Murder in Hell's Corner

by Amy Myers

  ‘LMF stands for lack of moral fibre?’ Peter asked.

  ‘That’s it. There’s always one or two who can’t hack it. Today it’s expected, but during the war they had to be made an example of, or they might infect the rest of us. It was only being so bloody confident that got us into the air day after day. That’s where Fairfax was good.’

  ‘What happened to LMFs?’ Peter asked.

  ‘They weren’t shot, if that’s what you mean. Not like the First War. In our day they were sent to a special camp before they pressed the panic button for the rest of us. Tanner died; he deserted once it all came out, and there was a rumour going round that he drowned to save his family the disgrace. Joe Smith got shunted off to a special camp, and later on I heard he’d died too. Things went too fast to care. Our mates were dying all around us through enemy fire and accidents. Other pilots came to fill the gaps, only to get shot down too. Never even knew their names, never had time to unpack their kit some of them. Only remembered these –’ he flicked the photograph in Georgia’s hand – ‘because they flew in with us. We were a team then. We didn’t think much of the LMFs. Vic thought Tanner was OK, but he had no time at all for Smith, and we’d no sympathy for either of them. We all lived with fear. Plenty of it. Kept it down with adrenalin by day and drink by night. If we were lucky, a woman too. Mind you . . .’ He paused, then said casually, ‘Seen the replica Spit in the Marston Hall, have you? Let me show you.’

  As Peter manoeuvred himself to Eddie’s side, and she brought up the rear, Georgia wondered what Eddie had so nearly said before he had obviously decided enough was enough. The trouble was that in their line of work enough was never enough.

  The Marston Hall was a hangar packed with aircraft both wartime and post-war, including the Hunter in which Neville Duke had broken the speed record during the 1950s. There was no mistaking the Spitfire though, even to her uneducated eye.

  ‘Not the original, of course,’ Eddie said regretfully. ‘It’s a replica made by the pilot’s family in Norway as a memorial. This is a Mark II, but we were flying the dear old Mark Is. Only one surviving from the Battle of Britain now, and that’s up at Coningsby. Look at this beauty though. Isn’t she lovely?’ He began to sing in a wavery voice. ‘Remember that Stevie Wonder song from the Sixties, “Isn’t she lovely?” Forget women and kids or whoever Stevie was bleating about. Look at this sweetheart. Achtung Spitfeuer! That’s what the Germans used to shout out, and you can see why. You felt so much a part of her, it were like flying a woman . . .’ He coughed in embarrassment, to Georgia’s amusement. She let Peter take over again and soon he and Eddie were deep in technical discussions of heights, speeds and Merlin engines.

  ‘They were just bringing those bulging-out canopies in during the battle so the taller pilots weren’t so cramped. Fairfax was one, always complaining there wasn’t room. Didn’t stop him shooting down Messies though. Fairfax was Uncle Arthur’s blue-eyed boy. Promoted him to flight commander in October when Bob McNee was shunted upwards to a squadron command.’

  ‘Arthur Cox?’ Peter queried. ‘The 362 commanding officer?’

  ‘Right. Old Arthur was a lovely chap. Very straight. You could pull the wool over his eyes like a cashmere sweater, because he didn’t realize not everyone marched to his tune. Upright he was. A real gentleman.’

  ‘And did you pull any wool?’

  ‘Nothing important. Siphoning off the odd bit of petrol, that sort of thing. No one wanted to let Arthur down. And then somebody shot him down. Good job we were rested shortly afterwards. Sent to Wales for a spell.’

  ‘Eddie, greetings!’

  They’d been joined by a newcomer, but Eddie didn’t look as though he wished to return the welcome. The speaker looked out of place in this smartly dressed gathering in designer jeans and tee shirt. In his thirties, Georgia thought, and he had the lean and intense look of those with a single-track mind. His dark, intense eyes swivelled quickly to them.

  ‘You must be Georgia and Peter Marsh. Martin Heywood,’ he said abruptly, as he shot out a hand towards Peter. So this was the great film director, she thought with amusement. She could believe it. In his case the single-track mind would be focused on Patrick Fairfax. He was a good-looking man, and his eyes were fixed on them so intently that he could have been checking their make-up for the next scene under the lights.

  ‘You’re writing about Patrick Fairfax, aren’t you?’ he continued. ‘We need to talk.’

  Do we indeed, Georgia thought as Eddie took the opportunity to vanish. She could sympathize. She wasn’t sure she would be on the same wavelength as Martin Heywood, even though he seemed genuine enough. ‘I gather your next film is to be based on Patrick’s war,’ she began.

  ‘The whole man,’ he said with the enthusiasm of the zealot. ‘I won’t be exploring the reasons for his death, which I gather is your focus, only its tragic irony, having cheated death so often. Of course, that’s why I see this –’ he looked around him – ‘as the resolution of that paradox.’

  Georgia did her best to contribute to this lofty conception. ‘How do you approach a film about a hero of the Battle of Britain for today’s audiences? They’re used to such a different world, one which selects its own heroes but denies the existence of those of the past. Especially wartime figures.’

  ‘Quite simply, my film – and my contribution to the new edition of This Life, This Death – will show the real man, just as the battle will be depicted in real terms, with all the nitty gritty of warfare; the cost in human terms set against the victory, the ultimate denial of the individual and his triumphant fight against such denial.’

  Aware that Peter too had left her, Georgia fumed. She needed him to help her break through these sound bites and jargon. If, of course, there was anything on the other side once the breakthrough had been made.

  ‘That sounds interesting,’ she said enthusiastically. Make my day, she thought with resignation, tell me more.

  He did. ‘Because resolution of Patrick the man is my aim, chronology won’t be paramount. Scenes from the height of the battle might be juxtaposed with the genial host of the aviation club, or the raw kid at university. Remember the famous Oxford Union debate that in no circumstances would the house fight for King and Country? The motion was passed, yet six years later they rushed to the colours. It’s what happened in the months between joining the RAF and the Battle of Britain that interests me. What changed Fairfax from being a playboy student and rowing blue at university to the daredevil but dedicated pilot he became? Is it the individual or was Fairfax symbolic of a sea change in all these young men?’

  ‘Not all of them,’ she said sharply, determined to cut through the rhetoric. ‘Some didn’t make it. What about the LMFs? There were a couple in 362, one of whom apparently committed suicide later. Will you be exploring their stories too?’

  She had succeeded in stalling him. He looked far from pleased. ‘Those kids that didn’t make the grade serve to set in context those that did.’

  Glib words. ‘You’re exploring Fairfax’s death.’ She pursued her advantage. ‘Why not theirs? The LMFs would make a good counterpoint.’

  He looked at her strangely – as well he might, she supposed, since she had no idea where she was going with this argument. ‘Fairfax was my focal point. As his death is yours. Nevertheless you no doubt will continue asking questions about the Battle of Britain, just as I will about his later life. Have you any grounds, incidentally, for suspecting the reason for Fairfax’s murder stemmed from his past?’

  This man was not just a head in the air, Georgia realized. It was time for her to adopt an innocent and earnest approach. ‘We first became interested through meeting the surviving pilots at Woodring Manor Hotel, which meant that we met his story through the past. Both the murder and his Battle of Britain career were connected to the hotel. One must,’ she finished earnestly, ‘as you say, see the whole man.’

  ‘And to think that five of these guys are here today,’ he murmured. ‘Inclu
ding Daz Dane. Ah!’ A conspiratorial look. ‘I see by your expression that you’ve heard about his quarrel with Patrick. I can’t think what possessed Fairfax. Such a dull woman.’

  ‘Dull or not, it threw an interesting light on Fairfax.’

  ‘Of course,’ Martin continued earnestly, ‘this isn’t my point of interest, but I’d put my money on the cause of Patrick’s death lying elsewhere.’

  ‘And where would that be?’ She was surprised at his comment, since she would have thought that dark tale of hidden passion would suit Martin Heywood’s film excellently.

  ‘In sordid money, of course. The hotel and the aviation club. The answer must lie between those two. Patrick was determined to save that club, as you know, which is why he invited his friends along to that reunion. Or, to be exact, to the open bar afterwards. Patrick was a generous man.’

  ‘I gather to no purpose, however. Matt Jones wasn’t interested, he just wanted Patrick out. Were all the club members there that day willing to put money in?’

  He looked vague. ‘Jack will know, I expect, even if Matt won’t tell you. Did he tell you Paul Stock was there as well?’

  ‘No,’ she said truthfully. “The bastard” Jack had called him, she remembered. ‘The manager with his alleged hand in the till?’

  ‘It’s not the hand in the till that Jack disapproves of,’ Martin replied matter-of-factly. ‘It’s the pass he made at his wife while Jack was researching the biography.’

  Susan? Georgia struggled to see the contented gardener of Eynsford in sexual terms. No wonder Jack hadn’t expanded on the subject of Paul Stock.

  ‘Paul, I understand, was quite proud of it,’ Martin continued, ‘but it was almost pistols at dawn when Jack found out. Still seems to feel pretty strongly about poor old Paul.’

  ‘What was he doing at the hotel on the day Patrick died?’ This was the salient point.

  ‘I don’t know. I only found out by chance that he was there. You can ask him,’ Martin said casually. ‘He’s around here somewhere.’

  He was. When she disentangled herself from Martin’s company, she went in search of Peter, who was sitting by one of the outside tables of the café. He wasn’t alone.

  ‘Georgia, meet Paul Stock. Paul, my daughter, Georgia.’

  Blinking at the coincidence of his not only being here, but chatting happily to her father, she felt guilt written all over her face because of what she’d been hearing about him. Having expected a full stage villain twirling black moustachios, the real Paul Stock – a man in his mid-sixties of medium height and thinning hair – disconcerted her, especially since he was holding out a welcoming hand to her as he rose to his feet. He insisted on fetching her a coffee, and Peter grinned as they were briefly left alone.

  ‘Stop looking so smug,’ Georgia said firmly. ‘What’s been happening?’

  ‘You arrived at a most timely point. Our new friend Paul has just begun to tell me about the day of Fairfax’s death, at which he was present.’

  ‘So I’ve just been told. I presume not at the actual murder though?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Paul said apologetically, returning with her coffee. ‘I went there in the afternoon at Patrick’s suggestion with some of the members. We were interviewed by the police later, though apart from myself and Matt everyone had left by the time Patrick was killed.’

  Why hadn’t Christopher Manners mentioned his name if he was still in the hotel at the time of his death? Presumably because he hadn’t remained in his memory as a vital witness, Georgia reasoned.

  ‘I gather there were three members of the club with you.’

  ‘Right. John Standing, in those days a keen aviator, Richard Vane, and Vinny Blake. We got there after lunch and walked into a difficult atmosphere.’

  ‘About an affair Patrick Fairfax had had?’

  He looked surprised, almost shifty, she thought. ‘Not when I was there. They were arguing over the pros and cons of memoirs, but there might have been earlier discord. No matter, since everyone had disappeared by five thirty or so, pilots and club members. I thought Patrick had gone back to the club, but obviously he hadn’t. I went to talk to Matt in his office about the hotel and club finances, left him about seven, went to find Patrick and failed.’

  ‘Wasn’t he at the discussions you had with Matt?’

  ‘He wasn’t intended to be. Not at first. At that stage he would only have been a hindrance,’ Paul said wryly. ‘We proposed to approach him after we’d decided what, if anything, could be done. Unfortunately Patrick realized what was going on, and brought in the club members to make their offer. Matt sent them all politely packing, but Patrick burst in again later after he’d downed a few more drinks to tell Matt – and me – what he thought of us as a result. We had to escort him out, then wound up our by now pretty pointless discussions. I went to find Patrick – and failed, as I said.’

  He was being frank, Georgia thought, considering that he might have a motive for murder. Was that a point in his favour, or a pre-emptive step to ward off trouble if, as she presumed, he had made a statement to this effect at the time?

  ‘And then the club went bankrupt.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry to say his death settled matters. He wasn’t the sole owner, in fact. I had money in the business, and so did some other members, but there was no way it could carry on without Patrick as figurehead. Bankruptcy was the only course, since no one would buy it with all those debts. Matt was in a different position; without Patrick he had a chance to run the hotel more efficiently. He wasn’t so dependent on having a figurehead. As for the hotel, Matt owned fifty-one per cent, but Patrick’s estate would still have had a significant say in the matter had there not been a third partner reducing the estate’s claim to a minor one. It could be out-voted, and Matt later bought the estate out – hardly an expensive proposition.’

  ‘Who was the third partner?’

  Paul looked embarrassed. ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘It would be on public record somewhere,’ Peter pointed out.

  ‘It would mislead you,’ Paul said firmly. ‘You’d think it relevant, but it’s not.’

  ‘We’re trained not to chase trails for their own sake,’ Peter persisted pleasantly.

  Paul looked undecided and Georgia held her breath. ‘It was Mrs Dane,’ he said at last, looking at them defiantly. ‘And yes, she was at the discussions too. But it has, you must be assured, no relevance.’

  ‘Thank you,’ was all Peter said.

  Inside, he must be purring with pleasure, Georgia knew. And with good reason. Affair or not, by 1975 at least, Mrs Dane was on Matt’s side, not Patrick’s.’Why hadn’t she helped Matt curb Patrick’s excesses?’

  ‘Have you ever been involved in a small company, Georgia?’

  ‘Only ours,’ she admitted.

  ‘Personalities can count for as much as shares. The most difficult thing in the world is to pull the plug on a co-partner or director whom you personally like. It’s not something you tackle easily, particularly when they are – as Patrick was – the public persona of the hotel.’

  ‘And is this what went wrong with the club too?’

  ‘Yes, though he was the major shareholder in that case. It got into debt – not, as many still believe, because I’d been fiddling the books.’ He glanced at them, but neither of them commented. ‘The position came about because of high maintenance and insurance costs, purchase of inadequate aircraft and cost of repairs, too few members bringing in money and too many taking it out through scrounging off Patrick’s good nature – if that is the correct term. My relations with him were extremely strained towards the end.’

  This had the ring of truth. On the other hand, Georgia said to Peter after Paul had left them, ‘Hamlet might well have said the same of Claudius.’ One could indeed smile and smile and be a villain. The finger pointing at Mrs Dane could have been deliberately produced. Jack couldn’t stand him, and he was allegedly a thief. Where lay the truth?

  *

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nbsp; At twelve o’clock they watched the two coach loads duly leave with the squadron personnel and its companions on board. It was interesting to see that even here the five pilots of Woodring Manor kept more or less together, although on this occasion they had their womenfolk with them. The band of brothers, she thought. There they go, bonded by the past, which served to give them a quality of detachment even though they were laughing and joking with those around them. There was no sign of Eddie, though.

  Peter had elected to get away from Tangmere for a while in favour of a country pub for lunch, and they duly found that the Anglesey Arms a few miles away provided a welcome breathing space, especially on a warm June day.

  ‘Not a bad morning’s haul,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Jack Hardcastle, Paul Stock, Martin Heywood, and Eddie Stubbs. Have you spoken to any of the Woodring Manor mob yet?’

  ‘I made a managerial decision in the absence of my business partner to leave that till this afternoon. They will have had their fill of talking to each other by then, and be mellowed with liquor.’

  ‘They’ll probably be asleep.’

  ‘They won’t. They’re too tough. This is one of the great moments of the year for them.’

  ‘Is it always held at Tangmere?’

  ‘No. Jack said it could be Brenzett, Duxford, anywhere. Tangmere is popular because so many of the squadron flew here after Battle of Britain days.’ Peter paused. ‘What did you make of Heywood?’

  ‘Plays the role of Great Artistic Director, but passionately involved in what he’s doing. His aim, he says, is to show what the battle and Fairfax were really like.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Why? I don’t necessarily disagree but it might be possible, with the caveat that it would only be one man’s interpretation.’

  ‘How can anyone be sure that what’s represented is real to 1940 and not just to the twenty-first century?’

  Georgia fell on this with as much enthusiasm as on her ham salad and chips. ‘One can’t. There has to be some accommodation in order that the latter can be appreciated by the former.’