then?’
She thought for a while. ‘Not with us,’ she said finally. ‘They moved to London while the war was on. Dad’s war job. He’d been through the first war in the trenches, and then he was called back for the second; said London was worse than the trenches during the Blitz. I was visiting them when Alwyn died. After the war they stayed where they were.’
‘The lady thinks Uncle Alwyn might have been murdered, Mum,’ Christopher said bluntly.
How on earth could he know that? Georgia wondered. She hadn’t told him so. It seemed the village gossip hotline wasn’t the only one in existence. The trust had one too. What was Birdie going to make of this? Wo
uld she launch into a diatribe about Clemence being responsible?
Birdie stared at her, then, to Georgia’s amazement, instead of looking shocked, she cackled. ‘Murdered? They were the Fernbourne Five, not the Mafia.’
When Georgia joined Peter on the Monday morning, he seemed more interested in the Internet than hearing about Birdie. ‘Except that she’s making a speech at the manor opening next year about Roy Sandford, there’s not much new,’ she told him. ‘She was in love with him. She doesn’t think Alwyn was murdered.’
Peter was obviously dying to get going on Suspects Anonymous, the computer software designed by her cousin Charlie Bone for keeping track of their evidence in their cases. Until there was a case, however, there could be little data to feed in.
‘Because of the united front again?’ he asked, whirling his wheelchair round to greet her.
‘That depends whether it’s unified because of some conspiracy between them, or whether it’s simply the truth. If the former, I don’t see any way to crack it; if the latter, there’s no need. Incidentally, do the words “rough music” mean anything to you?’
‘Of course.’ Peter looked smug. ‘And they should to you. Friday Street was a variant of rough music. What brought that up?’
How stupid of her to forget. Friday Street was the scene of an earlier case, in which villagers played music in the streets to indicate an injustice done. Rough music was the opposite of this. Villagers would take to the streets to bang saucepans, iron pans, or washboards outside the home of someone deemed not fit to be a villager.
‘Your turn to forget,’ she said. ‘Alice Laycock mentioned it and Birdie Field did too.’
‘A coincidence, do you think? Or is it something to do with Alwyn Field?’ Peter looked interested. ‘Do you think he could have been the victim of it? If so, it’s possible that that’s what drove him over the edge.’
