by Amy Myers
One more story, one more memory, still as vivid as when it had happened – as it must be to the 362 Squadron pilots, she imagined. To her they looked weary old men, but to themselves they were once again twenty-year-old men fighting a war for survival. Or was it the 1970s those five men thought about when they gathered now, she wondered as she walked back to the clubhouse. This former airfield belonged to a time far in the past by the time Fairfax was killed in 1975, and there was no logical reason for her and Peter to be here at all. Logically the reason for Fairfax’s death would lie in the 1970s, so why had her father taken it into his head that they should not only revisit Woodring Manor Hotel, but also walk the ground that had once been West Malling airfield? If she were honest with herself, she too now felt the need to be here. And where that admission led, she decided not to contemplate.
By the time she reached the clubhouse again, Peter was as usual best mates with the bar staff, and insisted that they should also visit the country park just out of West Malling village. Its landscaped gardens would have been on the route walked by the 26 Squadron pilots on the way to their mess at the Manor House, which she realized must have been the eighteenth-century building she had seen when she had driven through West Malling to meet Peter.
The rain was falling more steadily now, and once in the parking area of the gardens, Peter elected to stay put. Manoeuvring his wheelchair along muddy paths in the rain was not his favourite pastime, he said. Georgia was tempted herself; this was a bleak place in the rain, though in sunshine it must be lovely. She refused to be defeated, however, so donned her anorak and hood and set off along the lakeside path to look at the manor perched on the hillside on the far side of the road. It told her nothing, though its former interior must have had the same atmosphere as Woodring. Not far away were the ruins of St Leonard’s Tower and she made a quick detour to see it on the way back. In 1940, perhaps, Fairfax might have come this way to visit the 26 Squadron mess bar, and strolled in the grounds after flying finished for the day. She shivered. The tower reminded her of Lady Rosamund’s Tower in Friday Street, scene of their previous case, and this place seemed to have much the same atmosphere, especially in this gloomy weather.
Were the ghosts of the past watching her as she walked back to the car? And was she disappointed or relieved that they seemed to be offering her no definite link?
*
Once back in Haden Shaw, Peter immediately logged on to Suspects Anonymous to record the information that Georgia had brought back from Jack Hardcastle. She watched him despondently, with the feeling that so far they were only circling round the case – if it could be called that – without any idea where the core lay, let alone any hope of reaching it.
‘Sylvia Lee,’ Peter murmured, as he opened a new file. ‘Golden girl of the 1950s stage. Married Richard Vane, later Sir Richard Vane. She later made a skilful transformation into a straight actress and now plays very ancient ladies in TV cameo roles.’
‘Jack said she was only a casual girlfriend of Fairfax for a week or two during the war, and mentioned nothing about her being around in the 1970s.’
‘Cherchez la femme. We don’t know what’s relevant yet, and what isn’t. Anyway, nothing about the Battle of Britain was casual,’ Peter said firmly, clicking save on the file. ‘They lived intensely, therefore they loved intensely. Each day could be their last so it had to be made to count for something. Would you make love to Luke casually in those circumstances?’
Or he to Elena, she wondered. Perhaps Peter had her in mind too. It had been well over ten years since her mother left them, but she knew the pain still clung to him. Just as the pain of Rick’s unsolved disappearance in France while on a walking holiday still hurt.
‘I agree,’ she said, ‘but the femme should be Jean Fairfax, not Sylvia Lee, much as I’d like to meet her. Jean Fairfax belongs to 1975, whereas Sylvia Lee is very much in the past. Fairfax’s wife might give us a lead on which we could make a firm decision as to whether or not to continue.’
‘No. We make it now.’
He was right, of course. No point putting it off. There was no way she could turn her back on this challenge. Nor should she even want to. Patrick Fairfax, for all his apparent feckless ways, had been dearly loved. Like Rick. It was this thought that decided her.
‘Let’s go for it,’ she said. ‘After all,’ she laughed shakily, wondering what they were letting themselves in for, ‘Luke said he’d give us a blank cheque.’
Chapter Four
Mitchell House. Did that give a foretaste of what she would find when the door opened? Georgia now knew enough about Spitfires to recognize the name of its designer, R. J. Mitchell. This was surely no coincidence. On the outside it looked a typical London Victorian townhouse, solid brick, a gable, imposing steps to the front door flanked with columns, and a gravelled garden in front with ferns growing through the pebbles. She suspected the interior would be centred on the Second World War, and that it might be even harder to remember that she had come to discuss a case from the 1970s.
It had been a joint decision that the way forward was through meeting Jean Fairfax, and ‘mighty ladies and doughty dowagers are your province,’ Peter had said firmly.
Perhaps, but she was well aware that Peter disliked driving in London, and so even though this house was on the outskirts, in Putney, it was automatically ruled out for him. Now that she was here it was clear that in any case the flight of steps and Peter’s wheelchair would not have seen eye to eye. Anyway, he had informed her airily, he had plenty to do on the phone and internet.
‘Not to mention,’ she had gently reminded him, ‘the proofs of the Friday Street case.’
He had naturally brushed this aside. Hell’s Corner held promise for the future, whereas the Friday Street now lay in the past.
The front door of Mitchell House opened and closed again as the chain was removed, and a gorgon – surely not Jean Fairfax herself? – stood before her. No, this must be her Cerberus, Georgia decided. From her age – late fifties? – she assumed this was the daughter, Mary Fairfax. Tall, well-built, grey-haired, a no-nonsense Cerberus, although disposed to be friendly.
‘Come in,’ she boomed. ‘Mother ready. All set? Car parked?’
‘Train.’ Georgia automatically adopted this staccato approach.
‘Splendid. Coat?’
Georgia obediently handed over her jacket and umbrella, watched them hung on a sturdy Victorian hatstand, flourishing branches like a reindeer, and prepared to meet the queen of the establishment. To her surprise, Jean Fairfax sat in a comfortable armchair in a normal comfortable living room with not a sign of a Spitfire anywhere, nor even a Forties décor. Georgia noticed a few family photographs adorning the tops of bookshelves and the mantelpiece, and then concentrated on Jean Fairfax herself. She was a much smaller woman than Georgia had expected after meeting Cerberus, who had disappeared, presumably to serve coffee. A tray set with silver teaspoons, sugar pot and milk jug together with a platter of tempting petit four biscuits stood on a low table. Georgia had been offered countless varieties of coffee over the years, ranging from instant in mugs to best Columbian, but this one promised to be outstanding.
There was certainly power in this mighty lady. The blue eyes were still steely with curiosity, despite her years. She must have been an excellent social helpmeet for Patrick, quick to charm and quick, she guessed, to spot weaknesses. This didn’t tally with Jack’s comment that she didn’t appear at the aviation club, however, so perhaps it was a quality that had only developed after her husband’s death. She was dressed, Georgia saw approvingly, not in the modest colours usually deemed suitably for the elderly, but rose pink. It was an excellent choice, complementing her white hair, despite the fact that it suggested a fragility that Georgia was by no means sure existed, save perhaps physically.
‘What makes you so interested in unsolved murders, Miss Marsh? Your own sad experience?’
This was a terrifying knockout blow for Georgia. How on earth could
she cope with this? What could she mean other than Rick’s disappearance, and yet how could this woman possibly know about Rick? Wild scenarios shot through her head as she sought for an answer.
She was saved by an apologetic Cerberus, who had reappeared. ‘Mother! I warned you . . .’ She turned to Georgia. ‘My fault. Sorry.’ She looked genuinely concerned. ‘Friend of mine knows your mother well.’
Another cold hand closed over Georgia’s heart. This was forbidden territory indeed. Elena talking about Rick? She struggled for control, to separate past from present, private life from career. With a supreme effort she managed to reply: ‘Don’t worry. We seem to be fellow travellers. My family has a disappearance. Yours has your unsolved murder. How do you feel about that being reopened, if my father and I write a book?’
The reply from Jean surprised her. ‘I see it not only as my duty, Miss Marsh, but I welcome it. Though what you could hope to find after all this time must surely be very little. Nevertheless, such a book would keep my husband’s memory polished, and that is my only concern.’
Georgia nodded. In other words, there was no such thing as bad publicity.
‘I am glad you understand, Miss Marsh,’ Jean continued. ‘Now that there are very few, if any, survivors from the First World War, the torch passes to those of us who survive from the Second. I was younger than Patrick, but it is through keeping his memory alive that I make my contribution to this.’
‘Even though the memory of his death must still be so painful?’ A steely lady indeed, Georgia thought.
‘Yes. Tell me what happens if you find nothing to add to Patrick’s case. Do you invent a scenario, thus turning it into semi-fact?’
Georgia kept her temper. ‘No. My father and I make a decision as to whether the story is worth telling or not. If it has something to offer, we go ahead.’
‘My husband’s story, Miss Marsh, does have something to offer.’
Georgia debated whether to speak out now or leave it until it became relevant – if it did. Since Mrs Fairfax had no qualms about speaking out herself, she decided to risk it. ‘There’s also the question of what happens in the unlikely event that we discover something to your husband’s discredit.’ This was an important point, since it was out of the question that she and Peter could ever allow others to have any control over what they wrote, though many would dearly like it.
For a moment she thought she had blown it and was ready to depart forthwith as those keen eyes glared into hers. Then, once again, Jean Fairfax surprised her. ‘Shall we go, Mary?’
For a moment Georgia thought they were walking out on her, but it proved to be a rhetorical question, as Cerberus Mary moved forward to help her mother walk out of the room with a throwaway, ‘Mother first.’
‘Of course,’ Georgia murmured, now realizing that this was no loo visit, but included her. She decided that Jean Fairfax was a woman capable of anything, certainly of keeping the likes of Patrick Fairfax in order. As she walked to the door, his face, good-looking even in middle age, grinned out at her from a studio photograph, as if daring her to find out the truth.
The priority was explained by a stairlift. Wherever it was they were heading, Georgia was expected to follow. Cerberus ran up the double flight of stairs to the next floor first, with her mother following in the lift and Georgia bringing up a decorous rear. The lift was the superior kind that went round corners. On the next floor, Mrs Fairfax moved to another lift for another ascent, and so on. There were four storeys altogether, if one included the attic floor at which they eventually arrived. As Georgia made her way up the last flight in the lift’s wake, she tried to suppress an irreverent thought of a mummified Patrick Fairfax lying in state up here. Fortunately he wasn’t, although what she found was nearly as scary.
‘Do please enter.’ The two Fairfax ladies had waited by the door so that Georgia could get the full effect.
‘Oh!’
Her gasp of shock was genuine. A six-foot-tall pilot with a mop of fair hair was running straight at her, goggles and Mae West in hand and clad in RAF uniform, Irvin jacket and flying boots. A second look made it obvious that this was a plaster replica of Patrick himself; his eyes fixed on her as though she were the Spitfire to which he was running. The face and figure were so well sculpted that its artist must have worked painstakingly from a photograph. It was full of energy and life, and Georgia was shaken.
‘My Patrick,’ said Jean softly. ‘You will find nothing to his discredit, Miss Marsh. I can assure you of that.’
Having recovered her breath, Georgia looked around the attic room to find herself in what was half museum, half working study. Photographs, books, model aircraft, a blackboard with victories chalked on, like the famous Biggin Hill board at the White Hart pub in Brasted, which Georgia had seen in photographs. There was part of a tannoy system, a Forties gramophone, and wartime memorabilia everywhere. It was an Aladdin’s cave for the aviation buff, and, Georgia imagined, for any child who came in here.
‘This desk –’ Jean walked lovingly over to it – ‘is where Patrick used to write in later years. I sometimes allow research students the privilege of sitting here.’
‘Notes for his memoirs?’ Georgia remembered what Jack had said about the son allowing access to Patrick’s notes.
‘Partly, but he wrote far more about others. He was a modest man.’
Was that a line shoot, Georgia wondered? Patrick Fairfax did not strike her as particularly modest, but how could one tell just from photographs? Behind the desk was a display of different editions of This Life, This Death together with a framed copy of the Yeats poem from which its title was taken: ‘An Irish Airman Foresees his Death’. There must have been something of the poet in Fairfax to have written this book, which was a testament to his fellow pilots, both living and dead, a paean to the beauty of the skies and an execration of the blazing guns that destroyed it.
She leafed through one of the scrapbook albums, and was rewarded by finding a photograph captioned ‘Patrick with Sylvia Lee’. That was interesting, since the wording implied it was Jean’s caption, not her husband’s, which in turn meant this scrapbook was probably put together after his death. Yet the photograph was clearly a wartime one.
The photo was an outside shot of the couple, arms round each other, in a garden. Then, as she looked more closely, she shivered. It wasn’t just a garden but the garden at Woodring Manor. She couldn’t be absolutely certain, but the lake looked familiar, as did the trees and path beyond it that led to the dell. They made a handsome couple, she with Veronica Lake shoulder-length blonde hair, he with his mop of hair, his arm firmly round her. It showed a remarkable objectivity in Jean Fairfax, Georgia thought, to include a picture of a former girlfriend in the scrapbook.
She became aware that there was music playing in the background. Wartime songs. ‘We’ll Meet Again’, naturally, ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, ‘Run Rabbit Run’, and then snippets from the Tommy Handley radio comedy ITMA, and, bleakly, an air-raid siren’s warning. It was an eerie background as Georgia moved on to look at Patrick’s uniform and medals, the DSO and the DFC with its bar across the riband.
‘Of course Patrick should have been awarded the VC,’ Jean said briskly. ‘There was only one awarded to a Fighter Command pilot during the Second World War, and that was to James Nicolson. But for the frantic tempo of those few weeks, which prevented due note being taken of individual heroic efforts, there would have been two. Patrick’s. You have heard of Eagle Day, of course?’
Georgia had, thanks to her swotting-up. ‘The day the Luftwaffe made its all-out effort to destroy all airfields in Kent and the rest of south-east England.’
‘Correct. That was August thirteenth. West Malling was thankfully spared that day, but not thereafter. On the fifteenth the field was attacked having been mistaken for Biggin Hill; the next day it was targeted again with both the airfield and aircraft being hit, and on the eighteenth more aircraft were destroyed, yet again on the twenty-eighth, and several tim
es during September.’
‘You’ve become a historian yourself,’ Georgia said admiringly, hoping her memory was as good when she was Jean Fairfax’s age. She received no thanks.
‘Naturally,’ Jean replied coolly. ‘It is necessary for Patrick’s sake. On August sixteenth a large force of Dornier bombers appeared with no effective fighter intervention. The airfield was still under repair from the previous day and a further eighty bombs were dropped. The squadron had already lost several valuable aircraft, both Spitfires and Lysanders, which had been caught on the ground. Patrick was not going to allow any more. The squadron was not officially scrambled by Group HQ, but Patrick rallied his fellow pilots to get their Spitfires airborne in order that they should not be lost to bombing. When all the Spitfires save one were in the air, he saw the remaining pilot was immobile, frozen with fear at the bombs exploding all round. He rushed out to the aircraft, pulled the pilot out, saw him to safety, with bombs still exploding, then ran back to take the aircraft up himself as another wave came in. In another incident on July twentieth, in the middle of a melee with Messerschmitts, Red Section was separated by cloud. As it thinned Patrick, the section leader, realized that the enemy aircraft were homing in on this same pilot, who was a sitting duck, and not even firing. Patrick went to draw the hornets off his tail so that he could escape. Patrick managed to shoot down two of the German fighters, and winged another.’
‘Remarkable.’ Georgia meant it. ‘Your husband was an ace, wasn’t he? Which means he shot down more than five of the enemy?’
Georgia received another reproving look. ‘The true figure can never be known. Four were actually credited to him, but there were many unconfirmed. In the thick of battle it was often the case that those who could confirm the loss of an enemy aircraft were themselves dead. Patrick tells me the true figure would have been twelve at least.’
