Secrets and Lies: A Polvellan Cornish Mystery Read online

  Knowing that farmhouse front doors were rarely used except by undertakers, it was automatic for Jess to go to the back.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Val welcomed her. ‘That’s some good of you,’ she said, sliding the cake onto a plate. A navy and white striped butcher’s apron was tied over her short-sleeved top and trousers. ‘Mother dearly love a bit of cake with her tea of an afternoon.’ Handing the tub to Jess who returned it to her basket, she rinsed and dried her hands. ‘I’ll take you through.’ She opened a door leading into a broad hallway, beckoning Jess to follow.

  ‘When Father was took bad, Eddy and me moved in here. Our youngest, John, is in our cottage. We turned the back sitting-room into a bedroom for father, to save me going up and down the stairs all day. Then after he passed, mother said she’d have it. Got a lovely view down over the fields to the sea it has. She like to watch TV and when visitors come to see her, she got a bit of privacy for entertaining.’

  ‘Did she tell you why I rang?’

  Val stopped, and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘She said it was about they bones found at Halvanna. She haven’t been herself since we seen it on TV. Then there was more about it in the paper. I think it brung back memories of her father hanging hisself in the barn. Did you know ’twas she that found ’n?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. What a horrible shock. I don’t want to upset her –’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ Val patted Jess’s arm. ‘If she didn’t want to see you, she wouldn’t have asked you to come.’

  Jess was touched to see that Val knocked on the door before opening it. ‘Mrs Trevanion’s come, Mother.’

  ‘Please call me Jess,’ she said as she followed Val in. Mary Stevens was sitting in a winged armchair by a bay window. She looked thin and frail, her white skin like crumpled tissue-paper. She wore a pink cardigan over a cream blouse with a colourful blanket made of knitted squares over her lap and legs.

  Val moved another armchair forward for Jess. ‘Hello, Mrs Stevens.’ Jess offered her hand. The old lady’s fingers felt like dry sticks. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘Soon as they bones was found I knew someone would come. All these years I been waiting.’

  ‘Mother, what are you on about?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough. Leave me talk to Jess a minute, will you?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Val shrugged. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  As the door closed behind her, Mary waved Jess into the nearby chair. Reaching under the blanket she brought out an envelope. Discoloured with age, it looked fragile. ‘Father left this for me. Not in the barn. He’d put it under my pillow. It was in another envelope with a note telling me to keep it hidden away and never tell a living soul. If the body was found, I was to give it to the police. Only it never was, not till a few weeks ago. All these years –’ she broke off, shaking her head. ‘Here.’ She offered it.

  Jess looked at the envelope then at the old woman. ‘Would you rather talk to Mr Griffin?’ she suggested gently. ‘He’s the new vicar.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t know him. I don’t go church or chapel. How could I? Did I say I knew your gran? Lovely woman she was, heart of gold.’

  ‘I know. I still miss her.’

  ‘Father was never the same after my brothers was killed. Both letters come on the same day. Can you b’lieve that? Mother was already sick. After she heard they’d gone, she just turned in on herself. Didn’t matter about me. I was only a girl.’ There was more sadness than anger in her voice.

  She nodded at the envelope. ‘Read it.’

  Jess took out the folded sheet and opened it carefully. The ink had faded. The writing was spindly and erratic, hardly surprising as Lawson Penrose had written it shortly before hanging himself.

  The note was brief. Dieter Flugge the POW taunted me about my two sons being killed. I pushed him. He fell and hit his head on one of the cobbles. I buried his body and didn’t report it because I was afraid I’d be arrested. My daughter lately lost her mother and brothers. She had suffered enough. I’m sorry. Lawson Penrose.

  Jess refolded the note and was sliding it into the envelope when Val opened the door with a tray balanced on one arm. Quickly handing Mary the note, Jess moved her basket to one side as Mary set the tray on a low table in front of her mother’s chair.

  ‘That’s all right, Val. Jess will pour. You get on.’

  Val straightened up, her smile fading. ‘Oh. I’ll leave you to it then.’ She went out again, closing the door.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather she stayed?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I’ll tell her d’reckly. My throat’s some dry.’

  Jess poured for them both and placed Mary’s within reach. She resumed her seat and they both sipped. Then Mary set her cup down.

  ‘That note? It’s a lie. Father never killed that German. I did.’

  Shock zinged along Jess’s nerves and made her heart lurch unpleasantly. She steadied her cup with both hands, sipped the tea, and waited. Mary sighed.

  ‘D’you know what Father said, after I –? He said he didn’t want me punished for killing vermin. Not punished? As if I haven’t suffered every single day since –’ she broke off.

  ‘See, what happened was we had two German prisoners working on the farm. But that day only one come. T’other had had some terrible cough for days. Very quiet he was. Kept his head down and done his work. This one, Dieter, good-looking he was, and he knew it. Used to smile at me when Father wasn’t looking, like he enjoyed making me blush. But I didn’t like him. There was something … He had these cold eyes.

  ‘October time it was. A Friday. There was so much work needed doing I took the day off school. Father was out in the fields. For two weeks they’d been cutting back the hedges. All the cuttings was pulled out onto the corn stubble, piled up in heaps and left to wilt down. We was lucky it didn’t rain that week. That Friday Father lit the first fire.’ She paused to have another drink.

  Jess stayed silent. Mary had waited over seventy years. She needed to tell what had happened in her own way and her own time.

  ‘I was in the barn chopping kindling. Dieter stood in the doorway watching me. I said he’d better get back to the field. Father would be wondering where he was to.

  ‘But instead of leaving he come inside. He had this strange smile on his face. Then he grabbed my arm. The right one it was, above my elbow. He was strong and his fingers were digging in, hurting me. I was scared and I just lashed out. I just wanted him to let go, leave me be. He went sprawling. ’Twas only then I realised I was still holding the axe … I’m left-handed, see. I ran for Father. When we got back he hadn’t moved. His eyes was half-open. I knew then he was dead.’

  Her hand was shaking as she raised her tea. After swallowing a mouthful she cradled the cup in bony hands.

  ‘Father told me to fetch a bag of lime and the old canvas we used to cover one of the hayricks. While I was away, he’d stripped off Dieter’s uniform. He told me to cut off all the buttons and put them in a paper bag to bury in the garden. He said I was to cut up the uniform and stuff it in an old feed sack then take the sack and a can of paraffin out to the fire in the field.

  ‘When I got there I soaked the sack with paraffin then used a long branch to push it into the middle of the fire. Burned some fierce it did. I dragged more cuttings over and banked it up, then I took the can and went back to father.

  ‘He had wrapped the body up in canvas and bound it tight with twine. I asked what he was going to do with it but he told me it was better I didn’t know. He sent me in to wash the paraffin smell off and make a pot of tea.

  ‘Soon as I got in I was sick as a dog and shaking like a leaf in a gale. I couldn’t b’lieve what I’d done. When he come in Father poured a drop of brandy in our tea. I’d never have kept it down else. ’Twas only then he asked me what had happened. When I told ’n, that’s when he said about killing vermin. He sent me up bed.

  ‘I knew when Dieter wasn’t wa
iting for the lorry, someone would come looking for him. Father said he’d take care of it and I wasn’t to worry. I was in some state with the shock of it all. I got in the bed and cried my heart out then I must’ve fallen asleep.

  ‘Next thing I heard was father out in the yard talking to one of the camp guards who came with the lorry. Father told him Dieter had left same time as usual and walked down the lane like he always did to meet the lorry. The guard asked if he could look round the farm. My heart was in my mouth when Father said he could go where he liked so long as he made sure two POWs turned up next day. The cows had to be milked and the byre cleaned out. There was hedging to finish, the mangold clamp only half done, and the top field needed ploughing.

  ‘Hearing him, it was like all that earlier was just a terrible dream. I dressed and went down and got tea ready. When Father come in he said it was better if I didn’t ask questions, just try to forget all of it.

  ‘A month later – end of November it was – father sent me over to my Auntie Phyllis’s with some things of Mother’s he wanted her to have. Then he went out to the barn and hanged hisself.’ She looked up, distraught with anguish and bitterness. ‘Why? I’d sooner have gone to the police and told them what I’d done. But when – after he – I couldn’t then, could I? Who’d have believed me? I didn’t know where the body was. Then I found the letter. He killed himself to protect me. How was I s’posed to live with that? But who could I tell?’

  Jess couldn’t imagine how Mary had borne the burden of guilt she had carried all her life. The German’s death had been a terrible accident. If Mary’s reason for hitting him was true – and why would she lie – by grabbing hold of her he had brought it on himself.

  ‘Your father ended his life because he didn’t want to go on living. His wife had died. Losing his sons meant there was no one to take over the farm that had been his life’s work. Perhaps he felt it was the one thing he could do for you – take all the blame on himself.’

  Mary gave a weary shrug. ‘’Tis all water under the bridge now. I’m glad you come. I’m still angry with ’n for leaving me like that. But truth was we couldn’t hardly bear being in the same room. He felt bad that he wasn’t there to protect me. I was scared at what we’d done and terrified every time someone come to the house. I feel better for telling you. What you going to do?’

  ‘When Detective Inspector Clemmow asked me to talk to people in the village, she was hoping I might discover who the person was so that any remaining family could be notified. Your father’s letter explains how the remains came to be where they were found. We know they are of a German POW called Dieter Flugge. If you’ll allow me to show her the letter, my job is finished.’

  Leaning forward, Mary pushed the envelope at Jess. ‘She can have it. I don’t want it no more. Think I should tell Val do you?’

  ‘She’s going to want to know why I came, and why you wanted to talk to me privately. I think you should call her in and let her read the letter for herself.’

  ‘What about the rest? Do I tell her what I did?’

  ‘That has to be your decision.’

  Mary sighed deeply. ‘I’m eighty-six. I might last a few more years or I could go tomorrow. Val and Eddy have been good to me. I don’t want to go upsetting them. Nor to have them look at me different. I’ve carried the secret all these years. What’s a few more?’

  ‘That’s why I asked you to come round.’ Jess rested her head against the back of the sofa. Tom’s arm was around her shoulders, his jean-clad thigh warm against hers, their hands clasped. ‘I don’t know what to do. Bev asked me to try and identify the remains, and I have. If I tell her the rest – She’s the police. She might have no choice but to follow it up. But other than Mary’s confession, there’s no proof.’

  Tom pressed his lips to Jess’s hair. ‘Remember what you said about honesty, and being kept in the dark? You got to tell her, Jess. She trusts you. That’s why she asked you to talk to people. You can’t pick and choose what you tell her.’

  ‘You’re right. I know you’re right, but –’

  ‘Stop and think a minute. Bev is a DI so she’s nobody’s fool. The way police budgets have been slashed she won’t want to waste money. She can’t make a decision without all the facts. What happens next is her responsibility, not yours. Tell her.’

  ‘I really appreciate you coming over, Bev.’ Jess set a mug of coffee and a slice of lemon drizzle cake on the low table. She carried her own mug over and sat down. ‘You wanted to identify the bones for the sake of the family. The remains are a German POW named Dieter Flugge.’

  Leaning forward she picked up Mary’s envelope from the table and handed it to Bev. ‘This explains how he ended up where he was found.’

  Extracting the folded paper, Bev read it twice then looked up. ‘You could have faxed this to me. Not that I don’t appreciate hot coffee and your famous lemon drizzle.’

  ‘There’s more, but I wanted to tell you in private.’

  ‘I see.’ Bev eyed her shrewdly. ‘All right. Go on.’

  Jess repeated everything she could remember of her afternoon with Mary Stevens. When she’d finished she picked up her coffee, surprised to see a slight tremor in her hand.

  Bev remained silent, gazing into space. Her frown cleared as she looked up.

  ‘You need not have told me.’

  ‘I admit it crossed my mind. But if I hadn’t, would you have trusted me again?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have known.’

  ‘I would. And as Tom pointed out, I’d have been making decisions I had no right to. I talked it over with him. But no one else knows, and never will.’

  ‘May I keep this?’ Bev held up the letter.

  Jess nodded.

  ‘You’ve done what I asked. Now we have a name we may be able to trace his female relatives and get DNA samples. Regarding how he ended up in the dung pile, we have a signed confession but no corroborating evidence. I’ll inform the coroner. As far as I’m concerned the case is closed.’

  Jess’s sigh of relief included heartfelt gratitude to Tom. ‘Thanks, Bev.’

  After Bev had gone, Jess went back inside and carried the mugs and plates to the sink. Relief had left her feeling lighter.

  After a brief knock, Claire Griffin put her head round the door. ‘Have you got a minute? I need a second opinion.’ She waved a folder.

  ‘Come in. Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ Claire’s smile wavered. ‘Oh Lord, have I interrupted you in the middle of something important?’

  As she boiled the kettle, Jess abandoned the mental To Do list she had made while showering that morning. Friends were more important. ‘No. You’ve caught me at just the right time. Have a seat.’

  Claire sank onto a chair. ‘I must have been mad. Why didn’t you tell me it was an insane idea?’

  ‘I take it this is about the magazine?’

  As Claire nodded, Jess placed a slice of cake and a cup of coffee in front of her and sat down opposite. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  The End

  Rachel’s Recipe

  Farmhouse Cake

  Ingredients

  8oz white flour

  8oz wholemeal flour

  8oz caster or soft brown sugar

  4oz raisins

  4oz sultanas

  6oz butter

  1oz chopped candied peel

  ½tsp mixed spice

  ½tsp bicarb of soda

  1 egg

  a little milk

  Preheat oven to 400°F/200°C/gas mark 6. Grease and line a deep cake tin. Sieve together the white and wholemeal flours, the spice and bicarb. Rub in the fat. Add the peel, fruit, and sugar. Stir in the beaten egg and add milk until the softened mixture drops easily from the spoon. Bake for around two hours. Cover top with greaseproof paper if it browns too quickly.

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  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2016

  ISBN 9781786150059

  Copyright © Rachel Ennis 2016

  The right of Rachel Ennis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN