Season of Darkness Read online

  ALSO BY MAUREEN JENNINGS

  Except the Dying

  Under the Dragon’s Tail

  Poor Tom is Cold

  Let Loose the Dogs

  Night’s Child

  Vices of My Blood

  A Journeyman to Grief

  Copyright © 2011 by Maureen Jennings

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Jennings, Maureen

  Season of darkness / Maureen Jennings.

  eISBN: 978-0-7710-4327-7

  I. Title.

  PS8569.E562S43 2011 C813′.54 C2010-905272-2

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd., P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011925618

  Cover art: houses © Panoramic Images / Getty;

  plane © David Fowler / Shutterstock.com

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

  75 Sherbourne Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5A 2P9

  www.mcclelland.com

  v3.1

  For my wonderful husband and chief supporter, Iden Ford

  And also for Thomas Craig, actor par excellence, who

  inspired me to create Tom Tyler

  “it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness”

  Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Drawing the chair closer to the table, he sat down and shook a cigarette from the pack. He lit it and took a few deep draws, so that the tip glowed red. He’d already folded the handkerchief, and now he picked it up and stuffed it in his mouth. It wasn’t that he doubted his own resolve, there was no question of that, but he’d learned to accept the body’s instinctive weaknesses and to make allowances. The walls of this house were thin and he didn’t want to risk being heard.

  He raised his bare left arm and studied for a moment the small tattoo just below his armpit. Then, deliberately, he pressed the tip of the cigarette into his flesh and held it there. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he bit down on the handkerchief. When he thought he had accomplished what he needed to, he lifted the cigarette away. The stench of burning flesh was nauseating but he welcomed it. He’d smelled it before and it reminded him that he was a soldier. He spat out the handkerchief and leaned forward, hands on his knees, head bent until his breathing slowed. He allowed one soft moan to come from his lips. Then he took the tin of salve from the table beside him and applied it carefully to the wound.

  He got up, went over to the tiny window, and looked down at the street below. A young woman was walking by pushing a pram. She was pretty in her red and white flowered frock, the early spring sun creating a halo of her fair hair. She bent over the pram, attending to a child he couldn’t see.

  He went to the table where he’d placed a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a tall glass full, picked up his cigarette, and took another deep puff. He studied the glowing end. Ignoring the gag this time, he lifted his right arm and, with his left hand, pressed the tip of the cigarette against the soft flesh of his underarm.

  He held it there until he could stand it no longer.

  1.

  IN SPITE OF THE FACT THAT SHE’D GOT ONLY A FEW hours sleep, Elsie Bates was in great spirits. Nothing like a nice bit of dock to make a girl smile. When he’d told her this was his first time, she’d expected him to be clumsy and done too fast, but he wasn’t. She’d helped him out here and there but mostly he’d learned all by himself. Of course, like any man born to Eve, he’d started to show a bit of possessiveness right off the bat, and she’d had to make it clear that nobody owned her. Elsie grinned at the memory, then impulsively pushed down on the accelerator as far as she dared. The sun wasn’t yet up and the road, which was hemmed in on either side by tall hedgerows, was pitch black. She had her headlights on, inadequate as they were with the strips of blackout tape across them, and she was driving as close to the middle of the road as she could, the lorry rattling and shaking on the rough surface.

  She started to sing to the tune of the “Colonel Bogey March.”

  Hitler has only got one ball,

  Goering has two but they are small

  Wait ’til she told Rose about last night. Rosie kept saying she was saving herself, but as Elsie reminded her, “There’s a war on, my pet. Butter’s rationed but that don’t mean we have to be.”

  Himmler has something sim’lar,

  But poor old Goebbels has no balls at all.

  Elsie fingered the strap of her dungarees and smiled at the feel of the two bank notes she’d sewn in there. Two quid would go a long way. When she’d told Rose the story, her friend had been nervous.

  “Oo, Elsie, be careful. People don’t like to be blackmailed.”

  “Who said anything about blackmail? I didn’t say nothing. Nothing at all except to mention what I’d seen, and out it popped: ‘Ow much to keep that to yourself? Didn’t come from me first.” She’d pinched Rose’s thin cheek. “We won’t
be greedy. The occasional quid will do nicely. Stroke of luck, weren’ it? Me being there at that moment. Next leave we get, we’re going to Birmingham for a few larks. Nobody’ll wonder where the dosh is coming from. If asked, we’ll say it’s our wages saved up, which is a joke.”

  “You’re as cunning as an old cat,” said Rose. “I just hope you’ve got as many lives.”

  Elsie had taken the remark as a compliment. She’d learned at too early an age to be that way. You had to if you were going to get out of that bleeding hellhole of a slum in any way intact. She made the sign of the cross over her chest. “May God see fit to drop a bomb on all of them.”

  Hitler has only got one ball,

  The other is on the kitchen wall.

  His mother, the dirty bugger,

  Cut it off when he was small.

  The lorry went over a bump, gave a short cough, a splutter or two, then went silent and began to roll to a stop.

  “Sod it, not again.”

  It was the third time this month the bloody thing had acted up. Elsie managed to steer over to the side, as close to the hedgerow as possible, before the momentum died. The road was barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass, and she’d bring a lot of aggravation onto herself if she blocked the way completely. She tried turning the ignition key but the lorry was dead as a doornail. Sod, sod, and more sod. She was on a tight schedule. She had to pick up the girls at the hostel on time. Miss Stillwell, the warden, could be a bloody tartar. “Late again, Miss Bates? Do pull up your socks, or I shall have to put you on report.” Toffee-nosed old cow. If ever a woman acted like a dried-up spinster, it was her.

  Well, no sense in sitting here on her arse. Good thing she’d brought her bike. She climbed down from the lorry. Somewhere along the way her back light had been knocked out, but the front lamp was working. Not that it was a lot of use, with the obligatory taped strips across it.

  The woods pressed in close here, narrowing the road even more. Elsie didn’t like the country in the dark. She was used to paved streets and houses crammed together; a sense of the surrounding humanity. You could go for miles out here and not meet a soul. The rooks were putting up a God-awful clamour. Old Morgan had told them that sometimes birds can be as good as a watch dog, giving off warnings that there’s danger near.

  She almost wished she’d brought the gun with her.

  As she pedalled, she began to sing again to the tune of “Land of Hope and Glory.”

  Land of soap and water

  Hitler’s having a bath

  Churchill’s looking through the keyhole

  Having a jolly good laugh

  Be … e … e … e … cause,

  Hitler has only one small ball …

  She was glad for her overcoat. The pre-dawn air was chill and damp, just a bit of a hint that summer was ending. Fresh though, very fresh; one good thing you could say for the country. Since she’d been here, she gained some weight and a good colour, which they had all admitted when she went home last time. After she’d signed up with the Land Army, her dad, the miserable bugger, had said she wouldn’t last a week, which only made her determined to show him. It hadn’t been easy. When she’d first arrived in Shropshire, she’d never even seen a live cow before, let alone the bloody huge bull with the ring in its wet nose and its enormous goolies hanging down. The work in the fields was backbreaking, the hours appallingly long, and at first many of the farmers had been contemptuous of the girls, not willing to take into account their inexperience. Now the Land girls had earned their grudging respect. They worked as hard as men and learned fast. Elsie, herself, had been promoted to forewoman after only two months. When she’d written to tell Ma and Dad and the others, nobody’d bothered to answer. Sod them anyway.

  Dawn was starting to seep through the trees and the exercise was getting her blood flowing. She kicked her feet off the pedals and did a little swoop from side to side just for fun. Whoopee! There was something to be said about this war. She’d never have had this experience stuck in the filthy London back-to-back housing where she’d grown up. She kicked out again. Whoopee! There was a dance in the village tonight and she’d be there, new frock, new sweetheart.

  Hold on, was that a car? Maybe she could cadge a lift. She glanced over her shoulder. She heard the roar of the car as it emerged out of the darkness, the slitted headlights gleaming like cat’s eyes. It was travelling fast. Too fast. Elsie swerved out of the way.

  “Hey, slow down,” she yelled.

  But in a moment the car was upon her.

  2.

  TOM TYLER, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR, SHROPSHIRE constabulary, was having another of his unpolicemanlike dreams. Ever since he’d run into Clare at the market a few days ago, he’d been dreaming about her. Sometimes, they were quarrelling and he was shouting at her, the way he had when she had told him all those years ago she was leaving. Sometimes the dream was unbearably sweet and he was lying with her in his arms. This time, he was trying to find her, running through the empty streets of Whitchurch, calling her name. He’d actually been crying. The pain of that loss was already bringing him to the surface of consciousness when he felt somebody shaking him on the shoulder.

  “Dad. Dad. Wake up. You’re wanted on the telephone.”

  He opened his eyes. His daughter, Janet, was standing beside the bed.

  “Who is it?” he said, his tongue thick. Too much booze last night.

  “Sir Percy Somerville. He says it’s urgent.”

  Groaning, Tyler sat up, waiting until the room stopped spinning before he ventured to stand.

  “Gosh, Dad, you smell of beer. That must have been a super party.”

  “It was a victory party and don’t be cheeky.” He yawned. “Did Sir P. say what he wanted?”

  “Mom was the one who answered. All I know is he said it was urgent.”

  Vera’s voice, shrill and irritated, came up from downstairs. “What are you doing? Sir Percy’s waiting.”

  Tyler winked at his daughter. “I need to go to the loo first. Tell your mom to say I’ll call him right back.”

  Janet headed for the door, then turned. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”

  He regarded her. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and her normally sunny expression had disappeared.

  “What’s up, sweetheart?”

  “I can’t get into it now. Can we talk when you come home?”

  “Of course. What is it, boy troubles?”

  She flinched and answered sharply. “No. Nothing like that.”

  Oops. He’d trod on a sensitive topic, obviously. “You don’t have to take my head off, Jan.”

  “Sorry, Dad … I …” She didn’t finish and left.

  He shuffled off to the toilet. His mouth was foul and his intestines felt as if somebody had had a go at them with a scrubbing brush. Relief from his bladder achieved, he pulled the chain, leaning for a moment over the toilet bowl, wondering if he was going to be sick. No, it seemed all right. He padded into the adjoining bathroom and stared into the mirror. He stuck out his tongue. Ugh. You could run a comb through that fur. His complexion was fair, the kind that goes with carrot red hair, and yesterday’s sun had burned his nose and flamed his cheeks. He’d been in the open air all day, first visiting some of the local farmers to check their stock, and later playing football. His team had won the game and it was definitely worth a bit of peeling.

  Moving as fast as his head would allow, he shaved, and rinsed out his mouth. Finally, he went slowly downstairs, still the worse for wear, not completely awake but at least alive.

  He could see Vera wiping at something on the kitchen table. He had the feeling it was where he’d dribbled jam late last night when he’d tried to make himself a piece of toast. He’d hear about that one.

  “Morning.” Once he would have kissed her; now they didn’t even exchange pecks.

  “Take your time why don’t you? Sir Percy is waiting.” There was a tight knot between her eyebrows. “You were late coming home last night.”
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  “I know, I know, but it’s not every day the Wolverines win a championship. The lads had to celebrate.” He poured himself a glass of water and gulped some down. “Did Percy say what he wanted at this ungodly hour?”

  “No, but he was in a real tizzy. You’d better give him a ring right away.” Vera was already dressed in her flowered house frock, her hair combed and pinned back. She must have been up at the crack of dawn. “Had a bad night, did you?”

  She had turned away from him and he hardly heard the question.

  “Why’d you say that?” he asked, startled.

  “First, if you’ll excuse the expression, you’ve got a face on you that would turn milk sour, and second, you were moaning and twitching in your sleep like the devil was after you.”

  He pushed away the feeling of guilt over his dream. Vera was very perceptive where he was concerned, but surely not even she could read his mind.

  He shrugged. “One too many, I suppose.”

  Taking the glass of water with him, he walked into the minuscule hall and picked up the telephone. The operator’s cheery voice came on the line first. “Number, please.”

  “Hello, Mavis. It’s Tom here. Get me Beeton Manor, will you? I want to speak to Sir Percy.”

  “Tom? What were you lads up to last night? Charlie came home drunk as a lord and singing at the top of his voice. He woke up the whole neighbourhood.”

  Tyler groaned to himself, his memory of the final stages of the celebration lost in a beery haze.

  “Good thing he’s got a fine voice, Mavis. How is he this morning?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea. When I left he was dead to the world.”

  “Well, he did score the winning goal. He deserves to celebrate.”

  Mavis chuckled. “I suppose you’re right. It has been a long time coming. Hold on, I’ll connect you with Sir Percy. He sounds upset.” There was a short pause and Tyler drank some more water. He felt as if he were trying to irrigate the Sahara.

  Then Mavis was back.

  “Go ahead please, Sir Percy.”

  The magistrate’s rumbly, slightly neighing voice came over the line. “Tyler. We’ve got a nasty incident on our hands.”