My brothers might be grown men, but I knew they still dreaded receiving the raw end of our father’s temper. Or worse, the heavy sigh and shake of his head that indicated his disappointment.
“Besides, your squabbling is making the horses restless,” I scolded, hearing the steeds shuffling in their boxes. I turned my glare on Tim. “As is that crop.”
Freddy grunted, sinking back against the wall, while Tim hung the lash with the other tack. Freddy and Tim quarreling was nothing new. They’d done so since Tim was old enough to sass his imperious oldest brother. But in the past, Rob had always been the one to keep the peace, to settle their differences. I suddenly felt the hole his death had rent in the fabric of our family keenly.
I sighed wearily. The journey might not have been arduous, as the train and Sidney’s motorcar had both run smoothly, but I’d spent much of the day and the night before braced for what was to come. Even now my muscles were tense, and my nerves frayed, chary of the memories that seemed to linger in the air all around me. Memories that at one time would have brought comfort, but now only brought pain.
“I’m going to bed,” I declared, pushing to my feet as I hugged my Prussian blue coat tighter around me against the chill of the air.
Sidney’s eyes wavered with concern, but he didn’t broach it, instead offering a casual good-night to my brothers in turn before pressing a hand to the small of my back and escorting me toward the house.
The gate leading to the inner courtyard swung easily on its hinges, and I preceded him into the enclosed space, the dirt between the tiles crunching beneath my heels. All the lamps in the servants’ quarters to our right were extinguished save one that burned lowly through the kitchen window to light the way for anyone seeking late-night sustenance. Across the yard, flickering light shone through the pale curtains of one of the bedchambers in the cottage. Either Ruthie was awake, or Rachel was waiting up for Freddy to return.
My gaze lingered on the light in the cottage window, torn between empathy for my sister-in-law and irritation at her chilly treatment of Freddy over dinner. After all, I’d spent my fair share of nights sitting up, wondering if Sidney would come to bed or return to it after one of his nightmares. However, I also held a strong loyalty to my brother, who I knew was coping as best he could since the war. All the returning men were. But then I had a rather unique perspective, having spent time during the war behind enemy lines as well as at home in Britain.
Of course, my family didn’t know this. They couldn’t know this, for the Official Secrets Act forbade me from enlightening them. Which made everything all the more complicated as many of them clearly believed I’d been kicking my heels about London in between my hours working in the office of an import-export business shipping supplies to the British military. What I didn’t know was whether Rachel was one of them.
“You’re worried about Freddy,” Sidney murmured. “About his marriage.”
I turned to look up at him.
“I noticed the tension between them at dinner.”
“How could you miss it?”
He pulled me to a stop before we crossed the threshold of the door leading into the billiards room. “Yes, well, that doesn’t mean we should presume they’re always like this. After all, they must be experiencing at least some anxiety at entering into this cozy little family gathering.” He lowered his voice and his head so he could see deeper into my eyes. “And being forced to live in such close proximity to your mother while the renovations on their home are completed.”
The corners of my lips tugged upward in a reluctant smile.
“Perhaps they’re not always at odds with each other.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. What couple with a spouse returning from the war wasn’t facing at least some measure of strain?
Sidney lifted his hands to clasp my elbows where they were tucked against my sides, his shadowed features searching mine. “But what of you?” His voice warmed with an affection that brought a lump to my throat. “I know today hasn’t been easy for you.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, though it came out a bit strangled. After clearing my throat, I tried again. “Just fine.”
“Really?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes.” I moved to push past him, feeling the icy veneer covering my deep-seated emotions beginning to crack under his regard. I already felt like I was walking on thin ice. If I allowed him to prod too hard, I might plunge into the depths. I couldn’t allow that. Not now. Not if I was to endure this visit.
I sensed Sidney’s dismay and frustration that I refused to speak of it. But really, he was the last person to chastise me for withholding my feelings. Not when much of his war and the reasons he still paced the floor to escape his nightmares some nights were still a mystery to me.
Ignoring the tightness in my chest, I walked on, not caring whether he trailed after me. Though my heart gave a traitorous flip that belied my avowed indifference when I heard him shut the door as his footsteps followed mine.
CHAPTER 11
The following day we woke to low-hanging mist, which obscured the dawn and clung to the heath-strewn slopes and shadowed woods. By the time we departed for church in a caravan of motorcars, the sun had managed to burn through some of the fog, scattering golden light over the hills and fells, but the dale bottom was another matter. Our progress slowed as we crossed the River Ure, its rippling waters still smothered by a downy blanket of mist, and did not speed up even as we reached the outskirts of the village on the other side, for the fog there was slow to dissipate.
In truth, I was grateful that my first glimpse of Hawes after so many years was through a filter of haze. It blunted the impact of revisiting the streets I had so often trod, and my memories of the faces behind every house and shop window, some of whom would no longer peer through the glass ever again. I rode in the rear seat of the Pierce-Arrow next to Tante Ilse, who was perceptive enough not to press me for conversation. Or perhaps she was equally as distracted, her eyes having taken on a faraway sheen.
Meanwhile Tim burbled away in the front seat, quizzing Sidney about every aspect of his motorcar. Under normal circumstances my brother’s chatter might have exasperated me, but that morning the sound of it washing over me was almost a comfort—a bit of the mundane in an otherwise disconcerting situation. Although, from the alert glances Sidney continued to cast my way in the rearview mirror, I was aware that my silence had not gone unnoticed.
St. Margaret’s Church perched on a low hill overlooking the village. To the south it was bordered by fields of grazing sheep, their coats already growing shaggy for winter, while to the east ambled the rocky stream of Gayle Beck. We entered through the simple church gate affixed in the stone wall off Market Place, the main street that ambled through the heart of the village. Shops straggled down the length of the road. Next door stood the chemist, a grocer, and the bookshop, while across the street was located the post office and a pub.
Many of the orange and yellow leaves clinging to the lime trees that lined the path leading to the church door had already dropped, rustling against the gravestones strewn throughout the yard. Whatever pattern the weathered stones had originally been laid out in was no longer discernible. The ground seemed to have buckled and twisted in places, causing some of the markers to lean toward the earth, as if they carried a burden too great for them to bear.
I paused just inside the gate, my skin prickling at the sight of the gravestones. I could only feel relieved that the newer graves were located in a neat lot to the west of the church, for I did not relish stumbling upon the sight of a familiar name engraved in sandstone, and being reminded that they’d perished from the influenza or from wounds that had festered in the hospital. Most of the war dead, of course, had not been repatriated, instead being buried in France, Belgium, Gallipoli, Palestine, and other far-flung places on the globe. But nonetheless I could feel their absence like the missing notes of a song or the lost verse of a poem.
I came to regret my hesitation,
for Mother looped her arm through mine, urging me up the path. “Fifty,” she declared with an aggrieved sigh. “Forty-nine men, including your brother, and one nurse. You recall that Fanny Mason joined Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Service?” she asked, and then continued to speak, not requiring an answer. “That’s how many young people this village, and that of Gayle and Hardraw, sacrificed to the war.”
I strode stiffly beside her, unable to form a response. I had known the numbers before. Mother had made sure of it. But standing here amidst the graves of the other past residents, the tendrils of fog still curling around the stones in the distance, it struck home more sharply than before. It was an enormous toll on such a small village and its two neighboring hamlets. And though I recognized other villages throughout Britain and Europe and the world had suffered losses, to greater and lesser degrees, those deaths were largely words and numbers on a page to me, while these were all achingly personal. They burned like hot pokers thrust into my gut.
“There are plans for a war monument.” She gestured toward an open space in the churchyard, presumably where they intended to place it. “Something to commemorate those who died. But the funds will have to be gathered.” She leaned closer, nodding toward an older man standing beside the church doors. “It was hoped Mr. Metcalfe might agree to sponsor a large portion of it. After all, his grandson, John, was the highest-ranking member of our community to be killed.” She sniffed. “But he’s already commissioned a plaque to be inset in the wall inside the sanctuary for the Metcalfe boys.”
That she deemed this to be selfish was obvious from her pinched expression, but it was no different from what many of the first families throughout England were doing. Replacing traditional graves with monuments and plaques—giving themselves some place to mourn, some way to ensure their loved ones’ names were not forgotten. In truth, I wondered if Mother had considered doing the same for Rob, but now felt doing so would be hypocritical, especially if the rest of the village was disgruntled by Mr. Metcalfe’s actions.
I lifted my gaze from the path before me, still deciding whether to remark on this, when something about the man who had rounded the west corner of the bell tower, his head low and his hands tucked in his pockets, caught my eye. He seemed familiar somehow, and yet as I sifted through my memory, trying to place his face and his shaggy, straw-colored hair, the answer eluded me. I thought I knew everyone who lived in Hawes, but of course, I had been away for five years. That was a long time, and there were bound to be a few new faces in the village or seasonal laborers here to finish bringing in the harvest.
Nonetheless, his presence for some reason struck a discordant note within me. As if the location I had seen him before did not jibe with our current surroundings. But before I could place him, he’d disappeared behind the parishioners standing near the door, and must have slipped inside.
I shook my head, dismissing him from my thoughts, for there was undoubtedly a logical explanation. He was probably a soldier I had seen sometime during the war, either on the streets of London or while volunteering in a canteen. There was nothing more to it than that.
In any case, I needed my wits about me as Mother directed our footsteps toward a pair of women standing beside the path who were waiting for us. Mother hastened us toward them, pasting a pleasant expression across her face.
“Verity, you remember Mrs. Wild,” my mother declared as we drew near.
“Of course,” I replied, reaching for her hand. I had always liked my mother’s closest friend. Perhaps because, in many aspects, she was her exact opposite. She was round and soft where Mother was thin and rigid, and cordial and dithering when Mother was reserved and precise. They seemed a mismatched pair, but I knew they held each other in the highest esteem.
Growing up, Mrs. Wild’s son had often played with my brothers and me, though being of an age with Rob, they’d always been the closest. “I was terribly sorry to hear about Henry,” I told her, knowing it was the right thing to say, though I struggled to keep my voice from wobbling. His death coming so close to the end of the war, as he and his men struggled to recapture a critical railway line, had seemed all the harder to swallow, knowing he’d almost made it to the armistice. “He was a good man. The best.”
Mrs. Wild nodded, her eyes unspeakably sad in her serene face. “Thank you, dear.” She patted my hand. “I know he was fond of you as well.” Her plump cheeks lifted in a pained smile. “Truth be told, your mother and I long hoped that the two of you would make a match. But he told me that was all stuff and nonsense.” Her gaze shifted to my left, where Sidney and Tante Ilse had come up beside us. “Even before you wed your darling husband.”
I contemplated her words as Mrs. Wild and Sidney exchanged greetings. Henry and I had, of course, been aware of our mothers’ machinations, but neither of us had ever had the least intention of falling in line. At least, I didn’t think Henry had. It was true he’d kissed me once . . . no, twice, during the summer when I was sixteen, before I returned to Everleigh Court and he to Oxford. But I had always viewed those stolen kisses as nothing more than youthful rebellion and experimentation, and Henry had never indicated they were any more serious to him. Now, I looked back on those memories with tenderness.
Suddenly aware that I was being inspected, my gaze shifted to the left to meet the eyes of the woman standing next to Mrs. Wild. She was younger—no more than a decade older than my twenty-three years—and possessed of a fine set of crystalline blue eyes rimmed with long lashes. They were her defining feature, and without them she would have seemed rather unremarkable. Her mousy brown hair had been scraped back from her forehead in a severe style, one to match her Spartan dress, though the powder-blue shade of her garments nicely accented those arresting eyes.
“Mrs. Redmayne,” Mother said, drawing me closer. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Verity; her husband, Sidney Kent; and my husband’s aunt, Frau Vischering.” She turned to us. “Mrs. Redmayne is our vicar’s wife.”
The qualifier was unnecessary, for I had heard her speak of Mrs. Redmayne many times over the telephone. Mr. Parker, Mr. Metcalfe’s cousin and the village’s vicar for over forty years, had retired in late 1915 and been replaced by Mr. Redmayne from Hertfordshire.
“Such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Kent,” Mrs. Redmayne said, clutching the books she held before her even tighter. “Your mother has spoken of you often.” From the shrewd tone of her voice, I couldn’t tell precisely what that meant, but I supposed it depended on whether Mother had taken her into her confidence. “And you as well, Mr. Kent.” She lifted her chin, staring down her nose as she nodded to my great-aunt. “Mrs. Vischering, welcome to Hawes.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Tante Ilse’s brow furrowed. “But haven’t we met?”
My lips twitched, thinking this was her method of countering the vicar’s wife’s cool condescension. Especially when Mrs. Redmayne ruffled up like an affronted bird.
“Certainly not.” Her gaze flicked up and down her form before she continued in a smoother voice. “I would remember you.”
But Tante Ilse’s eyes narrowed further in scrutiny. One that didn’t seem feigned. “Are you sure? I could have sworn . . .”
“Mr. and Mrs. Redmayne only came to us here in Hawes four years ago,” my mother hastened to explain. “After your last visit.”
I observed her continued uncertainty with a sickening sense of misgiving.
“Oh, then, I . . . I must be mistaken,” she faltered.
This was not a woman intent on bringing the vicar’s wife down a peg or two. Tante Ilse was genuinely muddled. But was it because she’d forgotten who our vicar was during her last visit, or because she’d seen Mrs. Redmayne, or someone who looked very like her, somewhere else?
My gaze lifted to meet Sidney’s over her head, noting that similar questions seemed to swim in his eyes.
“Well, I did not mean to offend.” Tante Ilse remarked, regaining her usual poise. She smiled abashedly. “When you are my age, all the faces start to
look the same.”
I reached out my hand to touch her shoulder, turning my face aside as I stifled the sudden urge to laugh. Had she intended to imply the vicar’s wife was unremarkable? From the choked inhalation of Mother’s breath, I knew she wondered the same thing. The impish glint in Tante Ilse’s eyes when she glanced at me told me yes. Yes, she had. And that puckish bit of humor did much to ease my worries.
The church bells began to peal overhead, summoning worshippers inside. But before we could do their bidding, Mrs. Redmayne seemed intent on having the last word.
“The service will be in English. I hope you will be able to follow along,” she said, openly addressing the fact that Tante Ilse was German.
Not that any of us had been endeavoring to hide that fact. After all, my mother had introduced her as Frau Vischering, and any number of the other members of the congregation must remember my great-aunt from her previous visits. Though of course, that had been before the war. Before everything changed.
I turned to look at the other parishioners milling past us to enter the church, noting their curious stares. I’d become so accustomed to being observed wherever I went that, more often than not, I intentionally ignored such interest. However, I had to wonder in this instance whether the scrutiny was for me and Sidney alone, or if some of it was directed at the German in their midst.
“I suspect I shall manage,” Tante Ilse answered with more grace than I would have been capable of.
Mrs. Redmayne nodded and then turned away, striding through the parishioners, who seemed to part like the Red Sea for her. I could only wonder what her husband was like, whether she ruled the roost or he possessed the same iron will that seemed to force the congregation to bend to her.
Mother’s mouth was bounded by deep brackets—always an indication of her displeasure. But was it directed at Mrs. Redmayne and her condescension, or Tante Ilse for endangering her standing and influence? I had known at least a portion of the village might take umbrage with a German living in our midst, but I hadn’t expected one of them to be the vicar’s wife.
Murder Most Fair Page 12
