The Armada Boy (28 page)

From
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale

Rachel Tracey had been brought up to
be honest. Her initial determination to keep her information to herself had
begun to waver after half an hour's thought. It was only right that the
inspector should be told. Besides, it was insurance: she had seen officers sticking
their necks out before ... and paying for it. She'd better do this by the book.

The inspector and Sergeant Peterson
had come back. She knocked on Gerry Heffernan's partition and approached his
desk, the musty file held before her at arm's length.

'Hi, Rach ... any news come through
about Nigel Glanville?'

'Not that I've heard . .. Can I have
a word, sir?"

'Any time, Rach. Park your backside.
What's that smell ... like something's died?' He looked at the file she held
suspiciously.

'I've think I've found something,
sir----'

The phone on Heffernan's desk rang.
Its shrill cry distracted Rachel, who sat staring at the instrument, her
determination to share her discovery wavering.

Heffernan picked the receiver up.
'Yeah? Right. Thanks for letting us know. We'll be down right away. Ta.'

He grinned at Rachel triumphantly.
'We've found Sally Johnson. We're off to Whitely to see her now. Wes!' he
shouted.

He rushed from the room, leaving
Rachel pondering her dilemma. Then she made her decision. She'd do it alone.
There were too many villains walking the streets because things were done by
the book.

Wesley drove at a sedate pace down
the hedge-walled country roads that led to Whitely. He took each bend
cautiously. The confidence needed for fast driving in such conditions - Rachel possessed
it - only came from a lifetime spent amongst the fields, farms and hedgerows of
the district.

When they reached Whitely the
landlady of the Wheatsheaf greeted them with suppressed excitement, telling
them that their quarry had left ten minutes ago to have a look at the church.

They strolled down the village's
main street to the picturesque church, of a similar vintage to St John's in
Bereton. They entered by the west door. The west end that had been so damaged
in the war had been lovingly restored - impossible to tell that it hadn't
stood undisturbed since the Middle Ages.

The church interior seemed dim after
the bright spring daylight. The sun streaming though the stained glass threw
jewelled patches of light on to the stone floor. A lady of the parish was
busily arranging flowers by the finely carved pulpit. She nodded to the
new visitors and smiled. Wesley wished her good morning. They didn't see the
other woman in the church until they were halfway down the centre aisle. She
was there in a small screened side chapel, kneeling on a hassock, carefully
embroidered by the
Mothers Union. Her eyes were fixed on the painting of the Virgin hanging over
the small, plain altar. The two policemen looked at each other, hardly liking
to disturb the woman's devotions. They sat down on a pew near the front of the
church and waited until she
stood up.

Heffernan approached her slowly.
'Mrs Johnson?'

She nodded. 'I knew it wouldn't be
long before you came looking for me.' Her voice was soft. Her native Devon
accent had blended well with the one she had acquired in America. 'I feel bad about
not telling Ed where I was but he'd only have wanted to

come along with me and I needed time
to think ,.. time on my own....'

Gerry Heffernan took her arm gently
and led her to the front pew. He sat beside her, his face sympathetic.
"You've had us worried, love. We didn't know where you were.'

Tears began to fill her eyes. 'I know...
I'm sorry. It's not that I haven't been happy in the Slates. Ed and I have had
a good life there, but..." She began to cry. Heffernan fished in his
pocket for a handkerchief, but the only one he could find was unironed and
decorated with some unappealing stains. He signalled to Wesley, who produced a
clean one.

Sally Johnson blew her nose loudly
and wiped her eyes. 'I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused. How did you
find me?'

'A young man called Oliver Ballantyne
... quite taken with you, he was.'

That made her smile. She must have
been very pretty as a girl... the queen of the jitterbug at the GI socials all
those years ago.

"Such a nice boy, Oliver ...
bit of a charmer, though.' she added affectionately.

'Would you like us to give you a
lift back to Bereton, Mrs Johnson?' asked Wesley.

Sally Johnson looked at him and
shook her head. 'Not yet... is that all right?'

"Course it is, love," said
Heffernan. 'You take your lime."

'I'd like you to understand ... I
really would.' She twisted Wesley's handkerchief in her hands. I never intended
to stay away for so long but... I knew I couldn't go back...."

'Is there anything you'd like to
tell us... about what happened last Sunday night?'

She looked at the inspector, puzzled.
'You mean poor Norman? Is that it? I did something rather silly, didn't I? I
told that policeman I'd been for a walk on the beach. I didn't think it'd do any
harm ... after all, it had nothing to do with poor Norman's death and I really
didn't want Ed to find out where I'd gone. I just wasn't ready lo tell him ...
I was still confused.'

'So where were you?'

'I drove here ... to Whitely. We
lived here until 1944, my parents and me - and my brother. He was killed in the
war ... in Italy. Then there was the evacuation. They gave us a couple of weeks
to get out. We were lucky. I suppose ... my aunt had a shop in Maleton so we
went there, and when my uncle died my father ended up running it. We never came
back to Whitely. It was just a childhood memory ... my land of lost content.'
She smiled wistfully. 'We'd lived here for centuries, my family. And there are all
the memories of Mum and Dad and George, my brother... .'

Her eyes filled with tears again.
She took hold of Heffernan's hand. 'I've something to show you... come and
see.' She led him to the south aisle where a stone plaque stood proudly on the
wall. George Beesly. Elizabeth Beesly. Francis Beesly. Jane Beesly. Matthew
Beesly... The list went on - generations of Beeslys lay in the vault beneath
the plaque. Near the family vault stood a bronze war memorial which listed the
dead of both world wars. It was surrounded by wreaths of bright red poppies.
Sally pointed to a name: George Beesly. 'My brother.' she whispered. 'There are
more of my relatives buried in the churchyard. I feel I'm part of this village
... even after all these years. Buffalo was just a place to visit... can you
understand that?'

Heffernan nodded. He understood.
'What will you do now?'

'I didn't tell you where I was on Sunday night, did I?' She began to walk
towards the west door, out of the church. When they reached the street Sally pointed
to a pink-washed, double-fronted house: an attractive building, not large but
possessed of pleasing Georgian proportions and a handsome oak door with a gleaming
brass knocker. Jutting from its upper storey was a For Sale sign.

'I saw a picture in a real estate
office in Tradmouth.' She used the American term, Heffernan noted. T came to
have a look at it on Sunday night. I'm buying it,' she said simply.' It's where
I was brought up. I'm coming home.' She hesitated. 'You see.
Inspector, the doctors in the States have found a tumour. It's slow-growing -
they say that with treatment I might survive two years... maybe three, maybe
five ... they don't know. I don't want to die over there. Does that sound silly
to you?'

Heffernan shook his head. It didn't
sound silly at all. 'What will your husband say?'

'I don't know ... that's why I've
been so secretive. But there's nothing for him in Buffalo. The kids have moved
away and he's got no other family. I was praying back there that he'll
understand that I couldn't face ending my life over there ... that I had to come
home.'

'Would you like us to take you to
him now?' said Wesley.

She nodded, a small, secret smile flitting
across her face as she looked back towards her childhood home. Sally Johnson
was content... she was going home for good.

They dropped Sally Johnson off at
the Clearview Hotel. They asked if she wanted them to go in with her but she
declined; facing Ed was something she had to do alone. They stayed outside just
long enough to see Ed Johnson run arthritically towards his wife
and take her in his arms, tears in his eyes.

It was lunch-time so they made for
the Bereton Arms: no police force ever functioned well on an empty stomach.
Half an hour later, with their hunger satisfied, they strolled slowly back past
the church. The great oak door stood open and the vicar, about to leave,
spotted them and waved. They walked up the churchyard path towards him as he
stood in the porch wearing a benevolent smile of greeting.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I
was going to come down to the village to ask you how that unfortunate young man
was.'

'Still unconscious. I'm afraid. Did
you know he was Mrs Slater's nephew ... from the Clearview Hotel?'

The vicar looked genuinely surprised.
In the enclosed world of Bereton visiting nephews normally stayed
en famille
as welcome guests - they
didn't roam the streets with knives robbing village shops. 'No... no, I didn't
know that, l know Mrs Slater, of course... she shows her face in church at
Christmas and Easter like so many people these days. Busy woman.'

'I suppose her mother's one of your
regulars?'

' Her mother? No, as a matter of fact
she isn't... not set foot in the church since I've been here. I sec her walking
around the village, though ... she tends to ignore me. Is the young man expected
to recover?'

'Touch and go. the quacks say.'

'And is he your murderer, do you
think?'

Gerry Heffernan had never lied to a
man of the cloth. 'We did think so but now the evidence points to him not being
our man.'

'So his bid for sanctuary was in
vain?'

Sanctuary?' asked Heffernan. puzzled.
'Oh yeah ... the knocker.'

"Ring." corrected Wesley.

'If that had happened five hundred
years ago. Inspector, you wouldn't have been able to lay a finger on him ...
not once he'd touched that ring. If he managed to elude his pursuers and reach
a consecrated place, then once he'd made confession and given up
his weapons he was safe.'

'Churches'd be packed lo the rafters
if they could do that today.' said Heffernan incredulously.

'Oh, there were certain conditions,
Inspector. He had to confess to the coroner within forty days, dressed in
sackcloth. Then he had to flee the country, forfeiting all his possessions. He
had to travel to the coast by the shortest route, wearing a white robe and carrying
a cross.'

'Good idea ... let the French police deal with 'em.'

'It might be a reciprocal arrangement,
sir . .. we'd get all the French villains.' Wesley grinned. 'I hope our
sanctuary-seeker didn't give you too much of a shock, Vicar.'

'Not at all. Sergeant ... and call
me Simon, please. Everyone does. Actually I wanted a word with you. I've talked
to one of my sidesmen about that grave in the south aisle ... nice old boy - he
was here when the church was restored after the war. He remembers seeing it, so
if you and Neil are interested I've no objection to you moving the hymn-book cupboard
to have a look.' He led Wesley over to the cupboard, a monumental structure. 'It's
heavy, mind ... I wish you luck."

I think we'll manage to shift that. Neil's
got some students assisting with the dig so we've got plenty of help.'