by James R Benn
“If you’re on leave, then do stay the night,” Sir Rupert said. “We can show you around the place in the morning, and you can come back to paint whenever you like.”
“That’s very kind, Sir Rupert. I’d like that.”
Sir Rupert then did proper introductions all around. Wiley looked at David several times while they spoke, never once flinching as he looked at the pilot’s ruined face. When Helen was introduced, she looked at Wiley with a frank, appraising stare. I wondered, was she thinking about her own behavior? Had this stranger’s acceptance of David, as he was, finally given her cause to think?
Maybe. She took David’s arm and leaned in to him without stepping around to his good side, her eyes studying Peter Wiley intently.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DINNER WAS A curious affair. Sir Rupert did his best to act the genial host, even as he mopped the sweat from his brow, his face pale and his breath short. Meredith was positively chatty with Peter Wiley, asking him about his upbringing in America and his art studies. Helen looked bewildered by it all, but at least she leaned in now and then to speak to David in a low voice, as if he were suddenly a safe refuge instead of a hideous parody of the man she’d married. Edgar ate and drank with his usual gusto, indifferent to the reactions of others, or maybe glad that the new guest drew Meredith’s attention away from him. Great Aunt Sylvia smiled quietly and watched the proceedings as if from a great distance. A wistful look passed over her, and for a second I could see the young woman she’d once been, with a pretty, round face and those intelligent eyes. At ninety, they still missed nothing.
Dessert was strawberry cake, the fruit courtesy of the ever-remarkable Crawford.
“What did your father do for a living, Lieutenant Wiley?” Meredith asked as she passed him a slice.
“Please call me Peter, if you don’t mind,” Wiley said.
“Of course we will, Peter,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. Coming from a proper lady like her, that was a stamp of approval.
“My father opened a small hardware store in New York City, on the Lower East Side, as soon as he found a place to live,” he said. “He died a few years later. My mother kept it going, even during the Depression. She managed to save up enough to send me to New York University.”
“America certainly is the land of opportunity,” Meredith said. “Even a groundskeeper can own a shop, and a maid can send her child to university. Remarkable.”
“Opportunity is what you make with what you’ve been given,” Sir Rupert said sternly. “Julia and Ted seem to have done well with young Peter here, and he’s lucky to have an artistic flair. But opportunity is not limited to the New World, not at all. Our family has done well in the colonial service. A decent income, good investments, and a title. That’s where opportunity comes from: hard work. You and Edgar should ponder that, Meredith.”
The table went silent, whether from shock at Sir Rupert’s words or the fact that he had actually spoken to Meredith, I couldn’t tell. I ate a bite of cake and waited for someone to say something.
“It may be, Sir Rupert,” Edgar said, his hands flat on the table, “that the greatest opportunity one has in life is to do the right thing, regardless of the cost. Please excuse me.” Edgar pushed away from the table and left the room, creating an even deeper silence. Peter Wiley looked at me askance, and I shrugged as if to say, Don’t ask me, pal, I’m just passing through myself.
The gathering broke up quickly after that. Sir Rupert said he was tired and made plans to show Peter around in the morning. Meredith walked out without a word, leaving Helen and David looking somewhat uncomfortable. Great Aunt Sylvia surveyed the remaining group with assured calmness.
“Is there anything else we can do to make you more comfortable, Peter?” Great Aunt Sylvia said.
“No, thank you, you’ve been very gracious,” he said. “Though I would like to put my motorbike under cover. Is there a garage or barn?”
“Stables, garage, barn, take your pick. Then do join us in the library. It’s almost time for the nine o’clock news.”
David went with Peter, and the rest of us joined Edgar in the library. He was fiddling with the dial on the wireless, tuning in the BBC. Neither Helen nor Great Aunt Sylvia commented on Meredith’s abrupt departure, although Helen did tell Edgar that David had gone with Peter to ensure he didn’t ride off in the night on his motorbike, which got a laugh. These people seemed to take their odd interactions for granted.
“Peter rides an old Norton Model Sixteen,” David said when they returned. “Same as the motorbike I had before the war. A bit older and more rusty, to be sure.”
“You have your own bike?” I said. It didn’t sound like it would be on any motor-pool inventory.
“Yes, I bought it when I first came to Torquay. I wanted my own transportation, in case I had any free time,” Peter said.
Great Aunt Sylvia hushed us as the announcer declared it was the BBC Home Service’s nine o’clock war bulletin. There was an American offensive in the jungles of New Guinea. The Soviets had retaken Sevastopol. We’d bombed Budapest. With cookies? I wondered. The biggest excitement was about an RAF raid on Gestapo headquarters in The Hague. A pinpoint strike had destroyed the building, along with files on Dutchmen the Gestapo had planned to arrest and send to concentration camps in Germany.
“Good show for the RAF!” David said when the broadcast was over. “Those Mosquito pilots could drop a bomb down a chimney in heavy fog. Smashing.” I agreed. I had more reasons than most to applaud the destruction of a Gestapo prison.
“Peter, what are you drawing maps for in that room of yours?” Edgar asked. “Aren’t there maps enough? Michelin and all the others?”
“Yes, I wondered that myself,” David said. “I know there are high-quality aerial photographs as well as maps already in existence. And why does the navy need maps anyway? Don’t they have charts and navigators and that sort of thing?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Peter said. “And you know the military. Nothing much that they want done makes sense. I was happy when I got an assignment that had anything to do with art, so I didn’t ask questions.”
“Who else is at Greenway House?” Kaz asked. “If you can tell us.”
“We have a small cartographic section, and then there’s a Coast Guard unit, the Tenth Flotilla. They pilot LCIs for the navy. That’s Landing Craft Infantry,” Peter said.
“We’re familiar with the terms,” David said. “It’s hard to live in southwest England these days and not be. Do you expect to serve at sea?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “I’d like to, but they keep me pretty busy on dry land.”
“Helen and I shall adjourn, gentlemen,” Great Aunt Sylvia said as she hoisted herself up and fixed her eyes on Wiley. “I am glad you accepted our invitation to stay, Peter. We will leave you men to talk of war and drink brandy.”
Edgar took this statement literally and dashed to the side table, returning with a cut-crystal decanter and glasses. He poured, and then settled down into his leather chair with a satisfied oomph.
“What is it you fellows do at SHAEF?” Peter asked us as we settled in the comfortable chairs and sipped the fine brandy. Kaz explained what the Office of Special Investigations was all about, and I filled him in on what had brought us here, the body, the tides, the dead gangsters. Not one of our most impressive cases, but I made it sound like Eliot Ness had nothing on us. David offered a toast to Ike, glasses clinked, and the decanter was brought back into action.
We talked about the war news. David was excited about the pinpoint raid on the Gestapo headquarters, so we toasted the RAF. Then Peter asked about his burns, with typical American bluntness, and David told his story. We toasted the aim of the German pilot who had missed blowing his head off by inches, then we toasted the ground crew that pulled David from the Spitfire, followed by his doctors at the hospital.
We weren’t drunk, but the excessive camaraderie of drinking men who are downing someone else’s exc
ellent booze caused Kaz to blurt out—and he’s not given to blurting—“Edgar, what was that scene at dinner all about?”
“Ancient history,” Edgar said, shaking his head.
“Come on, Edgar,” David said. “We ought to stick together, the two of us marrying Sutcliffe girls. Not always the easiest thing, eh?”
“Sir Rupert does not approve of me,” Edgar said after a long silence. “He thinks I have squandered a great opportunity. He is very fond of opportunity.”
“How so?” Kaz asked.
“He enjoyed a number of business transactions when he was with the civil service in India. Very favorable to his bank accounts, at very little risk,” Edgar said.
“No, I mean what does he think you squandered?” Kaz said.
“Fill that up, will you, David?” Edgar said, handing his glass over. “It’s a long story, and thirsty work telling it.” Once he had his hands cupped around the glass of amber, he began.
He and Meredith met in London when Edgar was studying at university and working as a tutor at a private school. Meredith was living with friends and looking for work, without success. She had been brought up in India, where her mother, to whom she’d been very close, had died. She and her father had never gotten along, and at the time of her mother’s death, something happened that caused the rift to widen. Rupert Sutcliffe—he had not been knighted yet—worked for the civil service and had spent nearly two decades administering the Raj for King and Country.
Rupert had contracted dengue fever, and he became so ill he was sent home to recover. By the time he and his daughters were back in England, Meredith had vowed never to speak to him again; aged eighteen, she struck out on her own. She had money, at least for a while. She never said where it came from, but she had a good time working her way through it.
Although Edgar’s dislike for the man was evident, he admitted Rupert was highly intelligent and skilled at dealing with politics in India. He was often called upon to help formulate ways to keep India in the fight while at the same time denying increasing calls for independence. A tightrope act, to be sure. More than two and a half million Indians were engaged in combat against the Axis powers across the globe, and it was vital for Great Britain that they continue to fight, and die, for the British Empire.
“Edgar, get to the point,” David said. “I enjoy a good dose of history as much as the next chap, but when do you enter the scene?” Edgar took a slug of brandy and continued.
Edgar and Meredith married. They had two children, and he secured a teaching position. Their children were sent to boarding school, which along with other expenses made family life difficult for a man in his position to afford. Meredith began to compare him unfavorably with her father, whom she detested. This didn’t sit well with Edgar, and they argued over money—over anything, but it mattered little because Meredith invariably won.
The war came, and Edgar tried to enlist, but was turned down because of his flat feet and asthma. He applied for a government position, but with so many academics wanting to do their bit, he received no reply other than an instruction to wait. Meredith did not like waiting, and did not like the life of a middle-class—at best—wife of a second-rate professor, to use her words.
So she went to her father. Figuring he could pull strings for Edgar, she humbled herself and pleaded with him to intervene. She cleverly brought pictures of the grandchildren he’d never seen—but not the children themselves, in case Rupert did not comply fully.
He complied. Edgar received his appointment to the Indian Civil Service, and they departed for the subcontinent within weeks. Before leaving, Edgar and Meredith visited Ashcroft with the children—her payment for services rendered. Rupert gave Edgar advice on how to invest in the export of jute, cotton, coffee, tea, and sugarcane. The clear expectation was that an Englishman in India should do well for himself and his family. Very well.
“That’s how I ended up in India,” Edgar said, draining his glass.
“But why did you come back here?” Peter said. “What happened in India?”
“Three million people died, that’s what happened in India,” Edgar said. He continued with his story, this time without asking for a refill.
They arrived in New Delhi in 1940, and at first all went well. Edgar had a decent position in the economic office and was involved in the collection of land taxes, which was the primary source of revenue for the administration of the Raj, as the English called their Indian empire. Then, in December 1941, the war began between Great Britain and Japan. Supplies from Southeast Asia were reduced as the Japanese advanced in the Pacific. Stocks of rice began to be hoarded as prices rose and speculators held on to tons of the stuff, waiting for prices to increase even further. Bengal, an eastern province, was hardest hit. When the Japanese took Burma in early 1942, all rice imports from Southeast Asia ceased, and food shortages were rife.
“It sounds like everyone should have seen that coming,” Peter said.
“With hindsight, yes,” Edgar said. “But in 1940 we were focused on the war with Germany. No one thought the Japanese would sweep through Asia as they did. The very idea of Singapore falling was unthinkable. And a famine is not like a riot or a battle. There are no burning cities or marching armies, no shouts of warning. It crept up on us. India is a poor nation, and death is common currency. One day, death simply overwhelmed the province, rolling across it like a tidal wave.”
“Don’t they grow enough food to feed themselves?” David asked.
“No,” Edgar said. “Not everywhere in India, anyway. Each province is very protective of its own food sources. The British governor of Madras banned exports of rice from his province to make sure there was enough for his own people. Then the other provinces followed suit. It was every man for himself.”
“It sounds like madness,” Kaz said.
“More than you know, Baron,” Edgar said, his eyes focusing on something far away. “I went to Bengal, to see for myself. It was ghastly. People were dropping dead in the streets, their arms outstretched as they begged to the last gasp. Those still walking about were emaciated and weak from disease. The worst part was that some speculators had kept their rice stocks locked up for so long that they had spoiled. Moldy bags ripped open by rats were stacked six feet high in one warehouse I visited.”
“Couldn’t the government have done something? Or the army?” David asked.
“The army had orders not to use their limited supply for famine relief,” Edgar said. “If they had, it would have disappeared in a matter of days. Soldiers of all ranks gave food when they could, but it only postponed the inevitable. Others were quite callous. Bengal is mainly Muslim, and as you know Muslims do not eat pork. I saw a convoy of trucks pass through Durgapur, our soldiers throwing pieces of bacon at the starving wretches lining the road, laughing as they did so.”
“Why have we never heard of this?” Peter asked.
“Because it would reflect badly on the British government, that’s why,” Edgar said. “Are all Americans as naïve as you?”
“Don’t take it out on Peter,” I said. “There are plenty of people in this country who would never believe their government would cover up the starvation of millions.” I didn’t add that I was not one of them. My Irish ancestors had starved at the hands of the English in the last century, so dying Muslim subjects in this decade came as no surprise.
“Sorry,” Edgar said. “I sometimes lose my head over this. It was hard to leave it all behind and return to England, where people complain about rationing, for God’s sake.”
“But why did you return?” David asked.
“I was sacked. I’d given information to a journalist, Ian Stephens, from the Calcutta Statesman. He published two accounts of the famine before the censors clamped down.”
“How did they know it was you?” I asked.
“No proof, really, other than I was always out of step with the other officials. ‘In danger of going native,’ one of my colleagues said. And some of the informa
tion Stephens had could only have come from a few people, and I was the most likely candidate.”
“Meredith must not have been pleased,” David said.
“She accused me of throwing away a splendid opportunity,” Edgar said. “The Sutcliffe predilection for sacred opportunity seems to have been successfully passed down from father to daughter.” He looked into his glass, wrinkling his brow as if he was trying to figure out why it was empty. “The funny thing is, I did manage to make money there, aside from my salary. I followed Sir Rupert’s advice and contacted a businessman friend of his. I put what money I had into rice futures, not realizing what was about to happen. Made a bundle.” He held out his glass, and I filled it up.
“But not enough to live on, I assume?” David said. “Which is why you’re here.”
“Of course. Meredith insisted we give it another go with dear Papa. Useless, in my opinion, since what I did goes against everything he believes in. So, that’s our dirty little family secret.”
“What was it you told the journalist, exactly?” Kaz asked. “The information that gave you away, I mean.”
“I gave him the reply from Winston Churchill to a cable sent to him by Viceroy Wavell last year. Wavell had asked Churchill for more food to be shipped in. Churchill’s reply was, ‘If food is so scarce in India, why has Gandhi not yet died?’ He did not care one whit about starving Indians.”
“Was it really so brazen?” Peter asked. “At the risk of sounding naïve again, it seems incredible.”
“Your Canadian neighbors offered to ship one hundred thousand tons of wheat to India,” Edgar said, sitting forward in his chair, his indignation still fresh. “Churchill turned them down. He didn’t want to divert shipping from the war effort. All along I had thought saving lives was what this war was all about. So you see, my American friend, I was the most naïve of all.”
