Dead Ground in Between

by Maureen Jennings

“You can fill the water bottles.”

  Pim went to the sink. “Jan, I had a b-bad dream last night.”

  “I thought you did. You were whimpering like a puppy without its mother.”

  Jan had intended his remark to be a joke, sort of, but his brother stopped what he was doing and stood stock-still. His scrawny shoulders began to tremble. Jan put down the knife he’d been using to slice off thick pieces of bread and went over to him immediately, pulling him close into a hug.

  “Don’t be a silly goose. I was teasing. I’m not surprised you had a bad dream. I’m not ever going to forget seeing the old man like that. I thought I’d be having nightmares myself, but for some reason I didn’t.”

  Pim moved away slightly, not mollified. “You’re lucky, then. Mamma used to s-say you’d sleep through the second c-coming.”

  Jan squeezed the back of his brother’s neck. “All right, all right. I’m sorry. What was your dream? Tell your big broer. Come on.”

  Pim swallowed hard. “We were b-back at home. I think we were doing our homework at the t-table like we used to. I was getting hungry, I could even feel a p-pain in my stomach. I looked out of the window and there was Mamma. She was walking p-past the house with her b-basket on her arm as if she was going to the shops. I knocked on the window and started to c-call to her. I don’t know where you were, you seemed to have v-vanished. But Mamma didn’t hear me. She just kept on walking away. You know how she sort of b-bobbed her head when she was in a hurry? Well, she was doing that just the same way. But I didn’t understand why she wasn’t c-coming in.” Pim choked back a sob. “Oh, Jan, do you think my dream m-meant we won’t see her ever again? Is that what it means?”

  “No, no. It’s just a bad dream. We’ll see both Mamma and Pappa. The Queen will help us bring them here.”

  “But the war isn’t over. How c-can they get out of Holland?”

  “It’s going to be over soon. Everybody says so. Better we be in London when it is.”

  “Mrs. K. will be upset when she f-finds we’ve run away.”

  “We’re not running away, Pim. We’re Scouts. Scouts don’t run away. We’re on a mission. Scouts take action when it’s called for. We’re assessing our position.”

  The younger boy looked doubtful. “All right. Do we have to g-go to the hideout to assess our p-position?”

  “Just for tonight. Scouts have to learn to live off the land if necessary.”

  “Well, I’m not going to the one in the f-field. What if the old man’s g-ghost is in there?”

  Jan frowned. “There’s no such things as ghosts.”

  “You don’t know that for certain. There c-could be. Let’s go to the other one instead.”

  “It gets damp.”

  “I don’t c-care. I’d rather be in there if it’s only one n-night.”

  “All right. We’d better bring a blanket.”

  “That’s stealing. We won’t be able to t-take it with us. We’ll have to l-leave it in the hideout.”

  “For goodness’ sakes, Pim. You’re such a sissy. We’ll write to Mrs. K. from London and tell her.”

  His brother stared at him in horror. “We can’t do that. We swore in blood we wouldn’t reveal where the hideouts are. What if C-Captain thinks we’ve told? We could be executed for t-treason. We could be hung or shot.”

  “All right, all right. Stop mithering. We won’t take a blanket. I think there’s one there anyway.”

  “What if Captain’s there and he gets c-cross?”

  “I’m sure he’ll understand. Besides, I don’t think he uses it regularly. Not the woods one anyway.”

  “Shall we leave Mrs. K. a note saying what we’re d-doing?”

  Jan thought for a moment. “I don’t know. We don’t want her going to the police.”

  “But what if she thinks we’ve been k-kidnapped and goes to the police anyway? Captain said we must never involve the police, they’re not to be trusted.”

  “I thought the lady officer was decent.”

  “Yes, but the inspector k-kept giving us the evil eye. He didn’t b-believe us.”

  “All right,” said Jan in a burst of impatience. “Have it your way. Write her a letter.”

  Pim pulled open the drawer where Nuala kept scrap paper and pencils.

  “What shall I say?”

  “Just tell her not to worry. We are going – no, relocating to London to see Queen Wilhelmina and we’ll write to her from there.”

  “How do you spell relocating?”

  —

  Tyler decided to visit the Mohan farm while Biggs was collecting fingerprints. He instructed Mortimer to hang around the Cartwrights’ kitchen.

  “Just like you did before. Watch their reactions to getting their fingerprints taken. Take note of what they say to each other. Be discreet. Act like wallpaper.”

  “Yes, sir. Spy on them, you mean?”

  Tyler smiled. “You can call it that if you like. It’s just ordinary police work.”

  He left his constables to it and set out for the other farm. A sleety rain had set in, the trees dripped wet. They bent and swayed in the wind. He walked as briskly as he could to keep warm.

  He wondered what Clare was doing now. Shortly before she’d left, they had walked together along the deserted country roads outside of town. It had been unseasonably cold and windy then too, and she’d drawn his arm in tightly against her body for warmth. She was skinny. Needed some meat on her bones, as Edie would have said. But he had felt her warmth, her sympathy for his terrible grief when Jimmy was killed. He would have kept her there beside him forever if he could have. But she had to be obedient to the dictates of war, and she’d left for Switzerland soon afterwards. Her country needed her, Grey had said. But so do I, Tyler had wanted to cry out. So do I.

  Another gust of icy wind slapped his face. He stopped abruptly in the middle of the road and shook himself like an irritated dog. He couldn’t just lie down and roll over because she said so. He needed to talk to her. Surely there was some way to reach her even in these wartime conditions. He’d have to go and see Mr. Grey in Whitchurch. The chief intelligence officer would surely know the truth of what she was up to and where she was. He’d go as soon as he could.

  He made a fist and shook it in the air. “I’ll find you, Clare Somerville,” he shouted. Nobody was around to hear him except a few bedraggled blackbirds huddled together on a nearby tree. He felt sort of foolish. But he also felt warmer.

  The Mohans’ farm was just around the bend of the road at the top of the hill. On his left was a thick stand of trees but the farmhouse was plopped in the middle of bare muddy fields, unprotected from the elements. A thin wisp of smoke came from the chimney and there was a lamp shining from the front room. As he got closer, he could see an elderly woman sitting by the fire, knitting. Perhaps on a different day the indoor scene would have appeared cozy and welcoming, but today her solitary task seemed lonely.

  Tyler opened the garden gate and walked up the path to the front door. The old-fashioned iron door knocker was in the shape of a lion’s head and he lifted the ring in its mouth and thumped a few times. Nobody came. He stepped to the right and peered into the front window. The elderly woman – Mrs. Mohan, he supposed – looked up, and he waved to her. She didn’t move, whether from fear or incomprehension he didn’t know. He gestured again and this time fished in his coat pocket to find his identity badge. He smiled as disarmingly as he could. Finally, she got to her feet, stiff and arthritic, and began to shuffle to the door. Tyler returned to the front step and finally the door opened.

  How old was Mrs. Mohan? It was impossible to tell. Her hair was iron-grey and tucked into a roll at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were sober. Out of date. She moved so stiffly she gave the impression of being truly ancient. But when she looked at him, her blue eyes were clear and shrewd enough.

  “You’ve come about Jasper Cartwright, I presume,” she said before he could even introduce himself.

  “Yes, I have. Am I speaki
ng to Mrs. Mohan?”

  “You are. You’d better come in out of the cold.” She indicated the front room. “I’m in here. I built a fire. Blow rationing, I couldn’t stand the chill.”

  Her voice was loud and rather harsh, the way it often is with people who are hard of hearing. She went ahead of him into the room. “I was prepared to burn the chairs,” she said with unexpected humour. “Fortunately for me, my lodgers brought me a bucket of coal. Good lads.” She sat down in the chair by the blazing fire. “I probably shouldn’t tell you things like that. You’re a police officer. You might feel compelled to investigate where they got it.”

  “It is my job after all, madam,” said Tyler.

  “Well don’t expect me to testify against them because I won’t.” She reached for her knitting, a multicoloured scarf by the look of it. “Anyway, that’s not what you’ve come about. Go ahead. Speak up. I’m going a bit deaf.”

  Tyler raised his voice. “As I believe you already know, Mr. Jasper Cartwright’s body was found yesterday.”

  She stopped the racing of her knitting needles and her shoulders sagged. “Tragic that was. I’ve known him for many years. He and my husband were good friends when Albert was alive. We saw a lot of them. Then Jasper’s wife, Grace, died about three years ago.” She tapped at her own head. “He started to lose his marbles, sad to say. I believe it was Grace kept him together. She was Non-Conformist. Devout but good with it. She took care of Jasper like he was her child. I thought he’d be lost without her, and he was, poor man. I’d meet him going out to the fields sometimes and he seemed so confused. The only reason he could plough at all was because his horse knew what to do. Sad. Very sad. I thank God every day I’ve still got my faculties. You need them when you get old.”

  The spate of words slowed down and Tyler could see her eyes were filled with tears. She wiped them away with a handkerchief, stuffed it back up her sleeve, then fished in the knitting bag at her feet and took out a fresh skein of red wool. “I’ve unravelled an old Fair Isle jersey of my late husband’s. I’m making a scarf for one of the boys. Sam. He doesn’t have much and said he’d like something colourful. I’ll do something else for the other boy when I’ve finished.”

  “Very distinctive,” said Tyler.

  Mrs. Mohan began her knitting again, weaving in the new skein. “Jasper took a real scunner against John’s wife. Made no bones about it. She’s all right is Susan, but she’s not from here. She didn’t know a steer from a heifer when she first arrived. Nor that son of hers. Sad sack if ever I saw one, all that twitching and blinking. You’d think he had St. Vitus’s Dance. Not much help around the farm either. Too nervous, apparently.” She halted her knitting for a moment. “I’m rattling on, I know. Jasper was an old friend, but I didn’t like the way he was with Ned, nor Susan. He kept comparing her to Grace. Well, you can’t do that, can you? It’s not fair. The dead always come off better.” Her knitting needles started to click again. “Susan used to be in service, you see, and it made her, shall we say, a little inflexible. Meals served on the dot, tidiness throughout. Jasper complained. John should have stood up for her but he never did. Too much under his father’s thumb.” Mrs. Mohan sighed. “I suppose it’s an ill wind blows nobody any good. Now that he’s gone, those two might have some happiness.”

  Tyler was wondering how he could politely bring the conversation back to the matter at hand when Mrs. Mohan helped him.

  “You’ve got a particular expression on your face, Inspector. You’re the bearer of more bad news, aren’t you? Spit it out. I won’t have the vapours. At least I hope I won’t. Can’t be any worse than news I’ve had before.”

  Tyler plunged in. Mrs. Mohan did not have the vapours, but she did look very shocked when Tyler informed her that they were treating Jasper’s death as suspicious.

  “Who’d do that?” she whispered. “He was an old man. Harmless, really, for all he could be bad-tempered some of the time. Salt of the earth you’d call him. What do you think happened?”

  “Well, we think he might have got into an altercation with somebody.”

  She gaped at him. “Jasper Cartwright was seventy-five if he was a day. Who’d he fight with?”

  Tyler hesitated. “I don’t know as yet. I’m trying to talk to everybody in the vicinity. Determine if anybody heard anything. As I understand it, you have two lodgers living here.”

  “Yes.” Her glance was sharp. “Sam and Tim. Good lads, both of them.”

  “Sam Wickers and Tim Oldham. I’ve already met them.”

  “You’ve already met them? How so?”

  “They had to appear in court yesterday. They were charged with riding bicycles without proper lights and using bad language to an officer of the law.”

  She actually laughed. “Not exactly serious, wouldn’t you say, Inspector? These days everybody uses bad language. I feel tempted myself some days when I hear the news.”

  “Perhaps those charges aren’t serious, but I’ve heard these young men might be involved in poaching.” He held up a hand to stop her from protesting. “That’s not so much the point as the likelihood they’d be out very early. As far as we can determine, Mr. Cartwright died in the wee hours of the morning.”

  She looked alarmed, her knitting completely at a standstill. “Oh dear.”

  “Indeed,” said Tyler. “Where might the young men be now, Mrs. Mohan?”

  “I’m…I’m not sure. Usually they go out to the woods after the chores are done and gather firewood for me. They’re probably over there. To the east side of the fields, not the west.”

  Tyler got to his feet. “I’ll go and see if I can find them. Thank you, Mrs. Mohan. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  Those were the words she had used, but what else could you call it?

  “I’ll let myself out,” he added.

  She nodded. “They’re good lads, Inspector. Even if they can be wild sometimes, especially Sam, they’ve got kind hearts. I don’t know what I’d do without them, I really don’t.”

  There was nothing he could say to that, and he left the warmth of the parlour and returned to the blasted heath, as the countryside was beginning to define itself in his mind.

  —

  The bicycle ride out to Bitterley seemed even harder than it had the day before, the wind fiercer. Icy sleet was starting to fall. Pim was on the saddle again and Jan puffed as he pedalled.

  “That’s the policeman’s car,” cried Pim as they went past the Cartwright farm.

  “He can’t be looking for us,” said Jan. “We haven’t been gone long enough. If he sees us, we’ll keep on going.”

  They rounded the bend in the road and the farmhouse was out of sight; the woods where they were heading were on their left. Jan slowed down and stopped the bike abruptly.

  “This is it. We’ll have to walk from here.”

  Pim dismounted and they turned off the road, Jan wheeling the bicycle and Pim trotting behind. The narrow path wasn’t easily seen but Jan knew where it was. He kicked aside branches that had been snapped off by the wind. They walked like this for five minutes until they came to a crumbling stone wall. Behind it were the remains of a small stone hut that had probably been used once upon a time by shepherds.

  Jan pushed the bike inside the ruined hut and the two of them dragged branches over it until it was completely hidden. Then Jan bent down and lifted what appeared to be a short piece of plank from the ground. It was actually attached to a wooden trapdoor which rose up, revealing a narrow entrance. Like the other bunker, this one was reached by way of a metal ladder. Jan snapped on his torch.

  “I’ll go first.”

  He clambered down into the darkness.

  “All clear. Come on. Close the door behind you.”

  His brother obeyed.

  —

  The heavy soil sucked at Tyler’s boots and he was briefly and unpleasantly reminded of the mud of Flanders. Another world war within living memory, and this one promising to be even more devastating.
Not for the first time, he wondered what they had been fighting for last time. The war to end all wars hadn’t.

  He plodded on to the edge of the woods, where he stopped to listen. The wind was shaking the branches of the trees but he heard a voice.

  “Over here, Tim. Hurry up.”

  Tyler moved in cautiously, hoping to catch the men unawares.

  As he had suspected, they weren’t collecting wood. Neatly stacked at the edge of a clearing was a pile of dead rabbits. Wickers and Oldham were hovering over a rabbit hole, and even as Tyler watched, a terrified rabbit shot out, entangling itself in the covering net. Tim caught it immediately, extracted it from the net, and with a swift, sure twist broke its neck across his leg. Sam reached into the hole and lifted out a white ferret. Tim dropped the dead rabbit on the ground.

  Tyler stepped forward out of the protection of the trees and both young men turned.

  “Can’t get away from you, can we, Inspector?” said Sam. “You’ve come a long way to give us a mark for our good work at the station.”

  “If I was intending to do that, which I wasn’t,” said Tyler, “you just lost it for poaching. I take it you don’t have a permit to catch rabbits here.”

  Tim looked nervously at his mate. “I, er…”

  “Our mistake, Inspector,” said Sam. “We’re just doing our bit for the war effort. People need the meat these days. We thought this was all common land past the field.”

  “Don’t give me that malarkey,” said Tyler. “You live here, and you didn’t know you’re on the Desmond property? Pull the other why don’t you.”

  “Funny thing is, Inspector, we took up a brace of rabbits to Sir Arthur just last week and he didn’t object. Only too glad to get them. You can ask him.”

  “You’re being cheeky, Wickers. I’m getting fed up with it. Get your stuff together right now. I’m going back to the farmhouse. I’ll see you there in ten minutes. If you’re not standing in front of me by then, I’ll charge you with black marketing, poaching, and obstructing police business. If I think of anything else I’ll add it to the list.”

  Oldham hobbled to collect the nets that they’d placed over the rabbit holes. Wickers put the twittering ferret into its box.