The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “HE’S NO DANGER to anyone,” Inspector Grange said. “There are simply times when he stops. Becomes lost in himself, so to speak.”

  “He seemed fine when we found the bodies,” I said. We’d spent most of the morning with a detective sergeant from Newton Abbot, giving our statements and having our stories checked. It helped that he knew Tom Quick and had settled him at a desk with a cup of hot tea, the English cure-all. “It was a charnel house, but he held up fine in there.”

  “As he would have done had the perpetrators been there to be apprehended,” Grange said. “My guess is that he saw the area was clear, but before he could return to you, the bomb damage drew him in.”

  “How do you know he wouldn’t have frozen if we had been confronted by armed killers?” I asked.

  “That’s not Tom’s problem,” Grange said, settling back in his chair and stuffing his pipe with tobacco. Quick was upstairs in his quarters, with David Martindale keeping him company. Kaz was on the telephone, reporting in to Colonel Harding. I was stuck trying to understand Tom Quick.

  “He kept talking about bomb loads. Blockbusters, that sort of thing,” I said.

  “That’s because he was a bombardier,” Grange said. “They called those big bombs ‘cookies,’ as if they were children at play. I suppose it makes it easier, somehow, to change the name of the thing.” He puffed on his pipe, studying the glow of the coals as if it were preferable to thinking about the obliteration of cities.

  “So what is it, guilt?” I asked.

  “Nothing so simple,” Grange said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Tom was a good man on the force, the kind of constable you know will move up the ranks. But then the war came along, and he joined the RAF as soon as he could. Wanted to be a pilot, but washed out for some reason, so he made bombardier instead. He came home on leave after his first five missions. He said they’d been easy, mainly against airfields and other German installations in France.”

  “Military targets,” I said.

  “Yes. The RAF hadn’t yet begun the nighttime bombing. He came to visit and let slip that they were going to hit Bremen next, as soon as he reported back. He shouldn’t have said anything, but he was terribly excited about finally bringing the war home to Germany, after all England had suffered. I scolded him, of course, and swore I wouldn’t say a thing.”

  “Where was home?” I asked. “Not the bachelor quarters here.”

  “No. Tom had a lovely wife and two children, both little girls. They’d moved to Plymouth to stay with her parents when Tom joined up. It was April 1941 when he had that leave. He returned to duty, and that very night he flew off with his squadron, and they dropped their thousand-pound bombs on Bremen. At the same time, the Germans hit Plymouth. Scored a direct hit on the air-raid shelter in Portland Square. Seventy-two people were killed in that one shelter.”

  “Tom’s wife and children among them,” I said, a terrible understanding growing in my mind.

  “Yes,” Grange said, staring at his pipe. It had gone out. “The night he first dropped his bombload on a German city. He was devastated. Almost broken by it, as any man would be. Others might seek revenge, delight in wreaking havoc on the people who had done such a thing. But there was no sign of that with Tom. He had compassionate leave to bury his family, of course, and we all went to the funeral. Going to funerals was almost a full-time job during the Blitz.”

  “How did Tom react?”

  “Like the man he was. He returned to duty and completed his thirty missions. Then he fell apart, completely. Catatonic for a while. I spoke to his RAF doctor before I took him on here, and he said Tom felt he was murdering his own family every time they bombed a city. Which by then was nearly every mission. It didn’t help that he lost a good friend on his last flight. His rear gunner, I think it was.”

  “Which is why you took him on as a War Reserve Constable,” I said, wondering if that was the Freddie he’d mentioned. “But not a regular officer.”

  “Yes, I owed him that much. I try to pair him up with others, keep him busy. I don’t think the county constable would ever take him back as a regular if he saw his medical file. But I have some latitude with the War Reserve fellows, so I did what I thought best. He tells people he was invalided out of the service because of his leg wounds. He did take some shrapnel, but nothing serious. It’s a convenient and kind lie we all go along with.”

  “Will he be okay?” I asked.

  “He’ll snap out of it; he always does,” Grange said. “But if you mean will he ever be the old Tom Quick again? No, that man’s long gone.”

  I left Inspector Grange to his pipe and wandered into the office Kaz had been given to make his call to SHAEF. He was just hanging up the telephone. “Colonel Harding says he agrees, the body is more than likely connected to Sabini. He told us to stay here until at least tomorrow. General Eisenhower may be coming down to Slapton Sands to watch a training exercise. I gave him the number for Ashcroft.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s collect David and head back.” I gave Kaz the basics about Tom Quick as we took the stairs to the constable’s quarters. Quick had a small but comfortable room with a dresser, easy chair, table, and bed. Not a place you’d want to spend every waking hour, but not bad for a good night’s sleep after walking a beat. I wondered where he’d go when the war was over—but the way things were going, that was a long time off.

  “Sorry I caused such a fuss,” Tom said, sitting up in his bed, his tunic loosened.

  “Nothing to worry about, Tom,” David said. “Rest up. They’ll have you back on the job in the morning. See you tomorrow night for a pint, all right?”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “I’ll look forward to it.” They shook hands, two scarred airmen. If I had to choose at that moment which scar I’d carry if I had to, the Spitfire would win out over the Lancaster.

  WE DROVE BACK to Ashcroft in silence. A cool breeze blew the remaining clouds away, revealing achingly blue skies. A beautiful day. Sabini and his goons were on a police surgeon’s slab, Tom was coming out of his stupor, and David had found a new friend, someone who might understand what he’d been through. And we didn’t have to worry about German spies sneaking ashore at Slapton Sands.

  The day could have gone worse.

  “There you are, David,” Meredith said as she walked through the door, turning away from a man holding a woven basket heaped with produce. “Helen was asking about you. You should tell the poor girl where you are. Baron, Captain, did you kidnap our David again?”

  “We’ve had quite an adventure,” David said. “Are we in time for tea?”

  “Just,” Meredith said. “I’ll tell Mrs. Dudley you’ll be joining us. Crawford, I’ll take the strawberries.” She went off, clutching the basket of bright red berries.

  “Crawford, these are our guests, Captain Boyle and Baron Kazimierz,” David said, a bit quickly, I thought. Was he taken aback by Meredith’s abrupt departure, or her comments about Helen? “They have been quite impressed by our food here. Those strawberries look marvelous.”

  “Gentlemen,” Crawford said, giving the hint of a bow. “I’m pleased to hear it. The greenhouse lets us get an early start on things.”

  “It must be a change from fishing as a livelihood,” I said.

  Crawford wore a neatly trimmed moustache on his broad face, his brown hair thick and well Brylcreemed. He was square jawed, with a tan from working outdoors and telltale crow’s feet around his eyes from squinting into the sun’s harsh glare on salt water. He wore wool pants and an open vest over a blue shirt, and his shoes were scuffed but clean.

  “I’d prefer to be out on the water, but the government took my land and my mooring, and I lost my boat in a storm. Got pushed up on the rocks at Start Point in a gale, and that was that. I count myself lucky to have Ashcroft, I do.”

  “I know the family feels the same,” David said. Crawford nodded and left through the front door.

  “I applaud the egalitariani
sm of Ashcroft House,” Kaz said. “Many country homes would not allow a member of the staff to use the front door. Nor would it even occur to the staff to do so.”

  “Well, the Sutcliffe family is not hereditary aristocracy. More hard-working upper-middle-class types. Sir Rupert was knighted for his work in India, but that ends with him. The same with the Pembertons,” David said. “It would be sheer idiocy to try to keep Ashcroft in the style of the last century. It would bankrupt the place. The war taxes are hard enough on the old boy.”

  Tea was served in the sitting room. Helen and Sir Rupert were there, along with Edgar, who sat by himself reading a book.

  “Ah, here they are. How did it go today?” Sir Rupert asked, taking an unsteady step and nearly falling onto a couch.

  “Eventful,” Kaz said. “Are you feeling poorly, Sir Rupert?”

  “It’s the fever,” Sir Rupert said. “It never truly leaves one. Dengue fever, picked it up in the Raj,” he said to us by way of explanation. “They call it breakbone fever in India, and I can vouch for the name.” He winced as he tried to crack a smile, and took a few deep breaths.

  “Were you looking for me, dear?” David said to Helen, a hopeful note in his voice.

  “No,” she said, busying herself with the tea plates. “Oh, I may have wondered where you were, that’s all,” she said, moving around to his left side before she actually looked at him. “You were with Piotr and Captain Boyle again, I assume?”

  “Yes,” David said, and retreated in the face of her indifference.

  Meredith came in with Great Aunt Sylvia, and tea was served. There were scones and cookies, which the English insist on calling biscuits, which makes about as much sense as calling a four-thousand-pound bomb a cookie, I guess.

  “Do tell us how things went today,” Sir Rupert said. He looked pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he sounded better. I recounted our journey to Newton Abbot with Constable Quick, and described the discovery of the dead bodies. I left out most of the blood, and all of Tom’s reaction to the bombed-out houses. I put David a little more at the center of the action, and watched Helen’s eyes widen.

  “Really?” Helen said. “You found three dead gangsters? How horrible!” For a moment, she looked at David dead-on, her normal aversion forgotten in the excitement of the story.

  “Not as horrible as war, my dear,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “And David has seen much of that, remember.” There was a touch of reproach in her voice, and Helen had the sense to murmur her agreement.

  “Does that settle your business here, then?” Meredith asked Kaz and me. “Or do you still need to investigate that poor man on the beach?”

  “No, we think all the stories match up well enough. He was likely the killer sent after Sabini, who was killed in turn and dumped into the River Teign, which carried him out into the Channel,” I said.

  “Where the tides and currents tossed him about until he washed up on Slapton Sands,” Kaz explained.

  “How horrible,” Meredith said, in an offhand voice that told me she, like her sister, knew little about the horrible things in life.

  “Well, please do stay on if you can,” Sir Rupert said. “I haven’t seen David look so alive since—well, in quite a while.” As pale as he was, Sir Rupert’s embarrassment showed in his face.

  “We can stay on, as it turns out,” Kaz said. General Eisenhower’s travel plans had to be kept secret, but I hoped we’d have a few days here before we had to tag along to watch the maneuvers at Slapton Sands.

  “Splendid,” David said. Meredith smiled politely and stood to pour herself some more tea.

  “Excuse me, Sir Rupert,” Williams said as he entered the room. “An American naval officer wishes to speak to you.”

  “One of yours?” Sir Rupert said to me.

  “I’m not expecting anyone,” I said.

  “Very well, show him in. One more for tea is no problem.” He pushed himself off the couch with some effort and stood to greet the visitor.

  “Lieutenant Peter Wiley, sir,” Williams said from the doorway.

  “I’m very sorry to interrupt your tea,” the young lieutenant said. He looked like he should still be in college, and not even about to graduate. He was outfitted in his khaki dress uniform, which didn’t have much in the way of decoration except for his lieutenant’s bars. He was a good-looking kid, with light, sandy-colored hair and blue eyes that flickered over each person in the room. “I can come back if I’m intruding.”

  “Not at all, young man,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “Do join us, and tell us why you’ve come.” She raised her glasses and squinted through them as she studied him from across the room.

  “I wanted to ask Sir Rupert for permission to paint the house.”

  “Paint it?” Meredith asked, dropping a sugar cube into her cup.

  “I’m a watercolorist, I should explain,” Wiley said hurriedly, perhaps in case they thought he’d brought ladders and buckets. He took a step closer and extended his hand to Sir Rupert. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve heard so much about Ashcroft.”

  Sir Rupert’s eyes widened at the proffered hand, and he promptly fell back onto the sofa.

  Meredith followed his gaze and promptly dropped her teacup, which shattered on the floor, milky tea splashing on her shoes as she stared, her mouth open in surprise.

  “Wiley, you said? Where … where did you get that ring?” Sir Rupert asked, wiping his hand across his face as if the man standing before him might be a mirage. He stood again, Helen standing at his side holding his elbow. She was confused, but she showed none of the shock that Meredith and Sir Rupert had displayed when Wiley had held out his hand.

  “Who are you, exactly?” Meredith asked, advancing on Wiley, her narrow eyes studying him. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to cause a disturbance. I only wanted to know if I could come back in the morning to paint. I should leave.”

  “I said, where did you get that ring?” Sir Rupert repeated, his voice unusually loud.

  Great Aunt Sylvia stood at Sir Rupert’s side, her hand patting his arm.

  “I should think he got it from his mother, Julia Greenshaw,” she said. “Isn’t that so, young man?”

  “My God,” Sir Rupert said. There was a confused murmur around the room, and Sir Rupert looked like he was ready to hit the couch again.

  “Let’s all sit down and let Lieutenant Wiley talk,” David said, bringing a chair closer for Wiley. Tea was forgotten as the group—except for Edgar, who stayed in a far corner with his book—hunched forward to listen. Kaz and I backed up, not wanting to get in the middle of this family to-do, but not wanting to miss the story either.

  “My mother did live here,” Peter Wiley said. “Her name was Julia Greenshaw, and she worked as a maid to Miss Pemberton. Lady Sutcliffe, after she became your wife, Sir Rupert.”

  “Yes, I remember Julia. Miss Greenshaw,” he said, his eyes darting to Great Aunt Sylvia. “She married Ted Wiley and emigrated to America. He was our groundskeeper,” Sir Rupert added for our benefit.

  “That’s right. My mother gave me this ring when I got my overseas orders. It was a gift from Lady Sutcliffe. This is the Pemberton crest, I was told.”

  “Well, the coat of arms, to be precise,” Great Aunt Sylvia said.

  “What does it mean?” I asked, leaning over Wiley’s shoulder, unable to resist butting in. It was a gold ring with a flat surface engraved with a chevron and what looked like three small buckets.

  “This coat of arms comes down to us from Sir George Pemberton of the seventeenth century,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “The buckets represent his service furnishing provisions for the army. Beer, perhaps. Possibly not the most prestigious coat of arms in the Empire, but still, not every family has one.” With that, she gave Sir Rupert a withering stare.

  “I didn’t know Louise had given that ring away,” Sir Rupert said, sounding a bit confused.

>   “Now do you believe me?” Meredith said. Sir Rupert ignored her. Believe her about what, I nearly asked, but managed to keep my mouth shut.

  “And how are your parents?” Sir Rupert asked Wiley.

  “My father died when I was a young child,” Wiley said. “My mother passed away six months ago. I wasn’t able to be at the funeral.”

  “Blasted war,” Sir Rupert said, suddenly overcome by emotion. He took a breath and continued. “A painter, are you?”

  “Yes, sir. I work in a cartography section for the navy, so at least I can use my skills. But I like to get away when I have a day off and paint in the outdoors. Drawing and coloring maps for days on end in the same room becomes a bit dreary after a while. When I found out how close I was to Ashcroft, I thought I’d ride up. My mother spoke about it so often I wanted to see it in person. I only wish I could have told her I made it here.”

  “Well, of course you can paint here to your heart’s content, my boy,” Sir Rupert said. “Terribly sorry about the reception, it was simply a surprise to see that ring.”

  “I should have written, not just shown up on your doorstep,” Wiley said.

  “Well, you’re here now, and you must stay for dinner,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “Will that be all right, Rupert?”

  “Of course, you must stay,” Sir Rupert readily agreed. “Where are you billeted?”

  “Near Torquay, a place called Greenway House. I’ve been there a couple of months. This is the first time I’ve had leave.”

  “And you came here?” David asked, half in jest. “What about the delights of London?”

  “Oh, I knew I had to come here,” Wiley said. “It meant so much to both of my parents, I had to see it. It was their home, after all. It’s where they fell in love. Besides, it’s only about thirty minutes away. I’d spend all my time on trains if I went into London.”