by Amy Myers
‘Angleterre?’ Joseph looked interested and took a healthy (or unhealthy) swig of absinthe, contemplated his glass, then banged it down on the table. A decision had obviously been arrived at.
Luke translated the stream of patois that followed as best he could. ‘I think he’s saying that he was a child when his father left home, only about five. And a good thing that he left, because he was a lazy layabout. They were better off without him.’
‘Yet his wife kept the name,’ she pointed out.
‘Mais oui,’ Joseph sounded indignant. ‘They were married. My father told her he came from a good English family and one day he would inherit a big house, much land and much money. We waited but it never came, but my grandmother said if it did she wanted them to know she was married to him, even though he had left her.’
Georgia smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’ve brought no fortune with me.’
The old man rattled something else off, in dialect, which was strongly Flemish-influenced, Georgia guessed. ‘Also,’ Luke interpreted, ‘she wished her neighbours to know she is married because she has three children. She did not want the new curé to think she was a sinful woman. Everyone knew that old Berthès left her the farm, so she kept that name going.’
‘Your mother was very wise,’ Georgia told Joseph gravely. Hang on to your marriage lines, she thought. Some things never change.
‘You are married, madame?’ he asked.
‘Not now.’
‘You should be,’ he told her. ‘Too much time is wasted while one thinks about such things, and then, pouf, one wakes up and one is too old to . . .’
He used a word that Georgia didn’t recognize but Luke laughed and Joseph’s gesture accompanying had been clear enough.
‘Never too old,’ she declared roundly.
That caused a laugh all round, and even Madame raised a smile.
‘So your father left to go to England to hunt his fortune?’ she prompted Joseph again.
‘Non,’ he immediately replied and her heart sank. Surely this wasn’t going to be yet another dead end. ‘He left to live with Madame Rosanne of the Chat d’Or in Lille. My grandfather not a good man. He think there more money in a restaurant. My grandmother not give him much money, because he not like to work on the farm. So he go to Chez Rosanne. She had been a brothel keeper in Paris, and when she have much money and wishes to be respectable she come to Lille to open a restaurant. Restaurants are indeed respectable, but also hard work. One day Madame Rosanne come here to my mother and ask: “Where is Guy? He steal some money and go.” “He not here,” said Maman. Rosanne did not believe her but she went to the village and the whole village say, “Monsieur Guy not come here.”’
‘A sad story,’ Georgia commented politely.
‘Pas du tout,’ was Joseph’s shrugged reaction. ‘Life is practical, madame. Rosanne and my mother become very good friends, so she come to run the café in Estville. When the next war comes, she very against the Germans, but she pretend to be great friends. This way she get information and can protect us all. Through Rosanne my brother and I allowed to stay here through the war. So, Guy good father to me, all because of his whore.’ He wheezed and cackled to Madame’s obvious disgust.
‘And who runs the café now?’
‘Rosanne died many years ago, my mother very sad. No one left of her family.’
Georgia judged it was time for the big question. ‘Do you know where your mother met her husband?’
There followed an earnest discussion in French but Georgia couldn’t understand anything but the odd word.
‘She met him after the first war ended,’ Roland finally said. ‘They marry in 1919.’
‘Not earlier?’ she asked puzzled. He must have been in the army near here and the war was over in 1918.
Another discussion and finally Joseph admitted: ‘It is a long time ago now, so I tell you the truth. The farm was my mother’s anyway, and Brussels cannot take that away from us, even if they find out about my father. They met when he came here for help in 1917. He had run away from the war, he told Maman, and he pretended to be shell-shocked but she did not believe that. He had found himself in Wytschaete, he said. That is a small village south of Ypres on the road to Armentières, where there was a British army rest centre. He had been a week or two earlier with his battalion before the battle. If he were recognized after he run away that would be bad, so he go south to cross the river into France and get as far away as possible. But he was hungry and tired and saw our farm. My mother opened the door and he said he was English and if he were sent back he would be shot. My mother who was a practical woman needed help on the farm, because her father, old Berthès, was ill, and her brothers were dead in the war at Verdun. She cannot run it alone, so she takes him in, though being so close to the fighting front it is a big risk. If the Germans come and find him, she will be shot. But they did not, and after the war they marry. But he no good. He run away from British army, she say to me, I should have known he would run away from me. And from Rosanne too! How could he do that? The English, they do not know how to work like we French.’
Georgia let this pass, in the interests of co-operation.
‘Maman said he come here,’ Joseph continued, ‘to work on farm, but it is too hard for him. He is a gentleman of England, he tells her, and gentlemen do not work. So he give her three children and disappears after they were married seven years.’
‘Would you have any proof of his identity as Guy Randolph?’ Luke asked.
Three pairs of eyes fixed on him. ‘There is money to be had?’ asked Madame eagerly.
‘I would not think so,’ Georgia answered for him. Even if this was indeed the Guy Randolph of the denehole, the legal position over the estate would surely be affected if he had been declared officially dead at the end of the war.
Madame lost interest, but Joseph was more co-operative. ‘He had a few things from the war, but our brother François took them from Rosanne after the war, she told us. Perhaps he thought it might help him find the fortune or even our father himself. Who knows? Perhaps he did, but I do not think so. We heard no more of our papa and little from François.’
And years later, Georgia reflected, his grandson went on the same mission to seek his heritage, got caught up in a protest about something entirely different and was murdered.
*
‘Good, wasn’t it?’ she asked Luke as they drove away. ‘Peter should be happy. There were some interesting questions here. For example, if this were indeed the Guy Randolph who went to England in 1929, why did he leave his war medals behind? Did he still fear being arrested as a deserter? What do you think?’
‘I think it’s time for lunch, Luke said practically. ‘I have a French meal-shaped space in mon estomac.’
‘We could try the village café.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’ It proved to be full of smoke and lunchtime eaters, but the food coming out in steaming bowls looked promising. They were no sooner through the door than they were buttonholed as prime prospects by madame, who had a definite gleam in her eye, especially as it weighed up Luke.
‘Vous voulez manger?’
‘Oui, madame.’
Madame could have been a dead ringer for Rosanne, Georgia thought, as they sat down at the table, quickly covered for them in a red-check cloth, and sturdy glasses, plates, cutlery and paper napkins plonked upon it. There was no menu here – one would not dare ask for one, Georgia whispered to Luke. On the walls were old newspaper cuttings of the armistice, the liberation, and of General de Gaulle, one of the famous sons of Lille. It only needed Edith Piaf to growl out ‘Chanson d’Amour’ to complete the illusion that fifty years had just vanished. They accepted the platefuls as they emerged one after the other: crudités, saucisses, salade, vegetables and carbonade of beef.
‘It begins to make sense, doesn’t it?’ Luke eventually returned to the purpose of their visit. ‘We could try to prove Guy Randolph of Wickenham was the Guy Randolph of Berthès Farm by checking arm
y records. With a father as a major he’d have been at least a junior officer, so he should be quite easily traceable. Or,’ he paused, ‘you ask Uncle Joseph for a DNA sample. You said there was one taken from the bones, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But I’d rather put my money on Gwendolen’s daughter. At first, anyway.’
‘Explain, if you please.’
‘Two reasons. Firstly, since the skeleton is fairly ancient, there’s a better chance of a match through the female line, Guy’s and Gwendolen’s mother. Mitochondrial DNA – inherited only from the mother – is more likely to be intact in poor tissue samples, as the skeleton’s probably are. Secondly’ – she paused – ‘if we woo Uncle Joseph we’re approaching the puzzle backwards. There’s nothing but circumstantial evidence to suggest their Guy Randolph is the one we’re after, yet with Gwendolen’s daughter we’re on sure ground.’
‘Hum. No harm in our checking army records though.’
‘Our trying?’
Luke grinned. ‘Sorry. You could. I was merely being a concerned publisher.’
‘Apology accepted, especially as you’re my partner at the moment, not publisher. Sharing work is permitted.’
‘Another halfway house. Just like you. Do you ever think you’re going to cross the Rubicon, Georgia?’
‘Probably,’ she answered honestly.
‘Then why not now?’
‘There’s too many loose cannons floating around inside me,’ she tried to explain.
‘Which there always will be.’
‘Wait a little longer, Luke?’
‘Of course. If only for dessert,’ he added practically. ‘That tart looks rather good.’
‘As no doubt Guy said when he set eyes on Rosanne.’
*
‘Shall I stay on for lunch?’ Luke asked, as he drove Georgia back the next day to Haden Shaw from the Ashford International station.
‘Yes, Peter would love it. Besides, I can print him out the Randolph family tree according to the testimony of the French connection, so that you can help answer his usual barrage of suspicious questions.’ She’d forced herself to compose this on her laptop the previous evening, feeling a martyr for working even this short period with so many temptations in the form of Lille and Luke to divert her.
‘Good. It seems a pity to spoil the day by going back too early. They don’t expect me back in the office till about four.’
She was even more glad of Luke’s presence as they let themselves into her father’s house. She always feared coming back to find there had been some problem with Peter, and to have Luke there was a boost. If he were grumpy, Luke would get him out of it more quickly than she could; if he were ill, there would be someone to share the anxiety for an hour or two. Today all was well, however, and when she opened the door and saw her father at his computer a rush of affection swept over her.
‘Good news,’ she called. ‘Luke and I are taking you out for lunch.’
‘Good,’ came the instant reply. ‘Margaret’s prepared that dreadful cauliflower cheese for me. Have a word with her, will you?’
Georgia obediently went to find Margaret, who was engaged in dusting the upstairs rooms. ‘Tell him, I’m not wasting the cauliflower,’ Margaret said cheerfully. ‘He needn’t worry. He can have it for his supper. It’s good for him.’
There was wheelchair access at the back of the White Horse, and Peter had his favourite table quite close to the rear entrance. If he found others sitting there, he could stare them out until they picked up their plates and walked. ‘I’m very grateful,’ he would then quaver. ‘It’s the only table I can manoeuvre this thing up to.’ A complete fib but he had come to believe it himself by now.
The White Horse hovered successfully between the trendy and the traditional village pub. The trendy element was not formed of casual passers-by but by word of mouth. The cook here was good, and though the lunchtime trade was largely local the evenings drew their clientele from far and wide. Even with the best of landlords it wasn’t easy to make a living running a pub in this part of Kent, and Ken Davies, the publican, was perpetually muttering dark threats about his not being appreciated in this place, judging by the lack of profits. One of his regulars had become so sick of this ritual he presented the pub with a huge pink plastic piggy bank labelled ‘Ken’s Pauper’s Fund’, in which pennies were solemnly deposited. Then someone ran off with it, and that was that.
‘How did you get on?’ Peter asked at last, once he had made his decision between baked gammon and fish and chips.
Georgia produced her Randolph family tree and laid it before him.
‘Not proven,’ she pointed out, ‘but it looks good.’
‘Tell me more,’ Peter commanded, and listened remarkably patiently for him. ‘A deserter,’ he murmured when they had finished. ‘Why didn’t I think of that, or perhaps I did. I expect you pooh-poohed me at the time, Georgia. But you see it’s all glueing itself together at last.’
‘It’s collecting itself, but it’s not tying up with Ada Proctor, and it’s still not certain Guy is Denehole Man.’
‘Ah, well, we’re a step forward on that,’ Peter announced complacently. ‘Gwendolen Randolph’s granddaughter Jean wants to visit Wickenham. What do you think of that?’
‘Terrific,’ Georgia answered. Then: ‘What for?’
‘She wants to see the ground her ancestors trod. I had a long talk with her on the phone, but the only information that I gained was negative. Her mother and grandparents heard nothing of Guy after the war and he was officially presumed dead. There weren’t even any rumours that he might still be alive. Nothing. She was definite about it. She also mentioned that Guy didn’t sound the sort of person to stay away if he were in need either. He was a charming scrounger, according to what she was told by her mother. Anyway, I said if she visited Wickenham, you would show her round, provided the hoo-ha has died down. I’ll come, too, of course.’
‘There’s no need,’ Georgia said.
‘You’re not thinking straight. Of course there is.’
Luke chipped in. ‘You want to use your charm to persuade her to have a DNA test, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Peter replied with dignity. ‘She wouldn’t want her uncle lying in an unidentified grave, would she?’
Chapter Ten
Georgia drove cautiously through Wickenham. Jim Hardbent had assured her on the telephone that the village was relatively quiet, at least superficially. He couldn’t see it getting back to ‘normal’, however, until there was someone under arrest, and that hadn’t happened yet, but as for her meeting Jean Atwater, he thought, Georgia could risk returning here.
The signs of Christmas were making their appearance in earnest now that December had arrived. Lights were strung over the shops and around the Green. She could see the baker’s sporting holly and frosted windows, and those of the general store displaying Father Christmas and jolly sleigh stickers. The season of goodwill was providing at least a veneer over the village’s troubles; Christmas was an armistice in the war of real life. She sensed an unnatural calm everywhere, but perhaps she was influenced by the grey of a December morning. Nevertheless, she was glad she had chosen not to stay here tonight, but to return to Haden Shaw.
She had gathered from Jim that the sale of the Manor and estate had duly gone through, but that the fate of the sports fields was as yet unknown. The supermarket deal had collapsed just as Trevor Bloomfield had expected, but what that implied for the future – including that of the appeal – was still to be revealed.
The investigation had obviously been scaled down. No sign of the incident van now, but its absence didn’t mean there wasn’t still a police presence in the village. They were still interviewing, Mike had told them, working their way through the protestors. The good news was that at last some alien DNA had been found on a scrap of hair caught under Scraggs’s fingernail, but the bad news was that so far none of those admitting to be close enough to Terence to have killed him had
provided a match, and nor had the National DNA Database. The DNA bill was mounting, Mike told them, but the SIO was considering paying for an intelligence-led screen by the FSS, if they decided to broaden the scope and request samples from virtually the whole village. Mike was no longer officially on the case, but was being kept informed of what was happening, chiefly, he suspected, because Lockhart wanted to keep tabs on the Marshes, especially now the name of Randolph was providing a theoretical link between Darenth’s unidentified skeleton and unsolved murder.
Georgia’s first call here this morning had been to Lucy Todd to explain she was only here for the day, in case she was spotted in the village. Lucy had been distinctly sniffy at first, but then relaxed.
‘Are things quieter now?’ Georgia had asked her. It was a trite question, but since the murder was still in everybody’s minds, it wouldn’t seem so to Lucy.
Lucy heaved a sigh. ‘Still rumbling on. Oliver’s hopping mad the way they’ve taken his DNA swab as a suspect, just because the Elgins are saying the murder’s our fault for starting the protest. I ask you, what’s democracy coming to if you can’t protest peacefully? And you’re a witness that it was peaceful, till those Neanderthals came charging up.’
‘Surely the police have the Elgins in their sights too?’
‘Oh yes, and the Bloomfields. It’s all very democratic in that sense. But the Elgins are wriggling out, saying they were infiltrated by outsiders in balaclavas over their faces, who were thugs hired by the Todds to stir up trouble. Crazy, they are. Of course it was an Elgin or one of those Bloomfields done it. Why should we want to kill the man who was leading our protest? Poor Mr Scraggs. He didn’t deserve to be killed.’
There Georgia was all with her. ‘It seems unlikely certainly, but it wasn’t in the Bloomfields’ interest to kill him because it would ensure their deal was off right away.’
