by Tessa Arlen
“No, he won’t, Mrs. Howard. He doesn’t have enough help. And if you will trust me then I think we can achieve both things, bring in your harvest with the help of the Land girls and the officers at the hospital, and avoid a most unpleasant scene with the Market Wingley recruiting officer.” Clementine felt pity for the poor woman as she watched Mrs. Howard’s cheeks flush and then drain of color.
She had not seen the farmer’s wife in months, but this once-sturdy woman was now quite gaunt. She had never been a pretty woman but she had always had the gloss of health about her. Clementine noticed that her formerly abundant shiny hair was dry and dull and her eyes were shadowed and sunken in her thin face. Here undoubtedly was a woman who lay in her bed every night sleepless from worry, and who daily looked over her shoulder expecting to see the army-green motorcar of the local recruiting officer from Market Wingley puttering up the hill to her house. Of course she is sick with worry, it is what we mothers dread most, that our sons will be taken to be badly wounded or killed.
Mrs. Howard continued to stand with her back to the kitchen stove, a soup ladle in her right hand, transfixed as Clementine asked, “Did Walter actually join up?” Please say he did not. Please say he has not deserted.
Mrs. Howard shook her head and Clementine’s shoulders came down a notch or two.
“He got his papers in April—he was to report in May. He said he couldn’t go to war to kill other men just because they were German or Turk. His nightmares were something awful and we would find him sitting here at night,” she waved the soup ladle at the kitchen table, “reading the papers and all the terrible things that were going on around the world. He said he was a conscientious objector. He said he would go to prison rather than kill someone just because he had been told he was the enemy.”
She put down the soup ladle in the stone sink carefully as if it were made of fragile glass. “I am sorry, m’lady, quite forgetting my manners. Please will you come into the front parlor for a cup of tea?” The invitation to drink tea was a welcome one. It would give this unhappy woman something to do.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Howard, that would be most welcome, but I don’t want to take you away from preparing your dinner, I am quite happy to sit in your kitchen.” She pulled a wooden chair away from the table. “I have heard that conscientious objectors are treated very badly in prison, Mrs. Howard. I am not sure what the penalty is for evading enlistment but I am sure it is quite severe. You cannot continue to hide Walter here. Conscription is the law once a boy reaches the age of eighteen, and the War Office keep very good records. My son told me that he was surprised that the recruiting sergeant hadn’t come for Walter already.”
It was hot in the kitchen even with the door open.
“They did come, about four weeks ago, and my husband told them Walter had already left to join up.” Mrs. Howard filled the kettle and put it on the hob to boil. “So we thought they would not return to look for him here.” She reached up to a crock on her Welsh dresser and placed three oatmeal biscuits on a lace doily on a plate. “Mr. Howard told them Walter had left in May on the train for Birmingham, just like his call-up papers had said he should. But they will come back, won’t they?”
“Yes, I’m afraid they will. And anyway you can’t hide your son away from the war, it isn’t right. Thousands of families say goodbye to their sons, their brothers, fathers, and husbands every day. We do not have a choice in this, Mrs. Howard, not when our country is at war.” Even though the woman’s head was bowed Clementine could see her mouth tighten.
“I’m afraid you are in a very bad position indeed. Both your husband and your son could be put in jail for the rest of the war. Then what would happen to the boys and this farm?”
Mrs. Howard’s head came up. “You are going to tell them, aren’t you?” It was not an angry accusation, just a sad statement of fact.
“No, I am not going to tell them. I am going to ask your son to do his duty. And…” She held up her hand against a flow of objections. “There are many ways he can do his part without killing the enemy. For instance, he can register as a conscientious objector and volunteer as an ambulance driver, or a Red Cross stretcher-bearer or even a hospital orderly.”
“Those are jobs that women do now.”
“Men do those jobs too, and there are many men who go out at night after a battle to find men who are injured or killed and bring them back behind the lines to field hospitals or to bury them. It is a much-needed and vital job. It is a dangerous one, but it will give Walter an opportunity to contribute. And it will help give him back some of his self-respect.” Her voice grew more stern: “Because hiding out in a barn is not the way. It is not good for a man to hide from his responsibilities; it will do more harm than anything. I think you know that, Mrs. Howard.”
Now all she could do was sit there quietly and wait. Always a tremendous challenge when one is on the edge of one’s seat, but she made herself be still even if her mind was ticking along at a great rate. She wanted to talk to Walter, she wanted to make sure he understood what sort of position he was in and the very real danger he was to his family by breaking the law. And she wanted to find out what he could see from his aerie in the barn, where all he had to do all day was watch the countryside below him. Walter had a perfect place to observe all the footpaths, bridle trails, and lanes that stretched across some several miles of Talbot land and she was trembling with anticipation for what he had to tell her.
“Mr. Howard will never ever agree to let our Walter go off to this war, Lady Montfort. And once Mr. Howard makes up his mind, then that’s that.” She plucked nervously at the edge of her tea towel.
Then he’s a stupid obstinate fool, because you and your entire family could be languishing in Market Wingley jail within the next few days for aiding your son to break a very strict and unbending law.
A long evening shadow fell across the scrubbed pine kitchen table with its teapot comfortably puffing steam, the blue-and-white cups and saucers, and the beaded mesh doily decorously covering the milk jug. It was a particularly homey scene, except for the shadow. For there in the doorway stood Walter Howard.
Good Lord, he is huge, thought Clementine. I never realized before how big he is. She could think of nothing to say, she felt only apprehension at his immense size, blocking all hope of a quick exit. Dropping his head as he came into the low-ceilinged farmhouse kitchen, all anxiety evaporated. The eyes that looked down at her were gentle; the face frowned not in anger but in perplexity at his tangled situation. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “I agree though, Lady Montfort. I been listening to what you said about the Red Cross. I don’t want to hide out in that barn another day. All I ever think about is when they will come for me. It’s giving me the gyp and I want it over and done with.”
His mother started in with a rush. “Whatever you do, Walter, don’t do anything hasty right now. We must talk to your dad about this.”
“No, Mum, I’m eighteen and a half. I have made up my mind. I made it up days ago, just couldn’t quite work out the best way out of it,” he waved his arm to encompass their home and the farm, “without getting you and Dad into trouble too.”
He turned to Lady Montfort. “Can you help me?”
She knew she couldn’t but she prayed that her husband might.
“I will talk to Lord Montfort, Walter. I am quite sure he will do everything he possibly can—if you are willing to do the right thing. If you come forward and volunteer for the Red Cross, and not sit up in that barn waiting for them to come to you. With your strong shoulders and sturdy frame you would make an excellent stretcher-bearer. There is no shame in helping the wounded. But if you run away it will ruin your life.”
Walter reached out and took his mother’s hand in his. “It will be all right, Mum,” he said. “I really want to do it this way. I’ll tell Dad when he comes home tonight that it is all settled. There, there, don’t take on so. I will be safe, I promise you.” And Clementine turned her head away because no one c
ould offer any guarantee that Walter Howard would remain safe in the chaos of war.
Chapter Nineteen
“So that’s why Howard wouldn’t let anyone near his farm, the damned fool. But what on earth makes you think I would intervene on their behalf? They broke the law. On top of that, Howard has put his entire crop in jeopardy by protecting a man who is little better than a deserter.” Clementine noticed that her husband’s mouth was turned down at the corners and his eyebrows were up. I should have known he would say this, she realized, feeling anxiety on Walter Howard’s behalf. Men always see these things so differently.
“Yes, they have behaved selfishly and stupidly, but Walter does not believe it is right to kill men because his country has told him they are the enemy. It has been a most burdensome four and half months for him and he is ready to do the right thing. I talked to him about the Red Cross.”
A deep sigh—silence—another deep sigh, as Lord Montfort drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair. Clementine waited for him to finish fuming.
“All this time Howard has been saying no to help from the Land Army because he didn’t want anyone anywhere near the farm. What a pigheaded ass he has been when we are all stretched way beyond our usual capacity. I won’t help him.” He slapped his hand palm down on the arm of the chair. “I won’t bail the man out.”
“But would you at least talk to Walter? Not everyone believes it is right to go to war against another country, and Walter is awfully young. He has been badly advised by his father and is asking for a second chance; will you at least think about giving it to him?”
He laughed, and she relaxed. He had said many times that she would have made a marvelous criminal defense lawyer if women were ever allowed to do such things.
“Very well then, send for Walter Howard. Not his father, I don’t want that turnip head in my study. If I think Walter is not swinging the lead, I will do what I can for him to be conscripted into the Red Cross and sent off to France so that he may see for himself why there should no more wars—ever.”
* * *
Mrs. Jackson had settled herself once again at her desk to catch up on her neglected administrative duties when she was interrupted by Corporal West’s knock on her door.
“Beg pardon for interrupting, Mrs. Jackson, but there is a lady here to see you,” he said. “One of the locals,” he added. And before she could ask who, Mrs. Allenby was ushered into her office.
“Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Allenby.” She rose from her desk and offered her visitor a chair. “I was just about to have a cup of tea.”
The farmer’s wife sat down and took off her gloves, which she kept on her lap as she declined tea. “I only have a moment, Mrs. Jackson, but I felt that you and her ladyship were owed an explanation of some sort for the other morning, when you came to talk to Davey.”
Mrs. Jackson tried not to show her surprise. She had intended to pop over to the Home Farm and have a little chat with Davey Allenby, and now here was his mother quite evidently on a mission of her own. “I’ll come straight to the point, Mrs. Jackson, it will save time.” She looked up from the business she was making of folding her gloves. “I think I know why you were asking Davey about his day with Lieutenant Forbes. Perhaps you were wondering if the lieutenant had left the farm on the morning that the officer was killed in the kitchen garden.” Mrs. Jackson’s eyebrows came up. “The village,” Mrs. Allenby’s laugh was a little forced, “has been buzzing with gossip ever since.”
“Ah yes, the village.”
Mrs. Allenby fixed her eyes on her strong brown hands lying in her lap, her face without expression, and continued as if Mrs. Jackson had not spoken. “I noticed Davey’s hesitation when you asked if the lieutenant had been with him all day. First of all I thought it might just be his shyness. And then I thought that it wasn’t so much a hesitation because he felt awkward, but more likely that he was embarrassed and not just for himself.”
Mrs. Jackson decided to play along. She didn’t like being put on the spot about being a busybody but it was clear that Mrs. Allenby’s quick mind had grasped exactly why she and her ladyship had been chatting away to a nine-year-old boy. “All young lads are shy at that age. But you obviously think differently, Mrs. Allenby.” The woman smiled to herself as if she had proved her point. Now everyone will know that her ladyship and I were asking questions.
“My boy is particularly fond of Lieutenant Forbes. We all are; he is a very nice young man and I don’t want the lieutenant to be implicated in this terrible business up at the hospital. Lieutenant Forbes did spend his entire day with Davey and Mr. Allenby. He did not go off by himself at any time so he could not have murdered Captain Bray.”
Well that’s very direct! “I am glad you came to me, Mrs. Allenby. But before you say anything I should let you know that I will share this information with … the police.”
It was only good manners that prevented Mrs. Allenby from laughing, but she smiled her reassurance. “But that wouldn’t do much good, would it? Everyone in the village expects her ladyship to get to the bottom of this ugly business like she always does, with your help too of course, Mrs. Jackson.” Now she laughed outright as Mrs. Jackson clenched her jaw tight to stop it from dropping. To save her any further embarrassment, Mrs. Allenby continued to come straight to the point.
“On the day that the captain was murdered, Lieutenant Forbes was showing young Davey how to drive that tractor just before I took them their midday dinner. Nasty faulty things, they are, and they smell terrible; there is nothing like a dependable Shire horse. But anyway, the tractor had stopped and wouldn’t start. So I left them their dinner and went back to the farmhouse. But when I talked to Davey this morning about his day with Lieutenant Forbes, he told me that after they had eaten their dinner they went back to the tractor to see if they could get it going so they could use the combine harvester. Well, it started all right, there was a loud bang, and it sort of lurched to a stop and started again with another terrific bang.”
“It backfired.” Mrs. Jackson supplied a term beloved of Lord Haversham in his motorcar days.
“Yes, that’s it. It backfired. A very loud and explosive sound, and Davey said that Lieutenant Forbes started to shake. His hands shook so hard he couldn’t steer the thing properly and it rolled across the meadow, completely out of control, and hit a tree stump. No harm done to the tractor or anything. But Lieutenant Forbes was a right mess, he couldn’t stop shaking. It frightened Davey. He was so dismayed he ran through the gate to the field, leaving the poor man sitting there shaking, to get his dad.” Mrs. Jackson straightened in her chair. “No, he was not gone for long, Mrs. Jackson; my husband was on the other side of the hedge in the wheat field, just seconds away. Mr. Allenby knew right off what the trouble was. He has a cousin who is suffering from what we call war-nerves. Can’t walk straight most of the time and he wakes the house every night with his screaming.”
Mrs. Jackson reached for a pencil. “What time do you think that was, Mrs. Allenby, any idea?”
She scribbled down the woman’s answer: “About one o’clock it would be, or so my husband said it was. I had taken them their dinner at midday, and this was after. Anyway, Lieutenant Forbes had a cigarette and calmed down after a bit. But I wanted to let you know that he did not leave the farm for the whole day. And that was why Davey hesitated about being with the lieutenant all day, he didn’t want to talk about something that had upset him and he probably didn’t know how best to explain.” This was said with a great deal of finality. Mrs. Allenby began to put on her gloves and Mrs. Jackson realized that her visit was over.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Mrs. Allenby. Davey must have been most upset by the lieutenant’s fit of the shakes.” She had seen what happened to their patients if they were having a bad day; any loud or sudden noise could reduce some of them to trembling wrecks. She also breathed a long sigh of relief as she was also particularly fond of Lieutenant Forbes. He was such a wholly decent young man. “Thank you
so much for taking the time to tell me this, Mrs. Allenby. I really appreciate it.”
“You are most welcome, Mrs. Jackson, anything I can do to help. I am sure you and her ladyship, with your quick, clever minds, will get to the bottom of this soon.”
Chapter Twenty
At five o’clock, as the staff gathered belowstairs for tea, Mrs. Jackson took advantage of the rapidly cooling evening and went outside for a breath of fresh air. As she cut late-blooming dahlias and early-blooming Michaelmas daisies for the officers’ mess she mentally reviewed the list of suspects she had so confidently put together with Lady Montfort just a few short days ago. It took her less than a second, because there was no one left on it. We are nowhere near closer to understanding who killed the captain and the lieutenant than we were at the beginning of all this, and we are running out of time. She stood in the shadow of the laurel hedge as the sun began to dip behind the trees and until she felt too cold to be outside any longer. There is something waving away at me, something I have overlooked, she thought and turned to walk briskly up the path to the welcoming light of the house.
As she came back through the front door there was her ladyship, waiting for her in the hall. “There you are, Jackson!” she said and walked ahead of her down the corridor to her office, where she sat herself down in a chair. She was evidently here for more than a minute, because she took off her hat. “I have so much to tell you. I simply don’t know where to begin.”
You would probably like to begin with a glass of amontillado, because I know I would. Mrs. Jackson bent to light the twist of paper under the kindling in the fireplace. “There now, m’lady, that should make us feel a bit cozier; the chill strikes even colder after such a hot day. A glass of sherry might warm us up a bit too.” She took out her sherry glasses, gave them a quick polish, and poured a generous thimbleful for each of them.
