The Lost Soldier (3 page)

When Rachel came out from the school nativity play, she found there was a missed call on her mobile. Checking her messages she found one from Mike Bradley’s secretary cancelling her meeting at five and suggesting another for the same time next day. Rachel was annoyed, but she was also suspicious. What was Mike Bradley up to? Why had he changed his mind about talking to her? Was he trying to avoid her, or was he simply playing for time? She looked at her watch. It was nearly half-past four. Should she, she wondered, go to his office and confront him? After some thought, she decided against it. It would probably be counter-productive. If she antagonised him now, she’d never get anything from him, and she was very interested to hear how the whole deal had been put together. Better, she decided reluctantly, to wait and go when she was invited. Anyway, by then she might well have come up with more questions that she wanted answered.

She thought about Cecily Strong. Perhaps now would be a good time to go and see her. It was worth a try and she was sure the old lady would be extremely interesting to talk to. She picked up her mobile again and after a quick reference to the phone directory which she always carried in the car, she punched in the number for C Strong, Yew Tree Cottage, Charlton Ambrose.

“Yes?” The voice was elderly but firm. “Who is it?”

“Miss Strong?”

“Yes. Who is that?”

“You don’t know me, Miss Strong,” began Rachel, “but my name is Rachel Elliott. I work for the
Belcaster Chronicle
, you know the local newspaper? I was at the parish meeting last night and I wondered if I could come and have a chat with you.”

“With me?” Suspicion crept into the old lady’s voice. “Why do you want to talk to me?”

“About the Ashgrove, Miss Strong. I’d love to hear the history of the Ashgrove.”

“I don’t know you,” came the reply. “I don’t want to talk about it. Goodbye.”

“Please don’t ring off,” cried Rachel hastily. “Miss Strong? Are you there?”

There was silence the other end of the line, and Rachel, certain that the old lady was still listening, hurried on. “I want to try and save your Ashgrove, Miss Strong. I want to write all about it in my paper, so that everyone will know what is happening, and the trees won’t be cut down. May I come and see you? I’ll come whenever you say. You could invite a friend to be there with you all the time, if you’re worried.”

The silence continued for a minute or two and Rachel let it lengthen before she said, “Well, thank you for your time. If you change your mind please ring me at the
Chronicle
… Rachel Elliott.”

“Wait.” The voice crackled in her ear. “Come this evening. My niece will be here. Come at about six.”

“Thank you, Miss Strong. I’ll be there then, and look forward to meeting you.”

Rachel drove to Charlton Ambrose and parked beside the village hall. It was an old timber building with the paint peeling off and a rusting corrugated iron roof.

It really is past its sell-by date, she thought as she looked at it. They could certainly do with a new village hall.

She got out of the car and, in the cold dusk, walked across the green to the clump of trees at the further end. They were all ash trees, tall and well grown, their leafless branches making a dark tracery against the darkening December sky. They stood, moving restlessly in the winter wind, and as Rachel entered the little grove she felt as if they had closed in round her. She counted them. Eight, Peter Davies had said, or nine. There were nine. Rachel counted them again to be sure. Definitely nine. She walked over to one of them and rested her hand on its smooth cold bark.

“Who do you belong to, I wonder?” she asked aloud. There was nothing to indicate whom each tree commemorated… or that the place was a memorial at all. She moved from tree to tree until she had rested her hand on each trunk, and thought of all the young, fresh-faced men who had gone so jauntily to war, never to return to their homes here in Charlton Ambrose. Such high hopes they must have had. The adventure of fighting in a war, seeing a bit of the world, before settling down to their humdrum lives here in the country. Rachel thought of the pictures she had seen of the trenches in Flanders, the mud and the squalor, the cold and the rats. She shuddered, and drawing her coat more closely around her, walked out on the far side of the grove where the allotment hedge barred her way. She peered over it, and through the gloom could just make out the strips of tilled ground, bleak with only the odd line of winter cabbages. Small sheds dotted the area and well-trodden paths criss-crossed between the plots. It was quite a large area, but even so, she found it hard to imagine twenty-five houses crammed in there. The right-hand side was edged by a grey stone wall. She couldn’t make out what was immediately on the other side, but a little further over was the church, its squat tower faintly illuminated by the lights from the pub across the road. There was no way that the new road could come round that side of the green into the allotments unless it went through the Ashgrove; Rachel could see that. Turning back towards the village, now sprinkled with lighted windows, she realised how dark it had become and headed back to her car. As she passed through the Ashgrove once more she shivered. It was an eerie place to be in alone in the dark.

She still had some time to kill before she could visit Cecily Strong, and it was too cold to wait in the car, so she went into the pub.

The bar of the King Arthur was very warm, with a huge log fire burning at one end and the cheerfully lit bar at the other. There were only two people already in there, leaning on the bar with their pints in front of them. They looked up as she came in and Rachel immediately recognised one of them as Peter Davies.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said with a sniff. “What are you back here for then?”

“Hallo, Mr Davies,” Rachel said cheerfully. “It’s cold, isn’t it?” She turned her attention to the barman, a young lad of about twenty. “Half of lager shandy, please.” As the lad poured her shandy, Rachel hoisted herself up on to a bar stool and looked across at Peter Davies.

“I came over to have a look at the Ashgrove in the daylight,” she said in answer to his question. “They’re beautiful trees, aren’t they?”

Peter Davies took a pull at his pint and nodded, but said nothing.

“It’s a pity there’s nothing to show it’s a memorial,” Rachel remarked.

“Used to be,” Peter Davies said laconically. “Little name-plates stuck in the ground.”

“Really? What happened to them?”

Peter Davies shrugged. “Don’t rightly know,” he said. “There were still one or two there when I was a lad. There was some talk, I remember, of having the names put on stones, you know, by a stonemason. But it weren’t never done.”

“So now no one knows which tree is which,” said Rachel, taking a sip of her shandy. “Which tree is for which man, I mean.”

“I can tell you which were for my uncles,” Peter Davies said. “They’re side by side, on the left. One for John near the allotment hedge, and the other for Daniel next to it.” He scratched his head. “Can’t tell you which the others were. Maybe Cecily’ll know. You’d better ask her.”

Rachel smiled at him. “Thanks, I will.”

The other man at the bar was about the same age as Peter Davies, short, with a small head and features, and a scruffy beard so that he looked like nothing so much as a gnome. He had made no contribution to the conversation, and Rachel addressed him now. “Good evening. I’m Rachel Elliott, from the
Belcaster Chronicle
.”

“Oh yes.” The answer was disinterested.

“I’m hoping to write a piece about the Ashgrove and the new houses,” she said cheerfully. “How do you feel about the scheme?”

“Taking away our allotments,” he said. “My father used to work that allotment. Grew veg he did, all through the war. Digging for victory!”

“And have you worked it ever since?” asked Rachel.

“I have.”

“You must be very upset that they’ve been sold off.”

The man shrugged. “Parish council told us they was going to sell,” he said resignedly. “We was lucky to have them through last summer. Always knew they’d build on them some day.”

“So you weren’t surprised by the housing scheme?”

“Had to happen sometime. We’re getting a new village hall out of it, which is something, I suppose.”

“So you’re in favour of the idea?” Rachel smiled at him.

He took a pull at his beer. “Not agin it,” he said.

“What about the Ashgrove?” asked Rachel.

“What about it?”

“Well, the plan is to cut it down to make way for the access road, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?”

“Better if they didn’t,” replied the man. “But I expect they will. Money talks, don’t it?” He finished his drink and, nodding goodnight to them, he left the bar without speaking again.

“Are you going to fight against them cutting the Ashgrove down, Mr Davies?” Rachel asked.

Peter Davies shrugged. “Doubt there’s much we can do,” he said. “Tom’s right, money talks.” He, too, got to his feet and downing the last of his drink said goodnight, leaving Rachel alone in the bar.

Rachel looked at her watch. It was nearly six, so she finished her shandy and paid up. Having tidied her hair and retouched her make-up in the ladies, she called goodnight to the barman and left the pub. As she opened the door, she almost collided with someone coming in. It was Nick Potter.

“Oh, hallo,” he grinned as he recognised her. “We met last night. Still chasing your story?”

“Just having a look at the village,” Rachel said casually. “I was over at the Ashgrove earlier. Mr Davies said there were eight trees, or nine. It’s nine. There must have been nine men remembered.”

“I suppose so.” Nick looked interested. “I wonder who they were. Have you found out?”

“No, not yet,” Rachel replied, “but I’m hoping to.”

She made to move past him and he said, “Are you leaving, or have you time for a drink?”

“No, sorry,” Rachel said, “I’ve an appointment,” then realising she’d sounded rather abrupt, she smiled and added, “Thanks for the thought, but I’m going over to see Miss Strong.”

“Another time,” said Nick, standing aside and holding the door for her. “Good luck with the investigations.”

“Thanks,” replied Rachel. “Goodnight.” She found she was smiling as she stepped out into the darkness and the door swung closed behind her.

It was bitterly cold, and the canopy of the night sky was clear, its myriad stars sharp and bright above her as she walked across the road to the church. In the row of cottages beyond it Yew Tree Cottage was the second. There was a lamp in the porch spilling light out along the path, and, as Rachel walked up to the front door, a security light came on as well. She rang the bell, and the door was opened by a woman in her forties. She looked hard at Rachel, who smiled brightly and said, “Good evening. I’m Rachel Elliott from the
Belcaster Chronicle
. I’ve an appointment to see Miss Strong.”

The woman gave a brief nod and said, “Have you any ID?”

Rachel produced her press card and once the woman had scrutinised it, she was admitted.

“I’m Harriet Strong,” the woman now introduced herself. “Cecily’s great-niece. I’m sure you’ll understand we have to be careful.”

“Of course,” Rachel agreed.

Harriet led her into a small sitting room where the heavy curtains were drawn against the winter night and a fire burned in the grate. It was a snug little room, filled with ornaments on every available surface. Ensconced in a chair by the fire, her zimmer parked within easy reach, was Cecily herself, watching a television, on the top of which were a family of plaster cats. The real thing was asleep on her lap. Cecily looked up as they came in.

“Hallo, Miss Strong,” Rachel smiled, “I’m Rachel Elliott.”

“How do you do? Come in and sit down. Harriet, pull up the other armchair for Miss Elliott.” Cecily tipped the cat off her lap and zapped the television into silence “Will you have a cup of tea or coffee, Miss Elliott?”

Rachel saw that among the clutter on the table at the old lady’s side was an old silver teapot and three cups. Two were already filled.

“Thank you,” she said. “Tea would be very nice.”

Rachel sat down and looked across at the old lady as she poured milk into the third cup and then filled it from the ornate silver pot. Old, Cecily Strong certainly was, her face crazed with wrinkles and her grey hair wispy round her face, but there was clearly nothing wrong with her brain. The pale blue eyes which gleamed at Rachel from under the pale brows were shrewd and probing. Passing Rachel the cup, Cecily studied her carefully, and Rachel instinctively let her do so without saying anything until the old lady herself spoke.

“Well, Miss Elliott, here you are. What did you want to see me for?”

“It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice,” Rachel said. “As I told you, I work for the
Belcaster Chronicle
, and I was at the meeting in the village hall last night.” She paused for a moment and looked across at Harriet. “Were you there as well?”

“No.” Harriet spoke wryly. “I would have been, if I’d known Cecily was going to go.”

“I don’t have to tell you everything I do,” Cecily said serenely to her niece. “It was no concern of yours, you don’t live in the village.”

“It turned out to be a concern of mine,” Harriet pointed out. “After all, those trees are in memory of one of my relations as well, you know.”

“I know, as it turned out,” agreed Cecily. “But let’s hear what Miss Elliott has to say.”

“Please call me Rachel, it’s so much easier.”

“Well then, Rachel, go on.”

“I was at the meeting, and I was very interested in what you told us about the Ashgrove, on the village green. I don’t know if you are in favour of the new housing scheme…”

Rachel let the sentence hang in the air for a moment, and Cecily considered before she said, “I’ve nothing against it in principle, though I would have preferred more lower-cost housing to encourage young married couples back into the village. My only real quarrel with Mr Bradley… though I must say I didn’t warm to the man, did you?” She broke off, her eyebrows raised in query, and Rachel admitted she hadn’t liked him either.