The Cruellest Month

by Hazel Holt

  ‘And Gwen – did she ever see them again?’

  ‘No. She did come back to England briefly – that was when she worked in the Bodleian for a bit – but at that time Elaine never left that house in Norham Gardens and Arthur had gone to Harvard, so you see...’

  ‘What a desperately sad story!’ I said. ‘But is it too late now – now that Gwen is dead – for you to see Elaine again?’

  She shook her head. ‘Even now, after all these years, I couldn’t face her. Her grief for Lance is still strong, I know, and how could she bear to see me...’

  I remembered Elaine’s voice as she spoke of Lance and knew that Molly was right. They could never meet again.

  The next morning I woke up feeling terrible. Not a full-blown migraine, thank goodness, but a really awful sick headache. I met Betty on the landing as I was tottering back from the bathroom.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I think I’ve simply got to stay in bed for a few hours.’

  ‘Oh, poor you! Robert’s gone out, but would you like him to look in on you when he gets back?’

  ‘No – it’s all right, it’s only a headache – you remember how I always used to get them. I’ll take my tablets, I’ve got some with me, and just collapse for a bit.’

  ‘Would you like some tea or anything?’

  ‘No, just water and I’ve got that. Sorry to be a bore.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Go and lie down!’

  I took my tablets and crawled back into bed. It really is awful being ill away from home, even with your oldest and dearest friends. You feel embarrassed and (even if you’re just lying there quietly out of everyone’s way) a nuisance. And then, as my friend Rosemary always says, however comfortable any other bed may be it is Your Own Bed that you long for when you’re not feeling well.

  Some malevolent creature with a sharp instrument was still driving it into my head, just above my left eye and the least movement brought on waves of dizziness and nausea. I tried to lie still and make my mind a blank, but that was impossible. The events of the last few days and all the strange and varied things that I had found out about Gwen Richmond and her sudden death were whirling round in my brain like plunging painted horses on a merry-go-round. Ah the people she had hurt – Pamela, Molly, Elaine, Fitz – and heaven knows how many others. She had been a woman who wanted her own way and didn’t care who she trampled underfoot to get it. And how cruel she was – playing at God with people’s lives, getting enjoyment out of tormenting them. I know that the world is full of wickedness and cruelty, goodness knows you can’t watch the television news for a single evening without being aware of man’s infinite inhumanity to man, but I always find the idea that anyone, especially a woman, can deliberately plan viciousness very shocking.

  In the darkness behind my closed and throbbing eyes the faces of Gwen’s victims came and went: Molly, whose happiness had been snatched away – so unfairly – for ever by her sister’s selfishness; poor little Pamela, driven almost to distraction by her tormentor; Elaine, shut away in a place of sorrow; Fitz, withdrawn to God knows what state of anger and bitterness; and Lance, dead long ago, in a distant country, but still so alive in the minds of three people. How glad they all must be that she was dead, and how terrible that they should feel that way.

  I was quite sure now that Gwen Richmond had been murdered. All the small things that Tony had noticed about her death had made me feel that it was a possibility, and now I knew what sort of person she was, I was convinced that it must be so. If I was so certain that it was murder and not an accident, should I go to the police and tell them what I had worked out. There was no real reason why they should take me seriously. They had made their own investigation and found no suspicious circumstances. I had no evidence of any kind. I imagined trying to explain Fitz or Elaine, or even Molly, to some polite but disbelieving police sergeant. Anyway, an investigation might well uncover Pamela’s crime and I certainly didn’t want that. In fact, if I thought about it, I didn’t really want anyone to suffer for the death of a woman I had come to loathe.

  My mouth was very dry and I kept yawning – a sure sign that the tablets were working. I reached out and took a sip of water, but the effort made me feel very dizzy and peculiar. It wasn’t right, though, I told myself, as I tried to ease my throbbing head back into the hollow I had made for it in the pillow, it wasn’t right that murder, however justified, should remain unpunished.

  Perhaps I could find out who had killed her. Someone must. But not the police. I would do it. Justice must not just be done, but must be seen to be done ... An eye for an eye ... Lance and Gwen ... Lancelot and Guinevere ... The tablets finally had their effect and I fell asleep.

  I was awakened several hours later by Cleopatra jumping on to the bed and sitting heavily on my chest. Fortunately I was feeling much better and it seemed a very pleasant thing to do, simply to lie there, feeling relaxed and rather light-headed (as I usually did after the headache had gone) listening to Cleopatra’s vibrant purr and looking into her pale golden eyes which were staring at me with unusual approval. Cats love people to be ill in bed – a captive lap (or chest) that doesn’t suddenly get up and go away. Having decided that she had subdued me sufficiently, Cleopatra got up, arched her back, gave a couple of walls by way of conversation, and dived down into the bed where she lay across my feet like a divinely furry hot-water bottle.

  My mind was clearer now and the confused thoughts and pictures had gone, but one thing did remain and that was the decision to see what I could find out about Gwen Richmond’s death. This was not, I now admitted to myself, out of any burning desire for justice, but simple curiosity. I cannot bear not to know what happens next. This probably explains my passion (deplored by my more serious-minded friends) for radio and television soap operas. I have to ferret away to find explanations for things – quite often things that do not concern me personally at all.

  Tony would help, perhaps. I decided that he, too, would want to know what had really happened. I must tell him what I had found out about people’s possible motives and see if he agreed with my conclusions. Certainly he could tell me who had been in Room 45 that afternoon and I would somehow have to find out where my three suspects had been at that time. I was sure I could find some excuse for going to see Molly – of course, I could return the diary when I had read it. The diary – that should be interesting and would certainly tell me more about Gwen herself. I cast about in my mind for some excuse for seeing Pitz and Elaine again so soon after their dinner party. I had, of course, sent a polite thank-you note to Elaine, but now it occurred to me that I might return their hospitality. It would have to be in a restaurant – I wondered which, if any, of the more expensive Oxford restaurants Fitz might approve of. I could ask Bill Howard, I supposed; he would be certain to know such things. Though if I did I would have to invite him too. Which would make up the numbers as Fitz would say ... Musing on the relative merits of Italian, Chinese and nouvelle cuisine I drifted off to sleep again.

  Chapter Ten

  The package containing Gwen Richmond’s diary was waiting for me when I got up. After a few anxious enquiries about my state of health, Betty had gone out to a meeting and so I had the house to myself and could start reading the diary straight away. It had been written in a notebook with hard covers and I was glad to see that the handwriting was clear and legible. The entries were rather sporadic – it wasn’t really a diary as such, but a series of thoughts and impressions. Mostly there weren’t even proper dates, but just the days of the week. Well, I told myself, even if it doesn’t help me find out anything relevant to Gwen Richmond’s murder, at least it will count as research. I began to read with interest and anticipation.

  Tuesday. Arrived (on the back of a lorry full of milk-churns!) this afternoon and was plunged straight into milking. Not a bad herd (Herefords) and the milking shed reasonably up to date. The farmer, whose name is Brown, seems a bit disconcerted to have an ‘educated’ land girl and doesn’t seem happy about giving
orders to someone of a different class. He’s a silent sort of man, I’m glad to say – I don’t think I could stand a lot of rural chat! There’s a wife and one daughter, both of whom work on the farm. The wife is subdued but appears friendly enough, and the daughter, May, is a pretty girl, who looks as if she might have a bit of the devil in her. They obviously both dote on her. The farmhouse isn’t too primitive, thank God, and the kitchen where we all live, is quite warm thanks to a big iron range which is where Mrs B. does the cooking. Thank goodness it’s a small farm and I’m the only land girl so I can live in and don’t have to be in one of those dreadful hostels with swarms of other girls. For one awful moment I was afraid that I would have to share with the daughter, because Mrs B. said, ‘We’ve put you in May’s room’ but, mercifully, what they’ve done is give me the daughter’s room while she goes up into the attic or somewhere. It’s not bad – a bit poky and very cold – I shall have to ask for another blanket. Still I suppose it could be worse and almost anything is better than being in the forces or in some vile factory.

  Saturday. Haven’t had time to write anything until today – free until milking this afternoon. I’m dead tired although I haven’t done more than go through the motions of learning what’s what. Mr B. and I do the milking, turn and turn about, Mrs B. sees to the hens and other odd jobs, May and I are dogsbodies who have to turn our hands to anything. As well as one land girl (me) Mr B. has been allocated one Italian prisoner of war three days a week, to help with the heavier work – ploughing, fencing and so on. His name is Dino and he is delivered from the camp a few miles away by lorry in the morning and taken back at night. He seems a bit full of himself for a prisoner – I may have to take him down a peg or two.

  Wednesday. Thank goodness! My Wellington boots arrived today – it was foul having to muck out the cows in my boots and canvas gaiters, I’m sure I’m getting chilblains. Mr B. said the boots would have to last me two years and that I was very lucky to get them – they’re only supplied to dairy workers! He must have seen the expression on my face because I could feel that for two pins he’d say, ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on.’

  Friday. It’s been bitterly cold and wet and I’ve been grateful for my heavy corduroy breeches. May doesn’t seem to feel the cold and was out feeding the pigs today wearing a blouse and skirt and just a thin cotton mac. Thank God for Mrs B.’s stove to dry out my heavy socks and pullovers. I’ve been reduced to draping myself in old sacks in this rain, but nothing ever seems to get properly dry. We’ve been carting muck for the last two days and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the all-pervading smell. Insult to injury! After deducting for my board and lodgings, I was left with only 22s 6d of my weekly pay! I suppose I’m lucky that at least I get properly fed – Mrs B.’s a decent cook – some of the girls I met in Oxford last week were telling me that they’re half starved most of the time.

  Tuesday. May seems to have taken a fancy to me. She asked if I had thought of going to a dance at the airfield this weekend. Apparently she goes every week. I don’t think her parents are very happy about it, but she can wind them around her little finger. I can’t say the idea appeals to me, but I suppose it can’t be worse than sitting in that kitchen with the Browns, listening to dreadful comedy programmes, or stuck up in my freezing room trying to read by the light of a bedside lamp, the shade so covered with frills (May’s choice) that hardly any light gets out!

  Sunday. Well, we got to the dance. May all done up in a pink angora jumper, short tight skirt and high heels and me in the only frock I’ve got with me. We went on our bicycles – it isn’t very pleasant trying to cycle in the blackout with these dim lamps and I nearly went into a ditch several times. I was right about May – she is quite flighty, she was surrounded by airmen all cutting in in the ‘excuse me’ dances. It was all a bit dreary really, but at least they had some drink, which is almost impossible to get in the village. I found a sergeant who wanted to drink rather than dance and passed the time listening to him maundering on about his wife and children!

  Monday. Dino brought along another Italian prisoner today to help with the muck-spreading. I think they’re up to something. I was moving some bales of feed in the yard when they came in to load up the tractor and they didn’t know I was there. My Italian’s a bit rusty but from what I could gather there’s some sort of racket going on – something to do with the airfield and supplies going missing from there. I couldn’t discover if Mr B. was involved but it wouldn’t surprise me – I think he’s certainly got an eye to the main chance. I don’t know quite how the Italians are involved – I think they’re the middle-men – Italian entrepreneurial talent! Certainly they seem quite free to move about the countryside. Dino, for instance, goes up to the airfield twice a week to collect the pig swill for Mr B. It’s a job I should do really, because I’m better with the horses than he is, but I can see now why he’s so keen to do it. I thought from the beginning that our Dino was a bit shifty – he’s a cocky little brute – I must see if I can find out what’s going on.

  Saturday. Another dance at the airfield. May spent the whole of yesterday evening putting her hair up in hundreds of little pin curls which she kept in all day today under a turban. Her face was plastered with make-up – I don’t know how she gets hold of it – I haven’t seen a lipstick for months! At the dance she disappeared for a couple of hours and only turned up just when the band was playing the National Anthem. That young lady will have to look I’ll out or she’ll end up in trouble! My bike pump has gone again. I swear it’s that blasted Italian. I confronted him last time it went missing and he denied it – so I threatened to tell Mr B. and lo and behold it suddenly appeared again in my bicycle basket!

  Monday. Back after a few days leave. Mother and Molly don’t know they’re born! Molly moans away about night duty at the hospital and Mother is always complaining about the rations – honestly, they ought to try living in this vile place. Still it was nice to have a proper bath again and wear some decent clothes and get some sleep – I simply stayed in bed one day, didn’t get up at all! It all seems more hellish here when you’ve been away. May says she’s missed me. I think she missed having someone to confide in. Not that she’s got much of interest to say. She really is a very stupid girl – a typical dumb blonde with her head full of young men and clothes and cinema actors. She said she’d seen The Man in Grey four times. When we have a free afternoon I sometimes go with her to the cinema. But it’s always pretty awful getting into Oxford. There are so few buses and always crowded. Last week it was so full coming back that people were sitting on the stairs. It seems odd to be in Oxford these days. Some of the colleges are full of evacuated ministries and the place is swarming with ‘refugees’ from London – it’s all pretty horrible. Still, it seems like heaven after this place – civilisation!

  Friday. I had to go into the village this afternoon to deliver some carrots to Mrs Price at the shop. She still hasn’t got any U2 torch batteries but I did manage to get a flat one for my rear light. I came home along the back lane. As I came round the corner by the Hanger wood I saw our cart and old Royal grazing by the roadside. No sign of Dino. I had just got off my bike to investigate when he emerged from the deep ditch. He didn’t see me and got back into the cart and drove off. When he was out of sight I went to investigate. In the ditch were two large jerry cans full of petrol. So that’s what he’s up to!

  Thursday. Still keeping an eye on Dino and making a few innocent enquiries in the village. There seems to be quite a flourishing little black market going on. Tinned food, drink, cigarettes – as well as the petrol, presumably. The other Italian, Luigi, is coming tomorrow so I must see if I can eavesdrop again.

  Friday. I was wrong about Mr B. being in this racket. I think he buys the occasional bottle of whisky under the counter, but that’s all – so Dino is very anxious he doesn’t find out. I was able to listen in to the Italians’ conversation quite easily because I managed to get up into the hayloft while they were working down bel
ow. It really is very highly organised – several people in the village are in on it – especially Ray Burton at the garage and they seem to have contacts in several villages all round. Talk about the Mafia!

  Tuesday. I wonder which of the men at the airfield are doing the stealing. I hope it isn’t any of May’s boyfriends. Not that I know their names – she always gives them film-stars’ nicknames – Stewart Granger, James Mason, Leslie Howard and so forth – I sup-pose she thinks it makes them more glamorous.

  Friday. God, how I hate pigs! One of them sent me flying this morning – it knocked the bucket of swill out of my hand and pushed me over into the mud! Normally I avoid the creatures like the plague but May wasn’t well – some sort of stomach upset – so I had to feed the brutes. That bloody Wop Dino had the nerve to laugh – I’ll have to have a word with him. He’ll be laughing on the other side of his face before too long.

  Wednesday. There seems to be something the matter with May – she looks terrible. At first I thought it was still the effects of her stomach upset, but it’s more than that. She’s been going around looking like death – dreadfully pale, she hasn’t bothered to put any make-up on for the last few days and her hair’s a mess. She’s sullen and doesn’t speak to anyone much and yesterday when her mother asked her if anything was the matter she was really rude, which isn’t like her, she’s normally a cheerful girl.

  Sunday. To my surprise May got herself all done up and went off to the dance at the airfield as usual and I must say she’s much more her old self today – at this moment I can hardly hear myself think for the loud dance music she’s got on the wireless. I suppose it was just some sort of quarrel with her boyfriend – the one she calls Stewart Granger.