The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  “I want you to give us your full attention,” I said. “I’m sorry you were hurt, but I need some answers. You’re the officer in charge of assigning observers to Operation Tiger, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He gestured vaguely in the direction of two mismatched chairs and winced, holding his bandaged wrist.

  “We need to know which ship Lieutenant Peter Wiley was on,” I said.

  “Wiley’s a pain in the ass, like I explained last time,” Siebert said. “He told me Harding gave him the okay to go along, and I assigned him to LST 507. Then when I didn’t see his name on the orders, I asked Harding about it. He chewed me out for not checking with him first.”

  “Lieutenant Wiley is dead,” I said.

  “What? How?” Siebert said, obviously surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have said that if I’d known.”

  “He washed up on the shore with all the other bodies,” Kaz said.

  “That’s not possible,” Siebert said. “He wasn’t on any list. I made sure of that after Harding got through with me.”

  “He couldn’t have snuck on?” I asked. “The boarding must have been hectic.”

  “No,” Siebert said, leaning back in his chair and working through the possibilities. “Individual observers had to present their orders when they went onboard, and then the names had to be checked against the personnel manifest. I guess he could have gone on with an infantry unit, but a naval officer would look out of place. He’d be spotted right away and questioned.”

  “When was the last time you saw Lieutenant Wiley?” Kaz asked.

  “Right before he went off on leave,” Siebert said. “I was glad to see him go, so he wouldn’t pester me anymore about Operation Tiger.”

  “Did he say why he was so desperate to be on board?” I asked.

  “No, he just insisted he had to. Said it was important for his work.”

  “What was his job here exactly?” I asked.

  “No idea,” Siebert said. “He did it behind a locked door in a guarded room. Not something you ask about around here.”

  “Why did you go on the maneuver?” Kaz asked. “Was it important for you to be there?”

  “Hell, no,” Siebert said. “I organized everything ahead of time. I could have stayed warm and dry, but I thought it would be fun. Can you imagine that? I went out on the 507 and ended up floating on a section of decking until a British destroyer came along at dawn. It was not fun.”

  “Are these all the manifests?” I asked, pointing to the piles in front of Siebert.

  “Shipping manifests, unit orders, departure schedules, all the paperwork required to get thousands of GIs onto a convoy of LSTs on time,” he answered. “These are the personnel manifests, by ship. All the individual brass and observers not part of a participating unit.” He handed a folder to me and I glanced through it. The original list was typed, but names had been lined out and others written in.

  “This is a mess,” I said. “How do you know who went where?”

  “Tell me about it,” Siebert said. “I was getting changes up to the day before the exercise. New units were added and squeezed out any room for extra men on some ships. Last-minute orders from generals and their staff, that sort of thing.”

  “Did you look for Peter Wiley’s name in there?” I said.

  “No. I would have been the guy who put him on the list. No reason to go searching through all this when I know I didn’t.”

  “You’re certain no one else could have added his name?” Kaz asked.

  Siebert looked irritated. “I locked this stuff up whenever I left the office,” he said. “I even took the manifests with me on that damn joyride, in a waterproof bag. There’s no way. I never thought anyone would be dumb enough to go against orders and add their name to the list, but it was a top-secret exercise, so I kept everything secure. Besides, names are checked on each boat as well. They have duplicate lists, so adding a name to my list doesn’t ensure you get onboard.”

  “Listen, Lieutenant,” I said. “I have orders that would let me force you to go through those manifests standing on your head. So save us a lot of aggravation and do it, okay?”

  “Harding told me about your paperwork from Ike,” Siebert said. “All right, even though I don’t see the sense of it.”

  “This is the army,” I said. “Nothing makes sense. It’s a long shot, but you said yourself that you never envisioned someone sneaking themselves onto the list. Off would have been more likely, right?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “I get it. If I didn’t expect it, that’s an advantage for Wiley.”

  We left Siebert glumly checking his lists and found Harding finishing a cup of coffee.

  “You are about to be further initiated into the brotherhood of BIGOTs,” Harding said, unlocking a desk drawer and grabbing a key chain. “Are you ready?”

  “We know how to keep our mouths shut, Colonel,” I said.

  “Let’s get this over with so you can get to Dartmouth and see what Montgomery’s officer is up to. Maybe he’s even learned something useful.”

  “If he did, I’d be shocked if he shared it. But as he’s a fellow Yank, you never know,” I said as we trailed Harding to Wiley’s office. The guard stood aside as Harding unlocked the door, ushered us in, and quickly shut and locked it behind us.

  A tilted artist’s table sat beneath high windows. Paints and brushes stood ready on a side table; a rag hung off the back of a chair where Peter might have tossed it after cleaning up. Against the wall sat a long trestle table covered with reconnaissance photographs taped together to create a mosaic. Fields, villages, beaches, and gun emplacements.

  “Colleville-sur-Mer,” Kaz said behind me. “I know this place. I drove through Normandy on holiday before the war.”

  “Omaha Beach,” I said, reading the caption on the map. TOP SECRET—BIGOT was printed in large green letters at the bottom. Another map hung next to it. “Utah Beach.”

  “Sainte-Mère-Église,” Kaz said, pointing to an inland town on the Utah Beach map. “I recall a pleasant meal in the town square. Coq au vin, I believe.”

  “Normandy,” I said, taking in what had been revealed to us. “That’s a long way across the Channel.”

  “Exactly,” Harding said. “The Germans probably think the same thing. Notice anything familiar about the Utah Beach map?”

  I studied it, noting the broad expanse of beach and a flooded area beyond it. Causeways linked the beach to Sainte-Mère-Église and other towns and villages along a north-south roadway.

  “Slapton Sands,” I said. “Slapton Ley is the spitting image of the water behind the beach.”

  “The Germans flooded it, to isolate the beach. That’s why we needed to practice getting off the beach quickly and moving inland. Slapton Sands was the perfect stand-in for Utah Beach.”

  “Which is why the German attack on the convoy was doubly disastrous,” Kaz said. “If the Nazis knew the destination of Operation Tiger, it would be a simple matter to deduce Normandy as the target, and these specific locations.”

  “Exactly. Which is why we had to identify all the BIGOTs and make sure no one had been picked up by the Germans. The death toll is staggering, over nine hundred dead so far and some still missing. But it would have been far worse if any of this had been revealed.”

  I looked at the maps and the photos on the table. It was easy to see what Peter had been doing—creating the maps from the recon photos laid out so precisely. The map was accurate down to the smallest building or path. At the bottom of each map, there was a watercolor painting, a dead-on view of the beach from the water. The watercolor was laid out to correspond to physical features on the map directly above it.

  “Perspective,” I said, taking in the painstaking detail and beauty of Peter’s artwork. “He wanted to see the beach from the perspective of a landing craft.”

  “He was insistent about that,” Harding said. “But as you can see, he did a great job from the photographs alone. He worked in
church steeples, towers, bunkers, and even trees. I couldn’t take a chance on losing him, and besides, he needed some leave. He’d been holed up in here for weeks, working ten or twelve hours a day. He was exhausted.”

  On the back side of the maps there were detailed charts showing information about the sun, moon, tide, and currents. Harding showed us an idea Peter had come up with to help navigators get as close as possible to the landing beaches. Using a system of transparent overlays, profiles of landing craft of all sizes were displayed. When you adjusted the sheet over a graph showing the slope of the beach, navigators could see the water’s depth and where their specific craft would run aground.

  “Very clever,” Kaz said. “Peter’s death is a loss in many ways.”

  “The only good news is that he’d finished all the maps before he went on leave,” Harding said. “It’s a damn shame he died. We were going to start a new project soon. Southern France.” He leaned against the door as Kaz and I searched the room, checking drawers and rummaging through stacks of recon photos, old road maps of France, and even a pile of postcards from prewar vacations.

  Half an hour later, we gave up. This had been Peter’s studio, but he hadn’t kept anything personal here. I sat in his chair, looking out the window. His artist’s table set at the perfect angle to catch the light. I could imagine him hunched over a sheet, using colored inks to create the map itself and the more delicate watercolors to paint the view of the shoreline below, the brush clutched in his thin fingers.

  His fingers. I thought back to when I found his body. Besides his khakis, he’d been wearing nothing but his dog tags. His fingers were bare.

  “Where’s his ring?” I said, jumping up out of the seat.

  “What?” Harding said.

  “The ring he was wearing when he first came to Ashcroft House,” I said. “It wasn’t on his finger when I found the body. He had a watch as well, but that was gone too.”

  “The Pemberton family coat of arms,” Kaz explained. “It had been given to his mother, and she passed it on to him. A remembrance, I would assume, from Sir Rupert.”

  “Sir Rupert nearly keeled over when he saw it,” I said. “He’d suspected his daughter Meredith had stolen it years ago. We should search his room again.”

  Harding locked up Peter’s office and took us back to his quarters. Nothing much had changed. This time we tossed the place, throwing the mattress on the floor, pulling out all the drawers, turning pockets inside out. Nothing.

  “I hate to say it, but it could have been stolen, along with his watch,” Harding said. “He always wore one. Nothing fancy, a standard issue A-11 wristwatch.”

  “You can sell a watch on the black market,” Kaz said. “But the ring was unique.”

  “I remember seeing it while he showed me the drafts, now you mention it. It looked like solid gold,” Harding said. “Tempting for anyone with an inclination to thievery. Especially after hauling bodies out of the Channel all day. Dozens of sailors and soldiers would have had a chance to help themselves.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or it could have been a civilian, if the body washed up on shore.”

  All we had were more questions. Possibilities that added up to maybes. Harding and Kaz went to grab a cup of joe, but I begged off. Sitting in a chair amidst the chaos of Peter’s belongings, I tried to focus my mind on what we knew for certain and what we were guessing at. Or assuming. There was more guesswork than certainty, which I tried to tell myself was good, since I could boil things down to their essence and move on from there.

  Peter Wiley had a ring, a ring that connected him to Ashcroft House. The ring was gone.

  Peter Wiley was not approved to go on Operation Tiger.

  Peter Wiley showed up among the dead of Operation Tiger.

  Peter Wiley was alive the night Sir Rupert died. I never saw him again.

  Sometime after that, he took a blow to the head, probably not severe enough to kill him.

  What else did I know for certain? Nothing.

  It was probable, based on what Major Dawes had said about his cloudy eyes, that Peter died out of the water.

  It was possible, also based on Dawes’s observation, that Peter had been burked. Suffocated. But that one was iffy. I could imagine a crowded scene on a sinking ship, men surging to escape through a hatchway, pressing Peter against a bulkhead and constricting his breathing. It happened often enough when crowds stampeded. But Peter wasn’t supposed to be on a ship, was he? So how did he end up in a navy life jacket, among the dead who were?

  The motorbike tracks. How did they fit in? I decided that wasn’t even worth pursuing. Too many other explanations presented themselves. Crawford on a bicycle loaded down with … what? Alice Withers on the back, getting a ride to town? Crawford didn’t seem the type to grant a favor like that. But I was an American, and there was no love lost between us on account of that. Maybe he was a swell guy to his own people.

  A knock sounded behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “Billy,” Big Mike said. “You okay? I called your name but you didn’t budge.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Lost in thought, that’s all, trying to figure out what happened to Lieutenant Wiley.”

  “Well, here’s something to cheer you up,” he said, handing me an envelope. “A letter from Diana. She sent it to the office, probably figuring one of us would get it to you.” With that, he left me alone.

  The return address was Seaton Manor. Which meant she was on leave, and released from whatever exile MI5 had condemned her to after my last case. Which also meant I might get to see her soon. Not a bad deduction for a detective who couldn’t tell up from down in the Wiley case.

  I opened the letter gently, so I could close it again to keep it safe. Diana had two weeks’ leave, a third of which was used up, judging by the date on the letter. She’d be in London in two days, then busy with other matters for some time. With the invasion coming and her working for the Special Operations Executive, you didn’t need to be a detective to work that one out.

  There was some other stuff, this being a love letter. I’ll keep that to myself, thank you very much.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I SAUNTERED DOWN the stairs, patting the letter in my pocket. It meant I’d see Diana soon. It also meant she’d probably be parachuting into Nazi-occupied France next, but this was wartime, and we’d both learned to take our pleasure where we could and not worry about the worst that could happen. Dwelling on the horrors of combat and clandestine operations tended to put a damper on things.

  As I made for the kitchen, I heard a loud thump from the room right ahead. I peaked in, pushing the door open all the way. The room was crammed with boxes and packing crates, with barely a spot to stand in. A box of files had broken, and papers cascaded across what little floor space there was. A stout, matronly woman stood over them, shaking her head, one hand pressed to her brow.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Can I help you?” She was well dressed, her hair done in curls and a string of pearls around her neck. Definitely not a cleaning woman or domestic. So I framed the question the way you do when someone is where they’re not supposed to be. But she took me literally.

  “Oh!” she said, giving a start and patting her hand over her heart. “You surprised me, young man. Yes, how nice of you to offer. Could you gather these papers up for me?” She sat down at a table, the only clear spot in the room. “I was looking for a particular document when the whole affair came tumbling down. You are so kind to help.”

  “Glad to, ma’am,” I said, handing her a pile of papers. “May I ask what you’re doing in here? This is a naval headquarters, after all.”

  “My goodness, where are my manners? I am Mrs. Mallowan, the owner of Greenway House. Along with Max, of course. My husband. He’s in Cairo with the intelligence service. Can’t say any more about that, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “Captain Billy Boyle, ma’am. Glad to meet you. It was nice of you to give up your home. It’s qui
te a setting.” I gathered up the rest of the papers, trying to glance at what was written on them without being too obvious about it. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her, and I hoped some clue would jump out from the jumble of documents.

  “Oh, I didn’t give it up. His Majesty’s Government took it for the duration,” she said. “But I don’t mind, what with Max gone. I live and work in London, and I’m glad these nice Americans can enjoy Greenway. They let me have this one room to store my personal possessions. I had to come down from London to find a copy of a contract. Oh, there it is. You’ve found it, Captain Boyle.”

  She snatched a stack of papers from my hand, but not before I saw the letterhead. William Collins and Company. Then it hit me. I’d seen this woman last night right before I fell asleep.

  “You’re Agatha Christie,” I said.

  “There you have me, Captain Boyle. It’s Agatha Mallowan in real life, but in the world of literature, I do confess, I am she.”

  “I’m reading Lord Edgware Dies right now,” I said, feeling a little star-struck. “It’s great.”

  “Thank you, Captain Boyle. You are most gallant, helping me and paying a compliment at the same time. What is it you do here at Greenway House? I thought it was mainly naval personnel here.”

  “Coast Guard, most of them, actually. I’m not stationed here. I’m a detective, or at least I was back in Boston. Now I work for General Eisenhower.”

  “What a delight to meet a real detective, Captain Boyle. Has someone been murdered at Greenway House?” She smiled conspiratorially, but the look on my face must have told her that I really was here on official business. “Oh dear, is it true?”

  “A lieutenant, name of Peter Wiley,” I said. “Although I doubt he was killed here.”

  “Peter!” Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened. “What a sweet, talented young man. I saw him painting in the garden the last time I visited, and we struck up a conversation. I remember his delicate hands. So sad. As are all the deaths, of course, but when you know someone is full of promise, it becomes a tragedy twice again, doesn’t it?”