Roland Moore - Land Girls - The Promise - A moving and heartwarming wartime saga

“Terrible business,” Joyce replied.

When Iris was out of sight, she increased her speed, running in a jog all the way out of the gates of Pasture Farm. She ran down the lane, avoiding the pot holes as if she was playing hopscotch, and soon came to the neighbouring farm. Shallow Brook Farm. The Storeys’ farm. Unlike Pasture Farm, this place looked deserted, a dark shell with decaying tractors and machines standing in a yard overgrown with weeds. Iris made her way towards the farmhouse. She rapped on the slatted wooden door, paint flakes peeling away on her knuckles. How many summers ago had this place been painted?

There was no answer. And yet, the door slowly creaked open. Vernon had left it unlocked.

Iris poked her head into the hallway, where a broken mahogany barometer pointed towards snow.

“Hello? Anyone here?” Iris shouted.

Nothing came back.

Iris’s heart was pounding. She had come to see Vernon, but perhaps it was a good thing that he wasn’t home. She could look inside and have a nose around. A regular Miss Marple. Should she do this? She didn’t even know what she was looking for. Perhaps some sign that Walter had returned home before going back to the barn? What would that prove? Iris wasn’t sure. All she knew was that a man’s life was at stake here and if something was niggling her about the order of events, then she had to put her mind at rest. Something wasn’t right. Iris wished for a moment that she had Miss Marple’s abilities.

She moved cautiously from the hallway into the dining room. The fireplace smouldered with yesterday’s fire. A garish red-patterned rug filled much of the floor space, held down by dark-wooden furniture dotted around the room. A bureau stacked with paperwork and bills. A telephone on a side table. An armchair with worn hand rests. She guessed this was Vernon’s chair as his glasses rested on the edge next to a rolled-up newspaper. Iris tentatively moved across the room.

“Hello?” she shouted, feeling perhaps that she was covering herself from accusations of breaking and entering.

Again there was no reply. It was likely that Vernon Storey was holding some kind of wake in the Bottle and Glass, regaling people with tales of his son.

Iris moved towards the bureau.

Crack!

It barely made a sound, but something crunched under her foot. She looked down and peeled the edge of the rug back. A long sliver of glass from a bottle had broken in two. But as Iris examined it, she could see something sticky along one edge. A dark liquid. In sudden horror she realised that it was blood. Could it be Walter’s blood? They said he had a wound on his head. Was this evidence? What would Miss Marple do? Her mind was racing. Thinking quickly, she plucked her handkerchief from her pocket and, as if it was a small, injured bird, carefully wrapped the glass up. Suddenly she knew she had to get out of there; show PC Thorne what she had found.

“Can I help you, Iris?” A soft voice, weary.

Iris span around to find Vernon in the doorway. He was blinking in the light, his face more crumpled than usual. Had he been drinking? Sleeping? It didn’t matter. He was here and that was a problem. Iris hid the handkerchief behind her back.

“I came to … pay my respects,” she stammered.

“Again?” A note of suspicion in his voice, his shrewish eyes suddenly alert and scanning her face.

“Yes.” Slowly, Iris slipped the handkerchief into her pocket.

“And that was all you came for?” Vernon took a step towards her. He was a short man, but his personality gave him a threatening demeanour. Iris struggled to stop herself taking a step backwards. She knew it wouldn’t play well if she showed fear. If she was paying her respects, then she shouldn’t show fear, should she?

“Anyway, I’d better get back. Esther will be wondering …” Iris smiled as winningly as she could manage. She took a step towards the door, aware that Vernon was still blocking any escape.

“Stay a little longer,” he rasped, his words somewhere in that uncertain area between a threat and a pleasant invitation. “Have a drink to my Walter, eh? If you’ve come to pay your respects …”

He crossed to the sideboard, where a motley and dusty collection of bottles formed a drinks ‘cabinet’. Now the door was unblocked. There was a gap and Iris could make a run for it. But she didn’t want Vernon to suspect that anything was wrong; she didn’t want to alert his suspicions. After all, even if she got past him, she’d have to outrun him all the way back to Pasture Farm.

“I’d better … you know.” Iris glanced towards the door. To her surprise and relief, he nodded his consent. And as he busied himself pouring a drink at the sideboard, Iris started to walk towards the door, as slowly and as normally as she could manage. She thought she had got away with it, when, without turning his back, Vernon asked a soft and unnerving question.

“What’s that in your pocket, Iris?”

She felt her mouth go instantly dry, her breathing becoming more rapid. She stopped in her tracks. He’d noticed what she was doing. How much had he seen?

“Nothing,” she stammered.

Now he turned to her. A dark smile on his lips as he looked into her scared eyes. There was no hiding what she felt now.

“You put something in your pocket.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Vernon put his drink down and edged towards her. “Have you been stealing from me, Iris?”

She shook her head. “No, Mr Storey. I wouldn’t do that.”

He glanced down towards her pocket, where the end of the handkerchief was poking out. “Show me, then.” Carefully, Iris cupped her fingers around her handkerchief, hoping she could bring the bundle out without its contents falling onto the floor.

“It’s just my handkerchief.” The wrapped fabric was clasped tightly in her hand.

To her surprise, Vernon snatched it from her, grasping her wrist tightly with his other hand. As he took it, the handkerchief opened and the fragment of glass fell onto the rug, glinting in the light as it tumbled. They both knew the truth now.

“No one likes a liar, Iris.”

“Let me go.” She knew that she had to escape now. There was no point in pretending that she could talk her way out of this one. But Vernon wasn’t about to let go of her wrist. She clawed at his fingers with her free hand, trying to release his grip. He kept a tight grip on her, staring impassively at her. They moved a few steps: a dark, silent dance as Iris tried to free herself, Vernon clasping tightly. Iris felt her head swimming. They were like a couple on the verge of a massive argument, trying to maintain some semblance of control and decency. But Iris realised she would have to do more to escape. She would have to make a scene. She was about to slap him, claw him, do something, when he moved with surprising speed and ferocity towards her.

Vernon grabbed Iris’s neck and pushed her backwards until she felt the bureau hit the small of her back. She tried to lash out, but he grabbed her clawed hand and pushed her over the desk. On her back, Iris flailed and kicked, desperate to escape. She couldn’t scream as Vernon had his fingers clasped around her throat. She tried to kick again, but only succeeded in upturning the nearby telephone table. The telephone clattered to the floor, the receiver coming away from its cradle.

“Please don’t …” she gasped.

“What?” he growled.

“Kill me.”

Vernon let out a tight, unnerving laugh. “Why would I do that, you stupid girl?”

“I know what you did.”

Vernon’s brow furrowed. Still grasping her throat, tears came to his eyes. He seemed to sag, much like Frank had when he had heard the news about Walter. It was as if her words had ripped away his layers of desperate subterfuge, making it plain that this situation wasn’t going to go away.