Beck jumped in. “For goodness sake, O’Connor. The lady said no. Don’t pester her.”
“That was not my intention, Doctor. And Mrs. Devereau is quite capable of telling me herself if I bother her.”
Clare smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor. Perhaps another day.”
She was aware he was watching her as she took her seat in between Hoeniger and Beck.
Three men approached the dais, each carrying their instrument cases. One was elderly, rather stooped, the others younger, sombre as befitted performing the great master. She had met the older man recently. His name was Hartmann. He had a fragile, other-worldly appearance that touched her.
The musicians took their seats, and each began to take out their instruments from their cases. Clare saw Herr Hartmann open the case and reach into it. Then he let out a strangled cry and collapsed backward off the chair onto the ground, where he lay, his entire body twitching. Dr. Beck was on the dais in a second, and he dropped beside the fallen man. Another couple of internees, including the performers, gathered around. The seminarian also leaped up.
“Stand clear, gentlemen. Stand clear. Dr. Beck is in command of the situation.”
The Irishman had come up behind Clare. “What the feck happened? Has he had a fit?”
“I don’t know.”
Beck was kneeling beside the stricken man, rubbing his hands. Hartmann was still twitching, a gush of blood coming from his mouth.
“What do you want us to do, Doctor?” asked Hoeniger.
“Let’s get him back to his tent,” said Beck. “Make a chair for him.”
Willing hands helped to lift the violinist, and Hoeniger and O’Connor carried him away, Dr. Beck with them. All around Clare, the men were agitated, throwing questions at her, as an authority figure. She had no idea what had happened.
Silber climbed on the dais, reached into the open case, and lifted out the violin. Those who could see the instrument gasped in horror. The gleaming wood of the body had been deeply gouged and splintered, the strings wrenched out of their pegs.
Somebody had totally destroyed Herr Hartmann’s beloved violin.
“O
H
, T
OM
. I
T WAS DREADFUL
. T
HE VIOLIN IS RUINED.”
Tyler and Clare were seated at a corner table of the Acton Lodge restaurant, close to the kitchen, where a large, if bedraggled, potted palm tree offered some privacy.
“We all thought he’d had a heart attack at first. He’d bitten his tongue and the blood was pouring out. Major Fordham insisted on having him taken to hospital. Dr. Beck was allowed to accompany him, thank goodness. He rang me just before I left. He said it wasn’t a heart attack. The poor man had collapsed from the shock of seeing the destruction of his violin. Dr. Beck says he has gone into what he calls a fugue. Herr Hartmann cannot or will not communicate with anybody. Who knows how long that will last. Bruno wanted to stay at the hospital with him, but they wouldn’t let him. He is most upset about it.”
The waiter came over with two menus, each in a heavy cloth cover with a gold tassel. He was wearing a shabby black suit that gave off a whiff of old sweat as he stooped over them to drape napkins on their knees. He drifted off.
“Herr Hartmann is not an emotionally strong man at the best of times. Too much tragedy in his life. He’s elderly and not in good health,” continued Clare. “Why would anyone be so cruel as to commit such an act of vandalism?”
“That’s more the head doctor’s province than mine, Clare. Was there anything else vandalized?”
“Not that I know of. Is there nothing you can do?”
“Technically, no. The camp is under military control. The major will have to pursue an investigation himself.”
“But do you have an idea what it is all about, Tom?”
“If nobody else was targeted, I’d say it has to do with the professor himself. Professional jealousy perhaps? An old grudge? Could be anything. Men who are behind barbed wire become stir-crazy.”
“I suppose so.” She sighed. “One dreadful thing seems to follow right after another. I know this incident wouldn’t be considered a major crime, but the violence that had been vented on that lovely musical instrument was shocking. It was more than two hundred years old and worth a lot of money. It’s all he had.”
The waiter reappeared and gave a soft cough to remind them to get on with placing their order.
Tyler opened his menu. There was a splotch of grease in the corner. Not too much on offer, but that wasn’t surprising these days. A potato and onion soup which sounded good, a turnip pie which didn’t, and grilled plaice which he thought he’d have.
“Me too,” said Clare. “And a bottle of your best wine, please.”
“Very good, madam.”
“It’s my treat, don’t forget, Tom.” She glanced around the room. There were only two other couples in the restaurant, both middle aged, and both not talking. They had been served and were eating their meals in silence. Tyler was relieved not to recognize either pair.
He and Clare had liked the hotel restaurant twenty years earlier. Being in love made everything exciting, even this fusty place, which then had seemed the height of luxury, at least for him. On their last night together, she’d been the one to rent a room for them. The hotel staff would never have said anything,
even if they suspected. She was too posh for that, with her accent and county clothes. As always he’d given her half an hour, then slipped in by way of the back stairs.
She was sitting on the bed, waiting. She looked unexpectedly shy and his heart melted at the sight. Her hair was long and wavy and she had let it fall to her shoulders. She had good legs, one of her best features; her breasts were small but they cupped perfectly into his hands. Her privates had golden hair and there was golden down on her arms and legs. He remembered the feeling that he was drowning in her. That night they made love passionately, tenderly, slowly, fast.
Clare tapped his arm. “Tom? Hello, Tom. A penny for them. Where did you just go?”
“Nowhere. I was wool gathering. What were you saying?”
“This place hasn’t changed a jot. I remember the awful carpet and the curtains that look like they belong in a funeral parlour. Not to mention the waiter who hasn’t changed his shirt in twenty years. I do believe his name was Jonas. My God, Tommy, why on earth did we like this place?”
Tyler had vowed to himself that he wouldn’t bring up the past unless she did, but now he didn’t really like the way she was speaking. He could be any old school chum she’d gone out for a meal with. Where was the magic stardust of love remembered? The waiter returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses.
Clare smiled up at him. “I was here many years ago and I think you were the waiter then. Is your name Jonas?”
“No, madam. It’s Charles, and I have only been working here for the past two years. However, I do believe my predecessor was named Jonah.” Not the slightest whit succumbing to Clare’s charm, he turned to Tyler. “Will you taste the wine, sir?”
“Not me. The lady will.”
Unperturbed, Charles poured out a taste into the glass, Clare pronounced it acceptable, and he filled the two glasses.
“Your meal will be here momentarily, sir.”
He glided away. Clare raised her eyebrows. “I got well and truly snubbed, didn’t I? Well, he does look like the other chap. It was probably his father. Where were we? Oh yes, you were about to share your thoughts with me.”
“Was I?”
Her eyes met his. She was wearing a silky blue frock that brought out the colour of her eyes. The ridiculous scarf would go well with it. She smiled wistfully.
“This place does bring back memories. We spent our first night here, didn’t we?”
“And our last. We had a flaming row.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
That night she said she had to tell him something. She was leaving in a week’s time to go to some swanky school in Switzerland to study languages. “For how long?” he asked, but she said she didn’t know. He’d yelled then. “What do you mean you don’t know? What am I? The peasant stud you can rut with to keep him quiet but drop when it suits you?” “No,” she’d shouted back. “What do you take me for?”
“I thought we loved each other,” he said, “that we’d get married and be together ’til death us do part.” Too caught up in his hurt feelings, he’d got all melodramatic. “Go then. Get the hell away from me. Amputations should be done quickly.”
And that was essentially that. She’d written later, but he didn’t answer. Time had numbed his anguish; at least that’s what he’d thought until he’d seen her in the market.
Clare looked away. “We were too young, Tom. I hadn’t done anything with my life and neither had you.”
“So you said.” He raised his glass. “Hey, come on, that was a long time ago. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge
since then. Let’s drink to the present.”
She clicked her glass with his. “To the present.”
The waiter came out of the kitchen, wheeling a trolley. The platters had silver lids which he removed.
The fish looked as if it had been around for as long as Charles himself, but the chef had endeavoured to hide it in a thick buttery sauce.
After a few minutes, Clare dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “I think the accoutrements are rather outclassing the food. We’d better polish off the wine.”
By now they were the only two people left in the dining room. Charles came in and drew the blackout curtains.
“Speaking of the present, do you have any leads in your case?” Clare asked.
“Not really. I’m hoping something will come from the car registrations, but it’s a long shot.”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“Oops! It’s some information I haven’t released. Keep it under your hat.”
“Of course.”
“According to the coroner, shortly before she was shot Elsie Bates was hit by a car. She was seriously injured.”
“Good Lord!”
“You weren’t driving on the Heath Road between five-thirty and six o’clock yesterday morning, were you by any chance?”
“What? At that hour, I was still tucked up in bed, trying to decide whether or not to throw the alarm clock out of the window. I’m still not used to country hours. Why are you asking?”
“That’s where Elsie was knocked off her bike. On the Heath Road, not too far out of Whitchurch.”
Again Clare wiped at her mouth. “I had no idea that’s where
she was. You never specified. You just said she was found on a country road.”
“Police tactics. Keep that quiet too, please.” He had the odd feeling that she was relieved.
He placed his hand lightly over hers. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch the culprit.”
“I have no doubt of that, Tom Tyler. Unlike me, you found your calling.” She held his hand in both of hers. “I tell you what. This has been a lovely evening except for the food. Why don’t I cook you a proper meal? I’m quite a good cook. Can you come for luncheon at my place tomorrow?”
“I’ll have to ask my wife.”
He’d meant it as a joke. At least, he thought he had.
Abruptly, Clare removed her hands. “My apologies. Forgive me if I don’t invite her as well.” She picked up her handbag. “I should get going while there’s even a trace of daylight.”
“Clare wait! I was trying to be funny. You don’t have to invite Vera. Of course you don’t. You and I are childhood friends. Strictly platonic.” He was digging the hole deeper. “I’d love to come for dinner. What time?”
She studied his face for a moment. “Oh, Tom.”
“What? What, ‘oh Tom’?”
“Never mind. Come early. How about one?”
“Perfect.”
She stood up. “Why don’t you stay a bit longer and finish the bottle. It’s a shame to waste it. I’ll pay on the way out.”
She blew him a breezy kiss and headed for the door.
Tyler swished the wine around in the glass. He stared gloomily at the ruby-red liquid.
A
LICE
T
HORNE HAD DRAWN THE CURTAINS AND LIT
the oil lamps. The dogs, well fed, were lying at her feet. Jimmy was sitting at the kitchen table watching her skin the rabbit she had just killed.
“How can you bring yourself to kill rabbits when you are so anti-war?”
“Because I’m not a sentimental idiot. My dogs are carnivores and so are humans. These creatures die immediately, I make sure of that. And I don’t seek them out to kill them just because I don’t like the colour of their fur.”
“I realize that, but it still seems pretty callous to me.”
“You might make completely different decisions about the animal world, Jimmy, but that’s mine and I don’t come by it casually.”
She was about to remind him how much he’d enjoyed the rabbit stew she’d cooked yesterday, but he was so edgy and restless, she bit her tongue.
Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and walked over to the window. “Why is it that nothing seems simple anymore?”
She concentrated on dismembering the carcass, then dropped each piece into a pot of brine beside her. The rabbits tended to be a bit tough as she didn’t like to kill the younger ones if she could help it. Soaking for an hour in salt water made them more palatable. She rolled up the rabbit pelt and put it into another bucket to be cleaned more thoroughly later. When she had accumulated a sufficient number of them, she’d make the skins into a hat, or stole, or even a
jacket to sell at the market. In the past, they were very popular.
Jimmy came back to the table.
Finally he said, “Can I tell you what happened, Mrs. Thorne? I need to tell somebody … No, I’m sorry that sounds as if it doesn’t matter who, but that’s not true. It’s you who I want to talk to.”
“All right.”
She didn’t mean to stiffen her shoulders but she couldn’t help it.
“It’s about what happened at Dunkirk.”
Much later, this is the story that Alice related to Tyler.
The four of them, the musketeers, Jimmy, Bobby, Wilf and Dennis, had got separated from their unit. Their captain had said, “Every man for himself,” but with them, it was one for all and all for one, so they never even considered breaking up. They had walked all day pushing through the stream of refugees who were all heading in the other direction, trying to get away from the coast. A military policeman they’d encountered on the road had told them to head for Dunkirk, “where the smoke was,” but they didn’t get that far before it got dark. They spent a night in a farmhouse listening to the sound of the German mortars getting nearer and nearer. They could even see the Jerry soldiers coming along the road less than half a mile away. Finally Jimmy, who always took the lead, had said they had to make a run for it
.