The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1940-Josie Page 8

  But so much for sneaking into the village unremarked by the locals. Every person he passed on the street paused and watched the Austin drive by, some gave a wave. With most of the young men of the village enlisted in the services, the population of Balesborough seemed limited to children, women of all ages, older men and the few young men employed in reserved occupations.

  The village itself was tidy and well-cared for—both the shops and the dwellings. The market square at its heart held pride of place with a restored butter cross and the date of 1483 carved into the limestone plinth holding up the roof. The architecture of the individual buildings spanned the ages, from the imposing old medieval tithe barn and its service range opposite the butter cross, to the local Georgian-era council house, with a few dozen shops of various vintages, and a modern petrol station with an attached motor mechanic shop.

  All the trades were represented in the thriving little village, the butcher with a line of shoppers out the doorway, a bakery and sweet shop, a bicycle and car repair shop, the grocer, the goods merchant, a doctor and small infirmary, a cobbler, a feed and coal seller, a printer, a bookstore, the telephone exchange and a very busy blacksmith. Everything expected of a Somerset village, including the church and its clock atop the silent belltower, the local primary school, the cricket pitch behind the village hall, a substantial inn and at least three pubs of varying custom.

  Gideon drove slowly through the narrow high street and finally parked the Austin in front of the bookstore, next door to the newsagent’s shop, which also served as the post office and tobacconist. He waited while two noisy tractors and an empty hay wagon lumbered past him, then opened the car door and stepped gingerly out of the vehicle onto his good leg before pivoting his bad leg into position and bracing his boot against the pavement then settling his weight against the anticipated pain as he stood.

  Not too bad, considering that he and Miss Stirling had scrabbled around on the floor of the library on all fours the night before and that the resulting ache in his knee had awakened him before dawn with its throbbing fire. The memory of the chase, that oddly glowing ball, and the fiery triumph in Miss Stirling’s eyes every time she thought she’d trapped it, had kept him awake until he finally decided to rise and meet the day full on.

  Damned strange object. Needed investigating. He’d take a closer look at it tonight when they met again. A surprisingly pleasant appointment to look forward to, in the way that one looked forward to participating in a rugby match.

  He left his cane on the front seat and retrieved the heavy box from the boot, managing to carry it inside the post office to the window counter.

  “Good morning, sir!” A middle-aged woman greeted him in front of the neat rack of newspapers with an eager grin, iron-gray hair pinned to the top of her head in a dramatic swirl of curls that resembled the style worn the Hollywood actress on the movie poster in the display window of the bookstore next door.

  “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Billeted up at the Hall, are you? With the other soldiers? All those Land Girls and the evacuee children! Oh, and I heard that Miss Josie has rescued that handsome father of hers from those Nazi bombs, so he’s living there, too.”

  Newsagent, mistress of the post, tobacconist, gossip and supervisor of the telegraph office that he could hear clacketing from the other side of the door behind the postal cage. A woman who knew every secret in the village and for miles around, in wartime and in peace.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m posted up at the Hall. Lt. Colonel Fletcher, of the Royal Engineers.”

  “Welcome to Balesborough, Colonel. I’m Mrs. Peak, Vice-President of our Women’s Institute. My husband’s the Chair of the Parish Council, and the Commander of our Home Guard. He’s spoken highly of you, has my Mr. Peak.” She let herself into the postal cubical as she talked, swung open the window grate and pulled the package through the opening. “What have you got in here—rocks?”

  A rather good guess—soil samples of the area, gathered the day they arrived. But instead of answering immediately, Gideon offered a secret-seeming smile and began filling out the postal forms that would direct the package to SOE Headquarters, Baker Street, London.

  “Official Secrets, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Peak leaned her elbows against the counter. “There’s nothing I like better than keeping secrets, Colonel.”

  “Good, then, Mrs. Peak. We’re of a single mind on the subject of King and Country. I’ll inform Mr. Churchill of your loyalty next time I see him.” He slid the form and pencil toward her.

  “Mr. Churchill—how lovely, Colonel Fletcher.” Dropping the Prime Minister’s name seemed to quell further questions about the package and made the woman a fellow conspirator. “Will you and the other soldiers be coming to the village Spitfire Fund Fete at the end of the month?”

  He couldn’t imagine what the woman was referring to. “Probably not,” was his answer, the one with the least amount of risk to his standing in the village as a representative of His Majesty’s military.

  “No probably about it, Colonel, if you’re staying up at the Hall. Miss Josie will likely make the lot of you attend, no excuses. After all, she’s the one came up with the idea that the village should buy a Spitfire for the RAF.”

  “The village is going to what—buy a Spitfire?” What a cockle-brained notion that was. “A whole fighter plane? And give it to the RAF?”

  “Where’ve you been keeping yourself, Colonel? Haven’t you heard of the Spitfire Fund? Lord Beaverbrook’s idea—everyone doing their bit. Last month we had a whip-around at the cricket match and raised enough to buy a propeller blade.” Mrs. Peak pointed to a poster with the outline of a Spitfire, the propeller and the entire tail section shaded over in red crayon. “See there, sir, already raised £857—enough for both ends of our own Balesborough fighter plane to send into the war.”

  Beaverbrook—that explained the ballyhoo—the Baron of Fleet Street. “That’s a commendable feat, Mrs. Peak. How much does an entire Spitfire cost?”

  “£5,000 according to the price list. Quite a lot of money.” Tears glistened suddenly in the woman’s eyes. “But wouldn’t we do anything for our boys in harm’s way? We brought ‘em back home from Dunkirk, didn’t we? If we’re to send them into battle again, then the least we can do is to fit out Britain’s finest with the finest fighters possible.”

  “Indeed. Have you a son in the service, Mrs. Peak?”

  “We had two sons; lost our eldest at the Mole during the evacuation. But our Robbie’s with the Western Desert Force, last we heard from him.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, offered a wan smile, the ache in her heart so visible his own chest ached. “Promoted to staff sergeant. Very proud—of them both, you know.”

  “As you should be.” Gideon wondered suddenly how his own mother must have taken the news that he was missing in action. She’d told him that she knew he wasn’t dead, that he would return to her. But she couldn’t have known, really. Took care of him day and night when he was convalescing at High Starrow. Had been his greatest champion as he recovered and drilled him through his physical therapy course. He loved his mother dearly, but she had been unexpected source of strength and hope.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Peak.” He finished his transaction at the postal counter, bought yesterday’s copy of The Times, took his leave of Mrs. Peak and returned to the Austin. Having no reason to be found strolling the streets of Balesborough at this hour of a weekday morning, he slipped into the driver’s seat, checked the street for tractors and speeding military vehicles before pulling away from the curb and making his way very slowly toward the lych gate in the church wall where he hoped the dead drop signal would be clearly marked near the top of the wall cap.

  And it was. Clear as the blue morning sky to anyone who might be looking for the sign: a single, short slash of chalk drawn randomly across the face of the uppermost gray stone abutting the timbered gatepost, just inches from the latch.

  Good. Whatever message Agent Arctur
us had hidden in the dead drop was ready for him to collect sometime tonight after the Hall was quiet and the inquiring Miss Stirling was safely contained.

  He continued down the High Street, past the church and a scattering of dwellings, noting the lay of the landscape that skirted the vast perimeter of the Nimway estate, until he could turn the car around in a farmer’s gateway. As he started back through the village, he saw Mrs. Lamb leaving the grocer’s shop, pushing a small wheel barrow heaped with groceries that the woman obviously intended to wheel up the hill, all the way back to the Hall.

  Knowing he would feel guilty as hell if he didn’t offer a lift, Gideon hailed the woman, and, after five minutes of convincing her that she wouldn’t be putting him out, loaded the wooden barrow and the groceries into the Austin. He started back with the talkative cook sitting beside him in the passenger’s seat, learning that Miss Stirling was unattached, but was the catch of the county. That Edward Stirling had been the best friend of Miss Stirling’s mother’s sister’s husband—whoever he was. That Mrs. Lamb’s daughter was in the WAAFs working at the airbase in Yeovilton, and that her own signature dessert —a blancmange—was a favorite of Churchill’s, though she hadn’t been able to make since rationing began.

  Having not found a space to wedge in a response to Mrs. Lamb’s narrative, Gideon drove silently through the gates of Nimway Hall, returning Sapper Mullins’ ostentatious salute, and noticed an unfamiliar saloon car pulled up in the forecourt.

  “Must be those wicked timber people Miss Josie was expecting,” Mrs. Lamb said with an enigmatic chuckle. “Like to see them try to get the best of her inside that wood. Said to have a mind of its own, does Balesboro Wood. Wouldn’t catch me setting a toe inside the place if my life depended on it.”

  Gideon swung the car around to the kitchen block at the back of the house and pulled the brake. “Are you saying the woods are dangerous, Mrs. Lamb?”

  “Not dangerous, per se, Colonel. And not to worry.” She smiled and patted his hand as she opened the passenger door to her two young helpers who had bounded toward them from the kitchen. “Miss Josie won’t let nothing happen to the men while they’re in there with her. Thank you kindly for the lift, sir. Come on, girls, let’s you bring in the groceries and I’ll get lunch started. ”

  Gideon lifted the wheelbarrow out of the boot then drove the Austin to the carriage house and pulled it into the garage.

  Not that he held any stock in Mrs. Lamb’s tale of Miss Stirling and the mystical power of her Balesboro Wood, but he couldn’t help wondering if the lady of the Hall would approve of him locating the secret Operational Base inside her beloved woods.

  If she ever discovered it. Which he could never allow to happen, no matter where he sited the OB.

  Secrecy was the order of the hour. Best to scout the wilds of Balesboro Wood on his own. On a horse. If Miss Stirling happened upon him with her “wicked timber people” he could easily explain his presence, that he’d had decided to take her up on her offer to ride.

  After consulting with Isaac about saddling a mount, he dressed in clothes more appropriate for riding and was heading out on one of the hunters a half-hour later. Prepared to face Balesboro Wood and Miss Stirling together, should they cross paths during his search.

  Chapter 5

  “Just a few more yards to go, gentlemen,” Josie called from the ledge of the rocky cleeve, “and our tour will be finished—” As would be the two hopelessly out-of-shape inspectors from the bloody Timber Supply Department, once they finally made it to the top of the trail where she was waiting in the cool, dappled shadows beneath the canopy of alder.

  She’d purposely tramped the blighters through the roughest territory possible. Around the muckiest part of the lake, up the north side of Windmill Hill into the thick understory of brambles and blackthorn, across the wide hilltop of beech, then down the eastern slope of broadleafs, across muddy streams, uphill and downhill again, through a gauntlet of face-slapping branches. Exactly what they both deserved-exhaustion and a head full of confusion.

  “Nearly—” the older Mr. Rufus dropped to his knees at the top of the trail, braced his hands against the rocky ground, his wool trousers bristling with weeds and thistledown, his rucksack sagging off his shoulder “–there.”

  “Thirsty,” the younger Darby said in a croak as he stepped over Rufus, dropped his satchel and himself onto the ground beside a thicket of brambles and berries. He swabbed the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve, blinking blindly out over the countryside that overlooked the lake, the paddocks and the Hall in the far distance.

  The dearest view in all the world.

  “Well, gentlemen, now that you’ve seen the extent of Balesboro Wood, have you any more questions regarding Nimway’s timber yields and harvest schedules?”

  The men remained unmoving, silent but for their panting, the guide maps she’d provided for the tour folded away and hopefully forgotten. She waited for one of the men to respond, content for the moment to be wreathed in the downy soft hum of bees among the honeysuckle overgrowing a nearby hazel.

  Still they didn’t speak; she hadn’t allowed them enough time between dashing sprints to catch their breath.

  “I hope I’ve shown Balesboro Wood in the best possible light. That it thrives because we’ve always taken care to know every tree and sapling, every frog and bower, every patch of monkshood and bluebell. For untold generations, we harvest the single oak in its time, and let the stand mature.”

  “Never seen the like, Miss Stirling,” Darby said, finally sitting upright, pulling a damp and grimy kerchief from his trouser pocket. “Thorough as a dose of salts. You’ve a dab hand at forestry—for a woman.”

  And you’re a chuckle-headed arsehole, Josie yearned to say. “Balesboro Wood is in my blood, Mr. Darby, as sure as its timber is woven into the fabric of Somerset, its barns and houses, churches, village halls, Wells Cathedral and Nimway Hall itself.”

  Rufus wobbled to his knees, joining Darby in his unfocused gazing. “You’ve given us much to report—” he drew in a deep breath “—to our superiors, Miss Stirling.”

  “Per the Timber Supply Department’s request, Mr. Rufus, I’ve compiled a full accounting of every tract and stand. There’s a copy waiting for you in my office.”

  “We are impressed, as I said. However—”

  However, nothing! “Assure your department, Mr. Darby, that should they require telegraph poles or pit props for coal mines, or wooden fairings for Spitfire wings, Nimway Hall will fell and deliver our timber goods, per their exact specifications, on schedule and under-cost.”

  “We do understand your concern, Miss Stirling–” Rufus was finally on his feet, had mostly recovered his breath and was pulling his note pad and pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket. “But as a farmer, you must realize that an acre of grazing land for cattle and sheep feeds only 1.2 people. That same acre planted in wheat will feed twenty.”

  “Yes, and it will feed forty if planted in potatoes. But you can’t plant potatoes on land as steep as Balesboro Wood. Or beets or barley! The very idea is not only absurd, but—”

  “My dear Miss Stirling, for the duration of the war—” Rufus brushed at the air about his ears, “—these decisions are not yours…to make.” Another swipe at the air with his right hand, then the left. He spun and fluttered his arms over his head.

  “What Rufus means, Miss Stirling, is that—” Darby stood up and flicked his kerchief into the leafy thicket, looked down and stomped his foot “—the Timber Supply Department receives its orders from the War Office, and we—”

  “Ouch! Damn! The wicked little bugger bit me—” Rufus began dancing around, swatting at his arm “–right through my jacket.”

  “Ow, my ear!” Darby slapped at his head, his trouser legs then his torso. “Careful, Rufus, there’s one on your neck!”

  Slap! “Owwww!” Rufus swatted his neck twice more and started digging into his collar. “Get off!”

  It was that time o
f year, when the bees and wasps were easily riled as the summer’s plenty began to disappear. “If you’ll just stand still, gentlemen and the bees should—”

  “The hell I will!” Darby took off down the slope toward the lake below, with Rufus on his heels, both men bellowing at the top of their lungs as they wheeled and wobbled down the rocky path.

  “Ask Mrs. Lamb for a poultice!” Josie shouted after the fleeing inspectors, trying not to laugh out loud—not at their pain, but at her momentary reprieve. “I’ll bring your satchels!”

  Josie stood for a long moment, watching, chiding herself for not feeling bad for the pair.

  “You’re a heartless woman, Josie Stirling.”

  Josie whirled at the voice, knowing it was Fletcher before she found him standing at the edge of the dark woods. He was smiling like a cat who’d been spying on his dinner, just about to pounce.

  “How long have you been watching, Colonel?” And why hadn’t she heard him approach? She usually heard everything that went on in the woods within a hundred feet around her, could sort the rilling of a stream from the rustle of a vole through leafy clutter.

  “Long enough to feel sorry for those two.” He stepped out into a patch of sunlight. Standing there in the full glare of the sun, the man looked every inch the well-trained soldier. His shoulders broader than she remembered from the shadows of the night before, his muscles sharply defined beneath the lighter weight of his khaki cotton shirt, his forearms thickly corded where he had rolled up the sleeves. “Seems Mrs. Lamb was right to worry about those two.”

  “Mrs. Lamb exaggerates. About everything.” Was forever trying to fix her up with a husband. “What did she say about the inspectors?”