by Tessa Arlen
“Just oranges?” I didn’t want to sound too easily impressed.
“Yep. Have you ever had freshly squeezed juice from an orange picked right off the tree?”
I couldn’t imagine anything more decadent. “No, never. Ours comes in a tin, and that was before the war.”
“You don’t mean a can, do you?” He waved away canned and tinned juice with a shrug of his shoulders. “You haven’t lived if you haven’t woken up in the morning to a glass of freshly squeezed juice,” he said, and I realized that he was right. I hadn’t lived. I had spent nearly all my life in Little Buffenden when I was not sequestered in a dreary girls’ boarding school interminably preoccupied by keeping out of the way of popular girls like Fenella Bradley, my inability to embroider or play field hockey, and the correct way to eat fish. Apart from my two weeks in London for ARP training, when my sophisticated uncle Ambrose had taken me to a nightclub, I was, essentially, as green as a cucumber.
As Griff diced, simmered, and basted, our talk turned to the village, and then, as if it was quite natural, to the murder of the two girls.
“Assuming, of course, that whoever killed Doreen must have killed Ivy too, I just can’t see how Joe Perrone could have killed Ivy. After Doreen’s body was discovered, the next morning no passes were issued to anyone—we were confined to base; no one could possibly leave. But on the night of Doreen’s death, since there were no missions that night, there were something like a hundred and forty-two men, all of whom were at leisure to leave the base or attend our party before the gates were locked at midnight, which is normal curfew time.”
“What happens if someone is off base after midnight?”
“They are considered AWOL.”
“AWOL?”
“Absent without leave. It’s a serious offense. Days in the lockup, court-martials, and, now we are at war, imprisonment.” A pause for consideration. “Didn’t your Royal Navy hang men for being absent from their post?”
“I have no idea.”
“Anyway, getting off our base after curfew can’t be done. There are two entrances, the one that leads from the airfield to your old house, which is now the officers’ mess, and the main entrance outside of the village, which Ts on Smithy Lane; both are heavily guarded.” He sipped wine and thought for a moment. “The entire airfield is surrounded by a perimeter fence: ten feet high with barbed wire that only a fool would try to climb, and it’s patrolled by guards, night and day, with dogs. Getting off base without a pass is impossible. And Joe didn’t have one after we were all confined to base. I should know.”
I looked away, not sure how much to confide in this man, however much I liked him. But information about the base and its security since Doreen’s death helped clarify my thinking about the time I bumped into Joe and Ivy in the churchyard. I knew Joe Perrone had not broken curfew on that night. After we walked Ivy home, he had apologetically left me at Smithy Lane because he had minutes to go to midnight, when he would break curfew. The next morning the base locked down and no one could leave. It seemed to me that anyone in Little Buffenden and on the air force base could have killed Doreen, but the Americans had a collective alibi for the time of Ivy’s death. “I only met Sergeant Perrone twice, and he didn’t strike me as a man who killed girls,” was my only response.
“D’you know something? We are in a perfect spot to find out more—you know everyone in the village, and I know most of the guys on the base.” He looked up from basting the beef; the smell was sensational. My mouth watered, and Bess made a wistful moaning sound deep in her throat.
I wasn’t at all sure how to respond to his open invitation to “find out more.” “Help me with the table?” I asked, and he followed me through into our dining room.
He polished a crystal glass, held it up to the light, and polished some more. “Flowers?” he asked as we finished setting the crystal and silver.
I led the way out into Granny’s vegetable garden. “Our gardens are very practical these days. I’m afraid we don’t have space for flowers.” I looked at rows of vegetables where I had picked green beans for lunch just hours ago.
“I should have brought roses. What are those?” Griff pointed to wild willow herb growing in the ditch. “Those purple things are nice.” And then with a complete change of tack: “It must have been terrible to find your friend under the bridge like that.”
“It was.” I knew I would never forget her face, ever. At night I slept with the windows closed, the blackout curtain pulled tightly shut, and the light on. Wasteful, I know, but it was terrifying to wake up from seeing Ivy’s drowned face to a pitch-black room.
“Were you alone?”
“No, Sid Ritchie was with me.” Loyalty prevented me from saying that he had been worse than useless. “I was thinking . . .” I was embarrassed to go on because this was none of my business, but part of me was intrigued by his straightforward curiosity. “It seems rather unfair to look to the base for a killer when there was such tight security. Sergeant Perrone was arrested, or detained for questioning as they call it, almost immediately after Ivy was murdered. I can’t imagine that the police spent much time on their inquiry.”
He was watching me closely. “That’s exactly what I thought too! Of course, no one in Little Buffenden wants to believe that someone they know killed two innocent young girls, loved by everyone, and with their lives before them.”
“But they weren’t loved by everyone,” I said, rather rashly, thinking of Audrey Wilkes and her bitter dislike of Doreen. “Or at least I don’t think Doreen was.”
“You don’t say.” He was instantly alert. “You mean Doreen was actively disliked? Now, don’t you think that’s interesting? Who disliked her?”
I found myself telling him about my conversation with Audrey Wilkes the night after Doreen was killed, and he hung on to my every word.
“You should check into this Audrey,” he said as we walked back into the kitchen to find a vase for his wildflowers. “Go and talk to her some more. There’s information to be had there.”
And right on cue I heard Ilona say, Well now, sweetie, it looks as if my help is going to be redundant now that you have this gorgeous chap to chew things over with.
TEN
All of us comfortably full of a lunch that had almost made our Little Buffenden guests feel that there was no such thing as war, talk around our dining table turned to America. Captains Robinson and Lombardi were from Boston and Manhattan, respectively, and Lieutenant Davis from a place called Philly. Dr. and Mrs. Oliver were seasoned travelers but had never been west to America and were curious about where they were all from.
As Grandad got up to pour the last of the wine, Mrs. Oliver turned to Griff. “My husband tells me you are from California, Lieutenant O’Neal. Is that where you learned to fly?”
“Yes, my father taught me.”
“He was in aviation?”
“Sort of. He was a barnstormer in the 1920s. He belonged to an outfit that traveled to little towns around the country and did flying demonstrations. He was quite a daredevil. He owned an old World War I Curtiss biplane and he would do some pretty wild things: spins, dives, loop-the-loops, barrel rolls, and flying through barns.” Mrs. Oliver looked a bit puzzled. “They would open the big double doors at each end of a large barn, and then the pilots would fly their planes right through them.” I could tell he was enjoying himself.
“Good heavens, how terribly dangerous!” Mrs. Oliver was enthralled.
“Yes, so dangerous that in the end the government put all sorts of restrictions on flying aircraft. My dad was offered a job as a US mail carrier, but he turned it down because he missed California. He flew his Curtiss back home and settled down to grow oranges on his father’s farm. But he kept his plane, and when we were kids, he taught me and my brother to fly.”
“How old were you when you first flew?”
“Before my old
er brother did.” Griff laughed.
“And why was that?”
“Because I was tall for my age, taller than he was, and I could reach the controls.”
* * *
—
AFTER OUR GUESTS had made their way home, I spent the rest of the afternoon writing a thrilling description of Ilona being hunted through the darkened streets of London, in the blackout. I was so involved with the world I had created that I almost forgot my planned visit to the Wilkes farm.
I tore myself away from Ilona’s heart-pounding fear as she dodged through the backstreets of Soho, went downstairs, and pumped my bike’s tires, Bess standing very close to me—her head on one side listening intently to the breathless, squeaky sound of the pump. And then we went over to the vicarage to see the vicar’s housekeeper, Mrs. Martin, who was full of the village gossip about our first Sunday lunch.
“Mrs. Oliver told Mrs. Angus, who told Mrs. Glossop, who of course told everyone, that she had never met such politely mannered and charming young men!” Her eyes were shining behind her spectacles. “I told the reverend that if we wanted the village to stop being so suspicious of every American that went into the pub for a pint, you should have invited Mrs. Glossop right off the bat.”
“Ah yes, Mrs. Martin, but if we had done that, you see, she would have sensed we needed her approval and would have worked hard not to give it. Granny says that we should do a couple more lunches and then invite her. She will be frantic to give her approval by then.”
Mrs. Martin folded her arms underneath her motherly bosom and shook her head. “Whatever you do, Miss Redfern, do not put her back up. Mrs. Glossop is a wonderful ally but a formidable opponent!”
Then I asked her my favor, and with her agreement, I got on my bike and cycled down Water Lane and on to Wilkes Farm.
It was a beautiful afternoon: clear blue skies and a gentle breeze; the air smelled of that particularly sweet, nutty scent at the end of summer, when the wheat is ripe in the fields and the grass is dusty along the side of the roads. I had to go over the wooden footbridge to the Wilkes farm, and the hairs rose along my arms as I heard the hollow echo under my bike’s wheels. “Stay with me, Bess,” I called out to her. I didn’t want her to go investigating again. I don’t think I will ever feel the same about that pretty bridge we used to fish from when I was a girl.
It was Audrey who opened the kitchen door, when I had expected her mum.
“Hullo, Audrey,” I said as brightly as I could in the face of a formidable frown. She stared at me in silence, holding the door ajar, as if I were going to try to burst my way in.
“I have just been talking with Mrs. Martin, and we need your help. Do you have a moment?” She obviously did have the time, for behind her I could see another magazine spread open on the kitchen table. She said nothing at all as she waited for me to state my business.
“Perhaps I could come in?”
She considered for a second or two. “No dogs in the house.”
No fear of that, I thought—Bess was busy inspecting a hedgerow; she knew when she wasn’t welcome. Having established the rules, Audrey pulled back the door just wide enough to let me squeeze through.
“I know if I take you into my confidence you will respect the need to keep this just between us,” I began, avoiding the slate gray stare of incurious eyes. I swallowed and continued. “But the vicar, Mrs. Martin, and I are planning an air-raid drill for the village, and for it to be effective, it will not be announced.” Her stare made me feel awkward, so I said, rather unnecessarily, “You know, as a practice.”
She sighed as if I were wasting valuable time. But I was determined not to be shut down.
“Would you consider being there at the church crypt before the drill, to help Mrs. Martin with the children? Most of the families at that end of the village are mums with very young children and with no help since their husbands are away.” It seemed strange to be asking this taciturn individual for help with children, but I had been assured by Mrs. Martin that Audrey was patient with toddlers. Her eyes flickered, and she raised her heavy brows a fraction as if she suspected that I was taking advantage of her good nature. “You see, we are arranging for the air-raid siren to sound, so everyone in the village will think it is an actual raid. So, the children—”
“Will be frightened,” she finished for me as if my blathering was holding up her day.
“Yes, that’s right . . . so would—”
“I be there ahead of time. You already said that.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”
“All right, then.”
I managed to stop myself from overdoing the thank-yous. But I was nowhere closer to a conversation about Doreen and Ivy, which was the purpose of my visit.
“Originally, you see, it was Ivy’s job to be at the crypt to help. And now, of course.” She nodded, and to my amazement her face flushed and she looked distressed.
“Ivy was good with kids,” she said to the kitchen table.
“Was she really? I had no idea.”
“She would have made a good mum.”
“Oh,” was all I could say, stricken by the thought that Ivy had been denied the chance to marry and have a family of her own. “I know it will take Mrs. Wantage a long time to get over it . . . Ivy’s death.”
“Her murder, you mean. And she won’t.” It was final. And then to my surprise: “Cuppa tea?” I nodded, dumbfounded that Audrey apparently approved of Ivy Wantage. So, it was just Doreen whom she didn’t like.
I watched her as she moved to the kitchen range and slid the kettle onto the hob. I’m tall for a woman, but she is at least a head taller than me, and her shoulders are as broad as a man’s. If she didn’t frown and glower quite so much, she would be what my grandmother would call imposing. A long, strong arm lifted up to the tea caddy. She turned and took down cups and saucers from the Welsh dresser. Every movement was unhurried and carried out in complete silence.
As I stood there wondering at her callous indifference to Doreen’s death and her compassionate acknowledgment that Ivy had been denied her future life, I realized that I tended to avoid Audrey. And I knew I probably wasn’t alone: it’s difficult, and quite frankly off-putting, to try to engage someone who never volunteers anything other than a curt yes or no and who avoids any conversation, or if she does respond, does so with relentless contempt. Most people just give up, I suppose. But I had come here to find out, if I could, what Audrey thought about the deaths of Doreen and Ivy, and to check on Mrs. Glossop’s story about her peculiar incident with Mr. Ponsonby. She had unbent enough to talk about Ivy, so I decided to persevere with our conversation and see where it led.
She put the tea things down on the kitchen table and moved her magazines off to one side. The page had been open to another article about Errol Flynn. “Did you see Captain Blood?” I asked her, determined to keep things light and conversational. “I thought it was wonderful.”
She nodded. “He’s Australian, you know,” she said as she poured tea through a strainer into the cup in front of me.
“Oh really?”
“Educated in London at some posh boarding school; that’s why he talks so nicely. But he was chucked out for stealing.” And the taciturn and grudging Audrey took off on a detailed history of Errol Flynn’s background, or rather his swashbuckling love life—for Flynn it seemed was as much of the great lover offscreen as he was on. She listed every single one of his films and affairs with costars, and her opinion of each one. I just sat there sipping my tea and nodding along, waiting to introduce the topic of Mr. Ponsonby and his odd behavior when he had followed her down the lane.
“He tried to join up.” Audrey had reached that stage in his career when Flynn, now an American citizen, had become one of America’s top matinée idols. “But he had a bad heart, so they wouldn’t take him. He also had VD—because he had a problem, you kno
w, with women.”
She laughed at my shocked expression, and I realized that this was the sort of thing Audrey did. Every so often she would say something so crude, so without grace or consideration, simply to embarrass. She liked to shock; perhaps it was the only way she felt she could get attention.
But I wasn’t going to let a little thing like that put me off. “Funny how some men have that sort of reputation,” I said. “Sounds like Flynn was not the sort of man you would want your daughter dating!” I laughed, but she did not join me. “Someone told me that Mr. Ponsonby has a bit of a wandering eye too.” I leaned forward, feeling like a cheap gossip.
“Someone!” she jeered. “That would be old Ma Glossop. So, that’s who you’ve been talking to, is it?”
“Did he really follow you down the lane at night, in the dark?” I asked, eyes wide, avid for information as if I were as bad a gossip as our postmistress.
“He didn’t follow me . . . he was lurking.”
I shook my head as if I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Audrey didn’t need any more encouragement.
“I came down Water Lane and saw him cross the road toward Bart’s Field. He scurried into the hedgerow by the gate. When I walked past he hid behind a tree; it was quite pathetic, really. I stopped and waited for him to speak, but he just stayed there. So, I said, ‘I know you are there, Mr. Ponsonby, there’s no need to hide.’” She folded her strong arms across her chest and was scowling across the table at me as if I were Ponsonby. It was the sort of frown that made you want to rush in with an apology.
“What did he say?” I almost whispered it.
She shook her head. “Nothing, but I knew he was there, hiding. The coward.”
“You weren’t scared?”
“Of that little pip-squeak!” She laughed—it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “He wouldn’t dare try it—not with me.” She was completely sure of herself, and I envied her, her self-possession.
