“Just as it comes, thanks very much.”
She frowned, as if she didn’t approve of that. Anything other than milk and two sugars was probably unpatriotic in her book. “Of course,” she went on. “One hoped that over time she would make attempts to fit in, to alter her manner and appearance according to the standards of village society, but-”
“She made no attempt?”
“She did not. None at all.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Chief Inspector, does she sound like the kind of person whose company I would cultivate?”
“It was a small village. You must have been about the same age.”
“I was one year older.”
“Even so.”
“Alice – that’s Alice Poole – used to spend quite a bit of time with her. Against my advice, I might add. But then Alice always was a bit too free and easy.”
“Did you have any dealings with Gloria at all?”
Mrs. Goodall paused, as if to bring to mind an unpleasant memory. Then she nodded. “Indeed I did. It fell to me to advise her that her behavior was unacceptable, as was the way she looked.”
“Looked?”
“Yes. The sort of clothes she wore, the way she sashayed about, the way she wore her hair, like some sort of cheap American film star. It was not ladylike. Not in the least. As if that weren’t bad enough, she smoked in the street.”
“You say it fell to you? On what authority? Was there strong general feeling against her?”
“In my capacity as a member of the Church of England.”
“I see. Was everyone else in Hobb’s End ladylike?”
She pursed her lips again and let him know with a quick dagger glance that she hadn’t missed the insolence in his tone. “I’m not saying that there weren’t lower elements in the village, Chief Inspector. Don’t get me wrong. Of course, there were. As there are in every village society. But even the lowly of birth can aspire to at least a certain level of good manners and decent behavior. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“How did Gloria react when you rebuked her?”
Mrs. Goodall flushed at the memory. “She laughed. I pointed out that it might do her much good, morally and socially, were she to become active in the Women’s Institute and the Missionary Society.”
“What was her response to this?”
“She called me an interfering busybody and indicated that there was only one missionary position she was interested in, and it was not the Church’s. Can you believe it? And she used such language as I would not expect from the mouth of the lowest mill girl. Despite her put-on speech, I think she showed her true colors then.”
“How did she speak?”
“Oh, she had her airs and graces. She spoke like someone on the wireless. Not the way they do these days, of course, but as they did back then, when people spoke properly on the wireless. But you could tell it was put on. She had clearly been practicing the arts of imitation and deception.”
“She married Matthew Shackleton, didn’t she?”
Mrs. Goodall sucked in her breath with an audible hiss. “Yes. I was at their wedding. And I must say that, al though Matthew was only a shopkeeper’s son, he married well beneath himself when he married the Stringer girl. Matthew was an exceptional boy. I expected far better of him than that.”
“Do you know anything about their relationship?”
“It wasn’t long after they were married he was sent abroad. He went missing in action, poor Matthew. Missing, presumed dead.”
Banks frowned. “When was this?”
“When he went missing?”
“Yes.”
“Sometime in 1943. He was in the Far East. Captured by the Japanese.” She gave a little shudder.
“What happened to him?”
“I have no idea. I presume he was dead.”
“You lost touch?”
She fiddled with her wedding ring. “Yes. My husband, William, was engaged in top-secret work for the home front, and he was assigned to Scotland early in 1944. I accompanied him. My parents came to live with us, and we didn’t have anything more to do with Hobb’s End. I still keep in touch with Ruby Kettering and Alice Poole, but they are my only connections. It was all so long ago. We women don’t dwell on the war the way the men do, with their legions and their regimental reunions.”
“Do you know if Gloria had affairs with anyone other than Matthew?”
Mrs. Goodall sniffed. “Almost certainly.”
“Who with?”
She paused a moment, as if to let him know that she shouldn’t be telling him this, then she uttered just one word. “Soldiers.”
“What soldiers?”
“This was wartime, Chief Inspector. Contrary to what you might imagine, not every man in the armed forces was over fighting the Hun or the Nip. Unfortunately. There were soldiers everywhere. Not all of them British, either.”
“What soldiers were these?”
For the first time in their conversation, Mrs. Goodall let a small smile slip. It endeared her to Banks tremendously. “Oversexed,” she said, “overpaid and over here.”
“Americans?”
“Yes. The RAF handed Rowan Woods over to the American Air Force.”
“Did you see much of these Americans?”
“Oh, yes. They often used to come and drink in the village pubs, or attend our occasional dances at the church hall. Some even came to the Sunday services. They had their own on the base, of course, but Saint Bartholomew’s was a beautiful old church. Such a pity it had to be knocked down.”
“Did Gloria have American boyfriends, then?”
“Several. And I needn’t tell you about the opportunities for immorality and indiscretion that a wide area of wooded land like Rowan Woods has to offer, need I?”
Banks wondered if she would take a positive answer as an indication of personal experience. He decided not to risk it. “Was there anyone in particular?” he asked.
“I have no first-hand knowledge. I kept my distance from them. According to Cynthia Garmen, she had more than one. Not that Cynthia was one to talk. No better than she ought to be, that one.”
“Why?”
“She married one of them, didn’t she? Went off to live in Pennsylvania or some such place.”
“So there was no one serious for Gloria?”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt her liaisons were every bit as serious as a woman such as Gloria Shackleton was capable of. A married woman.”
“But you said she thought her husband was dead.”
“Missing presumed dead. It’s not quite the same. Besides, that’s no excuse.” Mrs. Goodall remained silent for a few moments, then said, “May I ask you a question, Chief Inspector?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you asking me about the Shackleton girl after all these years?”
“Don’t you watch the news?”
“I prefer to read historical biography.”
“Newspapers?”
“On occasion. But only the obituaries. What are you hinting at, Chief Inspector? Am I missing something?”
Banks told her about the reservoir drying up and the discovery of the body they believed to be Gloria’s. Mrs. Goodall paled and clutched at the silver crucifix around her neck. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” she muttered. “You should have told me sooner.”
“Would that have changed what you said?”
She paused a moment, then sighed and said, “Probably not. I have always considered telling the truth to be an important virtue. All I can tell you, though, is that Gloria Shackleton was alive and well when William and I left Hobb’s End in May 1944.”
“Thank you,” said Banks. “That helps us narrow things down a bit. Do you know if she had any enemies?”
“Not what you’d call enemies. Nobody who would do what you have just described. Many people, like myself, disapproved of her. But that’s quite a different thing. One would hardly murder a person for not joining the Women’s Institute. Might I make a suggestion?”