by Amy Myers
‘Ted didn’t think it would be a good idea,’ Georgia said doubtfully. If Alice were really unhinged, then she would win no brownie points from Fernbourne for taking advantage in this way.
Alice snorted. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Go where?’ Georgia felt she was definitely losing the plot.
‘Where do you think? The cottage. Adam’s taking us.’ She cackled, obviously seeing Georgia’s bewilderment. ‘Passed his test last week, he did. Come on, we’ll cut over to Long Lane.’ Beckoning to Georgia, she marched back through the churchyard and across the road to the footpath along which Georgia had walked with Christopher.
After a hundred yards or so, however, Alice branched off to join the tarmacked road. Here, parked in the gateway to a field, Adam awaited them, sitting proudly in the driving seat of an ancient Peugeot.
‘I bought it for him,’ Alice told her matter-of-factly. ‘His dad don’t know he’s got it yet.’
‘I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when Bob does find out,’ Georgia laughed.
‘Dad’s all right,’ Adam told her. ‘It’s Granddad has funny ideas, doesn’t he, Gran?’
‘He does that all right,’ Alice agreed. ‘Not the only one in Fernbourne either.’
Georgia climbed into the back, Alice into the passenger seat, and Adam set off with the confident driving of one to whom all dangers of the road are for other drivers. Georgia calculated that thankfully the distance to Shaw Cottage must be relatively short, even though Adam was following the lane to Birdie’s retirement home, which must join up further along with the route Georgia knew. Catching a glimpse of Clemence at the front door of the home as they shot past it, Georgia was amused that today at least Clemence seemed to have had no difficulty in escaping Janie’s ministrations. Perhaps it was just Marsh & Daughter on Janie’s list of forbidden visitors – and no prizes for who would have ordered that. Clemence wasn’t looking their way, but even so Georgia found herself instinctively ducking. The last person she wanted a chat with before the question of the plagiarism had been resolved was Clemence.
Alice had also noticed Clemence. ‘Sat for her too, I did, but I wasn’t good enough for her. Only used me once, she did. Said I was too pretty. Blooming cheek.’
‘Wasn’t that a compliment?’
‘That lady,’ Alice said darkly, ‘isn’t into compliments. Rules the roost, she does. Even Mr Matthew’s scared of her. Stop here, Ad,’ she commanded. ‘We’ll walk the rest. I like the view,’ she explained as she climbed out. ‘Remember walking up this lane in the spring. Used to love it. Smothered in primroses, and lady’s smock everywhere.’
Adam sauntered behind them, whistling. Unusual nowadays, Georgia thought, uneasily remembering that whistling in the wood.
‘Why did you want to come here today?’ Georgia asked Alice, receiving a sharp look for her pains.
‘You asked about the old days,’ she replied. ‘Modelling and that. Here’s where I did it.’
‘Was that before Alwyn died or afterwards?’ Georgia’s hopes rose. This could be the lifeline to Elfie that she had needed.
‘Both. Posed for him, posed for Birdie, but it was Mrs Elfie I loved, poor thing. “Come on, Alice,” she’d say. “Who’ve you bin kissing today? Do tell.” Or she’d say, “Pretend you’re off to meet your Ted. I want your eyes all soft and dreamy.” Sometimes she’d say, “I want you evil today, Alice. All woman.” No problem about that, I can tell you.’
She stopped with satisfaction at the gate to Shaw Cottage and regarded the garden with as much pleasure as if it had been as carefully tended as those of Sissinghurst Castle. Compared with Georgia’s first view of it six weeks ago, the garden was looking even sorrier for itself, although a couple of green bags of waste indicated someone had been working here.
‘Would Christopher have done this tidying-up?’ Georgia asked.
Alice shrugged. ‘Don’t know. But he’s a lazy bugger. Worse than Adam here.’ She dug her elbow into Adam’s ribs in friendly fashion, and he grinned. If she were Emma, Georgia thought, she’d snap Adam up quickly.
‘That Christopher only does things he’s told to. Finds life easier that way. Don’t we all? He only gets up in the morning because Birdie wants her comforts brought up.’
‘He holds down a job.’
‘Has to. He understands what money means all right, and Birdie don’t have enough to give him pocket money.’
‘Why leave the house to the trust then instead of selling it to them or someone else?’
‘Part of the heritage, ain’t it?’ Alice said dismissively. ‘They’ll do the place up one of these days when they get the money. After Madam Clemence pops her clogs. They keep the weeds down and the roof on, and that’s about all.’
Shaw Cottage seemed small beer compared with the manor though, especially since Alwyn was disgraced, so why was it worth the trust paying Birdie’s retirement home fees? Was it planning to turn it into a mini museum dedicated to Roy, Elfie and Alwyn? That seemed unlikely.
‘Come on,’ said Alice impatiently, marching up the drive.
‘Are we going into the house?’
‘The garden. That’s what I want to see.’
Alice led the way, muttering to herself with the occasional glance at Georgia. Adam ambled behind them. The grass at the rear of the house had been scythed down for the winter, which was obviously where the waste bag contents had stemmed from.
‘Here’s her garden. Her love-in-a-mist.’
Georgia’s heart sank. Straight towards the stream. ‘Are we going across?’
Alice looked alarmed. ‘No. Never. Love-in-a-mist doesn’t grow that side. She never crossed it.’
‘Why not?’ Georgia asked, even if she was in complete agreement with Elfie on that score. This side was bad enough.
‘More mysterious that way, she’d say. Never find out what’s in the dark woods of people. You think it’s light and pretty but if you cross the stream, the dark falls. We were out here once and the glow-worms were out. She liked it, started sketching them. He was dead by then, thought it funny I did, that she would be here by the stream where he did it.’
‘Where Alwyn committed suicide?’
‘“I’m near him here,” she’d say. Close to him. She was a funny one, one of nature’s innocents, as they say. You expected all the rabbits and hedgehogs and birds to come out and sit around singing like they did in that film Bambi.’
‘There was darkness in that film too.’ Even now Georgia couldn’t think of the scene of the death of Bambi’s mother without remembering her terror as a child, and looking now at those woods over there it was all too vivid a memory.
‘You can’t have one without the other,’ Alice said matter-of-factly. ‘Mrs Elfie said that’s why she put a little bit of dark in every picture, to remind children that life isn’t going to be all love-in-a-mist.’ She ruminated. ‘Death in a mist. Ever popped open a seed case from a love-in-a-mist, Georgia?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Fairy rings,’ Alice said abruptly. ‘Remember them?’
‘No.’ Where was all this going – anywhere or nowhere?
‘Mrs Elfie had one. I’ll show you.’ Alice made her way back to the lawn area, though it hardly deserved that name now, and over to the built-up rockery at the far side. At its foot was what had once been a stone statue, and Alice awkwardly got down on her knees and bent over, examining the earth.
‘Here it is!’ she cried in triumph.
‘Mushrooms, Gran?’ Adam asked, puzzled.
Alice looked at him scornfully. ‘Always thinking of your stomach, young man. Ferns.’
And then Georgia remembered her own childhood. She’d been much closer to the earth then, both physically and figuratively, and more aware of its richness. She had spent hours picking at dark tiny ferns and mosses that formed mysterious fairy rings. How could she have forgotten?
‘Here’s a bit of it.’ Alice’s fingers plucked at the fern. The fairies haven’t gone, h
ave they?’
Georgia glanced at Adam, who made a face.
‘As long as the ferns were here, the evil fairies would stay,’ Alice explained. ‘Then Mrs Elfie would laugh and laugh. Like a kid, she was.’
She sounded it, thought Georgia cynically.
‘She’d try to plant those black seeds, but they wouldn’t grow. Not here. No love-in-a-mist where the fairies live.’
That poem. Georgia suddenly remembered that weird verse at the end of Elfie’s book, and even as she thought of it, Alice said, ‘Lots of black seeds swarming inside the seed cases. Black. I can see her popping one open now, in her pretty summer dress, and her fair hair, staring down at those black seeds. You never know what’s inside people, do you?’
‘No,’ Georgia agreed, wondering what, if anything to make of all this.
‘“Out of these black things come the blue flowers, don’t they, Alice?” she’d say. Yes, I’d answer, though I never knew what she was after. “Let’s scatter them on the earth,” she’d say, “so there’ll be blue flowers.” Then she’d cry for Alwyn. Only not when Birdie was around, because that would upset her too. Very fond of her brother, she was, and bitter when he died. Mrs Elfie too. Sad, very sad.’
‘Was she very eccentric after Alwyn’s death?’
‘Always a bit odd,’ Alice conceded. ‘That’s what Mr Roy said.’
‘You remember Roy Sandford?’ This was hopeful.
‘I was a kid when he died. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. Old enough to know he was a looker. Saw him the day he died. Joe Baker brought him from the station in his butcher’s van. Digging for victory they all were in the garden that day. Me too. Then Miss Birdie and Mr Alwyn had to go on duty so off poor Mr Roy went alone to London. Them bombs were nasty things. Now you’re here, then you’re not. Ah well. Broke all their hearts when they found out.’
Alice caressed the ferns with her hands. ‘Now the fairy rings are broken. All gone.’ Slowly she stood up, and without looking at Georgia began to make her way back to the stream. ‘Poor Mr Alwyn, poor Mrs Elfie,’ she murmured as she reached the stepping stones.
‘Did she draw the illustrations for The Woods Beyond The Stream from this side?’ Georgia asked.
‘Yes. More mysterious.’ Alice stared across the stream. ‘I never went across.’
‘I did,’ Adam suddenly piped up. ‘Went all the time as a kid. Want to see?’ he asked Georgia.
‘Not me,’ Alice said firmly. ‘You go.’
Torn between cowardice and curiosity, Georgia plucked up the courage to follow him across the stepping stones, trying not to look at the tree where Alwyn had probably died. The leaves were falling fast from the trees now, exposing the undergrowth. This was the wild wood of The Wind in the Willows where anything might lurk, she thought.
‘There’s a path of sorts through here,’ Adam told her, forging his way ahead.
‘Where to?’
‘You’ll see.’
It followed the stream as far as the oak tree, and then turned into the undergrowth and woods. Georgia was glad she was wearing an old anorak as she fought her way through. All around her was the wet steamy smell of autumn and she wondered where on earth she was being taken. ‘Here,’ he said, stopping in his tracks.
The bushes opened up into a glade, where only overgrown grass broken by the occasional patch of brambles greeted her. The golden-brown leaves of horse chestnut covered the ground. She was surprised to find it was a companionable place, an oasis in the midst of these repellent woods. No fingerprints in this glade, thank goodness.
‘I used to collect conkers here, when I was a kid,’ Adam said. ‘The best conkers they were, so it was worth it.’
Georgia could see why. To Adam the place brought back childhood memories, but to her it was only a moment’s respite in the midst of an otherwise alien atmosphere, and she was relieved when they crossed the stream to rejoin Alice. She was standing stock-still, staring at them, hands thrust into the pockets of her ancient jacket.
‘Time we were getting back, Gran,’ Adam said anxiously. For all his rebellion, he wasn’t going to risk upsetting his grandfather too far, and even Alice turned to go immediately.
‘Got what you wanted?’ he asked Georgia shyly at the end of another nightmare ride back to Fernbourne.
‘Thanks, Adam. Yes.’
It might be true. The problem was she didn’t know what it was she’d got.
‘We’ve a dinner guest tonight,’ Luke warned her immediately she came through the front door. Georgia had already noted that the lights in the oast house were out suspiciously early. Her heart sank though. She was dying to hear all about Molly.
‘Is it Peter?’ she asked hopefully.
‘If he wants to come. It’s Molly though.’
‘Good.’ Even better. She might not like Molly but at least this represented progress.
‘We can go out if you prefer.’
‘Let’s eat here. Looser tongues and no flapping ears.’
‘I doubt if Molly’s tongue is ever loose.’
Peter elected not to come on the principle that Molly might feel outnumbered which would lead to tighter tongues, not looser. In the cosy atmosphere of Medlars with whatever they could rustle up for dinner she might relax and mellow.
Even Luke hadn’t yet heard the results of the trustees’ meeting, and he was as on edge as she was until Molly arrived.
‘Very nice.’ Molly gave Medlars her seal of approval almost as soon as she came in. ‘A Wealden house originally?’
‘Yes, but changed and extended over the years,’ Georgia replied.
‘Well done for not tinkering too much. Now –’ a cool look – ‘let’s get the business out of the way first and then we can relax.’ Molly was taking command, but perhaps that was no bad thing.
‘Good idea,’ Luke said heartily and made haste to serve drinks and seat Molly comfortably in an armchair.
‘You’ll be hearing formally from Matthew,’ she began.
Of course, Georgia thought. He wouldn’t miss that chance.
‘Nevertheless the trustees have decided that we should get our independent assessment on the handwriting issue, based on more samples than you were able to produce.’ Molly kept a straight face. ‘If only to … um …’
‘Keep me quiet?’ Luke enquired.
Molly nodded. ‘That’s reasonable, don’t you think? After all the plagiarism was never made public so in fact it suits the board if Alwyn is the original writer after all.’
‘Very reasonable,’ Luke said, ‘considering your biography is affected.’
‘Not yet,’ Molly said swiftly. ‘If the verdict goes against Alwyn, there’s no problem with my biography. If it goes against Roy, we do have a problem with it, and that’s when we decide what to do.’
‘A unanimous decision, was it?’ Luke asked bluntly.
Molly didn’t give an inch. ‘Let’s say the decision was passed.’
‘How did Clemence take it?’ Georgia asked anxiously. ‘After all, Gavin might be a natural suspect since he brought the charge.’
‘She didn’t demur,’ Molly said neutrally.
Or couldn’t, Georgia thought, forcing herself to be logical. Fine workmanship would be necessary. If Gavin didn’t have the ability to do it himself, either Elfie or Birdie or Clemence might have been drawn in. Since the first two had nothing to gain and indeed everything to lose by any such involvement, Clemence would seem the natural choice for Gavin to turn to. But it went against every instinct Georgia had.
‘Who will do the official verdict on the whole collection?’ Luke enquired.
Molly looked at him in some amusement. ‘You need have no fear. The material won’t disappear. It’s already in my car. And if you’re worried that my biography might unduly influence me, I should point out that my reputation as an agent is even more important to me.’
The rest of the evening passed reasonably amicably, and Georgia even felt more rapport with Molly. All the same she was glad when Mo
lly left and she and Luke could collapse into bed. She couldn’t sleep however, her mind whirling around.
‘Luke,’ she whispered. ‘Roy, the bright flame.’
‘Put it out,’ he muttered sleepily.
She couldn’t. Could Molly really be willing to see the whole concept of Roy the bright flame vanish and his laurels ceded to Alwyn Field, the wimp? It wasn’t, she was sure, going to be as simple as that. Could they really trust Molly? There could be black seeds at the heart of the Fernbourne Trust, ready to sow themselves while the mist was busy blurring Marsh & Daughter’s eyes.
Ten
Mornings weren’t usually Georgia’s best time, especially Monday ones, but then she hadn’t usually woken up with so much certainty that she was right. The inspirations of the dark usually vanished all too quickly with the coming of daylight.
Not this one, and yet she couldn’t see where to take it from here, except to try it out on Peter.
‘Roy Sandford. The bright flame,’ she began as soon as was decent after she arrived in the office and caught up with the post.
‘Not again. What about him?’ Peter grunted.
Not the ideal moment to start, but she had no option now. ‘We’ve been given the impression that Roy was the centre of the fire of the Fernbourne Five. But how often have we seen it burning?’
‘Poetic but …’ Peter halted what was obviously going to be a very grumpy reply, and took time to think about it. ‘Only in connection with The Flight of the Soul.’
‘If that should turn out to be Alwyn’s work after all, what are we left with?’ Patience, Georgia, she schooled herself. Build up a case first.
‘Brilliant career cut short, loss of Birdie’s lover, his strong personality—’
‘How brilliant?’
‘Great Oxford reputation. Got a first in history. Two books of poems well received,’ Peter rattled off. ‘One detective story, highly rated, Snake in the Grass.’
‘Compare that output with Gavin’s trilogy about the Spanish Civil War, Clemence’s huge output of oils and watercolours, even Elfie’s work – does he measure up to, let alone excel them?’
