The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  She sliced through his convoluted explanation by raising a walking stick that he had somehow missed. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying or what you want, but get off my property right this minute. This is private land and you’ve got no right to be here,’ she ranted, moving towards him with her stick in the air. ‘Go on, get out of it!’

  ‘So sorry—I’m going now,’ Morton apologised, holding his hands up defensively as he trotted out of the parking area.

  ‘I’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing!’ she yelled, trooping at a remarkable pace that necessitated that Morton break into a fair run. ‘Get out of it!’

  He reached the safety of the gate and saw Juliette’s look of disbelief at what she was witnessing.

  The old woman ground to a halt but continued to hold her stick aloft. She eyed Juliette suspiciously. ‘I’m phoning the police; you’ve no right coming onto my property taking photos!’

  ‘Kindly put down your stick, madam,’ Juliette instructed.

  ‘I’m phoning the police,’ the old lady repeated.

  Morton stepped to one side and watched in awe as Juliette transformed into Police Constable Meade. She held up her warrant card and moved closer to the woman. ‘I think you’ll find that to be a futile exercise, madam: Trespassing is nothing to do with the police—it’s civil law. Don’t worry, I’ve got this one covered.’ She grabbed Morton by the arm and led him back down the hill. ‘Sectioning him might work, though….’ she called back.

  ‘Thanks,’ Morton said.

  ‘You’re like a child; do you know that?’ Juliette complained. ‘I can’t leave you alone for two minutes without you getting into some sort of trouble.’

  Morton smiled, took her hand in his and continued back towards the main village.

  ‘Now where?’ Juliette asked. ‘Preferably somewhere without stick-wielding pensioners, if that’s okay. And a coffee—if that’s not too much to ask.’

  ‘I know just the place.’

  They were standing in the grounds of the National Memorial to the Few. In front of them was the memorial wall dedicated to all the aircrew who took part in the Battle of Britain. Fifteen tall sheets of shiny black granite, filled with the carved white names of two thousand nine hundred and forty-one men. Behind them was the sculpture of a seated airman, overlooking the thin ribbon of water between England and France, over which so many had fought and died.

  ‘The Christopher Foxley-Norris Memorial Wall is dedicated to the aircrew who flew during The Battle of Britain 10th July 1940 to 31st October 1940,’ Juliette read from the centre panel.

  ‘If Barbara’s father was a pilot in this area when he met her mother in August 1940, then he should be here, on this wall.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘William Smith,’ Morton answered.

  They shifted along to the right, tracing the alphabetised names back to the panel third from the end.

  ‘There,’ Juliette said triumphantly, placing her finger just below the name. Smith, W.

  Morton took out his camera and photographed the name. ‘Right, let’s go inside and see if we can find anything else on him.’

  They climbed a short run of steps into a new state-of-the-art education centre, built to look like a cross-section of a Spitfire wing. Morton was impressed. They stepped inside the quiet room and took a look around. In front of them was a rounded reception desk and to their left a shop containing an abundance of books and memorabilia referring to the Battle of Britain.

  Morton approached the desk and the lady behind it—middle-aged with a black bob and thin pink lips—stood. ‘Hello,’ she greeted with a smile.

  ‘Hi. I’m looking for some information on a pilot called William Smith—his name is on the wall outside but is there any more information to be found on him in here?’

  ‘Well, the first place to start would be over there,’ she said, pointing to a fat book resting on its own podium. ‘That has a lot of information and photographs of the aircrew. If that doesn’t answer your questions, then come back and I’ll see if I can track down one of our volunteers for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Morton answered, heading over to the book, Men of the Battle of Britain: a biographical directory of The Few.

  With Juliette looking over his shoulder, Morton flicked through the dense book until he found William Smith’s biographical entry. ‘There. Perfect—there’s even a photo of him.’

  ‘Well, that was easy enough—you certainly picked an easy case to get back into. Could this Barbara person not have managed this by herself?’

  Morton smiled. It was a fair point. In just over an hour he had discovered a short account of Barbara’s father’s military life and a photograph. ‘It’s not quite over yet and, as you well know, it can get more complicated than this.’

  Juliette murmured her agreement; saving him from an irate pensioner was only the latest in a string of scrapes into which he had managed to get himself.

  ‘Do you think you’re ready now to get back on with it, full-time?’ she asked.

  Morton thought for a moment. He loved his job, but the recent failures had played on his mind. He wasn’t on the top of his game anymore. ‘Let’s just see how this one goes.’

  He placed his finger on the biography and began to quietly read. ‘Pilot Officer Smith was born in 1921 and educated at Brentwood School. He joined the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve in April 1939. Called up on September 1st, he completed his training and joined 32 Squadron. The squadron flew patrols over northern France in May 1940, then were based at Biggin Hill, taking part in the Battle of Britain. Around lunchtime on 15th August 1940, 32 Squadron were ordered to Hawkinge. At 14.30 hours the squadron was ordered off to carry out an offensive patrol. During the patrol, the Hurricanes engaged with a group of Messerschmitt 109s heading towards Essex. Smith’s aircraft became separated from the group and he crashed into marshland outside Lympne in Kent. He was nineteen years old.’

  ‘God—how awful,’ Juliette muttered.

  Morton studied the small headshot picture beside the biography. This man was Barbara’s father. He looked so terribly young—far too young to have had a child—never mind having flown an aircraft and having taken part in war. Morton pulled out his mobile and took a photograph of the entry. The next step was to see if any further records existed here on William Smith. He turned back to the reception desk but the lady with whom he had just spoken was now occupied with the arrival of a group of pensioners.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs and get a coffee,’ Morton suggested, taking Juliette by the hand and leading her up the spiral staircase to the café. ‘You get a seat and I’ll bring them over.’

  Morton ordered the drinks, watching Juliette as he waited. She slipped on her sunglasses, removed her cardigan and took a seat outside on the circular terrace that overlooked the grounds. He smiled, knowing that he was very lucky to have her as his fiancée.

  He carried the drinks out and stood with his back to the sun.

  ‘Thanks,’ Juliette said. ‘So, is that it? All done? Case closed?’

  Morton laughed. ‘I’m just going to go and see if I can have a quick chat with one of their experts—see if there’s anything else I can glean on William Smith—then we can head home and watch a film or something.’

  Juliette looked over at him and lowered her sunglasses. ‘On a work day, Mr Farrier?’

  ‘Well, if the rest of the case progresses this well, I should be able to wrap it up pretty quickly.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly got my vote,’ Juliette replied, sitting back and closing her eyes.

  ‘See you in a minute,’ he said, picking up his notepad and heading downstairs to the reception desk, which was now visitor-free. ‘Hi,’ Morton began. ‘Would I be able to speak with one of your volunteers about one of the Battle of Britain pilots?’

  The lady behind the desk smiled. ‘I’ll just see who’s around.’ She picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Freddie, are you free to pop down and
help a visitor with a query? Great—thank you.’ She set the phone down and looked at Morton with a smile. ‘He’ll be right down.’

  An elderly gentleman wearing smart cream trousers, a navy blazer and a jazzy bow-tie carefully descended the staircase and headed towards Morton. He was clean-shaven with white, combed-back hair and clearly took his role seriously. He shook Morton’s hand with vigour and smiled. ‘Freddie Calderwood,’ he announced. ‘Ex-RAF, military buff and, so they tell me, an expert on the Battle of Britain.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. My name’s Morton and I’m interested in one of the Battle of Britain aircrew—William Smith.’

  Freddie squinted heavenwards for inspiration, lightly nipping his front teeth together as he thought. ‘Ah—Hurricane pilot, killed 15th August 1940? That the fellow?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Could you tell me a bit more about what happened the day he died?’ Morton asked.

  Freddie took a deep breath, jangling some coins in his pocket. ‘Well, it was the biggest day of the Adler Tag offensive and-’

  ‘Sorry—Adler Tag offensive?’ Morton queried.

  ‘Eagle Day—a codename given by the Luftwaffe for the complete destruction of the RAF. Every bomber, fighter and dive-bomber that Göring could get his hands on was used to attack Britain. Over a hundred and sixty aircraft pounded the aerodromes at RAF Lympne and RAF Hawkinge. A slightly lesser number—around one hundred and thirty Spitfires and Hurricanes—were sent up to intercept them, and one of those squadrons was number 32, for whom your chap, William Smith flew. About two-thirty in the afternoon they were sent up to chase off a flock of Messerschmitts. A number of aerial battles took place over the coast with aircraft being lost on both sides, one of which was William Smith’s Hurricane.’ Freddie shrugged. ‘He crashed into marshland and died.’

  Morton was slightly taken aback at the finality of the story. ‘It said in his biography that his Hurricane became separated from the rest of the squadron—why would that have been?’

  ‘That happened all the time,’ Freddie answered. ‘You imagine twelve Hurricanes chasing and shooting at a bunch of evasive Messerschmitts, who in turn are trying to shoot you back—they’re not going to be able to stick together. It was quite normal for planes in the same squadron to land at totally different airfields after a protracted cat and mouse chase.’

  Morton made some hasty notes on his pad, then continued. ‘You said that RAF Lympne was targeted that day—was that close to where William’s plane came down?’

  ‘Yes, not far at all.’

  ‘So do you think he was trying to land there, then?’ Morton asked.

  Freddie shook his head and took a moment to speak. There was clearly something he didn’t want to say. ‘He seemed not to have made any attempt to land there.’

  ‘Maybe the airfield was too damaged?’ Morton ventured.

  Freddie’s wispy eyebrows danced at the idea. ‘The aerodrome had taken a hefty old thumping—not one of their buildings was left standing by the end of the day, but it was still being used as an emergency landing site; he could have landed there if he’d had to.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Morton said, confounded. ‘Why didn’t he, then?’

  Freddie appeared slightly uncomfortable. ‘I really couldn’t say. But what you must understand are the gruelling circumstances under which these poor men flew. We’re talking about men who were eighteen, nineteen years old and some who had had as little as ten hours’ flying experience before being sent up into the skies to just not fly a plane, but to kill and try not to be killed. Inexperience, misjudgement, luck, destiny, distraction, aircraft failure, tiredness—all contributed to whether these boys lived or died.’

  Morton nodded at the sobering facts. Yet, he still felt that Freddie was somehow evading an aspect of the question.

  ‘The other point to remember here,’ Freddie continued, ‘is that there was no ejector seat. To bail out of a Hurricane was no easy feat. He would have to undo his radio and oxygen leads, unbuckle his harness, open the canopy, invert the plane to fall out upside down, then hope and pray that he wouldn’t be struck by his own aircraft on the way down. Then, he had to hope the parachute would open.’

  ‘Tricky,’ Morton mused.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Where might I find more information on William and his crash?’

  Freddie took a breath and seemed to be thinking. ‘I’m sure the crash site was excavated back in the seventies and various bits and pieces were hauled out and are now on display at the Kent Battle of Britain Museum in Hawkinge.’

  ‘Great—thank you, I’ll certainly be paying them a visit.’

  ‘Anything else I can help you with?’ Freddie asked.

  ‘No, that’s it, thanks very much—you’ve been very helpful.’

  Morton shook Freddie’s hand and slowly wound his way back up to Juliette, slightly troubled by what he had just learned; there was clearly something that Freddie had been reluctant to say.

  Tamara Forsdyke winced and recoiled from the temperature of her tea and pulled it from her mouth hastily, spilling some of it down her suit. ‘Great,’ she cursed, turning with a scowl to the oblivious waitress who had served her. She huffed as she patted her jacket with a napkin. She was a businesswoman and took great care over her appearance, even on a day like today when she was supposed to be working from home. Her short hair was grey, her natural colour supplemented with shades of white and silver. She had her eyebrows deliberately thinned into an arch that gave the impression that she was always incredulous.

  She stopped trying to remove the travelling stain from her skirt: it was ruined and would have to be discarded. Instead, she turned to face the couple out on the sunny terrace. They were whispering and laughing. Then they went through the motions of leaving: he tipped up his cup to quaff the dregs, she pulled on her cardigan and slung her handbag over her shoulder. They stood, said something else to each other, then began to head towards her.

  Tamara turned her head as they passed. Then, from the corner of her eye, she watched as they descended the spiral staircase.

  She followed them out of the front door and across the car park.

  They crossed the main road and were heading into one of the residential side streets. Tamara followed at a distance, wondering where they were going. Could they be residents of Capel? Her question was answered as they stopped beside a red Mini.

  Continuing to the street corner, Tamara stopped with her back to the car. Moments later, she heard it rumble into life and slowly drive away. She memorised the number plate, then pulled out her mobile phone and dialled.

  ‘Rachel. Are you at work?’ Tamara demanded.

  ‘Yes, just about to start my shift.’

  ‘Good. I need you to run a number plate check.’

  Silence at the other end.

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘I could get into huge trouble—I’ve known colleagues sacked just for helping a friend find out who bumped their car in a car park.’

  ‘It’s more serious than that, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  Another silence. ‘I have to log a reason when I access the vehicle index—what am I supposed to say?’

  Tamara laughed. ‘Come on, you’re a police officer—think of something.’

  ‘Give me the number plate and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Tamara relayed the details, then hung up.

  Forty minutes later, back at her home office, Tamara received a text message. The registered owner is Morton Farrier. Address is The House with Two Front Doors, Mermaid Street, Rye, East Sussex. Insured to drive is him and Juliette Meade.

  Tamara stared out of her window overlooking the sea, deep in thought at what to do about Morton Farrier.

  Chapter Six

  15th July 1940, Capel-le-Ferne, Kent

  Elsie Finch squeezed the brake as tightly as she could and her bicycle juddered to a halt. She was here. The house was in sight. She stared at it, breathless. The confidence from her uniform and rank suddenl
y dissolved and the wisdom of her earlier decision to come here began to dissipate. Hesitancy crept in. What if her letter hadn’t arrived in time? What if she weren’t welcome? Small pimples of perspiration began to erupt under her arms, and her legs felt like they were going to burst into flames at any moment. She longed to take off the heavy lisle stockings and climb into a cool bath. Was she really doing the right thing, in coming here?

  She closed her eyes. Should she turn away? Find a more suitable billet? Was that even possible, now?

  Hot and exhausted, Elsie pulled off her peaked hat with the RAF badge emblazoned on the front and fumbled in her greatcoat. She couldn’t bear the stifling heat of the afternoon any longer and removed it. She’d only worn it so that it was one less thing to have to pack. Where the hell had she put her cigarettes? She found them and lit one, inhaling deeply, trying to plug the breaches of doubt in her mind. She had to make this work.

  Opening her eyes, she finished the cigarette. Then, she placed her hat back on and pushed on up the hill towards the house. The chill that she had felt about the place on her one and only prior visit slinked in on the underbelly of her indecision and she shuddered, in spite the high heat of the day.

  Elsie reached the open white gate and stopped again, like some quivering girl on her first day at school. Cliff House, the sign on the gate announced.

  ‘Pull yourself together, for God’s sake,’ she chastised herself, glancing down at the three stripes on her blue jacket. Sergeant Elsie Finch. With renewed confidence, she marched the long drive until she reached the house.

  She kicked down the bicycle stand and looked up. There was certainly something about the place, she decided. Something that she couldn’t pin-point; a revulsion of sorts. As if the house, perched so high on the cliff edge and painted in so stark a white, was poised for something to happen.

  She untied the two suitcases, which were strapped to the rear wheel arch, and began towards the house. Her step faltered when she caught sight of someone waiting at the front door, although she tried not to let her hesitation show. It was Agnes. Dressed in black, her hair corralled into a bun on the back of her head, her face unsmiling. ‘Elsie,’ she said dourly.