Winter of Discontent

by Jeanne M. Dams

  I had thought briefly about taking some sort of weapon, just in case. But what? I was terrified of guns, even if I had been able to obtain one, a much harder thing to do in England than in America. A knife, a candlestick, a lead pipe? No. No one my age has any business thinking in the silly terms of a board game. I didn’t even know where I could buy a can of Mace. I’d take my wits and the police whistle Alan gave me, and my cell phone, which has a preset button for 999. That would have to do.

  I concentrated fiercely on finding my way through Sherebury’s narrow medieval streets. The sleet had changed back to rain, but it was an especially wet rain that kept my windshield wipers flapping furiously and limited both my visibility and my traction. I was grateful for it. Driving with extra care kept me from thinking too much about what might happen when I reached my destination.

  Stanley’s granddaughter wasn’t home. I hadn’t expected her to be on a weekday, and on the whole I was glad she wasn’t. I wanted Stanley to be free to say whatever he wanted.

  On the other hand, she might have stopped him from doing what he wanted, and just in case he wanted to do something murderous … no, I wouldn’t think about that.

  He greeted me as he had before, door open, impatient for me to get inside, an odd mixture of eagerness and rudeness. This time, however, he made no apologies and no preliminary remarks, but simply led me into the crowded lounge and pointed to a small table he had cleared of its load of newspapers and assorted rubbish.

  “Look! You’ve never seen anything quite like that, have you, now?”

  He pointed to the display that lay on the table. Inside a frame of about nine by twelve inches, covered with glass and resting on silk that had probably once been scarlet, lay his collection of medals. There were all the ones I had expected, the 1939—1945 Medal with its Battle of Britain bar, the Air Crew Europe Medal with a France and Germany bar, the Air Force Medal with the France and Germany bar, the Defence Medal—all the medals routinely issued in World War II to British enlisted men, or “other ranks” as the Web pages had delicately put it.

  And there were two set off by themselves, not fastened together with the others.

  “Know what that is?” Stanley asked eagerly in his cracked voice, pointing to one.

  I did, but I let him tell me.

  “That’s the Medal for Conspicuous Gallantry, that is. The one for fliers. That’s the highest award a man could get in that war.”

  “Unless he was an officer, right?”

  Stanley snorted. “Give out stars left and right to officers, they did. And what did they do? Sit on their behinds and give orders that got the rest of us killed.”

  “You survived,” I pointed out.

  “Only just!” he said indignantly. “Know how I got that there?” He pointed a shaking finger at the medal with its frayed, faded ribbon. “Hung out in midair, I did, to rescue the other gunner when the kite took a bad hit. Holding on with a rope, and no parachute, mind you, and freezing cold so I nearly lost my hold, too. The way it happened, y’see, was we were on a mission over France …”

  He went on and on with great gusto. I listened, but I knew what was coming. The story sounded familiar. Very familiar, indeed. Virtually identical with one I had read the night before on the Web, about one Flight Sergeant Crabe.

  “ … and he spent five months in hospital, but he ended up right as rain, and all on account of me! And what do you think of that, eh?”

  “Remarkable,” I said fervently. “A wonderful story.” And it was. Apart from the last detail (in Crabe’s citation the other gunner had been dead when Crabe reached him), Stanley had reproduced the heroic story almost word for word. “You must have been very proud.”

  “Ah, weren’t nothin’. Wartime, y’know. Did for each other when we could. He’d have done the same for me.”

  I was tempted to probe a little, ask for details, but on second thought I left well enough alone. Stanley had proved, to my satisfaction at least, that he was a liar about his war record. I wondered where he’d got the medal. From a dead companion, perhaps? I nearly shuddered. Or maybe it was a replica, purchased years later. One could buy such things, sometimes even the real ones. There were sites for collectors all over the Web.

  The point was, if Stanley was a liar, was he also, conceivably, a murderer?

  I paid little attention as he went on to describe how he earned the other, the Distinguished Flying Medal, until he began listing the targets he had hit and destroyed, the German factories, the aerodromes, the U-boats. I couldn’t very well make notes, but I tried hard to remember a few place names. The account again sounded familiar; I wanted to look it up when I got home.

  “Those must have been very dangerous missions,” I said with what I hoped was the proper awe.

  “Solid walls of flak we had to go through, nearly every time. Didn’t bother us. We got them more often than they got us. Wasn’t only me, all of them. Good men, they were.”

  “Well, I must say I’m impressed. It sounds as though Luftwich was a real force in winning the war.” Was I laying it on too thick?

  Apparently not. Stanley held forth for another half hour, until he had to go to the loo and I could make my escape.

  When he had tottered out of the room, I took a moment to pick up the framed collection. If the frame was loose, I might be able to slide the medals out and see the backs. If they were engraved, they might tell me something about their origin.

  But the frame was properly sealed, so I shouted a cheery good-bye to the back of the house and got out of there.

  I had a good deal to think about, so the tricky drive home was not the blessing the drive out had been. I was happy to pull into my tiny garage and devote my attention to my problem.

  It was, I decided in the few steps to my front door, time to consult with Alan. I had a little proof now.

  Alan, however, wasn’t home. He had left a note. “Derek asked for some advice. Back soon.”

  I smiled a little over that. There was a time when Alan had felt he was, in retirement, out of the loop. He was punctilious about not interfering in police investigations without an invitation, but he certainly did like it when Derek asked.

  Well, I’d have to do my thinking alone. Maybe when Alan returned I’d have some better-organized ideas for his consideration.

  Stanley. I heated up the last cup of the morning’s pot of coffee and took it to the kitchen table, hoping the caffeine would stimulate my little gray cells.

  Stanley. What was I to make of him?

  On the face of it, he was a pathetic man, living in the past. Given the nature of his present life, that was perhaps understandable. Was he so eager to be a hero in the eyes of the world—or perhaps the eyes of his granddaughter—that he had bought or stolen medals and adopted other people’s war stories as his own? Or was there some more sinister explanation?

  There seemed to me to be only one way to answer that question, and that was to ask some more. Of course, my best source of information, John Merrifield, had been silenced forever. Of the remaining possibilities, Mr. Tredgold was out. He wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, tell me anything, and I would upset him dreadfully. I couldn’t do it.

  The other two, Barbara Price and Leigh Burton, didn’t like me. Leigh most particularly didn’t like me, I wasn’t sure why. However, they were sane and competent, and if I could think of a way to frame my questions tactfully, they might possibly answer. If not, well … there was always Merrifield’s son, I supposed, though this was a bad time to approach him, just after his father had been cruelly murdered.

  Perhaps the police had asked him some of the questions I’d like to raise, and I could get some answers from Alan. Or perhaps I was being a coward, hiding behind that possibility because I didn’t want to face the others involved—the two women.

  Many English people I know have commented that Americans have a noticeable need to be liked, that we are almost embarrassingly friendly and outgoing. I confess that I want to be liked. I want people t
o think well of me, and I don’t enjoy spending time with those who obviously prefer my absence to my company. If that’s a character flaw, surely it’s harmless enough.

  When one is investigating a crime, however, it is likely that many of the people one encounters won’t be pleasant. The police, of course, have the authority to question witnesses and suspects, and although that authority can’t coerce cooperation, it does intimidate, and most people cave in eventually.

  My case is different. No one has to talk to me. When I first moved to Sherebury, I could often encourage conversation because I was a foreigner, not a member of the community, and I “didn’t count.” Now that I’ve lived here for years and married a prominent policeman, that ploy won’t work anymore. I have found that losing my temper sometimes prompts a response, but that’s dangerous. I prefer to stay in control, at least of myself.

  Well, perhaps it was time for me to develop some backbone, acknowledge that some of my sources of information were unwilling, and act accordingly. It didn’t, after all, matter in the end whether I made new friends. What mattered was the truth.

  With that noble sentiment to bolster my confidence, I picked up the phone and called Barbara Price. She wasn’t thrilled to hear from me, but when I said I had a few more questions about Luftwich, especially her work there, she thawed a little and invited me to come for tea. I made a mental note to tuck some Turns into my purse, and splashed my way next door to get explicit driving directions from Jane.

  I had planned to tell her what I had learned about Stanley’s medals, but Walter was awake and downstairs, and I didn’t want to bring it up in front of him.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked him after writing down the directions to Barbara Price’s house. “You’re looking fine, I must say. You were pretty pale for a while there.”

  “Much better, thanks. Still a bit of a headache now and again, but I’m not dizzy anymore. I only wish I could remember! It’s maddening to know someone bashed my head and I don’t even know who it was, or why, or anything about it.”

  “I think they say it’s better not to force it. The memory may return in time. Or it may not, you know. Head injuries are odd. You’re just lucky it wasn’t much, much worse.”

  He looked me squarely in the eye. “It would have been worse if you hadn’t found me. No one told me that, but I could guess from the way they talked behind my back. I think you saved my life, Mrs. Martin. I don’t suppose I need tell you how grateful I am.”

  “Not at all. I just hope you don’t take the Oriental attitude that I’m now responsible for you. From the looks of you, there’s a good deal of mischief you plan to get into yet, and I don’t think I care to make looking after you my life’s work.”

  He chuckled. “No, I think Miss Langland plans to take that on. She’s a fine mother hen.”

  Jane turned brick red and changed the subject. “Need to move your things here. This afternoon?”

  “Yes, I’ve rung my landlady. She’s not best pleased.”

  Jane and I both made indignant sounds. “No, I don’t imagine she is,” I said. “She’s losing a boarder who never gave her a moment’s trouble, or cost her a moment’s work. You’re far better off here. And Jane will enjoy the company. If you’re doing the moving early this afternoon, I can help, if you like.”

  “Thanks, but there’s not all that much to move. I haven’t many clothes. There are a few books, though.”

  “I can imagine. And books are the heaviest things on earth. Are you up to that yet?”

  “I’ll pack them in small boxes. Most of them are at the museum, anyway. I did a lot of studying there.” A cloud passed over his face. “I don’t know what will happen now.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Jane. “Know the trustees. Fix it up. You’ll keep your job.”

  And he would, too, if the money had to come out of Jane’s own pocket. She’s unstoppable when it comes to the welfare of the young.

  “Well, there’s no need to ask if Jane’s feeding you properly. Lunch smells wonderful.”

  “Join us,” said Jane.

  “Can’t. I expect Alan home, so I have to feed him something. And I’d better get at it. I’ll see you later.” I tried to telegraph a message to Jane that I wanted to talk to her alone, but she seemed oblivious. Ah, well. I’d phone her if nothing else worked.

  Alan came home a few minutes after I did, and while I put together a quick lunch out of the freezer I told him about Stanley’s medals. He wasn’t overly impressed.

  “It’s a bit off, of course, him passing them off as his own, but it’s not unheard of. Not the ‘done’ thing, but Stanley isn’t likely to care much about that.”

  “Not ‘an officer and a gentleman’?” I said, bristling a little.

  “No. And you needn’t go all democratic and American about it. Whether you like it or not, the class system exists. And don’t pretend you don’t have one in America, either. Your system is based on money rather than birth, but it’s a fact of life.”

  “I suppose. Then there’s race, and location. Those who live in the really big cities, especially New York, view themselves as superior to us hicks from the sticks.”

  “And don’t forget the stigma of age.”

  “Yes, and of all the unfair distinctions—”

  “Yes, love. Life is unfair. Eat your stew.”

  I took a bite. “And speaking of age, what has Derek learned about Merrifield’s murder? And what did he want from you?”

  “He’s stuck. He’s taken statements from everyone he could think of, including some of the residents at Heatherwood House. No one saw anything or anyone peculiar. No one acted in any way out of the ordinary. He made a list of all known visitors. No surprises. He asked me to look over the statements in case I might spot something he’d missed. Flattering of him, but I wasn’t any help at all. It all looked straightforward and exactly what one would expect.”

  “Didn’t anybody get suspicious? I mean, wonder why the police were asking questions about the death of a very old man in a place where death is almost an everyday occurrence?”

  “Derek was clever about that. He claimed to be conducting an inquiry for Merrifield’s insurance company, looking into any possible dereliction of duty on the part of the staff. If anyone thought there was more to it, no sign appeared in the reports.”

  “Hmm. I wonder. Official reports often leave out nuances.”

  “Not in this county, they don’t! My people knew I’d have their heads if they left out a blinking thing, even the slightest hint of a suspicion of a hunch. Derek’s carrying on the tradition. It makes for long reports and tedious reading, but one knows everything’s there. No, I think the fact of murder is still our secret.”

  “Good. That means the murderer thinks he’s safe. It’s a small advantage, but a valuable one.”

  “God knows we can use any advantage we can get. This one’s getting away from us.”

  So we talked about that and Stanley was forgotten, at least for the moment, but I filed him away. Something was odd, there, and I hoped Barbara Price could help me learn what it was.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  MISS PRICE, IN A PLAID WOOL SKIRT AND RATHER ELDERLY SWEATER, was dressed much more casually than when I had last seen her. She’d been expecting Alan last time. I, a mere woman, and an American at that, wasn’t worth dressing up for. I was apparently worth cooking for, though. I smelled fresh-baked scones as I walked in the door, and lovely little sandwiches sat ready on a tray.

  The food was good, too, though the tea was as strong and tannic as before. We made small talk through our meal: Christmas, the depressing weather. When we had finished the tea in the pot and I had declined more as tactfully as I could, my hostess sat back in expectant silence.

  “I’m so glad you could find time to talk to me a bit more,” I began. “You see, I’ve hit a snag in my work. I can’t seem to find anyone who can actually document the part Luftwich played in the war. I mean the number of missions run, some of the outstandi
ng successes, that sort of thing. Mr. Merrifield might have helped, but of course he’s gone now, poor man.”

  I didn’t mention the manner of his departure. It wasn’t a matter of public knowledge, and if she knew—but she reacted perfectly normally.

  “Yes, well, I wasn’t fond of him, but he was a link to the old days. Soon we’ll all be gone, and no one will remember.”

  “Yes, you’re right, and of course the point of the museum exhibition is to help people remember. So I wondered if you could give me any of the facts and figures I’m looking for.”

  “Well, I hardly—that is, surely the RAF would have records. Unless they were destroyed in the Blitz, of course.”

  “I thought of that, but my heart quails at the idea of trying to get information from a government agency. At least in America, red tape can tie you up for ages. And of course I haven’t a shred of authority to ask for anything; I’m just trying to help out. And I know so little. Is there anything at all you can tell me?”

  “It was all confidential information.”

  “Of course, but surely after all these years it wouldn’t matter. I mean, the men involved in those missions would have told their stories, to their families at least, after the war was over. There must be thousands of people who know pieces of the story. The thing is, I don’t know any of them except you few who live in Sherebury. Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated, I assure you, and of course acknowledged in the exhibit.”

  Indecision chased across her face, but at last she stood. “Oh, very well, but I’ll have to get my diaries. I can’t remember the details after sixty years.”

  I got out the notebook I had stuck in my purse, and waited.

  She was away for some little time, and came back breathless and apologetic. “I’m sorry, it took me a while to find the old diaries. I haven’t looked at them for years. Now then, what was it you wanted to know?”