She continued staring at the plant and roughly tested its soil for moisture.
“There is no need for you to look so pleased with yourself, Mother,” she admonished it. “I also noticed that when I first dreamed of the wounded Zeppelin we were on the doorstep of our home, and the second time I dreamed about it we were on our way to the dugouts in the hillside above the village. I suppose that means we are at least going in the right direction, towards a place of safety even if not of comfort.”
She recalled the feeling of the wet sandbag against her back. The line of thought was becoming distressing.
“We are going in the right direction and one of the original stars, the one that is no longer there, was for Janet Brinsley,” she summarised. “Is that it?”
The plant remained unmoved and only Rani looked up at her mistress and shook her tail stump in encouragement.
“You will have to give me more help, Mother. You have left me with a worryingly large number of stars to account for and if one of those burning, falling, flailing stars belongs to Gerard…”
She let the thought hang unspoken.
“I am going to have to catch his star. I cannot let it fall.”
Not a single leaf moved.
“And what has Miss Susan breaking our Alice’s vase got to do with it?” she demanded before finally turning away in annoyance.
She picked up the tea tray and carried it out to her kitchen.
“I thought we might have some fresh tea,” she called over her shoulder to her grand-nephew’s footsteps descending the stairs. “Not Darjeeling this time. If I have any more, I will likely fall asleep. I think we will change to Assam, light enough for the afternoon but strong enough to keep me alert while you tell me the rest of your story. And yes, Rani, I am sure we can find something for a good dog too.”
Chapter 10
“So, Dr Brinsley went home and you and Susan returned to your daily routine,” Aunt Gwendoline summarised after they had settled back into their chairs.
“More or less,” Gerard answered hesitantly.
Sometimes he did not know how far to express his feelings to his great-aunt. She had always been an old lady to him, a “spinster of the parish”, a phrase he had one day laughingly read out from an old newspaper cutting she had shown him. “In my day, that is what we were called,” she had informed him firmly. “There was no shame in it.” He had accepted the reprimand but it left him not knowing how to explain to her the disappointment of being met by a turned face when familiar womanly hips were pulled forward in an embrace that had always before ended in a full and passionate kiss. He could not see how she could understand the confusion of being refused the compliant breasts after formerly welcome hands had encircled the tempting waist from behind, or the frustration of being denied the close and naked skin in the dark hours when the passions are at their peak.
“Sue did become less tense after Mark left,” he compromised. “I cannot say things went entirely back to normal but there were a few times when I thought we managed to regain something of our former closeness.”
Aunt Gwendoline watched him and stirred her tea.
“Outwardly, Mark was quite calm and rational and able to deal with life,” he continued, sitting back in his chair and consciously dismissing any thoughts of returning to his desk at the university for the rest of the afternoon. “But he was distracted and more fragile than he seemed. The press and television people did not help. From the day of Janet’s murder, they parked themselves outside his house and pushed microphones and cameras at him at every opportunity. ‘How do you feel about what happened, Dr Brinsley? Do you miss your wife, Dr Brinsley? Is there anything you would like to say to the person who murdered your wife, Dr Brinsley?’ I saw him recoil from them and look over to me for help. I did what I could. They pestered his neighbours, his friends, the staff at the local supermarket where he shopped, and even the postman and the garbage men who collected his rubbish. ‘What sort of man would you say Dr Brinsley is?’ ‘Did he and his wife ever have any arguments?’ ‘Does he like animals?’ The questions were so inane and they seemed only to want to find out bad things about him.”
Aunt Gwendoline sat more upright in her chair. Her movement was not enough for Gerard to notice but she felt as though she had been prodded between her shoulder blades by a finger, much as she had been as a child when Mother, sitting behind her, thought she was not paying enough attention in chapel.
“There are some sections of the press that have a reputation for disrespectful behaviour,” she commented to cover her discomfort.
Rani sat up and looked at her quizzically.
“‘Disrespectful’ is an understatement,” Gerard snorted. “They are animals as far as I am concerned, far worse than any I have ever encountered even in the wildest jungles of Southeast Asia. Not surprisingly, Mark wasn’t up to facing them, so it was not long after he returned to his own home that he called and asked if he could come back to stay with us again. Of course, I said ‘yes’ and he sneaked round under cover of darkness. Sue reacted immediately.”
“It must have been very difficult for her,” Aunt Gwendoline agreed. “The situation was, in her mind, dangerous and she was helpless to do anything about it.”
“I think ‘dangerous’ is overstating it,” he countered. “And in any case, we didn’t create the circumstances. They just happened. Mark needed help and I don’t see that we could have done anything else. He is a friend, a very good friend. He was going through hell and all the press wanted to do was tear him apart. I suppose you could say that it was unwise of me to step in as I did because next morning we found the press pack camped outside our house too, so I asked the police to give us some protection and they sent round regular patrols to shoo them away. It helped, of course, but I don’t regret giving Mark some shelter from their relentless hounding. It made me want to have nothing to do with press people ever again, but even so I didn’t consider the situation dangerous.”
Aunt Gwendoline sighed inwardly. “You’re a good girl, our Gwen. Look after the family for me. Keep them together.” It was a big responsibility. She glanced across to the aspidistra and shifted in her chair to avoid the finger poking into her back again. Suddenly, she was aware that she could remember Gerard’s ladyfriend’s name without effort.
Chapter 11
“What happened next?” she asked.
“Much to our relief the intense attention from the press cooled off after a few days, although they still hung around,” Gerard resumed. "They finally realised they could get no more from hounding Mark, Sue and me than they could from the daily police briefings.
"The police put together a highly experienced team of detectives and forensic specialists, and it has to be said that their investigation into Janet’s murder galloped along. In addition, the detective sergeant leading the investigations, Sergeant Chak, went out of his way to give us such extra information as he could, which was hugely reassuring for all three of us. In a short while, he became quite a friend. He made a point of telling Sue in particular how the investigations were going, that they were going well, that there was no reason for her not to feel safe, and that an arrest could be expected very soon.
“Mark also had separate, almost daily, updates from the police. He was putting a huge emotional investment into their enquiries, which was not surprising. He noted every detail as it emerged and analysed it over and over again, discussing with me how such-and-such a piece of information might fit in with a particular scenario in Janet’s life, where she might have been, who she might have met and so on. It was partly the scientist in him but it was also his way of dealing with her killing, distracting himself with the details and trying to fit them into a picture. He became quite obsessive about it.”
Aunt Gwendoline felt her heart kick in her and begin beating with a faster stroke. She noticed that she had jolted some of her tea out of its cup and into the saucer in her hands. Rani gave an anxious whimper.
“I went with Mark to Ja
net’s inquest,” Gerard continued, not noticing. "That was a bad day. Mark found more bits and pieces in the details of the coroner’s proceedings to fit into his picture of events and he noted them all down very carefully in his notebook. But suddenly he froze, stopped taking notes and sat back ashen. There was one detail he had not known, not even suspected, and it was dropped almost as an aside by the pathologist into the list of the autopsy’s findings. Hearing it in the quiet, professional tones of the medical expert only added to its impact, and I wasn’t sure that I had heard it correctly until I looked over and saw Mark’s reaction. In the middle of the description of the horrific wounds and beatings inflicted on Janet before she died, and in the summary of the ultimate cause of her death, the pathologist announced that she had been six weeks pregnant.
“Mark told me later that he didn’t know she was with child until then. Janet had not said anything to him. But it explained so much of what she had been up to just before her murderer broke in on her. It explained the sweet-scented bath she had just stepped out of and the fine clothes she had laid out ready to put on. It explained the new perfume she had bought and the special dinner she had prepared for them both, and all the other evidence of the special effort she was making to greet him when he got home from the university. She had kept it a surprise until she was certain, but the night she was murdered was the night she was going to tell him that their first child, of the family they had both longed for and wanted so much, was finally on the way. I suppose it was reasonable for the police to assume that Mark knew his wife was pregnant, so nobody thought to tell him. But he didn’t know, not until he heard it in the pathologist’s report at his murdered wife’s inquest. It shocked us all, and it only served to emphasise the horror of everything that had been done to Janet before she died. But it hit Mark hardest of all, and it inevitably became another banner word for the headlines in the tabloid press the next day. Aunt Gwendoline, are you feeling all right?”
The crackling roar of the death throes of the Zeppelin were pounding in her ears, and the heat of its dying made her feel stuffy and uncomfortable. She attempted to dismiss the question with a wave of her hand but feared she might drop her teacup if she tried. Her heart stormed in her chest and the sound in her ears roared more intensely into life, throwing out a final wave of heat and flame, and then it disappeared and was gone. All was quiet again except for the ticking of her clocks and an anxious whining from Rani looking up at her with obvious concern. The cool comfort of the sitting room returned as did her more regular heartbeat, and Aunt Gwendoline slowly put her teacup down. She dropped a hand to reassure her distressed companion.
“Yes, I’m quite all right, my dear boy,” she answered. “It’s just a twinge of old age. Please go on.”
Chapter 12
Gerard was not convinced. He looked at his dearest aunt intently, searching her face for any covert sign of distress.
“I have been prattling on for quite a while now and I wouldn’t be surprised if you were tired of hearing the sound of my voice. There is more to tell, of course, but none of it is urgent. Would you like us to take a break?” he asked.
Aunt Gwendoline did not move. She was not able to. There was the pressure of a hand on her left shoulder, holding her in her chair and forbidding her to do anything other than to sit still and listen. Rani was looking up at her, shivering and giving an intermittent flick of her tail stump.
“Not just yet,” she smiled gently to him. “I was thinking of us having a break sometime. Indeed, I have some lamb chops in the refrigerator which I was going to cook for tea with some garden peas I purchased at the market yesterday. I was rather hoping you would join me.”
She shrugged her shoulder and the hand loosened its grip. A small cushion fell from the back of her chair on to the floor beside her.
“That would be good,” Gerard nodded, smiling an immediate acceptance. “That is if you are sure you have enough for both of us and are up to doing the cooking.”
“I have and I am,” she answered. “So if we carry on for a short while longer, we at least know we have some sustenance to look forward to. Now, you say the press were horrible, but I do seem to recall them reporting that someone was eventually arrested for Janet Brinsley’s murder. Is that not so?”
“Yes, it is,” he replied, still cautiously watching his great-aunt for any sign of unease. "Two men, Billy and George Crater, were charged with the crime. It was quite astonishing, but only about four weeks after Janet was murdered there was a great trumpeting of a breakthrough in the case and the highest-ranking police officers paraded themselves before the cameras and microphones of the television news channels to announce the effectiveness of modern criminal investigation techniques under their command. Film was shown repeatedly of vanloads of armed police in black flak jackets and helmets, storming through the iron gates of a heavily fortified country mansion reportedly bought with the proceeds of crime and racketeering. And the finale was footage of the two Crater brothers being bundled into the back of an armoured police van with blankets over their heads.
“It was all very spectacular and came as a huge surprise to Mark. The first we all knew of the Crater brother’s arrests was the announcement on the morning radio news. Mark was very excited about it but as the day wore on his mood changed. I began to sense that he felt almost hurt by the police not telling him about their suspicions beforehand. We had been told repeatedly that an arrest was expected but we had no idea it would happen so quickly. I suppose it is understandable that the police should withhold some information from the public before the final strike is made, if only to stop word getting out to the intended targets of their inquiries. But the thought that they were keeping him very closely informed about what was going on had kept Mark buoyed up during those early days after Janet’s death. Now, he suddenly felt let down by them, that they were not telling him everything and that he could no longer trust them or rely on them quite as much as he thought. It was nonsense, of course. Sergeant Chak and his crew are a superb bunch of officers and they remained very supportive. But Mark was not himself and I can only believe that such thoughts would never have entered his head had he been thinking straight.”
“Are you saying he changed?” asked Aunt Gwendoline.
“Maybe, temporarily,” he replied. "I talked to Sue about it, and she said that she felt there was something different about him. She did not necessarily share my confidence that he would eventually settle back into being the Mark we had both known and liked before the whole ghastly business had blown up. But, yes, for the moment, he was different.
“I must admit that I too had been mildly annoyed by the announcements. A bunch of very senior police officers who we had never heard of before were hogging the limelight in the press and on the television news. Sergeant Chak and his team were simply brushed aside. I talked to Mark about it later that evening. The police hierarchy obviously regarded the Crater brothers as very significant criminal catch, and it was clear from the way they conducted themselves in front of the cameras that there were good measures of glory and recognition lying around and that they were going to scoop them up. Mark saw it too. ‘OBEs,’ he snorted. ‘Standing for Other Beggars’ Efforts’. It was not like him to be so cynical, but I had to agree with him that was how it looked. All the people who had done the actual work of tracking down Janet’s killers, who had put in the hours and the legwork to get the result, were sidelined. In retrospect, I have wondered whether Mark sensed that something in the criminal justice system went wrong at that moment. It might sound stupid, Aunt Gwendoline, and I do realise that I could just be imagining a pattern in a lot of unrelated coincidences, but that is how it looks to me even now. Because, as you know, the prosecution of Billy and George Crater did go wrong, and I have to wonder whether it was at that moment that something in the search for justice for Janet began to go wrong and that Mark first began to lose his way.”
He stopped and gripped his brow with his hand. He closed his eyes and took in a
long, deep breath. His mind had become inexplicably blank.
Aunt Gwendoline let the silence extend while a searching beam from the late afternoon sun swept across the chequered inlays of her astragal glazed corner cupboard, and moved on to create a red and gold blaze on the mahogany of her Sheraton secretaire. It was not until it had inched its way across to the aspidistra that Gerard opened his eyes and looked up at her again.
“My dear boy,” she smiled gently to him. “I feel it is perhaps now time for our break. Your story is most intriguing, but I fear I would not have the stamina to hear the end of it without some sustenance. Shall we go and prepare dinner?”
Incapable of other thought, he nodded his reply.
“Could you bring out the tea tray and begin shelling the peas for me?” she asked, rising from her chair with considerably less stiffness than she felt. “I shall set about the lamb chops, and if you would like a sherry feel free to pour one for yourself as well. It is over there on the small table. Come along, Rani, I imagine it is also time for a good dog’s supper. Yes, I am sure it is.” She headed for the kitchen.
Chapter 13
Gerard sighed and shrugged some life back into himself. He felt surprisingly fatigued. He had not been fully aware of the emotional load he had been carrying ever since he had first heard the news of Janet Brinsley’s murder, although he had guessed at it and perhaps it had been more than he thought. He sighed again and hauled himself out of his chair.
He poured sherry into each of the two stemmed glasses standing beside the Victorian diamond point engraved decanter on the table his great-aunt had indicated, and with that small activity his thoughts began to move again. He looked around the room.
“This is Staffordshire porcelain,” Aunt Gwendoline had said to him one day as she handed him a small statuette from inside her velvet lined Edwardian display cabinet. “There was quite a fashion for portrait pieces in late Victorian times. This one is of a well-known actor of his day in the role of Richard the Third.” He looked around the room some more and spotted one of his favourite pieces, a pale green saucer dish which his great-aunt had always handled with great affection. “It is in a style called ‘famille verte’, from the Kang Hsi period in China,” she had informed him. “It is quite different from our English porcelain and it caught my eye when I saw it in the sale room.” She had then looked at him very directly. “One thing I have always found to be true. The best of any age, and of any culture, always go well together. It is something you might like to remember.”
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