Foxden Hotel (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 5)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Bess parked Frank’s old Ford in a side street off the Market Square in Kirby Marlow and wound her way through the market stalls to St Peter’s church. Entering by a gate at the rear of the churchyard, she stopped to look at a newly dug grave surrounded by old graves that were so overgrown with brambles and nettles they couldn’t have been tended for decades. The oblong hole nudged up to a wire fence that separated Kirby Marlow’s departed from the bombed-out buildings of the old railway station, derelict sheds and twisted tracks.

  Bess followed the narrow path to the front of the church, arriving at the moment the funeral director began his slow walk into the building, followed by six men bearing a coffin that contained the earthly remains of David Sutherland.

  Bess wasn’t surprised to see there were no mourners. Traditionally, if the deceased had family or close friends, they followed the coffin into the church out of respect. It didn’t look as if Sutherland had any family and he certainly didn’t deserve any respect. Bess had no intention of sitting through the church service and praying for Sutherland’s soul. When she heard the door to the vestibule close, she sat down on a stone bench that ran the length of the small porch and waited.

  The last funeral she’d attended was her father’s. He had been the foundation of the Dudley family. Neither Bess nor her sisters thought they would be able to cope without him, but they did. They didn’t fare as well as their mother who, devastated at the time, found an inner strength, which she had probably always had but never needed while her husband was alive. She joined the Women’s Institute and busied herself making cakes and jam for various events. She knitted hats, scarves and mittens for war orphans and, although she was a widow herself, was on the Lowarth War Widows Committee and spent three mornings a week visiting young women whose husbands had been killed in the 1939-45 war.

  Bess felt a sudden pang of sadness. Thinking about the war always reminded her of James. She smiled at his memory. Her father always said, you never get over losing someone you love, but you do eventually accept it. And that’s what Bess had done. Thanks to her father and her husband Frank, she had accepted James’s death. What would she do without Frank? He was her strength.

  Bess took a sharp involuntary breath. What would Frank do if he knew she had come to Kirby Marlow to see Dave Sutherland put in the ground? She shivered, buttoned up her coat, and looked out of the arched entrance. The sky, no longer pale blue, had turned the colour of tarnished lead and the fluffy white clouds, now black and bulbous, looked as if they were ready to burst. After a week of light winds and warm sunshine, with only the occasional shower, spring appeared to have reverted to winter.

  Leaning against the stone arch, looking out into the darkening day, Bess watched the rain begin to fall. Light at first, it soon turned into a heavy downpour. The noise it made on the porch roof drowned out all other sounds. Bess turned back to the door of the church. Even before it started to rain she hadn’t heard the muffled voice of the vicar for some time. Crossing to the heavy oak door, she put her ear against it. She couldn’t hear anything. The rain was getting heavier and louder. Then, making her jump, she heard the iron latch clunk off its arm, and slowly the door began to open.

  Bess grabbed her handbag from the bench and ran. Outside she walked swiftly down the path towards the back gate. Half way along she looked over her shoulder. The funeral procession was in sight. If Bess could see them, they would soon see her. Leaving the path, she ducked behind a hedge. Unless she wanted to be seen there was only one way she could go. So, crouching down, she made her way to the back of the graveyard.

  Luckily there was a clump of trees, which would not only give her shelter from the rain, but, standing behind them, she would be able to see the committal without Sutherland’s pallbearers seeing her. Her heart was beating fast and her legs were trembling as she watched the small procession leave the narrow path and make their way through the long grass. They took up their positions around the open grave, and through breaks in the wind, Bess caught the words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes... in sure and certain hope of the resurrection.” She turned away as the coffin was lowered into the ground and began to cry. What on earth had possessed her to come to David Sutherland’s funeral?

  Bess retreated through the trees and overgrown bushes to the front of the church. The door was open. An elderly woman stood by the baptismal font holding two vases of flowers.

  ‘Come in, dear. Don’t mind me. We’ve got a christening tomorrow,’ she said, taking half-a-dozen arum lilies out of two vases and putting the remaining flowers into one. ‘What with the price of flowers today, and these chrysies still fresh, it would be a sin to throw them away,’ she said, placing the arrangement of chrysanthemums against the pedestal of the font.

  Bess stepped into the nave and sat in the nearest pew. No more than a few minutes had passed when she heard the door of the church quietly close. The woman had gone.

  A few minutes later the heavy wooden door burst open. Someone, a girl by the sound of her sobs, ran past her down the aisle. Bess lowered her head, pretending to pray.

  ‘Katherine?’ a man called from the door. He called the name again, and Bess recognised the voice as Sir Gerald Hawksley’s. She heard his heavy footfall as he lumbered down the aisle after his daughter.

  Without lifting her head higher than necessary, Bess looked in the direction of Katherine Hawksley’s cries and her father’s gentle consoling. With her head still bent, as if she was still praying, Bess slipped out of the pew and crept silently to the door. She looked back at father and daughter. They seemed unaware that anyone else was in the church, or they didn’t care - and Bess left unnoticed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Henry?’ Bess flew from behind the reception desk, ran across the hall to the foyer and threw her arms around the neck of her brother-in-law, and old friend, Henry Green. ‘What are you doing here?’ Leaning to the right, she looked round him at the door. ‘Ena not with you?’

  ‘No, she’ll be up at the weekend.’

  ‘I’ve missed her so much since she went back to London after New Year.’ Bess shook her head. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without her in the months leading up to the opening of the hotel, you know. Well,’ Bess said, without taking a breath, ‘it wouldn’t have opened.’ With her arm linked through Henry’s, Bess walked him over to reception. ‘I’ll find someone to take over here and we’ll go through to the dining room. Are you hungry? I’m sure Chef will rustle something up for you. George?’ Bess called, waving to a young porter who, having seen Henry with a case, had started down the stairs. ‘Would you take Mr Green’s case up to room…’ She turned the page in the hotel’s reservations diary. ‘You haven’t booked in.’

  ‘That’s because I’m staying in Lowarth, at the Denbigh Arms.’

  ‘The Denbigh? Why? We’ve got several vacant rooms. I know room seven is free. A lovely couple and their two daughters were here for a week and they left this morning.’ Bess took the bedroom plan from the drawer, opened it and spread it out across the desk, smoothing the creases where it had been folded with the palm of her hand. ‘Thirteen is available too, although it doesn’t have a view of the lake, which everyone wants-- Oh,’ Bess said, folding the bedroom plan and dropping it in the drawer. ‘Is that why you’re here? Did Frank ask you come up, after--?’ Bess looked around to see if any guests were within hearing distance. They weren’t, so she continued: ‘David Sutherland’s body was found in the lake?’

  ‘Frank didn’t ask me to come up.’ He glanced at George who, hearing Henry say he was staying at the Denbigh, had moved to the bottom of the stairs awaiting instruction. ‘But I am here on Military Intelligence business,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Which is why you can’t stay here?’

  ‘Something like that. Look, Bess, I don’t think we should discuss it here. Is there someone who can stand in for you, so we can talk privately?’

  ‘Yes, Maeve, the receptionist. She’s in the staff room tidying her hair. She’ll be
back any second. Like me she was caught in that awful storm this morning. She went to the dentist in Market Harborough and got soaked waiting for the bus back. Talk about rain! It was torrential. And cold? I got caught in it in Lowarth.’ Bess shook her shoulders in an exaggerated shiver. ‘Go through to the office and make yourself at home. And put a log on the fire, will you? I’m still cold after getting drenched earlier.’

  Maeve returned as Henry closed the door to Bess and Frank’s office. ‘Ena’s husband has just arrived. He wants a private word. Are you all right to take over?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry I took so long at the dentist - and now having to--’

  Bess waved the apology away. ‘If Frank gets back from the wholesalers before Henry leaves, ask him to pop in.’ Maeve put her thumb up and leant forward to answer the ringing telephone.

  ‘What’s this about, Henry?’ Bess asked, entering the office.

  ‘David Sutherland.’

  The bitter sweet taste of bile rose in Bess’s stomach and she swallowed hard. ‘Damn the man! He has been dead for goodness knows how long and he’s still causing grief.’ She shivered, for real this time. ‘I think I’m coming down with something.’ She opened the cupboard in the ornate mahogany sideboard and took out a bottle of brandy. ‘Want one?’

  ‘I didn’t think you drank the hard stuff, Bess!’

  ‘I don’t, very often. I never drink in the daytime, except in extreme circumstances, or for medicinal purposes.’ She poured a good measure into two tumblers and gave one to Henry.

  ‘So what’s today? An extreme circumstance or a medicinal purpose?’

  ‘Both!’ Bess said, and took a swig of her drink. Henry laughed. ‘Mm, that hit the spot.’ She shivered again. ‘Or perhaps not. I still feel chilled to the bone. I got caught in one hell of a downpour earlier. Well, I told you, didn’t I? Even my shoes were sodden.’

  ‘That’s what happens when you stand for a long time in torrential rain. Especially in an overgrown churchyard on a hill, where the wind cuts across an open space, like a derelict railway yard. That’ll chill you to the bone, all right.’

  Bess lifted her glass to her lips and downed its contents. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘What? That you were at Sutherland’s funeral?’ Bess nodded. ‘Because I was there.’ Bess put her hand to her mouth. ‘Don’t worry, no one else saw you.’

  ‘How can you be sure? If you saw me--?’

  ‘Because it’s my job to see people but not be seen. I was there to see if any new faces from the fascist movement showed up, or any known ones for that matter. Anyone connected to Sutherland and Hawksley is of interest.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No one there who shouldn’t have been, unfortunately. There were a couple of women in the church who didn’t go to the graveside, but there was nothing suspicious about them.’

  ‘I can’t think what possessed me to go to his funeral. I expect you know I didn’t go to the church service.’

  ‘But you went into the church afterwards.’ Bess gave Henry a look of astonishment, closed her eyes and hung her head. ‘Did Hawksley or his daughter recognise you?’

  ‘No! I’m certain they didn’t. I’m not sure they were aware that anyone else was in the church. I had my head down the entire time I was in there. I would have looked like someone who had come into the building to get out of the rain, and had stayed to pray. That is, if they’d noticed me at all which, as I said, I’m sure they didn’t.’

  Bess got up and poured herself a single shot of the warming spirit. ‘Would you like another?’ Henry lifted his glass to show that he still had some left and shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell Frank I was going to Kirby Marlow and I haven’t seen him since I got back, but I will tell him, eventually. He’s been so worried about me lately that I think it best not to say anything today.’

  Henry took a sip of his drink. ‘He won’t hear about it from me, as long as you promise you won’t do anything that stupid again.’ Bess sat up and frowned, pretending to be hurt by her old friend’s rebuke. ‘I’m serious, Bess. Gerald Hawksley is not the kind of man you want to mess with. He is dangerous.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Before Bess had time to ask Henry more about Hawksley the office door flew open and Frank came in. ‘Maeve said you were here, Henry.’ He took off his hat and coat, hung them on the back of the door, and strode across the room with his hand outstretched. ‘It’s good to see you. It’s been too long,’ he said, shaking Henry’s hand. He turned and looked around the room. ‘Ena not with you?’

  Bess laughed. ‘That’s the first thing I asked.’

  Frank turned and kissed Bess. Noticing her glass, he said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s a drop of brandy left for me, darling? As if today wasn’t cold enough, I’ve been standing around in the abattoir at Lowarth for the last hour waiting to see the butcher. I’m frozen.’

  Bess grimaced at the thought of the local slaughterhouse and poured her husband a drink.

  With one arm draped loosely across Bess’s shoulders, Frank lifted his glass to Henry. ‘Good health my friend,’ Frank took a drink and licked his lips appreciatively. ‘Now! Why have you come all this way to see us without your wife? And I want the truth,’ he said, walking back to the door and closing it.

  ‘I don’t have to remind you that anything I tell you stays within these walls?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bess said.

  ‘Understood,’ Frank added.

  ‘Military Intelligence has had Sir Gerald Hawksley under the microscope for some years.’ Bess gave Frank a knowing look that said, I thought as much. ‘When he moved out of London and came up here to live, they weren’t too worried. For the first couple of years he played the part of a local landowner and loving father - buying the stables in Kirby Marlow for his daughter Katherine. Except that no one knows exactly how he makes his money, Hawksley appears to be an ordinary but very successful businessman. So while he was minding his own business and leading a quiet life, the security services let him get on with it.’

  ‘I don’t think he is an ordinary business man. And having had David Sutherland as a house guest is not leading a quiet life,’ Bess said. ‘When Constable Peg was here, after the ruckus Sutherland caused on New Year’s Eve, he said there were people coming and going from Hawksley’s house in Kirby Marlow at all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘McGann shut him up,’ Frank put in, ‘saying it was only rumour and speculation. Tittle-tattle, he called it, and said the police only deal with facts.’

  ‘But it was obvious that the constable thought something untoward was going on,’ Bess said.

  ‘And there is. The men your constable was referring to are fascists, ex-BUF, like Sutherland. Since the end of the war, when the fascists were released from jail, they’ve been coming to Kirby Marlow on a regular basis. MI5 think - or rather they know - that Gerald Hawksley puts them up for the amount of time it takes him to get them suited-and-booted and procure each of them a new birth certificate and passport. He then gives them enough money to get them started elsewhere, before sending them on their way.’

  ‘If you know all this, why hasn’t he been stopped?’ Bess asked.

  ‘He will be, eventually. The problem is, Gerald Hawksley is only one person in a network of hundreds of people.’

  ‘Fascists!’ Bess spat.

  Henry nodded. ‘As far as we can tell the network covers the Midlands, the North, parts of Scotland and Northern Ireland. God knows how many people there are living in places like Hawksley’s, off the beaten track in the British countryside, or in country houses tucked away in quaint villages. In the early days, when the fascists were first released from prison, there were dozens of wealthy men and women like Hawksley who helped them get set up with new identities and new lives. There aren’t as many now, but there are enough. And we think Hawksley is the head of the organisation.’

  ‘If Gerald Hawksley was setting Dave Sutherland up with a new identity, does that mean he’s only recently b
een released from prison?’

  ‘No. Some fascists were released as early as 1943 - Oswald Mosley, for one. Sutherland was released in 1945. The SS organised two main escape routes out of Germany at the end of the war. They were called ratlines, used mostly by escaping German military and spies. But some British fascists “piggy-backed” to get out of England. One ratline went through Spain, and one through Italy. Both ended up in South America, Bolivia, or Switzerland. A few Nazis went on to North America, but it’s more likely that Sutherland had been enjoying the good-life in Argentina, or Paraguay.’

  ‘If Sutherland had been having such a wonderful life abroad, why did he want to come back to England?’

  Henry looked up to the heavens, as if the answer lie there, and exhaled loudly. ‘I can only think of one reason. He must have got himself into serious trouble with some bad people. If he hadn’t died, he would most certainly be leaving England for a different country far away, where the government turns a blind eye to Nazis with enough money to buy a small beach bar on the coast. Probably somewhere like Brazil.’

  ‘Could that be why he ended up in the lake? If he was in serious trouble overseas, isn’t it possible that someone followed him to England and when the opportunity presented itself, shoved him into the lake? Better still, drowned him somewhere else, and dumped his body in our lake,’ Frank said.

  Icy fingers gripped Bess’s spine and she rolled her shoulders. Having stood inches from the spot where Sutherland’s body was found, the police might think she and Margot had something to do with his death. ‘Well, no one killed him on New Year’s Eve, because Margot and I were right next to the place where his body was found. If there’d been any strangers about we would have seen them.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Henry said. ‘If he was killed - and the police have found nothing so far to suggest he was - it’s likely that he met his end at the hands of one of Gerald Hawksley’s men. In which case, you wouldn’t have seen him, Bess. The mercenaries in Hawksley’s employ are professionals; they are never seen.’