by Tessa Arlen
“Are you saying that Letty hated Edwina?”
“No, that’s too strong. I felt that Letty was contemptuous of Edwina, or at least her behavior.”
His mouth turned down at the word. “Contemptuous? That sounds rather temperate, chilly even.” He scratched the lobe of his ear. “Do people kill out of contempt?” We had slowed down to a crawl. The turning to the airfield was yards away and he evidently wanted to have this conversation before we arrived.
I knew he was alluding to what he called our great British reserve: our cultural dislike of emotional displays, our reticence about anything that suggests the airing of private feelings.
“Given enough provocation, contempt might easily escalate to hate,” I pointed out. “I think people commit murder when they are in the grip of intense emotions: extreme jealousy, an overwhelming desire for revenge, or a desperate need to get someone out of the way because they pose a threat to you or someone you care about.”
He nodded, his lips pursed, as he considered. “Yes, but to some extent everyone suffers from jealousy, envy, greed, and a desire for revenge, but they don’t act on it, and if they do, it’s usually in a petty way.”
I nodded. “I wasn’t talking about ill-wishing someone you dislike; I was talking about murdering someone you hate.”
He stopped the car and folded his arms. “What about premeditated murders, when the killer plots away for months—years, even—to eliminate someone for some reason or other?”
It was my turn to consider. “Yes, of course, but ‘some reason or other’ is usually a human emotion taken to the extreme, isn’t it? Cold, brooding hatred rather than an act of furious rage.”
“Hah.” He put his foot on the accelerator and we surged forward toward the gate into Didcote Airfield. “I can’t imagine someone like Letty causing Edwina’s death because she thought her manners were contemptible; she struck me as being a particularly pleasant, get-along type—they all did.”
How little he knows the English! Ilona observed. All those simmering emotions bubbling away under a veneer of frozen good manners. It doesn’t take much to scrape away that layer of civilization, I thought, and then you have entire countries murdering each other.
“Yes, they appear to get along really well! But supposing Edwina had done something so unforgivable that Letty’s contempt escalated to hatred?” I waved my hand in an attempt to explain further. “This is all hypothetical, by the way.”
“But you said you saw contempt, not hatred.”
“That’s right, but Letty might have discovered something more about Edwina that intensified her emotions. All I am saying is that two of Edwina’s fellow pilots didn’t appear to like her very much. They respected her skill as a pilot, but Letty demonstrated a dislike that bordered on contempt, and there has to be a reason for it, other than Edwina’s bad manners.”
“What you’re saying is that Letty had absolutely no time at all for Edwina, and I’m saying that that is not a motive for murder.”
I exhaled carefully, hoping that it didn’t sound too much like a sigh of frustration. I completely understood what Oscar Wilde meant when he said, “Two countries divided by a common language.” Even Bess barely suppressed a groan that, having stopped, we were still in the car.
I waited a few seconds so I didn’t sound too impatient. “Yes, but it might be a reason to investigate this tight-knit group, who have lived and worked together for a little over two years.”
“I think it’s the writer in you—you can’t resist looking for signs of malice and murder!”
I waved my hand to dismiss all possibilities of an overactive imagination. “I’m just naturally curious, that’s all.” I remembered Annie correcting Huntley’s criticism of Edwina as a pain in the neck and telling him not to be disrespectful. “But it seems we have a divided camp where Edwina’s popularity is concerned: Annie Trenchard and Grable didn’t seem to actively dislike her.”
“And the others? Have you had a chance to assess their attitude?”
“Zofia seemed to get on pretty well with her—at least Edwina was more relaxed around her. And Zofia expressed her admiration for Edwina”—I searched for the right word—“warmly. But Letty and June are in the opposite camp, and yesterday Edwina was downright rude to Sir Basil and he didn’t like it at all, so not much camaraderie there either.”
“So, we have three for Edwina and three against. What about Vera Abercrombie?”
Commander Abercrombie in my opinion was entirely wrapped up in being Commander Abercrombie. I suspected she was one of those matter-of-fact types who rarely show, let alone acknowledge, their feelings. “I don’t think she can have approved of Edwina, especially if she was drinking heavily. As their commanding officer I expect she maintains a slight distance from all of them. I don’t know if she actively disliked Edwina.”
“And what about you?”
I laughed. “Funnily enough, even though she was brash and a bit uncouth . . .”
Bessie nuzzled my hand as a reminder to get out of the car—she could smell a good breakfast from miles away.
“Don’t tell me you liked her?”
“Liking has nothing to do with how I felt. I—” I told myself to be honest, not syrupy in the way of girls who don’t want to sound catty. Go on, demanded Ilona, impatient with my dithering. Tell him what you think!
“No, to be frank, I didn’t like her. She just wasn’t my type. I found her rude and rather intimidating. But underneath the armor coating I thought she was vulnerable, that her display of confidence was a cover-up. She was on the edge of things . . . she wasn’t really part of their group, not even with Annie and Grable—I think she was ill at ease and tense with all of them. Except Zofia; they were friends.”
He was gazing intently at me as I finished, and then he whistled, his long, low whistle that ascends, then descends in scale. Then he did a lot of nodding, as if he were making sense of the female consensus and what he had experienced.
“She was a mess,” he finally came up with. “She was so . . . I don’t quite know how to put it without sounding . . . judgmental. At first, I thought she was a pretty, outgoing, and vivacious girl, and then I found myself saying, ‘Uh-oh, time to run . . . ,’ and I’m afraid that’s the size of it.” He shook his head. Was it in embarrassment for showing an interest or because he had had a lucky escape? “But I can see what you mean about her armor coating, and she was pretty defensive.”
There were a few perceptions of who Edwina was in what he had told me, and a lot about himself: “Oops, I’ve made a mistake about you—gotta nip this in the bud” summed up what Griff had probably thought.
“But do you see what I mean, about a camp divided, about possible enemies?” I asked.
He inhaled, closed his eyes, and exhaled in a gusty sigh. “I can’t pretend to understand the subtleties of a group of women who live and work together. With men, it’s entirely different, or maybe there are the same problems; we just deal with it differently. There are some guys on the base you get along with and some you avoid. And, yes, occasionally tempers run high, they are bound to, but we just kind of sort it out mostly by looking the other way. It can be claustrophobic living and working on an air force base. But we just have to rub along somehow.”
“How do you ‘sort it out’? Do you fight?”
“What? You’ve been watching too many Humphrey Bogart movies!” He chuckled. “It’s against regulations to hit a brother officer. But one time, when we were in training at Lawson in Georgia, there was this particular guy, I think he was a gunner, or maybe he was a bombardier—anyway, there was something about him.” He shrugged. “He was aggressive and so were his pals; they all had a bit of a chip. The weather in Georgia is heavy going: hot and really humid. He started a fight, and it got nasty. They had to call in the MPs.”
He looked at me, his eyes shining with the memory. “That’s my po
int,” I said. “When you have a group of people who work long and dangerous hours and live together too, there is tension and sometimes little things escalate into much bigger ones.”
He beat a light tattoo on the steering wheel with the tips of his fingers as he thought. “Well, of course you are in the perfect position to find out what’s going on here, because it’s your job to ask them about themselves and the work they do. But seeing a plane crash with someone you knew on board is a disturbing experience, so go easy on yourself and them, okay?”
Hasn’t he said something like this before when he encouraged you to investigate the Little Buffenden strangler? asked Ilona. Are you sure there’s no ulterior motive here?
Bess and I got out of the car. She made a beeline for the mess, but I stood there for a while. “You’re right. I am on edge; I haven’t had enough sleep and I could probably do with some breakfast.” I shivered and tried to shake off my mood.
“If your intuition keeps pinging you with what-ifs, I’ll be back at Reaches in a couple of hours. Will you call me if . . . if you need anything at all? I’ve still got a few days of leave left, so I’m going to play chess with your grandad and use their kitchen to make dinner for us.”
He gave me the laconic wave that Americans call a salute, let out the clutch, and roared up the lane to the gate. Yes, go easy on them, but ask questions? That’s a bit like saying be careful when you jump off that cliff. Ilona had to throw her tuppence worth in, and I told her to keep her suspicions to herself, as Bess and I walked up the mess steps to have breakfast with the Attagirls.
SEVEN
IT WAS A FORLORN GROUP OF WOMEN WHO WERE GATHERED around the long trestle table by the mess windows looking out on the airfield.
“Morning, Poppy. Breakfast? We usually have a large one because it might be the only chance we have to eat today.” June’s face was very pale, her eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, but she was lacing into a plate of eggs, mushrooms, and what looked like some sort of tinned corned beef. It was a deadly-looking array of overcooked and greasy food. I shuddered. Even before the war, when an English cooked breakfast was the envy of the world, I never understood how people manage to eat platefuls of protein first thing in the morning.
“I would love a couple of slices of toast and a cup of coffee,” I said as Bess planted herself underneath June’s chair and looked up at her with a particularly yearning expression. She was rewarded with a corner of toast with scrambled eggs that looked like pale yellow rubber.
“No more coffee for me; I’ll take tea,” Annie told the mess steward. “I want this war over soon, so we can have a good strong cup of real coffee with lots of sugar. What do they make this stuff with?” She had pushed away her coffee cup. “Parched acorns?”
Grable, after lifting her head briefly to say good morning, had gone back to staring bleakly out the window as she sipped coffee, and Annie became absorbed with making a toast sandwich with what looked like fried Spam, but her heart wasn’t in it. The Spam slithered out from between the toast, and she pushed it aside with an impatient exclamation. None of them looked like they had slept well; their faces were wan, their eyes clouded with exhaustion. If there was someone sitting at this table who had caused Edwina’s accident, her conscience had given her a rough going-over last night.
“I know this is not the time, but we have to do something about the film,” I said.
Letty tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. June looked down at her plate, and Grable shook her head as if the last thing in the world she wanted to discuss was what had been the catastrophe of yesterday. I cleared my throat and waded in. “Huntley spoke to our boss at the Crown Film Unit,” I said, aware that five pairs of eyes had fixed themselves on my face. “Of course, we will not include the footage of Edwina’s last flight.” June nodded as she chewed and swallowed and took a sip of coffee. “But we want to make this film about what you all do for us, and keep some of the parts where Edwina is with you when you were having lunch—Keith shot some film of that time, and it shows you as a group, together, having fun. So, the theme now is about a group of women who eat, sleep, and work together. Their job is a demanding one: they work long hours, often dangerous hours, but here they are enjoying a few minutes together in the sun before their next mission.” I was careful to keep all mention of strong friendships and sisterhood out of it because I sensed that this might not hit the right note with them this morning. “Then, as the film shows each of you flying, the commentator will tell your story.” I gulped down cold coffee. “Why you fly, what drew you to the ATA. If you have had some moments, some adventures, you would like to share with us, we can include them.”
There was a long, thoughtful silence as I finished. I heard myself swallow again and waited.
I had expected Edwina’s only real friend to be subdued today, but Zofia had been a statue since I had sat down at the table. She hadn’t moved; she hadn’t spoken. Her breakfast was put before her and she ignored it with effigy-like composure: the sculpted mask of Melpomene, the muse of tragedy, came into my mind.
“We will only share the stories if you want us to.” I faltered. Zofia lit a cigarette, her eyes on my face. Why was I the one stuck with doing this regrouping speech? Where on earth was Huntley?
Letty pulled Zofia’s plate toward her. “What a waste. How will you get through the day without breakfast, Zofia? Are you telling me you don’t like fried bread?” she coaxed, and Zofia smiled. “Not this morning, I don’t,” Zofia said as Letty automatically forked down her plate of eggs and fried tomatoes as if it were a duty.
“I am not really newsworthy, and I am not sure Vera would want you to feature the German airfield incident,” said Annie. “Most days all I do is wait for the Met Office to tell me the fog has lifted in the southwest so I can fly a Mosquito down to Devon, which, by the way, would be like driving a double-decker bus along a road. I spend my time knitting pullovers for my girls or writing them long letters telling them to behave themselves. I don’t think that’s heroic or adventurous.” There was a ripple of laughter around the table and I relaxed.
“If you don’t mind us sharing your German airfield experience, I am sure Crown Films will persuade Commander Abercrombie,” I said with complete conviction. Mr. Fanshaw had clout with Mr. Churchill, who loved a good propaganda moment, especially if he was the star or it involved dashing young women. Annie’s brows came down and she pulled her mouth into tight-lipped disapproval.
“Are you up to my asking you some questions, like what made you want to fly?” They caught one another’s eyes and the laughter increased in volume. It almost dispelled the air of despondency around the table.
“I don’t think any of us knew what we were getting into.” Grable lifted her hands in mock horror as she shook her tired head.
“Ice-cold feet; endless waiting to get back to Didcote after you’ve delivered a Tiger Moth; sudden ground fog, thunderstorms—where shall we start?” asked Letty with her mouth full.
“This film is really about recruiting young women into the ATA. As this war continues we need to redouble, even triple, your numbers. The ATA needs to deliver planes as quickly as they are manufactured. Your adventures and experiences are valuable even if they are not as dramatic as Edwina’s Luftwaffe attack.” I looked around the table. “If you are willing to share them, I think they will help make our film compelling and . . . real.”
They all looked at one another. Zofia shrugged as if she didn’t have the energy to tell me the time. “Our adventures,” she said and shook her head from side to side. “It was Edwina who had the adventures. We just deliver planes.”
“Not all of us nearly landed a plane on a German airfield, but there have been some pretty hair-raising moments: near misses, getting lost—that kind of thing,” Grable said. Grateful for how quick she was on the uptake, I nodded my encouragement. “It doesn’t have to be sensational.”
“What about the ti
me when Grable landed a plane at RAF Biggin Hill and a senior pilot gave her a right bollo—reprimand?” June put down her knife and fork.
I laughed as she corrected herself from using a vulgar expression used by the RAF. “What happened, Grable?”
Grable took up the tale. “I landed a Hurricane on a pretty crowded airstrip. It was a bitterly cold morning with a sharp wind, so I was bundled up: a Sidcot flying suit over my uniform, and a sheepskin leather jacket over that, and even though they don’t have a radio earpiece, a leather helmet does keep your head a bit warmer. A group captain walked up to the plane and said, ‘ATA? You chaps are up early this morning.’
“I nodded and jumped down. This was one of my first ATA deliveries of a fighter. I had been a wreck, worrying that I wouldn’t pull off a tidy landing.
“He stuck out his hand and introduced himself. He was a really pompous little bloke. Big Biggles mustache, strutty walk.” She smiled around the table. “They are always on the short side, the really unpleasant ones, aren’t they?” There were smiles and nods around the table; the mood was lifting a little, and June said something like, “Too right.”
“Well, of course I shook hands with him, and because it’s hard to hear with a helmet, I took it off and—”
“Shook down that ladder of Rapunzel hair . . .” added Annie.
“And he completely lost his temper,” Grable took back the story. “‘What the merry hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he bellowed. ‘Who gave you permission to fly an RAF plane—is this some sort of joke?’ He took me by the arm and tried to march me to their command post. There was quite a crowd by this time: ground crew, pilots, navigators, all standing there with their mouths open. You see, back then there were only five or six female ATA pilots. The rest were all men: war veterans, commercial airline pilots who were too old to join up—they called themselves the Ancient and Tattered Airmen. Anyway, old Biggles had me by the arm and marched me up in front of their winco—sorry, wing commander.” Her friends had heard this story before, but they were all chuckling now, and Letty shook her head at the foolishness of pompous men.
