The Ebenezer Papers

by Dawn Harris

  ‘Crawleigh?’ he repeated, as if uncertain he’d heard correctly. ‘But -- the gentleman Miss Taverner was going to marry --- wasn’t that his name too?’

  ‘Yes.’ I explained about the different spelling of the surnames and told him to ask whatever he wanted.

  'So they weren’t related?’

  'No.’

  'Were they buddies?’ I shook my head and he went on, ‘But they’re both dead.’

  'That’s right, Al. And on the same day. Peter shortly before noon and George just before midnight.’

  'Killed by the same guy?’

  ‘I think so. But the police believe this was an accident,’ I said, indicating the tree.

  He took another look at it. 'Well, I guess it could be.’

  ‘Peter lived at 6, Compton Park Row, and George lived at 6, Compton Park Road.’ His jaw dropped, and I thought if Al can see the significance of that, why can’t Inspector Nabber?

  'Gee --- you mean they got the wrong man at first?’

  'I’m convinced of it.’

  He leant back against a tree and gazed at me with widening eyes as he grappled with what it all meant, opening his mouth twice before any words actually came out. ‘Mrs York, are you out to get this killer?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘That sounds mighty dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t think it is. The murderer can’t know I’m looking for him. If I can find evidence to prove the murders are connected, the police can do the rest.’ And I told him everything I knew about the murders and the Greenes. ‘I don’t want the man who killed Peter Crawley to get away with it.’

  Al stood up straight again. ‘You sure can’t let that happen. Miss Taverner is a real nice lady. That guy who shot Mr. Crawley ought to be strung up.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Mrs York, I guess working for you ain’t gonna be boring.’

  Soon after eleven we set off for Lymington, enjoying a pleasant trip on mostly empty roads. I took some photographs of the New Forest ponies, and a little later we stopped for lunch at a smart looking cafe in the pretty little town of Lyndhurst. I invited Al to join me, well aware that Jean would not have approved, but I couldn’t see the sense in telling him to find his own refreshment. Jean believed in keeping servants in their place, whereas my parents had taught me that everyone in our house was important, even the scullery maid. She kept everything clean, and that was vital for the health of the whole household. They all knew they were valued. If anyone tried to take advantage, a second chance was offered. Failure after that meant the sack.

  Besides, I liked Al; he was good company. And thinking of the life he’d led made me realise my own good fortune. The youngest of five children, I’d enjoyed the happiest of childhoods, thanks to my wonderful parents. I had liked and been successful at both school and university. No serious tragedy had occurred until last year when my parents died within a few months of each other. And, even then, I could say that they had lived a good life, my mother was nearly seventy, and my father seventy-five.

  They were alive and seemingly well when I married Archie, so I expected life to go on as it always had – happily. The sense of failure, when it did not, still haunted me at times. It had badly shaken my confidence, and I didn’t intend to put myself in a position where that could happen again. Not ever. Yet, compared to what Al had suffered, it was nothing.

  When we settled ourselves at a table by the window in the cafe, people turned to look at him, and the waitress’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. After ordering ham salad for two, I watched her retreating figure and murmured in amusement, 'You seem to be creating quite a sensation.’

  He grinned, utterly unperturbed. ‘I guess they don’t see many black people down here.’

  ‘You’re definitely a novelty,’ I agreed light-heartedly, and as we waited for our order to come, I remarked in the same manner, ‘Cook says you took Connie to the pictures last night.’ He nodded and asked rather hesitantly if I objected. ‘Of course I don’t. Why should I? But I’m afraid Lang does. I rather think he has hopes in that direction himself.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘I didn’t know that. Should I back off?’

  'Do you want to?’

  ‘Hell, no.’ And he immediately apologised for his language. ‘Connie's a lovely lady.’

  ‘Indeed she is.’

  He fiddled with the salt cellar, moving it round and round with his fingers. ‘Dating Connie is one thing, but what if --- well, if it got serious----?’

  'Do you think it will?’ I inquired with a smile.

  He lifted his shoulders rather too casually. 'It might.’

  'You only met her on Monday,’ I pointed out, a little amused.

  ‘Sure, but I knew the instant I saw her. Sometimes it happens like that.’ He looked across at me, his face breaking into a sheepish grin. 'We get on real well. We talk a lot and go for walks when we’re off duty. And twice I’ve gone with her and master Tim to the park.’

  The waitress arrived then with our order, which she set out before casting a swift wide-eyed look at Al. When she went off, I said, ‘What you and Connie decide is your business.’ He breathed a sigh of relief, but with Connie being some six years older than Al, I felt I should mention that she considered Lang, a mere four years her junior, too young.

  I swear he blushed, but all he said was, 'Yeah, she said.’

  So it had got that far, had it? In just a few days. Connie hadn’t said a word to me about Al.

  Entering Lymington a little later, we went straight to the yacht club, where an official told me the Greenes had been members for ten years. I asked if they were here now, explaining, ‘I have an urgent message for them. A relative has suddenly been taken very ill.’

  The man frowned. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry but I can’t help you. Mr. Greene and his son sailed for the south of France about two weeks ago.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I got back in the car, I told Al, ‘The sailing club official said the Greenes sailed to the South of France two weeks ago. Which can’t be true --- it’s only two days since we saw Ginger in the blue Lagonda.’

  'They must be laying a false trail,’ he said. ‘Like the Sioux.’

  I laughed and agreed. 'But if they left Lymington two weeks ago, supposedly for France, their yacht must be somewhere.’

  As we drove back through the New Forest I tried putting myself in their position. Where would I leave it? Somewhere quiet? Yes, but in a place where people expected to see boats. A harbour perhaps? No, that wouldn’t do; too many other boats moored close by. A river would be better. One with inlets and creeks where a boat could easily be hidden, but wouldn’t look out of place. Which instantly made me think of Hamble. That was a quiet village by a river, used by yachts. Not far from Lymington, a bit nearer to London, and so close to where we were now that I decided to take a look.

  There was virtually no traffic on the long winding road down to the village, and Al parked the car close to the river, giving us a good view of the boats on the water. Collecting my camera and the binoculars from the car, I trained the binoculars on a yacht heading out to the Solent, but soon saw it was much too small. Edward Greene's yacht must be a decent size if he sailed to the south of France each summer.

  Leaving Al with the car I sauntered casually, as any visitor might, towards the area where most of the yachts were moored, but there was no sign of the “Sea Mist.” I’d been to Hamble once before and I walked along the riverbank towards a creek I remembered seeing. At first sight the creek did not appear to be harbouring any boats, and I was about to turn back when I spotted the tip of a mast just above a thick clump of trees and bushes near the water’s edge. Finding my way to the other side of the trees I saw the boat the trees had hidden. It was about thirty-five feet in length, and my heart did a couple of somersaults when I read the elegantly painted name. “Sea Mist.”

  There was no-one on board, so I photographed the yacht, taking care to include some recognisable background. But why had Edward Gre
ene told the yacht club he was going to France as usual, and then left the boat in this creek at Hamble? When I asked Al that question on the way home, he said, ‘Looks like he’s set to make a quick getaway.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. But what have they done, Al? I mean, they’d lived in the same apartment for six years, then Ginger gets himself arrested, and the minute he’s free they disappear. What have they got to hide?’

  And where had my investigating got me? I’d seen Ginger in the blue Lagonda and then lost him, and I’d discovered their yacht. But I still hadn’t found out where the Greenes lived now. Surely, someone, somewhere, must know where they were. The only thing I was certain of, was that they weren’t in France. I puzzled over it on the drive back to London. And it was still on my mind the following day, which I spent with Tim. Playing, reading and drawing. All the simple pleasures he enjoyed.

  In the evening Johnny and I went to the cinema. He called for me in his car and on the way we talked about the playing field. 'It needs levelling,’ I said. ‘Then it could be laid out with proper pitches and goal posts. Possibly cricket pitches and tennis courts too.’

  'What about changing rooms?’

  'No point. The kids don’t have shorts or football boots.’

  ‘Of course. Stupid of me. I wasn’t thinking. Too bowled over by your beautiful blue eyes.’

  I tried to slap his knee but he admonished in a prim voice, ‘Not when I’m driving, please.’ But his eyes were dancing, and I laughed happily.

  ‘I want to use that boarded up factory I told you about – it would be perfect for storing the equipment, and maybe as a house for a manager.’

  ‘A manager?’ he echoed in surprise, drawing up at a junction. .

  ‘Someone who will look after the field and equipment, organise matches perhaps, and keep an eye on the kids. Sort out any disputes. That kind of thing. I’ll pay a decent wage.’

  He moved off again. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

  ‘One of the fathers probably. There are enough of them out of work.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Pulling into a car park near the Marble Arch picture house, he came to a halt, got out and opened the door for me. It was drizzling, but we didn’t bother with an umbrella for so short a distance. As we soon saw, however, there was a long queue for the film.

  'That’s a pity,’ I said, as this was my treat. ‘I wanted to go in the cheap seats.’

  ‘Skinflint,’ he teased.

  I heaved a long melodramatic sigh. ‘Looks like I’ll have to pay for a private box.’ Walking into the foyer I opened my purse and he instantly clapped his hands just above it. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked in amused suspicion.

  ‘Catching moths, of course,’ he grinned. I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. Fortunately there was a box free and while we waited for “Modern Times” to start, Johnny suggested spending Sunday in the country. 'With Tim, of course.’

  ‘Are you sure, Johnny?’

  ‘Course I am. He’s a great kid.’

  The drizzle had gone by morning, leaving a cloudy but warm day, and Johnny, reliable as always, arrived early for our trip in the country. It was wonderful spending so much time with him; in fact, it was just like the old days, and I couldn’t have been happier. Cook had prepared a delicious picnic, and after loading everything a two year old might need on a day out, we set off. I sat beside Johnny, in his little MG sports car, with Tim on my lap.

  The sun began to break through as we left London behind and by the time Johnny pulled off a quiet country road onto a rough track, there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. He drove a fair way along the uphill track before drawing to a halt.

  Tim, who had fallen asleep on my lap, woke up, jumped out, and began to run around. Eager to stretch our own legs we all walked to the top of the hill and stood there enjoying the sweet fresh air. 'What a wonderful view,’ I breathed happily. 'You are kind to bring us here, Johnny. It’s perfect for Tim.’ The small courtyard garden at the back of my Mayfair house was useful, and we were lucky to have any outside space in London, but the only place Tim could really run about was in the park.

  He bowed in mocking fashion. ‘We aim to please, madam.’

  'It's so lovely and quiet,’ I said. Apart from the birds the only sound we could hear was the faint ringing of the church bells from the village in the valley below. There were some sheep in the distance and naturally Tim wanted to see them. When we got near they ran off, of course, but luckily we spotted some rabbits in a small copse of trees nearby, and their antics made him laugh.

  While we watched Tim enjoying himself, Johnny and I chattered away happily, sometimes serious, often laughing and teasing, totally at ease in each other’s company, as we always had been. By the time we went back to the car to have our picnic lunch we hadn’t seen a single soul and I asked how he knew about this beautiful place. ‘I suppose you used to bring your girl friends here,’ I suggested, wiggling my eyebrows at him.

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘I haven’t been here before. When I looked at the map it seemed a good place to try.’

  'It couldn’t be better, Johnny. It’s years since I spent a day in the country.’

  He looked at me in surprise. 'But surely, Archie..........’

  ‘It wouldn’t have occurred to him. Archie hated the countryside.’ Aware I hadn’t guarded my tongue as I should, I hurriedly set out the picnic things and tried to distract him by drawing his attention to a couple of beautiful butterflies, hoping he wouldn’t start asking questions about Archie. But it was too late. Even so, he hesitated.

  ‘Liddy,.......’ he began, and then the words came out in a rush, as if he couldn’t help himself. ‘Forgive me for asking, but do you still miss Archie dreadfully?’

  When other people asked that kind of question, I always responded in conventional terms. I had Tim to think of, and when he was older I meant to show him Archie’s medals, and the newspaper cuttings of those famous brave exploits. What boy wouldn’t want a war hero for a father?

  I was about to answer Johnny as I would anyone else, forgetting in that moment, that he knew me inside out. As the first word formed on my lips I looked up at him and he must have seen from my face what I was about to do. ‘Don’t lie to me, Liddy,’ he whispered, the hurt clear in his voice.

  I hadn’t meant to tell him about my marriage, but I’d kept it all bottled up for so long, and I knew he’d never repeat it to anyone. 'All right. If you want the truth, I don’t miss him at all.’ I hadn’t even told Monica or Jean what Archie had really been like as a husband, and I spoke with such fervour that his eyebrows shot up. 'It's a terrible thing to say, but when Archie was killed I was........relieved.’

  He didn’t say a word, but gripped the sides of the picnic basket so tightly his knuckles went white. I had to go on, to tell someone, and Johnny, my oldest friend, was accustomed to keeping secrets. So I told him the truth; how this famous war hero, in direct line to become a baronet, could have married anyone.

  'Women loved Archie, yet he was still a bachelor at thirty-five. He told me he’d never met anyone he wanted to marry. When he asked me to be his wife, I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d never met a man like him before. Charming, dashing, handsome; the perfect gentleman who swore that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.’ Gazing up into Archie’s deep blue eyes filled with desire, had me shivering with such delight, I longed to be his wife.

  ‘What did your parents say?’

  ‘They begged me to wait, but I didn’t listen – I was so sure I was doing the right thing, you see. Six weeks after we first met, we were married. A whirlwind romance. Regrettably he neglected to mention that he’d had a huge row with his father about providing an heir, which ended with him storming off swearing to marry the first woman he set eyes on. I was the first quite pretty one he saw, and he knew his father wouldn’t approve of a paper manufacturer’s daughter. He did it out of spite. His father, who expected him to marry a girl from the aristocracy, was e
very bit as horrified as Archie had hoped.’

  Johnny seemed to be having difficulty in speaking; starting and stopping, then eventually he managed a whole sentence. ‘I wish I’d never gone to America.’

  'You couldn’t have stopped me. I was besotted with him. By the time Tim was on the way I knew I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. A mistake I don’t mean to repeat. I shan’t marry again.’

  'You don’t mean that.’

  'But I do. I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you’re right.’

  ‘I’m quite sure I am.’

  He smiled in his gentle way. ‘You always do think you’re right. Even when you’re obviously wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I am right about this. I know I am.’

  He burst into laughter. ‘See what I mean?’

  It was impossible not to smile. ‘But this is different, Johnny. Don’t you see - I can’t risk getting it wrong a second time, not while I have Tim to consider. Before we married, Archie was incredibly charming and thoughtful, and I fell for it, but once the ring was on my finger all that stopped. Not that I saw much of him. Once he knew Tim was on the way he went back to flying again in air shows, and he was in Australia when Tim was born. And a week later he crashed his plane.’ I took a deep breath, because the next bit wasn’t easy for me to say. ‘He loved being a hero, and the adoration got him any woman he wanted. He thought I’d make a complaisant wife who wouldn’t fuss over his affairs.’

  Johnny muttered something under his breath, which I couldn’t quite hear, and to my astonishment he brought his fist crashing down onto a plate, breaking it in two. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. At that moment Tim fell over and started to cry. Instantly Johnny picked him up and cuddled him, saying all the right things. Tim’s knee was grazed and I cleaned it up, and the individual trifle that cook had made especially for him quickly took his mind off it.

  ‘I was a fool to marry Archie,’ I admitted. ‘Yet I can never totally regret what brought Tim into my life.’