In the Shadow of Winter: A gripping historical novel with murder, secrets and forbidden love. Lorna Gray
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Thankfully the days of my childhood when I had been rendered wide-eyed and speechless by that man’s formidable presence were over and I was able to greet him reasonably calmly, although I could see Beechnut watching anxiously from her field and I was glad that I had at least managed to turn her out before they had arrived.
The Colonel was still a fearsomely disapproving sort of person; even as an old man he stood very straight and tall and frowned down his long nose at me as if I were that same little scruffy farm-girl that had stared owlishly at him from behind Mother’s skirts. It seemed to me that his presence in the village was something akin to that of an eccentric monarch. He certainly was rather apt to sending the villagers scuttling off to do his bidding based on little more than flimsy whim and a great deal of deference which may not have been entirely deserved, and now he was striding towards me through the thin misting rain with an air of assumed authority which left the policeman to trot along in his wake like an eager puppy.
The pony next to me eyed him warily, no doubt suspecting that this person would be without a titbit. I was standing in the shelter of a stable door with the pony’s front hoof resting over my thigh as I carefully rasped the excess growth away, like filing a fingernail, to leave it balanced and comfortable in anticipation of the coming weekend’s work. I trimmed all my horses’ feet; the ponies had no need of shoes with their hardy little hooves, and of the two horses on my yard, the old hunter was retired, and my mare would never have allowed the blacksmith near her but thankfully did well enough with my careful trimming.
“Now then, Miss Phillips.” The Colonel’s voice barked as he came to a smart halt before me. “We’ve come to look for that fellow Croft. Not seen him, have you?”
The grey-haired policeman coughed politely and stepped around the straight-backed barrier of the Colonel. “Good morning Miss – Phillips, is it? – I am Inspector Woods. These are Constables Downe, Smith, Thorne and Fleece.” He waved a hand vaguely along the assembled line. “I was wondering if I might ask you to let my men take a look around?”
I set the pony’s foot back down on the ground and straightened. The Inspector was rather short with that middle-aged spread running on into what my father would have politely called “well-covered” and his eyebrows were remarkably bushy, almost as if he cultivated them. But as I met his unobtrusive gaze for the first time, I was startled to realise that instead of finding the expected bland obedience hidden beneath, there was something infinitely more subtle lurking within those deep-set grey eyes. He was smiling at me gently and I came to the sudden terrifying realisation that he was anything but harmless.
“Good morning, Inspector. You’re welcome, of course, but you’re a little late, aren’t you?”
“Late, Miss Phillips?”
“Mr Langton and his men have already been here to look around for you.”
“Have they indeed?” There was the barest flicker of irritation which was quickly suppressed. “You won’t mind if my men take another look, will you?”
“Not at all, Inspector, go right ahead.”
Never one to stand around quietly, the Colonel stepped forwards again, his head stuck forwards on a thick neck as he fixed me with a beady eye. “Listen here, Missy, we want to know if you’ve seen him. My son says that you dallied about with Croft once and so he might come here. You can’t hide him, you know, we’ll have him in the end and it’ll be all the worse for you.”
The Inspector looked a little uncomfortable at this speech but I answered calmly enough, “You’re about the fourth person now to remind me of my youthful dalliance, as you put it, and it is starting to get a little wearing. Believe it or not I am not in the habit of harbouring murderers.”
“There’s no use lying, my girl. We know what you’re about.”
Close to, the Colonel really was a very unpleasant man with little bits of spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth. His face was veined with the signs of his fluctuating temper and all of a sudden I knew that I had never quite done his son justice before. With a father such as this, it was incredible that John was so sane.
I spoke coldly. “Nor am I in the habit of lying to the police.”
The Colonel opened his mouth to say something else but the Inspector cut smoothly across him. “Miss Phillips, the Colonel here has been good enough to meet us at the main road and offer himself as our guide, for which we are very grateful, but would you mind just stepping over here so we can have a little private chat?”
Trying hard not to give the Colonel a childishly triumphant smile, I followed the Inspector to the corner where, in more temperate conditions, run-off from the roof would have collected into a large stone water trough. At present, of course, this was simply one great block of ice but the increasingly confident spring-like rain was drifting down into even this little sheltered corner and under its influence, a steady pattern of drips was beginning to wear immaculate hollows into the glassy surface.
The Inspector stared thoughtfully into its depths for a moment before fixing me with his intelligent eye;
“So, Miss Phillips, how well do you know this man Croft? You were romantically involved I understand? But are not now?”
“That is correct,” I replied, trying to quell my sudden nervousness. The flimsy motivation that had formed my excuse for deceiving friend and neighbour was one thing, but here the consequences of discovery would prove much worse; and cold reason told me that it was a step too far to attempt a lie to this man.
He was waiting, looking at me expectantly, and so, reluctantly, I continued, “As everybody seems to be telling you, Inspector, we were courting briefly before the war, but he called it off.”
“He did? That’s surprising.” He must have caught my startled glance because he added quickly, “I mean, surprising given that a lot of people were marrying because of the war.” He gave a discomfited cough, before getting back on track again, “Have you seen much of him since he was demobbed?”
“No. I heard that he came back just after Easter last year but we didn’t see each other. It has been eight years now; there’s no real reason to assume we would have anything to say to each other anymore.” I paused but then added, “And I gather that he had a bit of a tough time of it, so he probably just wanted some peace in which to recover.” I had been speaking quite coolly, concentrating on keeping my manner neutral and my mind clear as I said what was necessary but then, unexpectedly, I had the strange experience of realising that this last statement had the added surprise of most likely being the truth.
“A tough time, you say? How tough?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve only heard this third hand, so to speak. He was in Normandy and then part of the push towards Germany so saw some pretty messy action I believe – although having said that, who didn’t?” I stopped, suddenly having the uncomfortable feeling that I was gabbling idiotically. I took a breath and steadied myself.
“Quite. So would you say he came back a changed man?”
I could tell where these questions were leading, “I’m sorry, Inspector; as I’ve already said, I didn’t see him when he came home so I don’t really feel I can answer that.”
“Of course, Miss Phillips, just a few more questions then. Do you remember him ever showing excessive temper or violence?”
I was suddenly acutely aware of my wrists and smiling innocently I clasped my hands behind my back. “I don’t remember anything like that, Inspector.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“Not beyond casual pleasantries. I know they both served together.”
“Yes.” Perhaps judging that this reply was a little terse, the Inspector repeated as if by rote, “Matthew Croft trained as an architect, and therefore had a rather tenuous connection to the world of structural integrity. Mr Donald took sporadic employment as a joiner. This was apparently sufficient for them to be drafted to the ranks of non-commissioned