I WASN’T A GOOD LUNCH COMPANION FOR ALAN. I WAS TRYING TO work something out, and I replied absently if at all to his comments. Finally he gave up, ate his sandwich, and left me to my thoughts.
The fact was, I’d been dabbling in crime for quite a while now. That sounded odd, even in my own mind, but I meant on the side of the angels. Not committing crimes, but trying to help bring to justice those who do. And
that
sounded prissy.
What I was trying to figure out was whether my preoccupation, avocation, call it what you might, was changing the way I dealt with people. There was a time when if I wanted to know what was on someone’s mind, I’d ask. In recent years, though, I’d developed the habit of approaching the question from left field somewhere. Devious Dorothy, that was me.
Well, that was probably appropriate when I was nosing around into a case of murder. I don’t think it’s generally recommended that a detective, especially an amateur, go up to a suspect and say, “I was just wondering if you killed Mr. X.” Indirection was more apt to get results, and it was certainly safer.
But this time I wanted to know about a friend. “So why don’t I just ask her?” I said aloud.
Alan looked at me quizzically. “I give up. Why don’t you?”
“You’re right. I will.”
I left him shaking his head.
Jane was just finishing her lunch, and didn’t look especially pleased to see me. The dogs were extravagantly hospitable, however, and by the time Jane got them quieted down and shooed them away, it was pretty hard for her to stand on ceremony or pretend she was just leaving.
I sat down, unasked, in a comfortable chair in the front room and said, “Okay, Jane, what’s up?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Uh-uh. We’ve known each other too long. You’re acting weird. Something’s wrong.”
“One man dead, one badly hurt—that enough for you?”
“No. Of course you’re grieving for Bill, but you’re not acting sad. You’re acting scared, or wary, or something. And you’re not really eager for me to try to find out what happened to him and Walter. Usually you egg me on, and especially, I would have thought, when one of the victims is someone you loved. Now I could waste a lot of time trying to figure out what’s going on, but I’d rather spend it figuring out who attacked Walter and what was going on with Bill. So, like I said, what’s up?”
There was silence for quite a while. Jane stood quite still, looking at a point on the carpet some distance in front of her. I didn’t mind. Jane isn’t chatty at the best of times. I was prepared to wait.
At last she raised her head. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Sure.” I followed her into the kitchen.
She said not a word until she had completed the ritual. When the coffee had been measured into the French press pot, the boiling water had been poured in, and sugar and cream and mugs and spoons were on the table, she sat down opposite me and began to talk. Being Jane, she began in the middle.
“Bill was a stranger in some ways. We’d been apart too long. Happened twice. Once when he was in the war and the prison camp. Seeing him when he came home was a shock, because nobody knew he was alive. Missing in action, he’d been listed. And he was odd. Didn’t want to talk about the war. That wasn’t unexpected. War had been hell for him. A few weeks of training and action, then years of pain and starvation and—well, as I said, he didn’t talk much. But he was—different. Quiet, all the time, about everything. A sorrowful man, not the happy boy I’d known years before. Thought it must be what he’d been through, but it wasn’t easy. In a way, almost a relief when he moved away.”
“But then he came back,” I said. “After a lot more years. I suppose that must have been a shock, too.”
Jane pushed down the plunger of the pot and poured us each a cup of steaming, fragrant coffee. “Not as bad as the first time,” she went on. “Both of us older, calmed down. Didn’t expect anything much of each other, only companionship. Couldn’t pick up where we left off. Too much water under the bridge. Not the same people. He was happier than in the bad time. Limped, of course. Never had proper care for his broken leg. In pain a lot of the time. But—content. Settled.”
She took a deep breath. “Until the last few weeks. He shut up again. Closed me out. Knew something was troubling him, but he wouldn’t talk. Thought it might have to do with the museum, so asked him what he was working on, if something interesting had come in.”
“What did he say?” I asked eagerly.
“Wouldn’t say. Said routine sorting work, nothing special. Got cross about it, so I left it alone. He relaxed a bit then, said we should go ahead and marry quietly, live in my house—you know about that.
“Then he disappeared, and you started in about the war. I remembered how he’d been when he came home, and I—wondered. Knew much of the collection at the museum had to do with the war. Didn’t know what it was about, and—ashamed to say it—didn’t want to know.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re afraid we’ll find out something to Bill’s discredit.”
“Don’t know what I’m afraid of. Stupid. Not like me.”
I sipped my coffee. I had to think carefully about what to say. “I think right now,” I said slowly, “maybe you’re just afraid that something else terrible will happen. The psychologists call it ‘undifferentiated anxiety,’ I think. A feeling that the sky’s been falling in big chunks and is likely to keep on falling.”
I watched her face. She didn’t look skeptical, so I went on. “The thing is, from what you’ve told me about Bill, I wouldn’t have said he was likely to be mixed up—recently or long ago—in anything shady. I sort of figured he was a pretty upright sort of guy, or you wouldn’t have been attracted to him.”
She nodded. “No plaster saint, but a steady, reliable sort.”
“Right. So we’re unlikely to find out anything awful about him. But what if we do? Wouldn’t it be better, in the long run, to
know?
You said yourself you felt a little better knowing what had happened to Bill. Isn’t this the same? Because if we don’t ever learn what’s been happening, you’ll always wonder, and you’ll always be uncomfortable with his memory. And I don’t know about you, but that’s sure not the way I want things to be.”
After a long pause, she looked me straight in the eye. “Very well. Fire when ready, Gridley”
I laughed, perhaps a trifle hysterically. It had been a long time since I’d seen a spark of humor in Jane. “Where’d you learn that one? That was Admiral Dewey, as I recall.”
“English are taught history. Unlike some nationalities.”
“Ouch! You got me, pal. All right. I’d like to go on talking to the people who knew Bill during the war. What about that pilot, Wing Commander What’s-His-Name? Is he still around?”
“Merrifield. Still alive, last I knew. Lives at Heatherwood House, but doesn’t get about easily. Even older than Stanley, nearly ninety. Don’t know how much help he’ll be.”
“Stanley didn’t like him much, did he?”
Jane made a sound that could almost have been a chuckle. “Stanley didn’t like officers. Except Bill. Even with him, some resentment. Younger chap, green, with a commission just because he could fly.”
“What do you think of Merrifield?”
“Haven’t seen him for years, or not to talk to. Bill used to mention him now and again, said he almost never left his room. Pleasant, or used to be, a gentleman. RAF was his career, not just for the war. Retired as an air commodore; Stanley told you that. Probably a better flier than Stanley says.”
“Okay, I’d like to see him if it’s possible. Do you want to call Heatherwood House to check, or shall I?”
“Know the number,” Jane said quietly, and picked up the phone.
Yes, Air Commodore Merrifield was certainly still alive and in quite good health for his age, Jane reported. He rested for a time after lunch every day, but would be up for his walk around three and would welcome visitors. “‘A remarkable gentleman,’” Jane quoted, imitating the condescending tones of the nurse.
“Yes, well, let’s hope he really is. At ninety he has a lot of experience to draw on, and he could be some help to us if his memory is still any good.”
“Apt to be, that far back,” Jane said. “Recent events first to go.”
“Don’t I know it! I can’t remember where I put my glasses two minutes ago, but ask me about my college days and I can go on for as long as Stanley Rutherford.”
Jane actually laughed, and then she sobered. “Dorothy,” she said, looking at her hands. “Sorry about—didn’t want to talk for fear—behaved badly—”
“Don’t give it another thought. You’ve been under stress. Now, you are going to drive me out to Heatherwood House, aren’t you? Because there’s that roundabout between here and there, and I still can’t negotiate it with my eyes open.”
Heatherwood House is a very lovely old house on the outskirts of Sherebury. Built in the early 1700s by a family named Delacourt, it’s made of red brick accented by stone that was probably once white but has now mellowed to the color of sun-washed sand. The Delacourts, originally wealthy wool merchants, somehow found the money to keep on living there until they died out in 1980 or so. At that point the heir, a cousin far removed in both relationship and distance, put the place on the market, and it was bought by a firm that was just beginning to establish nursing homes in southeastern England. Jane once told me how much had been spent in repairs and remodeling, but the figure was too fantastic to lodge in my brain.
At any rate, they’d made a success of the place. From the outside, except for a discreet wheelchair ramp up to a side door, the house looked exactly as it must have when it was a family home. The gardens had been simplified for easier maintenance, Jane said, but they were still peaceful and beautiful. On a summer day residents could be seen dotted around the grounds in wheelchairs or comfortable lawn chairs. This afternoon, though the sun still shone, the air was chill. An evergreen wreath hung on the massive front door, and electric “candles” shone in each of the front windows, but no human being was in sight as we rolled up the drive and parked in the “Visitor” area.
A reception desk in the magnificent front hall was the first sign that this was no longer a manor house. A pleasant young woman, after asking our names, told us Air Commodore Merrifield was waiting for us in the sun porch, and pointed. “It’s just down that corridor. Oh, and he never uses his rank. He’s been retired for a long time, and he prefers to be called Mr. Merrifield. Now, shall I show you the way?”
“Know where it is,” said Jane a trifle brusquely. Now that I was back on her wavelength, I thought I could hear the suppressed tears in her voice. The last time she’d visited here, it had undoubtedly been to see Bill. The holly and ivy festooned about the hall, the lighted Christmas tree in the corner would simply serve to deepen her sadness.
“You won’t stay too long, will you, or let him walk too far? This is a good day for him, so he may overestimate his stamina. And then, you know, he sees very few people besides his son, and conversation with anyone else takes its toll.”
We promised not to exhaust Mr. Merrifield and started down the hall to the back of the house.
The sun porch had obviously been converted from a conservatory in the old house. On a windy, cloudy day it was probably drafty and miserable, with all its windows, but today it was almost too warm. Merrifield, seated on an upright chair near the door, rose somewhat stiffly, with the aid of a cane, and greeted Jane warmly.
“My dear! It’s been far too long. You are a welcome sight, indeed. And how is it that you have not changed at all, while I have become an old man?”
“Flatterer,” said Jane gruffly, a smile trying to work its way out. “Want you to meet my friend Dorothy Martin.”
He extended a courtly hand. “John Merrifield. I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
His voice was warm and strong, his handshake firm. He was a handsome man still, high cheekbones accenting a thin, aristocratic sort of face. David Niven with snow-white hair. Doubtless he had once been a commanding figure. Now his aging body was thin and frail, but I could feel the strength of his character. “I hope the reports of me haven’t been too lurid,” I said, smiling.
“No, no, quite complimentary. You look exactly as I would have expected.” He smiled at my hat. “I must say, though, you don’t sound like a Hoosier.”
I smiled a little at his pronunciation of the Indiana nickname, something like “Who’s your?”
“No, I’ve lived in England long enough to take the edge off,” I said, and found a chair. The three of us, and the inevitable Christmas tree, were not the only occupants of the room, but the two old ladies over by the windows were dozing. I thought we could carry on a reasonably private conversation there, and anyway there was nothing confidential about the questions I wanted to ask. I was mostly looking for Bill’s background, more details to light his shadowy past.
I wasn’t sure how to begin, so I was relieved when Jane spoke first. “Wanted to talk about Bill. What you remember about him. What happened in the war.”