At an intersection in the road, we came upon the charming pale stone edifice of a church.
“It was built here by the island’s owner in the mid-nineteenth century to serve the needs of the workers and their families who moved to Umbersea Island to work for his clay and pottery company,” Mabel explained, as we paused to look up at the castellated tower. “Though the business failed a few years later, and now the church is mainly for show.”
It seemed to me the neo-Gothic structure of St. Mary the Virgin might be a lovely spot for a wedding, and I said so. “Do Walter and Helen plan to be married here?”
Mabel shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. But I doubt it. It’s not nearly swank enough for my cousin’s taste. I suspect they’ll be wed in London.”
And yet they’d decided to host their engagement party here with only a select number of guests in attendance. It seemed an odd choice. From what I knew of Helen, I would have expected her to throw a large party in a townhouse in Mayfair or Belgravia, and open the doors to any who cared to join in the celebration. So why the quiet, intimate gathering? Was she conceding to Walter’s wishes in this so that she could insist upon her grand affair for the wedding?
We pedaled on, taking the turning by the church to follow an even narrower road south toward the sea, but after passing a cluster of farm buildings, all of which were visibly still in use, the road swung west again. From time to time we caught glimpses through the trees and over the stone walls bordering the road into fields planted with assorted crops, mostly corn, barley, and oats. Though one large field appeared to lie dormant.
“Daffodils grow there in the spring,” Mabel called over her shoulder. “Acres and acres of them, as far as the eye can see.”
“Oh, how lovely,” I exclaimed.
“It’s truly a sight.”
We detoured down a small road to the left so that they could show us one of the prettiest vantage points looking out over the sea toward the Studland Peninsula and beyond to the Channel. I hadn’t even realized we’d been climbing in elevation, but the cliffs there were steep, dropping precipitously down a forested slope to a wide stretch of sandy beach. Red squirrels chattered over our heads, leaping from branch to branch. I laughed at the antics of one particularly daring fellow, who scurried along the branches, determined to get a closer look at us.
Sam clicked his tongue merrily at the little chap and he fled up the tree. “This is one of the only places in Britain where you’ll find them. Most everyplace else, the gray squirrels have driven them out.”
“The poor dears,” I commiserated.
“Here at least they have free rein.”
“Did Walter tell you all this?” I asked as we set off back up the road to resume our ride west toward the far side of the island. “Or do you just happen to know it?”
“I read it in a magazine somewhere,” he admitted, tilting his head to consider the matter. “Though I can’t recall which one.” He smiled. “I simply find such things fascinating.”
“Nature and science, and whatnot?”
“Yes.”
I returned his grin, breathing deeply of the fresh air. “Sidney would have loved this,” I said, conjuring his ghost. Partly because he was already on my mind, and partly because I wanted to draw Sam out. “He was always trying to convince me we should travel down to our cottage in Sussex. But then . . . his leaves were always so short.”
I turned to gaze over the heathland to our right, its shrubs and gorse studded with purple and yellow flowers. I wished now I’d allowed him to persuade me. Just once. The Secret Service office could have done without me for a few more days than what I was traditionally given off whenever Sidney returned to London. But I had always found the cottage to be too close to the Channel, to France and the Western Front. The few times I had traveled there myself to get away from everything I had not stayed long, for I could hear the large guns. I would lie awake on clear nights and count the pounding artillery shells.
I’d almost forgotten I was baiting Sam for a response when he spoke up, consciously or not, giving me the exact information I sought.
“I knew Sidney,” he said softly.
I looked up in surprise, though I didn’t know why I was so astonished. “You did?”
He nodded. “I served in his company later in the war.”
This news was not altogether welcome. It answered two of my questions, but it also added another suspect to my list. I’d already decided my mystery correspondent was likely one of the men who had fought alongside Sidney at the front, for how else could they have gotten their hands on Sidney’s dented copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. But that left me with six potential letter writers—all the men in attendance except Tom.
“I learned later that he’d specifically requested me,” Sam told me, then anticipated my next question. “He knew my brother. Ben had also served in the Thirtieth battalion. Though not under Sidney.”
A sick feeling of dread filled me, and I wondered if I already knew what he was going to say next. “Was he killed at the Somme?” I asked as gently as I could.
It was Sam’s turn to appear startled. “No, about six months later. During a trench raid.”
“Oh,” I replied lamely before remembering to offer my condolences. “I’m sorry for your loss.” After everything I’d learned from Tom the night before, I’d assumed Ben’s death must be connected to the disaster that befell the Thirtieth at the Somme, but apparently not. It would have connected Sam to that tragedy, but now I couldn’t see how he had anything to do with it.
“I’m sorry for your loss as well.” A heavy sadness filled Sam’s eyes. “Sidney was a good man. He looked out for us all. As best he could.” His voice trailed away at the end, making me wonder if he was thinking of something specific. But before I could find the words to ask, he turned to me with a determined smile. “Would you like to see one of the old pottery kilns?”
Max glanced over his shoulder from his position riding down the lane in front of me. “I would.”
“We’ll take them to the one near the Maryland pier,” Mabel suggested. “I wanted to show them the abandoned village anyway.”
“Good choice,” Sam answered with forced cheer. Whether he actually believed he was fooling me, I didn’t know, but I could see the tension in his smile, the haunted look in his eyes. I had seen it too many times in the faces of the men who had returned from the war. Which meant I had no way of knowing whether Sam’s troubles were in any way remarkable, or even connected to me, or if they were merely a result of the typical soldier’s experience.
The abandoned village Mabel spoke of had once been populated by the pottery workers and their families. Now the wood and stone buildings sat empty in their orderly rows, as the forest crept back in to reclaim them. By and large the buildings still appeared sound, though two of the cottages had seen their roofs cave in. We climbed off our bicycles to walk them between the solemn old cottages. Here and there a door stood open—either left that way by the inhabitants who’d moved away or by a curious stranger who’d taken little care—and leaves and debris littered the floors inside to be used as nesting material for woodland creatures.
Overall the village had a lost and woebegone quality to it. It was a ghost town, long forgotten and long neglected. Being in the heart of it, surrounded by the deserted buildings that seemed to yawn with longing for the joyful memories of the past, a chill settled around my shoulders. It was almost as if the village was watching us, waiting to see what we would do.
No one spoke until we reached the far end of the village, where it met the waters of the bay, as if we all felt the same unsettling sensation. Even the dog stayed close to our heels, refusing to venture into the buildings or even sniff around their foundations. But once we returned to the bright sunshine blazing down on the beach, chasing away the shadows behind us, I wondered if I hadn’t imagined it all. Shaking my head firmly, I decided it was this deuced house party, and all of the unnecessary intrigue my mysterious corresponde
nt had forced upon me.
A short distance to the left stood the old pottery pier, jutting out into deeper water. It was warped in places, and in need of some maintenance, but not so dilapidated that we were afraid to leave our bicycles behind and walk to its end for a better view of the island behind us. Farther south along the shore stood the abandoned pottery, its tall smoke stack still soaring into the air. Though having been neglected so long, I would not have trusted its stability.
Max and Sam were determined to get a closer look, so Mabel and I followed them down the beach, smiling at their boyish enthusiasm. Here the sand gave way to rocks in some places, forcing us to pick our way carefully around them. The hound happily sniffed his way through them, following some sea creature’s scent. Then suddenly he stood straight, flaring his nostrils, and took off at a trot toward the old pottery. Max called after the dog, trying to get him to return, but whatever smell he’d picked up was far more alluring than Max’s voice.
“Dash it all,” Max exclaimed. “What’s the hound’s name? Does anyone know?”
Mabel and Sam shook their heads.
“Come here, boy!” he called again as the dog disappeared into the pottery. He sighed. “If he’s anything like my hounds, he’s probably picked up the scent of some moldering animal’s corpse and has to go stick his nose into it.”
None of us looked forward to following the dog into the darkened interior of the pottery, but we couldn’t leave him behind. After all, we’d allowed him to trail after us. Fortunately, he decided to bark, alerting us to his location. We inched our way around stacks of abandoned crates, some still packed with pottery, as our eyes adjusted to the light. Near the back of the building, we discovered what had so intrigued the canine.
Appallingly, Max had been right. It was a corpse. But it hadn’t yet begun to molder, nor was it an animal.
Jimmy stared sightlessly down at us, dangling from a chain flung over the rafters. Whatever pain he’d felt at the prospect of continuing to live was now drained from his eyes.
CHAPTER 8
“Get him down,” I gasped in horror, as the hound continued to bark.
Max and Sam hastened to comply, fumbling with the stack of wooden crates toppled over beneath where Jimmy’s body swayed overhead. The chain wrapped around his neck creaked.
Mabel draped a comforting arm around my shoulders. “He can’t feel anything now,” she said gently.
“I know,” I replied, lowering my hand from over my mouth. “But he still doesn’t deserve to be left up there.”
It took a great deal of effort, but Max and Sam were eventually able to extract Jimmy from the chain and lower him to the floor. I didn’t need to move closer to see the wounds. It was obvious he’d hung himself.
Or that someone had wanted us to think he had.
Perhaps having a similar thought, Max knelt down beside the body, still panting from exertion, and closed Jimmy’s eyes. The hound moved closer to sniff at Jimmy, and Max shooed him away. Then he lifted Jimmy’s only hand to examine it before leaning over to look at his neck.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked, staring over Max’s shoulder.
“I just wanted to see if he had any defensive wounds,” he replied calmly before rising to his feet once again.
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Defensive wounds? Why? Don’t you think this is a suicide?”
“It certainly seems that way.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t hurt to be thorough.”
“Were there any?” I queried.
Max looked at me with troubled eyes.
“Were there any defensive wounds?” I repeated, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, for Mabel glanced at me in surprise.
But Max seemed to understand my insistence on an answer. “If there were, it’s impossible to tell now.” He stared down at Jimmy. “His fingers are damaged from his scrabbling at the chain. Whether he committed the deed himself or not, it’s evident he regretted it before it was over. Which isn’t altogether surprising.” His voice turned grim. “It’s a difficult way to go. Especially if the weight of the fall doesn’t snap your neck.”
I flinched at the bluntness of his words, but recovered myself quickly lest they start treating me like some fainting female. In any case, something that was sticking out of Jimmy’s pocket had caught my eye. Stepping closer, I bent down to retrieve what appeared to be a piece of paper of some sort. My first assumption was that it must be a suicide note. As I pulled the letter free, something tumbled out of his pocket after it. It rolled toward Max’s feet, and he picked it up to examine it.
I wasn’t certain. It could have been a trick of the murky light shining through the dirty windows at the top of the building, but Max’s complexion seemed to pale.
“What is it?” I asked.
He swallowed, opening his palm so we could see what was cradled within. “A piece of burnt cork.”
“Burnt cork,” I echoed in puzzlement. Whatever it meant, it seemed to affect Sam in much the same way as it had Max. I decided to give them both a moment to compose themselves while I unfolded the piece of paper to read what it said.
However, I quickly discovered it wasn’t a letter, but a Field Service Postcard. One of the preprinted forms used by the soldiers to write home to their loved ones during the war. Each card was printed with remarks that the soldier could circle if they were applicable or cross out if they were not, and then lines for them to sign and date before posting it. Nothing else was allowed to be written on the postcard or else it would not be dispatched.
I had received my fair share of them during the war, usually from Sidney or one of my three brothers. Most everyone had. Particularly during times when the fighting was fierce. It was the fastest way for soldiers to let their families know they were still alive, or if they had been wounded and sent to the hospital.
However, this postcard did not follow regulations. In fact, a quick glance at the back where the address would have been written showed me it was blank. The words “I have been wounded” had been circled, but then “stabbed in the back” had been scribbled after. The name scrawled on the signature line was that of a Ben Gerard.
My gaze lifted to Sam, recalling the conversation we’d had just a short while ago. Sam’s last name was Gerard, and he’d mentioned his deceased brother was Ben. What would be the chances that a different Ben Gerard was meant to have sent this? Miniscule, I imagined.
“What?” Sam asked uncertainly, glancing back and forth between the Field Service Postcard and me. “What is it?”
Mabel gasped behind me, having moved close enough to read over my shoulder.
I passed Sam the postcard, watching as all the blood drained from his face.
“But . . . but that’s impossible!” he gulped. “Ben . . . Ben . . .” He shook his head, unable to finish that thought.
“‘Letter will follow at first opportunity,’” Max read, taking the postcard from Sam’s hands. His eyebrows arched, obviously finding the last comment circled as disturbing as I did. He turned to look at Sam, who still seemed to be grappling with this news. “Are you certain your brother is dead?”
“I . . . well, yes. As certain as a person can be when their brother was killed during a trench raid and their body was never able to be properly identified,” he snapped. “But they found his identification discs.” He clenched his hands into fists as anger began to overcome some of his shock and dismay. “This must be someone’s idea of a cruel joke. It’s sickening, I tell you. To use Ben’s memory in such a way . . . Just sick!”
“Darling,” Mabel murmured, wrapping her arms around him to comfort him. He stood rigidly in her arms, but as she continued to croon in his ear, the tension in his shoulders slowly began to loosen.
Trying to give the lovers a moment of privacy, I turned to Max, who was still examining the postcard with one hand and restraining the curious dog with the other. His gray eyes had turned stormy with grief, and I recalled what he had shared with me the night before. I knew what thought
s flitted through his head. He’d failed yet another of his men. The war might be over, but I knew he still considered them that way.
I pressed a hand to his forearm, trying to offer what reassurance I could. His lips flattened in a tight smile before his eyes dipped to Jimmy’s supine form.
“I’m sorry you had to see all this,” he remarked politely, trying to regain his footing.
I allowed my gaze to drift down toward Jimmy one last time. “I’ve seen worse.”
Max’s eyes flared with curiosity, but before he could speak, I turned back toward Mabel, and Sam, who seemed more in control of himself.
“I apologize,” Sam said. “I suppose I’m just shocked.” His sandy eyebrows drew together. “And confused.”
“Understandably,” I remarked. “But if I may, what does the burnt cork mean?” I looked between him and Max. “You both seem to know.”
Max cleared his throat and stepped forward, saving Sam from having to answer. “We used burnt cork to blacken our faces whenever we went over the top for a trench raid. It was supposed to make it more difficult for the enemy to spot us in the darkness.”
And as we already knew, Ben Gerard had been killed during a trench raid, presumably by a German bullet. However, the message on the Field Service Postcard seemed to suggest otherwise, if the words “stabbed in the back” were any indication.
“But what does any of that have to do with Jimmy?”
This Side of Murder Page 9
