The Silent Killer

by Hazel Holt

  “But now,” I persisted, “these last years, since his mother died, he seems to have taken over his father’s life. He’s always trying to make Sidney do things he doesn’t want to do, like going into a Home.”

  “Yes, but,” asked Mrs Dudley triumphantly, “when has he ever got his way? When has he ever made his father do anything he didn’t want to do?”

  I considered this. “Yes – I see what you mean. You think it was all an act on Sidney’s part?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And he allowed everyone to think that David was bullying him?”

  “Certainly. Sidney Middleton was a thoroughly unpleasant man, I am delighted to think that I refused him.”

  “What!”

  “Many years ago, when I was just eighteen, he proposed to me.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “There was no question of my accepting him. Even then I could see what sort of person he was. He took it quite badly and went around making very unpleasant remarks about me, which was typical. He was not a gentleman. So he married Joan Wishart for her money and then the war came and he went away.”

  “I’d no idea – Rosemary never said…”

  “I have never found it necessary to tell her.”

  “But…”

  “And,” Mrs Dudley said, giving me a severe glance, “I would prefer you not to mention it to her.”

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  I’d arranged to go to an art exhibition with Rosemary the next day, which left me very little time to decide whether or not I should tell her about Sidney’s proposal to her mother. If Mrs Dudley gave you instructions you always obeyed them. The thought of what she’d say if she found out you hadn’t was too terrible to contemplate. She had specifically told me not to tell Rosemary and my immediate instinct was dutiful submission to her command – for command it was, however mildly expressed. But then, Rosemary was my friend, my oldest, dearest friend, so how could I not tell her? All right, it wasn’t an earth-shattering, life-changing piece of information that Mrs Dudley had dropped so casually into the conversation, but it was inconceivable that I should know something about Rosemary’s mother that she didn’t. If I didn’t tell her I’d feel uncomfortable for the rest of my life.

  “I thought,” Rosemary said when she came to collect me, “I’d give Roger a picture for Christmas. I never know what to get him, and Jilly’s no help. He likes Victorian watercolours and most of the paintings at these exhibitions are mostly traditional. Anyway, even if there’s nothing there, it’s at Halseway Manor and I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like inside, and we can get lunch there so it’ll be a day out.”

  “Yes,” I said absently, “lovely.”

  Rosemary looked at me quizzically. “What’s the matter? You haven’t heard a word I said.”

  “Actually,” I said, “actually, there’s something I need to tell you.” And I told her about my conversation with Mrs Dudley. “For goodness sake,” I concluded, “don’t ever let her know that I told you. She’d never forgive me, and I don’t think I could survive not being forgiven by your mother!”

  “Oh, that!” Rosemary said. “I know all about that. Aunt Amy told me about it years ago. She thought it was a tremendous joke.”

  “Oh, really,” I said crossly. “All that agonising for nothing!”

  Rosemary laughed. “Poor you!” she said. “No, I think Aunt Amy was a bit put out that he didn’t propose to her – he was quite a catch in those days. But if Sidney was beastly about her afterwards, it does explain why Mother’s never had a good word to say about him ever since.”

  The bright winter sun had melted the early morning frost and it was a beautiful day.

  “I could really do with a day out,” Rosemary said. “I’ve had to do all Mother’s Christmas shopping as well as my own and Jack’s, not to mention the Christmas cards. Well, Jack does some of his – mostly business acquaintances abroad, but he always leaves them till the last minute and I have to queue for ages at the post office and spend a fortune sending them airmail.” She braked sharply to avoid a low-flying bird. “I wish they wouldn’t do that! And I lost last year’s Christmas card list and we keep getting cards from people I’ve forgotten.”

  There were quite a few people at the exhibition when we got there, many, perhaps, like Rosemary in search of that elusive Christmas present. The pictures were of a high quality. Painting is a popular pastime among the many retired people in the district and the beauty of the surrounding countryside tempts even the less gifted to try to capture it. The difficulty for an amateur of taking a likeness meant that there were few portraits, but the still life was popular – jugs, fruit and more homely domestic objects – and many people had chosen flower painting, the solitary iris or the bunch of primroses and snowdrops being most in evidence.

  “There are quite a few that he might like,” Rosemary said. “What do you think?”

  “Some of the landscapes are charming,” I said. “That one of a cottage by the stream is really quite Victorian – a bit sentimental and bland, though.”

  “Mm, yes. Oh, I do think I might get that one, over there for Delia – the one of a group of ponies on Winsford Hill. Did I tell you she’s into horses now, I’m afraid? A couple of her friends have their own ponies, so of course she’s agitating for one too. I know Jilly doesn’t want her to get into the whole Pony Club thing – dreadfully expensive!”

  “Better not get the picture then,” I said, “if it’s going to encourage her.”

  “I suppose not. Anyway, I’m giving her some money for clothes and record vouchers and things. Jilly said for heaven’s sake don’t choose anything for her. You are lucky, you can still buy things for Alice. Make the most of it while you can.”

  We moved slowly round the two rooms devoted to the exhibition and I stopped before one of them. “Oh yes,” I said. “That’s the one.”

  It was quite a small picture, mostly in greys and browns, a sweeping view of the moor in winter, with a line of beech trees (a beech hedge grown up into trees over the years) on the horizon. You could almost feel the hardness of the ground, the brittleness of the wind-scorched heather, and see the movement of the clouds across the sky – it was the very essence of that place at that time.

  “It is, isn’t it.” Rosemary went up and peered at it closely. “I wonder who did it? Someone called David Middleton. Good heavens, not David Middleton – it can’t be!”

  “I suppose it might be someone with the same name,” I suggested.

  “Well, whoever it is,” Rosemary said “I’m going to buy it now, before anyone else does.”

  We went over to the table where a middle-aged lady of vaguely artistic appearance was handing out typed lists of the pictures.

  “I’d like to buy that landscape by David Middleton,” Rosemary said. “Number – what is it? – number thirty-two.”

  “Ah yes, number thirty-two.” She looked down the list and named a very modest sum. “Such a gifted man, I believe he is an accountant. I suppose,” she added with a slight smile, “painting is a pleasant relaxation from such a demanding profession. I’ll put a sold label on it and perhaps you would collect it at the end of the week after the exhibition is over.”

  Sitting in the converted stables, now a lunch room, we continued to speculate on the identity of the artist.

  “There can’t be two local accountants called David Middleton,” Rosemary said firmly. “Jack would have mentioned it.” Rosemary’s husband Jack is also an accountant.

  “But to have painted that picture,” I said. “Such sensitivity. And to have chosen to paint the moor in winter – most people go for the heather in bloom and all that sort of thing – whoever did it must have a really selective eye.”

  “I must admit,” Rosemary said, picking the pieces of red pepper out of her salad, “David Middleton wouldn’t be the first person I’d associate with anything artistic, let alone a picture like that.”

  “Exactly. It really is quite e
xtraordinary. Perhaps we’ve been misjudging him all these years.”

  “Mind you,” Rosemary said “just because someone paints a good picture doesn’t mean he’s a good person.”

  “No,” I agreed, “not good exactly, but, as I said, there’s sensitivity there and that isn’t something you’d think of in connection with David.”

  “You mean the way he treated his father? So dreadfully bossy, and poor little Bridget, too.”

  “Perhaps we were wrong about that,” I said. “Perhaps we were wrong about all the Middletons.”

  “What do you mean?” Rosemary asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I replied, wanting to change the subject. “Shall we have some of that carrot cake? It looks quite nice and moist.”

  I was hovering round the vegetable section of the supermarket wondering whether it was worthwhile buying a punnet of strawberries or if they’d be as tasteless as out of season fruit always is, when someone greeted me.

  “Sheila, it’s been such a long time since I saw you, how are you getting on?”

  I turned round and saw that it was Betty Goddard. I was quite shocked to see her. For once she was looking her age, thinner and really old.

  “How are you?” I asked. “You don’t look at all well – have you had this wretched flu that’s been going round?”

  “No, I haven’t, but Bill hasn’t been at all well. He’s had a nasty go of bronchitis, hasn’t been able to shake it off. And then there was this other thing –” She broke off as if she’d said too much.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Bill,” I said. “Do you think he’d like a visit?”

  She brightened. “Oh yes, Sheila, it would really cheer him up to see a fresh face. He’s been stuck indoors for weeks now and you know what a one he’s always been for getting out and about.”

  “Not the easiest of patients?”

  She laughed. “Well, you know what men are like! But he’d really like to see you, I know.”

  “Would tomorrow do? About elevenish?”

  “That would be lovely. Well, I must get on, he’ll be waiting for his lunch. I think I’ll try and get him a nice piece of smoked haddock – he’s got very difficult over his food, it might tempt him to eat a bit. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Sheila. That will be nice.”

  I rejected the strawberries in favour of a not very ripe mango and went on my way.

  Bill and Betty lived in a very nice bungalow on the outskirts of Taviscombe, high up with a view down over the town to the sea. They’d had a small conservatory built on at the back and it was here that I found Bill sitting with a rug over his knees, though the heating had been turned up, reading the local paper. His face lit up when Betty ushered me in.

  “Sheila! It was good of you to come. I get so sick of sitting looking at the same four walls all the time.”

  “Oh,” I protested, “you’ve got a lovely view from here.”

  “Yes, well, you can get fed up with anything after a bit.”

  Betty brought in two cups of coffee and said “I’ll leave you two to chat while I get on with my ironing” then went away.

  “So,” I said, “how are you? Betty said you’d been poorly.”

  “Just my old bronchitis again. Worse, this time. I suppose it gets worse when you’re old, everything wearing out.”

  “Come on, now, you’re strong as an ox. Once the nice weather comes you’ll be fine. How long have you had the bronchitis? We missed you at Sidney Middleton’s funeral, were you bad then?”

  Bill started to speak but was seized by a fit of coughing and had to drink a little coffee before he could continue.

  “No,” he said grimly, “that was before I had my attack. Something happened…” He began to cough again.

  “Have some more coffee,” I said. “Don’t try to talk for a bit.”

  He finished the rest of the coffee and was silent for a moment, as if recovering himself.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” he said at last.

  “Look, if it’s upsetting you…”

  “No, it’s something you ought to know. Something everyone should know.”

  His tone, so unlike the Bill Goddard I’d always known, worried me.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked. “Shall I call Betty?”

  “No,” he said impatiently. “I’m all right. I just want to tell you.”

  “Go on, then,” I said, seeing that nothing else would satisfy him.

  “Well, you know how I had to clear out our Vera’s stuff when she died and how I found these letters she’d never opened after Frank was killed? Well, I read them.” He paused for a minute then went on, “There were a couple from Frank, the usual stuff we all wrote home – everything’s OK, not to worry, soon be back, can’t wait to see you, that kind of thing – and there was one from his friend Ted. I’d like you to read it.”

  He pushed the newspaper to one side and handed me a couple of sheets of paper. They had been torn out of a notebook and the writing in pencil was hard to read.

  “Take it over to the light,” Bill said. “You’ll see better there.”

  I got up, went over to the end of the conservatory and began to read. The letter was dated 20th February 1945.

  Dear Vera,

  I am writing to you from the field hospital here somewhere in Belgium. Waiting my turn on the operating table. I expect Frank will have told you about me because we’ve been mates together right through. We always got on a treat and hoped we’d see it through together but it was not to be. Frank was my mate and he ought not to have died like he did. After four years in the army I know nobody high-up is going to believe me or do anything about it, but I owe it to Frank to make sure you know the truth.

  At the beginning of this month we’d just crossed the River Maas and was moving through these pine forests to a place called Geldern. Mr Middleton’s section was up front when he got orders to do a recce on a farmhouse they said was in a clearing half a mile ahead. There was a bridge near the house and they wanted to know if it had been blown up. Mr Middleton was detailed to go forward with one man to find out if Jerry was in the house. The rest of the section was left in charge of Frank and was to wait until Mr Middleton and me got back with the all clear.

  Mr Middleton and me got to the edge of the wood and there was the house a couple of hundred yards away in the middle of this snow-covered field. We had a good look through Mr Middleton’s glasses and couldn’t see no sign of life. Mr Middleton says, Looks like Jerry’s pulled out. I think we’ve seen all we need. Well, I says, if it’s their paratroopers over there, they’ll know what they’re about. They’ll be holed up so you could walk right up to them without seeing them. Don’t you think we’d better try and get a bit closer in?

  Are you crazy, he says. How far do you think we’d get? There’s no cover in any direction and they’d spot us against the snow before we’d gone ten paces. So we went back to the section and Mr Middleton gave the order to advance and the boys moved out of that field not expecting any trouble.

  Jerry let us get about half-way to the house before he opened up with his Spandaus. We didn’t stand a chance. Your Frank bled to death, I reckon. I saw him trying to get his field dressing out, but I couldn’t get to him. The funny part was that Jerry must have pulled out soon after. They were too smart to hang around once they’d given away their position. And no sooner had they gone than Mr Middleton jumped up from somewhere and bolted back across the field and into the wood. Never stopped to see what had happened to the rest of us. Not a scratch on him. I don’t know how long it was before the Company came forward and picked us up. By the time they come up I was the only man left alive. Those who weren’t killed outright bled to death in the snow like your poor Frank.

  Mr Middleton will live to come home and play the big hero and it’s not right. I hope the news will not cause you too much pain, but I thought you ought to know. I’ll put this in an envelope with your name and address on it and one of the nurses has promis
ed to send it on if I don’t pull through and can do it myself. I thought you ought to know.

  Yours faithfully,

  Ted Barker

  The last few paragraphs were difficult to read, the writing was fainter and the lines straggled crookedly across the paper.

  “There was a note on the envelope,” Bill said, “saying that Ted died of his wounds.”

  I handed him back the paper. “I didn’t know Sidney Middleton was with Frank in the war.”

  “Yes, he used to speak about Frank, say what a fine chap he was.” Bill’s voice was expressionless, then he burst out, “We all looked up to him, thought he was marvellous. No side for an officer, we used to say, on Christian name terms we were, a real gentleman, he often used to come and have a drink with the lads in the Legion – and all the time…”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “He thought he was safe, you see. Everyone else was dead – even poor Ted Barker – so there was no one to say what had happened, no one knew it was his fault. His fault because he was a sodding coward – sorry, Sheila – because he never did a proper recce. All those men dead and he saved his own skin.”

  “It’s unbelievable.”

  “It’s true. Someone everybody looked up to, everybody said how wonderful he was – felt sorry for him having to go into a Home – and all the time…”

  “Bill, I’m so sorry. It must have been the most awful shock.”

  “It was that all right. When I read that letter I thought nothing else would ever make me feel so bad. But there was something else.” He stopped abruptly and I looked at him enquiringly. “Oh yes,” he went on, “something that made me feel even worse than Ted’s letter. There was a letter from Frank’s commanding officer saying what a wonderful person he was and how he died bravely in battle, how his death was instantaneous and he didn’t suffer.” Bill’s face was twisted with pain as he made the effort to continue. “All the things that commanding officers write to the wives and mothers. A lovely letter you might say, a real comfort. Except – except that Frank’s commanding officer, the man who wrote the letter was Sidney Middleton, the man responsible for getting him killed.”