Winter of Discontent

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Well, for a start, can you tell me how many missions were run out of Luftwich?”

  “Oh, I never knew that. I only knew about my own shifts, and what I picked up occasionally from the men. They didn’t talk much, though. They weren’t supposed to talk at all, of course. But as to a number—oh, no, I’d have no idea.”

  “Well, perhaps I can get that from the RAF if somebody can tell me how to approach them.”

  “Well, there, again, I’m afraid I’d be no help. You may be right about the difficulties. The military can be so very—military, can’t it? Ordinary people like us have no chance dealing with them, do we?”

  “Probably not. So what about some of the more notable success stories? Important targets destroyed, or large numbers of planes shot down—that sort of thing. I thought you might remember those.”

  “Well, you understand that anything I knew, I knew from the men, and of course they didn’t always know just how things turned out. They might be quite sure they’d hit a factory, but they couldn’t see much through the smoke and the flak. Not to mention the fact that they got out as fast as they could. And then most of our raids were made at night. So I never had anything like a complete record. But I did just note down some of the more exciting missions, the ones I knew about. Just let me find—ah, here. I made a list. I thought I remembered doing that, near the end of the war. This is as of November 27, 1944.”

  She cleared her throat and began to read. “31 August, 1941: Ruhr valley, fires started near factories. 8 September, hit machine factory. 28 December, Nine SBC x 30-pound incendiaries, bullseye. 26 January 1942, bombed Rotterdam—”

  “Hold on a minute, I’ve fallen behind.” I scribbled furiously. “I don’t suppose you would let me borrow your diary? I could make photocopies and use them in the—”

  She hugged the book to her breast. “Oh, no, no, I couldn’t let you do that! No, this is precious to me. I never let it out of my hands. No, I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t do that! It would do you no good, in any case. It’s written in code, of course. My own code, you understand. I couldn’t make a record of that sort of thing that just anyone could pick up and read.”

  She sounded quite alarmed. I hastened to reassure her. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be happy to copy down what you tell me, then, but you’ll have to read more slowly, and explain some of the terms to me. Go ahead.”

  The list was endless. It was also extremely interesting. She explained what “SBC x 30-pound” meant, although the explanation left me no wiser. She amplified with details of what she remembered of the missions, as she had seen them from the Ops Room. She told me little stories about the men involved, including the ones who didn’t come home from this or that mission.

  And all the time, as she was talking and I was taking rapid notes, I knew I’d heard it before. From Stanley.

  And from the Web. She was reproducing still more of the information I’d found about entirely different men from entirely different bases.

  Why were Stanley and Barbara Price telling me almost identical lies?

  At last Miss Price closed her diary. It was one of those leather affairs with the little locking flap, and she was careful to make sure the lock clicked. She wanted her secrets kept safe. Such a lock could be picked with any respectable nail file, of course, or easier still, the soft old leather flap could be cut. The lock was symbolic. I only wished I knew for certain what it symbolized.

  I was sincere in my expression of thanks before I left. I had, indeed, learned some very interesting things, even if they weren’t quite what Miss Price thought she was telling me. This time, I thought as I climbed into my car and headed home through the early December twilight, Alan might pay attention to what I had to say.

  I had completely forgotten we’d been asked out to dinner that night. My oldest friends in England, a pair of American expats living in London, had invited us to be their guests at one of their favorite restaurants, The Old Bakehouse out near Maidstone, a good hour away. By the time I got home I had barely enough time to bathe and dress. I did take a minute to put my notebook in a good safe place. I wanted that evidence to present to Alan.

  The rain was still pelting down. Alan, driving on roads crowded with traffic, had his hands full. It was not only Friday night, but the beginning of a holiday as well. Most English businesses give their employees the whole week off for Christmas; some give two weeks. I was reminded yet again of my sad neglect of Christmas chores, and spent the ride making to-do lists. Alan had no attention to spare for my theories.

  We had a lovely dinner, and a lovely time. Tom and Lynn Anderson are two of the nicest people I know. They have enough money that they never have to give it a thought, but they’re not the way I always imagined the rich to be. They’re funny, and kind, and altogether delightful company. They reminded me about the first time I’d ever visited The Old Bakehouse, also at Christmastime, when I was in the middle of another murder, and just getting to know Alan. Lynn recounted all the details, and I nearly disgraced us all by laughing myself into hiccups, as I had on that earlier occasion.

  Sated, content, and full of goodwill, we parted with mutual wishes for a happy Christmas. I’d had a fair amount of champagne and fell asleep on the way home, so it wasn’t until breakfast the next morning that I got around to telling Alan about Barbara Price.

  “The same stories? You’re sure?”

  “Well, I didn’t make notes at Stanley’s house. But the details sound the same, and I did check my Price notes first thing this morning against what I’d printed out from the Web. I’d wanted to print one story about one medal, and ended up doing forty-odd pages because I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, some of the material in those pages is identical to what Barbara was quoting to me. Identical, Alan. Dates, places, events, even the names of the men involved. The only thing is, those men weren’t from Luftwich. The reports list their squadrons, and none of them are right. Here, look. I’ve marked the items.”

  I handed him my notebook, with a sheaf of printouts tucked inside. He studied them, frowned, and handed them back to me.

  “All right, exactly what is it that you’re thinking?”

  I took a deep breath. “I think they’re in it together, Stanley and Barbara. I think they’re cooking up a false history of Luftwich. Stanley’s medals are part of it, and Barbara’s pretty little war stories.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but it must be because the real history is dangerous. It must have to do with that letter, Alan. It has to!”

  He ran a hand down the back of his neck and finished his cup of coffee. “Any more?” he said, holding up the cup.

  “No, I just made two cups this morning, in the French press. Shall I put on the coffeemaker?”

  “Please.”

  When I got back to the table his fingers were tented in front of him. I recognized the pose. He was about to hold forth.

  “All right. Let’s be logical about this. You believe that there was deliberate sabotage of missions from Luftwich, that they failed to achieve their goals because someone made sure they wouldn’t.”

  I nodded.

  “And you believe that Stanley Rutherford and Barbara Price knew about it and are now covering up the facts.”

  “Yes. I know the evidence is thin, but—”

  He waved away thin evidence and continued.

  “When you first propounded your sabotage theory, you were quite certain Merrifield must have been the saboteur, by reason of his position of superiority in the organization.”

  “Also because he had the most to lose from German air raids over here. That’s if the information someone was providing from the other side was in payment for those sabotaged missions, and it makes sense to me.”

  “We’re not evaluating at the moment, merely formulating. Are you still of the opinion that Merrifield was involved?”

  I hesitated. “Well, it would be a big coincidence if he suddenly got murdered when all this other stuff was going on and
his murder didn’t have anything to do with it, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s a trifle muddled, my dear. Try again.”

  I thought a moment. “All right. How’s this? Merrifield was the big cheese, but the other two knew about it. At the time, I mean. The sabotage would have been easier with more than one person involved, even though the more people knew about it, the riskier it was. Now suppose Merrifield had some sort of attack of conscience or something in the past week or so. Suppose he was about to tell what he knew. Maybe Bill’s death triggered some memories. For whatever reason, suppose he told the others he was going to spill the beans. If they didn’t want them spilled, they’d have to do something about Merrifield, wouldn’t they?”

  “I’ve not met either of these charming people, but obviously they’re not young. Would either of them have the strength, physically, to get out to Heatherwood House and smother Merrifield?”

  “Not Stanley. He can barely walk, and his granddaughter is a tyrant. She wouldn’t let him go off on his own, let alone drive him way out there—if in fact he still drives. And I doubt he, Stanley, I mean, would have the strength to do the murder even if he could have got to Heatherwood House somehow. But Barbara—yes, Barbara could. She’s fussy and somewhat silly and tries to look much younger than she is. She doesn’t manage it, by the way. But she’s fit enough, even if overweight. She walks easily and carries heavy tea trays. She could have done it, easily, and she could have attacked Walter, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Obviously because she didn’t want—oh, I see. You’re saying it takes more than just fear of the exposure of a very old secret to make a motive for murder.”

  “Murder has been committed for sixpence, or a pair of shoes. That wasn’t exactly what I meant. I meant, why now, in particular? If your theory has any basis in fact, either Stanley or Barbara could have simply said that Merrifield was senile, that he was imagining things, or denied that they were ever involved. That’s if they couldn’t talk him out of his purported confession. Why resort to murder?”

  And I had no answer to that.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I HAD TO PUT SPECULATION ASIDE FOR A WHILE. IT WAS SATURDAY, the Saturday before Christmas, and positively my last chance to do any big-city Christmas shopping. I asked Alan if he wanted to come to London with me. He shuddered. “The Christmas sales? Thank you, but no. Unless of course I’m required as a parcel carrier.”

  “I won’t ask that martyrdom of you this time. I’ll take the big rolling suitcase. It should hold everything.”

  “Mind you get someone to lift it into the train for you. Your back, you know.”

  “Yes, well, if I can find a porter, I’ll do that. There’s leftover soup for lunch, and I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  “We’ll go out. You’ll be too tired to cook.”

  I’d be too tired to enjoy going out, too, but maybe I could talk him into take-out Italian or Chinese. That was for later consideration. He drove me to the train, wished me luck, put the empty suitcase in the storage area for me, and jumped off just in time.

  And I settled down for the hour’s ride to Victoria Station and, getting out my notebook, thought again about murder and assorted acts of violence.

  Let’s suppose I was right about the sabotage plot at Luftwich and the people involved. Merrifield simply had to have been at the heart of it. He had something to gain, something big, and he had the power. Means, motive, opportunity. The three big questions in any crime, and treason was one of the worst crimes of all. I made a note to ask his son if any of the family holdings had been damaged in the war. I didn’t know how I would frame such an intrusive question, but I’d worry about that later.

  Yes, Merrifield had to be the boss. Only he was in a position to give orders. Barbara Price could have helped a lot, of course, deliberately guiding the pilots a little off course. A degree or two would make a huge difference. And Stanley, the gunner, could obviously make sure his fire came close to enemy aircraft but didn’t hit them.

  How would Merrifield have gotten Barbara and Stanley to help, though? They had no self-interest in the matter, or not the same kind as Merrifield. Why would they turn traitor, providing aid and comfort to the enemy?

  Well, there again, Merrifield, as a relatively senior officer, had a certain control over them. I thought about that word “blackmail” that I hadn’t written in my notes. I wrote it now. Suppose Stanley had been caught in some breach of discipline, or some moderately criminal act? I could easily imagine Stanley being a little light-fingered. He was born to be a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. And if Merrifield knew, Stanley would certainly consent to a little blackmail, especially if it entailed nothing more than inaction, or misdirected action, on Stanley’s part.

  Barbara? Oh, for Barbara the impetus would have come from her fiancé. He could have convinced her the sun set in the east if he’d wanted to. I had realized that the moment she began to talk about him. And what hold would Merrifield have had, in turn, over him?

  I couldn’t answer that. I knew nothing about him. Barbara had said he was brave, and a patriot, but of course she would have. If it was true, though, a patriot who wasn’t too bright might have been persuaded, by a smooth, clever operator like Merrifield, that England was better served by protecting some of its civilian towns and buildings, even at the cost of failure to destroy some German targets. Merrifield might have talked about revenge bombings if certain German targets were hit. Or he might have persuaded—what was his name?—James, that was it—might have persuaded James that the information coming from Germany was going to be used against them, that it would enable more defenses to be mounted at the sites where the attacks were to take place.

  Might have. Supposing. Could have. I pushed the notebook away from me with an angry shove, causing the woman in the next seat to eye me warily. It was all utterly unsatisfactory. My ideas hung together, I thought, as a piece of reasoning. But there wasn’t one single fact in there, or nothing that couldn’t be explained some other way. Stanley was a delusional collector of war memorabilia. Barbara was concerned with keeping the memory of her fiance green, and borrowed other people’s stories to bolster her contention that Luftwich’s missions had produced stellar results.

  But Walter had certainly been attacked, and Merrifield had certainly been murdered, and Bill, I at least was certain, had been driven to his death. Those facts were irrefutable and had to be explained. And how, how, how was I or anyone to explain them?

  Victoria was just as crowded and hectic as I had expected, and the London shops even more so. I enjoyed myself, even so, at least at first. The day was pleasant, for a change, cloudy but with the sun peeking through now and then, and amazingly no precipitation of any kind. The chestnut sellers were out in force, crying their fragrant wares. I bought some, burning my fingers as I tried to peel and eat them.

  There was a long queue for taxis at the station, so I was forced to wedge myself and my suitcase onto a crowded Tube train. Then Harrod’s was so crowded and noisy that I left without buying anything, somehow managed to get back on the Tube, and headed for the shops in Piccadilly, which were nearly as bad. After three hours I was exhausted, cross, and starved, and not at all pleased when my favorite restaurant in the area refused to admit me with my suitcase. Thoroughly annoyed, I stole a taxi out from under the lordly doorman at the Ritz, settled for a stale sandwich in Victoria Station, and just made it to my train, fed up with the whole notion of Christmas and profoundly grateful that it comes but once a year.

  The journey home gave me a chance for a nap and restored my temper. By the time I met Alan at the door of the train, I was in a mood to be pleased with my purchases and excited again about Christmas. He lifted down the suitcase, raised one eyebrow by way of comment on its weight, and heaved it into the boot. “A successful foray, one assumes,” he said rather dryly.

  “Entirely, but I’m wiped out, physically and financially. And starved. Lunch proved undoable. Do you suppose we could s
ubstitute a really sizable tea for dinner? I don’t think I can wait till dinnertime.”

  Alan grinned. “I’ll drop you at Alderney’s. You can get us a table while I take the car and your bag home. I’ll join you in a tick.”

  Afternoon tea is, sadly, a dying institution in England. The business world, to which almost everyone belongs at one level or another, has time for no more than a quickly brewed cuppa in midafternoon. The meal is a relic of the Victorian days when ladies with nothing else to do called on one another in the afternoons and made polite chitchat, severely restricted as to subject matter, over tea and minuscule sandwiches. The ceremony became more opulent in the Edwardian era, perhaps because the rotund Prince of Wales himself often joined the tea tables of the rich and required substantial nourishment. When the big hotels took up afternoon tea and turned it into a finely tuned ritual, it was already on its way out elsewhere and well embarked on the transformation into a tourist attraction.

  So now it is principally in tourist destinations, like cathedral cities, that afternoon tea is still preserved and hallowed. Sherebury Cathedral draws impressive numbers of tourists in the summer and a good many at other seasons, and so Alderney’s, with its picturesque half-timbered setting actually in the Cathedral Close, prospers and thrives. And I, along with many of the other aging residents of Sherebury, express our gratitude by patronizing the tea shop regularly.

  I ordered a fine collection of carbohydrates, and Alan, when he came back, helped me do full justice to every sinful and delectable calorie.

  “Why is it,” I mused as I pushed my plate away at last, “that all the things that are so good to the taste are so bad for the body? It seems unfair.”

  “Ah, the devil has always been an attractive chap. Temptations would hardly be tempting if they weren’t delightful, now would they? You love things that are good for you, too, fish and broccoli and grapefruit and that lot.”

  “I do, you’re right, but they can’t compare with clotted cream and buttered crumpets and lemon curd and currant buns with cinnamon. Although one can eat too much of them,” I added. My waistband felt miserably tight. “I think maybe I’d better go home and get out of my London clothes before the stitches start to give.”