“Crying comes after laughter as sure as night follows day. It is God’s will.”
This was one of his Nonna’s favourite sayings, said in a hushed voice, as if she were speaking for God himself. Angelo hated it. It was like an insidious poison eating away at joy.
He had known such joy last night. But afterwards had followed sorrow. Just as his grandmother had said it would.
—
Tyler found Oldham and Wickers waiting in the anteroom. Oldham was sitting on a bench, leaning forward with his head in his hands. Wickers was standing next to him, smoking a cigarette. Even the way he dragged on the fag revealed his pent-up anger.
“Right, you two. In case you didn’t catch it first time round, my name is Tyler. Detective Inspector Tyler to you. We need to have a bit of a chinwag before you scarper.”
Wickers blew out smoke, keeping it just barely within an acceptable distance from Tyler’s face.
“We’ve got to get back to work, we do. We can’t hang around here all day. There’s always jobs to be done.”
The young man was good-looking, Tyler thought, with tanned skin, wavy fair hair cut short, and blue eyes. He had the compact muscular frame of a man used to hard physical work. But there was an expression of shrewdness in his face that Tyler hadn’t expected. For a minute, he wondered if the defiance and bravado weren’t more of a pose than anything.
“Look, Wickers,” said Tyler, “we’re at war, in case you hadn’t noticed. My constables have got plenty to do making sure nobody’s cheating honest folks in the black market, never mind the everyday misdemeanours that thick lads like you think are funny. I don’t give a toss if you’re stupid enough to ride around in the pitch-black without your lights on. If you end up with a broken neck because you fell off your bike, that’s your business. Mine is to enforce the rules, which are made for ignorant blokes like you. When you’re out at night, you have to have some light on your vehicle. That includes bikes.”
Wickers shrugged, not intimidated in the least by Tyler’s rant. “Like we said, we could see well enough. We live here. We know the roads.”
“I heard all that,” said Tyler. “But I tell you what, Wickers. And you too, Oldham. What really ticked me off was the fact that you used bad language to my constable. You were almost ready to take a swing at him, according to his report. Now that, in my book, is a serious offence. You’re lucky the magistrate listened to me. He could have had you both sent down for three months hard. That would have been really tough on the cows, I would imagine.”
Oldham was staring at him in dismay, but Wickers only lowered his head a little while he stubbed out his cigarette.
“Cows? What cows?”
“I was under the impression you had urgent work to do. The only job that urgent is milking cows.”
“No. Mrs. Mohan don’t have cows. We’re general handymen, you might say.”
Tyler could feel the younger man’s tension. Wickers was a man who talked with his fists first.
He raised his voice slightly. “That’s good to know. So you can report to the police station by one o’clock this afternoon. You’ll spend two hours every day for the next week doing some work there.”
“What sort of work?” asked Oldham.
“The station hasn’t been given a good scrubbing for years. We’ll start there.”
“Christ. Scrubbing?” exclaimed Wickers. “Don’t you have painting or fixing we can do? That’s more up our alley.”
“You’ve got to clean before you can paint and fix. Scrubbing it will be. And no swearing. We have a rule around the station. Anybody heard using the Lord’s name in vain or any other profanity has to put a shilling into the Spitfire Fund.” In fact, Tyler had just instituted this rule on the spot. “Got that?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Oldham.
“Wickers? Got that? What I just said?”
The young man nodded.
“Say the words for me, Mr. Wickers. Say you have understood what I just said.”
Wickers stared at him, but he was the one to look away first.
“I understand what you just said.”
“I understand what you just said, sir.”
“I understand what you just said, sir.”
“Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Tyler knew that Wickers would rather have swallowed glass than wrap his tongue around sir, but the young man was obviously wily or experienced enough to know who had the upper hand.
“I’ll see you at the station at one, then.”
Oldham stood up, keeping his weight carefully on one leg. He was taller than his mate, brown-haired, but with the same husky build. At the moment, he looked so woebegone that Tyler almost felt sorry for him.
“What’d you do to your ankle?” Tyler asked.
“Twisted it in a rabbit hole.”
Tyler didn’t miss the flash of anger that his mate sent Oldham’s way.
“At least, I – I think it was a rabbit hole,” stuttered Oldham.
“Do what you can, then. Your pal here might have to do the lion’s share of the work. All right with that, Wickers?”
“Course.”
“Go on, then. Off with you.”
“Come on, Tim,” said Wickers. “Let’s get out of here.”
Tyler let them go a few paces. “Oh, by the way, boys, you were obviously three sheets to the wind on Tuesday. I was wondering how you came to be so inebriated given the shortage of booze these days. It’s almost impossible to even get tipsy with what they are serving at the pubs.”
Oldham answered. “We was drinking cider. Powerful strong stuff, that is. Called Stun ’Em Dead. You don’t need much of that, I can tell you.” He grinned. “Cheaper that way. Two pints is all we need.”
“Good to hear that. Because I wouldn’t want to think you’d been trafficking with somebody who’s selling black market liquor. I’d expect you to turn him in, if that was the case. National interest. Selling on the black market is a serious offence, but so is buying.”
“We know that,” interjected Wickers. “We’re very patriotic, aren’t we, Tim?”
Oldham nodded vigorously.
“And where was it you imbibed this Knock ’Em Dead cider?” asked Tyler.
Oldham hesitated for a moment, but Wickers gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “The Feathers. And the proper name’s Stun ’Em Dead, not Knock ’Em Dead.”
“Right. Same result, presumably. And the publican’s name?”
“Mr. Harold Johnson.”
“He’ll vouch for you then, will he? Just two pints of cider?”
Oldham shifted slightly. Wickers was the one to answer.
“It was a busy night. He might not remember.”
“I’ll ask him anyway. These chaps usually know exactly what their customers are up to.”
Tyler was sure they weren’t telling the whole truth. Didn’t mean Johnson was crooked, but he might have turned a blind eye if the lads had brought in their own illicit booze. Men did it all the time in order to get around the regulations. Beer wasn’t rationed but the supply was limited. Two strapping young men like these would need a lot of cider to get drunk. He didn’t for a minute buy the excuse that they didn’t have heads for liquor. Most farmers made their own strong cider and quaffed it down like water.
“All right then, boys, you’d better go and tackle your important chores. See you at one o’clock. Sharp.”
The big clock on the mantelpiece bonged out the half hour as the men made their escape. Crikey. He’d almost forgotten his appointment, in spite of Sergeant Rowell’s helpful reminder. Somewhat against his will, he’d arranged to meet with a Mrs. Hamilton, a purveyor of “sincere introductions for the single.” Rowell had talked him into it only last week. Given the letter he’d received yesterday, he didn’t know if this was perfect timing, or the opposite.
“Won’t hurt, sir,” Rowell had argued. “You know how difficult it is for men in our line of work to meet suitable prospects. At the very leas
t, it’ll make you get out a bit more.”
“What if I don’t like these women? Or they don’t like me, for that matter?”
Rowell had shaken his head. “That’s why Mrs. Hamilton is so good. She knows how to match people up so they’re compatible. Look how well I’ve done with Dorothy. I’d never have met her without Mrs. Hamilton.”
Two months earlier, Rowell had been introduced to a widow, Dorothy McPhail, through Mrs. Hamilton’s service, and they’d got along like a house on fire. Where formerly all he’d talked about was his deceased wife, now Rowell’s conversations revolved around Dorothy, what she thought, what she said. Tyler thought she was a sweet, placid sort of woman, who was a perfect match for his lonely, anxious sergeant.
Should he cancel the appointment? He had work to do at the station, but he didn’t like to back out at the last minute. Better follow up and see what the lady had to say. He wouldn’t have to take it any further if he didn’t want to.
—
The two boys had managed to huddle into a corner of the school assembly hall. It was playtime, but because of the foul weather the children had not been allowed outside. The girls had remained in the classrooms but the boys had been sent to the hall so they could run around, and the noise in the close confines was deafening.
Jan and Pim were ignored. Jan had already shown he could react quickly if threatened and, in spite of his skinny build, his blows hurt. None of the other boys were willing to risk taunting them, and nobody was generous enough to coax them to join in the wild games of tag that sprang up spontaneously. Even though at least half a dozen of the children were evacuees from London and Liverpool, they had arrived shortly after the outbreak of the war and were now pretty much assimilated. They weren’t sympathetic to these newcomers either. The brothers kept entirely to themselves. Pim never fought but he simply wouldn’t join in. He stuttered badly, and he mostly hovered in the background, looking miserable. It didn’t help that the boys had learned English in the East End of London when they’d first arrived in England. A lot of the other children couldn’t understand them. Or professed not to.
Pim leaned in closer to his brother so he could make himself heard above the din of screaming schoolboys. From the beginning, Jan had insisted that they always speak English except in a dire emergency. Pim had almost forgotten how to speak his native language.
“What’s g-going to h-happen, Jan? They won’t send us to a camp, will they?”
He was on the verge of tears, and his brother patted his arm.
“Stop asking that. I’ve told you and told you, they don’t have camps in England.”
“Yes, they d-do. Carl Stein’s uncle is on an island. He’s been there for t-two years. He’s an alien.”
“That’s different. That’s the Isle of Man, and it used to be a holiday camp. He’s in the lap of luxury.”
“Why’s he stuck there then?”
“He must be a communist.”
“I don’t th-think so.”
“Well, even if he is, they won’t kill him. The English won’t do that.”
Pim’s voice was tremulous. “They might. You n-never know. Carl is a Jew.”
Jan glanced around to make sure nobody was watching them. The bigger boys had started a game of leapfrog and two lines had formed down the length of the hall. Two teams, both intensely competitive.
Furtively, Jan pulled a small brown envelope from his pocket and opened it.
“Don’t forget we’ve got this. It’s our treasure. We’ll get to see Queen Wilhelmina with this.”
He picked out a thin, blackened coin, which he rubbed with the sleeve of his jersey until the silver edges shone softly.
“That’s all v-very well, Jan,” muttered Pim. “But who’ll b-buy it? We don’t even know if it’s w-worth so much as sixpence.”
“Don’t be thick. Course it’s worth more than sodding sixpence. First off, it’s a piece of silver treasure. I showed you how old it was. Regina means Queen. This is a coin from the time of Queen Elizabeth. Whoever was king or queen was the one whose head they put on the money. Like now, it’s King George.”
Pim liked the King because he’d heard him speak on the radio, and he tended to stutter as well.
“Besides, the reason it’s so valuable is because they’s very, very scarce.”
Pim regarded him dubiously. “What if everybody thinks we s-stole it?”
Jan had read more books than his brother and he knew a lot about treasure. “You don’t bleeding well steal treasure, lummox. You finds it. Somebody else must have stole the frigging gold and silver and hid it. Then they made a map – which they lost, else they’d’ve found it again.”
Pim raised his hand as if he were in the classroom.
“Christ. What?” Jan asked impatiently.
“Why’d they lose the map, Jan?”
“How the bloody hell do I know? They’s scared some sod’s after them. So they bury the treasure, see, but they have friends and they want them to know where it is in case something happens to them –”
“Like a b-bomb falls on them or something? Or they g-get taken away?”
“Don’t interrupt. There weren’t bombs in the Middle Ages. But they could have got killed by a sword or an arrow or something like that. Somebody else finds the map and they’s the ones who figure out where the treasure is.”
“We didn’t find no m-map, Jan. The old m-man must have dropped that coin on the road.”
“I know that.” Jan thumped his brother hard on the arm. “You’re such a bloody drip sometimes. You have no imagination.”
“Ow. You don’t need to wallop me. I’m j-just asking is all. Besides, one c-crummy silver coin isn’t exactly treasure.”
“I know, I know. You don’t have to bloody tell me. We might have to go on a treasure hunt soon.”
“You m-mustn’t swear, Jan. You said sod before. You know what Mrs. K. said about that.”
“I didn’t. I said sot.”
“Didn’t sound like th-that.”
“Never mind. Nobody heard. In fact, I’m thinking we should go back to the hideout and put this coin in a safe place until we can get out of here and go talk to the Queen.”
“What if the old man sees us?”
“We ride off fast as the wind. Like we did on Sunday. He couldn’t catch us, could he?”
Pim frowned. “Do you think he kn-knew we were Jews?”
“What! Of course he didn’t. How could he? First off, it was foggy. Second, we look just like anybody else now.”
Suddenly tears came to the younger boy’s eyes, which he wiped away with the edge of his sleeve.
“Why’re you sniffling?” asked Jan.
“I don’t know if I want to be a J-Jew any more.”
Jan drew in his breath sharply. “Don’t be stupid. It’s not something you can put on or off like a coat. Buck up. Things’ll look better when Pappa and Mamma get here.”
Pim rubbed at his eyes. “I think they’re dead, Jan. I don’t think we’ll ever see them again.”
—
A neatly printed card reading “MRS. W. HAMILTON” was pinned above an electric bell in a doorway next to the ironmonger’s shop in Castle Square. Tyler pressed the bell, but then quailed. Was he ready to even think about meeting women – “suitable prospects,” as Rowell had referred to them? Maybe he could pretend he was shopping at the ironmonger’s and had got confused. He was on the verge of turning tail to flee when a woman’s voice called to him from the top of the stairs.
“Come on up, Mr. Tyler.”
He obediently tromped up the uncarpeted stairs to meet the purveyor of “Sincere Introductions.”
Rowell had never described Mrs. Hamilton, and for some reason Tyler had expected a motherly sort of woman with apple-dumpling cheeks. But if Moira Hamilton had seen forty yet he’d be surprised. Her hair was dark and drawn up into plump, sausage-shaped rolls on top of her head. The only things about her that were in any way dumpling-like were her full, round breas
ts, which pushed against a snug, pink mohair jersey.
She must have caught his covert glance. “Most people are surprised when they first see me,” she said with a smile. “They think I’m going to be some old dear in a shawl. But I’ve been a happily married woman for ten years, and what better credentials are there for bringing together people who are looking for love?”
Tyler could see her point but he almost winced. He wasn’t yet ready to admit he was indeed looking for love. Not from anyone but Clare, that is.
Mrs. Hamilton stepped aside so he could enter the flat. It was warm, and there was a fragrant smell of cinnamon in the air.
“Give me your hat and coat,” she said. “You must be perishing. Why don’t you go and sit down. I’ll make us some tea. The kettle just boiled.”
“Something smells delicious.”
Moira Hamilton herself had a nice flowery scent. He hoped she didn’t think he was referring to her.
“I’ve been baking some pies with the last of the apples. I’m going to keep one and give the other to the church fete next Sunday. They’re raising money for the rebuilding of Coventry Cathedral.”
The flat was really one large room with a kitchen at one end. The sitting area was a grouping of stuffed chairs arranged around a tiny electric heater.
“I’ll only be a jiffy,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “Take that wingback. It’s the most comfortable for men.”
Tyler did as ordered and sat down in the brocade-covered armchair.
There was a faux mantelpiece against the wall with the heater in place of a hearth. He could see several cards, most of which seemed to be early Christmas greetings. One had the words Thank You in large letters crusted with silver glitter. Presumably from a grateful customer.
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