by James R Benn
“Neville’s office caper bothers me,” I said, leaning against the jeep. “Who broke in, and why? What else besides a typewriter ribbon did they take away in that briefcase?”
“Could Neville have been a spy?” Kaz asked. “It fits with the lack of personal items. Perhaps a German spy would feel more comfortable rooming with fellow Germans, even anti-Nazis.”
“Or maybe he was here to eliminate them.”
“And Miller found out, and killed him first?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The Germans might have sent an assassin before the war, to send a message to any dissidents at home, but it seems far-fetched at this point.”
“I have to agree. What next?”
I told Kaz about the search and where Payne was running it from. We’d meet there after Kaz found a telephone and left a message for Big Mike, telling him to meet us that night at the Prince of Wales Inn. Hopefully we could find Tree among the searchers and give him an update on what Big Mike picked up at CID.
“I’ll meet you there after I have lunch with a young lady,” I said. “Miss Gardner knows more than she’s saying.” I grabbed my bags and drove to Bartholomew Street. I parked a few doors down from the Newbury and hoped Miss Gardner didn’t eat at her desk.
Half an hour later, she appeared on the sidewalk, buttoning her utility coat. I followed her, trying not to lose her in the crowd of shoppers and lunch-goers, most of whom were dressed in the same drab, featureless coat. Part of the rationing scheme, utility garments were designed to save fabric. Simple lines, no wasted material. Hard to tail one person when everybody is dressed alike.
“Miss Gardner,” I said when I caught up to her. “Captain Boyle. I was wondering if I could buy you lunch. I have a few questions, and I might as well ask them over a meal.”
“If you like,” she said, searching my eyes as we stood on the sidewalk. She still looked afraid, and I wondered what she was hiding or if she was frightened by what had happened to Neville. “There’s a teashop round the corner that will do.” She led the way as a flight of C-47s roared overhead, taking off from Greenham Common on the other side of town. I looked up, but few others did. It was a routine occurrence.
We found a table by the window and both ordered the special, mashed potatoes with carrots and meat sauce. “As long as you’re not curious as to what kind of meat,” Miss Gardner had said. “But don’t worry, there won’t be much of it.”
“I’m sorry about barging in on Mr. Flowers this morning, but we needed some straight answers. Would Neville have been typing anything confidential? Something that would be valuable?”
“Member records are all confidential, of course,” she said. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?”
“No. Did Neville have access to any member accounts?”
“Absolutely not! How dare you? Stuart would never … never have …” Her hand covered her mouth and tears welled in her eyes. Regaining her composure, she went on. “No, he didn’t, and he struck me as a very honest man.”
“A kind man?”
“Oh, please, Captain Boyle. Isn’t it obvious? You are some sort of investigator, aren’t you? I’m a sad spinster, pining for the eligible bachelor who on occasion showed a kindness. But I shan’t know if it was anything but common courtesy now, will I?” She leaned forward, the question hanging in the air between us, unanswerable. The unexpected burst of emotion brought a glistening to her eyes, and transformed her for a moment from that sad spinster to a passionate woman.
“I’m sorry. I could tell his death had affected you even more than the sudden death of a co-worker. Is there anything you can tell me about him? Where he came from? Family?”
“Up north is all he ever said. I asked him why he didn’t have pictures of his family in his office, like many of the gentlemen do. Of course I was wondering if there would be a picture of a wife, and I think he saw through me. All he said was that he and his family weren’t close, and he preferred to have no distractions at work. Except for a visit from me, he went on to say. He was nice like that, always with a friendly comment and a chuckle.”
“But no more than that?”
“No. He was a bit aloof, if you know what I mean. He went out with a few of the men after work every now and then, but not often. I think they resented him.”
“Why?”
“His accent, for one. It wasn’t Northern. More like London, and they thought he was putting on airs. His workload wasn’t particularly onerous either. He often got the plum jobs, a few days’ travel and expenses. All the chaps like those. Or the ones close by, easy to get to. Stuart always had the pick of the lot. One of the men asked Mr. Flowers if Stuart had Lord Mayhew looking out for him. There was a rumor that Stuart was his illegitimate son.”
“What did Flowers say?”
“He laughed it off. But he did have me connect him with Lord Mayhew that very day. It’s not often the manager calls the president of the board. Usually it’s the other way round.”
The waitress brought our plates. A mound of mashed potatoes was covered in a grey sauce with bits of meat scattered throughout. The only color was the bright orange of boiled carrots.
“It smells good,” I said, trying to sound believable.
“Potatoes and carrots,” Miss Gardner sighed. “After the war, I may never eat them again.” The two root vegetables were easily grown in any backyard garden, and were among the few foodstuffs not rationed. British civilians had put up with four years of strict rationing so far, and I could see how it could get depressing.
“It must make the black market tempting,” I said.
“Oh, everyone is tempted,” Miss Gardner said. “And a few corners cut here or there gives people a sense they can make it through. But if you mean criminal profiteering, that’s something else altogether.”
“Did Stuart ever bring gifts to work?”
“He did give me a small tin of coffee once, as a thank-you for staying late one night. He needed to finish his reports before leaving on a business trip. He said an American sergeant brought all sorts of things to his rooming house.”
“Mainly to impress the father, I’d say. Do you know the Millers?”
“No, although I do know they’re German. I wonder if it’s difficult for them.” She inclined her head, thinking about that. “Yes, it must be, mustn’t it?” She was smart, I could see that. I understood why she was good at her job.
“It can’t be easy. Have you heard of anyone with a real grudge against them?”
“No, not at all. Wait, do you mean what I think? A case of mistaken identity?”
“I’m just guessing, Miss Gardner. I have no reason to believe that’s the case.”
“Tell me, please, Captain Boyle,” Miss Gardner said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “Did Stuart suffer?”
“No. I doubt he even knew what happened. It was over instantly.” It was true, but it was what I always said, true or not. Easier on everyone that way.
“Thank you,” she said, her head bowed as if in prayer. “Do you think you will catch who did it?”
“I will do my best,” I said.
“You may need help. From what I heard, Mr. Flowers is unwilling to give you the information you requested. He spoke with Lord Mayhew again after you left, and I took it that you were not to be given any details.”
“The police may be able to get what they need through official channels,” I said.
“It’s a bit like the black market, isn’t it? A bit of a corner cut once in a while helps us all get by.” She took a pencil and a piece of paper from her handbag, jotted a few lines, and slid it across the table to me. “The last two mortgages Stuart worked on. If you need more, we can have lunch again.”
I walked Miss Gardner back to work, impressed by her willingness to help. She played the role of the spinster secretary well, but there was some depth to her, and I was glad to have someone to count on within the Newbury Building Society.
I drove straight to the Prince of Wales in
Kintbury, booked our rooms, and changed out of the dress uniform I’d been wearing since yesterday. The bag had been packed by Walter with his customary Dorchester thoroughness. Boots and a Mackinaw coat topped with a soft garrison cap were a lot more comfortable, not to mention suited for a search in soggy terrain. I put on a new dark-brown wool shirt, knotted my khaki field scarf, and admired myself in the mirror. With the addition of a shoulder holster and my .38 revolver, I looked like George Raft. The innkeeper gave me directions to Hungerford Road, on the other side of town, and the manor house serving as home and school to dozens of Channel Island youngsters. Minus one missing girl.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I TOOK THE Bath Road out of Newbury, heading west on the north side of the canal. Military traffic was heavy, and there were formations of paratroopers on the road with full packs and weapons. It was slow going. To my left, fields sloped down to the canal, and as I neared the turnoff for Kintbury, I could see a line of GIs on either side of the water, moving across the fields, searching. I knew that what Payne was looking for was a clue, or maybe a body. There was little hope of the girl simply being lost.
Heading toward the bridge spanning the canal before Kintbury, I had to halt and pull over as a line of trucks jammed with helmeted GIs came up the road. Units were conducting field exercises, and I wondered if the white commander of the 617th Tank Destroyer Battalion volunteered them for the search because he wanted to help out, or if he figured they’d never make it into combat and this was all they were good for.
The trucks on my right slowed to a crawl and then stopped, a traffic jam at the intersection behind us screwing everything up. I tried to get by on the shoulder of the narrow road, but the ground was wet and muddy, so I decided to wait. The GIs on the truck next to me broke out smokes and started to chatter.
“Hey,” one of them yelled. “Lookit Mrs. Roosevelt’s niggers over there! Don’t them boys know there’s no cotton in them fields!” More catcalls and insults followed, some of the men turning away and shaking their heads. The men of the 617th were too far away to know what was being said, but I saw them look in our direction. They didn’t need to hear the words; they knew what a truckload of whites screaming at them meant. There might have been a time when I would have ignored taunts like these, or thought of them as nothing but ignorant, but seeing Tree again reminded me of how hurtful they were, and how ashamed I felt, deep inside, when I heard them and did nothing.
“Can it!” I yelled as loudly as I could. “They’re helping to search for a missing girl. Which is a lot more than you’re doing right now.”
“Well, Captain, if there’s a missing white girl, the last thing I’d do is send a pack of niggers to look for her. They probably took her in the first place.” The loudmouth looked around for someone to join him, but an officer and a missing girl took the wind out of their sails.
“Sorry, Captain,” one of the men, a PFC who had been quiet, spoke up. “Some of us are still fighting the Civil War over here. Right, Bobby Lee?” Laughter broke the tension, and one of the men leaned over the side of the truck.
“Captain, is that the Tank Destroyer outfit, the one bivouacked in Hungerford?”
“Yeah, the Six-Seventeenth.”
“I’ll tell ya, if we run up against any Tiger tanks over in France, and we got one of them battalions backing us up, I won’t care much what color skin those gunners have, long as they stand their ground,” the PFC said.
“Niggers can’t fight,” the loudmouth said. “Everyone knows that.”
“I knew a guy in Boston,” I said. “A Negro who fought in the last war. You should tell the Frenchman who awarded him the Legion of Merit about that. Or maybe all the Germans he killed.”
The truck lurched ahead, taking their laughter, hatreds, and fears away. The line of men in the fields kept moving too, until they disappeared into the woods. Of the 617th, the paratroopers on the road, the GIs in the trucks, how many would be alive after we went into France? How many of them would even care about their petty prejudices and beliefs once bullets and steel flew in their direction? And afterwards, if the 617th and other colored units did get into the fight, would anything be different? The world had changed so much in the last few years, it seemed impossible for everything to go back to how it was. But what would it be like five or ten years from now? I had no idea. Finding Stuart Neville’s killer was hard enough.
Crossing the bridge, I saw the Dundas Arms where Payne was coordinating the search. Police vehicles and US Army trucks were parked in the field where men with walkie-talkies barked commands. Kintbury itself was nice enough, narrow streets with red brick structures built close to the road, a few shops and pubs, but that was it. I could see why Tree hadn’t wanted to trade Hungerford for this village when it came time for off-duty entertainment. I took a right on Hungerford Road, where a sparse run of shops and homes gave way to countryside. Fields with stubble from the autumn harvest stretched out on either side, and it was easy to spot the manor house the Channel Island girls called home. Trees lined the gravel drive, overgrown with weeds, but once likely spotless. The three-story house sported tall chimneys at the sides, high windows, and shrubs that had been halfheartedly trimmed. Unlike most of the buildings in Berkshire, this wasn’t built with brick, but rather granite reflecting a pinkish hue in the sunlight. A plaque on the wall read AVINGTON SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. I knocked at the front door, and was greeted by a girl of maybe nine or ten.
“Good day. May I help you, sir?” The words were obviously rehearsed.
“Yes, I’d like to speak to the headmistress, please.”
“All right,” she said, leading me down a hallway. “My name’s Nancy. Are you one of the Americans out looking for Sophia? Have you found her yet?”
“Not yet, Nancy. But an awful lot of soldiers are searching for her right now.”
“Good,” she said, and knocked on a door before opening it. “Miss Ross, there’s a Yank here to see you.”
“Thank you, Nancy. Would you run and tell Miss Jacobs that I will be with her shortly?”
“Captain Billy Boyle,” I said as Nancy raced off on her errand.
“Laurianne Ross,” she said, extending her hand. “Have you any news about Sophia?”
“No, I’m sorry. Only more questions.”
“Please, have a seat,” she said, returning to her desk. She was in her thirties, small, with longish dark hair and a look that said she was disappointed I didn’t bring good news.
“I wish I had something to tell you, Miss Ross, besides that the search is still going on.”
“It’s Mrs. Ross, actually. Miss Ross is just what the girls call me. My husband is in Burma. Or so he was two months ago when I last heard. Tell me, Captain Boyle, why are you here? I know the American army is helping with the search today, but is that your connection?”
I could tell I wasn’t about to pull the wool over this lady’s eyes. I decided to try something different and tell the truth. “I am working with Inspector Payne, but on another case. Did you hear about the murder in Newbury yesterday? Two days ago, to be precise.”
“No. Who was killed? Is the school involved in any way?”
“I don’t think so. A man named Stuart Neville, who worked at the Newbury Building Society. Are you familiar with it?”
“Of course I am, and so is anyone else who grew up in this area, as I did. Ask your question, Captain, I have my girls to look after.”
“Okay. In the past month or so, have any of the girls had a visit from a relative? Perhaps someone who escaped from the Channel Islands?”
“Captain, these girls are here precisely because they have no close relatives in England, none that would take them in. Their families are all trapped on Guernsey. There’s most of the English Channel to deal with, not to mention the Germans.”
“But some have escaped. A small boat could make the trip. You haven’t heard of such a thing?”
“No, sad to say. If I had, I might not tell you, since there could be
reprisals if word got out. Better for the Germans to think a man was lost at sea, don’t you think?”
“Yes. But no one has come around?”
“No,” she said as she pulled her cardigan sweater tight. “I do wish the council chap would come by though. He promised more coal. Is there anything else?”
“No. Thank you for your time. Caring for the girls must be demanding,” I said as I rose to leave. I wished she had given me some hope for my theory of a relative from Guernsey. I wondered at her admission that she might have lied to me if it were true. It was honest, at least, but it led me to question everything else she had said.
“It keeps me busy. We have a teacher in during the day and a cook who lives here. But so many girls can be a handful, no matter how delightful they are.” She walked me to the front door, as a great sadness washed across her face.
“Sophia. Was she one of the delightful ones?” I winced at my use of the past tense, but it was too late.
“Yes. And one of the oldest. She was quite a help, actually. Then one day she was gone. She and some of the other girls had walked together to the sweet shop in town. They decided to take the long way back, along the canal path. There’s a lane off the main road that leads to a small stone bridge. It was a warm day, and they like playing by the bunkers.”
“Bunkers?”
“You’ll find them all along the canal, on the north side. This was to be the main defense line in case of invasion. They’re all abandoned now, of course. Inspector Payne searched them first, thinking Sophia might have fallen and been hurt, but there was no sign of her. She’d simply vanished while the girls were playing. They thought she’d come back here ahead of them, and thought nothing about it. Do you think they will find her? Alive, I mean.”
“If she is alive,” I said, deciding to stick with the truth, “she’s far away from this search.”
“Then someone took her. Either alternative is horrible. But tell me, Captain Boyle, why did you ask only about relatives in connection with your murder? I understand you would want to know about any suspicious strangers in town, but couldn’t a friend of the family have taken Sophia away? Perhaps someone who didn’t have legal guardianship, but who had her best interests at heart?” She looked at me with raised eyes, almost pleading for me to agree.
