by James R Benn
“He evaluated building plans, mortgage applications, that sort of thing. He was often on the road, making visits. He’d come in to write up his reports, but he didn’t spend a lot of time here.” I could see why. One wooden desk and chair. One sidetable holding a typewriter. A filing cabinet, a hat rack, and a bookshelf crammed with directories, atlases, annual reports of the Newbury Building Society, and some really fascinating reading on building regulations.
Payne sat at the desk and looked through the files and papers scattered in no particular order. “What was Neville working on before he died?”
“He’d finalized two applications, one for a shopkeeper in Kintbury, and another for a couple in Hungerford. The couple’s was approved, but the shopkeeper’s application was not,” Flowers said. “Although I’m certain that could have had nothing to do with the murder.” He nearly giggled as he contemplated death by mortgage.
“I thought you said he traveled quite a bit. Those two are certainly close by,” I said.
“Oh, it all depends on our members and where they’re from. We’ve expanded a great deal. In the old days, when all the original members of a building society received their mortgages, the society would disband. Job done, you see? But the Newbury has been so successful that we’ve stayed in business and grown. Still a cooperative venture, though.”
“So Neville wouldn’t travel to meet with a stranger, then?” Payne said.
“No, he only worked on applications from existing members,” Flowers said. “And marketing was not his department, so there would be little reason for him to do business with anyone not known to us.”
I opened the top drawer of the file cabinet. Folders were neatly arranged and labeled by name and date. “These are all from 1940. Where are his current files?”
“They’ve been distributed to other staff. I didn’t think the police would want to look at them. I’m not even sure I should let you. I may need to ask the chairman of the board about that.” Flowers didn’t seem thrilled at the prospect.
“We don’t need to look at the files themselves,” Payne said. “I don’t care about your members’ finances, but I do want a list of names and addresses.”
“I will have to ask Lord Mayhew,” Flowers said, his smile disappearing.
“Reginald Mayhew?” Payne asked, looking up from his inspection of the desk.
“Exactly,” Flowers said. “He has held the chair since the beginning of the war. Now if there is nothing else, I will leave you gentlemen to it. Please call upon me if you need any other assistance. You are not a member, Inspector Payne, are you?”
“No need, thank you.” Flowers left, probably to telephone his boss and call down the wrath of His Lordship on Inspector Payne.
“Anything in the drawers?” I asked Payne.
“Erasers, pencils, application forms, and several other reasons I am quite happy to be a policeman, dead bodies and all. Nothing of interest.”
“I can’t help feeling that’s the biggest clue we’ve found.”
“What the devil do you mean, Boyle? We haven’t found a single clue.”
“Right. No clues, no evidence of anything other than a boring life and a boring job. He did have a nice view, though.” I parted the curtains and looked through the wide window. From up here, he had a clear view over the rooftops, along the canal, and to the back door of the Kennet Arms. Where he’d been murdered.
“Your point, then, about the clues?” Payne said.
“It’s like that Sherlock Holmes story. The one about the dog in the nighttime.”
“Ah, the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime. The dog that did not bark, which was the clue Holmes observed. ‘Silver Blaze,’ I think it was.”
“Yes, that one. Inspector, think about it. We’ve turned over Neville’s home and office, and we’ve not found anything. Not a liquor bottle hidden in a desk drawer, no French postcards, not the slightest embarrassment. How many guys could pull that off?”
“Interesting speculation, Boyle. Put your time to better use and leaf through those books, will you? He may have hidden his dirty pictures in there.” Payne gave a chuckle as he went through the last drawer, piling stacks of paper on the desk. I pawed through books and found one stamped rail ticket to Hastings from 1941. Hardly useful.
“Have you seen a briefcase?” I said. “He was carrying one in the photograph.”
“No. Perhaps it was stolen when he was killed.”
“Maybe,” I said, although Neville had been dressed in an old tweed jacket, nothing suitable for the office. It seemed the briefcase could only be in his room or this office, and it was in neither place.
“Nothing here, Boyle,” Payne said finally. “Let’s go. I have a girl to search for. Sadly, we will more likely find a corpse at this point.”
“Okay,” I said, tossing the last of the books into the pile. I glanced around the room one more time. “Wait, there’s one thing we missed.”
“What’s that?”
“The typewriter ribbon. If it hasn’t been typed over, we might be able to read what he last typed out.” The machine was a sturdy black Imperial, with two reels for the ribbon set on top. But there was no ribbon. It was gone.
“Someone beat us to it,” I said.
“Let’s go and see Flowers,” Payne said.
We found Flowers in his office. It was a lot nicer than Neville’s. His secretary was sputtering on about not interrupting him, but she quickly retreated when Payne showed his warrant card. Flowers was on the telephone and quickly put his hand over the receiver.
“Who else has been here?” Inspector Payne said, his voice grim and authoritative.
“Please, I am speaking with Lord Mayhew,” Flowers said, his hand pressed tightly over the receiver. I guessed Mayhew wasn’t used to being interrupted.
“Go on, then,” Payne said, taking a seat in front of Flowers’ desk and crossing his legs. “Tell His Lordship you are about to be detained for impeding a murder investigation.”
“And destroying evidence,” I said, standing close to Flowers, close enough that I could make out Mayhew’s voice. He wasn’t in a good mood.
“Yes, thank you, Captain Boyle, I nearly forgot. Unpleasant business for the Newbury, but there you have it,” Payne said, a malicious grin on his face.
“Excuse me, Lord Mayhew,” Flowers said, beads of sweat showing on his forehead. “The police wish to speak with me. Yes, I will ring you.” He hung the telephone in its cradle and took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to relax him. I wondered who made him more nervous, the police or his boss.
“You’ve removed his files,” Payne said. “Which I can understand, since business has to proceed. But what I can’t figure out is why you’d take the ribbon out of his typewriter. Run short on office supplies, have you?” Payne had that look in his eye, the look a detective gets when he knows he’s got the upper hand. Predatory, hungry. He was almost smiling at the prospect of an actual clue.
“What? I have no idea what you mean,” Flowers said, confusion replacing his nervousness. “We have plenty of typewriter ribbons, there’s no reason for it to be stolen.”
“I didn’t say it was stolen, I said it was removed. Now why would you do that?”
“I wouldn’t, and I didn’t,” Flowers said. He pressed an intercom button and called for his secretary. I watched his hands. No telltale smudges. “Ah, Miss Gardner. Please tell the inspector if anyone has been given access to Mr. Neville’s office.”
“Why no, Mr. Flowers,” she said.
“And was it locked when you and I went up yesterday for the files?”
“Yes, it was. Is something missing?” Her face showed concern. Was she worried she’d be accused of theft? She was on the far side of thirty, thin and pale, with wispy brown hair.
“Nothing of importance. Inspector, do you have any further questions?”
“How many keys are there to that office, and who has them?”
“Two, I believe. I have a full set, and
Miss Gardner does as well. Both are kept in locked desk drawers.” Flowers looked smug while Miss Gardner twisted a handkerchief in her hands.
“Miss Gardner,” I said, as calmly as I could. “We’re just trying to determine if any unauthorized person had access to that office. Is that possible?”
“No, I should say not. Mr. Flowers locked it as he left, I saw him. And I know my keys are accounted for.”
“Fine,” I said. “That’s all we need to hear.” I could see her face relax, and she looked to Flowers to see if she was dismissed. “Too bad about Mr. Neville. Was he popular with the staff?”
“He did his job well, which is all I was concerned with,” she said, jutting out her chin and giving a brisk nod to Flowers as she left, shutting the door behind her. Brisk, efficient, and a bad liar.
“There will be an inquest,” Payne said, standing with his hands on his hips, staring down at Flowers. “And you will be placed under oath. I shall ask you again if anyone else has been in that office. If your answer should prove to be untrue, I will arrest you on a charge of perjury. Is that understood?”
“All because of a typewriter ribbon?” Flowers stammered. “I don’t understand what all the fuss is. Perhaps you should talk directly with Lord Mayhew. There’s nothing else I can say.”
I gave Miss Gardner my best smile as we left, and she returned it with pinched lips. In the hallway, I tapped Payne on the shoulder and motioned him to follow me. We went upstairs, back to Neville’s office. I knelt at the door and studied the lock.
“I had the same thought,” Payne said, glancing down the hallway. He produced a folding magnifying glass in a brass case and nudged me aside. “There, at the bottom of the keyway. A small gouge from the tension wrench. See?” He handed me the glass.
“Yes. This lock has been picked.”
“Where does that leave us?” Inspector Payne said. I wished I had an answer for him. Finding nothing else of interest, we left.
Outside, steam rose from the pavement as the sun broke through the clouds. I told Payne about the dog walkers along the canal and he agreed to have two constables patrol the area that night and ask people if they’d seen anything.
“Might turn something up. The constables won’t be happy after trudging through fields and woods all day, but there’s not much to be done about that. Are you still staying at the Hog’s Head?”
“No. Kaz and Big Mike should be back from London today, so we’ll have to find another place. Kintbury is halfway between Newbury and Hungerford, right?”
“It is. We’re starting the search from there, on either side of the canal, and going toward each town. If you want to stay in Kintbury, try the Prince of Wales Inn. You have business there as well?”
“I have a friend with the Six-Seventeenth,” I said. “Thought I’d pay a visit. Do you know anything about the constable who was killed in Hungerford?”
“Tom Eastman, you mean? That was in the village of Chilton Foliat, to be precise. I know Tom had a quick temper,” Payne said, “but was otherwise a good man. Odd that his body was found on his father’s grave, isn’t it? Strange place for a Yank soldier to dump it. Wait, he was from the Six-Seventeenth as well. Is your friend involved?”
“He’s the accused’s sergeant. He asked me to look into it for him. Nothing official.”
“Hmm. You’re a copper yourself, Boyle, so you know what it’s like to have someone snooping around your patch once a case has been closed. You’ll not make many friends.”
“But the Berkshire Constabulary didn’t close it, did they? It was the US Army, Criminal Investigation Division.”
“They’ll not like it, and Tom’s friends may not be pleased if they think you’re working to turn a murderer loose.”
“I promised to look into it. I don’t even know what evidence CID has.”
“Circumstantial is what I hear. A weak case, made strong by a quick arrest and the fact that the killer is a Negro. I understand that carries a lot of weight in some parts of America.”
“Alleged killer, Inspector.”
“Fair enough. This is nothing I care to interfere with, but I’ll ask a few questions of the right people and let you know what I find.”
“Thanks. It could be that there’s still a killer out there.”
“Let’s worry about the Neville case first, Captain, if you don’t mind. I’ve put out calls to the surrounding constabularies to see if they can find any living relatives. So far, no luck.”
“He has to have relatives, some place where he kept things. Personal possessions, important papers, letters and photographs.”
“Perhaps he was glad to leave that all behind. Don’t you ever feel like chucking it all, Captain Boyle? I’ll be at the Dundas Arms, in Kintbury. It’s right by the bridge over the canal. That’s where we’re starting the search.” With that, he got into his automobile, without waiting for my answer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KAZ AND I had agreed to meet at the Miller place, so I headed there. Another jeep was parked in the driveway, and I found Kaz in the kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting with the Millers. It would have been cozy except for the fact that they were all speaking German, which made it creepy.
“Please excuse us, Captain Boyle,” George Miller said as his wife poured coffee. Doubtless American army coffee, since she gave me a full cup. “Baron Kazimierz wished to practice his German, and we do not get to speak it very often. He is quite fluent.”
“In many languages,” I said. “You and your wife must speak German at home.”
“No,” Carla Miller said. “We forced ourselves to speak English only when we arrived in England, to learn it better. Then, with the war, we did not wish to stand out. You understand.”
“Of course,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Feelings can be heightened in wartime. Like Pettigrew’s.”
“You met him, at the pub, I suppose?” Miller said.
“Yes. Was his response typical of how you are treated here?”
“No, not at all. The poor man was grief-stricken, and then I, a German, was standing right in front of him. His reaction was understandable.”
“That is gracious of you,” Kaz said. “Another man might have been angry at the slight.”
“I was upset, but we passed on the street some days later and nothing was said. I thought he might have been somewhat embarrassed,” Miller said, which fit in with what Pettigrew had said.
“Were there any other encounters like that?” I asked.
“When war first came, yes, there was some name-calling in the street, but that stopped quickly. Especially once Walter joined the Royal Navy. We are very proud of him. He wants to make a career of the navy, and become an officer. Do you think Mr. Neville was attacked accidentally?”
“I’m not certain of anything at this point. Just asking questions, like any police officer would.”
“Are you still working with Inspector Payne?” Carla asked. “I do hope Sergeant Sullivan is not in any trouble.”
“No, none at all,” I said. “This is a joint investigation, so we are cooperating with the local police. As a matter of fact, an American unit is helping with the search for the missing girl today.”
“Ah, the colored soldiers,” George said. “So I heard. It must be very hard for them, yes? With the discrimination in America. The Ku Klux Klan, do I have the name right?”
“You do,” I said. I damn well knew it was hard for Negroes, and I knew George and Carla Miller were anti-Nazi refugees, but I still felt uncomfortable talking about it. I hadn’t liked the comparison Kaz and Tree had made about Poles having to walk in the gutter when Germans passed or Negroes doing the same when southern whites had the sidewalk. It was like airing dirty linen in public.
“I hope they find the poor girl, one way or the other. It must be so hard on the parents,” Carla said. “Oh dear, I forgot. She is a refugee also.” The table went silent, and I wondered what degree of guilt the Millers felt, and how that affected their relations with
the townspeople.
I set aside my own guilt at coming from the land of lynching and the KKK. “Are there any adults from the Channel Islands here?”
“No, I don’t think so,” George said. “A large number of children were taken off the islands, shortly before they were occupied. They were sent to different towns, where they could be cared for, but I never heard of parents with them.”
“That is right,” Carla said. “There was an article in the newspaper recently, about their headmistress. Laurianne Ross, I think. She volunteered to work as their governess and teacher.”
“So she would know if any of the children had relatives here?”
“I would think so, yes,” Carla said, concern etched on her face. “But why do you ask about that?”
“It could be as simple as a relative coming to take Sophia away,” I said. “Perhaps she’s not missing at all. A message could have been misplaced.” It had been known to happen, but what I wondered more about was the possibility of mistaken identity. With nothing to go on with Neville as a victim, it was tempting to focus on the Millers. But there were other possibilities. I could see a Channel Islander, perhaps someone who had recently escaped, taking out his frustration on the nearest German when he found Sophia missing. He cracks Neville on the skull in a case of mistaken identity and rolls him down the cellar stairs. It wasn’t much of a theory, but it gave me a good reason to head into Kintbury, and I had no clues to pursue.
Kaz and I waited until we were outside to compare notes. I filled him in on what we’d found at Neville’s office, and he recounted his conversation with Cosgrove.
“He refused to tell me how he came to know of the murder,” Kaz said.
“Let me guess: he said it was his business to know.”
“Precisely. I gave him what details we had, and the theory that the target may have been Miller instead of Neville, as well as the few details from the postmortem. He said to remind you to be sure Inspector Payne made no arrest without informing him first.”
“Anything helpful?”
“You know Major Cosgrove better than that. He does not tip his hand.”
