The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “Right. What else do we need to do here?”

  “I’m going to check around the building. Then we’ll get Cosgrove’s body moved. One of the doctors here should be able to do coroner’s duty,” I said. “I wish we could dust for fingerprints.”

  “They probably won’t let the local constable in,” Big Mike said. “Maybe Snow could call in Scotland Yard.”

  “I’ll talk to him. Wait on the porch while I make a circuit of the place. Then have a chat with Blackford,” I said. “Was Jenkins at the canteen?”

  “No. He’s expected in later. Same with the guy who relieved him last night. Private Martin Fulton.”

  “Yeah, I remember him. Young kid. We’ll need to get them both in,” I said, feeling every inch the homicide detective. Except that officially I was still a guest of His Majesty’s Government at a high-security insane asylum, at least until Snow cut the paperwork.

  I left Big Mike guarding the door and told Blackford we didn’t need a colonel standing watch, but that I’d need to talk to him shortly. He said he had to meet with his recovering colleague, then get back to London. I reassured him I only required a few minutes of his time and wondered how in hell I could get him to remain against his wishes.

  I stepped off the porch as he went into his room. I walked a few paces and estimated the distance to the Home Guard canteen. Two minutes at a brisk walk would do it. About the same distance to the main building. A little longer, perhaps, depending on what entrance you used. The farthest door, off the south wing, might have been ten minutes or so.

  All of which told me that the entire population of Saint Albans was within a ten-minute walk of the crime scene.

  Great detective work on my part.

  I took a slow stroll around the guest quarters. In front, the steps led to a narrow crushed-stone pathway that meandered to the canteen in one direction and the center of the main building in the other. A few dirt paths, well-trodden shortcuts branching off and fading into green grass, ran to other outbuildings. No chance of a footprint or clue showing up in the hard-packed ground.

  Around back it was different. The ground sloped away from the foundation, soft earth and rotting leaves left from the rainwater runoff. I walked the length of the building, checking the thick black soil.

  There it was, right beneath Cosgrove’s bedroom window. The sharp impression of a heel hitting the dirt. With the incline, the drop from his window must’ve been six feet. I stooped to get a closer view and made out sweeping marks made by a hand covering up the footprints. But in the dark, the killer had missed a spot, leaving the clear, curved imprint of one shoe heel. Not large enough to determine size, or even sex for that matter. But it told me that the guard had been on the porch, necessitating an acrobatic exit.

  What was odd was that the killer had tried to shut the window behind him. He’d climbed out, hung there, and pulled the window down with one hand, leaving a gap of a few inches.

  Why?

  Why did he care about closing the window behind him?

  Why did she care? I asked myself, trying that notion on.

  I came up empty on that question and continued my search. I scanned the ground for traces of evidence, and in a few yards I spotted a fleck of beige paint, then another two chips, almost invisible on the loamy soil. Halfway from the window to the path. I tried to put myself in the mind of the killer, having just jumped down from the window and covered my tracks.

  Moving back to the window, I saw where the paint had begun to peel. I set my feet near where the heel mark was, turned, and took a couple of steps, which brought me right to the beige chips.

  I wiped my hands, as the killer must have, shedding the flaking paint chips.

  I made a shaking motion with my hand. Yes, that made sense. He’d wiped the windowsill for prints with his handkerchief and picked up those paint chips. His handkerchief was still in his hand when he shook them free.

  I went back to the window, wondering how he’d been able to hang there, close the window, and wipe the sill, all before letting go. Then I noticed the scuff marks on the wall. Two faint lines where he’d placed his feet, pushing back with one arm while using the other on the window. He hadn’t hung straight down. He’d planted his feet firmly against the building with his body at an angle. Simple enough.

  The killer was cold, calm, collected. A surprise knife thrust to the heart while looking Cosgrove right in the eyes. Out the window, closing it as best he could to sow confusion. Shaking out his handkerchief and strolling off into the night. Nothing pointed to panic or a sudden burst of anger. If there was madness at work here, it was the calculating kind.

  I hustled up to the porch and told Big Mike to go around back and check out the rear window area for himself. I wanted someone else to confirm what I’d observed. If this were a homicide squad investigation, we’d have cameras and cops doing a wide sweep of the area. Instead, all we had were our two pairs of eyeballs.

  Which made me think, as I sat down on the porch steps, that Saint Albans was the perfect location for a murder. Top secret. No local law enforcement allowed in. The kind of place where scandals are routinely hushed up. A large cast of unstable characters as part of the pool of suspects. And with me, one of the aforementioned, doing my best imitation of a real investigation. If I found anything the head honchos didn’t like, they could blame it on my mental state. And if I did uncover a killer, it could be covered right back up. I’d be given a pat on the back and told mum’s the word, lad, while Snow or his boss took the credit.

  “Saw the boot heel, clear as day,” Big Mike said, on his return. “Can’t make any ID from it though. But I’ll be on the lookout for anyone brushing paint flakes off their tunic.”

  “There’s flaking paint all over this place, either the old stuff or the quick coat they threw on when they reopened the place. You notice anything else?”

  “Yeah, the window. Either someone lowered it on their way out, which looks impossible, or there was another person inside.”

  “A witness hiding in Cosgrove’s bedroom? Or did the killer close it?”

  “No idea. Hell, the killer could have been in there when we were. Maybe he snuck in before the guard was posted and was waiting to ambush Cosgrove but skedaddled when we showed up. Or waited until we left and walked in on Cosgrove, taking him by surprise,” Big Mike said. “It could have been anyone who spotted the major during the day. Cosgrove said he was familiar with some of the agents here.”

  “You’re right, the killer could have been waiting, then took off when we came in,” I said, telling him about my theory of the handkerchief. “Big Mike, go back to the canteen. Find out when Jenkins and Fulton are due back. If it’s not within the hour, go get them. Roust them out of bed if you need to. We have to know who saw what on that porch.”

  “Billy, I don’t have any clout around here,” he said, mirroring my own worries. “I was chatting with the guys in there before, which was fine. But I don’t think they’d take kindly to my giving orders about their non-com.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “We’re short on official status. I’ll ask Snow to bring them in.”

  “That’d be best,” Big Mike said, then gave me a sharp look. “But hey, you didn’t mention the tree.”

  “What tree?”

  Big Mike beckoned me to follow him, past his quarters and around the far side of the building. He squatted and pointed at two cigarette butts, ground out in the grass a couple of yards from a beech tree.

  “Sniff,” he said, pointing to the shaded area by the trunk. I did. The faint, sour odor of urine arose from the soil at the base of the tree.

  “Good work,” I said. “Jenkins or Fulton spent some time over here, taking a piss and smoke break.”

  “I get the call of nature,” Big Mike said. “But that’s quick. Whoever it was hung around long enough to finish two smokes. You can’t see the front entr
ance from here.”

  “Or maybe two people smoked them together,” I said, looking at the side of the building. The porch wasn’t visible. “That would account for the location.”

  “They couldn’t be observed,” Big Mike said, as he picked up the cigarette papers and tried to flatten them out. No dice. They were too shredded to identify the brand. “Either way, it means the killer had access to Cosgrove while the guard was down here.”

  “Okay, we need to talk to those Home Guards,” I said. “Let’s see what Snow’s up to.”

  As we came around front, we spotted Snow setting out guards, two at each side of the guest quarters, a decent distance away on the path. Close enough to watch, far enough not to get in the way.

  “Major Snow,” I said, standing at a fair imitation of attention as he approached. “You can have the body moved now. I assume the hospital has a morgue?”

  “Yes. I’ve already called for Dr. Hughes. He’s a medical examiner and can do the autopsy and paperwork,” he said.

  “How are you planning on handling the investigation, sir?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, Boyle? I shall conduct it. It comes under my jurisdiction as head of security,” he said, putting his hands on his hips and jutting out his chin. “Charles Cosgrove was my friend, and I’ll damn well find out who killed him. Starting with those Home Guard louts.”

  “What do you mean, Major?”

  “I’ve contacted Army Headquarters and requested a regular army unit,” he said. “It’s evident these Home Guards are not up to the task. How could they be when an important visitor is murdered while they stand sentry outside his door?”

  “There’s a lot we don’t yet know, Major. I’d like to question Sergeant Jenkins and Private Fulton. Could you have them brought in from the village?”

  “Listen, Boyle,” he said, taking me by the arm and walking me away from Blackford’s door. “I know I asked for your help with poor Holland. That was one thing. But I can’t authorize your involvement in a murder investigation. You’re still a patient, for God’s sake. They’d accuse me of letting the inmates run the asylum.”

  “Then cut me loose,” I said. “I’ll be back tomorrow with full authorization to investigate. Colonel Harding at SHAEF has connections with SOE. I can help you, Major.”

  “It’s not that easy,” he said, glancing back and forth between Big Mike and me. “I was planning on talking with Charles this morning about the paperwork to let you go. He’s—I mean he was—high enough in the Foreign Office hierarchy to sign off on it. But he’s gone, so all I can do is follow procedure.”

  “Which is what?” I asked.

  “The Discharge Board must be convened. Dr. Robinson, Dr. Hughes, one other physician on a rotating basis, and myself. The medical men review each case and I make the final decision as regards to security. And the decision must be unanimous.”

  “Okay, so call a meeting. Robinson’s on board for sure,” I said.

  “As soon as I can,” he said through tight lips. I knew the look. It meant things were complicated, more complicated than I could possibly understand. “Right now, I want Hughes to perform the autopsy. And I need to make sure the replacement troops get here quickly. Keep a low profile, Boyle, until I take care of things. Understood?”

  “Got it, Major,” I said, knowing it was useless to argue. I wasn’t exactly in a position of power, what with my medical status and my high-ranking champion dead on the couch. “I’m going to say goodbye to Colonel Blackford. He was pretty shaken up. Then I’ll go get some coffee and stay out of your hair.”

  That mollified him. He told me to be quick about it and went off to organize stretcher bearers.

  “You really going to do that, Billy?” Big Mike asked.

  “Get coffee? Damn straight I am.” I knocked on Blackford’s door. “How about we meet at Kaz’s room, after they pick up the body?”

  Big Mike nodded and hunkered down in the wicker chair. Major Snow was determined to run the investigation, but he didn’t know much about how it was done. You don’t leave the body unattended, and you don’t let a guy who was right next door to the murder scene walk away.

  Blackford opened the door. He gestured for me to come in, and we arranged ourselves in the sitting room, which was a duplicate of Cosgrove’s. Except for the fact that the resident was still alive.

  “Anything to report?” Blackford asked, his voice weary with grief.

  “Colonel, I’m not actually investigating this,” I said. “I’m still a guest here, to put it in the best possible light.”

  “You look sharp enough to me,” he said. “And I know Charles held you in high regard. Somewhat reluctantly, I’ll admit, but that was his style.” A brief smile appeared, then vanished.

  “You two knew each other a long time,” I said. I wanted to know more about Charles Cosgrove, and sometimes all it took was a grief-stricken friend to fill in the missing pieces.

  “Since 1916,” Blackford said. “We were both lieutenants in the London Regiment, serving in the 17th Battalion. We became acquainted at the Battle of the Somme, during the attack on High Wood. That was a ridge overlooking our positions, which had to be taken at whatever cost. They sent our entire brigade up that hill. The losses were terrible. At the end, Charles and I were among the few officers left. I had a bullet through my leg, and I counted myself among the lucky ones. When we were relieved, Charles stayed until all the wounded were taken off that bloody hill. He marched down to the aid station, checked on his men, and only then did he collapse from exhaustion.”

  “I wish I’d known him as a younger man, Colonel,” I said, wondering if someday I’d be seen as a blustery old man, the deeds of my youth ignored or forgotten by the yet unborn.

  “Well, Charles always had a musty side to him. Came from a conservative family. His father was a vicar, not one given to light amusements, shall we say. Charles was a bit older than I, and I always thought of him as a man of the last century. A proper Englishman.”

  “Do you have any idea who would want to do him harm?”

  “Charles could be brusque, as I’m sure you know,” Blackford said. “He never suffered fools gladly, and I’m certain there are officers who wished they had clashed with a man of lesser intellect. There was a lot of contention between the wars when our service was reduced. Competition for promotions and positions, never mind the political arena.”

  “Politics? How so? I thought the British Army steered clear of politics.”

  “I’m talking about rearmament. The need to rein in Hitler and the Nazis. Not every officer saw them as the enemy, you know. Charles was vocal about the shortsighted budget cuts to the military. All branches, not only the army.”

  “But who would kill over that?” I asked. “Especially now.”

  “Most especially now, young man,” Blackford said. “Any officer who wishes to rise in rank could not bear to have his pro-fascist past come back to haunt him. We had our share of those. You’ve heard of Mosely and his Blackshirts, I assume?”

  “Sir Oswald Mosley and the British Union of Fascists, right?”

  “Exactly. His party was pro-Nazi and had a visceral hatred of the Jews. The government threw the blighter in jail at the start of the war but let him out on house arrest last year. Should have been shot, but there you have it. He had his supporters in the military, have no doubt. Charles had a role in contacting certain officers back in 1938, warning them to stay away from Mosley and his bunch. A fair warning, really, to save their reputations, but some did not take kindly to it. One was a cousin to the king’s physician, a fascist supporter himself.”

  “Do you think it’s likely that one of those men waited six years to take his revenge, and within a high-security facility to boot?” I asked.

  “No, not really,” Blackford said. “I am only thinking of those who would most wish Charles ill. Outside of any number of
Germans, that is. I am sorry, Boyle, but there is nothing else I can think of.”

  “You and he worked directly together last year, if I recall. Major Cosgrove mentioned a selection board and some project with your SOE German Section.”

  “Yes, well, the selection board business is fairly routine stuff,” he said. “Evaluating potential agents after they’ve finished training. Selecting the best and matching them to planned missions or sending them on to further training to await assignment.”

  “Or sending them here. Like Griffin.”

  “Occasionally someone falls apart at the last moment or proves themselves incapable. When that happens, and if they possess classified information, we must place them in a secure environment. Those with medical issues come here. For the others, we have a suitable location elsewhere.”

  “Is there anyone here who was washed out by Major Cosgrove?” I asked.

  “Not that I am aware of,” he said. “Cosgrove, Snow, and I have served on these boards. Unless we were directly part of the agent’s training, they would have no way of knowing who had a part in any decision. We do know how to keep secrets, Boyle. That is our business.”

  “Certainly, Colonel. I’m just trying to find anything that resembles a motive,” I said, rising. “Thanks for your time. Will you be here much longer?”

  “No. As I said, I have to meet one of my men,” he said. “Lieutenant Paul Densmore. Case of exhaustion, they say, from overwork. Once I complete reviewing his files, I shall leave this place as quickly as possible and hope to never come back.”

  “I know the feeling, Colonel,” I said, heading to the door. “One more question. Do you know the Uffington White Horse?”

  “Of course I do,” he said with an amused laugh. “Ancient cliff marking, not too far from here. Are you going sightseeing, Boyle?”

  “If I ever get out of here myself, I may. But does a red horse drawn in that style sound familiar?”