The Cruellest Month

by Hazel Holt

  There was a lot of movement around me now – young men and women, students coming out of lectures. I became aware that one young man, his arms full of books and folders, had stopped and was looking at me strangely.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ma,’ Michael said, ‘whatever’s the matter? You look terrible.’

  I made an immense effort and attempted a bright smile.

  ‘I was just looking at that marvellous tree,’ I said. My voice sounded blurred and unreal.

  Michael shifted his books and took my arm.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  I took a sip of the very strong coffee that Michael had made. With some vague idea of treating me for shock he had put in several spoonfuls of sugar and it tasted disgusting, but, in away, comforting. It was, after all, tangible proof that someone cared.

  Michael had been tactfully silent on the way back to his college, but now he said, ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘It was Fitz,’ I said.

  I knew that I could only tell Michael part of what had happened. Everything that concerned Rupert would have to be hidden away, for many years perhaps, until the passage of time had made it bearable to look at. I explained how I had put my ‘theory’ to Fitz and how hurt and angry he was.

  ‘Still,’ Michael said, ‘he had no right to upset you like that.’

  ‘He was my friend and I accused him of murder. I opened up old wounds. It was unforgivable.’

  I cautiously drank a little more of my coffee.

  ‘Well,’ Michael said uncertainly, ‘I still think he was pretty rotten to you. Anyway,’ he continued briskly, ‘if he wasn’t the murderer who was it?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘that’s it. I don’t intend to speculate any more. I’ve meddled enough – I’ve learnt my lesson.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No!’

  ‘OK.’ Michael got up from the floor where he had been sitting surrounded by a pile of old examination papers. ‘Let’s go and have some lunch.’

  ‘No, love, it’s all right. I’m quite OK now. I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is. You must do some work.’

  ‘I’ve got to eat, haven’t I? Anyway I sat up until four o’clock this morning trying to polish off the Hapsburg Empire so I deserve a little break. Are you going to finish that coffee?’

  ‘It was delicious – but no, I don’t think so.’

  He laughed and put the cup on to a rather nice Portmeirion tray that I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘That’s pretty.’ I said. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Rachel gave it to me?’

  ‘Who’s Rachel?’

  Michael laughed again.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re your old inquisitive self again! She’s just a girl.’

  While I was considering the implications of girls who gave him elegant teatrays, Michael had got his jacket.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘let’s go to the Falkland Arms at Great Tew. They’ll have their new guest beer in for this week.’

  ‘It’s quite away,’ I said doubtfully, ‘you really ought to be working.’

  ‘Oh, Ma, don’t fuss. Tell you what, I can use it as driving practice.’

  I had been paying for him to have driving lessons as a bribe to make him give up the motor bike, which I had been persuaded, against my better judgement, to let him have when he first went up to Oxford. Occasionally we went out together for a little driving practice, but it was not an experience I actively enjoyed.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you oughtn’t to drive straight after you’ve had a shock. Are the L plates in the boot?’

  He swept me out of the room and across the quadrangle before I could protest. Going to the car we didn’t walk back through the Parks but took the long way round.

  On the way to Great Tew my mind was too occupied with worrying about Michael’s driving (which was quite good, really, if a little fast) to allow me to brood on what had happened that morning. I suddenly realised that that was Michael’s intention and I smiled at him affectionately.

  ‘That’s better, Ma. You’re relaxing a little, your knuckles aren’t white with grasping the seat belt in terror at my driving.’

  ‘Idiot boy! Careful! You’re much too close in to the side of the road!’

  Even though we were quite early, the Falkland Arms was crowded. Michael studied the blackboard behind the bar.

  ‘You’re going to have to drive back because they’ve got Jennings and Burtonwood this week and I’ll have to try them both. So what will you have?’

  ‘I’ll have a spritzer then.’

  ‘Get you!’

  I went and sat on an oak settle by the old open fireplace where one of the two pub cats was already stretched out. Michael put our glasses down on the small round table.

  ‘There’s your yuppie drink.’

  ‘Do you know,’ I said, ‘I suddenly realised the other day, that even if I could afford a Porsche, I’d be too old and stiff to get inside it.’

  ‘You poor old thing!’

  He held up his glass and regarded the beer.

  ‘This isn’t bad – I might have the other half. And no – it will not impair my intellectual faculties and stop me working this afternoon.’

  ‘I didn’t say a thing!’

  ‘You have ways of not saying things that are more vehement than the most forthright statement. What shall we have – food or sandwiches?’

  ‘Oh, proper food, I think. You need feeding up and, anyway, sandwiches aren’t really safe with these cats around.’

  The pub cats had a splendid party trick. They would sit peacefully beside you until your sandwich arrived and then, just as you were lifting it from the plate, a paw would flash out and, with one deft movement, the meat would be whisked away and you would be left holding two pieces of bread. Foolish people like me sometimes bought sandwiches specially to see them do it.

  After our lunch we strolled up past the pub to look at the newly thatched and restored houses.

  ‘Very fancy,’ Michael said. ‘But, I must say, I preferred the place when they were romantic ruins. No atmosphere of the past – which reminds me, if I’m going to be sitting up till all hours brooding over Franz-Joseph and the Serbo-Bosnian question, I’ll need some more milk – I think they’ll have some in the shop here.’

  The little shop was empty except for a woman buying stamps at the post-office counter. As she picked up her change and came towards the door I saw that it was Molly Richmond. My first instinct was to turn away – the last thing I wanted today was to be reminded of Gwen Richmond. But she had seen me and greeted me with an exclamation of pleasure. I introduced Michael and we chatted casually for a few moments and then she said, ‘It’s really quite a coincidence, our meeting, because I was going to write to you. I’ve found the other notebook – you know, the remainder of Gwen’s diary. I thought you might like to have a look at it. I know how useful you said the other one would be for your work.’

  ‘My work…’

  ‘Your article on wartime writers. Would you like to come back with me now and I can let you have it.’

  Trying to hide my reluctance, I said, ‘How kind – that would be splendid.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t ask you in for a cup of coffee,’ Molly said as we walked down the hill towards Tithings Cottage, ‘but today’s my embroidery class – we meet in the Village Hall twice a week. I’m doing a set of chair seats – gros point, you know – a Victorian design I took from some de Morgan tiles. Gwen was very scornful about them. How strange,’ she stopped to open the gate, ‘I was actually at my class when Gwen died. I came back to find a young policeman on the doorstep, who had come to tell me about the accident.’

  Michael’s eyes met mine. Another door – the final one – shut in my face and I felt only relief that it was all over.

  When we got back to the car I threw the notebook into my shopping bag.

  ‘Aren’t you go
ing to look at it?’ Michael asked.

  ‘No – not today, anyway.’

  ‘Pity. It might have the answer to the whole mystery.’

  ‘It can stay a mystery as far as I’m concerned.’ I said, and for the rest of the drive back I talked resolutely of other things.

  When I got back to Woodstock I found Betty stuffing clothes into a black plastic dustbin bag.

  ‘Oxfam.’ she said in response to my enquiry. She picked up a pair of shoes. ‘They were perfectly all right for the first few times I wore them and then they turned against me and now they’re agony. I really can’t understand it.’

  She put them to one side and began sorting through some blouses.

  I suddenly said, ‘Hang on,’ and ran upstairs. I took out of the wardrobe the new skirt I’d bought to go to dinner with Fitz and Elaine and went downstairs with it.

  ‘Here you are,’ I said, ‘bung this in.’ ‘But you’ve only just bought it,’ Betty protested. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t feel right in it,’ I said and rolled it up and thrust it deep into the bag.

  I went to bed early that evening saying I felt tired, and, indeed, I felt exhausted after the events of the day. I picked up my shopping bag to put it ready for the morning and saw Gwen Richmond’s notebook. I took it out and looked at it. It was the same sort of hard-covered notebook as the other, though dark blue where the first one had been dark red. Almost against my will I opened it. There weren’t very many entries. I sat down on the bed and began to read.

  Thursday. May told me that she’d seen Johnny, her young man, and done what I’d said – about the black-market details, that is. He said he needed time to think and said he’d meet her by the stile at Hanger Wood when he gets off duty tomorrow night, about 10.30. I don’t know if she’s got the guts to carry it off. He might try and bully her, she’s pretty feeble. I think I’ll go along too – I won’t tell her. If I hide behind the hedge by the stile they won’t notice me but I should be able to hear what’s going on and back her up if he goes on trying to wriggle out of things. I must say I don’t feel much like wandering about the countryside in the dark at the moment. I think I’ve got a cold or flu or something coming on, I’m sure I’ve got a temperature. But I’m damned if that bastard’s going to get away with things like that. May is pretty dim but that’s no reason why that swine of a man should make her get rid of the baby if she doesn’t want to, and she’s obviously petrified of telling her father.

  Friday. I really do feel terrible and it’s not just this fever, whatever it is. The most terrible thing’s happened. I got to the wood about 10.15, before May, and found a place behind the hedge. I was pretty sure I could hear all right from there and the branches were fairly thin so that, when my eyes got used to the darkness, I could just about see as well. May arrived and stood by the side of the road and after a bit I heard a car coming. May stepped forward, but instead of stopping, the car – actually it was a jeep – drove straight at her. There’s no doubt in my mind that the driver did it deliberately. I was rooted to the spot for a moment, and then, before I could go and see how badly hurt May was, the driver got out of the jeep. He went back to where she was lying and shone a torch on her. He lifted her head and then let it drop. It fell with a thud on the road and I knew that she must be dead. Then he got back into the jeep and drove away. In the light of the torch I saw who he was. It was the one she called James Mason. After a bit I crept out from behind the hedge and went to look at May. I hadn’t got a torch but I felt for her pulse and she was dead all right. I had to leave her there. I don’t want to be involved and if they think it was an accident then no one will know about the baby. I’m sure that’s what she would have wanted. Anyway, if I say I was on the spot when it happened then it will be a great hassle and I can do without that. But I’m damned sure I’m not going to let that man get away with it. I’ll go and see him and let him know that I saw him - I can threaten to go to the authorities and make his life pretty good Hell – a sort of rough justice. Tomorrow will be dreadful when the Browns find out about May. I can’t write any more, I really do feel rough.

  Saturday. All hell has broken loose here today as I expected, but they seem to have decided that it was an accident and the driver just didn’t see her - there’ve been a lot of accidents lately in the dark nights now people can’t have proper headlights. No wonder I’ve felt so awful – they had to get the doctor for me and he says I’ve got chicken pox! Wednesday. Haven’t been able to write anything for over a week now, but feel better today. In a few days, when I’m allowed out again I must go up to the airfield and see if I can find the James Mason man.

  Saturday. They’ve gone! All of them – aircraft and all. Ray Burton in the village says that they’ve been moved down to the south coast – apparently there’s something big about to happen and everything’s being concentrated down there – perhaps it’s the Second Front at last. So there’s nothing I can do about the man who killed May – he’s got away with it. And the one who got her pregnant, the one she called Johnny. Life’s bloody unfair when you think about it. I must get out of this place – it’s really getting me down. Brown is more silent and surly than ever now that May’s dead and Mrs B. is always crying. I’ve applied for the WAAF – I must see who can pull a few strings for me. Sick of this diary, too...

  And there the diary entries finished and the rest of the notebook was empty. Except, as I flicked over the pages a snapshot fell out. It was brownish and rather creased and on the back was written in uneven capitals: ‘ME WITH JOHNNY AND CHUCK’. The photograph showed a young girl with shoulder-length hair done up in a snood. She was wearing a short fur-fabric jacket and a tight skirt and a lot of dark Up-stick. She had her arms round two young men. One had dark hair, and was flashily good looking, the other certainly did look like James Mason.

  I looked at the photograph and knew immediately that there was one important factor that I simply hadn’t realised, one thing that made the whole thing quite plain. Now that I had the information I didn’t know what I was going to do with it.

  The next morning – my last day in Oxford – I left the house early, saying that I wanted to be sure of getting a parking space.

  ‘I can’t think why you don’t go to the Pear Tree car park like I do,’ said Betty who was cutting up some heart for Cleopatra, ‘and then go in on the Park and Ride.’

  ‘Yes, it is silly, I suppose,’ I agreed idly, stroking Cleopatra as she sat on the work-top impatiently watching the progress of her breakfast. ‘Anyway, I’ll be off now. I don’t expect to be late this evening. I’ve booked a table at the Bell in Charlbury for us all. Is eight o’clock OK?’

  But when I got into the car I didn’t turn in the direction of Oxford, instead I drove out of Woodstock towards North Leigh and parked by a gate beside a wood. A sign by the gate said ‘ROMAN VILLA’ and as I went down the steep track with fields on either side, a tractor came up from the valley past me and the driver called out ‘Good morning’ and I waved in response. Half-way along the path I stopped and looked down at the outline of a small Roman villa laid out below. The sun was bright and the birds were singing their hearts out and I hoped very much that the people who built the villa had also seen such days when the warmth of the sun and the blueness of the sky might have made grey barbaric Britain seem a more agreeable place of exile.

  It was early and the custodian of the place had not yet arrived, so I opened the gate and went in and sat on a largish piece of masonry. I loved it here – the countryside around was beautiful and there was a wonderful atmosphere about the place itself, a feeling of the continuity of human life and experience, and, somehow, a sort of comfort. Perhaps, I thought, the Lares and Penates were still here, guiding and protecting those who came to look for them.

  I had said that I didn’t want to meddle any more in Gwen Richmond’s death. It was nothing to do with me. No one had asked me to investigate it. I had no right to interfere in people’s lives – I had already caused enough unhappiness and anger. I tho
ught of Peter Wimsey agonising, at the end of Busman’s Honeymoon, about the execution of Frank Crutchley. At least I didn’t have to face the possibility of sending someone to the gallows. But still – if the police believed me – the murderer would be shut away in some terrible prison for many years and that might be even worse. But now I was considering not just Gwen Richmond’s death, but that of poor little May Brown and her unborn baby. A skylark was singing over-head, soaring against the sun, small, perfect, joyful. May’s child had never been allowed to see a skylark. Perhaps it was just a stupid sentimental thought but it decided me. I got up and walked slowly back to the car. In Stonesfield I found a telephone box and made two calls. Then I drove into Oxford.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I love the Eagle and Child. I like to think of Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams getting together over a manly tankard of beer, engaged in literary talk like 1930s belles-lettres. The Bird and the Baby they called it, I believe, though I would not be so familiar myself. It was before twelve o’clock when I arrived and there were very few people there. I went to the bar and got two gin and tonics and settled down in one of the small alcoves just by the door.

  When Bill Howard arrived I said, ‘I’ve got you a gin and tonic, is that all right?’

  He looked slightly surprised but said, ‘Sure, that’s fine.’ He sat down and poured some of the tonic into his gin.

  ‘Well, what’s it all about? You said it was urgent.’

  ‘Yes, sorry to get you here so early, but I wanted to talk to you before the place got crowded and noisy.’

  ‘Sure.’