by James R Benn
“Okay,” I said, ready to oblige. “How did you and Neville get along?”
“Friendly ships in the night, I’d say.” Morris blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his pipe bowl giving off a red glow. “We’d chat now and then, the occasional visit to the pub, but many days I was traveling and didn’t even see him. Or I’d be so knackered I’d go to my room right after dinner.”
“Anybody on unfriendly terms with him?” I asked.
“Not that I knew of, but then again we didn’t share confidences.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, the war. Rationing, all you Yanks everywhere. The same small talk as most, I’d wager.”
“Did you kill Stuart Neville?” I asked.
“No, sir, I did not. But I’d rest easier if you caught who did it. Don’t like glancing over my shoulder at night. Not one bit.” He puffed away, one eye squinted against the smoke, the other on me.
“Do you get along with the Millers? No trouble with them being German?”
“Get along fine with George and Carla,” Morris said. “The way I see it, we had our own English fascists before the war, and a lot of good folk never objected to them. But along come two anti-Nazi refugees and all of a sudden there’s trouble. Makes no sense.”
“I’d have to agree. Any special troublemakers in town?”
“Some chap gave George a mouthful, but his son had just been killed. Understandable.”
“Did Neville ever mention the missing girl?”
“The girl from the school? No, why do you ask?” He looked up from his pipe, surprised at the question.
“He told Eva Miller to be careful, that’s all. I wondered if there was any connection.”
“Well,” Morris said, lowering his voice. “We both took a paternal interest in young Eva. Poor girl, through no fault of her own, is uprooted from her native land and brought here. Never mind it was for the best of reasons, it was still hard on her. The other children teased her, of course, and called her names.”
“Do they still?”
“No, she adapted well. She already knew English, and lost her accent quickly. And walking out with that American sergeant helped as well.”
“Anything else you can think of that might shed some light on the killing?” He wasn’t much help but he seemed a bit of a gossip, and those types usually pick up tidbits of information.
“No. But it’s interesting you asked about the missing girl. Sophia something, if I recall. Do you think there’s a link to the murder?”
“All I have are questions, not answers. Thanks for your help, Mr. Morris,” I said, taking my leave.
“Not at all,” he said, looking at me through the smoky haze. “I take it no arrest is imminent? And the girl is still missing?”
“For now,” I said, and left in search of George Miller. I didn’t need any reminders of how badly the investigation was going. No one was in the kitchen, but I followed the sounds coming from upstairs, and found him in Stuart Neville’s old room, stripping wallpaper.
“Captain Boyle, how are you?” He held a brush in one hand and a scraper in the other. Pieces of torn wallpaper littered the floor.
“Fine. Sorry to interrupt your work.”
“No problem, Captain, I am glad for a break. I thought while I had no boarder I would fix up this room and get rid of this ugly wallpaper.”
“You’re quite the handyman,” I said. “Did you ever ask Stuart Neville about a bank loan to help you renovate?”
“Oh no.” He laughed. “Why pay someone for such simple work? And I enjoy it. When I finish here I will get back to our other room. Hopefully we will have three boarders again soon. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I just wanted to drop by to say hello. I met Nigel Morris downstairs. You said he was gone the day Neville was killed, right?”
“Oh yes, he left a day or so before. He is often gone for days at a time, taking the train to his customers.”
“Did he seem upset when you told him about Neville’s death?”
“Yes, I suppose so. It is hard to tell with the English, yes? They are not the most emotional people. But then again, neither are we Germans.” He cast his eyes down to the floor, as if embarrassed to mention his nationality out loud. “And how are you, Captain, after your attack by the canal?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking. Anything else unusual going on in the neighborhood?”
“The police questioned me, of course. It was to be expected. Other than that, nothing. Eva is at school and Carla is at the market. You could ask them, but aside from Mr. Morris returning, it has been quiet.”
“No need to bother them,” I said. “I was curious about something though. You might know a friend of mine. Charles Cosgrove, a British major. I think he has something to do with refugees.”
“No, the name is not familiar.”
“Does anyone from the government come around and visit you? To see how you’re getting on?” To check up on you, I meant. It seemed strange that Miller enjoyed the protection of MI5 but claimed not to know Cosgrove. Following instructions, or telling the truth?
“We get a letter from the Foreign Office every few months. We have to stay in touch and let them know if we move, but we have not seen anyone since we came here. They gave us a small stipend to live on for a while, to help get us settled. But no, the name Cosgrove means nothing to me.”
“No matter, just thought I’d take a chance. I’ll let you get back to work.”
I left, passing Morris in the hallway, making for his room. I glanced in the third bedroom, where Miller had been working before. There was new molding cut and painted, ready to be nailed up. The guy was a real do-it-yourselfer.
He was also telling the truth about not knowing Cosgrove. There had been no quick widening of the eyes, no attempt at recovery. He was either a great liar or had never heard the name. I was no closer to understanding Cosgrove’s interest in this murder, or solving it, for that matter.
I strolled to the Hog’s Head pub for lunch and was greeted by Jack Monk.
“Been for a swim, I hear,” he said.
“No worse for wear,” I said, then ordered a pint and a cheese sandwich. “I bet you hear a lot, Jack. Anything new on Stuart Neville?”
“What, are you tired of folks asking you that question? Want to hear it out of your own mouth, do you?” Monk laughed as he wiped down the bar.
“Yeah, I thought maybe I’d get some answers that way.”
“Well, not from me, more’s the pity,” Monk said as he pulled my pint. “Everyone’s talking about the lass you all pulled from the canal, and wondering if Sophia will be next. Me, I’d say she’s dead or gone far away.”
“Why do you say that?”
“As with any kid her age, there’s a chance she ran off on her own. She may have had her own reasons, not that we’d understand them, mind you. And there’s also a fair chance she was taken by some fiend and then killed and buried, after he had his way with her. When you think about it, those are the two most likely ways for it to go.” He set down the pint, foam cascading down the glass.
“Likely,” I agreed. But likely didn’t rule out everything else. “Here’s another question for you, Jack. Neville’s feet were wet. How would that happen on the canal path?”
“He could have stepped into one of the boats moored along the canal,” Monk said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “We had a heavy rain not long before he was killed, so some might be soaked. Or it could have been from the wake of a boat on the canal washing over. The Kennet River flows into the canal near here, and all that rain would have raised the water level. Take your choice.” He shrugged and moved on, taking other lunchtime orders and gabbing with the regulars.
I knew about water in the boats; I’d gotten my own feet wet that way. But I hadn’t known about the water levels. I wondered what boat might be out on the canal that late at night. And if it had been water from its wake that soaked Neville’s shoes
and socks, could the boatman have seen him? And his assailant? I tried to work the angles as I waited for my sandwich, wondering how much could be seen from a moving craft.
“Jack,” I said when he put the plate down. “Are there many boats out on the canal between ten o’clock at night and two in the morning?”
“Ah, you mean when Neville was killed? It would be a rare thing. No lights with the blackout, so if you didn’t know the canal like the back of your hand it would be dangerous.”
“Rare, but not impossible for someone who knows the canal?”
“Aye. There’s one man who comes to mind. Blackie Crane. He runs a steamboat up to Reading, selling coal. Brown coal, that is, what they call lignite. It’s mined out by Pewsey. Not very good stuff, but he manages to sell a boatload between there and Reading every week.”
“But can a coal barge go fast enough to make a wake?”
“Fully loaded? No. But on the return trip from Reading, heading west? Once Blackie gets up a head of steam, there’s no stopping him. And it’s not like a flat-bottomed barge. His is a riverboat, long and narrow, and he keeps it in prime shape. Signals with his steam whistle when he comes through. Reminds folks of the old days, when steam on the water was the way of the world. Around here, leastways.”
“Was he on the river the night Neville was killed?”
“I’m sure he was. I saw him that morning, when he delivered my coal. Said he had one more stop near Reading and then would make the run back. That would put him here late, after closing time.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday, on his way up to Reading. Ought to be headed back this way in a day or so.”
“Thanks, Jack. Keep this conversation between us, all right?” I wanted to be careful not to tip my hand about a possible witness.
“Whatever you say. Mum’s the word.”
I bit into the sandwich, wondering if there was such a thing as too careful. Big Mike had assisted in the investigation, but then was ordered back to London. Why? Miss Gardner pointed me to Bone and Fraser, then suddenly vanished. Why? I didn’t want Blackie Crane to slip through my fingers as well. I was sure I could trust Payne, but no reason to broadcast the fact we might have a witness to anyone else.
The beer was sharp and bitter.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SIX
Next stop was the Chilton Foliat Jump School, to continue the snooping around that had been cut short by Tree’s fight. I passed the barns, outbuildings, and Quonset huts, and parked on the gravel drive in front of the main house. It was a solid three-story affair with elegant columns, seated on top of a hill with a commanding view of the countryside. In the distance I saw a platoon double-timing it along a road. Closer to the house, GIs were climbing a short wooden tower, then jumping onto a pile of hay, bending their knees and rolling, while an instructor barked at them to hurry up. A corporal threw me a salute on his way into the headquarters.
“Where can I find your commanding officer?” I asked as I returned the salute.
“Captain Sobel is inspecting the service company, sir. Take the path around the back.”
I followed the path, marked by the white-painted stones the army loves so much. At the rear of the house, near a row of hedges that might once have bordered an elegant garden, lines of GIs stood four rows deep. I could make out a tall officer walking the ranks, a sergeant trailing him with a clipboard. I edged to the side of the group, waiting for the inspection to be over. Hearing the sound of shovels, I glanced to the rear and saw Charlie, the big fellow from the fight, and one other GI hacking away at the ground. They were both waist-deep in what looked like wide graves. Charlie saw me and looked quickly at the officer, who I figured for Sobel. Charlie looked scared. His eyes met mine and he shook his head, then bent back to his digging.
“Out of uniform,” Sobel yelled at one man, who seemed dressed exactly like the others. “Confined to quarters.” His voice was squeaky and grating at the same time. He walked with his hands clenched behind his back, swaggering between the rows of GIs as his sergeant followed along, writing on his clipboard. Sobel was tall and dark-haired. He had a face that reminded me of a half-moon: a high forehead, long nose, and receding chin.
“What’s this? Dirty ears?” I was amazed to see him actually bend a man’s ears back like a mother checking a little boy. “You want to get dirty, soldier? Then start digging.” The GI dropped out and headed to the rear, picking up a shovel and a yardstick. He began measuring an area the same size as the hole Charlie was digging, and started in on it. There was a ready supply of shovels, and as I looked past Charlie, I could see the ground had been dug up and tamped down repeatedly. The inspection went on, Sobel continuing to find fault with most of the enlisted men, doling out punishments ranging from KP duty to loss of a weekend pass. Finally the company was dismissed, and I never saw men scatter so fast.
“Captain Sobel?” I said as I approached him.
“Yes, Captain, what can I do for you?” Sobel came close, his arms akimbo. He looked down at me, using his height to dominate the conversation.
“Captain Boyle,” I said, holding out my hand. He didn’t take the offered shake. “I’m investigating the murder of a local police officer. One of our men was arrested, and now there’s some doubt as to his guilt.”
“Our men? What unit are you from, Captain?”
“SHAEF. General Eisenhower is interested in seeing that justice is done.” It was then that Sobel took notice of my shoulder patch with the Supreme Headquarters flaming sword badge, but if he was impressed he kept it to himself.
“Is anyone under my command a suspect?” Sobel asked.
“No, I just have a few questions-”
“Sergeant Evans,” Sobel said, turning away from me and addressing his non-com, “assist this officer and then report to me once he is off the base.”
“Yes, sir!” Evans said as Sobel walked away.
“Your commanding officer is a strange one, Sergeant,” I said, watching Sobel’s back.
“Nothing strange about doing a job right, Captain. How can I help you?” Evans had a southern drawl and the look of a long-haul non-com.
“First tell me about the holes. Why are those men digging them?”
“Captain Sobel trains the men to follow orders, and he does a damn good job. If they don’t, they get extra duty digging a hole six by six by six.”
“Six feet deep?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Yes sir. And then they fill it in again. The captain says it’s good training for digging in when we’re in combat.”
“That GI has to dig a hole that size for having dirty ears?”
“Captain Sobel likes his men to look sharp. If they don’t, they reflect poorly on the unit. That man will probably wash his ears first thing every day after this.”
“What about this man?” I said, pointing to Charlie.
“Out of uniform,” Evans said. “He was missing a button. Now tell me what I can do for you, Captain. We’re running a jump school here and we have thirty new field artillery observers to train.”
I wasn’t taking to Sergeant Evans any more than I had to Captain Sobel, but I bit my tongue and gave him the basics about the murder, the graveyard, and the track going through the jump school to the back of the cemetery. I needed a helpful non-com, not an uncooperative one. We walked away from the hole diggers and I pointed out the track I’d mentioned.
“What I need to know is if anyone here noticed a person who wasn’t supposed to be on this post. A local, or maybe a colored GI.”
“That’s who they got for this, right?” Evans asked. “One of those tank destroyer guys.”
“That’s who CID arrested,” I said. “They may have been wrong.”
“Well, anyone can drive up here,” Evans said. “Or walk in. We’re not a secure area, although a colored boy coming through here would cause some comment. Not the usual thing, if you know what I mean. That path leads past the barns and the older civilian build
ings we don’t use. Too broken down. You could ask Crowley, he might remember something.”
“Is he the Englishman?”
“Yeah, local caretaker. Came with the place, far as I know. I think the family who owns the property left him here to look after the horses. He’s always around, so maybe he can help. If he’s not in the barn check the mess tent. He doesn’t have a place to cook, so we let him eat our chow. I’ll take you there.”
“I can find it, Sergeant,” I said, eager to get rid of the disagreeable Evans.
“I’ll take you,” he said. “Captain Sobel doesn’t like people wandering around.”
“You said you weren’t a secure area,” I said, walking alongside Evans. “What’s the concern?”
“We may not be top secret, but we are responsible for packing the parachutes for the entire division. That, plus the personnel we train, is enough to keep any CO on top of who comes through here.”
“But you’re saying no one noticed a Negro from a tank destroyer unit carrying a dead body?”
“I didn’t, but I wasn’t on the lookout for one neither.” We came to the barn, and Evans pushed the wide doors open. It smelled of fresh hay and stale horse. Three stalls on each side, two of them empty. “Crowley takes the horses out for exercise every afternoon. Down that track you’re so interested in.”
“Where does he stay?” I asked.
“He’s got a room off the barn, through that door,” Evans said, pointing at the far end. “Not a real sociable guy, but he does his job. I doubt he’s there this time of day but we can check.” We walked the length of the barn, horses neighing after us, eager for attention and fresh air. Evans knocked, then opened the door. The room was as long as the barn, but only about ten feet wide. A coal stove stood in the corner next to a worn armchair. A narrow bed was shoved against the wall, blankets with US ARMY stenciled on them tossed over it. A small table littered with tools, a rickety desk, an old bureau, and shelves with a few tins of food completed the scene. It looked like temporary lodgings for a farmhand, not a caretaker’s home. The only personal touch was a framed photograph on the wall by the bed. An unsmiling young man with dark eyes stared out of the frame, dressed in a stiff collar and black jacket, maybe from the turn of the century, judging by the hairstyle and cravat.
