JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chap 8 - Pt2 (AND THEN TWO HOURS LATER MORE...)

“Tell me about—what did you say his name was? O’Dowd!” Nigel laughed, suddenly remembering the name. “Tell me about O’Dowd,” he asked Richard.

They were in the Bentley again. Sonia had pulled the top up and Nigel was grateful, feeling the cold seeping through his wet trousers, reminding him of what the cold could be. He’d heard that some automobiles now came equipped with gas heaters, just for such occasions, he told himself, trying to suppress a shiver, but of course the Bentley didn’t.

It doesn’t matter how much you spend, you always forget something. But who forgets the heater?

“Yes, Reggie,” Richard replied. “Nice enough, fella, but Reggie O’Dowd’s an outsider. He showed up here after the War, claiming to be a nephew of one of the two previous owners—or something like that—at any rate, he said he’d inherited the place with their passing.”

“But you don’t think it’s true?”

“No one thought to question it,” Richard said with a slow shake of his head.

But Nigel could see that Richard had.

“Everything seemed to be in order, from what I’ve heard.”

“In order?” Nigel echoed. “And what year was that? When the previous owners passed, I mean?”

“The Urquharts? That would’ve been Ray and Heather…so it would’ve been before the Great War…I’d say maybe…1912? 1913? The farm never made money for them. Like everyone else around here, they were deep in debt. A lot of them quickly fall to weed around here.”

“The land here isn’t owned by the local Lord? What’s his name?” Sonja asked, quickly flipping through the pages of her notebook.

“Baron Geurnsy. The Earl of Aylesbury,” Richard replied. “No. He doesn’t own this far out; at least, not yet. But that’s only a matter of time then, isn’t it? He would’ve owned the Urquhart place already, but for the War.”

“Do you mean the land sat empty for two, three years?” Sonia asked.

“The entire length of the War,” Richard smiled, nodding his head at the irony. “The whole four years. He’s not much of a farmer, your Mr. O’Dowd, not from what I know about farming, which isn’t very much,” he added with a chortling laugh. “But even so, it’s more than what he knows.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why?”

He turned to look at Nigel again.

“He’s one of those London types, came here after the war to try and make a go of it. Something he obviously had no idea of how to do in the first place. Don’t know much more about him, really. Nice enough bloke all the same. Easy to talk to. He never brought his wares to market when he got his first crop, because he didn’t have enough to spare. His life was an example of subsistence farming at its best. He’s learned over the last five years, I’ll give him that. He was selling to some of the Manor houses instead of taking it to the market once he figured out how to do it.”

“When did you say he first got here?”

“I didn’t.”

“But it was after the War?” Sonia pointed out.

“Aye, that it was.”

They were headed in the opposite direction, toward the O’Dowd farm, with Nigel hoping he’d feel the automobile’s natural heat coming through the carriage from the large engine. It was a half hour of tortuous track, and there were several times when Nigel thought they’d have to get out and push, but Sonia was able to sort things out thanks to the weight of the Bentley.

The sun was well over the hills, the glare winking against the larger puddles and making it almost unbearable Nigel thought, wishing he’d had his riding jacket so he’d at least have his sunglasses.

He smiled when Sonia reached for her purse and began sorting through it, looking for her own sunglasses.

He smiled and she looked at him, looking up from the mess of her purse on the seat.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just never see women like you, do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Women don’t drive. And they certainly don’t drive Bentleys”

“I told you, my father bought it.”

“Your father the doctor?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well you don’t sound convinced. He doesn’t sound convinced, does he Richard?”

“No, Mum, he doesn’t.”

“Well, if you’re going to take her side, at least give me some warning,” Nigel said.

“I’m going to take her side,” Richard said, leaning forward and smiling.

“Why?”

“Why? Because we should’ve been out pushing at least three times that I’ve seen, and we haven’t. She’s not like other women,” he said, sitting back into the comfort of the seat.

“Thank you, Richard. I think,” she added, putting her sunglasses on and turning her head with a haughty shake as she concentrated on the lane ahead of her.

Nigel sat back and sighed, smiling. He closed his eyes against the sun as she gave a sidelong glance at him, smiling to herself as she brushed the hair out of her eyes.

The O’Dowd farm sat off to the left of a small dirt track well-worn with wagon tracks. Sonia had to park the Bentley in front, and they went the rest of the way on foot. There was a haze of morning fog clinging to the last of the weeds and grass, the tree-line in the distance a dark silhouette against a clear sky. There was a steady line of smoke as thin as a pencil sketch scratching against the clear sky; the windows of the farmhouse appeared large and clean, the floral curtains tied up with lace; the farmhouse itself made of local ragstone.

Richard was quick to spot Isobel’s familiar horseshoe in the mud; as well, there were three other sets of footprints—one of them a woman’s—after which he seemed grateful to be asked to wait in the Bentley. As they approached the farmhouse, Nigel wondered if O’Dowd was the sort of man who dealt well with authorities? Richard said he’d come from London, but that no one knew anything about him. If he’d served in the War and came out here after, it was likely he’d not had a good time of it, Nigel told himself. In his own experience, he’d learned that volunteers from London had used the War as an excuse to escape the poverty back home. At least here, he has a home, he told himself. If his life was a struggle, it was an honest struggle—something a man might learn to accept—as long as he didn’t let it beat him down. He wondered if O’Dowd had let the circumstances of his first years weigh him down? Had he been one to give up? He doubted it, not if the man had a woman.

“Do you have a pistol?” he asked.

“Why would I need a pistol?”

“In case he has one?”

Claire met them at the door with a happy smile, asking them if they’d like to come in and take a cup of tea with her?

“Sonia Nazar and Nigel Bannister, Chumley Constabulary,” Nigel introduced themselves. “If we could just have a few words with you? Mrs. O’Dowd, is it?”

“All but in name,” she smiled. “Do come in, please."

“I don’t think that we—”

“Nonsense,” Nigel replied, pushing his way past her and into the farmhouse.

The house smelled of fresh baked bread and reminded Nigel of his childhood. His mother used to bake bread in the morning, and he’d wake up to the smell of it as he readied himself for the day’s work. At fifteen, he was no longer in school, but working at the shoe factory with his father and uncles, and had been since he was fourteen.

He looked at the large stove, holding his hands out towards it and feeling the warmth penetrating his frozen fingers. He could smell herbs and spices cooking in a pot on the back plate beside the kettle Claire picked up, as she started filling it with the hand pump beside the sink. A part of him was tempted to lift the lid and look inside the pot. Instead, he looked at the various baskets of fruits and vegetables on the small cluttered counter top, then pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down as close to the stove as he might. He could feel the warmth seeping into him as quickly as it had leaked out, and felt grateful. He would’ve liked to take his shoes off and dry them properly, but that was taking it a bit too far, he told himself. He’d simply sit as close to the stove as he could—for as long as he could—and hope his trousers dried.

“We don’t get much company out this way,” Claire was saying over her shoulder as she filled the kettle. “I don’t remember the local Constabulary ever coming out to visit.”

“Don’t you ever get visitors, Mrs. O’Dowd?” Sonia smiled, looking for a place to sit.

“Oh no, no one’s likely to get visitors out here, Miss. People have a hard enough time trying to scratch out a living—you have to be a constant gardener—so there’s no real time for visiting, is there—unless it’s going to market, or perhaps the Fair.”

“Did you go?” Nigel asked. “To the Fair?”

“To the Fair? When am I going to find the time for that?” she laughed, turning around and folding her arms as she leaned back against the sink. “No, I sent Reg and Artie out with a cartload of pies to sell. It’s almost an hour’s ride, so they got an early start of it and come home late. I was already sleeping by the time they got home. Is it Reg you’re looking for? Is he in trouble? Or Artie? He strikes me as the type.”

“Why would you think he’d be in trouble?” Nigel laughed.

“I don’t know; you tell me.”

“Were they alone?”

“Alone? What do you mean were they alone? I just said it was him and Artie. He couldn’t very well be alone if he had Artie with him. I told him, you can’t be out on the lanes alone at night.”

“Why not?” Sonia asked, looking up from her notebook. “What’s there to worry about out here?”

“The Lords and ladies of the area, they have their own set of rules. They like to go out for a midnight ride, from time to time, if you know what I mean?”

“Midnight rides?” Nigel asked, looking up from the stove. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Honestly, Constable Bannister,” Sonia said, dropping her notebook down to her side and looking at him with a slow shake of her head. “Do you seriously have no idea of what she means when she says ‘midnight rides’?”

“Absolutely none.”

“None?” she laughed.

“Why would I? I don’t live here.”

“And you’ve never shagged anyone before, is that it?” Claire asked.

“Have I ever—” Nigel was embarrassed.

“Please,” Sonia laughed. “He was in the War, Mrs. O’Dowd. That’s all they ever did when they were ‘Over There’. Remember, they weren’t coming back ’til it was over, ‘Over There’? What did you think they meant when they said that?”

“Right you are then, Miss,” Claire said with a smile.

“Are you two quite finished laughing at my expense?”

“That quite depends on what you say next. Now,” Sonia said, looking at her notes again. “Artie?”

“Yes. He’s a friend of Reggie’s from ‘Over There,’ ” Claire laughed. “He was a sergeant, or something like that. I don’t really pay that much attention to him. They knew each other is all I can say, for sure. Reg owes him is all I ever hear.”

“You don’t pay any attention to him? Why not?”

“I’m busy enough as is, Miss. I don’t have time enough for Reg, how do you think I’d have time for two men. I feed them three meals a day, send them out to deliver my pies to the neighbouring farms, pick up supplies when I need them, and for the most part leave them to their own devices.”

“And you say Reggie owes him?” Sonia asked, looking down at her notes.

“Yes. Something about saving his life, I think; I don’t know. I don’t sit with them when they start drinking for the night, either. I’ve plenty enough to do without having to sit with two drunks lost in their drinks talking about how great a time they had during the War, whoring and thieving—”

“Thieving?” Sonia asked. “That’s a strange way to spend your time.”

“Why’s he here?” Nigel asked, looking at Sonia and shaking his head slowly.

“He said he needed to get away from London. I don’t think he was enjoying his time there; I don’t suppose there’s a lot of work for soldiers coming back.”

“It’s been five years,” Nigel pointed out.

“From what I understand, Artie’s not like us. He’s gentry.”

“Gentry?” Nigel asked.

“He’s a gentleman, born and bred—or so he says.”

“I understand what gentry means,” he smiled.

Sonia was looking out of the window, at the small pen behind the house.

“Do you believe him?”

“There’s somethings you can’t hide when it comes to being a gentleman,” she said, almost looking thoughtful as she considered the question. She nodded. “I never doubted he was raised like that.”

“Is that where you keep your horse and wagon?”

Claire didn’t even bother to turn and look.

“Yes. Except it’s gone now.”

“Out making deliveries?”

“No. It takes two days to make the pies. No. Reg’s off to London for business.”

“Business?” Nigel asked.

“He wants to open a place in Chumley and make a right proper stab at it,” she smiled. “Artie says he’ll help as much as he can. Are you hungry? Have you had a bite to eat? Would you like a meat pie?”

“I doubt if that would be appropriate,” Sonia said with a slow shake of her head.

“Nonsense,” Nigel laughed. “I’m starving. If you want to give me one of your amazing pies, I won’t say no.”

“You can’t have a slice of pie when you’re on duty.”

“A slice? You can’t expect me to just have a slice,” Nigel laughed.

“You’ve had my pies before?”

“Charlie always picks one up whenever he can,” Nigel laughed.

“You said Artie planned to help. How can he help if he doesn’t have a job?” Sonia asked.

“I never said he didn’t have a job,” Claire replied, pouring the boiling water into a ceramic teapot. She spooned tea leaves into an infuser and dropped it into the water.

“I don’t know what it is he did when he lived in London.”

“How long is he planning to stay?” she asked, looking at the small living area and what she assumed was a single bedroom. “You don’t have a lot of room. Can’t be too comfortable with the three of you here. Is that his room?” she asked, pointing at a small curtained off area.

“Yes, once upon a time it served as a larder. That’s why it’s so cluttered here now.”

“Well, that certainly proved inconvenient for you, didn’t it?”

“One learns to get by,” she laughed, pointing at where she’d placed the different fruits, vegetables and various baskets scattered around the crowded kitchen.

“Are you expecting Mr. O’Dowd back for the evening?”

“I couldn’t say. He says he knows a banker from back in the day who might be able to help him—whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

“Another comrade in arms?” Nigel grinned, staring up and feeling his trouser legs.

They felt dry, and he stood up, just as Claire put a piece of pie in front of him.

“You can’t leave yet; I’ve just plated it.”

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