Poppy Redfern and the Midnight Murders

by Tessa Arlen

  We stood there motionless in the starlight. And in the silence, I heard Bess’s shrill, insistent bark on the other side of the wood. Had Griff found her? Her bark grew frantic, and Sid cursed.

  He moved so fast as he whirled me into the hut that I was completely taken off guard. I was thrown back against the uneven stone wall. Its sharp edges cut into my back. Two hands encircled my throat. A tight, strong squeeze, and then a merciful release as I fought for breath.

  “How many times, Poppy, how many times?”

  I tried to shake my head. He released his grip so I could answer him.

  “Answer me, how many times?”

  It was heaven just to breathe.

  “Didn’t I beg you? Beg you! Crikey, I must have warned you off a dozen times. And all you could say was, ‘They are here to help us, Sid. They are not all bad!’” He imitated my voice so perfectly, it confirmed what I already knew.

  His hands were around my neck again, but this time he caressed the length of my throat. “I would never have hurt you, Poppy. Never do what that Yank did to you: telling you he loved you when he was really interested in that cheap tart Fenella.” I was about to speak when I felt the terrible press of his hands again. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  My skin began to crawl. Here it was. My end, my death. Here in this cold stone hut with the reek of Fisherman’s Friend in my face.

  I managed to say, “Sid, you don’t want to do this. I don’t care a bit for O’Neal.” I had to play for time. Griff would be here soon.

  “You are a liar, Poppy, aren’t you? All of you bitches are.” Biggles didn’t use this kind of language.

  “Sid, we’re friends. I wasn’t lying when I told you I wasn’t dating Griff.”

  “Too late now, you treacherous bitch. And if you think help is on the way, just forget it.” He laughed and then said so easily, so smoothly, that if he hadn’t had such a strong grip on my neck I would have fallen to the ground in sheer shock, “Meet me up at Bart’s Field. By the badgers’ sett—say, in fifteen?” It was Griff’s voice.

  All reason, all thought, disappeared, and I started to struggle for all I was worth.

  “I won’t have you girls dating those filthy Yanks,” Sid said. “You will stop it now; do you hear me? Say you will stop.”

  “I will . . . stop . . .” It was hard to get the words out. My throat was on fire.

  He relaxed his hands, and I wondered if I could knee him in the groin. “Say you’re sorry, you were so stupid.”

  “I am sorry. I . . . really . . . am.” Even if I was going to die, I would never say that I was stupid. The pressure on my throat increased. I couldn’t move, not even my legs. He was leaning into me with his full weight. I could only hear my pulse beating out a rhythm that was strong and full of life. I knew my eyes were open, but I couldn’t even see his shadow against the stars shining in through the open door of the hut. The world grew darker. Pitch-dark. A singing sound, loud and strong . . . wailing. I was wailing for my life. And then, as all sound started to recede into a thick, heavy, black silence, the entire world was lifted and thrown sideways.

  Up we went into the air: up, up . . . we were on a Ferris wheel of brilliant red, ochre, and yellow light. The colors were gloriously vivid. I hung for the briefest moment on the edge of the light. And then it was down, down, and down. There was a loud crack of fireworks and the unforgiving hardness of the earth as I landed heavily on it in a hail of dirt and pebbles.

  But I could breathe! I could breathe, and was that my head I was lifting off the stony ground? A gentle patter of earth showered down on my helmet lying next to me in the grass. I lay still, too exhausted to move.

  Silence. I smiled up at the night and started to thank her for saving me, and she answered in a long, maddened shriek.

  There was an almighty percussive whoomph, and the earth shook underneath me. I opened my eyes and stared dreamily up into the sky above. It was lit with arc lights from the airfield, raking across the dark void above me. There was a familiar, deep staccato ack-ack-ack of antiaircraft fire. The thud and crash were as familiar as old friends. The smell of fire and burning petrol a blessing. It was an air raid! I was safe!

  As the world lit up in fire and smoke around me, I sat up among the wreckage of the lambing hut. On my right, underneath a small hill of earth and rock, was Sid Ritchie, or what was left of him. I could see his boots sticking out at an almost ludicrous angle, one raised coyly above the other as if he’d been pinned while skipping.

  The only thing that made me want to move was the thought of Bess. Tied to a tree, trapped, to be killed by a bomb. I must get to her. I had to overcome the desire to just lie here and watch the orange and red sky, and the pain that was shooting up my right leg. I sat up and started to push the boards of what had been the lambing hut door off my legs. It felt like an eternity as I pushed down with my feet to raise myself off the ground. But at last I was upright.

  I steadied myself on legs that felt uselessly light. The airfield was bright with fire; the American ground artillery was firing sharp red bolts of light into the night. On the other side of the wood, an aircraft spiraled down to earth in a curling plume of black, oily smoke. There was a deafening explosion as it hit the ground.

  The percussion, as the earth shook, brought me to my senses enough to propel me forward. I put the last of my energy into a stumbling shamble up toward the fence.

  Now the sky was full of fighter planes. I looked up and saw Messerschmitts coming down fast on the airfield. A plane overhead banked above me, so close that for a moment I could see the swastika on its tail and the round head of its pilot in the cockpit. As I stood, half-upright, I watched it explode in a riot of flame. I started to run, up to the fence and toward the sett. I didn’t stop as bits of burning metal thumped around me into the pasture.

  The beech tree that stood sentinel over the badgers’ sett was in flames, a huge crackling brand of fire; the sound of its branches exploding was almost as loud as artillery. The intensity of its heat made me lift my hands to my face. “Bessie,” I shrieked like a demented creature. “Bessie.” There was no sign of her. In a frenzy of anguish, I started to search the field: every clump of grass, every patch of weed, was distinct and clear in the orange glare from a plane burning on the runway of the airfield.

  “Bessie,” I called, though no one could possibly hear me. There was a terrible smell of burning. Oh God, how could he have tied her to a tree? I realized with horror that it was me that was on fire; the sleeve of my tweed jacket was smoldering. I ripped buttons apart, peeled off the smoking jacket, its sleeve blossoming into orange flames as I threw it to the ground.

  I looked up as American Mustangs circled in the sky above me, sending Messerschmitts banking to the left and right on either side of them. The air was thick with the stench of oily smoke, and petrol fumes clogged the air. Above me the planes dove and climbed in a sky full of their sound. A fighter plane spiraled downward and smashed into the airfield. How many minutes, hours, I searched frantically, oblivious to the danger I was in, I don’t know. My only real concern now was for Bess.

  It’s all right, I told myself over and over, she must be safe. Bess was adroit at slipping through her collar. Surely she was far away from the smoke and fire, cowering in a ditch full of cool rainwater.

  My legs gave way and I tripped and fell. As I sat there, the sky emptied of planes as quickly as it had been filled with them, and I heard another sound, a blessed one. It was the all clear. The sound that Londoners waited in the Underground to hear, the sound that told them that they were safe for now, that they could come out and start putting their lives back together again, until the next time.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I got to my feet and walked toward the perimeter wire. The Messerschmitt that had crashed through it had hauled the fence out of its posts, dragging a large section almost to the runway. I have no idea why I w
as walking toward the airfield; there was a huge crater in its concrete surface, and planes that had not had the time to take off before the air raid were a mass of fire and twisted black metal. I turned and looked around me. The beech tree was still burning, and in its diminishing light I started to search the area for Bess. My throat hurt so badly that when I tried to call her name all I heard was a faint croaking bleat.

  “She’s dead, I’m afraid.” I turned to the man standing in front of me. His face was covered in blood and dirt. His clothes, torn from his body, hung in tatters. He looked as if he had clawed his way out of his grave. I turned to run, but my legs felt like lead.

  “Get away . . . from me.” My voice was hoarse, and he laughed as he took me by the arm.

  “Not this time, Poppy. I can’t let you go, you know that. Your body will be found among the ruins of the stone hut, but at least we can all say you died in the line of duty.” Sid lifted his hand into the air. He had a rock; the bastard was going to brain me with a rock and my helmet was lying outside the lambing hut. Too weak to do anything at all, I closed my eyes.

  He shrieked my name and I opened them. Sid was whirling in a frenzy in front of me. “You bloody, bloody bitch,” he screamed as he turned, bent double, his arms ineffectually clawing behind him. It was Bess, covered in black ash, hanging from the back of his trousers with all her might. He was swaying on his feet, desperately trying to shake free of canine teeth deeply buried in the back of his thigh. I summoned all my energy as I dove sideways into him, caught him by his belt, and tossed him over my hip to land on his back in the grass.

  “Bessie?” Was she pinned underneath him? A long, compact body bounded up from behind me, yodeling with delight as she leapt into my arms. I can’t tell you how glorious it was to hold her to me and submit to her lavish dog kisses. I was still holding her in my arms—me laughing, Bess warbling—when we were interrupted by Bill Peterson’s slow drawl.

  “Achtung. Hands up.” Then a stream of American German.

  “It’s me,” I croaked. “Poppy.”

  “What the hell? Hey, Griff, over here. No, it’s not Luftwaffe. It’s your girlfriend.” A barking Bess bounded out of my arms toward him. It was heaven to finally sag. To let all limbs go slack in the knowledge that I was safe. I buried my face in Griff’s jacket and inhaled.

  “Don’t tell me, just let me guess. It was this little creep all along.”

  “Sid,” was all I could say as I turned my head to look at the prone body of Sid Ritchie, lying in rags at our feet.

  Griff gathered me to him again and smoothed sweaty, tangled hair back from my sooty face. “Do you always arrest your murder suspects in the middle of an air raid?”

  * * *

  —

  “I HAVE TOLD the inspector that he will have to wait until tomorrow for his report.” Granny was standing over my bed, holding a cup. “No, darling, absolutely no talking. Dr. Oliver says if you talk, he will have to take you off to hospital. Now, if you promise to be quiet, you can stay here in your own bed, until you are quite recovered.”

  Her arm slipped behind my shoulders as she helped me to sit up. Banking pillows to support my throbbing back, she settled me comfortably upright before she handed me the cup. “Chicken soup, darling. No, I’ll hold it for you.” My burned right arm was swathed in thick bandages. “Now, tiny sips. That’s the way.” I don’t think I have ever tasted anything quite so delicious as that chicken soup in my entire life.

  When I had finished, I looked up at Granny, widened my eyes, and lifting my left hand, held up one finger, then the second one.

  “Two days, you slept for two days.”

  I shook my head and held my hand out flat, palm upward, eyebrows raised—and?

  “Yes, of course, you want to know about that wicked Ritchie boy, don’t you?” I nodded. “He was arrested for trying to kill you, my dearest girl. Thank goodness you are safe.” She helped me to finish the soup and then eased me flat, folded the top sheet back over the blanket, and tucked me in nice and tightly, the way she had when I was nine and had scarlet fever. It felt wonderful to be looked after so thoroughly. “Sleep, darling. Sleep and rest are the great healers.” She bent down and lifted Bess onto my bed. A singed little animal crawled up close and licked my hand, and I felt the tears slide down my cheeks. I wouldn’t be here without you, I silently told her.

  “She’s a gallant little dog, isn’t she?” Granny put her hand on Bess’s head. “She has stayed outside your room ever since Griff O’Neal brought you both back. She wouldn’t leave even to eat. Grandad carries her out to the garden, and then she climbs back upstairs. Dr. Oliver says her thick coat protected her. Now, please rest.”

  She left me with a host of disjointed memories and half-answered questions. I couldn’t for the life of me remember how, or when, Griff had arrived on the scene after the air attack. I had been incapable of speech. All I could remember was Sid Ritchie unconscious and flat on his back and me, blackened, fire scorched, and crooning over my little dog, but there had been no voice left to speak with.

  “Sweetheart, I can’t hear you, why are you whispering? You are trying to tell me that Sid is the Buffenden Strangler, aren’t you?” Griff had drawn back, still holding on to me, so he could look into my upturned face.

  I nodded, trying desperately to articulate, pointing at my throat. Gentle hands pulled my sweater and blouse collar to one side. “Would you look at her throat, Bill? The little tick tried to strangle you, didn’t he, Poppy?” I nodded. “No, don’t talk, I know what happened. Yeah, Audrey was right. Smell him, Bill, he reeks of liniment.”

  I shook my head. “Fi . . . fish . . . fre . . .”

  “What’s she trying to say? Fish fry? Fresh fish? I never know what they are talking about half the time.” Bill Peterson had jerked Sid to his feet and held him drooping in his massive right hand.

  “Fisherman’s Friend,” I finally managed, and Sid lifted his head and said, “You are such a bitch, Poppy.”

  I realized as I pieced this last together that Sid was not dead. I had not killed him. Sid was the Little Buffenden Strangler, and I had survived!

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS A patient, a penitently patient, Hargreaves who took my full statement a couple of days later. Now that I was fully in my right mind, he wanted the details from me. In between sips of beef consommé, made by Griff, I croaked out my story. It took more than an hour, and when he had almost finished, I asked him, “Did Sid actually strangle Doreen with stockings and Ivy with a tie?”

  He looked down his nose a bit, as if nice girls shouldn’t ask this sort of question. “He tried to kill me and Audrey with his bare hands,” I reminded him.

  “The autopsy for both Miss Newcombe and Miss Wantage was that they were strangled. Miss Newcombe with a pair of stockings and Miss Wantage with an American officer’s tie.”

  “With the intention to incriminate an American, any American?”

  “Yes, that is what we know now.”

  “Why did you arrest Joe Perrone?”

  “Because Sergeant Perrone was seen with Miss Wantage the night after Miss Newcombe was killed, when the Americans were confined to their base, and then days later she was found strangled. You were not the only one who reported seeing them together that night. Mr. Ritchie did too.”

  “I know it was Sid who went over to the Anstruthers’ in Ponsford that night—pretending to be me,” I said in what would have been a complacent voice if I didn’t sound as if I gargled with gravel. I didn’t mention that my other suspect had been our Fisherman’s Friend–loving, tweed-jacket-wearing actor of a vicar who believed that Shakespeare preferred his fair Rosalinds and gentle Juliets to be played by Rogers and Henrys. Griff O’Neal had been crossed off my list of suspects simply because his cockney accent was a pathetic embarrassment, and he would rather die than eat a throat lozenge.

  “Yes
, Sid Ritchie made a full confession.”

  It was all quite clear, I thought as I sat there. But then everything is, in hindsight. “I think Sid knew that the game was up. He knew I had been asking questions, so he tried to discredit me by implicating me in a crime. Of course, it meant that I got to the answer more quickly the minute I knew that it had been a man who had impersonated me at the Anstruthers’.

  “You see, I wondered why Doreen had gone into her house and had then left it, on a night when her boyfriend, Bud Sandusky, couldn’t see her because he was in the sick bay. She had been lured out of the safety of her house, the same way Sid lured me.”

  “He pretended to be an American?” Hargreaves looked up from his notes.

  “That was how Sid enticed Doreen, Ivy, and me out at night. He is a talented mimic. He threw pebbles up at their bedroom windows and pretended to be Bud Sandusky to Doreen, and Joe Perrone to Ivy. And they went, believing they were going out to be with their boyfriends.” The thought of Sid creeping around in the dark of night tricking us girls out of the safety of our homes made me feel weary and sad.

  “Audrey, of course, was another matter. He knew she met her boyfriend, Bill Peterson, up by the lambing hut. He had been watching her, the way he had watched all of us. On the night of the air-raid drill he waited outside the farmhouse and then followed her.

  “And another thing: Sid said something about my reading Doreen’s love letter. You know, the one I found in the pocket of her dress? The one that had disappeared when I took you over to the village hall?” He nodded. “I remembered, unfortunately too late, that Sid’s mother had a set of keys to the village hall. I don’t know how he knew, but he must have taken it.”

  He was watching me closely, with a grudging sort of respect. Then he sighed and said, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Mrs. Ritchie knew her son was involved in the killings. She broke down when Mr. Ritchie made his confession.”