by Tessa Arlen
“Perhaps it’s too soon for us to try and mend bridges. I don’t think I would be very forgiving if my daughter had been murdered by a Yank. I can’t imagine any of us will ever be welcomed in the village again,” Griff O’Neal said in an undertone to me.
“I think”—I chose my words carefully because things were going so swimmingly, I really didn’t want to ruin it—“that given time, things will improve, but it would be a good idea not to flood the village with men from the base for a week or so. At the best of times Little Buffenden is insular, and it was hard for most of the villagers to accept even the idea of an airfield here, let alone an American one. But I like the idea of Sunday lunch after church. I just can’t imagine who would do the cooking!” It would certainly not be something we could ask of Mrs. Wantage. “I am more of a toast-and-jam sort of cook, and Granny is even less talented.” I didn’t mention how disappointed these Americans, with their flown-in beef, would be to eat shepherd’s pie with minced gristly mutton.
“I’m a great cook,” he said as he finished his wine with a flourish. There was not a shred of modesty in his announcement, and I laughed. “I love to cook. Back home in California I was taught by our Mexican cook—tamales, pozole . . . you name it. It just went on from there!”
“What about an English Sunday lunch? Ever made roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?” Then I heard myself. “Not that our ration books could stretch to that sort of fare. We haven’t eaten beef for months—years even.”
“Roast beef? Sure I can, and what’s more, the United States will be providing the beef. But what the heck is this Yorkshire pudding? Sounds like something our lieutenant colonel would approve of.”
Even I could manage to make Yorkshire pud. “It’s a Sunday lunch tradition: the perfect accompaniment to a roast,” I said.
“Good, then let’s get this idea rolling: I’ll see you on Sunday morning. We can make lunch together.”
I was so pleased that I blushed—a thing I hadn’t done since I was sixteen.
NINE
I am quite sure I don’t want to speak out of turn.” Mrs. Glossop pressed her lips together and I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling, because Mrs. G. specialized in the inappropriate. “I have the utmost respect for Mrs. Redfern, and the Reverend Fothergill. But . . . I think it’s a huge mistake to start encouraging these Americans to be part of our village, so soon after what has happened here. And on a Sunday, too.”
I wasn’t too sure what Sunday had to do with it, but I was brought up to be respectful to my elders, and this morning Mrs. Glossop was looking particularly peevish. I waited politely for what was to come. “The people in this village have been pushed to the end of their endurance, Miss Redfern. It would be wrong to start behaving as if nothing happened. Don’t they have their own padre up at the base? Surely, there is no need for them to come to our place of worship . . . where the offended parties might have to see them.”
I could see that if Mrs. Glossop had her way, we would live in a state of silent enmity with our allies for the rest of the war. “A man has been arrested for both murders, Mrs. Glossop. He happens to be an American, which is unfortunate. But the rest of the men up at the base are innocent. And some of them are Episcopalian, which I believe is their version of our Anglican Church, so I think the Christian thing to do would be to welcome them into our community.” I could almost hear Mr. Fothergill tittering at my lumping our low-key Anglican attitude to religion in with the many complicated sects, factions, and offshoots that America apparently tolerated—if Captain Peterson was to be believed.
Her mouth was as tight as a button mushroom as she put down the aerogramme letter forms I had ordered on the top of the counter. “That’ll be one and sixpence for the aeros and another two and six for the postal order. Four shillings altogether, if you would be so kind.”
I counted out coins and her hand came down to stop them from spinning on the smooth wood of the counter with such finality that I knew she was far more annoyed about Grandad’s Sunday-lunch-after-church idea than I had first thought. But I didn’t want her to lead the village in a witch hunt against the Americans either. “Sergeant Perrone has been detained on suspicion of murder, but he has not yet been tried and found guilty. None of us can be sure that he killed Doreen and Ivy. I hope he gets a fair trial,” I said in what I felt to be a conciliatory and reasonable tone. She didn’t care for it.
“He’s being court-martialed—not tried in an English court, which he should be after killing two English girls.”
“Either way, he is innocent until proved guilty . . .”
A sharp intake of breath from Mrs. G. and I looked up to find her watching me intently. “You don’t believe he did it, do you?”
There was no point in denying it. “I don’t see how he can have done both murders. After Doreen’s death all the Americans were confined to the base. You have to hand it to them; their security is amazing. Have you seen the perimeter fence that encloses the entire base?” She stared at me, her face like stone, so I explained. “He would have had to climb a ten-foot woven wire fence crowned by four or five strands of barbed wire.”
Fierce little eyes bored into mine. “Who, then? You are not going to suggest it was one of us?”
Why not? I wanted to say. Why were we so above reproach?
Her stare was so intimidating that my voice almost shook as I answered her. “I am not suggesting anything, Mrs. Glossop. I am only supporting my grandparents’ decision to try and heal a rift by including the young men up at the base in our village community. That is of course if they want to be part of it. After all, they have come to help us win this war, haven’t they?”
I heard the breath hiss out of her like an old bicycle tire with a puncture, and her face became thoughtful as she folded her arms underneath her nonexistent bosom. “All right, then,” she said as she tucked her chin down into her neck and pondered the alternatives. “So, if you’re so keen on finding a culprit off base . . . what about that Mr. Ponsonby? Him who has retired, so he says, from London. Lives on Water Lane in the little house below the doctor and Mrs. Ritchie.”
I knew where Mr. Ponsonby lived. And I am quite sure my jaw must have dropped, because it had never occurred to me to cast around for a culprit who had not come from a family born and bred in Little Buffenden. But that’s Mrs. Glossop for you, and she represents the majority in our village. You are an outsider if your family doesn’t go back at least four or five generations. Newcomers are politely greeted and then, equally politely, excluded.
I was about to say, What rubbish!, when I remembered that Mrs. Glossop’s voice is listened to in this village and that it carries weight. But what was far more intriguing to me was that she evidently had information, and if I was respectful and patient, she would share it.
“Mr. Ponsonby?” I saw his pink, shiny bald head with its neatly clipped fringe of iron gray hair and his tidy, almost obsessively neat appearance. Always on the periphery of village life, Mr. Ponsonby, since he had joined our stiflingly close community, had wandered around its edges like a timid heron—cautiously wading through our ditches and fishing about on the edge of the village pond. A self-proclaimed naturalist, he acknowledged the bustle of village life with a diffident “Hullo” followed by polite excuses to hurry homeward. I had met him once or twice just after he had moved here. I know how wretched it feels to be awkward, and there was a hesitancy to Mr. Ponsonby’s reserve that made me protective. I strongly objected to him being drummed up as a suspect by Mrs. Glossop simply because he was—like the Americans—an “outsider.”
“He spends a lot of his time out at night.” She had him pinned as the sort of man who lurks in the dark—awaiting his chance to kill young virgins.
“But that’s because he’s a naturalist and a bird-watcher. I saw him just the other night with his field glasses around his neck and one of those little canvas folding stools under his arm.”
>
“Bird-watching at night—with field glasses? For crying out loud— I have never heard anything so barmy in all my life!” She heaped scorn on me, her eyes screwed up in disgust, as if I were witless.
I swallowed and braved further contempt. “I believe he specializes in owls, Mrs. Glossop. He is observing the hunting and domestic habits of a family of tawnies.” The last time I had seen him, he had been almost conversational about the owl and its remarkable hunting skills.
A derisive laugh. “Field glasses at night—pull the other one.”
“There are such things as night-vision binoculars and cameras. Mrs. Glossop, they’ve been around for years. They are quite common—expensive but easy to come by.”
She breezed past this useful information with a wave of her hand. “Doesn’t go to the pub, doesn’t come in here for tobacco. Only person in the village who has his paper delivered. He’s that secretive, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s up to no good,” came the inevitable response of the unenlightened.
“Or he’s a reserved man who has an interest in owls.”
We had reached a stalemate. Her mouth twitched, and she narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you ask Audrey Wilkes about your Mr. Ponsonby, then?” she demanded. My disbelief in Mr. Ponsonby as malevolent had goaded her on, so determined was she to win her point. “He gave her the fright of her life the other evening. She was walking down the lane and out he pops from behind a tree.”
“He was probably—”
“Bird-watching? Oh yes, I’m sure he was. Watching young girls, more like. He followed Audrey down the lane, and every time she stopped, he did too. She said her nerves were in shreds by the time she got to the gate of the farm. And then do you know what he did?”
There was an unwholesome gleam in her eye. I wasn’t too sure I wanted to hear what Mr. Ponsonby had done.
“He climbed over the stile right there by Bart’s Field and ran off into the woods. Probably thought Audrey’s dad might come and ask him what he was playing at.”
Her dark, beady little eyes were shining with triumph, but I didn’t care. All I was thinking was: what on earth was Audrey Wilkes doing out late at night in the pitch-dark and where had she been?
I decided not to respond to Mrs. Glossop’s thoughts on what Mr. Ponsonby had in mind for Audrey, and she smiled as if she had more than scored her point.
* * *
—
SUNDAY CAME, AND I leafed through Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management and ran through her recipe for Yorkshire pudding again. It seemed so easy that I was sure I had overlooked something. The vicar and Dr. and Mrs. Oliver were coming to lunch after Matins to meet three American officers from the base.
The Olivers must have hugged themselves in delight when they were invited, because we were having roast beef! No one in our village had sunk their grateful teeth into a sirloin of beef since 1940. Batting for America were Captains Robinson and Lombardi; Lieutenant Davis, the navigator who was in love with the actress Margaret Lockwood; and of course the self-proclaimed chef extraordinaire: Griff O’Neal. We would be stretching the limits of our dining room to the bursting point. “Friendlier that way,” Grandad had said when Granny worried about being tightly packed.
I took stock of my kitchen inventory: a mountain of peeled potatoes and unstrung string beans; a panful of chicken stock I had been worrying over all morning; and two apple pies sent over by Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper at the vicarage, which would sadly have to rely on Bird’s custard powder made with half water, half milk—we hadn’t had cream for months.
My new American friend was bringing the beef, and I sent up a fervent prayer that he really knew how to cook and it hadn’t been the martinis talking.
Dressed in my best indigo georgette dress and wrapped carefully in a clean pinny, I was tasting the stock for the third time when there was a knock on the scullery door. Before I had a chance to open it, Griff O’Neal was in the kitchen. He had a bulky parcel wrapped in butcher’s paper in one hand—it had to be the sirloin—and a bottle of red wine in the other, which he waved in a cheery salute. It was quite clear that Lieutenant O’Neal had not spent the morning on his knees in our beautiful old church.
Whether it was the scent of fresh meat or an unrestrained passion for the lieutenant, I have no idea, but Bess managed to make a complete fool of herself. If I owned a stopwatch I could have timed her noisy greeting as lasting well over three minutes. When she had calmed down sufficiently, Griff waved away a cloud of dog hair and said, “Mmm—smells delicious in here. That must be your chicken giblet stock.”
“Yes, it was quite easy.” I tapped Mrs. Beeton to acknowledge her instructions. “I had no idea you could make stock from just simmering giblets and vegetables. We usually use Bisto.” I pointed to the packet of gravy mix I had on standby in case the stock turned out to be awful and watched him shudder as he sniffed the contents of the package.
“And does Mrs. Beeton tell you how to make Yorkshire pudding?” He was clearly intrigued, and I knew that he would probably find our favorite Sunday dish disappointing.
“It’s just a batter of flour, milk, and dried egg. Cooked in the fat from the beef in a hot oven.”
“What did you say?”
I repeated the ingredients.
“Dried egg? Are you kidding? That stuff is disgusting.”
“Welcome to England.”
“You don’t have real eggs?”
“Yes, but we use them for special occasions.” We had exactly four eggs in the pantry; Granny had traded a pot of honey from our hives with Mrs. Pritchard for half a dozen eggs the day before yesterday.
He snorted. “When I am about to roast six pounds of prime rib, swiped from our mess unit, it is a special occasion, believe me. Get out your eggs. I’ll replace ’em.”
As he bustled about our rather primitive kitchen, Bess and I watched—she in case he dropped something edible, and I in sheer awe of how at home he was with a knife in his hand. He was deft and skillful as he chopped carrots, celery, onion, and parsley to a heap of little pieces all the same size. He looked up to answer my silent question. “Mirepoix,” he explained. “The base for the wine reduction—sautéed in . . . any butter?” I handed him a plate of bright yellow margarine and his top lip lifted in a sneer. “Oh Lord, I’ll just have to forgive you,” was all he said as he flipped a spoonful into a pan and added the vegetables to sauté. When he was satisfied with their condition, he opened the wine he had brought with him, poured a splash into two glasses, and then emptied the rest into his pan and put it back on the stove top. “Let it come to a boil”—his voice was reverent—“and then immediately turn the flame low to . . . the gentlest simmer.” He put a lid on the pan and cocked it to half cover. “We’ll just let it stay that way for an hour . . . and then we’ll turn up the heat and reduce it down to the essence of deliciousness.” He lifted his wineglass, took a sip, and turned to me. “The secret is this: we’ll add your reduced stock to my reduced wine, and then . . .” He laughed as he stirred, as if this was just a madcap game and there weren’t at least six people trying to concentrate on their prayers during morning service because their mouths were watering in anticipation. “And . . . reduce the whole thing all over again!” Another sip of wine. “And it will be”—he held his glass as a toast to his efforts, his face quite serious—“exquisite.”
“What do you mean by reduce?” I had to know; all this chopping and dicing had made me feel a bit breathless.
“It means quite simply we boil it down. You have no idea how heavenly a slow-cooked wine-and-vegetable stock and meat stock taste when they are reduced together. Trust me, it’s sensational.”
Before I could sip the wine in my glass, he raised his. “To the roast beef of Old England!”
I raised mine in salute. “To the roast beef of Old England cooked by a Yank!” I responded, and we drank.
“This is quite good.” I was surprised he was using reasonably good claret just for gravy. You can laugh about the way we English cook all you like, but we certainly know something about wine.
“Never make a wine reduction with an inferior wine—it would be a complete waste of time,” was the only explanation I was given for his profligate use of excellent claret before he turned his attention to our oven and decided that it would do.
A short, hardworking silence as he concentrated on seasoning the beef—but not so short that he didn’t have time to explain his passion for cooking as we allowed heat and a combination of perfect ingredients to do their magic. And explain he did. I was used to the natural reserve and minimal chitchat of Englishmen—not that you would ever find an Englishman in a kitchen to begin with. But Griff had no such inhibitions. With very little prompting from me, he told me about his childhood in California—I think it is somewhere on the other side of their vast country; at any rate he referred to the ocean a lot.
“My grandfather was the one who planted our citrus groves. He had come to the area prospecting for silver in the late 1890s. He knew nothing about farming when he first started because he was a city boy from San Francisco.” He laughed. “What a character he must have been in his youth: a real Mick on the Make. When I knew him he was just a doddering old chap who drank whiskey for breakfast. He learned about growing orange trees as he went along. You see, everything was there: good dirt, plenty of water, and sun all year round. My pop was the one who really made everything profitable after the Great War. So, now we have tripled our acreage and we just specialize in oranges.”
