The Ebenezer Papers Page 7

  Much later, on the way home, talking to Johnny about the incident with Muller, and how he’d rescued Sally, I said, ‘I was so proud of you.’

  ‘It’s only what anyone would have done.’

  ‘Possibly. But you were the one who actually got up and did it.’ And I went on, ‘I did feel sorry for Sylvia though. For her, the afternoon was a disaster. All because of that horrid, fat, ugly, nasty, despicable, beastly, spotty Nazi.’

  Johnny found this so hilarious he pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped, laughing so much he couldn’t speak. ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked, smiling.

  He looked at me, but that only set him off again, and taking out his handkerchief, he mopped his eyes. When he finally got his breath, he gasped, ‘Why ... spotty?’

  I giggled. ‘He’s got a pimple on the end of his nose. Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ he begged, holding his aching sides. ‘All right, but ---he’s --- n-not fat. Just p-pl- plump.’

  ‘You’re too nice, Johnny. Muller is short, fat and ugly. Mind you, he’d look better if he shaved off that silly little moustache under his nose.’

  He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself and said, ‘He won’t do that. He thinks it makes him look like Hitler.’ That struck us both as being so comical we ended up gasping for breath between bouts of uncontrolled laughter.

  When we eventually came to our senses again, I said, ‘Are all Nazis like Muller?’

  ‘No. Some are quite handsome.’

  I choked, ‘I didn’t mean that, you idiot. Are they all horrid?’

  ‘The few I’ve met are not pleasant. But not all Germans are Nazis, by any means. When Hitler got into power in 1933, less than half the people voted for him, but to speak out against him now is as good as signing your own death warrant. And if you have children, it’s not wise to say what you think even in your own home. The Hitler Youth are taught to be good Nazis, and Hitler has abolished other youth organisations.’

  Thinking of what life must be like for those Germans who hated Hitler made me shudder, and I burst out, ‘Thank God we were born in Britain. At least we can say what we like about Stanley Baldwin and his government without getting arrested.’ And Johnny was one of the people doing everything possible to prevent the Nazis, or anyone else, from changing our way of life.

  I’d enjoyed the tennis so much I suggested we might play on Saturday afternoon, but he couldn’t. ‘Taking this afternoon off means I’ll have to work all day Saturday.’

  ‘Is that because of this special job you’ve been given? The one you can’t tell me about?’

  ‘It is. And I must get to the bottom of it quickly.’ Which stopped me asking his advice about the Greenes, as I’d meant to do. His secret service work was far more important than catching a murderer, and he was already working long hours. Better that Inspector Nabber dealt with the Greenes; it was his job, after all. ‘But I’m free tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘And I have tickets for the Strand theatre, if you’d like to go.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ I said, beaming at him. And teased, ‘What would you have done if I’d said no?’

  ‘Asked some other beautiful woman, of course,’ he said, as he drew up outside my house.

  I laughed. ‘Yes, you would too.’

  ‘It’s an 8.30 start, so put your glad rags on and we’ll have dinner somewhere first.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  He jumped out the car, opened the door for me, and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll pick you up at a quarter to seven.’

  In the morning I had appointments with my dentist and hairdresser, and afterwards Monica and Jean were joining me for lunch. I was late getting back, and after rushing to change, I came down the staircase just as Lang opened the door to them. I suggested having lunch on the terrace in the sunshine, and left them to settle themselves while I collected Tim from Connie. She was washing his hands and face, and I noticed a long scratch on his arm. 'How did you get that?’

  ‘Sooty hurt me,’ he informed me in angelic innocence. ‘Naughty Sooty.’

  ‘Did you pull his tail again?’ He hung his head and didn’t answer. I suppressed a smile and didn’t dare look at Connie; I didn’t want Tim to see us laughing about it. 'Tim, cats don’t like having their tails pulled.’

  Connie said, 'So I keep telling him.’ She ruffled his hair. 'But you don’t take any notice, do you.’ And she went off for her own meal.

  Out on the terrace Monica lifted Tim into his highchair, while he told her how he’d fed the ducks in the park that morning. Jean, who freely admitted she preferred dogs to children, never objected to Tim’s presence, provided she was not required to pick him up, kiss him, or do anything for him. Her attitude to children was a source of great amusement to Monica and me.

  But when I asked how the preparations were going for the fashion show, Monica was full of praise for Jean. ‘I couldn’t have done it without her.’ Jean said that was nonsense, but Monica told me, ‘Jean’s there at nine every morning and doesn’t leave until six. Oscar’s in awe of her.’

  A slightly embarrassed Jean declared, 'Good thing too. He needs someone to keep his feet on the ground. He’s too fond of behaving as if he’s more important than all the rest of us put together.’ She asked me what I’d been doing lately and I started to tell her about the Blackshirts meeting, but got no further than explaining how I came across it, when she broke in, ‘I’m so glad you went, Liddy. I know you don’t like them, but not all their ideas are bad. Hitler has really put Germany back on its feet, which is what we need here. I’m sure Mosley would get people back to work if he was prime minister.’

  We both stared at her in horror and before I could say a word, Monica leapt in. 'How can you say that? You know what Hitler’s doing to the Jews, and Mosley wants to do the same thing here. The Nazis beat them up, Jean. You’ve only to read the newspapers to -----.’

  ‘The newspapers exaggerate,’ Jean retorted. ‘Oswald says the .............’

  I cut in quietly, ‘They don’t exaggerate. I saw the Blackshirts attack a woman at the meeting I went to.’ She looked at me in disbelief, as if I’d make the whole thing up, and I reiterated, ‘I saw them, Jean.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ she blustered, ‘that woman must have started it.’

  That made me gasp. ‘One woman? Against all those men?’

  Jean gave a shrug. ‘For heaven’s sake, let’s talk about something else. You know how I feel about Jews.’

  We both knew why Jean hated Jews. Her father had been ruined by the financial director of his company, who happened to be Jewish. He’d falsified the company’s accounts and escaped abroad with the proceeds while Jean’s parents were on holiday. When her father was told, the shock had literally killed him. He’d had a stroke and died the next day, leaving Jean and her mother in straightened circumstances. Jean had married Arthur shortly afterwards, in order, I suspected, to give her mother and herself the standard of living they were accustomed to. Her mother, who never really recovered, died two years later. That was why she’d decided Mosley was right and why she wanted Britain to follow Hitler’s example.

  Over lunch I mentioned I was seeing my solicitor that afternoon. I told them what I had in mind for the piece of land father had left me and about the boys who used it. 'You should see those kids. They are so enthusiastic. I’m going down again on Monday if you’d like to come.’

  Monica agreed at once but Jean shuddered. 'No, thank you, Liddy. I’ve no desire to rub shoulders with a lot of grubby schoolboys. Frankly, I think you should sell the land. Property developers will pay a lot of money for it.’

  'There's nowhere else for those kids to play,’ I said. 'And I don’t need the money. I have enough.’

  ‘Nonsense. You can never have enough money, and poor children are used to playing in the street.’ Jean didn’t have any children and didn’t look at these poor youngsters in the same way I did, and nothing I said would ever change that.

  �
��I could,’ I said, tongue-in-cheek, ‘build a home for dogs and cats.’

  Her eyes lit up for a second, then she laughed. 'Well, I do think that’s a much better idea, if only you meant it.’ Jean never let the things we disagreed on interfere with our friendship. I would have argued for ages, but she used it as an opportunity to remind me I’d promised to go to the Ball she was organising next Wednesday in aid of the PDSA.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’

  As I found out that afternoon, Jean would have got on well with my solicitor. He had been Archie's solicitor, and it had made sense, when I first needed such services, to use the same one, but I had never taken to him. Since Archie's death this stuffy, middle-aged man, who worked in an equally stuffy office in High Holborn that looked as if it hadn’t changed in fifty years, had dealt with me as if I was an unintelligent, scatter-brained woman who would blindly follow his advice. He actually sniffed when I told him what I wanted to do with the land.

  ‘Mrs. York,’ he advised in his usual patronising manner. ‘This scheme of yours is not very wise.’ He put the tips of his fingers together almost in prayer. 'It would cost a great deal of money. And people of that class would take advantage of your goodwill.’

  'You think so?’ He smiled in smug satisfaction, believing I had seen sense. 'How many people of that class do you actually know?’

  He shuddered. ‘None, I’m thankful to say. The working.....’

  ‘A pity,’ I said, cutting him short. 'It would do you good to see how the poor are forced to live.’ I got to my feet. ‘I intend to carry out my scheme and.............’

  ‘Really, Mrs. York, I don’t think I can.............’

  'No, I don’t think you can either. I intend to find a solicitor who will do as I ask.’

  His mouth dropped open, and he blustered, ‘I ---I ---well really, there’s no need for...........’

  'On the contrary, there is every need. When I find someone willing to carry out my wishes, I will advise you where to send my papers. Good afternoon.’ And I walked out the door, leaving it wide open.

  CHAPTER NINE

  That evening Monica insisted on looking after Tim while I was at the theatre. ‘There’s no need to ask Connie,’ she said. ‘I love being with him. When he falls asleep, I’ll sit and read.’

  I thanked her and as I took a last look at myself in the mirror, I saw Johnny arrive in a taxi. I wore a pretty mint green frock, and having decided not to bother with a hat, I ran out to meet him. ‘You look good,’ he said with a grin, as I got into the taxi and sat beside him.

  ‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ I responded gaily, and asked why he’d come in a taxi.

  ‘My car’s got a flat tyre,’ he said with a wry grimace. ‘Probably a puncture.’

  Over a lovely dinner at the Savoy we talked about old times and how he’d once rescued me from a tree, which I’d managed to climb up, but not down. ‘I was only seven,’ I protested, when he teased me about getting stuck like a cat.

  ‘You were very brave,’ he admitted, refilling my wine glass. ‘You didn’t cry.’

  ‘That’s because I knew you would come up and get me.’

  After dinner we walked to the theatre, and once we were settled in our seats, waiting for the curtain to go up, I told him about my meeting with the solicitor, which amused him immensely. ‘I’m glad you find it funny,’ I said, smiling. 'But how do I find another solicitor? I don’t know anyone.’

  'Why not go to mine? He’s a youngish chap. Sensible, too.’

  He promised to arrange it and an evening spent watching Robertson Hare and the up-and-coming John Mills in, “Aren’t Men Beasts,” made me laugh so much I soon forgot about my stuffy solicitor.

  When we left the theatre later, it was such a lovely warm night we decided to walk home. Stepping out onto the pavement, he asked if Archie had liked the theatre too.

  ‘Yes,’ I said quickly. ‘We went quite often.’

  ‘Good. I know how you love it.’

  It wasn’t a lie. Archie had taken me often, when we were courting. But that stopped once we were married. In fact nothing was like I’d imagined after the wedding. On that momentous morning when Jean was fixing my veil, she said, ‘Not long now, Liddy. Any doubts?’ She’d only been married a few months herself and was my matron of honour. Monica was my other bridesmaid, of course.

  ‘None whatsoever. I’ve never been so happy.’

  ‘Looking forward to tonight?’

  I nodded and laughed a little nervously. ‘Jean.... what’s it really like?’

  ‘Oh, it’s wonderful,’ she said, rolling her eyes and giggling. ‘And Archie is such a charmer---- well, all I can say is, lucky old you!’ I thought I was lucky too, but I was wrong. Once the ring was on my finger, he stopped trying to please me. That night, and throughout our short marriage, the only feelings he considered were his own. As I quickly discovered, Archie had married me because he needed an heir.

  I’d made a mistake; a bad one, but fate had given me back my freedom and I intended to enjoy every single minute of it. Smiling up at him, I asked, 'Johnny, I know you’re working on Saturday, but if you’re free in the evening would you like to see Chaplin’s new film? My treat, this time.’

  'Sounds good to me. I like Charlie Chaplin.’

  It was an enchanting night; the brightness of the moon and the sea of twinkling stars turned London into a magical place, and I didn’t want the evening to end. Threading my arm through his, as I used to do when we were younger, we dawdled along Piccadilly talking and laughing, content in each other’s company. The streets were full of happy smiling couples who were in love. Of course, it wasn’t like that with Johnny and me, but after Archie, that suited me fine.

  Parting at my door, I told him, ‘I’m so glad you’re back in England again.’

  'So am I.’ He kissed my cheek and walked off along the street, leaving me feeling so ridiculously happy that I skipped up to my bedroom, kicked off my shoes and danced round the room in sheer exuberance. The wonderful thing about Johnny, I thought, as I went to tell Monica I was home, and to gently kiss my sleeping son, was that he was always willing to take me out, and having known each other most of our lives, we never needed to stand on ceremony. I knew where I was with Johnny.

  I woke up in the same happy mood, enjoyed an early breakfast with Tim, before leaving him with Connie, as I’d arranged to meet the Martins at their home in Sussex at ten. A time that would allow me to go on to Lymington afterwards where Edward Greene's charlady said his yacht, the “Sea Mist,” was moored. The perfect place for the Greenes to lay low. No-one would think it odd to see two men working on a boat. But even if they weren’t there, other yachtsmen might have news of them. We went in the Rolls but as it would be a long day out and it was already hot, I told Al to wear casual clothes.

  We had a good run down to Sussex, and the Martins, who lived in a large Victorian country mansion about ten miles from Worthing, were most hospitable, but couldn’t add anything of significance. No policeman had called, nor had they seen any strangers hanging about. Proof, if I’d needed it, that the man who called on George Crawleigh’s neighbours, was indeed the murderer.

  George had left at about eleven thirty that night, in a lively mood. They always suggested he stayed the night, but he never did. They thought him a fast, but safe driver, and refused to believe he’d fallen asleep a mere ten miles up the road. They told me exactly where the accident had happened, and I went to see it before going on to Lymington.

  At this particular place there was a sharp bend at the bottom of a hill, and instead of following the road round to the right, George had driven straight on into some woods. Getting out of the car I studied the tree he’d crashed into. The woods were quite dense at this point with no space between trees for a car to go through. But why had he not followed the road? He knew it well, after all.

  Al waited by the car, watching me with obvious curiosity. I called him over and asked, ‘
Al, if you were driving quite fast, but safely, down this hill late at night, how could you be made to drive into that tree instead of going round the corner? And in a way that looked like an accident.’

  He gazed at me for a moment, his eyes suddenly alert. Taking a good look at the tree he inquired, ‘Would I know someone was out to kill me?’

  ‘I don’t know, but possibly not.’

  'Well I guess the only sure-fire way, if it had to look like an accident, would be to force the car off the road. A truck would probably do it.’ He looked up and down the road; there wasn’t a vehicle in sight. 'There's not much traffic now, and there’d be even less late at night. All they’d have to do is follow him.’

  I shuddered. ‘Poor George.’

  ‘Friend of yours, Mrs. York?’

  'No, I never met him.’

  My previous chauffeur would not have left it there, but Al did. His experience had taught him not to ask questions. He hadn’t done so even when we chased the blue Lagonda through London. Old habits were hard to break.

  Yet, he was one of the calmest people I’d ever met, and one I felt instinctively that I could trust, in much the same way as I trusted Connie with Tim. I hadn’t told Connie I was trying to find out who had killed Peter, but I would have if she’d asked. She only knew I’d gone to see someone in Sussex, and naturally assumed it to be a friend.

  Al was now aware there was more to it than that. I wanted him to drive me while I went in search of evidence, in case I needed help, which meant it would be sensible to tell him what I was doing. If I didn’t, he might miss the significance of what he saw or heard. I reminded myself that I hadn’t known him long, yet in truth we got along so well that I felt I’d known him for years, and found myself treating him accordingly. 'The man who died was called George Crawleigh. He was a solicitor in London.’