The Seventh Link Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Margaret Mayhew From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Footnotes

  Recent Titles by Margaret Mayhew from Severn House

  A FOREIGN FIELD

  DRY BONES

  I’LL BE SEEING YOU

  THE LAST WOLF

  THE LITTLE SHIP

  OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE

  OUR YANKS

  THE PATHFINDER

  QUADRILLE

  ROSEBUDS

  THOSE IN PERIL

  THREE SILENT THINGS

  THE SEVENTH LINK

  THE SEVENTH LINK

  A Village Mystery

  Margaret Mayhew

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2014 in Great Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of 19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition published in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Margaret Mayhew.

  The right of Margaret Mayhew to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Mayhew, Margaret, 1936- author.

  The Seventh Link.

  1. Reunions–Fiction. 2. Country life–Fiction.

  3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8421-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-531-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-573-4 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Lydia

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As readers will be aware, after many years’ delay a magnificent memorial, paid for from public funds, has been erected in Green Park, London, standing as fitting tribute to the 55,573 young men of Bomber Command who gave their lives in the Second World War. At its heart are seven bronze sculptures depicting an air crew just returned from a bombing mission.

  Unlike other services, no campaign medal was struck for Bomber Command at the end of the war and no official recognition or thanks given by the Government for their courageous contribution and self-sacrifice. Instead, they were pointedly ignored.

  It was not until 2012 that the surviving veteran heroes of Bomber Command were finally awarded a clasp.

  Freedom is the sure possession of those alone who have the courage to defend it

  Pericles

  The fighters are our salvation but the bombers alone provide the means of victory

  Winston Churchill – 1940

  ONE

  Engine roaring, the Ford Escort shot backwards out of the driveway of the Cuthbertsons’ bungalow, Shangri-La, narrowly missing the gate post. The Colonel, who happened to be walking across the village green on his way back from the Dog and Duck, glimpsed the Major’s wife crouched over the wheel. Instead of her usual tweeds, Marjorie Cuthbertson was wearing a floral frock, probably dating from her Far Eastern memsahib days: a nod to the English summer and an unusual temperature in the upper seventies. The Escort jerked forward with a teeth-grating crash of gears and bounced off down the road, aimed in the direction of Dorchester. Today, he remembered, was the day for Mrs Cuthbertson’s weekly visit to her hairdresser. It was also the day when she left a cold lunch out for her husband, which gave the Major the excuse to linger longer than usual at the Dog and Duck and air his views on life in general, and politicians in particular. The country was, naturally, going to the dogs. No standards, no decency, no respect, no pride, no backbone. Nothing but spongers and foreigners.

  The Colonel had listened to many such diatribes in his time in bars all over the world. In fact, he didn’t share that particular view, or at least, not about England. And it seemed to him that a great deal had improved in the country over the past fifty years or so. On the whole – both materially and physically – the people were far better off. They lived longer, travelled further, had more opportunities and fewer constraints. The children were benefiting most of all. They were better educated, healthier, taller, stronger, and the world was their oyster. As for the Major’s foreigners, England had an old and very worthy tradition of welcoming, sheltering and absorbing people of all nationalities who, in return, contributed their talents and skills and colourful cultures.

  He wasn’t quite so sure about the spiritual side of things. Frog End’s beautiful old Norman church was only half full on Sundays and not many people, himself included, believed in God any more. He had stopped believing when he had watched his wife, Laura, suffer and die horribly and now only went to church himself out of habit and an ingrained sense of duty, and because he liked singing the hymns. People worshipped other things now: celebrities, football, shopping, the latest gadgets, foreign holidays, TV soaps.

  The Colonel had been compulsorily retired from the army, aged fifty-five and, in the same year his wife, Laura, had died. He had stayed on in their small flat in London for ten more years, trying his hand at a variety of jobs, including selling double-glazing, and he had discovered in the process that his thirty-seven years in the army counted for nothing in the outside world. Finally, he had sold the London flat and moved to a cottage in the village of Frog End in Dorset. The place had been in a bad state, neglected for years and full of faults, but the eager young estate agent who had showed him round had insisted that it had what he called potential. What had sold it to him, in spite of all the faults, had been the fact that it had been Laura’s dream cottage. They had happened to notice it when they had been touring in the West Country while home on leave one summer. They had stopped at the Dog and Duck, sat on a bench outside and admired the mass of pink roses climbing over the walls of the thatched cottage on the other side of the green. From a distance and on a beautiful sunny day, it had looked charming and Laura had said it was just the sort of place she had always dreamed of living in one day. Years later, after her death, he had been staying with friends in that same part of the world and had driven round the countryside, revisiting some of the places they had seen together, in a vain attempt to recapture the past. He had found Frog End again and the thatched cottage, looking far less charming close up and in grey winter, had been for sale. It was called Pond Cottage and, against all comm
on sense and reason, he had bought it.

  He walked on towards the cottage, aware from a reflected glint at the sitting-room window of Lupin Cottage on the other side of the green that he was being tracked by Miss Butler with her German U-boat captain’s binoculars. A former Wren, long-retired, she had acquired the Zeiss glasses on the death of her fearsome Admiral father. It was not quite certain how they had come into the possession of the Admiral himself since he had, apparently, only ever sailed a desk during the Second World War. Freda Butler, the Colonel knew, now used them to observe the village comings and goings. Unlike their original owner, though, she had no predatory intentions. She was merely curious.

  The Colonel reached Pond Cottage and let himself in at the front door. He had grown more used to the emptiness and silence of living alone, though it had taken more than a year to make the adjustment. He was fortunate to have a good neighbour, Naomi Grimshaw, a widowed divorcee, who lived in Pear Tree Cottage next door, and he had gradually come to know most people in the village, at least by sight if not personally. And, of course, he had Thursday, the torn-eared black-and-tan stray who had turned up out of the blue on that particular day of the week and had consented, magnanimously, to stay.

  The old cat was sound asleep on the sofa in the sitting room. When he woke up, he would stir and stretch before going to sit in the kitchen in front of his bowl and wait for a decent supper to be served. A box of dry cat food shaken over the bowl would not do. It must be some tempting gourmet feline offering, prepared by the makers, so it sometimes seemed to the Colonel, with more care and thought than was often given to food for human consumption.

  Afterwards, Thursday would take a stroll in the garden, probably spending some time staring into the pond and watching the six small gold fish that the Colonel had bought from a pet shop. He had gone in to buy cat food, spotted them swimming desperately round and round in a very small glass bowl and taken pity on them. They seemed to like their spacious new home and the food he fed them. Thursday seemed to like them too and would watch them with very close attention. Occasionally, the Colonel took a tail count. If the six became five, or less, he would know whom to blame.

  When he had first moved into the cottage, the garden had been a tangled wilderness of brambles and nettles with no sign of any pond. Under the direction of Naomi, an expert gardener, and with the services of the gardener/handyman Jacob who normally worked at the Manor in the village, the ground had gradually been cleared. Along with the reclaimed flower beds and some nice old trees and shrubs, the pond had gradually emerged into view from under a thick covering of brambles – weed-choked and silted up, but still a pond that had made sense of the cottage’s name.

  The Colonel went into the kitchen at the back of the cottage and made himself a sandwich of sliced ham from the fridge, with a generous smear of Coleman’s English mustard and some lettuce. He took it out to his shed in the garden.

  The shed was a recent acquisition and he was very pleased with its looks. A good, solid structure with no summer-house pretensions or any resemblance to Swiss chalets, as Naomi had feared. Flat roof, wood walls, two plain windows and one unglazed door. Best of all, it was a place where he would be left undisturbed. People often stopped by the cottage, asking for his help with some village matter. Manning a jumble sale stall, serving on a committee, collecting for a charity, and so on. He was usually happy to oblige, but he had recently been doorstepped by Mrs Bentley of the summer fête cake stall, with the aim of wheedling him into joining the Frog End Amateur Dramatic Society. Apparently, they were putting on a performance of Agatha Christie’s play The Mousetrap and new blood was needed. He had stood his ground, for once. Not long ago he had been asked to give a lecture in the village hall about his life in the army. He had agreed, though reluctantly, and Major Cuthbertson who had lived in the village for far longer – had been greatly put out at not being asked instead. The slight still rankled.

  More recently, the new vicar, Tony Morris, had called and stayed for some time. He had nothing against the well-meaning young man whom Naomi had written-off as the happy-clappy, guitar-playing type, and who unfortunately also had a beard, but he had no desire whatever to discuss God with him.

  As it happened, the vicar had called to ask if he would agree to become a sidesman.

  ‘Not too arduous, Colonel. It would only be for the second Sunday of every other month. You’d have various small duties to perform – taking off the altar cloth before the service, putting out the candlesticks, switching on the lectern light, greeting members of the congregation as they arrive, handing out hymn books and service sheets, and so on. Don’t worry, you would be given full written instructions.’

  It was little enough to ask, he thought.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And I wonder if you’d consider your name going on the rota to read the lesson at matins? If you’ll forgive me for a personal remark, you have a very good voice. Just the sort that people would find easy to listen to and understand.’

  Again, he agreed but more reluctantly. He would be reading things he didn’t believe in, which seemed quite wrong. But was it really any worse than singing hymns with words he didn’t believe in either?

  The conversation had moved on to a bold new project to make the pews in the parish church movable. The aim, the vicar had explained, was to provide open space so that the church was more welcoming to the young generation.

  ‘They find it forbidding as it is.’

  ‘Really?’ He had thought that rather unlikely. Gnarled old pews like the ones in St Luke’s were friendly things. You could sit in them, loll around in them, go to sleep in them during long sermons, if you so wished – and people had been doing so for many, many years.

  ‘We need to be free of the constraints of fixed pews, Colonel. And, personally, I think churches look a lot better without them cluttering up the nave. Stacking chairs are a very viable option. A certain percentage of pews could be remade and the rest would be dismantled and their historic wood put to other good uses. For instance, we need to make the church accessible to those with disabilities and to eliminate any trip hazards.’

  The Colonel was all for helping the disabled in every possible way, but he could not quite see how remaking some of the pews and chopping up the others was necessarily going to achieve it.

  The vicar, who had been wearing socks and sandals, which would not have improved his standing with Naomi, had continued enthusiastically. ‘And it would reduce our carbon footprint.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We have to keep our heating costs down and we have had expert advice that the most efficient way would be an underfloor system. But it would be impossible with the existing fixed pews and flooring.’

  ‘You mean the old flagstones would have to go as well?’

  ‘A smooth flat surface would be much more practical – say, of Purbeck stone.’

  ‘No trip hazards?’

  ‘Exactly. And we have to remember, Colonel, that for several hundred years, churches had no fixed pews at all. The nobs had movable seating but the ordinary folk stood or knelt on cold stone. Of course, a public meeting will be held so that all parishioners can air their views freely. There are bound to be some objections, but I’m confident that the majority will support the project.’

  The Colonel had had no doubt that there would be plenty of very robust objections but he had kept his own reservations to himself. He was a new boy, after all, as well as a non-believer. Token appearances at matins, going through the motions with prayers, singing the hymns, even reading the lesson, did not entitle him to voice opinions about doing away with nice old pews and ancient flagstones. The conversation had petered out eventually, with only a brief reference to God, and the Colonel had seen the vicar out.

  Now he unlocked the door of his new and secure retreat and surveyed it with quiet satisfaction. He had never possessed such a thing before. An impregnable bolt-hole from the world where he could do exactly as he pleased, without comm
ent or interference or interruption from anyone, even Naomi. In fact, especially Naomi, whose attempts to get in had been thwarted but who had been known to peer in through the window if given half a chance. Which was why he had rigged up sacking curtains to be deployed whenever necessary and why he always kept the door locked.

  Everything was in order and in its place. Nails and screws and nuts and bolts all neatly sorted into separate jars on the shelves. He had bought a proper work bench with a vice at one end and a compartment designed to take tools – hammer, chisel, wrenches, files and screwdrivers so that he could put his hand straight on whichever was needed. The garden tools – spade, forks, shears, trowel – were hanging on another wall, the lawn mower kept in a corner out of the way.

  At first, he had used the workbench for doing general repairs – mending a wonky kitchen chair, gluing the china bowl he had broken, replacing the missing beading on the table that stood beside his fireside chair. Serious carpentry – creating something from scratch – he rather feared beyond his capabilities, though he planned to give it a go one day. The idea of making a model of some kind had come to him when he had been lying awake one night and in the morning he had gone to the model shop in Dorchester and come out with a 1/35th scale kit of a Matilda Infantry Tank, glue, paint and brushes. A modest beginning. There had been kits for other famous tanks: the Russian T-34, the German Panzer, the American Sherman, the Chinese Norinco … but, in the end, he had settled for the British Matilda: the Battle Maiden of the Second World War. There was a Mark 11 kept in the Bovington Tank Museum, near Dorchester which he and his small grandson, Eric, had admired on their visit there together. Though the Colonel had not served in a tank regiment himself, he had always had the greatest respect for the brave men who had fought in one, risking a horrible death. The Germans had gruesomely called them Tommy Cookers.