by James R Benn
“Plenty of men have been wounded; maimed and worse. They all don’t take it out on their wives,” I said. “Still, it’s hard to be glad a man has died on a dark road, after surviving a Japanese machine gun.” We didn’t speak for a while. Maybe we were giving Malcolm some respect for his service, no matter what his personal shortcomings. Or maybe we were all embarrassed by how little he’d be missed. I studied my boots for a while.
“They took Major Cosgrove away,” Kaz said finally.
“Who did?”
“Two rather large and very quiet men. In an ambulance, with a nurse to attend to him. They arrived as I did, spoke with the doctor, had him sign something, then put Cosgrove on a stretcher.”
“But you saw him? He was alive?”
“Yes, he was. The men knew who I was by sight, and told me I could say goodbye. Cosgrove was pale, and his voice was weak, but he did say to remind you of what he said about being careful.”
“Yeah, he did.” What I didn’t explain was that he meant Diana. “Did they say where they were taking him?”
“I asked, but they said that information was classified. When they loaded him into the ambulance, the nurse gave him an injection and the men hooked him up to an oxygen tank. While they were busy with that, I walked around to the front of the vehicle. One of the doors was open, and I got a quick look inside. A road map was folded open, and I noticed a familiar town. Saint Albans.”
“What’s there?” Tree asked.
“Saint Albans Rest Home,” I said. “We’ve been there before on a case. It’s a high-security hospital for people with too many secrets. High-ranking officers, commandos, spies, you name it. If you know too much and mumble in your sleep, Saint Albans is the place for you.”
“What the hell is the big secret?” Tree said. “It can’t be Angry or the missing girl, that stuff is all out in the open.”
“And Neville seems to be a non-entity,” Kaz said.
“So the question is, what was so important that Cosgrove was afraid of spilling the beans while under a sedative?”
“But who would even hear him? The doctor?”
“That’s a good question, Kaz. Cosgrove risked his health, if not his life, to not be sedated. What could he have said that would have been so dangerous?”
“Something not even a respected doctor could hear,” Tree offered. “Maybe some military secret.”
“There’s air bases, paratroopers, all sorts of military units around here that are going to be involved in the invasion,” I said. “Even the Six-Seventeenth Tank Destroyer Battalion. Maybe your unit is the big secret, Tree.”
“Hell, we tell everyone we see that the Nazis better watch out for us once we hit France,” Tree said. “We’re the worst-kept secret in England.”
“Perhaps it is something as simple as the date of the invasion, or the exact location,” Kaz said.
“That assumes he knows either of those,” I said. “They’re tightly held secrets, the biggest secrets of the war. Cosgrove might know bits and pieces of the plan, but I doubt he has the whole picture.” The wind freshened and I stuffed my hands in my pockets against the chill.
“What do you know, Billy?” Tree asked me.
“Barely the time of day. They keep us pretty much in the dark. Need to know, ya know?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one plenty of times,” Tree said, getting up from the bench and stretching his limbs. “I hope they put us up front in the invasion. I’ve been hearing that colored folk can’t fight too damned long. I need to set that straight for my father’s sake. The army’s forgotten about how he and the others fought in France last time around. I aim to make sure they don’t forget again after this war.”
“Be sure to keep your head down,” I said. “This isn’t a fistfight you’re headed for.”
“All right, Billy,” Tree said with an easy smile. “I know you’re looking out for me. We got maneuvers coming up in a couple of days. We’re Red Army, attacking Blue Army. You both oughta come out and watch. You can see us in action.”
“I’d be proud to,” I said, and Kaz agreed. Tree left with a bounce in his step, and I knew it would mean a lot to him if I had a front seat as he put his TD through its paces. Hell, it would mean a lot to me as well.
“Well, that at least gives us something to do,” Kaz said. “We can watch the maneuvers and wonder where the killer is.”
“Killers,” I corrected him. “Maybe three of them. We have at least three victims: Stuart Neville, Tom Eastman, Margaret Hibberd, and perhaps Sophia Edwards. Why not three killers?”
“But you don’t really think so,” Kaz said.
“No. I have the nagging feeling there’s a connection between Neville and Margaret. Maybe he knew her killer, or rather discovered who it was.” I told Kaz about the canal man Blackie Crane, and how there was a chance he had seen something that night as he passed by the Miller residence.
“It will be good to pursue that lead,” Kaz said. “But I think you’re straining to find a connection. The fact that Neville told the Miller girl to be careful doesn’t mean anything. It’s the kind of thing any man might say to a young girl.”
“It’s just that Neville left no other trace of himself. It’s like he wanted not to be noticed,” I said. “Anything unusual stands out, and his mentioning that was out of character, which makes me think he had a specific reason for saying it.”
“That’s a fine straw you’re grasping at, Billy. What is our next step?”
“Let’s see if Constable Cook has come up with anything. He was going to check further with Broadmoor and ask Doctor Brisbane if any villagers were committed there, voluntarily or otherwise.”
“You think it might be a pleasure man we’re after?”
“Might be. The whole thing is crazy, after all. Let’s go. After we talk with Cook we’ll get dinner. I’m hungry.”
“Billy,” Kaz said as we walked to our vehicles. “When are we going to hear what finally happened to you and Tree, in Boston?”
“When this thing is wrapped up, and Diana is back. She wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“Neither do I,” Kaz said.
CHAPTER TWENTY — NINE
“Evening, gentlemen,” constable Cook said as we entered his office. He was puffing away on his pipe, his desk a mass of files and paperwork. “I see your Major Cosgrove was taken away by ambulance this morning. How is he?”
“We don’t know,” I said. “The people who came for him are a tight-lipped bunch.”
“I could tell as much from Doc Brisbane,” Cook said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “He’s a good one for a story or two, but all he told me was that it was best to forget all about the incident. That’s what he called it, the incident. Sounded like he was reading from a script.” Cook raised his eyebrows, inviting us to tell him more.
“Major Cosgrove is involved with security matters,” I said. “Probably normal procedure.”
“Ah, well, perhaps. Not that there was much normal about our major. I suppose you’re more interested in what I’ve found out about Broadmoor. The doc told me he knew of no one who had been committed there for purely medical reasons, so I reviewed the file of criminals from our jurisdiction who ended up serving their sentences there.”
“Anything new?” I asked as he shuffled through his papers.
“Not much. Turns out the chap Sam Eastman arrested back in nineteen thirty-five died two years ago in Broadmoor.”
“The arrest Sam was directly involved in?”
“Yes. Previously Sam helped arrest a vagrant who had assaulted a farmer. But Sam wasn’t even listed on the arrest warrant, so I doubt that fellow even knew his name.”
“The nineteen thirty-five arrest was different?” Kaz asked.
“Oh, yes. Quite. It was a local stonemason, Alan Wycks. He had a job at the Chilton Foliat manor house, back before the government took it over. The owner, Lawrence Brackmann, accused Wycks of stealing three shirts. Laundry drying on the line, I think it was. Sa
m found the shirts all right, hidden away at Wycks’s cottage. He arrested him, and then it turned out that Wycks couldn’t stand being in an enclosed space. Started banging his head against the walls, right here in our own lockup. Had to send him up to Berkshire Constabulary headquarters in Reading, where they had facilities for that sort of thing.”
“What happened then?”
“Went stark raving mad in no time, I heard. You could ask Inspector Payne more about it. He picked up the case when Wycks got transferred to Reading. He was a detective sergeant at the time, if I recall. It was a solid case, and from what I heard Wycks was incoherent before the judge. Got himself sentenced to Broadmoor, at the King’s pleasure.”
“And that’s where he died?” I asked.
“Yes. Just two years ago next month.”
“Did he have any family?” Kaz asked.
“His wife had run off with their son the year before. After Wycks went mad, we worried he might have harmed them, but we never found a trace. Searched his garden for signs of recent digging, but found nothing. My thought was she began seeing signs that he was losing his mind and left him when she could.”
“Sounds like a dead end,” I said.
“It was worth looking into,” Cook said. “Police work is the same all over, isn’t it? Looking into people’s lives, discovering more than you want to know, often for naught.”
“It would help if you could forget what you didn’t need to know,” I said.
“There’s a truth,” Cook said. “You’ve heard about poor Malcolm, have you?”
“Yes, we were just discussing his death,” Kaz said. “No one seems to really mourn his passing.”
“No, I’d say not,” Cook said, giving it some consideration. “No family hereabouts, and he never spared a kind word when a harsh one would do. Still, it’s a pity for a wounded soldier to end up dead like that after going through so much. Not to mention Rosemary. She was always a sweet lass, full of life. She must have put that all away to make a life with Malcolm.”
“What do you think she will do?” Kaz asked.
“Wait for you to exonerate Private Smith,” Cook said. “I hadn’t seen her so happy in years, back when Malcolm was thought dead and Smith was free.”
“It doesn’t bother you, Constable? A white woman and a Negro together?” I couldn’t help but think what a scandal that would be in Boston, or anywhere else in the States for that matter.
“We’re just country folk here, Captain. It takes us time to get used to anything new,” Cook said, unbuttoning his uniform collar. “But that’s all it is. Something new. Why, we might even look kindly upon an Irishman settling down among us.” He smiled as he worked on his pipe, knocking out ashes and cleaning the stem.
“Point taken,” I said. “And I do hope we can get Angry out of prison. Rosemary gave me the scrapbook she and Tom kept when they were kids, said there were pictures and clippings from her father’s career. I’ll look through that tonight and see if anything jumps out at me.”
“I remember that book,” Cook said. “When Tom was a pup he and his sister would race through here, and pinch anything not nailed down if they took a fancy to it for their scrapbook. There might be something in there, you never know.”
“What was Tom like as a boy?” I asked, wondering if there was any connection we’d overlooked.
“Sam was a stern father, and Tom sought to stretch the limits now and then. Nothing serious, just the mischief of youth. Stealing apples from an orchard on a summer’s night, that sort of thing.”
Cook’s face softened at the memory.
“Do you have children, Constable?”
“I did,” he said. “A fine wife and a handsome boy. She died three years ago. The saving grace was she didn’t have to hear of Teddy being killed in Sicily. Teddy and Tom were a right pair, only a few months between them. Played rugby together when they weren’t pinching apples. Nothing’s the same anymore, is it?”
What could I do but agree? I nodded, and let the silence settle for a moment before I asked, “Do you know a canal man by the name of Blackie Crane?”
“Sure, everyone knows Blackie. Quite a character, he is.”
“There’s a slight chance he saw something on his last run through here. If you see him, we’d like have a chat. Tell Inspector Payne, but keep it quiet otherwise, okay?”
“Lots of secrets these days, Captain, aren’t there?”
“Only until we figure them out, Constable.”
We invited Cook to have dinner with us, but he declined, saying he needed to walk his beat around Hungerford one more time. His cot was made up in the corner of his office, and I think I knew why he often spent nights here. There were no ghosts in the local nick, only emptiness, or the occasional criminal, drunk, or rowdy GI. It was better company.
Kaz and I drove back to the Prince of Wales Inn in Kintbury, ready for our dinner, but we were stopped halfway there by a column of GIs marching quick-step, coming up from the Kennet River and crossing our path on the Bath Road. Their boots were muddy and sweat streamed down their faces, even in the cool late-afternoon air. There were hundreds of them, a battalion perhaps, on a forced march to toughen them up for the invasion. The 101st Airborne, evidenced by their screaming eagle shoulder patches. Some were probably named Teddy.
The invasion of France-well, probably France-was on everyone’s mind. Mostly a pent-up anxiety, like a bow pulled taut while your hand quivers as you hold it, ready to release. I didn’t know if I’d be there on the big day, but I could feel myself pulled along by the current of nerves, fear and desire to get it over with. Right now, watching these men cross the road-these cherished boys, these Teddies, all I could think about was the heartache to come for their mothers, fathers, wives, and friends. It was good that we fought our wars so far from home, not so much because it saved our towns and cities from destruction, but because it put distance and time between death and mourning. How many folks back in the States on that day of invasion would wake up, pour a cup of coffee, and read the morning paper without knowing their son or husband was already dead?
The last of them crossed the road and I was glad to see them go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
As we parked next to the Prince of Wales Inn, I did a double-take. Sitting at a bench by the door were two men: Michael Flowers and Nigel Morris. Neville’s boss and his fellow boarder. I pointed them out to Kaz and gave him the lowdown on each.
“It is a small town,” Kaz said. “Perhaps Neville introduced them. Sometimes coincidences are just that.” I doubted it.
Morris caught sight of me and gave Flowers a nudge. Flowers went inside as Morris nodded to someone at our backs. I heard car doors slam, and knew this was no coincidence. I turned sideways to keep my eye on Morris and check who was coming up on us. I pulled Kaz with me as I glanced around for an exit. No go. Coming through the gate from the road were two British MPs, big guys. Another filled the doorway to the inn. We were boxed in. My hand moved to my shoulder holster and the reassuring grip of the.38 Police Special. But I didn’t draw. This was damned odd, but no ambush, not with a full complement of MPs surrounding the joint.
“Lieutenant Kazimierz?” said an MP sergeant as he took Kaz by the arm, not waiting for an answer. “Come with us, please. We have orders for you to return to London immediately.”
“Whose orders?” Kaz asked.
“Not at liberty to say, sir,” the polite MP said, not relaxing his grip. His hand took up most of Kaz’s upper arm.
“Let go of me,” Kaz said, digging in his heels. “I must pack my belongings if I am to go to London.” Kaz and I looked at each other, neither of us understanding what was happening. Kaz looked stunned as the MP held his arm.
“No need, Lieutenant,” the MP said as he pulled Kaz toward a waiting staff car. “Your suitcase is in the automobile. We are leaving immediately.” With an MP on either arm, all Kaz could do was shrug helplessly as they led him away.
“You’ve got someone waiting in
side, Captain Boyle,” Morris said. His eyes flicked up and down the street, then settled on the automobile carrying Kaz back to London as it drove away. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, and I could make out the bulge of a revolver on his right. “Don’t worry, lad, I won’t shoot. A friendly visit inside, that’s all.”
“Who are you?” I asked. Not a traveling salesman, that was for sure.
“Whoever I need to be,” Morris answered. “Now go inside and see Mr. Flowers. He’ll direct you.” I went to pass the MP, who was standing at parade rest like he was guarding a military headquarters. He put out his arm and asked for my weapon. Reluctantly, I handed it over and went inside. Flowers stood in the hallway, his hands stuffed in his pockets, showing the same telltale bulge. His face was stern, a far cry from the visage of the friendly banker. He nodded toward a small room off the dining area and bar, and I entered.
Inside, seated next to a coal fire burning low in the fireplace, was the man who had made Major Cosgrove sweat, sipping a glass of sherry.
“Ah, Captain Boyle,” he said, in a quiet voice drenched in authority. “Please sit down.”
“Not that I have a choice, with your goons outside the door,” I said, sitting across from him. He had a strong chin, thin lips curved into a slight smile, and lively eyes that drilled into mine. He was well dressed in civvies, worn but with a faintly academic air, like a distracted professor who didn’t quite pay attention while knotting his tie. He was trim, in good shape for a fellow with strands of grey in his close-cropped hair.
“Goons. I rather like that. Yes, I do have goons, Captain. They come in handy from time to time.”
“Who are you, and why am I here?”
“We’re in no rush, Captain Boyle. Let us take a moment and get to know each other.”
“Names are a big help. See, you know mine, and isn’t that useful for carrying on a conversation?”
“Not here,” he said, waving his hand. “Not that names wouldn’t be useful, but the walls have ears, as they say, and I keep my own secrets.”
