Season of Darkness

by Maureen Jennings

  “From this young man, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he know what you were doing?”

  “No. I didn’t want to tell him. I was too ashamed.”

  She was wiping at her eyes, but hardly stemming the tears that were rolling down her cheeks.

  “They said I should be all right, but I have to continue with the treatments. It’s not something that will be easy to explain to my fiancé, is it? He’s due home on leave in a couple of weeks.”

  Tyler returned to his crouched position in front of her.

  “Bear up, lass.”

  “David is a man of rather strict morals, Inspector. He has made it quite clear he wants me to be pure when we marry. He as well. He’s fair about that. We have been engaged for over a year and we’ve never … well, you know what I am referring to.” She scrubbed at her eyes. “That’s why I was so foolish. I was lonely. Oh Inspector, am I so very wicked?”

  Tyler removed the punishing handkerchief. “No, lass, of course you’re not wicked. You’re not the first gal to fall for some smooth-talking rascal and you won’t be the last.”

  “You see, if David finds out, he won’t forgive me, I know he won’t. He comes from a good family. One with a long and, as they say, storied history.”

  “If it’s that long and that storied, it’ll have lots more skeletons in the closet, you can count on that.”

  She managed a smile. “But you have to admit, my particular skeleton is a rather spectacular one.”

  “Aye lass, it is.” He straightened up. “I will have to check up on what you’ve said. It’s my job. What hospital did you go to?”

  “Market Drayton General.”

  “And what is the name of the young man who has carelessly got you into this mess?”

  Panic shot into her eyes again. “Do you need to know that?”

  “Surely he’s aware he has VD?”

  She sighed miserably. “I don’t know.”

  “Give me his name, lass. Infecting a nice young lady is not a criminal offence, but I’d like to make sure he is more careful in the future.”

  “His name is Dennis McEvoy.”

  Mrs. McEvoy opened the door.

  “Tom. How nice. Come in.”

  “No, I won’t stop, Lily. I just wondered if your Dennis was at home. I’d like a word with him.”

  “He’s not here. He’s on the night shift at the camp.” She regarded him anxiously. “You’re looking a bit grim, Tom. Is Dennis in trouble?”

  “This isn’t an official call, Lily, but I’d like to have a bit of a chin wag. Tell him to drop in at the station when he’s off.”

  “I will. Sure you won’t come in for a cuppa? I don’t see much of you these days.”

  “Soon as I can, I’ll take you up on that. I’m really busy at the moment.”

  Before she could ask him more questions, he stepped down from the porch.

  “Ta ta, Lily.”

  Lily had been widowed several years ago, and Tyler thought not having a father had had an effect on her son and only child. Of the four musketeers, Dennis was the one who seemed to get into hot water first and most often. Tyler had done his best over the years to step in, but most of the time Dennis hadn’t taken it kindly.

  Not that you’re a model of paternal effectiveness, thought Tyler to himself. Your own son is hardly talking to you and you don’t have a clue how to reach him.

  33.

  CLARE PUT THE FIVE POUND NOTE INTO THE STRONG box, recorded the amount, and wrote a receipt for the money. Howard Silber received a regular allowance from an uncle, but none of the internees were allowed to use money. Instead they were issued disks with a monetary value written on them. The Ministry thought this would bypass problems of different currency and ensure nobody could accumulate a stash. Not that there was anything to spend money on in the camp. Barter flourished.

  The hut where she worked, outside the wire fence, had been initially erected for Major Fordham. He found it too small, preferring the more military, field-operations appearance of his tent, and he’d turned the hut over to the mail sorter and censor.

  Clare had tried to make the place as comfortable as possible, but it remained crude and workmanlike. There were unpainted shelves built along one wall, with pigeon holes labelled alphabetically and according to sections, where she could put the sorted letters. There was a scarred desk, two chairs, and a rickety table she’d found somewhere for the tea things. She’d also brought in a wool rug and some colourful pillows to make the place a bit more homey and less institutional.

  Mail was handed out at the camp and collected twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, and it was Clare’s job to examine all of the correspondence, both coming in and going out. The majority of the examinations were straightforward. The internees had learned the drill by now. They were permitted to write only two letters a week and only twenty-four lines per letter.

  The correspondence of certain people and organizations that might be problems for the government or were already considered subversive went into the middle tray. These ranged from left-wing anti-war groups, such as the Peace Pledge Movement, to the far-right, the British People’s Party and Oswald Moseley’s fascists, the BUF. Letters to and from all these groups would all be photographed and checked before being passed along.

  There were fewer outgoing letters today, and she reached into that tray first. Occasionally one of the correspondents forgot and made a forbidden reference to the weather or to morale: “Continuing to be hot and sunny”; “The English are so jittery, many of us despair of getting a fair hearing.” These sentences she blacked out. All approved letters were stamped and sealed.

  She picked out a letter that reeked of tobacco, stuffed it into another envelope, and dropped it into the middle tray. She had no doubt the sender was a heavy smoker, but she had to send it to be examined further. As far as she was aware no secret messages had been detected, no microdots under the stamps, no ciphers. But if, by some remote chance, the letter had so-called invisible writing in the margins, the smell would be citrus-like. Tobacco could mask that.

  She stretched, rubbing her neck to ease the stiffness. She could hear the internees on the other side of the barbed wire as they set up their stalls for the weekly market. It was a popular event, although everything was bartered and exchanged.

  These familiar sounds were suddenly drowned out by a strange wail, rather like a lusty tom cat. This was immediately followed by an angry shout. The second voice was powerful and penetrating, professionally trained; the language English.

  “Put a sock in it, Schmidt. I’m getting ready for my performance. Others have a right to the stage as well, you know.”

  Clare walked over to the window to have a look at what was going on. Oscar Schmidt, the sound poet, his back to her, was standing in the open square. It was he who had been giving forth with the cat noise. He was holding a megaphone constructed from cardboard. In front of him was Howard Silber in a black tunic and tights.

  Schmidt brandished his megaphone in the air.

  “You went before me last week. I’m going first today,” bellowed Silber, and he made shooing motions with his arms as though Schmidt were a kind of large, recalcitrant bird.

  Clare saw Dr. Beck emerge from between the tents. He went over to the two combatants and said something quietly to Silber, who shrugged him off angrily.

  “Speak to Schmidt, why don’t you? You know what happens when he gets going. Everybody disappears into their tents. I’m planning to deliver my St. Crispin’s speech and I’d like an audience, if you don’t mind.”

  Beck spoke to Schmidt, and the poet gave Silber a sweeping, ironic bow, tucked his megaphone under his arm, and stalked off.

  “Good night, sweet prince!” Silber shouted after him. “May choirs of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

  The few men nearby who could understand him laughed. Around the edges of the grass square, the other internees went back to setting up their tables.

&nb
sp; “My performance will start right after the concert,” pronounced Silber.

  Clare was about to return to her own tasks, then decided, the heck with it, she needed a break. Anyway, this could give her a chance to get to know the internees better.

  She left the hut and went to the gate where a young guard, full of flustered admiration, let her into the compound.

  Dr. Beck came over immediately.

  “Greetings once again, Frau Devereau.”

  Clare was uncomfortably aware of the softness of his brown eyes.

  “What was all the fuss about?” she asked.

  “It was nothing. When egotistical men are cooped up together for a long period of time, there are bound to be squabbles. Both Herr Silber and Herr Schmidt wish to claim the position of resident artist. They are both used to flatterers and admirers. Unfortunately for the camp, Herr Silber is not fluent in German and performs entirely in English, and Herr Schmidt is, shall we say, a little too avant-garde for this particular collection of people. But he is really an affable fellow. Come, let’s smooth his ruffled feathers.”

  He took her by the elbow and led the way to one of the stalls on the opposite side of the square. Schmidt had gone to stand behind his table and he beamed at both of them as they approached. He had broken, uneven teeth and a flattened nose which indicated a less than affable previous existence, but he certainly seemed like a friendly giant. He clicked his heels together and bowed to Clare.

  “Frau Devereau, I hope the puffed-up ranting of the imbecile with no talent did not bother you.”

  He spoke in German. He had a strong Bavarian accent and Clare found him a little hard to understand. The Shropshire native versus the cockney.

  “Not at all. I’m glad you settled the matter.”

  Schmidt uttered an obscenity but saw Beck’s frown of disapproval. “Ah, hah, I beg your pardon. Here, allow me to present you with one of my latest pieces to make up for my appalling bad manners.” He took a small figurine off the table and held it out to her. “I’m afraid it is ultimately perishable because I was forced to make it from dough, which is all that is available to me.”

  The sculpture was of a nude man, standing with legs apart, arms held up in boxing position.

  “You are not offended by the naked human body, I hope, Frau Devereau?”

  Clare shook her head. She had actually stifled a moment of slightly shocked amusement. The boxer’s male member was rather extraordinarily long.

  “It looks a little disproportioned to me.” Hans Hoeniger had come up behind Clare and was studying the sculpture. “What other phallic monstrosity have you got today?”

  Unfazed, the poet showed his yellow teeth in a big grin. “My masterpiece, if I say so myself.”

  He reached into a box behind him, took out a large square canvas, and laid it on the table. He had made a collage from pieces of wood and scraps of newspaper. Here and there were glued plump tubes of stocking material that he had stuffed and dyed red. The dye dribbled down onto the newspaper so that the entire canvas looked as if it were weeping tears of blood.

  Mockingly, Hoeniger put his finger to his chin and made a show of studying it.

  “Most interesting, Herr Schmidt. Does it have a title? The phallus as weapon perhaps?”

  “Not at all. I’m thinking of calling it White Poppies or The Follies of War.” He beckoned to Clare to look more closely. “See the blue patch here in the centre? I made the dye from borage flowers. In the Middle Ages, the borage plant was used solely to paint the Virgin Mary’s robes. It was considered as close to the colour of heaven as could be found on earth.”

  “It’s very beautiful,” said Clare. The colour was indeed an astonishingly vivid blue.

  “I didn’t know you were a pacifist,” said Beck. He pointed to the white poppies that were glued onto the blue square.

  “Can a thinking person be anything else?” retorted the poet.

  “Can any thinking person be a pacifist at this time?” asked Hoeniger. His teasing tone had vanished.

  Dr. Beck jumped in to change the subject. “Let’s keep that until Monday for our discussion hour. The concert should be starting momentarily.” He turned to Clare. “The quartet is performing a Beethoven piece, opus 131. It is quite exquisite, full of pain, but always reaching for the divine aspect of mankind wherein lies hope.”

  Schmidt grinned wolfishly. “Some people feel that way about the American singer, Frank Sinatra.”

  Dr. Beck refused to be baited and steered Clare in the direction of the small dais that was set up at the far side of the square.

  Silber called, “Take your seats, gentlemen. Henry V is the flower of English literature. I will be performing selected readings directly following the musical interlude. World premiere.”

  “Forgive me,” said Schmidt, and he spat on the floor. Real spit, not just a show.

  “Schmidt, you give Bavarians a bad name,” said Hoeniger in disgust, and he followed Beck and Clare toward the row of chairs in front of the dais.

  One of the internees smiled at her as they went by. “Mrs. Devereau, what an honour. Can I be interesting you in a tattoo today?”

  He indicated where he’d set up two chairs and a small table. A cardboard sign read: TATTOOS. PERSONAL DESIGN. GOOD RATES.

  He was a scruffy man, dressed in mismatched, shabby clothes. His dark hair and blue eyes indicated his Celtic origins. Not to mention his thick Irish brogue.

  “You need have no worries about the tattoo being permanent. I use an indelible pencil, which eventually fades. If you do change your mind after a week, poof, I will remove it.”

  Clare shook her head.

  “Not for me, thank you, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “Sure now, ’tis great fun. A flower on the shoulder perhaps? Or the wrist? I could do a dainty English rose for you.” He beamed, more of a leer really. “I can put it in an intimate place that is quite hidden from view … under usual circumstances. Very arousing.”

  Beck jumped in. “For goodness sake, O’Connor. The lady said no. Don’t pester her.”

  “That was not my intention, Doctor. And Mrs. Devereau is quite capable of telling me herself if I bother her.”

  Clare smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor. Perhaps another day.”

  She was aware he was watching her as she took her seat in between Hoeniger and Beck.

  Three men approached the dais, each carrying their instrument cases. One was elderly, rather stooped, the others younger, sombre as befitted performing the great master. She had met the older man recently. His name was Hartmann. He had a fragile, other-worldly appearance that touched her.

  The musicians took their seats, and each began to take out their instruments from their cases. Clare saw Herr Hartmann open the case and reach into it. Then he let out a strangled cry and collapsed backward off the chair onto the ground, where he lay, his entire body twitching. Dr. Beck was on the dais in a second, and he dropped beside the fallen man. Another couple of internees, including the performers, gathered around. The seminarian also leaped up.

  “Stand clear, gentlemen. Stand clear. Dr. Beck is in command of the situation.”

  The Irishman had come up behind Clare. “What the feck happened? Has he had a fit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Beck was kneeling beside the stricken man, rubbing his hands. Hartmann was still twitching, a gush of blood coming from his mouth.

  “What do you want us to do, Doctor?” asked Hoeniger.

  “Let’s get him back to his tent,” said Beck. “Make a chair for him.”

  Willing hands helped to lift the violinist, and Hoeniger and O’Connor carried him away, Dr. Beck with them. All around Clare, the men were agitated, throwing questions at her, as an authority figure. She had no idea what had happened.

  Silber climbed on the dais, reached into the open case, and lifted out the violin. Those who could see the instrument gasped in horror. The gleaming wood of the body had been deeply gouged and splintered, the string
s wrenched out of their pegs.

  Somebody had totally destroyed Herr Hartmann’s beloved violin.

  34.

  “OH, TOM. IT WAS DREADFUL. THE VIOLIN IS RUINED.”

  Tyler and Clare were seated at a corner table of the Acton Lodge restaurant, close to the kitchen, where a large, if bedraggled, potted palm tree offered some privacy.

  “We all thought he’d had a heart attack at first. He’d bitten his tongue and the blood was pouring out. Major Fordham insisted on having him taken to hospital. Dr. Beck was allowed to accompany him, thank goodness. He rang me just before I left. He said it wasn’t a heart attack. The poor man had collapsed from the shock of seeing the destruction of his violin. Dr. Beck says he has gone into what he calls a fugue. Herr Hartmann cannot or will not communicate with anybody. Who knows how long that will last. Bruno wanted to stay at the hospital with him, but they wouldn’t let him. He is most upset about it.”

  The waiter came over with two menus, each in a heavy cloth cover with a gold tassel. He was wearing a shabby black suit that gave off a whiff of old sweat as he stooped over them to drape napkins on their knees. He drifted off.

  “Herr Hartmann is not an emotionally strong man at the best of times. Too much tragedy in his life. He’s elderly and not in good health,” continued Clare. “Why would anyone be so cruel as to commit such an act of vandalism?”

  “That’s more the head doctor’s province than mine, Clare. Was there anything else vandalized?”

  “Not that I know of. Is there nothing you can do?”

  “Technically, no. The camp is under military control. The major will have to pursue an investigation himself.”

  “But do you have an idea what it is all about, Tom?”

  “If nobody else was targeted, I’d say it has to do with the professor himself. Professional jealousy perhaps? An old grudge? Could be anything. Men who are behind barbed wire become stir-crazy.”

  “I suppose so.” She sighed. “One dreadful thing seems to follow right after another. I know this incident wouldn’t be considered a major crime, but the violence that had been vented on that lovely musical instrument was shocking. It was more than two hundred years old and worth a lot of money. It’s all he had.”