11. THE COTTAGE IN THE WOODS

The teenager sfind out more about the cottage, and a fire in the woods in the 1940s

THE COTTAGE IN THE WOODS

11. The Daddy

“I’m nipping into town to see if there’s anything in the archive of old papers and such that they keep in the library to see if I can find out anything interesting about Huckleberry cottage, as it’s my day off and Amy’s at work” Billy told Anthony when they passed each other in the street, Anthony on his way to call on Enid and Billy to the library in Brumpton.

“What do you expect to discover?” asked Anthony.

Billy shrugged his shoulders, “I can’t be sure I’ll find anything,” he replied, “especially about the war years because not much was published in case a snippet of it helped the Germans when they attacked our forces,” replied Billy, “but I’d like to look, anyway.”

“Damned wars!” hissed Anthony, who was beginning to become a pacifist. History at school had taught him that wars were only usually fought in the best interests of a minority, usually the well-heeled and more affluent members of society. He was convinced that rich old men sent healthy young men to die in battle when they wouldn’t go anywhere near danger themselves and he thought it grossly unfair. After all, he was young himself.

Billy nodded his head. “I know,” he agreed.

“Can I come with you?” asked Anthony, “when I’ve picked up Enid that is?”

“Of course! I’ll be in the reference section where there’s an archive of local newspapers. I’m hopeful that the Brumpton Echo published something that might help us understand about the place during those rather sad years.”

“I won’t be long, then and ‘I’ll meet you there with Enid,” replied Anthony.

Enid was only too happy to accompany him to the library, though she was doubtful that they’d find much. When she was ready they set off. It was a lovely day, warm for the autumn, and he smiled at her.

“I’ve been on-line,” she said, “and I can’t find much about Huckleberry cottage. It’s as if it was never built, though it is mentioned in a reference in the 1940s to a fire in the woods caused by an aeroplane crashing into some trees. Apparently ti was quite a blaze and they were worried about it burning Brumpton itself.”

“Maybe there’ll be more in the papers from those days,” said Anthony hopefully.

“We’ll see,” smiled Enid, and when she smiled like that he just wanted to hug her. But by then they were on the street and he guessed she wasn’t too keen on public displays of affection.

They didn’t live far from the town centre of Brumpton where the library was situated. It was an elderly building, possibly even Victorian when there was a great deal of library building reflecting a surge in the need of the availability of books and knowledge for all.

There was a reference library at the far end of the main building, and after passing fiction, all arranged alphabetically, and a range of non-fiction aisles they reached the one reserved for archives. Everything told that the shelves had been there for a long time, the wood being sturdy but scored and scratched over time, and the marks filled in with decades of polish.

PC William Pierce, known to them as Billy because he was a near neighbour and not a deal older han them, was sitting at a microfiche machine and he was already looking excited.

“I’ve found quite a bit about the place,” he told them, and from the look of it the cottage was already quite old when the first of these reports was written in 1943. They’re a bit vague, probably on account of them having anything an enemy might find useful edited out before they were printed. And, of course, it all goes back quite a long way and I guess some things might have been omitted when the microfiche file was created.”

“I understand that,” murmured Enid.

“Well, the first reference I’ve come on involves a fire in the woods near where the cottage is now. Maybe half a mile away, maybe a bit further, and from what I’ve read it was lucky the fire didn’t spread to Huckleberry cottage and burn it to the ground!. Apparently the blaze was so fierce there was fear of it spreading half way across the county so they worked at putting it out. Ythere hadn’t been an air-raid recently in the Brumpton area, so they didn’t have bomb damage to fight as well. Fortunately the river isn’t so far away and as it was December there was an adequate supply of water!”

“Do they know what started the fire?” asked Anthony.

“It seems an aeroplane fell out of the skies,” Billy told them. “Look: I’ve just got to a later report about the aeroplane. Listen:” and he read from the newspaper report, “the machine was a German fighter aircraft and there was no sign of the pilot, so it is assumed that he must have bailed out in order to save his own life with no regard to those of anyone living below. There has been no sign of him since the crash, and an extensive search is under way as he is probably an enemy spy.”

“The inconsiderate devil, letting his crashing plane risk people who live in the woods!” muttered Anthony.

“Wouldn’t you try to save yourself if you were in that position?” asked Billy, “because I reckon I would.”

“Maybe,” conceded Anthony.

“I would,” grinned Enid.

Meanwhile, at the nearby police station Inspector Greengage decided to interview Winifred Winterbotham again, this time with Sergeant Goodbody sitting in. He was convinced that she had done something for which the law could punish her, and a new skeleton had appeared in the garden as well as what Doctor Grimm had suggested might be other graves containing older human remains. Greengage had opted to ignore those for the time being. If they were old as they looked they might contain bodies that had been dead for too long for him to be able to accuse Winifred Wintherbotham of having anything to do with them, though if it turned out they were a last option then he might have them investigated. He had taken a great dislike to the dithery elderly lady he knew in his heart of hearts was almsoyt certanly a vicious killer.

“So tell me, Miss Winterbotham, how do you like your cell?” he asked.

“Cell? What’s a cell?” she asked.

“Inspector, her vocabulary is limited, very limited,” whispered Sergeant Goodbody.

“Keep your nose out of my questions, Goodbody!” hissed the Inspector back to him. “The cell, woman, How do you like it, I asked.” he said fiercely to Winifred.

“I dunno,” she replied, “mother never mentioned a cell.”

“The room that you’re in downstairs at this police station?” he barked. “Where we put you when you’re not talking to me up here?” he told her as if he was suddenly talking to a toddler.

“Oh, my bedroom here? Nice. Comfy,” she replied, smiling, “no Gestapo hooligans near, to bully or hurt me.”

He shook his head. Either the woman was genuinely living in the past or she was the best actor he’d encountered in the best part of a lifetime of bullying suspects.

“Never mind,” he forced out, “tell me about the body buried in the garden at your cottage?”

“The body?” she queried, “in the garden?”

“Yes. Buried!” he sapped back at her.

“Oh, the man? The man in the garden beyond the back door?” she smiled.

“It was a man. The pathologist told me that.”

“Daddy. My daddy,” she smiled, and then a tear somehow found its way from her fantasy life to the real world, and rolled down her cheeks.

© Peter Rogerson 23.01.23