The Red Horse

by James R Benn

  “You said one more question, Boyle. That was two. Now I must get ready, please excuse me.” He stood, unfolding his body into a ramrod-straight stance and drilling me with his still, dark eyes.

  I left. He hadn’t liked that question. Not one damn bit.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They were taking Cosgrove’s body away as I left Blackford’s room. Big Mike stood to attention as they passed by, and I followed suit. It was a demeaning way to die after everything Charles Cosgrove had been through. Two world wars, heart troubles, then finally getting back in the fight. And it all ended here, stabbed by someone he trusted, a fellow countryman or at least an American ally. And over what? It made no sense.

  I watched the orderlies carry the shrouded stretcher down the path. No, it made sense to someone. There was reason and logic at work here.

  “Ready to go see Kaz?” Big Mike said.

  “No, you go,” I said, as the stretcher-bearers disappeared behind a building. “I need that coffee. And to talk to a few people.”

  “You okay, Billy?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I realized that I should start thinking about the inmates here as a positive, not a negative. It’s a big pool of suspects, sure, but it’s also a potential pool of witnesses. And besides, I really do need some joe.”

  “You think any of them saw something?”

  “Who knows? Heard or saw something. I happen to know at least one of the mutes is faking it, for the most part at least. It’s easy to underestimate the observational skills of someone you think is out to lunch.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell Kaz what happened and ask him to translate the postcard,” Big Mike said.

  “I’ll get over there as soon as I can. Once you’re done, why don’t you head to London. Get Kaz that envelope of cash.”

  “You think he still needs to go that route?” Big Mike said. “What with Cosgrove setting everything up with Harken already?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a guarantee that Hughes won’t throw a monkey wrench into the works. He’s still the head physician here. And when you come back, don’t bring a jeep. Take a staff car. Something with a roomy trunk.”

  “Lined with a few blankets, maybe?” he said, leaning in and grinning.

  “Now you’re talking. You can bust me outta here if Snow doesn’t come through. Talk to Colonel Harding if you can, see if he can spring me,” I said.

  “I don’t know if he’s back from France, but I have to report to him about Skory. I’ll check on Skory after I see Kaz and then head out. If Sam ain’t back at SHAEF, I’ll get in touch with him by radio. Watch your back, Billy.”

  Big Mike moved off at a quick pace, much quicker than you’d expect from a guy his size. He had a big man’s grace, a fluid movement of muscle and bone that was always surprising. It’s always been Kaz or Big Mike watching my back, and each in their own way was the best at it. But as of now, I was on my own. And that meant constant vigilance.

  Which called for coffee. I walked to the north wing dining hall, keeping an eye peeled for patients, Griffin especially. I had a sense he might have honed his surveillance skills sufficiently to observe more than anyone knew. And Faith as well. Her mute routine made her invisible, like a servant in a wealthy household.

  I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat at the end of a long table, watching the few patients who wandered in and out. Most had probably already breakfasted and were going about whatever people did between electric therapy and appointments with their psychiatrist.

  As soon as the caffeine jolt hit my brain, I began to worry about something else. Cosgrove had been working on the release of one hundred concentration camp inmates. What would happen to that now? If the Swedish government was behind the effort, it would likely proceed.

  But would Diana’s name still be on the list? Maybe Colonel Harding was involved or could get in touch with a contact at the Foreign Office. And if so, did I stand a chance in hell of getting Angelika’s name on it as well? I had to be sure Diana got out and do anything I could to have Angelika join her.

  But I couldn’t do anything about Sweden right now, so I drank my joe and thought about things. About Holland, since that’s where all this started. There was a tenuous connection between Holland, Blackford, and Cosgrove. The selection board. But was that enough to support my theory of Holland’s death as a lure? Would Cosgrove have come if it hadn’t been for Skory?

  When I’d gone through Holland’s file, I skipped over the selection board report. It hadn’t seemed important, since I assumed his mission and subsequent treatment here held whatever information might have been significant. That’s where I’d hoped to find clues, not by leafing through pages of mundane selection board minutes. Maybe I needed to take a closer look.

  Murder, death, and fear for Diana notwithstanding, I began to feel hungry. I helped myself to powdered eggs and fried Spam, refilled my cup, and sat back down as Miller entered the room. It was a subdued Miller. The maniacal energy he’d displayed before was gone, which wasn’t a bad thing. But the washed-out expression left in its place wasn’t much of an improvement.

  “Miller,” I said, waving for him to join me once he’d gotten his chow.

  “You were there,” he said, calmly enough, as he set down his plate and utensils and sat across from me.

  “I was. You remember?”

  “It’s coming back,” he said, spearing a clump of scrambled eggs. “But I don’t want to talk about it.” He looked at me, his head slightly cocked, as if he were trying to work out why I seemed . . . what? Like myself, I decided. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d been rescued at the last moment. We ate in silence. His demeanor was an improvement, I decided, since I didn’t have to listen to his violent blather.

  “Well look, it’s the new and improved Miller,” Iris said from behind me. She and Faith sat, clutching their cups of tea. “We like Miller better this way. Don’t you, Boyle?”

  Miller continued working through his eggs, saying nothing, showing no emotion.

  “Somewhere in-between would be nice,” I said. Knowing what he had been through made it hard to joke at his expense.

  “I agree,” Iris said. “This Miller is awfully boring. The old Miller was simply awful.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miller said, setting down his fork. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with the rest of his food, his eyes darting about, as if he couldn’t figure out where he was.

  “Oh,” Iris said, her hand covering her lips as she took in Miller’s state. “No, I’m sorry, dear. So very sorry.”

  Faith sat with her hands wrapped around her cup, drawing what warmth she could from it. It wasn’t cold in the dining hall, but she was so thin she must have felt every breath of air. I looked at her, but her eyes were focused on some faraway image.

  “You don’t want the doctors to think you need the electric shock therapy,” I said. “Believe me.”

  “You too?” Iris asked.

  “Yes, but thank God, only a small dose. I’d hate for anyone to go through even that, especially if they didn’t need it. You know, like someone faking a mental condition.”

  “He’s right,” Miller murmured, eating his eggs again.

  “Thank you,” Faith said, her voice a strained whisper, her eyes fixed on Miller’s impassive face. Iris grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “I can’t wait to get out of this dreadful place,” Iris said. “Is it true what they’re saying? About a body in the guest quarters?”

  “Major Charles Cosgrove,” I said. “Stabbed to death.” I wasn’t surprised that they knew. Word travels fast in a hothouse environment like Saint Albans where there’s little to do but eat, wait, and gossip.

  “Civilian clothes? The one with the tall colonel?” Iris asked.

  “Yeah. Colonel Blackford,” I said. “You saw them?”

  “Yesterday morning, wasn’t it?�
�� Iris said. Faith nodded her agreement. “They came looking for Lieutenant Densmore. He’s a special guest, up on the third floor.”

  “How special?” I asked.

  “He’s not an agent and apparently here of his own accord,” she said. “He suffered a nervous breakdown, and they brought him in for a rest. Robinson gave him the sleep cure and they wait on him hand and foot in a comfortable room, or so I hear. He doesn’t like to talk to people. But not like Faith. I mean, he doesn’t like to be talked to.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “Oh, don’t say anything, Boyle, but Clarissa in the clerical office is a dear. And Densmore is simply smashing, a real looker. Isn’t he, Faith?”

  Faith smiled. Smashing, indeed.

  “He was nice,” Miller said, finished with his eggs.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The civilian. I asked him to help get me out of here. Yesterday, before the . . . you know. He was nice.”

  “Yeah, he was a good guy,” I said, surprised Cosgrove had managed to be nice to the old, brash Miller. “When was this?”

  “Morning, I think,” he said. “I’m still a little confused.”

  “He was with Colonel Blackford?”

  “No,” Miller said. He took his plate and left.

  “Dear God, what did they do to the man?” Iris said. “I mean, he was unbalanced, but now he’s nearly a child.”

  “It’s supposed to help,” I said. “Dr. Robinson is big on it. I prefer the sleep routine, myself.”

  “I think I shall have a talk with Dr. Robinson,” Faith said. “Before he gets any helpful ideas. Thank you, Boyle.”

  “No problem. Tell me, have either of you seen Griffin around?” I said.

  “No one sees Griffin,” Iris said. “He sees you.”

  “What do you know about him?” I said.

  “Nothing. He’s close-lipped. He seems to be practicing surveillance techniques. Easy enough to do here, where no one pays any attention to odd behavior,” Iris said.

  “Have you heard of anyone going out after curfew?” I said.

  “Where to? The local pub?” Iris laughed and Faith smiled. “Whatever for, Boyle?”

  “A rendezvous with one of the guards? Or a doctor, perhaps?”

  “Right,” Iris said, sipping the last of her tea. “The first thing I thought about when I got here was a clandestine encounter with a paunchy old man or a pimply faced boy. Please.”

  “Griffin would be the one to do it, though,” Faith said, clutching her sweater and pulling it tight around her. “Reconnoitering the enemy camp or some such nonsense. Writing things in that notebook of his.”

  “Where’s his room?” I asked.

  “No idea,” Iris said. “The men’s section is off limits.”

  “Why is Densmore stuck on the third floor? That’s where they have the electric shock machine and the padded cells,” I said.

  “Those are along the side corridor on the third floor. The front corridor is much nicer. Offices and rooms for special guests like Densmore. A world of difference, I hear,” Iris said.

  “You hear a lot,” I said.

  “We are trained in intelligence gathering, Boyle. Now, shall we take a walk, Faith, and see if we can spot poor Griffin skulking in the bushes?”

  “Tell him I want a word. About a new assignment,” I said.

  “He’ll be so excited,” Iris said, gathering up their cups and heading out, Faith trailing in her wake.

  I cleared my plate and poured another cup of coffee. I stood at the window and took in the view outside. The day had turned blustery, the clouds leaden, and leaves swirled upward. Maybe the rain would send Griffin indoors. It was a slim chance that his notebook would contain anything useful, but I only had so much to work with.

  I took a sip as Miller went by, listlessly walking the path, his unbuttoned field jacket billowing out at his sides like a green sail. I couldn’t help smiling at his description of Cosgrove as nice. I could say many positive things about the man, but that one wouldn’t have occurred to me. Miller was a troubled soul, and although Cosgrove wasn’t one to suffer fools gladly, as Blackford said, he probably would spare a kind word or two for a patient.

  Blackford and Cosgrove had visited Densmore. Then Cosgrove left, probably to see to Skory. After that, he came looking for me.

  Densmore was Blackford’s reason for coming to Saint Albans.

  I still thought there was a hidden connection between Holland and Cosgrove. But the red horse postcard had been deliberately left in Cosgrove’s hand. Blackford had refused to acknowledge it. Since Densmore and Blackford both worked in SOE’s German Section, Densmore might be able to tell me more about it. Or, at least confirm it meant nothing and Blackford had been giving me the bum’s rush.

  I left my coffee and headed upstairs. The third floor was off-limits, except for those with the right keys. I tried to think up a story to convince the guard to let me in. An urgent message for Densmore, maybe. But the guard’s station was deserted, a folded newspaper displaying a nearly finished crossword puzzle. Five across was still blank: an eight-letter word for a biblical betrayer. Iscariot. I picked up a pencil and filled it in. Who didn’t know that? Maybe someone who didn’t have to sit through Sister Mary Margaret’s Bible study classes.

  There was no guard on the third-floor landing either, only a solid door with a narrow, thick glass window leading to the main corridor where Densmore had his room. On the other side of the vestibule was the door leading to the cells and treatment rooms. I steered clear of that one.

  The door to the corridor was open. Barely. It rested against the doorjamb, ready to be locked tight at the slightest bit of pressure. I pushed it open and stepped into the hallway. I eased the door closed, leaving it in the same position I’d found it. If anyone came along and pushed it shut, I’d be trapped.

  I stepped into the hallway. This one sported a bright coat of paint and polished floors, a far cry from the decaying corridor where I’d been imprisoned and electrified. The door opened in the middle of a long hall. I took a right with a purposeful stride, the kind that said I belonged here, even though I was dressed in the plain fatigues of a patient. I passed an open door and caught a quick glance of a switchboard and a couple of desks with several telephones. That was the place that caused me all the trouble the other night. A woman at the switchboard placed a cord into a jack as another woman answered a call at the desk.

  I was by them before they noticed me. To my left, tall windows let in what light there was on this cloudy day, blackout curtains pulled back and tied off. It was a different world up here. Clean and airy. I passed another door, thankfully shut, muffled voices sounding from within.

  The next door was partially open. Inside four men sat at desks pushed together in the middle of the room. Electrical lines were strung from the ceiling. They sat hunched over wire recording machines, headphones on their ears, and pens scratching paper. Their ties were askew, and their shirtsleeves rolled up. They looked like they’d been at it awhile, whatever it was. Listening devices? Hidden microphones? Was this whole joint bugged?

  I’d have to give that some thought once I got the hell out of here.

  On the next door a small metal bracket held a blank card. Maybe one of the VIP rooms, currently empty? Then the jackpot. Densmore’s name was on the next card. Luck was on my side. I raised my hand to knock, then thought better of it. The echo would rattle around the corridor, and I couldn’t afford anyone taking notice.

  I put my hand on the latch, figuring it wouldn’t be locked. Even very important personages aren’t allowed to lock themselves in at Saint Albans. I opened the door, whispering Densmore’s name.

  He sat in a comfortable armchair facing the window. By the angle of his neck, I knew he wouldn’t be answering me. I felt for a pulse anyway and was rewarded with a touch of clamm
y skin. I drew away my hand.

  It was trembling. I took a step back, stumbling against the open door. The room was hazy for a second and began to tilt. I managed to shut the door and get to Densmore’s bed. I sat with my head in my hands waiting for the world to steady itself.

  I didn’t know what was wrong. Why had the shakes returned? This sure as hell wasn’t my first dead body. I took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to take. I felt dizzy and my heart was beating like Papa Jo Jones keeping time with Count Basie.

  Maybe I needed more sleep.

  Maybe I needed to get away from death. It damn well wasn’t staying away from me.

  I lifted my head and opened my eyes. From my angle, I could see what Densmore was facing. I blinked, thinking I might be hallucinating. It didn’t go away; it was the image of a red horse traced in blood on the windowpane.

  I stood slowly, fighting off the dizziness, not wanting to faint and fall over his corpse. I held onto the corner of his chair, and noticed his arm hanging over the side. A dish containing the remains of his breakfast held a pool of congealing blood.

  I sat back down again.

  There wasn’t a lot of blood. Trails of redness traced rivulets from his wrist. I managed to rise again and made it to the window. It was blood for certain. It was the same stylized drawing—a long, curved line for the tail, back, and neck. A single angled line for the head, a couple of lines for the legs, all enclosed in a red circle.

  The cuts to his wrist were made after he was killed. Otherwise there’d be arterial sprays of the stuff all over the room. The killer would be dripping wet with it too. Blood will ooze out of the body with the help of gravity, which is what the murderer had done here, harvesting enough of the red stuff to paint us a picture.

  Nothing felt right. I shouldn’t be reacting like this, weak at the knees in the presence of a corpse. However, I was in a restricted area, and if anyone walked in here right now, I’d have a damn hard time explaining things. Things like how I didn’t break Densmore’s neck. All I had going for me was that there was no blood on my hands.