Winter of Discontent

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Lambert here. What is it?”

  “Goodness, Charles, you sound as though you’ve just traveled through a couple of millennia.”

  “I have. I was working. Who’s this?”

  “Sorry, it’s Dorothy Martin, and I have a mystery for you.” For Charles had helped me solve the very first problem I’d encountered in Sherebury, years ago, and had found the matter as intriguing as the academic puzzles he solved for a living. I counted on that.

  “Oh, well, then!” There was a sound of a chair scraping and a grunt as Charles sat down. “Got an ancient manuscript for me to look at, have you?”

  “No, unfortunately it’s quite a modern one. But it’s pretty mysterious, all the same. Who do you know at the museum who can reliably date something written within the last—oh, fifty or sixty years, at a guess?”

  “Fifty or sixty years, woman! The ink will still be wet! That’s so easy, there’s no fun to it.”

  “Easy for you, maybe. The thing is, I’m involved in sort of an ugly problem here, and I have a letter that I think is important. It isn’t dated, but Alan and I are betting it was written during or soon after the war.”

  “About the war?”

  “I don’t think so. The letter is incomplete.”

  “There’s a guy here, worked in MI5 during the war and for quite a while after. Documents were his specialty. If your letter is from that period, he’d know right off the bat.”

  “I knew you’d know someone. Now, the hitch is, the letter is with the police—”

  “Good Lord! Not mixed up in another murder, are you?”

  “Not exactly. The thing is, the police aren’t inclined to treat the letter as very important evidence, and Alan doesn’t think they’ll pay to have it dated. I know it’s asking a lot, and I’ve got a nerve, but if I invited you and your friend for dinner one day soon, and we managed to get hold of the original letter—all we have now is copies—do you think he’d be willing to look at it and give an opinion?”

  “It wouldn’t be definitive, you know. There should be tests on the paper, the ink, all that.”

  “Yes, I know, and I don’t think we’ll be allowed to do that. But I’d like a seat-of-the-pants opinion.”

  “Hmm. Do you still have any of that California wine you served me last time?”

  “I think we could dredge up a bottle or two.”

  “Would you make steak and kidney pie?”

  “I would. How about tomorrow night? The pie’s better the second day.”

  “I’m free. I’ll have to check with James. It’s only two weeks till Christmas, and he might be busy.”

  Christmas! I’d forgotten again. “Do ask him, and let me know If we can’t do it now, I suppose after Christmas would do, but the sooner the better. And of course we’d love to see you,” I added.

  Charles’s chuckle came through clearly. “You don’t have to pretend. You don’t want my charming company, you want to pick my brains, and James’s. James Wilson, he is. I’ll call you back.”

  I hung up. “He knows someone, and he’ll call back to let me know if they can come tomorrow. He wants steak and kidney pie. I’d better get to the grocery.”

  I made a quick list, got my coat and hat, and headed out the door. I had planned to walk—I only needed a few things—but I changed my mind in a hurry. A wicked wind had come up, sending the last of the dead leaves skittering down the street. The sky was the color of pewter, and a few drops of rain were beginning to fall. I went back inside for my car keys and a sturdier hat, and when I came out again, Jane was just coming out of her door.

  “I’m going shopping,” I called, shouting against the wind. “Can I drop you someplace?”

  She nodded, not bothering to shout back. I backed the car out of the garage and waited while she got in.

  “Have you heard—” I began at the same instant that Jane said, “Heard anything from the hospital?”

  “Well, I guess that answers that.” I put the car in gear and started down the street. “Did you have a nice nap? I stopped in earlier, but I hated to wake you. You looked so peaceful.”

  “Hmph. What people say when you’re in your coffin.”

  There wasn’t really any reply to that, was there? I changed the subject. “Where are you headed?”

  “Supermarket, same as you. Dogs out of food.”

  “I’ll bet you are, too. You haven’t been thinking about food much, these past few days.”

  She shrugged.

  “Jane, how are you doing, really? I know none of this has been easy for you, and I wish you weren’t so stoic about it.”

  She cleared her throat. “Not as bad as you might think. Bill and I—friends. Nothing more, no matter what the gossips said.”

  “But you were planning to be married!”

  She shrugged again. “Marriage of convenience. He needed a place to live. I was lonely. He was the one insisted on marriage. For form’s sake.”

  I tried to readjust my thinking. “But—you were terribly upset when we realized he was missing.”

  “Thinking about what might have happened to him. My oldest friend. We’d seen a good deal of each other, these past few years. Remembering the old days. He gave me somebody to look after a bit. I bullied him, but I was—fond of him. Thought all kinds of things when he disappeared. Knowing is better, even …”

  “I think so, too. Reality can be almost unbearable, but it’s never quite as bad as what our minds can conjure up.”

  “But,” she went on, “don’t think I don’t want the bastard who made this happen! You any closer to figuring out who it is?”

  “I’m working on it. Do you remember Charles Lambert, at the BM?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, he’s coming to dinner, probably tomorrow night, and he’s bringing an expert who might give us a start. Do you want to come, too?”

  “Might as well. Nobody to cook for now.”

  I drove on to the store in silence, wondering just how close Jane and Bill had actually been, and whether she was taking his death as well as she pretended.

  ELEVEN

  I COULD HAVE WAITED TO DO THE GROCERY SHOPPING. CHARLES’S friend James, I learned when I got home, wasn’t able to come for several days. I put the kidneys in the freezer, cooked the round steak for Alan’s and my dinner, and spent the evening discontentedly addressing Christmas cards.

  The next morning the world looked brighter, as it often does in the morning. For one thing, I’d slept well and indeed rather late. For another, the sun was shining. Halfhearted, wintry sunshine, true, but it was better than the unrelieved gloom of yesterday. Even the cats were in a better mood. They hate cold, wet days because going out is no fun, and of course they take their disgust out on Alan and me, at whose feet the blame for the weather must clearly be laid.

  Alan had hot coffee and news for me when I came downstairs. “Jane rang up,” he said, setting a steaming cup in front of me as I sat down.

  I took a grateful sip. “Ah-hh! There is nothing in the world I welcome as much as a cup of good coffee first thing in the morning.”

  “Nothing?” said Alan with a meaningful intonation, favoring me with a kiss on the cheek before sitting down beside me.

  “First thing in the morning, nothing. Don’t get ideas. And don’t change the subject. What did Jane want?”

  “She was at the hospital, and she had good news. Young Walter is responding to stimulus.”

  “What does that mean? Is he conscious?”

  “Not quite, but he opens his eyes when he’s spoken to and moves both his arms and his legs when they’re poked and prodded.”

  “Has he said anything?” That, to me, was the critical matter. It wasn’t so much that I expected him to help the police at all. I doubted he knew much about Bill, and it was virtually certain he wouldn’t be able to remember anything about his own attacker. It was just that I passionately wanted him not to be brain-damaged.

  “Not yet, but apparently the medical staff are q
uite pleased with his progress and hopeful for the future.”

  The coffee tasted even better after that. We had a second cup each and ate our cereal and toast with a good appetite. It was my week to dry, and as I was putting away the cereal bowls I said, “I think I’ll go over to the hospital. Walter might be sitting up and taking notice by now.”

  “Best call first, love. If they move him out of intensive care, they’ll want him to rest a bit before he has any visitors.”

  “Oh. You’re probably right. Actually, I suppose once he’s fully aware of what’s going on, he’ll probably hurt a lot and need a good deal of rest anyway.”

  “You could go and talk to Jane as a next-best thing. She’ll be able to give a full report.”

  “Good idea. I can see how she’s doing, besides. I’m really sort of worried about her. Yesterday I thought she was taking it all too calmly. It’s not healthy to tamp down your feelings as much as she does, and don’t you lecture me about English self-control.”

  “Actually, my dear, you’re the one who has an idée fixe about that. I quite agree that Jane may need, as you’d say, to ‘vent’ a bit.”

  “I’ve never said such a thing in my life! You’ve been watching too many American TV shows. I may go with her if she wants to take the dogs for a run, so expect me when you see me.”

  It really was a beautiful day, if a little chilly. Not at all Christmassy, but the thought of Christmas raised lots of anxiety right now anyway, and I was glad to pretend it was spring. Jane had just returned from the dogs’ walk, so I didn’t get my exercise, but I was glad to settle down in her pleasant kitchen.

  Jane was looking a lot better. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes had lost that dead, defeated look. She offered me coffee, which I refused with some regret, and then bustled around putting her kitchen in order and looking almost like the old Jane.

  “So tell me how Walter’s doing,” I demanded. “Alan’s report was pretty sketchy. How’s he looking?”

  “Better. More color. Human.”

  “Well, that’s a major improvement over yesterday. Do you think he knew you?”

  “Couldn’t tell. Nurses thought perhaps.”

  “Did they tell you when he might be fully conscious?”

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Won’t commit themselves. Platitudes.”

  “What do you think, then?” I persisted. Really, trying to get information from Jane was like trying to run through quicksand.

  She shrugged.

  “Blast it all, Jane, you have some idea, you know perfectly well you do. Alan won’t let me go over there, says the boy probably needs rest. I admit he’s right, but I want to know how he is!”

  She sat down at the table and sighed. “Not a nurse or doctor. Looks better to me. On the mend, I’d say. Think he’ll be talking in a day or two. Don’t want to build too much on it, in case …”

  Ah. So that was why she wouldn’t talk. “Yes, I see. I’m superstitious about that kind of thing, too. Sort of like not daring to count on good weather tomorrow, because one wants it so much for the picnic. But I’m betting on your diagnosis. Okay, you may not be a nurse or doctor, but you’ve lived a long time and know a thing or two. I’ll take your opinion anytime.”

  “Don’t think he’ll remember anything much.”

  “About his attack, you mean. I don’t either.”

  “What are police doing about it?”

  “I haven’t really asked Alan this morning. I wanted to talk to you, see if we can come up with some ideas. There must be something we could do. I feel very much at a loose end.”

  Jane nodded. “Found his parents,” she said casually. “Or his mother. Father dead.”

  “Oh, good for you! How did you manage that?”

  “Your idea. Friends at university. Warned me about the mother. Said she was—a bit offhand.”

  “What does that mean? That she’s not concerned about him?”

  Jane shrugged and shook her head. “Doesn’t seem to be. Moaned about bad timing, Christmas coming, off on holiday soon.” She said nothing more, but a muscle in her cheek moved as though she was clenching her teeth.

  “Some people,” I said bitterly, “have no right to be mothers. So I suppose she isn’t even coming to see Walter.”

  “Told her not to bother,” said Jane. “I’ll see to the boy.”

  I smiled at her, and sat and watched the play of light on the red geraniums in her kitchen window. Half my mind was taken up with fury at a negligent parent, half struggling to come up with a useful idea.

  Something was trying to come to the surface, some vague association … flowers … red … poppies … veterans …

  “Jane, I just thought of something! You remember I thought Bill’s disappearance might have something to do with the war? You thought it was a silly idea.”

  “You didn’t know him well. Wasn’t the kind to keep a secret. If he knew something from back when, during the war, would have told everybody. Not the cloak and dagger type. Can’t imagine him hiding something all these years.”

  “Okay, but I still think there might be something to it. Darn it all, Bill went down to that awful tunnel for a reason, and he took that letter for a reason.”

  “Stroke. Out of his head,” Jane suggested.

  “Maybe, but even when people do crazy things, they’re operating on some kind of logic. And certainly Walter was attacked for a reason. You can’t say that was just craziness.”

  She couldn’t, so she said nothing at all.

  “All right. What I’m getting at is this. I know Bill was getting on a bit in years, and so are his contemporaries, but there must still be a few people in this town who knew him during the war. Maybe even men who served with him in the RAF, who knew what went on in the battles. I’d really like to get a picture of Bill’s war. You may think it’s nonsense, but I’ve got this bee in my bonnet, and what could it hurt?”

  “Couldn’t, I suppose.” Jane’s face took on a contemplative look, and then she shrugged. “Worth a try. No other ideas on tap, are there? Bill’s contemporaries. Hmph. Not many left now, but a few. Could introduce you, if you want.”

  “I do want. I think there’s something to be learned.” I also thought that talking with Bill’s old friends might be therapeutic for Jane. They might be able to get her to open up about him, reminisce a little, as I could not. “Could you call some of them now? I’m pining for action, and I can’t think of anything else to do that’s at all useful.”

  “No time like the present.” Jane got up from the table and went to the small desk in the corner of the room. There was a telephone on it, and under the phone a small pile of books. She pulled one out, opened it, and ran her finger down a page.

  “Ah. Stanley Rutherford. Bit of an old bore. Lives with his granddaughter, nothing to do all day. Be glad to talk to you, I’ll warrant. Trouble is shutting him up.” She queried me with her eyebrows.

  “By all means. He sounds perfect.”

  She picked up the phone and dialed.

  Stanley Rutherford was apparently starving for company. I could hear him on the other end of the phone, his high voice creaking out an invitation for us to come over and see him as soon as we liked. Jane looked at me. I nodded eagerly. “Right. There in a few minutes, then.”

  She hung up the phone and turned to me. “Talk your arm off. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  As Jane drove through the maze of narrow, winding streets, I asked her about Stanley and his family.

  “A bit older than Bill and me. Eighty-five now, or nearly. Made a difference when we were kids. We weren’t close friends. He joined up before Bill, but they landed in the same squadron. Wounded in the Battle of Britain, I think it was, but back in action in a few weeks, for the whole war. Married when he was demobbed, three kids. Wife’s been dead for years now. Kids have moved away, all of them, but the granddaughter’s still here.”

  “It’s kind of her to look after her grandfather.”

  “H
ah!” Jane made a face, but made no further comment.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Caroline something. Don’t recall her surname. Works in one of the shops in the new mall.”

  “Any children?”

  “Three.” Jane’s expression and tone of voice were grim enough to give me a pretty good idea of the youngest generation.

  However, when we pulled into the drive of the almost-new, semidetached house at the edge of town, only Mr. Rutherford was at home. He opened the door before we could get out of the car. I was sure he had been watching for us.

  Jane had said he was only a few years older than she, but those years sat heavily upon him. He stood at the open door, one hand braced on a walker, the other clasping a shawl around his shoulders. He could never have been a large man, but now he was stooped and wizened and resembled nothing so much as a garden gnome that had been left out for too many winters.

  “Come in, come in,” he called in a high, cracked voice. “Too cold to stand here with the door open.”

  There was an obvious answer to that, but Jane and I simply hurried up the path to the door, avoiding the bicycle, skateboard, and scooter that lay in wait to trip the unwary.

  “Stanley, Dorothy Martin. Stanley Rutherford.”

  “How do you do?” I murmured.

  “I know you,” he said accusingly. “The American prodnose. Well, I can tell you a thing or two you’ve never heard before, believe me. Come in, sit down if you can find a place. Caroline’s not the best housekeeper in the world.”

  It was an understatement. The tiny front hall was cluttered with wellies and umbrellas. Hats, scarves, and gloves were piled on a small table atop a stack of newspapers and unopened mail. Through an open door into the kitchen I could see the dishes piled in the sink. Nothing looked actually dirty, but the level of untidiness was more than I could tolerate on even my messiest days.

  Stanley led us into a front room that was no better. The three-piece suite of plush furniture was nearly buried in sweaters and jackets and magazines and electronic toys. A platform rocker in front of the television set, obviously set aside for Stanley, was the only unencumbered chair. Jane swept a pile off one end of the sofa and gestured to me to do the same. We waited to sit until Stanley had lowered himself slowly, painfully, into his seat.