Peril in the Parish, page 15
‘Well, I never! What can that be?’
‘Something Sally mentioned when she was in the pub, Friday night, before the fog drove everyone out. It may be completely unimportant, but there’s a reason, one I’m afraid we can’t tell you now, that we’d like to ask you about it.’
‘Then we’d best sit down. Where’ve my manners bin? I should’ve offered sooner.’
They made the right responses and settled themselves, along with Mrs Barton in sagging, but comfortable armchairs.
‘I hope Sally didn’t say anything wrong,’ she said worriedly.
‘Not at all,’ George reassured her, ‘just a casual remark that got Florence and me thinking. It was how she remembered you mentioning that years ago a young girl that had run off to go on the stage. At her age Sally probably thinks differently about time than we do. To us years ago could mean a hundred, to her twenty-five. Does this bring anything, or anyone, to mind?’
Mrs Barton nodded. ‘It does, though I never believed that talk about the stage. I must have told Sally that’s what was spread around at the time. Because no one could take in that she’d abandon her parents and brother.’
‘What if she’d got into trouble?’
‘I wouldn’t think that likely either, she wasn’t that sort of girl.’
‘I don’t know if there is a sort,’ said Florence gently.
‘Could be you’re right, Mrs Norris, perhaps we just tell ourselves that so’s we worry less about our own daughters. But if it’d happened to Anne, I don’t see her deciding to run away. Her mother would’ve helped her, worked out what was best to be done, maybe sent her to stay with her aunt – in Yorkshire, I think it was, gone with her if need be. And I see her father coming down on her like the hand of wrath. He was one of those silent, stern looking types, but I’d bet my Post Office book, that Jeremiah Rudge – as was sexton before Fred Shilling – wouldn’t never raise his voice to that girl, let alone touch a hair on her head. He loved her and the boy, Timothy. A few years younger he was.’
‘Was there a lad in the picture?’ asked George.
‘None she was courting as such; but there was two young gentlemen, as had just finished their schooldays, that’d bin staying up at the vicarage with old Pimcrisp through the winter. That’s easy called to mind because such a thing’d never happened before nor after. I’ve heard since he’s come to take over at St Peter’s that Mr Fielding was one of those two boys, for that’s all they was really. But it was the other one I’d sometimes see talking to Anne in the church yard or outside the sexton’s cottage and looked to me like they’d taken a fancy to each other, but couldn’t have come to nothing with the difference in their stations. She’d have known that, she was a sensible girl.’
‘And her disappearance would have been how many years ago?’
‘Must’ve bin twenty if I’m doing my sums right. Mrs Rudge died three, or four years after. A blessing that was because by then she was bent almost double from her rheumatism. She’d had it terrible in her hands for years. That’s why Anne left off working at Hobbs after only a short time of being there. She was needed to do what her mum couldn’t no longer in the home, it’d become so’s she couldn’t peg a handkerchief on the washing line. A nice girl was Anne, never a frown on her face, always spoke up friendly when met. Many’s the time she carried my shopping basket for me, and I’ve seen her do same for Miss Gillybud and others. That’s not the sort of thing you forget. She’d never of been heartless enough to leave her family in the lurch.’
That had been the thought Florence had voiced to George the previous day when he’d told her the stranger said it had been dreadful seeing his mother wring her poor rheumatic hands on looking at her daughter lying dead in the bloody water of the tin bath. And she remembered how she had felt for Mrs Rudge when she talked of the pain her hands gave her.
‘What did you think became of Anne?’ Florence said, again in that gentle voice.
Mrs Barton stared at her with distressed eyes. ‘Well, nothing terrible – I mean that she could be dead and that’s why she never came back even for her mother’s funeral! But it’s what you and Mr Bird are thinking, isn’t it?’
‘George met someone a little while ago who told him a story and we’re trying to piece it together. And we’re grateful to you for helping us do this.’
‘Her parents and Timothy must have known, or at least suspected something bad had happened to her wherever she’d gone. What came to mind for me and the husband was a city, so’s to get a job, in a factory perhaps, or a big shop where they’d pay double at least what she’d been making at Hobbs. That maybe the doctor bills had built up; the ones for Mrs Rudge’s rheumatism. Dr Chester would’ve been good about it, but they’d think it was as good as stealing to keep him waiting on what was owed. And nobody would’ve known if they was in a pickle. To their way of thinking telling anyone they was short of money was asking to be helped out. They was a proud couple, Mr and Mrs Rudge. Oh, I can’t get my head around the idea of Anne being dead, but looking back I should have known something had happened to her.’
‘Sorry to have distressed you, Mrs Barton,’ said George.
‘I take it as a compliment you both coming to ask me what I remember of that time, I do really. I liked Anne, I liked the family a lot.’ She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her teary eyes.
Florence waited until Mrs Barton looked as though she could go on. ‘Do you recall how the rumour that she’d run off to go on the stage got started?’
‘From Miss Hobbs. She told someone … I think it was Mrs Saunders, though I could be wrong about that, maybe Mrs North, both very nice women like you’ll know. Anyhow Miss Hobbs told someone that when she interviewed Anne for the job at the haberdashery, she asked what she’d wanted, when she was little, to do when she grew up. Miss Hobbs expected her to say it’d bin to go into service, not aiming so high as to work in such a nice shop. The answer she got was: “Be a bally dancer”. And to that Miss Hobbs said there’d be no dancing in the shop and no airs and graces neither, but when the girl vanished all of a sudden and the parents were so silent about it, she told whoever that she’d given in to the wicked lure of the stage. As we all know, Miss Hobbs is very strict in her views. Nice to be religious, of course.’
George agreed it was. ‘But why did that idea catch hold, at least for a short while?’
‘Because, like Miss Gillybud said to me, that Anne always moved so lovely, like her feet barely touched the ground, that you could picture her in one of those ballys by that Russian bloke with the name that sounds like you’re sneezing.’
‘Tchaikovsky.’
‘That’s him. Feel like I should offer you my hanky.’ Mrs Barton managed a weak giggle. ‘One about swans, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, it’s breathtaking. And you‘ve been splendid, Mrs Barton,’ said Florence. ‘We’ve dragged you back into the past and you haven’t raised one objection.’
‘Will Anne’s death be a police matter?’
‘Yes.’ They owed her that and more.
She nodded. ‘I won’t say a word. Times are when I can talk out of turn, but not when I’ve given my promise.’
FIFTEEN
The vicarage door was opened for them, not by Miss Fielding as had been the case yesterday, but by the vicar, who ushered them into the gloomy hall, looking – for a man who’d not previously struck them as the least bit vague and dithery – as if he couldn’t fathom where they had sprung from, or for what earthly, or unearthly reason they had done so. And yet he knew their names. Used them in an extended hand greeting, said how sorry he was he’d been unable to keep the appointment to discuss their wedding plans. Looked as though he was reaching deep for something else to say, when his voice petered out.
‘Glad you were able to pick up Miss Younger’s young relation.’ In trying to sound as though he wasn’t noticing anything odd about the man’s manner, George came across sounding as overly hearty as Major Wainwright tended to do in uncomfortable situations.
Florence noticed, and fearing George might throw in a ‘Jolly good show, old boy!’ hastened to say they’d come about another matter entirely, one they felt it important to put before him. And now she thought, ruefully, I must sound like some tattle-tattling woman with nothing better to do than believe it was her moral obligation to inform him that one of the altar ladies wasn’t pulling her weight, or one of the choir boys had been singing out of tune.
Mr Fielding startled her and George by replying he knew what it was about and appreciated their coming to discuss it with him. His air of befuddlement had vanished, to be replaced by a keen focus. The opposite was now their lot. Seeing this he assured them he was not a mind reader, let alone blessed with the gift of prophecy.
‘A friend of mine, one I haven’t seen in many years and did not previously realize lives in Dovecote Hatch, came round an hour or so ago. What brought him was learning of Agnes Younger’s death. He has been, you see, in the confidence’ – Mr Fielding looked from Florence to George – ‘of the man who came into the pub on Friday night and left a letter to pass on to a particular member of the police.’
‘We’ve been thinking of him as the stranger,’ said George, ‘but now we know his name is Timothy Rudge.’
‘My friend didn’t think it would take you long to make that discovery, along with a good deal else. Your discerning reputations go before you.’
‘Thank you.’ Florence smiled faintly. ‘Others might consider us interfering. Are you able to reveal the name of your friend?’
‘You know him as Graham Lieland, but he’ll tell you about himself. About three minutes before you knocked on the door he telephoned you, Mr Bird, at the pub, to ask if you could come here to meet with him and myself at whatever time possible this afternoon. He was told you were out and left a message. For a moment it seemed incredible that here you were.’
‘As if summoned by some irresistible force.’
‘Something of the sort, Mrs Norris. I’d been rather knocked off balance when Kip, as he was called in our schooldays, told me about Anne’s death and the tragedy behind it. We’d both known her years ago.’
‘When,’ supplied George, ‘you both stayed here one winter.’
‘Simplifies matters, your knowing so much already.’ Mr Fielding took their coats and hats, hung them on a monstrous Victorian coat rack, explaining as he did so that his sister had gone to call upon Agnes Younger’s cousin Miss Sophie Dawson to offer to spend the night with her. ‘I was curate of the parish where she lived with an uncle until his death. I knew both of them briefly. She’s a very decent young woman.’
‘What a sad arrival for her,’ said Florence.
‘A harrowing day.’
There was something in his voice. A determined briskness perhaps? Understandable, since he wouldn’t want to distract from what lay immediately ahead – the conversation with Graham Lieland – but that couldn’t be entirely it, thought Florence.
Mr Fielding continued. ‘I imagine you wish me to warn her that she is about to be enveloped in an unpleasantness that has its roots in a time when she was a very small child. One that involved Agnes Younger only by chance.’
‘We hoped you would do so,’ said George.
Mr Fielding nodded. ‘It’s important the news be broken to her before word spreads in the village. Such would be the case for anyone in her position, but she’s very much alone in the world. Agnes was her last living relative, the final link with her parents, and she’s not had a real home in several years. Now,’ he said quickly, ‘I’ll take you along to the study where Kip must be wondering what’s kept me. He was surprised I recognized him instantly, before he spoke.’
Florence and George followed him to a door at the far end of the hall. Opening it, he leaned in, said, ‘The very people we were hoping for, Kip,’ and ushered them into a room even gloomier than the hall.
It was cast of blackish green shadows, causing Graham Lieland, standing at an angle to the window, to appear insubstantial for a few seconds until their eyes adjusted. Did he in general, wondered Florence, expect people to grab at a reprieve, however short, from looking further at his face once they had glimpsed it? Was it the pity he minded most? Mr Fielding would know the answer; as he would have known Mr Lieland anywhere, even on a crowded street. From the little she had seen of him before today she’d thought him a sensible, even-keeled man. But there was more, a lot more to him. He’d be the right person to have in one’s corner when calm as much as courage was required. Greetings and handshakes were absorbed into these reflections, as was a brief reprise, by Mr Fielding, of what had brought her and George to the vicarage.
‘I told them, Kip,’ he was saying now, ‘they would know you as Graham Lieland. Why don’t we all sit down – regrettably there’s not a comfortable chair to offer and you can tell them what I meant by that.’
‘Thanks, Aiden.’ A grimace was turned by a gleam of the eyes into a smile. ‘You always did know where to get started on a tale, whereas I’d wander around in circles before landing on the wrong spot.’
‘That was because your head was always in the one you were reading at the time. I told someone recently that a friend of mine could recite The Jungle Book beginning to end by heart. But now I’m getting you off track. I’m keeping Mrs Norris and Mr Bird waiting.’
‘Ah, yes. The name business. Graham and Lieland were mine from birth, but in reverse order. When one has a Christian name that sounds like a surname, and a surname that sounds a Christian name’ – the lips twisted and jerked at the corners – ‘it makes more sense than using entirely different ones, that’ll bring you up with a jerk or have you fail to respond when addressed. The question of course is why?’
‘We’d like to hear about it. Should we continue to call you Mr Lieland, at least for the time being?’ George leaned slightly forward in his chair, which was every bit as uncomfortable as Mr Fielding had promised.
‘Easier. I’ll begin with how I came to reinvent myself to a small extent. After extended periods in hospital I returned to my parents’ home, with the intention of hiding myself away there permanently. They devoted themselves to me, my mother in anguished pity, my father with bracing encouragement – walks around the grounds, chess in the evenings, he got me a dog that much preferred him to me. Their social life dwindled to nothing. They neglected my married brother and sister and their families, whom I preferred didn’t visit. Suffice to say I was bloody minded and wallowing in self-pity, tearing up unopened letters from those I’d known in that previous world.’
Here he looked at Mr Fielding who did not interpose and continued to remain silent, along with Florence and George, as his recounting continued. ‘And then one day my sister arrived without husband or children, but with the flourish that always distinguished her, bearded me in my shuttered nook, threw a cushion at my head, ordered me to pull myself together, stop behaving like a complete beast and killing our parents. It really was quite a treat listening to her. I hadn’t realized how frightfully bored I’d become. She told me I’d never been good company and what I needed was a job. When I said I’d think about it, she handed me a newspaper cutting. It was an advertisement from The Times; Major Wainwright was seeking a secretary to assist in sorting out material for his memoirs. She reminded me that I’d had contact with him during the war and that he was an acquaintance of our father.’
Mr Lieland dug into his jacket pocket, fumbled open a packet of cigarettes, reached for the box of matches on the desk and upon lighting up eyed Florence and George. ‘You’d think I wouldn’t smoke! Back to Wainwright. I answered his advertisement, with my round the right way signature. We met up for a chat at his London club. He was jolly decent about the face as I knew he would be and we had everything agreeably settled when he mentioned he was now living in a small village named Dovecote Hatch. That gave me pause. I’d known for a while from Tim that Anne was dead and what had driven her to take her own life. Returning here meant facing up to my part – as I saw it – and the terrible regrets that brought. But it needed to be done and Tim had long wished for an ear to the ground. What I wasn’t up to, unlikely as it might seem, was someone remembering my name, along with my having been here very shortly before she supposedly ran off for whatever reason had been concocted by people in the aftermath. The change solved that problem. Lieland, my mother’s maiden name, would ring no bells and Graham would pass unnoticed.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.
‘How did you reconnect with Timothy Rudge?’ Florence asked.
‘It came about shortly after the end of the war. I was in hospital, one converted from a manor house in Kent, all bandaged up following another operation. The nurses would wheel us into the grounds so we could enjoy the fresh air. I didn’t give a damn about fresh air, or the shade of a lovely elm, but one morning as I was stuck there, one of the head gardener’s lads appeared. He asked how I was getting along and if he could position my chair so I’d get a better view of the cricket match some of the patients had got up on a flat stretch of lawn. Before I could close my eyes, I recognized him and exclaimed, “Timothy Rudge!” He said, “I know that voice!” So I told him who I was and we talked for about ten minutes, until he caught the eye of another of the gardener’s lads who needed help with something or other. He told me he had left Dovecote Hatch following the death of his mother and his father’s urging that he make a new start. Had found work at the manor before its temporary conversion into a hospital for the wounded. He said his aim was to have his own market garden. As for Anne, when I asked after her, he said – after obvious hesitation – that she was a long way off.’
‘I know this isn’t easy for you, Kip,’ said Mr Fielding, ‘but you’re almost through and you’re helping Tim enormously in helping corroborate what he will have written in the letter he left with Mr Bird, at least to the extent he gave you the same account many years ago.’
