“Billy wants to tell you what he saw that day.” Mrs. Hamilton was determined to press on.
“Was it another red kite?” He didn’t like the way Mrs. Hamilton seemed to both look down her nose at Billy and press him forward as a witness, maybe in her stead. “Here, Billy, I’m going back into the village. We can saunter along together and you can tell me everything. That way you won’t be in trouble for hanging about when you should be working.” He raised his hat to the housekeeper and started to walk, tipping his head to the delivery boy to follow. Billy hesitated for a moment and then fell into step beside him, wheeling the bicycle and peering anxiously over his shoulder at Mrs. Hamilton, whose face resembled Orlando’s when he was in one of his darker moods.
When they were out of earshot, Billy continued. “People say there aren’t any red kites round here, you know.”
“Do they indeed?” Jonty suspected those “people,” whoever they were, happened to be right.
“They say it’s just buzzards I’ve seen. They attack newborn lambs, you know. Nasty, vicious things.”
Jonty didn’t want to ask whether it was the lambs or the buzzards or the red kites who were vicious. Even he could tell a kite from a buzzard, and he’d expect any country boy to be able to do the same. Maybe Billy would be just as unreliable about the day Peter Priestland died. Time to find out. “That morning Mr. Priestland died. What did you see?”
“A man. I saw a man in the grounds here, when we was just finishing off fu-mi-ga-ting the ladybirds.” Billy spoke the long word carefully.
“Was he acting suspiciously, that you remember him so well after all this time?” He kept his voice airy, not wanting to frighten or confuse the lad.
“Suspiciously?” Billy gave his interlocutor a sidelong, puzzled glance.
“Acting odd.”
“A bit. Around and about the bushes. I pointed him out to Mr. Houseman, but he told me to keep my mind on my work. So I did.” Billy nodded, to emphasise the point. “I’m a good worker.”
“I bet you are. I wonder how Mrs. Hamilton knew about this man, then?” Jonty had a feeling this meeting had all been set up to throw him off the scent. It was like being part of a conjuror’s trick and knowing your attention was being diverted while the magician produced his piece of prestidigitation. Yet Billy struck him as being fundamentally honest, clearly believing in all that he said. If he was putting on part of the show, then he was a marvellous actor, so good it was impossible to tell where the act started and ended.
“She must have been told by Mr. Houseman. I didn’t say anything to her.” The bicycle bobbled over a rut, Billy checking it with a volley of colourful oaths and a hurried, “Pardon my French, sir.”
“No need to apologise. I’ve heard worse.” Said worse too, but Jonty wasn’t admitting that at present. “She seemed very keen for me to meet you.”
Billy nodded. “Keen as mustard. Only just now she almost chased me down the drive and said there was a gentleman—that’ll be you, sir—wanted to know what had happened the day Mr. Priestland died.”
“That’s odd. It’s even odder than the bit about the man lurking around the grounds. I don’t think I want to know what had happened that day. Peter Priestland was an old friend of the family, and I just came to pay my belated respects. I was out in France when he died, so I couldn’t have done it then.” From Billy’s nod and look of comprehension, that explanation made entire sense. “I didn’t realise there was anything to discover. I thought he’d just suffered complications following the flu. Am I wrong?”
“Not at all, sir. Nasty stuff, that Spanish flu. It took my two young cousins and my granny, not long after old Mr. Priestland. I kept clear of it, but plenty of folk weren’t as lucky. I was expecting them to cover granny’s face after she was dead, but they didn’t. She looked lovely and peaceful.” Billy shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about that man I saw, though. I bet he was at Thorpe House just looking for rabbits or something else to put in the pot. People was still a bit short back then. Maybe he’d come up from the city for a nice bit of meat.”
“Maybe.” It was as good an explanation as any. Jonty wasn’t sure he was going to get a lot else from Billy, not without the lad twigging that he really was prying into the affairs of that October day. Lads like Billy might not have a lot of book learning, but they often possessed common sense in spades. He wasn’t yet sure that applied in this case. “Did you see him from the room Mr. Priestland was found in?”
“No, sir. We didn’t do that room at all. None of the little varmints in there. Upstairs.”
So accidental poisoning seemed unlikely. “Of course.”
“You saw action, sir?” Billy asked as they came to a crossroads. It was clear he had to turn left while Jonty went straight on. The boy stopped, propping his bike against a post and fiddling with the handlebars while making a point of not looking at Jonty directly. “Might I ask if you got your scar out there?”
The question may have been blunt, but Jonty wasn’t offended. Plenty of people made a point of not mentioning or looking at the scar; somehow that was even worse than when they asked directly or stared. “I did and it was. I got this almost a year ago.” He fingered his cheek. “About the time it was all coming to an end.”
“I wanted to enlist, sir, but my old ma wouldn’t let me. She says my heart’s weak, although I don’t believe her. Maybe I’ll get my chance one day.”
“Maybe.” Jonty sincerely hoped that would never come about.
“Everyone says there was a fair heap of young lads killed. It must have been a sore trial.”
Funny how those simple words had the power to cut Jonty to the quick. “It was.”
Billy held out his hand. “May I shake hands with a real hero, sir?”
“I was hardly a hero, but it would be an honour to shake your hand, Billy. You’re the sort of lad we fought on behalf of. To keep you free.” It sounded stupid, the sort of sentimental talk that might have been essentially insincere, yet Jonty meant every word of it. He’d have fought for innocent lads like Billy any day; he’d fought alongside plenty just like him. It would take a lot to make him feel inclined to fight for the Mrs. Hamiltons of this world.
Jonty lingered awhile, watching the delivery boy, whistling happily, cycle along the lane to his next stop. It had certainly been an enlightening little conversation, although not necessarily in the way the housekeeper—and perhaps her mistress—had intended.
The lady at Downlea Post Office favoured Orlando with a smile and a deferential bob of the head as he entered the shop. He guessed she was in her early twenties, and observed that she was neatly dressed, with a huge dimple in her left cheek that appeared and disappeared as she spoke. He also supposed she’d be counted as pretty by those who were inclined that way, and perhaps a touch flirtatious, given the glint in her eye.
Orlando laid three letters on the counter—he’d brought some from home as a necessary prop—and asked for the stamps. “And I’ll take some spare twopennies and a two-shilling one, thank you.”
“Always best to top up supplies. Half a dozen?” The young woman seemed efficient, dealing with Orlando’s post quickly and neatly, sticking on the stamps so they lined up exactly with the corner of the envelope, just as he liked them to be. Jonty could stick his on haphazardly, but Orlando sometimes felt he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he knew he’d put something in the postbox that looked so askew.
“Thank you.” He paid for the stamps and slowly put the spare ones in his wallet. “May I ask what is bound to seem a very silly question?”
“Of course. So long as you don’t mind if I can’t answer it.” The woman had spirit, as well as a neat way with a stamp. The fact that she could flirt for a while with her handsome customer (Orlando had at last got it into his head he could be legitimately regarded as handsome and that it was a positive aid in his investigations) clearly amused her. Maybe nice men were as scarce a quantity in Downlea as they seemed to be everywhere else, the flower of a gen
eration laid waste in Flanders Fields and other such places.
“I’d got it into my mind that the postmistress here was the wife of an old friend. He died earlier this year and I wasn’t here to pay my respects.” Orlando didn’t elaborate on where he was. Ladling on too much unnecessary detail always looked a bit suspicious, and if the girl had any sense, she’d realise where he might have been and why he couldn’t get back.
“Well, I’m the postmistress, and I’ve never been married to anyone. Alice Huddlestone I was born and Alice Huddlestone I’ve remained until now.” The amplified twinkle in her eye suggested to Orlando that she was hoping this state of affairs might be rectified if nice men like him came along more often.
“Then I do seem to have got myself into a muddle.” Orlando took off his hat and scratched his head; Jonty had often said the gesture made him look helpless and appealing. “Peter Priestland certainly lived here in Downlea, unless he’d moved during the war years and never told me. My Christmas cards always seemed to get through, but I suppose they may have been redirected . . .” Orlando carried on with his impression of an absentminded professor. Professor. He had to hide a smile at the thought of the prestigious title, a title that was all his.
“Oh yes, he does live here. Sorry, did. Thorpe House. The big place you can see among the elms from the platform of the up line.” Miss Huddlestone spoke as if that made everything clear. “His wife would never be a postmistress.”
Orlando waited for the catty remark he was sure would follow from this bald statement. Was this one of the small pockets of unkindness the Reverend Ian Bresnan had found? “Why would that be?”
“Because your friend wouldn’t let her. I took over this post, if you’ll excuse the pun, just three years ago.” She beamed. “You may think I’m rather young to be trusted, but they were delighted to take me on.”
Orlando thought she was rather on the coquettish side for such an important position but held his tongue, settling for an encouraging smile.
“Not long afterwards, Mrs. Priestland came in to get a postal order. We were chatting about how I was getting on, and she confided that she’d always wanted to be a postmistress, ever since she was a little girl. Fascinated by the stamps and the parcels, the postal orders and the telegrams. All of it.” Miss Huddlestone rolled her eyes at such childish enthusiasm. “She said she’d contemplated applying for the vacancy, but her husband had insisted she shouldn’t. I don’t think he went as far as saying ‘No wife of mine is going to demean herself by working in a shop,’ but it must have been something quite unpleasant. I could tell by the way she was making light of it. Covering up her distress.”
“Sad how set in their ways some people are.” He’d never be so hidebound by convention. Not now. No matter what Jonty might have to say on the matter. “And now she’s free, but the position isn’t.”
Miss Huddlestone nodded. “I don’t think her heart would be in it, anyway. Although she comes in here quite regularly to get her stamps or collect some stationery, rather than leaving it all up to the servants like some of them do around here. I suspect she gets a bit more freedom now that she doesn’t have to always mind what her husband says.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “He was a lot older than her, you know. Such a nice man, a real gentleman, but very correct and old-fashioned. It couldn’t have been much fun for her. Oh! I didn’t mean any slur on your friend, sir. I’ve let my tongue run on with me there.”
“No offence taken.” Orlando inclined his head, in a gesture he hoped would represent magnanimity. “Peter was rather an old stick-in-the-mud at times, even if his heart was in the right place. I just hope, for his sake, that they were a happy couple. I’d hate to think of his last few years as being in any way unhappy.”
“He always seemed happy as far as I could see, sir. I’d have called him besotted with his wife, even though—or maybe because—she was so much younger.” A dreamy expression came over the postmistress’s face. “The way he looked at her over evensong in church. Proper romantic.”
Orlando decided it was time to get away before the looks he was receiving became any more proper romantic. He scooped up his purchases, thanked Miss Huddlestone for all her help, then scurried out the door to have a quick reconnoitre of the countryside before meeting the only person he wanted to exchange romantic glances with. At least he had something to report about the case, even if it seemed very flimsy. It was interesting to have found some note of discord between husband and wife, but was not being allowed to work in a post office sufficient motive for murder?
English villages have a habit of putting the important things together. The shops are rarely far from the village green, and the pub is usually by the church, as if those emerging from matins or evensong might well feel the need of something fortifying as they make their way home.
Jonty had intended to call at the butcher’s shop—always a source of good quality gossip—but he had to pass the churchyard en route, which led to a change of plans. As another assimilation of local flavour, he stopped to look at the notice board. You could learn a lot from what churches chose to display, although he hardly expected to see “Rosalind Priestland is a murdering wench” writ large there; that would have made life far too easy. She’d mentioned a Reverend Mitchell, though, and, as Jonty had expected, the name Reverend Francis Mitchell was at the bottom of various notices.
Would it be more worthwhile dropping into the vicarage to pick the vicar’s brains on the postbereavement state of Rosalind’s mind, or to pursue a speculative conversation over a pork chop? The idea of talking to Mitchell appealed, but how on earth was he going to wangle a valid excuse for doing so? Knock on the door and say, “Excuse me, we’ve never met, but can you tell me if Rosalind Priestland ever gave you the impression that she’d just murdered her husband?”
Still, it would be worth trying to make contact. The vicarage was set back from the road, and he could always at the very least pretend he wanted to see the brasses in the church. Maybe Mitchell would be sufficiently old and doddery to be conned into giving all sorts of things away. Maybe even, glorious thought, he might have been in love with Jonty’s mother at some point in the past and would bend over backwards to help her son. It wasn’t such a long shot; if all the men who’d fancied Helena Forster had been laid end to end, they’d have stretched to Edinburgh.
The man who answered the vicarage door was in his early thirties, clad in tennis flannels and wearing a towel around his neck. He was tall and dark, as handsome as Orlando, and had a healthy glow on his face from recently taken exercise.
“Can I help you?” He favoured Jonty with a wonderful smile.
If this was the Reverend Mitchell’s son, he was a real eye-catcher. Not that Jonty wanted his eye caught, but you couldn’t help admire at times—like when you looked at Greek and Roman statues, happened to find yourself staring at one of Antinous, and had to fight to keep the libidinous thoughts at bay.
“I was looking for the Reverend Mitchell.”
“You’ve found him!”
“Oh.” Jonty had been so sure he was looking for some white-haired dodderer that he was temporarily at a loss for what to say. “I was wondering if you could help me. I wanted to visit the grave of Peter Priestland, and I wasn’t sure where to find it . . .” That sounded truly pathetic; he daren’t own up to Orlando about how feckless he was being.
“I’m afraid you’re miles off course. He’s buried down in Hampshire, near Romsey. The family plot, you know.” Mitchell smiled. “I’m sorry if you’ve come here on a wild-goose chase. Please, come in and have a cup of tea. I’ll get my housekeeper. Mary!”
If Jonty had wanted to refuse the invitation, he couldn’t. Mary was summoned and asked to produce some refreshments, leaving Jonty afraid he’d begin to dissolve with the volume of liquid he’d consumed. He was ushered into a comfortable, bachelor-type study, reminiscent of Cambridge sets and earnest discussions about esoteric areas of study over late-night port or cocoa. The familiarity all
owed him to relax a little and gather together his befuddled thoughts.
“I should have checked before I set out.” Why on earth hadn’t someone, the grieving widow, or even Ian Bresnan himself, mentioned that Peter had been buried where his family had lived?
“Hindsight is a wonderful commodity.” Mitchell looked suddenly serious. “I wish we’d been able to take what we knew in 1918 and exercise it four years earlier.”
Jonty wondered what had occasioned the change of tack. Had Mitchell noticed the great scar that graced his guest’s cheek, the livid mark of honour that had cost so much more in the earning of it than either Military Medal or Military Cross? Mitchell himself had a tracery of lines on the back of his hand that suggested old wounds. He’d have been the right age to serve.
“Were you out there?”
“I was. With the Cambridgeshires, from early 1915.” He rose, fetching a photograph from the mantelpiece. “This is me, with my boys.” The pride in the vicar’s voice was palpable.
“They look a wonderful bunch.” Jonty fought back the lump in his throat. The lads all appeared so fresh faced and young, barely more than boys, just as his own platoon had been. At times, he’d felt more like a nursemaid than an officer. “I won’t ask you how many of them made it back as it’ll upset both of us to have the answer. Please God, that was the war to end all wars, although I’m not optimistic.” He glanced up, aware of the potential faux pas. “I don’t mean I’ve no optimism in the powers of the Almighty. It’s men I don’t trust anymore.”
“I can’t help but agree with you.” Mitchell took back the photo, taking one last long look at it before returning it to its place of honour. “Now, about this grave.”
“Yes. I can’t help wondering why he’s been buried in Romsey. I suppose it’s a case of a family plot?” The Stewarts had one in Sussex that had seen generation upon generation interred, some of them miles away from where they’d counted as home.
Lessons for Survivors Page 7
