The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  “Do you have a Hershey bar?” Kaz asked. He had a point.

  “What do we have to do, Yank?” The oldest one came forward, sizing us up. “And there’s three of us. We’d need three bars, wouldn’t we?”

  “Tell you what, kid,” I said, fishing the coins out of my pocket and nodding to Kaz, who added his own loose change. “You can have this and buy whatever you want. It’s a few shillings, at least.”

  “Give it here then,” he said, holding out his hand. All of them had muddy feet but seemed decently dressed otherwise. Schoolkids, I figured, looking to scrounge what they could from the docks. I flipped the oldest kid one coin.

  “The rest after you tell me what you’ve got there, and what else you’ve come up with,” I said.

  “You can’t make us give it back,” one of the younger ones said. “It’s stuff you Yanks throw away.”

  “Overboard’s more like it,” the other said, and they all laughed. “You lot do toss a lot of good gear, you know.”

  “I don’t want anything back,” I said. “And you’re not in trouble. Finders keepers, I say.”

  “All right then,” the oldest said. “I got this here canteen and web belt. It’s empty, so it floated. And a denim shirt, hardly a rip in it. Needs a good washing is all.”

  “I got K-Rations,” another said. “They were in a big wooden crate, four packs of them. Came in on the tide, and I seen plenty of Yanks walk right by, not even give ’em a look. My old man might be able to dry out the cigarettes, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What about you?” I asked the smallest boy.

  “I got this,” he said. “A life jacket. Might be able to sell it to a fisherman. I found a bottle of Scotch once, still half full. Dad liked that, he did.”

  “How much do you think you can get?” I asked. The life jacket was sodden and grimy, but US NAVY was clearly stenciled along the collar.

  “Not much. They come in on the tide often enough. You Yanks are a careless lot, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah, but we’re no fools,” I said, handing over the coins. “Now beat it.” They didn’t need to be told twice, disappearing into a side street in a flash, their laughter and shrieks of joy bouncing off the walls.

  “Well, what was that about?” Kaz asked.

  “Solving a murder, I think. The hell with Major McClure. Let’s go to Ashcroft House and grab our gear. We’re bunking somewhere else tonight.”

  Kaz was full of questions, but I was still putting pieces together in my mind, and I begged him to let me think in silence. It was the little inconsistencies that were beginning to come together, just as Mrs. Mallowan had predicted. They weren’t all in place yet, but I was starting to see where they rubbed up against the truth. We arrived at Ashcroft House and saw Meredith walking from the gardens, a basket of cut flowers in her hand. Already the matron of the manor.

  “Baron, Captain,” she said, walking briskly our way. “I’m glad to see you. I wonder if you’d think it terribly rude of me to ask how much longer you planned to stay with us? After everything that’s happened, I think the family needs some privacy to get used to the new situation here. I’m sure you understand?” I did. It was the polite, English version of get the hell out.

  “Your hospitality has been most appreciated,” I said. “Actually, we’ve received new orders, and I hoped to find you all here to make our apologies for a sudden departure. So it works out for all concerned.”

  “You can’t stay for dinner then? It would be so nice to have a farewell meal together.”

  “Sadly, no,” Kaz said. “We have pressing business to attend to. Is David here? I would like to say goodbye.”

  “Yes. He was reading in the library when I came out,” Meredith said, the relief evident in her eyes. The dinner invitation was as sincere as her line that the family needed privacy. “I must get these flowers inside, so I shall say farewell now. Please do come again, Baron Kazimierz. Your visit did David a world of good, I’m sure.” With that, she trotted off, the cut flowers bouncing in her basket.

  “Is there anything you want me to ask David?” Kaz said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Ask him if he’s heard if there were any other letters from America that Meredith or Helen kept. Then tell him we have a suspect in Peter Wiley’s death. Go down to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Dudley or Williams the same.”

  “So that word spreads?” Kaz asked. I nodded. He was getting the hang of this. I went upstairs to speak with Great Aunt Sylvia, hoping to find her awake and alert. I knocked and found her seated at the window, reading an Agatha Christie mystery. I had to smile.

  “Billy, come in,” she said, closing the book. Mrs. Mallowan looked up at me from the back cover. I told Great Aunt Sylvia we had to depart.

  “I am sorry you must leave us. I would have liked a visit with less death and distress, but even so I’ve enjoyed your company,” she said.

  “Same here,” I said, shutting the door behind me.

  She gave me a look that said she understood this wasn’t only a social call. “The time has come to talk of many things, of shoes and ships and sealing wax,” she said, a smile forming on her face.

  “And cabbages and kings,” I added.

  “I loved Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as a young girl,” she said. “I still have my childhood copy. I devoured Through the Looking Glass as well, and I remember both fondly. Odd, at my age, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s a link to the past. I’d bet the past is almost as important to you as the future.”

  “Be blunt, will you? I might not have that much future left in me.”

  “I think—no, I know—that you are holding something back from me. About Meredith and Sir Rupert. About Peter Wiley.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To make sure I don’t see what’s on the other side of the looking glass,” I said.

  “Well, if I am keeping family secrets, why should I reveal anything to you now, when you are about to take your leave of us?” She tilted her head back, every inch the injured aristocrat.

  “Because we have a suspect in Peter Wiley’s death. If his killing has anything to do with a family member, it would be best if it came out now. If Inspector Grange finds out later, it could be quite a public scandal.”

  “I thought Peter was killed by the Germans,” Lady Pemberton said.

  “That’s because you haven’t looked behind my looking glass,” I said. “When Alice stepped through the mirror, didn’t she find a book that you could only read by holding it up to a mirror? That’s what a murder investigation is like. Once you’ve put all the pieces together, sometimes all you need to do is look at them a bit differently and they make perfect sense.” I was spinning a tall tale of certainty with damn few facts to support it, but that’s what interrogations are all about.

  Confusion passed across her face as she calculated what to say. That told me there really was a secret. “I knew Meredith had the letter,” she said, her bony hands clutching the spine of the book.

  “Of course you did,” I said. “You see everything that goes on here. Did Meredith come to you when she intercepted the letter? Had she been confiding in you before then?”

  “Yes, ever since she spied her father and that woman kissing in the garden. You see, she idolized him. But that moment changed everything. She went from a delightful young girl to a devil of a daughter. At least to Rupert. She transferred her mighty allegiance to her mother, and from that day on, it was war. But I fail to see what this has to do with Peter Wiley.”

  “Maybe nothing,” I said. “Do you have any idea why she kept the letter for all these years?”

  “She liked to taunt Rupert about it. She told him he’d never hear from Julia Greenshaw again. Needless to say, that’s one reason why she left, and perhaps why she was not mentioned in the will.”

  “If she took her mother’s side in all this, why didn’t Louise Pemberton leave Ashcroft House to Meredith and Helen instead of
her husband? Wouldn’t Louise reward such loyalty?”

  “She intended to,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “In fact she promised Meredith she would. That was when they were in India. But the illness came on quickly, and when she died, she had not changed her will. I understand she had written to Farnsworth, our family solicitor, saying that she wanted a new document drafted. If he sent her one, it did not come in time. Her previous will stood, in which she left everything to her husband. Written in the flush of romance, I suspect.”

  “Meredith must have been unhappy with that,” I said.

  “Oh, she was. Meredith accused her father of destroying the new will so he would inherit Ashcroft. He denied it, of course, but that was the final break between them.”

  “Then she stole some jewelry and went to London,” I said.

  “The ring was missing, but that has been explained by recent events. She did take a few other old pieces, probably enough to sell and get herself set up properly. Nothing of sentimental value. I never begrudged her that much.”

  “So she and Helen were both here because of their husbands,” I said. “Looking for help.”

  “Essentially, yes. I had also written to both of them, saying that their father was quite ill. Rupert had confided in me a month ago that the doctors were very concerned about his heart. Actually, this was the second time Meredith had asked Rupert for help. She must have choked on her words. The previous time, after the birth of their first child, it was to secure a position for Edgar in the Indian Civil Service. Rupert obliged, and we know what a hash Edgar made of that.”

  “Some might say he did the honorable thing,” I said.

  “Perhaps, but it is hardly honorable to come back a second time to ask for help again. But they were desperate. No prospects, a dwindling bank account, persona non grata at the Foreign Office. It made for an awful scene when they first arrived.”

  “But he didn’t throw them out,” I said.

  “No, not with Helen and David coming as well. I think Rupert knew these were his last days, and even with all the enmity between them, he did find some solace in family.”

  “And then Peter Wiley walks through the door,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “It must have driven Meredith crazy,” I said.

  “That is a bit of an exaggeration,” Lady Pemberton said. “But she obviously was not pleased. The only good thing for her was that it proved that she had not stolen the ring.”

  “But Sir Rupert would have known that all along,” I said.

  “I imagine so. But he couldn’t let on, could he? Louise claimed she had lost the ring, perhaps to protect herself from learning the truth. She defended Meredith against the accusations, telling Rupert her daughter would never steal from her. But still, what does all this have to do with the death of poor Peter?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know you saw something, probably early in the morning after Sir Rupert’s death. From this very window.”

  “No!” Lady Pemberton said, rising from her seat, the book tumbling to the floor. “Now let us put an end to this. It is high time you left.”

  I rose and took her hand. “I’m sorry if I caused you distress, Lady Pemberton. I am sure we’ll meet again. Soon.”

  I went to my room and packed up my duffle bag. Kaz and David were in Big Mike’s room putting his gear together, and we walked downstairs together.

  “I hope you’ll visit again, Piotr,” David said. “You too, Billy. Although it seems big things are coming soon. The generals will want to be in France before the summer. Can’t be too long now.”

  “Think you’ll miss it?” I asked as we swung the bags into the back of the jeep.

  “Yes,” David said, his voice low and firm. “Terribly. But at least I’m needed here. Gives me something to do. Listen, good luck with the Peter Wiley case. Hard to believe it was murder, but I am glad you seem to be closing in on the killer.”

  “We’re very close,” I said. “A key piece of evidence has turned up. But mum’s the word, okay?” David agreed, and we shook hands and drove off.

  “Where to now?” Kaz said.

  “To see Inspector Grange. Then into the restricted area. The timing ought to be about right.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I HAD ENOUGH of the pieces of the puzzle assembled for it to make sense to Kaz as we drove into Dartmouth. Which was good, since that was a dress rehearsal for Inspector Grange. He thought the idea had sufficient merit to send a car with two constables to assist us. But not so much that he came along himself. It was getting dark, and starting to rain to boot, so he decided to do his inspecting indoors.

  We drove to Strete, showing orders at the roadblock and explaining that the bobbies in the other automobile were with us.

  “You can go ahead if you want, Captain,” the MP at the gate said, shaking his head at the idea as raindrops splattered off his helmet. “But there’s an exercise scheduled for the morning. Bombardment at zero four thirty, landings at zero six hundred at Slapton Sands. Where are you headed?”

  “Dunstone,” I said. “Little place south of Torcross.”

  “I know where it is,” he said. “You’d best be clear of it by zero four hundred. They’re sending in those new rocket-firing fighter-bombers to soften up the area around the beachhead. They hauled in some old tanks today for target practice. If a stray shell from a cruiser doesn’t get you, a P-47 might.”

  “Cheery,” Kaz said as we set off into the wet, bleak landscape. Heavy black clouds blanketed the setting sun, and the rain came and went in gusty showers. We slowed as we made our way through the ruined village of Stokenham, almost slamming into a tank parked in the middle of the road.

  “Hey!” I yelled, looking for the crew. Then I noticed there were no treads. It was a wreck, an old M3 model, one of the targets for tomorrow’s exercise. The P-47s would be diving and firing their rockets, testing them out against thick armor plate. Flesh and bone wouldn’t stand a chance. I drove on, braking at shadows, afraid of a collision with an immoveable object.

  We stopped at a fork in the road on the outskirts of Dunstone. An old farmhouse stood between two roads, a ramshackle barn facing the lane leading to the village. Rows of trees stood like sentinels in the night—it had been an apple orchard once upon a time.

  “You fellows stay here,” I told the constables as they approached the idling jeep. “Watch each road, and follow anyone who passes. Give them about five minutes.”

  “Right,” Constable Carraher said. “We’ll hide the motorcar in the barn and follow by foot or vehicle, depending on how the villain proceeds.”

  “Good,” I said. “Remember that he’s gotten in before, and he knows the area. He may stay off the road.”

  “I know this patch as well, Captain,” Carraher said. “We’ll come on real quiet like if we spot him.” He grinned, and I could see he was looking forward to some excitement.

  His younger partner looked nervous, pushing his tin-pot helmet up and wiping the rain from his face. “Is he likely to be armed?” Constable Dell asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a shotgun from Ashcroft House. Best assume he is, although carrying a weapon would raise suspicions if he were stopped anywhere along the way. The safest bet for him would be to go unarmed, but he may be desperate.”

  “We’ll do our bit,” Carraher said. “Two rifles and the authority of the Devon Constabulary, that’s more than enough weight, eh?” He clapped the other constable on the shoulder, and the kid did his best to put on a brave face. We left the two of them at the farm, backing the Austin into the barn. I told them to get the hell out of there if we didn’t return by four o’clock. I hoped we’d all be sipping hot tea in the Dartmouth clink by then, but I didn’t want them on the receiving end of a rocket attack if things went south.

  We drove closer to Dunstone, pulling over short of the village to hide the jeep in a grove of trees. The rain had lessened, but that only made our tire tracks where we left the road
more noticeable. We grabbed some fallen branches and worked at smoothing over the gouges in the mud at the side of the lane.

  “That may be good enough,” Kaz said, surveying our handiwork and tossing his branch into the thick grass. “But if he is suspicious at all, he might take note.”

  “Then we’ll have lost our chance,” I said. I turned up the collar of my trench coat and stuffed a .45 automatic into my pocket. I had my .38 Police Special revolver in a shoulder holster. Kaz patted his raincoat pocket, the Webley Break-Top revolver ready for action. As rain beaded up on the leather brim of his service cap, he gave me a wink and we trotted off, slinking around the first decrepit cottages that made up the mournful remnants of Dunstone. On the open ground we leapt like dancers in combat boots, jumping from one tuft of grass to another, trying not to leave any telltale footprints.

  “If anyone’s watching, they’ll laugh themselves silly,” I said to Kaz as we caught our breath behind a tumbledown stone wall.

  “Furtive we are not,” he said, pointing down the road. “Look, is that another tank?”

  “Yeah,” I said as the hulking form took shape in the gloom. It was a British Valentine, an older model with the turret gone, volunteered for one last duty as a stationary target. “Maybe we should hunker down in there. Crawford’s cottage is straight ahead.”

  “It is probably full of water,” Kaz said. “And we will be trapped if he sees us.”

  “Okay. Let’s move around back and check his cottage, then find a spot to wait.” We crouched low and scurried through an overgrown field, coming up on the rear of Crawford’s burned-out house. Guns drawn, we darted to one corner. Back to back, we watched our respective walls, listening for any trace of movement within. The heavy rain had let up, air now full of swirling mist, turning the darkness into a blurred landscape of grey and black. To the left was a small barn, one wall smashed as if a tank had backed into it, timbers leaning at crazy angles as if the whole thing was about to collapse. We worked our way around to the front of the cottage, visibility down to ten yards at best. Good in that we wouldn’t be seen by anyone farther away than that. Bad in that closer than ten yards, a shotgun can do a lot of damage.