A Presumption of Death (20 page)

The coroner proceeded to interview Fred Lugg as to what he had seen from his vantage point on the church tower, which led to the calling of Mrs Spright, who had been seen walking around during the air-raid practice.

‘Why were you walking about after dark?’ enquired the coroner. ‘Were you on your way to one or other of the shelters?’

‘I was just looking around.’

‘Late at night?’

‘I’m not the only one who walks about at night in this village. You should ask Miss Twitterton what she is doing, up and down the lane all the time.’

‘I am interviewing you at the moment. Did you encounter any other person in the streets while you were looking around?’ asked Mr Perkins.

Mrs Spright had encountered several. The party from Talboys, for example. She had also observed a young woman, whom she now knew to have been Wendy Percival, running down the street in a great hurry towards the Crown. She had not seen what happened to the deceased, because she had crouched down behind the garden wall of a nearby house so as not to be seen.

‘And from this vantage point, while you could not see anything, you might easily have heard something? A cry, for example?’

‘I heard her stop running. Those silly high heels she was wearing made a tap-tap sound. And I heard her say, “Great heavens, what are you doing here?”’

‘And then? What was the reply?’

‘Not another thing. She didn’t get an answer, as far as I could hear.’

‘You didn’t see who she was talking to?’

‘As I told you, no.’

‘You didn’t see what it was that someone was doing that occasioned the deceased such surprise?’

‘No, I kept my head down.’

At this point the foreman of the jury raised his hand. ‘Can the witness be asked, Mr Perkins, what
she
was doing, hiding in the bushes in the middle of the night instead of joining in the air-raid practice?’

The coroner thought about it. ‘Is that to the point?’ he mused aloud.

‘The witness has a reputation for odd behaviour, sir. It might help us assess her evidence.’

‘Very well, I shall put the question.’

Mrs Spright replied, ‘I was keeping a watch out for spies. If the authorities won’t act on information, then the private citizen has to. It’s a scandal – and it ought to be in the papers. Some people need showing up for what they are. Fifth columnists everywhere, and it’s no good telling that Superintendent Kirk what is going on, because—’

‘That will do, thank you,’ said Mr Perkins.

‘Oh, it will, will it?’ cried Mrs Spright. ‘I have family and friends in Norway, and I can tell you that there must be enemies among us everywhere. Half the upper classes are fascists, like that man Oswald Mosley. And there’s someone walking around this very village that you can tell isn’t who he says he is, every time he opens his mouth. When someone came asking for
him
, I sent him packing right away. “Gone to Cornwall,” I said. “You won’t find him still here.” I thought, why should I help a couple of spies make contact with each other—’

‘I take it that you have nothing further to tell us that is to the point?’ Mr Perkins interrupted. His voice had taken on the unmistakable timbre of saintly patience.

‘You don’t want to hear me out, either, I see,’ said Mrs Spright, flouncing out.

‘Members of the jury, I should advise you to weigh carefully what witnesses say, without prejudice, as far as you are able,’ Mr Perkins said. To Superintendent Kirk he said, ‘Do you wish to request an adjournment while you pursue further enquiries?’

‘With respect, Mr Perkins,’ said Superintendent Kirk, ‘in present circumstances I think it would be helpful if we got as far as we can this morning. Things being unpredictable, and manpower short, sir. And the witnesses – the young airmen who were present in the village for the dance, for example, or any local man who is liable to be called up, or directed into war work somewhere else – may be scattered to the four winds before we are in a position to resume.’

‘I take your point. Very well, the jury must do what they can with what evidence they have.’ Scrupulously Mr Perkins proceeded to tell the jury that a charge of murder would require the Crown to prove malice, intention, and the sanity of the accused. In the absence of any evidence as to the identity of the killer, let alone of his state of mind, the useful verdict of unlawful killing would be available, which would represent the present state of knowledge of the affair.

The jury would have none of it. They took less than an hour to bring in a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown.

‘Well, Superintendent Kirk, if you take Mrs Spright seriously you should be looking for a Nazi spy,’ said Mr Perkins, pulling on his coat as the public dispersed, most of them heading to the bar downstairs. Harriet, who overheard this remark, judged from Superintendent Kirk’s expression that he was not inclined to take Mrs Spright seriously. Very far from it.

It was a week after the inquest that Bunter presented himself at Talboys. He arrived from the station in John Bateson’s horse-drawn farm cart, and Harriet noticed the moment she saw him descending that he had two very large suitcases with him, made of brown leather and liberally covered with the destination labels of a much travelled man.

‘Leave those in the hall, and come and talk to me in here, Bunter,’ she said, leading the way to the sitting-room. ‘And please sit down.’

‘You have no word from his lordship, my lady?’

‘None, Bunter. Have you?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘You have come with your luggage, I see.’

‘With your ladyship’s permission I have come to resume my employment with Lord Peter’s household.’

Harriet hesitated. It would be wonderful to have Bunter smoothing her path in every detail, as he had done in the past. ‘Oh, Bunter, that would be splendid, but—’

‘It seems to you that to have a gentleman’s gentleman in the middle of a war, even if the gentleman himself were here to be served, would be extravagant, my lady?’

‘Exactly. You understand me perfectly.’

‘May I attempt to put your mind at rest on that point? Since you saw me last I have made repeated and very urgent attempts to enlist in the services. I have almost unscrupulously used every contact that years of service with his lordship have given me. I have not succeeded. My age is against me. It has been strongly suggested to me that I would best be employed in some rural district assisting the local authorities in the organisation of Home Defence. And since at present my family are residing in a rural district, I am putting myself at the disposal of the Pagford district war committee, and of you, my lady.’

‘Bunter, I am very touched that you should regard us as your family. But shouldn’t you be with your own wife and baby?’

‘The powers that be have elected to move Mrs Bunter,’ he said. ‘She has been sent to work not far from here, at Lopsley Manor. I am hoping to see her from time to time.’

‘She is working as a photographer?’

‘Her talent is being employed in the interpretation of aerial reconnaissance photographs, my lady.’

‘You must be glad that she is out of London. But surely, with a baby to look after she isn’t in the category they are describing as “a mobile woman”?’

‘Her mother is happy to continue looking after our little boy, my lady. I believe the work Hope is engaged on is technical and urgent and they are very short of trained people.’

‘Well then, Bunter, the only question is where we are going to put you. You need to be private and comfortable. Queenie has left us to work in a munitions factory in Stevenage, but her room was very small . . .’

‘This house has extensive attics, my lady. I shall make myself quarters.’

‘Adequate for Hope to come and join you when she has leave? The ideal, really, would be to find you somewhere independent but nearby. But the village is packed with evacuees. Although when I come to think of it there is a cottage which should be available before very long. I can ask about it.’

‘I shall be quite comfortable here,’ he said.

‘Bunter, I don’t know if I am being tactful in saying this, and I am sure that your little son Peter is well cared for by his Fanshaw grandparents. But we are looking after five children here already, and Harriet Parker must be roughly the same age as your son. I can’t think that one more child about the house would make any difference; as far as keeping the peace is concerned, all is already lost. In short if you would like to have him here with you it would not be any bother to us at all.’

‘Thank you, my lady. I will consult my wife at the earliest opportunity.’

‘Mrs Trapp will be glad to have you back. She told me you would return to us, but I didn’t see how she could be right.’

‘Mrs Trapp is a woman of very sound views.’

‘Quite so, Bunter. Oh, and Bunter – welcome home.’

‘What’s that, young sirs?
Stole
a pig
?

Beatrix Potter,
The Tale of Pigling Bland
, 1913

A household with Bunter in it appeared to run on wheels, even in war-time.

Mrs Trapp could take an afternoon off, leaving supper in capable hands. Sadie could have a break from looking after children, while Bunter firmly whisked Charlie and Polly off to catch rabbits, or construct a look-out post, and Harriet looked after the toddlers. Suddenly her working time was restored to her; at odd hours, it was true, but reliably. Bunter got Rita and Muriel to plough up a plot at the nearer end of the field beyond the outhouses, and planted lettuce and beans and carrots. Harriet could sit down in the afternoon to write an account of the inquest and add it to the piles of unposted letters to Peter. Whatever, she wondered, writing it down, had Mrs Spright meant about not helping spies get in touch with each other? She had thrown another pot-shot at Aggie Twitterton, too. What an unpleasant woman!

When the account was written down as clearly and fully as she could, Harriet wandered into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea, and offered Mrs Trapp a helping hand. Bunter, she understood, was in the village, at the blacksmith’s.

‘What is he doing there?’ asked Harriet, picking up the paring knife she had been offered and sitting down to the task of peeling carrots and turnips.

‘He’s getting a new tyre on one of the wheels of a little cart he found, parked in the garage, m’dear,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘He’s fixing it all up.’

‘Mysteries all around,’ said Harriet. ‘Why do we need a cart? I didn’t know carts had tyres. A tyre goes to a garage, doesn’t it?’

‘There’s no mystery about any of that,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘Now mind you get that peel off very thin; the best bit of the veg is just below the skin. We need a cart to bring sensible amounts of firewood out of his lordship’s wood, to save coal. Cart wheels do have tyres, m’lady, I’m surprised at you for not noticing that. And the tyres they have are bands of iron, so it’s the forge, and not the garage that’s wanted.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Trapp. Is this peeled thinly enough? And while you are putting me right, can you tell me what Miss Twitterton might be doing, wandering around at night and getting that awful Spright woman sniping at her?’

‘No; can’t say as I can,’ said Mrs Trapp. ‘But, bless you, it won’t be spying for the Nazis. It’ll be to do with the pig club, more like.’

‘Is Miss Twitterton in the pig club? How can she be? She hasn’t even got space enough for more hens!’

‘She is an honorary member, you might say. She contributes old hens past their laying, and sometimes eggs to help out between pigs. And peelings and kitchen waste for the pigswill, same as everyone else. And she gets a cut of meat in exchange when a pig is killed. Mrs Wagget, the club secretary, works out how much value Miss Twitterton has put in the kitty, and she takes it back as pork. All very fair and reasonable.’

‘I’m glad to know that. But do pig club members have to walk the lanes at night?’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Trapp, vigorously rolling out the pastry for her Woolton pie, ‘let’s just say there are occasions when they might. Now if you’ve finished that, m’lady, why don’t you get the older children together and walk them down to the blacksmith’s to see that tyre put on the wheel? That makes a bit of a show. Young Charlie will like to see that.’

On the way they encountered Flight Lieutenant Brinklow coming from the village shops, hobbling along with his purchases. She called to him. ‘You missed a friend the other morning. He gave me a message for you.’

Brinklow stopped and she had an uncanny feeling that her words had caused an instant of dismay before he answered her. ‘Oh?’ he said.

‘Mike Newcastle,’ she said.

‘I don’t think I know—’

‘He’s from your unit,’ she prompted. ‘Red hair, freckles, dimpled smile. He said they had been concerned about you. You ought to be in touch.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll give him a bell,’ he said.

Harriet was left slightly baffled. Had Mike Newcastle said Brinklow had a good line in wisecracks? Somehow that seemed unlikely. Perhaps the poor man’s tooth was still hurting him. But Bredon was tugging at her hand, in a hurry to get to the show.

And it was indeed a show. Mr Puffett was in attendance: ‘On account of there being a thatch near enough for those sparks,’ as he explained.

‘Of course, Mr Puffett, you are on duty as the fire-officer,’ said Harriet.

‘Wouldn’t take Hitler to have me here when Maggs ’as got a big job on,’ Mr Puffett told her. ‘He ’as a lot of soot in that chimbley of his, and that can burn something shocking.’

Mr Maggs in his leather apron and shirt-sleeves was hammering out a thick red-hot girder on his anvil, while Mr Puffett trod the bellows to get a brilliant white glow on the coals. Bunter was standing by, and one wheel of the cart was leaning against the wall of the forge. Sparks were flying and ascending on the column of smoke into the blackened roof of the forge, and out of the chimney.