Twenty-Six
‘It’s all decided, dear Dor, the termagant has had her way,’ Greg said with theatrical flourish, throwing his panama expertly to land on the arm of his sitting-room armchair. He flopped down comfortably beside his hat.
‘Make sure you put it on the hat stand when you get up, don’t leave it to me,’ Dorrie said, not glancing up from the child’s seaside poem she was going over word by word. She was always aware of Greg’s actions even if in another room. ‘What’s decided?’
‘The hall details, not that one expected any different, but I like the name Mrs Mitchelmore put forward and I voted for it. The Peace Hall, to honour all those who fought and worked so hard to win peace for our nation. Opening is to be November twenty-fifth, a month before Christmas Day, enough time to plan a seasonal bazaar to raise funds for ongoing costs. Must get some sort of heating put in. Guess who’s going to open it?’ Dramatic pause.
Dorrie looked up and considered. ‘Mrs Sanders, she produced a great deal of money to start the building off.’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Mitchelmore, she was part of the driving force behind it.’
‘No.’
‘Your good self; ditto.’
‘No.’
By Greg’s handsome grinning face Dorrie knew it was someone totally unexpected. She had another stab nonetheless. ‘Mr Walters, the headmaster.’
‘No, you’re getting close though.’ Greg steepled his long fingers and put them in under his chin.
‘Very well then, I give up,’ Dorrie declared in the weary, getting-bored way she had done as a girl with her brother. ‘Who is to open the new hall?’
‘The children,’ Greg hooted in a triumphant manner. ‘I think it’s the best idea Petherton’s old dear has ever had.’
‘You mean the village children?’ Dorrie asked, her delight matching his.
‘Indeed I do, all of them, rich and poor, big and small. Mrs Mitchelmore had already approached Walters and he was enthusiastic about the idea. The motion was carried unanimously, and the children are going to sing a medley of popular tunes, and dance for us. The headmaster will call in Belle to teach them a new dance to victory music. I can’t think of anything more appropriate.’ Greg rubbed his hands together with relish. ‘The people of Nanviscoe built the hall. We don’t need some outside dignitary to open it. The war was fought to keep the following generations free and it’s the right thing to do for the young ones to open the hall. The hall will always mean something to them.’
‘You’ve had a very successful afternoon then. I’m so glad.’ Dorrie laid her writing book and pencil down. ‘This calls for a drop of rhubarb wine.’
‘Don’t be shy. A large drop,’ Greg stretched out his hands in cheer. ‘I can’t believe the hall has come from an idea to near completion in so short a time. See what happens when people pull together.’
Sister and brother drank to the success of the hall. They had no doubt it would be put to good and regular use.
‘Was Charlie there?’ Dorrie asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘The same as usual. We did the right thing, Dor. You telling me what Verity had realized and me having a word with Finn. His stomach upset was good timing, although Fiona confided to us both it was due to too much drink and not an allergic reaction. He’s set only on illustrating your poems and getting back to work at Petherton. We prevented a very sticky situation.’
‘We did indeed. We never know,’ Dorrie ruminated, ‘of the passions that run beneath the surface of others.’
‘A good thing too in most cases. Life is pretty settled now Verity is happy working for Jack, she’s a different girl than the one who came to us miserable with all her confidence crushed. Let’s hope nothing comes along to stir up a cold wind.’ A bit later Greg went upstairs to change for gardening and went outside with an eager Corky snaffling puppy-like about his legs.
Dorrie carried on refining her work. Rather than publish a book herself at first, Dorrie, with Finn in agreement, was following a suggestion from Verity. She and Finn were to produce ten illustrated children’s poems and send them off to a literary agency in London, people Verity knew and had got in touch with on their behalf. Verity had advised: ‘They’ll know the best publishers to approach, ones who will trust their opinion. Will save you a lot of time in the end, Aunt Dor.’ Finn was also going to send in some of his old pictures and do some new work to send to the same agency, illustrations aimed at other categories, fantasy and supernatural, non-fiction such as nature, aircraft and real-life historical characters, and maps and charts. He had a gripping talent for any medium. Dorrie and Greg believed in his skill even if no one was interested in her poems.
The telephone trilled. Dorrie went to the hall. She was startled when she was connected to the caller, not so much because it was her brother Perkin but because of the pain and humility in his tone.
‘Hello, Dorrie, it’s good to hear your voice,’ he spoke breathily into her ear.
‘I don’t think it will be for long, Perkin,’ she scolded into the mouthpiece hoping her ire with him blasted all the way into his superior brain. ‘But first tell me if there is something wrong. I didn’t expect to hear from you again really. You were beastly to me the last time we spoke when I rang you over my worries about poor Verity. I don’t suppose this concerns your only daughter? If you want to speak to her I’m afraid she’s out. She has a very good job which she enjoys.’
‘It does concern Verity, actually.’
Dorrie got the impression he was near to weeping, almost unheard of for the immovable Perkin, so sure of himself, uninterested in others’ opinions unless they were male and of equal standing. Her sister-in-law Camilla was fully behind him, one of those wives who believed the man was the hunter and provider and his wife was gratefully to bear his children, keep his house and totally support him in all things. Dorrie’s ginger eyebrows rose quizzically and she sat down on the telephone seat. This was going to last more than a minute or two. ‘Well?’
‘Oh, Dorrie,’ he breathed, a watery catch in his voice. ‘Please don’t be abrupt with me. I feel sick to the core and I need you to be Dorrie the caring, good listener, your good self. Can you do that for me, please?’
Perkin was pleading with her. She was worried and felt the cold trickles of fear, while her heart warmed up for her brother, six years her elder. ‘Don’t be afraid, Perkin. I’m sitting down. Go ahead.’
‘I’m sitting in my chambers, Dorrie, still wearing my wig and gown.’ Again came that watery catch in his throat. ‘I’ve just sentenced a man to hang, always a terrible thing to have to do, for me anyway, please believe me, but if the law allowed me to send this man to prison for life I would have done it, willingly. He’d murdered two men. When I’d heard his full case I wished he had pleaded insanity but he did not. He boldly stated that what he had done he did calmly and calculatingly and did not regret a single instance of it. He was a war hero, had been a POW escaped from Colditz, recaptured and tortured. He caught dysentery so severely he nearly died. When he finally was brought home he needed months of nursing care. I’m sure you would have read of this poor chap’s trial in the newspapers and listened to it on the wireless. Can’t mention names and places, of course.
‘The saddest of things is after discovering he had lost his parents and sister to the air raids, he tried hard to make something of a future for himself. Got a position in a veteran friend’s factory office. Met a girl, a typist, and fell in love. They got engaged. After enjoying dinner and a show one night he saw her home to her flat, left her to happily set off the next day to stay with her people until the wedding, a week away.’ Perkin’s voice was raw and agonized. ‘But the young lady never reached her parents’ home. On the way to the train station she was kidnapped and violated by a pair of drunken thugs. What they did to her was unspeakable – I’ll say no more about that. The defendant was forced to wait for five anguished months until her body was found in a blitzed building, about to be bulldozed down. Every day and night, barely eating or sleeping, he had gone out searching for her.
‘It soon circulated who the main suspects were. They had even been heard bragging about certain details of their vile crime around the time they had committed it. The defendant quickly tracked them down to their local pub, walked calmly in with a handgun in his pocket, approached the two men and just as calmly shot them between the eyes. He put the gun back into his pocket and asked the landlord to phone the police. He’s had a lot of sympathy and calls for clemency, but he stated in court that he now had nothing else to live for, wanted to die and be with his beloved and asked people not to campaign on his behalf.
‘Dorrie, it’s the most moving and tragic thing I’ve heard in ages. It’s really got to me. My heart is breaking for that poor chap.’ A dull thud informed Dorrie he had thumped his chest. ‘After all he’d done for his country and all he’d been through, that two rotten evil swine could do that to the woman he loved . . . No wonder he couldn’t bear it and killed them, no wonder he wants to hang rather than go on living. From the start I kept thinking about Verity, my own daughter, what it would have been like if something so dreadful had happened to her on the way home to me and Camilla. Yet all the while we slated her simply for not loving the man we thought was the most suitable for her – and well, for us, Camilla and me, as a son-in-law. Verity begged us to believe Urquart couldn’t be trusted. She was right. He spent a few weeks sowing wild oats then pounced on a gawky American heiress to announce his engagement to, someone who’ll be compliant with all his wishes. He didn’t care the slightest for Verity. He didn’t have a single trace of love or respect for her, and to my eternal shame, nor did Camilla and I. We didn’t care about her feelings. She would have had a dreadful life with Urquart, yet we punished her for realizing it and having the sense to break off with him. Thank God she did. To think it took something like someone else’s misery to see I’d been so unloving and horrid to my own daughter.’
Perkin was now sobbing his heart out. ‘I’m s–so sorry, Dorrie . . . t–tell her for me . . . p–please . . . do you think she’ll forgive us?’
‘Of course I will tell her, Perkin dear, and Verity will be very pleased to hear it. I’m pleased too and I’m sure she’ll forgive you and want to put the past behind her. Verity doesn’t bear grudges.’ Dorrie had great sympathy for her brother; it took a good man to admit his faults, and she would not rub salt into his wounds by telling him how wretched Verity had been left by the extent of Urquart’s malicious behaviour.
‘As soon as I get home I’ll talk to Camilla. I’m sure she’ll see things my way; she’s beginning to say she misses Verity. Then we’ll both write to her separately and say how sorry we are. What time does Verity arrive home? I say “home” because Verity wrote that she considers her home is with you and Greg now. I’ll ring her and explain and apologize to her. I don’t suppose she’ll want to come up here to see Camilla and me again but I’ll stress we’ll be very happy to see her and have her stay at any time. We’ll be proud to take her out to dine at the Ritz and show her off to everyone. My duties end at the courts next month, Dorrie. I’m going to retire. Dare I ask if we can come down and stay with you for a few days to spend time with Verity? Would you smooth things over with Greg for us – well, try to, for Verity’s sake?’
‘Yes to both,’ Dorrie replied cheerily to soothe Perkin, although she wasn’t sure how far she would get with Greg. He and Perkin had been at war throughout all their childhood, playing tit for tat to a fine degree and few kind words had passed between them since.
‘He doesn’t know how blessed he is to have such a lovely, intelligent, vibrant daughter.’ Greg had raged after Verity’s arrival. ‘We lost our only children. He’s still got two.’
After Perkin’s heartfelt goodbye, Dorrie returned to her chair and considered all he had said. She rehearsed what she would say to Greg, how she would implore him to allow bygones to stay in the past. She knew the story of the condemned man Perkin had spoken about; Dorrie had read all about it in The Times. Poor man. It was easy to understand how he had been driven to murder, even to applaud the fact he had removed two sadistic evil beings from the world. That had not been the case of the paid killer who had shot Mary Rawling and Neville Stevens. One thing Dorrie was still chillingly worried about was that the person or persons who ordered the executions must be local, probably harbouring a secret they would go to the last and final wicked length to keep under wraps. Could it have been something to do with the war? She thought not. Mary Rawling had worked on Meadows Farm throughout the war and had not ventured beyond the village boundaries. There was no possibility she could have discovered anything in the way of national espionage. Neville Stevens had been a motor mechanic at Wadebridge, and had been denied enlistment into the Forces because of his colour blindness, but he had joined the Home Guard. He was most unlikely to have discovered something Top Secret. Their murders were done over plain and simple, deadly blackmail.
Dorrie admonished herself. Why still be bothered about it? Everyday concerns were enough to keep in mind. Making Greg see that Perkin really was sorry for shunning Verity and planned to make amends was enough for now.