25. THE COTTAGE IN THE WOODS

Two young people plan the future and an old woman explains the past

THE COTTAGE IN THE WOODS

25. Herman Schmidt, Twitching.

“Mr Psalmer wasn’t at school today and so we had the headmaster for registration, and he suggested that the most important thing for us to plan to do for the future was look out for a University. You know, plan the sort of work we want to do when we finally leave school and research universities that might provide the right sort of courses,” muttered Anthony.

“And?” asked Emma.

He looked at her awkwardly, “I reckon it’s complicated,” he suggested.

“Meaning?”

“You know I like you, Emma,” he said nervously, “and if I find the right University it might be hundreds of miles away from you, and I don’t think I could stand that.”

She looked at him, her pretty face serious for a moment, and then she smiled.

“I know,” she said, “and if it’s any help I feel the same. I’ve a better idea than that suggested to your class at school today. Why don’t we put our heads together and plan our futures, both of us, as if we were one person?”

His eyes opened wide. “Emma, my love,” he said, his voice suddenly husky, “you know what that sounded like, don’t you?”

She nodded. “How did you understand what I meant?” she asked.

He paused, then launched into his answer. “It sounded like you wanted to marry me, like it was a proposal,” he whispered.

“Sounded like, you cuckoo? Because, my love, that’s exactly what it was…”

“You want to get married, sweetheart? Really? I don’t believe it…”

“Why not, darling? Surely it makes sense and if we were to become man and wife,” here she blushed, “then there’s no way I’d end up like poor old Winifred from the cottage in the woods, I’d be happy with the boy I llove.”

“By then I’d be a man and you’d be a fully fledged woman, but I’d never let Winifred’s loneliness happen to you, never in a hundred million years!”

“Or eternity?” she smiled.

Meanwhile, not so far away in Brumpton Police Station the interview with Winifred Winterbotham was about to continue.

The duty Solicitor, Magnus Swift, had been given plenty of time to get to know his client and even provided with a copy of her chat with Constable Pierce in his car.

“That’s not admissible, of course,” he said.

“I’m aware of that,” Inspector Greengage said, glaring at the short-sighted solicitor and his bulky spectacles, “but none-the-less it’s relevant to our enquiries and a basis for some of our questions. We always follow leads, though not all of them go with us to court”

“I see,” snorted Mr Swift, “then let’s get on with it, shall we? I must admit the good lady didn’t say much to me that made any sense. She seems to be obsessed by the second world war, as if it was still raging over Europe, so I’d like to question her ability to see anything in a modern light.”

“Exactly,” replied Greengage dryly, “how would you feel if you were in my shoes?” he added.

“Uncomfortable,” came the reply, “I’m size ten and you seem no bigger than size seven!”

They sat down in tne interview room, Magnus Swift taking the seat previously occupied by Constable Pierce, who was relegated to a standing position next to the door.

The Inspector smiled at Winifred. “Let’s begin again,” he said, trying to sound a great deal warmer than he felt. “First of all, you’ve had a chance to meet Mr Swift, who’s here to advise you if I ask an awkward question. Do you understand that?”

“A Nazi!” she spat out, “and advice!” she added, glaring round the room.

“I told you, there are no Nazis any more,” put in Herman Schmidt, sitting in his old seat next to the Inspector. “I explained that I am a German from Germany, and that country is very different from the country that it sadly was for a very few years when you were a child.”

“All lies!” snapped Winifred.

“May I suggest we steer clear of historical facts and deal with real present facts?” asked Magnus Swift.

“Agreed,” almost shouted Greengage, his voice rising to a squeak. He cleared his throat. Then “tell me, Miss Winterbotham, did you kill your baby?”

“What you mean, kill?” the woman asked, staring at him.

“Take the life from. Make dead,” he told her.

“Nasty man!” she screamed, “baby dead! Baby dead before it was born! Mother said. Daddy said! Baby born dead!”

“And you buried it?” asked Greengage.

“It was a him! Winnie bury him, not it. Bury him With grandparents. Let them look after baby. Baby dead.”

Greengage looked at her thoughtfully. There was no way hat she had just said could be misinterpreted. A child had been still born and without knowing what to do and with the advice of two now deceased people she had interred it in her back garden.

“And who was the baby’s father?” he asked.

She glared at him. “My daddy was baby’s daddy!” she whispered, “my lovely daddy”

“And how old were you when your daddy made you pregnant? Put you with the child?” he asked, trying to make his question as simple as possible.

“I don’t know old,” she insisted, “and what is pregnant or whatever you said?”

“You told my officer when he drove you in his car that you were twelve,” and Mr Swift frowned as the Inspector gave an apparently leading suggestion.

“Twelve year angel…” she whispered, and then looked up. “Daddy say I was his twelve year angel.”

”And your poor baby was dead when it was born?”

“It was still, Mother said, but it hurt me. Long time ago now, but I remember.”

“And the games you played with your daddy… what were they like? What did you do in them? How were they games?”

Mr Swift reacted by banging the table and glaring at Inspector Greengage.

“I must protest, Inspector! This is fishing of the worst kind! The girl was twelve if we’re to believe her, and I do believe her, and to expect a lady of her age now to recall exactly went on when she was twelve sixty or so year ago? It is both cruel and unkind!”

“Quite so,” added Herman Schmidt, scowling at Greengage.

“So what happened next?” asked the Inspector, changing the subject, though quite certain he’d sneak the question back into the session before they finished because it fascinated him when he tried to imagine the scene of a grown man and the girl in a physical relationship. But that was him, and part of what he feared in his darkest moments, and it might even be a perversion.

“It was night, dark night, and I was awake and I heard mother in her room. She squealed. Mother never squealed, but she did then…” There was a new kind of intensity on the elderly woman’s face as she recounted this.

“And did you wonder what she was doing, what was exciting her?” asked the Inspector. Standing by the door even Constable Billy Pierce was becoming fascinated and he took the least of steps towards the table where the questioning was taking place, and stood still, trying to look bored, and failing.

“I went,” she whispered, I went from my bed and next door saw Mother…”

“Yes?” prompted the Inspector.

“And daddy playing games… my games… my games… and Mother under him, squealing. And on the cabinet by his side he’d put his gun, it was always there when he in bed… I didn’t know guns, just thought it a toy he played with when the Nazis come… but me picked it up, though, and me hit daddy on the head with heavy gun, get him to stop playing with mother, bad, bad daddy playing my games with mother… but before I hit bad daddy the gun went mad and it was loud, so loud it hurt inside my head… the loudest bang ever…”

“I need to consult with my client,” put in Magnus Swift, “urgently.”

And just as I’ve got her! The thought rattled through Greengage’s brain, but he had to agree.

Herr Schmidt was sitting next to him, and Herr Schmidt was almost twitching. He didn’t want the German to think ill of him. He wanted to be the best murder detective in the world.

“Just a few minutes,” he muttered, and sighed.

© Peter Rogerson 16.02.23

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