Free Season of Darkness by Maureen Jennings Page B

one, please.”
    Her eyes met Tyler’s, and they both burst out laughing.
    “You can ring me at the manor,” said Clare. “I have my own telephone. I’m free most evenings.”
    He stubbed out his cigarette and began to stand up, but she stopped him. “Finish your cider.” She leaned forward and her lips brushed his cheek. “Bye for now, Tom. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
    She walked off and, in spite of himself, he watched her.
    Then he took out another cigarette, lit it, and held the silver case in his hands. She’d had his initials engraved in the corner, and inside:
Love forever, C
.
    The pianist’s fingers were gnarled and stiff and his voice was slightly tremulous but he still had the technique.
    We’ll meet again
,
Don’t know where, don’t know when

But we’ll meet again some sunny day
.
    The others joined in, lost in the poignancy of the song.
    We’ll meet again, some sunny day
.
    Then a voice shouted from one of the corners.
    “For Christ’s sake, Gerald, sing something cheerful before we all give up the bleeding ghost. How about something lively like ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag?’ ”
    The singer didn’t hesitate and switched immediately.
    Tyler left them clapping their hands and singing loudly and off-key.

12.
    H E CRANKED THE CAR, WHICH FOR ONCE STARTED nicely. He was about to drive off when a farm lorry drew up across the road. Arthur Trimble was driving. Tyler leaned out of the window. This was as good a time as any.
    “Mr. Trimble, can I have a word?”
    The manager favoured a long moustache that must have been a challenge when he was eating, and that added to his hangdog look. He wore tweeds and high leather boots. Natty clothes. Squire’s clothes. The word muttered among the locals was that he was aping his betters, not a good opinion to have hung on yourself.
    He squinted at Tyler through the sun. “What about? I’m just going for my dinner.”
    “Why don’t I join you then? Save us both time.”
    Trimble didn’t move. “I likes a bit of peace and quiet when I’m eating. What do you want to talk to me about?”
    “If you prefer the whole neighbourhood knows your business that’s all right with me, but I’m actually conducting a police investigation. You can talk to me out here in front of the door, or in a quiet place inside, or better yet, you can come down to the station.”
    “You can’t make me do that.”
    “Oh yes I can. And I will. I was just giving you a bit of a break by suggesting we talk here. We can find a nice private spot at the back.”
    “I’ll give you half an hour,” said Trimble.
    Tyler followed him inside and indicated the same nookwhere he and Clare had been.
    Frank came over looking surprised, but only said, “Another cider?”
    “Nothing thanks. I’m just a spectator.”
    “The usual for you, Arthur?”
    He got the nod and bustled off.
    “This your office now, is it?” Trimble asked.
    “Any place, anywhere, is our motto. Crime is no respecter of location.”
    Frank returned with a pint of bitter and a plate heaped with thick bacon strips, eggs, beans, and fried bread. Trimble dived into the food as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Tyler watched fascinated to see what he’d do with his moustache, and sure enough it soon became smeared with egg yolk. He managed to avoid looking at the beer which had a nice head of foam. He took out a cigarette and lit it, not offering one to Trimble.
    “You’ve heard about the death of this young Land Army girl, I assume?”
    “I have. Sir Percy told me. Shame about that.”
    “You knew her, I understand.”
    Trimble shot him a glance. “She was one of the Land Army billets, if that’s what you mean.”
    “What was your impression of her?”
    Trimble sopped up some egg yolk with his fried bread. “Not much. Not that I’m going to speak ill of the dead ’cos I’m not, but she was a bit of a trollop in my opinion.”
    “I heard you were one of her conquests.”
    He’d