Flora's War

by Audrey Reimann

  After they were done and dressed, she sent him on, following twenty minutes later to find him waiting at the stable to take Big Red from her.

  He said, ‘Gordon’s back.’

  ‘Gordon? Did you see him?’

  ‘No. I saw his car in front of the house.’

  ‘I wonder why he turned back.’

  She had no premonition of disaster as she returned to Ingersley. She was merely surprised not to find him in the drawing room, watching the news on the big television set. She went to the study and tapped on the door.

  ‘Darling? Are you there?’

  He came out, his face thunderous. ‘Into the dining room, please.’

  ‘Whatever is it?’ She went ahead of him.

  He closed the door carefully, then spoke to her as she had never heard him address even an inferior. ‘Don’t sit down!’ he ordered ominously. ‘What I have to say won’t take long.’ His head was held slightly back as he looked down at her. ‘You may have a strong drink if you need it.’

  ‘You know I never touch it. What’s going on?’ Her voice was high and querulous. She was not accustomed to being spoken to like this.

  ‘Very well.’ He poured a large whisky for himself before turning to face her, then, looking at her as if she were the lowest creature he had ever dealt with, dropped the bombshell. ‘I was at the old boathouse tonight. I saw it all. You have a choice. Leave the estate quietly or I shall divorce you and cite Hamilton.’

  Her knees went weak. A taste of copper was in her mouth but she stood her ground. ‘What the devil were you doing at the boathouse?’

  ‘Never mind what I was doing. Don’t even think of concocting a story. I saw everything. So did my companion, the harbourmaster. Luckily he did not recognise either the horses or riders.’

  What could she do? He had seen them. There was no point in denying it. She could only limit the damage. She said, ‘I’ll tell you …’

  ‘You won’t,’ he said brusquely. ‘I am not in the mood for lies.’

  ‘I wouldn’t …’

  ‘I have been taken for a fool by Hamilton.’ He put up his hand to indicate that he would not let her finish. ‘But as for you! You disgust me. If you are not gone one week from today, I will consult my lawyers.’

  At the speed of lightning her mood changed. She decided that attack was the best option. Her voice was as shrill as nails being wrenched from wood. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t force me to leave my own home.’

  He looked contemptuous. ‘I don’t suppose I am the first man to dispose of an adulterous wife who is an encumbrance.’

  ‘I’m the mother of your children.’

  He laughed drily. ‘You have driven one son away and the other is driving himself fast into trouble.’

  ‘So! Not content with attacking your wife, you are turning against Edward for what is nothing more than an adolescent prank.’

  ‘Dangerous driving is not a prank. Edward is not an adolescent. He will soon be in very hot water. I do not intend to let that happen.’

  ‘How dare you lay down the law down like this?’ she blazed. ‘How could you stop him?’

  ‘By removing you. Edward will make a reliable, steady man if he does not have to show off to earn your approval. He will pass his entrance examination to Dartmouth. His honour and future depend upon it. I will set my son on the right path.’ Gordon drained the last of his whisky.

  ‘Your son?’ she said in mock enquiry.

  ‘You are implying that I am not Edward’s father?’

  ‘Of course not. I meant, not only yours.’

  ‘After what I saw tonight, my dear, the only thing I can be certain of is that you are his mother,’ he said, disdain in every inflection of his voice. ‘It doesn’t matter. I have two sons. I love them both.’

  ‘Do you know something I don’t?’ she demanded. ‘Is Robert alive?’

  ‘Do you care?’ He gave her a withering look and lowered his voice. ‘I would die rather than let my sons witness what I saw tonight. Their own mother …!’

  ‘I will not be turned out. I am not going!’ she said finally.

  ‘You are. And so is Hamilton. His lease will not be renewed. I am going to sell up. One week is all you have.’

  She ranted and raved, threatened and pleaded, but Gordon would not budge. It was him or her. She would find a way. She would never, never admit defeat. How dare he threaten her?

  Chapter Fourteen

  1961

  The Zephyr purred as Andrew drove alongside the sparkling waters of the Firth of Forth towards the mortuary at Musselburgh, glancing again at last week’s newspaper that lay on the passenger seat beside him. He read the first page again.

  The sea search for Sir Gordon Campbell of Ingersley has been called off. Sir Gordon sailed out of North Berwick harbour at high tide on 15 June in perfect sailing conditions. His empty yacht drifted ashore the following day but there have been no sightings and there is little hope now of finding the wartime naval captain alive.

  This first paragraph contained reporting errors, but then the local papers were staffed by writers, not investigators. It probably sounded more dramatic to say ‘his empty yacht drifted’ when really the Lizzie – for Sir Gordon had given the same name to every yacht he’d owned since the first – had inched towards the shore, sails lowered and stowed, dragging her anchor chain, with masthead, stern and navigation lights lit.

  Sir Gordon had obviously dropped anchor somewhere, intent on sleeping aboard rather than sailing all night, but had not had time to hoist an anchor light on the forestay before he’d gone overboard. But where? And why? There had been a dozen boats out on the Forth that night but nobody had seen the Lizzie.

  Andrew couldn’t make even a calculated guess as to where he’d dropped anchor. If he could have guessed, the police would have dived or dredged for the anchor light and anything else that might have gone over. He glanced again at the paper.

  Lady Campbell, well-known local figure, JP and school governor, told reporters that her husband was being treated for depression. He had never recovered from the loss at sea of his son Robert, who went missing, presumed drowned off the coast of San Francisco three years ago. It is looking increasingly likely that our foremost local family has once again been struck by tragedy.

  He was only a mile from Musselburgh now. The waters of the Forth were on his left as he approached the harbour at Fisherrow. He slowed and watched half a dozen small sailing boats heading for the harbour, and for once had no feeling of envy. He did not wish to be on the water. His duty now was to Sir Gordon Campbell – to view the body and then to speak to his widow. Routine cases of accidental death by drowning were dealt with by junior ranks but Andrew knew that Sir Gordon would have wanted him to handle the preliminary stages of the investigation. He had made it known in the force that he was taking personal charge of the Commander’s case.

  Why had Lady Campbell talked to the newspapers of depression and in doing so implied suicide? Money had always been a problem for the estate. Sir Gordon would have had life insurance and that would not be paid if the insured died by his own hand. Lady Campbell had also repeated another contradiction in her statement to the paper. Far from not recovering from the loss of Robert, Sir Gordon had steadfastly refused to believe that his son was dead.

  Andrew turned the Zephyr into the little alleyway beside Musselburgh police station and, steeling himself for a sight of the body, went inside.

  The mortuary was a small, dark cell separate from the police station, and there, upon the four-foot-high white porcelain slab, lay Sir Gordon Campbell’s mortal remains. Dr Evans was there; the police pathologist had evidently just finished his examination. His remit was to examine the body and send his report to the procurator fiscal’s office for the death certificate to be issued if he considered that there were no unusual circumstances.

  The stench was appalling. Andrew took out his handkerchief and held it to his face, though he ought to be used to it by now. He had dragge
d oil-soaked, burning men from the sea when there was nothing he could do but watch them die. He had smelled the vile cocktail of blood and oil seeping out of the body bags as their bodies were returned to the water.

  He had faced this and the long toll of civil accident and murder victims over the years with horror and pity. These feelings should be overwhelming him now instead of the slow-burning, stomach-cramping anger that he felt at the loss of his hero. He said, ‘Have Photography been?’

  ‘Been and gone.’ Dr Evans was an experienced man who normally kept up a jolly banter while tackling the most gruesome investigations. Today his face was grim as he looked at Andrew.

  Andrew’s anger rose as he approached the slab. The body’s clothing and its build and hair made it recognisable as Sir Gordon Campbell, but otherwise it was barely recognisable as human. The face was all but gone, pecked away by sea birds, though the back of the head was intact. Foul water ran from the body in a dirty stream into the drain hole. The Commander’s fingers were eaten down to the bones. What flesh clung to the skull was clay-coloured. Andrew felt his stomach contents coming up and turned to cough into his handkerchief while he said, ‘Surely this was no accidental drowning?’

  The doctor said, ‘I am not satisfied. Nor is the fiscal deputy. The body will be sent for forensic tests.’ He pulled off his rubber gloves, dropped them into a bucket and began to scrub his hands before drying them on the worn but clean roller towel. He pulled down his shirt sleeves. ‘Sir Gordon Campbell would not have fallen overboard. He was too good a sailor.’

  ‘Any ideas?’ Andrew steeled himself to look again at the body. ‘He was a fine man.’

  ‘I know. I am a member of the same yacht club,’ Dr Evans said.

  ‘How long since you last saw him?’ Andrew demanded. It was automatic, no matter how repulsed he was, to clock up the little details until he had a hazy picture in his mind. It was a year since he and Sir Gordon had met at a Naval Association dinner. They had exchanged only a few words but his old captain had appeared calm and relaxed.

  ‘I was at the harbour when he sailed out, only hours before he went missing. He was in good form. He joked that in those conditions – they were perfect – he could sail around the world and might bump into young Robert, whom he reckoned would be sunning himself on a tropical island. He never believed his son was dead.’

  These were not the observations of a suicidal man.

  Andrew said, ‘What about the other boy, Edward? Was he causing trouble?’

  ‘Edward’s doing the family proud. He’s been accepted for Dartmouth and is all set to follow in his father’s footsteps.’

  ‘Have the pathology report sent to me personally. It should only take three or four days,’ Andrew said. ‘Suspect anything?’

  Dr Evans looked stern. ‘I don’t make guesses.’ He put his jacket on and they both left the mortuary.

  Andrew went straight into the station and spoke to the sergeant. He said, ‘Has anyone gone to Ingersley to tell his wife?’

  ‘No, sir. I’d have sent someone, but you said you–’

  ‘Yes. I’m on my way. She must identify the body,’ Andrew said. He left the station to drive the final fifteen miles to Ingersley, anger rising and suspicions gathering. He’d learn nothing from Ruth Campbell, so why had he insisted on driving to Ingersley to break the news himself? He recognised it now, of course; as a bloodhound sniffs the air to scent its prey, Andrew sensed intrigue.

  There were two separate stories here. On the one hand a wife who had no love for her husband letting it be known that he was suicidal; on the other, a husband who plainly was not.

  Why would a cold wife prefer the world to think that her husband had committed suicide than that he had drowned accidentally – except as a cover story if the body were found and the cause of death established? Lady Campbell was a JP who nurtured her image as a heavy-handed magistrate. She was swift and ruthless and gave no second chances.

  Such a woman would value this reputation. No matter how little blame could be attached to her, the widow of a man driven to suicide was often and unfairly the subject of conjecture. Then he thought back to the day when, at seventeen, Andrew had overheard Ruth Bickerstaffe and Mike Hamilton in action. It had changed his own life, for the better as it turned out, and now he asked himself if Sir Gordon’s death could have had anything to do with Hamilton.

  No. The affair must have ended years ago.

  Seven miles away, at Ingersley, Ruth raced along the sands of the private beach – not as recklessly as when she was young, but fast. The sun was sinking behind the hills of Fife across the water, setting fire to the clouds in a blaze of copper and blood red, under a sky that was deep indigo overhead and shaded through blue, green and palest yellow to silvery white. Underfoot on the private beach the sand was pale biscuit; the tide was about to turn and Ruth rode along the water’s edge, urging her horse: ‘Come on, Big Red!’

  There was a strange, ominous air about the beach for all that the evening was calm and still, but Ruth reminded herself that these were early days; only four weeks since Gordon had disappeared. Edward was the cause of her present unease. She had not expected him to take the death of his father so badly. He had moved out into what must be a student ‘squat’. He had refused to take any money. Nobody would pay to live under the conditions her darling boy was enduring.

  She reached the slipway and there pulled to a halt. And now her worries fell away and she wanted to shout for joy. She looked up at the boathouse halfway down the cliff. It took agility to reach it from the cliff top, as the steps were rotted away. Gordon must have been determined – must have harboured suspicions and grudges against her to have searched for her that night. He’d come down here, binoculars to hand, to spy upon her. He had even brought the harbourmaster as a witness. She had no regrets – except for making that one mistake in telling the reporters that Gordon had been treated for depression.

  The police had taken samples of her sedative tonic. If the body were found they might connect Gordon’s death with that of Elizabeth, who had only taken enough sedative medicine to disorient her. Vengeful feelings boiled in her at the very thought of all that had happened, and then, just as quickly, for this was the way she functioned nowadays, her feelings of revenge evaporated into euphoria …

  Gordon’s body had not been found and after all this time probably would not be. All that remained was for Robert to be legally declared missing, presumed dead. Neither Robert in the flesh nor Robert’s body had been found, but Ruth was certain that he would never return. He had been gone too long.

  She was free. The estate was in her control for the next four years until Edward was twenty-one. Edward would recover his good spirits and come home. He would forget his father and this Royal Navy nonsense. She dismounted and took from her pocket a packet of cigarettes. She had started smoking openly as soon as Gordon went missing. It calmed her nerves. She had never dared to smoke when he was alive. He’d expressed disgust at seeing women with cigarettes in their mouths.

  When she finished it she ground the cigarette butt into the sand, mounted her horse and rode back from the beach alone. Mike Hamilton worked late into the long summer nights. She would find him in the barn moving hay bales. He always did this two or three weeks after the hay was in, restacking from one long side to the other; leaving spaces between the bales to make sure that heat did not build. He was a good farmer.

  She untacked Big Red and put him out to graze in the paddock with Major before she went to look for Mike. He did not see her at once, and she stood for a full two minutes enjoying the sight of him, tanned and stripped to the waist, his chest hair gone grey while that on his back was still dark. His movements were youthful and easy and she found herself stirring inside, wanting him. She spoke at last and smiled to see him startle. ‘When you’ve finished …’

  He came to stand by her. ‘I can leave it,’ he said.

  ‘At the stables? Later? Come to the house?’

  They had never
used the house before and he raised his eyebrows in question. She said, ‘Tell Lucy that you are dropping by to sign next year’s lease.’

  He said, ‘Don’t you think you ought to leave it until Gordon’s …’

  ‘Oh! For heaven’s sake. You won’t be signing. We can’t renew the lease until my powers are recognised.’

  He stared at her. ‘You are a hard woman. You know your husband must be dead and you haven’t shed a tear.’

  Perhaps she was hard. There was a certain recklessness about her now that surprised her. She had been rude to Nanny, telling her to take her last remaining items of furniture and clothing to Ivy Lodge since she was no longer needed in the house. When Nanny asked whether she was sure, and wouldn’t it be better to have a companion at such a time. Ruth had told her sharply to mind her own business.

  She must not let her mood of elation show. She touched Mike’s arm and spoke in an appealing voice. ‘I have to be strong. Everything falls on to my shoulders.’

  ‘All right. I’ll come about half past eight.’

  She left the barn, fizzing with excitement. She would have time to bathe and scent herself. They would not be disturbed. The cleaners came in daily and only the cook and a housemaid were in residence. She would let them know that she did not need their services this evening.

  At eight o’clock she was waiting for him, bathed and dressed in a revealing but simple shirtwaist dress made from double layers of fine black georgette, under which she wore nothing but buttoned French knickers. Since Gordon’s disappearance she had discovered a great well of passion in herself. She was more needful at the same time as Mike’s lust seemed to be waning. She would make him wild with desire tonight.

  It was warm in the house. She went to the drawing-room window to open it wide and enjoy the sight of her land, her park, her estate. And as she watched, a metallic-gold Ford Zephyr came gliding through the gates at the South Lodge to arrive smoothly on the gravel below.